The Harvest Murder

By John Rhode

The Harvest Murder, first published in 1937 (and also published under the title Death in the Hop Fields) is part of the series of mysteries featuring private detective Dr. Priestley. Author John Rhode , a pen name of Cecil Street (1884-1964), was a prolific writer of mostly detective novels, publishing more than 140 books between 1924 and 1961.

From the dustjacket: Sergeant Wragge happened to see it there, lying by the side of the road, and decided to take care of it himself. After all, a twelve-inch butcher knife is nothing to be left loose on a public highway. When he noticed those curious stains on the blade, his suspicions were more than aroused and he felt that he must be ready for trouble. The Sergeant's forebodings were swiftly corroborated by the events that followed—robbery, a mysterious disappearance, perhaps murder; so he felt that he was justified in demanding the aid of Scotland Yard. The careful investigations of Inspector Hanslet and Jimmy Waghorn soon had them on the right track; but it was Dr. Priestley's quiet, seemingly enigmatic suggestion that finally unearthed the solution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839740749

John Rhode

John Rhode was born Cecil John Charles Street in 1884. He was the author of 140 novels under the names John Rhode, Miles Burton, and Cecil Wade before his death in 1964.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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THE HARVEST MURDER

A Dr. Priestley Detective Story

JOHN RHODE

The Harvest Murder was originally published in 1937 by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc., New York. The British edition of the book was entitled Death in the Hop Fields.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER ONE 4

CHAPTER TWO 11

CHAPTER THREE 19

CHAPTER FOUR 26

CHAPTER FIVE 35

CHAPTER SIX 45

CHAPTER SEVEN 56

CHAPTER EIGHT 67

CHAPTER NINE 78

CHAPTER TEN 90

CHAPTER ELEVEN 102

CHAPTER TWELVE 113

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 124

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 133

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 145

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 158

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 167

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 176

CHAPTER ONE

UNDER ordinary circumstances Sergeant Wragge would have greatly resented being disturbed at the untimely hour of nine o’clock on Sunday morning. But past experience had taught him that hop-picking time was altogether exceptional. Almost anything might be expected to happen while it continued. And on this particular morning, September 1st, hop-picking had been in progress for about a week.

The effect of the hop-picking season upon a little place like Culverden must be emphasized at the outset. For a period of three or four weeks every year the normal quietude of the countryside is completely shattered. An influx of townsfolk, far outnumbering the regular inhabitants, descends upon it. The fact that one farm alone is in the habit of employing three thousand workers, drawn almost without exception from the East End of London, may convey some idea of the extent of this invasion. Nor are the hop-pickers alone the only invaders which have to be reckoned with. For during the weekend all their friends and relations come down in a solid phalanx to visit them.

As may be supposed, then, the usual routine of things at Culverden is apt to be disorganized during hop-picking time. The inhabitants regard hop-picking very much as they would some recurrent natural phenomenon. It is an essential point in their calendar. People say that such and such a thing happened just before last hop-picking, or that somebody’s wedding took place a couple of months after hop-picking five years ago. So powerfully does the upheaval of hop-picking impress itself upon their imaginations and memories.

When the telephone call came through Sergeant Wragge had already finished his breakfast. He had just put on his uniform and was ready to start off on a morning round of inspection. He left his cottage without any undue haste, took his bicycle from the shed from the back door and rode off.

His route took him through the main street of the little town of Culverden, and even at this hour the symptoms of hop-picking were unmistakable. Normally the street would have been practically deserted. But on this particular Sunday morning, which happened to be brilliantly fine, it was full of life. Groups of girls, in the most surprising finery, stood about laughing and chattering with extraordinary animation. The male element was less predominant. There was, as yet, nothing to bring the men from their belated sleep in the shelter of the hop houses. Only a few resigned figures leaned against the walls of the public houses, which would not open for another three hours. Some of these showed symptoms of alertness as the Sergeant passed on his bicycle. It was just possible that, the coast being thus clear, the landlord might be induced to open his window, if only for a moment. It needs so short a moment for a thirsty man to imbibe a pint of beer!

Sergeant Wragge smiled slightly to himself. Experience had taught him that it was folly to be unreasonable. He knew very well that during hop-picking the licensing laws were not observed to the letter. Mere drinking, in his eyes, was not a crime, at whatever hour of the day it might be indulged. And this morning, according to the telephone message which he had received, a really serious matter was awaiting his attention. He glanced at the thirsty loungers, at the ostentatiously closed doors and windows of the public houses, and passed on.

Once clear of the town the road ran between a long succession of hop gardens on either side. The hops, dependent from their tall poles, hung in fragrant bunches. Here and there among the gardens lay a green meadow upon which the long row of hopper huts were erected. These were often no more than mere sheds, but they seemed capable of accommodating an astounding number of people. Each group of hopper huts had its own cook-house, and around these a dense crowd of men, women and children were assembled. Cheerful crowds they were too, thoroughly enjoying the experience of a fine morning in the country. Sergeant Wragge eyed them benevolently. They were all right, these queer London folk, when you knew how to treat them. It was rarely that the hop-pickers themselves gave any trouble. But some of the friends who came down to visit them at the weekends were pretty tough customers, and among so many thousands there was no possibility of keeping proper track of them.

For a mile and a half the almost unbroken succession of hop gardens continued. All this way, dotted at intervals along the road-side, rose the conical shapes of the oast houses, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups of three or more. The faint scented vapor floating from their cowls was the only indication of the fire burning beneath the layers of hops. The expert hop driers, local men all, who tended those fires remained invisible. The Sergeant glanced at the passers-by he met. But their faces were all strange to him, hop-pickers from the various farms strolling aimlessly towards Culverden.

As he proceeded along the road he reached a point where the hop gardens ended abruptly. There was no apparent reason why they should do so. Probably it was because of some change in the nature of the soil. Beyond this point the aspect of the landscape began to change. The hop gardens gave place to orchards and woods, and the road, leaving the comparatively flat plain, began to ascend gently. Standing on the rising ground ahead of him, Sergeant Wragge could discern a cluster of houses. This was the village of Matling, and just beyond it was his destination, a house known as Paddock Croft.

He pedaled along the now practically deserted road. He was thinking not so much of the immediate business on hand as of the loin of roast pork which awaited him for dinner. Mrs. Wragge had been a cook in a gentleman’s house before he married her, and her roast pork was a thing to dream of. The crackling just caught so that its delicious crispness crumbled in the mouth. The potatoes baked with the joint to a golden brown. The apple sauce not too liquid and free from any suggestion of core or pip. And finally the sage and onions, both grown in the sergeant’s own garden. With such a meal in prospect even an uphill bicycle ride had its compensations.

It was merely by chance soon after he had passed the Chequers that he noticed something bright lying half-hidden by the wayside. The sun happened to catch it, and that attracted his attention. He glanced at it without any particular interest and then deliberately stopped his bicycle and dismounted. He walked to the edge of the road, bent down and inspected the object more closely. It was a curious thing to find lying in such a place. A heavy butcher’s knife with a wooden handle and a blade at least twelve inches long. Sergeant Wragge wondered how on earth it could have got there. He bent down and picked it up. It was sharp enough, although the blade was spotted with something that looked like rust. Wragge decided that he had better take charge of it. He couldn’t leave a thing like that lying by the wayside. Somebody might come along and tread on it. Very likely they’d get a nasty cut. He took a length of string from his pocket and with this carefully tied the knife to the cross-bar of his bicycle. Then he mounted once more and proceeded on his way.

He reached Paddock Croft about half an hour after he had started from Culverden. The house was squarely built and of medium size. It stood some little distance back from the road and was approached by a short drive. As Wragge rode up the drive the front door of the house opened and its owner, Mr. Speight, came out to meet him.

Speight was a man of middle-age who had retired early from a lucrative position of some sort in the City. He had been settled at Paddock Croft for a matter of five years or so, and had by now become a member of local societies. He and Mrs. Speight entertained freely and were correspondingly entertained in return. Sergeant Wragge, as he once expressed himself confidentially, had no particular use for him. It wasn’t that he had anything definite against him, but in Wragge’s opinion a man of Speight’s position and means might do a little more for his poorer neighbors than he did. He was reputed to be a hard man and was not over-popular in the village of Matling.

Good-morning, Sergeant, said Speight in reply to Wragge’s rather perfunctory salute. I’m glad you’ve come along so promptly. I’ve been on the look-out for you ever since I telephoned just now. It’s a most annoying affair. One of those confounded hop-pickers is at the bottom of it, I’ll be bound. Come along in and I’ll tell you the story.

He led the way into the hall. I’ll take you upstairs and show you where it happened in a moment, he continued. I expect you’d like to hear first why it wasn’t discovered until this morning. You see, my wife and I went out to dinner and bridge last night with Colonel Cranby, who lives on the other side of Culverden. We left here in the car at half-past seven and weren’t back till after midnight. My wife had a shocking bad headache all the evening. It was terribly hot and close at the Cranbys’. So when she came back she undressed and went to bed at once. She never thought of looking in her jewel case until this morning and when she did she found that it was empty.

Who remained in the house during your absence, Mr. Speight? Wragge asked.

Oh, the servants. Three of them, you know. Their quarters are at the other side of the house and they wouldn’t have heard anything. The jewel case was standing on my wife’s dressing-table where it always is. I’ve told her more than once that she ought to keep it locked up, but women are so careless in those matters, you know. And the fellow got in by the window, there’s no doubt of that. There’s some soil from the garden on the carpet just inside it. But come along, I expect you’d like to see for yourself.

He led the way upstairs into a luxuriously-equipped dressing-room. Wragge, glancing round, saw that it had two casement windows, both of which were now tightly shut. Speight pointed to the carpet in front of one of these. There you are, he exclaimed triumphantly.

Wragge followed the direction of his pointing finger. On the light blue carpet there was a dark smudge which upon inspection proved to consist of several grains of earth. This window was left open while you were out, Mr. Speight? the Sergeant asked.

Yes, it was wide open. Wide as it could be, and hooked back. Both Mrs. Speight and myself like as much fresh air as we can get. And the jewel box was standing exactly where you see it now. I wouldn’t let anybody touch it until you came. That’s it on the corner of the dressing-table.

Speight pointed out a silver casket about the size of a small biscuit tin. My wife keeps nearly all her jewelry in that, he continued. It was given to her as a wedding present by her godmother and she’s very much attached to it. It wouldn’t have happened if she’d kept her things locked up in a safe as I’ve always advised her. Last night, when she was dressing before we went out, she opened the box to take out a couple of emerald earrings. And when she next looked at the box before she came down to breakfast this morning it was empty. Absolutely cleaned out. Not a thing left in it.

Can you give me a list of the articles that are missing, Mr. Speight? Wragge asked.

Speight shrugged his shoulders. I’ll do my best, he replied. I asked my wife as soon as she told me of the loss if she knew what had been taken. She wrote down all she could remember on a piece of paper, but we can’t be certain that she’s thought of everything. I’ve got the paper in my pocket. Here it is.

Wragge took the slip of note-paper which Speight handed him and glanced over it. About a dozen articles of jewelry were enumerated. Diamond rings, a pearl necklace, a pair of platinum bracelets, various pendants set with precious stones and so forth. A collection, Wragge imagined, of some considerable value.

Speight’s theory was probably correct. The garden mold upon the carpet certainly suggested that the thief entered by the window. The Sergeant opened the window and glanced out. He saw that the sill was no more than ten feet above the ground level. Directly beneath the window was a narrow flower bed and beyond that a grass plot. Wragge shut the window and turned to Speight.

I think I should like to go down and look about outside, he said.

Speight led the way downstairs through a side door into the garden. That’s the window of my wife’s dressing-room, he said, pointing towards the house.

They walked to the flower bed immediately beneath it. There had been no rain for some days and the ground was fairly hard. But in spite of this, at the outer edge of the flower bed two rounded depressions were plainly to be seen. These were about fifteen inches apart and perhaps a couple of inches deep. The Sergeant looked at them and nodded wisely. Have you got a ladder about the place, Mr. Speight? he asked.

Why yes, there’s a ladder hanging up against the garden wall not more than a few yards from here, Speight replied.

I should like to see it, if you don’t mind, Mr. Speight, said Wragge.

Speight took him across the grass plot to a wall upon which were trained a number of fruit trees. They passed through a gate set in this wall which led them into the kitchen garden. On the farther side of the wall were a couple of iron hooks and on these was hung a twenty-rung ladder.

The Sergeant looked at it for a few seconds, then picked it up and carried it to the window. There he raised it against the wall of the house with the lower ends resting in the depressions he had already noticed. The ends of the ladder fitted these depressions exactly. Further, with the ladder resting against the wall in this position, it would be a perfectly simple matter for anyone to climb up it and so step into the dressing-room through the window.

Yes, that’s the way the thief got in, no doubt, said Speight. Very smart of you to tumble at once to the ladder like that, Sergeant. Now the point is, who was it, and what’s become of the jewelry? I can’t tell you how upset my wife is by this affair. She went straight back to bed as soon as she discovered what had happened.

The Sergeant made no reply, for at present these questions were unanswerable. He walked slowly up and down the grass plot looking about him. The servants’ quarters are on the other side of the house, you say, Mr. Speight? he said.

Yes, that’s right. And the only windows on the ground floor looking out this way are those of the drawing-room and the dining-room. Since we were out there would be nobody in either of those rooms, of course. The fellow, whoever he was, could have put the ladder up against the wall without anybody being a penny the wiser. What I can’t understand is why he left the jewel box behind him. It’s of considerable value, as you can see for yourself.

Too bulky to carry, the Sergeant replied tersely. Just cleaned it out and emptied the contents into his pocket. Well, I’ll do my best for you, Mr. Speight. You don’t mind if I potter round here for a bit, do you?

You must take any steps you think fit, Speight replied. I think I’ll go in now and tell my wife you’re here. I’m sure she’ll be relieved to know that something is being done about it.

The Sergeant was rather relieved to be rid of him. He began to explore minutely the outside of the premises. There was just a possibility that the thief had left some sort of clue behind him, but on the hard and unyielding ground this seemed rather a faint hope. It did not take him long to discover that there was no need for anyone wishing to reach that side of the house to approach it from the road. The garden sloped toward an open meadow from which it was separated merely by a four-foot iron railing. Across this meadow was a public pathway. It would be the simplest thing in the world for anyone to leave this pathway, cross the meadow, climb the iron fence and so find themselves in the garden. Another point which Wragge ascertained was this. Although only the first floor of the house was visible from the pathway, the wall upon which the ladder had hung was plainly to be seen. In fact, from one point of the path the ladder itself could be discerned without difficulty. The path from its appearance seemed to be frequently used. Indeed, during his inspection of it, two or three straggling hop-pickers passed him, wending their way towards Matling.

It was on his way back to the house from this path that Wragge made his first discovery. It had occurred to him that an intruder wishing to reach the house would not risk walking openly across the grass plot. He would instinctively seek some cover for his approach. And, as it happened, this was readily available. A gravel path skirted the grass plot, and this was overhung by the branches of a line of ornamental trees. Wragge followed this route with his eyes upon the ground, seeking some unlikely clue. He happened to look up and saw in the branches of the trees above him a patch of scarlet. Closer investigation showed a suspended paper cap, bright green with a red cockade upon it.

Such an object in such a place might well have puzzled any one unacquainted with the neighborhood. But it did not puzzle Sergeant Wragge. His experience of the etiquette of the hop-picking fraternity was profound. It was considered the thing for visitors to the hop fields to assume a holiday appearance. This was usually done by the wearing of paper caps of divers hues and shapes. It was not likely that Mr. Speight or any of his household were in the habit of wearing paper caps in the garden. This cap, then, had almost certainly been the property of one of the hop-pickers or their friends.

He detached it carefully from the thorn which had pierced it and turned it over in his hands. It was very slightly damp and had lost some of its original stiffness. But the colors seemed as bright as ever, and the paper was untorn. It could not have been exposed to the dew and the weather for more than one night. This seemed to the Sergeant to prove conclusively that the cap had belonged to the thief. This find was an unexpected piece of luck. Surely somebody would remember the man or woman who had been wearing this cap on the previous day. And then Wragge smiled rather ruefully. Remember, yes. They might remember all right, but whether they would confide their memories to the police was quite another question.

Despite a minute examination of the exterior of the premises, the Sergeant found no further clue. He folded up the cap and put it in his pocket. Then he re-entered the house, where he found Speight awaiting him. Any luck, Sergeant? the latter asked.

Wragge did not feel disposed to disclose the discovery of the cap. As good as can be expected, Mr. Speight, he replied. I shall have to go away now and make certain inquiries in the neighborhood. And I shall be very grateful if you will allow me to take the jewel box with me.

The jewel box! Speight exclaimed. Why, whatever for? It’s quite empty, as you’ve seen for yourself.

The Sergeant certainly had seen this for himself. But he had also noticed that the jewel box was of silver and brightly polished. If the thief had removed its contents he must first have opened it to do so. He must therefore have touched it, and polished silver was an almost ideal surface for recording fingerprints. However, he had no wish to explain all this to Speight. It is possible that it might assist in the investigation, he replied.

Speight looked doubtful. Well, you’ll have to take it away if you want to, I suppose, he said. I think I won’t say anything about it to my wife, though. She wouldn’t like it at all, I’m sure. She values that box very highly, you know. She was very fond of her god-mother, who has been dead for several years.

I assure you that the greatest care shall be taken of it, Mr. Speight, said the sergeant. I wonder if you could let me have a cardboard box and a few sheets of newspaper?

Speight produced these without difficulty. The sergeant fetched the jewel box, being careful to hold it at one point only. Then he placed it in the cardboard box, packing it round very carefully with newspaper. He tied the package to the handlebars of his bicycle and rode away, promising Mr. Speight he would hear again from him very shortly.

As he left the house Wragge looked at the clock in the hall — it was barely half-past eleven. Plenty of time for him to do what he had to do and then enjoy his dinner. He would enjoy it with the greater zest because he felt distinctly pleased with himself. That paper cap had indeed been a lucky find.

CHAPTER TWO

IMMEDIATELY upon his return to Culverden, Sergeant Wragge communicated with his superior, the Superintendent of the district. As a result of their conversation, Mrs. Speight’s jewel box was dispatched that afternoon by a trusty messenger to Scotland Yard. Since Inspector Waghorn of the Criminal Investigation Department was on duty, the package was delivered to him.

Inspector Waghorn was a young man with a university education who had entered the police force by the medium of the Police College at Hendon. At this time he was acting as assistant to Superintendent Hanslet, well known as one of the leading lights of the Yard. To his friends in the force, who were many, the Inspector was popularly known as Jimmy. He was already beginning to gain something of a reputation as a smart officer.

The arrival of the silver box with its accompanying request for examination by the fingerprint department was to Jimmy no more than a matter of routine. Finding himself with nothing particular to do that afternoon, he took the box to the fingerprint department himself. The officer in charge of that department, with whom Jimmy was on excellent terms, eyed the box critically.

What’s this, Jimmy? he asked. It looks expensive, whatever it is. I can’t bring myself to believe that you’re bringing me the freedom of the city in a silver casket.

Fine bit of plate, isn’t it? Jimmy replied. It’s been sent up from a place called Culverden for your inspection. From what I can gather something has been stolen from it, and the local people believe that you may be able to find the fingermarks of the thief.

The officer in charge of the department took the box and held it up to the light. It’s been polished fairly recently, he remarked. If there are any fingermarks on it we ought to be able to find them. As it is, I can see some faint smudges which may or may not turn out to be prints. It’s a matter for a little dusting powder, I fancy.

The expert carried out the necessary dusting with grey powder. Fingermarks all right, he exclaimed immediately. Two sets of them, by the look of it. We can only hope one set hasn’t confused the other. Wait a minute, till I get my magnifying glass to work upon them.

For a couple of minutes he examined the surface of the box intently and in silence. Half a dozen really fine specimens, he said at last. The complete fingermarks, four fingers and thumbs, both hands of two separate people. I rather fancy that one of these people is a woman, but I can’t be sure. And the other fingermarks I’ve seen before, I’m certain of that. I wouldn’t mind betting you that we’ve already got them in our records.

Wonderful how easy detection is to chaps like you! Jimmy murmured.

Easy! exclaimed the other. Why, it’s as simple as falling off a log. If you’d been working at fingerprints as long as I have, my lad, you’d learn to recognize them at a glance. I’m not going to pretend that I remember to whom each set of prints belongs, but if I’ve seen them before I know them again. Wait a minute.

He glanced fixedly once more at the fingerprints which his operations had disclosed, then went to one of the set of cupboards that occupied the sides of the rooms. From this he extracted a file which he consulted, turning over the leaves slowly one by one. In a few moments he extracted a leaf and held it out for Jimmy’s inspection. There you are, he said, "the very identical prints. You’ll want the prints on this box photographed, of course. I’ll see to that for you, and send the lot up to your room as soon as