The Ponson Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  The third find was that in an engagement book or diary there was a reference to the visit to London, and to certain calls to be paid there. On the space for the Thursday before the murder was written ‘London, 10.25 train, Judd’s Hotel, Dunlop Street.’ On the next space, for Friday, was an entry, ‘Insurance Co., 77B Gracechurch St.’ There was a list of articles—probably purchases—‘Collars, handkerchiefs, The Apiarist, by S. Wilson Holmes,’ and some other items. Last, but not least, for the evening of the murder there was ‘X—9.30 p.m.’

  This last entry set Tanner puzzling. ‘X,’ he presumed, stood for the Luce Manor boathouse, and its use seemed to show the same desire for secrecy about his visit there as had been noticeable with the others who had been present. But Tanner had to confess that this entry did not square with the theory that the murder had been its object—at least on Douglas’s part. It was inconceivable that a man about to commit such a crime should have required a reminder of the hour of the deed. Every detail of the plan would have been seared into his brain. Was the suggestion of this entry, wondered the Inspector, not that Douglas had been made a tool of by the cousins? If the man should make that case this would certainly be corroborative evidence. Tanner attached some weight to the point, as he felt it was too subtle to have been designed.

  Having seen from the papers that Douglas had an account in the Plymouth branch of the Western Counties Bank, Tanner next day called on the manager. Here, after a study of the accused’s finances, he made an interesting discovery. At intervals during the last four years Douglas had lodged sums of money—invariably in notes, so he was told—and what particularly intrigued the Inspector’s imagination was the fact that each such lodgment had taken place a few days after the drawing of an ‘X’ cheque by Sir William Ponson, and in each case it was for just a trifle less than the amount of that cheque. It seemed evident that Sir William had been paying Douglas these sums, and the method of lodging showed the latter equally eager to keep the transactions secret. What service, mused Tanner, could Douglas have possibly done Sir William to have merited such a return?

  It was an anxious and disappointed Inspector who that afternoon stepped into the London train at Millbay Station, Plymouth. He had been hoping for great things from his search of Douglas’s rooms, and he had found practically nothing—only an old photograph and the address of an insurance company in London. And neither of these seemed the slightest use. Could anything be learned by tracing that tombstone or calling at that insurance office? He did not think so.

  But more than once he had learnt the folly of neglecting any clue, no matter how slight. Therefore on arrival in London he prepared a circular to be sent to every police station in England. It bore a reproduction of the photograph, together with a paragraph asking if the recipient could identify the place and send in a note of its whereabouts, as well as a copy of the inscription on the tombstone.

  Next morning he set out for 77B Gracechurch Street.

  A suite of offices on the second floor of a large building bore the legend ‘The Associated Insurance Company, Limited,’ and Tanner, entering, asked for the manager. After a short delay he was shown into the presence of a tall, gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and tired looking eyes. Tanner introduced himself as an Inspector from the Yard.

  ‘I have called, sir,’ he went on, ‘with reference to a man named William Douglas, a small, elderly man with a grey beard, who lives near Yelverton in Devon. I understand that he has had some dealings recently with your Company. I imagine, but am not certain, that he came here on Friday, the 2nd of July last.’

  ‘I cannot recall the man myself,’ the manager returned. ‘What is the precise point in question?’

  We have had to arrest him on a serious charge—in fact, that of murder. I am endeavouring to trace his recent history and movements. I want to know if he did call, and if so, on what business.’

  The manager pressed twice a button on his desk. An elderly clerk answered.

  ‘Mr Jones, do you recall our doing any business recently with a man called William Douglas from Devonshire?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied. ‘We were in correspondence about an annuity, but the matter fell through.’

  ‘This gentleman is Mr Tanner, an Inspector from Scotland Yard. You might let him have all the particulars he wants.’ Then to Tanner, ‘If, sir, you will go with Mr Jones, he will tell you everything he can.’

  Mr Jones led the way to a smaller office, and waved his visitor to a chair.

  ‘William Douglas?’ he said, bending over a vertical file. ‘Here we are, Mr Tanner.’

  He withdrew a folder, and settling himself at his desk, took out some papers.

  ‘Here is the first letter. You will see it is an application from William Douglas of Myrtle Cottage, Yelverton, South Devon, for particulars of annuities. He wanted to purchase one which would bring him in £500 a year. Here is our reply enclosing the information and a form for him to fill in, and here is the form which he returned to us duly filled. You will notice he is aged sixty-six. We then wrote him this letter explaining that the annuity would cost him £4600, and asking his further instructions. He replied, as you see, to proceed with the matter, and he would send on the cheque in due course. We prepared the necessary documents, but received no further communication from Mr Douglas until about ten days later we had this note stating that he regretted the trouble he had given, but that he found himself unable to proceed with the matter at present. And so it stands.’

  ‘Then Douglas didn’t call here?’

  ‘No.’

  Tanner was considerably puzzled by this information. As he walked slowly along the Embankment back to the Yard, he racked his brains to understand Douglas’s motive or plan. What had been the ex-clerk’s idea? The figures of his bank account showed that at no time since he came to live at Yelverton had he had more than £600 to his credit. As he could not possibly have paid the four thousand odd himself, where did he expect to raise it?

  And then a sudden idea flashed into the Inspector’s mind. Sir William Ponson had been paying Douglas sums ranging from £100 to £400 at intervals during the last four years. These sums were all paid by cheques marked ‘X’ on the block. On the day before his death Sir William had written an ‘X’ cheque for £3000. This cheque had never been cashed.

  Was there not a connection? Had that £3000 ‘X’ cheque of Sir William’s not been written for the purpose of paying for Douglas’s annuity? It certainly looked like it. And had the sudden death of Sir William not prevented its being cashed?

  Of course, the amounts did not tally—the cheque was for £3000, while the price of the annuity was £4600. But it was obvious that these sums might represent the different opinions the two men held of what was due. Possibly also negotiations were in progress between them on the point. This was of course guesswork, but at least it would explain the facts.

  The Inspector walked like a man in a dream as he concentrated his thoughts on the whole circumstances. There seemed just one link of his chain missing—some one point which, if he could find it, would flood the whole of these mysterious happenings with light and make the disconnected facts he had learnt fall into their places like the closing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And then suddenly he wondered if he had not got it, as another and more sinister idea occurred to him.

  What if the business were blackmail? It had a nasty enough look. Could Douglas have got hold of something discreditable in Sir William’s life, and could the latter be paying for his silence?

  The more Tanner thought over it, the more likely this theory seemed. It would explain the facts generally, as well as the secrecy with which both parties had acted. And yet there were difficulties. This annuity business was a difficulty. From Douglas’s point of view it was easy enough to understand. If the blackmailer thought his receipts were precarious, or if time was reducing or about to reduce the value of the secret, it would be a natural step for him to try to convert his vanishing doles into a fixed and certain income.
But Sir William’s motive would be different. His only hold on the preservation of his secret was the expectation on Douglas’s part of sums yet to be paid. If the manufacturer agreed to the annuity his hold would be gone. That he should do so was inconceivable to Tanner. And yet apparently he had. He had at least written the £3000 cheque.

  But the second difficulty to the blackmail theory was more serious. The wrong man had been murdered! If Douglas had been the victim it would have fitted in well enough. It would have been argued that Sir William had taken a desperate remedy to escape from an intolerable situation. But Sir William’s death would have been the last thing Douglas could have desired. He would never have cut off the source of his income. No; attractive as the blackmail theory had seemed at first, Tanner found its difficulties rather overwhelming.

  He had by this time reached the Yard, and sitting down at his desk, he lit a cigar, and continued his ruminations.

  Suppose again that blackmail had been levied, where did Austin and Cosgrove come in? They must in this case obviously have taken sides. Either they must have been assisting Sir William to extricate himself, or else they must have been party to the blackmail.

  But as Tanner pondered these alternatives, he could not see how either would meet the facts. If the cousins were acting for their relative, they obviously would not have murdered him—it was a contradiction in terms. Here again the wrong man had been killed.

  On the other hand, it was difficult to see how they could have been in league with Douglas against Sir William. Anything discreditable to the manufacturer would react on both the son and nephew, and their threat to make the matter public would therefore hardly be convincing. For their own sakes the cousins would be as anxious as Sir William to keep the thing quiet. It was also clear to Tanner that they would never have put themselves in the power of a man like Douglas. If they had wished to murder Sir William for his money, they would have done so at some time when Douglas would not have witnessed the crime.

  So far had Tanner progressed when he realised his argument really was that Sir William could not have been murdered at all! He swore angrily, and went back to see the point from which he had started. Blackmail. It would seem, then, that blackmail could not be the explanation. And yet…It was an attractive theory…

  Some days later, rather to Tanner’s surprise, he received from a sergeant of police in the north of England an answer to his circular about the photograph. It read:

  ‘SIR: We have found the churchyard illustrated in your view attached. It belongs to the Parish Church of Tynwick, a village six miles south-east of Gateshead. The headstone is still standing. It bears the inscription—“Sacred to the memory of John Dale, aged 53, who departed this life on 4th September 1871, and of Eleanor, his beloved wife, who entered into rest on 25th March 1890, at the age of 67.”’

  ‘Gateshead? Dale?’ thought the Inspector. ‘Those names sound familiar.’

  He turned to his notes of the case. And then he got rather a thrill. Gateshead was the place from which Sir William had come to Luce Manor. It was there the deceased gentleman had been born and had spent his life, and where the ironworks he had owned was situated.

  And Dale? This was more interesting still. Dale was the name of his wife’s first husband! He had married a Mrs Ethel Dale. Here at last was a connection between the manufacturer and William Douglas.

  But after all was it not a very slender one? What exactly did it amount to? That Douglas had in his possession a photograph of the grave of a man and woman of the same name as Lady Ponson’s first husband, and who lived somewhere in the same locality. Not much to go upon, and yet it was suggestive, and where there had been nothing before, Tanner welcomed it eagerly. Who knew what it mightn’t lead to? He determined he must go to Tynwick and make inquiries.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A DRAMATIC DISCOVERY

  THE shades of evening were falling when Inspector Tanner reached Newcastle. He had not been favoured with his usual travelling weather. For the first time since he started work on the Ponson case, the skies had remained all day grey and leaden, and the rain had poured ceaselessly and hopelessly down. It had not been possible to open the carriage windows, and he was tired from so long breathing the stuffy atmosphere of the train.

  It was too late to do anything that night, but the next morning, which fortunately was fine, he took the train to Tynwick. It was a village of about five hundred inhabitants, an attractive little place, with pleasant creeper-covered cottages, separated from the road by narrow gardens, all ablaze with colour. In the centre was the church, and strolling slowly into the churchyard, Tanner had no difficulty in identifying the spot from which the photograph had been taken. As the sergeant had said, the headstone was still standing, and Tanner paused and re-read the inscription of which he already had received a copy.

  Close by the churchyard and connected with it by a gate in the dividing wall, stood an old, grey stone house—evidently the vicarage. Tanner pushed open the gate, and walking slowly up to the door, knocked.

  ‘Could I see the vicar for a few moments?’ he asked courteously, as the door was opened by a trim maid.

  He was shown into a comfortable study, and there after a few moments he was joined by an elderly man, clean shaven, white haired, and kindly looking.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the latter. ‘You wished to see me?’

  Tanner rose and bowed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, ‘for a moment.’

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ His host waved him to an arm-chair and seated himself at his desk.

  ‘My business, sir,’ went on Tanner, ‘is, I expect, of a rather unusual kind for you to deal with. My name is Tanner—Inspector Tanner of New Scotland Yard, and I have come to ask your kind help in obtaining some information of which I am in need.’

  If the clergyman was surprised he did not show it.

  ‘And what is the nature of the information?’ he asked.

  Tanner took the photograph from his pocket.

  ‘We have had,’ he explained, ‘to arrest a man on suspicion of a serious crime—murder, in fact. The only clue to his antecedents we have is this photograph. You will see it represents part of your churchyard, and the headstone in the foreground is in memory of John Dale and his wife, Eleanor. We thought if we could find out something about these Dales, it might help us.’

  ‘Is Dale the name of your suspect?’

  ‘No, sir, he is called Douglas, but of course that may not be his real name.’

  The clergyman thought for a few moments.

  ‘I fear I cannot tell you very much,’ he said at last. ‘When I came here thirteen years ago there was no one of that name in the parish. I do remember hearing of the family you mention, but they had moved some years previously.’

  ‘You don’t know to where?’

  ‘Unfortunately I do not.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, some of your remaining parishioners could tell me?’

  ‘That’s what I was going to suggest.’ The clergyman again paused. ‘There is a family called Clayton living close by, gentlemen farmers, who have been here for generations. Old Mr Clayton is well over seventy, but still remains hale and hearty—a wonderful man for his age. I should think that if anyone could give you your information, he could. He’ll probably be at home now, and if you like, I’ll go down with you and introduce you.’

  ‘I should be more than grateful.’

  ‘Come then,’ said the vicar, leading the way.

  The Claytons lived on the outskirts of the village in a charming little creeper-covered house, standing in small but perfectly kept grounds. As the two men passed up the rose-bordered path to the door, they were hailed from the lawn behind. An old gentleman with a full white beard, a grey felt hat, and a tweed suit was approaching.

  ‘Mornin’, vicar,’ he cried cheerily.

  ‘How are you, Mr Clayton? Beautiful morning. Can we have a word with you?’

  ‘Delighted, I’m sure. Come in here. It’s always bette
r out of doors than in, eh, Vicar?’

  He shook hands with the clergyman, and turned expectantly to Tanner.

  ‘May I introduce Mr Tanner? Mr Tanner has just called with me in search of some information which I unfortunately was unable to give him, but which I thought you possibly might.’

  ‘I had better introduce myself more fully, Mr Clayton,’ said Tanner. ‘I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I am trying to trace a family named Dale, who, I understand, formerly lived here.’

  Mr Clayton led the way to a delightfully situated arbour, and waved his guests to easy chairs, but the vicar excused himself on the ground that his part in the affair was complete. On his departure Tanner produced the photograph and explained his business to his host.

  ‘The Dales? Yes, I knew them well. They lived at the other end of the village for many years, until indeed John Dale, the father, died. Then they moved into Gateshead. They weren’t left too well off, I’m afraid. But I don’t know that any of them are alive now.’

  ‘What did the family consist of?’

  ‘The mother and two sons. She died some years after her husband—you have the date on your inscription.’

  ‘And can you tell me anything about the sons?’

  ‘Yes, I remember them well. They were very like each other—good looking, with taking manners, well dressed and all that, but a couple of rotters at heart. They were always out for what they could get, and there was drink and gambling and worse. When they cleared out they weren’t much loss.’