“THE SHOT IN THE DELL” (BY H: L. Deakin)

Manawatu Times, Volume 60, Issue 40, 18 February 1935, Page 9

“THE SHOT IN THE DELL” (BY H: L. Deakin)

(By H: L. Deakin)

| Instalment 7. ! % %

across the sands. We'll see where they go presently.” “The Webley was left, on the seat beside Andrew's," 1 remarked. “How on earth, then, did it come to be dropped here? It must have been before the murder was done."

Jug,” he observed. “She’ve not stuck, have she, sir?”

“She has," 1 answered cheerfully. “She’s been there ail night. “Looks like Mr Andrewe’s _ear to me,” he remarked. “And her there all night, you say? lie’ll be in a proper way about 11. She must have come down there late,” he went, on meditatively. “I went up to the village lo fetch doctor last night—’bout eleven it must ’a’ been —and she weren’t there then, I tied up this side of the wood, and walked across Ihe beach up along. No, she weren’t there then.”

“But was that Imprint made by the Webley?” Clegg objected. “Have another look at it.” “Too small?” 1 suggested. “■Much. The overall length of the Webley Mark VII. is, if I remember rightly, twelve and a half inches. And this is”—he paused, and, taking n folding rule .from his pocliet, benL stiffly to measure the print—“and this is only eight. That in itself rules the Webley out of court.”

To hide my amazement I turned as casually as I could to look at the car again. And by eleven o’clock, I thought, Andrewe had been dead three hours.

“Then this was a second revolver?" I exclaimed. “Do you think it has anything to do with the case?" I went nn, feeling rather disappointed that the mark hadn’t been made by the Webley.

“Doctor wasn't more than five minutes getting on his clothes,” _ the ferryman went on. “.My wife’s sister it was as was look hrd last night. Delicate woman her he."

“I don’t know that it has,” Clegg answered. “But I'm going to work or. that hypothesis until it's proved to he wrong. We must keep our eyes open for anything that will connect it with what took place in the dell last night.. The thing that puzzles me most is the question of time. According to Miss .Tosceiyn high-tide last night was at. live o'clock. That means it would be high again at about live, o'clock this morning, and therefore these footprints must have been made since then.”

I had to endure a good deal of family history before wo touched Polstow, biit I counted it worth while. The car had not been driven down to the beach until three hours after the murder! 1 was pleased enough to have this to take back to Clegg as the first-fruits of my work as a sleuth. But I’d no sooner stepped into the boat on my return passage than, without any effort on my part, I collected a furl her hit of information. I’d asked tho ferryman how soon the tide would allow' him to take his boat up to the village again.

“Well, I don’t sec _why not,” I argued. “No, but the further wo get from 8 o'clock last night the more difficult, it gets to see the connection of all this with the murder. However, we won't worry ourselves about, it now; there’s plenty to do without theorising. And first we must take a. cast of this impression. The sooner the better, as we must have it before the tide comes up again. But what can we make it, with, that’s the question? We might use candles, of course, but they’d bo such a nuisance to melt and manipulate out here; the whole village would konw what we were doing before we'd finished.” He stood and sucked his thumb in deep perplexity; but at length the sight of Polstow, lying snug under the hill on the far side of the estuary, seemed to give him inspiration. “I have it," he cried. “Plaster of Paris. That’s the stuff. There must he a chemist over at Polstow. The ferry's on the other side now, but it will be here presently, and then, if you wouldn’t mind going over-—about five pounds should be enough for both the. revolver and the footprints.” “Anything else beside the plaster?”

“This day fortnight,” lie answered, very suavely for the greater effect of his "surprise. No doubt it was one he otlcn sprang on visitors, and the sight of their faces, if they showed anything like the same stupefaction mine now did, must have been one of the amusements of his monotonous life. Presently he condescended to explain. “This place here is different, from most places. Tide here is peculiar like. ‘Tis the sand out there, you see."

Resting on his oars, he pointed to the north of the Samar, two miles or more away. “You see. that there bar of sand across the mouth of the river? -Well, only the spring tides gets over that. Then they goes right along up to tho village. But mostly they don’t come over that there bar at all, and then only the stream jicro, whal, we’re lying ,in now, gets a bit deeper, by reason of the tide flowing up the channel. But it’s narrow there by the mouth of the river, you sec, and so not much water comes up. The channel just get swelled a bit, but no water don’t cover 1 hat sand over there where you see that gentleman walking." I followed the sweep of his arm towards the little black manikin that was Clegg patrolling the scene of his find, and nodded in complete understanding of his explanation.

“A jar of water. It might he as well to get that in Polstow, too. Then you can come straight back here without going into the village. Oh, and there’s Lathom—would you let him know that I'm delayed? He mustn't get to work without me. He’ll understand that. But lie can leave the sergeant in charge and go over to the inn until I’m ready for him. I’ve plenty to occupy me here. There’s this line of footprints lo begin with —”

“So you see,” he went on. “one day you can take a boat, right up to Trcscobeans, the next day there ain’t no water near it at all, and no use for lis lo come nearer than this point”

I thanked him perfunctorily for his explanation, though at every stage of it, I’d felt more elated. Just to make sure that I understood it all, 1 remarked, “Then the tide’s not been up to Trescobeas this morning at all?” “That’s right,” lie agreed. “Last of of the springs was last night- Halfpast five o’clock were high water, and '.he tide weren't far from Mr Andrcwe’s wall then. And it won’t be up there again for another fortnight.” “Then you weren’t able to take the doctor up to the village when you brought him back?” I observed, for I was thinking what, a difference this might make in our reconstruction of the night’s events. 1 was keen now lo hear all f could of the doctor’s midnight expedition; the doings of any one abroad at Trescobeas at that hour interested me enormously.

“The ferry won’t start from this side for nearly half an hour yet. Couldn’t we follow them out now before "I go?’’ I suggested. “That is, if you think it’s safe to leave this imprint.” Clegg smiled at my enthusiasm. “Oh, quite,” lie agreed, “it will bo safe enough to leave that as. long as we don’t go out of sight of it. Our friend will hardly be fool enough to walk out here in the open and destroy it, however much he may long lo do so. The puzzle is why lie left the marks at all. Why leave them to tell tales? However, I said I wouldn't theorise. What we've Lo do now is Lo collect data.”

He turned and began to follow the footmarks that went across the sands towards the distant Samar. Parallel with them, and now and then overlapping them, were a second set, pointing in the direction of Trescobeas, and showing plainly that the unknown had walked out across Ihcsands, turned (at. precisely what point we had to discover) and come straight back as he had gone out. We waited out beside this double track for a surprisingly long way, and then as we came to the slope, so gradual as to be almost inperceptiblc down the. river, they quite suddenly came to a stop. Here, then, he had turned to come back.

“No, sir,” the ferryman answered. “The tide were as ioxv as it is now. I had to land him here.” “What time was that?" “ ’Bout two o’clock as near as I can say.”

"[ wonder if he saw ihc ear?” 1 hazarded.

"No, sir, 1 should say not. even if ’twas there. He didn’t go across the beach, you see; said he'd lose his way, and so lie might ha” done, it was that dark. 'He went up to the road over the dunes, and from there he wouldn't come down to the beacli again.”

“Do you see anything?” asked Clegg, as we stood looking round on tho untrodden sand.

“No, of course riot,” I agreed 1 was on tenterhooks to rejoin Clegg and tell him all I'd found out. When Ihe ferry set me ashore 1 covered the stretch of sand between us at a good pace.

“Not. a thing,” I said dolefully. “Depend on it, he came out here to chuck the revolver into I tic river. And so that’s that. All that, walk for nothing!” "Not for nothing," Clegg corrected me as we trudged back. “The very fact that he could walk out so far tells us something further ns to the time when he did it. The tide must have been low, you see. I wish I knew more about the tides here, but l don’t think it, possible it could have dropped this far in less than some hours."

“Why this Irurry? Anything wrong?” lie asked.

“Was t hurrying?” I said. “I didn’t know it. The fact is I've found out one or two things. We’re all wrong about the tides for one thing. And that car wasn’t there until some time after eleven o'clock last night, and Ur. Sanders was over at Polstow between eleven and one last night, and —well, that’s something for us to think about, isn't it?” Clegg actually patted me on the back. “And now tell me about the I ides,” lie commanded.

“It comes lo this, then, that he must have been here quite late this morning,” 1 cried, astounded, “Possibly even while we were in the dell.” “It looks like it,” muttered Clegg. “The brazen fellow! Oh, but. I caul forgive myself for not having got either you or Ingram to watch the beach."

1 explained as clearly as I could I heir peculiarities at Trescobeas. “Not such a fine fellow, after all,” lie cried. “I really respected him when t thought he’d been out here this morning while we were in the dell. But to sneak out during the night—any miscreant might do that without fear of bis skin. Come .along, we’ll set to work," he declared, and Indeed he had already taken the bag of plaster and the jar of water from me. “We’ll take a footprint first," he murmured “What do you think of my tin? I’m grateful to the rogues •of picknickers wh othrrxv it away. But what a come-down—from Clomora. peaches to plaster of .Paris, and that for use in the investigation, of a murder.”

“It we had he wouldn’t have dared show himself," T said. "But then J supposo we should -have found the revolver where he’d droppod it. That might have been h'clpful.” Glancing towards Poistow, I saw that the ferry was now half-way across the river, and that I must make haste if I were to catch it before it started for the other side again; for when the tide was low there was no water to bring it, .up to Trescobeas, and it took and set down -its passengers at a sandy spit at, a bend in the estuary about half a mile below the village. . Leaving Clegg to walk back at his own pace, I hurried on therefore, called at the bungalow to give his message to Lathom, and reached the spit with a few minutes t.o spare. •

He-' was mixing the plaster as he spoke, and now he quickly poured the wet mass into one of the footprints-

I was the only passenger, and so t had to bear ai! the burden of the ferryman’s talkativeness. Ilis bright black eyes were Axed inquisitively on the beach road at Trescobeas. “That car’s been there all morn-

“We’ll let that harden." lie remarked, “before xve do any move." Turning slowly on his heel he surveyed the distant hanks of the Samar. “Now, this news about the tides is very interesting,” he went on. "And so is the ferryman's evi-