The Sussex Downs Murder (16 page)

Over their illicit drinks Meredith put his final question to Tom Biggins.

“On the night of July 20th—a Saturday, Mr. Biggins—we rather suspect that a man came down off the downs near Steyning and made for Brook Cottage. We have an idea that he might have been disguised as Jeremy Reed. You didn't by any chance see this man yourself or know anybody who did?”

Tom Biggins set down his tankard and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. For a few seconds he pondered the question.

“No,” he said at length, “I never set eyes on the chap myself, neither that night nor at any other time. But come to think of it—there's been gossip in the bar about that ole josser. Lot o' speculation as to 'oo he really might be and so on. 'Mongst other things I recall Bert Wimble, our carrier here, saying as he saw the ole chap walking up the village street in the middle o' the night. Couldn't rightly say when this was—you'd better see Bert yourself, Sooper, and get him to tell you.”

“I will,” said Meredith promptly. “He sounds promising. Can you let me have his address?”

Biggins gave the address, and the three officials left the “Loaded Wain” more than satisfied with the result of the cross-questioning. Meredith was in a particularly optimistic mood, for at every point he was seeing his latest theory substantiated by solid evidence. There was no doubt in his mind that the fellow on the bike was the Cloaked Man, or that he was setting off on that particular evening for a little job of work which was to be done on the top of the Chalklands pit. Biggins had given, moreover, the first real description of the Cloaked Man as he actually was. The beard, of course, might have been specially grown during his three weeks' concealment in the cottage, and the clothes meant nothing when the man had plenty of opportunity for changing his attire a dozen times over. But his height and age were useful and so was that bandaged wrist. He was hoping that Bert Wimble might have noticed this same singular feature about the man he had seen that night in the village street.

The carrier, as luck would have it, was just stabling his horse after his usual Friday journey into Worthing. He was an elderly man with long grey moustaches, intensely blue eyes, and a thin, aquiline nose which lent his kindly features an aristocratic air. His voice, too, was quiet and well modulated. Meredith saw at a glance that he had in Bert Wimble a reliable, level-headed, and intelligent witness.

Yes, explained Wimble, he had noticed that queer old fellow from Brook Cottage late one night about the middle of July. He was walking up the main Bramber Street coming from the direction of Steyning. He was wearing knee-breeches and a Norfolk jacket. The thing which struck him most, however, was the fact that the old man was wearing dark glasses. It seemed a curious thing to do in the dark. The time must have been just after midnight, as Wimble had had a removing job which had taken him over to Ashington after his usual carrier's round. He had not stabled his horse, at any rate, until just on one o'clock. The date? Well, he could easily fix that by a reference to his books. The removal job would certainly have been entered up by his wife. Wimble thereupon consulted a well-thumbed memorandum book and announced, to Meredith's delight, that the date was July 20th.

“Tell me, Mr. Wimble, did you notice anything in this man's appearance which might have suggested an injury of some sort?”

“Ay, surr—I did. His left wrist was a-bandaged up. As I came up ahind him in my van the lights picked out that white bandage as clear as could be. What's more the old chap was a-carrying a suit-case. Queer, I thought, to be arriving for a week-end after midnight like that. Made me ponder where he had come from.”

“A suit-case?” Meredith felt the old familiar thrill course through his veins which was always his when unsolicited clues tumbled into his lap. “You're sure about that?”

“I be sartin about it,” upheld Wimble stoutly.

“A suit-case,” thought Meredith. “Just what I ought to have anticipated. He had to take his Jeremy Reed disguise up on to that hill and he needed something to put his own clothes in when he changed after committing the murder. By Jove, if I'm not on the right track this time—what the Old Man called the main road—I'll eat my hat!”

Meredith went on with his cross-examination of the carrier, but nothing further came to light. If large crates or parcels had arrived from London for Brook Cottage then Wimble knew nothing about them. The railway people had their own delivery van. They might be able to help.

Five minutes later they were able to help. On several occasions they had carted large crates to Brook Cottage. The goods had been sent out by Fortnum & Mason. No, they had not made contact with the owner of the cottage, though they had heard he was a bit of a queer card. Deliveries had been made during the week, when Mr. Reed was absent, and instructions had been sent that the crates were to be left in the back-yard. All goods had been sent from the London firm carriage paid. The letter? Unfortunately it had been destroyed. It had been typed, bore the address of Brook Cottage and was signed J. Reed. On searching through their books the railway clerk assured Meredith that the last delivery had been made on July 18th. On this occasion two large crates had been sent by Fortnum & Mason.

“So much for the food problem,” thought Meredith. “Now for the house agents.”

On inquiry in Brighton Meredith learnt that Stark & West had offices in High Street. He found them without trouble, an imposing modern frontage of concrete, plate-glass, and metal frames painted a pea-green. The interior was luxurious with thick carpets, easy chairs, and deferential, sleek young men who moved soundlessly about their employers' flourishing business. One of these elegant acolytes approached Meredith and began to drawl at him. Meredith bristled. He loathed drawlers when the drawl was obviously not the outcome of a good education.

“You can cut your sales-talk and all the rest of the soft-soap, understand? I'm a police officer and my time's limited. I want some information about a place called Brook Cottage in Bramber.”

The young man's hauteur became suddenly deflated.

“Would you care to see the manager, sir?”

“No—you'll do for the moment. I want to know two things. First, when and by whom the cottage was bought. Second, when it was put up for sale again. Can you get that information from your records?”

The young man felt certain that he could, and hastened off to lose himself behind a tall ground-glass screen. He was away for the best part of twenty minutes, and when he returned he was not alone.

“I've brought Mr. Harris, our manager, to see you, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Harris?”

“I think you've come to the wrong agents, officer. We've no record of a cottage by that name in Bramber. We certainly have property in that district, as we have in most districts around here, but that particular place has never been through
our
hands.”

“But good heavens, your board is up outside the place. How do you account for that?”

The manager goggled at him through his horn-rims.

“Our board? Impossible! If it's being shown then it's quite without our authority.”

Meredith was perplexed. He hadn't expected this surprising set-back. He had rather imagined that Rother had bought the place through Stark & West, and that the Cloaked Man, realizing this, had somehow managed to wangle the re-sale through the same firm. Possibly with the help of Janet Rother.

“Any other property for sale in Bramber—I mean on your books?”

The manager retired to consult the records again.

“Yes—a twelve-roomed, detached house near the Vicarage,” he informed Meredith on returning. “But that's all.”

“Have you had any inquiries here with regard to Brook Cottage?”

“How could we—seeing that we're not handling the property?”

“All the same,” said Meredith quietly, “I'd like you to find out from your various assistants, Mr. Harris.”

This took another twenty minutes as one or two of the staff were engaged with clients.

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed the astonished Mr. Harris. “But no less than three inquiries were made during the last month. Our clerks were naturally forced to point out that a mistake had been made and that we weren't dealing with the place. I should have been informed, of course. How on earth do you account for it?”

“I don't,” smiled Meredith. “Not yet. But I have an idea. I'll let you know if my suspicions are correct after another visit to Bramber. Can I have your 'phone number? Thanks.”

“We'll get to know this route soon, sir,” observed Hawkins as the car sped back to the village.

“You keep your sarcastic remarks to yourself, m'lad,” grinned Meredith, who was now in a happy and expansive state of mind. “The most we can do is to thank our lucky stars that we don't have to foot our own petrol bills!”

Back in Bramber Meredith had no difficulty in finding the house near the Vicarage which was up for sale. No less than five agents' boards proclaimed the fact over the top of a well-groomed holly hedge. But Stark & West's board was not among them!

“Hit it first time,” thought Meredith triumphantly. “Just as I imagined. Our man's got a headpiece on him all right. He wanted to suggest that Brook Cottage was unoccupied, so he did the obvious thing—pulled down the blinds, locked the doors, closed the windows, and shoved up a board to say the place was for sale.”

With his usual thoroughness, however, Meredith took the trouble to enter the grounds of the house and find the exact spot from where the Cloaked Man had uprooted the board. He had no difficulty in finding what he was looking for, and it was in a jubilant mood that he ordered Hawkins to drive him back to Lewes, where he intended to ring up Harris to let him know what had transpired.

A good day's work. Progress. Main-road progress. The Old Man ought to be pleased that things were working out so well. He had got the movements of the Cloaked Man, after the first murder and before the second, more or less taped. It now remained to follow up Tony's sensible suggestion and interview Slippery Sid, who was now being detained at the King's expense behind the walls of Lewes gaol. A long shot perhaps, but if luck continued to sit at his elbow Slippery Sid might prove a valuable witness!

Chapter Sixteen

Review of the Evidence

Directly Meredith reached his office on the following morning he learnt that Scotland Yard wanted him on the 'phone. The sergeant on duty understood it was to do with the Rother cases. Meredith, therefore, got through at once to Detective-Inspector Legge, who was watching the case in the metropolis. Legge had disturbing news.

“Yes—it's to do with the Rother case. Our man down at Dover reports that somebody answering to the description of Janet Rother crossed to Calais on the night boat last evening. Of course as there's no warrant out for her arrest he couldn't do anything. Thought you'd like to know.”

“Yes—that's awkward,” grunted Meredith, immediately irritated by this set-back. “Damned awkward Legge. I'm hoping to close in on this case during the next few days, and that young lady would have been an essential witness. Still is for that matter. Possibly an accessory both before and after the fact. But there it is—you know as well as I do that one can't get hold of a warrant these days without serving up a whole lot of fool-proof reasons. Trouble is, I've got some evidence against her but not enough. Any idea where she'd be making for?”

“My dear fellow!” Legge's ringing laugh nearly split Meredith's ear-drums. “Warsaw, Jerusalem, Tokio, or Timbuctoo! Nothing to prevent her from changing course when she pleases and as often as she pleases. If her passport's in order—and she's had plenty of time to arrange that—there's nothing except money to prevent her from legging it anywhere.”

“Which reminds me—what about your watch on that Kensington post office? Her solicitors pointed out, you remember, that they'd have to get in touch with her before she benefited from that will. Anything doing?”

“Nowt,” said Legge shortly. “Nary a bite. We reckon up here that that poste restante business was a blind. Nothing to prevent her, was there, from ringing up the next day and altering the address at which she wanted to pick up her correspondence? And you needn't think that her solicitors would blab. Not them! You know the kidney. Clams and oysters, the lot of 'em.”

“Nobody with her when she boarded the boat?”

“Nothing about it in the Dover report.”

“Well, here's news,” announced Meredith, not without a glow of satisfaction. “I'm going to push for a warrant of arrest. Unknown chap at the moment but answering to the following description: Shortish, middle-aged, stubble of dark beard, bandage round the left wrist. When last seen—about a fortnight ago—wearing dark coat and trousers and bowler-hat. Looks like a commercial traveller. I'll get that into
Police Orders
—see? We'll have all the ports under observation and get all the usual routine under way.”

“Right. Think the chap might have made a bolt for it already?”

“That's my pet nightmare at the moment,” said Meredith bitterly. “He's had nearly a fortnight in which to make himself scarce. On the other hand, I reckon he was essential to Janet Rother. He wouldn't leave the country until she was well under way. So the chances are he's still at large. I have an idea that he might have collected that correspondence and acted as go-between where the solicitors and Mrs. Rother were concerned. Wish the devil we could worm a bit more information out of those damned solicitor chaps. Any chance?”

“You wangle that warrant and leave the rest to me,” said Legge cheerily.

“O.K. I'll let you know what luck I have. In the meantime make a note of that description and tell your regular fellows to keep their eyes skinned.…Thanks. Cheerio.”

Meredith then got through to Harris at the house-agents and explained what had happened to their sale-board. Harris was so dumbfounded that he could only gurgle out what sounded like a collection of first-class oaths.

So Janet Rother had got away? If they could trace her and the evidence against her was serious enough they might get an extradition order. Better get in touch with the Paris Sûreté if the Old Man agreed. They probably wouldn't be able to do much but it was a necessary action. In the meantime, it was more than ever essential to concentrate on the doings and present whereabouts of the Cloaked Man. Meredith decided to visit Slippery Sid.

He walked, therefore, through the drizzling rain of the Lewes streets to the imposing but forbidding entrance of the gaol. At his ring the outer gate was opened and locked behind him, while he stated his business to the janitor. A warder was then summoned to conduct him to Slippery Sid's cell. The inner gates were then opened to admit the Superintendent into a bleak, rain-wet courtyard across which he was hastily piloted by the warder. They passed into a tall stone building, studded with barred windows, and proceeded along a stone corridor which smelt of soap and carbolic. On each side of the corridor were numbered iron doors with small square grilles in them. At one of these the warder stopped, drew out a bunch of keys and opened up.

“Friend to see you, Sid,” was his cheery announcement. “Wants to have a nice little chat I reckon.” He grinned at his own pleasantry. “I'll just lock the door and leave you with 'im, shall I, sir? I'll be outside. Just give me a call when you've finished.”

“Right,” said Meredith as the iron door clanged to behind him and left the place in semi-darkness.

Slippery Sid was squatting on the side of his bunk reading (of all things) a Bible. On the Superintendent's entry he carefully closed the book and marked the place by turning down the corner of a page.

“Improving the shining hour, eh, Sid?” asked Meredith in friendly tones. “Didn't know you were much of a chap for religion!”

“On an' orf,” explained Sid with a non-committal gesture. “On an' orf. Don't do a beggar no 'arm in 'ere to do a bit o' sky-piloting on 'is own account.” He quizzed Meredith with deep interest across the confined area of his cell. “Seen you afore somewheres, ain't I, sir? You ain't a busy, are yer? Flattie o' some sort, I reckon, eh?”

“Remember that little job which was done up at Colonel Harding's house back in '27, Sid?”

“Blimey—I gotcher nah. You're the sooper what got me 'arf a stretch, all a 'cos I 'ad a gold 'unter left me by my ole dad. You reckoned that was a fanny,* didn't yer?”

“And I still do,” observed Meredith with a grin. “Feel like a little chat, Sid?”

“Wot abaht?”

“Night of August 9th or early hours of the tenth.”

Sid considered the dates for a moment then, suddenly realizing, flared up.

“'Ere, wot's the gime, sir? I bin up the steps for that, ain't I? You ain't got no right ter—”

“Oh, it's nothing to do with your little job,” put in Meredith soothingly. “I want some information—that's all.”

“Want me to turn snout, eh?”

“That's about it, Sid. Might do you good, you know. I make no promises, but if you can be of any use to me I'll do my best to see that the proper people get to hear about it. Well?”

“Orlrite,” said Sid in a surly voice, after a long pause. “But there weren't nobody in wiv me on that Rushington's job if that's wot you're 'ooking for. Solo—that was.”

“Used a bike, didn't you, Sid?”

“Yers.”

“Took the Worthing-Horsham road perhaps—passed through Washington, didn't you?”

“Yers.”

“About midnight?”

“Arpas one,” corrected Sid.

“Know the cross-roads in Washington by the ‘Chancton Arms'?”

“Yers—turnin' to Steyning almos' opposite the boozer.”

“That's it. Know the Bostal?”

“Yers—big 'ill just afore you come into Washington.”

“Right. Now think carefully, Sid—did you notice anybody on the stretch of road between the Bostal and that turning to Steyning—either before or after your little job at Storrington?”

“Might 'av.”

“In other words you did?”

“Yers—mail van going toward Worthing.”

“On the outward journey, eh?”

“Yers.”

“Nobody else?”

“Yers—chap on a bike.”

“Chap on a—!” Meredith felt a quick thrill of excitement. “Where was this exactly?”

“Bottom of the Bostal. Know a little lane wot runs up orf the main road, doncher?” Meredith nodded. He knew it right enough! He recognized it as the rutty track which ran up past the lime-kilns to Chalklands. “Well, 'ee turned orf up there.”

“Could you describe the man?''

“Bowler 'at,” said Sid shortly.

“Anything else?”

“Yers—face-fungi.”

“A beard, eh? What was he dressed in?”

“Couldn't rightly say—too muckin' dark to see much.”

“Notice anything about him which suggested he might have been injured, Sid?”

“Nah.”

“Sure?”

“Yers.”

“And the time you reckon was—?”

“Arpas one,” put in Sid glibly. He was a practised hand in answering questions in cross-examination.

“Would you be ready to sign a statement about this if it were necessary later on?”

“If you think it might 'elp I would.”

“Good.” Meredith rose and glanced round the cell. “Comfortable in here, Sid?”

“I've known worse.”

“Quite—well, that's all. Thanks.”

“Luck. Luck. Luck,” reiterated an inward voice as Meredith made his way back to the station. The first real bit of luck which had come his way since the case had opened. That those two men should have passed one another on that short stretch of road where their separate routes overlapped was nothing short of a miraculous coincidence. But that made no difference to the evidence. Sid's description tallied on most points with that of Tom Biggins, the landlord of the “Loaded Wain”. There was no shadow of doubt left that the man who had set out from Brook Cottage was the same man who had turned up the lane to Chalklands and later murdered poor William Rother. He had taken a fair time for the journey, but doubtless he had stopped on the way for a cigarette.

Meredith lost no time back at headquarters in making his way to Major Forest's office. Unfortunately the Chief was out and would not be back until after lunch. Meredith, curbing his impatience therefore, shut himself in his own office and began to write up his notes. This done he settled down to a piece of personal routine work which he always imposed on himself when dealing with a particularly complex investigation. This was to run through all the documentary matter connected with the case since its outset, and to catalogue all those points which still required elucidation. At the end of half an hour he had drawn up the following list:

Points In The Case Which Remain Unexplained

Why had Janet Rother met John Rother with that suit-case on the lawn at Chalklands a week before the blood-stained Hillman was found under Cissbury Ring?

Why were no buttons, cuff-links, studs, or brace-ends found in the lime along with the severed bones, the identity-disc, and the belt-clasps?

Who sent the faked telegram from Littlehampton?

Who is the Cloaked Man
?

Where and how exactly had the body of John Rother been cut up?

Who placed the portions of the body on the kiln? Had Janet Rother told the truth about burning that diary?

Who killed John and William Rother? What motive?

Who typed the false confession purporting to have been written by William Rother?

Where was John Rother's skull?

Why had John Rother spent a number of week-ends in Bramber disguised as Jeremy Reed the naturalist?

Satisfied that no important point had been omitted, Meredith decided to talk over this list with Major Forest after lunch. New links in a chain of evidence were often forged when two people put all the clues of a case under the microscope.

Over the cold beef and salad back at Arundel Road Tony asked his father with a false air of innocence:

“Have you seen Slippery Sid, Dad?”

“Perhaps,” smiled Meredith.

“Oh, come on, Dad, you might tell the truth. He was able to tell you something, wasn't he?”

“As a matter of fact, Tony, he was—quite a lot.”

“I thought he might,” crowed Tony, feeling in his pocket and drawing out a crumpled brochure. He handed it across to his father.

“What the devil's this?”

“Illustrated catalogue of those wireless sets I was talking about. I thought you might be interested,” said Tony slickly, adding with commendable cunning, “now.”

“Such persistence deserves some sort of reward, eh? What time do you leave work today? Six o'clock? All right. If I'm not called away I'll meet you outside Green's at ten past. And mind you're punctual.”

“You needn't worry about that, Dad,” grinned Tony. “Can I have another slice of beef, Mother, please?”

“You're smart,” barked Major Forest as Meredith entered his office. “Just finished this report you left on my desk. Good work, eh? Moving—what? Sit down and talk. Smoke? Right. Now where exactly are we going to start?”

Meredith thrust his questionnaire under the Chief's nose.

“With number one, sir, if you agree—and work down.”

Major Forest scooped up the paper and glanced quickly down it.

“Eh? What's this? Oh, I see. Catalogue of the outstanding snags. All right, Meredith, we'll deal with 'em one by one as you suggest. First—‘Why had Janet Rother met John Rother?' etc. Well—why?”

“Can't say, sir. All through this case I've been puzzled by the relationship existing between the girl and her brother-in-law. Barnet reckoned that he was head-over-heels, and that the girl was just play-acting. When I questioned her later about that visit to the kiln she suggested the same thing. Playing up to John Rother just for the fun of it. But if that were the case it seems a bid odd that she should risk sneaking out of the house in the dead of night to meet him.”