The Sussex Downs Murder

by John Bude

  Chapter Seventeen

  Climax

  On looking back upon the Rother cases, Meredith always upheld that this particular interview with the Old Man marked the turning-point in his investigations. From that moment onward it was all “main-road progress”. Fresh evidence came to hand, unexpected clues; and the little bits of the puzzle, hitherto unrelated, now suddenly seemed to fit into place without the slightest effort on his part.

  “The whole case,” as Meredith put it later, “seemed to work itself out automatically.”

  He had been much impressed, too, by the Chief’s theory that William had only been murdered because the police had failed to arrest him on the charge of killing his brother. To a very large extent it accounted for the complex manner in which the first murder had been worked—the actual assault in one place, the destruction of the body in another, and so on. But the main point which Meredith took away from his conversation with Major Forest was the sensible supposition that John Rother’s clothes had not been destroyed along with the remains. He determined to comb through every inch of the garden and outhouses at Brook Cottage.

  “Well, Hawkins,” said Meredith early the next morning, “we’re going somewhere this morning where we’ve never been before.”

  “Where’s that, sir?” asked Hawkins eagerly.

  “Bramber,” grinned Meredith.

  Hawkins said a rude word and climbed into the driving-seat of the little blue-black car, on the back seat of which a constable had placed a couple of spades and a sieve. Soon they were clear of the houses and running through the countryside, which was already tinged with the first brown and russet tints of approaching autumn. The rain had cleared and the still heat of early morning promised a really scorching day.

  Once at Brook Cottage they set to work.

  “We’ll take the garden first, Hawkins. There’s no need for us to dig unless the ground looks as if it’s been recently disturbed. So we’ll just run our eye over the place first, see?”

  But although at one or two points here and there in the unkempt little garden they found patches of suspiciously loosened earth, their digging operations brought nothing of interest to light. After an hour’s strenuous labour Meredith declared himself satisfied as to the innocence of the garden, and switched over his interest to the outhouses. The main building was a brick-and-tile shed such as might be used for storing coal and wood, or hanging garden implements. This particular place had a brick floor, no window, and smelt damp and airless. Meredith carefully examined it by the light which streamed in through the open door. It was cluttered up with all manner of odds and ends—sacks, old newspapers, a pile of rotting potatoes, one or two splintered crates from Fortnum & Mason, a couple of dozen flower-pots, and a rusty mowing-machine.

  Gradually Hawkins, under his superior’s instructions, cleared all the movable objects out into the yard until the floor-space was entirely exposed except for the pile of potatoes. Going down on his hands and knees Meredith ran his eye over every inch of the brickwork. It all seemed in order. It was not until Hawkins had shovelled the potato-heap from one corner to another that Meredith hit upon a clue. Despite the grime and dried earth which coated the brickwork under the heap, Meredith noticed that several of the individual bricks had been loosened and cleverly fitted back into place. Prising under one of them with his pen-knife, he was soon able to uproot a good square yard of the uncemented brickwork.

  “Hullo! Hullo!” was his instant exclamation. “We’ve hit on something here, m’lad. This earth under the bricks has been newly turned. Here—fetch me that spade. Jump to it!”

  Hawkins, lit with an equal excitement, snatched up the spade, and handed it to the Superintendent. With the utmost caution Meredith began to dig. Almost at once his spade came against something that was certainly not plain earth.

  “Steady, sir!” ejaculated Hawkins, dropping on to his knees. “I can see the corner of something sticking up. Looks like material of some sort.” He reached forward and gingerly began to tug. Inch by inch the stuff broke clear of the compressed soil until no doubt remained as to its nature. “My God! It’s the coat, sir. Rother’s coat. It matches that tweed cap we found by the Hillman.”

  “You’ve said it!” snapped Meredith, taking the bundle and crossing over to the light by the door. “The whole darned suit by the look of it. Waistcoat, plus-fours, stockings, coat.”

  “Any blood-stains,” asked Hawkins hopefully, as Meredith began to unwrap the closely rolled bundle.

  “Blood-stains? No, I don’t think—” He stopped dead. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

  Hawkins stepped forward.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “This,” said Meredith, withdrawing something from the centre of the clothing. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

  “A skull!” cried Hawkins, suffering one of the greatest thrills in his career. “The missing skull!”

  “John Rother’s skull,” added Meredith. “The crowning glory of old Blenkings’ skeleton, eh?” Then with a sudden change of expression: “But what the devil—?”

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Something damnably wrong. There’s no hair, no vestige of flesh, rotting or otherwise, on the bonework. Why?”

  “Perhaps the chap shoved it on the fire first,” suggested Hawkins. “Remember, we found the remains of a fire in the hearth.”

  “Impossible,” argued Meredith. “There’s no sign of the bones being charred. In fact the skull’s got a definitely polished look. Then there’s another thing, Hawkins. Why can’t we see the fractured bone where Rother was knocked out?” He turned the skull slowly in the sunlight. “It’s more or or less intact, isn’t it? A few teeth missing, but no sign of any splintering. It strikes me that there’s something queer about this particular skull—something we haven’t quite realized.”

  “Best show it to that old professor chap, eh, sir?”

  “I’m going to, Hawkins. We’re going to run into Worthing straight away. I’ll go through the pockets of the suit on the way.”

  But, beyond the tab bearing the maker’s name, there was nothing by which the clothes could be definitely identified. The colour and material matched, as far as Meredith could remember, the blood-stained cap. He could easily check up on that. Were there blood-stains on the suit as well? He went over it inch by inch. Yes—a blackish brown patch round the left cuff. Nothing more. That was queer too. These relics would want a bit of explaining away.

  Professor Blenkings was delighted to see the police again. He welcomed Meredith with enthusiasm, insisted on a drink, piloted him into the study, and forced a cigar on him.

  “Now don’t tell me you’ve found another set of bones, Superintendent. That would be too much to hope for. Most enjoyable that other little job I did for you. Elementary but of practical help, I imagine. What brings you this time?”

  Meredith unwrapped the skull from the waistcoat and held it up.

  “This, sir.”

  The Professor mounted his glasses and peered critically at the exhibit.

  Then: “Most interesting,” he murmured. “Most interesting. Quite a well-formed cranium, Superintendent. Intact too. May I ask—?”

  Meredith briefly explained how he had discovered the skull in the shed at Brook Cottage and aired his opinion that it belonged to John Rother.

  Professor Blenkings shook his head.

  “Oh dear, no,” he contested emphatically. “That couldn’t possibly be Mr. Rother’s skull. You told me that he had suffered a severe blow on the head. We should notice signs of that, shouldn’t we? Of course we should. But this skull is quite perfect. You must have made a mistake.”

  “I rather anticipated that I might have done,” said Meredith dryly. “Though I can’t account for the discrepancy.”

  “No. No. Quite so,” burbled the Professor absent-mindedly, as he twisted the skull this
way and that the better to examine it. “By the way,” he added abruptly after a long silence, “have you got a photograph of Mr. Rother?”

  As luck would have it Meredith carried one in his wallet. He handed it over without comment. There was another long silence.

  “Well, really,” exclaimed the Professor at length, “this is a most extraordinary affair! Much as I don’t want to disappoint you, Superintendent, I’m bound to point out to you that this isn’t Mr. Rother’s skull at all. Decidedly not. Most interesting, of course, but annoying where you are concerned.”

  “But it must be!” exclaimed Meredith. “All our evidence points to the fact. Why are you so sure?”

  “Have the goodness to look at the photograph. Note Mr. Rother’s jaw. A square but not particularly prominent jaw, eh? Now observe the jaw belonging to the skull. It’s what we call an undershot jaw. Quite a different formation. Again, if this is a recent photo of Mr. Rother you will observe that he appears to have an excellent set of teeth. The teeth in this skull are very indifferent. Very. Bad teeth in fact. They needed the attentions of a dentist. I’m sorry to upset your expectations, Superintendent, but the facts are quite indisputable.”

  “And you think that this skull belongs to the skeleton you made?”

  “Well, we can easily make certain of that. Dear me—yes.” The Professor rose and rang the bell. In a few seconds his elderly, stern-faced housekeeper presented herself. “Ah, Harriet—have the goodness, will you, to fetch that nice little skeleton of mine from the wardrobe. You know where I keep it.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Harriet in the level tones of one who has been portering skeletons from wardrobes for the best part of a lifetime.

  In a few minutes the dour-faced lady returned, hugging her macabre and headless companion to her starched apron with an indifference born of utter contempt for the sensational.

  “Could do with a dust,” she observed tartly as she dumped her gruesome load in an arm-chair. “There’s a sight of cobwebs atween the ribs, sir.”

  “That will be all, Harriet,” concluded the Professor firmly, dismissing her with an imperative wave of his hand. The moment the door had shut, however, he got up eagerly from his chair, picked up the skull and carried it over to the semi-recumbent skeleton. Then, just as if he were trying on a hat, he placed the skull deftly on the shoulders of the framework. At the points where the bones had been severed the fit was perfect.

  “You see—there can be no doubt now. Most upsetting I dare say, Superintendent, but I’m forced to point out now that the skeleton doesn’t belong to Mr. Rother either! Inexplicable, of course—but there it is.”

  “Well, I’ll be—” began Meredith.

  “Quite. Quite. I appreciate your chagrin. Is there anything further I can do?”

  Meredith rose and shook his head. He was so completely dumbfounded that he quite forgot to thank the Professor for his drink. Where had he gone off the rails? If this wasn’t Rother’s skeleton then who the devil did it belong to? And why was the skull wrapped in a plus-four suit that almost certainly belonged to Rother? And how had the flesh been removed from the bonework so as to leave the skull so clean and polished? It couldn’t have rotted off in a bare eight weeks.

  For the remainder of the morning, during lunch, and for most of the afternoon, he pondered these questions. On comparing the tweed cap with the plus-four suit he found that the material matched exactly—strong proof, he upheld, that the outfit did belong to John Rother. He talked the matter over with the Chief, he re-examined every exhibit and every document connected with the case. He read through statements, advanced new theories and, after analysis, scrapped them. He cursed and smoked, smoked and cursed, and went home to his high-tea in a mood of utter despair. Would the case ever be completed? Was this to be the one outstanding failure in his career? That little job up in the Lake District had been child’s play compared with the complexities surrounding this confounded investigation. He was heartily sick of the whole damned case!

  Then, half-way through the night, he let out a sharp cry of enlightenment, tapped his wife on the shoulder and drew her complaining from the toils of a deep sleep.

  “I’ve got it, my dear! I’ve got it! I know what happened under Cissbury on the 20th. My Lord—what a blind—”

  “Got what?” snapped his wife in a disgruntled voice.

  “The answer to the Rother case,” crowed Meredith triumphantly, ready to accept his wife’s congratulations.

  “Oh, that,” she said in disinterested tones, promptly turning over and going to sleep again.

  But the next morning, after an early breakfast, she had thrown aside her indifference. As she handed Meredith his cap in the hall and brushed down his uniform, she allowed herself to be taken into his arms and fervently kissed.

  “Wonderful, eh?” demanded her husband.

  “You are,” murmured Mrs. Meredith. “And you’ve just been waiting for me to say so. Well, here’s luck to you, you stupid boy, and mind you have a good lunch somewhere if you can’t get home.”

  But on that memorable day Meredith clean forgot lunch, high-tea—everything except the work upon which he was engaged. He did take a hasty drink in the bar-parlour of the “Chancton Arms”, and a cup of tea with the Washington Vicar about half past four. Having obtained the key from Aldous Barnet, he then visited Chalklands and carried off a large picture wrapped in brown paper. He then ordered Hawkins to drain the petrol-tank of the police car, fill up again with exactly two gallons and drive him first of all from Chalklands to Littlehampton. From Littlehampton he drove along the coast via Goring to Worthing, and thus on through Tarring to Findon and Bindings Lane. There Hawkins drew off what petrol remained in the tank, refilled from a spare can and, at Meredith’s instructions, returned to headquarters. There the Superintendent went through the same process as before, measuring the petrol which had been drained off from the tank and making a few quick calculations with the aid of his Bartholomew’s map. This done he returned, worn out, but utterly satisfied, to a late supper at Arundel Road.

  Hardly had he finished supper, however, when the ’phone-bell rang and he was informed by the officer on duty at the station that the Yard wanted an urgent word with him. In a mood of excited anticipation, quite forgetting how tired he was, Meredith set out once again for headquarters. Detective-Inspector Legge was on the other end of the ’phone.

  “Ah—there you are. Sorry to drag you out like this, but I’ve got news that won’t keep. Your bearded gentleman was arrested at Dover this afternoon trying to make a get-away. Refuses to make a statement. Gives his name as Jack Renshaw and the address of a London hotel. He’s been cautioned, of course, and the Dover lads are bringing him up here tonight on the Guv’nor’s instructions. Question is—can you get a train and come up and identify? Better bring a constable, too, as if he’s the man you’re after you’ll have to take him back to Lewes. That O.K.?”

  “Half a second,” said Meredith, as he drew the Southern Railway time-table towards him. Then later: “Yes—that’s all right. I’ll be along about 10.30. Probably have to stay the night and make the return journey tomorrow.”

  “I’ll arrange that. Do you reckon it’s the end of the case?”

  “I don’t reckon,” laughed Meredith with justifiable satisfaction. “I know!”

  After a quick dash back to his home, where he packed a few things and explained to his wife what had transpired, Meredith legged it to the station and arrived a minute ahead of the train. On the journey he slept like a log. But the moment the train drew into Victoria, he hopped out as briskly as ever, hailed a taxi, and ordered the driver to take him to Scotland Yard. Legge was waiting for him in the ante-room.

  “Punctual to the minute,” he grinned. “Nothing like you County chaps for efficiency. Shall we slip out and have one first, or do you want to see this Mr. Renshaw straight away? There’s just time if we step on it.”


  “No,” said Meredith decidedly. “Business first and pleasure when you can—that’s my motto. You forget, Legge, that this may be the climax of a two months’ investigation for me! Headline stuff, too! You can guess that I feel pretty keyed-up. Where is the fellow?”

  “I’ll have him sent up,” replied Legge. “The Sooper has lent me his office. We poor devils have to share a room. A crying disgrace, of course. Have you ever tried to write up a report with a couple of chaps arguing about League football at your elbow? Helpful, I assure you. Here you are—this way.”

  A constable was despatched to escort Mr. Jack Renshaw from the detention-cell to the office of Superintendent Hancock.

  “Have a cigarette?” asked Legge. “They’re the Sooper’s but I can thoroughly recommend ’em.”

  Meredith took a cigarette and noticed, much to his astonishment, that, as he lifted the match to light it, his hand was shaking like a leaf. So much depended on the events of the next few minutes. There was a rap on the door. Meredith started.

  “Come in,” sang out Legge.

  Two constables entered, escorting between them a shortish, stocky man with a dark beard and a bandage round his left wrist. He was dressed as Biggins, the landlord of the “Loaded Wain”, had seen him, in a dark suit, starched collar, and bowler hat. On entering the brilliantly lighted room, however, Renshaw, with an instinctive gesture, reached up and removed his hat, then stepped forward a pace and looked from Meredith to Legge with a questioning expression.

  “You wished to see me?” he asked in a cultured voice. “You sent for me?”

  “I’m a police officer investigating the murder of Mr. William Rother. I just wanted to ask you one or two questions. Sit down, won’t you?”