Collected works of j s f.., p.615
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 615
“Haven’t tried it yet, anyhow,” answered Simmons, drily. “Might have. And all this was — when do you say?”
“Twenty to twenty — three years ago,” replied Swale. “Just before I arrived into this vale of tears!”
“There’ll be plenty of people in Normansholt who’ll remember all three of ’em,” suggested Simmons. “Must be.”
“Lord bless you, old man, no end!” asserted Swale. “Lots! If the landlord had been in here, he’d have been able to tell the tale better than I’ve done — he knew Arradeane well enough. He’d have told it first hand — of course, I can only tell what my father used to tell me.”
“Oh! well, there are a good many queer things in this world,” remarked Simmons. “Hear a lot of ’em in our profession, don’t we?”
“I believe you, old man!” said Mr. Swale, solemnly. “We do! Our profession lends itself to that. Ah! — if people only knew what secrets we lawyers know — eh, what? Have another port, old man?”
“Well, just one,” responded Simmons. “Business to do in the morning, you know.”
He did his business in the morning, had another look round the old town, and then caught the early afternoon train southward. And he went homeward absolutely certain that James Arradeane was James Deane; Mrs. Arradeane, Mrs. Champernowne; and the loafing brother, Mr. Alfred — whose surname seemed to be an unknown quantity.
CHAPTER X. TURN OF THE LADIES
SIMMONS’ NATURALLY ACUTE brain, sharpened by his legal training, was busy enough as he sped towards home. That he had made a discovery he had no manner of doubt. Certain facts were obvious: he began to classify and label them. The man who disappeared so mysteriously from Normansholt was named James Arradeane, and he was a civil engineer by profession. The man found murdered at Southernstowe was named James Deane; and, according to Miss Pretty’s statement, he, too, was a civil engineer. The Mrs. Arradeane of Normansholt had a brother who lived with her and was a loafer: Mrs. Champernowne of Southernstowe also had a brother who lived with her and was a loafer — and looked as if he had never been anything else. As far as Simmons could reckon things up from the story given him by his new friend Swilford Swale, the Mr. and Mrs. Arradeane of Normansholt would now be about the apparent age of Mr. Deane, now deceased, and Mrs. Champernowne, still living. Was James Deane the same person as James Arradeane? Was Mrs. Champernowne Mrs. Arradeane? Simmons was disposed to answer both questions in the affirmative.
From the very beginning of the Southernstowe murder mystery he had kept himself posted in every detail, and now, as he journeyed south, he began to remember things which, at this first hearing, had not seemed very significant, but now, in the light of what he had accidentally discovered at Normansholt, seemed very significant indeed.
He began to consider some of them as he sat in a comfortable corner of the dining car. In his pocket he had a quantity of cuttings, snipped out of the local paper, all relating to the Deane murder. He got them out and turned to the report of the adjourned inquest. Belling of the Chancellor Hotel had given evidence at that. Belling’s evidence was very full; the coroner on one hand, and Shelmore (representing Miss Pretty) on the other, had extricated from him everything he could remember about his two conversations with the murdered man: Simmons now went carefully through the questions and replies. And, out of them, one fact was clearly and unmistakably to the surface — when Deane went to the picture house that fatal Monday night, he then saw Mrs. Champernowne. That was proved by the fact that when he went back to the Chancellor he asked Belling who she was, and subsequently talked to Belling about her and her office. Now then, asked Simmons of himself — did Deane, or, as he now believed him to be, Arradeane, recognise in Mrs. Champernowne the wife from whom he had run away at Normansholt some twenty years before?
Simmons thought that this was really what had happened. And if it was, it explained a good deal. It seemed to him that what subsequently took place that night was something like this — Deane, or Arradeane, after retiring for the night, suddenly took it into his head to go and see Mrs. Champernowne there and then; got up, late as it was, and went. And out of that rose more questions than one. Did Deane see Mrs. Champernowne? If so — where, and at what time? What did he want to see her about? That last question sent Simmons back to his newspaper cuttings: again he turned to Belling’s evidence. Ah! — there were two or three significant questions and answers.
“What did you tell him about Mrs. Champernowne?”
“Oh — just that she was Mayor of Southernstow, and a very clever woman — very successful business woman, too, just what everybody would have told a stranger about a notable person in the city — gossip!”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I did mention that it was rumoured that Mrs. Champernowne was believed to be engaged, or about to be engaged to be married to Sir Reville Childerstone!”
That last reply seemed to Simmons to be one of great importance — he wondered how it was the coroner and his jury appeared from what followed to have paid no attention to it. But there, of course, they did not know and had no suspicion of what he, Simmons, knew. Knowing what he knew, that Deane was in all probability Arradeane and Mrs. Champernowne Mrs. Arradeane, he now saw a reason for the secret visit to her. Deane probably wanted to let her know that he was still alive, and that she was running the risk of committing bigamy.
But — the murder? Who shot Deane that night? Did Mrs. Champernowne? Did Mr. Alfred? Or were both as innocent as he was, and did Deane, as Mellapont evidently thought, fall into the hands of a gang of loafers, camping out in that sand pit, after the fair that had been held that day? That there were queer and desperate characters likely to be hanging about that night, Simmons knew well enough, and it was a plausible theory to think that Deane had fallen a victim to such folk. But, knowing what he now believed himself to know, it seemed to him that there was ground — solid ground — for suspicion about Mrs. Champernowne. Simmons was an observant young person who watched people and thought about what he saw. He believed that Mrs. Champernowne was a woman of great social ambitions. No doubt she wanted to be Lady Childerstone of Childerstone Park. And, if she was really Mrs. Arradeane and Arradeane’s life stood between her and the social status she wanted, and she had the chance of ridding herself of that obstacle, unsuspected — eh?
At this stage of thought, however, Simmons suddenly remembered something which perplexed him. He had been present at several interviews between Miss Pretty and Shelmore; he had heard other conversations between them through the convenient crevice in the partition wall. He remembered now that Shelmore, wanting to be fully posted in all the details of the case, had asked Miss Pretty several questions about Deane. Miss Pretty’s answers amounted to this — that Deane, accompanied by his wife, had come to Cornwall some years previously, looking out for an industrial concern in which to invest money; that he had gone into partnership with Miss Pretty’s father in a tin mine; that Mr. and Mrs. Pretty were dead, and had left Deane the guardianship of their daughter; that Mrs. Deane was also dead and finally, that, as far as Miss Pretty knew, Deane had no relations and had always told her that he hadn’t.
This brought Simmons up against a brick wall — to use his own simile. If Deane was Arradeane who left a Mrs. Arradeane behind him at Normansholt, who was the Mrs. Deane who accompanied him to Camborne?
“That’s a stiff one!” mused Simmons. “There may be more in that little matter than I think for! What do the French say — Cherchez la femme! The devil of it is, in this case, where’s one to begin the search?”
Then, with a sure instinct, he thought of Miss Pretty. After all, she was the only person handy, who knew anything about Deane’s life and doings at Camborne. Some of it she knew of her own knowledge; some of it she would have heard from Deane’s own lips. Miss Pretty was the person to approach and he decided to approach her.
In common with most youths of his own age, Simmons spent his evenings out of doors. Sometimes he looked in at the club: sometimes he played billiards at one or other of the various licensed houses: sometimes he dropped into the Chancellor for an hour’s gossip with anybody who happened to be there. No one, accordingly, who saw Simmons walk into the Chancellor one evening soon after his return home could have deduced from that that he was after anything particular: they would merely have thought that he was loafing round as most young men, shop assistants, clerks and the like did of an evening. But on this occasion Simmons, instead of walking into the billiard room or the bar parlour, turned into a little snuggery in the middle of the ground floor, through the open door of which he could command a view of the door of the coffee room. No one was in it at that moment, and he sat there alone, smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of port and watching. He waited until the hotel guests, then dining, began to leave the coffee room; watched until he saw Miss Pretty come out and go up the old oak stair. And then Simmons got hold of the chambermaid, Mary Sanders, who was passing his open door, and beckoned her inside the snuggery.
“I say!” he whispered, with a wink. “I want to see Miss Pretty — business, you know. Just go up and tell her that Mr. Hackdale of Mr. Shelmore’s is here and wants a few words with her — there’s a dear!”
Mary Sanders went upstairs; vanished in the shadows of the corridor; reappeared and motioned Simmons to advance. She took him to Miss Pretty’s private sitting room, showed him in, and closed the door on his bowing form. Miss Pretty, in an easy chair by the fire, a book in her hand, stared at him. She had, of course, seen Simmons many a time at Shelmore’s office, and always wondered why his hair was so red, his eyes so closely set together, and his nose so sharp. But realising that his very appearance indicated news, she asked him to sit down. Simmons sat down, set his hat on his knees, laced his bony thin fingers over its cover, and regarded Miss Pretty as a fox might regard a rabbit hole, wondering if he was going to get anything out if it.
“Yes?” said Miss Pretty. “Got a message from Mr. Shelmore?”
“Er — no,” replied Simmons. “This is a private call, Miss Pretty — on my own, eh? You’ll oblige me by considering anything I’ve got to say as strictly private and confidential, I’m sure?” He leaned forward, across his hat, and sank his voice. “Miss Pretty!” he continued, “you’re very anxious to find out who murdered your guardian?”
“Well?” said Miss Pretty.
“It’s a difficult case,” said Simmons, certainly. “A very difficult case. A clue is hard to find — I don’t think Mellapont’s got the ghost of one.”
“Have you?” demanded Miss Pretty.
Simmons lifted a hand and stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“I should not be averse to earning the reward you’ve offered,” he answered. “I have my own way to make in the world. Miss Pretty, and the money would help me in the career I’ve mapped out for myself. Miss Pretty, will you do me the favour to treat this interview as absolutely confidential, and to answer one or two questions that I want to put to you?”
“If my answers — and silence — will help you to find out who killed my guardian, yes!” said Miss Pretty.
“I shouldn’t ask for either silence or answers, if I hadn’t that object in view,” replied Simmons. “Well, Miss Pretty, you no doubt won’t understand my questions, but believe me, they’re distinct. Now, first — do you remember Mr. Deane’s wife, who, I understand, has been dead some years?”
“Remember Mrs. Deane?” exclaimed Miss Pretty. “Why, of course! I knew her all my life, till she died.”
“Was she of the same age as Mr. Deane? Or thereabouts?” asked Simmons.
“No — much younger. Ten or twelve years younger.”
“Was he very fond of her?”
“Passionately! It was a terrible trouble to him when she died. I remember that well enough,” said Miss Pretty. “I was fifteen then.”
“You don’t remember them coming to your part of the country?” asked Simmons.
“Oh, dear no! But I’ve heard my mother — and father — talk about it. Mrs. Deane was a bride. They’d just been married.”
“Could you tell me the exact date of their coming to Camborne, Miss Pretty? — the year, at any rate?”
“I could — by referring to my business books, at home.”
“One more question, then, Miss Pretty. Do you know what Mrs. Deane’s name was, before her marriage?”
“I do!” replied Miss Pretty, promptly. “Mrs. Deane was a great reader and had a lot of books, chiefly poetry. When she died, Mr. Deane gave them to me. I have one of them here, which I slipped in my bag when I left home. There’s the name — on the fly — leaf.”
She picked up a slim, evidently well — thumbed volume from amongst a pile of books and magazines on the table at her side and passed it across to her visitor. And Simmons looked — and committed a name to memory.
“Nora Le Geyt,” he said, musingly. “Um — sounds like an actress’s name, that, Miss Pretty.”
“Clever of you!” remarked Miss Pretty. “Mrs. Deane had been an actress! But — beyond her husband — nobody in our part knew that but me. She was very fond of me when I was a little girl, and I used to spend a lot of time at their house, which was close by ours. Mrs. Deane used to recite to me sometimes, and when I got older I began to wonder about her. And once, not so very long before she died — she died suddenly — I said to her one day that I thought she must have been an actress at some time or other. And then she told me that she had been on the stage before she married Mr. Deane, but she didn’t want anybody about there to know of it, because Cornish people are very strait — laced, and regard the theatre as a haunt of the devil. But pray what’s all this got to do with my guardian’s murder?”
Simmons raised a deprecating hand. “You must excuse me, Miss Pretty!” he said, beseechingly. “We lawyers are forced to cultivate — and to insist on — secrecy. Be patient with me, Miss Pretty! I’ll not attempt to conceal from you that I’ve a motive — vague, shapeless as yet, but undeniably there — about Mr. Deane’s sad fate, and I’ll work at it — yes, I’ll work at it, I assure you!”
“You’ve something worth working for!” observed Miss Pretty, in her driest manner. “You put your hands on the man who killed my guardian and get him arrested and hanged, and there’ll be three thousand pounds cash for you, Mr. Simmons. And you don’t pick that up every day!”
Simmons was well aware of that, so he went away from Miss Pretty more than ever resolved to get at the bottom of the mystery. He cudgelled his brains night and day to hit on fresh plans and new manoeuvres. And on the next Sunday evening he got a brilliant idea. Like most young men in Southernstowe Simmons regarded church attendance as an excellent means of seeing the young women of the place and of forming the acquaintance of attractive ones. Happening on this particular Sunday evening to drop in at St. Gregory’s where the best music in Southernstowe was to be heard, he noticed, in an adjacent seat, Mrs. Champernowne’s demure parlourmaid, Jane Pratt, and remembered that in other days (once he had attended an elementary school), Jane had been one of his fellow pupils. Jane, or Jennie, as Simmons knew her, was not so pretty as she was demure, and Simmons had made up his mind to lay siege to her long before the service came to an end. He waylaid her at the porch, and after a little badinage in the churchyard suggested that he should take her for a walk, and, as Miss Pratt had no other young man in hand just then, and as Mr. Simmons was, if not a full fledged lawyer, at heart a half fledged one, and on Sundays ore a black tailed coat, a silk hat, and lemon — coloured kid gloves, she consented. Under the light of a waning moon, and in the privacy of a quiet lane that led to Ashenhurst House, Mr. Simmons and Miss Pratt became pleasantly confidential, and got on very well together — so much so that by the end of their walk they were arm-in-arm. But suddenly Miss Pratt screamed, shrinking closer to her escort’s side. She pointed at a fringe of bushes and stunted trees.
“Oh! I never noticed where we were going!” she said. “That’s the sand pit! — Where the murdered man was found!”
“All right!” answered Mr. Simmons, with a manly arm round Miss Pratt’s slender waist. “No need to fear ghosts or anything else, when I’m about. Queer business that, wasn’t it? And so near your house, what?”
“Yes,” said Miss Pratt, recovering her usual equanimity. “Wasn’t it? You know — I couldn’t tell you if you weren’t a lawyer, but I know lawyers never let out secrets — I’ve wondered a good deal about something I saw that Monday night. I saw Mrs. Champernowne talking to a man in our grounds at twelve o’clock! Fact! I thought it was Sir Reville Childerstone, bringing her home, but it wasn’t. It was a stranger, and I’ve wondered—”
Simmons drew Miss Pratt to a full stop. A long and whispered conversation took place between them. It ended by his telling Miss Pratt that “Mum was the word — mum” — and they parted with a mutual understanding. Simmons went homeward something more than elated; from what he had heard he was now dead certain that Deane and Mrs. Champernowne had met on the night of the murder.
CHAPTER XI. THE GOLD WATCH
SIMMONS WENT HOME that night fully convinced that the secret of Deane’s murder rested with Mrs. Champernowne. He was already sure beyond doubt that Deane was Arradeane, once of Normansholt; that Mrs. Champernowne was Mrs. Arradeane; that Mr. Alfred was the loafing, idle brother. There were all sorts of surmises arising out of this. Perhaps Mrs. Champernowne shot Deane with her own hand: it was not at all unlikely. Perhaps Mr. Alfred shot him — that was less likely, but still possible. Perhaps some camper out, a derelict from the fair, shot him and robbed him — to Simmons that was a very insignificant detail in comparison with the fact that, so nearly as he could reckon things up, Arradeane had seen and recognised his wife at the picture house, and had subsequently had an interview with her in her own garden. Husband and wife had met! — that was a fact. As to what happened after their meeting, Simmons was yet in the dark, though he meant to emerge into the light. But already he had another surmise, and it grew with every hour — grew until it became an obsession. Did his brother, John Hackdale, know anything of Mrs. Champernowne’s secret? Was he privy to the fact that the murdered man had met Mrs. Champernowne on the night of his death? In short, was John conversant with the things that had gone on behind the rail, which so far neither policeman nor civilians had managed to penetrate?
