The Sussex Downs Murder (11 page)

But at this point Meredith, realizing that the housekeeper's verbal restraint was only skin-deep, hastened to change the subject. He knew all he wanted to on that point.

“Mrs. Rother laying down?”

“Gone to Lunnon, sir, to see 'er solicitor.”

“I see. Thanks.”

As he went round to where Hawkins was waiting with the car he thought: “Mrs. Rother
must
have written that confession. She's the only one, besides Mrs. Abingworth, who has had access to the machine.”

After the inquest he would have to have another talk with that particular young lady. It was obvious now that she was by no means as innocent as she appeared. It was not a principle of his to be led astray by a pretty face and a charming manner. Many a girl like that was just a—Now, what the devil was that bit from Shakespeare? About the apple. Ah—“a goodly apple rotten at the core”. Well, Janet Rother might quite easily be rotten at the core. Quite a number of pretty girls were criminals, though actually the type Meredith had come across were usually brazen and cunning with it. In the meantime the really blank page in his chapter of evidence was that dealing with the Cloaked Man.

Meredith grinned absent-mindedly to himself as he got into the car and muttered: “Lychpole—down in the village.” The Cloaked Man. His grin broadened. Quite a Sexton Blake touch about that! On the other hand that's all they knew about this particular man—that he wore a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat on the night of July 20th. Thin data at the best of times when it came to unearthing the fellow's identity. Perhaps Barnet might know of somebody with a grudge against the whole Rother family. Perhaps in the past the Rothers had done this man or his family some injustice. It was worth making an inquiry now that it was practically certain that the second brother had been murdered.

But Barnet was not particularly helpful. He knew very little about the Rothers' private lives. He had already primed Meredith with their local doings and explained the part their ancestors had played in the formation and upkeep of the parish when they were virtually Lords of the Manor; but over the Rothers' more recent relationships he was hazy. He had an idea that John had friends in Brighton and that it had been his habit to run over there for week-ends. During the last eighteen months he had more often than not spent his week-ends away from Chalklands. But he was reticent over his private affairs. Barnet doubted if either Janet or William had the slightest inkling where he had stayed on these occasions.

Meredith automatically noted these facts, but he placed little value on them as a means of tracing the identity of the Cloaked Man. He concluded his interview with the crime writer by airing his grave doubts as to the possibility of William having committed suicide, and left Barnet in a puzzled and unhappy frame of mind.

The following morning at eleven o'clock the Coroner's inquest on the body of William Rother was held in the spacious kitchen of the farmhouse. Chairs had been ranged round the well-scoured deal table—a massive wheelback presiding in the place of honour at the head. In this, punctual to the minute, the Coroner took his seat and cast a look round at the solemn faces of the jury. Five minutes earlier they had clumped over the flag-stones of the courtyard, dressed in their Sabbath clothes, murmuring in lowered voices, investing the commonplace proceedings with an ecclesiastic air. To Mr. Oyler, the Coroner, this was merely another inquest. To the jury, recruited from the village, it was an occasion for reverence and a ritualistic correctness in the carrying out of their duties. In the background, snuffling quietly into an apron, sat Kate Abingworth, and beside her pale, restrained, yet unflinching in the face of the ordeal which awaited her, Janet Rother awaited her call as witness.

The proceedings unwound with clocklike precision. In a low, even voice Janet Rother gave formal evidence of identity and went on to describe how she had discovered the body of her husband at the foot of the chalk-pit. The Coroner asked her a few brief questions. Had her husband ever mentioned suicide? She shook her head.

“When you discovered the body, Mrs. Rother, how far was it from the base of the cliff?”

Janet hesitated, appeared to be considering the matter for a moment and then announced: “Six feet, perhaps. I really can't say for sure.”

“Quite. In what attitude had your husband fallen, Mrs. Rother?”

“On his side.”

“Which side?”

“His right side.”

“So his left side was uppermost?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any serious wound visible on his person?”

“Yes—in his left temple.”

“In your opinion, Mrs. Rother, did it look as if your husband lay exactly as he had fallen?”

Again the girl hesitated. It seemed to Meredith, who was watching her closely, as if she were hastily trying to weigh up the import of the question in order to answer it in what she considered to be the most advantageous manner.

“Yes,” she said at length. “I think it looked like that.”

Dr. Hendley was the next witness. Bluff and blustering, he brought to his evidence all the ponderous weight of his own learning. He was out, quite obviously, to impress on the Coroner the fact that a village doctor was not necessarily slow-witted or a reactionary. Although the majority of country-folk were fools he was the golden exception. Death, he explained, had been due to loss of blood from the wound in the temple and, in his opinion, instantaneous. There was no doubt that some jagged object, probably a chalk boulder or a flint, had actually penetrated the brain. Questioned by the Coroner, he was emphatic in his denial that the deceased could have turned over once he had struck the ground. No, he could not say that he had noticed any chalk particles adhering to the dried blood about the wound.

“And the body was in the position as described by Mrs. Rother?” demanded the Coroner with an insistence which rather puzzled the jury. “Please consider this point carefully.”

“It was,” boomed Dr. Hendley, with a defiant glare at the expressionless faces of the jury, as if daring them to contradict him.

“Thank you, Dr. Hendley. You can stand down,” said the Coroner with a faint smile. “Superintendent Meredith.”

Meredith gave a half-salute and jumped to his feet amid the excited murmurs of the villagers. Even respect for the dead could not curb their natural curiosity in a man whose job it was to bring thieves and murderers to justice. The glamour of the professional detective still had the power to draw forth their rustic respect and admiration. Meredith was a novelty, like the annual fair, and they were determined to enjoy him as much as the solemnity of the occasion allowed.

With the clarity and ease of a man who is used to giving evidence, Meredith described how he had examined the body and noted the absence of chalk dust around the wound. Deceased, he explained, had been lying on his right side about five feet from the base of the pit. There had been considerable loss of blood, judged by the stains which had soaked into the chalk rubble about the dead man's head. The wire fence on the edge of the pit had been cut and a pair of pliers were found a few feet from the path. A confession had been found in the pocket of the dead man, purporting to have been typewritten by him, but since proved by the police to have been faked. The confession referred to the death of the deceased's brother. It was the opinion of the police that the document had been placed in the dead man's pocket in order to mislead them as to the manner in which William Rother had met his death.

At this point the Coroner broke in to ask with a suave smile: “Have the police any further evidence with which to substantiate the claim that this document was not typed by the deceased?” Mr. Oyler knew the answer, as it happened, but he had to put these more-or-less rehearsed queries in order to guide the jury.

“Yes, sir, they have. Last night, in the ordinary course of my investigations, I tested the envelope and typewritten sheets for finger-prints.”

“With what result?”

“I found two sets present.”

“And those?”

“The Chief Constable's and my own, sir.” At this a faint titter, due to the tension of the cross-examination, flickered round the table. The Coroner rapped with his knuckles, requesting silence.

“I take it,” he continued, “that the Chief Constable and you were the only people who had handled that document since it was taken from the deceased's pocket?”

“Correct, sir.”

“Were there any other finger-prints, Mr. Meredith?”

“None, sir.”

“None!”

The rest of the assembly silently echoed the Coroner's obvious astonishment. How could the confession have got into the dead man's pocket without showing finger-prints? How had the sheets of paper been placed in the envelope and the envelope sealed without them picking up the tell-tale imprints? The jury was puzzled.

“What exactly did this extraordinary fact suggest to you?” asked the Coroner when the little murmur had faded.

“Well, sir, to my way of thinking it looked as though the person who placed that document in Mr. Rother's pocket was anxious to hide his identity. We imagine that he must have worn gloves on every occasion that he handled the document.”

“I see. Well?”

“Well, sir, my suspicions having already been aroused, I examined the ground round about where the wire fence had been cut on the top of the pit. I found blood-stains.”

“Blood-stains!”

Again that little shiver of excitement and interest ran round the table.

“Yes, sir. I took a specimen of the stained earth and had it analysed. The presence of human blood was definitely proved by Dr. White.”

“Did this suggest anything further to you?”

“Well, sir, it seemed a peculiar factor in the case, because I could not for the life of me see why there should have been blood on the top of the pit when to all apparent purposes deceased had met his death by a fall. I was forced to adopt a strong doubt as to whether deceased was not dead
before
his drop over the pit.”

“Thank you. That's all.”

At the conclusion of the Superintendent's evidence the jury was roused to a frenzied twitter of conjecture and argument. They had come to the inquest quite certain in their own minds that “Mister Willum” had committed suicide. Dr. Hendley had aired this opinion in the village and seemed to have no doubts about it. From what they had already gleaned for themselves
they
had had no doubts about it. They had all trooped up to the farmhouse that August morning ready to bring in that unpleasant but unavoidable verdict. Now they felt at sixes and sevens. From what they had heard of the police evidence it was beginning to look as if their duty was going to force them to a far more unpleasant and unanticipated decision. Dark hints were in the air. The room seemed suddenly airless and over-hot, the Coroner invested with all the menace and majesty of the inexorable law behind him. Their discomfort increased when Dr. White spoke of the tests he had carried out on the blood-stained earth.

At length the Coroner was summing up—his voice droning on, dry as dust, in the close atmosphere of the overcrowded kitchen. Three things to consider. Whether it was accident? Whether it was suicide? Whether it was murder? In his opinion the fact that the wire fence had been cut precluded the idea of accident. Deceased was familiar with the dangers of the cliff-path. There was that curious document found in his pocket. Suicide then? At first glance it appeared that deceased had deliberately taken his own life. On looking closer into the evidence, however, there seemed to be some reasonable doubt that this might not be the case. He lay on his right side. The fatal wound in the left temple was uppermost. How, if the wound had been caused by the fall, had he managed to turn over? Secondly, according to police witness, no chalk scratches were evident round the fatal gash, although the whole of the ground at the foot of the pit was strewn with chalk boulders. Did this suggest that the wound had been sustained at some time
previous
to the fall? Perhaps on the cliff-top, where blood-stains had been discovered in the vicinity of the severed wire?

There was that curious document to consider. A document which had been placed in the dead man's pocket without sustaining a single finger-print. Was the whole terrible affair staged by some unknown person to look like suicide, when in reality it was something quite different? This brought them to the third alternative. Murder. Had deceased been set upon on the cliff-path, killed by a violent blow on the left temple, and
then
thrown over the pit? There seemed to be evidence which might substantiate this supposition. It was for the jury, however, to examine all the evidence at length, without prejudice, and to find accordingly. If in its opinion it was a case of wilful murder, then it might, on evidence given, name the murderer or murderers. In his, the Coroner's, opinion, there was no such evidence.

At the conclusion of his speech, much as Mr. Oyler had anticipated, the jury elected to retire. With a clumping of hobnailed boots, therefore, they filed out in the wake of Kate Abingworth and shut themselves up in the Chalklands dining-room.

Twenty minutes later they all clumped in again and solemnly took up their positions around the kitchen table. Then, to Meredith's surprise, having anticipated an open verdict, they brought in “Murder by Person or Persons Unknown”. It seemed that the police evidence was more impressive than he had thought!

Chapter Eleven

The Third Problem

Cedric Clark, proprietor of Clark's Filling Station at Findon, had a business friend coming to see him that morning. He was hoping to sell John Rother's Hillman. Since Meredith had last examined the car, the windscreen and dashboard had been repaired, the blood-stains carefully erased, and the bodywork entirely repainted. Clark had followed the report of the inquest in the evening paper of the day before and, in keeping with the rest of the locality, had been shocked by the findings of the jury. William's death, moreover, had placed him in a quandary with regard to the sale of the car. He would now have to make a visit to Chalklands and get Mrs. Rother's authority to go ahead with the sale. Thornton was coming over to see him at eleven, so Clark hopped on to his motor-cycle and ran out to Chalklands directly after breakfast. He did not actually see Janet Rother—the housekeeper explained that she was still in bed resting—so he sent a message and in return received permission to go ahead with the sale of the car.

At eleven o'clock Tim Thornton rattled up in his weather-beaten service-car and stopped with a plaintive screech of brakes just beyond the petrol-pumps.

“That's a blooming good advert for you—that car is, and no mistake,” said Clark. “Economizing on oil, eh?”

Thornton, a big-boned, lazy-looking fellow with sandy hair and a ginger moustache, climbed slowly out of his car and stood staring at the premises known as Clark's Filling Station.

“Excuse me. Can you tell me if there is a garage anywhere near here? I understood that a damn' fool called Clark was running a place in this one-horse village.”

“You
need
a garage,” retorted Clark pointedly, nodding at the relic and slapping Thornton on the back. “Come inside, m'lad, and we'll see what we can do for you. We've a wreckage van at your disposal. Care to borrow it?”

“Grrrr!” growled Thornton as he followed his friend into the poky hole which went by the grandiloquent title of office. “Well, how's business?”

“Oh, so-so. Can't complain. How are you doing out your way?”

“Not too bad. Had a bit of bother in this district, haven't you?” he went on after lighting a cigarette. “See from last night's paper that they brought in a verdict of murder on that Rother chap.”

“Yeah,” agreed Clark. “Funny business that. First this spot of bother under Cissbury—now it seems that William Rother has copped it in the neck too. Sort of family curse, eh?”

“That Hillman handy?”

“Round the back, Tim. Want to see it now?”

“Well, I've got to be back by twelve to interview a customer.”

“Then we'd better snap into it, ole man. You'll need all the time you can get if you're going back on that barrel-organ outside. I bet the thirty limit has never worried
her
, eh?”

“We do at least keep our pumps painted,” countered Thornton as he followed the proprietor through a maze of cars to where the Hillman was parked in a far corner of the main garage. “Hullo—is this the little wonder?”

“That's her. Good as new—only done six thousand—freshly painted—new windscreen—good tyres and—”

“—licensed up to the end of the quarter,” went on Thornton with a mocking grin. “Go on. You can cut the cackle. That sort of snappy sales-talk won't get any change out of me. You lift the bonnet and I'll soon tell you if she's the car for my customer. I promised him a snip and
I've
got a reputation to uphold. Not like some chaps.”

“There you are then,” said Clark, raising the bonnet and holding an inspection-lamp over the engine. “Take a squint at that. Nothing wrong with her guts, ole man.”

Just as Thornton was about to bend over the engine, however, he suddenly let out an exclamation of surprise and stepped back, the better to examine the car.

“Here—half a mo'—I've seen this car before. Light green, wasn't she, before you painted her this filthy colour?”

“That's it. How'd' you recognize it?”

“See those two brass-headed nuts on the battery clamps? Fixed 'em myself when the owner garaged with me one week-end.”

“When was this?”

“Can't say for sure. About a couple of months back, I dare say. But the chap's been garaging regularly with me over week-ends for the past eighteen months or more. Funny, eh?”

“What was he like to look at?”

“Stocky, well-built sort of chap. Red-faced. Loud-voiced. Typical farmer, I reckon. Name of Reed, he said.”

“Reed?” Clark's voice was quite shrill with excitement. “That wasn't Reed. That was Rother. Betcher life it was! That was John Rother—the chap that was murdered under Cissbury here. Haven't you ever seen his photo in the newspapers?”

“No time to read 'em, m'lad. I get all my news over the wireless. So that was John Rother, was it? Well, I be blowed. Never struck me that I'd ever met the chap when they broadcast an S O S about him. Funny 'im giving a false name like that, eh?”

“Fishy—if you ask me,” agreed Clark. “Darn' fishy. I reckon Superintendent Meredith ought to know about this. Straight I do. He'd do well to come over and see you, Tim.”

Thornton laughed.

“Bit of third degree, what? Though I don't see that I can help him much. He's the fellow investigating these murders, isn't he?”

“You never know,” said Clark meaningly. “These police chaps pick up all sorts of odd bits of evidence, then they piece 'em together, and before you know where you are some poor bastard's booked for the long drop. Anyway, what about the car?”

“Just turn her over,” said Thornton. “I guess she'll suit all right. She was running sweet enough when I last saw her.”

Ten minutes later the deal had been concluded, and after a “quick one” in the pub up the street Thornton mounted his thunderous barouche and rattled off through the village.

Clark returned to his office and took up the 'phone. In a few minutes he was through to Meredith.

“Just caught me in time, Mr. Clark. I'm coming over to Chalklands this morning. What's the trouble?”

Clark explained about his talk with Thornton. Meredith was interested at once.

“Look here, I'll drop in on my way. Then you can give me details.”

Although Meredith did not expect to get much from this new data he was in no position to ignore even the flimsiest of clues. In an investigation one thing led to another, and quite often, in the long run, to the wanted man. He was still perplexed with regard to the part that the Cloaked Man had played in the crimes, though he was now inclined to think that his was the major role. These week-ends which Rother had spent, according to Barnet, at Brighton may have first brought him in contact with the man who was destined to murder him. Yes, most decidedly, this new thread of evidence would have to be followed up.

Clark was standing by the petrol-pumps, having a smoke, when the police car drew up. The two men at once retired to the little office. There Clark handed on all the information he had received from Thornton, embellishing the bare details with ornamental theories and opinions of his own. Meredith, however, soon sorted the wheat from the chaff.

“Where is this place of Thornton's?”

“You know the Arundel-Brighton road which runs through Sompting and Lancing?” Meredith nodded. “Well, just beyond the toll-bridge which crosses the River Adur there's a cross-roads.”

“I know the spot. Near there, is it?”

“About a couple of hundred yards on the Brighton side of the cross-roads—yes. Newish place—a bit flashy in its decoration to my mind. But old Thornton's like that. He likes to make a splash.”

“I see—thanks. I'll run out there and have a word with your friend as soon as I can. Decent of you to ring me up.”

“Oh, that's O.K. I know how you chaps work. Nothing more you want to know?”

Meredith shook his head and, anxious to get on his way to the farmhouse, jumped into the car and told Hawkins to step on it. The little blue-black police car shot off up the road like a bullet from a rifle. Inside ten minutes it was parked in front of the long white verandah.

Kate Abingworth answered the Superintendent's ring, and on asking for Janet Rother he was shown into the drawing-room.

“Mrs. Rother said that she didn't want to be disturbed like, but I'm sure she'll see you, surr. She's lying down in her room.”

Whilst the housekeeper was absent Meredith mentally rehearsed his method of attack. He realized now that a good old-fashioned dose of third degree was absolutely necessary if he were to drag the truth from the girl. All along she had been keeping something back. There seemed little doubt now that she
had
placed the portions of John Rother's body on the kiln. It looked, too, as if she must have written that faked confession. If the Cloaked Man were implicated in the crimes, then Janet Rother was the one person who could give him a line on his identity. She must be made to speak. He would have to put the fear of the devil into her and frighten her into a true statement of the facts.

Kate Abingworth came in. Meredith looked up. She was alone.

“Mrs. Rother not dressed?” he rapped out.

“Oh dear, surr,” agitated the housekeeper, “I can't get no answer. I knocked and knocked but couldn't get no reply. Her door's locked, moreover. I called out for her to open it but she—”

“When did you last go up to Mrs. Rother?”

“About nine, surr, when the garridge chap called. I spoke to her through the door.”

“You didn't see her?”

“No, surr.”

“Take up her breakfast?”

“She didn't have no breakfast, surr. She told me last night particular not to disturb her this marning, though when the garridge chap come—”

“I see.” Meredith felt suddenly keyed-up. “Take me up to her room, will you?”

He followed the housekeeper along the corridor, up a broad, winding staircase to a second, narrower corridor on the second story. At the first white door on the left Mrs. Abingworth stopped.

“This it?” The housekeeper nodded. Meredith rapped sharply on the door and called out to ask if Mrs. Rother were inside. He listened. No answer. He banged hard with his fist and called out a second time. Still no answer.

“Oh dear, surr! Oh dear me, surr!” fluttered Mrs. Abingworth, already on the verge of tears. “What can it mean? I hope as nothing—”

“We must break in the door,” cut in Meredith. “Stand back a moment, and for heaven's sake don't get flustered.”

Exerting all his strength, Meredith put his shoulder to one of the upper panels. He was unable to move it.

“Got a coal-hammer downstairs? You have? Then trot down and fetch it. I'll get my man from the car.”

Returning with Hawkins, just as Kate Abingworth came breathlessly up the stairs portering a large coal-hammer, Meredith snatched it from her, swung it back and brought it down with a crash on the panel above the lock. There was a rending of splintered woodwork and half the panel caved in, leaving a large gap through which the whole of the room was visible. Wasting no time on conjecture Meredith stuck in his head and took a quick look round. The room was empty!

“Maybe she's hung herself in that cupboard, sir!” exclaimed Hawkins. “Like that old gal we found out at—”

“Shut up, you fool!” snapped Meredith with a warning glance in Kate Abingworth's direction. “If you want to help, act, not think.”

He followed up this sensible piece of advice with a practical example, stretching down his hand inside the door to turn the key in the lock. Then he received a shock. There was no key!

“Good God!” Meredith ejaculated. “This door's been locked on the outside. She's taken the key with her. Here, take this hammer and break the lock. I want to get into that room and quick!”

But once inside the room Meredith's belief that the girl had flitted received substantiating evidence. The bed and floor were littered with odd garments, shoes, tissue paper, and discarded coat-hangers. It was obvious, at a glance, that only a few hours before Janet Rother had been up in that room feverishly packing. And the reason for that? Meredith smiled to himself. Here was undeniable evidence of that clever young lady's guilt.

As he and Hawkins were making a thorough search of the room, Meredith was thinking: “Well—what the devil am I to do now? I don't reckon we've got enough evidence against that young woman to demand a warrant for her arrest. Dead sure the Chief would be against it. No—it looks as if we've got to trace her whereabouts and then keep her in sight until we
do
know enough to arrest her.”

Already his mind was busy at the job of working out a plan of campaign. General inquiries in the vicinity to find out if anybody had seen her leaving that morning. A 'phone-call to the Yard for them to interview those London solicitors. A description of the missing girl to be included in
Police Orders
. A watch on the ports to see if she left the country.

He could not for the life of him bring himself to believe that she had just slipped off to visit friends. One doesn't pack in secret and leave the house without a word of farewell or any indication of one's destination, unless one is desirous of doing a vanishing act. No—Janet Rother hadn't just left for a week's stay with the Littlehampton aunt!

“Anything of interest, Hawkins?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Meredith turned to Kate Abingworth who, for the last five minutes, had been “Oh dear-ing” all over the room and generally putting herself on the one spot where she was not wanted.

“I'd like you to keep quiet about this for the moment. Understand? I'll let Mr. Barnet know what has happened and put him in charge of the arrangements up here. Mind you,” he added reassuringly, “there's probably a perfectly simple explanation for Mrs. Rother's departure. Don't forget that she was overwrought after all she'd been through during these last few days. So, for heaven's sake, don't upset yourself, Mrs. Abingworth. Ten to one we'll have your mistress back in this house, safe and sound, within twelve hours. Unless, of course, she's just slipped off on a visit.”