NETHERFIELD BAXTER
However Mr. Raven's nerves may have been wrung by the mysterious
events which found place around his recently acquired possessions,
nothing untoward or disturbing occurred at Ravensdene Court itself at
that time. Indeed, had it not been for what we heard from outside, and
for such doings as the visit of the inspector and Scarterfield, the
daily life under Mr. Raven's roof would have been regular and decorous
almost to the point of monotony. We were all engaged in our respective
avocations--Mr. Cazalette with his coins and medals; I with my books
and papers; Mr. Raven with his steward, his gardeners, and his various
potterings about the estate; Miss Raven with her flowers and her golf.
Certainly there was relaxation--and in taking it, we sorted out each
other. Mr. Raven and Mr. Cazalette made common cause of an afternoon;
they were of that period of life--despite the gulf of twenty years
between them--when lounging in comfortable chairs under old cedar
trees on a sunlit lawn is preferable to active exercise; Miss Raven
and I being younger, found our diversion in golf and in occasional
explorations of the surrounding country. She had a touch of the
nomadic instinct in her; so had I; the neighbourhood was new to both;
we began to find great pleasure in setting out on some excursion as
soon as lunch was over and prolonging our wanderings until the falling
shadows warned us that it was time to make for home. What these
pilgrimages led to--in more ways than one--will eventually appear.
We heard nothing of Scarterfield, the detective, nor of Wing, pressed
into his service, for some days after the consultation in Mr. Raven's
dining-room. Then, as we were breakfasting one morning, the post-bag
was brought in, and Mr. Raven, opening it, presently handed me a
letter in an unfamiliar handwriting, the envelope of which bore the
post-mark Blyth. I guessed, of course, that it was from Scarterfield,
and immediately began to wonder what on earth made him write to me.
But there it was--he had written, and here is what he wrote:
"NORTH SEA HOTEL,
"BLYTH, NORTHUMBERLAND
"April 23, 1912
"_Dear Sir:_
"You will remember that when we were discussing matters the
other night round Mr. Raven's table I mentioned that I
intended visiting this town in order to make some inquiries
about the man Netherfield who was with the brothers Quick on
the _Elizabeth Robinson_. I have been here two days, and I
have made some very curious discoveries. And I am now
writing to ask you if you could so far oblige and help me in
my investigations as to join me here for a day or two, at
once? The fact is, I want your assistance--I understand that
you are an expert in deciphering documents and the like, and
I have come across certain things here in connection with
this case which are beyond me. I can assure you that if you
could make it convenient to spare me even a few hours of
your valuable time you would put me under great obligations
to you.
"Yours truly,
"THOMAS SCARTERFIELD."
I read this letter twice over before handing it to Mr. Raven. Its
perusal seemed to excite him.
"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "How very extraordinary! What strange
mysteries we seem to be living amongst? You'll go, of course,
Middlebrook?"
"You think I should?" I asked.
"Oh, certainly, certainly!" he said with emphasis. "If any of us can
do anything to solve this strange problem, I think we should. Of
course, one hasn't the faintest idea what it is that the man wants.
But from what I observed of him the other evening, I should say that
Scarterfield is a clever fellow--a very clever fellow who should be
helped."
"Scarterfield," I remarked, glancing at Miss Raven and at Mr.
Cazalette, who were manifesting curiosity, "has made some discoveries
at Blyth--about the Netherfield man--and he wants me to go over there
and help him--to elucidate something, I think, but what it is, I don't
know."
"Oh, of course, you must go!" exclaimed Miss Raven. "How exciting! Mr.
Cazalette! aren't you jealous already?"
"No, but I'm curious," answered Mr. Cazalette, to whom I had passed
the letter. "I see the man wants something deciphered--aye, that'll be
in your line, Middlebrook. Didn't I tell all of you, all along, that
there'd be more in this business than met the eye? Well, I'll be
inquisitive to know what new developments have arisen! It's a strange
fact, but it is a fact, that in affairs of this sort there's often
evidence, circumstantial, strong, lying ready to be picked up. Next
door, as it were--and as it is evidently in this case, for Blyth's a
town that's not so far away."
Far away or near away, it took me some hours to get to Blyth, for I
had to drive to Alnwick, and later to change at Morpeth, and again at
Newsham. But there I was at last, in the middle of the afternoon, and
there, on the platform to meet me was the detective, as rubicund and
cheerful as ever, and full of gratitude for my speedy response to his
request.
"I got your telegram, Mr. Middlebrook," he remarked as we walked away
from the station, "and I've booked you the most comfortable room I
could get in the hotel, which is a nice quiet house where we'll be
able to talk in privacy, for barring you and myself there's nobody
stopping in it, except a few commercial travellers, and to be sure,
they've their own quarters. You'll have had your lunch?"
"While I waited at Morpeth," I answered.
"Aye," he said, "I figured on that. So we'll just get into a corner of
the smoking-room and have a quiet glass over a cigar, and I'll tell
you what I've made out here--and a very strange and queer tale it is,
and one that's worth hearing, whether it really has to do with our
affair or no!"
"You're not sure that it has?" I asked.
"I'm as sure as may be that it probably has!" he replied. "But still,
there's a gulf between extreme probability and absolute certainty
that's a bit wider than the unthinking reckon for. However, here we
are--and we'll just get comfortable."
Scarterfield's ideas of comfort, I found, were to dispose himself in
the easiest of chairs in the quietest of corners with whisky and soda
on one hand and a box of cigars on the other--this sort of thing he
evidently regarded as a proper relaxation from his severe mental
labours. I had no objection to it myself after four hours slow
travelling--yet I confess I felt keenly impatient until he had mixed
our drinks, lighted his cigar and settled down at my elbow.
"Now," he said confidentially, "I'll set it all out in order--what
I've done and found out since I came here two days ago. There's no
need, Mr. Middlebrook, to go into detail about how I set to work to
get information: we've our own ways and methods of getting hold of
stuff when we strike a strange town. But you know what I came here
for. There's been talk, all through this case, of the name
Netherfield--from the questions that Salter Quick put to you when you
met him on the cliffs, and from what was said at the Mariner's Joy.
Very good--now I fell across that name, too, in my investigations in
London, as being the name of a man who was on the _Elizabeth
Robinson_, of uncertain memory, lost or disappeared in the year 1907,
with the two Quicks. He was set down, that Netherfield, as being of
Blyth, Northumberland. Clearly, then, Blyth was a place to get in
touch with--and here in Blyth we are!"
"A clear bit of preface, Scarterfield," said I approvingly. "Go ahead!
I'm bearing in mind that you've been here forty-eight hours."
"I've made good use of my time!" he chuckled, with a knowing grin.
"Although I say it myself, Mr. Middlebrook, I'm a bit of a hustler.
Well, self-praise, they say, is no recommendation, though to be sure
I'm no believer in that old proverb, for, after all, who knows a man
better than himself? So we'll get to the story. I came here, of
course, to see if I could learn anything of a man of this place who
answered to what I had already learnt about Netherfield of the
_Elizabeth Robinson_. I went to the likely people for news, and I very
soon found out something. Nobody knew anything of any man, old or
young, named William Netherfield, belonging, present or past, to this
town. But a good many people--most, if not all people--do know of a
man who used to be in much evidence here some years ago; a man of the
name of Netherfield Baxter."
"Netherfield Baxter," I repeated. "Not a name to be readily
forgotten--once known."
"He's not forgotten," said Scarterfield, grimly, "and he was well
enough known, here, once upon a time, and not so long since, either.
And now, who was Netherfield Baxter? Well, he was the only child of an
old tradesman of this town, whose wife died when Netherfield was a
mere boy, and who died himself when his son was only seventeen years
of age. Old Baxter was a remarkably foolish man. He left all he had to
this lad--some twelve thousand pounds--in such a fashion that he came
into absolute, uncontrolled possession of it on attaining his
twenty-first birthday. Now then you can imagine what happened! My
young gentleman, nobody to say him nay, no father, mother, sister,
brother, to restrain him or give him a word in season--or a hearty
kicking, which would have been more to the purpose!--went the pace,
pretty considerably. Horses, cards, champagne--you know! The twelve
thousand began to melt like wax in a fire. He carried on longer than
was expected, for now and then he had luck on the race-course; won a
good deal once, I heard, on the big race at Newcastle--what they call
the Pitman's Darby. But it went--all of it went!--and by the beginning
of the year 1904--bear the date in mind, Mr. Middlebrook--Netherfield
Baxter was just about on his last legs--he was, in fact, living from
hand to mouth. He was then--I've been particular about collecting
facts and statistics--just twenty-nine years of age, so, one way or
another, he'd made his little fortune last him eight years; he still
had good clothes--a very taking, good-looking fellow he was, they
say--and he'd a decent lodging. But in spring 1904 he was living on
the proceeds of chance betting, and was sometimes very low down, and
in May of that year he disappeared, in startlingly sudden fashion,
without saying a word to anybody, and since then nobody has ever seen
a vestige or ever heard a word of him."
Scarterfield paused, looking at me as if to ask what I thought of it.
I thought a good deal of it.
"A very interesting bit of life-drama, Scarterfield," said I. "And
there have been far stranger things than it would be if this
Netherfield Baxter of Blyth turned out to be the William Netherfield
of the _Elizabeth Robinson_. You haven't hit on anything in the shape
of a bridge, a connecting link between the two?"
"Not yet, anyway," he answered. "And I don't think it's at all likely
that I shall, here, for, as I said just now, nobody in this place has
ever heard of Netherfield Baxter since he walked out of his lodging
one evening and clean vanished. To be sure, there's been nobody at all
anxious to hear of him. For one thing, he left no near and dear
relations or friends--for another, he left no debts behind him. The
last fact, of course," added Scarterfield, with a wink, "was due to
another, very pertinent fact--nobody, to be sure, in his latter
stages, would give him credit!"
"You've more to tell," I suggested.
"Oh, much more!" he acquiesced. "We're about half-way through the
surface matters. Now then--you're bearing in mind that Netherfield
Baxter disappeared, very suddenly, in May 1904. Perhaps the town
didn't make much to do over his disappearance for a good reason--it
was just then in the very midst of what we generally call a nine days'
wonder. For some months the Old Alliance Bank here had been in charge
of a temporary manager, in consequence of the regular manager's
long-continued illness. This temporary manager was a chap named
Lester--John Martindale Lester--who had come here from a branch of the
same bank at Hexham, across country. Now, this Lester was a young man
who was greatly given to going about on a motor-cycle--not so many of
those things about, then, as we see now; he was always tearing about
the country, they say, on half-holidays, and Saturdays and Sundays.
And one evening, careering round a sharp corner, somewhere just
outside the town, in the dark, he ran full tilt into a cart that
carried no tail-light, and--broke his neck! They picked him up dead."
"Well?" said I.
"You're wondering if that's anything to do with Netherfield Baxter's
disappearance?" said Scarterfield. "Well--it's an odd thing, but out
of all the folk that I've made inquiry of in the town, I haven't come
across one yet who voluntarily suggested that it had! But--I do! And
you'll presently see why I think so. Now, this man, John Martindale
Lester, was accidentally killed about the beginning of the first week
in May 1904. Three or four days later, Netherfield Baxter cleared out.
I've been careful, in my conversations with the townfolk--officials,
mostly--not to appear to connect Lester's death with Baxter's
departure. But that there was a connection, I'm dead certain. Baxter
hooked it, Mr. Middlebrook, because he knew that Lester's sudden death
would lead to an examination of things at the Old Alliance Bank!"
"Ah!" said I. "I begin to see things!"
"So do I--through smoked glass, though, as yet," assented
Scarterfield. "But--it's getting clearer. Now, things at the bank were
examined--and some nice revelations came forth! To begin with, there
was a cash deficiency--not a heavy one, but quite heavy enough. In
addition to that, certain jewels were missing, which had been
deposited with the bankers for security by a lady in this
neighbourhood--they were worth some thousands of pounds. And, to add
to this, two chests of plate were gone which had been placed with the
bank some years before by the executors of the will of the late Lord
Forestburne, to be kept there till the coming of age of his heir, a
minor when his father died. Altogether, Mr. John Martindale Lester and
his accomplices, or accomplice, had helped themselves very freely to
things until then safe in the vaults and strong room."
"Have you found out if Netherfield Baxter and the temporary
bank-manager were acquainted?" I asked.
"No--that's a matter I've very carefully refrained from inquiring
into," answered Scarterfield. "So far, no one has mentioned their
acquaintanceship or association to me, and I haven't suggested it, for
I don't want to raise suspicions--I want to keep things to myself, so
that I can play my own game. No--I've never heard the two men spoken
of in connection with each other."
"What is thought in the town about Lester and the valuables?" I
inquired. "They must have some theory?"
"Oh, of course, they have," he replied. "The theory is that Lester had
accomplices in London, that he shipped these valuables off there, and
that when his accomplices heard of his sudden death they--why, they
just held their tongues. But--my notion is that the only accomplice
Lester had was our friend Netherfield Baxter."
"You've some ground?" I asked.
"Yes--or I shouldn't think so," said Scarterfield. "I'm now coming to
the reason of my sending for you, Mr. Middlebrook. I told you that
this fellow Baxter had a decent lodging in the town. Well, I made it
my business to go there yesterday morning, and finding that the
landlady was a sensible woman and likely to keep a quiet tongue I just
told her a bit of my business and asked her some questions. Then I
found out that Baxter left various matters behind him, which she still
had--clothes, books (he was evidently a chap for reading, and of
superior education, which probably accounts for what I'm going to tell
you), papers, and the like. I got her to let me have a sight of them.
And amongst the papers I found two, which seem to me to have been
written hundreds of years ago and to be lists with names and figures
in them. My impression is that Lester found them in those chests of
plate, couldn't make them out, and gave them to Netherfield Baxter, as
being a better educated man--Baxter, I found out, did well at school
and could read and write two or three languages. Well, now, I
persuaded the landlady to lend me these documents for a day or two,
and I've got them in my room upstairs, safely locked up--I'll fetch
them down presently and you shall see if you can decipher them--very
old they are, and the writing crabbed and queer--but Lord bless you,
the ink's as black as jet!"
"Scarterfield!" said I. "It strikes me you've possibly hit on a
discovery. Supposing this stolen stuff is safely hidden somewhere
about? Supposing Netherfield Baxter knew where, and that he's the
William Netherfield of the _Elizabeth Robinson_? Supposing that he let
the Quicks into the secret? Supposing--but, bless me! there are a
hundred things one can suppose! Anyhow, I believe we're getting at
something."
"I've been supposing a lot of what you've just suggested ever since
yesterday morning," he answered quietly. "Didn't I say we should have
to hark back? Well, I'll fetch down these documents."
He went away, and while he was absent I stood at the window of the
smoking-room, looking out on the life of the little town and
wondering. There, across the street, immediately in front of the hotel
was the bank of which Scarterfield had been telling me--an
old-fashioned, grey-walled, red-roofed place, the outer door of which
was just then being closed for the day by a white-whiskered old porter
in a sober-hued uniform. Was it possible--could it really be--that the
story which had recently ended in a double murder had begun in that
quiet-looking house, through the criminality of an untrustworthy
employee? But did I say ended?--nay, for all I knew the murderers of
the Quicks were only an episode, a chapter in the story--the end
was--where?
Then Scarterfield came back and from a big envelope drew forth and
placed in my hands two folded pieces of old, time-yellowed parchment.