Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “That’s an interesting find,” Wendover volunteered as they climbed the beach. “I didn’t say anything in front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence.”

  “You mean that Billingford couldn’t tell the inspector whether there was a single shot or a pair?” Sir Clinton inquired.

  “Yes. That looked funny at first sight; but if the two shots were fired almost simultaneously, then it would have been a bit difficult to say whether there was a double report or not.”

  “That’s so, squire. You’re getting devilish acute these days, I must admit.”

  But, from his friend’s tone, the compliment did not sound so warm as the words suggested. Wendover imagined that he detected a tinge of irony in Sir Clinton’s voice; but it was so faint that he could not feel certain of it.

  “I’m getting too much into a groove,” the chief constable went on. “This was supposed to be a holiday; and yet I’m spending almost every minute of it in rushing about at Armadale’s coat-tails. I really must have some relaxation. There’s some dancing at the hotel to-night and I think I’ll join. I need a change of occupation.”

  Wendover was not a dancing man, but he liked to watch dancers; so after dinner he found his way to the ballroom of the hotel, ensconced himself comfortably in a corner from which he had a good view of the floor, and prepared to enjoy himself. He had a half-suspicion that Sir Clinton’s sudden humour for dancing was not wholly explicable on the ground of a mere relaxation, though the chief constable was undoubtedly a good dancer; and he watched with interest to see what partners his friend would choose.

  Any expectations he might have had were unfulfilled, however. Sir Clinton seemed to pay no particular attention to any of his partners; and most of them obviously could have no connection with the tragedies. Once, it is true, he sat out with Miss Staunton, whose ankle was apparently not sufficiently strong to allow her to dance; and Wendover noted also that three others on Armadale’s list—Miss Fairford, Miss Stanmore, and Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux—were among his friend’s partners.

  Shortly before midnight, Sir Clinton seemed to tire of his amusement. He took leave of Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, with whom he had been dancing, and came across the room to Wendover.

  “Profited by your study of vamps, I hope, Clinton?”

  Sir Clinton professed to be puzzled by the inquiry.

  “Vamps? Oh, you mean Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, I suppose. I’m afraid she found me poor ground for her talents. I made it clear to her at the start that she was far above rubies and chief constables. All I had to offer was the purest friendship. It seems it was a new sensation to her—never met anything of the sort before. She’s rather interesting, squire. You might do worse than cultivate her acquaintance—on the same terms as myself. Now, come along. We’ll need to change before Armadale turns up, unless you have a fancy to dabble your dress trousers in the brine down there.”

  They left the room and made their way towards the lift. In the corridor they encountered Cargill, who stopped them.

  “Thanks for directing me to that cottage,” he said. “It turned out to be the man I knew, right enough. But I’d hardly have recognised him, poor devil. He used to be a fine-looking beggar—and look at him now.”

  “Enjoy a talk with him?” Sir Clinton asked politely.

  “Oh, yes. But I was a bit surprised to hear that he’s quite a big pot with an estate and all that. I only knew him in the war, of course, and it seems he came into the cash later on. Foxhills is his place, isn’t it?”

  “So I’m told. By the way, did you meet his friend, Mr. Billingford? He’s an amusing artist.”

  Cargill’s brow clouded slightly.

  “You think so?” he said doubtfully.

  Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.

  “I’m sorry I’ve got to hurry off, Mr. Cargill. I’d no notion it was so late.”

  With a nod, Cargill passed on. Sir Clinton and Wendover hurried upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for the sands. They were ready just as the inspector knocked at the chief constable’s door; and in a few minutes all three were in Sir Clinton’s car on the road to the beach.

  “Got the flash-lamps, inspector?” Sir Clinton demanded as he pulled up the car at a point considerably beyond Neptune’s Seat. “That’s all right. We get out here, I think. We ought to be opposite those two cairns we built, if I’m not out in my reckoning.”

  They moved down the beach and soon came to a long pool of sea-water extending into the darkness on either hand. Sir Clinton surveyed it for a moment.

  “We’ll just have to splash through, I suppose,” he said, and set an example. “It won’t take you over your ankles.”

  A few seconds took them through the shallow pool and brought them to drying sands on the farther side.

  “This is a low whale-back,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “When the tide’s full in, this is covered, like all the rest. Then, as the tide falls, the whale-back acts as a dam and there’s a big sea-pool left on the sands between here and the road. That’s the pool we’ve just waded through. Now we’ll look for the next item.”

  Wendover and Armadale followed him across the sands to where a broad stream of water was pouring down towards the sea.

  “This is the channel between our whale-back and the next one,” Sir Clinton explained as they came up to it. “This water comes from the pool that we waded; and the cairns are on each side of it, lower down.”

  The night was cloudy, and they had to use their flash-lamps from time to time.

  “What I want noted is the exact time when the stream just touches the cairns on each side. Just now, as you can see, the cairns are in the water; but the level of the stream’s sinking as the head of water falls in the pool behind. Watch till the stream runs between the two piles of stone and then note the time.”

  Slowly the flow diminished as the water emptied itself from the pool behind; and at last they saw the rivulet confined to a channel between the two cairns.

  “I make it five past twelve,” Sir Clinton said, lifting his eyes from his watch. “Now I’m going over to Neptune’s Seat. You stay here, inspector; and when you see my flash-lamp, run your hardest to the rock and join me.”

  He disappeared in the darkness, leaving the others rather puzzled as to the meaning of these manœuvres. At last Wendover thought he saw the point.

  “I see what he’s getting at.”

  But just as he was about to explain the matter to the inspector, they saw the flash of Sir Clinton’s lamp and Armadale set off at a lumbering trot across the sands with Wendover hurrying after him.

  “It’s simple enough,” Sir Clinton explained when all three had gathered at Neptune’s Seat. “You remember that Billingford’s track was broken where the cairns are—no footprints visible for several yards. That was the place where he crossed the runnel last night. All we need to do is to note when the runnel is the same breadth at that point to-night—which we’ve just done—and then make a correction of about forty minutes for the tide being later this evening. It’s not exact, of course; but it’s near enough, perhaps.”

  “I thought you were after something of the sort,” Wendover interjected. “Once I got as far as the runnel I tumbled to the idea.”

  “Well, let’s take the results,” Sir Clinton went on. “The runnel was in the right state to-night at five past twelve. Make the forty-one minute deduction—since the tide’s forty-one minutes later to-night than it was last night—and you get 11.25 p.m. as the time when Billingford crossed that rivulet last night. Now the inspector took over seven minutes to run from the cairns to Neptune’s Seat, for I timed him. Therefore, even if Billingford had run the whole distance, he couldn’t have reached Neptune’s Seat before 11.32 at the earliest. As a matter of fact, his track showed that he walked most of the way, which makes the possible time of his arrival here a bit later than 11.32 p.m.”

  “So he couldn’t have fired a shot at 11.1
9 when Staveley’s watch stopped?” Wendover inferred.

  “Obviously he couldn’t. There’s more in it than that; though I needn’t worry you with that at present, perhaps. But this bit of evidence eliminates another possibility I’d had my eye on. Billingford might have walked into the runnel and then waded down the rivulet into the sea, leaving no traces. Then he might have come along the beach, wading in the waves, and shot Staveley from the water. After that, if he’d returned the way he came, he could have emerged from the runnel at the same point, only on this bank of the channel, and left his single track up to Neptune’s Seat, just as we found it. But that won’t fit in with the shot fired at 11.19 p.m., obviously. If he’d done this, then his last footmark on the far side would have been made when the runnel was full, and his first footmark on this side would have been made later, when the runnel had shrunk a bit; and the two wouldn’t have fitted the banks neatly as we found to-night that they did.”

  “I see all that, clear enough, sir,” said Armadale briskly. “That means the circle’s narrowed a bit further. If Billingford didn’t fire that shot, then you’re left with only three other people on the list: the two Fleetwoods and the woman with the 3½ shoe. If she can be eliminated like Billingford, then the case against the Fleetwoods is conclusive.”

  “Don’t be in too much of a hurry, inspector. How are you getting along with the shoe question?” Sir Clinton inquired a trifle maliciously.

  “To tell you the truth,” the inspector replied guardedly, “I haven’t been able to get to the root of it yet, sir. Only two of the village girls take that size of shoe. One of them’s only a kiddie; the other’s away on a visit just now. It doesn’t look like either of them.”

  “And the Hay case?” the chief constable demanded.

  The inspector made an inarticulate sound which suggested that he had nothing fresh to recount on this subject.

  “And the P.M. on Staveley’s body?” pursued Sir Clinton.

  Here the Inspector had something to report, though not much.

  “Dr. Rafford’s gone into it, sir. The contused wound on the back of the head’s nothing to speak of. The base of the skull’s intact. That blow had nothing to do with his death. At the most, it might have stunned him for a minute or two. According to the doctor, Staveley was killed by the shot; and he thinks that the shot wasn’t fired at absolutely close quarters. That fits in with the fact that I could find no singeing of die cloth of his raincoat or his jacket round about the bullet-hole. Dr. Rafford found the bullet, all correct. Death must have been practically instantaneous, according to the doctor’s view. These are the main results. He’s written a detailed report for reference, of course.”

  Sir Clinton made no direct comment.

  “I think that’ll do for to-night, inspector. Come up to the car and I’ll run you into the village. By the way, I want some of your constables to-morrow morning for a bit of work; and you’d better hire some labourers as well—say a dozen men altogether. Tell them to dig up the sand between Neptune’s Seat and the sea to the depth of about a foot, and shift it up into a pile above high-tide mark.”

  “And how far are they to carry their digging?” Wendover inquired.

  “I really doubt if they’ll be able to dig much below low-tide mark. What do you think?”

  “And what do you expect to find there?” Wendover persisted.

  “Oh, a shell or two, most likely,” Sir Clinton retorted caustically. “Would you like a bet on it, squire?”

  Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing would be gained by further persistence.

  Chapter Ten

  The Attack on the Australian

  Next morning, before going to the links, Sir Clinton went to the shore and superintended the start of the excavating work there; but when once the actual digging had begun, he seemed to lose interest in the matter. It was not until late in the afternoon that he paid his second visit, accompanied by Wendover. Even then he contented himself with the most casual inspection, and soon turned back towards the hotel.

  “What are you after with all this spade-work?” Wendover demanded as they sauntered up the road.

  Sir Clinton turned and made a gesture towards the little crowd of inquisitive visitors and natives who had congregated around the diggers.

  “I’ve heard rumours, squire, that the Lynden Sands public thinks the police aren’t busy enough in the sleuthhound business. Unofficial opinion seems divided as to whether we’re pure duds or merely lazy. They want to see something actually being done to clear up these mysteries. Well, they’ve got something to talk about now, you see. That’s always a gain. So long as they can stand and gape at the digging down there, they won’t worry us too much in the things we really have to do.”

  “But seriously, Clinton, what do you expect to find?”

  Sir Clinton turned a bland smile on his companion.

  “Oh, shells, as I told you before, squire. Shells, almost certainly. And perhaps the brass bottle that the jinnee threw into the sea after he’d escaped from it—the Arabian Nights tale, you remember. Once one starts digging in real earnest one never can tell what one may not find.”

  Wendover made a gesture of impatience.

  “I suppose you’re looking for something.”

  “I’ve told you exactly what I expect to find, squire. And it’s no good your going off to pump these diggers, or even the inspector, for they don’t know what they’re looking for themselves. The general public can ask questions till it’s tired, but it won’t learn much on the beach. That’ll tend to keep its excitement at fever-heat and prevent it looking any farther for points of interest.”

  As they neared the hotel they overtook Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, who was walking leisurely up the road. Sir Clinton slowed down to her pace, and opened a brisk conversation as he came abreast of her. Wendover, feeling rather out of it, inspected Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux covertly with some disfavour.

  “Now, what the devil does Clinton see in that vamp?” he asked himself as they moved on together. “He’s not the usual idiot, by a long chalk. She’ll get no change out of him. But what does he expect to get out of her? It’s not like him. Of course, she’s a bit out of things here; but she doesn’t look the sort that would mind that much, somehow. And he’s evidently laying himself out to get into her good graces. It’s a bit rum.”

  He could not deny that the personal attractions of Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux were much above the average; and, despite himself, he felt a tinge of uneasiness in his mind. After all, even the cleverest men get caught occasionally; and it was plain enough that Sir Clinton was doing his best to make friends with the Frenchwoman.

  They had just entered the hotel grounds when Wendover saw approaching them down the drive the figure of Cargill. The Australian seemed to have something to say to them, for he quickened his pace when he caught sight of Sir Clinton.

  “I’ve come across something else that might be of importance,” he said, addressing the chief constable without a glance at the others. “It’s a——”

  He broke off abruptly, with a glance at Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. It seemed almost as though he had not seen before that she was there, or as if he had just recognised her.

  “I’ll let you see it later on,” he explained rather confusedly. “I’ll have to hunt it out. I find I’ve left it in the pocket of another jacket.”

  Sir Clinton successfully repressed any signs of a curiosity which he might have felt.

  Oh, any time you like,” he suggested, without betraying much interest in the matter.

  By an almost imperceptible manœuvre he broke the group up into two pairs, and moved on towards the hotel entrance with Mme Laurent Desrousseaux, leaving Wendover and the Australian to follow if they chose. It was almost dinner-time as they entered the building; and Wendover took the opportunity of shaking off Cargill, who seemed inclined to cling to him more than he wished.

  Rather to Wendover’s surprise
, Sir Clinton showed no inclination, after dinner, to plunge into further investigations.

  “We mustn’t be greedy, squire,” he argued. “We must leave the inspector a fair share of the case, you know. If amateurs like ourselves bustle around too much, the professional would have no practice in his art at all.”

  “If you ask me,” Wendover retorted, “the professional’s spending all his time barking furiously at the foot of the wrong tree.”

  “You think so? Well, if the cats up the tree insist on making a noise like a murderer, you can’t blame him, can you?”

  “I don’t like his damned flat-footed way of going about his job,” Wendover protested angrily. “One always supposed that people were treated as innocent until they were convicted; but your inspector interviewed that girl as if he were measuring her for a rope.”

  “He’s built up a wonderfully convincing case, squire; don’t forget that.”

  “But you admitted yourself that there’s a flaw in it, Clinton. By the way, what is the flaw?”

  But Sir Clinton did not rise to the bait.

  “Think it over, squire. If that doesn’t do the trick, then think again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and try a third dose. It’s one of these obvious points which I’d hate to lay before you, because you’d be covered with confusion at once if I explained it. But remember one thing. Even if the inspector’s case breaks down in one detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation than the Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to the present. That’s obvious. And now, what about picking up a couple of men and making up a table at bridge?”

  Wendover’s play that evening was not up to its usual standard. At the back of his mind throughout there was the picture of Cressida and her husband upstairs, weighed down by the burden of the unformulated charge against them and preparing as best they could against the renewal of the inquisition which could not be long delayed. He could picture to himself the almost incessant examination and re-examination of the evidence which they must be making; the attempts to slur over points which would tell heavily against them; the dread of the coming ordeal at the hands of Armadale; and the terror of some masked battery which might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He grew more and more determined to put a spoke in the inspector’s wheel if it were at all possible.