The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “This is Mr. Frank Willis, secretary to that company I told you of; and this gentleman,” he said, turning to Willis, “is the Chief Inspector from the Yard who is interested in you.”

  “I see. His interest in me consists in arresting me, not as they do it on the American films with a six-shooter pointed at my stomach, but in the gentlemanly English fashion which is not even marred by the click of the handcuffs.”

  Richardson laughed pleasantly. “You are not even under arrest, sir. You are only coming to Scotland Yard with me to make a statement. As to what will happen after you have made it, that will depend principally on you.”

  “Do you run to a restaurant at the Yard, by any chance? That crossing has made me devilish hungry.”

  “There is a staff restaurant,” said Richardson, “but for anyone accustomed to French cooking these last few days, I can’t recommend it. We could lunch on the train.”

  “No,” said Sutcliffe; “I hate a restaurant car. We want to be quiet.”

  “Well,” said Richardson, “we will lunch together wherever you like as soon as we reach town.”

  “Then I hope that you will be my guest,” said Willis. “No, you mustn’t decline; it’s well understood that at the end of the meal you slip the handcuffs on me, if you want, without any feeling about the claims of hospitality or nonsense of that kind. Where shall we go? There used to be a decent little restaurant near the Army and Navy Stores; what about trying that?”

  “Wherever you like, sir; I’m in your hands.”

  “Indeed? I thought it was the other way. Never mind; we won’t quarrel over terms. Come along, Sutcliffe.”

  It may have been owing to the noise in the train that Willis was silent on the journey up. He had bought an English newspaper and was reading it meticulously, particularly its financial columns. It was not until the express began to run through the suburbs that he laid his paper down to gaze out of the window. At Victoria he took the head of the party and they walked side by side along Victoria Street in so far as the number of foot-passengers allowed them. During that luncheon the conversation was limited to the history and the prospects of the Sulanka Gold Mining Company in Borneo.

  “We’ve more than turned the corner now,” said Willis. “I’m not going to bore you with figures in this potty little restaurant where waiters keep their ears flapping when business is talked, and besides, it wouldn’t in the least interest you, Mr. Richardson, but I want to tell you that I wasn’t such a worm as you thought I was when I mouched off and left Mr. Sutcliffe to face the music alone.”

  “His fault, as it always has been, was recklessness,” said Sutcliffe. “He had absolute confidence that the mine would turn out to be a winner, but he needed money in order to cover the expenses of exploiting it. Even then all would probably have gone well if there hadn’t been dirty work with some of the shareholders.”

  “If it had been six months later,” said Willis, “it would have been all right. The money would have been used for development and there would have been something to show. As it was, they thought that they were putting their money into a going concern, when actually no works had been started. I’ve always felt convinced that the dirty dog in the case was Instone; that he put up that woman, Straight, to make a complaint to the police and started all the trouble.”

  Richardson smiled inwardly at the thought of the documents he possessed and how they proved the justice of Willis’s conjectures.

  “He didn’t leave me in the lurch as everyone thought at the time,” said Sutcliffe.

  “No, I left you because I believed that I could do you more good from Borneo than if I’d stayed with you as another of His Majesty’s guests. I always believed in that mine and I thought if I could prove it was a sound investment I could get a pardon for you, but I hadn’t reckoned on the grind it was going to be without any capital for development. It was an awful feeling out there to know one was standing on a hill of pure gold without the means of getting at it. I had almost reached the point of trying to bore a tunnel into the hill with my own hands—an impossible task, by the way—when I ran across an American, a Mr. Viner, and took him to see the property. He knew quite a lot about mining; he’d been employed prospecting in New Mexico. The first thing he did was to start washing in the creek below and then digging sand out of the banks. There were quite a lot of tiny water-worn nuggets in every pan. Then he went back to the hill and came across what I had always missed—an ancient tunnel in the rock; being overgrown with brambles and weeds I had missed it. The prospectors of those days must have got fed up because the tunnel came to an end forty feet too soon.”

  Richardson was getting keenly interested. “What made you think that there was gold in that hill in the first instance?”

  “The Rajah’s wife told me that that was where her gold ornaments came from. Apparently when the prospectors were driving the tunnel they came across a very narrow seam of gold which soon worked out. She said that the tradition was always the same; that the middle of the hill consisted of pure gold.”

  “I know nothing about gold mining,” said Richardson, “but I’ve heard of people finding gold in paying quantities single-handed—going into a cave and seeing gold stalactites hanging from the roof.”

  “Yes, you must have been reading magazine stories. It’s possible, of course, for a man single-handed to find nuggets in sandy soil. It was that kind of find that started all the gold rushes, beginning with California, but this hill of ours was protected by many feet of hard rock which had to be blasted away before we could get at the gold.”

  “And so this American financed you?”

  “He did. We didn’t reconstruct the company to start with, but he became the principal shareholder. Now, of course, the yield has been so big that we can give the original shareholders, of whom Sutcliffe is the biggest, the choice of shares or repayment of their investment. That’s why I have come over.”

  The luncheon had come to an end, the bill had been paid; there remained only the visit to Scotland Yard, where the industrious Jago would be found ready to make notes of a fateful conversation.

  “You won’t want me any more?” said Sutcliffe.

  “No, Mr. Sutcliffe; I think it would be better if you were not present.”

  For a man who was expected within a few minutes to confess to a cold-blooded murder, Frank Willis was remarkably debonair.

  “The truth and nothing but the truth is, I suppose, what you want from me, and that’s what I’m going to give you,” said Willis. “In that office of Sutcliffe there was an office boy of the name of Reddy, but he was commonly known as Freckles with us. This boy had chanced to see in a Dartmoor inn a man whom he recognized as Instone. He had never liked Instone and when he heard from the landlord that he was passing under the name of Dearborn he liked him still less, especially when he was told that the man had bought a quarry and a car—luxuries which had never been his when he ran Sutcliffe’s office.

  “You must know that I hadn’t communicated with my people for three years as I didn’t want them to know my address in case the police came and bothered them. I was landing in the London dock when quite by chance I saw Freckles. He spoke to me and said that he had something very important that he must tell somebody, and that I would do as well as anyone else, so I took him off to my hotel and there heard from him about Instone being on the moor. I tell you it was a shock, for it explained how it was that there were no assets left in the bank. This rascal Instone had stolen the lot. Well, I made up my mind that I’d have it out with him and that I’d prosecute him if I could. Most of all I wanted to see the dirty rascal’s face when he recognized me. I thought that I had laid my plans well. I walked all the way from Winterton to within a mile of Duketon, and there I sat down in the heather to wait for his car. It was getting towards evening when it came over the hill. He was alone in it. I ran up into the middle of the road signalling for him to stop. He pulled up, but as soon as he caught sight of me, the little rat nipped out of the car
with the starting-handle and attacked me with it. There was no chance of getting in a word. He aimed a blow at my head and I got it on the arm, because I’d put it up to defend my head. Then the blighter came at me again. I caught him one on the jaw with my left hand but that wasn’t enough. He was armed with a starting-handle but I had nothing but my walking-stick. I whacked him with that and the stick broke in my hand. He went down in the road like a sack of coal. I hoped that I hadn’t killed him, but I didn’t want my home-coming to be spoilt by another blaze of publicity and so I made off across country behind the Tor.”

  “And you got bogged,” said Richardson, “and had to get your clothing cleaned by the night-porter at your hotel in Plymouth, and your suit—the one made by Langridge & West of Sackville Street—was spoilt.”

  “Good Lord! That suit was made before I left England, but of course I hadn’t used it much. You seem to have been following the footsteps of the great practitioner whose name was Holmes, and this”—he pointed to Jago, writing busily at the table—“must be Dr. Watson in the flesh.”

  “Reddy let you know that Instone was dead?”

  “Yes; I sent him down to find out, and that was the report he brought back, so of course I had to lie low. I gave Reddy my address to write to me in Paris, and he sent me blood-curdling stories about how sleuths from Scotland Yard were on my track. Now what are you going to do with me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “THAT DOESN’T rest with me, sir,” said Richardson. “I must ask you to stay in this room while I consult higher authority.”

  Richardson went first to Superintendent Witchard.

  “That man about whom you issued a memorandum to the Port Officers yesterday has come over voluntarily. I met him at Dover this morning and he has just made and signed a full confession, so the notice to the Port Officers may be withdrawn.”

  The Superintendent made a pencil note on his blotting-pad.

  “And now, sir, I should like to get a ruling from Mr. Morden.”

  “Have you sent the man over to Cannon Row?”

  “No, sir; I haven’t charged him. He is simply waiting in the Chief Inspector’s room with Sergeant Jago. Can you take me now to see Mr. Morden?”

  Witchard rose rather ungraciously. “Come along then, I’ll take you in now.”

  To Morden Richardson recounted what had been done since he last saw him. “My difficulty is, sir, what is to be done with this man, Willis? He is a man of means and can provide for his defence. He admits that he struck the blow from which the man Instone, alias Dearborn, really died, but he pleads that the blow was struck in self-defence, and there are two eye-witnesses of the incident to prove this.”

  “He means to plead justifiable homicide?” asked Morden.

  “Yes, sir, if he is charged at all, and that would be a matter for the Director of Public Prosecutions.”

  “Who hasn’t yet seen the papers? If you charge him at all he will have to come before the court. If you don’t charge him within the twenty-four hours he may bolt.”

  “I don’t think he will do that, sir.”

  “What is your view, Mr. Witchard?” asked Morden.

  “I think the whole inquiry has been a waste of money, sir. It ought to have been possible to drop the case at an earlier stage than this, if it was to be dropped at all. The written statements of these two eye-witnesses of yours were enough to prove that the blow was struck in self-defence.”

  “Pardon me, sir. Everything turned upon who was the aggressor. The man who stopped the car may have had the intention to commit an assault upon its occupant and then, of course, he would be liable to indictment as the occupant of the car might have used the starting-handle to defend himself. But we know now that the occupant was the aggressor; he jumped out of the car and struck the first blow. He was armed with a weapon of metal, the other man had nothing but a wooden walking-stick. I submit that the act of leaving the car showed Instone to have been the aggressor, quite apart from the evidence of the two eye-witnesses. Until I could get to the bottom of the case there was no real proof which was the aggressor.”

  “I see your argument, Mr. Richardson,” said Morden; “but the question before us is whether this man Willis is to be arrested and charged or what is to be done with him. If we charge him the magistrate will admit him to bail and then the newspaper racket will begin.”

  “I don’t think he’ll bolt, sir, if we let him go home. What he wants is to have the case disposed of one way or the other.”

  “What do you say, Mr. Witchard?” said Morden.

  “It’s always safer to follow the legal road, sir; then there can be no agitation against the police.”

  “I agree,” said Morden, “but this case is exceptional, and if Mr. Richardson feels sure that he can trust him, I’m inclined to let the man go home on the usual understanding that he comes here when he is sent for.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “In the meantime,” said Morden, “you ought to take those papers over personally to the Director of Public Prosecutions, explain the circumstances orally to him, leave the papers with him and take his instructions. For the time being, as you know, you become his servant.”

  “Very good, sir; in the meantime I should like with your permission to straighten out all this money business between the various witnesses by dealing with them personally.”

  “What money business?”

  “Well, sir, I have a five-hundred-pound note belonging to Lady Penmore which was found among Instone’s property and proved that he had stolen it; then there is the question of the money left by will to Instone’s widow; it was stolen money and she wishes to surrender it to its rightful owners without legal proceedings.”

  “Strange woman,” observed Morden under his breath.

  “We are not concerned with the money invested in this gold mine by Miss Straight. Willis will see to all that himself.”

  “It seems to be a pretty complicated case, but as you know all the details you’d better do all the clearing up. It won’t cost much in travelling expenses, will it?”

  “No, sir; only one journey down to Bath.”

  “Good; then we’ll consider that settled, subject to the views of the Director.”

  Richardson returned to his room and explained the situation to Willis.

  “You mean that I’m free to go home?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Yes, subject to your parole to present yourself whenever called upon.”

  “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Richardson. You can count upon me remembering for the future that when one has a grievance against one’s fellow man it is always best to come first to the police. If you don’t mind touching the hand of a homicide I should like to shake hands with you. Goodbye.”

  Having ascertained that the report for the Director of Public Prosecutions could not possibly be ready before the evening of the next day, Richardson looked up the trains to Bath for the next morning, and decided to use that evening for coming to an understanding with Mrs. Dearborn, as she still called herself.

  “I was wondering when you were coming to see me, Mr. Richardson. I want you to tell me frankly all about the money my late husband left to me and how he got it.”

  Very gently Richardson told her everything. He could see by her expression how she was fitting the information into the chain of facts already known to her.

  “Then none of this money is mine,” she said, “if it was all embezzled.”

  “But Mr. Sutcliffe, to whom it rightfully belongs, wishes you to accept some of it.”

  “I won’t accept more than just enough to keep me until I get work. Perhaps he’ll be kind enough to recommend me for some employment.”

  “I am going to see someone to-morrow morning who may make the kind of offer to you that you would accept. I will arrange for the lady to write to you, and you will settle the money business direct with Mr. Sutcliffe.”

  At twelve o’clock next morning Richardson found himself on the front s
teps of Lady Penmore’s house in Bath. Her welcome was plain-spoken.

  “Well, Chief Inspector, who have you been arresting for this murder? Not my poor son, I hope, though he ought to have been put under arrest long ago, just to teach him obedience to the law and to his mother.”

  “We have found the man who killed Instone, Lady Penmore.”

  “Then I hope he will be suitably rewarded, for if ever a man wanted killing it was that scoundrel Instone.”

  “I have your five-hundred-pound note in my pocket, Lady Penmore.”

  “Do you expect me to fall on your neck and kiss you before you give it back to me?”

  “No,” laughed Richardson, “but I do ask for one favour.” He told her about Instone’s widow and her need for paid employment.

  “Do you mean that there’s a woman in England who’s been left twenty-five thousand pounds and wants to give it up without going to law about it? Haven’t you sent for the usual two doctors to certify her?”

  “No; she’s very far from being certifiable. She wants to do the right thing.”

  “Strange woman; I should like to see her. Is she fond of dogs and cats and things?”

  “I believe she is.”

  “Then she’ll fill an aching void. I’ve always wanted a kennel-maid who will keep my pets from telescoping.”

  “Telescoping, Lady Penmore?”

  “Yes; the canary fits into the cat and the cat fits into the dog, and there’s no peace under this roof. I’ve always wanted a kennel-maid, but I never knew how to find one. Send her down to me.”

  Richardson rose and began to thank her.

  “Oh, that’s how it’s done. A little pretty talk and then one walks out of the house five hundred pounds to the good.”