Collected works of j s f.., p.618
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 618
Mellapont rose quickly from his seat.
“I shall oppose any application for bail, your worship ,” he said. “There may be a graver charge arising out of this. I shall strongly oppose any such application!”
“I have no knowledge of what is in Superintendent Mellapont’s mind,” remarked Shelmore. “‘I shall certainly make my application when I have finished I what I am going to say. Your lordships! — I propose, at the wish of both defendants, to tell you the full story as to their acquisition and possession of these valuables. They are both quite aware that they have done wrong in yielding to a sudden temptation, and they have nothing to offer in extenuation, though each has a right — which can be exercised afterwards — of bringing forward evidence as to previous good character. Now as to the factor — it will be within the recollection of your worships — it is indeed common knowledge — that very recently a Mr. James Deane, of Camborne, in Cornwall, came to stay at the Chancellor Hotel in Southernstowe; that he left the hotel, mysteriously, about midnight, on the night of his arrival; and that his dead body was discovered, two days later, in a disused sand pit on the northern edge of the town. It has been believed up to now that Mr. Deane, at the time of his death, had a quantity of valuable jewellery and a large sum of money on him, and that he was murdered for it — that, in fact, when he went out of the hotel that night, he carried his money and his valuables with him. Now, in plain truth, he didn’t — Mr. Deane’s ready money, a very large sum, and his valuables are all in possession of the two defendants before you, and I am prepared, by their instructions, to hand them over to the police as soon as this court rises!”
Amid the murmur of irrepressible excitement caused by this announcement, Shelmore went on quietly.
“I am instructed to tell your worships precisely what happened!” he said. “About eleven o’clock on the night in question, Mary Sanders took to Mr. Deane’s room a glass of hot milk. Mr. Deane was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, reading. Mary Sanders saw on his dressing table his gold watch and chain, his diamond pin and rings, some more money and a purse. Mr. Deane told her to bring him in some tea at seven o’clock next morning. She did so. On then entering his room she found he was not there. But on the dressing table still lay the valuables and money she had seen the night before. She had thought Mr. Deane had gone out of the room for awhile and went away. But later, when she found he had not returned, she thought he had gone for a walk before breakfast. Still later, when there was no sign of him, she removed the money, valuables and purse from the dressing table, and placed them under Mr. Deane’s clothing in a drawer in the room, intending to tell him of what she had done when he returned. But Mr. Deane never did return. Eventually, news of the discovery of Mr. Deane’s body reached the Chancellor. Mary Sanders heard of it, and of course she remembered what she had done with the valuables and money. And — she told Kight about that! Immediately afterwards Kight and Mary Sanders were questioned by Superintendent Mellapont, and they made out from what they then learned, and from the talk which went on — your lordships know how these things are talked about — that the police were firmly under the impression that Deane had his money in his pocket, his rings on his fingers, and his valuable diamond pin in his cravat when he went out of the hotel, and was murdered for the sake of them. And thereupon — I am not endeavouring to exculpate them, nor do they now wish to exculpate themselves — thereupon they yielded to temptation and decided to appropriate these properties. Mary Sanders took the various articles from the drawer in which she had hidden them, and handed them to Kight: Kight took them away and placed them in a secret receptacle of his own. As time went on, they felt themselves safe, and the day before yesterday, having a holiday together in Portsmouth, they decided to take the watch there and sell it — with the result that they are now...where they are. This is the plain truth about the whole matter as far as my clients are concerned. Superintendent Mellapont has thrown out some hint about a graver charge — he can only be referring to one thing, the murder of Mr. Deane. My clients, your worships, know nothing whatever about that. Both can easily prove that on the night on which that murder undoubtedly took place they were at the Chancellor Hotel, and never went outside its doors. As I have already said, I am instructed to plead guilty on their behalf to the present charge: I am also in a position to hand over to the police, at once, all the missing property other than the watch, which they already hold. The prisoners will have to be committed to Quarter Sessions for sentence, and I venture to suggest in view of their confession their willingness to make amends, and their undoubtedly previous good character, that it is not unwarrantable to ask your worships to grant bail.”
“I oppose all questions of bail,” said Mellapont firmly. “I ask your worships not to consider it at all at present, but instead to remand the accused in custody for a week from today.”
Mellapont got his way. All the same, within an hour, Shelmore walked into the superintendent’s private office at the police station with a brown paper parcel in his hand. Removing the paper he laid an old cigar box before Mellapont.
“According to Kight,” he said, “all the stolen property is in there. He gave me full information as to where it was, and instructions to hand it over to you. See what’s inside.”
Mellapont, saying nothing, opened the box and removed some layers of paper which lay on the top This revealed the diamond pin, the two rings, some loose money, and an old fashioned purse. Within the purse was a quantity of bank-notes, which Mellapont immediately began to count.
“Two hundred and thirty-five pounds,” he remarked. “A good deal to carry!”
“He was going on the continent,” said Shelmore. “Well — that’s all I can do!” He paused, looking enquiringly at Mellapont. “Do you seriously think there’s any possibility of carrying any further charge against these two?” he asked.
“There are certain things to be considered,” answered Mellapont. “To start with, just remember that Sanders told us lies when she was asked about this affair at first. She said that when she took the tea in that morning, the money and jewellery which she’d seen on the dressing table the night before were not there. Now she says — they were! That’s not in her favour! Besides — there’s a more serious thing than that.”
“What?” asked Shelmore.
Mellapont gave him a keen, almost cynical look.
“How do I know that these two hadn’t an accomplice?” he asked. “What about that idea. Eh?”
“You were—” began Shelmore, and stopped. “Don’t quite understand,” he went on. “You mean — in what respect?”
“How do I know that they hadn’t an accomplice who followed Deane from the hotel, knowing he’d left all this lying about, and murdered him?” answered Mellapont. “It’s possible.”
“That would make it appear that the whole affair was a carefully arranged job,” said Shelmore.
“Well, and why not?” asked Mellapont. “It’s all very well, Mr. Shelmore, but I want to get a complete solution of this thing! I don’t say Kight and Sanders murdered Deane, or that they conspired with some other person to murder him, but I do say that it’s possible they did the last, and that it would be a very foolish thing to let ’em out on bail until we know more. This murder is a very mysterious one, and though I’ve worked hard at it, I’ve got no clue, no indicative, nothing — unless,” he added, with a laugh which seemed to indicate doubt and scepticism, “unless something that I’ve got is a clue — which it probably isn’t!”
“What’s that?” asked Shelmore.
“Well, I’ll show you,” answered Mellapont “In confidence — between ourselves. I’ve never mentioned it to a soul, never shown it to anybody. It was this way — the day after the discovery of Deane’s body, I went up to that sand pit alone. I had a very careful look round, to see if I could discover anything. Now, that sand pit, as you may be aware, having been a very long time disused, has become thickly overgrown with stiff wiry grass, on which it’s scarcely possible to make any impression — that’s why we failed to find any really important or useful trace of footprints. But amongst the bushes in the grass, close by where Deane’s body was lying when discovered, I found — this!”
He had drawn a pocket — book from his tunic as he spoke, and now, from an inner compartment, he produced a small object which he balanced on his finger.
“See that?” he said. “Know what it is? It’s the enamelled face of a cuff — link! It’s been set on a base of gold and silver, or some other metal, worked loose, and then dropped in that sand pit. Now, it didn’t come off the victim’s cuff — links as his were plain gold. But — did it come off the murderer’s?”
“If you could discover that—” said Shelmore.
“Aye, if!” answered Mellapont. “If — if! Well, who knows? But at present, Mr. Shelmore, as regards the actual murder, we’re still where we were. This morning’s proceedings don’t help a bit! The question’s still there — who killed James Deane...and why?”
John Hackdale had come to the same conclusion before he left the court, and his anxiety about Bartlett and his potentialities for harm deepened. He forced his way to Bartlett through the crowd as the Court cleared, and laid a hand on his arm. Bartlett scowled and shook himself free.
“You leave me alone, Hackdale,” he whispered officiously. “Not at your beck and call, my lad!”
“You had money of me!” retorted Hackdale in a similar tone. “Money—”
“That I’d earned!” said Bartlett, maliciously. “Go and tell everybody why you gave it to me — if you dare!”
Then he moved forward in the crush of people, and Hackdale turned away baffled. He was unaware that Simmons was just behind him and had witnessed this encounter; unaware, too, that Simmons’ sharp ears had overheard Bartlett’s last peering defiance.
CHAPTER XIV. WHICH GOLD MINE?
BARTLETT HAD BEEN quietly watching John Hackdale during the Court proceedings, and had observed the anxiety with which he followed every development. It seemed to him that Hackdale was relieved when it was proved that Kight and his fellow — defendant had become possessed of the watch: anxious and perturbed again when the explanation of their trip was given by Shelmore; still more perturbed, even to badly concealed agitation, when Shelmore said, in reference to Mellapont’s scarcely veiled hint of a future charge, that it could easily be proved that the two prisoners never quitted the Chancellor Hotel on the night of the murder. Bartlett knew, or feared that he knew, what was passing in Hackdale’s mind. If it was certain that Kight and Sanders, though guilty of the theft of Deane’s money and valuables, were absolutely innocent of his murder, then the original question was still to be asked — who killed James Deane? Bartlett believed that John Hackdale either knew the answer to that question or had a strong suspicion as to what the answer might be: he was shielding somebody — himself or some other person; hence his anxiety. And Bartlett had also seen that anxiety deepen as he flung his defiant retort at him outside the Court — there was no doubt about it, he said to himself as he walked off. John Hackdale was frightened, frightened of him, frightened of what he could tell. Very well then, said Bartlett, with another sneer, the thing to do was obvious; he must consider how best to turn this fear to his own account, his own benefit.
He had meant to return to Portsmouth after the proceedings in the magistrates’ court, but now, after some further thought, he turned away from the railway station, and making for the eastern outskirts of the city, sought a quiet tavern where he was known, and engaged a room for a day or two, telling its landlady that he had a little business in the neighbourhood and wanted peaceful and comfortable quarters. The landlady, struck by his altered and smart appearance, his evident handsome supply of ready money, and his generally changed manner, made him welcome, and at his suggestion cooked him a hot dinner, which she served to him in a private parlour. Bartlett, who had breakfasted very early at Portsmouth, did full justice to it, and took his time over it, and his allowance of rum when it was finished. And while he ate and drank and afterwards sipped his rum-punch and smoked his pipe, he emulated the habits of great generals, and considered and elaborated his future plan of campaign. Underneath all his thinking, speculating, contriving, designing, lay a basic question which he formulated as of vast importance. This question: “Which woman was he most likely to extract most money out of? Miss Pretty or Mrs. Champernowne? In other words, which policy would pay him best — to go for Miss Pretty’s remaining rewards, or to blackmail Mrs. Champernowne?”
He thought out these things carefully, slowly. First, as regards Miss Pretty. He had already got the reward of a thousand pounds which she had offered for information about the jewellery: Miss Pretty had given him a cheque for the full amount as soon as she, he, and the jeweller had seen Mellapont, the day before, and Bartlett had returned to Portsmouth with it and opened a banking account, and had left the bank feeling several inches taller than when he entered. Yes — that had come easily enough — and all by a stroke of sheer luck. Miss Pretty had parted with her money readily — she was a young woman of her word. But...would it be as easy to get more money out of her? She had offered a similar reward to anybody who could prove that he or she had seen Deane on the night of the murder — well, to be sure, he, Bartlett, had seen him and spoken to him — another rare piece of luck for him, that; the original piece of luck — but...how could he prove it? That was impossible — impossible, at any rate, to prove it to Miss Pretty. In spite of the readiness with which she had given him her cheque for the first reward, Bartlett had seen several little things in Miss Pretty which convinced him that she was a smart and keen young woman of business, who would want much more than his mere uncorroborated assertion that he had seen and had speech with Deane. True, he could bring proof in this way: he could say “I met Deane — he asked me the whereabouts of Mrs. Champernowne’s residence. Ashenhurst House, I told him; he went that way; later on I told John Hackdale of this occurrence; Hackdale gave me a considerable sum of money, which I believe he got from Mrs. Champernowne, to go to America so that no one could question me, and promised a similar sum on my reaching America — that’s corroborative evidence of the truth of my assertion.” But that would cut into another matter — and he dismissed it. He dismissed also the idea of going in for the third and most considerable a — reward, the one of three thousand pounds for definite information that would lead to the arrest and conviction of Deane’s actual murderer. Bartlett, whatever suspicion he might have about some doubtful business between Deane and Mrs. Champernowne and Mrs. Champernowne and Hackdale, hadn’t the ghost of a notion as to who killed James Deane, and saw no possibility of ever getting at one: it was a mystery which, in his opinion, would forever remain a mystery. No — he saw no chance of the third reward, nor of the second; Miss Pretty as a gold mine, a treasure house, a milch cow, was, accordingly, exhausted, worked out, dried up. Well...anyway, he had got a thousand of the best out of her.
And...there was Mrs. Champernowne. Mrs. Champernowne was a rich, a very rich woman. She rolled in money — so those people said who were in a position to know. And she was a person of very great importance — a big figure, socially, publicly, politically; big in divers ways. She was Mayor of Southernstowe. She was a governor of the Hospital of St. Peter and St. Paul. She was chairman of the Trustees of Auberon’s Charity. She was president of the Southernstowe Women’s Conservative Association. Heaven knew what she wasn’t in that sort of thing, mused Bartlett. And she was going to marry Sir Reville Childerstone, of Childerstone Park, and blossom out as My Lady. That was a big, a very big thing: Sir Reville was none of your modern mushroom men, not he — he was the fifteenth baronet, and long before his ancestors attained the dignity of the Bloody Hand, they had been settled at Childerstone for centuries. Clearly, Mrs. Champernowne — Lady Childerstone that was to be — was surely the very person to pay a good price for keeping her name out of — should he say, scandal?
Bartlett kept very quiet all that afternoon, and the landlady of the quiet inn, who had known him in the old days as a man greatly given to liquor, was surprised to find that he had become quite abstemious, and had taken to drinking a dish of tea at five o’clock. He went out for a little stroll in the neighbouring lanes thereafter, and, on returning, asked for pen, ink, and paper. A good clerk in his time, Bartlett prided himself on writing a beautiful hand, and he took particular pains in inditing the following epistle:
“The Waggoner’s Rest,
“Wednesday evening.
“Sir,
“It would probably be to the best interest of everybody concerned if you would call upon me in my private apartment at the above mentioned house at any hour of tonight which is most convenient to yourself.
“Your obedient servant,
“James Bartlett.”
Addressing this precise and formal communication to Mr. John Hackdale, 23 St. Sigfrid’s Square, Bartlett handed it over, with half-a-crown, to the landlady’s boy for immediate delivery, and then sat down to await the result. But he was sure that Hackdale would come, and at seven o’clock he came. It would have been well for Hackdale if he had been able to confront Bartlett with even an assumption of indifference, if not of determination. But Bartlett was quick to note the old air of anxiety. Hackdale looked at him, as soon as he entered the room, as a nervous man might look at a strange animal which may or may not suddenly spring on him. He replied to Bartlett’s polite greeting with a mere nod, and taking the chair which he indicated, spoke — almost sullenly.
