Collected works of j s f.., p.526
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 526
It was Lorrimore who, at the detective’s request, explained to Wing why we had sent for him. The Chinaman nodded a grave assent when reminded of the Salter Quick affair — evidently he knew all about it. And — if one really could detect anything at all in so carefully-veiled a countenance — I thought I detected an increased watchfulness in his eyes when Scarterfield began to ask him questions arising out of what Lorrimore had said.
“There is evidence,” began the detective, “that this man Salter Quick, and his brother Noah Quick, were mixed up in some affair that had connection with a trading steamer, the Elizabeth Robinson, believed to have been lost in the Yellow Sea, between Hong-Kong and Chemulpo, in October 1907. On board that steamer was a certain Chinaman, who, two years later, turned up in London. Now, Dr. Lorrimore tells me that when you and he were in London, some little time ago, you spent a good deal of time amongst your own people in the East End, and that you also visited some of them in Liverpool, Cardiff, and Swansea. So I want to ask you — did you ever hear, in any of these quarters, of a man named Chuh Fen? Here — in London — two years after the Elizabeth Robinson affair — that’s three years back from now.”
The Chinaman moved his head very slightly.
“No,” he answered. “Not in London — nor in England. But I knew a man named Chuh Fen ten, eleven, years ago, before I went to Bombay and entered my present service.”
“Where did you know him?” asked Scarterfield.
“Two — perhaps three places,” said Wing. “Singapore, Penang, perhaps Rangoon, too. I remember him.”
“What was he?”
“A cook — very good cook.”
“Would you be surprised to hear of his being in England three years ago?”
“Not at all. Many Chinamen come here. I myself — why not others? If Chuh Fen came here, three years ago, perhaps he came as cook on some ship trading from China or Burma. Then — go back again.”
“I wonder if he did!” muttered the detective. “Still,” he continued, turning to Wing, “a lot of your people when they come here, stop, don’t they?”
“Many stop in this country,” said Wing.
“Laundry business, eating-houses, groceries, and so on?” suggested Scarterfield. “And chiefly in the places I’ve mentioned, eh? — the East End of London, Liverpool, and the two big Welsh towns? Now, I want to ask you a question. This man I’m talking of, Chuh Fen, was certainly in London three years ago. Are there places and people in London where one could get to hear of him?”
“Where I could get to hear of him — yes,” answered Wing.
“You say — where you could get to hear of him,” remarked Scarterfield. “Does that mean that you would get information which I shouldn’t get?”
The very faintest ghost of a smile showed itself in the wrinkles about the Chinaman’s eyes. He inclined his head a little, politely, and Lorrimore stepped into the arena.
“What Wing means is that being a Chinaman himself, naturally he could get news of a fellow-Chinaman from fellow-Chinamen where you, an Englishman, wouldn’t get any at all!” he said with a laugh. “I dare say that if you, Mr. Scarterfield, went down Limehouse way seeking particulars about Chuh Fen, you’d be met with blank faces and stopped ears.”
“That’s just what I’m suggesting, doctor,” answered the detective, good-humouredly. “I’ll put the thing in a nutshell — my profound belief is that if we want to get at the bottom of these two murders we’ve got to go back a long way, to the Elizabeth Robinson time, and that Chuh Fen is the only person I’ve heard of, up to now, who can throw a light on that episode. And it seems to me, to be plain about it, that Mr. Wing there could be extremely useful.”
“How?” asked Lorrimore. “He’s at your service, I’m sure.”
“Well, by finding out if this Chuh Fen, when he was here, three years since, made any revelations to his Chinese brethren in Limehouse or elsewhere,” replied Scarterfield. “He may have known something about the brothers Quick and concerning that Elizabeth Robinson affair that would help immensely. Any little thing! — a mere scrap of information — just a bit of chance gossip — a hint — you don’t know how valuable these things are. The mere germ of a clue — you know!”
“I know,” said Lorrimore. He turned to his servant and addressed him in some strange tongue in which Wing at once responded: for some minutes they talked together, volubly: then Lorrimore looked round at Scarterfield.
“Wing says that if Chuh Fen was in London three years ago he can engage to find out how long he was here, whence he came and why, and where he went,” he said. “I gather that there’s a sort of freemasonry amongst these men — naturally, they seek each other out in strange lands, and there are places in London and the other parts to which a Chinaman resorts if he happens to land in England. This he can do for you — he’s no doubt of it.”
“There’s another thing,” said Scarterfield. “If Chuh Fen is still in England — as he may be — can he find him?”
Wing’s smooth countenance, on hearing this, showed some sign of animation. Instead of replying to the detective, he again addressed his master in the foreign tongue. Lorrimore nodded and turned to Scarterfield with a slightly cynical smile.
“He says that if Chuh Fen is anywhere in England he can lay hands on him, quickly,” said Lorrimore. “But — he adds that it might not be at all convenient to Chuh Fen to come into the full light of day: Chuh Fen may have reasons of his own for desiring strict privacy.”
“I take you!” said Scarterfield, with a wink. “All right, doctor! If Mr. Wing can unearth Mr. Chuh Fen and that mysterious gentleman can give me a tip, I’ll respect his privacy! So now — do we get at something? Do I understand that your man will help us by trying to find out some particulars of Chuh Fen, or laying hands on Chuh Fen himself? All expenses defrayed, you know,” he went on, turning to Wing, “and a handsome remuneration if it leads to results. And — follow your own plans! I know you Chinamen are smart and deep at this sort of thing!”
“Leave it to him,” said Lorrimore. “To him and to me. If there’s news to be had of this man Chuh Fen, he’ll get it.”
“Then that is something done!” exclaimed Scarterfield, rubbing his hands. “Good! — I like to see even a bit of progress. But now, while I’m here, and while we’re at business — and I hope this young lady doesn’t find it dull business! — there’s another matter. The inspector tells me there have been alarums and excursions about a certain tobacco-box which was found on Salter Quick, that Mr. Cazalette — you, sir, I think — had had various experiments in connection with it, and that the thing has been stolen. Now, I want to know all about that! — who can tell me most?”
Mr. Cazalette was sitting between Miss Raven and myself; I leaned close to him and whispered, feeling that now was the time to bring every known fact to light.
“Tell all — all — you told me just before dinner!” I urged upon him. “Table the whole pack of cards: let us get at something — now!”
He hesitated, looking half-suspiciously from one to the other of those opposite.
“D’ye think I’d be well advised, Middlebrook?” he whispered. “Is it wise policy to show all the cards you’re holding?”
“In this case, yes!” I said. “Tell everything!”
“Well,” he said. “Maybe. But — it’s on your advice, you’ll remember, and I’m not sure this is the time, nor just the company. However—”
So, for the second time that day, Mr. Cazalette told the story of the tobacco-box and of his pocket-book, and produced his photograph. It came as a surprise to all there but myself, and I saw that Mr. Raven in particular was much perturbed by the story of the theft that morning. I knew what he was thinking — the criminal or criminals were much too close at hand. He cut in now and then with a question — but the detective listened in grim, absorbed silence.
“Now, you know, this is really about the most serious and important thing I’ve heard, so far,” he said, when Mr. Cazalette had finished. “Just let’s sum it up. Salter Quick is murdered in a strange and lonely place. Not for his goods, for all his money and his valuables — not inconsiderable — are found on him. But the murderer was in search of something that he believed to be on Salter Quick, for he thoroughly searched his clothing, slashed its linings, turned his pockets out — and probably, no, we may safely say certainly, failed in his search. He did not get what he was after — any more than his fellow-murderer who slew Noah Quick, some hundreds of miles away from here, about the very same time, got what he was after. But now comes in Mr. Cazalette. Mr. Cazalette, inadvertently, never thinking what he was doing, draws public attention to certain marks and scratches, evidently made on purpose, in Salter Quick’s tobacco-box. Do you see my point, gentlemen? The murderer hears of this and says to himself, ‘That box is the thing I want!’ So — he appropriates it, at the inquest! But even then, so faint and almost illegible are the marks within the lid, he doesn’t find exactly what he wants. But he knows that Mr. Cazalette was going to submit his photograph to an enlarging process, which would make the marks clearer; he also knows Mr. Cazalette’s habits (a highly significant fact!) so he sets himself to steal Mr. Cazalette’s pocket-book, theorizing that Mr. Cazalette probably has a copy of the enlarged photograph within it. And, this morning, while Mr. Cazalette is bathing, he gets it! Gentlemen! — what does this show? One thing as a certainty — the murderer is close at hand!”
There was a dead silence — broken at last by a querulous murmur from Mr. Cazalette himself.
“Ye may be as sure o’ that, my man, as that Arthur’s Seat o’erlooks Edinbro’!” he said. “I wish I was as sure o’ his identity!”
“Well, we know something that’s gradually bringing us toward establishing that,” remarked Scarterfield. “Let me see that photograph again, if you please.”
The rest of us watched Scarterfield as he studied the thing over which Mr. Cazalette and I had exercised our brains in the half-hour before dinner. He seemed to get no more information from a long perusal of it than we had got, and he finally threw it away from him across the table, with a muttered exclamation which confessed discomfiture. Miss Raven picked up the photograph.
“Aye!” mumbled Mr. Cazalette. “Let the lassie look at it! Maybe a woman’s brains is more use than a man’s whiles.”
“Often!” said the detective. “And if Miss Raven can make anything of that — —”
I saw that Miss Raven was already wishful to speak, and I hastened to encourage her by throwing a word to Scarterfield.
“You’d be infinitely obliged to her, I’m sure,” I put in. “It would be a help?”
“No slight one!” said he. “There’s something in that diagram. But — what?”
Miss Raven, timid, and a little shy of concentrated attention, laid the photograph again on the table.
“Don’t — don’t you think there may be some explanation of this in what Salter Quick said to Mr. Middlebrook when they met on the cliffs?” she asked. “He told Mr. Middlebrook that he wanted to find a churchyard where there were graves of people named Netherfield, but he didn’t know exactly where it was, though it was somewhere in this locality. Now supposing this is a rough outline of that churchyard? These outer lines may be the wall — then these little marks may show the situation of the Netherfield graves. And that cross in the corner — perhaps there is something buried, hidden, there, which Salter Quick wanted to find?”
The detective uttered a sharp exclamation and snatched up the photograph again.
“Good! Good!” he said. “Upon my word, I shouldn’t wonder! To be sure, that may be it. What’s against it?”
“This,” remarked Mr. Cazalette solemnly. “That there isn’t anybody of the name of Netherfield buried between Alnmouth and Budle Bay! That’s a fact.”
“Established,” added the police-inspector, “by as an exhaustive inquiry as anybody could make. It is a fact — as Mr. Cazalette says.”
“Well,” observed Scarterfield, “but Salter Quick may have been wrong in his locality. You can be sure of this — whatever secret he held was got from somebody else. He may have been twenty, thirty, even fifty miles out. But we know something — the Netherfield who was with him on the Elizabeth Robinson hailed from Blyth, in this county. I’m going to Blyth myself — tomorrow; I’ll find out if there are Netherfields buried about there. Personally, I believe Miss Raven’s hit the nail on the head — this is a rough chart of a spot Salter Quick wanted to find — where, no doubt, something is hidden. What? Who knows? But — judging from the fact that two men have been murdered for the secret of it — something of great value. Buried treasure, no doubt.”
“That’s precisely what I’ve been thinking from the very first,” murmured Mr. Cazalette. “And ye’ll have to go back — to go back, my man!”
“It’s certainly the only way of going forward,” agreed Scarterfield with a laugh. “But now, before we part, gentlemen, let us see where we’ve got to. I, for myself, have drawn five distinct conclusions about this affair:
“First — That the Quicks, Noah and Salter, were in possession of a secret, which was probably connected with their shipmate of the Elizabeth Robinson, Netherfield, who hailed from Blyth;
“Second — That certain men knew the Quicks to be in possession of that secret and murdered both to get hold of it;
“Third — That they failed to get it from either Noah or Salter;
“Fourth — That Mr. Cazalette’s zeal about the tobacco-box, publicly expressed, put the criminals on a new scent, and that they, in pursuance of it, stole both the tobacco-box and Mr. Cazalette’s pocket-book;
“Fifth — That the criminals are — or were very recently, in fact, this very morning — in the vicinity of this place.
“So,” he continued, looking round, “the thing’s narrowing. Let Mr. Wing there help by getting some news of Chuh Fen, if possible; as for me, I’m going to follow up the Netherfield line. I think we shall track these fellows yet — you never know how unexpectedly a clue may turn up.”
“You’ve not said anything about the handkerchief that I found,” observed Mr. Cazalette. “There’s a clue, surely!”
“Difficult to follow up, sir,” replied Scarterfield. “There is such a thing as little articles of that sort being lost at the laundry, put into the wrong basket, and so on. Now if we could trace the owner of the handkerchief and find where he gets his washing done, and a great deal more — you see? But we’ll not lose sight of it, Mr. Cazalette — only, there are more important clues than that to go on in the meantime. The great thing is — what was this precious secret that the Quicks shared, and that certainly had to do with some place here in Northumberland? Let’s get at that — if we can.”
The two police officials went away with Dr. Lorrimore and his servant, all in deep converse, and the four of us who were left behind endeavoured to settle our minds for the repose of the night. But I saw that Mr. Raven had been upset by the recent talk: he had got it firmly fixed in his consciousness that the murderer of Salter Quick was, as it were, in our very midst.
“How do I know that the guilty man mayn’t be one of my own servants?” he muttered, as he, Mr. Cazalette and I took up our candles. “There are six men in the house — all strangers to me — and several employed outside. The idea’s deucedly unpleasant!”
“Ye may put it clear away from you, Raven,” said Mr. Cazalette. “The murderer may be within bow-shot, but he’s none o’ yours. Ye’ll look deeper, far, far deeper than that — this is no ordinary affair, and no ordinary men at the bottom of it.” Then, when he and I had left our host, and were going along one of the upstairs passages towards our own rooms, he added: “No ordinary man, Middlebrook! but you see how ordinary folk are suspicioned! Raven’ll be doubting the bona fides of his own footmen and his own garden lads next. No — no! it’ll be deeper down than that, my lad!”
“The mystery is deep,” I agreed.
“Aye — and I’m wondering if it was well to let yon Chinese fellow into all of it,” he muttered significantly. “I’m no great believer in Orientals, Middlebrook.”
“Lorrimore answers for him,” said I.
“And who answers for Lorrimore?” he demanded. “What do you or I know of Lorrimore? I’m thinking yon Lorrimore was far too glib of his tongue — and maybe I was too ready myself and talked beyond reason to strangers. I don’t know Lorrimore — nor his Chinaman.”
From which I gathered that Mr. Cazalette himself was not superior to suspicions.
CHAPTER XII
NETHERFIELD BAXTER
HOWEVER MR. RAVEN’S nerves may have been wrung by the mysterious events which found place around his recently acquired possessions, nothing untoward or disturbing occurred at Ravensdene Court itself at that time. Indeed, had it not been for what we heard from outside, and for such doings as the visit of the inspector and Scarterfield, the daily life under Mr. Raven’s roof would have been regular and decorous almost to the point of monotony. We were all engaged in our respective avocations — Mr. Cazalette with his coins and medals; I with my books and papers; Mr. Raven with his steward, his gardeners, and his various potterings about the estate; Miss Raven with her flowers and her golf. Certainly there was relaxation — and in taking it, we sorted out each other. Mr. Raven and Mr. Cazalette made common cause of an afternoon; they were of that period of life — despite the gulf of twenty years between them — when lounging in comfortable chairs under old cedar trees on a sunlit lawn is preferable to active exercise; Miss Raven and I being younger, found our diversion in golf and in occasional explorations of the surrounding country. She had a touch of the nomadic instinct in her; so had I; the neighbourhood was new to both; we began to find great pleasure in setting out on some excursion as soon as lunch was over and prolonging our wanderings until the falling shadows warned us that it was time to make for home. What these pilgrimages led to — in more ways than one — will eventually appear.
