‘Certainly. The trip was suggested by a friend of mine named Mallace, who is keen on that sort of thing and has done a lot of it. Mallace has business relations with Barrow and knows the town intimately. He knew of a motor launch there for hire, a fifty-foot boat with good cabin accommodation and he asked me and two other men to join him on a cruise up the west coast as far as Skye.’
‘My friend’s boat is not so large,’ French interjected.
‘Fifty foot is a convenient enough size,’ Victor went on. ‘You want to keep your boat as small as possible for ease of handling as well as economy. On the other hand she must be big enough to stand a fair sea. Among those islands it sometimes blows up so quickly that you can’t run for shelter. This boat suited us well. Normally one person could handle her and she was dry in a sea—full decked and plenty of freeboard. But she was slow. Old and rather clumsy and slow.’
‘Petrol fuel?’
‘No, she had a petrol paraffin set. She was economical in oil, but a bit smelly. That’s the worst of paraffin.’
‘It creeps, doesn’t it? Ends by getting in the beer and the butter.’
Before answering Victor gave a derogatory little cough and his manner made it clear that he intensely disapproved of the line the conversation was taking. But French did not seem to mind, continuing in his pleasantest way to extract information as to the other’s movements.
He and his friend Mallace, Victor explained, had travelled up from London to Barrow on the day express on the Wednesday, three days after he had seen Sir John in the park. They had reached Barrow about eight and had left almost at once for Portpatrick. There next day they had picked up the other two members of their quartet. One of these had been motoring in Scotland and had driven to Stranraer, garaging his car there till the end of the cruise. The other had unexpectedly been detained in London and had been unable to travel to Barrow. He had therefore travelled to Stranraer by the night train on Wednesday, going to Portpatrick on the Thursday.
‘Then,’ said French, ‘he must have travelled in the same train as Sir John.’
Victor stared at him.
‘I suppose he must,’ he agreed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. In fact, I don’t know till this morning how my uncle had travelled. That’s certainly a coincidence. Well, Joss, that’s my friend’s name, can’t have seen him or known he was there, or he would have said something about it. Though on second thoughts, I don’t believe they knew each other.’
‘Then you really didn’t make up your party till you reached Portpatrick?’
‘No. Mallace and I weren’t in more than a few minutes when the others joined us. Mallace had business in Stranraer, so we lay in port all day and that night left for Campbeltown. From Campbeltown we went to Port Ellen in Islay, then to Jura by Oronsay and Colonsay and through the Firth of Lorne to Oban. We were to go on, and the others have gone on, through the Sound of Mull to Skye, round Skye and home by the Sound of Sleat, Staffa and Iona and down the Sound of Jura. Quite a decent round.’
‘By Jove, yes! A jolly trip,’ French declared. ‘I’m afraid we’ll not manage anything so elaborate, but it’s been very interesting to hear what you did.’
There was a pause, then Victor turned to Rainey.
‘Well, Superintendent, I thought of staying over here for a day or two. I don’t suppose you’ll want me, but if there is anything I can do you’ll find me with Major Magill. I’m going down to Larne now. I take it you’re pushing the investigation all you can.’
‘You may rely on us, Mr Magill. Directly we get news we’ll pass it on.’
‘None of that very illuminating’ said Rainey, when Magill had taken his departure. ‘If we find this thing out, we’re going to have to do it for ourselves. Now, Inspector, we’ve talked enough about it. Let’s decide on what we’re going to do and get on with it. Any proposals?’
With the change in the superintendent’s manner French also became more official.
‘If you ask me, sir, I think we should concentrate on finding the body.’
Rainey jerked himself round in his seat.
‘There’s not much doubt about that,’ he agreed. ‘Certainly we should find the body. There’s nothing we’d all like so much as to find the body. But how do you suggest we should do it?’
French also moved uneasily.
‘Well, sir, of course that’s the trouble. I’ve been trying putting myself in the murderer’s place. There he was with the body; fatal evidence which he’d got to get rid of. Now it seems to me that one of two things must have been done. Either the body must have been put into the sea or it must have been buried. And on the face of it the latter is the more likely.’
Rainey looked up sharply.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘Only from my general experience,’ French answered. ‘I’ve had a number of cases in which bodies were got rid of in the sea and I’ve never known one successful. The bodies were always washed ashore or seen from a ship or hooked by a fisherman or got hold of in some other way. Of course I know this is not conclusive.’
‘No, it’s not conclusive,’ Rainey agreed, ‘but it’s my own opinion also and I’ve already gone into it. As it happens it’s supported by a further consideration, not conclusive either, but still carrying a certain weight It is this. There are only two places where such a scheme might be attempted. There is the sea on the Belfast Lough side of Islandmagee, that is here’—he pointed to the map—‘and there is the sea along the Coast Road beyond Larne. These two places are on the open sea, for I think we may dismiss Lough Larne from our consideration—no one would be mad enough to try to hide a body in that shallow, land-locked area. Now take these others in turn. With regard to the coast near Whitehead there is nowhere, except in Whitehead town itself, where you could get a car, especially a Rolls-Royce, anywhere near the actual shore. To get the body down would involve carrying it a long way. Further, most of the paths lead past houses and nearly all these houses have watchdogs. Now we have made inquiries, and no dogs were heard to bark that night. So the chances are against Whitehead.’
French nodded without speaking.
‘Now with regard to the Coast Road shore,’ Rainey went on. ‘Here the actual difficulties would be less—the road runs beside the beach and is lonely and deserted. But here with a flowing tide a strong current sets along the coast which would tend to wash the body into the path of shipping approaching Belfast. If Malcolm knew that, and he can scarcely have failed to do so, he would think twice before running such a risk. So that, quite tentatively, your second theory, burial, looks the more likely.’
‘That’s just the way I should put it, sir,’ said French. ‘Well then, it seems to me a matter of eliminating unlikely places and searching the remainder for signs of digging.’
Rainey smiled ruefully.
‘Some job, Inspector,’ he protested.
‘I don’t think it would be such a very big job,’ French returned. ‘From what the sergeant here tells me, I should say that the areas that need be considered are very small indeed. There are no old mines or disused quarries or uncultivated lands in the neighbourhood. In fact, sir, I was going to suggest that somewhere about the major’s own estate would be the most likely. The sergeant said it was sheltered by a wood. Where else could he guarantee the necessary privacy?’
Rainey paused.
‘It’s an idea and you may be right,’ he said dubiously. ‘M’Clung, you have been out at the place. What do you think of the inspector’s idea?’
M’Clung moved uneasily.
‘It might be right enough, sir,’ he answered without enthusiasm. ‘There’s certainly a planting between the Coast Road and the avenue that wouldn’t likely be disturbed. You couldn’t tell what might have been done there.’
‘We’ll have a look at it,’ Rainey decided. ‘Now, Inspector, that’s your theory, and very good it seems as far as it goes. But it does not go far enough. Sir John’s coming to Ireland, his going first to Sandy Row, then t
o the Cave Hill and then to Whitehead, all seem to me to require some agent besides Malcolm. In short, I don’t see how Malcolm could have arranged these.’
French admitted that no more could he.
‘Very well,’ Rainey went on, ‘that brings us back to my original theory—that the full solution is to be found in London.’
French shook his head. He did not see what more could be learned in London. He was very willing to go back and try again, but he had little hope of the result.
‘I think you’ll have to try,’ Rainey insisted, ‘but wait till we see what this search of Lurigan produces. You might go down there with M’Clung and have a look round. To work properly in London you should know all that’s known here. Of course call in and see me before you go.’
‘We’ll have a bite of lunch, Mr French,’ M’Clung suggested as they left the room, ‘and then get away on down.’
But the start was destined to be delayed. On returning to headquarters for the necessary search warrant they were told that Superintendent Rainey had that moment telephoned that they were to be stopped and sent in to him. They found him leaning back in his chair with a letter in his hand, at which he gazed with an expression of the keenest interest. He glanced up as they entered.
‘Sit down again,’ he directed. ‘Here’s something that’ll surprise you. Look at this.’
5
Lurigan
Superintendent Rainey passed over a short, typewritten letter. The paper was of medium quality, a sheet torn off one of those multitudinous blocks or pads which are sold in every stationer’s, and which unless through some accident, are so impossible to trace. The typing suggested that the writer was a novice in the art, there being seven mistakes in the lettering and three in the spacing. With some satisfaction French saw that the machine used had worn type. There should be no difficulty in identifying it, were he only lucky enough to come across it. The letter read:
‘Belfast, 7th October.
‘The Chief of Police, Belfast.
‘SIR,—In view of certain rumours which, as you know, are current, I feel it my duty to inform you of the following facts:
‘While driving alone in my car along the Coast Road towards Larne at about 2.30 on the morning of Friday, 4th inst., I felt cramped from long sitting and decided to stop for a moment to stretch my legs. I did so just after passing Ballygalley Head and close to the gates of Lurigan, Major Magill’s residence. Among the trees of the small plantation between the road and the avenue I saw that some operations were in process. At least one figure was moving about and there were occasional gleams of a light. I do not know who was there or what he was doing, nor did I go to investigate.
‘This fact may have no significance—I trust it has not. But for the reason mentioned I think it my duty to report it to you. I do not wish to be brought into the affair, and as I can see that—whether there is anything wrong or not—my evidence is not essential, I am suppressing my name and address.
‘Yours, etc.,
‘X.Y.Z.’
French gave vent to a low whistle as he read this communication.
‘Bless my soul!’ he said, ‘that’s a bit of a coincidence, that is! Here were we talking about possible operations on that night at Lurigan, namely, the burial of Sir John Magill’s body, and here not an hour later comes in a letter to say that such operations were actually seen! Here, Sergeant,’ he went on, obeying a gesture from Rainey, ‘have a look over that. I suppose, sir,’ he turned back to the superintendent, ‘it’s not likely to be a hoax?’
‘A hoax? I should say it is, extremely likely. But we’ll take it seriously for all that. I always do so in such cases as a matter of principle.’
‘So do we, sir. And many a vital hint we’ve got in just such a way. Two-thirty a.m.!’ He paused, then added:
‘What’s to prevent Malcolm committing the murder, arriving home at eleven-thirty, as he says, garaging the car with the body inside, and when his wife was asleep stealing out of the house, getting the body out of the car, and burying it?’
‘Sounds all right, Inspector,’ Rainey agreed. ‘That’ll be something more for you to look into when you’re down there this afternoon.’
‘We’ll certainly look into it. I suppose, sir,’ French went on, ‘we couldn’t get anything from the letter? The paper is ordinary, but the typewriter’s old and distinctive.’
‘Not much good, that, to find our man,’ Rainey returned. ‘Useful to identify him if we had him, of course.’
‘What about finger prints?’
‘I’ll have the paper tested, but the same remarks apply.’
‘The envelope?’
Rainey tossed it across.
‘No help there either, I’m afraid. You see, it’s simply addressed with the same machine to “The Chief of Police, Belfast.” I’ll try the inside of the flap for prints, but there’s not much chance of getting any.’
There was a pause, then Rainey continued: ‘Well, is that all? If so, I think you and M’Clung should get away. I’ll see you when you get back.’
The day was one of the finest French remembered for the time of year, as he and the sergeant set off in a police car for Larne. The road led along the shore of Belfast Lough, with high above them on the left the dominating outline of the Cave Hill. ‘There,’ said M’Clung, pointing to a couple of black dots at the bottom of the precipitous cliffs near the summit, ‘are the caves it gets its name from. They say they’re prehistoric dwellings, but I don’t suppose anyone knows that for sure.’ Some nine miles out came Carrickfergus with the fragments of its old walls and its splendidly preserved church and castle, built, tradition has it, when the second Henry sat on the English throne. Then on again, rising to a high windy cutting in the rock, aptly called the Blow Hole, where they called a momentary halt to see the view. From the shore far below them Belfast Lough stretched away to the city itself, with the range of the Antrim hills dominating it to the west and the County Down coast and its islands and lighthouse opposite. To the north were Lough Larne and Islandmagee, while farther east the Scotch coast showed dimly with, very faint and spectral in the far distance, the rocky cone of Ailsa Craig. M’Clung swung down into Whitehead and pointed out the telephone booth at the station, then returning to the main road, drew up at the place at which the hat had been found. After a look round they ran on through the picturesque country to Larne and out along the Coast Road.
About four miles beyond Larne, a few hundred yards before the turn round Ballygelley Head, lay Lurigan, the only house in sight. From the road, indeed only the chimneys were visible, for it stood back: on a little plateau some fifty or sixty feet above the sea. M’Clung parked the car and they got out and looked about them.
Curiously enough, the point at which they had stopped formed the junction between two varieties of scenery. In front all was bleak and rugged. To the left was the series of cliffs which terminated in Ballygallay Head, not very high, but rocky and precipitous and strikingly massed, with the road at its base and the sea at the further edge of the road. All harsh and forbidding, without trees, and softened only by patches of rough grass clinging here and there on the stone. But the view looking back towards Larne might have been in another country. Here in the foreground the rocky cliffs gave place to grass slopes, which a little further along were covered by a thick matting of alders. These softer outlines ran back in a wide sweep to the headlands at Larne, with the spiky memorial tower showing in the gap at the mouth of the harbour. Beyond, the line of Islandmagee continued on, with Muck Island looking as if some giant had chopped a bit off the end of the promontary.
The sea was a gorgeous blue right out to the horizon. Straight opposite, some five or six miles out, were the islands and lighthouses of the Maidens. Behind them, faintly in the distance, was Ailsa Craig, with far away on the left the hummock of Kintyre and on the right, to balance the picture, the long line of the Wigtownshire coast. Everywhere were birds, mostly gulls, poised or slowly wheeling on their graceful wings a
nd uttering mournful cries as they went about their lawful occasions.
But interesting, and delightful as were these sights, it was not upon them that French concentrated. The car had stopped at a quarry near a slight bend of the road, and not a hundred yards behind them was the Lurigan entrance. The drive, facing towards Ballygalley, swung round quickly through nearly two right angles and ascended the grassy slopes until it dived into a thicket of alders. There it turned inland, leaving a wide belt of trees between it and the road. To this belt M’Clung pointed.
‘There’s what we want, Mr French,’ he declared. ‘That’ll be where our friend X.Y.Z. saw the moving light.’
There could be no doubt on the matter. The plantation was the only part of the Lurigan estate which could be overlooked from the road. If X.Y.Z. were telling the truth it was among these trees that they might expect to make their find.
Having noted the area inside which they must search, the two men climbed to the wood and began walking backwards and forwards, examining every inch of the surface. Here and there there were stunted firs and beneath them the ground was more or less clear, but the alders made a dense undergrowth. Search through these thickets was slow, but the men worked steadily on, not passing a single foot until they were sure the ground had not been disturbed. And then as they had reached the centre of the little wood, French’s nerves gave a thrill and he came to a sudden stop. Yes, X.Y.Z. had not misled them nor had their deductions been faulty! Here was what they had been looking for.
Screened by alders before and behind was a clump of branches which at once attracted French’s attention, for their leaves were drooping and they stood at awkward and unnatural angles. He gave one a sharp tug. As he expected, it came up without difficulty and proved to have no roots. Softly he called to M’Clung and the two men began to clear away the clump. The branches covered a freshly sodded mound some six feet long by two feet wide. Moreover on all the surrounding ground were traces of yellow clay!
Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey Page 6
