Death in the dark, p.23
Death in the Dark, page 23
Mr. Maclean beamed. “Most interesting. I think, Trant, that Inspector Collier is to be congratulated on the way he has handled this enquiry. He has prevented a miscarriage of justice. He has saved a life. That is a great thing.” He shook hands with them all. “And now I am afraid I have an engagement.”
Superintendent Cardew’s room at the Yard seemed agreeably home-like to him and to Collier after the unfamiliar grandeur of Mr. Maclean’s library. Cardew, grunting as he stooped, put a match to the gas fire. He had still some hours of work before him.
“All very well,” he said as he stuffed his pipe, “but don’t you go getting a swollen head. Most of the work in this case, the head work, I mean, not the running about, was done by Merle’s sister and young Toby, and that should be a humbling thought.”
“It is,” said Collier, grinning.
“I haven’t seen that kid since I came to your wedding, but he seems to be shaping well.”
“We’ll be throwing a party one of these days. We’d be honoured if you’d come to it.”
“Maybe I will. Meanwhile”—he glanced round at his subordinate and caught him in the act of smothering a yawn—“what you need is a night’s rest. See you in the morning. We may have got those two by then.”
When Collier came out on to the Embankment the fog that had been thickening from hour to hour was lying like a damp black pall over London. Useless to think of going home by bus. He joined the crowds pouring into the Underground Station.
The fog, he thought, would help the fugitives. The police could not be expected to read number plates in such weather. Farwell would give them a run for their money.
He found Sandra and Toby playing Lexicon. The warm lamplit sitting-room looked very cosy, but Toby’s eyes were suspiciously red and his mother seemed worried.
Toby jumped up, spilling his cards. “Oh, Hugh, is it—have you—” He could not go on.
“Merle is being reprieved. Sir George and Cardew went over to see the Home Secretary and took me with them. There’s evidence enough against Farwell to throw fresh light on the whole case.”
“Fine,” said Toby, beaming. “Will they let him out at once?”
“A reprieve might only mean that he works out a life sentence instead. But I hope and believe Merle will get a free pardon.”
“Pardon my foot,” said Toby indignantly. “It’s he who has to pardon them. But I’m jolly glad. Jolly glad. How’s Judy?”
“I told you she has measles.”
“Rotten for her. I’ve had them though, so it will be all right asking her to come to stay.”
“Is that your mother’s idea?”
“Well, she thought it might be a good wheeze if you didn’t object.”
“We’ll see.” Collier looked pointedly at the clock. “Past your bedtime.”
“All right,” said Toby handsomely. “I don’t mind going up now.”
When he had left them Sandra said, “I’m so thankful, and not only on that poor young man’s account. Toby knew that he—that it was to be to-morrow morning. I’ve been really worried about him. I sometimes think he’s too soft hearted to be a policeman.”
“Thank you,” said her husband.
CHAPTER XXV
THE END OF THE CHASE
The fog was still very thick when Collier arrived at the Yard the following morning. The river was invisible and the wailing of fog horns and the melancholy crying of gulls sounded eerily across the water.
Cardew had just come and was divesting himself of his disgracefully shabby overcoat.
“I had a report from Bedesford last night after you left. Oliver Ramblett has been examined by a specialist on diseases of the brain. He says definitely that there’s no tumour and never has been. He can’t find anything wrong organically. He’s in a weak state and generally run down, but he has no symptoms that would not be accounted for by persistent drugging over a period of several weeks, combined with lack of air and exercise and underfeeding. The specialist asked who had been treating him, and when he was told he said the Medical Council should be informed.”
“He’ll recover?”
“Oh yes. Would you say his stepmother and sister knew what Farwell was doing?”
“No. The older woman was in a stupor most of the time. She depended on Farwell for her dope. She’s got to the stage when she can’t be held responsible for her actions. And the girl was infatuated. They haven’t been found, I suppose?”
“Farwell and the girl? No.” The telephone on his desk rang sharply. He picked up the receiver. “Yes. Superintendent Cardew speaking. Yes.”
He listened for some time and Collier, watching his face, knew that there was news at last.
He hung up the receiver thoughtfully. “His car has been found. A ploughman leading his horses into a field this morning found it parked behind the hedge where it might easily not have been noticed for a day or two.”
“Where was this?”
“Off the London road about two miles this side of Horsham. The ploughman thought it odd. Moreover, he has a wireless and a description of the car was broadcast before the nine o’clock news last night. He had forgotten the number, but remembered it was a blue saloon, so when a policeman on a bicycle rode along half an hour later he hailed him. The Horsham people got busy, and discovered that the garage of one of the big houses on the London Road just outside the town had been left open last night. It holds two cars, and one of them had taken some of the family to a dance. They were persuaded to spend the night at a friend’s house, and so did not discover until this morning that the second car had been stolen. A full description has been sent to all stations from Horsham. Here it is”—he had been writing on a pad while he listened to the voice sounding faint but clear along the wires, and he passed it over to Collier. “We can’t leave all the work to Horsham. Get that out to all the metropolitan stations. Put Lowell and Radnor on to it.”
Collier hurried out to set the innumerable wheels in motion. When he came back to the Superintendent’s room Cardew said, “That stolen car was found in a road at the back of Brighton, a turning off Preston Park, a quarter of an hour ago. It’s a cul de sac and cars are often left there for hours, it seems. There are several there now, and no way of finding out if there’s one missing until the owners come back.”
“Do you want me to go down?”
“It might be as well. I’ve a feeling they may have gone to ground in Brighton.”
Collier had expected to find the fog lifting after the train had passed through Croydon, but the Weald lay hidden under a thick white curtain of mist. A fellow passenger assured him that they would come into sunshine on the other side of the Downs, but for once he was wrong. In the Brighton streets the fog was not so dense as it had been in London, but it was bad enough. Collier went directly to the police station, where his arrival was expected.
“They can’t get away,” he was told confidently, “but it may take some time. There are thousands of lodging-houses kept by women who never look at a newspaper and don’t own a wireless. In fact they can lie doggo as long as their money lasts. We’ll do all we can.”
“I’d like to see the car.”
“We left it where it was found, with a constable to watch it from a discreet distance in case they came back to it.”
He was about to start with the plain clothes detective who had been told off to accompany him when they were both recalled to the Superintendent’s room.
“There’s a call just received from an A.A. scout. He was riding along the coast road towards Newhaven when he noticed that some of the fencing at the edge of the cliff has been broken away. There are skid marks on the road, and it looks as if a car had swerved there and gone over. It must have happened quite recently. He says the fence was there when he rode by the same spot an hour ago. No one in his senses would drive fast along that road in this fog. We’ve got to send some of our people along to see if there’s anything at the foot of the cliff before the tide comes up.”
Collier thought a moment. All the ports were being watched. Farwell would be stopped on the quay if he tried to board one of the cross-Channel steamers at Newhaven. He must have been prepared for that. But there was another possibility. It is easier for a doctor than for a layman to obtain drugs, but there is some check on his legitimate supply. It seemed not unlikely that Farwell had some connection with smugglers of cocaine and heroin. In that case he might know of bolt holes along the coast.
“I’ll come with you, I think,” he said, “the car they left can wait.”
The sea was still invisible, as they clambered down the cliff path, and from near and far ships’ syrens blared incessantly.
“The worst fog of the year,” said the A.A. man who had met them on the road and showed them the long, slimy skid marks on the sodden grass, the crumbled chalk edge broken away and one remaining post with dangling wires hanging in the void.
“How far down is it?”
“Between two and three hundred feet, and rocks below.”
The rocks were round and black and shiny like dolphins’ backs. Curdled brown foam crept about them as the tide seeped into the pools. The shattered fragments of the car lay where they had expected to find them. There were two bodies. They were lifted out of the wreckage.”
“It’ll be a job carrying stretchers up that path.”
“Do you recognise them, Inspector?”
“Yes.”
He returned to Town by an afternoon train.
“It’s all for the best,” said Cardew. “Sir George sent for me again this morning. He said, ‘I agree with you that we’re after the right man, but if we’ve got to charge him with the murder of Mr. Fallowes, God help us. Put the evidence you’ve collected that implicates him against that which the prosecution put forward at Merle’s trial, and the case against Merle still looks the blacker of the two. I don’t know what the Public Prosecutor will say. There’ll be questions in the House,’ and I believe he was right. I doubt if we could have had Farwell convicted.”
Collier nodded. “He’s gone, and the girl with him. Queer how women fall for a man like that. Utterly ruthless. He meant to get rid of Oliver Kamblett, and then his wife. I fancy he was responsible for Bateman’s death. I know the keepers think so.”
A week later Collier, who was by then engaged on another case, had occasion to go to his Superintendent’s room.
When the business in hand had been settled Cardew said, “About that man Farwell, you said it was queer the way women fall for that type. One of the men who was on duty at the cemetery where he was buried told me there was a wreath of white lilies with a card inscribed ‘To my darling Ambrose, from his loving wife, Myra.’ And then (‘Mousie’) in brackets. Can you beat it?”
“Women——” said Collier profoundly.
The Superintendent grinned. “Exactly.”
A few days before Easter Collier asked for a few days’ leave.
Cardew, who seldom took holidays himself and was rather reluctant to grant them even to his most favoured subordinates, grunted disapprovingly.
“What for?”
“To attend a wedding. It’s young Ramblett. He’s marrying Judith Merle. She stayed with us for a bit while her aunt was in hospital. Ramblett was always keen on the animals. He’s reorganising the zoo on the most modern lines. A sort of miniature Whipsnade. He’s taken David Merle on as his second in command. The three of them seem to hit it off remarkably well. Poor Merle is very quiet and subdued, but I think he’s as happy as one can expect after all he went through. As for Judy, Ramblett says he fell in love when he first saw her peeping down at him through a skylight. Toby’s a great favourite down there. He’s to spend part of his Easter holidays with David while they’re on their honeymoon.”
“Trust Toby,” said Cardew, “to fall on his feet. What’s become of Mrs. Ramblett?”
“In a home for addicts, and likely to remain there.”
“Well,” said Cardew grudgingly, “you can have two days. Shut the door after you.”
T H E E N D
KINDRED SPIRITS . . .
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About The Author
KATHERINE DALTON RENOIR (‘Moray Dalton’) was born in Hammersmith, London in 1881, the only child of a Canadian father and English mother.
The author wrote two well-received early novels, Olive in Italy (1909), and The Sword of Love (1920). However, her career in crime fiction did not begin until 1924, after which Moray Dalton published twenty-nine mysteries, the last in 1951. The majority of these feature her recurring sleuths, Scotland Yard inspector Hugh Collier and private inquiry agent Hermann Glide.
Moray Dalton married Louis Jean Renoir in 1921, and the couple had a son a year later. The author lived on the south coast of England for the majority of her life following the marriage. She died in Worthing, West Sussex, in 1963.
By Moray Dalton
and available from Dean Street Press
1. One by One They Disappeared
2. The Night of Fear
3. The Body in the Road
4. Death in the Cup
5. The Strange Case of Harriet Hall
6. The Belfry Murder
7. The Belgrave Manor Crime
8. The Case of Alan Copeland
9. The Art School Murders
10. The Condamine Case
11. The Mystery of the Kneeling Woman
12. Death in the Dark
13. Death in the Forest
14. The Murder of Eve
15. Death at the Villa
Published by Dean Street Press 2023
Copyright © 1938 Moray Dalton
Introduction copyright © 2023 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
First published in 1938 by Sampson Low
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 915393 85 2
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Moray Dalton, Death in the Dark
