The Lake District Murder E-Book

John Bude

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The Lake District Murder opens with the discovery of a faceless body in an isolated garage, then follows Inspector Meredith through a complex investigation where every clue seems to lead only to another puzzle. Was this a bizarre suicide, or something more sinister? Why was the dead man apparently making plans to flee the country? And what does all this have to do with the newly discovered shady business dealings of the garage? All becomes clear in time, but not before John Bude has led readers through a rousing investigation, full of unexpected twists and turns, set against the stunning backdrop of the Lake District.

Leseprobe

The Lake District Murder

by John Bude

Copyright 1935 Ernest Elmore.

This edition published by Reading Essentials.

All Rights Reserved. 

The Lake District Murder

CONTENTS

I.

THE BODY IN THE CAR

II.

MEREDITH GETS GOING

III.

THE PUZZLE OF THE HOSE-PIPE

IV.

CLUE AT THE BANK?

V.

MOTIVE?

VI.

SENSATIONAL VERDICT

VII.

THE PARKED PETROL LORRY

VIII.

PRINCE AND BETTLE EXPLAIN

IX.

INVESTIGATIONS AT THE LOTHWAITE

X.

DISCOVERIES AT THE DEPOT

XI.

PROBLEM NUMBER TWO

XII.

FRAUD?

XIII.

MEREDITH SETS HIS SCHEME IN MOTION

XIV.

THE QUART IN THE PINT POT!

XV.

THE INSPECTOR OF WEIGHTS AND MEASURES

XVI.

THE BEE’S HEAD BREWERY

XVII.

THE MUSLIN BAG

XVIII.

MEREDITH GOES TO EARTH

XIX.

PIPES

XX.

“THE ADMIRAL”

XXI.

RECONSTRUCTION OF THE CRIME

XXII.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

XXIII.

THE LAST ROUND-UP

The Lake District Murder

CHAPTER ITHE BODY IN THE CAR

When the northbound road leaves Keswick, it skirts the head of Derwentwater, curves into the picturesque village of Portinscale and then runs more or less straight up a broad and level valley until it arrives at the little, mountain-shadowed hamlet of Braithwaite. There is a fair amount of traffic up this valley, particularly in the summer; tourists wending their way into the Buttermere valley are bound to take this road, for the very simple reason that there’s no other road to take. It also links up the inland Cumbrian towns with the coastal towns of Whitehaven, Workington and Maryport.

About half-way between Portinscale and Braithwaite, on a very bleak and uninhabited stretch of road, stands a newish stone-and-cement garage on the rim of a spacious meadow. There are a few petrol pumps between the road and a broad concrete draw-in, where cars can fill up without checking the main traffic. The garage itself is a plain, rectangular building with a flat roof, on one side of which is a brick lean-to with a corrugated iron roof. About ten paces from the Braithwaite side of the garage there is a small, stone, slate-roofed cottage. It is not flush with the road, but set back about fifty feet or more, fronted with an unkempt garden which boasts a few wind-stunted crab-apple trees. Altogether this small desolate group of buildings is not exactly prepossessing. One feels that only the necessity of earning a livelihood would drive a man to dwell in such a spot.

One wet and windy night, toward the end of March, a dilapidated T-model Ford was rattling through the deserted street of Portinscale. At the wheel sat a red-faced, bluff-looking farmer of about sixty. He was returning from a Farmers’ Union dinner in Keswick. He felt pleased and at peace with the world, for he had that inside him which sufficed to keep out the cold, and the engine of the Ford, for all its years, was running as smooth as silk. Another twenty minutes, he reckoned, would see him in Braithwaite, roasting his toes at a roaring fire, with a “night-cap” at his elbow to round off a very convivial evening.

But it is precisely at those moments when the glass seems to be “set fair” that Fate invariably decides to take a hand.

And Fate had decided that Farmer Perryman was to make a late night of it.

He had, in fact, only just cleared the last outlying cottages of the village when the Ford engine broke into a series of spluttering coughs and finally petered out. Drawing into the side of the road, Luke, cursing under his breath, buttoned up the collar of his coat, pulled an electric-torch out of his pocket and proceeded to investigate the trouble. He didn’t have to look far. His first diagnosis proved correct. He was out of petrol.

Luckily Luke knew every inch of the route and, although he could not actually see it, he knew that the Derwent garage lay just round a slight bend about a quarter of a mile up the road. Realizing that there was nothing else to be done, since he carried no spare can, he shoved his head down into the wind and rain and trudged off surlily in the direction of Braithwaite.

Soon the row of lighted petrol pumps hove in sight and in a few minutes Luke Perryman drew abreast of the garage. Although a light was burning in the main shed, the place seemed curiously deserted. Nor did Luke’s raucous demands for service do anything to disturb this illusion. Noticing a push-bell, obviously connected with the cottage, he pressed it and waited. But again without result. He was just on the point of investigating a light which he had noticed burning in the window of the cottage, when he stopped dead and listened. Faintly above the bluster of the wind he heard the sound of a car engine. At first he thought it must be a car approaching up the road, but suddenly he realized that the sound was coming from the lean-to shed on the Portinscale side of the garage.

Luke was puzzled. There was evidently no light burning in the shed, for although the doors were closed it would have been natural for a glimmer of light to show through the cracks. His first thought was that either young Clayton or his partner, Higgins, had started a car, been called away on another job, and forgotten to return and switch off the engine.

He tried the handle of the doors, therefore, and finding them unlocked, opened them and shone his torch into the interior. His first impression was of an acrid and obnoxious odour cooped up in the sealed shed. An odour which made him catch his breath and cough. Then, as the air freshened, the circle of light from his torch travelled slowly over the back of the car and came to rest on a figure, seated, facing away from him, at the driving-wheel. Something about the set of the man’s shoulders convinced him that it was Clayton.

He called out, therefore: “Hi, Clayton! I couldn’t make anybody hear. I’ve run short of petrol and have had to leave my car way back up the road.”

But to his profound surprise the man made no answer. A trifle alarmed, Luke thrust his way round to the front of the car and flung the light of his torch full on to the face of the immobile figure. Then he had the shock of his life. The man had no face! Where his face should have been was a sort of inhuman, uniform blank!

It took old Perryman some few seconds to right this illusion and when he did he was horrified. Although somewhat slow of mind, he realized, at once, that he was face to face with tragedy and, what was more, tragedy in its starkest and most nerve-racking guise!

The man’s head was hooded in an oil-grimed mackintosh, which had been gathered in round the neck with a piece of twine. From the back Luke had mistaken this cowl for an ordinary leather driving-helmet. Frightened, bewildered, wasting no time on speculation, he laid his torch on the front seat and shot out a pair of shaking hands. Clumsily he undid the twine and drew aside the hood. Then, with an exclamation of horror, he started back and stared at the terrible apparition which confronted him. It was Clayton all right! Clayton with a fearfully distorted, blue-lipped, sightless face! He felt his heart. There was no movement! The man’s hand was cold!

In the stress of the moment he had not fully realized what it was which had slipped from under the mackintosh when he had loosened the twine. He had heard something thump on to the upholstery of the other front seat. Now he took a quick look and, in a flash, he knew why Clayton was dead.

Hastily closing the doors, he remained undecided for a moment, unable to make up his mind whether it was worthwhile finding out if the cottage was really deserted. Then convinced that his violent rings on the service bell would have brought somebody forward if indeed there was anybody there, he lumbered back into the main garage, found a can of petrol and set off at a smart trot toward his car. In less than five minutes he was speeding as fast as the T-model would allow in the direction of the Keswick police station.

It was striking ten as the Ford drew up outside the station. As luck would have it, Inspector Meredith was still in the building. Arrears of routine work had kept him working late. When the constable showed the farmer into the office, Meredith looked up and grinned.

“Good heavens, sir,” he said in his pleasingly resonant voice, “you haven’t come here to tell me your car’s been stolen, surely? You won’t get me to believe that!”

Old Luke, who was sadly out of breath and shaken by his discovery, dropped into a chair. His first words took the smile off the Inspector’s face.

“I wish it was that. But it’s something serious, Inspector. It’s young Clayton out at the Derwent garage.”

“Well?”

“Suicide, I reckon.”

“Suicide, eh!” The Inspector was already reaching for his cap.

“Your car’s outside, Mr. Perryman?”

Luke nodded.

“Then perhaps you’ll give me details on the way over.”

As they passed through the outer office, Meredith turned to the constable. “Phone Doctor Burney, Railton, and ask him to meet me at the Derwent garage on the Braithwaite road as soon as possible. Then get out the combination and join us there.”

As the old Ford rattled off again through the rain-wet streets, Meredith gathered in the details of Luke Perryman’s discovery. When the old man had finished his recital the Inspector grunted:

“Not a very pleasant wind-up to your evening, Mr. Perryman? Looks like a late night for me, too. Do you know anything about this young chap?”

Old Luke considered a moment.

“Well, I do, and then again, I don’t. I’ve heard he’s engaged to Tom Reade’s eldest daughter. He’s the Braithwaite storekeeper, as you may know. But beyond a few words with Clayton in a business sort of way, I can’t rightly say I know him.”

“The girl lives at the shop, I suppose?”

“Ay.”

“And what about this partner of Clayton’s? Know anything about him?”

Luke shook his head and then declared: “Though from all accounts it’s Clayton who’s got the business head. I’ve heard—mind you, I don’t know—that Higgins is a bit too fond of lifting his elbow.”

Meredith registered this piece of information. Wasn’t it possible that Higgins was drinking away the profits of the concern? It might turn out to be the reason for Clayton’s suicide.

He had no more time for theorizing, however, for with a wild screeching of brakes the old Ford drew up on the concrete beside the petrol pumps. Immediately Meredith sprang out, whilst Luke shut off the engine of the car. Faintly above the wind the Inspector heard the sound which had previously drawn the farmer to the tragic spot. Striding over to the shed, he opened the double doors and flashed his lamp into the interior.

“No switch in here?” he asked.

Luke confessed that he had been so upset by his discovery that he hadn’t troubled to look. Meredith, however, soon found what he was looking for just inside the door. The next instant the shed was flooded with electric light.

“You didn’t move the body, I take it?”

“No. Just the mackintosh that was over the poor fellow’s head and the bit of string tied round his neck. You see, Inspector, I wasn’t sure at first that he was dead.”

“Well, that’s all right.”

Meredith leaned over the dash-board and switched off the engine.

“Now, then—let’s see exactly how he did it.”

A brief examination soon made this clear. The fish-tail end of the silencer had been removed from the exhaust-pipe at the rear of the car. Over the end of this pipe had been fitted a length of ordinary, flexible garden-hose. This in turn led over the backseat of the car, an old open tourer, and thus up under the mackintosh which Clayton had tied over his head. It was the end of this hose which had fallen on to the front seat when the farmer had removed the mackintosh.

“Neat!” was Meredith’s blunt comment when he had completed his examination. Then: “Hullo! Who’s this?” he added, as a car swung off the road and drew up behind the Ford.

A brisk, well-set-up young man in a belted overcoat crossed into the radius of the light.

“Evening, Inspector. I was just putting away the car when I got your call. What’s the trouble here?”

Meredith in a few words outlined Luke’s discovery to Dr. Burney, who without delay made a thorough external examination of the body. At the end of a few minutes he reported:

“No doubt as to the cause of death, Meredith. Asphyxiation due to the inhalation of exhaust fumes. One of the chief products of petrol combustion, as you probably know, is carbon monoxide. Looks as if he’s taken a pretty big dose of the stuff.”

“How long do you think he’s been dead?”

“Difficult to say exactly. Probably two to three hours. It depends, of course, on individual reaction.”

As they were discussing the matter further, Railton arrived on the motor-cycle combination and Meredith sent him over to the cottage to investigate. He returned in a short time to say that although there was a light burning in the parlour, the place was deserted.

“Looks as if Higgins is away,” commented the Inspector. “We shall have to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Now, suppose we move the body into the cottage—less public there, eh, Doctor?”

The doctor agreed and Meredith and Railton between them carried their burden down the garden path and laid it out on a horsehair sofa in the little sitting-room. There Doctor Burney made a second examination, which did nothing to modify his first opinion. In the meantime Meredith was gazing round the room with a great deal of interest and surprise.

The table was covered with a white cloth on which a meal had been laid, evidently a sort of high tea. The teapot itself had the lid off and a spoonful or so of tea had already been measured into it. There was also, Meredith was quick to note, a peculiar, metallic, burning smell in the room. Almost instinctively his eye wandered to the fireplace where, on an old-fashioned kitchen-range above a fire which had now died down to a handful of glowing embers, was a large black kettle. On picking it up he was not surprised to find that it had boiled dry and that the base of it had already begun to melt away.

Meredith was puzzled. It was curious that Clayton should have laid the meal, put tea into the teapot, the kettle on the range and then abruptly left the cottage with the idea of taking his own life. The method he had employed argued premeditation—the mackintosh, the string, the hose-pipe—these objects suggested a carefully planned and cleverly executed suicide. That being the case, why had he made all these preparations for a meal? Was it that a suitable opportunity suddenly presented itself and Clayton had seized the chance? But surely the early hours of the morning would have been better for his purpose than a time when there would almost certainly be cars on the road.

He turned to Railton.

“Do you know if Clayton and Higgins have a woman to look after them?”

Railton shook his head.

“No, sir. That is, not after two o’clock. I happen to know Mrs. Swinley who comes out from Portinscale to do for them. But they don’t have anybody living in.”

Meredith wondered if one of Mrs. Swinley’s duties was to lay the evening meal before she went home. If so, that would account for a great deal. But not everything. The kettle, for example. She certainly wouldn’t put the kettle on to boil at two o’clock for a meal that was to be eaten, say, at six. He drew the doctor’s attention to the facts.

“It’s strange, I admit,” was Doctor Burney’s comment. “But people who are contemplating suicide often do strange things.”

“You’ve nothing further to report, Doctor?”

“Nothing. Except that it looks as if Clayton had taken a good stiff peg of whisky before attempting the job. I noticed a faint smell of spirits round the lips. But beyond the usual symptoms of asphyxia the young fellow appears to be in a normally healthy condition. I’ll put in my official report, of course. You might give me a ring when the day of the inquest is fixed.”

The Inspector crossed over to the door with Doctor Burney, shook hands and watched him drive off in his car. Then, still thinking hard, he turned back into the room to take an official statement from Luke Perryman.

CHAPTER IIMEREDITH GETS GOING

When Luke Perryman, rather grey and shaken by his experience, had clattered off in the Ford, Meredith heaved a sigh of relief. He could now turn his full attention to the matter in hand. As it was already past eleven o’clock he did not feel justified in notifying Miss Reade about the tragedy. Time enough for that in the morning. On the other hand, where was Higgins? As he was in closer touch with Clayton than anybody, he ought to be found.

“It’s a nuisance about this Higgins chap,” he said to Railton. “He’s probably away for the week-end. No chance of us finding out where he is, eh?”

Railton thought for a moment.

“Well, there’s David Hogg at the Hare and Hounds in Braithwaite. Higgins is a regular customer of his. He might know. If you like, I could run the bike in and find out, sir.”

Meredith at once fell in with the suggestion and Railton departed on his errand. Left alone with the body, Meredith’s thoughts again drifted to the curious fact of the waiting meal and the burnt-out kettle. Somehow he could not dismiss the fact with the facile explanation given by Dr. Burney. Granted suicides are often the result of temporary mental aberration, but everything in this case showed that Clayton had not acted on the spur of the moment. There was the hose-pipe, for example. Meredith had noted that it fitted exactly over the exhaust-pipe of the car. It may have been pure chance; on the other hand, it was a strong argument in favour of premeditation.

Then there was another point. Why had Clayton left the light burning in the cottage? If his idea was to be safe from interruption, this seemed an idiotic thing to do. A customer, not being able to make anybody hear at the garage, would naturally investigate at the cottage if they saw a lighted window. Then, finding nobody about, they would instinctively jump to the conclusion that something was wrong. And again—the time? There would be cars on the road, particularly as it was Saturday night. If anybody drawing up at the petrol-pumps shut off his engine he would be bound to hear the engine of the second car in the shed.

The more Meredith thought about it the less satisfied he was with the aspects of the case.

He searched round to see if Clayton had left any letter, either to the Coroner or to his fiancée, Miss Reade. But a cursory rummage round the room brought nothing to light. He then went methodically through the pockets of the dead man.

Clayton was dressed in buff dungarees, over a shiny, blue lounge suit. From the first Meredith extracted an adjustable spanner, a roll of insulating tape, one or two odd nuts and bolts and an oily piece of rag. These he placed on the table. From the pockets of the suit he obtained just those articles which a man of Clayton’s type and calling would naturally carry around with him. Pocket-knife, a bunch of keys, a packet of Players, matches, and so on. But there was no sign of any letter.

Turning out the light, Meredith closed the door of the cottage and returned to the lean-to shed. This time he examined more closely the coupling of the hose with the exhaust-pipe. Then putting on a pair of leather gloves, after a lot of cautious twisting and tugging he succeeded in working the hose free. At once he was struck by a fresh detail. The end of the hose-pipe which had been fitted over the exhaust had been newly severed. The white rubber had been cut through, leaving a clean circle, whilst the end of the hose which had been thrust under the mackintosh was both frayed and soiled.

“One more detail in favour of premeditation,” thought Meredith. “Obvious that the hose has been cut to an exact length.”

He then picked up the fish-tail end of the silencer, which lay under the rear-axle. Noticing that there was a bolted clip to fix it to the exhaust, he tried to get it back into place. After a lot more twisting and easing he succeeded in doing so. Then satisfied that there was nothing further to occupy his attention in the garage, he switched out the light and returned to the cottage.

His investigations in the lean-to left him more puzzled than ever and it was with a feeling of dissatisfaction that he began to pace up and down the little room. Clayton had obviously cut off that piece of hose to some predetermined measurement, and yet, after all his detailed preparations, what had he apparently done? Walked casually out of the cottage, after laying his meal, and as casually taken his life! Surely there was something wrong somewhere? A man doesn’t plan out a careful suicide and then, with a sudden reversion of tactics, put his plan so carelessly into execution.

Disturbed by these curious discrepancies in the affair, Meredith tugged off his gloves and flung them on to the white table-cloth. He was not the sort of man given to erratic flights of imagination. Reason, he always argued, was the common-sense basis on which to found a criminal investigation. And in this case what did his reason suggest? Did it mean that——?

Suddenly he broke off his meditations and uttered a sharp exclamation. His gaze was riveted on the table-cloth, now no longer white but sadly blackened by the contact of his gloves. An idea had flashed into his mind. The grime on his gloves had accrued from his fiddling with the fish-tail end of the exhaust. He realized, instantly, that it would be impossible for anybody to have unscrewed the fish-tail and to have replaced it with the hose without considerably blackening their hands. A fact which struck Meredith as extremely significant.

In two strides he was beside the body. With a quick action he caught hold of Clayton’s right hand and turned it palm upward. It was perfectly clean! Then the left hand. Clean also! Although there was a certain amount of ingrained dirt, it was startlingly clear that Clayton had recently washed his hands with soap and water. Then how, in the name of thunder, had he removed the silencer and fitted on the hose to the exhaust without soiling his hands?

Two explanations at once occurred to Meredith. Either Clayton had worn gloves or else he had fitted the hose to the exhaust some time before the tragedy. But why should he wear gloves? It was unlike a car mechanic to be squeamish about soiling his hands. And why run the risk of fixing the hose to the exhaust some time before the fatal apparatus was needed? Higgins probably had a key to the smaller garage. A lot would depend, of course, on what time Higgins had left the place, but with Higgins about it seemed pretty certain that Clayton wouldn’t be such a fool as to run the risk of his partner finding out about his intended suicide.

That being so—what did it mean? Was it within the bounds of possibility that somebody else, not Clayton, had coupled the hose with the pipe? If that were the case, all manner of unexpected suggestions opened out!

To begin with, it was quite natural that the tea should be laid and the kettle boiling. It was quite natural that the light should be burning in the parlour. Above all, it was quite natural that Clayton should have just washed his hands. If he was just about to sit down to his tea, wasn’t it obvious that he would first remove the grime of his labours?

And if Clayton hadn’t fixed the hose, then Clayton hadn’t committed suicide. It meant—but at that point the Inspector drew himself up short. Where was all this theorizing leading him? Weren’t his suspicions rather running away with his common sense? After all, the affair had every appearance of suicide and just because one or two extraordinary details of the case had intrigued him, he had no right to assume that it wasn’t suicide. Still, there it was. He would have to incorporate his suspicions into the official report. After that—well, he couldn’t do better than leave it to his superiors.

His meditations were cut short by Railton’s return.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ve traced him. He’s staying at the Beacon Hotel in Penrith. I didn’t wait to report first but got through on the ’phone from the Hare and Hounds.”

“Good. And he’s coming over?”

“Right away on his motor-bike. He should be here in under the hour, sir.”

“How did he take it, Railton?”

“Well, he sounded pretty cut up, of course. Surprised, too. Said something about it being ‘impossible’.”

The Inspector nodded. It was not the first time he had heard that particular phrase.

The constable’s prophecy proved correct, for in less than an hour a high-powered motor-bike roared up to the garage and a round-shouldered individual, encased in a leather coat and helmet, came quickly up the cottage path.

Without wasting time on preliminaries, Meredith introduced himself, uttered a few words of sympathy and got Mark Higgins formally to identify the body. Higgins was a thin, ferret-faced man of about thirty, and there was that about his speech which the Inspector immediately placed as Cockney. He seemed a highly strung sort of fellow, but Meredith was unable to say if this was normal or whether the shock of Clayton’s death had temporarily unnerved him. After answering a few official questions, Higgins drew off his helmet and gloves, wiped his rain-wet face with a handkerchief and, dropping into an arm-chair, lit a cigarette.

“Rather spoilt your week-end, Mr. Higgins,” observed Meredith casually. “When were you intending to return?”

“To-morrow afternoon. You see, I had business over in Penrith. I was meeting a customer of ours at eleven-thirty to-morrow morning. I hoped to fix him up with a second-hand car.” Higgins made a grimace. “Rather looks as if the deal’s off now, doesn’t it? Poor old Jack! Can’t think why he’s been and done this, Inspector. Never seemed that sort of chap to me. I can tell you, it’s fairly cut me up!”

“What time did you set off to-day for Penrith?”

“About quarter to six, I should think. And I’ll swear there was nothing strange about Jack when I left him. Mind you, I don’t say he hasn’t been a bit moody at times. It’s a lonely spot this in the winter months. Trade’s not been too brisk, neither.”

“You think that Clayton might have been a bit worried over the affairs of the garage?”

“It’s possible. Not that we’re in a bad way, but things always slacken off a lot in the winter. It’s the tourists we rely on to bring out the balance on the right side.”

Meredith nodded. He was rather puzzled by Higgins’s behaviour. He seemed shaken and genuinely upset about his partner’s death, yet at the same time curiously matter-of-fact. Probably he was trying to cover up any signs of what he considered unmanly emotion. However, as there seemed little point in questioning Higgins any further at the moment, Meredith explained that his presence would be required at the inquest and arranged to let him know the time and date.

“We shall have to get in touch with Clayton’s relatives, of course. Do you know anything about them?”

Higgins didn’t. He had always understood that his partner was an orphan. He had never heard him speak of any relatives, and he had rather gathered that, being a bit of a rolling stone, Clayton had not been in touch with his home circle for fifteen years or so. The two men had met, shortly after the War, in a Manchester pub. They both had a little capital and they had soon decided to go into partnership in a garage business. They had opened first in a Manchester suburb and later bought their present business at a favourable price when the late owner had suddenly decided to go abroad. Now, of course, Higgins didn’t know what was going to happen. He’d carry on, if he could, single-handed for a time and then, perhaps, look around for a new partner who was willing to put money into the concern.

Before he left, Meredith saw the body laid out on the bed in Clayton’s own room and got Higgins to accompany him to the lean-to. There Higgins identified the mackintosh as one belonging to his partner. The hose he remembered had been hanging in a woodshed behind the cottage with a lot of other old junk. No—as far as he knew, there hadn’t been any trouble between Jack and Lily Reade. Of course, she’d have to be told, wouldn’t she? Higgins gave the Inspector to understand that it wasn’t a job he particularly relished doing himself. Meredith reassured him on this point and promised to acquaint Miss Reade with the tragedy on the following day. Then after “Good nights” had been said, Railton motored the Inspector back to Keswick.

Early the next morning Meredith was in touch with the headquarters of the Cumberland County Constabulary at Carlisle. The result of his report was not long in coming to light. The Superintendent demanded his immediate presence at headquarters. Before coming over he was to see Miss Reade at Braithwaite and gather all particulars about her relationship with the dead man. From the trend of the conversation Meredith felt that headquarters were as dissatisfied with the superficial aspects of the case as he was.

At ten-thirty he was in Braithwaite, ringing the bell of the closed general store. The Reade family were just getting ready for church. In a few carefully chosen words the Inspector broke the news of the tragedy and when the unfortunate girl had, more or less, gained control of her emotions, Meredith signed for her parents to leave them alone in the overcrowded little front parlour.

“I quite realize how terrible this is for you,” said Meredith in kindly tones. “But I’m afraid there are one or two rather personal questions that I must ask you. Firstly, Miss Reade, I understand that you were officially engaged to Mr. Clayton?”

The girl nodded. The significance of that “were” in the Inspector’s sentence had not escaped her notice. The tears welled up into her eyes. In that one word lay the whole essence of tragedy for her.

“And I suppose that since your engagement there has been no quarrel of any sort? You haven’t had any disagreement or anything like that?”

Again the girl shook her head.

“No! Never!” she exclaimed. Then fighting back her tears she went on brokenly: “It was all fixed up. Jack was over only last Wednesday to see mother about the wedding. We were going to be married in early April. Then after our honeymoon we were planning to stay here for a week before going to Canada. Jack had already fixed up about the tickets. He had a job waiting for him out there. And now——”

The girl quickly buried her face in her hands and broke into renewed sobs. For some minutes Meredith preserved a discreet silence. He knew from long experience that it was inadvisable when certain vital information was needed from a witness, to ride roughshod over the human element in a case. Later he went on in a quiet voice. “I suppose Mr. Higgins knew about this arrangement? About Canada, I mean?”

The unhappy girl glanced up and shook her head. Then, struggling to overcome her acute distress, she said jerkily:

“No, Jack hadn’t told him when he was over on Wednesday. They haven’t been getting on too well of late. Jack knew it would mean an upset and he didn’t want to make things difficult along at the garage. He was going to wait until about six weeks before ... before our marriage—then he was going to tell Mark. He felt it would be better like that.”

Meredith agreed that he quite saw Clayton’s point of view.

“What was the trouble between them, Miss Reade?”

“Oh, one thing and another. I’m afraid Mark’s too fond of the public house. It meant that poor Jack had to do all the work. Mark was always gallivanting off somewhere. But it didn’t make any difference to the money. The agreement is, so Jack told me, that they share the profits. So you see how it is?”

The Inspector could see only too clearly. It meant that Clayton, who had the brains and energy, was being forced to carry Higgins like a dead weight on his back. Higgins was no better than a sleeping partner in the concern. He felt, however, that it would not be politic to question the unhappy girl any further until he had received more detailed instructions from Carlisle. So, after proffering his sympathies, he climbed into the side-car and instructed the constable to drive him to headquarters.

Superintendent Thompson was waiting in his office. The two men shook hands and settled down without delay to discuss the affair in hand. Whilst Meredith catalogued his suspicions, the Superintendent every now and then shot out a trenchant query. At the conclusion of Meredith’s statement he was obviously impressed.

“It strikes me, Inspector, that there’s a good deal that wants explaining away here. That matter of the waiting meal, for example, and the fact that Clayton’s hands were so clean. My feeling is that the coroner’s inquest should be adjourned, pending further inquiries. At first glance, I grant you, it looks like suicide. Probably it was meant to. If it’s not suicide, then the little scene staged in the garage was obviously a blind. That’s my idea, anyway.”

“And behind the blind, sir?” asked Meredith, meaningly.

“There is only one alternative. Murder. One can rule out accident, of course. A man with Clayton’s knowledge of engineering wouldn’t be such a fool as to experiment with exhaust fumes.”

“So what do you suggest, sir?”

“That you go ahead and find out who called at the garage after Higgins left for Penrith at 5.45. Anybody passing the place may also be able to give you information. The Chief’s over at Whitehaven to-day, but I’ll get in touch with him directly he’s back. In the meantime consider it your pigeon, Meredith. You started the hare and it’s for you to follow it up.”

Meredith left the office very well pleased with the interview. This carte blanche was just what he wanted. He felt more and more certain that there was some mystery behind Clayton’s death. More so since he had interviewed Lily Reade. If there had been a quarrel between the engaged couple, there would have been the motive for the suicide. But there hadn’t been a tiff. Clayton in fact had planned out his future with an exactitude which pretty nearly precluded the idea of contemplated suicide. There was the matter of the Canadian bookings, the plans for the wedding, the fixing of the date. Meredith decided that one of the first things to do was to verify from the steamship company the booking of the two berths. That, at any rate, would decide whether Clayton was playing square with Lily Reade.

Then there was Higgins. Suppose Higgins had learnt that Clayton had intended to sail for Canada and suppose that there was some existing arrangement that in the event of Clayton’s death, the money invested in the garage business was to go to Higgins? It would be doubly profitable for Higgins to get Clayton out of the way. Firstly Clayton’s capital in the concern would not be withdrawn, as would be the case if he sailed for Canada. Secondly that capital, in the event of his death, would go to Higgins. The thing was to get a glimpse of Clayton’s will, if such a document existed. If it had not been altered in favour of Lily Reade, here was a motive for Higgins’s desire to do away with his partner.

With these thoughts running round in his head, Meredith got Railton to draw up at the Beacon Hotel in Penrith, which was luckily on the route from Carlisle to Keswick.

The manager, who knew the Inspector, showed him at once into his private office.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” said Meredith. “But I want you to give me some information about a man called Mark Higgins.”

The manager, a fat, comfortable sort of soul, chuckled.

“Mark! What the devil’s he been up to?”

“Nothing—as far as I know. He says he intended to stay here last night.”

“Quite right, Inspector. He did book a room, but about 11 o’clock he had a ’phone-call from Braithwaite and he left in a hurry.”

“What time did he turn up here?”

“About six-thirty. And after a bit of supper he spent the rest of the evening in the bar. After closing-time he sat in the lounge until the ’phone call came. I didn’t charge him for booking the room because he’s a good customer of mine. He often pops over here for the week-ends.”

“Any idea why?”

“Company for the most part, I reckon. He’s what you might call a good mixer, is Mr. Higgins. He’s got a lot of pals here in Penrith, and I guess he finds the bar of the Beacon a bit more lively than a village ale-house.”

“I see. No other reasons for the visits as far as you know?”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that! If you keep your eyes and ears open you can often do a nice little bit of business over a pint of bitter. As a matter of fact, Higgins told me that he’d got a chap coming this morning to see him about a car. In the lounge here at 11.30, if I remember rightly. I’ve been half-expecting Mark to turn up and keep the appointment!”

Meredith glanced up at the clock. It was 11.25.

“Look here, Mr. Dawson—I want you to do me a favour. When this gentleman turns up, explain that Higgins was called away last night, and then get the fellow’s name and address. Tell him that Higgins had spoken about sending through a message but forgot to tell you where to forward it. Understand?”

The manager winked.

“Righto! I’ll do my best.” He glanced out through the glass door of his little office. “As a matter of fact this looks like our man now, Inspector. Shan’t be a jiffy!”

In less than a minute the manager was back in his office, beaming all over his amiable face.

“Got it!” he exclaimed. “Mr. William Rose, 32 Patterdale Road.”

“Good!”

“As it happens,” added the manager, “I know the chap quite well. He’s often in here. He’s the manager, or whatever they call it, of the Nonock petrol depot here. Daresay you know the place? Lies out about a quarter of a mile or more along the Keswick road.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dawson. No need to tell you, of course, to keep your mouth shut about all this?”

The manager winked again.

“That’s O.K., Inspector. Mum’s the word.”

“So far so good,” thought Meredith, as the combination purred off along the undulating Keswick road. “Higgins has got his alibi all right. That appointment looks genuine, too. It looks as if I can rule Mr. Higgins out of my suspect list right from the start.”

On the other hand, who but Higgins could have known about that length of hose-pipe? And who could have had time to fit up that lethal apparatus in the lean-to shed without rousing Clayton’s suspicion? It argued somebody with a good local knowledge. And who was gifted in this direction save Higgins?

CHAPTER IIITHE PUZZLE OF THE HOSE-PIPE

On Monday morning it was still raining—a steady, whispering downpour which blurred the massive contours of the mountains. The wind had dropped over the week-end, but it was still intensely cold. For all that Inspector Meredith was early abroad. There was a great deal to be done and he realized that the inquest on Clayton could not be postponed indefinitely. It would mean three or four crowded days of investigation if he was to establish his theory before the coroner sat. The burial of the body could not be held up, anyway, for much longer than a week.

At nine o’clock, therefore, he was already closeted with Mark Higgins in the garage office.

“I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Higgins, that owing to one thing and another there will have to be a slight delay in the holding of the inquest. With your permission I’m going to suggest that we have the body moved to the mortuary for the time being.”

Higgins looked surprised, but after one or two questions, which Meredith cleverly parried, he offered no objection to the body’s removal. It was thereupon arranged that a police ambulance was to call that morning and convey the body to the Keswick mortuary.

“Now as to Mr. Clayton’s will,” went on the Inspector. “I suppose you can’t give me any details of this, provided, of course, such a document exists?”

“As a matter of fact I can, Inspector. Clayton’s will was drawn up some years back with Messrs. Harben, Wilshin and Harben, the Penrith solicitors. I was one of the witnesses and as far as I know the will still stands. The main proviso was that the capital which Clayton had invested in this concern was to remain in the business in the event of his death.”

“In other words, the money was, in a sense, to come to you?”

“That’s about it, I reckon.”

“Were there any other beneficiaries?”

“Not as far as I remember, there weren’t. Of course there may have been a codicil. If so, I didn’t witness it. I shall be getting in touch with Harben as soon as possible. After all I shall be properly in the soup here if the original will has been altered. You see, I couldn’t afford to run this business off my own bat.”

“Exactly,” said Meredith. “By the way, did you know that after his marriage to Miss Reade, Clayton was planning to settle in Canada?”

A look of incredulity came over Higgins’s ferrety features.

“Canada? What, Clayton? That’s the first I’ve ever heard about that, Inspector. What was the idea, anyway? I always understood that after he was married, Jack intended to set up house with Lily in Braithwaite. He never told me that he was going to back out of the concern like that. Straight, he didn’t.”

“Oh, well, it’s probably just a rumour,” observed Meredith, lightly dismissing the subject. “Now can I have a look at that wood-shed you spoke about?”

Higgins, though puzzled and seemingly disturbed by the Inspector’s inquiries, proved quite ready to do all he could to help. He conducted the Inspector through the garden and led him round to the rear of the cottage, where a wooden shack had been erected at the end of a vegetable patch. The place was dark and damp, cluttered up with all manner of odds and ends. Hanging from a rusty hook on the wall was a coil of white rubber hosing. Meredith examined this closely. It was just as he expected. One end of the pipe had been recently severed. There was no doubt that the 9 ft. length attached to the exhaust had come from the wood-shed. But that being the case, how did the murderer know that the hose was in the wood-shed? And how did he succeed in cutting off an exact length and fixing it to the exhaust without previous knowledge of the required dimensions? The length and diameter of the hose were exactly right. The Inspector remembered the difficulty he had had in easing the hose off the end of the exhaust-pipe. Again his mind concentrated on Higgins. He alone would have the opportunity to take the necessary measurements and fix up the apparatus with any degree of safety. But at the time of the supposed murder, Higgins was in the bar of the Beacon. So much for that!

His next call was at the Braithwaite general stores. Lily Reade was sitting, white and distraught, over a late breakfast, in the room behind the shop. Her mother was hovering round solicitously, trying to make her daughter eat. When Meredith entered, the girl looked across at him with sleepless eyes and tried to summon up the ghost of a smile.

“I’m sorry to bother you again, Miss Reade, but it’s a little matter of routine. It’s about those steamship bookings. You don’t happen to know what line Mr. Clayton was intending to sail by?”

The girl shook her head listlessly. She barely seemed to understand what the Inspector was talking about. It was Mrs. Reade who came to the rescue and gave Meredith the desired information.

“I don’t rightly know what line it was, sir—but I know that Jack was getting the tickets through one of them travel agencies in Penrith. Maybe they’ll be able to tell you.”