Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “And it was the golf dressing-room with the side- entrance from the outside?”

  “Of course. By the time he’d tumbled to what was up, she’d slipped off. Her golf-shoes and blazer are gone. She’s diddled us. I wouldn’t have had this happen for ever so much.”

  Wendover did not feel called upon to offer any sympathy.

  “What do you come to me for?” he demanded. “I know nothing about her.”

  Armadale put his finger on the last phrase in the telegram.

  “It’s his own car he wants, apparently. You can get it out of the garage, sir, with less fuss than I could.”

  Wendover agreed, and, finding that the chief constable’s train was not due for half an hour, he went up into his room and changed his clothes. They reached the Lynden Sands station in good time; and, as soon as the train steamed in, Sir Clinton alighted, with an attaché-case in his hand.

  “Well, inspector! Got your bird caged all right, I hope?”

  “No, sir,” the inspector confessed shamefacedly. “She’s got clean away.”

  Sir Clinton seemed both staggered and perturbed by the news.

  “Got away? What do you mean? You’d nothing to do but walk up and arrest her. Why didn’t you do it?”

  Armadale explained the state of affairs; and, as he told his story, the chief constable’s face darkened.

  “H’m! Your landlady’s made the mess of her life this shot. And I thought I’d been in plenty of time! Come along to the car. There isn’t a moment to lose. Flatt’s cottage, first of all.”

  Wendover drove them up to the headland, and Sir Clinton jumped out of the car almost before it pulled up. He opened his attaché-case.

  “There’s a Colt for each of you. The first cartridge is up in the barrel, so mind the safety-catches. You may not need them; but you’d best be prepared.”

  He handed a pistol to each of his companions, and pitched the attaché-case back into the car.

  “Now, come along.”

  When they reached the door of the cottage, the place seemed deserted.

  “Drawn blank, it seems,” Sir Clinton confessed, in a tone which showed he had expected little else. “We’ll go through the place, just to be sure. This is no time to stand on etiquette.”

  He smashed a window-pane with his pistol-butt; put his hand through the hole and slipped the catch; then, lifting the sash, he climbed in. Armadale and Wendover followed close on his heels. Sir Clinton produced a flash-lamp from his pocket and threw its light hither and thither until he found the oil-lamp which served to light the room. Armadale struck a match and lit the lamp. Then he followed Sir Clinton into the other parts of the house.

  Wendover, left to his own devices, glanced round the sitting-room in search of he knew not what. His eye was caught by the large filing-cabinet which stood on one side of the fireplace; and he pulled out a drawer at random, lifted one of the cards, and examined it.

  “15–4–17.—Staveley’s wedding. Bride dropped bouquet when signing register. Wedding march Mendelssohn. Bride given away by P. Fordingbridge. Bridesmaids were. . . .”

  He picked out another card at random and read:

  “11–2–16.—Left for France. At dinner: Cressida, J. Fordingbridge, P. Fordingbridge, Miss Kitty Glenluce (age 23, fair-haired, dispatch-rider; told some stories about her work). . . .”

  He had no time to read further. Sir Clinton and the inspector were back again, having found no one else on the premises. The chief constable had a bottle in his hand, which he handed to Wendover, pointing to the label.

  “Amyl nitrite?” Wendover asked involuntarily. “So that’s where the stuff came from that killed Peter Hay?”

  Sir Clinton nodded. His eye fell on the table, on which a manuscript book was lying. He picked it up and opened it, showing the page to his companions.

  “Derek Fordingbridge’s diary, isn’t it?” the inspector inquired.

  “Yes. And there’s their card-index, with everything entered up in chronological order—every bit of information they could collect about the Foxhills crowd from any source whatever. That made sure that if they had to meet any questions from a particular person about his dealings with the real Derek Fordingbridge, they could turn up their index and know exactly what to say. It was far safer than trusting to any single man’s memory on the spur of the moment. I expect they’ve been copying out entries from the stolen diary and putting them into the filing-cabinet. We haven’t time to waste. Come along. The police, next. Sapcote must collect them for us and bring them along, inspector.”

  As Wendover drove, it was hardly more than a matter of seconds before Sapcote had been instructed to collect all the available constables and bring them to the hotel.

  “That’s our next port of call, squire. Drive like the devil,” Sir Clinton ordered, as he ended his instructions to the constable.

  But they had hardly cleared the village before he gave a counter-order.

  “Stop at the cottage again, squire.”

  Wendover pulled up the car obediently, and all three jumped out.

  “Get the oars of that boat,” Sir Clinton instructed them. “And hurry!”

  The oars were soon found and carried down to the car, which Wendover started immediately. A few hundred yards along the road, Sir Clinton pitched the oars overboard, taking care that they did not drop on the highway.

  Wendover, intent on his driving, heard the inspector speak to his superior.

  “We found that cartridge-case you wanted, sir, when we put that sand through the sieves. It’s a .38, same as Mrs. Fleetwood’s pistol. I have it safe.”

  Sir Clinton brushed the matter aside.

  “That’s good, inspector. We’ll have that gang in our hands before long. But Lord knows what damage they may do in the meanwhile. I’d give a lot to have them under lock and key at this minute.”

  At the hotel, Sir Clinton wasted no time on ceremony, but darted up the stairs to the Fleetwoods’ room. As they entered, Stanley Fleetwood looked up in surprise from a book which he was reading.

  “Well—” he began in an angry tone.

  Sir Clinton cut him short.

  “Where’s Mrs. Fleetwood?”

  Stanley Fleetwood’s eyebrows rose sharply.

  “Really, Sir Clinton—”

  “Don’t finesse now,” the chief constable snapped. “I’m afraid something’s happened to Mrs. Fleetwood. Tell us what you know, and be quick about it. Why did she leave the hotel to-night?”

  Stanley Fleetwood’s face showed amazement, with which fear seemed to mingle as Sir Clinton’s manner convinced him that something was far wrong. He pulled himself up a little on the couch.

  “She got a letter from her uncle making an appointment at the Blowhole.”

  Sir Clinton’s face fell.

  “That’s worse than I thought,” he said. “Let’s see the letter.”

  Stanley Fleetwood pointed to the mantelpiece; and the chief constable searched among two or three papers until he found what he wanted.

  “H’m! There’s no date on this thing. It simply says, ‘Meet me at the Blowhole to-night at’”—he paused and scrutinised the letter carefully—“‘at 9 p.m. Come alone.’ It is 9 p.m., isn’t it?”

  He passed the letter to the inspector.

  “It seems to be 9 p.m.,” Armadale confirmed, “but it’s a bit blotted. This is Mr. Fordingbridge’s writing, I suppose?” he added, turning to Stanley Fleetwood.

  “Quite unmistakable; and the signature’s O.K.,” was the answer.

  Sir Clinton was evidently thinking rapidly.

  “We’ll try the Blowhole first, though there’ll be nothing there, I’m afraid. After that, we’ll need to look elsewhere. This letter came by the post in the usual way, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know. It came to my wife, and she showed it to me.”

  “Well, I’ve no time to wait just now. It’s a pity you can’t come along with us.”

  Stanley Fleetwood lay back on the couch and cursed
his crippled state as the three hurried from the room. At the Blowhole they found nothing. The great jet was not playing, and the only sound was the beating of the waves on the beach below the cliff. The moon was just clearing the horizon mists, and there was enough light to show that the headland was bare.

  “They’ve got away,” Sir Clinton commented, when they saw they had drawn blank. “They had that car of theirs; I saw the boat-house was empty when we were at the cottage. That means they may be anywhere within twenty miles by this time. We can’t do much except send out a general warning. You do that, inspector, when we get back to the hotel. But it’s the poorest chance, and we must think of something nearer home if we’re to do anything ourselves.”

  He pondered over the problem for a minute, and then continued:

  “They won’t go back to the cottage at present. It wouldn’t be safe. If they want to lie up for even a few hours, they’ll need a house of some sort for the work. And it’ll need to be an empty house in a quiet place, unless I’ve misread things.”

  He reflected again before concluding.

  “It’s a mere chance, but Foxhills and Peter Hay’s are the only two empty places here. But Miss Fordingbridge sometimes goes up to Foxhills, so Peter Hay’s is more likely. We’ll go there on the chance. Come along.”

  At the hotel, they found that Sapcote had assembled all the available constables and dispatched them along the road. He had telephoned a message to this effect before leaving himself. Armadale got his headquarters on he telephone and ordered a watch to be kept for any suspicious car; but, as he was unable to supply even the most general description of the wanted motor, the chance of its discovery seemed of the slightest.

  He came out of the telephone-box to find Sir Clinton and Wendover waiting for him in Sir Clinton’s car.

  “Get in,” the chief constable ordered. “We’ve got to waste a minute or two in going down the road to meet that gang of constables and giving them orders to follow on. Put both feet on the accelerator, squire, and do anything else short of spilling us in the ditch. Every minute may count now.”

  Wendover needed no urging. They flashed down the road towards Lynden Sands, pulled up as they met the body of police, and were off again as soon as Sir Clinton had given the constables their orders to make direct for Foxhills. A very few minutes brought the car to the Foxhills gate, where Wendover, at a sign from Sir Clinton, stopped the car. The chief constable jumped out and examined the road surface with his pocket flash-lamp.

  “Thank the Lord! A car’s gone up the avenue. We may be in time to nab them yet.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Method of Coercion

  When Cressida received her uncle’s note that afternoon, she was both relieved and puzzled. Within less than a week she had been subjected to shocks and strains of such acuteness that she had almost lost the power of being surprised by anything that might happen; and Paul Fordingbridge’s letter caused her hardly any astonishment, which she would certainly have felt had she been in a more normal condition. All that she gathered from it was that, after disappearing in a mysterious manner, he had returned and evidently needed her assistance. She was not particularly attached to him; but she was not the sort of person who would refuse her help to anyone in an emergency, even though that person had shown her very little sympathy in her own recent troubles.

  She had a very fair idea of the rumours which had been running through the hotel, and she had no desire to advertise her meeting with her uncle. The final phrase in the note: “Come alone,” was quite enough to suggest that he wished to keep the encounter secret. And she knew well enough that a plain-clothes constable had been detached to watch her; she had seen him once or twice when she had been passing through the entrance-hall, and had no difficulty in detecting the interest which he took in her movements. Unless she could contrive to give him the slip, he would follow her out to the Blowhole. Then she thought of the lady golfers’ dressing-room, with its convenient door to the outside of the hotel, and a method of evasion suggested itself. She took the lift down; walked boldly past the watcher; turned down the passage and entered the dressing-room. Then, picking up her hat, blazer, and golfing-shoes, she slipped out of the side-entrance and hurried down one of the paths till she reached a place where she could change her slippers for her outdoor shoes.

  Leaving the slippers to be picked up on her way back, she crossed the hotel gardens and made her way out on to the headland where the Blowhole lay. The night was clear enough, but the moon was still very low, and the light was dim. As she came up towards the Blowhole, a figure came forward to meet her.

  “Is that you, uncle?” she asked.

  As soon as she spoke she was aware of someone who had risen behind her from an ambush. An arm came round her from the rear, pinning her hands to her sides; and a soft, wet pad was brought down on her face. She felt a burning liquid on her lips, and, as she gasped under the mask, a sickly, sweet-scented vapour seemed to penetrate down into her lungs. As she struggled to free herself and to cry out, the man before her stepped forward and helped his companion to hold her.

  “Don’t choke her altogether, you fool!” she heard her new assailant say, but his voice sounded faint; and in a minute she had lost consciousness.

  When she came to herself once more, it was to find herself lying on a bed from which all the bed-clothes had been removed. Her head swam at the slightest movement, and she felt deadly sick. With complete incuriosity, she noticed some figures in the room, and then again she slipped back into unconsciousness.

  The sound of voices roused her once more, after what seemed to be a span of eternity, and she slowly began to recollect the events which had led to her present condition. As she gained more control over herself, she attempted to move; but she found that her wrists and ankles were fettered, and her further vague attempts to get her bearings satisfied her that some kind of gag had been thrust between her teeth and lashed at the back of her head.

  For a while she lay, feeling sick and dizzy and unable to think clearly; but gradually, as the narcosis passed slowly off, she grew better able to take in her surroundings. She had just reached the stage when she could concentrate her attention when one of the figures in the room came to the side of the bed and stooped down to examine her in the light of a candle. The features seemed faintly familiar; but in her drugged condition it was some moments before she could identify the man as Simon Aird, at one time valet at Foxhills.

  “Got your senses back, miss? You’ve been a longish while over it. Better pull yourself together.”

  Even in her bemused condition she recognised something in the tone of his voice which told her that he was not friendly. She lay still, fighting hard to recover her normal personality. Aird watched her with cold interest, without making any attempt to disturb her. At last the fumes of the anæsthetic seemed to clear from her brain.

  “Feelin’ sick, miss?” Aird inquired callously. “That’s the chlorryform, I expect. You’ll be all right in a jiffy or two.”

  Her head still swam, but she managed to turn slightly so that she could see the two other figures in the room. One of them, with his back to her, was unrecognisable. The other, whose face she could see, was a total stranger.

  Aird saw her glance, and interpreted it aloud.

  “Lookin’ for your uncle, miss, I expect?”

  His mean little eyes seemed to twinkle at some obscure joke.

  “He couldn’t come to meet you, miss, as arranged. He was unexpectedly detained. Ain’t that so, boys? Mr. Paul Fordingbridge was unexpectedly detained, and couldn’t come to meet ’is niece?”

  The joke, whatever it was, seemed to be shared by the other two, for they laughed coarsely. Aird was encouraged to proceed to further flights of humour.

  “You’ve got an expressive face, miss—always ’ad. Why, I can read you like a book. You’re worryin’ your pretty ’ead to know ’ow you came ’ere, isn’t that it? Trust Simon Aird to understand what a girl’s thinkin’ about. A pre
tty girl’s as plain as print to me—always was. But I’m keepin’ you on tenterhooks, I see, an’ that’s not polite. I’ll soon tell you. We found you up yonder on the headland, near the Blowhole, drunk and incapable. That was a dangerous thing to do, miss. I can’t think ’ow you came to be doin’ it. Lord! In that state, there’s no knowin’ what mightn’t ’ave ’appened to you—it’s dreadful just to think of it! But you fell into good ’ands, miss. We took you up an’ lifted you into our car, which ’appened to be near by; and we brought you ’ere with as much care as if you’d been worth your weight in gold, miss. No pains spared, I assure you.”

  Through the numbness engendered by the anæsthetic, fear had been growing in Cressida’s mind, until now it had overwhelmed every other feeling. She knew she was completely in the hands of these three men; and even what she had seen of them was enough to fill her with the acutest dread. Aird’s oily phrases went ill with the expression in his little piggish eyes.

  “It’s a great thing to be a bit of a psycho-what-d’ye-call-it, miss. I can tell to a dot just exactly what’s passin’ through your mind,” he went on. “You’re wonderin’ where you are at this minute. I ’ave much pleasure in enlightenin’ you. You’ve ’ad the extraordinary good luck to be brought to the ’eadquarters of Aird & Co., a purely philanthropic syndikit formed for the good purpose of purifyin’ morals, and rescuin’ heiresses from the clutch of their fancy men, and teachin’ them to lead saintly lives in future. Your case is the first we’ve ’ad brought to our door, so we can give it our excloosive attention. And we shall!”

  He sniggered, apparently much amused by his own conceit. Cressida felt the menace behind all this forced jocularity. Aird brought the candle nearer to her face, and made a pretence of studying her features.