Crossword Mystery (2 page)

“Some smart work in those cases,” remarked Major Markham, with an approving glance at Bobby.

“Oh, I wouldn't say Owen was quite the thickest-headed of my men,” confessed Mitchell. “Of course, we've got to wait and see what a few more years' red tape and officialdom will do to him. Ruin him, probably. Why, I used to be thought quite smart myself, and now you ought to hear what the junior ranks say about me when I'm not there. ‘Premature senile decay,' when they're in their more kindly moods. Well, what about toast and an egg, Major? The young and greedy,” he added, with a glance at the remnants of Bobby's meal, “probably have two and expect the British taxpayer to stand for their gluttony.”

Bobby hesitated for a moment between the dictates of a naturally kind heart and that profound instinct which leads us all to wish that others should fall into the trap wherein we ourselves have been taken. But his good heart won and he told them about that toast, compared with which cold steel and toughened iron were but as melting butter.

So they thanked him, and Bobby unostentatiously allowed his bill to drift away towards the Superintendent's plate, just in case Mitchell felt inclined to pay it and include it in that expense sheet which, when submitted by superintendents, suffers so little from the red ink that fairly floods those of lesser men.

Neither Superintendent nor Chief Constable seemed hungry, however, and, their brief meal dispatched, Major Markham produced his cigar-case and offered it to Mitchell, who, however, begged to be allowed this time to be excused, as his doctor had recently confined him to an allowance already exceeded. But he hinted benevolently that his young assistant, Owen, always enjoyed a good cigar. A little surprised at such thoughtfulness on the part of his senior officer, Bobby accepted one from the case the Major thereupon offered, and Mitchell smiled more benevolently still and offered a light.

“Import 'em myself,” said the Major proudly, and only then did Bobby realise that what he had accepted was a cheroot of almost unimaginable strength, a strength before which Jack Dempsey or Carnera would have seemed mere babes and weaklings. “Nothing like 'em in the country,” added the Major, even more proudly.

“I tried to get some of the same sort,” confessed Mitchell. “I was told they were hard to get, being chiefly stored for use to wake any of the dead who mayn't notice the last trump.”

Major Markham perpended.

“I don't see why,” he announced finally.

“I think Owen does,” observed Mitchell. “Will you give him his instructions while he's enjoying his smoke? Do you know, I think I'll defy the doctor and have a cigarette. One little cigarette can't hurt me, and I can't stand seeing you two enjoying a smoke the way you are and me not.”

“I'll remember this cigar,” Bobby confessed, “till my dying day.”

“I'll give you another before you go,” promised the Major, much gratified.

“About his instructions,” suggested Mitchell again.

“Well, it's this way,” began the Major, and hesitated. “You see,” he said and stopped. “The fact is–” he commenced again, and subsided once more into silence.

Yes, sir, said Bobby, laying down his cheroot with an air of intense interest.

“Now, now, Owen,” Mitchell warned him, “don't get carried away and forget your cigar. A good cigar is spoilt by re-lighting.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, with a malignant look at his superior that the superior returned with a sweet and gentle smile.

“What we actually want you to do,” Major Markham continued slowly, “as Mr. Mitchell has been good enough to lend you to us, is to go and stay for a month or six weeks or so with a Mr. George Winterton. He's a retired business man; former stockbroker, I believe; quite well off, interested in crosswords and economics – he s writing a book on economics, he says, and crossword puzzles are his great hobby. He has a house overlooking Suffby Cove. Fairview, it's called.”

“As much bathing, fishing, boating as you like,” said Mitchell enthusiastically. “Jobs like that never came my way when I was a youngster.”

“No, sir,” said Bobby, waiting patiently to know where the snag was.

“Mr. Winterton's a bachelor,” the Major went on. “There's a butler and housekeeper – man and wife they are – and there's a gardener whose wife helps in the house. A girl comes in every day from the village, and there's a secretary, a Miss Raby, who lives in the house and helps with the book. There are three nephews – Colin Ross, Miles Winterton, and James Matthews. Miles Winterton is an engineer, a P.W. man, but out of a job at present. He is staying with his uncle till something turns up, I suppose. Colin Ross is a racing man, and seems to use his uncle's house as headquarters, staying there when he's not attending race-meetings. I gather he pays for his keep by putting his uncle on a good thing occasionally. James Matthews seems the black sheep of the family, as he's an artist and lives in Paris.”

Major Markham evidently felt that, having said this, he had said all. But Bobby felt there must be more to come, for so far there seemed no reason why the assistance of Scotland Yard should have been invoked.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Well, you see,” continued the Major, “it sounds rather absurd, but he's applied for police protection...”

“And as he has a pal who's an M.P., sits for a London constituency,” observed Mitchell darkly – for, though he was a kindly man, and could run in a burglar or a pickpocket as though he loved him, yet he did draw the line at M.P.s, concerning whom his cherished theory was that as soon as elected they should be sent to serve their term, not at Westminster, but at Dartmoor. “Then they couldn't do any harm or ask any questions either,” he used to say. He added now, still more darkly: “You know what M.P.s are, getting up in the House and wanting to know, and then there's an urgent memo from the Home Office.”

“I don't think,” observed Major Markham, a little coldly – for he had visions of being an M.P. himself some day – “that that affects the case. Every citizen has a right to ask for protection. As it happened, however, there wasn't one of my own men I could send very well. There would have been a risk of his being recognised; and then there is another reason as well. So I asked Mr. Mitchell to arrange to lend me one of his best men–”

“I had to explain,” interposed Mitchell quickly, “I hadn't one available; so he said, well, practically anyone would do, and so then I thought of you, Owen.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bobby meekly.

“You're to be,” explained Major Markham, “the son of an old business friend of Mr. Winterton's. He hasn't met you before, but for your father's sake he is anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“I see, sir,” said Owen, “but I don't quite understand what he wants protection against.”

“Against murder,” Major Markham answered; and the word had a strange, grim sound in the peace of that quiet garden, where the roses and the honeysuckle grew in such profusion, where it seemed the still and scented air should be troubled by nothing worse than the buzz of a passing wasp or the hum of a hungry gnat. “Against murder,” Major Markham repeated; “it seems he thinks that last month, when he lost his brother, that was murder.”

Even Mitchell, a man not easily reduced to silence, whose career had made him familiar with many tragedies, seemed to feel the chill that word imposed upon the warm summer afternoon. He made no comment, but shivered slightly and sat quiet and still; nor was it now of set purpose that Bobby allowed that deadly cheroot of his to lie forgotten on the table. Not till this silence had lasted two or three minutes did Major Markham continue his story.

“The verdict was ‘accidentally drowned,'” he went on then. “On the evidence given, no other was possible. When Mr. Winterton and his brother, Archibald Winterton – they were twins, by the way – retired from business, they settled at Suffby, George buying the house, Fairview, on the west shore of Suffby Cove and Archibald building one for himself across the Cove, at the southern extremity of Suffby Point. They lived in good style; had done well as stockbrokers, I understand. Suffby was chiefly Archibald's choice; he was fond of the sea, loved swimming, fishing, sailing. Every morning very early, he used to go down to a little beach near his home for a swim before breakfast. Bathing is perfectly safe in the Cove and quite safe off the Point, provided you don't go too far out, when, at the turn of the tide, there's a strong current runs down the coast. Archibald knew all that quite well, of course, and had the reputation of being a prudent as well as a strong swimmer. Two months ago he went for his usual swim, and never came back. Three weeks later his body was found by fishermen twenty miles down the coast.”

The Major paused, and Bobby asked:

“There were no marks of violence on the body?”

“Well, after three weeks in the water...” Major Markham answered. “Still, the doctors were all agreed that death had been caused by drowning, and that the injuries to the body had almost certainly been caused after death. Probably he had swum out too far; got caught in the current or had an attack of cramp. Impossible to say what really happened, but the jury returned the only verdict possible. There's one difficulty. The tide didn't turn that morning, and therefore the current wouldn't begin to run strongly, till more than an hour after he must have entered the water; in fact, not till some time after the alarm had been given and he had been missed. He had probably gone down for his swim earlier than usual on account of the state of the tide. He used to do that, apparently; he would go either earlier or later than his usual time, according to how the current would be running; he used to note the tides carefully every day.”

“Sometimes it is the most careful man who makes the worst slip,” observed Mitchell, “like the story of the man who was always careful to wash his cherries before eating them, but one day forgot and drank the water he had rinsed them in, and so caught cholera and died. Besides, anything might account for it – cramp or heart failure or anything like that.”

“Both the brothers were exceptionally big, strong men, extremely healthy,” the Major observed. “Still, the jury took the view that something like that must have happened. I certainly agreed with them. Also, there seems no reason why anyone should have wished to murder him.”

“Does Mr. George Winterton give any reason for suspecting foul play?” Bobby asked.

‘‘Nothing you can lay hold of,” answered the Major, a little hesitatingly. “I admit he impressed me. I was inclined not to take him very seriously at first. But he meant it. He believes it all right enough. Then he looked at me and said: ‘I'll be the next, very likely.' Well, he meant that, too. But he wouldn't give any explanation. He seemed to me – well, resigned, if you know what I mean. I asked him if he suspected anyone, and he said he didn't. He kept on talking about what a strong, experienced swimmer his brother was, and how careful. When there was any real risk, he never went far outside the Cove. I put it to him there was no way any foul play could have been carried out. There were no signs of struggle. An Airedale dog Archibald always took with him was found lying quite placidly on the sand waiting for its master to return. It's a dog that's very quiet and friendly with anyone it knows, but it barks its head off at the sight of any stranger. If it had barked at all, it would certainly have been heard at the house and certainly have started Mrs. Winterton's poms barking too – she has two or three of them. His clothing hadn't been touched, either; and his gold watch – rather a valuable one – and a diamond ring he wore, but always took off before he went into the water, were quite safe. A thermos flask with hot coffee he used to take down with him for a warm drink after he came out of the water was there just as usual.”

“There was no footprint unaccounted for, I suppose?” Bobby asked.

“I can't be sure about that. The place had been well trampled over by people from the house and from the village, anxious to help after the alarm was given, before any of my men got there. But I think the evidence of the dog is conclusive that no stranger had been near. Finally, after a good deal of talk, it came out that he had had a dream – George I mean, of course.”

“A dream?” repeated Bobby.

 “So he said,” answered the Major, almost apologetically. “One can understand his brother's tragic death was a terrible shock to them all. The widow has gone to stay with some relatives. I don't much suppose she and the children will ever come back here. Probably the property will be sold; I've heard a London syndicate are after it to put up a big hotel and develop the place for golf and so on. Not that you would have expected a man like George Winterton – a fine, big, healthy fellow, as strong and active as anyone half his age; hard-headed business man, too – to start worrying about dreams.” The Major paused and smiled a little. “Mrs. Cooper did tell me she had given him crab salad for supper that evening,” he added, his smile broadening.

“Who is Mrs. Cooper, sir?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, she's the wife of the butler, a very capable woman – runs the house like clockwork, and her husband too, and I think Winterton himself into the bargain. But he says it's worth putting up with a little bossing at times to have the house organised like an up-to-date factory. And then she's not like some housekeepers; she doesn't sulk if the routine's upset. Winterton told me once he thought she rather liked it if he brought back half a dozen unexpected guests from the golf-club to dinner. It gave her a chance to show her powers of resource – the artist exercising his functions, you know.”

“Must be a wonder,” observed Mitchell, with some slight show of emotion. “Mrs. Mitchell might allow me to bring home one man without warning, or even two at a pinch – but half a dozen. There's reason in all things,” he said.