instantaneous, which it would be if one broke one's neck.”
“I know. But look here! You are going downstairs and your foot slips. What happens? Do you crumple forwards and dive down head first? Or do you sit down suddenly on your tail and do the rest of the journey that way?”
“It depends. If it was actually a slip, I should probably come down on my tail. But if I tripped, I should very likely dive forwards. You can't tell, without knowing just how it happened.”
“All right. You always have an answer. Well now–do you clutch what you're carrying with a deathly grip–or do you chuck it, and try to save yourself by grabbing hold of the banisters?”
Mr. Parker paused. “I should probably grab,” he said, slowly, “unless I was carrying a tray full of crockery, or anything. And even then ... I don't know. Perhaps it's an instinct to hold on to what one's got. But equally it's an instinct to try and save one's self. I don't know. All this arguing about what you and I would do and what the reasonable man would do is very unsatisfactory.”
Wimsey groaned. “Put it this way, doubting Thomas. If the death-grip was due to instantaneous rigor, he must have been dead so quickly that he couldn't think of saving himself. Now, there are two possible causes of death–the broken neck, which he must have got when he pitched on his head at the bottom, and the crack on the temple, which is attributed to his hitting his skull on one of the knobs on the banisters. Now, falling down a staircase isn't like falling off a roof–you do it in instalments, and have time to think about it. If he killed himself by hitting the banisters, he must have fallen first and hit himself afterwards. The same [Pg 76] thing applies, with still more force, to his breaking his neck. Why, when he felt himself going, didn't he drop everything and break his fall?”
“I know what you want me to say,” said Parker. “That he was sandbagged first and dead before he fell. But I don't see it. I say he would have caught his toe in something and tripped forwards and struck his head straight away and died of that. There's nothing impossible about it.”
“Then I'll try again. How's this? That same evening, Mrs. Crump, the head charwoman, picked up this onyx scarab in the passage, just beneath the iron staircase. It is, as you see, rounded and smooth and heavy for its size, which is much about that of the iron knobs on the staircase. It has, as you also see, a slight chip on one side. It belonged to the dead man, who was accustomed to carry it in his waistcoat pocket or keep it sitting on the desk beside him while he worked. What about it?”
“I should say it fell from his pocket when he fell.”
“And the chip?”
“If it wasn't there before–”
“It wasn't; his sister says she's sure it wasn't.”
“Then it got chipped in falling.”
“You think that?”
“I do.”
“I think you were meant to think that. To continue: some few days earlier, Mrs. Crump found a smooth pebble of much the same size as the scarab lying in the same passage at the foot of the same iron staircase.”
“Did she?” said Parker. He uncurled himself from the window-seat and made for the decanters. “What does she say about it?”
“Says that you'd scarcely believe the queer odds and ends she finds when she's cleaning out the office. Attributes the stone to Mr. Atkins, he having taken his seaside holiday early on account of ill-health.”
“Well,” said Parker, releasing the lever of the soda-siphon, “and why not?”
“Why not, indeed? This other pebble, which I here produce, [Pg 77] was found by me on the roof of the lavatory. I had to shin down a pipe to get it, and ruined a pair of flannel bags.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Okay, captain. That's where I found it. I also found a place where the paint had been chipped off the skylight.”
“What skylight?”
“The skylight that is directly over the iron staircase. It's one of those pointed things,
“I know. But look here! You are going downstairs and your foot slips. What happens? Do you crumple forwards and dive down head first? Or do you sit down suddenly on your tail and do the rest of the journey that way?”
“It depends. If it was actually a slip, I should probably come down on my tail. But if I tripped, I should very likely dive forwards. You can't tell, without knowing just how it happened.”
“All right. You always have an answer. Well now–do you clutch what you're carrying with a deathly grip–or do you chuck it, and try to save yourself by grabbing hold of the banisters?”
Mr. Parker paused. “I should probably grab,” he said, slowly, “unless I was carrying a tray full of crockery, or anything. And even then ... I don't know. Perhaps it's an instinct to hold on to what one's got. But equally it's an instinct to try and save one's self. I don't know. All this arguing about what you and I would do and what the reasonable man would do is very unsatisfactory.”
Wimsey groaned. “Put it this way, doubting Thomas. If the death-grip was due to instantaneous rigor, he must have been dead so quickly that he couldn't think of saving himself. Now, there are two possible causes of death–the broken neck, which he must have got when he pitched on his head at the bottom, and the crack on the temple, which is attributed to his hitting his skull on one of the knobs on the banisters. Now, falling down a staircase isn't like falling off a roof–you do it in instalments, and have time to think about it. If he killed himself by hitting the banisters, he must have fallen first and hit himself afterwards. The same [Pg 76] thing applies, with still more force, to his breaking his neck. Why, when he felt himself going, didn't he drop everything and break his fall?”
“I know what you want me to say,” said Parker. “That he was sandbagged first and dead before he fell. But I don't see it. I say he would have caught his toe in something and tripped forwards and struck his head straight away and died of that. There's nothing impossible about it.”
“Then I'll try again. How's this? That same evening, Mrs. Crump, the head charwoman, picked up this onyx scarab in the passage, just beneath the iron staircase. It is, as you see, rounded and smooth and heavy for its size, which is much about that of the iron knobs on the staircase. It has, as you also see, a slight chip on one side. It belonged to the dead man, who was accustomed to carry it in his waistcoat pocket or keep it sitting on the desk beside him while he worked. What about it?”
“I should say it fell from his pocket when he fell.”
“And the chip?”
“If it wasn't there before–”
“It wasn't; his sister says she's sure it wasn't.”
“Then it got chipped in falling.”
“You think that?”
“I do.”
“I think you were meant to think that. To continue: some few days earlier, Mrs. Crump found a smooth pebble of much the same size as the scarab lying in the same passage at the foot of the same iron staircase.”
“Did she?” said Parker. He uncurled himself from the window-seat and made for the decanters. “What does she say about it?”
“Says that you'd scarcely believe the queer odds and ends she finds when she's cleaning out the office. Attributes the stone to Mr. Atkins, he having taken his seaside holiday early on account of ill-health.”
“Well,” said Parker, releasing the lever of the soda-siphon, “and why not?”
“Why not, indeed? This other pebble, which I here produce, [Pg 77] was found by me on the roof of the lavatory. I had to shin down a pipe to get it, and ruined a pair of flannel bags.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Okay, captain. That's where I found it. I also found a place where the paint had been chipped off the skylight.”
“What skylight?”
“The skylight that is directly over the iron staircase. It's one of those pointed things,
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