The Sussex Downs Murder (13 page)

On the other hand, it was equally certain that he had not spent his week-ends sitting under the bushes by the river. Why had he come to that remote spot? How had he disappeared? Were these strange week-ends connected with the motive for his subsequent murder? Had some blackmailer got his talons into him? Had he been murdered because, driven to desperation, his blackmailer had threatened exposure?

“I should like to meet this chap Ferris and anybody else that you think could give me any information,” Meredith said to Thornton. “Will you show me around?”

“Sure,” said Thornton.

But Jake Ferris and the other cottage dwellers along the roadside could do little to solve the mystery. Ferris upheld that he had often noticed Rother passing his windows on a Saturday afternoon. He had also seen him returning about nine o'clock on a Sunday night on his way to Thornton's garage. Thornton declared that Rother usually called in for his car between nine and ten on Sunday evening. Yes—he always carried that suit-case. On one occasion Ferris had watched him walking up the road toward Bramber. The man had turned once or twice and looked back over his shoulder, as if suspicious of the fact that he was being watched. Ferris had eventually lost sight of him round a bend in the road. Other cottagers corroborated Jake's evidence. But that was all. Meredith was disappointed.

“What's the name of the bus service which covers this route?” he asked Thornton as they drove back to the garage.

“South Downland,” replied Thornton.

“Headquarters?”

“Station Road, Brighton.”

“Thanks, Mr. Thornton. Very kind of you to waste so much of your valuable time. I'm hoping your information may lead us somewhere.”

“Justice,” orated Tim Thornton. “That's all I want. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. They're my sentiments in a nutshell. You can't go against fate, but you can level things up with, what might be called, Fate's Travelling Representative. The moment I saw that poor devil come into my garage something inside me went click. To an ordinary chap it's difficult to explain—but, as I said before, I've got a psychic—”

But Meredith was already waving an arm of farewell from a hundred yards up the road.

“Left at the toll-bridge,” he ordered Hawkins. “I want to go to Brighton.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Man In the Sun-Glasses

Pending the discovery of Janet Rother, Meredith was decidedly interested in this new phase of his investigations. He was now approaching the first murder, not from the viewpoint of what had happened after John Rother's death, but from the more hazy viewpoint of what had happened before. He was trying, in fact, to forge a link between John and the Cloaked Man. That these strange week-ends might have something to do with his subsequent death was already a strong possibility. Here was a man disappearing, it seemed, for nearly two days out of the seven, with nobody so far able to suggest where he had been. Barnet had been led to believe that John visited friends at Brighton, but surely that idea was now discredited? Instead of continuing along the road which eventually ran into that popular resort, Rother had parked his car in a garage and set off on foot in the direction of Steyning. Why? Another woman, other than his brother's wife? But surely Rother could have arranged a less conspicuous way of approaching her?

A second explanation was that of blackmail. Perhaps Rother was being forced to make weekly contacts with some scoundrel who had him under his thumb, in order to pay the various instalments of his “silence” money. But again it seemed a very thoughtless method of approach when his one idea would be to keep the thing hushed up.

Whatever the explanation for his actions, thought Meredith, it was dead certain that Rother was up to some sort of secret business. For one thing he had deliberately misled Barnet and the others up at Chalklands by suggesting that these week-ends were spent in Brighton. It seemed pretty obvious now that they were not—at least not wholly.

Again, according to the evidence of all the cottagers along the river-side road, Rother had been last seen walking on the way to Bramber or Steyning. Now, Meredith knew from a study of his road-map that there was a far more direct route from Washington to those particular villages. It ran along round the broad base of Chanctonbury Ring and was a mere matter of four miles or so. Instead of taking this obvious route Rother had elected to make a détour through Findon, Sompting, and Lancing, a journey covering at least fifteen miles. Now, if Rother wanted to reach either Bramber or Steyning without people knowing, it was certain that he wouldn't have taken the shorter route because of the danger of being recognized by persons who lived in the locality. Again, since he had hinted at Brighton, it was up to him to preserve the illusion by starting off along the Brighton road. But it still remained for Meredith to put forward a likely reason for these week-ends over which Rother was so mysteriously reserved.

One point struck Meredith at once. Important, as he saw it. Perhaps a vital clue in his hoped-for solution of the crimes. The blood-stained cloak and the broad-brimmed hat had been found by that child at a spot on the downs above Steyning itself. In other words, after John Rother had been battered to death, the unknown man had made straight tracks in the Bramber-Steyning direction. This fact, coupled with Rother's strange appearance over week-ends in that same district, surely was suggestive of two further important facts. One—that the Cloaked Man probably lived in one of the villages named. Two—that Rother had visited him there in secret. These two facts were in a way interdependent on each other. Prove the validity of one fact and the other was proved valid as a matter of course. Meredith decided that it might be profitable to pursue a few inquiries in Bramber and Steyning, to see if Rother had been recognized there any Saturday or Sunday.

In the meanwhile he had better follow up Thornton's evidence by cross-questioning the men who worked the Brighton-Steyning bus route.

Meredith had little difficulty in finding the headquarters of the South Downland Omnibus Co. Their premises occupied an imposing frontage in Station Road at Brighton and the interior of the vast garage was crowded with the familiar blue-and-cream buses.

After a short wait Meredith got in touch with the manager, explained the reason for his visit, and asked for a word with the men on that particular route.

The manager glanced up at the garage clock.

“Well, they're not due in for another ten minutes, but if you care to wait—”

“Thanks. I will. How many men are employed on that run?”

“Only two,” explained the manager. “It's a shuttle-service. One bus. Brown's the name of the driver and Gill's his mate. We don't find it necessary to run a shift as the service is not particularly frequent. The men get plenty of time for rest and meals in between their journeys.”

“And you make no change over the week-ends?”

“Not as a rule. Only when the men's annual holiday makes it necessary.”

“I see. Thanks. Now don't you worry about me. I'll potter around until the bus comes in.”

In less than ten minutes the single-decker swung in through the gigantic sliding-doors and came to a standstill. The two men were just climbing down when Meredith crossed over and intercepted them. He stated his business with his usual conciseness and began his cross-examination.

“Now what about your Saturday afternoon runs? Are you anywhere near the toll-bridge round about three o'clock?”

Brown, the driver, nodded.

“Yes—we're scheduled to reach the cross-roads there at 3.25.”

“Arriving at Bramber?”

“Three-forty-three to be exact.”

“Now from the description I gave you just now can either of you swear to having seen this man Rother on the road at any point between the toll-bridge and Bramber between the times you mentioned?”

“No,” said Brown after a moment's thought. “I for one can't say I have.”

“And you?”

Gill, the conductor, shook his head.

“Nor me. Chaps out that way have been talking, too, so I've had plenty of time to think the matter over. I reckon, too, that if that fellow Rother
was
on the road at that time I should have noticed him. Particular if he was carrying a suit-case. 'Tisn't often you get a chap in plus-fours walking along a lonely road with a suit-case, is it? See my point?”

“Exactly,” agreed Meredith with a nod of approval. “Now, since you're an observant chap, tell me this, have you ever picked up a regular fare at any point along that stretch of road on a Saturday afternoon?”

Gill pondered the question carefully and then said tentatively: “Well, there's that queer old josser who often gets on outside the Cement Works, eh, Jim?”

Brown enlarged: “Yes—there is 'im, of course. Though I don't see that he'd be of any interest to the Superintendent here. Mild little fellow. Wouldn't 'urt a fly.”

Meredith, always on the alert for even the remotest clue, pricked up his ears.

“Don't you worry—
any
bit of evidence, however slight it may seem to you, may be of use to us. I'd like to hear more about this old fellow. Well?”

“Well,” began Gill glibly, “we've often picked this chap up as I say on a Saturday. I noticed him particular because he was unlike the ordinary run of folk that we get on that route. Learned sort of bloke, I should say. He always wears one of them old-fashioned Norfolk jackets what I used to wear as a kid. Tight sort of breeches, too, such as you don't often see these days. More often than not he'd be carrying a couple of musty-looking books under his arm, which he'd read in the bus. But his eyes must have been weak because he'd hold the print only a couple of inches or so from his nose. Wore a pair of them tinted sun-glasses, too. Not a talkative gent by any manner of means. Just an exchange about the weather, that's all I'd get out of him. Sometimes he had a butterfly-net with him and a sort of little case slung on a strap over his shoulder. Naturalist we reckoned he was, didn't we, Jim?”

As Gill's description evolved Meredith's interest had quickened to a rare excitement. The very queerness of the character which Gill had so accurately pictured was enough to arouse his suspicions. The old-fashioned garments, the books, the butterfly-net, the tinted glasses, the old chap's obvious dislike of conversation—these facts cried aloud to a man who had spent half his life in dealing with crime. The implication was obvious.

He rapped out: “These Cement Works—where are they exactly?”

“About a mile and a half outside Bramber.”

“Any houses near?”

“None.”

“Then where do you reckon the old chap came from?”

“Ah,” said Brown, “that's just it. I asked Fred here the same question, but when we saw the butterfly-net we thought he must have walked down off the hills.”

“Where did he get out?”

“Bramber.”

“Ever pick him up during the winter?”

“Once or twice—yes.”

Meredith laughed. “He must have found it pretty nippy up on the downs round about Christmas, eh?”

“By George—that
is
a point!” exclaimed Gill. “Where did he come from in the winter? Never thought of that.”

“Ever take him back about eight or nine on a Sunday night?” asked Meredith, hammering out his questions now as fast as he could think.

The two men looked at each other and nodded.

“You did?” snapped Meredith, barely able to control his immense elation. “Pick him up again in Bramber?”

“Yes.”

“And dropped him?”

“As before—at the Cement Works.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Meredith, unable to keep the broad grin off his face. “I don't mind telling you men that you've handed out the biggest chunk of useful information which has come my way since I started this darned investigation. You've given me a whole heap to think about. There's just one other point—I suppose you never noticed if this old chap was ever met by anybody when he got off the bus in Bramber?”

“Never,” said Gill. “Certain of it.”

“Well,” said Meredith briskly, “I won't take up any more of your lunch-hour. I'd just like to jot down a full description of this man in my notebook while it's fresh in my memory and I'd like to have your private addresses for future reference. Now let's see if I've got it right? Norfolk jacket,” he wrote. “Tight old-fashioned breeches. Stockings, I suppose? Yes. Hat? Panama in summer. Thanks. Soft tweed hat in winter. Good. Tinted sun-glasses. Any beard or moustache? Grey droopy moustaches. Excellent. Shortish with a slight stoop. Broad-shouldered. Well, I think that's fairly—here, half a moment though. Did you happen to notice if the colour of his hair matched his moustaches? I see. You didn't because his hat covered the whole of his head. Well, that's just what I wanted. You've helped a lot.” Meredith held out his hand. “Lucky for us that some people don't go about the world with their eyes closed. Good-day.”

Meredith strode quickly to where Hawkins was waiting with the car and vaulted lightly into the seat.

“Lunch! And step on it, Hawkins. There's a good place down on the front. We're going to celebrate.”

“Good news, sir?”

“Headline stuff, m'lad.”

“Somebody going to swing for it, sir?”

“Don't be so blasted morbid, Hawkins—you'll spoil my appetite. No—we're not as far as that yet, but, by Jove, we're on the way—we're well on the way!”

So that was why John Rother had disappeared? Simple, of course. Obvious now that it was the only really plausible explanation, but like a good number of plausible explanations obvious only because certain facts had been thrust under his nose. Half a mile from the toll-bridge John Rother vanishes. A mile and a half from Bramber a broad-shouldered, shortish naturalist with tinted sun-glasses suddenly appears on the road. And if that wasn't suggestive then Meredith didn't know the meaning of the word. Gill's precise description shrieked aloud of disguise. It was curious how people were inclined to overdress when called upon to play the false part in a dual-role. Those dark glasses, for example, the musty books. Yes, thought Meredith, poor old Rother had rather underlined his mild but untalkative bug-hunter. He had been artful but not quite artful enough. Unlike a true artist, he had not learnt what to leave out.

“It may interest you to know, Hawkins,” said Meredith over their excellent lunch, “that Rother seems to have been acting a double role before he met that packet of trouble under Cissbury.”

“John or William, sir?”

“John. It appears he had a rendezvous of some sort with an unknown person in the village of Bramber. He used to visit the place during weekends disguised as a naturalist. Question is—why did he find it necessary to take such a precaution? What sort of shady business was he mixed up in?”

“Counterfeiting. Illicit distilling. Blackmail. Women,” recited Hawkins with the glibness of one familiar with all and every sort of crime. “Probably women, sir.”

“Bit near home for that kind of thing, surely?” argued Meredith. “I reckon somebody must have had a hold over our friend Rother, otherwise he wouldn't have risked walking about in disguise only five miles or so from Chalklands. I still uphold that he was being blackmailed by the man in the cloak. Question is—why was he being blackmailed?”

“Women,” said Hawkins promptly.

Meredith laughed.

“You've got a one-track mind, my boy. Not that I disagree with you. How about this for a theory? X—that is the man in the cloak—knew something pretty intimate about his relationship with Janet Rother. He threatened to tell his brother, William. John gets the wind up and, like so many of his kidney, starts putting his hand in his pocket. X suggests that John shall make contact with him at Bramber, as he naturally refuses to divulge his own address or receive anything incriminating through the post. John, fearing to be recognized in the village and frightened of gossip, decides to adopt this somewhat obvious disguise. He may have rented a cottage in Bramber so that X can visit him without causing comment. That we can find out, of course. Eventually fed up with paying out, John threatens to expose X to the police. X arranges a final meeting under Cissbury, perhaps with the promise of handing over some material evidence such as a letter or photograph, and there murders him. How's that, Hawkins?”