The Lake District Murder

by John Bude

  And after the exchange of a few bantering remarks he jumped on to the saddle of his motor-cycle and headed for the Whitehaven police station.

  At two-thirty, after an excellent lunch, Meredith turned into the top of Queen Ann Street and sauntered toward the imposing façade of the old-fashioned hotel. Maltman was already waiting for him under the glass awning of the entrance to the saloon-bar.

  “We’ll have to go in through the hotel,” he explained. “It’s after closing-time. Let me do the talking in case Beltinge—that’s the proprietor—asks any awkward questions. I don’t think he will, but be on your guard.”

  The Inspector nodded and the two men passed into the dark and dingy reception-hall. Maltman, who knew his way about, turned down a long panelled corridor and rapped smartly on a door labelled “Office”. A wheezy voice bade them enter.

  Mr. Beltinge was seated in an arm-chair before a roaring fire with a sheaf of papers on his lap. He was a moon-faced, unhealthy, stout individual with long, drooping moustaches and tiny black eyes. On seeing Maltman he rose cumbersomely from his chair and extended a podgy hand.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Maltman. A pleasant surprise this! I was wondering when you were going to take it into your head to look us up again. Take a pew, won’t you?” He cast an inquiring glance at Meredith. “And you too, sir.”

  Maltman shook his head.

  “We really haven’t got time to spare, thanks all the same, Mr. Beltinge. I’d like to do the round straight away, if it’s all the same to you. Let me introduce Mr. Johnson to you. He’s working in with me for a time. Learning up the practical side of the Excise business.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” wheezed Beltinge. “You’ll excuse all this litter, but I’m behind-hand with my books. Sorry you can’t stay for a chat, but I know what busy chaps you officials are! Do you want me to come round with you, Mr. Maltman?”

  “No thanks. There’s really no need. Just a routine inspection. If you’ll give me the usual details of your stock and all the rest of it, we’ll just wander round on our own.”

  Beltinge waved a plump hand toward the scattered papers. “Good! Suits me fine! And I reckon you know your way about the old place better than I do, Mr. Maltman.” He rummaged in his desk and produced the necessary invoices. These he handed to Maltman, together with a labelled bunch of keys.

  “There we are, gentlemen,” he said with a husky chuckle. “And I hope you find everything in order.”

  “Sure of that,” returned Maltman affably. “But England expects and all the rest of it! Well, see you later, Mr. Beltinge.”

  The moment the door was closed Maltman caught the Inspector by the arm and walked him rapidly down the corridor. “We’d better snap into it,” he explained. “We daren’t take too long, else we shall rouse the blighter’s suspicions. This way!”

  Unlocking a stout oak door, Maltman switched on an electric light and they plunged down a long flight of stone steps into the dry coolness of the cellars. Meredith made out long rows of fat barrels ranged along the walls, bins full of straw-hooded wine bottles and piles of beer crates stacked high in one corner.

  “We won’t waste time here,” suggested Maltman. “This is the main cellar. I doubt if they’d tamper with the walls here—too conspicuous.”

  He crossed the cellar, passed through a stone arch and vanished into a second, smaller cellar which lay beyond. Acutely excited, under his cloak of official calm, Meredith followed. He saw at a glance that this second cellar was full of barrels. All manner of barrels—ranging from tiny kegs to enormous, iron-hooped casks. The air was redolent with the pungent odour of beer. High up in the left wall was a small grille, through which streamed a pale wash of April sunlight.

  Meredith seized on this at once.

  “Where does that give on to? Any idea, Maltman?”

  The garage yard, I imagine. Here, steady this barrel while I take a look.” With surprising agility Maltman sprang on to the top of an up-ended cask, caught hold of the bars of the grille and pulled himself up until his eyes were level with the opening. “I’m right,” he announced. “This wall flanks the end of the yard. I can see straight out into Jackson’s Mews. We’re just about under the lock-up garages.”

  “And the Nonock pump? Can you see that?”

  “Yes. It’s about eighteen to twenty feet from this grille.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Meredith. “So if the spirit is being passed into the secret vault via the petrol pump, the entrance must be somewhere in this particular wall?”

  “Looks like it,” agreed Maltman as he regained terra firma. “Suppose we start one at each end and run the tape over it.”

  Without wasting a moment they got down to work.

  Except for three or four large casks firmly fixed on trestles the wall was blank. It presented no buttresses or recesses, but stretched from one side of the cellar to the other, an unbroken, whitewashed wall of stone. But Meredith refused to be disheartened by its apparent solidity. Snatching up a spigot from the floor he began, with his usual thoroughness, to sound every inch of the surface. For ten minutes he and Maltman continued with this task until every stone in the wall had been meticulously tested. But the result was nil. Every stone seemed to be tightly cemented in place and there was no suggestion of hollowness in the whole length of the wall.

  “Well, that’s that!” observed Maltman, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “What now?”

  “The floor,” replied Meredith tersely. “There might be a trap leading to a shaft driven under the wall. That would account for its apparent solidity, anyway. If there is a trap I think we can rely on it being this side of the cellar. They wouldn’t want to make that shaft longer than was absolutely essential. Suppose we test a strip eight feet wide? That should tell us if we’re on the right track or not.”

  “Right!” said Maltman incisively. “Let’s jump to it!”

  Another ten minutes of frantic tapping and listening followed. But the result was the same. Everything was normal. There was no trap in the floor—not even the slightest suggestion of hollowness.

  “Confound it,” exclaimed Meredith. “I’m sure there’s an opening here somewhere. It might run out of the main cellar, of course, with a right-angled shaft to bring it to the rear of the Nonock pump. But this seems the obvious place. Twenty feet from the pump! We must be right, Maltman!”

  “Doesn’t look as if we are, for all that,” commented the excise official. “We’ve been over every inch of that wall and along this strip of the flooring. And there’s not—”

  “Hold on!” exclaimed Meredith, clipping his fingers. “You’ve given me an idea. You say that we’ve been over every inch of that wall?”

  “Well, we have!”

  Meredith shook his head.

  “That’s just where you’re wrong. We haven’t! What about those barrels? There’s a circular spot behind each of those casks that we haven’t tested. “Come on, Maltman, help me to drag these trestles away from the wall. I shan’t be satisfied with our test until we’ve had a look behind the barrels.”

  Seizing hold of the first trestle they tugged with all their might. The trestle refused to budge.

  “Good heavens,” cried Maltman. “They’re fixed. Look, they’re clamped on to the stone!”

  “And the barrels are clamped on to the trestles,” added Meredith. “Surely that isn’t usual, Maltman?”

  “Extraordinary,” said Maltman in puzzled tones. “I can’t quite see—”

  But wasting no time on further speculation he suddenly strode down the line of casks, sounding them with the toe of his boot.

  “Three full—one empty,” was his report.

  “Which is the empty one?” asked Meredith.

  “This one. The third from your end. But I still don’t see—”

  But Meredith made no attempt to enlighten the mystified officia
l. He was already kneeling in front of the empty cask tugging at the circular end into which the wooden spigot had been driven. Suddenly the whole end of the barrel gave way and Meredith all but fell backwards on to the floor of the cellar.

  Maltman took an excited step forward and peered into the yawning hole.

  “But, good heavens!” was his excited observation, “there’s no—”

  “Exactly,” snapped Meredith. “There’s no back to the barrel. Just as I anticipated. And I’ll tell you why there isn’t any back to the barrel—because this particular cask is the entrance to that shaft we were looking for. Clever, eh?”

  “You mean?” stuttered the amazed Maltman.

  “I mean that if we crawl through this barrel we shall eventually find outselves in that secret blending and bottling department. No wonder we got no reaction from the wall itself. We shouldn’t. The vault probably lies behind a good thick slab of mother earth. Our friends weren’t taking any chances. At any rate, don’t let’s stand here theorizing. We’ve only got to crawl through that barrel to make certain.” Meredith glanced at his watch. “We’ve been down here for about twenty-five minutes. Is it safe to stay any longer?”

  Maltman, after a quick consideration of the point, thought that it was. At his suggestion, however, Meredith was to crawl through the barrel, whilst he, Maltman, fitted the false end into place. Then if anybody should come down into the cellar the Excise man would merely be about his official duties. If Beltinge turned up, Maltman would be ready with an explanation to account for Meredith’s absence.

  This line of action decided on, Meredith, with a joking remark about obstacle races, crawled on all-fours into the cask and disappeared into the hole which had been driven through the wall. No sooner was he well inside when Meredith heard Maltman refixing the false lid and the last vestiges of light were swallowed up by complete darkness. Groping for his torch, he clicked it on and directed the rays down the narrow, arch-shaped tunnel which ran away in front of him. Although it was very airless and uncomfortable in the shaft, the cement floor was dry and the bricked arch which supported the earth comparatively clean. On his hands and knees Meredith made rapid progress to where he had already noticed a slight bend in the tunnel. Turning this corner, he came suddenly on the very thing he was looking for! The shaft continued for about another eight feet and then terminated in a small, square vault!

  Gaining this vault, he was able to straighten up and take stock of his surroundings. A single glance sufficed to show that he had reached, as it were, the very nerve-centre of the racket. The little cellar was chock full of whisky bottles, some full, some empty, some labelled, some ready for labelling. Crates filled with capped and sealed bottles lay piled one on top of the other along one wall. In a corner stood a small table on which were stacked little bundles of labels and boxes of metal caps. A pot of gum, one or two wire-brushes for cleaning the bottles, several squares of wash-leather, two or three glass funnels, a couple of graduated beakers and a large tank full of water completed the apparatus. Above the tank was a tap, obviously connected up in some secret way with the water-main which supplied the hotel. From the right wall projected a short length of small-bore metal pipe, which curved down into a glass container half-full of raw spirit. Meredith saw at a glance that the principle in action here was the same as that he had seen at the Derwent. It was evident that the small-bore pipe passed through the cement side of the petrol tank and thus up into the mouth of the countersunk intake in the yard above. If he had had any doubts as to how this end of the business was being managed, now they no longer existed. Maltman’s second theory was right. It meant that genuine whisky was being blended with the diluted products of the illicit stills and sold as bona fide stuff over the counters of the public house above.

  All the unused labels bore the wording and trade marks of recognized brands. The empty, unlabelled bottles were similar in shape and size to those favoured by certain genuine whisky distilleries. What could be simpler? thought Meredith. With a good supply of labels, bottles and illicit liquor, the ramp could be carried on wholesale. And if the other five tied houses belonging to Ormsby-Wright were fitted up in the same way, the profits from the racket must be enormous.

  Only waiting long enough to verify the contents of the glass container, Meredith crawled into the shaft and worked his way back as fast as he could to the barrel. Once inside it, he stopped dead and listened. There were no voices. Only the sound of Maltman’s measured footsteps passing up and down the stone floor. Softly he tapped on the end of the cask.

  “Right,” came Maltman’s low answer. “It’s all O.K.”

  Meredith felt him tugging at the false end of the barrel and the next minute the Inspector was standing upright in the cellar.

  “Well?” demanded Maltman, excitedly.

  “It’s the goods right enough,” was Meredith’s quick answer. “Tell you about it later.”

  “I was right?” Meredith nodded. “I thought as much. Now we’d better leg it as quick as we can back to old Beltinge’s office. We’ve been down here just three-quarters of an hour. He may smell a rat. Come on, Inspector.”

  Together they raced up the cellar steps and, at a more demure pace, passed down the panelled corridor to the proprietor’s office.

  Beltinge greeted them with an expansive smile and held out his hand for the keys and invoices.

  “Well, Mr. Maltman—everything in order? No complaints, I take it?”

  “Nairy a one, Mr. Beltinge.”

  “That’s good. Would either of you gentlemen care to join me in a spot of Scotch?”

  Maltman and Meredith exchanged glances.

  “Well, speaking for myself, I’m not averse to the suggestion. What about you, Johnson?”

  “Every time,” replied Meredith with a broad grin.

  “Good stuff this,” said Maltman when he had set down his glass.

  “It is that, Mr. Maltman. We only stock the best brands, as you know. Inferior quality spirit never pays in the long run. My customers want the best and I see that they get it.”

  “And a very sound business motto it is!” commented Maltman. Then, thrusting out his hand:

  “Well, we won’t keep you from your figures. You look as if you’re snowed under with work.”

  “See you some time, I expect, Mr. Maltman.” Beltinge turned his moon-face in Meredith’s direction. “And you, too, sir, if you haven’t left the district. Drop in any time you like. There’s always an odd spot locked away in the cupboard, you know.”

  “Thanks,” said Meredith. “I daresay we shall meet again all right. Good day, Mr. Beltinge.”

  Once out of sight of the Admiral, Maltman turned on the Inspector and burst out laughing.

  “Poor devil! The irony of your last remark was entirely wasted on him. I reckon he’d sleep ill o’ nights if he so much as guessed what you were hinting at. But tell me—what exactly did you find, Inspector? I’m dying to hear.”

  When Meredith had concluded his story, Maltman whistled.

  “So you’ve now got ’em by the short hairs, eh? Looks to me as if the case is at an end.”

  “It is,” agreed Meredith. “That case.”

  “Is there another?”

  “You’re forgetting that a man named Clayton was found murdered in his garage on the night of March twenty-third. What about that little packet of trouble?” Meredith sighed. “If only I could find a stepping-stone across the stream. Known facts on both sides with nothing to link them together. That’s the situation. And between you and me, I don’t think we ever shall find that stepping-stone, Maltman. The scent’s grown cold.”

  Chapter XXI

  Reconstruction of the Crime

  When Meredith had put in his report to Thompson that evening a late phone call came through from Carlisle bidding him attend a conference at headquarters the following morning. He wondered what was in th
e air. Did it mean that the Chief had decided on the gang’s immediate arrest, in the belief that Clayton’s murderer would never be run to earth? The crime had been committed over a month ago, and, except for a few unconnected clues, Meredith was no nearer a solution of the mystery. He believed that Prince and Bettle were mixed up in the affair. But he could not prove it. He believed that the motive for the murder was rooted in the gang’s determination to silence a man who might turn King’s Evidence. But again there was no proof. Facts without proof. That was the situation in a nutshell.

  It was with a mixed feeling of trepidation and curiosity, therefore, that Meredith knocked on the door of the Chief Constable’s office the next morning. Was he to be congratulated in bringing one half of the case to a successful conclusion? Or was he to be hauled over the coals for his inability to lay his hands on the murderer?

  Colonel Hardwick’s first words dispelled his uneasiness. The Chief, seated at his desk behind the inevitable blue haze of cigar-smoke, beamed all over his face as the Inspector entered.

  “This is great news, Meredith. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to get your report last night. I didn’t expect you to get a conclusive result so quickly. Anyhow, sit down and put on a pipe. You too, Thompson. We’ve got one or two rather tricky problems to discuss and my time’s unfortunately limited.”

  “First of all, Inspector, about this man, Ormsby-Wright. I’m having him shadowed. We can’t afford to let him slip through our fingers, because it’s pretty evident that he’s the brain and boss of the racket. And once he’d got wind of our investigations, he’d be certain to nip across the Channel and bury himself in some ungodly corner of Europe. According to the report which came in yesterday, he’s still living in his house at Penrith. Going about his usual business in a perfectly normal sort of way. Obviously unsuspicious of our attentions. So far so good. The question remains, how long do we dare hold up the arrests, in order to give you time to complete your investigations of the murder case? As our future actions hinge on this point, suppose we run over the various facts which you have discovered and see if we’ve missed anything. Agreeable, Meredith?”