Dead Man's Quarry Page 10

  Felix Price, who was the next witness, came forward and took the oath with an extreme quietness and precision that suggested great nervous tension. He looked very pale, and the muscles about his mouth and jaw were stiffly set, and he did not glance at John nor anywhere but at the coroner.

  “You have identified the body, Mr. Price?”

  “Yes. It is that of my cousin, Charles Almeric Price.”

  “When did you last see your cousin alive?”

  “At about half-past five, when we left the inn after having had tea. He discovered that one of his tyres was flat, and stopped outside the inn to pump it up. The rest of the party, including myself, went on down Rodland Hill.”

  “When did you first become anxious for your cousin’s safety?”

  “That evening, in Penlow. He was to have spent the night with me at the Feathers, and when he did not appear I became a little anxious.”

  “Were there any special grounds for your anxiety?” Felix did not reply for a moment. His hands, lying on the table in front of him, whitened at the knuckles. The coroner amended his question.

  “I mean, was he a reckless or an inexperienced cyclist?”

  Felix’s pose relaxed slightly. He answered quietly:

  “No. Oh, no! He was perfectly capable of looking after himself.” Then he in his turn amended his former statement:“Perhaps ‘anxious’ is rather a strong word. I became a little uneasy.”

  “Naturally. Before you arrived at Penlow, were you not surprised that he did not catch you up?”

  “Yes. We waited some time at the foot of Rodland Hill. We were about to go back and look for him, but a passing motorist informed us that he had seen no sign of a cyclist on the hill, so I imagined that he had stayed behind on purpose, and would catch us up later.”

  “How long did you wait for him?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “Had you any idea of what might detain him for that length of time?”

  “Yes. He might have gone back to the inn for a drink. Or he might have found a puncture in his tyre and stayed behind to mend it.”

  “Was there a mending outfit on his bicycle?”

  “No, but no doubt he could have borrowed one from somebody in the inn.”

  The coroner nodded.

  “Do you recognize the bicycle found with your cousin’s body?”

  “No. It is not the bicycle he was riding.”

  “What make was your cousin’s bicycle?”

  “It was an old Humber machine. He hired it in Worcester from a firm named Martin.”

  There was a pause. One of the constables on guard at the door brought into the room a shabby, dusty bicycle and placed it where Felix and the jury could have a clear view of it. John, watching closely, saw an indefinable flicker of emotion pass over the young man’s face—glad surprise, relief, hope, passed in a moment.

  “Do you recognize this bicycle, Mr. Price?”

  “Yes. It is the machine my cousin had.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite. I recognize the dent in the back mudguard and the scrap of label stuck to the side of the saddle.” The coroner nodded, as if this answer were the expected one, and made a note in the book lying in front of him. He was about to dismiss the witness when the foreman of the jury rose.

  “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Through me, you may.”

  “I should like to ask the young gentleman, Mr. Price, that is, whether he knows of any reason why the deceased should have gone across the quarry field instead of down Rodland Hill, sir.”

  The coroner turned his mild spectacles upon Felix.

  “Do you know of any such reason? Had your cousin mentioned any intention of following a different route from the rest of you, or expressed a desire to see the quarry, or the view from the quarry?”

  “No. The quarry was mentioned at tea-time, but my cousin showed no interest in it. So far as I know, his intention was to follow us down Rodland Hill.”

  “Thank you. Next witness, please.”

  A short, elderly man with a puckered, irascible face, bright blue eyes and a ragged grey moustache stepped forward and stood by the table fingering his cloth cap and looking with a sort of truculent embarrassment from one stolid member of the jury to another. There was a stir of interest in the court. Evidently the witness was well known to most of the people present.

  “Your name?”

  “James Letbe, sir.”

  “I understand that you have identified the bicycle found below the quarry as your own?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that the bicycle you see here in court was found in your possession?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Will you explain how it came into your possession?” Letbe fixed the foreman of the jury with a challenging eye. Evidently he was more than a little aggrieved at the prominence which circumstances had thrust upon him.

  “It was this way,” he began heavily. “Two days before yesterday I came here—to the Tram Inn, that is— just afore six o’clock. I was riding my bike that I’ve had a dozen years or more. I left it standing agin the railings outside and went into the bar. There was one or two bicycles standing outside. I left mine standing near un. When I got into the bar I come out again and went round to the side door. I—”

  The foreman of the jury, a stout and jovial-looking soul with a ruffled cock’s comb of dark hair and a crooked pair of pince-nez, rose immediately.

  “I should like to ask, sir, why the witness changed his mind and went to the side door.”

  Letbe scowled at the zealous juryman.

  “I was just a-going to tell you,” he remarked. “I seen Sir Charles Price in the bar. I couldn’t take my drink while he was by. He turned me out of my job that I’ve had thirty years. I went round to the side door to wait till he’d gone. In two-three minutes I seed him go. So I went through the house to the bar. I stayed till about seven. There’s many can bear me out.”

  He looked slowly around the court, and there was a faint murmur of assent.

  “When I went out,” pursued Letbe, still in the heavy, rather aggrieved tones of the injured man, “my bicycle had gone. There was only two bikes there. One belonged to old Tom Lloyd, as I knew well. The other was a stranger. I went round to the door and arst Miss Watt if she’d moved my bike. No, she hadn’t seen it. I went into the bar and arst all round if anyone claimed the other bike—the one as didn’t belong to Tom Lloyd. No, it didn’t belong to no one. I thinks then as somebody’s took my bike in error for his own. I didn’t fancy losing of my machine, nor I didn’t fancy walking home. So’ I took tother chap’s bike, the stranger’s, leaving word with Miss Watt in case tother chap should turn up.”

  Old Letbe looked slowly again from juryman to juryman as though challenging them all to say that he had done wrong. Then he addressed himself to the coroner again:“It isn’t thought that I did do wrong, I hope, sir? I can’t do wi’out a bicycle, living as I does in such a lonely place. And I can’t afford for to buy a new one, having lost my place as I’ve held thirty years wi’out complaint. And it weren’t such a grand bargain I made. My bike were old, but I’d kept it well. But this one”—he looked unfavourably at the rusty machine—”this one hasn’t seen oil or cleaning for years, I know.”

  On the coroner’s assurance that no blame was attached to him for appropriating the strange machine, he went back to his seat and sat heavily down with his hands on his knees, looking fixedly at the foreman of the jury, challenging to the last.

  Two or three witnesses were next called to corroborate Letbe’s statement. At each answer the old man nodded gravely, and when his statement had been fully and finally corroborated his face relaxed into an almost agreeable expression and he sat back to enjoy the entertainment.

  “Call Mr. Morris Price.”

  Now there was a movement and rustle in the warm, crowded room, a sudden awakening of interest on sleepy faces, as Morris Price rose, approached the table an
d took the oath. He looked more himself than when John had seen him at Rhyllan Hall two days before. There was a ruddier colour in his cheeks and his fierce dark eyes were clearer. He took the oath in clear, deep tones and quietly awaited the coroner’s questions. But there was an indefinable atmosphere of antagonism about him as he stood there; and a very formidable antagonist he looked.

  “Now, Mr. Price. Will you tell the jury when you last saw your nephew, and in what circumstances?”

  “I last saw my nephew Charles at a quarter to seven on the evening of August the twenty-seventh, three days ago. I was returning from Hereford, where I had been in my car on private business. As I approached this inn I saw my nephew standing at the side of the road with a bicycle.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. So far as I noticed, there was nobody in sight. I hailed him as I passed, and pulled up a little farther along to have a word with him. This was about halfpast six. He—”

  “One moment. When you first saw your nephew, what was he doing?”

  “Doing? Nothing. He was standing by the roadside, holding his bicycle and looking up and down the road. My impression was that he was looking for somebody, for the other members of the party, probably.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, I stopped the car and he came up to me. I asked where the rest of the party was. He replied that they had just gone on, and that he was about to follow them. I suggested that I might walk a little way with him, as I had something to speak to him about.”

  “Have you any objection, Mr. Price, to telling the jury what it was you wished to speak about?

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, I have,” said the witness calmly but determinedly. “It was on a private matter, and quite irrelevant.”

  In the small silence that followed John heard a faint sigh from Felix. The coroner glanced at the sad-faced Superintendent Lovell and then at his refractory witness. There was a slight chill in his tone as he asked:

  “When was your nephew expected home at Rhyllan Hall?”

  “On the following day.”

  “Then I take it that the communication you wished to make to him was one of great importance, if it could not wait until the following day?”

  Morris returned his look with an arrogant stare before replying:

  “It was not of importance—or rather, it was important but not urgent. It could quite well have waited until the following day, but I preferred that it should not.”

  “I see. Did your nephew consent to your proposal that you should accompany him a short distance?”

  “Certainly,” replied Mr. Price in a tone that said:“Who was he to refuse?” He went on:“We went through the gate into the field that leads to the common.”

  “Did you know that the rest of the party had gone down Rodland Hill?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Did the deceased say that they had gone across the common?”

  There was a pause.

  “As far as I remember, he did not actually say so. I took it for granted.”

  “Who made the suggestion that you should go across the quarry fields, you or he?”

  “Neither of us. I took it for granted that the others had gone that way, and opened the gate. He followed me without making any remark. Our conversation then—”

  “One moment, please!” interrupted the coroner a little impatiently. “You say that your nephew did not mention the route taken by the other members of the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you took it for granted they had gone through the quarry fields?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know they were going to Penlow?”

  “Yes.”

  “The direct road to Penlow is down Rodland Hill, is it not?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why then did you take it for granted they had gone across the field-path?”

  There was a murmur of assent among the jurymen. Morris Price looked at them contemptuously.

  “I don’t know,” he said abruptly. “All I can say is, that I did gain the impression that they had gone across the fields. Perhaps my nephew looked in that direction as he spoke, Perhaps he indicated it with a gesture. I certainly don’t remember his saying so. But it was from him I took the impression.”

  “Who opened the gate, you or he?”

  “I did, I have said so already. He was wheeling a bicycle behind me. He made no objection to my taking that route. Our conversation continued until we reached the quarry field, where we parted. My nephew, I think, went on towards the Wensley Road, and I turned back to my car, which I had left standing outside this inn.”

  “You say you think your nephew went towards Wensley. Do you not know?”

  “I do not.”

  “How is that?”

  “I did not turn back to see where he went after I left him. All I know is, he did not come back with me.” An elderly juryman with a lined face and a stony, conscientious eye here rose to address the coroner.

  “Sir, I think it would help a lot if Sir Morris would think better of it, and tell us what it was he and the deceased discussed when they walked over to the quarry.” Before he had time to sit down again the spruce, greyhaired lawyer had risen from his small table at the end of the room.

  “My name,” he said in a dry, brisk voice, “is Hector Penrose. I represent the firm of Penrose & Johnson, Solicitors, of 47 Chancery Row. The legal affairs of the deceased were in the hands of my firm, and I am also the legal representative of Sir Morris Price. I object strongly to the question just asked by this gentleman.” He sat down with a flick of his coat-tails, and there was a pause while the coroner balanced a pen-holder thoughtfully on his forefinger and considered the matter. He said reluctantly at last:

  “Although the question was in the first place my own, I think I have no option but to withdraw it as irrelevant. The answer cannot materially affect our business, which is, you must remember, gentlemen, simply to discover the cause of the death of Sir Charles Almeric Price. I will ask another question more pertinent to the matter. Did your nephew, Sir Morris, say anything which might have led you to suppose that he stood in any fear of an attempt upon his life, that he had an enemy, or that he expected to meet with some person other than his cousin and the other members of the cycling party?”

  “No,” replied Morris, “he certainly didn’t. He said very little at all. I did most of the talking.” There was a pause while the witness, frowning, seemed to hesitate. Then he burst out: “Oh, very well! I’ll tell you what we talked about, since you’re so anxious to know!”

  Regardless of the coroner’s head-shake and Mr. Penrose’s sharp: “There is no need!” he went on impulsively:

  “I had made up my mind to give up my post as agent to the estates. I had made up my mind to leave Rhyllan. I had been considering the step for some time, ever since my nephew’s return, in fact. And I had just definitely made up my mind. My mind was full of my decision, and when I unexpectedly saw my nephew, alone, I determined to tell him of it there and then. So I told him. And now you know.”

  This declaration caused a certain quickening of interest in the audience, and a few whispers, which were sternly suppressed by the coroner. Even Blodwen, John noticed, looked as if she could hardly believe her ears. It was evident that Morris Price had not taken his family into his confidence.

  “Thank you, Sir Morris,” said the coroner. “I propose now to call the medical evidence, and that of the police.”

  Dr. Browning stepped forward and took Sir Morris’s place. He gave his evidence quietly and concisely, testifying to having been called to the Tram Inn early in the morning on August the twenty-eighth to view the body of a man which he had identified as that of Sir Charles Price. He could not say with certainty how long the man had been dead. Probably twelve hours or more. The cause of death was cerebral haemorrhage caused by a close-range bullet through the brain. In his opinion a revolver had been held within two feet of the man’s h
ead, and the bullet had passed in at an upward angle through the occiput and had emerged through the bridge of the nose. Yes, suicide was quite out of the question. No, it was not possible that the man might have been shot after he had fallen or been thrown over the quarry edge. The wounds caused by the shot had bled freely, but the slight wounds caused by striking the rocks at the foot of the quarry had not bled at all. Yes, Dr. Browning was of opinion that all the injuries found on the body, except the injury to the head caused by the shot, had been caused by the fall from the quarry, after death had taken place. There were no bruises on the throat or arms such as might have been caused by a struggle.

  The melancholy Superintendent Lovell then took his place opposite the jurors. In a quiet, level voice he told of the removal of the body to the Tram Inn, its identification by Felix and Blodwen, and his own identification of the crumpled bicycle as Lethe’s.

  “That matter has been settled, I think, to the satisfaction of the jury?” said the coroner, looking at his twelve good men and true, who answered with solemn nods and murmurs of assent.

  “Now, Superintendent,” went on the coroner, and to John his grave, quiet voice seemed suddenly to take on a portentous note, “I understand that the bullet with which deceased was killed passed through the head without lodging in the brain. Has your search for the bullet met with any success?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Lovell, and produced a small folded envelope. “I found the ’32 bullet, enclosed in this envelope, in the quarry field, at a distance of about eight feet from the quarry edge, yesterday morning.”

  There was a subdued noise of rustling and creaking as every listener sat up and craned forward to try and get a view of the envelope which Lovell passed to the coroner. John, watching the three Prices, saw Felix flinch as Lovell spoke, glance quickly at his father, and then fold his arms and sit hack in his chair, as if determined to imitate that gentleman’s pose of haughty impassivity. The coroner shook out the bullet on to the palm of his hand, scrutinized it and passed it to the foreman of the jury, who, after examining it with an expert air for a moment or two, passed it along to his neighbour.

  “Also,” went on Lovell in his quiet, rather dreary voice, “I found this revolver in a rabbit hole in the quarry field. Sergeant Dew and Constable Beaver were present when I found it, yesterday morning at about eleven o’clock.”