Collected works of j s f.., p.548
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 548
“What sort of questions?” inquired Mr. Pawle.
“Oh — as to what sort of young man he was, and if he was a good landlord and so on,” replied Mrs. Summers. “And I purposely told him about the disappearance of thirty-five years ago, just to see what he would say about it.”
“Ah! And what did he say?” asked Mr. Pawle.
“Nothing — except that it was extraordinary how people could disappear in this world,” said Mrs. Summers. “Whether he was interested or not, he didn’t show it.”
“Probably felt that he knew more about it than you did,” chuckled the old solicitor. “Well, ma’am, we’re much obliged to you. Now take my advice and keep to your very excellent plan of saying nothing. Tomorrow morning we will just have a look into certain things, and see if we can discover anything really pertinent, and you shall know what conclusion we come to. Viner!” Pawle went on, when the old landlady had left them alone, “what do you think of this extraordinary story? Upon my word, I think it quite possible that the old lady’s theory might be right, and that Ashton may really have been the missing Lord Marketstoke!”
“You think it probable that a man who was heir to an English earldom and to considerable estates could disappear like that, for so many years, and then reappear?” asked Viner.
“I won’t discuss the probability,” answered Mr. Pawle, “but that it’s possible I should steadily affirm. I’ve known several very extraordinary cases of disappearance. In this particular instance — granting things to be as Mrs. Summers suggests — see how easy the whole thing is. This young man disappears. He goes to a far-off colony under an assumed name. Nobody knows him. It is ten thousand to one against his being recognized by visitors from home. All the advertising in the world will fail to reveal his identity. The only person who knows who he is is himself. And if he refuses to speak — there you are!”
“What surprises me,” remarked Viner, “is that a man who evidently lived a new life for thirty-five years and prospered most successfully in it, should want to return to the old one.”
“Ah, but you never know!” said the old lawyer. “Family feeling, old associations, loss of the old place — eh? As men get older, their thoughts turn fondly to the scenes and memories of their youth, Viner. If Ashton was really the Lord Marketstoke who disappeared, he may have come down here with no other thought than that of just revisiting his old home for sentimental reasons. He may not have had the slightest intention, for instance, of setting up a claim to the title and estates.”
“I don’t understand much about the legal aspect of this,” said Viner, “but I’ve been wondering about it while you and the landlady talked. Supposing Ashton to be the long-lost Lord Marketstoke — could he have established a claim such as you speak of?”
“To be sure!” answered Mr. Pawle. “Had he been able to prove that he was the real Simon pure, he would have stepped into title and estates at once. Didn’t the old lady say that the seventh Earl died intestate? Very well — the holders since his time, that is to say, Charles, who, his brother’s death being presumed, became eighth Earl, and his son, the present holder, would have had to account for everything since the day of the seventh Earl’s death. When the seventh Earl died, his elder son, Lord Marketstoke, ipso facto, stepped into his shoes, and if he were, or is, still alive, he’s in them still. All he had to do, at any moment, after his father’s death, no matter who had come into title and estates, was to step forward and say: ‘Here I am! — now I want my rights!’”
“A queer business altogether!” commented Viner. “But whoever Ashton was, he’s dead. And the thing that concerns me is this: if he really was Earl of Ellingham, do you think that fact’s got anything to do with his murder?”
“That’s just what we want to find out,” answered Mr. Pawle eagerly. “It’s quite conceivable that he may have been murdered by somebody who had a particular interest in keeping him out of his rights. Such things have been known. I want to go into all that. But now here’s another matter. If Ashton really was the missing Lord Marketstoke, who is this girl whom he put forward as his ward, to whom he’s left his considerable fortune, and about whom nobody knows anything? I’ve already told you there isn’t a single paper or document about her that I can discover. Was he really her guardian?”
“Has this anything to do with it?” asked Viner. “Does it come into things?”
Mr. Pawle did not answer for a moment; he appeared to have struck a new vein of thought and to be exploring it deeply.
“In certain events, it would come into it pretty strongly!” he muttered at last. “I’ll tell you why, later on. Now I’m for bed — and first thing after breakfast, in the morning, Viner, we’ll go to work.”
Viner had little idea of what the old solicitor meant as regards going to work; it seemed to him that for all practical purposes they were already in a maze out of which there seemed no easy way. And he was not at all sure of what they were doing when, breakfast being over next morning, Mr. Pawle conducted him across the square to the old four-square churchyard, and for half an hour walked him up one path and down another and in and around the ancient yew-trees and gravestones.
“Do you know what I’ve been looking for, Viner?” asked Mr. Pawle at last as he turned towards the church porch. “I was looking for something, you know.”
“Not the faintest notion!” answered Viner dismally. “I wondered!”
“I was looking,” replied Mr. Pawle with a faint chuckle, “to see if I could find any tombstones or monuments in this churchyard bearing the name Ashton. There isn’t one! I take it from that significant fact that Ashton didn’t come down here to visit the graves of his kindred. But now come into the church — Mrs. Summers told me this morning that there’s a chapel here in which the Cave-Gray family have been interred for two or three centuries. Let’s have a look at it.”
Viner, who had a dilettante love of ancient architecture, was immediately lost in admiration of the fine old structure into which he and his companion presently stepped. He stood staring at the high rood, the fine old rood screen, the beauty of the clustered columns — had he been alone, and on any other occasion, he would have spent the morning in wandering around nave and aisles and transepts. But Mr. Pawle, severely practical, at once made for the northeast chapel; and Viner, after another glance round, was forced to follow him.
“The Ellingham Chapel!” whispered the old solicitor as they passed a fine old stone screen which Viner mentally registered as fifteenth-century. “No end of Cave-Grays laid here. What a profusion of monuments!”
Viner began to examine those monuments as well as the gloom of the November morning and the dark-painted glass of the windows would permit. And before very long he turned to his companion, who was laboriously reading the inscription on a great box-tomb which stood against the north wall.
“I say!” he whispered. “Here’s a curious fact which, in view of what we heard last night, may be of use to us.”
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Pawle.
Viner took him by the elbow and led him over to the south wall, on which was arranged a number of ancient tablets, grouped around a great altar-tomb whereon were set up the painted effigies of a gentleman, his wife, and several sons and daughters, all in ruffs, kneeling one after the other, each growing less in size and stature, in the attitude of prayer. He pointed to the inscription on this, and from it to several of the smaller monuments.
“Look here!” he said. “There are Cave-Grays commemorated here from 1570 until 1820. No end of ’em — men and women. And now, see — there’s a certain Christian name — a woman’s name — which occurs over and over again. There it is — and there — and here — and here — and here again; it’s evidently been a favourite family name among the Cave-Gray women for three hundred years at least. You see what it is? Avice!”
Mr. Pawle peered at the various places to which his companion’s finger pointed.
“Yes,” he answered, “I see it — several times, as you say. Avice! Yes?”
“Miss Wickham’s Christian name is Avice,” said Viner.
Mr. Pawle started.
“God bless me!” he exclaimed. “So it is! I’d forgotten that. Dear me! Now, that’s very odd — too odd, perhaps, to be a coincidence. Very interesting, indeed! Favourite family name without a doubt.”
Viner silently went round the chapel, inspecting every monument its four walls sheltered.
“It occurs just nineteen times,” he announced at last. “Now, is it a coincidence that Miss Wickham’s name should be Avice? Or is it that there’s some connection between her and all these dead and gone Avices?”
“Very strange!” admitted Mr. Pawle. “Viner — we’ll go next and have a look at the parish registers. But look here! Not a word to parson or clerk about our business! We merely wish to make search for a certain legal purpose, eh?”
Three hours later Viner, heartily weary of turning over old registers full of crabbed writing, was glad when Mr. Pawle closed the one on which he was engaged, intimated that he had seen all he wanted, paid the fees for his search, and whispered to his companion that they would go to lunch.
“Well?” asked Viner as they walked across the square to the Ellington Arms. “Have we done anything?”
“Probably!” answered Mr. Pawle. “For you never know how these little matters might help. We’ve established two facts, anyway. One — that there have never been any folk of the name of Ashton in this town since the registers came into being in 1567; the other, that the name Avice was a very favourite one indeed amongst the women of the Cave-Gray family. And there’s just another little fact which I discovered, and said nothing about while the vicar and clerk were about — it may be nothing, and it may be something.”
“What is it?” asked Viner.
“Well,” answered Mr. Pawle pausing a few yards away from the porch of the hotel, and speaking in a confidential voice, “it’s this: In turning up the records of the Cave-Gray family, as far as they are shown in their parish registers, I found that Stephen John Cave-Gray, sixth Earl of Ellingham, married one Georgina Wickham. Now, is that another coincidence? There you get the two names in combination — Avice Wickham. That particular Countess of Ellingham would, of course, be the grandmother of the Lord Marketstoke who disappeared. Did he think of her maiden name, Wickham, when he wanted a new one for himself? Possibly! And when he married, and had a daughter, did he think of the Christian name so popular with his own womenfolk of previous generations, and call his daughter Avice? And are Marketstoke and Wickham and Ashton all one and the same man?”
“Upon my word, it’s a strange muddle!” exclaimed Viner.
“Nothing as yet to what it will be,” remarked Mr. Pawle sententiously. “Come on — I’m famishing. Let’s lunch — and then we’ll go back to town.”
Another surprise awaited them when they walked into Mr. Pawle’s office in Bedford Row at four o’clock that afternoon. A card lay on the old lawyer’s blotting-pad, and after glancing at it, he passed it to Viner.
“See that?” he said. “Now, who on earth is Mr. Armitstead Ashton Armitstead, of Rouendale House, Rawtenstall? Who left this?” he went on, as a clerk entered the room with some letters.
“A gentleman who called at three o’clock, sir,” replied the clerk. “He said he’s travelled specially from Lancashire to see you about the Ashton affair. He’s going to call again, sir. In fact,” concluded the clerk, glancing into the anteroom, “I think he’s here now.”
“Bring him in,” commanded Mr. Pawle. He made a grimace at Viner as the clerk disappeared. “You see how things develop,” he murmured. “What are we going to hear next?”
CHAPTER XI
WHAT HAPPENED IN PARIS
THE MAN WHO presently walked in, a tall, grey-bearded, evidently prosperous person, dressed in the height of fashion, glanced keenly from one to the other of the two men who awaited him.
“Mr. Pawle?” he inquired as he dropped into the chair which the old lawyer silently indicated at the side of his desk. “One of your partners, no doubt!” he added, looking again at Viner.
“No sir,” replied Mr. Pawle. “This is Mr. Viner, who gave evidence in the case you want to see me about. You can speak freely before him. What is it you have to say, Mr. Armitstead?”
“Not, perhaps, very much, but it may be of use,” answered the visitor. “The fact is that, like most folk, I read the accounts of this Ashton murder in the newspapers, and I gave particular attention to what was said by the man Hyde at the inquest the other day. It was what he said in regard to the man whom he alleges he saw leaving Lonsdale Passage that made me come specially to town to see you. I don’t know,” he went on, glancing at the card which still lay on Mr. Pawle’s blotting-pad, “if you know my name at all? I’m a pretty well-known Lancashire manufacturer, and I was a member of Parliament for some years — for the Richdale Valley division. I didn’t put up again at the last General Election.”
Mr. Pawle bowed.
“Just so, Mr. Armitstead,” he answered. “And there’s something you know about this case?”
“I know this,” replied Mr. Armitstead. “I met John Ashton in Paris some weeks ago. We were at the Hotel Bristol together. In fact, we met and introduced ourselves to each other in an odd way. We arrived at the Hotel Bristol at the same time — he from Italy, I from London, and we registered at the same moment. Now, I have a habit of always signing my name in full, Armitstead Ashton Armitstead. I signed first; he followed. He looked at me and smiled. ‘You’ve got one of my names, anyway, sir,’ he remarked. ‘And I see you hail from where I hailed from, many a long year ago.’ ‘Then you’re a Lancashire man?’ I said. ‘I left Lancashire more years ago than I like to think of,’ he answered, with a laugh. And then we got talking, and he told me that he had emigrated to Australia when he was young, and that he was going back to England for the first time. We had more talk during the two or three days that we were at the Bristol together, and we came to the conclusion that we were distantly related — a long way back. But he told me that, as far as he was aware, he had no close relations living, and when I suggested to him that he ought to go down to Lancashire and look up old scenes and old friends, he replied that he’d no intention of doing so — he must, he said, have been completely forgotten in his native place by this time.”
“Did he tell you what his native place was, Mr. Armitstead?” asked Mr. Pawle, who had given Viner two or three expressive glances during the visitor’s story.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Armitstead. “He did — Blackburn. He left it as a very young man.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pawle, “there’s a considerable amount of interest in what you tell us, for Mr. Viner and myself have been making certain inquiries during the last twenty-four hours, and we formed, or nearly formed, a theory which your information upsets. Ashtons of Blackburn? We must go into that. For we particularly want to know who Mr. John Ashton was — there’s a great deal depending on it. Did he tell you more?”
“About himself, no,” replied the visitor, “except that he’d been exceedingly fortunate in Australia, and had made a good deal of money and was going to settle down here in London. He took my address and said he’d write and ask me to dine with him as soon as he got a house to his liking, and he did write, only last week, inviting me to call next time I was in town. Then I saw the accounts of his murder in the papers — a very sad thing!”
“A very mysterious thing!” remarked Mr. Pawle. “I wish we could get some light on it!”
The visitor looked from one man to the other and lowered his voice a little.
“It’s possible I can give you a little,” he said. “That, indeed, is the real reason why I set off to see you this morning. You will remember that Hyde, the man who is charged with the murder, said before the Coroner that as he turned into Lonsdale Passage, he saw coming out of it a tall man in black clothes who was swathed to the very eyes in a big white muffler?”
“Yes!” said Mr. Pawle. “Well?”
“I saw such a man with Ashton in Paris,” answered Mr. Armitstead. “Hyde’s description exactly tallies with what I myself should have said.”
Mr. Pawle looked at his visitor with still more interest and attention.
“Now, that really is of importance!” he exclaimed. “If Hyde saw such a man — as I believe he did — and you saw such a man, then that man must exist, and the facts that you saw him with Ashton, and that Hyde saw him in close proximity to the place where Ashton was murdered, are of the highest consequence. But — you can tell us more, Mr. Armitstead?”
“Unfortunately, very little,” replied the visitor. “What I saw was on the night before I left Paris — after it I never saw Ashton again to speak to. It was late at night. Do you know the Rue Royale? There is at the end of it a well-known restaurant, close to the Place de la Concorde — I was sitting outside this about a quarter to eleven when I saw Ashton and the man I am speaking of pass along the pavement in the direction of the Madeleine. What made me particularly notice the man was the fact that although it was an unusually warm night, he was closely muffled in a big white silk handkerchief. It was swathed about his throat, his chin, his mouth; it reached, in fact, right up to his eyes. An odd thing, on such a warm night — Ashton, who was in evening dress, had his light overcoat thrown well back. He was talking very volubly as they passed me — the other man was listening with evident attention.”
“Would you know the man if you saw him again?” asked Viner.
“I should most certainly know him if I saw him dressed and muffled in the same way,” asserted Mr. Armitstead. “And I believe I could recognize him from his eyes — which, indeed, were all that I could really see of him. He was so muffled, I tell you, that it was impossible to see if he was a clean-shaven man or a bearded man. But I did see his eyes, for he turned them for an instant full on the light of the restaurant. They were unusually dark, full and brilliant — his glance would best be described as flashing. And I should say, from my impression at the time, and from what I remember of his dress, that he was a foreigner — probably an Italian.”
