Читать книгу The Sussex Downs Murder - Ernest Elmore - Страница 5

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Whatever William Rother may have thought about Meredith’s strange request for a glimpse of the order-book he allowed no hint of it to show on his haggard features. He just muttered, “Very well,” in the toneless voice of a man who makes no resistance to a whim, however queer he thinks it, and led the way back to the farmhouse. This time they entered it from the back, first through a small courtyard sporting a fir tree and a square of unkempt grass, then across some uneven flags into an airy stone-floored kitchen, the centre-piece of which was an enormous, well-scoured deal table. At the far end of the kitchen, under a low window, was a second, smaller table covered with a red cloth and loaded with ledgers, files, letters, reference-books, inkpots, pens and paper. On the broad window-sill stood a portable typewriter.

Rother smiled wanly.

“The office,” he explained with a side-jerk of his head. “Such as it is. We don’t boast a study up here at Chalklands. Now what exactly are you after?”

“I want a list, if possible, of all your customers supplied with lime during the last ten days—that is to say since the night of your brother’s disappearance.”

“With the amounts delivered?”

“Yes.”

Rother picked up an ordinary black exercise-book and handed it to Meredith.

“You’ll find everything you want there, Mr. Meredith. It seems an extraordinary request to me, but you know your own business best. I’d do anything to help solve the mystery of John’s disappearance, and if he’s dead—which I’m beginning to suspect—to hang the man who murdered him. But what you imagine you’ll get out of that order-book beats me!”

“May I take a copy?”

Rother nodded.

“And in the meantime I want to walk out to the chalk-pit. If there’s anything further you want you’ll find me there. It’s directly behind the house.”

“Thanks—that’s all I want to bother you with at the moment, Mr. Rother. I’ll just copy these data into my notebook and then I’ll be off. One other question before you go. Had your brother any particular friend with whom he was really intimate?”

“Yes—Aldous Barnet, the novelist.”

“The detective-story writer?” asked Meredith with a grin.

“That’s him. He lives at a house called Lychpole near the church. He and John were at school together. You may know him?”

“Well, I’ve read a couple of his books. I must say his Inspector Jefferies gets a darn sight more luck in his investigations than usually comes my way! The chap seems so brilliant that he doesn’t need to worry over the details of routine work. I envy him.”

With a half-smile to show that he had registered Meredith’s amusement, William nodded, and with a preoccupied expression on his pale features wandered out of the door.

Sitting at the window-table Meredith examined the order-book. It was much as he had expected. Column 1: Date when Order was Received. Column 2: Name and Address of Firm. Column 3: Amount of Lime Ordered. Column 4: Date of Delivery. Between Monday, July 22nd and Wednesday, July 31st (that was to say the previous day), twelve different firms had been supplied. The amounts varied between a yard and two and a quarter yards, which Meredith knew constituted what was commonly termed a “load” of lime. In most cases a full “load” had been ordered. Five of the firms were in Worthing, including Timpson’s; three in Pulborough; one at Steyning; one at Storrington; one at Ashington, and the remaining consignment, a yard, to the Washington Vicarage.

As he was closing his notebook and replacing the order-book, a plump, red-cheeked woman bounced into the kitchen. Good nature exuded from every pore in her body. She wore a lilac printed frock with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a pair of brawny, sunburned arms, and a large, blue, serviceable apron was tied round what should have been her waist.

“Oh Lawks!” she exclaimed, startled out of her normal composure by the unexpected intruder in her kitchen. “I beg ’ee pardon, I’m sure. I had no idea as to there being a stranger ’ere, surr.”

“That’s all right, Mrs....”

“Kate Abingworth’s my name. I’m housekeeper up ’ere, surr. ’Av been for the last fifteen years.”

“Mr. Rother was just letting me copy out something.”

“Ah, that’ll be Mr. Willum, poor feller.” And she shook her head in motherly commiseration. “ ’Ee’s eating less than enough to keep a sparrer on the wing these days, surr. It’s turrible to see ’im wasting away like ’ee be. Delicate ’ee always was, but this trouble what’s descended on this household ’as changed that young feller complete.”

“Mrs. Rother seems upset too?” commented Meredith, always on the alert for possible information.

“Ay, she’s took it ’ard, too, surr, ’as Mrs. Willum. But I don’t wonder, I don’t, seeing ’ow fond she were of Mr. John. Like ’usband and wife they were—if you’ll pardon my simple way of putting it. Not that things had gone as far as that, o’ course, but in their manner of fussin’ over each other. Like a ’en with ’er chick was Mrs. Willum with Mr. John—not that she ’asn’t done right and fair by Mr. Willum, but I’ve always up’eld——” And here Mrs. Abingworth lowered her voice and stepped closer to the Superintendent, almost speaking into his ear. “I’ve always up’eld as Mrs. Willum married the wrong man!”

Her emphasis on these last words was so heavy that Meredith immediately assumed a look of startled incredulity. He realized that Kate Abingworth was one of those simple-minded souls who find their greatest pleasure in life in gossiping about their employers.

“You’ve noticed things, eh?” asked Meredith in a conspiratorial voice. “Happenings, so to speak?”

“I ’av,” beamed Kate Abingworth, delighted to share these intimacies. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “One night, as sure as I draw breath, I saw Mrs. Willum creep out of the house with a suit-case in her ’and, and join Mr. John on the front lawn. You see ’ee—meaning Mr. Willum—don’t sleep with ’er—not nowadays. She sleeps in the North Room now, and what I say is, any woman ’oo could sleep in such a cold, draughty barn of a room, must ’av a gurt strong reason for not sleepin’ with ’er man.”

Meredith nodded in agreement, and Mrs. Abingworth, suddenly realizing that she had unburdened her secrets to a complete stranger, drew herself up, did something emphatic to her back hair, shook out her apron and lifted the lid of a huge saucepan which was simmering on the old-fashioned range.

“Not as I knows,” she added. “It’s only as I suspects.”

“Quite,” said Meredith; adding as he gathered up his cap: “That smells good, Mrs. Abingworth.”

“And it should do, surr. Quince jam that is, made according to my dear old grandmother’s recipe, ’oo died only a day short ’o ninety-six. A wunnerful old woman was my grandmother. Well, good day to ’ee, surr.”

Meredith found his way back to where he had parked his car on the drive and, without seeing Janet Rother again, climbed in and drove in a reflective mood down to the village. Kate Abingworth’s voluntary information had stimulated his curiosity. He wondered, for example, why the girl was carrying a suit-case that night she was reputed to have met her brother-in-law on the lawn. Why a suit-case when she had obviously sat down to breakfast at Chalklands the next morning? Mrs. Abingworth did not suggest that William suspected his wife of unfaithfulness, so that she could not have stayed the night anywhere with John. Besides, the housekeeper wouldn’t have missed putting two and two together if Janet and John had not turned up to breakfast the next morning. Why was she on the lawn at all? Meredith sighed. A romantic infatuation for her brother-in-law, he supposed, the fascination of tasting forbidden fruit. He wondered if the missing man had been in love with the girl, or merely obliging enough to respond to her infatuation. Perhaps Aldous Barnet might have something to say on the matter, and he decided to visit Lychpole as soon as he had put through a few ’phone calls from the local police station.

He then methodically got in touch with Worthing, Pulborough, Steyning, Storrington, and Ashington. He pointed out the necessity for tracing the where-abouts of every bit of lime which had come from the Rother kilns. The local authorities were to get in touch with the builders concerned and have all stocks of lime meticulously sifted. In cases where bags had already been sent out on jobs, the places were to be visited and the workmen questioned as to whether they had found anything in the shape of a bone or bones in the lime used. Reports were to be sent through to Lewes at the earliest possible moment. He then sent the Washington constable up to the Vicarage, where a new bay-window was being pushed out on the south front. A local builder by the name of Sims was doing the job, and the constable was to get in touch with the man and have the whole yard of lime sifted.

Satisfied with this careful piece of staff-work, Meredith drove up the curving and hilly main street of the village, passed the local emporium and the school, and stopped at a white gate bearing the inscription “Lychpole”.

On explaining to the maid that he was a police superintendent, Meredith was ushered into a long, low-raftered room, where he was joined a few minutes later by Aldous Barnet. He was a tall, cadaverous, intellectual-looking man with horn-rimmed spectacles and a slight stoop. He looked about fifty-five.

“We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you,” he said as he held out his hand. “Major Forest is an old friend of mine. He’s helped me a lot with the technical side of my detective books. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Meredith as he sank into a big chintz chair. “I don’t want to bother you if it’s an awkward moment, but it’s about the disappearance of Mr. John Rother. I’m working on that case.”

“A rotten show,” murmured Aldous Barnet with a shake of his head. “A rotten affair, eh? I know it’s not exactly politic to ask the police leading questions, but, tell me, have you got any further? I know only the bare details of what was discovered.”

“We’ve nothing definite ... yet. That’s why I’ve come to you. You were John Rother’s best friend, weren’t you?” Barnet nodded. “Then you know something about his personal affairs.”

“A little—yes,” acknowledged Barnet with obvious caution. “He was a reserved sort of chap. What precisely do you want to find out?”

“Well,” went on Meredith with assumed reluctance, “you know how it is—a man is forced into the limelight and people chatter. Often we hear a lot of unpleasant gossip—most of it untrue. Now I’ve come to you because I know I can rely on your information, Mr. Barnet. Tell me, is there anything at all in the rumour that John Rother was having—an affair, shall we say—with his brother’s wife?”

Barnet rapped out sharply: “Who told you that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question—but is it true? Was there anything between them?” Meredith glanced up and caught the wary expression on the other man’s face. “Come, Mr. Barnet, you won’t gain anything by being secretive about the matter. I’m investigating the case of your friend’s disappearance. For the sake of argument let us suppose he was murdered under Cissbury—what then? Isn’t it up to you to help me all you can?”

“I’m sorry,” said Barnet in quiet tones. “You’re quite right. Much as I abominate hanging out other people’s dirty linen in the daylight, I suppose for the sake of justice it’s got to be done. I can’t tell you much—that was one side of John’s life over which he was exceptionally reticent. I only know that he and Janet were reputed to be a little more than just ... friendly. They had been seen about together on the downs, walking or riding—it was common property in the village, I’m afraid.”

“You mean they were brazen about it?”

“No—not that,” said Barnet hastily. “Just blind to other people’s curiosity, I imagine.”

“And William Rother?”

“He knew, of course. How could he help knowing?”

“And yet he did nothing?”

“How could he? There was nothing definite enough to create a scene over. He was angry, of course—but then he and John had always been at loggerheads. Not only over this particular trouble but everything. I have an idea, too, that Janet was passive rather than active in the affair. I don’t for a moment think that she was really in love with John.”

“To your knowledge, Mr. Barnet, did John and Janet Rother ever stay the night anywhere together—I mean slip off to an hotel or anything?”

Barnet looked incredulous, then shocked.

“Never! At least as far as I know personally. I think you’re laying rather too much stress, Superintendent, on what may have been merely a romantic flirtation.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Meredith with his usual tact. “You know the couple and I don’t. That’s why I’ve come to you. Do you know anything about the financial arrangements up at Chalklands?”

“Really!” growled Barnet. “Is it necessary for me to answer these questions?”

“Not necessary,” replied Meredith with a placatory smile; “but you must realize, Mr. Barnet, that if there’s a coroner’s inquest you’ll probably be subpoenaed as a witness. Surely it’s better to talk over Rother’s private affairs in private than broadcast them all over the village?”

Barnet acquiesced with a gesture of hopelessness.

“Oh, very well. Go ahead. It’s your job to ask questions, but why not tackle Rother’s solicitor? I imagine he’d know more about his finances than I do.”

“I only want one bit of information, and it would save me a lot of time and trouble if you could supply it. In the event of John Rother’s death who would be the chief beneficiary under his will?”

“His brother.” Then registering Meredith’s look of surprise, he added: “You see, for all his dislike of William, John had an almost fanatic regard for the well-being of the family name and estates. As a matter of fact, only a short time back we discussed this very matter. That’s how I know.”

“And the approximate benefits?”

“The estate, of course, some property, and about ten thousand pounds’ worth of investments.”

“Quite a nest-egg,” commented Meredith. He tackled his informant from a new angle with an abruptness that was characteristic. “William Rother is a hot-headed sort of fellow, isn’t he?”

“Hot-headed?” Barnet shook his head decisively. “Slow to anger I should have said, but a madman when really roused. A misunderstood mortal, Superintendent—an idealist hiding his sensitiveness under a placid disregard for other people’s opinions. I’ve known him, when one of his pet principles was attacked, to lash out with his tongue as if he had a devil inside him. An awkward customer to handle then, believe me. I’ve had him on local committees.”

“He seems terribly upset about his brother’s disappearance.”

“So I’ve heard. I haven’t seen him since that Sunday. But there’s nothing strange in that, is there?”

“Only this,” said Meredith in measured tones, “that his brother’s disappearance clears up the trouble over his wife and puts a small fortune in his pocket!”

Barnet glanced disdainfully at the Superintendent through his horn-rims and said in icy tones:

“You police fellows get a pretty warped idea of humanity, don’t you? John was his brother, you know, however much they disagreed.” Then suddenly: “Good God!—you’re not suggesting——?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely trying to get a proper view of the facts. In any case Rother may turn up. Why are you so certain that he won’t?”

“I’m not! I’m not!” protested Barnet hastily, adding, as the maid entered the room: “Well, what is it?”

“Please, sir, the constable is in the hall and would like to speak urgent with the gentleman here. He noticed his car outside as he was going by.”

“Will you excuse me a moment?” asked Meredith as he rose and followed the girl into the hall.

Two minutes later he re-entered the drawing-room and crossed over to the window. As he examined more closely what lay in the palm of his hand, he called Barnet over to join him.

“A moment, sir, if you will. I want your opinion on something. Take a look at these.”

Barnet stared intently for a moment, picked up the objects one by one, and turned them over in the light.

“Well?” demanded Meredith eagerly, irritated by the man’s deliberation.

“Where did you get these?”

“The constable found them.”

“They’re Rother’s. Tell me, Superintendent, how the devil did you get hold of these things? What does it mean? For heaven’s sake, man, don’t keep me in suspense—what exactly does it mean, eh?”

“It may mean murder, Mr. Barnet,” said Meredith quietly, as he slipped the little objects into his pocket. “I can’t say anything for certain yet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got several visits to make. Thank you for your information—you may be sure that I shall treat this interview as confidential as far as I am able.”

As his car raced back up the steep slope to Chalklands, Meredith thought: “So it is murder after all! A second identification of this little lot in my pocket will make it certain. Somebody had a motive too. I wonder if ... ?”

William Rother was having lunch when Meredith put in his second appearance at the farmhouse. He came into the drawing-room with a look of inquiry on his thin, drawn features.

“You want me?”

“Yes, sir. I want you to identify these articles for me.” And clearing a space on an occasional-table Meredith set them out in a line—the belt clasp, the slender metal chain, and the little brass disc such as was worn by soldiers in the war. He noticed that William’s hand was shaking like a leaf as he picked up the various articles and scrutinized them.

At length he said in a constrained voice: “These things are my brother’s. He used to wear the disc on this chain round his wrist. You notice his initials are on it—J.F.R.—and that the date of his birth is inscribed underneath? After the war he had that disc made out of a piece of shell-case which he had picked up in France. He always wore it on his right wrist. A sort of talisman, I suppose.”

“And the belt-buckle?”

“It corresponds to the clasp on the belt John was wearing the afternoon he set off for Harlech. It was one of his peculiarities that he always wore both belt and braces.”

“You could swear to these articles being your brothers?”

“Unless an exact replica has been made of each object,” said William. Then suddenly lowering his tall frame into a chair he asked in a shaken voice: “I suppose it is too much to tell me where you found these things, or what it means, Mr. Meredith? As his nearest relative I ought to know.... I’m quite prepared to know the worst. Tell me, does it mean ... ?”

And he left his unfinished sentence hanging like a query-mark over Meredith’s head.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Rother.”

William buried his tired grey face in his hands.

“Oh, my God!” he muttered brokenly. “Murder!”

“I had hoped you might have been spared this news, but there’s no doubt about it now. I’m sorry. I’ll let you know, of course, how the police investigations proceed. This opens out a new line of inquiry. It now gives us something definite to work on.”

“How definite?” was Meredith’s self-demand as he sat over lunch in the “King’s Arms” at Findon on his way back to Lewes. Well, the Washington constable had sifted the buckle, chain, and brass disc out of the lime which had been delivered at the Vicarage three days after Rother’s disappearance. The constable had also discovered some more gruesome relics which Meredith had failed to show either Barnet or William Rother. Bones. More bones. And on reaching headquarters there were messages already forwarded from Worthing, Pulborough, Steyning, Storrington, and Ashington. In every case except one (Ashington) bones had been discovered by the local police in the various consignments of Rother lime. These were being sent over to Lewes at once.

Meredith had scarcely completed the reading of these messages when the ’phone-bell rang. It was Professor Blenkings speaking from West Worthing.

“Ah, yes—dear me—the Superintendent. I’ve come to a decision about that little matter. Mind you, only after the most careful consideration. I feel one can’t be too meticulous in a case of this sort—I mean it would be unforgivable if my evidence hanged an innocent man. You follow me, my dear fellow?”

“Quite,” said Meredith, admirably concealing his impatience. “Well, sir?”

“The bones are undoubtedly those of the same adult male. I’ve wired together the few specimens available and they make quite a presentable framework of a human leg. But with a more extensive supply ... dear me, yes ... I could——”

“To-morrow,” cut in Meredith, “you shall have more bones. A lot more. We’re collecting them from various sources. I’ll have them sent direct to your place, sir.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Most kind. I’ll get to work and see if I can build that skeleton you asked for.”

“That’s very helpful of you, Professor. I’ll keep in touch with your progress. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, and, if you’ll allow me to say so, I’m quite enjoying this unexpected piece of work, however elementary its nature. Most interesting.”

“Elementary!” thought Meredith as he hung up on the fussy, high-pitched voice. “In his case, yes—but it looks as if I’m going to have a devil of a job to make this investigation move!”

He sat at his desk, legs sprawled, pipe drawing well, reviewing the evidence, turning the case over and over in his mind.

The first point to be considered was motive. Why had John Rother been lured to that lonely spot and murdered? Who would have had any vital reason for wanting him out of the way? Meredith had already half-answered this question in his talk with Aldous Barnet. He had not been joking when he had hinted that William Rother had two very strong reasons for wishing his brother dead. Moreover, William was well situated for placing those portions of the sawn-up body on the kiln. Again, why was the man so violently keyed-up? His highly strung condition surely arose from something more abnormal than mere grief for the loss of his brother? Particularly as they had never wasted much affection on each other. His wife’s undivided loyalty and ten thousand pounds—these were the stakes. Had William Rother chanced the gamble?

As usual Meredith then attacked this theory from the opposite view-point. William could not have murdered his brother because any man in his senses would not be such a fool as to rid himself of the remains on his own door-step, so to speak. Why go to the trouble of portering the corpse from the scene of the crime back to Chalklands? Why not dig a hole somewhere in the gorse bushes on Cissbury Down and bury the body there? Again the motives were too obvious. Everybody would immediately suspect William of the crime because they knew about the trouble with his wife, and would soon know, if they didn’t know already, that he was the sole beneficiary under his brother’s will. Further, the whole village knew that he was antagonistic to his brother. Wouldn’t the risk of murder be too great?

On the other hand, who was left? Janet Rother, Kate Abingworth, one of the farm-hands, Aldous Barnet ... oh, damn it, the list, thought Meredith, could be prolonged indefinitely! If William hadn’t killed his brother then anybody might have done so.

He switched over to the known facts. Rother had been hit on the head with a blunt instrument—perhaps a spanner—a fact easily deduced from the blood-stains on the inside of the tweed cap. The body had been removed—obviously by a second car—from Bindings Lane to some point where it could be dissected and hidden, ready for being placed piecemeal on the kiln. Footprints and car tracks were unavailable as evidence because of the three weeks’ drought preceding July 20th. Rother had been set upon some time between Saturday evening, say 7 o’clock, and 9.30 on Sunday morning when the tragedy had been discovered by Pyke-Jones. Had William Rother an alibi during those hours? And where was Janet Rother? And why the devil had Janet Rother been on the lawn that night with her brother-in-law with a suit-case in her hand? How had John Rother been lured to that lonely spot under Cissbury? Where had he run the car after leaving Chalklands for his holiday in Harlech? Why thirty miles instead of four and a half, which was approximately the distance between the farm and the scene of the assault?

Questions! Questions! Questions!

A constable knocked on the door, lumbered in and dumped a sack on the floor.

“From Worthing, sir.”

“Bones,” thought Meredith. “More bones. I bet John Rother never thought that part of his mortal body would be tied up in a sack and chucked on to the floor of a police office.”

He rose abruptly, stretched himself, glanced at his watch and suddenly remembered that his wife had ordered a cut of fresh salmon for his high tea. Confound this murder—he was hungry! He reached out for his peaked cap.