Blackmail?
When Inspector Tanner reached his office in New Scotland Yard, he
found an instruction from Chief Inspector Edgar, informing him that Mr
James Daunt, of Lincoln’s Inn, had important evidence to give him
relative to the Ponson case. Accordingly, after he had made a formal
report on his Portuguese expedition, he called up Jimmy and arranged a
meeting. A few hours later he was seated in the solicitor’s office,
smoking one of the latter’s best cigars.
‘My Chief says you have something to tell me?’ he began, after mutual
greetings.
‘Why yes,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Did your Chief tell you what it was?’
‘Didn’t see him. He’s in Manchester.’
‘I fancy you’ll be surprised. You recollect you told me you had
suspected Cosgrove Ponson, but that he had established an alibi and so
must be innocent?’
Tanner nodded as he drew at his cigar.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed.
‘You were satisfied the alibi was sound?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It’s a fake,’ said Jimmy quietly.
Tanner took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at the other.
‘Get along now, Mr Daunt,’ he answered. ‘You’re trying to pull my
leg.’
‘No. The thing’s a fake right enough. Cosgrove was at the boathouse
that night.’
Tanner stared incredulously.
‘You seem in earnest,’ he said slowly. ‘But you’ve made a mistake. I
went into it carefully. There’s no doubt it’s sound.’
‘It’s _you_ that have made the mistake,’ Daunt answered pleasantly,
and he went on to tell the Inspector what he and Lois had done, and
all they had discovered.
To say that Tanner was amazed and disappointed would be to understate
the case. He was woefully chagrined.
‘God bless my soul!’ he cried, ‘but that sort of takes a chap down.
Here was I looking down on you and that splendid girl as a pair of
meddling nuisances, and I’m blowed if you haven’t had it over on me
all the time.’
‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘tit for tat.’
The Inspector eyed him almost aggressively.
‘And what now?’ he demanded.
‘Why this. I’ve told you what we did about Cosgrove. Now you tell me
what took you to Portugal.’
‘Oh, that,’ answered Tanner looking relieved. ‘It’s irregular, but I’m
blessed if I care.’ He re-lit his cigar, which in his agitation he had
allowed to go out, and beginning with the day of the adjourned
inquest, he recounted his adventures in London and in Devon, the
midnight run to Southampton, the flight to Paris, the journey to
Lisbon, and finally the arrest of William Douglas. When he had
finished, James Daunt was nearly as surprised and mystified as the
Inspector had been a few minutes earlier.
‘’Pon my soul, a most extraordinary business,’ he commented. ‘There’s
Austin, first suspected, then cleared, then suspected again and
arrested, and now cleared again. Then there’s Cosgrove, first
suspected, then cleared, and now suspected again. And now, here’s a
third man mixed up in the thing. I suppose the next thing that comes
out will clear Douglas!’
‘I don’t think,’ Tanner answered. ‘But what do you mean by saying
Austin is now cleared again? It’s the first I’ve heard of that.’
‘Why, Cosgrove was clearly impersonating him.’
‘Not on your life,’ said Tanner with decision. ‘Mark my words, Mr
Daunt, they were all there—Sir William and Austin and Cosgrove and
Douglas. Every blooming one of them was there. See here,’ he continued
as the other showed signs of dissent, ‘there’s evidence against every
one of them. Sir William was seen there. Austin was seen too, and
there’s no doubt he faked that business about the shoes. Yes, I know,’
as Daunt would have spoken, ‘his story about the shoes seems all
right, and it’s very clever, but it won’t wash. He was seen there, and
he was there. Then Cosgrove was there, for you’ve proved that. And
lastly this man Douglas was there also, for I saw his footmarks on the
boathouse floor. Yes, they were all there, and there’s some conspiracy
between them.’
Though Daunt had to admit this conclusion seemed sound, it was by no
means what he wished the Inspector to arrive at. His business was to
clear Austin, and while the bringing in of first Cosgrove and now this
man Douglas had at the time seemed all to the good, it did not help if
it merely led to a conspiracy charge. But Tanner’s voice broke into
his cogitations.
‘You see,’ the detective said, following on his own line of thought,
‘they were together in London. Sir William, Austin, and Cosgrove
lunched together—_both_ Austin and Cosgrove denying it, mind you—and
then immediately Sir William went to see Douglas. There was some
business between the four of them. There’s not a doubt of it.’
It gave Daunt a nasty shock to recall that Austin had to him also
denied having seen Sir William on that Monday. If it could be proved
that Austin had lied about this, as apparently it could, what reliance
could be placed on any of his other statements?
There was silence for some moments, and then Daunt moved impatiently.
‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ he asked.
‘Get the names of that taxi-man and those other witnesses from you,’
the Inspector answered promptly, ‘and check over your conclusions
about Cosgrove. Not that I doubt you, of course, but it’s business.
Then if I’m satisfied, I’ll arrest him. Among his or Douglas’s papers
there’ll be surely something to put us on the track.’
When Tanner had taken his leave Daunt sat motionless for some minutes,
thinking over what he had just heard. And the more he thought, the
less he liked the turn affairs had taken. All his doubts as to
Austin’s innocence had returned. If his client had really met Sir
William on the Monday in question, why had he denied it? It would take
an even more ingenious explanation to account for it than that he had
given about the shoes.
To satisfy himself, when his work for the day was finished, Daunt put
a photograph of Austin in his pocket and drove to the Étoile
restaurant in Soho. But a few moments’ inquiry was sufficient to
convince him. Austin had been there beyond question, and therefore his
statement to Daunt had been a direct falsehood.
Sorely puzzled as to what he should say to Lois, Jimmy Daunt returned
to his rooms. There after much thought he decided he would see Austin
next morning and tax him directly with the lie.
Another point had been worrying him. He recalled his surprise at the
manner in which Austin had received the news of his and Lois’s
discovery that Cosgrove had been at the boathouse on the fatal night.
Austin had professed incredulity, but all the same had seemed terribly
shocked. He had ridiculed their idea that Cosgrove could have been
impersonating him, and utterly refused to sanction a defence on these
lines.
At the time Daunt had put this down to cousinly affection, but in the
light of Tanner’s theories it seemed to take on a more sinister
interpretation. What if Tanner were right, and both cousins were
involved in the murder? Would not that make a horribly complete
explanation of Austin’s attitude? Might the latter not fear that the
bringing in of Cosgrove might be a step towards the elucidation of the
whole affair? It was therefore with foreboding that Daunt set out next
morning to see his client.
He had determined to try a little test. He conversed at first as on
previous visits, and then when the other’s mind was occupied and he
was off his guard, he said suddenly, but as carelessly as he could,
‘By the way, William Douglas has been arrested.’
The effect on Austin surpassed his most gloomy prognostications.
Surprised out of himself, the accused man started back, his face paled
and he gave vent to an exclamation of what seemed to Daunt to be
veritable consternation. Then rapidly controlling himself, he tried to
simulate indifference.
‘William Douglas?’ he repeated questioningly, ‘I have heard my father
speak of him. An old gardener, wasn’t he? What on earth has he been
doing?’
Daunt felt instinctively the reply did not ring true.
‘That’s what I’ve come to ask you,’ he retorted. ‘What were you and he
doing at the boathouse on that Wednesday night?’
‘My dear fellow,’ Austin answered—he was evidently shaken, but still
spoke with a certain dignity—‘you forget yourself. You have no right
to ask me such a question.’
‘Then I withdraw it and ask you another. You told me, I think, that
the Sunday evening when you dined at Luce Manor was the last occasion
on which you saw Sir William alive?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And you repeat that now?’
‘Why, of course I do.’
Daunt leant forward and spoke impressively.
‘Then how do you explain your having lunched with him on the next day
at the Étoile in Soho?’
Again Austin started. Daunt was sure that the shot had told. But the
other only said:
‘It seems to me you have mistaken the side you’re on. Are you taking
prosecuting counsel’s place?’
‘Good Lord, Ponson, don’t play with words,’ cried the solicitor
angrily. ‘It’s far too serious. If I’m to act for you, I must have an
explanation of these things. Why have you denied being there when you
were?’
‘Who says I was?’
‘Everyone concerned. The manager, two waiters, the porter—all agree.
There’s no mistake. I saw them myself. Tanner knows all about your
lunch there with Sir William and Cosgrove, and about Sir William’s
visit afterwards to Douglas.’
Austin was pale, and a look of positive dread showed for a moment in
his eyes. But he preserved his calmness and only replied:
‘They were mistaken. I was not there.’
Daunt dropped his detached air, and spoke with all the earnestness at
his command.
‘Look here, Ponson,’ he said. ‘What the truth in this wretched
business is I don’t know, but I do know that for you to go on like
this means a certain verdict of “Guilty”. That’s as sure as you’re
sitting there. If you don’t care about yourself, for God’s sake think
of that girl that’s giving up her all for you. You must tell her the
truth—in common honour you must tell her. Your actions must look
suspicious to her as well as others. If you can explain them, for
Heaven’s sake do so, and if not, don’t let her commit herself too far
to get out.’
Austin slowly raised his head and smiled unhappily.
‘You’re a good fellow, Daunt,’ he said. ‘God knows I’m ten times more
anxious for Lois than for myself. But all I can tell you is to repeat
what I have already said; I was not there. There must be some ghastly
mistake.’
Daunt felt his anger rising.
‘It’s a mistake that will cost you your life if you don’t rectify it,’
he answered sharply. ‘If you can’t be open with me I must give up the
case.’
‘Then you don’t believe me?’
‘Believe you? How can I believe you? I show your photograph to four
separate men at that café and all identify you without hesitation. But
see here’—he spoke as if a new idea had occurred to him—‘the thing can
be easily settled. If you weren’t at the café with Sir William where
were you? Tell me that?’
‘I lunched that day at the Savoy.’
‘For three hours?’
‘Well, no. I sat and smoked in the lounge. Then I got one or two
things—tobacco and those two pairs of shoes.’
Jimmy Daunt did not believe him, but all the persuasion of which he
was a master failed to induce Austin, whatever he might or might not
know, to supplement or vary his statement. But the latter consistently
scouted the idea that the trial could end in a conviction, stoutly
maintaining that there was no evidence to lead to such a conclusion.
At last Jimmy took his leave, intensely dissatisfied with the result
of the interview. As had been arranged between them, he sent a wire to
Lois asking her to come to town that afternoon, though he looked
forward to the meeting with anything but pleasure.
It was nearly five when she arrived. He greeted her with no hint that
his news was bad, and as before insisted on an immediate visit to the
quiet restaurant. Over a cup of tea he told her all of Tanner’s
adventures and discoveries, with the single exception of his learning
of the meeting between Sir William, Austin, and Cosgrove at the Étoile
restaurant. But when they had returned to his office, he became more
serious.
‘I’m frightfully sorry, Lois,’ he began, after seeing that she was
comfortably seated, ‘but I haven’t told you all the news yet, and I’m
afraid the rest of it is not too good.’
Her expressive face became clouded and anxious, but she did not speak.
Then Daunt told her as gently as he could of the lunch at the Étoile,
and Tanner’s theories resulting therefrom.
‘But that’s not such bad news,’ she said with evident relief.
‘Inspector Tanner must have made a mistake. Austin said he didn’t see
his father after the Sunday evening.’
Daunt moved uneasily. It was a confoundedly awkward job, and he wished
he was through with it.
‘Dear Lois, it sounds a perfectly horrible thing to say, but that is
just the difficulty. In spite of Austin’s denial, Tanner is convinced
the meeting took place. I believed he was mistaken, so I went down to
the restaurant myself. I took Austin’s photograph, and the manager,
two waiters, and the porter recognised it instantly. All four are
prepared to swear Austin was there.’
‘Did you tell Austin?’
‘Yes. He stuck to his denial.’
Daunt had expected and feared an outbreak from Lois on hearing the
news, but though her face showed extreme pain, she spoke very quietly.
‘There is no reason to suppose the four men in the cafe are dishonest.
They couldn’t have been bought to swear this?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose, but I fear there’s no evidence of it, and
even if it were true, we would never get evidence.’
‘In that case, as Austin wasn’t there, they must have been mistaken.’
She looked steadily in Jimmy’s eyes as if challenging him to contest
her statement. He marvelled at the faith a good woman will show in the
man she loves, and he felt if Austin had by word or deed deceived her,
hanging would be too good for him. He hesitated in replying, and she
went on:
‘You understand what I mean? Austin was supposed to have been seen at
the boathouse, and as he wasn’t there we deduced an impersonator. We
find, in my opinion, the same thing here—probably the same man.’
‘In the boathouse case we imagined Cosgrove was the impersonator. Here
it could not be Cosgrove, as he was present also.’
She nodded.
‘That is true certainly. Tell me honestly, Jimmy, what you think
yourself.’
Jimmy hedged.
‘It’s not what I think, Lois, or for the matter of that, what you
think, or even what Tanner thinks; it’s what the jury will think; and
as you’ve asked me the direct question, I must tell you I greatly fear
they will disbelieve Austin.’
‘I fear so too,’ she answered quietly. He felt she was conscious he
had not answered her question, and was thankful she was going to let
it pass. But his relief was shortlived.
‘You thought he was’—she hesitated for a moment—‘not telling you all
he might?’
Jimmy hated doing business in opposition to a clever woman. Again and
again he had found that except for their own purposes they seldom
considered either his words or actions, but always his quite private
and secret thoughts. He realised that Lois knew exactly what was in
his mind regarding Austin.
‘To be strictly truthful,’ he answered, ‘I admit he did give me the
impression that he was holding something back. But of course it was
only an impression, and I may have been wrong.’
She nodded slowly and then said, ‘I think, Jimmy, I must see him
myself.’
This was what her cousin had feared, and he felt he must exert all his
powers of diplomacy to prevent it.
‘Well, you know, Lois,’ he answered truthfully, ‘I had that in my
mind. I hardly liked to suggest it. But undoubtedly if he does know
anything, he would tell you when he mightn’t tell me.’
She looked at him in unveiled surprise, but only said:
‘Can you arrange an interview for tomorrow?’
‘I would try if you thought that would be best. But I was going to
suggest waiting until Tanner has investigated the affairs of Douglas.
He believes, and I agree with him, that there was some private
business between Douglas and Sir William, which, if we knew it, would
clear up the whole affair.’
‘Ah,’ said Lois comprehendingly.
‘If Austin,’ Jimmy went on desperately, ‘is really holding anything
back, we may take it he has a good reason for doing so. Unless it
becomes really necessary—and it has not, so far—it would be better not
to try to force his confidence. He will tell us when he thinks it
right.’
‘Really, Jimmy,’ Lois smiled faintly, ‘you are quite coming on. I
don’t say you have persuaded me, but I will agree to postpone my
visit—shall we say for a week?’
‘When Tanner returns from Devonshire I shall see him, and let you know
his report immediately,’ returned the relieved but suspicious Daunt.
They continued discussing the affair for some time. Jimmy could see
that in spite of the brave face Lois put on things, she was deeply
worried and despondent. Never had he admired her more. He marvelled at
her belief in Austin, her assurance that he, Jimmy, was doing the
utmost possible, her fairness to Tanner, and her utter and absolute
forgetfulness of herself. As he saw her to the train he felt his
resolution strengthened, to spare himself neither time nor money to
bring about the result she desired.
When Tanner left Daunt’s office on the previous day, he returned at
once to the Yard. First he arranged for Cosgrove to be shadowed, in
case that gentleman, learning of Douglas’s arrest, might consider
discretion the better part of valour and disappear. Then he busied
himself in re-examining the witnesses of Cosgrove’s movements on the
night of the murder, which the efforts of Lois and Daunt had
unearthed. When he had heard their statements he had to admit himself
convinced of the cousin’s duplicity.
After a consultation with his chief a warrant was issued, and Tanner
went to the flat in Knightsbridge and executed it. When cautioned,
Cosgrove made no statement beyond earnestly and emphatically
protesting his innocence, and declaring that a terrible mistake had
been made.
A detailed search of the flat revealed one or two things which Tanner
had not already known. As he had suspected on the occasion of his
first visit, Cosgrove had a second desk for his more private papers.
In the dressing-room was an old Sheraton escritoire, and there the
Inspector found complete information about his prisoner’s finances.
The latter appeared even more involved than Tanner had suspected,
which of course strengthened the motive for the murder, and therefore
the case against the accused.
But this was not all. The motive had been stronger than any merely
financial embarrassment could have made it. In the same desk was a
bundle of letters from the actress at the Follies, Miss Betty Belcher.
These showed that Cosgrove’s relations with her had been extremely
intimate. For a considerable time he had evidently been pressing her
to marry him, and in one letter, dated about three weeks before Sir
William’s death, she had openly admitted she loved him and would marry
him if only he were rich. ‘You know, Cos.,’ the rather cynical letter
went on, ‘it would be absurd for me to think of marrying a poor man. I
have been too long accustomed to all that money gives to contemplate
any other kind of life. If you had a fortune—well, I might consider
it, but as things are you must see it would be out of the question.’
‘He must have been far gone to want to marry her after that,’ mused
Tanner, ‘but he evidently did, for here a week later is another letter
in the same strain.’
He filed the papers in the Cosgrove dossier, from which they duly
found their way into the hands of the public prosecutor.
The next item on Tanner’s list was a similar search in Douglas’s
cottage, and on this business the detective found himself once more
seated in the 10.30 a.m. from Paddington, on his second journey to
Devonshire.
He thought he was beginning to get some kind of grasp of the case. It
was evident that Austin and Cosgrove, separately and individually, had
each the two strongest motives known to weak humanity for desiring Sir
William Ponson’s death. In each case there was the direct want of
money. But in each case also, to this crude desire was added the more
subtle and infinitely more powerful consideration that the money was
for the loved one. Neither man could accomplish the marriage upon
which he had set his heart, and live afterwards in the way he wished,
without more money, and by Sir William’s death this money could alone
be obtained.
So much was obvious, but the facts seemed to permit a further
conclusion. Suppose these two, knowing of each other’s position, had
conspired together to commit the crime which would relieve the
necessities of both? In some way not yet clear they had lured Sir
William to the boathouse, met him there, committed the murder, and
arranged the matter of the boat to create the impression of accident.
In case suspicion should be aroused, each had worked out a false but
ingenious alibi.
Tanner felt himself so far on fairly firm ground, but when he came to
consider Douglas and the part he had played in the affair, he had to
confess himself absolutely at sea. However, the search on which he was
now engaged might throw some light on that.
He reached Yelverton at the same time as on his first visit, and went
at once to the police station. The sergeant had got together some
information for him. Douglas, it appeared, had come to the
neighbourhood some seven years previously from, the sergeant believed,
New York. He had taken a ten-year lease of Myrtle Cottage, had engaged
an elderly housekeeper who was still with him, and had settled down to
a quiet existence of gardening and bee farming. That he had some money
was obvious, but he was not well off, and seemingly had at first found
it difficult to make ends meet. But during the last four years his
prospects appeared to have improved, as he had carried out a number of
alterations to the house, had purchased a small car, and generally
seemed to have taken things more easily. The sergeant, after Tanner
had left on the day of the attempted arrest, had made a careful search
of the house, but without finding anything suspicious. He had then
admitted the housekeeper, who had been visiting friends in Princetown,
and she had been living there since. Douglas had not borne a very
lofty reputation in the neighbourhood. He was morose and ill-tempered,
and drank more than was good for him. But he kept himself to himself
and there had been no open disputes with his neighbours.
So much Tanner knew when he reached the house to conduct his own
examination.
A lengthy interrogation of the housekeeper led to nothing fresh. And
then began another of those exhaustive searches to which Tanner was so
well accustomed, and which always bored him so exceedingly.
He found nothing of interest till he came to examine Douglas’s papers,
but from them he learned a good deal of the man’s life. Douglas had
been, it was evident, a clerk in the Pennsylvania Railroad Terminal in
New York, there being letters on railway paper and photographs of
groups of employees, as well as a testimonial from the head of the
office. This was dated seven years earlier, and referred to Douglas’s
service of twenty-one years. The man must therefore have held the
position since 1892. Of his life since settling in Devonshire there
were records, principally connected with bee-keeping, but of his
history before his connection with the Pennsylvania Railroad Tanner
could discover nothing.
‘He is surely either an Englishman or a wonderful mimic,’ thought the
Inspector, as he recalled the north-country accent with which the man
had spoken on the day of his bolt for liberty.
The search dragged on, and at last, as it was nearly concluded, Tanner
made three finds, though none of them seemed of much value. The first
was that when examining with a mirror the blotting paper on Douglas’s
desk, he saw that an envelope had been addressed to Sir William
Ponson. Unfortunately, in spite of his careful efforts he could trace
nothing of the letter presumably sent therein, but the marks were a
still further proof of the relations which had obtained between the
two men.
The second discovery appeared at first sight of even less importance,
and Tanner noted it principally as being the only thing he had yet
come on which, it seemed possible, might refer to Douglas’s early
life. In an old and apparently little used book on American passenger
rates, the leaves of which the Inspector was painfully turning over in
the hope that some old letter might lie therein concealed, he came on
a photograph. Evidently of considerable age, it was faded to a light
brown and discoloured as if at some time it had been wet. It was a
view of a tombstone and grave with a building—presumably the porch of
a church—in the background. A lich-gate showed in the farther
distance, while on the stone the inscription appeared as dark, broken
lines, the only word decipherable being the first—‘Sacred.’ Tanner put
the photograph in his pocket with the idea that this might represent
Douglas’s family burying ground, which, if traceable, might throw
light on his birthplace. At the same time he felt that such
information, even if obtainable, could not help much in his quest.
The third find was that in an engagement book or diary there was a
reference to the visit to London, and to certain calls to be paid
there. On the space for the Thursday before the murder was written
‘London, 10.25 train, Judd’s Hotel, Dunlop Street.’ On the next space,
for Friday, was an entry, ‘Insurance Co., 77B Gracechurch St.’ There
was a list of articles—probably purchases—‘Collars, handkerchiefs,
_The Apiarist_, by S. Wilson Holmes,’ and some other items. Last, but
not least, for the evening of the murder there was ‘X—9.30 p.m.’
This last entry set Tanner puzzling. ‘X,’ he presumed, stood for the
Luce Manor boathouse, and its use seemed to show the same desire for
secrecy about his visit there as had been noticeable with the others
who had been present. But Tanner had to confess that this entry did
not square with the theory that the murder had been its object—at
least on Douglas’s part. It was inconceivable that a man about to
commit such a crime should have required a reminder of the hour of the
deed. Every detail of the plan would have been seared into his brain.
Was the suggestion of this entry, wondered the Inspector, not that
Douglas had been made a tool of by the cousins? If the man should make
that case this would certainly be corroborative evidence. Tanner
attached some weight to the point, as he felt it was too subtle to
have been designed.
Having seen from the papers that Douglas had an account in the
Plymouth branch of the Western Counties Bank, Tanner next day called
on the manager. Here, after a study of the accused’s finances, he made
an interesting discovery. At intervals during the last four years
Douglas had lodged sums of money—invariably in notes, so he was
told—and what particularly intrigued the Inspector’s imagination was
the fact that each such lodgment had taken place a few days after the
drawing of an ‘X’ cheque by Sir William Ponson, and in each case it
was for just a trifle less than the amount of that cheque. It seemed
evident that Sir William had been paying Douglas these sums, and the
method of lodging showed the latter equally eager to keep the
transactions secret. What service, mused Tanner, could Douglas have
possibly done Sir William to have merited such a return?
It was an anxious and disappointed Inspector who that afternoon
stepped into the London train at Millbay Station, Plymouth. He had
been hoping for great things from his search of Douglas’s rooms, and
he had found practically nothing—only an old photograph and the
address of an insurance company in London. And neither of these seemed
the slightest use. Could anything be learned by tracing that tombstone
or calling at that insurance office? He did not think so.
But more than once he had learnt the folly of neglecting any clue, no
matter how slight. Therefore on arrival in London he prepared a
circular to be sent to every police station in England. It bore a
reproduction of the photograph, together with a paragraph asking if
the recipient could identify the place and send in a note of its
whereabouts, as well as a copy of the inscription on the tombstone.
Next morning he set out for 77B Gracechurch Street.
A suite of offices on the second floor of a large building bore the
legend ‘The Associated Insurance Company, Limited,’ and Tanner,
entering, asked for the manager. After a short delay he was shown into
the presence of a tall, gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and tired
looking eyes. Tanner introduced himself as an Inspector from the Yard.
‘I have called, sir,’ he went on, ‘with reference to a man named
William Douglas, a small, elderly man with a grey beard, who lives
near Yelverton in Devon. I understand that he has had some dealings
recently with your Company. I imagine, but am not certain, that he
came here on Friday, the 2nd of July last.’
‘I cannot recall the man myself,’ the manager returned. ‘What is the
precise point in question?’
‘We have had to arrest him on a serious charge—in fact, that of
murder. I am endeavouring to trace his recent history and movements. I
want to know if he did call, and if so, on what business.’
The manager pressed twice a button on his desk. An elderly clerk
answered.
‘Mr Jones, do you recall our doing any business recently with a man
called William Douglas from Devonshire?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied. ‘We were in correspondence about an
annuity, but the matter fell through.’
‘This gentleman is Mr Tanner, an Inspector from Scotland Yard. You
might let him have all the particulars he wants.’ Then to Tanner, ‘If,
sir, you will go with Mr Jones, he will tell you everything he can.’
Mr Jones led the way to a smaller office, and waved his visitor to a
chair.
‘William Douglas?’ he said, bending over a vertical file. ‘Here we
are, Mr Tanner.’
He withdrew a folder, and settling himself at his desk, took out some
papers.
‘Here is the first letter. You will see it is an application from
William Douglas of Myrtle Cottage, Yelverton, South Devon, for
particulars of annuities. He wanted to purchase one which would bring
him in £500 a year. Here is our reply enclosing the information and a
form for him to fill in, and here is the form which he returned to us
duly filled. You will notice he is aged sixty-six. We then wrote him
this letter explaining that the annuity would cost him £4600, and
asking his further instructions. He replied, as you see, to proceed
with the matter, and he would send on the cheque in due course. We
prepared the necessary documents, but received no further
communication from Mr Douglas until about ten days later we had this
note stating that he regretted the trouble he had given, but that he
found himself unable to proceed with the matter at present. And so it
stands.’
‘Then Douglas didn’t call here?’
‘No.’
Tanner was considerably puzzled by this information. As he walked
slowly along the Embankment back to the Yard, he racked his brains to
understand Douglas’s motive or plan. What had been the ex-clerk’s
idea? The figures of his bank account showed that at no time since he
came to live at Yelverton had he had more than £600 to his credit. As
he could not possibly have paid the four thousand odd himself, where
did he expect to raise it?
And then a sudden idea flashed into the Inspector’s mind. Sir William
Ponson had been paying Douglas sums ranging from £100 to £400 at
intervals during the last four years. These sums were all paid by
cheques marked ‘X’ on the block. On the day before his death Sir
William had written an ‘X’ cheque for £3000. This cheque had never
been cashed.
Was there not a connection? Had that £3000 ‘X’ cheque of Sir William’s
not been written for the purpose of paying for Douglas’s annuity? It
certainly looked like it. And had the sudden death of Sir William not
prevented its being cashed?
Of course, the amounts did not tally—the cheque was for £3000, while
the price of the annuity was £4600. But it was obvious that these sums
might represent the different opinions the two men held of what was
due. Possibly also negotiations were in progress between them on the
point. This was of course guesswork, but at least it would explain the
facts.
The Inspector walked like a man in a dream as he concentrated his
thoughts on the whole circumstances. There seemed just one link of his
chain missing—some one point which, if he could find it, would flood
the whole of these mysterious happenings with light and make the
disconnected facts he had learnt fall into their places like the
closing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And then suddenly he wondered if he
had not got it, as another and more sinister idea occurred to him.
What if the business were blackmail? It had a nasty enough look. Could
Douglas have got hold of something discreditable in Sir William’s
life, and could the latter be paying for his silence?
The more Tanner thought over it, the more likely this theory seemed.
It would explain the facts generally, as well as the secrecy with
which both parties had acted. And yet there were difficulties. This
annuity business was a difficulty. From Douglas’s point of view it was
easy enough to understand. If the blackmailer thought his receipts
were precarious, or if time was reducing or about to reduce the value
of the secret, it would be a natural step for him to try to convert
his vanishing doles into a fixed and certain income. But Sir William’s
motive would be different. His only hold on the preservation of his
secret was the expectation on Douglas’s part of sums yet to be paid.
If the manufacturer agreed to the annuity his hold would be gone. That
he should do so was inconceivable to Tanner. And yet apparently he
had. He had at least written the £3000 cheque.
But the second difficulty to the blackmail theory was more serious.
The wrong man had been murdered! If Douglas had been the victim it
would have fitted in well enough. It would have been argued that Sir
William had taken a desperate remedy to escape from an intolerable
situation. But Sir William’s death would have been the last thing
Douglas could have desired. He would never have cut off the source of
his income. No; attractive as the blackmail theory had seemed at
first, Tanner found its difficulties rather overwhelming.
He had by this time reached the Yard, and sitting down at his desk, he
lit a cigar, and continued his ruminations.
Suppose again that blackmail had been levied, where did Austin and
Cosgrove come in? They must in this case obviously have taken sides.
Either they must have been assisting Sir William to extricate himself,
or else they must have been party to the blackmail.
But as Tanner pondered these alternatives, he could not see how either
would meet the facts. If the cousins were acting for their relative,
they obviously would not have murdered him—it was a contradiction in
terms. Here again the wrong man had been killed.
On the other hand, it was difficult to see how they could have been in
league with Douglas against Sir William. Anything discreditable to the
manufacturer would react on both the son and nephew, and their threat
to make the matter public would therefore hardly be convincing. For
their own sakes the cousins would be as anxious as Sir William to keep
the thing quiet. It was also clear to Tanner that they would never
have put themselves in the power of a man like Douglas. If they had
wished to murder Sir William for his money, they would have done so at
some time when Douglas would not have witnessed the crime.
So far had Tanner progressed when he realised his argument really was
that Sir William could not have been murdered at all! He swore
angrily, and went back to see the point from which he had started.
Blackmail. It would seem, then, that blackmail could not be the
explanation. And yet . . . It was an attractive theory . . .
Some days later, rather to Tanner’s surprise, he received from a
sergeant of police in the north of England an answer to his circular
about the photograph. It read:
‘Sir: We have found the churchyard illustrated in your view
attached. It belongs to the Parish Church of Tynwick, a village six
miles south-east of Gateshead. The headstone is still standing. It
bears the inscription—“Sacred to the memory of John Dale, aged 53,
who departed this life on 4th September 1871, and of Eleanor, his
beloved wife, who entered into rest on 25th March 1890, at the age
of 67.”’
‘Gateshead? Dale?’ thought the Inspector. ‘Those names sound
familiar.’
He turned to his notes of the case. And then he got rather a thrill.
Gateshead was the place from which Sir William had come to Luce Manor.
It was there the deceased gentleman had been born and had spent his
life, and where the ironworks he had owned was situated.
And Dale? This was more interesting still. Dale was the name of his
wife’s first husband! He had married a Mrs Ethel Dale. Here at last
was a connection between the manufacturer and William Douglas.
But after all was it not a very slender one? What exactly did it
amount to? That Douglas had in his possession a photograph of the
grave of a man and woman of the same name as Lady Ponson’s first
husband, and who lived somewhere in the same locality. Not much to go
upon, and yet it was suggestive, and where there had been nothing
before, Tanner welcomed it eagerly. Who knew what it mightn’t lead to?
He determined he must go to Tynwick and make inquiries.