Death Sits on the Board

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DEATH SITS ON THE BOARD

A Dr. Priestley Detective Story

JOHN RHODE

Death Sits on the Board was originally published in 1937 by Dodd, Mead and Company, New York; published in the United Kingdom as Death on the Board.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER ONE 4

CHAPTER TWO 8

CHAPTER THREE 18

CHAPTER FOUR 27

CHAPTER FIVE 38

CHAPTER SIX 48

CHAPTER SEVEN 58

CHAPTER EIGHT 71

CHAPTER NINE 80

CHAPTER TEN 91

CHAPTER ELEVEN 104

CHAPTER TWELVE 119

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 128

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 135

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 145

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 154

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 162

CHAPTER ONE

In common with most of those who served in the Great War, Police Constable Frean retained memories of his more unpleasant experiences. In particular his mind was apt to dwell, during otherwise unoccupied moments, on the bombardment which preceded the German advance in March, 1918.

On this still, cold evening in January, many years later, the vision was particularly vivid. There was no apparent reason why it should have been so, for Frean’s surroundings were eminently peaceful and unwarlike. Beckenham, where he was stationed, bore no resemblance whatever to the shattered townships of Flanders. The quiet road, with its retiring houses, each secluded in its own well-kept garden, was as different as could well be imagined from, say, the Rue du Bois, and yet for no ascertainable reason Frean could not rid his mind of that shivering hour in a shallow and utterly inadequate trench, and of the stupefying fear which the continual bursting of heavy shells produces in the stoutest heart. Although not by any means a sensitive man, he hated the moments in which these thoughts recurred to him. But do what he would he could not shake them off. He knew by experience that they would torment him at intervals until the end of his tour of duty. It was useless for him to try to fix his attention upon the passing traffic, frequent smart cars turning into one or other of the entrance gates. Or even to study the faces of the passers-by, well-dressed business men returning on foot from the station to their homes in time for dinner. All these seemed somehow unreal, as phantoms dancing before eyes which saw a very different scene.

And then the crash came, so sharp and sudden that the well-remembered fear touched Frean again with its cold hands. For an instant all power of reasoning left him. A shell had burst not many yards away, one of those high-velocity things that give no warning of their coming. In a flash he was down on one knee to avoid the splinter which he could hear whizzing through, the air towards him. It struck his helmet, knocking it off his head and sending it spinning into the roadway.

The loss of his helmet brought Frean abruptly to his senses. He sprang into the road and recovered it, feeling as he did so that something was embedded in it. Then suddenly a red sword of light pierced the darkness and by this he saw that the object was half a tile.

As if by magic he found himself surrounded by a group of frightened people clamoring excitedly. What is it? What’s happened? There’s been an explosion!

Their presence acted like a bucket of cold water upon Frean’s imagination. It’s all right, he said automatically. Pass along, please.

He had not the faintest idea of what had happened. But he could see now that the red sword of light was a single tongue of flame rising vertically from one of the houses bordering Barming Road. A typical Victorian house, square and unprepossessing, built for solid comfort rather than for ornament. The Privetts, the respectable and probably desirable residence of Sir Andrew Wiggenhall.

A short semi-circular drive led from the road to the front door of the Privetts. As Frean raced up this, the front door opened and a disheveled female figure appeared. She started running wildly down the drive, too panic-stricken even to notice the constable. But Frean shot out his hand and caught her by the arm. What’s the matter? he demanded. Is anybody hurt?

She uttered a shrill scream and would have collapsed had he not supported her. Very gently he held her out at arm’s length for rapid inspection. She was apparently uninjured, though her white cap and apron were covered with dust and lumps of plaster were entangled in her hair. He recognized her at once. Why, Miss Miller, you know me, surely! he said cheerfully. Frean, the policeman.

This seemed to reassure her, for she clung tightly to him. But her whole frame was trembling so violently that it was a second or two before she could speak.

Oh, Mr. Frean, something terrible’s happened, she gasped. I was in the pantry and all at once the whole house seemed to come down on my head.

I’ll soon see about it, Miss Miller, said Frean comfortingly. Who else is in the house?

In a dazed way she answered his question. There’s Sir Andrew and Sarah and Mrs. Carrol and — and I think that’s all.

Frean led her through the open front door into the hall, where a heavy cloud of dust was slowly settling. The interior of the house was in profound darkness. He switched on his torch and led her to a chair. You sit there for a minute. Miss Miller, while I have a look round, he said.

She obeyed him like a frightened child, bursting into tears as she dropped into the chair. In a swift survey of the hall Frean saw that the plaster of the ceiling had fallen, covering the floor and furniture with grey and white fragments. He pushed across this towards the back of the house, where he could hear the sounds of a low and persistent groaning. He forced his way to the kitchen, stumbling over masses of debris which encumbered his every step. Here the groans became louder, though at first he could see nothing for the wreckage which cumbered the room. The ceilings and floors of the stories above it had collapsed, and, looking upwards, Frean could see the red flame roaring from some point immediately above him. At last he discovered an elderly woman pinned under a couple of joists and bleeding from a wound on the scalp. She was unconscious and when with some difficulty he had extricated her, he placed her in the most comfortable position he could manage under the circumstances.

He failed to find any further traces of life at the back of the house and then, hearing voices in the hall, he returned there to investigate. A light flashed upon him as he did so and an imperious voice rang out.

Hullo, you here, Frean? What’s all this about?

Frean recognized the voice as that of Sergeant Daly, his immediate superior.

There’s been an explosion, sir, he replied stolidly.

Explosion! exclaimed Daly. Why, it shook the whole town! Is anybody hurt?

I’ve just found Sarah Blackwell, the cook, sir, Frean replied. We shall want an ambulance to take her to hospital. But I can’t find anybody else, though Emily Miller the parlormaid told me that Sir Andrew and Mrs. Carrol were in the house.

You’ll have to have another look, said Daly. But first of all we must put a stop to that flame before it sets the house on fire. I was passing the end of the road on my bicycle when I heard the crash and the first thing I did was to punch the fire alarm. The brigade ought to be here any minute. That sounds like the engine now.

The clang of a bell rapidly approaching was clearly audible. But as the engine swung into the drive, a little woman, panting and disheveled, ran through the front door. Then as the torches of the two policemen flashed upon her she paused horror-struck.

Oh, whatever has happened? she gasped.

This is Mrs. Carrol, sir, said Frean aside to Daly.

That’s three of them accounted for, then, said the sergeant. Where’s Sir Andrew, Mrs. Carrol?

Upstairs, dressing for dinner, replied the little woman urgently. Whatever will he say when he sees all this mess?

There’s no upstairs left, said Frean, in a voice intended only for the Sergeant’s ears. You can stand in the kitchen and look up at the sky.

At this moment the captain of the fire brigade bustled in. Where’s the gas-meter? he demanded. Look sharp! One of you must know where it is, surely?

The gas-meter? Daly replied frankly. I don’t know.

Oh, you here, Sergeant? That flame comes from a broken gas-pipe, and as soon as we find the meter we can turn off the supply. Isn’t there anybody belonging to the house about?

Mrs. Carrol’s quavering voice replied. The gas meter’s just inside the back door. I —

But they did not wait for her to complete her sentence. Led by Frean they blundered towards the back of the house, forcing their way as best they could over the tangled wreckage. The gas-meter was soon found and the captain of the fire brigade, seizing the tap, wrenched it round. The long red flame expired suddenly, leaving the scene in unexpected darkness.

No fire anywhere else that I can see, said the captain. Still, we’ll have a thorough look round while we’re here. He bustled off to give the necessary instructions to his men while Frean and the Sergeant returned to the hall. There’s a telephone here, I suppose? said the Sergeant. We’ll ring up for the ambulance right away.

The telephone’s just here by the dining-room door, said Mrs. Carrol in a quavering voice. Oh dear, there’s nobody hurt, is there?

Daly made no reply but picked up the telephone. He listened for a moment, shook it impatiently and then slammed it down again. The damned thing’s dead, he exclaimed. Wires cut most likely. Nip round next door, Frean, and get on to the ambulance people from there.

Frean departed and the Sergeant found himself alone in the hall with the two women. Mrs. Carrol was trembling violently and was obviously on the verge of a breakdown. Emily Miller was sobbing hysterically in her chair. It was quite obvious that neither of them was in a state to give any coherent information. Still, there was the fourth occupant of the house to be accounted for.

You’re quite sure, Mrs. Carrol, that Sir Andrew was upstairs when this happened? Daly asked.

Why, I saw him go up not ten minutes before I ran out myself, she replied. And as he never takes less than half an hour to dress for dinner, he couldn’t have been down again when this happened, could he?

Daly asked no further questions but took out his notebook and began to scribble in it assiduously. Frean returned while he was thus engaged and a minute or two later, the clanging of a bell announced the arrival of the ambulance. The still unconscious Sarah Blackwell was carried to it on a stretcher. And Daly persuaded the other two women to accompany her.

You’re both pretty badly shaken up, he said. I dare say they’ll give you something at the hospital to steady you down a bit. You needn’t worry about the house, I’ll take care of that.

As the ambulance drove off, Daly heaved a sigh of relief. Now we’ve got the place to ourselves, he said. How did you manage to be on the spot so promptly, Frean?

I was passing the gate as it happened, Frean replied. There was a crash like a shell bursting and a bit of a tile lodged itself in my helmet. So I ran in at once to see what was up.

Daly nodded. Gas explosion, I suppose, he remarked. Though I never knew one to make such an unholy mess as this. Come along and let’s see if we can find anything of Sir Andrew.

They ascended the main staircase from the front hall to the first-floor landing. Here they found everything in confusion. The plaster had fallen from the ceiling, the glass of the windows was blown out, and several pictures had been torn from the wall. Daly opened the door which led into the principal bedroom. This room was even more completely wrecked than the landing. At its farther end was a doorway, but the door itself had been flung off its hinges into the middle of the room. And beyond the doorway was a black gulf between the outer walls of the house. The whole of the interior and the roof had disappeared.

They searched the part of the house that was still standing without finding any trace of Sir Andrew. Then they went outside into the once well-kept garden. But now the flower-beds and shrubberies were covered by a mass of debris. Broken tiles and glass, rafters, joists and all the wreckage of the demolished portion of the building. As they searched this by the light of their torches they made a gruesome discovery. A mangled human leg torn off at the thigh.

CHAPTER TWO

Two days later, on Monday, January 6th, Superintendent Hanslet of Scotland Yard called upon Dr. Priestley, that eminent if somewhat eccentric scientist. He had chosen a time when he knew that Dr. Priestley had leisure for conversation, namely nine o’clock in the evening. He had been admitted to Dr. Priestley’s study where he found the scientist himself, his secretary Harold Merefield, and his friend Dr. Oldland, who had been dining at the house in Westbourne Terrace.

I’ve dropped in with rather a queer story, Professor, he said. I dare say you’ve heard of that explosion in Beckenham in which Sir Andrew Wiggenhall was killed?

I read an account of the matter in this morning’s newspaper, Dr. Priestley replied. The circumstances appeared to me so unusual that I should welcome further details.

"I thought you’d like to hear about it. First of all, I’d better explain how I came to be mixed up in it. The Beckenham police got it into their heads that the explosion must have been due to a bomb. They asked for someone from the Yard to be sent down to investigate and the Chief told me off for the job. I’ve had a chance of questioning everybody concerned, so I’m pretty well up in the whole story.

We’ll begin with Sir Andrew Wiggenhall himself. He was a widower of sixty-five and was the chairman of Porslin, Ltd. I expect you’ve heard of the firm, for I understand that they’ve got branches all over the country.

I’ve heard of them, at any rate, said Oldland. They deal in ironmongery of every description, domestic, agricultural, and so forth. They have branches in nearly every provincial town, and they usually contrive to undersell their competitors.

That’s right, Hanslet replied. "It’s a family business really. There are five directors, but three of them between them own most of the shares of the company. Sir Andrew himself, his brother Percival Wiggenhall and his brother-in-law Colonel James Flotman. The other two directors, are, I understand, old employees of the firm.

"Sir Andrew Wiggenhall lived by himself at The Privetts, Banning Road, Beckenham. When I say that he lived by himself I mean that none of his family lived with him. He kept a housekeeper, Mrs. Carrol, a cook, Sarah Blackwell, and a parlormaid, Emily Miller. These three formed his resident establishment. Besides them there was a charwoman who came in every day and a jobbing gardener who came four times a week. Sir Andrew had a son, Anthony, aged thirty-five and unmarried, who lives in rooms in The Albany. He also had a married daughter, Dorothy, three years younger than Anthony, who lives with her husband, James Paston, at Golders Green. I had better say straight away that it appears to have been a normally affectionate family. For although Anthony has his own rooms, he appears to have spent a very large part of his time with his father. And both Sir Anthony’s daughter and her husband were frequent visitors to the Beckenham house.

"Now, on December 7th last, Sir Andrew went on a cruise to the Mediterranean. There was nothing out of the ordinary in that, for, for the last few years or so, he has made a habit of spending a month of the winter out of England. During his absence he left his housekeeper Mrs. Carrol in charge of The Privetts. The other two servants, each of whom had been with Sir Andrew for several years, were sent away on a month’s holiday. The charwoman and the jobbing gardener continued to attend at their usual hours.

"The day before yesterday, Saturday, January 4th, Sir Andrew’s cruise came to an end. He disembarked at Southampton shortly before noon. His son, Anthony, who owns a Rolls Royce, had driven down to meet him. The two lunched together at the South Western Hotel and then drove back, reaching The Privetts between half-past four and five. Anthony saw his father into the house and remained with him for half an hour or so. Then he came on to London. The arrangement was that he should go back to Beckenham for dinner at eight o’clock.

The cook and parlormaid had returned to The Privetts on Friday afternoon. On Saturday morning, James Paston, Dorothy’s husband, turned up and had a conversation with Mrs. Carrol. I’ll tell you about that later — at present I’m just outlining the facts. Several tradesmen called at the house during the day, but none of them actually entered it until the return of Sir Andrew and his son. Is that clear so far?

Perfectly clear, Dr. Priestley replied. I am now in a position to appreciate the details.

"I’ll give them to you as I learnt them myself in the form of statements from various people. The story told me by the Beckenham police is this. On Saturday evening, Constable Frean was patrolling his beat, which includes Banning Road. At 7.12 pm. — this time by the way is confirmed from other sources — he was passing the gate of The Privetts when he heard a loud explosion, which he describes as being like the bursting of a shell. He immediately ran towards the house and was met by Emily Miller, thoroughly scared but undamaged. In the kitchen he found Sarah Blackwell unconscious under the debris. Though very badly knocked about she has fortunately no bones broken. She is still in hospital, but this morning she was able to give me her account of the affair.

Frean was joined by Sergeant Daly of the Beckenham police, who had heard the explosion from a short distance away and hurried to the spot. A flame which had burst out among the ruins was found by the fire brigade to proceed from a broken gas-pipe and was very quickly extinguished. There were no other signs of fire about the place. Daly and Frean together searched the garden. They found first a human leg and eventually the rest of Sir Andrew’s dismembered body scattered about among the debris.

What was the origin of this debris? Dr. Priestley asked.

"The upper floors of the back part of the house. The front part of the house, though the interior is wrecked, is structurally undamaged. The explosion appears to have taken place either in Sir Andrew’s dressing-room or in his bathroom. These opened out of his bedroom and were situated at the back of the house. Nothing whatever of these two rooms remains except the outer walls. The attics above them and that portion of the roof of the house have been blown clean away. Standing in the kitchen, which was underneath the dressing-room, you can look straight up to the sky.

"I have already mentioned the broken gas-pipe. I should explain that this supplies the kitchen, where there is a gas-cooker, and the bathroom, in which there was a geyser. For some months, however, the geyser has not been in use, since early last year Sir Andrew installed an anthracite boiler for heating water. This boiler is situated in the kitchen, and supplies hot water to two bathrooms, both on the first floor, to the kitchen, and to a wash-basin on the ground floor. According to Mrs. Carrol this boiler had not been in use during Sir Andrew’s absence, but the cook, Sarah Blackwell, had lighted it on her return on Friday evening. As it had not been allowed to go out since then, the bath water was perfectly hot on Saturday evening. You will see the importance of that point in a moment.

"Now we come to Mrs. Carrol’s statement. She was alone in the house the whole time that Sir Andrew was away. By that I mean that she never had any one staying with her. She had, of course, the usual callers. Tradesmen, men from the gas and electric light companies to read the meters, an inspector from the water company to attend to the tap washers, and, people like that. Once or twice a week either Anthony or Dorothy would look in to see that she was all right. This appears to have been due to friendliness on their part, for she had instructions to ring up one or other of them if she wanted anything.

"On Thursday morning last, Anthony rang her up. He told her that his father had telegraphed from Lisbon saying that he would be home on Saturday as expected. Anthony asked her if everything was in order for Sir Andrew’s return and she told him that it was. She and the charwoman had cleaned the house out thoroughly and the two regular servants were coming back next day. The next thing she heard from any of the family was on Saturday morning, when James Paston turned up. He told her that Anthony had driven down to Southampton to meet his father and had asked him to look round and see that everything was all right. He asked if he might look over the house and she raised no objection. He stayed about half an hour altogether and when he left he told her how nice he thought the place was looking.

"As I said just now, nobody else actually entered the house until Sir Andrew’s return. And this was about half-past four. According to Mrs. Carrol he was looking very much better for his trip and seemed in excellent spirits. He had a few words with her, then he and Anthony went into the study where a little later Emily Miller took them tea.

"Anthony left about five o’clock and shortly afterwards Sir Andrew called her into the study. He told her that he had decided upon a family dinner-party; Anthony, Dorothy and her husband. Dinner would be at a quarter to eight as usual. Could she arrange a respectable meal at such short notice? Mrs. Carrol replied that she could, and immediately went out to the kitchen to consult with Sarah Blackwell. She is certain that Sir Andrew did not leave his study until seven o’clock. At which time, happening to pass through the hall, she saw him going upstairs.

"According to her, Sir Andrew was a man of settled habits. He invariably dressed for dinner whether or not he had any guests. And he always had a bath at that time of day. He had done so every evening when he was at home for as long as Mrs. Carrol could remember.

"Now you see the point about the geyser and the anthracite water heater. Naturally, whenever there’s an explosion in a house the first thing we do is to inquire into the gas-fittings. Geysers have been known to explode, sometimes with fatal results, but I’ve never heard of one wrecking a house so completely as this. In this case, however, there was no need for Sir Andrew to use the geyser at all. The water in the tap supplied by the boiler