Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘My father and sister and I have lived here very quietly. Beyond visiting a few friends we don’t go into society. Though at one time my father took a good deal of interest in parliamentary and municipal affairs, he ceased to do so when we left Belfast. During these last seven years he has indulged his two hobbies, mechanical invention and the collection of silver, specially old silver. You see what he has in this room, and the collection in the music room is even finer.’

  ‘I was admiring it before you came in. I’m not an authority, but even to me a lot of it looks almost priceless. You mentioned a cousin, a Mr Victor; is it Mr Victor Magill?’

  ‘Yes, he is the son of Arthur Magill, my father’s younger brother.’

  ‘Tell me about him, please.’

  ‘My Uncle Arthur was in partnership with my father in the mill until he died in—I’m not quite sure of the year, but it was about 1901 or 1902. Victor was at school in Belfast then and it was intended that he also should go into the business. But after my uncle’s death his wife moved back to Reading; she was the daughter of a manufacturer of that town. She took Victor from school in Belfast and he went to some English school. From there he went into the regular army. He was invalided out after the War had lasted a couple of years and is now agent for a firm of motor car manufacturers. I believe he does very well out of it too.’

  ‘I follow you. Now, Miss Magill, I want to ask you a straight question. Do you know, or can you suggest anything, no matter how trifling, which might in any way throw light on Sir John’s disappearance?’

  Miss Magill made a despairing little gesture.

  ‘Absolutely nothing!’ she declared emphatically. ‘The whole thing is utterly puzzling. My father is the last person to be mixed up in anything abnormal.’

  ‘His health is good?’

  ‘His health is excellent. For his age it is even remarkable. If you had seen him sawing or planing in his workshop you wouldn’t ask. He is as hale and vigorous as a man of forty.’

  ‘I suppose I need scarcely ask this either, but still, what about his mind? Any signs of old age showing there?’

  There were none. His mind was as clear as French’s own. Even his memory, whose decay first announces the sere and yellow leaf, remained clear and strong. Nor was there any mental weakness in the family. Nor yet, so far as Miss Magill knew, had he any trouble or worry on his mind. French tried again.

  ‘Can you tell me if Sir John has any enemies?’

  He had none. Miss Magill was positive. Sir John was somewhat retiring in disposition, not given to making friends easily, but in a quiet way he was popular. No one, she felt sure, harboured ill feelings against him. Business rivals? No, she was certain there were none. Political? Nor political either. French would get no help that way. He turned to another point.

  ‘Do you happen to know why Sir John went to Belfast?’

  ‘Something about one of his inventions, he said. I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details. He’s always working at some invention. As I think I said, he has a workshop fitted up at the back of the house with a lathe and other quite big tools. He’s certainly extraordinarily clever with his hands and makes the most beautiful things in both wood and metal. The work has been a splendid outlet for him and I’m sure has helped to keep him fit.’

  ‘Hobbies have kept many an elderly man alive,’ French declared oracularly, ‘and constructive hobbies are the best of all. Now, Miss Magill, I have heard that Sir John is a rich man. Is that so?’

  ‘That’s a comparative term, isn’t it? I don’t know exactly what his income is, but he must be pretty well off. The linen business in old times was very profitable and during and immediately after the War he made a lot of money. Of course it’s different now. Linen has been passing through a bad time lately.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. But that wouldn’t have affected Sir John, since he has given over the mills to Major Magill?’

  ‘No. Poor Malcolm has the loss and the worry, I’m afraid. However, things are supposed to have turned the corner now.’

  ‘I hope they have. Could you tell me the terms of Sir John’s will?’

  Miss Magill glanced at him almost reproachfully. The question brought home to her the dread conclusion to which she was evidently so unwilling to open her mind. But she answered calmly enough.

  ‘Only in a general way. My father has great pride of race and a strong desire to perpetuate the family name. After comparatively small legacies to myself, my sister and my cousin Victor, the remainder goes to my brother Malcolm for his lifetime. If Malcolm had a son it would go on to him. If Malcolm had no son it would go on Malcolm’s death to Victor for his son.’

  ‘And has Major Magill a son?’

  ‘No. My brother has two daughters, but no son. On the other hand Victor has two sons, but no daughter.’

  ‘I follow. Let me see if I’ve got that right. As things are, the bulk of Sir John’s money goes to Major Magill. Owing, however, to its being entailed, the major will only have the life use of it. At his death it goes to Mr Victor Magill in trust for his eldest son.’

  ‘I believe that’s correct, though I’m not absolutely sure. My father is reticent in disposition and we did not care to question him on such a matter.’

  ‘Naturally. Can you tell me who is Sir John’s legal adviser?’

  ‘Messrs Hepplewhite, Ingram & Ingram, of 71B Chancery Lane.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, Miss Magill, Sir John crossed to Belfast via Larne and Stranraer on the night of Wednesday, the second instant. Do you know who took his tickets and arranged his journey? Did he do things like that for himself?’

  ‘I expect Mr Breene did that. Mr Breene is his secretary.’

  ‘Ah, then I should like to see Mr Breene. Who else is there in your household?’

  ‘Just Myles, the butler, Nutting, the valet and chauffeur, and three women servants.’

  ‘All reliable?’

  ‘So far as I know, absolutely.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Magill. I’m sorry for having had to give you this trouble. I’m afraid I shall have to see your servants now and also to go through Sir John’s papers.’

  She raised her hand.

  ‘Just a moment. Now, Mr Inspector, you’ve been asking me a lot of questions and I’m going to ask you one in return. Quite honestly, what do you think has happened to my poor father?’

  French was accustomed in such circumstances to this demand. He always answered it as truthfully as he could.

  ‘Honestly, Miss Magill, I don’t know. I haven’t enough information to say. Everything is being done to find out.’

  ‘Still,’ she persisted, ‘you must have some idea?’

  French shrugged. He was sorry for this kindly lady, who evidently felt her position so keenly, yet who had eased his task by so sternly controlling her feelings. There was real sympathy in his voice as he replied: ‘Well, we must admit things don’t look too well. I don’t want to buoy you up with false hopes; all the same I don’t think you need necessarily accept the worst.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I suppose that’s all you can say, and thank you for saying it.’ She rang the bell. ‘Do everything you can to assist Mr French,’ she told the butler. Then shaking hands with French, she left the room.

  ‘Well, Myles,’ French began, ‘this is a sad business about Sir John.’

  The butler closed the door and came forward, standing respectfully before French.

  ‘I have heard no details, sir, except that he has disappeared. I should like to know—Sir John has been a good master to me—I should like to know if anything further has been learned?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all I know myself, which isn’t much,’ French said kindly. ‘But first, I wonder if you could give me a little information.’ He unpacked the hat and held it out. ‘Did you ever see that before?’

  ‘Sir John’s!’ the man said instantly. Then he took the hat and examined it carefully. ‘Yes, sir,’ he declared firmly, ‘there is no doubt whatever about it. It
is the hat Sir John was wearing when he left here. I brushed it for him and I am quite certain.’ He turned it over and stared at the blood stains. ‘This is terrible, sir,’ he went on in a lower tone. ‘Does this mean—an accident? That he is dead?’

  French shrugged.

  ‘It certainly doesn’t look too well, does it?’ he admitted. ‘It was found on a lonely road a mile from where Sir John was last seen.’

  ‘And there was no sign of the body? Excuse me, sir, but as I said, Sir John was a good master to me indeed, if I might say it without presumption, a good friend. I should be sorry if anything were to happen to him.’

  There was genuine feeling in the man’s tones and French at once told him all that was known.

  Myles was a good deal upset by the recital. That Sir John was the victim of foul play he seemed to have no doubt. ‘I hope you’ll get them, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘I hope they’ll hang, whoever did this. He was a good master.’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Well, Myles, the best thing you can do to help that on is to answer my questions. And first of all, can you get me a photograph of Sir John? And, wait a minute, of Major Magill and Mr Victor as well?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. He left the room and in a moment returned with three cabinet portraits. One showed the head of the house of Magill as a rather fine-looking old man with a large nose, jaws bordering on the nutcracker, a high forehead and very intelligent eyes. Between him and his son and nephew as well as Miss Magill there was a certain family resemblance, on which French commented.

  ‘Yes, sir, all the family are somewhat alike in appearance. But it’s coming out more strongly in the second generation. Mr Victor’s son is Sir John over again.’

  ‘Wonderful thing, heredity,’ French remarked, and he went on to question the butler as to the family relations and to possible enemies of Sir John. But he did not get much information. According to Myles the missing man, while thoroughly good-hearted, had been somewhat distant in manner and a trifle secretive in disposition. Intercourse with his associates was therefore restrained in cordiality. But with no one was Sir John on bad terms, in fact, it was rather the other way about.

  One point French noted as possibly important. When questioning Myles as to Sir John’s recent letters, telegrams and visitors, the man stated that on two recent occasions a stranger had called. His card showed that he was a Mr Coates and that he came from Belfast. Unfortunately Myles could not remember the remainder of the address. The man was tall and well-built, with very bright red hair. Quite a remarkable-looking man. On the occasion of each call he had stayed with Sir John for about half an hour.

  ‘I suppose you’d know him if you saw him again?’

  Myles declared he couldn’t be mistaken and French, having indicated that the interview was at an end, asked for Mr Breene.

  The secretary was a somewhat striking-looking man of about five and thirty. Tall and spare without being actually thin, he gave the impression of extreme physical strength and fitness. His head was small, altogether out of proportion to his height. His face suggested a curious blend of the Red Indian and the Scandinavian; high cheekbones and ruggedly chiselled features combined with fair hair and the lightest of blue eyes. Energy, ambition and decision were written on every line of the man’s features. In fact before he opened his lips French realised that here was one who would get what he wanted or know the reason why.

  ‘I crossed over last night,’ he explained in answer to French’s question. ‘There was nothing to keep me in Belfast and things were getting behind here.’

  ‘I should be glad, Mr Breene, if you would tell me all you can about this unhappy affair. And first as to yourself. Have you been long with Sir John?’

  ‘Eight years. He appointed me private secretary while he was still running his mills in Belfast. When he gave them up and moved over here he asked would I care to remain with him as general confidential secretary and assistant. He made me a liberal offer and I accepted.’

  ‘You’re an Irishman yourself?’

  ‘A Belfast man. My brother and sister still live near Belfast.’

  ‘There can’t be much for a secretary to do here?’

  ‘There isn’t. It is simply that Sir John likes to amuse himself in his workshop and can’t be bothered with correspondence.’

  French nodded and asked what sort of man Sir John was. He invariably repeated his questions to as many witnesses as possible in order to discount individual idiosyncrasies.

  ‘Well,’ Breene returned, ‘he is not what Americans call a good mixer. He is dry in manner and retiring in disposition and doesn’t make friends easily. And between ourselves, though I’ve no complaint to make, he is not particularly liberal about money. But when you’ve said that you’ve said everything. He is straight and honourable, and in his own way kindly. He is the type of man that the better you know him, the better you like him.’

  ‘Is he on quite good terms with all the other members of his family?’

  French asked the question perfunctorily, but he watched keenly for Breene’s reaction. He was considerably interested by the result. Though the man said, ‘Oh, quite,’ without perceptible hesitation, French could have sworn it was with less conviction. He thought quickly. If, as Miss Magill said, Malcolm had suffered losses during the linen depression, if the old man was not liberal about money, if Malcolm was to a considerable extent his heir … Added to all that curious business at Whitehead … French decided to bluff.

  ‘I rather gathered,’ he said, with a sidelong glance and bending forward confidentially, ‘that relations between Sir John and his son were just a trifle strained?’

  ‘An exaggeration,’ Breene answered promptly. ‘Admittedly they didn’t see eye to eye about money matters. But to say that relations were strained is untrue.’

  French chuckled inwardly as he bluffed again.

  ‘Probably you are right. It was this money question that I had in mind all the same. I wish you’d explain just what took place about it.’

  ‘There’s no mystery about that,’ Breene declared. ‘Major Magill, as you doubtless know, was in difficulties in connection with his business. Linen has been having a bad time in Ireland lately and more than one old and respected firm has gone down. As far as I understood it, the major was faced with having to close down, which of course he didn’t want to do. He wrote asking Sir John to put some more capital into the concern, so that he might install some new and more efficient machinery. But Sir John wouldn’t. He took the line that when he was in charge he had had to meet difficulties and that the major could do the same. It was not perhaps very reasonable, as the slump was due to conditions the major had very little control over; mostly it was the result of the War. But there it was. Sir John wouldn’t move. The major came over to see him a couple of times, but it was no good. But they were perfectly friendly and all that, for I saw them together.’

  ‘Quite,’ French agreed. ‘I suppose you cannot tell me where I could find Sir John’s will?’

  ‘I don’t even know if he made a will, though I suppose he must have.’

  ‘What does he keep in the safe? Can you open it for me?’

  ‘No. Sorry I can’t help you there either. Sir John keeps the key himself and only on one occasion did I see inside. It seemed to contain only papers, but there may have been objects of his collection too valuable to leave unprotected.’

  It suddenly occurred to French that here was rather a serious difficulty. Though he had not actually gone the length of formulating the words, ‘The Case Against Malcolm Magill,’ he realised that the formulation on such a phrase was by no means an impossibility. From the information gained in Ireland Malcolm was a priori the most likely person to have disposed of Sir John’s body, and now here seemed the beginnings of a theory of motive. For to Malcolm’s unprosperous condition must be added the fact that he stood to gain by his father’s death.

  French pulled himself up sharply. This would never do. Cases were not conducted in such a way, at
least not successful cases. Let him get his facts before jumping to conclusions. At the same time … He turned to Breene.

  ‘I understand that Sir John went to Ireland about some invention?’

  Breene agreed. Sir John was always working out some idea. He was very ingenious and worked as if brought up to the trade.

  French nodded.

  ‘Do you happen to know the exact nature of this Belfast business?’

  Breene took out a cigarette case and automatically selected a cigarette, as an afterthought handing the case to his companion.

  ‘To a limited extent only,’ he answered. ‘Sir John warned me to say nothing about it, but I suppose I’m free from that now. Not that it seems of any importance.’ He twirled his flint and held out the lighter. ‘For some years Sir John has been working on one invention which really would be valuable if he could bring it off. He has been trying to find an improved way of combining artificial silk with the finest linen. He thinks it might be possible to produce a fabric which would be as light and smooth as silk, while strong and uncreasing and giving good wear. He believes such a fabric, if cheap enough, would supersede both real and artificial silk. A jolly fine idea, if he could only do it. There’d be an immense future for such a product. Incidentally it would set the Ulster linen trade on its feet again, make it boom, in fact.’

  ‘Incidentally also it would make the inventor a millionaire—if he handled his cards well.’

  ‘Quite. Well, Sir John had found a name for his new product; he was going to call it “Sillin,” a portmanteau of “silk” and “linen,” you understand. But unfortunately that was all he had found. The product itself eluded him. His visit to Belfast was in connection with it.’

  ‘Just how, can you tell me?’

  ‘I can’t. He told me he was going to see an engineer in Belfast about it and as he might want to enter into an agreement with him he would like me to go over to take the necessary notes. Also he said something about a possible patent. It looked to me as if either he or the engineer thought they had solved the thing, though he did not say so.’