“What the heck was he doing up there?” asked young Sheldon. “Millstone, he was city bred, a real slum rat, he was, the country would ha’ given him the proper sick. Not like Carrots. Carrots must ha’ been reared in the country all right, that’s what puzzled me. These country lads, they may be dumb, but they’re generally straight.”
“Carrots came from a hard home,” said Macdonald. “All work and no play, a father who was a real miser and not a bit of comfort anywhere. So Carrots ran away and joined the Army, and when he was demobbed he decided to stay in Leverstone—and the rest we can guess at. But Millstone’s body was found in High Garth, the farmhouse which was Sam Borwick’s home, Sam Borwick being Carrots.”
“Did Carrots kill Millstone?” asked Bob Sheldon.
“We don’t know; it looks as though Millstone fell downstairs and broke his neck. My own guess about the matter is that Sam Borwick told Millstone about the farmhouse after the Raine’s Wharf affair. Sam could have said, ‘You can lie up there as long as you like. No one will ever know and you can be snug and warm.’ ”
“I can see him saying that, sir,” put in Sheldon, “and there’s this. Millstone was a clever cracksman, a skilled thief. If anybody got away with anything from that warehouse, I bet it was Millstone, a nice bit of mink or sable or some such, tucked up his coat. Carrots hadn’t any wits. He may well have said to himself, ‘Millstone’s got a few bits and pieces we could raise some cash on and I’ve got nothing, so Millstone’s the chap to keep in with. If I put him on to a good thing, we can share out the doings later.’ ”
“That’s reasonable enough,” said Macdonald, “and there’s this point. It seems pretty certain that Sam’s father had left some cash hidden in the place and it was hidden cunningly so that even old Mrs. Borwick couldn’t find it. If Sam wasn’t very bright and Millstone was a skilled thief, Sam might have thought it a good idea to get Millstone to search the house for the hidden cash.”
“Aye, and shoved him downstairs once he’d found it,” put in Bob Sheldon, and then Macdonald said:
“Now about this Raine’s Wharf business. The only one of the thieves who was caught was Rory Macshane. Did any of you chaps know anything about Macshane?”
“No, sir. He’d never been convicted in Leverstone and none of us had ever seen him around. We were puzzled over it, because we do get to know most of these chaps by sight —Millstone and Carrots (Borwick, I should say), we knew them all right, and some of the blokes who went around with them, but none of us had ever noticed Macshane. My idea was that Macshane ganged up with Millstone and Borwick, because he was broke. When he was taken, he’d no money on him and he was hungry. We didn’t know anything of his history up here, though he had a conviction for thieving in the midlands. He was a fair puzzle, he hadn’t a home or a job, and no one came forward to identify him. Millstone and Borwick got away by the canal path—we slipped up there, we ought to have got them, and Macshane had to face the music. He never spoke a word about the other two, never even tried to say it wasn’t him who coshed the night watchman. In a sense, Macshane seemed simple, but there was something about him we liked, the way he wouldn’t give his mates away. Well, sir, you’ve found Millstone and he’s dead. Where do you think Borwick and Macshane are?”
“I think they’re both in Lunesdale,” replied Macdonald, “and the sooner I’m back there myself, the better. I wanted to learn all I could about Carrots and his friends, and I know it’s you chaps on the beat who notice most. So good-bye for now and thanks a lot. Go on keeping your eyes open; you’re the chaps we rely on for the odd bits and pieces.”
2
Macdonald got into his car again and started the tedious drive through the outskirts of Leverstone to gain the A6 road, through Preston and Lancaster to the peace of Lunesdale. The traffic was heavy, an unceasing throng of lorries and cattle vans, all moving slowly, most of them obstinately on the crown of the road, so that driving was a weary business of following with such patience as the driver could muster. Since the oncoming traffic was as dense as that heading north, chances of passing were few and far between. As Macdonald drove, he thought to himself that he had at least got the overall picture of Sam Borwick. The boy from that remote house on the fell side, the boy who had never a penny of his own. The discipline of army training had done nothing to straighten out the warped embittered lad, and once demobilised in the industrial town of Leverstone, Sam had gravitated naturally to the lowest levels of that society, the criminal element whose motto was “take what you can and don’t get found out.” Millstone, the dead man in High Garth, fitted easily into the picture. Wally Millstone had the wits, Sam Borwick the brawn. The unknown factor was Rory Macshane; his record showed that he had good stuff in him. No man could have done what Rory had done in his escape from Stalag X unless he had had unusual qualities of courage, self-control, hardihood, and intelligence. “But once he got back to a place like Leverstone, he fell for the dregs of humanity, the thieves and cosh boys,” pondered Macdonald. “Was it that he couldn’t live without the excitement of pitting his wits against authority? After the
