by John Bude
“Good news, sir?”
“Headline stuff, m’lad.”
“Somebody going to swing for it, sir?”
“Don’t be so blasted morbid, Hawkins—you’ll spoil my appetite. No—we’re not as far as that yet, but, by Jove, we’re on the way—we’re well on the way!”
So that was why John Rother had disappeared? Simple, of course. Obvious now that it was the only really plausible explanation, but like a good number of plausible explanations obvious only because certain facts had been thrust under his nose. Half a mile from the toll-bridge John Rother vanishes. A mile and a half from Bramber a broad-shouldered, shortish naturalist with tinted sun-glasses suddenly appears on the road. And if that wasn’t suggestive then Meredith didn’t know the meaning of the word. Gill’s precise description shrieked aloud of disguise. It was curious how people were inclined to overdress when called upon to play the false part in a dual-role. Those dark glasses, for example, the musty books. Yes, thought Meredith, poor old Rother had rather underlined his mild but untalkative bug-hunter. He had been artful but not quite artful enough. Unlike a true artist, he had not learnt what to leave out.
“It may interest you to know, Hawkins,” said Meredith over their excellent lunch, “that Rother seems to have been acting a double role before he met that packet of trouble under Cissbury.”
“John or William, sir?”
“John. It appears he had a rendezvous of some sort with an unknown person in the village of Bramber. He used to visit the place during weekends disguised as a naturalist. Question is—why did he find it necessary to take such a precaution? What sort of shady business was he mixed up in?”
“Counterfeiting. Illicit distilling. Blackmail. Women,” recited Hawkins with the glibness of one familiar with all and every sort of crime. “Probably women, sir.”
“Bit near home for that kind of thing, surely?” argued Meredith. “I reckon somebody must have had a hold over our friend Rother, otherwise he wouldn’t have risked walking about in disguise only five miles or so from Chalklands. I still uphold that he was being blackmailed by the man in the cloak. Question is—why was he being blackmailed?”
“Women,” said Hawkins promptly.
Meredith laughed.
“You’ve got a one-track mind, my boy. Not that I disagree with you. How about this for a theory? X—that is the man in the cloak—knew something pretty intimate about his relationship with Janet Rother. He threatened to tell his brother, William. John gets the wind up and, like so many of his kidney, starts putting his hand in his pocket. X suggests that John shall make contact with him at Bramber, as he naturally refuses to divulge his own address or receive anything incriminating through the post. John, fearing to be recognized in the village and frightened of gossip, decides to adopt this somewhat obvious disguise. He may have rented a cottage in Bramber so that X can visit him without causing comment. That we can find out, of course. Eventually fed up with paying out, John threatens to expose X to the police. X arranges a final meeting under Cissbury, perhaps with the promise of handing over some material evidence such as a letter or photograph, and there murders him. How’s that, Hawkins?”
“Sounds plausible, sir. How do you reckon he managed to change his clothes after garaging his car at Thornton’s?”
“Remember that stretch of road we visited this morning? Well, there was that thick belt of trees lining the river-bank. John had his disguise in that suit-case, of course. All he had to do was to wait until the road was clear, slip into the undergrowth, change his things, add the sun-glasses and the moustache, and emerge as a full-blown bug-hunter. His own clothes he packed into the suit-case, which he hid somewhere safe in the undergrowth. He then caught the bus outside the Cement Works, probably working his way through the bushes so that he could reappear some distance from the point where he entered the belt of trees. In this way I expect he thought to prevent the locals from suspecting that the Gentleman in Plus Fours was in any way connected with the Naturalist in the Norfolk Jacket. Successfully, it seems.”
“And where do we go now, sir?”
“Lewes,” said Meredith with a twinkle in his eye. “We may as well end our celebrations by taking a half-day off. Any objections?”
Hawkins grinned.
“Yes, sir—my young lady has her day off on Thursday. You couldn’t put off celebrating until then, I suppose.”
“Much as I should like to—I cannot! Waiter—the bill, please.”
Chapter Fourteen
Brook Cottage
The little village of Bramber, although it boasts a castle, a railway station, a river, and a museum, is not exactly a lively place. A certain amount of traffic passes down its main street, but the inhabitants themselves, untouched by the contact of “furriners”, continue to live inside that limited circle which transcribes all real village life. Miss Kingston, at the post office, would have considered herself cheated if she had not been able to discuss everybody’s business as well as her own. Her shop (the post office only occupied one corner of it) was the accepted clearing-house of local gossip. Over the purchase of a three-halfpenny stamp Miss Kingston got to know a great deal about George Putt’s lumbago, Mr. Sullington’s infidelities, and Mrs. Aldwick’s latest confinement. People not only went to the post office to impart knowledge; they also went there to learn. And on Tuesday, August 27th, Superintendent Meredith, in search of just that kind of information which the post-mistress purveyed, found himself in close conference with this voluble spinster.
He was still puzzled by the new facts which had come to light, but, so far, he had seen no reason to advance any other theory than that which he had put before Hawkins the day before. And if, as he suspected, John Rother was being blackmailed, then his immediate job was to find out if the locals knew anything about the naturalist or his mysterious visitor. It seemed fairly certain that in so small a parish the presence of two strangers over the week-ends would have been noted. It was possible, of course, that the Cloaked Man actually lived in Bramber—perhaps, to all outward appearances, a perfectly respectable and respected member of the little community. If this were the case, then it might prove more difficult to extract information about him for the simple reason that his movements and actions would not be commented on as those of a complete stranger. He decided, therefore, to tackle the post-mistress first about this studious Mr. Reed, who arrived most Saturday afternoons by the 3.43 bus from Brighton.
Meredith hung about looking at a postcard stand until he and Miss Kingston had the shop to themselves. The moment they were alone he began briskly: “Excuse me, Miss—?”
“Kingston,” beamed the post-mistress through her pincenez.
“Ah, yes, Miss Kingston. I’ve come along to see you because I want to ask you a few questions. I’m a police officer—no, nothing to do with you personally—just a little information about a week-end visitor which you may be able to supply. Ever heard of a Mr. Reed?”
From Miss Kingston’s sudden change of expression Meredith guessed that Mr. Reed was the one person that she knew all about. A kind of rapacious glint appeared in her watery eyes—the look of an inveterate gossip about to give of her best. Nor was Meredith disappointed. Miss Kingston, in her pseudo-cultured voice which she adopted in the presence of strangers, lowered herself on to the high stool behind the counter to ease her varicose veins, and announced confidentially:
“Oh dear, yes, I know quate a lot about Mr. Jeremy Reed—quate a lot. Not that I have ever set eyes on the gentleman myself—from all accounts he lakes to keep himself to himself—a recluse as I always say. But one can’t help hearing things—I mean even the nacest people talk, don’t they? He stays here quate often over the week-ends in Brook Cottage, which I understand he has bought. An elderly gentleman, so they say, with weak eyes. I believe he is wrating a book on British moths and butterflies and that he lakes to come here because of the quiet. But he never talks to peopl
e if he can avoid it and—really this does seem a little strange—he’s never bought anything in any of the shops here. How he does for edibles I can’t imagine. I suppose he has things sent down from London.
“Of course, between you and I, I don’t think he is quate rate in the head—not quate rate, if you understand what I mean? He’s eccentric. Wears the queerest attire and shuts himself away in his cottage and won’t see anybody! Young Mr. Trigg, our Vicar, called on him I understand, and Mr. Reed just took one look at him and slammed the door in his face. Our melkman called, too, to see if he should leave any melk over the week-ends, but Mr. Reed treated him in the same rude menner. Of course, he mate have been in the middle of wrating his book, but it does rather look as if he is not quate rate in the head, doesn’t it? I mean our Vicar is such a nace, unassuming man.”
“Quate,” murmured Meredith absent-mindedly. “So, apart from these unfortunate visitors, nobody has really seen Mr. Reed at close quarters or spoken to him?”
“Except getting on and off the bus—no.”
“Perhaps he has people staying with him sometimes—strangers, eh?”
“Never as far as I know,” protested Miss Kingston in the tone of one ready to defend a slight on her own knowledge. “I think I should have heard if he had. Besides, how could he entertain when he has nobody to cook for him?”
“Yes, there is that,” mused Meredith. “And where is this cottage of his?”
“You go up the street past the castle, take the first to the rate, and his cottage lies about two hundred yards up Wate’s Lane.”
“Waits Lane,” repeated Meredith with a nod of thanks.
“No. No. Wate’s—W-h-i-t-e-s Lane.”
“Oh, sorry. I see—thanks. And has he been down lately, Miss Kingston?”
“Oh dear, no. Not for weeks now. Not since early July. I understand there’s a sale-board up in the garden. We think he must have given up coming any more.”
“And when did he buy the cottage?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
“Any letters ever come for him during his stay?”
“None. Very peculiar, I thought.”
“Very,” answered Meredith dryly. “Well, you’ve told me quite a lot about Mr. Jeremy Reed. It’s been kind of you to give me your time like this.”
“Oh, not at all. Not at all. I always lake to be of service if I can. Good morning. Good morning.”
Outside, where the police car was drawn up, the local constable was chatting with Hawkins. As Meredith came out he touched his peaked hat.
“Well, sir,” he grinned, “any use to you?”
“Confirms more or less what you’ve already told me, Fletcher. She’s certain he’s had no visitors. Maybe the contacts were made at night.”
“Possible, sir, though I reckon I should have noticed a strange bird flitting around any time after midnight. The village is not exactly crowded in the small hours.”
“She said there was a sale notice up—do you know who the agents are?”
“Forgot to mention it, sir—she’s quite right. London firm by the name of Stark and West if I recall aright.”
Meredith nodded.
“I know ’em. Big concern with their main offices in Victoria Street. Believe they have a branch office in Brighton.”
“What are your plans for the moment?” asked Fletcher deferentially. “Want to see the Vicar, sir?”
“No, I’ll leave you to take his statement and that of your local milkman. They won’t be able to do more than confirm the description we’ve already got. In the meantime…we’re going to do a bit of house-breaking.”
“House-breaking? Where, sir?”
“Up at Brook Cottage.”
The cottage, so named because of the stream which formed the end boundary to the garden, stood well back off the road, screened by a tall hedge of quickset. It had a thatched roof with a half-brick, half-weather-board frontage, and a brick path which led up to the porch of the front door. Climbing roses rioted over the lower windows, whilst a ragged vine of clematis dripped from the right wall, beneath which another, narrow path ran round to the back of the house. The garden was unkempt with masses of overgrown grass and foliage so that it was difficult to say where the lawn ended and the flower-borders began. There was, in fact, a general air of untidiness and dilapidation about the place, which suggested that little or no work had been done about the cottage since it had been owned by Mr. Jeremy Reed. Stark & West’s sale-board projected over the front hedge.
The three men filed round to the back-yard and ran their eyes over the doors and windows. Hawkins upheld that, if the others gave him a shove up, he could easily get at the latch of one of the upper windows with the longest blade of his pen-knife. The others thereupon hoisted him up so that his head and shoulders were level with the sill. In a short time he called down to say that the catch was free. After one or two attempts Hawkins managed to swing open the window and, after a further series of heave-hos, his wildly kicking legs disappeared through the very limited aperture.
“Cut down to the back door,” ordered Meredith. “The chances are that it’s only bolted on the inside. That’ll save us any more acrobatic displays.”
Meredith’s expectations were realized, and the next minute the three men stood inside the minute kitchen. Here again there was evidence of neglect, a suggestion that the naturalist had paid only a fleeting interest in his culinary arrangements. A heap of empty tins labelled Fortnum & Mason had been thrown into a corner; the sink was black with dirt; the draining-board littered with an array of unwashed crockery; dust and webs filmed the little window which looked out on to the weedy yard. Proceeding to the two other rooms on the ground floor Meredith noted the same air of muddle and dirtiness. Every article of furniture was thick with a rime of dust, whilst the open fire-place was littered with pipe dottles and cigarette-ends. Books and newspapers had been thrown about on tables and chairs, so that, save for the big leather arm-chair drawn up at the hearth, there was no other available seating accommodation in the tiny sitting-room.
“Strikes me,” observed Meredith dryly, “that our Mr. Reed didn’t worry overmuch about his personal comforts during his week-ends. Never seen such a mess. Just as he left it, I imagine. If ever a place suggested a hide-out…well…”
Leaving the others to nose about downstairs Meredith climbed the rickety stairway and examined the two bedrooms. In the first was an unmade bed and a further consignment of cigarette-ends. In the second, virtually unfurnished, stood a large oak chest and an iron wash-hand-stand. Glancing from the windows Meredith saw at once that the cottage was quite isolated and was not overlooked from any neighbouring point. There was no hope, therefore, of any other cottager in the vicinity being able to give information about the possible visits of the Cloaked Man. Rother had certainly chosen a fool-proof rendezvous—it rather looked as if this slender thread of investigation was going to be snapped off short like so many others in this perplexing and annoying case.
Faced with the actual apparatus of Rother’s hide-out, the furniture, the crocks, the empty tins, the cottage itself, Meredith suddenly doubted if his interpretation of Rother’s reason for these week-ends was the right one. Wasn’t it a trifle elaborate when all he wanted to do was to make contact for a few minutes with his blackmailer? A dark lane, a deserted street in Brighton, the corner of a saloon-bar—surely these seemed more feasible meeting-places on the face of things? What about Hawkins’ suggestion—a woman in the case? Meredith shook his head. A woman would never have allowed the cottage to have become so untidy—the kitchen, at any rate, would have reflected the touch of a feminine hand. Then, in heaven’s name, what? What the devil had driven Rother to the expediency of adopting a disguise and taking the cottage in a backwater like Bramber? Was there no answer to this problem in the appointments and litter in the place itself? Some clue which might prove the key-wo
rd to the cipher?
He went down into the sitting-room again where Hawkins and the constable had been rooting through drawers, turning over the litter, poking their noses into ornaments, and examining every little detail of the parlour.
“Any luck?”
The men shook their heads.
“Nothing so far, sir,” said Fletcher. “Whatever he was up to here, he seems to have covered his tracks pretty thoroughly.”
Meredith agreed, still wrapped up in his own thoughts, and moved as if by instinct to the fireplace. The remains of a burnt-out fire still littered the hearth. With an absent-minded gesture Meredith began to poke about among the ashes. Suddenly he went down on one knee and let out an involuntary exclamation.
“Hullo! What’s this?”
The others craned forward over his shoulder.
“Looks like a half-burnt book, sir,” said Hawkins.
Gingerly Meredith withdrew the charred remains from the ashes and turned it over carefully in his hand. Some of the print still being decipherable; he began to read. Then, fired with a sudden increasing interest, he went on reading. For a full minute he crouched there in silence, absorbing the broken sentences of those printed pages. A tiny spark of light flashed in his brain. The light grew brighter.
“But why the devil should this be here in the cottage?” he asked himself. “It strikes me that Rother wasn’t the only one to use this as a hide-out.” He looked up at the others, who were craning over trying to fathom the source of their superior’s interest. “Know what this is, eh?”
“Looks like a sort of price-list,” ventured the Bramber constable.
“You’re right, Fletcher—that’s exactly what it is. It’s a price-list of surgical instruments. As far as I can decipher it’s issued by Dawson and Constable of 243 Wigmore Street. Strange finding it here, eh?”
“Has it any bearing on the case, sir?” asked Hawkins.
Meredith smiled.