Before the cigarette was finished he was making a sober assessment of his position. If he felt no remorse he certainly felt no panic — it was all too stark for panic. Time — place — motive — those were the three rocks. The hour of death could be revealed by the corpse — but not after the lapse of a few days. Therefore he must conceal the corpse for a few days. That would cover “place” — and he need not deny that he was at the manor house at six. So “time” was all right.
Blueprint for getting away with murder.
He might be caught in the act of moving the corpse. But he would certainly be caught if he did not move the corpse. And that would apply to every act. Therefore: take risks cheerfully and bluff that everything was going according to plan.
Bluff everybody — including Lorna. Better to start on Lorna at once, before his nerve failed. He hurried to the telephone in the hall.
“Harry speaking from the manor house. It’s all right, Lorna. Your uncle has accepted the terms I offered and will surrender the tenancy at once — I’m to see the lawyers tomorrow.” He waited while she expressed somewhat guarded congratulations. The bluff must be heated up. “Would you like to say a word to him — tell him you’re pleased?”
“I will, if you think it advisable.”
“Hang on while I ask him.” He put down the receiver noisily and “...Nothing doing. Your uncle said he’s too tired.”
“Did he? It’s very unlike him to admit it.”
“It was a bit of a shake-up for him. For me, too — but I thought you’d like to know at once.”
Lorna accepted his news. Her chatter about it would not be factual evidence, but it would be good color.
Next: move the body before daylight. That would mean going back to London for his car. There was a train at 6:20 from Thaleham. He glanced at his watch — twelve minutes past six. It was of great importance that he should catch that train — and it was at least five minutes walk to the station, maybe a bit extra lugging the large deedbox.
He felt no emotion while he possessed himself of the dead man’s latchkey, but it took time — and more time to detach the key from the bunch. It was now fourteen minutes past six.
The deedbox was upside down, spreadeagled, about half its contents scattered. It would take, say, another minute to collect the papers — and he would probably miss the 6:20.
“If anyone comes into this house before I’ve moved the body I’m sunk, whatever I do,” he said aloud. “The deedbox can wait until I come back. Good murderers don’t panic.”
What about the lights? Better put them out. Before switching off in the hall he observed that the stamped letter was no longer on the tray — posted, presumably, by Mrs. Harbutt. No concern of his.
“If anyone sees me leaving he may wonder why there was no light in the hall. That’s the sort of risk I shall have to keep on taking.”
As he reached the end of the drive and was about to step onto the road a light flashed in his face — from the lamp of a bicycle.
“Why, it’s Mr. Harry Finchmoor! You haven’t forgotten George Dobson, Mr. Harry?”
“Of course I remember you, George!” Again he had beaten off panic. Here was merely another witness that he was leaving Thaleham at this time. “I’ll be down again next week and we must have a drink. As it is, I have to hurry for the 6:20.”
“You won’t make it.” George was looking over the valley and could see the lights of the train at the bend. “I’d say you’ve only got three minutes. Here, you take the bike, Mr. Harry, and I’ll pick it up at the station.”
Finchmoor thanked him profusely and accepted the offer. In this business of cop dodging, luck cut both ways and would tend to cancel itself out. He had not ridden a bicycle since boyhood. The first twenty yards were perilous, but at worst it was faster than walking — if he could stick on.
The train was at the platform and the stationmaster was holding a door open for him.
“Hop in, Mr. Harry. Any luck?”
“Smiles all the way, Mr. Hawkins,” grinned Finchmoor. More color. But did the police take any notice of color?
In the train he contemplated the problem of hiding the corpse. He could return after the village had gone to bed. There was always a little through traffic at night. Barring accidents, it would be easy enough to get away.
And then? This would be the difficult bit. He was no hand with a spade. What a pity he could not consult Lorna.
Lorna!
You grabbed me in an outworked gravel pit — That gravel pit was in the Wey Valley, about fifteen miles from Thaleham — off the main road on a patch of derelict land with a “cliff” of about twenty feet and a thick undergrowth of brambles. Just what he needed!
What about Lorna’s own reactions when that gravel pit came into the news? Risky — but not half so risky as cruising about the countryside in the dark, looking for somewhere to hide his cargo.
Arrived in London, he dined at his club — signing his bill, as did most members, to be settled by monthly check. He chose a single table so that he could elaborate the Blueprint, which seemed to him to be shaping up very well. All the details were arranging themselves neatly. Rain had started, but he always carried rubbers and a plastic mackintosh in the car. By eleven he was turning into the short drive of the manor house.
He entered the house with a certain complacency, but when he had replaced the latchkey on its ring he had a sharp reaction of self-pity. An abominable thing had happened to him, causing him to prowl at night, performing ghoulish acts in order to erect a barrier of deceit between himself and the kind of people he respected and liked — the men he met in business — at the club — women like Lorna Brendwright. Well, at least he would do the job intelligently — so that the whole horror could be forgotten in a week or two.
He thought it as simple as that because he had never interested himself in the literature of crime and knew nothing of the subsidiary problems facing a murderer, and he knew next to nothing of the methods of the police — except that they used fingerprints. In a couple of minutes his complacency returned and he proceeded to make one mistake after another — mistakes that did not have to be made.
He went to the kitchen quarters, first pulling on a pair of light gloves. His fingerprints in the dining room and the hall would be expected, but there must be none elsewhere.
He found Mrs. Harbutt’s cottage pie on a shelf in the gas cooker. He turned the regulator to full heat and then, somewhat awkwardly in gloves, applied a match. When the potato crust had been browned, he served a portion on a plate and then flushed the portion, leaving a dirtied plate and fork on the table. According to the Blueprint this would convince the police that Brendwright had been alive at midday on Wednesday. Later, Mrs. Harbutt, of course, was able to assure the police that if anyone had eaten part of the pie it was certainly not Mr. Brendwright — and the police noted an attempt to fake a “time” clue.
Finchmoor had thought of Mrs. Harbutt only in connection with the Victorian bell-rope whose absence from the wall she would be certain to notice. He removed the rope from the body — some eight feet of it with a large tassel at the bottom and a large rosette at the top. The bell-rope, he discovered, was a dummy, secured with four wall-plugs, one of which was missing. He cobbled the rope back into position without it. Later, police routine found the missing wall-plug in the fringe of the hearthrug. Routine, too, led from the wall-plug to the wall, then to the bell-rope, which was detached and sent to Laboratory. Thus, Finchmoor’s little flourish made the police a present of the murder weapon and of an attempt to fake a clue as to “place.”