The chief constable drew up his shoulders and stabbed one long finger into the palm of his head.
"What I am trying to establish, gentlemen, is this: There may have been a murderer. But that murderer did not necessarily creep in here, smash him over the head, and pitch him down to his death; I mean, there may not have been two people on the balcony at all…. What about a death-trap?"
"Ah!" muttered Dr. Fell, hunching his shouders. "Well―"
"You see, gentlemen," Sir Benjamin went on, turning to the others in an agony of verbal precision, "I mean — At least two Starberths have met their deaths off that balcony before this one. Now suppose there were something about that balcony — a mechanism — eh?"
Rampole turned his eyes towards the balcony door. Beyond the torn ivy he could see a low stone wall, balustraded, suggestive. The very room seemed to grow darker and more sinister.
"I know," he nodded. "Like the stories. I remember one I read when I was a kid, and it made a powerful impression on me. Something about a chair bolted to the floor in an the dark, the bed with the descending canopy, the piece of furniture with the poisoned needle in it, the clock that fires a bullet or sticks you with a knife, the gun inside the safe, the weight in the ceiling, the bed that exhales the deadly gas when the heat of your body warms it, and all the rest of 'em… probable or improbable. And I confess," said Dr. Fell, with relish, "that the more improbable they are, the better I like 'em. I have a simple melodramatic mind, gentlemen, and I would dearly love to believe you. Have you ever seen 'Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street'? You should. It was one of the original thriller plays, well known in the early eighteen-hundreds; all about a devilish barber's chair which dropped you into the cellar so that the barber could cut your throat at his leisure. But―"
"Hold on!" said Sir Benjamin irritably. "All this just means, then, that you think the notion is too far-fetched?"
"The Gothic romance in particular," pursued Dr. Fell, "is full of such — eh?" he broke off, lifting his eyes. "Farfetched? God bless my soul, no! Some of the most farfetched of the death-traps have been real ones, like Nero's collapsing ship, or the poisoned gloves that killed Charles VII. No, no. I don't mind your being improbable. The point is that you haven't any grounds to be improbable on. That's where you're far behind the detective stories: They may reach an improbable conclusion, but they get there on the strength of good, sound, improbable evidence that's in plain sight.- How do you know there was any `box' inside that safe?"
"Well, we don't, of course; but — “
"Exactly. And you no sooner have the box, than you get an inspiration of a `paper' inside it. Then you get the paper, and you put `instructions' on it. Then young Starberth goes over the balcony; the box becomes inconvenient, so you drop it after him. Splendid! Now you've not only created the box and the paper, but you've made them disappear again, and the case is complete. As our American friends say, Horse-blinders! It won't do."
"Very well, then," the chief constable said, stiffly. "You can examine that balcony, if you like. I'm jolly certain I won't."
Dr. Fell hoisted himself to his feet. "Oh, I'm going to examine it. Mind, I don't say there wasn't any death-trap; you may be right," he added. He stared straight ahead of him, his big red face very intent. "But I want to remind you that there's only one thing we're absolutely sure of — that Starberth was lying under that balcony with his neck broken. That's all.
Sir Benjamin smiled in that tight way of his which seemed to pull the corners of his mouth down rather than up. He said, ironically:
"I'm glad you see at least a little virtue in the notion. I have advanced two perfectly good theories of the death, based on a trap―"
"They're rubbish," said Dr. Fell. He was already staring across at the door to the balcony, and he seemed preoccupied.
"Thank you."
"Oh, all right," the doctor murmured, wearily. "I'll show you, if you like. Both of your ideas, then, are based on young Starberth's being lured out on that balcony, either (A) by instruction she found in the safe, or (B) by the stratagem of some person who wanted to rob the safe, and so got him out there to let the balcony do its villainous job. EH?"
"Quite right."
"Now, then, put yourself in young Starberth's place. You're sitting at this table, where he sat, with your bicycle-lamp beside you; as nervous as he was, or as cool as you might be — either way — Got it? Got the scene?
"Perfectly, thank you."
"For whatever purpose, you get up to go over to that door, which hasn't been opened in God knows how many years; you're not only trying to open a sealed door, but you're going out on a balcony that's blacker than pitch…. What do you do?"
"Why, I pick up the lamp and I — "
"Precisely. That's it. That's the whole story. You hold your lamp while you're opening the door, and flash it out on the balcony to see where you're going, before you've even set foot out there…. Well, that's precisely what our victim didn't do. If so much as a crack of light had shown through this door anywhere, we should have seen it from my garden. But we didn't."
There was a silence. Sir Benjamin pushed his hat over to one side of his head and scowled.
"By Jove!" he muttered, "that sounds reasonable, you know. Still- Oh, look here! There's something wrong. I don't see any earthly way a murderer could have come in this room without an outcry on Starbeth's part."
"Neither do I," said Dr. Fell. "If that encourages you any. I…" He broke off, a startled expression coming into his eyes as he stared at the iron door to the balcony. "O Lord! O Bacchus. O my ancient hat. This won't do."
He went stumping over to the door. First he knelt down and examined the dusty, gritty floor, where bits of dirt and stone had fallen when the door was opened. He ran his hand along them. Rising, he examined the outer face of the door; then he pushed it partly shut and looked at the keyhole.
"Opened with a key, right enough," he mumbled.
"Here's a fresh scratch in the rust where it slipped. " "Then," snapped the chief constable, "Martin Starberth did open that door, after all?"
"No. No, I don't think so. That was the murderer." Dr. Fell said something else, but it was inaudible because he had stepped through the sheathing ivy out upon the balcony.
The rest of them looked at one another uneasily. Rampole found himself more afraid of that balcony than he had even been of the safe. But he found himself moving forward, with Sir Benjamin at his elbow. The rector, he discovered as he glanced over his shoulder, was intently examining the titles of the calf-bound books in the shelves to the right of the fireplace; he seemed reluctant to drag himself away, though his feet appeared to be moving in the direction of the balcony.
Pushing aside the vines, Rampole stepped out. The balcony was not large; hardly more than a stone shelf about the base of the door, with stone balustrades built waist high. There was little more room than would comfortably accommodate the three of them as he and Sir. Benjamin stepped to either side of the doctor.
Nobody spoke. Over the top of the prison the, morning sun had not yet struck; these walls, the hill, and the Hag's Nook below were still in shadow. Some twenty feet down, Rampole could see the edge of the cliff jutting out in mud and weeds, and the triangle of stone blocks which had once supported the gallows. Through the little door down there they had brought out the condemned from the press-room, where the smith had struck off their irons before the last jump. From up here Anthony had watched it, in his "new suit of scarlet and laced hat." Bending over, Rampole could see the well gaping among the firs; he thought he could discern the green scum upon its water many feet farther down, but it was in heavy shadow.