Death in the Tunnel

by Miles Burton

  Fanciful though such a theory might be, it explained the two points which Arnold’s question had raised. Yates became no longer the envoy from a friend, but Saxonby’s accredited agent. No one but they knew of the existence of X, and consequently no one could remark upon its disappearance. Yates had been instructed by Saxonby himself to give that name at the office. Should the fact of his visit reach inquisitive ears, it would be assumed that Saxonby had merely received a visit from his lawyer, which would occasion no surprise.

  Yates might conveniently be explained along those lines. But the very nature of their association would make it necessary for him to be segregated from Saxonby’s ordinary and visible life. Yates could not have been intimate with his family or with the staff of Wigland and Bunthorne. Hence the necessity for B, who could provide the necessary information, and direct the conspiracy. Had Yates approached B in the first instance? It seemed highly improbable. Far more likely that B had in some way penetrated Saxonby’s secret and determined to secure a share of the profits for himself.

  If this had happened B had two courses open to him. He might have blackmailed Saxonby. But blackmail was always a dangerous game, and Saxonby, from all accounts, would hardly have been an easy person with which to play it. Or he might approach Yates and unfold to him a conspiracy to be carried through on a profit-sharing basis. No doubt he had adopted the latter course.

  The more Merrion played with the idea, the better he liked it. It accounted satisfactorily for Saxonby’s anxiety to have his son, his daughter and Torrance, out of the way at the time of Yates’ visit. With the directors and the secretary of the firm out of London, Saxonby would be secure from observation. The junior staff would not concern themselves with any visitor whom he might have. It would never have done for Yates to have been seen by anybody in a position to ask questions. Something might have leaked out which would have given a clue to the secret.

  Again, the five-pound notes took on a slightly more plausible aspect. If Yates had been Saxonby’s agent, it was natural that the latter should supply him with money. He had cashed the cheque for that purpose. The notes had passed into the possession of Yates and had so formed part of the contents of the substituted wallet.

  Yes, on the whole, Merrion found himself growing enamoured of his theory, in spite of the fact that he had no evidence with which to substantiate it. And, precisely because this evidence was altogether lacking, it would be better to say nothing to Arnold as yet. The inspector would reject it with the scorn it deserved. Later, if some clue could be discovered to the identity of B, it would be time enough.

  XVI

  Inspector Arnold, in seeking information as to the members of Sir Wilfred Saxonby’s family, turned naturally to Torrance, the secretary of Wigland and Bunthorne. He might, of course, have approached Miss Olivia Saxonby. But, for one thing, he always found it easier to question a man than a woman, and, for another, he felt hardly conversant with the state of the Saxonby family politics. Mrs. Wardour had displayed no striking cousinly solicitude for Miss Olivia. It was at least possible that the latter might retaliate by supplying information with a definite bias to it.

  So Arnold called once more at the serene and dignified offices in Shrubb Court and secured an interview with Torrance. He did not approach his object directly, but began by talking about Mr. Dredger, who was still prominently in his thoughts. As a business man, Torrance gave him a very high character. “The Manchester office has never been the same since he retired,” he said. “He’s a man who has a way with him, you know, and that always seemed to impress our customers. It impressed other people, too, and for that reason I’m personally not sorry that he’s no longer an active member of the firm.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you there, Mr. Torrance,” said Arnold.

  “I wasn’t being intentionally obscure. Between ourselves, some of us found old Dredger a bit of a nuisance. He is a regular toady, if ever there was one, and was always making up to the directors. That sort of thing didn’t cut much ice with Sir Wilfred, and there were occasions when the two didn’t exactly hit it off. But both Mr. Richard and Mrs. Wardour fell for him, and in their eyes he could do nothing wrong. It used to make things in the office rather uncomfortable sometimes.”

  “Has he kept in touch with the directors since his retire-

  ment?”

  “Oh, he looks in here occasionally. And when he was ill, Mrs. Wardour and Sir Richard and his wife were always going to Blackdown to see him. Mrs. Richard Saxonby in particular. They live quite close to Blackdown, between Westerham and Edenbridge.”

  The information which Arnold sought seemed to be coming of itself. He made no comment, but allowed Torrance to continue. “Old Dredger has a car, a little nine-horse Morstin, and he drives over to see the Saxonbys fairly often when they’re at home, I believe. From one or two little things that have happened, I fancy he still tries to influence the affairs of the firm from outside. Now that Sir Wilfred is dead, I’m very much afraid that too much attention will be paid to his suggestions. And, between ourselves, if that turns out to be the case, I shall begin looking for another job.”

  “You don’t agree with Mr. Dredger’s suggestions, then?”

  “They may be excellent,” Torrance replied dryly, “but it would hardly be conducive to the smooth working of the office if it were suspected that the decisions of the directors were influenced by the opinions of the late Manchester manager. However, that’s a personal matter with which I hardly need trouble you.”

  “I suppose that Mr. Richard Saxonby has a very nice place?”

  “It’s really a charming place, not very big, but with a very fine garden. Some people might think it a bit too isolated, for it stands by itself with trees all round it. The Saxonbys don’t live there much in the winter; they’ve got a flat in Kensington. But in summer it is ideal. Of course they’ve both got cars. Mr. Richard has a Rolls-Royce, in which he drives up here, and Mrs. Richard a Morstin of the same vintage as old Dredger’s.”

  “What becomes of the house when the Saxonbys are not there?” Arnold asked.

  “Oh, it is shut up. The gardener lives in a cottage not far away, and he’s about the place most of the day. And I believe old Dredger runs over sometimes to see that everything is all right.”

  Arnold took good care not to reveal his interest in this conversation. But he was not anxious to press Torrance too far, lest his curiosity should be aroused. He allowed him to wander off into other matters, and only, towards the end of his visit, secured a list of the addresses of all those who had been intimately connected with Sir Wilfred. For the most part they lived in London or its immediate suburbs, as, for instance, Torrance himself, who, it seemed, was married, had two children, and occupied a flat in Maida Vale. The only address situated anywhere near Blackdown was that of Sir Wilfred’s son.

  “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Torrance,” said Arnold as he closed his note-book. “By the way, you remember the visitor who called upon Sir Wilfred here on Thursday afternoon. He gave his name as Yates, you told me. Isn’t that the name of the solicitor whom Sir Wilfred employed in his private affairs?”

  “Yes, it is, as I have learnt since. Mrs. Wardour told me. If I knew it before, I had forgotten it. You must understand that though I was entirely in Sir Wilfred’s confidence as regards the affairs of the firm, it was only on exceptional occasions that he spoke to me of his private affairs. That explains the visit, of course.”

  “I’m not sure that it does,” Arnold replied. “Mr. Yates, the lawyer, assures me that neither he nor his son visited Sir Wilfred that day, or, for that matter, communicated with him in any way.”

  “That sounds queer,” said Torrance. “Who can the chap have been, I wonder?”

  “I’d very much like to find out. But I mustn’t waste any more of your time, Mr. Torrance. Good-morning.”

  Arnold went back to the Yard and got into touch with
Merrion. That same afternoon they took a car and set out to find Richard Saxonby’s house.

  This they accomplished, but not without some little difficulty. The place was certainly remote, lying well off the main road. A few scattered cottages surrounded it, but from none of these was the house visible. At last they discovered the entrance gate, from which a short drive led to a small picturesque house standing in a beautifully-kept garden. The windows were shuttered and there was no sign of life to be seen.

  “Half a minute, before we look for that gardener you talk about,” said Merrion, pulling a map from his pocket and spreading it out. “Here we are and there’s the ventilating shaft of Blackdown Tunnel. Four and a half miles as the crow flies, and say six or seven by road. That fits in very nicely with my theory. Now let’s walk round and see what we can find.”

  They had not gone very far when the gardener, attracted by the sound of the car, appeared. He was an intelligent, middle-aged man, and gave his name as Quince. He had been in Mr. Richard Saxonby’s service ever since he had bought the house, and that was many years back.

  Arnold began his interrogation. “Now, Quince, do you remember Thursday of last week?” he asked.

  “I remember it well enough, sir,” Quince replied readily. “It was the day I went to Norwich about those rhododendrons.”

  “You went to Norwich that day? A longish journey from here, surely! Do you often go as far afield as that?”

  “Not very often, sir. It was the first time that I’d been further than London for the past ten years and more. But orders are orders, and that’s what Mrs. Wardour said. So I went and gave the order, and I hope the master and mistress will be pleased with what I chose.”

  “Mrs. Wardour?” exclaimed Arnold. “Where does she come in? Let’s have the whole story, Quince?”

  “Why, you see, sir, it was like this. When I got back home on the Wednesday, having done my day’s work, there was a letter for me that the missus told me had come by the afternoon post. I opened it and found it was from Mrs. Wardour. But there, perhaps you’d like to see it for yourself, sir. I’ve got it in my pocket still.”

  He produced an envelope, rather grimy from contact with earthy fingers, and handed it to the inspector, who looked at it carefully. The address was typewritten and the envelope bore a London postmark, 12.30 a.m., November 13th. It had therefore been posted late on Tuesday evening.

  Inside the envelope was a letter typed upon the headed paper of Wigland and Bunthorne. The contents of the letter were as follows:

  “Dear Quince,—I have had a letter from my brother who, as you know, is in America. He has decided to fill the bed opposite the front door with rhododendrons, and wants this done at once, before it is too late to put the plants in. He wants you to go to Norwich and see Fremlins, the nurserymen there, as he has been told theirs are the best. Tell them how many you want, and choose the best varieties. They can send the bill in to my brother at the Kensington address, and he will pay it as soon as he returns. You had better go on Thursday, without fail. I enclose two pounds to cover your expenses. Yours sincerely,

  “Irene Wardour.”

  The signature was written in ink, in an obviously feminine hand.

  Arnold passed this letter on to Merrion. “So you went to Norwich on Thursday, did you, Quince?” he said. “You started pretty early, I expect?”

  “Yes, and got back late, sir. I didn’t manage to come to work here at all that day. Still, there’s no harm done. There’s not a lot one can be doing in the garden at this time of year.”

  “Were you surprised to get this letter?”

  “Surprised, sir? No, why would I be? I know Mrs. Wardour well enough, she often comes over here when the master and mistress are at home, and she’s very fond of flowers. And the master often talked about putting rhododendrons in that bed. He thought they’d make a fine show from the front windows when they were in bloom.”

  “I dare say they would,” said Arnold absently. “If you hadn’t received that letter, you’d have been up here at work on Thursday?”

  “Yes, sir. I come up every day and do my work. And most Sunday afternoons I and the missus take a stroll round. That’s when the house is empty, of course. I live in the first cottage down the road, the one with the roses in front of it. It’s the best part of a mile from here, but I’ve got my bike, and it don’t take me long to slip backwards and forwards.”

  “You know Mr. Dredger, of course. Have you seen him lately?”

  “He was over here in his car the Wednesday afore I went to Norwich, sir. He passed the time of day with me, and I gave him a few handfuls of sprouts. They’re rotting on the plants, now that the master and mistress are in America. When they’re in London I send them up vegetables twice a week, regular. And the master will drive down sometimes and fetch them himself.”

  “Did Mr. Dredger stay here long on Wednesday?”

  “Not more than a few minutes, sir. He asked me to unlock the house for him—I’ve got the back door key, you understand, sir. I let him in, and I suppose he had a walk round, just to see that everything was all right, like he often does. And then I went down to the far end of the garden, and when I came back he’d gone.”

  “There is a garage here, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir, a big one, that the master had built when he bought the house. It’s round at the back, if you’d care to see it.”

  “Yes, I think we may as well have a look at it,” Arnold replied. “Don’t you, Merrion?”

  Merrion nodded. “I think it might prove interesting,” he said.

  “Then perhaps you’ll come this way, gentlemen,” said Quince. “I’ll have to get the key. It hangs on a nail just inside the back door.”

  They followed him round the house, and taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and walked in. Arnold and Merrion waited outside. They could hear Quince grumbling to himself and then he reappeared. “The key’s not where it ought to be,” he said. “I can’t make it out. I haven’t used it for a fortnight or more. Surely I can’t have gone and left it in the lock all that while?”

  Arnold glanced significantly at Merrion. “We’d better go and see,” he said. The garage was only a few paces distant, a new brick building with two pairs of stout doors. But there was no key in either of the locks. “Can’t make it out,” Quince repeated. “But if you gentlemen want to see inside the garage I’ll soon manage that.”

  He pointed to a sash window in the side wall. “The fastener’s broken,” he continued. “It won’t take me long to get my knife under the bottom window and prise it up.” He suited the action to the word and opened the window without difficulty. Then he climbed through it and opened one pair of double doors from inside.

  The interior of the garage, thus revealed, was big enough to accommodate two large cars. But it contained only one small one, a nine-horse-power Morstin saloon. Though perhaps a shade more carefully kept, it resembled Dredger’s car in every particular. It was of similar age and colour, and it was fitted with a fairly new set of Dunlop tyres.

  “Whose car is this?” Arnold asked.

  “It belongs to the mistress, sir. She always leaves it here for the winter, for she doesn’t like driving in London, I’ve heard her say.”

  “I don’t wonder at that,” Merrion remarked. “Driving in London is not much fun now, what with traffic lights and Belisha beacons and other modern means of obstruction.” He walked up to the car, inspected it critically, took off the cap of the radiator and glanced within. “H’m, if I were going to leave a car in an unheated garage all the winter, I should run off the water,” he said quietly.

  “Why, sir, that’s just what the mistress told me to do, last thing before she went away. I turned on the tap at the bottom and ran off the water into a bucket.”

  “You’re perfectly sure you did so, and not only intended to do it?”

  “
Certain, sir. And the master could bear me out if he was here. He was in the garage at the time and saw me do it.”

  “Well, the radiator is full now. Come and have a look, Arnold.”

  The inspector satisfied himself on this point, then continued his questioning. “Do Mr. and Mrs. Saxonby keep a chauffeur?” he asked.

  “No, sir. They look after the cars themselves. And when they want washing, I do the job, or if I’m too busy, a chap that lives down the road comes up.”

  “Mr. Saxonby owns a Rolls-Royce, I understand. Where is that car now?”

  “He drove it up to the makers for overhaul, sir, just before he left.”

  “Then only Mrs. Saxonby’s car has been in the garage since then?”

  “That’s right, sir. And that was at the latter end of September.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Merrion. “You’re accustomed to washing the cars, you say, Quince. Do you ever wash out the garage?”

  “Once a week when the master and mistress are at home, sir. And when they go away I give it a good scrub out after they’ve gone, and leave it until just before they come back.”

  “When did you last scrub out the garage?”

  “The day after the master and mistress went to America, sir.”

  “And no other car but this one has been in here since, you say. Then how do you account for this?”

  He pointed to the concrete floor. In the centre of the vacant half of the garage were several spots of black, sticky oil, still semi-liquid.

  Quince looked at these with an expression of almost ludicrous amazement. “Now, where can they have come from?” he demanded. “They weren’t there when I was last in here, that I’ll swear.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Last time I used the key, sir. About a fortnight back, but I can’t mind the day exactly.”

  “Before your journey to Norwich?”