The Sussex Downs Murder (7 page)

“Thank heaven,” he thought, “that it hasn't rained since July 20th! I'd have missed this if it had.”

It was curious that up until that moment he had blamed the drought for a lack of clues in the vicinity of the actual assault. Now, at this point, the powdered chalk, moistened by the surplus water which had trickled from the base of the coal-heap, had since been hardened by the hot sun into the likeness of plaster. Janet Rother's footprint was as clearly defined, therefore, as if a sculptor had made a meticulous cast. But he only discovered, alas, this single imprint.

Having returned the shoe to the wash-house Meredith decided to tramp up to Chanctonbury Ring and back before going on to see Rodd at Findon. He wanted to puzzle and reason and theorize, and he always found the rhythm of a steady walk conducive to mental action. Perhaps he had evolved this habit when he had been stationed in Cumberland, where a long trudge over the fells always had the effect of clarifying his thoughts. He filled his pipe, therefore, blessed the fact that he was in mufti since the day was hot and, skirting the chalk-pit behind the farmhouse, began the ascent through a series of ripening cornfields. Soon he came to a wire fence in which there was a creaky iron gate, beyond which, in a wonderful upsweep, rose the brown-green flank of the down. Gradually, as he mounted, the village of Washington came into view on his left, deep down in its bosky valley. Behind it a windmill stood sentinel over a red sand-pit, whilst the north horizon was fringed with the serrated ridge of a pine forest. It was a magnificent view, expansive yet somehow intimate; the chequered fields, dotted with isolated, red-tiled barns and homesteads, with here and there a tree-edged road winding between the pasturage.

Meredith sighed. He wasn't up there for enjoyment. He must forget the landscape, shut away all sound and scent and colour from his senses and concentrate on the ever-increasing complexities of this accursed Rother case.

Now, more than ever, he was at a loss. From a strong suspicion that William had killed his brother he had now been forced to take up a less certain viewpoint. First there was the strange behaviour of the Cloaked Man to be considered—his part in the mechanism of the crime. Secondly this new, astonishing evidence about Janet Rother. How was she implicated? Was she a third partner in this devilishly conceived murder plot? It was obvious that Ned
had
seen her that Thursday night following the murder, however simple the fellow was in some directions. That she was carrying something under her arm was equally certain. Further, she was making toward the kilns. She had been at some time in the vicinity of the kiln-mouth, a fact to be deduced from that footprint. Finally, her shoes had been more than usually chalk-dusted during the week which directly followed July 20th.

The first bones had come to light on July 31st, and the remainder had been discovered in loads of lime sent out from the Chalklands kilns between July 22nd and July 26th—a fact which Meredith had ascertained from his copy of the order-book. Portions of the body, therefore, had been placed on the kilns during five consecutive nights. It was obvious that this unpleasant task had been prolonged so that only medium-sized portions of the body would have to be concealed beneath the extra layers of chalk and “cullum” shovelled in at night by one of the partners-in-crime. Further, it was necessary that the residual bones should not appear in the lime in noticeable quantities.

The question remained—had Janet Rother been utilized by the murderer to perform this gruesome task? If William was the murderer it seemed curious that he had not undertaken the job himself. In any case, argued Meredith, if Janet were implicated it was certain that she and her husband must have acted in collaboration. Janet could not possibly have committed the murder and transported the body from Cissbury herself. For one thing she had walked up on to the down that vital evening, and for another there was no car available for her to use in the Rother garage. John's was under Cissbury—William had taken his for that trip to Littlehampton.

Meredith drew up short with a grunted exclamation, clicked his fingers, relit his pipe and started off again up the rise. But during that brief hiatus in his walk a new idea had suddenly flashed into his mind.

Janet Rother and the Cloaked Man? Was that the criminal combination, with William left out of it? Had that telegram been sent from Littlehampton solely to get William out of the way, so that Janet could help smuggle the body back to Chalklands without her movements being checked?

Hastily Meredith tugged his inch-to-a-mile map out of his breast pocket, where providentially he had placed it only that morning. Janet had left the farm ostensibly to climb up to the Ring. What was there to prevent her from making a start in that direction and then working down in a big détour to some point on the Washington-Findon road? There she could have hidden herself until she had noticed William rush by on his way to Littlehampton. At some prearranged spot, a little further up the road, the Cloaked Man could have been waiting with a car. What then? Janet gets in, they drive to Bindings Lane, arriving there shortly after 7.30. John Rother has already been set upon and killed, the body already dissected. In the Cloaked Man's car—

Meredith's thoughts stopped dead and then shot off again at a tangent. How could the Cloaked Man have had a car when he was seen late that night “legging” it over the downs? If he had a car then he must have got rid of it by then—a difficult and dangerous procedure. Yet a car was essential to his scheme. How the devil, then, had he managed it? Borrowed? Stolen? Hired?

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the Superintendent suddenly. “Why not Rother's Hillman?”

In a flash he saw the whole thing. John Rother set upon and killed. The dissected body hidden inside a rubber sheet among the gorse bushes. The Hillman driven out to pick up Janet, then back again to Cissbury. The remains, still wrapped in the rubber sheet, dumped on the floor of the Hillman's front seat, where an extra stain or so of blood would cause no comment. Then, with Janet acting as guide, these gruesome remains driven out to Chalklands in William's absence and hidden in some prearranged spot—perhaps a metal-lined cabin-trunk. Whilst Janet kept an eye on Kate Abingworth, the Cloaked Man could have secretly carried Rother's remains to the prearranged hiding-place and stowed them away in the trunk. The Cloaked Man then drives back to Cissbury, leaves the car where it was discovered the next morning, and makes off over the downs towards Steyning. Moreover, thought Meredith, wouldn't this account for the extra petrol used in the Hillman? Rother
had
gone to Cissbury direct, and it was due to the three extra runs after Rother's death that over a gallon of spirit had been burnt. The mileage, Meredith reckoned, would not quite account for the full gallon and a quarter, but the engine might have been left running when stationary—perhaps when the Cloaked Man was waiting for Janet on the Washington-Findon road.

Janet Rother said she had come down off Chanctonbury at a quarter to ten—a time which she realized the housekeeper could verify. The Cloaked Man must have left Chalklands, therefore, shortly after that time. The shepherd, Mike Riddle, had seen the strange figure on the path to Hound's Oak at (about) ten o'clock. Was it possible for the man to have covered the distance in fifteen minutes?

“Confound it,” thought Meredith, disheartened, “he couldn't. He couldn't have done it under twenty-five minutes at least.”

Had Janet Rother lied about the time of her re-entry into the farmhouse, with the deliberate idea of providing the Cloaked Man with an alibi? Perhaps she had gambled on the fact that Kate Abingworth would not have looked at the clock. It only needed Janet to arrive fifteen minutes earlier for Meredith's theory to hold water. He would have to question the housekeeper now before seeing the Findon sergeant.

For all that Meredith determined to reach the Ring before descending again to Chalklands. He had heard that the view from the huge clump of beeches was unique and never-to-be-forgotten. Passing a dew-pond, at which one or two sheep were drinking, he covered the half-mile of the final hump with a swinging stride. A little later half Sussex seemed to be under his feet, with the chequered weald on one side and a quicksilver glimpse of the sea far away on the other. Sitting at the bole of a great, silver-barked beech, he spread out his map on his knees and began to register the various places of interest—the Devil's Dyke out toward Brighton, the faint blue ridge to the north which was Box Hill in Surrey, Steyning in a near-by valley, Wiston Park under his feet, Washington, and beyond that the distant roofs of Storrington.

At that precise moment, only a couple of miles away, a small girl in a yellow frock was clambering about on Steyning Round Hill in search of wild flowers. She was a solemn child and had high hopes of carrying off the first prize in the “Wild Nosegay” section at the annual flower show which was to be held in a few days' time. She returned home somewhat earlier than her parents had anticipated, so weirdly garbed that the child's grandfather, who had a kitchen-chair out in the sun, let out a high-pitched bark of astonishment and dropped his clay pipe on the brickwork. On her head the child wore a large, broad-brimmed black hat. From her thin shoulders, entirely concealing her gawky legs, hung a voluminous black cloak.

Ten minutes later her father was plodding up the street in search of the Steyning constable. He had noticed rust-coloured stains on the dark material, stains which, as an ex-serviceman, he recognized as dried blood. This fact, combined with the police notice which he had read only the previous day in the local paper, had aroused his suspicions.

When Meredith reached Findon after his visit to Mrs. Abingworth, Rodd, whom he had 'phoned early that morning, had already collected this new evidence and handed it to his superior in a brown-paper parcel. He explained where and how it had been discovered.

“Which,” he added with a pleased smirk of self-congratulation, “corroborates old Mike Riddle's story.”

Meredith agreed. He was in an optimistic frame of mind because in his interview with Kate Abingworth, the housekeeper had stoutly upheld that Mrs. Will had come into the farmhouse “not later than the strike of half past nine”. Did it mean now that William Rother was out of the running and that Janet Rother plus the Cloaked Man were the perpetrators of the crime?

“Strange,” he thought, “how suspicion in a case of this sort swings about from one direction to another. I'll end by suspecting myself soon, or the Chief Constable! After all, in these detective yarns it's always the most unlikely person who has committed the murder!”

“By the way,” he added aloud to Rodd, “have you found anybody who saw William Rother round about Findon on the evening of the twentieth?”

Rodd shook his head.

“Only Clark up at the Filling Station—but you knew about that already.”

“Well I've got a new slant now,” explained Meredith. “I want you to nose around and find out if anybody saw
John
Rother's Hillman pass through the village at any time between 7 and, say, 9.30. Probably driven by the same chap that Riddle saw up near Hound's Oak.”

“Wearing his hat and cloak?” asked Rodd with a meaning grin.

Meredith laughed.

“A bit too conspicuous, eh, Sergeant? Just as I thought. No—I reckon that hat and cloak act was performed solely for our benefit. He used that disguise simply to take himself from Bindings Lane over the downs to Steyning. By the way, did Steyning say anything about having seen a stranger on the roads late that night—I mean when you collected the cloak this morning?”

“Nothing. I made a point of asking that question myself.”

“Damn!” said Meredith. “Loose ends everywhere, Rodd, and the murder nearly three weeks old already!”

Chapter Seven

Dead End

On his return to Lewes, Meredith found a note on his desk to say that the Chief would like to see him at the earliest possible moment. The Superintendent smothered an oath of irritation, suppressed all thought of an early retirement to his inevitable high-tea, and knocked on Major Forest's door.

“Well,” barked the Chief without preliminary, “any further?”

Meredith slowly shook his head.

“More evidence and less daylight, sir. That's the present situation in a nutshell.”

“Sit down. Take a fill of this. Light your pipe, and post me up to date,” ordered the Major.

With an inward sigh Meredith plunged into a detailed recital of his latest investigations, whilst his superior, every now and then, furiously scribbled a note on his desk-pad. At the conclusion of Meredith's story the Chief studied these notes for about five minutes in a dead silence, rose, snorted, lit a cigar and dumped himself down again with an even louder snort.

“Hopeless, eh? A damned muddle, eh? Complex, what?” Meredith dolefully agreed. “Yet interesting, Meredith. What about the stains on the cloak? Had them analysed?”

“It's being done now, sir. I've asked them to send the report to you here.”

“Good.” The Chief went on vigorously. “You seem to be faced with three possible suspects now—William and Janet Rother, this unknown fellow in the cloak and broad-brimmed hat. That so, eh?” Meredith nodded. “Tell me—what motive would Janet Rother have in helping the murderer of her brother-in-law?”

“Money,” said Meredith. “She must have known that her husband was the sole heir to John's estate.”

“But damn it, Meredith—she was in love with the chap! Barnet explained that. It's common property in the village.”

“That's not exactly the truth, sir,” corrected Meredith politely. “Barnet said that John was in love with Mrs. Rother, but as far as
her
feelings were concerned he was uncertain. Don't you see that a faked-up affair with John Rother would provide her with a nice, plausible alibi if she came under suspicion after his death?”

“There is that, of course,” acknowledged the Chief. “But why should she go to the extent of meeting her brother-in-law at the dead of night with a suit-case in her hand? That couldn't have been done just to produce an illusion that she was in love with him. The girl had no idea that Kate Abingworth or anybody else would witness this escapade, and without a witness it wouldn't have helped along her pretended infatuation. No, Meredith. That meeting was genuine all right. But Lord knows why she took that suit-case. Why did she, eh?”

“Can't say, sir. They both turned up at breakfast the next morning as usual.”

“Precisely. And that argues—what? Not a collaboration between Mrs. Rother and the murderer, but between Mrs. Rother and the man murdered.”

“But confound it, sir!” Meredith felt quite heated on the subject. “Look at the evidence I've got to the contrary. That footprint by the kiln. Her chalky shoes. Her appearance a few nights after the crime at the Chalklands drive-gate with a parcel under her arm. That curious walk of hers up on to the downs the evening of the murder.”

“Odd, I agree, but not conclusive proof of her guilt. You've got a lot against William. You suspected him strongly, Meredith. Now you
don't
. What about that?”

There was a rap on the door and a constable entered with a chit.

“From Dr. Allington, sir.”

When the constable had retired Major Forest slit open the note and read its contents.

“Human blood-stains all right. Strikes me that cloak was a lucky find, Meredith. I can't help feeling now that this unknown man really did the job, even though William and Janet Rother may have been mixed up in the plot. Unfortunately we know nothing about him and therefore can't lay a finger on the motive.”

“And I have an idea, sir,” went on Meredith, “that Janet Rother was used as the bait to get John under Cissbury Ring. A note, perhaps, arranging a secret rendezvous. That would be a sure-fire trick to get a romantic chap like John Rother to put in a punctual appearance.”

The Chief agreed. “By the way, that brings me to another flaw in your latest theory. Rother, if he had gone direct from the farmhouse to Bindings Lane as you now suspect, would have arrived there about 6.30. The Cloaked Man plus Janet Rother arrive there at 7.30 to pick up the dismembered portions of the body. You know, Meredith, I can't help feeling that it would take more than an hour for your murderer to kill John and perform his gruesome operations. Professor Blenkings' skeleton shows a tremendous number of points where the bones were sawn through. Even if your man was an expert I doubt if he could have done it in the time.”

“Strengthening your theory,” suggested Meredith, “that Janet Rother had nothing to do with the actual murder?”

“Quite. I still think you have more reason to suspect William as the collaborator than his wife. In any case you'd better ask that young lady a few leading questions. Her answers should give you some idea whether she's got a guilty conscience or not.”

“I intended to go out to Chalklands first thing tomorrow, sir. It's too late now.”

Major Forest laughed.

“Thinking of that high-tea of yours, Meredith? When you're one of the Big Five the newspapers will seize on that high-tea and make it as famous as Baldwin's pipe. Well, I won't keep you from it. I know your wife is a demon for punctuality.”

Meredith joined in the laugh against his very human weakness and cleared out of the building as quickly as he could, making for Arundel Road. His son Tony had now developed an entirely new set of theories to fit the case. He aired them over the tea-table. According to Tony, John Rother had been “slain” (to use his pet expression) by a member of the Russian Ogpu because he was writing a secret treatise on the Soviet atrocities during the Revolution. It transpired after a time that Tony had just read a sensational article on the subject in a lurid weekly, but Meredith could not help feeling that Tony might have been quite as near to the mark as he was himself. He had evidence of sorts, quite a lot of evidence, but somehow none of it seemed to piece together and make sense. He hoped his interview with Janet Rother would tighten things up a bit.

He found her the next morning lounging in a deck-chair under an ash tree, reading a novel. She accepted his unexpected appearance with perfect calm, offered him a cigarette from her own case, and told him to fetch another chair from the verandah. She seemed to have regained a perfectly normal outlook on life. All the strain had vanished from her features, leaving her ready to deal with Meredith as if he had been a family friend dropping in for a little informal chat.

Meredith jumped his first question on her without preliminary.

“Tell me, Mrs. Rother, what were you doing out on the drive late at night on the Thursday following the murder of your brother-in-law?”

“Late at night?” She smiled as if a little bewildered by the suddenness of this cross-examination.

“Yes—with a parcel under your arm.”

“Oh, that!” She laughed and took a leisured puff at her cigarette. “I was destroying some incriminating evidence, Mr. Meredith.”

“What on earth do you mean?” snapped Meredith. “Don't forget that a police investigation is a serious matter to people concerned in it.”

“Quite. That's why I'm going to tell you the truth. I don't know how you found out and I won't be so tactless as to ask. I'll just tell you exactly what I was doing.”

She paused for a moment, looked at the tip of her cigarette, blew off the ash, and went on in measured tones: “I dare say you've already heard a lot of gossip about poor John and I? Some of it true, some of it gross exaggeration. John was unfortunately one of those men who are quite incapable of hiding the fact when they're in love with a girl. I say unfortunately, Mr. Meredith, because in this case I was the girl. You've heard rumours perhaps?”

Meredith nodded.

“It was very stupid of me. I see that now. But I was rather flattered by John's attentions, although I realized it might cause a lot of trouble where my husband was concerned. During the time that John and I were—well, how shall I put it?—playing this game of make-believe, I kept a diary, an intimate record of all our outings and meetings. It was all part of the game to me, because frankly I can't ever look upon it as more than that. John was serious perhaps. He had that kind of nature. But I was sort of acting the part and then sitting back to enjoy my own performance. You see how I mean? When I learned that poor John had met with some sort of tragedy I was worried about that diary of mine. I didn't know that particular Thursday night that John had been murdered, because the inquest had not been held. I argued rather like this—if by any awful chance John
has
been murdered and if anybody ever came across this diary of mine, they would immediately suspect that my husband had committed the crime through reasons of jealousy.”

“Quite an understandable supposition,” agreed Meredith, who was deeply interested in the girl's explanation. “Well?”

“Well, late that Thursday night I crept out of the house, went to the kiln, and burnt the diary.”

“But why choose the kiln?”

“Because in the summer the only other alternative was the kitchen-range, and I didn't want to run the risk of interruption from Mrs. Abingworth or Judy.”

“I see. How big was the diary?”

“Oh, the usual pocket size.”

“Then why was the parcel under your arm so very much bulkier than that?” rapped out Meredith. “I know that it was. You can't deny it.”

“I don't. I decided that as I was going to destroy the diary I might as well clear my desk of a lot of private correspondence and burn that too. I wrapped the whole lot in a piece of brown paper.”

“You realize now, of course, how dangerous your action was in the light of what the police discovered later?”

“Of course. I was worried to death about it at first. Then later I began to realize that if I told the truth everything would be all right. I know it happens to be an almost unbelievable coincidence, but I've got enough faith in your judgment, Mr. Meredith, to
know
that you will believe me.”

Meredith smiled, but without humour.

“I must, Mrs. Rother—unless I can prove things to be otherwise than you have stated.” He went on after a moment's reflection: “Was that the only occasion you went to the kiln?”

“Of course.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that on several days running your walking-shoes were coated with chalk-dust?”

Janet laughed and replied in bantering tones: “Because up here at the farm we are living on a mountain of chalk. You can't walk anywhere without picking up the wretched stuff. You must have noticed this yourself, Mr. Meredith.”

Meredith made no answer to this suggestion, but switched over to another angle of approach.

“On July 20th, Mrs. Rother, you say that you walked up to Chanctonbury Ring and back after your brother-in-law had left in the Hillman.”

“That's right.”

“Did anybody see you on the hill?”

“Possibly. I don't really remember.”

“Supposing it was vital for you to produce a witness who could swear to have seen you that evening, could you do so?”

Janet hesitated, looked uncomfortable, and then shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

Meredith glanced down at his open notebook.

“On July 13th, Mrs. Rother, a week before the tragedy, did you by any chance meet your brother-in-law on this lawn late at night?”

“Meet John late at night! What utter nonsense!” Janet broke into a ripple of unaffected laughter. “Where on earth did you get that idea from, Mr. Meredith?”

“You deny it?”

“Utterly. It's absolute nonsense. Malicious gossip—that's all. I can't understand how these absurd rumours get about.”

“Thanks,” said Meredith, pushing himself up out of his chair. “I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this but it's a very necessary part of our routine. Before I go there is just one other matter on which I should like a little information—a personal matter, Mrs. Rother. You're not bound to answer the question, though I assure you that I could find out the answer in the long run from a reliable source.” (A boast which Meredith could have in no way substantiated.) “At present I understand that your husband is the sole heir to his brother's estate. In the case of your husband's death to whom would the money go? To you, I take it?”

Janet nodded, entirely misled by the Superintendent's prevarication.

“Unless a codicil has been added to my husband's will without my knowledge—that is the arrangement—yes.”

Satisfied that he could expect nothing more from the interview, Meredith again thanked the girl for her co-operation, bade her good-bye and got into his car, which was parked in front of the verandah.

On the homeward run, turning over all the evidence in his mind, he felt that he was now at a dead end. He had explored every avenue of investigation and in every case been brought up short by a blank wall. If Janet Rother had been telling lies then she was certainly a superlative liar. If not, then suspicion must swing back once more to her husband and the Cloaked Man.

After lunch at Arundel Road, Meredith returned to his desk and spent the afternoon catching up with the arrears of routine work which had accumulated since the opening of the Rother case. Half that night he lay awake trying to disentangle a few certainties from a confused mass of possibilities, parading the details in his mind and examining each one with the eye of an expert engaged in the job of selecting a genuine masterpiece from a collection of fakes. He returned to headquarters next morning tired, disgruntled, ready to jump on his subordinates' slightest faults, sick to death of the whole confounded investigation.