The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “Well, I sent for Sutcliffe and saw him in the corridor outside. I told him that I was going to stretch a point and would allow the visit to take place not in the ordinary visiting-room with a wire screen between him and his visitor, but in an ordinary room, in sight but not in hearing of the prison officer. I could see that he was deeply moved by the girl having come to see him at all, but he gulped down his emotion and stammered out a few words of thanks.”

  “Do you remember her name?” asked Richardson.

  “No, but I can give it to you. All visitors have to give their names and addresses.” He rang the bell and a clerk came in. “Has the penal record of Peter Sutcliffe gone back to the Home Office yet?”

  “Yes, sir, it went last week.”

  “Then bring me the gate-book. I want to give this gentleman the name and address of a visitor to Sutcliffe in June or July last.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I suppose it would be indiscreet of me to ask you why he has now become the object of inquiry?”

  “It is too soon to say whether he was mixed up in a case that I am investigating in South Devon, sir. He may not have been concerned in it at all, but one has to cover every possibility and make a vast number of quite irrelevant inquiries,” said Richardson, who had recognized the Governor as being one of those humane and sensible men who can control a prison better than they can their own tongues.

  The clerk returned carrying a slip of paper. The Governor read it and passed it to Richardson. “This is the name you wanted, Chief Inspector. ‘Miss Eve Willis, 17 Brondesbury Road, Bromley, Kent.’”

  “You said that you asked him what he was going to do. Did he tell you?”

  “Yes. He said that he hoped to find work in a garage belonging to some friends.”

  With that Richardson took his leave, feeling well satisfied with his morning’s work. Two o’clock that afternoon found him at Carter’s, where Sergeant Jago was awaiting him. The sergeant quickly made his analysis of his chief’s expression and knew that he had been successful beyond his hopes; but he began by making his report upon his own morning’s work.

  “I had no difficulty with the tailors in Sackville Street, Chief Inspector. Langridge & West was the name upon that coat. They told me that they had been making clothes for years for Mr. Sutcliffe of Mincing Lane and Park Lane. They looked up their client’s account and showed it to me. Apparently that elder brother is a very dressy man; he had had no less than six suits within the last two months. I asked whether he ever brought in a friend to be measured. I was told that Mr. Sutcliffe had recommended several of his friends to patronize the firm, but he had never brought any of them with him to be measured.”

  “Then I suppose that the suit which had to be cleaned in that Plymouth hotel was an old one which he had given to his brother.”

  “No doubt it was. I have Sutcliffe’s Park Lane address, but I haven’t called there because I thought you had better do that yourself. It’s one of those brand new flats that they’re building at the lower end of Park Lane. I have an idea, sir, that you have something very much more interesting to tell me.”

  “I’ve got a good deal of detailed information about Sutcliffe from the Governor of the convict prison, who gave him an excellent character. He was liberated on September 7, which, of course, gave him ample time to run down to Dartmoor on the 29th, the day of the murder. I have also got the address of some friends of his in Bromley, Kent; a lady to whom he is very much attached. If we don’t find him with his brother in Park Lane, we will try to get into touch with him through that lady.”

  “To me the case seems to be as plain as a pikestaff,” said Jago. “The man passing under the name of Charles Dearborn must have been that company promoter, Frank Willis, who had every reason for hiding himself under a false name. When he took it he little guessed that it was to be a sentence of death to him.”

  “And you think that Peter Sutcliffe had discovered this and lay in wait for him on the way back from the quarry near Moorstead. To me it is a little difficult to fit in your theory with the character I got of Sutcliffe from the Governor of the prison. This company promoter, we must remember, is the elder brother of the young woman to whom Sutcliffe is attached; it would be a bad beginning for their married life if he celebrated his liberation by killing this girl’s brother. No, I feel it in my bones that somehow we’re on the wrong track, and yet if you ask me where we’ve gone wrong, I should be at a loss to tell you.”

  “Oh, Lord!” groaned the sergeant. “I did think we had touched bottom at last. It may not have been a premeditated murder; I doubt whether, when he struck that blow with the walking-stick, he dreamed that it would land him in a charge of murder. A good counsel for the defence would have little difficulty in proving to the jury that the blow was struck in self-defence.”

  “Anyhow, it is safe to say that a man wearing a suit made by those tailors in Sackville Street, who make for Sutcliffe’s brother, did have a violent encounter with Charles Dearborn of Winterton and afterwards got bogged in the marshy land at the foot of the Tor. Whoever the murderer was he did stop Dearborn’s car in the road from Duketon to Winterton, and for this he must have had a strong motive. If you’ve finished your beer let us get along to Park Lane and beard the prosperous brother who lives there.”

  When the lift had carried them up noiselessly to the third floor and they had plied the electric bell of Sutcliffe’s apartment, a manservant opened the door.

  “I should be very glad,” said Richardson, “if Mr. Sutcliffe could receive us on a confidential matter.”

  “Mr. Sutcliffe is abroad,” said the man.

  “Indeed. When do you expect him back?”

  “Not for some weeks, sir; he is in Ceylon.”

  “Has his brother gone with him?”

  The man stiffened a little. “No, sir. Mr. Sutcliffe is on his honeymoon.”

  “Is his brother, Mr. Peter Sutcliffe, staying here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Does he sometimes come to the flat?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “Could you give me his address? I have to see him on some rather pressing business.”

  “Mr. Peter never comes here, sir, and we don’t know his address.” He closed the door politely.

  “Trust an English manservant to be unhelpful,” observed Richardson as they descended in the lift.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “WELL THAT’S THAT,” said Richardson. “Matrimony steps in and defeats all our plans. There’s nothing for it but to get down to Bromley as quickly as we can and interview that young woman who visited Sutcliffe when he was a prisoner at Maidstone. Her address was 17 Brondesbury Road, Bromley.”

  It was nearly five o’clock when they rang the bell at number 17. An elderly woman came to the door and looked at them inquiringly.

  “Can we see Miss Eve Willis?” asked Richardson, in his most persuasive tone.

  “Oh, she’s never at home at this hour, sir,” said the woman; “but you’ll be sure to find her at the garage.”

  “At the garage?”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, you didn’t know that she’s acting as cashier for her brother, Mr. Percy, at his garage. It’s the second turning on the left and about one hundred yards down. You couldn’t miss it.”

  Richardson thanked her, and as they went he observed to Jago, “Well, we’ve added something to our knowledge. The prison governor told me that Sutcliffe said he hoped to get employment in a garage. He may be here now. Remember, not a whisper about who we are, or it’ll be said that the police are hounding down a man who has served his sentence.”

  The garage proved larger than he had expected; indeed, it showed signs of having recently been enlarged. Moreover, it was filled with cars, some of them derelict, others under repair, and others again of the latest models. A good-looking young man, who looked energetic, bustled forward in the hope that they were new customers. He looked inquiringly at Richardson.

  “We called at number 17 Bronde
sbury Road just now in the hope of finding Miss Eve Willis at home and were directed to come here.”

  “Miss Willis is here certainly, but she’s very busy. Is it anything I can do?”

  “Thank you, I’m afraid that only Miss Willis herself can answer what we want to ask. We shall not keep her for more than a minute.”

  The young man made no further objection, but conducted them to a little office with a glazed window at which a girl of striking beauty was poring over a ledger. “You will find Miss Willis in there,” he said, turning on his heel.

  Richardson had settled beforehand how he should conduct the interview. “You might have a look at the cars, Sergeant, while I go in; it’ll be less formidable for the young lady if she has only one of us to answer.”

  He knocked at the office door and removed his hat before going in. She was even more attractive when she looked up than she had seemed when knitting her brow over her ledger. Perhaps, thought Richardson, her capacity lies in other spheres than figures.

  “I hope you won’t regard it as an impertinence on the part of a stranger, Miss Willis, but I’ve come to ask you whether you have had news of your elder brother, Mr. Frank Willis, lately?”

  Evidently the question startled her, but she did not attempt to fence with it. “We haven’t heard of him for three or four years,” she said. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “No, but I’ve often heard of him, and a friend of mine was asking about him the other day.”

  She looked puzzled. “How did you find out my address?”

  “Let me see; someone must have mentioned it to me or I shouldn’t have been here, but exactly who it was…”

  “Oh, well, there’s no secret about our address.”

  “I didn’t know whether your elder brother might not have provided the capital for the garage, which seems to be booming.”

  Richardson felt that he was treading on dangerous ground and that she might well resent the intimacy of his questions, but he had to take the risk. Fortunately any favourable comment on the garage seemed to win the way to her heart.

  “I suppose,” said Richardson, “that you employ quite a number of hands now.”

  “Not so many as you might think when looking at the number of cars we have, but my brother, as I always tell him, is equal to four men, and we have been lucky with the others.”

  At that moment a tousled head made its appearance from beneath a car; the body belonging to it wriggled out and both head and body appeared outside the little office. The door was opened and the man, with a keen look at Richardson, said, “Please book three hours and a quarter against J 2786, Eve.”

  The girl jotted down the figures on her blotting- pad and said, “This gentleman is asking me when we last heard from Frank.”

  The man looked grave. “Is he a friend of Frank’s?”

  “No,” she replied; “he tells me that he’s the friend of a friend.”

  “I suppose Miss Willis told you that she hasn’t heard from her brother Frank for ages.”

  “Yes, she told me,” said Richardson.

  “Well, then?”

  “But I’ve one question still to ask. May I have his last address?”

  The man looked to Miss Willis for the answer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s so long ago that I’ve quite forgotten it. He wrote from Java; I remember that.”

  “Do you happen to have a photograph of him?”

  The girl hesitated a moment before replying.

  “No, I’m sorry; we have no family photographs.” She was beginning to look troubled; the man came to her aid.

  “Miss Willis has told you all she knows about her brother. I knew him very well indeed, so if you have any further questions to ask I suggest that you put them to me.” He turned towards the door and held it open for Richardson.

  As he was going out, after thanking the girl, Richardson intercepted a protective look on the face of the man, who was dressed like a garage hand but spoke like a gentleman—a look which gave him a clue to the man’s identity.

  As soon as they were out of earshot of the office, the man turned on Richardson almost menacingly. “Now, sir, have you any other questions to ask?”

  “Yes, one question. Are you not Mr. Peter Sutcliffe?”

  “I am,” he said shortly. He was more on the defensive than ever.

  “I thought so. I have been wanting to meet you for some days.”

  “You’re a police officer, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I am Chief Inspector Richardson from Scotland Yard, and the man standing over there is Sergeant Jago, my assistant. We’re inquiring into the death of a man named Charles Dearborn at Winterton in South Devon. Naturally I did not want to alarm Miss Willis just now by putting any question to her which might suggest to her that the dead man might turn out to be her elder brother.”

  While saying this Richardson was watching Sutcliffe’s face narrowly. Its expression did not change; the man remained on the defensive as before; he seemed to suspect that a trap was being laid for him. “Tell me this,” he said. “If you have to inquire into a murder in South Devon, why have you come to us? That’s what I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a long story, Mr. Sutcliffe. I am one of the numerous people who consider that you were very harshly treated by the Court at your trial, which I have read. You may have been guilty of neglect of your duty to watch the interests of your clients, but that you were guilty of deliberately misappropriating the funds of your clients and converting them to your own use I do not believe.”

  The man’s manner began to soften. “I was a fool to trust people,” he said. “For that reason I suppose that I deserved all I got. As you have told me so much you may as well go through with it and tell me the whole story. You say there was a murder; where did it take place?”

  “On Dartmoor, a little way out of Duketon on the road to Sandiland.”

  “Did anyone see it committed?”

  “Yes, there were two witnesses.”

  “And the motive? There is always a motive, I suppose.”

  “The motive suggested was revenge for an injury.”

  “And you don’t know yet the identity of the murdered man?”

  “He passed under the name of ‘Charles Dearborn,’ but that was not his real name, we feel certain.”

  “I see. And so in the course of your inquiry your suspicions have attached themselves to me as a person who had an injury to avenge.” He laughed bitterly. “So that is the way you reason at Scotland Yard!”

  “I will be quite frank, Mr. Sutcliffe. As a man who had an injury to avenge, done to you at Bristol, you were among the ‘possibles.’ I have come to you in the confident hope that after talking to you I shall be able to strike your name off the list. Where were you on September 29 last?”

  “I was here, working in this garage. If you doubt me go back into that office and ask Miss Willis what I was doing on September 29. No, I won’t go with you. If I did you might suspect that I had signed to her what to say.”

  Richardson took him at his word. He tapped at the office door; the girl looked up and signed to him to come in.

  “Forgive me for troubling you again, Miss Willis, but Mr. Sutcliffe has suggested that I should ask you where he was on September 29 last. I suppose you keep a diary of how your men are employed?”

  “Certainly I do, and very useful it is,” she said, taking a foolscap book down from the shelf. “September 29. Here it is. In the morning he was testing the ignition of J 3420, belonging to Mr. Jarrow. In the afternoon he took Mr. Jarrow out in his car to test the ignition and found it satisfactory. I’m glad you reminded me. Mr. Jarrow has not paid the bill I sent him for the repairs. I must jog his memory.”

  “Would you think it very impertinent of me to ask to see the entry in the diary?”

  “Not at all. Read it for yourself,” she said with wonder in her eyes.

  There could be no doubt about the entry in her neat handwriting; Richardson felt that
a heavy weight had been taken from his mind—whoever had waylaid Charles Dearborn it was not Peter Sutcliffe. This charming girl would have been relieved, too, had she but known how much had depended on her answer. At any rate, if “Charles Dearborn” was her brother hiding under an assumed name, he had not been killed by the man she loved.

  Richardson thanked her and returned to Sutcliffe, who was standing moodily where he had left him. “I have seen the entries to Miss Willis’s diary,” he said, “and I am glad to be able to tell you that your time is fully accounted for and therefore you are out of the picture.”

  “Well, naturally.” He was still nursing his grievance. “You said that you were looking for a man who had an injury to avenge. May I ask what injury I am supposed to have suffered at the hands of the murdered man?”

  “We thought that the ruin of your business as a solicitor might be rankling in your mind. Now that you are not suspect, I may as well tell you that we had an idea, in no way verified by proof up till now, that the murdered man, Charles Dearborn, might have been Mr. Frank Willis.”

  Sutcliffe stared at him and emitted a low whistle. “Frank Willis, when last heard of, was reported to be somewhere in the Straits Settlements.”

  “This Mr. Dearborn only made his appearance in Devonshire three years ago. There would have been time for him to come back.”

  “If you want me to help you, I shall have to ask you to tell me as much as you can about Charles Dearborn without divulging professional secrets.”

  “I can’t tell you very much because he was an adept at covering his tracks. He arrived in Plymouth a little over three years ago and called upon the manager of the Union Bank with a large sum in cash —Bank of England notes. He gave the manager to understand that these were the proceeds of a sale of house property in London, and that one of the conditions of the sale had been that the purchaser should pay in cash. Then he went off to Winterton at the foot of the Moor and bought a small house. He engaged a housekeeper whom he married about a year ago. She was a lady who had been left very badly off by her father. The only man whom he took into his confidence at all appeared to be the bank manager, who advised him upon his investments.”