The Sussex Downs Murder (9 page)

On the evening of the 19th I slipped this note under the clothes of my brother's bed, and later carried the cabin-trunk out to my car and concealed it, as before, under a rug. The rest of the facts you have more or less at your fingertips.

“I like that ‘more or less',” put in the Chief with a smile. “Rather less than more, eh, Meredith? Well, go on!”

The faked telegram duly arrived
[continued Meredith],
and I left for Littlehampton just before 7.30, arriving there just as it was striking eight. To make my alibi convincing I visited the hospital where I paid out the second five pounds and afterwards called on Dr. Wakefield and my aunt. I left her flat about 9 o'clock and drove all out to Findon. I put on black sunglasses, removed my hat, and slipped on a mackintosh golf-jacket over my ordinary coat. In this manner I hoped to avoid recognition in the locality of Findon, which would be dangerous to my plans. I had previously called at Clark's garage for petrol and mentioned that I was making for Littlehampton. If by any chance he should be about as I passed the garage on my return journey he would naturally expect to see me dressed as before.

I reached Bindings Lane about 9.20 and got out of my car some distance from the iron gate. Then cutting through the gorse bushes I came to the spot where my brother was sitting in the parked car. I had armed myself with a heavy spanner. As he made to step out of the car, obviously amazed at seeing me, I struck him two or three times in quick succession on the head. He fell back on to the driving-seat without a sound. I rushed back, started up my car and drove it through the iron gate to a point just beside my brother's Hillman. In the cabin-trunk I had placed a tarpaulin used for covering over loads of lime in wet weather. This I spread out behind the Morris Cowley, and taking care to get no blood on my person I placed the body on it. I had had some experience of surgical work in France, when I was attached to a Red Cross unit, and steeling myself to the job I decapitated and dismembered the body. I fetched the trunk and stuffed the remains into it, closing and locking the lid, after folding the tarpaulin and placing it over the body. The saw and the spanner were also in the trunk. I then dragged the trunk to my own car and managed to get it into the back seat, where I covered it with a rug. Returning to the Hillman I splintered the windscreen and smashed the dashboard dials to give the appearance of a struggle. The clock stood at five minutes to ten. From Bindings Lane I drove as fast as I could back to Chalklands where I garaged my Morris.

As soon as the house was quiet that night I crept out again to the garage, which is set well back from the sleeping quarters, opened the trunk, took out the tarpaulin and the saw and began the unpleasant task of dissecting the body into smaller pieces. This done I pushed back my car and slid aside the iron manhole-lid which covered the inspection-pit. One of the diggers had constructed this pit as I had always been keen on doing my own repairs. Into this I lowered the trunk, still containing the tarpaulin and the remains. The lid of the pit fitted so tightly that it would be impossible to detect any odour in the garage. I wheeled back the car, washed the blood-stained spanner under a tap and returned to the house. During the next few days I managed to get rid of the remains on the kiln, all save the skull. This I buried in a near-by wood as I realized that its discovery in the lime, unlike the other bones, would be certain and immediate. My brother's clothes I also burnt on the kiln so that I was left solely with the cabin-trunk, the blood-stained tarpaulin, and the surgical saw. Finally I decided to drive out to a lonely spot near Heath Common, where I managed to bury the trunk with the other evidence inside it.

My plans had gone without a hitch save for one unforeseen event. On the night of Thursday July 25th, as I was moving toward the kiln from the garage I saw a figure in front of me, outlined against the sky, which I recognized as that of my wife. There was a faint moon, and from the shadow of some bushes I saw my wife throw something on to the kiln, wait for a few minutes watching the flames, and then return via the drive-gate to the house. I rushed forward at once to see what she had been destroying, but by the time I reached the kiln there were only a few charred remnants of what looked like paper glowing on the red-hot chalk.

And that I think completes this confession in full detail. I had not anticipated, perhaps, the harrowing investigations which followed, nor the gradually increasing fear on my part that I was under suspicion. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I went to pieces and gave myself away. Rather than face the drawn-out ordeal of a trial I decided on this alternative course of action.

I hope that with my death the whole terrible affair will soon be forgotten in the locality, and that my wife, with the help of a capable manager, will be able to carry on at Chalklands.

William Rother.

Chapter Nine

Typescript

“And that's that!” exclaimed Meredith as he carefully replaced the folded sheets in the envelope. “About as conclusive a collection of evidence as one could wish for. I never thought of that inspection-pit when I was searching the outbuildings. Not that it matters a damn either way now, eh, sir?”

“Don't be too hasty,” warned Major Forest. “You've got to check up. You've got to see if this confession fits in with every one of the known facts. It rings true. Personally, I think now that there's no doubt William Rother killed his brother. But you can't just bring forward that letter, Meredith, and write ‘Finis' to the case. We ought to corroborate some of his statements with facts. That skull, for instance—the burial of the cabin-trunk. Know where Heath Common is?”

Meredith pulled out his inch-to-a-mile map.

“Soon find out, sir. Yes—here we are, to the north of the village. A pretty extensive stretch of woodland by the look of it.”

“We'll get out a squad to comb through, anyway. Pity he was so vague about that skull. Curious, too, since he has been so exact in all the other details. ‘A near-by wood'—that's how he put it, wasn't it? Might be anywhere. The whole damn' locality is full of woods. Do our best, Meredith. Can't do more.”

Meredith nodded and jerked out suddenly: “By the way, sir, there's another curious point.”

“Eh?”

“Why didn't anybody detect the odour of burning flesh?”

“You mean from the kiln?”

“Yes—at night.”

“What was the prevalent direction of the wind the week following July 20th?”

“Can't say off-hand, sir. Kate Abingworth may be able to help us there with old newspapers.” Meredith called down to the advancing figure of Constable Pinn, who was returning from the house after seeing the body stretched out on a sofa in a lower room. “Hi! Pinn! Cut in and ask the housekeeper if she keeps the old newspapers. We want all those from July 22nd to July 28th. Understand?”

“Ay, sir.”

The Chief refilled his pipe and threw his pouch across to Meredith.

“Now—what about the time factor?”

“Fits in,” said Meredith promptly. “If you remember, when I tried to reconstruct the crime with William as the central figure I worked out his movements exactly as he has set them down in his letter.”

“Smart reasoning.”

“Thanks.” Meredith grinned and went on more seriously: “Fact is, sir, apart from a few extra details I seem to have anticipated most of this confession. Luck, I dare say—but important because it makes Rother's statement seem more genuine. Further—Janet Rother can now more or less be wiped off the slate. I mean her husband's evidence about what happened on the night of the 25th tallies exactly with her own story. She said she was burning paper on the kiln and William states that he saw the charred remnants of paper. That's conclusive, isn't it? Mrs. Rother has told us the truth.”

There was a silence punctuated by the scratch of a match as Meredith lit his pipe and handed the pouch back to Major Forest.

“You're conveniently forgetting something, Meredith.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Why did you suddenly abandon the theory that William was the guilty party? At one time you were ready to put your shirt on him as the murderer.”

Meredith let out a violent oath and snapped his fingers.

“The Cloaked Man? You're right, sir. Clean forgot about
him
. Where does he enter into the case? Just a matter of coincidence, perhaps, that he was near the scene of the crime that night?”

“Possibly. But a powerful coincidence. Remember that his cloak and hat were found by that kid at Steyning. The cloak subsequently proved to have human blood-stains on it.”

“But Rother has made no provision for him in his statement.”

“Precisely.”

“Which means?”

“As I said before—that this confession needs a lot of careful checking up.” Major Forest looked up as the solid stump of boots approached along the path. “Ah, here's Pinn. Got them, Constable? Good. Now then Meredith, take a look and let's have the verdict.”

“What wind there was—due east, sir,” said Meredith after he had carefully gone through the weather-reports.

The Chief tackled the constable.

“Now then, Pinn—if you were standing at the mouth of the kilns and the wind were due east, in which direction would the smoke be blowing?”

“To the west, sir.”

“I know that, you idiot—I mean to which part of the landscape.”

“T'ward Highden Hill, sir. Out over the valley.”

Meredith suddenly recalled the unexpected expanse of countryside which had greeted him when he had first visited the kilns.

“Of course, sir. I remember now. There's nothing but space to the west of the kilns. Just a deep valley which rises up to the downs on the far side of the main road. I reckon there wouldn't be a house of any sort for miles in that direction.”

“Hence the fact that the odour was not noticed,” concluded Major Forest glumly.

“By the way,” he added, as the three of them moved down toward the farmhouse, “I'm sending a few of our men out from headquarters this afternoon, Pinn. I want you to meet them at the local station here and take them out to Heath Common.” He turned to Meredith. “What about Mrs. Rother? Will you see her? She doesn't realize yet that it's suicide.”

“All right, sir. I'll have a word with her and meet you at the car. She'll take it badly, I'm afraid, coming on top of the other upset.”

But Janet Rother seemed to have reached that point where shock so dulls the senses that the mind seems incapable of taking in the full import of events. She accepted the fact of her husband's suicide, if not without emotion, at least without any unnecessary outward display of feeling. She just sat there nodding, and at the conclusion of the interview thanked Meredith in a quiet voice for his sympathy and showed him out on to the verandah.

Back once more in Lewes the Chief hurried off to a lunch appointment, whilst Meredith slipped into his office before going on to Arundel Road. A memorandum-slip lay on his desk. It was from Rodd at Findon.

Re Rother case. John Rother's Hillman seen on Findon-Worthing road evening of July 20th. Witness
–
Harold Bunt, Wisden House, Findon. Knows the Rothers personally. Witness states that at 9.5 p.m. the Hillman passed him about half a mile out of Findon going in direction of village. Car driven by John Rother himself. Emphasize this point as in our last interview you anticipated car might have been driven by man in cloak. Available on 'phone till one o'clock today.

Rodd.

Meredith glanced at his watch. Ten to. He picked up the receiver, stated his number, and was put through to Findon by the internal exchange.

“That you, Rodd? Meredith speaking. Just read your 'phone message. No doubt about this matter, I suppose? Your witness is certain that it was John Rother?”

“Dead certain. He says Rother acknowledged him as he went by. Since then I've had corroborative evidence from Wilkins the postman here. He was just clearing the box on the main road when he saw Rother go by in the Hillman. He happens to know Rother well because they're both on the Washington Flower Show committee. Wilkins lives just inside the parish boundary there.”

“And the time?”

“Just after nine.”

“Excellent.” Meredith was unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

“Yet—but I thought—”

“I know you did, Rodd. But I've progressed a bit since then. Thanks. Good-bye.”

So John Rother, coming from the direction of Worthing, had passed through Findon just after nine o'clock. What time had William arranged for that faked rendezvous with his wife? 9.15, wasn't it? So one would
expect
John to be passing through the village at the time he was seen.

“One more bit of evidence,” thought Meredith, “to prove the validity of that confession.”

With certain reservations, Meredith could not help feeling that the end of the case was now in sight. It was only necessary to check up on that confession and the investigation could be dropped. The one inexplicable point now seemed to be the furtive behaviour of the strange man in the cloak. Why hadn't he stopped when the shepherd called out to him? And why had his cloak been found with blood on it? William obviously had no place for him in his meticulously thought-out scheme of things. No confederate was necessary. Yet somehow Meredith found it impossible to dissociate the man's actions from the murder. Was William Rother holding something back?

Leaving this question in mid-air Meredith returned to his Saturday lunch, determined to put his feet up over the week-end and take a well-deserved rest. Before leaving headquarters, however, he passed on the Chief's order for the squad to be sent out to Heath Common that afternoon. He also got in touch with the Coroner, and the inquest was arranged for the following Tuesday. At the Coroner's suggestion it was to be held at the farmhouse, and the usual routine was set in motion for the various witnesses to be subpoenaed and for the calling of a jury.

But Meredith's luck was ill-starred where that restful week-end was concerned. In the cool of the evening as he was watering the rectangle of lawn in his back garden, his wife came out in a fluster through the french windows and announced that a gentleman had called to see him. With a rare concern she hustled Meredith into his coat, told him to run a comb through his hair, straightened his tie, and preceded him back to the drawing-room. Seated in one of the big plush arm-chairs was Aldous Barnet, the Washington writer of crime stories. He rose, shook hands, and apologized for intruding on the Superintendent's leisure. Meredith grinned.

“As the author of detective yarns you ought to know that we poor devils don't have any leisure, sir. We're like the members of the medical profession—always on tap. Well, Mr. Barnet, what is it? Something important, I reckon, to bring you over here for a personal interview.”

“It is important,” agreed Barnet in a grave voice. “Vital, in fact. It's to do with the death of William Rother. I only got back to Lychpole at tea-time and found a note from Mrs. Rother. Suicide, eh? What makes you think that?”

Meredith ran briefly through their reasons for this assumption. At the conclusion of his story Barnet pulled a letter out of his pocket and slapped it down on Meredith's knee.

“If, as you believe, William committed suicide because he felt he was under suspicion, how do you account for that? It arrived by post yesterday morning. Read it.”

Meredith slipped the single typewritten sheet out of the torn envelope.

Dear Barnet
[he read],

I am in an awful predicament and don't know which way to turn for help. As I value your judgment on matters I have decided to take you into my confidence and ask your advice. It concerns the murder of my brother. Terrible as the indictment may sound, I have strong reason to believe that my wife is in some way mixed up with this horrible affair. I was, in fact, the unseen witness of certain of her actions on the night of July 25th—actions which in the light of what came out at the inquest, appear to me both damning and incriminating.

Tell me, Barnet, what am I to do? I am faced with the awful duty of going to the police with this information about my wife. I have wrestled with my conscience, turned things over and over and over in my mind, and still I am incapable of coming to a decision. My wife knows nothing of what I saw that night. On you must rest the onerous task of deciding for me. I will accept your advice without reservation, but I feel I must have this second opinion.

I will make no move until I have heard from you.

Ever yours
,
William Rother
.

“Well, I'll be—” began Meredith as he looked up from this extraordinary epistle. “What are we to make of that? What the devil does it mean?”

“It's hardly the letter of a man who is contemplating suicide, is it?” asked Barnet. “I mean, why let me into this incriminating secret if he intended to kill himself a few hours later? The secret would have died with him. Death would have done away with the necessity of making a decision.”

“Quite.” He decided that it was imperative to take Barnet into his confidence over that confession. As luck would have it, Meredith had brought the document from his office, intending to re-examine it over the week-end. “Before we talk this over, perhaps you will read this, sir.” Meredith held up the confession by one corner. “Do you mind nodding, sir, when you want me to turn over. I've got to be careful of extraneous finger-prints.”

There was a long silence. Eventually Barnet looked up.

“Incredible! I can't make head or tail of William's state of mind. In this confession he actually draws attention to what he obviously wished to hide. Was he mad? Did he do it? Had the murder unhinged his mind?”

“
Did
he murder John Rother?” demanded Meredith forcibly. “That's what we're up against now. These two letters aren't consistent.”

Almost unconsciously he spread them out side by side on a near-by table and stood gazing at them. Suddenly he let out a sharp exclamation, caught Barnet by the arm and dragged him over to the table.

“Here, take a close look! Do you notice anything? Anything peculiar?”

Barnet after a careful examination shook his head.

“Both the letters look in order to me.”

“Sure?”

“Well, the two signatures look identical anyway.”

“The signatures—yes. That's possible even if one of them happens to be a careful fake. It's the type that interests me.” Meredith went on with the enthusiasm of an expert. “I've made a study of typewriting—trained myself to notice little discrepancies in work from the same machine. These letters, for example—I should say that they're both written by a portable Remington. The Remington, I take it, which I noticed in the farmhouse kitchen. But the ‘touch' is different. Take the capitals. In one case they're struck boldly with the full force of the keys. In the other they're quite faint. In one letter—the confession—the full-stop almost punctures the paper. In the other it's normal. Notice how in the letter to you the small
a
is always weak and the small
e
strongly defined. This doesn't happen in the confession. Yet in each particular letter these eccentricities are consistent. They occur with the regularity of clockwork. You see what I'm getting at, Mr. Barnet?”