Collected works of j s f.., p.382
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 382
He took it out unconcernedly as the three entered, and while he nodded half-condescendingly to Crabbe, gave no more than a supercilious glance of recognition to the others.
“Didn’t know you’d got a bodyguard, Crabbe,” he drawled, “But as you have, what the devil is it all about?”
Crabbe advanced to a table which filled the centre of the room, and, resting the tips of his fingers on it, leaned forward with a keen look.
“Mr. Mesham,” he said, “this Linthwaite affair. We’ve had information to-night which proves that you know something about it. I’ll just tell you what it is, and then — well, then, I should like to know what you’ve got to say.
“Now,” he concluded, after summarising what Mr. Felgrave and the tinker had told, “what do you say to that, Mr. Mesham? You see how serious it is!”
Mesham, who had shown no sign of either surprise or uneasiness while Crabbe was speaking, and had watched him steadily throughout, sneered visibly as he glanced from him to his companions.
“I’ll tell you what I say, Crabbe,” he answered. “And in a few words, too! I can mind my own business as well as any man. And I’m going to!”
“You don’t deny what Mr. Felgrave says, nor what Clarke says?” asked Crabbe uneasily.
“Not for a minute. Quite right, both of ’em,” replied Mesham.
“Did you meet Mr. Linthwaite somewhere at two-thirty that day?” inquired Crabbe.
Mesham’s lip curled in a more pronounced sneer.
“Now that is my business!” he said with emphasis.
“You won’t tell?” asked Crabbe.
“Certainly not!” retorted Mesham.
Crabbe glanced at Brixey, and Brixey moved nearer the defiant figure in the arm-chair.
“You don’t care anything about my personal anxiety?” he asked.
Mesham let his eyes turn in Brixey’s direction for a second.
“Not a damn!” he answered. “Why should I?”
Brixey drew back again, and Mesham, after another sneering look at him, turned to Crabbe.
“Look here, Crabbe,” he said. “How do you know what business Linthwaite had with me, or if we’re to mention names, with Mrs. Byfield? Go away and think over that. You’re building up a mare’s-nest and Linthwaite’ll be dropping right on top of it! See?”
Brixey touched Crabbe’s elbow.
“Come away!” he said: “We’re wasting time here.”
CHAPTER XII
THE FAMILY SOLICITOR
MESHAM TWISTED SHARPLY in his chair and gave Brixey an equally sharp glance.
“You’re quite right, my friend,” he said calmly, “You are wasting time.”
Crabbe seemed to follow the other two with anything but willingness, and in the street he hesitated, as if uncertain whether to go forward or back.
“There may be something in what he said just then, Mr. Brixey,” he observed, shaking his head. “How do we know that your uncle didn’t go away, suddenly, on Tuesday on some secret business? One thing’s now very evident to me — there’s some queer mystery in all this, and Mr. Linthwaite’s mixed up in it.
“So’s Mesham, and so, in all likelihood, is Mrs. Byfield. Mr. Linthwaite may have gone off at a moment’s notice. He could have gone unobserved, too. Ours is a very busy station. Who’d have taken any particular notice of an elderly gentleman?”
“All wrong,” said Brixey. “You’re forgetting something. I had certain arrangements with my uncle. Whatever new ones he made he would have acquainted me with. That man we’ve just seen is a bold liar. Also, you forget another matter on which you previously laid a good deal of stress. If Mr. Linthwaite had left the town on sudden and secret business, how came his hat and umbrella to be left behind in Foxglove Lane? Come on, Gaffkin.”
He walked away up the street without waiting an answer from Crabbe, and remained silent until he and Gaffkin were entering the courtyard of the “Mitre.” There he paused and tapped his companion’s arm.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m going on my own lines henceforth. No more truck with the police. Crabbe’s no good. We’ll solve this matter in our own way. Now listen. You’ll catch the first train to town in the morning. It leaves here just after seven; make your arrangements to-night. You know my uncle and I live in rooms in the Temple — of course, you’ve been there. Go there, Gaffkin. Here’s my key. Examine his papers — you’ll find a desk full, and some boxes full, too, in his room. They’re locked, of course. Call a locksmith in.
“Go right through everything, and see if you can find anything in which either of the names Byfield or Mesham is mentioned.
“Leave nothing unexamined. Put yourself up in the rooms until you’ve gone through everything, and then get back here. Meanwhile, I’ll carry out a notion of my own. You understand?”
“All right,” said Gaffkin. “I’ve a pretty good idea of what there is to examine. I can get through it in a couple of days, so you ought to see me back here on Monday morning — perhaps on Sunday evening. I’ll arrange about being called.”
He went up the yard to a room wherein Empidge carried out his duties as boots and general factotum, and Brixey turned into the hotel. Brackett caught sight of him, and came out of the bar parlour.
“Glad you’ve come in, sir,” he said. “Mr. Semmerby, of Semmerby and Askill, the solicitors, has just been round here wanting to see you. He’s been away at Brighton for a few days, and only came home to-night, and as soon as he heard of what’s going on, and saw the reward bill, he came along.
“He’s anxious to help, Mr. Brixey. He says he’s met Mr. Linthwaite once or twice in London, and he’s much concerned. He asked if you could see him as soon as you got in.”
“To be sure,” answered Brixey. “Where does he live?”
Brackett led him out to the entrance of the courtyard, and pointed along the now deserted street.
“Straight along this side until you’ve passed St. Benet’s Church, sir”’ he said. “Then, just before you come to West Bar, you’ll see an old house standing a bit back from the street. That’s Mr. Semmerby’s — his private residence, of course.”
Brixey went off in the direction indicated. In a few minutes he found himself in an old-fashioned dining-room, the furniture and ornaments of which suggested early Victorian days, confronting an inquisitive-eyed, benevolent-looking old gentleman who regarded him with great interest.
“I was very much concerned to hear this news about Mr. Linthwaite,” he said, as he pressed his visitor into an easy chair, and silently offered him refreshment from certain things on the table.
“I met Mr. Linthwaite four or five years ago in the course of business; in fact, I lunched with him once or twice in town. We had tastes — antiquarian tastes — in common. So you’re his nephew? I hope you’ve some news of him by now, Mr Brixey?”
“No good news,” answered Brixey. “In fact, I’m getting more and more puzzled and bothered about the whole thing. I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Semmerby, for coming round to the ‘Mitre.’ You may be able to give me the very help I want.”
The old lawyer dropped into a chair at his visitor’s side, and put the tips of his, fingers, together.
“Tell me all about it,” he said. “Remember, I don’t know anything beyond mere common gossip. I haven’t been home more than an hour. I’ve just heard what my housekeeper could tell, and seen your handbill. Of course, you know much more?”
“Not so much,” replied Brixey, “I’ll tell you it all — in order, as things have developed since I became acquainted with them.
“Now,” he concluded, after giving his host a lucid and straightforward account of his doings, from the visit of Georgina Byfield to the Sentinel office to the end of the call upon Mesham, “that’s as far as things have gone. What, as a professional man, do you say to all that, Mr. Semmerby?”
“One thing, immediately,” answered the old lawyer. “Mesham will have to tell if he did meet Linthwaite at two-thirty on Tuesday; where he met him; and where he left him. That’s flat.”
“Aye,” said Brixey. “But who’ll make him?”
“Public opinion,” affirmed Semmerby.
“From what I’ve seen of Mesham,” remarked Brixey, “I should say he’s as utterly indifferent to public opinion as he is to private feeling.”
Semmerby shook his head.
“I wonder if you can tell me something?” said Brixey.
“I’ll tell you anything I can that would help you,” answered Semmerby.
“Do you know if Mesham knew Mrs. Byfield before he came to Selchester?” asked Brixey.
The old lawyer reflected in silence for a few minutes before he replied to this. When he spoke it was with a shake of the head which Brixey understood to suggest indecision more than denial.
“If he did,” he answered, “it’s unknown to me. That Mesham knows the Byfields, and visits them, I know. But I fancy, at least, I always understood, that it was through Fanshawe that he began going to the house. They belong to the same club — the Selchester Club. Fanshawe Byfield has a very good billiard table at the house in the Minories — he’s a great player; so is Mesham. I think that’s the bond. Of course, through going to the house to play billiards with the son, Mesham knows the mother.”
“If Mesham was an absolute stranger when he came to this town two years ago,” asked Brixey, “how did he manage to get elected a member of the Selchester Club?”
“Good question!” said the old lawyer with a smile. “Well, he’d been in the town some time — some months — then. He’d got to know two or three sportsmen, met them at the ‘Mitre’ or the ‘Cavalier’ or at the cricket ground. Some of them put him up, and, as his means were evident, and the tradesfolk spoke well of him, and as they’re not very particular at the club — why, he was elected.”
“The truth is, Mr. Semmerby,” remarked Brixey, “nobody knows who the man is?”
“Quite so,” agreed Semmerby.
“I mean to know,” said Brixey. “And,” he added, with a resolute look, “I mean to know who somebody else in Selchester is, too!”
“Who?” asked the old lawyer.
“Mrs. Byfield,” replied Brixey.
Semmerby looked his visitor carefully over.
“You think there’s some mystery about her which may be connected with your uncle’s disappearance?” he asked.
“Frankly, I do!” assented Brixey. “I’m certain of it.”
“Well,” said Semmerby, “I may as well tell you that I’m the Byfield family solicitor.”
“Are you?” exclaimed Brixey. “Glad to hear it! Then — do you know who she is — which really means who she was?”
“No more than that she was a young or youngish widow, named Mrs. Sunderland, when my late client, Martin Byfield, met her at, I think, Nice, where she was in charge — to put it plainly — of an English tea-room — manageress, you know,” replied Semmerby.
“She came to Europe from New Zealand, where her first husband had died. That’s all I can tell, except that there’s a man here in the town, Wetherby, Martin Byfield’s old valet, who saw his master married to her at Monaco. I don’t think there’s any mystery about Mrs. Byfield.”
“You won’t think me impertinent if I ask if these Byfields are very wealthy?” inquired Brixey.
“It’s well known,” answered Semmerby. “Those things do get known, especially in small places like this. Martin Byfield, who, by the by, died intestate, left about two hundred thousand pounds, almost entirely in personal property. Of course, the widow administered. She look one-third, and the son takes the other two-thirds. That reminds me. He comes of age during this next week. A very wealthy young man, and, I’m sorry to say, a very weak one.”
But Brixey appeared to have no interest in young Mr. Fanshawe Byfield’s character, and presently he went away, promising to keep Mr. Semmerby informed if any news came to hand.
CHAPTER XIII
THE POSTER AND THE TELEGRAM
BRIXEY LAY AWAKE through half that night, thinking. He had endeavoured since his schoolboy days to foster and develop habits of clear thought, but he was bound to admit, as he lay tossing restlessly about, hearing the cathedral clock strike one hour after another, that his mental processes on this occasion were anything but clear.
It was an unrefreshing and unquiet slumber, from which he was aroused by a gentle tap at his door.
“Just off,” whispered Gaffkin, putting his head inside. “Anything more you wish to tell me?”
Brixey had the faculty of coming wide-awake at any time, with all his wits about him.
“Oh, well!” he answered. “Just this. If you find any letters at our rooms, send ’em on. I forgot to leave instructions about that. That’s all. Be thorough in your search, Gaffkin.”
Gaffkin nodded, withdrew his head, and went quietly away. Brixey pulled his watch from under his pillow, and finding that half-past six had arrived, got out of bed and drew up his blinds. Opposite his window, at the corner of the street, was a newsagent’s shop. The newsagent himself, having evidently been down to the station to fetch the first editions of the London morning newspapers, was now busied in putting tip their contents-bills at his door.
Brixey, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his pyjama jacket, stood lazily and indifferently watching him. But that watching gave him an idea, and suddenly he dived into his suit-case, dragged out a notebook and a pencil, and standing at a chest of drawers, began to write.
When he had finished writing he propped the sheet of paper on which he had written against the mirror on his dressing-table, and, while he shaved and dressed, he read it over and over again, and every time he read he laughed.
The printer round the corner was behind his shop-counter when Brixey upon him at eight o’clock.
“Another job for you,” said Brixey, laying down his sheet of paper. “See that? Read it.”
The printer read and whistled.
“Whew!” he said. “There isn’t anything you think that could be taken as libel, sir? The law’s so queer about printing statements that — —”
“It’s all right — pure statement of undisputed fact,” answered Brixey. “The person named there admitted that much to Inspector Crabbe, to me, and to a friend of mine last night. Pure fact! But I mean to go further.
“Now look here, I want you to make a dozen big, staring placards of that — great big letters, as bold as possible. Then paste the placards on boards, and let a dozen men parade the streets round the Cross there with them, from, say eleven to one o’clock. Can you get men?”
“I can get a dozen if you make it worth their while,” said the printer.
“Give ’em five shillings apiece,” commanded Brixey, pulling out his money. “Now listen. Let them start out from here at eleven, and walk up and down for two hours in the centre of the town. Isn’t it your market-day?”
“One of them — we’ve two here,” assented the printer. This is the town market-day.”
“It’s the townsfolk I want to startle,” said Brixey. “All right. Go ahead. There’s a fiver — we’ll settle things later, in the morning. But, eleven sharp, mind!”
The printer picked up the copy and the bank-note and vanished into his composing room, and Brixey lounged back to the “Mitre” and ate a big breakfast.
When that was over he did more lounging in the private room, adjacent to his own sitting-room, in which Miss Georgina Byfield, under Mr. Brackett’s superintendence, kept the books and wrote the letters — and she and the old landlord were not a little surprised to find that, for the first time since his arrival, Brixey avoided reference to the cause of his coming to Selchester. He had evidently no wish to talk of Mr. Linthwaite that morning. Instead, he talked of any trifling matter that arose. But as eleven o’clock struck he motioned Brackett to follow him out of the house and to the entrance to the courtyard.
“Come and see something,” he said laconically, as he glanced up the street towards the printer’s. “There, out to the minute! Now, then, what do you think of that for a demonstration in force?”
Twelve men emerged in silent and solemn procession from the court at the side of the printing office, and, with intervals of a few yards between each, marched erect and businesslike down the side of the pavement.
Each carried in front of him a large board, on which was pasted a placard, its lettering bold enough to be read from across the street.
Brixey, admiring his own design, chuckled, as he saw that the printer, generously entering into the spirit of the thing, had printed the announcement in two colours, using red and black ink with striking effect.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the old landlord. “Your work, of course, sir!”
“Aye!” said Brixey. “Pretty notice, isn’t it?”
Brackett adjusted his glasses as the placard-bearers drew nearer, and audibly read over the wording which Brixey had concocted in the early hours.
“FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD!
SPOT CASH
Mitre Hotel, Selchester.
“The offer of £100 made yesterday by Mr. Richard Brixey for news of his uncle, Mr. John Linthwaite is now increased to the above amount, which wall be paid to any person who first gives reliable information leading to the finding of Mr. Linthwaite, alive or dead, Mr. Linthwaite, it is now known, arranged to meet
MR. CHRISTOPHER MESHAM
at half-past two o’clock last Tuesday afternoon.
DID THEY MEET?”
“Bless my soul!” repeated Brackett. “What will Mesham say to that? He’ll — gad, sir, if that doesn’t force him to something! Here, I’ll get a copy of that to hang up in the bar, Mr. Brixey. Publicity, eh, sir — you believe in it?”
Brixey laughed, and, without replying, strolled slowly down the street after the line of placard-bearers. The town was just then filling with the usual Saturday morning crowd, and within a few minutes every other person was thronging the edges of the sidewalks to read the staring red-and-black.
