by John Bude
“Twenty minutes in my opinion. Can’t be certain of course. People react differently to drugs. But that’s about it!”
As the doctors were shuffling themselves into their overcoats, Meredith observed:
“No need to tell you, gentlemen, what this means?”
Burney winked.
“It wasn’t suicide—if that’s what you’re after. By the way, when’s the inquest? Is it fixed yet?”
Meredith told them and the doctors drove off together in Burney’s car to write up an official report of their findings.
Left alone the Inspector allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation, then tired out after his day’s work he trudged off through the frost-rimed streets to spend the tail-end of the evening helping his seventeen-year-old son, Tony, to assemble a new five-valve wireless set. Tony was apprenticed to a local photographer, but like Meredith, he had a mechanical turn of mind. A fact which did a lot to further the happy relationship existing between father and son. Meredith was inordinately proud of his only child, a feeling which he secretly believed to be reciprocated, and if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Meredith, Tony would have long ago been destined for the Force.
Chapter V
Motive?
Tuesday morning ushered in a spell of fine, frosty weather. For the first time since the Inspector had started to investigate the Clayton case, he could look up over the roofs of Keswick and see the snow-capped ridge of the Skiddaw range etched in detail against a hard, blue sky. His spirits responded to the invigorating nip in the early morning air and it was in an optimistic mood that he set off after breakfast to his office.
He felt more than pleased with the result of the overnight post mortem, and shortly after nine he was in touch with the Superintendent at Carlisle. He seemed as pleased as Meredith that the autopsy had produced a positive result.
“A feather in your cap, Inspector. There’s absolutely no doubt now that Clayton was murdered. I mean there was no point in drugging himself before taking that dose of carbon monoxide, was there?”
Meredith agreed.
“So you may as well,” went on the Superintendent, “go ahead with your investigations over there. I’ll have to talk matters over with the Chief and see what he thinks about the future of the case. He may decide to apply to Scotland Yard for the loan of a C.I.D. man. If so I’ll do my damnedest to see that you work in conjunction with him. You may possibly have to come over here yourself this evening for a conference. I’ll let you know later.”
“Very good, sir.”
After he had dealt with the letters lying ready on his desk, Meredith sent for Railton.
“About this Mrs. Swinley you mentioned, Railton. Do you happen to know where she lives? You do? What time does she start her duties out at the garage cottage?”
“Ten, I think, sir. I expect she leaves about a quarter to.”
Meredith glanced up at the clock.
“Good. If you get out the combination I shall be ready to start in five minutes. We ought to just catch her before she starts out.”
When Meredith arrived at Rosemary Cottage, a stone’s throw from the Portinscale post office, Mrs. Swinley was just putting on her hat. The sight of the Inspector sent her into a rare flutter, for she had already been considerably upset by Clayton’s tragic death. She invited him into the prim, cheerful little parlour, however, and in an agitated voice asked if there was anything she could do.
“Well, it’s like this, Mrs. Swinley—I understand from the constable that you look after the domestic affairs for Mr. Clayton and Mr. Higgins along at the Derwent garage.”
“That’s right, sir, and a shocking thing it is, too, about poor Mr. Clayton. He always seemed a bright young lad to me. Can’t understand what made him do it. Really I can’t!”
“That’s what everybody is saying,” agreed Meredith. “Now the point I want to get at is this—when you leave the cottage after lunch do you lay the evening meal?”
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Swinley. “Food gets that dry if it’s left on the table, as I daresay you know, Inspector.”
“Exactly. And you never put the kettle on, either?”
“No. I just bank up the fire, fill the kettle and leave it standing ready in the hearth.”
“What are your duties exactly?”
Mrs. Swinley took a big breath and Meredith prepared himself for a voluble recital. It seemed that it was less a matter of what Mrs. Swinley did than what she did not do. But the gist of it was that Mrs. Swinley shopped, cooked, cleaned, darned, mended, washed, and ironed and all for a matter of ten shillings a week.
The Inspector tactfully let this spate of information run dry before slyly leading the conversation round to Mrs. Swinley’s opinion of the relationship existing between the partners. It did not take Meredith long to see that she was quite out of sympathy with Higgins. According to her it was Clayton who did all the work, whilst Higgins seized the slightest opportunity to slink off to the Hare and Hounds. She didn’t think the gentlemen got on very well together, though she had never actually heard them having a violent quarrel. They often seemed to argue over business matters and she believed that Mr. Clayton had been thinking about breaking up the partnership.
At this, Meredith pricked up his ears. Did it mean that Higgins had been prevaricating when he said he knew nothing of his partner’s intention to clear off to Canada?
“What makes you think he wanted to back out of the business, Mrs. Swinley?”
“It was something I overheard, sir. About three days before the tragedy it would be. I was in my scullery and the young men was having their dinner. And the door not being properly closed I couldn’t help but hear what they was a-talking about. First I heard Mr. Clayton say, ‘It’s all very well for you, but I tell you I’ve got to get out of the concern.’ Then I heard Mr. ’Iggins reply something about it being the worse for him if he did! Rather nasty like. Then Mr. ’Iggins went on to say as how Mr. Clayton was doing well for himself and what was the sense of clearing out in a hurry. He said something, too, in a low sort of voice, about Mr. Clayton knowing well enough what it meant if he did back out. Then the garridge bell rang and Mr. ’Iggins cleared off.”
“That sounds rather as if Higgins was threatening Mr. Clayton, doesn’t it?” suggested Meredith.
“That’s just what I thought at the time, sir. I tell you, the tone of ’is voice fair gave me the creeps. Menacing it were—though in a nasty quiet sort of way, if you take my meaning?”
“Have you ever taken any particular note of any of Mr. Clayton’s or Mr. Higgins’s friends?”
“Friends!” Mrs. Swinley looked puzzled and surprised. “Why, they never had any friends. Not to my knowledge they didn’t. Leastways nobody ever called on ’em when I was in the ’ouse.”
“You’re sure you’ve never seen anybody about?”
“That I am!” But no sooner had Mrs. Swinley given vent to this emphatic statement, when a distant look came into her eye as if she were calling something to mind. Meredith leant forward eagerly.
“Well?” he demanded.
“When I come to think of it—I have seen a gentleman there. Twice that is, but not during the day. It struck me as curious, I remember, that the only times I have called along in the evening this same gentleman should have been at the cottage.”
After one or two apt questions the Inspector elicited the following information from the housekeeper. It appeared that on two occasions, separated by a matter of about a month, Mrs. Swinley had cycled along to the cottage after dark to let her employers know that she would be unable to turn up on the following day. The first time she had received a wire to say that her sister was dangerously ill and the second she had been asked by a neighbour, whose husband had been involved in a lorry crash, to look after her children. On each occasion, when Clayton had opened the door to her, she had noticed a third man in the pa
rlour. She was quite certain that it was the same man. For one thing he had a slight stutter and for another he wore tortoise-shell glasses with very thick lenses. Asked by the Inspector to give a fuller description of this individual, Mrs. Swinley replied that he was short, well-dressed, with thin, cleanshaven features and weak eyes. She had, unfortunately, no idea as to what the trio had been discussing.
“And you first saw this gentleman when?” asked Meredith.
“Let me see now—it was last November. That was when my sister was first taken ill. The second time was just before Christmas.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No.”
Feeling that Mrs. Swinley could help him no further, the Inspector cautioned her to say nothing of the interview, and climbed back into the waiting side-car.
“The Derwent,” he said to Railton.
“You won’t find anybody there I’m afraid, sir,” replied the constable.
“How’s that?”
“Mr. Higgins passed by here on his motor-cycle not five minutes back. Making for Keswick by the look of it.”
“Well, in that case we’ll pay a visit to the Braithwaite stores instead. There are one or two questions I want to ask Miss Reade.”
But again the Inspector’s luck was out. Mr. Reade, looking very business-like and obliging in his white apron, informed Meredith across the counter that his wife and daughter had taken the early train into Penrith. A letter had arrived by the first post from Harben, Wilshin and Harben, requesting his daughter’s immediate presence at their office. He did not expect her back till one-thirty.
“In that case, Mr. Reade, perhaps you can help me instead,” said Meredith in affable tones. “Could we go into that back room of yours, then we shan’t be interrupted?”
When the two men were seated in arm-chairs before a cheerful log fire, the Inspector said gravely: “I want you to keep this to yourself for the moment, Mr. Reade. After the inquest on Clayton it will be public property, but until then I should value your silence. The fact is—” Here Meredith lowered his voice to impress the shopkeeper with the gravity of his statement. “We have good reason to believe that young Clayton was murdered!”
“Murdered! Good gracious me! But surely—?”
“I can’t tell you now the reasons for this belief, but you can take it from me that we’re pretty certain that there’s been foul play. But there’s one important factor missing from our chain of evidence—motive. This is where you can help. I want you to cast your mind back and see if you can remember anybody, save Clayton, who has paid attentions to your daughter.”
“You mean?”
“That it is just possible that the motive for Clayton’s murder was jealousy. Well, Mr. Reade?”
The shopkeeper puffed at his pipe for a moment in meditative silence, then: “No—I think you’re on the wrong tack there, Inspector. Mind you, I’m not going to say there hasn’t been anybody else, but if so I know nothing about it. There’s the chance, of course, that Lily has kept quiet over the matter. On the other hand she’s a frank sort of girl and if there’d been any trouble of that sort I think she would have confided in me.”
“Quite. Now what about her friends. Has she any particular girl friend in whom she might have confided?”
“Well, there’s Rose Bampton, of course. She and Lily have been pretty thick ever since they were kids. If anybody could tell you about it, she could.”
“Where can I find her?”
“At the school, Inspector. She’s the assistant mistress.”
“In that case I think I’ll just run round and have a word with Miss Bampton.”
As they were passing through the shop however, the phone bell rang behind the ground-glass screen of Mr. Reade’s desk.
“Just a moment,” exclaimed the shopkeeper. “That may be Lily now. Perhaps they have got through their business earlier than they expected and are coming home by another train. If you care to wait a minute.”
The Inspector did care and he could not suppress a smile of intense amusement as the phone call proceeded. First the shopkeeper let out an astonished whistle, followed by a few exclamations of incredulity, which soon gave way to crows of delight and jumbled words of congratulation. When at length he hung up, he popped a grinning countenance over the top of the screen and demanded: “What do you think? Lily’s had a rare bit of luck! You’ll never believe! She’s come into a matter of something over two thousand pounds!”
Meredith put up an excellent show of surprise.
“Really. I say, that’s splendid!”
“It’s young Clayton,” went on the shopkeeper, bubbling over with excitement. “Left everything to her, so it seems. But, by heaven, Inspector, I never thought the lad was worth that much!”
Meredith said that the thought had never crossed his mind either and after a lengthy discussion on the crazy ways of providence, during which he continually edged toward the door, he ascertained that the womenfolk would not be back until 1.30, and finally succeeded in regaining the street. A minute or so later the combination drew up in front of the village school.
His interview with the sturdy, athletic Miss Bampton, however, proved abortive. She felt quite certain that her friend had never so much as looked at anybody save Jack Clayton. According to her, Lily was a retiring, sensible sort of girl, full of fun, but not given to flirtatious interludes. She had, in fact, got the name among the village beaux for being stand-offish and unapproachable. Miss Bampton didn’t agree with this, but she felt quite sure that Lily had never encouraged any man except Clayton.
“Just as I thought,” muttered Meredith, more to himself than to the constable as they drove off. “We’re barking up the wrong tree. Jealousy wasn’t the motive. And as far as I can see Clayton wasn’t murdered for his money either.”
“You don’t think—?” began the constable respectfully.
“Look out!” shouted Meredith with sudden vehemence.
The combination swerved violently to avoid the passage of a large petrol lorry, which was lumbering round the corner in the very centre of the road.
“Swines,” muttered the constable under his breath. “Shall I turn and catch ’em, sir? I could do it easy in a minute or so.”
Meredith shook his head. He couldn’t waste time on motoring offences, but although he hadn’t been able to register the number of the lorry, he had seen the words “Nonock Petroleum Co.” painted in flaring red letters along the sides of the bright blue tank. He wondered why the name seemed familiar. Then he remembered. The man whom Mark Higgins was to have met on Sunday morning at the Beacon was the manager of the Nonock depot on the outskirts of Penrith. He registered a vow to look in one day on the gentleman and air his official views about his lorry-men. It was a small concern, he figured, and the drivers probably had to cover a large area in far too little time. There was far too much of this “time-table” driving about as it was.
Higgins had not returned to the garage as they passed, but just outside Portinscale his high-powered motor-cycle roared into view and at the Inspector’s signal he drew up at the side of the road.
“Sorry to stop you, Mr. Higgins, but I wanted to let you know that the inquest is fixed for to-morrow at 2.30 in the police court-room. You will be needed to give evidence, of course.”
“Righto, Inspector. I’ll be there all right. Looks as if I’m booked for a dose of third degree, eh?”
Higgins laughed, prominently displaying his rodent-like teeth and generally heightening the ferrety cast of his features. Meredith was amazed at the change in the man. All his nervousness had vanished. He no longer seemed upset by the tragic death of his partner. Elation and satisfaction were written all over his rather unpleasing countenance. The Inspector wondered what had brought about this sudden change of mood. He did not have to wait long, however, before Higgins himself supplied the answer to this ques
tion.
“I’m glad to say that things have turned out as I hoped they would. Jack’s little bit in the business has come my way all right. I’ve just seen the solicitors.”
“So the will hadn’t been altered?” asked the Inspector casually.
“Doesn’t look like it, does it?” was the equivocal reply.
“I’m not so sure,” went on Meredith, watching the man closely. “I’ve just heard that Clayton has left Miss Reade a cool two thousand or so! What do you make of that?”
Higgins’s start of surprise was just too late to be really convincing. Meredith was certain that the man’s first reaction to the news was fear tinged with suspicion.
“Are you sure about that?” asked Higgins, as Meredith thought with an undercurrent of anxiety.
“Quite sure. I’ve just had the news from Mr. Reade himself. Looks as if there must have been a codicil added which you knew nothing about. Had you any idea that your partner was such a man of means?”
“By Jove, I hadn’t. He never mentioned it to me.”
“So you’ve no idea where the money could have come from?”
“None. I swear that, Inspector.”
The over-emphasis in Higgins’s reply was not missed by the Inspector. He felt more and more certain that Higgins did know something about the money, and what’s more, about the source from which it was obtained. Then why this evasion and secrecy? Surely it could mean only one thing? The money had accrued from some illegal business and Higgins was mixed up in it.
“There’s another thing you should know before the inquest,” went on the Inspector after a moment’s awkward silence. “The police have every reason to believe that Clayton did not commit suicide. In their opinion he was murdered. The suicide was faked to cover the murder—understand? And fortunately we have managed to see through the fake.”
“Murdered? But that’s out of the question! Poor old Jack had no enemies, Inspector. He was popular with everyone. That’s a damfool idea—that is! You can’t get me to believe that!”
