The Skeleton in the Clock

and bang! overnight they went, and she had a room with nothing on the walls but hooks until he could put up antique guns instead. Now,' Masters added grimly, 'well come to the day of the accident Because it was an accident and I’ll show you why. Come over and look at the house, Sir Henry. Just look out of the window!'

'I got a picture in my mind's eye, son. You just gush on.'

Returning to the table, Masters sat down, took a blue-bound folder of typewritten sheets out of the brief- case, and opened it.

The date,' he continued, 'was November 4th, 1927. Just so. Let me emphasize a few points about that roof.

'It's a very big roof, fiat and perfectly square. Ifs floored with cement; they used it for sun-bathing. On the edge of the south side there's a low chimney-stack, narrow and oblong, flat on top. In the middle of the roof there's another chimney-stack just like it, and a third on the edge of the north side. All in a straight line dead across the middle of the roof. Got it?'

'Got it Sure.'

'Just so. At the time this happened, there was nothing at all on the roof except two beach-chairs and a wicker settee, all of 'em pushed back dead against the little chimney-stack in the middle.'

ELM., eyes closed, blew out his cheeks hideously. 'Stop a bit, son. What were beach-chairs doin' there in November?'

'It'd been a warm autumn, and still wasn't cold. They'd just been left there.' 'Any smoke from the chimneys?' 'No. Not a fire lighted. Gas-range in the kitchen.' 'What colour were the beach-chairs?' Masters stared at him.

'How in lum's name should I know? This report deals with—'

'Now, now, Masters! Keep your shirt on!'

Again the Chief Inspector's forefinger; somewhat agitated by his blood-pressure, travelled down the typewritten lines.

'I don't have to explain this hunting stuff. You've read it Sir George Fleet even if he did act like a comic-paper colonel, really was a sport First-class horseman and A-l shot He hunted except when he had (don't I know it?) the rheumatic pains in his side. On November 4th, about two o'clock in the afternoon, he was sitting in his study reading The Field when the gardener came to see him. This gardener said the Ascombe Hunt was 'drawing,' whatever that means, a big wood called Black Hanger.'

H.M. sat up with ghoulish thoughtfulness.

'I say, Masters. Did you ever see me on a horse?'

'I daresay,' the Chief Inspector said with heavy sarcasm, 'you were one of the greatest horsemen in England too?'

'Well.. now!' said H.M., with a deprecatory wave of his hand. 'I wouldn't like to say that, no. But I had a steeplechaser, named Whoozler, who could take fences like the cow jumpin' over the moon. Besides, it’d fit in — burn me if it wouldn't! — with a former existence where…' Masters stiffened.

'So help me,' he swore, and pointed at H.M., 'if I hear one more word about your reincarnation, just one more word, then back I go to tell the A.C. I'm through. I tell you straight: it gives me the creeps.'

H.M. pondered. He peered round carefully, to make sure both doors were closed.

'Y’see, Masters, I'm not just sure I believe it myself, exactly.'

'Ah!'

'But some of those books sound awful plausible, son.' H.M. shook his head. 'And it stirs you up, sort of (wouldn't it anybody?) to imagine… I say, Masters: couldn't you see me as a Cavalier poet?'

'In a pig's eye I could.'

'But the feller was my own ancestor, curse it! His picture's the spittin' image of me. And I've just got a book on swordsmanship. And,' added H.M., suddenly drawing himself up and glaring at his companion with awful dignity, 'are we goin' to get on about Sir George Fleet, or aren't we?'

Masters shut his eyes, counted ten, and opened them again. There was a brief silence, under the ghost-clock and in the room of sporting prints. Then Masters went on.

'The gardener,' he said, 'told him the hunt was coming. So he picked up a pair of field-glasses, and started up for the roof. Now the only way to the roof is through a covered door at the very back, or west side, of the roof.

'Sir George walked straight to the front of the roof, a position just about over the front door below. He raised the field-glasses, and focussed them. It seems there was a lurid kind of red sky behind him, but it was clear light Now get this, sir. The chimney-stacks were fifty feet behind him. He was alone on a concrete floor, without anybody or any object within fifty feet of him.'

Masters paused. He riffled over several pages, flattening them down with his fist.

'Stop the bus again,' muttered H.M. 'What about the field-glasses? I seem to remember readin' a story where there was hokey-pokey with field-glasses, and they stuck somebody in the eye.'

Masters was now cat-like and bland. 'The fact is, sir, I thought you might bring that up. The glasses were just plain field-glasses, as you'll hear in a moment Accept that?'

'Uh-huh. Go on.?

'Our real evidence,' Masters continued, 'comes from six witnesses on this side of the road. Two of these witnesses,' he pointed upwards, 'were sitting astride the gable-tops of this pub. And these two witnesses are clinchers.

'The Ascombe Hunt is disbanded now. But in those days, it seems, everybody hereabouts was keen about it. It beats me to know why. You'd think it'd make country people read as hops to have a lot of horses and dogs tearing over private property and mucking it up. But they tell me it didn't These six men, they were down in the bar. They heard about the kafuffle coming just about when Sir George did. And up they went

'Our two chief witnesses are Arthur Puckston and Simon Frew. Mr. Puckston, who's still the landlord here, was astride one gable with an old brass telescope that belongs to the house. Simon Frew had a pair of big new binoculars he was very proud of.

This pub's on high ground, air. From the top you can see straight over and across Fleet House, covering the roof. During this time there was an unholy row in the wood. First one dog—'

'HOUND.'

'— started to yell, then another, then a lot more, and before long: smack out they came from Black Hanger, tearing across in the open. Now listen to what Simon Frew said, when he was astride the middle gable with his binoculars. All this question-and-answer stuff has to be polished up and made smooth into a statement But here you are.'

Again Masters smoothed put the turnover pages with his fist

''The field—'' he began, and stopped. 'This 'field,’ it'd seem, would mean the gents in the red coats.'

'I got it son. Well?'

Masters read slowly.

The field had just started to come round the far side of Black Hanger, almost facing us. It is a good distance away there and on higher ground than us. I put my glasses on them. The first few men were smiling and waving their hands. They seemed to be waving straight in my face. I knew it could not be me. So I turned my glasses round.

'Towards Fleet House,' Masters interpolated grimly. 'About three hundred feet that's all.'

Sir George was there. I could see all round him. He had his glasses to his eyes in one hand, and was waving with the other. Then it looked like somebody gave him a hard shove in the back. He stood there for a second. He shouted. He fell head-first I did not follow him with the glasses because I was too surprised. I just kept looking round to see who could have pushed him.

It was a shorn statement Yet Martin Drake, had he been there, would have seen the red sky with the silhouetted figure, and scented the autumn air, and sensed the rush and crash.

'I won't trouble you,' Masters said drily, 'with what you know. But just to hammer it home, sir! A bit of what Puckston said, the man with the telescope. His attention was caught by this yell Sir George gave.'

And then spoke Mr. Puckston.

I looked round. I saw something pitch over the little ledge, but it was so quick I did not see what it was. I looked all over the roof, but did not see anybody or anything. I looked down. Sir George was lying there, and