The Dartmoor Enigma (7 page)

“I don't know what the Bench gives down here for driving without a licence, but if you like to own up in a statement, I'll see that it's brought to the notice of the magistrate. Here, pull up your stool to this desk and write it out yourself: ‘I, Richard Pengelly, feel it my duty to admit that on September 29 I drove a motor-lorry from Moorstead to Tavistock on business but I had no accident.' And sign it.”

Pengelly hesitated; he was no penman, but whether it was this fact or that he scented a trap Richardson was unable to determine. He banked on the former explanation.

“You needn't worry about the handwriting or spelling. The great thing is to get it down in your own handwriting.”

With his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, and breathing heavily, Pengelly set himself to the task. At last it was done and Richardson turned to another aspect of that lorry drive.

“You had a young lady with you in the lorry—young Duke's sister. I wonder you didn't let her drive.”

Pengelly was taken off his guard. “She'd got no licence either. Her brother wouldn't ever let her drive.”

“Oh, that was it? If anybody was to get into trouble it wasn't to be her. It does you credit, Pengelly. Now, when you turned off towards Sandilands hadn't you another motive? You knew that it was about the time when Mr. Dearborn was due to come along in his car on his way to Winterton, and naturally you had a strong motive for telling him what you thought of him before leaving the district.”

“I didn't want to see the man again. Why should I?”

“To have the last word. We all like to do that when we have a legitimate grievance, and he had sacked you without a character.”

Pengelly flushed with angry reminiscence. “If I'd seen him I'd have told him off, I dare say, but I didn't.”

“No, but you saw his car standing at the Duchy Hotel, so you thought of waiting for him down the road.”

Pengelly's hands clenched; the hunted look returned to his eyes. “I wasn't going to waste my time waiting for a swine like that.”

“So you just drove on and left him at the Duchy Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You know that he had an accident on the way down Sandiland Hill and was picked up unconscious?”

“I heard something about it.”

“Thank you, Pengelly. That's all I want to ask you for the present.”

When they were alone Jago remarked, “That man was lying.”

“Up to a point he was telling the truth, I think.”

“Yes, because you dragged it out of him, but what puzzles me, Mr. Richardson, is how you knew that Dearborn had left his car standing outside the Duchy Hotel.”

“I didn't know it. It was just a lucky shot.”

“And that statement you got him to make? It struck me that you worded it in a funny way.”

“That was because you didn't notice that it had one or two of the words used in those anonymous letters. I wanted to get a specimen of his handwriting; that was all. Now let's have a look at his statement and compare it with the photographs of the letters.” Richardson laid the three documents on the table and pored over them. He shook his head. “No. Pengelly never wrote those letters. He spells ‘business' right; not ‘bisness' as in both anonymous letters. Then look at the word ‘accident'—it's in much heavier writing than the same word in the letter to the Chief Constable.”

“I see that. But it never entered my head that he was the writer of the anonymous letters. I think we've got him cold on the murder, though; he had a motive—he admits that he saw Dearborn's car standing outside the Duchy Hotel. He went down the road to wait for him. Short of absolute proof what more can you want?”

“We haven't done with our inquiries yet. Here comes the foreman. Pack up these papers quick. I don't want him to see them.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the foreman, “how did Pengelly shape when you put him through the hoop?”

“He admitted driving a car without a licence, and I suppose that the county police will have something to say about that. Otherwise he came out all right. I'm sorry to have taken up your time. We may have to see him again to clear up one or two minor points in his statement, but not for a few days. If he's a competent workman, in your place I should keep him on. Good day.”

They entered the police car and Richardson gave the order to drive to the Duchy Hotel, Duketon. The driver went like the wind, covering the five miles in six minutes. The officers jumped down, entered the bar and asked to see the manager.

“Police officers, are you?” questioned this functionary. “I don't remember seeing either of you before.”

“No?” said Richardson. “Well, we won't waste time over explanations. I have a simple question to ask you. Did Mr. Dearborn, who was injured in a motor accident last Saturday week and has since died, call in at this hotel late in the afternoon?”

“Lord! I thought when I saw you that you were gentlemen of the Press. Is that the new wheeze—to call yourselves police officers? I suppose you represent the London newspapers. You'll find a couple of your colleagues of the Plymouth Press in the bar parlour. I see the papers want to make a mystery out of that poor gentleman's death; they're not content with the verdict of the coroner's jury.”

“We've nothing to do with the Press. As I told you we're police officers; you might oblige me by answering my question.”

“I shall have to ask my barmaid for the answer. I don't see everybody that calls in for a drink, but she'll know. Laura! The last time you saw Mr. Dearborn, did he have any refreshment?”

The lady behind the bar searched her memory.

“He had a cup of tea, Mr. Tovey; you see it was about four o'clock in the afternoon—a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tovey, that's all we wanted to ask.”

The licensee followed them out to the door in his anxiety to be helpful and watched them enter the car.

“Now,” said Richardson, “the next thing we have to do is to tackle that young woman in Sun Lane and she'll need some careful handling, because I believe that she has the key to the whole mystery. I shouldn't wonder myself to find that Viggers was right and that she's in love with that fellow Pengelly.”

“Then she won't give him away.”

“She won't if she can help it.” Richardson leaned forward to speak to the driver. “You might put us down at the top of the lane and then I want you to go the round of the shops where they sell walking-sticks and see whether they stock any like the one that was picked up on the scene of the crime. You saw it, I suppose?”

“Yes, and I've had it in my hand, too.”

“Then, as we may be some time in Sun Lane, you'd better go in and have your dinner.”

Doors and windows were clear of heads this time as the two officers made their way to the dwelling of the Dukes, or, as Detective Sergeant Jago phrased it, to the “Dukeries.”

“Isn't this going to be an awkward hour for calling on the young woman, Mr. Richardson—if they're at dinner, I mean?”

“They dine early in these parts. Perhaps you're right. We had better go and get our own sandwiches, and catch Miss Susie Duke when she's full fed and at peace with the world.”

They retraced their steps and stopped at a little tea-shop a hundred yards from the opening into Sun Lane. They ordered tea and scones and Richardson laid his watch on the table.

“We'll give them another twenty minutes,” he said.

“I'm wondering how you're going to begin your questioning, Mr. Richardson,” said Jago.

“That will depend upon the young lady and how she receives us. I never look ahead too far. The great point in questioning women is to feel one's way and not antagonize them. If you do that they turn mulish and you get nothing out of them.”

Jago munched his scone, ruminating. “It seems to me that the questioning of witnesses and getting statements from them is one of the fine arts/' he said at last.

“Psha! It's a question only of being quick in the uptake and knowing something about the case before you begin. I mean to play upon the tender spot that this young woman has in her heart for her late lodger. If I have any luck I believe that something will come out that will surprise you.” He looked at the watch lying on the table. “The time's nearly up. Swallow your tea while I pay the bill.”

As they walked down the lane they saw through open doors that the housewives were busy at their kitchen sinks and that their daughters were carrying out scraps to the poultry in the back-yards. They pushed on to the “Dukeries” and knocked at the door. Mrs. Duke, with her sleeves turned up and a rough canvas apron on to protect her dress, opened the door. She recoiled in alarm at the sight of her visitors.

“Why, you are the same police officers that called yesterday. Is it about the lorry?”

“We have called to see your daughter, Mrs. Duke. There is nothing to be alarmed about. Perhaps you will kindly call her.”

“I don't know that she's not gone out.”

“I hope not, Mrs. Duke, because that would mean that we should have to wait in the lane outside until she came in, and that might set the neighbours talking.”

“Well, I'll go and see whether I can find her, if you'll stop here.”

The search was successful; footsteps were heard again upon the stairs and Miss Susie Duke bustled in, dressed in her best walking-suit with its rabbit-skin necklet and her latest hat. She nodded to him with a smile; her last experience with detectives having been that they were easy to bluff.

“We've called about that drive you took in your brother's lorry on the 29th of last month, Miss Duke—the time you took it into Tavistock. Never mind what you told us before; people are apt to make mistakes when they are first questioned by police officers. Now that you've had time to think things over I'm sure you'll see that it's best to tell the truth,” said Richardson.

“I don't remember what I told you last time.”

“I'm sure you don't, and I'm sure that you don't want Dick Pengelly to get into worse trouble than he's in already for driving a car without a licence.”

To Richardson's surprise the girl changed colour and seemed about to burst into tears. “I ought to tell you, my dear,” he said, “that we've seen Dick Pengelly and that he's made a clean breast of it—that he drove the lorry without a licence with you sitting at his side; that you took the road to Tavistock through Sandiland. He made a written statement which I have here and I want you to do the same; then the case of driving without a licence will be quite cleared up.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, he's all right. He's got a job as a smith's striker in Rowe's Quarry near Tavistock.”

The girl seemed to be immensely relieved by this intelligence. “I didn't want him to get into trouble on my account,” she faltered. “I ought not to have let him drive.”

“If the county police prosecute him for driving without a licence it's not a very serious offence, and as he said, he can easily pay the fine out of his wages. Now, about this statement of yours; it can be quite short. I'll dictate it for you if you like.” Richardson turned back the tablecloth and opened his attaché-case to get out writing materials. “Now take this chair, Miss Duke, and don't worry any more about it.”

The girl hesitated; it was one thing to use her tongue, but quite another to commit words to paper. “I'd sooner not write anything. I'm quite ready to answer your questions, but not to stick things down on paper.”

“That's a pity,” said Richardson with a sigh, beginning to return paper and ink to his writing-case. “I thought you would have been glad to help Pengelly.”

“How would my statement help him?”

“Well, by confirming what he told me. But of course if you won't, you won't, and for all I know to the contrary the police may bring other charges against him—far more serious charges.”

The girl moved to the chair. “What do you want me to write?”

“Only a few words which I'll dictate to you if you like. ‘I, Susan Duke, feel it my duty to admit that on September 29 last, having business to do in Tavistock, I allowed Richard Pengelly to drive my brother's lorry into Tavistock though he had no driving-licence, and I went with him.' Then sign it. You see, it's nothing very dreadful.”

The girl took up the pen, saying, “Go ahead then.” She wrote rapidly and signed her name with a flourish.

R
ICHARDSON
picked up the statement and examined it. The word “business” was written “bisness” just as it was in the letter to the Commissioner; the handwriting, too, was obviously the same as in both anonymous letters.

“I've seen this handwriting somewhere before, Miss Duke. Yes, and the same kind of spelling, too. I see you spell ‘business!' ‘bisness!'”

“Lots of people do that,” said the girl defiantly.

“Yes. I've seen it spelt like that by someone who wrote to Scotland Yard. I have a photograph of the letter here.” He fumbled among the papers in his writing-case. “Here you are. You see, the letter has been photographed, and for the matter of that so has another anonymous letter addressed to the Superintendent of Police at Winterton. And now, almost by accident, I have the writer of both letters before me.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Then let me make my meaning clearer. You were ready to tell untruths to the police when it was only a question of driving without a licence, but when it came to murder you didn't want to see a murderer go unpunished. You couldn't come forward openly, because you were afraid that the police might fix the crime on Dick Pengelly, since he had a legitimate grievance against the murdered man. Wasn't that it?”

The girl made no reply. She stared at the floor.

“I think we understand each other now,” said Richardson, “and I feel sure that your best way to help Pengelly is to tell us the whole truth about what you saw that afternoon. Pengelly has already told us that he saw Mr. Dearborn's car standing outside the Duchy Hotel. No doubt he pointed it out to you.”