XXVII. The Evidence of the Fisherman's Grandson

CHAPTER XXVII

THE EVIDENCE OF THE

FISHERMAN’S GRANDSON

Has it gone twelve?—

This half-hour.

Here I’ve set

A little clock, that you may mark the time.’

Death’s Jest-Book

WEDNESDAY, 1 JULY

‘THERE’S ONE THING THAT stands out a mile,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘If there was any hanky-panky with that horse round about two o’clock at the Flat-Iron, Pollock and his precious grandson must have seen it. It’s not a mite of use saying they didn’t I always did think that lot was in it up to the eyes. A quiet, private, heart-to-heart murder they might have overlooked, but a wild horse careering about they couldn’t, and there you are.’

Wimsey nodded.

‘I’ve seen that all along—but how are you going to get it out of them? Shall I have a go at it, Umpelty? That young fellow, Jem—he doesn’t look as surly as his grandpa—how about him? Has he got any special interest or hobbies?’

‘Well, I don’t know, my lord, not without it might be football. He’s reckoned a good player, and I know he’s hoping to get taken on by the Westshire Tigers.’

‘H’m. Wish it had been cricket—that’s more in my line. Still, we can but try. Think one might find him anywhere about this evening? How about the Three Feathers?’

‘If he’s not out with his boat, you’d most likely find him there.’

Wimsey did find him there. It is always reasonably easy to get conversation going in a pub, and it will be a black day for detectives when beer is abolished. After an hour’s entertaining discussion about football and the chances of various teams in the coming season, Wimsey found Jem becoming distinctly more approachable. With extreme care and delicacy he then set out to work the conversation round to the subject of fishing, the Flat-Iron and the death of Paul Alexis. At first, the effect was disappointing. Jem lost his loquacity, his smile vanished, and he fell into a brooding gloom. Then, just as Wimsey was deciding to drop the dangerous subject, the young man seemed to make up his mind. He edged a little closer to Wimsey, glanced over his shoulder at the crowd about the bar, and muttered :

‘See here, sir, I’d like to have a word with you about that.’

‘By all means. Outside? Right! Dashed interesting,’ he added, more loudly. ‘Next time I’m down this way I’d like to come along and see you play. Well, I must be barging along. You going home? I can run you over in the car if you like—won’t take a minute.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. I’d be glad of it.’

‘And you could show me those photographs you were talking about.’

The two pushed their way out. Good-nights were exchanged, but Wimsey noticed that none of the Darley inhabitants seemed particularly cordial to Jem. There was a certain air of constraint about their farewells.

They got into the car, and drove in silence till they were past the level crossing. Then Jem spoke:

‘About that business, sir. I told Grandad he’d better tell the police how it were, but he’s that obstinate, and it’s a fact there’d be murder done if it was to get out. None the more for that, he did ought to speak, because this here’s a hanging matter and there’s no call as I see to get mixed up with it. But Grandad, he don’t trust that Umpelty and his lot, and he’d leather the life out of Mother or me if we was to let on. Once tell the police, he says, and it ’ud be all about the place.’

‘Well—it depends what it is,’ said Wimsey, a little mystified. ‘Naturally, the police can’t hide anything—well, anything criminal, but—’

‘Oh, ’tis not that, sir. Leastways, not as you might take notice on. But if they Bainses was to hear tell on it and was to let Gurney know—but there! I’ve always told Grandad as it wur a fool thing to do, never mind if Tom Gurney did play a dirty trick over them there nets.’

‘If it’s nothing criminal,’ said Wimsey, rather relieved, “you may be sure I shan’t let anybody know.’

‘No, sir. That’s why I thought I’d like to speak to you, sir. You see, Grandad left a bad impression, the way he wouldn’t let on what he was doing off the Grinders, and I reckon I did ought to have spoke up at the time, only for knowing as Grandad ’ud take it out of Mother the moment my back was turned.’

‘I quite understand. But, what was it you were doing at the Grinders?’

‘Taking lobsters, sir.’

‘Taking lobsters? What’s the harm in that?’

‘None, sir; only, you see, they was Tom Gurney’s pots.’

After a little interrogation, the story became clear. The unfortunate Tom Gurney, who lived in Darley, was accustomed to set out his lobster-pots near the Grinders, and drove a very thriving trade with them. But, some time previously, he had offended old Pollock in the matter of certain nets, alleged to have sustained wilful damage. Mr Pollock, unable to obtain satisfaction by constitutional methods, had adopted a simple method of private revenge. He chose suitable moments when Tom Gurney was absent, visited the lobster-pots, abstracted the greater part of their live contents and replaced the pots. It was not, Jem explained, that Mr Pollock really hoped to take out the whole value of the damaged nets in lobsters; the relish of the revenge lay in the thought of ‘doing that Gurney down’ and in hearing ‘that Gurney’ swearing from time to time about the scarcity of lobsters in the bay. Jem thought the whole thing rather foolish and didn’t care for having a hand in it, because it would have suited his social ambitions better to keep on good terms with his neighbours, but what with one thing and another (meaning, Wimsey gathered, what with old Pollock’s surly temper and the possibility of his leaving his very considerable savings to some other person, if annoyed), Jem had humoured his grandfather in this matter of lobster-snatching.

Wimsey was staggered. It was as simple as that, then. All this mystification, and nothing behind it but a trivial local feud. He glanced sharply at Jem. It was getting dark, and the young man’s face was nothing but an inscrutable profile.

‘Very well, Jem,’ he said. ‘I quite see. But now, about this business on the shore. Why did you and your grandfather persist in saying you saw nobody there?’

‘But that was right, sir. We didn’t see nobody. You see, it was like this, sir. We had the boat out, and we brings her along there round ’bout the slack, knowin’ as the other boats ’ud be comin’ home with the tide, see? And Grandad says, “Have a look along the shore, Jem,” he says, “and see as there’s none o’ them Gurneys a-hangin’ about.” So I looks, an’ there weren’t a soul to be seen, leaving out this chap on the Flat-Iron. And I looks at him and I sees as he’s asleep or summat, and he’s none of us by the looks of him, so I says to Grandad as he’s some fellow from the town, like.’

‘He was asleep, you say?’

‘Seemingly. So Grandad takes a look at him and says, “He’s doin’ no harm,” he says, “but keep your eyes skinned for the top of the cliffs.” So I did, and there wasn’t a single soul come along that there shore before we gets to the Grinders, and that’s the truth if I was to die for it’

‘Now, see here, Jem,’ said Wimsey. ‘You heard all the evidence at the inquest, and you know that this poor devil was killed round about two o’clock.’

‘That’s true, sir; and as sure as I’m sitting here, he must ha’ killed himself, for there was nobody come a-nigh him—barring the young lady, of course. Unless it might be while we was taking them pots up. I won’t say but what we might a-missed summat then. We finished that job round about two o’clock—I couldn’t say just when it were, not to the minute, but the tide had turned nigh on three-quarters of an hour, and that’s when I looks at this fellow again and I says to Grandad, “Grandad,” I says, “that chap there on the rock looks queer-like,” I says, “I wonder if there’s sum-mat wrong.” So we brings the boat in-shore a bit, and then, all of a sudden, out comes the young lady from behind them rocks and starts caperin’ about. And Grandad, he says, “Let un bide,” he says, “let un bide. Us have no call to be meddlin’ wi’ they,” he says. And so we puts about again. Because, you see, sir, if we’d gone a-meddling and it was to come out as we was thereabouts with the boat full of Tom Gurney’s lobsters, Tom Gurney’d a-had summat to say about it’

‘Your grandfather said you saw Alexis first at about 1.45.’

‘It ’ud be before that, sir. But I’ll not say as we kept our eyes on un all the time, like.’

‘Suppose someone had come along, say, between 1.45 and two o’clock, would you have seen him?’

‘Reckon so. No, sir; that poor gentleman made away with himself, there’s no doubt of it. Just cut his throat quiet-like as he sat there. There’s no manner of doubt about that.’

Wimsey was puzzled. If this was lying, it was done with a surprising appearance of sincerity. But if it was truth, it made the theory of murder still harder to substantiate than before. Every fragment of evidence there was pointed to the conclusion that Alexis had died alone upon his rock and by his own hand.

And yet—why wouldn’t the bay mare go near the Flat-Iron? Was it possible—Wimsey was no friend to superstition, but he had known such things happen before—was it possible that the uneasy spirit of Paul Alexis still hung about the Flat-Iron, perceptible to the brute though not to self-conscious man? He had known another horse that refused to pass the scene of an age-old crime.

He suddenly thought of another point that he might incidentally verify.

‘Will anybody be up and about at your home, Jem?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. Mother’s sure to be waiting up for me.’

‘I’d like to see her.’

Jem offered no objection, and Wimsey went in with him to Pollock’s cottage. Mrs Pollock, stirring soup for Jem in a saucepan, received him politely, but shook her head at his question.

‘No, sir. We heard no horse on the beach this afternoon.’

That settled that, then. If Wimsey could ride past the cottages unnoticed, so could any other man.

‘The wind’s off-shore today,’ added Mrs Pollock.

‘And you’re still sure you heard nothing of the sort last Thursday week?’

‘Ah!’ Mrs Pollock removed the saucepan. ‘Not in the afternoon, what the police was asking about. But Susie have called to mind as she did hear something like a trampling round about dinner-time. Happen it might be twelve o’clock. But being at her work, she didn’t run out to look.’

‘Twelve o’clock?’

Thereabout, sir. It come back to her all of a sudden, when we was talkin’ over what that young Ormond wur askin’ about.’

Wimsey left the cottage with his ideas all in disorder. If someone had been riding on the shore at twelve o’clock it accounted for the horseshoe, but it did not account for the murder. Had he, after all, been quite wrong in attaching so much importance to the horseshoe? Might not some mischievous lad, finding the bay mare at large, have ridden her along the beach for a lark? Might she not even have strayed away on her own account?

But that brought him back to her strange behaviour of that afternoon, and to the problem of the ring-bolt. Had the ring-bolt been used for some other purpose? Or suppose the murderer had come to the rock on horseback at twelve o’clock and remained talking there with Alexis till two o’clock? But Jem said that there had been only the one figure on the Flat-Iron. Had the murderer lurked hidden in the rocky cleft till the time came to strike the blow? But why? Surely the sole reason for riding thither could only have been the establishment of an alibi, and an alibi is thrown away if one lingers for two hours before taking advantage of it. And how had the mare got home? She was not on the shore between one o’clock and two o’clock if— again—Jem was to be trusted. Wimsey played for a few moments with the idea of two men riding on one horse—one to do the murder and one to take the animal back, but the thing seemed far-fetched and absurd.

Then an entirely new thought struck him. In all the discussions about the crime, it had been taken for granted that Alexis had walked along the coast-road to the Flat-Iron; but had this been proved? He had never thought to ask. Why might not Alexis have been the rider?

In that case, the time of the mare’s passing might be explained, but other problems bristled up thick as thorns in a rose-garden. At what point had he taken horse? He had been seen to leave Darley Halt by road in the direction of Lesston Hoe. Had he subsequently returned and fetched the mare from the field, and so ridden? If not, who had brought her and to what rendezvous? And again, how had she returned?

He determined to hunt out Inspector Umpelty and face him with these problems.

The Inspector was just going to bed, and his welcome was not a hearty one, but he showed signs of animation on hearing Wimsey’s fresh information.

‘Them Pollocks and Moggeridges are the biggest liars in creation,’ he observed, ‘and if there’s been murder done, it’s good proof that they’re all concerned in it,’ said he. ‘But as to how Alexis got there, you can set your mind at rest. We’ve found six witnesses who saw him at various points along the road between 10.15 and 11.45, and unless there’s some other fellow been going about in a black beard, you can take it as proved that he went by the coast-road and no other way.’

‘Did none of the witnesses know him personally?’

‘Well, no,’ the Inspector admitted, ‘but it isn’t likely there’d be more than one young fellow in a blue suit and a beard going about at that time, unless somebody was deliberately disguised as him, and where’d be the point of that? I mean to say, the only reasons for anybody impersonating him would be to make out either that he was in that neighbourhood at that particular time when he was really elsewhere, or that he was really alive some time after he was supposed to be killed. Now, we know that he was in that neighbourhood all right, so that disposes of number one; and we know that he really was killed at two o’clock and not earlier, and that disposes of number two. Unless, of course,’ said the Inspector, slowly, ‘the real Alexis was up to some funny business between 10.15 and two o’clock, and this other fellow was making an alibi for him. I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘I suppose,’ said Wimsey, ‘that it really was Alexis who was killed. His face was gone, you know, and we’ve only the clothes and a photograph to go upon.’

‘Well, it was somebody else with a real beard, anyhow,’ said the Inspector. ‘And who would Alexis be wanting to kill, do you suppose?’

‘Bolsheviks,’ suggested Wimsey, lightly. ‘He might make an appointment with a Bolshevik who meant to murder him, then murder the Bolshevik.’

‘So he might—but that doesn’t make things any easier. Whoever it was did the murder, he had to get away from the Flat-Iron. And how could he have managed to change clothes with the victim? There wasn’t time.’

‘Not after the murder, certainly.’

‘Then where are you? It’s only making things more complicated. If you ask me, I think your notion of the mare having been ridden down there at some other time by some mischievous young fellow is a good one. There’s nothing against it except that ring-bolt, and that might quite well have been put there for a quite different purpose. That washes the mare out of the thing altogether and makes it all a lot easier. Then we can say that either Alexis did away with himself or else he was murdered by some person we don’t know of yet, who just walked along the coast on his two feet. It doesn’t matter that those Pollocks didn’t see him. He could have been hiding under the rock, like you said. The only trouble is, who was he? It wasn’t Weldon, it wasn’t Bright, and it wasn’t Perkins. But they’re not the only people in the world.’

Wimsey nodded.

‘I’m feeling a bit depressed,’ he said. ‘I seem to have fallen down a bit over this case.’

‘It’s a nuisance,’ said Umpelty, ‘but there! We’ve only been at it a fortnight, and what’s a fortnight? We’ll have to be patient, my lord, and wait for the translation of that letter to come through. The explanation may be all in that.’