by John Bude
At this point the Coroner broke in to ask with a suave smile: “Have the police any further evidence with which to substantiate the claim that this document was not typed by the deceased?” Mr. Oyler knew the answer, as it happened, but he had to put these more-or-less rehearsed queries in order to guide the jury.
“Yes, sir, they have. Last night, in the ordinary course of my investigations, I tested the envelope and typewritten sheets for finger-prints.”
“With what result?”
“I found two sets present.”
“And those?”
“The Chief Constable’s and my own, sir.” At this a faint titter, due to the tension of the cross-examination, flickered round the table. The Coroner rapped with his knuckles, requesting silence.
“I take it,” he continued, “that the Chief Constable and you were the only people who had handled that document since it was taken from the deceased’s pocket?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Were there any other finger-prints, Mr. Meredith?”
“None, sir.”
“None!”
The rest of the assembly silently echoed the Coroner’s obvious astonishment. How could the confession have got into the dead man’s pocket without showing finger-prints? How had the sheets of paper been placed in the envelope and the envelope sealed without them picking up the tell-tale imprints? The jury was puzzled.
“What exactly did this extraordinary fact suggest to you?” asked the Coroner when the little murmur had faded.
“Well, sir, to my way of thinking it looked as though the person who placed that document in Mr. Rother’s pocket was anxious to hide his identity. We imagine that he must have worn gloves on every occasion that he handled the document.”
“I see. Well?”
“Well, sir, my suspicions having already been aroused, I examined the ground round about where the wire fence had been cut on the top of the pit. I found blood-stains.”
“Blood-stains!”
Again that little shiver of excitement and interest ran round the table.
“Yes, sir. I took a specimen of the stained earth and had it analysed. The presence of human blood was definitely proved by Dr. White.”
“Did this suggest anything further to you?”
“Well, sir, it seemed a peculiar factor in the case, because I could not for the life of me see why there should have been blood on the top of the pit when to all apparent purposes deceased had met his death by a fall. I was forced to adopt a strong doubt as to whether deceased was not dead before his drop over the pit.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
At the conclusion of the Superintendent’s evidence the jury was roused to a frenzied twitter of conjecture and argument. They had come to the inquest quite certain in their own minds that “Mister Willum” had committed suicide. Dr. Hendley had aired this opinion in the village and seemed to have no doubts about it. From what they had already gleaned for themselves they had had no doubts about it. They had all trooped up to the farmhouse that August morning ready to bring in that unpleasant but unavoidable verdict. Now they felt at sixes and sevens. From what they had heard of the police evidence it was beginning to look as if their duty was going to force them to a far more unpleasant and unanticipated decision. Dark hints were in the air. The room seemed suddenly airless and over-hot, the Coroner invested with all the menace and majesty of the inexorable law behind him. Their discomfort increased when Dr. White spoke of the tests he had carried out on the blood-stained earth.
At length the Coroner was summing up—his voice droning on, dry as dust, in the close atmosphere of the overcrowded kitchen. Three things to consider. Whether it was accident? Whether it was suicide? Whether it was murder? In his opinion the fact that the wire fence had been cut precluded the idea of accident. Deceased was familiar with the dangers of the cliff-path. There was that curious document found in his pocket. Suicide then? At first glance it appeared that deceased had deliberately taken his own life. On looking closer into the evidence, however, there seemed to be some reasonable doubt that this might not be the case. He lay on his right side. The fatal wound in the left temple was uppermost. How, if the wound had been caused by the fall, had he managed to turn over? Secondly, according to police witness, no chalk scratches were evident round the fatal gash, although the whole of the ground at the foot of the pit was strewn with chalk boulders. Did this suggest that the wound had been sustained at some time previous to the fall? Perhaps on the cliff-top, where blood-stains had been discovered in the vicinity of the severed wire?
There was that curious document to consider. A document which had been placed in the dead man’s pocket without sustaining a single finger-print. Was the whole terrible affair staged by some unknown person to look like suicide, when in reality it was something quite different? This brought them to the third alternative. Murder. Had deceased been set upon on the cliff-path, killed by a violent blow on the left temple, and then thrown over the pit? There seemed to be evidence which might substantiate this supposition. It was for the jury, however, to examine all the evidence at length, without prejudice, and to find accordingly. If in its opinion it was a case of wilful murder, then it might, on evidence given, name the murderer or murderers. In his, the Coroner’s, opinion, there was no such evidence.
At the conclusion of his speech, much as Mr. Oyler had anticipated, the jury elected to retire. With a clumping of hobnailed boots, therefore, they filed out in the wake of Kate Abingworth and shut themselves up in the Chalklands dining-room.
Twenty minutes later they all clumped in again and solemnly took up their positions around the kitchen table. Then, to Meredith’s surprise, having anticipated an open verdict, they brought in “Murder by Person or Persons Unknown”. It seemed that the police evidence was more impressive than he had thought!
Chapter Eleven
The Third Problem
Cedric Clark, proprietor of Clark’s Filling Station at Findon, had a business friend coming to see him that morning. He was hoping to sell John Rother’s Hillman. Since Meredith had last examined the car, the windscreen and dashboard had been repaired, the blood-stains carefully erased, and the bodywork entirely repainted. Clark had followed the report of the inquest in the evening paper of the day before and, in keeping with the rest of the locality, had been shocked by the findings of the jury. William’s death, moreover, had placed him in a quandary with regard to the sale of the car. He would now have to make a visit to Chalklands and get Mrs. Rother’s authority to go ahead with the sale. Thornton was coming over to see him at eleven, so Clark hopped on to his motor-cycle and ran out to Chalklands directly after breakfast. He did not actually see Janet Rother—the housekeeper explained that she was still in bed resting—so he sent a message and in return received permission to go ahead with the sale of the car.
At eleven o’clock Tim Thornton rattled up in his weather-beaten service-car and stopped with a plaintive screech of brakes just beyond the petrol-pumps.
“That’s a blooming good advert for you—that car is, and no mistake,” said Clark. “Economizing on oil, eh?”
Thornton, a big-boned, lazy-looking fellow with sandy hair and a ginger moustache, climbed slowly out of his car and stood staring at the premises known as Clark’s Filling Station.
“Excuse me. Can you tell me if there is a garage anywhere near here? I understood that a damn’ fool called Clark was running a place in this one-horse village.”
“You need a garage,” retorted Clark pointedly, nodding at the relic and slapping Thornton on the back. “Come inside, m’lad, and we’ll see what we can do for you. We’ve a wreckage van at your disposal. Care to borrow it?”
“Grrrr!” growled Thornton as he followed his friend into the poky hole which went by the grandiloquent title of office. “Well, how’s business?”
“Oh, so-so. Can’t complain. How are you doing o
ut your way?”
“Not too bad. Had a bit of bother in this district, haven’t you?” he went on after lighting a cigarette. “See from last night’s paper that they brought in a verdict of murder on that Rother chap.”
“Yeah,” agreed Clark. “Funny business that. First this spot of bother under Cissbury—now it seems that William Rother has copped it in the neck too. Sort of family curse, eh?”
“That Hillman handy?”
“Round the back, Tim. Want to see it now?”
“Well, I’ve got to be back by twelve to interview a customer.”
“Then we’d better snap into it, ole man. You’ll need all the time you can get if you’re going back on that barrel-organ outside. I bet the thirty limit has never worried her, eh?”
“We do at least keep our pumps painted,” countered Thornton as he followed the proprietor through a maze of cars to where the Hillman was parked in a far corner of the main garage. “Hullo—is this the little wonder?”
“That’s her. Good as new—only done six thousand—freshly painted—new windscreen—good tyres and—”
“—licensed up to the end of the quarter,” went on Thornton with a mocking grin. “Go on. You can cut the cackle. That sort of snappy sales-talk won’t get any change out of me. You lift the bonnet and I’ll soon tell you if she’s the car for my customer. I promised him a snip and I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Not like some chaps.”
“There you are then,” said Clark, raising the bonnet and holding an inspection-lamp over the engine. “Take a squint at that. Nothing wrong with her guts, ole man.”
Just as Thornton was about to bend over the engine, however, he suddenly let out an exclamation of surprise and stepped back, the better to examine the car.
“Here—half a mo’—I’ve seen this car before. Light green, wasn’t she, before you painted her this filthy colour?”
“That’s it. How’d’ you recognize it?”
“See those two brass-headed nuts on the battery clamps? Fixed ’em myself when the owner garaged with me one week-end.”
“When was this?”
“Can’t say for sure. About a couple of months back, I dare say. But the chap’s been garaging regularly with me over week-ends for the past eighteen months or more. Funny, eh?”
“What was he like to look at?”
“Stocky, well-built sort of chap. Red-faced. Loud-voiced. Typical farmer, I reckon. Name of Reed, he said.”
“Reed?” Clark’s voice was quite shrill with excitement. “That wasn’t Reed. That was Rother. Betcher life it was! That was John Rother—the chap that was murdered under Cissbury here. Haven’t you ever seen his photo in the newspapers?”
“No time to read ’em, m’lad. I get all my news over the wireless. So that was John Rother, was it? Well, I be blowed. Never struck me that I’d ever met the chap when they broadcast an S O S about him. Funny ’im giving a false name like that, eh?”
“Fishy—if you ask me,” agreed Clark. “Darn’ fishy. I reckon Superintendent Meredith ought to know about this. Straight I do. He’d do well to come over and see you, Tim.”
Thornton laughed.
“Bit of third degree, what? Though I don’t see that I can help him much. He’s the fellow investigating these murders, isn’t he?”
“You never know,” said Clark meaningly. “These police chaps pick up all sorts of odd bits of evidence, then they piece ’em together, and before you know where you are some poor bastard’s booked for the long drop. Anyway, what about the car?”
“Just turn her over,” said Thornton. “I guess she’ll suit all right. She was running sweet enough when I last saw her.”
Ten minutes later the deal had been concluded, and after a “quick one” in the pub up the street Thornton mounted his thunderous barouche and rattled off through the village.
Clark returned to his office and took up the ’phone. In a few minutes he was through to Meredith.
“Just caught me in time, Mr. Clark. I’m coming over to Chalklands this morning. What’s the trouble?”
Clark explained about his talk with Thornton. Meredith was interested at once.
“Look here, I’ll drop in on my way. Then you can give me details.”
Although Meredith did not expect to get much from this new data he was in no position to ignore even the flimsiest of clues. In an investigation one thing led to another, and quite often, in the long run, to the wanted man. He was still perplexed with regard to the part that the Cloaked Man had played in the crimes, though he was now inclined to think that his was the major role. These week-ends which Rother had spent, according to Barnet, at Brighton may have first brought him in contact with the man who was destined to murder him. Yes, most decidedly, this new thread of evidence would have to be followed up.
Clark was standing by the petrol-pumps, having a smoke, when the police car drew up. The two men at once retired to the little office. There Clark handed on all the information he had received from Thornton, embellishing the bare details with ornamental theories and opinions of his own. Meredith, however, soon sorted the wheat from the chaff.
“Where is this place of Thornton’s?”
“You know the Arundel-Brighton road which runs through Sompting and Lancing?” Meredith nodded. “Well, just beyond the toll-bridge which crosses the River Adur there’s a cross-roads.”
“I know the spot. Near there, is it?”
“About a couple of hundred yards on the Brighton side of the cross-roads—yes. Newish place—a bit flashy in its decoration to my mind. But old Thornton’s like that. He likes to make a splash.”
“I see—thanks. I’ll run out there and have a word with your friend as soon as I can. Decent of you to ring me up.”
“Oh, that’s O.K. I know how you chaps work. Nothing more you want to know?”
Meredith shook his head and, anxious to get on his way to the farmhouse, jumped into the car and told Hawkins to step on it. The little blue-black police car shot off up the road like a bullet from a rifle. Inside ten minutes it was parked in front of the long white verandah.
Kate Abingworth answered the Superintendent’s ring, and on asking for Janet Rother he was shown into the drawing-room.
“Mrs. Rother said that she didn’t want to be disturbed like, but I’m sure she’ll see you, surr. She’s lying down in her room.”
Whilst the housekeeper was absent Meredith mentally rehearsed his method of attack. He realized now that a good old-fashioned dose of third degree was absolutely necessary if he were to drag the truth from the girl. All along she had been keeping something back. There seemed little doubt now that she had placed the portions of John Rother’s body on the kiln. It looked, too, as if she must have written that faked confession. If the Cloaked Man were implicated in the crimes, then Janet Rother was the one person who could give him a line on his identity. She must be made to speak. He would have to put the fear of the devil into her and frighten her into a true statement of the facts.
Kate Abingworth came in. Meredith looked up. She was alone.
“Mrs. Rother not dressed?” he rapped out.
“Oh dear, surr,” agitated the housekeeper, “I can’t get no answer. I knocked and knocked but couldn’t get no reply. Her door’s locked, moreover. I called out for her to open it but she—”
“When did you last go up to Mrs. Rother?”
“About nine, surr, when the garridge chap called. I spoke to her through the door.”
“You didn’t see her?”
“No, surr.”
“Take up her breakfast?”
“She didn’t have no breakfast, surr. She told me last night particular not to disturb her this marning, though when the garridge chap come—”
“I see.” Meredith felt suddenly keyed-up. “Take me up to her room, will you?”
He followed the hous
ekeeper along the corridor, up a broad, winding staircase to a second, narrower corridor on the second story. At the first white door on the left Mrs. Abingworth stopped.
“This it?” The housekeeper nodded. Meredith rapped sharply on the door and called out to ask if Mrs. Rother were inside. He listened. No answer. He banged hard with his fist and called out a second time. Still no answer.
“Oh dear, surr! Oh dear me, surr!” fluttered Mrs. Abingworth, already on the verge of tears. “What can it mean? I hope as nothing—”
“We must break in the door,” cut in Meredith. “Stand back a moment, and for heaven’s sake don’t get flustered.”
Exerting all his strength, Meredith put his shoulder to one of the upper panels. He was unable to move it.
“Got a coal-hammer downstairs? You have? Then trot down and fetch it. I’ll get my man from the car.”
Returning with Hawkins, just as Kate Abingworth came breathlessly up the stairs portering a large coal-hammer, Meredith snatched it from her, swung it back and brought it down with a crash on the panel above the lock. There was a rending of splintered woodwork and half the panel caved in, leaving a large gap through which the whole of the room was visible. Wasting no time on conjecture Meredith stuck in his head and took a quick look round. The room was empty!
“Maybe she’s hung herself in that cupboard, sir!” exclaimed Hawkins. “Like that old gal we found out at—”
“Shut up, you fool!” snapped Meredith with a warning glance in Kate Abingworth’s direction. “If you want to help, act, not think.”
He followed up this sensible piece of advice with a practical example, stretching down his hand inside the door to turn the key in the lock. Then he received a shock. There was no key!