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IT was commonly said in the bar of the Three Horseshoes at Tolsham that Farmer Hollybud was easy enough to get on with, if you took him the right way. This carried the implication that you might find him difficult if you took him the wrong way. And, every now and then, the little hamlet of Tolsham was excited by tales of Farmer Hollybud having quarrelled with somebody or other, usually to the accompaniment of language bad even to the tolerant countryside.
On the last occasion when Mr. Hollybud had had a difference of opinion it had been with Mr. Godfrey, of Godfrey and Sprot. Although he called himself a farmer, Mr. Hollybud's agricultural activities were confined to milk producing. To the older inhabitants of the village this was a matter for regret. They remembered when Starvesparrow Farm, despite its name, which must have been bestowed upon it out of sheer contrariness, had produced some of the finest corn in the West of England.
That had been in the days of Mr. Hollybud's father. Hollybud himself, faced with a decline in the price of wheat and aware of the growing demand for milk in the large cities, had sown the farm down to grass. He saw in this a double advantage. Arable farming involved the employment of labour, and Mr. Hollybud hated paying out wages. Now the family, consisting of himself, his wife and two strapping daughters, could run the farm with the assistance of a single “chap", Walt Jeffers by name, who was docile and obedient, though scarcely more than half-witted. Besides, routine was enormously simplified. Apart from looking after the meadow land and disposing of the calves, a sometimes profitable by-product, all that was necessary was to milk the cows. The rest was automatic. The milk was poured into churns, which were then carted for five hundred yards from the farmhouse to a wooden stand on the road. Twice a day, morning and evening, the lorry from the milk factory collected the full churns and deposited empty ones in their places.
There were two rival milk factories in the neighbourhood. The largest was the Park Lane Dairy, beside the railway station at the market town of Yonderhill. The other was a smaller concern, owned by two partners, Godfrey and Sprot, and situated in the village of Chanterford.
Mr. Hollybud had for years sold his milk to the latter firm, under a contract renewed annually. Mr. Sprot was an old friend of his, and they got on very well together. The renewal of the milk contract was always the occasion for a jollification between the two of them. But Mr. Godfrey he never could abide. It was most unfortunate that Mr. Sprot should have been in bed with influenza when, on one occasion, the time came to renew the contract.
There would have been no difficulty if Sprot had been able to deal with the matter. Certainly the price would have to come down. Too many people had followed Mr. Hollybud's example and taken to dairy farming. All the babies in the land seemed unable to absorb their insipid product. The Milk Marketing Scheme had not then come into operation, and the producers and wholesalers were engaged upon a complicated scheme of bargaining.
Sprot would have known how to manage Mr. Hollybud. He would have lain in wait for him at the Yellow Dragon at Yonderhill on market day. Then, over a drink or two, and after much friendly wrangling, the price for the ensuing year would have ultimately been arranged. But Godfrey was a man of a different stamp. He liked to consider himself as a keen business man who never wasted time beating about the bush. The dilatory methods of the west country farmers were a perpetual source of irritation to him. These contracts must be settled, and settled quickly. He took out his car and called upon his clients. And in the course of his rounds he reached Starvesparrow Farm, about three o'clock one afternoon.
Sprot could have told him that this was an inauspicious moment. Mr. Hollybud was very fond of a quart or two of his own special cider in the middle of the day. This led to a certain lethargy, a condition which was met by an hour or two of profound slumber in a massive armchair before the kitchen fire. Mr. Hollybud, suddenly awakened by the arrival of Godfrey, whom he disliked at any time, was in no conciliatory mood.
However, he prepared to bargain. But Godfrey, to his indignation, refused to play the game. He was a tall thin man, with sharp features, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and a bowler hat. His very appearance exasperated the newly-awakened Hollybud. “It's like this, Mr. Hollybud,” he said incisively. “That's our price, and you won't get a better. It's up to you to take it or leave it.”
Mr. Hollybud was a little man, powerful and wiry, with a very red face. He opened his eyes wide and stared at Godfrey. Never, in all his experience, had he been spoken to like this before. For a moment he was so taken aback that he could only breathe heavily. Then he sprang from his chair and literally danced with rage. He looked like nothing so much as a game-cock about to attack. Godfrey, appalled by this manifestation, retreated towards the door.
Then Mr. Hollybud found his voice. “By —then I'll leave it!” he roared. “I wouldn't let you have another pint of my milk—no, not if you was to beg for it on your bended knees. D'ye think that I'm a blasted beggar that you can squeeze between your dirty fingers? Whatever Sprot was about to go into partnership with a twister such as you is more than I can tell. Now, you get out, and don't darken my door no longer.”
Godfrey went. The progress of his car from the farmhouse to the road was followed by a stream of imprecations, bellowed out with the full force of Mr. Hollybud's lungs. They were overheard by Walt Jeffers, who was loading dung in the yard nearby. His repetition of them before a delighted audience at the Three Horseshoes that evening was a howling success.
His quarrel with Godfrey is of interest as throwing a light upon Mr. Hollybud's character. It also accounts for the fact that next day he drove into Yonderhill and interviewed Mr. Bainbridge, the manager of the Park Lane Dairy, and arranged a contract with him. The price agreed upon was perhaps no better than he might have got from Godfrey and Sprot. But the pleasurable feeling that he had got his own back on that swine Godfrey was as good as a bonus.
The hamlet of Tolsham lay on a wide curve of what had once been the main road from London to the West. The Three Horseshoes had once been a coaching inn of some local repute. Quite early in the Age of Petrol it had displayed a notice “Motorists Catered For.” The sign still remained, but few were the motorists who saw it. A magnificent piece of concrete road-engineering had short-circuited the curve, with its ancient avenue of elms, its scattered cottages and the Three Horseshoes, set proudly like a castle among them. Tolsham was by-passed; its peace was disturbed only by the distant roar of the traffic on the new road, half a mile distant.
The gate leading to Starvesparrow Farm stood roughly in the centre of the curve. By the roadside, just outside it, was the wooden stand upon which Mr. Hollybud was wont to place his churns. The farm-house was invisible from the gate, being hidden by a fold of the ground. A rough track, intersecting the meadows, connected the two.
The routine of the farm, as far as the supply of milk was concerned, was this: early in the morning, all hands set to work to milk. The result of their labours filled three churns, which was the extent of Mr. Hollybud's contract. But nearly always there were several gallons left over. This was dealt with according to circumstances and the time of year. It was set aside for cheese-making, fed to the pigs, or put in a fourth churn to be sent to the factory as ” surplus milk,” for which a very low price was allowed.
When filled, the churns were loaded on the farm cart and taken to the stand, to await their collection by the lorry belonging to the Park Lane Dairy, which was due at eight o'clock. If it happened to be near that time, the cart waited at the gate and took back to the farm the empty churns unloaded by the lorry on its arrival. If, however, the milking had been finished early, the cart went back empty and returned for the empty churns later in the morning.
The evening routine was similar, the lorry being timed to arrive at six o'clock. In the morning it was almost invariably Walt who drove the cart. In the evening Mr. Hollybud himself performed this duty. He timed himself to arrive at the gate about the time the lorry was expected. He then had a word with Bert Mayfield, the driver, and took back the empty churns, ready for the morning's milking.
One exception entered into this routine. Wednesday was market-day in Yonderhill. Every Wednesday, whether he had any particular business there or not, Mr. Hollybud drove his rather aged but still serviceable car the eight miles in to market, starting about half-past eleven in the morning. He washed down the Farmers' Ordinary at the Yellow Dragon with a considerable quantity of liquor and spent the afternoon in the smoking-room imbibing with his friends. It was usually six or seven o'clock before he could tear himself away and drive home, the car leaving a tortuous track upon the road. Upon arrival, he had supper and went to bed.
On these days, the afternoon milking was done early. The full churns usually reached the stand soon after five o'clock, long before the arrival of the lorry. Walt, who drove the cart, did not wait for the empties. They were not, in fact, collected that night. Walt fetched them next morning, first thing, as soon as he came to work.
The routine of Starvesparrow Farm would have been of no possible interest to anybody but its occupants, had it not been for the events of March the fourteenth and fifteenth. These led to a discovery which caused a sensation throughout the country and, incidentally, set the police a problem which at one time it seemed they would never solve.
So far as they appeared, the events which led to the discovery were these: March the fourteenth was a Wednesday, and therefore market day at Yonderhill. It had been freezing lightly for some days, occasionally threatening snow, but so far no more than a few scattered flakes had fallen. Mr. Hollybud left the farm shortly before midday, warning his household that he might be later than usual coming home, since he wished to arrange for the disposal of two calves.
During the afternoon the sky began to look very threatening. Mrs. Hollybud, left in charge of affairs during her husband's absence, made an early start with the evening milking. The usual three churns were filled and the remainder set aside for the pigs, of which there were at that time a number in process of being fattened. The horse was put in the cart, the churns loaded upon it, and it was driven to the stand by Walt. Mrs. Hollybud happened to notice that it was a few minutes before five by the kitchen clock when he went off. She heard him come back with the cart a few minutes after the hour.
Bert Mayfield, the driver of the lorry, was delayed a few minutes that evening by having to wait for the milk at one of the farms from which he collected. It was ten minutes past six by the time he reached the gate of Starvesparrow Farm. A few flakes of snow had begun to fall, and he was in a hurry to finish his round before the fall became serious. He found four churns on the stand. Three of these were full, and he rolled them on to the lorry. The fourth, when he came to lay hands upon it, was so light as to be apparently empty.
He shook it, and satisfied himself that it was so. It was no part of his duties to collect empty churns. He supposed it was one of four empties which he had left there that morning. For some reason, the people at the farm had not removed it. Having loaded three full churns, he put three empties on the stand in their place and drove off. Mr. Hollybud did not return from Yonderhill until half-past seven. By that time, although no considerable amount of snow had yet fallen, it was pitch dark. He did not notice how many churns were on the stand. To be quite candid, he was not by any means in an observant condition. He had some difficulty in opening the gate, and even more in driving the car through it. As he was bound to confess later, he was fairly well sozzled. Soon after midnight the snow began to fall slowly but persistently, and continued at intervals until the morning, by which time the country was covered to the depth of a couple of inches.
Just before half-past six on the morning of the fifteenth, Walt got out the cart and drove to the gate to fetch the empty churns left by Bert Mayfield on the previous evening. By that time the sky had cleared and it was a fine, bright morning, though still freezing. On reaching the stand, Walt found four churns there. Three of these were empty, and he swung them on to the cart. But, to his astonishment, the fourth resisted his easy efforts. On putting his back into the job, he found it so heavy that he knew it must be full.
He scratched his head over this fourth churn. Quite obviously it had no business there. But even his not very acute intelligence soon solved the problem. Bert had had no room for it on his lorry the previous evening, and would pick it up with the others when he came round at eight o'clock. That had been known to happen before. With the weather as cold as it was, the milk would come to no harm through waiting overnight. Walt drove back to the farm with his three empties, thinking no more about the full one which he had left on the stand.
The morning milking was now in full swing, and he turned to and helped. There proved to be considerably more milk than would fill the three churns. Mr. Hollybud frowned over the remainder. Cheese-making had not yet begun. There was already more milk in the pig-pails than these creatures would consume during the day. “Best send it in as surplus,” growled Mr. Hollybud, whose temper was none the better after his potations of the previous day. “'Tis little enough it'll fetch, but little's better than nothing. Slip round to the dairy, you, Walt, and bring up that empty churn. We'll tip this lot into it, and send it along.”
Walt fetched the empty churn, which was the fourth left by the lorry on the stand the previous morning. The surplus milk was then poured into it, and filled it to two-thirds of its capacity. Mr. Hollybud then lent Walt a hand to lift the four churns into the cart. The latter then drove them to the stand, and rolled them upon it. It was now twenty minutes to eight, and, since the lorry had not yet called, the full churn seen by Walt earlier in the morning was still there. Walt decided that it was too cold to hang about waiting for the lorry. He could come and fetch the empties later. Besides, he wanted his breakfast. So he drove back to the farm.
Bert Mayfield with the lorry reached the stand at five minutes past eight. He was surprised to see five churns upon it. Four he had expected, since Mr. Hollybud usually sent up four in the morning. The fifth must be the empty one he had seen on the previous evening. That half-witted chap Walt had been too lazy to take it away, he supposed.
He tilted the churns one by one to roll them on to the lorry. The first, he could tell was full. So was the second. The third was not quite so heavy. Considerably more than half-full, though, he guessed. The fourth was certainly full. The last one must be the empty one, then. He tilted it, and discovered to his astonishment that it too, was full. On to the lorry with it, then. But he only had four empties to leave in return.
Bert completed his round, and, with his lorry full) loaded, made his way back to the Park Lane Dairy Here he backed the lorry against the unloading stage and the gang set to work to remove the churns. The foreman, book in hand, stood by to check them “Here, Bert!” he exclaimed. “Here's one without' a ticket. Where did you pick that up?”
The lorry driver thought for a moment. It struck him that he had not seen a label on the fifth chun which he had collected from Starvesparrow Farm “That's an extra one I picked up at Mr. Hollybud's place,” he replied.
“An extra one?” demanded the foreman. “What do you mean, an extra one?”He looked more closely at the churn. “Why, bless my soul, where are your eyes this morning?” he continued. “This isn't one of our churns. It belongs to Godfrey and Sprot of Chanterford. Can't you see their name stamped on it?”
“I'm not paid to read the names stamped on churns,” replied Bert sulkily. “My job is to pick 'em up and fetch 'em here. Think I've got nothing else to do but read when I'm on my round?”
The foreman was not disposed to quarrel. He was far too interested in the churn before him. It looked very much as though Mr. Hollybud was selling milk to Godfrey and Sprot, contrary to the terms of his contract with the Park Lane Dairy. “What game's that bloke Hollybud up to?” he muttered. “We'll have a look into this.”
He undid the fastening, and threw open the lid of the churn. After a glance at its contents, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You're a bright one, Bert!” he exclaimed. “Look what you've gone and done! You've picked up Farmer Hollybud's pig-wash. Lord, if that isn't the best thing I've heard this many a long day!”
Bert stepped forward and peered into the churn. It appeared to be full of a curious liquid. He sniffed at it tentatively, and screwed up his face. “Pigwash!” he retorted. “I never knew pig-wash to stink like that. Reminds me of a hospital, that it does.”
He looked at the churn irresolutely for a moment or two, then dipped his hand into the liquid. His fingers touched something solid, submerged beneath the surface. He clutched it, with a queer sensation of repugnance, and drew it out.
It was a human arm.
THAT same afternoon Inspector Arnold of the Criminal Investigation Department arrived at Yonderhill. The Chief Constable of Wessex had immediately decided that the aid of Scotland Yard should be called in. He met Arnold upon his arrival, and drove him to the police station, where Inspector Bradlaw, of the Wessex Constabulary, stationed at Yonderhill, was awaiting them.
“I'll give you an outline of this affair, Mr. Arnold,” said the Chief Constable. “Then I'll leave you and Bradlaw to talk it over. There is a concern in this town known as the Park Lane Dairy Company. Their business is to collect milk from the farms round about, and, after cooling it, and so forth, to send it up to London in tank-wagons.
“This morning, about eleven o'clock, one of their lorries, regularly employed in collecting milk, arrived with a load. Some discussion arose between the foreman and the lorry-driver over one of the churns which the latter had brought. It was opened, and found to contain not milk, but a very strange looking liquid. The lorry-driver pushed his hand into it, and fished out a human arm. I'm told that he dropped it again pretty quickly.”
“I don't blame him, sir.” replied Arnold.
“Nor do I. Nasty thing to find in what the foreman thought was pig-wash. After that experience, nobody about the place seemed disposed to explore any further. They informed the manager, Mr. Bainbridge, of what had happened, and he telephoned here. Bradlaw went down, had a look at the churn, and fetched it up here.
“He turned it out into a tub, and found that it contained quite a lot of wholly unexpected things. In the first place, there was the dismembered body of a man, complete but for the head, which is missing. The other things are being dried. You can look at them presently. They consist of an old leather wallet, falling to pieces from being soaked in the liquid, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, with the lenses missing, a railway and omnibus guide for the city of Exeter, the key of a room in an hotel, and an ivory-handled carving-knife. These last two objects were wrapped up in a flannel vest, which is badly stained, apparently with blood, and has a gash in it behind.”
“That sounds an interesting collection, sir,” said Arnold.
“I'm hoping you'll find it so,” replied the Chief Constable dryly. “The police surgeon here has examined the body. He says it is that of a man of about thirty, probably about five feet eight, small-boned, but inclined to stoutness. Dark rather than fair. He can't say how long he has been dead, owing to the nature of the liquid in which the body was put. This, he thinks, consists of milk and water, with the addition of a quantity of formalin, which, as you may know, is a preservative. The formalin, he says, would arrest decomposition for an indefinite period. The liquid is tinged pink, apparently with blood.
“The cause of death is apparent. There is an incised wound in the back, over the region of the heart. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man was stabbed from behind, possibly with the carving-knife found in the churn.
“That's about all I can usefully tell you, except that, so far as we can discover, nobody answering to the description of the body is missing from the neighbourhood. The rest is up to you, Mr. Arnold. I need hardly say that we are entirely at your disposal. Bradlaw, I'm sure, will help you in every possible way. The best thing I can do now is to leave the two of you to talk it over quietly.”
The Chief Constable made his exit. Bradlaw, a youngish man with a pair of keen grey eyes, seemed a trifle nervous at finding himself alone with the man from Scotland Yard. “I hope, Mr. Arnold, that you will approve of the steps I have already taken,” he began formally.
But Arnold interrupted him. “Look here, Bradlaw, let's get down to brass tacks from the very beginning,” he said. “We fellows from the Yard are not a set of little tin gods. We're only poor devils who try to do our best in a hard world. We happen to have a lot of very useful machinery behind us, that's all. So don't let there be any formality between us. Let's talk it over as man to man.”
Bradlaw seemed greatly relieved. “It's good to hear you talk like that,” he said. “The first thing I did, after I had got the churn brought up here, was to trace it back as far as I could. There is very little doubt that the Park Lane Dairy lorry picked it up at Starvesparrow Farm, eight miles from here. I went over there, and this is what I was told.”
He gave Arnold an account of his interviews with Mr. Hollybud and Walt, which established the facts as set out in the last chapter.
“Now, I'm inclined to accept their statements as correct,” he continued. “Of course, you'll like to see these people for yourself, and you'll form your own opinion. There's one thing I would like to point out, about the churns being full or empty. You'll observe that none of them were opened. But these fellows, who are used to handling churns everyday, can tell whether they are full of empty almost the moment they touch them.
“If you'll allow that, and the correctness of the statements, this seems to be the position. I've jotted it down on a bit of paper, it seems to make things clearer.”
He handed Arnold a sheet of paper, on which were the following notes.
March 14th. About 8 a.m. Bert Mayfield collected four churns from the stand outside the gate of Starvesparrow Farm. On arrival at Park Lane Dairy, three of these churns were found to be full of milk, and one half-full. Mayfield left four empty churns on the stand.
March 14th. About 10.30 a.m. Mr. Hollybud took the cart to the stand, and fetched back the four empty churns. These he put in his own dairy.
March 14th. About 5 p.m. Walt Jeffers took three full churns in the cart, and placed them on the stand. Walt is perfectly certain that at that time there was no other churn on the stand, full or empty.
March 14th. 6.10 p.m. Mayfield calls in the lorry to collect the churns. He finds on the stand three full and one empty. He loads the full ones on to the lorry, and leaves the empty one. Being in a hurry, he does not examine it closely. He cannot say whether it belonged to the Park Lane Dairy or not. He unloads three empty churns from the lorry on to the stand. Thus, on his departure, the stand held four empty churns.
March 15th. About 6.30 a.m. Jeffers goes to the stand with the cart to fetch the empty churns left overnight. He finds three empty, and one full. He takes the empties and leaves the full one where it is. He does not examine the full churn, thinking it no business of his. He takes the empties back to the farm.
March 15th. About 7.40 a.m. Jeffers returns to the stand, and puts four churns upon it, three full, one two-thirds full. The full churn which he had seen previously is still there. Thus, on his departure, there are five churns on the stand.
March 15th. About 8.5 a.m. Mayfield finds these five churns and loads them on the lorry. He leaves four empties in their place. He completes his round, and delivers his load at Park Lane Dairy.
March 15th. About 10 a.m. The fifth churn, discovered to be the property of Godfrey and Sprot, arouses suspicion. It is opened, and its contents are revealed.
March 15th. About 11 a.m. Mr. Hollybud takes the cart to the stand to fetch the empty churns. He finds four, the normal number, and takes them back to the farm.”
Arnold studied this paper, and nodded approvingly. “That's a very clear statement,” he said. “The first thing it shows is this. Yesterday, between 5 and 6.10 p.m., an empty churn appears on the stand. Are there any suggestions as to how it can have got there?”
“Not so far,” replied Bradlaw. “I've questioned everybody at Starvesparrow Farm, and they all swear that they know nothing about it. The only thing I can think of is this. The lorry belonging to Godfrey and Sprot collects in that district. It is just possible that the driver left one of his churns on the stand for some reason. It might be worth while to ask him. I'm supposing that was the churn in which the body was found this morning.”
“Right. We'll start our investigations in that direction. If that was our churn, then the body was placed in it between 6.10 p.m. yesterday and 6.30 a.m. this morning. If it was not, then it must have been removed during that period, and the one with the body in it substituted for it. So far so good. Now, what about having a look at the exhibits? I'm not interested in the body. That's a job for a pathologist. I'll put a call through to the Yard, and arrange for one to come down.”
Having sent his message, Arnold, under the conduct of Bradlaw, adjourned to the room in which the objects found in the churn had been laid out to dry. The dismembered body was covered with a sheet, and this they left undisturbed. On a mat in front of the fire lay the other things mentioned by the Chief Constable.
The first of these was a leather wallet, measuring about six inches by four. It was very much worn, and the stitches of the pockets had given way in many places. It contained nothing but half a sheet of notepaper, folded in four and torn at the creases. It was covered with writing, but the ink had run and the words were completely indecipherable. Only, right across the writing, the words GEORGE STREET, OBAN, had been printed in bold letters with an indelible pencil. Thanks to this, they were still clearly visible. On the outside of the wallet, some initials had been stamped in the leather at one corner. Arnold was enabled to decipher these as A.L.S.
The next thing was the frame of a pair of spectacles with horn rims and sides. This, at first glance, did not seem very promising. But Arnold, examining them closely, saw that something had been scratched on one of the horn sides, apparently with the point of a pin. Taking the frame to the light, he made out that they were initials, roughly scrawled. And these initials were once more A.L.S.
He pointed this out to Bradlaw. “That's worth noting,” he said. “Who is A.L.S., I wonder? The dead man, perhaps? We may find a clue there. What's this, a time-table?”
It was, or rather had been. Immersion in the liquid of the churn had turned it nearly to a mass of stained pulp. As it had dried, many of the leaves had stuck together, and it was impossible to separate them. The title printed on the cover was, however, still readable. “Cobley's Railway and Bus Guide to Exeter and the West of England.” Arnold, turning over the pages, found that one section of the guide was devoted to train services to and from Exeter on the A.B.C. system. One entry referred to Glasgow. A cross in indelible pencil had been made against the train leaving Exeter for that city at 2.40 p.m. Was this a possible link between the railway guide and the fragments of paper in the wallet? The natural route from Exeter and Oban would be via Glasgow.
The key next came under Arnold's notice. It was an ordinary hotel bedroom key, with a circular brass disc attached to it. On this was embossed in raised letters, “Please leave this key at the office.” On the reverse side a number had been stamped, 253. There was nothing to indicate the name of the hotel, or its locality.
The carving-knife had a blade of stainless steel, twelve inches long and tapering to a point. By its appearance, it had recently been sharpened with a carborundum stone. The marks of the stone were confined to the point, and were not visible along the edge of the blade. This seemed to suggest that whoever had sharpened it had intended it for use as a thrusting, rather than a cutting tool. Rather unusual, in the case of a carving-knife, Arnold thought.
Finally, the flannel vest. This was a heavy, oppressive-looking garment. It was well worn, and a gash in the back about an inch long. Arnold compared it with the width of the blade of the carving-knife, and the two corresponded. Round the neck of the vest was a narrow linen band, and on this was clearly visible, printed with marking ink in block letters, the initials, A.L.S.
A curious assortment of objects, Arnold thought, but with a distinct if slender thread uniting them. The wallet, the spectacles, and the flannel vest had all belonged to the same person, apparently, the unknown A.L.S. The wallet contained the piece of paper with the words “George Street, Oban” written upon it in indelible pencil. The time-table was marked, also with indelible pencil, at an entry referring to a train from Exeter to Glasgow, the most likely route to Oban. It was of recent date. January of the same year. No doubt it had been bought in Exeter, and probably by A.L.S. Was the key that of the room in which he had stayed in Exeter? Arnold already began to foresee the line which his inquiries should follow.
But there was more to be learnt on the spot before those inquiries could begin. “I think I should like to see the churn itself,” he said. This was standing in the yard, and Bradlaw took him out to see it. There was nothing remarkable about it, it was just an ordinary churn with the words “Godfrey and Sprot, Chanterford,” stamped upon the metal. It was neither very new nor very old, and seemed in good condition.
“You couldn't tell it from one of the Park Lane Dairy's churns,” said Bradlaw. “Both firms buy them from the same makers, and they are of standard pattern. The only difference is in the name stamped upon them when they are made. That accounts for neither Mayfield nor Jeffers noticing anything unusual about this one.”
“I think we ought to begin by trying to trace it,” Arnold replied. “How far is Chanterford from here?”
“Twelve miles. Say half an hour's run in a car. It's nearly a quarter to six now. If we start off at once, we should catch Godfrey and Sprot's lorry-driver when he comes back from his evening round. And we could go through Tolsham. That would give you some idea of the lie of the land.”
Arnold thought this an excellent idea, and they started off in the police car, Bradlaw driving. He followed the main road westwards, but on approaching Tolsham he took the old road through the village, thus passing the gate leading to Starvesparrow Farm. On the stand stood three churns, but they did not stop to see whether they were full or empty. Four miles farther on they reached the large village of Chanterford, and pulled up beyond it at the premises of Godfrey and Sprot.
These were on a humbler scale than those of the Park Lane Dairy at Yonderhill. Incidentally the business transacted was not so extensive. But there was an air of considerable bustle about the place, in expectation of the lorry which had not yet returned from its evening round. Bradlaw saw Mr. Godfrey, whom he knew, and made his way up to him. He introduced Arnold, and asked for a few minutes conversation in private.
Mr. Godfrey raised no objection, and they strolled across to a deserted corner of the buildings. “We're making inquiries about a matter that you'll hear all about soon enough,” said Bradlaw. “You may be able to help us, if you'll be so good. Have you lost a milk churn recently?”
Mr. Godfrey frowned. “We're always losing them,” he replied. “You'd be amazed at the way some of our clients treat them. They aren't their property, so they don't care. They knock them about till they aren't fit to look at. We're always having to replace the blessed things. It's a continual expense.”
“I didn't mean that, exactly,” said Bradlaw. “Do you ever have them stolen?”
“Not often. They've all got our name stamped on them, you know. But it's rather curious that you should ask that question. One disappeared a week or two ago, and the only way I can account for it is that somebody took it from our loading stage outside here. It's never happened before.”
“Would it be possible for any one to take a churn from the stage?”Bradlaw asked.
“Well, I shouldn't have thought so. I'll tell you what we do. Last thing at night, we put out on the stage the number of empty churns that the lorry will want for its morning round. There's a chain fixed to a staple in the wall. This is run through the handles of the outermost churns, and padlocked to another staple in the wall. Since the churns are packed tightly together, it would be impossible for anybody to remove one of them without unfastening the padlock or breaking the chain. Either my foreman or I keep the key overnight.
“One morning, it was a fortnight ago on Monday, the foreman came to me for the key, as I had locked up the churns the previous evening. He said afterwards that the churns did not seem to be packed as tightly as usual. The number of churns to go out that morning was fifty-eight. The foreman and the driver set to work to load them on the lorry, and found there were only fifty-seven.
“Now the trouble is that nobody could swear to fifty-eight churns having been put out on Sunday evening. The foreman says he is almost certain he put out the right number. I counted them later, rather hurriedly, and made the number fifty-eight. But it is quite easy to make a miscount. The chain had not been broken, and the padlock was in perfect order. If any one took a churn that night they must have had a key. And it certainly wasn't my key, for that never left my possession from the time I locked the churns on Sunday evening until Monday morning, when the foreman came for it.”
“Is there another key to the padlock in existence?”
“Yes, my partner, Mr. Sprot, has one. He keeps it locked up in the desk in the office. I thought of that, but the key was in its proper place when we looked for it, and the office certainly hadn't been broken into. Of course, given a key that would open the lock, it would be quite easy for anybody to take a churn. As you probably noticed, the stage is right on the road, and there is nobody here after ten o'clock at night, in winter.”
“Have you lost any other churns lately, Mr. Godfrey?”Arnold asked.
“Well, we're short of one, but I can't say we've lost it, because I've a pretty shrewd idea where it is. We had at one time a client, a very difficult man to deal with. In fact, I might say a man with a most ungovernable temper. I dare say you know him, Mr. Bradlaw? Hollybud of Starvesparrow Farm, Tolsham.”
“I know him,” replied Bradlaw imperturbably.
“Well, Hollybud broke away from us at the beginning of the year, and signed a contract with the Park Lane people. I wish him joy of it, I'm sure. At the time, he had one of our churns in his possession. I wrote to him repeatedly, asking him to put the churn on his stand, and let us know when he had done so, in order that we could instruct our lorry to collect it. We had no reply from him, but my partner, Mr. Sprot, happened to meet him at Yonderhill market, and asked him about it. He said that he had put the churn out long ago, and that our lorry must have picked it up, for it had gone.”
“When was this conversation between Hollybud and Mr. Sprot?”Arnold asked.
“Let me see. Two or three weeks ago. Yes, it was the week before that other churn disappeared. I can give you the dates if you want them.”
He took a diary from his pocket and continued, “A fortnight ago last Monday was February the twenty-sixth. That's when we missed the churn from the stage. The market day before that was the twenty-first, and that's when Sprot saw Hollybud. I don't believe that Hollybud ever put it out at all. He certainly never advised us that he had done so. I haven't a doubt that he is keeping it for his own use.”
“Does your lorry go past Hollybud's stand on its regular round?” asked Bradlaw.
“Not now. It uses the new road. That's why I asked Hollybud to let us know when he put our churn up. I should have told the driver to go through Tolsham and pick it up.”
A sudden ferocious din announced the arrival of the lorry from its evening round. Bradlaw and Arnold drew the driver aside and questioned him. Since the termination of Mr. Hollybud's contract with his firm he had not collected a churn from his stand, nor had he deposited one. In fact, since his final visit to Starvesparrow Farm at the beginning of the year, he had not driven along the old road through the village at all.
This seemed to be all the information they could gather for the moment. Arnold and Bradlaw drove back to Yonderhill, the former negativing a suggestion that they should call at Starvesparrow Farm on the way. “You'd better tackle the fellow himself to-morrow,” he said. “You know him, and you'll get more out of him than you would if I was with you. What about getting something to eat, and having a nice chat about milk churns and their habits?”
Arnold, upon Bradlaw's advice, installed himself at the Yellow Dragon. That night, when Bradlaw had left him, he wrote a letter. It was addressed to Desmond Merrion, an old friend of his whose restless spirit could not rest content with a charming wife and an adequate income. He had served in the counter-espionage service during the war, and had acquired a passion for detection which nothing could slake.
The inspector's letter was as follows:
DEAR MERRION, I assume that you are at home, since I have not heard from you for some time. Not since that affair which began in Devereux Court, you remember. If you are at home, and have nothing better to do, why not come and spend a few days with me? I am staying at the Yellow Dragon at Yonderhill.
Quite a good pub, and very pretty country. I'm sure you would enjoy it. As an added attraction, I may as well tell you that the queerest things happen to milk churns in these parts.
Send me a wire if you're coming, and I'll book a room for you. I shouldn't wonder if the pub filled up unexpectedly in a day or two.
Arnold smiled as he stuck down the envelope and addressed it. “That'll fetch him,” he muttered. “Especially if he keeps his eye on the newspapers.”
THE investigation proper began next day. Bradlaw set out in the morning to interview Mr. Hollybud. After a tactful conversational approach, he reached the subject of the missing churn. “For some time after you terminated your contract with Godfrey and Sprot, you had one of their churns, hadn't you, Mr. Hollybud?” he asked casually.
The farmer's face darkened. “That blasted Godfrey's put you on to that,” he replied violently. “I told Sprot that if I heard any more of it, I'd have the law on him. D'you think I've stolen one of their rotten churns? Is that it, eh?”
“I don't think anything of the kind, Mr. Hollybud,” said Bradlaw soothingly. “I only want to know what happened to it, that's all.”
“That's soon told. I had one of their churns in the dairy here, and it got overlooked somehow when I sent the rest back. And then Godfrey began to write about it, telling me to put it on the stand and let him know when I had done so. Yes, that was all very well. But who was going to pay for the stamp? He didn't send one, and I wasn't going to spend money—no, not so much as a penny. Why should I, after the way he'd spoken to me in my own kitchen?”
Bradlaw uttered a vague sound, which might have been interpreted as an expression of sympathy. He was inwardly marvelling at the frame of mind of anybody who would grudge the cost of a penny post-card to save an infinity of trouble.
“Well, after a bit I found that churn was cluttering up the dairy,” Hollybud continued. “So I says to Walt one morning, ' Walt,' I says, ' load up that churn on the putt when you take the others down to the stand. And if Godfrey and Sprot want it their chap can pick it up. I don't want it lumbering about here any longer! ' So Walt took it out and put it on the stand, and there it stayed for a day or two. But they must have picked it up after that, for I never saw anything more of it. And that's what I told Sprot. And if you think it's still here, you can look about for it and welcome.”
Bradlaw disregarded the invitation. “I'll take your word for it that it isn't here,” he replied. “Can you tell me when it was put out on the stand?”
“Not within a week or two. Somewhere about the beginning of last month, it must have been. I never thought no more about it till Sprot spoke to me.”
Bradlaw returned to Yonderhill, to find that Arnold had gone by train to Exeter, and that the pathologist from London had arrived and was busy with the body. The inspector in charge of a country district is usually a busy man, and Bradlaw was no exception to the rule. The affair of the milk-churn had already taken up an undue proportion of his time. He shut himself in his office, and devoted his attention to the arrears which had accumulated.
Arnold had been to Exeter before, and knew his way about the city fairly well. He made a list of all the hotels likely to have keys with brass discs attached to them. These he visited in turn. Only three had rooms numbered 253, and in none of them was this particular key missing, nor had it been replaced within the memory of anybody about the place. This was discouraging. Examination of at least a dozen visitors' books was even more so. Nobody with the initials A.L.S. appeared to have stayed in Exeter for the past year or more.
“Cobley's Railway and Bus Guide to Exeter and the West of England “ he found to be a very popular publication. It was sold at every stationers and newsagents, and was to be found in all the hotels that Arnold visited. He saw at once that it would be impossible to trace the particular copy found in the churn, especially since it was so badly damaged as to be unrecognisable.
At Queen Street Station, while waiting for a train back to Yonderhill, he interviewed the stationmaster on the subject of the 2.40 p.m. train from Exeter to Glasgow.
“There's a through coach on that train, all the way,” he was told. “It is detached at Westbury, and then goes via Swindon and Oxford to Banbury. There the London and North Eastern take it over, and it goes by Rugby, Sheffield and York to Edinburgh, and so on to Glasgow. I can show you the route on the map, if you are interested.”
Arnold followed the stationmaster's pencil. He saw that, after leaving Taunton the train passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill on the way to Westbury. That seemed to him a point worth noting. “Does the train stop between Exeter and Westbury?” he asked.
“Only at Taunton,” the stationmaster replied. “It is due at Westbury at five-two. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“No, that's all, thanks. My train will be going in a minute or two. I'm much obliged to you.”
Arnold returned to Yonderhill in a very thoughtful mood. His first attempt to trace A.L.S. had failed. On the other hand, there was the curious fact that the train marked in the railway guide actually passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill, and, therefore, presumably, within a reasonable distance of Starvesparrow Farm. Was there any significance in this, and, if so, what was it?
He found that the pathologist had completed his task, and was awaiting him. “I can't tell you very much about the man's identity beyond what you have already heard from the police surgeon,” he said. “I have examined the body very carefully, and I can find no marks or deformities which would help towards identification.
“In my opinion, the deceased was a man of about thirty, in good health though showing signs of leading a somewhat sedentary occupation. He certainly did not earn his living with his muscles, which were distinctly flabby. His hands are smooth and well cared for. I should say that he was accustomed to a fairly luxurious standard of living.”
“There is no doubt that he was killed by being stabbed in the back, I suppose?”Arnold asked.
The pathologist smiled. “I am afraid that there is room for doubt,” he replied. “There is certainly a deep wound in the back, which penetrates the heart to some distance. Such a wound would of course be fatal if delivered during life. But certain appearances of the wound make me somewhat doubtful if it was so delivered. I should not like to have to give a definite opinion on that point. This I can say, without fear of contradiction. If the wound was not delivered while the deceased was alive, it must have been dealt very shortly after his death. The body is almost completely drained of blood, and this could only have been effected by bleeding immediately after death.
“Once the heart had stopped beating, the wound in the back would not be sufficient to cause such extensive bleeding. I am therefore inclined to think that the body was dismembered immediately. This was done effectively, but without any attempt at scientific jointing. The limbs are cleanly severed, and not hacked about in any way. It seems to me to have been effected by a sharp axe, wielded by a powerful man with a sure eye.”
“Can you give me any idea as to how long the man has been dead?”
“It is almost impossible to do so, owing to the action of the preservative contained in the liquid Speaking very roughly, I should say that the body had been in the liquid for at least a week, am possibly much longer. It was certainly placed in the liquid very soon after death, before decomposition had time to set in. The discolouration of the liquid by blood favours this idea.
“I propose to take back with me to London a sample of the liquid, and certain organs of the body It is important that we should make every effort to determine the cause of death, though, in the absence of the head, this may prove impossible.”
The pathologist returned to London, taking with him certain sealed jars, packed in a large suitcase. The next visitor was Mr. Godfrey, whom Bradlaw had summoned by telephone to the police station On being shown the churn, he gave it as his opinion that it was the one about which he had had the difficulty with Hollybud. “It's one of an old pattern, which we are gradually replacing. I certainly is not the churn we lost more recently. All the churns on the stand that night happened to be of the newer pattern. But you will understand, Inspector, that I cannot possibly swear to one particular churn out of some hundreds.”
The remainder of the day was employed by Arnold in the re-examination of the articles found in the churn. He was not successful in discovering anything fresh, and he began to realise that the problem with which he was confronted was an extremely complex one. A telegram from Merrion on Saturday morning brought him a grain of comfort. “Driving to Yonderhill arriving this evening.” He spent the intervening hours in preparing a voluminous report of the case, and detailed descriptions of the various exhibits. The inquest, which in the nature of things could only be a purely formal affair, he did not think it necessary to attend.
Merrion turned up just in time for dinner. Arnold's hint that the Yellow Dragon was likely to fill up rapidly had proved correct. On the first whisper of the facts, a horde of reporters had descended upon Yonderhill. A battery of alert ears were trained upon the table at which sat Arnold and Merrion. They discussed the prospects of the finalists in the Association Cup, a subject upon which they shared a common ignorance.
Not until after dinner, when they had sought the seclusion of Arnold's room, was the cause of Merrion's visit touched upon. And then it was Merrion who broached the subject. “Nice country, jolly pub, and all that,” he said. “Just the place to spend a few days quiet holiday. Lucky the full glare of publicity doesn't make you feel shy, though. Well, I've seen the papers, of course. ' Mutilated Body found in Milk-Churn.' And I've read all that you've allowed to leak out. Anything more to tell me?”
“Quite a lot, but nothing very helpful,” Arnold replied. “Ring the bell, and let's send for something to drink. It's going to be a long yarn and a thirsty one.” '
They supplied themselves with liquid refreshment, and Arnold began his story. Merrion listened carefully, putting in an occasional question here and there. His grasp of the essential facts was rapid, as the inspector knew from past experience. The end came, and Arnold studied his friend's expression anxiously.
“Jolly interesting little affair,” Merrion remarked.” Its chief fascination to me is the complete lack of anything to go upon. For instance, you don't even know yet that anybody has been murdered.”
“There's not much doubt of that,” Arnold replied. “If you want to be convinced on the subject, I'll take you to view the remains to-morrow. They aren't a very pleasant sight, I warn you.”
Merrion brushed the suggestion aside with a wave of his hand. “I don't question the remains, nor what your friend the pathologist said about them. You've just told me that he wouldn't commit himself as to the cause of death. Until you know more upon that score, you can't say definitely that the man was murdered. He may have died as the result of an accident, for all you can tell. However, we'll assume murder, if you like. Whether it was murder, accident, or suicide, does not affect your preliminary investigations. You want to find out who he was, and why he was dissected and put in the churn.”
“The most reasonable explanation is that the man was murdered,” Arnold replied. “We'll say by being stabbed in the back. The murderer was then faced with the old problem, the disposal of the body. He hit upon the idea of cutting it up, and putting it in the churn.”
“No doubt,” Merrion agreed. “And he then filled the churn with milk and water, so that it would have the correct weight of a full churn. But hismethod suggests to me several questions. Let's see if we can answer them between us. To begin with, why did he add the preservative, formalin, or whatever it was, to the liquid?”
“Why, to prevent the body from decomposing, of course!”Arnold exclaimed.
“Yes, but that wasn't his sole aim. The sooner the body decomposed, the sooner it would cease to be recognisable, a factor in his favour. His real reason for wishing to arrest decomposition was to make it impossible for anybody to say when the man died. If you knew that within a day or two, your task would be a lot easier. As it is, you haven't even got that piece of knowledge to work upon. Next why did he select a milk-churn for his purpose?”
“Because it was a receptacle of convenient size, and he knew how to get hold of one.”
“Yes, and for another reason as well. In these parts a milk churn is a familiar object of the countryside. It could be transported from place to place, or deposited by the roadside, without attracting any attention. Finally, when it was convenient for the body to be discovered, it could be placed on a milk stand and left to the natural course of events. Next, why wasn't the head put in the churn?”
“That's easy!”Arnold exclaimed. “To prevent, or delay, identification of the body.”
“I'm not so sure about that,” Merrion replied. “The weapon with which the body was dismembered could have been used to make the features unrecognisable. I'm inclined to think that the head must have been a bit of a nuisance to the murderer. Of course, a head by itself is not a very difficult thing to dispose of. Still, there is always the danger of somebody running up against it. I think he would have got rid of the head in the same way as he got rid of the body, but he knew that if it were to be found it would furnish an additional clue.”
“Just what I say. A clue towards identification.”
“No, I don't mean that. A clue towards the cause of death, perhaps. It seems to me that the murderer is a pretty cunning bloke, who is fond of red herrings. Your pathologist won't say for certain that the man was killed by being stabbed in the back. The probabilities are that he was. But supposing he wasn't? Suppose, for instance, that he was shot through the head?
“You see the idea? The homicidal gentleman shoots his friend, when they are out together after rabbits, let us say. Now, if your experts have a chance of looking at the head, they can tell you quite a lot. ' Ah! ' they say. ' A twelve-bore at short range. Look at the powder-blackening, and the singeing and all the rest of it.' You then go sleuthing round for a man who owns a gun and knows how to use it.
“But suppose, having shot his pal, he immediately stabs him, and conceals the tell-tale head. Off you go in a totally different direction. You concentrate on looking for a man with a knife, instead of a man with a gun. And, talking of knives, why do you suppose that carving-knife was put in the churn?”
“As a convenient means of disposing of it, together with the body,” Arnold replied.
“Perhaps. But just look here a moment. The means of disposal of the body ensured that the police would find it, sooner or later. The churn was bound to be opened, and then you would naturally be called in. You agree to that?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so.”
“The murderer must have known that perfectly well. Doesn't it seem to you a bit odd that he deliberately made you a present of the weapon with which the crime was committed? Why didn't he go the whole hog, and chuck in the hatchet with which the body was dismembered? There are a thousand other ways in which he might have disposed of the knife. And yet he takes great care that you shall find it. Why? Because he's trying to mislead you. And what about the other things you found in the churn?”
“They were the things the victim had about him when he was killed, I take it.”
Merrion roared with laughter at this. “No, that won't do!” he exclaimed. “That means that you must imagine the victim clad only in a flannel vest and a pair of spectacles with no lenses in them. A curious get-up, you'll admit. Yet, in this scarcely-clad state, he manages to secrete about his person a wallet, a large key with a brass label attached to it, and an Exeter time-table.”
“I don't see that at all,” Arnold replied. “Why shouldn't he have had the rest of his clothes on, and the wallet and other things in his pocket?”
“Where then, are the rest of his clothes? A child's question, you'll say. The murderer destroyed them. Right! Of course he did. Burnt them, probably. But why didn't he burn the wallet, the spectacles, the vest and the time-table with them? I except the key, as not being readily inflammable. They could all have been destroyed as easily as the clothes. Why did he make you a gratuitous present of them?”
This defeated Arnold. “I'm blest if I know,” he said. “I hadn't thought of it that way. Still, he did make me a present of them, and I'm going to use them, you may be sure of that. They are valuable clues, and you can't deny it.”
“I don't deny it. But I'd be careful not to rush to conclusions about them, if I were you. Take the vest, for instance. It's a perfect piece of evidence. The initials on the neck-band, the bloodstains, the highly suggestive gash in the back. It almost proves of itself that somebody with the initials A.L.S. was stabbed to death with that carving-knife. So much so, that it strikes me as being just a bit too obvious. However, perhaps I'm labouring that point a bit too much. You've formed some sort of theory, I suppose?”
“I was hoping that you would help me with that,” Arnold replied. “Your imagination is a bit more lively than mine, as I've often noticed.”
Merrion smiled. “Meaning that you suspect me of some pretty daring guesswork. Well, let's see if we can construct anything between us. We'll start on the basis of an unknown victim, an unknown murderer, and an unknown method of murder. Too many unknown quantities there. Where's our starting point?”
“The churn,” Arnold replied. “We do know something about that. It is the property of Godfrey and Sprot. It is probably the one retained by Hollybud for some time at Starvesparrow Farm. If so, it disappeared early last month.”
“How did it disappear?”
“That we can't say for certain. If we accept Hollybud's statement, he put it out on his stand, without notifying Godfrey and Sprot. It remained on the stand for a day or two, since Godfrey and Sprot's lorry does not now use that particular stretch of road. Then it disappeared. Either some unauthorised person removed it, or Hollybud quietly brought it back to the farm. He could easily have done that without the knowledge of anybody else.”
“Just a moment. Do you suspect Hollybud of being concerned in the affair?”
“I haven't made up my mind about that. So far, I have refrained from making his acquaintance. I'm not quite ready to cross-question him yet. Bradlaw, the local inspector here, tells me that he's got a quick temper, but that in all other respects he's just an ordinary, easy-going sort of chap, with a cheerful habit of drinking a drop too much on market days. There are dozens like him round about. From that description, he doesn't strike me as being a likely murderer. And, if he's the murderer, where did the victim come from? There are no dark men of thirty missing from these parts, I'm assured.”
“Hollybud certainly doesn't seem a likely candidate for the role of murderer,” said Merrion. “I imagine the man you want to be of a totally different type. Let's consider the other alternative, that the churn was removed by some unauthorised person. Incidentally, that suggests that the crime was contemplated as early as the beginning of last month. What became of it after its disappearance?”
“It was presumably taken away and hidden somewhere. It reappears on Hollybud's stand, empty, between 5 and 6.10 p.m. on March 14th. That's another point in Hollybud's favour. Bradlaw has spoken to people who are prepared to swear that during that period he was in the smoking-room of this very pub.”
“Did anybody see it put there?”Merrion suggested. “Might be worth while making inquiries in that direction.”
“I've thought of that. You and I will pay a visit to the Three Horseshoes at Tolsham to-morrow. That will be the place to hear local gossip. The next thing we know about the churn is that it was seen full, by Walt Jeffers, at 6.30 and 7.40 a.m. on the fifteenth.”
“Meaning that the body, the liquid, and the other trifles were put in it during the night?”
“Undoubtedly. That is one thing of which we can be perfectly sure.”
“There's the question of the other churn. Look here. For simplicity's sake let's call the churn retained by Hollybud A, and the one believed to have been stolen from Godfrey and Sprot's place B. The one you have got at the police station is X. That gives us an equation, X == A or B. The most probable solution of the equation is X = A. Then what about B? Has it any connection with the case? And, if so, where is it now?”
“That hardly concerns us for the moment, does it?”Arnold replied.
“I think it does. I don't altogether agree with your idea that the empty churn on Hollybud's stand was filled during the night. What was it filled from? The body had been in the liquid for at least a week, remember. It must then, have been contained in some sort of receptacle. Is it possible that that receptacle was never changed?”
“I don't follow you.”
“Put it this way, then. Both churns, A and B, were available for the murderer's use, we will suppose. On the afternoon of the fourteenth, B was put on the stand empty. I don't quite see why, but that doesn't matter. Meanwhile, the body and the liquid had been for some time in A. During the following night A was substituted for B, and the latter removed. How does that appeal to you?”
“It's a possibility, anyhow. But, unfortunately, it doesn't get us any nearer to when and where the murder was committed. The only clues that can help us to that are the others things found in the churn. And the trouble about them is that they are all fairly common things, and, therefore, extremely difficult to trace.
“The rough idea I propose to work on is this. The initials A.L.S. represent the victim. They are stamped on the wallet, scratched on the spectacles, marked on the vest. That is a pretty valuable clue. We know that A.L.S. was a man of about thirty, dark, five feet eight inches tall, and probably in comfortable circumstances. The key and the timetable suggest that he was staying at a hotel in the West of England, and contemplated a journey to Glasgow. The slip of paper in the wallet hints at the possibility that this journey was to be continued as far as Oban. That's something to go upon. And there's the fact that the train marked in the timetable passes fairly close to Starvesparrow Farm.”
“How close?”Merrion asked.
“I bought the one-inch map of this district this afternoon,” Arnold replied. “Here it is, you can see for yourself.”
Merrion took the map, opened it, and studied it closely. He found that the main line from Taunton to Westbury passed through Chanterford and Yonderhill, running roughly parallel to the road, but a mile or more from it. In the neighbourhood of Tolsham it ran upon an embankment. The distance from Starvesparrow Farm to the nearest point of this embankment was less than half a mile.
“I see,” said Merrion, as he pushed the map aside. “Do you think there is anything in that?”
“I don't know. But it suggests a possible theory. Suppose that A.L.S. was pitched out of the train as it passed along the embankment? Then, if churn A was at Starvesparrow Farm all the time, the rest would be easy. But that, of course, involves Hollybud.”
Merrion yawned. “I'm tired after my drive,” he said. “My brain won't function properly till I've had some sleep. But there's just one thing I should like to suggest. Take the public completely into your confidence about that queer collection of yours. Let those chaps downstairs see them. Have photographs of them taken. See that the papers publish the photographs, with full descriptions. It's just possible that some reader may recognise one or other of the objects. Anyhow, it's worth trying, and it can't do any harm. And now, with your permission, I'm going to bed.”
ARNOLD took Merrion's advice. On the following morning the delighted journalists were escorted to the police station, and shown the objects found in the churn. A series of photographs having been taken, the party returned to the Yellow Dragon to write up their copy.
The inspector left them to it. He and Merrion drove in the latter's car to Tolsham, and pulled up at the Three Horseshoes. Being Sunday morning, it was not yet opening time, and the place was empty. The landlord, a middle-aged man of the name of Frant, appeared, and placed himself at their disposal.
“Trade?” he replied, in reply to Arnold's opening question. “My trade here's barely a barrel a week, since the by-pass was made. I don't get anybody but the chaps in the village, and there are precious few of them, and they haven't much money to spend. When the traffic used to pass my door it was different. You might see a dozen cars and more drawn up outside, especially at holiday times. Now it's only one in a thousand, that knew the house in the old days, that find their way here. The brewers talk of shutting this house up and building a new one on the by-pass, but I don't know if it will ever come off.'
“Then you don't see many strangers?”Arnold suggested.
“It's a rare thing for a stranger to come to Tolsham, these days. You mightn't believe me, but you gentlemen are the first I've had inside the house for a week and more.”
“You didn't happen to hear of any strangers being seen about last Wednesday?”
“Last Wednesday? That would be market-day at Yonderhill. Let me see now. Was that the day that the chaps were speaking about the fellow who had a barrow with rugs for sale on it? Yes, it was.”
“What time was he seen?”
“Round about five o'clock, or maybe half-past. At least, I think that's what they said. I didn't see him myself, but I heard them talking about it.” The landlord turned round and looked out of the window. “There's one of them outside now,” he said. “Waiting for twelve o'clock to strike. Maybe if you was to ask him in, he could tell you more than I can. You being in the police, there wouldn't be no harm in it. Joe Balch, his name is. Works for Farmer Brown, at the far end of the parish. Young Joe, they call him.”
Arnold went out, and returned followed by Young Joe. “It's a few minutes early, landlord,” he said. “But you might serve drinks round. I'll make it all right, if anybody says anything. Now then, Joe, I want to talk to you. Do you remember last Wednesday?”
Joe grinned. “Aye, I remember it, well enough. Farmer Brown went to Yonderhill market along of Farmer Hollybud in his car. And pretty well lit up he was by the time he got home. He'd been making a day of it, from what I could see.”
“What were you doing between five and six in the afternoon?”
“Fetching a load of hay from the far meadow, where the stack is, to the farm.”
“That would bring him right through the village,” Mr. Frant explained.
“Did you meet any strangers while you were doing this?”
“I did so. It was just as I was leaving the meadow with my load. Half-past five, say, or maybe a few minutes later. That's not far from where the new road breaks off, on the Yonderhill side of the village.”
“Can you describe this stranger?”
“Aye, for I had a good look at him. He was a great big chap, with an old straw hat on his head, a coat and trousers not fit for a scarecrow, and his toes coming out through his boots. And hairy, you never saw anything like it. Tangled black hair all over his head, and a big black beard and whiskers. Even his blessed eyebrows hung down right over his eyes. And he was pushing a little barrow, regular flimsy sort of thing, just a frame hung between two bicycle wheels. And on it was a big pile of dirty rugs. I caught sight of him as he was coming along from Yonderhill way.”
“You didn't speak to him, I suppose?”
“Well, he spoke to me. He came up to me as I was shutting the gate out of the meadow, and hollered out something. I couldn't make out what it was. Didn't seem to be English, somehow, and I put him down as one of them foreigners. But I did catch the name Chanterford, and it looked as if he was asking his way there. I told him to go back to the new road and then keep straight on, but he didn't seem to take it in. He just shook his head and grinned, and then sat down by the side of the road and lit a blessed great cigar. So I went on and left him. I did look behind once, and there he was, pushing his barrow along some way behind me. Following me, like, if you understand.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No, for I turned into the farm. He must have passed along the road, though, but I couldn't see him from where I was working.”
“One or two of the other chaps saw him go by,” volunteered Mr. Frant. “They all said the same. All hairy, like, looked like a foreigner, and smoking a cigar. Old Fred, who knows a thing or two, said he must have been one of them Bolsheviks. Come over here to spy out the land, as you might say.”
“Did he call at any of the houses and try to sell his rugs?”Arnold asked.
“Not that I heard of. He must have gone straight through the village and on to Chanterford, if that's where he was bound.”
Merrion rather ostentatiously finished his beer, and put his mug down on the counter. Arnold glanced at him. “Going to have another?” he asked.
“Presently. What do you say to taking a short walk? We can leave the car outside here and come back and fetch it. A bit of exercise won't do us any harm, and we shall enjoy that second pint all the more for it.”
Arnold nodded, and they went out together. “There's a footpath over the fields that may be worth exploring,” said Merrion, when they were outside. “I noticed it on the map you showed me yesterday evening. Come alone, and I'll find it for you. Well, what do you make of the hirsute foreigner with the barrow?”
“I'm blest if I know what to make of him,” Arnold replied. “He sounds a pretty queer customer. And I can't get away from the idea that if I wanted to disguise a milk-churn on a barrow, I should get hold of a few rugs and chuck them over it.”
“Great minds think alike. I thought of the churn as soon as our friend the landlord mentioned the rugs for sale. And the time corresponds nicely with the first appearance of the churn. I should try and run that fellow to earth, if I were you.”
“There won't be any difficulty about that. It's a job for the local police, and I'll talk to Bradlaw about it when we get back. Fellows answering to his description and smoking cigars can't be so common about these parts that people wouldn't have noticed him. We'll find him soon enough. You needn't worry about that.”
Merrion nodded rather absently. He was evidently thinking of something else. “He's a bit of a puzzle to me, that fellow,” he said, after they had walked for some little distance in silence. “We'll suppose that he's responsible for the appearance of the empty churn on Hollybud's stand. Where did he get it from? I don't mean originally, but on Wednesday last? He can't have been perambulating the country with the confounded thing ever since it was stolen.”
“I suppose the churn was hidden somewhere in the neighbourhood,” Arnold replied. “That's rather an important point. The mobility of a man with a barrow is distinctly limited. I don't suppose he could cover more than twenty miles in a day, at the outside. Wherever the churn was hidden, it was somewhere inside that radius of here.”
“A circle with a radius of twenty miles includes an area of a hundred and twenty-five square miles. Rather an extensive area to search. You'll want a closer indication than that before you find the place where the churn was hidden. But perhaps we can get a stage further. Wait a minute, though. This will be the gate of Starvesparrow Farm, if I remember the map correctly.”
They had reached a gate, with a rough track leading over the fields, and a strongly-built wooden stand beside it. Merrion sat down on the stand, lighted his pipe, and looked about him. “It's a curious thing,” he remarked. “This seems to be the one point on this stretch of road that isn't overlooked from anywhere. The farm, presumably, lies on the other side of that fold in the ground. On the other side of the road, opposite us, there's that belt of trees, and you can't see beyond it. If you look to the left, the way we've come, you can't see anything but a roof here and there, and the chimneys of the Three Horseshoes. To the right there I can just make out the blank wall of a barn through the trees. And that's all. As long as there was nobody actually in sight, our friend could have deposited his churn here without being observed.”
“Yes, that's true,” Arnold agreed. “I wonder if he was really a foreigner? Country people call everybody a foreigner who doesn't speak their own particular dialect. It's struck me that some foreigners, Italians and Spaniards, for instance, are more handy with knives than Englishmen, as a rule.”
Merrion laughed. “You'll find out what nationality he is when you get hold of him. Come along, we don't want Farmer Hollybud to catch us. He might resent inquisitive people sitting on his milk stand. We'll have a look at his domain from another point of view in a minute or two.” They continued along the road until, a few hundred yards farther on, they came to a stile, on the same side as the gate. “This is our way,” said Merrion. “According to the map, a footpath leads straight from here to the railway embankment. We may just as well explore in that direction. There may be something in your train theory, for all we know.”
They climbed the stile, and followed the footpath, which at first rose steeply from the road. As soon as they reached the summit, a wide expanse of rolling country lay spread before them. The path ran straight before them to the railway embankment, and burrowed under it through a small tunnel-like arch. To the right of the path was a grey stone house, surrounded by a group of buildings. This was evidently Starvesparrow Farm. Between the farm and the railway was nothing but a series of meadows, in one of which a herd of cows was grazing.
“I don't think we need go any further just now, ' said Merrion. “We can see all we want to from here. You'll notice that if Farmer Hollybud feels in need of distraction, he's only got to sit at his own back door and watch the trains go by. And if he wants to see them closer, he's only got to walk across the fields, which are probably his own property, until he reaches the line. Upon my word, Arnold, I'm beginning to feel a bit more interested in that theory of yours.”
“If there's anything in it, what about the man with the barrow?”Arnold replied. “Where does he come in?”
“I'm blest if I know. We have no evidence yet that he had anything to do with the affair. And yet he must have had. It can't be sheer coincidence that he was prowling around at that very time. And if he deposited the empty churn, did he exchange it for the full one later, after dark? That brings me back to what I was going to say just now, about limiting the radius. Let's get back to the pub, it's cold standing here.”
They turned back, and Merrion proceeded to elaborate the point. “If we adopt the theory that the hairy foreigner deposited the empty churn, and that he did so in connection with the crime, then we must assume that he was concerned in it. He may not have been the actual murderer, but he and his barrow seem to have been responsible for the transport of the body. If he carried the empty churn about, it is at least reasonable to suppose that he carried the full one, too.
“It's quite obvious that some form of wheeled transport must have been employed to convey the full churn to the stand. And, when you come to think of it that barrow of his was singularly well adapted to the purpose. It was mounted on bicycle wheels, we are told, and these, presumably, had rubber tyres of sorts upon them. If the man himself wore rubber-soled shoes, he would move in almost complete silence. As for being seen, there was very little chance of that. The night was pitch dark, and it was snowing at intervals. The falling snow would cover the tracks of his wheels.
“Now, let's consider where this man was coming from when he was seen by Young Joe. He was coming from the place where the empty churn had been hidden. Now I refuse to believe that whoever organised this affair left churns, full and empty, scattered about the countryside. It's much more reasonable to suppose that he worked from some definite and single base of operations. That base may or may not have been the scene of the murder. But it was undoubtedly the place where the churns were hidden, both the full and the empty one. Any objections to that theory?”
“No, it sounds reasonable enough,” Arnold replied. “Very well, then. We can proceed to deduce the movements of the man with the barrow. He started from his base with the empty churn, and deposited it on Hollybud's stand. Then he went back to the base, and picked up the full churn. This he took to the stand, unloaded it there, and took the empty one back to the base.
“We've agreed already that he could hardly be expected to cover more than twenty miles a day. But, in the course of his journeys, he covered the same route four times. If my arithmetic is correct, twenty divided by four is five. That means that the base can't be more than five miles from here. A circle of five miles radius covers an area of thirty-one square miles. A considerable reduction in the size of the haystack in which you've got to look for your needle.”
Arnold nodded. “I've thought all along that the crime was committed locally,” he replied. “The fact that the churn in which the body was found belongs to a local firm points to that. The victim may very well have been a stranger, which would account for nobody being missing hereabouts. A stranger who happened to be travelling in a train, perhaps.”
By this time they were nearing the door of the Three Horseshoes. They went in and had another pint, but no further reference was made to the business which had brought them there. They drove back to Yonderhill, and after lunching at the Yellow Dragon, Arnold took Merrion to the police station and introduced him to Bradlaw.
“I'd like Mr. Merrion to see our collection,” he said. “Meanwhile, I've picked up a bit of information which will interest you.”
Bradlaw was impressed with the story of the man and the barrow. “I'll put a call through to all the police stations round about,” he said. “The local men shall make inquiries straight away. Somebody is bound to have noticed the fellow. He must have passed along the main road to reach Tolsham; there's no other way of getting to the place. We'll hear something of him before this evening; you may be sure of that.”
Arnold left Bradlaw to telephone and rejoined Merrion, who was already examining the exhibits. He had begun with the slip of paper found inside the wallet and was studying this intently. As Arnold approached him he looked up. “As you may know, I had quite a lot to do with handwriting, and things like that, during the War,” he said. “This bit of paper is very interesting. It is stained, of course, and the ink has run. But the original was written with a very fine pen, which, in the heavier strokes, has penetrated the surface of the paper. If you'll allow me to carry out a simple experiment, I think we may be able to make out a word or two here and there.”
“I don't see any objection, as long as you don't do any damage,” replied Arnold.
“There's no risk of that. All I want is some ink, water, a soft brush and some good blotting paper. You can produce those? All right, then.”
Merrion spread the slip of paper very carefully upon a sheet of blotting paper, smoothing it out as much as possible without tearing it any further. He then poured out a small quantity of ink and diluted it with water to about three times its original bulk. With a quick sweep of the brush he spread this diluted ink over the surface of the paper and then immediately applied a clean sheet of blotting paper, pressing it down evenly over the surface of the paper.
“You see the dodge,” he said. “The ink hasn't time to soak into the surface of the paper where that is unbroken. It can only get into the substance of the paper where it has been scratched by the pen, and at the creases. So we get an inkstain only in these places. Now, let's see the result.”
As Arnold examined the paper he could see that some of the strokes of the original writing were considerably more distinct than before. In fact, he could make out a letter here and there, but could recognise no familiar word. Merrion, however, was more successful. “This seems to be part of a letter written in Italian,” he said. “I can't make out the sense of it, but it's Italian right enough. And the paper has a foreign look about it to me. I don't think I'll try to make it any clearer. You had better let your own accredited experts try their hands at it. If I were you I would send it up to the Yard straight away.”
“I will,” Arnold replied. “But I'd like to hear your opinion about it.”
“Subject to official confirmation, as they say, this is what I think: That scrap of paper is part of a letter, written, I should think, some years ago. You can see for yourself that the paper has been folded in those creases for a long time. It has broken away practically all along them. The wallet looks pretty old, too. I shouldn't be surprised if the fragments of the letter had been kept in the wallet since it was received, and was overlooked when the wallet was emptied. As for the address scribbled across it in indelible pencil, I can't quite make that out. It looks to me comparatively fresh and recent. Perhaps this fragment of paper was the only thing the owner of the wallet could find at the moment. He wished for some reason to remind himself of George Street, Oban, and wrote it down on the only thing available.”
“It was the same pencil that was used for marking the time-table, I suppose?”
“Let's have a look. The colour is the same, certainly, but I couldn't swear to it being the same pencil. Your experts may be able to decide that. Now, let me see that vest.”
Merrion examined the vest inch by inch. “There's no doubt about the gash in the back and the stains surrounding it,” he said. “Whether the stains are due to blood—and, if so, to human blood—of course, I can't say. I should have a proper test made, if I were you. But there are several other things about the vest which are worth taking notice of. To begin with, it is very old, and not by any means made of the best quality flannel. It has been worn away under the armpits and patched. Do you see that? And about the shoulders it has worn so thin that you could poke your finger through it. Another thing, it's all frayed round the lower edge. A.L.S. must have been very much attached to his old clothes, it seems to me.”
“That's a characteristic which may help us to establish his identity,” Arnold remarked.
“I shouldn't count too much upon that. Here's yet another rather curious thing. Look at this neck-band. It isn't the original one, I'll swear. It seems to be a strip of new, or comparatively new, linen sewn on with coarse thread and rather clumsy stitches. On the other hand, the patching under the arms has been very neatly done. That suggests the work of two different people.
“Now, look at the marking of the initials on the linen. A.L.S., in good bold block letters. Compare them with the address on that scrap of paper. GEORGE ST., OBAN, also in good bold block letters, of much the same size. There are two letters in common, the S and the A. If you look closely at these two letters you'll see that they are very similar in both cases.”
“Well, isn't that what you would expect?”Arnold replied. “A.L.S. noted down the address, and there seems no reason why he should not have marked his own linen.”
“Oh, none at all. I'm only pointing out my observations. You might notice that the initials are the only coincidence of identification on the neckband. There's no laundry mark, for instance. Either A.L.S. had his clothes washed at home, or this vest has not been to the wash since the new neck-band was sewn on. All these little points may come in useful, some day. Now, let's look at the spectacles.”
These were of yellow horn, clumsy, and of antiquated pattern. On the left-hand side, where the horn was bent down to extend behind the ear, the initials A.L.S. had been scratched with the point of some sharp instrument. “Block letters, again,” Merrion commented. “And obviously an amateur job. An optician would have done it far more neatly. Did A.L.S. do it himself? I'm not going to compare letters scratched on horn with others written with a pen on linen or with a pencil on paper. But there is a certain resemblance. You can't get away from that.”
“I'm not trying to,” Arnold replied patiently. It seemed to him that his friend's observations were not revealing anything very startling.
“You don't seem thrilled. But all these points are worth remembering. They may come in useful some day. Now for this key. It's a hotel key, right enough. There oughtn't to be much difficulty about that. Somebody is pretty sure to recognise it as soon as they see the description published in the papers. The brass disc hasn't got any initials scratched on it, I suppose? Apparently not. Any maker's name on the knife? No, just the word ' stainless.' But it is a good knife, and the handle is quite a decent bit of ivory. I expect that it and the fork belonging to it were originally sold in a leather case. The sort of thing one gives as a wedding present, you know. You'll be lucky if you're able to trace it, I fancy. Do you know Arnold, your collection is most extraordinarily interesting.”
“I thought you would find it so. How does it affect your theories of this morning?”
“I can't tell you yet until I've had time to think things out a bit. At present, this case seems to me to be full of contradictions. Let's get back to the Yellow Dragon and have a cup of tea.”
That evening, after dinner, Bradlaw came to see Arnold. “It's a very queer thing about that rug merchant of yours,” he said. “I can't get any trace of him. If young Joe is telling the truth, the man must have reached the point at which he saw him by the main road. There are no side turnings within a mile on either side of Tolsham.
“Now, that particular stretch of road is in the Chanterford Rural District. I've just been talking on the phone to the sergeant stationed at Chanterford. He tells me that on Wednesday the council's road men were working on the main road, about a quarter of a mile from the point where the new road breaks off from the old, on the Yonderhill side of Tolsham. He knows them all, of course, and has been round to see them.
“They all tell the same story. They didn't knock off that afternoon until six o'clock, as the surveyor wanted to get the job finished. There were ten of them at work, including the foreman, and two of them were employed as traffic signallers, and so saw everything that passed. And not one of the ten saw anybody in the least like your description. In fact, they all swear that nobody pushing a barrow passed them all day.”
“That sounds rather strange,” said Arnold. “The man must have come from the other direction, along the by-pass, and turned back through Tolsham.”
“Wait a minute. The sergeant did not stop by the roadmen. He had a chat with the Automobile Association scout, who patrols that section of the road. The scout was actually in the by-pass from soon after five until half-past, helping with a car which had developed magneto trouble. When he had got this right, he rode into Chanterford, stayed there for a few minutes, then rode half-way to Yonderhill and back again. He saw nothing of the man with the barrow, either. And, what's more, half a dozen other constables have been making inquiries all the afternoon, and they can't find anybody who could tell them anything. I'm inclined to wonder whether Young Joe was pulling your leg this morning.”
“We'll make an excursion to Tolsham to-morrow, and get to the bottom of this,” said Arnold. When Bradlaw had gone he repeated his information to Merrion, who did not seem unduly surprised.
“I suspected something of the kind,” he said. “I thought at the time that the man with the barrow was just a little too picturesque to tramp the roads for any distance.”
“You think that Young Joe was lying to us, then?”
“No, I don't think that,” Merrion replied slowly. “I think that his hairy acquaintance did not trundle his barrow beyond the limits of Tolsham Parish on Wednesday afternoon.”
MONDAY was spent by Arnold and Bradlaw in a meticulous search of the village of Tolsham. They entered every farm and cottage and interviewed practically every member of the community, including Mr. Hollybud and his family.
Their inquiries were directed mainly to the presence of strangers, and to obtaining news of the man with the barrow or the milk churns. At the end of the day they returned weary and disappointed, having learnt nothing fresh. The existence of the man with the barrow was established beyond any possibility of doubt. He had been seen, not only by Young Joe, but by half a dozen others, who gave independent and identical descriptions of him. That he had actually passed through the village between half-past five and a quarter to six on Wednesday afternoon was an undoubted fact. He had spoken to nobody but Young Joe, nor had he made any attempt to sell his wares. He had suddenly appeared and suddenly vanished, and he had not been seen before or since.
The inquiry into the churns was even less satisfactory. Milk churns were as common in Tolsham as blades of grass by the roadside, and they were as like one another as peas in pod. Two churns, or any reasonable number, for that matter, could have been deposited in one of a dozen places without attracting any particular attention, especially if they had been moved about from time to time. It was impossible to pick up the slightest clue which seemed to point to the churn holding the body.
“I can't make it out,” said Arnold, as they returned to Yonderhill. “That chap with the barrow must have had something to do with it. Where did he come from, and where did he go to? I can understand his disappearance, for he might have hidden himself somewhere and cleared off after dark. But when all these people saw him it was broad daylight. The sun didn't set till six o'clock. He can't have fallen from the skies.”
“Well, he didn't come along the road,” Bradlaw replied. “And I don't see how he can have wheeled his barrow across the fields. If he had, somebody would have been bound to see him. I'm glad my chief called in the Yard over this case, Mr. Arnold. It rather seems to me that we are up against it.”
Merrion, left alone to ponder the facts, was suddenly struck with an idea. He took out his car and drove to Chanterford station, where, under the pretext of inquiring about the train service, he engaged the station master in conversation. He gradually brought the subject round to the point where he could put the question that was in his mind. “Have there been any extensive repairs to the line in this district recently?” he asked.
“Oh, the gang is always busy at one place or another,” the station master replied. “There's a lot of fast and heavy traffic over this section, and that makes constant work, tightening up chairs and replacing wedges, and what not. Then the sleepers have to be renewed every few years. There was a long stretch of the up track relaid only last month.”
So Merrion's guess had been a happy one, after all!”What particular stretch was that?” he asked.
“On the embankment the other side of Tolsham box from here. They were working at it for the best part of a fortnight. It was a Sunday they started, the eleventh of February, I recollect.”
“It's always a wonder to me how they relay a line and yet keep the traffic running over it all the time,” Merrion remarked.
“Oh, precautions are taken, of course. Sometimes, during the quieter periods, they use single line working, run the up trains over the down track, that is. But most of the time they manage to keep the track under repair fit for traffic. The drivers are warned, of course, and they go over the stretch dead slow, and make up time where they can. You'd have seen the express just crawling over that embankment if you'd been there to watch. They might have been a minute or two late passing through Yonderhill but they had mostly made up by the time they got to Westbury.”
After a little further talk with the station master, Merrion drove back to the Yellow Dragon, with a fresh fact to add to his store. This was that for about a fortnight from February the eleventh the 2.40 from Exeter, normally fast between Taunton and Westbury, had to slow down to a crawl on the embankment near Starvesparrow Farm.
Was there any significance in this? Could, for instance, a man or men have taken advantage of this slowing down to alight from the train unseen? He found by reference to the almanack that the sun set just after five on that date. If the sky were overcast, it would already be growing dark when the train reached the embankment. The platelayers would be assembled on the down track to let the train go by. A man might not be observed if he slipped out of the train on the up side and hurried down the embankment. He might not. But the chances were that he would be, even under the most favourable circumstances. Only some desperate purpose could induce him to face the odds.
That evening, Merrion listened to Arnold's account of the inquiries he had made. “There's only one solution that I can see,” he said. “The man and his barrow originated in Tolsham on Wednesday. He must have made his way there during the previous night, and hidden somewhere until Young Joe saw him. That rather upsets our calculations; but, as a I said before, this case is full of contradictions, and one more or less doesn't make much difference.”
“What is it that you find so contradictory?”Arnold asked.
“Why, the personality of A.L.S., if the dead man really was A.L.S., which I very much doubt. Take the evidence of the body first. A man of thirty, unaccustomed to hard work, and inclined to stoutness, in consequence. What our friends at the Three Horseshoes would call a toff, in fact. Now, would a man of that age carry about with him a threadbare wallet? Would he wear a very old and patched flannel vest? Would he mark it himself? Would he be seen in a pair of spectacles which might have belonged to his great-grandfather? I think not.”
“Well, how do you account for all those things being found with the body?”
“I can't account for it, and that's just what worries me. I'm inclined to think that the dead man and A.L.S. are two different people. Who the dead man was, we may never find out. But I shouldn't be surprised if A.L.S. turned up bright and smiling, one of these days.”
Merrion's prediction was fulfilled much sooner than any one could have anticipated. While he and Arnold were lunching next day a waiter approached the Inspector with a card on a tray. “There's a gentleman asking for you, sir,” he said. Arnold picked up the card. Upon it was engraved “Mr. Alastair L. Swanbury.” The Inspector stared at the card in amazement and then passed it over to Merrion. “All right, I'll see the gentleman,” he said to the waiter. And then, after a glance at the expectant faces at the surrounding tables, “Upstairs in my room,” he added.
He swallowed a few hasty mouthfuls and finished his beer. Then he hurried upstairs and opened the door of his bedroom. A middle-aged man, clean-shaven and with a merry, open countenance, was seated on the bed. He rose with an anticipatory smile. “Inspector Arnold?” he said.
“That's right. And you are Mr. Swanbury? You want to see me?”
“I fancy that it's the other way about, and that you want to see me. I've been following this case of the body in the milk-churn pretty closely in the newspapers. I'm an author by profession and I live near Maidstone. Yesterday, in the papers I saw a description and a photograph of a certain wallet. I think that I may be able to give you some information about it. But I'd like to see it first, to make sure.”
“There's no difficulty about that,” Arnold replied. “It's at the police station, only a few doors up the street from here. I'll take you there now.”
They left the hotel and walked to the police station. As soon as Arnold showed Mr. Swanbury the wallet, the latter nodded. “Yes, that's the one,” he said. “Well, I never expected to see it again. Queer how things turn up unexpectedly, isn't it?”
But Arnold was in no mood to discuss such abstract subjects. “What can you tell me about this wallet, Mr. Swanbury?” he asked sharply.
“It is, or rather was, mine. It was given to me some years ago by an old friend of mine. I used it until, as you see, it was pretty well worn out. I used to keep notes and stamps and odd papers in it, you know. And then my wife complained that it was a disgrace to the family, and after a bit she bought me a new one.”
“What did you do with this one?”
“I'm just going to tell you. My wife gave me the new one at breakfast one morning. I had to go up to London that day to see my agent. It was just about this time last year. I put the new wallet in the same pocket as the old one, kissed my wife and went off to catch my train. On the way up to London it struck me that the two wallets were making too much of a bulge in my pocket. So I took them out and shifted the contents of the old one into the new, which I put back in my pocket. What was I to do with the old one? No sense in keeping it. So, on a sudden impulse, I decided to get rid of it. I flung it out of the carriage window, in defiance of a printed notice staring me in the face, thereby rendering myself liable to a penalty of forty shillings.”
“You are certain that this is the wallet you threw away?”
“As certain as one can be of anything in this deceptive universe. I used to be certain that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points, but Einstein seems to have proved pretty conclusively that it isn't. To his own satisfaction, at all events.”
Arnold had only the vaguest idea of who Einstein might be. But, anyhow, he was a side issue, and therefore of no importance. “Have you ever been to Italy, Mr. Swanbury?” he asked abruptly.
The other raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “I have spent many years there,” he replied. “How did you come to know that, I wonder?”
“Oh, we manage to get a hint or two sometimes,” said Arnold. He removed the slip of paper from the envelope in which he had deposited it for safety. “Can you tell me anything about that?” he asked, holding it out for Swanbury's inspection.
The most obvious thing about it was the address in indelible pencil. “George Street, Oban?”Swanbury replied. “No, I'm afraid I can't. I've never been there.”
“No, not that. The paper itself, and the faint writing in ink upon it.”
Swanbury gazed at the paper for a moment, then smiled. “Yes, I think I can,” he replied. “It looks very like a fragment of a letter from an Italian professor whom I used to know. I think I can recognise the writing, almost obliterated though it is. And, if I'm right, I'll hazard a guess that you found it in the wallet.”
Arnold nodded. “That's just where it was found,” he said.
“Then that pretty well settles it. I kept the last letter that the old boy wrote to me before he died in the wallet for a long time. It got all torn and frayed at the edges, I remember. And I suppose that when I took the rest of the stuff out of the old wallet I left that behind. Carelessness again. My wife's always at me about it.”
“Did you make a note of that address in pencil on the letter?”
“No, I didn't. I very rarely make notes, for I only lose them if I do. And I never use an indelible pencil. And I have no interest in Oban, or any desire to go there.”
“Where was the train when you threw the wallet out of the window?”
“I couldn't tell you that with any degree of accuracy. Somewhere between Maidstone and Swanley Junction, I fancy.”
“And you have never seen the wallet since that time?”
“I have not, and I certainly never expected to see it again.”
“Do you wear spectacles, Mr. Swanbury?”
“No. I'm getting on in years, I'll admit, but my eyesight is still surprisingly good. I shall have to take to them before very long, I expect.”
Arnold produced the horn-rimmed glasses. “Then how do you account for your initials being on these?” he asked.
Swanbury shook his head. “I don't begin to account for it,” he replied. “They aren't line. I have never owned a pair of spectacles in my life. But I'm not the only A.L.S. in the world, I imagine. There must be dozens of others. And, before you show me the vest, so graphically described by our enlightened press, I may as well tell you at once that it isn't mine. I'm very faddy about my underclothes, and can't wear anything but silk next my skin. The very thought of flannel gives me the shudders.”
“Have you been to Exeter recently, Mr. Swanbury?”
“Not for years!” In fact this is my first journey to the West Country for a very long time.”
Arnold thanked Mr Swanbury for the information which he had given him and returned to the Yellow Dragon. Merrion, who had by this time finished lunch, was waiting for him. The two discussed the identification of the wallet and agreed that, far from throwing any light upon the mystery, it appeared to complicate it.
“I think we must assume the correctness of Swanbury's statement,” said Arnold. “I can't see what he could have to gain by telling a yarn like that, if it wasn't true. Of course, I shall get in touch with the Maidstone police and find out all I can about him. But he struck me as being a decent enough fellow.”
“Well, then, we've got to solve the problem of how a wallet thrown out of a train in Kent found its way into a milk-churn in Wessex,” Merrion replied. “And it seems to me that we can only do that by guesswork. For instance, the first step might be this: the wallet fell clear of the line and on to or near a road. A passer-by, possibly a tramp, picked it up and kept it. That seems well within the bounds of possibility.”
“Yes, I think it does. A tramp, or perhaps even a pedlar. The man with the barrow, for instance.”
“I think, at this stage, we had better treat him and the wallet as two entirely separate clues. It may have changed hands several times before it reached the victim, or more likely to my mind, the murderer.” *
“The murderer!”Arnold exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
Merrion lighted a cigarette and threw away the match with a gesture of finality. “As you know, there is one thing that I have been very sceptical about all along,” he replied. “Since the articles were found in the churn with the body, the assumption is that they were the property of the victim. The recurrence of the initials A.L.S. suggest that these were the victim's initials. But I have already told you why I doubt the correctness of these assumptions.
“Let's suppose that you or I set out to commit a murder. We have a victim in view, a sufficient motive for killing him, and the opportunity of doing so. The only thing that worries us is the disposal of the body. We have no means of destroying it completely, and we can't think of any place in which to hide it which seems to us sufficiently safe from discovery.
“We have to find some way of getting rid of the body with perfect safety to ourselves. We have to face the fact that it is bound to be found, sooner or later. Bodies have an inconvenient habit of revealing their presence. You know the old saying, ' Murder will out.' There's a lot of truth in it.
“Accepting the certainty of the ultimate discovery of the body, what precautions can we take to prevent the crime being traced to us? Quite a lot, I think. We can conceal the identity of the victim, the manner of his death and the time when the murder took place. We can ensure that the body is discovered at the time which suits us best. And, in addition, we can fabricate clues which will lead in the wrong direction. Personally, I should not adopt the latter course. False clues have a habit of turning out to be true ones in the long run, a fact which has often proved the undoing of the too-ingenious criminal.
“Consider the present case. The identity of the victim has been concealed in the most obvious way, by omitting the head from the contents of the churn. The means of death are at present unknown. He may have been stabbed from behind, or he may not. I am inclined to the probability that the stabbing and the thoughtful present to us of the knife with which the stabbing was effected, are in the nature of false clues. The addition of formalin to the liquid in which the body was immersed makes it impossible to determine when death took place.
“The next point is the moment of discovery of the body. The churn was placed on Hollybud's milk stand in order that the body might be found. Somebody, either Hollybud himself or the dairy people, were bound to open it and look inside within the next few hours. We may take it, then, that the churn was put on the stand when, and not before, it suited the convenience of the murderer that the body should be found.”
Arnold nodded. “That's quite a sound argument,” he said. “Unfortunately . . .”
But Merrion interrupted him. “Wait a minute, I haven't finished yet. We come now to the very delicate subject of the fabrication of false clues. As I said before, if I had been the murderer I would have left things as they were. But he seems to have been one of those people who can't resist the temptation to gild the lily. His idea was to give the police something to play with, something that would both occupy their time and lead them on the wrong scent.
“The knife, for instance. That was obviously put in to strengthen the suggestion that the victim had been murdered by stabbing. Apart from that, the wallet was the first link in the chain. The murderer had the wallet in his possession. How he came by it we don't know; but it is pretty certain that nobody but himself knew that he had it. It is very doubtful that he was aware to whom it originally belonged. Its value to him lay in the initials stamped on it. He anticipated your argument. Since the wallet would be found with the body, it must have been the property of the victim, whose initials, therefore, were A.L.S. You would start by searching for the missing Smiths, while the victim's name was really Robinson. Not a bad idea on his part, for the chances of the original owner of the wallet turning up were very slight. And, even though he has, he has not endangered the security of the murderer.”
“That's all very well,” said Arnold. “But what about the same initials being found on the other things?”
“I'm coming to that. The idea suggested by the wallet seems to the murderer such a good one that he simply can't leave it alone. You can almost watch its development in his mind. Why rest content with the wallet? What else might the victim have been expected to have about him when he was murdered? A pair of spectacles! The murderer knew where to lay his hands on a pair of old ones that could not be traced to him. Better remove the lens, in case some optical expert discovered that they were antediluvian. Scratch the initials on the horn, and you have another false clue. The victim must have worn horn-rimmed spectacles. The truth probably being that he had never worn any sort of glasses in his life.
“The same with the vest. The garment the victim wore when he was murdered! How utterly convincing! The gash in the back, the bloodstains! Put on a new neck-band and mark it with the familiar A.L.S. The victim was the sort of person who wore old and patched flannel vests, and he was stabbed to death while wearing one of them! Can't you see the growing fascination of building up false evidence?”
“I see your imagination running riot with you, as usual,” Arnold replied with a smile.
“Well, but isn't it obvious? Then the murderer has another bright idea. Not content with confusion of identity, he decides to add confusion of locality. That accounts for the Railway and Bus Guide for Exeter. He succeeded in making you waste half a day there, so he's scored a point. Then he writes ' George Street, Oban ' on the slip of paper which he finds in the wallet. With any luck, he thinks, you'll spend at least a week trying to circumvent the crafty Highlander. Oh, I can see his game, right enough!”
“It's rather a pity you can't see him in person. What is all this leading up to, may I ask? That these objects found in the churn should be disregarded as having no bearing on the case?”
“Not by any means disregarded, but accepted at their true value. Their apparent indications are misleading, but the objects themselves are of importance if they can be traced. So far, we have identified the wallet. But we can't say that we have traced it, for it is lost sight of for a year after Swanbury threw it out of the window. Had the person who had picked it up communicated with you it would have been better for us.”
“If the murderer himself were to walk into this room and confess it would be better still,” said Arnold dryly. “It seems to me that your criticism is destructive rather than helpful. What do you suggest that I do? Wait quietly until people come and tell me the origin and history of all these things? I've got to take active steps of some kind of my own, you know.”
Merrion smiled. “Activity hasn't been very profitable so far.” he replied. “All that we have discovered, by our own efforts, is the presence of a stranger in Tolsham at the time when the empty churn was placed on Hollybud's milk stand. That, by itself, should be a very promising discovery. But so far it hasn't helped us at all. The man appears from nowhere, is seen by half a dozen astonished yokels and disappears again. He is seen by nobody, in fact, outside the narrow limits of the parish, and that only within a period of a few minutes. It sounds absurd, but there must be some explanation, if we could only find it.”
“The only possible explanation is that he had some hiding-place in or near the village. He arrived there during Tuesday night, only emerged on Wednesday evening, and went off again that night.”
“Yet, in spite of all your efforts, you and Bradlaw were unable to discover this hiding-place. I've been thinking it over, and I'm inclined to think there is another explanation. But, of course, it's only guesswork. There's no evidence in support of it.”
Arnold laughed. “We seem to be guessing pretty freely,” he said. “Lunch seems to have stimulated your imagination. What's this explanation of yours?”
“I'll start by reminding you of the mentality of the murderer. He has a positive obsession for creating false impressions. I have shown you he has achieved confusion of identity and date of murder and attempted confusion of the place of the crime. We believe that the murder was committed in this locality. Why? I'll tell you. Because the churn containing the body was found on Hollybud's milk stand, because this churn belonged to a local firm, and because the train marked in the time table passes within a short distance of Starvesparrow Farm; and, finally, because of the miraculous apparition of the man with the barrow in Tolsham. Do you know, I believe that all these things were part of the murderer's scheme, deliberately contrived to deceive us as to locality! This would be in keeping with his other actions.
“Now, let's consider the man with the barrow. He is, when you come to think of it, a very striking figure, more ragged than the average tramp, conspicuously hairy, speaking in some foreign tongue and smoking a cigar. A man like that would be bound to attract notice anywhere. But this man not only attracts notice—he invites it. He speaks to Young Joe, without waiting to be spoken to. He mentions Chanterford, only a few miles away, and gives Joe the impression that that's where he is bound for. Doesn't all this strike you as very odd behaviour on his part? His intention was to deposit a stolen churn upon somebody else's property. We can hardly doubt that the same night he substituted for this the churn containing the body. He knew that inquiries would be made and his passage through Tolsham discovered. Yet he apparently took considerable pains to attract attention to himself. Why?”
Arnold shrugged his shoulders a trifle wearily. “I'm blest if I know,” he replied. “Why?”
“Because he knew that the argument would be that a man with a barrow, especially a home-made one, could not travel very far or fast, and therefore that the investigations would be confined to the neighbourhood of Tolsham.”
“I seem to remember you demonstrating that the search might be confined to a five-mile radius,” said Arnold quietly.
“I did. But at that time I hadn't seen the other explanation. One can't always be right first time, you know. We've been making inquiries about a man wheeling a barrow. But suppose he wasn't wheeling a barrow when he arrived at and departed from Tolsham?”
“What in the world are you getting at now?” said Arnold irritably. “Where did the barrow come from, then? Did he find it in the village? And where is it now?”
“He brought the barrow and the churn and the rugs with him, of course; but he didn't wheel the barrow with all those things on it.”
“He carried them all on his head, I suppose? Curious that nobody should have noticed him.”
“No, he didn't do that. Just consider that barrow for a moment. You remember Young Joe's description of it? 'A little barrow, regular flimsy sort of thing, just a frame hung between two bicycle wheels.' Now, it wouldn't require any great exercise of ingenuity to fix those bicycle wheels on the axle so that they would be instantly detachable, would it?”
“I suppose not. But, even if they were-what then?”
“Why, the wheels and the framework could be packed away in a relatively small space, with the rugs covering them. Don't you see the dodge now? Well, then, I'll explain.
“A car, a fairly big saloon, I imagine, is driven along the main road from the direction of Yonder-hill towards Tolsham. In the back of it is the milk-churn and the barrow in sections, all covered by the rugs. At the fork, where the by-pass deviates from the old road, the car stops. Out of it jumps our hirsute friend, suitably disguised for the occasion. He fits the barrow together, loads the churn on it and puts the rugs on top. He wheels the churn to Hollybud's stand, unloads it there and goes on to the point where the by-pass rejoins the old road. The car has meanwhile been driven along the by-pass, and meets him there. The barrow is dismantled, put in the car, which drives away to some unknown destination. That nig