In the Luce Manor Boathouse
That same evening Daunt paid his promised visit to Austin Ponson. He
found his client seated despondently in his cell, his head resting on
his hands. Like Dale, he had aged since his arrest. His face was pale
and drawn, his eyes weary, and as he moved his head a suspicion of
grey showed at his temples. His manner had lost its old ease and
lightness, and it was evident that the crisis through which he was
passing would leave its mark on him for many a day to come.
‘I have something for you, Mr Ponson,’ the solicitor said as he sat
down and felt in his pocket for Lois’s letter. ‘You are to let me have
an answer.’
Austin’s eyes lit up as he saw the handwriting, and he seized the note
with eagerness. To let him read it in peace, Daunt drew some papers
from his pocket and began to study them. But he hadn’t done so for
many seconds when an exclamation drew his attention back to the other.
Austin Ponson had risen to his feet and was excitedly pacing the cell.
He was a transformed man. A smile was on his lips, his eyes were
shining, and his face had a rapt and beatific expression, like that of
a man who sees a vision of angels.
‘My Heavens!’ he cried, ‘_What_ a girl! She’s beyond anything I could
have imagined. One in a thousand millions! I can hardly realise it. I
tell you, Daunt, if I never get out of this hell again, it’s been
worth it. It would be worth any suffering to get such a letter. Tell
her—But you can’t tell her. Nor I. No one could ever tell her what I
feel.’
He paused and looked at the other, then resumed his hurried pacing.
‘I swear that if I get out of this place, I’ll make it up to her. I’ll
live for her day and night, and for nothing else. She’ll never regret
what she has done—that is,’ he sank into his chair and the dejected
look returned to his face, ‘if I ever do get out.’
‘You forget, Mr Ponson, that I don’t know what’s in your note.’
Austin stared.
‘You don’t?’ he queried in surprise. ‘Why, she tells me the whole
thing’s out—that Tom Dale has been found, and that she knows about my
father’s marriage and my birth. And’—his face lit up and he spoke
triumphantly—‘she says she doesn’t mind—that it will make no
difference to’—he paused as if for a word, then concluded—‘her
feelings towards me. What do you think of that?’
‘I congratulate you very heartily, Mr Ponson,’ Daunt replied, though
with a mental reservation. ‘But I can assure you that so far as I am
aware, the whole thing is anything but “out”. It is true the identity
of William Douglas with Tom Dale has been discovered, and the effect
his existence has on the validity of your father’s marriage is known.
But that is all. No explanation of the murder has yet come to light.
And, after all, that is really what matters.’
‘Has Dale admitted his identity?’
‘Yes.’
‘And has he made no statement about what took place in the boathouse?’
‘None. But, Mr Ponson, that remark implies to me that you were there
yourself and know.’
Austin looked sharply at the speaker.
‘I didn’t say so,’ he answered dryly, ‘but—stop, let me think a
moment.’
For some minutes silence reigned in the gloomy cell. To Daunt it had
seemed as if his client was on the verge of a confession, and he
wondered if one more sordid story was to be added to the list of those
to which the grey walls of this grim apartment had in all probability
listened. Austin sat motionless, his mind evidently engrossed with
some problem, the solution of which eluded him. But at last he seemed
to find it. Straightening himself up, he faced the solicitor.
‘This news you have brought makes a tremendous difference to me,’ he
said. ‘From my point of view there is no longer any reason why the
events of that tragic night should not be known. I have remained
silent for two reasons. First, because of my mother. The thought of
her learning that she was still the wife of that drunken scoundrel was
more than I could bear. You’ll understand my feelings—the whole thing
is so painful I hate to speak of it. Then there was another reason. I
made the unforgivable blunder of being afraid to tell Miss Drew. I
have paid for that already, and every bit of that payment I deserve
ten times over. I distrusted her. I thought if the circumstances of my
birth came out she might have nothing more to do with me. And I just
couldn’t risk that. You see, it was not as if there had been any
deliberate evil on my parents’ part. Both were utterly innocent, and
even ignorant that anything was wrong. Therefore I could not see that
I was called upon to chance the wrecking of my happiness on what was
after all a mere technical matter only. God forgive me, I did not
intend to tell that angel. I feared the stigma would remain. Well, I
have suffered for it. As I ought to have known, she was above a petty
feeling of that sort. I should have told her the moment I knew of the
matter myself. I should have told Tanner everything at the start. Much
trouble would have been saved. And now it may be too late. I may not
be believed.’
‘I don’t know, of course, what you propose to tell,’ said Daunt as the
other paused, ‘but as your legal adviser I should warn you to be very
careful of what you say to anyone. If you care to tell your story to
me, I shall be pleased to advise you as to what, if any of it, should
be made public.’
‘I suppose that would be wisest,’ Austin returned, ‘but I have quite
made up my mind. From the first I decided to tell all I knew if the
secret of my parentage came out. That was the only reason for my
silence. Indeed, I was coming to the conclusion I must tell in any
case, even if I myself had to reveal it. I appreciate your offer and
under other circumstances would gladly avail myself of your advice,
but whatever the consequences, I am going to tell. But I by no means
wish the affair to be made public. I want most of all to tell Miss
Drew, I would like to tell you, and I must tell Tanner. If you will
help me by making this possible, I will be for ever your debtor. One
other thing, I should like Cosgrove to know my decision. It is only
due to him. Can you arrange these matters?’
‘I think so. But I cannot but feel you may be making a mistake in not
first taking, I don’t say my advice, but the advice of some legal man.
I cannot move you on that point?’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Austin warmly, ‘there is no one whose advice I
would take more readily than yours. But in this case we need not
discuss it. If you will not help me to the interview I want, I will
send for Tanner and tell him here.’
Daunt saw there was no more to be said. He waited till Austin had
written his reply to Lois—a lengthy and complicated proceeding—then,
promising he would see Tanner without delay, he left the cell.
Inspector Tanner was keenly interested by the news.
‘At last!’ he exclaimed in a satisfied tone. ‘We shall get the truth
this time. He’s getting frightened. He’ll not bluff us any more.’
‘I don’t see that you’ve any right to say that,’ Daunt returned hotly.
‘It will be time enough to accuse him of lying when you hear what he
has to say.’
Tanner smiled.
‘Very good, Mr Daunt. I’ll not say a word—till then.’
It was arranged that the proceedings of that morning should be
repeated next day. Austin would be brought to Scotland Yard, and there
in the presence of Lois, Daunt, Tanner, and a stenographer, he could
make his statement.
At eleven o’clock next day Lois and Jimmy Daunt drove up to the Yard,
and were shown without delay to Tanner’s room. There they met the
Inspector and his Chief, Mr Edgar, who had expressed a wish to be
present on this occasion also. At the desk was a shorthand writer.
It was cool in the grey walled room. The open window allowed a current
of fresh air to flow gently in, carrying with it the subdued hum of
the great city without. In the sunny courtyard the sparrows were
twittering angrily, while a bluebottle buzzed endlessly up and down
the window pane. The little group, after the first brief greetings,
sat silent. Expectancy showed on every face, but whereas Tanner’s and
the Chief Inspector’s also indicated satisfaction, uneasiness was
marked on Daunt’s and positive apprehension on Lois’s. To her at
least, the coming meeting with her lover was obviously no light
ordeal. On it, as was evident to them all, largely depended the future
happiness of both.
They had not waited long before a knock came to the door and a
sergeant of police admitted Austin Ponson. The young man was dressed
in a suit of navy blue, and bore himself quietly and with some
dignity. In the bright light of the room the lines of suffering showed
more clearly on his face, and his eyes looked still more weary.
Instantly on entering they swept over those present, fixing themselves
immediately on Lois. In spite of an evident effort for self control,
the light of an absolute adoration shone in them for a moment, then he
withdrew them, bowed generally to the company, and sat down.
But this was not enough for Lois. She sprang to her feet, and going
over to him, held out her hand. He rose and clasped it, and though
neither would trust themselves to speak, they saw that in each other’s
eyes which satisfied them.
Tanner with some delicacy busied himself for a few moments in giving
directions to the stenographer, then turning to the others, he spoke.
‘I don’t think it is necessary, Miss Drew and gentlemen, for me to
explain our presence here. Last night Mr Daunt intimated to me that Mr
Ponson had a communication to make, at which he wished Miss Drew, Mr
Daunt, and myself to be present. This meeting has therefore been
arranged. I have only to make known to you, Mr Ponson, Chief Inspector
Edgar’—he indicated his colleague—‘and to ask you to proceed with your
statement. It is, of course, understood by you that you make it
voluntarily and that it may be used against you?’
‘I understand that right enough, Inspector,’ began Austin, ‘and I wish
to say I have no quarrel with your treatment of me. You have been fair
all through.’
He paused, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and went on:
‘The only thing I should like to ask is whether my cousin, Cosgrove,
has been told that I am going to make this statement?’
‘He has been told,’ Tanner answered.
‘And may I learn if he was satisfied?’
‘He seemed so.’
‘Thank you. I am not quite sure how much of my story you know, but I
shall tell you everything. When I have finished I shall have a request
to make of you—that you will keep what I am about to tell private—but
I do not know whether or not you will find that possible.’
Tanner nodded without speaking.
‘Of my early life,’ went on Austin, ‘I do not think I need say much. I
expect’—he looked at Tanner—‘you know all about it. You know that,
while we never had an open breach, my father and I did not pull well
together. We looked at things from such different points of view that
our intercourse only produced irritation. My father wished me to read
for the bar with the idea of entering Parliament, and trying for a
seat in the Ministry. I was not ambitious in that direction, but
preferred literary work, and scientific research. Therefore, as you no
doubt are aware, I found it irksome at home, and I set up my own
establishment in Halford. But that we remained good friends was proved
by my father’s moving to Luce Manor at my suggestion. With my mother I
was always in sympathy. She was easygoing, and deferred without
protest to my father’s decisions, but never at any time was there the
slightest cloud between us. So things had gone on for years, and so
they went on until this terrible business began.’
Austin moved nervously in his chair, glancing quickly round the little
group.
‘On Sunday, 4th July,’ he resumed, ‘occurred the first event of this
unhappy tragedy, so far as I was concerned. I received by that
morning’s post a letter from my father, saying he wished to see me on
very private business, and asking me to dine and spend that evening
with him. He directed me to destroy his letter, and not refer to the
matter to anyone.
‘Considerably surprised, I burnt the note, and duly went out to Luce
Manor in time for dinner. When the meal was over my father and I
retired to his study, and there when our cigars were alight, he said
he had a very grievous and terrible secret to impart to me which would
doubtless give me considerable pain. He locked the door, then sitting
down he told me what I believe you already know.
‘“My boy,” he said, “we have not perhaps pulled it off together as
well as I could have wished, and when you hear what I have to tell
you, I fear you may be tempted to think more bitterly of me than I
deserve. But I can assure you on my honour, that in this terrible
affair I acted in perfectly good faith all through. Until four years
ago I was as ignorant as you are still that there was anything wrong.”
‘“I don’t understand,” I said.
‘“No,” he answered, “but you will soon.”
‘Then he told me of his early life, and that of the two Dales; of his
falling in love with my mother, Ethel Osborne; of the rivalry between
himself and Tom Dale for her hand; of Dale’s success; of the miserable
married life of the couple; of Dale’s mission to Canada, and of his
presumed death in the _Numidian_ disaster, and of my father’s own
marriage with the widow. All this I had known more or less vaguely
before, and I could not understand why my father recited the
circumstances in such detail. But he soon made it clear to me.
‘“As you know,” he went on, “your dear mother and I have lived happily
together ever since. She had her time of suffering, but thank God, she
has enjoyed her after-life, and please God, she shall never learn what
I am about to tell you.”
‘“Some four years ago,” continued my father, “I happened to be in
London, and walking down Cheapside I met a man whose face seemed
vaguely familiar. He was short and slight, with small features, rather
delicately moulded, white hair, and a short goatee beard. He saw me at
the same time, and his eyes fixed themselves on my face with an
expression of almost incredulous recognition. For a few seconds we
stood facing each other, while I racked my brains to recall his
identity. And then suddenly I knew him. It was Tom Dale!”
‘My father paused, but for some seconds I did not grasp the full
meaning of his statement. Then gradually its significance dawned on
me. I need not repeat it. You have heard what it involved. I was
appalled and horrified. Though upset on my own account, I ask you to
believe that what distressed me most was its possible effect on my
mother and sister. Of my mother I just couldn’t bear to think, and it
also hurt me beyond words to believe that any such secret should have
power to throw a shadow over Enid’s life.’
‘Did you speak to your father on this particular point?’ Tanner
interjected.
‘Speak? I should rather think so. I was beside myself with horror.’
‘Can you recollect the exact words you used?’
Austin considered.
‘I hardly think so,’ he said at last, ‘though every detail of the
scene is fixed in my memory; I said as the thing began to dawn on me,
“And my mother—it can’t be that she—?” I did not wish to speak the
words, and my father completed my sentence for me. “Yes,” he said,
“there’s no escape from it; she is the wife of that drunken ruffian.”
Then I cried, “Good Heavens! She can’t be,” or something to that
effect, and he answered that it was only too true.’
‘Might the words you used have been, “My God, sir, she isn’t?”’
‘Yes, I believe those were the words. That was the sense anyway.’
‘Continue, please.’
‘It appeared that upon their recognition there was a scene between my
father and Dale. Eventually, however, they took a private room at a
neighbouring bar, and there talked the matter over. Then to my
father’s amazement it came out that Dale had not known of my mother’s
second marriage. But when the latter realised how matters stood, his
manner changed. He said it was my father, and not himself, who had
come within the reach of the law, and that if the affair became known,
even if my father escaped imprisonment, he would still have public
opinion to reckon with. Was he prepared to face the scandal?
‘My father was not. His good name and that of his family were very
precious to him. In his agitation he did a weak thing. He offered to
buy Dale’s silence.
‘My father then told of his negotiations with Dale, with the details
of which I think I need hardly trouble you. Suffice it to say that
Dale put on the screw and got several hundreds that year. But that did
not satisfy him. His demands grew more and more outrageous till at
last my father came to the conclusion that some step must be taken to
rid himself of the incubus.
‘“It is not the actual money he is now getting,” said my father, “it
is the uncertainty under which I am living that is making me ill. He
will continue to bleed me, and after I am gone he will bleed your
mother and yourself, and perhaps Enid. Besides, we don’t know if he
really will preserve the secret. I have been thinking for some time
that I must tell you and Cosgrove the whole story, so that we may
devise some plan to protect ourselves, but now events have been
precipitated by a fresh demand from Dale. Read that.”
‘My father handed me a letter headed “Myrtle Cottage, Yelverton, South
Devon”. It was from Dale, and in it he said the existing arrangements
with my father were unsatisfactory, that instead of a hundred or two
now and then, he would rather have one large sum which should close
the account between them. He demanded my father should buy him an
annuity which should bring him in £500 a year for life. In peremptory
words he required an immediate answer, adding that he was coming to
town that day and would stay in a small hotel near Gower Street, where
my father could see him.
‘That letter had come on the previous Thursday, and on the
Saturday—that was the day before our interview—my father had gone to
town and seen Dale. The man, it seemed, had been more truculent and
overbearing than ever before, and had presented what amounted to an
ultimatum. Either he would have the money for his annuity, or he would
tell. After a long wrangle my father had promised to consider the
matter until the following Monday, when he would see Dale again and
let him know his decision.
‘My father went on to say he would willingly pay the demand to be rid
of the whole business, but his difficulty was, of course, that he had
no guarantee the payment would rid him of it. He would still be, to
precisely the same extent, in Dale’s power.
‘He continued that he felt that as Cosgrove and I were also interested
in the affair, the time had now come to take us into his confidence,
in order to see if some joint action could not be taken to bring the
matter to an end. He had not yet spoken to Cosgrove, but he suggested
that on the following day, Monday, we should both go to town and have
an interview with my cousin, after which he could go on and see Dale.
We decided to travel separately, to meet at a little French restaurant
in Soho, and to keep the matter perfectly private.’
Austin once again paused and glanced round the little group. He was
speaking quietly, but there was a ring of truth in his voice. Tanner,
who sat checking his every statement in the light of what he had
himself learnt, and watching like a lynx for discrepancies, had to
admit to himself that the story they were hearing was consistent with
the facts. If Austin could explain away all the damaging points in an
equally convincing manner, the Inspector felt that the case against
him might easily collapse.
‘Early next morning I made the appointment with Cosgrove by
telephone,’ Austin resumed, ‘and by different trains my father and I
went to town. We took a private room at the restaurant, and there my
father told Cosgrove. He was not so upset as I had been, and
recommended refusing to meet Dale and letting him do his worst. Though
the matter did not affect Cosgrove so closely as it did me, I would
have agreed to this proposal, but for my mother and sister. After all,
I thought, my father has plenty of money. He will not feel what he may
give to this Dale, and there can be no doubt it would be better for
all concerned if the affair remained a secret.
‘The question then became, “How could we ensure that a further payment
would really have the desired effect?”
‘My father had a plan—a wild, unpractical, even farcical plan—or so it
struck me at first. He said that as we could not adopt the only
infallible scheme to silence Dale—to murder him—we must be content
with one which promised at least a reasonable chance of success. He
said the man was a coward, and that we must work on that. If we could
frighten him enough we would get what we wanted, and by his plan he
thought we could frighten him so much that he would not dare to reveal
what he knew. The plan was as follows:
‘My father was to see Dale the same afternoon, hand him £100 as a
pledge of good faith, and promise to pay the annuity, though not for
the amount claimed. The refusal was to be made more or less doubtfully
so as to convey the impression to Dale’s mind that he had only to
negotiate further and he would get what he wanted. In fact, the
interview was to terminate with the principle agreed on, but the
precise sum unsettled.
‘“But why do that?” interrupted Cosgrove. “If you pay the lump sum you
lose your hold on him.”
‘“I think not,” returned my father. “It is part of my scheme that he
should have a strong temptation to fall in with our wishes, and the
annuity will provide that.”
‘Cosgrove nodded, and my father went on with his explanation.
‘Dale was to be told to get further figures from the insurance
company, giving the cost of annuities for smaller annual amounts. At
the same time another meeting would be arranged at which the matter
would be settled and the money paid. My father was to explain to him
that he didn’t want to make any more mysterious visits to town, and
that Dale must therefore bring the information to Luce Manor. To keep
the visit secret he was not to come to the house, but was to be at the
boathouse at 9.30 in the evening, where my father would slip out and
meet him. Owing to the fact that my mother and sister were going away
on a visit on the following day, Tuesday, the meeting was
provisionally fixed for Wednesday.
‘Without letting Dale know, Cosgrove and I were also to be at the
boathouse, and with our support my father was to take a strong line
with Dale. The following proposition would be made him. My father
would recognise the value of the secret, and would pay Dale, through
some agency which would conceal his identity, a sum to the insurance
company which would bring Dale in an annuity of about a pound a
working day—say £320 per annum. This he would do on condition that
Dale would give us an incriminating weapon against himself, which
would take the value out of his secret, but which would not be used if
he held his tongue. He was to sign a document stating that he was
Edward Dale, not Tom; that he admitted having blackmailed my father by
falsely representing himself as Tom; that he further admitted my
father’s power and right to send him to penal servitude, but that he
begged that on this full admission of guilt, coupled with an immediate
and total cessation of all annoyance, my father would refrain from
ruining and embittering the closing years of his life.
‘“He’ll never sign,” Cosgrove interrupted again.
‘“Wait a moment,” my father answered, and he went on to explain that
if Dale refused to sign, he was to be threatened with immediate death
by being tied up, gagged, and drowned in the water basin in the
boathouse, it being explained to him that, after being unbound, his
body would be sent down over the falls, whereby his death would be put
down to accident.
‘I was amazed at my father seriously suggesting such a proceeding, and
I felt strongly opposed to it.
‘“No, no,” I cried, “we can’t do that,” and Cosgrove nodded his
agreement.
‘“Why not?” my father queried, and set himself to overcome our
scruples. He argued that if our objection was to making the man sign a
false statement, we must remember it was only a bluff, and said that
for the sake of my mother and sister we must be willing to do what we
might otherwise reasonably object to. If, on the other hand, we were
considering Dale’s feelings, we should not forget we were suggesting
no harm to him—on the contrary we were about to offer him a large sum
of money. The intention was not to injure him, but to prevent him
injuring us.
‘“It’s not that,” said Cosgrove. “I don’t give a fig for the false
statement, nor the man’s feelings either. As you say, he more than
deserves far worse treatment than what you suggest. Nor do I care if
the thing brings us within reach of the law—I would risk that for my
aunt, and so would we all. But I don’t like your plan because it will
not work.”
‘“Why not?” asked my father.
‘“Why not?” Cosgrove repeated. “Because Dale has only to inform the
police of the whole affair. He would be believed. How would we account
for our meeting here, to take one point only?”
‘“Ah,” my father rejoined, “you always go too fast. I meet that
difficulty in two ways. If Dale informed, I would say he signed the
confession when I saw him in London—I shall see him this
afternoon—under my threat of otherwise immediately exposing his
blackmail to the police. Secondly, alibis are easy to fake. Each of
the three of us must work out a false alibi, so that we can deny the
meeting in the boathouse _in toto_.”
‘“No, no, I don’t like it,” Cosgrove demurred.
‘“None of us like it,” answered my father, “and I admit my plan is far
from perfect. But can you suggest anything better?”
‘I was even more strongly against the whole business than Cosgrove,
and both of us began raising objections to it. We argued that even if
we obtained the false confession, it would not ensure our immunity
from annoyance. To this my father replied that that was where Dale’s
cowardly nature came in. The man would not be sure how the confession
would affect him if it fell into the hands of the police, and he would
be afraid to risk its becoming known.
‘We discussed the matter at great length, but neither Cosgrove nor I
had an alternative proposal to offer, and at last my father persuaded
us against our better judgment to fall in with his.
‘I need not weary you by telling you all the arguments used, but at
last the details were settled and we turned to the consideration of
the false alibis.
‘In my father’s case it was considered sufficient that there should be
no evidence of the visit, lest overmuch proof of our statements should
show an element of design. Owing to my mother and sister being from
home, he would in the evening be left alone in his study, from which
he could slip down to the river with the practical certainty of his
absence being unnoticed.
‘Cosgrove and I worked out the plans which, I believe, you know.
Cosgrove’s required the help of his friend, Miss Belcher. Mine was
dependent on footprints, and I proposed to report the alleged hoax
played on me to the local police, so that these marks might be
observed by them while still fresh.
‘Our plans had taken nearly three hours to work out, and we parted at
the restaurant door. Later in the evening my father telephoned—we had
arranged club calls—that Wednesday night would suit Dale.’
Again Austin paused and moved uneasily, and again Tanner had to admit
to himself that so far the story they were hearing, while utterly
unexpected and extraordinary, bore the impress of truth. Up to the
present he had been unable to detect any inconsistency between it and
the facts he had himself learnt. He was coming to the opinion that
they were about to hear the truth of the tragedy itself, and he set
himself to listen with renewed concentration as Austin resumed:
‘I bought the two pairs of shoes I required for my alibi, on that
Monday afternoon. At home I locked one pair away, and took care the
attention of my man should be called to the other. Then on the
Wednesday evening I wrote the forged note from Miss Drew, and dropped
it into the letter box on my hall door, where my man found it as I had
intended.
‘Putting on the new shoes of which my man had had charge, I got a boat
and rowed down to the boathouse. My statement about the hoax was
obviously false, and the evidence of that girl and her lover in Dr
Graham’s wood was true.’
It was evident that this admission, made in the calm matter-of-fact
way in which Austin was speaking, came as a considerable shock to Lois
Drew. But she made no remark, listening motionless and intent to what
was coming—as indeed were they all.
‘The water gate was closed, and as I did not want Dale to see my boat
and perhaps take fright, I went into the boathouse to open it. My
father was there already, and he opened the gate, and I took the boat
in. Presently Cosgrove turned up. He had motored from London.
‘We waited for a few moments and then Dale arrived. Directly he
entered Cosgrove slipped behind him and locked the door, putting the
key in his pocket. Dale was obviously taken aback when he saw three
persons waiting for him, and when he observed the door being locked he
got very white and frightened looking. But my father spoke to him
quietly.
‘“You need not be afraid, Dale,” he said. “If you are reasonable, no
harm will befall you. These are my son and nephew, who are as much
interested in the affair as I am. We are going to make you a proposal,
but I am afraid we are not going to give you the option of declining
it.”
‘My father then explained clearly and quietly that he was willing to
pay well for the preservation of the secret, and promised to purchase
an annuity which would bring Dale in £320 a year for life. Dale
interrupted that it was £500 he wanted, but my father replied that
£320 was the sum he had decided on. I think it was the quiet, final
way my father spoke, as if the reopening of the matter was by his
decision made impossible, that first gave Dale a hint of what he was
up against.
‘My father went on to point out that on his side he required an end of
the annoyance, and explained about the confession. Dale then blustered
and said he would see us all in a warm place before he signed. My
father, still speaking very gently, said we would give him five
minutes to make up his mind. He took a revolver from his pocket—he had
previously shown us it was unloaded—and pointing it at Dale warned him
that if he tried any tricks he would instantly be shot. And so we
waited, my father calm and placid though keeping a wary eye on the
other, Cosgrove nervous and smoking cigarette after cigarette, while
I, also a little excited, kept pacing up and down the edge of the
basin.
‘At long last the five minutes was up and my father spoke.
‘“Well, Dale?” he queried.
‘The man showed his teeth like an animal.
‘“I’ll see you in Hades first,” he snarled.
‘At a sign from my father Cosgrove and I sprang forward and seized the
blackmailer. He was, as you know, small and elderly, and weakened from
drink, and he was like a child in our hands. I held him while Cosgrove
tied his hands and feet, in each case with silk handkerchiefs which
would leave no mark on the skin. He grew very white, and a look of
terror shone in his eyes, but he would not give way, and we felt that
we had still failed to make him believe we were in earnest. My father
tried to frighten him still further. He spoke again in a
matter-of-fact tone.
‘“You think, Dale, we’re not going to carry the thing through? I can
assure you all the details have been carefully worked out. If you do
not sign we shall make that anchor”—he indicated that belonging to the
largest boat which was standing in the corner with its rope
attached—“fast to your shoulders and lower you into the basin. After
ten minutes we’ll pull your body up, take off the handkerchiefs, carry
your body out in the boat and slip it overboard where it will be swept
down over the falls. There will be nothing to indicate your death was
not an accident. Then I may tell you for your information we have all
arranged carefully planned false alibis, so that we can prove we were
not here tonight at all. On the other hand, if you sign, you get your
freedom, and here”—my father took a paper from his pocket and held it
so that Dale could read it—“is a cheque for £3000 for your annuity. So
now, do you still refuse?”
‘“Your scheme won’t wash,” growled Dale. “No one would believe I would
sign such a confession except under compulsion.”
‘“Quite right,” my father answered. “We wouldn’t suggest that you did
it of your own free will. I would explain that the compulsion I
employed was a threat to hand you over to the police. Come now, we
can’t spend the night here. Will you sign or will you not?”
‘Dale did not move.
‘“Very well. Gag him and get the anchor on,” said my father.
‘Cosgrove gagged him, while I brought over the anchor, and the two of
us then made it fast to Dale’s shoulders.
‘“Now over with him.”
‘We lifted our victim towards the edge. We intended really to duck him
if he remained obdurate. But he didn’t. He couldn’t stand any more.
Furiously he nodded his head.
‘“Stop,” said my father, and to Dale: “Do you agree?”
‘The little man again nodded.
‘We released him, and bringing him over to a shelf at the side of the
room, gave him paper and ink and a draft of the confession, and
ordered him to copy and sign it.
‘The man was shivering with fright and rage, but he did as he was
told. At last we had a weapon, which, we believed, would save us from
further annoyance.
‘“Don’t imagine you can report this to the police,” my father warned
him. “You would not be believed against our word and alibis, but we
could prove the blackmail, and you would go to penal servitude. And
now,” he went on, “we’ll deal as straight with you in the matter of
payment. Here is a bearer cheque for £3000, which I hand to Mr
Cosgrove Ponson. You and he can go up to town tonight, and he will
cash it in the morning and hand you the money, seeing that you pay it
into your bank and then send a cheque for it to the insurance company.
The transaction will not therefore be traceable to me, as if any
question arises Mr Cosgrove and I will swear the money was a gift from
me to him to help to pay a pressing debt. That, I think, is
everything.”
‘It was just quarter to ten. The whole business had only taken little
more than ten minutes, and now nothing remained but to slip away
quietly from the boathouse and establish our alibis. And then suddenly
occurred that frightful business which robbed my father of his life,
and has caused all this sorrow and suffering and trouble to the
remainder of us.’
For the first time since he began to speak, Austin showed signs of
emotion. He moved uneasily and seemed to find it difficult to
continue. But he pulled himself together, and it was with a breathless
interest that the others listened as he resumed.
‘I suppose you know the plan of the boathouse?’ He paused, and Tanner
nodded. ‘Then I needn’t describe it. Before the tragedy my father and
Dale were standing facing each other at the angle of the L-shaped
wharf, that is, close beside the corner of the basin. Cosgrove and I
had been beside Dale, but on the conclusion of the business we had
moved away. Cosgrove had unlocked the door and gone out to see that no
one was in the vicinity, and I was engaged in raising the water gate
preparatory to getting out my boat.
‘My father was holding the confession in his hand, and it was probably
the sight of it that gave Dale the idea that he might recover his lost
hold on us. Presumably he thought he could seize the paper and bolt
with it before either Cosgrove or I could stop him. However, be that
as it may, I saw Dale suddenly spring forward and attempt to snatch
the paper from my father’s hand. My father stepped quickly back. But
as he did so, his heel caught in the rope by which my boat was moored,
and he fell backwards, his head striking the granolithic floor with
terrible force. He never moved again. We rushed forward, but he was
dead.’
Austin paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, while his
hearers sat motionless, amazed beyond speech at this unexpected
_dénouement_. So this was the explanation of all these mysteries! No
murder had been committed. The affair was an accident! If this story
were true, the case against all these men would break down.
But was it true? Tanner, at least, had his doubts. These men had shown
considerable ingenuity in constructing false alibis. Maybe this story
also was only a clever invention. But on the whole the Inspector was
inclined to believe it. It certainly rang true, and it was consistent
with what he had otherwise learnt.
Austin had waited a moment, but now he continued:
‘I need hardly say we were speechless from consternation. Our first
thought was to run for help—Cosgrove to Luce Manor, while I took my
boat across for Dr Graham. But this, we saw, would involve disclosing
the secret, and we hurriedly consulted in the hope of finding a way of
avoiding the revelation. And then it flashed across our minds what a
dreadful position we ourselves occupied. Might we not be suspected of
murder? Here we had come secretly to the boathouse, having devised
elaborate alibis to prove ourselves elsewhere. Though these alibis
were not completed, enough had been done to make the whole business
exceedingly fishy. We recollected that both Cosgrove and I not only
stood to gain fortunes by the death, but were also, both of us, in
special need of money at the moment. Then it was known I did not get
on well with my father . . .
‘I need not elaborate the case; no doubt, Mr Tanner, you considered
these matters before you arrested us. All I have to say is that we
became panic-stricken and lost our heads. We made an appalling
blunder. Instead of going for help and telling the truth, we decided
to arrange the circumstances to suggest accident, and trust to our
alibis in case suspicion should be aroused. It was so easy, for the
plan had already been worked out to frighten Dale. We talked it over
quickly, and thought we might improve on it.
‘We saw at once that it would seem much more natural if we suggested
that my father had taken out a boat of which he had lost control, and
had been carried over the falls. The injuries the body would get in
the rapids below, would, we imagined, account for the bruise on the
back of the head. By throwing the oars into the water nearer the other
side of the river, they would not go ashore with the boat, indicating
that my father had lost them, and thus explaining the accident.
‘The only thing unaccounted for was the motive which had caused my
father to take out a boat at this hour. To meet this difficulty I made
an entry in a small engagement book I found in his pocket, “Graham,
9.00 p.m.” I hoped it would be assumed he wished to make a private
call on the doctor.
‘There is little more to be told. We lifted the body into one of my
father’s boats, and I towed it out and set it adrift, dropping the
oars in some distance away. Then I returned to the Halford Clubhouse,
knocked up the attendant, and called on Miss Drew, all as you know.
About three in the morning I put on the shoes I had kept hidden,
slipped out of the house and made the tracks to the Abbey ruin,
returning without my absence having been noticed. I put the shoes back
in their hiding-place and next day, having sent my man on an errand, I
cleaned them and changed them for the other pair. This latter pair I
afterwards destroyed. The pair which had made the traces at the Abbey
(the sole of one of which I had marked) was thus left in my man’s
charge, and he was prepared to swear—quite honestly—that they had only
been out of his possession at the time of the alleged hoax. Is there
anything else you wish to know?’
Tanner asked a few questions, all of which Austin answered with the
utmost readiness. Then, after receiving an assurance that his
statement would receive the most careful attention of the authorities,
the meeting came to an end. Austin was led out, and after a few words
of conversation, Lois and Daunt took their leave.