Sir James Perrivale’s Story
The advertisement inquiring for news of the whereabouts of Ezra Grice,
some time of Frattenbury, was duly inserted in _The Times_ and other
daily papers. The Chief Constable demurred a little at first, but
finally agreed with Colson that there might be something in it,
although, after the lapse of such a long period, the discovery of the
individual in question had many chances against it.
At the end of the week Colson had a letter from Anthony Crosby, in
which he said:
My advertisement for any correspondents of the late Mr. Templeton
has had few results, and I send you them for what they are worth. I
have, for convenience’s sake, tabulated them as follows:
1. Two letters written to friends at his club—one from Salcombe and
another from Poole—ordinary letters stating he was shortly coming up
to London.
2. Four letters to tradesmen, ordering certain goods.
3. A letter to the editor of a magazine of travel, arranging for the
publication of an article.
Neither of these, for I have made inquiries, refers to the matter of
Ezra Grice. We may, therefore, build upon the elimination theory,
and presume that if the recipient of the letter has seen my
advertisement he prefers to say nothing about it.
I notice that you are advertising for this man Grice. If it will
help you, I am willing to offer a reward of £50 for information
which may produce him. Pray use your discretion in this matter when
you re-advertise.
I think I have now succeeded in piecing together the whole of the
blotting-pad letter. You have probably arrived at a similar
conclusion. Some may be guess-work, but I am inclined to believe
that it reads thus:
“hand over Ezra Grice’s confession & proof.
This is final.”
Of course it is only a bit of the whole letter, but it is not
without interest.
The police were debating as to whether they should take advantage of
the lawyer’s offer of the reward, when a tall, weather-beaten
individual, with a close-cropped moustache, got out of the London
train at Frattenbury and inquired his way to the police head-quarters.
He was dressed in a loose knickerbocker suit of excellent West End
cut, and walked with the air of a man of resource and authority. He
sent in his card and asked to see the superintendent of police.
“Sir James Perrivale,” read the superintendent. “The name seems
familiar. Show him in, Peters.”
“Good morning,” said Sir James. “I’ve called about that
advertisement—you know, what?”
“Advertisement?”
“The what-d’ye-call-it—that fellow named Grice. I saw the thing in my
club yesterday.”
“Pray sit down, Sir James. We shall be glad if you can give us any
information about him.”
“Look here, Superintendent, I want to know what you want him for.
Anything against him? The poor devil’s gone through enough already.
What?”
“We don’t know anything against him, but we certainly want to find out
about him.”
“Wasn’t it down here somewhere that poor Templeton was murdered?”
“Yes, Sir James—about two miles off.”
“Queer coincidence, what? Perhaps that’s what you want him for?”
“I don’t understand, Sir James.”
“Eh? Oh, I thought perhaps you knew Grice was with him in South
Africa.”
“Was he, by George?” exclaimed the superintendent. “We never knew
that. We only wish we had more details about Mr. Templeton; it might
help us. Do you know anything?”
“Oh, Lord, no! Only I knew Templeton—over the water, and Grice too,
and I was interested, what?”
“Will you tell us what you know?”
“Of course I will. Want me to make a statement? All right. Well, I’ve
only just got back from South Africa. Been doing a bit of big-game
shooting up country—I’m speaking of three or four months ago. I had a
camp up beyond the Umbrati river, and Templeton struck it. He was on
his way back. Queer chap, you know. Used to go and bury himself for a
couple o’ years in the interior—exploring. Well, as I was saying, he
struck our camp. He was in a pretty low way, too, only a few of his
natives and this chap Grice left—very little ammunition. Clothes like
a scarecrow.”
“What was Grice doing with him?”
“He’d taken him, see? Grice had been in the country years—Boer War,
trading, diamond finding, ivory—all sorts of things. Sort o’ chap down
on his luck and then up again. But he knew a lot—he was a useful man.
Spoke most of the dialects and understood handling natives. Templeton
picked him up at Johannesburg, and got him to go with him. Poor
wretch! Never thought he’d bring him back.”
“What was the matter?”
“Lots. Broken arm, fever, and all sorts of complications. They’d had
to carry him on a stretcher for a week or more. Thin as a lath. I had
a few drugs—they’d nothing left—and did what I could. But he looked
like pegging out pretty soon.”
“Did he?”
“I’ll tell you. Templeton, you see, was in a hurry to get on. Don’t
wonder. Grice was at death’s door, and he had to leave him. There was
something or other first—Grice’s will, I fancy. Anyhow, Templeton was
with him a long time the day before he left, and then called me and
Ottery—Colonel Ottery, you know, who was shooting with me—to witness
Grice’s signature.
“The next morning Templeton left. We’d rigged him out a bit, and gave
him what we could spare. We knew he’d be all right. I promised him I’d
give Grice a decent burial.”
“And——”
“No, we didn’t. One of my men—Zulu, he was—asked to take him in
hand—uncle had been a medicine man, and he knew something about it,
what? Queer things they know sometimes about herbs and so on, pretend
they’re magic, of course. The poor wretch was so far gone that it
didn’t seem to matter, so I let the chap take him in hand. Poured a
scalding hot drink down his throat, put white powder in his
eyes—rubbed him down—all sorts of things. But it answered. Before we
broke up that camp, Superintendent, Grice was walking about again.”
“What happened to him?”
“I brought him down to Cape Town and set him on his legs. He’d got a
bit of cash. Templeton had paid him a lump sum down before he took
him, and he’d banked it. Anyhow, he said he should stay at Cape Town
for a bit till he was strong again—so there he is.”
“Sir James,” said the superintendent, “I’m most greatly obliged to
you—more than I can say. But we must have Grice here—as soon as
possible. How shall we get him?”
“You haven’t a charge against him?”
“No, no. It’s not a question of bringing him over on an extradition
warrant. He must come of his own accord. We want him at once. But
there’s a difficulty.”
“What’s that, eh?”
“He left this town twenty years ago, when he got into trouble. He was
not prosecuted, but it might make him suspicious.”
Sir James Perrivale thought a moment.
“Tell me, Superintendent, in confidence, of course, is it anything to
do with Templeton’s murder, because it looks like it to me, what?”
“Yes, it is. Grice may help us materially in getting on the track of
our man. That’s why we want him.”
“Tell you what, then. I always liked Templeton—queer chap though he
was. I’ll help you. Grice will listen to me. I’ll cable for him to
come over by the next boat—and cable him the passage.”
“If it’s a question of expense, Sir James——”
“No, no. I’d like to. Leave it to me. I’ll get him for you. And now
I’m here you might do something for me. I’ve read about the murder, of
course. How can I get to the place to have a look at it? Morbid
curiosity, what?”
“I’ll run you down now in a car, with pleasure.”
When they arrived at Marsh Quay it was peaceful enough. The tide was
in, bathed in a sunshine splendour. Sir James remarked:
“Queer, isn’t it? Here’s this chap Templeton, risked his life over and
over again, all sorts of adventures, escapes, and so on, and he gets
done to death in a quiet, beautiful spot like this—in the midst of our
civilisation, what? Gad, I wonder who did it? I mustn’t ask what you
know?”
“You may ask, Sir James. But I can’t tell you—only—I think things are
beginning to move. Did you know Mr. Templeton well?”
“Met him several times—here and abroad,” said Sir James, as they
turned away from the water’s edge. “Nobody knew him well; he wasn’t
that sort. And nobody I ever met could turn him if he’d once made up
his mind to do a thing—and he did queer things at times. If he thought
a course was right, he’d stick to it—conventionality and advice and
prudence be damned! I shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t something of this
kind that brought that knife into his heart.”
Sir James went away, promising to let the superintendent know how
things were shaping, and the latter rang up Colson, who was in his
house. He went to the police station at once, and listened attentively
to the story, but made little comment.
He was still working more or less in the dark and was puzzled. But he
acknowledged that the prospect was brighter.
As he went up the street afterwards, he met Francis Norwood coming out
of the bank. The lawyer stopped him.
“Well, sergeant. I’ve seen your advertisements. Have you found Ezra
Grice?”
“No, sir,” said Colson truthfully, for he had not found him.
“I see. Well, as I said before—anything I can do, you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The detective stood, lost in thought, as Norwood went on his
way—looking at him. Then he shook his head slowly, went back to the
police station, asked for the copy of the proceedings at the inquest,
took it home and studied it till his wife literally dragged him out of
his chair to come to the meal. But he was very silent as he ate, and
as soon as the meal was over, returned to his perusal of the report.
Then he took out his notebook and made quite long entries.