The Sussex Downs Murder

by John Bude

  “Good God!” Meredith ejaculated. “This door’s been locked on the outside. She’s taken the key with her. Here, take this hammer and break the lock. I want to get into that room and quick!”

  But once inside the room Meredith’s belief that the girl had flitted received substantiating evidence. The bed and floor were littered with odd garments, shoes, tissue paper, and discarded coat-hangers. It was obvious, at a glance, that only a few hours before Janet Rother had been up in that room feverishly packing. And the reason for that? Meredith smiled to himself. Here was undeniable evidence of that clever young lady’s guilt.

  As he and Hawkins were making a thorough search of the room, Meredith was thinking: “Well—what the devil am I to do now? I don’t reckon we’ve got enough evidence against that young woman to demand a warrant for her arrest. Dead sure the Chief would be against it. No—it looks as if we’ve got to trace her whereabouts and then keep her in sight until we do know enough to arrest her.”

  Already his mind was busy at the job of working out a plan of campaign. General inquiries in the vicinity to find out if anybody had seen her leaving that morning. A ’phone-call to the Yard for them to interview those London solicitors. A description of the missing girl to be included in Police Orders. A watch on the ports to see if she left the country.

  He could not for the life of him bring himself to believe that she had just slipped off to visit friends. One doesn’t pack in secret and leave the house without a word of farewell or any indication of one’s destination, unless one is desirous of doing a vanishing act. No—Janet Rother hadn’t just left for a week’s stay with the Littlehampton aunt!

  “Anything of interest, Hawkins?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Meredith turned to Kate Abingworth who, for the last five minutes, had been “Oh dear-ing” all over the room and generally putting herself on the one spot where she was not wanted.

  “I’d like you to keep quiet about this for the moment. Understand? I’ll let Mr. Barnet know what has happened and put him in charge of the arrangements up here. Mind you,” he added reassuringly, “there’s probably a perfectly simple explanation for Mrs. Rother’s departure. Don’t forget that she was overwrought after all she’d been through during these last few days. So, for heaven’s sake, don’t upset yourself, Mrs. Abingworth. Ten to one we’ll have your mistress back in this house, safe and sound, within twelve hours. Unless, of course, she’s just slipped off on a visit.”

  But Kate Abingworth refused to be comforted.

  “It’s no good, surr. You can’t fool an old woman such as I. I knows that we shall never see Mrs. Rother again. There’s a Hand on this family. You mark what I’m saying—a Hand of Evil. Its shadow has fallen athwart this house as sure as my name’s Kate Abingworth. First Mister John, then Mister Willum, and now—”

  “Look here,” broke in Meredith with a filial smile, “suppose you pop downstairs and make us a cup of tea, eh? You could do that, couldn’t you? And mind,” he added, “no more worrying or I’ll take you off to the station. Get that?”

  A little less tearful and prophetic, the housekeeper went down into the kitchen, where a little later the two men joined her in a cup of tea. When they left the farmhouse for Lychpole, the good-hearted old dame had already regained some of her natural liveliness. The shadow of the Hand seemed to have receded a little.

  Aldous Barnet was sitting out in his thatched summer-house, engaged on his latest novel, when Meredith came out to him across the lawn. He was obviously disturbed by the news which Meredith brought, at a complete loss as to why Janet Rother had gone, and quite unable to suggest her destination. He gave Meredith one or two addresses, including that of her solicitors, but he was inclined to agree with the Superintendent that there was something more behind her disappearance than a simple desire for a change of air. He promised to deal with matters up at Chalklands should Janet fail to materialize. Save for the Littlehampton aunt he knew of no relatives, either of the Rothers’ or Janet’s, who could be called upon to help. He suggested that Mrs. Abingworth should be sent to her married sister at Arundel, and the house, for the time being, shut up. Meredith concluded their talk by promising to keep in touch with him as the new investigations proceeded.

  Back in Lewes, Meredith spent the rest of the day putting in motion the vast machinery of police routine, a tiring and uninteresting occupation, but an essential one if Janet Rother’s whereabouts were to be discovered. By nightfall only one stimulating piece of information had come in. The Yard officials had interviewed the Rothers’ solicitors and, though they had been reticent over Janet’s affairs, the police had elucidated the following facts: (1) William Rother had left everything unconditionally to his wife; (2) This legacy now included all monies and estates left to William by his brother; (3) Mrs. Rother had instructed them to realize all money invested by her brother-in-law in industrials. This, the solicitors affirmed, could not be done in a moment as there was quite a lot of legal work to be undertaken before Mrs. Rother could benefit by her husband’s will. Her signature would be required for several of the documents and instructions had been left that all correspondence dealing with this matter was to be forwarded, poste restante, to a post office in Kensington High Street. The Yard were taking the precaution of having the post office watched for the next few days in case Janet Rother should turn up. They were not sanguine of results, however, as it would be a simple matter for the girl to send somebody else to collect her letters. They might be able to shadow a confederate to an address—on the other hand they might not. It was not easy in Town.

  “About that money she’s withdrawing from the industrials,” asked Meredith over the ’phone, “any idea how her solicitors are handing it over to her?”

  “Yes—in pound treasury notes.”

  “How much?”

  “About ten thousand pounds.”

  “What!”

  The voice at the other end of the wire burst into laughter.

  “Yes—I know. Struck us as rummy, too. Sounds a bit cumbersome, doesn’t it? But it’s suggestive.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. It looks as if your lady friend is anxious to clear out of the country, and pound notes are more difficult to trace than those of larger denominations. She’s got her head screwed on the right way, hasn’t she?”

  “Somebody behind her, I reckon,” said Meredith. “She’s only the tool. It’s the brains of the partnership we’re anxious to lay our hands on. You find the girl for us and we ought to be half-way to finding the man.”

  “Do our best.”

  “Thanks. That all? Cheerio!”

  And the problem of Janet Rother’s whereabouts occupied the whole of the Superintendent’s time for the next week. He was here, there, and everywhere, making inquiries, taking down statements which led nowhere, instigating spurts of local police routine, checking reports, ’phoning, writing, cursing. But of no avail. At the end of the week he had learnt precisely nothing. Janet Rother, like Prospero’s spirit actors, had melted into air, into thin air. He felt depressed, worried, and ready to kick himself.

  Evidence, he thought. He had shoals of evidence. Bags of it. Too much evidence. Yet somehow the key-word to the puzzle was still missing. It looked now as if in the long course of his investigations he had failed to register the vital clue. Just one small oversight, perhaps, and the three cases were at a standstill. He was ready to believe now that once the mystery of John Rother’s murder was solved, the second murder and Janet’s disappearance would, ipso facto, be solved as well. The three cases were so closely knit together and the common denominator was—surely?—the Cloaked Man. It was imperative, Meredith decided, to turn back the clock for a couple of months and begin a new phase of his investigation by finding out something about John Rother’s week-ends away from home. He must pay a visit to Tim Thornton.

  Was it possible that this slender clue, br
ought to light by a chance conversation, was the equivalent to the key-word in the cipher? In any case it seemed to be his one remaining hope. If this line of inquiry failed then he might as well get ready to write “Unfinished Case” as a footnote to all his laborious investigations.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Man With the Psychic Eye

  Tim Thornton, the proprietor of the Riverside Service Station, was what is commonly called “a character”. He had personality, a naturally funny face, “the gift of the gab”, and plenty of time to air his original views on things and people. It was a habit of his to assert that he was rushed off his feet and then stay talking to an acquaintance for the best part of an hour. The older inhabitants of the scattered cottages and bungalows round about the toll-bridge looked upon the Service Station as a kind of debating club. With time to kill they drifted up the road to the garage, sat about on oil drums, lit their little blackened pipes under large notices which prohibited smoking, spat to left and to right, and gossiped with Tim Thornton. In this manner Thornton knew pretty well everything which was said, thought, and done in the locality.

  The rumour that John Rother had been in the habit of garaging his car at Thornton’s drew the old men like a magnet. The proprietor was hard put to it, enlarging and decorating on his contacts with the murdered man, for he had an inborn sense of the dramatic and sensational.

  “You take it from me, Ned, the moment I set eyes on the chap I said to myself, ‘There walks a man with death in his pocket.’ A doomed look he had—a terrible fear in his glance. Fair gave me the jim-jams when I talked with him. Mark you—he looked ’ealthy. To an ordinary chap like you, Ned, he would have seemed just like Tom, Dick, or ’Arry. But I’ve got what they call a psychic eye. Fact, Ned—when I looks hard at a thing—same as I might look at you now—I see right into it. It’s just a natural gift. Nothing to boast about. Like a natural capacity for drinking beer.

  “Well, when this poor fellow stepped out of his car the first time I saw him, something in me went click. My cylinders missed a couple of strokes as you might say. You see, my psychic eye had got going with a jerk and I knew that I was face to face with a chap ’oo’s number was already chalked up on the celestial slate. Course, being a man of tack, I didn’t let ’im see that I knew. ‘Garridge for the week-end, sir?’ I ses. ‘That’s O.K. with me. Just shove ’er’—meaning his Hillman—‘over in that corner.’ But as he turned and walked away from the garridge I said to myself, ‘That chap’s got a stick of dynamite tucked in his trousis—his bucket’s been placed ready for ’im to kick.’ But just an ordinary-looking chap like you, Ned—not the sort of cove you’d look at twice—that is, unless, like me, you’ve got a psychic eye.”

  It was natural that after a week of this sort of thing other people should have recognized John Rother wandering about the district. Everybody discussed him. Old newspapers were dragged out of coal-sheds and the case re-examined from a more personal angle. The good folk who lived about the toll-bridge began to adopt a proprietary air toward the murdered man. Tim Thornton’s stock soared to unimaginable heights.

  It was into this highly charged atmosphere that Meredith descended one Monday morning toward the end of August. Although himself in mufti, Hawkins was in uniform, and the sight of the little shining police car drawn up by the Riverside petrol-pumps caused a major sensation. And when Meredith retired with Tim Thornton into the latter’s adjacent bungalow, Jake Ferris, who had been passing the time of the day at the garage, tip-tapped up the road and spread the news abroad. By midday the whole hamlet knew that the police were investigating in the district. Small boys and girls, released from school, stole twenty minutes from their luncheon hour to congregate outside Tim’s bungalow and stare with hungry eyes at Hawkins in the police car.

  Inside the bungalow Meredith was wrestling with a witness who knew, not too little, but too much. Tim Thornton recognized that his chance had come at last and he was prepared to spread himself. This conversation might in time pass into the annals of criminal history.

  “There are two points on which I want you to be dead sure,” Meredith was saying. “First that it was John Rother and second that the car was Rother’s Hillman. If you’re hazy on either of these points, then quite honestly, Mr. Thornton, you can’t be of any help to us. Well?”

  “Well.” Tim Thornton took a big, big breath. “Well, you see, it was like this—one Saturday afternoon just as I was going to grease a back axle of the butcher’s van, a shortish, red-faced—”

  “What date was this?”

  Thornton tailed off, stared at Meredith in surprise and made ready to continue his interrupted narrative. He was unused to interruption.

  “Well, as I was saying a shortish, red-faced—”

  “But I must have some idea of the date,” persisted Meredith. “Was it last year, last month, yesterday, or when?”

  Thornton eyed the Superintendent with a sly grin.

  “It couldn’t have been yesterday now, could it? He’s been dead over a month.” Thornton winked. “You police chaps and your tricks. Trying to catch me out like that.”

  “All I want is some idea of the date when you first saw this man,” demanded Meredith impatiently.

  “About eighteen months ago, I reckon. Let’s see now, I had the ’flu that February and this would be about a month later. Toward the end of that March it would be when I first saw ’im.”

  “Good. Well?”

  “Well—now where the jiminy was I? All these interruptions put me off my stroke. Oh, I reckerlect—in comes a shortish, red-faced man in a Hillman car. And the moment I set eyes on ’im something inside me went click. You wouldn’t believe what it was, so I’ll tell you, Sergeant. It was my psychic eye sort of getting into its stride. I ought to have explained at the starting-post that I’av a psychic eye. I can sort of see through things same as an X-ray sees through flesh and—”

  “Now suppose, before we go any further, you give me a more concise idea of this man’s appearance. How old was he, for example?”

  “No chicken.”

  “Quite, but that means he might be anything from forty to a hundred. You must try and be more precise, Mr. Thornton.”

  “O.K., Sergeant. I should say he was about forty, then.”

  “Shortish, you say, and red-faced. Any other peculiarity?”

  “Yes—’is eyes. He had a terrible look of fear in ’is eyes. ‘Tim Thornton,’ I ses to myself, ‘this here chap carries a stick of dynamite in ’is trousis.’ Meaning, of course—”

  “Look here,” rapped out Meredith sharply, though inwardly tickled by the man’s flow of speech, “you must keep to the plain facts. How was he usually dressed?”

  “Plus fives, as I called ’em, on account of their extra bagginess round the knees. Sort of sporting outfit—brownish usually. Though once or twice I seem to remember he wore flannel trousis.”

  “That’s the kind of information I’m after,” beamed Meredith with approval. “How did he speak?”

  “Nice enough. None of this haw-haw stuff, but he was a gentleman right enough, if that’s what you mean.”

  Meredith pulled a packet of photographs out of his pocket and spread them out on the hearthrug at his feet.

  “Do you recognize the chap among those?”

  Thornton quizzed the collection for a moment and then selected one of the photos.

  “That’s ’im,” he announced triumphantly. “You can see what I mean about his eyes. A sort of doomed look as if he already ’eard the ’arps tuning up for his reception. Course my psychic eye took that in as quick as—”

  “Well, that’s John Rother right enough,” broke in Meredith. “That’s the first point settled. Now you told Mr. Clark that you recognized the car by two brass-headed nuts. How are you so sure that it was the same Hillman?”

  “Because I put those nuts on myself one week-end. The battery-clamps on
that particular make are usually secured with black nuts, see? I didn’t happen to have any handy—so I fixed him up with a couple of makeshifts. His own had worked loose and one of ’em had dropped off.”

  “I see. How often did Mr. Rother garage his car here?”

  “Pretty near every week-end during the summer months. In the winter not so regular. Sometimes he didn’t turn up for a month or more.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Shall I ever forget it, Sergeant! I tell you the psychic flux—that’s a technical expression which you wouldn’t properly understand—the psychic flux was strong on me that afternoon. It wrung my withers to see the poor chap so cheerful and innocent of the doom which ’ung over his head. I could see death staring out of his eyes. It was all I could do to preserve my usual tack and hold back from tipping him the wink. You see, when a chap’s ticketed like no amount of warning can turn aside what’s coming to ’im. Terrible thought, isn’t it? How would you feel, for instance, if I saw death in your eyes and prophesied that, soon or late, you’d be stretched out in a car-smash? Ghastly, eh?”

  “I should take to a bicycle,” laughed Meredith.

  “Maybe—but you can’t cheat fate. I tell you it isn’t all beer and skittles having a psychic eye. I felt sorry for that chap. I did straight, Sergeant.”

  “Which brings us back,” said Meredith firmly, “to the question I asked. When did you last see John Rother?”

  “Let’s see now—it was about a fortnight after I’d had a touch of asthma. That would make it early July. I reckon the last time he garridged his car here was the second week-end in July.”

  “Was he always alone?”

  “Always. Never had a bird with ’im. He didn’t look that sort anyhow.”

  “When he left the garage where did he go?”

  “Now that’s a funny point,” began Thornton, taking another big, big breath. “I used to wonder that myself. You see, he used to take a little suit-case out of the car and walk off up the road in the direction of the toll-bridge. There I lost sight of him, because he used to turn to the right along the river-bank and make off up the Steyning road. Now, a lot of the old chaps round here, having nothing to do, come up to the garridge and stand about gossiping. Makes a chap wild when he’s rushed off his feet as I am. But I learnt a thing or two from these old wind-bags. ‘This here John Rother,’ I ses a couple of days ago to Jake Ferris, ‘where do you think he stayed over the week-ends? Major Codd’s?’ ‘Not on your life,’ ses Jake, ‘I seen him come regular by my cottage a Saturday afternoon and I live beyond the Major’s gate,’ ses Jake. Well, what with talking to one and another, it seemed that Rother walked a tidy way up the Steyning road and then disappeared. Just seemed to melt away. Funny, eh? Sort of sunk into the ground like a drop of water on a hot day.”