The Secret of High Eldersham

by Miles Burton

  At a few minutes to seven, the Inspector left the Rose and Crown and walked down towards the village. He had obtained from Viney an exact description of Portch’s cottage, and had no difficulty in identifying it. It stood surrounded by a well-kept garden, at the end of which was a fowl-house and a pigsty. Young glanced round him as he walked up the path, and then knocked sharply at the door.

  Mrs. Portch answered his summons, and Young saw at once that Viney was correct in his statement that she had something on her mind. Her face dropped at the sight of this stranger standing on her doorstep, and she remained for a few seconds wild-eyed, incapable of speech or motion.

  The Inspector took advantage of her bewilderment to advance into the doorway. “Mrs. Portch, I believe?” he said. “I am Detective-Inspector Young from Scotland Yard, and I should like a few words with you and your husband.”

  She recoiled a step with a pitiful, half-strangled cry. Young closed the door behind him and continued. “I should like to see your husband first, Mrs. Portch. He is back from work by this time, I expect?”

  At last Mrs. Portch found her voice. “Yes, sir, he’s been home, but he’s gone out again, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “That is rather unfortunate, as I wanted to speak to him,” said Young. “Never mind, perhaps you will be able to help me, Mrs. Portch. I am looking for a man who is believed to be hiding in this part of the country. He is believed to be with a party of gipsies. Constable Viney tells me that your husband was out late last night, and I thought that possibly he might have seen a stranger about.”

  Mrs. Portch’s face lost something of its terror at this explanation. “Yes, sir, Portch was out the whole evening,” she replied eagerly. “He was only in here for a mouthful of tea about seven, and then he went straight up to the Rose and Crown. I didn’t see him again till nigh on eleven o’clock, and then he came straight to bed. But he didn’t say nothing to me about seeing no strangers, sir.”

  During this conversation the Inspector had gradually advanced into the kitchen, Mrs. Portch retiring before him and giving ground slowly. It was plain that she wished to get him out of the house, and was at her wits’ end how to do so without arousing his suspicions. That there was some secret hidden within the walls of the cottage, the Inspector was certain. Perhaps it was that Portch was actually in one of the rooms.

  Without waiting for an invitation, the Inspector seated himself, and began to search in his pockets. His every sense was on the alert; from where he sat he could see both the front and the back doors, and he listened intently for any sound which would reveal the presence of a third person in the house. At last he produced a bundle of official looking papers, of which he selected one. “That is a description of the wanted man, Mrs. Portch,” he said deliberately. “I will read it to you. Height about five feet eight, slightly built, swarthy complexion, black eyes and hair. Has a mole on the right side of his chin and a thick, dark moustache. When last seen was wearing breeches, a long coat and a cloth cap. You haven’t seen anybody answering to that description about the village lately, have you, Mrs. Portch?”

  “No, sir, that I haven’t,” replied Mrs. Portch positively. “Nor Portch either, or he’d sure to have mentioned it. ’Tisn’t often we get strangers in High Eldersham, sir, and a man like that would never pass without being noticed.”

  This reply scarcely astonished the Inspector, who had invented the description as he went along. He was merely endeavouring to gain time, in which to examine every inch of the room in which he sat. His penetrating glance was already absorbing every detail. One side of the room was occupied by the fireplace, with a cupboard on either side of it. Against the opposite wall stood a massive dresser, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, the shelves of which were crowded with miscellaneous objects. It was clear that Mrs. Portch had recourse to these shelves when she was at a loss where to put anything. Besides the household china, displayed in all the glory of its garish pattern, there were stockings awaiting darning, useless ornaments bearing the legend “A present from Clacton,” or some other popular seaside town. It seemed as though the shelves themselves did not suffice to hold all the objects that Mrs. Portch consigned to the dresser. Hooks had been screwed at the sides, and upon these hung things like toasting forks and tea cosies. Among them was a crudely moulded wax doll, apparently used as a pin-cushion, since into it was stuck a darning needle, with a piece of tape threaded through the eye.

  All these trifles Young noticed, while he sought for some means of driving Mrs. Portch from the room for a moment. At last an idea came to him, and he acted upon it without any great hopes that he would achieve his end. “Well, I am very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Portch,” he said pleasantly. “I am sorry your husband was not in, I shall have to ask him if he saw any strangers last night, if only to satisfy my own mind. Perhaps I shall meet him in the village somewhere. By the way, how shall I recognise him if I do? I suppose you haven’t got a photograph of him you could show me?”

  Mrs. Portch hesitated, and for the moment Young thought he had failed. Then, apparently, she decided that there was no harm in complying with the request. “If you’ll wait a minute, sir, I’ll get you one,” she said. “It is in the front room.”

  She had scarcely passed through the door when Young sprang from his chair with the swiftness and silence of a cat. He opened the drawer of the dresser, peered into it eagerly and, with a sudden smile of triumph drew from it something that flashed for an instant before he thrust it between his waistcoat and his shirt. By the time that Mrs. Portch returned, he was seated once more in his chair, his coat buttoned as though for departure.

  Mrs. Portch handed him the photograph. “That’s my husband, sir,” she said, with a strange tremor in her voice.

  Young studied it for a moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Portch,” he said as he returned it. “I shall recognise him now if I meet him.” He rose to his feet and turned towards the door. “By the way, Mrs. Portch, have you any children?” he asked, as he stood on the threshold.

  “Two girls, sir,” replied Mrs. Portch. “But they’re grown up and in service in Gippingford.”

  “It must be lonely for you without them, Mrs. Portch. Good-evening, I hope I have not troubled you.”

  Young walked swiftly back to the Rose and Crown. Viney had pulled the curtains and lighted the lamp in his absence. The Inspector passed into the kitchen, beckoning to Viney to follow him. There he withdrew the object which he had hidden under his waistcoat and laid it on the table. It was a butcher’s knife, bright and recently sharpened.

  “Well, Viney, what do you think of that?” he asked in a tone of satisfaction.

  Chapter V

  Constable Viney stared at the knife as if fascinated. “Why, sir, wherever did you find that?” he inquired.

  “In Portch’s cottage,” replied the Inspector. “I’m beginning to think that your suspicions are justified, Viney. This isn’t an ordinary knife, like you would expect to find in any kitchen. It is the sort of knife used only by butchers and, from the look of it, it is quite new. It was only by luck that I found it, but I thought it was worth while looking among Mrs. Portch’s knives and forks, and my curiosity was rewarded.”

  “Well, that pretty well settles it, sir!” exclaimed Viney excitedly. “You’ll apply for a warrant for the arrest of Ned Portch, I suppose, sir? Sir William Owerton, up at the Hall, is a magistrate.”

  The Inspector shook his head tolerantly. “No, we can’t go ahead quite so fast as that,” he replied. “We haven’t got any evidence against Portch yet, you know. All we can say is that we have reason to believe that he was up in this direction at the time the crime was committed, and that a knife, which might have been the weapon employed, was found in his cottage. It’s a good beginning, certainly, but it isn’t conclusive. Before we go any further, I should very much like a few words with Portch. Mrs. Portch says that he is about the village somewhere. I
want you to go down there and find him. Tell him that I want to see him—don’t frighten him, of course—and try to bring him back here with you.”

  Viney set out at once. In the village he noticed groups of men and women standing about in eager discussion. They became silent and eyed him furtively as he paused. It was evident that the news of the tragedy at the Rose and Crown had spread at last. Viney glanced at each group as he passed, looking for Ned Portch. And then, as he turned the corner by the church, he saw Portch himself, accompanied by a neighbour of his, Walter Hosier, walking swiftly towards him.

  He was about to accost them, when Portch came up to him. “Good-evening, Mr. Viney,” he said eagerly. “I heard as how you and a gentleman from Scotland Yard has been asking about my doings last night. There’s been a mistake, the missus—”

  “Yes, Inspector Young is anxious to see you,” interrupted Viney. “He wants to ask you a question or two. He’s up at the Rose and Crown now, and I’d like you to come up there with me.”

  “I’ll come, right enough,” replied Portch. “And, if you’ve no objection, I’ll bring Walter here along with me. He can bear out what I have to say. Terrible thing about poor Mr. Whitehead! It’s right that he was found murdered, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s right enough,” replied Viney shortly.

  “I shouldn’t doubt it was them gipsies as you was telling the missus about,” continued Portch, who seemed consumed with nervousness and unable to stop talking. “You never can trust them, no further than you can see them.”

  Viney made no reply, and the three men made their way up the road, followed by the inquisitive stares of the villagers. As they passed, an eager whispering could be heard, like the sound of the wind among the rushes.

  Arrived at the Rose and Crown, Viney led them through the back way into the kitchen, where they found Inspector Young awaiting them. Viney introduced the two men to him, and Young bade them sit down.

  “Now, Portch, I want to ask you a few questions,” he said sternly. “You needn’t answer them unless you like, but I think it will be better for you if you do. I know that you were up here last night. What time did you leave the bar?”

  “About half-past nine, sir, or maybe five and twenty minutes to ten,” replied Portch. “Walter here came out with me, didn’t you, Walt? And Mr. Whitehead walked to the door with us when we left.”

  “I see, the two of you left together at about half-past nine. Were there any other customers in the bar when you came away?”

  “No, sir, we was the last to leave. There had been a dozen or so of the chaps up here earlier in the evening.”

  “If you left at half-past nine, it seems rather queer that you didn’t get home till eleven, doesn’t it, Portch? What were you doing between the time you left here and the time you got home?”

  Portch had obviously been waiting for this question, but, all the same, he changed colour visibly as it was put to him. “I didn’t hang about up here, sir,” he replied. “Poor Mr. Whitehead was as hale as any man when I last saw him, that I’ll swear. And we didn’t see that gipsy fellow you was asking the missus about, did we, Walt? You see, sir, it was like this, I wouldn’t tell you an untruth, not to save my soul. Walt and I went straight back to his place, and there sits down and plays a game of nap for an hour. That’s right, isn’t it, Walt?”

  “Aye, that’s right,” mumbled Walter Hosier, with his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.

  For several seconds Inspector Young looked sternly at the two men, without speaking. It was perfectly plain from their manner that they were lying, that they had concocted the story of the game of nap between them. If it were true, why had Mrs. Portch betrayed such obvious uneasiness on being questioned?

  The Inspector decided upon a dramatic stroke. With a sudden movement he opened the table drawer, withdrew from it the knife, and flung it on the table.

  “This is the weapon with which Mr. Whitehead was killed!” he thundered. “How do you account for it having been found in your cottage this evening, Portch?”

  Portch uttered an exclamation of horror and then, leaning over the table, stared at the knife as though fascinated. The blood ebbed from his face, and then suddenly returned, suffusing it with a guilty flush.

  “Well, Portch, I’m waiting for your explanation,” said Inspector Young impatiently.

  “That’s not the knife with which Mr. Whitehead was killed,” said Portch at last slowly. “I can swear to that, for I used that very knife myself last night, about ten o’clock.”

  “You did? And what did you use it for?” demanded Young sharply.

  Portch glanced at Hosier, who nodded gloomily. “Best tell him, mate,” he muttered.

  “Well, sir, there’s nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it,” said Portch with an air of resignation.

  “If I owns up, perhaps the magistrates won’t rub it in too hard. Fact is, sir, while Walter and me was up here last evening, the missus had the copper on, boiling up the water. We waits till there wasn’t anybody about in the village, and then Walter and I goes back to my place, fetches a young porker out of the sty, and cuts his throat. Then we scalds him and cuts him up. When Mr. Viney comes along this afternoon, the missus was in a terrible state in case he should come in and see the offal and that. As soon as I comes home from work, she tells me about it, and I goes straight out again and sells the joints to the chaps I’d promised them to. And that’s the truth, sir. Walter and the missus will bear me out. I bought this here knife in Gippingford last market day, for to do the job with.”

  In spite of Inspector Young’s annoyance, he could not escape the conviction that Portch was telling the truth at last. This clandestine killing of the pig would explain the guilty consciences of Portch and his wife. It is an offence, punishable by heavy fines, to kill any beast whose carcase is intended for sale anywhere but in a licensed slaughter house, and Portch had rendered himself liable to a fine which he might well find some difficulty in paying. On the other hand, if his story could be verified, his alibi was established, and he could not be the murderer of Whitehead.

  “You would have saved yourself a good deal of trouble if you had told the truth at first, and not made up that tissue of lies about playing a game of nap,” said Young severely. “Constable Viney will make inquiries, and if it is found that you did actually kill this pig and sell pork you will certainly be summoned. As it is, you are very lucky not to have been arrested on a charge of murder. That would have taught you and Mrs. Portch not to tell lies to the police. In any case, you can tell your wife that she may find herself in serious trouble for showing me a photograph of somebody else when I asked her for one of you. Now, clear out, and remember that I shall keep a pretty tight watch on both of you for the future.”

  Portch and Hosier took themselves off, and Young turned to Viney. “You’d better make it your business to find out about that wretched pig,” he said. “If Portch was telling the truth, we’ve got to look elsewhere for the murderer. But there’s one thing. He and his friend were the last people, so far as we know at present, to see Whitehead alive. The Coroner will want to see them, I expect. Now, you get back to the village. The news seems to be out now, and you may pick up some useful gossip. You needn’t come back till the morning. I see that there’s plenty of food in the larder, and later on I shall lie down on Whitehead’s bed. But I want to do a bit of quiet thinking first.”

  Left to himself, Inspector Young made himself comfortable with a pipe. This case, which had seemed so simple when it had first been described to him, seemed now in his imagination to be wrapped in sinister mystery. The Inspector was peculiarly sensitive to his environment, and here, in this remote spot, he felt himself surrounded by impalpable forces beyond his power to combat. It was as though the atmosphere of High Eldersham, so inimical to strangers, had already begun to influence him. There was undoubtedly something queer about the place, upon this
everybody seemed to be agreed. But the theory he had for a moment formed to account for this queerness was so impossible, so utterly fanciful, that to entertain it was to doubt his own sanity.

  Young was normally an extremely self-reliant person. In his most difficult cases he had always relied upon his own powers of reasoning, and so far they had rarely failed him. But, confronted with the murder of Whitehead, he felt the urgent need of discussing the circumstances with some kindred spirit, whose incisive brain might solve the riddles with which he felt himself surrounded. Such a person existed, if only he could be induced to take an interest in the case. During the war, Inspector Young had been in constant communication with the intelligence branch of the Admiralty, and in the course of his duties had contracted a friendship with a very brilliant individual of his own age, then serving on that staff.

  Desmond Merrion was a bachelor of independent and very considerable means. At the outbreak of war he had secured a commission in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and in that capacity had been very badly wounded when the vessel in which he was serving had been blown up off the Belgian coast. Upon his partial recovery, he had been transferred to the Admiralty, where Young had met him, and found him a living encyclopaedia upon all manner of obscure subjects which the ordinary person knew nothing about. The two men had continued their friendship after the war, and Young frequently visited Merrion’s luxurious rooms in Mayfair, seeking advice upon some knotty point. Merrion was just the man he wanted, if he could persuade him to visit High Eldersham.