The Skeleton in the Clock shm-18 Read online

  The Skeleton in the Clock

  ( Sir Henry Merrivale - 18 )

  John Dickson Carr

  Martin Drake meets Jennifer West in an auction house. Three years ago, he had fallen in love with her during a brief but intense encounter on a railway platform — after which she vanished. Now it seems she is engaged to Richard Fleet, whom she's known since they were children together. And when they were children, Richard's father Sir George died when he fell off the roof of their home, Fleet House. It was generally accepted as an accident, but a series of mysterious happenings cause the case to be re-opened.

  Sir Henry Merrivale, detective and explainer of the impossible, is also at the auction and revives his old antagonism with Sophia, Dowager Countess of Brale, who is Jenny's grandmother. Arthur Puckston keeps the pub across the road from Fleet House and was an eyewitness to Sir George's death.

  When his daughter, Enid Puckston, is found murdered in what might be a haunted prison, Sir Henry takes a hand and reveals not only the identity of the murderer but the unusual psychology that underlies the case.

  John Dickson Carr

  (as Carter Dickson)

  The Skeleton in the Clock

  Chapter 1

  The policeman, passing through Moreston Square at three o'clock in the morning, saw lights still burning in the windows of the top-floor flat at 16. And he smiled to himself. That would be Miss Ruth Callice's flat. The chimes from St. Jude's Church rang the hour, rippling through the little eighteenth-century square and lapping it in security. Police-Constable Davis glanced up at a quarter-moon over the rooftops. No more, he thought, of one thing. These narrow red-brick houses, these white-painted window-frames and pane-joinings, wouldn't burst or burn amid a nightmare of noise. At least, P. C. Davis amended with the skepticism of all his tribe, not just yet.

  In front of the door of number 16 stood a heavy shiny car, a new one to rouse envy. Again he looked up at the lighted windows, lulling against rooftop and sky.

  Miss Callice was — nice. And he didn't mean it in any smug or smarmy way, either. Young, good-looking, but (still his mind would find no better word) nice. There were people up there, the men in black ties or white, the women in high-cut or low-cut dresses, sometimes as late as three in the morning, like this. But never any disturbance; seldom any drunks. They went in talking; they came out talking. What did they find to talk about?

  At that moment, in the living-room on the top floor, John Stannard, K. C, was employing his most measured tones.

  "Let's suppose, Ruth, your theory is correct. In that case, what would be the most dangerously haunted place in the world?’

  Miss Callice, on the sofa under silver-shaded wall-lamps, made a protest.

  "I didn't say it was my theory," she pointed out, and looked at her two companions. "It doesn't necessarily mean I believe in—"

  "Say it," Stannard urged dryly. "Don't be afraid of a word; or you'll never get near the truth. Say it. 'The supernatural.' "

  It. would have been difficult to tell Ruth Callice's age, though she could not have been more than twenty-eight. And P. C. Davis's definition of niceness would be hard to analyze even by closer observers.

  Frankness? Honesty? True; but these qualities, when too strongly observable, are suspect because they may be assumed. It may have been that she completely lacked coquetry; never thought of it, never noticed herself; though she was undeniably pretty and her rounded body, in the oyster-coloured evening-gown, was far from unnoticeable as she sat coiled on the sofa.

  The light, smoke-misted, glistened on her light-brown hair. She rested one elbow on the arm of the sofa, her arm straight up, fingers turning over a cigarette that had gone out. When she changed her position, the light altered the complexion of her face and shoulders from pale to pink to pale. Her straight-forward eyes, dark-brown, regarded Stannard deprecatingly.

  "I only said—" she began again.

  "Let me put the case to you."

  "Oh, my lord of the law!"

  "My dear Ruth, it's not necessary to mock at me."

  Ruth Callice was genuinely astonished. She sat up. "Stan! I never thought any such thing!"

  "Never mind," chuckled John Stannard, K. C.

  He had one of those heavy voices, roughened into what for him was unjustly called a whisky-voice, which can make any statement sound abrupt. Thick-bodied, not overly tall, he picked up his cigar and settled back in the easy-chair. Out of a roundish face, roughened like his voice, the brilliant black eyes peered sardonically. Though he had reddened during those remarks with Ruth, this may have been a matter of the drinks.

  "A man dies," Stannard went on, after a gust of cigar-smoke.' "His soul is heavy with evil; with spiritual poison; call it what you like. He may die a natural death; more probably, he commits suicide or is killed. In any case—"

  Here Stannard made a chopping motion with his hand.

  During this time neither Ruth Callice nor John Stannard had glanced at the third person in the gill-and-silver room: a young man who sat some distance away from them, his head down and his hands on his knees, near the empty fireplace and the grand piano. At the barrister's last words he did look up.

  "Your dead man," continued Stannard, "in a spiritual sense is chained there, He's what the books call earthbound. Is that correct?"

  Ruth gave a quick little nod of absorbed attention. "Yes. That, you see," she threw out her hands, "is what would make some of these houses so horribly dangerous, if it were true. It wouldn't be like an ordinary haunting. It would be like… like a man-eating tiger."

  "Then why don't your psychical researchers do the obvious thing?’

  The obvious thing? I don't follow you."

  With the cigar Stannard gestured round at the bookshelves.

  "You tell me," he retorted, "that at Something-Old-Hall there's a psychic strangler, and at Somewhere-Low-Grange there's an earthbound force that can crush you to death. It may be so; I can't say. But I can tell you a far better place to look for evidence. If what you say is true, what would be the most dangerously haunted place on earth?"

  "Well?"

  "The execution shed of any prison," replied Stannard.

  He paused, letting the image sink in. Then he got up and went to the coffee-table beside the sofa; His black hair, showing no grey and brushed to a nicety round his head, gleamed in contrast to the reddish, roughened face. The white shirtfront bulged and crackled. Picking up the decanter, he poured a very little whisky into his glass.

  "But that's — horrible!" Ruth cried.

  "No doubt," Stannard agreed dryly. "All the same, think of it for a moment"

  The sofa-syphon hissed.

  "Your human tiger, at the very high point of his rage and desperation, is dragged to the execution shed and has his neck cracked on a rope." The strong, faintly husky voice pointed it vividly. "If anybody would leave an earth-bound soul in that place, he would.

  "Believe me," Stannard added abruptly, "I've defended too many murderers not to know that many of them are decent honest fellows. There-but-for-the-grace-of-God, and all the rest of it When you hear the foreman of the jury say 'not guilty,' you feel half sick with relief. You pat yourself on the back for the rest of the week."

  Ruth's eyes were fixed on his face.

  "I've heard," she said, "that only two persons you defended on a murder charge were ever… well, executed."

  "Much exaggerated, my dear. Much!" Stannard chuckled; then his expression changed. "But I've seen the other kind of murderer too. That's why I don't scoff at spiritual evil."

  He lifted his glass, drained its contents, and put it down.

  "By God, it is true to say they don't know the difference between
right and wrong. Not at that time. Mostly they go to the rope with indifference; outwardly, that is. But not inside. They're boiling crazy. Society hasn’t understood them. Society has persecuted them. They want to tear…" Stannard spread out his hands. "That's why I say, Ruth, that a place like Pentonville or Wandsworth must be deadly. Hasn’t any psychical researcher ever thought of spending a night in the execution shed?" Ruth lifted her shoulders.

  "I dent know," she confessed. "I never thought of it" And she turned towards the young man who was sitting near the fireplace and the grand piano. "What's your opinion, Martin?"

  Martin Drake looked up. Like Stannard, he was dark. Unlike Stannard, he was tall. But his cat-green eyes, now absent minded, had a sardonic quality which sometimes matched Stannard's. He looked thin and he looked ill.

  "Oh, I suppose they've thought of it," Martin Drake answered. "But they wouldn't be allowed to. The Prison Commission would have a fit"

  "Right," chuckled Stannard.

  (He missed no glance Ruth Callice turned towards Drake. There were currents in this room, not quite like a usual social evening.)

  "But I wish we could do it," the young man said unexpectedly, and struck his clenched fist on his knee. "Lord, how I wish we could do it!"

  Ruth's voice went up. "Spend a night in a…!"

  "Oh, not you!" Drake smiled at her; it lightened the illness of his look to kindliness and affection. "I suppose, actually, I meant myself."

  "But whatever for?"

  Stannard, who had returned to the chair with his cigar, spoke gravely.

  "You mean, Mr. Drake, that since the war you have found life in England dull and intolerably frustrating?"

  "If — you want to put it like that, yes."

  "Will you forgive me, Mr. Drake, for saying you are very young?’

  "Will you forgive me, Mr. Stannard, for saying that you are a little pompous?"

  Again Stannard chuckled. Perhaps he was doing this too much. His lips were drawn back from the teeth in a fixed, pleasant smile; his small black eyes glittered.

  "Of course I forgive you," Stannard said heartily. "I have achieved—" he glanced at Ruth, evidently himself feeling young and callow at forty-five, and hating it—"I have achieved some small success In this world. That breeds pomposity sometimes. God knows I try to avoid it" His tone changed. "Are you serious about wanting to meet earthbound spirits?"

  "Quite serious."

  "Ah? Suppose I arranged it?"

  Ruth Callice was now sitting bolt upright on the sofa. Her lips opened as though in expostulation, but she did not speak.

  "It couldn't be done!" Martin Drake said. "Not at the prisons I mentioned, no. But what about Pentecost?" "Pentecost?"

  "You've never heard of Pentecost Prison, Mr. Drake?" "Never."

  Stannard crossed his knees comfortably and addressed Ruth.

  "Fifty years ago Pentecost was one of our model local prisons." He paused. "I use the word 'local' prison to distinguish it from 'convict' prison. At local prisons, offenders serve sentences only up to two years; executions are always performed there.

  "In '38," Stannard pursued, "Pentecost was closed. It was to be enlarged and modernized. Then came the war. The Government took it over with the usual rubber-stamp excuse of 'storage purposes'. Ever since then it's remained the same. It's not under the control of the Prison Commission; it's controlled by the Ministry of Works. I — ah — have some slight influence at the Ministry. I might get the keys for a night or two. Now do you begin to understand?"

  "By George!" the young man said softly. His long, lean figure grew tense; his upper lip was partly lifted as though at the scent of danger. "I'd be eternally grateful, Mr. Stannard, if you could."

  Stannard, too, seemed to have been struck by a startling new thought. Seeing that his cigar had gone out, he dropped it into a standing ashtray beside the chair.

  "Extraordinary!" he said, and his face grew more red. "I've just remembered something else."

  "Remembered what?" Ruth asked quickly.

  "Pentecost is in Berkshire. It's under a mile or so from a place called Fleet House, a big Georgian house with a flat roof." His little black eyes stared at the past. "Eighteen years ago — or was it twenty? yes, twenty! — a man named Fleet, Sir George Fleet, pitched off that roof within sight of a lot of witnesses. It was accident, of course. Or else…"

  "Or else?"

  ‘It was a supernatural murder." He spoke without smiling. Martin Drake brushed aside this reference to Fleet House. "Do you honestly think you can get the keys to the prison?"; "Oh, I think so. At least I can try. Where can I reach you tomorrow?"

  "I'm afraid I've got to be at Willaby's Auction Rooms all morning. With a friend of mine named Merrivale." Unexpectedly, a reminiscent grin lit up Drake's dulled eyes. Then he became sober again. "But I can make a point of being at my rooms in the afternoon, if that's convenient? I'm in the 'phonebook."

  "You'll hear from me," Stannard assured him.

  Loud in night-stillness, the clock at St Jude's rang the quarter-hour after three. Stannard got up, brushing a trace of cigar-ash from his waist-coat He drew a deep breath.

  "And now, my dear," he said to Ruth, "you must excuse me. Middle-aged barristers can't keep late hours like you young people, I’ll ring you tomorrow, if I may."

  Throughout this conversation Ruth had kept her eyes fixed on Martin Drake. Doubt, uncertainly, showed in them and troubled her breathing under the oyster-coloured gown. Stannard noticed that Drake, though he got up politely, made no move to leave. It was a dead hour, dull on the wits and opium to the emotions. Yet something wrenched in Stannard's heart as his hostess followed him to the door.

  In the little hall of the flat, every inch of wall-space was occupied by shelves of bright-jacketed books. Ruth Callice was the owner of a fashionable bookshop in Piccadilly, which she managed herself; that was how she and Stannard had met A dim little ceiling-lantern burned in the hall. Stannard picked up hat and rolled umbrella from an oak chest

  "It was awfully nice of you to come," Ruth said.

  "Not at all. The pleasure was mine. May I see you again?"

  "Of course. As often as you can."

  She extended her hands. Stannard, the suave, had considerable difficulty in managing his hat and umbrella.

  "Thanks." He spoke gruffly. "I'll remember that. No; I can manage the front door. Thanks again. Good-night"

  The door, closing heavily after him, made a hollow vibration. For a moment Ruth stood staring at the door. Then she returned to the sitting-room. Though both windows were wide open to the warm July night, she made a feint of attempting to push them higher to let the smoke out. Martin Drake, his back partly turned, was standing by the fireplace lighting a cigarette. Ruth went softly over to the grand piano and sat down.

  She hesitated. Common-sense, practicality, shone In the dark-brown eyes as she lifted her head; a perplexity verging on impatience.. But this expression faded, with a wry twist of the mouth, as she began to play.

  The tune was Someday I’ll Find You. It s saccharine notes riffled and rippled, softly, through the room and faintly out into the square.

  "Ruth!"

  "Yes, Martin?’

  "You're one of the finest persons I ever met," said the young man, and threw his cigarette into the fireplace. "But would you mind not playing that?"

  Ruth closed her eyes, the lids shiny and dark-fringed, and opened them again, "I'm sorry, Martin." Her fingers rested motionless. Without looking round Ruth added, "Still searching for her?"

  "Yes."

  "Martin, dear. Isn't that rather foolish?" "Of course it's foolish. I know that But I can't help it — There it is."

  "You met her," Ruth pointed out dispassionately, "for just one evening."

  "Long enough, thanks."

  "And you haven't seen her for… how long?"

  The other's reply was immediate, almost mechanical. "Three years. One month. And four — no, five days. I'll tick off the calendar this morning."


  "Oh, Martini" The piano-keys jangled.

  "I've admitted it's foolish. But how many things, the closest things, are governed by reason? Answer me that"

  "You were both in uniform," Ruth persisted gently. "It was in that scramble and hectic whirl just after D-Day. You don't know anything about her, except that she wore a Wren's uniform. You don't even know her name, except the first and she admitted that was a nickname."

  It was as though, in remonstrance, Ruth attempted to press and prod with every detail.

  "A station buffet at Edinburgh!" she said. "A station platform! A train tearing through the blackout, with you two," her voice strengthened, "kissing and swearing you loved each other. Martin! Lots and lots of people have had adventures like that"

  Martin Drake's face was white. Ruth, with her consummate tact should have noticed this.

  "It wasn't an adventure," he said quietly.

  "No. Of course not I didn't mean that Only — suppose you do find her, and she's married?"

  "Curiously enough," retorted the other, with a brief return to his mocking air, "that possibility had occurred to me in the course of three years, one month, and five days." He lifted his shoulders. "What could I do? Murder the husband?"

  "Well, but… suppose she's engaged. What would you do then?"

  "Try to cut him out," Drake answered instantly. "Not that I could, probably. But—" he lifted a clenched fist, dropped it, and then cleared his throat—"use every trick, fair or unfair, to cut the swine out and get her back again. That needn't lead as far as murder, of course."

  There was a silence. Still Ruth did not look round. The doubt the indecision in her eyes, had grown stronger.

  "Ruth!" her guest began apologetically.

  "Yes?"

  He went across to her, stood beside her at the piano, and put his hand on her bare shoulder. "Thanks," he added, "for not asking the obvious question."

  "What obvious question?"

  "How many Wrens," he went on, — with a kind of fierce and shaky cheerfulness, "how many Wrens, at a time like that, must have said, 'Oh, just call me Jenny.' Jenny! Jenny! I know it So do several of my friends, who think it's funny. But it's not funny. That's the trouble."