Richardson Scores Again (11 page)

On alighting on the Redford platform, he allowed all the other passengers to pass out before him. Redford appeared to be one of those sleepy backwaters where everyone would be likely to know the business of all his neighbours: he put his first question to the ticket-collector. Yes, said that official, he knew Jackson's Farm.

“Is it an easy walk?”

“That depends on what you would call easy. It's a shade over a mile out of the town. There's taxis outside.”

Foster looked at his watch. He could spare half an hour for the walk, and there was always the chance that he might encounter on the way somebody who might be induced to talk about Farmer Jackson. Having got his direction from the ticket-collector, he set out at a brisk walk, and it was not long before he came in sight of a stout woman going in the same direction. He put on speed and overtook her. She was a farmer's wife returning from the town loaded with parcels.

“Fine afternoon, madam,” said Foster when he came up with her. “Can you tell me whether this road leads to Jackson's Farm?”

“That's right, sir. If you go straight on you'll get to the farm, but there's a short cut over the fields. I'm going that way myself and I'll show you.”

“That's very kind of you. Let me carry some of those parcels for you.”

Relieved of her parcels, the lady became more conversational. “You're acquainted with Mr. Jackson, sir?”

“No, I've never met him.”

“Ah, then you've come down to see him on business. I can guess what it is. He told some of us that he'd bought his farm right out from the gentleman that owned it, and there's a lot of people hereabouts that didn't believe him. I believed him because I know from his wife that he's always been a saving man. He believed in no banks—changed all his money into notes and got her to sew them up in his mattress. She said that if one of them was missing he'd know it from the feel of the mattress when he went to bed.”

“Then he's fond of money, you think?”

“Oh, that's no secret hereabouts—not that he's a miser by any means. He doesn't mind having to pay a good price for a good beast, but he's never been one to throw his money about—not he. What Edward Jackson don't know about farming isn't worth knowing, me husband says.”

“I see. He's not one to throw his money away in public-houses?”

The lady laughed maliciously. “Not as a rule, like some do on market days, but there have been times—well, I mustn't tell tales—and Mr. Jackson has always been a good neighbour to us. Now, there's your stile, sir. You'll have three grass meadows to cross before you come to the farm, but in this weather you won't find any mud on the footpath.”

Foster restored the parcels to their owner, thanked her, and crossed the stile. The country was looking its best for a tired Londoner on this glorious spring afternoon, and Foster was not insensible to its charm. He noted, too, all the evidences of sound farming in the meadows through which he passed—trimmed hedges, clean ditches and painted gates. He walked fast in his eagerness to see the man who had attained his heart's desire and become a freeholder. The gate of the third field opened into the farmyard where a farm-hand was feeding swill to the pigs.

“Is Mr. Jackson at home?” he asked.

“Aye, you'll find him round in the cow-house, milking.”

Milking and ploughing, as Jackson afterwards assured him, were the jobs which he never entrusted to other hands. They were his hobby, because, as he said, you can run a cow dry in a week if you don't empty her udders.

There were twelve cows in the milking-byre, and Foster had to walk the length of it before he found his man. There on his stool he found a grey-haired man in his shirt-sleeves. “Mr. Jackson?” he asked.

“That's my name, sir,” replied the man, without looking up.

“Can I have a word with you?”

“As many as you like when I've done my milking. This is my last cow and I can't knock off till she's done. I'll be with you directly if you like to go on to the house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I'll wait about outside till you've done.”

This attention to detail, thought Foster, was the secret of Jackson's success in being able to buy his own farm. The farm-buildings were as well-cared for as the fields. They reminded him of his father's farm in Arbroath.

Five minutes later Jackson emerged from the byre, putting on his coat. “Now, sir,” he said, “I'm at your service.”

“I must explain that I'm a superintendent from Scotland Yard.”

Jackson's face showed surprise, but no trace of alarm or confusion.

“I have a question or two to ask you about that money you paid over to Mr. MacDougal in Hampstead the other day.”

“Come, you're not going to tell me that the sum wasn't right? Mr. MacDougal and I counted it over together.”

“No, I've called to ask you whether there were any five-pound or ten-pound notes among the rest.”

“Why come to me? Mr. MacDougal could have told you that.”

“Didn't you see in the papers that there's been a burglary there the same night?”

Jackson gave a short laugh. “I've too much to do on my farm to have time to study the papers. I leave that to my missus. A burglary, was there?”

“Yes, and all that money was stolen.”

Here Jackson's face did betray consternation. “Well, how does that affect me? I've got Mr. MacDougal's receipt for the money. He can't go back on the sale, can he?”

“I've come to you for information that may us to trace the thief. I've nothing to do with the sale and who stands to lose the money.”

“I'd help you if I could, but the whole of the money was in Treasury notes. There wasn't a Bank of England note among them.”

“Ah, that's a pity. Treasury notes are not like Bank of England notes which can be traced.”

“Why can't you trace Treasury notes?”

“Because the banks don't keep a record of their numbers.”

“That may be, but I don't trust my money to banks. More often than not when I put a note away I put my name on it, see? Just ‘E. Jackson,' so's I'll know it again.” A look of unspeakable cunning showed in his eyes.

Foster made a mental note of this information.

“Well, you'll be able to help me in one direction. We don't want people to start hinting that you went back to the house the same evening—”

Jackson's face reddened with anger. “Who's saying that? Tell me, and I'll cram the words down his throat.”

“You've nothing to hide, Mr. Jackson, and the best way to stifle any talk of that kind is to agree to what I ask. You might let me see the boots you were wearing when you went to Mr. MacDougal's house to pay that money for the farm.”

“My boots?” exclaimed Jackson in an astonishment that Foster felt sure was not feigned. “Why, I was wearing the boots I've got on me now. You see, five or six of us went up together to have a look at the beasts in Smithfield, and as there was likely to be mud about we went dressed as I am now—in our workaday clothes, if you know what I mean.”

“You're sure that you were wearing these boots? Let me have a look at them.”

“That's all very well, mister, but what's all this leading up to? Anyone would think that I was under suspicion of something.”

“Nonsense. If you're under suspicion it isn't from me. I want to be in a position to clear you if any fool should start putting things about. Hold up your foot and let me look at the sole.”

Still grumbling, Jackson put out one foot after the other and Foster examined the soles. The plate on the heel of the left foot had a piece missing as in Richardson's plaster cast, but Foster continued in his ordinary tone, “You've got another pair, I suppose.”

“Yes, upstairs. But what's the game?”

“Only that I want you to lend me this pair for a day or so. I may want them to stop any gossip.”

“Dang it: that's the limit. I'm not going to give any man my boots. I wonder at your asking such a thing.”

“Come, Mr. Jackson, you must be reasonable. You don't want it to be said that you obstructed the police in the execution of their duty. That
would
set people talking. You shall have the boots back.”

The obstinacy began to die out of Jackson's face. “All right, then, but I'll have to go indoors to change them.”

He turned towards the house, but Foster detained him with another question. “Were you carrying a stick when you went to London?”

Jackson's eyes grew rounder with astonishment. “You'll be asking me next whether I was wearing kid gloves. Certainly I took a stick with me, and if you want to see it, come along to the house and I'll show it to you. The missus will be glad to give you a cup of tea while I'm changing my boots.”

But Foster drew the line at accepting hospitality from a possible suspect. “No, thanking you all the same, Mr. Jackson, I won't come in. I can't spare the time. Just run in and change your boots, and bring the stick you took up to town that day with you.”

Foster spent the next five minutes in watching the pigs squealing over their supper, and then Jackson reappeared with a neat brown-paper parcel containing his boots, and a straight walking-stick such as cattle-drovers use. It had no ferrule.

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I'll borrow this stick too, if you don't mind. You shall have it back tomorrow. I've only one or two more questions. You spent the night in London, I suppose?”

For the first time during the interview Jackson began to show symptoms of disquiet. “Yes, we all stayed in London until the morning.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“Oh, at a little hotel. It was a poor little place, and it was so full that I had to share a room with another chap.”

“Who was that?”

“Just a neighbour of mine—Joe Chapman is his name.”

“Where does he live?”

“Just a little way down the road. You must have passed the farm coming here. But what's Joe Chapman got to do with this?”

“Nothing that I know of. I asked his address simply to use in case there was further gossip. Well, Mr. Jackson, I must not waste your time any longer. You shall have your boots and stick back in a day or two. I'm much obliged to you. Good afternoon.”

In leaving the farm, Foster abandoned short cuts over fields and went into the high road, where in the first hundred yards he had the good fortune to encounter a postman on his afternoon round.

“Mr. Joseph Chapman, sir?” he said. “You'll find the farm about a hundred yards on the way you're going—on the right. You can't miss it.”

The farm was of old red brick: the farm-house looked very neat and tidy with its steps new-whitened and curtains in the windows. Foster rang the bell, and straightway found himself face to face with an old acquaintance—the farmer's wife whose parcels he had carried for her.

“Glad to see you, sir. You've just come in time for a cup of tea. Did you find Mr. Jackson all right?”

“Thanks to you, madam, I did. You are Mrs. Chapman, are you not? I called to have a word or two with your husband.”

“You'll excuse me asking, sir, but are you the new insurance agent?”

“No, madam,” laughed Foster; “I've not come to worry you with business. I want to ask Mr. Chapman a question or two about his recent visit to London.”

The lady's curiosity took fire; it would have been volcanic if she had known that she was speaking to an officer from Scotland Yard. Foster was quick to see her curiosity and to ascribe it to its actual cause—the fact that her husband had been less communicative about his adventures in London than she considered she had a right to expect.

“Won't you come in and sit down, sir? My husband is somewhere about. I'll send one of my girls to fetch him in. Bella!” she cried.

A flapper of fifteen, as solidly built as her mother, came running from the dairy.

“Run and tell your Dad that there's a gentleman here waiting to see him. Tell him he's to come just as he is. Kindly step this way, sir.”

She led Foster into a sitting-room, evidently reserved for guests of distinction, such as the parson or the squire. It was painfully tidy and unlived in, and the colours of the upholstery swore with the paper and with each other. The problem was how to secure five minutes alone with the husband without shattering the domestic peace of the household by appearing to have secrets with him which the wife was not to share. He had little time for making up his mind how to act, for hard upon the heels of the flapper daughter with the teapot followed her father—a jolly, round and ruddy farmer in his shirt-sleeves. When the introductions were made, Foster took his decision in a flash. There must be no secrets.

“Bella tells me that you were the gentleman who helped the Missus home with her parcels this afternoon, sir. I thought it was my neighbour Jackson you were going to see.”

“I've seen him, thank you, Mr. Chapman, and now—only one lump, please—and now I've come on to see you. Wonderful scones these, Mrs. Chapman. I haven't tasted better since I left Scotland. I'll bet that you baked them yourself.”

The lady blushed with pleasure. “Sit down, Dad, and drink your tea like a Christian.”

“Oughtn't I to have a wash first?”

“Not a bit of it. If this gentleman don't mind, I'm sure I don't. He's never told me his name.”

“Foster—Charles Foster, madam. But really, I oughtn't to be spoiling your tea-party by talking business.”

“Take your tea into the kitchen, Bella. We're going to talk business—your Dad and me and this gentleman.”

The girl snatched a couple of buttered scones from the dish and went off with a rebellious expression, leaving Foster to open his business.

“I must begin by telling you that I'm a detective-superintendent from Scotland Yard.” He felt, rather than saw, the effect produced by this announcement. “I want you, Mr. Chapman, to help me over a rather difficult case, if you will. I understand that on the night you spent in London last week the hotel was so crowded that you had to share a room with Mr. Jackson.”