The Sussex Downs Murder

by John Bude

  “You realize that there is one rather confusing factor in this case, Mr. Rother?”

  “I don’t quite—?” began William.

  “If we assume that your brother was assaulted—where is he now? A wounded man would not get far without causing attention, particularly in a country district.”

  “Perhaps he was attacked late last night,” suggested William, “and then wandered off and collapsed somewhere on the downs.”

  Meredith shook his head.

  “I thought the same thing at first, sir—but the trail of blood ends a few paces from the car. That’s pretty pointed, isn’t it?”

  “Why? I don’t quite see—?”

  “Surely it suggests the assailant worked with a second car and possibly a confederate. Your brother must have been driven off, unconscious perhaps, in order to remove him as far as possible from the scene of the attack.”

  “But for what reason, Mr. Meredith?” William had grown more and more agitated as the Superintendent’s level voice dealt with the official possibilities of the tragedy. “The whole thing seems senseless! Why was my brother attacked? Who attacked him? How the devil did his car get under Cissbury Ring when it should have been en route for Harlech?”

  “If I could answer those questions, sir, the police investigation would be at an end. There is one fairly feasible explanation of his removal by a second car. Kidnapping, with the idea of extracting ransom-money.” Meredith gave a crooked smile. “An unfortunate criminal habit which has been imported to this country from the United States. But that’s theory only. There’s nothing so far to suggest that this is the case.”

  There was a long pause during which William rose uneasily, strode to the french windows and stared out over the lawn.

  “Tell me, Superintendent,” he asked, obviously finding it difficult to control his emotion, “what are the chances?”

  “Of what, sir?”

  “Of my brother still being alive?”

  Meredith hesitated, shrugged his shoulders and then said with typical caution: “It’s too early, sir, to say anything definite. I suppose it’s about fifty-fifty. We may know considerably more inside the next twenty-four hours when these particulars of your brother have been issued to the police. There’ll probably be an S O S broadcast as well, if nothing comes to light within the next few days. Until then, Mr. Rother, I should hang on to the old saying: ‘No news is good news.’’’

  He rose, took up his peaked cap from the piano, and added: “By the way, Mr. Rother—what was your brother’s mood when he left you last evening? Did he seem depressed, apprehensive, nervous?”

  “No—I should have said he was in a perfectly normal frame of mind.”

  “What did you talk about—anything in particular?”

  “Oh, just trivial matters—about some orders for lime which had to be sent off. I remember asking John if he was all right for petrol.”

  Meredith registered this detail, pondered, and then suddenly demanded: “Did he answer that question?”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember what he said?”

  “Perfectly. He said, ‘Four gallons, thanks—in a clean tank.’’’

  “Meaning, I suppose, that he had emptied his tank and filled up with exactly four gallons?”

  “That’s the idea. It was a fad of his on long journeys to estimate his exact mileage per gallon.”

  “Have you any idea what his car did to the gallon?”

  “About forty, I think. Perhaps less.”

  “Thanks,” said Meredith. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Rother. You may depend on me to let you know the results of our investigations at once. Are you on the ’phone?”

  William shook his head.

  “We’re rather off the beaten track here, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I’ll ring through to your local station and the constable can cycle up if anything comes to light.”

  William took the proffered hand and shook it warmly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Meredith,” he said as he escorted him towards the door. “I’m naturally worried to death over this affair. Your consideration is a great help. I don’t know how I am going to break the news to my wife. She’ll be back from church at any minute now.”

  “She was fond of your brother?” inquired Meredith as he edged diplomatically through the door.

  “Very,” said William dryly. “They had a great deal in common. In fact I’ve always upheld—” He broke off with an apologetic laugh. “But, look here, Superintendent, I mustn’t waste your time with family affairs. This way—to the left.”

  As Meredith sat beside the police chauffeur on his way back to Findon, he felt he had gained little from his interview with William Rother. He hoped that the missing man would turn up within the next twenty-four hours and thus put an end to an annoying routine case. The only original factor present at the moment was Rother’s disappearance, and should he turn up, the case and the mystery would automatically come to an end. If he didn’t turn up—Meredith smiled to himself—but that was ridiculous! You couldn’t spirit a man away, alive or dead, with the ease of a conjuror disposing of a rabbit in a top-hat. Rother would turn up right enough, and the case would resolve itself into the usual “assault by a homicidal maniac” or something of the sort—a motiveless, callous crime, yet all the more unpleasant because accidental in origin.

  “On the other hand,” he thought, “that wouldn’t explain away the presence of John Rother’s car under Cissbury Ring. Four gallons of petrol in his tank, eh? Exact. That’s about the one valuable bit of evidence I’ve got from this interview, I reckon.” He turned to the constable at the wheel. “I want you to take me back to the scene of the crime, Hawkins. Can you empty a petrol tank for me and measure the contents?”

  “Easy sir—if we pick up some two-gallon cans at the Findon garage.”

  At the Findon Filling Station the cans were placed in the car and the two men turned off the main road, swung left into what was known locally as Bindings Lane, and drove along under the downs. A constable was standing guard over the Hillman, and already a small knot of sensation-seekers, mostly children, was grouped round the car. There was nothing further to report and so far all the searchers in the locality had drawn a blank. Hawkins loosened a union-nut on the carburettor feedpipe, therefore, and carefully drained off the petrol into the cans.

  “I’ll take an accurate measure of that back at headquarters,” said Meredith. “How much is there roughly?”

  “About a can and a half, sir,” said Hawkins.

  Meredith, after arranging with the constable for the Hillman to be taken to the Findon garage, jumped into the police car and was driven back to Lewes—a matter of some twenty-five miles.

  Once in his office he got to work with a graduated beaker and made an accurate measurement of the petrol from Rother’s tank. Just as he had completed the job, there was a brisk rap on the door, and the Chief Constable, Major Forest, stumped into the room. He stumped everywhere—a brusque, stocky, energetic little man with a bristly moustache and semi-bald head. Although curt to the point of rudeness he was liked by his staff, who recognized his almost demoniac efficiency.

  “Hullo, Meredith. What’s the game? Don’t you ever have a day off?”

  “It’s this Rother case, sir.”

  “Oh, that abandoned car affair. I saw your report on my desk. Make anything of it?”

  “Not yet. It looks like assault.”

  Major Forest agreed.

  “And what the devil are you up to here? The whole place reeks of petrol. Trying to burn down the station as a protest against long hours, eh?”

  Meredith explained what he had learned from William Rother at Chalklands.

  “Well—what’s the result? Come on, Meredith, don’t look cunning. You’ve found out something.”

  “There’s about thre
e and a quarter gallons unused, sir. Rother left Chalklands with exactly four in the tank. His car does about forty to the gallon. So by a simple deduction—”

  “All right! All right!” cut in the Chief. “You can cut out the mathematics. What you’re trying to tell me is that Rother had done about thirty miles before he parked his car under Cissbury.”

  “Exactly, sir. And it’s about four and a half miles direct from Chalklands.”

  “Which proves?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Umph—that’s a great help!”

  “Nothing at the moment. The data may be useful later on. You see, sir—”

  “Oh, well, go about the job in your own pig-headed way. I never could understand your methods. You’re thorough but finicky. Like a bally woman over details. But far be it from me to interfere. It’s your case. If Rother doesn’t turn up within three days we’ll have his description broadcast from London.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Three days later the unemotional voice was announcing:

  “Before I read the general news bulletin, here is a police message. Missing since Saturday, July 20th, John Fosdyke Rother, aged thirty-nine, height five feet eight inches, of stocky build, ruddy complexion, hair greying at the sides, blue-grey eyes and clean shaven. When last seen Mr. Rother was wearing a light brown plus-four suit, light brown hose, and brown brogue shoes. Probably hatless. His car was found abandoned under Cissbury Ring a few miles inland from Worthing early on Sunday, July 21st. It is believed that Mr. Rother may be wandering with loss of memory. Would anybody who can give any information as to his present whereabouts please communicate with the Chief Constable of the Sussex County Constabulary—Telephone Lewes 0099—or with the nearest police station.”

  That was Wednesday, July 24th.

  A week later John Fosdyke Rother was still missing and the Superintendent had not advanced a single step along the path of his investigation. It seemed, for all Meredith’s ridicule, that the missing man’s assailant had achieved the impossible—the rabbit had been spirited away out of the top-hat.

  “And that,” thought Meredith, “scarcely argues the work of a homicidal maniac.”

  Already it looked as if the police were up against a carefully planned and cleverly executed murder, and, what was more, a murder without a corpse!

  Chapter Two

  Bones

  “Well, whatever it is, mate,” said Ed with a profound air of conclusion, “it didn’t ought to be there.”

  “You’re right,” nodded Bill. “Spoils the mixing when you finds lumps of what didn’t ought to be there in the lime. Spoils the slack—to say nothing of the mortar.”

  “I wonder what the ’ell it is anyway,” said Ed, holding up the piece of foreign matter which had been tipped out of the lime-sack into the big bowl of sand made ready for mixing the mortar. “Looks like a bit of bone, don’t it?”

  “’Ooman bone,” added Bill with a gruesome twist of the imagination.

  “Dog’s bone more like,” said Ed as he tossed the object in question on to a near-by heap of rubble. “Now don’t stand there growing old—’and me that can of water and let’s get this lot mixed.” Adding with a look of scorn: “You and your ’ooman bones. You got a criminal turn of mind, you ’ave.” Then brightening a little: “Mind you, Bill, things—relics as you might say, ’av been found in queerer places than a bag of lump-lime afore now. I once ’eard of a chap out Arundel way ’oo found a ’ooman skull in an old chimney what ’ee was pulling down. Norman they reckoned it was—though ’ow the ’ell they knew the poor devil’s name on the evidence of ’is ’ead only, Gawd knows!”

  Ed expectorated into the seething pool of lime which he was now slaking with water, and his mate began to stir in the sand. They were laying the foundation of a new wing which was to be added to Professor Blenkings’ “desirable mansion” facing the sea-front at West Worthing. This gentleman, a retired professor of anatomy, was at that moment crossing the lawn from the summer-house, where he had been indulging in a post-prandial nap. The raised voices of the bricklayer and his mate drew him back to the realization that, after months of argument with his architect, the new wing was actually under way. He felt affable and, in consequence, talkative.

  “Afternoon, men.”

  The two labourers touched their caps.

  “’Noon, sir.”

  “Getting along all right?”

  “As well as may be,” said Ed with a wink to Bill. “Though my mate ’ere claims to ’av found a ’ooman bone in the last lot of lime what’s come from the builder’s yard.”

  “A human bone!” The Professor twiddled his green sun-glasses. “That’s interesting. Very. I happen to have made a lifelong study of bones. I should like to see it.”

  “I was only pulling your leg, sir. It’s just the tail-end of a dog’s dinner if you really want to know. I threw it on that ’eap.”

  The Professor followed the line of Ed’s out-stretched hand, took a pace forward, peered, and let out a sharp exclamation.

  “But good gracious! How extraordinary! Your friend’s right. It is a human bone.” He reached down, picked up the specimen and turned it over apprisingly in his hand. “A full-grown male femur. Almost intact too. Most interesting.”

  “Femmer?” inquired Ed, pushing back his cap and scratching the top of his ear. “What’s that, eh?”

  “Thigh bone—the longest bone in the human frame.”

  “And ’ow the devil did a ’ooman thigh bone get into that bag of lump-lime? That’s what I’d like to know,” said Ed in a profound voice. Adding darkly: “And that’s what we ought to know, sir. You can see that.”

  “It’s certainly unusual, I agree.”

  “It’s more, sir—it’s more than that. A lot more. Don’t you see?”

  Ed was now thoroughly agitated.

  “See what?” The Professor was a little bewildered by the other’s vehemence.

  “That it’s a matter for the police,” contested Ed. “Maybe there’s a natural explanation. Maybe there’s not. Maybe that there femmer was not put in that lime-bag by accident. Maybe it’s—”

  “Yes—maybe it’s murder!” cried Bill, determined to take all the wind out of Ed’s dramatic dénouement.

  “Murder!” exclaimed the Professor incredulously. He had been dealing with human bones for so many years that he had almost forgotten that, clothed in flesh, human bones walked and talked and breathed.

  “Yes,” nodded Ed. “When a chap’s done another chap in ’ee’s got to get rid of the corpse, ain’t ’ee?”

  “Then in that case—” began the Professor, now really upset. “You think I ought to inform the police?”

  Ed was emphatic. “I do, sir. And at once. We don’t want no trouble to come our way over this, do we, Bill?”

  “Then I’ll ’phone! I’ll ’phone the station at once.” Already the Professor was trotting up the path, with the thigh-bone tucked under his arm like an umbrella. “Dear me! Murder. Most interesting.” He met his housekeeper in the hall and waved the bone in her face. “It’s murder, Harriet. So the workmen say. I must ’phone the police. We don’t want trouble to come our way over this.”

  Twenty minutes later Sergeant Phillips of the Worthing Borough Police was interviewing the little group in the garden. His questions were brief and to the point. In five minutes he had collected all the necessary data and jotted it down in his notebook. The men worked for Timpson & Son, Builders and Contractors, in Steyne Road. They had no idea from whom Timpson’s bought their lime, but Fred Drake, the yard foreman, would be able to supply the information. The Professor explained that he had recognized the bone, at once, to be a femur. In his opinion the bone had been sawn through at either end with a surgical saw, probably to sever it from the rest of the body. He had no idea how old the bone might be, but it was certainly that of an adult male
of average height. It was difficult, of course, to gauge the original build of a man with any accuracy from the bone-structure alone. It did not necessarily mean that the femur of a fat man would be bigger than that of a thin man. It was a most extraordinary affair—unprecedented, the Professor imagined, and he sincerely hoped that there had been no crime to account for the bone’s presence in the bag.

  At Timpson’s the sergeant found the yard foreman washing his hands under a tap.

  “Fred Drake?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I want a little information.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That bag of lime which was delivered this morning at Professor Blenkings’ place on the front—where did it come from?”

  “Rother’s,” said the foreman. “Rother’s of Washington. Know ’em?”

  The sergeant nodded. He knew, what was more, about the disappearance of John Rother. To his mind it already seemed that the thigh-bone, wrapped up in brown paper under his arm, would have to be handed over to the County Police. Light was already dawning. He had clasped the link almost by instinct.

  “When did this particular load come in?”

  “Yesterday. A yard and a half.”

  “Delivered in bags?”

  “No—our chaps put it in the bags as it’s wanted. We dump it in that big shed down there.”

  “Any other been sent out from that dump?”

  “No.”

  “Right—then see that the shed is locked up and the lime not interfered with until we pay you another visit, Mr. Drake. They’ll explain to Mr. Timpson in due course from the station. Thanks for the information. Good day.”

  Superintendent Meredith whistled into the ’phone when the news came through from Worthing.

  “So that’s the way the wind’s blowing, is it? Well, look here, Sergeant, I’ll be right over to collect that thigh-bone. In the meantime get that dump at Timpson’s sifted by one of your men. If anything further turns up ring that professor fellow and arrange for him to meet us at your place at six o’clock.”

  Once settled into the police car on the way to Worthing, Meredith ignored Hawkins and began to readjust his outlook to this new slant on the case. That the thigh-bone was John Rother’s he did not doubt—it was quite inconceivable that these two extraordinary, even sensational factors connected with the Rother ménage should bear no relation to each other. A man named Rother is attacked in a lonely spot, killed, and the body removed from the scene of the crime. A male femur is found about ten days later in a load of lime which had come from the Rother kilns. Surely the intermediate events could be construed something in this manner: The murderer or murderers having killed their victim were faced with the necessity of ridding themselves of the body. They believed, no doubt, that it would be some few days, even weeks, before the abandoned Hillman would be found in that isolated spot under Cissbury Ring. If in the meantime, therefore, they could dispose of the body, there was a good chance of them making a get-away, probably to the Continent, before the crime was discovered. Secondly, the body in a murder case may render up clues to the police, quite unanticipated by the murderer. But dispose of the body and these clues would be, ipso facto, unavailable.