The Footsteps That Stopped (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ don't you believe Mrs. Tangye's death an accident, Haviland?" Pointer asked.

      "How could it have been one, sir? Apart from the fact of the trigger working uncommon stiff, the safety-bolt acts perfectly, and Mrs. Tangye was used to that particular revolver. Then look at the tearing up of her papers, and the packing off of her duds."

      "Tangye explained that, you know," Wilmot reminded him.

      "But Mrs. Tangye wasn't going abroad for Another month. And why not leave her papers? To my mind, her desk and her wardrobe were as good as a signed confession that she had made away with herself."

      There was a short silence.

      "Personally my belief hasn't been changed by the verdict," Haviland murmured after a pause, "though it ends the case as far as we are concerned."

      "Unless, of course you, sir—" he turned to Pointer and left the sentence unfinished.

      "Any special reason you know of which isn't given in the reports for her to've killed herself?" was his only answer.

      "Well, there's Mrs. Bligh. She's just left for Cannes this morning. Colonel's widow. Lives in Cadogan Square. Belongs to a very smart set. She and Mr. Tangye..." Haviland's tone was full of meaning. "The fact is, though there's nothing to prove it, I think Mrs. Tangye got wind of the affair, and got fed up. Lost her grip of things, and decided to end it all."

      "If every woman whose husband goes off the rails at times were to shoot herself, the surplus of females over males in the British Isles would soon be a thing of the past," Wilmot pointed out dryly. Haviland grinned, but stuck to his guns.

      "I don't pretend I mayn't be wrong. As a matter of fact, I've got two headings in my notebook, same as you say you have in your head, Mr. Wilmot, and I enter things accordingly. Most of 'em, so far, go on both pages. I can't think you'll want me to add another headline, sir."

      Haviland finished with his eyes on Pointer. The Chief Inspector was skimming through the life story of the dead woman.

      "Mable Headly. Only child of the Rev. Charles Headly, rector of Over Wallop for twenty years, and Nether Wallop for thirty," he read out.

      "Sounds peaceful!" murmured Wilmot. Haviland took up the tale:

      "Miss Headly taught at the Holland Park High School till war broke out. Then went to France as an officer in the Waacs. She married Clive Branscombe, the architect. He built the Chelsea war memorial, I think?"

      Haviland turned to Wilmot.

      "May he rest in peace, in spite of that and other crimes of a like nature," breathed the newspaper man.

      "They lived in Cheyne Walk for some five years. A year after he died, she married Tangye. That was three years ago now."

      "Any children?"

      "None all round, sir," was the comprehensive reply. There followed another short silence.

      "Only one will known," Pointer mused aloud, "leaving everything to her husband. Made on her marriage to him. Contents familiar to every one. How much did she have to leave?"

      "She had nothing when she married Branscombe, but he left her ten thousand in cash, which she promptly invested in Tangye's firm. There's a belief in some quarters in fact, that that was why he married her. The sum came in very handy just then, they do say. And besides that ten, she had some nice bits of property here and there in Worcestershire that were rated for death duties at another ten thousand. Of course, I don't know how much of the land she's sold. You see, she'd destroyed all her memos."

      Pointer stood up.

      "I'd like to see the revolver."

      Haviland brought it from the safe. It would have to be returned within an hour or two to Tangye anyway, he thought. Pointer lifted out the weapon on its slung carrier, puffed some bright coloured powder over it, and blowing gently, studied the result intently with his glass.

      "Seems to've taken the marks of her grip very well."

      "It has for a fact. The poor soul had been having buttered crumpets for tea."

      "Have the Tangye's a dog?"

      "No, sir." Haviland looked puzzled.

      "Is there a cat in the house?"

      "No, sir." Haviland wondered how many more animals would be suggested, but he looked with wrinkled brows at Pointer.

      "Those scratches seem recent. What made them?"

      "Tangye thinks they must have happened in France. The revolver was always kept in its box at Riverview. You'll notice her fingerprints are over the scratches, so the latter can't mean anything, sir."

      Pointer noticed more than that. He gave the weapon another long look before he straightened up.

      "I should like the usual photographs and enlargements of that made at once, please." Then the Chief Inspector turned away. "It's a problem!" he said, studying his boot tips.

      "You mean the explanation as to whether it was suicide or accident? I can't make up my own mind definitely." Wilmot spoke in a surprised tone. It was true that he was not often afflicted with doubt.

      "No. I mean the explanation of the facts."

      Haviland pricked up his ears.

      "Why, sir, even the fact, which had first seemed puzzling, that, though Mrs. Tangye was considered right-handed like most of the world, the weapon lay beneath her left hand, and carries its finger-prints, was explained by an old friend. Mrs. Tangye had been left-handed in her girlhood, and though she had trained herself out of the habit, yet in moments of great excitement she was liable to 'revert.' Inquiries made in her father's parish—he's been dead these fifteen years nearly—corroborated this. To my mind, there's no question but that it was either suicide or accident. Judging by the facts, that is."

      Superintendent Haviland always judged by what he considered facts. And by them alone. "Those finger-prints on her revolver, sir. They're Mrs. Tangye's right enough. It isn't as if there were any reason to suspect they're faked. They're uncommonly clear ones."

      "They're uncommon from more points of view than one," the Chief Inspector murmured, with that air of detachment that was so marked a characteristic of his, and so deceptive.

      "What in the world are you driving at, Pointer?" Wilmot asked curiously. "Quite apart from her finger-prints, foul play seems an absolute impossibility. Surely no woman would have sat still and let herself be shot down like a mad dog, without a struggle. Without ringing that bell beneath her very fingers!"

      "As a matter of fact, sir,"—Haviland was so bewildered that he had some difficulty in finding his voice,—"I very carefully looked even at the cushion on which her feet were resting. I photographed it specially, though it doesn't come out well. Those marks on it could only have been made by a pair of resting feet. She hadn't pressed them in, or tried to rise. Her slippers were a bit dampish from that stroll in the garden which she'd taken just before tea. Yet they hadn't done more than dust the velvet with sand, as you might say."

      "How does the woman's death strike you, Wilmot?" Pointer asked abruptly. He was a great admirer of the newspaper man's articles.

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