by John Bude
“With the result,” he observed, “that on the night of Saturday, December the third of last year you made an attempt on his life in an unfrequented lane known as Mayblossom Cut.”
“Good heavens! Is there anything you don’t know, Inspector?”
“Little enough in broad outline,” said Meredith with a smile. “But quite a lot in detail.”
“All right. I’ll tell you just how that happened. I never meant to make the attempt that night. It was just chance. I’d driven over to Welworth with the intention of making yet one more appeal to my wife to give this fellow up. Just outside the big corset factory there, I had a tyre burst. And while I was changing the wheel, I’m damned if I didn’t see Penpeti himself entering the building with a girl. I learnt that there was a dance on in the factory and, in a sudden fit of fury at his hypocrisy, I decided to wait for him to come out. For some time past I’d been carrying an automatic, so I realised I was all set to act if the opportunity occurred. Well, when Penpeti came out I heard him arranging to take the girl home via Mayblossom Cut. I knew it was a deserted and badly-lighted spot, so I jumped into the car and…” Dudley paused, slowly shook his head and said in a dull voice: “But why go on? You seem to know the rest of the story.”
“Quite,” agreed Meredith. “But do you, Mr. Dudley?”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Do you realise that the man you attempted to kill that night was not Penpeti.”
“Not Penpeti? What on earth are you talking about?”
In a few brisk sentences Meredith explained. Dudley was flabbergasted. More than once he muttered: “I’d no idea. No idea at all!” At length he said:
“Then the fact that my shot was not fatal is luckier even than I suspected.” He was thinking, too, of that night when the knife he had thrown had missed Penpeti’s head by inches. But of that incident he was not going to speak. He went on: “To have killed Penpeti would have probably put a noose about my neck, but at least I should have had the grim satisfaction of knowing that the fellow was beyond the reach of my wife. On the other hand, to have killed an innocent young man by mistake…no, thank God! My aim was too low.”
“And that same night you visited your wife?”
“Yes—before I drove back to Hitchin.”
“And then?”
“I kept clear of Welworth for a time. My description as a wanted man was in the local papers, though the name of my victim was not publicly divulged. I soon realised that whatever had happened to Penpeti, he was still very much alive. Only two days later I saw that he had given a lecture in the town. And then I learnt about this impending conference and Penelope’s intention to take up temporary residence at the Dower House. Once more—you see what a persistent fool I am?—I made contact with her. I pleaded with her to give up all this religious nonsense and make a home with me again. She flatly refused. But I was still unprepared to take no for an answer. Finally, on Thursday night, we had a violent quarrel and, for the first time, I realised the hopelessness of my position. She spoke again of Penpeti and suggested a divorce.” Dudley slowly shook his head, his face devoid of expression. The weight of his misfortunes seemed to overwhelm him. Then he added quietly: “You see, Inspector, that night she told that she was going to have a baby and that Penpeti was the father.”
“Penpeti!” cried Meredith. “So he was responsible for your wife’s condition. Not Mildmann.”
“So you know all about—?”
Meredith nodded.
“Yes. I naturally received a full medical report from the police surgeon. But I never suspected Penpeti. What you’ve just told me, Mr. Dudley, alters the whole aspect of the case. Thank heaven you decided to make a full statement. And now, with regard to your exact movements on Thursday night?”
Dudley gave a wry smile.
“This is the part that really matters, eh?”
“How did you approach the Dower House?”
“As you know, I parked my car on the road to the south of Old Cowdene. I managed to get into the Dower House garden, without being seen.”
“What time was this?”
“Just after eight-thirty.”
“And you entered the house—how?”
“Through one of the hall windows. You see, Inspector, by then I knew pretty well where everybody would be at that hour. The domestic staff having supper in the kitchen. My wife at dinner over at the Manor. It was all dead simple.”
“And then you went up to your wife’s room?”
“Yes—and hung about there waiting for her return.”
“Did you smoke?”
“Yes. A cigar. It helped to steady my nerves”
“And then?”
“Well, about half-past nine Penelope walked in. I’ve already explained what happened. She told me about the child that was on the way and asked me to divorce her. I confess I lost my temper then. I told the poor girl just what I thought of her and Penpeti! After that I walked out, intending to leave the same way as I’d entered.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No. I was just getting through the hall window when I saw somebody coming up the drive. Although it was nearly dark, I had no difficulty in identifying the visitor. It was, of course, Penpeti.”
“And then?”
“I had to act quickly because I didn’t want to meet the fellow. If I met him face to face, I was frightened of losing my self-control. So I dodged into a room to the side of the house and let myself out through some french-windows.”
“And the time then would be?”
“About a quarter to ten. I can’t say with any accuracy.”
“And you managed to get away from the house without being seen?”
Dudley hesitated and then said cautiously:
“I can’t give a hard and fast answer to that question. On my way out I took the path that led by the gardener’s cottage. As I went by I thought I saw faces at the window. I may have been wrong, of course. But that was my impression.”
“Quite right,” said Meredith briskly. “You were seen. By both the gardener and his wife. Shortly before ten o’clock, Mr. Dudley.”
“I see,” said Dudley.
“Shortly before ten o’clock,” repeated Meredith with emphasis.
“I don’t…er…follow.”
“The point I’m trying to make is this. You let yourself out through the french-windows, on your own evidence, at about a quarter to ten. The gardener’s cottage, as I happen to know, is less than a hundred yards from the house. Do you realise, Mr. Dudley, that you took at least ten minutes to cover that hundred yards. Not exactly a world record, is it?”
“I hid for some time in a clump of shrubs just outside the window. I wanted to make sure that Penpeti was inside the house before I attempted to get away.”
Meredith said with a penetrating glance:
“You’re quite sure, Mr. Dudley, that during those ten minutes, you didn’t return to your wife’s room?”
“Most certainly I didn’t!”
“Tell me, did you happen to notice a tray of drinks when you were in the room? A decanter and a set of glasses?”
Dudley replied with a bewildered expression:
“I may have done. I really can’t say. I wasn’t in a particularly observant mood, but I’ve a vague idea that there was a tray of drinks set out on a small table somewhere in the room.”
“I see.” Meredith suddenly got to his feet. “Well, that’s about all I wanted to ask, Mr. Dudley. I’m glad you’ve been so frank. Sergeant O’Hallidan will escort you out to the car. I want to have a private word with Inspector Baker.”
The moment Dudley had gone out, Baker asked:
“What do you make of him?”
“My instinctive reaction is to take him at his word. My professional caution warns me that he could have slipped back into the
house during that ten minutes lapse. You’ll be holding him in the interim, I imagine?”
Baker nodded.
“A warrant has been drawn up for his arrest on a charge of attempted murder. He’s bound to get a stretch for that Mayblossom Cut affair. My personal feeling is that the poor devil has been the victim of circumstances. I’ve an idea that he’s been telling us the truth.”
Chapter XXI
Death Down the Lane
I
“And what now, sorr?” asked O’Hallidan some minutes after the Hitchin police-car had swung out of the inn-yard.
Meredith chuckled.
“Well, Sergeant, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t call it a day. There’s a beautifully polished brass-rail in the saloon-bar and I’m sure your foot’s just itching to rest on it. For myself, I’m going to put young Terence Mildmann out of his misery. I made a promise to that young lady, remember.”
Although the sun was already lowering, the June air was still warm and fragrant as Meredith set off down the lane to the North Lodge. But the inspector was far too preoccupied to notice the tranquil beauty of the evening. When he wanted to think, he was able to shut himself away from his surroundings, and at that moment his mind was brimming over with speculation. He was still uncertain of Dudley. His explanation of that ten minute wait in the shrubbery might well be the simple truth. On the other hand…Precisely!
Terence was now cleared of suspicion. Penpeti had his alibi. The latest evidence suggested that Mildmann could not have been the murderer. And if he dropped Dudley from the list, where the devil was he? Some other person presumably, so far unsuspected, was responsible for the crime. All fine and dandy—but who? Hilda? Sid Arkwright? The redoubtable Mrs. Hagge-Smith? Possibles, of course, but by no means probables. No apparent motive. But if all his previous suspects went up the spout, then dammit he’d have to start looking around for new ones.
There was no question, after the fresh evidence put out by Dudley, that Penpeti had the strongest motive for the crime. He’d realise well enough that if it became known that he was the father of Mrs. Dudley’s child his chances of that five thousand a year and the High Prophetship would be slim. The double-murder, from his point of view, would be a logical step towards the realisation of his ambition. With the girl silenced, there was a good chance that the secret of their intimacy would die with her. With Mildmann snuffed out; the way was clear for his promotion. But Penpeti’s alibi was perfect because it could be vouchsafed for by several disinterested witnesses. In a nutshell: motive—strong; alibi—stronger.
And with these arguments and counter-arguments processing through his brain, Meredith arrived at the North Lodge. Both Terence and the housekeeper were in, but to say that they welcomed his appearance would be grossly to exaggerate. They opened the door to him with about as much fervour as a couple of canaries might have opened their cage to a cat. But in less than five minutes the transformation was magical. Terence, at his best an inarticulate young man, just sat in the parlour and beamed. To be cleared of this foul suspicion and to hear that the girl he adored had pleaded with the police on his behalf…it was overwhelming, marvellous! He tried to thank the inspector, then he rubbed his bare knees with his ham-like hands and returned to his inane beaming. It was Mrs. Summers who stepped in and saved the situation. She insisted that Meredith should join them at supper. Meredith accepted. He was not particularly enthusiastic about nut rissoles but, hang it all, he’d got to eat somewhere.
To his astonishment Mrs. Summers served some excellent lamb cutlets with green peas and new potatoes.
“Good heavens!” he observed to Terence. “You’re straying from the straight and narrow, aren’t you?”
Terence reddened.
“Matter of fact, you know,” he mumbled. “I’ve been gastronomically repressed. Mrs. Summers, too. It may not be cricket, but we’re having a bit of a fling now. You can’t blame us, sir.”
“He used to have dreams,” put in Mrs. Summers with a maternal smile, “about carnivorous food. Poor boy! Astral manifestations and all that sort of thing.”
It seemed to Meredith that, apart from the shadow of the recent tragedy, Terence Mildmann was a young man whose real life was just about to begin!
It was dark when the inspector left the North Lodge to return to Tappin Mallet. Not pitch dark, for the stars were brilliant in a clear sky. There was, in fact, sufficient light for him to recognise the figure preceding him through the drive-gate on to the road. It was, without question, Penpeti; doubtless returning from some lecture or service to The Leaning Man. Meredith’s rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the macadam surface of the lane and, more from instinct than for any specific reason, he began to tail the newly-elected High Prophet. Little did he realise at the time that this inconsequent action marked for him the “beginning of the end” of an extremely complex and tricky case.
He had not progressed more than a hundred yards down the lane, however, when he was aware of a second person coming quietly down the lane behind him. Still some distance away, but to judge by the footsteps gradually drawing nearer. Again it was no more than professional instinct that forced Meredith to leave the road and crouch back in the deep shadows of the hedge. He had an idea that the approaching figure hadn’t actually spotted him. In this he appeared to be right, for a few seconds later the figure rapidly passed him and went on, quite unconscious of his presence, down the lane. In a flash Meredith was tagging along at the tail of this little procession.
Soon it was evident that the distance between Penpeti and this second figure had considerably decreased, for suddenly the man slackened his pace and began to proceed more cautiously. Meredith also slowed up. Then, unexpectedly, the man ahead stopped dead. From further down the road came the sound of a low whistle. The man ahead moved onto the grass verge and, bending low, began to creep forward. Meredith did likewise. Five, ten, twenty yards—and, suddenly, Meredith realised that Penpeti had been joined by yet another figure and that the two of them were engaged in a murmured conversation. For a brief instant all was immobility. Then, without the slightest warning, everything seemed to happen at once.
There was a flash, a deafening report, a stifled cry. Then, after a moment’s pause, a second ear-splitting report and the sound of running feet receding down the road.
Almost before the echo of the last shot had died away, Meredith had reached the crumpled figure on the verge. He took out his pocket-torch and flashed it onto the man’s upturned face. He gave a start of surprise. It was the camp-commandant, Hansford Boot! That he was dead Meredith had no doubt. There was a blackened and bloody patch on his right temple where he had pressed the muzzle of the weapon, which he still clutched in his right hand. It was all very obvious. Hansford Boot had just committed suicide by blowing out his brains!
Twenty feet away a second figure sprawled like a patch of deep shadow against the starlit grass. This time the man lay face-down and Meredith was forced to roll the body over before he was able to focus the rays of his torch on the man’s features. And what he saw told him nothing. The man was a stranger. And yet, at that moment, he had a strange feeling that the face was not entirely unfamiliar. Peculiar and perplexing. Annoying, too! He straightened up and looked around. Of Penpeti there was no sign. Evidently the moment the shooting had started, he had taken to his heels and dashed helter-skelter towards the village.
The man at his feet was also dead. The bullet had entered his neck. The whole set-up of this totally unheralded and dramatic incident was as clear as crystal. Boot had been trailing Penpeti with the intention of murdering him and then committing suicide. Then the other man had joined Penpeti. Boot had fired and, in the semi-darkness, his aim had been indifferent and he had killed the wrong man.
Well, what now? Somehow he must get the bodies to The Leaning Man where he could ring Chichester and let them know what had transpired. Maxton would have to come over and make his m
edical examination. He, himself, would do well to go through the pockets of the dead men. After all, he still had to identify Penpeti’s companion and there was a good chance that Penpeti would refuse to talk.
His line of thought was interrupted by the sudden glare of a car’s headlamps fast approaching down the lane. Meredith stepped out into the middle of the road and flashed his pocket-torch. The car came to a standstill.
“Hullo! Hullo! What’s all this?” demanded a gruff voice. “Anything wrong?”
Rapidly Meredith explained the situation and demanded of the burly old gentleman in the car if he were going to Tappin Mallet.
“I am. Farmers Union meeting at The Leaning Man. I’m over-late already. And now it looks as if I’m going to be a darn sight later! However…”
He shrugged his massive shoulders and with perfect aplomb, as if he had been lifting no more than a couple of sacks of grain, he helped Meredith to place the bodies in the car. Five minutes later they were drawn up in the inn-yard.
II
An empty garage had been earmarked as a temporary mortuary and it was there, by the light of a hurricane lamp, that Meredith and O’Hallidan went through the dead men’s effects. First Hansford Boot, from whose inside breast-pocket Meredith withdrew a sealed envelope bearing the terse inscription—For the police.
“Well, now,” observed O’Hallidan with a broad grin, “if he hasn’t sent us a little billit-do, sorr. ’Twill be a confession or the loike maybe?”
“Explanation would be a better word, Sergeant. However, let’s take a dekko.”
He split the envelope, drew out a single sheet of folded paper and spread it out on the garage-bench. O’Hallidan craned over his shoulder.
“For heaven’s sake! Don’t breathe in my ear!” cried Meredith. “Sit down on that oil-drum while I read it to you. It certainly looks interesting.”
In order that there should be no confusion at the Coroner’s inquest, read Meredith. I have prepared here a careful statement giving the reasons for my actions. I am quite sane. My mind, in fact, has never seen more clearly into the realities of the situation in which I am now imprisoned and have been imprisoned for some months. Penpeti (though I am convinced this is not his real name) has been blackmailing me. I have been forced to pay over a considerable amount of money in order to buy his silence. It so happens that I don’t trust Penpeti. There was, of course, no guarantee that he would hold his tongue. The fear and uncertainty of this has driven me to take desperate measures. Some days ago I realised that I should never have any real peace-of-mind as long as this threat of exposure hung over my head. I decided, therefore, to kill Penpeti and then take my own life. By the time you read this my decision will have been translated into action and both of us will be beyond the reach of the law.
