WHO killed Sir John Maxell and his wife?
Where had their bodies been hidden? These were the two questions which
were to agitate England for the traditional space of nine days. For one
day, at any rate, they formed the sole topic of speculation amongst the
intelligent section of fifty million people.
The first question was easier to answer than the second. It was obvious
to the newsmen that the murderer was Cartwright, whose threats of
vengeance were recalled and whose appearance at Bournemouth had been
described at second-hand by the detective in charge of the case.
First-hand information was for the moment denied the pressmen, for
Timothy, fully dressed, lay on his bed in a sound sleep. Happily for
him, neither then nor later did any of the enterprising newspaper men
associate the “A. C.” in his name with the wanted criminal. He was at
least spared that embarrassment.
But the story of his vigil as “a friend of Sir John’s” was in print long
before he woke up to find a small and impatient army of reporters
waiting to interview him. He answered the reporters’ interrogations as
briefly as possible, bathed and changed and made his way to the hotel
where the girl was. She was leaving as he arrived, and the warmth of her
greeting almost banished the depression which lay upon him. She put her
arm through his so naturally that he did not realise his wonderful
fortune.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, “unless you know already.
All my money has gone.”
He stopped with a gasp.
“You don’t mean that?” he said seriously.
“It is true,” she replied. “I believe it was very little and my loss is
so insignificant compared with the other awful affair that I am not
worrying about it.”
“But Sir John had money?”
She shook her head.
“I have just seen his lawyers,” she said, “they have been to the bank
and there is not a hundred pounds to his credit, and that amount will be
absorbed by the cheques he has drawn. He drew a very, very large sum,
including my money, from the bank two days ago. You know,” she went on,
“I think that Sir John contemplated leaving for America? He had already
given me a hint, asking me how long it would take me to pack my
belongings, and I fancy that had something to do with the telegram he
received——”
“Announcing Cartwright’s escape,” nodded Timothy.
“He was so kind and so gentle,” said the girl, her eyes filling with
tears, “that to me he was more like a father. Oh, it is awful, awful!”
“But you?” asked the agitated Timothy. “What are you going to do? Good
heavens! It is dreadful!”
“I shall have to work,” said the girl practically and with a little
smile. “I do not think that will kill me. Hundreds of thousands of girls
have to work for their living, Timothy, and I shall have to work for
mine.”
Timothy drew a long breath.
“Not if I can help it, you won’t,” he said. “I am sure I shall make a
lot of money. I can feel it in my bones. If a man takes a job——”
“You mustn’t talk like that,” she said, pressing his arm, “and anyway,
how could I let you help me or keep me? That sort of thing isn’t
done—not by nice girls.”
She laughed, but became sober again.
“Do you know that Sir John was very much interested in you?”
“In me?” said Timothy.
She nodded.
“I told you so the other day. I think he liked you, because he was
saying how uncomfortable you must be at Vermont House, living in that
queer little room of yours.”
Timothy was startled.
“How did he know I was living at Vermont House?” he said.
She smiled.
“Vermont House happens to be Sir John’s property,” she said. “In fact, I
think it is the only realisable piece of property he has, now that the
money has gone.”
“What shall you do immediately?” asked Timothy.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think the first step is to get out of
this hotel, which is much too expensive for me. I have a few pounds in
the bank, but that won’t last very long.”
At his earnest entreaty she agreed to see a solicitor and appoint him to
save whatever was possible from the wreckage of Sir John’s estate. Two
hours passed like as many minutes, until Timothy remembered that he had
an appointment with a London reporter—one Brennan. Brennan he had known
in his cinema days, and Timothy literally fell upon his neck.
“I’ve nothing to tell the boys that hasn’t already been told,” he said,
putting down the newspaper which Brennan handed to him. “I am as anxious
for news as you are. Have there been any developments?”
“None,” said the reporter, “except that Sir John had no money at the
bank and no money could be found in the house.”
Timothy nodded.
“That I know,” he said, “all his securities were drawn out two days ago.
That was the stuff that Cartwright was after.”
“Does Miss Maxell know——” Brennan began.
“She does know and she took it like a brick.”
“It was about twenty thousand pounds,” Brennan went on. “The only other
clue the police have is that the safe was opened by Maxell’s duplicate
key. The old man had two sets made, one of which he used to keep in his
combination safe in his bedroom and the other he carried around with
him. Miss Maxell told a story that the night before the murder Lady
Maxell asked her to secure possession of the keys in order to open a
bureau.”
Timothy nodded.
“I see. Is it suggested that Lady Maxell detached the key of the safe
and that it was she who opened it?”
“That is one theory,” said the other, “the police have miles of ’em!
They’ve got everything except the bodies and the murderer. Now come out
with that story, Anderson! You must know a great deal more than you’ve
told, and I’m simply without a new fact that these evening papers
haven’t got, to hang my story on. Why did Cartwright come to your room,
anyway? Do you know him?”
“He was an acquaintance of my father’s,” said Timothy diplomatically,
“and perhaps he thought I knew Maxell better than I did.”
“That sounds pretty thin,” said the reporter. “Why should he come to
you?”
“Suppose I am the only person he knew or knew about,” said Timothy
patiently. “Suppose he’d been all round Bournemouth trying to find a
familiar name.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted the reporter.
“Anyway,” said Timothy, “I was a kid when he went to gaol. You don’t
imagine I knew him at all, do you?”
He had gone out to meet the girl, forgetting to take his watch, and now
he was looking round for it.
“Here is a theory,” said Brennan suddenly. “Suppose Lady Maxell isn’t
dead at all.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other.
“Suppose Cartwright killed Maxell and Lady Maxell witnessed the murder.
Suppose this fellow had to decide whether he would kill the witness or
whether he would go away with her? You said the motor-car which came to
the house in the middle of the night was the same as that in which Lady
Maxell came home. Isn’t it likely that she should have told the
murderer, for some reason or other, that the car was coming, because
evidently she had arranged for it to come, and that they went away
together? Isn’t it likely, too, that she was in the plot, and that, so
far from being a victim, she was one of the criminals? We know her
antecedents. There was some trouble over her stabbing a young American,
Reggie van Rhyn. In fact, most of the evidence seems to incriminate her.
There is the key, for example. Who else but she could have taken the
duplicate key? Doesn’t it look as though she planned the whole thing,
and that her accomplice came in at the last moment to help her get away
and possibly to settle Sir John?
“Take the incident of the two locked bedrooms. Obviously somebody who
lived in the house and who knew the family routine must have done that.
Both Sir John and Lady Maxell were in the habit of fastening their doors
at night, and the servants did not go into the bedrooms unless they were
rung for. It seems to me fairly clear that Lady Maxell locked the doors
so that the suspicions of the servants should not be aroused in the
morning.”
“If I had your powers of deduction,” said the admiring Timothy, “I
should never miss a winner. Where the blazes is my watch?”
“Try under the pillow,” said Brennan.
“I never put it there,” replied Timothy, but nevertheless turned the
pillow over and stood gaping.
For beneath the pillow was a long, stout envelope with a tell-tale blood
stain in one corner.
“For heaven’s sake!” breathed Timothy, and took up the package.
It bore no address and was sealed.
“What on earth is this?” he asked.
“I can tell you what those stains are,” said the practical Brennan. “Is
there any name on it?”
Timothy shook his head.
“Open it,” suggested the reporter, and the other obeyed.
The contents were even more astonishing, for they consisted of a thick
pad of money. They were new Bank of England notes and were bound about
by a tight band of paper. On the band was written in Sir John’s
handwriting:
“Proceeds of the sale of stocks held in trust for Miss Mary
Maxell. £21,300.”
* * * * *
The detective in charge of the case was a man of many theories. But his
new theory was an uncomfortable one for Timothy Anderson.
“This puts a new light upon the case,” said the detective, “and I’m
being perfectly frank with you, Mr. Anderson, that the new light isn’t
very favourable to you. Here you are, outside the building when the
crime is committed. You are seen by a policeman a few minutes after the
shots are fired, and a portion of the money stolen from the house is
discovered under your pillow.”
“Discovered by me,” said Timothy, “in the presence of a witness. And are
you suggesting that, whilst I was with your policeman, I was also
driving the car, or that I was wearing Cartwright’s cap which was found
in the grounds? Anyway, you’ve the finger-print of your man and you’re
at liberty to compare it with mine.”
“It isn’t a finger-print anyway,” said the detective, “it is the print
of a knuckle and we do not keep a record of knuckles. No, I admit that
the motor-car conflicts a little bit with my theory. Have you any
suggestion to offer?”
Timothy shook his head.
“The only suggestion I can make,” he said, “is that Cartwright, in a
hurry to get away and knowing the position of my room, hid the money
there for fear he should be caught with the goods. At any rate, if I
were the criminal I would not hide a bloodstained envelope under my
pillow. I should at least have the intelligence to burn the envelope and
put the money where the servants of this house could not find it. Why,
don’t you see,” he said vigorously, “that any of the servants at this
boarding-house would have found the envelope if I hadn’t?”
The detective scratched his head.
“There’s something in that,” he said. “It is a very queer case.”
“And it is being investigated by very queer people,” said Timothy
irritably.
A little further investigation, however, relieved Timothy of all
suspicion. He had not returned to the house until ten o’clock that
morning. The maid, who had taken him a cup of tea at eight, noticing
that he had been out all night, thought it was an excellent opportunity
to straighten the room to “get it off her mind,” as she said. She did
not remake the bed, but had tidied it. Whilst sweeping she had seen the
envelope lying on the floor near the open window and had picked it up
and, for want of a better place, thinking “it was private” had slipped
it under Timothy’s pillow.
As Timothy had not been out of sight of the police since the tragedy
until his return to his lodgings, there could be no suggestion that he
had any part in hiding the envelope. Whatever irritation he felt was
dispelled by his large and generous satisfaction when the poverty which
threatened Mary was averted. But why should Cartwright hide the money
there? Why should he stop in his headlong flight to come to the window,
as evidently he did, and throw the package into the room? There were a
hundred places where he might have left it.
“That cousin stuff doesn’t work,” thought Timothy, “and if you think
he’s going to rely upon his relationship with me and can use me to look
after his money, he’s made one large mistake.”
He saw the girl again at the official inquiry, and met her on the day
after. She was going to Bath where she had some distant relations, and
they had met to say good-bye.
It was a gloomy occasion—less gloomy for Timothy than for the girl,
because he was already planning a move to the town in which she was
taking up her quarters. This cheerful view was banished, however, when
she explained that her stay in Bath was merely a temporary expedient.
“Mrs. Renfrew has wired asking me to come—and it seems as good a place
as any for a few months. I don’t think I shall stay here any longer,”
she said. “I want a change of air and a change of scene. Timothy, I feel
that I shall never get over Sir John’s death.”
“Never is a very long time, my dear,” said Timothy gently, and she could
only wonder at the tender kindness in his voice.
She had little time to wonder, however, for she had a proposition to
make to him and she hardly knew how to reduce it to words.
“Are you—are you—working?” she asked.
Timothy’s broad smile answered her plainly that he was not.
“The fact is,” he said airily, “I haven’t quite decided what I am going
to do. If you were going down to Bath for good, I was going down to Bath
also. Maybe I could start a druggist’s or buy a store, or run errands
for somebody. I am the most accommodating worker.”
“Well——” she began and stopped.
“Well?” he repeated.
“I had an idea that maybe you would like to go on and conduct an
independent search—independent of the police, I mean—and find
something about the man who killed Sir John, and perhaps bring him to
justice. You know, I think you are clever enough,” she went on
hurriedly, “and it would be work after your own heart.”
He was looking at her steadily.
“Quite right, Mary,” he said quietly, “but that involves spending a
whole lot of money. What misguided person do you suggest would send me
out on that kind of job?”
“Well, I thought——” She hesitated, and then a little incoherently,
“You see, I have the money—mainly through you—my own money, I mean. I
feel I have a duty to my poor uncle and I could trust you to do your
very best. I could afford it, Timothy”—she laid her hand on his arm and
looked up at him almost beseechingly—“indeed I can afford it. I have
more money than I shall ever spend.”
He patted her hand softly.
“Mary,” he said, “it is just the kind of job I should like, and with
anybody’s money but yours, why, I’d be out of the country in two shakes,
looking for Mr. Cartwright in the most expensive cities of the world.
But, my dear, I cannot accept your commission, because I know just what
lies behind it. You think I’m a restless, rather shiftless sort of
fellow, and you want to give me a good time—with your money.”
He stopped and shook his head.
“No, my dear,” he said, “thank you, but, no!”
She was disappointed and for a moment a little hurt.
“Would two hundred pounds——” she suggested timidly.
“Not your two hundred,” he said. “That lawyer of yours should take
better care of your money, Mary. He shouldn’t allow you to make these
tempting offers to young men,” he was smiling now. “Will you go abroad?”
“Perhaps—some day,” she said vaguely. “Sir John wanted me to go—and I
feel that I should be pleasing him. Some day, yes, Timothy.”
He nodded.
“Maybe I’ll go over at the same time as you,” he said. “I thought of
taking a chance in Paris for a while—you can make big money in Paris.”
“In—a while?” she smiled.
“In a minute,” said Timothy grimly, “if the horse and the jockey are of
the same way of thinking. I know a fellow who races pretty extensively
in France. He has a horse called Flirt——”
She held out her hand for the second time.
“Timothy, you’re incorrigible,” she said.
She did not see him again for twelve months, not indeed until, after a
winter spent in Madeira, she put her foot over the gangway of the s.s.
_Tigilanes_ and met the quizzical smile of the youth who was waiting to
receive her.
For Timothy had been in Funchal a month, seeing but unseen, since Mary
was generally in bed before the Casino woke up and play reached any
exciting level.