A REAPPEARANCE
"I Am glad to see you, Blair. Sit down and have some breakfast."
"Aha!" The inspector rubbed his hands as he looked at the well-spread
table. "I never say no to a good offer. Thank you, Mr. Thorold, I will
peck a bit."
"You are looking well, Blair."
"Never felt better in my life, Mr. Thorold. I have good cause to look
jolly."
"Enjoyed your holiday, no doubt," said Alan, as he assisted the
officer liberally to ham and eggs. "Where did you spend it?"
"In Brighton--pleasant place, Brighton."
Blair looked so jocular, and chuckled in so pleasant a manner that the
Squire guessed he had good news. However, he resolved to let Blair
tell his story in his own way.
"What took you to Brighton of all places?" he asked tentatively.
"Well, you might guess. Joe Brill took me."
"Joe Brill?"
The inspector nodded.
"I followed him there."
"But I have seen Joe. He tells me he was at Southampton and in
London."
"No doubt--a clever fellow Joe. He knows how to hold his tongue. Well,
Mr. Thorold, I hope your troubles about this matter of the lost body
will soon be at an end."
"Blair!" Alan bent forward in a state of great excitement. "You have
found out something about it?"
"Yes, enough to gain me a thousand pounds."
"Not enough to gain you two thousand pounds?"
"No." Blair's face fell. "But I intend to get that also. However, I
have learned all about the theft of Mr. Marlow's body--how it was
removed, and why it was removed."
"By Jove! How did you find out?"
"Through Joe Brill. Somehow I suspected Joe from the first. That
sovereign he gave Cicero Gramp, you know--I always fancied there was
something behind his anxiety to get that man away. So I had him
watched, and applied for leave of absence. When he left Heathton I
followed as a tourist," chuckled Blair. "Oh, I assure you, Mr.
Thorold, I make a very good tourist."
"And he went to Brighton?"
"Yes, direct to Brighton. I went there and found out all about it."
"You don't mean to say that he stole the body!"
"Ay, but I do and with the best intentions, too."
"Was he the short man Cicero Gramp saw with Warrender?"
"He was the short man," replied Blair, finishing his coffee.
"Then, why did he not tell me?" Alan burst out angrily. "I saw him
last night, yet he said nothing. He knew how anxious Miss Marlow is
about the loss of her father's body."
"Not her father," corrected the inspector. "Achille Lestrange was her
father."
"What!" Alan started from his seat. "You know that?"
"I know all--the elopement in Jamaica; the kidnapping of Marie
Lestrange, whom we know as Sophy Marlow; the coming of Jean Lestrange
to blackmail the girl, and--and--all the rest of it. You see, Mr.
Thorold, I interviewed Joe Brill this morning, and he told me all
about your conversation with that rascal. I am posted up to date,
sir."
"Joe Brill had no business to keep me in the dark," said the squire
angrily. "He should have relieved my mind and Miss Marlow's.
"Miss Lestrange," hinted Blair.
"No, sir--Sophia Marlow she is, and Sophia Marlow she will remain
until she changes her name for mine. Her father is dead, and Jean
Lestrange has no claim on her. Sophia Marlow, Mr. Inspector, if you
please."
"Well, well--as you please. We shan't quarrel about a name. Have you
anything to smoke, Mr. Thorold?"
Alan got him an excellent cigar, and returned to the point.
"Why did Joe keep me and Miss Marlow in the dark?" he asked.
"Acted under orders, Mr. Thorold."
"Whose orders?"
"Mr. Marlow's, or rather, I should say Mr. Beauchamp's."
"Blair!"
Alan gasped out the name. His face was white and he was appalled at
the news. For the moment he believed the inspector must have taken
leave of his senses.
"Oh, I dare say your astonishment is natural," said the inspector,
lighting his cigar. "I was astonished myself to find the dead man
alive and kicking. Yet I should not have been, for I suspected the
truth."
Alan had not yet recovered from his amazement.
"You suspected that Mr. Marlow was alive!" he said faintly. "On what
evidence?"
"On circumstantial evidence," said Blair smartly. "When I examined the
coffin with Mr. Phelps I noticed what he did not. At the sides small
holes were bored in inconspicuous places, and the shell of the leaden
case was pierced. Only one inference could be drawn from this--that
the man had designedly been buried alive. The design must have been
carried out by Warrender and the short man. I suspected Joe, from the
fact of his having given that sovereign to Cicero, and I watched him.
Presuming my belief to be correct, I made certain that sooner or later
he would rejoin his master. As I say, he went to Brighton. I followed
close on his heels to a boarding-house in Lansdowne Place. There I saw
Mr. Marlow."
"Did he recognize you?"
"Of course. While he was living at Heathton I had seen Mr. Marlow
several times on business. He made no attempt when I saw him at
Brighton to disguise himself--not thinking, I suppose, that his clever
scheme to frustrate Lestrange would come to light in this way."
"But, Blair, you did not know about Lestrange then!"
"True enough; but I soon heard the whole story. Mr. Marlow told it to
me himself. As you may guess, he was in a great way about my having
discovered him, and seeing no means of evading the truth, he told it.
I insisted upon it, in fact; and now I know all."
"And how did it come about?"
Blair held up his hand.
"No, Mr. Thorold," said he, "I shall leave Mr. Marlow--I think we had
better continue to call him so--to tell his own history. He can do it
better than I. Besides," added the inspector, rising briskly, "I have
business to do."
"What sort of business?"
"You can judge for yourself. I want you to come with me."
"Where--what to do?"
"To see Mrs. Warrender. You see, it was her husband who carried out
this scheme of feigned death to deceive Lestrange. Marlow, accused of
having murdered Achille in Jamaica, was afraid that this Captain Jean
would have him arrested. Now, Warrender was in Beauchamp's house at
Falmouth, Jamaica, when Mrs. Lestrange died, and he knew all about it.
It is my belief," added the inspector slowly, "that Beauchamp is
innocent, as he asserts himself to be, and that Warrender knew as
much."
"But, my dear Blair," protested Alan, "in that case Warrender could
have told Marlow the truth, and could have stopped Jean Lestrange from
making mischief."
"I dare say he could, but he did not. Warrender, my dear Mr. Thorold,
was a blackmailing scoundrel, who assumed the mask of friendship to
bamboozle Marlow. I had considerable difficulty in impressing this
view on Marlow, for, strange to say, he believed in the doctor. Joe
did not, however, and Joe told me a few facts about Warrender's
practice in Jamaica, which showed me that the doctor was not the
disinterested person he pretended to be. No, I am sure Warrender knew
Beauchamp to be innocent, and kept the fact quiet so as to retain a
hold on the man, and get money out of him. Now, do you understand why
I want to see his widow?"
"No," replied Alan, not following the inspector's hypothesis, "I do
not. If Warrender kept the truth from Marlow, he would most certainly
have kept it from his wife. The woman would have babbled, even against
her own interests, as women always do. Mrs. Warrender can tell you
nothing--I feel sure of that."
"You forget that the doctor may have left a confession of his
knowledge."
"Would he have done that?" said Alan doubtfully. "It would have been a
foolish thing."
"And when do criminals do other than foolish things?" was Blair's
response. "The murderer usually returns to the scene of his crime--as
often as not sets out its details in writing. It is impossible to
account for the actions of human beings, Mr. Thorold. It would not
surprise me in the least to hear that Warrender had written out the
whole story in a diary. If so, his wife must have found it amongst his
papers, and she will be disposed to sell it--at a long price."
"If she had found such a document, she would have shown it to me or to
Sophy before now."
"By no means. If she knew that Marlow were alive, then, of course, she
would realize that the document was valuable. But she believes him to
be dead."
"Humph!" said Alan. "You seem very certain that such a document
exists."
"Perhaps I am too sanguine," admitted Blair; "but Mr. Marlow gave me a
full account of what happened on the night Achille was murdered.
Moreover, he swore that he was innocent, and I believe him. As to
Warrender, he was a scoundrel, and I am sure that, like all
scoundrels, he has left a record of his villainies in black and white.
If this is so, I can prove Marlow's innocence, and he can defy
Lestrange."
By this time Alan and the inspector were walking along the road which
led to Heathton. It was a bright, sunny morning, and Alan was in high
spirits. How happy Blair's news would make Sophy!
"And Warrender, what about his death?" he asked. "Does Marlow know who
killed him?"
"Strange as it may seem, he does not, Mr. Thorold. He is as ignorant
as you or I. That death is a mystery still."
"But if Warrender was killed on the heath----"
"I can't explain, Mr. Thorold. Hear Marlow's story, and you will be as
much in the dark as I am. But I suspect Lestrange."
"So did I," replied Alan, speaking in the past tense. "But I learned
for certain that Lestrange was not in England on the night of the
murder."
"I proved that, too," said Blair thoughtfully; "yet I can't help
thinking there is some trickery. Lestrange is at the Good Samaritan?"
"Yes, dancing on Miss Marlow's doorstep in the hope of getting money."
"Does he receive any letters?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Merely an idea of mine. I'll tell you later on what I think."
"You are keeping me very much in the dark, Blair," said Alan, somewhat
piqued.
"I don't care to show incomplete work," replied the inspector bluntly.
"I believe I can unravel the whole of this mystery, but I don't want
to show you the raw material. Let me work it out my own way, Mr.
Thorold, and judge me by the result."
"As you please. So long as you do it, I don't care how you go about
it."
"I am working for two thousand pounds," said Blair, "and I don't
intend to let any one else have it. That blackguard tramp would like
to be the man."
Alan laughed.
"He has already made a clutch at it by accusing me of the theft of Mr.
Marlow's body."
The inspector nodded and smiled grimly.
"The two are working in unison," said he, rubbing his hands; "but I'll
catch them."
"By the way," said Thorold, "is Mr. Marlow coming back here?"
"To be caught by Lestrange? No, I think not. He is not such a fool. If
you want to see him, you must go to Brighton."
"I shall go to-morrow, Blair. I am most anxious to hear the story of
that night."
"A strange story--more like fiction than truth."
"Truth is always stranger than fiction."
Blair assented. They walked on through a steep lane, which led into
the High Street of the village. As they breasted this, Mrs. Marry,
with a basket on her arm, met them. She was evidently excited.
"Well, Mrs. Marry," said Alan kindly, "what is it?"
"The poor dear isn't dead, after all," cried the panting woman. "I
declare, Mr. Thorold, you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather when
I saw him."
"Saw who?"
"Why, Mr. Brown, sir--the Quiet Gentleman. He has come back!"