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1. Preface: Invalidating Axioms
a. Conventions Used in This Book
b. Using Code Examples
c. O’Reilly Online Learning
d. How to Contact Us
e. Acknowledgments

i. Acknowledgments from Mark Richards

ii. Acknowledgments from Neal Ford
2. 1. Introduction
a. Defining Software Architecture
b. Expectations of an Architect
i. Make Architecture Decisions
ii. Continually Analyze the Architecture
iii. Keep Current with Latest Trends
iv. Ensure Compliance with Decisions
v. Diverse Exposure and Experience
vi. Have Business Domain Knowledge
vii. Possess Interpersonal Skills
viii. Understand and Navigate Politics

c. Intersection of Architecture and…

i. Engineering Practices
 ii. Operations/DevOps
iii. Process
iv. Data
d. Laws of Software Architecture
3. I. Foundations
4. 2. Architectural Thinking
a. Architecture Versus Design
b. Technical Breadth
c. Analyzing Trade-Offs
d. Understanding Business Drivers
e. Balancing Architecture and Hands-On Coding
5. 3. Modularity

a. Definition
b. Measuring Modularity

i. Cohesion
ii. Coupling
iii. Abstractness, Instability, and Distance
from the Main Sequence
iv. Distance from the Main Sequence
v. Connascence
vi. Unifying Coupling and Connascence
Metrics

c. From Modules to Components

6. 4. Architecture Characteristics Defined

a. Architectural Characteristics (Partially) Listed

i. Operational Architecture
Characteristics
ii. Structural Architecture Characteristics
iii. Cross-Cutting Architecture
Characteristics

b. Trade-Offs and Least Worst Architecture

7. 5. Identifying Architectural Characteristics

a. Extracting Architecture Characteristics from

Domain Concerns
b. Extracting Architecture Characteristics from
Requirements
c. Case Study: Silicon Sandwiches

i. Explicit Characteristics
ii. Implicit Characteristics

8. 6. Measuring and Governing Architecture

Characteristics

a. Measuring Architecture Characteristics

i. Operational Measures
ii. Structural Measures
iii. Process Measures

b. Governance and Fitness Functions

i. Governing Architecture Characteristics

 ii. Fitness Functions
9. 7. Scope of Architecture Characteristics

a. Coupling and Connascence

b. Architectural Quanta and Granularity
i. Case Study: Going, Going, Gone

10. 8. Component-Based Thinking

a. Component Scope
b. Architect Role

i. Architecture Partitioning
ii. Case Study: Silicon Sandwiches:
Partitioning
c. Developer Role
d. Component Identification Flow

i. Identifying Initial Components

ii. Assign Requirements to Components
iii. Analyze Roles and Responsibilities
iv. Analyze Architecture Characteristics
v. Restructure Components

e. Component Granularity
f. Component Design
i. Discovering Components

g. Case Study: Going, Going, Gone: Discovering

Components
 h. Architecture Quantum Redux: Choosing
Between Monolithic Versus Distributed
Architectures
11. II. Architecture Styles
12. 9. Foundations

a. Fundamental Patterns
i. Big Ball of Mud
ii. Unitary Architecture
iii. Client/Server
b. Monolithic Versus Distributed Architectures
i. Fallacy #1: The Network Is Reliable
ii. Fallacy #2: Latency Is Zero
iii. Fallacy #3: Bandwidth Is Infinite
iv. Fallacy #4: The Network Is Secure
v. Fallacy #5: The Topology Never
Changes
vi. Fallacy #6: There Is Only One
Administrator
vii. Fallacy #7: Transport Cost Is Zero
viii. Fallacy #8: The Network Is
Homogeneous
ix. Other Distributed Considerations

13. 10. Layered Architecture Style

a. Topology
 b. Layers of Isolation
c. Adding Layers
d. Other Considerations
e. Why Use This Architecture Style
f. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
14. 11. Pipeline Architecture Style

a. Topology
i. Pipes
ii. Filters

b. Example
c. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
15. 12. Microkernel Architecture Style

a. Topology
i. Core System
ii. Plug-In Components

b. Registry
c. Contracts
d. Examples and Use Cases
e. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
16. 13. Service-Based Architecture Style

a. Topology
b. Topology Variants
 c. Service Design and Granularity
d. Database Partitioning
e. Example Architecture
f. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
g. When to Use This Architecture Style
17. 14. Event-Driven Architecture Style

a. Topology
b. Broker Topology
c. Mediator Topology
d. Asynchronous Capabilities
e. Error Handling
f. Preventing Data Loss
g. Broadcast Capabilities
h. Request-Reply
i. Choosing Between Request-Based and Event-
Based
j. Hybrid Event-Driven Architectures
k. Architecture Characteristics Ratings

18. 15. Space-Based Architecture Style

a. General Topology

i. Processing Unit
ii. Virtualized Middleware
iii. Data Pumps
 iv. Data Writers
v. Data Readers
b. Data Collisions
c. Cloud Versus On-Premises Implementations
d. Replicated Versus Distributed Caching
e. Near-Cache Considerations
f. Implementation Examples
i. Concert Ticketing System
ii. Online Auction System
g. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
19. 16. Orchestration-Driven Service-Oriented Architecture

a. History and Philosophy

b. Topology
c. Taxonomy

i. Business Services
ii. Enterprise Services
iii. Application Services
iv. Infrastructure Services
v. Orchestration Engine
vi. Message Flow

d. Reuse…and Coupling
e. Architecture Characteristics Ratings
20. 17. Microservices Architecture

a. History
b. Topology
c. Distributed
d. Bounded Context
i. Granularity
ii. Data Isolation
e. API Layer
f. Operational Reuse
g. Frontends
h. Communication

i. Choreography and Orchestration

ii. Transactions and Sagas

i. Architecture Characteristics Ratings

j. Additional References

21. 18. Choosing the Appropriate Architecture Style

a. Shifting “Fashion” in Architecture
b. Decision Criteria
c. Monolith Case Study: Silicon Sandwiches
i. Modular Monolith
ii. Microkernel

d. Distributed Case Study: Going, Going, Gone

22. III. Techniques and Soft Skills
23. 19. Architecture Decisions

a. Architecture Decision Anti-Patterns

i. Covering Your Assets Anti-Pattern

ii. Groundhog Day Anti-Pattern
iii. Email-Driven Architecture Anti-
Pattern

b. Architecturally Significant
c. Architecture Decision Records

i. Basic Structure
ii. Storing ADRs
iii. ADRs as Documentation
iv. Using ADRs for Standards
v. Example

24. 20. Analyzing Architecture Risk

a. Risk Matrix
b. Risk Assessments
c. Risk Storming

i. Identification
ii. Consensus
d. Agile Story Risk Analysis
e. Risk Storming Examples
 i. Availability
ii. Elasticity
iii. Security
25. 21. Diagramming and Presenting Architecture

a. Diagramming

i. Tools
ii. Diagramming Standards: UML, C4,
and ArchiMate
iii. Diagram Guidelines

b. Presenting

i. Manipulating Time
ii. Incremental Builds
iii. Infodecks Versus Presentations
iv. Slides Are Half of the Story
v. Invisibility

26. 22. Making Teams Effective

a. Team Boundaries
b. Architect Personalities

i. Control Freak
ii. Armchair Architect
iii. Effective Architect

c. How Much Control?

d. Team Warning Signs
 e. Leveraging Checklists

i. Developer Code Completion Checklist

ii. Unit and Functional Testing Checklist
iii. Software Release Checklist

f. Providing Guidance
g. Summary
27. 23. Negotiation and Leadership Skills

a. Negotiation and Facilitation

i. Negotiating with Business Stakeholders

ii. Negotiating with Other Architects
iii. Negotiating with Developers
b. The Software Architect as a Leader

i. The 4 C’s of Architecture

ii. Be Pragmatic, Yet Visionary
iii. Leading Teams by Example

c. Integrating with the Development Team

d. Summary

28. 24. Developing a Career Path

a. The 20-Minute Rule
b. Developing a Personal Radar
i. The ThoughtWorks Technology Radar
ii. Open Source Visualization Bits
 c. Using Social Media
d. Parting Words of Advice
29. A. Self-Assessment Questions

a. Chapter 1: Introduction
b. Chapter 2: Architectural Thinking
c. Chapter 3: Modularity
d. Chapter 4: Architecture Characteristics Defined
e. Chapter 5: Identifying Architecture
Characteristics
f. Chapter 6: Measuring and Governing
Architecture Characteristics
g. Chapter 7: Scope of Architecture
Characteristics
h. Chapter 8: Component-Based Thinking
i. Chapter 9: Architecture Styles
j. Chapter 10: Layered Architecture Style
k. Chapter 11: Pipeline Architecture
l. Chapter 12: Microkernel Architecture
m. Chapter 13: Service-Based Architecture
n. Chapter 14: Event-Driven Architecture Style
o. Chapter 15: Space-Based Architecture
p. Chapter 16: Orchestration-Driven Service-
Oriented Architecture
q. Chapter 17: Microservices Architecture
 r. Chapter 18: Choosing the Appropriate
Architecture Style
s. Chapter 19: Architecture Decisions
t. Chapter 20: Analyzing Architecture Risk
u. Chapter 21: Diagramming and Presenting
Architecture
v. Chapter 22: Making Teams Effective
w. Chapter 23: Negotiation and Leadership Skills
x. Chapter 24: Developing a Career Path
30. Index
Praise for Fundamentals of Software Architecture

Neal and Mark aren’t just outstanding software architects;

they are also exceptional teachers. With Fundamentals of
Software Architecture, they have managed to condense the
sprawling topic of architecture into a concise work that
reflects their decades of experience. Whether you’re new to
the role or you’ve been a practicing architect for many years,
this book will help you be better at your job. I only wish
they’d written this earlier in my career.
—Nathaniel Schutta, Architect as a Service,
ntschutta.io

Mark and Neal set out to achieve a formidable goal—to

elucidate the many, layered fundamentals required to excel
in software architecture—and they completed their quest.
The software architecture field continuously evolves, and the
role requires a daunting breadth and depth of knowledge
and skills. This book will serve as a guide for many as they
navigate their journey to software architecture mastery.
—Rebecca J. Parsons, CTO, ThoughtWorks
Mark and Neal truly capture real world advice for
technologists to drive architecture excellence. They achieve
this by identifying common architecture characteristics and
the trade-offs that are necessary to drive success.
—Cassie Shum, Technical Director,
ThoughtWorks
Fundamentals of Software
Architecture
An Engineering Approach

Mark Richards and Neal Ford

Fundamentals of Software Architecture

by Mark Richards and Neal Ford

Copyright © 2020 Mark Richards, Neal Ford. All rights

reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway

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 Interior Designer: David Futato

Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery

Illustrator: Rebecca Demarest

February 2020: First Edition

Revision History for the First Edition

2020-01-27: First Release

See http://oreilly.com/catalog/errata.csp?isbn=9781492043454
for release details.

The O’Reilly logo is a registered trademark of O’Reilly Media,

Inc. Fundamentals of Software Architecture, the cover image,
and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly Media, Inc.

The views expressed in this work are those of the authors, and
do not represent the publisher’s views. While the publisher and
the authors have used good faith efforts to ensure that the
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accurate, the publisher and the authors disclaim all
responsibility for errors or omissions, including without
limitation responsibility for damages resulting from the use of
or reliance on this work. Use of the information and
instructions contained in this work is at your own risk. If any
code samples or other technology this work contains or
describes is subject to open source licenses or the intellectual
property rights of others, it is your responsibility to ensure that
your use thereof complies with such licenses and/or rights.

978-1-492-04345-4

[LSI]
Preface: Invalidating
Axioms
Axiom

A statement or proposition which is regarded as being

established, accepted, or self-evidently true.

Mathematicians create theories based on axioms, assumptions

for things indisputably true. Software architects also build
theories atop axioms, but the software world is, well, softer
than mathematics: fundamental things continue to change at a
rapid pace, including the axioms we base our theories upon.

The software development ecosystem exists in a constant state

of dynamic equilibrium: while it exists in a balanced state at
any given point in time, it exhibits dynamic behavior over the
long term. A great modern example of the nature of this
ecosystem follows the ascension of containerization and the
attendant changes: tools like Kubernetes didn’t exist a decade
ago, yet now entire software conferences exist to service its
users. The software ecosystem changes chaotically: one small
change causes another small change; when repeated hundreds
of times, it generates a new ecosystem.
Architects have an important responsibility to question
assumptions and axioms left over from previous eras. Many of
the books about software architecture were written in an era
that only barely resembles the current world. In fact, the
authors believe that we must question fundamental axioms on
a regular basis, in light of improved engineering practices,
operational ecosystems, software development processes—
everything that makes up the messy, dynamic equilibrium
where architects and developers work each day.

Careful observers of software architecture over time witnessed

an evolution of capabilities. Starting with the engineering
practices of Extreme Programming, continuing with Continuous
Delivery, the DevOps revolution, microservices,
containerization, and now cloud-based resources, all of these
innovations led to new capabilities and trade-offs. As
capabilities changed, so did architects’ perspectives on the
industry. For many years, the tongue-in-cheek definition of
software architecture was “the stuff that’s hard to change
later.” Later, the microservices architecture style appeared,
where change is a first-class design consideration.

Each new era requires new practices, tools, measurements,

patterns, and a host of other changes. This book looks at
software architecture in modern light, taking into account all
the innovations from the last decade, along with some new
metrics and measures suited to today’s new structures and
perspectives.
The subtitle of our book is “An Engineering Approach.”
Developers have long wished to change software development
from a craft, where skilled artisans can create one-off works,
to an engineering discipline, which implies repeatability, rigor,
and effective analysis. While software engineering still lags
behind other types of engineering disciplines by many orders
of magnitude (to be fair, software is a very young discipline
compared to most other types of engineering), architects have
made huge improvements, which we’ll discuss. In particular,
modern Agile engineering practices have allowed great strides
in the types of systems that architects design.

We also address the critically important issue of trade-off

analysis. As a software developer, it’s easy to become
enamored with a particular technology or approach. But
architects must always soberly assess the good, bad, and ugly
of every choice, and virtually nothing in the real world offers
convenient binary choices—everything is a trade-off. Given this
pragmatic perspective, we strive to eliminate value judgments
about technology and instead focus on analyzing trade-offs to
equip our readers with an analytic eye toward technology
choices.

This book won’t make someone a software architecture

overnight—it’s a nuanced field with many facets. We want to
provide existing and burgeoning architects a good modern
overview of software architecture and its many aspects, from
structure to soft skills. While this book covers well-known
patterns, we take a new approach, leaning on lessons learned,
tools, engineering practices, and other input. We take many
existing axioms in software architecture and rethink them in
light of the current ecosystem, and design architectures, taking
the modern landscape into account.

Conventions Used in This Book

The following typographical conventions are used in this book:

Italic

Indicates new terms, URLs, email addresses, filenames, and

file extensions.

Constant width

Used for program listings, as well as within paragraphs to

refer to program elements such as variable or function
names, databases, data types, environment variables,
statements, and keywords.

Constant width bold

Shows commands or other text that should be typed

literally by the user.

Constant width italic

Shows text that should be replaced with user-supplied

values or by values determined by context.
 TIP
This element signifies a tip or suggestion.

Using Code Examples

Supplemental material (code examples, exercises, etc.) is
available for download at
http://fundamentalsofsoftwarearchitecture.com.

If you have a technical question or a problem using the code

examples, please send email to bookquestions@oreilly.com.

This book is here to help you get your job done. In general, if
example code is offered with this book, you may use it in your
programs and documentation. You do not need to contact us
for permission unless you’re reproducing a significant portion
of the code. For example, writing a program that uses several
chunks of code from this book does not require permission.
Selling or distributing examples from O’Reilly books does
require permission. Answering a question by citing this book
and quoting example code does not require permission.
Incorporating a significant amount of example code from this
book into your product’s documentation does require
permission.

We appreciate, but generally do not require, attribution. An

attribution usually includes the title, author, publisher, and
ISBN. For example: “Fundamentals of Software Architecture by
Mark Richards and Neal Ford (O’Reilly). Copyright 2020 Mark
Richards, Neal Ford, 978-1-492-04345-4.”

If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use or
the permission given above, feel free to contact us at
permissions@oreilly.com.

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Acknowledgments
Mark and Neal would like to thank all the people who attended
our classes, workshops, conference sessions, user group
meetings, as well as all the other people who listened to
versions of this material and provided invaluable feedback. We
would also like to thank the publishing team at O’Reilly, who
made this as painless an experience as writing a book can be.
We would also like to thank No Stuff Just Fluff director Jay
Zimmerman for creating a conference series that allows good
technical content to grow and spread, and all the other
speakers whose feedback and tear-soaked shoulders we
appreciate. We would also like to thank a few random oases of
sanity-preserving and idea-sparking groups that have names
like Pasty Geeks and the Hacker B&B.

Acknowledgments from Mark Richards

In addition to the preceding acknowledgments, I would like to
thank my lovely wife, Rebecca. Taking everything else on at
home and sacrificing the opportunity to work on your own
book allowed me to do additional consulting gigs and speak at
more conferences and training classes, giving me the
opportunity to practice and hone the material for this book.
You are the best.

Acknowledgments from Neal Ford

Neal would like to thank his extended family, ThoughtWorks as
a collective, and Rebecca Parsons and Martin Fowler as
Other documents randomly have
different content
 “Here's the stuff,” he explained, holding it out to the Chief
Constable. “That's the hydrobromide, of course—a salt of the
alkaloid itself. This is the compound that's used in medicine.”
Now that he had got it, Sir Clinton seemed to have little interest
in the substance. He handed it across to Flamborough who, after
looking at it with would-be sagacity, returned it to Markfield.
“There's just one other point that occurs to me,” the Chief
Constable explained, as Markfield returned the poison-bottle to its
original place. “Have you, by any chance, got an old notebook
belonging to young Hassendean on the premises? Anything of the
sort would do.”
The Inspector could make nothing of this demand and his face
betrayed his perplexity as he considered it. Markfield thought for a
few moments before replying, evidently trying to recall the existence
of any article which would suit Sir Clinton's purpose.
“I think I've got a rough notebook of his somewhere in my
room,” he said at last. “But it's only a record of weighings and things
like that. Would it do?”
“The very thing,” Sir Clinton declared, gratefully. “I'd be much
obliged if you could lay your hands on it for me now. I hope it isn't
troubling you too much.”
It was evident from Markfield's expression that he was as much
puzzled as the Inspector; and his curiosity seemed to quicken his
steps on the way back to his room. After a few minutes’ hunting, he
unearthed the notebook of which he was in search and laid it on the
table before Sir Clinton. Flamborough, familiar with young
Hassendean's writing, had no difficulty in seeing that the notes were
in the dead man's hand.
Sir Clinton turned over the leaves idly, examining an entry here
and there. The last one seemed to satisfy him, and he put an end to
his inspection. Flamborough bent over the table and was mystified to
find only the following entry on the exposed leaf:

Weight of potash bulb = 50.7789 grs.

Weight of potash bulb + CO₂ = 50.9825 grs.
 ───────────
Weight of CO₂ = 0.2046 grs.

“By the way,” said Sir Clinton casually, “do you happen to have
one of your own notebooks at hand—something with the same sort
of thing in them?”
Markfield, obviously puzzled, went over to a drawer and pulled
out a notebook which he passed to the Chief Constable. Again Sir
Clinton skimmed over the pages, apparently at random, and then
left the second book open beside the first one. Flamborough,
determined to miss nothing, examined the exposed page in
Markfield's notebook, and was rewarded by this:—

Weight of U-tube = 24.7792 gms.

Weight of U-tube + H₂O = 24.9047 gms.
───────────
Weight of H₂O = 0.1255 gms.

“Damned if I see what he's driving at,” the Inspector said

savagely to himself. “It's Greek to me.”
“A careless young fellow,” the Chief Constable pronounced acidly.
“My eye caught three blunders in plain arithmetic as I glanced
through these notes. There's one on this page here,” he indicated
the open book. “He seems to have been a very slapdash sort of
person.”
“An unreliable young hound!” was Markfield's slightly intensified
description. “It was pure influence that kept him here for more than
a week. Old Thornton, who put up most of the money for building
this place, was interested in him—knew his father, I think—and so
we had to keep the young pup here for fear of rasping old
Thornton's feelings. Otherwise. . . .”
The gesture accompanying the aposiopesis expressed Markfield's
idea of the fate which would at once have befallen young
Hassendean had his protector's influence been withdrawn.
 The Chief Constable appeared enlightened by this fresh
information.
“I couldn't imagine how you came to let him have the run of the
place for so long,” he confessed. “But, of course, as things were, it
was evidently cheaper to keep him, even if he did no useful work.
One can't afford to alienate one's benefactors.”
After a pause, he continued, reverting apparently to an earlier
line of thought:
“Let's see. You made out that something like twelve times the
normal dose of hyoscine had been administered?”
Markfield nodded his assent, but qualified it in words:
“That's a rough figure, remember.”
“Of course,” Sir Clinton agreed. “As a matter of fact, the multiple
I had in my mind was 15. I suppose it's quite possible that some of
the stuff escaped you and that your figure is an under-estimate?”
“Quite likely,” Markfield admitted frankly. “I gave you the lowest
figure, naturally—a figure I could swear to if it came to the point. As
it's a legal case, it's safer to be under than over the mark. But quite
probably, as you say, I didn't manage to isolate all the stuff that was
really present; and I wouldn't deny that the quantity in the body
may have run up to ten milligrammes or even slightly over it.”
“Well, it's perhaps hardly worth bothering about,” the Chief
Constable concluded. “The main thing is that even at the lowest
estimate she must have swallowed enough of the poison to kill her
in a reasonably short time.”
With this he seemed satisfied, and after a few questions about
the preparation and submission of Markfield's official report, he took
his leave. As he turned away, however, a fresh thought seemed to
strike him.
“By the way, Dr. Markfield, do you know if Miss Hailsham's here
this morning?”
“I believe so,” Markfield answered. “I saw her as I came in.”
“I'd like to have a few words with her,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“Officially?” Markfield demanded. “You're not going to worry the
girl, are you? If it's anything I can tell you about, I'd be only too
glad, you know. It's not very nice for a girl to have the tale going
round that she's been hauled in by the police in a murder case.”
The Chief Constable conceded the point without ado.
“Then perhaps you could send for her and we could speak to her
in here. It would be more private, and there need be no talk about it
outside.”
“Very well,” Markfield acquiesced at once. “I think that would be
better. I'll send for her now.”
He rang a bell and despatched a boy with a message. In a few
minutes a tap on the door sounded, and Markfield ushered Norma
Hailsham into the room. Inspector Flamborough glanced at her with
interest, to see how far his conception of her personality agreed with
the reality. She was a girl apparently between twenty and twenty-
five, dressed with scrupulous neatness. Quite obviously, she spent
money freely on her clothes and knew how to get value for what she
spent. But as his eyes travelled up to her face, the Inspector
received a more vivid impression. Her features were striking rather
than handsome, and Flamborough noted especially the squarish chin
and the long thin-lipped flexible mouth.
“H'm!” he commented to himself. “She might flash up in a
moment, but with that jaw and those lips she wouldn't cool down
again in a hurry. I was right when I put her down as a vindictive
type. Shouldn't much care to have trouble with her myself.”
He glanced at Sir Clinton for tacit instructions, but apparently the
Chief Constable proposed to take charge of the interview.
“Would you sit down, Miss Hailsham,” Sir Clinton suggested,
drawing forward a chair for the girl.
Flamborough noticed with professional interest that by his
apparently casual courtesy, the Chief Constable had unobtrusively
manœuvred the girl into a position in which her face was clearly
illuminated by the light from the window.
“This is Inspector Flamborough,” Sir Clinton went on, with a
gesture of introduction. “We should like to ask you one or two
questions about an awkward case we have in our hands—the
Hassendean business. I'm afraid it will be painful for you; but I'm
sure you'll give us what help you can.”
 Norma Hailsham's thin lips set in a hard line at his first words,
but the movement was apparently involuntary, for she relaxed them
again as Sir Clinton finished his remarks.
“I shall be quite glad to give any help I can,” she said in a level
voice.
Flamborough, studying her expression, noticed a swift shift of
her glance from one to the other of the three men before her.
“She's a bit over-selfconscious,” he judged privately. “But she's
the regular look-monger type, anyhow; and quite likely she makes
play with her eyes when she's talking to any man.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be making a merit of frankness:
“I really haven't any definite questions I want to ask you, Miss
Hailsham,” he confessed. “What we hoped was that you might have
something to tell us which indirectly might throw some light on this
affair. You see, we come into it without knowing anything about the
people involved, and naturally any trifle may help us. Now if I'm not
mistaken, you knew Mr. Hassendean fairly well?”
“I was engaged to him at one time. He broke off the engagement
for various reasons. That's common knowledge, I believe.”
“Could you give us any of the reasons? I don't wish to pry, you
understand; but I think it's an important point.”
Miss Hailsham's face showed that he had touched a sore place.
“He threw me over for another woman—brutally.”
“Mrs. Silverdale?” Sir Clinton inquired.
“Yes, that creature.”
“Ah! Now I'd like to put a blunt question. Was your engagement,
while it lasted, a happy one? I mean, of course, before he was
attracted to Mrs. Silverdale.”
Norma Hailsham sat with knitted brows for a few moments
before answering.
“That's difficult to answer,” she pointed out at last. “I must
confess that I always felt he was thinking more of himself than of
me, and it was a disappointment. But, you see, I was very keen on
him; and that made a difference, of course.”
“What led to the breaking of your engagement?”
 “You mean what led up to it? Well, we were having continual
friction over Yvonne Silverdale. He was neglecting me and spending
his time with her. Naturally, I spoke to him about it more than once.
I wasn't going to be slighted on account of that woman.”
There was no mistaking the under-current of animosity in the
girl's voice in the last sentence. Sir Clinton ignored it.
“What were your ideas about the relations between Mr.
Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale?”
Miss Hailsham's thin lips curled in undisguised contempt as she
heard the question. She made a gesture as though averting herself
from something distasteful.
“It's hardly necessary to enter into that, is it?” she demanded.
“You can judge for yourself.”
But though she verbally evaded the point, the tone in which she
spoke was sufficient to betray her private views on the subject. Then
with intense bitterness mingled with a certain malicious joy, she
added:
“She got what she deserved in the end. I don't pretend I'm sorry.
I think they were both well served.”
Then her temper, which hitherto she had kept under control,
broke from restraint:
“I don't care who knows it! They deserved all they got, both of
them. What business had she—with a husband of her own—to come
and lure him away? She made him break off his engagement to me
simply to gratify her own vanity. You don't expect me to shed tears
over them after that? One can forgive a good deal, but there's no
use making a pretence in things like that. She hit me as hard as she
could, and I'm glad she's got her deserts. I warned him at the time
that he wouldn't come off so well as he thought; and he laughed in
my face when I said it. Well, it's my turn to laugh. The account's
even.”
And she actually did laugh, with a catch of hysteria in the
laughter. It needed no great skill in psychology to see that wounded
pride shared with disappointed passion in causing this outbreak.
Sir Clinton checked the hysteria before it gained complete hold
over her.
 “I'm afraid you haven't told us anything that was new to us, Miss
Hailsham,” he said, frigidly. “This melodramatic business gets us no
further forward.”
The girl looked at him with hard eyes.
“What help do you expect from me?” she demanded. “I'm not
anxious to see him avenged—far from it.”
Sir Clinton evidently realised that nothing was to be gained by
pursuing that line of inquiry. Whether the girl had any suspicions or
not, she certainly did not intend to supply information which might
lead to the capture of the murderer. The Chief Constable waited until
she had become calmer before putting his next question:
“Do you happen to know anything about an alkaloid called
hyoscine, Miss Hailsham?”
“Hyoscine?” she repeated. “Yes, Avice Deepcar's working on it
just now. She's been at it for some time under Dr. Silverdale's
direction.”
Flamborough, glancing surreptitiously at Markfield, noted an
angry start which the chemist apparently could not suppress. Put on
the alert by this, the Inspector reflected that Markfield himself must
have had this piece of information, and had refrained from
volunteering it.
“I meant as regards its properties,” Sir Clinton interposed. “I'm
not an expert in these things like you chemical people.”
“I'm not an alkaloid expert,” Miss Hailsham objected. “All I can
remember about it is that it's used in Twilight Sleep.”
“I believe it is, now that you mention it,” Sir Clinton agreed,
politely. “By the way, have you a car, Miss Hailsham?”
“Yes. A Morris-Oxford four-seater.”
“A saloon?”
“No, a touring model. Why do you ask?”
“Someone's been asking for information about a car which seems
to have knocked a man over on the night of the last fog. You weren't
out that night, I suppose, Miss Hailsham?”
“I was, as it happened. I went out to a dance. But I'd a sore
throat; and the fog made it worse; so I came away very early and
got home as best I could. But it wasn't my car that knocked anyone
down. I never had an accident in my life.”
“You might have been excused in that fog, I think, even if you
had a collision. But evidently it's not your car we're after. What was
the number of the car we heard about, Inspector?”
Flamborough consulted his notebook.
“GX.9074, sir.”
“Say that again,” Markfield demanded, pricking up his ears.
“GX.9074 was the number.”
“That's the number of my car,” Markfield volunteered.
He thought for some time, apparently trying to retrace his
experiences in the fog. At last his face lighted up.
“Oh, I guess I know what it is. When I was piloting Dr. Ringwood
that night, a fellow nearly walked straight into my front mudguard. I
may have hurt his feelings by what I said about his brains, but I
swear I didn't touch him with the car.”
“Not our affair,” Sir Clinton hastened to assure him. “It's a matter
for your insurance company if anything comes of it. And I gathered
from Dr. Ringwood that you didn't exactly break records in your trip
across town, so I doubt if you need worry.”
“I shan't,” said Markfield, crossly. “You can refer him to me if he
comes to you again.”
“We'd nothing to do with the matter,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “He
was told he'd get the owner's address from the County Council. I
expect he got into a calmer frame of mind when he'd had time to
think.”
He turned to Miss Hailsham, who seemed to have recovered
complete control over herself during this interlude.
“I think that's all we need worry you with, Miss Hailsham. I'm
sorry that we put you to so much trouble.”
As a sign that the interview was at an end, he moved over to
open the door for her.
“I certainly don't wish you success,” she said icily, as she left the
room.
“Well, I think that's all we have to do here, Inspector,” Sir Clinton
said as he turned back from the open door. “We mustn't take up any
more of Dr. Markfield's time. I don't want to hurry you too much,” he
added to Markfield, “but you'll let us have your official report as soon
as you can, won't you?”
Markfield promised with a nod, and the two officials left the
building. When they reached headquarters again, Sir Clinton led the
way to his own office.
“Sit down for a moment or two, Inspector,” he invited. “You may
as well glance over the London man's report when you're about it.
Here it is—not for actual use, of course, until we get the official
version from him.”
He passed over a paper which Flamborough unfolded.
“By the way, sir,” the Inspector inquired before beginning to read,
“is there any reason for keeping back this information? These
infernal reporters are all over me for details; and if this poison affair
could be published without doing any harm, I might as well dole it
out to them to keep them quiet. They haven't had much from me in
the last twenty-four hours, and it's better to give them what we
can.”
Sir Clinton seemed to attach some importance to this matter, for
he considered it for a few seconds before replying.
“Let them have the name of the stuff,” he directed at last. “I
don't think I'd supply them with any details, though. I'm quite
satisfied about the name of the drug, but the dose is still more or
less a matter of opinion, and we'd better not say anything about
that.”
Flamborough glanced up from the report in his hand.
“Markfield and the London man both seem to put the dose round
about the same figure—eight milligrammes,” he said.
“Both of them must be super-sharp workers,” Sir Clinton pointed
out. “I don't profess to be a chemist, Inspector, but I know enough
about things to realise that they've done a bit of a feat there.
However, let's get on to something more immediately interesting.
What did you make of the Hailsham girl?”
“What did I make of her?” Flamborough repeated, in order to
gain a little time. “I thought she was more or less what I'd expected
her to be, sir. A hard vixen with a good opinion of herself—and
simply mad with rage at being jilted: that's what I made of her.
Revengeful, too. And a bit vulgar, sir. No decent girl would talk like
that about a dead man to a set of strangers.”
“She hadn't much to tell us that was useful,” Sir Clinton said,
keeping to the main point. “And I quite agree with you as to the
general tone.”
Flamborough turned to a matter which had puzzled him during
their visit to the Institute:
“What did you want young Hassendean's notebook for, sir? I
didn't quite make that out.”
“Why, you saw what I got out of it: arithmetical errors which
proved conclusively that he was a careless worker who didn't take
any trouble at all to verify his results.”
“I had a kind of notion that you got more out of it than that, sir,
or you wouldn't have asked to see Markfield's notebook as well. It
doesn't take someone else's notebook to spot slips in a man's
arithmetic, surely.”
Sir Clinton gazed blandly at his subordinate:
“Now that you've got that length, it would be a pity to spoil your
pleasure in the rest of the inference. Just think it out and tell me the
result, to see if we both reach the same conclusion independently.
You'll find a weights-and-measures conversion table useful.”
“Conversion table, sir?” asked the Inspector, evidently quite at
sea.
“Yes. ‘One metre equals 39·37 inches,’ and all that sort of thing.
The sort of stuff one used at school, you know.”
“Too deep for me, sir,” the Inspector acknowledged ruefully.
“You'll need to tell me the answer. And that reminds me, what made
you ask whether the dose could have been fifteen times the
maximum?”
The Chief Constable was just about to take pity on his
subordinate when the desk-telephone rang sharply. Sir Clinton
picked up the receiver.
“. . . Yes. Inspector Flamborough is here.”
He handed the receiver across to the Inspector, who conducted a
disjointed conversation with the person at the other end of the wire.
At length Flamborough put down the instrument and turned to Sir
Clinton with an expression of satisfaction on his face.
“We're on to something, sir. That was Fossaway ringing up from
Fountain Street. It seems a man called there a few minutes ago and
began fishing round to know if there was any likelihood of a reward
being offered in connection with the bungalow case. He seemed as if
he might know something, and they handed him over to Detective-
Sergeant Fossaway to see what he could make of him. Fossaway's
fairly satisfied that there's something behind it, though he could
extract nothing whatever from the fellow in the way of definite
statements.”
“Has Fossaway got him there still?”
“No, sir. He'd no power to detain him, of course; and the fellow
turned stubborn in the end and went off without saying anything
definite.”
“I hope they haven't lost him.”
“Oh, no, sir. They know him quite well.”
“What sort of person is he, then?”
“A nasty type, sir. He keeps one of these little low-down shops
where you can buy a lot of queer things. Once we nearly had him
over the sale of some postcards, but he was too clever for us at the
last moment. Then he was up in an assault case: he'd been
wandering round the Park after dark, disturbing couples with a flash-
lamp. A thoroughly low-down little creature. His name's Whalley.”
Sir Clinton's face showed very plainly his view of the activities of
Mr. Whalley.
“Well, so long as they can lay their hands on him any time we
need him, it's all right. I think we'll persuade him to talk. By the way,
was this lamp-flashing stunt of his done for æsthetic enjoyment, or
was he doing a bit of blackmailing on the quiet?”
“Well, nobody actually lodged a complaint against him; but
there's no saying whether people paid him or not. His record doesn't
make it improbable that he might do something in that line, if he
could manage to pull it off.”
“Then I'll leave Mr. Whalley to your care, Inspector. He sounds
interesting, if you can induce him to squeak.”
 Chapter XI.
The Code Advertisement
On the following morning, Inspector Flamborough was
summoned to the Chief Constable's room and, on his arrival, was
somewhat surprised to find his superior poring over a copy of the
Westerhaven Courier. It was not Sir Clinton's habit to read
newspapers during office hours; and the Inspector's eyebrows lifted
slightly at the unwonted spectacle.
“Here's a little puzzle for you, Inspector,” Sir Clinton greeted him
as he came in. “Just have a look at it.”
He folded the newspaper to a convenient size and handed it over,
pointing as he did so to an advertisement to which attention had
been drawn by a couple of crosses in pen and ink. Flamborough took
the paper and scanned the advertisement:

DRIFFIELD. AAACC. CCCDE. EEEEF.

HHHHH. IIIIJ. NNNNO. OOOOO.
RRSSS. SSTTT. TTTTT. TTUUW. Y.

“It doesn't seem exactly lucid, sir,” he confessed, as he read it a

second time. “A lot of letters in alphabetical order and divided into
groups of five—bar the single letter at the end. I suppose it was
your name at the front that attracted your eye?”
“No,” Sir Clinton answered. “This copy of the paper came to me
through the post, marked as you see it. It came in by the second
delivery. Here's the wrapper. It'll probably suggest something to
you.”
Flamborough looked at it carefully.
 “Ordinary official stamped wrapper. There's no clue there, since
you can buy 'em by the hundred anywhere.”
Then a glance at the address enlightened him.
“Same old game, sir? Letters clipped from telegraph forms and
gummed on to the wrapper. It looks like Mr. Justice again.”
“The chances are in favour of it,” Sir Clinton agreed, with a faint
tinge of mockery in his voice at the Inspector's eager recognition of
the obvious. “Well, what about it?”
Flamborough scanned the advertisement once more, but no sign
of comprehension lightened his face.
“Let's clear up one point before we tackle the lettering,” Sir
Clinton suggested. “That's to-day's issue of the Courier; so this
advertisement was received at the newspaper office yesterday. Since
the thing reached me by the second post, this copy of the paper
may have been bought in the normal way—first thing in the morning
—and posted at once.”
“That's sound, sir. It's among the ordinary advertisements—not in
the ‘Too Late For Classification’ section.”
“It may be a hoax, of course,” Sir Clinton mused, “but the
telegram-form business would hardly occur to a practical joker. I
think one can take it as a genuine contribution until it's proved to be
a fake. Now what do you make of it?”
The Inspector shook his head.
“Cyphers are not my long suit, sir. Frankly, it seems to me just a
jumble, and I don't think I'd make it anything else if I tried.”
Sir Clinton reflected for a minute or two in silence, his eyes fixed
on the advertisement.
“I've a notion that this is only Chapter I, Inspector. There's more
to come, in all probability. If it's Mr. Justice, he's not the man to
waste time. By the way, did you give the reporters the information
you were talking about yesterday?”
“Yes, sir. It was printed in last night's Evening Herald, and I think
both the Courier and the Gazette have got it this morning.”
Sir Clinton was still scrutinising the advertisement.
“I'm like you, Inspector—no great shakes on cyphers. But this
affair looks to me more like the letters of a plain message arranged
in ordinary alphabetical order. I think that most likely we shall get
the key from the writer in some form or other before long. In the
meantime, though, we might have a dash at interpreting the affair, if
we can.”
Flamborough's face showed that he thought very poorly of the
chances of success.
“Ever read Jules Verne or Poe?” Sir Clinton demanded. “No? Well,
Poe has an essay on cryptography in its earlier stages—nothing like
the stuff you'll find in Gross or Reiss, of course, and mere child's play
compared with the special manuals on the subject. But he pointed
out that in cypher-solving you have to pick the lock instead of using
the normal key. And Jules Verne puts his finger on the signature of a
cypher-communication as a weak point, if you've any idea who the
sender is. That's assuming, of course, that there is a signature at all
to the thing.”
The Inspector nodded his comprehension of this.
“You mean, sir, that ‘Justice’ would be the signature here, like in
the wire we got?”
“We can but try,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Not that I'm over-
hopeful. Still, it's worth a shot. Suppose we hook out the letters of
‘Justice’ and see what that leaves us. And we may as well disregard
the groups of five for the moment and simply collect the remaining
letters under A, B, C, etc.”
He tore a sheet of paper into small squares and inscribed one
letter of the message on each square.
“Now we take out ‘Justice,’ ” he said, suiting the action to the
word, “and simply leave the rest in alphabetical groups.”
The Inspector, following the operation, found himself faced with
the arrangement:

AAA CCCC D EEEE F HHHHH III NNNN

OOOOOO RR SSSS TTTTTTTTT U W Y
JUSTICE.

“It doesn't seem much clearer, sir,” Flamborough pointed out with
a certain tinge of enjoyment in his tone. It was not often that he had
a chance of crowing over his superior.
“Wait a moment, Inspector. Just let's reflect for a bit. At any rate,
the letters of ‘Justice’ are there; and that's always better than a
complete blank end. Now consider what Mr. Justice might be burning
to tell us about in his unobtrusive way. He had time to see the news
printed in last night's Herald before he composed this little affair.
Let's suppose that he got some fresh ideas from that—since this
communication falls pat after the publication and he hasn't bothered
us for days before that. The crucial thing was the identification of
the hyoscine. We'll see if we can get the word out here.”
He sifted out the letters rapidly; and the jumble then took the
form:

HYOSCINE AAA CCC D EEE F HHHH II

NNN OOOOO RR SSS TTTTTTTTT U W
JUSTICE.

“It fits, so far,” Sir Clinton said, surveying his handiwork

doubtfully, “but we might have got a couple of words like that out of
a random jumble of fifty-six letters. It's encouraging, but far from
convincing, I admit.”
He glanced over the arrangement with knitted brows.
“There seem to be a devil of a lot of T's in the thing, if we're on
the right track. Now what do you associate with hyoscine in your
mind, Inspector? Quick, now! Don't stop to think.”
“The Croft-Thornton Institute,” said the inspector, promptly.
“Bull's eye, I believe,” the Chief Constable ejaculated. “You could
hardly jam more T's together in English than there are in these three
words. Let's sift 'em out.”
The Inspector bent eagerly forward to see if the necessary letters
could be found. Sir Clinton separated the ones which he required for
the three words, and the arrangement stood thus:

HYOSCINE THE CROFT-THORNTON

INSTITUTE AAA CC D E HH OO SS TT W
JUSTICE.
 “I think this is getting outside the bounds of mere chance,” Sir
Clinton adjudged, with more optimism in his tone. “Now we might
go a step further without straining things, even if it's only a short
pace. Let's make a guess. Suppose that it's meant to read:
“Hyoscine at the Croft-Thornton Institute.” That leaves us with the
jumble here:

AA CC D E HH OO SS T W

“What do you make of that, Inspector?”

“The start of it looks like ACCEDE—no, there's only one E,”
Flamborough began, only to correct himself.
“It's not ACCEDE, obviously, Let's try ACCESS and see if that's
any use.”
The Chief Constable shifted the letters while the Inspector, now
thoroughly interested, watched for the result.
“If it's ACCESS then it ought to be ACCESS TO,” Sir Clinton
suggested. “And that leaves A, D, HH, O, W.”
One glance at the six letters satisfied him.
“It's panned out correctly, Inspector. There isn't a letter over.
See!”
He rearranged the lettering, and the inspector read the complete
message:

WHO HAD ACCESS TO HYOSCINE AT THE CROFT-THORNTON

INSTITUTE. JUSTICE.

“The chances of an anagram working out so sensibly as that are

pretty small,” Sir Clinton said, with satisfaction. “It's a few million to
one that we've got the correct version. H'm! I don't know that Mr.
Justice has really given us much help this time, for the Croft-
Thornton was an obvious source of the drug. Still, he's doing his
best, evidently; and he doesn't mean to let us overlook even the
obvious, this time. I'm prepared to bet that we get the key to this
thing by the next post. Mr. Justice wouldn't leave the matter to the
mere chance of our working the thing out. Still it's some satisfaction
to feel that we've done without his assistance.”
Flamborough occupied himself with copying the cypher and its
solution into his notebook. When he had finished, Sir Clinton lit a
cigarette and handed his case to the Inspector.
“Let's put officialism aside for a few minutes,” the Chief Constable
proposed. “No notes, or anything of that sort. Now I don't mind
confessing, Inspector, that we aren't getting on with this business at
all well. Short of divination, there seems no way of discovering the
truth, so far as present information goes. And we simply can't afford
to let this affair go unsolved. Your Whalley person seems to be our
best hope.”
The Inspector evidently found a fresh train of thought started in
his mind by Sir Clinton's lament.
“I've been thinking over that set of alternatives you put down on
paper the other day, sir,” he explained. “I think they ought to be
reduced from nine to six. It's practically out of the question that
young Hassendean was shot twice over by pure accident; so it
seems reasonable enough to eliminate all that class from your table.”
He put his hand in his pocket and produced a sheet of paper
which had evidently been folded and unfolded fairly often since it
had been first written upon.
“If you reject accident as a possibility in Hassendean's case,” he
continued, “then you bring the thing within these limits here.”
He put his paper down on the table and Sir Clinton read the
following:

Hassendean Mrs. Silverdale

A—Suicide ................. Suicide
B—Murder ................. Murder
C—Suicide ................. Accident
D—Murder ................. Accident
E—Suicide ................. Murder
F—Murder ................. Suicide
 “Now I think it's possible to eliminate even further than that, sir,
for this reason. There's a third death—the maid's at Heatherfield—
which on the face of it is connected in some way with these others. I
don't see how you can cut the Heatherfield business away from the
other two.”
“I'm with you there, Inspector,” Sir Clinton assured him.
Flamborough, obviously relieved to find that he was not going to
be attacked in the flank, pursued his exposition with more
confidence.
“Who killed the maid? That's an important point. It wasn't young
Hassendean, because the maid was seen alive by Dr. Ringwood
immediately after young Hassendean had died on his hands. It
certainly wasn't Mrs. Silverdale, because everything points to her
having died even before young Hassendean left the bungalow to go
home and die at Ivy Lodge. Therefore, there was somebody afoot in
the business that night who wouldn't stick at murder to gain his
ends, whatever they were.”
“Nobody's going to quarrel with that, Inspector.”
“Very good, sir,” Flamborough continued. “Now, with that factor
at the back of one's mind, one might review these six remaining
cases in the light of what we do know.”
“Go ahead,” Sir Clinton urged him, covertly amused to find the
Inspector so completely converted to the method which at first he
had decried.
“Case A, then,” Flamborough began. “A double suicide. Now I
don't cotton much to that notion, for this reason. If it was suicide,
then one or other of them must have had possession of hyoscine in
quantity sufficient to kill both of them. So I judge from the quantity
found in her body. Now no hyoscine was in young Hassendean's
system. His eyes were quite normal and there was no trace of the
stuff in the stomach, as they found when they sent to your London
friend on the question. From what I've seen of young Hassendean's
diary, and from what we've picked up about him from various
sources, he wasn't the sort of person to go in for needless pain. If
he'd shot himself at all, it would have been in the head. And if he'd
had hyoscine at hand, he wouldn't have shot himself at all. He'd
have swallowed a dose of the poison instead, and gone out
painlessly.”
“Correct inference, I believe,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “I don't say
it's certain, of course.”
“Well, then, what holds in Case A, ought to hold also in the other
two cases—C and E—where it's also a question of young
Hassendean's suicide. So one can score them off as well.”
“Not so fast,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “I don't say you're wrong;
but your assumption doesn't cover the cases. In Case A you
assumed that Mrs. Silverdale committed suicide—ergo, she had
hyoscine in her possession. But in Case C, the assumption is that she
died by accidental poisoning; and before you can eliminate suicide
on young Hassendean's part, you've got to prove that he had the
hyoscine in his possession. I'm not saying that he hadn't. I'm merely
keeping you strictly to your logic.”
Flamborough considered this for a few moments.
“Strictly speaking, I suppose you're right, sir. And in Case E, I'd
have to prove that he poisoned her wilfully, in order to cover the
case of his having hyoscine in his possession. H'm!”
After a pause, he took up the table afresh.
“Let's go back to Case B, then: a double murder. That brings in
this third party—the person who did for the maid at Heatherfield,
we'll say; and the fellow who broke the window. There were signs of
a struggle in that room at the bungalow, you remember. Now it
seems to me that Case B piles things on too thick, if you understand
what I mean. It means that Mrs. Silverdale was murdered by poison
and that young Hassendean was shot to death. Why the two
methods when plain shooting would have been good enough in both
cases? Take the obvious case—it's been at the back of my mind, and
I'm sure it's been at the back of yours too, that Silverdale surprised
the two of them at the bungalow and killed them both. Where does
the poison come in? To my mind we ought to put a pencil through
Case B. It's most improbable.”
Rather to his relief, Sir Clinton made no objection. The Inspector
drew his pencil through the first two lines of the table, then let it
hover over the last line.
 “What about Case F, sir? She suicided and he was murdered. If
she suicided, it was a premeditated affair—otherwise they wouldn't
have had the hyoscine at hand. But if it was one of these lovers’
suicide-pacts, they'd have had a dose ready for him as well—and
there wasn't a trace of the stuff spilt on the floor or anywhere about
the bungalow. Score out Case F, sir?”
“I've no objections to your putting your pencil through it if you
like, Inspector, though my reasons are rather different from the ones
you give.”
Flamborough looked up suspiciously, but gathered from Sir
Clinton's face that there was nothing further to be expected.
“Well, at least that's narrowed down the possibilities a bit,” he
said with relief. “You started out with nine possible solutions to the
affair—covering every conceivable combination. Now we're down to
three.”
He picked up his paper and read out the residual scheme, putting
fresh identifying letters to the three cases:

Hassendean Mrs. Silverdale

X—Suicide ................. Accident
Y—Murder ................. Accident
Z—Suicide ................. Murder

“You agree to that, sir?” Flamborough demanded.

“Oh, yes!” Sir Clinton admitted, in a careless tone. “I think the
truth probably lies somewhere among those three solutions. The
bother will be to prove it.”
At this moment a constable entered the room, bringing some
letters and a newspaper in a postal wrapper.
“Come by the next post, as I expected,” the Chief Constable
remarked, picking up the packet and removing the wrapper with
care. “The usual method of addressing, you see: letters cut from
telegraph forms and gummed on to the official stamped wrapper.
Well, let's have a look at the news.”
 He unfolded the sheet and glanced over the advertisement pages
in search of a marked paragraph.
“Ingenious devil, Inspector,” he went on. “The other
advertisement was in the Courier, this is a copy of to-day's Gazette.
That makes sure that no one reading down a column of
advertisements would be struck by a resemblance and start
comparisons. I begin to like Mr. Justice. He's thorough, anyhow. . . .
Ah, here we are! Marked like the other one. Listen, Inspector:

“CLINTON: Take the letters in the following order.

55. 16. 30. 17. 1. 9. 2. 4. 5. 10. 38. 39. 43. 31.
18. 56. 32. 40. 6. 21. 26. 11. 3. 44. 45. 19. 12. 7.
36. 33. 15. 46. 47. 20. 34. 37. 27. 48. 35. 28. 22.
29. 41. 49. 23. 50. 53. 51. 13. 25. 54. 42. 52.
24. 8. 14.

Now that was why he split up his letters into groups of five in the
first advertisement—to make it easy for us to count. I really like this
fellow more and more. A most thoughtful cove.”
He placed the two advertisements side by side on the table.
“Just run over this with me, Inspector. Call the first A number 1,
the second A number 2, and so on. There are fifty-six letters in all,
so number 55 is the W. Number 16 is the first letter in the fourth
quintette—H. Number 30 is the last letter in the sixth quintette—O.
So that spells WHO. Just go through the lot and check them please.”
Flamborough ploughed through the whole series and ended with
the same solution as Sir Clinton had obtained earlier in the morning:
“WHO HAD ACCESS TO HYOSCINE AT THE CROFT-THORNTON
INSTITUTE?”
“Well, it's pleasant to hit the mark,” the Chief Constable
confessed. “By the way, you had better send someone down to the
Courier and Gazette Offices to pick up the originals of these
advertisements. But I'm sure it'll be just the same old telegram
stunt; and the address which has to be given as a guarantee of good
faith will be a fake one.”
 Chapter XII.
The Silverdale Wills
“This is Mr. Renard, sir.”
Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton's office and
ushered in the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at
the interruptors.
“Mrs. Silverdale's brother, isn't it?” he asked courteously.
Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as
though leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into
the breach:
“It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn't entirely satisfied with the
state of things he's unearthed in the matter of his sister's will. It's
taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about it.
He'd prefer to lay the point before you, so I've brought him along. It
seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand, for it looks
as though it might be important.”
Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a
seat.
“I'm at your disposal, Mr. Renard,” he said briskly. “Let's hear the
whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will
make notes, if you don't mind.”
Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.
“I shall be concise,” he assured the Chief Constable. “It is not a
very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as
you English say.”
He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.
“My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in
1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite
satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr.
Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right
man for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He
had not the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for
Yvonne. Already I was in doubt, at the very moment of the
marriage. There were incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?”
Sir Clinton's gesture assured him that he had made himself
sufficiently clear.
“I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow
me?” Renard went on. “It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent
at leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each
other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each
other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the
best of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not
found a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one
who would make trouble by sympathising too much.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Renard,” Sir Clinton intervened, with the
obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the
self-evident.
“Now I come to the important point,” Renard went on. “At the
time of the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your
English law about testaments very well—my brother-in-law
transferred part of his property in stocks and shares to my sister. It
was some question of Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then
she would have had to pay on his whole estate; but by transferring
some of his property to her, this could be avoided. In case of his
death, she would have to pay only on what he had retained in his
own name. It is, I understand, a usual precaution in the
circumstances.”
“It's often done,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “By the way, Mr. Renard,
can you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on
their marriage?”
“I cannot give you the precise figures,” Renard explained. “I have
seen the lawyer's accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I
have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds
—a mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My
brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum
itself is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest,
as you shall see.”
He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton's
attention.
“When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my
sister, they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the
advice of a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property
to my sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that
seemed very fair. The second will, my sister's, was in identical terms,
so far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks,
shares, and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little
provision at the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of
sentimental value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I
suggest nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?”
“It seems a normal precaution in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton
assured him. “Naturally, if she died first, he would expect to get his
own property back again—less the Death Duties, of course.”
“It was a very small affair,” Renard emphasised. “If I had been
consulted, I should certainly have advised it. But I was not
consulted. It was no business of mine, except that I was made a
trustee. I am not one who mixes himself up with affairs which do not
concern him.”
“Where is this leading to, Mr. Renard?” Sir Clinton asked patiently.
“I don't see your difficulty as yet, I must confess.”
“There is no difficulty. It is merely that I wish to lay some further
information before you. Now, I proceed. My aunt had been ill for a
long time. A disease of the heart, it was: angina pectoris. She was
bound to die in a spasm, at a moment's notice. One expected it, you
understand? And less than three weeks ago, she had the spasm
which we had so long anticipated, and she died.”
Sir Clinton's face expressed his sympathy, but he made no
attempt to interrupt.
“As I told Inspector Flamborough when I saw him last,” Renard
continued, “the figure of her fortune came as a surprise to me. I had
no idea she was so rich. She lived very simply, very parsimoniously,
even. I had always thought of her as hard-up, you understand?
Figure to yourself my astonishment when I learned that she had
accumulated over £12,000! That is a great sum. Many people would
do almost anything to acquire £12,000.”
He paused for a moment as though in rapt contemplation of the
figures.
“Her testament was very simple,” he proceeded. “My sister
Yvonne was her favourite. My aunt had always put her in front of
me. I make no complaint, you understand? Someone must be
preferred. I had a little bequest under my aunt's testament; but
Yvonne secured almost the whole of my aunt's fortune. That was
how things stood a fortnight ago.”
He hitched himself in his chair as though preparing for a
revelation.
“My sister and I were the trustees under my aunt's testament.
The lawyer who had charge of the will communicated with me and
forwarded a copy of the document. These legal documents are not
easy to understand. But I soon saw that my sister had acquired the
whole of my aunt's capital in stocks and shares—about a million and
a half francs. I am not very good at legal affairs. It took me some
time to understand what all this meant; but I thought it out. It is
really quite simple, very easy. My sister had gained £12,000 under
my aunt's will; but if she died without any change in the
circumstances, then under the will which she signed after her
marriage, my brother-in-law would inherit the whole of that money.
Figure to yourself, he had never even seen my aunt, and all that
£12,000 would pour into his lap. And I, who had been almost like a
son to my aunt, I would get nothing! I make no complaint, of
course.”
Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing whatever of his views on the
question. He merely waited in silence for Renard to continued his
story.
“When I understood the position,” Renard resumed, “I sat down
and wrote a letter to my sister. ‘Here is the state of affairs,’ I said.
‘Our good aunt is dead, and she has named you as her heiress. A
whole million and a half francs! To me she has left some little things,
enough at least to buy a suit of mourning. I have no complaints to
make: our good aunt had the right to dispose of her money as she
chose.’ That was how I began, you understand? Then I went on
thus: ‘Things are for the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must
think of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the
time of your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything
happen to you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should
be. If you should die—a motor accident might happen any day—then
all the money of our aunt would pass into the hands of your
husband, this husband with whom you have so little in common and
who had no relations with our good aunt. And I, who am your
nearest in kin, would receive not one penny. Think of that,’ I wrote,
‘and consider whether it would be fair. Is the fortune of our family to
pass into the hands of strangers and we ourselves to be left without
a share in it?’ ”
Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the
Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding
nothing very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.
“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I
did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to
show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should
happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will.
‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean
nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this
money would be left. Would you desire that it should fall into the
hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything
in common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your
brother who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to
her. I asked her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could
aid her to draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her
husband and myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to
be fair. He would have received back his own stocks and shares
which he had given to her at the time of their marriage. I would
have gained the fortune which descended from my aunt. That
seemed reasonable, surely.”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the
circumstances. And what happened?”
 “I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to
yourself what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of
affairs. She had no business-like habits. If a thing seemed likely to
give her trouble, she would put it aside for as long as she could,
before dealing with it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament,
like that. So when she received my letter, she put it aside for some
days. One cannot blame her. It was not in her nature to go to great
trouble over a thing like that. Besides, death was not in her
thoughts. One day was as good as another.”
He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his
narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little
impression on Sir Clinton.
“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the
position well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good
brother left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed
and delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”
Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were
approaching something important.
“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne
had not forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting
things right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and
made an appointment with them for the following afternoon. She
informed them that she proposed to alter her will; but of course,
over the telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point.
That is to be understood. But she said she would jot down the points
to be embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is
all the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next
afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers—
my poor Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand
pounds! A million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers
just by a few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not
grumble. It is not my way. These things happen, and one has to
bear them.”
If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton's face, he
must have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing
of the feelings in his mind.
 “Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued. “Or most
opportune indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have
done. A coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have
seen too many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that
she should die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the
twelve thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the
money falls into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One
has to be, in this world. And these strange chances have an
attraction for my mind. I know there is nothing behind them, nothing
whatever, you understand? And yet, is it not most striking that
things fall out as they do?”
The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general
discussion on the Universe.
“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard.
Wills hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery
turns up; and in this case there's nothing of that sort. The only
advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you've
already had the legal position made clear, I don't see that there's
anything to be done.”
Inspector Flamborough took his cue and, without more ado he
hinted to Renard very plainly that enough time had been spent on
the matter. At length the little Frenchman withdrew, leaving the two
officials together.
“I don't much care for his way of telling his story, sir,”
Flamborough remarked, “but I'm not sure, if I were in his shoes,
that I wouldn't feel much the same as he seems to do. It must be a
bit galling to lose £12,000 by a few hours’ delay. And he's quite
reasonably suspicious, evidently.”
Sir Clinton refused to be drawn.
“Don't let's be too much influenced by the stop press news,
Inspector. Renard's evidence is the latest we have; but that adds
nothing to its value, remember. Look at the case as a whole and try
to reckon up the people who could conceivably gain anything by the
crime. Then you can assess the probabilities in each case—apart
altogether from the order in which the facts have come to light.”
 The Inspector had evidently considered the matter already from
this stand-point. He hardly paused before offering his views.
“Well, sir, if you ask me, Silverdale had at least two sound
motives for committing murder. By getting his wife out of the way,
he opened the road to a marriage with the Deepcar girl, whom he's
obviously keen on. Also, if Renard's story's true, the death of his wife
at that particular juncture put £12,000 into his pocket, which he'd
have lost if Mrs. Silverdale had lived a day or two longer.”
“One has to admit that he hadn't evidence to get a divorce,
which would have been an obvious alternative to murder,” Sir Clinton
acknowledged. “And the cash affair makes the death of Mrs.
Silverdale peculiarly opportune. It's no use burking the plain fact
that either money or a woman might tempt a man to murder; and
when you've got both of them together, one can't brush them aside
cavalierly. But go on with your list, Inspector.”
“There's that money-lender, Spratton,” Flamborough pursued. “If
young Hassendean's death can be proved to be a murder, then
Spratton lifts some thousands out of the pocket of the insurance
company in return for the payment of a single premium. That's a
motive, certainly.”
“It's a sound motive for proving that it was a case of murder and
not suicide; and it's a possible motive for murder, I admit. But the
position of a gentleman who commits a murder for gain and can
only collect the money by proving that murder was done . . . Well, it
sounds a bit complicated, doesn't it?”
“Unless he can be sure of fixing the murder on someone else,
sir.”
“It's a bit difficult in practice to produce a frame-up of that
description, isn't it?”
The Inspector refrained from betraying any opinion on this point.
“Then there's the Hailsham girl, sir. She's a vindictive type; and
she quite obviously had the worst kind of grudge against both of
them. Revenge might have been at the back of the business for all
one can tell. I don't say it's likely; but I'm considering possibilities,
not necessarily probabilities.”
 “I don't think Miss Hailsham can reckon me among her admirers,”
Sir Clinton confessed. “But that's hardly evidence against her in a
murder case. We'd need something a bit more concrete.”
“She admitted that she left the dance early that night and took
her car home, sir. She hasn't got a clean alibi for the time the
murder was committed.”
“So I noticed when she told her story. But the absence of an alibi
doesn't establish murderous intent, you know. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, there's the Deepcar girl. She's keen on Silverdale. It's
always a motive.”
“Save me from being mixed up in any murder case that you have
charge of, Inspector. My character wouldn't escape, I see. You'll
need to have something better than that before you start arresting
anyone.”
“I'm not talking about arresting anyone, sir,” the Inspector replied
in an injured tone. “I'm just reviewing possible motives.”
“Quite true. Can't one make a feeble joke without rasping your
susceptibilities? Now is that the end of your list?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Ah! You didn't think of including someone with the initial ‘B,’
then? You remember the ‘B’ on the bracelet?”
The Inspector seemed rather startled.
“You mean this fellow B. might have been a discarded lover of
Mrs. Silverdale's who was out for revenge like the Hailsham girl? I
hadn't thought of that. It's possible, of course.”
“Now let's turn to a fresh side of the case,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“One thing's certain; hyoscine played a part in the affair. What about
Mr. Justice's pertinent inquiry: ‘Who had access to hyoscine at the
Croft-Thornton Institute?’ ”
“Every blessed soul in the place, so far as I could see,” the
Inspector confessed, rather ruefully. “Silverdale, Markfield, young
Hassendean, and the two girls: they all had equal chances of helping
themselves from that bottle in the store. I don't think that leads very
far. That hyoscine was common property so far as access to it went.
Anyone might have taken some.”
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