His thoughts turned to Morrison. Because of the footprint, Morrison was his first suspect. But were not Morrison and Bristow in the same boat with regard to motive? If Bristow had everything to lose by Stott’s death, was this not true of Morrison also?
At once French saw that he was wrong. Morrison’s position and Bristow’s were as different as day and night. For Bristow John Stott’s death meant insecurity; for Morrison, if he could pull off marriage with Margot, it meant the approach of a fortune. And everything that French had heard tended to the belief that he would pull it off. Morrison, if he were sufficiently callous, certainly had an ample motive for the crime.
All the same, Morrison scarcely seemed to be of the stuff of which murderers were made. He was a very ordinary young man, unlikely, French would have said, to adopt drastic measures even were his situation desperate, which it certainly was not. However, bitter experience had taught French that appearances were the last foundation on which to build a theory. It was with an open mind, therefore, that he presently called at the young man’s cabin.
“Now, Mr Morrison,” he began cheerily, “it’s your turn, if you please. I’ve had statements from Mr Malthus and Mr Mason and the family, and Mr Bristow has just given me his. Will you please tell me what you did while ashore on the day we were at Portrush?”
It was evident that Morrison was acutely nervous; much more nervous than could be accounted for by mere interrogation by the police. French watched him surreptitiously.
“I had an appointment before lunch with the manager of the Causeway Hotel, and to fill up the time while waiting for it I had a look at Dunluce and the Causeway. I lunched at the Causeway Hotel.”
“Yes? And then?”
On the whole Morrison told his tale well. Lunch over, he had found himself somewhat at a loose end. He had, however, wanted exercise and had walked the eight miles into Portrush, where he had caught one of the earlier boats to the ship.
“A negative lie,” thought French. “He’s trying to keep Margot’s name out of it. He unrolled his map.”
“Point out your route on this,” he directed. “It doesn’t show the Causeway, but here’s the road from it to Portrush.”
Morrison did as he was asked, indicating the path to the shore up which Stott had passed.
“Now I want the times of all that fixed up,” French demanded, and after working it out, he continued: “Then you must have passed this place here, marked McArtt’s Hollow, at about quarter past four?”
Morrison could scarcely speak. He nodded shortly. “Why does that upset you, Mr Morrison?” went on French, keeping his eyes on his victim.
Morrison made a gesture of impatience. “Well, you might know that,” he retorted. “We understand that Mr Stott was supposed to have been killed there some time in the afternoon, and I’m not such a fool as to miss the direction of your questions.”
“If you think my questions objectionable, Mr Morrison, you have only yourself to thank for it,” French said harshly. “Why can’t you be open with me and tell me the truth?”
Morrison’s jaw dropped. “But that is the truth,” he stammered.
“Half the truth perhaps,” French went on inexorably. “Did you go into the Hollow as you passed?”
For a moment Morrison could not reply. Then feebly he shook his head. “No,” he returned. “Why should I?”
His manner showed that he was lying. French was satisfied that he was normally honest, and normally honest people make bad liars.
“We’ll see about that in a moment,” French went on. “Now tell me, did you receive a telephone message at the hotel?”
Morrison hesitated as if thinking over his reply. Then with a helpless gesture he answered, “Yes.”
“Then why did you not mention it?”
“It had nothing to do with my movements, which were what you wanted.”
French sympathised with his effort to keep Margot’s name out of it and accepted this.
“Very well,” he agreed. “But you’ve mentioned it now. Who rang you up?” Then as Morrison still remained silent, he went on: “I know all about it, as well as about some other things you haven’t mentioned. You can’t keep Miss Stott’s name out of it, so you needn’t try.”
Morrison’s nervousness passed for the moment and he spoke earnestly. “But why not. Chief Inspector? Miss Stott had no connection with the affair. Why should she be dragged in?”
For the first time during the interview French admired the young man. “I don’t say she’ll be dragged in,” he returned more pleasantly. “What I want is a truthful account of your own movements.”
“Very well,” Morrison agreed, as if giving up the struggle. “She had promised to come out to the Causeway in the afternoon and she rang up to say she was prevented.”
“What exactly were your plans?”
“To walk together round the Causeway and Heads and to return to Portrush in time for the last boat.”
This answer frankly puzzled French. He had no doubt it was true, not only from the man’s changed manner, but because it had been practically confirmed by Margot. But if it were true, Morrison would not have passed the Hollow at the time of Stott’s death. He would not have been able, except in the presence of Margot and the driver of their vehicle, to visit the Hollow at all. More significant still, he could not then have had an appointment with Stott.
French wondered where this was leading him. If Morrison had had no appointment with Stott, could he have murdered him? His meeting Stott – if he did meet him – would have been an accident, and it was most unlikely that a quarrel involving murder could have arisen so suddenly. Indeed, there had not been a quarrel. Had such obtained, the ground would have been trampled up and traces would have shown on the body.
It looked as if Morrison were innocent: and yet what about the shoes?
“Tell me, Mr Morrison,” French said suddenly, “why did you get rid of the shoes you wore that afternoon?”
Morrison stared speechlessly and his face slowly whitened till French thought he was going to faint. But French did not withdraw. “I want to know that,” he said impressively, and, deciding on a bluff, added: “And I also want to know what you did with Percy Luff’s button.”
It was a knockout blow. Morrison gave a groan and sank his head in his hands. French said nothing. Silence would increase the effect.
At last Morrison looked up. “I see you know everything, Chief Inspector,” he said in shaky tones, “so I must tell you the truth. I was in the Hollow and I did pick up the button. But I didn’t murder Mr Stott. I swear that.”
“I’m not saying you did,” said French. “All I want is the truth.”
“You shall have it”; and he told exactly what had happened. “You must see why I wanted to hide it,” he went on piteously. “I was afraid that if I told you you’d suspect me. And now probably you do suspect me, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t prove my innocence.”
For some moments there was silence, then French asked for the button. Morrison took it from a drawer and handed it over. Fortunately there was some thread attached to it, enough to settle the question of whether or not it had come from Luff’s coat.
To say that French was satisfied as to Morrison’s innocence was putting it too strongly, but he was disposed to believe the story and that for three reasons. First, there was the point he had already considered, that it was by accident that Morrison reached the Hollow when he did. Second, there was his manner, now completely different and French believed that of a truthful man. Third, had Morrison been the murderer, it was not easy to account for the position of the footprint. It would surely have been leading towards or away from the body, but it was not. It indicated a direction passing well away from where the remains were lying. But the position was exactly in accordance with Morrison’s statement.
Now he saw, so is the wish father to the thought in even the most logical of us, that the motive he had been attributing to Morrison was really not so satisfact
ory as he had imagined. He doubted if a man of Morrison’s apparent character could have murdered a relative of the girl he hoped to marry, so that she would eventually obtain money of which he would have the use. Morrison, he thought, was of too good a type for this, and in any case he was strongly of opinion that he had not the nerve.
It looked more and more like as if Luff was his man. However, he reminded himself that he must avoid leaping to conclusions. A good many points required further investigation before he could reach a decision.
The first was that of the letter Luff said he had received from Mrs Mercer. French took it from the desk in his cabin and examined it with a lens.
At once the opinion he had formed from a cursory glance was confirmed. The letter was a forgery. It was full of those tiny shakes which showed it had not been written boldly, but had been carefully drawn in.
Unfortunately, this proof of what he had already suspected got him no further. It was reasonable to suppose that the forger was the murderer, but there was nothing to show whether Luff was or was not the man.
French next saw Mrs Mercer, who luckily had not gone ashore on this day. She denied absolutely having written the letter or knowing anything whatever about it except what Luff had told her. French then got her to rewrite the note from his dictation, and was interested to find that the hands were dissimilar. The murderer therefore had not had access to her handwriting. But again this did not help. Luff had not known it either.
But the letter evidently had been copied. Probably not from a complete draft. It would have been dangerous to have such a thing made, as, had it been read in court, the writer might have heard of it and come forward. It was more likely to have been built up word by word from the other writings of some women, for the hand was undoubtedly feminine. Certainly the writing could not have been assumed or designed. It was a natural hand.
Was there not here a clue? If he could find this woman, he would be on the track of the murderer.
However, that must wait. His first job was to prepare a surprise packet for Nugent. He put in copies of all the statements he had received, asking for local checking of details. He enclosed the Mercer-Luff letter (having first photographed it) suggesting that Nugent might find someone who wrote a similar hand. He sent Bristow’s roll of films, demanding enlargements of the critical views and a check-up on the sites. He asked for interrogations of the staff of the Causeway Hotel as to Morrison’s movements, of the drivers at the garage halfway along the Portstewart main street for the man who drove Wyndham to Portrush, of after-lunch bus drivers from Portrush to Portstewart, of people who had been to the mouth of the Bann on that afternoon, if any could be discovered, and of shopkeepers and others in New Row, Coleraine, who might have seen Luff hanging about.
“That’ll be tit-for-tat,” French thought with satisfaction. “When they get this those folk won’t be so pleased that they unloaded their beastly job on me.” He went down to dinner with the consciousness of good work well done.
17
COMPLETE ELIMINATION?
French didn’t think that there was much that he could do on board until he received Nugent’s answers to his questions. Indeed, he knew of only one enquiry which he might usefully make. The pattern for the Mercer-Luff letter had probably been written by someone on the ship. If he could find the handwriting, it should prove a clear pointer to the murderer.
Having missed Killarney on the previous day, he was strongly tempted to postpone this not very urgent job and go ashore. The excursion was from just inside Roche’s Point up Cork Harbour, past Cobh and Ringaskiddy and Monkstown and Passage West to the city, then from Blarney to Lismore by coach and by river steamer down the Blackwater to Youghal.
Duty, however, prevailed, and when the shore party had left, he began work by a visit to the Purser. From him he was able to obtain samples of the handwriting of practically every woman on board, and in the few instances in which this source failed, queries about bills or other small subterfuges quickly produced the needful. The result was negative. After a lot of work, French became satisfied the writer was not on the ship.
It was on that same evening that he received his first openly official letter from the Yard, Sir Mortimer having evidently realised that Forrester was dead and that French had come to life in his place. It contained two interesting items of information. First, it gave a précis of John Stott’s will, obtained (with difficulty) from his solicitors. This showed that French’s previous information was correct: that John was worth about a million, and that, subject to the payment of a number of small legacies, including a not unsubstantial remembrance to each other member of the family, Wyndham was his heir.
The second item cleared up a point which had puzzled French. It was not usual, of course, either for the Royal Ulster Constabulary to apply to Scotland Yard for help nor for the Yard to give it. In this case apparently, the RUC had not asked for it, but only for information as to the status of the Hellénique. But Sir Mortimer had immediately offered French’s help, and that with the utmost cordiality. Now came the explanation. “I hope,” wrote Sir Mortimer, “that you will prosecute your Hellénique enquiries into this murder to good purpose.” To anyone who knew Sir Mortimer, the meaning was clear. It was to give French a better opportunity to investigate the shipboard life and the gambling that he had been pitchforked into someone else’s job.
French felt he had a distinct grievance in the matter. He now had two cases to worry over instead of one. Sir Mortimer’s action, he believed further, had been a profound mistake. It had not helped him about the gambling. On the contrary, all that it had done had been to put the ship’s officers on their guard against him.
However, that was not his pigeon and he must not look at the dark side of the affair. The bright side was pleasanter, and the bright side was that, until he heard from Nugent, he could with a clear conscience go ashore.
This blissful state of affairs lasted for three days. On the first they landed at Dunmore at the mouth of Waterford Harbour and drove to Howth, through Waterford, New Ross, Woodenbridge, Glendalough, the Wicklow Hills and Dublin. Next day was spent in Dublin and its surroundings, while on the third they went from Dundalk through Newry and round the Mourne Mountains to Belfast. All were charming excursions and luckily the weather was excellent. French enjoyed every minute of the time.
On the next morning came a voluminous reply from Nugent. The Hellénique was off the Isle of Man and the excursion was from Peel to Douglas, going practically round the island. Having seen his Em off, French pulled a deckchair into the secluded place he loved between the two boats, and proceeded to digest his despatch.
It was at once evident that the DI had spared neither himself nor his staff. Indeed, French was astonished to receive so much information at such short notice, even though he had not forgotten what he had noticed on his earlier cases in Northern Ireland: how closely the local constables keep in touch with the people of their districts. If information is required, they usually know where it is to be found, and, unless political considerations forbid, they can generally obtain the hint they need. Here Nugent had drafted his replies separately about each suspect and French took the reports in turn.
The first was about Malthus and Mason, and as French read it he saw that the theory of their guilt must be abandoned. Their statement, it appeared, was true and their alibi sound.
Nugent’s men had visited Dungiven and seen Mrs Hetherington and Miss Dormer. Malthus and Mason had called with them for lunch and tea on the day in question and the ladies had accompanied them for a couple of miles on their way back to Portrush.
The police had gone carefully into the question of the hour at which the party had left Dungiven. It was half past four. Lunch had been taken in the house, but, owing to the specially fine day, they had had tea in a summer house in the garden. After tea they had started almost immediately. Both ladies had looked at the sitting-room clock before going out to the car and it pointed to half past four. The clock was right that
evening with the nine o’clock time signal.
Nugent’s men had driven back from Dungiven to Portrush at a high rate of speed – an average of over forty miles an hour – and found that it had taken them forty-four minutes. This was only six minutes less than Malthus and Mason had claimed to have taken. Further, their statement as to their time was correct, as they really had reached the garage in Portrush at 5.20. They had complimented the proprietor on the running of his car, telling him where they had come from and at what hour they had left. He had noted the time of their arrival particularly, in order to work out their speed. Lastly, if they had done all this – which was unquestionable – it was utterly impossible for them to have visited the Hollow and committed the murder.
Though this was not what French had hoped to learn, he was at least glad to achieve certainty on some point in the case. With a sigh, he turned to the next name on the list – Wyndham Stott’s. Here also he soon found that the man could not possibly be guilty.
The conductor of the Portrush-Portstewart bus did not remember him, but two of the passengers did. These were a young married couple who had recently come to stay at Portrush. The husband was recovering from a nervous breakdown, and as they were not golfers, they took long walks on fine days. These two had noticed Wyndham on the bus, and had walked behind him to the Strand. They had seen him continuing on his way towards the mouth of the Bann, though they had not themselves gone so far. In addition to this evidence, the officers had found the man who had driven Wyndham from Portstewart to Portrush to catch the boat, and he confirmed the hour of the trip. Both the married couple and the driver had picked out Wyndham’s photograph from a number of others.
This was proof positive. If Wyndham had walked to the Strand, he could not have committed the murder. Once more French was pleased at reaching certainty.
Of Elmina and Margot there had been no real suspicion, but the next two reports cleared them equally decisively. There was ample evidence that Elmina had played golf all that afternoon, and that Margot really had been with the Donnellys at Castlerock.
Fatal Venture Page 21