The Hog's Back Mystery Read online

  The Hog’s Back Mystery

  Freeman Wills Crofts

  With an Introduction

  by Martin Edwards

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1933

  © 2015 Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts

  Introduction copyright © 2015 Martin Edwards

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library

  First E-book Edition 2015

  ISBN: 9781464203824 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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  Contents

  The Hog’s Back Mystery

  Copyright

  Contents

  Map

  Introduction

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Map

  Introduction

  The Hog’s Back Mystery, first published in 1933, is an enjoyable detective novel offering an ingenious murder puzzle set in Surrey. The author, Freeman Wills Crofts, was one of the most admired authors of ‘the Golden Age of Murder’ between the two world wars. This book demonstrates his commitment to ‘playing fair’ with his reader—to such an extent that, when Inspector Joseph French of Scotland Yard finally solves the mystery, the reader is reminded of each page where a clue was planted.

  The starting point of the story is an apparent domestic intrigue in the vicinity of the Hog’s Back, a ridge on the North Downs not far from where Crofts and his wife lived. A doctor’s wife has become involved with another man, to the dismay of her friends, and a chance encounter suggests that the doctor is also playing away from home. He is seen in the company of a younger woman, and later tells a lie about what he was getting up to. When the doctor and his friend—who proves to be a nurse—vanish mysteriously, one theory is that they may have run off together. French is called in, only for one of the doctor’s house guests to go missing as well. What is the explanation for the disappearances? And if the three missing people have been murdered, what can be the motive?

  French tackles an intriguing and elaborate crime whilst fretting about the need to remain well fed (‘Breakfast was becoming a problem. He didn’t want to take the time necessary to go in to Farnham to take it, but he knew that when he got hungry, the quality of his work fell off.’) There are no fewer than six suspects, and a plethora of alibis to unravel. Crofts discussed his meticulous approach to the construction of a mystery in an essay published three years after this book, on the subject of ‘The Writing of a Detective Novel.’ His method was first to prepare a synopsis of ‘the actual facts that are supposed to have happened,’ including a chronology, character biographies and sketch maps of the important localities, and then a summary of how those facts become revealed to the detective, again with a chronology, before setting out to write the book. The care he takes over small details is reflected in the timetable included near the end of this novel. Crofts describes how two crucial alibis were established, and supplies an explanatory sketch map.

  Freeman Wills Crofts was born in Dublin in 1879, but moved to Ulster in his youth. His father, a British army doctor, died while serving overseas, and his mother married a second time, to an archdeacon in the Church of Ireland. At seventeen, Crofts began to study civil engineering and soon developed a specialism in railway engineering, ultimately becoming Chief Assistant Engineer of the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway. In 1919, he had a long illness ‘and to while away the time I got a pencil and exercise book and began to amuse myself writing a story.’

  With a nod to Dickens, he called the finished book A Mystery of Two Cities, and submitted it to Collins, for whom it was read by J.D. Beresford, then a well-known novelist and critic, but now best remembered as father of the woman who invented the Wombles. Beresford liked the story, but called for changes. The much-revised novel, now called The Cask, was published in 1920 and became an instant success; the titular cask is found to contain sawdust, gold coins and female remains instead of the expected wine. When the cask disappears, Inspector Burnley of Scotland Yard follows a trail that leads across the Channel to France. Within twenty years, copies sold far exceeded 100,000, a figure dwarfing the sales levels achieved by most of Crofts’ fellow detective novelists.

  Crofts showed from the outset that the precision and discipline required of an engineer were invaluable qualities for a writer specialising in the construction of elaborate mysteries. His love of railways meant that train timetables often featured in the unravelling of his culprits’ alibis—his faith that trains would run on time seems touching to the cynical modern passenger. Crofts was widely travelled, and many of his books have scenes set in foreign locations; this may have added to their appeal at a time when many readers never ventured outside Great Britain. His first five books featured a variety of investigators, culminating with the debut of Inspector French in 1924, in Inspector French’s Greatest Case.

  Until 1929, Crofts combined writing with railway work, but health problems caused him to retire from engineering. His last major project in Northern Ireland was to chair an enquiry into objections to the Bann and Lough Neagh Drainage Scheme. His characteristically painstaking report—which dismissed the objections—was published the following year. By that time, he was focused on writing; he and his wife moved to Surrey, and he became an enthusiastic founder member of the Detection Club formed by Anthony Berkeley, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and G.K. Chesterton.

  Club members believed that detective novelists should ‘play fair’ with their clues, and give their readers a chance to work the solution out for themselves. This resulted in variations of the ‘clue finder’ device used by J.J. Connington, Crofts and Ronald Knox in the UK, and by C. Daly King in the U.S., as well as ‘challenges to the reader’ laid down by the likes of Berkeley, Milward Kennedy and Rupert Penny in Britain, and Ellery Queen in the U.S.

  The notion of the detective story as a pure battle of wits faded as Berkeley and others placed increasing emphasis on characterisation, humour, and the exploration of criminal psychology, but the appeal of a complicated puzzle endures to this day. Freeman Wills Crofts could engineer a good plot, and The Hog’s Back Mystery is the work of a skilled craftsman at the height of his powers.

  Martin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  Chapter I

  St. Kilda

  “Ursula! I
am glad to see you!” Julia Earle moved forward to the carriage door to greet the tall, well-dressed woman who stepped down on the platform of the tiny station of Ash in Surrey.

  “Julia! This is nice!” They kissed affectionately, then the new arrival swung round to a second woman who had followed in the wake of the first.

  “And Marjorie! My goodness, Marjorie,”—they also kissed—“when I remember the last time I saw you! I declare we haven’t met since Bolsover. How many years ago is that?”

  “Don’t let’s think. You’re not much altered, Ursula. I should have known you easily.”

  “Nor are you; wonderfully little.” She turned back to the first woman. “And how’s the world, Julia?”

  The interchange of reunion was interrupted in order to superintend the removal by a porter of Ursula Stone’s two suitcases from the carriage and their conveyance by the same agency to a waiting car.

  “Where will you sit?” went on Julia: “in front with me or behind with Marjorie?”

  “Oh, in front. I always like this drive. A lovely country, isn’t it, Marjorie?”

  “In its way, yes. Of course where I’m living is much finer, but this Surrey landscape is more restful.”

  “I forget your headquarters now, Marjorie. San Remo, isn’t it?”

  “Rocquebrune; close to Rocquebrune, that is. You know it perhaps; just beyond Monte Carlo?”

  “I’ve passed it in the train. I love all that coast.”

  Meanwhile Julia had started up the Morris saloon and they were soon bowling along towards the ridge of the Hog’s Back, which presently came into view as their southern horizon. Julia Earle and her husband, a retired doctor, had settled down in the heart of wild Surrey, though, as they were only some four miles from Farnham, and little more from Guildford and Godalming, they could not be said to be entirely divorced from civilisation. Though she had made many friends in the neighbourhood, Julia found the life lonely, and to have two visitors simultaneously was a pleasure she had not enjoyed for a long time.

  Of these two, Marjorie Lawes, her unmarried sister, was the greater stranger. Marjorie liked heat and sunshine and she ordered her goings to the vagaries of Nature in this respect. She was a migrant. Winter drew her to Egypt; spring and autumn she spent on the Riviera, while in summer she penetrated as far north as Switzerland or the Dolomites. She lived by her pen. “Not serious stuff, you know, my dear,” she would truly say. Sentiment, splashed lavishly on in huge purple patches, was her standby. Her simple tales of the loves of earls and typists, turned out in bulk, paid well enough for her needs and a little over, and formed just the interest required to keep her mind keen and fit.

  Ursula Stone was no relation of the sisters, but at school the three had been inseparable and they had kept up their intimacy. Ursula had not married and now she lived a placid life at Bath, where she was popular enough in the local society. An occasional letter had prevented her getting entirely out of touch with the sisters, and after the Earles had moved to their present house Julia had asked her to pay them a visit. That was four years ago. This time she had been invited specially to meet Marjorie, who was spending a few weeks in England.

  Julia, reaching the top of the hill up which they had been climbing, cautiously nosed the car out on to the high-speed Guildford-Farnham road which here runs along the spine of that curious narrow ridge known as the Hog’s Back. The others instinctively paused to watch for approaching traffic; then as they turned west, their voices broke out again.

  “Tell me about yourself, Ursula,” Marjorie went on. “You’re living at Bath?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a cottage perched up on Bathwick Hill. It’s a nice position. The town lies in the valley and you see across it to the hills beyond.”

  “And what do you do with yourself?”

  Ursula smiled. “My hospital! I call it mine because I like working for it so much. It’s a children’s hospital and I’m honorary secretary. It’s fascinating work, though it would make you weep tears of blood to see some of the little mites that are in it.”

  Marjorie shrugged. “More useful than my job. But then I couldn’t afford it. Tell me, have you ever come across the Bantings?” And the talk went back to school days.

  Except from the point of view of age—none of them would see thirty-five again—the three women contrasted both in appearance and manner. Ursula Stone was tall and slight with a facial angle approaching the vertical. All her lines indeed were vertical. Her narrow forehead was high, and instead of retreating seemed to project further forward as it rose, her nose was thin and aquiline, and her pointed chin was set well forward. Good features, all of them. With her very erect carriage and well-cut clothes she was an interesting, indeed a striking figure. Her manners were old-fashioned, courteous and unworldly, and she had the air of living in an age that has gone.

  Julia Earle was also a handsome woman, tall, fair, with a commanding presence, and extremely well dressed. She was the sort of woman whom men turn to look at in the street. She did not look her age, not by a dozen years. A kind of competence radiated from her. One felt instinctively that she would hold her own in any company and deal efficiently with any situation that might arise. There was indeed too marked a hardness in her face, a hardness notably absent from Ursula’s.

  Her sister, Marjorie Lawes, while neither so good-looking nor so well dressed, gave an impression of greater kindliness. Marjorie was smaller and thinner and had grown slightly wizened. Her skin was darkened from southern suns, showing up more prominently her greying hair. She was the only one of the three to wear glasses, through which gazed out upon the world a pair of extremely intelligent greenish-grey eyes.

  They had turned south from the Hog’s Back through the quaint old-world village of Seale, and now were passing through the dense pine woods of Hampton Common. At a cross-roads they turned to the left through a still thicker wood of oak, beech and ash, with plenty of birch and nut trees; an almost impenetrable thicket. Presently Julia slowed down.

  “Here we are,” she said, turning the car into a narrow gateway which bore on a plate the name “St. Kilda.”

  A short curving drive brought them to the house, a typical modern South of England cottage, with lower walls of purple brick, upper storey and roof of “antique” red tiles and steel-framed casement windows. In front and at both sides the trees had been cleared back to leave room for a small garden. All round was the wood. The place had struck Ursula on her one former visit as small but fascinating, and immediately she felt once again its restful charm.

  But what had most impressed her then, and now impressed her more than ever, was the isolation of the house. As far as appearances went it might be the only dwelling in the world.

  “Oh no,” Julia said when she commented on this; “Colonel Dagger lives just down the road and the Forresters are close to him. There are plenty of houses about, but you don’t see them because of the trees.”

  Ursula was tired from her journey. It had been good up to Reading, where she had changed. But the local train through Farnborough took a leisurely interest in the surrounding country, stopping whenever possible and being in no hurry to restart.

  Not till she came down dressed for dinner did Ursula see her host. Dr. Earle was a small, rather insignificant-looking man of about sixty with a round face of that high colour so often associated with heart affections. He had lived and practised in Godalming until some six years earlier. Then he had come into a little money, and hating general practice and loving research, he had obtained a partner, a Dr. Campion, to take over the heavy end of the work. He had bought St. Kilda for himself, intending to devote himself to writing a book on some abstruse theory he had formed on the culture of germs. Before, however, he had moved out, he had met with an accident and gone to Brighton to recuperate. There he had met and married Julia Lawes. Now he greeted Ursula with a shy cordiality which somehow convinced her that he was really please
d that she had come.

  “So glad to see you again, Miss Stone,” he said with a smile. “I hope you had a comfortable journey?”

  Ursula reassured him and they began to chat. On her previous visit she had liked James Earle. She had found him unassuming and retiring and anxious to do what he could to make her visit pleasant. Also though surprisingly ignorant of books other than scientific treatises, he was fond of light reading, and she had enjoyed the appreciation he had shown when introduced to some of her favourites.

  “What have you been doing with yourself lately, Dr. Earle?” she asked.

  “Nothing very much, I’m afraid,” the little man smiled. “A little golf, a little writing, some work in the garden, still unhappily a few patients—I’ve tried to get rid of them without success—some books: particularly some books. Have you read—?” And they seemed quite naturally to slip into their relations of four years earlier. But it didn’t last long. Julia and Marjorie soon came in and they moved to the dining-room.

  During dinner Ursula realised with some small feeling of regret that what she had anticipated during her previous visit had come to pass. Then the Earles had not long settled down at St. Kilda: it was just a couple of years since their marriage. Though both were advanced in age, they had been very much Mr. and Mrs. Newly-Wed: Julia was evidently newfangled and amused with her unwonted position and was fond in a maternal sort of way of her elderly boy, for James Earle was just a grown-up boy. As for him, he obviously doted on her. Now things were changed. Earle clearly had not stood up to his wife, with the result that she had taken command and now appeared to give him but little consideration. Inevitable, Ursula thought, from their respective temperaments, but rather distressing. Not that Julia was at all unpleasant to her husband; simply she did not appear to consider him of any account in her scheme of things. But Earle did not seem at all unhappy. It was just that Ursula thought they had missed a companionship which they might so easily have had.