THE INCRIMINATING LETTER
But before Harborough reached the witness-box a new development
arose. The Chief Constable who, since Mrs. Tretheroe stepped down,
had been in close conversation with the detective, Blick, left his
seat and going over to the barrister who had examined her, made some
whispered communication to him. Presently the barrister rose and
turned to the Coroner.
“If, as I understand, sir, Mr. Harborough wishes to make a statement,
which, I suppose, will amount to giving evidence about his movements
on the morning of Guy Markenmore’s death,” he said, “I should like to
suggest that before you hear it you should take the evidence of
Detective-Sergeant Blick, who has had this case in hand since the
discovery of the crime. Sergeant Blick will produce some evidence on
which I should like to examine Mr. Harborough. I submit that this
course will be most convenient to everybody, especially to Mr.
Harborough himself and to his legal adviser.”
The Coroner looked at Walkinshaw, who bowed his assent.
“Let us have Detective-Sergeant Blick, then,” said the Coroner.
In company with the rest of the people there he looked with some
curiosity at the detective as he stepped into the box. Most of the
folk present in that room had never seen a detective in their lives.
Blick, they thought, was certainly not at all like what they had
conceived men of his calling to be. He might be thirty years old, but
he looked younger. He had a somewhat cherubic, boyish countenance,
rendered more juvenile still by the fact that he was clean-shaven; he
was very smartly and fashionably dressed in a blue serge suit,
traversed by thin lines of a lighter blue; his linen and neck-wear
proclaimed him a bit of a dandy; his carefully brushed hair, golden
in hue, matched admirably with the pretty glow of his cheeks; his
bright blue eyes, keen and alert, were as striking as the firm lines
of his lips and the square, determined chin beneath them. Altogether,
Blick looked more like a smart young army officer than a policeman,
and the people who had gained their notions of detectives from
sentimental fiction began to feel that somebody had deceived them.
Blick and the barrister confronted each other with glances of mutual
understanding.
“Detective-Sergeant Charles Blick, of the Criminal Investigation
Department, New Scotland Yard, I believe,” said the barrister.
“I am,” answered Blick.
“Tell the Court how you came to be associated with this case.”
“I came down to Selcaster some days ago, in connection with another
matter,” said Blick. “I had to remain in the city—at the Mitre
Hotel. On Tuesday morning, very early, the Chief Constable sent an
officer of his force to me, saying that he had just received news of
a probable murder at a place close by, and asking me to dress and go
with him. I drove with him, the police-surgeon, and a constable, to
Markenmore Hollow. There we found the dead body of a man whom some of
those present recognized as Mr. Guy Markenmore. The Chief Constable
requested me to take charge of matters; since then he has obtained
permission from my Department for me to take this case in hand.”
“With a view of finding the murderer?”
“With that object, certainly.”
“You have heard the evidence of the previous witnesses, Blick?—I
refer especially to that of Hobbs, of the Markenmore policeman, and
of the doctor?”
“I have.”
“All correct.”
“Quite correct.”
“After taking charge of matters, did you accompany the body here to
Markenmore Court?”
“I did.”
“Did you then make an examination of the clothing?”
“Yes; a thorough one.”
“What did you find?”
“A purse containing seventy-five pounds in notes and gold—mostly
five-pound notes. Five pounds, twelve shillings, and ninepence in
gold, silver, and bronze, loose, in the trousers pockets; a silver
cigar-case; a silver cigarette-case; a silver card-case; a——”
The Coroner leaned forward.
“A moment, if you please,” he said. “It just strikes me—up to now,
nobody has afforded us any information as to where Mr. Guy Markenmore
lived in London. So—is there any address on the cards which were
presumably found in the case which the witness mentions?”
The barrister held up some cards.
“I have the cards here, sir,” he answered. “There are several in the
case—some of them have a private address, some a business address.
The private address is 847b Down Street, Piccadilly: the business
address is 56 Folgrave Court, Cornhill. I may say—it can be given in
evidence if necessary—that the police have made enquiries at both
these addresses. At Down Street Mr. Guy Markenmore had a bachelor
flat, which he had tenanted for some four or five years. He had a
valet there, one Alfred Butcher, who had been in his service for
three years. At Folgrave Court, he had a staff of three clerks——”
“What was Mr. Guy Markenmore’s profession, or business?” asked the
Coroner.
“He was a member of the Stock Exchange, sir, of six years’ standing.
As I have just said, the police have made enquiry at his flat and at
his office. They learnt nothing particular at either, except that on
Monday last Mr. Guy Markenmore, then in his usual health and good
spirits, told his valet and his head-clerk that he was going into the
country that afternoon, but would be back at the flat for breakfast
next morning and at his office at the usual time—ten o’clock.”
“There is another matter that the police may have enquired into,”
said the Coroner. “I mention it now, because we naturally want to
know all we can—the matter of circumstances. There were no money
troubles, for instance?”
“The police have also made enquiry amongst Mr. Guy Markenmore’s
acquaintances on the Stock Exchange, and in financial circles, sir,”
replied the barrister. “There seems no doubt that the deceased was in
exceedingly prosperous circumstances—a very well-to-do man. All this
can be put in evidence later; it seems probable, sir, that you will
not be able to conclude this enquiry today, and——”
“Just so—just so,” said the Coroner. “Let me hear the rest of the
detective’s evidence.”
Blick resumed his catalogue as if there had been no interruption.
“A gold watch, chain, and pendant locket,” he continued. “Various
small matters, such as a penknife, keys, gold pencil-case. And a
letter case, comparatively new, and a pocket-book, evidently old,
each containing letters.”
“All these are in charge of the police, I suppose, Blick?”
“They are all in charge of the Chief Constable, with the exception of
the letter-case and the pocket-book which I have here and now
produce.”
Herewith Blick, diving into the inner breast pocket of his smart
coat, brought out and held up a black morocco letter-case, and a
faded green leather pocket-book.
“Have you examined the contents of those things?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes. The Chief Constable and I examined everything in them,
carefully, on their discovery.”
“What do they contain?”
“This pocket-book contains seven letters, addressed to Sir Guy
Markenmore, and all signed either Veronica or Nickie.”
“Are they all in the same handwriting?”
“They are, and the address on all is the same—Markenmore Vicarage.”
“What are the dates?”
“Only one bears any definite date—New Year’s Eve, 1904. The others
are dated Monday, or Wednesday, or Friday, as the case may be. But
each is in its envelope, and the postal marks are of the year I have
just mentioned—1904, and the following year, 1905.”
“Anything else in that pocket-book?”
“Yes. Two locks of hair—evidently the same hair—folded in tissue
paper, and a small lace-bordered handkerchief.”
“Since finding these things, Blick, have you shown them to any one?”
“Yes. After consulting with the Chief Constable, I showed them to
Mrs. Tretheroe, at her house, yesterday. On seeing them, she said the
seven letters were written by her to Mr. Guy Markenmore some years
ago, that the two locks of hair were given by her to him, about the
same time, and that the handkerchief was certainly hers—she fancied
that he must have stolen it from her at some time or other.”
“Now the letter-case. What did you find in that?”
“Two business letters, of recent date, referring to some ordinary
share transactions. A receipted bill for a lunch for two persons at
the Carlton Hotel, in London; date, April 3rd last. One letter of a
private nature; an invitation to dinner. Two receipts from Bond
Street tradesmen—one, a jeweller, the other a bookseller. And, in an
inner compartment, a letter in its original envelope, addressed to
Guy Markenmore, Markenmore Court, Selcaster, and signed John
Harborough.”
“Is that letter in the case now, there, before you?”
“It is.”
“Has it been shown to any one since you found it?”
“It has not been seen by any one but myself and the Chief Constable.”
The barrister raised his hand and pointed to the ledge of the
witness-box.
“Take that letter from the case,” he said peremptorily. “Hand it to
the Coroner.”
There was a tense silence in the room as the Coroner, handed the
letter, slowly drew forth a sheet of folded note-paper from its
envelope, and adjusting his spectacles, read the contents. All eyes
were now bent upon him—and they were all quick to see the start
which the old gentleman gave as he read, and the shade of annoyed
surprise that came over his face. Being human, he was unable to
repress a little, smothered exclamation. It was drowned by the sharp
accents of the barrister.
“I must ask you, sir, to read that letter to the jury,” he said.
The Coroner looked round on Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven
companions. Clearly, he had no relish for the task which his duties
imposed. But he braced himself—with another look which took in the
whole scene before him.
“This letter, gentlemen,” he said, turning again to the jury, “is
written on a sheet of note-paper, on which is engraved the address
Greycloister, Selcaster, and it is dated December 8th, 1905. It runs
as follows:
‘GUY MARKENMORE,
The next time I meet you, wherever it is, and whenever it is, whether
tomorrow, or a year hence, or five years hence, or ten years hence, I
shall shoot you dead like the dog you are.
JOHN HARBOROUGH.’”
The Coroner laid the letter on his desk, took off his spectacles,
leaned back in his chair, and looked round him with the air of a man
whom something has suddenly wearied. Just as suddenly he leaned
forward again, picked up the letter, and passed it to Mr.
Fransemmery. As it went from hand to hand amongst the jurymen, the
barrister glanced at the detective and nodded. Blick vanished from
the witness-box, and the barrister, catching an inclination of the
head from the Coroner, turned to the latter’s officer.
“Call John Harborough,” he said in a low voice.
Harborough once more walked to the witness-box. During the reading of
the letter he had sat steadily watching the Coroner; his face, grim
and impassive, betrayed nothing of whatever it was that he was
thinking. It remained equally impassive as he took the oath and faced
Coroner, jurymen, and the barrister, who, as the witness came
forward, had possessed himself of the letter and now stood holding it
in his right hand. Waiting until Harborough had taken the oath, he
passed the letter across the table to a policeman and motioned him to
hand it to the witness. Amidst a dead silence he asked his first
question, sinking his voice to a low, but intensely clear whisper and
fixing Harborough with a steady look.
“Did you write that letter?”
“I did.”
“Did you mean what is said in it?”
“When I wrote it—yes.”
“If you had met Guy Markenmore on the morrow you speak of, would you
have shot him like a dog?”
“On the morrow—yes, I should.”
“Or—a year afterwards?”
“I am not so certain of that.”
“Or—five years afterwards.”
“No—certainly not!”
“Did you hear the evidence given by Mrs. Braxfield?”
“I did.”
“Was it correct?—were you on the hill-side, near her house, at about
four o’clock on Tuesday morning last?”
“Her evidence was quite correct—I was.”
“You have travelled a great deal in wild countries, I believe, Mr.
Harborough. Are you in the habit of carrying a revolver?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Had you a revolver on you when you were out on the downs on Tuesday
morning?”
“Yes, I had!”
The barrister looked round at the jury. Then he suddenly sat down,
and, for the second time that morning, helped himself to a pinch of
snuff. He turned from his snuff-box to the Coroner. But the Coroner
was nodding at Walkinshaw, who presently rose and faced his client.
“You have just admitted, Mr. Harborough, that you wrote the letter
which has been read. Did you write it under great provocation?”
“Under greatest provocation. I firmly believed that Guy Markenmore
had prejudiced Miss Leighton against me, in a most despicable
fashion.”
“Do you believe that now?”
“I am not at all sure—one way or the other. I began to be doubtful
on the point some years ago.”
“Is that why you said just now that if you had met Guy Markenmore
five years after writing that letter you would certainly not have
carried out your hasty threat?”
“Precisely!”
“Your anger had cooled down?”
“It had become simply non-existent.”
“May I take it that when you wrote that letter you were passionately
in love with Miss Leighton, as the lady in question was then, and
that you were furious because you thought Guy Markenmore had wrecked
your chance of winning her?”
“You may. That is the fact.”
“Finding that you had no chance with the lady you went abroad?”
“Yes—cleared out altogether.”
“Did you get over your trouble? You know what I mean.”
“I certainly got cured of my infatuation for Miss Leighton. I can
truthfully say that I was quite heart-whole again within a couple of
years.”
“Cured?”
“Absolutely.”
“So then, your anger against Guy Markenmore died out?”
“Altogether! I began to see that I might have been mistaken, and that
I had made a fool of myself.”
“Now supposing you had met Guy Markenmore again, what then?”
“I should have begged his pardon and offered to shake hands with him.”
“But—you never did meet him again?”
“Never! I have never seen Guy Markenmore, alive or dead, since I last
saw him at Markenmore Vicarage some seven years and five months ago.”
Walkinshaw, in his turn, glanced at the jury. Then he nodded to his
witness.
“Say, in your own fashion, what were your movements last Tuesday
morning,” he said.
“I can tell that in a few words,” replied Harborough. “I returned
home, after seven years’ absence, on Monday afternoon. I was somewhat
excited by my home-coming, and by meeting two or three old friends
and so on. I came to this house for one thing—and I did not sleep
very well that night. Also, I am always a very early riser. As I
couldn’t sleep, I got up at three o’clock, left my house, and went up
the downs to the highest point. I came back by Markenmore Hollow and
Woodland Cottage, and went home. I was in my own bedroom again at a
quarter to five.”
“You never saw Guy Markenmore?”
“Never.”
“Nor men walking on the downs?”
“I never saw anybody from leaving Greycloister to returning to it.”
“Do you know anything whatever of the circumstances of Guy
Markenmore’s death?”
“Nothing!”
“On your oath. You are innocent of any share in it?”
“Absolutely innocent!”
Walkinshaw sat down, and as nobody else showed any intention of
questioning Harborough, he presently walked away from the
witness-box. The Coroner glanced round the officials at the table.
“This would seem a convenient stage for adjourning the enquiry,” he
said. “But I understand there is a witness here who has volunteered
information, of what nature nobody seems to know, and I think we had
better hear what he has to say. Call Charles Grimsdale.”