“The engine’s all right, but the steering-gear is badly messed up. There’s nothing whatever wrong with the brakes; they couldn’t have contributed to the accident, but there’s one funny thing. These cars are always furnished with a starting-handle in case the batteries run down, and there’s not one in the car or anywhere in the garage. The speedometer marks a run of sixteen miles, which would mean that the car had been about as far as Moorstead on the day of the accident.”
“I should like to take advantage of this fine day by running out to the scene of the accident. You had better come with me and we’ll get the Superintendent to give us the man who found that broken walking-stick. Come along with me to the police station.”
They found Superintendent Carstairs in his little office. “Certainly you can have the car, and as it happens the man who will drive you is the very man who found the broken stick.” He rang a bell and the car was brought round.
“My God! What a road!” exclaimed Richardson, as they negotiated the hill leading up from Sandiland. “It’s like the side of a house.” But the car took the hill on her second speed, and before they came to the top she pulled up well to the side of the track. The driver jumped down.
“This is where we found the car, sir. It had turned nearly over. You can see the wheel marks there in that broken heather.”
“And where did you find the broken stick?”
“If you’ll come up the hill a little way, sir, I’ll show you. It was me that found it.”
He led the way up in the direction of Duketon and stopped at a point where the hill was a little less steep. The heather was particularly tall and dense at this point.
“I marked the place with three little stones, sir. Here they are, and there’s the place where the broken stick was lying.”
Richardson cast an eye round. The surface of the road was rough at this point; the traffic to and from Duketon and the downpours of rain had washed gutters in the surface.
“It’s almost useless to attempt to keep a tarred road in good order with all the summer traffic of char-à-bancs and lorries. The rain comes down here like a water-course.”
“What I want to look for,” said Richardson, “is the other half of the broken stick and the starting-handle of the Austin Seven. They must both be somewhere about.”
The three men began to quarter the ground systematically, beginning on the near side of the road. Richardson was the first to exclaim. He stooped and held up a starting-handle already coated with rust but not pitted with it. Sergeant Jago came over to him and identified his find as belonging to an Austin Seven. It was now the turn of the driver. “Here we are,” he cried, “if this isn’t the other half of the stick I’m a Dutchman.”
“It certainly looks like the same wood,” said Richardson; “but we’ll have to fit the two pieces together before we can be sure. What’s your theory about what happened?” he asked the driver, with the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.
“The way I figure it out is this, sir. Mr. Dearborn wasn’t an experienced driver. He let his engine stop, and then, not liking to go down the hill without it, he got out with the starting-handle to swing the engine. While he was stooping to fit it in a man came up behind him and whacked him over the head with that stick.”
“What was the motive?”
“Highway robbery, sir. There’s quite a lot of quarrymen out of work in the autumn, and it was a temptation to one of them to knock the gentleman down and go through his pockets. Then he threw away the broken stick and starting-handle into the heather and got away with his find. You see, it’s a very lonely road.” “But why did Dearborn not tell the police as soon as the doctor had driven him down to Winterton?”
“Loss of memory, sir. After a whack on the head like that, a man remembers nothing of what’s just happened to him. It’s true that he managed to start the car again and to drive on, but a man in that state in a car was asking for trouble. And then all he would remember afterwards would be the accident.”
“I see,” said Richardson dryly. “What’s your theory, Sergeant Jago?”
Jago knew his chief in this mood and was not disposed to commit himself. “I would rather wait until we’ve gone further into the case before expressing an opinion,” he said.
“Wise man; you’ll go far in your profession,” observed Richardson. He did not commit himself, either, to any theory of his own. He turned to the driver. “You’ll have a job to turn your car in this narrow road. What’s wrong with running on into Duketon and letting me have a look at the village?”
“Right, sir, and while we’re about it we might run on to the prison gate because that’s where the doctor took the deceased when he picked him up after the accident. It’s no distance.”
Half a mile farther up the hill brought them to the village.
“Pull up here,” called Richardson when they reached the branching of two roads and the car had turned to the left. “Where does that other road take you to?”
“Bridgend and on to Moorstead.”
“And this one?”
“To the prison and on to Tavistock.”
“And which road was Dearborn taking?”
“He was coming from Moorstead. We know that from people who saw him pass.”
“Right. Then go ahead towards the prison.”
They passed the granite church built by the French war prisoners of Napoleonic times; passed cottages made hideous by walls tarred to keep out the winter damp, and reached the prison gate, on which the old motto, Parcere subjectis (Spare the Conquered), was still legible. On either side of the gate were the houses of the superior officers, and the gate itself was a double one with the guard-room of the armed civil guard between.
“I should like to have a word with the medical officer who picked up the deceased. You might see whether he can be found.”
The driver went to the inner gate and called the gatekeeper, to whom he explained that two officers from Scotland Yard would like to speak to Dr. Wilson, the assistant medical officer, if he could be got hold of.
“He’ll be here in less than a minute,” said the gatekeeper, glancing at the clock in the lodge. “He’s just finishing his round in the hospital and will be coming out to lunch.”
Indeed, it was a procession of prison officers that now crowded at the inner gate, for the convicts had all been locked up for the dinner-hour and the warders were giving up their keys. The routine of this ceremony was the result of more than fifty years of accidents and mistakes and it went like clockwork. Each principal warder handed over his bunch of cell keys with the words, “All correct.” The gatekeeper cast a wary eye over each bunch to see that no key was missing, and let the warders go their several ways. Suddenly the group about the gate opened a lane to allow a young man in plain clothes to take precedence.
“Here comes the assistant surgeon,” said the gatekeeper, turning round. He took the hospital keys and murmured to Dr. Wilson that two police officers from London were waiting outside to speak to him.
“What’s it all about?” asked the young doctor.
“They didn’t tell me that, sir. You’ll find them in that car.”
As Dr. Wilson approached the car, Richardson jumped down and introduced himself. “We’ve come down to inquire about the man whom you picked up a fortnight ago after a motor accident.”
“Ah, yes, you mean Mr. Dearborn of Winterton?”
“You know he is dead, sir?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I saw the account of the inquest in the papers; the death was due to the accident.”
“I understand that Dr. Symon who attended him testified that the cause of death was an injury sustained in a motor accident. I wanted to ask you, sir, whether possibly there may have been another cause of death.”
“He had had a knock on the head, certainly—a nasty blow which had cut the scalp and it was bleeding a good deal, but he recovered consciousness while I was dressing the wound, and I assumed that when his car turned over his
head had come into violent contact with the frame of the car. In that case Dr. Symon’s evidence as to the cause of death would be correct.”
“How was the car lying when you found it?”
“Well, it was half turned over, that is to say, two of the wheels were in the air. Dearborn was lying with his head against the inside of the body. I assumed that the wound on the top of the head was the result of a sharp impact against the woodwork of the roof, which, of course, is covered with lining material, but not so thick as to protect the head of a person thrown violently against it.”
Richardson told him about the anonymous letters, asking him to treat the information as confidential.
“You see, sir, it might be fatal to my inquiries if this got into the press. Another medical examination is to be made.”
“Who is making it?”
“Dr. Fraser from Plymouth.”
“You couldn’t have chosen a better man.”
Chapter Three
WHEN THE CAR drew up at Mrs. Dearborn’s door, the two doctors were just coming out. Richardson jumped down and presented himself as a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard. Dr. Fraser was a grave, grey man of between forty and fifty.
“I don’t wish to intrude upon your conversation, gentlemen,” said Richardson, “but before you go and before you make your report I must ask you to see the damaged car in the garage, in order to determine whether the injuries on the deceased’s head could have been produced by impact with the car roof at the time of the accident. I ask this because I have just come from the scene of the accident, where we have made one or two small discoveries.”
Dr. Fraser looked at him sombrely, as if he resented interference by a layman. Richardson turned to Jago. “Go and get the key of the garage, and lead the way.”
“We were going to inspect the car in any case, Chief Inspector, but this is purely a surgical matter.”
“I am quite aware of that, Dr. Fraser. My only wish was to give you all the material for your finding. For example, here is what we believe to be the missing half of the broken stick shown to you by Superintendent Carstairs.”
Dr. Fraser took the stick, weighed it in his hand and passed it to Dr. Symon.
“We have also found the starting-handle of Mr. Dearborn’s car. It had been thrown some ten yards into the heather.”
“We are not detective officers,” said Dr. Fraser. “Our task is to determine only the cause of death, and this we are both prepared to do. The steps to be taken in consequence of our report are not for us to decide. The facts that we are prepared to report are that the deceased had an abnormally thin skull; that he died from haemorrhage of the brain in consequence of a blow from some blunt instrument which shattered the skull at the point of impact. Whether this was a blow received from the roof of the car when it turned over, or from some outside agency such as that broken stick, is rather a matter for you than for us, but as you seem to desire it, we will examine the car carefully and tell you our opinion.” With these words Dr. Fraser followed Jago into the garage and climbed into the little Austin Seven. He felt and examined the roofing and then called to Dr. Symon to climb up beside him.
Richardson did not hear their conversation, but he saw them paying particular attention to a spot in the roof immediately behind the driving seat. It was stained with blood which had dried. Presently they got out again and Dr. Fraser spoke.
“Where did you find this broken stick?” he asked.
“A few yards from the spot where we found the starting-handle. It was two hundred and seventy-one paces from the place where the car overturned. I paced the distance myself.”
“Do you suggest, then, that the deceased was assaulted from behind with that stick while he was sitting in the car?”
“At this stage I suggest nothing, doctor,” said Richardson; “but we have to account for the stick and the starting-handle being that distance from the place where the car overturned with the deceased in it. It is for you to say whether a man who had sustained a fracture of the skull could have set his car in motion and driven nearly three hundred yards before running into a ditch.”
Dr. Fraser drew Dr. Symon aside and began to talk to him in a low tone. Fraser appeared to be urging some course of action upon Symon. He gained acquiescence and turned again to Richardson. “In view of what you have told us, my colleague is prepared to admit that the evidence he gave at the inquest may have been a little over positive, but we must bear in mind that the deceased was conscious, and had said nothing about any attack being made upon him.”
“I quite see Dr. Symon’s point of view, but I presume that the coroner will not hold a second inquest.”
“No, because the police will do all that is necessary in the interests of justice. I shall see the coroner and explain the circumstances to him.”
“You have solved my difficulties entirely, Dr. Fraser. I presume that you have got all the necessary materials for your report and that the funeral can now take place.”
“That is so. Our report will go to the Superintendent of police here.”
Without another word the two doctors went towards their car. Sergeant Jago gazed at their retreating backs with disapproval. “They seem to think that we are causing a lot of unnecessary trouble for nothing.”
“Doctors like to be regarded by laymen as infallible and incapable of making mistakes. This weakness is not altogether unknown among detective officers. You are young in the service, Sergeant Jago; you should bear this in mind. And now to lunch.”
After a hasty meal, Richardson and Jago got the police car to drive them to the Union Bank in Plymouth. It was an unfortunate hour for both the manager and the cashier were away at lunch and the two junior clerks and bank messenger were the only representatives of the staff. From one of these Richardson ascertained that the late Mr. Dearborn had an account there.
“I will call in again a little after two o’clock if you will kindly ask the manager to keep that time clear for me.”
“You ought to see the Hoe now you’re here, sir, and have a few minutes to spare,” observed Jago. “I can show you the place where Sir Francis Drake was playing bowls when the Spanish Armada was sighted.” He led his chief uphill to the famous Hoe and pointed out the spot identified by the local historians. It was a perfect day. Over Drake’s Island one could see an expanse of calm sea stretching towards the Eddystone lighthouse. They walked up and down the almost deserted promenade; the good folk of Plymouth were enjoying their midday meal.
Richardson looked at his watch. “It’s now one minute to two. Let’s go down to the bank and see whether the manager is a punctual person.”
The messenger intimated that Mr. Todd, the manager, was expecting them. He ushered them into a little room on the left of the entrance, where an energetic-looking little man received them. Richardson tendered his official card and introduced Sergeant Jago as his assistant.
“I have come to ask you a few questions about the late Mr. Dearborn of Winterton, who, I understand, was a customer of this bank.”
“He was, and as I am his sole executor, I ought really to be attending his funeral this afternoon.”
“I can relieve your mind on that score, Mr. Todd. The funeral has had to be postponed for a day or two. Probably it will take place to-morrow, but in any case I will send you a telephone message.”
The manager looked startled. “Postponed? Oh, I see!” He picked up Richardson’s card. “Something has transpired since the coroner’s inquest and you have come down from London to investigate. Does it mean that foul play is suspected?”
“I presume that anything I say will be treated by you as strictly confidential. Some anonymous letters have reached the police, alleging that the motor accident was not the cause of death, and in consequence of a request from the Chief Constable I have been sent down to carry out inquiries. Mrs. Dearborn told me that her husband was a customer of your bank and I am anxious to put a few questions to you about his account.”
“Certainly. I sha
ll be glad to answer anything you want to ask.”
“My first question is, when and under what circumstances did Mr. Dearborn open an account with you?”
“I can give you the exact date. It was about three years ago, and the account was opened in the simplest possible way. Mr. Dearborn walked into the bank one afternoon and asked to see me. He told me that he had just disposed of a block of real property in London by private sale and had brought the proceeds with him in cash. I suppose I looked surprised, because he went on to say that he had insisted upon a cash payment and that the purchaser had met him by sending to his bank for the money in notes. The amount was twenty-five thousand pounds. He picked up a little handbag and took out a bundle of notes of large denomination and asked me to count them. It was, as you may imagine, a very unusual transaction, and I put down my new customer as a person of eccentric habits.”
“Did he say whether he was a Londoner? Or in subsequent conversations did he ever give you a hint as to where he had come from?”
“Now you speak of it I can’t remember that he did. I never questioned that he was a Londoner after hearing from him that he had been the owner of house property there.”
“I suppose that during the last three years you became fairly intimate?”
“Intimate is scarcely the word. I’ve never been to his house if that’s what you mean. I know that he’s married, but I’ve never been introduced to his wife. On the other hand, I consented to become executor to his will as a matter of business.”
“What did he do with his money? Invest it, leave it on deposit, or what?”
“He frequently asked my advice about investments, since two per cent, was all that I could give him on deposit. A few months ago a quarry near Moorstead was for sale. It had banked with us and we knew that it could be made a paying concern. I brought it to his notice and he went over to inspect it and finally bought it. Since then I’m told that he made regular visits in a little car that he had acquired—I suppose the same car in which he was driving at the time of the accident.”
The Dartmoor Enigma Page 3
