‘Boys, Mr French!’ whispered M’Clung, his excitement causing him to revert to the speech of his fathers. ‘Did ever you see the like o’ that? It’s a grave!’
‘It’s a grave sure enough,’ French agreed, ‘and if it was made on that Friday morning as X.Y.Z.’s story suggests, it’s not hard to imagine whose body’s in it.’
M’Clung shook his head.
‘It looks like the major,’ he declared. ‘It’s hard to see who else could have done it.’
‘We’ll consider that later,’ said French, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s now after five o’clock and it’ll be dark in no time. Suppose you run back to Larne and ring up your chief and arrange with him about opening this up. I’ll stay here till you come back. I’m sure Superintendent Rainey will agree that Major Magill should be present at the opening. And if you ask me, mum’s the word. This should be sprung on the major.’
When M’Clung had gone French began slowly to pace to and fro. Certainly he agreed with the sergeant, this discovery did look bad for Major Magill. So far as he could see, no one but the major could have carried out the crime. No one else had the opportunity and the means. If the body of Sir John Magill lay here in this lonely plantation, it could only have been brought from Whitehead in a car, and who beside the major had on that night at once the necessary car, the motive and the knowledge?
In about an hour M’Clung returned and with him two constables from the Larne barracks. French joined them on the road.
‘I rang up the superintendent,’ said M’Clung. ‘He says we can’t open this up without an order from the Ministry of Home Affairs and he’ll get one tomorrow. He’ll come down first thing the day after. Meantime, Mr French, we’re to clear out now and these two men will watch the place.’
‘Right, Sergeant. What do we do then? Go back to Belfast?’
‘A matter for yourself, sir. You’d likely be more comfortable in Belfast, but if you stay over in Larne it will save you an early start. The superintendent is starting at six-thirty to get the major in before he leaves for town.’
‘You’re going back, are you?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Then I’ll go too.’
At thirty-three minutes past six two mornings later a large car left the city. In it were French, Rainey, M’Clung, two constables and Dr Finley, the police doctor. They retraced the road along which French had driven a couple of days earlier. The morning was exquisitely fresh and the colouring warm and vivid in the light of the rising sun. At a good speed they ran to Carrickfergus, then after a slack through the town, they pressed on again, until in just an hour and four minutes after starting they pulled up outside the gates of Lurigan.
For some minutes Rainey moved about, examining the grave and the lie of the surrounding land. Then with French he walked to the door and knocked.
‘Is Major Magill about yet?’ he asked the somewhat surprised-looking servant.
‘He’s in at breakfast, sir.’
‘Then give him my card and say that I should like to see him as soon as he has finished.’
They were shown into a drawing room on the right of the hall, from the bow window of which there was a fine view out over the sea. But they had not long to enjoy it. A thin, dark energetic looking man soon bustled into the room.
‘Good morning, Superintendent,’ he said doubtfully, holding out his hand. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Let me introduce Detective-Inspector French of the C.I.D.,’ said Rainey gravely. ‘We want to see you, Major Magill, on rather serious business, but we can wait till you’ve finished your meal.’
Malcolm Magill’s face changed.
‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is there any news? Anything about my father?’
‘There is some news,’ Rainey returned, ‘but, as I say, we can wait till you’ve breakfasted.’
‘Let’s get on right ahead with it now,’ said Malcolm briskly. ‘I was just finishing and I’ve had all I want. Will you smoke?’ He held out a gold cigarette case.
‘No, sir, thank you. We want you, if you’ll be good enough, to come out with us.’
‘Good Lord, but you’re darned mysterious,’ said Malcolm with a smile, though there was no laughter in his eyes. ‘Is it close by?’
‘Not five minutes away.’
As they left the house the Superintendent said in formal tones: ‘I have to tell you, Major Magill, that acting on information received, a search was made two days ago on this property.’ As he spoke his watch on the other was very keen. ‘A discovery was made, a very suggestive discovery, which may or may not prove important. Investigation of it was put off until this morning in order to have the benefit of your presence. This is the explanation of this early call. Here is the warrant under which we are acting.’
French, also watching keenly, saw the bewilderment in the major’s eyes change subtly to apprehension.
‘As I said, you’re darned mysterious,’ he repeated, but there was less assurance in his tone. ‘What is the nature of this discovery?’
‘You will see in a moment.’
By this time they had reached the point at which it was necessary to turn aside from the drive into the plantation. A moment more and they passed through the screen of trees and came in sight of the grave.
French found himself wondering whether anyone could show such signs of amazement as Major Magill did without really feeling it. Either the man did not know the grave was there or he was one of the best actors French had met. In somewhat shaky tones he gave vent to an oath and demanded of the superintendent what this thing meant.
‘That’s what we’re here to find out,’ Rainey answered. ‘We wondered if you would care to make any statement about it. You needn’t, of course, unless you like.’
‘Statement?’ Magill cried. ‘I? Good heavens, Superintendent, you don’t imagine I know anything about it, do you? I can assure you the thing’s an absolute mystery to me. What it means or who made it I haven’t the slightest idea!’
‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ said Rainey. ‘The suggestion made is that this is a grave and it looks like a grave, so we’re going to open it. It was necessary for you to be present while we did so.’
The hint underlying the superindentent’s words was not lost on Malcolm Magill. He paled somewhat and was evidently acutely uneasy. Both French and Rainey continued to watch him keenly. Two or three times he made as if to speak, but finally relapsed into silence, while a troubled look settled down on his features.
‘Now, men,’ said Rainey, after a short pause, ‘start in and open this up.’
Two constables armed with pickaxes and shovels stepped forward and began to remove the loose sods from the mound. But they had not got far before the group was hailed by a fresh voice. French, swinging round, saw Victor Magill approaching through the bushes.
‘Hullo, everybody!’ he called cheerily. ‘What’s all this about? Morning, Superintendent. I saw you from my window as I was finishing dressing. What on earth are you up to, Malcolm?’
At that moment he caught sight of the grave. He stopped dead and stood staring as if his eyes would leap out of their sockets.
‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed in changed tones. For a moment he stood motionless, then moved slowly forward.
‘What’s the idea?’ he went on. ‘Is this a treasure hunt? If so, don’t let me interrupt.’ But his attempt at facetiousness did not ring true.
It was Rainey who replied.
‘We don’t know what may be here, Mr Magill,’ he said gravely, ‘but we are just about to find out. We were hoping that Major Magill or perhaps yourself could give us some information.’
‘I shouldn’t think that was likely,’ Victor returned. ‘If either my cousin or myself knew anything that you should hear, you may be satisfied you would have heard it long ago.’
Victor spoke coolly, but French could see that he was deeply moved. He stood looking at the mound with a frown on his features as if he was unable to credit the evidence
of his senses. Twice French was thrilled to see him shoot little questioning glances at Malcolm’s pale, troubled face. But he was not showing the same evidence of emotion as Malcolm. A real dread appeared in the latter’s eyes and he was evidently unconscious of the fact that his hands were working convulsively.
A sense of impending disaster seemed to have fallen on all present. All remained silent, watching impatiently while the excavation slowly deepened. French was irresistibly reminded of a similar scene in which he had taken part—on the lonely Yorkshire moors near the ruins of the sinister old house of Starvel. There he had been searching for treasure—and had found a body. Here …?
But he had not so long to wait as he had expected. The excavation had scarcely reached a depth of two feet when one of the constables gave an exclamation.
‘There’s something here, sir,’ in evident excitement, and probing with his shovel. ‘See!’
‘Open it up,’ Rainey directed curtly.
The atmosphere grew more tense as the little group moved instinctively closer and stared more fixedly into the hole. The constables worked more energetically, carefully removing the earth. As they did so a form gradually became revealed. It was wrapped in rough canvas and it was that of a human body.
‘A stretcher, major,’ Rainey said in a low tone. ‘Can we have an old door or something?’
Major Magill nodded and with French and one of the constables moved towards the house. In the yard there was a small ramshackle wooden shed, and from this they tore the door. By the time they returned the remains had been cleared of earth, and they were reverently lifted on to the door. The canvas was rolled back, and there, unmistakable even to French, lay the smallish body and strongly marked features of Sir John Magill.
6
Lurigan: London: Belfast
Except for a hoarse cry from Malcolm as the shroud was lifted aside, everyone stood as if turned to stone, staring silently at all that was left of the late magnate. The remains were a ghastly spectacle, for time had already begun his terrible work. But of their identity there was no question. Apart from the formal identification given presently by both Malcolm and Victor, it was plain that here lay the original of the photograph.
Slowly the door with its grim burden was carried to the house and the preliminary examination began. French and M’Clung, setting their teeth, stripped off the clothes and took them to another room, while the doctor busied himself with the body. Rainey, evidently troubled by the problem with which he was faced in connection with Malcolm, hovered, frowning, between the two.
The clothes gave little of interest. The garments themselves bore no marks of any kind. Not even were they stained with mud or dust, as might have been expected from the condition in which the hat was found. The pockets contained just those articles which a man in Sir John’s position might be expected to carry. There was an old-fashioned but valuable gold watch, a knife, keys, a cigar case and loose coins to the value of 27s. 4d. In the pocket book were a number of cards bearing the words ‘Sir John Magill, 71 Elland Gardens, Knightsbridge, S.W.1.,’ the return half of a first-class ticket from Euston to Belfast via Larne, one or two unimportant letters, and notes amounting to £54 10s. On the little finger of the left hand was a ring bearing a large, blood-red ruby, worth in itself a considerable sum.
‘There’s only one thing here that many help us,’ French declared to Rainey.
‘The keys?’
‘Yes, sir. With luck we’ll find the key of Sir John’s safe and with luck we’ll find his will in the safe. The will should be useful.’
‘Too late to matter. Now that we’ve found the body we could get powers to open the safe.’
‘No doubt, sir, but the key will save trouble, seeing we’ve permission to use it. Incidentally the money and ring prove that the motive was not robbery.’
‘Well, we never thought it was.’ Rainey spoke irritably. He was looking worried and French had no doubt as to the cause. Clearly the man couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to arrest Major Magill. French could sympathise with his dilemma; it was one on whose horns he himself had often been impaled. If Malcolm vanished or committed suicide and were afterwards proved to be guilty, Rainey would be held to have shown unpardonable laxity and his very position might become precarious. On the other hand to arrest a influential man, a friend of the Ulster Prime Minister and intimate with the ruling classes, would, if he were found innocent, be an almost greater blunder. French said something of what was in his mind. ‘Yes, confound it,’ Rainey returned, ‘that’s just the trouble. If the man’s guilty and gives me the slip there’ll be the very devil to pay. If I charge him needlessly it’ll be worse. I’m considering holding my hand and waiting developments.’
‘I think you’d be wise, sir, if I may say so. In cases of doubt I’ve usually found it the best policy. It’s what we do at the Yard.’
‘I daresay you’re right,’ Rainey answered. ‘Hullo, here’s the doctor looking as if he wanted us.’
Dr Finley, the police doctor, was tall and thin and efficient-looking. As he joined the others he glanced round to see that they were alone.
‘You told me something about this case on the way down, Superintendent,’ he said, ‘from which I understood, rightly or wrongly, that Sir John had been the victim of a crime of violence. His bloodstained hat, for example, had been found?’
‘That’s right, Dr Finley. The hat was found and there were traces of blood and marks of a struggle on the ground at the place.’
‘Then you’d expect some signs of bleeding from the body?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘Well, there aren’t any.’
‘What?’ Rainey exclaimed. ‘No signs at all?’
‘None.’
‘Then what was the cause of death?’
‘I’m not absolutely certain. Before I give an opinion I must make an autopsy.’
‘Good heavens, doctor, this is very surprising! You evidently have a suspicion of what took place. You won’t tell us?’
‘I hardly like to put forward suspicions,’ Dr Finley returned. ‘If I make an autopsy I can tell you at once.’
Rainey shrugged, but made no further comment.
‘Right, doctor. I’ll get you the authority. You’ll want some help. Get whoever you think best and I’d be obliged if you’d push on with it as quickly as possible.’ Then as the doctor disappeared into the next room he turned to French.
‘What do you make of this, Inspector? It gives our theories a jar, what?’
‘It may settle your problem about Major Magill, sir.’
Rainey looked at him sharply.
‘Meaning?’
‘If that blood didn’t come from Sir John it must have come from the murderer. If it came from the murderer some trace would remain for twelve hours, a cut hand, a swollen lip or nose. Major Magill was at headquarters within twelve hours of the crime. The question is—Were there any signs of injury on him?’
‘Good, French, very good! I’ll swear there were no marks of any kind, but we’ll ask M’Clung.’ They strolled over to where the sergeant was at work. ‘You saw Major Magill when he called at headquarters on the morning after the murder. Any signs of injury or bleeding about him?’
For a moment M’Clung looked doubtful, then his expression cleared. He was positive there had been no such indications. Of course a man’s nose might bleed without leaving marks, but he was sure Major Magill’s had not bled from injury.
‘’Pon my soul, French, that’s very puzzling. If those drops of blood came from neither Sir John nor Malcolm Magill, who did they come from? Who else was there?’ He paused, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. ‘However,’ he went on, ‘there is something to be thankful for. This settles the hash about the major. Under the circumstances I wouldn’t be justified in arresting him.’
‘It would be wiser not, sir, if I might say so. Particularly if it turned out that death was from natural causes.’
Rainey swung round.
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br /> ‘From natural causes? Oh, come now, French. What about the struggle?’
‘I think, sir, there might be an explanation of that, but it’s admittedly a bit far fetched. Suppose the major, in going back towards Whitehead, found Sir John lying dead on the road. Or suppose that he found him in good health and that Sir John got a heart attack and died after they met. Sir John might have fallen and the major might have thought his head had struck the ground and would show a bruise. The major would see that he was in an awkward hole. He was alone with his father. It would be known that he was hard up and that he would stand to get a large sum at the old man’s death. He might get panicky that his story wouldn’t be believed and fake the struggle and bury the body.’
‘Your own argument: the blood?’
French grinned.
‘He could have cut his arm above sleeve level.’
Rainey smiled reproachfully and shook his head as he thought over this.
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ he admitted, ‘but to my mind it’s darned unlikely. However, we’ll keep it in view. Now, French, is there anything else? I must get in touch with the coroner and fix up about the inquest.’
The first question to be settled was whether the inquiry should be concluded immediately or adjourned for further investigation after the taking of formal evidence of identity. After considerable thought Rainey decided—rather against French’s advice—to recommend the former. He explained to the coroner, first, that the attention of the police had been called to the affair, not by the discovery of the body, but by Sir John’s disappearance, and that the time which had elapsed since that disappearance had enabled all the obvious inquiries to be made, and second, that such further investigation as might be desirable could best be made secretly, the publicity resulting from its being discussed at the inquest tending to defeat its aim.
All this seemed to French to be special pleading of a rather blatant kind and with some amusement he recognised in it Rainey’s endeavour to shift the responsibility of the arrest or otherwise of Malcolm Magill from his own shoulders to those of the coroner’s jury. If that august body should bring in a verdict of guilty against Malcolm his hand would be forced and he could not be blamed if Malcolm was afterwards proved to be innocent; whereas if in the face of the evidence the jury plumped for a person or persons unknown it would give him moral support in a policy of apparent inaction.
Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey Page 7