The Lyttleton Case Read online

  There was no letter from her father when she reached home that evening, so Doris made up her mind to await with patience the arrival of the Ruritania at New York, when she would certainly get some news of his movements.

  CHAPTER II

  ‘On a seaweed bed he lies

  Gazing up with sightless eyes

  Through the ripples to the skies.’

  DRAKE

  CHIEF INSPECTOR JAMES CANDLISH of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, was a policeman by profession, and most of his waking hours were necessarily given up to the routine of his office—supervising the work of his subordinates, receiving and acting on their reports, and in cases of more than, usual importance or complexity, himself conducting the necessary inquiries; but his passion was natural history, and every moment off duty he devoted to exploring the fields, heaths, and woods round London, for rare plants, butterflies, or birds.

  It was his dream that some day he might discover a new species which would immortalise his name.

  It was, however, precisely because his soul was above detection, that he made an unusually good detective, and he pursued the solution of the tangled cases with which he had to deal, with almost but not quite the same ardour, insight, and doggedness which he devoted to his search for the golden oriole or a specimen of one of the rarer ferns.

  It is difficult to describe the Inspector’s appearance when on duty, for it was one of his favourite maxims that a detective should strike a typically average note in person, manner, and dress; and to this maxim he lived up most successfully. Of medium height, with brown hair and eyes, an elastic walk and a quietly brisk manner, he looked less than his age, which was forty-five; and he appeared so ordinary, so much in tone with his environment, wherever he happened to be, that no one was tempted to look at him twice, or to take any undue interest in his movements: and this, of course, was precisely the effect he aimed at producing.

  A few days before the events recorded in the last chapter, Inspector Candlish had set out for his annual holiday; which he had determined to devote to an exploration of the flora and fauna of the Southshire downs.

  He had already spent several delightful days in the pursuit of his hobby when, on the morning of the 6th of July, after an early breakfast, he left his hotel at Low Harbour, to follow inland the course of the little river which joins the sea at that ancient port.

  Attired in a tourist suit of homespun, with butterfly net, opera glasses, and collecting box, the Inspector looked less like a policeman than ever as he tramped across the low lying marshes which lay immediately behind the town towards the high rolling downs in the distant background.

  The sun was shining brightly, the air was cool and sweet, and there was a tang of the sea in the breeze: in fact, it was one of those almost perfect days that occur sometimes when May has not been left too far behind and August is still far enough in the future.

  By noon the Inspector had progressed about four miles inland after a most satisfactory morning’s work; so he sat down by the side of the stream to eat his sandwiches, smoke his pipe, and enter up in his pocket-book notes of his natural history observations. He was reclining at ease with pen in hand and pipe in mouth, finishing a short description of the sedge warblers, yellow wagtails, dippers, and kingfishers he had seen during his walk, when his eye was attracted by a glimpse of something white in the stream a little way from where he was. He got up to examine it; and, hardened as his calling made him, could not resist a thrill of horrified surprise to find, resting on and partly hidden by the mud which formed the bed of the stream, the body of a man.

  To recover it single handed was beyond his powers; and, as the spot was a lonely one, no help was likely to be forthcoming in the immediate neighbourhood. After a moment’s hesitation, therefore, Candlish made up his mind to strike across to the road which runs over the downs from Low Harbour to Castleton, the county town of Southshire.

  About an hour’s hard walking brought him to the Headquarters of the County Police at Castleton; where the inspector in charge, on seeing his card, received him with the same deference that the general medical practitioner pays to a Harley Street baronet.

  An expedition was quickly fitted out, and before the afternoon was spent, the body of an unknown man was recovered from the stream and lodged in the Castleton mortuary.

  At the inquest which followed, it was proved that the deceased was a man of medium height and good physique, between twenty-eight and thirty-five years of age, fair haired, blue-eyed, and clean shaven. Death had occurred eight or nine days previously and decomposition was fairly advanced. There were no marks on the body suggesting violence, except two slight scratches on the upper lip, which, however, appeared to have been inflicted after death. They were apparently made with a sharp instrument, such as a razor.

  At this point the Coroner interposed with a question.

  ‘Can you offer an opinion as to how long after the death these cuts were made?’

  ‘At least two days,’ replied Doctor Smythe, who had conducted the post-mortem.

  ‘They had no connection, then, with the cause of death?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘Mitral disease of the heart.’

  ‘Can you suggest for how long the body had been in the water?’

  ‘Probably at least four or five days.’

  ‘Have you formed any opinion as to the meaning of the cuts on his face?’

  ‘I am inclined to believe that the lip must have been shaved after death by a somewhat unskilled operator.’ (Sensation in court.)

  Evidence was given by the police to the effect that the deceased was clothed in a suit and boots of good quality, though they seemed to be too large for him: there were no marks on any of the clothes by which the names of either the owner or the makers could be identified, except in the case of the collar, on which, though part of the lining had been cut out, evidently to remove a name, it had been possible to decipher the maker’s imprint which had become almost invisible owing to the effect of repeated laundrying. The name was Jones and Son, High Street, Hillborough.

  The laundry marks had all been removed from the clothing; and the only contents of the pockets were stones, which had apparently been placed there to keep the body from rising to the surface of the water in the course of decomposition.

  The verdict of the coroner’s jury was ‘death from natural causes’; but a rider was added, urging the desirability of the police using every effort to establish the identity of the deceased, and to discover and bring to book the person or persons who had deposited the body in the stream where it had been found.

  Inspector Candlish, whose holiday had been so rudely interrupted, was compelled to spend at Castleton, in connection with the inquiries about the unknown, many of the precious hours that he had dedicated to his beloved birds and plants. He removed his baggage from Low Harbour to a Castleton Hotel, and made that town the centre of his walks whenever he could escape the assiduities of the local police, anxious for his advice and support in connection with the, for them, quite unprecedented mystery which they had to unravel. Indeed, it must be said that the Inspector himself had been deeply intrigued by the unusual features in the case; and, even after the inquest was over, he found it difficult to get back to that serenity of mind and freedom from the cares and worries of life that are so necessary to those who would successfully explore nature’s secrets.

  The face of the dead man, inscrutable and questioning, was constantly in his mind, and after vainly trying to forget it for a whole day, and to recall his holiday mood, he resolved, having communicated by telephone with his superiors at the Yard, to devote the few days still left of his vacation to an attempt to solve the mystery.

  His first action was to re-visit the spot where he had found the corpse: there he made a careful search, walking backward and forward over the expanse of grassland, about a hundred and fifty yards wide, that divided the road from the bank of the st
ream. The weather had been dry, and no footprints had been discovered when the ground had been first examined, nor was the Inspector more successful in this respect now; but in one place on the side of the road he found the marks of motor tyres pointing towards the river, as though a car had been turned round so as to run off the road on to the grass. It was his business to know all about such matters, and in the present case he was able to identify the impressions as having been made by a car with a plain tyre on the left front wheel, and diamond patterned Clincher tyres on two of the others: the fourth wheel had left traces too indistinct to tell any story at all.

  His next move was to visit Hillborough on his way back to town, to get what information he could from the makers of the dead man’s collar.

  As every one knows, Hillborough is in Surrey, about twenty-five miles from London: not many years ago it was a typical country town, with a market on Saturdays, when the farmers’ ‘ordinary’ at the County Arms brought together for combined sociability and business all the substantial yeomen of the surrounding district; but the growth of the metropolis is transforming sleepy old-world Hillborough, and the slopes of the surrounding hills are becoming covered by the pretentious red-brick houses of well-to-do city men; while the old shopkeepers are being elbowed out by branches of such pushful concerns as Kearton’s Tea Emporium, the Home and Foreign Stores, and Boomer and Co., Limited.

  The journey from Castleton to Hillborough takes a trying two hours, for fifty miles of cross country travelling, in the Mid-Victorian trains which are considered good enough for the south of England, counts for more than four times the distance in one of the fine expresses that ply between London and the north of England.

  To pass the time en route, and at the same time to clarify his own thoughts, the Inspector wrote down the following questions in his note-book:

  (i) Who was the deceased?

  (ii) Who placed his body in the river?

  (iii) What was their motive?

  (iv) Why was the body dressed in another man’s clothes and boots?

  (v) What happened to his own?

  (vi) Why was the moustache removed after death?

  MEMS.

  (a) To interview police at Hillborough as to anyone missing from the neighbourhood.

  (b) To question Jones and Son as to collar.

  The Town Hall and other public buildings at Hillborough, including the Police Station, are situated at the bottom of the market place, which slopes upward to the old parish church standing at the summit of the small hill from which the town takes its name: at the back of the Town Hall is a public recreation ground, by the side of which, in a walled enclosure, is the mortuary; beyond these the ground begins to rise again and is covered by the gardens of some of the large houses in the newer part of the town.

  The officer in charge of the Hillborough Police Station was Inspector Dyson, a fat, pompous person with a tremendous sense of the importance and dignity of his position. To him policemanship was much more than merely a means to earn a living: it was a sacred vocation—a sort of priesthood—a dedication to the service of the ‘Law.’ He believed firmly that the last word of wisdom was embodied in the British criminal code, whose provisions seemed to him to have a deeper significance and a more awful sanction than the law of gravitation, while those ‘rights’ of private property which it was primarily framed to protect were as absolute and eternal as the very universe itself.

  He put on his uniform cap with the same reverential ceremony as a bishop assumes when he dons his mitre at some great Roman Catholic ceremonial; he made entries in the station register as though he were a sibyl writing in the book of fate; and when he gave evidence in court, it was as if Zeus himself had descended to earth to utter oracles.

  This remarkable functionary was able to hide from the world his very slow-witted and infertile mind by his deliberate manner, his ponderous dignity, his dogmatism, and his sincere belief in himself; which qualities had earned for him promotion and a reputation for wisdom.

  It was not the first time that the detective had had dealings with policemen of the Dyson type, and he knew that the administration of a little judicious flattery is the one way to manage them.

  After introducing himself, therefore, he said: ‘I am proud to make your acquaintance, Inspector, your reputation reached Scotland Yard long ago. I have come down, charged by my superior officers to seek your advice and co-operation in a difficult inquiry.’

  ‘I shall be glad to tender you any assistance that lies in my power,’ was the reply.

  ‘Well, first of all I want to ask if anyone has been missing from this district: the body of a man has been found in Southshire, and there is some reason to think he may have come from these parts, as his collar bears the imprint of a Hillborough tradesman.’

  Inspector Dyson reflected and replied, ‘No, I can safely assure you that no one whatever has been reported missing in this part of the country for a considerable period.’

  ‘Then,’ said the Scotland Yard man, ‘can you tell me anything about Jones and Son of High Street, Hillborough, whose name was on the collar?’

  ‘They are the principal men’s outfitters in the town,’ was the reply, ‘very respectable, old established tradesmen. If you would like me to do so, I will gladly introduce you to Mr Jones, Senior, who is a member of the Constitution Club, to which I consider it my duty as a public servant to belong.’

  This offer having been readily accepted, the two Inspectors proceeded together to High Street, to the establishment of Jones and Son; and after the distinguished Londoner had been introduced and his mission explained, the two officers were invited to a cosy room behind the shop, where Mr Jones examined the dead man’s collar and pronounced it to be size sixteen and a half, of a shape for which there was a large local demand: theirs was for the most part a cash trade, and of this they kept no detailed record: there were certainly dozens of men in the neighbourhood who wore collars of that shape and size.

  With this purely negative result Candlish had perforce to be satisfied, though, with an eye to possible future exigencies, he allowed his country colleague to think that his assistance had been of the greatest value.

  Finding he could just catch a train to town, he declined the latter’s proffered hospitality, promising, however, to let him have news when the mystery was finally solved.

  The next morning saw the Inspector back in his office at Scotland Yard where, once more absorbed in the succession of routine duties, the vivid impression made on his mind by his holiday adventure began to fade.

  Neither the notices that had appeared in the Press, nor the advertisements and inquiries of the police, brought in any information about the dead man, who might have dropped from the clouds, as he appeared to have belonged nowhere and to nobody on this earth.

  CHAPTER III

  ‘For thee I’d scale the highest Alp;

  I’d swim the ocean wide,

  I’d storm the very gates of hell

  To win thee for my bride.’

  BALLAD

  ABOUT a week after Inspector Candlish’s visit to Hillborough and subsequent return to town, Basil Dawson, who as a pressman was obliged to reverse the old saw, ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ was lingering over his ten-thirty breakfast in his chambers at Pump Court, Temple, when his telephone bell rang: taking off the receiver he recognised the voice of Doris Lyttleton; and as she spoke he caught a note of strain and anxiety in her tone.

  ‘Is that you, Basil? Do you know I am dreadfully worried about father? I showed you the cable I received from him announcing his safe arrival in New York. Well, that’s over a week ago, quite time enough for a letter to have reached me; but not another line either by post or telegraph has come. When he has been away before, he has always been so good about writing. I do hope that nothing can have happened to him.’

  ‘Don’t allow yourself to get nervous, dear,’ was Basil’s reply, ‘I am quite sure your father’s all right. He is an old hand at travelling, and knows h
ow to look after himself. I expect he is having an extra busy time and has not had much opportunity for writing. Suppose you come up to town to lunch with me. I’ll lay myself out to cheer you up; and it will do me no end of good to see you. What is more, we will lay our heads together and concoct a cable to your father to tell him how much you want to have news of his doings.’

  Doris readily assented to this proposal; and for once was induced to forgo the uncertainty and hustle of an X.Y.Z. café for a quiet corner table at Jacobini’s in Soho.

  Giuseppe Jacobini is a most attentive host, and something of a character. His early experience as a hotel chef has given him a first-hand knowledge of cooking, cookables, and cooks, of which his customers enjoy the benefit. A meal at his restaurant is given an additional savour by the cordial manner of the host, who makes a point of visiting every table and greeting each comer as though he or she were an old family friend.

  There are two ways of lunching at Jacobini’s: those who want the utmost possible value for two shillings, have the table d’hôte, a feast in five courses, more distinguished perhaps for quantity than for quality, but without doubt satisfying to even the most robust of appetites. The fastidious, however, feed ‘a la carte,’ where everything is of the best and the price higher accordingly.

  Basil was aware of the fact (though neither he nor any other philosopher has ever succeeded in explaining its cause) that no Italian can make coffee, so he resisted the persuasive waiter who wished him to order a pot of the mysterious liquid which passed under that name at Jacobini’s, and introduced Doris to the merits of a glass of Freisa as a substitute.

  Under the cheering influence of a good lunch, and the pleasant conversation of her fiancé, Doris began to feel that she had been making a mountain out of a molehill, and that her father was of course all right—‘what could have happened to him in one of the best hotels in New York?’ she said, ‘even if he had met with an accident I should certainly have heard, as he always carries cards with his address on them in his pocket-book.’