Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “He met his match in young Fleetwood,” Wendover pointed out, with hardly concealed satisfaction.

  Sir Clinton gazed across the table with a curious expression on his face.

  “For a J.P. you seem to be strangely out of sympathy with the minions of the law. If you ask me, young Fleetwood will have himself to thank for anything that happens now. Of course, he’s gained two or three days in which he can discuss everything in detail with his wife, and they can concoct between them just what they propose to tell us eventually. But I never yet saw a faked-up yarn that would stand the test of careful investigation and checking. And you may take it that, after the way Armadale was received, he’ll put every word he gets from them under a microscope before he accepts it as true.”

  Wendover nodded a gloomy assent to this view.

  “I expect he will,” he agreed. “Perhaps it’s a pity that young Fleetwood took that line.”

  “I gave him his chance to make a clean breast of it, if he’d any reasonable tale to tell,” Sir Clinton pointed out with a trace of impatience. “All I got was a piece of guttersnipe insolence. Obviously he thinks he can get the better of us; but when it comes to the pinch, I think— ”

  He broke off abruptly. Wendover, glancing round, saw that Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux had come into the room and was moving in the direction of their table. As she came towards them, he compared her, half unconsciously, with Cressida Fleetwood. Both of them would have been conspicuous in any group; but Cressida’s looks were a gift of Nature, whereas Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux was obviously a more artificial product. Everything about her proclaimed that the utmost care had been spent upon her appearance; and even the reined-in manner of her walk suggested a studied movement in contrast to Cressida’s lithe and natural step. Wendover noted that the wave in her red-brown hair was a permanent one, obviously too well designed to be anything but artificial.

  “Now, why the deuce does one say ‘foreigner’ as soon as one sees her?” he inquired of himself. “Heaps of English girls wear dresses like that in the morning, though they may not carry them so well. And they have their hair waved, too. And her face isn’t particularly Continental-looking; I’ve seen types like that often enough in this country. It must be the way she moves, or else the way she looks at one.”

  Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux gave him a brilliant smile of recognition as she passed; then, seating herself at the next table, she took up the menu and studied it with a look of distaste on her features. Quite evidently the English breakfast was not much to her liking. After some consideration she gave her order to the waiter by pointing to the card, as if she mistrusted her pronunciation of some of the words.

  Sir Clinton obviously had no desire to discuss police affairs any further, with a possible eavesdropper at his elbow. He went on with his breakfast, and, as soon as Wendover had finished, he rose from the table with a glance at his wrist-watch.

  “We’d better pick up the inspector and get off to Lynden Sands. I’ll bring the car round.”

  At the hotel door, a few minutes later, Armadale for some reason or other seemed to be in high spirits; but he gave no indication of the cause of his cheerfulness.

  A few minutes’ run along the coast brought them to Lynden Sands village, and the inspector directed Sir Clinton to Sapcote’s house. The constable was evidently on the look-out, for as they were about to knock at the door he appeared and invited them into a room where Billingford was sitting. At the first glance, Wendover was prejudiced against the man. Billingford had the air of someone trying to carry off an awkward situation by a forced jauntiness; and, in the circumstances, this jarred on Wendover. But, on reflection, he had to admit to himself that Billingford’s position was an awkward one, and that an easy demeanour was hardly to be expected under these conditions.

  “Now, Mr. Billingford,” the inspector began at once, “I’ve one or two questions to ask you. First of all, why didn’t you tell the constable immediately that Staveley was a friend of yours? You must have recognised him whenever you saw the body on the rock.”

  Billingford’s surprise was either genuine or else must have been very well simulated.

  “Staveley, is it?” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know it was Staveley! There was a cloud over the moon when I got to the body, and I couldn’t see the face. It was quite dark then for a while—so dark that on the way there I splashed through a regular baby river on the beach. My trousers are all wet still round the boot-tops. Staveley, is it? Well, well!”

  Wendover could make nothing of the man. For all he could see, Billingford might be genuinely surprised to hear of Staveley’s death. But, if he were, his emotion at the loss of a friend could hardly be called excessive.

  The inspector put his next question.

  “Did you know if Staveley had gone out to meet anyone last night?”

  Billingford’s eyes contracted momentarily at this question. Wendover got the impression of a man on his guard, and thinking hard while he talked.

  “Meeting anyone? Staveley? No, I can’t say I remember his saying anything about it to me. He went out some time round about ten o’clock. But I thought he’d just gone for a turn in the fresh air. We’d been smoking a lot, and the room was a bit stuffy.”

  The inspector jotted something in his note-book before asking his next question.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Billingford?”

  Billingford’s face assumed a bland expression.

  “Me? Oh, I’m a commission agent.”

  “Do you mean a commercial traveller?” Armadale demanded.

  A faint smile crossed Sir Clinton’s face.

  “I think Mr. Billingford means that he lives by his wits, inspector. Am I correct?” he asked, turning to Billingford.

  “Well, in a way, yes,” was the unashamed reply. “But commission agent sounds rather better if it gets into the papers.”

  “A very proper tribute to respectability,” Sir Clinton commented drily.

  “What did you know about Staveley?” the inspector went on.

  “Staveley? Nothing much. Used to meet him now and again. The two of us did business together at times.”

  “Was he a commission agent too?” the inspector inquired ironically.

  “Well, sometimes he said he was that, and other times he put himself down as a labourer.”

  “On the police charge-sheet, you mean?” Sir Clinton asked.

  Billingford grinned openly.

  “Never saw the inside of a gaol in my life,” he boasted. “Nor did Staveley either, that I know about.”

  “I’ve no doubt my colleagues did their best,” Sir Clinton said amiably.

  The inspector came back to his earlier question.

  “Is that all you can tell us about him?”

  “Who? Staveley? Well, sometimes we worked together. But it’s not likely I’d tell you much about that, is it?”

  “What was he doing down here?”

  “Staying with me for a day or two. I was getting a bit jaded with rush-work in the City, so I came down here for a rest. And Staveley, he said he’d join me and we’d work out a new scheme for benefiting some members of the public.”

  The inspector nodded.

  “Some easy-money business, I suppose. Now come to last night, and be careful what you say. Tell me exactly what you can remember. Begin about dinner-time.”

  Billingford reflected for a moment or two before answering.

  “After dinner, things were a bit dull, so the three of us started to play poker to pass the time.”

  “Three of you?” Armadale interrupted. “Who was the third man?”

  “Oh, he’s an Australian by the twang. Derek Fordingbridge, he calls himself. Staveley brought him down. There was something about his having an estate round about here, and wanting to take a look at it.”

  “You hadn’t met him before?”

  “Me? Oh, only once or twice. I thought he was just another labourer in the vineyard, if you take me.”

  “A co
mpetitor of yours in the commission agent business? What was he doing in that line if he had an estate?”

  “Search me!” Billingford answered guardedly. “I’m not one for asking too many questions about people’s affairs. ‘Do unto others as you’d be done by’ is my motto.”

  Armadale evidently realised that he would get nothing by persisting on this line.

  “You played poker, then. Anything further happen?”

  Billingford seemed to be considering carefully before he ventured further. At last he made up his mind.

  “About half-past nine, I think, someone came to the door. Staveley got up and went to see who it was. I heard him say: ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ or words to that effect—as if he’d been taken by surprise. Then I heard a woman’s voice say something. I didn’t catch the words. And when Staveley replied, he dropped his voice. They talked for a bit, and then he shut the door.”

  “And after that? Did you find out who the woman was?”

  “Not I. Some local piece, I expect. Staveley was always a good hand at getting hold of them. He’d a sort of way with him, and could get round them in no time. Made a kind of hobby of it. Overdid it, to my mind.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nothing much that I remember. We played somemore poker, and then Staveley began grousing about the stuffiness of the place. Mostly his own fault, too. Those cigars of his were pretty heavy. So he went out for some fresh air.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten o’clock. I told you before. Perhaps 10.15. I can’t be sure to a minute.”

  “And then?”

  “I felt a bit wakeful. I lose a lot of sleep some nights. So I thought I’d go for a turn along the shore and see if that would cure it.”

  “When did you leave the house?”

  “A little before eleven, I think. I didn’t notice. It was after Fordingbridge had gone to bed, anyhow.”

  The inspector absent-mindedly tapped his note-book with his pencil for a moment or two. Then he glanced at Sir Clinton.

  “That’s all I want to ask you just now,” he said. “You’ll be needed at the inquest, of course. I suppose you’re staying on for a while at Lynden Sands?”

  “Oh, yes,” Billingford replied carelessly. “If you want me any time, I’ll be handy. Always pleased to play ‘Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?’ with you any time you like, inspector.”

  “I daresay you’ve had plenty of practice,” Armadale growled. “Well, you can go now. Hold on, though! You can show us the way up to Flatt’s cottage. I’ll need to see this friend of yours, Fordingbridge.”

  “Meaning to check up my story?” Billingford suggested, unabashed. “I’ve met this sort of sceptical spirit before. Somehow it always seems to develop in people who’ve worn a constable’s helmet in their youth. Compression of the credulity lobe of the brain, or something like that, perhaps.”

  Armadale made no reply, but led the way out of the house. Before they had gone more than a few yards, a police-sergeant came forward and accosted the inspector. After a few words, Armadale turned to Sir Clinton.

  “Now we’ve got the constables, sir, I think we’d better get the body ashore and notify Dr. Rafford that we’ll need a P.M. done. If you don’t mind going round by the beach, I can put the sergeant here in charge; and then we can go on to Flatt’s.”

  The chief constable made no objection; and the inspector paid no attention to Billingford’s humorous protest against a further waste of his time. The whole party made their way down to the shore, where they found most of the idlers of the village assembled, awaiting the putting in of the boat.

  Armadale signalled to the two fishermen; and very soon they rowed their craft to the little pier. The police kept the crowd back while the body was being landed. Then the inspector gave the sergeant some instructions; and under the guidance of Sapcote the squad set off into the village with the body.

  Suddenly Billingford seemed to recognise the rowing-boat.

  “Snaffled my boat, have you, inspector? Well, I like the nerve of that! If I’d borrowed your handkerchief without asking you, there’d have been a bit of a stir in official circles. But when you take and steal my boat, everybody seems to think it’s just the sort of thing you would do. Well, brother, we’ll say no more about it. I never care to rub things in. Live and let live’s my motto.”

  Armadale refused to be drawn.

  “We’ll clean up the boat and return it in the afternoon,” he said shortly. “Now come along. I haven’t time to waste.”

  A short walk took them to Flatt’s cottage, which stood near the point of the promontory between the village and the bay in which Staveley’s body had been found. The road up to it was hardly better than a rough track, and pools of water stood here and there which evidently dated farther back than the rain of the previous night. The cottage itself was neatly kept, and seemed fairly roomy.

  “Call your friend,” Armadale ordered, as they reached the door.

  Billingford complied without protest, and almost at once they heard steps approaching. As the door opened, Wendover received a shock. The man who stood before them was almost faceless; and his eyes looked out from amid a mass of old scars which gave him the appearance of something inhuman. The hand which held the door open lacked the first two fingers. Wendover had never seen such a wreck. When he took his eyes from the distorted visage, it was almost a surprise to find that the rest of the form was intact.

  The new-comer stared at them for a moment. His attitude showed the surprise which his face could not express.

  “What made you bring this gang here, Billingford?” he demanded. “Visitors are barred, you know that quite well.”

  He made a suggestive gesture towards his twisted face.

  Armadale stepped forward.

  “You’re Mr. Fordingbridge, aren’t you?” he asked.

  The apparition nodded, and fixed its eyes on him without saying anything.

  “I’m Inspector Armadale. I suppose you know that your friend Staveley was murdered last night?”

  Derek Fordingbridge shook his head.

  “I heard there had been a murder. I believe they borrowed the boat from here to use in bringing the body in. But I didn’t know it was Staveley. Who did it?”

  “Weren’t you surprised that he didn’t come home last night?” the inspector demanded.

  Something which might have been a smile passed over the shattered face.

  “No. He had a knack of staying out all night often enough. It wasn’t uncommon. Was there a woman in the case?”

  “I think we’ll get on faster if you let me do the questioning,” said the inspector bluntly. “I’m sorry I haven’t any time to spare just now. Can you tell me anything about Staveley?”

  “He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my cousin Cressida during the war.”

  Armadale’s face lighted up as he heard this.

  “Then how do you account for her being the wife of Mr. Stanley Fleetwood?” he asked abruptly.

  Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently.

  “Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn’t turn up after the war, so I expect she wrote him down as dead. She’d hardly grieve over him, from what I know of his habits.”

  “Ah,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. Had she come across him by any chance since he came down here?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’m hardly in touch with the rest of my family at present.”

  The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the claimant to the Foxhills estate, did not think it necessary to pursue the matter further. He turned back to the more immediate question.

  “Can you tell me anything about Staveley’s movements last night?”

  “Nothing much. We played poker after dinner. Someone interrupted us—a friend of Staveley’s. Then we played some more. Then I went to bed early. That’s all.”

  “What about this friend of Staveley’s? Was it a man or a woman?”


  “A woman, I believe; but I didn’t see. Staveley went to the door himself. That would be between nine and ten o’clock.”

  “When did Staveley go out?”

  “I can’t say. After ten o’clock, at any rate, for I went to bed then. I’d a headache.”

  “When did you hear about the murder?”

  “Before I got out of bed. I was told that two men wanted to borrow the boat.”

  The inspector paused before continuing his inquiry. When he spoke again, it was on a different point.

  “I shall need to go through his luggage, of course. Can I see it?”

  Derek Fordingbridge led the way into the cottage.

  “It’s in there,” he said, indicating one of the rooms. “He’d only a suit-case with him.”

  The inspector knelt down and turned out the suitcase’s contents with some care.

  “Nothing here of any use,” he said disappointedly when he had finished. “One or two odds and ends. No papers.”

  He rummaged in the drawers of the room-furniture with the same lack of success. As he rose to his feet, Sir Clinton turned to Fordingbridge.

  “I’d like to see the fourth man of the party,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind getting hold of him for me if he’s here.”

  Wendover and Armadale showed some surprise; but Fordingbridge seemed to see nothing in it.

  “That’s rather sharp of you. It’s just as well we aren’t up against you. You mean the man who told me about the boat being wanted? Sorry I can’t get him for you. He was a handy-man we brought down with us. Billingford had a row with him last night and fired him, so he took himself off this morning.”

  “What was his name?”

  Billingford’s look of innocence was intentionally overdone.

  “His name? Well, I called him Jack.”

  “Jack what?”

  “Just Jack. Or at times: ‘Here! You!’ He answered to either.”

  Inspector Armadale’s temper began to show signs of fraying.

  “You must know something more about him. Hadn’t he a character when you employed him?”

  “Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my whiskey.”