CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
OF PROVED IDENTITY
Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked
at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced
such a curious effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that,
while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different
ways. Miss Baylis had already recovered her composure; she now sat
sombre and stern as ever, returning Spargo’s look with something of
indifferent defiance; he thought he could see that in her mind a
certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had
discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was
concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so
many words that now the secret was out he might do his worst.
But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was
still trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair
and the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the
glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The
half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly
disappeared; he was a man who had received a shock, and a bad one. And
Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This man knows a great
deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that Marbury was
Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland’s son; he knows
something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly
believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had
buried something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as
astounded as he was frightened to find that it had been at last flung
up to the broad light of day.
“I shall wait,” suddenly said Spargo, “until you are composed, Mr.
Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, that the
truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you
considerable—shall we say fear?”
Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown
steadier, and the colour was coming back to his face.
“If you will let me explain,” he said. “If you will hear what was done
for the boy’s sake—eh?”
“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I wish. I can tell you
this—I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr.
Breton.”
Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. “He says
that!” she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. “He says that, knowing
that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald
Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a
scoundrel, an ex-convict, a——”
Elphick lifted his hand.
“Hush—hush!” he said imploringly. “Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure—I
am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear me——”
But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the
outer door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across
the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A
boy’s voice penetrated into the sitting-room.
“If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_, here? He left
this address in case he was wanted.”
Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger
boys, and jumping up, went to the door.
“What is it, Rawlins?” he asked.
“Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There’s Mr.
Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly.”
“All right,” answered Spargo. “I’m coming just now.”
He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick.
“I shall have to go,” he said. “I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elphick, can I
come to see you tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!” replied Elphick eagerly. “Tomorrow
morning, certainly. At eleven—eleven o’clock. That will do?”
“I shall be here at eleven,” said Spargo. “Eleven sharp.”
He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve.
“A word—just a word!” he said. “You—you have not told the—the
boy—Ronald—of what you know? You haven’t?”
“I haven’t,” replied Spargo.
Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo’s sleeve. He looked into his face
beseechingly.
“Promise me—promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won’t tell him until you
have seen me in the morning!” he implored. “I beg you to promise me
this.”
Spargo hesitated, considering matters.
“Very well—I promise,” he said.
“And you won’t print it?” continued Elphick, still clinging to him.
“Say you won’t print it tonight?”
“I shall not print it tonight,” answered Spargo. “That’s certain.”
Elphick released his grip on the young man’s arm.
“Come—at eleven tomorrow morning,” he said, and drew back and closed
the door.
Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And
there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an
evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as
imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a
smile.
“Well,” he said, “how’s things?”
Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair.
“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” he said.
Rathbury laughed.
“No,” he said, throwing the newspaper aside, “I didn’t. I came to tell
you my latest. You’re at full liberty to stick it into your paper
tonight: it may just as well be known.”
“Well?” said Spargo.
Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned.
“Aylmore’s identified,” he said lazily.
Spargo sat up, sharply.
“Identified!”
“Identified, my son. Beyond doubt.”
“But as whom—as what?” exclaimed Spargo.
Rathbury laughed.
“He’s an old lag—an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor.
That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D’ye see? Clear
as noontide now, Spargo.”
Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were
fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard
the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really
saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices
of two girls …
“Clear as noontide—as noontide,” repeated Rathbury with great
cheerfulness.
Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact.
“What’s clear as noontide?” he asked sharply.
“What? Why, the whole thing! Motive—everything,” answered Rathbury.
“Don’t you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is Ainsworth, by
the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just before
Aylmore’s release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes
back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In
time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes
back. The two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or
threatens to let folk know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is
an ex-convict. Result—Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him.
Pooh!—the whole thing’s clear as noontide, as I say. As—noontide!”
Spargo drummed his fingers again.
“How?” he asked quietly. “How came Aylmore to be identified?”
“My work,” said Rathbury proudly. “My work, my son. You see, I thought
a lot. And especially after we’d found out that Marbury was Maitland.”
“You mean after I’d found out,” remarked Spargo.
Rathbury waved his cigar.
“Well, well, it’s all the same,” he said. “You help me, and I help you,
eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought—now, where
did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty or twenty-two
years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in
London—at any rate, before his trial, and we haven’t the least proof
that he was in London after. And why won’t Aylmore tell? Clearly
because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a
sudden, it flashed on me in a moment of—what do you writing fellows
call those moments, Spargo?”
“Inspiration, I should think,” said Spargo. “Direct inspiration.”
“That’s it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on me—why,
twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor—they must have met there!
And so, we got some old warders who’d been there at that time to come
to town, and we gave ’em opportunities to see Aylmore and to study him.
Of course, he’s twenty years older, and he’s grown a beard, but they
began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man
they thought he’d a certain birth-mark. And—he has!”
“Does Aylmore know that he’s been identified?” asked Spargo.
Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed.
“Know!” he said scornfully. “Know? He’s admitted it. What was the use
of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it tonight in my
presence. Oh, he knows all right!”
“And what did he say?”
Rathbury laughed contemptuously.
“Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair—that
when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He’s
certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game.”
“And of what was he convicted?”
“Oh, of course, we know all about it—now. As soon as we found out who
he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or
Ainsworth (Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a
sort of what they call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up
in the North—Cloudhampton—some thirty years ago. He was nominally
secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the
working classes—Cloudhampton’s a purely artisan population—and they
stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly it
came to smash, and there was nothing. He—Ainsworth, or Aylmore—pleaded
that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn’t
believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when
it all comes out, eh?”
“All stories are quite plain—when they come out,” observed Spargo. “And
he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn’t want his daughters to
know about his past?”
“Just so,” agreed Rathbury. “And I don’t know that I blame him. He
thought, of course, that he’d go scot-free over this Marbury affair.
But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, yes!”
Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few
minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last
Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder.
“Look here, Rathbury!” he said. “It’s very evident that you’re now
going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?”
Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment.
“After evidence like that!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course. There’s the
motive, my son, the motive!”
Spargo laughed.
“Rathbury!” he said. “Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!”
The detective got up and put on his hat.
“Oh!” he said. “Perhaps you know who did, then?”
“I shall know in a few days,” answered Spargo.
Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the
door. “Good-night!” he said gruffly.
“Good-night, Rathbury,” replied Spargo and sat down at his desk.
But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the _Watchman_. All he wrote
was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore’s daughters. There were only
three words on it—_Have no fear._
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE CLOSED DOORS
Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the _Watchman_ appeared
next day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple
Murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts
of the identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster
Division, as the _ci-devant_ Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a
time founder and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit
Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhampton, in
Daleshire; the fall of which had involved thousands of honest working
folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had
raked up Ainsworth’s past to considerable journalistic purpose: it had
been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the
Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble
investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy,
too, to set out again the history of Ainsworth’s arrest, trial, and
fate. There was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man
who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance
society; had—as was alleged—converted the large sums entrusted to him
to his own purposes; had been detected and punished; had disappeared,
after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had
gone; had come back, comparatively a few years later, under another
name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament and been, in a modest
way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new
career suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented
with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of the morning
newspapers made a couple of columns of it.
But the _Watchman_, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries
in keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection
with the Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement.
For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and
his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result
of their talk had been that all the _Watchman_ thought fit to tell its
readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph:
“We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the
murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last,
was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen
Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection
with the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty
years ago.”
Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily
along the front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a
man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which
indicated derision.
“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!”
he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the finest
opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A
miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours!
What were you doing last night, old man?”
“Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. “Sleeping!”
He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple
Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to
Mr. Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer
door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that
hour, but Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it
had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first
knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he
murmured aloud: “Elphick’s door is closed!”
It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that
Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because
Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked
slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the
stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at
sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a
mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands.
“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines in the
_Watchman_ this morning,” said Breton. “It was—considerate. As for the
other papers!—Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did
serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was scapegoat
for another man who disappeared.”
Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly:
“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the
two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort they
can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?”
Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands.
“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick—an
appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at
nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important one—was for eleven
o’clock.”
Breton glanced at his watch.
“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and my guardian’s a
very martinet in the matter of punctuality.”
But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton
with troubled eyes.
“So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian isn’t
there, Breton.”
“Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never knew
him miss an appointment!”
“I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered Spargo.
“You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept
himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the
night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come on—you’ll
see!”
Spargo shook his head again.
“He’s not there, Breton,” he said. “He’s gone!”
Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had
seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He
seized Spargo’s elbow.
“Come on!” he said. “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s door, so that I can
go in and out as I like. I’ll soon show you whether he’s gone or not.”
Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor.
“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the
latch, “he’s not there, Breton. He’s—off!”
“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” exclaimed
Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. “Off! Where on
earth should he be off to, when he’s made an appointment with you for
eleven, and—Hullo!”
He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and
Miss Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself
up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation.
“Good God!” he cried. “What—what’s all this?”
Spargo quietly looked over Breton’s shoulder. It needed but one quick
glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he
had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he
had left Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a
hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its syphon,
its glass, in which stale liquid still stood; there was the novel,
turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, was Elphick’s pipe. But
the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had
been pulled open and never put back; papers of all descriptions, old
legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre-table and the
floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had been opened,
its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the grate,
and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper;
it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he
might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance
in destroying a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such
haste that he had not troubled to put matters straight before he went.
Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then
he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him.
Together they entered an inner room—a sleeping apartment. There was no
one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily
packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo
had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there,
everywhere: the gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in
one corner, a dress-shirt, in the bosom of which valuable studs still
glistened, in another. One or two suitcases lay about, as if they had
been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable; here,
too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, had been
torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe,
revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around
him, seemed to see all that had happened—the hasty, almost frantic
search for and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of
clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and
then the flight the getting away, the——
“What on earth does all this mean?” exclaimed Breton. “What is it,
Spargo?”
“I mean exactly what I told you,” answered Spargo. “He’s off! Off!”
“Off! But why off? What—my guardian!—as quiet an old gentleman as there
is in the Temple—off!” cried Breton. “For what reason, eh? It
isn’t—good God, Spargo, it isn’t because of anything you said to him
last night!”
“I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him
last night,” replied Spargo. “I was a fool ever to let him out of my
sight.”
Breton turned on his companion and gasped.
“Out—of—your—sight!” he exclaimed. “Why—why—you don’t mean to say that
Mr. Elphick has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God’s
sake, Spargo——”
Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister’s shoulder.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to hear a good deal, Breton,” he said. “I was
going to talk to you today in any case. You see——”
Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which
denote the charwoman’s profession, entered the room and immediately
cried out at what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely.
“Here, you!” he said. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick this
morning?”
The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands.
“Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before
half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his
breakfast. I see him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his
usual state of good health, sir, if any thing’s the matter with him
now. No, sir, I ain’t seen nothing of him.”
Breton let out another exclamation of impatience.
“You’d better leave all this,” he said. “Mr. Elphick’s evidently gone
away in a hurry, and you mustn’t touch anything here until he comes
back. I’m going to lock up the chambers: if you’ve a key of them give
it to me.”
The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the
rooms, and vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo.
“What do you say?” he demanded. “I must hear—a good deal! Out with it,
then, man, for Heaven’s sake.”
But Spargo shook his head.
“Not now, Breton,” he answered. “Presently, I tell you, for Miss
Aylmore’s sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your
guardian’s track. We must—must, I say!—and at once.”
Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit
his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room.
“Come on!” he said. “I know who’ll know where he is, if anybody does.”
“Who, then?” asked Spargo, as they hurried out.
“Cardlestone,” answered Breton, grimly. “Cardlestone!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
REVELATION
There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as
ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry
into which Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was
Breton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and
at the wall at its side.
“Wasn’t it there?” he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he
looked at. “Wasn’t it there, Spargo, just there, that Marbury, or,
rather, Maitland, was found?”
“It was just there,” answered Spargo.
“You saw him?”
“I saw him.”
“Soon—afterwards?”
“Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you
ask now?”
Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his
eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head.
“Don’t know,” he answered. “I—but come on—let’s see if old Cardlestone
can tell us anything.”
There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside
Cardlestone’s door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was
evident to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she
opened the door.
“I don’t think Mr. Cardlestone’ll be in, sir,” she said. “He’s
generally gone out to breakfast at this time—him and Mr. Elphick goes
together.”
“Just see,” said Breton. “I want to see him if he is in.” The charwoman
entered the chambers and immediately screamed.
“Quite so,” remarked Spargo. “That’s what I expected to hear.
Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also—off!”
Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in
close attendance.
“Good God—another!” groaned Breton.
If the confusion in Elphick’s rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone’s
chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene
were repeated—drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the
hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens.
An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like
Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his
clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any
corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place—Elphick, having
made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had
expedited him, and they had fled together. But—why?
The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob;
Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous
objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the
inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of
something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had
just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back.
“I don’t know what all this means, Spargo,” he said, almost wearily. “I
suppose you do. Look here,” he went on, turning to the charwoman, “stop
that row—that’ll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone’s gone
away in a hurry. You’d better—what had she better do, Spargo?”
“Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you’re
a friend of Mr. Cardlestone’s give you the key,” answered Spargo, with
a significant glance. “Do that, now, and let’s go—I’ve something to
do.”
Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to
Breton.
“I’ll tell you all I know, presently, Breton,” he said. “In the
meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr.
Cardlestone leave. I must know where they’ve gone—if I can only find
out. I don’t suppose they went on foot.”
“All right,” responded Breton, gloomily. “We’ll go and ask. But this is
all beyond me. You don’t mean to say——”
“Wait a while,” answered Spargo. “One thing at once,” he continued, as
they walked up Middle Temple Lane. “This is the first thing. You ask
the porter if he’s seen anything of either of them—he knows you.”
The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity.
“Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?” he answered.
“Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early
this morning—soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to
Paris, and they’d breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left.”
“Say when they’d be back?” asked Breton, with an assumption of entire
carelessness.
“No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn’t,” answered the porter. “But I should say
they wouldn’t be long because they’d only got small suit-cases with
them—such as they’d put a day or two’s things in, sir.”
“All right,” said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already
moved off. “What next?” he asked. “Charing Cross, I suppose!”
Spargo smiled and shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “I’ve no use for Charing Cross. They haven’t gone to
Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let’s go back to your
chambers. Then I’ll talk to you.”
Once within Breton’s inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo
dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with
earnest attention.
“Breton!” he said. “I believe we’re coming in sight of land. You want
to save your prospective father-in-law, don’t you?”
“Of course!” growled Breton. “That goes without saying. But——”
“But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it,” said
Spargo. “You see——”
“Sacrifices!” exclaimed Breton. “What——”
“You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that you’ll not be
able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought
of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick.”
Breton’s face grew dark.
“Speak plainly, Spargo!” he said. “It’s best with me.”
“Very well,” replied Spargo. “Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way
connected with this affair.”
“You mean the—murder?”
“I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I’m now dead certain.
And that’s why they’re off. I startled Elphick last night. It’s evident
that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a
rapid exit. Why?”
“Why? That’s what I’m asking you! Why? Why? Why?”
“Because they’re afraid of something coming out. And being afraid,
their first instinct is to—run. They’ve run at the first alarm.
Foolish—but instinctive.”
Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped
to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad.
“Spargo!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian
and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone, of being—murderers?”
“Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of
knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I
am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all
about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he
knew this dead man to be John Maitland.”
“You did!”
“I did. And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, we’ll have the
truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for you’ll have to
stand a shock or two. But I know what I’m talking about—I can prove
every word I’m going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few
questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?”
“Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.”
“And what was that?”
“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me
unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.”
“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove
the truth of that story?”
“Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?”
“You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person who
was particularly near you in your childhood?”
“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three
years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman,
a tall, dark woman, I think, before that.”
“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, Breton,” he went on
aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ll tell it to you straight
out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not
Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you’re the only child of
the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone’s staircase!”
Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at
him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he
do?—what would he say?—what——
Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the
eyes.
“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones.
“Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!”
Spargo nodded.
“I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right thing. Listen, then.”
It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the
clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought
it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest
attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a
brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him.
“That’s all,” said Spargo at last.
“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically.
He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo.
“What do you really think?” he asked.
“About—what?” said Spargo.
“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.”
“I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be
forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw
Elphick in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that
fright, or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.”
“Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?”
Spargo shook his head.
“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!”
Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which
he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?”
“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of
those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him.
I picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking
into his bedroom.”
“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical
stamps. And whether they are or not——”
“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I believe
that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I
want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. And I will
know.”
Breton handed the stamps back.
“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they didn’t murder—I
can’t realize the thing yet!—my father——”
“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” exclaimed
Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let Elphick and
Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked easily enough. I
want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an
authority from the Government to open a grave?”
“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by
showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made.”
“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened.”
“A grave opened! Whose grave?”
“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied
Spargo.
Breton started.
“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded.
Spargo laughed as he got up.
“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I believe that
Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is—Cardlestone!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER
That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his
proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to
the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when
it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate
application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne
grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning
there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of
London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:—
“ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD.
“WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was stolen,
abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, Temple,
occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson,
a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious
workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of John
Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22
last, and is now in the hands of the police:
“This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_
newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS
STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or
she stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said
chambers, and will further give full information as to his or her
disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover
engages to treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the
most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from
using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call
at the _Watchman_ office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time
between eleven and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock
in the evening.”
“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked
Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the
promising announcement came out. “You really do?”
“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is more magic in
a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have the history
of that stick before midnight.”
“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” suggested Breton.
“Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.”
“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me
how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said
Spargo. “I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken
away from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the
hands of—”
“Yes, of whom?”
“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, already. But
I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing—when I
get that information—as I shall—we shall be a long way on the road
towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.”
Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a
meditative expression.
“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get that order for
the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?”
“I was talking to the solicitors over the ’phone just now,” answered
Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, it’s possible it
may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made
early tomorrow morning.”
“Shall you go?” asked Breton.
“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch
with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re
concerned.”
“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if that grave proves
to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you something.”
Spargo looked up with sharp instinct.
“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?”
“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or
lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there——”
At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached
Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity,
showed signs of something very like excitement.
“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He’s
been hanging about a bit, sir,—seems very shy about coming up. He won’t
say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a form, sir. Says all he wants
is a word or two with you.”
“Bring him up at once!” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the
boy had gone. “There!” he said, laughing. “This is the man about the
stick—you see if it isn’t.”
“You’re such a cock-sure chap, Spargo,” said Breton. “You’re always
going on a straight line.”
“Trying to, you mean,” retorted Spargo. “Well, stop here, and hear what
this chap has to say: it’ll no doubt be amusing.”
The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo’s
room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of
good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a
shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully
apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the
threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two
well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a
scene of such grandeur.
“Come in, come in!” said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair
at the side of his desk. “Take a seat. You’ve called about that reward,
of course.”
The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without
suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s all on the strict private. Name of Edward
Mollison, sir.”
“And where do you live, and what do you do?” asked Spargo.
“You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel,” answered Edward
Mollison. “Leastways, that’s where I generally hang out when I can
afford it. And—window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning
when—when——”
“When you came in contact with the stick we’ve been advertising about,”
suggested Spargo. “Just so. Well, Mollison—what about the stick?”
Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at
Breton.
“There ain’t no danger of me being got into trouble along of that
stick?” he asked. “’Cause if there is, I ain’t a-going to say a
word—no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no trouble
of any sort, guv’nor—though a poor man.”
“Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison,” replied Spargo. “Not
the least. All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth—and prove that it
is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of
Mr. Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, was it?”
Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his
feelings. He smiled weakly.
“It was cert’nly me as took it, sir,” he said. “Not that I meant to
pinch it—not me! And, as you might say, I didn’t take it, when all’s
said and done. It was—put on me.”
“Put on you, was it?” said Spargo. “That’s interesting. And how was it
put on you?”
Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin.
“It was this here way,” he answered. “You see, I was working at that
time—near on to nine months since, it is—for the Universal Daylight
Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and
there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore’s—only I knew them
as Mr. Anderson’s—among ’em. And I was there one morning, early it was,
when the charwoman she says to me, ‘I wish you’d take these two or
three hearthrugs,’ she says, ‘and give ’em a good beating,’ she says.
And me being always a ready one to oblige, ‘All right!’ I says, and
takes ’em. ‘Here’s something to wallop ’em with,’ she says, and pulls
that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner of
the lobby. And that’s how I came to handle it, sir.”
“I see,” said Spargo. “A good explanation. And when you had beaten the
hearthrugs—what then?”
Mollison smiled his weak smile again.
“Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something
uncommon,” he answered. “And I thinks—‘Well, this Mr. Anderson, he’s
got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there—he’ll never miss this
old thing,’ I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I’d done
beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with
me.”
“You took it with you?” said Spargo. “Just so. To keep as a curiosity,
I suppose?”
Mollison’s weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing
his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his
news was imparting confidence to him.
“Not half!” he answered. “You see, guv’nor, there was an old cove as I
knew in the Temple there as is, or was, ’cause I ain’t been there
since, a collector of antikities, like, and I’d sold him a queer old
thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took
the stick away—see?”
“I see. And you took the stick to him?”
“I took it there and then,” replied Mollison. “Pitched him a tale, I
did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle
Simon—which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare
curiosity—which it might ha’ been one, for all I know.”
“Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?”
“Bought it there and then,” answered Mollison, with something very like
a wink.
“Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?”
asked Spargo. “Something handsome, I hope?”
“Couple o’ quid,” replied Mollison. “Me not wishing to part with a
family heirloom for less.”
“Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove’s name
and his address, Mollison?” asked Spargo.
“I do, sir. Which they’ve painted on his entry—the fifth or sixth as
you go down Middle Temple Lane,” answered Mollison. “Mr. Nicholas
Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase.”
Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton.
“Come this way, Mollison,” he said. “We’ll go and see about your little
reward. Excuse me, Breton.”
Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came
back.
“There—that’s one matter settled, Breton,” he said. “Now for the next.
The Home Secretary’s made the order for the opening of the grave at
Market Milcaster. I’m going down there at once, and I suppose you’re
coming. And remember, if that grave’s empty——”
“If that grave’s empty,” said Breton, “I’ll tell you—a good deal.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN
There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon,
Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the
order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting
on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the
evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in
at the parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” and ascertained that Mr.
Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to
the old gentleman’s house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door,
and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that
the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he
himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must
share it.
“For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo as they
followed the old man into his dining-room. “We have to be up at
daybreak. And—possibly—you, too, would like to be up just as early.”
Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he
was handling.
“At daybreak?” he exclaimed.
“The fact is,” said Spargo, “that grave of Chamberlayne’s is going to
be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home
Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne’s body: the officials in
charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we’re all
staying across there at the ‘Dragon.’ The officials have gone to make
the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak,
or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that
you know of it, you’ll be there?”
“God bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “You’ve really done that!
Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years.
You’re a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this
other young gentleman?”
Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak.
“Mr. Quarterpage,” he said, “this young gentleman is, without doubt,
John Maitland’s son. He’s the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that
I told you of, but there’s no doubt about his parentage. And I’m sure
you’ll shake hands with him and wish him well.”
Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton
his hand.
“My dear young sir!” he exclaimed. “That I will indeed! And as to
wishing you well—ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor
father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me,
what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is
found empty—what then?”
“Then,” answered Spargo, “then I think we shall be able to put our
hands on the man who is supposed to be in it.”
“You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?”
observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round
Mr. Quarterpage’s hospitable hearth. “You think he was unduly
influenced by him?”
Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly.
“Chamberlayne, my dear young sir,” he answered. “Chamberlayne was a
plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he
came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had
contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody—of course, to his own
advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his
little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his
enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any
surprise to me to hear—definitely, I mean, young gentlemen—that all
this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne’s pockets. Dear
me—dear me!—and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually alive,
Mr. Spargo?”
Spargo pulled out his watch. “We shall all know whether he was buried
in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage,” he
said.
He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then
nearly midnight, and before three o’clock Spargo and Breton, with the
other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the “Yellow
Dragon” and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town.
Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the
long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the
sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery
hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as
the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively
concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but
watch stood around in silence.
“In all my long life of over ninety years,” whispered old Quarterpage,
who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in
spite of his shortened rest, “I have never seen this done before. It
seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man’s last
resting-place—a dreadful thing.”
“If there is a dead man there,” said Spargo.
He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he
had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon
the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local
authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with
canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a
man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be
attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do
but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful
of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth;
he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one
phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the
coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the
body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his,
Spargo’s, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that
coffin contained no body at all, then—”
“They’re down to it!” whispered Breton.
Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had
uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of
them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now
strong light they could all read the lettering on it.
JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE
Born 1852
Died 1891
Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the
grave.
“We shall know now!” he whispered to Breton. “And yet—what is it we
shall know if——”
“If what?” said Breton. “If—what?”
But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had
lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous.
“Now for it!” said the _Watchman’s_ solicitor in an undertone. “Come,
Mr. Spargo, now we shall see.”
They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the
graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The
screws were rusted in their sockets; they grated as the men slowly
worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and
slower in his movements; he felt that he himself was getting fidgety.
Then he heard a voice of authority.
“Lift the lid off!”
A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly
raised the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick
movement.
Sawdust!
The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down.
The surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled
it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of
deceit.
Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell.
The chief official present looked round him with a smile.
“It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion,” he
remarked. “Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies
beneath the sawdust,” he added, turning to the workmen. “Turn it out!”
The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of
them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin,
thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He, too,
laughed.
“The coffin’s weighted with lead!” he remarked. “See!”
And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three
intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where
the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested.
“Done it cleverly,” he remarked, looking round. “You see how these
weights have been adjusted. When a body’s laid out in a coffin, you
know, all the weight’s in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here
you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the
feet. Clever!”
“Clear out all the sawdust,” said some one. “Let’s see if there’s
anything else.”
There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of
papers, tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately
manifested great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton
along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the Home
Office and the solicitor sent by the _Watchman_ were hastily examining
their discoveries.
The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at
Market Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to
him, Mr. Quarterpage’s amongst them. He was not at all astonished to
see these things. But he was something more than astonished when, on
the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to
Cloudhampton and the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society were
revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside.
“It strikes me we’ve found a good deal more than we ever bargained
for!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t Aylmore say that the real culprit at
Cloudhampton was another man—his clerk or something of that sort?”
“He did,” agreed Breton. “He insists on it.”
“Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man,” said Spargo.
“He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What’ll be done with those
papers?” he asked, turning to the officials.
“We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London,”
replied the principal person in authority. “They will be quite safe,
Mr. Spargo; have no fear. We don’t know what they may reveal.”
“You don’t, indeed!” said Spargo. “But I may as well tell you that I
have a strong belief that they’ll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams
of, so take the greatest care of them.”
Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried
Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm.
“Now, then, Breton!” he commanded. “Out with it!”
“With what?”
“You promised to tell me something—a great deal, you said—if we found
that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on—quick!”
“All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be
found. That’s all.”
“All! It’s enough. Where, then, in heaven’s name?”
“Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go
fishing—right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire
moors. I expect they’ve gone there. Nobody knows even their names
there—they could go and lie quiet there for—ages.”
“Do you know the way to it?”
“I do—I’ve been there.”
Spargo motioned him to hurry.
“Come on, then,” he said. “We’re going there by the very first train
out of this. I know the train, too—we’ve just time to snatch a mouthful
of breakfast and to send a wire to the _Watchman_, and then we’ll be
off. Yorkshire!—Gad, Breton, that’s over three hundred miles away!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FORESTALLED
Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of
England to the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo
and Breton came late at night to Hawes’ Junction, on the border of
Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the
half-darkness the mighty bulks of the great fells which rise amongst
that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and
amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent
waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to Spargo
as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of
human life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he
saw a light, but such lights were few and far between; even as he
looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and
Breton were presently to be alone with the night.
“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station.
“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The place is in a
narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across
these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish
for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good
two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we
go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here
at this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road
which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells.
It’s going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud
gathering there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But
it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.”
“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo.
“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I
remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find
my way. But it’s rough walking.”
“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every minute’s precious.
But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale
first?”
“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, while we’re on
this firm road, step it out lively.”
The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a
soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted
parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at
Breton.
“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of
recognition.
“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton.
“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,”
replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here again—Tom Summers was coming
across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little
cottage. Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?”
Breton kicked Spargo under the table.
“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered. “Just
to get a breath of your moorland air.”
“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen,” said
the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. And it’s a stiffish way to
make out at this time o’night.”
“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know the way, and
we’re not afraid of a wet skin.”
The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his
arms and scratched his elbows.
“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in here this
afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. “He’ll be there
long since—he’d have daylight for his walk. Happen he’s one of your
party?—he asked where the old gentlemen’s little cottage was.”
Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their
friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?”
The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was
conscious of the fact.
“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. “Stranger
hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something like your
friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with him when he
heard what a long way it was.”
“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and
cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he said,
“let’s be stepping.”
Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm.
“Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, Spargo?”
“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that chap was
talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. Not Rathbury,
anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going
to find your way in this darkness?”
“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the
fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see
Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two thousand
feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between
them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!”
“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my life I ever did
anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us all night. I
couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard there’s somebody ahead of
us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll follow.”
Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but
when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what
was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It
seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw
was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint
outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the
figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was
soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than
once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising
his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on
Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his
footsteps.
“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval of
silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and Cardlestone—would
take this way?”
“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw,”
answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. This is a straight
cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful walk. But at
night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!”
The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a
suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey
night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a
vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight
was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his
companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as
they huddled closely together.
“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet
Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.”
“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” answered Spargo.
“I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor Cock’ overnight if we
hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If he’s after those two he’s
somebody who knows something. What I can’t make out is—who he can be.”
“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who knows of this
retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside
yourself may have been investigating?”
“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish we’d been a
few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two.”
The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the
heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they
were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away
below them.
“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying between us and
Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it,
drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down
into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half
stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?”
Spargo set his teeth.
“Go on!” he said.
Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing
his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London
lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even
the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him
that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of
mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a
wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed
downward with the other.
“There!” he said. “There!”
Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to
be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a
light—a mere spark of a light.
“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you see, they’re up.
And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. It’ll take me all my time
to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after
me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.”
Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the
guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the
ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer
to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that
he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been
capable of imagining—so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly
never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream,
making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great
Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of
the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring
of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small
building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built
by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more
than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of
it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained,
blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading
darkness without.
Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream.
“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But as we’re already
soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting another wetting.
Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?”
“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo.
“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, it’s well
past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so.
Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?”
“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!”
“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a light,
I take it that they’re up. Look there!”
As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the
light.
“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. “They’re
medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.”
“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told us about,” said
Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of this place. When we’re
across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll take an observation
through that window and see who’s inside. Come on.”
He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of
boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the
bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past
the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood
between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He
lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came
swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on
Spargo’s arm with a clutch of nervous excitement.
“Spargo!” he whispered. “Who on earth do you think the other man is?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE WHIP HAND
Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the
objects of his long journey, shook off Breton’s hand with a growl of
resentment.
“And how on earth can I waste time guessing?” he exclaimed. “Who is
he?”
Breton laughed softly.
“Steady, Spargo, steady!” he said. “It’s Myerst—the Safe Deposit man.
Myerst!”
Spargo started as if something had bitten him.
“Myerst!” he almost shouted. “Myerst! Good Lord!—why did I never think
of him? Myerst! Then——”
“I don’t know why you should have thought of him,” said Breton.
“But—he’s there.”
Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back.
“Wait!” he said. “We’ve got to discuss this. I’d better tell you what
they’re doing.”
“What are they doing, then?” demanded Spargo impatiently.
“Well,” answered Breton. “They’re going through a quantity of papers.
The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is
evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. I’ve
formed a notion, Spargo.”
“What notion?”
“Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he’s
followed them down here to blackmail them. That’s my notion.”
Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank.
“I daresay you’re right,” he said. “Now, what’s to be done?”
Breton, too, considered matters.
“I wish,” he said at last, “I wish we could get in there and overhear
what’s going on. But that’s impossible—I know that cottage. The only
thing we can do is this—we must catch Myerst unawares. He’s here for no
good. Look here!”
And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning
revolver and wagged it in his hand with a smile.
“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked. “I slipped it
into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it. Now
it’ll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be armed.”
“Well?” said Spargo.
“Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will,
Myerst, when he’s got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get
where I did just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the
doorway. You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover
him. Come on, Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.”
Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such
cover as the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made
their way to the front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton
posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the
bushes and to look through the window. And Spargo noiselessly followed
his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him
looked in through the uncurtained glass.
The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the
extreme. There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough
chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a
corner; some food set out on a side table. At the table in the middle
of the floor the three men sat. Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow;
Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table
was laboriously writing with shaking fingers. And Spargo twisted his
head round to his companion.
“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque. Myerst has another cheque in
his hand. Be ready!—when he gets that second cheque I guess he’ll be
off.”
Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again.
“Look out, Breton! He’s coming.”
Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his
protecting bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they
heard Myerst’s voice, threatening, commanding in tone.
“Now, remember all I’ve said! And don’t you forget—I’ve the whip hand
of both of you—the whip hand!”
Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—to find himself
confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly
revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a
remarkably firm and steady grip. Another glance showed him the figure
of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude
showed a desire to grapple with him.
“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic
politeness. “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And—I must
trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!”
Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but
a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his
head, whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly.
“That’s wise, Mr. Myerst,” he said, keeping his revolver steadily
pointed at his prisoner’s nose. “Discretion will certainly be the
better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo—may I trouble you
to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them
carefully. Not for papers or documents—just now. We can leave that
matter—we’ve plenty of time. See if he’s got a weapon of any sort on
him, Spargo—that’s the important thing.”
Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of
searching a man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing
what the prisoner carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a
revolver, while Myerst, finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily
and with profusion.
“Excellent!” said Breton, laughing again. “Sure he’s got nothing else
on him that’s dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. Myerst, right
about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there are two
revolvers behind your back. March!”
Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked
into the cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a
glance at the two old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying
back in his chair; Elphick, scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was
coming forward with trembling limbs.
“Wait a moment,” said Breton, soothingly. “Don’t alarm yourself. We’ll
deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit down in that
chair—it’s the heaviest the place affords. Into it, now! Spargo, you
see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up—hand and foot—to that chair.
And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, and behind him.”
Myerst suddenly laughed. “You damned young bully!” he exclaimed. “If
you put a rope round me, you’re only putting ropes round the necks of
these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!”
“We’ll see about that later,” answered Breton. He kept Myerst covered
while Spargo made play with the rope. “Don’t be afraid of hurting him,
Spargo,” he said. “Tie him well and strong. He won’t shift that chair
in a hurry.”
Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done
credit to a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand
or foot, and Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains.
“That’ll do,” said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his
pocket and turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank
into a chair in the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook
as with palsy and muttered words which the two young men could not
catch. “Guardian,” continued Breton, “don’t be frightened! And don’t
you be frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There’s nothing to be
afraid of, just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me
that Mr. Spargo and I came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this
fellow after?”
Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge
of tears; as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was
completely gone. And Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard.
“Spargo,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’ll find whisky in there. Give
them both a stiff dose: they’ve broken up. Now, guardian,” he
continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, “what was he after?
Shall I suggest it? Was it—blackmail?”
Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. “Yes, yes!” he
muttered. “Blackmail! That was it—blackmail. He—he got
money—papers—from us. They’re on him.”
Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt.
“I thought as much, Mr. Myerst,” he said. “Spargo, let’s see what he
has on him.”
Spargo began to search the prisoner’s pockets. He laid out everything
on the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated
some sort of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of
loose gold; a number of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated
denominations; various foreign securities, realizable in Paris. And
there was an open cheque, signed by Cardlestone for ten thousand
pounds, and another, with Elphick’s name at the foot, also open, for
half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as Spargo handed
them out. He turned to old Elphick.
“Guardian,” he said, “why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given this man
these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?”
Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face
on his ward.
“He—he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!” he faltered.
“We—we didn’t see that we had a chance.”
“What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection
with it?” demanded Breton. “Come—tell me the truth now.”
“He’s been investigating—so he says,” answered Elphick. “He lives in
that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor rooms
above Cardlestone’s. And—and he says he’s the fullest evidence against
Cardlestone—and against me as an accessory after the fact.”
“And—it’s a lie?” asked Breton.
“A lie!” answered Elphick. “Of course, it’s a lie. But—he’s so clever
that—that——”
“That you don’t know how you could prove it otherwise,” said Breton.
“Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does he? That
may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police here.”
He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. “Look
here, Spargo,” he continued. “I’m going to write a note to the
superintendent of police at Hawes—there’s a farm half a mile from here
where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. Now, if you
want to send a wire to the _Watchman_, draft it out, and he’ll take it
with him.”
Elphick began to move in his corner.
“Must the police come?” he said. “Must——”
“The police must come,” answered Breton firmly. “Go ahead with your
wire, Spargo, while I write this note.”
Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm,
he sat down at Elphick’s side and laid his hand on the old man’s.
“Now, guardian,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to tell us the truth.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MYERST EXPLAINS
It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the
cottage, that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and
fright: Cardlestone still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he
looked incapable of explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more
fitted to speak. And when Breton issued his peremptory invitation to
his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo intervened.
“Far better leave him alone, Breton,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t
you see the old chap’s done up? They’re both done up. We don’t know
what they’ve gone through with this fellow before we came, and it’s
certain they’ve had no sleep. Leave it all till later—after all, we’ve
found them and we’ve found him.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder
in Myerst’s direction, and Breton involuntarily followed the movement.
He caught the prisoner’s eye, and Myerst laughed.
“I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever,” he said
sneeringly. “Don’t you, now?”
“We’ve been clever enough to catch you, anyway,” retorted Breton. “And
now we’ve got you we’ll keep you till the police can relieve us of
you.”
“Oh!” said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. “And on what charge do
you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you’ll have
some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton.”
“Well see about that later,” said Breton. “You’ve extorted money by
menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate.”
“Have I? How do you know they didn’t entrust me with these cheques as
their agent?” exclaimed Myerst. “Answer me that! Or, rather, let them
answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick—didn’t you give
me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!”
Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of
Myerst’s voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly.
“Look here, Breton,” he said, whispering, “this scoundrel’s got some
hold on these two old chaps—they’re frightened to death of him. Leave
them alone: it would be best for them if they could get some rest. Hold
your tongue, you!” he added aloud, turning to Myerst. “When we want you
to speak we’ll tell you.”
But Myerst laughed again.
“All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_!” he sneered.
“You’re another of the cock-sure lot. And you’re very clever, but not
clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing—”
Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt
his hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern.
“I say!” he exclaimed. “He’s more than frightened—he’s ill! What’s to
be done?”
“I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them,” answered
Breton. “In the meantime, let’s put him to bed—there are beds in that
inner room. We’ll get him to bed and give him something hot to
drink—that’s all I can think of for the present.”
Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo,
with a happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot
bottles to his feet. When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie
down in the inner room. Presently both old men fell asleep, and then
Breton and Spargo suddenly realized that they themselves were hungry
and wet and weary.
“There ought to be food in the cupboard,” said Breton, beginning to
rummage. “They’ve generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here we
are, Spargo—these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while
I open one of these tins.”
The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast
with eyes that eventually began to glisten.
“I may remind you that I’m hungry, too,” he said as Spargo set the
coffee on the table. “And you’ve no right to starve me, even if you’ve
the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something to eat, if
you please.”
“You shan’t starve,” said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample supply of
bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate
before Myerst. “Untie his right arm, Spargo,” he continued. “I think we
can give him that liberty. We’ve got his revolver, anyhow.”
For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst
pushed his plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors.
“Look here!” he said. “You think you know a lot about all this affair,
Spargo, but there’s only one person who knows all about it. That’s me!”
“We’re taking that for granted,” said Spargo. “We guessed as much when
we found you here. You’ll have ample opportunity for explanation, you
know, later on.”
“I’ll explain now, if you care to hear,” said Myerst with another of
his cynical laughs. “And if I do, I’ll tell you the truth. I know
you’ve got an idea in your heads that isn’t favourable to me, but
you’re utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look here!—I’ll make you
a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case there—give me one, and
mix me a drink of that whisky—a good ’un—and I’ll tell you what I know
about this matter. Come on!—anything’s better than sitting here doing
nothing.”
The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. “Let him
talk if he likes,” he said. “We’re not bound to believe him. And we may
hear something that’s true. Give him his cigar and his drink.”
Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo
presently set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of
his cigar.
“As it happens, you’ll hear nothing but the truth,” he observed. “Now
that things are as they are, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell the
truth. The fact is, I’ve nothing to fear. You can’t give me in charge,
for it so happens that I’ve got a power of attorney from these two old
chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the money they
entrusted me with. It’s in an inside pocket of that letter-case, and if
you look at it, Breton, you’ll see it’s in order. I’m not even going to
dare you to interfere with or destroy it—you’re a barrister, and you’ll
respect the law. But that’s a fact—and if anybody’s got a case against
anybody, I have against you two for assault and illegal detention. But
I’m not a vindictive man, and——”
Breton took up Myerst’s letter-case and examined its contents. And
presently he turned to Spargo.
“He’s right!” he whispered. “This is quite in order.” He turned to
Myerst. “All the same,” he said, addressing him, “we shan’t release
you, because we believe you’re concerned in the murder of John Marbury.
We’re justified in holding you on that account.”
“All right, my young friend,” said Myerst. “Have your own stupid way.
But I said I’d tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain truth is that
I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know of
what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed
John Maitland. That’s a fact! It may have been the old man in there
who’s already at his own last gasp, or it mayn’t. I tell you I don’t
know—though, like you, Spargo, I’ve tried hard to find out. That’s the
truth—I do not know.”
“You expect us to believe that?” exclaimed Breton incredulously.
“Believe it or not, as you like—it’s the truth,” answered Myerst. “Now,
look here—I said nobody knew as much of this affair as I know, and
that’s true also. And here’s the truth of what I know. The old man in
that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, is in reality
Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name was so
freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That’s another
fact!”
“How,” asked Breton, sternly, “can you prove it? How do you know it?”
“Because,” replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, “I helped to carry out
his mock death and burial—I was a solicitor in those days, and my name
was—something else. There were three of us at it: Chamberlayne’s
nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried it out very
cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for our
trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well
paid for my help. The first time was in connection with the
Cloudhampton Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society affair—Aylmore, or
Ainsworth, was as innocent as a child in that!—Chamberlayne was the man
at the back. But, unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn’t profit—he lost all
he got by it, pretty quick. That was why be transferred his abilities
to Market Milcaster.”
“You can prove all this, I suppose?” remarked Spargo.
“Every word—every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: Your
father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all
the money that was got from the bank. He had—and he engineered that
mock death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who
helped him generously, as I’ve told you. The thing couldn’t have been
better done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor
disappeared; Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck—to tell you the
truth, I was struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed
my name and became Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was
not until three years ago that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in
this way: After I became secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I took
chambers in the Temple, above Cardlestone’s. And I speedily found out
who he was. Instead of going abroad, the old fox—though he was a
comparatively young ’un, then!—had shaved off his beard, settled down
in the Temple and given himself up to his two hobbies, collecting
curiosities and stamps. There he’d lived quietly all these years, and
nobody had ever recognized or suspected him. Indeed, I don’t see how
they could; he lived such a quiet, secluded life, with his collections,
his old port, and his little whims and fads. But—I knew him!”
“And you doubtless profited by your recognition,” suggested Breton.
“I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to
hold my tongue,” replied Myerst, “and I was glad to take it and,
naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one
friend—Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I’ll tell you about him.”
“Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him,” said Breton
sternly.
“I’ve no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to have
married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took
you and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of
your father’s disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that
Cardlestone is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have
friends—Elphick’s very fond of Cardlestone. He——”
Spargo turned sharply on Myerst.
“You say Elphick didn’t know until last night!” he exclaimed. “Why,
then, this running away? What were they running from?”
“I have no more notion than you have, Spargo,” replied Myerst. “I tell
you one or other of them knows something that I don’t. Elphick, I
gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone—then they both
vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland—I don’t know.
But I’ll tell you what I know about the actual murder—for I do know a
good deal about it, though, as I say, I don’t know who killed Maitland.
Now, first, you know all that about Maitland’s having papers and
valuables and gold on him? Very well—I’ve got all that. The whole lot
is locked up—safely—and I’m willing to hand it over to you, Breton,
when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given—as it will
be—that you’re Maitland’s son.”
Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when
he saw the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers’ faces.
“And still more,” he continued, “I’ve got all the contents of that
leather box which Maitland deposited with me—that’s safely locked up,
too, and at your disposal. I took possession of that the day after the
murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I went to Scotland Yard, as
Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a game—and it required
some ingenuity.”
“A game!” exclaimed Breton. “Good heavens—what game?”
“I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury
was Maitland of Market Milcaster,” answered Myerst. “When I did know
then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line,
independent of everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland’s papers and
possessions, by that time—except one thing. That packet of Australian
stamps. And—I found out that those stamps were in the hands
of—Cardlestone!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.
THE FINAL TELEGRAM
Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two
amazed listeners with a smile of conscious triumph.
“In the hands of Cardlestone,” he repeated. “Now, what did I argue from
that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone’s rooms
that night. Wasn’t he found lying dead at the foot of Cardlestone’s
stairs? Aye—but who found him? Not the porter—not the police—not you,
Master Spargo, with all your cleverness. The man who found Maitland
lying dead there that night was—I!”
In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what
Myerst said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his
pockets sat bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him
seriously, could not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and
conceptions are being rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he
laughed, more sneeringly than ever.
“That’s one for you, Spargo!” he said. “That surprises you—that makes
you think. Now what do you think?—if one may ask.”
“I think,” said Spargo, “that you are either a consummate liar, or that
this mystery is bigger than before.”
“I can lie when it’s necessary,” retorted Myerst. “Just now it isn’t
necessary. I’m telling you the plain truth: there’s no reason why I
shouldn’t. As I’ve said before, although you two young bullies have
tied me up in this fashion, you can’t do anything against me. I’ve a
power of attorney from those two old men in there, and that’s enough to
satisfy anybody as to my possession of their cheques and securities.
I’ve the whip hand of you, my sons, in all ways. And that’s why I’m
telling you the truth—to amuse myself during this period of waiting.
The plain truth, my sons!”
“In pursuance of which,” observed Breton, drily, “I think you mentioned
that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?”
“I was. That is—as far as I can gather. I’ll tell you all about it. As
I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very late—it
was well past one o’clock. There was nobody about—as a matter of fact,
no one has residential chambers in that building but Cardlestone and
myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck a match
and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon—John Marbury.
Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can
be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra
speed just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of
every article it had on it—money, papers, everything. All these things
are safely locked up—they’ve never been tracked. Next day, using my
facilities as secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the
things in that box. Then I found out who the dead man really was. And
then I deliberately set to work to throw dust in the eyes of the police
and of the newspapers, and particularly in the eyes of young Master
Spargo there. I had an object.”
“What?” asked Breton.
“What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather,
Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it
to myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo,
inserted news in your paper—Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity
of Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore’s rooms that night, turned into
our building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met
Cardlestone accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick
together—they recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to
expose Cardlestone, or, rather, Chamberlayne—nobody, of course, could
know what happened, but my theory was that Chamberlayne killed him.
There, at any rate, was the fact that Maitland was found murdered at
Chamberlayne’s very threshold. And, in the course of a few days, I
proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting access to
Chamberlayne’s rooms in his absence that Maitland had been there, had
been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne’s desk, the
rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was
proof positive.”
Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know—that the
stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo’s breast pocket, where
they had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion
of Chamberlayne’s floor.
“Why,” asked Breton, after a pause, “why did you never accuse
Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?”
“I did! I have accused him a score of times—and Elphick, too,” replied
Myerst with emphasis. “Not at first, mind you—I never let Chamberlayne
know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my own game to
play. But at last—not so many days ago—I did. I accused them both.
That’s how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be afraid—by that
time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone’s past as
Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick’s fond of Cardlestone. It’s
queer, but he is. He—wants to shield him.”
“What did they say when you accused them?” asked Breton. “Let’s keep to
that point—never mind their feelings for one another.”
“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery than
you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, you ask?
Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that
he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick.
But—they know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t
tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain
that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did!
They—”
A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and
Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they
could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking.
“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old friend’s
gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. He——”
Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton
passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head.
“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his sleep.”
“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. “And now we
shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn’t. So
that’s done with!”
Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away
from his side.
“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting to shake
his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as
innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death with
that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you he’d nothing
to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!”
Myerst laughed.
“Who had, then?” he said.
“Hold your tongue!” commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He sat
down by Elphick’s side and laid his hand soothingly on the old man’s
arm.
“Guardian,” he said, “why don’t you tell what you know? Don’t be afraid
of that fellow there—he’s safe enough. Tell Spargo and me what you know
of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne,
or whoever he is or was, now.”
Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give
him another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men
with something of an appeal.
“I’m badly shaken,” he said. “I’ve suffered much lately—I’ve learnt
things that I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought to have spoken before, but I
was afraid for—for him. He was a good friend, Cardlestone, whatever
else he may have been—a good friend. And—I don’t know any more than
what happened that night.”
“Tell us what happened that night,” said Breton.
“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with
Cardlestone. That was about ten o’clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came
to Cardlestone’s—she’d been to my rooms to find me—wanted to see me
particularly—and she’d come on there, knowing where I should be.
Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat
down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to
twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone’s door—his outer door was open, and
of course anybody outside could see lights within. Cardlestone went to
the door: we heard a man’s voice enquire for him by name; then the
voice added that Criedir, the stamp dealer, had advised him to call on
Mr. Cardlestone to show him some rare Australian stamps, and that
seeing a light under his door he had knocked. Cardlestone asked him
in—he came in. That was the man we saw next day at the mortuary. Upon
my honour, we didn’t know him, either that night or next day!”
“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton.
“Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink.
The man said Criedir had given him Cardlestone’s address, and that he’d
been with a friend at some rooms in Fountain Court, and as he was
passing our building he’d just looked to make sure where Cardlestone
lived, and as he’d noticed a light he’d made bold to knock. He and
Cardlestone began to examine the stamps. Jane Baylis said good-night,
and she and I left Cardlestone and the man together.”
“No one had recognized him?” said Breton.
“No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life.
The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that
they did—if they did.”
“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell us what
you and Miss Baylis did?”
“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d forgotten
something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet
Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own
rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And
upon my soul and honour that’s all I know!”
Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and
bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the
cottage.
“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got it—at last!
Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this
valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things till I’m back, or, when
the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town,
anyhow, after wiring.”
“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. “Stop! What on
earth——”
But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth
down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet
and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a
sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling
down a message in shaky handwriting:—
_Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London._
_Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland._
_Coming straight to town with full evidence._
_Frank Spargo_.
Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering
operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent
in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out
again—to find the station.
Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the
Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way
of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in
a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore,
who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely
comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and
warmly.
“But you will come—you will come today—and be properly thanked,” she
said. “You will—won’t you?”
Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a
straight look into Jessie Aylmore’s eyes.
“I don’t want thanks,” he said. “It was all a lot of luck. And if I
come—today—it will be to see—just you!”
Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands.
“I think,” she whispered, “I think that is what I really meant!”
THE END