The Skeleton in the Clock

something was wrong with his head. Dr. Laurier ran out of the front door. Bert Hartshorn—

'Bert,' Masters explained, 'was the constable. He'd been at the pub, but naturally he (hurruml) couldn't climb on the roof.'

— Bert Hartshorn was coming up to the terrace. Dr. Laurier said something, and Bert picked up Sir George's binoculars and walked into the house. Dr. Laurier said something else, and Lady Brayle came out with some kind of cloth. I said aloud, 'The bastard is dead.'

To Masters it was one more case, with nothing more of drama than a blueprint He closed the blue folder.

'There's more of Puckston,' he explained. 'And four others who were lower down in between the gables. But it needn't trouble us. Eh?'

H.M. groaned.

'Let's sew it up,' suggested Masters. 'The 'little ledge' Puckston talks about is a stone coping, just six inches high, which runs round the whole roof. You agree nobody could have hidden there? Or, if we accept the witnesses, attacked a big powerful man without some kind of struggle?'

'Uh-huh. I'm afraid I got to agree.’’

'You admit the fact that the roof was as bare as a biscuit-tin.”

'Well..”

'Sir George's injuries, for instance.’' Masters remained affable and bland, if anything more affable. 'They were to the head, the arms, and one shoulder. That's not unusual, when somebody pitches from a comparatively low height There wasn't another fracture or another mark on him. Not even,' Masters lingered on the word, 'a bruise.’’

H.M. made fussed motions.'

'Don't leer. Masters. I hate leerin’. What's on your mind?'

'You were going to ask, weren't you, whether there was a bruise? Whether something might have been thrown or fired at him? Eh?'

H.M. only grunted.

'If it hit him hard enough to knock him over the edge,' Masters pointed but 'it must have left a mark or a bruise. But it didn't Finally, there's the evidence of the post-mortem.'

Reaching with infinite effort into his hip pocket H.M. fished out a case of his vile cigars and lighted one with relish. He seemed to have little relish for anything else.

'There was a possibility, just a bare possibility,' Masters goaded him, 'that somebody might have given him a drug— poison, event — to make his head swim so he fell But there was no drug, no poison, nothing.'

'As I understand it Masters, the post-mortem was performed by old Dr. Laurier. The family friend So! Was there anybody assistin’ him at the post-mortem? To sort of look on?'

Masters grinned.

'As a matter of fact, there was. A doctor from Newbury. I forget his name, but it's in the record. He confirmed the finding.'

'O tempore,' said H.M. 'O mores. Oh, hell!'

Masters rubbed his hands together.

'Here's your victim,' he explained, 'on a concrete floor with no person or thing within fifty feet of him. He wasn't pushed. He had nothing thrown at him. He wasn't drugged in any way. What happened to him?'

'Son, I just don't know.'

'You bet you don't But I can tell you. Sir George was a man over forty, who'd just climbed some long flights of stairs. He got excited waving to the hunt; he came over dizzy, as anybody might; and he fell. Do you still want to know the colour of the beach-chairs?'

'Sure I do,' retorted H.M. instantly, taking the cigar out of his mouth. 'What's the pink flash?' 'Pink flash?'

'Certainly. See the second anonymous postcard on the table in front of you. Quote: Re Sir George Fleet: what was the pink flash on the roof? Go on, Masters: say it's a pink rat and I ought to be makin' faces at it'

'But there's not a word about a pink flash in any of this evidence!'

'No,' returned H.M., 'and there's not one word about a skeleton-clock either. But you'll find one standing just behind you.'

Masters strode over to the middle of the room, where he jingled coins in his pocket

'This chap Puckston,' mused H.M. 'I didn't realize he was still the licensee here. By that statement, he didn't seem to like Fleet much.'

'There's nothing to that,' Masters snorted. 'It was only…'

Whether by coincidence, or at mention of the name, there was a discreet tap at the door to the bar. The door opened, to reveal the Puckston family: father, mother, and daughter.

To a befuddled Martin Drake, Arthur Puckston had been little more than a name and a voice. He was, in fact a lean man with a freckled bald head, a harassed but conscientious smile; tall but stooped, with stringy powerful arms. Mrs. Norma Puckston, though stoutened and rosy, had fine black hair and was not unattractive. Miss Puckston, dark-haired and sixteen years old, was not unattractive either.

'I 'ate to disturb you, gentlemen,' said Mr. Puckston, making an apologetic motion. 'But it's five minutes to opening-time, and… well, do you really want this parlour for a private room?'

'We sure do, son,' H.M. assured him. 'If that's convenient?'

'Oh, it's convenient. But I shall 'ave to charge you a good bit extra. This being Saturday night and other things. Even for the police..'

Three pairs of eyes surreptitiously watched Masters.

'Well, well!' said Masters, suddenly urbane and in his most cheerful manner. 'How would you have learned I was a police-officer, now?'

'Things,' said Mr. Puckston thoughtfully, 'get about' He glanced up. 'You ought to know that' H.M. intervened.

'He's a copper, son. But he won’t bother you. Ill see to that Anything else?'

'Well, sir. If you wouldn't mind keeping the doors locked and the curtains drawn? It's that clock. You told me you were going to take the skeleton out…' Puckston's voice trailed away; his throat seemed to be constricted.

'Yes, I see your point,' nodded H.M., taking several puffs of his (to others) venomous cigar. 'You think it might put the customers off their beer if they saw me sittin' here with a skeleton on my lap like a ventriloquist's dummy?'

Miss Enid Puckston suddenly giggled, and was shushed by a look from her mother. The father, for some reason, took the girl's face between his hands.

'I'll be careful,' H.M. promised. Behind smoke and spectacles, his eyes had taken on a faraway look; 'I don't want to be chucked out of here. I'm always being chucked out of places, though bum me if I can think why. This is a fine old house, this is. Antiques, and real antiques.'

'Oh, yes!' cried Mrs. Puckston in one gush. 'Arthur always tries to—'

The doors of the Dragon's Rest, unlike those of most pubs, were solid and close-fitting. Little could be heard through them unless you bent close. But now, from beyond the closed door to the far bar-parlour, arose a sudden babble of angry voices, all clamouring together. One voice, a man's, clove through the tumult.

'I can't do it, I tell you! What’s more, I won't!'

H.M. abruptly snatched the cigar out of his mouth.

'That sounded like young Drake.' His own big voice boomed out. 'Does anybody know who's there with him?'

It was the dark-haired and well-spoken Enid who answered.

'Lady Jennifer, sir. And Mr. Richard Fleet And a lady from Fleet House; I don't, know her. And Dr. Laurier.'

'So!' grunted H.M., and surged to his feet 'That's a combination I don't like.' And, with his white linen suit rucked up and the gold watch-chain swinging across his corporation, he lumbered towards the door and opened it

The heat of strained feelings was as palpable in the other room as its atmosphere of beer and old stone. But