The Sittaford Mystery

‘Enderby, Charles Enderby my name is. I got here last night,’ he explained. ‘Made inquiries about getting to Sittaford. We make it a point to hand cheques to winners personally. Always publish a little interview. Interests our readers. Well, everyone told me it was out of the question—the snow was falling and it simply couldn’t be done, and then with the greatest good luck I find you are actually here, staying at the Three Crowns.’ He smiled. ‘No difficulty about identification. Everybody seems to know everybody else in this part of the world.’

‘What will you have?’ said the Major.

‘Beer for me,’ said Enderby.

The Major ordered two beers.

‘The whole place seems off its head with this murder,’ remarked Enderby. ‘Rather a mysterious business by all accounts.’

The Major grunted. He was in something of a quandary. His sentiments towards journalists remained unchanged, but a man who has just handed you a cheque for £5,000 is in a privileged position. You cannot very well tell him to go to the devil.

‘No enemies, had he?’ asked the young man.

‘No,’ said the Major.

‘But I hear the police don’t think it is robbery,’ went on Enderby.

‘How do you know that?’ asked the Major.

Mr Enderby, however, did not reveal the source of his information.

‘I hear it was you who actually discovered the body, sir,’ said the young man.

‘Yes.’

‘It must have been an awful shock.’

The conversation proceeded. Major Burnaby was still determined to give no information, but he was no match for the adroitness of Mr Enderby. The latter made statements with which the Major was forced to agree or disagree, thereby providing the information the young man wanted. So pleasant was his manner, however, that the process was really not painful at all and the Major found himself taking quite a liking to the ingenuous young man.

Presently, Mr Enderby rose and observed that he must go along to the post office.

‘If you will just give me a receipt for that cheque, sir.’

The Major went across to the writing table, wrote a receipt and handed it to him.

‘Splendid,’ said the young man and slipped it into his pocket.

‘I suppose,’ said Major Burnaby, ‘that you are off back to London today?’

‘Oh! no,’ said the young man. ‘I want to take a few photographs, you know, of your cottage at Sittaford, and of you feeding the pigs, or hoeing up the dandelions, or doing anything characteristic that you fancy. You have no idea how our readers appreciate that sort of thing. Then I would like to have a few words from you on “What I intend to do with the £5,000”. Something snappy. You have no idea how disappointed our readers would be if they didn’t get that sort of thing.’

‘Yes, but look here—it’s impossible to get to Sittaford in this weather. The fall of snow was exceptionally heavy. No vehicle has been able to take the road for three days anyway, and it may be another three before the thaw sets in properly.’

‘I know,’ said the young man, ‘it is awkward. Well, well, one will just have to resign oneself to kicking up one’s heels in Exhampton. They do you pretty well at the Three Crowns. So long, sir, see you later.’

He emerged into the main street of Exhampton and made his way to the post office and wired his paper that by the greatest of good luck he would be able to supply them with tasty and exclusive information on the Exhampton Murder Case.

He reflected on his next course of action and decided on interviewing the late Captain Trevelyan’s servant, Evans, whose name Major Burnaby had incautiously let slip during their conversation.

A few inquiries brought him to 85 Fore Street. The servant of the murdered man was a person of importance today. Everyone was willing and anxious to point out where he lived.

Enderby beat a smart rat-tat on the door. It was opened by a man so typically an ex-sailor that Enderby had no doubt of his identity.

‘Evans, isn’t it?’ said Enderby cheerfully. ‘I have just come along from Major Burnaby.’

‘Oh—’ Evans hesitated a moment. ‘Will you come in, sir.’

Enderby accepted the invitation. A buxom young woman with dark hair and red cheeks hovered in the background. Enderby judged her as the newly-wed Mrs Evans.

‘Bad thing about your late master,’ said Enderby.

‘It’s shocking, sir, that’s what it is.’

‘Who do you think did it?’ demanded Enderby with an ingenuous air of seeking information.

‘One of those low-down tramps, I suppose,’ said Evans.

‘Oh! no, my dearman. That theory is quite exploded.’

‘Eh?’

‘That’s all a put-up job. The police saw through that at once.’

‘Who told you that, sir?’

Enderby’s real informant had been the housemaid at the Three Crowns whose sister was the legal spouse of Constable Graves, but he replied:

‘Had a tip from headquarters. Yes, the burglary idea was all a put-up job.’

‘Who do they think did it then?’ demanded Mrs Evans, coming forward. Her eyes looked frightened and eager.

‘Now, Rebecca, don’t you take on so,’ said her husband.

‘Cruel stupid the police are,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘Don’t mind who they take up as long as they get hold of someone.’ She cast a quick glance at Enderby.

‘Are you connected with the police, sir?’

‘Me? Oh! no. I am from a newspaper, the Daily Wire. I came down to see Major Burnaby. He has just won our Free Football Competition for £5,000.’

‘What?’ cried Evans. ‘Damn it all, then those things are square after all.’

‘Didn’t you think they were?’ asked Enderby.

‘Well, it’s a wicked world, sir.’ Evans was a little confused, feeling that his exclamation had been wanting in tact. ‘I have heard there’s a lot of trickery concerned. The late Capting used to say that a prize never went to a good address. That’s why he used mine time and again.’

With a certain naïveté he described the Captain’s winning of three new novels.

Enderby encouraged him to talk. He saw a very good story being made out of Evans. The faithful servant—old sea dog touch. He wondered just a little why Mrs Evans seemed so nervous, he put it down to the suspicious ignorance of her class.