The Fatal Garden

By John Rhode

The Fatal Garden, first published in 1949, is book no. 49 in the series of mysteries featuring private detective Dr. Priestley and Scotland Yard's Superintendent Waghorn. Author John Rhode, a pen name of Cecil Street (1884-1964), was a prolific writer of mostly detective novels, publishing more than 140 books between 1924 and 1961. From the dustjacket: "Yes, the initial murder in this book was certainly committed on a path in a garden; but it is possible that the ingenious author chose this title to suggest his manner of dealing with his readers. For, though always perfectly fair and with a soul above such things as "red herrings," he can usually be found to have some little surprises up his sleeve. Such, for instance, in this book is the mystery of the Bedford Row solicitor. . ."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Kestrel Books
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839740732

John Rhode

John Rhode was born Cecil John Charles Street in 1884. He was the author of 140 novels under the names John Rhode, Miles Burton, and Cecil Wade before his death in 1964.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE FATAL GARDEN

By

JOHN RHODE

The Fatal Garden was originally published in 1949 by Dodd, Mead & Company, New York; published in the U.K. as Up the Garden Path.

In this edition of The Fatal Garden, the UK English spellings have been changed, in nearly all cases, to those used in the United States.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

CHAPTER ONE 5

CHAPTER TWO 12

CHAPTER THREE 18

CHAPTER FOUR 25

CHAPTER FIVE 32

CHAPTER SIX 38

CHAPTER SEVEN 45

CHAPTER EIGHT 53

CHAPTER NINE 59

CHAPTER TEN 66

CHAPTER ELEVEN 74

CHAPTER TWELVE 82

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 90

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 99

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 106

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 114

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 121

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 129

CHAPTER NINETEEN 138

CHAPTER TWENTY 145

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 150

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 157

CHAPTER ONE

The cry was so sharp and piercing, a sharp note ending abruptly, that the two men sitting over the fire in the lounge at Prior’s Farm started violently. What on earth was that? Henry Tyning exclaimed.

I can’t imagine, Gabriel Hockliffe, his host, replied. It must have been something or someone in the road.

I thought it sounded nearer than that, said Tyning, rising to his feet. He was not sorry for this pretext for taking his departure. Though Hockliffe might be a genius, the monologue in which he was so fond of indulging became boring after a while. Tyning glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, which showed the time to be five minutes past nine, in the evening of Wednesday, November 9th. I think we ought to see if anything’s wrong, he went on. It sounded to me very much as if somebody had been hurt. And it’s time I was going home, in any case.

Hockliffe struggled wearily to his feet. He was a small man, with a head several sizes too large for his body, and gave the impression of being a semi-invalid. His age was in the middle fifties and his sparse and ill-brushed hair was rapidly turning grey. As the two men stood for an instant side by side, the contrast between them was striking. Tyning, a few years younger, was tall, well-proportioned, and the picture of health.

Well, if you must go, I won’t hinder you, said Hockliffe, leading the way into the hall. It was good of you to spare time to come and have a chat with me. Then, as Tyning put on his coat and hat, I’ll come with you as far as the gate, just in case. But it’s going to be dark outside, you know.

Tyning tapped the pocket of his overcoat. I brought a torch with me, he replied.

As its name implied, Prior’s Farm was a typical farmhouse, squarely and substantially built. It stood on the site of the ancient Litchgrove Priory, once an extensive edifice. But for centuries the stones of which it was built had been carried away, until now hardly a vestige remained. Some decades previously the land belonging to Prior’s Farm had been attached to that of its neighbor, and when Hockliffe had bought the property, it consisted merely of the house and a fairly extensive garden.

The house was situated on the outskirts of the large village of Litchgrove, some fifty miles from London. It lay outside the range of street lighting, and as the two men stepped out of the front doorway, they certainly found the evening dark. Not absolutely, for the stars shone at intervals between patches of light cloud. By the aid of Tyning’s torch they walked fifty yards or so down the drive, between flower-beds on either side, to the entrance gate. The road beyond was deserted. As they stood there, a man on a bicycle passed by from the direction of the village, whistling cheerfully. There’s nothing wrong here, Hockliffe remarked.

No, Tyning replied shortly. But then I didn’t think that cry came from this direction at all. He hesitated, and then went on: It seemed to me to come from your garden. Shall we look there?

The garden! Hockliffe exclaimed. There’s nobody there at this time of night. Or, at all events, there’s no business to be. But, if it will set your mind at rest we’ll go and see. Come along.

They retraced their steps up the drive, then turned to the right along a path which led through a shrubbery at the side of the house. As they emerged from the bushes Tyning, who as the possessor of the torch was leading the way, uttered a startled exclamation. There! Look at that!

What had caused his astonishment was obvious enough. On the ground, some distance away, at the extremity of the garden which stretched out behind the house, was a point of light. Not very bright, but perfectly steady, suggesting a more than usually powerful glowworm. Hockliffe stared at it through the spectacles he always wore. Whatever’s that? he muttered. Then, raising his voice: Hi! Who’s there?

No reply came to them, and the light remained unflickering. Without further comment they started forward again, along a path which led directly towards the light. As they proceeded, Tyning’s torch gradually revealed their surroundings. They were approaching a high wall, against which fruit-trees were trained. In this wall was an archway, and it was near the foot of this that the mysterious light seemed to lie. Then, as Tyning perceived something else, he broke into a run, leaving his companion to follow in the rear. He reached the archway and swiftly bent down, his torch directed to the ground.

Hockliffe reached him, breathing heavily, a few seconds later. Why, whatever is it? he exclaimed.

It’s a woman, and she’s dead, Tyning replied sharply. Now we know where the cry came from.

Hockliffe recoiled sharply. A woman? he screamed. Dead? He staggered wildly, both hands clasped to his chest. My heart! Tyning! Hold me up. I’m going to faint!

Tyning sprang to his side and caught him in his arms. After a deep gasp Hockliffe’s body became inert, and would have fallen but for his friend’s support. So for a minute or two they remained motionless, like some grotesque group of statuary.

Tyning was a barrister, and his mind was trained to work swiftly. He had recognized the woman, and there could be no doubt that she had been brutally assaulted. Not very difficult to guess who had assaulted her, either. What the dickens was to be done? There was nobody within call, for Hockliffe’s only domestic staff was a woman who came from the village, and would have gone home after giving him his supper.

Tyning rapidly came to the conclusion that his first duty was towards the living rather than the dead. As he did so the limp body in his arms quivered slightly, and once more gasped deeply. Feeling a bit better? he asked with assumed cheerfulness. Do you think I can manage to get you back to the house?

Hockliffe struggled for a few seconds, until at last he seemed to find his legs capable of supporting him. I think so, he replied feebly. I’m awfully sorry. These attacks, I’ve had them before, when I’m suddenly upset.

That’s all right, said Tyning comfortingly. Don’t talk. Lean on me as heavily as you like. That’s the way.

Very slowly, with Tyning half carrying his friend, they regained the house and entered the lounge. There now, you’ll be all right now, said Tyning as he lowered Hockliffe into a chair. I’m going to use your telephone.

Hockliffe nodded, and muttered something about the doctor. That’s just who I’m going to ring up, Tyning replied. He went out to the hall where the telephone stood, and called up a number. It was not long before the doctor’s voice answered him. Is that you, Ribble? he said. This is Tyning, speaking from Prior’s Farm. Hockliffe has had a heart attack. He seems better now, but I’m not happy about him. Can you come round?

I’ll be along in a very few minutes, Ribble replied. Tyning rang off, then called another number. This time it was that of Sergeant Walsham, the policeman stationed at Litchgrove. Here he was not so lucky. Mrs. Walsham replied that her husband was out on his rounds, but that she expected him back before very long. She promised that as soon as he came in she would send him along to Prior’s Farm.

Tyning went back to the lounge, to find Hockliffe lying back in his chair with his eyes closed. He opened them languidly as his friend came in. I say, I’m very distressed at giving you all this trouble, he muttered.

It’s no trouble, Tyning replied. Ribble will be here in a minute or two. Just you keep quiet till then.

Hockliffe closed his eyes again. It appeared that he was far too concerned with the state of his own health to be inquisitive about the discovery they had made. Tyning folded his arms and propped himself against the mantelpiece, in front of the fire. His mind was busy now not with his ailing friend, but with the tragedy of the murdered woman. He felt a surge of deep pity, not only for the victim, but for the criminal as well. The inevitable last act of a drama staged by unhappy circumstance. But why had she sought refuge at Prior’s Farm, of all unlikely places? Hockliffe, recluse as he was, had probably been unaware of her existence.

He had left the front door ajar, and before very long heard the sound of footsteps in the drive. He left the room quietly, to meet Dr. Ribble on the threshold. Well, here I am, said the doctor briskly. How is he?

Not so bad as far as I can tell, Tyning replied. He’s in the lounge, I’ll take you to him. Then, lowering his voice, Don’t run away when you’ve seen him. There’ll be something else for you to do.

As they entered the lounge, Hockliffe opened his eyes. Good of you to come, Doctor, he said feebly. I seem to be a nuisance to everybody this evening. I fainted, very stupidly. It’s my heart, I suppose. I had a very nasty shock. Tyning will tell you about that.

Ribble nodded. I won’t ask you to tell me. Now, let’s have a look at you. He unbuttoned Hockliffe’s shirt and sounded him with his stethoscope. The best thing we can do with you is to get you to bed, he went on, after a rapid examination. Gently, now. Tyning and I can get you upstairs between us, easily enough.

This was soon accomplished. Hockliffe was undressed and put to bed. Now I can go over you properly.

Tyning returned to the lounge, where after a few minutes the doctor joined him. He’ll be all right, said Ribble confidently. I can’t find any organic trouble. More frightened than hurt, I fancy. He says himself that all he wants is rest, and I’ve given him something to send him to sleep. You both choose to be mysterious, but I thought it best to ask him no questions. What’s happened?

Tyning flung his arm towards the curtained window. Mrs. Clobury is lying murdered at the end of the garden there, he replied.

What! Ribble exclaimed, astounded at this bald announcement. The old woman?

Tyning shook his head. No, worse luck. Her daughter-in-law. This is going to be a rotten business. Doctor, I’ve sent for Walsham, and he should be here any minute now. Hockliffe and I were in here, and we heard—

He was interrupted by a portentous knocking on the half-open front door. He went out to find Walsham, who had arrived on his bicycle. Good evening, sir, said the sergeant as Tyning appeared. My wife gave me your message, and I came along at once. Is anything wrong?

Come in, Tyning replied somberly. Something is very wrong indeed. Dr. Ribble is here. Wait a minute. He went to the lounge door and called to Ribble, noting as he did so that the time was five and twenty minutes to ten. Walsham’s here, Doctor. I won’t waste time now in explanation. Come with me, both of you.

He took his torch from his pocket, and Walsham followed his example. It was very dark as the three of them left the house, for the clouds had thickened, and a light drizzle was beginning to fall. Tyning led the way through the shrubbery to the open garden beyond. The glowworm-like light on the ground no longer showed, but he went straight on till they reached the archway. There she is, just as we found her! he exclaimed dramatically.

Better let me have first look, said Ribble, dropping on one knee. Let me have all the light you can.

Tyning and Walsham directed their torches upon the prostrate body. It was that of a young woman, wearing a raincoat with an oilskin hood on her head. The archway was barred by a low wicket gate, controlled by a spring, opening towards the garden. The body lay half under the archway and half on the graveled path of the garden, thus preventing the spring closing the wicket gate. And, in the hard light of the torches, the injuries were clearly to be seen. The right side of her head was hideously battered in. The ground and the wall of the archway were plentifully spattered with blood and fragments of brain.

While Ribble made his examination, Tyning told his story. It was five minutes past nine when we heard the cry, he concluded. It can’t have been more than five minutes later when we found her. I hadn’t time to look round, for the shock was too much for Hockliffe. He fainted, and I had to get him to the house as best I could. I haven’t been here since, and I’m pretty certain no one else has.

As he was speaking the drizzle had turned to a heavy rain, which gave promise of lasting all night. Ribble rose to his feet, drawing his coat more closely to him. There’s nothing I can do, he said. You can see that for yourselves, I should imagine. Her head’s been bashed in by some heavy weapon. Death of course was instantaneous. I expect she cried out the instant before her assailant struck her. We’ll have to get her to the mortuary. She’s young Mrs. Clobury, all right. But what the dickens was she doing here?

I’ll do my best to find that out, Doctor, Walsham replied. No use keeping you out here any longer in this weather. When you get home, would you mind ringing up the ambulance people asking them to bring along the wheeled stretcher?

I’ll do that, Ribble agreed. My word, I’d almost forgotten Hockliffe. What are we to do about him? I don’t altogether like the idea of his being left alone in the house tonight.

I’ve got the answer to that, said Tyning. It’ll mean another telephone call for you, Doctor. Ring up my wife, and tell her about Hockliffe. You needn’t mention this other affair. She’s a top-hole nurse, and has always got on very well with Hockliffe. Ask her from me if she’ll come and look after him. You can tell her what to do.

Very well, Ribble replied. I’ll get straight home and ring up Mrs. Tyning and the ambulance at once.

Tyning escorted him with his torch to the entrance gate, where his car was waiting. Then he returned, to find Walsham staring reflectively at the body. What do you make of this, sir? the sergeant asked.

Tyning shook his head. It’s up to you, Sergeant. I’m not offering any suggestions at this stage. You’ve heard my statement, and I’ll repeat it for you at your leisure. We don’t know what Mrs. Clobury was doing here, but it looks very much as though she was on her way to Prior’s Farm. And it’s pretty obvious that she came by the short cut from the Mawling road. You know, I suppose, that she lived in Mawling, at Milestone Cottage.

Yes, I know that, sir, Walsham replied. She and her husband lived with his mother, old Mrs. Clobury.

Yes, said Tyning shortly. Now, there’s one thing we ought to find. I told you that when Mr. Hockliffe and I came out we saw a light on the ground. It’s not there now, but I’d like to know where it came from. Keeping his torch directed on the ground, he walked a few steps along the path which ran parallel to the wall. Something lying on the narrow bed beside the path reflected the light. He bent down, then called to Walsham. Here you are. Better pick it up yourself. If it ever had any fingerprints on it, this rain will have washed them off by now.

Walsham in turn stooped over the object. It’s an electric bicycle lamp, he said. One of the sort that has a battery in it.

Exactly, Tyning agreed. The light wasn’t very bright when Mr. Hockliffe and I saw it half an hour ago. The battery must have been running out then, and now it’s exhausted.

Very gingerly Walsham picked up the lamp and examined it in the light of his torch. It was very ordinary, and differed in no way from thousands of its kind, except that on the black japanned back had been roughly scratched the initials D.C. Walsham pointed to this. Mrs. Clobury’s husband’s Christian name is Donald, he remarked significantly. At least I suppose it is, for they always call him Don.

So I believe, Tyning replied dryly. But if I were you, Sergeant, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions too hastily. How did the lamp come to be lying where we’ve found it? It strikes me that it must have flown from Mrs. Clobury’s hand when she was struck down. The distance isn’t more than four or five yards. If she hadn’t a lamp of her own, she might very well have borrowed her husband’s to find her way here with.

Walsham made no comment, but wrapped up the lamp in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then, stepping carefully round the body, he entered the archway, which was no more than a gap in the eighteen-inch wall. The floor of the archway was a smooth stone slab, glistening in the rain, and on this no footprints or other indications could be seen. Beyond the archway stretched a meadow, across which ran an unpaved path.

Tyning wondered what the sergeant would do next. As he had said, he was offering no suggestions, but it occurred to him that after the recent showery weather the surface of the track would be soft. If Mrs. Clobury had come that way, her shoes must have left easily recognizable impressions. It seemed that Walsham was inspired by the same idea, for he stepped out of the archway on to the grass of the meadow. He turned abruptly as he became aware that Tyning had followed him. I’ll ask to you keep off the path, sir, he said, not very graciously.

Of course, Tyning replied blandly, ignoring the hint that his presence was not required. Two torches are better than one on a night like this. I’ll help you to find what you’re looking for.

The surface of the path was loam and clay and in its present condition formed, as Tyning had guessed, an ideal medium for the reception of impressions. Those of Mrs. Clobury’s shoes were clearly visible, deep and regular, and all pointing towards the archway. The marks of both heel and sole indicated that she had been walking, not running.

But besides this set of prints, there was another, and as he perceived this Tyning shook his head forebodingly. They were those of a man’s boots, heavy and irregularly nailed, and about them Tyning noticed several points of interest. They were duplicated, that is to say there were prints pointing in either direction, to and from the archway. By studying a few yards of the path it was possible to resolve these into two distinct sets. One, with heel and sole equally clearly marked, ran towards the archway. The other, with the sole clearly marked, and only light and occasional indications of the heel, ran from the archway. Here and there, individual marks of both sets were superimposed upon the marks of Mrs. Clobury’s shoes. And again, here and there, a print pointing away from the archway was superimposed upon one of the set leading towards it.

To Tyning, the story told by the prints was as clear as though he could read it in a book. Mrs. Clobury had walked towards the archway. Walked, not run, showing that there had been no headlong pursuit. She had, however, whether with or without her knowledge been followed by a man, who had regulated his pace to hers. The man had overtaken her as she paused to open the wicket gate into the garden, and struck her down. Then, anxious to get away from the scene as rapidly as possible, he had returned by the way he had come, running or half-running.

The prints were already full up with water, and Walsham regarded them uncertainly. I hardly know what to do about these, sir, he said. If I leave them too long, the rain will pretty well wash them away.

Tyning hesitated. But, after all, whatever his inclinations might be, it was no part of his duty as a citizen to put obstacles in the way of the police. Perhaps I can help you, he said. Not long ago, when Mr. Hockliffe was showing me round the garden, I saw some sheets of corrugated iron lying outside one of the sheds. We might see if they’re still there.

They went back through the archway, and turned to the right along the path running parallel to the wall. After some twenty yards they came to a small but substantial building, against one end of which rested half a dozen iron sheets, worn and bent, but still serviceable. Between them they carried a couple of these to the meadow path, and laid them over the most distinct of the prints.

You won’t want me any more now, said Tyning. He walked back across the garden towards the house. As he reached the front of it he met the wheeled stretcher coming up the drive. He gave the necessary instructions to the men in charge of it, then entered the house by the front door.

CHAPTER TWO

The lights downstairs were still on as he had left them and, looking up, he saw that there was a light on the first floor. He quietly mounted the stairs and made his way to Hockliffe’s bedroom. Hockliffe was tucked up in bed, motionless, and in a chair beside the electric-fire sat Mrs. Tyning, a