by John Bude
On the other hand, who was left? Janet Rother, Kate Abingworth, one of the farm-hands, Aldous Barnet…oh, damn it, the list, thought Meredith, could be prolonged indefinitely! If William hadn’t killed his brother then anybody might have done so.
He switched over to the known facts. Rother had been hit on the head with a blunt instrument—perhaps a spanner—fact easily deduced from the blood-stains on the inside of the tweed cap. The body had been removed—obviously by a second car—from Bindings Lane to some point where it could be dissected and hidden, ready for being placed piecemeal on the kiln. Footprints and car tracks were unavailable as evidence because of the three weeks’ drought preceding July 20th. Rother had been set upon some time between Saturday evening, say 7 o’clock, and 9.30 on Sunday morning when the tragedy had been discovered by Pyke-Jones. Had William Rother an alibi during those hours? And where was Janet Rother? And why the devil had Janet Rother been on the lawn that night with her brother-in-law with a suit-case in her hand? How had John Rother been lured to that lonely spot under Cissbury? Where had he run the car after leaving Chalklands for his holiday in Harlech? Why thirty miles instead of four and a half, which was approximately the distance between the farm and the scene of the assault?
Questions! Questions! Questions!
A constable knocked on the door, lumbered in and dumped a sack on the floor.
“From Worthing, sir.”
“Bones,” thought Meredith. “More bones. I bet John Rother never thought that part of his mortal body would be tied up in a sack and chucked on to the floor of a police office.”
He rose abruptly, stretched himself, glanced at his watch and suddenly remembered that his wife had ordered a cut of fresh salmon for his high tea. Confound this murder—he was hungry! He reached out for his peaked cap.
Chapter Four
The Littlehampton Aunt
On Tuesday, August 6th, the day after Bank Holiday, an inquest was held on the remains of John Fosdyke Rother, and the Coroner brought in a verdict of Murder by Person or Persons Unknown. There had been quite a lively discussion in police circles as to where the inquest should be held, since the body, or portions of it, had been discovered in so many widely different localities. Worthing seemed a reasonable place since most of the bones had been discovered in the borough, but in the long run it was decided that the Professor’s masterpiece, the skeleton, should be removed to the County Police headquarters, and the inquest was consequently held in Lewes.
The skeleton was not complete by all means; several of the smaller bones were still missing and, what was more vital, the skull so far had not been discovered. Why the head had not been passed through the kiln with the rest of the dismembered body remained a mystery to Meredith. After all, the skull would be the most incriminating section of the bone framework, since any fracture in the cranium would corroborate the fact of the blow or blows with the blunt instrument. Perhaps the murderer had been unable to divide the head into small enough pieces, for it was obviously out of the question to pass the complete head through the kiln without discovery. For one thing it would be too big, and for another, even a village idiot would recognize a human skull when he saw it. The probability was that it had been taken to some out-of-the way spot and buried.
The Professor’s exhibit made an interesting study. At every point where the framework had been sawn through he had marked the bone with red paint. One was thus able to see at a glance into how many pieces and where exactly the body had been severed. Meredith was amazed by the care, patience, and even skill, exercised by the murderer in so dividing the corpse that the bones would stand a minimum chance of discovery in the lime. It argued time and a good margin of safety while the gruesome job was being done. It must have taken hours for the murderer to have completed the task. There was, however, one unusual point which struck Meredith at once. He spoke to the Chief Constable about it.
“Where do you think he got rid of the clothes, eh, sir?”
“In the kiln, of course,” barked Major Forest. “What a dam’-fool question, Meredith! We shouldn’t have found the belt-buckle in the lime otherwise, should we?”
“No, sir—but what about his braces?”
“His braces?”
“Yes, Rother wore both belt and braces.”
“Nothing funny about that, is there? I often do myself. It’s a recognized symbol of pessimism.”
“Then where are the metal clasps off the braces? We found the belt-buckle.”
“Couldn’t they have been made of leather and webbing—no metal at all?”
“Possibly. Then what about his buttons? I reckon an ordinary coat or trouser button would go through the kiln without melting. Then there’s boot-nails, cuff-links, studs, and, possibly, a tie-pin. Why haven’t we found these, sir? It strikes me there’s still a good bit of mystery hanging around this case.”
“Something in what you say.” Major Forest eyed Meredith with a twinkle of unspoken approval. “You’re not such a dam’ fool as you look, are you? But thank heaven you didn’t start splitting these hairs in front of the Coroner, else we should never have got a verdict. And I don’t like untidy ends hanging around. After all, that buckle and disc left no loophole. Combine them with the poor devil’s bones and there was no question either of his identity or of how he met his end. What’s your move now? Interview William Rother, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got to find out what he did on that Saturday night and the early hours of Sunday. The case against him looks pretty black, you’ll agree, sir?”
“Very, and you’d better find out what that young lady was up to as well. I saw her after the inquest today with Barnet. She looks intelligent and happens to be extremely pretty. An almost criminal combination, Meredith.”
Out at Chalklands, William Rother and the Superintendent sat on the verandah, gay with its pink and scarlet tiers of geraniums. To a casual passer-by there was nothing to indicate the serious and even sordid trend of their conversation. Over the lawn a peacock butterfly was zigzagging and the drone of bees in the verbena clumps was as drowsy as the heat of the August afternoon. A chalk-waggon rumbled sleepily down foot-deep ruts, unseen from the house, where a high, clipped laurel hedge shut out all save the brown-flanked slope of Highden Hill, and the rolling ridge of downland which receded behind it. A cluster of cream roses ran up one of the latticed pillars of the verandah, disturbingly fragrant.
“You understand, of course,” Meredith was saying in his politest tones, “that all this questioning is a mere matter of routine. Police red tape if you like.” He noticed that the expression on the man’s face never altered. “First of all, can you give me the exact time that your brother left here for Harlech?”
William considered the question for a moment and then said:
“Within a minute or two of 6.15. I remember noticing the time on his dashboard.”
“And he always kept his car clock correct?” William nodded. “What exactly did you do after your brother left, Mr. Rother—I mean, were you up here at the farm all the rest of that evening?”
“No,” said William. “I went to Littlehampton.”
Meredith felt a sudden twinge of interest run through his veins:
“May I ask why?”
“Yes. I had a telegram to say that my aunt had met with an accident and was seriously injured in hospital there.”
“And the telegram was sent by?”
“A Dr. Wakefield. At least,” William corrected himself, “it was signed Wakefield.”
Meredith asked sharply: “What on earth do you mean? Wasn’t it sent by the doctor?”
William slowly shook his head and went on in a toneless voice: “I’ll tell you exactly what happened, Superintendent. At about twenty past seven this telegram arrived to say that my aunt was in hospital. It was addressed to John, but as he was out of reach I naturally opened it myself. I took out the car at once an
d drove as fast as I could to Littlehampton. When I arrived at the hospital nobody knew anything about my aunt. I next called on Dr. Wakefield, whom I knew slightly, and he denied emphatically that he had sent that telegram. On reaching my aunt’s flat I found her perfectly well—in fact in better health than she had been for some time. I stayed chatting with her for a space and then drove back here. From that moment to this I have no idea who sent me that telegram or why it was sent.”
“Have you kept the form?” asked Meredith anxiously.
“Yes—it’s here in my wallet. I expect you would like to see it?”
Meredith thanked him, took the proffered slip of paper and studied it closely. It read: Please come at once your aunt seriously injured in accident taken to Littlehampton General Hospital—Wakefield. It had been handed in at the General Post Office, Littlehampton, at 6.50—received Washington Post Office at 7.3 p.m.
“Do you mind if I keep this?”
“Not a bit,” concurred William, without interest.
“What time did the telegram reach you here?”
“About a quarter past seven, I imagine. You probably noticed that it was handed in at 7.3 at Washington. The boy then had to cycle up here with it.”
Meredith made a quick note.
“And what time did you leave in the car?”
“Oh, ten minutes or so later—between twenty and twenty-five minutes past seven as far as I can remember.”
“Thanks. And which way did you go to Littlehampton?”
“The direct route—turning right just before Findon and then on through Angmering.”
“Did you stop on the way at all?”
“Yes—I went right into Findon because I was short of petrol. I had two gallons put in at Clark’s Filling Station. I then drove back and took the fork I mentioned.”
“This is your own car, of course?”
“Yes—a Morris Cowley.”
“Have you any idea of the time you arrived in Littlehampton?”
“Yes—just as it was striking eight.”
“And you left?”
“Some time before nine—but I can’t say for sure.”
“Arriving here?”
“Ten, a quarter to—I really can’t say with any accuracy.”
“You returned direct without stopping?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve no idea at all why this faked telegram was sent?”
“No—none whatever.”
“And after you arrived home I suppose you went to bed?”
“After a drink and a look at the paper—yes,” said William, adding dryly: “I have no doubt that both my wife and Mrs. Abingworth will corroborate the time of my going to bed. Once in bed, Superintendent, I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it that I didn’t go out again until after breakfast on Sunday!”
Meredith laughed.
“Good heavens, sir—there’s no need to take that attitude to this perfectly usual cross-examination. I shall have to put your wife and Kate Abingworth through the same hoop. Your wife knows about this telegram?”
“Of course.”
“By the way,” added Meredith as he got out of his deckchair and knocked out his pipe, “did you return from Littlehampton the same way as you went?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s all, Mr. Rother, thanks. It’s been very kind of you to give me these details. No evidence is irrelevant in a murder case, you know. This faked telegram, for example, I shouldn’t have heard of it, perhaps, if I hadn’t put you through the routine questions.”
“You think the telegram may have something to do with the tragedy?”
“It would be curious if it hadn’t, wouldn’t it?” replied Meredith with an evasive smile. “Now could I have a word with your wife?”
Janet Rother, when she appeared on the verandah and took the deck-chair vacated by her husband, seemed to have regained some of her normal colour and vivacity since Meredith had last seen her. She offered no objection to the cross-examination and seemed quite ready to give detailed answers to all the Superintendent’s questions. Her evidence, however, was of a negative rather than a positive nature. Only two points seemed to have any direct bearing on Meredith’s investigations. The first was that, in her opinion, William had not reached Chalklands from Littlehampton until nearly half past ten. The second that she herself had taken a walk up to Chanctonbury Ring after John’s departure, and had not returned to the farmhouse until after dark. Probably, she said, about a quarter to ten. She upheld that it was quite usual for her to go off on long tramps like that as she was passionately fond of both walking and the downs themselves. Meredith then asked for a recent photograph of John Rother and brought the interview to an end.
Kate Abingworth, whom Meredith tackled in the kitchen over a cup of strong tea and a slice of homemade cake, had no concise idea of the time “Mr. Willum had returned that luckless night of Mr. John’s doing-away”. It might have been ten or half past. She remembered, however, that her mistress had come into the house just after the stroke of half past nine. Judy, the maid-of-all-work, left at six, and as she didn’t “sleep in” Mrs. Abingworth didn’t think “as she could give any h’evidence as could be called h’evidence like, her being a stupid girl anyhows and about as much good in the house as a bundill of faggits”!
“And what about the night when you saw Mrs. Rother on the lawn with Mr. John—when was that exactly?”
“A Saturday,” said Kate Abingworth promptly.
“Yes,” smiled Meredith, “but which Saturday?”
“The Saturday after Em ’urt her leg over at Arundel on a Thursday. I had a letter from my sister that same morning. Em’s her eldest and a ’andful of mischief at that, surr. Climbing she was over the cow-shed roof and the guttering come away from under her very feet. Lucky she weren’t—”
“Quite,” cut in Meredith, “but what was the date?”
“The date? Now that I don’t rightly recall, surr. But I still ’av Martha’s letter in my bag. I keep all ’er letters I do, for she writes that funny it’s like a book. She fair makes my ribs ache what with ’er—”
“Have you the letter handy?”
Kate Abingworth went to a sideboard on which lay a voluminous black hand-bag. After running through its overflowing contents, she drew out the letter and handed it to Meredith. He glanced at the post-mark—July 12th. After a quick calculation he realized that the 12th was a Friday and that the letter had reached Mrs. Abingworth on Saturday, July 13th. So this nocturnal, secret meeting between John and Janet Rother had taken place exactly a week before John set off on his holiday.
He went on: “You’re quite certain Mrs. Rother had a suit-case in her hand?”
“Yes, surr. ’Twas bright moonlight and I saw her ’and it over to ’im as clear as if it had been day.”
“How was it you happened to be looking out of the window?”
“Touch of newralgy, surr—which comes on me like a visitation off and on, so that what with trying one thing and another I’m always putting my ’and in my pocket to—”
At that point Meredith felt it politic to draw the interview to a conclusion and, after thanking the housekeeper for his cup of tea, he jumped into his car and set off for Findon.
Things certainly looked blacker than ever now against William Rother. That faked telegram was obviously his clumsy idea of obtaining an alibi whilst the murder was committed. Granted he went to Littlehampton, visited the hospital, the doctor and his aunt; but between the time of his departure from Littlehampton and his arrival at Chalklands he had committed the crime. Those were the two “times” over which he was uncertain, and his wife’s evidence tended to make his arrival at the farm appear later than he had suggested. Perhaps this aunt would be able to give a more concise idea of the time he had left her flat. William thought he had departed somewher
e about nine. Janet Rother declared he had not arrived at the farmhouse until 10.30. He had, therefore, taken approximately an hour and a half to cover the distance between the coast-town and Chalklands.
Drawing into the side of the road, Meredith felt in the door-flap of his car and pulled out his inch-to-the-mile map of the district. With a flexible steel rule he carefully scaled the distance. Thirteen miles at the most! An hour and a half to cover thirteen miles? It was incredible, absurd! William had assured him that he had returned by the direct route and had not stopped on the way.
Meredith experienced a thrill of satisfaction, a customary sensation when a ray of light penetrated a particularly murky problem. If only he could make certain of the time John Rother had been killed—that would drive the nail further home. He had left Chalklands at 6.15 by the clock on the Hillman’s dashboard. He had then driven about thirty miles, somewhere, for some unknown reason, before reaching the point under Cissbury Ring. Not that Meredith could calculate anything from that. Rother might have stopped for an hour, two hours, at any place en route while covering those thirty miles. Or he might have reached his fateful rendezvous and waited there for several hours before his murderer turned up and attacked him. He might have—
Meredith suddenly felt his heart quicken, whilst a surge of blood rushed through his ears. A quick excitement took hold of him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator. Fool! Blind fool that he was! He was cracking up in his old age. Fancy missing a point like that! He could imagine the withering scorn of the Old Man if ever he learnt the details of this piece of crass short-sightedness.
The clock on the Hillman’s dashboard was correct. During Rother’s last struggle in the car the dashboard dials had been smashed in and Meredith remembered now that the clock was not ticking. Which meant—that the clock would have stopped at the exact time the murder was committed!
Reaching Findon he drew up at Clark’s Filling Station, where John Rother’s car had been garaged since Pyke-Jones’ discovery. But before examining the car there was one other point about which Meredith wanted information.