The Dartmoor Enigma by Basil Thomson Page B

with orders just now.”
    Jago intervened. “Couldn’t you turn on another man to take his place? There must be lots who can use a hammer.”
    â€œRight; if you’ll stay here I’ll send him in.”
    While they waited, Richardson was busy with a literary composition of his own: before him lay the two photographs of the anonymous letters. When a knock at the door announced their man he covered the photographs quickly with a sheet of official foolscap.
    The arch agitator did not look at all the kind of man they were expecting. He was a wiry, sharp-featured little fellow with a hunted expression in his eyes. Evidently he had been told by the foreman the quality of his visitors; he was on the defensive.
    Richardson pulled out a stool from under the desk and said cheerfully, “Sit down there, Pengelly.” He knew the value of placing a suspect at a lower level than himself.
    â€œI’d rather stand.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind I’d rather you sat down, because we’ve several questions to ask you and you’ll answer them more comfortably sitting than standing. Last Saturday week you drove young Mr. Duke’s lorry from Moorstead into Tavistock, didn’t you?”
    â€œI went in Duke’s lorry, if that’s what you mean?”
    â€œYes, that’s what we mean. You went in the lorry, sitting at the steering-wheel.”
    Pengelly seemed about to protest, but Richardson went on smoothly, “And instead of coming the nearest way to the quarry to look for work, you turned off on the road to Sandiland and left the lorry at that little garage in North Street, Tavistock, to be kept till called for.”
    â€œYou seem to know all about it.”
    â€œWe do know something about it. For example, we can tell you why you didn’t take the direct road up through the village of Duketon. It was because there’s a constable posted there and you were driving without a licence.”
    Pengelly became defiant. “Oh, if that’s all I was driving without a licence, but I dare say now that I’ve got a job the fine won’t break me.”
    â€œI don’t know what the Bench gives down here for driving without a licence, but if you like to own up in a statement, I’ll see that it’s brought to the notice of the magistrate. Here, pull up your stool to this desk and write it out yourself: ‘I, Richard Pengelly, feel it my duty to admit that on September 29 I drove a motor-lorry from Moorstead to Tavistock on business but I had no accident.’ And sign it.”
    Pengelly hesitated; he was no penman, but whether it was this fact or that he scented a trap Richardson was unable to determine. He banked on the former explanation.
    â€œYou needn’t worry about the handwriting or spelling. The great thing is to get it down in your own handwriting.”
    With his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, and breathing heavily, Pengelly set himself to the task. At last it was done and Richardson turned to another aspect of that lorry drive.
    â€œYou had a young lady with you in the lorry—young Duke’s sister. I wonder you didn’t let her drive.”
    Pengelly was taken off his guard. “She’d got no licence either. Her brother wouldn’t ever let her drive.”
    â€œOh, that was it? If anybody was to get into trouble it wasn’t to be her. It does you credit, Pengelly. Now, when you turned off towards Sandilands hadn’t you another motive? You knew that it was about the time when Mr. Dearborn was due to come along in his car on his way to Winterton, and naturally you had a strong motive for telling him what you thought of him before leaving the district.”
    â€œI didn’t want to see the man again. Why should I?”
    â€œTo have the last word. We all like to do that when we have a legitimate grievance, and he had sacked you without a character.”
    Pengelly flushed with angry