“Double one eight Staveley, and be quick. Is that Sir George Granville’s? Is Mr. Crewe in? Yes, at once please. Is that you, Mr. Crewe? It’s Gillett speaking. The girl has gone—cleared out. I cannot say: I’ve no idea. What’s that you say? Oh, yes, I’ll telephone to Scotland Yard and tell them to keep a look out for her, but I am afraid it won’t be of much use—she’s had too long a start. But it’s now more necessary than ever that we should act quickly if we hope to lay our hands on the man. I think the first thing to be done is to make a thorough search of the cliff road for the actual spot where the job was done. Oh, you have? By Jove, that’s good! I’d be glad if you’d come with me then, because it’s on your theory that it was done away from the house that I’m working—”
Police Constable Heather entered the office at this point with a message for his superior officer. Sergeant Westaway, divided by anxiety to hear the telephone conversation and a determination that his subordinate should not hear it, imperiously motioned Constable Heather away. But as Constable Heather misunderstood the motion and showed no inclination to depart, Sergeant Westaway hurriedly led him out of the office into the front garden, heard what he had to say, and dismissed him with the mandate that he was on no account to be interrupted again. He then returned to the office, but the telephone conversation was finished, and Detective Gillett was seated in the sergeant’s office chair, looking over a document which Sergeant Westaway recognized as Miss Maynard’s statement.
“Crewe’s going to drive us along the cliff road this afternoon to see if we can locate the spot where Lumsden was shot,” said the detective, restoring Miss Maynard’s statement to his pocket-book and looking up. “I’ve arranged to meet him the other side of the cutting at the top of the farm, and we will drive back along the road in his car.”
“Did Mr. Crewe express any opinion as to who—who had warned Miss Maynard to take to flight?” asked Sergeant Westaway eagerly.
“That was not a matter for discussion through the telephone,” responded Gillett curtly. “I’ll talk it over with him this afternoon. I’ll call for you here, at two o’clock. I’ve several things to do in the meantime.”
They met again at the appointed hour and cycled along as far as Cliff Farm, where they put up their bicycles. Then they walked up the hill from the farm. At the end of the cutting, they saw Crewe’s big white car, stationary, and Crewe and Marsland standing on the greensward smoking cigars. The two police officers advanced to meet them.
“It’s a bit of very bad luck about this girl disappearing, Mr. Crewe,” said Gillett. “What do you make of it? Westaway thinks she may have gone to stay with friends at Staveley, and that her departure at this juncture is merely a coincidence.”
“Miss Maynard would not pay a visit to friends by the last train at night,” said Crewe.
“Then somebody warned her that the game was up and that safety lay in flight.”
“I’m afraid that’s the only reasonable explanation for her disappearance,” replied Crewe. “But who warned her?”
“That’s the point!” exclaimed Gillett. “I have been thinking it over ever since I discovered she had gone, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it must have been that infernal little dwarf or her husband, though what is their object is by no means clear. Who else could it have been? The only other people who know that I intended to unmask her are yourself, Westaway and Mr. Marsland. By a process of elimination suspicion points to the Granges.”
Crewe did not reply. While Gillett was speaking a flash of that inspiration which occasionally came to him when he was groping in the dark for light revealed to him the key by which the jigsaw of clues, incidents, hints, suspicions, and evidence in the Cliff Farm murder could be pieced together. But the problem was one of extraordinary intricacy, and he needed time to see if all the pieces would fit into the pattern.
It was at Detective Gillett’s suggestion that they walked up to the top of the hill, to the headland where Marsland’s horse had taken fright on the night of the storm.
He took Crewe’s arm and walked ahead with him, leaving the sergeant to follow with Marsland. As they went along, he unconsciously revealed the extent of his dependence on Crewe’s stronger intelligence by laying before him the remaining difficulties regarding the case. His chief concern was lest Miss Maynard should warn Brett in time to enable him to slip through the net which had been woven for him. To Crewe’s inquiry whether the London police had come across any trace of him he shook his head.
“No, he is lying low, wherever he is. My own belief is that he has not gone to London, but that he is hidden somewhere in the Staveley district. I shall look for him here, and Scotland Yard is watching his London haunts. He’s a pretty bad egg, you know. We’ve a record of him at Scotland Yard.”
“What has he done?”
“He’s identical with a fashionable rogue and swindler who, under the name of Delancey, kept a night club and a gambling hell in Piccadilly, during the first year of the war. We had reasons for closing the place without a prosecution, and Delancey, instead of being sent to gaol, was allowed to enlist. He returned to England a few months ago, invalided out of the army, where he was known under the name of Powell. Since then he has been employed by the Government in secret service work: mixing with the Germans who are still at large in this country, and getting information about German spies. He was given this work to do because he speaks German so fluently that he can pass as a German amongst Germans.
“I suppose this girl Maynard will try to join him wherever he is,” resumed Gillett, after a pause. “It’s a queer thing, don’t you think, for a well-brought-up English girl of good family to make such a fool of herself over an unmitigated scoundrel like Delancey or Brett, or Powell, or whatever he calls himself? From what I have learnt up at Staveley this girl first met Brett about three months ago. I do not know how they came to know each other, but from her visit to Cliff Farm on the night of the murder I think that Lumsden must have introduced them. There was some bond between Brett and Lumsden which I have been unable to fathom. It is true they knew each other through being in the army together, but that fact doesn’t account for their continued association afterwards, because there was nothing in common between the two men: Brett was a double-dyed scoundrel, and Lumsden was a simple, quiet sort of chap.
“It may have been the attraction of opposites, or, it is more likely that Lumsden knew nothing about Brett’s past,” continued Gillett. “Brett was certainly not likely to reveal it, more especially after he met the girl, because then he would keep up his friendship with Lumsden in order to have opportunities of meeting her at Cliff Farm. She also used to visit Brett at Staveley; they’ve been seen together there several times. Apparently it was Brett’s idea to keep his meetings with this girl as secret as possible, and for that reason he used to see her at Cliff Farm with Lumsden’s connivance. Nevertheless, he was not altogether successful in keeping his love affair dark. On two occasions he was seen walking with the girl on Ashlingsea downs, not far from her mother’s house, and there’s been some local gossip in consequence—you know what these small country places are for gossip.”
“You’ve put this part of the case together very well,” said Crewe.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Gillett laughed complacently. “Of course it was Scotland Yard that fished up all that about Brett’s antecedents. I flatter myself that we do that kind of thing better in London than anywhere: it’s difficult for a man to get rid of a shady past in England. However, I’d be more satisfied with my work if I had Brett under lock and key. What a fool I was not to go straight across to that girl’s house last night after I saw you, instead of waiting till the morning!”
“It wouldn’t have made much difference: I think she was warned by telephone, and probably the person who warned her knew you did not intend to look her up until the morning. If you had altered your plans she would have altered hers.”
“I could have telephoned to have her stopped at Victoria or London Bridge.�
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“Not much use,” responded Crewe, with a shake of the head. “She wouldn’t have revealed Brett’s hiding-place.”
“I’d have kept her under lock and key to prevent her warning him,” said Gillett viciously.
“Quite useless. Her detention would have been notified in the press. Brett would have taken warning and disappeared. By the way, Gillett, I’ll be glad if you will refrain from referring to the doubt I formerly expressed about Brett’s guilt. And I must ask Westaway to do the same.”
“I thought you’d come around to my way of thinking,” said Gillett. “It was plain to me that it couldn’t be anyone but Brett. However, you can rest assured I won’t try to rub it in. We all make mistakes at this game, but some don’t care to acknowledge a mistake as candidly as you have done, Mr. Crewe.”
The cliffs rose to a height of three hundred feet at this part of the road, and a piece of headland jutted out a hundred yards or so into the sea—a narrow strip of crumbling sandstone rock, running almost to a point, with sea-worn sides, dropping perpendicularly to the deep water below. Just past the headland, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for some distance, the side nearest to the sea being protected by a low fence, and flanked by “Danger” notices at each end. Crewe pointed out the danger post which had been knocked out of the perpendicular—it was the one nearest to the headland.
Detective Gillett examined it very closely, and when Marsland and the Sergeant joined them he asked Marsland if he could point out to him the exact spot where his horse had taken fright on the night of the storm.
“I think it was somewhere about here, Crewe? It was about here we saw the hoof marks, wasn’t it?”
Crewe measured the distance with a rule he had brought with him from the motor-car.
“A trifle more to this way—about here,” he said at length.
Gillett glanced over the edge of the cliff, and at the white water breaking over the jagged tooth-pointed rocks nearly three hundred feet below.
“By Jove, you can congratulate yourself that you happened to be on the right side of the road,” he said, addressing himself to Marsland. “If you’d gone over there, you wouldn’t have stood much chance.”
“It was purely good fortune, or my horse’s instinct,” laughed Marsland. “The road was so dark that I didn’t know where I was myself. I couldn’t see a hand’s turn in front of me.”
“The marks of the car wheels ran off the road at this point, bumped into the post, and then ran on to the road again.” Crewe traced the course with his stick. “Brett had a narrower escape than Marsland. It’s a wonder that the impact didn’t knock away that crazy bit of fencing.”
“When Brett is on his trial it will be necessary for the jury to visit this spot,” said Sergeant Westaway solemnly.
“We’ve got to catch the beggar first,” grumbled Gillett. “But let’s get along and see if we can hit upon the spot where the murder was actually committed. How far along is it, Mr. Crewe, to where the countryman you talked to saw him pass?”
“A little more than five miles from here.”
“Then somewhere between the two places the murder must have been committed, I should say.”
“I know the place—approximately,” replied Crewe. “I’ve been over the ground several times, and I’ve been able to fix on it more or less definitely.”
“How did you fix it?” asked Gillett curiously.
“I had several clues to help me,” replied Crewe, in a non-committal voice. “Let us get back to the car and I will drive you to the place.”
They walked back to the car and drove slowly along the winding cliff road. About two miles from the danger post the road turned slightly inland, and ran for a quarter of a mile or more about two hundred yards distant from the edge of the cliff. At this point the downs began to rise above the level of the road, and continued to do so until they were above the heads of the party in the car. It was not a cutting; merely a steep natural inclination of the land, and the road skirted the foot of it for some distance. A ragged fringe of beech-trees grew along the top of the bank; doubtless they had been planted in this bare exposed position of the downs to act as a wind screen for the sheep which could be seen grazing higher up the slope.
Crewe pulled up the car and looked about him, then turned his head and spoke to Gillett:
“This part of the road is worth examining. There are several features about it which fit in with my conception of the scene of the crime.”
The four men got out of the car and walked forward, looking about them. Crewe walked a little ahead, with his eyes roving over the rising bank and the trees at the top. Several times he tried to clamber up the bank, but the incline was too steep.
“What are you trying to do?” said Gillett, who was watching his proceedings curiously.
“I am trying to fit in my theory of the crime by actual experiments. If I can satisfy myself that Lumsden was able to climb this bank at some point I believe we shall have reached the scene of the murder.”
“But why is it necessary to prove that?” asked Gillett, in a puzzled voice. “Brett might have met him on the road, shot him from the car which had been pulled up, and then carried the body to Cliff Farm.”
“My dear Gillett, have you forgotten that the bullet which killed Lumsden took an upward course after entering the body? If he had been shot from the car it would have gone downwards.”
“Damn it! I forgot all about that point,” exclaimed Gillett, reddening with vexation.
“Lumsden couldn’t have been shot on the road, either, because in that case the bullet would have gone straight through him—unless the man who fired the shot knelt down in the road and fired upwards at him, which is not at all likely. Furthermore, Lumsden was shot in the back low down, and the bullet travelled upwards and came out above the heart. Therefore we’ve got to try and visualize a scene which fits in with these circumstances. That’s why I have been looking at this bank so carefully. Let us suppose that Lumsden was walking along the road and encountered his would-be slayer. Lumsden saw the revolver, and turned to run. He thought his best chance of escape was across the downs, so he dashed towards the bank and sprang up it. He had almost reached the top when the shot was fired. That seems to me the most possible way of accounting for the upward course of the bullet.”
“I see,” said Gillett, nodding his head. “Brett might have fired from his seat in his car, in that case.”
“Precisely,” returned Crewe. “But the weak point in my argument is that so far we have not reached a point in the bank which is capable of being scaled.”
“A little further along it narrows and is less steep,” said Marsland, who had been listening intently to Crewe’s remarks. “Come, and I will show you.”
He led the way round the next bend of the road, and pointed out a spot where the branches of the trees which formed the wind screen hung down over the slope, which was much less steep. It was a comparatively easy matter to scramble up the bank at this point, and pull oneself up on to the downs by the aid of the overhanging branches.
Crewe made the experiment, and reached the top, without difficulty; so did Gillett. Marsland and Sergeant Westaway remained standing in the road below, watching the proceedings.
The downs from the top of the bank swept gradually upwards to the highest point of that part of the coast: a landmark known as the Giants’ Knoll, a lofty hill surrounded by a ring of dark fir trees, which gave the bald summit the appearance of a monk’s tonsure. This hill commanded an extensive view of the Channel and the surrounding country-side on a clear day. But Detective Gillett was not interested in the Giant’s Knoll. He was busily engaged examining the brushwood and dwarf trees forming the wind screen at the point where they had scrambled up. Suddenly he turned and beckoned to Crewe with an air of some excitement.
“Look here!” he said, as Crewe approached. “This seems to bear out your theory.” He pointed to the branch of a stunted beechtree, which had been to
rn away from the parent trunk, but still hung to it, withered and lifeless, attached by a strip of bark.
“If Brett shot Lumsden as he was scrambling up the bank, Lumsden might easily have torn this branch off in his dying struggle—the instinct to clutch at something—as he fell back into the road.”
“It’s possible, but it’s not a very convincing clue by itself,” returned Crewe. “It might just as easily have been torn off by the violence of the storm. The thing is to follow it up. If Lumsden was shot at this point the bullet which went through him may have lodged in one of the trees.”
Gillett had begun to search among the scattered trees at the top of the bank very much like an intelligent pointer hunting for game. He examined each tree closely from the bole upwards. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
“Look here, Crewe.”
He had come to a standstill at a tree which stood a few yards on the downs away from the wind screen—a small stunted oak with low and twisted branches. Fair in the centre of its gnarled trunk was a small hole, which Gillett was hacking at with a small penknife. As Crewe reached his side, he triumphantly extracted a bullet which had been partly flattened by contact with the tree.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What a piece of luck! What a piece of luck!”
He held the bullet in the palm of his left hand, turning it over and over with the penknife which he held in his right. He was so absorbed in his discovery, that he did not notice Crewe stoop and pick up some small object which lay in the grass a few yards from the tree.
CHAPTER XXII
Crewe and Marsland sat at a table in Sir George Granville’s library with the cryptogram before them. The detective was absorbed in examining it through a magnifying glass, but Marsland kept glancing from the paper to his companion’s face, as though he expected to see there some indication of an immediate solution. Finally he remarked in a tone which suggested he was unable to control his impatience any longer:
The Third Mystery Page 74