WHICH IS "PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL"
AT eleven o'clock next morning Fetherston stood in Trendall's room at
Scotland Yard reporting to him the suspicious movements of Monsieur and
Madame Granier.
His friend leaned back in his padded chair listening while the keen-faced
man in pince-nez related all the facts, and in doing so showed how shrewd
and astute he had been.
"Then they are just what we thought," remarked the chief.
"Without a doubt. In Monte Carlo they received further instructions from
somebody. They went to Paris, and there I lost them."
Trendall smiled, for he saw how annoyed his friend was at their escape.
"Well, you certainly clung on to them," he said. "When you first told me
your suspicions I confess I was inclined to disagree with you. You merely
met them casually in Regent Street. What made you suspicious?"
"One very important incident--Weirmarsh came in with another man, and,
in passing, nodded to Granier. That set me thinking."
"But you do not know of any actual dealings with the doctor?"
"I know of none," replied Walter. "Still, I'm very sick that, after all
my pains, they should have escaped to Paris so suddenly."
"Never mind," said Trendall. "If they are what we suspect we shall pick
them up again before long, no doubt. Now look here," he added. "Read
that! It's just come in. As you know, any foreigner who takes a house in
certain districts nowadays is reported to us by the local police."
Fetherston took the big sheet of blue official paper which the police
official handed to him, and found that it was the copy of a confidential
report made by the Superintendent of Police at Maldon, in Essex, and read
as follows:
"I, William Warden, Superintendent of Police for the Borough of Maldon,
desire to report to the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police the following
statement from Sergeant S. Deacon, Essex Constabulary, stationed at
Southminster, which is as below:
"'On Friday, the thirteenth of September last, a gentleman, evidently a
foreigner, was sent by Messrs. Hare and James, estate agents, of Malden,
to view the house known as The Yews, at Asheldham, in the vicinity of
Southminster, and agreed to take it for three years in order to start a
poultry farm. The tenant entered into possession a week later, when one
vanload of furniture arrived from London. Two days later three other
vanloads arrived late in the evening, and were unpacked in the
stable-yard at dawn. The tenant, whose name is Bailey--but whose letters
come addressed "Baily," and are mostly from Belgium--lived there alone
for a fortnight, and was afterwards joined by a foreign man-servant named
Pietro, who is believed to be an Italian. Though more than three months
have elapsed, and I have kept observation upon the house--a large one,
standing in its own grounds--I have seen no sign of poultry farming, and
therefore deem it a matter for a report.--SAMUEL DEACON, Sergeant, Essex
Constabulary.'"
"Curious!" remarked Walter, when he had finished reading it.
"Yes," said Trendall. "There may be nothing in it."
"It should be inquired into!" declared Walter. "I'll take Summers and go
down there to have a look round, if you like."
"I wish you would," said the chief. "I'll 'phone Summers to meet you at
Liverpool Street Station," he added, turning to the railway guide.
"There's a train at one forty-five. Will that suit you?"
"Yes. Tell him to meet me at Liverpool Street--and we'll see who this
'Mr. Baily' really is."
When, shortly after half-past one, the novelist walked on to the platform
at Liverpool Street he was approached by a narrow-faced, middle-aged man
in a blue serge suit who presented the appearance of a ship's engineer on
leave.
As they sat together in a first-class compartment Fetherston explained to
his friend the report made by the police officer at Southminster--the
next station to Burnham-on-Crouch--whereupon Summers remarked: "The
doctor has been down this way once or twice of late. I wonder if he goes
to pay this Mr. Baily, or Bailey, a visit?"
"Perhaps," laughed Walter. "We shall see."
The railway ended at Southminster, but on alighting they had little
difficulty in finding the small police station, where the local sergeant
of police awaited them, having been warned by telephone.
"Well, gentlemen," said the red-faced man, spreading his big hands on his
knees as they sat together in a back room, "Mr. Bailey ain't at home just
now. He's away a lot. The house is a big one--not too big for the four
vanloads of furniture wot came down from London."
"Has he made any friends in the district, do you know?"
"No, not exactly. 'E often goes and 'as a drink at the Bridgewick Arms at
Burnham, close by the coastguard station."
Walter exchanged a meaning glance with his assistant.
"Does he receive any visitors?"
"Very few--he's away such a lot. A woman comes down to see him
sometimes--his sister, they say she is."
"What kind of a woman?"
"Oh, she's a lady about thirty-five--beautifully dressed always. She
generally comes in a dark-green motor-car, which she drives herself. She
was a lady driver during the war."
"Do you know her name?"
"Miss Bailey. She's a foreigner, of course."
"Any other visitors?" asked Fetherston, in his quick, impetuous way, as
he polished his pince-nez.
"One day, very soon after Mr. Bailey took the house, I was on duty at
Southminster Station in the forenoon, and a gentleman and lady arrived
and asked how far it was to The Yews, at Asheldham. I directed them the
way to walk over by Newmoor and across the brook. Then I slipped 'ome,
got into plain clothes, and went along after them by the footpath."
"Why did you do that?" asked Summers.
"Because I wanted to find out something about this foreigner's visitors.
I read at headquarters at Maldon the new instructions about reporting all
foreigners who took houses, and I wanted to----"
"To show that you were on the alert, eh, Deacon?" laughed the novelist
good-humouredly, and he lit a cigarette.
"That's so, sir," replied the big, red-faced man. "Well, I took a short
cut over to The Yews, and got there ten minutes before they did. I hid in
the hedge on the north side of the house, and saw that as soon as they
walked up the drive Mr. Bailey rushed out to welcome them. The lady
seemed very nervous, I thought. I know she was an English lady, because
she spoke to me at the station."
"What were they like?" inquired Summers. "Describe both of them."
"Well, the man, as far as I can recollect, was about fifty or so,
grey-faced, dark-eyed, wearin' a heavy overcoat with astrachan collar and
cuffs. He had light grey suède gloves, and carried a gold-mounted malacca
cane with a curved handle. The woman was quite young--not more'n twenty,
I should think--and very good-lookin'. She wore a neat tailor-made dress
of brown cloth, and a small black velvet hat with a big gold buckle. She
had a greyish fur around her neck, with a muff to match, and carried a
small, dark green leather bag."
Walter stood staring at the speaker. The description was exactly that of
Weirmarsh and Enid Orlebar. The doctor often wore an astrachan-trimmed
overcoat, while both dress and hat were the same which Enid had worn
three months ago!
He made a few quick inquiries of the red-faced sergeant, but the man's
replies only served to convince him that Enid had actually been a visitor
at the mysterious house.
"You did not discover their names?"
"The young lady addressed her companion as 'Doctor.' That's all I know,"
was the officer's reply. "For that reason I was rather inclined to think
that I was on the wrong scent. The man was perhaps, after all, only a
doctor who had come down to see his patient."
"Perhaps so," remarked Walter mechanically. "You say Mr. Bailey is not at
home to-day, so we'll just run over and have a look round. You'd better
come with us, sergeant."
"Very well, sir. But I 'ear as how Mr. Bailey is comin' home this
evenin'. I met Pietro in the Railway Inn at Southminster the night before
last, and casually asked when his master was comin' home, as I wanted to
see 'im for a subscription for our police concert, and 'e told me that
the signore--that's what 'e called him--was comin' home to-night."
"Good! Then, after a look round the place, we hope to have the pleasure
of seeing this mysterious foreigner who comes here to the Dengie Marshes
to make a living out of fowl-keeping." And Walter smiled meaningly at his
companion.
Ten minutes later, after the sergeant had changed into plain clothes, the
trio set out along the flat, muddy road for Asheldham.
But as they were walking together, after passing Northend, a curious
thing happened.
Summers started back suddenly and nudged the novelist's arm without a
word.
Fetherston, looking in the direction indicated, halted, utterly staggered
by what met his gaze.
It was inexplicable--incredible! He looked again, scarcely believing his
own eyes, for what he saw made plain a ghastly truth.
He stood rigid, staring straight before him.
Was it possible that at last he was actually within measurable distance
of the solution of the mystery?