The Rasp. Philip MacDonald
He stepped back on to the path and knelt to examine the stone edging to the flower-bed. In the position she must have been in, the woman would most probably, he argued, have been on one knee and had the foot of the other leg pressed vertically against this edging.
She had; but Anthony was doubly surprised at what he found. For why, in this dry weather, should the mark of her foot be there at all? And, as it was there, why should it look like a fingerprint a hundred times enlarged?
He scratched his head. This was indeed a crazy business. Perhaps he was off the rails. Still, he’d better go on. This all might have something to do with the case.
More closely he examined this footprint that was like a fingerprint. Now he understood. The mark had remained because the peculiar sole of this peculiar shoe had been wet and earthy. There had been no rain for a week. Why was the shoe wet? And why—he looked carefully about—were there no other such marks on the flagstones of the path? Ah, yes; that would be because in ordinary walking or running the peculiar shoes did not press hard enough to leave anything but a wet patch which would quickly dry. Whereas, in pressing the sole of the foot against that edging to the flower-bed, much more force would have to be used to retain balance—sufficient force to squeeze wet clayish earth out in a pattern from that peculiar sole.
But what about the wetness? He hadn’t settled that. Suddenly his mind connected the peculiarity of that imprint with the idea of water. A rope-soled sandal. When used? Why, bathing. Here Anthony laughed aloud. ‘Sleuth, you surpass yourself!’ he murmured. ‘Minister murdered by Bathing Belle—only not at the seaside! Cock Robin’s murderer not Sparrow as at first believed, but one W. Wagtail! Gethryn, you’re fatuous. Take to crochet.’
He started for the verandah door. Half-way he stopped suddenly. He’d forgotten the river. But the idea was ridiculous. But, after all—well, he’d spend ten minutes on it, anyhow. Now, to begin—assuming that the woman had come out of the river and had wanted (strange creature!) to get back there—he would work out her most probable route and follow it. If within five minutes he found no more signs of her, he’d stop.
After a moment’s calculation he started off, going through the opening in the yew hedge, down the grass bank to his right and then crossing the rose garden at whose far side there began a pergola.
At the entrance to the pergola he found, caught round a thorny stem of the rose-creeper that fell from the first cross-piece of the archway, four long black hairs.
Anthony controlled his elation. These might not, he thought, be from the same head. But all the same it was encouraging. It fitted well. Running in the dark and a panic, she hadn’t ducked low enough. He could see her tearing to free her hair. Well, he’d get on. But really this mad idea about swimming women couldn’t be true.
From the other end of the pergola he emerged on to a lawn, its centre marked by a small but active fountain. A gravelled path, along which he remembered having walked up to the house, ran down at the right of the grass to the gate on the river-bank through which he had entered. He paused to consider the position; then decided that one making in a hurry for the gate would cut across the grass.
He found confirmation. Round the fountain’s inadequate basin was a circle of wet grass, its deep green in refreshing contrast to the faded colour of the rest. At the edge of the emerald oasis were two indistinct imprints of the sandal and its fellow, and two long smeared scars where the grass had been torn up to expose the soil beneath. Farther on, but still within the circle, were two deeper, round impressions; beyond them, just where the wet grass ended, was another long smear.
Anthony diagnosed a slip, a stagger, and a fall. Not looking for more signs—he had enough—he hurried on to the little gate. The other side of it, on the path which ran alongside the blustering pigmy of a river, he hesitated, looking about him. Again he felt doubt. Was it likely that anyone could swim the Marle at night? Most decidedly it was not. In the first place there was, only some three hundred and fifty yards or so downstream to his right, a perfectly good bridge which joined the two halves of the village of Marling. In the second place, the Marle, though here a bare twenty yards wide, seemed as uncomfortable a swim as could well be, even for a man. Always turbulent, it was at present actually dangerous, still swollen as it was by the months of heavy rain which had preceded this record-breaking August.
‘No!’ said Anthony aloud. ‘I’m mad, that’s what it is. But then those are bathing sandals. And didn’t I just now tell Boyd he was making a mistake in not treating this business like the goriest of ’tec tales?’
He stood looking over the river. If only he could fit any sort of reason—
One came to him. He laughed at it; but it intrigued him. It intrigued him vastly. There was a house, just one house, on the opposite bank. It was perhaps thirty yards higher up the stream than the gate by which he was standing.
Suppose someone from that house wanted to get to Abbotshall quickly, so quickly that they could not afford to travel the quarter-mile on each side of the river which crossing by the bridge would involve. Taking that as an hypothesis, he had a reason for this Captain Webb business. The theory was insane, of course, but why not let fancy lead him a while?
The very fact that the woman was so good a swimmer as she must be made it probable that she would be sufficiently water-wise to make use of, rather than battle helplessly against, the eight-mile-an-hour stream. Very well, then, before taking to the river, on her way back she would have run upstream along this bank to a point some way above the house she wished to return to on the opposite bank. Still laughing at himself, Anthony turned to his left and walked upstream, his eyes on the soft clay at the river’s edge. When he had passed by fifty yards the house on the other side, he found two sandal-marks. They were deep; the clay gave a perfect impression.
He was surprised but still unbelieving. Then, as he stood for a moment looking down into the dark water only a few inches below the level of his feet, a gleam of white caught his eye. Curious, he squatted, pulled up his sleeve and thrust his arm into the water, groping about the ledge which jutted out from the bank some inches below the surface. His fingers found what they sought. He rose to his feet and examined his catch.
A small canvas bathing-sandal. From its uppers dangled a broken piece of tape. The sole was of rope.
‘Benjamin,’ said Anthony to his pipe. ‘I’m right. And I’ve never been so surprised in my life. It looks to me, my lad, as if A. R. Gethryn may have been wrong and Brother Boyd right. Where’s my “insider” now?’
II
Anthony had crossed the river. Behind him lay Marling’s wooden bridge, before him the house which must shelter the swimming lady. In his hip-pocket rested the sandal, wrung free of some of its wetness and wrapped in a piece of newspaper found by the hedge.
He walked slowly, framing pretexts for gaining admission to the house. His thoughts were interrupted by a hail. He swung round to see Sir Arthur Digby-Coates coming at a fast walk from the direction of the bridge.
Sir Arthur arrived out of breath. ‘Hallo, my boy, hallo,’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing here? Calling on Lucia? Didn’t know you knew her. Mrs Lemesurier. That’s her house there. Just going there myself.’
‘I’ll walk along to the gate with you,’ said Anthony. He saw a possible invitation. He began to make talk. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere; just strolling. I wanted to get away from Abbotshall and think. After I left the study, I drifted through the garden and crossed the river without knowing I’d done it.’ Not even to Sir Arthur was he saying anything yet of his discoveries.
The elder man picked his remarks up eagerly. ‘You’ve hit on something to think about, then? That’s more than I’ve done, though I’ve been racking my brains since midnight. That detective fellow don’t seem much better off either.’
‘Oh, Boyd’s a very good man,’ Anthony said. ‘He generally gets somewhere.’
‘Well, I hope so.’ Sir Arthur sighed. ‘This is a terrible business, Gethryn. Terrible! I can’t