Inspector French: Sir John Magill's Last Journey

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘But that left Sir John’s side of the communicating door unbolted?’

  ‘That’s so, but I couldn’t help it. It was less of a risk than going into the corridor. Besides it wasn’t so deadly. Anyone noticing it would have assumed it had been accidentally left open. All the same in the morning after we arrived at Stranraer and Sir John had got out, I slipped my hand in from the corridor and shot the bolt.’

  ‘Quite clear,’ French agreed. ‘I take it from all this that your friend had not solved the problem? Or had you a friend at all?’

  Joss shrugged.

  ‘I had no friend, Mr French,’ he answered in a low tone. ‘I knew nothing of linen and I had no house in Sandy Row. The thing was only a bluff. I hoped to get Sir John’s idea and to make a pot out of it. I’m darned sorry for it now, but that’s the whole truth.’

  ‘Very well, I follow that all right. You didn’t find the plans and that saved you from stealing them. But as a matter of academic interest I’d like to understand just what you’d have done if you had found them?’

  Little drops of sweat were standing on Joss’s forehead. With a quick movement he wiped them off.

  ‘I had a selection of paper and envelopes with me. If I’d got them I’ve have made up a dummy so that with luck Sir John wouldn’t have noticed the theft till he got to Belfast. You see, Mr French, I’m being perfectly frank with you, because as I didn’t do any of these things you’ve nothing on me.’

  French shrugged in his turn.

  ‘That’s what you intended to do. Now what did you do actually?’

  ‘Actually,’ Joss returned, ‘I did what I’d have done in any case. I looked in on Sir John just before we came into Stranraer and told him I’d met an invalid friend in the third sleeper and that under the circumstances I couldn’t avoid travelling with him and seeing him to his home. I said it would only delay me a few minutes and that I’d follow him to Sandy Row. As a matter of fact when he’d gone aboard I went to Portpatrick and joined my friends. I’m not proud of it, Inspector, I’d give a good deal if it hadn’t happened. However, there it is. I’ve told you everything just as it occurred because I recognise the circumstances look suspicious. But as I say, I’ve actually done nothing wrong and you’ve nothing against me.’

  ‘I suppose drugging a man with intent to rob him is nothing wrong?’

  ‘No good to you,’ Joss rejoined, shaking his head. ‘You can’t prove it. You know that if you tried anything on I would deny the story and then you’d be in the soup. It would be your word against mine, and mine would be the probable story. You know my confession is not worth that in court.’ Joss snapped his fingers dramatically. ‘No, Inspector, I’ve tried to help you because I saw it was the best thing for myself, not because I wanted to put myself in your power.’

  ‘There’s only one other point, I think,’ French said, after a moment’s thought. ‘You said if you didn’t produce some hundreds of pounds at short notice you would be ruined. Now you say you didn’t get any money from Sir John. Obviously you are not ruined. Where then did the money come from?’

  A dull flush crept over the man’s face.

  ‘Victor Magill,’ he answered, with evident shame. ‘During the cruise I mentioned how I was fixed and he lent me enough to get me out.’

  When Joss ceased speaking there was a silence for some minutes. Finally French rose abruptly.

  ‘You may be required to give evidence,’ he said, and there was a noticeable absence of his usual suavity in his manner. ‘Don’t go away without letting me know at the Yard. I warn you that whether your story’s true or false I’ve ample justification for arresting you, and if you attempt any tricks you will be arrested. That’ll do for today.’

  French was profoundly disappointed. The one tangible clue that he had got hold of was that of Coates and the communicating door. And now this had been explained away. Admittedly the explanation was not satisfactory as far as the plans were concerned. But French was not interested in a possible theft of plans. It was Sir John Magill’s murder that he wanted to clear up, and as a clue to this the communicating door had simply petered out. As he walked slowly back to the Yard he cursed bitterly under his breath. So far his case against Breene remained the most likely solution, and wishing again that he had a free hand to investigate it in Belfast, he went disgustedly to lunch.

  12

  Scotland Yard

  French’s mood had not lightened when he returned to the Yard. He had been unfortunate in not finding anyone he knew at the restaurant, with the result that during his solitary lunch he had been unable to banish the case from his mind. Now as he settled down to work at it again it was from a barren sense of duty rather than with any hope that he might obtain results.

  He began by writing to the Scotch police authorities of Campbeltown to get a report from Dr MacGregor as to the injury to Victor’s knee. Then he sent a man to the Patent Office to find out if Sir John had provisionally protected his invention. Finally he set himself doggedly to review Joss’s statement so as to satisfy himself that there really was nothing to be learned about it. Part of the story he believed absolutely. The scheme of getting Sir John into Joss’s power in an adjoining sleeping berth and there drugging him rang true. So did the somewhat intricate operations with the doors and the search for the plans. The stories told to Sir John, moreover, must have been somewhat as stated by Joss, judging by the way in which the old man had acted on them. But where French doubted the statement was in its finale. Had Joss’s search proved unavailing? Had he not really found and stolen the plans? To French this seemed more than likely. It might well be that Joss had actually replaced the packet with a dummy so that the old man had not learnt of his loss till he reached Belfast.

  But though Joss’s tale might not be entirely true, it seemed to contain enough truth to relieve himself and his friends from suspicion of the murder. Naturally, therefore, it did nothing to clear up the fate of Sir John Magill. The reason for the old gentleman’s visit to Sandy Row was now known, but not what took place there. It did not explain why Sir John had gone to the Cave Hill, still less did it account for the extraordinary episodes at Larne and Whitehead. No, there was more in the whole business than he, French, had yet visualised.

  He turned once again to his Breene theory. Did this statement of Joss’s support or rebut it?

  It didn’t seem to do either. It was now clear that Breene had not been responsible for Sir John’s visit to Belfast. But on the other hand might he not have taken advantage of it? French did not know. He sighed wearily as he considered the point and reconsidered it and then considered it again.

  One thing at least became increasingly certain. Here in England the solution was beyond his reach. It must lie on the Irish side. He decided that if Chief Inspector Mitchell agreed he would write to Rainey that very evening pressing his view of the situation. Then he could drop the case. There was plenty of work for him in London.

  But it happened that just then the post came in with a letter from the police headquarters in Belfast. Superintendent Rainey wrote that certain discoveries which had been made by his staff seemed to indicate that the key to the Magill mystery must lie in England, and that if convenient to all concerned, he would send Sergeant M’Clung over for a consultation. At this French swore, but he sent a wire that he could see M’Clung at any time. A couple of hours later there was a reply that the sergeant was leaving that evening.

  French, considerably disgruntled, swore more viciously. It was not indeed until he had reached his home and had his supper that he settled down to his usual state of complacency.

  He reached the Yard next morning to find that M’Clung had already arrived.

  ‘You weren’t long in Ireland,’ French greeted him. ‘Why on earth did they send for you if they didn’t want you?’

  M’Clung grinned.

  ‘They’ve made some discoveries, Mr French,’ he explained. ‘They sent for me to hear the details so that I might come over and tell you.’
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  French shook his head.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ he declared. ‘A very bad business. Do you know that yesterday I was just going to write you that the whole solution must lie with you and that I might withdraw from the case? And now you’ve proved that it lies over here.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t just got that length, Mr French,’ M’Clung returned with the suspicion of a smile. ‘What we think is that it doesn’t lie in Northern Ireland. We wouldn’t like to take it on us to say just where it does lie.’

  French grunted.

  ‘I suppose that means that you know nothing about it?’

  M’Clung laughed outright.

  ‘As you know, sir,’ he pointed out, ‘officially that could never be the case. But between you and me and the wall it’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Well, you may take it from me that it doesn’t lie over here.’

  ‘But it must lie somewhere, sir,’ M’Clung said innocently.

  French glanced at him keenly.

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you? Did you get my letter about Breene? No? Well, sit down on that chair and put on that filthy pipe of yours and let’s hear the great discovery.’

  M’Clung told his tale well. He had the gift of narration, and French could picture the events occurring almost as if he was seeing them.

  It seemed that after French’s departure the authorities of Northern Ireland had concentrated on trying to trace in detail the movements of Sir John Magill from the moment he left Sandy Row until his body reached what his murderer at least believed would be its last resting place at Lurigan.

  They had considered and rejected a theory that Sir John had been murdered by political enemies. Though the old man had always been a staunch Unionist, the police thought it unlikely that he had ever incurred the really serious enmity of his political opponents. Especially unlikely was it that his death, had it been decided on, would have been delayed for so long a period. The ‘troubles’ were definitely over and had been for years. Moreover, the police knew practically all the gunmen in the city, men who in many cases were known to have committed murder, but against whom nothing could be proved. These were checked up and the police were satisfied that none of them had recently been on the warpath.

  After considerable thought, Superintendent Rainey had decided to fall back on publicity. A reward for information as to the deceased’s movements was therefore offered. Advertisements were inserted in the local papers, and notices were exhibited at police barracks and elsewhere, throughout the country.

  On the day of the newspaper insertions, a Mr Francis M’Comb called at police headquarters. He said that he had read the advertisement and believed he had seen the man in question.

  He stated that on Thursday, October 3rd, which was the day of Sir John’s visit to Belfast, he and his wife had taken some English visitors up the Cave Hill. They had climbed the Sheeps’ Path from the Antrim Road to near the top, returning by the same route. On reaching their home on the Malone Road about six o’clock his wife missed an earring. It was not intrinsically of great value, but for sentimental reasons she prized it highly. She was so much upset about the loss that M’Comb volunteered to return immediately to the place where she thought she had dropped it—a slippery bit of the path on which she had had a fall. He did so and found the trinket, and it was when he was returning down the path to the Antrim Road that he saw the man.

  ‘I’ll have to explain what the path is like so that you’ll understand the story,’ went on M’Clung. ‘The lower part passes through private grounds and it’s fenced off from these by barbed wire palings, set back fifteen or twenty feet from each side and with laurels in patches between it and the fences. When you leave the Antrim Road the path leads through trees at first, but in two or three minutes you come to a clearing on the left side. Near the top of the clearing there’s a clump of rhododendrons, about fifty feet across. It’s quite a thick clump and it lies about sixty or seventy feet out from the side of the clearing and the path. I could draw it if you don’t follow me.’

  ‘It’s clear enough so far,’ French admitted cautiously.

  M’Clung nodded.

  ‘Well, M’Comb was coming down after finding the ear-ring. When he was passing the clearing he happened to look up and he saw a man come out of the clump. The man looked round in a stealthy sort of way and then he hurried across the clearing towards the path. M’Comb was a bit surprised, but he thought it was no business of his and he went on down to the Antrim Road.

  ‘Just near where the path comes out there is a tramway halt and M’Comb went to it and stood waiting for a car. He hadn’t been there two minutes when the man appeared. He followed over to the halt and M’Comb had a good look at him. Mr French, it was Sir John Magill!’

  ‘Good,’ said French, considerably interested. ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About a quarter past seven. It was getting dusk, but on account of being near the man M’Comb was able to see him clearly. Then a tram came along and they both got on board, Sir John inside and M’Comb on the top.’

  Trams from the Antrim Road, M’Clung explained, reach the City Centre by two routes, via Carlisle Circus or via Duncairn Gardens. The Duncairn Gardens route takes a detour which brings it within a few yards of the Northern Counties station of the L.M.S. railway, that for Whitehead and Larne. This particular car was going via Carlisle Circus, therefore had it contained passengers who wished to travel by rail, these would have alighted at the top of Duncairn Gardens and either taken the ten-minute walk down the Gardens to the station or waited for a following car.

  It happened by a stroke of luck that M’Comb, who was sitting at the back of the tram, saw Sir John alight, not indeed at Duncairn Gardens, but a couple of blocks before they reached it. As the tram passed on Sir John crossed the sidewalk and disappeared into a shop.

  The police at once got M’Comb to stop a tram at the place in question, and asked him to mount to the top and from there to point out the shop. This he was unable to do, but he showed them the block containing it.

  Inquiries at all the shops in the block soon gave the desired information. The young lady behind the counter of a confectioner’s stated that at about half past seven on an evening about the date mentioned a man answering the given description had come in and bought some fruit and nut chocolate. The price was one-and-six and he had offered her a pound in payment. She was out of change, and realising that she would have to go out for it and leave her customer alone in the shop, the girl gave him a very searching look. It was this fact that had impressed his appearance on her mind. For the same reason she had glanced at the clock and now remembered the hour. On receiving his change the man had left immediately, turning in the direction of Duncairn Gardens.

  Both this young lady and M’Comb declared Sir John’s photograph shown them by the police was that of the man in question. The girl had seen him in a better light than M’Comb, and she stated that he looked dishevelled and that there was moss on his coat, as if he had been lying on the grass.

  It was seen at once that the hours mentioned by these two witnesses worked in sufficiently well with what was already known of Sir John’s movements. He had travelled to Whitehead by the 8.00 train, and had he walked down the Sheeps’ Path and bought his chocolate when stated, he would just have arrived at the station about a quarter to eight.

  The police next asked M’Comb to accompany them to the Sheeps’ Path and to point out the spot where Sir John had emerged from the rhododendrons. A careful search was made of the surroundings with the result that some further very interesting discoveries were made. In the heart of the clump a small space of some eight feet square was found to have been trampled down. Here twigs had been placed to make a rude couch and branches had been cut and pushed into the interstices between the bushes with the evident object of making the retreat even more invisible from outside.

  But these discoveries paled into insignificance compared to M’Clung’s last find. Close by and equally hidden by t
he bushes were traces of digging. Cut sods were piled over a little mound of fresh soil and scraps of clay lay on the surrounding grass. It was not another grave—it was too small for that. Rather it suggested treasure trove.

  Spades were sent for and the soil was removed. Below was loose clay. This was lifted out and at a depth of a couple of feet the treasure was come on.

  Folded into a tight roll was a cloak or garment of very peculiar shape. It was made of dark brown velvet and consisted of a complete suit and hat in one. The body portion was made like a mechanic’s overalls, with full length legs and arms and an opening up the front closed by buttons. Attached to the body at the back of the neck was a helmet like a monk’s cowl. The garment was roughly made, and coarsely sewn. But it was of a small size. In fact it would have exactly fitted Sir John Magill.

  French gave vent to an exclamation of amazement.

  ‘That isn’t everything yet, sir,’ M’Clung went on, delighted at the reception his story was getting. Wrapped up inside the cloak was a short piece of light rope ladder. It was made with dark brown silk ropes and thin rungs of dark brown cane. At one end the ropes terminated in a pair of light metal hooks, painted black. These hooks were of a peculiar shape, rather like notes of interrogation, the ladder being attached halfway down the curve. Altogether the ladder was just under six feet long.

  French swore.

  ‘What under the sun did you make of that?’ he asked.

  M’Clung shrugged.

  ‘What could we make of it, sir?’ he returned. ‘The only suggestion that I’ve heard was that Sir John was taking part in the ceremonial of some secret society. I’m neither an orangeman nor a mason, but I understand the ladder is a symbol in both orders. And Sir John was high up among the orangemen. All the same that didn’t strike me as reasonable. Would it you, sir?’