“What’s she say?” Campbell demanded. “She said something. What was it?”
“German, I think,” said Henry.
“What’s she got in her pocket? Here, Nurse! Get rid of that torch.” The nurse looked at her hand. “Oh. Silly of me,” she said, and put the torch down.
“Now,” said Campbell, “put your hand in her pocket and see what she’s got hold of. Carefully. It may be a knife.”
“Why a knife?” asked Henry.
Campbell didn’t answer him. The nurse approached her patient and over Roberta’s head gingerly slid her hand down Lady Wutherwood’s arm into the pocket. Roberta, looking up, saw the nurse’s face bleach out abruptly to the colour of parchment.
“What’s the matter!” Campbell demanded.
“She’s—she’s—got—both her hands—in her pocket.”
Henry said violently; “Don’t be an ass, Nurse. What d’you mean?”
The nurse backed away from Lady Wutherwood, pointing at the pocket and nodding her head.
“I’ve got her right hand,” said Campbell impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
“There are two hands in her pocket,” said the nurse, and fainted.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Severed Hand
THE TAXI PULLED UP at 24 Brummell Street, discharged its fares and skidded off into the rain.
“Quiet enough,” said Nigel. “You’ve got a jitterbug, Inspector.”
“There’s a light on in the hall,” said Alleyn. “What about the entrance here, Fox? Wasn’t there a man outside?”
“The P.C. on this beat,” said Fox. “He was told to stay outside and another chap was put on the beat.”
“Well, where is the P.C.?”
“Taking shelter, most likely,” said Fox. “He’ll hear about this,” Alleyn rang the bell at 24. Immediately they heard inside the click of a lock.
“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “That’s sudden.”
The door opened. Moffatt, very pale, with a rug clutched about him, stared at them.
“Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?”
“Yes. Anything wrong?”
“Yes, sir. Something terrible’s happened. I don’t know what it is, but…” Moffatt followed them up, leaving the door open behind him.
“Where is it?” Alleyn asked. ‘We’re all here. You’d better shut the door. Where’s the man on duty?”
“Mr. Campbell, sir? He’s upstairs, sir, and there’s a doctor there too, sir.”
“A doctor!” said Alleyn sharply.
“And there’s a policeman outside the room where his lordship’s lying. Something terrible—”
“We’ll go up,” said Alleyn. “How many floors?”
“Three, sir. And his lordship’s lying on the next floor. Her ladyship, sir, has been screaming something frightful to hear and…”
Alleyn was half-way up the first flight. The others followed him, Moffatt bleating in the rear. The fourth-floor landing was brightly lit. On the top stair Alleyn found a group of three. A uniformed nurse, white to the lips, was on the floor, propped against the stairhead. Above her stood Henry Lamprey and Roberta Grey. They, too, were deadly pale. As soon as she saw Alleyn the nurse said: “I’m quite all right and ready for duty. I don’t know what happened to me. It wasn’t natural. I’ve never slept on duty before, never. If the doctor wants me—”
“Where is the doctor?”
“In the fourth room along that passage,” said Henry.
“Don’t mistake it for the third room. My aunt is locked in there, stark mad, with her husband’s hand in her pocket.”
“They took it away,” said the nurse in a high voice.
Alleyn strode down the passage, followed by Fox.
“Henry,” said Nigel, “what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Hullo, Nigel,” said Henry. “Follow your boy friends and find out.”
“But—”
“For God’s sake,” said Henry, “leave us alone.”
Nigel followed Alleyn and Fox.
In the fourth room along the passage Alleyn examined the body of William Giggle. He lay in his bed, on his right side, with the clothes drawn up to his mouth. There was a bloodstained dent on his left temple, a horseshoe-shaped mark pointing downwards towards the cheek with the arched end near the brow. When Alleyn drew down the bed-clothes he saw Giggle’s throat. A razor lay on the sheet close to Giggle’s head. Alleyn bent lower.
“Cooling,” he said.
“He’s been dead at least two hours,” said Dr. Curtis.
“Has he, by gum?” said Fox.
The bed was against the left-hand wall of the room. There was a space between the head of the bed and the back wall. Alleyn moved into it and made a gesture over the throat.
“Yes,” Curtis said, “like that. You notice it begins low down on the right near the clavicle, and runs upward almost to the left ear.”
“There’s no blood on any of them, sir,” said Campbell. “Not on her or any of them.”
Alleyn pointed to a slash in the collar of the pyjama jacket and Curtis nodded. “I know. It was done under the bedclothes. Look at them. Yes,” as Alleyn stooped to peer at an object at his feet. “She knocked him out with that boot. There’s blood on the heel.”
“Put it away carefully, Campbell. Chalk the positions. We’ll want Bailey and Thompson.”
“They’re coming,” said Curtis.
“Good.” Alleyn took a counterpane from the end of the bed and covered the body with it. “The same idea, you see,” he said, “with a difference. She’s learnt that an injury to the brain doesn’t always mean instant death but she’s stuck to the preliminary knock-out. It works well. Two hours, you say?”
“Or more.”
“We wouldn’t have saved him, Fox, if we had caught the express.”
“No, sir.”
“If only I’d seen that book a little earlier. What have you got in there, Campbell?”
Campbell had taken a rolled-up towel from the top of the dressing-table.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” said Campbell. “My Gawd, sir, we found it in her pocket with the key of the room downstairs. It’s like one of these damn-fool stories.”
“The Case of the Severed Hand?”
“How did you know, sir?”
“Her nephew told me. I’ll see the thing later.”
“Mr. Alleyn expected it,” said Fox quickly.
“I’m afraid it makes very good sense, Campbell,” said Alleyn. “Where is Lady Wutherwood?”
“Next door,” said Curtis. “I gave her an injection. Had to. She’d have hurt herself otherwise. She’s quieter now. I’ve telephoned Kantripp.”
“And the others?”
“The servants are all in the room at the end of the passage,” said Campbell. “Her personal maid, Tinkerton the name is, keeps asking to see her.”
“Let her stay where she is.” Alleyn moved to the door, turned, and looked at the bed.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose if he’d been asked he’d have preferred this.”
“To what?” asked Nigel.
“To the quick drop, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.
“Good God, was he the murderer?”
“Yes, yes,” said Alleyn impatiently. “Come on.”
Alleyn sent Curtis to look at Lady Wutherwood, and Campbell to the servants’ room where one of the maids could be heard enjoying fits of hysterics. Henry, Roberta, and the nurse were still on the landing. The nurse again expressed her devotion to duty and was told she could report to the doctor. Henry and Roberta were sent upstairs.
“If you can find a room with a heater,” said Alleyn, “I should use it. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“I want to know—” Henry began.
“Of course you do. Give me a little longer, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alleyn and Fox went down to the green drawing-room, followed by a completely silent Nigel. Alleyn sent the police
man on guard there up to Campbell. He unlocked the door with the key that had been found in Lady Wutherwood’s dressing-gown pocket. The room was heavy with flowers. The sound of wind and rain was loudest here. Gilded chairs and china cupboards stood at intervals round the walls, which were hung with green silk. Behind those sad folds the wainscoting uttered furtive little noises. A monstrous chandelier chimed dolefully as some one walked along the passage overhead. On three trestles in the middle of the room lay Lord Wutherwood’s body in an open coffin. The face was covered and a sheaf of lilies quite hid the breast. Alleyn moved them away. For a moment they were all silent. Then Nigel took out his handkerchief.
“God,” said Nigel shakily, “this is—it’s a bit too much.”
“Hacked off at the wrist,” said Fox. “Sawn off, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “If you’re going to be sick, Bathgate, I implore you to go outside.”
“I’m all right.”
Alleyn slid his hand out of sight round the sharp outline of the body. After a moment he drew something out of the coffin. Nigel had turned away. He heard Fox’s exclamation and then Alleyn’s level voice: “So the tool, you see, was to be buried with the crime.”
“It’s from the kitchen,” said Fox. “They saw up stock bones with them.”
“Put it away, Fox. Bailey will have to see it. Thompson had better take a shot of the dismembered arm. In the meantime—”
Alleyn replaced the sheaf of lilies and stood for a moment looking at the shrouded figure.
“What sort of epitaph,” he said, “can be written for the late Lord Wutherwood, killed by cupidity and mutilated in the interests of black magic? We’d better finish our job, Fox. We haven’t got a warrant. She’ll have to be taken away and charged later. You attend to that, will you? I’d better see that young man.”
“Robin may stay and listen too, mayn’t she?” asked Henry.
“Certainly. In a sense,” said Alleyn, “Miss Grey is the heroine in this case.”
“I am?” asked Roberta. “How can that be?”
“Your statement last night gave us the first inkling as to Giggle’s activities. You remember that you told us how, when you were alone in the dining-room, you heard the lift. Do you mind repeating that story once more?”
“Of course not. I heard Lord Wutherwood call out the second time. Then I heard the lift go down. Then I took a cigarette. Then I heard the lift again. Coming up. Then I hunted for matches and leant out of the window, smoking and listening to London. Then I heard Lady Wutherwood scream. The screams got louder and louder as…” Roberta stopped and stared at Alleyn. “Now I see,” she said slowly. “That’s why you made me repeat it twice over. The lift noises didn’t fit with the screams.”
“That’s it,” said Alleyn. “You see, according to all the other evidence, Lady Wutherwood began screaming while the lift was still going down and all the time it was coming up. But you heard the lift go down and come up with no disturbance. Then you leant out of the window and listened to London so you didn’t hear the lift go down on the second trip. You only heard her scream as it returned.”
“So there was a trip down and up unaccounted for,” said Henry.
“Yes. But the commissionaire said positively that the lift only made one trip and that the fatal one, when your brother stopped it before it actually reached the ground floor but when it was within view of the hall. What of this other trip? The only explanation was that it didn’t go all the way down. Now, when Miss Grey heard the lift, Michael and Giggle had just left her. They both say that Giggle went straight downstairs. Yet Giggle stated that the lift made no movement while he was going downstairs. He swore that it was at the top landing with Lord Wutherwood inside. It is at least true that Lord Wutherwood was inside. But we know it went down and we know Giggle must have seen it. The lift can be summoned from any floor at any time. The flat on that landing below yours is unoccupied. Our theory is that Giggle, on leaving Michael, went down to that landing. Michael saw him go and went into Flat 26. That gave Giggle his dubious alibi. He summoned the lift with Lord Wutherwood inside it. He entered the lift and inflicted the injuries. He was wearing your motoring gloves. He threw them under the seat, got out of the lift and went on down to the ground level where the commissionaire spoke to him. He then walked through the front entrance and got into the car.”
“But why!” Henry said. “Why did he kill him?”
“Because he knew he would come into £300 a year and a small property.”
“For so little!”
“Not so little to him. And I learnt that the property has increased considerably in value. He would have been comfortably set up for life. But there was another driving factor which we shall come to in a minute or two.”
“One moment,” said Henry. “Did Aunt V. know Giggle was the murderer?”
“We’ll take her next. As your family pointed out with tireless emphasis, Lady Wutherwood is mentally unhinged. May I say in passing that the emphasis was just a little too pointed? They would have been wiser to have left us to form our own opinion. However, she is undoubtedly insane and—a point that you may have missed—she is almost certainly taking some form of drug; morphia, I should think. She has also become deeply interested in witchcraft and black magic. The interest, I think, is pathological. In the police service we see a good deal of the effect of superstition on credulous and highly-strung people. We learn of middle-aged men and women losing their money and their sanity in the squalid little parlours of fortune-tellers, spirit-mongers, and self-styled psychiatrists. Lady Wutherwood, I think, is an extreme example of this sort of thing. She has wooed the supernatural in the grand macabre manner and has paid for her enthusiasm with her wits.”
“She’s always been a bit dotty,” said Henry.
“When Dr. Curtis and Fox and I interviewed her, we were puzzled by her reference to a couple of obscure mediaeval witches. A little later she certainly suggested that her husband had been killed by some supernatural agent who had taken the form of your brother Stephen.”
“Well,” said Henry. “I must say I call that a bit thick. Why pick on poor old Step?”
“Simply because she saw him in the lift. Her behaviour at this interview was in every way extraordinary. She had, we were assured, screamed violently and persistently when she discovered the injury to her husband, yet one couldn’t miss a kind of terrified exulting in her manner when she spoke of it. Lastly, and most importantly, she insisted that his body was to be sent to their London house. I’m no psychiatrist but it seemed to me that, however insane she was, if she had murdered her husband she wouldn’t desire, ardently, to spend a couple of nights in a half-deserted house with the dead body. Unless, and here’s an important point, she had some motive connected with the body. Very stupidly, I could think of no motive and was therefore still doubtful if she was guilty of her husband’s death, since Giggle’s guilt was not certainly known. This afternoon at Deepacres Park I believed I had discovered the motive. In a copy of a mediaeval work on witchcraft we found a chapter dealing with the various kinds of soporific spells.”
“My God!” Henry whispered, “‘The Hand of Glory.”’
“Yes. The hand cut from the wrist of a corpse, preferably a felon or a murdered man. It renders the possessor safe from discovery since—but you know your Ingoldsby Legends, I see.
Sleep all who sleep
Wake all who wake
But be as the dead for the dead man’s sake.
“That’s it. Lady Wutherwood determined to make the experiment. As soon as her copy of the Compendium Maleficorum opened itself at that chapter, as soon as I saw her pencilled marks in the margin, I guessed what was up. I ought to have guessed before.”
“I don’t see how you could,” said Roberta.
“Lord, no,” said Henry. “I call it quite remarkable to have got it when you did.”
“Do you?” said Alleyn. “I’m afraid you’re easily impressed. Well, there you are. She waited till the h
ouse was still and her night nurse was snoring. By the way, the night nurse’s virtuous denials may have some foundation. I fancy she’d been treated to a morphia tablet in her cocoa. You will have noticed that her pupils were contracted.”
“We didn’t,” said Henry. “But how cunning of Aunt V.”
“Oh, Lady Wutherwood didn’t do that,” said Alleyn, “any more than she murdered Giggle.”
Neither Henry nor Roberta spoke. Alleyn looked from one to the other and then at Nigel, who sat self-effacingly in a corner of the room. “Haven’t you told them?” asked Alleyn. “I—I thought I had,” murmured Nigel.
“What have you told them?”
“I—that—well that Lady Wutherwood—”
“I left you with Fox. If you still held this remarkable theory surely you made certain, before you communicated it, that it was his idea too?”
“No,” stammered Nigel. “No. You said ‘she.’ How the devil—”
“You’ve seen the files. Who hid in the hall cupboard and listened to the quarrel between Lord Charles and his brother? Who lied about it and gave us a string of impossible moves? Who brought the lift back to the top landing after Giggle had done the job downstairs? You’ve seen Giggle’s body. What sort of murderer could inflict that sort of injury from behind the head of a victim lying on his right side in a bed by the left-hand wall of a room?”