The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “But now she keeps a car.”

  The smile dawned again. “You’d scarce call it a car, sir; there’s a driving-seat to it, but that’s all. It belongs to that boy of hers, and how he raised the money to buy it second-hand I can’t tell you. He says he’s making a profit on it by taking it out with market produce, but he’s down sick at home just now.”

  “Then who drives the car when he’s sick?”

  “Not his sister—she’s no licence and couldn’t drive it if she had. I expect the car’s laid up.”

  “Would you give the Duke family a good mark for honesty?”

  Again the inspector looked at his boots for inspiration. “Yes, sir, I should. The daughter Susie is a wonderful talker; she’d talk the hind leg off a donkey when doing a deal, but she wouldn’t rob you.”

  “Have you ever come across their lodger, Dick Pengelly, who was quarry-smith at the Red Quarry?”

  “Yes, sir; he’s one of them Cornish Labour agitators that’s always trying to stir up trouble. There’s no harm in him except his tongue. Everybody knows him in Moorstead and most of the folk are fed-up with him. He used to try and get up meetings in the market-place on Sundays, but he had to give it up because the people said, ‘Why, it’s only Dick Pengelly,’ and they wouldn’t stop to listen to him. But I hear that his boss has fired him and he’s gone off to find another job.”

  “He was a quarrelsome man, I suppose?”

  The inspector searched his memory. “No…no, I wouldn’t call him that. He was just an agitator because he was born that way.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, that was all I wanted to ask you.”

  “Very good, sir. Perhaps I ought to tell you that in Sun Lane they’ve been saying that Pengelly was courting the Duke girl.” He stopped for a moment to see how this piece of intelligence was received, then turned on his heel and left the room.

  Sergeant Jago came in to know whether Richardson was ready for supper and bed at the hotel. As they walked down together, Jago inquired whether his chief had got anything useful out of Inspector Viggers of Moorstead.

  “Nothing to speak of, except that in Sun Lane, where tongues run wild, Pengelly was believed to be paying court to Susie Duke.”

  “Ah!” said Jago. “That’s why she wouldn’t tell us all she knew about his whereabouts. She was shielding him, which shows that he must have been guilty of something. And he had a motive for the murder.”

  “It’s too early in the proceedings to be making up your mind against anyone, as I think you’ll find out before you’re much older.”

  Richardson had trained himself to dismiss his cases from his mind as soon as he got into bed, but that night he broke his good resolution and lay awake pondering. Pengelly was among the “possibles,” but would Pengelly, when on the tramp looking for work, be carrying a heavy walking-stick which obviously would have cost him something to buy? A “swanky” stick; and would a quarryman be carrying a walking-stick, anyhow? And then why would he be a quarter of a mile or more out of his way? Rowe’s Quarry lay on the road into Tavistock, which meant going right through Duketon, and if he wanted to waylay Dearborn he could have done it just as easily on the road between Moorstead and Duketon. It was a puzzle whichever way you looked at it. The first thing to be done was to locate that motor-lorry in Tavistock, and the second to find out whether Pengelly had applied to be taken on in Rowe’s Quarry. Perhaps it was this decision that brought sleep to Richardson’s eyelids, for beyond the Pengelly clue everything was cloudy and mysterious.

  When the two Scotland Yard officers met at their early breakfast-table next morning there was no change of plan. Sergeant Jago went off to arrange about the police car while Richardson smoked his pipe in the bar parlour. Twelve minutes after the car pulled up at the hotel door they were in Tavistock in Jago’s own hunting-ground, making the round of the repairing-shops. News flies fast among the garage hands in a little town, and Sergeant Jago was quickly directed to a little shop only recently opened. Beside a few derelict cars with dismantled engines there stood the tiniest of motor-lorries with a driving-seat and a flat platform behind it. A mechanic in blue overalls was stretched on the floor beneath it, tinkering with the brake bands. Hearing voices he protruded a head and blew his nose on an oily piece of cotton waste. Seeing possible customers he writhed out from under the car and asked what he could do for the visitors.

  “We’ve looked in to see young Duke’s lorry from Moorstead,” explained Jago. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, there she is, and I’m wondering how long she’s to be left here. She’s all ready for the road. I was just looking at her brakes when you come in.”

  “Who left her here?”

  “Why, the young lady, Ernie Duke’s sister, and the bloke that was driving her.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I’m sure I dunno who he was. The young lady called him ‘Dick.’ He said that her brother was laid up in Moorstead, but that as soon as he got better he’d come down and drive her away.”

  Richardson picked up the thread of the conversation. “We were wondering what sort of a driver the man was who brought her in.”

  The mechanic laughed sourly. “I’ll show you the kind of driver he was. See that door?” He pointed to the wooden gate through which vehicles had to drive. “See that scar in the paint? He made that bringing her in. He took the turn too short out of the street and grazed the lamp-post with his bumper, and then lost his head and went into my gate. If I hadn’t shouted to him to stop he’d have scraped the gate on the other side, too. He got down then and let me drive her in. It’s my belief that it was the first time in his life he’d ever had a steering-wheel in his hand.”

  “What sort of man was he to look at?”

  “Oh, a wiry sort of chap of about forty, I should say. I’d have put him down as a garage mechanic to judge by the state of his hands if it hadn’t been for the way he drove the car in.”

  “Well, we’ll let Mr. Duke know that his car’s ready and I dare say he’ll be along to fetch her. What day was it they left her?”

  “She’s been here ten days. I understood she was to have been fetched away the next day.”

  “Well, we’ll remind him about it. Good day.”

  The two officers stopped a moment to consult before they reached the car.

  “Ten days,” said Richardson; “that brings us to the day of the murder, but it doesn’t bring us any nearer to Pengelly, for what would he be doing with a walking-stick in the driving-seat of that little runabout, encumbered by that young woman?”

  “But why did she tell lies about it? Why didn’t she own up that Pengelly drove her into Tavistock?”

  Richardson pointed mutely to a deep scratch on the paintwork of the lamp-post and to the scar on the garage gate. “If you’d been sitting beside a man who’d never driven a car in his life before and had no licence you wouldn’t boast about it, would you?”

  “Ah! Then you think that she was afraid it would come out that Pengelly was driving without a licence?”

  “Yes, and I think, too, that he avoided taking the direct route through Duketon for fear of being stopped by the local constable. That’s why he drove through Sandiland into Tavistock.”

  “You don’t think there was any more serious reason for that girl lying to us?”

  “At present I don’t, but if we can find Pengelly in Rowe’s Quarry, we may get down to something like the truth.” He gave the order to the police driver to take them to Rowe’s Quarry.

  Chapter Five

  ROWE’S QUARRY was a much more extensive place than the little quarry near Moorstead. It had been worked for many years; the grey granite of which it is composed is to be found all over the district in churches, public halls and private houses, because it is the hardest and most durable stone in the west of England.

  A foreman met the two detectives at the gate, which he opened a little unwillingly in response to Richardson’s assurance that they were police officers come to make inquiries. T
he foreman led the way to his office, which was partitioned off from one of the sheds where the stone-dressing was done. Conversation had to be conducted to the musical ring of steel upon steel.

  “Have you taken on recently a quarry-smith called Dick Pengelly?”

  “Not as a quarry-smith, but I’ve taken on trial a man of that name as a smith’s striker and he’s shaping very well.”

  “Can we have a few words with him?”

  “Yes, but don’t keep him too long. We happen to be full up with orders just now.”

  Jago intervened. “Couldn’t you turn on another man to take his place? There must be lots who can use a hammer.”

  “Right; if you’ll stay here I’ll send him in.”

  While they waited, Richardson was busy with a literary composition of his own: before him lay the two photographs of the anonymous letters. When a knock at the door announced their man he covered the photographs quickly with a sheet of official foolscap.

  The arch agitator did not look at all the kind of man they were expecting. He was a wiry, sharp-featured little fellow with a hunted expression in his eyes. Evidently he had been told by the foreman the quality of his visitors; he was on the defensive.

  Richardson pulled out a stool from under the desk and said cheerfully, “Sit down there, Pengelly.” He knew the value of placing a suspect at a lower level than himself.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “If you don’t mind I’d rather you sat down, because we’ve several questions to ask you and you’ll answer them more comfortably sitting than standing. Last Saturday week you drove young Mr. Duke’s lorry from Moorstead into Tavistock, didn’t you?”

  “I went in Duke’s lorry, if that’s what you mean?”

  “Yes, that’s what we mean. You went in the lorry, sitting at the steering-wheel.”

  Pengelly seemed about to protest, but Richardson went on smoothly, “And instead of coming the nearest way to the quarry to look for work, you turned off on the road to Sandiland and left the lorry at that little garage in North Street, Tavistock, to be kept till called for.”

  “You seem to know all about it.”

  “We do know something about it. For example, we can tell you why you didn’t take the direct road up through the village of Duketon. It was because there’s a constable posted there and you were driving without a licence.”

  Pengelly became defiant. “Oh, if that’s all I was driving without a licence, but I dare say now that I’ve got a job the fine won’t break me.”

  “I don’t know what the Bench gives down here for driving without a licence, but if you like to own up in a statement, I’ll see that it’s brought to the notice of the magistrate. Here, pull up your stool to this desk and write it out yourself: ‘I, Richard Pengelly, feel it my duty to admit that on September 29 I drove a motor-lorry from Moorstead to Tavistock on business but I had no accident.’ And sign it.”

  Pengelly hesitated; he was no penman, but whether it was this fact or that he scented a trap Richardson was unable to determine. He banked on the former explanation.

  “You needn’t worry about the handwriting or spelling. The great thing is to get it down in your own handwriting.”

  With his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, and breathing heavily, Pengelly set himself to the task. At last it was done and Richardson turned to another aspect of that lorry drive.

  “You had a young lady with you in the lorry—young Duke’s sister. I wonder you didn’t let her drive.”

  Pengelly was taken off his guard. “She’d got no licence either. Her brother wouldn’t ever let her drive.”

  “Oh, that was it? If anybody was to get into trouble it wasn’t to be her. It does you credit, Pengelly. Now, when you turned off towards Sandilands hadn’t you another motive? You knew that it was about the time when Mr. Dearborn was due to come along in his car on his way to Winterton, and naturally you had a strong motive for telling him what you thought of him before leaving the district.”

  “I didn’t want to see the man again. Why should I?”

  “To have the last word. We all like to do that when we have a legitimate grievance, and he had sacked you without a character.”

  Pengelly flushed with angry reminiscence. “If I’d seen him I’d have told him off, I dare say, but I didn’t.”

  “No, but you saw his car standing at the Duchy Hotel, so you thought of waiting for him down the road.”

  Pengelly’s hands clenched; the hunted look returned to his eyes. “I wasn’t going to waste my time waiting for a swine like that.”

  “So you just drove on and left him at the Duchy Hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that he had an accident on the way down Sandiland Hill and was picked up unconscious?”

  “I heard something about it.”

  “Thank you, Pengelly. That’s all I want to ask you for the present.”

  When they were alone Jago remarked, “That man was lying.”

  “Up to a point he was telling the truth, I think.”

  “Yes, because you dragged it out of him, but what puzzles me, Mr. Richardson, is how you knew that Dearborn had left his car standing outside the Duchy Hotel.”

  “I didn’t know it. It was just a lucky shot.”

  “And that statement you got him to make? It struck me that you worded it in a funny way.”

  “That was because you didn’t notice that it had one or two of the words used in those anonymous letters. I wanted to get a specimen of his handwriting; that was all. Now let’s have a look at his statement and compare it with the photographs of the letters.” Richardson laid the three documents on the table and pored over them. He shook his head. “No. Pengelly never wrote those letters. He spells ‘business’ right; not ‘bisness’ as in both anonymous letters. Then look at the word ‘accident’—it’s in much heavier writing than the same word in the letter to the Chief Constable.”

  “I see that. But it never entered my head that he was the writer of the anonymous letters. I think we’ve got him cold on the murder, though; he had a motive—he admits that he saw Dearborn’s car standing outside the Duchy Hotel. He went down the road to wait for him. Short of absolute proof what more can you want?”

  “We haven’t done with our inquiries yet. Here comes the foreman. Pack up these papers quick. I don’t want him to see them.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” said the foreman, “how did Pengelly shape when you put him through the hoop?”

  “He admitted driving a car without a licence, and I suppose that the county police will have something to say about that. Otherwise he came out all right. I’m sorry to have taken up your time. We may have to see him again to clear up one or two minor points in his statement, but not for a few days. If he’s a competent workman, in your place I should keep him on. Good day.”

  They entered the police car and Richardson gave the order to drive to the Duchy Hotel, Duketon. The driver went like the wind, covering the five miles in six minutes. The officers jumped down, entered the bar and asked to see the manager.

  “Police officers, are you?” questioned this functionary. “I don’t remember seeing either of you before.”

  “No?” said Richardson. “Well, we won’t waste time over explanations. I have a simple question to ask you. Did Mr. Dearborn, who was injured in a motor accident last Saturday week and has since died, call in at this hotel late in the afternoon?”

  “Lord! I thought when I saw you that you were gentlemen of the Press. Is that the new wheeze—to call yourselves police officers? I suppose you represent the London newspapers. You’ll find a couple of your colleagues of the Plymouth Press in the bar parlour. I see the papers want to make a mystery out of that poor gentleman’s death; they’re not content with the verdict of the coroner’s jury.”

  “We’ve nothing to do with the Press. As I told you we’re police officers; you might oblige me by answering my question.”

  “I shall have to ask my barmaid for the an
swer. I don’t see everybody that calls in for a drink, but she’ll know. Laura! The last time you saw Mr. Dearborn, did he have any refreshment?”

  The lady behind the bar searched her memory.

  “He had a cup of tea, Mr. Tovey; you see it was about four o’clock in the afternoon—a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tovey, that’s all we wanted to ask.”

  The licensee followed them out to the door in his anxiety to be helpful and watched them enter the car.

  “Now,” said Richardson, “the next thing we have to do is to tackle that young woman in Sun Lane and she’ll need some careful handling, because I believe that she has the key to the whole mystery. I shouldn’t wonder myself to find that Viggers was right and that she’s in love with that fellow Pengelly.”

  “Then she won’t give him away.”

  “She won’t if she can help it.” Richardson leaned forward to speak to the driver. “You might put us down at the top of the lane and then I want you to go the round of the shops where they sell walking-sticks and see whether they stock any like the one that was picked up on the scene of the crime. You saw it, I suppose?”

  “Yes, and I’ve had it in my hand, too.”

  “Then, as we may be some time in Sun Lane, you’d better go in and have your dinner.”

  Doors and windows were clear of heads this time as the two officers made their way to the dwelling of the Dukes, or, as Detective Sergeant Jago phrased it, to the “Dukeries.”

  “Isn’t this going to be an awkward hour for calling on the young woman, Mr. Richardson—if they’re at dinner, I mean?”

  “They dine early in these parts. Perhaps you’re right. We had better go and get our own sandwiches, and catch Miss Susie Duke when she’s full fed and at peace with the world.”

  They retraced their steps and stopped at a little tea-shop a hundred yards from the opening into Sun Lane. They ordered tea and scones and Richardson laid his watch on the table.

  “We’ll give them another twenty minutes,” he said.