The Templeton Case
by Victor L. Whitechurch
published by Edward J. Clode, Inc. (New York)
CONTENTS
I. Reginald Templeton Comes to Marsh Quay
II. The Visit to the Opposite Shore
III. A Terrible Discovery
IV. What Canon Fittleworth Found on the “Firefly”
V. Detective-Sergeant Colson Discovers Clues
VI. Colson is Baffled
VII. The Inquest
VIII. Winnie Cotterill Pays a Visit to Frattenbury
IX. The Cigar Band
X. Harold Grayson is Detained
XI. The Canon’s Cigars
XII. Fresh Evidence
XIII. Isaac Moss Explains
XIV. Reginald Templeton’s Letter
XV. Detective-Sergeant Colson’s Deductions
XVI. Mr. Proctor Upsets Matters
XVII. New Theories
XVIII. Sir James Perrivale’s Story
XIX. Colson Makes an Appointment
XX. Colson’s “Imagination”
XXI. Final Solution of the Problem
CHAPTER I
Reginald Templeton Comes to Marsh Quay
Tom Gale leaned heavily on the low bulwarks of the little schooner
_Lucy_, his arms folded upon the aforesaid bulwarks, his short, black
clay pipe in his mouth, and his eyes fixed on the flowing tide
glittering in the sunlight of a clear October day.
Tom Gale had nothing whatever to do, and was doing it well, lounging
and thinking, for the most part, about nothing at all. He combined the
offices of crew and cook of the little coasting schooner that was
moored at the head of Marsh Quay, waiting for a load of gravel that
was delayed. That very morning word had been brought that the
contractor would not be able to cart the gravel from the pit, about
three miles away, down to Marsh Quay until the following Tuesday. This
was Saturday, and the “captain” and “mate” had incontinently taken
themselves off to their respective homes at Frattenbury, leaving Tom
Gale in charge.
Tom Gale did not in the least mind having nothing to do beyond taking
care of a vessel that nobody was likely to run away with. There was
good beer to be had at the “Mariner’s Arms,” not a hundred yards away,
and there was a nice snug bar parlour in the “Mariner’s Arms,” where
the evenings might be spent in comfort—for there was no risk in
deserting the vessel for an hour or two.
Marsh Quay was on one of the little estuaries of the sea that pierced
into the southern country from the Channel. Two miles northward, the
grey, tapering spire of the Cathedral of Frattenbury stood out against
the background of Downs and blue sky. The estuary, which ran up within
a mile of Frattenbury to the westward, was at Marsh Quay only about
two hundred yards in width, but broadened out southward until a curve
hid its course towards the open sea.
Marsh Quay, as its name implied, was a little quay jutting out into
the estuary from the eastern shore. It was only about fifty yards
long, but fairly broad, and contained sheds for storage on either
side, except at the end, where it was quite open for a space, which
formed room for a small vessel to be moored on either side, as well as
one at its extremity.
The quay was reached by a straight road of about half a mile, which
turned out of the main road to Frattenbury, and ended abruptly on the
quay itself. As one approached by this road one passed a few cottages
on either side, while, just before one came to the quay itself, there
was a good-sized house on the right, and the “Mariner’s Arms” on the
left. The seaward wall of the little inn was washed at the base at
spring tides, and the windows looked out over the estuary.
On the right-hand side of the quay, screened by the buildings on it,
was an anchorage for vessels of small draught at low tide. A couple of
little yachts were riding here, while, drawn up on the shore, were two
or three flat-bottomed light canoes and some small boats. Most of
these belonged to the “Mariner’s Arms,” and were for hire, Marsh Quay
being quite a little resort at high tide in summer, when Frattenbury
people came out to fish, or to sail in the estuary.
On the shore immediately opposite was a wood, coming right down to the
water’s edge, already turning golden yellow with autumn tints. Above
the trees of this wood, a few hundred yards inland, could be seen the
upper part of a house to which a boat, moored to the tiny jetty
opposite, evidently belonged.
At low tide the estuary was a wide expanse of black mud, except for a
narrow channel winding in the middle, and the little pool beside the
quay, which formed the anchorage. The tide from the Channel outside
came in with a strong current which rushed back at the turn. Boating
was not particularly safe, and even if one were sailing a light
draught yacht, one had to know the shallows well, while heavier
vessels coming up or going down with the tide had to stick to the
mid-channel, to avoid running on the mud.
The _Lucy_ was moored at the end of the quay, her bows pointing
southward. It was almost high tide, still coming in, with only the
vestige of a breeze from the south-west. As Tom Gale gazed vacantly
over the sparkling waters, a speck of white appeared, coming into view
round the bend. His seaman’s interest was aroused. Slowly he stretched
himself into an upright position, and shaded his eyes with his hand.
Presently he muttered to himself:
“’Tain’t the first time he’s come up. Knows his way about, or he
wouldn’t ha’ steered off the point there.”
The speck of white grew more distinct, evolving into the mainsail,
foresail, and jib of a small, cutter-rigged yacht. She was making
little more than tide-way, her sails every now and then flapping as
the breeze dropped.
Tom Gale took a look round. The water was flowing by more slowly, the
floating bits of seaweed hardly moving now.
“Reckon he can’t do it,” he said. “There ’ent wind enough to bring him
up against this tide and it’s almost on the ebb now.”
Even as he spoke, the foresail came down with a run, followed by the
jib. Then the mainsail slowly descended.
“What’s he up to?” said Tom Gale. “Don’t seem to know his way about
arter all. If he drops anchor there he’ll drag for a certainty and get
on the mud. Much better ha’ slipped back to Langham on the tide. Ah—I
see.”
For the yacht suddenly began to forge ahead, while a faint succession
of thudding sounds came over the water.
“One of them auxiliary oil engines, that’s it.”
Gathering speed, the yacht came up the estuary, stemming the
outflowing tide. Tom Gale could see two men on her now, one steering
and the other stowing the sails.
Presently she came up near the quay, slowing down a bit, and Tom Gale,
looking down, could make out both men plainly. The one engaged in
stowing the sails had moved forward and was getting the anchor ready.
He was evidently a sailor, and wore dark blue trousers and a jersey,
with a peaked cap on his head. The other was a man who looked about
fifty years of age, with moustache and short, iron-grey beard. His
face was much tanned by exposure to weather. He wore dark trousers, a
short reefer jacket, and a yachtsman’s cap was tilted on the back of
his head. As he passed beneath the schooner he looked up, caught Tom’s
eye, and shouted:
“Plenty of room round the quay?”
“Plenty o’ room, sir,” answered Tom, “but stand out a bit to get
round—it’s runnin’ a smart pace.”
“I remember,” the other shouted back, with the air of one who was
familiar with the estuary.
Tom Gale slowly paced the deck of the schooner to get a better view
aft. He watched the little craft draw up to her anchorage; she was a
smart little boat, painted white, with a green line round her just
below the bulwarks, and Tom’s practised eye saw that she had been
painted quite recently. Abaft the raised cabin was a well, in which
the steersman sat and controlled the engine, and the entrance to this
cabin the doors of which were open, was from this well. Forward was a
forecastle, evidently providing just room for a solitary “crew.”
Tom Gale watched her as she came to her anchorage. In this pool, cut
off, as it were, by the side of the quay, the water was scarcely
affected by the flow of the tide. There was a splash as the anchor was
heaved overboard, a rattle of the chain, and the yacht slowly swung to
her moorings.
The interest dwindled. Tom Gale pulled out a big silver watch. It was
one o’clock.
“Time for a pint, I reckon,” he murmured.
Slowly and heavily he climbed over the bulwarks and walked along the
quay to the “Mariner’s Arms.” A stout, pleasant-looking, rosy-cheeked
woman was standing behind the little bar, polishing glasses. To her he
nodded with the air of an old acquaintance, kept up by frequent
visitations.
“Gimme a pint, please, missus.”
She drew it out of a big cask that stood on trestles behind the bar.
“Weather keeps fine.”
“Ah—not much to grumble at,” he replied as he counted out coppers.
“Anyone in the parlour?”
“Only the gentleman that’s staying here.”
“Who’s he?”
She shook her head.
“Dunno. An artist. Leastways, he does a bit o’ paintin’—and fishin’
too,” she added. “Been with me nearly a week now. Nice quiet young
man. Don’t give no trouble.”
“I’ll have a look at ’im.”
“Ah, do.”
Tom Gale moved across the bar, opened a door, and passed into the
parlour that overlooked the estuary. As has been said, the bar parlour
of the “Mariner’s Arms” was snug and cosy. Also it was in harmony with
its name and surroundings. Five models of ships stood on the broad
mantelpiece, and the pictures consisted of oleographs of the departure
of Nelson from Portsmouth Hard on his last voyage, his death at
Trafalgar, and three or four ocean liners, and a brigantine under full
canvas sailing on an impossible blue sea. The furniture was homely but
solid, and a comfortable settee stretched along one side of the room.
Seated near the window, his unfinished glass of beer on the table by
his side, was a young man of about five and twenty, smoking a cigar.
He was clean-shaven, with fair hair rather inclined to curl, a firm,
strong mouth, and clear blue eyes. He was dressed in a loose
knickerbocker suit, and was wearing a soft turned-down collar.
Tom Gale touched his cap, and then awkwardly removed it as he sat down
and put his mug of beer on the table.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon.”
Tom Gale took a long pull at his beer. He was a sociable man.
“Nice weather, sir.”
“It is, very.”
“Doin’ a bit of fishing, Mrs. Yates tells me.”
The young man flicked the ash off his cigar, and smiled.
“Trying to,” he said, “but I haven’t had any particular luck, so far.”
Tom Gale thereupon waxed garrulous on the subject. He knew the estuary
well and was up to all kinds of fishing dodges. From fishing the
conversation turned to sailing, and from sailing narrowed down to the
yacht that had just anchored.
“Did you see her, sir?”
“I was watching her just now, before you came in.”
“Little beauty, I call her. I reckon she could give points to a few in
a smart breeze. Looks to me like one o’ they Cowes boats. Never seen
her up here before, but the skipper knowed the way right enough.
’Tain’t the first time he’s run up to Marsh Quay, I’ll ’low. Handled
her just right.”
“Well, _you_ ought to know,” said the other with a laugh.
“Ah—reckon I does. Though I ain’t had no chance o’ sailin’ a beauty
like that. Nice thing to have nothin’ to do, and a craft like her to
do it in. One o’ these here rich chaps, I expects, what can afford to
live in luxury and have their wine and whisky and cigars whenever they
pleases.”
The young man had just drawn out his case, and was selecting a fresh
cigar as Tom was speaking. He held out his case with a laugh.
“Don’t be jealous of his cigars,” he said; “have one of mine, if you
like ’em.”
“Thank ’ee, sir. I don’t mind if I do. Not that I often smokes
one—don’t get the chance.”
He took out a knife, opened it, and was about to cut the cigar, then
hesitated.
“I’ll save it till to-morrow, if you don’t mind, sir. I always reckon
a cigar’s a Sunday smoke.”
“All right,” said the other, as he removed the band from his own cigar
and threw it in the grate. The fire was ready laid, but the weather
was warm and it had not been lighted.
Tom Gale stowed away his cigar in his pocket, drained his mug, and
glanced out of the window.
“Hallo!” he said, “they’re coming ashore.”
“Who?”
“Gentleman from the yacht—and his man.”
From the window they could see the yacht. A little dinghy was coming
ashore, pulled by the sailor. As the bows grated on the stones he
sprang out, took a bundle from the boat, waited till the other had
moved into his seat and taken the oars, and then shoved her off again.
“Skipper gone back to the yacht,” said Tom, who was still watching.
“T’other coming along for a drink—if I knows a sailor man rightly.”
Five minutes later the said sailor man entered the parlour, a mug of
beer in his hand.
“What cheer, mate! Good day, sir,” as he caught sight of the other.
The two men of a trade quickly forgathered together, while the other
quietly smoked his cigar and now and then put in a word.
“Stroke o’ luck for me,” said the newcomer, with all the open
frankness of his calling. “I ain’t been this way this three year or
more. Got an old uncle living over at Frattenbury, and the skipper’s
given me the night off to go and see him. Got to get back early
to-morrow to get his breakfast for him.”
“What, does he sleep aboard?” asked Tom Gale.
“Always, ever since I’ve been with him, and that’s gettin’ on for
three weeks now. Don’t like hotels, he says. Ain’t been used to ’em.
Been livin’ up country in Africa or somewhere—explorer cove,
seemingly. Knows his way about.”
“How long is he puttin’ in here?”
“Three or four days, I reckon. Knows Frattenbury; got a relative
there, I think.”
“How about his dinner to-night?” asked the young man. “Is he seeing to
it himself?”
“No, sir. Goin’ to walk into Frattenbury presently and have it there,
he says. Comin’ back to-night.”
“Got a soft job, ain’t ye?” asked Tom Gale with a broad grin.
“’Tain’t bad. But he’s mighty particular.”
“Where did you pick him up?”
“Why, he only landed at Plymouth a month ago; came straight on to
Salcombe for yachtin’—mad on it. My governor there hired him the boat
and picked me out to see to him. We’ve been runnin’ along the coast,
putting in at Dartmouth, Weymouth, and Poole. Left Ryde early this
mornin’, then the wind dropped. Ah, he ain’t a bad sort, ain’t Mr.
Templeton.”
And he buried his face in his mug, and then wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand.
The young man leaned forward a little in his chair.
“Did you say his name was Templeton?” he asked.
“That’s right, sir; Mr. Reginald Templeton. It’s painted on one of his
trunks.”
“And he came from Africa?”
“That’s correct sir.”
“And he’s staying here several days?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I must be off. Good afternoon, sir. Come into the bar
and have one with me afore I go,” he went on to Tom Gale.
The latter obeyed the call with ponderous alacrity. The young man
remained smoking thoughtfully. Presently the landlady came in to clear
away the mugs from the table.
“Lor’ sir,” she said, “ain’t you goin’ out paintin’ this beautiful
afternoon?”
He shook his head.
“I’m not in the mood,” he said.
“Well, sir, why don’t you try a bit o’ fishin’? There’s whitin’ to be
caught off the quay head when the tide’s ebbin’. And you’d get a bit
o’ bait off of Harry Turner, the second cottage down the road. I know
he’s got some.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Yates, I’m going up to my room. I’ve some letters
to write.”
His bedroom was over the bar parlour. When he reached it he looked out
of the window.
He took a pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it. But he seemed
to have forgotten his letters. Instead of writing, he sat by the
window, carefully watching to see if Mr. Templeton came ashore.