The Lake District Murder

by John Bude

  He was suddenly aware that Wick had reached the edge of the gully and set down his burden.

  “Stay here,” was his whispered order. “No need for both of us to go forward.”

  He waited a few seconds until Wick had disappeared into the gully then rapidly worked his way forward until he reached the bramble bushes. There, safely concealed, he watched.

  Everything happened again just as Gratorex had reported. Wick unstoppered the drum, tipped it up and waited until the contents were completely emptied into the beck. Then, shouldering the drum, he climbed up the bank, passing some five yards away from Meredith, and set off at a swinging pace down through the wood. The moment he was well out of sight, Meredith, shielding his torch with his cap, made a careful examination of the beck. He then realized Wick’s cleverness. If his intention had been to rid himself of something incriminating, he could not have chosen a better spot. The beck, at that point, dropped sheer for twelve feet or more into a regular “devil’s punchbowl”. It was into this seething mass of water that Wick had emptied the drum. If, therefore, its liquid contents contained any incriminating sediment, which might not be immediately washed away, it would be necessary to divert the flow of the beck before this sediment could be examined.

  As he was staring down into this foaming pool, Meredith was struck by a sudden thought. Had he been wrong in his surmise that the drum did not contain brandy? He recalled the exemplary behaviour of No. 4 during the last few days. What if the gang had got wind of the police activities? Wouldn’t their first thought be to rid themselves of any incriminating evidence? In brief—wasn’t Wick pouring the smuggled brandy into the beck?

  He sniffed. There was no suggestion of any odour and the smell of spirits was notoriously strong. But if the drum had not contained brandy—then what?

  A hiss cut short his speculations. Gratorex, on top of the bank, was beckoning wildly. In a flash Meredith had climbed out of the gully and dropped down into the bramble bushes beside the constable.

  “What the devil—?”

  “He’s coming back again,” was the whispered reply.

  Gratorex was right. In less than a minute Wick reappeared with the oil-drum and repeated the entire process of a few moments before. Once the coast was clear, Meredith, for the second time, scrambled down the bank and sniffed at the water. Then he let out an exclamation of surprise. Surely there was a faint odour on the air this time? A curious odour, rather like baked bread. Was it brandy, perhaps? Or if not brandy, some other sort of spirit?

  He signalled to the constable.

  “Can you smell anything, Gratorex?”

  The constable sniffed in turn, then nodded.

  “Smells like a brewery, sir—doesn’t it?”

  “A brewery?”

  “Yes, sir. Maltings.”

  “Maltings! Maltings!” thought Meredith, his brain a whirl of swift conjectures. Where exactly did maltings enter into the picture? Surely malting was a brewing operation? And what had brewing operations to do with smuggled brandy? Then suddenly, in a single illuminating flash, he saw the explanation and uttered a smothered cry of triumph.

  “Man alive! I believe you’ve hit it! A bull’s-eye! If you haven’t, I’m a Dutchman! I’ll eat my hat! I’m willing to wager every penny I possess that—”

  Meredith suddenly realized that he was in the presence of a subordinate. He gave vent to an ashamed chuckle.

  “Sorry, Gratorex. Only I’ve got an idea. I forgot that you haven’t the faintest notion of what I’m talking about. Well, you needn’t hang about here any longer. You can go off duty and get some sleep. Understand?”

  “Very good, sir,” was the delighted reply.

  Back at Greystoke Road, Meredith crept in between the sheets, without waking his wife, and lay thinking.

  He had got it at last! He knew now what Ormsby-Wright was up to!

  He had, so to speak, walked through a pitch-black tunnel and emerged into blinding sunlight. Now the whole case, like a smiling stretch of countryside, lay spread out before him. One or two necessary tests, he felt, and this part of his job was at an end. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? But that was what one always asked when, after a long and arduous struggle, the solution of a problem appeared. There were still details of the modus operandi to clear up, but even as he put his mind to thinking about them the shadows smoked up in his brain and he slid into the toils of a profound sleep.

  But next morning early found the Inspector over at Whitehaven. There, in his Turnpike Road office, Meredith had a long talk with Maltman. It was, as he realized, the most vital interview which he had held since the opening of the dual-case. But this time there were to be no depressing disappointments. He left Maltman’s office with a broad grin on his face, certain now that the end of the journey was in sight.

  Back at Whitehaven police station, he put through a call to Carlisle. In a few moments the Superintendent was at the phone. After he had made his report and modestly accepted his superior’s congratulations, Meredith made a request.

  “I want a night watch kept on the Stanley Hall and Filsam now, sir. We’ve only got them covered during the day at the moment. You see what I’m after?”

  “Perfectly. Righto, Meredith. I’ll see that it’s done. The men will be on duty to-night. Anything more?”

  “Not at the moment, sir—thanks.”

  Leaving Whitehaven, Meredith drove off along the Cockermouth road until he came to the Filsam. He found the broad-shouldered proprietor “de-carbing” a client’s engine.

  “Good morning,” said Meredith affably. “I wonder if you could spare me a moment?”

  The man straightened up, wiped his hands on an oily rag and declared himself at the gentleman’s service.

  “The fact of the matter is,” began Meredith glibly, “I’ve heard the land behind your garage here is for sale. I’m on the look-out for a small dairy farm, as it happens, and I wondered if this place would suit.”

  The man looked surprised.

  “It’s the first I’ve heard about it! Mr. Transome farms the land at the back here. There must have been some mistake, sir.”

  “No, really, I don’t think so. The agent mentioned your place as a landmark. At any rate, now I am here, perhaps I could use that gate of yours behind the garage and take a look round?”

  “Certainly, sir, if you like. But I’m sure Mr. Transome isn’t selling.”

  After thanking the proprietor, Meredith passed out through the little wicket gate into the meadows beyond. A single glance brought to light what he was looking for. Close under a stone wall, which divided one meadow from another, was a shallow, swift-flowing beck. In pretence of taking stock of the property, Meredith strolled down to the edge of the stream and began to work up it to a point where it disappeared under a low stone arch beneath the main road. The bank at this spot was muddy and clearly defined in the soft soil were numbers of large footprints. Casting his eye back to the wicket gate, Meredith could trace a faint line of muddied grass, suggestive of the fact that somebody had been passing to and fro between the garage and the bank of the stream. But although he peered under the arch he could unearth no clue as to the reason for these visits. That, he suspected, was another thing. Suspicions and proof were poles apart—but for all that he returned to the garage in a highly satisfied state of mind. He wondered if the constable concealed in the derelict barn had taken note of his movements. He glanced across at the ventilation hole and smiled. If the constable didn’t incorporate this visit in his nightly report he’d be for it!

  After thanking the proprietor, he mounted his motor-cycle, passed through Cockermouth, and in a short time drew up outside the Stanley Hall. The wizened, white-haired little man came forward and demanded in a querulous voice what Meredith wanted. The Inspector adopted the same tactics and fifteen minutes later he was in possession of yet one more incriminating fact. A similar bec
k passed under the road, close to the garage, and again there was a defined track leading from the rear of the premises to the bank of the stream. This time, however, on account of the shaly nature of the soil, there were no footmarks.

  For all that, Meredith was in a happy mood. Three isolated garages, three nearby becks, with, doubtless, three men emptying oil-drums into the water at the dead of night. And before he reached Keswick he had added a fourth to the list—the Derwent. In this case he had no need to dismount and pursue an inquiry. The beck was perfectly evident from the road, running parallel with it for some distance, before vanishing, like magic, underground. And at the point where the stream disappeared the bank was churned up with the marks of human footprints. Was Higgins back at work again? was Meredith’s passing thought. Well, he was having the place covered that night, so by to-morrow he might know the answer to that question.

  Back in his office he found Gratorex waiting.

  “Got those measurements, Constable?”

  “Yes, sir. Width six feet. Length five feet. Depth four feet. Approx., that is, sir. We’ve allowed about six inches on the width and length for a good clearance.”

  “Quite good enough for our purpose,” was Meredith’s comment. “You’d better come with me up to Wilkinson’s Yard.”

  Meredith, who knew his way about the builder’s premises, made straight tracks for the carpenters’ workshop.

  “Mr. Root about?”

  “Down in the timber-shed, sir,” said one of the apprentices.

  Meredith found the old man rooting about under a pile of elm boards. After a few exchanges about local topics, the Inspector got down to the matter in hand.

  “Now, Mr. Root, I want you to make me a box-frame to these measurements. Width six feet. Length five feet. Depth three feet six inches. It needn’t be—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” cut in the constable quickly. “You’ve made a mistake. The depth was four feet.”

  Meredith cast a withering glance at his subordinate.

  “Don’t be a fool, Gratorex! We don’t want the damned thing to show, do we?” He turned to the carpenter. “You’ve got that, Mr. Root? Good. I want it within an hour. No need for a cabinet-maker’s job. Just knock it up out of any old stuff.”

  “Oh, and by the way,” he added as he was leaving the yard, “I want you to nail four strips of lead round the base.”

  His next visit was to Burry and Sons, the big drapers in Main Street, where he purchased a large square of muslin. After lunch, accompanied by Gratorex, he returned to Wilkinson’s Yard, where Root was just driving the last nails into the box-frame. Meredith unpacked his parcel of muslin.

  “Now, Mr. Root—I want you to tack this muslin securely over the top of your box-frame. Not stretched, mind you—but so that the stuff sags a bit in the middle. Understand?”

  The carpenter nodded and in a few minutes the job was complete. Paying the man for his work, Meredith and the constable then carried the contraption to a closed Ford van, which was waiting at the gates of the builder’s yard. Once it was loaded, Meredith instructed the driver to stop on the road about half a mile beyond Braithwaite Station.

  “Then I want you to help the constable here,” he concluded. “Just take your orders from him. And, don’t forget…no chattering!”

  The lad grinned and he and Gratorex drove off in the direction of Braithwaite.

  At six o’clock reports came in from the Filsam and Stanley Hall watchers. No. 4 had coupled up with both places. The Filsam delivery had been run out in eight minutes—the Stanley Hall in seventeen. Meredith grinned. He was no longer interested in these time factors. He felt certain now that they had little bearing on the case. That the lorry had called at these two isolated garages was, of course, significant. It meant that his previous fears were groundless. The gang had not got wind of the police investigations. They were obligingly carrying on with the good work and supplying him with further incriminating data.

  If his anticipations were correct, No. 4 was due to call, on the morrow, at one or more of the six tied houses owned by the Bee’s Head Brewery.

  After a long phone talk with the Superintendent during the afternoon, instructions had been sent to the coast-guard stations to relax their watch on the ear-marked points along the foreshore. Thompson apologized for the trouble he had caused them, but the smuggling scare had proved to be an error of judgement. The police were now working along different lines.

  Early the next morning Meredith set off on the combination for the Lothwaite.

  Parking on the roadside about half a mile from the garage, he dismounted, climbed the fence and plunged into the larch wood. He had proceeded only a short distance when Gratorex appeared, coming to meet him.

  “All O.K., Constable?”

  “Yes, sir. He turned up shortly after midnight. Made three journeys this time, as I explained on the phone this morning.”

  “And you got the gadget out of the water soon after he’d made the third journey?”

  “Yes, sir. And hid it in some bushes, according to your instructions.”

  “Good.”

  In ten minutes they had reached the spot where Gratorex had dumped the box-frame and covered it with a mackintosh sheet. Meredith drew aside the sheet, knelt down and closely examined the muslin pocket. Then, with extreme care, he ripped the muslin off the top of the box-frame, bunched the four corners together and tied them with a piece of string.

  “Looks like a tea-bag, eh, Gratorex?”

  The constable grinned broadly.

  “Any luck, sir?”

  “Well, the bag doesn’t contain tea, if that’s what you mean! You’d better remove the frame and hide it deeper in the wood. I don’t want to scare the bird away from the net. As soon as Peters turns up, you can go off duty for the day. Return as usual at eleven to-night.”

  Holding the bag carefully, Meredith returned through the wood to the point where he had parked the motor-cycle. Then, after he had safely deposited the bag in the side-car, he sped on past the Lothwaite toward Whitehaven.

  Mr. Maltman, warned of his approach by phone, was waiting for him in his Turnpike Road office. When he saw Meredith entering with the muslin bag he burst out laughing.

  “Strange and wonderful are the ways of the minions of the law!” he exclaimed. “What the deuce have you got there, Inspector? The body in the bag?”

  Meredith responded to his amusement with a grin.

  “No—not this time. I’m hoping that it contains the confirmation of that theory we were discussing yesterday.”

  “You mean—?” Meredith gave a meaning nod.

  “Then, for heaven’s sake,” was Maltman’s excited demand, “undo the knot and let’s have a peep. But wait a minute—before you do that, you might tell me where the bag came from and what it’s got to do with the case. No need to keep me in the dark, is there? I mean official caution and all that?”

  “Nothing of the kind, Mr. Maltman. I’ll tell you about it now. Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?”

  “I’ll join you,” answered Maltman, still curiously eyeing the bag. “Try some of my brand and help the British Empire.”

  With both their pipes pulling sweetly, Meredith settled down to recite the history of the muslin bag.

  “It’s like this, Mr. Maltman. I explained to you yesterday how we observed that fellow at the Lothwaite garage emptying something into the beck. You remember I asked you what liquid had an odour of baked bread? Your answer more or less satisfied me that I was on the right track. But I wanted to go further than that. I wanted to get absolute proof. In the process we were discussing you pointed out that a considerable sediment would be present in the liquid residue. Well, I set out to get hold of a sample of that sediment. I couldn’t collect it from the bed of the stream, for obvious reasons. For one thing, Wick was emptying the stuff into a ‘devil’s punchbowl’, so that it
was impossible to see anything through the water. Secondly, although the hollow bowl caused by the waterfall was nearly four feet deep, the force of the water was so great that any sediment would soon be forced out and dispersed downstream. You follow me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “So all I did was to have the ‘punchbowl’ measured up and a box-frame made to fit roughly inside it. I covered the top with this muslin, in such a way that it formed a sort of strainer. I arranged for the top of the box-frame to be about six inches under water. The result of this was that when Wick went to empty his oil-drum last night, he emptied it slap into the muslin sieve.”

  Maltman looked at the Inspector with admiration.

  “Neat, Mr. Meredith. Very neat. But didn’t Wick notice the gadget?”

  “Not a bit of it! The churned-up surface of the pool made it impossible. Remember, there was a twelve foot waterfall above the bowl.”

  “And the result?” asked Maltman, whose curiosity had now reached boiling point. “Did you catch any of the sediment?”

  “Take a look here,” was Meredith’s answer, as he untied the bag and spread out the muslin square on the carpet. “What do you make of that, Mr. Maltman?”

  The Excise official dropped on to his hands and knees and began to sniff at the brownish residue, which had collected in a little heap toward the centre of the muslin.

  Then he looked up.

  “We’re right,” he said shortly. “No mistake about it!”

  He gathered some of the sediment into his hand, examined it, then rubbed it over with his fingers.

  “If there was any doubt about it yesterday,” he went on impressively, “then this settles it, Inspector. It’s the residue of alcoholic distillation right enough! I’ve seen enough of the stuff in my time to be sure about it. That ‘baked bread’ odour supplied us with a clue, but the nature of the sediment sets the seal on it! If you wanted confirmation of your theory—then you’re quite right. It’s here! Caught in this muslin! If you want a second opinion—?”