Colson Makes an Appointment
Anthony Crosby, busy man as he was, found a little time to follow up,
from a natural curiosity, the strange letter that Reginald Templeton
had addressed to him. As the letter had surmised, this was not very
difficult to do. He consulted several old law lists, and made certain
inquiries at the office of the Law Society in Chancery Lane.
The result was that he went to the newspaper reading-room, of the
British Museum, where he had a reader’s ticket, applied for files of
newspapers twenty years old, and very soon made himself acquainted
with the charge that had been brought against Winnie’s father all
those years ago. He shook his head as he read the case—embezzlement of
clients’ monies.
“No wonder Templeton advised her mother to keep it from the girl,” he
murmured. “No—there is no occasion to tell her now—— Hallo! That’s
curious!”
He read on carefully, then gave back the file of papers to the
attendant. As he walked away he said to himself:
“This chap Ezra Grice is a bit of a puzzle. I wonder what Templeton
knew about him? I think I’ll run down to Frattenbury and have a talk
with the Chief Constable; it’s better than writing. I can do it
without mentioning Winnie Cotterill, of course. She mustn’t come in.”
Walking down Kingsway he met a friend of his, a stockbroker whom he
had not seen for some time, and invited him to a cup of tea at a
neighbouring restaurant. In the course of conversation the broker
remarked:
“I was saying something to my partner this morning not very
complimentary to your profession, Crosby.”
“What was that?”
“That the three classes of persons who make fools of themselves in
finance are lawyers, parsons and old women.”
“That’s not kind,” said Crosby with a laugh.
“It’s true, though. We’ve had a big slump in the mining market
to-day—‘Virginian Reefs.’ You haven’t got any, I hope?”
“Not I!”
“You’re lucky. They’ve gone down to three or four shillings—if you can
get a bid. Now, look here, Crosby. I’m ready to bet you a new hat that
you’ll find a lot of old women and parsons and lawyers—not one of ’em
knowing anything about mines—well hit over the job. I’ve bought
myself, for a country vicar and the curate of a seaside town—and the
biggest order I had for ‘Virginian Reefs’ came from a lawyer—a chap
who won’t take my advice.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s not a fair question. Staid old chap, living in a cathedral
town—Frattenbury. I’ve had a frantic wire from him to sell out, but
there aren’t bidders for all the lot he holds. Well, he’s wealthy, and
can afford to drop a bit. Good-bye, old chap. I must be off.”
Down in quiet, sleepy Frattenbury the superintendent received a wire
that day from Sir James Perrivale:
E. G. started from Cape. Boat due Plymouth December 8.
“It’s a waiting game, sir, then, for a few weeks,” said Colson, to
whom the superintendent showed the wire. “But I want a little time.”
“Your week’s up, and more,” said the other. “Have you anything to tell
the chief? He’s getting restive.”
“All right,” said Colson. “I can tell him enough to keep him
quiet—though I’ve several things to see to before I can satisfy him.
I’m just off for a final visit to Marsh Quay. There’s a question I
want to ask that little blighter, Proctor, which has only just
occurred to me.”
“What’s that?”
But Colson only shook his head, and started forth on his bicycle. The
little man grinned at him when he was shown into his house at Marsh
Quay.
“Come to arrest me again?”
“No, Mr. Proctor, I haven’t. But I want to ask you something. Just
carry your mind back to the inquest. Do you remember how that cigar
band went round the jury?”
“Yes—perfectly. The Canon gave it to the coroner and he handed it to
the jury. Nine of them had it before it came to me. I handed it over
to the two others—across the table—and they returned it to the
coroner.”
“Yes—that’s so. Then I suppose you recognised that band across the
table—or somehow—before it got to you?”
“No, I didn’t. It was only when I found it in my hand that I
recognised it. Why do you ask?”
“Then why the dickens did you get ready to change it before you knew
what it was?”
“_Change_ it!” exclaimed Proctor. “What are you talking about? I never
changed it!”
“What?” cried the detective, springing from his seat. “Do you mean to
tell me you never——” He stopped suddenly. “Good Lord!” he said,
sitting down in his chair again.
“What is it?” asked Proctor.
The detective thought rapidly.
“One of those two jurymen must have changed it,” he said. “It was
another band we found we had afterwards. For heaven’s sake keep your
mouth shut about it, Mr. Proctor.”
“The jurymen. What—Bailey or Westall? They were the two. Why, my dear
sir, Bailey is a most respectable man—so is Westall.”
“It isn’t a respectable man we’re after, Mr. Proctor. It’s a murderer.
Remember, we even suspected _you_.”
“But I can’t believe——”
“Don’t try, sir, don’t try. Promise me you’ll say nothing, now. It
mustn’t get out till we’ve investigated.”
“Of course I’ll say nothing. But you astound me.”
“I’m astounded myself,” said Colson, “though I really ought not to be.
Good day, Mr. Proctor—mum’s the word, remember.”
He rushed back to Frattenbury and called at the Deanery. To his
question, the maid informed him the Dean was abroad, and wouldn’t be
back till the first week in December. His language, as he came away,
concerning clergy in general and Cathedral dignitaries in particular,
was awful.
For two hours that evening he was closeted with the Chief Constable
and the superintendent. All three men were exceedingly grave. Major
Renshaw said at length:
“We must get all the evidence, Colson. It’s an awful thing, if it’s
true. How about that stick!”
“I don’t want to have to use it till we’ve proved the rest, sir. He
might slip out of our hands on that alone.”
“Also, there’s Ezra Grice,” said the superintendent.
“Yes—there’s Ezra Grice,” repeated the Chief Constable. “We’ll wait
for him.”
As the weeks went by, Frattenbury and the newspapers forgot all about
the murder. There were other matters for local gossip. People hinted
that Francis Norwood was getting closer than ever with his cash. He
demanded payments almost before he gave advice or transacted business.
He sold a block of cottages belonging to him. And sundry creditors
began to say they wished he was as ready to pay his bills as he was to
be paid.
The Dean returned from his trip to the Riviera, and Colson called on
him again. This time he came out of the Deanery evoking blessings on
the heads of the clergy, instead of curses. There was another long
conference between the three policemen—and their faces were graver
than ever. Colson watched the shipping news anxiously, and one day
took himself off to Plymouth, returning with a sallow-faced man who
joined the trio at a further conference that evening—and it was very
late when Colson took the stranger to his own house—where Mrs. Colson
had a spare room ready for him.
“To-morrow, then,” the Chief Constable had said, when Colson left, and
Colson had repeated the words.
In the morning, the detective, who was carrying the stick he had found
in the dinghy, met Canon Fittleworth. He stopped him.
“In confidence, sir,” he said, “I shall have some news to tell you
this evening—about your late cousin. Shall you be at home?”
“Indeed?” said the Canon, much interested. “Let me see—I’m alone in
the house, and I’ve asked Mr. Norwood to dine with me—at half-past
seven. Can you come about an hour earlier?”
A smile lingered on the detective’s face, and he replied:
“Mr. Norwood might like to hear my news as well. Should I be intruding
at—say nine o’clock?”
“Come, by all means.”
“Thank you, sir—you won’t mention this to Mr. Norwood?”
“If you don’t want me to.”
“I’d rather not, sir.”
“Very well.”
Colson, after this interview, did not pursue his way up the street.
Instead, he retraced it to the police station.
“Better still, by and by,” he remarked.
About eight o’clock he was walking up the street again, carrying the
stick. He rang the bell of a quiet house in a quiet street. He was
about five minutes inside that house, and then he went back to the
police station, outwardly calm, but inwardly realising that this was
the most intense moment of his life.
“It’s perfectly true, sir,” he said to the Chief Constable, holding
out the walking-stick.
The Chief Constable sighed deeply.
“Very well,” he said, “then there’s nothing more to say about it.”
A little before nine the three policemen, and the stranger staying in
Colson’s house, walked up the South Street together, and disappeared
through the gateway half-way up the street into the quiet regions of
the Cathedral Close.
“I ordered the taxi, sir,” said Colson. “It will be all ready—outside
the house—about half-past nine.”
Major Renshaw nodded in silence. He was feeling the situation acutely.