Crossword Mystery E-Book

E. R. Punshon

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Description What could be more innocent than a crossword puzzle? A game to while away an idle hour, a diversion for the lonely. And yet its cunning formula could still be turned to sinister purpose. The curious crossword devised by Mr. George Winterton turned out to be part of a game for high stakes - it was the creation of a man whose brother had just drowned and who feared for his own life. Yet the dog hadn't barked... When Detective-Constable Owen (B.A. Oxon, pass degree only) arrives in the picturesque village of Suffby Cove, he is faced with the mystery of an appallingly ingenious murder - one whose ramifications reach out of England to the continent, and touch the lives of many men and women. Crossword Mystery is the third of E.R. Punshon's acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1934 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels. This edition features a new introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans. "What is distinction? The few who achieve it step - plot or no plot - unquestioned into the first rank. We recognized it in Sherlock Holmes, and in Trent's Last Case, in The Mystery of the Villa Rose, in the Father Brown stories and in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time." Dorothy L. Sayers

Leseprobe

E.R. PUNSHONCrossword Mystery

What could be more innocent than a crossword puzzle? A game to while away an idle hour, a diversion for the lonely. And yet its cunning formula could still be turned to sinister purpose. The curious crossword devised by Mr. George Winterton turned out to be part of a game for high stakes – it was the creation of a man whose brother had just drowned and who feared for his own life. Yet the dog hadn’t barked...

When Detective-Constable Owen (B.A. Oxon, pass degree only) arrives in the picturesque village of Suffby Cove, he is faced with the mystery of an appallingly ingenious murder – one whose ramifications reach out of England to the continent, and touch the lives of many men and women.

Crossword Mystery is the third of E.R. Punshon’s acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1934 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels.

Introduction

In 1933 Britain’s Detection Club, a social organization founded three years earlier by some of the most renowned detective novelists in the country, including Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Anthony Berkeley, G.K. Chesterton, Freeman Wills Crofts and R. Austin Freeman, inducted, for the first time, several new members. These initiates were Gladys Mitchell, Anthony Gilbert (Lucy Beatrice Malleson) and E.R. Punshon, all of whom pledged to honor in their detective fiction both the King’s English and the principle of fair play in clue presentation. Punshon’s induction into the Detection Club in 1933 surely would have come as no surprise to anyone who earlier that year had seen in the Sunday Times Dorothy L. Sayers’ glowing commendation for him as a “writer first and foremost.” Crossword Mystery (1934), Punshon’s third Bobby Owen detective novel, not only abides by the Detection Club’s aesthetic precepts, it also validates the accolade that the admiring Sayers had bestowed upon him.

More than any detective novel Punshon had yet published Crossword Mystery beautifully balances puzzle appeal and character interest, the detection of crime and the probing of criminal personality, leading to a remarkable conclusion that readers are unlikely to forget. In the novel, which pleasingly includes both a “sketch map of Suffby Cove and village” and a crossword puzzle with clues and a solution, Punshon for the first time tasks his series sleuth, Constable Bobby Owen, B.A. (Oxon. pass degree only), with investigating nefarious goings-on at a country house, that holy of holies in British mystery fiction. “A little beyond the bridge, a turning from the main road led to Suffby village on the left, and beyond that to the low Georgian house Bobby had seen from the high ground beyond the creek,” writes Punshon, surely suffusing the typical devoted Golden Age mystery reader in a warm glow of pleasurable anticipation of murder in stately surroundings. Yet Punshon never forgets (and neither should his readers) that, even in cases of putatively cozy English country house crime, darkness may come.

At the behest of Major Markham, “formerly of the Indian cavalry, and now Chief Constable of Deneshire,” Bobby’s mentor, Superintendent Mitchell, has deputed the young man to serve as a sort of bodyguard for wealthy George Winterton at his domicile Fairview, a Georgian house overlooking Suffby Cove. “He’s a retired business man; former stockbroker, I believe; quite well off, interested in crosswords and economics,” chattily explains Major Markham as he offers Bobby a “cheroot of almost unimaginable strength.” Winterton insists that the recent drowning death of his twin brother, Archibald (like Winterton a stockbroker who had retired to Deneshire, residing at a house across the Cove at Suffby Point), was not an accident, but murder; and he declares that he too is in grave peril. Having a friend who is an MP, representing a London constituency, Winterton is able to obtain from Scotland Yard the promise of police protection, in the genial form of Constable Owen. Yet who, Bobby soon is asking himself, “would want to murder two quiet, inoffensive, retired business men, ending their days peacefully by the seaside?”

At Fairview Bobby encounters a classic rich man’s mystery ménage. There are the Coopers, the couple who serve as Fairview’s butler and housekeeper; Miss Raby, George Winterton’s winsome lady secretary; Colin Ross, an impecunious nephew addicted to racing forms; and a pet Airedale that, in a nod to Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic Sherlock Holmes tale “Silver Blaze,” failed to bark when expected. Although not residents of Fairview, a couple of other nephews are in the picture too, namely Miles Winterton, an out-of-work engineer, and James Matthews, an artist living in Paris who is, naturally enough, “the black sheep of the family.” Also of note is the aggressive land developer Mr. Shorter, whom Bobby, upon his arrival at Fairview, finds George Winterton angrily ejecting from his house.

Was Archibald Winterton murdered? Is the close-lipped George Winterton truly in danger and, if so, from just what source does the menace arise? Can Bobby, for the first time in his recorded cases relying to a considerable extent upon his own resources, prevent a second murder (assuming there was a first one)? Readers will surely want to find out for themselves.

Crossword Mystery is a novel with an intricate, fairly-clued puzzle, incisive social observation (among English mystery novelists Punshon was as far as I know the earliest and most persistent decrier of the Nazi scourge in Europe) and an astonishing climax that surely is unique within the literature of crime fiction. So impressed with Crossword Mystery was the distinguished writer and Oxford University Press editor Charles Williams—like Dorothy L. Sayers an astute Thirties mystery fiction critic—that he declared he discerned in the novel hope for the revivification of detective fiction as an art form:

It has for some time been clear that detective tales must either change or cease. A few good craftsmen may go on exquisitely reproducing the most austere and ancient plots, but murders must become greater or perish. There are signs that they are becoming greater, and that they will enter on a new career of real imagination.

A few of these signs have been noticed here recently. Separately they might be accidents; together they suggest promise. There was Father Knox’s Still Dead, with its casuistry; there was, superbly alone, Miss Sayers’s Nine Tailors. And Mr. Punshon’s Crossword Mystery is now added to them.

Williams particularly praised Crossword Mystery for “the vigour of the last chapter” and “the steady sweep of energy that moves it…” Later that year, his sentiment was echoed in the United States, where Crossword Mystery had been picked up by the prominent publisher Alfred A. Knopf, who issued it under a rather more direct title, The Crossword Murder. (The most celebrated Knopf mystery from 1934 was Dashiell Hammett’s hard-boiled crime novel The Thin Man, one of the most conspicuous Thirties publishing successes.) In the Saturday Review William C. Weber deemed the plot of Crossword Mystery “engrossing” and its denouement a “knockout,” while in the New York Times Book Review Isaac Anderson applauded the novel for “bafflement of a high order and a truly startling finish.” I concur with the high praise afforded Crossword Mystery on both sides of the Atlantic. Today, over eighty years after it was originally published, it is indeed a pleasure to see the novel back in print, for such glittering examples of Golden Age detective fiction will never truly tarnish.

Curtis Evans

CHAPTER ONEYe Olde Sunke Tudor Tea Garden

It was one of the loveliest days of a lovely summer, and Detective-Constable Bobby Owen, B.A. (Oxon. pass degree only), as he jogged placidly along on a brand-new motor-cycle (Government property) at a quiet forty or fifty m.p.h., with an occasional burst up to seventy or eighty when he was quite sure there were no traffic police about, was almost able to persuade himself that after all there are on this earth, though rare, worse jobs than police jobs.

He was even not indifferent to the fact that he was wearing a new and expensive suit, cut by a first-class tailor and paid for by a generous country, whose head presumably had been a little turned by a recent announcement of a possible Budget surplus. Even the contents of the suit-case strapped on behind – dinner-jacket and so on, all very smart and new – had been provided for him in the same way; and, though he had no doubt his chief, Superintendent Mitchell, would jolly well make him work for them, at any rate he had no tailor’s bill to fear – the happy, happy youth.

There appeared before him by the roadside Ye Olde Englyshe Petrol Pumpe Station for which he had been instructed to look out. He passed, and took the next turning north, a by-road that led to Deneham, the smart little east coast resort that had recently been winning favour by its stern refusal of hospitality to trippers – for whom, besides, its rather remote situation made it lack attractiveness, so there was no risk of hard feeling on either side. A mile or so along this road Bobby came to a small tea garden, a lonely, forlorn-looking little place, though bravely announcing itself as Ye Olde Sunke Tudor Tea Garden, presumably in a fine frenzy of rivalry with Ye Olde Englyshe Petrol Pumpe Station on the main road. Here Bobby alighted, parked his nice new motor-cycle in a convenient shed provided for the purpose, noted with a slight involuntary shudder that shrimps were fourpence a plate, sixpence shelled, and understood at once what strange subtle odour it was had mingled with the scent of the roses and the honeysuckle growing around. In the garden – why it was called “sunke” did not appear – were half a dozen tables with attendant chairs, all in rickety wicker. He seated himself at one, and ordered tea and toast and eggs to satisfy an appetite his long ride from London had provided with a fine edge. But the toast was a mistake, toast in “ye olde Tudor” days having evidently been chiefly used for roof repairs.

However, the eggs were new laid in the literal, not the commercial, sense – that is, they had come into being that same morning; and, if the tea were stewed, Bobby’s young life, that had progressed from a well-known public school to an Oxford college and thence to London lodgings, had given him no knowledge or experience of tea that was not well and truly stewed.

So he drank it contentedly, enjoyed his new-laid eggs, and, if the toast baffled him who did not easily acknowledge defeat, he made a good exchange of it for plain bread and butter. This simple repast completed, he was about to light a cigarette when he heard a car approaching. Reflecting that Superintendent Mitchell smoked excellent cigars, and, since it was a fine day, since there was no specially trying case on at the moment, and, since above all, the Assistant Commissioner was away on a holiday, might well prove in a liberal and generous mood, Bobby hurriedly put his own gaspers away and hoped for the best. Then he rose respectfully to his feet as there entered the garden that redoubtable personage, his chief, Superintendent Mitchell, the biggest of the “big four,” as the papers called them, who were at the moment in charge of the destinies of the Scotland Yard C.I.D.

Following him was a tall, thin man with a narrow, lined face, hair that seemed prematurely grey – for he did not look much more than half-way between forty and fifty – and a complexion tanned a dull brick-brown by presumably a sun hotter than that this climate usually provides. Bobby guessed he would be Major Markham, formerly of the Indian cavalry, and now Chief Constable of Deneshire, in accordance with the happy rule that a thorough grounding in drill, especially cavalry drill, is the best possible preparation for police work. They came across to where Bobby was waiting, and Mitchell nodded pleasantly.

“Constable Owen,” he explained to his companion. “He was with me in the sun-bathing case, and he was with me, too – or I was with him, I never quite knew which – in the Christopher Clarke case – ‘Hamlet in Modern Dress,’ as some of the newspaper wits called it.”

“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.”

CHAPTER TWOBobby Receives His Instructions

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.

“I understand, sir,” Bobby went on to Major Markham, “that Mr. Winterton doesn’t give any grounds for his suspicions of foul play? Or for thinking he’s threatened himself?”

“No; what actually happened was that he got a bit excited, and burst out that very likely what had happened to his brother would happen to him, too, if he wasn’t careful. After that he calmed down and wouldn’t say any more, and then he rolled up with this extraordinary request for police protection. I should have wanted to turn it down, even though he’s willing to pay all expenses, except for one thing – a rather curious thing: an assault on one of my men that happened some little time before the accident to Archibald. Early in the spring we got word that a strange motorboat had been seen lying off the entrance to Suffby Cove. Well, there’s a certain amount of smuggling goes on now that, thank God, we’ve stopped being the world’s dumping-ground. If you can run a consignment of cameras or Paris frocks through to London, it pays very well. Now and again, too, an alien tries to slip in without a passport, or an undesirable who’s been expelled tries to get back. And there’s always the drug traffic. So we have to keep our eyes open, and when, very early one morning last April, my man there – Jennings – saw a motor-boat lying in the creek that runs into Suffby Cove, he thought he had better have a look at it. But, as he was passing some pine-trees, someone from behind dropped a sack over his head. You haven’t much chance when you’ve got a sack over your head, and, though I expect Jennings put up a good fight – and he’s quite a hefty young fellow – they roped him up to a tree, and there he was found by his sergeant a little later. The motor-boat had disappeared, of course, though it had been seen leaving the Cove under sail. It was fitted up with mast and sail as well as its motor. And nothing’s been seen of it since. We found out that the sack was of Dutch manufacture, but we couldn’t trace it further. There were a few vague footprints, but none plain enough to be of any value, and no other clues that we could find; and no more’s been heard of the motor-boat.”

“Sounds like a spot of smuggling,” observed Mitchell.

“It does,” agreed the Major, “only – there’s this. By a lucky coincidence a special watch was being kept on the roads that night. We had had word – as you may remember, Mr. Mitchell; it was the O’Reilly gang – that London burglars were in the district. A sharp look-out on all roads was being kept, therefore, and we are fairly confident that no contraband was landed; anyhow, it was not taken inland that night, and next day the whole of the neighbourhood was thoroughly searched.”

“Easier to hide than to find,” murmured Mitchell.

“Agreed, agreed. But you don’t land silk frocks or spirits or watches or cameras to stuff them up the chimney, or keep them buried in some hole or a hollow tree; and a very careful watch has been kept ever since. I don’t think anything could be moved without our knowing it. I expect the whole lot of them down in the village would smuggle anything they got a chance at, but there’s no sign of anything unusual there; no one suddenly more prosperous or spending money they can’t account for; no gossip going on or anything like that. A reward’s been offered and no one has tried to claim it. If there’s been smuggling, I am pretty sure no one in the village knows anything about it. You must remember it’s a very small community indeed – not more than a score of families; all of them know each other’s business, and if one were in a smuggling game, all would be. But I think it’s certain that’s not the case, or somehow, somewhere, something suspicious would appear.”

“Could Mr. Winterton, either the living brother or the dead one...?” Bobby asked.

“It’s possible; it’s been considered,” the Major answered. “But is it conceivable that two well-to-do retired business men of the highest reputation would go in for smuggling on a big scale at their time of life? Well-to-do people smuggle like blazes, of course, when it’s a new silk frock for a woman, or when a man buys a new watch abroad and pretends he got it in London, or tries to slip a new camera past the customs house officer. But doing the thing on a big scale is rather different. No, I can’t think the explanation’s there. I’m inclined, for my part, to say that the motorboat and the attack on Jennings meant some undesirable slipping into the country – perhaps some refugee from Germany without money, but with friends here ready to shelter him. And Archibald’s death was probably purely accidental and George’s dream just crab salad, as Mrs. Cooper hinted.”

“Who gets Archibald’s money? Was it much?” Mitchell asked.

“Between forty and fifty thousand,” Markham answered. “It all goes to the widow and children except for a few small legacies. George Winterton and the Town and Country Bank are executors. There is one thing. I managed to get out of the bank people that Archibald, some time before his death, realised securities for a large sum – between ten and twelve thousand pounds.”

“Nearly a quarter of his whole fortune,” Mitchell observed.

“It was transferred to Holland.”

“Where the sacks come from,” murmured Mitchell.

“After Archibald’s death, the whole sum was repaid by George Winterton, by cheque. The explanation is that they had been speculating together in exchange – quite common nowadays – and Archibald’s death resulted in the transactions coming to an end, without, for that matter, either great loss or gain.”

“I suppose, sir,” Bobby suggested, “it isn’t likely there had been quarrelling between the brothers over that? Or any possibility that George Winterton–?”

“You mean there may have been big profits, and George murdered his brother to keep the profits for himself? I think, out of the question, on score of character and opportunity alike. The brothers were good friends; retired, respectable, well-to-do stockbrokers don’t turn into murderers. The evidence both of Mrs. Cooper and of her husband is conclusive that George was in bed and asleep at the time his brother was drowned. It happens that Cooper remembers that at six o’clock, when he got up, there was a strange cat – one from the village probably – on the sill of Mr. George Winterton’s window. It happened to be a black cat, and Mr. Winterton has the common superstition that black cats bring luck. This time it brought bad luck, which is partly why the incident made an impression on Cooper. At the time he hesitated whether to drive the cat away for fear of its wakening his master or leave it there as a bringer of good luck. Finally he tried to shoo it away, but it wouldn’t go, so he got a ladder and fetched it down, and in doing so saw his master in bed and asleep – the window open, as it always was. That was about six o’clock. At seven, as usual, he took in a cup of tea, and Mr. Winterton was still asleep. That’s a fairly complete alibi, if one were needed.”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby thoughtfully. “Yes – ye-es.”

“Thinks he sees something,” observed Mitchell. “Thinking it depends on Cooper’s testimony, and can he be trusted, eh?”

“Oh, as for that, it’s confirmed by Mrs. Cooper,” Major Markham said. “She remembers the incident of the black cat perfectly, because of the bad luck it brought, instead of the supposed good luck. She says, too, that Mr. Winterton slept a little later than usual, most likely because he had been sitting up late with one of his crossword puzzles. He is a crossword ‘fan,’ as they call them now, you know. And,” added the Major, a little slowly, “I don’t think either Cooper or Mrs. Cooper would go out of their way to commit perjury for their employer’s sake. He – well, he has the name of being a little mean about money, and of always suspecting other people of trying to cheat him. He makes sure he gets value for every penny, watches the books carefully, and so on. It’s the same with them all. The gardener, for instance, has to account for all the fruit, and there’s no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Cooper rather resent it; in fact, all the staff do. Archibald was quite the opposite; rather free-handed.”

“Not enough to make them want to murder him, I suppose,” Mitchell remarked. “I suppose that isn’t what’s making our gentleman nervous.” He turned to Bobby. “You’ve heard it all,” he said. “Your job now is to look like a summer visitor having a good time at a friend’s house by the sea, and meanwhile try to find out if Archibald Winterton’s death was accident or murder, to see that neither accident nor murder happens to George Winterton, to find out who tied up Constable Jennings, and why motor-boats sail into Suffby Cove and out again without saying by-your-leave to anyone, what it was they landed if they landed anything, and where it is now. And when you’ve been as long in the force as I have, you’ll learn that police work is generally like that – making bricks without straw. You haven’t asked yet what sort of man Mr. George Winterton is, apart from being a retired stockbroker of the highest character, as all stockbrokers have to be, because if they get found out, then they aren’t stockbrokers any more.”

“No, sir,” said Bobby. “I didn’t ask, because I understand I shall be seeing him soon.”

“Wants to form his own judgments,” grunted Mitchell, “instead of taking them from his official superiors, as all good juniors do. Well, time we were all moving. Report every day, Owen, whether you’ve anything to say or not, and be careful to send your reports to the private address given you. Don’t want the local postman to spot there’s a letter going every day to the chief of the county police.”

“No, sir; very good, sir,” said Bobby.

CHAPTER THREEMr Shorton’s Threats

After leaving Ye Olde Sunke Garden, Bobby rode quietly on his way, revolving in his mind the task that lay before him. On the whole he was inclined to think that Archibald Winterton’s death was really one of those bathing tragedies every holiday season records in such tragic numbers, and that little importance need be attached to his brother’s expressed suspicions. A formerly busy and active man, retiring suddenly from affairs, will sometimes let his mind play him strange tricks, as, missing its accustomed food, it seizes on any trifle in order to ascribe to it the significance in which life seems now so sadly wanting.

So George Winterton, having nothing now to occupy his thoughts formerly occupied with daily business routine, and having tried to find sustenance for them in crossword puzzles and so on, had allowed them to dwell on his brother’s death till the tragedy appeared in heightened, exaggerated colours.

In the same way, Bobby thought, missing the importance his former position as partner in a prosperous and successful business had given him, he, or rather his subconscious for him (Bobby knew all about Freud and all the latest psycho-analytic theories), had tried to win back that importance by representing him to himself as the central object of some vast and dark conspiracy.

For, after all, who, Bobby asked himself without getting any answer – who, in the light of clear, calm common sense, would want to murder two quiet, inoffensive, retired business men, ending their days peacefully by the seaside?

“Who gains?” is a good working maxim, and Bobby, crawling along at a beggarly thirty m.p.h., hardly noticing that practically everything on the road passed him standing, couldn’t see that there was anything to be gained by anyone, either by Archibald’s death or George’s.

No doubt he would be able to feel more certain about that after he had had a chance of studying the last-named at close quarters, and perhaps a chance of a chat or two with Mrs. Cooper, who, from what Major Markham said, seemed to be an intelligent woman. And, where the housekeeper has any intelligence at all, she probably knows more of her employer than any one human being ought to know about another – far more than mother, wife, or daughter can ever know, since emotion clouds insight.

There was certainly the odd story of the assault on the local constable, Jennings. But that was probably quite an unconnected affair; difficult to see any link between an assault on a policeman and an accidental drowning some weeks later. As for the hints about smuggling, it was hardly possible to conceive two respectable retired stockbrokers engaging in that sort of thing. There was certainly the story of the ten or twelve thousand pounds – a quarter of his total capital, apparently – that it seemed Archibald had been using in some transaction or another. But the explanation given – speculation in the exchanges – was reasonable in itself, and consonant with the previous habits and knowledge of the Winterton brothers; while so large a capital – especially if, as was likely, George had added an equal amount to his brother’s contribution – would imply, if used in smuggling, operations on an extraordinarily large scale, far too large to be centred on little out-of-the-way Suffby Cove by the aid of one motor-launch. The smuggling story did not seem at all plausible to Bobby; drowning accidents are common enough, retired business men with nothing to do all day often get their mental life a little wrong, and as for the attack on the local man, Jennings, that might easily have been the work of someone who thought he owed the constable a grudge.

Thinking thus, almost persuaded already he had been detailed to find a mare’s nest and would have little to do but enjoy a quiet holiday by the sea, Bobby turned from the road he had been following into one that ran between Yarmouth and Cromer, through Deneham, which lay eight miles north of the spot Bobby had now reached. Turning in the other direction – south – Bobby came soon to a belt of pine-trees beyond which lay Suffby Cove.

Here Bobby alighted from his cycle and stood for some minutes looking thoughtfully and admiringly at as peaceful, quiet, and lovely a scene as all the east coast could show; one, indeed, with which it seemed impossible to associate dark thoughts of crime and violence, even of murder perhaps. Bobby’s half-formed conviction that Archibald Winterton’s death must have been purely accidental received in his mind a confirmation of which he was quite unconscious.

It chanced to be high tide, and the Cove, which at low tide was apt to show disfiguring mud-banks, looked its best, lying like a golden lake in the sunshine, its surface breaking into tiny ripples beneath the breath of the softest and most languid of summer breezes. Almost entirely enclosed except for the narrow opening seawards at its southern extremity, it would have formed an ideal harbour but for its limited extent and for the shallowness of its waters, which prevented it from being used by any except quite small craft – and even they at low tide had to be careful to follow the recognised channels. In shape the Cove was roughly oval. The high ground of Suffby Point formed its east shore, and sheltered it well from easterly winds. At the southern extremity of the Point, Bobby could just make out a fair-sized house he guessed to be that formerly occupied by the unfortunate Archibald Winterton, and since deserted by his widow and her children. At the northern point of the rough oval the Cove formed was the mouth of a little creek that there emptied into its waters, and probably accounted for its extreme shallowness by the sediment, deposited throughout the ages, that had formed, too, the mud-banks apparent at low tide. On the west bank of the creek stood the few cottages that formed Suffby village, if village is not too imposing a word to apply to so tiny a community, and further still was a residence, low-built and comfortable-looking, dating, as Bobby afterwards learned, from early Georgian times, that he guessed must be his destination and the home of Mr. George Winterton.

Remounting his cycle, Bobby continued on his way, crossing Suffby Creek by the smart, brand-new steel and concrete bridge recently put up by the local authorities to replace the mediaeval “trefoil” or “threeway” bridge, dating from the fifteenth century but found now too steep and narrow for motorists in a hurry. A little beyond the bridge, a turning from the main road led to Suffby village on the left, and beyond that to the low Georgian house Bobby had seen from the high ground beyond the creek.

It stood close to the edge of the water; almost on the beach, indeed. A large garden, that must have covered two or three acres, stretched up the rising ground behind the house to a spot where was a small summer-house, built, after a passing fashion of the time, to represent the ruins of a small Greek temple. From this point there was a fine view over the sea, beyond West Point, though elsewhere the view was cut off by a growth of shrubs and the small, stunted trees that were all the strong air permitted to grow here, these sheltering the summer-house from observation on every other side, so that one came upon it almost unawares.

The house itself was approached by a wide, well-kept gravel drive, and Bobby, as he rode up it, was greeted by a furious outburst of barking from a big Airedale. The animal did not seem in any way vicious, but evidently did not mean any stranger’s approach to go unnoticed, and though Bobby, who could usually make friends with any animal, called to it in his most coaxing tones, it was not to be beguiled from the path of duty and continued its loud announcement of his arrival till the door of the house opened and there appeared a man-servant whom Bobby guessed must be the husband of the Mrs. Cooper of whom Major Markham had spoken.

“It’s all right, sir; he’s only letting us know,” this man said; and, indeed, the dog at once grew quiet and, coming up to have a closer look at the new-comer, was quite willing to accept a pat on the head. “He won’t bark at you again, sir, now he knows you,” the man-servant added; “very intelligent dog, sir.”

Cooper was a tall, well-built man, and would have been distinctly good-looking but for a certain flabbiness of face and form and an awkwardness of gait due to the fact that he was what is called “flat-footed.” One felt, indeed, when looking at him, that Nature had intended to make him extremely handsome, but had forgotten to give his features the finishing touches that would have made them distinctive. He had acquired, moreover, a deprecatory stoop that, together with his flat-footedness took away from his height, and his fish-like, protuberant eyes of an indeterminate hue between blue and grey had an irritating trick of flickering eyelids that gave him at times an odd appearance of trying to wink at one. But he was an excellent servant, a really excellent judge of wine, on which his opinion could be trusted, and very hard-working, so that his employer counted himself fortunate in having been able to engage him. But just at first Bobby was slightly disconcerted by that flickering eyelid which seemed so much to suggest a confidential wink. He soon got used to it, though, and realised that it was nothing but a nervous trick.

“It’s Mr. Owen, sir, isn’t it?” Cooper went on. “Mr. Winterton is expecting you, sir. I was to say he is so sorry he is unexpectedly engaged with a gentleman from London on business– ”

They were standing now just inside the hall. Almost behind Bobby where he stood was a door through which at this moment there came a sudden roar of angry voices. Slightly startled, Bobby turned, and with that odd, disconcerting appearance of a wink his flickering eyelid gave him Cooper said:

“It’s the gentleman from London, I think, sir. Mr. Winterton was most unwilling to see him.”

The door opened and a round, small, red-haired man emerged – or, rather, bounded out, like a bristling cricket-ball. His face was crimson, his hair almost on end, his breath was coming in great gasps, his fists were clenched and gesticulating. He glared at Bobby and at Cooper as if his wrath included them in its ample bounds, and then swung round to face the room he had just left.

“It’s a fraud – deliberate fraud, Winterton,” he shouted; “a swindle, sir; nothing less than a swindle.”

There came to the door of the room a very big man, ruddy and blue-eyed, with fair hair just beginning to grow grey, stout and heavy in build. He said:

“If you say that again, Shorton, I’ll take you into court for slander and libel. And if you come here again, I’ll throw you out of the window. Now, take yourself off as quick as you know how. Cooper, Mr. Shorton’s hat, and if you see him here again, let me know, and I’ll attend to him. If I’m out, set the dog on him.”

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” said Cooper impassively, though his flickering eyelid still gave him the appearance of bestowing upon Bobby confidential winks. “Your hat and umbrella, sir,” he added to Mr. Shorton in the best manner of the well-trained servant.