Inspector French: Sir John Magill’s Last Journey. Freeman Crofts Wills
quite true, French. Better still, it leads us to something we do know, and that is that we’re theorising too soon. I’ve something more to tell you—two things in fact.
‘The first is a small matter. Among our other lines of inquiry we made a house-to-house visitation in Sandy Row and the adjoining streets in the hope of finding someone who expected or actually met Sir John. That, I regret to say, brought us nothing.
‘The second is that we issued a description of Sir John and circulated it to the police throughout the whole of Northern Ireland. And to this we got a reply which I confess surprised me.’
Rainey paused to emphasise his climax. French was impressed by all he had heard. If there was any more efficient way of handling a case than that these men had adopted, he felt he would like to know of it.
‘Sir John had been seen once again after he left Sandy Row,’ went on Rainey. ‘You noticed that big hill with the flat top and the precipitous front to the north of the city as you came in?’
‘I was admiring it, sir,’ French declared. ‘It reminded me of pictures I had seen of Table Mountain.’
‘I never saw Table Mountain,’ said Rainey, ‘and whether it’s like it or not I don’t know. It’s called the Cave Hill and it’s about twelve hundred feet high, with a splendid view from the top. Along its lower slopes runs the main road to Antrim, and from this Antrim Road a steep path leads to the top, the Sheeps’ Path. Now half an hour after Sir John Magill reached Sandy Row, a constable saw him get out of a tram at the foot of this path, and after looking round in a surreptitious sort of way, hurry up it. The path disappears immediately into trees, so that the constable lost sight of him at once. Of course he was some distance away, but he is positive he made no mistake about it’s being Sir John.’
‘By Jove, sir, very strange that! Have you any idea what he might have gone up there for?’
‘Well, a possible suggestion is that it was to meet someone about his invention. But there doesn’t seem to be any reason for such a theatrical kind of secrecy.’
‘That path doesn’t lead near any houses?’ French asked.
‘It leads up through the grounds of Belfast Castle. But there are many private houses along the inland side of the Antrim road and no doubt you could get to these from the path. You could go along parallel to the road on the side of the hill and drop down at the back of any of the houses. But why?’
‘Somebody in one of those houses working at the same idea?’
The superintendent glanced at Sergeant M’Clung.
‘That’s what M’Clung suggested,’ he answered, ‘and we have made a list of the occupiers of the houses for investigation. But I’m not hopeful of it myself.’
‘Have you any other theory, sir?’
Rainey shook his head.
‘I confess I haven’t. Sometimes I wonder if the old man hadn’t gone dotty, but there’s little to support that.’
‘Mightn’t he have just been out for a walk?’
‘We considered that also,’ the superintendent admitted, ‘but I think it’s unlikely. Sir John was too old and didn’t seem keen on that sort of thing. Then there was his secretive manner when he disappeared up the path. No, it’s certainly a puzzle—unless the constable made a mistake after all.’
Rainey paused and there was silence for some moments. Presently he went on.
‘Now there are one or two inquiries suggested by your statement, Inspector. M’Clung, you get away to M’Millan & Maxwell’s and ask them if they know anything of a Coates who might have called on Sir John, or who is interested in inventions or silk or linen. At the same time I’ll get a systematic search made among all of the name in the city. With any luck we should get something there.’
French agreed that both these avenues should be explored. Once again he felt impressed by the efficiency with which the case was being handled. These North of Ireland men had nothing to learn from London. He had to admit that even he himself could not have done much more in the time.
In half an hour M’Clung re-entered. A glance at his face gave his news.
‘No good, sir,’ he reported. ‘I saw M’Millan himself. They don’t know anybody called Coates that would suit.’
‘Had they been working on this silk-linen invention?’
‘Never even heard of it, sir.’
‘I thought that would be the way,’ Rainey declared, ‘so I’m hardly disappointed. Better luck next time, Sergeant.’
Before either man could reply a knock came to the door.
‘Gentleman to see you, sir,’ a constable said, handing Rainey a card.
‘“Mr Victor Magill.” Yes, this is the time I asked him to call. We’d better see him, Inspector.’
He glanced at French, and the latter having signified his agreement, he told the constable to send Mr Magill in.
Victor Magill was a small man, thin and wiry, and walking with a considerable limp. His features were strongly marked, the bones standing forward. His eyes were surmounted by a heavy frontal projection, his cheekbones were high and his chin and jaw well developed. A mobile expression and a nervous, eager manner gave him an appearance of energy and force, but this was countered by a weak mouth.
‘Good morning, Mr Magill,’ Rainey greeted him. ‘I am Superintendent Rainey and this is Detective-Sergeant M’Clung of our service. You have come at an opportune moment, Mr Magill, for we have with us here Detective-Inspector French from Scotland Yard, who who has come over to consult with us about Sir John’s disappearance.’
‘This is a terrible and most mysterious affair,’ Victor said as he shook hands. ‘I came directly I heard of it. My cousin, Malcolm, has just been giving me the details. He would have come down with me, but he had a directors’ meeting. I should like to know if you have learned anything fresh?’
‘I’m sorry to say we have not,’ Rainey answered. ‘We were just checking over how we stood with Inspector French, and we certainly haven’t much to go on. When I got your phone this morning I began to hope that you were going to give us some information.’
‘I?’ Victor Magill shook his head. ‘I should be only too thankful, were I able. But I’m afraid I know nothing that could help you. In fact the thing staggers me altogether. My poor uncle was the last man to be mixed up in anything abnormal. He was so conventional and—respectable is scarcely the word—I might perhaps say that he was a pillar of ordered society. I suppose’—he hesitated—‘you have no doubt that he is dead?’
‘We don’t know,’ Rainey returned, ‘but I must admit it doesn’t look very hopeful.’
Victor shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. If he were alive we would have heard of him before this. I can see that Malcolm has lost hope too. Very sad and puzzling beyond belief.’
‘How did you hear of it, Mr Magill?’
‘Malcolm and my cousin Caroline—Miss Magill, you know—both sent me wires. I have been on a yachting cruise, or rather a motor launch cruise up the west coast of Scotland. I left a list of places where we’d call. It was at one of these, at Oban, that the wires were waiting. That was yesterday morning. I just managed to catch the twelve o’clock train for Glasgow, which brought me in time for last night’s steamer to Belfast. This morning I went up to see Malcolm at the mill and then came straight down to you.’
‘Very