DETECTIVE GILLETT cycled across to Ashlingsea the following morning,
after spending the night in Staveley as the guest of Inspector
Murchison. The morning was clear, the downs were fresh and green
beneath a blue sky, and the sea lapped gently at the foot of the
cliffs. In the bay the white sails of several small boats stood out
against the misty horizon. But Detective Gillett saw none of these
things. His mind was too busily engaged in turning over the latest
aspects of the Cliff Farm case to be susceptible to the influences of
nature.
He reached Ashlingsea after an hour's ride and decided to call on Miss
Maynard before going to the police station. The old stone house and its
grounds lay still and clear in the morning sun. The carriage gates were
open and Gillett cycled up the winding gravel drive. The house looked
silent and deserted, but the shutters which protected the front windows
were unclosed, and a large white peacock strutting on the lawn in front
of the house uttered harsh cries at the sight of the man on a bicycle.
The bird's cries brought a rosy-cheeked maidservant to the front door,
who stared curiously at Gillett as he jumped off his bicycle and
approached her. A request for Miss Maynard brought a doubtful shake of
the head from the girl, so Gillett produced his card and asked her to
take it to her mistress. The girl took the card, and shortly returned
with the announcement that Mrs. Maynard would see him. She ushered him
into a large, handsomely furnished room and left him.
A few minutes afterwards Gillett heard the sound of tapping in the hall
outside the door. Then the door was opened by the maid who had admitted
Gillett, and he saw an elderly lady, with refined features and grey
hair, looking at him with haughty dark eyes. She was leaning on an
ebony stick, and as she advanced into the room the detective saw that
she was lame.
"I wanted to see Miss Maynard," said Gillett, making the best bow of
which he was capable.
"You cannot see my daughter." She uttered the words in such a manner as
to give Gillett the impression that she was speaking to somebody some
distance away.
"Why not?"
"She is not at home."
"Where is she?"
"That I cannot tell you."
"When will she return?"
"I do not know."
"But, madam, I must know," replied Gillett. "Your daughter has placed
herself in a very serious position by the statement she made to the
police concerning the Cliff Farm murder, and it is important that I
should see her at once. Where is she?"
"I decline to tell you."
"You are behaving very foolishly, madam, in taking this course. Surely
you do not think she can evade me by hiding from me. If that is her
attitude I will deal with it by taking out a warrant for her arrest."
"I must decline to discuss the matter any further with you."
Mrs. Maynard moved towards the bell as she spoke, as though she would
ring for a servant to show the detective out of the house. Gillett,
seeing that further argument was useless, did not wait for the servant
to be summoned, but left the room without another word.
He rode down to the Ashlingsea police station, with an uneasy feeling
that his plans for the capture of Brett were not destined to work out
as smoothly as he had hoped. It had seemed to him a simple matter
then to see Miss Maynard in the morning, "frighten the truth out of
her," ascertain from her where her lover was hiding, and have him
arrested as quickly as the telegraph wires could apprise the police
in the particular locality he had chosen for his retreat. But he had
overlooked the possibility of the hitch he had just encountered.
Obviously the girl, in finding that Marsland had not been arrested, had
begun to think that her plans had miscarried and had therefore decided
to evade making any further statement to the police as long as she
could.
Gillett was hopeful that Sergeant Westaway, with his local knowledge,
would be able to tell him where she was likely to seek seclusion in
order to escape being questioned.
He had not conceived the possibility of Miss Maynard having taken
fright and disappeared from the town, because he deemed it impossible
that she could have known that he was aware how she had tried to
hoodwink the police. Yet that was the news that Sergeant Westaway
conveyed to him when he mentioned the young lady's name.
"She left Ashlingsea by the last train from here last night--the 9.30
to Staveley, which connects with the last train to London."
"What!" exclaimed the detective. "Do you mean to tell me you've let the
girl slip out of your hands? Why the blazes didn't you stop her from
going?"
"How was I to stop her?" replied the sergeant, in resentment at the
imperative tone in which the detective spoke. "I didn't get home from
Staveley last night until nearly ten o'clock and after looking in here
I went straight to bed. The station-master told me about an hour ago
that she had gone. She came along just before the train started, and
he put her in a carriage himself. He thought it a bit strange, so he
mentioned it to me when I was down on the station this morning. I rang
up Inspector Murchison in order to let you know, but he told me you'd
left for here."
"She's gone to warn Brett--she's in London by now," said Gillett. "The
question is how did she get to know that I was coming over to see her
this morning and expose the tissue of lies in her statement to you.
How did she get to know that the game was up? You've said nothing to
anybody, Westaway, about the conversation that took place last night at
Sir George Granville's house?"
"Of course I've said nothing," replied Sergeant Westaway. "She had gone
almost before I got back here last night."
"It beats me," said Gillett. "Who could have warned her?"
He picked up the telephone book off the office table, and turned its
leaves hurriedly. When he had found the number he wanted he took up the
telephone and spoke into the receiver.
"Double one eight Staveley, and be quick. Is that Sir George
Granville's? Is Mr. Crewe in? Yes, at once please. Is that you, Mr.
Crewe? It's Gillett speaking. The girl has gone--cleared out. I cannot
say: I've no idea. What's that you say? Oh, yes, I'll telephone to
Scotland Yard and tell them to keep a look out for her, but I am afraid
it won't be of much use--she's had too long a start. But it's now
more necessary than ever that we should act quickly if we hope to lay
our hands on the man. I think the first thing to be done is to make a
thorough search of the cliff road for the actual spot where the job was
done. Oh, you have? By Jove, that's good! I'd be glad if you'd come
with me then, because it's on your theory that it was done away from
the house that I'm working----"
Police Constable Heather entered the office at this point with a
message for his superior officer. Sergeant Westaway, divided by anxiety
to hear the telephone conversation and a determination that his
subordinate should not hear it, imperiously motioned Constable Heather
away. But as Constable Heather misunderstood the motion and showed no
inclination to depart, Sergeant Westaway hurriedly led him out of the
office into the front garden, heard what he had to say, and dismissed
him with the mandate that he was on no account to be interrupted again.
He then returned to the office, but the telephone conversation was
finished, and Detective Gillett was seated in the sergeant's office
chair, looking over a document which Sergeant Westaway recognized as
Miss Maynard's statement.
"Crewe's going to drive us along the cliff road this afternoon to see
if we can locate the spot where Lumsden was shot," said the detective,
restoring Miss Maynard's statement to his pocket-book and looking up.
"I've arranged to meet him the other side of the cutting at the top of
the farm, and we will drive back along the road in his car."
"Did Mr. Crewe express any opinion as to who--who had warned Miss
Maynard to take to flight?" asked Sergeant Westaway eagerly.
"That was not a matter for discussion through the telephone," responded
Gillett curtly. "I'll talk it over with him this afternoon. I'll
call for you here, at two o'clock. I've several things to do in the
meantime."
They met again at the appointed hour and cycled along as far as Cliff
Farm, where they put up their bicycles. Then they walked up the hill
from the farm. At the end of the cutting, they saw Crewe's big white
car, stationary, and Crewe and Marsland standing on the greensward
smoking cigars. The two police officers advanced to meet them.
"It's a bit of very bad luck about this girl disappearing, Mr. Crewe,"
said Gillett. "What do you make of it? Westaway thinks she may have
gone to stay with friends at Staveley, and that her departure at this
juncture is merely a coincidence."
"Miss Maynard would not pay a visit to friends by the last train at
night," said Crewe.
"Then somebody warned her that the game was up and that safety lay in
flight."
"I'm afraid that's the only reasonable explanation for her
disappearance," replied Crewe. "But who warned her?"
"That's the point!" exclaimed Gillett. "I have been thinking it over
ever since I discovered she had gone, and I've come to the conclusion
that it must have been that infernal little dwarf or her husband,
though what is their object is by no means clear. Who else could it
have been? The only other people who know that I intended to unmask her
are yourself, Westaway and Mr. Marsland. By a process of elimination
suspicion points to the Granges."
Crewe did not reply. While Gillett was speaking a flash of that
inspiration which occasionally came to him when he was groping in the
dark for light revealed to him the key by which the jigsaw of clues,
incidents, hints, suspicions, and evidence in the Cliff Farm murder
could be pieced together. But the problem was one of extraordinary
intricacy, and he needed time to see if all the pieces would fit into
the pattern.
It was at Detective Gillett's suggestion that they walked up to the top
of the hill, to the headland where Marsland's horse had taken fright on
the night of the storm.
He took Crewe's arm and walked ahead with him, leaving the sergeant to
follow with Marsland. As they went along, he unconsciously revealed the
extent of his dependence on Crewe's stronger intelligence by laying
before him the remaining difficulties regarding the case. His chief
concern was lest Miss Maynard should warn Brett in time to enable
him to slip through the net which had been woven for him. To Crewe's
inquiry whether the London police had come across any trace of him he
shook his head.
"No, he is lying low, wherever he is. My own belief is that he has
not gone to London, but that he is hidden somewhere in the Staveley
district. I shall look for him here, and Scotland Yard is watching his
London haunts. He's a pretty bad egg, you know. We've a record of him
at Scotland Yard."
"What has he done?"
"He's identical with a fashionable rogue and swindler who, under the
name of Delancey, kept a night club and a gambling hell in Piccadilly,
during the first year of the war. We had reasons for closing the place
without a prosecution, and Delancey, instead of being sent to gaol, was
allowed to enlist. He returned to England a few months ago, invalided
out of the army, where he was known under the name of Powell. Since
then he has been employed by the Government in secret service work:
mixing with the Germans who are still at large in this country, and
getting information about German spies. He was given this work to do
because he speaks German so fluently that he can pass as a German
amongst Germans.
"I suppose this girl Maynard will try to join him wherever he is,"
resumed Gillett, after a pause. "It's a queer thing, don't you think,
for a well-brought-up English girl of good family to make such a fool
of herself over an unmitigated scoundrel like Delancey or Brett, or
Powell, or whatever he calls himself? From what I have learnt up at
Staveley this girl first met Brett about three months ago. I do not
know how they came to know each other, but from her visit to Cliff Farm
on the night of the murder I think that Lumsden must have introduced
them. There was some bond between Brett and Lumsden which I have been
unable to fathom. It is true they knew each other through being in
the army together, but that fact doesn't account for their continued
association afterwards, because there was nothing in common between the
two men: Brett was a double-dyed scoundrel, and Lumsden was a simple,
quiet sort of chap.
"It may have been the attraction of opposites, or, it is more likely
that Lumsden knew nothing about Brett's past," continued Gillett.
"Brett was certainly not likely to reveal it, more especially after he
met the girl, because then he would keep up his friendship with Lumsden
in order to have opportunities of meeting her at Cliff Farm. She also
used to visit Brett at Staveley; they've been seen together there
several times. Apparently it was Brett's idea to keep his meetings with
this girl as secret as possible, and for that reason he used to see
her at Cliff Farm with Lumsden's connivance. Nevertheless, he was not
altogether successful in keeping his love affair dark. On two occasions
he was seen walking with the girl on Ashlingsea downs, not far from her
mother's house, and there's been some local gossip in consequence--you
know what these small country places are for gossip."
"You've put this part of the case together very well," said Crewe.
"Oh, it's not so bad," Gillett laughed complacently. "Of course it
was Scotland Yard that fished up all that about Brett's antecedents.
I flatter myself that we do that kind of thing better in London than
anywhere: it's difficult for a man to get rid of a shady past in
England. However, I'd be more satisfied with my work if I had Brett
under lock and key. What a fool I was not to go straight across to that
girl's house last night after I saw you, instead of waiting till the
morning!"
"It wouldn't have made much difference: I think she was warned by
telephone, and probably the person who warned her knew you did not
intend to look her up until the morning. If you had altered your plans
she would have altered hers."
"I could have telephoned to have her stopped at Victoria or London
Bridge."
"Not much use," responded Crewe, with a shake of the head. "She
wouldn't have revealed Brett's hiding-place."
"I'd have kept her under lock and key to prevent her warning him," said
Gillett viciously.
"Quite useless. Her detention would have been notified in the press.
Brett would have taken warning and disappeared. By the way, Gillett,
I'll be glad if you will refrain from referring to the doubt I formerly
expressed about Brett's guilt. And I must ask Westaway to do the same."
"I thought you'd come around to my way of thinking," said Gillett. "It
was plain to me that it couldn't be anyone but Brett. However, you can
rest assured I won't try to rub it in. We all make mistakes at this
game, but some don't care to acknowledge a mistake as candidly as you
have done, Mr. Crewe."
The cliffs rose to a height of three hundred feet at this part of the
road, and a piece of headland jutted out a hundred yards or so into the
sea--a narrow strip of crumbling sandstone rock, running almost to a
point, with sea-worn sides, dropping perpendicularly to the deep water
below. Just past the headland, on the Staveley side, the road ran along
the edge of the cliffs for some distance, the side nearest to the sea
being protected by a low fence, and flanked by "Danger" notices at each
end. Crewe pointed out the danger post which had been knocked out of
the perpendicular--it was the one nearest to the headland.
Detective Gillett examined it very closely, and when Marsland and the
Sergeant joined them he asked Marsland if he could point out to him the
exact spot where his horse had taken fright on the night of the storm.
"I think it was somewhere about here, Crewe? It was about here we saw
the hoof marks, wasn't it?"
Crewe measured the distance with a rule he had brought with him from
the motor-car.
"A trifle more to this way--about here," he said at length.
Gillett glanced over the edge of the cliff, and at the white water
breaking over the jagged tooth-pointed rocks nearly three hundred feet
below.
"By Jove, you can congratulate yourself that you happened to be on the
right side of the road," he said, addressing himself to Marsland. "If
you'd gone over there, you wouldn't have stood much chance."
"It was purely good fortune, or my horse's instinct," laughed Marsland.
"The road was so dark that I didn't know where I was myself. I couldn't
see a hand's turn in front of me."
"The marks of the car wheels ran off the road at this point, bumped
into the post, and then ran on to the road again." Crewe traced the
course with his stick. "Brett had a narrower escape than Marsland. It's
a wonder that the impact didn't knock away that crazy bit of fencing."
"When Brett is on his trial it will be necessary for the jury to visit
this spot," said Sergeant Westaway solemnly.
"We've got to catch the beggar first," grumbled Gillett. "But let's get
along and see if we can hit upon the spot where the murder was actually
committed. How far along is it, Mr. Crewe, to where the countryman you
talked to saw him pass?"
"A little more than five miles from here."
"Then somewhere between the two places the murder must have been
committed, I should say."
"I know the place--approximately," replied Crewe. "I've been over the
ground several times, and I've been able to fix on it more or less
definitely."
"How did you fix it?" asked Gillett curiously.
"I had several clues to help me," replied Crewe, in a non-committal
voice. "Let us get back to the car and I will drive you to the place."
They walked back to the car and drove slowly along the winding cliff
road. About two miles from the danger post the road turned slightly
inland, and ran for a quarter of a mile or more about two hundred yards
distant from the edge of the cliff. At this point the downs began to
rise above the level of the road, and continued to do so until they
were above the heads of the party in the car. It was not a cutting;
merely a steep natural inclination of the land, and the road skirted
the foot of it for some distance. A ragged fringe of beech-trees grew
along the top of the bank; doubtless they had been planted in this bare
exposed position of the downs to act as a wind screen for the sheep
which could be seen grazing higher up the slope.
Crewe pulled up the car and looked about him, then turned his head and
spoke to Gillett:
"This part of the road is worth examining. There are several features
about it which fit in with my conception of the scene of the crime."
The four men got out of the car and walked forward, looking about them.
Crewe walked a little ahead, with his eyes roving over the rising bank
and the trees at the top. Several times he tried to clamber up the
bank, but the incline was too steep.
"What are you trying to do?" said Gillett, who was watching his
proceedings curiously.
"I am trying to fit in my theory of the crime by actual experiments. If
I can satisfy myself that Lumsden was able to climb this bank at some
point I believe we shall have reached the scene of the murder."
"But why is it necessary to prove that?" asked Gillett, in a puzzled
voice. "Brett might have met him on the road, shot him from the car
which had been pulled up, and then carried the body to Cliff Farm."
"My dear Gillett, have you forgotten that the bullet which killed
Lumsden took an upward course after entering the body? If he had been
shot from the car it would have gone downwards."
"Damn it! I forgot all about that point," exclaimed Gillett, reddening
with vexation.
"Lumsden couldn't have been shot on the road, either, because in that
case the bullet would have gone straight through him--unless the man
who fired the shot knelt down in the road and fired upwards at him,
which is not at all likely. Furthermore, Lumsden was shot in the back
low down, and the bullet travelled upwards and came out above the
heart. Therefore we've got to try and visualize a scene which fits
in with these circumstances. That's why I have been looking at this
bank so carefully. Let us suppose that Lumsden was walking along the
road and encountered his would-be slayer. Lumsden saw the revolver,
and turned to run. He thought his best chance of escape was across the
downs, so he dashed towards the bank and sprang up it. He had almost
reached the top when the shot was fired. That seems to me the most
possible way of accounting for the upward course of the bullet."
"I see," said Gillett, nodding his head. "Brett might have fired from
his seat in his car, in that case."
"Precisely," returned Crewe. "But the weak point in my argument is that
so far we have not reached a point in the bank which is capable of
being scaled."
"A little further along it narrows and is less steep," said Marsland,
who had been listening intently to Crewe's remarks. "Come, and I will
show you."
He led the way round the next bend of the road, and pointed out a spot
where the branches of the trees which formed the wind screen hung down
over the slope, which was much less steep. It was a comparatively easy
matter to scramble up the bank at this point, and pull oneself up on to
the downs by the aid of the overhanging branches.
Crewe made the experiment, and reached the top, without difficulty; so
did Gillett. Marsland and Sergeant Westaway remained standing in the
road below, watching the proceedings.
The downs from the top of the bank swept gradually upwards to the
highest point of that part of the coast: a landmark known as the
Giants' Knoll, a lofty hill surrounded by a ring of dark fir trees,
which gave the bald summit the appearance of a monk's tonsure. This
hill commanded an extensive view of the Channel and the surrounding
country-side on a clear day. But Detective Gillett was not interested
in the Giant's Knoll. He was busily engaged examining the brushwood
and dwarf trees forming the wind screen at the point where they had
scrambled up. Suddenly he turned and beckoned to Crewe with an air of
some excitement.
"Look here!" he said, as Crewe approached. "This seems to bear out your
theory." He pointed to the branch of a stunted beechtree, which had
been torn away from the parent trunk, but still hung to it, withered
and lifeless, attached by a strip of bark.
"If Brett shot Lumsden as he was scrambling up the bank, Lumsden might
easily have torn this branch off in his dying struggle--the instinct to
clutch at something--as he fell back into the road."
"It's possible, but it's not a very convincing clue by itself,"
returned Crewe. "It might just as easily have been torn off by the
violence of the storm. The thing is to follow it up. If Lumsden was
shot at this point the bullet which went through him may have lodged in
one of the trees."
Gillett had begun to search among the scattered trees at the top of
the bank very much like an intelligent pointer hunting for game. He
examined each tree closely from the bole upwards. Suddenly he gave a
shout of triumph.
"Look here, Crewe."
He had come to a standstill at a tree which stood a few yards on the
downs away from the wind screen--a small stunted oak with low and
twisted branches. Fair in the centre of its gnarled trunk was a small
hole, which Gillett was hacking at with a small penknife. As Crewe
reached his side, he triumphantly extracted a bullet which had been
partly flattened by contact with the tree.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "What a piece of luck! What a piece of luck!"
He held the bullet in the palm of his left hand, turning it over and
over with the penknife which he held in his right. He was so absorbed
in his discovery, that he did not notice Crewe stoop and pick up some
small object which lay in the grass a few yards from the tree.