FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
Inspector French and Sir John Magill’s Last Journey
Copyright
Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1930
Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1930
Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008190736
Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008190743
Version: 2017-01-23
Dedication
TO MY MANY GOOD FRIENDS IN NORTHERN IRELAND
For the sake of verisimilitude the scenes of this story have been laid in real places. All the characters introduced, however, are wholly imaginary, and if the name of any living person has been used, this has been done inadvertently and no reference to such person is intended.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1: Scotland Yard
Chapter 2: Knightsbridge
Chapter 3: Belfast
Chapter 4: Belfast
Chapter 5: Lurigan
Chapter 6: Lurigan: London: Belfast
Chapter 7: Lurigan
Chapter 8: Belfast
Chapter 9: Stranraer
Chapter 10: Portpatrick
Chapter 11: London
Chapter 12: Scotland Yard
Chapter 13: London: Barrow: Newcastle
Chapter 14: Castle-Douglas
Chapter 15: Kirkandrews Bay
Chapter 16: Cumberland
Chapter 17: Glasgow
Chapter 18: Campbeltown
Chapter 19: London to Stranraer
Chapter 20: Stranraer
Chapter 21: London to Plymouth
Chapter 22: The Cave Hill
Footnote
About the Author
Also in this Series
About the Publisher
Map
1
Scotland Yard
It was on Monday morning, the 7th of October, that Inspector French first heard the name of Sir John Magill. A commonplace name enough, certainly a name bearing no suggestion of exasperating mystery, still less of grim and hideous tragedy. All the same there came a time when French might well have said of it, as Queen Mary is supposed to have said of that of Calais, that when he died it would be found graven on his heart.
For the Sir John Magill Case proved perhaps the most terribly baffling of all the baffling cases French had tackled. Never had truth seemed so elusive, nor had he been put to such shifts to capture it, as during that long-drawn-out inquiry. Never had his conviction been stronger that crime, ugly and sinister, lurked behind the activities he was investigating, yet seldom had the proof that all was well seemed more convincing. In short, many times before the case dragged on to its inevitable and dramatic close French found himself wishing nothing so much as that he had never heard of the unfortunate man who gave it its name.
French had had a busy year. Since the night, now thirteen months past, when he and Sergeant Carter had fought for their lives and the life of Molly Moran on the deck of that spectral launch in Southampton Water, he had handled no less than five major cases. Moreover, four months of the time had been spent with a score of associates in trying to trace the author of one of those terrible series of sex murders which every now and then recall the shuddering days of Jack the Ripper. By the time this unhappy madman had been laid by the heels, September was well advanced, and then had come the blissful break of French’s annual holidays.
He had spent it among the old world towns and rocky hills of Provence. When he was tracing the movements of the Pykes in the Burry Port-Dartmoor tragedy he had worked along the French Riviera and up through the Rhône Valley to Lyons and Paris. He remembered that Jefferson Pyke had recommended a stay at Avignon, and the night he had spent there on that investigation had convinced him of the excellence of the advice. Accordingly this autumn he had made the old city of the popes his headquarters. From there he and Mrs French had explored the country by automobile excursion, had marvelled at the arenas of Arles and Nîmes, with bated breath had crossed the Pont du Gard, had seen mediævalism in the walls and towers of Aigues Mortes, had climbed through the sinister ruins of Les Baux; in short, as far as fourteen brief days would allow, had steeped themselves in the enthralling atmosphere of Roman France. And now he had scarcely settled down to a winter’s work when the name of Sir John Magill had flashed into his firmament as a portent of menace and evil.
It was then on Monday, the 7th of October, shortly after French had reached the Yard, that a telephone call summoned him to the room of his immediate superior, Chief-Inspector Mitchell. With him he found a tall, well-built man with that in his carriage, even as he sat, which bespoke the drill ground. A strong, rugged face, a powerful jaw and a pair of light blue eyes sparkling with intelligence showed that this was a person to be reckoned with. But in spite of the suggestion of ruthless strength, there was a directness in the look and a good humour in the expression to which French felt immediately drawn. The man was quietly dressed in a suit of brown tweed, his grey Stetson hat and cloth overcoat lay on a chair, while on the ground beside him stood a brown paper parcel shaped like a cardboard hatbox.
‘Ah, French,’ said Mitchell. ‘This is Detective-Sergeant Adam M’Clung of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, stationed at Belfast. He thinks we’ve let one of our problems slip over to Ireland by mistake and he’s come to see if he can’t shove it back on us.’
Sergeant M’Clung glanced quickly at the chief inspector and then smiled. ‘I don’t know, sir, that that’s just the way I’d have put it,’ he said in a pleasant voice, though with an intonation that was strange to French, half Irish, half Scotch it sounded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr French. I’ve known your name for many a year, but I’ve never had a chance of speaking to you before.’ He held out an enormous hand which closed like a vice on French’s.
‘The sergeant was just telling me he crossed over last night by Kingstown and Holyhead,’ went on Mitchell. ‘But I thought, Sergeant, it was Kingstown no longer?’
‘That’s so, sir,’ Sergeant M’Clung agreed. ‘It’s now officially Dun Laoghaire, but’—he shrugged, and French enjoyed the note of tolerant superiority of the northern speaking of Free State activities—‘there’s not many that bother their heads about that; not from the north anyway.’
‘I know Dublin well,’ Mitchell said reminiscently. ‘Used to be over there often before the troubles. I liked it. But I never got to Belfast. You’ve been there, French, haven’t
you?’
‘Only once, sir, and it’s a goodish while ago. I was in Belfast in ’08, during the Royal visit.’
M’Clung turned to him with evident interest.
‘It’s queer you should have mentioned that, Mr French, for I was just going to speak of it. I’m over here about what’s happened to Sir John Magill, and it was through that same Royal visit that he got his knighthood.
‘And what has happened to Sir John Magill?’ Mitchell inquired.
‘That’s just it, sir. Barring that he’s disappeared in circumstances pointing to foul play, that’s just what we don’t know. And that’s just where we want your help.’
‘Well, Sergeant, we’ll do what we can. Suppose you tell us all about it.’
The sergeant moved nervously, then leaning forward and thrusting out his face towards the others, he began to speak.
Though this was the ringing up of the curtain on as grim a tragedy as had taken place for many a long day, there was no suggestion of tragedy in the bearing of the three detectives. Rather they gave the impression of business men assembled to discuss some commonplace detail of their firm’s operations. The room with its green-tinted walls and dark plainly-finished furniture looked what it was, an office for the transaction of clerical business, and though the Englishmen listened to their companion with grave attention, for all the excitement they showed he might merely have been reciting the closing prices of British Government stocks.
‘I’d better tell you who the Magills are first,’ said Sergeant M’Clung. ‘They’re a wealthy Ulster family who made their money in linen. At the present moment old Sir John, if he’s alive, is supposed to be worth not less than a million and there are pretty valuable mills as well.
‘These mills are in Belfast—at the head of the Shankill Road—and the family lived at a place called Ligoniel, up in the hills overlooking the city. They had a big house there with fine grounds, though it’s sold now and the place broken up for building.
‘The family consists of five persons, Sir John, his son, his two daughters and his nephew. Lady Magill is dead these many years.
‘Sir John was born in ’57, that makes him seventy-two this year. The son, Major Malcolm Magill, is over forty, and the daughters, Miss Beatrice and Miss Caroline, can’t be far short of it.’
‘Are these three married?’
‘The son is married, sir, but neither of the daughters. Well, that’s about the family, for the nephew has lived away from the others from a child. Now there’s one other thing I must tell you so that you’ll understand what’s happened. While Sir John was in Belfast, living with his daughters near Ligoniel, he managed the mills himself. He also took a lot of interest in the city, in politics he was a prominent Unionist and he was also one of the leaders of the Orange Order. All that time up to the end of the War the mills were very prosperous, making any quantity of money. In 1922 Major Magill was demobilised and came back to Belfast and then Sir John, feeling he was tired of the work, handed over the whole concern to the son. He and the daughters left Belfast and settled down in London, at 71 Elland Gardens, Knightsbridge. From that day till last Thursday, so far as we know, Sir John has never been back in Ireland.’
French had already begun the dossier of L’Affaire Magill by noting on a sheet of official paper all these names and dates. The details so far were somewhat dry, but there was that in M’Clung’s manner which suggested that a crisis in the story was approaching. Mitchell sat with his arms crossed, but as French ceased writing he moved.
‘That’s five people you’ve mentioned, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Let’s see that I’ve got ’em right. There’s Sir John Magill, the head of the family, aged 72, who has disappeared; his son Malcolm, who became a major during the War, his two daughters, Beatrice and Caroline, and a nephew, name still unrevealed.’
‘That’s right, sir. Well, to continue. Major Magill took over the running of the mills. He left the small villa he had at Ligoniel, not far from the big family house, and settled down beyond Larne, on the Coast Road to Portrush.’
Mitchell interrupted again.
‘You’re mentioning a lot of places, Sergeant. We’d better see where they are. Get hold of the atlas, will you, French?’
M’Clung moved round the table.
‘There’s Belfast,’ he explained, pointing with a huge finger of a rich dark brown shade. ‘And there’s Larne, and this is where the Coast Road runs.’
They bent over the map.
‘I follow you,’ said Mitchell. ‘This big south-west cut into the land is Belfast Lough, with Belfast city at its head. Larne is on the coast just outside and above the entrance to the Lough. Looks about twenty miles away.’
‘Twenty-four, sir.’
‘Twenty-four, is it? Then this Coast Road that you speak of runs from Belfast through Larne and along the shore to the north?’
‘That’s right, sir. It’s mostly a tourist road and there’s plenty of traffic on it in summer, but not much in winter. It was on this road, about four miles beyond Larne, that Major Magill took the house. It was not a big house, but there was a nice place with it, sheltered by a wood and with a good view out over the sea.
‘It was a good way to come into business every day, the most of thirty miles each way, but Major Magill travelled pretty quick in his Rolls Royce. He lived there with his wife and two daughters, both children. Well, gentlemen, that’s pretty well the way things were when this business happened.’
Sergeant M’Clung’s hand stole absently to his pocket, then came hurriedly away. Chief-Inspector Mitchell, recognising the action, pulled open a drawer.
‘Won’t you smoke, Sergeant?’ he invited, holding out a box of cigars. ‘A little tobacco helps a story.’
The sergeant accepted with alacrity and the three men lit up. Mitchell was a strict enough disciplinarian, but he considered a little relaxation in minor matters made the wheels of life rotate more easily.
‘Last Friday morning,’ resumed M’Clung, ‘we had a visit at Chichester Street—that’s our headquarters in Belfast—from Major Magill. He told us he had an extraordinary story to report, but whether there was anything criminal in it he couldn’t say for sure. Our Superintendent1 Rainey saw him at once and he sent for me in case an investigation should be required.
‘Major Magill said that on the previous Tuesday evening—that was three days earlier—he’d had a letter from Sir John. Fortunately he hadn’t destroyed it and I brought it over to show you.’
M’Clung paused while his hearers bent over the letter. It consisted of a single sheet of grey-tinted paper headed ‘71 Elland Gardens, Knightsbridge, S.W.1’ in small black letters. It was written in a strong and masculine, but elderly hand and read:
‘DEAR MALCOLM,—I hope to go to Ireland next week about my linen-silk invention, which at last looks as if was going to come to something, though not quite in the way I had hoped. I expect to arrive in Belfast on Thursday and would make my way down to you that evening if you could put me up. Please reply to the Grand Central Hotel whether this would be convenient.
‘Your aff. father,
‘JOHN MAGILL.’
‘Did Major Magill know what the invention was?’
‘He did, sir. He said that his father was a bit of a mechanic and that for years he had been trying to find an improved way of combining artificial silk with linen, in the hope of getting some valuable new product.
‘Major Magill was pleased at the thought of his father coming over and he replied to the hotel that he would be glad to see him on the Thursday evening. On his way into work on that same Thursday morning he called at the hotel. He saw his letter waiting there, but Sir John hadn’t turned up. So the major went on up to the mills. During the afternoon he rang up the hotel to make further inquiries, but still there had been no word of Sir John. The major, while a little surprised, assumed his father had been somehow delayed and that he would turn up on the following day.’
Sergeant M’Clung paused to draw at his cigar,
which he apparently found hard to keep alight during the processes of narration. In spite of his North of Ireland accent and occasional strange turns of phrase, the man was telling his story well. His hearers could picture the little drama as it slowly unfolded and with placid attention they waited for the dénoument.
‘Major Magill reached home in due course that evening and there he found that though Sir John’s luggage had turned up, the man himself had not arrived nor had he sent any message. The luggage had come from Larne and the major therefore telephoned to the station. The stationmaster replied that Sir John had reached Larne that morning by the Stranraer boat and had gone on by the boat train to Belfast, and that he had asked that his luggage be sent to Major Magill’s, mentioning that he was going down there himself that evening.
‘Once again the major rang up the Grand Central Hotel, but still there was no news there of Sir John. The major was rather worried about him, but he supposed he would be down later and they went on with dinner. Then just about nine there was a phone from Sir John.
‘He was ringing up, he said, from Whitehead. I should explain, gentlemen, that Whitehead is a little town on the northern shore of Belfast Lough, about thirteen miles from Belfast. It’s on the way to Larne and Sir John would pass through it if he was going down there.
‘Sir John said he’d had a busy day and hadn’t been able either to call at the mill or to get down sooner to Larne. He was now in Whitehead, where he had gone to look up a man on business. But when he had inquired where his friend lived he had learned that he had moved to Bangor a couple of years earlier. Sir John was therefore stuck in Whitehead, for there wasn’t a train to Larne for an hour. So he wanted the major to take out the car and come for him. If the major could do so he would walk out along the Larne road to meet him.
‘Well, the major was puzzled about the whole business, but he supposed there was some good explanation. Anyway he wasn’t long getting out the Rolls. It’s about ten miles from Larne to Whitehead and his place is four miles on the other side of Larne, say a fourteen mile run altogether. He did it in about half an hour. For the last couple of miles he went slowly and kept a good lookout, but he didn’t see a sign of Sir John. It was dark at the time, but his headlights were bright and he was sure that if the old man had been on the road he would have seen him. When he got to Whitehead he inquired at the two or three telephone places open at that hour. At the station he got what he wanted. The stationmaster told him that an elderly gentleman had come off the Belfast train arriving at 8.47 p.m. He had asked to be directed to a Mr Rimbolt’s house, an engineer employed in one of the Belfast works. The stationmaster knew Mr Rimbolt. He had lived at Whitehead formerly, but a couple of years earlier had moved to Bangor. When the old man heard this he asked where there was a telephone and the stationmaster had shown him the booth on the up platform. The man had gone in and a few minutes later the stationmaster had seen him come out and cross the bridge towards the town.
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