(7)
Assistant-Commissioner Robert Gavin had taken week-end leave, but had returned to London on the day before the inquest. He was sufficiently intrigued by the murder of Karen Schumann, however, to come down again to the Stone House on the following Friday. He and Laura had a bedroom and a sitting-room of their own there, and a flat in Dame Beatrice’s Kensington home, for both of which he insisted on paying rent. He would have preferred, with masculine independence, to have had a place of his own, but Laura, good-naturedly obedient to most of his wishes, had remained obstinately non-co-operative over this one, her place (as she had pointed out very firmly when she agreed to marry) being with Dame Beatrice, whose company she preferred, she added relentlessly, to that of anybody else on earth, and Gavin, who, in his silent, undemonstrative way, adored her, had given in, wisely realising that she meant exactly what she said. Fortunately, his own admiration for Dame Beatrice was boundless and it was certainly comforting to know that his headstrong, comely, imaginative wife was in her care and, while so situated, would do as Dame Beatrice told her, and not get into too much mischief.
On the Friday following the inquest, therefore, he was again at the Stone House and at a quarter to five was taking tea in the library with the ladies.
‘No more news, I suppose?’ he asked. ‘What happened to the girl’s mother?’
‘She seems to have found herself a lodger, a Spanish girl who is at a south-west Redbrick, but wants to be in the country on Saturdays and Sundays and for the Christmas vacation,’ said Laura. ‘She speaks four languages, including German and English. It seems an ideal arrangement. With the money she pays, and a little money the daughter left, and the cash for the dog-breeding, Mrs Schumann thinks she will be able to manage quite nicely, so that’s a blessing.’
‘And how is Phillips getting on?’ asked Gavin.
‘I do not think the Superintendent’s enquiries are leading anywhere at present,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Oh, well, it’s early days yet,’ said Gavin. He fondled the dog’s rough head. ‘Why can’t you talk?’ he asked him. ‘Did somebody whistle you up that night?’
‘If so, the man must have been on horseback and led the dog on,’ said Laura. ‘The body was a good two miles from where Fergus left me, and the whistle doesn’t carry more than, at the very most, about one-eighth of that distance.’
‘A horseman moving forward and enticing the dog to follow him all the time, while he himself kept a few hundred yards ahead?’ said Gavin thoughtfully. ‘A bike would have been just as good, and a great deal quieter. You can hear a galloping horse quite a long way off.’
‘I did hear the sound of hooves, but I thought it was the Forest ponies. They’re always about on the common.’
‘Have you suggested this theory of yours to the Superintendent? It’s quite a likely one. I certainly think he should pay considerable attention to the fact that the dog went belting off like that. After all, Fergus is a sober sort of fellow, aren’t you?’ he added, putting his hand under the dog’s chin and looking into his eyes. ‘The thing is, if this is what happened, was the horseman or cyclist the murderer? If so, why did he want to lead the dog to the body? It seems a lunatic sort of proceeding. Was the girl pregnant, by the way?’
‘No,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘nor was it the usual pattern of a sex crime.’
‘No Jack the Ripper stuff?’
‘There had been no attempt at anything but manual strangulation preceded by the tightening of a ligature – in this case, a stout cord attached to a dog-whistle – which must have induced unconsciousness.’
‘Dog-whistles do seem to insist on presenting themselves, don’t they? Any other unusual features?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Laura. ‘Fastened to the body by a very thin steel knitting-needle was a bit of paper marked In Memoriam 325.’
‘Well, that means Phillips has something to go on, at any rate.’
‘The bit of paper had been taken from one of those very ordinary unlined writing tablets that you buy with envelopes to match, and, although probably there will be fingerprints on it, they won’t match with any on record, I wouldn’t mind betting. As for the number 325, well, it probably means nothing except to the murderer,’ said Laura.
‘It must have meant something to the victim, too, and that might indicate that it means something to somebody else – her mother, maybe. Is there any chance of my having a word with her, I wonder? I’ll mention it to Phillips, of course. It’s his case, not mine.’
‘Superintendent Phillips will be delighted to hear from you, I am certain of that,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘and Mrs Schumann will be more than willing to help in any way she can.’
Both these statements appeared to be true. Gavin drove to the police station and was received with a welcoming smile and given a comfortable chair in Superintendent Phillips’ office.
‘Good of you to come, sir,’ said Phillips. ‘I haven’t much doubt that we shall call in the Yard, and I’ve suggested to the Chief Constable that it ought to be sooner rather than later.’
‘If you’ve decided on it, then I agree that the sooner the better,’ said Gavin. ‘But why? You’ve handled cases of murder before this. What seems to be the trouble?’
‘Well, sir, it seems to me that we need to know a lot more than we do about the poor young woman’s background. It seems to me that the motive for the crime must
