Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  They returned to the house, which now appeared to be empty. Wardour led the way into a sitting-room, in which was a massive oak desk, littered with papers. He pulled open one of the drawers and looked into it with an expression of astonishment. “Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Where’s it gone to? That’s very queer.”

  “Is the pistol not in its usual place?” Arnold asked casually.

  “No, it isn’t. And there’s a box of ammunition missing. I had two boxes of a hundred each. One I had opened and taken a few rounds from. That’s gone. The other unopened one is still here.”

  “Perhaps you put the pistol and the missing box in some other drawer by mistake,” Arnold suggested.

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Somebody must have moved them. But they can’t be far off.”

  Wardour set to work to ransack the desk, turning everything on to the floor. But his search was unsuccessful. “Well, that beats me!” he exclaimed. “Where the dickens can the blessed things have got to?”

  “When did you last see the pistol?” Arnold asked.

  “Now I come to think of it, I haven’t seen it since I came back from France. I have had no occasion to use it, so I haven’t opened this drawer until now. But I had the pistol out the day before I went away, and shot half a dozen rats with it. And I distinctly remember cleaning it and putting it away in its usual place.”

  “That was on Wednesday, the 6th. Do you think that any of the servants are likely to have interfered with it?”

  Wardour laughed. “I don’t keep a staff of servants. Only Mrs. Grader, who lives in a cottage down the road, and comes in and out as seems good to her. She wouldn’t have touched it. Then there’s the chap I employ on the farm, but he never comes inside the house.”

  “Was the house shut up while you were away?”

  “Oh, no. Mrs. Grader came and went as usual, or so I believe. She took advantage of my absence to have what she calls a thorough turn-out.”

  “Does she lock the doors and windows when she is not here?”

  “Only at night. There’s nothing of any value about the place, and I’ve never had anything taken. My chap is always about, and people know that, I expect.”

  “Still, it is not impossible that somebody entered the house during your absence, opened the drawer, and took the pistol?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But why should they take the pistol and a few cartridges, and leave everything else? There’s nothing else missing, so far as I’m aware.”

  “They may have had some particular reason for doing so,” said Arnold significantly. “Is there any way in which the pistol could be identified?”

  “It would be identified by the maker’s number, which you’ll see on the certificate. That’s still here. And there’s another thing. When I bought the pistol the chap in the shop told me I could have my initials put on it free of charge. So I told him to engrave my initials, S.W., in a monogram. And quite a neat job he made of it.”

  “Then the pistol should not be difficult to trace. Now, can you tell me who knew that you possessed it?”

  “Oh, pretty well everybody. Lots of people have seen me use it. My chap, of course, and, I suppose, Mrs. Grader. Saxonby knew, for one day when he was here he tried his hand at it, and a pretty good show he made. Irene knows, of course. Richard, because he’s seen me use it. Any one who has been here this year, in fact.”

  “Have any of the staff of Wigland and Bunthorne ever been here?”

  “None of the London staff. A funny old chap called Dredger, who used to run the Manchester office, came and spent the day here a few months ago.”

  Was this a fresh link in the chain, Arnold wondered. “Is this Mr. Dredger a personal friend of yours?” he asked idly.

  “Oh, dear, no. I’d never met him before. It was Irene who told me about him. It seems that when he retired he thought of taking up poultry keeping, and Irene asked me if I would mind having him down here and putting him up to dodges. So he came along, and seemed quite a decent old chap. But when he saw that there was quite a lot of hard work involved, he gave up the idea. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Did Mr. Dredger see the pistol while he was here?”

  “Yes, he did. I was telling him that rats were always a nuisance, and he asked me what I did about it. So I took out the pistol and showed it to him.”

  Arnold had now learnt as much as he wanted to know for the present. Having secured the remaining box of ammunition, on the pretext that it might assist in the recovery of the pistol, he returned to Scotland Yard.

  The firearms experts had completed their examination of the flattened bullet. “We can say definitely that it was fired from the pistol already examined,” they reported. “Enough of the marks of the rifling remains to establish that fact. There happens to be a slight irregularity in one of the grooves of the pistol, and that irregularity is reproduced on the bullet.”

  This was satisfactory. The maker’s number on the pistol corresponded with that on Wardour’s certificate. And, upon being shown the box of ammunition, the experts declared its contents to be exactly similar to those of the other two samples which they had examined.

  Arnold sat down to digest the information he had acquired. But, before doing so, he wrote a note to Merrion. He felt that his friend’s powers of imagination would assist him in the sorting out of this queer jumble of facts. Then he took pencil and paper and made a few notes of what seemed to him most significant.

  “Sir Wilfred was shot with the pistol found in the compartment. This is proved by the identification of the bullet.

  “This pistol belonged to Major Wardour. Proved by the maker’s number and the initials engraved upon it.

  “The pistol was in Major Wardour’s possession as recently as November 6th, eight days before Sir Wilfred’s death. Wardour was in London during the afternoon of Thursday, the 14th. This information is derived from Wardour’s own statement.

  “A number of people know of the existence of the pistol, and where it was kept. Among them was Dredger. It would have been a simple matter for any one to have entered Wardour’s house during his absence and abstract the pistol.

  “On the other hand, there is no evidence that it was stolen. Wardour himself may have taken it and given it to some other person.”

  Arnold considered these points for a few moments, then glanced at the clock. It was still early in the afternoon. He picked up a directory, and looked up the Yates’ telephone number. On putting a call through, and giving his name, he was informed that Mr. Yates would see him.

  Half an hour later he was seated in the lawyer’s office in Coleman Street. “I am investigating the death of your client, Sir Wilfred Saxonby,” he said, when he had introduced himself. “As you are aware, it appears on the surface to be a case of suicide. But certain facts have come to the knowledge of the police, making it possible that this assumption is incorrect.”

  The lawyer looked at him keenly. “So I guessed, when I learnt that the inquest had been adjourned,” he replied. “I will not embarrass you by asking for an account of those facts. But I should like to say this. I have an intimate knowledge of my late client’s private affairs, and I know of no circumstance which might have induced him to take his own life. Of the conduct of his business I know very little. But if he had any worries from that direction I have failed to find any indication of them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Yates. The alternative to suicide can only be murder. I should naturally like to know who may be said to benefit by Sir Wilfred’s death?”

  “His will is a very simple document. There are legacies to the staff of Wigland and Bunthorne, and to the domestic staff at Mavis Court, on a sliding scale, according to length of service. This scale is, in my opinion, exceedingly generous. There are a few bequests to charities in which my client was interested. Miss Olivia Saxonby receives the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, free of
duty, as a reward for her companionship. Mavis Court and its contents fall to Richard, the son of the testator. The remainder of the estate, which, I anticipate, will be proved at nearly half a million, is divided between the said Richard and his sister, Mrs. Wardour, in equal shares.”

  “Would retired members of the staff share in the legacies equally with those still serving?” Arnold asked.

  “Certainly. An employee of the firm who had retired after forty years’ service would benefit to the extent of five hundred pounds. Mrs. Wardour informs me that this is the case of the late manager of the Manchester office, whose name for the moment escapes me.”

  It had not escaped Arnold, who refrained, however, from supplying the deficiency of Mr. Yates’ memory. It was remarkable how Mr. Dredger kept coming up! But there was another point upon which the inspector felt a certain curiosity. “Mrs. Wardour, I am informed, is not on terms of complete harmony with her husband,” he said. “This was a source of some disappointment to Sir Wilfred, was it not?”

  “To some extent, yes,” the lawyer replied. “He did his best to reconcile them, but without effect. He was fond of his daughter, and he had a genuine regard for Major Wardour. He could never understand why they didn’t get on better together. I could have told him. They are both too masterful. Mrs. Wardour takes after her father in that respect.”

  Arnold smiled. “Just one thing more, Mr. Yates,” he said. “During the afternoon of Thursday, Sir Wilfred received a visitor at his office, who gave the name of Yates. Did you or your son communicate with him that day?”

  “No, we did not. My son and I were engaged together upon a very important matter that afternoon, and neither of us left this office until after six. Nor did we have any occasion to communicate with Saxonby for at least a week before his death.”

  “It has been suggested that Sir Wilfred, at the time of his death, may have had some object of value in his possession. Have you any reason to believe that this might have been the case?”

  The lawyer shook his head. “None whatever,” he replied. “I know of no such object, nor, up to the present, have I come across any reference to it in his private papers. That suggestion, I take it, has been put forward as an explanation of the possibility of murder?”

  “Yes. If Sir Wilfred was murdered, the action was deliberate, and there must have been some motive behind it. Can you offer any suggestion, Mr. Yates?”

  “Of why anybody should have wanted to murder Saxonby? That opens a very large question, Inspector. The provocation to murder varies in degree with different persons. Although Saxonby was not generally popular, owing to his rather overbearing manner, I cannot imagine any of his friends or acquaintances receiving such provocation that the only course open to them was murder. On the other hand, members of a certain class of society might consider that they had sufficient grievance to justify such an act.”

  “I am afraid that I do not quite follow you, Mr. Yates. To what class do you refer?”

  “The class which appears in the police courts. Saxonby, as you are no doubt aware, was the chairman of the local bench. It is not for me to criticise him in that capacity beyond remarking that on occasions he appeared reluctant to temper justice with mercy.”

  This aspect of the matter had not occurred to Arnold. He made a mental note to discuss it with Marden, next time they met. Then, after thanking the lawyer for his information, he took his departure.

  XIII

  Before attempting to arrange these further facts in their proper places, Arnold decided to pay one more call. He took the tube to Hampstead and went to Mrs. Wardour’s house. On presenting his card, he was informed that Mrs. Wardour was at home and would see him.

  He would have had no difficulty in recognising her as Sir Wilfred’s daughter. Her features resembled his, and she had that typical hardness of expression which seemed to be a characteristic of the Saxonby family. She received Arnold without any surprise.

  “I have heard of you before, Inspector,” she said. “You have been down to Mavis Court, inquiring about my father’s death, I believe?”

  “That is correct, Mrs. Wardour,” Arnold replied. “Now I am going to invoke your help in my investigation.”

  “You are welcome to what help I can give you, but I know very little about the matter, since I was abroad at the time. But of one thing I’m perfectly certain. My father never shot himself, whatever people may say.”

  “Would you mind telling me what makes you so certain?”

  “My knowledge of my father’s character, and of his views upon suicide. It was a subject upon which he felt very strongly. He held that suicide, under any circumstances whatever, was a crime unpardonable both in this world and the next. Besides, even if he had acted against his principles, a thing which I have never known him do, there was absolutely nothing to make him wish to end his life.”

  “He had no worries with regard to business, Mrs. Wardour?”

  “The business has never been so flourishing as it is now, and everything is running perfectly smoothly. I can assure you that he can have had no worries, whether about business or anything else.”

  There was a short pause before Arnold spoke again. “You realise that the alternative to suicide is a very grave one, Mrs. Wardour?”

  “Of course I do. My father was murdered. I realised that as soon as I heard what had happened. And I expect the police to bring his murderer to justice.”

  “They will do their best, you may rest assured of that. But can you give me any reason why any one should have murdered Sir Wilfred?”

  “I would not have believed that anybody would have done such a thing. No doubt you are aware that several people will benefit by my father’s will?”

  “You refer, no doubt, to his employees?”

  Mrs. Wardour shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “Oh, yes, they get a few small sums, of course. But there is one person who gets a legacy out of all proportion. How my father was persuaded into such a thing, I can’t imagine.”

  “Who is that person, Mrs. Wardour?” Arnold asked innocently.

  “My cousin Olivia. Twenty-five thousand pounds! Why, it’s monstrous! My father burdens himself with a girl who is practically a pauper, gives her a home and keeps her in every luxury, and then, when he dies, leaves her all that money. What Richard will say when he hears of it, I don’t know.”

  “Surely you are not suggesting that Miss Olivia had anything to do with your father’s death?”

  “I don’t suppose that she shot him herself, if that’s what you mean. But Olivia is deeper than you’d think. Of course, she wheedled my father into putting that clause in his will. And she’s quite capable of having got round somebody else to shoot him. You don’t know her as well as I do, Inspector.”

  “Not yet, Mrs. Wardour. Now, what can you tell me about Mr. Dredger, the late manager of the Manchester office of your firm?”

  It appeared that Mrs. Wardour knew all about Mr. Dredger. But she could tell Arnold nothing that he had not already learnt from other sources. But her suspicions were evidently aroused. “What made you ask me about Mr. Dredger?” she asked.

  “Oh, I happened to hear his name mentioned as having received a substantial legacy. He paid a visit to Major Wardour not long ago, did he not?”

  “Yes, he did. But what on earth has that got to do with it?”

  “Probably nothing. But Major Wardour showed him a pistol on that occasion. You have seen the weapon yourself, I have no doubt, Mrs. Wardour?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in a drawer of his desk. I’ve often asked him to get rid of it, but he never would. My husband is not the sort of man to be trusted with a pistol. He’s got the most abominable temper, and I’m always afraid that he’ll threaten somebody with it, or even shoot them. I spoke to my father about it once, and he promised to do what he could. Whether he spoke to Stephen or not, I don’t know, but if h
e did, nothing came of it.”

  Arnold had no more questions to put to Mrs. Wardour. He returned to Scotland Yard, made a few additional notes, and then went home.

  On reaching his office in the morning he found a letter awaiting him from the police at Blackdown. Inquiries had been made locally and a witness had been found who remembered seeing Mr. Dredger on the previous Thursday. This was a bus conductor, working on the route between Blackdown and Medbridge. He knew both Mr. Dredger and his daughter-in-law. On Thursday, just before half-past twelve, his bus had reached the turning leading to Little Hazelbury, on its journey from Medbridge to Blackdown. Mr. Dredger was standing at the corner. He stopped the bus and got in, and travelled as far as Blackdown railway station.

  Acting upon this information, the police had interviewed the Dredgers’ maid. Her statement was to the effect that Mrs. Dredger had gone away hastily on Thursday morning, she believed as a result of a telegram she had received. She had not returned until the following evening. Not long after her departure Mr. Dredger had gone out, she supposed in his car. He had returned just after one o’clock, but she could not say whether he had brought back the car or not. The garage could not be seen from the house. The maid had gone out about two o’clock. Mr. Dredger was then at home. She saw him again when she returned about ten.

  This seemed to put Mr. Dredger’s complicity in the affair beyond question. Clearly he had left his car at the ventilating shaft, walked back to the main road, taken a bus, and driven to the station. The times fitted in perfectly. Why had he gone to the station? Because it was a convenient place for an appointment with one of his accomplices, to whom, no doubt, he reported that the car was in position. This done, he returned home at his usual hour for lunch.

  A second message awaited Arnold’s attention, this time from the police at Plymouth. A telegram addressed to Mrs. Dredger had been traced. It had been handed in at the General Post Office at Plymouth at 8.10 a.m. on the previous Thursday. The wording of the telegram was as follows: “Harold had serious accident come at once Fred.” On the back of the telegram, in the space reserved for that purpose, was the name and address of the sender. “Figgis, Grand Hotel, Plymouth.” The wording of the telegram was in block letters throughout.