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I Analyze the Position · The Dalehouse Murder

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Chapter ten of The dale House Murder by Francis Everton. This Liberal Box recording
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is in the public domain. Read by yoganand The Dale House Murder, Chapter
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ten. I analyzed the position. I moved across the hall into the drawing
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room. The two boys, A learned had already gone to bed, but
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Margaret was still curled up in a chair by the window, placidly knitting.
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She looked pretty, I thought, with a fading evening light from the window
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shining on one tight little coil of golden hair, the graceful curve with the
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back of her head emphasized with a parting that ran down the middle. Our
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occupation, somehow seemed proper to the settling and enhanced the pretty picture that she
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made. Ethel knitted jumpers too, but she went at them with a rush.
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With Margaret, it was all leisurely movement and grace, and I imagined
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her feelings when knitting as those of a cat which sits in the sun and
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slowly and endlessly washes its face. She greeted me with a sleepy smile,
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stifled a you on, and proceeded together. Belongings together, but as scissors
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could not be found, though we searched the floor together and fell down the
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idy hole between the back and the seat of a chair. Finally, we
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are to give them up for lost, though she was sure that she had
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had them while he five minutes before. And she bade me good night and
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left me. I was alone. The house was very still and quiet.
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It was yet daylight, but the light was fading rapidly, and he switched
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on one of the electric lamps. The high red wall sheltered us completely from
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the road. There was no need to draw the blinds. The window stood
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wide open, but so stifling and quiet was the air that they might have
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looked out on to some huge, overheated greenhouse instead of an English garden.
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Tired out, I yet had no desire for sleep. For the first time
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during the long trying day, was absolutely alone, unobserved, and with time
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and solitude for thought. I paced up and down the room for a full
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half hour, pipe and north, busily rehearsing first this incident, then that,
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in a vain attempt to achieve some recent explanations, some possible solution of
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the mystery that surrounded Stella's sudden death. Alone and away from the influence of
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this calm assurance. My instinctive, unreasoning belief in the doctor began to weaken
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and give wab under the combined bludgeonings of evidence and argument. Seeing a writing
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pad lying on one of the window seats, I drew up a chair to
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a small occasional table, and taking a pencil out of my pocket, I
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proceeded to make out a list of all who were in the house on the
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previous night, setting down every piece of evidence, every possible relevant fact,
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in an attempt to clear my mind an analyze the situation at the outset.
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I came to the conclusion that on the important question of nautive, I should
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not only have to consider the obvious and the possible, but also the unlikely
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and the grotesque. The murder must have been premeditated, cold blooded, an
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abnormality. It would not be surprising, therefore, should the native, the
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root from which the evil deed had sprung, be found, if ever unearthed,
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as something twisted and rotten. I kept the rough notes that I made,
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and on referring to them, I see that I was methodical enough to
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add my own name to the list. They were detailed and tedious, and
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I will only quote and ful the remarks I wrote down about the doctor on
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that hot, sultry night in the dale House drawing room. Here they are,
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Doctor Wallace. The poison, the Chinese poison on which he and doctor
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Hansen had been working would leap to his mind at once? Did he wish
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to kill by poisoning? Its action is difficult to diagnose. But would he
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then have called Alport's attention to its s peculiar taste? Would he have stated
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that he found the glass at Stella's Petsaid with a drop at the bottom of
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it, and that he suspected the Chinese poison at once by reason of its
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smell? Yes, he might. He would know that he would be suspected
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at once, and he might reasonably argue that by calling attention to the Chinese
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poison himself, he would be creating a favorable impression, an impression that would
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be strengthened when it was found that the medicine glass had been thrown away but
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the key in his own pocket. Could he not have poisoned us equally easily
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at any other time? Yes? But what better time could he have had?
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He was making a medicine for her, He had just been threatened with
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some sort of exposure. Then he played the practical joke on the beds,
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and took care to have it clearly established that we all of us had the
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chance to be upstairs and alone on the evening of the murder. The cupboard
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key had his own all the time. The medicine yes, both knowledge and
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opportunity the bedroom key. He could have thrown the glass away after Ethel came
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downstairs, have locked the door, and have put the key in the pocket
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of his thin coat which he was wearing at the time. But why should
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he then come and tell me that he had left the door unlocked, obviously
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to make it look as though someone else had locked it. But in that
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case he would surely have placed the key in a position incriminating someone else and
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not himself. A possible explanation is that he intended to do this later,
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but either had no easy opportunity or forgot then just as he was going out
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mud and came back to make the omission good, only to find me turning
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away from the telephone having completed my conversation, and his coat with the key
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in it, hanging up straight in front of me. He certainly must have
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come up behind me very quietly What would he do in those circumstances? Would
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he tell me that the door was unlocked and then go calmly away to his
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patient, leaving the key in his own pocket? Would he take that enormous
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risk? A man of his undoubted ability could surely have found some excuse to
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get me out of the way, have made some opportunity of getting at the
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key. Or might he not decide on a double bluff? As it were?
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He told Alport that the glass was at the side of the bed,
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the trecks smelling of the poison. He told me that he had left the
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door unlocked. The door is found to be locked, and when it is
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broken open, the glass is gone. Someone else, the murderer, has
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been up and thrown the glass away and locked the door. Where would such
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a one put the key if he wanted to throw suspicion on another? Why
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in the door? Doctor spokeet? Of course, the man who made up
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the medicine, and so he would decide to leave it where it was.
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If Margaret and I really heard anyone creeping on the stairs, could it have
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been the doctor? The time that elapsed between what she heard and what I
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did is not known accurately enough to be certain, but probably it might have
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been he mortive, obvious, and for a potential murderer sufficient notes ay,
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would Alpault have left any man with such evidence against him at liberty for even
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an hour? Unless there are points in his favor that I have either overlooked
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or have had no opportunity to learn about. B Why did he call Margaret
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and me into the dispensary when he made it Ethel's medicine this evening? See?
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Why did he tell Ethel to lock a door and warn me about mine?
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D? What did cooks? I know? What I know is potent
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e? What is the truth about his quarrel with Stella's father? F?
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The practical jokes with the Bets were quite out of keeping with his character.
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It not only struck me forcibly at the time, but he anticipated my surprise
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and gave an explanation of his action before I had said a word to him
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about it. Gee, had he killed Stella? Could he have spoken to
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us as he did when we were collected together at the breakfast table? Could
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he have brazened it out most emphatically? Yes? Conclusion, Every real established
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fact that has come to light incriminates the doctor opportunity, motive, knowledge of
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the poison, and ability to face the rest office with undisturbed indifference all indicate
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the doctor in the same way and under the same headings. I went through
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each member of the household, including Miss Summerson, Annie, and Cook.
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Definite knowledge as to the exact whereabouts and action of the poison could only be
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ascribed to Ethel, Miss Summerson, and myself, in addition to the Tundish.
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But Annie or Kenneth, or indeed any of his might either have been
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told about it or have overheard some conversation as to the key of the poisoned
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cabote. Miss Summerson had her own, she might have taken the poison out
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of the cabote before she lost it, and any of the rest of us
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might have found it when she had. Probably Ethel alone of the party,
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however, would know it for what it was. I had real difficulty in
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my efforts to find reasonably plausible motives for the crime. That is, apart
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from the doctor. He was easy enough. I see that I made Ralph
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killer because as she had refused to marry him, hot work for even those
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hot days to fall in love, proposed marriage be rejected grow mad with jealousy
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and slay all in the space of some fifty hours. But that was the
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best I could do for the quiet Ralph. I made Ethel killer because she
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was jealous of the Tundish Margaret, because she was jealous of Ralph Kenneth,
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because he wanted to fasten the blame on the placid auggravating doctor, whom he
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hated so much. But for one reason or another, each more fantastic than
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the last day. Each turn, according to my notes, slew Stella thoroughly
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absorbed in my writing. The moths which blundered with blind persistence against the solitary
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shaded lamp above my head, and the cathedral chimes, with the insistent repetitions,
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had alike, being insufficient to disturb or destruct my list. At last
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completed, I heaved a sigh of relief and straightened out my back. How
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still and quiet the big room was still and quiet as death itself. The
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table at which I was seated stood against the inner wall, and toward the
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end of the room, nearest the front of the house, the piano jutted
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out immediately before me, and over the top of it I could see the
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large French window that looked on to the garden from the other end, paneled
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in silver gray by the moonlit sky, while between it and my own little
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circle of warmer light there lay a belt of shadows and dim uncertainties. The
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faint tick tick of the dining clock was the only sound to reach my ears.
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The curtains hung in the open windows, limp and still. I felt
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myself on the brink of fear, afraid of what A grown man afraid of
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a quiet room at night? Ridiculous? Absurd? Do you say, then
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you know nothing of fear to you? A soft step and a shadow that
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knows mean not children's terror has never held you in its grip. Fear the
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anticipation of something unknown and inexplicable, intangible, shadowy and unreal, cannot be
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argued and defined. Give it a name, know it well enough to name
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it, define and analyze it. Meet it face to face, and fear,
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true, blood curdling fear evaporates utwards. But leave it vague and shadowy,
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unexplained and undefined. Then a still room at the dead of night,
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the quiet tick tick of a distant clock, the creak of a board in
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an old, old house, and an ever increasing desire to look furtively behind
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may be enough to make the bravest pulses raise. When nerves are on edge,
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an imagination place its part. Must I name myself a cowed then,
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because I sat with quickened breath listening. For I know not what when bravery
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itself is nothing but a knowledge and a crushing down of fear. For what
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agonies of bravery may not be endured in the making of a coward's reputation.
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What lack of sensibility and imagination may not go to the winning of a hero's
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fame? But cowed and no. When I saw the door, which was
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just ajar, swing slowly open to a wider angle, my flesh crept,
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my heart skipped a beat. It was a big tabby tom. As he
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rounded the corner of the piano and saw me, he gave a little squawk
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of pleasure and jumped up to my knee, purring with satisfaction and expressing his
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appreciation of my caresses by the digging in of his curving claws. He had
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broken the spell. I leaped to my feet, and, pulling down the
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other switches, flooded the room with a rosy glow from the shaded lamps,
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I related my pipe, and perching the cat on my shoulder, I began
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to pace the room again. I had set out to come to some recent
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understanding with myself as a doctor's innocence of guilt, and my fit of noves
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concurred I would finish my self appointed task. When with him, how steady,
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unkind he seemed to be his unalterable calm, the natural outcome of his
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hidden strength. But away from him, and here alone in the quiet of
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the night, how damning the evidence against him, And how easy to revalue
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that self same unalterable calm and label it afresh cynical, cold blooded, sinister,
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or callous. I had confessed that I had not succeeded in my attempt
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to play the role of an impartial critic, logging up a list of facts.
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I knew it even as I wrote my notes. Horrible as it may
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sound, I had found myself longing in searching for some further possible evidence against
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miss Sumerson, something that might incriminate Annie or Cook, anything, however trivial
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and observed, that might in some small measure relieve the doctor of the burden
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of suspicion that weighed him down, And helped to take the guilt of murder
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further away from the members of our little party impartial. No, I had
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not been in partial. While I had endeavored to disperse and lighten the dark
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shadows that were gathering ever more closely round the figure of the impassive doctor,
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I had eagerly sought out every evil and distorted possibility to place among my scandalous
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notes about to rest and my list of notives. God saved the mark.
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How absurd they all of them sounded. I had turned dear old Dale House,
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with its honest, squire red face, into a veritable abode of love
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honeycombed with unacknowledged low affairs, unrequitted passions, and murder urging jealousies. I
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returned once more to my little table I would complete my analysis of the situation.
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I took a fresh sheet of paper and proceeded to add to the notes
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I had already made the following list of points which I felt had some rail
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bearing on the problem, and yet which cannot very well be allocated to any
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particular member of the household. Ay, what were the two small fragments of
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glass that alportfohone in Stella's room? Minute fragments that he had treasured so lee
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and that had given him foot for such furious thinking. B. What could
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have given rise to inspect A Brown's speculiar manner when he had asked me if
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my initials were f H? And why on earth should he have asked me
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that question so suddenly? Then at that time, see once again, Why
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did Alport pretend that he had found the key in Kenneth's room as he was
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aware that I knew of its correct hiding place in the doctor's pocket. Did
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it imply that, as far as he was concerned, at any rate,
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I was considered free from suspicion. T Who is it who had laughed so
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disturbingly in the waiting room on the morning of my arrival, Miss Summerson had
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told a lie? Then was there any connection between that and the murder?
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E? Why had Alport shown such a sudden interest in the photograph on the
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piano? I felt that if only I had the answer to some of these
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questions, I should, at any rate have some sort of insight into the
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little detective's extraordinary behavior, some explanation of his reasons for leaving us to our
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own devices. So suddenly, while he followed up a clue which he admitted
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held out little or no hope of leading him to the murderer. Surely one
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of his assistants could have chased his shadow, leaving him free to deal with
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the obviously more urgent problem that still remained unsolved. Here in Daylaus, I
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got up and carefully examined the photograph that had roused his sudden attention. But
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I could find nothing either suspicious or illuminating. It was a cabinet photograph of
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Ralph, taken I should imagine a couple or so years before I took it
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out of its frame, as Alport had done. My guests had been correct.
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It was signed across the bag in a rather boyish hand and dated.
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I replaced it, wondering it was an absolute mystery. She had been walking
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toward me after his little tiff with Inspector Brown. The photograph had suddenly caught
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his eye, and some bright idea dawned on him. She had been unable
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to hide his satisfaction inexplicable. My notes were now complete, and I had
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read them through, determined to come to some sort of conclusion based on what
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I had written down at length. After many trials and much crossing out,
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I drew up the following table. Myself the poison ten poison key, two
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medicine, five bedroom key, ten motive zero total twenty seven, Ralph the
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poison two poison key, three medicine, four bedroom key, two motive three
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total fourteen, Kenneth the poison two poison key three medicine four key zero motive
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three total twelve. Doctor the poison ten poison key, ten medicine, ten
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bedroom key, eight motive ten total forty eight. Ethel the poisson ten poison
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key, five medicine, five bedroom key, ten motive six total thirty six,
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Margaret the poison two poison key, three medicine, five bedroom key,
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zero, motive five total fifteen Miss Summerson the poison ten poison key, ten
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medicine, five bedroom key, zero motive zero total twenty five. Annie the
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poison three poison key, four medicine, ten bedroom key, ten motive zero
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total twenty seven Cook the poison two poison key, three medicine, five bedroom
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key, ten motive zero total twenty I had to make several attempts before I
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got the way numbers to be liking. For instance, if the chances that
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Annie had information about the Chinese poison were to be represented by the figure three.
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Were suggest that the figure two should be set down against the Cook,
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or should they not be five and four respectively. Then I had to go
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back through my notes again to see what I had written down against the others,
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and perhaps alter all the figures in the column before I reached what I
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considered was an estimator that was fair and just to all of us. I
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of course appreciated at once that it was only a very rough measure of possibilities,
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that it might give me the wildest of wristlets, and that it was
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entirely unjust to count up the totals in the way I had done. But
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it did compel me to make detailed comparisons. It did give me some sort
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of an index figure against each member of the party. It showed me immediately
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that the Tundish and Ethel stood in a category apart from the rest of us,
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in that they had a score of five over under every head in the
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table. I was again surprised to notice how heavily Ethel was involved. No
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wonder the Alport had been so persistent in his questions of the rest of us.
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Miss Summerson, Annie Cook and myself were all roughly alike, with the
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skull lying between twenty and thirty, and we were alike too, in that
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we had no score at all under the important heading motive. Margaret, Kenneth
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and Ralph were all three practically equal at the bottom, but for each of
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them there was a conceivable motive. I must have sat pondering over my notes
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for more than an hour, and it amused me to wonder what the clever
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little Alport would have said of my efforts. Time had passed almost unheeded,
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and when the cathedral clock registered a deep noted one, I was surprised to
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find that it was the half hour after midnight instead of half past eleven as
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they had expected. The cat had been seated blissfully happy on my knee while
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I wrote, and perching him on my shoulder again, I got up with
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a sigh. My mind quite made up that the Tundish must be guilty.
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No other explanation seemed capable of being twisted and molded to fit the whole of
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the facts. The windows were still open, and I went round the room,
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shutting them one by one. At the big French window, I stood
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for a time looking out on the moonlit garden. Then I decided to go
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out and see if I could find any ladder near the salgery wing that might
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have been used for getting on to the flat rooftop I would finish my job.
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I opened the window and stood for a time on the narrow asphalt path
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that ran round the back of the house. It was almost plainfully beautiful,
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and I remember that as I stood looking at the quiet garden scene, I
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felt to wondering what quality it held that filled me with such unutterable sadness.
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Not a leaf was moving. A motorcycle passed along the road at the front
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of the house with a sudden roar, a splash in the pool of silence.
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Then the ripples died away, and all was glassy calm once more.
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From the high cathedral tower water view there must be on a night like this.
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First the houses of the city huddled round the base of the hill,
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a study in shady blacks and steely blues, as a moon's pure light picked
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out this old house in light and shade and played on the sloping roof of
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that. Then, for miles around the undulating countryside beillow we see of misty
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gray and blue and all the scene, I thought, city and countryside alike,
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there could be no roof that sheltered such unhappiness as a roof of the
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old red Georgian house, underneath whose shadow I stood, the cat still cuddling
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comfortably up against my neck. I walked across the lawn toward the surgery wing.
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The end away from the house lay deep in the shade, but there
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plain enough, Slung across two stout iron hooks was a short wooden ladder.
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It was short, but I calculated long enough to allow of any fairly active
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person reaching the roof and gaining access to Stella's bedroom window. I looked up
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at the house. I could just make out the white framed windows from the
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surrounding shadows. The moon rode clear between the chimneys and over the old red
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roof. Then as I watched, I saw a light shine in the window
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that lights the stairs between the first and the second floats, just a faint
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but steady glow. It came and went again. As I stood wondering,
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water on earth it could be The light might have come, I decided from
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either the first or the second landing. But it was not the light I
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should have seen had anyone switched on either of the landing lights. It was
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not nearly bright enough for that. Had someone struck a match, No,
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for that, it was too equal and steady. Or someone perhaps had opened
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the door of a lighted room and the reflected light had given the momentary,
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steady glow to the staircase window. No, and that didn't quite meet the
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case either, I thought, had it been the light from an open door,
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surely it would have faded away more gradually as the door was closed.
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Quickly perhaps, but not with a sudden jerk, like the light I had
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seen at the window that had gone out with a click. A click,
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Yes, that was it. Someone had been using an electric flashlight on one
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of the landings. I returned to the warm light of the drawing room and
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quietly re locked the door, then out into the hall, where I stood
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for a minute listening. Not a single sound could I hear from the landing
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about My childish fears began to crowd round me again, and the cat,
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which was still on my shoulder, must have caught the feeling from me,
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for I felt a snack suddenly stiffen as we gazed together up the darkened stairs.
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Then he jumped from his shoulder and disappeared. I switched round the landing
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light, and rereading as quietly as I could, I crept upstairs the end
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of chapter ten