Maurice Procter and The Murder Room

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The Murder Room

Where Criminal Minds Meet

themurderroom.com

I Will Speak Daggers

Maurice Procter

Contents

Cover

The Murder Room Introduction

Title page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Outro

By Maurice Procter

About the author

Copyright page

Chapter One

IT was five minutes to twelve when John Elliott started up his car in the forecourt of his club. On this night he had taken his alcohol in moderation, and he was able to drive quickly and soberly through the rainy streets of Yoreborough to his home at Skirling Green. It was a short journey, and at midnight exactly he was driving through the gateway to his house.

The house was in darkness except for a faint light in the nursery bedroom where his two small sons slept. As he approached, along the drive, his headlights lit up the solid weathered stone of the building. It was a good house, a well-built and comfortable house, but not a particularly handsome one.

He drove along the front of the house to the three-car garage which was an extension of the building. The doors were open and he ran the car straight in, putting it accurately in its usual place with the facility of habit. His wife’s car was not in the garage. He had not expected it to be there.

He left the car and—a smallish, slender, but compact figure, entirely masculine in movement—he went to the house, finding his latch-key as he walked. Inside, he switched lights on, and stood a moment in the hall, near the telephone. He wondered whether to expedite matters by making a call. He made the call, dialling a number he knew well.

He was answered immediately. “Shannon here,” a voice said.

“Hello, Sean,” said Elliott. “How are you?”

“Fine but sleepy, John. Ready for bed. What do you want at this time of night?”

“Only my wife. Give her a message from me. Tell her to stop gassing and come home. It’s after midnight. Other folk have to get up in a morning even if she hasn’t.”

“My dear man, Janey stopped gassing and went home nearly an hour ago.”

“H’m. Funny,” commented Elliott, with surprise in his voice. “Her car is still out. Did she say she might call somewhere?”

“She did not. Where would she call after eleven at night? It isn’t as if it were a Saturday.”

“I agree, it isn’t. Did she get away all right?”

“I saw her off the premises myself. Out of the gate and on her way. It’s a bad night, though. Maybe she’s hit something.”

“It’s always possible. Wouldn’t be the first time. How was she for liquor?”

“As sober as a Protestant.”

Elliott sighed. “I’d better turn out and look for her. I expect she’d come Frog Lane way.”

He heard Shannon yawn, so he said: “You get off to bed, Sean. I’ll find her.”

“I’ll help you,” said Shannon unexpectedly. “I’ll come Frog Lane way, and we’ll meet.”

“Really, old man. There’s no need for you to put yourself out.”

“I’m on my way.”

“All right,” said Elliott. “Be seeing you.”

He was still wearing his raincoat and cap. He switched off the lights and went out of doors. As he walked the few yards to the garage he reflected that it was indeed a bad night. And it was getting worse. The downpour was heavier and the wind was wilder. As he drove away from the house, his headlights showed the rain falling in gust-driven sheets.

From the dimly illuminated residential street he turned into Skirling Green Road, which shone black and wet under bright sodium lamps. There was no traffic on the road at this time on such a night. As he crossed the wide road bridge over the river he saw a solitary pedestrian on the opposite pavement. The wayfarer was leaning to walk against the wind. His trousers were plastered against his legs, and he was obviously wet through.

Elliott went on, peering through the clear arc made by his windscreen wiper. He was intent upon seeing all that there was to be seen on the deserted road. When he was over the bridge he discerned a tall, dark figure, and the lighter colour of a face, in the shadow of a shop doorway. A policeman, probably. He pondered. Would it be wise, just then, to stop and ask the policeman if he had heard anything about a motor accident? No, perhaps not. He drove on.

He went up the hill into Hither Town, the prosperous central part of Yoreborough. He crossed the rain-swept Pleasance, and travelled along Skipton Road, Thwaite Road, and Thwaite Lane without seeing a soul. At the end of Thwaite Lane he turned right up the long incline of Frog Lane, a narrow walled-in road which climbed along the side of a hill. It was a short cut to Uplands Road, where Sean Shannon lived.

When he took the slight bend halfway up Frog Lane, he saw, facing him at some distance, the headlights of a car. The car was stationary, and as he drew nearer he saw that there were two cars, one behind the other. When he was nearer still, he saw somebody move in front of the headlights of the leading car.

He stopped, and as he got out of the car he was met by a tall, well-set-up man.

“You got here,” Sean Shannon said rather unnecessarily.

“Of course I got here.” Elliott’s manner was quite natural for those circumstances. “What’s the matter with the car? Where’s Janey?”

“She’s in her car,” said Shannon in a strained voice. “She’s happened a misfortune.”

“Speak English, Sean. Do you mean there’s been an accident? Is she badly hurt?” As he spoke, Elliott began to move towards his wife’s car. “Have you sent for an ambulance?” he asked.

Shannon put a detaining hand on his arm. “No need for an ambulance,” he said. “She’s dead.”

“Dead?” Elliott stopped and peered up into his tall friend’s face. “The car looks all right from here. Is this some sort of a merry quip and jest?”

“No jest, John. She’s been waylaid. And murdered.”

In the glare of the headlamps Elliott’s face showed incredulity. He began to walk towards the car. Again Shannon tried to stop him.

“Don’t look, John,” he implored. “Take my advice, and don’t look. I’ve sent for the police. Leave it to them.”

Elliott shook off the detaining hand. “Of course I’m going to look. She’s my wife, man.”

He went to the car and opened the door beside the driver’s seat. When the door was opened, the interior light came on automatically. He uttered an exclamation, and stood holding the door while he gazed at the body of his wife. During that time he made no move. Then he closed the door and stood quite still beside it. Shannon also was still.

“O-h-h-h,” the husband sighed at last. “Who could have done that to Janey?”

Shannon did not reply, but gently took his arm and led him away from the car. They stood silent in the wind and rain and waited for the police. Neither of them thought of sheltering.

Chapter Two

YOREBOROUGH was not a big town, but it was a very nice town; an island spa with many good hotels, and a dormitory town for some of the wealthier inhabitants of Leeds and Bradford and the industrial area around those two cities. There was practically no industry in Yoreborough, and its air was clean. Clean also were its buildings, and the paint which adorned them, and the curtains at their windows; and the streets were notably tidy. Politically it was a Tory stronghold, and its well-provided local government departments functioned smoothly, handling the numerous complaints of the tax-conscious ratepayers without fuss or scandal. Working smoothly with these departments was the small County Borough police force, which had an efficient C.I.D. efficiently managed by one Detective-Inspector Robson, a youngish but long-headed investigator who had no frills or fancy ideas about crime and criminals.

Neither had Robson any illusions about his capacity to deal with the Elliott murder case. “We’ll need the Yard,” he advised the Chief Constable, and the Chief called in Scotland Yard without delay.

The Yard men arrived by train the following day: Detective-Superintendent Philip Hunter, a huge man who looked like a retired heavyweight wrestler and spoke with the voice of a creaking door, and Detective-Sergeant Henry Dutton, a tall, lean, muscular type, a rather handsome man with one of those desperate grins. Dutton’s grin usually appeared when he was in trouble, or about to start some.

The Yard men met the Chief and Inspector Robson for a preliminary discussion of the case. They were shown photographs which did not shock them, because pictures of murdered people are always shocking anyway, and they had seen a lot of them. They were also introduced to some of the local C.I.D. men who would assist them in the tedious work of routine inquiry, and then they went to lunch.

Lunch was at a small inn called the Spread Eagle, which was to be their home while they were in Yoreborough. It was situated in a quiet side-street within a stone’s throw of Police Headquarters. The Yard men liked the look of the inn; they tried a glass of the landlord’s ale and pronounced it excellent; they ate the meal which the landlady had cooked for them, and found it tasty and satisfying. But they did not delay in consuming either the beer or the meal. They always started on a job with the assumption that time was precious, whether it was or not.

So at half-past one the two visiting detectives again met Robson at Headquarters. In the office which had been assigned to Hunter and his aide, the three men sat down to study the preliminary reports of the case. The first item on the file was a Post Office report, timed and dated 12.17 a.m. on Thursday, the 25th of March, relating to a 999 call from public telephone box 611311, situated at the junction of Frog Lane and Uplands Road. The caller, a man, had urgently requested: “The police, quickly.” He had given his name as Sean Shannon, of Windaways, Uplands, Yoreborough. The call had been instantly put through to Police Headquarters.

The next document was a statement by a P.C. who had been on duty in the police communications room at the time of the call. Thus:

(a) Sidney MacLean Watkinson saith, I am a constable in the Yoreborough County Borough Police.

(b) At 12.18 a.m. on Thursday the 25th of March, I was on office duty at Headquarters.

(c) When I received a 999 call, apparently from a man, who said: “Come to Frog Lane at once, there’s been a terrible murder.”

(d) I signalled an alert to the C.I.D. office and the Traffic Department. At the same time I asked the man’s name and address, and he said: “SEAN SHANNON, Windaways, Uplands. For God’s sake come at once.”

(e) I asked SHANNON where the body was, and he said: “In a car a little way down Frog Lane.”

(f) I told SHANNON to hold the line a moment. I then contacted car APC 7 (Cons. 87 O’Brien and 56 Hoskins) by radio. I instructed them to make contact with SHANNON, and not to lose contact until the arrival of C.I.D. I also suggested that they might take him to the scene of the alleged crime.

(g) By that time Det. Sgt. Blades and Det. Cons. Capener, C.I.D. and P.C. 39 Walker, Traffic, were in the office. I informed them of what had occurred. They left H.Q. immediately.

(h) I returned to the telephone and asked SHANNON if he had discovered the body, and he replied: “Yes, I think so.”

(i) I asked him if he knew the deceased, and he said: “Yes, it’s Mrs. ELLIOTT. Why don’t you get busy and send somebody here?”

(j) I tried to detain SHANNON with further conversation. I asked him if he had been alone when he had discovered the body, and he replied: “Yes. Are we going to talk all night?”

(k) I asked SHANNON if he had seen anyone else in the vicinity, and he replied: “No.”

(l) I asked SHANNON if he had delayed in reporting the alleged crime, and he replied: “No. All the delay seems to be at your end. I’m going back to the car. I don’t want JOHN ELLIOTT to find his wife in that condition.”

(m) Then, apparently, SHANNON put down the receiver. I could make no further contact with him.

(n) I have read this statement over, and it is true and correct.

Signed, S. M. Watkinson, P.C. 122.

Following the statement were reports by junior C.I.D. officers, and the preliminary medical report. Hunter perused those, and went on to the next item. This was a verbatim record of Robson’s interview with Sean Shannon. The notes were timed and dated 2.50 a.m. Thursday the 25th of March.

The superintendent began to read. . . .

* * * *

“How are you, Mr. Shannon? I don’t think I’ve seen you since we had that attempted break-in at your house. It must be getting on for twelve months.”

“I’m very well, Inspector. And you?”

“Oh, quite fit. Now, you know what I want to talk about. It’s a distressing business for you, but it’s my painful duty to ask questions about it. Well, first of all, a few details about yourself, just for the record. Sean Shannon is your full name?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an Irishman?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you lived in England?”

“Since September nineteen thirty-nine, if you count the time I was in the British Army.”

“You were in the Irish Guards, weren’t you?”

“Yes, for a time. Then I went to Octu.”

“You got a commission?”

“I finished up as a captain in the Green Howards.”

“Then you married the lady who is now Mrs. Shannon, and settled down in this town. Miss Sylvia Falcon, that was. I think we all remember the wedding.”

“Yes, it was quite a do.”

“And you are now with the Falcon Car Company?”

“Yes. You seem to know a lot about me.”

“Well, you know, the Falcon family. And this isn’t a big town. What do you do at Falcons?”

“I’m personnel manager.”

“I see. Now, to get on with this thing, what time did you meet Mrs. Jane Elliott tonight? Or rather, yesterday evening, Wednesday the 24th.”

“About five minutes past eight in the Aperitif Bar at the Royal Hotel. I was with my wife.”

“How do you remember the time?”

“Because Mrs. Elliott asked me if the clock was right.”

“And was it right?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t she wearing a watch, then?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice.”

“Have you any idea why she was so concerned about the time?”

“Er, no.”

“Mr. Shannon, the lady has been murdered. The police need all the help you can give.”

“Well, I suppose she was waiting for somebody. My wife and I were having a drink with her when she was paged on the hotel intercom. Somebody wanted her on the phone. She went to take the call, then she came back.”

“How long was she away, taking the call?”

“Oh, four or five minutes.”

“Did she say who had been calling her?”

“No.”

“Did she seem pleased, or disappointed, or anything?”

“She was frowning a bit.”

“Didn’t she say anything at all about the phone call?”

“No. She asked us if we were having a meal. I said that we were, and I asked her to join us. She thought a bit, and then said she’d be glad to.”

“So you had a meal. Was everything quite normal?”

“Quite normal.”

“Did Mrs. Elliott seem to be nervous or worried?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did she mention her appointment again? If it was an appointment.”

“No, she never mentioned it.”

“Nor the phone call?”

“No.”

“All right. What happened after the meal?”

“She went home with us.”

“What time was that?”

“About twenty past ten.”

“Did she go in her own car?”

“Yes. My wife rode with her for company. I went alone in my car.”

“What time did you get home?”

“It would be about half past ten. I couldn’t be accurate about that.”

“Did both cars arrive together?”

“Practically together. I was first, but Janey—Mrs. Elliott—was close behind me. She must have had me in sight all the way.”

“Then what happened?”

“Janey and Sylvia went indoors, while I put my car away. Then I went in.”

“Where did Mrs. Elliott leave her car?”

“Right outside the front door. It’s a circular drive there.”

“I remember. How long did she stay?”

“Till five or ten minutes after eleven. It was about eleven o’clock when she started saying she was going, but by the time she and my wife had tied up all the loose ends of their chatter it would be nearer ten past.”

“Would you like to tell me what they were talking about?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t listening. I picked up the evening paper.”

“H’m. Don’t think I’m trying to needle you, but—you sat reading the paper when you had a guest?”

“Sure I did. Mrs. Elliott was a very old friend of my wife. I knew her very well, too. We never stood on ceremony with her, nor she with us.”

“Did she have a drink while she was at your house?”

“Yes. She had one glass of Drambuie. We all had one.”

“Had you drunk quite a lot that evening?”

“No, not a lot. We were all cold sober. Janey could take it, you know.”

“I’m not surprised. A lot of women can, these days. When she left, who went to the door with her?”

“I did.”

“Did you talk at the door?”

“Not more than a word or two. Something about the weather, I think. It had started to rain and blow. Cold stuff. She didn’t hang about in it, but got into her car and drove off. I watched the car out of the gateway, then stepped back inside and locked the door.”

“When she left you, did she seem disturbed or nervous?”

“No, not a bit.”

“Very well. So she went off in her car and drove it along Uplands Road and down Frog Lane.”

“I suppose so. That was her usual route when she was going home from our house.”

“Was she using her headlights when she drove away?”

“I think so. I’m almost sure she was. It was a dark night.”

“Was she a good driver?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“When she had gone, did you go to bed?”

“My wife went up to bed. I picked up the paper again, and started reading the small advertisements. ‘Situations vacant’ gives me a certain amount of information about the labour market.”

“How long were you reading?”

“Till about midnight. I was just going up to bed when John Elliott phoned.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, we said ‘how are you’, and that sort of thing. Then he said: ‘Tell Janey to stop gassing and come home. It’s after midnight’.”

“How do you suppose he knew she was at your house?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I said: ‘My dear man, Janey stopped gassing and went home nearly an hour ago’.”

“And then?”

“He said: ‘Well, her car isn’t here. Do you suppose she’s called somewhere?’ And I said: ‘Where would she call at this time of night? It isn’t as if it were a Saturday’. Then he asked if she’d been drinking a lot, and I told him she hadn’t. Then I said: ‘It’s a dirty night. I wonder if she’s hit something’.”

“Yes. Go on, Mr. Shannon.”

“Well, John—Mr. Elliott—said he supposed he’d better go and look for her. So I said I would, too. I said I’d go Frog Lane way and meet him. He thanked me and said there was no need for me to turn out. I said I didn’t mind, I’d turn out.”

“Anything else?”

“No. That was the end of the conversation. I got my raincoat and went and got the car out, and drove along to Frog Lane. As I turned to go down the lane I saw the glare of headlights on a stationary car, facing the way I was going, and about two hundred yards down the lane. It was Janey’s car. It was pulled in to the near side, as if she were in that position to let another car pass. The lane is only just wide enough for two cars.”

“Ah yes. But it would be a natural thing for her to pull in to the side of the road when she stopped, whether or not there was another car. She could have stopped for somebody on foot; somebody she knew.”

“That is so. But if you want to argue about it, Inspector, I’ll say she could also have been stopped by somebody she didn’t know. If somebody or something stood in the middle of the lane, she’d have to stop or else run over them. There wasn’t room to swerve.”

“You think it was a stranger?”

“Of course I do. Janey Elliott wasn’t acquainted with any sadistic sex maniacs.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t. But we have to look at the thing from all sides. What did you do when you got to the car?”

“I pulled in behind it and stopped, and got out and went to the car. I opened the door beside the driving seat, and . . . well, I found her.”

“Did you touch the body?”

“No. I could see she was dead. I just closed the door of the car. I thought it was the best thing to do.”

“Quite right. How could you see so well in the dark?”

“There’s an automatic switch which operates the interior light when anybody opens the door of the car. I don’t think it’s a standard fitting. Janey had it as an extra.”

“And does it remain lighted as long as the door is open?”

“Yes. You must know that, if you’ve looked at the car.”

“I’m asking you. Continue with your story. You found the body and didn’t touch it. What then?”

“I closed the door of the car and stood there for a few seconds, wondering what to do.”

“Did you search around at all. In case the killer was still in the vicinity?”

“No, that didn’t occur to me. I’m not a policeman, you know.”

“All right. What did you do?”

“I left my car where it was and ran to the top of the lane, to the public phone box. I dialled 999, and called the police. The man at the police station seemed to be in no hurry. He kept me there, answering all sorts of questions. I finally left him talking to himself and went back to the car. I wasn’t any too early. Within a minute or two John Elliott’s car came up the lane.”

“What did Mr. Elliott say when he arrived?”

“He said: ‘What’s the matter with the car?’ Then he said: ‘Where’s Janey?’ I told him, as well as I could. I don’t remember my actual words. We were standing in the light of the headlamps, and he looked at me as if he thought I’d gone off my head. I said: ‘Don’t look at her, John. Not just yet’. But he said: ‘Of course I’m going to look. She’s my wife, man.’ He went to the car and opened the door, and said: ‘Oh, God’. He didn’t say anything else for a little while, then he closed the door. He stood staring into the dark. Then he gave a sort of moan, and said: ‘Who could have done that to Janey?’ He didn’t say anything else, and I thought I’d better keep quiet. Neither of us spoke again until the police arrived. They came sooner than I expected, I’ll say that for them.”

“Well, we know what happened after the police arrived. Now then, the car is an Armstrong-Siddeley Sapphire, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A good motorcar.”

“Do you remember how the front doors are hinged? At the front or at the back?”

“At the back. The hinges are on the middle pillar of the body, and the door handle is near the windscreen.”

“That’s right. So, coming to the left side of the car as it faced him, the murderer could have thrown open the door with his left hand, while he still held the knife ready in his right hand, concealed behind his back.”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me the position of the body when you found it.”

“It was in exactly the same position as when the police arrived. Nobody had touched it.”

“I want you to tell me the position of the body. I want to know what you saw. You’ll have to tell it at the inquest, you know.”

“Oh, dear! Well, she—she was sitting in the driver’s seat with her hands down by her sides. Her head was thrown back, or pulled back. Hanging right back. Oh, hell, do I have to tell you all this? You saw it yourself, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t discover the body. Go on.”

“The head was thrown back and the eyes were open, staring up at the roof of the car. There was that horrible wound in her throat. I think that was the first thing I saw. And I saw that her dress had been ripped down from the neck, and there was that deep slash across her—her chest. There were other wounds in the chest, too, I think. I didn’t count them. Heavens, I need a drink.”

“There’ll be coffee in a few minutes. I’m sorry to put you through all this. But bear with me a little longer. What else did you notice?”

“There was some blood on her thigh. On the skirt, I mean. I don’t know what that was.”

“The murderer cleaned the blade of the knife on her skirt, by drawing it flat across the thigh. Did you notice anything else?”

“No. I noticed enough. I’ve seen some things in my time, but a woman, Janey Elliott. . . . I’ve had enough, Inspector. Let me go home.”

“Just one more thing. Her hands were down by her side, you say?”

“Yes. Her arms were sort of slack, straight down, and her hands were resting on the seat of the car.”

“And she was sitting square at the wheel?”

“Yes, more or less.”

“And from what you know of Mrs. Elliott’s character, do you think she would sit there totally unprepared while a strange man opened the door of her car in a lonely lane at eleven fifteen at night? A wild wet night, with nobody stirring at all?”

“No, I don’t think she would. She’d be in a more alert or defensive attitude than that. She had plenty of guts. She’d have put up a fight if she’d had half a chance.”

“It was a completely unguarded attitude, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I’d say it was.”

“We found a big spanner in the dashboard cupboard. Don’t you think she’d have had that in her hand, or on the seat beside her, if the man had been a stranger?”

“Of course. I’d forgotten about that spanner. We all knew about it. She said she kept it there in case of a hold-up.”

“Well, Mr. Shannon, there you are! And it’s not likely that she was arranged in that position after death, is it? There would be no point in that. So doesn’t it seem probable that the murderer was somebody she had recognized in the light of the headlamps?”

“You’re getting your argument home, Inspector.”

“I have a purpose. I want to convince you that it is necessary for you to tell me with whom you think Mrs. Elliott had an appointment yesterday evening.”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t know.”

“You can make a good guess.”

“No. It might be the wrong guess.”

“The wrong guess. Have you narrowed it down in your mind to two people?”

“I tell you, I’m not making any guesses for anybody’s benefit. This will be a nasty job for somebody, and I’m not going to make it worse.”

“Everything you tell me is confidential. The police never divulge sources of information. If you suspect anybody, for any reason at all, you need not be afraid to tell me. It is your duty to tell me.”

“No. I don’t suspect anybody.”

“Very well, Mr. Shannon. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything odd or incongruous which you noticed? Anything at all.”

“No. I’ve told you all I know.”

“All right. Now, I’ll have everything you have told me put more concisely, in the form of a statement, for you to sign. After you’ve read it through, of course.”

“I’m not compelled to sign anything, am I?”

“No. No compulsion.”

“Do I have to wait while the statement is typed out?”

“No, you can sign it later, at your convenience.”

“I’ll see the statement before I make any promises about signing.”

“Just as you like. You are at liberty to go home now. You will be informed of the time and date of the inquest.”

“I’ll be away, then. Good night, Inspector. Or rather, good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Shannon.”