‘Well,’ said French, when next morning he had reached Superintendent Rainey’s room at police headquarters, ‘that verdict was a surprise and no mistake. I’d have bet long odds they’d have found against the major. They didn’t know all that we know about his illness.’
‘A case of the benefit of the doubt,’ Rainey returned. ‘A local man of well known family; employer of labour and popular at that. It all counts. They didn’t want to commit themselves unless they were forced.’
‘But they believed him guilty all the same.’
‘I daresay they did. Still I question if they weren’t wise. They did their duty. They found the cause of death and left it at that.’
French smiled as he thought of Rainey’s effort to shunt the problem of arrest.
‘You, sir, and I have more responsibility than if we were one of twelve on a coroner’s jury. What they think or the verdict they bring in makes no matter to anyone except themselves, but what you think may make a very serious difference to quite a number of people.’
Rainey nodded, though there was something suspicious in the glance he shot at French.
‘I should like my friend the coroner to hear you,’ he declared. ‘He has a pathetic belief in the value of—’
The door opened and M’Clung looked in.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but there’s a man here says he’s got some evidence on this Magill case. If it’s true it seems important. I thought maybe you’d like to see him yourself.’
‘By all means, M’Clung. Bring him in.’
The sergeant disappeared and in a few seconds returned with a stalwart young fellow of about three and twenty. He had the unmistakable appearance of a working man in his Sunday clothes and he was no less obviously nervous and self-conscious.
‘Good morning,’ Rainey said pleasantly. ‘You have some information for us? Come and sit down and tell us about it. Put out a chair for him, M’Clung.’
The young giant sat down awkwardly and began twisting his cap in his huge bony hands. Rainey saw that some help would be necessary.
‘You were right to come to us with anything you know,’ he went on encouragingly. ‘Now perhaps I’d better ask you some questions. To begin with, what is your name?’
‘William M’Atamney.’ He put the accent on the ‘tam.’
‘Yes, and your business?’
‘I’m a cleaner on the Northern Counties Railway.’
‘A cleaner? Oh, yes, an engine cleaner, you mean?’
‘That’s right, mister.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘In Belfast, at 12 Monkton Street, off the Shore Road.’
‘And your work is in Belfast too?’
‘Yes, I work mostly in Belfast, but whiles I’m sent away relieving at other stations.’
‘I follow you. Engine cleaners usually work at night, don’t they?’
‘They do that.’
‘I see. Now I think we know who you are. Just start now and tell us your news.’
M’Atamney shuffled on his chair and gave his cap a special flourish.
‘Well—ah—’ he began, ‘it was Thursday was a week, Thursday night. Cleaner M’Givern he was off duty at Larne, an’ they sent me down for to relieve him. Well, I had Number Fifty to clean; she’s broad gauge, ye understand, an’ I was workin’ in the broad gauge shed.’ He paused to collect his thoughts, then went on again. ‘Well—ah—Number Fifty was wanted out early an’ I’d wrought hard for to be sure she’d be ready. I had her all done only the wheels an’ motion an’ then I thought I was well enough on with her an’ I might quit for a wee while an’ have a fag. So I went out just for a wee walk to myself, don’t you see?’
‘I follow you,’ Rainey nodded.
‘Well—ah—’ resumed the cleaner, ‘it was a fine night, warm for the time o’ year, but dark. I went across the yard and sat on the edge o’ the passenger platform facin’ the sea an’ lit up my fag.’
Rainey turned to French.
‘I know the place, Inspector. The railway runs immediately along the edge of Larne Lough. Between this platform and the Lough there are just two sets of metals, the platform line and a run round siding. That right, M’Atamney?’
‘That’s right, mister. Well—ah—I’d only sat there about three or four minutes when I heard steps comin’ along the line from the Belfast direction. I thought to myself, “Here’s Billy M’Neill,” I thought—that’s another cleaner who’d slipped home a bit before that for his meat—“I’ll give him a bit of a start.” So I sat there an’ never let on till he was just opposite me, an’ then I jumped out and shoved my electric torch in his face. Man, but I gave him the queer ould scare! He let a screech an’ for a minute he couldn’t move, an’ then he just slipped past me an’ away as hard as he could lick for the Harbour.’
‘And was it your friend?’
‘It was not,’ M’Atamney returned darkly.
Rainey curbed his impatience, though his foot swung irritably.
‘Yes? Then who was it?’ he asked sweetly.
‘It was him,’ the cleaner answered with dramatic emphasis and a backward jerk of the head.
‘Him? Who?’
‘Why him that was buried out at Major Magill’s.’
‘What!’ cried Rainey. ‘Sir John Magill? How do you know?’
‘I know rightly,’ M’Atamney declared. ‘I saw him as well as I see you with the torch shone fair in his face. I’d seen his likeness in the Telly’:—‘The Belfast Telegraph,’ interjected Rainey)—‘An’ then before I went home this morning I went round to Johnnie Gough, him ’at writes for the Telly, an’ sez he, “That was him right enough,” he sez, “an’ away you to the polis in Chichester Street an’ tell them what you’ve seen. If you don’t go, I will,” he sez, an’ so I came on up.’
‘You did well. And what was the man like?’
‘He was a weeish man, not very wee nor very big neither, an’ thin an’ with a bit of a stoop. His face was like the picture an’ he had a bald head an’ white hair. He hadn’t any hat, but he had an overcoat on.’
‘You’re positive of this, M’Atamney?’
‘I’m certain sure.’
‘Was he walking quickly?’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was walking as if he’d gone a long way an’ was queer an’ tired.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No, I was that surprised I never said a word.’
‘Now, M’Atamney, here’s an important question. At what time did all this happen?’
‘Just half twelve. I know for I looked at my watch before I started so as I wouldn’t stay too long.’
‘Well,’ said Rainey, ‘you’ve done well to come to us and tell us this. We’re much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ and he went on with consummate skill to obtain further details which would enable corroborative inquiries to be made.
All the same, half an hour’s question and answer convinced all three police officers. There could be no doubt that at half past twelve on the fatal Friday morning Sir John Magill had walked through the station at Larne in the direction of the harbour.
‘By Jove, French!’ Rainey exclaimed when M’Atamney had taken his departure. ‘That’s a bit unexpected, isn’t it? If that tale is true it about clears Malcolm Magill. If Sir John hadn’t been drugged at 12.30, Malcolm’s out of it, illness or no illness.’
French gave a guarded assent. It certainly seemed likely that the old gentleman must have been alive up till at least five or six o’clock next morning, in which case Malcolm’s participation in the affair was undoubtedly nil.
Rainey felt absently in his pocket, withdrew his pipe and slowly began to fill it.
‘Darned nuisance, the whole business,’ he grumbled. ‘And it’s a case we particularly wanted to get squared up. Why our Minister of Home Affairs himself was on to the commissioner about it. Hang it all, French, we’ll have to start at the beginning again and do a deal better this time.’
French moved uneasily.
‘Is it possible, sir, that we’ve started wrong?’ he suggested deprecatingly. ‘We’ve so far been assuming Malcolm killed his father for the inheritance. Now that has broken down. But isn’t there another theory, enturely different, but quite likely?’
Rainey swung round and stared at French.
‘What’s this you’re going to spring on us now?’ he demanded. ‘Good Lord! If you’ve got an idea, for any sake trot it out.’
‘I mean that Sir John may have had something with him that night worth more than his fortune: the plans of his invention.’
‘Oh, that?’ said Rainey, twisting back to his former position. ‘I hadn’t forgotten it, but it didn’t seem to help. Just what is in your mind?’
‘Simply that Sir John was murdered for the plans.’
‘Of course; but how? Put up your theory.’
French was scarcely prepared for anything so definite, but he did his best.
‘I suggest, sir, that though Sir John was not brought to Ireland by physical force, he was tricked into coming. I suggest he was tricked into going up the Cave Hill with the idea of robbing him there, but that this scheme went adrift; perhaps because he had not brought the plans with him. I suggest that his going to Whitehead and ringing up Malcolm was a subterfuge to escape his enemies, but that they got wise to it and followed him. I suggest that at Whitehead he again escaped them—with the loss of his hat. But in doing so he missed Malcolm and when he passed the cleaner at Larne I suggest he was making his way to Lurigan as to a sanctuary. I suggest his enemies followed him and caught him up before he reached Lurigan, murdered him and buried him in the plantation in order to throw suspicion on Malcolm should the body ever be found.’
Rainey, who had got his pipe going, smoked steadily as he considered this.
‘’Pon my soul, French, that’s not so bad. There are a lot of holes in it of course, but it’s worth going into. And what’—he fixed French with an accusing forefinger—‘what’s the first thing that arises out of it?’
French grinned.
‘I think so,’ Rainey answered the grin. ‘An English crime, arranged in England, by an English gang! What did I tell you? You get away back to England, French, and solve this mystery and then come over and tell us about it. Come now, let’s get down to tacks. Who knew Sir John might have had the plans with him?’
French turned over the leaves of his notebook.
‘I’ve got that here, sir. There were the two Miss Magills, Victor and Breene. Possibly Myles and Nutting, the butler and chauffeur, might have heard something also. And any of these may have mentioned it to still other persons. Lastly, sir, the man Coates, who called on Sir John, may have been told of it.’
‘Agreed. And that, I take it, eliminates all but two—Breene and Coates?’
‘It eliminates the sisters and the other members of the household except Breene, for they were all in London on the night of the crime. But it doesn’t absolutely eliminate Victor. He says he was on this launch trip and I’m sure he was. But we haven’t proved it.’
‘Yes, you’re right there. But it can easily be proved. Breene’s case we’ve already gone into and we find he’s out of it. And that brings us to Coates. French, we’ll have to find Coates.’
‘Not so easy, sir. Your people have put in some time on that already.’
‘I know, and that very difficulty is the most suspicious thing about him. You’ll have to try in London. You might be able to trace him from the house.’
French agreed, but without enthusiasm. The task, he felt sure, would prove extraordinarily difficult, if not impossible.
Rainey moved as if anxious to bring the conference to an end.
‘Well, we can’t go on talking about it for the rest of our lives. Let’s make a programme. We over here will push on with all the local inquiries. We’ll try to establish in even more detail the movements of everyone connected with the affair. We’ll try to trace Coates. We’ll try to check the hour at which M’Atamney saw Sir John and learn the truth of Malcolm’s bilious attack. We’ll try to find the author of the X.Y.Z. letter. We’ll try every mortal thing we can think of. In the meantime you go back and set to work at the London end. Try to trace Coates; try to find out if others knew of the invention; check up Victor’s movements and make sure he is out of it. And while we’re working one or other of us may get a brain wave. That O.K.?’
French, who felt that under any circumstances the criminal had done enough on Irish soil to enable the truth to be learned in Ireland, demurred at first. But he had to admit that the superintendent’s division of labour was reasonable, and after some further discussion, the plan was agreed to. Eventually it was arranged that French should cross that evening and that M’Clung should accompany him, remaining to assist for a few days.