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The Séance at Stillwater Mansion
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter Three Sexton Blake Explains From his chair beside the crackling fire, Sexton Blake glanced down at Tinker. His assistant was sitting on the floor, idly fondling the right ear of their big bloodhound, Pedro. A line of intense thought creased the youngster's forehead. Pedro heaved a deep sigh and gave the rug a couple of thumps with his tail. "Well, young 'un, when one looks deeper, the whole thing is as clear as daylight. What do you make of it?" Tinker grunted. "Clear as daylight, guv'nor? Clear as a pea-souper, more like!" "You’ve no ideas to offer?" "Well, you and old Couttsy tapped every square inch of that bally room and say there's no secret panel, so I suppose there isn't. But as I see it, there has to be!" "As Captain Hibbard tried to persuade us," murmured Blake. "But you said there in the hall that you know who did it!” exclaimed Tinker in sheer bewilderment. "It beats me, guv'nor! Who was it then? One of the servants?" "No, not one of the servants." "And not a ghost?" "Most definitely not!" "And no one broke into the house, stabbed Mainwaring, then fled?" "Through a locked door? No, my boy, there was no intruder." "So..." Tinker drew a startled breath. “It was one of those four, guv'nor! Slaytor, Hibbard, Crisp or Stillwater? Even though they were sitting in the room below when it happened!" “Spot on!" Tinker leaped to his feet, causing Pedro to let loose a surprised yelp which the giant dog immediately looked embarrassed about. "Which?" Tinker demanded. Blake knocked the ash out of his pipe into the hearth. "Come on, old son — stretch the grey matter! You heard the details of what happened, just as I did. You saw the men themselves. It is just as easy for you to answer this riddle as it was for me; all the material is at hand for providing the solution." "I never spotted a single clue," admitted Tinker dolefully. "There's no question of a clue this time, if you're thinking of fingerprints, or cigar ash, or a fragment of torn clothing, or that kind of thing," explained the detective. "It's simply a matter of reasoning.” Blake slipped his pipe into the pocket of his tatty red dressing gown, leaned back in his chair and, with his elbows on its arms, steepled his fingers together. “Consider this — Five men gather for a social evening in the library at Stillwater Manor. The suggestion is raised that they hold a séance. One man, Mainwaring, objects and retreats upstairs to lock himself in his bedroom, which happens to be directly above the library. The séance goes ahead but appears to be a complete failure; no tables are rapped, no apparitions materialise, no phantom voices whisper from the shadows. But soon after it ends, a loud thump is heard overhead; the sound of a falling body. Sir Roderick senses that something is wrong and they rush upstairs. They find the door locked. Captain Hibbard thinks it rather ridiculous to knock it down but, with assistance from a footman, they break in anyway. Edward Mainwaring is on the floor. Crisp rushes in while the others hesitate in the doorway and announces that a dagger has been thrust into Mainwaring’s heart. They look around and realise that there was no way the murderer could have left the room and he his certainly not hiding within it. Sir Roderick then telephones Scotland Yard and myself. "That, Tinker, in a nutshell, is what happened at Stillwater Manor tonight. The solution to the problem is staring you in the face!” Tinker rubbed his unruly mop of blonde hair. He shrugged. “It’s no good, sir. I can’t make head nor tail of it! I guess I'm a bit slow!” “Oh, I don’t know about that. I suspect old Coutts is having the same problem, and he can be quite an astute fellow at times. Well then, let me explain.” Barely two minutes had passed since the detective had put out his pipe but he now pulled it from his pocket and forced his young assistant to endure an infuriating silence while he went through the ritual of refilling and lighting it. Tinker was virtually hopping up and down by the time his master puffed out a dense cloud of smoke and, after watching it curl towards the ceiling, finally spoke again: "An ugly business, Tinker. A very ugly business indeed. Our murderer is clever, in a fiendish way. The man who killed Mainwaring must have planned it all very carefully. The man, incidentally, is, of course, that fat fellow, Crisp. "This is how he did it. As a fellow guest staying in the house, he had little difficulty in slipping something into Mainwaring’s drink. A few moments later, he suggested to Slaytor, who is an enthusiast for such things, that they should hold a séance. He did this knowing full well that Mainwaring would disapprove and refuse to participate. Sure enough, his intended victim left them to it and retreated to his room, locking the door behind him. Possibly spiritualism is a subject that frightened him and he felt safer with the door secured. A little while later, the drug Crisp had dropped into his drink took affect and he collapsed. The thump of his fall is heard in the room below. “So upstairs they race. They break through the door and find the poor fellow lying in a heap, unconscious. Unconscious, mind you! — Not dead! “Now for the planned moment. Taking advantage of the others’ momentary shock, Crisp pushes past them and kneels beside the stricken man. With his fat back covering his actions, he slips the knife out of his jacket’s inner pocket and pushes it into Mainwaring’s heart while all the time appearing to be examining him. It's cold-blooded murder and it takes but an instant. By the time the others gather around the body, the foul deed is done.” Tinker drew a shuddering breath. His face had gone a little white. “Crikey! I should never have worked that out! What a monstrous...” “Indeed. Crisp is a thoroughly unpleasant fellow. And since there are no secret exits in the room, there is no possible alternative. He is a murderer.” “And his motive?” asked Tinker. “Ah, there’s the rub. That’s what we need to find out. And we shall, my boy. We shall!” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Half past one. Time you indulged in that long-delayed kip. Off you go, Tinker. I shall sit here a while and weave a web to catch our fly.” |