A Dramatic Discovery
The shades of evening were falling when Inspector Tanner reached
Newcastle. He had not been favoured with his usual travelling weather.
For the first time since he started work on the Ponson case, the skies
had remained all day grey and leaden, and the rain had poured
ceaselessly and hopelessly down. It had not been possible to open the
carriage windows, and he was tired from so long breathing the stuffy
atmosphere of the train.
It was too late to do anything that night, but the next morning, which
fortunately was fine, he took the train to Tynwick. It was a village
of about five hundred inhabitants, an attractive little place, with
pleasant creeper-covered cottages, separated from the road by narrow
gardens, all ablaze with colour. In the centre was the church, and
strolling slowly into the churchyard, Tanner had no difficulty in
identifying the spot from which the photograph had been taken. As the
sergeant had said, the headstone was still standing, and Tanner paused
and re-read the inscription of which he already had received a copy.
Close by the churchyard and connected with it by a gate in the
dividing wall, stood an old, grey stone house—evidently the vicarage.
Tanner pushed open the gate, and walking slowly up to the door,
knocked.
‘Could I see the vicar for a few moments?’ he asked courteously, as
the door was opened by a trim maid.
He was shown into a comfortable study, and there after a few moments
he was joined by an elderly man, clean shaven, white haired, and
kindly looking.
‘Good morning,’ said the latter. ‘You wished to see me?’
Tanner rose and bowed.
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, ‘for a moment.’
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ His host waved him to an arm-chair and seated
himself at his desk.
‘My business, sir,’ went on Tanner, ‘is, I expect, of a rather unusual
kind for you to deal with. My name is Tanner—Inspector Tanner of New
Scotland Yard, and I have come to ask your kind help in obtaining some
information of which I am in need.’
If the clergyman was surprised he did not show it.
‘And what is the nature of the information?’ he asked.
Tanner took the photograph from his pocket.
‘We have had,’ he explained, ‘to arrest a man on suspicion of a
serious crime—murder, in fact. The only clue to his antecedents we
have is this photograph. You will see it represents part of your
churchyard, and the headstone in the foreground is in memory of John
Dale and his wife, Eleanor. We thought if we could find out something
about these Dales, it might help us.’
‘Is Dale the name of your suspect?’
‘No, sir, he is called Douglas, but of course that may not be his real
name.’
The clergyman thought for a few moments.
‘I fear I cannot tell you very much,’ he said at last. ‘When I came
here thirteen years ago there was no one of that name in the parish. I
do remember hearing of the family you mention, but they had moved some
years previously.’
‘You don’t know to where?’
‘Unfortunately I do not.’
‘Perhaps, sir, some of your remaining parishioners could tell me?’
‘That’s what I was going to suggest.’ The clergyman again paused.
‘There is a family called Clayton living close by, gentlemen farmers,
who have been here for generations. Old Mr Clayton is well over
seventy, but still remains hale and hearty—a wonderful man for his
age. I should think that if anyone could give you your information, he
could. He’ll probably be at home now, and if you like, I’ll go down
with you and introduce you.’
‘I should be more than grateful.’
‘Come then,’ said the vicar, leading the way.
The Claytons lived on the outskirts of the village in a charming
little creeper-covered house, standing in small but perfectly kept
grounds. As the two men passed up the rose-bordered path to the door,
they were hailed from the lawn behind. An old gentleman with a full
white beard, a grey felt hat, and a tweed suit was approaching.
‘Mornin’, vicar,’ he cried cheerily.
‘How are you, Mr Clayton? Beautiful morning. Can we have a word with
you?’
‘Delighted, I’m sure. Come in here. It’s always better out of doors
than in, eh, Vicar?’
He shook hands with the clergyman, and turned expectantly to Tanner.
‘May I introduce Mr Tanner? Mr Tanner has just called with me in
search of some information which I unfortunately was unable to give
him, but which I thought you possibly might.’
‘I had better introduce myself more fully, Mr Clayton,’ said Tanner.
‘I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I am trying to trace
a family named Dale, who, I understand, formerly lived here.’
Mr Clayton led the way to a delightfully situated arbour, and waved
his guests to easy chairs, but the vicar excused himself on the ground
that his part in the affair was complete. On his departure Tanner
produced the photograph and explained his business to his host.
‘The Dales? Yes, I knew them well. They lived at the other end of the
village for many years, until indeed John Dale, the father, died. Then
they moved into Gateshead. They weren’t left too well off, I’m afraid.
But I don’t know that any of them are alive now.’
‘What did the family consist of?’
‘The mother and two sons. She died some years after her husband—you
have the date on your inscription.’
‘And can you tell me anything about the sons?’
‘Yes, I remember them well. They were very like each other—good
looking, with taking manners, well dressed and all that, but a couple
of rotters at heart. They were always out for what they could get, and
there was drink and gambling and worse. When they cleared out they
weren’t much loss.’
‘Place too hot to hold them?’
‘In Edward’s case, I think so. Edward was the younger. He was in debt
heavily, I know, and he slipped off quietly one night to the States,
and was never heard of again.’
‘And the other?’
‘The elder brother, Tom, was a bad lot too. He had a tragic end. He
was drowned. But I don’t think anyone mourned for him. He had
well-nigh broken his young wife’s heart in the three years they were
married.’
Tanner was like a bloodhound on a hot scent. This was very
interesting. He remembered that Sir William Ponson had married a Mrs
Dale from this part of the country, whose husband had been drowned on
his way to Canada. It looked like as if the Tom Dale of whom Mr
Clayton had been speaking might have been this man.
‘What was the business of the Dale brothers?’ he asked.
‘They were both in the same firm—the Eagle Ironworks. You know it
maybe—in Gateshead? It was Peter Howard’s then. I remember young
Ponson joining it—poor fellow, he’s gone now—it was he that made it.
When he started as office boy there was just one small shed and about
a dozen men, and now it’s a company employing over a thousand hands. A
wonderful change.’
‘Wonderful indeed, Mr Clayton.’
‘Ay. A man of my years can look back over great changes. That’s more
than a young fellow like you can do, eh, Mr Tanner?’
‘It’s true, sir. And you say Tom was drowned?’
‘Yes. He got a sudden call. He was in the _Numidian_. You wouldn’t
remember about her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No, it would be before your time. A terrible business it was. The
_Numidian_ was a big boat, big for those times, I mean. She was
running from Glasgow to Quebec, and she struck a berg. Went down off
the banks in a few minutes. Nearly every soul on board was lost, and
Tom Dale was one of them. A sudden call, it was.’
‘A terrible affair. I do remember hearing of it.’
‘Ay, no doubt. A sudden call for Tom, that it was.’
‘You said he nearly broke a good woman’s heart, Mr Clayton?’
‘Ay, and so he did. Little Ethel Osborne was fool enough to marry him.
And it wasn’t long till she was sorry for it. They say she saw him
drunk for the first time the night after the wedding. But it wasn’t
the last, not by a long chalk. He was a bad boy all through, was Tom.’
‘Then his death must have been something of a release to her?’
‘Yes, poor soul. But she had more sense the second time.’
‘The second time?’
‘Ay, she did what she ought to have done at the start—married young
William Ponson.’
‘Never neglect the smallest clue!’ thought Tanner triumphantly, as he
recalled his doubt of the wisdom of following up the photograph. The
connection between Douglas and Sir William was strengthening.
Doubtless he was on the right track at last, and maybe if he
questioned him skilfully, this old man would let something drop which
would give away the secret.
Mr Clayton was glad to talk—the old gentleman seemed lonely—and
presently the whole story came out. Substantially it was the same as
that Tanner had already heard from Mr Arbuthnot, the late
manufacturer’s lawyer. Mr Clayton told of William Ponson’s start in
life as office-boy in the Eagle Ironworks of John Howard; of his rapid
rise to the position, first of manager, then partner, and finally of
sole owner; of his taking his brother John, Cosgrove’s father, into
the concern; of their extraordinary prosperity; of William’s municipal
life, culminating in his knighthood, and of John’s death, followed by
Sir William’s sale of the business, and retirement to Luce Manor.
With all of this Tanner was familiar, but he found Mr Clayton was able
to give him rather more details of the manufacturer’s family affairs
than he had yet learnt.
It seemed that when the deceased knight was aged seven-and-twenty, he
had fallen deeply in love with a Miss Ethel Osborne, the daughter of a
Gateshead doctor. Miss Osborne was a pretty, though not very brilliant
girl of some twenty summers, with a placid, pleasure-loving
disposition, and a little money. The Dale brothers at this time held
positions in the firm, Tom, the elder being a traveller, and his
brother Edward a clerk. Tom was a handsome youth with rather
fascinating manners. He was considerably below middle height, had
delicate features, small and beautifully shaped hands and feet, and
dark, passionate eyes.
When William Ponson began to press his attentions on Ethel Osborne, he
soon found he had a rival in Tom Dale. For a long time the young lady
was unable to decide between her two admirers. For Ponson she had more
respect, and she felt that as his wife she would have an assured
position and a comfortable home. But Ponson was ‘stodgy.’ His thoughts
were centred in his work, and his own advancement, and he had forsworn
that lighter side of life—theatres, dances, excursions—which the young
girl found so attractive. With Dale she believed her prospects might
be less secure, but life would certainly be pleasanter. He seemed to
understand her, and respond to her moods better than the other, and he
was a delightful companion. And who shall blame her if she sacrificed
material prosperity to the joy of life, rather, who shall not praise
her?
In due time she married Dale, and at once, on the very self-same day,
her disillusionment began. That night, as has already been mentioned,
he returned drunk to the Scottish hotel at which they were to spend
the honeymoon. And that was only the first occasion of many. Soon she
learned of an entanglement with a barmaid which had been going on at
the very time of the wedding. It was not long before their numerous
quarrels led to an open rupture, and Dale made no secret to his wife
of the fact that he had married her for her money. Matters went from
bad to worse, till debt began to fasten on them its horrid shackles,
and ruin stared them in the face. The one alleviating circumstance was
that there had been no children from the marriage.
All this William Ponson watched, grieving for Ethel, but of course
helpless. Then it became necessary for the firm to send a
representative to Canada, and the choice fell on their traveller, Tom
Dale. Whether or not Ponson had any say in this decision was not
known, but at all events Dale sailed for Quebec in the _Numidian_. As
will be remembered, the vessel was lost off the coast of Newfoundland,
a mere handful of her complement being saved. Dale’s name was amongst
the lost. Ethel Dale therefore found herself not only without assets,
but called upon to meet a considerable crop of debts. Her father
having died since her marriage, she was thus absolutely destitute.
It was believed to be owing to William Ponson’s efforts that a small
pension was granted her by the firm, and the debts were wiped out by a
presentation from some of the employees. She took a small house, and
by letting rooms contrived to make a living.
William Ponson, though he had acted throughout in a strictly
honourable manner, had never ceased to love Ethel. He bided his time
for over two years, then, calling on the widow, he told her of his
love and boldly pressed his suit. She then realised that she had loved
him all along, and though at first she refused to consider his
proposal, his steady insistence wore down her opposition and in 1887,
five years after he had first loved her, he obtained his desire, and
they were married. The trouble through which she had passed had
profoundly modified her character, sobering her and bringing out all
that was best in her, and her life with William Ponson, though quiet,
had been truly happy. Two children were born, Austin and Enid.
‘And you said the other Dale went to the States, I think?’ asked
Tanner, when he had learnt the above facts.
‘Edward? Yes, he got into difficulties too. He was a born gambler. He
was owing money everywhere, and the place got too hot for him. He went
to the States shortly after Tom was married.’
Tanner felt he had done well. Almost first shot he had found this Mr
Clayton and obtained information which must prove of the utmost value.
But he had stayed chatting to and pumping the old man for an
unconscionable time, and he began to express his thanks, preparatory
to taking his leave. And then an idea flashed into his mind, and he
sat motionless for some moments, thinking.
‘What was the Dale brother, Edward, like in appearance?’ he asked,
trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
‘Like enough to his brother Tom, but not so good looking, nor with
such good manners by a long chalk. But passably well looking for all
that.’
‘But was he a small man?’
‘Small? Ay, that he was—like Tom. Both were small men.’
Could it be? Edward Dale, a little man with small hands and feet,
knowing all about William Ponson’s youth—knowing probably a good deal
more than Mr Clayton had told or perhaps knew—Edward Dale, a clerk,
had gone to America and disappeared. William Douglas, a little man
with small hands and feet, and apparently knowing intimate facts about
Sir William Ponson—William Douglas, a clerk, had come from America,
his youthful history being unknown. Could they be one and the same?
The more Tanner thought over this theory, the more likely it seemed.
As he sat smoking with Mr Clayton in the pleasant garden, he went over
in his mind all that he had learnt of each man, and was unable to
recall anything inconsistent with the hypothesis.
But how could he test it? He must make sure. But how?
There was of course one obvious possibility. Mr Clayton, if confronted
with Douglas, might recognise him as Edward Dale. Or Douglas might
recognise Mr Clayton, and so give himself away. It was not a
certainty, but it would be worth trying. The Inspector turned to his
host.
‘I believe, sir,’ he said, ‘that if I told you just what was troubling
me, you might be able to help me out, if you would. I was asking you
about Edward Dale, but I did not tell you much about the man we
arrested. In the first place, Douglas, as he says his name is, came to
England from New York, where he was employed as a clerk in the
Pennsylvania Railway for several years. We have traced his movements
back to 1892, previous to which we can discover nothing whatever about
him. Now, you tell me Edward Dale left for the States about the year
1882, and has since been lost sight of. That is coincidence Number
One.’
Mr Clayton nodded without speaking. He was listening with eager
attention.
‘Next,’ continued Tanner, ‘I did not tell you whose murder the man
Douglas was suspected of. It was that of Sir William Ponson.’
‘God bless my soul!’ cried the other, ‘you don’t say so? A terrible
affair that. And you think you’ve got the man, do you? All I can say
is, I’d like to see him hanged.’
‘It seems clear from various things,’ Tanner went on, ‘that the
trouble originated before Douglas went to America. Now Edward Dale
knew Sir William in those days. That is coincidence Number Two.’
‘You said, I think, that Douglas’s history could not be traced before
he became a clerk in the Pennsylvania Railway? How then do you know he
left England prior to that?’
‘We don’t absolutely know, but we think it for two reasons: first, he
can speak with a North of England accent, and secondly, that in an old
book of his we found the photograph of the Dales’ grave.’
The other nodded.
‘That photograph,’ continued Tanner, ‘is coincidence Number Three. Few
men would have such a photograph unless it represented something
connected with their own families. And coincidence Number Four, Mr
Clayton, is this. Douglas is a very short man with very small hands
and feet.’
‘God bless my soul!’ Mr Clayton exclaimed again. ‘But this is most
interesting. Go on, Mr Tanner.’
‘Well, sir, that leads me up to a very obvious question. You must have
guessed it. You have known Dale intimately in the past; could you
identify him now?’
Tanner sat back in his chair and drew at his cigar. The other did not
answer for a moment. Then as he slowly refilled his pipe, he said
hesitatingly:
‘I hardly like to say. Thirty-eight years is a long time, and a man
might change a lot during it. I think I would recognise Edward if I
saw him, but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘Then, sir, my second question follows naturally. Will you come up to
London and try?’
The other smiled.
‘It’s a long journey for a man of my years,’ he said, ‘but I imagine I
have no choice. You Scotland Yard people are so autocratic.’
Tanner smiled in his turn.
‘If you will come at our expense, sir, you will confer a great favour
on us. Do you prefer day or night travel?’
‘Day. When would you like me to go?’
‘The sooner the better, sir. Tomorrow, if it would be convenient.’
‘One day is much like another to me. I will go tomorrow, if you like.’
They sat on for some time longer smoking and chatting. In spite of his
years Mr Clayton’s mind remained active and vigorous, and he had kept
himself well abreast of recent events. He evidently enjoyed exchanging
ideas with the Inspector, and the latter exerted himself to entertain
the old gentleman, relating several of the adventures he had met with
in his professional career.
In the afternoon Tanner called at the Eagle Works. But there he got no
help. The firm’s official records did not go back far enough to
include the Dales’ names, and none of the office staff recalled the
brothers’ affairs.
On the following day the Inspector and Mr Clayton travelled up to town
together, and the former saw his new friend to an hotel. The interview
with Douglas was to take place next morning.
Inspector Tanner delighted in a dramatic situation, especially when he
was the _deus ex machina_. In the present instance he thought he was
sufficiently sure of his ground to risk an audience. After consulting
his chief, he accordingly rang up James Daunt.
‘I think I am on to a clue at last,’ he said. ‘As you and Miss Drew
are interested and have helped so much I will stretch a point from
strict etiquette and invite you both to be present while we test it
tomorrow. . . . Yes, here at the Yard at eleven o’clock.’
At the time appointed a little group sat in the Inspector’s room.
There was first of all Miss Drew, dressed quietly in a navy blue coat
and skirt, and a small hat. Her kindly, dependable face was pale and
somewhat drawn, as if the strain of the last few weeks had taken its
toll of her. But she was calm and pleasantly courteous as usual, and
did not betray by word or deed the anxiety which was gnawing at her
heart.
Jimmy Daunt, who sat beside her, seemed the more nervous of the two.
He was extremely dissatisfied at the way his case was going, and
eagerly anxious to learn in what direction the Inspector’s fresh
information would tend.
Mr Clayton, who sat next to Daunt, was anxious too. He devoutly hoped
that after all the fuss and trouble of his visit to London, he should
be able to give a decided opinion—to say definitely whether the man he
was to see was or was not Dale.
On the other side of Tanner sat Chief Inspector Edgar. On Tanner
reporting what he proposed to do, the latter had expressed a desire to
be present. He it was who had suggested having the meeting at the
Yard, in order to avoid the necessity of Miss Drew’s visiting the
prison. But he took no part in the proceedings, Tanner conducting all
the business.
When the visitors had been introduced to each other, Tanner rose, and
bowing to Miss Drew and her cousin, said:
‘I have taken the liberty of asking you to be present this morning, as
I know the keen interest you take in this case. Following a certain
line of inquiry, with the details of which I need not now trouble you,
I had the good fortune to come across Mr Clayton here. From what he
told me there seemed a reasonable probability that the man whom I
arrested in Portugal, and who gave his name as William Douglas, was
not so named at all, but was a certain Edward Dale, a clerk in the
late Sir William Ponson’s Ironworks, who emigrated to the States in
the year 1882. Mr Clayton has been good enough to come up all the way
from Newcastle to put this theory to the test. I propose now to
confront Douglas with Mr Clayton, so as to see whether the two men
recognise each other. I may add that if Douglas has to admit he is
Dale, it is more than possible he may make a statement explaining the
whole affair. Now, Mr Clayton, might I ask you to sit here at my desk
with your head bent as if writing, and when I sign to you, to move
round so that Douglas may see your face suddenly.’
A roll top desk was placed at right angles to the wall beside the
large double window, and Mr Clayton crossed over and sat down on the
swing chair, bending forward as if to write. Anyone entering would see
only his stooped shoulders, and the back of his head, but when he
swung round his features would be fully lighted from the window. The
others placed themselves with their backs to the light, and in view of
the door. When he was satisfied as to the position of each, Tanner
pressed a bell and a sergeant of the police entered.
‘You may bring him in now.’
The man withdrew, closing the door, and silence came down on the
little group. To Lois Drew such scenes were new, and on her expressive
features there was a look of compassion for the unhappy man for whom
the trap was set, and whose life might depend on his actions during
the next few moments. To her the whole business was evidently
extremely distasteful, and it was not hard to conclude that only the
possibility of helping her lover had induced her to continue to take
part in it.
Tanner’s emotions were evidently far otherwise. The eagerness of the
hunter showed in his eyes, and his whole body seemed on the stretch.
He was by no means a cruel man, but he had pitted his wits against the
other, and the issue between them was now about to be joined.
A knock came to the door, it was thrown open, and William Douglas
entered.
The man seemed to have aged since Tanner had first seen him at his
house at Yelverton. His face was paler, his hair seemed greyer, and he
was even smaller and more stooped. Innocent or guilty, he was already
paying for his connection with the crime.
‘Take a seat, Mr Douglas,’ said Tanner, moving forward and placing a
chair where the full light from the window shone on the other’s face.
‘I have asked you to meet my friends here, to discuss some points
about this case. But I have to repeat my warning that you are not
bound to make any statement or to answer any questions you may be
asked unless you choose. This lady is Miss Drew, a friend of the
Ponson family; this gentleman,’ he indicated Daunt, ‘is Mr Austin
Ponson’s solicitor, and this,’ he waved his other hand, ‘is Chief
Inspector Edgar. I think you already know our friend at the desk.’
As Tanner spoke he signed to Mr Clayton, who swung round suddenly and
faced Douglas.
The latter had seemed very much mystified by the whole proceedings.
His eyes had followed Tanner’s gestures as each member of the party
had been mentioned, and he had made each a slight bow. But when he saw
Mr Clayton’s face he remained as if turned to stone. At first for a
moment he seemed puzzled and doubtful, then his eyes fixed themselves
in a tense stare on the other’s features, his face grew slowly pale
and drops of sweat formed on his forehead. Then, as if some second
thought had passed through his mind, an expression of something like
relief showed in his eyes. So he sat, staring, motionless.
But if the effect of the meeting on Douglas was disconcerting, it was
as nothing to that produced on Mr Clayton. On first seeing the
newcomer, he too looked puzzled and doubtful. Then gradually an
expression of utter astonishment spread over his features. He
literally gasped, and seemed so overwhelmed with amazement as to be
bereft of the power of speech.
The surprise on the countenances of the two chief actors in the scene
was reflected faintly on the faces of Lois Drew and the solicitor. But
on Tanner’s there was triumph. If the girl and her cousin had not
realised what was happening, he had. His plan had succeeded. That
these two knew each other was established beyond any possibility of
denial. It was as if each had shouted his recognition of the other
aloud. He spoke quietly to the suspected man.
‘So you really are Edward Dale?’
The words seemed to restore the power of movement to Mr Clayton.
‘No,’ he almost shouted in his excitement. ‘It’s not Edward Dale. It’s
Tom!’
Tanner jumped as if struck in the face.
‘What?’ he stammered. ‘What’s that you say? Tom? But—but—I thought—’
His voice trailed away into silence as the meaning of this discovery
began to penetrate into his mind. Tom Dale was lost in the _Numidian_
disaster thirty-five years before—so he had been told, and so every
one had believed. But every one must have been wrong. If this were
Tom, he must have escaped from the wreck. He must have escaped and he
must have concealed his escape. Why? Why should he conceal it? Why, to
get rid of his wife, of course. It was a case of desertion. He had had
all her money; he hated her. Of course that was it. He would take the
opportunity to change his name and make a bid for freedom. But his
wife—And then Tanner gasped in his turn as he saw the further
consequences involved. His wife had married Sir William Ponson,
thinking her first husband was dead. But now it was clear that had
been no marriage at all. Lady Ponson was Lady Ponson no longer, but
Mrs Tom Dale—the wife of the drunken ex-clerk and suspected
blackmailer! Sir William was not married. Austin and Enid were
illegitimate! No wonder Sir William submitted to blackmail rather than
allow such a scandal to become public. As innocent in the matter as
the babes unborn, Sir William and the woman he had considered his
wife, as well as his son and daughter, would have had to pay as dear
as if the whole affair had been deliberate.
Tanner glanced at Mr Clayton. His excitement had subsided, and a look
of fierce indignation against Dale was showing on his face. Tanner
spoke.
‘I suppose there can be no mistake?’
‘Mistake?’ the other burst out. ‘Man alive, look at him. By heaven I
wish there was a mistake!’
‘We had better bring him up to Gateshead, and see if anyone else will
confirm your identification.’
There was an interruption from the prisoner.
‘You needn’t trouble,’ he said sadly. ‘I admit it. I am Tom Dale.’
‘You escaped from the _Numidian_?’
‘I escaped. I was picked up by a fishing smack and taken into
Gloucester. I was on board four days before we got in, and I had
plenty of time to make my plans. I don’t pretend I wasn’t wrong, but I
wasn’t so bad as you think. I dare say you won’t believe me, but I did
it for Ethel’s sake. She was tied to me, and I knew I was a bad egg
and had all but ruined her. And what’s more, I knew I would ruin her
outright if I went back to her. So I deserted her. But all I rid her
of was trouble. I thought I would give her another chance with her
life, and I did. I swore she would never know. And if I did go wrong,
she at least has had her life happy since because of it.’
The man spoke simply, and with a certain dignity which impressed his
hearers.
‘How did you conceal your identity?’ Tanner asked.
‘Very easily. I had made friends on the voyage with another passenger.
He had told me he was alone in the world. I saw him drown. I took his
name.’
‘And then you came here and blackmailed the man you had injured?’
Dale nodded his head slowly.
‘I admit that too,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I most bitterly regret it,
but I must admit it. I do not want to make any excuses for that, but
here again the facts are not quite so black as they look. When I had
been out there about thirty years I got a longing for the old country.
I had made a little money in the States, and I left my job and came
over to England. I was afraid to go back to Gateshead, so I looked
around and took that cottage in Devonshire. Then one day in London I
met Ponson—I didn’t know he had a handle to his name then. He
recognised me, and there was a scene. I thought he would have killed
me in the street. Then I got him into a bar, and we took a private
room and had it out. I understood he had a right to have a down on me
for deserting Ethel, but at first I couldn’t understand why he was so
absolutely mad. Then I learnt. I hadn’t known what had happened to
Ethel, for I was too much afraid of arousing suspicion as to who I
was, to go back to Gateshead or make any inquiries. He threatened me
so wildly I got afraid for my life, and then I saw how I could turn
the tables on him. I told him that so far from me being in his power,
he was in mine. I told him I would make the affair public myself, and
that if I could be punished I would take it, and he could have the
scandal. He blustered at first, then gradually he saw his position,
and then he crawled. He offered to make the thing a business
proposition. He would pay for my silence. He pressed his offer on me,
and I accepted it at last. And I have at least kept my word. Not a
whisper of the affair has passed my lips. But I admit taking the
money. I was very hard up, and it meant a lot to me. You don’t
understand, gentlemen, how much a few pounds means to a poor man. And
with all his thousands he didn’t miss it. Not any more than you would
miss a penny if you dropped it. I took it and I admit I pressed him
for more.’
‘Was that what you went to the Luce Manor boathouse for on the night
of the murder?’
Chief Inspector Edgar moved suddenly.
‘Come, Tanner, that won’t do,’ he advised, and then to Dale: ‘You
needn’t answer that unless you like.’
Dale hesitated. To the others it seemed as if he was on the verge of a
confession. Then he bowed to Edgar.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I had perhaps better consult my solicitor
first.’
Tanner looked annoyed, but he controlled himself and again addressed
the prisoner.
‘Then you don’t wish to make any statement?’
‘No. Not at present, at any rate.’
Tanner nodded and rang his bell. The same sergeant re-entered and
signed to Dale to follow him. Then, including the whole party in a
slight bow, the latter rose from his chair and the two men left the
room.
The silence which fell when the door was closed lasted a full thirty
seconds, and then Daunt broke it.
‘Well, Inspector, this has been very interesting, but I’m hanged if I
can make head or tail of it. Maybe you’d explain to Miss Drew and me
what it’s all about.’
Chief Inspector Edgar rose.
‘I think that’s all I’m concerned in,’ he said, and turning to Mr
Clayton, he invited him to smoke a cigar in his room.
When Tanner was left alone with the cousins, he realised that he had
an extremely unpleasant task to perform. Miss Drew, as the affianced
wife of Austin Ponson, was personally interested in the story. Though
from his knowledge of her he thought she would not place so great
importance on the unfortunate occurrence as might a shallower and more
conventional woman, yet the news could not be otherwise than a shock
to her. He wished someone else had the telling of it.
But no purpose would be saved by delay. The sooner he began, the
sooner the unwelcome job would be over.
Asking Miss Drew’s permission, he passed his cigar case to Daunt, then
drew forward his chair and began to speak.
‘I am afraid the story I have to tell you will come rather as a shock
to you,’ he said, as he examined the end of his cigar. ‘This man Dale
had been blackmailing Sir William Ponson for the last four years.
There was an exceedingly unfortunate secret in Sir William’s
life—unknown to him until he learnt it from Dale at that time, four
years ago. Sir William was in no wise to blame for what had taken
place. So far as I can learn, he had acted with scrupulous honour all
through. The fault was Dale’s and Dale’s only. But to make it clear I
must tell you from the beginning.’
The cousins remained almost motionless while the Inspector related the
details of his journey north, and the facts he had there learnt; the
family history of the Dales; how the brothers came across Sir William
in the Eagle Ironworks; the rivalry between Ponson and Tom Dale for
the hand of the pretty Ethel Osborne; Tom’s success in the contest;
the unhappy married life of the young couple; Tom’s mission to Canada;
the loss of the _Numidian_, and his presumed death; Sir William’s
marriage with Mrs Dale, and the birth of Austin and Enid; Tom Dale’s
return to England; and finally the blackmailing, culminating in the
presumed negotiations for the purchase of the annuity.
‘But the murder?’ asked Daunt when at last the Inspector paused. ‘What
about that?’
‘The murder unfortunately remains as great a mystery as ever,’ Tanner
answered slowly; ‘indeed, even more so,’ and he explained his
difficulty about, as he expressed it, the wrong man having been
killed.
The two men discussed the affair for some minutes further, Miss Drew
remaining silent. When they got up to take their leave her eyes were
very bright, and there was an expression on her face the Inspector
could not quite fathom.
‘Mr Tanner,’ she said as she held out her hand, ‘I would like to thank
you for the way you told your story.’
Outside the Yard she dismissed Daunt.
‘I am going to write to Austin,’ she announced. ‘I shall leave the
letter at your office shortly after lunch, then, like a dear man, you
will take it to him immediately, and bring me the answer.’
‘Of course, I will, old girl,’ Daunt answered her as they parted.