The Sussex Downs Murder (8 page)

When the 'phone-bell rang on his desk he picked up the receiver with a muttered “Damn their eyes!” and snapped out “Yes—what the devil is it now?”

“Toll call just come through for you, sir,” said the level voice of the constable on duty. “Refuses to give a name. Must speak to you direct. Shall I switch them over?”

“If you must,” growled Meredith, settling himself more comfortably in his chair to take the message.

“Hullo—yes. Meredith speaking. What's that? Who? Yes—I've got that. What's the trouble? What! Good heavens—when?” He was no longer sprawling in his chair, but sitting bolt upright, tense, interested, rapping out his questions with his brain working overtime. “When did you make the discovery? Yourself. I see. Nothing been touched, I take it? Good. I'll ring through to your local station and get Pinn to come up at once. Yes, I'll be over myself just as soon as I can make it. Terrible shock for you—you had no idea, of course, that anything like this might happen? No—I must confess it's given me a pretty considerable jar too. Totally unexpected. Well, I won't waste time. I'll get through to Pinn at once. Good-bye.”

As Meredith, now alight with a new energy, swung away from the 'phone, Major Forest stamped into the room and took up a dictatorial position by the fire-place.

“Look here, Meredith—I've been chewing things over. Last night, in fact—at it for hours. Got a damned headache now. But here's the result for what it's worth. Taking into consideration all the evidence, it's obvious to me that William Rother was an accessory both before and after the fact. Can't get away from the evidence. You're bound to keep him on your list of suspects. No, don't interrupt, Meredith. You see, if you consider the fact that—What the devil is it? Are you sitting on a tack or what? Come on, man, out with it! What's the matter with you?”

“William Rother, sir.”

“Well—you agree, eh? Under suspicion, eh?”

“Maybe, sir,” said Meredith slowly, “but we can never make an arrest.”

“What on earth do you mean ‘Never make an arrest'? Why not?”

“Because,” said Meredith grimly—“because William Rother was found dead this morning at the foot of the chalk-pit out at the farmhouse. His wife's just rung through.”

Chapter Eight

Confession

When Meredith arrived at Chalklands, accompanied by the Chief Constable, he found Janet Rother waiting agitatedly for him on the verandah. It was obvious that she had been on tenterhooks for the first sound of the police car. She came forward without any attempt to conceal her emotions and grasped Meredith by the sleeve.

“Oh, thank heaven you've come, Mr. Meredith! It's awful to think of him lying out there without my being able to do anything. It's been a terrible shock. My nerves have been quite enough on edge without this—first John and now my husband. It's seems as if there's a curse on us all up here.”

“Now calm yourself, Mrs. Rother,” said Meredith in a paternal voice. “We shall need to ask you some questions, so you must keep a clear head. By the way, let me introduce you to Major Forest, our Chief Constable.”

The girl, obviously struggling to repress her feelings, shook hands with the Major and led the two men round the side of the house to where a little wicket-gate in the courtyard gave out on to the stretch of waste land below the pit. As they crossed this to where the constable and one or two farm-hands were grouped, Meredith asked:

“What time did you discover the tragedy, Mrs. Rother?”

“About eight o'clock—about an hour before I rang you. You see I couldn't believe he was dead. I sent one of the men on his bike to fetch Dr. Hendley. After he had made his examination I rang you.”

“Is the doctor here now?”

“No. He said he would return about eleven so that he could have a word with you.”

“Did he say anything as to the cause of death?”

“Only that he thought William must have been walking along the top of the pit, missed his footing, and fallen over.”

By then they had reached the little group standing and conversing in low voices about the recumbent figure on the ground. Meredith turned to Janet Rother.

“I don't think it is necessary for you to go through all this, Mrs. Rother. If I were you I should go back into the house and lie down for a bit. Perhaps later, when you're feeling better, we could have a little talk, eh?”

The girl, who looked terribly white and strained, nodded without speaking, turned on her heel and walked slowly back to the house.

Constable Pinn touched his hat, obviously impressed by the fact that the Chief had thought it necessary to put in an appearance.

“Nothing been touched, sir. I seen to that.”

“Good,” said Meredith. He turned to the little knot of farm-hands. “Rotten affair this, eh, men?”

“You may well say that, surr. First Mr. John and now Mr. Willum,” answered one of them. “I reckon that's where 'ee come over—up there where the wire be all snapped. See?”

Meredith followed his outstretched arm to where the rusty and dilapidated wire fence which edged the top of the pit hung down in a number of spidery strands.

“Looks like it. Well, I suppose accidents will happen. Now if you fellows don't mind we want to have a bit of private talk about this. Understand?”

“Ay, surr. If there's anything you'll be wanting to know you'll find Luke and Oi down under the kilns. We're loading up, see?”

“Thanks,” said Meredith as the men, nodding and mumbling amongst themselves, trudged off toward the farm. “Now then, sir, shall we take a look at the body.”

William Rother lay flat on his back, one cheek pressed against the broken chalk which had accumulated at the base of the cliff. One arm was stretched out straight, whilst the other was bent back curiously under the body. His face was streaked with blood, whilst more blood had soaked into the porous chalk pillowing his head. There was a deep and ugly gash in his left temple. He was wearing a sports coat, grey open-necked shirt, and flannel trousers. It was obvious from the way the inert body huddled to the ground that Dr. Hendley had not found it necessary to make more than a cursory examination to realize that Rother was dead. He lay there just as he had fallen.

“Well, sir?”

“Well?”

“Accident, eh?”

“Looks like it. Can't be sure. Looks a sensitive sort of fellow, Meredith. He knew that you were running him pretty hard as a suspect, didn't he?”

Meredith agreed.

“After all, sir, things were black against the poor devil and he must have realized it from the start. What are you suggesting?”

“Suicide, Meredith—suicide through fear of being found out. We'd better comb through his pockets. He may have left a chit for the Coroner. A weakness of suicides, eh, constable?”

Flattered beyond measure at being asked for an opinion by the Chief, Constable Pinn could only manage a noncommittal gurgle well back in his throat and a tug at the collar of his tunic.

“I'm glad you agree,” smiled Major Forest. “Well, Meredith?”

“Penknife, fountain-pen, wallet, pipe, tobacco-pouch, matches, one or two opened letters, and—”

“What did I say!” crowed the Chief, as Meredith drew a sealed envelope out of Rother's inside breast-pocket. Adding, as he examined the writing on the envelope: “Here, this is addressed to you, Meredith. Bulky by the feel of it. What d'you suppose it is, a confession?”

“Maybe, sir,” said Meredith as he took the letter and carefully slit it open. He pulled out two or three sheets of closely written type. Appended at the foot of the last sheet was William Rother's signature in ink. Meredith glanced quickly over the contents, looked across suddenly at Major Forest, and let out a whistle of astonishment. “By Jove, sir, it's more than that! It's not only a confession, but by the look of it a detailed account as to how the crime was committed. I reckon you're right. Our suspicions drove the poor devil to commit suicide.” He stared across the waste land toward the farmhouse. “Hullo—who's this? We'd better examine this letter later on, eh, sir?”

The new arrival proved to be Dr. Hendley, a short, stout, wheezy man, more like a farmer than a doctor, with his ruddy complexion and muscular physique.

“Well,” he announced, after introductions, “no doubt how the poor chap met his death, gentlemen. That deep gash in the left temple is nasty enough to have killed him twice over. He must have hit a jagged lump of chalk as he fell—penetrated to the brain. Death must have been instantaneous.”

“An accident?” asked Major Forest. “Is that your opinion?”

Dr. Hendley laughed.

“That's for
you
to find out, isn't it? I'm only here to suggest the cause of his death. Personally I've always considered that path along the top of the pit a veritable death-trap. You can see for yourselves how near the wire fence and the path are to the lip of the cliff. You see what's happened, of course? They've dug the chalk away from the face of the pit as far as they dared without setting back the fence and making a new path. That's the rural temperament all over. Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow.”

Major Forest smiled.

“I take it that you're a city-man, Dr. Hendley. Otherwise this libel might extend to you. Well, you'll let us have the usual signed statement of your findings? We'll let you know the date of the inquest. And, by the way, you might drop in and have a look at Mrs. Rother. This affair has left her pretty shaken. Thanks. Good-bye.”

The moment Dr. Hendley had retired, Meredith, who was down on one knee examining the body, straightened up and said slowly: “Funny thing about this wound, sir. You'd expect to see chalk particles adhering to the flesh round that gash, wouldn't you? Well, there isn't any sign of chalk. I suppose it must have been washed away by the flow of blood.”

The Chief nodded, without paying much attention to the observation, and suggested that two of the men be fetched from the kiln to carry the body into the house. Whilst Pinn went to collect the farm-hands, he and Meredith climbed a steep little track which made a détour round the shelving end of the pit and came out on the path which edged the forty-foot drop. Dr. Hendley was right—in some places the path no longer existed, for large portions of undermined subsoil and turf had collapsed, leaving a gap in the rough track. At these points the wire fence, no longer supported, stretched flimsily in mid-air from one side of the gap to the other.

“Curious,” said Meredith. “You'd have thought that Rother would have chosen one of these gaps instead of a point where the wire had to be broken through.”

The Chief disagreed.

“He wanted to make sure, Meredith. And to do that he needed a clear leap into space. If he had dropped behind the fence into one of the gaps, he might have just bounded down the face of the cliff and only injured himself.”

Meredith saw that point at once and gingerly leaning forward he caught hold of one of the severed strands of wire and drew it in toward him.

“Cut,” he announced. “Pair of pliers or wire-cutters, I imagine. They must be lying around somewhere, sir.”

A few seconds' search rewarded them. A stout pair of pliers lay almost at their feet, partly hidden by a big clump of thistle.

As Meredith slipped them into his pocket he nodded toward a near-by cluster of beech trees.

“What about sitting over there in the shade, sir, and having a run through the letter.”

Once seated with their backs against a giant bole, pipes drawing, Meredith slipped out the typewritten sheets and began to read. The letter bore no date or heading. In the left-hand top corner Rother had typed:
To Superintendent Meredith, Sussex County Constabulary.

In cases of this sort it is customary, I realize, for the Coroner to bring in a verdict of Suicide Whilst of Unsound Mind. I want to dispel this polite illusion at once. I am setting about this business with a logicality that must preclude any suggestion of insanity. The whole thing had been too much for me so I am putting an end to it. As the “means” by which I do this lies within your province, I will save you the trouble of a lengthy investigation before the inquest by describing exactly how I intend to end my life. Tonight when everybody is asleep I shall walk up on to the top of the chalk-pit to a point I have already selected. Once there I shall sever the wires of the fence with a pair of pliers, walk a few steps back and then jump outward so that my body will clear the face of the cliff. You see how simply and logically the job has been thought out?

Now I come to a more vital point—the reason for my actions. To a certain extent I know you have already formed a very strong suspicion about other actions of mine. You have cross-questioned me on the matter. I have been hounded by an accusing conscience, gradually increasing in intensity, ever since that terrible night of July 20th. I have had scarcely any sleep. My thoughts have been centred on one subject. The last few weeks have existed for me as a waking nightmare, made more awful by the thought that it was a nightmare which had no end for me. So I have decided to kill myself. And the reason?

I killed my brother at the spot where you found his car abandoned under Cissbury Ring!

My motive for this calculated murder was jealousy. I realized that John was gradually alienating the affections of my wife, a state of affairs which was slowly driving me to desperation. My brother hated me, has always hated me, with that sort of hatred which has its roots in no definite cause. The ultimate manifestation of this was his devilish delight in forcing his attentions upon my wife and, bit by bit, seeing her won over to his side.

Now I come to the technical side of the murder, the side which must naturally interest you most.

Meredith stopped reading for a moment, tilted back his hat, and mopped his brow.

“Hot?” inquired the Chief.

“It's the sheer cold-bloodedness of the thing that gets me, sir,” said Meredith, scarcely able to repress a shudder. “I've dealt with a good few cases and met a good few murderers—but this customer's up a street of his own. Fancy any chap being able to sit down in front of a typewriter and tap out a confession like this. Inhuman—that's what it is!”

“On the other hand,” added Major Forest, “obliging. This reconstruction of the crime is going to save you a hell of a lot of thinking, Meredith. Don't forget that. Well, go on. Go on. It reads like a speech from the last act of a Lyceum melodrama.”

“Strikes me,” concluded Meredith with an unaccustomed turn of philosophy, “that life's a bit nearer melodrama than drawing-room comedy anyway.” He returned with increasing eagerness to the letter.

I will place the various events before you, as far as I am able, in their proper sequence. On July 10th my brother first spoke of his intention of going to Harlech for a holiday. He was going alone, and spoke of starting on July 20th after he had attended an afternoon meeting of the Church Restoration Committee of which he was chairman. From this I anticipated that he would be leaving the house shortly after tea. On July 12th I purchased a metal-lined cabin-trunk and a surgical saw in London, returning in my car with the trunk covered by a rug in case of awkward questions. I hid the trunk in my bedroom cupboard, a roomy affair, until it was needed. On July 17th, three days before the murder, I slipped off unnoticed by anybody to Littlehampton where I picked up a likely-looking street-lounger. I handed him a copy of the telegram which you now have in your possession with precise instructions as to when and from where he was to dispatch it. I gave him five pounds then and promised him a further five pounds if he would meet me outside the Littlehampton General Hospital at eight o'clock on the night of the 20th. I knew, you must understand, that if the man did not fail me I was bound to visit the hospital at that particular time. I felt, too, that the promise of this extra money would ensure the telegram being sent off.

On July 19th I typed a short note purporting to come from my wife to my brother. It ran: “Meet me without fail at 9.15 p.m. tomorrow. Something vitally important to discuss. Go along Bindings Lane at Findon as far as the iron gate which leads on to Cissbury Hill. Park the car where it will not be seen from the road in the gorse bushes. Impossible to discuss things at length here. William already suspicious.” I did not sign this note, and reckoned that my brother would think that Janet had typed it because she was frightened of using her own handwriting. I added a P.S. “Destroy this and make no verbal or written mention of this request.”