“In my report about the affair to our headquarters in Throgmorton
Avenue, I mentioned among other things that these notes, giving the
numbers, had been destroyed in the fire. Well, Oxley, what do you
think has happened? I heard from headquarters to-day and they tell me
that one of those notes has just been paid in!”
Mr. Oxley looked slightly bewildered.
“Well, what of it?” he demanded. “I don’t follow. You reported that
these notes had been destroyed in the fire. But wasn’t that only a
guess? How did you actually know?”
“It was a guess, of course, and I didn’t actually know,” Mr.
Tarkington agreed. “But I think it was a justifiable guess. I am
acquainted with Averill’s habits; he made no secret of them. Monies he
paid out he paid by cheque on the current account—everything that one
can think of went through it, even the Ropers’ salaries. The cash sent
out to Starvel went into the hoard.”
“All of it didn’t.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“The ten pounds to Ruth Averill didn’t.”
Mr. Tarkington seemed slightly taken aback.
“Well, that’s true,” he admitted slowly. “I forgot about the ten
pounds. I——”
“And there’s another twenty that didn’t,” Mr. Oxley continued, “and
that’s the twenty that turned up in London. I don’t get your idea,
Tarkington. Just what is in your mind?”
Mr. Tarkington moved uneasily in the big arm-chair.
“It seems far-fetched, I know, and I hardly like putting it into
words, but are you satisfied in your own mind that business was all
just as it appeared to be?”
“What? The fire? How do you mean ‘as it appeared to be’?”
“That it really was the accident we thought it.”
Mr. Oxley whistled.
“Oh, come now, Tarkington, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Do you
mean arson? What possible grounds could you have for suggesting such a
thing?”
“I don’t exactly suggest it; I came to ask your opinion about it. But
what passed through my mind was this: There have been several
burglaries lately—skilful burglaries, and, as you know, the police
have been completely at fault. Averill was universally believed to be
wealthy—the legend of the safe was common property. Is it impossible
that some of these burglars might have decided to make an attempt on
Starvel? Remember the situation was one of the loneliest in England.
Assume that they got in and that something unexpected happened—that
they were surprised by Roper, for example. In the resulting
disturbance Roper might easily have been killed—possibly quite
accidentally. The intruders would then be fighting for their lives as
well as their fortunes. And in what better way could they do it than
to murder the other members of the household, lay them on their beds
and burn the house down?”
Mr. Oxley did not reply. The idea was chimerical, fantastic, absurd,
and yet—it was certainly possible. There _had_ been a number of daring
burglaries within the last few months, which were generally believed
to be the work of one gang, and in no single instance had the police
been able to effect an arrest. The belief in the old miser’s hoard
_was_ universal, and from the point of view of the thief, Starvel
would be one of the easiest cribs to crack. Moreover, on second
thought Tarkington’s suggestion as to the origin of the fire was not
so fanciful, after all. The safe containing the money was in Averill’s
bedroom, and the old man would have to be quieted in some way before
it could be opened. Roper’s attention might easily have been
attracted, and the burglars, either by accident or in self-defence,
might have killed him. If so, the fire would be their obvious way of
safety. Yes, the thing was possible. All the same there wasn’t a shred
of evidence that it had happened.
“But my dear fellow,” Oxley said at last, “that’s all my eye! Very
ingenious and all that, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence for it.
Why invent a complicated, far-fetched explanation when you have a
simple one ready to hand? Sounds as if you had been reading too many
detective stories lately.”
Tarkington did not smile with his friend.
“You think it nonsense?” he asked earnestly. “You think I needn’t tell
the police about the note?”
“I don’t think you have any evidence: not evidence to justify even a
suspicion. You’ve no real reason to suppose Averill did not hand that
twenty-pound note to some one from whom it passed to the man who paid
it in.”
“To whom, for example?”
“I don’t know. Neither of us knows what visitors the old man might
have had. But that doesn’t prove he had none.”
Mr. Tarkington seemed far from satisfied. He threw away his cigarette
and took another from the box, handling it delicately in his long,
thin fingers. He moved nervously in his chair and then said in a low
voice:—
“I suppose then, Oxley, I may take it that you were quite satisfied
about that business—I mean at the time?”
Mr. Oxley looked at his friend in surprise.
“Good gracious, Tarkington, what bee have you in your bonnet? Do you
mean satisfied that the fire was an accident and that those three poor
people were burned? Of course I was. It never occurred to me to doubt
it.”
The other seemed slightly relieved.
“I hope sincerely that you’re right,” he answered. “But I may tell you
that I wasn’t satisfied—neither at the time nor yet since. That’s the
reason that when I heard about the note I came at once to consult you.
There’s a point which you and the coroner and the police and every one
concerned seem to have overlooked.” He dropped his voice still further
and became very impressive. “What about the papers that were burnt in
the safe?”
Mr. Oxley was surprised at his friend’s persistence.
“Well, what in Heaven’s name about them? For the life of me I don’t
see what you’re driving at.”
“Haven’t you ever been in Averill’s bedroom?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Did you notice the safe?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, I’ve both been there and noticed it.” He bent forward, and his
thin face seemed more hawk-like than ever as he said impressively:
“Oxley, that safe was fireproof!”
Mr. Oxley started.
“Good Heavens, Tarkington! Are you sure of that?” he queried sharply.
“Not absolutely,” the other replied. “It was certainly my strong
opinion and if I had been asked before the fire I should have had no
doubt. When I heard the evidence at the inquest I concluded I had made
a mistake. But now this affair of the twenty-pound note has reawakened
all my suspicions.” He paused, but as Oxley did not reply, continued:
“Perhaps I’ve got a bee in my bonnet as you said, but I’m now
wondering if Roper’s drunkenness doesn’t support the theory? Could he
not have been enticed into Thirsby by some member of the gang and
treated so as to make him sleep well and not hear what was going on?
Remember, he was an absolutely temperate man.”
“Not absolutely. Ruth had smelt drink on other occasions.”
“You are right. Perhaps that is a trifle far-fetched. But what do you
think on the main point, Oxley? Ought I to tell the police of my
suspicions?”
Mr. Oxley rose and began to pace the room. Then he went to the window
and stood for some moments looking out. Finally he returned to his
chair, and sat down again.
“I declare, Tarkington, I think you ought,” he said slowly. “When you
first made your—I might perhaps say—your amazing suggestion I confess
I thought it merely grotesque. But if you are right about the safe it
certainly puts a different complexion on the whole business. I take it
it’s not too late to ascertain? The safe is not too much damaged to
trace the maker and find out from him?”
“I should think the police could find the maker quite easily.”
“Well, I think you should tell them. If you are wrong no harm is done.
If not, there are murderers to be brought to justice and perhaps a
fortune to be recovered for Ruth.”
Mr. Tarkington rose.
“I agree with you, Oxley. I’ll go down to the police station and tell
Kent now.”
Mr. Oxley waved him back into his seat.
“Steady a moment,” he said. “Don’t be in such a hurry.” He drew slowly
at his cigarette while the other sat down and waited expectantly.
“It seems to me,” went on Mr. Oxley, “that if your suspicions are
correct the thing should be kept absolutely quiet. Nothing should be
said or done to put the criminals on their guard. Now Kent, you know
as well as I do, is just a bungling ass. My suggestion is that we both
take the afternoon off and go see Valentine. I know him pretty well
and we could ring him up and make an appointment.”
“Valentine, the Chief Constable of the County?”
“Yes. He’s as cute as they’re made and he’ll do the right thing.”
“Kent will never forgive us if we pass him over like that.”
“Kent be hanged,” Mr. Oxley rejoined. “Can you come in by the
three-thirty?”
“Yes, I’ll manage it.”
“Right. Then I shall ring up Valentine.”
Five hours later the two friends found their way into the strangers’
room of the Junior Services Club in Leeds. There in a few moments
Chief Constable Valentine joined them, and soon they were settled in a
private room with whiskies and sodas at their elbows and three of the
excellent cigars the Chief Constable favoured between their lips.
Mr. Tarkington propounded his theory in detail, explaining that he was
not sure enough of his facts even to put forward a definite suspicion,
but that he and his friend Oxley agreed that Major Valentine ought to
know what was in his mind. The major could then, if he thought fit,
investigate the affair.
That the Chief Constable was impressed by the statement was obvious.
He listened with the keenest interest, interjecting only an occasional
“By Jove!” as Mr. Tarkington made his points. Then he thanked the two
men for their information, and promised to institute inquiries into
the whole matter without delay.
Two days later Mr. Tarkington received a letter from Major Valentine
saying that he thought it only fair to inform him in the strictest
confidence that his belief that the safe was fireproof was well
founded, that he, the Chief Constable, strongly suspected that more
had taken place at Starvel on that tragic night than had come out in
the inquest, and that as he considered the matter was rather outside
the local men’s capacity he had applied to Scotland Yard for help in
the investigation.
Mr. Tarkington, honouring the spirit rather than the letter of the
Chief Constable’s communication, showed the note to Mr. Oxley, and the
two men sat over the former’s study fire until late that night,
discussing possible developments in the situation.