in recording a verdict without giving his reasons. He drew the grey hair tangles down over his bright, shrewd eyes and began to speak.
“As the last witness so properly remarked”—Worple’s chin tightened with gratification—“guessing should not enter into an inquiry of this nature. Unfortunately, however, the evidence available to us is mainly of the kind that in a court of law would be called circumstantial. And forming conclusions from circumstantial evidence is a matter of putting two and two together: it is in some degree a speculative process. What we must guard against, of course, is making the answer more than four.
“Now, to start with, I am going to exclude the possibility that the four explosions of which we have heard today might have been unconnected incidents. The evidence leaves no doubt in my mind that the first three were contrived by one and the same person. What purpose that person entertained I cannot imagine, but some gesture or other would appear to have been intended.
“The fourth explosion did not follow the pattern established by the earlier ones. For one thing, it seems to have been the most violent of all. It was not staged in a public place, nor was it directed against a monument or symbol. An exhibitionist motive is not discernible.
“Moreover, it cost a human life.
“I conclude from these points of difference that the fourth explosion occurred spontaneously and accidentally.
“That brings us to its victim, Mr Stanley Biggadyke.
“It was his caravan in which the explosive substance lay—unless, of course, he had taken it with him when he left his car that night. In any case, he alone had access to the caravan, so we must presume that he was responsible for the explosive being there.
“That presumption is strengthened to virtual certainty when we take into consideration this fact. On all the nights when the first three explosions were engineered Mr Biggadyke had deliberately given a false account of his whereabouts and had even arranged for his story to be borne out by his friend, Mr Smiles, who today very rightly repudiated it.
“It is no part of my duty to accuse the deceased of activities for which he might have been called to account in a court of justice. But in so far as those activities provide the only explanation of his death that seems tenable, I must express my view that Mr Biggadyke was the person responsible for the explosions on the third, seventeenth and twenty-fourth of June, and that he unintentionally caused the one which killed him in his caravan a week later.
“My verdict, accordingly, is death by misadventure.”
“And no one,” the man from the
Chapter Twelve
Mr Kebble could not remember when last a policeman had bought him a drink. It was therefore with a feeling of pleasurable awe that he accepted the brandy that Inspector Purbright brought to their table in the Nelson and Emma.
“So it’s all over, old chap,” said Kebble, having plunged his brandy into a half tankard of water and pledged the inspector’s health.
“It looks rather like it.”
“You’ll be going back now, I suppose. I’m sorry.”
“That’s nice of you, Mr Kebble. Actually, though, I shall probably hang on for a few more days. Chalmsbury’s quite an attractive little town.”
Kebble beamed, but about his eyes was a flicker of inquisitiveness. “What do you want, a list of the places of interest?”
“I have my own list, as a matter of fact. For what it’s worth. I was wondering if you could give me a few directions, though.”
“You don’t want to bother Larch?” Kebble was still smiling.
“Well, I feel that would be somewhat ungracious of me. He’s a busy man, is your chief inspector.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” Kebble sighed and took a slow drink. “All right, then; tell me where you want to go?”
Purbright revolved his glass on the smooth oak table top and eyed the dark, frothless column of beer. It was a sweet, oily local brew that soothed rather than stimulated. “For a start,” he said, “I should like to take a trip into the past life of the gentleman on whose body Mr Chalice has just conducted his admirable inquest.”
“So that’s the sort of tour you’re on, is it?” Kebble had started to clean his nails with a little pearl-handled pen-knife that hung from his watch-chain, and his voice seemed to come through the folds of his chin and neck.
“Idle curiosity,” said Purbright. “This Biggadyke must have been quite a practical joker.”
Kebble chuckled. “They tell me it was Stan who got in here one night after closing time and sawed all the handles off the beer pumps.” He ruminatively surveyed the results of his manicure. “Then there was the beetle, of course. But you’ll have heard about that.”
“Beetle? No, I don’t think so.”
Kebble looked up. “Good lord! Haven’t you really?” He brushed shut the little penknife across his palm. “I thought everyone knew about the Broadbeck beetle. Broadbeck—do you know where that is?”
Purbright shook his head.
“Never mind; it’s a small village just outside the town. Biggadyke’s house is there, next to the parish hall. The hall’s a scruffy little place, but the rural district council has always used it for meetings and about three years ago they had an outside lavatory built—R.D.C. meetings are liable to go on all day, you know. Big was fearfully annoyed because they put the thing bang up to the edge of his garden, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
