“Servants heard the shots. Must have been close on to three in the morning. They came at once, of course, but by then it was too late. Still, can’t say it was unexpected, can we? Everybody knows they were at odds over the ’orrible smut someone was sending to Mrs. Cubitt. It’s possible he confronted her.”
“What? No, it’s all wrong,” I spluttered. “The situation, the motive, the scene—all wrong. To start with, I spoke to Mr. Cubitt about this affair and I can assure you he had no intention to harm his wife. Indeed, his chief concern seemed to be that if these drawings reflected her true desires, he might find himself unable to fulfill them.”
Stote gasped as if utterly scandalized, but Martin gave just a hint of a nod, as if approving of Mr. Cubitt’s thinking.
I continued, “And if that is not enough to cast doubt, let us consider this extraordinary scene we find ourselves in—a very unlikely domestic shootout, I would think. Tell me, did any of the servants hear the Cubitts arguing last night?”
“Well, no. The staff were all abed,” Stote said.
“That might explain it, so long as both Mr. and Mrs. Cubitt were conscientious about keeping their voices down in their moment of murderous passion,” I said, “but there are more peculiarities than only that. Three in the morning? Why is he dressed?”
Stote’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh! I hadn’t thought of that!”
“Clearly not,” I agreed. “If a woman wishes to murder her husband and then kill herself at three in the morning, she hasn’t got far to go. She’ll most likely find him in bed. In a fairly helpless state, at that. Why would she elect to meet him down here, fully dressed, and see to it that he was armed? Do we suppose she challenged him to a duel? No. Something else happened here and at least part of this scene was staged.”
“Eh? What makes you say that?” asked Stote.
“Because I once had tea with that man and he gave me an envelope.”
Stote gave me a surprisingly stoat-like look. Have you ever seen them pop up on their back legs and wrinkle their nose at something they don’t like? For just an instant, I wanted to pat him on the head and tell him he was darling. Instead, I pointed to the telltale placement of Hilton Cubitt’s pistol and said, “He was left-handed.”
At that, Inspector Martin—who had been rather tight-lipped to that point—asked me, “What was in the envelope?”
“Ah! Now there is an intelligent question! Mr. Cubitt approached Scotland Yard when he saw the nature of the… er… communications his wife was receiving. As I had been asked to look into the case, I have a few examples here.”
I reached into my coat and divulged its scandalous payload. Inspector Martin snatched the envelopes from my hand, paced over to Inspector Stote, slid one of the sheets out and opened it so his colleague could see.
“Oh! What? No!” Stote cried, and reeled back. “Put them with the others, man! The others!”
The diminutive inspector dutifully marched into the dining room. Through the doorway, I could see him spread the three notes I’d brought on the table, near two others. He pounded his fist down on one of them—whether in frustration or disgust, I could not guess. A moment later, he said, “If this Watson fellow is correct and an outside actor is responsible, perhaps we should begin checking the local inns. What was that one I heard of… Elridge’s? Yes, that was it. Anybody know where that is?”
The dining room was the gathering point of choice for the entire household staff of Ridling Thorpe Manor—it being the closest one could get to the crime scene without getting one’s employer’s blood on one’s shoes. The groom, a terrified-looking man of forty with sandy blond hair said, “N-no, sir. No inn by that name around here.”
“What? But I heard the food was excellent,” Martin insisted.
The groom shrugged. “But… there isn’t one.”
“There’s a farmer named Elridge nearby,” one of the maids mentioned. “A few miles off, near East Ruston.”
“Ah, maybe that was what I was thinking of,” Martin said, “because he takes in boarders, doesn’t he?”
“Oh… yes, I think so,” said the maid.
“Surely there are more important concerns right now,” I harrumphed.
“There’s Mrs. Cubitt, I suppose,” Martin replied. “She’s upstairs under the care of Dr. Anders, who has been serving this community for over forty years.”
“What? A trusty old country doctor? He’ll kill her! My bag! Quick, where is my bag?”
“In your hand,” Stote noted.
“Good! Yes. Er… somebody show me to Elsie Cubitt, immediately!”
“All right,” said Inspector Martin. “Come with me.”
The scene upstairs was hardly less grim than that in the sitting room. There, on her bloodstained pillow, lay Elsie. She had powder burns all over her right cheek and a terrible exit wound on her forehead. Her brow had been lifted mostly away from her head. She was deathly pale and her breathing shallow. In the corner sat a gray-haired old doctor with a dolorous expression. He was doing nothing, just watching over her, waiting for her to die.
Much as I hated to admit it, he showed some wisdom in this. I frowned at him and stepped over to check Elsie’s pulse. It was nearly undetectable.
“Has she had a transfusion?” I asked.
Here Dr. Anders showed at least a modicum of knowledge by muttering, “She has no close relatives nearby, Dr. Watson. Any transfusion we could give would have a better chance of killing her than preserving her life.”
“It doesn’t matter, man. Look at her: she’s at the very threshold of hypovolemic shock! She needs blood to have a chance at all. She can have some of mine. Have you a transfusion kit?”
“In my office. I think I could have it here in an hour or so.”
“Damn!” I shouted, then threw
