Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

“It’s your case, inspector,” he said seriously, “but if I were in your shoes I don’t think I’d be in a hurry with that warrant. It may not be advisable to arrest either of the Fleetwoods—yet.”

  Armadale was plainly puzzled; but it was equally evident that he believed Sir Clinton to have sound reasons for his amendment.

  “You think not, sir?” he asked, a shade apprehensively.

  Sir Clinton shook his head.

  “I think it would be a mistake to act immediately, inspector. But, of course, I’ll take the responsibility off your shoulders. I’ll put it in writing for you now if you wish it.”

  Armadale in turn shook his head.

  “No need for that, sir. You never let any of us down. But what’s your objection?”

  Sir Clinton seemed undecided for a moment.

  “For one thing, inspector,” he said at last, “there’s a flaw in that case of yours. You may be right in essentials; but you’ve left a loose end. And that brings me to another thing. There are far too many loose ends in the business, so far as it’s gone. Before we do anything irrevocable in the way of bringing definite charges, we must get these loose ends fixed up.”

  “You mean, sir?”

  “I mean we’ll have to eliminate other possibilities. Billingford is one. I hope to throw some light on that point to-night, inspector, about midnight. And that reminds me, you might get the light ready to throw—a couple of good flash-lamps will be enough, I think. Bring them along here about 11.30 p.m. and ask for me. Then there’s the dame with the neat shoe. She’s a loose end in the tangle. . . .”

  “I’ve been looking into that, sir.”

  Sir Clinton’s approval was obviously genuine.

  “Really, inspector, you’ve done remarkably well in the short time you’ve had. That’s good work indeed. And what are the results?”

  The inspector’s face showed they had not been altogether satisfactory.

  “Well, sir, that footprint wasn’t made by any of the hotel visitors. I’ve gone into it fully. Only three ladies here wear 3 ½’s: Miss Hamilton, Mrs. Rivel, and Miss Staunton. The footprint in the mud up at the cottage was made between nine and ten o’clock last night. Between those hours, Miss Hamilton was dancing—I’ve even a note of her partner’s name. She’s the best dancer here, it seems; and a lot of people were watching her for the pleasure of it. So she’s cleared. Mrs. Rivel was playing bridge from immediately after dinner until half-past eleven; so it couldn’t be her. And Miss Staunton twisted her ankle on the links yesterday and had Dr. Rafford up to look at it. She’s hobbling about with a stick, sir; and as there was no sign of a limp on the tracks, that clears her.”

  Sir Clinton considered the evidence without vocal comment. The inspector, anxious to prove his zeal, continued:

  “Just to make sure, I went over all the small-sized shoes. About half a dozen ladies wear 4’s: Miss Auston, Mrs. Wickham, Mrs. Fleetwood, Miss Fairford, that foreign lady with the double-barrelled name, Miss Leighton, and Miss Stanmore—the younger Miss Stanmore, I mean. But as it’s a 3½ shoe by the measurements I took, they’re all out of it. I’m making some quiet inquiries in the village, sir. It looks as if it might have been some local girl, from what we heard about Staveley’s habits. I’ll report as soon as anything turns up.”

  Sir Clinton had listened patiently to the inspector’s recital, but his next speech seemed to suggest that his attention had been wandering.

  “I think you’d better get some more constables over, inspector. Let ’em come in plain clothes and don’t advertise them. And you can turn Sapcote on to watch that crowd at Flatt’s cottage. I’ve just developed an interest in the fourth man—‘who would answer to “Hi!” or to any loud cry,’ as it says in The Hunting of the Snark. It’s the merest try-on; but I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s back again at the cottage. And, by the way, the two fishermen must have seen him when they went to borrow the boat. You might get a description of him from them.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And there’s a final point, inspector. I don’t want to overburden you, but what about the Peter Hay case? Anything further?”

  Armadale’s face showed that he thought he was being over-driven.

  “Well, sir,” he protested, “I really haven’t had much time.”

  “I wasn’t blaming you, inspector. It was a mere inquiry—not a criticism.”

  Armadale’s face cleared.

  “I’ve been to the sweet-shop, sir. Peter Hay hadn’t bought pear-drops there for a long while. In fact, they haven’t any in stock just now.”

  “That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. And Dr. Rafford says that undoubtedly the body contains amyl nitrite. He seemed a bit taken aback when I put it to him. I don’t think he’d spotted it off his own bat. But when I suggested it, he did some tests and found the stuff.”

  Sir Clinton rose to his feet as though to indicate that business was over. Armadale busied himself with the repacking of his bag. When he had finished, he moved over towards the door and began to unlock it. Before he got it open, Sir Clinton added a final remark.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit curious, inspector, that the Fordingbridge family should be mixed up, directly or indirectly, in these two affairs? Think it over, will you?”

  Chapter Nine

  The Second Cartridge-Case

  The chief constable had a fresh task on his hands as soon as Armadale took his leave. It seemed to him essential to get the body of the dead man identified by someone in addition to the group at Flatt’s cottage. Stanley Fleetwood was unable to move, even if he had wished to do so; and Sir Clinton had no particular desire to confront Cressida with her late husband’s corpse. Paul Fordingbridge had known Staveley well; and it was to him that the chief constable turned in this difficulty.

  To his relief, Paul Fordingbridge showed no annoyance at the state of affairs. He consented at once to go with the chief constable to inspect the body and give his evidence as to its identity. Wendover accompanied them in the car; and in Lynden Sands village the formalities were soon over. Fordingbridge had no hesitation in the matter; he recognised Staveley at the first glance.

  Until they were clear of the village again, Sir Clinton made no attempt to extract any further information; but when the car had crossed the neck at Flatt’s cottage and was running beside the bay, he slowed down and turned to Fordingbridge.

  “There’s a point you might be able to throw light on, Mr. Fordingbridge,” he said tentatively. “Quite obviously, Staveley was supposed to have been killed in the war. Could you give me any information about his earlier history? You came in contact with him at times, I understand.”

  Paul Fordingbridge seemed in no way put out by the request.

  “I can tell you all I know about the fellow easily enough,” he answered readily. “You’ll have to go elsewhere for any real information about his past; but, so far as I’m concerned, I met him here. My nephew, Derek, brought him home to spend his leave with us at Foxhills. That was in 1916. In the spring of ’17, he was slightly wounded; and we asked him down again to stay with us when he was convalescent. He married my niece in April 1917. The marriage wasn’t a success—quite the other thing. The fellow was a scoundrel of the worst brand. In September 1917 we learned privately that he had got into the black books of the military authorities; and my private impression—it’s only that, for I really don’t know—my private impression was that he ran the risk of a firing-party. What I heard was a rumour that he’d been given a chance to rehabilitate himself in the field. There was a big attack being mounted at the moment, and he was sent in with the rest. That was the last we heard of him. After the attack, he was posted as missing; and a while later still the War Office returned some of his things to my niece. It seems they’d found a body with his identity disc on it. Naturally we were relieved.”

  He halted for a moment; then, seeming to feel that he had put the matter in an unnecessarily callous way, he added:


  “He was a thoroughly bad lot, you understand? I caught him once trying to forge my name to a cheque for a good round figure.”

  Sir Clinton nodded his thanks for the information.

  “ Then I suppose one has to assume that in some way or other he managed to escape, after exchanging identity discs with somebody who was really killed,” he suggested. “It’s not difficult to see how that could be done.”

  Wendover interposed.

  “More difficult than it looks at first sight, Clinton. How do you imagine that he could conceal himself after the battle? He’d have to give some account of himself then.”

  “Oh, I expect he went amongst people who didn’t know his substitute by sight. That wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “He’d be picked up and sent back to his supposed unit very soon—the dead man’s unit, I mean. And then the fat would be in the fire.”

  “Obviously he wasn’t sent back, then, squire, if you prefer it so,” Sir Clinton conceded, turning to Fordingbridge. “What we’ve heard just now accounts well enough for Staveley being associated with your nephew lately—I mean the man who’s living at Flatt’s cottage.”

  “Is there a nephew of mine at Flatt’s cottage?” Paul Fordingbridge questioned coldly. “I don’t know with certainty that I have a nephew alive at all.”

  “He calls himself Derek Fordingbridge, if that’s any help.”

  “Oh, you mean that fellow? I’ve no proof that he’s my nephew.”

  “I should like to hear something more about him, if you don’t mind,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  “I’ve no objection—not the slightest,” Paul Fordingbridge responded. “My nephew Derek was in the Army from 1914. He was captured on the West Front in the same battle as the one I’ve been speaking about. We learned later on that he’d been sent to the prisoners’ camp at Clausthal. He got away from there almost at once and made a good try to get over the Dutch frontier; but they got hold of him at the last moment. Then he was sent to Fort 9, Ingolstadt. He hadn’t been there a week before he got away again. My impression is that most probably he was shot in trying to get across the Swiss frontier, if not earlier; and they failed to identify him. We heard no more about him, anyhow; and when the prisoners were released after the Armistice, he wasn’t among them. If this fellow were really my nephew, it’s hard to see why he’s let so long a lime go by without communicating with us. If he really is my nephew, there’s a lot of money waiting for him; and he’s an enterprising chap, as you can see from his escape attempts. And yet we’ve had no word from him of any sort since before the attack in which he was captured.”

  “Lost his memory, perhaps?” Wendover suggested.

  “It might be possible,” Paul Fordingbridge answered in a frigid tone which damped further speculation on Wendover’s part. Turning to Sir Clinton, he added: “Unless there’s any further information you want, I think I’ll get down here and walk back to the hotel. I’d be glad of a chance to stretch my legs.”

  As Sir Clinton showed no desire to detain him, he stepped out of the car; and they soon left him behind.

  “Barring the girl,” Wendover confided to Sir Clinton as they drove on, “that Fordingbridge family seem a damned rum crew.”

  “You surprise me, squire. You even capture my interest. Proceed.”

  “Well, what do you make of it all?”

  “I’ll admit that my vulgar curiosity is piqued by their highly developed faculty of reticence. Miss Fordingbridge seems the only one of them who has a normal human desire to talk about her own affairs.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “They seem a bit at sixes and sevens. But you’ve a much acuter mind than I have, so I suppose you spotted that quite a long time ago.”

  “I had a glimmering of it,” Wendover retorted sarcastically. “Anything more?”

  “Oh, yes. For one thing, Mr. Paul Fordingbridge seems to have a singularly detached mind. Why, even you, squire, with your icy and well-balanced intellect, seem to be more affected by his niece’s troubles than the wicked uncle is. Quite like the Babes in the Wood, isn’t it?—with you in the rôle of a robin. All you need are some leaves and a red waistcoat to make the thing go properly.”

  “It’s hardly a thing to laugh at, Clinton.”

  “I’m not laughing,” Sir Clinton said soberly. “Hanging’s no joke. Remember the Ballad of Sam Hall—

  “Then the parson he will come . . . .

  and all the rest of the gruesome ceremonial? It would be a bad business if the wrong person got hanged by mistake.”

  Before Wendover could reply, the car drew up before the front of the hotel.

  “You can get out here, squire. There’s no need to go round with me to the garage.”

  But as Wendover was prepared to get down, they saw the Australian, Cargill, hurrying towards them. He had been sitting on one of the garden-seats, evidently on the look-out for their arrival.

  “I’ve been hunting for you for ever so long, Sir Clinton,” he explained as he came up to the car. “I missed you at lunch-time; and when I tried to get hold of you, I found you’d gone off. I’ve got something that seems important to show you.”

  He fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a tiny glittering object which he handed over to the chief constable. Wendover saw, as it passed from hand to hand, that it was the empty case of a .38 cartridge.

  “I’ve seen things of this sort before,” Sir Clinton said indifferently as he glanced at it. “I doubt if the loser’s likely to offer a reward.”

  Cargill seemed taken aback.

  “Can’t you see its importance?” he demanded. “I found it down on the beach this morning.”

  “How was I to know that until you told me?” Sir Clinton asked mildly. “I’m not psychic, as they call it. I just have to be told things plainly. But I shouldn’t shout them, Mr. Cargill, if they really are important.”

  Cargill dropped his voice at the implied rebuke.

  “You remember I was down bathing this morning before breakfast? And you warned me off the premises—wouldn’t let me come nearer than the groyne. I sat down on the groyne and watched you for a while; then you went away. I wasn’t in a hurry to bathe just then, so I sat for a bit on the groyne, just thinking things over and trying to put two and two together from what I could see of the footmarks on the sands. I suppose I must have sat there for a quarter of an hour or so. When I got up again, I found I’d been kicking up the sand a bit while I was thinking—shuffling about without noticing what I was doing with my feet. And when I looked down—there was this thing shining on the sand at my toes. It was half hidden; and until I picked it up I didn’t spot what it was. By that time your party had cleared out. So I made a careful note of the spot, put the thing in my pocket, and set off to look for you. Unfortunately, you weren’t to be found just then; so I’ve been waiting till I could get hold of you.”

  He looked at the chief constable eagerly as though expecting some display of emotion as a reward for his trouble; but Sir Clinton’s face betrayed nothing as he thanked Cargill.

  “Would you mind getting aboard?” he asked immediately. “I’d like to see just where you found this thing.”

  Then, as a concession to Cargill’s feelings, he added:

  “You must have pretty sharp eyes. I thought I’d been over that ground fairly carefully myself.”

  “Probably the thing was buried in the sand,” the Australian pointed out. “I saw it only after I kicked about a while.”

  Sir Clinton turned the car and took the road leading down to Neptune’s Seat.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Cargill?” he inquired, after a moment or two.

  “I haven’t thought much about it,” Cargill answered. “It seemed straightforward enough. Somebody must have been behind the groyne and fired a shot. It’s within easy shooting distance of the rock where the body was found.”

  Wendover opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, thinking better of it, he refrained.r />
  When they reached the shore, the tide was sufficiently far out to allow Cargill to show them the spot at which he had picked up the cartridge-case. Wendover still had a mental map in his head, and he recognised that the shot must have been fired by the man behind the groyne at the time when he was nearest to Neptune’s Seat. If Stanley Fleetwood was even a moderate shot with an automatic, he could hardly have missed Staveley’s figure at the distance.

  Sir Clinton seemed to become more keenly interested when they reached the shore. His detached manner thawed markedly, and he thanked Cargill again for having brought the evidence to light.

  “Oh, it was only an accident,” the Australian protested. “I wasn’t looking for anything. It just chanced to catch my eye. Does it throw any light on things?”

  Sir Clinton obviously resented the question.

  “Everything helps,” he said sententiously.

  Cargill saw that he had been indiscreet.

  “Oh, I’m not trying to stick my oar in,” he hastened to assure the chief constable. “I just asked out of mere curiosity.”

  He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he changed the subject completely.

  “By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying somewhere hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came across somebody of that name in the war.”

  “He’s staying at that cottage across the bay,” Wendover explained, pointing out Flatt’s cottage as he spoke. “What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance, I mean.”

  “Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair darkish, if I remember right.”

  “This looks like your man, then,” Wendover assured him. “But you’ll probably find him a bit altered. He’s had some bad wounds.”

  “Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I’ll just go across the bay now and see if he’s at home. I’m half-way there already.”

  Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on finding that it would be taking them out of their way, Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he should stumble into it unawares.