Collected works of j s f.., p.545
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 545
Viner, who was sitting opposite to her, looked at Miss Wickham.
“You must know something about his daily life?” he said. “What did he do with himself?”
“We told you and the police-inspector pretty nearly all we know, last night,” replied Miss Wickham. “As a rule, he used to go out of a morning — I think, from his conversation, he used to go down to the City. I don’t think it was on business: I think, he liked to look about him. Sometimes he came home to lunch; sometimes he didn’t. Very often in the afternoon he took us for motor-rides into the country — sometimes he took us to the theatres. He used to go out a good deal, alone at night — we don’t know where.”
“Did he ever mention any club?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No, never!” replied Miss Wickham. “He was reticent about himself — always very kind and thoughtful and considerate for Mrs. Killenhall and myself, but he was a reserved man.”
“Did he ever have any one to see him?” inquired the solicitor. “Any men to dine, or anything of that sort?”
“No — not once. No one has ever even called on him,” said Miss Wickham. “We have had two or three dinner-parties, but the people who came were friends of mine — two or three girls whom I knew at school, who are now married and live in London.”
“A lonely sort of man!” commented Mr. Pawle. “Yet — he must have known people. Where did he go when he went into the City? Where did he go at night? There must be somebody somewhere who can tell more about him. I think it will be well if I ask for information through the newspapers.”
“There is one matter we haven’t mentioned,” said Mrs. Killenhall. “Just after we got settled down here, Mr. Ashton went away for some days — three or four days. That, of course, may be quite insignificant.”
“Do you know where he went?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No, we don’t know,” answered Mrs. Killenhall. “He went away one Monday morning, saying that now everything was in order we could spare him for a few days. He returned on the following Thursday or Friday, — I forget which, — but he didn’t tell us where he had been.”
“You don’t think any of the servants would know?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“Oh, dear me, no!” replied Mrs. Killenhall. “He was the sort of man who rarely speaks to his servants — except when he wanted something.”
Mr. Pawle looked at his watch and rose.
“Well!” he said. “We shall have to find out more about my late client’s habits and whom he knew in London. There may have been a motive for this murder of which we know nothing. Are you coming, Mr. Viner? I should like a word with you!”
Viner, too, had risen; he looked at Miss Wickham.
“I hope my aunt called on you this morning?” he asked. “I was coming with her, but I had to go round to the police-station.”
“She did call, and she was very kind indeed, thank you,” said Miss Wickham. “I hope she’ll come again.”
“We shall both be glad to do anything,” said Viner. “Please don’t hesitate about sending round for me if there’s anything at all I can do.” He followed Mr. Pawle into the square, and turned him towards his own house. “Come and lunch with me,” he said. “We can talk over this at our leisure.”
“Thank you — I will,” answered Mr. Pawle. “Very pleased. Between you and me, Mr. Viner, this is a very queer business. I’m quite prepared to believe the story that young fellow Hyde tells. I wish he’d told it straight out in court. But you must see that he’s in a very dangerous position — very dangerous indeed! The police, of course, won’t credit a word of his tale — not they! They’ve got a strong prima facie case against him, and they’ll follow it up for all they’re worth. The real thing to do, if you’re to save him, is to find the real murderer. And to do that, you’ll need all your wits! If one only had some theory!”
Viner introduced Mr. Pawle to Miss Penkridge with the remark that she was something of an authority in mysteries, and as soon as they had sat down to lunch, told her of Langton Hyde and his statement.
“Just so!” said Miss Penkridge dryly. “That’s much more likely to be the real truth than that this lad killed Ashton. There’s a great deal more in this murder than is on the surface, and I dare say Mr. Pawle agrees with me.”
“I dare say I do,” assented Mr. Pawle. “The difficulty is — how to penetrate into the thick cloak of mystery.”
“When I was round there, at Number Seven, this morning,” observed Miss Penkridge, “those two talked very freely to me about Mr. Ashton. Now, there’s one thing struck me at once — there must be men in London who knew him. He couldn’t go out and about, as he evidently did, without meeting men. Even if it wasn’t in business, he’d meet men somewhere. And if I were you, I should invite men who knew him to come forward and tell what they know.”
“It shall be done — very good advice, ma’am,” said Mr. Pawle.
“And there’s another thing,” said Miss Penkridge. “I should find out what can be told about Mr. Ashton where he came from. I believe you can get telegraphic information from Australia within a few hours. Why not go to the expense — when there’s so much at stake? Depend upon it, the real secret of this murder lies back in the past — perhaps the far past.”
“That too shall be done,” agreed Mr. Pawle. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right.”
“In my opinion,” remarked Miss Penkridge, dryly, “the robbing of this dead man was all a blind. Robbery wasn’t the motive. Murder was the thing in view! And why? It may have been revenge. It may be that Ashton had to be got out of the way. And I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that isn’t at the bottom of it, which is at the top and bottom of pretty nearly everything!”
“And that, ma’am?” asked Mr. Pawle, who evidently admired Miss Penkridge’s shrewd observations, “that is what, now?”
“Money!” said Miss Penkridge. “Money!”
The old solicitor went away, promising to get to work on the lines suggested by Miss Penkridge, and next day he telephoned to Viner asking him to go down to his offices in Bedford Row. Viner hurried off, and on arriving found Mr. Pawle with a cablegram before him.
“I sent a pretty long message to Melbourne, to Ashton’s old bankers, as soon as I left you yesterday,” he said. “I gave them the news of his murder, and asked for certain information. Here’s their answer. I rang you up as soon as I got it.”
Viner read the cablegram carefully:
Deeply regret news. Ashton well known here thirty years dealer in real estate. Respected, wealthy. Quiet man, bachelor. Have made inquiries in quarters likely to know. Cannot trace anything about friend named Wickham. Ashton was away from Melbourne, up country, four years, some years ago. May have known Wickham then. Ashton left here end July, by Maraquibo, for London. Was accompanied by two friends Fosdick and Stephens. Please inform if can do more.
“What do you think of that?” asked Mr. Pawle. “Not much in it, is there?”
“There’s the mention of two men who might know something of Ashton’s habits,” said Viner. “If Fosdick and Stephens are still in England and were Ashton’s friends, one would naturally conclude that he’d seen them sometimes. Yet we haven’t heard of their ever going to his house.”
“We can be quite certain that they never did — from what the two ladies say,” remarked Mr. Pawle. “Perhaps they don’t live in London. I’ll advertise for both. But now, here’s another matter. I asked these people if they could tell me anything about Wickham, the father of this girl to whom Ashton’s left his very considerable fortune. Well, you see, they can’t. Now, it’s a very curious thing, but Miss Wickham has no papers, has, in fact, nothing whatever to prove her identity. Nor have I. Ashton left nothing of that sort. I know no more, and she knows no more, than what he told both of us — that her father died when she was a mere child, her mother already being dead, that the father left her in Ashton’s guardianship, and that Ashton, after sending her here to school, eventually came and took her to live with him. There isn’t a single document really to show who she is, who her father was, or anything about her family.”
“Is that very important?” asked Viner.
“It’s decidedly odd!” said Mr. Pawle. “This affair seems to be getting more mysterious than ever.”
“What’s to be done next?” inquired Viner.
“Well, the newspapers are always very good about that,” answered the solicitor. “I’m getting them to insert paragraphs asking the two men, Fosdick and Stephens, to come forward and tell us if they’ve seen anything of Ashton since he came to England; I’m also asking if anybody can tell us where Ashton was when he went away from home on that visit that Mrs. Killenhall spoke of. If—”
Just then a clerk came into Mr. Pawle’s room, and bending down to him, whispered a few words which evidently occasioned him great surprise.
“At once!” he said. “Bring them straight in, Parkinson. God bless me!” he exclaimed, turning to Viner. “Here are the two men in question — Fosdick and Stephens! Saw our name in the paper as Ashton’s solicitors and want to see me urgently.”
CHAPTER VII
WHAT WAS THE SECRET?
THE TWO MEN who were presently ushered in were typical Colonials — big, hefty fellows as yet in early middle age, alert, evidently prosperous, if their attire and appointments were anything to go by, and each was obviously deeply interested in the occasion of his visit to Mr. Pawle. Two pairs of quick eyes took in the old solicitor and his companion, and the elder of the men came forward in a businesslike manner.
“Mr. Pawle, I understand?” he said. “I’m Mr. Fosdick, of Melbourne, Victoria; this is my friend Mr. Stephens, same place.”
“Take a seat, Mr. Fosdick — have this chair, Mr. Stephens,” responded Mr. Pawle. “You wish to see me — on business?”
“That’s so,” answered Fosdick as the two men seated themselves by the solicitor’s desk. “We saw your name in the newspapers this morning in connection with the murder of John Ashton. Now, we knew John Ashton — he was a Melbourne man, too — and we can tell something about him. So we came to you instead of the police. Because, Mr. Pawle, what we can tell is maybe more a matter for a lawyer than for a policeman. It’s mysterious.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pawle, “I’ll be frank with you. I recognized your names as soon as my clerk announced them. Here’s a cablegram which I have just received from Melbourne — you’ll see your names mentioned in it.”
The two callers bent over the cablegram, and Fosdick looked up and nodded.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “We came over with John Ashton in the Maraquibo. We knew him pretty well before that — most folk in Melbourne did. But of course, we were thrown into his company on board ship rather more than we’d ever been before. And we very much regret to hear of what’s happened to him.”
“You say there is something you can tell?” observed Mr. Pawle. “If it’s anything that will help to solve the mystery of this murder, — for there is a mystery, — I shall be very glad to hear it.”
Fosdick and Stephens glanced at each other and then at Viner, who sat a little in Mr. Pawle’s rear.
“Partner of yours?” asked Fosdick.
“Not at all! This gentleman,” replied Mr. Pawle, “is Mr. Viner. It was he who found Ashton’s dead body. They were neighbours.”
“Well, you found the body of a very worthy man, sir,” remarked Fosdick gravely. “And we’d like to do something toward finding the man who killed him. For we don’t think it was this young fellow who’s charged with it, nor that robbery was the motive. We think John Ashton was — removed. Put out of the way!”
“Why, now?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Fosdick. “My friend Stephens, here, is a man of few words; he credits me with more talkativeness than he’ll lay claim to. So I’m to tell the tale. There mayn’t be much in it, and there may be a lot. We think there’s a big lot! But this is what it comes to: Ashton was a close man, a reserved man. However, one night, when the three of us were having a quiet cigar in a corner of the smoking saloon in the Maraquibo, he opened out to us a bit. We’d been talking about getting over to England — we’d all three emigrated, you’ll understand, when we were very young — and the talk ran on what we’d do. Fosdick and Stephens, d’ye see, were only on a visit, — which is just coming to an end, Mr. Pawle; we sail home in a day or two, — but Ashton was turning home for good. And he said to us, in a sort of burst of confidence, that he’d have plenty to do when he landed. He said that he was in possession — sole possession — of a most extraordinary secret, the revelation of which would affect one of the first families in England, and he was going to bring it out as soon as he’d got settled down in London. Well — you may be surprised, but — that’s all.”
“All you can tell?” exclaimed Mr. Pawle.
“All! But we can see plenty in it,” said Fosdick. “Our notion is that Ashton was murdered by somebody who didn’t want that secret to come out. Now, you see if events don’t prove we’re right.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pawle, “allow me to ask you a few questions.”
“Many as you please, sir,” assented Fosdick. “We’ll answer anything.”
“He didn’t tell you what the secret was?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“No. He said we’d know more about it in time,” replied Fosdick. “It would possibly lead to legal proceedings, he said — in that case, it would be one of the most celebrated cases ever known.”
“And romantic,” added Stephens, speaking for the first time. “Romantic! That was the term he used.”
“And romantic — quite so,” assented Fosdick. “Celebrated and romantic — those were the words. But in any case, he said, whether it got to law matters or not, it couldn’t fail to be in the papers, and we should read all about it in due time.”
“And you know no more than that?” inquired Mr. Pawle.
“Nothing!” said Fosdick with decision.
Mr. Pawle looked at Viner as if to seek some inspiration. And Viner took up the work of examination.
“Do you know anything of Mr. Ashton’s movements since he came to London?” he asked.
“Next to nothing,” replied Fosdick. “Ashton left the Maraquibo at Naples, and came overland — he wanted to put in a day or two in Rome and a day or two in Paris. We came round by sea to Tilbury. Then Stephens and I separated — he went to see his people in Scotland, and I went to mine in Lancashire. We met — Stephens and I — in London here last week. And we saw Ashton for just a few minutes, down in the City.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Pawle. “You have seen him, then! Did anything happen?”
“You mean relating to what he’d told us?” said Fosdick. “Well, no more than I asked him sort of jokingly, how the secret was. And he said it was just about to come out, and we must watch the papers.”
“There was a remark he made,” observed Stephens. “He said it would be of just as much interest, perhaps of far more, to our Colonial papers as to the English.”
“Yes — he said that,” agreed Fosdick. “He knew, you see, that we were just about setting off home.”
“He didn’t ask you to his house?” inquired Mr. Pawle.
“That was mentioned, but we couldn’t fix dates,” replied Fosdick. “However, we told him we were both coming over again on business, next year, and we’d come and see him then.”
Mr. Pawle spread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.
“We’re as wise as ever,” he exclaimed.
“No,” said Fosdick emphatically, “wiser! The man had a secret, affecting powerful interests. Many a man’s been put away for having a secret.”
Mr. Pawle put his finger-tips together and looked thoughtfully at his elder visitor.
“Well, there’s a good deal in that,” he said at last. “Now, while you’re here, perhaps you can tell me something else about Ashton. How long have you known him?”
“Ever since we were lads,” answered Fosdick readily. “He was a grown man, then, though. Stephens and I are about forty — Ashton was sixty.”
“You’ve always known of him as a townsman of Melbourne?”
“That’s so. We were taken out there when we were about ten or twelve — Ashton lived near where we settled down. He was a speculator in property — made his money in buying and selling lots.”
“Was he well known?”
“Everybody knew Ashton.”
“Did you ever know of his having a friend named Wickham?” inquired Mr. Pawle with a side-glance at Viner. “Think carefully, now!”
But Fosdick shook his head, and Stephens shook his.
“Never heard the name,” said Fosdick.
“Did you ever hear Ashton mention the name!” asked Mr. Pawle.
“Never!”
“Never heard him mention it on board ship — when he was coming home?”
“No — never!”
“Well,” said Mr. Pawle, “I happen to know that Ashton, some years ago, had a very particular friend named Wickham, out in Australia.”
A sudden light came into Fosdick’s keen grey-blue eyes.
“Ah,” he said. “I can tell how that may be. A good many years ago, when we were just familiar enough with Melbourne to know certain people in it, I remember that Ashton was away up country for some time — as that cablegram says. Most likely he knew this Wickham then. Is that the Wickham mentioned there?”
“It is,” assented Mr. Pawle, “and I want to know who he was.”
“Glad to set any inquiries going for you when we get back,” said Fosdick. “We sail in two days.”
“Gentlemen,” answered Mr. Pawle gravely, “it takes, I believe, five or six weeks to reach Australia. By the time you get there, this unfortunate fellow Hyde, who’s charged with the murder of Ashton, on evidence that is quite sufficient to satisfy an average British jury, will probably have been tried, convicted and hanged. No! I’m afraid we must act at once if we’re to help him, as Mr. Viner here is very anxious to do. And there’s something you can do. The coroner’s inquest is to be held tomorrow. Go there and volunteer the evidence you’ve just told us! It mayn’t do a scrap of good — but it will introduce an element of doubt into the case against Hyde, and that will benefit him.”
