French was interested to learn that Sergeant Kent was a fool. The landlord did not put it quite in those words, but he conveyed the idea extraordinarily well. Kent was bumptious and overbearing, and carried away by a sense of his own importance. French, the landlord was afraid, wouldn’t get much help there.
The landlord showed signs of a willingness to go on talking all night, but by the time eleven-thirty had struck on the old grandfather’s clock in the hall French thought he had all the information that was likely to be valuable. He therefore began insinuating the idea of bed, and this gradually penetrating to the other’s consciousness, his flow of conversation diminished and presently they separated.
The next day was Sunday, and after a late breakfast and a leisurely pipe, French asked for some sandwiches, saying he was going out for a long tramp over the moor. Having thus explained himself, he strolled off and presently, by a circuitous route, reached the lip of Starvel Hollow.
In spite of the fact that his professional and critical interests were aroused, French could not help feeling impressed by the isolation of the ruins and the morbid, not to say sinister, atmosphere which seemed to brood over the entire place. Around him were the wild rolling spaces of the moor, forbidding and desolate, rising here into rounded hills, dropping there into shallow valleys. The colouring was drab, in the foregrounds the dull greens of rushes and sedgy grass, the browns of heather and at intervals a darker smudge where stone outcropped, on the horizon the hazy blues of distance. Scarcely a tree or shrub was to be seen in the bare country, and the two or three widely separated cottages, crouching low as if for protection from the winds, seemed only to intensify the loneliness of the outlook.
At French’s feet lay the Hollow, a curious, saucer-like depression in the moor, some quarter of a mile or more across. Its rim looked continuous, the valley through which it was drained being winding and not apparent at first sight. In the centre was the group of pines which had surrounded the old house, stunted, leaning one way from the prevailing wind, melancholy and depressing. Of the walls of the house from this point of view there was no sign.
French walked down toward the ruins, marvelling at the choice which would bring a man of means to such a locality. He could understand now why on that night some five weeks earlier a building of the size of this old house could be burned down without attracting more attention. The Hollow accounted for it. Even flames soaring up from such a conflagration would not surmount the lip of the saucer. Truly a place also, as Tarkington had pointed out, where burglars could work their will unseen and undisturbed.
French had seen the remains of many a fire, but as he gazed on the wreckage of Starvel he felt he had never seen anything quite so catastrophic and complete. He felt a growing awe as he began to examine the place in detail.
The walls were built of stone, and except these walls and the small outhouse at the opposite side of the yard, nothing remained standing. The house was two-storied and “L”-shaped, with the remains of a single story porch in the angle of the two wings. French compared the ruins with the sketch plan given him by Kent and identified the places where the bodies had been found. Then after a general survey he stepped through the gaping hole that had evidently been the front door and ploughed his way across the debris to the safe.
It was red with fire and rust, but the maker’s name and number, in raised letters on a cast-iron plate, were still legible. The safe had been lifted upright and fixed on a roughly built pile of stones, as the town officer of Thirsby had deposed at the inquest. The doors were now shut, but with some difficulty owing to the rusty hinges French was able to swing them open. Inside, as he had been told, was a mass of paper ash.
Fortunately it was a calm day or the heap might have whirled away in dust. As it was, French sat down on a stone, and putting his head into the safe, began to examine the ash in detail.
The greater part had been ground to dust, doubtless by the fall of the safe from the second story, and the churning of the sovereigns, though there still remained a number of small flakes of burnt paper. These French began to turn over with a pair of forceps, examining them at the same time with a lens.
He was delighted to find that on nearly all he could distinguish marks of printing. But as he turned over piece after piece he became conscious of growing astonishment. For this printing was not the printing of bank-notes. Rather it seemed to him like newspaper type. Wrapping paper, he supposed. But why should the contents of the safe have been wrapped up in newspapers? More important still, why should portions of the newspapers rather than of the notes have been preserved?
His interest keenly aroused, he set to work in his careful, methodical way to check over all the fragments he could find. As he did so something very like excitement took possession of him. There were no fragments of notes! Every single piece that bore any marking was newspaper!
What, he asked himself, could this portend? What other than robbery? And, if robbery, then murder! Murder and arson! Could Tarkington and the Chief Constable be right, after all? Certainly, after this discovery he couldn’t drop the investigation until he had made sure.
He had brought with him a small case of apparatus, and from this he now took a bottle of gum and some thin cards. Painting over the cards with the gum, he laid on them such flakes of ash as bore legible words. From one piece in particular he thought he might be able to identify the newspaper of which it had been a part. It was a roundish scrap about the size of a shilling, along the top of which were the words: “—ing as we—” in small type, with below it in capitals, as if the headline of a small paragraph: “RAT-CATCHER’S F—— ”
French secured the cards in a case specially designed to preserve specimens, and re-closed the safe. It certainly looked as if Tarkington’s suggestions might be true, and as he put the case away in his pocket, he wondered if there was any further investigation he could make while he was on the ground.
Stepping outside the building, he considered how a hypothetical burglar might have forced an entrance. The window frames and doors were all gone; moreover, any marks which might have been made approaching them must long since have been defaced by time and the footprints of sightseers and workmen. French, nevertheless, walked all round the house and about the grounds, looking everywhere in the hope of coming on some clue, though he was scarcely disappointed when his search ended in failure.
He was anxious, if possible, to find out what newspaper had been burned. He did not think the point of vital importance, but on general principles the information should be obtained. There was no knowing what clue it might not furnish. On his way back to Thirsby, therefore, he turned aside to Mr. Oxley’s house and sent in his card.
In the privacy of the solicitor’s study French introduced himself and in confidence declared his mission to the town. He apologised for troubling the other on Sunday, but said that at the moment he wished only to ask one question: Could Mr. Oxley tell him, or could he find out for him from Miss Averill, what daily paper the late Mr. Averill had taken?
Mr. Oxley did not know, and excused himself to interrogate Ruth. Presently he returned to say it was the Leeds Mercury.
Next morning French took the first train to Leeds, and going to the Mercury office, asked to see the files of the paper for the month of September. Commencing at the 15th, the day of the fire, he began working back through the papers, scrutinising each sheet for a paragraph headed “RAT-CATCHER’S F——”
He found it sooner than he had expected. Tucked in among a number of small news items in the paper of Tuesday, 14th September, he read: “RAT-CATCHER’S FATAL FALL.” And when he saw that the type was similar to that on the burnt scrap and the last line of the preceding paragraph was “Mr. Thomas is doing as well as can be expected,” with the “—ing as we—” in the correct position relative to the “RAT-CATCHER’S F——” he knew he had really got what he wanted.
French was extraordinarily thorough. Long experience had taught him that everything in the nature of a clue sho
uld be followed up to the very end. He did not therefore desist when he had made his find. Instead he worked on to see if he could identify any of the other scraps he had found. And before he left he had found eight out of the eleven he had mounted, and proved that the burnt papers were those of the 13th, 14th and 15th; the three days before the fire.
So far, then, the indications were at least for continuing the investigation. Leaving the Mercury office, French walked up the Briggate to Messrs. Carter & Stephenson’s, the makers of the safe. He asked for one of the principals, and was presently shown into Mr. Stephenson’s room. Introducing himself in the strictest confidence in his true guise, he propounded his question: Was the safe absolutely fireproof?
Mr. Stephenson rose and went to a drawer from which he took a number of photographs.
“Look at those,” he invited, “and tell me was the fire at Starvel any worse than those fires?”
The views were all of burnt-out buildings, most of them completely gutted and resembling the wreckage of Starvel. French assured him that the cases seemed on all fours.
“Very well, there were safes in all those fires—safes just the same as that at Starvel, and all those safes had papers in them, and there wasn’t a single paper in any one of them so much as browned.”
French took out his burned fragments.
“Look at those, Mr. Stephenson,” he invited in his turn. “Suppose there were newspapers in that safe before the fire, could they have come out like that after it?”
“Not under any conceivable circumstances,” Mr. Stephenson declared emphatically, “that is, of course, unless the door had been left open. With the door shut it’s absolutely impossible. And I’ll be prepared to stand by that in any court of law if you should want me to.”
The man’s manner was convincing, and French saw no reason to doubt his statement. But he saw also that its truth involved extremely serious consequences. If Mr. Stephenson was right the newspapers had not been burnt during the Starvel fire. They could only have been burned while the safe door was open. But the door was locked during the fire; Kent had had to get an expert to open it. They must therefore have been burned before it was locked. A sinister fact truly, and terribly suggestive!
On his way back to Thirsby, French sat smoking in the corner of a carriage, weighing in his mind the significance of his discoveries. He considered the points in order.
First. Old Averill was a miser who had filled up his safe with notes and gold. The notes had been seen on more than one occasion by Mr. Tarkington’s clerk, Bloxham, the last time being only a few days before the tragedy. Mr. Tarkington estimated there must have been some £30,000 to £40,000 worth of notes in the safe, though this was probably only a guess. But it was at least certain that before the fire it contained a very large sum in notes.
Second. After the fire the gold was intact, or at least part of it was there, but there was no trace of the notes. It was perfectly true that a number of notes might have been burned and been crushed to powder by the falling sovereigns. But it was straining the probabilities too far to believe that no single fragment of any one note should remain. On the other hand, fragments did remain—but these were all of newspapers.
Third. The newspapers, according to Mr. Stephenson’s evidence, were burned before the door of the safe had been closed.
Gradually French came to definite conclusions. As far as his information went the following facts seemed to be established:
First. That the safe was unlocked, and the notes were taken out before the fire.
Second. That three or four newspapers were put in to replace them.
Third. That the newspapers were set on fire and allowed to burn to ashes while the safe door was open.
Fourth. That after they were burned the safe was locked.
If these conclusions could be sustained it unquestionably meant that French was on to one of the most dastardly and terrible crimes of the century. He felt the sudden thrill of the hunter who comes across the fresh spoor of some dangerous wild beast. But he did not disclose his feelings. Instead he kept his own counsel, simply reporting to headquarters that the case seemed suspicious and that he was remaining on to make further inquiries.
CHAPTER V
FRENCH PICKS UP A CLUE
The more Inspector French pondered over the problems which his discoveries had raised, the more difficult these problems seemed to grow. There was so desperately little to go on. It was a common enough trouble in detective work certainly, but this business was worse than the average. He could not recall a case which offered fewer clues or “leads.”
As he turned over in his mind all that he had learned it seemed to him indeed that there was but one channel to be explored, and that a channel which offered a very poor chance of success—the £20 bank-note. If he were unable to trace the £20 bank note and the odds were enormously against his doing so, he did not see what other line of inquiry he could follow up.
Of course, there was the usual police question: Who was seen in the vicinity of the crime at the time of its commission? But he had already put this inquiry to Kent, and the answer had been: “No one.”
If, as seemed likely, Tarkington’s theory were true and this crime had been committed by the burglars who had already brought off so many coups in the district, French was up against a very able gang. For over six months the police had been searching for these men, and they seemed no nearer finding them now than in the beginning.
The bank-note, then, appeared to be the only chance, and French decided that he would begin operations by trying to trace the passer, trusting that if this line failed, some other would by that time have opened out.
The night was still young, and desiring to lose no time, French left his comfortable corner in the bar and went out to call on Mr. Tarkington.
The bank manager was greatly interested when French revealed his calling and mission. He willingly repeated all he knew about old Simon Averill and his finances and explained his theories at length.
“The only other thing I wish to ask you,” French remarked when the other showed signs of coming to an end, “is about previous sums sent out to Starvel. Your clerk kept a record of the numbers of all the twenty-pound notes sent in the last consignment, but have you a similar record of former consignments?”
Mr. Tarkington nodded.
“I early appreciated that point and made inquiries,” he replied in his precise, measured tones. “By my own instructions it has been the practice to keep such records of all notes over ten pounds in value, and this was done in the case of those sent to Starvel. The records, however, are not retained very long, and I did not hope to be able to lay my hands on those of earlier consignments. But by a piece of pure chance my clerk, Bloxham, found some earlier records in an old notebook, and I am able to give you the numbers of the notes of eleven; not consecutive consignments, but stretching at intervals over nearly five years. They cover £3,860, all of which was sent to Starvel in twenties; that is 193 twenties. I have their numbers here.”
“That’s a piece of luck for me,” French commented as he pocketed the list which the other passed him. “Curious that Mr. Averill collected twenty-pound notes. Why not fifties or hundreds or tens?”
Mr. Tarkington shook his head.
“Like most of us,” he said, a hint of human kindness showing beneath his rather dry manner, “the poor old fellow had his weakness. Why he should prefer twenties to notes of other denominations I don’t know. I can only record the fact that he did.”
The next morning French occupied in making the acquaintance of the obvious dramatis personæ in the case. He paid a long visit to Ruth Averill, hearing her story at first hand and questioning her on various details which occurred to him. Oxley he saw at his office, and the lugubrious Abel Hesketh, the town officer, he found at the toll-room in the markets. He was waiting for Dr. Emerson as the latter concluded his morning round, and he went to the trouble of an excursion over the moor to interview the red-haired farmer, Ge
orge Mellowes, who had driven Roper home on the fatal night. Dr. Philpot he also called on, to obtain his impressions of the Starvel household.
Lastly, he saw the bank clerk, Bloxham, who struck him at once as a man of character. Though seemingly not more than thirty, he had a strangely old face, sardonic and determined-looking, almost sinister. He gave his testimony with a refreshing restraint of words, and seemed to have observed carefully and to know just what he had seen. He said that on three occasions when he was at Starvel Mr. Averill had opened his safe and he had had a glimpse of its contents. From the size of the stacks of notes he would estimate that these contained possibly 1,500 separate notes. If these were twenties that would mean £30,000. There was also a cardboard box of sovereigns. If he had not heard the number he would have estimated that it contained about two thousand.
To all these people, except Oxley, who already knew the truth, French accounted for himself by the story of the detective employed to ascertain the cause of an unexplained fire. All seemed anxious to help him, but unfortunately none could tell him anything more than he already knew.
Having thus completed the obvious local inquiries, he felt free to follow up the matter of the £20 note. He therefore left Thirsby by the afternoon train and late at night reached St. Pancras. Next morning saw him at the headquarters of the Northern Shires Bank in Throgmorton Avenue. In five minutes he was closeted with the manager, who shook his head when he heard what was required of him.
Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy Page 6
