The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “I assure you, madam, that I’m not acting for her, but for the legal wife of the man who is dead. As I told you, your daughter-in-law wished to claim him as her husband in order to be free to marry again.”

  “To be free? She can’t want that more than we do. She ruined my son’s life. Ever since she won that beauty competition, she spent every penny he made on decking herself out; when he came home tired from his day’s work he’d find nothing in the house to eat because she’d gone off with some admirer to dine and go to the pictures. She ruined his temper by nagging at him, and then one day he answered his boss back before everybody in the shop and of course he got the sack; he was a cashier at the time. Then she got an offer from a film company and said she wasn’t going to keep him; he’d better clear out. So he left her and never wants to see her again.”

  “I quite understand that,” said Richardson soothingly. “I wish I could persuade you to give me his address for the sake of my client.”

  The lady demurred. “If I was sure…”

  “I assure you that I won’t give his address to your daughter-in-law until your son himself desires it.”

  She laughed shortly. “He won’t desire it; never fear. I don’t mind telling you that he’s coming round here to have dinner with us, and if you were to look in here at about half-past two you could have a talk to him.”

  “Why, if he’s living in this village I could go and see him now.”

  “He’s not. He’s working a milk round near Bath, but he generally gets over here on a Sunday.”

  “His wife told me she’d been down here making inquiries, but she couldn’t get any sense out of any of the neighbours.”

  Mrs. Dearborn laughed. “I’m not surprised to hear that. There was no one in the village that liked her or would do a hand’s turn to help her; besides, nobody here knows where he’s working.”

  “How many sons have you, Mrs. Dearborn?”

  “Only the two—Charles and Albert, who opened the door to you.”

  “Someone told me that you had a son with freckles all over his face.”

  She laughed in reminiscence. “That was Albert. You never saw such freckles as he had up to the age of fourteen, but they’re all gone now. You see, as a small boy he was always out-of-doors, but when he went into an office at fifteen they began to disappear. You can still see them in a strong light, but they’re not noticeable.”

  Richardson rose. “I must apologize for having kept you so long, Mrs. Dearborn. Please believe that I’m very much obliged to you for taking me into your confidence.”

  “Well, I was thinking of that poor woman you are representing. It isn’t very nice for anyone to learn that she’s committed bigamy.”

  “You are sure you don’t mind introducing me to your son this afternoon?”

  “Not at all. We shall expect you at half-past two.”

  While Richardson was lunching modestly at the local inn, he went over his morning’s work in his mind. He had not really expected very much from this visit to Abbott’s Ashton, except to verify the fact that Jane Smith’s husband was not the subject of his inquiries in South Devon. There were two men of the same name; that happens frequently enough when the name is a common one; but when it is not, the usual explanation is that one of the two who bear it has assumed it for some purpose of his own. Arguing on this line, it was quite possible that the Charles Dearborn of Winterton had in some way heard the name and adopted it. That opened up a future line of inquiry.

  Though it had no actual bearing on the murder case, Richardson could not pretend that the adventures of Jane Smith, who by her own efforts had succeeded in attaining wealth and position in six years, failed to interest him. She might not be a pleasant person to live with, but at least she had character, and no doubt her husband was a poor creature—that very afternoon he would know how poor.

  Punctually at half-past two he was back at Chatsworth, and the boy who had parted with his freckles showed him into the dining-room. The family party was sitting round the fire; the room was heavy with tobacco smoke. Mrs. Dearborn presented the guest to her husband and son.

  “I’ve explained to my son how I came to give his secret away, and he agrees that for the sake of that poor woman down in Devonshire I could not have done anything else.”

  Richardson was looking curiously at this Charles Dearborn. He was very much as he had imagined him—a poor, backboneless man of irreproachable honesty, of an affectionate disposition, but entirely devoid of the driving-power required for success in modern life. That was why his progress had always been downhill, until now he rose almost when other people were going to bed, to drive a car round the farms near Bath collecting milk for the city dairies. He looked almost old enough to be the father of his younger brother.

  After a little desultory conversation with Mr. Dearborn senior, to whom he had taken a liking, Richardson decided to lay his cards on the table.

  “I ought to tell you that I am not a lawyer or any of those professions that you may have thought of. I am a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, engaged in solving the mystery of the late Charles Dearborn’s death.” He felt rather than saw the electric wave of excitement created by his words. “The Charles Dearborn of Winterton met with a violent death, though the coroner’s jury ascribed it to a motor accident.”

  Mrs. Dearborn’s expression became portentous. “If that daughter-in-law of mine came over from Hollywood with the idea of being free to marry again, and heard that a man of her husband’s name was living down there, what with her head being full of gangsters and hold-up men, she might well have had a hand in it.”

  “Oh, come, Mother,” said her husband; “that’s going a little too far.”

  “If you’d read as many detective stories as I have, Father,” said his eldest son, “you wouldn’t be surprised at anything.”

  Richardson smiled. “I don’t think we can accuse the lady who now calls herself Jane Smith of anything like that. The dead man came to Winterton about three years ago. Can you think of anyone whom you knew three years ago, who might have borrowed your name, because we don’t think he had any right to the name under which he was passing.”

  “Three years ago? Why, that’s about the time that I took on my present job, isn’t it, Mother?”

  “Yes, but you weren’t seeing anyone but the farmers when they took you with them on the milk round.”

  “I believe that when you were in Bristol you were a cashier in a big shop,” said Richardson. “Have you had any job as a cashier since?”

  The young man shook his head. “No, you can’t get that kind of job without a reference. I went to Bath for a bit to get away from my wife, but I couldn’t get work for some time and my mother had to send me money. I was ready to take anything that offered. I watched the advertisement columns every morning, and at last I came down to being a cleaner in the Pump Room.”

  “I believe I could have got his employer in Bristol to take him back again,” broke in the father, “but he wouldn’t come back to work here for fear of running across that wife of his.”

  “You never acted as private chauffeur or servant to anyone? I ask this because the man who was killed at Winterton was a man of means and might have employed you and afterwards used your name.”

  “No, I had to take all kinds of jobs because beggars can’t be choosers, but I never took a job like that. I’ve worked on my present job for three years, and I’m sure that none of the people I work for could be passing under a false name. They’re all well-known farmers who’ve been for years in the place.”

  “Well, I’m very much obliged to you all, but I’m afraid the case is likely to remain a mystery.” He turned to Charles. “I promise you that I won’t give your wife your present address, but I ought to warn you that she’ll leave no stone unturned to find you. She wants you either alive or dead. If dead, she will be free to marry again; if alive, to divorce you.”

  The old father left his chair and became excited. “Why not, my son? Why
not let her divorce you, and be free from her for ever?”

  “Oh, let me be as I am. It would all be such a bother.”

  “Not such a bother as you think,” replied Richardson. “She has plenty of money and divorces are very easily managed in America. However, you must do as you think best.”

  “No, my son,” said the father. “You must show some grit for once. Come out into the open and let her divorce you.”

  “Yes,” added the mother; “you’ve been in hiding like a criminal for six years, afraid to come to your own home for fear of her finding you.”

  “Well, I won’t see her alone; she mustn’t come down after me.”

  With the light of battle in her eye the mother said, “Let her come here and I’ll see you through the interview. Perhaps the gentleman will be kind enough to tell her that she can come and see you here any Sunday afternoon.”

  “That’s arranged, then,” said Richardson. “I’ll let her know.”

  They parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. Richardson returned to the inn to await the char-à-banc back to Bristol, where at the railway hotel he discovered as he had feared, that on Sunday night it would be impossible to find a train for Plymouth. He reflected ruefully that he had solved a mystery for the film star, Jane Smith, but that he had not advanced a step in the direction of clearing up the murder of Charles Dearborn at Winterton. He spent the evening in writing up his notes of what he had done that afternoon, and as he had no right to spend his time in revisiting Jane Smith, he sat down to write her a letter at her flat.

  “DEAR MISS SMITH,

  “You will no doubt be interested to learn that I spent this afternoon in company with your husband and his family. Your husband is very well and is in regular work. I cannot truthfully say that he desired to be remembered to you, but if you wish to discuss with him the question of a divorce, he will be glad to see you at his parents’ house, Chatsworth, Abbott’s Ashton, any Sunday afternoon at 2.30. He will meet you in the presence of his mother.

  “Yours faithfully…”

  He now put through a trunk call to his sergeant at Winterton police station.

  “Is that you, Jago? Richardson speaking. I’ve had a fairly busy day and have cleared up what might have been a tiresome false clue. I should have been back to-night if the train service had allowed it, but in any case to-morrow morning I’ll be with you. How have you been getting on?”

  “I’ve had a slice of luck, Mr. Richardson. I believe that I’ve obtained a description of the man we’re looking for.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what has been done. It is too confidential a matter to discuss over the ’phone.”

  “Well, you’ll find an attentive listener when I come to-morrow morning. Good night.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT WAS nearly eleven o’clock when the cross-country journey from Bristol to Winterton was accomplished. Sergeant Jago had looked up the trains and met Richardson at the station.

  “That telephone message of yours last night, Jago, has whetted my appetite for details; tell me exactly what you’ve been doing.”

  “There’s not much credit to me, Mr. Richardson. It was my local knowledge of the moor that gave me the idea that a man who escaped in the direction described by that young woman, Susie Duke, must have floundered into a bog lower down the Tor; I’ve done it myself when I was a boy.” He went on to describe the steps that he had induced the Chief Constable to take.

  “So your discovery is that a man who got bogged on the evening of the murder was wearing a suit of clothes made by a tailor in Sackville Street, and that he took a train towards London. Quite good as far as it goes. However, he may have been a gentleman’s servant to whom his employer made over an old suit.”

  “The hotel people assured me that he spoke like a gentleman. Of course there is the risk that someone else, quite unconnected with our case, got bogged that Saturday evening.”

  “We can’t afford to neglect any clue, however slight, at this stage of the case. It means that we shall have to make a round of the Sackville Street tailors.”

  “You haven’t told me yet the result of your inquiries, Mr. Richardson. Did you find out who that film star’s husband was?”

  “Yes, and I had a long talk with him. Take my advice, Sergeant Jago, and never be tempted to stand at the altar with any lady who has ambitions for the films. If you do, you’ll live to regret it.”

  “Was the lady so very dreadful?”

  “Not at all, she was very comely on the contrary; but I couldn’t meet her wishes by finding her a dead husband, so I found her a live one.”

  “She won’t like that.”

  “Probably not, but there are more ways than one of getting rid of an inconvenient husband. One can divorce him, especially when, like this one, he wants nothing more than to be divorced.”

  “Was there any connection at all between that Charles Dearborn and ours?”

  “No, but I don’t regard my journey to Bristol as entirely a waste of time, because I believe that our Charles Dearborn had an assumed name and that he took it from the film star’s husband, of whom he must have heard, perhaps only casually, but the name lived in his memory. Most assumed names suggest themselves in that way. We are not advancing fast with our puzzle, but we are not actually standing still.”

  “What is the next step to take?” asked Jago.

  “First to get from the bank manager in Plymouth the exact date on which the dead man deposited £25,000 in notes, and then to look up the informations of about that date showing thefts of jewels or robberies of artistic masterpieces of that approximate value. Receivers would not pay for such things by cheque.”

  “Why not include thefts of money in bank-notes?”

  “Because the numbers of the notes would have been known and payment stopped. In this case nothing could have been known at the Yard, otherwise there would have been a hue and cry in the informations. I suppose that Superintendent Carstairs is not waiting to see me?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe he’s out in the car somewhere.”

  “Well then, we’ll go into Plymouth at once, get the information we want from the bank, then lunch somewhere and take an afternoon train to town. While you’re packing our duds I’ll slip round to Mrs. Dearborn to tell her that she remains the lawful widow of her late husband. On your way you might look in at the police station and leave a message for Carstairs that we have to go to London in connection with the case and will be back probably the day after to-morrow.”

  “Where shall I meet you?”

  “At the station. I’ll come on there after seeing the widow.”

  Richardson found Mrs. Dearborn at home. She received his information with perfect equanimity.

  “I felt sure that publicity agent would be proved wrong. But now I have something that may interest you. I think I told you that I found two detective novels among my late husband’s clothes. Well, I began to read one of them, and towards the end of the story I found two pages, as I thought, uncut. I went for a paper-knife and then saw that the pages had been gummed together at the edges. When I felt the thickness of the double page I realized that an extra paper had been enclosed as if the pages had been an envelope. Shall I go and get the book?”

  “Please do,” said Richardson.

  She was less than thirty seconds away. “Here is the book and these are the gummed pages, 301 to 304

  Richardson felt the pages. Certainly there was something between them. “Shall I open them, Mrs. Dearborn?”

  “Certainly. I thought it was better you should do it than I.”

  Richardson pulled out his pen-knife which he kept very sharp. He insinuated the point between the two pages and sawed gently along the gummed edge. Then he inserted a finger and drew into view a banknote—a Bank of England note for £500. He pushed it over to Mrs. Dearborn to see. He himself knit his brow in thought. This hidden note had an important bearing on his cas
e, he felt sure. He asked her to allow him to keep it for a time, and then said:

  “I had almost forgotten that I had a cheque of yours in my possession. Now that I have seen the film star’s husband in the flesh, a comparison between handwritings has become unnecessary. Something which transpired yesterday will require my presence in London, but I hope to be back the day after tomorrow, when I will see you again. Good-bye.”

  He found Sergeant Jago at the station with the luggage.

  “I’ve paid the hotel bill,” he said, “but I asked them to keep our rooms for us unless they were really wanted. Our train goes in twenty minutes.”

  They paced up and down the platform. Richardson told his subordinate about finding the bank-note gummed between the pages of a book.

  What does that mean, do you think?” said Jago. The explanation that first came to my mind was that this note was not paid in at the bank with the others because Dearborn was afraid that its number might have been passed into the Yard to be included in informations. He liked to be on the safe side, but his love of money prevented him from destroying it. Perhaps he intended it to pay for his defence if he were caught.”

  “I think the plot’s thickening, Mr. Richardson,” said Jago. “If Dearborn belonged to a gang of thieves, it may have been one of his accomplices who did him in for not sharing out the spoils fairly.”

  “Without going so far as that I think this note may very well become the turning-point in our investigation. Here’s our train.”

  There were other people in the long motor-coach of the local train, so their speech had to be restrained. They walked from Millbay station to the bank, where Richardson asked to see the manager in his private room.

  “I’ve been wanting to see you for some days,” said Mr. Todd. “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been getting on with your inquiry.”

  “I’ve come here this morning, Mr. Todd, to let you know more or less exactly how things stand; but first I want from you the exact date when Mr. Dearborn deposited those twenty-five thousand pounds.”