The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (8 page)

“Yes, I quite see that, sir.”

“Well?”

“Well, what, sir?”

“Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?”

Meredith looked utterly blank for a moment, then suddenly he slapped his thigh and let out a brisk exclamation.

“By Jove, sir! I see what you’re driving at now! You think Clayton might have been mixed up with some sort of shady business and was trying to back out?”

“That’s precisely what I
do
mean,” replied Colonel Hardwick with a twinkle in his eye. “Clayton, as I see it, was just about to marry a decent girl, who probably knew nothing about the illegal business in the background. He wanted to make a clean break with the gang. So without telling anybody, except the girl and her parents, he books a couple of passages for Canada. Unfortunately, the gang get to hear about this, with the result that Clayton is found murdered.”

At the conclusion of the Chief Constable’s speech the Superintendent, who up to the moment had played the role of audience, now took it upon himself to add a few enlightening comments.

“To my way of thinking, the fact that Clayton didn’t tell Higgins about his intended flit to Canada is pretty suggestive. You would imagine, since they lived together, and had done so apparently for some years, that Higgins would be his closest confidant. According to you, Inspector, this wasn’t the case. I rather think Higgins gave himself away there. It was a case of over-caution. If Higgins is one of the gang, as I rather imagine he must be, he would have done better to have said that he
did
know about those steamship bookings. That would have looked as if Clayton had confided in him. But Higgins probably argued rather like this—the gang have decided to do away with Clayton because he is trying to make a get-away. If I say that I knew he was making for Canada, then I shall probably get incriminated in the murder. Therefore—mum’s the word.”

The Chief Constable assented.

“There’s certainly something in that. We know, of course, that Higgins wasn’t the actual murderer, but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be an accessory both before and after the fact. Provided, of course, that our theory holds water. The question is, does it?”

“Well, sir,” put in Meredith respectfully, “it would help to explain away that two thousand pounds, wouldn’t it?”

“I never thought of that!” exclaimed the chief. “Naturally, it would.”

“On the other hand,” said the Superintendent with a wry smile, “we are not much nearer to finding out who
did
murder Clayton, are we? You agree, sir, that this is only theory and that theory is the devil’s own way from fact.”

“On the other hand, Thompson, what about the matter which you brought to my notice this morning? I think the Inspector should know about that. After all, it
may
have some bearing on this Clayton affair or it may be a simple matter of coincidence. Anyhow, let’s run over the facts of that particular case again.”

CHAPTER VI

SENSATIONAL VERDICT

T
HE
Superintendent drew up another chair to the desk and took a tiny sheaf of press cuttings out of his wallet. These he spread out neatly before him, whilst the Inspector pulled out his note-book and pencil and settled himself to jot down anything of importance.

“Now,” said the Chief Constable, leaning back in Meredith’s bentwood chair and stretching out his legs.

“Well, first of all, Inspector, I’ll give the facts of the case in my own words, then afterwards you can run your eye over these contemporary newspaper cuttings. I want you to bear the facts of Clayton’s murder in your mind all the time. Understand?”

“Right, sir.”

“To begin with, do you know a place called Hursthole Point?”

“I believe I do, sir. It’s on the west side of Bassenthwaite, isn’t it?”

“That’s the idea. It’s a little promontory that sticks out into the lake. Well, a little over three years ago the body of a middle-aged man was taken out of the water at this point. It was seen floating on the surface by a workman from a railway carriage. You probably know that the railway line runs close along the edge of the west bank. Beyond the railway runs the Keswick–Cockermouth road, an alternative route to going over the Whinlatter pass. Well, we made inquiries into the matter and as far as we could see it looked like a clear case of suicide. The body had been in the water about three days and there were no external signs of violence. A rope had been tied round the man’s waist and attached, as far as we could gather, to a large stone or some other heavy object. Whatever it was, it had slipped from the rope, and the body had risen to the surface. Now, there was one point which puzzled me at the time. The man had all four fingers of his left hand missing. I don’t mean that they had been recently severed. According to the doctor’s evidence, the accident, or whatever it was, had probably happened some few years before. Now, the rope was tied securely round the waist with a perfectly executed double clove-hitch—a complicated knot at the best of times. The question I immediately asked myself was, ‘How had this man with no left fingers managed to tie that knot?’ The point, of course, was brought up at the inquest and a pretty lengthy argument ensued as to whether it was possible or not. The jury eventually came to the conclusion that it
was
possible and a verdict of suicide whilst of unsound mind was brought in.

“Now, the reason I’ve dragged this skeleton out of the police archives is this: Peterson—that was the man’s name—was in partnership in a garage. He wasn’t a mechanic, because of his mutilated left hand, but he served the petrol pumps, looked after the accounts and so on. His partner, a fellow called Wick, naturally came under my observation, and I don’t mind confessing that I took an immediate dislike to the man. I had nothing positive against him. He was away at the time of the tragedy and we couldn’t do anything to shake his alibi. But for all that, my instinct insisted that he was a wrong ‘un. I can’t say whether I was justified or not in my suspicions. As a matter of fact, Wick still runs the place—single-handed, I believe. I expect you’ve noticed the building on an isolated stretch of the road beside the lake?”

“The Lothwaite, sir?”

“That’s the place, and those briefly are the facts of the case. You see the similarity between the two tragedies? In each case the men are partners in a garage business. In both cases the garages are isolated. Both Wick and Higgins impress themselves on us as suspicious characters. Whether there is anything in this or not I can’t say. But you see how it supports the Chief’s theory that there may be some sort of criminal gang behind these two mysteries?”

The Inspector nodded slowly. As he had not been attached to the district at the time, he had heard nothing about this previous case, but now that he knew the facts his brain was already working full speed ahead to further the link between the two crimes.

“There’s just one point, sir. Do you remember if this man, Peterson, left any money? I mean, a decent little pile.”

The Superintendent grinned.

“I guessed you were going to ask that, Inspector. And I’ve got the answer ready for you. He did! A considerable amount. Round about one thousand five hundred pounds, if I remember rightly.” He turned to the Chief Constable. “You see, sir, I hadn’t mentioned this point before because it was only a few moments back that the Inspector informed us about Clayton’s little nest-egg.”

“Well, it only goes to make the coincidence more remarkable,” was the Chief Constable’s observation. “I don’t want to be unduly optimistic—it’s a dangerous policy—but I’m inclined to believe that we’ve hit on something. And something pretty big by the look of it.”

Meredith hastened to agree and for some few minutes the trio continued to discuss the strange similarity of the two cases. Finally, after glancing at his watch, the Chief Constable rose from his chair and intimated that it was time he was on his way.

“And the future of the case, sir?” asked the Inspector.

“I’ve already made up my mind on that point, Meredith. I don’t think we are justified in applying to the Home Office for a Yard man. After all, you know the district and all the facts of the case are in your possession, so I see no reason why you shouldn’t handle the case yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have a certain amount to go on,” continued the Chief Constable, “and I daresay that notice of yours in the local papers will bring somebody forward. In my opinion, you want to find out who exactly was in the vicinity of the garage between the hours of seven-thirty and, say, ten-thirty. Then run the tape over them. Let’s see, the mid-weekly editions come out on Wednesday, don’t they?”

“That’s it, sir—to-morrow. And I shouldn’t be surprised if we know something more inside another twenty-four hours.”

“Quite. Well, I can’t do more than wish you luck with the case, Meredith. Just one piece of advice—stick at it. It’s the only way to get results.”

As the little group moved toward the door the Superintendent added: “By the way, I’ve left those cuttings. You’ll find them interesting. If I were you, I should take a look at the Lothwaite as soon as you can. I shall be over in time for the inquest to-morrow, Inspector.”

As soon as the big, blue saloon had purred off in the direction of Carlisle, Meredith strode back energetically to his office and threw himself into the task of drawing up a clear and comprehensive report of his investigations. He was pleased and rather flattered by the confidence which the Chief had placed in his ability. More than ever he was determined to get to the root of the problem—not only the problem of Clayton’s death but the mystery which surrounded the source of that £2,000. Already he was beginning to think that the two problems might be in some way connected. And further, that the tragedy at the Derwent was in some inexplicable way linked up with the two-year-old tragedy at the Lothwaite.

After a hurried lunch at his home in Greystoke Road, the Inspector returned to the police station. There he spent the afternoon making a methodical examination of every exhibit connected with the crime. He tested the nine-foot length of hose-pipe and the fish-tail end of the exhaust for finger-prints, also the mackintosh which had been placed over Clayton’s head. But, as he had expected, without result. The modern criminal, profiting by the bitter experience of his predecessors, has a penchant for rubber-gloves when engaged in any nefarious business! But Meredith was leaving nothing to chance. He even re-examined every article which he had taken from the pockets of the dead man. But again his efforts proved fruitless, and at six o’clock he returned home a trifle depressed.

On Wednesday, after a morning’s routine work, he lunched at Greystoke Road and hurried off to join the Superintendent in the crowded little court-room. Punctually at two-thirty the Coroner took his place at the head of the long table and, after the jury had been sworn in, the inquest began.

From beginning to end the proceedings followed a course which Meredith had anticipated. Mark Higgins identified the body. Luke Perryman, very stiff and formal in his black Sabbath suit, described how he had discovered the dead body of Clayton in the car. Meredith then explained how Perryman had driven, at once, to the police station and how he had returned with a witness to the scene of the tragedy. He then endorsed the farmer’s statement as to the position of the body and enlarged on the apparatus by which the deceased had evidently met his death.

So far it was all stale news to the public, but then came the doctor’s evidence.

“The cause of death, you say, was asphyxia due to the inhalation of carbon monoxide gas?” observed the Coroner. “From your examination of the body, did you infer that the deceased had put an end to his own life, Dr. Burney?”

“That certainly was my first impression.”

“What do you mean by your ‘first’ impression? Had you any reason later on to alter your opinion as to the cause of death?”

“Not entirely. But I was asked, in conjunction with Dr. White here, to make an autopsy. It appears that the police were dissatisfied with the results of the external examination.”

For the first time a shiver of anticipation ran over the crowd.

“But why were the police dissatisfied?” asked the Coroner, glaring with a puzzled expression through his horn-rimmed glasses. Inspector Meredith got quickly to his feet. “Well, Inspector?”

“I think I can explain that point, sir.”

In a few words Meredith set out his evidence about the waiting meal, the melted kettle, the burning light and the unexpectedly clean hands of the deceased. He also stressed the entire absence of motive for suicide, making mention of Clayton’s plans for the future, the fact that he was about to be married and his entire freedom from financial straits.

“With this evidence to hand, sir, we felt justified in demanding a
post mortem
.”

“I see,” mused the Coroner. “Very well, Inspector. You may stand down.” He turned to the Doctor. “Now, Doctor Burney, will you be good enough to let us know the result of this autopsy?”

“Certainly. We found thirty grains of trional in the stomach and intestines.”

The sensation in the court-room was profound. Although most of the audience hadn’t the slightest idea as to the nature of trional, they judged that the proceedings were about to take an unexpected and exciting twist. The Coroner had to rap once or twice with his gavel before silence could be restored.

“And what did that suggest to you, Doctor?”

“It pointed to the fact that the deceased had been drugged and, according to our findings, only a short time before the tragedy was discovered.”

“Would there be any point in the deceased taking the drug himself?”

“None, as far as I can see. He had to seat himself in the car and start up the engine
before
the drug took effect. He had also to place the mackintosh over his head and introduce the hose-pipe beneath it. The carbon monoxide fumes would have rendered him unconscious almost at once. So, in my opinion, there was absolutely no need for the drug to have been self-administered.”