THE AFFAIR AT CHARLWOOD STREET
As the chief drove Inspector Medland along in the landaulette which
had been waiting, the detective again took from his pocket the
document which Sir George had been so anxious to destroy before his
death. He read, by the little light in the car, as follows:
“I, George Ravenscourt, Baronet, desire, on this seventeenth day of
January, 1908, to place upon record a most strange and amazing
circumstance which has occurred here in the city of Westminster.
Eighteen years ago the nation, and indeed all political parties,
suffered an irreparable loss by the death of one who was a great
Imperialist. Without one showy accomplishment, without wit to amuse or
eloquence to persuade, with a voice unmelodious and a manner
ungraceful, and barely able to speak plain sense in still plainer
language, he nevertheless exercised in the House of Commons an
influence and even a dominion greater than Pitt the father, Pitt the
son, Canning, or Castlereagh. He was the very model and type of an
English gentleman. Modest without diffidence, confident without
vanity, ardently desiring the good of his country without the
slightest personal ambition, high minded, unaffected, sensible, well
educated, in his political principles he was consistent, liberal, and
enlightened, and he did more to extend the Empire beyond the seas than
any statesman of the century.
“Suddenly, while at the zenith of his power, he became attacked by a
virulent disease, which within a week proved fatal. His burial was a
public one, and even until to-day no man who has occupied his place
has shown such tact, forethought, and eminent statecraft. England
still mourns his death, and will continue to do so for a long time to
come. Had he lived, there would not now have been that deplorably
small margin between the strength of the German and British fleets.
While he lived he upheld the ‘two-Power standard’ as a reality. By his
death the strong man for the Navy was taken from us, and alas! his
mantle has not fallen on the shoulders of any of his successors.
“And to-day, in the afternoon of the day mentioned in this record of
fact, I have, by merest chance, discovered a most romantic and
remarkable circumstance--one that has held me completely astounded and
staggers belief.
“Sworn to secrecy, I am penning this record to be attached to my will,
in order that you, my executors, alone shall learn the remarkable
truth which I desire and direct shall remain undisclosed for at least
ten years after my death, when it may be published in whatever manner
you may think most fitting.
“My bewildering discovery was made in the following circumstances.
This afternoon, at three o’clock, I called at a house, number 78
Charlwood Street, Pimlico, there to consult a certain gentleman named
Richard Goodrick, a retired schoolmaster, whose hobby is the
collection of curios. I was, unfortunately, by no means a welcome
guest, though we had been friends through many years. I went there
with a distinct yet most unusual object, for I carried with me
negotiable securities to the extent of fifty thousand pounds, ready to
hand to him in exchange for a certain secret which he held. I had
learnt one amazing fact, and desired to learn yet another. My
negotiations were, alas! unsuccessful. The old gentleman’s anger was
aroused, and…”
There the uneven manuscript ended. That was all. In the act of penning
that last sentence he had been struck down by a stealthy, unknown
hand.
The chief, who had been looking over the detective’s shoulder as he
read, exclaimed:
“That’s really very curious, Medland. I wonder what secret could this
man in Charlwood Street possess that was worth fifty thousand pounds
to Sir George? It was unfortunate that he did not live to conclude his
statement.”
“Yes,” replied the other, scanning the unfinished document. “But I
can’t see what the mention of a dead statesman refers to. He seems to
have commenced by eulogising some dead friend.”
“It is a mysterious and tantalising record, to say the least,”
declared his chief. “And the more extraordinary now that the man he
visited to-day--the man with the secret--has also been assassinated.”
“Well, the statesman, whoever he was, who died eighteen years ago
could have had no hand in the affair--that’s very clear. He can’t
concern us,” declared Medland. “Somebody else wanted to learn the
secret of this old man Goodrick, that’s very evident.”
It was still dark as the car approached Victoria Station, whence a
stream of early workmen were emerging, and, turning up Vauxhall Bridge
Road, soon pulled up before the house in Charlwood Street, a house of
the typical London type with area, one window beside the neat front
door, and two windows above leading out upon a rickety iron balcony.
Wagner opened the door, and as the inspector entered said in a low
voice of suppressed excitement:
“There’s a very strange mystery here, sir. We knocked the people up--a
Mr. and Mrs. Ayres, who are the occupiers--and they told us that their
lodger, an old gentleman named Goodrick, had gone out about six
o’clock last night and had not returned. In face of your orders we
were not satisfied, so we asked to see his rooms--and we found him
dead in the sitting-room yonder.”
The trio passed along the narrow passage where, at the foot of the
stairs, stood the frightened landlady and her husband.
“We ’ad no idea ’e’d come in!” exclaimed the white-faced woman. “We
didn’t ’ear ’im, though we left the door on the latch at ’alf-past
twelve, in case ’e came in. My ’usband and I listened--but we ’eard
nothing.”
“No sound at all?” asked Medland quickly.
“None--till the police banged at the front door and woke us up with a
start. They gave us a terrible turn, I can tell you.”
Medland grunted and followed Wagner into the small, stuffy little room
heaped with curios, where the flaring gas-jet revealed the body of
Richard Goodrick lying near the fireplace, crouched with his knees to
his chin, quite dead.
“We’ve found no weapon--only this,” exclaimed Wagner, handing his
chief an old flint-lock horse-pistol, “and it hasn’t been fired for
years.”
“Didn’t you hear any sound?” asked Medland of Mrs. Ayres, for it
seemed incredible.
“Well, sir, I did ’ear a sound in the night--a sharp, dull sound, but
I thought it were somethink out in the street. It must ’ave been the
street door. I ’ad no idea poor old Mr. Goodrick ’ad been murdered.”
“What time was it, do you think?”
“Well, as far as I can guess, it must ’ave been nearly three o’clock.
I recollect a-’earing Big Ben a-chiming the three-quarters past two.
It was soon after that.”
“This is a queer sort of abode,” remarked the chief, glancing around.
“He must have been a rather quaint character, I should think.”
“Yes, he was--according to all accounts, sir,” interposed Wagner. “He
was a very snappy old chap of a rather quarrelsome disposition. His
movements were often mysterious.”
“Much known about him?” inquired Medland.
“Nothing, except that he’s lodged here for years, and was a retired
schoolmaster. He was once second master at Dulwich College, it
appears. He was sometimes eccentric in his habits, but usually went to
bed early and rose early. He was a very studious man, always immersed
in his books.”
“Mrs. Ayres,” exclaimed Medland, “did your lodger have a visitor
yesterday afternoon--a well-dressed man, with a rather red, pimply
face?”
“Yes, sir. ’E stayed about an hour and a ’alf, and they were shut in
together a-talkin’ business.”
“Had you ever seen that gentleman before?”
“Never, sir, to my knowledge. Mr. Goodrick seldom, if ever, had any
visitors.”
“Who were the persons who visited him?”
“Well, sir, there was my brother-in-law, Tom Macquire, who lives out
at Ealin’, and old Mr. Mellini, the Italian priest, who lives up
Denbigh Street. They were ’is two closest friends. ’E was a very
reserved man, as you might say. ’E never spoke of ’is business or
affairs to anybody. But oh! it’s terrible,” she broke forth, “terrible
to think that ’e should be murdered like this!”
“Yes, Mrs. Ayres,” replied the detective calmly. “It’s quite plain
that your lodger has been murdered. Somebody crept behind him and
struck him with some sharp instrument which had been poisoned.”
“But who could have done it?” asked her bewildered husband, an
insignificant little man with a large grey moustache.
“Somebody who had a grudge against him, I should fancy,” replied
Medland. “You say he was a rather quarrelsome man. Did he keep any
money here? If so, robbery might have been a motive,” he added,
recollecting the fifty thousand pounds admitted by Sir George that he
had conveyed there.
“I don’t think ’e ever kept much ’ere,” was the good woman’s reply.
“’E always paid ’is bill regularly, but ’e wasn’t too flush o’ funds.
’E spent it all on ’is curiosities. Sometimes ’e went away for days
an’ days.”
“He bought all these antiques,” remarked the detective. “He must have
had money to do so. We’ll have to search the place,” he added, gazing
around in bewilderment upon the hopeless chaos. A marine-store
dealer’s could not have contained a greater variety of articles than
did that narrow little back sitting-room.
The doctor--the same divisional surgeon who had earlier in the night
been called to Carlton House Terrace--summoned by telephone, arrived
and made an examination of the dead man. Life had been extinct about
three hours, as far as he could judge. In the nape of the neck, just
among the short hair, was a tiny puncture, exactly as in the case of
Sir George Ravenscourt.
“The manner in which the deceased has been done to death is certainly
peculiar,” declared the doctor. “To me it seems as though the victim
had been seated in this arm-chair and fallen asleep, when the
murderer, entering, had with fiendish triumph crept up and struck the
blow. See!” he added, pointing to the mark, “there is every evidence
that death was caused in that way.”
Medland searched the dead man’s pockets. In them he found nothing but
an old-fashioned red handkerchief, a couple of newspaper cuttings
regarding an electoral contest in Dorset, four and sixpence in silver,
and an old envelope addressed to Goodrick.
“This Mr. Mellini! Did he visit him frequently?” asked Medland of Mrs.
Ayres.
“Not very often, sir. ’E was ’ere about three days ago,” was the
woman’s reply. “Mr. Goodrick called ’im Don Mario.”
The detectives examined the lock of the front door, but found no trace
of it having been tampered with.
“The assassin must have entered with a key,” said Medland.
“Or perhaps the guilty person might have been in here when the victim
came in,” remarked the doctor.
“Possibly,” said Medland. “Yet the chief mystery is the connecting
link between this tragedy and the death of Sir George Ravenscourt. Was
the assassin one and the same person?”
“I’m inclined to suspect so,” remarked the chief. “Why should Sir
George desire that record to be destroyed, unless he feared some evil
result?”
“What evil result could he fear?” asked Medland, “save that, in the
terror of his dying moments, he did not recollect how much he had
written, or the extent of the truth which the record contained.”
“There was evidently some great mystery surrounding this man,” the
chief said, pointing to the rigid body. “When you have cleared that
up, Medland, the rest should not be difficult. The priest Don Mario
should be seen.”
“I quite agree,” replied the eminent detective, his eyes searching
around the narrow, overcrowded room. “There’s some very remarkable
connection between the two crimes. If we are to be successful, no word
of what has really happened must become known by the Press. We must
give them a bogus story, and then pursue our inquiries unhampered by
Press comments, or the publication of ‘latest details.’”
“Exactly. You must arrange that at the coroner’s court it must appear
a case of suicide. Understand,” the other said, turning to the
landlady and her husband, “Mr. Goodrick swallowed poison. That is the
report we shall give to the world. If the reporters ask you anything,
just tell them that it was a clear case of suicide. Then leave the
rest to us.”
“Very well, sir,” was Mrs. Ayres’s response. “We’ll do exactly as you
say, sir. But it wasn’t suicide at all.”
“Of course not. But in order to evade our inquisitive friends of the
Press that is the verdict which must be given before the coroner. It
will clear the ground for Inspector Medland and his officers. We must
find the assassin at all costs. The whole affair is most remarkable,
for the mystery seems to have increased rather than diminished.”