The Dartmoor Enigma (19 page)

“Come into my room,” said the Governor, when he learned who Richardson was. “I'm always glad to help you people from Scotland Yard when I can.”

“Thank you, sir. The chief warder has told me that the convict Peter Sutcliffe was discharged on September 7.”

“I hope that you're not on his track for a new offence. I had a long talk with him before he went out and asked him what he intended to do for a living now that his business had come to an end. He was perfectly frank; said that everybody had been very kind to him in the prison and that all he wanted was to make a new life for himself. He said that fortunately he still had loyal friends who believed in him and thought his sentence unjust. So many convicts say that; I was not impressed, but I did say that in his case, he seemed to have had a fair trial. ‘Yes,' he admitted, ‘the trial was fair, but it never got to the bottom of my case.' ‘Do you mean that you were wrongfully convicted?' I asked him. ‘In one sense yes, but in another I was guilty. I neglected my business and altogether behaved like a fool. The fact was that I was quite unfit to be a solicitor.' That is word for word what he told me.”

“Did he receive any visits while he was here?”

“Yes, he was visited once by his brother, who seems to be well known in the city, and once by a young woman—a lady and a very charming one. She asked to see me before applying to see him; she thought that he might decline to see her under such humiliating conditions as the prison rules lay down. She told me frankly that the prisoner Sutcliffe had come to grief through being too good-natured and too easily persuaded. ‘Weakness of character,' I suggested, but she wouldn't have that. She said that in all the essential things he was a man of scrupulous honour. I said, ‘You've come all this way; surely it would be a pity if you went back without seeing him.' ‘I won't see him if it will give him pain,' she said.

“Well, I sent for Sutcliffe and saw him in the corridor outside. I told him that I was going to stretch a point and would allow the visit to take place not in the ordinary visiting-room with a wire screen between him and his visitor, but in an ordinary room, in sight but not in hearing of the prison officer. I could see that he was deeply moved by the girl having come to see him at all, but he gulped down his emotion and stammered out a few words of thanks.”

“Do you remember her name?” asked Richardson.

“No, but I can give it to you. All visitors have to give their names and addresses.” He rang the bell and a clerk came in. “Has the penal record of Peter Sutcliffe gone back to the Home Office yet?”

“Yes, sir, it went last week.”

“Then bring me the gate-book. I want to give this gentleman the name and address of a visitor to Sutcliffe in June or July last.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I suppose it would be indiscreet of me to ask you why he has now become the object of inquiry?”

“It is too soon to say whether he was mixed up in a case that I am investigating in South Devon, sir. He may not have been concerned in it at all, but one has to cover every possibility and make a vast number of quite irrelevant inquiries,” said Richardson, who had recognized the Governor as being one of those humane and sensible men who can control a prison better than they can their own tongues.

The clerk returned carrying a slip of paper. The Governor read it and passed it to Richardson. “This is the name you wanted, Chief Inspector. ‘Miss Eve Willis, 17 Brondesbury Road, Bromley, Kent.'”

“You said that you asked him what he was going to do. Did he tell you?”

“Yes. He said that he hoped to find work in a garage belonging to some friends.”

With that Richardson took his leave, feeling well satisfied with his morning's work. Two o'clock that afternoon found him at Carter's, where Sergeant Jago was awaiting him. The sergeant quickly made his analysis of his chief's expression and knew that he had been successful beyond his hopes; but he began by making his report upon his own morning's work.

“I had no difficulty with the tailors in Sackville Street, Chief Inspector. Langridge & West was the name upon that coat. They told me that they had been making clothes for years for Mr. Sutcliffe of Mincing Lane and Park Lane. They looked up their client's account and showed it to me. Apparently that elder brother is a very dressy man; he had had no less than six suits within the last two months. I asked whether he ever brought in a friend to be measured. I was told that Mr. Sutcliffe had recommended several of his friends to patronize the firm, but he had never brought any of them with him to be measured.”

“Then I suppose that the suit which had to be cleaned in that Plymouth hotel was an old one which he had given to his brother.”

“No doubt it was. I have Sutcliffe's Park Lane address, but I haven't called there because I thought you had better do that yourself. It's one of those brand new flats that they're building at the lower end of Park Lane. I have an idea, sir, that you have something very much more interesting to tell me.”

“I've got a good deal of detailed information about Sutcliffe from the Governor of the convict prison, who gave him an excellent character. He was liberated on September 7, which, of course, gave him ample time to run down to Dartmoor on the 29th, the day of the murder. I have also got the address of some friends of his in Bromley, Kent; a lady to whom he is very much attached. If we don't find him with his brother in Park Lane, we will try to get into touch with him through that lady.”

“To me the case seems to be as plain as a pikestaff,” said Jago. “The man passing under the name of Charles Dearborn must have been that company promoter, Frank Willis, who had every reason for hiding himself under a false name. When he took it he little guessed that it was to be a sentence of death to him.”

“And you think that Peter Sutcliffe had discovered this and lay in wait for him on the way back from the quarry near Moorstead. To me it is a little difficult to fit in your theory with the character I got of Sutcliffe from the Governor of the prison. This company promoter, we must remember, is the elder brother of the young woman to whom Sutcliffe is attached; it would be a bad beginning for their married life if he celebrated his liberation by killing this girl's brother. No, I feel it in my bones that somehow we're on the wrong track, and yet if you ask me where we've gone wrong, I should be at a loss to tell you.”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned the sergeant. “I did think we had touched bottom at last. It may not have been a premeditated murder; I doubt whether, when he struck that blow with the walking-stick, he dreamed that it would land him in a charge of murder. A good counsel for the defence would have little difficulty in proving to the jury that the blow was struck in self-defence.”

“Anyhow, it is safe to say that a man wearing a suit made by those tailors in Sackville Street, who make for Sutcliffe's brother, did have a violent encounter with Charles Dearborn of Winterton and afterwards got bogged in the marshy land at the foot of the Tor. Whoever the murderer was he did stop Dearborn's car in the road from Duketon to Winterton, and for this he must have had a strong motive. If you've finished your beer let us get along to Park Lane and beard the prosperous brother who lives there.”

When the lift had carried them up noiselessly to the third floor and they had plied the electric bell of Sutcliffe's apartment, a manservant opened the door.

“I should be very glad,” said Richardson, “if Mr. Sutcliffe could receive us on a confidential matter.”

“Mr. Sutcliffe is abroad,” said the man.

“Indeed. When do you expect him back?”

“Not for some weeks, sir; he is in Ceylon.”

“Has his brother gone with him?”

The man stiffened a little. “No, sir. Mr. Sutcliffe is on his honeymoon.”

“Is his brother, Mr. Peter Sutcliffe, staying here?”

“No, sir.”

“Does he sometimes come to the flat?”

“Never, sir.”

“Could you give me his address? I have to see him on some rather pressing business.”

“Mr. Peter never comes here, sir, and we don't know his address.” He closed the door politely.

“Trust an English manservant to be unhelpful,” observed Richardson as they descended in the lift.

“W
ELL THAT'S THAT
,” said Richardson. “Matrimony steps in and defeats all our plans. There's nothing for it but to get down to Bromley as quickly as we can and interview that young woman who visited Sutcliffe when he was a prisoner at Maidstone. Her address was 17 Brondesbury Road, Bromley.”

It was nearly five o'clock when they rang the bell at number 17. An elderly woman came to the door and looked at them inquiringly.

“Can we see Miss Eve Willis?” asked Richardson, in his most persuasive tone.

“Oh, she's never at home at this hour, sir,” said the woman; “but you'll be sure to find her at the garage.”

“At the garage?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, you didn't know that she's acting as cashier for her brother, Mr. Percy, at his garage. It's the second turning on the left and about one hundred yards down. You couldn't miss it.”

Richardson thanked her, and as they went he observed to Jago, “Well, we've added something to our knowledge. The prison governor told me that Sutcliffe said he hoped to get employment in a garage. He may be here now. Remember, not a whisper about who we are, or it'll be said that the police are hounding down a man who has served his sentence.”

The garage proved larger than he had expected; indeed, it showed signs of having recently been enlarged. Moreover, it was filled with cars, some of them derelict, others under repair, and others again of the latest models. A good-looking young man, who looked energetic, bustled forward in the hope that they were new customers. He looked inquiringly at Richardson.

“We called at number 17 Brondesbury Road just now in the hope of finding Miss Eve Willis at home and were directed to come here.”

“Miss Willis is here certainly, but she's very busy. Is it anything I can do?”

“Thank you, I'm afraid that only Miss Willis herself can answer what we want to ask. We shall not keep her for more than a minute.”

The young man made no further objection, but conducted them to a little office with a glazed window at which a girl of striking beauty was poring over a ledger. “You will find Miss Willis in there,” he said, turning on his heel.

Richardson had settled beforehand how he should conduct the interview. “You might have a look at the cars, Sergeant, while I go in; it'll be less formidable for the young lady if she has only one of us to answer.”

He knocked at the office door and removed his hat before going in. She was even more attractive when she looked up than she had seemed when knitting her brow over her ledger. Perhaps, thought Richardson, her capacity lies in other spheres than figures.

“I hope you won't regard it as an impertinence on the part of a stranger, Miss Willis, but I've come to ask you whether you have had news of your elder brother, Mr. Frank Willis, lately?”

Evidently the question startled her, but she did not attempt to fence with it. “We haven't heard of him for three or four years,” she said. “Are you a friend of his?”

“No, but I've often heard of him, and a friend of mine was asking about him the other day.”

She looked puzzled. “How did you find out my address?”

“Let me see; someone must have mentioned it to me or I shouldn't have been here, but exactly who it was…”

“Oh, well, there's no secret about our address.”

“I didn't know whether your elder brother might not have provided the capital for the garage, which seems to be booming.”

Richardson felt that he was treading on dangerous ground and that she might well resent the intimacy of his questions, but he had to take the risk. Fortunately any favourable comment on the garage seemed to win the way to her heart.

“I suppose,” said Richardson, “that you employ quite a number of hands now.”

“Not so many as you might think when looking at the number of cars we have, but my brother, as I always tell him, is equal to four men, and we have been lucky with the others.”

At that moment a tousled head made its appearance from beneath a car; the body belonging to it wriggled out and both head and body appeared outside the little office. The door was opened and the man, with a keen look at Richardson, said, “Please book three hours and a quarter against J 2786, Eve.”

The girl jotted down the figures on her blotting- pad and said, “This gentleman is asking me when we last heard from Frank.”

The man looked grave. “Is he a friend of Frank's?”

“No,” she replied; “he tells me that he's the friend of a friend.”

“I suppose Miss Willis told you that she hasn't heard from her brother Frank for ages.”

“Yes, she told me,” said Richardson.

“Well, then?”

“But I've one question still to ask. May I have his last address?”

The man looked to Miss Willis for the answer.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but it's so long ago that I've quite forgotten it. He wrote from Java; I remember that.”

“Do you happen to have a photograph of him?”

The girl hesitated a moment before replying.

“No, I'm sorry; we have no family photographs.” She was beginning to look troubled; the man came to her aid.

“Miss Willis has told you all she knows about her brother. I knew him very well indeed, so if you have any further questions to ask I suggest that you put them to me.” He turned towards the door and held it open for Richardson.

As he was going out, after thanking the girl, Richardson intercepted a protective look on the face of the man, who was dressed like a garage hand but spoke like a gentleman—a look which gave him a clue to the man's identity.