The Threefold Cord: An Inspector Knollis Mystery (The Inspector Knollis Mysteries Book 3) by Francis Vivian

Author:Francis Vivian [Vivian, Francis]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2018-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

THE DEATH OF A HANGMAN

The Inspector of Police at Frampton was looking forward to nothing more exciting than the usual daily routine when he seated himself at his desk at nine o’clock on the following morning. His complacency was shaken when the Station Sergeant announced that two gentlemen wished to speak with him. “One of them is Sir Giles Tanroy, and the other is an inspector from the Yard.”

The Inspector glanced at the cards, and said: “Oh lord! Now what’s gone wrong!”

Knollis soon put him at his ease, and assured him that he was only performing a policeman’s normal function, that of asking innumerable questions—“An occupation to which we seem to be eternally fated.”

“Yes, that’s the whole of our life, more or less,” the Inspector replied. “By the way, my name’s Frank Johnson.” He then looked enquiringly at Knollis, and waited.

“It’s this Bowland case,” Knollis explained. “There seems to be a tie-up somewhere with the death of Marlin, the ex-hangman. What can you tell me about him?”

The Inspector beamed. “I thought it would come up again one day, and you couldn’t have come to a better man if you want to know about it, Inspector Knollis. I handled the affair, and I know all about it. I knew Marlin ever since he was so high, and a more unhappy man never lived.”

“How did he die?” Knollis asked laconically.

“Fell down the cellar steps and broke his neck. Death from Misadventure was the verdict, but I wasn’t satisfied in my own mind because, you see, I think he was murdered.”

“Why?” Knollis enquired.

Inspector Johnson glanced at Sir Giles. “He hasn’t told you my idea? We’ve often talked it over; that’s why I ask. Sir Giles is not a bad criminologist—as an amateur.”

Sir Giles bowed gravely.

“Sir Giles has told me no more than that you were in charge of the case.”

“In that case, I repeat that I think he was murdered. I said so at the time, but Sir James Fell—Colonel Mowbray’s predecessor—practically told me to keep my mouth shut and forget all the fancy ideas I had. I had no wish to be retired for any cooked-up reason, and so I obliged and obeyed, but I still think that Marlin was pushed down the steps!”

“What gave you that impression, Johnson?”

The Inspector left his desk and went to the safe. He returned with two photographs.

“I took these myself. I needn’t explain that one is a photograph of Marlin’s body lying at the foot of the steps, and the other is a close-up of his supper-table. Any questions at this stage?”

Knollis shook his head. “Tell me the story in your own way. I think we understand each other.”

The Inspector relaxed in his chair, and clasped his hands across his stomach. He was a stoutish man, and blew out his cheeks before beginning: “Let me tell you Marlin’s story. He entered the Merchant Navy in nineteen-thirteen, and went right through the last war on a minesweeper without getting a scratch. Three months after the armistice he was still sweeping off the East Coast when he hit his first mine.

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