Murder Gone Mad

People resident in the houses which line both sides of Heathcote Rise have, of course, been questioned, but none of them can testify to having heard any disturbance. Dr F. W. Billington of Holmdale, who acts as Police Surgeon to the Holmdale and Leewood district, examined the body at 11.30 p.m. last night. Dr Billington gives it as his opinion that life had not then been extinct for more than two hours. The police are of the opinion that Lionel was killed on his return from the gymnasium whence, as all windows were locked, he had been unable to fetch the shoes and sweater. The police are completely puzzled by the absence of a motive for such a terrible crime.

Mr and Mrs Colby are extremely popular in their own circle and have no enemies. Lionel, too, was a very well liked boy. He had no enemies at school, and was a prominent and popular member of the local Boys’ Club and also of the Holmdale troop of Sea Scouts. At present the police theory is that the crime was committed by a pervert, or homicidal lunatic.

They have, of course, several clues which they are following up.

Mrs Colby, Lionel’s mother, is prostrate from shock, but I managed to secure an interview with Mr George Colby, the father. He could give me no help, but stated that all he lived for now was to see the capture of the wretch who had robbed him of his only child.

Grave Concern in Holmdale

Sir Montague Flushing, K.B.E., the prominent Managing Director of the Holmdale Company Limited, stated in an interview today that he was himself deeply and terribly shocked by the tragedy.

‘How such a thing,’ said Sir Montague, ‘could take place in this happy little town of ours is utterly beyond my imagination!’

Sir Montague added that he would be only too grateful if the London Press would give full publicity to his statement, ‘that not only the citizens of Holmdale, but mothers and fathers throughout England could rest assured that the Holmdale Company (who are, of course, the proprietors of the whole Garden City) would do everything in their power to aid and assist the regular authorities in tracking down the author of the outrage.’

III

That was in The Evening Mercury late afternoon edition. Similar writings were in the other evening papers. The station, usually deserted upon a Saturday afternoon, was besieged at the time of the paper-train’s arrival by a crowd fully a third as big as that which upon weekdays left the six-thirty. Within four minutes of the arrival of the papers, the book-stall had not one left.

There was, in Holmdale today, only one topic of conversation. Holmdale was duly horrified. Holmdale was duly sympathic. Holmdale was inevitably a town in which every third inhabitant was satisfied that, given the job, he could lay his hands upon the criminal in half the time which it would take the police. Holmdale was also, though it would have vilified you for making the allegation, very delightfully excited. It was not every day that Holmdale came into the public eye. Holmdale looked forward to Monday morning when once more ‘up in town’ it would be the centre of a hundred interested groups all asking— ‘I say, don’t you live in that place where that boy’s been killed?’

Something, in short, had happened in Holmdale. Holmdale was News. Holmdale was on the Front Page.

The papers came down on Saturdays by the train arriving at Holmdale at 6.20. By 6.45 all Holmdale knew what London was saying of it. But all Holmdale did not know that at 6.45, Holmdale’s postman was carrying in his bag three letters for which the London Press would have given the heads of any of their reporters. The first of these letters was delivered at The Hospice. The second at The White Cottage, Heathcote Rise, which was Holmdale’s Police Station, and the third at the office of the Clarion in Claypits Road. In that order—because that was the way the postman went round—they were delivered, and in that order they were read.

Sir Montague Flushing, going through his evening’s post, came suddenly across a yellow linen paper envelope. He was a man who always speculated about a letter before he opened it, and this letter he turned that way and the other between his fingers. He did not know the paper. He did not know the minute, backward-sloping writing. He had never seen ink so shinily black. He slipped an ivory paper knife under the flap of the envelope …

He found himself staring, with wide and startled eyes, at a single sheet of paper of the same texture and colour as the envelope. Upon this sheet was written, in the same ink and writing, but with larger characters:

My Reference ONE

R.I.P.

Lionel Frederick Colby,

died Friday, 23rd November …

THE BUTCHER

CHAPTER III

I

THE Chief Constable looked at Inspector Davis, then from that unreadable face down again to his blotting pad where there lay, side by side, three quarto sheets of yellow paper, each bearing in its centre a few words written in a dead black and shining ink.

The Chief Constable cleared his throat; shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘What do you think, Davis?’ said the Chief Constable, ‘Hoax?’

Inspector Davis shrugged. ‘May be, sir, may be not. One can’t tell with these things.’

The Chief Constable thumped the desk with his fist so that the glass ink-bottles rattled in their mahogany stand. He said:

‘But damn it, man, if it isn’t a hoax, it’s …’

‘Exactly, sir,’ The Inspector’s voice and manner were unchanged. His cold blue eyes met the frowning puzzled stare of his superior.

The Chief Constable picked up the centre sheet and read aloud to himself, for perhaps the twentieth time this morning: ‘My reference One. R.I.P. Lionel Frederick Colby, died Friday, November 23rd. The Butcher.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said the Chief Constable, ‘I never did like that damn Garden City place.’

Inspector Davis shrugged. ‘So far it hasn’t been any trouble to us, sir,’ he said.

‘But,’ said the Chief Constable interpreting the Inspector’s tone, ‘you think it’s going to be.’

‘May be,’ said Davis. ‘May be not.’

The Chief Constable exploded. ‘I wish to God you’d be less careful! … Now, let’s get down to business. I suppose you’ve tried to trace this paper.’

Davis nodded. ‘This paper is what they call Basilica Linen Bank, sir. It’s purchasable at any reputable stationers. It’s expensive and it’s only made in that yellow colour for Christmas gift boxes. The number of Christmas gift boxes of the yellow variety sold since the first Christmas display about three weeks ago is so large that we can’t get any help that way.’

The Chief Constable held up a hand. ‘One moment, Davis, one moment. Is this stuff on sale at the Holmdale shop? What do they call it?’

‘The Market, sir,’ said Davis. ‘Yes, it is. But not the yellow variety, therefore this paper was bought somewhere outside Holmdale.’

The Chief Constable scratched his head. ‘Post mark?’ he suggested without hope.

‘The letters were post-marked 10.30 a.m. Holmdale.’

‘So that,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘they were posted actually in the place itself, on the morning after the crime was committed and were delivered that same evening?’

‘That, sir,’ said Inspector Davis, ‘is correct.’

‘And,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘we’ve no more idea of who cut this boy up than the man in the moon!’

Inspector Davis shook his head. ‘None, sir. In fact, so far as we can see, the man in the moon’s about the most likely person.’

‘I can’t,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘give you a warrant for him.’ He dropped his elbows on his desk and his face into his hands. He said after a moment,

‘Damn it, Davis. We can’t sit here joking about this!’

‘No, sir,’ said Davis.

Once more the Chief Constable thumped the desk so that the ink jars rattled.

‘We’ve got,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘to do something.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Davis.

‘What the hell,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘are we doing?’

For the first time Davis’s face showed sign of embarrassment. He shuffled his feet. He cleared his throat.

‘Of course, sir,’ said Davis, ‘we’re making careful enquiries …’

The Chief Constable exploded. ‘For God’s sake is it necessary to work that stuff off on me?’

Inspector Davis smiled, a faint, embarrassed smile. ‘There’s nothing else, sir,’ he said, ‘to say … If only we could find someone that could have any possible reason for wanting this boy out of the way …’

‘I know,’ said the Chief Constable wearily, ‘I know. Well, there’s nothing more I can say, Davis. Carry on as best you can. Only for God’s sake get a pair of handcuffs on to somebody before we have the whole countryside about our ears.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Davis.

The telephone bell by the Chief Constable’s table rang shrill.

‘Who’s that? …’ said the Chief Constable, ‘Yes … Martindale speaking. Oh, yes, Jeffson …What? … Yes … Go on, yes … Where? What time? … Good God! All right, I’ll send … Eh? What’s that you say? … Just read that over again, will you. Slowly, while I write it down.’ He picked up a pencil; scribbled to the telephone’s dictation upon his blotting pad; looked at what he had written; spoke again into the receiver: ‘All right, I’ve got that.’ His voice was no longer astonished, but weary, and with something of fear beneath its weariness. He spoke again: ‘Yes … Yes … I should think they would. Well, we’ll do what we can as quick as we can. Ring off now, will you. Stay where you are and I’ll let you have a word within half-an-hour.’ He hung up the receiver and, with an abstracted air, lifted the telephone and placed it at the edge of his desk. He looked at Davis for so long and in such pregnant silence that at last Davis was forced to break it. He said:

‘What was that, sir?’

‘That,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘was Jeffson. You know Jeffson, I think, Davis. Jeffson, from Holmdale?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Davis, half rising from his chair; then throwing himself firmly into it again.

‘Jeffson,’ said the Chief Constable, very slowly, ‘was telephoning to tell me that at 9.15 this morning, three-quarters of an hour ago, Davis, a man called Walters, who’s a milk-roundsman in Holmdale, saw a small car—a Baby Austin—standing at the end of one of the roads. He would have taken no interest in this car, except that as he passed and happened to glance down into it from his float, he saw what at first sight looked to him like a bundle of old clothes. He thought no more about it—for the moment.’ The Chief Constable’s words were coming now slower and slower: it was not so much that he was seeking dramatic effect as that he was, it seemed, trying to order his own thoughts. ‘But, Davis, he went back the way he had come, and as he got abreast of the Baby Austin, he looked down into it again … And he saw that what he had thought was a bundle of old clothes, was a bundle of new clothes … with something inside ’em. What was inside them, Davis, was a girl—a girl called Pamela Richards …’ The Chief Constable paused. The Chief Constable looked hard, over his hands which played now with a pen-holder, at Davis.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Davis.

‘Pamela Richards,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘was dead. Pamela Richards had been slit up the stomach in just the way that two days ago Lionel Colby was slit up the stomach …’

Davis’s lips, beneath his tight and tidy waxed moustache, pursed themselves. There came from them the ghost of a long drawn-out whistle of amazement.

The Chief Constable nodded. ‘Exactly, Davis. Only more so.’ The Chief Constable leant forward, pointing the end of the pen-holder at the Inspector. ‘And, Davis,’ he said, ‘almost at the moment when this milkman, Walters, was finding the body, three letters—letters like this’—here the Chief Constable tapped upon the centre of those three yellow sheets which lay upon his blotter—‘letters like this were being read by Flushing, Jeffson and the Editor of the Holmdale Clarion—letters, Davis, which were unstamped, and which must have been delivered by hand during the night.’

‘Was that letter, sir,’ said Davis, eagerly leaning forward in his chair, ‘what you were scribbling down on your blotter?’

‘It was,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘I will read it to you. It was set out just like these here. It said:

My Reference Two. R.I.P. Pamela Richards died Sunday, 25th November. And it was signed …’

‘The Butcher,’ said Davis.

II

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ said Percy Godly. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’

The boy with the red brassard of the Holmdale Clarion pushed forward the bundle of sheets which he held. ‘Special,’ said the boy. ‘Special extra. All about the Butcher.’ And that was in the official wire. ‘Blime, sir,’ said the boy, ‘ain’t it torful!’ And that was in the boy’s own voice.

‘Isn’t what,’ said Percy Godly, ‘torful?’

He pushed sixpence into the boy’s hand and waved away the change and snatched one of the broadsheets. He leaned against the corner of one of The Market windows and looked down at his purchase. He saw, in staring headlines two inches deep:

WHO IS THE BUTCHER?

HOLMDALE PANIC STRICKEN.

IS OUR CITY TO BE ANOTHER DÜSSELDORF?

THE BUTCHER’S SECOND LETTER.

PROMINENT LEADER OF HOLMDALE’S YOUNGER SET

DONE TO DEATH.

WHAT IS BEHIND THESE MURDERS?

Editorial Office, Claypits Road

This morning, at 9.15 a.m. Richard Henry Arthur Walters, a milkman in the employ of The Holmdale Market Limited, driving in the course of his rounds down New Approach, off Marrowbone Lane, saw a motor car—a small motor car of the ‘Baby’ type—standing, apparently deserted, in the semi-circular sweep at the head of the Approach. As he passed, what Walters thought a peculiar bundle in the front seat of the car attracted his attention and later, as he returned, passing the car once more, this bundle again attracted his attention. So much so, that he halted his horse, got off the milk float, and investigated.

Horribly Mangled Body

To Walter’s surprise and horror, he found that what he had thought was a ‘bundle’ was, in reality, the body of that well-known and charming young member of Holmdale’s ‘Upper Ten’—Miss Pamela Richards—the daughter of Mr and Mrs Arthur Richards, Sunview, Tall Elms Road. Walters discovered immediately that Miss Richards was not only dead, but that she had been dead for a considerable time. The injuries which had led to her death were almost identical with those which led to the death of that poor lad Lionel Colby, whose mother, the Clarion learns with regret, is likely to become dangerously ill with brain fever, brought about by her grief.

Police Activity

Official enquiries into the circumstances of Miss Richard’s death have elicited the following facts:

(1) That in the opinion of the Police Surgeon, Dr Billington, Miss Richards had been dead, when Walters found her, for at least eight hours.

(2) That Miss Richards, on the preceding evening, had left the house of Mrs Rudolph Sharp in Tall Elms Road, after a bridge party, at 12 midnight.

(3) That Miss Richards, at Mrs Rudolph Sharp’s request, had spent some time in transferring to their various homes those of Mrs Rudolph Sharp’s guests who either had no motor cars, or who had not brought their motor cars.

(4) That the last known person to see Miss Richards alive was the last of Mrs Sharp’s guests that she carried home—Mr Henry Warburton of 5 Oak Tree Grove.

(5) That Miss Richards had upon the day before broken off an engagement of marriage.

(6) That Miss Richards both throughout the evening and at 12.10 when she bade good-night to Mr Warburton and his family, had seemed in the best of spirits and far from anticipating evil fortune.

(7) That Miss Richards had, so far as her parents and immediate friends and acquaintances can vouch-safe, no enemy whatever in the world.

Ex-fiancé

It is rumoured that Miss Richard’s ex-fiancé is a well-known figure in Holmdale, but that the engagement was broken off by mutual rather than individual arrangement.

Police Theories of the Crime

In a long interview which our special representative had this morning with Inspector Davis of the County Constabulary, who is in charge of this and the Colby case, we learn that three letters signed, ‘The Butcher,’ were received this morning referring to the death of Miss Richards. These letters, except that the reference was two and the name—that of Miss Richards—was different, were identical in other respects with the letters received after Lionel Colby’s death. Inspector Davis was very frank with our representative. He pointed out that in this case of murder without apparent motive, investigation must necessarily be slower at the start than in the case where a motive or motives are immediately visible. His considered theory of how the crime actually took place is as follows:

Miss Richards—after taking Mr Warburton home—was proceeding towards her own domicile in Tall Elms Road, via High Collings, Marrowbone Lane and, as a short cut, New Approach. At the corner of New Approach (at the spot where the car was found this morning) it is the police theory that she was hailed and stopped the car, when the murderer—leaning into the car upon some pretext such as asking the time or the way—must have struck at her, killing her instantaneously and fearfully mutilating her in the same way that Lionel Colby was mutilated, namely, by terribly slitting her stomach. There can be no doubt, fortunately, that death was instantaneous, and therefore practically painless.

Police enquiries have ascertained, Inspector Davis told us, that at that time all the households of the occupied houses in New Approach were abed. A small car of the type owned by Miss Richards does not make much noise and none of the occupants of New Approach heard a sound. There are no street lights in New Approach, and after the dastardly murder had been committed, there was nothing to prevent the malefactor from calmly and cold-bloodedly going quietly upon his way.

Bereaved Family

The Clarion learns with deep regret that Mrs Richards, Miss Pamela Richard’s mother, is critically ill owing to the terrible shock imposed by her daughter’s untimely end. Mr Richards also was prostrate with shock. It is truly terrible to think how these tragedies affect, not only their victims, but also those whose loved and adored ones have been so suddenly, and as it were, by some all powerful demon, snatched from them in such a diabolic and undetectable way.

Mr Percy Godly, a little whiter than usual about his jowls which were so like gills, crunched the single sheet Clarion special into a hard ball; threw it viciously into the gutter; raised himself from his leaning posture and walked, a thought unsteadily, away. He passed in his walk the whole long green-painted front of The Market, Holmdale’s one shop, and, at this time every morning, Holmdale’s social centre.

A man stepped into Mr Godly’s path; a man who said:

‘Hullo, Godly. I say, Godly old man, I am damn sorry. Dreadful business!’

Mr Godly apparently did not hear this man. He side-stepped and walked on, his eyes fixed in a wide and clear stare. Mr Godly faced, at the far end of The Market, a group of young matrons who stood with neat and busily wagging heads, and talked together at the top of their voices, the subject for once being, in every case, the same. From this group the youngest matron detached herself and rushed towards Mr Godly with hand outstretched as if to clutch him by the arm. But, still staring with that glazed look before him, he twitched the arm away before the hand could descend upon it, and walked steadily on.

The young matron stared after him. ‘Well!’ she said, and went back to her group. The heads of the group had turned to follow Mr Godly’s progress until at the corner by Holmdale’s Inn, The Wooden Shack, he disappeared from sight.

‘Poor Percy!’ said the youngest matron. ‘I don’t care what you say! I think that when Pam broke off the engagement it hit him very hard.’

‘Poor Percy!’ said the second youngest matron indignantly. ‘Poor Percy, indeed! Poor Pamela, I say! Poor darling Pam!’

‘I say!’ said another, with something in her voice which brought all heads round to her and stilled the chattering mouths. ‘I say! Have any of you thought about this? I’ve only just realised that I haven’t. First that boy—that was awful—and then Pamela. They’re dead! Do you understand? They’ve been killed! They’ve … they’ve … There’s some inhuman thing going about that … that …’ She stopped. She caught her breath. Her eyes were wide. White teeth caught at her lower lip. She suddenly burst into a peal of sound bearing some resemblance to laughter, but having in it no mirth.

The youngest matron put her fingers to her ears. ‘Oh, don’t!’ she said.

The red brassarded boy came running up to the group. Twenty yards from them he began to chant. ‘Special! Special! Extra! Clarion Special! All about the Butcher!’

‘How dreadful!’ The eldest matron fumbled in her purse. ‘Here, boy. Give me one. How much?’

‘Tuppence,’ said the boy.

He had, it appeared, six copies left. The youngest matron was left without one. The previous record circulation of the Clarion for one week, had today with this special and unprecedented daily edition, not only doubled, but trebled itself. Holmdale was excited and more excited. But Holmdale was beginning to wonder whether excitement was so desirable as forty-eight hours ago it had seemed.

III

The Holmdale Theatre is in the Broad Walk. Facing it across the white, wide roadway and the railed-off stretch of turf and rose trees, is the red brick building which houses the offices of The Holmdale Company Limited.

At nine o’clock upon Monday, the 26th November—the evening of the day upon which Pamela Richard’s body was discovered—there was held, in the Board Room in these offices, a special meeting of Directors and others convened by Sir Montague Flushing himself.

Round the long table in the Board Room sat nineteen persons: Sir Montague, the five Directors of the main Holmdale Company, and the eight Directors of the associated and subordinate companies. There were also present Major Robert Wemyss John, who was honorary yet active Captain of Holmdale’s surprisingly efficient fire brigade; the Hon. Ronald Heatherstone, who was Private Secretary to Lord Bayford, upon whose property half of Holmdale was built; Colonel Grayling, head of the Holmdale Branch of the County Special Voluntary Constabulary; Miss Finch to represent the Press, and Arthur Steele, Sir Montague’s Private Secretary, to take notes of the proceedings.

The meeting had begun at seven-thirty. Now, an hour and a half later, it was drawing to its close. Sir Montague was speaking, and speaking, for once, without that pomposity which until today all those gathered about the table had thought part of the real man. He was saying:

‘… I take it then, gentlemen, that we are fully in agreement that as from tomorrow, unless by tomorrow night the Police have laid their hands upon this … this fiend, we’ll take the steps we’ve been discussing … If you have got them down, Steele? … Thank you … I think I’ll read over these points, just to make sure there’s no misunderstanding. First, Colonel Grayling, if he gets permission from the authorities, will have every road patrolled by one or more special constables, in addition to the regular constables who will be so employed. Second, Captain John will provide additional patrolling help out of his volunteers. Third, you, Mr Heatherstone, will obtain, if possible, Lord Bayford’s permission to use some of his outdoor staff, such as gamekeepers, for patrolling the entrances to and exits from the city, so that all incomers and outgoers after dark may be interrogated. Fourth, Miss Finch will issue another special edition of the Holmdale Clarion tomorrow, in which it will be clearly stated that the Holmdale Company are prepared to pay a reward of £500 for information leading to the capture of the … the … murderer. Are we all agreed upon that, gentlemen?’