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- Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
"I'm writing to you about the death of Mr. Dearborn. You bet the murderer's laughing up his sleeve now that he's got away with it." An inquest is held in South Devon on the death of a man apparently killed in a motor accident on Dartmoor: the verdict is "Death from misadventure." But soon afterwards Scotland Yard and the Devon Chief Constable receive anonymous letters alleging that the verdict was wrong; that the death was caused by blows inflicted by a person, or persons, unknown. The Chief Constable asks for help from Scotland Yard. Richardson is detailed, as Chief Inspector C.I.D., to unravel the case. A discharged quarryman is suspected by the local police; Richardson clears him. He finds the writer of the anonymous letters, but he also finds that the dead man had shrouded his own past in mystery and was going under an assumed name. It looks like the most difficult case he has had to unravel, but Chance steps in to provide him with a clue… The Dartmoor Enigma was originally published in 1935. This new edition, the first in many decades, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder. "Sir Basil Thomson's tales are always good reading, and he has the knack of being accurate about Scotland Yard." Dorothy L. Sayers
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Basil ThomsonThe Dartmoor Enigma
“I’m writing to you about the death of Mr. Dearborn. You bet the murderer’s laughing up his sleeve now that he’s got away with it.”
An inquest is held in South Devon on the death of a man apparently killed in a motor accident on Dartmoor: the verdict is “Death from misadventure.” But soon afterwards Scotland Yard and the Devon Chief Constable receive anonymous letters alleging that the verdict was wrong; that the death was caused by blows inflicted by a person, or persons, unknown.
The Chief Constable asks for help from Scotland Yard. Richardson is detailed, as Chief Inspector C.I.D., to unravel the case. A discharged quarryman is suspected by the local police; Richardson clears him. He finds the writer of the anonymous letters, but he also finds that the dead man had shrouded his own past in mystery and was going under an assumed name. It looks like the most difficult case he has had to unravel, but Chance steps in to provide him with a clue…
The Dartmoor Enigma was originally published in 1935. This new edition, the first in over seventy years, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder. “Sir Basil Thomson’s tales are always good reading, and he has the knack of being accurate about Scotland Yard.” Dorothy L. Sayers
Contents
Introduction
SIR BASIL THOMSON’S stranger-than-fiction life was packed so full of incident that one can understand why his work as a crime novelist has been rather overlooked. This was a man whose CV included spells as a colonial administrator, prison governor, intelligence officer, and Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard. Among much else, he worked alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he was the Prime Minister of Tonga), interrogated Mata Hari and Roger Casement (although not at the same time), and was sensationally convicted of an offence of indecency committed in Hyde Park. More than three-quarters of a century after his death, he deserves to be recognised for the contribution he made to developing the police procedural, a form of detective fiction that has enjoyed lasting popularity.
Basil Home Thomson was born in 1861 – the following year his father became Archbishop of York – and was educated at Eton before going up to New College. He left Oxford after a couple of terms, apparently as a result of suffering depression, and joined the Colonial Service. Assigned to Fiji, he became a stipendiary magistrate before moving to Tonga. Returning to England in 1893, he published South Sea Yarns, which is among the 22 books written by him which are listed in Allen J. Hubin’s comprehensive bibliography of crime fiction (although in some cases, the criminous content was limited).
Thomson was called to the Bar, but opted to become deputy governor of Liverpool Prison; he later served as governor of such prisons as Dartmoor and Wormwood Scrubs, and acted as secretary to the Prison Commission. In 1913, he became head of C.I.D., which acted as the enforcement arm of British military intelligence after war broke out. When the Dutch exotic dancer and alleged spy Mata Hari arrived in England in 1916, she was arrested and interviewed at length by Thomson at Scotland Yard; she was released, only to be shot the following year by a French firing squad. He gave an account of the interrogation in Queer People (1922).
Thomson was knighted, and given the additional responsibility of acting as Director of Intelligence at the Home Office, but in 1921, he was controversially ousted, prompting a heated debate in Parliament: according to The Times, “for a few minutes there was pandemonium”. The government argued that Thomson was at odds with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir William Horwood (whose own career ended with an ignominious departure from office seven years later), but it seems likely be that covert political machinations lay behind his removal. With many aspects of Thomson’s complex life, it is hard to disentangle fiction from fact.
Undaunted, Thomson resumed his writing career, and in 1925, he published Mr Pepper Investigates, a collection of humorous short mysteries, the most renowned of which is “The Vanishing of Mrs Fraser”. In the same year, he was arrested in Hyde Park for “committing an act in violation of public decency” with a young woman who gave her name as Thelma de Lava. Thomson protested his innocence, but in vain: his trial took place amid a blaze of publicity, and he was fined five pounds. Despite the fact that Thelma de Lava had pleaded guilty (her fine was reportedly paid by a photographer), Thomson launched an appeal, claiming that he was the victim of a conspiracy, but the court would have none of it. Was he framed, or the victim of entrapment? If so, was the reason connected with his past work in intelligence or crime solving? The answers remain uncertain, but Thomson’s equivocal responses to the police after being apprehended damaged his credibility.
Public humiliation of this kind would have broken a less formidable man, but Thomson, by now in his mid-sixties, proved astonishingly resilient. A couple of years after his trial, he was appointed to reorganise the Siamese police force, and he continued to produce novels. These included The Kidnapper (1933), which Dorothy L. Sayers described in a review for the Sunday Times as “not so much a detective story as a sprightly fantasia upon a detective theme.” She approved the fact that Thomson wrote “good English very amusingly”, and noted that “some of his characters have real charm.” Mr Pepper returned in The Kidnapper, but in the same year, Thomson introduced his most important character, a Scottish policeman called Richardson.
Thomson took advantage of his inside knowledge to portray a young detective climbing through the ranks at Scotland Yard. And Richardson’s rise is amazingly rapid: thanks to the fastest fast-tracking imaginable, he starts out as a police constable, and has become Chief Constable by the time of his seventh appearance – in a book published only four years after the first. We learn little about Richardson’s background beyond the fact that he comes of Scottish farming stock, but he is likeable as well as highly efficient, and his sixth case introduces him to his future wife. His inquiries take him – and other colleagues – not only to different parts of England but also across the Channel on more than one occasion: in The Case of the Dead Diplomat, all the action takes place in France. There is a zest about the stories, especially when compared with some of the crime novels being produced at around the same time, which is striking, especially given that all of them were written by a man in his seventies.
From the start of the series, Thomson takes care to show the team work necessitated by a criminal investigation. Richardson is a key connecting figure, but the importance of his colleagues’ efforts is never minimised in order to highlight his brilliance. In The Case of the Dead Diplomat, for instance, it is the trusty Sergeant Cooper who makes good use of his linguistic skills and flair for impersonation to trap the villains of the piece. Inspector Vincent takes centre stage in The Milliner’s Hat Mystery, with Richardson confined to the background. He is more prominent in A Murder is Arranged, but it is Inspector Dallas who does most of the leg-work.
Such a focus on police team-working is very familiar to present day crime fiction fans, but it was something fresh in the Thirties. Yet Thomson was not the first man with personal experience of police life to write crime fiction: Frank Froest, a legendary detective, made a considerable splash with his first novel, The Grell Mystery, published in 1913. Froest, though, was a career cop, schooled in “the university of life” without the benefit of higher education, who sought literary input from a journalist, George Dilnot, whereas Basil Thomson was a fluent and experienced writer whose light, brisk style is ideally suited to detective fiction, with its emphasis on entertainment. Like so many other detective novelists, his interest in “true crime” is occasionally apparent in his fiction, but although Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? opens with a murder scenario faintly reminiscent of the legendary Wallace case of 1930, the storyline soon veers off in a quite different direction.
Even before Richardson arrived on the scene, two accomplished detective novelists had created successful police series. Freeman Wills Crofts devised elaborate crimes (often involving ingenious alibis) for Inspector French to solve, and his books highlight the patience and meticulous work of the skilled police investigator. Henry Wade wrote increasingly ambitious novels, often featuring the Oxford-educated Inspector Poole, and exploring the tensions between police colleagues as well as their shared values. Thomson’s mysteries are less convoluted than Crofts’, and less sophisticated than Wade’s, but they make pleasant reading. This is, at least in part, thanks to little touches of detail that are unquestionably authentic – such as senior officers’ dread of newspaper criticism, as in The Dartmoor Enigma. No other crime writer, after all, has ever had such wide-ranging personal experience of prison management, intelligence work, the hierarchies of Scotland Yard, let alone a desperate personal fight, under the unforgiving glare of the media spotlight, to prove his innocence of a criminal charge sure to stain, if not destroy, his reputation.
Ingenuity was the hallmark of many of the finest detective novels written during “the Golden Age of murder” between the wars, and intricacy of plotting – at least judged by the standards of Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, and John Dickson Carr – was not Thomson’s true speciality. That said, The Milliner’s Hat Mystery is remarkable for having inspired Ian Fleming, while he was working in intelligence during the Second World War, after Thomson’s death. In a memo to Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Fleming said: “The following suggestion is used in a book by Basil Thomson: a corpse dressed as an airman, with despatches in his pockets, could be dropped on the coast, supposedly from a parachute that has failed. I understand there is no difficulty in obtaining corpses at the Naval Hospital, but, of course, it would have to be a fresh one.” This clever idea became the basis for “Operation Mincemeat”, a plan to conceal the invasion of Italy from North Africa.
A further intriguing connection between Thomson and Fleming is that Thomson inscribed copies of at least two of the Richardson books to Kathleen Pettigrew, who was personal assistant to the Director of MI6, Stewart Menzies. She is widely regarded as the woman on whom Fleming based Miss Moneypenny, secretary to James Bond’s boss M – the Moneypenny character was originally called “Petty” Petteval. Possibly it was through her that Fleming came across Thomson’s book.
Thomson’s writing was of sufficiently high calibre to prompt Dorothy L. Sayers to heap praise on Richardson’s performance in his third case: “he puts in some of that excellent, sober, straightforward detective work which he so well knows how to do and follows the clue of a post-mark to the heart of a very plausible and proper mystery. I find him a most agreeable companion.” The acerbic American critics Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor also had a soft spot for Richardson, saying in A Catalogue of Crime that his investigations amount to “early police routine minus the contrived bickering, stomach ulcers, and pub-crawling with which later writers have masked poverty of invention and the dullness of repetitive questioning”.
Books in the Richardson series have been out of print and hard to find for decades, and their reappearance at affordable prices is as welcome as it is overdue. Now that Dean Street Press have republished all eight recorded entries in the Richardson case-book, twenty-first century readers are likely to find his company just as agreeable as Sayers did.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Chapter One
SUPERINTENDENT WITCHARD was checking expense-sheets in his room at Scotland Yard when his clerk looked in.
“Anything fresh this morning?” he asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary except this letter, sir.”
Witchard read the letter carefully and turned to the envelope. “A Devonshire case? Do we know anything about it?”
“No, sir. In ordinary course the Registry would send it down to the Chief Constable of Devon, but I thought you had better see it first.”
“Quite right. One can never tell where one of these anonymous letters will land one.” He read through the letter again. “Quite a lot of the big cases have come to light first through anonymous letters. I’ll let Mr. Morden see it before it goes to the Registry to send off.”
Left to himself, the Superintendent read the letter through again.
“Monday
“SIR,
It’s my duty to warn you that there’s been some funny business over the death of Mr. Dearborn of The Firs, Winterton, the one that had a motor accident up on the moor. The coroner said the cause of the death was the accident. If I was to tell all I know the doctor who gave evidence and the coroner too would look foolish. You ought to stop the burial.”
Witchard turned to the envelope, which was addressed to the Chief Constable, Scotland Yard, and bore the postmark, Tavistock. It was of the commonest paper and showed no indication of the maker’s name. He carried the letter to Morden’s room.
“I thought that you had better see this, sir, before it goes down to the Chief Constable of Devon. So far, it’s not a case for us, but it’s a curious kind of letter.”
Morden read it and handed it back. “Better get it off at once, Mr. Witchard,” he said.
But before the letter had time to leave the building the second post from the provinces had reached Scotland Yard and the case began to take shape. The Superintendent of the C.I.D. brought Morden a letter from the Chief Constable of Devon which threw a new light upon the affair.
“SIR (it ran),
“I shall feel much obliged if you will assist me in investigating a case which has arisen in the Winterton Division of this county. This morning my Superintendent brought me the attached anonymous letter, posted in Moorstead.
‘Monday
‘DEAR SIR,
‘I’m writing to you about the death of that Mr. Dearborn of Winterton. Is he going to be buried as if he died as the result of a motor accident like the coroner said? What about a bash on the head with a heavy stick before the accident happened? You bet the murderer’s laughing up his sleeve now that he’s got away with it.’
“The person referred to is a Mr. Charles Dearborn who lived in a house called The Firs at Winterton. On September 29 he was motoring home across the moor in his Austin Seven car when the car swerved from the centre of the road near the top of Sandiland Hill and partly overturned in the rough ground bordering the road. Dr. Wilson, the assistant medical officer at the convict prison, who was returning home, stopped his car on seeing the wreckage at the roadside, and finding Mr. Dearborn breathing but unconscious, rendered first aid. He then drove him to Duketon, where he recovered consciousness and was able to give his name and address. Dr. Wilson then drove him home and left him in the hands of his wife, telling her to lose no time in sending for the injured man’s own doctor. This, however, Mr. Dearborn would not allow, declaring that he felt better and required no medical attention. Some days passed, and he became so ill that his wife herself sent for the doctor.
“Two days later Mr. Dearborn died. An inquest was held on Monday, 8th; the verdict returned was that death was due to injuries sustained in a motor accident.
“Efforts have been made by my Superintendent to identify the writer of the anonymous letter, but without success.
“I should have attached no importance to an anonymous letter of this kind, but for the fact that one of my officers discovered a broken walking-stick with blood upon it. It was lying among some fern and heather near the top of Sandiland Hill, about four hundred yards from the scene of the motor accident.
“I should be very much obliged if you could spare an experienced detective officer to take charge of the investigation as early as possible. I have arranged for the postponement of the funeral for one or two days, in order to allow time for a detailed surgical examination, in the light of the anonymous letter.”
“I thought he was coming to that, Superintendent,” observed Morden dryly. “He wants us to take over the case.”
“Yes, sir, it’s getting a bit thick. We’ve already got two senior officers working in the provinces and this will make a third.”
“Still, we can’t refuse. Have we any senior officer with local knowledge?”
The Superintendent considered. “No, sir, but among the juniors there is Sergeant Jago, who was born at Tavistock and passed his early days there. The only chief inspector that could be spared at the moment is Richardson. He’s the junior chief inspector, but he’s had a varied experience and either by good luck or good management he has got home with his cases.”
“Could he start at once?”
“Yes, sir, this afternoon if you like.”
“Send him in, then.”
In a few moments the junior chief inspector made his appearance. There were those who resented his quick promotion over the heads of officers senior to him, but it was impossible to feel malice towards a man who gave himself no airs, who appeared ever anxious to learn from those junior to himself in rank, and who gave the fullest credit to all who worked under him. It had been his success in a Paris case and the warm recommendation from the Foreign Office that had brought him his last step in promotion.
“You sent for me, sir?” he said to Morden.
“Yes, Mr. Richardson. It was to ask you if you know Dartmoor at all?”
“No, sir. I’ve been once to the convict prison, but that is all.”
“Well, now is your opportunity. The Chief Constable has asked for help in a difficult case which is set out in these papers, and I propose that you take Sergeant Jago with you, as he has an intimate knowledge of the district. Get a copy made of these papers to take with you; get the anonymous letters photographed; get the usual advances and report yourself to the Superintendent at Winterton to-night if you can.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I don’t want you to waste valuable time in writing reports, but if you make any discovery that promises well, you should let us know.”
For the next hour Richardson made life a burden to the various departments concerned in sending officers to work in the provinces. But in the end he found himself on the Waterloo platform with his companion in time for the afternoon express to Tavistock. All this had been arranged by telephone from Scotland Yard. The first part of the journey was devoted to a study of the Chief Constable’s letter, and to the photographs of the two anonymous letters.
“Have a good look at these photographs, Jago, and tell me what you make of them,” said Richardson; “take your time.”
Jago studied the envelopes and their postmarks and then scrutinized the text of the letters. “One thing strikes me, Chief Inspector. These two letters were sent off on the same day and the man who posted them could only have posted one in Tavistock and the other in Moorstead if he had a car or motor-lorry.”
“Ah! That’s where your local knowledge comes in. It’s a sound deduction, but why should the owner of the car go to such pains to be anonymous?”
Sergeant Jago shook his head, and Richardson pulled out a map from his pocket. “The distance is only a dozen miles or so, nothing very much for a motor-lorry; but what do motor-lorries carry right across the moor?”
“Mostly granite.”
“Oh, then there are granite lorries between Tavistock and Moorstead?”
“Yes, sir, there’s Rowe’s quarry a mile or two out from Tavistock, where the best granite comes from, and there’s a smaller quarry somewhere near Moorstead.”
“Have you noticed anything special about the handwriting of these anonymous letters? Would you say that the two were written by the same man?”
Jago studied the photographs again. “Well, if they were, the fellow disguised his hand. The writing in the Commissioner’s letter slopes backward much more than the other.”
“It does, but that’s a familiar trick for a half-educated writer of anonymous letters.”
“You think the same man wrote both?”
“I feel sure of it and if I’m right we have something to go upon. First the misspelling. He spells ‘burial’ with two r’s in the Commissioner’s letter, and ‘buried’ in the Chief Constable’s also has two r’s.”
“But I don’t see why he should have wanted to appear to be two different people.”
“Only because he thought that more notice would be taken of two people than one, and he wanted notice taken, which makes me think that he knows something and that it’s not merely a hoax.”
“But if he knows something, why shouldn’t he come openly to the police and tell them?”
“Ah, that’s what we’ve got to find out. For the moment we’re only speculating. Suppose, for instance, that the writer is an ex-convict lately released on licence and that he saw a crime committed; he might think that he wouldn’t stand a chance with his bad record if he were accused of committing the crime.”
“Yes, I see that, sir.”
“At any rate, you with your local knowledge have given us something to work upon—the motor-lorry theory.”
They had passed Okehampton and were nearing Tavistock. Richardson packed up his papers and took his modest luggage down from the rack. The train slowed down; a constable in uniform was on the platform; Richardson approached him.
“I’m Chief Inspector Richardson from Scotland Yard.”
The constable saluted. “We’ve been sent to meet you, sir, by Superintendent Carstairs. He had a telegram this afternoon.”
“This is Detective Sergeant Jago—a native of Tavistock.”
The constable shook hands. “I know your family well, Sergeant,” he said.
The drive from Tavistock to Winterton by the main road which skirts the moor was rapidly covered. The car drew up at the police station.
They were met on the steps by Superintendent Carstairs, who shook hands warmly with Richardson.
“I’m very glad you’ve come down, Chief Inspector. The fact is that with my limited staff I could never have undertaken to solve the case.”
“But I shan’t be able to get on without you, Superintendent,” said Richardson. “It’s true that I’ve brought with me Sergeant Jago, who was born and brought up in Tavistock and has knowledge of the locality, but naturally he has no acquaintance with the dead man’s affairs and you would have.”
“That is the trouble, Chief Inspector. No one knows anything of the late Mr. Dearborn’s affairs—not even his wife. What I propose to do for you is this. I’ll show you the broken stick which was picked up by one of my officers about a quarter of a mile from the scene of the accident, and then, tomorrow morning I propose to introduce you to the widow and let you question her in any way you please. I want you to remember that whenever you require transport the police car will be at your service. In fact, I am turning over the case to you entirely.”
“The body has not been buried yet?”
“No. Dr. Symon, who was called in by the widow to attend the deceased just before he died, is a young man without very much experience, and the verdict at the inquest was given on his evidence. You will probably desire to have a second medical opinion in view of the finding of the broken stick and the anonymous letter written to me.”
“That was not the only one, Superintendent. The Commissioner in London also received one in the same handwriting. I have brought photographs of the two letters for you to see. Now may I have a look at the broken stick?”
“Step into my office, Mr. Richardson. We can dispose of all these questions now.” He led the way to a little room, scrupulously tidy, and called for his clerk. “See that we’re not disturbed, Henry.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Now sit down, Mr. Richardson, and make yourself at home. This office will always be at your disposal.”
He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer and took from it the top of a heavy walking-stick with a silver band. “You will see the bloodstains on the crook.”
“With a hair adhering to it,” observed Richardson. “I suppose the bloodstains have not yet been examined to see whether it’s human blood, nor the hair compared with that of the dead man?”
The Superintendent chuckled in his beard.
“No, down here I’m afraid we don’t work at such high pressure. The fact is that when the Chief Constable told me on the telephone that you were coming, I thought it better not to interfere with any possible evidence.”
“Have you any doctor in your mind, say from Plymouth, who could make a second examination of the body with Dr. Symon?”
“Well, yes; I thought of calling in Dr. Fraser. He’s a man of about forty-five, well known to the local magistrates, and very cautious when giving an opinion. If you approve I can telephone to him this evening to be up here to-morrow morning.”
“Very well, and now I’ll show you the photographs of the letters.”
Richardson laid the two photographs on the desk. Superintendent Carstairs took out a pair of glasses, polished them with his handkerchief and bent over the letters, breathing hard. It was clear that he was more at home in dealing with his staff in out-door-work than in comparing documents. Richardson felt, more than saw, that he was waiting for a lead. It was a pathetic spectacle—this weather-beaten, bearded superintendent, who more than filled his office chair, bending over documents on which he knew that he could give no useful opinion. Richardson came to his rescue.
“You see, Mr. Carstairs, that the letters were written by the same hand and that the writer tried to disguise his handwriting by tilting the characters backward in the letter to the Commissioner. But the misspelling is the same in each.”
The Superintendent nodded.
“Then, if you look at the postmarks you can see that they were posted in places a good many miles apart. The writer, therefore, must have been in possession of a car or motor-lorry.”
Superintendent Carstairs acquiesced and handed back the photographs, glad to be rid of them. “Now, Mr. Richardson, you must be tired after your journey. I’ve found quarters for you and your sergeant at the local hotel—the Duchy Arms. If you will come round here at nine-thirty to-morrow morning I will introduce you to Mrs. Dearborn.”
Chapter Two
OCTOBER 11 was one of those rarely warm and beautiful days that seem to be sent to leave dwellers on the moor with a memory of the dead summer when the pall of mist and rain is due to descend upon them.
At half-past nine the Superintendent looked in to say that it was not too early to take Richardson over to Mrs. Dearborn. “I telephoned to her this morning, telling her to expect you, so you will find her prepared. Dr. Fraser will be at the house for the medical examination of the body at half-past eleven. Probably you will want to see him.”
“What about Sergeant Jago, Mr. Carstairs? Will the lady be prepared to receive two of us?”
“If you take my advice, Chief Inspector, you will see her alone. She isn’t an excitable person, but I fancy that she will be more communicative if you are by yourself. While you are talking to her, Sergeant Jago might be looking over the car, which is in the private garage at The Firs.”
Mrs. Dearborn opened the door to them in person. She was a thin, worn woman, who looked older than her age; there was an air of faded gentility about her. She was dressed in black. “This is the gentleman of whom I spoke to you on the telephone,” said Carstairs. “Chief Inspector Richardson of Scotland Yard.”
Richardson shook hands with her and noticed that her fingers were rough like those of one accustomed to domestic work.
“Will you come into the sitting-room, Mr. Richardson?” she said; “we shall be quite quiet there. And you, Mr. Carstairs?”
“No, I’ve my work to do. But I hope you will tell Mr. Richardson everything you know and keep nothing back. While he is here I should like his assistant to have a look at the car in the garage. May I have the key please?”
She took a key from a hook in the hall and gave it to him. “No one has touched the car since it was brought in.”
After a sympathetic reference to her loss, Richardson began his questioning. “I think I ought to ask you first, how long you have been married to Mr. Dearborn?”
“We were married in Plymouth a year ago, but I had been keeping house for him for two years before that. You see, when my father died, his pension died with him and I was left very badly off. I saw an advertisement in a Plymouth newspaper, for a housekeeper, and I answered it. Mr. Dearborn invited me to an interview and that was how I first met him.”
“Until you answered that advertisement you knew nothing of your husband?”
“No; I had never heard of him in my life.”
“Had he been living long in Winterton?”
“No, he told me he had only just bought this house.”
“Did he say who the house agent was who sold it to him?”
“No.”
“Nor from what part of the country he came? Because I gather that he was not a Plymouth man.”
“No. It may seem strange to you, but he told me nothing of his past life and I asked him no questions, because I thought that he would tell me of his own accord if he wanted to.”
“So you never knew anything about his former profession?”
“No, nothing.”
“Nor about his friends and relations?”
“No; he told me he had no near relations, and apart from business letters from tradesmen, he received no correspondence by post.”
“What was his age?”
“There I can answer you. At the time of our marriage he gave it as thirty-eight.”
“He had a bank in Plymouth, I suppose?”
“Yes. It was the Union Bank—because when he showed me his will, I saw that the manager of the Union Bank was his sole executor and he explained that he had left everything he possessed to me.”
“What did he do with his time?”
“Well, he was a great newspaper reader, and that took up the greater part of his mornings. Lately he has had the quarry to visit, but before he bought that he used to take long walks.”
“By himself?”
“Yes, always by himself. When he first came people used to call on him, but he never returned their visits nor answered their invitations to tennis-parties and the like, so I suppose they grew tired of asking him.”
“And they haven’t renewed their invitations since your marriage?”
“No, but I have always plenty to occupy me at home, looking after the house and garden.”
“You have a maidservant?”
“Yes, a Devonshire girl who has been with us ever since I came to the house.”
“Have you a gardener?”
She smiled. “You are talking to the gardener at this moment. Sometimes I have to get in a jobbing gardener to do the digging, but otherwise I look after the garden myself.”
“How long has your husband had a car?”
“He bought it about six months ago. It was like a new toy to him. Two or three times a week, except in very bad weather, he would go for long drives over the moor. I suppose he wasn’t a very experienced driver and that that was the cause of the accident.”
“He was conscious between the time of his accident and his death a week later?”
“Oh, yes; certainly on the first two days after the accident.”
“And he never told you how it happened?”
“Yes; he said that his foot-brake didn’t work, but my impression was that he had his foot on the wrong lever and mistook the accelerator for the brake.”
“Did he speak of having met anyone shortly before the mishap?”
“No. As I told you, he did not know any of his neighbours.”
“So it comes to this—that neither you nor he were on speaking terms with anyone in Winterton?”
“He was not, but I have one friend in the place—a young naval officer, Lieutenant Cosway, whose parents live in the second house from this, in that direction”—she pointed towards Plymouth. “You see, I have a Siamese kitten. One day Mr. Cosway was passing with his dog and it chased my kitten up a tree. He called off the dog and apologized, but the kitten was afraid to come down and so he took off his coat and climbed the tree. I got frightened because the higher he climbed the higher went the kitten, and I was afraid that the tree, which was bending with his weight, would break and both of them would be killed. However, he rescued the little beast and brought it down in his arms.
“Since then he has been in to look at my garden once or twice. You see, he has a dockyard appointment at Devonport and often comes up to Winterton to see his family.”
“Did he never make your husband’s acquaintance?”
“No, my husband always happened to be out when he came.”
“Then if your husband had no friends in Winterton, at any rate he had no enemies?”
She appeared startled. “Enemies? Why do you ask that?”
Up to this point her manner had been so colourless and her replies so composed that Richardson had scarcely realized that he was dealing with a woman of flesh and blood. She left him in no doubt on that point now.
“The questions you have been asking me are surely very unusual. Do you always cross-examine people on their private lives like this in the case of an accident? I think that I am entitled to some explanation.”
“You are quite right, Mrs. Dearborn. I ought to have explained sooner why I have been asking these questions. Someone has been writing anonymous letters to the police, suggesting that your husband’s death was due, not to the motor accident alone, but to an attack made upon him by someone on the road, and in order to clear this up there is to be another medical examination this morning.”
“But this is ridiculous. My husband was fully conscious after his accident, and I am sure he would have told me if he had been attacked.”
“Well, we can only wait for the result of the medical examination, and until that is made there is nothing for you to worry about. You see, Mrs. Dearborn, anonymous letters in most cases turn out to be malicious and ill-informed, but it is unwise entirely to ignore them as I think you will agree.”
“I quite see that, and now that I know the reason for your questions I will answer them all to the best of my ability. The only point on which I can give you but little help is on my husband’s affairs, because he never took me into his confidence.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn. I won’t worry you with any more questions now.”
Richardson went round to the garage where he found Sergeant Jago with evidence on his clothes and hands of having made an exhaustive survey of the car. Before joining the Metropolitan Police Jago had worked in a Tavistock garage and the experience had been useful to him; indeed there had been a time when the Public Carriage Department at Scotland Yard had competed with the C.I.D. for his services.
“Well, young man,” said Richardson, “what discoveries have you made?”
“The engine’s all right, but the steering-gear is badly messed up. There’s nothing whatever wrong with the brakes; they couldn’t have contributed to the accident, but there’s one funny thing. These cars are always furnished with a starting-handle in case the batteries run down, and there’s not one in the car or anywhere in the garage. The speedometer marks a run of sixteen miles, which would mean that the car had been about as far as Moorstead on the day of the accident.”
“I should like to take advantage of this fine day by running out to the scene of the accident. You had better come with me and we’ll get the Superintendent to give us the man who found that broken walking-stick. Come along with me to the police station.”
They found Superintendent Carstairs in his little office. “Certainly you can have the car, and as it happens the man who will drive you is the very man who found the broken stick.” He rang a bell and the car was brought round.
“My God! What a road!” exclaimed Richardson, as they negotiated the hill leading up from Sandiland. “It’s like the side of a house.” But the car took the hill on her second speed, and before they came to the top she pulled up well to the side of the track. The driver jumped down.
“This is where we found the car, sir. It had turned nearly over. You can see the wheel marks there in that broken heather.”
“And where did you find the broken stick?”
“If you’ll come up the hill a little way, sir, I’ll show you. It was me that found it.”
He led the way up in the direction of Duketon and stopped at a point where the hill was a little less steep. The heather was particularly tall and dense at this point.
“I marked the place with three little stones, sir. Here they are, and there’s the place where the broken stick was lying.”
Richardson cast an eye round. The surface of the road was rough at this point; the traffic to and from Duketon and the downpours of rain had washed gutters in the surface.
“It’s almost useless to attempt to keep a tarred road in good order with all the summer traffic of char-à-bancs and lorries. The rain comes down here like a water-course.”
“What I want to look for,” said Richardson, “is the other half of the broken stick and the starting-handle of the Austin Seven. They must both be somewhere about.”
The three men began to quarter the ground systematically, beginning on the near side of the road. Richardson was the first to exclaim. He stooped and held up a starting-handle already coated with rust but not pitted with it. Sergeant Jago came over to him and identified his find as belonging to an Austin Seven. It was now the turn of the driver. “Here we are,” he cried, “if this isn’t the other half of the stick I’m a Dutchman.”
“It certainly looks like the same wood,” said Richardson; “but we’ll have to fit the two pieces together before we can be sure. What’s your theory about what happened?” he asked the driver, with the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.
