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M’Clung paused while his hearers bent over the letter. It consisted of a single sheet of grey-tinted paper headed ‘71 Elland Gardens, Knightsbridge, S.W.1’ in small black letters. It was written in a strong and masculine, but elderly hand and read:
‘DEAR MALCOLM,—I hope to go to Ireland next week about my linen-silk invention, which at last looks as if was going to come to something, though not quite in the way I had hoped. I expect to arrive in Belfast on Thursday and would make my way down to you that evening if you could put me up. Please reply to the Grand Central Hotel whether this would be convenient.
‘Your aff. father,
‘JOHN MAGILL.’
‘Did Major Magill know what the invention was?’
‘He did, sir. He said that his father was a bit of a mechanic and that for years he had been trying to find an improved way of combining artificial silk with linen, in the hope of getting some valuable new product.
‘Major Magill was pleased at the thought of his father coming over and he replied to the hotel that he would be glad to see him on the Thursday evening. On his way into work on that same Thursday morning he called at the hotel. He saw his letter waiting there, but Sir John hadn’t turned up. So the major went on up to the mills. During the afternoon he rang up the hotel to make further inquiries, but still there had been no word of Sir John. The major, while a little surprised, assumed his father had been somehow delayed and that he would turn up on the following day.’
Sergeant M’Clung paused to draw at his cigar, which he apparently found hard to keep alight during the processes of narration. In spite of his North of Ireland accent and occasional strange turns of phrase, the man was telling his story well. His hearers could picture the little drama as it slowly unfolded and with placid attention they waited for the dénoument.
‘Major Magill reached home in due course that evening and there he found that though Sir John’s luggage had turned up, the man himself had not arrived nor had he sent any message. The luggage had come from Larne and the major therefore telephoned to the station. The stationmaster replied that Sir John had reached Larne that morning by the Stranraer boat and had gone on by the boat train to Belfast, and that he had asked that his luggage be sent to Major Magill’s, mentioning that he was going down there himself that evening.
‘Once again the major rang up the Grand Central Hotel, but still there was no news there of Sir John. The major was rather worried about him, but he supposed he would be down later and they went on with dinner. Then just about nine there was a phone from Sir John.
‘He was ringing up, he said, from Whitehead. I should explain, gentlemen, that Whitehead is a little town on the northern shore of Belfast Lough, about thirteen miles from Belfast. It’s on the way to Larne and Sir John would pass through it if he was going down there.
‘Sir John said he’d had a busy day and hadn’t been able either to call at the mill or to get down sooner to Larne. He was now in Whitehead, where he had gone to look up a man on business. But when he had inquired where his friend lived he had learned that he had moved to Bangor a couple of years earlier. Sir John was therefore stuck in Whitehead, for there wasn’t a train to Larne for an hour. So he wanted the major to take out the car and come for him. If the major could do so he would walk out along the Larne road to meet him.
‘Well, the major was puzzled about the whole business, but he supposed there was some good explanation. Anyway he wasn’t long getting out the Rolls. It’s about ten miles from Larne to Whitehead and his place is four miles on the other side of Larne, say a fourteen mile run altogether. He did it in about half an hour. For the last couple of miles he went slowly and kept a good lookout, but he didn’t see a sign of Sir John. It was dark at the time, but his headlights were bright and he was sure that if the old man had been on the road he would have seen him. When he got to Whitehead he inquired at the two or three telephone places open at that hour. At the station he got what he wanted. The stationmaster told him that an elderly gentleman had come off the Belfast train arriving at 8.47 p.m. He had asked to be directed to a Mr Rimbolt’s house, an engineer employed in one of the Belfast works. The stationmaster knew Mr Rimbolt. He had lived at Whitehead formerly, but a couple of years earlier had moved to Bangor. When the old man heard this he asked where there was a telephone and the stationmaster had shown him the booth on the up platform. The man had gone in and a few minutes later the stationmaster had seen him come out and cross the bridge towards the town.
‘The major went back to the car and searched the roads and made inquiries at houses in Whitehead where his father might have called. But he couldn’t get any trace of Sir John and at last he gave it up and went home. He wasn’t exactly alarmed about the old man, though he thought the whole thing more than queer. Next day he called first thing at the Grand Central Hotel and there he got news that seemed queerer still and that made him think something really was wrong.’
Again M’Clung paused, shifted his position, and drew his dying cigar up to a fervent heat. Neither Mitchell nor French spoke. So far the story did not seem to call for remark and in a moment the Ulsterman resumed.
‘As Major Magill walked into the hotel the first person he saw was Sir John’s private secretary, a man named Breene. Mr Breene, it seemed, was also looking for Sir John and he was more puzzled and upset than the major. He said that on the Monday previous Sir John had told him he was going over for three or four days to Belfast and that he wanted Breene to accompany him. It was about his linen-silk invention. He had an appointment with an engineer, with whom he was thinking of entering into an agreement. He wasn’t sure whether this agreement would come off, but if it did he would want Breene to make a draft to send to the lawyers and also probably to get out details for a patent specification. One day would do the thing so far as Breene was concerned and he might have the other two or three days with his people. It seems that Breene is a Belfast man who had gone over to England with Sir John and his people live at Comber—that’s a small town about eight miles from Belfast.
‘The major immediately asked Breene when he had last seen Sir John. Breene told him in London, for they had travelled by different routes. Sir John had crossed by Larne and Stranraer, as he liked the short sea passage and didn’t require to be in early. That service gets in at 9.10 a.m. Breene had gone by Liverpool, which gets in about 7.30 a.m., as it enabled him to go down and breakfast with his people at Comber before meeting Sir John. Sir John had asked him to be at the Grand Central Hotel at half past ten and he had been there promptly to time. That was on the previous morning. Sir John had not turned up and Breene had waited in the building for him ever since.
‘This story made the major anxious. He feared something must have gone wrong. So he told Breene to wait on at the hotel in case the old man turned up and he himself came along to report at headquarters. He asked us to make some private inquiries. Well, we did so, but from that moment to this Sir John Magill has never been heard of.’
‘Disappeared without trace?’
‘Not altogether, sir. I’m coming to that. Our people started a search at once. They got the local men on the job everywhere and I was sent to Whitehead to try and pick up a trail from there. I wasn’t there an hour till I’d found something.
‘About a mile or less from Whitehead along the road towards Larne there were signs of a struggle. It’s a lonely, deserted place. The road runs on an easy curve between fairly high hedges. There is a grass border at each side with a sod mound and the hedges grow from the back of the mounds. The marks were on the grass, which was trampled and beaten down. Unfortunately none of the prints were clear. Twigs were broken from the hedge. Here and there were traces of blood, very little blood, not more than half a dozen drops. I searched round and I found a hat sticking in the roots of the hedge. It was trampled and there were two stains of blood on it. It was a good grey felt hat stamped with a London maker’s name and the letters “J. M.” I have it there in the parcel to show you. I searched on round for the most of the morning, but there wasn’t another trace of anything, neither of the body if the man was murdered, nor of a car stopping nor of anything at all. And not another thing has been heard of Sir John anywhere.’
‘That sounds a puzzle and no mistake, Sergeant,’ Mitchell commented slowly. ‘I suppose you tried round the houses at Whitehead?’
‘Yes, sir. When we found the hat we thought the thing must be serious, so we made public inquiries. We had a house-to-house call in all the town and surrounding country, but we couldn’t hear of anything.’
‘Was the man in Bangor expecting Sir John?’
‘No, sir. He was absolutely surprised at the whole thing. He had no business with Sir John and hardly knew him.’
‘I suppose your people checked up Major Magill’s statement?’
‘At once, sir. We started men at Larne Harbour to trace the old man’s movements. They found two stewards on the boat, both of whom had been on that service for years. Both had known Sir John when he was living in Belfast and both recognised him again. He had booked a private cabin and went straight to it when he got aboard at Stranraer and stayed there all the time. He didn’t have anything to eat though it was a calm morning and he was quite well. When they were coming into Larne one of the stewards went to call him and found him asleep.
‘He’d gone ashore at Larne Harbour and spoken to the stationmaster about his luggage. “I want this stuff sent to my son’s, Major Malcolm Magill’s,” he had said. “I’m going on to Belfast and I’ll be down again in the evening.” He asked the cost and paid. The stationmaster saw him into the Belfast train.
‘Our men then saw the guard of the train, who happened to be at the harbour. He remembered seeing the man in question talking to the stationmaster and the stationmaster seeing him into the train. Before the train started he collected the tickets and he noticed Sir John alone in a first-class compartment. He noticed him again on the platform at Belfast. He was carrying a medium-sized despatch case.’
Chief-Inspector Mitchell reached forward and carefully removed the ash from his cigar.
‘Bit of luck getting all that evidence surely?’ he remarked, while French nodded emphatically.
‘It was, sir, and yet not so much as you might think. There aren’t many cross by that morning service at that time of year and Sir John was striking-looking enough to have been noticed.’
‘Lucky for you, Sergeant, all the same. Well, you’ve got him to Belfast.’
‘Yes, sir. At Belfast we lost him, but we made a cast round and we soon picked him up again. He had gone to the Station Hotel, that’s at the Northern Counties station where he arrived. He must have gone straight there, for our men were able to check up the time and it was just after the boat train came in. He saw the reception clerk and said: “I’m Sir John Magill. Is there a letter for me?” There wasn’t, and he thanked the clerk and said it didn’t, matter. He sent the hall porter for a taxi and drove off.’
‘That might explain why he didn’t call at the Grand Central, might it not?’ French suggested. ‘He mixed up the hotels and went to the wrong one.’
‘That’s what Superintendent Rainey thought,’ M’Clung returned. ‘Our people saw the hall porter and from him they got the taxi man. He said that Sir John had told him to drive to Sandy Row, where the Donegall Road crosses it. That is in a more or less working-class part of the city. Well, they drove to the place and Sir John paid the taximan. As the man was starting he saw Sir John standing in an uncertain-looking way on the pavement. Except for the stationmaster at Whitehead that night when Sir John telephoned to Major Magill, that was the last time anyone saw him, at least, so far as we’ve been able to learn up to now. The superintendent said he’d ’phone if anything else came out.’
‘The stationmaster confirms the incident?’
‘In every detail.’
The sergeant had evidently reached the end of his story. He made a brief peroration to the effect that when Saturday night came and the affair had not been cleared up, Superintendent Rainey, in consultation with Major Magill, had decided to call in Scotland Yard in the hope of finding a solution of the mystery in London.
All three men shifted their positions as if turning over a fresh page in the proceedings.
‘You certainly haven’t lost much time,’ Mitchell declared. ‘I congratulate you on some good work. It’s not easy to check up a trail so thoroughly as you have done.’
Sergeant M’Clung grinned self-consciously, delighted at the compliment.
‘We would have liked to have done better,’ he protested. ‘We would have liked to find the murderer if it was murder.’
‘I dare say. All the same I don’t think you’ve got much to reproach yourselves with. But so far we’ve been talking about Sir John. Now what about Major Magill himself? Did you check up his statement of his own movements?’
M’Clung gave the other a shrewd glance as if he fully appreciated what lay beneath the question, but he merely answered:
‘The superintendent put a couple of men on it, but when I left they hadn’t finished. They found out that the major left home and returned back there at the time he said and that he called at the station at Whitehead. But when I left they hadn’t been able to get confirmation of the rest of his movements. It wasn’t so easy as tracing Sir John for the major was mostly alone.’
‘Quite; I’m not criticising. I was merely wondering about the major himself. Motive and opportunity, you know. We don’t know if he had notice, but he certainly seems to have had opportunity. You considered that of course?’
M’Clung smiled.
‘We did that, sir. But we thought he was all right. They’re a well-thought-of family and of good position. Major Magill is well in with the Northern Ireland Government set, a friend of the Prime Minister’s and all that. It’s hardly likely he’d be guilty of murder. Of course we can’t say for sure, but we don’t think there’s anything to be got that way.’
‘There was no bad feeling, I take it, between father and son?’
‘Not that we ever heard of.’
‘But you said that Sir John had not been over for seven years. That doesn’t look like friendly relations.’
‘It’s not the whole story, sir. If Sir John didn’t go over to Belfast the major came over here. He said he’d been in London with his father within the last month.’
Once again Mitchell nodded slowly. He paused in thought, then resumed his questions.
‘Well, Sergeant, there’s one thing clear at all events. Sir John Magill reached Ireland safely and it was in Ireland that this mysterious affair happened. Now you’ve come across to consult us. Just what do you want us to do?’
‘Well, sir, it seemed to Superintendent Rainey that this wasn’t a local crime at all. He thought it had likely arisen out of something that had happened over here. And if so, it would take you to go into it. He wasn’t going to suggest what you might do, but he thought you might look up Sir John’s history.’
‘If your superintendent is correct the matter would certainly have to be dealt with from here. I suppose he hadn’t anything more definite in his mind?’
‘No, sir. He said that of course the immediate thing was to get the hat identified. Then he suggested that we should check up the motive for Sir John’s journey and get a list of the people who knew he was going to travel. He thought it would be worth while trying to find whether anyone had an interest in his death. Also he wondered if the old man had much money on him and if so, who would be likely to know about it.’
Mitchell smiled.
‘I see that your superintendent’s ideas are very like our own. Those are the lines we should go on, eh, French?’
‘That’s right, sir. It seems the kind of case you’d get to the bottom of from routine work. Who had an interest in his death? Who of these people were in Northern Ireland at the time of the crime? It seems to me we wouldn’t have to go much further than those two questions.’
‘I agree and I’m afraid it’s you for it. You see, we pretty well must act, whether we want to or not. The Belfast authorities have put in a formal application for assistance through the Home Office. Everything is in order and you may take over as soon as you can. Will you go over to Belfast?’
‘I don’t really know, sir, as yet. I think I should get what I can here first at all events and then be guided by circumstances. What do you think, Sergeant?’
The sergeant grinned.
‘We’ll be very glad to see you in Belfast, Mr French, if you decide to come over. But I think what we want mostly lies in London. However, as you say, you’ll know better later on.’
For some time further they discussed the case, finally deciding that French should carry on as suggested. M’Clung not being required in London, he was to return that evening to Belfast, keeping French advised of developments there and undertaking to meet him should he decide to go over.
2 (#u547baf7a-4711-591b-8873-197f2e07520f)
Knightsbridge (#u547baf7a-4711-591b-8873-197f2e07520f)
It was with mixed feelings that French settled down to consider his new case. As a rule he disliked working with a strange police force. In spite of the invariable fact of his having been invited to assist, jealousies arose. Those whose work he was doing felt that they had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Hence he was frequently met by a veiled opposition, the overcoming of which took half his energies. Moreover with the best will in the world strangers could not give him the help he was accustomed to from his own trained staff.
On the other hand, if he had to go to Ireland, here was a new and by all accounts a very pleasant country to explore. It was true he had once before been in Belfast, but on that occasion his job had occupied all his time and he had been unable to see anything of the place. Now he promised himself at least a Sunday in Portrush and a trip round the far-famed Coast Road, should these delights prove at all possible.
Of course it was by no means certain that the case would take him to Ireland. Indeed he felt he would be surprised if the matter should not prove to be wholly Irish. Sir John had spent his life in Northern Ireland and his connections there must be of the closest. A successful business man usually makes enemies. One who takes a strong lead in politics invariably does so. Who could tell what old enmity might not have flared up as a result of this last visit?
But with these possibilities French saw that he had nothing to do. Rightly or wrongly Scotland Yard had been asked to intervene and that intervention had crystalised into the making of certain inquiries by himself. He had his instructions and the sooner he carried them out, the better for all concerned. A visit to Sir John Magill’s house seemed to be his first move, and he therefore put aside the routine work he had been engaged on and set off to Knightsbridge.
71 Elland Gardens proved to be a comparatively small double house in an old-fashioned but aristocratic-looking terrace. The door was opened by an elderly butler who might have stepped out of a play, so incredibly true was he to type; in fact the whole scene of French’s arrival and announcement might well have been taken from the stage of a theatre. Sending in his official card, French asked for either or both of the ladies.
Inside the house the evidences of wealth were more apparent. Even the entrance hall contained costly objects of art, and the library, into which French was shown, was a veritable museum. Silver predominated, and tables and shelves bore almost priceless examples of the skill of the old craftsmen. Books lined the walls between the ornaments, and the light reflected from them and the walnut furniture was mellow and restful. In the centre was an old-fashioned desk, closed, a table bearing a half-completed model of some machine stood in a window, and deep armchairs were placed here and there on the thick carpet. In one corner was a built-in safe.
French had scarcely taken in these details when the door opened and a lady entered. Slightly below medium height, she was plain of feature and rather stern of expression. But her manner was gracious enough as she advanced towards French.
‘Detective-Inspector French?’ she said, glancing at the card in her hand. ‘We were expecting a representative from Scotland Yard. My brother, Major Magill, wrote that the Belfast police were consulting you. Won’t you sit down?’
She spoke calmly, but French could see that her nerves were on edge and that she was holding herself on a tight rein.
‘We had a communication from Belfast this morning,’ he answered with the respectful courtesy which he found so much lightened his labours when dealing with this class of witness. ‘In consequence I have called to obtain some information about Sir John.’
‘I will gladly tell you anything I can,’ she replied, with evident sincerity. ‘What do you want to know?’
French bowed slightly.
‘You will understand, madam, that I know nothing about the case and must therefore begin at the beginning. But I shall be as brief as possible. Tell me first, please, a little about your family and household. Just a word about each member.’
The lady paused, evidently to arrange her thoughts, Then began:
‘Our family consists of only five members, my father, my brother Malcolm, my sister Beatrice, myself and our cousin Victor. My father, my sister and I have lived here since we moved from Belfast about seven years ago. At that time my father gave over the direction of the mills to Malcolm. I should have said that he owned large linen mills in the Shankill district of Belfast. Malcolm lives with his wife and two children in Ireland, near Larne. He is now the managing director, indeed the virtual owner, of the mills and he goes there to business every day.
‘My father and sister and I have lived here very quietly. Beyond visiting a few friends we don’t go into society. Though at one time my father took a good deal of interest in parliamentary and municipal affairs, he ceased to do so when we left Belfast. During these last seven years he has indulged his two hobbies, mechanical invention and the collection of silver, specially old silver. You see what he has in this room, and the collection in the music room is even finer.’
‘I was admiring it before you came in. I’m not an authority, but even to me a lot of it looks almost priceless. You mentioned a cousin, a Mr Victor; is it Mr Victor Magill?’
‘Yes, he is the son of Arthur Magill, my father’s younger brother.’
‘Tell me about him, please.’
‘My Uncle Arthur was in partnership with my father in the mill until he died in—I’m not quite sure of the year, but it was about 1901 or 1902. Victor was at school in Belfast then and it was intended that he also should go into the business. But after my uncle’s death his wife moved back to Reading; she was the daughter of a manufacturer of that town. She took Victor from school in Belfast and he went to some English school. From there he went into the regular army. He was invalided out after the War had lasted a couple of years and is now agent for a firm of motor car manufacturers. I believe he does very well out of it too.’
‘I follow you. Now, Miss Magill, I want to ask you a straight question. Do you know, or can you suggest anything, no matter how trifling, which might in any way throw light on Sir John’s disappearance?’
Miss Magill made a despairing little gesture.
‘Absolutely nothing!’ she declared emphatically. ‘The whole thing is utterly puzzling. My father is the last person to be mixed up in anything abnormal.’
‘His health is good?’
‘His health is excellent. For his age it is even remarkable. If you had seen him sawing or planing in his workshop you wouldn’t ask. He is as hale and vigorous as a man of forty.’
‘I suppose I need scarcely ask this either, but still, what about his mind? Any signs of old age showing there?’
There were none. His mind was as clear as French’s own. Even his memory, whose decay first announces the sere and yellow leaf, remained clear and strong. Nor was there any mental weakness in the family. Nor yet, so far as Miss Magill knew, had he any trouble or worry on his mind. French tried again.
‘Can you tell me if Sir John has any enemies?’
He had none. Miss Magill was positive. Sir John was somewhat retiring in disposition, not given to making friends easily, but in a quiet way he was popular. No one, she felt sure, harboured ill feelings against him. Business rivals? No, she was certain there were none. Political? Nor political either. French would get no help that way. He turned to another point.
‘Do you happen to know why Sir John went to Belfast?’
‘Something about one of his inventions, he said. I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details. He’s always working at some invention. As I think I said, he has a workshop fitted up at the back of the house with a lathe and other quite big tools. He’s certainly extraordinarily clever with his hands and makes the most beautiful things in both wood and metal. The work has been a splendid outlet for him and I’m sure has helped to keep him fit.’
‘Hobbies have kept many an elderly man alive,’ French declared oracularly, ‘and constructive hobbies are the best of all. Now, Miss Magill, I have heard that Sir John is a rich man. Is that so?’
