Inspector French: Sir John Magill’s Last Journey. Freeman Crofts Wills

      ‘If that’s your view,’ he said at last, ‘better go over and say so. See their superintendent and have a chat with him. And see here, French. Do anything you can for them. If they want you to stay and lend a hand, do so. Better ring them up now and go over tonight.’

      From the tone of the Belfast superintendent rather than from his actual words, French sensed that he would be a welcome visitor. Evidently they were getting no further with the case, and equally evidently they were worried about it. French would have expected a resentment at his appearance in Ireland, but nothing of the sort was suggested by the superintendent’s reply. It was finally arranged that he should cross via Larne and Stranraer and that Sergeant M’Clung would meet him at the station in Belfast.

      It did not seem possible that anything could have occurred during Sir John’s journey which might have borne on his subsequent fate. At the same time French determined to travel as the old gentleman had done and to keep a careful note of his surroundings so as to visualise the other’s experiences.

      He began therefore by engaging a sleeping berth at Euston. On inquiry he was directed to a stationmaster’s office on No. 6 platform. There a clerk made the reservation, handing him a voucher. This voucher he presented at the booking office when taking his tickets, a first-class return for the journey and a single for the sleeping berth.

      The train left at 7.40 p.m. from No. 12 platform. There he found that all arrangements had been made for his reception. His name was on the list on the window of the sleeping coach and the attendant was expecting him and showed him to his stateroom. Immediately after starting the man came to him for his tickets. He was most civil, making a point of addressing French by his name and fixing up when he should call him next morning.

      For a time French sat watching the lights flit by, then thinking he would be more comfortable in bed, he undressed, switched on his reading lamp and became immersed in a novel. At the end of a couple of hours this palled and he turned off the light and composed himself to sleep.

      His efforts in this line were not particularly successful and he lay listening to the rythmic beat of the wheels on the rail-joints and dreamily wondering whether Malcolm Magill had really killed his father. There were few stops. At only one had he the curiosity to look out: it was Carlisle. Presently he heard Dumfries called and then he fell into a really deep sleep, from which he seemed instantly to be aroused by the attendant with a tea tray and the words, ‘’Alf an hour to Stranraer, sir.’

      A gorgeous colour scheme in the eastern sky was ushering in the dawn as French stepped from the train at Stranraer Harbour. On the platform at the door of the sleeper was the ubiquitous attendant, who with a ‘Good morning, Mr French. Thank you, sir,’ saw him off the premises so far as his car was concerned. A few yards down the pier brought him to the steamer, at the gangway of which his ticket was checked. A short delay and there came the welcome sound of the breakfast bell, and when French came on deck again they were half-way down Loch Ryan.

      In the early sunshine of that autumn morning the surroundings of the loch struck him as quite beautiful. The shores, particularly on the starboard side, rose gently into bare rounded hills, which grew wilder and rockier as they approached the open sea. Between were wooded valleys which French no sooner saw than he longed to explore. But it was the colouring that appealed most to him, the dark greens of grass and leaves, shaded here and there to greys and russets, the golden browns of heather and bracken, the darker tints of rock, turning almost to black at the base of the cliffs, the thin blue of the sky and the steel grey of the water, all these were presented with the soft rich tones of the western atmosphere. Then out into the open sea, with the sugar loaf of Ailsa Craig standing blue and sharp on the northern horizon and the Irish coast a faint line right ahead.

      French enjoyed every minute of that crossing. The sea, he knew, could be as rough here as anywhere, but on this charming morning it was like the proverbial glass. For the hour or more of the passage he paced the deck, watching the Scotch coast fade and the Irish grow. And when at last they turned round the end of Islandmagee and entered Larne Lough, he saw that the Irish side was nearly, if not quite, as beautiful as the Scotch.

      He took the broad gauge train on the left of the platform, and as he sat waiting for the mails to be transhipped, he could follow vividly Sir John Magill’s movements six days earlier. There was a traveller talking to the stationmaster, no doubt just as had Sir John, and there it chanced was the guard passing and looking at both. Presently this same guard collected French’s ticket, as doubtless he had collected Sir John’s. History indeed seemed to be repeating itself for his, French’s, benefit.

      The run to Belfast occupied about half an hour. The line ran along the shores, first of Larne Lough, then of Belfast Lough. Just where they came down on the latter French noted the little town of Whitehead. Waiting for him on the platform at Belfast was Sergeant M’Clung.

      ‘How’re you, Mr French?’ he exclaimed, pronouncing the ‘How’re you?’ with the rhythm of ‘bowery.’ ‘You must have had a good crossing this morning.’

      French described his journey, and as they passed to the entrance of the station M’Clung pointed out the hotel at which Sir John had called.

      ‘I’ve a car waiting,’ he explained. ‘We’ll go along to Chichester Street. The superintendent’s expecting you.’

      Police headquarters was about a mile from the station and there in a comfortable little office sat Superintendent Rainey. He was a thickset man of medium height, with a rather stern face which, however, lit up and became attractive when he smiled. He did so as French was shown in.

      ‘Very good of you coming over, Inspector,’ he said pleasantly, rising and holding out his hand. ‘You had a good crossing, I expect?’

      French wondered if this remark was made by every Belfast citizen to every traveller arriving in his city. He reassured the superintendent.

      ‘What about a spot of breakfast?’ went on Rainey. ‘That six o’clock affair on the boat’s all right, but it hardly runs you to lunch.’

      French thought that in his case it might. But Rainey would not hear of proceeding to business until his visitor had had something to fortify his inner man, and French not caring for spirits, M’Clung was instructed to take him to an adjoining restaurant for coffee. There for a while the two men sat smoking, chatting principally of the beauty spots of Northern Ireland which M’Clung said French must see before he went back.

      ‘You came over at the right time, Inspector,’ Rainey began when they were once more seated in his office. ‘I have a visitor coming in whom you’ll be interested to meet: Victor Magill.’

      ‘Victor Magill?’ French repeated with a smile. ‘It’s well I hadn’t made my report. I’d have told you he was cruising somewhere up the west coast of Scotland.’

      ‘You would have been right in a way,’ Rainey admitted. ‘When you got your information he was there. His launch touched at Oban and there he got wires which Major Magill and the sisters had sent. He had just time to catch a train to Glasgow and get the Belfast boat. He got in this morning and went up to see the major at the mill. It was from there he ’phoned me he was coming down. I told him to call at twelve so that we could have our discussion before he came. And now, Inspector, I hope you’ve some good news for us?’

      ‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ French answered, and he launched into a detailed account of his activities in London. The two Belfast men listened attentively and when he had finished Rainey summarised the position.

      ‘That is to say, Inspector, you have learnt that Malcolm Magill was in low water and that he stood to gain a large sum at his father’s death. Secondly, you have not been able to find anyone else with an adequate motive. Victor Magill and the daughters were legatees also, but as far as you know to nothing like a sufficient extent to account for murder. In any case these legacies supply no real motive at all, as all three were well enough off. All three besides have alibis. On our present information, therefore, these three may be at least temporarily eliminated. There are no other suspects.’

      ‘That’s right, sir.’