“Was there a moon that night?” asked Macdonald.
“Aye, there was a new moon, but it had set before I began fishing.”
“The next week-end, September 12th, that was,” replied Mr. Willoughby, “Again, ‘twas no manner of good for fishing – but harvest weather, lad it was grand! I lent a hand with the carting – though I tell you I’m a bit old for that game. Sixty-two last birthday and not so spry as I once was – but I went for a swim, all the same, that evening. Nay, you needn’t look so surprised, I’ve been a swimmer in my time, and it’s not a thing you forget. About six o’clock it’d’ve been, and the air all still and warm, I took a dip from the old willow where Mr. Hoggett’s put a diving board – not that you could dive that evening, the river was too low. ‘Twas after my swim I saw the owd scarecrow again. I was having a rub down after my dip and I saw him by the bank with his rod and all, but ‘twas on the further bank he was. That I do know.”
“Was the river shallow enough to ford?”
“Aye, if you knew the place to do it, opposite Wenningby Barns – you could wade across and easy.”
“Was the old man fishing?”
“Aye, I’d say he was. I saw him make a cast. I didn’t stay to mark much, mind you, because I’d no wish to get rheumatism and I reckoned I’d taken liberties enough for my age. I went back to my tea. And now you know why I’ve been poking around to see what I could see, Inspector. The rum thing is this: I’ve made a few inquiries, but no one’s seen the owd gaffer but me – and if so be you ask me how I can prove I ever saw him at all, well, there’s no answer. See him I did – but nobody saw him by Scawton Bridge, where t’anglers mostly make for the river, and no one saw him at Birka Farm, the other likely road. There you are, officer. Make what you can of it.”
Macdonald met Mr. Willoughby’s steady, rather pugnacious stare, and at length replied:
“Since the coat was borrowed this side of the river and worn this side of the river, perhaps it’s not surprising that no one saw it on the other bank, Mr. Willoughby. Here’s another question for you to consider: have you ever noticed the potters on the road in these parts?”
“Aye I’ve seen Gold and his old woman with their cart. What have they got to do with it? I’ve never seen the potters in the valley.”
Now, for the first time, his voice sounded, but guarded. Macdonald tried another cast.
“Have you ever taken the path up through the woods to the high road beyond the Middle Upfields?”
The other shook his head. “Not me, I’m not much of a walker these days. I use the Brow to reach the river.”
It wasn’t that, thought Macdonald. It was the mention of the potters which had the other on his guard. He tried again:
“I have reason to believe the potters have been down to the river, of late. I don’t know why. Is it possible that the old man you saw wearing Mr. Hoggett’s long coat was Reuben Gold?”
Again Willoughby scratched his head. He didn’t answer for some time, and then he spoke uncertainly.
“I can’t tell you either way. It might have been – or not I can’t swear it wasn’t. The old chap had an old-fashioned cap crammed down on his head, and I wasn’t near enough to see his face. I can’t tell you if he had a beard.”
“If you couldn’t see his face, you can’t be sure he was an old man. Perhaps it was a young man who looked old in the distance in that old-fashioned coat and cap.”
“Maybe.” Mr. Willoughby looked at his watch. “I’ve answered your questions as well as I could, officer, and I want to be away, up to the cottage. If there’s aught else I can tell you – well, you know where to find me. I shall be there tonight. And if I think of aught else that can help, I’ll let you know.”
“Very good,” agreed Macdonald. “I know I’ve taken a lot of your time. You think it over, and I’ll see you again later.”
“Then good-day to you,” replied Willoughby.
Macdonald suddenly called the other back. “I forgot to tell you: I’ve found these waders of yours.”
“Eh. . . ?” Mr. Willoughby was evidently startled. “And where did you find them?”
“In Reuben Gold’s cart. He’ll be charged with the theft before the magistrate – unless other offenses are proved against him.”
“Well, I’m jiggered. . .” Mr. Willoughby pulled himself together and said: “I’m grateful to you for your trouble. They were very good waders.”
“Aye, I noticed that,” replied Macdonald pleasantly.
***
A few minutes after Mr. Willoughby had gone, Macdonald heard footsteps outside and the door opened without preliminary knocking to disclose Mrs. Hoggett standing on the threshold with a basket in her hand.
“I’ve brought you some dinner,” she said. “There’s a pork chop, some sage and onions and apple sauce and a jam pie. It’s Giles dinner really, and you needn’t be afraid to eat it because he’ll be stung on meat pies in Chapelton-Lonsdale.”
“But that’s very kind of you,” said Macdonald, realizing with some embarrassment that Mrs. Hoggett was regarding his own damp and muddy flannel bags.
“If you look in the chest upstairs, there are some very old gray flannels of Giles’, and some socks. Go and change at at once. You’re wet through.”
Macdonald laughed, he couldn’t help it. “I haven’t been spoken to like that since 1914,” he said. “You sounded exactly like my mother when you spoke just then.” He went upstairs, quite meekly, and changed into some dry clothes whose size made him realize that Hoggett wasn’t as thin as he looked and brought his own damp clothes down with him.
“Go and hang those on the line. They’ll soon blow dry,” said Mrs. Hoggett. “Your dinner’s ready, all nice and hot. I’ll leave you in peace now.”
“Oh, please don’t do that,” said Macdonald. “Won’t you stay and talk to me? There are a lot of things I want to ask you.”
“If you want me to, I’ll stay – but I didn’t want you to think I came down here to cadge information.”
She sat down by the fire and looked around the room. “You’re a very tidy person,” she said. “Giles would never keep this place as neat and clean as you’re keeping it.”
“The credit today is Reeves’,” replied Macdonald honestly. “He is very efficient domestically.”
“I should think he’s very efficient generally. I like him. If Reeves had killed that wretched man and put him in the river, he wouldn’t have made the mistakes the other man did.”
“Would you like to enlarge on that?”
“Yes – if you like.” She lighted a cigarette, paused a few seconds, and then began: “Have you realized what the murderer’s initial mistake was – the thing that really gave him away? It was interfering with Giles’ woodpile and leaving the logs tumbled about. If it hadn’t been for that, Giles wouldn’t have come inside the cottage that day. He might not have come into this room for weeks, and if he had, he wouldn’t have come in determined to look around to see whether anything was amiss. Ordinarily speaking, it’s quite possible he wouldn’t have noticed anything had gone. It was just because the woodpile made him suspicious.”
“Yes. I see. It’s a point which most people wouldn’t appreciate.”
“Most people from away,” she corrected. “The woodpile told me at once that it wasn’t anybody from around here who’d done it, because the farmers and their men wouldn’t have made that mistake. They’d know at once it’d be noticed, because they would have noticed it themselves. Yet the man who stole the iron dogs and chain wasn’t a careless person. He had swept the floor and cleared the hearth – but he didn’t know how to clear hearths properly. He tried to bury the empty cans – but he didn’t bury them deep enough. Finally, he was the sort of person who wouldn’t think that small valueless objects would be missed. I should argue from that that he wasn’t a poor man; and he wasn’t a very observant one, but he was quite good at looking for things when he’d made up his mind what he wanted.”
“In your
opinion, Mrs. Hoggett, is Anthony Vintner capable of having done it? You see, he does fit the bill in many ways; he knows the valley and the river and the cottage – but he has no sense of country ways. It would never occur to him that a wood pile was an expert piece of work and that interference with it would give him away – but he did have Ginner staying with him, and nobody has seen Ginner alive since the day he left Thorpe Intak. I ask you because I’d value your judgment on the point. You talked to Vintner sometimes, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes. I went and saw his pictures and I like them. He’s a clever painter and he’s got an eye which really sees things, and he can be quite interesting to talk to on his own subject – but he’s quite incapable of having committed this crime by himself, I’m certain of it.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’ve seen his kitchen, haven’t you? If Anthony Vintner had made a fire and opened tins of beans and sardines in this place, you’d have found sardine oil dripping all over the flags, bits of beans on the crocks and ashes trampled everywhere. He’s like that, he can’t help it. He just makes a mess with everything he touches in the house – and it would never, never have occurred to him to clear up the hearth.”
“Even if he’d noticed it was swept and clean before he came?”
“He wouldn’t have noticed. There are some things he just can’t see – and he can’t reason, either. I’ve never met any man who was so incapable of thinking out cause and effect – and the murderer here did reason. Apart from that mistake about the woodpile, most of his reasoning was sound.”
Macdonald nodded. “Yes, I’m beginning to realize that. The place where the body was hidden was very ingenious. Did you know there was a considerable recess in the river bank below the willows in Jacobs Buttery?”
“No, but you’d be pretty safe to assume it. The stream is very strong around that bend, it washes part of the bank away every year. It’s scoured part of the willow roots clear, so it would obviously undercut the bank beneath the willow.”
“I expect the fishermen get to know pools of that kind,” meditated Macdonald. “The sack was chained in such a way that it would never have been visible from the bank above, no matter how clear the water was, and the undergrowth concealed it from view on the other bank. Also, owing to the way it was fastened in the recess, there was no likelihood of any fisherman fouling the sack with a cast. That part of the job was very well done.”
He paused and added: “Did you notice that your husband’s old coat has turned up? I’ve spread it to dry on the hedge at the back.”
“Where on earth did you find it?”
Macdonald told her and she frowned a little. “That’s the sort of story it’s very difficult to prove or disprove. I’m awfully glad you’re on this job, Chief Inspector.”
“Are you? I’m very glad to hear you say so. I was afraid you were wishing me at Jericho. Now, can you tell me this: was Hoggett’s old coat here while the George’s were staying here in August?”
“Yes.”
Macdonald valued that clear decisiveness of Mrs. Hoggett’s. “I asked the children about that – Giles and Nell,” she continued. “Children notice things much more than grown-ups in some ways. If anything is moved from the cottage they always notice it. The old coat was hanging up by the door when they came, and the children used it when they put up a tent outside. Nell said it was hanging up by the door when they left, and that George’s old cap was in one of the pockets. Their grandfather’s spectacles were on the book shelves. They’re quite certain about those facts.”
“Thanks very much. I agree with you that children do notice if things are altered. Now, I want to know if you’ll come up through the Middle Upfields with me – I’ve left the car up there. What I really want to know is if you notice anything different from usual – anything at all.”
“Yes, of course I’ll come. I know the path very well, but I don’t suppose I shall be any good at detecting things. The children would probably be better.”
“Children aren’t on in this act,” said Macdonald. “It’s not really a game. No, I think you’re the person I want, and while you are walking up you can tell me every single thing you can remember about the time you saw Ginner in the dales.”
They had an interesting walk together, but Mrs. Hoggett did not have the chance of spotting the pieces of her old curtain on the brambles and thorns, because, greatly to Macdonald’s interest, these had been carefully removed from the places where he had seen them only that morning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEN MACDONALD reached the cottage again after his walk with Mrs. Hoggett, he found a totally unexpected sight. There were two men in the garden, and they were apparently clinched in a life and death struggle, swaying crazily with docked arms and bent backs, heaving slowly back and forth. When Macdonald first caught a glimpse of the locked struggling figures, he was just about to race for dear life to investigate them, when he realized that the two combatants were Giles Hoggett and Reeves, and their activity was a Wesmoreland wrestling bout. As Macdonald opened the gate, they broke apart and Mr. Hoggett said breathlessly:
“Aye, that’s better. You had me that time.”
Reeves brushed back his dishevelled hair and faced Macdonald with his cheerful grin.
“We’re exchanging lessons, Chief. Mr. Hoggett’s teaching me a bit about the wrestling technique up here, and I’ve been showing him some jiu jitsu tricks.”
“Very valuable for both parties, provided you don’t break each other’s back in the process,” replied Macdonald. “Can you throw him, Reeves?”
“In wrestling, you mean? Not me – but I’m getting on. I could put him where I want him the other way. Come on, chum!”
The next second Mr. Hoggett was attempting a newly learned hold on Macdonald, but the latter was just quick enough to avoid it and eluded his host while Reeves chuckled.
“The position was right, but you’ve got to be quicker than that.”
“And that,” said Macdonald, “is enough for the moment. Have you brought me any news?”
“Aye!” they declared in unison, and Macdonald laughed aloud.
“If you go home and say ‘Aye’ to your wife, Reeves, she’ll think you’ve got a screw loose. Come on in, and what about it? Who got first news?”
They went into the cottage together, and Mr. Hoggett said: “Reeves won easily – but I picked up a few items later. He’d better tell you his part of the story first.”
“Well, I was lucky,” said Reeves modestly. “I told you I should try the pubs, I always get some news in the local. There are five in Chapelton-Lonsdale, varying from a hotel to some small beer houses in back streets. Ever been there, sir? You ought to, it’s a queer old town; all stone houses, even the poor ones. I put my old raincoat on and my working cap and I strolled into one of the lesser dives. Beer pretty short, but more conversation than I’d hoped. I told the tale about a friend of my dad’s, a traveller named Garstang whose sister-in-law once lived up here. Funnily enough there was an old chap in the bar who used to travel in dry goods and he told me to go to the Spotted Bear and ask for old Tom Brough. Tom was there all right – he’s been a carrier on the Chapelton-Kendal roads for fifty years and he said he knew the party I meant – Mrs. Soper. She once lived on Albert Terrace, and she had a nephew in London used to come and stay with her, name of Garstang. Tom Brough said he’d taken the boy on his rounds with him once or twice, only he was such a young limb he’d had to leather him. Mrs. Soper left Chapelton in 1918, and Tom Brough says the last time the boy stayed with her was in 1914. That’s my little lot. Now, Mr. Hoggett had better carry on – he did all the rest.”
Giles Hoggett took up the story. “Reeves and I met for lunch by arrangement at the old bridge,” he said. “I had had a disappointing morning. I called on the Vicar, but he was a newcomer – he’d only been there since 1924 – and he couldn’t help. Then I tried the schoolmaster, but he was worse, and I was very glad to knock off for lunch. My routine work is no
t good,” he added sadly. “I become disheartened by rebuffs.”
“You’re learning, chum,” put in Reeves with his irrepressible grin. “You go on with the story.”
“Once Reeves had found out the lady’s name, it put fresh life into me,” said Giles Hoggett. “I felt I could go asking questions with much more authority, if you take me. I went back to old Bob Pritchard – he’s the harness maker – and asked him to tell me who were some of the older and more respected tenants in Albert Terrace, so that I was armed with an introduction as it were. I called on a Mr. and Mrs. Braithwaite and told them I’d come from Mr. Pritchard – and we had a real talk. Amos Braithwaite, (he’s eighty-two this year) had been coachman to old Dr. Johnson, and he remembered my Uncle Henry. Well, he remembered Mrs. Soper too, and her sister, who became Mrs. Garstang. The maiden name was Baring and their parents lived in Appleby.”
Here Giles Hoggett paused, as an orator might wait for applause, and Macdonald was quick in acclaiming the point.
“Bravo, Hoggett! Triumph of routine work!” he said, and Reeves added:
“What did I tell you? These stories do make sense if you stick to them. Ginner called himself Baring on some occasions – it was a name that was familiar to him, and that place Appleby’s somewhere north of Kirkby Stephen where the doctor said Mrs. Gold came from. It all fits. I bet young George Garstang-Ginner went up to stay at the old home in Appleby sometime.”
“Now it’s you who’s going ahead of your data, Reeves. You’re catching it from Hoggett,” said Macdonald.
Reeves chuckled. “All right, Chief – but it does make sense, all the same. We’re getting somewhere.”
Mr. Hoggett continued: “Amos Braithwaite had not a very high opinion of either Mrs. Soper or Mrs. Garstang. In fact he was distinctly uncomplimentary about the latter lady and seemed to think she’d got just what she deserved both as regard husbands and offspring – however, you’ll like to know some more of the family history. It’s very enlightening. Thomas Baring, father of Anne and Grace, who became Mrs. Soper and Mrs. Garstang, was an innkeeper. His daughter Anne married a railway man employed on the permanent way. Before they came to Chapelton-Lonsdale, the Sopers lived in Tebay. Do you know anything about Tebay, Macdonald?”
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 14