part0020

THE little village of Bramber, although it boasts a castle, a railway station, a river, and a museum, is not exactly a lively place. A certain amount of traffic passes down its main street, but the inhabitants themselves, untouched by the contact of “furriners”, continue to live inside that limited circle which transcribes all real village life. Miss Kingston, at the post-office, would have considered herself cheated if she had not been able to discuss everybody’s business as well as her own. Her shop (the post-office only occupied one corner of it) was the accepted clearing-house of local gossip. Over the purchase of a three-halfpenny stamp Miss Kingston got to know a great deal about George Putt’s lumbago, Mr. Sullington’s infidelities, and Mrs. Aldwick’s latest confinement. People not only went to the post-office to impart knowledge; they also went there to learn. And on Tuesday, August 27th, Superintendent Meredith, in search of just that kind of information which the post-mistress purveyed, found himself in close conference with this voluble spinster.

He was still puzzled by the new facts which had come to light, but, so far, he had seen no reason to advance any other theory than that which he had put before Hawkins the day before. And if, as he suspected, John Rother was being blackmailed, then his immediate job was to find out if the locals knew anything about the naturalist or his mysterious visitor. It seemed fairly certain that in so small a parish the presence of two strangers over the week-ends would have been noted. It was possible, of course, that the Cloaked Man actually lived in Bramber—perhaps, to all outward appearances, a perfectly respectable and respected member of the little community. If this were the case, then it might prove more difficult to extract information about him for the simple reason that his movements and actions would not be commented on as those of a complete stranger. He decided, therefore, to tackle the post-mistress first about this studious Mr. Reed, who arrived most Saturday afternoons by the 3.43 bus from Brighton.

Meredith hung about looking at a postcard stand until he and Miss Kingston had the shop to themselves. The moment they were alone he began briskly: “Excuse me, Miss——?”

“Kingston,” beamed the post-mistress through her pince-nez.

“Ah, yes, Miss Kingston. I’ve come along to see you because I want to ask you a few questions. I’m a police officer—no, nothing to do with you personally—just a little information about a week-end visitor which you may be able to supply. Ever heard of a Mr. Reed?”

From Miss Kingston’s sudden change of expression Meredith guessed that Mr. Reed was the one person that she knew all about. A kind of rapacious glint appeared in her watery eyes—the look of an inveterate gossip about to give of her best. Nor was Meredith disappointed. Miss Kingston, in her pseudo-cultured voice which she adopted in the presence of strangers, lowered herself on to the high stool behind the counter to ease her varicose veins, and announced confidentially:

“Oh dear, yes, I know quate a lot about Mr. Jeremy Reed—quate a lot. Not that I have ever set eyes on the gentleman myself—from all accounts he lakes to keep himself to himself—a recluse as I always say. But one can’t help hearing things—I mean even the nacest people talk, don’t they? He stays here quate often over the week-ends in Brook Cottage, which I understand he has bought. An elderly gentleman, so they say, with weak eyes. I believe he is wrating a book on British moths and butterflies and that he lakes to come here because of the quiet. But he never talks to people if he can avoid it and—really this does seem a little strange—he’s never bought anything in any of the shops here. How he does for edibles I can’t imagine. I suppose he has things sent down from London.

“Of course, between you and I, I don’t think he is quate rate in the head—not quate rate, if you understand what I mean? He’s eccentric. Wears the queerest attire and shuts himself away in his cottage and won’t see anybody! Young Mr. Trigg, our Vicar, called on him I understand, and Mr. Reed just took one look at him and slammed the door in his face. Our melkman called, too, to see if he should leave any melk over the week-ends, but Mr. Reed treated him in the same rude menner. Of course, he mate have been in the middle of wrating his book, but it does rather look as if he is not quate rate in the head, doesn’t it? I mean our Vicar is such a nace, unassuming man.”

“Quate,” murmured Meredith absent-mindedly. “So, apart from these unfortunate visitors, nobody has really seen Mr. Reed at close quarters or spoken to him?”

“Except getting on and off the bus—no.”

“Perhaps he has people staying with him sometimes—strangers, eh? ”

“Never as far as I know,” protested Miss Kingston in the tone of one ready to defend a slight on her own knowledge. “I think I should have heard if he had. Besides, how could he entertain when he has nobody to cook for him?”

“Yes, there is that,” mused Meredith. “And where is this cottage of his?”

“You go up the street past the castle, take the first to the rate, and his cottage lies about two hundred yards up Wate’s Lane.”

“Waits Lane,” repeated Meredith with a nod of thanks.

“No. No. Wate’s—W-h-i-t-e-s Lane.”

“Oh, sorry. I see—thanks. And has he been down lately, Miss Kingston?”

“Oh dear, no. Not for weeks now. Not since early July. I understand there’s a sale-board up in the garden. We think he must have given up coming any more.”

“And when did he buy the cottage?”

“About eighteen months ago.”

“Any letters ever come for him during his stay?”

“None. Very peculiar, I thought.”

“Very,” answered Meredith dryly. “Well, you’ve told me quite a lot about Mr. Jeremy Reed. It’s been kind of you to give me your time like this.”

“Oh, not at all. Not at all. I always lake to be of service if I can. Good morning. Good morning.”

Outside, where the police car was drawn up, the local constable was chatting with Hawkins. As Meredith came out he touched his peaked hat.

“Well, sir,” he grinned, “any use to you?”

“Confirms more or less what you’ve already told me, Fletcher. She’s certain he’s had no visitors. Maybe the contacts were made at night.”

“Possible, sir, though I reckon I should have noticed a strange bird flitting around any time after midnight. The village is not exactly crowded in the small hours. ”

“She said there was a sale notice up—do you know who the agents are?”

“Forgot to mention it, sir—she’s quite right. London firm by the name of Stark and West if I recall aright.”

“I know ’em. Big concern with their main offices in Victoria Street. Believe they have a branch office in Brighton.”

“What are your plans for the moment?” asked Fletcher deferentially. “Want to see the Vicar, sir?”

“No, I’ll leave you to take his statement and that of your local milkman. They won’t be able to do more than confirm the description we’ve already got. In the meantime ... we’re going to do a bit of house-breaking.”

“House-breaking? Where, sir?”

“Up at Brook Cottage.”

The cottage, so named because of the stream which formed the end boundary to the garden, stood well back off the road, screened by a tall hedge of quickset. It had a thatched roof with a half-brick, half-weather-board frontage, and a brick path which led up to the porch of the front door. Climbing roses rioted over the lower windows, whilst a ragged vine of clematis dripped from the right wall, beneath which another, narrow path ran round to the back of the house. The garden was unkempt with masses of overgrown grass and foliage so that it was difficult to say where the lawn ended and the flower-borders began. There was, in fact, a general air of untidiness and dilapidation about the place, which suggested that little or no work had been done about the cottage since it had been owned by Mr. Jeremy Reed. Stark & West’s sale-board projected over the front hedge.

The three men filed round to the back-yard and ran their eyes over the doors and windows. Hawkins upheld that, if the others gave him a shove up, he could easily get at the latch of one of the upper windows with the longest blade of his pen-knife. The others thereupon hoisted him up so that his head and shoulders were level with the sill. In a short time he called down to say that the catch was free. After one or two attempts Hawkins managed to swing open the window and, after a further series of heave-hos, his wildly kicking legs disappeared through the very limited aperture.

“Cut down to the back door,” ordered Meredith. “The chances are that it’s only bolted on the inside. That’ll save us any more acrobatic displays.”

Meredith’s expectations were realized, and the next minute the three men stood inside the minute kitchen. Here again there was evidence of neglect, a suggestion that the naturalist had paid only a fleeting interest in his culinary arrangements. A heap of empty tins labelled Fortnum & Mason had been thrown into a corner; the sink was black with dirt; the draining-board littered with an array of unwashed crockery; dust and webs filmed the little window which looked out on to the weedy yard. Proceeding to the two other rooms on the ground floor Meredith noted the same air of muddle and dirtiness. Every article of furniture was thick with a rime of dust, whilst the open fire-place was littered with pipe dottles and cigarette-ends. Books and newspapers had been thrown about on tables and chairs, so that, save for the big leather arm-chair drawn up at the hearth, there was no other available seating accommodation in the tiny sitting-room.

“Strikes me,” observed Meredith dryly, “that our Mr. Reed didn’t worry overmuch about his personal comforts during his week-ends. Never seen such a mess. Just as he left it, I imagine. If ever a place suggested a hide-out ... well ...”

Leaving the others to nose about downstairs Meredith climbed the rickety stairway and examined the two bedrooms. In the first was an unmade bed and a further consignment of cigarette-ends. In the second, virtually unfurnished, stood a large oak chest and an iron wash-hand-stand. Glancing from the windows Meredith saw at once that the cottage was quite isolated and was not overlooked from any neighbouring point. There was no hope, therefore, of any other cottager in the vicinity being able to give information about the possible visits of the Cloaked Man. Rother had certainly chosen a fool-proof rendezvous—it rather looked if this slender thread of investigation was going to be snapped off short like so many others in this perplexing and annoying case.

Faced with the actual apparatus of Rother’s hide-out, the furniture, the crocks, the empty tins, the cottage itself, Meredith suddenly doubted if his interpretation of Rother’s reason for these week-ends was the right one. Wasn’t it a trifle elaborate when all he wanted to do was to make contact for a few minutes with his blackmailer? A dark lane, a deserted street in Brighton, the corner of a saloon-bar—surely these seemed more feasible meeting-places on the face of things? What about Hawkins’ suggestion—a woman in the case? Meredith shook his head. A woman would never have allowed the cottage to have become so untidy—the kitchen, at any rate, would have reflected the touch of a feminine hand. Then, in heaven’s name, what? What the devil had driven Rother to the expediency of adopting a disguise and taking the cottage in a backwater like Bramber? Was there no answer to this problem in the appointments and litter in the place itself? Some clue which might prove the key-word to the cipher?

He went down into the sitting-room again where Hawkins and the constable had been rooting through drawers, turning over the litter, poking their noses into ornaments, and examining every little detail of the parlour.

The men shook their heads .

“Nothing so far, sir,” said Fletcher. “Whatever he was up to here, he seems to have covered his tracks pretty thoroughly.”

Meredith agreed, still wrapped up in his own thoughts, and moved as if by instinct to the fireplace. The remains of a burnt-out fire still littered the hearth. With an absent-minded gesture Meredith began to poke about among the ashes. Suddenly he went down on one knee and let out an involuntary exclamation.

“Hullo! What’s this?”

The others craned forward over his shoulder.

“Looks like a half-burnt book, sir,” said Hawkins.

Gingerly Meredith withdrew the charred remains from the ashes and turned it over carefully in his hand. Some of the print still being decipherable; he began to read. Then, fired with a sudden increasing interest, he went on reading. For a full minute he crouched there in silence, absorbing the broken sentences of those printed pages. A tiny spark of light flashed in his brain. The light grew brighter.

“But why the devil should this be here in the cottage?” he asked himself. “It strikes me that Rother wasn’t the only one to use this as a hide-out.” He looked up at the others, who were craning over trying to fathom the source of their superior’s interest. “Know what this is, eh?”

“Looks like a sort of price-list,” ventured the Bramber constable.

“You’re right, Fletcher—that’s exactly what it is. It’s a price-list of surgical instruments. As far as I can decipher it’s issued by Dawson and Constable of 243 Wigmore Street. Strange finding it here, eh?”

“Has it any bearing on the case, sir?” asked Hawkins.

“Use your brains, m’lad. I’ve posted you pretty well up to date with all the details of my work, haven’t I? Do you remember that remark of old Professor Blenkings about the bones?”

“Good Lord—yes!” exclaimed Hawkins, snapping his finger and thumb. “Of course. He reckoned that the bones had been sawn through by means of a surgical saw.”

“Exactly. And it looks as if our man ordered his instruments from Dawson and Constable’s, doesn’t it?”

“But why should it be found in the cottage of the chap that was murdered?” asked Hawkins.

“How the deuce should I know?” retorted Meredith. “It rather suggests that John Rother did come here to meet the Cloaked Man. Strikes me my blackmail theory is going to hold water after all.” Meredith rose; snatched up a piece of newspaper and carefully wrapped up the flimsy exhibit. “Well, I don’t think we can do much good by hanging on here any longer. You’d better get those statements from the Vicar and the milkman, Fletcher, just to make sure that the various descriptions of Mr. Jeremy Reed tally up. We’re going back to headquarters, Hawkins.”

The Superintendent walked down to the car and left the others to lock the place up again. A minute or so later Hawkins, who had bolted the scullery door on the inside and got out through the upper window, climbed into the driving-seat and headed the car for Lewes.

Meredith was deeply puzzled. It seemed certain now that John Rother, alias Jeremy Reed, had been visited at Brook Cottage by the man who was destined to murder him. It was unfortunate, of course, that nobody had caught a glimpse of this sinister visitor. But if he only put in an appearance at night that was perfectly understandable. What really perplexed Meredith was the fact that a little bit of incriminating evidence had been partially destroyed in the very last place that one would expect to find it. Why had the Cloaked Man—assuming that it was he who had visited Rother—chosen to burn the catalogue at Brook Cottage? Did it mean that the murderer had visited the place after John Rother’s death?

At first Meredith was inclined to dismiss this possibility as being too risky. Then suddenly he remembered something—something he knew about the movements of the Cloaked Man. According to the Hound’s Oak shepherd, the stranger had been making for the open down in the direction of Steyning. The little girl had discovered the blood-stained cloak and the broad-brimmed hat on the hills above Steyning. Steyning and Bramber were adjacent villages. Didn’t it rather look as if the murderer had made straight tracks for Brook Cottage as soon as it was dark? After all, could there have been a more perfect hide-out? He knew he was safe from interruption there because Rother was already dead. He knew by associating with Rother that the villagers had given up any attempts to visit the cottage. What more God-sent haven could a fugitive have asked for?

And wait a minute!—what about this? Meredith’s inward excitement grew as his thoughts flowed faster. Why shouldn’t the Cloaked Man have adopted Jeremy Reed’s disguise and used the cottage as a hide-out until he could make his arrangements for getting away—probably the night after the second murder had been committed? He could easily have purchased a facsimile outfit, breeches, Norfolk jacket, dark glasses, and everything, and hidden these things previously on the hill-side where he had discarded his cloak. When he had visited John Rother he would have had plenty of opportunity to record every detail of his make-up as Jeremy Reed. Then, if by any unlucky chance anybody had noticed him passing through the village on the night of the first murder, they would merely think it was the eccentric naturalist having a midnight prowl after moths .

This new idea was reassuring. There was a more than plausible ring about it. It meant, of course, the adoption of an earlier theory, that Janet and the Cloaked Man were working hand in hand. It meant that Rother’s body had been dissected on a rubber sheet among the gorse bushes. The Hillman driven out to meet Janet on the Findon-Washington road, Janet acting as guide to the Cloaked Man, and the remains being hidden in a metal-lined cabin-trunk somewhere at Chalklands (probably the car inspection-pit) during William’s absence on his wild-goose chase to Littlehampton. The Hillman driven back to the spot under Cissbury, and then the Cloaked Man’s flit over the downs to enter Brook Cottage as Jeremy Reed the naturalist. And the motive for the double murder—money? Two people stood between Janet and the Rother fortunes—John and her husband. For some reason Janet was intimately connected with the Cloaked Man and between them they had hatched a terrible plot for the sake of the money. Hence Janet’s flit to London and her strange request that the ten thousand pounds should be handed over to her in treasury notes. She had probably joined the Cloaked Man there as soon as possible after the inquest on William—the Cloaked Man himself having gone to London directly after the second murder.