‘I agree and I’m afraid it’s you for it. You see, we pretty well must act, whether we want to or not. The Belfast authorities have put in a formal application for assistance through the Home Office. Everything is in order and you may take over as soon as you can. Will you go over to Belfast?’
‘I don’t really know, sir, as yet. I think I should get what I can here first at all events and then be guided by circumstances. What do you think, Sergeant?’
The sergeant grinned.
‘We’ll be very glad to see you in Belfast, Mr French, if you decide to come over. But I think what we want mostly lies in London. However, as you say, you’ll know better later on.’
For some time further they discussed the case, finally deciding that French should carry on as suggested. M’Clung not being required in London, he was to return that evening to Belfast, keeping French advised of developments there and undertaking to meet him should he decide to go over.
It was with mixed feelings that French settled down to consider his new case. As a rule he disliked working with a strange police force. In spite of the invariable fact of his having been invited to assist, jealousies arose. Those whose work he was doing felt that they had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Hence he was frequently met by a veiled opposition, the overcoming of which took half his energies. Moreover with the best will in the world strangers could not give him the help he was accustomed to from his own trained staff.
On the other hand, if he had to go to Ireland, here was a new and by all accounts a very pleasant country to explore. It was true he had once before been in Belfast, but on that occasion his job had occupied all his time and he had been unable to see anything of the place. Now he promised himself at least a Sunday in Portrush and a trip round the far-famed Coast Road, should these delights prove at all possible.
Of course it was by no means certain that the case would take him to Ireland. Indeed he felt he would be surprised if the matter should not prove to be wholly Irish. Sir John had spent his life in Northern Ireland and his connections there must be of the closest. A successful business man usually makes enemies. One who takes a strong lead in politics invariably does so. Who could tell what old enmity might not have flared up as a result of this last visit?
But with these possibilities French saw that he had nothing to do. Rightly or wrongly Scotland Yard had been asked to intervene and that intervention had crystalised into the making of certain inquiries by himself. He had his instructions and the sooner he carried them out, the better for all concerned. A visit to Sir John Magill’s house seemed to be his first move, and he therefore put aside the routine work he had been engaged on and set off to Knightsbridge.
71 Elland Gardens proved to be a comparatively small double house in an old-fashioned but aristocratic-looking terrace. The door was opened by an elderly butler who might have stepped out of a play, so incredibly true was he to type; in fact the whole scene of French’s arrival and announcement might well have been taken from the stage of a theatre. Sending in his official card, French asked for either or both of the ladies.
Inside the house the evidences of wealth were more apparent. Even the entrance hall contained costly objects of art, and the library, into which French was shown, was a veritable museum. Silver predominated, and tables and shelves bore almost priceless examples of the skill of the old craftsmen. Books lined the walls between the ornaments, and the light reflected from them and the walnut furniture was mellow and restful. In the centre was an old-fashioned desk, closed, a table bearing a half-completed model of some machine stood in a window, and deep armchairs were placed here and there on the thick carpet. In one corner was a built-in safe.
French had scarcely taken in these details when the door opened and a lady entered. Slightly below medium height, she was plain of feature and rather stern of expression. But her manner was gracious enough as she advanced towards French.
‘Detective-Inspector French?’ she said, glancing at the card in her hand. ‘We were expecting a representative from Scotland Yard. My brother, Major Magill, wrote that the Belfast police were consulting you. Won’t you sit down?’
She spoke calmly, but French could see that her nerves were on edge and that she was holding herself on a tight rein.
‘We had a communication from Belfast this morning,’ he answered with the respectful courtesy which he found so much lightened his labours when dealing with this class of witness. ‘In consequence I have called to obtain some information about Sir John.’
‘I will gladly tell you anything I can,’ she replied, with evident sincerity. ‘What do you want to know?’
French bowed slightly.
‘You will understand, madam, that I know nothing about the case and must therefore begin at the beginning. But I shall be as brief as possible. Tell me first, please, a little about your family and household. Just a word about each member.’
The lady paused, evidently to arrange her thoughts, Then began:
‘Our family consists of only five members, my father, my brother Malcolm, my sister Beatrice, myself and our cousin Victor. My father, my sister and I have lived here since we moved from Belfast about seven years ago. At that time my father gave over the direction of the mills to Malcolm. I should have said that he owned large linen mills in the Shankill district of Belfast. Malcolm lives with his wife and two children in Ireland, near Larne. He is now the managing director, indeed the virtual owner, of the mills and he goes there to business every day.
‘My father and sister and I have lived here very quietly. Beyond visiting a few friends we don’t go into society. Though at one time my father took a good deal of interest in parliamentary and municipal affairs, he ceased to do so when we left Belfast. During these last seven years he has indulged his two hobbies, mechanical invention and the collection of silver, specially old silver. You see what he has in this room, and the collection in the music room is even finer.’
‘I was admiring it before you came in. I’m not an authority, but even to me a lot of it looks almost priceless. You mentioned a cousin, a Mr Victor; is it Mr Victor Magill?’
‘Yes, he is the son of Arthur Magill, my father’s younger brother.’
‘Tell me about him, please.’
‘My Uncle Arthur was in partnership with my father in the mill until he died in—I’m not quite sure of the year, but it was about 1901 or 1902. Victor was at school in Belfast then and it was intended that he also should go into the business. But after my uncle’s death his wife moved back to Reading; she was the daughter of a manufacturer of that town. She took Victor from school in Belfast and he went to some English school. From there he went into the regular army. He was invalided out after the War had lasted a couple of years and is now agent for a firm of motor car manufacturers. I believe he does very well out of it too.’
‘I follow you. Now, Miss Magill, I want to ask you a straight question. Do you know, or can you suggest anything, no matter how trifling, which might in any way throw light on Sir John’s disappearance?’
Miss Magill made a despairing little gesture.
‘Absolutely nothing!’ she declared emphatically. ‘The whole thing is utterly puzzling. My father is the last person to be mixed up in anything abnormal.’
‘His health is good?’
‘His health is excellent. For his age it is even remarkable. If you had seen him sawing or planing in his workshop you wouldn’t ask. He is as hale and vigorous as a man of forty.’
‘I suppose I need scarcely ask this either, but still, what about his mind? Any signs of old age showing there?’
There were none. His mind