The Sussex Downs Murder

by John Bude

  The Sussex Downs Murder

  John Bude

  With an Introduction

  by Martin Edwards

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1936, 2015 by John Bude

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library

  First E-book Edition 2015

  ISBN: 9781464203725 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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  Contents

  The Sussex Downs Murder

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  Map

  Introduction

  The Sussex Downs Murder is an ingenious and highly enjoyable detective novel. Since its original publication in 1936, it has languished in undeserved obscurity, and affordable copies have been almost impossible to track down, even though the author, John Bude, carved a successful career as a full-time crime writer for more than two decades. Bude’s first two detective stories, The Cornish Coast Murder and The Lake District Murder, which had been equally rare, have found an appreciative new public in the twenty-first century thanks to their reappearance as British Library Crime Classics. I suspect that Bude has more readers now than he did during ‘the Golden Age of murder’ between the two world wars, and his new fans will surely relish The Sussex Downs Murder, which shows a youngish writer quietly mastering the craft of entertaining mystification.

  This story is, to my mind, a conspicuous advance on his previous work, because of the range and quality of the ingredients. First comes the setting. Throughout his career, Bude’s careful depiction of place was one of his strengths. Here, the Rother family farmhouse, Chalklands, and the surrounding area, are convincingly realized, and in keeping with Golden Age tradition, we are supplied with a map to help us follow the events of the story after John Rother goes missing, in circumstances which at first (but deceptively) seem reminiscent of the disappearance of Agatha Christie.

  Second comes the plot. Bude’s growing confidence as a novelist is on display as he offers a pleasing sequence of twists and turns, dextrously shifting suspicion from one character to another, despite the relatively small cast list. A clever touch sees a significant clue planted at a very early stage in the story, while even the title of the book is significant. In common with many other Golden Age novelists, Bude borrowed plot elements from real life. The message which lures William Rother to Littlehampton General Hospital calls to mind the hoax at the heart of the legendary Wallace case, five years before this book was published. Crime writers ranging from Dorothy L. Sayers and Margery Allingham to Raymond Chandler and P.D. James have been fascinated by the Wallace mystery, and several good books have drawn on it. A sign of Bude’s skill is that the mysterious message forms only one of a host of complications facing Superintendent Meredith. Here, as in his previous book, Bude shows himself to be a disciple of Freeman Wills Crofts, most famous of the meticulous detective novelists of the Golden Age whose elaborately constructed puzzles tested the wits of countless readers.

  Third comes the detective. Meredith was introduced in The Lake District Murder, and proved such an appealing character that Bude not only relocated him from Cumberland to Sussex for this story, but also went on to feature him in most of his later novels. Meredith is modelled on Crofts’ Inspector French, both in his diligence and his love of a good meal, but has a stronger sense of humour, as well as a cheeky son who makes a telling contribution to the detective work. Meredith is no undisciplined maverick, and unfashionably (by modern standards) lacks both a drink problem and a tormented emotional life. But he is portrayed credibly—some of his early guesswork proves mistaken, but he keeps battling on—and with genuine affection.

  Fourth comes the manner of writing. There is nothing pretentious about John Bude’s work. He did not have the high literary ambitions of Sayers or Allingham, but his characterization is neat, and his touches of humour deft—one witness who claims to have ‘a psychic eye’ illustrates both qualities, while the brief final chapter is a nice touch. Bude’s humanity—evidenced here by Meredith’s reflections at the end of the story—also helps to lift this book out of the ‘humdrum’ category to which so many Golden Age mysteries have been consigned, often without much critical thought.

  The Sussex Downs Murder may not have made Bude rich, but it confirmed the promise of his earlier books. Bude’s real name was Ernest Elmore, and sound research was his hallmark. Sometimes he used personal experience as the basis for his settings; a spell as a games master at a school provided background for the wittily titled Loss of a Head, while holiday trips inspired Death on the Riviera and Telegram from Le Touquet. Like Crofts (and unlike most modern crime novelists) he made effective use of industrial backgrounds in novels such as Trouble-a-Brewing, Death on Paper, and When the Case was Opened.

  A quiet, sociable family man with a son and a daughter, he ran the local Home Guard during the Second World War, having been deemed unfit to serve in the forces. He enjoyed golf and painting, but never learned to drive (although his daughter Jennifer recalls that this did not deter him from pointing out to his wife when she should change gear). In 1953, he became a founder-member of the Crime Writers’ Association, and was a co-organizer of the Crime Book Exhibition which was one of the CWA’s early publicity initiatives. He lived near Rye, and was a popular and hard-working member of the CWA’s committee from its inception until May 1957. The following November, having just delivered the manuscript of what proved to be his final novel to his publishers, he went into hospital for an operation, and died two days later. He was only fifty-six, and one speculates that, had he lived another fifteen years or so, his body of work might have been impressive enough for his name to have remained reasonably well known to crime fans. It was not to be, and until the British Library took the initiative in reviving his early work, the merits of John Bude were remembered only by a select number of connoisseurs. Now, the reappearance of The Sussex Downs Murder should help to secure his reputation as one of traditional British crime fiction’s more accomplished craftsmen.

  Martin Edwards

  Chapter One

  The Opening of a Problem

  Dominating that part of the Sussex Downs with which this story is concerned is Chanctonbury Ring. This oval cap of gigantic beeches may be seen, on fine days, from almost any poin
t in the little parish of Washington. It is a typical village of two streets, two pubs, a couple of chandlers, a forge, an Olde Tea Shoppe, and a bus service. Although the parish is bisected by the main Worthing—Horsham road, it has managed to retain in the face of progress all those local peculiarities which have their roots in the old feudal system of government. There is still a genuine squire at the Manor House to whom the group of idlers outside the “Chancton Arms”, whatever their politics, instinctively touch their hats; whilst the well-being of the church rests in the conservative hands of the Reverend Gorringe, as typical a parson as ever trod the pages of Trollope. Farming is the main topic of conversation and most of the able-bodied men have taken to the plough as a kitten takes to milk. Scattered round the limits of the parish are farms whose owners have borne the same names for a score of generations.

  Three generations of Rothers had inhabited the long, low farmhouse known as Chalklands, which lay under the Ring. The upper arable land petered out on to the short-turfed slopes of the down, where John and William Rother, the present occupants, grazed their shorthorns. The Rothers had not always lived at Chalklands. Before the shrinkage of a considerable family fortune, the Rothers had owned Dyke House, and a number of John’s and William’s ancestors had been buried in a vault at Washington Church. It was claimed, on the evidence of family portraits, that the present John Rother was the spit and image of his great-grandfather, old Sir Percival Rother, who had died in the North Room at Dyke House and occupied the last remaining space in the family vault. Since that event the Rothers had contented themselves with a farmhouse and a rectangle of good earth in the churchyard.

  John and William were brothers, a fact which astounded strangers because they appeared to have nothing in common save their ancestry. John was bluff, rubicund, a stocky, rather loud-voiced, hail-fellow-well-met type of man; William slim, tall, and sensitive. John was practical, William imaginative. John was content to farm as his father had farmed and his grandfather before him; William, the younger brother and partner, was a theorist who believed in experiment. It was natural that a certain antagonism should have sprung up between the brothers. And the village had been quick to note that this dissension was not lessened when William suddenly married Janet Waring, daughter of a retired colonel, who had recently died at East Grinstead. Had William’s finances been healthier it was rumoured that he would not have taken his wife back to Chalklands. But John was the capitalist of the concern and William had to cut his cloth accordingly.

  The Rothers did not rely entirely upon farming for their income. They were lime-burners. Behind the house was a great white horseshoe of chalk, some forty feet high, into which the picks of diggers were for ever eating. To the side of the farmhouse were three lime-kilns, the creamy smoke of which eddied through a belt of shrubs and thinned out before reaching the gravel drive.

  On July 20th, 193—, a Saturday, a Hillman Minx was drawn up before the long, white-trellised verandah which projected over the lower windows of the house. John himself, with a suit-case in his hand, stood at the front door talking to Janet and William.

  “So it’s no use,” he was saying, “forwarding letters until I reach Harlech. I may break my journey at any point en route. I can’t stick being bound by an itinerary when I’m on holiday.”

  Janet smiled. “Like me, John. Have you packed everything?” Adding, “You know I don’t like to interfere on these occasions.”

  John nodded, stuck a tweed cap on his head, kissed Janet on the cheek, and held out his hand to William.

  “Well, you’re all set for three weeks, Will. Don’t forget Timpson’s order for that yard and a half, or Johnson’s load for Tuesday. See that he keeps up to scratch, Janet, and doesn’t me-ander about talking theories. There’s only one way of making lime, you know, Will, and that’s burning chalk. Well, good-bye.”

  William nodded and muttered something conventional about having a good time, as usual ignoring his brother’s slights, realizing that John was always disappointed if he didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Plenty of petrol?”

  “Four gallons, thanks—in a clean tank. I want to make a test run.”

  “Good—and you’ll reach Harlech…?”

  “Wednesday, at the latest,” said John as he climbed into the driving-seat. “So you’ll have to wait until then if you want any good advice.”

  Then, after several more clamorous good-byes and a great deal of waving, the Hillman shot off round the curve of the drive and vanished behind a hedge of clipped laurel.

  At that moment two other disconnected events took place. The parish clock chimed the quarter past six, and Pyke-Jones, the eminent Worthing entomologist, threw himself with a sigh of content into an arm-chair at the vegetarian guest-house known as the Lilac Rabbit. Pyke-Jones had just returned from a gruelling ramble with his net and specimen-case over the downs near Findon. It was his wont to patronize the Lilac Rabbit during week-ends, making Findon—a village about half-way between Worthing and Washington—his headquarters for these spirited attacks upon the local butterflies and beetles. He little realized as he sat there sipping his tonic-water, preparatory to his evening meal of nut-cutlet, salad, and raw carrot, that John Rother’s departure from Chalklands was to interfere with his plans for the following morning.

  He little realized as he set out at nine o’clock on the morning of Sunday, July 21st, that he was walking slap-bang into the middle of a tragedy. He was making for Cissbury Hill along a winding, sun-bleached lane which ran under the foot of the downs and eventually petered out in a lonely farmyard some four miles from the village. About half-way along this glorified cart-track, Pyke-Jones unlatched an iron gate which gave on to the open downside and began the gentle ascent, at that point dotted with thick and haphazard clumps of gorse. A hundred yards from the lane, much to his astonishment, he came upon a parked car. It had been shunted back between two large gorse bushes. The nearside door of the saloon hung open, and a few paces from the running-board a tweed cap lay, lining upward, on the turf. Impelled by curiosity Pyke-Jones stopped a minute to investigate, rather puzzled that the owner of the car should have been so careless as to leave the door open and his cap on the ground.

  Then a few feet away he stopped dead, uttered an exclamation of alarm and horror and went down on one knee. The inside of the tweed cap was covered with blood! There was blood on the running-board of the car, on the upholstery of the driving-seat, on the wheel itself. The triplex windscreen was starred in several places, whilst the floor of the saloon was littered with glass from the shattered dashboard dials. Not daring to touch the cap, he rose and called out in a high, quavering voice:

  “I say—is there anybody about? Is anybody there?”

  There was no answer.

  Thoroughly shaken, fearful of what might have taken place, Pyke-Jones hesitated a moment, wondering what he ought to do. Then pulling out a notebook he hastily jotted down the registration number of the car, and started off at a jog-trot for Findon.

  Two hours later Superintendent Meredith, who had recently been transferred from Carlisle to Lewes, was closeted with William Rother in the old-fashioned drawing-room at Chalklands.

  “There’s no doubt about it, Mr. Rother,” Meredith was saying, “it’s your brother’s car right enough. Your identification of this cap makes it even more certain. Have you any idea how the car could have got there, or where your brother is now?”

  “None whatsoever. I can’t understand it. My brother left here about six o’clock yesterday evening on his way to Harlech in Wales. He was intending to break his journey at one or two places of interest on the way. You say the car was found under the north side of Cissbury?”

  Meredith nodded.

  “Just off a cul-de-sac, Mr. Rother, which ends at Bindings Farm—four miles from Findon.”

  William, paler than usual, was obviously suffering under the stress of the unexpected events.


  “I know the place, yes. But why John should have taken his car down that lane is beyond my comprehension. You say the police have searched the surrounding part of the down and have found no sign of my brother?”

  “None. Nobody had noticed anything at Bindings Farm either. The Findon sergeant made inquiries there at once. The search is still going on, of course. The usual police broadcast will have to be issued, so I should like to have a description of your brother, Mr. Rother—height, build, complexion, clothes, distinguishing marks, and so on. Can you let me have these details now?”

  After the description had been taken down, Meredith closed his notebook and went on: “I know this must be a painful interview for you, Mr. Rother, but I’m afraid we must face up to facts. On the evidence to hand you can guess what we’re bound to suspect?”

  “Foul play of some sort?”

  “Exactly. There’s the possibility, of course, of attempted suicide, but I’ve a very strong reason for ruling out that explanation.”

  “Confidential I take it?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Rother. There are certain bits of evidence which the police, you know, like to keep hidden in their pockets. At present everything points to assault. Though so far it’s impossible to say when and why your brother was attacked. You know of nobody, I suppose, who might have done him injury? Anybody, for example, who bore him a grudge or so on?”

  William, after a second’s deliberation, shook his head.

  “My brother was, I think, pretty popular in the locality. He was reserved over his private affairs. I was never really in his confidence. As a matter of fact we didn’t quite see eye to eye over things—farming in particular.”

  “You’re in partnership here?”

  “Yes—both in the farm and the lime-burning business.”

  Meredith jotted down a couple of notes, looked up, and said after a moment’s thought: