The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  He was not called upon to go as far as the churchyard. The mourners were only two—Mrs. Dearborn and Mr. Todd from the Union Bank. They were about to pass into The Firs as he came up. After greeting them both sympathetically, he asked Mr. Todd whether there was anything in the will so confidential that it would be improper for him to see it.

  “Not at all, “was the answer;” in fact I was about to suggest to Mrs. Dearborn that you should be present when I read the will to her.”

  “Of course I should like you to be present, Mr. Richardson,” echoed the widow.

  She conducted them into the sitting-room, where without further preface, Mr. Todd drew from his pocket a folded sheet of thick paper, cleared his throat and began to read.

  “This is the last will of me, Charles Dearborn, of The Firs, Winterton, in the county of Devon, whereby I revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions.”

  The will was quite short; it left the whole of the estate to the testator’s wife, Margaret Dearborn, with the exception of a legacy of one hundred pounds to his executor, William Todd. It ended, “And I hereby appoint the said William Todd sole executor of this my will.” It was dated 11th May, 1935.

  “That was about the time when the purchase of the quarry was completed,” explained Mr. Todd.

  “Who witnessed the signature?”

  “I called in two of my clerks to witness it.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Todd. May I look at the document itself?”

  “Certainly. Probably you are not acquainted with the handwriting of the testator, but I can assure you that the writing was his.”

  “And he brought this to you for the attestation clause, or did he write the will in your office?”

  “That was the curious part of the transaction. He asked for a sheet of stout paper, sat down at my table in the bank and dashed off the will without a moment’s hesitation. It was, an extraordinary feat in will-making. I told him so at the time and he said that he had a good memory. It struck me that at some time in his career he must have been in a solicitor’s office.”

  Richardson handed back the will. “What you have told me, Mr. Todd, is very interesting. Now, I suppose, you will proceed to prove the will and let this poor lady enjoy her fortune.”

  “Happily the bank’s solicitor will relieve me of all the legal formalities, and we shall be in a position to advance to Mrs. Dearborn all that she may require for current expenses.”

  Chapter Eight

  RICHARDSON left The Firs in deep thought. Quite unconsciously the bank manager had given him what might prove to be a new and most important clue; the dead man had had a legal training in a solicitor’s office. But a fraudulent solicitor who had robbed his clients of £35,000 could scarcely have got away with it without being arrested and prosecuted; yet here was this man Dearborn depositing £25,000 in the bank.

  Was the man who attacked him on the moor a guilty confederate who had chanced to recognize him? It could not have been a client whom he had robbed; a client would have gone direct to the police as soon as he discovered the hiding-place of the thief. What was to be the next step?

  Sergeant Jago was at the door of the police station; he had been with Superintendent Carstairs to the court.

  “Pengelly gave no trouble,” he said. “He pleaded guilty and they fined him five pounds. He couldn’t pay that amount so we brought him back.”

  “I’m glad of that. I want to see him again. Can you get him up here?”

  “I’ll see. Mr. Carstairs is away, getting his dinner, but the sub-inspector won’t make any difficulty.” Five minutes later Pengelly was brought into the office. He was bursting to impart his grievance, but Richardson was too quick for him.

  “I’ve only one question to ask you, Pengelly. What sort of age was the man who attacked Dearborn with a stick—a very young man, not much more than a boy?”

  “A boy? Not a bit of it. He seemed to me a man of about Dearborn’s age, or even older, as far as I could judge at that distance. But look here, sir, I don’t know what these police are up to. I’ve told them that if they let me go back to the quarry, I can raise the money for my fine, partly from my mates and partly from an advance on my wages. But this Superintendent won’t listen to that. The magistrates gave me a month’s imprisonment if I didn’t pay, and if they shut me up for a month my job will get filled up. I wish you’d have a word with the Superintendent.”

  “All right, Pengelly, I will.”

  As soon as he had left the room Jago explained the situation. “Mr. Carstairs is counting upon holding Pengelly until there’s sufficient evidence for charging him with wilful murder. That’s why he won’t let him go back to the quarry to raise the money for his fine.”

  “It’s going to be a ticklish business. Either the Superintendent leaves the case entirely to me, as he said he would, or I’ll have to throw up the case because he will keep butting in.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Carstairs belongs to that breed of men you find in South Devon who turn mulish if they’re not carefully handled. It would be a thousand pities if you chucked the case up just when we seem to be on the point of getting home.”

  “I’ve never chucked a case yet and I don’t want to start now. I’m going to sit in this chair until Mr. Carstairs has finished his lunch and smoked his pipe, and then I’m going to have it out with him,” said Richardson. “But I won’t tread on his South Devon toes more than I’m obliged to.”

  “But you’ll get no lunch, Mr. Richardson.”

  “Oh, never mind about lunch: that can wait.” Jago lifted his head to listen. “I think I hear the Superintendent. Shall I tell him you would like to speak to him?”

  “Yes, and see that we’re not interrupted.”

  In the Superintendent’s expression and bearing there was much that reminded Richardson of a small boy whom he had caught stealing apples from his father’s orchard in Scotland. He rose hurriedly from his chair. “Let me give you your own seat, Mr. Carstairs. I hear that Pengelly pleaded guilty this morning and was fined five pounds. I suppose you’ll give him time and facilities for finding the money?”

  “He’ll have all the time he wants,” replied Carstairs grimly, “but as for facilities…”

  “Are you still of the opinion that he was guilty of the murder?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s rather unfortunate, Mr. Carstairs, because I shall want to use him as a principal Crown witness against the real murderer when we have found him.”

  Carstairs, looking more obstinate than ever, emitted a short laugh.

  “You may remember,” continued Richardson, “that when I came down here you gave me to understand that I was to have a free hand in investigating this case, and now I find that this is not to be so—that one of the chief obstacles is likely to be yourself. I shall have to reconsider my position.”

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Richardson? Haven’t I done everything in my power to help you? But you can’t expect me to neglect my own duties as Superintendent of this division and let a man who is clearly guilty of murder go free and abscond?”

  “This puts me in a very difficult position, Mr. Carstairs. I have already got some way in the case. I have found the writer of the anonymous letters; I have one or two promising clues which I haven’t communicated to you because you gave me to understand that you wished me to take entire responsibility, and now you want to take things out of my hands. I’m really sorry to have to give up the case, but in view of your attitude there seems to be no other course. I must return to London to-night and leave you to carry on.”

  “Come, come, we don’t want to fall out at this stage. You can’t shake my opinion that Pengelly is the guilty man, but how can I bring it home to him without your help?”

  “Oh, of course before I go I’ll leave you copies of all the statements I have taken…”

  “Yes, but if you go back and report to your Chiefs that you are throwing up the case because I’m obstructing you, how shall I look when they write
to the Chief Constable? I don’t want to butt in. You mustn’t think that. I want nothing more than to help you. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to let Pengelly go up to the quarry—in custody, of course, as far as the quarry gates—and to let him get about among his mates and speak to the manager about getting an advance on his wages. Then, if he can raise the money to pay his fine, I want you to let him get back to work. You can make what arrangements you like with the foreman about letting you know if he leaves.” The Superintendent’s face fell. “I shouldn’t be urging you to do this, Mr. Carstairs, if I didn’t feel sure that you’ll be grateful to me afterwards. Then, if you like to work the case with me, I shall be only too glad.”

  “Very well, Mr. Richardson, I’ll do as you say, but I’d like you to remember when you’ve cleared up the whole case that my instinct was right from the first. What’s the next step you propose to take?”

  “I propose to see the manager of the Duchy Hotel in Duketon.”

  “Then you’ll want the car; it shall be ready for you at any hour you name.”

  Arrived at the Duchy Hotel, Richardson ordered a sandwich and a glass of beer in the bar parlour and asked the waitress to tell the manager that he wished to see him. Scenting sensational gossip, the manager lost no time in obeying the summons. He entered the room on tiptoe and shut the door carefully behind him.

  “I thought it must be you. Now, tell me what I can do for you?”

  “When I called on you last time, Mr. Tovey, I told you that we were police officers, but I don’t think I told you to what police force we belonged. We have come down from Scotland Yard.”

  The manager purred with satisfaction at being the only man in Duketon who was trusted with so portentous a secret.

  Richardson continued: “I want you to cast your memory back to the last evening when Mr. Dearborn had tea at this hotel. Do you, or any members of your staff, remember a stranger being at the hotel that day? It was the 29th September, a Saturday.”

  The manager shook his head several times before he spoke. “Saturday is one of our char-à-banc days and that means that the whole place is full of strangers, and as a rule there’s such a lot of them that you couldn’t expect my barmaid or anyone else to remember what any of them looked like.”

  “I was afraid that it might be so, but let me put another question to you. Do you remember whether any visitor to the hotel spoke to you about Mr. Dearborn?”

  The manager perked up. “I do remember an incident that happened this summer about two months ago, though it didn’t lead to anything. One of these hikers dressed in shorts—quite a boy, he was—stopped a night in the hotel. He was here just about the time when the char-à-banc turns up, and he was alone in the bar when the people began to come in. Then Mr. Dearborn drove up in his car and came in; the room was pretty full and I suppose it was that that kept him from ordering any refreshment. I remember this because I ran after him to tell him I’d serve him myself, but he wouldn’t stop, and as I came back from the door this young hiker boy called me and asked, ‘ Isn’t that Mr.—?’” The landlord scratched his head. “Lord, I’ve forgotten the name—it wasn’t a very common name. I said, ‘No, that’s Mr. Dearborn.’ He said, ‘I can’t be mistaken. If that isn’t Mr.’—whatever the name was—‘it’s his double. Where does he live?’ and I told him, Winterton.”

  “Did you tell him anything else about Mr. Dearborn?”

  “I think I told him he’d bought a quarry; there wasn’t much to tell him because I didn’t know much, nor did anyone else.”

  “Did the youth go off in the direction of Winterton?”

  “I’m sure I can’t tell you which way he went.”

  “Was there anything peculiar about the boy—anything to distinguish him by?”

  “Now you come to speak of it, there was. He was sandy-haired and he’d more freckles on his face than I’ve ever seen on anyone. I’ll bet he was called ‘Freckles’ at school.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll have the luck to see him again this year, it’s getting late for hikers, but if you do I wish you’d ring up the Superintendent of police at Winterton.”

  “Is he a criminal?” asked the manager with brightening interest.

  “Oh no, but I’d like to ask him a few questions. He may be an important witness in a case we have on hand. If by any chance you remember that name you forgot, you’ll be sure to let us know. Didn’t you make him register as he was stopping the night in the hotel?”

  “Well, sir, you know what it is, people coming in and out the whole day long. I can’t swear to it that he was made to register, especially as he was a hiker. I hope you’re not going to mention this to the Devon police and get me into trouble.”

  “No,” said Richardson with a smile, “the Devon police must look after their own job.”

  Richardson had left Sergeant Jago in Winterton with instructions to see what happened to Pengelly during his absence. When he returned to the police station Jago came out to meet him.

  “Pengelly’s still in the cells below,” he murmured. “When I asked the Superintendent what time he was going up to the quarry, he said he could do nothing until you came back, because you’d got the car.”

  “Quite right, but I’ll slip in and tell Mr. Carstairs that I shan’t want the car again to-day.”

  He found the Superintendent in his own room, looking through a report from his own sub-divisions.

  “You haven’t been long, Mr, Richardson,” he said. “No, but I’ve got some quite interesting information by my visit to the Duchy Hotel.” He proceeded to describe his interview with the manager, but he noticed that Carstairs was not listening.

  “I suppose you still insist on my sending Pengelly up to the quarry?” said the Superintendent.

  “It’s not a question of insisting. I thought you agreed this morning that that should be done. The car’s at the door now.”

  “All right, then; I’ll send him up, and if he pays his fine I suppose we must leave him there.”

  “Yes, there’s no other course possible, if I’m to continue on the case.”

  Carstairs went heavily out of the room and could be heard giving orders to two of his men. Presently Pengelly passed the door in handcuffs and was taken out to the car. Richardson found Carstairs on the steps, superintending the operation. He led him aside.

  “Those cuffs must come off before he gets to the quarry gate,” he said with decision. “It’ll ruin everything if he goes clanking in with the cuffs on. Surely the sergeant can carry them in his pouch and use them only if the man attempts to bolt.”

  Very reluctantly, Carstairs gave the desired order; the car drove off.

  “Four o’clock,” said Richardson, looking at his watch; “I’ll get Sergeant Jago to come with me to The Firs, and ask Mrs. Dearborn to allow us to look for any private papers that her husband may have left behind him.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Richardson, you couldn’t do better.”

  The two officers walked towards The Firs.

  “Did you get anything useful out of that manager?” asked Jago.

  “It would have been useful if he hadn’t got a memory like a sieve.” Richardson related the incident. “If he could have remembered that name I should feel that we were within a measurable distance of clearing up the case, but when a man forgets, and then says that it wasn’t quite a common name, and you suggest various names to him, you are asking for trouble. You know the kind of thing, ‘Smith? Jones? Johnson? Wilson? Clark?’ Ten to one he’ll say it was Wilson, to the best of his belief, and then, when you’ve found your man and he answers to the name of Carter, your witness will say cheerfully, ‘Yes, how stupid of me, confusing Wilson and Carter.’ For all the use that publican is likely to be in the matter of names, I might just as well not have seen him.”

  “But that hiker was freckled. Didn’t the naval officer talk about a youth with freckles?”

  “He did, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find that both of them w
ere referring to the same fellow. Unfortunately, we can’t sit down and twiddle our thumbs until a youth with freckles chooses to take pity on us.”

  They had reached The Firs. As usual at this particular hour, Mrs. Dearborn was in her garden. She had come to look upon Richardson as a personal friend, and she hurried forward to welcome him.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs. Dearborn, but we have now definite information that your husband was attacked by a stranger. It is more important than ever that we should know something about his past life—that is, where he came from. Can we look through his papers?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t find any; I’ve already been through all the drawers and cupboards which my husband used, and I’ve gone through the papers in his desk. There were only three or four receipted bills and a sort of balance-sheet of his quarry. It was most disappointing, but here are his keys and I suggest that you do your own searching.”

  The searching did not take long. As Mrs. Dearborn had said, there were practically no private papers except a bank pass-book and the quarry accounts. With her help they looked through the dead man’s clothes, searching for any name or mark that might give them a clue, but they found none—nothing that would throw any light upon Dearborn’s past life. When the officers took their leave they made for the railway station and inquired from the man who clipped the tickets whether he remembered a youth abundantly freckled passing the barrier on Sunday.

  “Freckled, you say? What sort of age was he?”

  “Oh, eighteen or nineteen, I should say.”

  The railway porter and the lamp man had drifted up to listen to the conversation.

  “I remember the chap,” said the porter. “Don’t you remember,” he added to the ticket-collector; “don’t you remember me asking you if you’d ever seen freckles like that before? There were more freckles than skin on his face. He went by the afternoon train to North Road.”

  “I remember the chap now,” said the ticket man.