The Sussex Downs Murder (5 page)

Drawing into the side of the road, Meredith felt in the door-flap of his car and pulled out his inch-to-the-mile map of the district. With a flexible steel rule he carefully scaled the distance. Thirteen miles at the most! An hour and a half to cover thirteen miles? It was incredible, absurd! William had assured him that he had returned by the direct route and had not stopped on the way.

Meredith experienced a thrill of satisfaction, a customary sensation when a ray of light penetrated a particularly murky problem. If only he could make certain of the time John Rother had been killed—that would drive the nail further home. He had left Chalklands at 6.15 by the clock on the Hillman's dashboard. He had then driven about thirty miles, somewhere, for some unknown reason, before reaching the point under Cissbury Ring. Not that Meredith could calculate anything from that. Rother might have stopped for an hour, two hours, at any place
en route
while covering those thirty miles. Or he might have reached his fateful rendezvous and waited there for several hours before his murderer turned up and attacked him. He might have—

Meredith suddenly felt his heart quicken, whilst a surge of blood rushed through his ears. A quick excitement took hold of him. He pressed his foot on the accelerator. Fool! Blind fool that he was! He was cracking up in his old age. Fancy missing a point like that! He could imagine the withering scorn of the Old Man if ever he learnt the details of this piece of crass short-sightedness.

The clock on the Hillman's dashboard was correct. During Rother's last struggle in the car the dashboard dials had been smashed in and Meredith remembered now that the clock was not ticking. Which meant—
that the clock would have stopped at the exact time the murder was committed!

Reaching Findon he drew up at Clark's Filling Station, where John Rother's car had been garaged since Pyke-Jones' discovery. But before examining the car there was one other point about which Meredith wanted information.

Clark himself recognized the Superintendent and touched his forelock.

“How-do, sir. Anything you want?”

Meredith nodded.

“A spot of information, Mr. Clark. On the night preceding the discovery of Rother's Hillman under Cissbury, I understand that his brother, William Rother, called at your place for some petrol.”

“That's right, sir—he did. He said he was off to Littlehampton, where his aunt had met with an accident. He drove back up the road after I'd run in a couple of gallons and took the Angmering-Littlehampton turning. You can see it from here —about a hundred yards or so up on the left.”

“What time was this?”

Clark considered this point for a moment, running a forefinger through his hair.

“Half past seven—twenty to eight. Somewheres around then.”

“Thanks—now could I have a look at Rother's Hillman? It's still here, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir—this way. We've not done anything to her yet, though Mr. William has left instructions for the windscreen and dashboard dials to be repaired. It's been a bit of a rush of late. It always is in the holiday season.”

“Thank God for that,” thought Meredith as he followed Clark down the length of a big corrugated-iron garage to where the car was backed away in a corner. It would have been a nasty jar if Clark had already repaired the damage and thrown away the old clock.

Wasting no time in explanation, he pushed his head in through the open window of the driving-seat and fixed his eyes on the battered face of the clock. The hands, which providentially had suffered no damage, had stopped at exactly five minutes to ten. 9.55 p.m.! What time could have fitted in better with his theory that William was the murderer? If he could have chosen a time to illustrate his suspicion it would have been within five minutes one way or the other of ten o'clock! Did it mean that he was now in a position to make an arrest?

Chapter Five

The Cloaked Man

“That's all very fine,” Major Forest was saying, “but who sent the telegram? William couldn't have sent it himself. He was at Chalklands. It argues a collaborator in Littlehampton, doesn't it?”

“The aunt or Dr. Wakefield,” suggested Meredith.

“Possibly—but a risk, since we should immediately suspect them. Moreover, they would be known locally and might have been recognized either by the post office officials or anybody in the post office at the time. No, my dear fellow, I suspect somebody unknown in Littlehampton—a down-and-out, perhaps, paid to do the job but with no knowledge of William's criminal intentions. Now what about this skull? Has it turned up yet?”

Meredith shook his head.

Major Forest paused, puffed noisily at his pipe and jerked out: “You know, Meredith, you've over-jumped the mark. You've assumed that Rother was killed by a blunt instrument. Why not shot or stabbed? You haven't got the skull to prove the type of wound.”

“Not shot, sir,” corrected Meredith. “There was obviously a violent and prolonged struggle in the car before Rother was rendered unconscious. Shooting at short range like that—you remember there was blood actually on the driving-seat?—would be instantly fatal. Particularly as Rother appears to have been wounded in the head. Stabbing is a possibility—but if so the murderer bungled the job pretty badly. One usually stabs a man in the heart or neck, not in the head. You follow my line of argument, sir?”

“Perfectly. I don't necessarily agree with it. Not that it matters much at this stage how the poor devil was killed. I merely ask because if your ‘blunt instrument' theory is right there should be a chance of tracing the weapon. You suspect now that William Rother murdered his brother on the way back from Littlehampton. The chances are that he would have used a spanner or a hammer or something of that sort, eh?”

“That's what I imagine.”

“He then places his brother's body in the Morris Cowley—say in the back with a rug thrown over it—drives home to the farm, hides the body some-where, and later dismembers it and places it piecemeal on the kiln.”

“That's the idea, sir.”

“What about his car—have you examined it? There must have been a tidy mess on the mat and floor-boards. Again—what about William's clothes? Could he have dumped the body in his car without staining his own suit with blood? Remember that he went straight into the house when he got back, had a drink, read the paper, and went to bed. He couldn't have changed his clothes because his wife would have noticed the fact and commented on it. A man doesn't usually change his suit about half an hour before going to bed.”

Meredith looked a trifle dismal.

“You think my theory's a bad egg, sir?”

“A curate's egg, Meredith—good in parts. Look at it this way—according to you William had an hour and a half in which to get from Littlehampton to Chalklands, drive out under Cissbury, murder his brother, place the body in the car, dispose of it in some safe hiding-place near the farmhouse, garage the Morris, remove all traces of blood-stains from the back seat and from his own person. He would have to be a pretty speedy worker to do that, surely? You can't get rid of blood-stains without a great deal of trouble, you realize that?”

“Then it looks—” began Meredith in disgruntled tones.

“As if William Rother is not the murderer,” concluded Major Forest. “I say, it
looks
. I'm not precluding his name as a possible suspect. I merely suggest that we're in no position to make an arrest at the moment.”

“Then what's your advice now, sir?”

“See that aunt. See Wakefield. Check up in Littlehampton. Examine that Morris Cowley. Have a nose-round in all the outhouses at the farm. See if you can find out where the body was cut up. Enough to get on with, eh?”

“Plenty,” laughed Meredith.

Major Forest put a hand on the Superintendent's sleeve.

“And for God's sake don't get disheartened, my dear fellow. We've had cases a hundred per cent more complex than this. To my mind you can only tackle a difficult investigation in one way.”

“And that, sir?”

“Worry it like a terrier worries a rat.”

But for all the Old Man's encouragement Meredith had a tiring and unprofitable day. He left his office about ten o'clock that morning and went direct to Chalklands. As luck would have it William Rother had been driven by a friend into Pulborough on business and his wife had gone to Worthing by bus on a shopping expedition. He was able, therefore, to search the outhouses and examine the Morris Cowley without arousing any curiosity. But at the end of three hours he had to acknowledge that neither the car nor the outhouses seemed likely to render up a clue. The mat and the flooring at the back of Rother's car were all in order. There was no sign of either the mat or the boards having been scoured of stains, neither did he find anything to arouse his suspicions in the various cow-sheds, stables, granaries and barns in the near locality of the farm.

He then drove to Angmering, had lunch, and went on to Littlehampton, arriving there about 3.30. Dr. Wakefield was in his consulting-room busy with a patient, but the moment he was free he readily gave the Superintendent all the information he wanted. But negative again. He had seen William that evening shortly after eight o'clock. He knew nothing whatsoever about the telegram which, to his mind, was an extremely callous form of practical joking. He attended Miss Emily Rother but he claimed that she was more than normally hale and vigorous for her seventy-odd years. He then gave Meredith the address of her flat and assured him that the old lady never went out in the afternoon.

Miss Emily Rother accepted the Superintendent's arrival with perfect aplomb. Sitting very upright in her tall-backed oak chair before a little tea-table, she waved Meredith into a seat and told the maid to bring in another cup and saucer. She then mounted a most awe-inspiring trumpet to her ear and asked Meredith in a raucous voice what he wanted to know.

“It's about the visit of your nephew to this flat on Saturday, July 20th,” replied Meredith in equally strident tones.

“All right! All right!” contested Miss Emily. “There's no need to shout. I can hear you perfectly well, thank you, if you'll just speak in your natural voice.”

Meredith hastily apologized.

“What time did he arrive that evening?”

“Eh?”

Meredith repeated the question a little louder.

“All right! Do
please
keep your voice down, my dear man. What time did he arrive? What time did
who
arrive?”

“Your nephew.”

“John?”

“No, William.”

“By the way,” said Miss Emily, “they tell me that John has had to go abroad for his health. Do you know anything about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Only it seems funny to me—a great, hulking, red-faced man like John. Now, if it had been William—”

“He visited you on Saturday, July 20th, didn't he?”

“How could he when he's gone abroad for his health?”

“No. No,” protested Meredith. “I mean William.”

“But he
didn't
go abroad. It was John. William came and saw me here only a short time back.”

“On Saturday, July 20th?”

“Was it? Really you policemen seem to know everything. It's wonderful how you find out so much about other people's business.”

“Perhaps your maid might recall the date?”

“But why ask her when you know already? That's very stupid.”

“But I don't, madam. I'm asking you.”

“Well, why didn't you say so at once instead of pretending to be clever. You're a very unintelligent man to be a policeman, aren't you? I thought most of you came from the Universities these days. Are you a B.A.?”

Meredith commented inwardly: “I feel more like a B.F.” Aloud he went on in wheedling tones: “Now please, Miss Rother, I must ask you to answer these three questions. Firstly—did your nephew, William Rother, visit you one Saturday evening?”

“Of course he did. I've told you that already.”

“But you're sure it was a Saturday?”

“I'm as sure as you are, young man. Some madman had the audacity to send William a wire to say that I was in hospital. I believe it was that fool Dr. Wakefield. He drinks, you know. He denied it when I tackled him on the front the other day—but when a man drinks you really can't rely on his word, can you? I insist on it—when I die I shall die in my bed and
not
in a hospital ward.”

“What time did your nephew arrive?”

“At 8.17,” was Miss Emily's prompt and surprising answer.

“You're very certain,” commented Meredith with a smile.

“I can still read the clock, young man. Do you think I'm decrepit? I happen to have just looked at the clock before William came in.”

“And did you look at it when he left?”

“No—I didn't,” crowed Miss Emily. “But William looked at his watch and said it was time he was going.”

“You've no idea, I suppose—”

“Oh yes, I have!” was Miss Emily's triumphant rejoinder. “The St. Swithin's clock struck nine just before my nephew left. I'm not such a fool as you take me for, Sergeant. No. No. Don't protest. You're a
nice
man but stupid. I can never understand why foreigners make such a fuss about our British policemen. Another cup of tea?”

Cursing himself for having wasted so much valuable time, Meredith drove back to Lewes in a really bad temper. Miss Emily Rother had certainly fixed the time of her nephew's departure from Littlehampton, but what about the all-vital period between 9 and 10:30? Would anybody familiar with William Rother have recognized him on the road? At Findon, for example, before he turned off to drive along Bindings Lane? He would have reached Findon about 9.20 p.m. and returned through Findon with the body of his brother at any time, say, between 9.45 and 10.15. Coming to a decision he reached out for the 'phone and in a few minutes was in touch with the Findon sergeant.

“Look here, Rodd, I've got some routine work for you. Yes, this confounded Rother case. I want you to find out if anybody in your locality saw William Rother on the night of July 20th pass through Findon or along Bindings Lane at any time between 9.20 and 10.15. What's that? His car? No—a Morris Cowley. Oldish saloon painted dark blue. Got it? Good. Let me have any information as soon as possible, will you?”

Just as Meredith was about to hang up, the sergeant's voice recalled him to the receiver.

“Half a mo' sir. Funnily enough I was just going to get on to you.”

Meredith's interest quickened at the faintly veiled excitement in Rodd's voice.

“What is it? News?”

“Yes.”

“Vital?”

“I think so. Do you know a place called Hound's Oak Farm?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, it's not far from Bindings Lane. The constable here happened to be talking to the shepherd at Hound's Oak this afternoon. It appears that he'd been over to Bindings for the loan of some wire-netting which he wanted urgently. On his way back to Hound's Oak a chap suddenly dashed out of the wood through which the path runs in those parts, and ran off up the track before he could stop him.”

“When was this?”

“Night of July 20th,” said Rodd importantly.

“Well, go on.”

“Mike Riddle, that's the shepherd chap, thought at first that it was a poacher. He called out for the fellow to stop and got no answer. Just at that point the path leaves the wood and Mike was hoppy enough to catch a glimpse of the man on the open downside. You'll remember that there was a bit of a moon that night?”

“What time was this?”

“About ten o'clock Mike reckons.”

“I see. Well?”

“Well, sir—Mike noticed one or two things about the chap which didn't seem to fit in with the idea of a poacher. For one thing he was carrying an attaché-case, and for the other he wore a cloak and a big-brimmed, soft hat.”

Meredith, for all his interest, guffawed.

“Good heavens, man, it sounds like fancy-dress! Are you sure this Riddle fellow has got it right?”

“He swears to it. It was only because the man was dressed so out-of-the-ordinary that he happened to mention the fact to the constable today. Of course Mike didn't connect it up with the Rother case because it was only today that the facts of the inquest were published. I mean it was only today that he knew John Rother had been murdered.”

“Yes, I see that. Now let's get this straight. This track connects Bindings Farm with Hound's Oak, is that it?”

“That's the idea. It starts out of Bindings Lane just before the farmhouse, runs up through a bit of wood, then on to the open down and ends about a couple of hundred yards higher up the slope at Hound's Oak.”

“And if the chap went on past Hound's Oak—what then?”

“Well, it's all open down for a few miles. Park Brow they call it. After that if he kept a straight course he'd land somewhere down in Steyning or Bramber.”

“Thanks, Rodd,” said Meredith in official tones. “This may be of some use to us. You might get a signed statement from Riddle and have it sent over here. And don't forget that other business. Good-bye.”

The moment Meredith had replaced the receiver he remained perfectly still, thinking hard. What the devil was this fancy-dress merchant doing on a lonely path at ten o'clock in the night? Yes, and on the night of the murder too, only a short distance from where John Rother had been killed? Why the attaché-case?

A sudden stream of ideas flowed through Meredith's brain. Was this cloaked figure William Rother's partner-in-crime? Had this man actually done the killing before William arrived with his car to take the body to the farm? Was it possible that John Rother had arrived quite early in the evening under the shadow of Cissbury and been attacked at once by the unknown man? Suppose the attaché-case contained a set of surgical instruments and a large rubber sheet—the murderer could have then laid out the sheet in the midst of the gorse bushes and gone about the ghastly operation of dismembering and decapitating his victim before William came on the scene. Confound it! William might have set out for Littlehampton with a metal-lined cabin-trunk in the back of his car ready for the reception of these gruesome relics! Nobody saw him leave in the car for Littlehampton. His wife was up walking on Chanctonbury and Kate Abingworth would scarcely have troubled to accompany her master to the garage. What then? He arrives at the isolated spot along Bindings Lane, the remains are dumped in the metal-lined trunk, and he drives off at once for Chalklands. Why couldn't he have ventured out of the house that night, removed the cabin-trunk from the car and hidden it in his bedroom? Or even placed portions of the body straight on the kiln? To creep out on subsequent nights until the trunk was emptied.