Then: Another Climber Killed On Snowdon
Once again a short paragraph preceded the avalanche. The report had arrived too late, probably, to be dealt with at length, or else the editor had decided not to stir up dust over it.
Snowdon claimed its third victim in a fortnight today when Arthur Edward Fleece, a company director of London, received fatal injuries following a fall while climbing. A Mountain Rescue Team from Pen-y-Gwryd recovered the body this afternoon. Fleece leaves a widow.
The morning papers expanded this with some interesting additions, though they were still uncertain about giving it importance. At the time of his death Fleece had been on the Everest Club’s annual outing, one of which had taken place every year since 1937. The ramble had commenced from the Gorphwysfa Hotel, the members suiting themselves about their paths to the summit. Fleece had chosen the Pyg Track and was one of the first to reach the top. He was seen on the ridge approaching the summit by members on the Pen-y-Pass route. Then, as the others were climbing the Zigzags, a cry was heard from the summit, and a moment later Fleece was seen to fall from the precipices on their left. There were no indications as to how the accident occurred. Another member who had reached the summit was unaware of Fleece’s presence there. The papers garnished this account with references to Fleece’s part in l’affaire Kincaid, but the overall impression Gently received was that they were waiting for a Sign.
It came, twenty-four hours later, vanquishing editorial diffidence. Across the front page rocketed the news: KINCAID CHARGED WITH MURDER OF FLEECE
By half-past ten that morning Gently knew he’d bought the case. The Assistant Commissioner had sent him a memo desiring a conference at that hour. By a little probing Gently had ascertained that no other case of importance had broken, so he was fairly certain of what was in store when he tapped and entered the A.C.’s office. As he went in a sharp-eyed plain-clothes man who had been sitting there, rose politely. The A.C. beamed at Gently through his tortoiseshell-framed glasses.
‘Morning, Gently. Meet Chief Inspector Evans of the Caernarvon C.I.D. Evans, this is Superintendent Gently, one of our principal nutcrackers.’
‘I’ve heard of you, sir.’ Evans stuck his hand out eagerly. He was a man of about forty-five and spoke with a vibrant Welsh accent. Gently shook the outstretched hand and nodded to him vaguely; then he pulled up a chair and sat. Evans too resumed his seat.
‘It’s the Kincaid business, Gently. As you’ve probably guessed already.’
‘Mmn.’ Gently nodded. He fiddled with his pipe.
‘We’ve got our man in the cells at Bow Street. He’ll be transferred tomorrow. But in the meantime the Chief Inspector has run into a snag.’
‘What sort of a snag?’
‘You’d better tell him yourself, Evans.’
The Welsh inspector leaned forward. ‘It’s like this, sir,’ he said. ‘If this chummie really is Kincaid, then it’s an open and shut case. But if he isn’t — well, then it’s just a lot of blind foolishness!’
Gently puffed. ‘Isn’t that what it’s been all along?’ he asked.
‘I know, man. But there are facts. We couldn’t help but have him arrested.’
‘So why has he got to be Kincaid?’
‘Why, to give him a proper motive. He’ll get off as easy as pie unless we can pin him down on that.’
‘You’ve read the papers, have you, Gently?’ put in the Assistant Commissioner. ‘If so, you must know the story Kincaid has been telling. He as good as said that Fleece abandoned him up there on Everest, which in the circumstances was tantamount to signing his death warrant. There’s your motive: revenge. Provided he really is Kincaid. If he isn’t, there’s only this slander suit for a motive.’
‘And it’s not enough!’ Evans exclaimed. ‘We should lose this case for certain. You don’t go pushing people off Snowdon merely because of a slander suit.’
Gently hunched, leaning back in his chair. It was running to form, l’affaire Kincaid! It worked by a form of chain reaction which led you from one piece of idiocy to another.
‘What are the facts, then?’ he enquired.
‘They are plain as daylight,’ retorted Evans. ‘If you listen I will go over them in just the order they happened.
‘At first it looked like an accident, I don’t mind telling you. There was nothing at all to say that Fleece hadn’t overbalanced or something. He was a climber, that’s certain, and the top of the Wyddfa isn’t treacherous, but it might be he walked down to the edge and contrived to lose his footing there. The only thing at all suggestive was that he wasn’t quite alone. There was this other fellow, Heslington, who must have been up there when it happened.
‘So that made me rather careful when it came to taking statements. Heslington, in particular; I had to go through all his movements. I knew, because I had read it, that he was no friend of the deceased’s, and when I put it to him he was frank with me — he didn’t like the man at all. Now, just look at this plan.’
Evans produced a folded sheet. It was a sketch map of Snowdon summit and the ridges falling away from it. A small rectangle marked the cafe which lay niched in below the top, a circle beside it was the cairn, a hatched line the mountain railway. At the side of the cafe away from the cairn a pencilled cross had been placed, and another at the side of the cairn furthest away from the cafe.
‘Do you see where these tracks come up from the Gorphwysfa? There’s the Pyg Track see, it’s the shorter of the two. That was Heslington’s way and he was the first one to the top. When he’d got to the ridge here, he says, the others were down by the Glaslyn. So there he is, at about one o’clock, just arrived at the summit. What does he do? He decides that he might as well eat his lunch. So he goes round the cafe, which is closed in October, and sits down out of the wind, where I’ve put this cross.
‘Fleece was behind him on the Pyg Track and he arrived on top about twenty minutes later. We’re asked to assume that he stuck to the track, which passes the cafe on the left. So like that it’s quite possible that Heslington might not have seen him — nor heard him, neither, when he went over the edge. This other cross by the cairn marks the spot from which he fell.
‘When that happened the rest of the party were climbing the Zigzags to the ridge. Overton, the secretary, was nearest to the top. He had the sense to take the time — it was one twenty-five — and he called down to the others to make an attempt to reach the body. Then he hurried up the Zigzags and along the ridge to the summit, where he came upon Heslington still eating his lunch. He didn’t waste time on him, but went and broke into the cafe, and from there he phoned down to Llanberis for the Mountain Rescue Team.’
Evans paused to lick his lips. ‘So far so good. But then we heard something from Heslington which gave the business a different look. While he was sitting beside the cafe he’d seen a third party about there, a man wearing a brown tweed jacket and a pair of grey slacks. Only a glimpse of him he’d caught, just as the man was going away from him: he was on the railway track, here, and running down it like the devil. And this is the interesting part. He puts the time at one-thirty. Which is five minutes, look you, after Fleece took his tumble.
‘As you can imagine, I went over the ground with a magnifying glass, but it’s mostly bare rock and there was nothing for me to find. A bit of shale was kicked out where I’ve put the cross, only that told us nothing one way or the other. It was one of my constables who showed the best sense — he climbed up the cairn and had a poke around there. And he spotted this small item.’ Evans dived his hand into his pocket. ‘When you see it, you will think we were a little slow in drawing conclusions.’
He produced a silver cigarette-case and handed it to Gently. It was of silver, a tubby design which had fallen from favour years earlier. A florid pattern was engraved on it though this was wearing thin, but on an oval plaque in the centre appeared clearly the monogram: RTK. Pasted down inside it was a faded snapshot of a climber.
‘Did you find any latents on it?’
Gently passed it to the Assistant Commissioner.
‘No; it was smeary.’
‘It’s a poor surface for prints. Was there anything inside it?’
‘A couple of Churchman’s No. 1. And we found one he’d lit and thrown away, about a couple of feet distant.’
‘You examined them, of course?’
‘Oh yes, you bet I did! But there were only smears on them, and just the edges of prints.’
Gently nodded. He puffed several times without speaking. Chummie had lit a cigarette… thrown it away…
