by Miles Burton
Merrion and the Inspector watched the river police at their work. They began at the forward end of the vessel, and worked steadily through her, leaving not a cubic foot of space unexplored. The forecastle, the holds, the officers’ quarters, were all examined in turn, until nothing remained but the engine-room. And into this they descended without ceremony.
“I don’t believe that the blighter’s on board, after all!” whispered Merrion nervously.
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” replied the Inspector. “There’s one thing, if he is, you can bet these fellows will find him. Come along, and let’s see how they are getting on down there.”
They descended the hatch into the engine-room, which, on the first appearance of the police, had been vacated by every one except the chief engineer. He apparently did not understand English, for he shook his head violently at every question the sergeant put to him. But it seemed to Young that his broad Flemish face showed symptoms of great perturbation, and to this the Inspector drew Merrion’s attention.
“That chap knows something, I’ll be bound,” he whispered. “Of course, it may be that he knows about the drug-smuggling, and thinks that that’s what we’re after. Keep your eye on him, though.”
The police went systematically through the engine-room, opening lockers and lifting floor-plates. At last nothing remained but a low iron door, right in the stern of the ship. The sergeant tried it, it was locked. “What’s in there?” he asked.
“I don’t think our friend here understands you,” remarked Merrion. “At all events, he’s not going to let on, if he does. I expect you’ll find that that door leads into the shaft tunnel.”
“Well, he’s got to open it, anyhow,” growled the sergeant. “Here, mossoo, where’s the key? Key, savvy? Open, toute suite, pronto! Come on, hand it over.”
There was no mistaking the sergeant’s meaning. A hunted look came over the chief engineer’s face, and he glanced at the hatchway, as though meditating a flight to the deck. But the hatch was blocked by one of the constables, and at last, reluctantly, he put his hand in his pocket and produced a key.
The sergeant took it from him, inserted it in the lock, and flung open the door. Within, all was darkness, except for the polished propeller shaft, which reflected dully such light as managed to enter. But, as their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Merrion and the Inspector discerned the outlines of a short and narrow tunnel, moist and spattered with grease. And at the end of it crouched a figure, so smeared with dirt as to be unrecognisable, holding an iron bar in its hand.
The sergeant drew out his torch and directed its rays into the tunnel. “Is that your man, sir?” he asked in a business-like tone.
Young bent down and peered through the doorway. “Yes, that’s the chap,” he replied. “You’d better come out of that, Gregson, I want you.”
The figure made no reply, but the arm holding the iron bar stiffened. Crouched there, at the end of the dark tunnel, with the white gleam of his teeth showing between his grinning lips, he reminded Merrion of a rat at bay.
Young turned to the sergeant. “It’s going to be a job to get him out of that,” he said. “The only way to get into that tunnel is to crawl in, one at a time, and he’ll knock us all on the head while we’re doing it.”
“Oh, I’ll fetch him out, sir, sharp enough,” replied the sergeant reassuringly. “Run up on deck, a couple of you and rig the fire hose. When you’ve done that, bring the nozzle down here.”
Two of his men obeyed him, and in a couple of minutes the sergeant was standing opposite the doorway, with the nozzle in his hand. “All ready?” he inquired. “Right. Now then, you in there, for the last time, are you coming out?”
He waited for a few seconds, but no reply came from the depths of the tunnel. “Open the valve!” ordered the sergeant sharply.
A powerful jet of water leapt from the nozzle and broke at the end of the tunnel, filling the whole of the interior with spray. “He won’t stand this long,” remarked the sergeant calmly. “Watch out for him and mind that bar.”
The sergeant’s prediction was justified. Gregson stood it for the inside of a minute, and then dashed out of the tunnel, brandishing his bar, a shadowy figure in a cloud of flying water. He aimed a blow at the sergeant, who dodged it and directed the full force of the stream upon him, knocking him flat upon the steel floor. Before he could recover himself, two men had flung themselves upon him, and in a few seconds he was securely hand-cuffed.
“Well, that’s that,” observed the sergeant. “Turn off that water, one of you. What are you going to charge him with, sir?”
“The wilful murder of Samuel Whitehead, by stabbing him with a knife at the Rose and Crown in High Eldersham on the evening of March 31st last,” replied the Inspector.
It was not until Thorburn, or Gregson, as Young preferred to call him, was safely lodged in the police station that Merrion had a chance of a word alone with him. And then he could no longer restrain his curiosity. “How the devil did you find out that this butler chap murdered Whitehead?” he asked abruptly.
“Well, I can’t honestly say that I have found it out,” replied Young with a smile. “I’m banking on a certainty, that’s all. Look here!”
He drew from his pocket the official communication which he had received upon his arrival at Tilbury, opened it and underlined a few words with his pencil. “That’s an account of Gregson’s previous exploit,” he said. “I told you something about it, you remember.”
Merrion took the paper and read the words which Young had underlined. “The name of the constable who carried out the arrest was Samuel Whitehead. He was shortly afterwards raised to the rank of sergeant.”
“Oh, yes, it’s obvious enough, I know,” remarked Young, as Merrion handed him back the paper. “The unerring sleuth would have run that fact to earth within five minutes of the murder. But I confess that I had High Eldersham and its customs on my brain to such an extent that I never thought of looking further. It wasn’t until Sir William hinted to me last night that the motive of the murder was to be found in some incident of Whitehead’s past that this line of inquiry suggested itself to me. Call me a fool, if you like.”
“No, I won’t do that,” replied Merrion slowly. “If you hadn’t gone about the investigation in the way you did, Hollesley would still be at large, and I shouldn’t have met Mavis. But, look here! You’ve only established the motive, you haven’t got any evidence that Gregson actually committed the murder.”
“No, I haven’t,” agreed Young. “But I fancy I shall have when Hollesley is well enough to talk.”
The Inspector’s anticipations proved to be correct. The conspirators, upon being interrogated, displayed a most unedifying haste to throw the blame upon other shoulders. The skipper of La Lys confessed to having smuggled drugs from Belgium for years, for which service he had been handsomely paid by Hollesley. Dunsford declared that he had been in the habit of receiving match-boxes from Hollesley, through Thorburn, which he distributed only to people who mentioned a particular word, known to Hollesley and himself alone. He maintained stoutly that he had no idea what these boxes contained, a statement which the magistrates declined to believe. Finally, Hollesley himself, confronted with the weight of evidence against him, made a statement revealing the whole organisation of the scheme.
After this, Young found very little difficulty in extracting from him what he knew about the murder of Whitehead. Thorburn had confessed his guilt to him an hour after the murder had been committed, knowing that he dare not betray him, and demanded his protection. It appeared that Hollesley, requiring an assistant, had advertised for a butler. Thorburn had replied, among many others, and Hollesley had chosen him as soon as he hinted that he had a somewhat disreputable past. About the same time Whitehead came to the Rose and Crown, and Thorburn recognised him. The recognition was not mutual, for Thorburn took very good care to keep away from the
inn, but he nevertheless determined to revenge himself on the man but for whom he would have escaped arrest.
He saw his opportunity when, at one of the meetings of the coven, Ned Portch declared his grievance against Whitehead, and demanded that the curse should be put upon him. He took to watching the Rose and Crown, until, on the evening of March 31st, he found conditions favourable. He crept in just before ten o’clock and stabbed Whitehead as he was dozing in his chair, with the sacrificial knife used at the ceremonies.
Thorburn, or Gregson, as his real name proved to be, stoutly protested his innocence at first. But when he learned that Hollesley was in custody and had told the whole story, his nerve failed him and he confessed. He was sentenced to death and duly executed. Hollesley, a broken man, his nerves shattered by drugs which he had taken, was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, which he seemed likely to pass in the prison infirmary.
Much to the relief of everybody concerned, Doctor Padfield disappeared and was never heard of again. “He must have overheard me telephoning that night, and gathered from the conversation that his only chance of escape was to clear out before the police arrived from Gippingford. That’s why he only stayed five minutes or so at the Hall. I’m very glad he made himself scarce, for if we had found him at home we should have been bound to take proceedings, and then the whole unsavoury story would have come to light.” Such was Inspector Young’s pronouncement.
Merrion and Mavis were married very quietly in London, Inspector Young being best man at the wedding. But Sir William never recovered from the shock which he received on May Eve, and died within a few months. Mr. and Mrs. Merrion have succeeded him at the Hall, where, though Merrion is a foreigner, they are exceedingly popular among the villagers.
But Merrion acquired property in High Eldersham, even before he was married. He bought the island which had been the scene of so many strange ceremonies, and, on the night after the purchase was completed, he and Newport went there, armed with sledge hammers, and broke the altar into little pieces, which they threw into the river.
“Reminds me of that chap in the Old Testament, sir,” remarked Newport, as he mopped his brow after his labours. “What was his name, sir?”
“Gideon. ‘Throw down the altar of Baal that thy father hath, and cut down the grove that is by it.’ Yes, I think we’ll make a job of it, and have these trees down too. Things haven’t changed much since those days, have they?”
Select Bibliography
Miles Burton and Golden Age Detective Fiction
J. Barzun and W.H. Taylor, A Catalogue of Crime (1971)
H.R.F. Keating, Murder Must Appetize (1975)
J. Barzun and W.H. Taylor, A Book of Prefaces to Fifty Classics of Crime Fiction, 1900–1950 (1976)
Charles Shibuk, “John Rhode”, in Dictionary of Literary Biography, volume 77: British Mystery Writers 1920–39 (1989)
John Cooper and B.A. Pike, Detective Fiction: The Collector’s Guide (2nd edn, 1994)
John Cooper and B.A. Pike, Artists in Crime: An Illustrated Survey of Crime Fiction First Edition Dustwrappers, 1920–1970 (1995)
Melvyn Barnes, “John Rhode”, in St. James Guide to Crime and Mystery Writers (1996)
Curtis Evans, Masters of the “Humdrum” Mystery: Cecil John Charles Street, Freeman Wills Crofts, Alfred Walter Stewart and the British Detective Novel, 1920–61 (2012)
Martin Edwards, The Golden Age of Murder (2015)
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