Death Devil's Bridge (32 page)

There was a moment's pause, as the company studied the slide on the screen, and Kate reflected with some pride on her husband's thoroughness as a detective, and with relief on the knowledge that Lawrence could be excused of any great wrongdoing.

“I understand that you have investigated the crash in some detail, Sheridan,” the doctor said. “What have you been able to learn about the cause?”

“Several very interesting facts,” Charles said, and signaled to Mudd again. The butler stepped out of the room, and when he returned, he was carrying three objects on a large and ornate silver tray. He put the tray on a table at the side of the room and turned up the gaslights.

Charles went to the table and picked up the leather-covered wooden brake. “I am sure you will recognize this brake block,” he said, holding it up. “It comes from the left rear wheel of the ill-fated Daimler. The car crashed because someone smeared this block with grease. Albrecht was coming down the hill at a speed probably close to twenty miles an hour. When he attempted to apply the brake, the car spun out of control and went into the ravine.”

“Someone smeared the brake with grease!” Dunstable exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes,” Charles said. “That is what Albrecht himself said, just before he died, in Dr. Bassett's surgery.” He picked up the crockery pot from the tray. “And this is the grease that was used, although it did not come from this container.”

“You're speaking very positively,” Dickson growled. “How do you know that?”

“I shall show you, Mr. Dickson,” Charles said, and went on. “But before I do, I wish to point out that the person who applied the grease to the brake also left a smear of it on the fender.” He picked up the third object, the dented fender, and displayed its dusty underside. “He left a fingerprint, as well.”

“There you go again, Sheridan,” said Harry Hodson, in a tone of scornful amusement, “riding your favorite hobbyhorse. Fingerprints, fingerprints, always fingerprints! Are we to hear of nothing else?”

“Sir Charles is persuaded,” the doctor said, for the elucidation of the group, “that any individual in the world can be identified by his fingerprints.”

“I've heard that fingerprinting can be done,” Ponsonby said dubiously, “but I read in
The Pall Mall Gazette
just last week that the Yard has rejected it as a practical matter, primarily on the grounds that such evidence could not be comprehended by the average jury.”

“I doubt it can even be done,” said Bateman, inspecting his fingertips, “or yield any useful information.” There was a rustle, as the others made the same inspection.

“Oh, but it can be done,” Charles protested, “and with excellent practical effect.” He dropped a slide into the lantern's upper optical tube, and the top half of the screen was filled with the enlarged image of a fingerprint. “This, gentlemen, is a photograph of the fingerprint on the fender.”

“What a nuisance,” sighed the coroner, shifting his heavy bulk in the chair. “Wake me when the lecture is over.”

“I hope to keep you awake this time, Harry,” Charles said. Taking a wooden pointer, he strode to the screen. “You can see, of course, that this fingerprint, like all fingerprints, is made up of lines and whorls. This particular print, however”—he pointed—“displays a rare double loop, the upper loop rotating to the left, the lower one to the right.”

“Rare, is it?” asked the constable, with some interest.

“Yes, quite rare,” Charles said, going back to the projector. “Let me show you several others, and you shall see that there is not a double loop among them.” And leaving the image of the fingerprint at the top of the screen, he projected four prints, one after another, onto the bottom half.

“Indeed,” said the coroner, sitting up straight, his eyes wide open. “Not a double loop among them.”

“But what have we here?” Charles asked, as the fifth print came onto the screen. “Why, bless my soul! I believe it is a match!”

“A match?” the doctor asked. “You mean, you have found another man with the very same fingerprint?”

“No, for that would be impossible,” Charles said. “Each man's fingerprints are unique. What we see here is another print made by the
same
man.” He went to the screen with his pointer. “Here is the same double loop, the upper rotating to the left, the lower to the right. And here is that odd ridge, and here—” He paused. “If I am correct, I believe that there are eight principal points of comparison between the two prints. A closer study, of course, may reveal others.”

“I charge you, Sir Charles,” the coroner said sternly, “to reveal exactly
where
you obtained that second fingerprint.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed the constable. “It could reveal the identity of the man who killed Wilhelm Albrecht!”

There was a gasp, followed by much nervous shifting and muttering. Charles nodded at Mudd, who disappeared and reappeared with another tray, which he placed beside the first. This one bore nine clear crystal wine goblets.

“The print was taken from one of these goblets,” Charles said, “each of which, as you can see, is labeled with a name.”

“And the goblets?” the constable asked. “Where did you get them?”

“They are the goblets from which wine was drunk at last night's dinner,” Charles said. “They were taken from the dining table and locked in the butler's pantry until this afternoon, when I took them to my laboratory and photographed them.”

“And the print?” the coroner asked severely. “Whose is it?”

“It belongs,” Charles said, “to Arthur Dickson.”

“No!” Dickson cried, rising. “It isn't mine!”

“I grant you that there is a remote possibility of some mischance with the goblets,” Charles agreed. He took a leather case from his pocket. “I have here a fingerprint kit, however, and it will take only a moment to obtain your prints and confirm that you are not the man.”

“This is absurd!” Dickson exclaimed. “Fingerprints! I won't stand for it, d'you hear!”

“Then sit down,” Dunstable growled crossly, “and don't be an ass.”

“Yes,” Bateman said, “do sit down and be reasonable, old chap. We all want to get to the bottom of this wretched affair so we can go about our business.”

“Did you do it, Arthur?” asked Ponsonby. “If you did, best 'fess up, or they'll be hounding the rest of us until kingdom come.”

“I didn't do it,” Dickson said desperately.

“Then perhaps you can explain how the same red grease that appears on the brake was also found on your trousers,” Charles said.

Dickson attempted a laugh. “You
are
a preposterous fellow, Sheridan! Even if you had found grease on my trousers, you can't possibly know that it was the
same
grease.”

But Charles had inserted two more slides into his lantern projector. “The one on the top,” he said, “is a scraping of grease taken from the Daimler's fender. On the bottom is a scraping from Mr. Dickson's tweed trousers. As you can see, this particular grease happens to contain the distinctive corpuscles of swine's blood, which are clearly evident in both samples. Here, at this point, you observe their round shapes, and here again, and here. There is no mistaking the fact that both samples come from the same source. I submit to you, gentlemen, that Mr. Dickson—”

“No!” Dickson shouted again. “And you aren't going to frighten me into a confession with this scientific hocus-pocus, Sheridan. Fingerprints and corpuscles! It's all utter nonsense. Nonsense, do you hear me?”

“I should think more seriously of this accusation, Mr. Dickson, if I were you,” said the constable.

“Poppycock,” Dickson muttered. “Lunacy, done up in scientific jargon. I am going back to the inn, and first thing tomorrow, to London.”

The coroner looked pained. “I am sorry to tell you that I have heard enough evidence to remand you into the constable's custody, Mr. Dickson.” He sighed heavily as he heaved himself to his feet. “I am even more sorry to say that the matter of Herr Albrecht's death shall have to be brought before a coroner's jury.”

“A jury?” Dickson repeated scornfully. “And what makes you think that a jury of villagers would consider such ludicrous evidence as fingerprints and corpuscles? It's all academic nonsense!”

“Perhaps.” The coroner sighed again. “But the Crown must have a go, anyway. Shall we say, tomorrow fortnight?”

“Come, Josephine, in my flying machine. Up, we go!”

—American Music Hall Ballad, 1920's

 

 

 

C
harles slumped in his leather chair in the library and held up his glass. As Kate poured his sherry, she touched his shoulder.

“You'll feel better in a few days,” she said sympathetically, “when the disappointment has passed.”

“I am sorry to say I told you so,” Harry Hodson said in a gloomy tone, “but I
did
warn you that no jury—no village jury, at any rate—would be able to understand such a complicated hocus-pocus. And I was right. Your presentation might have persuaded the Royal Academy, Charles, but the jurors were simply not able to hear it. They brought in the only verdict they knew how to bring: death by automotive mischance.”

“It was the fingerprints that frightened them off,” Dr. Bassett said, from the window where he stood looking out. “Perhaps if you had ended your presentation with the corpuscles and the red grease on Dickson's trousers—”

“But that was only half the evidence,” Charles protested. “And by far the less interesting half.”

“The more comprehensible half,” Bassett rejoined. “It will be decades before a jury is capable of understanding fingerprint evidence. And it may never happen”

“The problem
really
was,” Kate said, resuming her seat on the sofa beside Constable Laken, “that Bess Gurton's testimony couldn't be introduced. For fear of harming her reputation in the village, that is.”

“But if Bess Gurton had mentioned her flying ointment,” Ned replied, “the jury would have dismissed it just as they did the fingerprints and the corpuscles—as so much magical nonsense.”

“However, seen from another point of view,” Hodson went on, as if no one else had spoken, “the Crown didn't lose much.”

“That's right,” Laken said. “Practically speaking, even had Dickson been bound over, the prosecution could not have proved that he intended to murder Albrecht. All that could have been argued was that he meant to cause mischief in the operation of the motorcar in which he thought Dunstable would be riding, as a way of getting even for the injuries he had suffered at the man's hands. Dickson could not have anticipated that Dunstable would spend the day in the dung heap, or that Albrecht would impale himself upon the broken tiller.”

Charles roused himself. “I suppose you are right, but it is frustrating to know that science cannot assure that justice is done.”

Kate entirely concurred with Charles. If this had been one of Beryl Bardwell's crime stories, the plot would have been tied up much more neatly: the culprit apprehended, summoned to the bar, and punished. If his conviction could have been managed by no other means, the novelist would have arranged a confession, appropriately dramatic, of course, or even a suicide. Right and justice would have triumphed in the end, and the world been restored to order and normalcy under the law. To have events turn out otherwise was deeply frustrating.

The doctor came away from the window and sat down. “It is a mistake to assume that justice will not be done,” he said. “There is more than one way to skin a cat, you know.”

“Oh
^?
” Kate asked.

“I heard from Marsden today. Ponsonby and Dunstable have apparently forged a temporary alliance for the purpose of ruining poor Dickson. They have been busy in Threadneedle Street, buying up Dickson's notes so that they can call them in. Coming on top of the expenses of the patent litigation against which the man must defend himself, this will utterly ruin him.”

The coroner chuckled dryly. “Poor Dickson, indeed! Appropriate punishment, I should say. A civil penalty, where a criminal could not be got.”

Kate found herself agreeing. “Still,” she said thoughtfully, “it is Dunstable who must bear most of the responsibility for what happened this weekend, don't you think? He was the one who brought those men here, and set them at one another's throats—all with the hope of making money. Not to mention that he is a particularly
odious
man.”

Charles looked up from the pipe he was lighting. “I think, Kate, you will have nothing to fear concerning Dunstable. I, too, heard from Marsden. If rumor be trusted, the British Motor Car Syndicate is not long for this world. We will shortly learn of a falling out between Ponsonby and Dunstable, and Dunstable will be the next victim of Threadneedle Street. Not a moment too soon, either. We can only hope that some British inventor will emerge with a truly distinguished British vehicle, to give us parity, at least, with the German and French. Whether gas or electric or steam—”

“Do you think electric and steam have a chance?” Laken asked curiously. “After the beating those two cars took this weekend, I should say not.”

“You're probably right,” Charles said. “Electricity holds great promise, but must wait for the invention of a primary battery. And steam has been around long enough to have worked out the engineering problems, but people are still afraid of it.”

“What about Henry Royce?” Kate asked. “He seemed to show some interest toward the end of his visit. Do you think he will take up the challenge?”