The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) Read Online Free

mean? Was it within the bounds of possibility that somebody else, not Clayton, had coupled the hose with the pipe? If that were the case, all manner of unexpected suggestions opened out!
    To begin with, it was quite natural that the tea should be laid and the kettle boiling. It was quite natural that the light should be burning in the parlour. Above all, it was quite natural that Clayton should have just washed his hands. If he was just about to sit down to his tea, wasn’t it obvious that he would first remove the grime of his labours?
    And if Clayton hadn’t fixed the hose, then Clayton hadn’t committed suicide. It meant—but at that point the Inspector drew himself up short. Where was all this theorizing leading him? Weren’t his suspicions rather running away with his common sense? After all, the affair had every appearance of suicide and just because one or two extraordinary details of the case had intrigued him, he had no right to assume that it wasn’t suicide. Still, there it was. He would have to incorporate his suspicions into the official report. After that—well, he couldn’t do better than leave it to his superiors.
    His meditations were cut short by Railton’s return.
    “It’s all right, sir. I’ve traced him. He’s staying at the Beacon Hotel in Penrith. I didn’t wait to report first but got through on the ‘phone from the Hare and Hounds.”
    “Good. And he’s coming over?”
    “Right away on his motor-bike. He should be here in under the hour, sir.”
    “How did he take it, Railton?”
    “Well, he sounded pretty cut up, of course. Surprised, too. Said something about it being ‘impossible’.”
    The Inspector nodded. It was not the first time he had heard that particular phrase.
    The constable’s prophecy proved correct, for in less than an hour a high-powered motor-bike roared up to the garage and a round-shouldered individual, encased in a leather coat and helmet, came quickly up the cottage path.
    Without wasting time on preliminaries, Meredith introduced himself, uttered a few words of sympathy and got Mark Higgins formally to identify the body. Higgins was a thin, ferret-faced man of about thirty, and there was that about his speech which the Inspector immediately placed as Cockney. He seemed a highly strung sort of fellow, but Meredith was unable to say if this was normal or whether the shock of Clayton’s death had temporarily unnerved him. After answering a few official questions, Higgins drew off his helmet and gloves, wiped his rain-wet face with a handkerchief and, dropping into an arm-chair, lit a cigarette.
    “Rather spoilt your week-end, Mr. Higgins,” observed Meredith casually. “When were you intending to return?”
    “To-morrow afternoon. You see, I had business over in Penrith. I was meeting a customer of ours at eleven-thirty to-morrow morning. I hoped to fix him up with a second-hand car.” Higgins made a grimace. “Rather looks as if the deal’s off now, doesn’t it? Poor old Jack! Can’t think why he’s been and done this, Inspector. Never seemed that sort of chap to me. I can tell you, it’s fairly cut me up!”
    “What time did you set off to-day for Penrith?”
    “About quarter to six, I should think. And I’ll swear there was nothing strange about Jack when I left him. Mind you, I don’t say he hasn’t been a bit moody at times. It’s a lonely spot this in the winter months. Trade’s not been too brisk, neither.”
    “You think that Clayton might have been a bit worried over the affairs of the garage?”
    “It’s possible. Not that we’re in a bad way, but things always slacken off a lot in the winter. It’s the tourists we rely on to bring out the balance on the right side.”
    Meredith nodded. He was rather puzzled by Higgins’s behaviour. He seemed shaken and genuinely upset about his partner’s death, yet at the same time curiously matter-of-fact. Probably he was trying to cover up any signs of what he considered unmanly emotion.