Inspector Moresby Is Reluctant
The village of Ludmouth lies about half a mile back from the sea. At
the nearest point to the village, where Roger and Anthony had left the
road to strike across open country, the water had broken in upon the
stern lines of the high cliffs which form the coast-line for several
miles in either direction. The result is a tiny little inlet, almost
completely circular in shape, which has been dignified by the name of
Ludmouth Bay.
At either horn of this minute bay, which could hardly have been more
than a couple of hundred yards wide, the cliffs rise almost sheer to a
height of at least a hundred feet, to sink gradually down as they
follow the bay’s curve into a strip of sandy beach at the innermost
edge, whence a steep track leads up to the village on the high ground
behind. It is a charmingly picturesque spot and, lying as it does a
little way off the beaten track, has not yet been spoiled (except for
occasional excursion parties on bicycles from the neighbouring town of
Sandsea, half-a-dozen miles away to the West) by the ubiquitous
tripper; for the roads on all sides are too steep and too dangerous
for char-à-bancs—a matter of much comfort to those of the inhabitants
who keep neither public-houses nor banana shops.
The cliffs which stretch toward Sandsea face the open sea with
considerably less frowning austerity than those to the East; they
slope slightly backward instead of dropping sheer, and are so
irregular and split up into huge boulders, clefts and rocky knobs, as
to be by no means impossible for a determined man to climb. About a
third of the way down their face they bear a narrow ledge, which
proceeds more or less level for a considerable distance and has been
turned, by means of a flight of steps cut in the rock at either end,
into a pathway. At one time this pathway had been in some favour among
the lads of the village as a place from which to fish when the tide
was high; but customs change even in Ludmouth, and nowadays anyone in
search of solitude could usually be sure of finding it here. To add to
its advantages in this respect, a bulge in the rock just above served
to hide it completely for nearly its whole length from the eyes of
anybody standing on the top of the cliff overhead. Inspector Moresby,
sitting on a low boulder at a spot where the ledge widened out to a
depth of nearly a dozen feet, could be observed from nowhere except
the open sea.
Inspector Moresby was as unlike the popular idea of a great detective
as can well be imagined. His face resembled anything but a razor, or
even a hatchet (if it must be compared with something in that line, it
was far more like a butter-knife); his eyes had never been known to
snap since infancy; and he simply never rapped out remarks—he just
spoke them. Let us not shirk the fact: a more ordinary-looking and
ordinarily behaved man never existed.
To proceed to details, the inspector was heavily-built, with a
grizzled walrus moustache and stumpy, insensitive fingers; his face
habitually wore an expression of bland innocence; he was frequently
known to be jovial, and he bore not the least malice toward any of his
victims.
At the moment of our introduction to him he was gazing with an
appearance of extreme geniality, his chin on his knuckles and one
elbow perched on either knee, at a small rowing-boat half-a-mile out
at sea; but his expression was not inspired by any feeling of
affectionate regard for the boat’s horny-handed occupant. He was,
indeed, quite unaware of the boat’s existence. He was engaged in
wondering very intensely how a lady could have managed to fall
accidentally off this ledge at the particularly broad part where he
was now sitting; and why, if the lady had not fallen off accidentally
but had been committing suicide, she should have done so with a large
button from somebody else’s coat tightly clenched in her right hand.
Quite an interesting problem, Inspector Moresby had decided;
interesting enough, at any rate, to call him over semi-officially that
morning from Sandsea, where he had been in the middle of his annual
holiday with his wife and two children, to look into the matter a
little further pending instructions from Scotland Yard and the county
police authorities.
The sound of footsteps advancing along the path from the East caused
him to glance up sharply, his face just a shade less genial than
usual. The next moment a stockily-built man, hatless and wearing a
pair of perfectly shapeless grey flannel trousers and a disreputable
old sports coat, and smoking a short-stemmed pipe with an enormous
bowl, came into sight round a bend in the path, walking rapidly.
The newcomer slowed up at sight of the inspector and glanced at him
with an air of elaborate carelessness. A look of equally elaborate
incredulity appeared on his face, then he smiled widely and hurried
forward with outstretched hand.
“Great Scott, Inspector Moresby! Well, fancy seeing you here,
Inspector! You remember me, don’t you? My name’s——”
“Mr. Sheringham! Of course I remember you, sir,” returned the
inspector warmly, shaking the other’s hand with great heartiness.
“Shouldn’t be likely to forget you after enjoying your books so much,
you know, let alone the way you astonished us all at the Yard over
that business at Wychford. Let’s see now, it was with Mr. Turner of
the _Courier_, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. The ‘Hattan Garden jewel case,’ as the papers called
it. Well, Inspector, and what are you doing in this peaceful part of
the world?”
“I’m on my holiday,” replied the inspector with perfect truth.
“Staying over at Sandsea with the wife and children.”
“Oh, yes,” said Roger innocently.
“And how do you come here, sir? Holidaying too?”
Roger winked broadly. “Me? Oh, no. I’m down here in pursuit of a new
profession that’s just been thrust upon me.”
“Indeed, sir? What’s that?”
“Well, to put it quite bluntly, I’m down here to ask Inspector Moresby
on behalf of the _Courier_ what he’s got to tell me about a lady who
fell off the cliff somewhere about here a day or two ago, and why such
an important person as he should be so interested in an ordinary
accident.”
The inspector rubbed his chin with a rueful grin. “And I’d just
strolled over here from Sandsea to get away from the crowds for a
bit!” he deplored innocently. “I’ve only got to yawn at the wrong
time, and there’s half-a-dozen gentlemen of your new profession round
the next minute asking what the significance is.”
“Going to have a nice nap before you go back to Sandsea?” Roger asked
with a twinkle in his eye.
“A nap?”
“Yes; at least, I don’t suppose you booked that room at the Crown just
to brush your hair in, did you?”
The inspector chuckled appreciatively. “Got me there, sir! Well, I may
be staying over here for a day or two, yes. Even accidents can have
their interesting side, you know, after all.”
“Especially an accident that isn’t an accident, eh? Come on,
Inspector; you can’t put me off like that, you know. I’m developing a
nose like a bloodhound’s for this sort of thing, and it’s busy telling
me very hard that you’ve got something up your sleeve. What’s the
idea? Can’t you give me a pointer or two?”
“Well, I don’t know that perhaps I mightn’t. I’ll think it over.”
“Can’t you do it now? Just a few words to send the _Courier_ before
the other johnnies turn up. I’ll get ’em to splash your name all over
it, if that’s any good to you. Come now!”
The inspector considered. He was never averse to having his name
splashed about in an important paper like the _Courier_ if the
circumstances warranted it. As long as the bounds of discretion were
not overstepped a little publicity never did a police officer any
harm, and it has frequently done him a great deal of good.
“Well, without saying too much, I don’t mind telling you that there
_are_ one or two suspicious circumstances, Mr. Sheringham,” he
admitted at length. “You see, the lady was supposed to have been alone
at the time when she fell over here.”
“At this very spot, I take it?” Roger put in.
“At this very spot. But I’m not at all sure—not at _all_ sure!—that
she was alone. And that’s really all I can say at present.”
“Why do you think she wasn’t?”
“Ah!” The inspector looked exceedingly mysterious. “I can’t go so far
as to tell you that, but I think you can let your readers know that
I’m not speaking altogether at random.”
“‘Inspector Moresby, who has the matter in hand, intimated that he has
discovered an important clue. While not at liberty to disclose the
precise nature of this, he assured me that important developments may
be expected shortly,’” Roger intoned solemnly.
“Something like that,” the inspector laughed. “And of course I needn’t
point out to a gentleman like you how improbable it would be for
anyone to fall over accidentally just here where this ledge is so
deep.”
Roger nodded. “Suicide, by any chance?”
“May have been,” agreed the inspector in a perfectly expressionless
voice.
“But you’re quite sure it wasn’t!” Roger smiled. “Eh?”
The inspector laughed again. “I’ll be able to let you know a bit more
later on, no doubt, sir. In the meantime——” He paused significantly.
“In the meantime you’d be very much obliged if I’d stop these awkward
questions and leave you in peace again? I get you, Inspector. Very
well. But you don’t mind if I just have a look round here before I go,
do you?”
“Of course not, Mr. Sheringham,” said the inspector heartily. “By all
means.”
It was with a mild feeling of resentment, however, in spite of the
inspector’s friendly reception of him, that Roger embarked upon a
cursory examination of the ledge on which they were standing. It was
more in the nature of a demonstration than anything else, for he knew
perfectly well that there would be nothing for him to find; Inspector
Moresby would have seen to that. No doubt it was perfectly right and
proper to withhold from him the clues which he had most certainly
discovered—no doubt at all. But Roger did think the man might have
treated him somewhat differently from an ordinary reporter, especially
after his reference to Wychford. It was annoying in a way; decidedly
annoying. And still more annoying was the fact that he had nothing
whatever to be annoyed about. In the inspector’s eyes he was a
reporter, and that was all there was to it; he had come down here as a
reporter, he was acting as a reporter, he _was_ a reporter. Hell!
As he had expected, the ledge yielded nothing at all.
“Humph!” he observed, straightening up from a boulder behind which he
had been peering. “Nothing much here. And no signs of a struggle
either.”
“There wouldn’t be, on this rocky surface,” the inspector pointed out
kindly. “Too hard to take impressions, you see.”
“Yes, that idea occurred to me,” Roger remarked a trifle coldly. He
walked over to the western end of the ledge, where it narrowed down
rapidly into a pathway not more than four or five feet wide, and began
to stroll along it.
He had scarcely covered half-a-dozen paces before the inspector’s
voice pulled him up with a jerk. “Not that way, if you want to get
back, sir. I shouldn’t go that way if I were you; it’s very much
longer. You’ll find the way you came a good deal shorter.”
Roger started slightly. “Oho, old war-horse!” he murmured to himself.
“So the ears are pricking, are they?” He turned about and scrutinised
the inspector with interest. “Now I wonder just exactly why you don’t
want me to go this way, Inspector?”
“It’s no matter to me, sir,” returned the inspector very innocently.
“I was just trying to save you a bit of a walk round, that’s all.”
“I see. But do you know, I think I should like a bit of a walk round,”
Roger remarked with some care. “I feel it would do me good. Clear my
brain, and all that. Good-bye, Inspector; see you later, no doubt.”
And he set off again, though more slowly this time, in the confident
expectation of being called back once more.
He was not disappointed.
“I see I shall have to tell you,” said the inspector’s resigned voice
behind him. “But you understand, I don’t want this mentioned yet
awhile, sir. I’m not scaring my bird just at present if I can help
it—always provided there is one, of course. Come with me, and I’ll
show you.”
He led the way a few yards farther along the path and paused in front
of a wide patch of dry mud. Plainly marked in the mud were the
imprints of two pairs of feet, both women’s, one pair decidedly larger
than the other; the deep impressions of the high heels were clean and
distinct.
“Oho!” said Roger softly, staring hard.
“Yes, that’s why I said the lady wasn’t alone,” the inspector pointed
out. “I’ve ascertained pretty certainly that she came along from this
end, you see, and these marks were made yesterday morning or
thereabouts. It’s a bit of luck that they haven’t been obliterated
since, but everyone else seems to have come and gone from the other
end as it’s so near the steps. I’ve tried the shoes she was wearing,
by the way, and they fit exactly in the smaller impressions. That’s
nothing like so important as the story-books make out, of course (I
dare say there are at least twenty pairs of shoes even in this small
place which would fit one or other of those prints); but it’s a point
worth mentioning for all that.”
Roger turned eagerly from his contemplation of the mud. “This is jolly
significant, Inspector; anyone can see that. But it doesn’t absolutely
destroy the accident theory, does it? Not alone. No, I’m ready to bet
you’ve got something else up your sleeve as well.”
“Well, perhaps I have, sir,” twinkled the inspector, who was not
feeling inclined to talk about coat-buttons just at the moment.
“Perhaps I have. But you must take it from me that this is all I can
tell you for the moment, and that last bit isn’t for publication yet
awhile either, you won’t forget.”
They turned and walked back to the ledge again.
“Where was the body found?” Roger asked. “In the water?”
“No, a couple of feet above high-water mark. You see that big rock
down there—the one with the seaweed half-way over the top and a bunch
of yellow limpets on this side? Well, wedged between that and the
smaller one this side of it.”
“I see,” said Roger thoughtfully, gauging the distance from the edge
of the ledge. A person tumbling straight over the edge would miss it
by feet; quite a respectable little jump would be needed to reach it.
A jump, or—a push! Furthermore, there was, straight down below the
ledge, a deep pool among the rocks into which anybody just tumbling
over must inevitably have fallen. Mrs. Vane’s body had cleared the
pool and landed on the boulders beyond it. The inference was obvious;
any question of an accident was now almost definitely ruled out. It
was a matter of suicide or murder.
Roger turned to the inspector. “There’s been a post mortem, I
suppose?”
“Yes. This morning.”
“Were any bones broken?”
The inspector smiled. “Oh, yes; plenty. She hadn’t been murdered
anywhere else and put there, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“It did cross my mind,” Roger smiled back. “I needn’t ask whether
anyone saw anything from the sea?”
“No, I was making enquiries on those lines this morning, myself.
Unfortunately there don’t seem to have been any boats out here at all
just then. But the old fisherman who subsequently discovered the body
seems to think he heard a scream coming from this direction about an
hour beforehand; in fact, he says that’s probably what made him look
over here as he was rowing past. But he didn’t pay any attention to it
at the time, thinking it was some dratted girl being tickled—his own
words, by the way.”
“That’s interesting,” observed Roger, the light in his eye belying his
laconic words. “By the way, I suppose you’ve been down to those
rocks?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I haven’t,” said the inspector a little guiltily.
“I should have done, I know, but I’m not built for climbing down from
here, and I don’t seem to have had time to get round there in a boat.
In any case, I’m pretty sure there’d be nothing to find. The constable
who recovered the body brought her hand-bag and her parasol, and he
said he’d had a good look round. Strictly between ourselves, Mr.
Sheringham, I was going to assume that his eyes are as good as mine;
but don’t put anything about that in the _Courier_.”
“I’ll have to think that over,” Roger laughed. “Anyhow, I’m a man of
stern duty: I’m going to see if I can scramble down and poke round. I
know there won’t be anything to find, but it’s the sort of thing that
gives one a lot of satisfaction afterward to have done.”
“Well, don’t you stumble and pitch on the rocks too,” said the
inspector humorously. “Somebody might come along and accuse me of
things.”
The way down was not nearly so difficult as it looked from above.
Everywhere the face of the cliff was so seamed and fissured that
foothold was easy, while half-way down a great piled-up pyramid of
boulders provided a kind of giant’s staircase tolerably simple to
negotiate. Within five minutes of leaving the inspector, Roger was
standing on the big rock beside which Mrs. Vane’s body had been found.
For some minutes he poked about, peering into pools and religiously
exploring the recesses of every cranny, while the inspector kept up a
running commentary upon the habits of crabs, lobsters and other
sea-going creatures which lurk in dark holes awaiting an opportunity
to deal drastically with exploratory hands; then he stood up and swept
a brief glance round before beginning the climb back.
“No,” he called up to the inspector, who had just finished recounting
an anecdote about the grandfather of a friend of his who had been
stung to death by a jellyfish while paddling among the rocks off
Sandsea. “Nothing here! Now tell me a story about the great-aunt of
another friend of yours who fell down a hundred feet when
rock-climbing in Cumberland. I shall be ripe for something like that
in about five minutes, when I’m clinging on to that last bit of cliff
up there with my teeth and eyebrows.”
The obliging inspector instantly embarked on the anecdote required,
and at the same moment Roger, in mid-stride between two boulders,
noticed something white glistening below him. Action was almost
instinctive.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the inspector in concern, breaking off his
narrative abruptly. “Hurt yourself?”
Roger picked himself up slowly and brushed a little green slime off
his trousers with his hands. “No, thanks,” he called back cheerfully.
“Not a bit!” And he went on brushing himself with his hands.
He couldn’t use his handkerchief, because that was lying in his breast
pocket, wrapped about the piece of paper on top of which he had
skilfully stage-managed his fall.