The Sussex Downs Murder (17 page)

“Did you question her about it?”

“Yes—she denied ever having met him at night.”

“Witness reliable?”

“Very.”

“So we've really got no answer to number one? Right. Number two—‘Why were no buttons, cuff links…' etc. Ah, yes. A strange point this, Meredith. We discussed the matter before, I remember, but didn't get very far. I suppose we must take it for granted that the clothes
were
thrown into the kiln?”

“I think so,” answered Meredith slowly. “You see there must have been blood-stains, and the chap wouldn't want to leave evidence like that lying around.”

“Quite. It certainly looks as if the best thing for him to have done was to chuck the clothes on the kiln and destroy them. Point is he doesn't seem to have done so. Your men combed through the lime thoroughly, I take it?”

“Sifted every inch.”

“Umph!” The Chief rubbed his chin and pondered for a moment. Then: “I suppose you realize, Meredith, that before he dissected the body he would have to undress it? Quite—you did. Well, supposing our man decided for some reason not to burn the clothes, could he have taken them with him when he trekked over the downs?”

Meredith slapped his thigh.

“Good heavens! The attaché-case! I reckoned, of course, that he might have a rubber-sheet and surgical saw in the case. I hadn't thought of the clothes. Yes—he could have got 'em away in that all right.”

“Was he carrying an attaché-case when Wimble the carrier saw him in Bramber?”

“No—a suit-case. So Wimble declared. I took it that he had hidden that case up on the downs above Steyning with his Jeremy Reed disguise in it. Perhaps the attaché-case was inside the suit-case.”

“Very possibly. Anyway, I suggest you hunt around for Rother's clothes. We'll assume that they weren't burnt, eh? Might have buried 'em in the garden at Brook Cottage. All right—number three, then. ‘Who sent the faked telegram?'''

“The Cloaked Man, of course,” snapped Meredith at once. “That telegram was mentioned in detail in that faked confession which we found on William's body. We've got to assume now that the Cloaked Man wrote that confession; therefore he
must
have sent the telegram, or caused it to be sent, otherwise he wouldn't have known anything about it.”

“Q.E.D.,” grinned the Chief. “We'll accept that. Number four. A stinger this, Meredith. ‘Who is the Cloaked Man?'''

“Give it up, sir. No idea at the moment.”

“Same here. Well—number five. ‘Where and how exactly had the body of John Rother been cut up?' You still stick to your earlier theory, I suppose—that the dissection was done on a large rubber sheet or tarpaulin in those gorse bushes under Cissbury by means of a surgical knife and saw?” Meredith nodded. “And that the remains were then wrapped in the sheet, driven to Chalklands in Rother's own car by the Cloaked Man, and there hidden away in a metal-lined cabin-trunk, probably in the car inspection-pit?”

“That's it, sir.”

“Any reason to alter your opinion?”

“None, sir, at the moment.”

“Six,” went on Major Forest. “ ‘Who placed the portions of the body on the kiln? Was Janet Rother…' etc. Well?”

“Oh, Mrs. Rother did that part of the job right enough,” asserted Meredith. “This Continental flight of hers proves, more or less, that she's guilty. The evidence I gathered from the chalk on her shoes suggested that she visited the kiln more than once during the week following John's murder. She explained this fact away by saying that the farmhouse was on a mountain of chalk. But I noticed that my own shoes during my investigations up there never once showed chalk scratches on the upper part of the toe-cap. Just a rime of chalk round the welt—that's all. No—I reckon that her confederate left her to carry out that gruesome act in the tragedy.”

“Which brings us,” said Major Forest, “to the crux of the whole matter—your main question: ‘Who killed John and William Rother? What motive?' Far as I can see—if you answer that you ought to be able to answer all the other problems.”

“Not necessarily, sir,” pointed out Meredith politely. “It's quite possible to
know
who committed a murder without being able to prove a single one of the circumstantial facts surrounding the case. This case, for example. I think we're more or less justified in supposing that the same man committed both murders. That faked confession incorporated so many of the
discovered
details in the first murder that we can't help but think that the man who placed that document in William's pocket knew as much, if not more, than we did about John's death. All our evidence points to the fact that the Cloaked Man did both jobs. But when it comes to substantiating this claim by proving up to the hilt certain problematic features connected with the two cases, we're up a tree. Half these questions still remain unanswerable. We're not even in a position to advance a theory. See how I mean, sir?”

The Chief chuckled at Meredith's emphatic exposition.

“We'll have you lecturing at the Yard yet, you know. The Problems and Principles of Criminal Investigation. How's that for a title? But I quite see your point, Meredith. This next question about the faked confession rather illustrates what you were saying. Even if we knew for
certain
that the Cloaked Man murdered William we should still have to prove that he shoved that confession in the dead man's pocket. Do you think he did?”

Meredith nodded.

“Unless it was Janet Rother, which I'm inclined to doubt. My idea is that the murderer combed through his victim's pockets before he threw him over the pit, to see if the note, which we assume he must have received fixing the rendezvous, was actually on his person. He probably extracted this note, wearing gloves, and substituted the confession. I can't
prove
that, of course. It's still bound to be pure assumption.”

“Quite. And are you prepared to assume anything as to the whereabouts of John Rother's skull? That's the next query on your list.”

“No, sir. That's one of the questions which is absolutely unanswerable. I haven't the faintest idea where that skull has got to. I've already put forward my theories as to why he didn't pass it through the kiln with the other portions of the body.”

“Which brings us to your final question—‘Why had John Rother spent a number of week-ends in Bramber?' etc. Any clearer now on this subject?”

“Well,” admitted Meredith, “I've had no reason to abandon my theory of blackmail. I still think that the Cloaked Man knew something about John's behaviour toward Janet, and that he was threatening to tell William. Mrs. Rother may even have been in a plot to egg John on and thus get him under the thumb of the Cloaked Man. After all, that pretty pair of rascals were out for money. John and William were murdered for money. They had to be got out of the way before Janet could inherit. Blackmail would naturally appeal to a mercenary-minded couple like that.”

The Chief Constable nodded an agreement, lit his pipe, leaned back in his chair and stared for a long time at the lazily curling smoke. Meredith, well trained in his superior's idiosyncrasies, knew better than to interrupt. The Old Man was thinking. Suddenly he came out of his reverie, jerked himself upright, and levelled his pipe at Meredith as if it had been an automatic.

“Have you ever thought of this?” he began abruptly. “That John's murderer never really intended to kill William? Struck me as we were running through those questions. I'm inclined to reason something like this. The Cloaked Man murdered John and then tried to work it that suspicion fell on William. You remember yourself how, at an earlier point in your investigation, you felt pretty sure in your own mind that William was the murderer. First there was that false telegram from Littlehampton. The murderer knew well enough that William would set off to see his aunt. He could anticipate more or less what time William would leave Littlehampton, and smashed the dashboard clock so that the hands stopped at a plausible time—plausible, that is, where William's movements were concerned. He staged the murder near Findon because he knew that William was bound to pass near that village on his return journey from Littlehampton. Place and time were beautifully gauged, as it happens, because William could easily have been under Cissbury at 9.55, which was the hour at which the clock had stopped.

“To further William's difficulty in proving an alibi Janet Rother walks up on to the down, or at any rate is absent from Chalklands, during the time that William could have been doing the job. She avers that she returned to the farmhouse at 10.15 and that William was not then at Chalklands. In other words, knowing that the Cloaked Man was going to stop that clock at 9.55, she was out to make William's movements appear even more suspicious in our eyes. Even if William had returned before 10.15 he would have been unable to appeal to Janet for corroboration, because she had most annoyingly absented herself. That left us with Kate Abingworth's word alone. An elderly, emotional woman who would be at the mercy of a clever K.C. in a cross-examination. So much for that.

“The motive was obvious. John was alienating his wife's affections. The Cloaked Man knew we shouldn't be long in finding out that particular bit of gossip. To bring the murder home to Chalklands it was necessary to pass the portions of the body through the kiln. Here Janet came in handy. It was natural that we should suspect William of the murder as soon as we learnt how an attempt had been made to destroy the body on his own door-step, so to speak. This brings me to another very interesting point. That question about the buttons and cuff-links. Suppose the clothes were not passed through the kiln? What then? It was imperative that there should be no question as to the identity of the remains. So what does our murderer do? Gets Janet to drop the identity-disc and John's belt into the kiln along with some portion of the body, knowing quite well that once the bones were discovered these articles would also come to light.

“To strengthen the suspicion that William was responsible for his brother's death was the fact that he was sole heir to John's estate. Unfortunately the Cloaked Man underrated the intelligence of the police, with the result that William was not arrested. An awkward factor when it came to the fulfilment of their scheme to nab the money. So, aware that the police were not prepared to do away with William, our man decided to take on the job himself. Even then he had not lost hope, as that faked confession clearly indicates. He still hoped to throw dust in our eyes by staging a suicide, the apparent reason for which was to be William's knowledge that he was under police suspicion. Honestly, Meredith, that second trick
might
have worked if William had not written that note to Aldous Barnet. That was the unexpected fly in the real murderer's ointment. That note may hang him yet, Meredith. That's my theory for what it's worth. You needn't adopt it, but I think it's worth a good deal of careful consideration.”

Chapter Seventeen

Climax

On looking back upon the Rother cases, Meredith always upheld that this particular interview with the Old Man marked the turning-point in his investigations. From that moment onward it was all “main-road progress”. Fresh evidence came to hand, unexpected clues; and the little bits of the puzzle, hitherto unrelated, now suddenly seemed to fit into place without the slightest effort on his part.

“The whole case,” as Meredith put it later, “seemed to work itself out automatically.”

He had been much impressed, too, by the Chief's theory that William had only been murdered because the police had failed to arrest him on the charge of killing his brother. To a very large extent it accounted for the complex manner in which the first murder had been worked—the actual assault in one place, the destruction of the body in another, and so on. But the main point which Meredith took away from his conversation with Major Forest was the sensible supposition that John Rother's clothes had not been destroyed along with the remains. He determined to comb through every inch of the garden and outhouses at Brook Cottage.

“Well, Hawkins,” said Meredith early the next morning, “we're going somewhere this morning where we've never been before.”

“Where's that, sir?” asked Hawkins eagerly.

“Bramber,” grinned Meredith.

Hawkins said a rude word and climbed into the driving-seat of the little blue-black car, on the back seat of which a constable had placed a couple of spades and a sieve. Soon they were clear of the houses and running through the countryside, which was already tinged with the first brown and russet tints of approaching autumn. The rain had cleared and the still heat of early morning promised a really scorching day.

Once at Brook Cottage they set to work.

“We'll take the garden first, Hawkins. There's no need for us to dig unless the ground looks as if it's been recently disturbed. So we'll just run our eye over the place first, see?”

But although at one or two points here and there in the unkempt little garden they found patches of suspiciously loosened earth, their digging operations brought nothing of interest to light. After an hour's strenuous labour Meredith declared himself satisfied as to the innocence of the garden, and switched over his interest to the outhouses. The main building was a brick-and-tile shed such as might be used for storing coal and wood, or hanging garden implements. This particular place had a brick floor, no window, and smelt damp and airless. Meredith carefully examined it by the light which streamed in through the open door. It was cluttered up with all manner of odds and ends—sacks, old newspapers, a pile of rotting potatoes, one or two splintered crates from Fortnum & Mason, a couple of dozen flower-pots, and a rusty mowing-machine.

Gradually Hawkins, under his superior's instructions, cleared all the movable objects out into the yard until the floor-space was entirely exposed except for the pile of potatoes. Going down on his hands and knees Meredith ran his eye over every inch of the brickwork. It all seemed in order. It was not until Hawkins had shovelled the potato-heap from one corner to another that Meredith hit upon a clue. Despite the grime and dried earth which coated the brickwork under the heap, Meredith noticed that several of the individual bricks had been loosened and cleverly fitted back into place. Prising under one of them with his pen-knife, he was soon able to uproot a good square yard of the uncemented brickwork.

“Hullo! Hullo!” was his instant exclamation. “We've hit on something here, m'lad. This earth under the bricks has been newly turned. Here—fetch me that spade. Jump to it!”

Hawkins, lit with an equal excitement, snatched up the spade, and handed it to the Superintendent. With the utmost caution Meredith began to dig. Almost at once his spade came against something that was certainly not plain earth.

“Steady, sir!” ejaculated Hawkins, dropping on to his knees. “I can see the corner of something sticking up. Looks like material of some sort.” He reached forward and gingerly began to tug. Inch by inch the stuff broke clear of the compressed soil until no doubt remained as to its nature. “My God! It's the coat, sir. Rother's coat. It matches that tweed cap we found by the Hillman.”

“You've said it!” snapped Meredith, taking the bundle and crossing over to the light by the door. “The whole darned suit by the look of it. Waistcoat, plus-fours, stockings, coat.”

“Any blood-stains,” asked Hawkins hopefully, as Meredith began to unwrap the closely rolled bundle.

“Blood-stains? No, I don't think—” He stopped dead. “Well, I'll be jiggered!”

Hawkins stepped forward.

“What is it, sir?”

“This,” said Meredith, withdrawing something from the centre of the clothing. “Ever seen anything like that before?”

“A skull!” cried Hawkins, suffering one of the greatest thrills in his career. “The missing skull!”

“John Rother's skull,” added Meredith. “The crowning glory of old Blenkings' skeleton, eh?” Then with a sudden change of expression: “But what the devil—?”

“Something wrong, sir?”

“Something damnably wrong. There's no hair, no vestige of flesh, rotting or otherwise, on the bonework. Why?”

“Perhaps the chap shoved it on the fire first,” suggested Hawkins. “Remember, we found the remains of a fire in the hearth.”

“Impossible,” argued Meredith. “There's no sign of the bones being charred. In fact the skull's got a definitely polished look. Then there's another thing, Hawkins. Why can't we see the fractured bone where Rother was knocked out?” He turned the skull slowly in the sunlight. “It's more or or less intact, isn't it? A few teeth missing, but no sign of any splintering. It strikes me that there's something queer about this particular skull—something we haven't quite realized.”

“Best show it to that old professor chap, eh, sir?”

“I'm going to, Hawkins. We're going to run into Worthing straight away. I'll go through the pockets of the suit on the way.”

But, beyond the tab bearing the maker's name, there was nothing by which the clothes could be definitely identified. The colour and material matched, as far as Meredith could remember, the blood-stained cap. He could easily check up on that. Were there blood-stains on the suit as well? He went over it inch by inch. Yes—a blackish brown patch round the left cuff. Nothing more. That was queer too. These relics would want a bit of explaining away.

Professor Blenkings was delighted to see the police again. He welcomed Meredith with enthusiasm, insisted on a drink, piloted him into the study, and forced a cigar on him.

“Now don't tell me you've found another set of bones, Superintendent. That would be too much to hope for. Most enjoyable that other little job I did for you. Elementary but of practical help, I imagine. What brings you this time?”

Meredith unwrapped the skull from the waistcoat and held it up.

“This, sir.”

The Professor mounted his glasses and peered critically at the exhibit.

Then: “Most interesting,” he murmured. “Most interesting. Quite a well-formed cranium, Superintendent. Intact too. May I ask—?”

Meredith briefly explained how he had discovered the skull in the shed at Brook Cottage and aired his opinion that it belonged to John Rother.

Professor Blenkings shook his head.

“Oh dear, no,” he contested emphatically. “That couldn't possibly be Mr. Rother's skull. You told me that he had suffered a severe blow on the head. We should notice signs of that, shouldn't we? Of course we should. But this skull is quite perfect. You must have made a mistake.”

“I rather anticipated that I might have done,” said Meredith dryly. “Though I can't account for the discrepancy.”

“No. No. Quite so,” burbled the Professor absent-mindedly, as he twisted the skull this way and that the better to examine it. “By the way,” he added abruptly after a long silence, “have you got a photograph of Mr. Rother?”

As luck would have it Meredith carried one in his wallet. He handed it over without comment. There was another long silence.

“Well, really,” exclaimed the Professor at length, “this is a most extraordinary affair! Much as I don't want to disappoint you, Superintendent, I'm bound to point out to you that this isn't Mr. Rother's skull at all. Decidedly not. Most interesting, of course, but annoying where you are concerned.”

“But it must be!” exclaimed Meredith. “All our evidence points to the fact. Why are you so sure?”

“Have the goodness to look at the photograph. Note Mr. Rother's jaw. A square but not particularly prominent jaw, eh? Now observe the jaw belonging to the skull. It's what we call an undershot jaw. Quite a different formation. Again, if this is a recent photo of Mr. Rother you will observe that he appears to have an excellent set of teeth. The teeth in this skull are very indifferent. Very. Bad teeth in fact. They needed the attentions of a dentist. I'm sorry to upset your expectations, Superintendent, but the facts are quite indisputable.”

“And you think that this skull belongs to the skeleton you made?”

“Well, we can easily make certain of that. Dear me—yes.” The Professor rose and rang the bell. In a few seconds his elderly, stern-faced housekeeper presented herself. “Ah, Harriet—have the goodness, will you, to fetch that nice little skeleton of mine from the wardrobe. You know where I keep it.”

“Very good, sir,” said Harriet in the level tones of one who has been portering skeletons from wardrobes for the best part of a lifetime.

In a few minutes the dour-faced lady returned, hugging her macabre and headless companion to her starched apron with an indifference born of utter contempt for the sensational.

“Could do with a dust,” she observed tartly as she dumped her gruesome load in an arm-chair. “There's a sight of cobwebs atween the ribs, sir.”

“That will be all, Harriet,” concluded the Professor firmly, dismissing her with an imperative wave of his hand. The moment the door had shut, however, he got up eagerly from his chair, picked up the skull and carried it over to the semi-recumbent skeleton. Then, just as if he were trying on a hat, he placed the skull deftly on the shoulders of the framework. At the points where the bones had been severed the fit was perfect.

“You see—there can be no doubt now. Most upsetting I dare say, Superintendent, but I'm forced to point out now that the skeleton doesn't belong to Mr. Rother either! Inexplicable, of course—but there it is.”

“Well, I'll be—” began Meredith.

“Quite. Quite. I appreciate your chagrin. Is there anything further I can do?”

Meredith rose and shook his head. He was so completely dumbfounded that he quite forgot to thank the Professor for his drink. Where had he gone off the rails? If this wasn't Rother's skeleton then who the devil
did
it belong to? And why was the skull wrapped in a plus-four suit that almost certainly belonged to Rother? And how had the flesh been removed from the bonework so as to leave the skull so clean and polished? It couldn't have rotted off in a bare eight weeks.

For the remainder of the morning, during lunch, and for most of the afternoon, he pondered these questions. On comparing the tweed cap with the plus-four suit he found that the material matched exactly—strong proof, he upheld, that the outfit
did
belong to John Rother. He talked the matter over with the Chief, he re-examined every exhibit and every document connected with the case. He read through statements, advanced new theories and, after analysis, scrapped them. He cursed and smoked, smoked and cursed, and went home to his high-tea in a mood of utter despair. Would the case ever be completed? Was this to be the one outstanding failure in his career? That little job up in the Lake District had been child's play compared with the complexities surrounding this confounded investigation. He was heartily sick of the whole damned case!

Then, half-way through the night, he let out a sharp cry of enlightenment, tapped his wife on the shoulder and drew her complaining from the toils of a deep sleep.

“I've got it, my dear! I've got it! I know what happened under Cissbury on the 20th. My Lord—what a blind—”

“Got what?” snapped his wife in a disgruntled voice.

“The answer to the Rother case,” crowed Meredith triumphantly, ready to accept his wife's congratulations.

“Oh, that,” she said in disinterested tones, promptly turning over and going to sleep again.

But the next morning, after an early breakfast, she had thrown aside her indifference. As she handed Meredith his cap in the hall and brushed down his uniform, she allowed herself to be taken into his arms and fervently kissed.

“Wonderful, eh?” demanded her husband.

“You are,” murmured Mrs. Meredith. “And you've just been waiting for me to say so. Well, here's luck to you, you stupid boy, and mind you have a good lunch somewhere if you can't get home.”

But on that memorable day Meredith clean forgot lunch, high-tea—everything except the work upon which he was engaged. He did take a hasty drink in the bar-parlour of the “Chancton Arms”, and a cup of tea with the Washington Vicar about half past four. Having obtained the key from Aldous Barnet, he then visited Chalklands and carried off a large picture wrapped in brown paper. He then ordered Hawkins to drain the petrol-tank of the police car, fill up again with exactly two gallons and drive him first of all from Chalklands to Littlehampton. From Littlehampton he drove along the coast via Goring to Worthing, and thus on through Tarring to Findon and Bindings Lane. There Hawkins drew off what petrol remained in the tank, refilled from a spare can and, at Meredith's instructions, returned to headquarters. There the Superintendent went through the same process as before, measuring the petrol which had been drained off from the tank and making a few quick calculations with the aid of his Bartholomew's map. This done he returned, worn out, but utterly satisfied, to a late supper at Arundel Road.