Collected works of j s f.., p.404
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 404
“He might have borrowed it from some friend,” suggested Purdie.
“I thought of that, sir,” said Ayscough. “It seems the natural thing to think of. But Mrs. Parslett says they haven’t a friend from whom he could have borrowed such an amount — not one! No, sir! — my belief is that Parslett saw some man enter and leave Multenius’s shop; that he knew the man; that he went and plumped him with the affair, and that the man gave him that gold to get rid of him at the moment — and contrived to poison him, too!”
Purdie considered the proposition for awhile in silence.
“Well,” he remarked at last, “if that’s so, it seems to establish two facts — first, that the murderer is some man who lives in this neighbourhood, and second, that he’s an expert in poisons.”
“Right, sir!” agreed Ayscough. “Quite right. And it would, of course, establish another — the innocence of your friend, Lauriston.”
Purdie smiled.
“I never had any doubt of that,” he said.
“Between ourselves, neither had I,” remarked Ayscough heartily. “I told our people that I, personally, was convinced of the young fellow’s complete innocence from the very first — and it was I who found him in the shop. It’s a most unfortunate thing that he was there, and a sad coincidence that those rings of his were much of a muchness with the rings in the tray in the old man’s parlour — but I’ve never doubted him. No, sir! — I believe all this business goes a lot deeper than that! It’s no common affair — old Daniel Multenius was attacked by somebody — somebody! — for some special reason — and it’s going to take a lot of getting at. And I’m convinced this Parslett affair is a development — Parslett’s been poisoned because he knew too much.”
“You say you don’t know what particular poison was used?” asked Purdie. “It would be something of a clue to know that. Because, if it turned out to be one of a very subtle nature, that would prove that whoever administered it had made a special study of poisons.”
“I don’t know that — yet,” answered Ayscough. “But,” he continued, rising from his chair, “if you’d step round with me to the hospital, we might get to know, now. There’s one or two of their specialists been making an examination. It’s only a mere step along the street.”
Purdie followed the detective out and along Praed Street. Before they reached the doors of the hospital, a man came up to Ayscough: a solid, substantial-looking person, of cautious manner and watchful eye, whose glance wandered speculatively from the detective to his companion. Evidently sizing Purdie up as some one in Ayscough’s confidence, he spoke — in the fashion of one who has something as mysterious, as important, to communicate.
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Ayscough,” he said. “A word with you sir. You know me, Mr. Ayscough?”
Ayscough looked sharply at his questioner.
“Mr. Goodyer, isn’t it?” he asked. “Oh, yes, I remember. What is it? You can speak before this gentleman — it’s all right.”
“About this affair of last night — Parslett, you know,” said Goodyer, drawing the detective aside, and lowering his voice, so that passers-by might not hear. “There’s something I can tell you — I’ve heard all about the matter from Parslett’s wife. But I’ve not told her what I can tell you, Mr. Ayscough.”
“And — what’s that?” enquired the detective.
“I’m Parslett’s landlord, you know,” continued Goodyer. “He’s had that shop and dwelling-house of me for some years. Now, Parslett’s not been doing very well of late, from one cause or another, and to put it in a nutshell, he owed me half a year’s rent. I saw him yesterday, and told him I must have the money at once: in fact, I pressed him pretty hard about it. — I’d been at him for two or three weeks, and I could see it was no good going on. He’d been down in the mouth about it, the last week or so, but yesterday afternoon he was confident enough. ‘Now, you needn’t alarm yourself, Mr. Goodyer,’ he said. ‘There’s a nice bit of money going to be paid to me tonight, and I’ll settle up with you before I stick my head on the pillow,’ he said. ‘Tonight, for certain?’ says I. ‘Before even I go to bed!’ he says. ‘I can’t fix it to a minute, but you can rely on me calling at your house in St. Mary’s Terrace before eleven o’clock — with the money.’ And he was so certain about it, Mr. Ayscough, that I said no more than that I should be much obliged, and I’d wait up for him. And,” concluded Goodyer, “I did wait up — till half-past twelve — but he never came. So this morning, of course, I walked round here — and then I heard what happened — about him being picked up dying and since being dead — with fifty pounds in gold in his pocket. Of course, Mr. Ayscough, that was the money he referred to.”
“You haven’t mentioned this to anybody?” asked Ayscough.
“Neither to the widow nor to anybody — but you,” replied Goodyer.
“Don’t!” said Ayscough. “Keep it to yourself till I give you the word. You didn’t hear anything from Parslett as to where the money was coming from?”
“Not one syllable!” answered Goodyer. “But I could see he was dead sure of having it.”
“Well — keep quiet about it,” continued Ayscough. “There’ll be an inquest, you know, and what you have to tell’ll come in handy, then. There’s some mystery about all this affair, Mr. Goodyer, and it’s going to take some unravelling.”
“You’re right!” said Goodyer. “I believe you!”
He went off along the street, and the detective turned to Purdie and motioned him towards the hospital.
“Queer, all that, sir!” he muttered. “Very queer! But it all tends to showing that my theory’s the right one. Now if you’ll just stop in the waiting-room a few minutes, I’ll find out if these doctors have come to any conclusion about the precise nature of the poison.”
Purdie waited for ten minutes, speculating on the curiosities of the mystery into which he had been so strangely plunged: at last the detective came back, shaking his head.
“Can’t get a definite word out of ’em, yet,” he said, as they went away. “There’s two or three of ’em — big experts in — what do you call it — oh, yes, toxology — putting their heads together over the analysing business, and they won’t say anything so far — they’ll leave that to the inquest. But I gathered this much, Mr. Purdie, from the one I spoke to — this man Parslett was poisoned in some extremely clever fashion, and by some poison that’s not generally known, which was administered to him probably half-an-hour before it took effect. What’s that argue, sir, but that whoever gave him that poison is something of an expert? Deep game, Mr. Purdie, a very deep game indeed! — and now I don’t think there’s much need to be anxious about that young friend of yours. I’m certain, anyway, that the man who poisoned Parslett is the man who killed poor old Daniel Multenius. But — we shall see.”
Purdie parted from Ayscough outside the hospital and walked along to Mrs. Flitwick’s house in Star Street. He met Melky Rubinstein emerging from the door; Melky immediately pulled out a telegram which he thrust into Purdie’s hand.
“Just come, mister!” exclaimed Melky. “There’s a word for you in it — I was going to your hotel. Read what he says.”
Purdie unfolded the pink paper and read.
“On the track all right understand Purdie is in town if he comes to Star Street explain all to him will wire again later in day.”
“Good!” said Purdie. He handed back the telegram and looked meditatively at Melky. “Are you busy this morning?” he asked.
“Doing no business whatever, mister,” lisped Melky, solemnly. “Not until this business is settled — not me!”
“Come to the hotel with me,” continued Purdie. “I want to talk to you about something.”
But when they reached the hotel, all thought of conversation was driven out of Purdie’s mind for the moment. The hall-porter handed him a note, remarking that it had just come. Purdie’s face flushed as he recognized the handwriting: he turned sharply away and tore open the envelope. Inside, on a half-sheet of notepaper, were a few lines — from the pretty governess at Mr. Spencer Levendale’s.
“Can you come here at once and ask for me? There is something seriously wrong: I am much troubled and have no one in London I can consult.”
With a hasty excuse to Melky, Purdie ran out of the hotel, and set off in quick response to the note.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE PRIVATE LABORATORY
AS HE TURNED down Spring Street towards Sussex Square, Purdie hastily reviewed his knowledge of Mr. Spencer Levendale and his family. He had met them, only two months previously, at a remote and out-of-the-way place in the Highlands, in a hotel where he and they were almost the only guests. Under such circumstances, strangers are soon drawn together, and as Levendale and Purdie had a common interest in fishing they were quickly on good terms. But Purdie was thinking now as he made his way towards Levendale’s London house that he really knew very little of this man who was evidently mixed up in some way with the mystery into which young Andie Lauriston had so unfortunately also become intermingled. He knew that Levendale was undoubtedly a very wealthy man: there were all the signs of wealth about him; he had brought several servants down to the Highlands with him: money appeared to be plentiful with him as pebbles are on a beach. Purdie learnt bit by bit that Levendale had made a great fortune in South Africa, that he had come home to England and gone into Parliament; that he was a widower and the father of two little girls — he learnt, too, that the children’s governess, Miss Elsie Bennett, a pretty and taking girl of twenty-two or three, had come with them from Cape Town. But of Levendale’s real character and self he knew no more than could be gained from holiday acquaintance. Certain circumstances told him by Melky about the rare book left in old Multenius’s parlour inclined Purdie to be somewhat suspicious that Levendale was concealing something which he knew about that affair — and now here was Miss Bennett writing what, on the face of it, looked like an appealing letter to him, as if something had happened.
Purdie knew something had happened as soon as he was admitted to the house. Levendale’s butler, who had accompanied his master to the Highlands, and had recognized Purdie on his calling the previous day, came hurrying to him in the hall, as soon as the footman opened the door.
“You haven’t seen Mr. Levendale since you were here yesterday, sir?” he asked, in a low, anxious voice.
“Seen Mr. Levendale? No!” answered Purdie. “Why — what do you mean?”
The butler looked round at a couple of footmen who hung about the door.
“Don’t want to make any fuss about it, Mr. Purdie,” he whispered, “though it’s pretty well known in the house already. The fact is, sir, Mr. Levendale’s missing!”
“Missing?” exclaimed Purdie. “Since when?”
“Only since last night, sir,” replied the butler, “but the circumstances are queer. He dined out with some City gentlemen, somewhere, last night, and he came home about ten o’clock. He wasn’t in the house long. He went into his laboratory — he spends a lot of time in experimenting in chemistry, you know, sir — and he called me in there. ‘I’m going out again for an hour, Grayson,’ he says. ‘I shall be in at eleven: don’t go to bed, for I want to see you for a minute or two.’ Of course, there was nothing in that, Mr. Purdie, and I waited for him. But he never came home — and no message came. He never came home at all — and this morning I’ve telephoned to his two clubs, and to one or two other places in the City — nobody’s seen or heard anything of him. And I can’t think what’s happened — it’s all so unlike his habits.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?” asked Purdie.
“No, sir, but he went on foot,” answered the butler. “I let him out — he turned up Paddington way.”
“You didn’t notice anything out of the common about him?” suggested Purdie.
The butler hesitated for a moment.
“Well, sir,” he said at last, “I did notice something. Come this way, Mr. Purdie.”
Turning away from the hall, he led Purdie through the library in which Levendale had received Ayscough and his companions into a small room that opened out of it.
Purdie, looking round him, found that he was standing in a laboratory, furnished with chemical apparatus of the latest descriptions. Implements and appliances were on all sides; there were rows of bottles on the shelves; a library of technical books filled a large book-case; everything in the place betokened the pursuit of a scientific investigator. And Purdie’s keen sense of smell immediately noted the prevalent atmosphere of drugs and chemicals.
“It was here that I saw Mr. Levendale last night, sir,” said the butler. “He called me in. He was measuring something from one of those bottles into a small phial, Mr. Purdie — he put the phial in his waistcoat pocket. Look at those bottles, sir — you’ll see they all contain poison! — you can tell that by the make of ’em.”
Purdie glanced at the shelf which the butler indicated. The bottles ranged on it were all of blue glass, and all triangular in shape, and each bore a red label with the word Poison prominently displayed.
“Odd!” he said. “You’ve some idea?” he went on, looking closely at the butler. “Something on your mind about this? What is it?”
The butler shook his head.
“Well, sir,” he answered, “when you see a gentleman measuring poison into a phial, which he carefully puts in his pocket, and when he goes out, and when he never comes back, and when you can’t hear of him, anywhere! why, what are you to think? Looks strange, now, doesn’t it, Mr. Purdie?”
“I don’t know Mr. Levendale well enough to say,” replied Purdie. “There may be some quite good reason for Mr. Levendale’s absence. He’d no trouble of any sort, had he?”
“He seemed a bit upset, once or twice, yesterday — and the night before,” said the butler. “I noticed it — in little things. Well! — I can’t make it out, sir. You see, I’ve been with him ever since he came back to England — some years now — and I know his habits, thoroughly. However, we can only wait — I believe Miss Bennett sent for you, Mr. Purdie?”
“Yes,” said Purdie. “She did.”
“This way, sir,” said the butler. “Miss Bennett’s alone, now — the children have just gone out with their nurses.”
He led Purdie through the house to a sitting-room looking out on the garden of the Square, and ushered him into the governess’s presence.
“I’ve told Mr. Purdie all about it, miss,” he said, confidentially. “Perhaps you’ll talk it over with him! I can’t think of anything more to do — until we hear something.”
Left alone, Purdie and Elsie Bennett looked at each other as they shook hands. She was a fair, slender girl, naturally shy and retiring; she was manifestly shy at renewing her acquaintance with Purdie, and Purdie himself, conscious of his own feelings towards her, felt a certain embarrassment and awkwardness.
“You sent for me,” he said brusquely. “I came the instant I got your note. Grayson kept me talking downstairs. You’re bothered — about Mr. Levendale?”
“Yes,” she answered. Then she pointed to a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” she said, and took a chair close by. “I sent for you, because — it may seem strange, but it’s a fact! — I couldn’t think of anybody else! It seemed so fortunate that you were in London — and close by. I felt that — that I could depend on you.”
“Thank you,” said Purdie. “Well — you can! And what is it?”
“Grayson’s told you about Mr. Levendale’s going out last night, and never coming back, nor sending any message?” she continued. “As Grayson says, considering Mr. Levendale’s habits, that is certainly very strange! But — I want to tell you something beyond that — I must tell somebody! And I know that if I tell you you’ll keep it secret — until, or unless you think you ought to tell it to — the police!”
Purdie started.
“The police!” he exclaimed. “What is it?”
Elsie Bennett turned to a table, and picked up a couple of newspapers.
“Have you read this Praed Street mystery affair?” she asked. “I mean the account of the inquest?”
“Every word — and heard more, besides,” answered Purdie. “That young fellow, Andie Lauriston, is an old schoolmate and friend of mine. I came here yesterday to see him, and found him plunged into this business. Of course, he’s absolutely innocent.”
“Has he been arrested?” asked Elsie, almost eagerly.
“No!” replied Purdie. “He’s gone away — to get evidence that those rings which are such a feature of the case are really his and were his mother’s.”
“Have you noticed these particulars, at the end of the inquest, about the book which was found in the pawnbroker’s parlour?” she went on. “The Spanish manuscript?”
“Said to have been lost by Mr. Levendale in an omnibus,” answered Purdie. “Yes! What of it?”
The girl bent nearer to him.
“It seems a dreadful thing to say,” she whispered, “but I must tell somebody — I can’t, I daren’t keep it to myself any longer! Mr. Levendale isn’t telling the truth about that book!”
Purdie involuntarily glanced at the door — and drew his chair nearer to Elsie’s.
“You’re sure of that?” he whispered. “Just so! Now — in what way?”
“It says here,” answered Elsie, tapping the newspapers with her finger, “that Mr. Levendale lost this book in a ‘bus, which he left at the corner of Chapel Street, and that he was so concerned about the loss that he immediately sent advertisements off to every morning newspaper in London. The last part of that is true — the first part is not true! Mr. Levendale did not lose his book — he did not leave it in the ‘bus! I’m sorry to have to say it — but all that is invention on his part — why, I don’t know.”
