Though French took a note to interview the landlady, he did not really suspect Parry, principally because of the evidence of the boy, Langton.
On his way to his hotel French saw Clay, the Redchurch stationmaster, and obtained complete confirmation of Parry’s statement about the sending in of the certificate.
As after dinner that night French sat considering his day, he gradually came to the definite conclusion that Bragg’s alibi was sound. At half-past four on the afternoon of the crime an hour’s work at the certificate remained undone. At half-past five this work was finished. It must have been complete then, because it was impossible that it could have been done later. There was no one but Bragg to do it. Therefore Bragg was in the hut during the critical period. Therefore, Bragg was innocent.
That same evening French received news that what might have proved a useful clue had petered out. The telephone call ordering the bicycle from Peabody had been traced. It had come from a box at the railway station, and the report said that this box was placed in such a dark corner that it was most unlikely that the caller had been seen entering or leaving.
Though French decided that he would inquire among the station staff, he felt he need not hope for a favourable result.
Next morning French took an early train to Whitness to resume his inquiries into the alibis of his suspects.
He reached the contractors’ office to find that both Carey and Lowell were out, though working in the technical office were Pole, the junior, and Templeton, the timekeeper. For the same reason as in the case of Parry, that they did not comply with Langton’s description, French did not really suspect either of these men. However, not only for the sake of thoroughness, but to distract attention from his real suspects, he asked both of them his questions.
Templeton, according to his own story, had alibis on both occasions. On the Monday he was working in the office till after six, and as some of the clerical staff had also worked late that night, they could vouch for the fact. On the Saturday he had supper in his rooms in Whitness about seven, going out about eight to some billiard rooms. Several people saw him there between eight and half past.
French noted these particulars in case a check became necessary and turned his attention to Pole. Pole didn’t think he had any alibi for the Monday night. After leaving the office he had gone straight to ‘Serque’, the house at which he and Carey and Lowell shared rooms. He had not, however, seen anyone on arrival, and he did not think anyone knew that he was there. But on Saturday he had an alibi. He had dined with Lowell at ‘Serque’ at seven o’clock, and though they had afterwards gone out, this had not been till nearly eight o’clock.
If this were true both Lowell and Pole were cleared.
From Templeton, confirmed as far as he was able by Pole, French then obtained a note of the movements of the other members of the staff. On that afternoon of Ackerley’s death Carey, Lowell, Pole and Templeton were all working in the office. About five o’clock Carey went out. Lowell followed almost immediately and Pole a few minutes later. Templeton, as already stated, had not finished and remained on, working alone. About six Carey returned, saw that nothing had come in, and left again almost at once. Both Carey and Lowell, Pole stated, were present at dinner at ‘Serque’ at seven.
From both men French also learned that while Lowell was in a perfectly normal frame of mind, Carey had that afternoon seemed irritable and as if some trouble was weighing on his spirits. Contrary to his habit, he had gone without any remark as to where he might be found. Next day this irritation had again been in evidence, in fact, Carey had never completely recovered his normal good humour. In answer to another question Pole stated that Carey had not been in to dinner on the previous Saturday and had mentioned afterwards that he had gone to a theatre in Lydmouth.
All this made French prick up his ears hopefully. He determined to be specially careful in his approach to Carey.
At this point Lowell appeared. He stared in a rather unfriendly way at French, but led the way to Carey’s private office when the latter asked for an interview.
Lowell made no difficulty about answering French’s questions and his answers confirmed what Templeton and Pole had said, so far as they covered the same ground. While Lowell had a complete alibi for the Saturday evening, he had none for the Monday. During the time the murder took place, Lowell, according to his own story, was walking along the Whitness front. He had, he said, been working in the office practically the whole of that day and had got a headache. Instead, therefore, of going straight to ‘Serque’ he had taken a walk. Unfortunately no one, so far as he knew, had seen him and he was therefore unable to prove his statement.
French had scarcely finished questioning Lowell when Carey entered the office. Lowell introduced French and with a ‘That all I can do for you, inspector?’ vanished, leaving French alone with Carey.
With the first glance French noted how completely the contractors’ chief resident engineer answered the description of the boy, Langton. His pronounced Irish accent also might well have represented what the boy called speaking in a queer way, moreover, his voice was rather high pitched. When French remembered that Carey had seemed preoccupied immediately before and since the crime, and had vanished between five and six on Monday and during the whole of the evening on Saturday, he felt himself looking forward with keen interest to his interview.
Carey professed no surprise at the questions, saying he had heard that inquiries into the matter were in progress. Nor did he seem to resent the personal nature of the questions. His eye, however, grew extremely wary and he obviously gave careful thought to his answers.
His story accounted for the facts, but left French very far from convinced. He said that on the Monday of the accident he received a letter from a friend, a lady, asking him to meet her at the Whirlpool Cave at quarter past five that night, in order to discuss some private business. This Whirlpool Cave was situated at Blackness, a headland of dark rock along the shore about a mile east of Whitness, that was, in the opposite direction to Redchurch. It was reached by a cliff path, a favourite walk in the summer, but deserted at this time of year. As the business was somewhat unpleasant, Carey had been a good deal worried during the day, but he never questioned that it was his duty to keep the appointment. He left the office, therefore, a minute or two before five and walked out. He reached the cave in good time, but there was no one there. Thinking that the lady was late, he waited. He waited for half an hour, till quarter to six. Then he supposed she had changed her mind and wasn’t coming, though he felt rather surprised as it was unlike her not to keep her appointments. He returned to the office, made sure that nothing of importance had come in, and went on to ‘Serque’, where he dined with the others.
French then made his second little speech about the need for confirmation. Carey shook his head.
‘The boys’ll tell you when I left the office and when I got back,’ he said, ‘or Templeton will anyway, for he was there both times. But if it’s confirmation about me being out at the Whirlpool Cave you’re wanting, I have me doubts about your getting it.’
‘Did no one see you either there or on the way?’
‘Never a one, at least not so far as I saw.’
French leaned forward and his manner became more urgent. ‘This is an important matter, Mr Carey,’ he declared, ‘an important matter both for you and for me. It’s necessary that I should have some confirmation of your story. That doesn’t mean that I doubt it; it means that this is a murder case and that every statement connected with it must be tested. Please think again. Try and remember something to help.’
Carey shrugged. ‘Sure now, inspector, you wouldn’t be having me remember things that never happened? I would give you all the confirmation in the world, only there isn’t any.’
‘Did you get into communication with the lady afterwards?’
‘I did.’
‘And what did she say about not turning up?’
‘It was all a mistake. She hadn’
t written the letter at all.’
French glanced at him sharply. ‘Not written it? Then who had?’
‘Ah, now, if I could tell you that you’d know more than I do meself.’
‘You’ve no idea?’
‘No more than the babe unborn.’
‘Have you got the letter?’
For the first time Carey hesitated. ‘I might have,’ he admitted unwillingly, ‘but it hasn’t anything to do with what you’re asking me.’
‘Nothing to do with it? It seems to me it has everything to do with it.’
‘It has to do with me going out to the Whirlpool Cave, but it hasn’t anything to do with Ackerley’s death.’
‘You don’t know that,’ French returned with some sharpness. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Carey, I’ll have to ask you to show me that letter.’
Carey drew back and again shook his head. ‘Sure now, you wouldn’t be asking me to show you a lady’s private letter and it be totally beside the point at issue?’
‘But you’ve just said she didn’t write it,’ French pointed out.
‘Neither she did.’
‘Then it’s not her letter and she couldn’t object to your showing it to me.’
Carey wouldn’t admit this reasoning and an argument ensued. Carey said that the lady would object because the letter was about her. French said he didn’t mind whether she objected or not, that the letter might be about the case and he must see it.
‘You don’t realise the position, Mr Carey,’ he said at last with grave emphasis. ‘Mr Ackerley has been murdered. Someone is going to be charged with that murder. On the chance of that person being yourself, you have a right to refuse to answer my questions. On those grounds do you wish to avail yourself of that right?’
This was an approach to bluff on French’s part, but Carey took it seriously.
‘Will the letter be kept confidential?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said French, ‘not if it should prove to be material evidence about the murder. If it proves not to be connected with the murder, I can give you my word it will be kept secret.’
Carey was clearly shaken. He considered for a moment, then slowly took a letter from his pocket and handed it over. It was typed on a sheet of medium quality note paper headed ‘Serque, Whitness, Dorset,’ with in smaller print in the left hand corner, ‘Telephone Whitness 73,’ and read:
‘DEAR MR CAREY,
‘I am in very great trouble through one of your assistants and wonder if you would be so good as to help me with your advice. I shall be at the Whirlpool Cave, Blackness, at 5.15 tonight and would be so grateful if you could meet me. I should not keep you long. Please keep our meeting private for obvious reasons.
‘Yours unhappily,
‘BRENDA VANE.’
The signature was written in a woman’s hand.
That this effusion was not genuine appeared obvious to French upon the face of it, and when he examined the signature with a lens he found his idea substantiated. The writing was a mass of tiny shakes, showing that it had not been written boldly, but slowly and laboriously; in other words, it was a forgery. He could indeed scarcely imagine how anyone could be taken in by it.
‘Who is Brenda Vane?’ he asked.
‘Miss Vane is the daughter of the lady who runs “Serque”; the younger daughter; there are two of them.’
‘And is that her handwriting?’
‘I thought so till she said it wasn’t.’
‘It’s “Serque” paper all right?’
‘It is certainly.’
‘And did you really believe that the lady was in trouble as she suggests and that she wanted to see you about it?’
Carey hesitated. ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ he said confidentially. ‘I didn’t believe she was in the sort of trouble you mean. I thought it was maybe something about money; not paying the bill or something of that kind.’ He moved uneasily, then continued: ‘I may as well tell you, inspector, that I was bothered about it. I didn’t know whether she had written it or whether she hadn’t. But anyway, I thought I’d best go out for fear she might have.’
Put like this, Carey’s action seemed reasonable enough. His statement might be quite true. On the other hand he might as easily have written the letter himself to account for his absence from the office during the critical period. French nodded.
‘With your permission I’ll keep this letter. I might be able to trace the sender.’
Carey agreed without protest and French, seeing there was no more to be made of that line, turned to the Saturday evening.
Here Carey’s statement was equally reasonable and equally unsatisfactory. He had, he said, gone in the Widening car to Lydmouth on business with his tailors and he had seen the bills of a variety show in the Lydmouth Empire and stayed on for it. He had acted out of mere whim because there was nothing to bring him back to Whiteness.
With regard to confirmation, his tailors could, of course, check up the call. The attendant at the park where he had left his car should also remember him. He had bought a ticket for a stall and it was conceivable that someone in the theatre had noticed him. He could not tell. The inspector doubtless would make inquiries if he thought it worth while.
French noted all possible lines of inquiry, then set himself to dispel any uneasiness the interview might have aroused in Carey’s mind. He put forward the idea that the murderer had planted the letter on Carey to destroy his alibi, in the hope that Carey might be suspected, and tried to make him believe that it was on these lines that he was going to work.
He was slightly surprised at Carey’s reaction all through. Carey had not at any time appeared to grasp that the affair might have serious consequences for himself. He evidently considered it important and as such gave it his grave consideration, but he seemed to do this impersonally, as if the importance was for someone else.
Leaving the contractors’ yard, French walked up the town to the police station and saw Sergeant Emery.
‘We got the bicycle all right, sergeant,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You had my message cancelling your investigations on the point?’
‘Yes, sir, but I’m continuing the other inquiries.’
‘Good man. Can you tell me anything about “Serque” and the people who live there?’
‘Not a great deal I’m afraid, sir. “Serque” is situated on the sea front, towards the west end of the town and stands in its own small grounds. It’s not a very large house, but it’s very well run and attracts a good class of visitor. Mrs Vane, who keeps it with her two daughters, was the wife of a dean and is well connected. Messrs Carey, Lowell and Pole are staying there. As far as is known, all three are hard working, good living gentlemen, and are well spoken of in the town. They’re members of the local club and go there a good deal in the evenings. Constable Morton got in touch with the servant; went out in plain clothes and took her to the pictures, and he gathered from her that there’s trouble there; that two of the gentlemen, Mr Carey and Mr Lowell, are soft on the second daughter, Miss Brenda. How much there’s in that I don’t know.’
‘She must be an attractive young woman.’
‘She’s attractive looking right enough,’ Emery admitted cautiously.
For the next few days French busied himself in the tedious work of checking, so far as he was able, the statements he had listened to. First he called at ‘Serque’ and saw Brenda Vane, coming at the same time to the conclusion that both Carey and Lowell were men of taste. Brenda absolutely denied knowledge of the letter. She had not written it, and she had no idea who might have done so or its possible object.
None of French’s efforts to trace the author bore fruit. The paper anyone could have got. A call on someone known by the caller to be out and a request for a sheet of paper on which to write a note, would have been followed by an invitation to the writing-room, and any number of sheets could have been secreted. It was true, however, that Brenda did not know that such a call had been made. Samples from Brenda’s typewriter and from those in
the railway and contractors’ offices proved that the letter had not been done on any of them. Nor did searches of his suspects’ rooms bring to light any hidden machines. Carey unfortunately had not kept the envelope and the postmark was, therefore, not available.
A painstaking search for anyone who was on the cliff walk to Blackness about the time of the murder, and who therefore might have met Carey had he gone to the Whirlpool Cave, produced no result. This left Carey’s alibi in the air so far as the Monday was concerned. There was, however, a considerable amount of confirmation as to his story of his movements on the Saturday. The tailors stated that he had called with them at half-past four, leaving shortly before five. A waitress in a teashop remembered his coming in for tea, she believed, shortly after five. The attendant at the car park testified that he had parked shortly after four, removing the car shortly after eight. Pressed as to the exact time at which Carey had returned, the attendant became vague. He could not say exactly; it might have been as early as eight or as late as nine. Finally, the door attendant at the music-hall remembered seeing Carey enter for the first or 6.15 house.
All this testimony confirmed Carey’s statement in general, but not on the particular point that mattered. So far as French had learned, there was nothing to have prevented Carey from going to the bar during an interval, and instead of returning to his seat, slipping unseen from the building and purchasing the bicycle. He might have ridden it to a quiet quarter, hidden it in some convenient place, gone back for the car and then either put the bicycle into the car and taken it to Downey’s Point, or made two journeys, one with the car and the other with the bicycle. On the other hand, there was not the slightest scintilla of proof that he had done so.
Nor was there any proof as to the truth of Carey’s statement about the letter; whether he had really received it through the post or written it himself. That it had been typed on an old machine was obvious from certain defects in the type, but French was unable to find the machine. On the whole he was inclined to believe the story. Supposing Carey were anxious to build up an alibi, would he not have chosen someone to help him other than the girl with whom he was in love? Firstly, he would never have exposed her to the annoyance of testifying on his behalf in a police court, and secondly, he would recognise that her statement there wouldn’t carry much weight. He would see that it would be argued that she was in love with him and was perjuring herself to save him. Further, if he really were in love with her, would he not have thought of some other reason for her meeting him than that she was in trouble through one of his assistants?
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