YELLOWFACE
It was very evident that the inspector was considerably puzzled, not
to say upset, by the disappearance of the tobacco-box, and I fancied
that I saw the real reason of his discomfiture. He had poohpoohed Mr.
Cazalette's almost senile eagerness about the thing, treating his
request as of no importance; now he suddenly discovered that somebody
had conceived a remarkable interest in the tobacco-box and had
cleverly annexed it--under his very eyes--and he was angry with
himself for his lack of care and perception. I was not indisposed to
banter him a little.
"The second of your questions might be easily answered," I said. "The
thing has been appropriated because somebody believes, as Mr.
Cazalette evidently does, or did, that there may be a clue in those
scratches, or marks, on the inside of the lid. But as to who it was
that believed this, and managed to secrete the box--that's a far
different matter!"
He was thinking, and presently he nodded his head.
"I can call to mind everybody who sat round that table, where these
things were laid out," he remarked, confidently. "There were two or
three officials, like myself. There was our surgeon and Dr. Lorrimore.
Two or three of the country gentlemen--all magistrates; all well known
to me. And at the foot of the table there were a couple of reporters:
I know them, too, well enough. Now, who, out of that lot, would be
likely to steal--for that's what it comes to--this tobacco-box? A
thing that had scarcely been mentioned--if at all--during the
proceedings!"
"Well, I don't know," I remarked. "But you're forgetting one thing,
inspector. That's--curiosity!"
He looked at me blankly--clearly, he did not understand. Neither, I
saw, did Miss Raven.
"There are some people," I continued, "who have an itching--perhaps a
morbid--desire to collect and possess relics, mementoes of crime and
criminals. I know a man who has a cabinet filled with such
things--very proud of the fact that he owns a flute which once
belonged to Charles Pease; a purse that was found on Frank Muller; a
reputed riding-whip of Dick Turpin's and the like. How do you know
that one or other of the various men who sat round the table you're
talking of hasn't some such mania and appropriated the tobacco-box as
a memento of the Ravensdene Court mania?"
"I don't know," he replied. "But I don't think it likely: I know the
lot of them, more or less, and I think they've all too much sense."
"All the same, the thing's gone," I remarked. "And you'll excuse me
for saying it--you're a bit concerned by its disappearance."
"I am!" he said, frankly. "And I'll tell you why. It's just because no
particular attention was drawn to it at the inquest. So far as I remember
it was barely mentioned--if it was, it was only as one item, an
insignificant one, amongst more important things; the money, the watch and
chain, and so on. But--somebody--somebody there!--considered it of so
much importance as to appropriate it. Therefore, it is--just what I
thought it wasn't--a matter of moment. I ought to have taken more care
about it, from the time Mr. Cazalette first drew my attention to those
marks inside the lid."
"You're sure that it was on the table at the inquest?" I suggested.
"I'm sure of that," he replied with conviction, "for I distinctly
remember laying out the various objects myself. When the inquest was
over, I told the man you've just seen to put them all together and to
seal the package when he brought it back here. No--that tobacco-box
was picked up--stolen--off that table."
"Then there's more in the matter than lies on the surface," said I.
"Evidently," said he. He looked dubiously from Miss Raven to myself.
"I suppose the old gentleman--Mr. Cazalette--is to be--trusted? I
mean--you don't think that he's found out anything with his
photography, and is keeping it dark?"
"Miss Raven and myself," I replied, "know nothing whatever of Mr.
Cazalette except that he is a famous authority on coins and medals, a
very remarkable person for his age, and Mr. Raven's guest. As to his
keeping the result of his investigations dark, I should say that no
one could do that sort of thing better!"
"Aye, so I guessed," muttered the inspector. "I wish he'd tell us,
though, if he has discovered anything. But I suppose he'll take his
time?"
"Precisely," said I. "Men like Mr. Cazalette do. Time is regarded by
men of his peculiar temperament in somewhat different fashion to the
way in which we younger folk regard it--having come a long way along
the road of life, they refuse to be hurried. Well--I suppose you'll
make some inquiries about that box? By the way, if it's not a
professional secret, have you heard any more of the affair at
Saltash?"
"They haven't found out another thing," he answered, with a shake of
the head. "That's as big a mystery as this!
"What do you think, from your standpoint, of the two affairs?" I
asked, more for the delectation of Miss Raven than for my own
satisfaction--I knew she was curious about the double mystery. "Have
you formed any conclusion?"
"I've thought a great deal about it," he replied. "It seems to me that
the two brothers, Salter and Noah Quick, were men who had what's
commonly called a past, and that there was some strange secret in
it--probably one of money. I think that in their last days they were
tracked, shadowed, whatever you like to call it, by some old
associates of theirs, who murdered them in the expectation of getting
hold of something--papers, or what not. And what I would like to know
is--why did Salter Quick come down here, to this particular bit of the
North Country?"
"He said--to look for the graves of his ancestors on the mother's
side, the Netherfields," I answered.
"Aye, well!" remarked the inspector, almost triumphantly. "I know he
did--but I've had the most careful inquires made. There isn't such a
name in any churchyard of these parts. There isn't such a name in any
parish register between Alnmouth Bay and Fenham Flats--and that's a
pretty good stretch of country! I set to work on those investigations
as soon as you told me about your first meeting with Salter Quick, and
every beneficed clergyman and parish clerk in the district--and
further afield--has been at work. The name of Netherfield is
absolutely unknown--in the past or present."
"And yet," suddenly broke in Miss Raven, "it was not Salter Quick
alone who was seeking the graves of the Netherfields! There was
another man."
The inspector gave her an appreciative look.
"The most mysterious feature of the whole case!" he exclaimed. "You're
right, Miss Raven! There was another man--asking for the same
information. Who was he! Where is he? If only I could clap a hand on
him----"
"You think you'd be clapping a hand on Salter Quick's murderer?" I
said sharply.
To my surprise he gave me an equally sharp look and shook his head.
"I'm not at all sure of that, Mr. Middlebrook," he answered quietly.
"Not at all sure! But I think I could get some information out of him
that I should be very glad to secure."
Miss Raven and I rose to leave; the inspector accompanied us to the
door of the police-station. And as we were thanking him for his polite
attentions, a man came along the street, and paused close by us,
looking inquiringly at the building from which we had just emerged and
at our companion's smart semi-uniform. Finally, as we were about to
turn away, he touched his cap.
"Begging your pardon," he said; "is this here the police office?"
There was a suggestion in the man's tone which made me think that he
had come there with a particular object, and I looked at him more
attentively. He was a shortish, thick-set man, hound-faced, frank of
eye and lip; no beauty, for he had a shock of sandy-red hair and three
or four days' stubble on his cheeks and chin; yet his apparent
frankness and a certain steadiness of gaze set him up as an honest
fellow. His clothing was rough; there were bits of straw, hay, wood
about it, as if he were well acquainted with farming life; in his
right hand he carried a stout ash-plant stick.
"You are right, my friend," answered the inspector. "It is! What are
you wanting?"
The man looked up the steps at his informant with a glance in which
there was a decided sense of humour. Something in the situation seemed
to amuse him.
"You'll not know me," he replied. "My name's Beeman--James Beeman. I
come fro' near York. I'm t' chap 'at were mentioned by one o' t'
witnesses at t' inquest on that strange man 'at were murdered
hereabouts. I should ha' called to see you about t' matter before now,
but I've nobbut just come back into this part o' t' country; I been
away up i' t' Cheviot Hills there."
"Oh?" said the inspector. "And--what mention was made of you?"
James Beeman showed a fine set of teeth in a grin that seemed to
stretch completely across his homely face.
"I'm t' chap 'at were spoken of as asking about t' graves o' t'
Netherfield family," he answered. "You know--on t' roadside one night,
off a fellow 'at I chanced to meet wi' outside Lesbury. That's who I
am!"
The inspector turned to Miss Raven and myself with a look which meant
more than he could express in words.
"Talk about coincidence!" he whispered. "This is the very man we'd
just mentioned. Come back to my office and hear what he's got to tell.
Follow me," he continued, beckoning the caller. "I'm much obliged to
you for coming. Now," he continued, when all four of us were within
his room. "What can you tell me about that? What do you know about the
grave of the Netherfields?"
Beeman laughed, shaking his round head. Now that his old hat was
removed, the fiery hue of his poll was almost alarming in its
crudeness of hue.
"Nowt," he said. "Nowt at all! I'll tell you all about it--that's what
I've comed here for, hearing as you were wondering who I was and what
had come o' me. I come up here--yes, it were on t' sixth o' March--to
see about some sheep stock for our maister, Mr. Dimbleby, and I put up
for t' first night at a temp'rance i' Alnwick yonder. But of course,
temp'rances is all right for sleeping and braikfasting, but nowt for
owt else, so when I'd tea'd there, I went down t' street for a
comfortable public, where I could smoke my pipe and have a glass or
two. And while I was there, a man come in 'at, from his description
i' t' papers, 'ud be this here fellow that were murdered. I didn't
talk none to him, but, after a bit, I heard him talking to t'
landlord. And, after a deal o' talk about fishing hereabouts, I heard
him asking t' landlord, as seemed to be a gr't fisherman and knew all
t' countryside, if he knew any places, churchyards, where there were
Netherfields buried? He talked so much about 'em, 'at 't name got
right fixed on my mind. T' next day I had business outside Alnwick, at
one or two farms, and that night I made further north, to put up at
Embleton. Now then, as I were walking that way, after dark I chanced
in wi' a man near Lesbury, and walked wi' him a piece, and I asked
him, finding he were a native, if he knew owt o' t' Netherfield
graves. And that 'ud be t' man 'at tell'd you 'at he'd met such a
person. All right!--I'm t' person.'
"Then you merely asked the question out of curiosity?" suggested the
inspector.
"Aye--just 'cause I'd heard t' strange man inquire," assented Beeman.
"I just wondered if it were some family o' what they call
consequence."
"You never saw the man again whom you speak of as having seen at
Alnwick?" the inspector asked. "And had no direct conversation with
him yourself?"
"Never saw t' fellow again, nor had a word with him," replied Beeman.
"He had his glass or two o' rum, and went away. But I reckon he was t'
man who was murdered."
"And where have you been, yourself, since the time you tell us about?"
asked the inspector.
"Right away across country," answered Beeman readily. "I went across
to Chillingham and Wooler, then forrard to some farms i' t' Cheviots,
and back by Alnham and Whittingham to Alnwick. And then I heard all
about this affair, and so I thought good to come and tell you what bit
I knew."
"I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Beeman," said the inspector. "You've
cleared up something, at any rate. Are you going to stay longer in the
neighbourhood?"
"I shall be here--leastways, at Alnwick yonder, at t' Temp'rance--for
two or three days yet, while I've collected some sheep together 'at
I've bowt for our maister, on one farm and another," replied Beeman.
"Then I shall be away. But if you ever want me, at t' 'Sizes, or wot
o' that sort, my directions is James Beeman, foreman to Mr. Thomas
Dimbleby, Cross-houses Manor, York."
When this candid and direct person had gone, the inspector looked at
Miss Raven and me with glances that indicated a good deal.
"That settles one point and seems to establish another," he remarked
significantly. "Salter Quick was not murdered by somebody who had come
into these parts on the same errand as himself. He was murdered by
somebody who was--here already!"
"And who met him?" I suggested.
"And who met him," assented the inspector. "And now I'm more anxious
than ever to know if there is anything in that tobacco-box theory of
Mr. Cazalette's. Couldn't you young people cajole Mr. Cazalette into
telling you a little? Surely he would oblige you, Miss Raven?"
"There are moments when Mr. Cazalette is approachable," replied Miss
Raven. "There are others at which I should as soon think of asking a
question of the Sphinx."
"Wait!" said I. "Mr. Cazalette, I firmly believe, knows something. And
now--you know more than you did. One mystery has gone by the board."
"It leaves the main one all the blacker," answered the inspector.
"Who, of all the folk in these parts, is one to suspect? Yet--it would
seem that Salter Quick found somebody here to whom his presence was so
decidedly unwelcome that there was nothing for it but--swift and
certain death! Why? Well--death ensures silence."
Miss Raven and I took our leave for the second time. We walked some
distance from the police-station before exchanging a word: I do not
know what she was thinking of; as for myself, I was speculating on the
change in my opinion brought about by the rough-and-ready statement of
the brusque Yorkshireman. For until then I had firmly believed that
the man who had accosted our friend of the Mariner's Joy, Jim
Gelthwaite, the drover, was the man who had murdered Salter Quick. My
notion was that this man, whoever he was, had foregathered somewhere
with Quick, that they were known to each other, and had a common
object, and that he had knifed Quick for purposes of his own. And now
that idea was exploded, and so far as I could see, the search for the
real assassin was yet to begin.
Suddenly Miss Raven spoke.
"I suppose it's scarcely possible that the murderer was present at
that inquest?" she asked, half-timidly, as if afraid of my ridiculing
her suggestion.
"Quite possible," said I. "The place was packed to the doors with all
sorts of people. But why?"
"I thought perhaps that he might have contrived to abstract that
tobacco-box, knowing that as long as it was in the hands of the police
there might be some clue to his identity," she suggested.
"Good notion!" I replied. "But there's just one thing against it. If
the murderer had known that, if he felt that, he'd have secured the
box when he searched Quick's clothing, as he undoubtedly did."
"Of course!" she admitted. "I ought to have thought of that. But there
are such a lot of things to think of in connection with this
case--threads interwoven with each other."
"You've been thinking much about it?" I asked.
She made no reply for a moment, and I waited, wondering.
"I don't think it's a very comfortable thing to know that one's had a
particularly brutal murder at one's very door and that, for all one
knows, the murderer may still be close at hand," she said at last.
"There's such a disagreeable feeling of uneasiness about this affair.
I know that Uncle Francis is most awfully upset by it."
I looked at her in some surprise. I had not seen any marked signs of
concern in Mr. Raven.
"I hadn't observed that," I said.
"Perhaps not," she answered. "But I know him better. He's an unusually
nervous man. Do you know that since this happened he's taken to going
round the house every night, examining doors and windows?--And--he's
begun to carry a revolver."
The last statement made me think. Why should Mr. Raven expect--or, if
not expect, be afraid of, any attack on himself? But before I could
make any comment on my companion's information, my attention to the
subject was diverted. All that afternoon the weather had been
threatening to break--there was thunder about. And now, with startling
suddenness, a flash of lightning was followed by a sharp crack, and
that on the instant by a heavy downpour of rain. I glanced at Miss
Raven's light dress--early spring though it was, the weather had been
warm for more than a week, and she had come out in things that would
be soaked through in a moment. But just then we were close to an old
red-brick house, which stood but a yard or two back from the road, and
was divided from it by nothing but a strip of garden. It had a deep
doorway, and without ceremony, I pushed open the little gate in front,
and drew Miss Raven within its shelter. We had not stood there many
seconds, our back to the door (which I never heard opened), when a
soft mellifluous voice sounded close to my startled ear.
"Will you not step inside and shelter from the storm?"
Twisting round sharply, I found myself staring at the slit-like eyes
and old parchment-hued face of a smiling Chinaman.