Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (37 page)

On the 25th of December
at 7: 30 a.m. Mr. Septimus Tonks was found dead beside his wireless set.

It was Emily Parks, an
under-housemaid, who discovered him. She butted open the door and entered,
carrying mop, duster, and carpet-sweeper. At that precise moment she was
greatly startled by a voice that spoke out of the darkness.

“Good morning, everybody,”
said the voice in superbly inflected syllables, “and a Merry Christmas!”

Emily yelped, but not
loudly, as she immediately realized what had happened. Mr. Tonks had omitted to
turn off his wireless before going to bed. She drew back the curtains,
revealing a kind of pale murk which was a London Christmas dawn, switched on
the light, and saw Septimus.

He was seated in front of
the radio. It was a small but expensive set, specially built for him. Septimus
sat in an armchair, his back to Emily, his body tilted towards the radio.

His hands, the fingers curiously
bunched, were on the ledge of the cabinet under the tuning and volume knobs.
His chest rested against the shelf below and his head leaned on the front
panel.

He looked rather as
though he was listening intently to the interior secrets of the wireless. His
head was bent so that Emily could see his bald top with its trail of oiled
hairs. He did not move.

“Beg pardon, sir,” gasped
Emily. She was again greatly startled. Mr. Tonks’ enthusiasm for radio had
never before induced him to tune in at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Special Christmas
service,” the cultured voice was saying. Mr. Tonks sat very still. Emily, in
common with the other servants, was terrified of her master. She did not know
whether to go or to stay. She gazed wildly at Septimus and realized that he
wore a dinner-jacket. The room was now filled with the clamor of pealing bells.

Emily opened her mouth as
wide as it would go and screamed and screamed and screamed....

Chase, the butler, was
the first to arrive. He was a pale, flabby man but authoritative. He said: “What’s
the meaning of this outrage?” and then saw Septimus. He went to the arm-chair,
bent down, and looked into his master’s face.

He did not lose his head,
but said in a loud voice: “My Gawd!” And then to Emily: “Shut your face.” By
this vulgarism he betrayed his agitation. He seized Emily by the shoulders and
thrust her towards the door, where they were met by Mr. Hislop, the secretary,
in his dressing-gown. Mr. Hislop said: “Good heavens, Chase, what is the
meaning—” and then his voice too was drowned in the clamor of bells and renewed
screams.

Chase put his fat white
hand over Emily’s mouth.

“In the study if you
please, sir. An accident. Go to your room, will you, and stop that noise or I’ll
give you something to make you.” This to Emily, who bolted down the hall, where
she was received by the rest of the staff who had congregated there.

Chase returned to the
study with Mr. Hislop and locked the door. They both looked down at the body of
Septimus Tonks. The secretary was the first to speak.

“But—but—he’s dead,” said
little Mr. Hislop.

“I suppose there can’t be
any doubt,” whispered Chase.

“
Look at the face. Any doubt! My God!”

Mr. Hislop put out a
delicate hand towards the bent head and then drew it back. Chase, less
fastidious, touched one of the hard wrists, gripped, and then lifted it. The
body at once tipped backwards as if it was made of wood. One of the hands
knocked against the butler’s face. He sprang back with an oath.

There lay Septimus, his
knees and his hands in the air, his terrible face turned up to the light. Chase
pointed to the right hand. Two fingers and the thumb were slightly blackened.

Ding, dong, dang, ding.

“For God’s sake stop
those bells,” cried Mr. Hislop. Chase turned off the wall switch. Into the sudden
silence came the sound of the door-handle being rattled and Guy Tonks’ voice on
the other side.

“Hislop! Mr. Hislop!
Chase! What’s the matter?”

“Just a moment, Mr. Guy.”
Chase looked at the secretary. “You go, sir.”

So it was left to Mr.
Hislop to break the news to the family. They listened to his stammering
revelation in stupefied silence. It was not until Guy, the eldest of the three
children, stood in the study that any practical suggestion was made.

“What has killed him?”
asked Guy.

“It’s extraordinary,” burbled
Hislop. “Extraordinary. He looks as if he’d been—”

“Galvanized,” said Guy.

“We ought to send for a
doctor,” suggested Hislop timidly.

“Of course. Will you, Mr.
Hislop? Dr. Meadows.”

Hislop went to the
telephone and Guy returned to his family. Dr. Meadows lived on the other side
of the square and arrived in five minutes. He examined the body without moving
it. He questioned Chase and Hislop. Chase was very voluble about the burns on
the hand. He uttered the word “electrocution” over and over again.

“I had a cousin, sir,
that was struck by lightning. As soon as I saw the hand—”

“Yes, yes,” said Dr.
Meadows. “So you said. I can see the burns for myself.”

“Electrocution,” repeated
Chase. “There’ll have to be an inquest.”

Dr. Meadows snapped at
him, summoned Emily, and then saw the rest of the family—Guy, Arthur, Phillipa,
and their mother. They were clustered round a cold grate in the drawing-room.
Phillipa was on her knees, trying to light the fire.

“What was it?” asked
Arthur as soon as the doctor came in.

“Looks like electric
shock. Guy, I’ll have a word with you if you please. Phillipa, look after your
mother, there’s a good child. Coffee with a dash of brandy. Where are those
damn maids? Come on, Guy.”

Alone with Guy, he said
they’d have to send for the police.

“The police!” Guy’s dark
face turned very pale. “Why? What’s it got to do with them?”

“Nothing, as like as not,
but they’ll have to be notified. I can’t give a certificate as things are. If
it’s electrocution, how did it happen?”

“But the police!” said
Guy. “That’s simply ghastly. Dr. Meadows, for God’s sake couldn’t you—?”

“No,” said Dr. Meadows, “I
couldn’t. Sorry, Guy, but there it is.”

“But can’t we wait a
moment? Look at him again. You haven’t examined him properly.”

“I don’t want to move
him, that’s why. Pull yourself together, boy. Look here. I’ve got a pal in the
C. I. D. —Alleyn. He’s a gentleman and all that. He’ll curse me like a fury,
but he’ll come if he’s in London, and he’ll make things easier for you. Go back
to your mother. I’ll ring Alleyn up.”

That was how it came
about that Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn spent his Christmas Day in
harness. As a matter of fact he was on duty, and as he pointed out to Dr.
Meadows, would have had to turn out and visit his miserable Tonkses in any
case. When he did arrive it was with his usual air of remote courtesy. He was
accompanied by a tall, thick-set officer—Inspector Fox—and by the divisional
police-surgeon. Dr. Meadows took them into the study. Alleyn, in his turn,
looked at the horror that had been Septimus.

“Was he like this when he
was found?”

“No. I understand he was
leaning forward with his hands on the ledge of the cabinet. He must have
slumped forward and been propped up by the chair arms and the cabinet.”

“Who moved him?”

“Chase, the butler. He
said he only meant to raise the arm.
Rigor
is well established.”

Alleyn put his hand
behind the rigid neck and pushed. The body fell forward into its original
position.

“There you are, Curtis,” said
Alleyn to the divisional surgeon. He turned to Fox. “Get the camera man, will
you, Fox?”

The photographer took
four shots and departed. Alleyn marked the position of the hands and feet with
chalk, made a careful plan of the room and turned to the doctors.

“Is it electrocution, do
you think?”

“Looks like it,” said
Curtis. “Have to be a p.m. of course.”

“Of course. Still, look
at the hands. Burns. Thumb and two fingers bunched together and exactly the
distance between the two knobs apart. He’d been tuning his hurdy-gurdy.”

“By gum,” said Inspector
Fox, speaking for the first time.

“D’you mean he got a
lethal shock from his radio?” asked Dr. Meadows.

“I don’t know. I merely
conclude he had his hands on the knobs when he died.”

“It was still going when
the house-maid found him. Chase turned it off and got no shock.”

“Yours, partner,” said
Alleyn, turning to Fox. Fox stooped down to the wall switch.

“Careful,” said Alleyn.

“I’ve got rubber soles,” said
Fox, and switched it on. The radio hummed, gathered volume, and found itself.

“No-oel, No-o-el,” it
roared. Fox cut it off and pulled out the wall plug.

“I’d like to have a look
inside this set,” he said.

“So you shall, old boy,
so you shall,” rejoined Alleyn. “Before you begin, I think we’d better move the
body. Will you see to that, Meadows? Fox, get Bailey, will you ? He’s out in
the car.”

Curtis, Hislop, and
Meadows carried Septimus Tonks into a spare downstairs room. It was a difficult
and horrible business with that contorted body. Dr. Meadows came back alone,
mopping his brow, to find Detective-Sergeant Bailey, a fingerprint expert, at
work on the wireless cabinet.

“What’s all this?” asked
Dr. Meadows. “Do you want to find out if he’d been fooling round with the
innards?”

“He,” said Alleyn, “or—somebody
else.”

“Umph!” Dr. Meadows
looked at the Inspector. “You agree with me, it seems. Do you suspect—?”

“Suspect? I’m the least
suspicious man alive. I’m merely being tidy. Well, Bailey?”

“I’ve got a good one off
the chair arm. That’ll be the deceased’s, won’t it, sir?”

“No doubt. We’ll check up
later. What about the wireless?”

Fox, wearing a glove,
pulled off the knob of the volume control.

“Seems to be O.K.” said
Bailey. “It’s a sweet bit of work. Not too bad at all, sir.” He turned his
torch into the back of the radio, undid a couple of screws underneath the set,
lifted out the works.

“What’s the little hole
for?” asked Alleyn.

“What’s that, sir?” said
Fox.

“There’s a hole-bored
through the panel above the knob. About an eighth of an inch in diameter. The
rim of the knob hides it. One might easily miss it. Move your torch, Bailey.
Yes. There, do you see?”

Fox bent down and uttered
a bass growl. A fine needle of light came through the front of the radio.

“That’s peculiar, sir,” said
Bailey from the other side. “I don’t get the idea at all.”

Alleyn pulled out the
tuning knob.

“There’s another one
there,” he murmured. “Yes. Nice clean little holes. Newly bored. Unusual, I
take it?”

“Unusual’s the word, sir,”
said Fox.

“Run away, Meadows,” said
Alleyn.

“Why the devil?” asked
Dr. Meadows indignantly. “What are you driving at? Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You ought to be with the
sorrowing relatives. Where’s your corpseside manner?”

“I’ve settled them. What
are you up to?”

“Who’s being suspicious
now?” asked Alleyn mildly. “You may stay for a moment. Tell me about the
Tonkses. Who are they? What are they? What sort of a man was Septimus?”

“If you must know, he was
a damned unpleasant sort of a man.”

“Tell me about him.”

Dr. Meadows sat down and
lit a cigarette.

“He was a self-made bloke,”
he said, “as hard as nails and—well, coarse rather than vulgar.”

“Like Dr. Johnson
perhaps?”