A DOCUMENT OF IMPORTANCE
It was a copy, and not the original, of this pitiful letter which I
found in the cigar-case, as was evident from the fact that the document
was in Green’s handwriting, and to this I attached some importance.
As matters stood it _looked_ as if Green had in some way contrived to
intercept Mullen’s correspondence; and it also looked as if, after
making himself acquainted with the contents of Mullen’s letters, Green
had carefully resealed them and let them go on to the person for whom
they were intended. That he must have had some reason for not retaining
in his possession what might prove so valuable a piece of evidence was
very clear, and after thinking the matter over I came to the following
conclusion.
Although Mullen had given an address to which a letter might be sent to
him by his sister, it was not likely that he himself was actually to be
found at that address. On the contrary, it was more than probable that
he had arranged some complicated and roundabout system of reforwarding
correspondence, so that even if the police should find out the address
to which the letter was sent, they would still have before them the
difficult task of tracing the letter to the address to which it had
been reforwarded, and perhaps again reforwarded, before they could
come to the actual hiding-place of the fugitive, who in the meantime
would get wind of what was going on and would promptly decide that it
was high time for him to change his quarters. And I felt tolerably
sure that his manner of making a change would be like that of certain
sea-fowl who, upon the approach of an enemy, dive out of sight beneath
the water, where they twist and turn and eventually come up far out of
reach and range, and in any other direction than that in which they are
looked for.
Hence it was possible that though Green had succeeded, as I say, either
in intercepting or obtaining access to Mullen’s correspondence,
he might not be any nearer to discovering the criminal’s actual
whereabouts. But if Green merely took a copy of this letter and then
let it go on to Mullen, the latter would very likely fall into the
trap of keeping the appointment which he had made with his sister,
and could then be arrested and handed over to justice. For though his
sister had--lest the letter should fall into other hands than those
for which it was intended--cautiously refrained from mentioning her
own or her husband’s name, or from giving any address except that of
a foreign town, she had, woman-like, forgotten that there were not
likely to be many large steam yachts belonging to an English gentleman,
whose wife was in bad health, lying at the same moment off such a place
as Stavanger. An experienced inquiry agent like Green would have no
difficulty in learning the name of such a vessel and of its owner; and
that he had taken steps to obtain the necessary information was very
clear from the second document which I found in his cigar-case. Here it
is--
Viscount Dungannon, } { Mary Hatherwick
shot in U. S. A. } { Coyne, daughter of
in 1881, } and { John Coyne, Esq.,
} { of Galway,
had son,
known as James Cross, who afterwards
assumed the name of James Mullen.
----:----
This Mary { was } Henry Cross
Hatherwick Coyne { afterwards } (d. 1886);
(d. 1880) { married to }
and had daughter,
Flora Hatherwick Cross, b. 1865;
m. in 1885 to Stanley Burgoyne, Esq.
The meaning of this document--a document which affords some interesting
data to the student of heredity--evidently was that James Mullen was
the illegitimate son of the famous, and also infamous, Lord Dungannon
by a Miss Mary Coyne, the daughter of an Irish gentleman. The fact
that Miss Coyne had been seduced and had given birth to a child had
probably been kept a secret, for if Green’s notes were correct she had
afterwards married a Mr. Henry Cross, by whom she had a daughter, Flora
(now Mrs. Stanley Burgoyne), who was therefore Mullen’s half-sister,
and the writer of the letter a copy of which I had found in Green’s
cigar-case.
How Green had contrived to find out the address to which Mullen
was having his letters sent there was no evidence to show. Whether
it was due to a singularly lucky fluke or to his own astuteness I
could not say, and am not likely ever to know, but I quite realised
and understood that it was possible for him to have made such a
discovery. And I recognised and understood also that, after having
read the letter which gave him the clue to Mullen’s connection with
Mrs. Stanley Burgoyne, the other facts which he had ferreted out in
regard to Mullen’s parentage would not be difficult to arrive at. What
I could _not_ understand, however, was by what means he had succeeded
in intercepting Mullen’s letters. If Green had been an official from
Scotland Yard he would no doubt be allowed to intercept letters which
might be written by or addressed to suspected persons, but that the
postal authorities would permit a private inquiry agent to tamper with
their mail bags was not to be entertained. That Green was staying in
the same house as Mullen, and was able in that way to lay hands on the
latter’s correspondence, was very unlikely. Nor was it likely that my
late inquiry agent had succeeded in bribing a postman, for though it
may not be impossible to find dishonest postmen, the odds are very much
against finding the dishonest man in the one particular office with the
mails of which one wishes to tamper.
A far more probable theory was that which had at first occurred to
me, namely, that the letters had been directed to the care of a
tobacconist, or, more likely still, of a hairdresser. It is matter of
common knowledge that many hairdressers add to their business takings
by allowing letters, on each of which a fee of one penny is charged,
to be addressed to their care. Though generally implying a not very
creditable connection, these letters are, as a rule, of no more
criminal character than assignations with people to whom the recipient
has thought it unadvisable to give his real name or address, or whose
letters he is anxious should not come under the notice of his family.
If Green had intercepted the letters at a tobacconist’s shop, the
first thing to find out was where that tobacconist’s shop was situated,
and the only way to do so would be to trace the inquiry agent’s recent
movements. Hence I decided that I could not do better than run down to
Yarby again and see what could be learned about him. But before I could
do this with safety I should have to ascertain whether the body had
been found, and whether suspicions of foul play were entertained, as in
that case it would not be advisable to visit the neighbourhood for the
present.
The morning paper of the following day settled that point
satisfactorily, for on opening my “Daily News” I read the following
announcement:--
“SAD DEATH FROM DROWNING.--Mr. Robert Bakewell Green, a visitor from
London, was accidentally drowned at Baxenham, near Yarby, yesterday.
The body was discovered late last night on the beach by the Baxenham
rural postman. From the fact that the unfortunate man was wearing no
boots it is supposed that he had taken them off in order to pursue
the pastime--so popular among Cockney visitors to the seaside--of
paddling among the small pools left by the last tide. Doctor Ellis,
who examined the body, is of opinion that while so engaged the
deceased was overcome by faintness and was drowned in quite shallow
water, the body being subsequently washed up upon the beach by the
incoming tide. An inquest will be held.”
Five minutes after I had read this paragraph I was on my way to catch
the next train to Yarby. The reader will remember that Green had given
his address as “Care of Mrs. Brand, Elm Cottage, Baxenham,” and my
first step was to interview this lady, under the pretence of being a
Press representative who had come down to collect further particulars
about her late lodger. From Mrs. Brand I learned among other facts that
Green had been in the habit of paying frequent visits to Cotley, a
seaside town some twenty miles inland.
To Cotley I according betook myself, and curiously enough the very
first thing that caught my eye after leaving the station was the
legend, “Letters Taken,” displayed in the window of a tobacconist’s
shop immediately fronting the booking-office entrance. The door was
closed, but as I pushed it open a bell overhead announced the arrival
of a customer.
I found myself in a small shop with another room beyond, on the swing
doors of which were the words, “To the Hairdressing Saloon.” There was
no one behind the counter, nor, so far as I could see, was there any
one in the hair-cutting rooms. But on the counter before me lay half
a dozen letters, apparently thrown there by an impatient postman who
could not wait for the proprietor’s return. One of them was for “Mr.
Robert Bakewell Green,” the inscription being in his own handwriting;
another was addressed in a woman’s hand to “Mr. Henry Jeanes,” and I
saw that it bore a Norwegian stamp and the Stavanger postmark. Could
“Henry Jeanes” be the name under which James Mullen was having letters
sent to him?