The Meaning of “The Red Cote”
The following Saturday Sefton was waiting in his bungalow, and Ena was
with him, rather nervous, but glad that the shadow was to be lifted at
last. Jack had written to Andrews to tell him that he was going to
make an explanation with regard to _The Red Cote_, and asked him to be
present. Fletcher he had deliberately ignored, though he felt certain
that he would turn up. Halley had not returned from London, and there
had been no news of him.
Andrews arrived punctually to the minute, and as was expected,
Fletcher was with him. Sefton found seats for them, and began in quiet
tones, different indeed from the irritable manner of the past weeks.
“You asked me the other day, what I was doing at _The Red Cote_. I am
now in a position to tell you, thank God. When my father died, I had
almost finished my course at the Hospital, and was within sight of
being a qualified doctor. I was unable to go on through lack of funds.
Before he died, my father entrusted a secret to me. He had been
carrying out researches in certain obscure nervous diseases. My father
firmly believed in Psychoanalysis, and had also a special appliance of
an electrical nature with which he was experimenting.
“Not being qualified, I could not practice openly, nor did I wish to
reveal to the medical world the exact nature of the process, until I
had thoroughly tested it. You will remember, Ena,” he said turning to
his sister, “that when we first came here, I was writing a large
number of letters, and you thought that I was trying to get work of
some sort. My real object was to get hold of patients, who wished to
be treated privately. I was obliged to take a bungalow for the
treatment, and was perhaps over-anxious to keep the matter secret, so
constructed a room in which I could work, in the centre of the
bungalow. I rather foolishly thought that if the place was lighted up
it would be less conspicuous than if it was in darkness, but it seems
to have called attention to it instead.
“I could not bring them here as they were practically lunatics.
“Among my patients was Summers the bank manager from Tunbridge Wells.”
The listeners gave a start of surprise.
“Summers was in a curious state when he came to me,” Sefton continued.
“He was not mad, but was on the border-line, and I was afraid that he
would commit suicide. He should have told his people, but I could see
that the slightest suggestion of such a thing would have spelt
disaster. He was convinced that he was dead. The treatment was doing
him good, and I had hopes that he would make a complete recovery, when
you got busy over the so-called mystery, and I had to exercise the
utmost caution. Then Summers disappeared.”
Andrews lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Fletcher.
Sefton was quick to notice it. “No,” he said. “I should not have been
quite such a fool as to tell you this story, if I could not produce
the man. He will be here presently, but for obvious reasons an
explanation was first necessary.”
“When you called on me I had no more idea where he was than you had,
and I could see that if he had committed suicide, my position would be
black.”
Fletcher’s face was suffused with red, and he banged the table.
“I see it all now,” he said. “Summers and Halley are one and the same
man. That’s what he was doing here.”
There was a look of contempt on the face of Sefton.
“If that’s what a detective is paid for I don’t think much of the
service. Wasn’t Halley here last week when you came to ask questions?
If I am not mistaken here is Summers himself.”
In answer to a knock, Ena went to the door, and admitted a tall man
answering exactly to the description given in the papers and on the
wireless of the missing man. He bowed to the company, and shook hands
with Sefton.
“This is Mr. Summers,” said he introducing him to the others.
Summers passed a nervous hand over his eyes, and said “I am afraid I
can’t talk much. I am not very well, but thanks to Mr. Sefton I am
making a wonderful recovery. He has told me I was wrong to run away,
but I had dreams and was haunted; now I can see things better.”
Ena went to him with the instinct of a true woman. “My brother has
been telling us all about you. You will be all right now; you are
among friends, and must come and stop here till you are well.”
A look of deep gratitude come to his thin face, and he seemed calmer
and more self-possessed.
“Thank you,” he said. “I have entire confidence in your brother, and I
will do whatever he wishes.”
So here was the explanation of _The Red Cote_, commonplace as all
explanations are when you hear them.
Fletcher felt that he had cut a poor figure, and was eager to retrieve
his reputation; he had another shot in his locker, but to use this
would extinguish his last chance to stand well with Ena. He glanced at
her and hesitated. Andrews rose to his feet.
“Your story has been quite interesting, and as far as I am concerned,
convincing,” he said holding out his hand. “You could not have done
otherwise than you have done.”
“One moment,” said Fletcher, having made his decision. “Mr. Sefton, can
you explain with equal ease how it was that you changed a five pound
note at the _Black Horse_ with Southgate which was one of those stolen
from Lord Reckavile?”
There was an ominous silence in the room; Ena’s eyes flashed, while
Andrews looked at the floor, marvelling at the crudity of the
question, but Sefton remained calm.
“If you had asked your question in a less offensive manner, I would
have answered you; now you can find out for yourself.”
He saw the look of pain in Ena’s eyes, and remembered how worried she
had been about the money.
“But for my sister’s sake I will tell you,” he added. “I have only
changed one such note at the _Black Horse_, and that was for old
Giles. He asked me whether I could change it for him, and I did so.
You can ask him yourself.”
“Humph,” said Fletcher, “we shall see about that,” and he rose. “Come
on, Andrews, we shall do no more with these people.”