Wilton’s jaw had dropped a little, and then he laughed too, as he stretched out his hand.
“Shake hands, Chief Inspector. I like that. I’m damned proud of my own ratings. Now, see here. It looks to you as though I’ve made a tidy-sized bloody fool of myself. I sail in and make fast alongside and proceed to teach you your business—a job of which I know nothing. I apologise, but I don’t withdraw. I believe Nick Vaughan was murdered.”
“And you’re perfectly right to say so and to stick to it, and I respect you for it,” said Macdonald. “Now let’s get down to it. At first glance it seems reasonable to dismiss robbery as a motive: no valuable plans or strategic secrets, no portable valuables: no show of wealth—rather the reverse. Vaughan lived like a working man: he paid market rates to anybody he employed, but he didn’t chuck his money about—I recognise his type, a straight, hard-dealing north countryman. He didn’t drink: he looked in at the nearest local occasionally and chatted with the farmers, but he made one pint of cider last a long time. Next, what about his dealings with women? Anything to contribute along those lines?”
Wilton shook his head. “Nix. Never known him to run after a skirt. You know what it’s like when a ship gets to port after a long cruise—the lads are out after the women. I’ve never known Nick to bother his head about a woman. You said he was canny over money—not mean, but careful. That’s true: he hadn’t got it in him to rip or play ducks and drakes. He was often ragged about it in the ward-room. He wasn’t exactly what’s called an ascetic—he enjoyed good living—but he was what I should call selective—critical, and tending to be remote from men who took their pleasures lightly. I suppose what I’m telling you is that Nick was an idealist. He wouldn’t have liked the word, because he hated the high-falutin’, but just as he kept his capital intact, so he kept his emotions intact. Didn’t hold with spreading himself or loose living. I hope I’m not giving you a wrong impression. Nick wasn’t one of those censorious Puritans who’re always blaming other people: he was popular with his fellow-officers and popular with the men, but he just didn’t go out after women. As for getting drunk, I’ve seen him lower enough liquor to lay most men out, and he never batted an eyelid. Told me afterwards it was a damn’ poor way of spending your money.”
“Yes. I know the type: it’s all of a piece with his upbringing,” said Macdonald, “but see here. Nicholas Vaughan was making that cottage into a home any woman might have been happy to live in. Do you believe all that paint and polish was for himself—electric points here and there, negotiations for an electric boiler, a valuable second-hand carpet for the sitting-room and carpet on the stairs. Does that sound like continued bachelorhood to you?”
“Well, no,” agreed Wilton. “The further you go into this the more I realise I’m out of my depth. I’d never have thought about carpets—but how do you know about them, anyway? The place was properly burnt out—I’ve seen it.”
“Yes, you’ve seen it. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve got the report of the County men—despise them if you like. Some large-footed constable went into a lot of shops and slowly and painstakingly found out just what Nicholas Vaughan had got for the cheques he’d paid out. He paid £7 10s. at one sale for a tea-set—I’m told it’d have fetched £20 in London.”
“Tea-set?” queried Wilton helplessly. “£7 10s. for a tea-set?”
“Yes, Commander, and Nicholas Vaughan was no spendthrift. Any comments?”
“Well I’m damned!” said Wilton. “It looks as though you’re right, doesn’t it? He must have been meaning to get married, but he never told me anything about it.”
“Does that strike you as odd? You’d been good friends, you say.”
“Yes, confound you, nothing phoney there. Nick was my friend and I was his, and it’s on that account that I’m here, no matter what sort of fool I look.”
“You don’t look any sort of fool to me, Commander,” said Macdonald. “I tell you frankly that I’m as likely to waste time over fools in my department as you are in yours. You’re a man with a hunch. You’ve looked into this business of Vaughan’s death and you believe it was caused by foul play. That belief is strong enough to make you put up with a certain amount of plain speech from me without resenting it. But if anybody walked on to your bridge and told you that some knave was monkeying with the navigation, I take it you’d ask for evidence. This is my bridge, in a manner of speaking.”
“Yes. All right,” growled Wilton. “I’m doing my best, you know.”
Macdonald chuckled. “Right. Let’s try again. You admit that the evidence goes a long way to show that Vaughan intended to get married, but he never mentioned it to you, though you were good friends, and it was due to your good offices that Vaughan got that cottage. Think again: hadn’t the subject of matrimony ever been mentioned between you?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. One or two of our ship’s company had got spliced, and in the usual way we gave ’em a wedding present and drank their healths, and the remaining bachelors made a few ribald remarks concerning their own immunity from trouble.”
“In which remarks Vaughan joined?”
“Not particularly. He just sat tight. Nick never told bawdy stories, but neither did he complain when the others did. He had a gift for taciturnity.”
“When you told him about Little Thatch, wasn’t the subject of housekeeping mentioned between you?”
“Yes. Now I come to think of it I did say he’d have to look out for a housekeeper—unless he intended to get married.”
“And he made no comment?”
“Just so. He made no comment.”
“You may think I’m labouring this issue unduly, Commander, but I think the point which emerges is important. Here was a man planning his house with an eye to matrimony, and he’s so secretive about it that he doesn’t give his best friend an inkling of his intentions. It seems odd to me.”
Commander Wilton rubbed his short-cut grey hair, with a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t know about that,” he growled. “You’ve no proof Nick did mean to marry. A man can have carpets on the stairs and buy tea-sets for himself.”
“Admittedly. I’ve taken a circuitous route over this for reasons of my own, because I wanted to be quite certain that Vaughan had never mentioned the subject of marriage to you—but he was going to get married. He told Colonel St Cyres so in confidence when he first negotiated the property, and St Cyres, being punctilious about confidences, had not mentioned the matter to anybody. He told the Superintendent about it when the matter of Vaughan’s next-of-kin was raised after his death.”
“All right. I expect Nick had his reasons for not talking about it,” rejoined Wilton testily. “Who’s the lady, anyway?”
“I don’t know, Commander. Neither does anybody else. You see, all his papers and letters were destroyed in the fire, and the lady has not put in an appearance. Now you probably know some of Vaughan’s friends. I think you might try to find out something about his ‘intended,’ as folks used to say.”
“I don’t fancy myself in that rôle,” growled Wilton. “It’s bad enough for the girl to lose her man without being badgered by enquiries.”
Macdonald sat silent for a while. Then he said:
“You’re convinced that a friend of yours has been murdered. You’re so certain of it that you go over the heads of very competent and conscientious police officers to impress your point of view on an old friend—my Assistant Commissioner, Colonel Wragley. It so happens that the Commissioner’s Office had already been consulted, but that is not the point. You’ve put before the authorities your own belief that Vaughan was murdered. In all honesty, you have got to implement that belief to the best of your ability. It’s no use having compunction about badgering people—now. It’s no use saying chivalrously, ‘Leave the women out of it’—now. It won’t do. You’ve come to me, and you have helped to convince me that further enquiry is desirable. Th
e things you don’t know have done as much to convince me as the things you do know. There it is. You’ve urged the necessity for an enquiry. Don’t blame anybody else if the course of the enquiry isn’t palatable.”
There was a moment’s silence again, then Wilton said: “Yes. I suppose I asked for all that. I’ll say this: if I were a murderer I shouldn’t care to have you on my track. I’ll do what I can, and if I get any information you shall have it.”
“Right. Meantime I had better find out from the authorities just where I stand in the matter.”
“You’ll be going down to Mallory Fitzjohn?”
“Presumably—if I’m given the case to investigate.”
“Then may I come down and tell you anything I find out?”
“That’s as you wish, Commander. I can promise you no privileges beyond those shared by the general public, but I do want your co-operation.”
“Right. You’ll see me there before long. I’m not much of a hand at writing reports. I’d rather report in person.”
“As you wish. Good-day to you.”
Commander Wilton left Scotland Yard rather less critical of police procedure than he had been when he arrived. In fact as he left Cannon Row he took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “The hell of a fellow,” he said to himself. It was quite a long time since Commander Wilton had been firmly dealt with by a mere civilian.
2
When Wilton had left, Macdonald went down to see Colonel Wragley, and the Chief Inspector knew from long experience what the Assistant Commissioner’s gambit would be. Wragley’s “Well, what do you make of it?” was a familiar query in the C.I.D.
“It’s an interesting story, sir. I feel disposed to think further investigation is indicated—though that is in no sense a criticism of the County men. They have done their part of the job well. While I’m by no means prepared to say that I believe Vaughan was murdered, I think there are a few gaps in the evidence which ought to be filled in.”
“Hm…cautious as ever, Macdonald,” said Wragley. “I look forward to the day when you’ll commit yourself to a really rash whole-hog and certain opinion—which I shall have the pleasure of disproving later. Carry on, fill in the gaps and don’t be in too much hurry. I doubt if you’ve had a full night’s sleep since you were up in Lunesdale last September. Go and browse in Devon and good luck to you. We shall survive without you for a week or two.”
Macdonald chuckled: he was accustomed to Wragley’s rather ponderous humour, and he was very fond of his old chief, despite the number of occasions they had been at cross-purposes.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I feel that your attitude is an exposition of practical Christianity, whether to me, or to the Department, or to the Royal Navy, I’m not quite sure.”
“Call it all three, you hair-splitting Presbyterian,” chuckled Wragley. Then he sobered down and added: “This Nicholas Vaughan seems to have been a damn’ fine sailor. We owe it to a chap like that to do all we can to…er…honour his memory.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Macdonald. “Battle honours from the C.I.D. I’ll do my best to see that nothing’s left undone which should have been done.”
Chapter Six
1
Macdonald decided to travel down to Devonshire by the night train. He calculated that it would be less crowded than the morning trains, and he would probably get a chance to sleep for a few hours instead of standing in the corridor. He was fortunate, for having taken a first-class ticket without any conviction that its possession would ensure him a first-class seat, he came across an old guard who knew and liked him: this worthy led Macdonald to a compartment where three naval officers occupied three corners, and the C.I.D. man gratefully took the fourth and asked no questions as the guard locked the door.
During the first hour of his journey Macdonald studied the report sent in by Superintendent Bolton and memorised the salient facts. Nicholas Vaughan, for four months tenant of Little Thatch, had last been seen alive on the evening of April 30th. Vaughan had gone out in his car at 6 o’clock in the evening—several witnesses vouched for this fact—and Vaughan had returned, according to old Reuben Dickon, at 9 o’clock. The road to Mallory Fitzjohn was a lonely one: on the two miles between the main Exeter road and Little Thatch there were only two houses built direct on to the road: one was Ridd’s farm, a mile and a half away from Little Thatch, one was Corner Cottage, inhabited by Reuben Dickon. Corner Cottage was well-named, for it stood just above one of those difficult blind corners hated by all motorists. Every driver had to change gear to crawl round the corner and to negotiate the steep gradient beyond, and every driver also sounded a horn and waited for a response before turning that corner. To meet another vehicle head-on on a steep gradient in a lane which was just wide enough for one car was an experience to be avoided. Reuben Dickon lived at the cottage with his wife and a boy of ten years named Alf. Alf had been billeted on the Dickons during the 1940 blitz, and there Alf had stayed. His parents, who had lived in Shoreditch, had both been killed. Mrs. Dickon had got fond of the small Cockney and found him increasingly useful as he grew larger and stronger. The Billeting Officer looked into the matter occasionally, but saw no reason to interfere with an arrangement which gave mutual satisfaction. Alf had almost forgotten his parents and he had no wish to return to Shoreditch: he had grown to like cows and calves and fields and farms. Life with the Dickons was “Oke.” The village school was “Oke.” The Billeting Officer wisely let well alone. Alf was a not unimportant witness in the matter of Nicholas Vaughan’s death. Dickon had attested that Vaughan had passed his cottage on the return journey to Little Thatch at 9 p.m. on April 30th. The interrogating sergeant had asked, “How can you be certain?” Dickon was very deaf, and his eyesight none of the best. For reply, Dickon had roared, “Alf! Come ’ere.”
Alf had come, an alert, comic-looking urchin in a cut-down pair of corduroy trousers which were hitched up to his arm-pits. Alf claimed—and demonstrated later that he could substantiate his claim—to be able to recognise the sound of every car and vehicle which passed Corner Cottage. He knew the sound of Colonel St Cyres’ big Austin and of Anne St Cyres’ small Morris: he could tell Mr. Gressingham’s Daimler and Mr. Hesling’s Ford, he could even tell whether the tractor which passed the cottage was the tractor from Hinton Mallory or that from Ridd’s Farm. Furthermore, Alf was an expert on Klaxons, horns, and hooters. He could hear any motor horn sounded at the road-bend half a mile away, and Alf, like many small boys, had a precocious memory for subjects which interested him. He gave the Superintendent a full and correct list of every vehicle which had passed Corner Cottage on Saturday, April 30th, plus the approximate time such vehicle had passed. The time of Vaughan’s journeyings were fixed very easily. Mrs. Dickon had an old wireless set (given to her by Anne St Cyres) and the old lady tuned in to the news at 6 and 9 o’clock regularly—she had grandsons on most of the battle fronts and liked to hear the news from France and Italy, Burma and the Pacific. Alf bore out old Dickon in saying that Mr. Vaughan’s car had passed Corner Cottage at six, driving in the direction of the Exeter road, and that Vaughan had waved his hand, as he always did when he passed. Dickon and Alf had been working in their own garden at six. At nine Dickon was smoking his pipe at the gate and Alf was chewing a crust of bread and jam at his bedroom window. They both saw the car return and again Vaughan had waved to them. Some time later—about half-past ten, Alf thought—Mr. Gressingham’s car had passed, travelling in the direction of the main road, away from Hinton Mallory. Alf was in bed then, but he was as sure of the car and its direction as if he had seen it.
Sometime in the middle of the night Alf had woken up, and as he turned over he saw that his small window was aglow with light. For the first time for years an old fear had assailed the Cockney-bred boy. He had seen a light like that before and his reaction was “air-raid.” He had tumbled out of bed and gone to the window and realised there was a
big fire burning somewhere. As his sleep-bemused mind cleared, he knew from the direction of the flare that it must be Little Thatch which was burning. Alf’s bedroom was a tiny slip of a room opening out of the main bedroom where old Dickon and his wife snored peacefully. The boy had gone into them and at length awoken them, yelling, “Mr. Vaughan’s ’ouse is afire. It’s burning like blazes.”
The old couple refused to believe him, or to get up and go to the window. Alf was fond of Nicholas Vaughan: the ex-sailor had been kind to Dickon’s “vaccy” and the small boy hero-worshipped Vaughan after his kind. Alf had put on his boots and coat and run down the lane to Little Thatch, and it was Alf whose shrill cries had roused the household at Manor Thatch at 3 o’clock on May morning.
2
Day was dawning as Macdonald’s train ran along the Exe valley. The C.I.D. man stretched himself contentedly, not to say luxuriously. He had slept well in his corner seat: even the train stop at Taunton had only caused him a vaguely pleasant awareness, “Taunton…I needn’t wake up yet.” Now he looked out on lush green meadows where the first buttercups were shining, and saw the swift running river wending its devious way through the water meadows, fringed with willows in the glory of May time foliage. “A good world…and what a mess we do make of it,” meditated Macdonald. His three naval companions still slept peacefully, and continued to sleep as Macdonald alighted from the fuggy compartment and stepped in to the chill freshness of early morning as the station announcer gave out: “Exeter, St Davids. This is Exeter, St Davids. Change here for the Southern Railway.”
Suitcase in hand, Macdonald went to the barrier to ask about a train for Mallowton and saw a tall fellow in uniform.
“Chief Inspector Macdonald? I drove in to meet you. There isn’t a Mallowton train for nearly two hours, and it’s poor work waiting on a platform at this hour.”
“Jolly good of you,” said Macdonald as he shook hands. “Superintendent Bolton, is it?”
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