The Skeleton in the Clock

bald-spot was buttoned up in a blue serge and had assumed his witness-box manner. This indicated that his words would have weight and dignity.

'It might interest you to know, sir, that I've got my shirt on.'

'That's right Masters. Be like Me.'

These impossible situations,' said Masters. 'What do I care for 'em?' He reached out and snapped his fingers. 'Not that! Oh, ah! And why? Because I'm resigned.'

'I got a spiritual nature too.'

Masters's blood-pressure soared, as was evident in his countenance. 'But what I DO object to—' 'Easy, son!'

'But what I do object to,' continued the Chief Inspector, swallowing bard, 'is the Assistant Commissioner wanting to dig up a twenty-year old case, because: first, he was an old friend of Sir George Fleet; and, second, he recently gets three anonymous postcards straight out of Colney Hatch, Now I ask you I is that fair or reasonable?'

Delving into the neatly packed brief-case, Masters drew out three cards and pushed them across the table towards H.M., who did not even glance at them. H.M., with a malignant scowl, had folded his hands across his corporation and was twiddling his thumbs.

These cards, the ordinary twopenny-halfpenny sort you buy at any post office, had both address and message printed in small block capitals, with a pencil. They were postmarked in the town of Brayle, about two miles southwards, on July 5th, July 6th, and July 7th, and addressed, 'Chief of the C.LD., Scotland Yard, London W.I.’ The first card read:

Re Sir George Fleet: examine the skeleton in the clock.

The second card read:

Re Sir George Fleet: what was the pink flash on the roof?

The third card read:

Re Sir George Fleet: evidence of murder is still there.

'Lummy!' breathed Masters. 'I've seen some scatty messages in my time, but this beats the lot.' He squared himself, 'Now I’ll just take each point, sir; This clock, to begin with.'

Both of them, in the old room hung with hunting prints, surveyed the tall clock. Standing eater-cornered in its southeast angle, its gilt hands and numerals faintly shining, the glass dial conveyed an impression that the skull had its chin tilted up so that the skull could see better. Like Martin Drake, Masters experienced the illusion that the tick-tick of the mantelpiece clock issued out of that dead case. It made Masters uncomfortable, which in his staid soul he resented.

'Sir,' he demanded, 'what's wrong with that clock?'

'Nothin',' H.M. answered simply.,

'What's wrong with the skeleton?'

'Nothin'.'

'Then why in lum's name do you want to bring it down here and stick it up in a bar-parlour?'

'Because, son, I can't do everything at once. I want to take that blighter out of his case—' H.M. pointed to the skeleton— 'and put him on a table, and examine him thoroughly. I dunno who he is, son. But I can tell you who he's not. He's not Sir George Fleet'

'Oh, ah!' muttered Masters, with a sideways look. 'So you thought of that?’

'Oh, my son! It was the very first wild and wool-gatherin' notion I did have, for no reason at all But it won't work. Now the overall height of that clock, includin' platform and fancy top, is six feet And the late lamented?'

'Six feet one inch tall,' grunted Masters, with the heaviness of one who has studied much; 'and with big bones.'

'Right Whereas the chap who's watchin' us,' H.M. indicated the clock again, 'was a little feller. Five feet five, about Well-proportioned, small bones. Masters, I'll tell you what it is. That's an ordinary medical-school skeleton: varnished, articulated…'

'Meaning strung together with wire?'

'With fine cat-gut, usually. Besides, you couldn’t possibly conceal the injuries to Fleet's head. Who'd want to?'

'Ah, and that's just it What about the skeleton?' exploded Masters. 'In all this record-' he brought his hand down slowly on the brief-case—'there's not a word to do with any skeleton in a clock. What's it supposed to mean?'

'I dunno. But an anonymous letter, postmarked Brayle, tells you to examine it Five days later Our Sophie, on instructions from Cicely Fleet waddles up to London to buy it for Dr. Laurier: son of clock's former owner. Don't you find that rather fetchin' and interesting?'

Masters took several paces up and down. The ticking of the clock seemed to trouble him.

'If we had one bit of evidence that this was murder—!'

'Oh, Masters. It was murder. Tell me something about George Fleet'

'Lummy, haven't you read this stuff in the brief-case?'

'Uh-huh. But I want to see what impressed you.'

H.M, his spectacles pulled down on his broad nose, closed his eyes. An expression almost of serenity crossed his unmentionable face. Masters, deeply suspicious of being done in the eye again, studied him warily. At length the Chief Inspector cleared his throat

'Hurruml' he said. 'Sir George Fleet? Came of a well-to-do family in the Midlands, with a cotton-business. Family wanted him to be pukka Army; so did he. Boarding-school when he was a tiny 'un, then Harrow, then Sandhurst Never finished Sandhurst; father died, and he had to take over the business.

'But he acted Army all the rest of his life, though he didn't join up in '14. Upright carriage, cropped moustache, dead keen on sport Roared at everybody. Wanted a knighthood; got it; wanted a baronetcy so his title wouldn't die with him; didn't get it'

Still H.M. did not open his eyes, though his look was now evil. He grunted.

'Yes. That's why it's so rummy that.. h'mf. What about his wife?'

'She lives just over the road, sir. You could go see her.' 'I meant twenty years ago.'

'Bit of a beauty, I'd say.' Masters considered. 'You've seen her photograph. Yes, bit of a beauty in the fair- haired, blue-eyed way. Completely gone on her husband. Idolized him. Do anything he said, and like it'

'Wait a minute, son. Does that mean she was all coos and clucks in public, and in private wept and twisted him round her little finger?'

Masters repressed a guffaw.

'No, it does not' he retorted dryly. 'Old Chief Inspector Radford: if you've read his notes of that time—'

'I have. I've gone over other things too. Y’know, Masters, I may have been doin' you in the eye. Just a little bit'

Masters stiffened. Once more he became as wary as a heavy-game hunter near a somnolent water- buffalo.

'But it was only a telephone-call,' pleaded H.M. in a bumbling way. 'And it don’t (burn me, it don't!) help with our real problem.'

'If you hadn't sent that ruddy clock on ahead of us, and we'd got here—'

'You were tellin' me, Masters. About Fleet's wife.'

'Now get this, sir! At that time there was only one person ' who ruled the roost in that house: it was her husband. Why, sir, he once tore up her favourite morning-room, or whatever they call it and put in new panelling and a billiard-table. And she never said a word. I know what my old woman would have said.

'Changeable sort of gentleman, too. One time he had a collection of old swords and daggers. Got tired of 'em,