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Nobody knew better than Mr. George Thorold, the senior partner of Thorold and Son, the well-known Gippingford brewers, that in these days of highly-taxed beer it would not be an easy matter to find a tenant for the Rose and Crown. Consequently, when Hugh Dunsford called to see him and announced his intention of giving up the house, Mr. Thorold listened to him with a slight frown upon his handsome features.
“It's like this, you see, sir,” explained Dunsford, an elderly man, short of stature, and with that curious furtive, half-mistrustful air not uncommon among the natives of East Anglia. “There's not a decent living to be made at the Rose and Crown, and that's a fact. I'm not saying that the place wasn't a little gold-mine before the war, but those times are gone. A chap can't afford his couple of pints of an evening with beer at the price it is, leastways the chaps about High Eldersham can't. I might hold on if I was a single man, sir, but you see there's the missus and the family to think of.”
“Yes, I know how difficult things are for the tenants of the smaller houses,” replied Mr. Thorold. “You know that we would do everything we could to keep you. What do you think of doing when you give up the Rose and Crown?”
Dunsford coughed awkwardly. “Well, sir, I did hear that old Hawkins, of the Tower of London in this town, was going to retire. And I was going to make so bold as to ask you, seeing that it's one of your houses, if you'd consider me in his place. There's a fine trade to be done there, and I could manage it proper, with my boy Dick and the missus to help me.”
Mr. Thorold picked up a pencil that was lying on his desk, and began to trace a series of complicated geometrical figures on a piece of paper that lay before him. It was true that Hawkins intended to retire in the following September, and it was certain that Dunsford, whose father before him had been a tenant of the brewery, would make an excellent landlord for the Tower of London. But the problem of the Rose and Crown presented itself with all its manifold difficulties. It stood in an isolated spot, and customers were few and far between. There was nothing about the house to tempt a man who wanted to earn money by the trade. And besides, it would take a stranger-a foreigner, as High Eldersham dubbed any one not born in the immediate neighbourhood-months, perhaps years, to establish that confidence so essential between a landlord and his local customers.
“Well, Dunsford,” said Mr. Thorold after a long pause, “you and your parents have been friends of the brewery far too long for me to stand in your way, even if I wanted to. Of course you can have the Tower of London if you want the house, and I shall be very glad to know that it is in such good hands, and to have you here in Gippingford. But I'm sure I don't know who I shall get to take your place at the Rose and Crown. You don't happen to know of anybody out your way who would like it, do you?”
Dunsford shook his head, “No, sir, that I don't,” he replied. “'Tisn't as if the place had a bit o' land with it, so as a chap could pick up a bit with a few cows or something o' that. There isn't nobody round High Eldersham way as could do any good with the Rose and Crown, trade being what it is. Why, as I tell you, sir, I can't myself.”
“Then I'm sure nobody else could,” remarked Mr. Thorold, with a smile. “Well, I shall have to see what can be done, that's all. Since you are here, we may as well go into the matter of your tenancy of the Tower of London.”
When Dunsford had gone, Mr. Thorold sat for some time elaborating the design he had commenced, and thinking of the Rose and Crown. That it had long ceased to be profitable he knew well enough, and his only surprise was that Dunsford had not come to the same conclusion earlier than this. The house was unfortunately placed. It was about twenty miles from Gippingford, the county town, and stood upon the old coach road running northwards. At one time it had been a favourite spot for changing horses, but with the advent of the car its popularity had departed, since it was neither imposing nor romantic enough to attract the attention of the passing motorist. Further, within recent years a new main road had been built, absorbing the through traffic and reducing the old coach-road to little more than a country lane. The result was that few strangers entered the portal of the Rose and Crown.
It had to depend, therefore, for its trade upon the inhabitants of High Eldersham, a straggling village upon the banks of the River Elder. But here again the Rose and Crown was unfortunate. The population of High Eldersham was in any case very small, not more than two or three hundred in all. And the more substantial people, farmers and so forth, were almost without exception “chapel folk,” who would have lost caste among their neighbours had they been seen entering so disreputable a place as a public house. The purchase, on market day in Gippingford, of whisky by the case, for consumption behind drawn blinds, they regarded, however, as a perfectly natural and respectable proceeding. Besides these, the population of High Eldersham consisted mainly of labourers, and they, as Dunsford had said, could not afford more than an occasional visit to the Rose and Crown. Finally, still further to add to the disadvantages of the house, it was situated some little distance from the village itself, which lay a mile or more away, at the end of a side turning branching off from the coach-road opposite the Rose and Crown.
But, as Mr. Thorold was well aware, it was not the material drawbacks that presented the most serious problem. There is always a comparatively large number of people whose highest ambition is to become the tenant of an inn, and from among these there would be no difficulty in choosing a landlord for the Rose and Crown. But Mr. Thorold had a long experience of strangers as tenants in East Anglia. However hardworking and conscientious they might be, however keen to promote trade, the receipts of their houses had a way of falling off until they were perforce compelled to relinquish their tenancy. And this curious distrust of strangers, common throughout East Anglia, was particularly active in remote villages like High Eldersham. Yet Dunsford had said that no local man would take the Rose and Crown, and he knew every soul in the village and for miles around. There was nothing for it but to advertise.
Mr. Thorold devoted considerable pains to drawing up the advertisement. As an afterthought, he added the words, “the house would suit a pensioner,” and smiled grimly as he did so. It was no use accepting a tenant who had not some source of income independent of the takings of the house. The man would either give notice after his first quarter or go bankrupt. The advertisement was inserted in the Gippingford Herald, and for the next few days Mr. Thorold was inundated with replies, most of which, from the obvious unsuitability of the applicant, he consigned to the waste-paper basket.
Among the replies which he laid aside for consideration was one that especially appealed to him. The applicant described himself with refreshing brevity. Whitehead, Samuel Edward, aged 55, late sergeant Metropolitan Police, retired on pension, widower, no children. Would like to take the house if it had half an acre or so of garden.
Now, as it happened, the Rose and Crown had a very good garden, which Dunsford, an enthusiastic gardener himself, had always kept in very good order. Further, a police pensioner would make a very desirable tenant, there would be little fear of any irregularities taking place which might endanger the licence. After considering the matter carefully, Mr. Thorold wrote to the address in Hammersmith given by Whitehead, and asked him to come to Gippingford for an interview.
Whitehead came, exactly at the appointed hour, and Mr. Thorold was very favourably impressed. Whitehead, in spite of his height and girth, which were well beyond the ordinary, even for a policeman, looked active and alert. He was respectful and eminently self-possessed, and his cheerful face positively radiated good nature. Just the man for the place, thought Mr. Thorold. If anybody could get on with those queer High Eldersham folk, he could. It seemed almost a pity to exile such an excellent man to a place like the Rose and Crown.
“I ought to warn you, Mr. Whitehead, that the Rose and Crown does not do a very extensive trade,” said Mr. Thorold. “You may find at first that the profits do not quite come up to your expectations.”
“That won't worry me, sir,” replied Whitehead. “My pension is more than enough to keep me, and I'm anxious to get out of London and amuse myself growing a few flowers. I thought of taking a cottage somewhere till I saw your advertisement. Then I thought that a pub would be more cheerful, seeing that there would be somebody to talk to.” The interview ended by Whitehead signing the lease of the Rose and Crown.
This had happened five years ago. Whitehead had entered into possession of the Rose and Crown in September, when Dunsford and his family had moved to the Tower of London, in Gippingford. And there he had remained, apparently perfectly contented with his lot. Rather to Mr. Thorold's astonishment, the beer consumption at the Rose and Crown, after showing a decline for the first few weeks to the new tenant's occupancy, had gradually risen to the average figure it had shown in Dunsford's time. And Mr. Thorold's traveller, whose business it was to visit all the houses belonging to the brewery, reported that “that new chap Whitehead seemed to be getting on very well.”
Almost exactly four and a half years after Whitehead's first day as landlord of the Rose and Crown, on the evening of March 31st, Constable Viney, the High Eldersham village policeman, was cycling back home at the conclusion of his round. His way led him past the Rose and Crown and he had intended to go in and have a word with Whitehead, with whom he was on very good terms. However, his duties had taken him longer than he expected, and it was after eleven o'clock when he reached the door of the inn. Whitehead, as he knew, was in the habit of going to bed soon after closing time, ten o'clock, and the constable decided that it was too late to knock on the door.
He was about to pass on when he caught sight of a flicker of light in the window of the bar. Perhaps Mr. Whitehead had not gone to bed after all. Viney approached the window and looked in. The curtains were drawn, but did not meet by half an inch or so. Through this narrow aperture Viney could see the lamp was out but that the fire was still burning. This was the light which he had seen.
Viney was on the point of turning away when a flame leapt up from the dying fire, illuminating the room with its flickering light. A massive wooden arm-chair was drawn up in front of the fire, and in this was the motionless figure of Mr. Whitehead, in an attitude of complete relaxation, his head fallen forward upon his breast. Viney smiled. He had known Mr. Whitehead to doze off in his chair after a hard day's work, before this. He rapped smartly upon the window, but Mr. Whitehead did not stir. Viney almost fancied he could hear him snoring.
Had it not been that the constable felt an urgent desire for a drink, he would have gone on home, and left Mr. Whitehead undisturbed. As it was, he knocked again, seeming in the still night to make enough noise to rouse the whole neighbourhood. But Mr. Whitehead made no sign of having heard him, and suddenly something in his attitude sent a thrill of apprehension running down the constable's spine. No man could sleep through a noise such as he had just made, nor could he rest quietly in such a position. Filled with the conviction that Mr. Whitehead must be ill and in need of assistance, Viney hesitated no longer. He tried the door, but it was locked. There was nothing for it but more desperate measures; if Mr. Whitehead objected, he would pay for the damage himself.
He returned to the window, and put his elbow through a pane of glass. Then he reached for the catch, and opened the window. After a short struggle, he wormed his way through, and stood on the floor of the bar. Mr. Whitehead showed no signs of being aroused by these proceedings. The flame had died down by now, and the room was illuminated only by the dull glow of the fire. Viney put his hand on Mr. Whitehead's shoulder, only to withdraw it with a startled cry. At his touch Mr. Whitehead slid from his chair and collapsed in a heap in front of the fireplace. But Viney hardly heeded him. He fumbled for his torch, and cast its rays upon the hand which had rested for an instant on Mr. Whitehead's shoulder. He had not been mistaken. The horrible stickiness which covered it was blood.
Constable Viney, in spite of the uniform he wore, stood appalled and trembling in the face of his gruesome discovery. During the years in which he had been stationed at High Eldersham his police duties had been confined to a more or less benevolent supervision of the villagers, punctuated by occasional stern warnings to farmers guilty of the offence of allowing their cattle to stray upon the highway. In the whole of his experience he had known nothing like this. For several seconds he stood rooted to the floor of the bar, a mere ordinary mortal, utterly thrown off his balance by the sudden presentment of tragedy and horror.
It was with a violent effort that he pulled himself together and turned his torch upon the body of Mr. Whitehead. That it was a body and not a living man he knew by instinct. His soul recoiled from the idea of touching it again in the vain hope that any spark of life yet remained. His senses registered the simple facts, that Mr. Whitehead was dead, that his clothes were soaked in blood, that a pool of the same sinister fluid had spread beneath the chair and over the hearth. And then it occurred to him with sudden urgency that he must take steps, at once, without delay.
The thought was welcome, beyond anything else that he could imagine. It meant that he must leave this little low room in which he felt the numbing atmosphere of fear, and hurry to the village for help. He walked swiftly to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, as he might have known. Mr. Whitehead, law-abiding publican as he was, invariably locked the door of the bar at closing time, ten o'clock. But the key was not in the lock. For an instant Viney hesitated. In all probability it was in Mr. Whitehead's pocket. But in his present state he could not bring himself to seek it there. He climbed out of the window as he had entered, shut it carefully behind him, and pedalled frantically along the road that led to the village. The sharp night air braced his strained nerves like a tonic.
He made straight for the house of Doctor Padfield, and rang the bell. To his relief the doctor himself answered the door, a tall spare figure, whose hand, holding an uplifted candlestick, trembled slightly. He regarded the constable with a puzzled stare, as though unable to account for his sudden appearance. It was not until after an appreciable pause that he spoke. “Well, Viney, what is it?” he asked in a curiously deadened voice. “Come in, don't stand in the doorway like that.”
Viney stepped into the hall, in darkness but for the candle in the doctor's hand, and closed the door behind him. “It's Mr. Whitehead, up at the Rose and Crown, sir,” he replied in a low tone, in which his excitement was still audible. “He's dead, sir, covered with blood, looks to me as if he had been murdered.”
If he had expected Doctor Padfield to display any excitement at this news he was disappointed. “Dead, is he?” said the doctor discontentedly. “What's the good of coming to me, then? I can't bring dead men back to life!”
Viney stared at the doctor, completely taken aback by his nonchalance. “Well, sir,” he replied, “even if you can't do that, at least you can tell what killed him. My instructions are always to call a doctor in when a man's found dead. But, of course, sir, if you won't come—”
“Oh, I'll come,” interrupted Doctor Padfield carelessly. “The Rose and Crown, you say? That's barely a mile away. It will be as quick to walk there as to waste time getting out the car, especially as it is a fine night. Wait a minute while I get my bag.”
“May I use your telephone, sir, while you are getting ready?” asked Viney.
“Certainly, if it amuses you,” replied the doctor. “There you are, in that corner.”
He left the hall abruptly, taking the candle with him. Viney, left in the dark, had recourse to his torch, and with its assistance found the telephone instrument. He put a call through to the officer on duty at Gippingford Police Station and reported. “I'm all alone here, sir, as you know,” he concluded. “If you could send some one to take charge, I'd be grateful.”
The answer must have been satisfactory, for Viney replaced the receiver with an air of relief. At that moment Doctor Padfield returned and the two set out on the road towards the Rose and Crown, Viney leading his bicycle. Doctor Padfield seemed irritable and morose, and after one or two attempts to engage him in conversation Viney desisted from the attempt. They pursued their way in silence until they reached the inn.
“If you'll wait a moment, sir, I'll open the back door,” remarked Viney, as he prepared to scramble once more through the window. “The front door is locked, and I haven't found the key yet.”
He entered the bar and cast a hasty glance at the body. It was lying in the same position as he had last seen it, and he hastened out through the back to admit Doctor Padfield. The key of the back door was in the lock and he turned it. The door opened, and Doctor Padfield strode in, apparently without taking the slightest notice of his surroundings.
“Better stay where you are till I get a lamp, lit, sir,” remarked Viney. “I saw one in the back kitchen as I came through.” He fumbled with a box of matches, and appeared carrying an ordinary paraffin lamp, which threw curious and grotesque shadows on the bare walls. Followed by Doctor Padfield, he led the way into the bar, and held the lamp so that its light fell on the huddled figure of Mr. Whitehead. “There you are, sir!” he exclaimed in an awed voice.
“Put that damned lamp down on the table!” commanded Doctor Padfield sharply. “Can't you see that it's shining right in my eyes? That's better. Now then, bear a hand and help me to get the man's coat off. Ah, that's the trouble, is it?”
They had taken Mr. Whitehead's coat from his shoulders, exposing the back of his waistcoat. The fabric showed a cut, about an inch and a half long, and round this was soaked in blood. It was evident, even to Viney's inexperienced eye, that the dead man had been stabbed with a broad-bladed knife, apparently driven into his left shoulder from behind.
For the first time that evening Doctor Padfield showed some symptoms of interest. “A very neat stroke,” he commented. “Very neat indeed. The man who struck that blow knew his job. It must have been almost immediately fatal. Who was it, Viney?”
“I don't know, sir,” replied the constable, startled by the directness of the question. “I found him like this, and then came straight along to fetch you, sir.”
Doctor Padfield shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it's your job to find out who killed him, not mine,” he said. “I can't do anything, as I told you before. I'm going home to bed. You'll find me in my house till ten o'clock in the morning, if you want me.” And with that he strode out of the room, without bestowing another glance at the dead man. Viney, left alone, could hear his footsteps on the road until the sound of them was swallowed up in the distance.
He glanced at his watch. It was barely midnight, and he knew that he could not expect his colleagues from Gippingford for some time yet. It was his obvious duty to remain with the body, that was certain. But not necessarily in the same room. He could not face the prospect of a prolonged vigil in that ghastly bar. He wandered out into the back passage, where his eye fell upon a barrel of beer, ready tapped. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up a pint pot, filled it, and drank the contents off at a draught. This done, he laid the pot down with a sigh of content. He felt distinctly better.
His wits, so rudely scattered by his tragic discovery, began to return to him. Suddenly it occurred to him that here was his chance to distinguish himself. A murder had been committed, of that there could be no possible doubt. Knives did not get driven into people's backs by accident, he reasoned. Nor could it be a case of suicide. He took out his truncheon, and, holding it as a knife, tried to stab himself with it in the back of his left shoulder. Well, it could be done, though it would be very awkward. But then, if Mr. Whitehead had done it himself, the knife would have been left in the wound, or, at all events, would have fallen on the floor somewhere near the body. No, it was a case of murder, right enough.
The thought that he was actually concerned in a real murder case thrilled him. He tried to remember, from his perusal of the sensational Sunday newspapers, how those super men, the chiefs of Scotland Yard, acted in similar circumstances. So far as he could make out, they interrogated a number of people until they found a clue. But here, in this lonely house, there was nobody to interrogate, and he felt himself at a loss. He took out his note-book and entered a few brief particulars in rather a shaky hand. Then, finding inaction impossible, he began to wander about the house, seeking rather aimlessly for traces of the murderer. At last a bright idea struck him. Motive! That was it, that was what all great detectives established immediately a crime was discovered. The till was in the corner of the bar, he knew. He had often seen Mr. Whitehead counting his takings in the evening, after closing time. He approached it eagerly, and found it locked, but the key in place. Opening it, he found two or three notes, and a number of silver and copper coins. Definitely disappointed, he was forced to the conclusion that robbery had not been the motive for the murder.
Dawn broke at last, and the rising sun sent a pale shaft of light into the bar, shaming the feeble glow of the lamp, and revealing the pool of blood as a dark and ominous patch upon the scrubbed flagstones. In the growing light the body of Mr. Whitehead lost much of its terror and took on an aspect pitiful, almost ridiculous. Viney, in no wise enlightened by his investigations, regarding it wonderingly. Who in the world would have committed this seemingly purposeless crime?
And while he stood there, he heard the sound of an approaching car, which slowed up as it neared the Rose and Crown. Viney ran out of the house, in time to meet the car, which contained the Superintendent from Gippingford, accompanied by a military-looking man, whom Viney recognised as the Chief Constable of the county.
Viney led them into the bar, and told his story. “Stabbed in the back, eh?” commented Colonel Bateman, the Chief Constable. “That's bad business. The poor chap can't have had a chance to defend himself. You say that the till hasn't been touched? What do you make of all this, Bass?”
“It's difficult to say, sir, at present,” replied Superintendent Bass cautiously. “What sort of a man was this fellow Whitehead, constable? Was he popular in the district? Did anybody have a grudge against him?”
“I think he was well enough liked, sir,” replied Viney. “He didn't make any friends that I know of. Being a Londoner, it would take these village folk a long time to chum up with him. They're terrible mistrustful of strangers, in these parts. But from what I saw of things, there was plenty of the chaps that would come up here of an evening for a drink, and he seemed to get on well enough with most of them.”
“I dare say he wasn't above serving some of them during prohibited hours, eh, Viney?” suggested Colonel Bateman.
Viney shook his head. “No, sir, he'd never do that,” he replied. “Mr. Whitehead was very strict; you see, sir, he had been a policeman himself. He wouldn't serve a drink a minute after closing time, and he wouldn't have anybody on the premises who'd had a drop too much. He's been known to turn several of the chaps out, before now.”
“Were there many people in here last night?” asked the Superintendent.
“I can't say, sir,” replied Viney. “I didn't pass this way during opening hours. But, being Friday night, I expect that there was a good few. The men mostly gets paid on Fridays, sir.”
“I see,” remarked Colonel Bateman. “Now, look here, Viney. There will be plenty for you to do for the next few days. You've been up all night, you say. Cut off home, and have a few hours' rest. The man who drove us out can take charge here till this afternoon. Off you go, and keep your mouth shut for the present.”
As soon as they were alone, Colonel Bateman turned to the Superintendent. “I don't know what you think, Bass, but in my opinion this is a case for Scotland Yard.” he said.
The Superintendent frowned slightly. “I don't know, sir,” he replied. “It looks to me a simple enough murder. I have no doubt that a few inquiries round about would soon make it pretty clear who did it.”
“I don't think so,” said the Chief Constable slowly. “That fellow, Viney, who seems to possess at least average intelligence, has obviously no idea of the criminal, and he knows the people about here pretty well, I suppose. Of course, we might track the fellow down for ourselves, I don't deny that. But on the other hand, we mightn't, and then we should be forced to call in the Yard when the scent was cold. You see that, don't you, Bass?”
“Yes, I see that, sir,” replied Bass reluctantly. “It's for you to decide, sir.”
“Very well, then. Will you stay here with the driver, and tidy the place up a bit? I'll go back to Gippingford, and get on to the Yard on the 'phone. They'll send a man down at once, you may be sure. Then I'll see the Coroner, to arrange about an inquest, and I'll look in on Thorold, and find out what he knows about this man Whitehead. I'll be back in the afternoon, as soon as I can. And, by the way, Bass, I think I'd leave the body pretty much as it is, until the man from the Yard has seen it.”
Colonel Bateman gave the necessary instructions to the driver of the car, who relinquished his seat to him. As he drove back to Gippingford, he wondered whether at last the veil that seemed to divide High Eldersham from the outside world was about to be lifted.
Colonel Bateman returned to the Rose and Crown early that afternoon, accompanied by the police surgeon and a stranger whom he introduced to Bass as Detective-Inspector Young. The latter was a stoutish man of about forty, clean-shaven, and with a humorous expression. There was nothing in any way striking about him, and it was evident from the first that the Superintendent was not at all favourably impressed.
“Mr. Young has very kindly come down from Scotland Yard to help us,” announced the Chief Constable cheerily. “I've told him the story, so far as I know it. You would probably like to look at the body before Dr. Barrett makes his examination, wouldn't you, Inspector?”
“I think you said that the body had already been moved by the constable who discovered it, sir,” replied Young. “If that is the case, it seems unnecessary for me to see it at present.”
“Very well, then,” said Colonel Bateman. “We'll have a chat in the back kitchen while Dr. Barrett does his job. Ah, you've got back, I see, Viney. Come along with us, and you can tell your story to the Inspector at first hand.”
Viney repeated his story, and then the Chief Constable turned to Bass. “Have you made any further discoveries since I saw you this morning, Superintendent?” he asked.
“Since the case was to be put in the hands of Scotland Yard, I have confined myself to keeping guard over the house, sir,” replied the Superintendent icily. “Three or four customers came here between the hours of half-past ten and half-past two, when the house should have been opened for the sale of intoxicating liquors. I informed them that the place was closed. They were apparently unaware of the death of the landlord.”
“Well, that's all to the good,” commented Colonel Bateman. “I saw the Coroner, and he will arrange to hold the inquest here on Monday. I then saw Mr. Thorold, who could tell me very little about Whitehead, beyond the fact that he was an ex-policeman, and an excellent tenant in every way. By the way, he is sending a man out to-morrow to take charge of this place temporarily until he can find a new tenant. Then I met Inspector Young's train and drove him straight out here. That's all I have to report. Ah, here is Dr. Barrett. Well, doctor, what do you make of it?”
“The man was stabbed from behind with a broad-bladed weapon, such as a butcher's knife,” replied Dr. Barrett. “The blow must have been delivered with considerable force, and by a man who had some knowledge of anatomy. The main artery is severed, and death must have been practically instantaneous. There are no marks on any other part of the body, no signs of a struggle or anything like that. In my opinion the blow was delivered before the victim was aware of the presence of his assailant.”
“I'm much obliged to you, doctor. That settles that point, at any rate. Now, Inspector, we are in your hands. Is there any assistance that we can render you in your investigation?”
“I think not, thank you, sir,” replied Young. “I shall remain here, of course, with Constable Viney. I dare say that there is a spare bed in the house, or, if not, I can find one in the village. I shall naturally report any progress I may make to you.”
“Very well. If you have no further questions to ask, we will get back to Gippingford. There is a telephone in the village, should you wish to communicate with us. In any case, I shall run over here sometime to-morrow morning. Come along, Superintendent. Doctor Barrett has an appointment and is anxious to get back, I know. Good-bye, Inspector, and good luck to you.”
The car having driven off, Inspector Young returned to the bar, where Viney was awaiting him. “Now we can get to work,” he said cheerfully. “Sit down, constable; I want to have a chat with you. I'm a stranger here, and I've never been in this part of England before. You've been here some years, I understand, and I expect by this time you know all about the place and the people who live in it. I got the impression from the Chief Constable that there was something queer about the place, but what it was, exactly, I couldn't quite make out.”
“Well, it is a queer place, sir,” replied Viney. “I'm from East Anglia myself, and I know that our folk are always a bit shy with strangers, but I never knew it so bad as it is here. I think it's because all the people have married among themselves for so long that they're all sort of related like. They settle things among themselves, you'll never hear of one of them going to law with another, or anything like that. And they don't like outsiders coming in and interfering with their affairs. And, you can take it from me, sir, strangers don't never prosper in High Eldersham.”
“You mean that they are frozen out, that people won't trade with them, and that sort of thing?”
“Not only that, sir. They don't seem to have any luck, as you might say. Soon after I came here, one of the biggest farms in the parish was for sale, and it was bought by a gentleman from the other side of the country. He brought his men with him, and a very good farmer he was, by all accounts. But nothing went right with him. Two of his horses died within a month of his coming here, to begin with. Then his carter fell sick, and Doctor Padfield didn't seem able to do anything for him. At last his wife, who was as good a farmer as he was, and had never had a day's illness in her life, got that run down she couldn't do her day's work. Doctor Padfield told her straight out that the place didn't suit her. She stuck it as long as she could, but in the end they sold the farm and went away. It was bought, pretty cheap, I believe, by a brother of the man who owned the next farm.”
Inspector Young smiled. “Well, that was a chapter of accidents, certainly,” he remarked. “But, after all, that's only an isolated case, which might have happened to anybody anywhere. Nobody could help the place not agreeing with the farmer's wife, could they? And this isn't the only place where horses die and carters go sick, you know.”
“Ah, but that wasn't the only case, sir,” replied Viney. “It's not more than a year or so since another stranger took a lease of the very next farm to this, the first house on the left as you go down towards the village. He had the finest herd of Jerseys as ever I see, and he used to send his milk into Gippingford, all done up special in them glass bottles. Fetched a very high price, they used to say. Well, after a bit there was an epidemic of sorts broke out in the town, and they traced it to this chap's milk. It seems they found some germ or other in it. Well, naturally, people wouldn't buy his milk after that, and he went broke. Cleared off in the night, he did, leaving his cows behind him. So that was another stranger as couldn't get on in High Eldersham.”
“Yes, I can see how the place acquired a peculiar reputation,” said Young. “But, after all, this has nothing to do with the case of this man, Whitehead. The natives do not seem to have had anything to do with the misfortunes of these strangers, which were obviously due to circumstances. I'm not going to believe that somebody in the village stuck a knife into Whitehead just because he did not happen to be a native. Now, tell me something about the village, and the people who live in it.”
“They say that years ago the village used to be a fair sized port, before the mouth of the river got silted up, sir. Now you can't get anything bigger than a barge up, and that only at certain tides. You see them lying sometimes in the old quay, loading corn or beet, but that isn't often. There'll be a round dozen farmers in the parish, and a couple of decent sized houses. Sir William Owerton lives in the Hall, he's an oldish gentleman, a bit of a scholar, with a son in India and a daughter that lives with him. About a mile away is Elder House, belonging to Mr. Hollesley. Fine sportsman is Mr. Hollesley, shoots, keeps a beautiful little yacht, and all that. Lives there with his mother, who's pretty nigh bed-ridden, when he isn't in London. They do say that he's sweet on Sir William's daughter.”
“Oh, they do, do they? What about the village itself? Who lives there?”
“There aren't any gentlefolk, bar the parson and Doctor Padfield. Parson's an old man who was born in the next parish, and Doctor Padfield's father was a big farmer somewhere hereabouts. They're natives, so to speak, both of them. Then there's the village shop, and the rest is all cottages, what the farm hands and such live in. There's not much to be seen in High Eldersham, that I can promise you, sir.”
“It doesn't sound a very lively place, certainly,” agreed Inspector Young. “Now then, Viney, you know these folk pretty well. Do you think it likely that any of them would have deliberately murdered Whitehead?”
“No, sir, that I don't. They're a queer stand-offish lot, but this I will say for them. I've never found what you might call a real bad character among them, and that's more than you can say for a lot of villages. There's one or two of them like Ned Portch, who get a bit noisy like if they has a drop too much liquor, but that's all. And, since Mr. Whitehead's been here, none of them have had a chance of taking too much. He wouldn't serve them if he thought they'd had enough already. Why, it's not more than a month ago that he turned Ned Portch out of this very bar, and told him to keep away from the place.”
“I see. Well, now that I know something about the people here, I can have a look round for myself,” said Inspector Young, after a meditative pause. “It seems to me, Viney, that the first thing to be done is to find out who was up here last night, and if possible, who last saw Whitehead alive. Will you take a stroll round the village, and see what you can learn? I want to stop here and examine the house.”
Viney accordingly set out along the road that led to the village. He had not gone far before he overtook an old man walking in the same direction, with a sheep dog by his side.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Hammond,” said Viney pleasantly. “You've finished work early to-day, then?”
“Finished? Who says I be finished?” replied the old man. “I've got they sheep to hurdle up over by the hanging ground afore I knocks off. I be coming from the big flock over by the marshes. Been out there all the morning, I have.”
The marshes were some little distance from the village. If old Hammond had been there all day, it was unlikely that he had heard anything of the tragedy of Mr. Whitehead. But Viney knew from experience that it was hopeless to try to extract information from any of the High Eldersham people by direct questioning.
“I didn't see you up at the Rose and Crown last night, Mr. Hammond,” he remarked casually.
“Then you didn't look far,” replied the old man. “I was a-sitting up there in the corner, along of Bob Marsham and the rest.”
“Oh, I didn't look in, I only glanced through the window as I was passing. Cold outside it was, too. Reckon you didn't turn out till closing time, Mr. Hammond.”
“Ah, but I did that, I was back in the village come nine o'clock. And there wasn't many left up there when I came away. Only Ned Portch and one or two others, that I mind.”
A few yards further on Mr. Hammond parted from the constable, turning off through a gate into the fields. But Viney had learnt something from his conversation. An hour or so before closing time the only customers at the Rose and Crown had been Ned Portch and one or two others. It was rather curious that Portch should have been there. Since he had been shown the door by Mr. Whitehead he had frequently declared, with considerable heat, that he would not enter the place again, even if he had to walk to the Black Dog in the next parish for his beer. He must have thought better of it, obviously. Anyhow, Ned Portch was a possible source of information. It might be worth making inquiries in his direction.
Viney continued on his way towards the village, until he reached one of the scattered cottages of which it consisted. He knocked on the door, which, after a while, was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron. It seemed to Viney that she suddenly went deadly pale at the sight of him, and made a movement as though to slam the door in his face. As it was, she thought better of it, and, planting herself squarely in the doorway, surveyed the constable with an obviously forced smile. “Good-afternoon, Mrs. Portch,” said Viney politely. “Your husband isn't back from work yet, I suppose?”
“No, that he isn't, Mr. Viney,” she replied. “Were you wanting to see him?”
The anxious note in her voice could not be mistaken. “I just wanted a word with him, that's all, Mrs. Portch,” said Viney. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to know what time he left the Rose and Crown last night. It has been reported to me that there were some gipsies about yesterday evening, and I wondered if he had seen them on his way home.”
“I-I don't think he came straight home last night, Mr. Viney,” replied Mrs. Portch hesitatingly. “It was past eleven when he came in, and then he went straight to bed. But I'll ask him about those gipsies when he comes in, if you like. Maybe he saw them up by the coach-road.”
“Oh, don't bother, Mrs. Portch, I'm sure to run across him later in the evening.” And, to Mrs. Portch's intense relief, Viney turned away. But he did not pursue his inquiries elsewhere. An idea had come to him, an idea pregnant with such grave possibilities that he hastened back to unfold it to Inspector Young.
Inspector Young had despatched Viney on his errand as much to be left alone as in the hope that the constable would secure any useful information. He realised that he was thrown entirely upon his own resources, and rather gloried in the fact. He recognised in Colonel Bateman a chief constable who, while anxious to help in every possible way, had no knowledge of police work other than routine. Bass, he gathered, was bitterly jealous of the affront put upon the local force by the summoning of the man from Scotland Yard, and it was pretty certain that he would not be sorry to see the failure of the investigation. And Viney-well, he was just the usual village constable, nothing more and nothing less.
The Inspector smiled as he considered Viney and his queer stories. It was perfectly plain to him that the man, an ordinary countryman with a veneer of police training, had been so long in High Eldersham that he had become saturated with local legend. In his own interests, thought Young, he ought to be transferred to a town where he would have a chance of coming into contact with the realities of life. But, for the present, he could be useful, if only as a means of introducing Young to the local worthies.
Now, as to the crime itself. It seemed quite obvious from the position of the body as first seen by Viney, and also from Dr. Barrett's examination, that Whitehead had been taken unawares. The probability was that he was dozing in his chair over the fire, and that his assailant had crept up from behind without being heard. The Inspector had already examined the bar very carefully, and had found no signs of blood in any other part of the room. This disposed of the possibility of the body having been moved after the blow was struck.
The next point of interest was the state of the doors and windows upon Viney's arrival. There were only two doors to the house. The front door, which was the one used by the customers, opened directly into the bar. This had been locked, but the key had not been in place. The back door, opening into the kitchen, had also been locked, and Viney had found the key on the inside. All the windows had been closed and fastened.
Where was the key of the front door? If Whitehead had been alive at ten o'clock, when the bar closed, he would, according to his usual habit, have locked the front door. He might either have left the key in the lock, or have put it in his pocket. Had the latter been the case, any one possessing a duplicate key could have opened the front door from outside and entered the bar.
Young approached the body, which had by now been laid out upon a table, and with deft fingers searched the pockets. He found several trifles of no importance, among which was a bunch of keys, all obviously too small to fit the door. This was interesting. The front door would not have been locked till ten o'clock. Suppose that Whitehead's customers had retired early, say about half-past nine. Whitehead might well have seated himself in his chair by the fire, leaving the door unlocked in case some belated customer would present himself before ten o'clock, and then dozed off. If any one had been awaiting the opportunity to murder Whitehead, he could have crept in silently, committed the crime and departed, locking the door behind him and taking the key with him. This would have been a perfectly natural procedure on his part, in order to ensure that no one should enter the house and discover the crime. He would have also taken the precaution of putting out the lamps. This theory placed the time at which the crime had been committed between the moment when the last customer left the house and ten o'clock.
The Inspector had reached this stage in his analysis when Viney returned, in an obvious state of suppressed excitement. He closed the door carefully behind him, and walked down the room to where the Inspector sat, “I've found out something I'd like to tell you about, sir,” he said impressively.
“Very well, Viney, fire away!” replied Young cheerfully.
“It's like this, sir. You remember me telling you about Ned Portch, him that Mr. Whitehead turned out and refused to serve? Well, sir, Portch was up here last night, and didn't get home till eleven o'clock.”
“That sounds curious. Are you quite sure of your facts, Viney?”
“Quite sure, sir, Mrs. Portch told me herself. Now this is the way I look at it, sir. Portch was no friend of Mr. Whitehead's, as anybody in the village can tell you. He would have jumped at the chance of doing him an injury, to get his own back for being turned out of the house. And there's more in it than that, sir. Mrs. Portch went all of a dither as soon as she saw me. She'd got something on her mind, I could see that at once. She didn't ask me into the house, and she wasn't going to tell me any more than she could help. She knows something about the business, I'll warrant, sir.”
“That certainly sounds interesting, Viney,” remarked the Inspector. “You didn't see Portch himself, I suppose?”
“No, sir, he wasn't back from work. He's one of Farmer Gulliford's men, and has worked for him since he was a boy. Quiet sort of chap, except when he's got a drop of liquor in him, when he's apt to fly into a temper for nothing.”
“I see. And what time does Portch usually get home in the evening?”
“Depends upon the season of the year, sir. I reckon he ought to be back between six and seven this evening, sir.”
“I think that I will go down to the village about seven, and interview this man Portch, leaving you up here in charge. Now, tell me exactly what passed between you and Mrs. Portch, what you said to her and what she said to you.”
Viney complied with this demand, and, when he had finished, the Inspector lighted a pipe and smoked for some minutes in silence. Portch, it appeared, had remained among the last of the customers at the Rose and Crown the previous evening. He might well have left the house before closing time, and waited about outside until Whitehead was alone. Then, when the coast was clear, he could have peeped in through the window as Viney had done later. The lamps would have been alight, and he could have seen clearly the interior of the room. Then, when he was satisfied that Whitehead was dozing, he could have entered once more and committed the crime.
The deed accomplished, his natural instinct would have been to get rid of the weapon and the key. He had probably carried them to some remote place, possibly an unfrequented spot on the bank of the river. Having disposed of them, he would have returned home, all of which would have taken some time, and would account for his not having reached his cottage before eleven.
This was no more than a possible theory which fitted in with the circumstances. But to the Inspector it seemed not improbable. He knew from experience that brutal murders, inspired by some entirely inadequate motive, were not uncommon. They were nearly always due to the workings of an unbalanced mind, brooding over some fancied grievance, until the lust of blood was awakened. Then the hitherto harmless and peaceful individual became a criminal, endowed with the cunning and ruthlessness of a savage. He would await his opportunity and deliver the blow. And, the deed once perpetrated, he would return to normal sanity. It was not unlikely that the murder of Whitehead was due to such causes.
At a few minutes to seven, the Inspector left the Rose and Crown and walked down towards the village. He had obtained from Viney an exact description of Portch's cottage, and had no difficulty in identifying it. It stood surrounded by a well-kept garden, at the end of which was a fowl-house and a pigsty. Young glanced round him as he walked up the path, and then knocked sharply at the door.
Mrs. Portch answered his summons, and Young saw at once that Viney was correct in his statement that she had something on her mind. Her face dropped at the sight of this stranger standing on her doorstep, and she remained for a few seconds wild-eyed, incapable of speech or motion.
The Inspector took advantage of her bewilderment to advance into the doorway. “Mrs. Portch, I believe?” he said. “I am Detective-Inspector Young from Scotland Yard, and I should like a few words with you and your husband.”
She recoiled a, step with a pitiful, half-strangled cry. Young closed the door behind him and continued. “I should like to see your husband first, Mrs. Portch. He is back from work by this time, I expect?”
At last Mrs. Portch found her voice. “Yes, sir, he's been home, but he's gone out again, and I don't know when he'll be back.”
“That is rather unfortunate, as I wanted to speak to him,” said Young. “Never mind, perhaps you will be able to help me, Mrs. Portch. I am looking for a man who is believed to be hiding in this part of the country. He is believed to be with a party of gipsies. Constable Viney tells me that your husband was out late last night, and I thought possibly he might have seen a stranger about.”
Mrs. Portch's face lost something of its terror at this explanation. “Yes, sir, Portch was out the whole evening,” she replied eagerly. “He was only in here for a mouthful of tea about seven, and then he went straight up to the Rose and Crown. I didn't see him again till nigh on eleven o'clock, and then he came straight to bed. But he didn't say nothing to me about seeing no strangers, sir.”
During this conversation the Inspector had gradually advanced into the kitchen, Mrs. Portch retiring before him and giving ground slowly. It was plain that she wished to get him out of the house, and was at her wits' end how to do so without arousing his suspicions. That there was some secret hidden within the walls of the cottage, the Inspector was certain. Perhaps it was that Portch was actually in one of the rooms.
Without waiting for an invitation, the Inspector seated himself, and began to search in his pockets. His every sense was on the alert; from where he sat he could see both the front and the back doors, and he listened intently for any sound which would reveal the presence of a third person in the house. At last he produced a bundle of official looking papers, of which he selected one. “That is a description of the wanted man, Mrs. Portch,” he said deliberately. “I will read it to you. Height about five feet eight, slightly built, swarthy complexion, black eyes and hair. Has a mole on the right side of his chin and a thick, dark moustache. When last seen was wearing breeches, a long coat and a cloth cap. You haven't seen anybody answering to that description about the village lately, have you, Mrs. Portch?”
“No, sir, that I haven't,” replied Mrs. Portch positively. “Nor Portch either, or he'd sure to have mentioned it. 'Tisn't often we get strangers in High Eldersham, sir, and a man like that would never pass without being noticed.”
This reply scarcely astonished the Inspector, who had invented the description as he went along. He was merely endeavouring to gain time, in which to examine every inch of the room in which he sat. His penetrating glance was already absorbing every detail. One side of the room was occupied by the fireplace, with a cupboard on either side of it. Against the opposite wall stood a massive dresser, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, the shelves of which were crowded with miscellaneous objects. It was clear that Mrs. Portch had recourse to these shelves when she was at a loss where to put anything. Besides the household china, displayed in all the glory of its garish pattern, there were stockings awaiting darning, useless ornaments bearing the legend “A present from Clacton,” or some other popular seaside town. It seemed as though the shelves themselves did not suffice to hold all the objects that Mrs. Portch consigned to the dresser. Hooks had been screwed at the sides, and upon these hung things like toasting forks and tea cosies. Among them was a crudely moulded wax doll, apparently used as a pin-cushion, since into it was stuck a darning needle, with a piece of tape threaded through the eye.
All these trifles Young noticed, while he sought for some means of driving Mrs. Portch from the room for a moment. At last an idea came to him, and he acted upon it without any great hopes that he would achieve his end. “Well, I am very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Portch,” he said pleasantly. “I am sorry your husband was not in, I shall have to ask him if he saw any strangers last night, if only to satisfy my own mind. Perhaps I shall meet him in the village somewhere. By the way, how shall I recognise him if I do? I suppose you haven't got a photograph of him you could show me?”
Mrs. Portch hesitated, and for the moment Young thought he had failed. Then, apparently, she decided that there was no harm in complying with the request. “If you'll wait a minute, sir, I'll get you one,” she said. “It is in the front room.”
She had scarcely passed through the door when Young sprang from his chair with the swiftness and silence of a cat. He opened the drawer of the dresser, peered into it eagerly and, with a sudden smile of triumph drew from it something that flashed for an instant before he thrust in between his waistcoat and his shirt. By the time that Mrs. Portch returned, he was seated once more in his chair, his coat buttoned as though for departure.
Mrs. Portch handed him the photograph. “That's my husband, sir,” she said, with a strange tremor in her voice.
Young studied it for a moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Portch,” he said as he returned it. “I shall recognise him now if I meet him.” He rose to his feet and turned towards the door. “By the way, Mrs. Portch, have you any children?” he asked, as he stood on the threshold.
“Two girls, sir,” replied Mrs. Portch. “But they're grown up and in service in Gippingford.”
“It must be lonely for you without them, Mrs. Portch. Good-evening, I hope I have not troubled you.”
Young walked swiftly back to the Rose and Crown. Viney had pulled the curtains and lighted the lamp in his absence. The Inspector passed into the kitchen, beckoning to Viney to follow him. There he withdrew the object which he had hidden under his waistcoat and laid it on the table. It was a butcher's knife, bright and recently sharpened.
“Well, Viney, what do you think of that?” he asked in a tone of satisfaction.
Constable Viney stared at the knife as if fascinated. “Why, sir, wherever did you find that?” he inquired.
“In Portch's cottage,” replied the Inspector. “I'm beginning to think that your suspicions are justified, Viney. This isn't an ordinary knife, like you would expect to find in any kitchen. It is the sort of knife used only by butchers and, from the look of it, it is quite new. It was only by luck that I found it, but I thought it was worth while looking among Mrs. Portch's knives and forks, and my curiosity was rewarded.”
“Well, that pretty well settles it, sir!” exclaimed Viney excitedly. “You'll apply for a warrant for the arrest of Ned Portch, I suppose, sir? Sir William Owerton, up at the Hall, is a magistrate.”
The Inspector shook his head tolerantly. “No, we can't go ahead quite so fast as that,” he replied. “We haven't got any evidence against Portch yet, you know. All we can say is that we have reason to believe that he was up in this direction at the time the crime was committed, and that a knife, which might have been the weapon employed, was found in his cottage. It's a good beginning, certainly, but it isn't conclusive. Before we go any further, I should very much like a few words with Portch. Mrs. Portch says that he is about the village somewhere. I want you to go down there and find him. Tell him that I want to see him-don't frighten him, of course-and try to bring him back here with you.”
Viney set out at once. In the village he noticed groups of men and women standing about in eager discussion. They became silent and eyed him furtively as he paused. It was evident that the news of the tragedy at the Rose and Crown had spread at last. Viney glanced at each group as he passed, looking for Ned Portch. And then, as he turned the corner by the church, he saw Portch himself, accompanied by a neighbour of his, Walter Hosier, walking swiftly towards him.
He was about to accost them, when Portch came up to him. “Good-evening, Mr. Viney,” he said eagerly. “I heard as how you and a gentleman from Scotland Yard has been asking about my doings last night. There's been a mistake, the missus—”
“Yes, Inspector Young is anxious to see you,” interrupted Viney. “He wants to ask you a question or two. He's up at the Rose and Crown now, and I'd like you to come up there with me.”
“I'll come, right enough,” replied Portch. “And, if you've no objection, I'll bring Walter here along with me. He can bear out what I have to say. Terrible thing about poor Mr. Whitehead! It's right that he was found murdered, isn't it?”
“Yes, it's right enough,” replied Viney shortly.
“I shouldn't doubt it was them gipsies as you was telling the missus about,” continued Portch, who seemed consumed with nervousness and unable to stop talking. “You never can trust them, no further than you can see them.”
Viney made no reply, and the three men made their way up the road, followed by the inquisitive stares of the villagers. As they passed, an eager whispering could be heard, like the sound of the wind among the rushes.
Arrived at the Rose and Crown, Viney led them through the back way into the kitchen, where they found Inspector Young awaiting them. Viney introduced the two men to him, and Young bade them sit down.
“Now, Portch, I want to ask you a few questions,” he said sternly. “You needn't answer them unless you like, but I think it will be better for you if you do. I know that you were up here last night. What time did you leave the bar?”
“About half-past nine, sir, or maybe five and twenty minutes to ten,” replied Portch. “Walter here came out with me, didn't you, Walt? And Mr. Whitehead walked to the door with us when we left.”
“I see, the two of you left together at about half-past nine. Were there any other customers in the bar when you came away?”
“No, sir, we was the last to leave. There had been a dozen or so of the chaps up here earlier in the evening.”
“If you left at half-past nine, it seems rather queer that you didn't get home till eleven, doesn't it, Portch? What were you doing between the time you left here and the time you got home?”
Portch had obviously been waiting for this question, but, all the same, he changed colour visibly as it was put to him. “I didn't hang about up here, sir,” he replied. “Poor Mr. Whitehead was as hale as any man when I last saw him, that I'll swear. And we didn't see that gipsy fellow you was asking the missus about, did we, Walt? You see, sir, it was like this, I wouldn't tell you an untruth, not to save my soul. Walt and I went straight back to his place, and there sits down and plays a game of nap for an hour. That's right, isn't it, Walt?”
“Aye, that's right,” mumbled Walter Hosier, with his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.
For several seconds Inspector Young looked sternly at the two men, without speaking. It was perfectly plain from their manner that they were lying, that they had concocted the story of the game of nap between them. If it were true, why had Mrs. Portch betrayed such obvious uneasiness on being questioned?
The Inspector decided upon a dramatic stroke. With a sudden movement he opened the table drawer, withdrew from it the knife, and flung it on the table.
“This is the weapon with which Mr. Whitehead was killed!” he thundered. “How do you account for it having been found in your cottage this evening, Portch?”
Portch uttered an exclamation of horror and then, leaning over the table, stared at the knife as though fascinated. The blood ebbed from his face, and then suddenly returned, suffusing it with a guilty flush.
“Well, Portch, I'm waiting for your explanation,” said Inspector Young impatiently.
“That's not the knife with which Mr. Whitehead was killed,” said Portch at last slowly. “I can swear to that, for I used that very knife myself last night, about ten o'clock.”
“You did? And what did you use it for?” demanded Young sharply.
Portch glanced at Hosier, who nodded gloomily. “Best tell him, mate,” he muttered.
“Well, sir, there's nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it,” said Portch with an air of resignation. “If I owns up, perhaps the magistrates won't rub it in too hard. Fact is, sir, while Walter and me was up here last evening, the missus had the copper on, boiling up the water. We waits till there wasn't anybody about in the village, and then Walter and I goes back to my place, fetches a young porker out of the sty, and cuts his throat. Then we scalds him and cuts him up. When Mr. Viney comes along this afternoon, the missus was in a terrible state in case he should come in and see the offal and that. As soon as I comes home from work, she tells me about it, and I goes straight out again and sells the joints to the chaps I'd promised them to. And that's the truth sir. Walter and the missus will bear me out. I bought this here knife in Gippingford last market day, for to do the job with.”
In spite of Inspector Young's annoyance, he could not escape the conviction that Portch was telling the truth at last. This clandestine killing of the pig would explain the guilty consciences of Portch and his wife. It is an offence, punishable by heavy fines, to kill any beast whose carcase is intended for sale anywhere but in a licensed slaughter house, and Portch had rendered himself liable to a fine which he might well find some difficulty in paying. On the other hand, if his story could be verified, his alibi was established, and he could not be the murderer of Whitehead.
“You would have saved yourself a good deal of trouble if you had told the truth at first, and not made up that tissue of lies about playing a game of nap,” said Young severely. “Constable Viney will make inquiries, and if it is found that you did actually kill this pig and sell pork you will certainly be summoned. As it is, you are very lucky not to have been arrested on a charge of murder. That would have taught you and Mrs. Portch not to tell lies to the police. In any case, you can tell your wife that she may find herself in serious trouble for showing me a photograph of somebody else when I asked her for one of you. Now, clear out, and remember that I shall keep a pretty tight watch on both of you for the future.”
Portch and Hosier took themselves off, and Young turned to Viney. “You'd better make it your business to find out about that wretched pig,” he said. “If Portch was telling the truth, we've got to look elsewhere for the murderer. But there's one thing. He and his friend were the last people, so far as we know at present, to see Whitehead alive. The Coroner will want to see them, I expect. Now, you get back to the village. The news seems to be out now, and you may pick up some useful gossip. You needn't come back till the morning. I see that there's plenty of food in the larder, and later on I shall lie down on Whitehead's bed. But I want to do a bit of quiet thinking first.”
Left to himself, Inspector Young made himself comfortable with a pipe. This case, which had seemed so simple when it had first been described to him, seemed now in his imagination to be wrapped in sinister mystery. The Inspector was peculiarly sensitive to his environment, and here, in this remote spot, he felt himself surrounded by impalpable forces beyond his power to combat. It was as though the atmosphere of High Eldersham, so inimical to strangers, had already begun to influence him. There was undoubtedly something queer about the place, upon this everybody seemed to be agreed. But the theory he had for a moment formed to account for this queerness was so impossible, so utterly fanciful, that to entertain it was to doubt his own sanity.
Young was normally an extremely self-reliant person. In his most difficult cases he had always relied upon his own powers of reasoning, and so far they had rarely failed him. But, confronted with the murder of Whitehead, he felt the urgent need of discussing the circumstances with some kindred spirit, whose incisive brain might solve the riddles with which he felt himself surrounded. Such a person existed, if only he could be induced to take an interest in the case. During the war, Inspector Young had been in constant communication with the intelligence branch of the Admiralty, and in the course of his duties had contracted a friendship with a very brilliant individual of his own age, then serving on that staff.
Desmond Merrion was a bachelor of independent and very considerable means. At the outbreak of war he had secured a commission in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and in that capacity had been very badly wounded when the vessel in which he was serving had been blown up off the Belgian coast. Upon his partial recovery, he had been transferred to the Admiralty, where Young had met him, and found him a living encyclopaedia upon all manner of obscure subjects which the ordinary person knew nothing about. The two men had continued their friendship after the war, and Young frequently visited Merrion's luxurious rooms in Mayfair, seeking advice upon some knotty point. Merrion was just the man he wanted, if he could persuade him to visit High Eldersham.
Young took a writing pad from his suit-case, and sat down to write the following letter:-
“My dear Merrion,-Take out the sheet of the Ordnance Survey of East Anglia, and look along the coast till you find the River Elder. About six miles from its mouth is a little village called High Eldersham. A mile west of the village is the old road from Gippingford northwards. On this road, where a side road runs off into High Eldersham, you will find the word 'Inn.' The name of the inn is the Rose and Crown, and that is where I am at present.
“The landlord of this inn was murdered yesterday evening (March 31st) in a particularly brutal manner. The local police communicated with the Yard, and I was sent down to investigate. I arrived shortly before three o'clock this afternoon (Saturday). The inquest is to take place here at eleven o'clock on Monday, and, if you can possibly manage to be present, I will see that a seat is reserved for you.
“You will ask why in heaven's name you should take the trouble to attend an inquest in such a remote spot upon a man you never heard of. Well, frankly, I can't tell you. All that I can say definitely is that I believe that the identification of the murderer is not going to be as easy as it sounds. My own efforts, so far, have not been crowned with any conspicuous success. I have employed my time following up a most promising clue, which has certainly led me to the discovery of a murder, but of a pig, not a man.
“Seriously, my dear fellow, if you can possibly spare the time, I should be very much relieved to have you here and to consult you. It is not exactly the murder itself which worries me, but the surrounding conditions. There is something mysterious about the whole of this countryside, something which I cannot possibly fathom, but which seems to me is more or less in your line, and may possibly interest you. I can't get away from a wild and insane idea which I dare not even hint to you, lest you should think I had gone clean off my head. If there is anything in it, which, to a reasonable man, seems utterly unthinkable, High Eldersham holds one of the most remarkable secrets of recent years.
“I'm not going to say any more, hoping that what I have said will be enough to arouse your curiosity. I repeat, if you possibly can, drive down on Monday, and we will have a chat after the inquest. “Yours,
“Robert Young.”
Inspector Young was busily engaged in cooking himself some breakfast on the following morning, when a knock upon the door announced the arrival of Viney.
“Come in, Viney!” said the Inspector cheerfully. “Had your breakfast? You have? All right, you can sit down and watch me eat mine. That's right. Now, what have you got to report?”
“There's no doubt that Portch's story about the pig is right, sir,” replied the constable. “I made inquiries round the village after I left you last night, sir, and I've traced most of the pork. And I've found a couple of chaps who saw Portch and Hosier in Portch's back yard about ten o'clock that night.”
“Well, that seems to settle the matter, and we'll have to start afresh,” remarked the Inspector. “Now, there's one thing I should like to be clear about. Portch had a grievance against Whitehead, on account of his having been turned out of here on one occasion. I gather that he threatened-or, if he didn't actually threaten, he abused-Whitehead in consequence. Do you know of anybody else in the neighbourhood who had any grievance against the dead man?”
“No, sir, I don't. As I told you at first, Mr. Whitehead was a man who was generally liked in the village. And, as you will understand, sir, that was very exceptional for a stranger.”
The Inspector smiled, but said nothing for several seconds. His mind was obviously pursuing a train of thought from which an effort was needed to recall it. “Well, look here, Viney,” he said at last. “Even though Portch's alibi is established, we haven't done with him. He and Hosier, if they left here together, were the last people who saw Whitehead alive. We shall have to get some sort of statement from them. I didn't question them last night, for I don't think Portch was capable of giving a coherent answer. But I would like to see them this morning, before the Chief Constable comes. Slip down and fetch them up for me.”
Viney departed, and duly returned with the men in question. But if Young had expected to extract any information of value from them, he was disappointed. All he could learn, in spite of the most adroit questioning, was that they had left the inn together between half-past nine and twenty-five minutes to ten, and walked straight down the road to Portch's cottage. There had been no other customers in the house when they left, Whitehead had gone so far as to compliment Portch on his behaviour, and had told him that as long as he conducted himself properly, as he had that evening, there was no objection to his frequenting the bar of the Rose and Crown, or words to that effect. The three had been sitting round the fire, Whitehead in the chair in which his body was found, and when Portch and Hosier rose to leave, Whitehead got up and followed them to the door. The last they saw of him as they went down the road was his figure standing in the doorway. It was also established that Portch had not the knife with him when he visited the Rose and Crown. His first action on reaching home had been to take it out of the drawer of the dresser and sharpen it in preparation for the slaughter of the pig.
The Inspector had hardly dismissed the pair when Colonel Bateman arrived in his car. He was, as Young observed with relief, alone. He walked into the kitchen, and took up his position, with legs wide apart, in front of the fire which the Inspector had lighted. “Well, and how are you getting on?” he asked genially.
“Not very fast, so far, sir,” replied Young. “It didn't take us long to pick up a scent, but it proved to be a false one.” The Inspector gave an account of Portch's actions and their detection, at which Colonel Bateman laughed heartily.
“Well, Inspector, you've already ferreted out a crime that probably would not have been discovered without you,” he said. “You say that you're satisfied that these men Portch and Hosier had nothing to do with the murder. But I suppose, in spite of the apparent absence of motive, that you are satisfied that somebody in the village did it?”
“I'm not sure, sir,” replied the Inspector. “We must not forget that this house stands on a through road, although it does not appear to be much used. Since I have been here, I have seen about a dozen cars drive past, to say nothing of carts and bicycles. What I mean, sir, is that people pass here without having any business with High Eldersham, or going down into the village. It is quite possible that somebody passed along the road soon after the departure of Portch and Hosier. If Whitehead had left the door open and returned to his chair, that person might have seen him.”
“Then crept in through the open door and murdered him with a knife which he happened to have handy,” said the Chief Constable. “It is possible, of course. But, frankly, you don't think it's likely, do you, Inspector?”
“No, sir. I don't believe it was a stranger who committed the murder. I believe that the motive is to be found locally, and I believe that I can guess what it was. But as to the ownership of the hand which struck the blow I am at present completely in the dark.”
Rather a puzzled look came into Colonel Bateman's face at this somewhat cryptic statement. “Well, Inspector, the case is in your hands, and I'm not going to butt in with injudicious questions,” he remarked. “By the way, I have seen the Coroner again, and had a chat with him. He has decided, in view of the fact that the crime almost certainly involves some person or persons in the village, that it will be better not to summon a local jury. He will therefore sit without a jury. You will have your witnesses ready, I suppose. Now, unless I can be of any further use to you, I will get back to Gippingford.”
“There's one thing I will ask you to do, sir,” replied Young. “I am very anxious that this letter should be delivered in London by the first post to-morrow morning. If you would be good enough to hand it in at Gippingford Station for postage at Liverpool Street, I should be very grateful.”
“Of course, I'll willingly do that for you,” said Colonel Bateman. “You're quite sure that there's nothing else you want? All right, then, I'll be off.”
But the Inspector was destined to have other visitors that Sunday. Less than an hour after the Chief Constable's departure a hired car drove up to the Rose and Crown, from which descended an individual with a couple of large suit-cases. The Inspector admitted him, and the two stood for a moment regarding one another, the newcomer with an expression of veiled mistrust.
“Are you the chap what's in charge of the case of this poor chap, Whitehead?” he asked after a pause.
“Yes, I am Detective-Inspector Young. You are the new tenant of the Rose and Crown, I suppose?”
“Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You might say, in a manner of speaking, that I'm the old tenant. 'Tis like this, you see. Mr. George Thorold, he comes to me yesterday in a terrible stew. I keeps the Tower of London in Gippingford, you must understand. 'Dunsford,' he says to me, 'if you'll do something to oblige me, I'll see that you're not a loser by it.' Well, Mr. George has always been very good to me. 'If I can do anything to oblige you, sir, you know I'll do it,' I says. 'Well,' says he, 'a terrible thing has happened. Poor Whitehead out at the Rose and Crown at High Eldersham has been murdered, and there's no one to look after the house. Could you go over there and keep it open for me for a few days? Mrs. Dunsford and Dick can look after the Tower of London while you're away, and if they want help I'll pay for it. I'll find a tenant for the Rose and Crown as soon as I can, I promise you.'
“I thinks to myself that it'll be a bit awkward, for trade's pretty brisk at the Tower of London, and the missus isn't as spry as she used to be. But Dick's a good lad, and knows his way about. Besides, I'd go a long way to do a good turn to Mr. George, and there's nobody knows more about the Rose and Crown than me, seeing as I kept it for twenty years or thereabouts, and my dad before me. So I tells Mr. George I'd be over this morning, and here I am.”
The Inspector listened to Dunsford's explanation with interest. It occurred to him that this man's presence might prove very useful. His long residence in the place must have rendered him more thoroughly acquainted with the village and its inhabitants even than Viney. And, now that he had deserted it in favour of Gippingford, he would probably have lost the parochial instincts which might have hindered him from imparting information to a stranger.
“I'm very glad you've come, Mr. Dunsford,” he said heartily. “I slept in Whitehead's room last night, but, of course, I'll give that up to you now. You won't mind if I fix myself up in one of the other rooms, will you?”
It seemed to the Inspector that Dunsford hesitated for an instant before he replied. But, when he did so, his voice was cordial enough. “That'll be all right,” he said. “We'll get along well enough together, I dare say. Are you likely to be here long?”
“I can't say. It depends on the progress I make with the case. But there's nothing to prevent you carrying on exactly as if I wasn't here.”
That afternoon, while Dunsford was busy settling in and taking stock, the Inspector, leaving Viney at the Rose and Crown, set out upon a tour of exploration. He walked through the village, unobtrusively observing the inhabitants as they stood about discussing the tragedy. He then went further afield, and, with the help of a map which the Chief Constable had given him, identified the principal features of the surrounding country. It was not until he had made himself thoroughly familiar with the lie of the land that he returned, in time to share the excellent supper provided by Dunsford. He spent the rest of the evening talking to his host, who displayed the greatest readiness to gossip about the inhabitants of the parish. When he went to bed he felt that his knowledge of High Eldersham and its population was already extensive. But he had learnt nothing which tended to throw any light upon the identity of Whitehead's murderer.
On the following morning the Inspector and Viney were kept busy arranging for the inquest. It was to be held in a large room above the old stables of the Rose and Crown, used occasionally as a club room. Long before eleven o'clock the road outside the inn was thronged by a crowd of the curious, waiting for admission. Colonel Bateman arrived in his car, bringing with him Superintendent Bass, Dr. Barrett, and the Coroner. A short consultation ensued between them and the Inspector, and then Viney was instructed to open the doors of the club room to the public.
The Inspector stood beside him as the audience filed in, listening to his whispered identifications. “That's Mr. Hollesley, sir, him what lives at Elder House,” said Viney, as a tall, dark man of about thirty-five came in. “The chap he's talking to is old Fairbairn, who rents the home farm from him. I heard he was going up to London to-day, but I expect he's stopped to see the proceedings. Ah, and here's Sir William, with his daughter, Miss Mavis. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll find them a couple of chairs. They won't like to sit on these hard benches.”
Young nodded, and Viney made his way across the room. Sir William Owerton was an elderly man with white hair and the rather absent-minded look of the student. But it was his daughter who attracted the Inspector's attention. Mavis Owerton would have been noticeable anywhere, with her fair hair and blue eyes, which are generally accepted as the type of English beauty. In this bare prosaic room, surrounded by the rather stolid countenances of the East Anglians, she seemed like some goddess descended among mortals. Even the unsusceptible Inspector was moved to admiration. “By Jove!” he muttered. “That's one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen!”
It was immediately apparent that his admiration was shared by Mr. Hollesley. That gentleman, whose eyes had never left the door of the room, abruptly broke off his conversation with Fairbairn at the entrance of the Owertons, and made his way through the crowd to meet them. He escorted them to the chairs which Viney had placed for them and sat down on a bench just behind Mavis. She nodded to him, rather off-handedly, Young thought, and then leant across to speak to an old man in the next row. Sir William, however, turned round in his chair and engaged Laurence Hollesley in earnest conversation, to which the latter appeared to listen with ill-concealed impatience.
The significance of the incident was not lost upon the Inspector, in spite of the fact that his attention was divided between it and the faces of the people still filing in through the door. “Looks as though she wasn't as keen on him as he is on her,” he said to himself. “He's a good-looking fellow enough, but I dare say a girl like that has more than one string to her bow, even though she lives in an outlandish place like this. But I wonder what's happened to Merrion? He's pretty sure to come along, if he got my letter. I wonder if the old boy remembered to take it to the station?”
His attention was diverted by a sharp rapping of the table, and he glided to the door and posted himself at it. Silence having been obtained, the Coroner opened the proceedings. He explained that he was sitting to inquire into the circumstances surrounding the death of Samuel Whitehead. He had viewed the body, and would proceed to call witnesses. The first was Constable Viney, of the local police force.
Viney was about to take the oath, when the door at the back of the room opened. The audience turned as one man at the sound, and saw Inspector Young escort a stranger to a vacant seat at the back. The newcomer was short but powerfully built, with an expression which seemed to denote complete boredom. He winked at the Inspector, and took his seat with an air of comical resignation, as though accepting some unwelcome penance.
The proceedings, thus momentarily interrupted, were resumed. Viney gave his evidence, and was followed by Doctor Padfield, Doctor Barrett, Portch, Hosier and the Inspector himself, each shepherded into place by Superintendent Bass. Nothing fresh transpired, in spite of the persistent questioning of the Coroner, a little man with a self-important manner. He finally summed up in a rather pompous speech, and delivered his verdict. “Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.”
The verdict was hardly out of his mouth when Laurence Hollesley slipped from his seat and made his way rapidly to the back of the room. The stranger rose to meet him, and the two men shook hands. “Why, good lord, Merrion, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you come in!” exclaimed Hollesley. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question,” replied Merrion. “When I last saw you you were commanding a M.L. in the Dover Patrol. I certainly never expected to see you attending an inquest in a village pub somewhere beyond the end of the world.”
“My dear chap, I live here,” said Hollesley. “Didn't you know? Look here, I've got to dash up to town this afternoon, but there's just time for you to come to my place and have lunch. Then you can tell me all about it.”
“Well, that's very good of you,” replied Merrion. “I was just wondering if this local pub of yours ran to bread and cheese. If you don't mind waiting a minute, I'll run my car into the yard.”
“I'll come with you, my car's in the yard too,” agreed Hollesley. The two left the room together, Merrion without bestowing as much as a glance upon the Inspector.
The latter watched their departure, an expression of bewilderment upon his face. “Well, I'm damned!” he exclaimed softly.
It was nearly three o'clock before Inspector Young, waiting uneasily at the Rose and Crown, saw a car stop outside the inn, and Merrion descend from it. He observed that Hollesley was driving the car, and when it had moved on, he went out and joined his friend.
“You're a nice chap!” he said indignantly. “I ask you to come down here because I want to talk to you, and the first thing you do is to clear off and lunch with somebody else. Perhaps you can spare me a few minutes of your valuable time now?”
Merrion laughed cheerfully. “Sorry, old man, but I had to act on my own, you know. Your letter wasn't very explicit. You hinted that there was something queer about this place and, when I found, unexpectedly, that I knew one of the natives, it struck me that lunching with him would be a heaven-sent opportunity for getting the hang of things. I'm quite ready to exchange notes with you now. But where? Not in this pub, I suppose.
“You put your car into the yard, didn't you? Well, get it out, and we'll drive along the road till we find a quiet spot where we can't be overheard.”
Merrion agreed to this. Three or four miles from the Rose and Crown they found a spot where the car could be drawn up on the grass by the side of the road. There, seated in the car, they discussed the matter that had urged the Inspector to summon Merrion to his aid.
“You'd better let me tell my story first,” said Merrion, as he lighted a large pipe. “I gathered the bones of your trouble from the evidence at the inquest, but you don't know the link between me and Hollesley. I met him first during the war, when he was commanding a motor launch. We all thought him rather a queer chap in those days, but it's difficult to explain exactly why. He was quite good at his job, brave, daring, resourceful, all the rest of it, but there were times when he seemed to be unable to control his actions. It wasn't drink, I'm pretty certain of that, for nobody ever saw him touch more than a couple of whiskies in a day. His conduct at lunch just now bears that out. He drank nothing more than one glass of Burgundy.
“I'll give you an instance of what I mean. One night his craft was sent out of Dover on some work or other, I don't remember what it was. It was a beautiful night, full moon, almost as bright as day. Hollesley, as I was told afterwards, was in a curiously exalted state, do or die, and all that sort of thing. Somewhere in mid-channel he swore that he had sighted a German submarine, and worked himself up to a fearful state of excitement. He took the wheel, and went full speed for this blessed submarine of his. The rest of the ship's company very soon saw what it was; one of the buoys connected with the barrage. But Hollesley wouldn't listen to them and kept on straight for it, swearing he was going to ram it. At the very last moment his petty officer or somebody snatched the wheel from him and put it hard over. Lucky thing for Hollesley, for if he'd hit the buoy he'd have crumpled up his M.L. like a box of matches.
“Hollesley flew into a terrible rage, and put the man under arrest. When they got back to Dover, there was a deuce of a row, as you might suppose. However, it was smoothed over in some way, and a little time later Hollesley was sent to another station. I never saw or heard of him again until this morning.”
“I see,” remarked Young. “And what did you make of him this time?”
“Oh, he seemed pretty normal,” replied Merrion. “We spent a good part of our time chatting about old times, but at last I managed to switch him on to the present. Naturally, he wanted to know what I was doing at that infernal inquest of yours. I made up a yam for his benefit; told him that I was on my way from Hunstanton to Gippingford, and had chosen this way so as to avoid the traffic on the main road. I had been looking out for somewhere to stop and have a drink, and seeing half a dozen cars outside the Rose and Crown, stopped there, thinking it was probably a suitable place. Hearing that an inquest was going on, I looked in out of sheer curiosity. That's why I tried to look as if I didn't know you when Hollesley and I left the room.”
“You succeeded, all right. Did you happen to learn anything about the people hereabouts?”
“Quite a lot, but I don't know whether any of it will interest you. Elder House is not a very big place, but distinctly comfortable and very efficiently run. The family consists of Hollesley and his mother, who is an invalid and did not appear. There must be a very capable cook, judging by the lunch, but the only one of the servants I saw was the butler, big chap, middle-aged, with a perfect butler's manner. Hollesley happened to mention that he hadn't been with him long.
“I gathered that the nearest neighbours were Sir William Owerton and his daughter. I had noticed them at the inquest, and it struck me then that Miss Owerton wasn't the sort of girl that one expects to find in a place like this. Owerton, it seems, spends most of his time in his library, which, according to Hollesley, is full of rare books. Miss Owerton spends most of her time out of doors. She's fond of every kind of sport, and keeps a sailing dinghy in the river. She's expecting one of those speed-boat things every day, Hollesley said. By the way, once he had got on to the subject of Mavis Owerton, it was pretty difficult to ride him off it again. I fancy that he has every intention of persuading her to abandon the Hall in favour of Elder House.”
“That certainly seems to be the opinion locally. Hollesley didn't mention Doctor Padfield by any chance, did he?”
“The village medico, who gave evidence at the inquest? Yes, he told me that he was attending his mother, and that he had great faith in him. A very capable man, he said, who might have done great things if he had consented to leave his native village. But it seems that he isn't ambitious, and has enough to live comfortably, apart from his practice. The village people like him well enough, though he is apt to be a bit off-hand in his manner. I noticed that for myself when he was giving his evidence.”
“Off-hand is rather a mild word, judging by what Viney told me of his behaviour on Friday night. Did Hollesley say anything else about the village or its inhabitants?”
“Nothing very definite. I gathered that they were all a happy family, and got on very well without bothering much about the rest of the world. My perceptions may be a bit insensitive, but I didn't detect any trace of that mystery at which your letter hinted.”
“You wouldn't, at Elder House. It's in the village itself that it exists, if it exists at all outside my own imagination. I've thought, since I wrote that letter, that I should find it impossible to explain, even when I saw you. But I'll try, confining myself to bare facts and leaving you to draw the inferences. In the first place, there is no doubt that High Eldersham doesn't favour strangers. I know that very few English villages do, especially in this part of the country. But the antipathy to strangers is more highly developed here than anywhere else that I have heard of. I don't mean that the inhabitants throw stones through their windows, or manifest their hostility in any way. They don't, you'll find them as polite and well behaved as you could want. But strangers, as Viney, the local cop, puts it, just don't prosper in High Eldersham. He told me a couple of very curious incidents, which I will repeat to you later, both of which occurred under his own eyes. Of course, Viney's intelligence isn't of the highest order, and I confess that I was inclined to smile at his stories when I first heard them. It is only since something utterly bizarre came under my own observation that I have wondered whether there could not possibly be some queer influence acting against strangers in this place. And yet it seems so utterly fantastic—”
“Upon my word, Young, you've found the secret of arousing my curiosity. You haven't been going in for spiritualism lately, have you? You're talking more like a member of the Society for Psychical Research than a mere flat-footed tec. Can't you be a little more explicit? What was it that came under your own observation and started you off in this fanciful vein?”
“That I'm not going to tell you. I want you to approach this problem with an absolutely open mind. A little later on you shall have the chance of seeing what I saw. If you see nothing out of the ordinary in it, I am willing to confess I am suffering from hallucinations, and you shall go back to London. On the other hand, if it seems to you as remarkable as it does to me, you shall stay in the neighbourhood. You'll have to put up at Gippingford. For one thing, there's no decent accommodation any nearer, and for another I don't want you to be seen hanging about here too much. Strangers about here are too rare to escape notice. Is that a bargain?”
“Well, I suppose so. If this mystery you hint at appeals to me with half the force that it appeals to you, I shan't want to leave it till we've got to the bottom of it When is the trial of my observation to be made?”
“Very shortly. But first of all I want to give you an idea of what I'm driving at. It very soon became clear to me that there is a pretty general impression in this part of the world that there is something queer about High Eldersham. What it is, what the queerness consists of, nobody can tell me. It just isn't definable. Even the Chief Constable, a retired soldier and a very decent old stick, hinted at it ten minutes after I first met him. I got the impression that he wouldn't be surprised at anything that might happen at High Eldersham. It also struck me that he lost no time in calling in the aid of the Yard, as though be knew that the murder of Whitehead would provide a problem quite beyond the power of his own people to deal with.”
“That reminds me that this murder, which is presumably the only reason for your presence here, is the one thing we have not yet discussed.”
“I know. The reason why I haven't told you more about the murder is because I believe the problem can only be approached through a study of the peculiarities of High Eldersham.”
“Oh, dash it all, man! Your conversation has been pretty obscure, you'll admit, but, if I understand you right, this is what you are trying to make me believe. You suspect some mysterious influence in this village inimical to strangers, and it is your theory that this influence, or some manifestation of it, drove a butcher's knife into the vitals of an unfortunate and inoffensive publican. And that sort of thing is really outside the realm of ordinary terrestrial detection.”
Young smiled at his friend's bantering tone. “Go on,” he said. “This is just what I expected. I am a lunatic, I know, wholly unfitted for the duties which I am expected to perform. Never mind, bear with me as patiently as you can. I want to tell you Viney's stories about the experiences of other strangers in this village.”
Merrion listened attentively. “Curious!” was his comment when Young had finished. “But I think that the psychology of the situation is fairly easy to analyse. Here are two cases where strangers settling here have failed to succeed in their businesses, owing to circumstances beyond human control. The locals, constitutionally antagonistic to strangers, persuade themselves that what happened in two cases must be instances of the operation of a universal law. Hence the origin of the legend that disaster must always overtake strangers in High Eldersham. Isn't that the rational way of looking at it?”
“I don't know. I thought so at first, myself. Now, that's all I've got to tell you. There's nothing in the actual murder but what you heard at the inquest. The story of the sleuth whose brilliant researches led to the discovery of the brutal assassination of the pig I'll tell you as we go back. You'll find it amusing, I suppose. If you'll start up this perambulating hen-coop of yours and drive me back to the pub, I'll take you for a little walk down the village. I needn't warn you, if you see anything that astonishes you, don't let your expression betray you.”
They drove back to the Rose and Crown, and Merrion put his car into the yard once more. The Inspector went into the house and after a few words with Viney, joined Merrion outside. The two walked slowly down towards the village, which had resumed its normal aspect. They had got as far as Portch's cottage when the Inspector stopped. “I've got to go in here for a minute,” he said. “You may as well come in with me.”
They knocked at the door, and Mrs. Portch appeared. She had evidently resigned herself to the inevitable, and made no difficulty about admitting them. The Inspector cast a swift glance round the kitchen, and saw with inward satisfaction that nothing in it had been moved since his last visit.
“I've brought you back your knife, Mrs. Portch,” he said. “I hope this incident will be a warning to you to tell the truth to the police in future. Your husband had a very narrow escape from being arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Whitehead. I do not know what view the magistrates will take of the offence of slaughtering a pig in an unlicensed place, I am sure. Perhaps, if you were to show me where the pig was killed, I could put in a word.”
“It's a sight cleaner than some of the slaughter houses there are about, sir,” replied Mrs. Portch indignantly. “I scrubbed it out myself, top and bottom, that very afternoon. If you care to come through to the back, sir, you can see for yourself.”
She led the way out of the back door, and the Inspector followed her, leaving Merrion alone in the kitchen.
A few minutes later the Inspector returned, and the two men left the cottage together. They pursued their way in silence until they reached the river, a sluggish stream about fifty yards wide, running between banks of mud. The village street ended in a miniature quay, which at this time of day was completely deserted.
Merrion strode to the edge of the quay, and stood for many minutes staring down at the water beneath him. Then suddenly he turned, almost petulantly, and faced the Inspector. “You're quite right, Young,” he said. “The thing's absurd, incredible, impossible, anything that you like to call it. But still, it's there, and I'm damned if I know how on earth to tackle it. Did you happen to notice the moon last night?”
“No, I can't say that I did,” replied the Inspector gravely. “Although lunatics are supposed to, I believe.”
“We could tell if we knew the tidal establishment of the place. It seems to be dead low water now. Failing that, we'll have to borrow a calendar from somewhere.”
“I've got one in my pocket. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know the date of the next full moon.”
The Inspector took out a pocket diary and turned over the pages. “April 8th. That's Saturday next,” he said.
Merrion nodded, but said nothing. They turned away, and walked back in silence towards the Rose and Crown. It was not until they had nearly reached the inn that either spoke. Then Merrion broke the silence abruptly. “You guessed what was written on that piece of tape, I suppose?”
The Inspector shook his head. “I haven't dared,” he replied. “This business is dark enough without any guessing.”
“Well, it was 'Sam Whitehead,' if you care to know,” said Merrion.
By a common impulse Merrion and the Inspector turned away from the Rose and Crown when they reached the old coach road, and walked slowly on. “There are too many people about the inn to make it possible to talk quietly there,” said Young. “The open road is much safer. Well, old man, what am I to do now?”
“I can't advise you, yet,” replied Merrion slowly. “I shall have to go back to London for a couple of days and study the subject. I'm familiar enough with the general lines, but I'm a bit rusty as to detail, and if we're to trace this thing to its source, we shall have to have every detail at our finger ends. That's as much as I can say at present.”
“I gather from your attitude that you are satisfied that there can be no mistake?”
“Absolutely. You gave me no hint as to what I was to look for, and I spotted the doll right away. Mommet is the correct word, I believe. From what I could see in my very hasty examination, the traditional ritual has been very closely followed. The doll had been moulded in wax, the sort of wax that is used for church candles, I should say. Pretty roughly moulded too, obviously by some one not exactly an expert in the plastic arts. Again, the needle had been driven into the figure, about where the heart would be, when it was hot. There were traces of the wax having been melted round it, and the needle itself was black where it had been in the flame. Finally, there was the piece of tape-certainly an improvement on the traditional paper-with the victim's name written on it and threaded through the eye. No, there's no room for doubt. It certainly is one of the most amazing things I ever came across. But what puzzles me, if you don't mind my saying so, is how you guessed the significance of this doll.”
“Give me credit for a few scattered crumbs of general knowledge,” replied Young, with a smile. “I've read my Ingoldsby Legends, for one thing. And, for another, cases of dolls being baptized with the name of a destined victim are not unheard of, even in these degenerate days. There was a case near Langport, in Somerset, in 1929.”
“Yes, very possibly. These cases do crop up from time to time, especially where tradition has lingered in remote country places. But I have never before heard of an unauthenticated instance where the baptism of the doll was followed by the death by violence of the victim. I say, Young, it gives one furiously to think. Does the witch-cult still survive in High Eldersham? Were the misfortunes which overtook those two strangers you told me about consequent upon unholy incantations? And, if so, what on earth or in hell are we up against?”
“Nothing that a mere policeman can be expected to unravel. That's why I asked you to come down. Mind you, I'm not suggesting that Whitehead's death was due to occult forces, that he was stabbed by some supernatural hand, or anything like that. But I do believe that his murder is in some way connected with the existence of that doll. I believe the doll to be the clue, not only to this murder, but to all the queer and inexplicable happenings in High Eldersham.”
“I think you are very probably right. The best way that I can help you, as I say, is to go back home for a couple of days and spend every minute of my time reading up every available book on the subject. Meanwhile, you must say or do nothing that could possibly reveal your suspicions. If I'm not mistaken, that doll still has a part to play, and if the people concerned are not alarmed, we may learn a good deal by waiting. In any case, I don't think anything is likely to happen before Saturday night.”
The Inspector agreed to this course, and within half an hour Merrion was on his way back to London. The Inspector spent the evening in the kitchen of the Rose and Crown, studying the customers who thronged the place. Never before had the inn done such a profitable trade. It seemed to Young that nearly all the male population of High Eldersham must have visited the place, partly out of curiosity to see the very spot where Whitehead was murdered, partly to see Hugh Dunsford once more. From where he sat Young could overhear the conversation in the bar. Dunsford was overwhelmed with inquiries as to his family, as to how he was getting on in Gippingford. There were a few awed inquiries “Be this the chair as Whitehead was sitting in when he was killed?” But the details of the murder were hardly alluded to, and certainly never discussed. It seemed to Young that the very mention of Whitehead's name imposed an instant hush upon the assembly. The subject would be immediately changed, to Ned Portch's misfortune in being detected in the illegal slaughter of the pig, and speculation of what it would cost him, or to some other topic of local interest.
This was contrary to all the Inspector's experience. Normally a murder, especially a murder of which the perpetrator was still at large, caused a tremendous sensation. The whole countryside talked of nothing else for weeks, and the centre of such conversation would naturally be the local inn. He could not avoid the impression that there was some sinister significance in the avoidance of the subject of the inhabitants of High Eldersham. It seemed to him, in the light of what he had already learnt, that everybody about him knew more about the matter than he did. Perhaps they were not aware of the identity of the actual murderer, but it would bring bad luck, perhaps even swift disaster, to refer to the subject at all. One more stranger had been removed from High Eldersham. The cause of his removal was better left unsought.
Young slept very little that night. For a long time he tossed and turned upon the narrow bed which had been assigned to him, and finally, in desperation, he dressed and crept quietly out of the house. The moon was just setting, casting a pale and uncertain light upon the flat country, over which a low steamy mist was creeping slowly from the sea. Above the mist stood out the tall tops of the trees, and below him, in the village, the summit of the church tower. All else was hidden, wrapped in mystery and silence.
The Inspector set out at a brisk pace along the old road, hoping that by tiring his muscles sufficiently he might induce the sleep which so craftily eluded him. But his brain refused to be lulled by the exercise, and persisted in turning over and over the amazing problem which confronted him. He, Inspector Young, notoriously the least imaginative and most practically-minded man in Scotland Yard, had accepted as a fact the existence of witchcraft in High Eldersham, and was prepared to base his investigation into the murder of Whitehead upon this fantastic circumstance.
Stated thus, his position was ridiculous. What was witchcraft, anyhow? Witchcraft, he supposed, was one of the manifestations of the dominance of a superior intelligence over a backward community. Curious and inexplicable things happened among primitive peoples, so much was generally accepted. Various so-called explanations of these happenings had been put forward. They were due to hypnotism, to telepathy, to the operation of superior will-power. But no one had ever contended that the high priests of these mysteries, witchcraft, voodoo, black magic, call them what you like, had power to stab a man in the back without the intervention of human agency. From the bottom of his heart Young wished that he had never seen that confounded doll in Portch's cottage. It had obscured his vision, introduced a baffling subtlety into the problem. What did it indicate, after all? Nothing, except possibly that Portch had a grudge against Whitehead, and had chosen this childish way in which to express it. Even so, there was nothing new in this, the existence of the grudge was common knowledge. Young told himself bitterly that he had allowed himself to be influenced by the atmosphere of High Eldersham, had fallen a victim to the ridiculous but generally held superstition that the place was in some undefined way queer. This being the case, he had been on the look out for something bizarre and unusual, and had persuaded himself that he had found it. Would it not be better to ask for permission to abandon the case, in order that it might be placed in the hands of some one with a less fervid imagination?
He must have covered a good five miles before he returned to the Rose and Crown. The dawn was break ing when at last he fell asleep.
The funeral of Mr. Whitehead took place on the following day at one o'clock. Young attended it, in common with most of the inhabitants of the village who were not at work. When it was over, he walked slowly back to the Rose and Crown. He noticed, as soon as he turned the corner, that a Rolls-Royce limousine, bearing a London registration number, and driven by a uniformed chauffeur, was standing outside the inn.
Young frowned. The car, he felt sure, must belong to some sensation monger, anxious to explore the scene of a crime which had already gained some notoriety in the newspapers. He was not in a mood to be asked questions, and he was on the point of turning back and waiting till the car should have driven on. It occurred to him, however, that he could enter the house by way of the yard and the back door, and so reach the kitchen without whoever was in the bar being aware of his presence. He crept in furtively, taking care that the sounds of his footsteps should not be heard.
The door between the kitchen and the bar was shut, but the panelling was thin, and through it Young could hear the sound of voices. One of them he recognised as Dunsford's, the other, he noticed with considerable surprise, was that of a woman. An argument of some kind was evidently in progress, and Young, inspired by curiosity, moved up closer to the door. Although he could not catch the woman's actual words, there was an unmistakable note of pleading in her tone. And when Dunsford answered her, it was in a low voice, in which the Inspector could detect more than a little uneasiness.
“It's no use, madam,” he said. “As I've told you already, I can do nothing for you while I'm here. I can't think why you came all this way to see me. It's most imprudent.”
“They told me at the Tower of London that you were here, and I told the chauffeur to find out the way and drive me here.” The woman's voice trailed off into a whisper, and the Inspector could not hear the rest of her speech. But the words he had heard were in an educated voice, speaking with an urgency that aroused his utmost curiosity.
“No, madam, it's impossible. I haven't got it with me. You must wait until I get back to the Tower of London in a week or so. You had no business to run the risk of coming here. You might have given the whole game away. Why, there's a detective from Scotland Yard actually staying in this house. Fortunately, he's out just now, but he might come back at any moment. I must ask you to go away at once, before anybody sees you.”
Dunsford's warning was evidently sufficient. Young heard a low cry of horror, and the sound of rapid footsteps. He slid rapidly out through the back door and into the yard. He was too late to catch sight of the woman, she had already entered the car and the chauffeur had started the engine. But, as the car drove away in the direction of Gippingford he read the number and made a note of it. He waited where he was for a few minutes, wondering who the visitor could have been, and trying to guess the purport of her conversation with Dunsford. Then emerging from his place of concealment, he walked into the house through the front door.
Dunsford started visibly at his entrance, but the Inspector hastened to lull his suspicions. “Hallo!” he exclaimed, with a glance around the empty bar. “You don't seem to be doing much business. Everybody is at the funeral, I suppose. I've just come up from there myself.”
“Yes, things is pretty quiet,” replied Dunsford, his face assuming an expression of obvious relief. “I haven't had a soul in here the whole morning.”
After a hasty lunch, Young hired the village Ford, and drove to Gippingford. He went straight to the police station, and learnt to his relief that Superintendent Bass was not on the premises. He found, however, a most obliging sergeant on duty, who, at his request, placed the telephone at his disposal. Young put a trunk call through to London, and, as a result of his inquiries, discovered that the car of which he had noted the number was registered in the name of Mrs. Fowler, of Park Street. A colleague at Scotland Yard promised to make inquiries as to this lady, and let him know the result. This matter having been disposed of, Young engaged the sergeant in conversation.
“What do you know about the Tower of London, sergeant?” he asked.
“The Tower of London, sir?” replied the sergeant, with a puzzled expression. “Oh, you mean the pub in Water Street, sir-Dunsford's place. It's quite a respectable house, sir, and very well conducted. We never have any trouble with it, any more than we do with any of Thorold's houses. They're very particular about their tenants, sir. But the Tower of London isn't an ordinary pub, by any means. Dunsford has raised the tone of the place a lot since he has been there. He gets a very good class of people, visitors passing through the town use the place a great deal. The smoking room is more like an hotel lounge than anything else, although the house is not an hotel. That's to say there are no rooms for people to sleep in, sir.”
As he drove back to High Eldersham, the Inspector tried to find some hypothesis which would explain the words he had overheard that morning. This Mrs. Fowler, assuming that she had been the occupant of the car, was obviously acquainted with the Tower of London, and had called there to ask Dunsford for something. Not finding him there, she had proceeded to the Rose and Crown, where her request was refused on the grounds that Dunsford “had not got it with him.” What was this mysterious “it" and why should Mrs. Fowler's presence at the Rose and Crown “give the game away,” presumably to the police? What game, in heaven's name? Could the incident have any connection with the murder of Whitehead? It seemed impossible, but perhaps some light would be thrown on the matter when he received some information regarding Mrs. Fowler.
There was nothing to be done but wait, and to this Young resigned himself with such patience as he could summon. Wednesday passed without any further developments, and he was contemplating yet another night of inactivity when a car drove up to the Rose and Crown, and Merrion descended from it, looking pale and very weary.
Young greeted him warmly. “Well, old chap, have you found out anything bearing on the case?” he asked. “I haven't got much further, but a queer thing happened here yesterday that I'd like to tell you about.”
“Don't tell me now, there's a good fellow,” replied Merrion. “My brain isn't in a fit state to absorb anything fresh. I haven't been to bed since I saw you last, I've been reading steadily all the time. I only just come over to let you know I was back. I'm going to Gippingford now, to put up at an hotel and go to bed. I'll start for here again at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. You'd better start at the same time on foot and meet me on the road. It's safer than talking here.”
“All right,” agreed the Inspector reluctantly. “But can't you give me a hint before you go?”
“Well, I don't mind warning you that you're not likely to get much sleep on Saturday night,” replied Merrion, as he started up the car and drove away.
Before Inspector Young set out to keep his appointment on the following morning, he received a letter in reply to his inquiries as to Mrs. Fowler. That lady, it appeared, was an elderly and wealthy widow, who lived in considerable state, and spent a great part of her time attending meetings of committees of the various charities with which she was connected. She was reputed to be of a very generous disposition, and had many friends in consequence. Beyond this, nothing of any interest was known about her.
Young frowned as he perused this letter. Although he had not actually seen the woman who had called at the Rose and Crown, he had heard her voice, which, as he remembered it, seemed to him more that of a young woman than of an elderly widow. Had Mrs. Fowler a companion, he wondered? The situation was baffling like everything else at Hi