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‘That’s a comparative term, isn’t it? I don’t know exactly what his income is, but he must be pretty well off. The linen business in old times was very profitable and during and immediately after the War he made a lot of money. Of course it’s different now. Linen has been passing through a bad time lately.’
‘So I’ve heard. But that wouldn’t have affected Sir John, since he has given over the mills to Major Magill?’
‘No. Poor Malcolm has the loss and the worry, I’m afraid. However, things are supposed to have turned the corner now.’
‘I hope they have. Could you tell me the terms of Sir John’s will?’
Miss Magill glanced at him almost reproachfully. The question brought home to her the dread conclusion to which she was evidently so unwilling to open her mind. But she answered calmly enough.
‘Only in a general way. My father has great pride of race and a strong desire to perpetuate the family name. After comparatively small legacies to myself, my sister and my cousin Victor, the remainder goes to my brother Malcolm for his lifetime. If Malcolm had a son it would go on to him. If Malcolm had no son it would go on Malcolm’s death to Victor for his son.’
‘And has Major Magill a son?’
‘No. My brother has two daughters, but no son. On the other hand Victor has two sons, but no daughter.’
‘I follow. Let me see if I’ve got that right. As things are, the bulk of Sir John’s money goes to Major Magill. Owing, however, to its being entailed, the major will only have the life use of it. At his death it goes to Mr Victor Magill in trust for his eldest son.’
‘I believe that’s correct, though I’m not absolutely sure. My father is reticent in disposition and we did not care to question him on such a matter.’
‘Naturally. Can you tell me who is Sir John’s legal adviser?’
‘Messrs Hepplewhite, Ingram & Ingram, of 71B Chancery Lane.’
‘Thank you. Now, Miss Magill, Sir John crossed to Belfast via Larne and Stranraer on the night of Wednesday, the second instant. Do you know who took his tickets and arranged his journey? Did he do things like that for himself?’
‘I expect Mr Breene did that. Mr Breene is his secretary.’
‘Ah, then I should like to see Mr Breene. Who else is there in your household?’
‘Just Myles, the butler, Nutting, the valet and chauffeur, and three women servants.’
‘All reliable?’
‘So far as I know, absolutely.’
‘Thank you, Miss Magill. I’m sorry for having had to give you this trouble. I’m afraid I shall have to see your servants now and also to go through Sir John’s papers.’
She raised her hand.
‘Just a moment. Now, Mr Inspector, you’ve been asking me a lot of questions and I’m going to ask you one in return. Quite honestly, what do you think has happened to my poor father?’
French was accustomed in such circumstances to this demand. He always answered it as truthfully as he could.
‘Honestly, Miss Magill, I don’t know. I haven’t enough information to say. Everything is being done to find out.’
‘Still,’ she persisted, ‘you must have some idea?’
French shrugged. He was sorry for this kindly lady, who evidently felt her position so keenly, yet who had eased his task by so sternly controlling her feelings. There was real sympathy in his voice as he replied: ‘Well, we must admit things don’t look too well. I don’t want to buoy you up with false hopes; all the same I don’t think you need necessarily accept the worst.’
She nodded.
‘I suppose that’s all you can say, and thank you for saying it.’ She rang the bell. ‘Do everything you can to assist Mr French,’ she told the butler. Then shaking hands with French, she left the room.
‘Well, Myles,’ French began, ‘this is a sad business about Sir John.’
The butler closed the door and came forward, standing respectfully before French.
‘I have heard no details, sir, except that he has disappeared. I should like to know—Sir John has been a good master to me—I should like to know if anything further has been learned?’
‘I’ll tell you all I know myself, which isn’t much,’ French said kindly. ‘But first, I wonder if you could give me a little information.’ He unpacked the hat and held it out. ‘Did you ever see that before?’
‘Sir John’s!’ the man said instantly. Then he took the hat and examined it carefully. ‘Yes, sir,’ he declared firmly, ‘there is no doubt whatever about it. It is the hat Sir John was wearing when he left here. I brushed it for him and I am quite certain.’ He turned it over and stared at the blood stains. ‘This is terrible, sir,’ he went on in a lower tone. ‘Does this mean—an accident? That he is dead?’
French shrugged.
‘It certainly doesn’t look too well, does it?’ he admitted. ‘It was found on a lonely road a mile from where Sir John was last seen.’
‘And there was no sign of the body? Excuse me, sir, but as I said, Sir John was a good master to me indeed, if I might say it without presumption, a good friend. I should be sorry if anything were to happen to him.’
There was genuine feeling in the man’s tones and French at once told him all that was known.
Myles was a good deal upset by the recital. That Sir John was the victim of foul play he seemed to have no doubt. ‘I hope you’ll get them, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘I hope they’ll hang, whoever did this. He was a good master.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘Well, Myles, the best thing you can do to help that on is to answer my questions. And first of all, can you get me a photograph of Sir John? And, wait a minute, of Major Magill and Mr Victor as well?’
‘Certainly, sir. He left the room and in a moment returned with three cabinet portraits. One showed the head of the house of Magill as a rather fine-looking old man with a large nose, jaws bordering on the nutcracker, a high forehead and very intelligent eyes. Between him and his son and nephew as well as Miss Magill there was a certain family resemblance, on which French commented.
‘Yes, sir, all the family are somewhat alike in appearance. But it’s coming out more strongly in the second generation. Mr Victor’s son is Sir John over again.’
‘Wonderful thing, heredity,’ French remarked, and he went on to question the butler as to the family relations and to possible enemies of Sir John. But he did not get much information. According to Myles the missing man, while thoroughly good-hearted, had been somewhat distant in manner and a trifle secretive in disposition. Intercourse with his associates was therefore restrained in cordiality. But with no one was Sir John on bad terms, in fact, it was rather the other way about.
One point French noted as possibly important. When questioning Myles as to Sir John’s recent letters, telegrams and visitors, the man stated that on two recent occasions a stranger had called. His card showed that he was a Mr Coates and that he came from Belfast. Unfortunately Myles could not remember the remainder of the address. The man was tall and well-built, with very bright red hair. Quite a remarkable-looking man. On the occasion of each call he had stayed with Sir John for about half an hour.
‘I suppose you’d know him if you saw him again?’
Myles declared he couldn’t be mistaken and French, having indicated that the interview was at an end, asked for Mr Breene.
The secretary was a somewhat striking-looking man of about five and thirty. Tall and spare without being actually thin, he gave the impression of extreme physical strength and fitness. His head was small, altogether out of proportion to his height. His face suggested a curious blend of the Red Indian and the Scandinavian; high cheekbones and ruggedly chiselled features combined with fair hair and the lightest of blue eyes. Energy, ambition and decision were written on every line of the man’s features. In fact before he opened his lips French realised that here was one who would get what he wanted or know the reason why.
‘I crossed over last night,’ he explained in answer to French’s question. ‘There was nothing to keep me in Belfast and things were getting behind here.’
‘I should be glad, Mr Breene, if you would tell me all you can about this unhappy affair. And first as to yourself. Have you been long with Sir John?’
‘Eight years. He appointed me private secretary while he was still running his mills in Belfast. When he gave them up and moved over here he asked would I care to remain with him as general confidential secretary and assistant. He made me a liberal offer and I accepted.’
‘You’re an Irishman yourself?’
‘A Belfast man. My brother and sister still live near Belfast.’
‘There can’t be much for a secretary to do here?’
‘There isn’t. It is simply that Sir John likes to amuse himself in his workshop and can’t be bothered with correspondence.’
French nodded and asked what sort of man Sir John was. He invariably repeated his questions to as many witnesses as possible in order to discount individual idiosyncrasies.
‘Well,’ Breene returned, ‘he is not what Americans call a good mixer. He is dry in manner and retiring in disposition and doesn’t make friends easily. And between ourselves, though I’ve no complaint to make, he is not particularly liberal about money. But when you’ve said that you’ve said everything. He is straight and honourable, and in his own way kindly. He is the type of man that the better you know him, the better you like him.’
‘Is he on quite good terms with all the other members of his family?’
French asked the question perfunctorily, but he watched keenly for Breene’s reaction. He was considerably interested by the result. Though the man said, ‘Oh, quite,’ without perceptible hesitation, French could have sworn it was with less conviction. He thought quickly. If, as Miss Magill said, Malcolm had suffered losses during the linen depression, if the old man was not liberal about money, if Malcolm was to a considerable extent his heir … Added to all that curious business at Whitehead … French decided to bluff.
‘I rather gathered,’ he said, with a sidelong glance and bending forward confidentially, ‘that relations between Sir John and his son were just a trifle strained?’
‘An exaggeration,’ Breene answered promptly. ‘Admittedly they didn’t see eye to eye about money matters. But to say that relations were strained is untrue.’
French chuckled inwardly as he bluffed again.
‘Probably you are right. It was this money question that I had in mind all the same. I wish you’d explain just what took place about it.’
‘There’s no mystery about that,’ Breene declared. ‘Major Magill, as you doubtless know, was in difficulties in connection with his business. Linen has been having a bad time in Ireland lately and more than one old and respected firm has gone down. As far as I understood it, the major was faced with having to close down, which of course he didn’t want to do. He wrote asking Sir John to put some more capital into the concern, so that he might install some new and more efficient machinery. But Sir John wouldn’t. He took the line that when he was in charge he had had to meet difficulties and that the major could do the same. It was not perhaps very reasonable, as the slump was due to conditions the major had very little control over; mostly it was the result of the War. But there it was. Sir John wouldn’t move. The major came over to see him a couple of times, but it was no good. But they were perfectly friendly and all that, for I saw them together.’
‘Quite,’ French agreed. ‘I suppose you cannot tell me where I could find Sir John’s will?’
‘I don’t even know if he made a will, though I suppose he must have.’
‘What does he keep in the safe? Can you open it for me?’
‘No. Sorry I can’t help you there either. Sir John keeps the key himself and only on one occasion did I see inside. It seemed to contain only papers, but there may have been objects of his collection too valuable to leave unprotected.’
It suddenly occurred to French that here was rather a serious difficulty. Though he had not actually gone the length of formulating the words, ‘The Case Against Malcolm Magill,’ he realised that the formulation on such a phrase was by no means an impossibility. From the information gained in Ireland Malcolm was a priori the most likely person to have disposed of Sir John’s body, and now here seemed the beginnings of a theory of motive. For to Malcolm’s unprosperous condition must be added the fact that he stood to gain by his father’s death.
French pulled himself up sharply. This would never do. Cases were not conducted in such a way, at least not successful cases. Let him get his facts before jumping to conclusions. At the same time … He turned to Breene.
‘I understand that Sir John went to Ireland about some invention?’
Breene agreed. Sir John was always working out some idea. He was very ingenious and worked as if brought up to the trade.
French nodded.
‘Do you happen to know the exact nature of this Belfast business?’
Breene took out a cigarette case and automatically selected a cigarette, as an afterthought handing the case to his companion.
‘To a limited extent only,’ he answered. ‘Sir John warned me to say nothing about it, but I suppose I’m free from that now. Not that it seems of any importance.’ He twirled his flint and held out the lighter. ‘For some years Sir John has been working on one invention which really would be valuable if he could bring it off. He has been trying to find an improved way of combining artificial silk with the finest linen. He thinks it might be possible to produce a fabric which would be as light and smooth as silk, while strong and uncreasing and giving good wear. He believes such a fabric, if cheap enough, would supersede both real and artificial silk. A jolly fine idea, if he could only do it. There’d be an immense future for such a product. Incidentally it would set the Ulster linen trade on its feet again, make it boom, in fact.’
‘Incidentally also it would make the inventor a millionaire—if he handled his cards well.’
‘Quite. Well, Sir John had found a name for his new product; he was going to call it “Sillin,” a portmanteau of “silk” and “linen,” you understand. But unfortunately that was all he had found. The product itself eluded him. His visit to Belfast was in connection with it.’
‘Just how, can you tell me?’
‘I can’t. He told me he was going to see an engineer in Belfast about it and as he might want to enter into an agreement with him he would like me to go over to take the necessary notes. Also he said something about a possible patent. It looked to me as if either he or the engineer thought they had solved the thing, though he did not say so.’
In answer to French’s questions Breene repeated the story M’Clung had already told. He, Breene, had crossed via Liverpool, gone out on arrival to his brother’s at Comber, breakfasted and returned to Belfast in time to be at the Grand Central Hotel at half past ten, the hour at which he was to meet Sir John. There all that day and night he had waited fruitlessly for the old man. Next morning he had determined to go up and see Major Magill at the mills, but just as he was about to leave the hotel the major had entered. Since then he had made a statement to the Belfast police, and after consulting the major, had returned to London.
‘I suppose, Mr Breene, you have no idea who Sir John had the appointment with?’
Breene had no idea. He had at first supposed it might be a firm of engineers named M’Millan & Maxwell, as these people were constantly doing work for Sir John. This view had been supported by the fact that their works were in Sandy Row, to which Sir John had driven. But when the police had gone to this firm they were told that Sir John had not been to them. So far as Breene knew Sir John had not written to anyone in Ireland before leaving.
‘You’re wrong there,’ French pointed out. ‘He wrote to Major Magill asking if he could put him up.’
Breene hadn’t known about that. He certainly hadn’t written such a letter. Nor, he said in answer to French’s further questions, had he met or heard about a caller from Belfast named Coates, nor could he imagine who this might be.
‘Who arranged Sir John’s journey, Mr Breene?’
He did it himself except for the actual taking of the tickets. In the ordinary course I should have done that and gone with him to Euston and seen him off. But as I told you I crossed that night by Liverpool, which meant my leaving Euston nearly two hours before him. Nutting therefore saw him off. Nutting is the chauffeur.’
French nodded.
‘There is just one other thing,’ he concluded. ‘I want you to tell me about the relations between Mr Victor Magill and the family here.’
‘There was nothing remarkable about their relations,’ Breene answered. ‘As a matter of fact I have not seen a great deal of Victor, though of course I know him quite well. He has visited Sir John occasionally since I have been here, but I don’t know whether on business or as a friend.’
French bluffed again.
‘I understand relations were strained there too?’
‘If so, I know nothing about it.’
‘Well, Mr Breene, I’m much obliged to you. That’s all I want, except to look through Sir John’s desk. I have Miss Magill’s permission.’
‘So she told me,’ Breene returned dryly. ‘Here are the keys. I suppose you’ll not want my help? I’ve an appointment down town shortly.’
French reassured him with secret satisfaction. Solitude was the very thing he wanted. He would see the other servants and then get along with the search of the desk.
Nutting, the chauffeur, was the first comer. He was able to tell very little. He positively identified the hat as that Sir John was wearing on the night in question. He had driven him to Euston, taken his tickets for the journey and the sleeper, and seen him into the train. The berth had been engaged and the attendant was expecting him.
More as a matter of form than otherwise French saw the maids, though from them he learned nothing. Then locking the library door, he settled down to go through the desk.
It did not take French, long to see that Sir John, or Breene, whichever of them used the desk, was a man of method. The top was clear, save for a tickler file open at the current date and a small pile of papers evidently awaiting attention. The three lower drawers on each side had been made into one, and contained a modern vertical correspondence file. Separate drawers held neatly docketed papers relating to various subjects, bills, receipts, investments. But nowhere could French find anything to help his quest.
His eye strayed longing to the safe. It was quite on the cards that inside lay Sir John’s will, and a sight of Sir John’s will, he felt, was vital to his investigation. However, at present at all events, he had no power to have the safe forced. He could only go to the solicitors in Chancery Lane and hope for the best. But he greatly feared that in spite of the persuasiveness of his tongue, of which he had a not inconsiderable opinion, they would be unwilling to let him see the document.
Wishing, as he so often did, that the men of the C.I.D. were as well favoured in such matters as their confreres in other countries, he rang for Myles, and having handed him the keys of the desk, was shown out.
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