from his hand, intending to get rid of it in the wood.
But another ray of imaginative insight showed me a better plan. Save by flashes of lightning, the American could see nothing. I therefore smashed the lamp with my foot, and in hurrying to join him, I simply dropped it near the wall. it is in such crises as these that one's brain amazes one with the quickness and finely wrought artistry of its conceptions.
I had now nothing more to fear. Herbert would go afoot. it was impossible that the American should avoid finding Martin's body, but, if he did not, I was prepared to stumble upon it. Whereupon I possessing the only automobile within reach, would be dispatched to Chatterham for either the doctor or the police. I should have ample time to anticipate Herbert at the rectory.
Need I say that so it worked out? I had a more than human task to do that night, but I had set myself to it coolly; and, once I had killed Martin, that deed might have impelled me by its inexplicable stimulus to a dozen others. Before getting Dr. Markley — as I later told the chief constable — I stopped at the rectory, quite naturally, for my raincoat.
I had been a trifle delayed, and I was scarcely a second before Herbert. It would have been more prudent to have come close to him and fired against his body, as conducive to less noise; but the rectory is isolated, without much danger of a revolver-shot being overheard; and it seemed, at that moment more sporting to stand at a distance and shoot him between the eyes.
I then put on my raincoat and drove back to the prison with Dr. Markley.
All our labours were over by one o'clock. I had, then, several hours before dawn to complete my arrangements. Never have I felt so impelled to tidy up everything, as one takes pleasure in meticulously tidying up a room. I could have concealed Herbert's body — at least for the time being — in the cellar where I had hidden the bicycle, the valise, and certain implements e had used on Martin. But I must go to bed with my house (so to speak) swept and garnished. Besides, I had wished to fix the murder of Martin Starberth on his cousin, and e must overlook no chance.
All that I did, I did that night. It was not heavy work, since the body was so light. Knowing my way so thoroughly, I did not even need a lamp. So many times I had taken solitary walks through the prison — standing on its walls (often, I fear, seen) — standing on its walls, I say, moving through its historic corridors with some apt quotation on my lips — that I knew my way in the dark. With the Starberth keys in my possession, I now had access to the Governor's Room. For a long time I had been uncertain as to whether or not the door to the balcony had ever been locked; in any case (as I have indicated) it could be unlocked. I did this, and my plan was complete.
One thing more. The iron box containing the documents in the vault I later dropped into the well. I did this because I still suspected (nay, I dare say feared) the diabolical cleverness of Timothy, whom I had killed. I feared another document, perhaps, a secret compartment; I wished to be sure.
It amuses me to think that last night I was almost caught. I became suspicious of those conferences at Dr. Fell's, and I watched, suitably armed. Some one tried to intercept me and I fired; I was relieved to learn today that it was only Budge, the butler. Earlier in this narrative I stated that I would be frank; I withdraw that statement now. There is one point upon which I cannot be frank, even knowing that in the next few minutes e must put a revolver to my temple and pull the trigger. Sometimes, at night, I have seen faces. Last night I thought I saw one, too, and momentarily it unnerved me. I will not discuss it. Such matters disrupt the nice logic of my plans. This is all I can bear to say.
And now, gentlemen who will read this, I have nearly done. My dealings with my friend the diamond salesman have been satisfactorily completed — not too often, lest I rouse suspicion-over a period of years. I was prepared. When, as a climax to the buffetings of evil chance, I received a letter from my 'uncle' that he was visiting England for the first time in ten years, I could accept it with quiet resignation. in brief- I was weary. I had fought too long. I only wanted to leave Chatterham. So the news of my uncle's coming, with details, I told freely over all the country; as a subterfuge, I urged Sir Benjamin Arnold to meet him, knowing that he would refuse and insist that I go in his stead. I should have disappeared. For three years I had brooded so long over chance, and the malevolent turns it had dealt me, that a smoothly rounded life, without dangers, seemed no longer essential.
Dr. Fell has left me the pistol as a kindness. I do not want to use it yet. The man has too much power at Scotland Yard….
I wish, now, that I had shot him. When death is so close I think I could stand the idea of hanging, if it were only a few weeks away. The lamp gives not too much life, and I should have preferred to kill myself in a gentlemanly way, with a suitable flourish and at least more prepossessing clothes.
The fluency which has animated me in writing my sermons seems to desert my pen. Have I done blasphemy? A man of my parts, I tell myself, could not possibly do so, since my precepts — even though I am not ordained or likely to be ordained — were of the most approved order. Where was the flaw in my plans? I asked Dr. Fell. That was why I wanted to see him. His suspicion of me became a certainty when I, in a too rash moment, to cover up any doubts in their minds, said that Timothy Starberth on his death-bed had accused one of his own family of killing him. I was rash, but I was consistent. if I had been given the opportunity in this life, some chance for my brilliance — I am a great man. I can with difficulty bring myself to take the pen from the paper, because then I must pick up the other thing.
I hate everybody. I would wipe out the world if I could. Now I must shoot myself. I have blasphemed. I who have secretly not believed in God, I pray, I pray… God help me. I can write no more; I am sick.
THOMAS SAUNDERS.
He did not shoot himself. When they opened the door to the study, he was trembling in a fit — the pistol halfway to his temple, without courage enough to pull the trigger.
JOHN DICKSON CARR
The man many readers think of as the most British of detective story writers was born in Uniontown, Pennsylvania in 1906. After attending Haverford College, Carr went to Paris where, his parents hoped, he would continue his education at the Sorbonne. instead he became a writer. His first novel, It Walks By Night, was published in 1929. Shortly thereafter, Carr married and settled in his wife's native country, England.
The Thirties were a highly prolific period for Carr, who was turning out three to five novels a year. Some of these were published under what became his most famous nom de plume, Carter Dickson. (Because the Dickson novels contain a great deal of a certain type of comedy, many of their earlier readers attributed them to P.G. Wodehouse. Could an American write like this? Never!)
In 1965 Carr left England and moved to Greenville, South Carolina, where he remained until his death in 1977.
In his lifetime, Carr received the Mystery Writers of America s highest honor, the Grand Master Award, and was one of only two Americans (the other was Patricia Highsmith) ever admitted into the prestigious-but almost exclusively British-Detection Club. In his famous essay 'The Grandest Game in the World', Carr listed the qualities always present in the detective novel at its best: fair play, sound plot construction, and ingenuity. (He added, 'Though this quality of ingenuity is not necessary to the detective story as such, you will never find the great masterpiece without it.') That these qualities are prevalent in Carr's work is obvious to his legions of readers. en the words of the great detective novelist — critic Edmund Crispin, 'For subtlety, ingenuity, and atmosphere, he was one of the three or four best detective-story writers since Poe that the English language has known.'
