The Beachy Head Murder E-Book

Arthur Gask

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

If everything about me were known, I am quite aware the greater number of people would insist that I must be by nature an evil man.
The thought of which amuses me, as in these latter years I appear to so conform to all the generally accepted ideas of solid British respectability.
At only thirty-five I am a well-to-do landowner, the squire of our village and the youngest Justice of the Peace in my country. I open Flower Shows, I give away prizes at the local sports and I am on the Boards of Management of several public institutions. Also, coming of good stock—my father was the grandson of an earl—I am held to be a worthy example of that class which in Britain's glorious history has done so much to win for her her world-wide greatness.

Leseprobe

The Beachy Head Murder

By

Arthur Gask

(1941)

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383832683

Contents

Chapter I.—The Narrative of Jason Brown.

Chapter II.—The Narrative Continued.

Chapter III.—The Narrative Concluded.

Chapter IV.—The Death of A Scoundrel.

Chapter V.—The White Slave.

Chapter VI.—The Guttered Candle.

Chapter VII.—Judgement.

Chapter VIII.—The Threads of Fate.

Chapter I.—The Narrative of Jason Brown.

If everything about me were known, I am quite aware the greater number of people would insist that I must be by nature an evil man.

The thought of which amuses me, as in these latter years I appear to so conform to all the generally accepted ideas of solid British respectability.

At only thirty-five I am a well-to-do landowner, the squire of our village and the youngest Justice of the Peace in my country. I open Flower Shows, I give away prizes at the local sports and I am on the Boards of Management of several public institutions. Also, coming of good stock—my father was the grandson of an earl—I am held to be a worthy example of that class which in Britain's glorious history has done so much to win for her her world-wide greatness.

But I was not always so esteemed. I was a hunted man once. There was a reward of five hundred pounds for my capture and, for ought I know, the offer is still open. I was a thief, and worse than that, I killed the man who had been sent to catch me.

I don't deny I did very wrong, but I do plead in extenuation that I did my utmost to atone for my offences. Also, there was no premeditation about my crimes.

It was through one single foolish action, not in itself criminal, that I was drawn into the vortex of all that trouble. I always find consolation, too, in the thought that when I took that man's life I was sure I was only acting in self-defence. He gave me no chance, and I believe he was intending to murder me to obtain that bank-wallet. I did not dream he was a detective.

Of course, I know there are many who will always condemn irrevocably directly one false step is taken, but I hold such people are nearly always hypocrites. After all, wrong-doing is so often only a matter of courage, and in all probability the majority of those who would now be most bitter against me because of that theft, in similar circumstances would be just as bad as I was—if they only dared.

Yes, Nature has shaped us all very much in the same mould.

I mean who among us would care to write down for everyone to read all that his thoughts have been, all that he has longed for and all that he would have done if he had dared?

So many things which are forbidden are natural to us, and I always hold that every man, at heart, is more or less a criminal. In the lives of all of us, at one time or another, there must be many so-called crimes we would have liked to carry out, and we have only been prevented from doing so by the restraining influences of education, convention and the laws under which we live for our mutual protection.

And the more courage we have the greater must have been our temptations. The more mastery we have obtained over the affairs of life and the more successes we have had, the more we are inclined to exert that mastery and continue those successes wherever our inclinations may lead us. Remember, the timid man never digs deep into crime. He may rise to the paltry heights of a petty pilferer and sneak-thief, or a cheater of people where he is sure he will never be found out, but he never gives the authorities much trouble in bigger ways.

We cannot get away from it, that all his life long, from his earliest days, it has been the natural inclination of Man to take what is appealing to him. The wish, however, of itself, does not make him an evil person.

For example, I am devoted to Margaret and do not believe that any wife could be more beloved by her husband than is she. Still, I often see other women whom I would like to make a fuss about and whose lover I should not mind being.

Only the other day a young girl came to me in great distress. She was of my own class and very pretty. For the services I rendered her, it would have been hard for her to be unresponsive to me, if only out of gratitude, had I made any advances. She was about to be married to a man for whom I fancied she did not much care. It was, however, from a money point of view, going to be a splendid match for her, but her terror now was that an old flame was threatening to spoil everything with some letters of hers he was holding.

Feeling very sorry for her, I paid the man an unexpected visit, gave him a well-deserved thrashing, and practically took the letters from him by force. Then, for my reward I contented myself with the relief I saw in the girl's eyes. I admit frankly it was hard for me, as she seized my hand and kissed it fervently in her gratitude.

Then again, another thing I would like to do. There's a man I could cheerfully murder, if I only let myself go. I hate him, not only for his general mode of life, but also in particular for his treatment of his young wife. There is always murder in my heart whenever I meet him, but I have to repress all signs of my feelings and even be more than civil to him, because I am continually meeting him in the course of my public activities and, besides, because he is very wealthy and helps our charities a lot.

Yes, I am for ever repressing my longings in one way or another, and I have not the slightest doubt that all people go through repressions in the same way. So no one must be judged by what he or she would like to do.

To come, however, to the story I am going to tell.

Ten years ago I was working in a stock-broker's office in the city. My salary was four guineas a week and of this I paid thirty-five shillings to a boarding-house in West Kensington. My fares and lunches cost me another fifteen shillings. So, when I had paid for cigarettes, newspapers and clothes, there was not much left for amusements. Still, I managed to get in an occasional Saturday afternoon at the races, and from time to time to take a girl out to a cheap dinner in Soho and a cinema afterwards. I thought I was seeing life when I ordered a two-shilling bottle of claret with the meal, and later, kissed the girl in the park.

One summer I had saved up nearly ten pounds for my holiday and resolved to go for a walking tour along the South Coast. So, on the Sunday after the August Bank Holiday, I took the evening train to Brighton, intending the next day to tramp the twenty or more miles to Eastbourne.

I was travelling very light, my luggage consisting of only a brush and comb, a tooth-brush and a mackintosh. I had also brought a book, Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man, to read in the evenings.

The next morning, setting out early from Brighton, I happened to pass a small bicycle-repairing shop and saw by the door a bicycle ticketed ‘only four pound.’ The idea came into my mind instantaneously what a good investment it would be. I could use it for the greater part of my holiday and then sell it again. At most, I thought, I should lose thirty shillings by the transaction, as it could be easily resold anywhere for two pounds ten.

So, having made sure the machine and tyres were in good condition, ten minutes later I was blithely pedalling along the Newhaven Road. The day was fine and hot, but there was the feeling of thunder in the air. I had bought a pair of cheap dark glasses to keep out the glare of the sun. At Seaford I bought some sandwiches and, a few miles farther on, turned off the main Eastbourne Road, to reach the sea at Birling Gap and have a bathe.

I had had my swim, redressed and had just finished my sandwiches, when I heard a car pull up upon the low cliffs above and a couple of minutes or so later two men came down on to the beach, with towels thrown over their shoulders. The older of them was stout and red-faced, he was carrying a big leather wallet about a foot square. I noticed, subconsciously, that he had pushed the wallet carefully out of sight under his clothes directly after he had started undressing.

Then he angered me intensely by throwing a stone at some seagulls near him and laughing with great glee when they flew off, with one of them dangling a broken leg.

“Damned good shot that,” he exclaimed boisterously, “but then I'm always pretty good at it. I got one last week, at home in just the same way. I detest the squealing crows.”

I was furious with him for his cruelty, and always inclined to be hasty-tempered, for very little would have told him what I thought of him. He looked such an arrogant and over-bearing brute.

Wheeling my bicycle back up the Gap, I started off leisurely upon the winding road which runs by the cliffs towards Beachy Head. Not having ridden a bicycle for some time, my legs were already beginning to feel stiff and tired and I had to go slowly.

I had gone a little over a mile and was just under the old Belle Toute lighthouse when I heard a car coming up behind me. I did not look round, but the hooter was sounded in such fierce spasmodic jerks that, although the road was both wide and clear in front of me, I instinctively veered to its extreme side. Even then, the car, travelling at a great pace, roared by so unpleasantly close to me that I could distinctly feel the wind it made as it passed.

It was an open sports car and I swore angrily as I saw one of its two occupants turn his head round and grin. He evidently thought it good fun that I had been almost run off the road, and I was not at all surprised when I recognised him as the red-faced man who had been stoning those seagulls at the Gap.

Then, just when the grinning fool had got his back to me again and the car could only have been about a hundred and fifty yards farther on, I saw some object fly out over the back and bump on to the road. Arriving to where it lay, I recognised it at once as the big wallet the red-faced man had tucked under his clothes while he had been undressing.

Picking it up, I drew in a deep breath as I read upon the small brass plate attached to it, “Southern and Sussex Bank, Brighton Branch.”

“Whew, money!” I whistled. “Perhaps thousands of pounds in notes!”

The car had by this time roared away out of sight. I was in a deep dip in the Downs and there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. About half a mile inland there was a flock of sheep, and the sheep and some wheeling seagulls were the only signs of life about.

Now I can never quite understand exactly what impulse urged me to make such a quick decision, but, instantly, I looked round for somewhere to hide the wallet. I really think my only idea then was to spite the red-faced man. He had been wantonly cruel to that seagull, and it had undoubtly been of sheer malicious purpose that the car had been driven so close to me. He had approved of it by his grin.

On both sides of the road, all the way along, there were a large number of big lumps of chalk, of varying sizes, scattered about upon the turf, and laying down my bicycle, I ran over to a big flat one about twenty yards away and pushed the wallet underneath.

Then I remounted my bicycle and started to ride up the road towards Beachy Head, chuckling at what I had done. The red-faced man would be in a great state when he discovered his loss and it would serve him right. He deserved to be punished and I did not mind if he never found the wallet at all. If he did find it, it would only be after a lot of trouble and he would never learn how it came to be placed under the lump of chalk.

Proceeding slowly along, I happened to glance round again at the flock of sheep, and to my annoyance, and in some way to my consternation, saw there was now a man moving among them. He must, I thought, have been bending down when I had first looked that way and it gave me a certain pang of uneasiness that perhaps he had seen my hurried run across the turf to hide the wallet. But I dismissed the idea as improbable. If, however, he had seen me, in all probability he would not have been interested and perhaps only thought I had been running after some paper which had fluttered away in the wind.

I pedalled on and then, when about half a mile farther upon my way heard a roar in the distance and saw the sports car tearing back towards me. Evidently the loss of the wallet had been discovered and they were returning poste-haste to find it.

The car was jerked to a standstill when it reached me. “Hi, you there!” shouted the red-faced man brusquely, as I dismounted from my machine with some reluctance. “Have you seen a bag on the road?” and his frowning eyes seemed to search me up and down, as if to make sure I had not got it tucked up under my jacket.

“No, I have not,” I replied surlily, not liking the curt maimer in which he was addressing me, and without a word he threw in his clutch and roared the car back towards Birling Gap.

I grinned in delight at his discomfiture and rode on, but then, suddenly, a horrid fear gripped me. Suppose that man with the sheep had noticed everything, had saw me pushing something under the lump of chalk, after I had gone had run over to find out what it had been! Suppose, too, that the men in the car were, even now, stopping to speak to him, which they would certainly be doing if they encountered him anywhere near the road! Of course he would tell them he had seen a man on a bicycle hiding the wallet and then—good God, it would be a matter for the police!

My blood ran cold. What a fool I had been! By that silly action, taken thoughtlessly and upon the spur of the moment, I had put myself in a dreadful position, for it could only look as if I had hidden the wallet with the intention of coming back later to steal its contents.

And how could I hope to escape being caught? Things might happen very quickly and any moment the car might be coming back! A solitary cyclist, a young man all by himself, would be a conspicuous object, and even if I got among the crowd, nearly always to be found at the top of Beachy Head, I might easily be recognised and picked out.

I was always quick in my decisions, often too quick, and in less than a minute had turned off the road and thrown myself and the bicycle down behind a clump of blackberry bushes about twenty paces away.

Almost to the second as I flattened myself upon the turf, I heard a car in the distance, and not half a minute later the two-seater sports re-appeared. I had been only just in time.

It tore past me at an even more furious pace than ever, and I imagined the red-faced man was looking viciously angry.

What had happened, I asked myself with my heart pumping hard? Had they met the man with the sheep and, from what he told them he had seen, had they recovered the wallet? Or, had they gone the whole way back to Birling Gap and, encountering no one upon the road and yet not finding the wallet, had suddenly come to realise that I must have had something to do with its disappearance?

Either of these two things might have occurred, but they had been so quick in returning that I was inclined to think they must have met the man with the sheep. At any rate, their furious haste now could only mean that they were after me. They wanted the man on the bicycle and I expected they felt confident they would catch him.

For the moment I felt absolutely sick with consternation and then a thought leapt into my mind. Unless they saw me with the bicycle, surely they would not be able to recognise me again? If I got rid of my bicycle they could only have a very incomplete idea of what I looked like. When they had stood talking to me for those few seconds I had had the big sunglasses on and the peak of my cap pulled well down over my eyes because of the glare of the sun.

Then there was nothing either of the cycling tourist about my appearance. I was wearing perfectly ordinary clothes, with long trousers, the ends of which were tucked into the tops of my socks. So, in a few seconds I could become a pedestrian again, and with my trousers put straight, my sun-glasses back in my pocket, and my cap turned round, the cyclist would have completely disappeared.

I was so certain that by hiding that wretched wallet I had put myself in a most compromising position that I adopted no half measures. I determined the bicycle should vanish altogether, or at any rate not be found until it was too late to do me any harm.

The cliff three hundred and more feet high was only a few yards behind me and in a few seconds my newly-acquired machine was toppling over on to the rocks below. The tide was almost at its full and I knew there would be no one underneath. The five-mile stretch of beach between Beachy Head and Birling Gap is a dangerous place to be caught at all high tides, as in many places the sea washes right up to the foot of the cliffs.

At that very moment drops of rain began to fall, and it seemed to make sure my salvation. I put on my mackintosh and, with it well buttoned up to my chin, walked confidently along the edge of the cliff to the Head. It was still raining when I reached there, but only a fine drizzle and not enough to keep a goodly number of holiday makers from standing round to gaze down at the waves breaking upon the rocks so many hundreds of feet below.

I mingled with them, but the rain beginning to fall more heavily now, most of us soon began to move off towards the hotel about a hundred yards away. I saw no signs of the red-faced man or his companion. I had a drink in the crowded bar, remaining there for about half an hour.

The rain was continuing, but now only in an unpleasant drizzle, as I went outside again. I thought it best to be in no hurry to leave the Head in case a watch should have been set all round. Then, seeing a large empty char-a-banc parked by the side of the hotel, I approached the driver and conductor who were having a smoke inside, and enquired if they would have room to give me a lift when, later, they left to return to the town.

They told me there was plenty of room but that they would not be leaving for another hour. I said that would suit me nicely, and getting inside out of the rain, sat smoking and talking with them.

Then I began to think I had been much too hasty in getting rid of my bicycle in the way I had done. It looked very much to me now as if the two men had got back their wallet and, while they would have liked to have cursed me, they could not have done more. After all, they had no proof that I had touched the wallet and it would have been the shepherd's word against mine. Apart from that, too, as bank officers, they would certainly not have wanted it to come out how careless they had been. So, I began swearing at myself for having smashed up a perfectly good bicycle and wasted four pounds, a loss that I could ill afford. At any rate, I ought to have had the sense to have left it behind the blackberry bushes and gone back to fetch it later on when the coast would have been quite clear.

For a few minutes I felt furious at my stupidity, but then, suddenly, and all in a matter of seconds, I came to realise I had done the right thing.

I heard a car in the distance and, looking round, saw two coming from the direction of Eastbourne. Even before the first was close enough for me to be certain, my heart bumped, for an instinct told me it was that of the red-faced man. Both cars pulled up within a few yards of us and everyone jumped out. There were three men in the second car.

“'Tecs,” whispered the driver of the char-a-banc excitedly to his mate. “That tall one's Joe Whitburn, a smart chap. I know him. What's up?”

After a glance in our direction, the man he indicated, followed by the others, came up. “Hullo, Henderson,” he exclaimed addressing the driver. “Now do you happen to have noticed a young fellow going by on a push-bike towards the town? He's by himself, is wearing big sun-glasses and has got his cap pulled down low upon his forehead.”

The driver considered. “Not that I took any notice of, Joe.” He jerked his head in the direction of the cliffs. “But there are several cyclists over there.”

The red-faced man was looking very worried. To my delight he hadn't given me a second glance. Evidently I was safe, I told myself, with a sigh of great relief. As I thought, they would not be able to recognise me unless I were with my bicycle.

The detective nodded his thanks and they all moved off towards the cliffs. I saw them again presently, and they all looked very glum. They had a short conversation by their cars and then drove off again in the direction of the town. An hour or so later, when we left, we passed a policeman at the cross-roads. He had obviously been stationed there to keep a look-out.

It was not until a couple of weeks later that I learnt all that had happened that eventful afternoon. Following upon the dreadful tragedy which took place so soon afterwards, reporters came down in droves and very quickly their newspapers put together a full story.

It appeared the red-faced man was the manager of the Brighton Bank and his destination that afternoon had been their Eastbourne Branch. His companion had been one of the bank clerks and they had turned off the main road, as I had done, to have a dip in the sea at Birling Gap.

They had missed the wallet just before reaching Beachy Head, and realising at once that it must have bumped out of the car, had turned back without a second's delay to recover it. After having spoken to me, they had been quite certain they would pick it up before they reached the Gap. Then, having arrived there and not seeing it anywhere on the road, and, moreover, meeting no one upon their return journey, they had suddenly come to the conclusion that I must have picked it up, for they now remembered seeing the wallet in the car just before they had come upon me the first time.

So they had raced back to the Head, and seeing no signs of me, had stopped at the hotel to put through a telephone call to the Eastbourne police, informing them what had happened and asking that a cordon be instantly drawn round the whole district, so that I should not escape. They said the wallet contained upwards of seven thousand pounds in treasury notes.

The call put through, they had continued on the road towards Eastbourne, with very little hope, however, seeing they had lost so little time, that they would find I had got in front of them there. Their surmise proving correct, they had driven on to the police-station in Eastbourne and returned to Beachy Head accompanied by the three detectives.

And that's where the story ended for that day, the police being, however, quite certain no man on a bicycle had got away with the wallet. Their cordon had been flung so quickly and so wide they were positive of that. Their opinion was I had hidden the bicycle and got away on foot. Moreover, they had no hope of catching me, as neither the bank manager nor his clerk could give any useful description of me. All the two last could say was that I was of medium height and build, was very sunburnt, had my cap pulled well down over my forehead, and was wearing big sun-glasses. They could not remember anything particular about my clothes.

As I say, at the time I knew nothing about any of these things, but I was feeling perfectly confident that I was safe from any recognition. I had got out of what might have been a very ugly situation with only the loss of my bicycle.

Arriving in Eastbourne, I put up at Benger's Hall, an old-fashioned coffee tavern in the poorer part of the town. It looked clean, and was certainly cheap. Anyhow, it was the best I could afford now, with my finances so depleted by the loss of the bicycle. There was no trouble about my having no luggage, as at the Coffee Hall you paid for your night's lodging in advance and your meals as you had them.

Originally I had meant my walking tour should extend right round the coast as far as Whitstable, and was not intending to stop longer than one night in any town. The next morning, however, I altered my plans. I found my bed at the coffee tavern very comfortable and the food good, indeed, I doubted if I should find as good a place anywhere along the route I had selected to follow.

So I resolved to remain on in Eastbourne for a few days, helped, too, to form this decision by something which had nothing to do with the coffee tavern. I had learnt that the local paper, the Eastbourne Chronicle, came out on the Wednesday morning and I wanted to see if there was any reference in it to the loss of the wallet. I wanted to know if the wallet had been found.

Besides, like the murderer whom, tradition says, always returns to the scene of his crime, I could not tear myself away so easily from Beachy Head. If there were no mention of the wallet in the morning in the Chronicle, I must go and see if it were still where I had hidden it. I could safely walk along the cliffs as far as Belle Toute and cock my eye round in passing. I remembered distinctly the flattish lump of chalk and would be able to pick it out at once.

So I lounged about all that morning, watching the people and listening to the band. In the afternoon, I spoke to two rather pretty girls who were walking on the promenade by themselves. They proved smilingly agreeable to my society and at first I was inclined to congratulate myself upon my charm. But soon finding them very greedy in the consumption of iced drinks, and, later, both of them informing me most pointedly of their firm intention to keep together for the whole time of their stay in the town, I came to the conclusion that the adventure would not be profitable to pursue any farther and so bade them good-bye. They had cost me four and sixpence.

The next morning, the moment the Chronicle appeared on the streets, I bought a copy, and proceeded to scan down its columns, for some reason with certain feelings of apprehension. A two-inch advertisement at once caught my eye.

“£100 Reward. The above sum will be paid to anyone providing information leading to the recovery of a leather bank-wallet and contents, dropped about two thirty-five p.m. on Monday last from car on the cliff road between Birling Gap and Beachy Head. Apply Southern and Sussex Bank, Eastbourne.”

A shiver ran down my spine. So they had not recovered the wallet, and from the wording of the advertisement, they did not consider it had been ‘Lost.’ They knew it had been stolen! Then without doubt the police were working frenziedly to pick up my trail! There were eyes on the lookout all around me and if my identity were uncovered it would mean penal servitude for me!

My knees began to totter as I furtively wiped the perspiration from my forehead. Then, all in a second, a fierce glow of relief and thanksgiving surged through me. I was a fool, for what had the missing wallet now to do with me? It was not in my possession and there was nothing to link me up with its disappearance. Certainly, I had been in danger once, but I had slipped through their cordon and was now quite safe. Yes, I was quite safe! I need not be disturbed in the slightest. Things were only amusing.

And I continued in the same frame of mind for all the remainder of the day. I was hugging to myself a great secret in which no one had a share and it was most gratifying. I chuckled, too, with glee, thinking how I had repaid the red-faced man, both for his cruelty to the seagulls and the caddish, low-down trick of his car having been driven so dangerously close to me.

The next morning I went for a long walk over the Downs towards East Dean, first making my way round to where I had seen the man with the sheep. I sat on the edge of a big chalk-pit there, looking across the little valley which lay between me and the old lighthouse on the farther ridge of down and deliberating whether it would be safe to go and see if the wallet were where I had left it.

Different from the last time I had been there, quite a number of people were about, and, after a few minutes' rest, I strolled over towards Belle Toute. I walked round the lighthouse and then started in the direction of Beachy Head, proceeding quite leisurely and with my eyes upon the ground.

I had no difficulty in picking out the big slab of chalk, but to my annoyance saw at once that I could not be sure if the wallet were there unless I lifted it up. The slab seemed to be resting quite evenly on the turf.

I did not dare stop, for there was a picnic party not fifty yards away, and if they saw me disturbing the stone, their curiosity might become aroused and when I had left they might come over to see what had been interesting me.

My conscience, but the fat would be in the fire with a vengeance then!

So I set off for Eastbourne again, resolved, however, I would return again after dark. From complete indifference as to what would happen to the wallet, I was now cudgelling my brains as to how I could capitalise my knowledge of where, if no one had taken it away, it could be found. I thought I ought to get the reward, if only because the red-faced man would probably have to pay it.

Yes, I would come back that night and, all being well, carry the wallet away to another hiding-place, one to which I could direct the bank without any difficulty when I thought fit to let them regain their property. Some hazy idea was forming in my mind of writing to them anonymously, offering to return the wallet intact if the reward were paid and no questions asked. I just mention that to show that up to then I had no thought of interfering with the contents of the wallet.

I had intended to start off for Belle Toute about eight o'clock that evening, but soon after six it started to rain heavily and I had to put the expedition off. I did not fancy a ten-mile trip over the Downs upon a stormy night. Besides, I must have the moonlight to enable me to find the wallet.

So, instead of going out after tea, I sat on in the coffee tavern and studied a sporting paper. I knew something about racing and looked to see what horses were running at the Brighton fixture upon the following Saturday. My interest quickened at once when I saw that Ashanti Gold was down to run in the six-furlong sprint.

The horse was an old favourite of mine, but only after the silly way so many little bettors have. I had never had any particular information about him, but had often backed him because a grandfather of mine had fought in the Ashanti War. Ashanti Gold, an aged gelding now, had won only a few times in his rather undistinguished career, with very long intervals in between. Still, when he had won it had been invariably at good odds, twenty to one and over.

I wished sadly I were going to Brighton on Saturday, for with his many failures he owed me quite a bit of money in a small way, and I thought it about time the old boy popped up again.

The next day was bright and fine, and with the wallet more than ever in my mind, I was eagerly awaiting the coming of evening. I bought a small electric torch to equip myself for the adventure.

Then that morning I did a very silly thing which might easily have got me into trouble. I knew where the police-station was, and walked round to it to see if by any chance there was a bill posted up outside about the wallet.

Sure enough there was, and like a big gaby, I was not content to read it once but must have done so quite half a dozen times. It was worded almost exactly the same as the advertisement in the paper, except that on this notice people were now asked to come to the police if they had any information.

The bill was more conspicuous than the other notices upon the board, because it stood at one end all by itself. It quite fascinated me, and I stood grinning to myself at the thought of what a surprise I could cause if I went inside and told them what I knew.

Then, out of the tail of my eye, I saw a man come through the open door of the police-station, about a dozen paces away, and proceed to walk leisurely in my direction. I cursed under my breath at the reckless folly which had allowed me to be seen anywhere near the station, for I recognised him instantly as one of the detectives who had spoken to the driver of the char-a-banc that eventful afternoon upon Beachy Head. He was the 'tec whom the driver had said was Joe Whitburn, ‘a smart chap.’

But if I am prone to silly mistakes, I am always like lightning in my attempts to avoid their consequences, and now I composed my features instantly to a wooden expression and continued to stare on at the poster. Then, as if I had felt rather than seen the detective walking up to me, I turned myself half round to regard him casually and with no special interest. It happened I had got an unlighted cigarette in my hand.

“Could you oblige me with a match, sir?” I asked, after a moment, as he, too, stood looking at the poster.

He regarded me pleasantly. “Certainly!” he smiled, and he made to feel in his pockets for a box. Then he smiled as if rather amused. “But I'm afraid I can't. I don't appear to have got any. Oh, come inside, will you? I'll give you one,” and he jerked his head towards the doorway from where he'd just come.

I frowned. “What, into the police-station?” I asked. I looked down at his big boots. “Then you're a detective are you?” I forced a grin to my face. “Do you want to take me up?”

He laughed. “No, no, why should I?” He seemed to think it a good joke. “You've not done anything wrong, have you?”

“Plenty of things,” I laughed back. I pretended to look very knowing. “But I haven't been found out yet.”

With great good humour he led the way into the station and I dared not back out. My heart was thumping like a sledge-hammer, but I kept my wits about me, and to give colour to my being without matches, while following behind him made a lightning transference of a box of matches from my trouser pocket to the top of my jacket. People never carried matches there.

The detective led me into a big room, untenanted except for a stout policeman seated behind a tall desk. “Got a match, Bob?” he asked and, the policeman handing him a box, he passed it over to me to help myself.

Then when I had struck a match and was in the act of lighting my cigarette, with quick movements and before I realised what he was going to do, he had passed his hands in turn, over both my trouser pockets and the side ones of my jacket.

“Hullo!” I called out angrily, and stepping back a pace or two. “What are you up to? Are you giving me the once over?”

“Not at all,” he laughed, “but I thought it funny that, as a smoker, you'd got no matches on you.”

“I'd forgotten them,” I replied surlily. “I left them at home.”

Then, suddenly, I saw the whole expression of his face alter, with the pleasant, easy-going smile all in a few seconds changing into a hard frown. “Here, I say,” he asked sharply, “where have I seen you before?”

I shook my head sullenly. I intended him to think I was annoyed at his touching my clothes. “I'm sure I don't know,” I replied. I spoke sarcastically. “You might have seen me anywhere in the town. I have not been going about in disguise.”

“You're a visitor to Eastbourne, of course?” he glared. “Well, how long have you been here? Since Monday! Then where have you been staying?”

I glared back at him. “Mind your own business,” I snapped. “What's that to do with you?”

He spoke sternly. “You don't care to say? That's it, is it?”

“Don't be a fool,” I swore rudely. “If you must know, I'm stopping at Benger's Coffee Hall and my name's plain Brown.” My anger rose. “But what the hell do you want to know for?”

He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose violently.

“Steady, steady,” he reproved, “no offence is intended and, of course, no one has anything against you.” He walked over to the window overlooking the road. “But you just come over here and I'll explain.” He was smiling again as he pointed outside and went on. “You see, when any of us here happen to notice anyone staring hard at that noticeboard, and staring for a long time, one of us generally goes out to give him a glance over and see what he's looking at so particularly.” He shook one fat forefinger playfully. “Now you might be one of those missing husbands who's posted up for deserting his wife, mightn't you,” and he laughed heartily at his own joke.

“And what did you paw me over for,” I asked as if still angered, “to see if I'd got a gun on me?”

He made a wry face. “When you asked me for a match I thought it might just have been a bit of a bluff on your part to make out you were quite unconcerned, just an excuse to appear quite cool.”

I was now really amused myself, not because of the trick he had played on me, but because of the trick I had played on him. All the same, I was still feeling a bit uncomfortable, for I saw the stout policeman had left the room, and was wondering if his going had had anything to do with me.

The detective, however, continued to be most amiable and, forcing upon me one of his cigarettes, related quite a good story of how an absconding bank cashier had once been caught in that way, having shown too much interest in his description, as posted up on the noticeboard. The policeman returned during the recital of the story, and I would have sworn the detective instantly took his eyes off me to flash a quick glance at his subordinate. We parted a minute or two later on very friendly terms, Whitburn insisting upon my keeping the entire box of matches.

When I got back to the Coffee Hall for the midday meal, one of the waitresses told me someone had rung up for me during the morning, and upon learning I was out, had stated it didn't matter and that he would ring up again. He hadn't given his name and had left no message.

My heart went down into my boots. Of course, it was the police station ringing up! Directly I had told that Whitburn, the detective, where I was living, he had somehow ‘given the office’ to the stout policeman to get on the 'phone and find out if there was a Brown staying at the Coffee Hall.

Then why had Whitburn been suspicious about me? Ah, I had it! The bank manager had probably described me as young and sun-scorched, and so anyone young and looking at all sunburnt was liable to fall under suspicion. Then should I be shadowed now I asked myself? Should I be watched and followed so that it would be dangerous for me to make that journey to Belle Toute I was intending?

A moment's thought and I realised how foolish my fears were. There must be thousands of sunburnt young men in Eastbourne at that moment, in fact everybody one met showed evidences of the hot sun. Besides, and I felt very pleased with myself there, the very fact that I had given my correct name and address would have cleared me at once. No, I had nothing to be afraid of and they would never give me another thought.

I left the Coffee Hall that night about an hour before dark, knowing that it would be quite all right, whatever time I returned. It was an easy-going place and the side-door always was kept open, with a dim light always burning in the passage until dawn.

I did not take the direct road, but went up on to the Downs through the Old Town and made for the chalk-pit where I had rested two days previously. It was a good hour and a half's quick walking by the way I had come, and night had well fallen when I arrived there. Still, the moon was up and, in its second quarter, gave plenty of light. I looked round everywhere with an intent gaze, but as far as I could make out I was the only person anywhere about, and so, taking my courage in my hands, but with my heart beating rather quickly, I proceeded to make my way to where I had left the wallet.

Now I will pass over, as quickly as possible, the happenings of the next few minutes, as there are special reasons which make it most uncomfortable for me to dwell upon them. I found the wallet, but with more difficulty than I had expected, and, in my search for the particular slab of chalk, had to flash my torch a great deal longer than I liked. Apparently the wallet had not been touched and carrying it away under my arm, it was too bulky to tuck up my jacket, I started to make my way back in the direction of the chalk-pit. It was in my mind then to hide the wallet under the stones of a ruined shepherd's hut that I should pass, about two miles farther on my way home.

I reached the chalk-pit and was just skirting round the top when something, I shall never know what it was, made me suddenly turn round and look behind me. I never think, to this day, that I had heard anything and always believe it was sheer instinct which made me look round, the instinct of the hunted animal, which, although it had not come home to me as yet, I had really become.

Anyhow, I looked round and saw, not twenty paces away, a man tearing after me. The sound of his running had been deadened by the soft turf. Panic-stricken and with my heart in my mouth, I dashed off like a hare, but instantly there came the report of a pistol, and I heard the hiss of a bullet close near. I knew I had not been hit, but the firing had unnerved me and, tripping over in my frantic haste, I found myself floundering on the ground.

I struggled to regain my feet, but my pursuer was upon me the fraction of a second too soon, and grabbing the wallet from me with one hand, with the other struck a fierce blow at me with a heavy stick. The blow caught me on the arm and the pain of it infuriated me. I hurled myself at his knees and threw him over backwards. Then, snatching up the stick by it's end, I swung a fearful blow at his face and felt it crash home upon his forehead with a sickening thud. He gave one deep groan, his head lolled sideways, and then he lay quite still.

The whole happening from start to finish could not have taken a minute.

With glaring eyes and heaving chest, I stood over the prostrate man, intending to strike again if he made the slightest movement. But I realised all at once that the stick I was still holding, a big nobbed walking one, had a loaded end and it came to me with a feeling of dreadful horror that I had done more than stun him. I had crushed his forehead in.

The ghastly wound I had made stood out clear in the moonlight, and although so few seconds had passed, it was now ceasing to well with blood.

Almost choking in the quickly succeeding terror, I let the stick fall from my shaking hand and knelt down to bend over him. I moved his head ever so slightly with my fingers, but it sagged back directly I took the fingers away. His mouth had now dropped open and saliva dripped out of one corner.

I realised he was dead.

Then, strangely enough, my nerve all suddenly came back. The horror of what I had done was submerged all in an instant by the terror of the consequences which might follow upon me for what I had done.

I was a murderer and should hang for it if I were found out! I must save myself! I must keep my wits about me! But who was this man—a terrible thought came to me—and was he alone?

Snatching up the loaded stick again, I crouched down and peered furtively around. There was not a moving object in sight, and not a sound to be heard anywhere, except for the moaning of the distant sea.

I looked down at the dead man again. He was middle-aged and burly. I noted the greying hair over the temple on the unbloodied side of his head. His clothes were good and he was wearing big, stout boots. His jacket was buttoned up tightly to the chin. One of the side-pockets bulged with a small bulky object. I passed my hand over it. It was a pair of binoculars. A-ah, then he had been watching for me to come!

My breath came jerkily again. Of course, he was a detective! The police had guessed the wallet had been hidden somewhere not far from the Birling Gap road, and, failing to find it themselves but certain it would be picked up later by the hider, had posted a detective to wait for him to come.

For quite a long minute I considered breathlessly what I must do. Of course, the dead man would soon be missed and a search-party at once sent out to find him but—a thrill of hope surged through me—the search upon the Downs would always be half-hearted because the idea would be always uppermost in the minds of the searchers that he had fallen over the cliffs. Those cliffs with their sheer drop of three hundred feet were always very dangerous, and if any accident had happened, then the body might so easily have been washed out to sea.

I quickly made up my mind what I would do. The longer it was before the body was discovered, the safer I should feel, and so I must hide it as effectively as I could. The chalk-pit was only a few feet away and, overcoming my repugnance to handle the body, I seized it by the heels and, dragging it to the pit-side, toppled it over. But that was not enough, I told myself, as any passer-by, peering over the top, would see it at once. I must cover it over with loose pieces of chalk.