Murder at Derivale

By John Rhode

Murder at Derivale, first published in 1958, is book no. 66 in the Dr. Priestley detective story series. 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. Murder at Derivale one of the final books in the Priestley series, has Inspector Jimmy Waghorn (assisted by the now elderly Dr. Priestley) investigating the death by poisoning of a man found dead in a truck parked in his neighbor's yard. Diamond smuggling and realistic police procedures are also featured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839740725

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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MURDER AT DERIVALE

A Dr. Priestley Detective Story

JOHN RHODE

Murder at Derivale (book no. 66 in the Dr. Priestley series) was originally published in 1958 by Dodd, Mead & Company, New York.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

I 4

II 14

III 24

IV 34

V 44

VI 54

VII 64

VIII 74

IX 82

X 90

XI 101

XII 111

XIII 121

XIV 131

XV 141

XVI 147

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 152

I

Alfred Kinder, a lorry driver employed by the Wentshire County Council, set out from his home, one of the two Council houses in the village of Derivale, at a quarter-past seven in the morning of Monday, January 13th. It was an uninviting morning, dark, misty and drizzling, with three-quarters of an hour yet to go before sunrise.

Derivale was little more than a hamlet, lying on the main road between Claybridge, the county town, and Greymarsh, forty-two miles distant. Since for the most part the road followed the track of an old Roman road, it was mainly straight and hilly. Derivale, fifteen miles from Claybridge, lay in a valley, through which ran the Derry, a small stream which was one of the tributaries of the river Clay.

Kinder had not far to go. His house stood on the main road, along which he walked for a quarter of a mile to its junction with a secondary road leading to Otfield, five miles away. He followed this for another quarter of a mile till he came to the yard gate of The Old Mill. He opened the gate, fastened it back, and entered the yard in which his lorry was parked.

It was by quite an informal arrangement that the lorry was parked in the yard of The Old Mill. There was no room for it outside Kinder’s house, nor any public open space on which it could be left. The original suggestion had come from Kinder’s neighbor, who in his spare time worked as gardener for Colonel Farleigh, the owner of The Old Mill. Why don’t you ask the Colonel if you can keep the old bus in his yard? he had said. There’s plenty of room there, and as long as you keep clear of his garage door, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Just you ask him.

Kinder had asked, and the Colonel, who was of a helpful disposition, had readily given permission. So there the lorry stood, looming through the mist on this dark January morning. It was a curious-looking object, not unlike a Noah’s Ark on wheels. It was used for transporting the members of a road gang to and from wherever they were working, and for that purpose a sort of hut had been erected on the floor. The hut had no window, but a wide opening at the back, over which was hung a tarpaulin curtain. A flight of steps, reaching nearly to the ground, gave access to this opening. On the side of the lorry were painted the words Wentshire County Council. Roads and Bridges Department.

The offices of the Roads and Bridges Department were at Otfield, a convenient spot, for it was practically in the center of the county. But since the only accommodation which could be found for the driver was five miles away, the lorry obviously could not be kept in Otfield. Hence the necessity of finding some place in Derivale on which it could be parked.

Kinder, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat and with a muffler round his neck, set to work. His first task was to remove the tarpaulin tied over the bonnet and fold this up. When folded, there was space for it between the cab and the front end of the hut.

The next thing was to get the engine started. Kinder took the ignition key from his pocket and put it in its place. Then he felt for the starting handle lying on the floor board of the cab. Having found it, he switched on, inserted the starting handle and swung it vigorously.

As usual on a chilly morning, nothing happened at this first attempt. Kinder renewed his efforts. He was rewarded first by an asthmatic coughing sound, then by a hearty bang. One more turn, and the engine started noisily. Kinder let it run for a minute or so, to warm things up, then put the gear in reverse and backed slowly out of the yard. Once in the road, clear of the gateway, he got out and shut and fastened the gate. Then he drove on in the direction of the main road.

Two men of the gang, who lived nearby, were waiting for him at the junction. You’re behind time this morning, Alf, one of them said as he pulled up.

Had a rum job to get her started, Kinder replied. It’s the damp that does it. Hop in, then we shan’t keep the others waiting.

One of the men, Will Taplow, climbed up the steps at the rear of the lorry. When he reached the top, he lifted the tarpaulin which hung over the aperture of the hut. There was just light enough for him to see into the dim interior. Hullo, Alf! he exclaimed. Who’s this you’ve picked up?

What do you mean? Kinder replied. I haven’t picked no one up except you two.

Well, there’s a bloke inside, and he looks fast asleep, said Taplow. Come and look for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

Kinder climbed out of the cab and came to the rear of the lorry. Taplow edged off along the backboard to make room for him. Kinder climbed up the steps and peered in. A bench ran along either side of the hut, and at the far end of one of these Kinder could see a human form. There was not sufficient light for him to make out any details, but he could see that the form was sitting on the bench, head and shoulders resting in the corner of the hut.

Well, I’m blessed! Kinder exclaimed. Must be some tramp who thought he’d found a good place to doss down in. Hey, you there! Wake up!

But no response came, though Kinder had shouted loud enough. Kinder struck a match, but a puff of wind immediately blew it out again. Have either of you chaps got a light? he asked.

The third man, who was still standing in the roadway, replied. I’ve got a torch. Couldn’t have got down the path from my place without it.

Hand it up, then, said Kinder. He reached down to take the torch, then switched it on and directed the light into the hut. His amazement at what the light revealed was such that he almost let the torch fall from his hands. Come and look, Will! he called urgently. I do believe I’ve gone crazy.

Taplow edged along until he too could see into the hut. The light was unsteady for Kinder’s hand was trembling with excitement. But it was constant enough to show the head thrown back, revealing a face well known to both men. Why, surely it can’t be Mr. Hanslope? Taplow exclaimed.

It’s him, right enough, Kinder replied. I knew it was when I first set eyes on him, but I wanted you to look to make sure. And I don’t like the looks of him. It doesn’t seem to me that he’s only just asleep.

What’s he doing in there, anyway? Taplow asked.

I don’t know, Kinder replied. I didn’t know he was there till you spotted him. It strikes me it’s no business of ours, and that we’d best not touch him. I reckon we ought to let Mr. Lodden know about this. Lodden was the police constable stationed at Derivale.

I’ll slip along to his place, said Taplow. He set off at a smart pace along the main road, in the direction of Claybridge. The constable’s house was some two or three hundred yards from the junction. Taplow walked up to the front door and knocked on it.

Lodden, who was in the kitchen, uttered a malediction on hearing the knock. He had been out for the greater part of the night, and was having his breakfast after an hour’s rest. Two of the lads from the Reformatory, halfway between Derivale and Otfield, had escaped on the previous evening. This was no unusual occurrence, and it meant that all the police in the neighborhood had to turn out and search for them. Escaped boys usually roamed about until they came across bicycles, or even a car, with which they could get away. But on this occasion they had been rounded up in a barn, and escorted back whence they came. Where, presumably, they were treated to psychology, rather than to the corporal punishment they had so richly deserved.

Lodden swallowed a mouthful of tea and went to the front door. He recognized the man standing outside immediately. What do you want with me at this time in the morning, Taplow? he asked.

Mr. Hanslope is in Alf Kinder’s lorry, Taplow replied. He thought you ought to know about it.

You can’t be drunk as early as this, surely? Lodden asked. Mr. Hanslope that lives at the Manor, you mean?

Taplow’s feelings were hurt at this suggestion. I wouldn’t say it was him if it wasn’t, would I? You’d best come and look for yourself, then perhaps you’ll be satisfied. The lorry’s standing down by the corner.

Lodden fetched his cap, and he and Taplow went down the road. Kinder and the third man were standing at the rear of the lorry, gazing up at the hut, as though they expected Mr. Hanslope to emerge from it. What’s all this about Mr. Hanslope? Lodden asked.

Kinder jerked his thumb upwards. He’s in there. Step up and have a look.

Lodden mounted the steps, drew aside the tarpaulin and entered the hut. He had his torch with him, a much more powerful affair than the one Kinder had used, and turned its light on to the recumbent form. There was no doubt that it was Mr. Hanslope, looking very much as Lodden had always known him. He was wearing a dark suit, with a brown overcoat above it. In appearance he was asleep. His mouth was open, but no sound of breathing came from it.

Lodden made a swift examination, and his knowledge of first-aid very soon assured him that Mr. Hanslope was dead. He descended from the hut and addressed the trio standing there. I shall have to report this to the Super at Otfield. You chaps stay here, and mind you don’t touch anything.

He hurried back to his house, and put a call through to Superintendent Notgrove at Otfield. This done, he went back to the lorry. What do you know about this, Kinder? he asked.

I don’t know nothing about it, Kinder replied. I didn’t know there was anyone inside till Will got up and saw him. The lorry was standing in the Colonel’s yard as usual, and I went there and drove it out.

How long had the lorry been standing in the yard? Lodden asked.

Since Saturday, Kinder replied. I drove it in there about half-past twelve and covered it up. There was no one in it then, that I’ll swear.

You didn’t go to the lorry yesterday? Lodden asked.

On Sunday? Kinder replied. Not likely. Why should I go to it? It was safe enough where it was. Nobody would meddle with it.

What do you mean by covering it up? Lodden asked. Did you put a tarpaulin over the top of it?

Kinder shook his head. Only over the bonnet. There was nothing to stop anyone climbing up and going inside if they wanted to. But there wasn’t anything in there, so there was nothing to pinch.

Lodden was still making notes when a car came along the Otfield road, driven by the Superintendent. Beside him was sitting Dr. Phepson, who practiced in Otfield and was the Divisional Surgeon. Lodden sprang to attention and saluted as the car pulled up and the two men alighted from it. What’s your report, constable? Notgrove asked.

Lodden told him the gist of his notes. The body is that of Mr. Hanslope, sir. He was a widower gentleman, and lived at the Manor here by himself. I’ve left the body just as I found it, sir.

Well, we’ll have a look, said Notgrove. Come along, Doctor.

They ascended the steps and entered the hut. Notgrove switched on his torch, by the light of which Phepson examined the body. He’s dead all right, he said after a while. And so far as I can make out, he’s been dead for some time. What he died of I can’t tell you. There don’t seem to be any injuries.

Do you know him? Notgrove asked.

Yes, I know him, Phepson replied. He was one of my patients. That’s to say that he sent for me when he had anything the matter with him, which wasn’t very often. I haven’t been to the Manor since last autumn. It’ll be a job for the coroner, and there’ll have to be a post-mortem. What are we going to do with him?

He lived by himself, I’m told, said Notgrove. So there aren’t any relatives to be considered. The best thing will be to take him to the mortuary at Otfield. And we shan’t want a hearse, for this lorry will serve the purpose.

They descended to the ground. Which of you men is the driver? Notgrove asked.

I am, Kinder replied. And it’s high time I was getting along.

That’s just what I want you to do, said Notgrove. Jump up and drive to the mortuary at Otfield. You go with him, constable.

I don’t know what the boss will say about that, Kinder objected. We ought to have been at the Pebling Horseshoes long before this. We’re repairing the culvert under the road just beyond there.

I’ll put it right with your boss, Notgrove replied. Besides, you can explain matters at your office in Otfield when you get there. Hop along, now, and don’t let’s waste any more time.

And what about us two? Taplow asked indignantly.

You can please yourselves, Notgrove replied. You can walk to the Horseshoes, or you can wait here till the lorry comes back and picks you up. Come along, Doctor. Let’s get away before the lorry.

He and Phepson entered the car and drove off in the direction of Otfield. Kinder, with Lodden seated beside him, turned the lorry and followed.

The mortuary at Otfield was no more than a small brick building in the yard of the police station. When the lorry arrived there, its occupants found Notgrove and a sergeant waiting for them. Under Notgrove’s direction Kinder maneuvered the lorry until its back was facing the door of the mortuary. You can run along and tell your people why you’re delayed this morning, said Notgrove. And you can tell them at the same time that we shall have to keep the lorry here until we’ve been over it.

Kinder went off, and the three policemen set about the removal of the body. It was no easy task, for Mr. Hanslope was a big, heavily built man. It took all their efforts to get the body through the aperture at the back of the hut, and then to lower it on to a stretcher placed on the ground. After that, it was a comparatively easy matter to carry it into the mortuary and lay it on the slab.

The next step was the removal of the dead man’s clothes and the search of the pockets. Notgrove undertook the latter himself. He found a wallet, in which was a driving license and certificate of insurance, but no currency notes. A cigar case with three cigars in it, and a petrol lighter, a ball-point pen and a miniature pocket diary, a bunch of keys, and seven shillings and ninepence in silver and copper.

Before leaving Otfield, Notgrove had telephoned Lodden’s report to County Police headquarters in Claybridge. He had just finished emptying the pockets, when he heard the sound of a motor-cycle, which stopped outside. He went out to meet the rider, whom he found to be Detective-Inspector Mitcham. The Chief sent me along in case you should want any help, sir, said Mitcham.

That’s good, Notgrove replied. You see this Council lorry here? That’s the one in which the dead man was found. We’ve got him out, but it was the dickens of a job. I’m pretty sure he must have died in that hut affair, for it would have taken a gang of men to get him into it after he was dead. The best thing you can do first is to have a look inside and see what you can find.

Mitcham mounted the steps and seeing the tarpaulin hanging over the entrance, lifted it up and laid it on the top of the hut. It was considerably lighter by now, and this enabled him to see the interior, at least dimly. The hut was bare, but for the two benches, and searching it was a comparatively simple matter. There was nothing to be seen on either the walls or the roof, so Mitcham turned his attention to the floor, which was fairly clean.

The first thing he discovered, on the center of the floor, was a couple of small white heaps. Examining these through his lens, he recognized them as consisting of cigar ash. Pursuing his search, he found a polished metal torch, lying under the bench from which the body had been taken. He did not touch this, but left it lying where it was. Finally, under the opposite bench, he found the remains of a cigar, smoked to within a couple of inches of the end.

He climbed out of the lorry and went to his motor-cycle, which had a case strapped to the carrier. He opened the case and took from it a pair of metal tongs. He returned to the hut, and with the tongs picked up the torch, being careful to grasp it by its extreme end. As he descended the steps, Notgrove came out of the mortuary. Hullo, Inspector, what have you got there? he asked.

A torch, sir, Mitcham replied. And I’d like to test it for finger-prints.

Come along to my room, said Notgrove. You can do the job there. He led the way into the police station, and so to the Superintendent’s room. There you are. Is there anything you want?

I’d like something to rest the torch in, while I get my gear, sir," Mitcham replied.

Notgrove considered this for a moment. I’ve got the very thing. He went to a cupboard and took from it a cylindrical tobacco tin, of a size to hold a quarter of a pound. It was half full, but Notgrove emptied the contents on to a sheet of paper. Will that do?

It will do very well, sir, Mitcham replied. He lowered the torch into the tin, so that it rested on the edge. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll slip out and get my apparatus.

He went out and took what he needed from his case. With these he returned and proceeded to dust the torch with a fine white powder. Then he examined the dusted surface through his lens. There’s a good set of prints there, sir. As plain as anyone could wish.

He handed the lens to Notgrove, who examined the prints. Very pretty, he said. What next?

I’d like to take the dead man’s prints, sir, if you’ve no objection, Mitcham replied.

Carry on, said Notgrove. Go across to the mortuary. You’ll find the sergeant there.

Mitcham, carrying his apparatus, did so. He inked the dead man’s hands, then took their impressions on two cards. These he took back to the Superintendent’s room, and compared them with the prints on the torch. I don’t think there can be any doubt about it, sir, he said. The prints on the torch seem to me identical with those of the dead man’s right hand.

Then we may take it that the torch was Mr. Hanslope’s, Notgrove replied. I don’t begin to understand it. What in the name of fortune was Mr. Hanslope doing in the Council lorry? As a Detective-Inspector from headquarters, you’ll take over the matter, I suppose?

Those are my instructions, provided you agree, sir. Mitcham replied.

I agree, all right, said Notgrove. I’ve plenty to do in my Division without indulging in detection work. And of course I’ll give you any help you want. You can use this room whenever you like.

They were still talking when Dr. Phepson was announced. I’ve had my breakfast and now I’m ready to make a proper examination, he said. You’ve got the body into the mortuary?

Yes, you’ll find it in there, Notgrove replied. You can go ahead.

The doctor went out, and Notgrove pointed out to Mitcham the contents of the dead man’s pockets, which he had laid out on his desk. Have a look at that lot, and see if you can make anything of them.

Mitcham looked first at the wallet, then at the small change. Mr. Hanslope was a man of some standing, I take it, sir?

Constable Lodden can tell you more about him than I can, Notgrove replied. All I know is that he lived in considerable style at the Manor, and was generally reputed to be a rich man. And he appears to have smoked cigars, which seems to be evidence of expensive tastes.

And yet all the money he had about him was a little small change, said Mitcham. "That