The Secret of High Eldersham
Page 1
The Secret of High Eldersham
Miles Burton
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 The Estate of Cecil Street 2016
Originally published in 1930 by Collins
Introduction copyright © 2016 Martin Edwards
Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library
First E-book Edition 2016
ISBN: 9781464205842 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
The Secret of High Eldersham
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Select Bibliography
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To
A. H. and P. R.
my godmothers
Introduction
The Secret of High Eldersham, the second novel by Miles Burton, was originally published in 1930, at the height of the Golden Age of Murder between the two world wars. This book introduced Desmond Merrion, who became a popular character; by the time his career reached an end in 1960, he had appeared in almost sixty novels. If Burton’s early readers were impressed by the crisp professionalism of his story-telling, the explanation is that Miles Burton, like High Eldersham, had a secret. The name concealed the identity of a writer who, under another pseudonym, was already a well-regarded author of detective novels. But the book contained no biographical information, and the fact that the two authors were one and the same man did not become widely known for four decades.
The opening part of the first chapter amounts to a prologue, telling a tale of two pubs, the thriving Tower of London in the East Anglian town of Gippingford, and the struggling Rose and Crown in the remote village of High Eldersham. When the Rose and Crown’s landlord moves in search of better trade, the vacancy arising is filled by a former policeman, Samuel Whitehead. Four and a half years later, the village constable calls at the Rose and Crown late one night, only to discover that the landlord has been stabbed to death.
The Chief Constable promptly calls for help from Scotland Yard, but on his arrival in High Eldersham, Detective Inspector Young finds that the village is a mysterious place, “saturated with local legend”, where strangers encounter an inexplicable hostility. Although an obvious suspect soon comes into view, he is able to produce a convincing alibi. Level-headed as he is, Young finds himself “surrounded by impalpable forces beyond his power to combat”, and decides to seek help from his friend Desmond Merrion.
Brilliant and brave, wealthy yet charming, possessing luxurious rooms in Mayfair and a devoted sidekick called Newport, Desmond Merrion typifies the Great Detective beloved of so many Golden Age authors and their readers. After being badly wounded during the war, he transferred to the intelligence branch of the Admiralty, and became “a living encyclopaedia upon all manner of obscure subjects which the ordinary person knew nothing about”. Merrion turns up while the inquest is taking place, only to encounter a war-time acquaintance, a maverick called Laurence Hollesley. Hollesley is intent on marrying the attractive daughter of his neighbour, Sir William Owerton, and Merrion too falls for Mavis Owerton. But do Sir William and the young woman know more about the strange and secretive goings-on in High Eldersham than they are willing to admit?
The story combines the action, pace and atmosphere of a thriller with a detective sub-plot, and the book enjoyed considerable success. Decades later, its qualities were extolled by Jacques Barzun, the legendary French-born American cultural historian, and the scientist Wendell Hertig Taylor, two friends whose erudition, and deep knowledge of classic detective fiction, shine through the pages of their voluminous and highly opinionated compendium A Catalogue of Crime. When a publisher asked the pair to select for republication fifty definitive crime novels from the first half of the twentieth century, their choices included this book. Although they admired much of the author’s work, and acknowledged that many of his other novels boasted more elaborate puzzles, they concluded that: “a primary function of the mystery story is to entertain in a variety of ways, and on this score The Secret of High Eldersham…has no superior.” High praise indeed from two men writing at a time when Golden Age crime fiction had fallen far from fashion. One likes to think that they would have relished the popularity of the British Library’s series of Crime Classics, and the revival of interest in authors such as Miles Burton.
So who was the mysterious Mr Burton? Despite the popularity of his work, it was not until after his death that the secret of his identity was revealed to the reading public; indeed, for years the puzzle was complicated by a red herring suggesting that he had been born twenty years later than in fact was the case. Further to muddy the waters, he wrote two different books under two different names—one of them as Burton—but both with the same title: Up the Garden Path. The truth finally came out thanks to literary detective work on the part of critic Francis M. Nevins, and further research by Barzun.
Burton’s real name was Cecil John Charles Street. He was born in 1884 in Gibraltar, where his father was serving in the British Army. Street too joined up, and returned to the army at the start of the First World War after a spell working as chief engineer in an electric company. Wounded three times in battle, and awarded the Military Cross, he moved to Military Intelligence when his injuries rendered him unfit for service in the front line. His CV did, therefore, bear at least some resemblance to Merrion’s.
Street began to establish himself as a writer, initially with non-fiction, before publishing a couple of thrillers under the rather thinly disguised pen-name of John Rhode. Once he created Dr Lancelot Priestley, a learned but somewhat grumpy armchair detective, there was no stopping him. Books poured from his pen, and before long a reviewer bestowed on him the title “Public Brain-Tester No.1”.
Street was so astonishingly productive (he published almost 150 crime novels after reaching the age of forty) that the John Rhode books risked flooding the market. His solution was to create the alter ego of Miles Burton; he also wrote four novels as Cecil Waye, another pseudonym that w
as not penetrated for many years. The first Burton novel, The Hardway Diamonds Mystery, was a stand-alone thriller, but the introduction of Merrion demonstrated his recognition of the powerful appeal of a series character. Merrion is much more of a heroic action man than Priestley, but his later cases often gave him the chance to display his skills in deductive reasoning; an example is Death in the Tunnel, also republished as a British Library Crime Classic.
Scarce first editions of books by Rhode, Burton and Waye have been eagerly sought by collectors for many years, and some titles change hands for eye-watering sums. It is a pleasure to introduce this author, and Desmond Merrion, to a much wider readership.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Chapter I
Nobody knew better than Mr. George Thorold, the senior partner of Thorold and Son, the well-known Gippingford brewers, that in these days of highly-taxed beer it would not be an easy matter to find a tenant for the Rose and Crown. Consequently, when Hugh Dunsford called to see him and announced his intention of giving up the house, Mr. Thorold listened to him with a slight frown upon his handsome features.
“It’s like this, you see, sir,” explained Dunsford, an elderly man, short of stature, and with that curious furtive, half-mistrustful air not uncommon among the natives of East Anglia. “There’s not a decent living to be made at the Rose and Crown, and that’s a fact. I’m not saying that the place wasn’t a little gold-mine before the war, but those times are gone. A chap can’t afford his couple of pints of an evening with beer at the price it is, leastways the chaps about High Eldersham can’t. I might hold on if I was a single man, sir, but you see there’s the missus and the family to think of.”
“Yes, I know how difficult things are for the tenants of the smaller houses,” replied Mr. Thorold. “You know that we would do everything we could to keep you. What do you think of doing when you give up the Rose and Crown?”
Dunsford coughed awkwardly. “Well, sir, I did hear that old Hawkins, of the Tower of London in this town, was going to retire. And I was going to make so bold as to ask you, seeing that it’s one of your houses, if you’d consider me in his place. There’s a fine trade to be done there, and I could manage it proper, with my boy Dick and the missus to help me.”
Mr. Thorold picked up a pencil that was lying on his desk, and began to trace a series of complicated geometrical figures on a piece of paper that lay before him. It was true that Hawkins intended to retire in the following September, and it was certain that Dunsford, whose father before him had been a tenant of the brewery, would make an excellent landlord for the Tower of London. But the problem of the Rose and Crown presented itself with all its manifold difficulties. It stood in an isolated spot, and customers were few and far between. There was nothing about the house to tempt a man who wanted to earn money by the trade. And besides, it would take a stranger—a foreigner, as High Eldersham dubbed any one not born in the immediate neighbourhood—months, perhaps years, to establish that confidence so essential between a landlord and his local customers.
“Well, Dunsford,” said Mr. Thorold after a long pause, “you and your parents have been friends of the brewery far too long for me to stand in your way, even if I wanted to. Of course you can have the Tower of London if you want the house, and I shall be very glad to know that it is in such good hands, and to have you here in Gippingford. But I’m sure I don’t know who I shall get to take your place at the Rose and Crown. You don’t happen to know of anybody out your way who would like it, do you?”
Dunsford shook his head, “No, sir, that I don’t,” he replied. “’Tisn’t as if the place had a bit o’ land with it, so as a chap could pick up a bit with a few cows or something o’ that. There isn’t nobody round High Eldersham way as could do any good with the Rose and Crown, trade being what it is. Why, as I tell you, sir, I can’t myself.”
“Then I’m sure nobody else could,” remarked Mr. Thorold, with a smile. “Well, I shall have to see what can be done, that’s all. Since you are here, we may as well go into the matter of your tenancy of the Tower of London.”
When Dunsford had gone, Mr. Thorold sat for some time elaborating the design he had commenced, and thinking of the Rose and Crown. That it had long ceased to be profitable he knew well enough, and his only surprise was that Dunsford had not come to the same conclusion earlier than this. The house was unfortunately placed. It was about twenty miles from Gippingford, the county town, and stood upon the old coach road running northwards. At one time it had been a favourite spot for changing horses, but with the advent of the car its popularity had departed, since it was neither imposing or romantic enough to attract the attention of the passing motorist. Further, within recent years a new main road had been built, absorbing the through traffic and reducing the old coach road to little more than a country lane. The result was that few strangers entered the portal of the Rose and Crown.
It had to depend, therefore, for its trade upon the inhabitants of High Eldersham, a straggling village upon the banks of the River Elder. But here again the Rose and Crown was unfortunate. The population of High Eldersham was in any case very small, not more than two or three hundred in all. And the more substantial people, farmers and so forth, were almost without exception “chapel folk,” who would have lost caste among their neighbours had they been seen entering so disreputable a place as a public house. The purchase, on market days in Gippingford, of whisky by the case, for consumption behind drawn blinds, they regarded, however, as a perfectly natural and respectable proceeding. Besides these, the population of High Eldersham consisted mainly of labourers, and they, as Dunsford had said, could not afford more than an occasional visit to the Rose and Crown. Finally, still further to add to the disadvantages of the house, it was situated some little distance from the village itself, which lay a mile or more away, at the end of a side turning branching off from the coach road opposite the Rose and Crown.
But, as Mr. Thorold was well aware, it was not the material drawbacks that presented the most serious problem. There is always a comparatively large number of people whose highest ambition is to become the tenant of an inn, and from among these there would be no difficulty in choosing a landlord for the Rose and Crown. But Mr. Thorold had a long experience of strangers as tenants in East Anglia. However hardworking and conscientious they might be, however keen to promote trade, the receipts of their houses had a way of falling off until they were perforce compelled to relinquish their tenancy. And this curious distrust of strangers, common throughout East Anglia, was particularly active in remote villages like High Eldersham. Yet Dunsford had said that no local man would take the Rose and Crown, and he knew every soul in the village and for miles around. There was nothing for it but to advertise.
Mr. Thorold devoted considerable pains to drawing up the advertisement. As an afterthought, he added the words, “the house would suit a pensioner,” and smiled grimly as he did so. It was no use accepting a tenant who had not some source of income independent of the takings of the house. The man would either give notice after his first quarter or go bankrupt. The advertisement was inserted in the Gippingford Herald, and for the next few days Mr. Thorold was inundated with replies, most of which, from the obvious unsuitability of the applicant, he consigned to the waste-paper basket.
Among the replies which he laid aside for consideration was one that especially appealed to him. The applicant described himself with refreshing brevity. Whitehead, Samuel Edward, aged 55, late sergeant Metropolitan Police, retired on pension, widower, no children. Would like to take the house if it had half an acre or so of garden.
Now, as it happened, the Rose and Crown had a very good garden, which Dunsford, an enthusiastic gardener himself, had always kept in very good order. Further, a police pensioner would make a very desirable tenant, there would be little fear of any irregularities taking place which might endanger the licence. After considering the matter carefully, Mr. Th
orold wrote to the address in Hammersmith given by Whitehead, and asked him to come to Gippingford for an interview.
Whitehead came, exactly at the appointed hour, and Mr. Thorold was very favourably impressed. Whitehead, in spite of his height and girth, which were well beyond the ordinary, even for a policeman, looked active and alert. He was respectful and eminently self-possessed, and his cheerful face positively radiated good nature. Just the man for the place, thought Mr. Thorold. If anybody could get on with those queer High Eldersham folk, he could. It seemed almost a pity to exile such an excellent man to a place like the Rose and Crown.
“I ought to warn you, Mr. Whitehead, that the Rose and Crown does not do a very extensive trade,” said Mr. Thorold. “You may find at first that the profits do not quite come up to your expectations.”
“That won’t worry me, sir,” replied Whitehead. “My pension is more than enough to keep me, and I’m anxious to get out of London and amuse myself growing a few flowers. I thought of taking a cottage somewhere till I saw your advertisement. Then I thought that a pub would be more cheerful, seeing that there would be somebody to talk to.”
The interview ended by Whitehead signing the lease of the Rose and Crown.
This had happened five years ago. Whitehead had entered into possession of the Rose and Crown in September, when Dunsford and his family had moved to the Tower of London, in Gippingford. And there he had remained, apparently perfectly contented with his lot. Rather to Mr. Thorold’s astonishment, the beer consumption at the Rose and Crown, after showing a decline for the first few weeks of the new tenant’s occupancy, had gradually risen to the average figure it had shown in Dunsford’s time. And Mr. Thorold’s traveller, whose business it was to visit all the houses belonging to the brewery, reported that “that new chap Whitehead seemed to be getting on very well.”
Almost exactly four and a half years after Whitehead’s first day as landlord of the Rose and Crown, on the evening of March 31st, Constable Viney, the High Eldersham village policeman, was cycling back home at the conclusion of his round. His way led him past the Rose and Crown and he had intended to go in and have a word with Whitehead, with whom he was on very good terms. However, his duties had taken him longer than he expected, and it was after eleven o’clock when he reached the door of the inn. Whitehead, as he knew, was in the habit of going to bed soon after closing time, ten o’clock, and the constable decided that it was too late to knock on the door.