The Sussex Downs Murder (15 page)

“But why should it be found in the cottage of the chap that was murdered?” asked Hawkins.

“How the deuce should I know?” retorted Meredith. “It rather suggests that John Rother did come here to meet the Cloaked Man. Strikes me my blackmail theory is going to hold water after all.” Meredith rose; snatched up a piece of newspaper and carefully wrapped up the flimsy exhibit. “Well, I don't think we can do much good by hanging on here any longer. You'd better get those statements from the Vicar and the milkman, Fletcher, just to make sure that the various descriptions of Mr. Jeremy Reed tally up. We're going back to headquarters, Hawkins.”

The Superintendent walked down to the car and left the others to lock the place up again. A minute or so later Hawkins, who had bolted the scullery door on the inside and got out through the upper window, climbed into the driving-seat and headed the car for Lewes.

Meredith was deeply puzzled. It seemed certain now that John Rother, alias Jeremy Reed, had been visited at Brook Cottage by the man who was destined to murder him. It was unfortunate, of course, that nobody had caught a glimpse of this sinister visitor. But if he only put in an appearance at night that was perfectly understandable. What really perplexed Meredith was the fact that a little bit of incriminating evidence had been partially destroyed in the very last place that one would expect to find it. Why had the Cloaked Man—assuming that it was he who had visited Rother—chosen to burn the catalogue at Brook Cottage? Did it mean that the murderer had visited the place
after
John Rother's death?

At first Meredith was inclined to dismiss this possibility as being too risky. Then suddenly he remembered something—something he knew about the movements of the Cloaked Man. According to the Hound's Oak shepherd, the stranger had been making for the open down in the direction of Steyning. The little girl had discovered the blood-stained cloak and the broad-brimmed hat on the hills above Steyning. Steyning and Bramber were adjacent villages. Didn't it rather look as if the murderer had made straight tracks for Brook Cottage as soon as it was dark? After all, could there have been a more perfect hide-out? He knew he was safe from interruption there because Rother was already dead. He knew by associating with Rother that the villagers had given up any attempts to visit the cottage. What more God-sent haven could a fugitive have asked for?

And wait a minute!—what about this? Meredith's inward excitement grew as his thoughts flowed faster. Why shouldn't the Cloaked Man have adopted Jeremy Reed's disguise and used the cottage as a hide-out until he could make his arrangements for getting away—probably the night after the second murder had been committed? He could easily have purchased a facsimile outfit, breeches, Norfolk jacket, dark glasses, and everything, and hidden these things previously on the hill-side where he had discarded his cloak. When he had visited John Rother he would have had plenty of opportunity to record every detail of his make-up as Jeremy Reed. Then, if by any unlucky chance anybody had noticed him passing through the village on the night of the first murder, they would merely think it was the eccentric naturalist having a midnight prowl after moths.

This new idea was reassuring. There was a more than plausible ring about it. It meant, of course, the adoption of an earlier theory, that Janet and the Cloaked Man were working hand in hand. It meant that Rother's body had been dissected on a rubber sheet among the gorse bushes. The Hillman driven out to meet Janet on the Findon-Washington road, Janet acting as guide to the Cloaked Man, and the remains being hidden in a metal-lined cabin-trunk somewhere at Chalklands (probably the car inspection-pit) during William's absence on his wild-goose chase to Littlehampton. The Hillman driven back to the spot under Cissbury, and then the Cloaked Man's flit over the downs to enter Brook Cottage as Jeremy Reed the naturalist. And the motive for the double murder—money? Two people stood between Janet and the Rother fortunes—John and her husband. For some reason Janet was intimately connected with the Cloaked Man and between them they had hatched a terrible plot for the sake of the money. Hence Janet's flit to London and her strange request that the ten thousand pounds should be handed over to her in treasury notes. She had probably joined the Cloaked Man there as soon as possible after the inquest on William—the Cloaked Man himself having gone to London directly after the second murder.

A little more than theory this time, thought Meredith. The facts were beginning to fit in. The case was beginning to take shape. He was on the move again!

Chapter Fifteen

The Mysterious Tenant

Back in Lewes, Meredith at once inquired whether the Chief Constable could see him. On receiving an affirmative reply he went along the corridor from his own office, rapped on Major Forest's door and went in. The Chief was standing at the window, staring out with his hands clasped behind his back. It was a typical attitude of his when worried or in a black mood.

“Well?” he snapped, without turning round.

“Meredith, sir—I want to have a word with you about the Rother cases.”

“All right. Take a cigarette and sit down. I've wanted to see you. Not satisfied, you know. Things don't seem to be moving. Half a mind to get in the Yard, Meredith. Sorry, but there it is.”

Meredith suddenly felt angry and depressed. Why, dammit, he was doing all that a man could to hasten along results! It was unfair of the Old Man to drag in the Yard to polish off a case that he himself had slaved on for nearly six weeks. But that was often the case—a County chap did all the spade-work and then, just when a glimmer of daylight appeared, the Yard came in and reaped the benefit.

Swallowing down his annoyance, Meredith said politely:

“Sorry you think that's necessary, sir. Particularly as my investigation's on the move again.”

“But is it, Meredith? Is it? That car was found on July 21st. It's now August 27th. It's certainly time something moved. That Horsham case didn't do us any good, you know. You weren't in on that—granted. But this is a newspaper affair. I've got to have results. If you can't get 'em for me, then I've got to turn to the Yard—see?”

“I quite understand, sir. But with this new evidence—”

“Well, let's hear it,” barked the Chief, plumping himself down into his desk-chair. “I may be able to stave off the evil moment—come on.”

With a careful choice of words Meredith set out, point by point, his final theory about the doings of the Cloaked Man. He stressed the importance of the evidence discovered in Brook Cottage and showed how plausible was the idea that the Cloaked Man, in the disguise of Jeremy Reed, had used the cottage as a hide-out until he had committed the second murder. As he proceeded the worried look on Major Forest's features gradually relaxed, until finally he began to nod and throw in little exclamations of agreement and approval.

“Quite…Quite so…I see that…Yes, of course.…Let's see now—how long was it between the two murders?”

“Just on three weeks, sir. William Rother was discovered dead on August 10th.”

“And you suggest that this unknown man hid away in Brook Cottage for three weeks without being discovered. What about food?”

“Well, Rother apparently had an arrangement with Fortnum and Mason's about that. I presume that their deliveries were continued.”

“A point to find out, Meredith.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There's another thing—what about that sale notice?”

“How do you mean?”

“If there was a board up somebody must have got in touch with the agents about the sale of the cottage. Couldn't have been Rother. He was dead. See what I mean?”

“By Jove, sir! I hadn't thought of that. This chap must have visited the agents.”

“Yes—or left the job to Janet Rother.”

“A bit difficult for them to convince the agents that they had the proper authority, surely, sir?”

“Same point went through my mind. It's up to you to find out how they did it.”

“Quite.”

“Pretty obvious, too, that the agents were not approached until somewhere near August 10th.”

“I don't quite—”

“Simple. Our man wouldn't be such a fool as to run the risk of prospective clients wanting to see over the place while he was using it as a hide-out. I reckon he must have got in touch with the agents on the 9th or thereabouts.”

“I'll follow that up as well, sir.”

“Right. I suggest your line of inquiry should be to find out if anybody noticed whether Brook Cottage was occupied during those three weeks. Interview those agents. Find out about the food deliveries. It depends on what sort of report you put in, Meredith, whether I'm justified in keeping out the Yard. Up to you. Understand?”

“Quite, sir. You agree that this is an advance?”

“Certainly—provided it's in the right direction. You know as well as I do that it's only too easy to advance down a side-track. We want main-road progress. I don't want to dishearten you, Meredith—but it's only fair to let you know what's in my mind.”

Still feeling a little sore, though somewhat relieved by the Chief's promise to hold off from any immediate action, Meredith went back to Arundel Road for lunch. He had warned Hawkins to have the car ready for him at two o'clock.

Over lunch Tony observed to his father:

“See that bird over at Storrington got a lagging for whizzing those sparklers out of old Rushington's peter, Dad.”

Meredith eyed his son with obvious distaste.

“Good heavens—where did you pick that up?”

“Just read a book, Dad—jolly good yarn—it had all the thieves' lingo in it. To whizz means to steal, you know.”

“Really?” said Meredith dryly, with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Yes—and a peter's a safe.”

“So what you're really trying to tell me,” said Meredith, admirably controlling his inward amusement, “is that Slippery Sid has got a stretch of penal servitude for stealing Lord Rushington's diamonds from the safe—is that it?”

Tony nodded.

“It was all in today's edition of the
Courier
. Care to see it, Dad?”

Meredith chuckled and shook his head.

“George Hanson cleared up that job, Tony, and since he's done it we've heard nothing else
but
that case up at headquarters. So you can darn' well spare me the newspaper report, see?”

It was Tony's turn to grin and look wise.

“You haven't arrested the chap that murdered William Rother yet, have you, Dad?”

“You know I haven't,” growled Meredith. “I wish you wouldn't talk shop at meal-times. Eat up your greens!”

“Well, I only
asked
,” was Tony's plaintive explanation. “You see, Slippery Sid did his job on August the tenth.”

“And what of that?”

“That was the night that William Rother was murdered, wasn't it?”

“During the early hours of the tenth—yes,” admitted Meredith.

“Well, you see, Dad, Sid lived in Worthing, so the newspapers said, and he worked that stunt over at Storrington with a bicycle. Chances were that he went through Washington—he couldn't really go any other way, could he? Chances are he may have seen or heard something. Might be able to give you a clue, Dad.”

Meredith looked at Tony sternly and slowly shook his head as if censuring his consuming interest in crime.

“If you knew as much about your job as you do about mine you'd be a first-class Bond Street photographer in a couple of years.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Tony. “But it
was
a darn good idea of mine, wasn't it?”

“That's just the trouble, m'lad—it's a first-class idea. Worthy of your father in fact. And what's more, Tony, I'm going to follow it up. Sid may be just the witness I was looking for. And now he's jugged he'll speak all right. Probably hope to get a bit off his sentence. Quite smart of you, Tony.”

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, Dad. Green's have got a new five-valve, super-het wireless on display. I wondered if you'd like to—”

“Yes,” said Meredith as he got up and filled his pipe. “And you can go on wondering.” He glanced at the clock. “Good heavens, look at the time! I must be off!”

Hastily kissing his wife he walked briskly to the station where Hawkins was already waiting with the car.

“Bramber first and then on to Brighton.”

Back once more in Bramber, for the second time that day, Meredith's run of good luck continued. Accompanied by the local constable, Fletcher, he interviewed all sorts of diverse, unprofitable Bramberites, until finally they ran up against Tom Biggins, the portly landlord of the “Loaded Wain”. Tom was as round as a barrel, as talkative as a parrot, and as pessimistic as an astronomer in a thick fog. But, as Meredith soon learnt, he had good cause for his pessimism. Tom was a chronic sufferer from insomnia. He had tried everything from counting sheep to a hop-pillow, but all of no avail. Finally in despair he had taken to walking around the countryside during the small hours in the hope of getting a little sleep before it was time to get up and breakfast. And Tom, when questioned by the Superintendent, had noticed more than one odd thing about Brook Cottage.

“Yes—'bout the end o' July it would be—I was walking up White's Lane making a bit of a round of it—see? And jigger me if I didn't see smoke coming out o' the cottage chimney. Struck me queer like seeing as it was as stuffy a night as we've had this year. But o' course I knew the ole chap was a bit off his rocker so I didn't think much more to it. Any idea as what 'ee was up to, Sooper?”

Meredith grinned.

“Burning something, I expect—where there's smoke there's fire, you know.” He was thinking of that charred catalogue and wondering. “Can you fix the date a trifle more closely, Mr. Biggins?”

“Easy. I marked that particular night down in my diary as being the hottest so far this year. Half a jiffy—I'll fetch it outa my other suit.”

In a short time Tom Biggins returned with the open diary in his podgy hand.

“Yes—here we are. Last night o' July. Thought I'd made a note of it. Can't sleep a wink on them stuffy nights. 'Orrible.”

“Ever noticed a light in the place?” demanded Meredith, delighted with the new facts he was garnering in.

Tom rubbed his chin and said slowly: “Well, I have and then again I haven't. Not what you might call a proper light, I haven't. Just a glimmer in an upper room once or twice—same as if a chap was trying to shield a bit o' candle from the road. Blinds down too. But once or twice I saw just a crack of candlelight round the edge o' the blind—see?”

“Any idea of the dates?”

“Luck's out, Sooper. Couldn't say at all for sure.”

“But recently?”

“No—not so recent neither. There hasn't been a sign o' life in the place since about the first week o' August. I reckon I noticed the light somewheres around the end o' last month and the beginning of this.”

“Excellent,” beamed Meredith. “That's just what I was after. The exact dates don't really matter. Tell me—did you ever see another chap visiting old Jeremy Reed's place in the small hours any time before the middle of July?”

“Can't say I did. You see, Sooper, I didn't start this walking out o' nights until the middle o' last month. Doctor chap told me it might do me good. But it don't. Not a bit. Makes me feel more tired—that's all.”

“Ever seen parcels or crates taken into the cottage at any time during the day?”

“Never that way then,” said Tom curtly. “Business.”

“Nothing else you've noticed, Mr. Biggins, that might be of interest to me?”

Again Tom rubbed his multitudinous chins.

“Yes—I have,” he wheezed, lowering his voice as he considered appropriate for the delivery of unusual and surprising news. “One night about the end o' the first week in August I saw a chap wheel a bicycle out o' the cottage gate, mount it and make off in the direction o' Steyning.”

“A bicycle!” exclaimed Meredith eagerly. “Don't tell me you've forgotten the date, Mr. Biggins. I'll wring your neck if you have! You
must
fix it. It's vitally important. Strikes me you've got just the sort of evidence that I've been praying for. Well?”

“It was the ninth,” said Tom slowly. “A Friday, I remember. Day of Jerry Hancock's sale up at Beech Farm. Or more rightly,” he hastened to correct himself, “the tenth. Church clock had struck midnight, you see, just before this chap walks out.”

“Did he see you?”

“Not him. It was a darkish night and I was standing back under the hedge just going to light my pipe.”

“Did you see him? That's more important.”

“Well, as luck would have it—I did. You see, when the chap gets out in the road 'ee gives a quick look round, strikes a match and lights his oil-lamp. Then the darn' thing smokes and 'ee leans down in the rays to have a look-see. Course the lamp was pointing away from me so I got a good look at him.”

“Well?” rapped out Meredith, on tenterhooks.

“Shortish, middle-aged chap with a scrub of a blackish beard. Dressed like a commercial he was—dark coat and starched collar with a black tie, if you take me? Wore a hard hat, which struck me as funny seeing as he was riding a bike. Ar—and there was another thing as I noticed—his left wrist was kind o' bandaged up and looked stiff like. He didn't get up into the saddle none too easy neither.”

“Wasn't wearing dark glasses by any chance, was he?”

“What, in the middle o' the night—not likely!” And Tom Biggins allowed his usually drawn and doleful countenance the comfort of a broad wink.

“You say he made off in the direction of Steyning?”

“Yes—I saw him pedal down to the end o' White's Lane and turn left up the village street.”

“You've never seen the man about before—in the bar here or up the village?”

“Never—a complete stranger to these parts I swear.”

Meredith glanced up at the clock which hung in the bar.

“Look here, Mr. Biggins—we're just going to shut our eyes to the law. Although it's out of hours you're going to have a drink on me and I'm going to join you. What do you say, Fletcher?”

“Mild and bitter, sir,” was the constable's prompt reply.