Collected works of j s f.., p.385
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 385
“Mr. Brackett,” remarked Georgina, “used to say, at one time, that he didn’t believe he died without leaving a will.”
“Then where is it?” demanded Brixey. “No, we’re running against a dead wall there, I think. If there’d been a will, it would have come to light by now.
“But here’s a question I’ve wanted to ask you. Did you never see, or meet, your Uncle Martin in his last days, never go to his house or anything of that sort?”
Georgina shook her head with a decided gesture.
“Mrs. Byfield wouldn’t have either my father or myself at the house,” she answered. “My uncle was infirm during the last two or three years; and she kept everybody away from him. If I ever saw him, it was in a bath-chair in the streets, and there was always Mrs. Byfield and a nurse with him. Wetherby, his old valet, used to wheel him out.”
“So you never had any conversation with him in the last stages?” asked Brixey.
“I never remember speaking to him since I was sixteen or seventeen,” replied Georgina.
Brixey considered matters a little.
“Seems a rather blunt way of putting things,” he said presently, “but you’d have been in a bad way if it hadn’t been for old Brackett, wouldn’t you?”
“Very!” answered Georgina laconically. “Mr. Brackett has been a second father to me. Of course, keeping his books and writing his letters is a mere pretext for his kindness. He adopted me. I shouldn’t have had anywhere or anybody to turn to but for him.”
“He’s a good old chap,” said Brixey. “And yet, if we’re going to be plainly straightforward, there you were with a remarkably, rich uncle next door to you! Seems odd, eh?”
“I’ve told you that I don’t believe my Uncle Martin knew anything about it,” replied Georgina. “He was fenced in.”
“By his wife,” said Brixey. “What you say implies that she wasn’t going to let him spare a penny for his niece. Now, he might comfortably have spared a good many pounds. Which makes it all the odder!”
Georgina gave her companion a quick, searching glance out of her eye-corners.
“You don’t look into things any further than that?” she suggested.
Brixey returned the look.
“Not good at riddles,” he retorted. “What’s this one?”
“Old men are apt to be a bit talkative, aren’t they?” said Georgina. “I’ve always believed that Mrs. Byfield kept everybody away from my Uncle Martin, because she was afraid of his saying things she didn’t want anybody to hear.”
“You think there were secrets?” suggested Brixey.
“I think she has secrets,” assented Georgina.
“Now, why do you think so?” asked Brixey.
“Because I do!” she answered. “Besides, she looks as if she had!”
“Good feminine reasons,” assented Brixey. “Well, if comes to this. The foundation of all this business is away back — a long way back. Questions arise. Who was Mrs. Byfield? When did my uncle, John Linthwaite, know her. What did he know? What’s it all got to do with his sudden removal from the scene? And where is he?”
“You don’t think, after all, that there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation of this?” asked Georgina. “That Mr. Linthwaite may be somehow mixed up with some business affair of these people, and have gone away in connection with it, and that he’ll turn up all right in a day or two?”
“When I woke this morning,” replied Brixey, “I was a good deal inclined to think that. But by breakfast time I was quite sure that my inclinations were leading me into a wrong path. For one very little, very simple reason.
“I can’t conceive it possible that my uncle should leave Selchester in such a violent hurry that he couldn’t either slip into the ‘Mitre’ or send a message to Mr. Brackett to say that ho was going away. The thing’s ludicrous! Moreover, what about the hat and umbrella found in Foxglove Lane?”
“Then you think — what?” asked Georgina.
“I think he’s been kidnapped,” said Brixey. “Put away somewhere until these folk, whoever they are, have brought off some business on which they’re engaged, and with which his sudden coming to Selchester, and his knowledge of them, interfered.
“I say these folk. But I don’t know what particular folk I mean! Mesham’s one, no doubt. Probably Mrs. Byfield’s another. There may — must, I think — be still more. And what are they after? If I knew that, I’d know a lot.
“As to my uncle’s whereabouts, I’m now inclined to think that he may have been the elderly gentleman who drove with Mesham to Ledfield Junction and is known to have booked for Brighton. Perhaps he was met at Brighton by Mesham’s confederates and safely locked up. The whole thing’s getting into more of a tangle than I ever foresaw. And I tell you, my dear young lady, it all spells — money!”
Georgina made no answer to this emphatic declaration, and Brixey, after a pause, suddenly laughed.
“What a lark it would be if a sudden burst-up of some sort revealed the fact that money was coming to you!” he exclaimed.
“To me?” said Georgina, staring at him. “Nonsense!”
“Never mind,” retorted Brixey. “I’ve heard and known of some queer cases about money and estates and that sort of thing. Supposing you were discovered to be a rich heiress? Perhaps there’s money that ought to have come to your father, and perhaps your Uncle Martin knew of it, and perhaps Mrs. Byfield has inherited the secret, and perhaps — —”
“I thought you prided yourself on being practical,” interrupted ‘Georgina.
“Eminently practical,” replied Brixey, with assurance. “That’s why I’m suggesting all this. You never know!” He pulled out his watch.
“Past noon,” he said. “Let’s be going ‘Mitre’-wards. I’m wondering if Gaffkin will turn up. He might.”
Ten minutes later Brixey walked into his sitting-room at the “Mitre” to find Gaffkin, who, at sight of him, held up a carefully sealed packet, with one word:
“Papers!”
CHAPTER XVII
RECEIPTS AND PEDIGREES
BRIXEY REALISED THAT Gaffkin had made some important discovery, and hastened to shut the door.
“Found something out?” he asked. “Something really pertinent?”
“I think so,” answered Gaffkin, laying stress on the personal pronoun.
“I do indeed. I’d have got back last night if I could, Mr. Brixey. I made this discovery yesterday afternoon late, but there wasn’t a train. So I caught the very first one this morning.”
“What is it?” demanded Brixey, pointing to the sealed packet. “In there?”
“The papers are in here,” said Gaffkin. He glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece.
“We can’t go into it now he added. “It’ll be a long and serious business. And, to tell you the truth, I’m famishing. I’ve had nothing since eight o’clock.”
Just then the waiter came in to lay the cloth for lunch, and Brixey had to restrain his impatience. He had to restrain it again, not being particularly hungry himself, while Gaffkin ate and drank. It seemed to him that the meal — a typically English country hotel Sunday dinner — was never coming to an end. But he knew that Gaffkin had been hard at it since they parted, and he encouraged him to enjoy himself. Moreover, when the waiter had removed the cloth, he ordered in a bottle of Brackett’s best port, knowing that his companion had an old-fashioned taste for that wine.
Gaffkin sipped his first glass with great satisfaction, remarked dryly that a man felt much better disposed towards important business when he had dined well, and, drawing the packet towards him, broke the seals and cut the strings.
“I don’t know what Mr. Linthwaite would say, sir, if he knew that I’d been going through his private papers,” he remarked, glancing slyly at Brixey, “but as I’d your authority and warranty I made a pretty exhaustive search. And I’ll tell you what I went for, Mr. Brixey.
“I thought the whole matter carefully over as I journeyed up to town yesterday morning, and I came to the conclusion that I’d better stick to a definite object — this object. We know that Mesham is a man who used to come, twice a year, to Mr. Linthwaite’s for money, calling himself Mr. X.
“Very well, it struck me that I’d better look for receipts for those payments, in the hope of getting at Mesham’s real name. And I’ve found receipts. Not in Mesham’s name, you may be sure, but if they don’t refer to Mesham I shall be astonished. Personally, I’ve no doubt of it, because of the dates, and the regularity of those dates. But we’ll go through things in order.”
Gaffkin had by this time opened his packet. Prom it he drew a small, thin quarto manuscript book, bound in sheepskin, and furnished with a clasp. This he laid aside. He also took out two bundles of folded papers, each tied up with red tape; these he arranged before him.
“Now, look here, sir,” he began, tapping the two bundles with his forefinger. “There are two series of receipts, going back for thirty years, precisely, from this present year. They refer to half-yearly payments which Mr. Linthwaite, first as Mr. John Herbert, afterwards as Mr. John Linthwaite, has been in the habit of making to two persons, evidently beneficiaries under a will of which Mr. Linthwaite is trustee and executor.
“From the wording of the receipts you will see that the will in question was that of one James Melsome; the names of the two beneficiaries are Cradock Melsome and Charles Melsome.”
“Melsome — Melsome” said Brixey. “The name’s somewhat familiar — at least, I’ve heard it. Some distant relation of my uncle’s, I fancy.”
“Precisely the conclusion I’ve come to, as I’ll show you presently,” agreed Gaffkin, pointing to the sheepskin-bound book. “That they are relations, certain entries in this book seem to prove.
“Well, now, I want you to look at these receipts. Mr. Linthwaite is, as you know, a highly methodical man, and they’re all duly arranged in order. Let’s examine those of Cradock Melsome first. Now observe the date of the first — March 28, 1889. The wording of the receipt in that of receipt is practically that of all the rest.
“‘Received from John Herbert, Esquire, the sum of seventy-five pounds under the will of James Melsome deceased
“‘Cradock Melsome.’
“Now,” continued Gaffkin, “observe, as we go through them, that these receipts of Cradock Melsome’s are dated from various places. They begin in London. Later, they are from Boulogne. Still later they are from New York.
“And for the last ten or eleven years, right up to the last, they have been from Quebec, where, it’s very evident, this Cradock Melsome must have settled. The last receipt, you see, Mr. Brixey, was sent from Quebec six months ago.”
Brixey examined the various documents as Gaffkin laid them below him, and, without comment, glanced at the second bundle.
“These refer to the other beneficiary, Charles Melsome,” said Gaffkin. “Now, the wording is just the same. He, too, gets these payments, at half-yearly intervals, under the will of James Melsome, deceased. They begin at the same time as those made to Cradock Melsome. They, too, are from various places, but mostly they are dated in London.
“Two facts, however, are notable — I want you to pay particular regard to them. We’ll take the second first. Note that the last four receipts — that means receipts for the last two years — are dated from Brighton.
“But, note, too, a much more significant fact, in view of something to which I’m going to draw your attention in this book; that some years ago — fifteen years to be exact — there was a period of five years during which no payment was made at all to Charles Melsome. You see, Mr. Brixey — there’s a hiatus of five years in the payments.”
“I see,” assented Brixey, as Gaffkin ranged the papers in order. “Nothing paid during five years.”
“Nothing,” said Gaffkin. “But look. The next receipt is for five years’ arrears. Note the amount. It’s £772 10s.
“What does that mean? It means five years’ income at £150 a year, and £22 10s. interest at three per cent. In other words, the income had been lying at the bank for five years. Then Charles Melsome drew it all in a lump.”
“Something, I suppose, hangs on that?” asked Brixey.
Gaffkin sorted the various receipts into their proper places, and bundles, and, laying them aside, took up the sheepskin-bound book.
“I won’t say that anything that we’re concerned with hangs on that,” he replied. “But it’s a highly significant, and important fact, and has a relative importance to matters in general.
“But, now, this book, Mr. Brixey — it’s a book in which your uncle seems to have written down a lot of family history and information of pedigrees and genealogies, and all that sort of stuff. You’re mentioned in it, and your mother and father.”
“My mother was, of course, Mr. Linthwaite’s sister,” remarked Brixey. “She was a Herbert. I told you he took the name of Linthwaite on coming into some property, some years since, before you knew him.”
“Precisely, sir,” agreed Gaffkin. “There’s the whole Herbert pedigree in here, and the fact recorded that your mother married Mr. Samuel Brixey, of Camberwell — your father. The Herberts, I gather, were a Warwickshire family. But we’re not concerned with either Herberts or Brixeys. We’re concerned with these Melsomes. Now, there are two pages in this book which deal with them.
“You’ll observe that about sixty years ago a Miss Susannah Herbert married a Mr. Christopher Melsome, who is here set down, in correct pedigree fashion, as. being the son of one Stephen Melsome, and the brother of James Melsome. There it is — set out in your uncle’s handwriting.”
Brixey looked attentively at the page to which Gaffkin pointed, and read the tabulated entries.
Continued from Herbert Pedigree, vii,
Stephen Melsome, of High Barnet.
|
| |
Christopher Melsome James Melsome
married bachelor
Susannah Herbert.
|
| |
Cradock Melsome 6 Charles Melsome 8
married
Harriet Sunderland.
“Now, observe,” continued Gaffkin. “Christopher Melsome, who married Susannah Herbert, who, I make out from the Herbert pedigree, was Mr. Linthwaite’s aunt, left two sons — Cradock and Charles. We don’t know if he left them any fortune, but it’s very evident, from these receipts, that their uncle, James, who, you see, was a bachelor, did. He left them £150 a year each — evidently in trust, and Mr. Linthwaite was undoubtedly trustee and executor.
“If I’d had time, I’d have searched for James Melsome’s will. The probability is that these two, Cradock and Charles, have only a life interest in it. But that’s neither here nor there, just now. What is of importance is this. Do you see two little figures — in one case a six, in the other an eight — against the names of Cradock and Charles?”
“I see ’em!” said Brixey, deeply interested.
Gaffkin turned over the pages of the pedigree book.
“Mr. Linthwaite,” he said, “has a habit, evidently, of writing down little notes — what you might call autobiographical notes — about the people mentioned in his pedigrees. There’s one about your father and one about yourself, Mr, Brixey. But now, look what he’s written about these two Melsomess!”
Brixey looked, and read his uncle’s naïvely frank remarks.
“6. A bad egg. His wife, a decent woman, ran away from him, in less than six months, unable to stand him any longer. She made a clean disappearance, too; never could trace her.”
“8. Worse, if anything, than the other — got five years for forgery. Odd that two such utterly worthless fellows should come of such good old stock!”
With a sharp exclamation, Brixey pushed the book away from him, and, jumping to his feet, stared at Gaffkin. And Gaffkin smiled and wagged his head with a knowing gesture.
“By Gad!” exclaimed, Brixey. “You’ve hit it in one, Gaffkin! Of course — the Christopher Mesham of Selchester is the Charles Melsome of those receipts!”
“Yes!” said Gaffkin. “But where’s his brother, Cradock? And where’s Cradock’s wife — Harriet Sunderland?”
CHAPTER XIX
LEGALITIES
BRIXEY RELAPSED INTO his chair again and stared at Gaffkin harder than before. And Gaffkin, helping himself to another glass of Brackett’s old port, shook his head over his first sip of it, not so much in token of the appreciation which he felt as of his realisation of the deep mystery in which he and Brixey were becoming more and more entangled.
“Well?” said Brixey at last. “You’ve ideas, Gaffkin — notions! Out with ’em! This is the time for speaking.”
Gaffkin took a pinch of snuff from an old-fashioned box which he drew from his waistcoat pocket.
“Man and boy, boy and man,” he remarked, “I’ve had a good long experience of legal matters, Mr. Brixey, and since I left Mr. Linthwaite I’ve seen and known some queer things in the private detective line. This is a queer thing!
“Of course, since I made these discoveries yesterday, -and, since hearing the bits you’ve told me to-day, I’ve formulated a theory. This is a conspiracy, probably shared in by a lot of people. Object — to get hold of the late Martin Byfield’s money. Money, sir! That’s the idea. Money!”
“I’ve felt that it was money pretty nearly all along,” agreed Brixey. “But I haven’t quite seen the ins and outs of the conspiracy theory.”
“I take it that it’s something like this,” said Gaffkin. “Do you remember what Wetherby, Martin Byfield’s old servant, told me about the marriage abroad — at Monaco? That his master married a Mrs. Sunderland?”
“That’s established,” assented Brixey. “Old Mr. Semmerby, the family solicitor, told me that. He told me who, or rather what, she was at that time — manageress of some English tea-rooms at Nice.”
