by John Bude
“Quite an understandable supposition,” agreed Meredith, who was deeply interested in the girl’s explanation. “Well?”
“Well, late that Thursday night I crept out of the house, went to the kiln, and burnt the diary.”
“But why choose the kiln?”
“Because in the summer the only other alternative was the kitchen-range, and I didn’t want to run the risk of interruption from Mrs. Abingworth or Judy.”
“I see. How big was the diary?”
“Oh, the usual pocket size.”
“Then why was the parcel under your arm so very much bulkier than that?” rapped out Meredith. “I know that it was. You can’t deny it.”
“I don’t. I decided that as I was going to destroy the diary I might as well clear my desk of a lot of private correspondence and burn that too. I wrapped the whole lot in a piece of brown paper.”
“You realize now, of course, how dangerous your action was in the light of what the police discovered later?”
“Of course. I was worried to death about it at first. Then later I began to realize that if I told the truth everything would be all right. I know it happens to be an almost unbelievable coincidence, but I’ve got enough faith in your judgment, Mr. Meredith, to know that you will believe me.”
Meredith smiled, but without humour.
“I must, Mrs. Rother—unless I can prove things to be otherwise than you have stated.” He went on after a moment’s reflection: “Was that the only occasion you went to the kiln?”
“Of course.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that on several days running your walking-shoes were coated with chalk-dust?”
Janet laughed and replied in bantering tones: “Because up here at the farm we are living on a mountain of chalk. You can’t walk anywhere without picking up the wretched stuff. You must have noticed this yourself, Mr. Meredith.”
Meredith made no answer to this suggestion, but switched over to another angle of approach.
“On July 20th, Mrs. Rother, you say that you walked up to Chanctonbury Ring and back after your brother-in-law had left in the Hillman.”
“That’s right.”
“Did anybody see you on the hill?”
“Possibly. I don’t really remember.”
“Supposing it was vital for you to produce a witness who could swear to have seen you that evening, could you do so?”
Janet hesitated, looked uncomfortable, and then shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Meredith glanced down at his open notebook.
“On July 13th, Mrs. Rother, a week before the tragedy, did you by any chance meet your brother-in-law on this lawn late at night?”
“Meet John late at night! What utter nonsense!” Janet broke into a ripple of unaffected laughter. “Where on earth did you get that idea from, Mr. Meredith?”
“You deny it?”
“Utterly. It’s absolute nonsense. Malicious gossip—that’s all. I can’t understand how these absurd rumours get about.”
“Thanks,” said Meredith, pushing himself up out of his chair. “I’m sorry to have bothered you with all this but it’s a very necessary part of our routine. Before I go there is just one other matter on which I should like a little information—a personal matter, Mrs. Rother. You’re not bound to answer the question, though I assure you that I could find out the answer in the long run from a reliable source.” (A boast which Meredith could have in no way substantiated.) “At present I understand that your husband is the sole heir to his brother’s estate. In the case of your husband’s death to whom would the money go? To you, I take it?”
Janet nodded, entirely misled by the Superintendent’s prevarication.
“Unless a codicil has been added to my husband’s will without my knowledge—that is the arrangement—yes.”
Satisfied that he could expect nothing more from the interview, Meredith again thanked the girl for her co-operation, bade her good-bye and got into his car, which was parked in front of the verandah.
On the homeward run, turning over all the evidence in his mind, he felt that he was now at a dead end. He had explored every avenue of investigation and in every case been brought up short by a blank wall. If Janet Rother had been telling lies then she was certainly a superlative liar. If not, then suspicion must swing back once more to her husband and the Cloaked Man.
After lunch at Arundel Road, Meredith returned to his desk and spent the afternoon catching up with the arrears of routine work which had accumulated since the opening of the Rother case. Half that night he lay awake trying to disentangle a few certainties from a confused mass of possibilities, parading the details in his mind and examining each one with the eye of an expert engaged in the job of selecting a genuine masterpiece from a collection of fakes. He returned to headquarters next morning tired, disgruntled, ready to jump on his subordinates’ slightest faults, sick to death of the whole confounded investigation.
When the ’phone-bell rang on his desk he picked up the receiver with a muttered “Damn their eyes!” and snapped out “Yes—what the devil is it now?”
“Toll call just come through for you, sir,” said the level voice of the constable on duty. “Refuses to give a name. Must speak to you direct. Shall I switch them over?”
“If you must,” growled Meredith, settling himself more comfortably in his chair to take the message.
“Hullo—yes. Meredith speaking. What’s that? Who? Yes—I’ve got that. What’s the trouble? What! Good heavens—when?” He was no longer sprawling in his chair, but sitting bolt upright, tense, interested, rapping out his questions with his brain working overtime. “When did you make the discovery? Yourself. I see. Nothing been touched, I take it? Good. I’ll ring through to your local station and get Pinn to come up at once. Yes, I’ll be over myself just as soon as I can make it. Terrible shock for you—you had no idea, of course, that anything like this might happen? No—I must confess it’s given me a pretty considerable jar too. Totally unexpected. Well, I won’t waste time. I’ll get through to Pinn at once. Good-bye.”
As Meredith, now alight with a new energy, swung away from the ’phone, Major Forest stamped into the room and took up a dictatorial position by the fire-place.
“Look here, Meredith—I’ve been chewing things over. Last night, in fact—at it for hours. Got a damned headache now. But here’s the result for what it’s worth. Taking into consideration all the evidence, it’s obvious to me that William Rother was an accessory both before and after the fact. Can’t get away from the evidence. You’re bound to keep him on your list of suspects. No, don’t interrupt, Meredith. You see, if you consider the fact that—What the devil is it? Are you sitting on a tack or what? Come on, man, out with it! What’s the matter with you?”
“William Rother, sir.”
“Well—you agree, eh? Under suspicion, eh?”
“Maybe, sir,” said Meredith slowly, “but we can never make an arrest.”
“What on earth do you mean ‘Never make an arrest’? Why not?”
“Because,” said Meredith grimly—“because William Rother was found dead this morning at the foot of the chalk-pit out at the farmhouse. His wife’s just rung through.”
Chapter Eight
Confession
When Meredith arrived at Chalklands, accompanied by the Chief Constable, he found Janet Rother waiting agitatedly for him on the verandah. It was obvious that she had been on tenterhooks for the first sound of the police car. She came forward without any attempt to conceal her emotions and grasped Meredith by the sleeve.
“Oh, thank heaven you’ve come, Mr. Meredith! It’s awful to think of him lying out there without my being able to do anything. It’s been a terrible shock. My nerves have been quite enough on edge without this—first John and now my husband. It’s seems as if there’s a curse on us all up here.”
“N
ow calm yourself, Mrs. Rother,” said Meredith in a paternal voice. “We shall need to ask you some questions, so you must keep a clear head. By the way, let me introduce you to Major Forest, our Chief Constable.”
The girl, obviously struggling to repress her feelings, shook hands with the Major and led the two men round the side of the house to where a little wicket-gate in the courtyard gave out on to the stretch of waste land below the pit. As they crossed this to where the constable and one or two farm-hands were grouped, Meredith asked:
“What time did you discover the tragedy, Mrs. Rother?”
“About eight o’clock—about an hour before I rang you. You see I couldn’t believe he was dead. I sent one of the men on his bike to fetch Dr. Hendley. After he had made his examination I rang you.”
“Is the doctor here now?”
“No. He said he would return about eleven so that he could have a word with you.”
“Did he say anything as to the cause of death?”
“Only that he thought William must have been walking along the top of the pit, missed his footing, and fallen over.”
By then they had reached the little group standing and conversing in low voices about the recumbent figure on the ground. Meredith turned to Janet Rother.
“I don’t think it is necessary for you to go through all this, Mrs. Rother. If I were you I should go back into the house and lie down for a bit. Perhaps later, when you’re feeling better, we could have a little talk, eh?”
The girl, who looked terribly white and strained, nodded without speaking, turned on her heel and walked slowly back to the house.
Constable Pinn touched his hat, obviously impressed by the fact that the Chief had thought it necessary to put in an appearance.
“Nothing been touched, sir. I seen to that.”
“Good,” said Meredith. He turned to the little knot of farm-hands. “Rotten affair this, eh, men?”
“You may well say that, surr. First Mr. John and now Mr. Willum,” answered one of them. “I reckon that’s where ’ee come over—up there where the wire be all snapped. See?”
Meredith followed his outstretched arm to where the rusty and dilapidated wire fence which edged the top of the pit hung down in a number of spidery strands.
“Looks like it. Well, I suppose accidents will happen. Now if you fellows don’t mind we want to have a bit of private talk about this. Understand?”
“Ay, surr. If there’s anything you’ll be wanting to know you’ll find Luke and Oi down under the kilns. We’re loading up, see?”
“Thanks,” said Meredith as the men, nodding and mumbling amongst themselves, trudged off toward the farm. “Now then, sir, shall we take a look at the body.”
William Rother lay flat on his back, one cheek pressed against the broken chalk which had accumulated at the base of the cliff. One arm was stretched out straight, whilst the other was bent back curiously under the body. His face was streaked with blood, whilst more blood had soaked into the porous chalk pillowing his head. There was a deep and ugly gash in his left temple. He was wearing a sports coat, grey open-necked shirt, and flannel trousers. It was obvious from the way the inert body huddled to the ground that Dr. Hendley had not found it necessary to make more than a cursory examination to realize that Rother was dead. He lay there just as he had fallen.
“Well, sir?”
“Well?”
“Accident, eh?”
“Looks like it. Can’t be sure. Looks a sensitive sort of fellow, Meredith. He knew that you were running him pretty hard as a suspect, didn’t he?”
Meredith agreed.
“After all, sir, things were black against the poor devil and he must have realized it from the start. What are you suggesting?”
“Suicide, Meredith—suicide through fear of being found out. We’d better comb through his pockets. He may have left a chit for the Coroner. A weakness of suicides, eh, constable?”
Flattered beyond measure at being asked for an opinion by the Chief, Constable Pinn could only manage a noncommittal gurgle well back in his throat and a tug at the collar of his tunic.
“I’m glad you agree,” smiled Major Forest. “Well, Meredith?”
“Penknife, fountain-pen, wallet, pipe, tobacco-pouch, matches, one or two opened letters, and—”
“What did I say!” crowed the Chief, as Meredith drew a sealed envelope out of Rother’s inside breast-pocket. Adding, as he examined the writing on the envelope: “Here, this is addressed to you, Meredith. Bulky by the feel of it. What d’you suppose it is, a confession?”
“Maybe, sir,” said Meredith as he took the letter and carefully slit it open. He pulled out two or three sheets of closely written type. Appended at the foot of the last sheet was William Rother’s signature in ink. Meredith glanced quickly over the contents, looked across suddenly at Major Forest, and let out a whistle of astonishment. “By Jove, sir, it’s more than that! It’s not only a confession, but by the look of it a detailed account as to how the crime was committed. I reckon you’re right. Our suspicions drove the poor devil to commit suicide.” He stared across the waste land toward the farmhouse. “Hullo—who’s this? We’d better examine this letter later on, eh, sir?”
The new arrival proved to be Dr. Hendley, a short, stout, wheezy man, more like a farmer than a doctor, with his ruddy complexion and muscular physique.
“Well,” he announced, after introductions, “no doubt how the poor chap met his death, gentlemen. That deep gash in the left temple is nasty enough to have killed him twice over. He must have hit a jagged lump of chalk as he fell—penetrated to the brain. Death must have been instantaneous.”
“An accident?” asked Major Forest. “Is that your opinion?”
Dr. Hendley laughed.
“That’s for you to find out, isn’t it? I’m only here to suggest the cause of his death. Personally I’ve always considered that path along the top of the pit a veritable death-trap. You can see for yourselves how near the wire fence and the path are to the lip of the cliff. You see what’s happened, of course? They’ve dug the chalk away from the face of the pit as far as they dared without setting back the fence and making a new path. That’s the rural temperament all over. Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow.”
Major Forest smiled.
“I take it that you’re a city-man, Dr. Hendley. Otherwise this libel might extend to you. Well, you’ll let us have the usual signed statement of your findings? We’ll let you know the date of the inquest. And, by the way, you might drop in and have a look at Mrs. Rother. This affair has left her pretty shaken. Thanks. Good-bye.”
The moment Dr. Hendley had retired, Meredith, who was down on one knee examining the body, straightened up and said slowly: “Funny thing about this wound, sir. You’d expect to see chalk particles adhering to the flesh round that gash, wouldn’t you? Well, there isn’t any sign of chalk. I suppose it must have been washed away by the flow of blood.”
The Chief nodded, without paying much attention to the observation, and suggested that two of the men be fetched from the kiln to carry the body into the house. Whilst Pinn went to collect the farm-hands, he and Meredith climbed a steep little track which made a détour round the shelving end of the pit and came out on the path which edged the forty-foot drop. Dr. Hendley was right—in some places the path no longer existed, for large portions of undermined subsoil and turf had collapsed, leaving a gap in the rough track. At these points the wire fence, no longer supported, stretched flimsily in mid-air from one side of the gap to the other.
“Curious,” said Meredith. “You’d have thought that Rother would have chosen one of these gaps instead of a point where the wire had to be broken through.”
The Chief disagreed.
“He wanted to make sure, Meredith. And to do that he needed a clear leap into space. If he had dropped behind the fence into one of the g
aps, he might have just bounded down the face of the cliff and only injured himself.”
Meredith saw that point at once and gingerly leaning forward he caught hold of one of the severed strands of wire and drew it in toward him.
“Cut,” he announced. “Pair of pliers or wire-cutters, I imagine. They must be lying around somewhere, sir.”
A few seconds’ search rewarded them. A stout pair of pliers lay almost at their feet, partly hidden by a big clump of thistle.
As Meredith slipped them into his pocket he nodded toward a near-by cluster of beech trees.
“What about sitting over there in the shade, sir, and having a run through the letter.”
Once seated with their backs against a giant bole, pipes drawing, Meredith slipped out the typewritten sheets and began to read. The letter bore no date or heading. In the left-hand top corner Rother had typed: To Superintendent Meredith, Sussex County Constabulary.
In cases of this sort it is customary, I realize, for the Coroner to bring in a verdict of Suicide Whilst of Unsound Mind. I want to dispel this polite illusion at once. I am setting about this business with a logicality that must preclude any suggestion of insanity. The whole thing had been too much for me so I am putting an end to it. As the “means” by which I do this lies within your province, I will save you the trouble of a lengthy investigation before the inquest by describing exactly how I intend to end my life. Tonight when everybody is asleep I shall walk up on to the top of the chalk-pit to a point I have already selected. Once there I shall sever the wires of the fence with a pair of pliers, walk a few steps back and then jump outward so that my body will clear the face of the cliff. You see how simply and logically the job has been thought out?
Now I come to a more vital point—the reason for my actions. To a certain extent I know you have already formed a very strong suspicion about other actions of mine. You have cross-questioned me on the matter. I have been hounded by an accusing conscience, gradually increasing in intensity, ever since that terrible night of July 20th. I have had scarcely any sleep. My thoughts have been centred on one subject. The last few weeks have existed for me as a waking nightmare, made more awful by the thought that it was a nightmare which had no end for me. So I have decided to kill myself. And the reason?