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Roy Glashan's Library
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Macleans, 15 September 1926, with "The Eleventh Hour"
"The Saving Clause," Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1927
with "The Eleventh Hour"
When mystery baffles and the stake is life itself the puzzling out of the one incongruous detail in an apparently perfect pattern of facts seldom fails to fascinate. That's why murder mysteries "make" the front pages of newspapers and that's why this is a front page story.
The I heard his tense whisper.
"There is something coming out."
"DANGEROUS things—Primo Packs," remarked the nondescript man to me with a faint smile.
I was focussing my camera for that oft-taken photograph of the Castle of Chillon with the Dents du Midi in the background, and I stared at him in mild surprise.
"What on earth do you mean?" I said. "Why—dangerous?"
"Take your photo," he answered. "The light is just right. And then, if you have the time and would care to listen I'll tell you how the use of a Primo Pack very nearly cost an innocent man his life."
It sounded good to me, and I told him so. A casual hotel acquaintance, he had strolled with me along the shore of the Lake of Geneva that morning. Quite a nice fellow, though a little dull, was the impression he had given me; and I remember I wondered as I lit my pipe whether he belonged to that portion of humanity that can tell a story, or the other.
"They were a comparatively new innovation at the time when it happened," he began. "The ordinary rolls, of course, were well known, and the plate—so cumbrous and heavy for the average amateur—was the only alternative for most people. I mention that fact, because to-day, there would be but little possibility of a similar tragedy occurring. The mechanism of the film pack is common property.
"With which preamble I'll get down to it. The first character I will introduce to you is Sir John Brayling—fifteenth baronet. In many ways he was quite a decent fellow, and yet he was never popular. Partially, perhaps, because, though he lived in the centre of a sporting county, he didn't care about sport. An occasional day with a gun was his limit: the rest of his time he devoted to photography. In addition he was apt to be a bit morose; if he gave a dinner party at Brayling House it was even money that he would sit in almost unbroken silence all through the meal. Which cannot be said to make for the gaiety of nations.
"I have mentioned photography as being his obsession: he had another—his wife. And small blame to him. Hester Brayling was the most gloriously attractive woman. She was considerably younger than he was—fifteen years to be exact, and she possessed every quality that he lacked. She rode magnificently, and played tennis and golf better than most. Also she was brimming over with joie de vivre.
"In her way she was undoubtedly very fond of her husband, but her affection was not comparable with his. He simply idolised the ground she walked on, and the great grief of his life was that there were no children. And as they had been married seven years it rather looked as if there never would he.
"It was when she was twenty-nine that Ronald Vane came on the scene. He was a man in the early thirties—good-looking, wealthy and a bachelor. He had taken a neighbouring house, and every mother of daughters for miles around sat up and took notice. Quite legitimately, too: Ronald Vane was one of the most delightful men I have ever met."
The nondescript man smiled as he lit a cigarette.
"Quite right," he said. "They did. I was down there a good deal at the time, and I watched the affair developing under my nose. Vane sat in her pocket out hunting: used to motor her over to play golf: danced with her just as often as the dictates of society would allow. But—and I want to make this clear—that was all. Vane was as straight a man as ever lived: so was she—if I may be pardoned the Irishism.
"Now it happened that I was a fairly privileged person. I'd known Hester since she was a child, and one day I seized a suitable opportunity to talk to her. Foolish perhaps, but I was afraid of what was going to be the result. So I tackled her point blank on the subject.
"She looked at me quite steadily and shrugged her shoulders.
"'What am I to do, Bill?' she said. 'I'm in love with Ronald: he's in love with me. One can't help a thing like that: it just happens. But there's nothing more to it than that I can assure you.'
"'That's all right, my dear,' I answered, 'but how long is that state of affairs going to continue? I don't want to appear an interfering busybody, but, situated as you two are, only a miracle from Heaven can prevent John finding out sooner or later. Don't forget that every mother around here has already visualised Ronald as a prospective son-in-law. And it isn't going to be long before one of them finds it her duty to acquaint John.'
"She stared out of the window in silence for a while. Then—'What do you advise?'
"I laughed.
"'My dear,' I said, 'I may be a fool, but I'm not a damned fool. I'd sooner keep my breath. But as a plain statement of fact from a partially sane onlooker I would offer you two suggestions. Either cut the painter and go away with him, or else suggest to him that he should give up the remainder of his lease and go big game shooting for a couple of years or so. I admit that the novelty of my remarks almost staggers me, but at this stage of the world's history it is hardly likely that anyone will discover a new way out of your present situation. It is not exactly the first time it has happened.'
"'I wonder what John would say,' she said, thoughtfully. 'I should hate to hurt him.'
"'You'll hurt him even more,' I answered, 'if he finds out by roundabout means. And, Hester, this I do say with certainty: he's bound to do so. If you were in London it might be different—but down here it's hopeless. You and Ronald are both far too well known.'
"'I'll think it over, Bill,' she said. 'I suppose Ronald and I, like most people in similar circumstances, have imagined that no one guessed. We've let things drift. But if you've spotted it—so have other people. I'll think it over.'
"At that I left it, and two days later I went back to London. She had taken my remarks exactly as I expected she would: she wasn't the type to be offended or annoyed. But I confess that during the next few weeks I continually found myself wondering as to whether they were going to bear any fruit."
The nondescript man paused and stared at a passing steamer.
"It's funny when one looks back on things," he continued after a while. "and tries to trace cause and effect. Would the tragedy have happened but for what I had said to her? Heaven knows. All I do know is that some two months after that conversation, in the middle of the month of July, I returned to my rooms for lunch to find a telegram awaiting me. It was short and to the point and ran as follows: 'Come at once. Hester.' So I threw some things into a suit-case and caught the afternoon train.
"I was met at the station by a man whose face was vaguely familiar, and who was in a state of considerable agitation.
"'You probably don't remember me,' he said. 'I'm John's brother.'
"I placed him then: I'd met him once some years before staying at Brayling House. His name was Richard, and in character, appearance and everything he was the exact opposite of John. Save for a slight family likeness it was almost impossible to believe they were brothers. Richard was fair where John was dark: Richard was one of those men who can go on talking by the hour in quite an amusing way, and he was fond of sport. In fact—John's antithesis.
"'What's the trouble?' I said as we shook hands.
"'John has been murdered,' he answered. 'And Ronald Vane has been arrested for doing it.'
"I don't know how long I stood there staring at him foolishly: the thing was so completely unexpected.
"'Hester wants to see you as soon as possible,' he went on. 'I've got the car.'
"All the way up to the house I bombarded him with questions, but it will make it clearer for you if I go on a few hours and tell you the story as I pieced it together after having heard everyone.
"It appeared then, that after my departure some two months previously, Ronald Vane himself had gone away for six weeks. And during that six weeks Hester had somewhat naturally let things drift. On Vane's return he and she had had things out, with the result that they decided that the only fair and straight thing to do was to tell her husband.
"Accordingly, one morning Vane came over to Brayling House with the definite intention of tackling Sir John. That was the day before the tragedy took place. It was not a pleasant undertaking as you can imagine, but Vane was not the man to shirk it.
"Well, to put it tersely, the interview was not a success. At first Sir John had been so flabbergasted that he could hardly take it in. But as soon as he had grasped that this unbelievable thing had happened: that here standing in his house was a man who was calmly informing him that he proposed in the near future to run away with his wife, his rage became ungovernable. No one will deny that there was a good deal of excuse for him: but he seemed totally unable to grasp the fact that Vane was really doing the straight thing in telling him the state of affairs, instead of leaving him to discover it as a fait accompli.
Sir John seemed totally unable to grasp the fact
that Vane was really doing the straight thing.
"To cut it short, however, he went for Vane with a hunting-crop, and Vane, who was considerably the more powerful man, had some difficulty in wresting it away without hurting him. Which was the last thing he wanted to do: he felt so desperately sorry for him.
"In the middle of what was practically a hand to hand fight a table was knocked over, and the noise brought in the butler. He stood in the doorway aghast at what he saw, and a moment later Vane having got possession of the crop managed to half-push, half-throw Sir John away from him.
"'Show this blackguard to the door,' Sir John panted to the servant. 'And never let him inside this house again or I'll sack you.'
"Well—Vane went. He got back to his house and rang up Hester, asking her to come to him at once. But now a further complication had arisen. Sir John, whose mood of ungovernable fury had been succeeded by one of sullen rage, flatly refused to even consider the question of divorce.
"'I can't lock you up,' he said to his wife. 'I can't prevent you going to him. But I can prevent you marrying him, and I will.'
"That, then, was the situation on the following morning—the morning of the tragedy: a situation which, as you can well imagine, was common property in the servants' hall. Moreover it was a situation which in view of what was to come was just about as damning as it could well be.
"At nine o'clock Sir John went out armed with his camera. There was one particular bit of wood some half-mile from the house that he apparently wanted to get. At a quarter past nine one of the gardeners saw him focussing his camera: at half-past ten he was discovered by another gardener with his head battered in lying on the ground in front of his camera. Not much you say up to date to incriminate Vane. Wait. At half-past nine two children, belonging to one of the keepers, passed close to the glade. They were on their way to the village to do some shopping for their mother, and when they came back they told her what they'd seen.
"First they had heard two men shouting at one another. They'd crept up behind some bushes to see Sir John and Ronald Vane having a furious quarrel. Mark you, there was no doubt about the identification: they knew Vane—everybody did, and, of course, they knew Sir John. They watched for a little and then, getting frightened they ran away.
"Pretty black now you'll admit—but worse was to come. Vane himself admitted that he had met Sir John that morning, and had had a terrible row with him. He stated that he was on his way to Brayling House. It was a short cut that he frequently used. Quite unexpectedly he saw Sir John in front of him, and since it was he whom he was going to see he stopped and spoke to him. He refused to say what the quarrel was about: all he would say was that he had been unsuccessful in his request and after, he thought, about ten minutes, he left Sir John and returned to his own house, which he reached at ten-fifteen. Moreover, he utterly and flatly denied that he had killed Sir John.
"But now even worse was to come. Vane had in his possession a very heavy stick—almost a club. What strange freak of fate had induced him to take it out with him that morning he couldn't say. He admitted that he had done so: he further admitted that he lost his temper so completely with Sir John that he flung the thing at his head. It missed him, and fell in some bushes where Vane left it. It was found in the bushes right enough, but with its top covered with blood. In short, it was obviously the weapon with which Sir John had been murdered.
"I suppose," went on my companion with a short laugh, "that if you deliberately went out of your way in a work of fiction to surround your hero with every damning circumstance you could think of, it would be impossible to weave a tighter web than that which hemmed in Ronald Vane. Motive, weapon, opportunity, witnesses—everything combined to make his case hopeless from the start. In fact, on two or three occasions when I went to see him he admitted as much to me.
"'That I didn't do it I know,' he said. 'But were I in the position of the jury I should find myself guilty.'
"A further trouble was his inevitable unpopularity. To the man in the street who believed in his guilt he was merely a scoundrel who not only had fallen in love with another man's wife, but had murdered her husband.
"I won't bore you with an account of the trial. From the start the result was a foregone conclusion. Ronald Vane could bring no witnesses, but he insisted on giving evidence himself. It was useless. The jury only retired for a quarter of an hour.
"And then came the end, and the episode that lingers most in my mind. Asked by the Judge if he had anything to say, I can still see Ronald Vane, his arms folded, his face grave and a little stern.
"'Nothing, my Lord,' he said, and his voice was quite steady. 'You have awarded me a perfectly fair trial. It is not your fault—nor is it mine that you have come to the conclusion that you have. It is the fault of a set of utterly unprecedented circumstances. I cannot but believe that in time some fact will come to light which will prove my innocence. And if it is too late'—for the fraction of a second his voice shook—'do not reproach yourselves too bitterly. On the evidence as it is I quite understand that your verdict is the only one possible.'
"And I don't believe there was a person in court whose conviction of his guilt was not a little shaken. He was a big man, Vane—big in every way—and there was something about him as he stood there that was great. No recrimination: no bitterness: almost, if I may be allowed the analogy, was it a repetition of two thousand years ago.
"'Father forgive them for they know not what they do.'
"And then he disappeared from sight, and I led a white-faced woman back to her hotel.
"I suppose you're wondering," he went on after a while, "as to when I'm going to justify my original remark about Primo Packs. I'm coming to it now. Hester had gone back to Brayling House: her brother-in-law had insisted on that. And the days ticked on: days during which I wandered aimlessly about, racking my brains for some clue, some possibility that might have been overlooked. Nothing: it was a blank wall. Sometimes I even began to wonder if he hadn't done it: gone mad for a moment and killed Sir John without being aware of the fact.
"And then one morning I was in a chemist's shop getting some aspirin. There was only one attendant and he was explaining to a customer the working of a Primo Pack. I listened idly—I'm not interested in photography—until a sudden sentence caught my ear.
"As each film is taken one of these pieces of black paper is pulled out and torn off. That has the effect of moving the taken film to the back of the pack, leaving the next one in front.'
"Even then the possibility did not strike me: I just bought my aspirin and walked out. And it was only as I sat down to lunch at my club that a thought—a wild possibility dawned on me. Wild though it was—well-nigh crazy—it was sufficient to send me dashing and lunchless to Scotland Yard.
"'Where,' I demanded of the first official I saw, 'are the various exhibits in the Ronald Vane case?'
"He stared at me as if I was mad, and I realized I must take a pull at myself. Anyway, I finally convinced him that I was a respectable person, and he became quite helpful. You see Sir John had been using a Primo Pack of which one film had been taken. Ronald Vane, in the course of his evidence, had stated that he had waited while Sir John had taken it: waited for him to enter up the details in his pocket book. That film had been taken at 9.15, and the wild idea had occurred to me that possibly another film had been taken too—one of which we knew nothing, because it was still in the front of the pack."
"Great Scott!" I cried. "I get you. Only one piece of black paper had been torn off."
"Two to be exact," he replied. "The covering and the one marked 1. Both those pieces had been found. So that number 2 film was in position for exposure. Had any photograph been taken on it?" Jove! I don't think I'll ever forget that afternoon. I chased round various departments trying not to be buoyed up by such a wildly fantastic hope. A dozen times I solemnly adjured myself not to be a fool: a dozen times I forced myself to remember that even if a photograph had been taken the chances were a hundred to one against it being of any use to us.
"However, at last we ran the man to ground who had developed number I, and to him I explained my idea. At first he was politely sceptical, but after a time he began to share my enthusiasm.
"'We'll go and try,' he said. 'The pack is in my dark-room.'
"I don't think I'd got a dry thing on me by the time he started. He was one of those maddeningly deliberate individuals, and in the state I then was I felt I could have drowned him in a bath of his own developer. He insisted on lecturing me on chemicals till I forgot my manners and cursed him foolishly. And then he showed himself human and apologised.
"The agony of the moment when he put the film in the dish! Subconsciously I realized that it was the last chance: that if nothing happened Ronald would die in two days. I closed my eyes: I couldn't bear to look.
"'My God! I heard his tense whisper. 'There's something coming out.'
"Wiping the sweat from my eyes I peered over his shoulder. And now he was as keen as I was: almost without breathing we watched a picture form and materialize on the yellow film.
"Now we'll fix it,' he cried, 'and then we'll know.'
"His hand was shaking as he put the negative into a bath of hypo, and then we both sat there and waited. It was an eternity, so it seemed to me, before he took it out and opened the door. He held it up to the light, and then he turned and looked at me gravely.
"'If anything was wanting,' he said, 'to prove Ronald Vane's guilt, this film supplies the deficiency. If you will wait a moment I'll give you a print of it.'
"He disappeared, and I think I cried. I had only vaguely glanced at the negative; I had no idea as to what had caused his words. All I could feel was the sickening reaction after hope that had risen to a dizzy height.
"And then I began to think. If what he said was right, Ronald Vane had done it. And he hadn't: I felt he hadn't: I knew he hadn't.
"'An astounding photograph: quite astounding.'
"His voice cut into my thoughts, and I got up and bent over the dish he had placed on the table. He was right: it was an astounding photograph. Occupying half of it was Sir John's face. He was staring towards the camera and above it, and in his eyes was a look of dreadful terror. He was looking at someone who stood behind the camera—someone whose shadow fell on the ground, someone with arm upraised to strike. He was looking at his murderer.
"'Evidently adjusting his stop,' said the chemist. 'He looked up suddenly: saw Vane coming for him and unconsciously pressed the bulb.'
"'Why should you assume it was Vane?' I said dully.
"He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away.
"I apologize,' he said. 'But I fear, sir, that this photograph is not going to help you to clear your friend.'
"I suppose it won't,' I muttered. May I take it with me?'
"I spoke without thought: the thing was no good to me.
"'Certainly,' he answered courteously. 'And if you like I'll give you a copy of the other one—the print of number 1 film.'
"I thanked him mechanically, and a few minutes after I left. So it was no use: I began to wish I'd never overheard that chemist in the morning. To have hoped so much and then suffer such a disappointment was the refinement of cruelty.
"For hours that evening I sat staring at the two photos. The first was just a clear-cut print of the glade with light and shade exquisitely defined: it was the second that fascinated me. That monstrous distorted shadow of the murderer: that ashen face of terror: the rest of it the glade as in the first. Astounding as he had said: unique. No such photograph had ever been taken before. And I found myself cursing childishly because it couldn't speak when I shouted at it—'Whose is that shadow?' Almost I tore it up, and then—suddenly..."
The nondescript man paused and lit another cigarette. "Confound you, sir," I cried, laughing. "I understand your feelings towards the chemist."
"Are you a mathematician?" he went on irrelevantly. "I am. And if you are you will appreciate the feeling of almost frozen calm that comes to the brain when the step of some intricate problem that has eluded you for hours, reveals itself. Such became my condition suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye. I have said that the second photograph showed one half of the glade, and that had been the part of it at which I'd scarcely glanced. Now with every sense alert I riveted my attention on it. Then realizing I'd missed the last train I rung up and ordered a motor car.
"It was dawn when I reached Brayling House, and I ordered the car to wait for me in the road. It would be four hours at least before I could prove my theory, but I was too excited to think of food. The one essential thing—a cloudless sky—was present, and going to the glade I sat down and waited.
"It was two months later in the year, and so I knew that times would be different. That didn't matter. The actual directions of the shadows would be different. And that didn't matter. The essential thing would be the same.
"And it was. I dashed from the wood into the car, and drove to Brayling House.
"Hester,' I howled from the hall. 'It's all right. We'll save him.'
"I had a dim vision of a woman's white face with hope too marvellous for words dawning on it: then I was back in the car driving full speed for London. Only the Home Secretary would do for me, and I caught him as he was dressing for dinner.
"'What on earth,' he began, as I burst past the butler into his room.
"'Sorry,' I gasped, 'I'm not an anarchist. Look at these two photos. Ronald Vane case.'
"'Two,' he cried, 'I've only seen one.'
"I handed them to him in silence, and for a while he stared at them.
"'Well,' he said. 'What of it? I don't know how this second one was obtained, but it doesn't seem to me to alter matters. That presumably is Ronald Vane's shadow.'
"'It isn't,' I cried. 'It can't be. If Vane committed the murder, what time was it done? It is a proven fact that he was back in his own house at 9.45. Therefore the latest at which it was done—if he did it—was 9.30. And if that is so those two photographs were taken within a quarter of an hour of one another. Which is impossible.'
"'Why is it impossible?' he snapped.
"'Take number 1,' I cried. 'Do you see the end of the shadow of that pointed tree on the ground? Now take number 2. Do you see where it is in that one?
"'Now, sir, the sun cannot lie. I went down there this morning and measured things, and do you know how long it takes for that shadow to move that distance? One hour and five minutes. That second photograph was taken at twenty minutes past ten, when Ronald Vane can be proved to have been in his own house. The other shadow is the murderer all right, but it's not Ronald Vane.'
"'Good God!' he said. 'Good God!'
"A narrow shave I think you'll agree," went on the speaker after a moment. "And a shave which—given a roll of films—would never have been necessary. Someone with due time at his disposal would certainly have spotted it, had the two photos been developed simultaneously. But the result was all right: Ronald Vane did not go to the gallows, and in due course he married his Hester.
"But," I cried, "who did it? Was that ever found out? Whose was the shadow?"
For a while he stared over the lake without speaking.
"No," he said at length, "it was never found out. The generally accepted theory is that it was some tramp who meant to stun him for his money, and then realizing what he'd done fled in a panic. Maybe that's right: maybe not."
"You have a theory of your own," I demanded.
He smiled.
"About time we got back for lunch, isn't it? Or do you want to take some more photographs? No. Then let's stroll. Only I've often wondered what Sir John did between 9.30 and 10.15. Obviously he took no photographs. Was he raging about the glade in a distracted way by himself, or was he talking to someone else? If so, whom would he be likely to talk to for such a long period? You remember I told you he was inclined to be morose. Was someone lying up, hidden in the bushes, who desired his death and seized such a golden opportunity for throwing suspicion on another man?
"His brother Richard," he continued irrelevantly, "suffered like so many younger sons from a champagne taste with a gin income. He has since inheriting the property demolished all that part of the wood. Both very natural things to do—but I wonder."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.