Fatal Venture (30 page)

It looked as if the criminal must have been someone ashore; someone who had been in Portrush when the
Hellenique
called. If so, the affair was Nugent’s, not his. Fortunately, there was no doubt as to Nugent’s competence.

One thing, however, was unhappily certain. If the problem were not solved, it would not be considered Nugent’s failure, but his own. From the matter of the button, it would be argued that the murderer was on board, and unless the contrary were proved, he himself would get the blame for his escape.

French did not see what he could do about it at the moment, but with his case in such a state his conscience would not allow him to go off on a whole-day excursion. With genuine disappointment, he made his apologies and watched the shore party set off. Then drawing a chair into his favourite position between the two boats, he lit a pipe and settled down to think the thing over.

First, was his list of suspects exhaustive?

Presently he went back to John Stott’s cabin, which had remained sealed since the tragedy, and spent some time in another examination of the deceased’s papers. But in spite of the greatest care, he found nothing more than on the first occasion.

But if the murderer were on board and if his list were complete, it followed that the murderer was on his list. Could this be so, after all?

Once again he went over the evidence for each person’s innocence, and gradually as he did so, he came to see that of them all, only one had not produced direct proof. The Captain and engineer were on board, Malthus and Mason were at Dungiven, Wyndham was at the mouth of the River Bann, Luff at Coleraine, Elmina playing golf, Margot at Castlerock and Bristow at the ruin. But Morrison? Where was Morrison?

Morrison at the time of the murder was at McArtt’s Hollow. And Morrison had denied it until the truth was forced from him. Moreover, of all concerned, Morrison perhaps had the strongest motive. Firstly, he hated Stott and had been heard breathing forth threatenings and slaughter against him. Secondly, Stott’s death would bring his money nearer to Margot. It would prevent him from making a new will and perhaps diverting his wealth from Wyndham.

French felt really horrified at the direction his thoughts were taking, particularly when he remembered his interview with Margot on the previous evening. He had been wrong to give an opinion on the case. He had known at the time that he was wrong and he had allowed himself to be persuaded. If he now had to arrest Morrison, could he ever lift his head again in the presence either of Margot or his own wife?

With an unhappy frown he went down to lunch as the ship crept down the low-lying Cumberland coast, and after lunch he tackled his problem again. But it was not till after he had taken a smart walk, played some deck tennis and had tea that light occurred to him. Then an idea shot into his mind, suggested by a phrase that had been used incidentally on the previous evening.

For a moment he thought he had solved his problem, then he saw that he had done nothing of the kind. All the same, the point was suggestive. He considered it with growing doubt for an hour, then just as the boats were preparing to go ashore to Heysham Harbour to pick up the excursionists, he reached a decision.

Jumping up, he hurried to his cabin, wrote a short note to Mrs French, tumbled some clothes and the dossier into a suitcase, gave a hurried message to the Purser’s assistant at the ladder, and caught the last boat for the shore.

French waited about Heysham till he was able to go on board the Irish steamer, then turned in and read himself to sleep. In the morning he went on deck to find they were coming up Belfast Lough. The charming, early morning views of the rich, well-wooded country on the County Down side and of the more austere but equally beautiful hills on the Antrim shore, brought back vividly that other morning when he had sailed up the estuary to take part in that worrying case of Fred Ferris and the inert patrol.

An hour later he stepped down on Donegall Quay, glad to renew his acquaintanceship with the district. Having rung up Nugent, he went down to Portrush by the 9.15 express. The DI was waiting for him at the station.

“You’ve got a new idea?” Nugent asked after greetings.

“No,” French returned, “I’ve not got so far as that. But when one is at a deadlock one is ready to turn to anything. I was showing No. 2 of the photographs Bristow took of the ruin to my wife and a girl friend, and the girl dropped a phrase which has made me think. In the absence of anything else, I decided to pass the remark on to you.”

Nugent looked his question.

French took the photograph from his case. “You see,” he went on, “a bit of the surrounding flower-bed has been included. My wife, who is a gardener, but not an archaeologist, spoke of the flowers. They were good plants, she said, of delphinium and clarkia. It was then, the girl made her remark. ‘Don’t they bloom late,’ she said, ‘in that northern climate?’ ”

For a moment Nugent did not reply, then as French also kept silence, he said: “Well, what of it? I suppose they were late. I don’t get you. Chief Inspector.”

“I’m a little bit of a gardener myself,” French answered, “though you mightn’t think it, to look at me. And it occurred to me that the girl was right. It was late for these flowers.”

“I’m not a gardener,” Nugent admitted, “and I’m afraid I don’t get your point. What does it matter to us whether they were late or whether they weren’t?”

“Well,” French returned easily, “I was interested. In fact, that’s what I’ve come about. For my own curiosity, I’d like to settle the point. Is there a first-rate gardener in Portrush whom we could consult?”

French could see that the DI thought he had gone mad, but an Irish police officer is always polite, and Nugent kept his idea to himself. Instead of answering, he called his sergeant.

“Who looks after the gardening side of the ancient monuments enclosures?” he asked.

“Mr Jackson, sir. Him that does the Urban Council flowers. He has the both jobs.”

“Can you get hold of him for us?”

“Surely, sir. He’ll be in the house at his dinner now. I’ll send M’Gonigle for him.”

“When he’s finished his dinner, you know.”

“Maybe we’ll get him before he starts,” the sergeant returned confidentially as he withdrew.

Ten minutes later a fresh-complexioned man of about fifty was shown in.

“Mr Jackson?” Nugent asked affably, pointing to a chair.

“That’s me, sir,” returned the man, sitting down and crossing his legs as if to indicate willingness to take part in a conference.

“You look after the flowers in the beds round the old ruin up at Ballywillan?” “I do so.”

“Have you much experience of gardening, Mr Jackson?”

“I have that. I was brought up till the work at M’Quaid’s Nurseries at Portadown. You’ve heard tell of M’Quaid’s Nurseries, I make no doubt?”

“I know the place well. I’ve friends in Portadown.”

Jackson smiled genially. “Have you so? Well, that’s where I was. And then I was an assistant gardener under the Belfast Corporation. I put in ten years in the Botanic Gardens, so I did.”

The DI was genial in his turn. “Well, you’re the man to give us a piece of information. You’ve got some delphiniums and clarkia in those beds round the ruin up at Ballywillan. What would you say was their period of flowering?”

“When would they be in flower?” Jackson paraphrased the question as he gazed earnestly at the speaker. “Well, now, you couldn’t just say that, not till a day, don’t you know.”

“I understand that all right. But couldn’t you give us an idea?”

“Oh, aye, I could give yez an idea. I mind rightly the delphiniums were out at the same time as the orange lilies. The lilies were a wee bit late this year for the Twelfth,
^*
and the delphiniums lasted on a while after them.”

“And the clarkia?” prompted the DI.

“Aye, the clarkia. Well, I bedded them out in June and they were just coming into flower when the delphiniums were going over.”

“If I might interrupt,” said French, foreseeing no early end to this dissertation, “perhaps one question would settle my point. Could Mr Jackson tell us if the delphiniums and clarkia were in flower about the twenty-seventh of September, that’s a fortnight ago?”

Jackson transferred his gaze from the DI. “A fortnight ago?” he repeated. “They were not. Nor for three or four weeks before that again. No, no; they wouldn’t last as long as that.”

Once again the familiar thrill of excitement had titillated French’s nerves. The look of incredulity on Nugent’s face strangely delighted him. But he controlled himself and handed the photograph to Jackson. “There are the flowers we’re speaking of,” he pointed out, trying to preserve the atmosphere of the meeting. “Can you tell us about what date that might have been taken?”

Jackson gazed at the print for some moments, then shook his head. “Deed if I could,” he replied succinctly.

This was evidently a negative and French tried again. “Well, can you tell us when it could not have been taken? Could it have been taken on the twenty-seventh of September?”

Jackson again shook his head. “F’ith, it could not,” he returned with emphasis. “Them flowers was away long before that date, so they were.”

French, jubilant, returned the burden of the conversation to Nugent. After long efforts with Jackson, a cautious man who clearly did not wish to commit himself rashly, he learnt that only during the first two weeks of August were the flowers at just that stage.

“I think we might try the hotels,” French suggested, when after cordial leave-takings the gardener had disappeared.

A short investigation revealed the fact that Bristow had stayed for two nights at the Northern Counties Hotel – August 6th and 7th. He had been, so he told the manager, making arrangements for the call of the
Hellénique
in late September.

When they were once more in the street the DI indulged in an unexpectedly lurid oath.

“This is a triumph for you. Chief Inspector, and no mistake,” he went on generously. “I never would have thought of it. But I’m damned if I understand it even yet. How did the beggar do it?”

“I have an idea, but I can’t prove it as yet,” French answered.

“Come on, then, back to the barracks and we’ll have a go at it.”

French followed with eagerness. Though as yet he was far from clear as to everything which Bristow had done, he believed that they had reached the last lap of the case. Surely, he told himself, with what they had now learnt, a little further thought would solve all their remaining problems.

“Take the easy chair,” began Nugent, indicating one with wooden arms drawn in to the desk. “Not that it’s so very easy,” he added, a rather unnecessary qualification for anyone with eyesight. “What’ll you smoke?” He held out his cigarette case.

“My pipe, I think,” French returned. “More satisfying if we’re going to take our time over it.”

“Far better,” Nugent approved politely, though lighting a cigarette. “But I’ve got used to these things. Well, we’ve got a bit of a puzzle now and no mistake.”

“We’ve got something more than that,” French said, with but slightly concealed jubilation. “We’ve got our man. The only explanation of that photograph is that Bristow’s guilty.”

“You’ve got him,” Nugent corrected, “It was your idea. But there’s a deal to be cleared up before you can make the arrest. How did the fella do it?”

French nodded. “That’s it,” he agreed. “That’s the first thing we’ve got to find out. And the second’s. Why? What was the motive? I’ve discovered none.”

“Well, let’s stick to the how for the present. What are your ideas. Chief Inspector?”

French settled himself in the “easy” chair and drew slowly at his pipe. “Well,” he suggested, “I think we ought first to make sure we are absolutely clear about what he did. He came ashore on that Tuesday at half past nine and went aboard again at six, and during the whole of that time he was in the presence of several people, except between the hours of three-forty and five o’clock. During that period we now believe he murdered Stott.”

“Agreed,” murmured the DI.

“As a proof that he had spent the time in photographing the ruin he put forward an undeveloped film. I had that film developed and left uncut. The first four photographs, as you know, were of golfers, and definitely were taken just after lunch on that day. The last three were also of golfers and equally certainly were taken after tea. The intermediate five were of the ruin and were taken about six weeks earlier.”

Nugent nodded slowly. “It would look like it,” he admitted hesitatingly, “but it’s not easy to see how.”

“It isn’t,” French agreed. “I simply don’t see it.”

Nugent looked up and spoke with more animation.

“How would it be if, when he was here six weeks ago, he put a fresh roll of films in his camera and twisted it on to the fifth space, leaving the first four blank? Then after taking his five ruin photographs he would take out the film and put it on one side. Then on the Tuesday he would put it back, expose the first four pictures, turn the film through five more, and take the other three golf views. Wouldn’t that do it?”

French shook his head. “Very ingenious, but you’ve forgotten your own evidence,” he declared. “Don’t you remember that Bristow brought his camera ashore empty that morning and the first thing he did was to buy a new film? More than that, the photographer put the film in the camera for him. Don’t you remember? You gave me the man’s name.” He turned back the pages of his book. “McAfee, it was.”

“Be damned but you’re right,” admitted Nugent. “There was no hanky-panky about that either. Two of the men, temporary members of the Club, Martin and McBride, met Bristow when he came ashore and they were with him in the shop. And you’re right, too, about McAfee putting in the film. He remembered it because it was the only one of that kind sold that morning. And he remembered Martin and McBride being in with the stranger, too.”

“And Bristow had no chance of changing it?”

“Right again. Divil a one.”

“Then the photographs of the ruin were definitely taken between the time he bought the film on the day of the murder and some four or five days later when your people developed it.”