Produced by Stephen Lins
THE
MARKENMORE
MYSTERY
THE MYSTERY STORIES OF
J. S. FLETCHER
“MR. FLETCHER is a master of plot, and he never goes beyond the
bounds of reason in its procedure and development. He, moreover, can
write the English language as a vital means to the end both of
narrative and description, and he never fails to show that he is its
master. It is therefore a pleasure to read his stories, not merely
for their entertaining qualities, but also for the agreeable appeal
of their manner and their style.”
—_Boston Evening Transcript_
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER [1918]
THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM [1920]
THE PARADISE MYSTERY [1920]
DEAD MEN’S MONEY [1920]
THE ORANGE YELLOW DIAMOND [1921]
THE CHESTERMARKE INSTINCT [1921]
THE BOROUGH TREASURER [1921]
THE HERAPATH PROPERTY [1921]
SCARHAVEN KEEP [1922]
THE RAYNER-SLADE AMALGAMATION [1922]
RAVENSDENE COURT [1922]
THE MIDDLE OF THINGS [1922]
THE LOST MR. LINTHWAITE [1923]
EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE [1923]
THE MARKENMORE MYSTERY [1923]
THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB [In Preparation]
THE KING VERSUS WARGRAVE [In Preparation]
_NEW YORK: ALFRED • A • KNOPF_
THE
MARKENMORE
MYSTERY
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
[Illustration: publisher’s mark]
NEW YORK
ALFRED • A • KNOPF
MCMXXIII
COPYRIGHT, 1923. BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
_Published September. 1923_
_Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y._
_Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York._
_Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York._
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I Two Wanderers Return
II The Butler’s Pantry
III Grey Dawn
IV Markenmore Hollow
V Denounced
VI The Coroner Sits
VII Mrs. Braxfield Supports
VIII The Incriminating Letter
IX The Midnight Meeting
X The Ring and the Pipe
XI First Steps
XII The Dower House
XIII William Pegge
XIV Gone
XV Was It Robbery
XVI Family Matters
XVII Too Late
XVIII Deep Lane
XIX Under Pressure
XX Village Gossip
XXI Arrest
XXII Mrs. Braxfield’s Move
XXIII The Professional Theory
XXIV The Man Who Could Guess
XXV The Devil’s Grip
CHAPTER I
TWO WANDERERS RETURN
Braxfield, who had been butler to Sir Anthony Markenmore, Baronet, of
Markenmore Court, for thirty years, was a man of method. All his life
he had cultivated the habit of doing certain things at certain times:
the older he grew (and he was now a little over sixty) the more this
habit grew upon him. Virtually, he was master of the house; Sir
Anthony was an invalid who kept his room; Mr. Guy Markenmore, the
elder son, had never crossed his father’s threshold for some years;
Mr. Harry Markenmore, the younger son, preferred anybody but himself
to exercise merely domestic authority; Miss Valencia Markenmore, the
only daughter, had been but recently released from the schoolroom;
accordingly, Braxfield, one way and another, and without seeming to
do so, wielded a mild, unobtrusive autocracy. He had many good rules,
and some others that were little better than fads—amongst the last
was his trick of locking up the house at precisely eight o’clock
every evening.
Had anybody questioned Braxfield as to this curious regulation, the
old butler would have given what he believed to be good reasons for
his insistence upon it. Markenmore Court was a very old and a very
large house, originally built in the last years of Queen Elizabeth,
added to during the reign of Charles the Second, and finally restored
and modernized in the time of George the Fourth. It stood on the
slope of a gently-rising hill, a mile out of a village which had
taken its name from the Markenmore family—a family that had been
settled in those parts since the early days of the Norman Conquest;
with the exception of a lodge at the entrance gates, there was no
dwelling very near it. It possessed an unusual number of doors; doors
opening on the terrace, on the courtyard, on the gardens, on the
lawns, on the stables, on private walks that wound through the thick
shrubberies; it had also corridors, galleries, chambers, little used
by the family and the servants.
The family was small; the servants were few; for the Markenmores were
comparatively poor, and kept up next to nothing of their ancient
state. But poor though they were, they possessed a considerable share
of gold and silver plate, of rare china, of valuable glass; there
were also pictures in the house that were worth a fortune, and there
was scarcely an apartment in which some easily removable thing that
would have fetched a handsome price in the sale-room was not openly
displayed.
Braxfield, a highly conscientious man, felt himself to be custodian
of these family treasures, and he lived in perpetual, nervous fear of
their being stolen. Had he been able to have his own way, he would
have long since constructed a strong-room, fire-proof, thief-proof,
and bundled into it everything of value that the old house contained.
But the Markenmores, easily as they allowed their butler to rule them
in certain things, were folk who would not permit interference with
time-honoured custom and arrangement, and so gold cups and silver
salvers, meticulously polished and carefully dusted, glittered in
careless profusion on the massive oak sideboards, and rare ivories
and priceless china stood on the open presses and ancient
cabinets—as if, said Braxfield plaintively, they were of no more
value than the trumpery things arranged in the museum of the
neighbouring market-town. And therefore he locked up the house at
eight o’clock every night, and carried the keys of some baker’s dozen
of doors to his butler’s pantry: whoever, master or man, maid or
mistress, desired to walk out of Markenmore Court, after that hour,
had to apply to Braxfield for the means of egress.
On a certain evening in the third week of April, in the year 1912,
Braxfield, the simple dinner to which Mr. Harry Markenmore and his
sister Valencia sat down every night at seven o’clock, being well
over, set out on his usual round of the doors. He always began with
the smaller ones and ended up with the great triple door that opened
on the terrace. And here came in another of his fads—before finally
locking and bolting that door, Braxfield invariably stepped out on
the terrace, crossed it to the balustrade which fenced it in from the
widespreading park that stretched in front, and took a view of all
that lay before him: he did this irrespective of the seasons;
sometimes, therefore, as in the case of dark winter evenings, he saw
nothing but gloom: in summer he saw a great deal of beauty. On this
particular occasion he saw the twilight settling upon the old elms
and beeches, and over the undulating meadows which lay between
Markenmore and the level lands to the southward. The twilight was
settling fast, then: within the few minutes during which Braxfield
stood there, looking about him, he saw it through the dusk; the woods
and coverts became blurred and indistinct shapes, and beyond them, a
mile away, the lights of the village began to twinkle in the
darkness. At that he turned towards the door—and then suddenly
stopped. Somewhere behind him, a man, taking long rapid strides, was
advancing across the lawn beneath the terrace.
There was a powerful lamp just within the big doorway: its rays
spread fanwise across the terrace and over the steps which led to the
lawn. As Braxfield lingered, wondering who it was that approached
(for visitors of any sort were rare at Markenmore Court in those
days) a tall figure strode into this arc of light and moved hurriedly
up the steps, making for the door—the figure of a big, athletic man,
whose evening clothes were only partly concealed by a light,
unbuttoned overcoat. That he had not come far seemed evident from the
fact that he was bareheaded; he looked, indeed, like a man who has
hastily risen from his own dinner-table to hurry to a neighbour’s
house. Yet the butler gave voice to a sharp, surprised exclamation at
the sight of him.
“God bless my life and soul!” he said, as he started out of the
shadow in which he was standing. “Mr. John Harborough? Welcome back,
sir—I’d no idea you were home again.”
The man thus accosted, now in the full glare of the lamp, turned a
bronzed face and a pair of keen, dark, deep-set eyes on the round
cheeks and well-filled figure of the old butler. He stretched out his
right hand, laughing.
“Hello, Braxfield!” he said cheerily, in the tone of one who greets
an ancient acquaintance. “That you? Still going it as strong as ever,
eh? You don’t look a day older.”
“Men don’t alter much at my age, sir,” replied Braxfield, shaking the
offered hand respectfully. “That comes a bit later, Mr. Harborough.
But—you’re really back, sir? I hadn’t heard of it—still, we don’t
hear very much our way, now—quieter than ever at Markenmore Court,
sir.”
“I only got home this afternoon, Braxfield,” answered Harborough.
“And just as I was finishing my dinner I heard that Sir Anthony was
ill, so I came straight across to hear about him? Is it serious?”
“Well, sir, he’s been a bit bad this last day or two,” said
Braxfield. “He varies—of course, it’s now a good two years since he
ever left his room. Between you and me, Mr. Harborough, he might go
any time—any time. So the doctors say, sir.”
“Who’s here?” asked Harborough, glancing at the lighted windows in
front.
“Nobody but Mr. Harry and Miss Valencia,” replied the butler. “Mr.
Guy—ah, we haven’t seen him at Markenmore for—aye, it must be quite
seven years. He went off—why, just about the time that you did, Mr.
Harborough, and he’s never been back—never once! I don’t know where
he is—I don’t believe they do, either.”
“Um!” said Harborough. “Harry, now—he was a boy when I went away,
and Valencia—she was a slip of a girl.”
“Aye, sir,” said Braxfield, “but Mr. Harry’s now a young man of
three-and-twenty, and Miss Valencia—she’s a young lady of well over
nineteen. You’ve been away a long time, sir! But come in, Mr.
Harborough, come in!—glad to see you at Markenmore again, sir.”
Harborough followed the old butler inside the house, and through the
ancient stone hall, ornamented with deers’ antlers, foxes’ masks, old
muskets, and other trophies of the chase and of country life, to a
room which he remembered well enough—one which the family now used
as a usual gathering-place. There was a bright fire of logs in the
hearth; Braxfield pulled up a chair to it.
“Never use the drawing-room nowadays, Mr. Harborough,” he whispered
confidentially. “This room does for everything—dining-room,
sitting-room, and so on. Not as well off as we used to be, sir—eh?
But—we’ve still a glass of rare good port wine for old friends! Can
I get you anything, Mr. Harborough?—say the word, sir!”
“Nothing, nothing, Braxfield, thank you,” replied Harborough. He
looked round and nodded at various objects. “I remember it all,” he
murmured. “Nothing changed! Well, tell the young folks I’m here,
Braxfield.”
He stood up by the mantelpiece—a heavily-built, finely-carved piece
of old oak—when the butler had gone, and looked once more round the
room. He had known that room when he was a boy, nearly thirty years
before: it was then the breakfast and morning-room, and the most
comfortable place in the big, rambling house. It was comfortable now,
with its old furniture, old pictures, old books—everything in it
suggested the antiquity of the family to whom it belonged. But in
spite of the comfort, homely and sufficient, Harborough’s sharp eyes
and acute perceptions noticed an atmosphere which he summed up in one
word, Decay!—its evidences were all around him. Everything was
wearing out, slowly, no doubt, but surely.
He looked up suddenly from the threadbare carpet on which he stood to
see the door open, and a girl enter and come towards him with
outstretched hand—a tall, lissome-figured girl, dark as all the
Markenmores were, handsome, and somehow, in a way he could not
immediately define, suggestive of life and spirit. She was a young
beauty, and her freshness was all the more striking in those ancient
surroundings: it struck Harborough so much, indeed, that he became
tongue-tied, and held her hand and stared incredulously at her for a
full minute before he found a word.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed at last, looking down at her, tall as
she was, from his six-foot-two of feet and inches-. “Are—are you
Valencia?”
“Nobody else—that I’m aware of!” she answered, with a laugh. “Didn’t
you know me? I knew you.”
“Ah!” said Harborough. “I was already an oldish sort of chap when I
went away!—nearly thirty. But you, then, you were——”
“Thirteen,” she broke in, with another laugh. “All legs and wings, I
suppose. And so you have really come home again?”
She pointed to a chair, dropping into one herself, and Harborough sat
down too, and continued to look at her, still marvelling that what he
remembered as a somewhat plain and awkward child should have been
transformed into this bright young creature.
“Only today,” he answered; “and as soon as I heard of your father’s
illness I came straight across to enquire.”
“Thank you,” she said simply. “But I don’t think he is worse than he
has been for a long time. He has bad days, of course—he was not so
well yesterday—that’s no doubt why you came to hear anything. He is
very old now, you know—and very feeble.”
“If there’s anything I can do?” suggested Harborough. “You see—I’ve
come home for good. Nearly seven years of wandering.”
“You must have seen a great deal,” said Valencia.
“No end,” assented Harborough. “In all corners of the globe! But—I
thought I’d never seen anything half so attractive as my own old
house when I reached it, today! And I’m not going to leave it again.
Settle down, you know.”
“Greycloister is a beautiful place,” said Valencia. “I have often
walked through your park during your absence—and wondered how you
could leave it so long.”
“I had reasons,” said Harborough. “However, here I am again, and very
glad to see everybody once more. I’ve brought home a tremendous
collection of all sorts of things—I hope you’ll come across and see
them, soon?”
“Delighted!” replied Valencia. “I suppose you’ll make a sort of
museum?”
“Give a lot of ’em away, I think,” said Harborough. “No end of things
from one place or another. But—bless me, is this Harry?”
The door had opened again, and a young man had come quietly into the
room. He was tall, thin, dark; he wore spectacles, and had a shy,
reserved look about him that suggested the student. He smiled
slightly as he shook hands with the visitor, but said nothing.
“Harry to be sure,” assented Valencia. “Changed, no doubt, as much
as—as I have. Still—you remember him?”
“I remember that he went out shooting with me, in my woods, a day or
two before I cleared off,” said Harborough. He looked from brother to
sister with a ruminative inquisitiveness. These two were the younger
lot, he was thinking: Guy Markenmore, their elder brother, son of Sir
Anthony’s first marriage, was several years their senior; he would
now be about Harborough’s own age. “Done a lot of shooting since
those days, no doubt?” he continued, glancing at the brother. “Used
to be famous, your lands, for game of all sorts.”
Harry Markenmore smiled again, and again said nothing; his sister
replied for him.
“Harry’s not much of a sportsman,” she said. “He’s all for books and
for business. He’s making an effort to—to pull things round. Somehow
or other, the estate’s got into a poor way. There may be hares and
rabbits and pheasants and partridges in plenty—perhaps—but there’s
precious little money!”
“We had a bad steward,” remarked Harry Markenmore, finding his
tongue, and giving Harborough a significant glance. “He let things
slide. I’ve taken it over myself, during the last two years. But—all
our land’s let too reasonably: the rents ought to be raised.”
“Stiff proposition, that,” said Harborough.
“Most of ’em want their rents reducing, instead of raising. I expect
I shall have to go into matters of that sort myself—perhaps we can
put our heads together.”
“Ah, but you aren’t dependent on your farm rents!” said Valencia with
a knowing look. “You’ve got town property. You see what a knowing
young woman I am! All we’ve got is rent from our farms—and we landed
folk are doomed: we aren’t as well off as the people we let our land
to. If Harry and I could do what we’d like, we’d sell, and be done
with it.”
“A good way—sometimes,” said Harborough. “Why not?”
The brother and sister looked at each other.
“It’s entailed,” said Valencia.
She glanced at Harborough with meaning in her eyes, and Harborough
nodded.
“Just so,” he remarked. “But—that could be got over if—if your
elder brother was agreeable.”
Once more the other two exchanged glances.
“We don’t know where Guy is,” said Harry. “Nobody does—at least,
nobody that we know. He’s never been heard of for—I think it’s
nearly seven years.”
“It is seven years,” remarked Valencia. “I remember.” She looked
again at Harborough. “He went away, suddenly, just before you did,”
she added. “And that’s seven years ago.”
Harborough moved a little uneasily in his chair. He had no wish to be
drawn into discussion of the Markenmore family secrets. But he felt a
certain curiosity.
“Do you mean that—literally?” he asked.
“Absolutely!” replied Valencia. “None of us—and no one connected
with us—have heard a word of him since then.”
“But—money matters?” suggested Harborough. “He’d want money. Has he
never applied for any?—some allowance, for instance?”
“He’d money of his own,” said Harry. “His mother’s money all came to
him at her death. No—it’s as Val says, we’ve never heard anything of
him since he left Markenmore, and we don’t know where he is. I wish
we did!—my father can’t last long.”
Harborough rose from his chair.
“Well, I must go,” he said. “You’ll be sure to let me know if there’s
anything I can do? But you say Sir Anthony’s not in immediate danger?”
“Not immediate,” replied Harry. “But—any time. And, as he’s fidgety
about not being left, you’ll excuse me if I go back to him? If he
seems a bit stronger tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re home again, and
no doubt you can see him when you look in. You’ll come again soon?”
“Surely!” said Harborough. He walked into the hall with Valencia when
Harry had gone, and once more gave her an admonitory look. “You’ll
not forget to send for me if I can ever give any help?” he continued.
“I’m not to be treated as a mere neighbour, you know—now that I’m
back!”
“I’ll not forget,” she answered. She glanced round: at the far end of
the shadow-laden hall Braxfield was just appearing, key in hand; she
motioned Harborough aside. “There’s something I want to ask you,” she
whispered. “Have you any idea why my brother Guy left home, and why
he’s never returned? You!—yourself?”
Her eyes, big and dark, were fixed upon him with a peculiar
earnestness, and she saw him start a little and compress his lips.
“Tell—me!” she said. “Me!”
Harborough, too, glanced at Braxfield: the old butler, unconscious of
this intimate question—and—answer, was drawing nearer.
“I may know—something,” murmured Harborough. “If—if I think—on
reflection—I ought to tell you—I will. Later.”
She gave him an understanding nod, a whispered word of thanks, and
went away up the dark staircase behind them. And Braxfield, after a
word or two with Harborough, let the visitor out, and locked the big
door, and drew across it a weighty chair which had done duty in that
respect for many a generation of Markenmores. The house was secured
for the night.
Braxfield went back to his pantry—a snug and comfortable
sitting-room at the end of the big main corridor. There was a bright
fire there, and his easy, well-cushioned arm-chair placed by it. Now
was his time of rest and recreation. All done, all quiet, he would
smoke his pipe, read the newspaper, and enjoy his glass of whisky.
His pipe lay ready to hand: the newspaper flanked it; he went to the
cupboard to get out his decanter and his glass. And just as he laid
hands on these things, Braxfield heard a sound. His fingers
relinquished their hold, dropped to his side, began to tremble. For
Braxfield knew that sound—it was familiar enough to him, though it
was seven years since he had heard it last. He stood, listening—it
came again; a tap, light but firm, three times repeated on the pantry
window. And at that he left the room, turned down a side-passage, and
opened a door that admitted to the rose garden. A man stepped in, and
in the dim light of a neighbouring lamp the butler saw his face.
“Good Lord ha’ mercy!” he exclaimed, shrinking back against the wall.
“Mr. Guy?”