The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (5 page)

“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.”

The Inspector thanked the woman and after a few enheartening observations to the grief-stricken girl, he left the general stores for the village post office. In a few seconds he was through to the Penrith police station.

“This is Meredith speaking. I want you to go round the travel agencies over there and find out if they have issued two tickets for the Canadian crossing to a fellow named Clayton. Yes, J. D. Clayton. Got it? What’s that? Oh, second class, I imagine. Probably for about the end of April. Shove the report into Keswick when it comes through, will you? Thanks.”

As Meredith closed the door of the telephone cabinet, the village postman came into the office and hung his empty mail-bag behind the counter. On seeing the Inspector, who was a familiar figure in the district, he gave him a knowing look.

“Bad business about young Clayton, eh, Mr. Meredith?”

The Inspector agreed.

“Strange too, to my way of thinking,” went on the postman, obviously trying to inveigle the Inspector into giving his opinion of the case. “Very strange. There’s a rumour going round that things aren’t all they look to be—if you take my manner of meaning?”

“Really?” Meredith smiled blandly.

“Not that I’m the one to listen to tittle-tattle. But I thought it strange myself, seeing that when I returned from my afternoon round on Saturday young Jack seemed as merry as a cricket. Yes—stopped and had a chat with him I did, same as I might be chatting to you now.”

For the first time Meredith’s eye showed a spark of interest.

“You spoke to him? What time was that?”

The postman considered this question for a moment.

“Well now, let me see. I finished up at the Manor at about a quarter to six. I reckon it takes me a good fifteen minutes on my bicycle to get from Colonel Howard’s to the garage. So that makes it about six, don’t it?”

“And Clayton didn’t give you any hint of what was in his mind, I suppose?”

“Not him!” answered the postman vehemently. “Right as rain he seemed. Joking about his wedding, we were. Maybe you know that he and Ted Reade’s girl were to be hitched up in a month or so. I were pulling his leg about it. But he gave me back as good as I gave, did young Jack. Come as a bit of a shock to me when I heard as he had done away with himself.”

“I can quite see that. Nice chap, from all accounts.”

“He was that. Better than that ferret-faced partner of his.”

“What, Higgins? By the way, was he about when you were chatting to Clayton?”

“No. But I see him pass me on that there noisy motor-bicycle of his as I was turning out of the Colonel’s drive-gate.”

Meredith’s interest increased. This was another spoke in the wheel of Higgins’s alibi. Higgins had said that he had left the garage at about quarter to six, a fact which fitted in with the postman’s information. At all events, Clayton was alive and, apparently, in a normal frame of mind, when Higgins left for Penrith.

“Strikes me,” observed the Inspector, “that you must have been the last man to see Clayton alive.”

“That I weren’t!” exclaimed the postman with something approaching triumph. “You know young Freddie Hogg—the publican’s son?—well, he saw Jack Clayton a good hour and a half later on. We was discussing the case down at the Hare and Hounds last night, when young Freddie told us about him seeing Clayton in the garage on his way back from Keswick on his bicycle. He didn’t stop—but he see him right enough.”

“He was quite certain that it was Clayton?”

“Course he was. He and Clayton was pretty friendly, you see. I reckon Fred made no mistake about it.”

“That’s interesting,” observed Meredith, concealing his pleasure at the news. “I should like to have a word with Mr. Hogg. Where can I find him?”

“Down at the pub. He helps his father behind the bar.”

Freeing himself from the coils of the postman’s everlasting chatter, Meredith directed Railton to drive him down to the Hare and Hounds. As luck would have it, Hogg was alone in the bar, polishing up the handles of the beer-engine.

“Mr. Fred Hogg?” asked Meredith.

“That’s me, sir. Anything I can do for you?”

Meredith smiled. “I hope so, Mr. Hogg. It’s about young Clayton. I believe you saw something of him on Saturday night?”

“That’s right. I’d been over to the pictures at Keswick and as I passed the garage on my way back, I saw Jack Clayton standing in the entrance. I called out ‘Good night’ to him and he waved his hand in reply. As it was raining I didn’t stop for a chat. But it was Jack right enough.”

“You’re dead sure?”

“I’d swear to it in a court of law if needs be,” answered Hogg solemnly.

“Well, I hope there
won’t
be any need,” countered the Inspector. “What time was it when you saw him?”

“Seven-thirty or thereabouts. Perhaps a bit later.”

“You can’t fix it more definitely than that, I suppose? For example, do you remember what time it was when you got home?”

“Yes, I can tell you that. The bar clock was striking eight when I first came behind the counter. Say five minutes to put my bike in the shed and take off my hat and coat. That makes it five to eight.”

“And how long would it take you to cycle from the garage to here?”

“Well, there was a head wind, of course, but I’m pretty sure I could do the distance in twenty minutes.”

Meredith nodded and made a few rapid notes of these all-important facts. He looked up after a second and observed: “So you think it’s pretty safe to say that you saw Clayton at 7.35 on Saturday night?”

“That’s it.”

“When you said ‘Good night’, did he answer?”

“He didn’t say anything. Just gave me a sort of ‘Cheerio’ with his hand, if you see how I mean.”

“You didn’t notice if there was anybody else hanging around when you passed the garage?”

“I didn’t notice anybody—no.”

This terminated Meredith’s visit to the Hare and Hounds and a few minutes later he and the constable were speeding through the misty rain towards Keswick. On their way they passed the local ambulance returning from the garage to the mortuary and Meredith could not help thinking that the inanimate object inside that vehicle had set him a problem that might prove extremely difficult to solve.

Back in his office he lit his pipe, stretched out his feet to the stove, and ran over the results of his morning’s investigations.

One thing now appeared certain—at 7.30 on Saturday night Clayton was still alive. Old Luke Perryman had discovered the tragedy about half-past nine, which meant that Clayton had lost his life sometime between 7.30 and 9.30. Meredith deliberately employed the phrase, “lost his life”, because he realized that it was still impossible to rule out the theory of suicide. On the other hand at six o’clock, according to the Braithwaite postman, Clayton was as “merry as a cricket”, joking about his forthcoming marriage, in fact. Did that suggest suicide? And again at 7.30 when Fred Hogg cycled past, Clayton was to all accounts standing about idly in the entrance to the garage. Then what about the waiting meal? Surely with the tea already in the pot and the kettle on the boil, Clayton would slip off at the first slack moment to have his meal? Then there was the matter of the hose-pipe. At first sight that favoured the suicide theory because Clayton was one of two people who knew that the hose was there and that it would fit exactly over the exhaust-pipe of his car. But to counteract this there was the puzzling fact that his hands were clean. This seemed to suggest that it was Higgins who had fitted the hose on to the exhaust, but Higgins had already left for Penrith on his motor-cycle.

One thing obtruded in Meredith’s mind—the complete absence of motive. Not only for the murder, if such it was, but for the suicide. Clayton was enjoying perfect health. He was free from money worries, as far as the Inspector had been able to ascertain, and about to marry the girl of his choice. Why then had he put an end to his life? The motive was equally indeterminate if it was a case of murder. Higgins might have committed the crime for the sake of the money which would come to him, but, once again, Meredith found himself up against that unassailable alibi.

Yet he now felt pretty certain in his mind that there had been foul play. His next move, therefore, was to try to reconstruct the crime from the meagre data available. Firstly, Clayton must have been overpowered in some way, dragged or carried to the car, placed in the driving-seat with the mackintosh over his head. The hose was then fixed and the car started. The murderer, probably in a car, then made himself scarce. That Clayton was still alive when sitting at the wheel of his car was certain. The cause of death, according to Dr. Burney, was asphyxia, due to the inhalation of carbon monoxide—that is to say, exhaust fumes. How then had Clayton been overpowered? Three methods occurred to Meredith. He could have been stunned, given an anæsthetic or drugged. The first could be ruled out on Dr. Burney’s evidence. It is impossible to stun a man without leaving some form of bruise or abrasion. An anæsthetic, on the other hand, was possible, though rather improbable. All anæsthetics have powerful and characteristic odours, which are inclined to impregnate the clothes of a victim. Neither he nor Dr. Burney had noticed any smell of chloroform or ether clinging about Clayton’s person. Not that this precluded the use of anæsthetics—it merely suggested that if Clayton’s death had been arranged to look like suicide, the slightest hint of anæsthetic would defeat the whole cleverly thought-out scheme. Meredith’s inclination was toward drugs. They are easily administered and certain in result. Clayton might have been persuaded to take a drink with the murderer and——

Meredith suddenly clicked his fingers and let out an exclamation of pleasure. Clayton
had
taken a drink! Hadn’t Dr. Burney said that the man’s lips smelt of whisky? Well, here, thank heaven, was
something
fitting in with his theory! And if Clayton had been drugged it would be a perfectly simple matter to come to a decision over this point. It would merely mean official permission to have an autopsy. And if traces of a drug were found in the stomach or intestines, that would settle all doubts as to whether Clayton had taken his own life or not!

Meredith felt elated. Here was daylight at last. It might be difficult to persuade the Chief Constable that his suspicions warranted an autopsy, but he was determined to go all out to get it.

He had just reached this point in his ruminations when the ‘phone bell rang on his desk. He took up the receiver.

“Penrith station—Sergeant Matthews speaking. About those tickets. I’ve traced the bookings all right. Clayton had reserved two second-class berths on the
Ontario
—sailing Liverpool on April 7th. The tickets were paid for on the 20th of this month—by cheque, signed J. D. Clayton. Any good to you, sir?”

“Excellent. That’s just what I wanted.”

Meredith rang off.

“So that clears up that loose end,” he thought. “Clayton must have been playing square with the girl. No doubt now that he did intend to sail for Canada. Otherwise he wouldn’t have paid for the tickets. The 20th—let’s see?—that’s three days before his death. Looks to me as if the suicide idea hadn’t crossed his mind then.”

With an energetic stride the Inspector crossed into the outer office.

“I want you to get this notice into all the usual local rags,” he said to the Sergeant on duty. The Sergeant took up his pencil.

“Will anybody who called at or passed the Derwent garage between the hours of 7.30 and 9.30 on the night of Saturday, March 23rd, kindly communicate with the Keswick police station at the earliest possible moment. Got it? Good. By the way, what about the Portinscale and Braithwaite constables? Anything to report?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid, sir. Usual number of private cars and lorries on the road, but nothing of any suspicious nature to report. I’ve been in touch with the A.A. people, but without any result either.”

“Well, let’s hope that appeal of mine will bring somebody forward. It’s a curse that it was raining. It keeps people indoors.”

“Any luck so far, sir?” asked the Sergeant, respectfully.

The Inspector shook his head.

“Nairy a bite, I’m afraid, Sergeant—a few nibbles perhaps, but that’s all. It’s a puzzling business, take it all round.”

CHAPTER IV

CLUE AT THE BANK?

W
ITH
his usual routine work to be tackled and a number of other commonplace little jobs to be attended to, Meredith had to shelve his investigations for that afternoon. But all the time his mind kept on straying back to the Clayton affair. One word continually reoccurred in his thoughts; a word which to him constituted the crux of the problem.
Motive
.

He now felt certain that the suicide theory could be abandoned. Clayton, for some reason, had been murdered and the murderer or murderers had so arranged the scene as to suggest suicide. But why had Clayton been killed? Several ordinary reasons for murder occurred to Meredith—jealousy, financial gain, revenge. He couldn’t credit that it was a
crime passionnel
. The whole affair had been too cleverly thought out for that. What then about jealousy? Had there been another aspirant to the hand of Lily Reade? That must be one line of inquiry. Another line to be followed up was the real state of the dead man’s finances—quite apart from the rather scrappy information already obtained from Higgins. Meredith felt that this was a matter which it might pay him to investigate as soon as he was finished at his desk.

At five o’clock, therefore, he rang through to the Pickford’s branch in Penrith and asked for information about the cheque they had received from Clayton for the Canadian tickets. As far as the clerk could remember, the cheque had been drawn on the Keswick branch of Barclays. This was a bit of luck, Meredith realized, as the manager, Burton, was rather a friend of his. Anxious to waste no time he put on his cap and strolled round to the bank in the hope of catching Burton before he left for tea. The manager was still in the building and a few minutes later Meredith had obtained exactly what he was after—a confidential report as to the state of Clayton’s finances.