Collected works of j s f.., p.623
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 623
He took the police station on his way to the office, judging it best to see the superintendent before he saw Simmons. Closeted with Mellapont, and armed with the notes he had taken, he disclosed everything that Jane Pratt had told him the night before. Mellapont’s obvious amazement increased as the story went on.
“Do you think that’s all true?” he asked, as Shelmore made an end. “That the girl wasn’t — well, exaggerating if not inventing? She admitted that she came to you out of jealousy. Now a jealous woman — eh?”
“I’ve no hesitation in saying that I consider her an absolutely credible witness,” said Shelmore. “I don’t think she was either inventing or exaggerating. I think that the finding of the revolver last night made her reflect more seriously — in addition to her jealousy about my clerk, she got the feeling that things were getting — well, a bit too hot.”
“You’ve thought a good deal about it since last night, no doubt?” suggested Mellapont. “Weighed it up, of course?”
“I’ve thought about nothing else,” replied Shelmore, grimly.
“Well? — what do you make of it?” asked Mellapont.
Shelmore shook his head. But the gesture denoted not so much perplexity as a certain regret that the necessity for coming to a conclusion should have arisen.
“I don’t think there can be any doubt that in some way or another, Mrs. Champernowne has been and is mixed up in the affair,” he answered. “If you remember, Mellapont, when you and I first made enquiries at the Chancellor, Belling told us that when Deane returned from the picture house that night — the night of his arrival here, and, as far as we know of his murder—”
“From the medical evidence, it was the night of his murder,” interrupted Mellapont. “The medical men agreed that he’d been dead forty — eight hours or thereabouts when John Hackdale found the body that Wednesday evening.”
“Very well — on the night of his murder, then,” continued Shelmore. “You remember, anyway, that Belling told us that on his return from the picture house, Deane asked him questions about Mrs. Champernowne. How do we know that he hadn’t recognised Mrs. Champernowne as somebody he knew?”
“But he asked Belling — to begin with — who she was?” said Mellapont. “He didn’t know who she was until Belling told him. I remember that — distinctly.”
“That may have been a blind,” remarked Shelmore. “He may have known well enough who she was, and yet have wanted, for reasons of his own, not to let it be known that he knew. What he probably wanted was information about her status in Southernstowe. What more likely than that he should preface his questioning of Belling by asking who the lady was who seemed to be a person of some consequence? I think Deane knew Mrs. Champernowne. And I think it was Deane who was with Mrs. Champernowne in her grounds that night.”
“If we only knew that for certain,” said Mellapont. “If!”
“It seems to me to fit in,” said Shelmore. “Anyway, we do know that Deane, evidently acting on some sudden impulse, left the Chancellor and went out. It must have been Deane that this girl saw! But after that — ah! There are missing links, of course — always are! Can they be supplied?”
“That episode can — and will have to — be gone into,” remarked Mellapont. “For instance, if it comes to further questioning the girl, I should ask her more about her mistress’s movements that night, after she’d been seen with this man in the grounds — did she go into the house soon after Jane Pratt saw her with him, or did she stay out any time longer? Important, that! But what I’m most curious about, Shelmore, is the Hackdale — Bartlett cheque incident. Hackdale and Bartlett have an interview with Mrs. Champernowne. She’s seen to write out a cheque and hand it to Hackdale. Now if Hackdale had been alone, I shouldn’t have thought much of it. But Bartlett was with him. Presumably, the cheque was for the two of them. Why? Bartlett is a sly fellow — unprincipled! And this puts me in mind of something — up to very recently Bartlett was in very low water, very low water indeed. He was hanging about the city — why, as a matter of fact, he was glad to go errands, or hold a horse! He was thankful for a shilling. He disappeared suddenly — and then all of a sudden, he turns up with information about that watch and he’s well dressed, smart, was very smart, as you may have observed: good clothes, linen, boots, hat. Where did he get his money? Strikes me, Shelmore, Bartlett probably knows a damned lot.”
“Do you know where he is — now?” asked Shelmore.
“I do, fortunately,” answered Mellapont. “He’s living in Portsmouth, and I have his address. I told him he’d have to be in attendance when Kight and Sanders are brought up again, and he told me where he was staying, quite willingly. I shall be on to Bartlett, he knows something! But now — this clerk of yours, young Sim? What’s he after?”
“The reward which Miss Pretty so foolishly offered,” replied Shelmore. “He’s greedy about money! That’s his notion — the reward!”
“Aye!” said Mellapont. “But — are you sure! Looks to me as if the young ferret was quietly gathering all the information he could for — another purpose.”
“What?” asked Shelmore.
Mellapont gave his caller a knowing look.
“Mrs. Champernowne’s a very wealthy woman, Shelmore,” he said. “She’s wealthier than Miss Pretty, I guess! There’s such a thing as — blackmail!”
Shelmore started. He had not thought of that. “Maybe,” he said. “He’s — unprincipled.”
“You haven’t said anything to him since seeing Jane Pratt?” asked Mellapont. “You haven’t? — that’s good. Look here, let’s meet craft with craft. Do you think you could get Master Simmons clean out of the town, at once, within an hour or two, for a couple of days?”
“Why?” asked Shelmore, in surprise.
“So as to prevent him from communicating with anybody, Jane Pratt and Miss Pretty in particular, while I get to work,” answered Mellapont. “Advisable, I assure you!”
“I could,” said Shelmore, after a moment’s reflection. “Yes — I can send him away at once, to London, on business that’ll keep him there a day or two — three, if you like.”
“Two will do,” said Mellapont. “Get him off at once until day after tomorrow. In the meantime—” he gave his caller a significant glance, “-in the meantime, I’ll make some enquiries that’ll help me to be better fitted to encounter him than we are now! You’ll be careful, of course, not to let him know that you’ve heard anything?”
“Oh, of course!” said Shelmore. “I’ve an excellent excuse for sending him away — excellent! He’ll think it’s all in the way of business.”
He rose to go, and Mellapont rose, too. But ere they reached the door, the superintendent suddenly pointed to the chair which Shelmore had left.
“Just sit down again for five minutes, Shelmore,” he said. “I’ve an idea! I won’t keep you longer — less, perhaps.”
He left the room, and within the five minutes was back again, looking unusually grave.
“I say,” he said, in a low voice, coming up to Shelmore’s side. “I’ve just found out something that’s a bit — well, both serious and significant. You know that anybody who wants to keep fire-arms nowadays have not only to take out a license but to get police permission?”
“Of course!” replied Shelmore.
“Well, I’ve just looked over our register,” continued Mellapont. “I find that Mrs. Champernowne has a revolver. So has John Hackdale.”
Shelmore reflected a moment in silence.
“Yes,” he said at last, “but if — if either she or he did — what we know was done, it’s not at all likely that the revolver used in doing it would be thrown away in that orchard! Is it, now?”
“Quite true, it isn’t! — You’re right there,” agreed Mellapont. “However, get that clerk of yours out of the way while I make some enquiries. You don’t know what he’ll be getting his nose into if he stops about here — I don’t want him in the town just now.”
Shelmore went away to his office. He was not exactly clear in his own mind as to why Mellapont wanted to clear Simmons out of Southernstowe for forty-eight hours, but the proposal fitted in with his own inclinations; somehow or other, he scarcely knew why, he had just then no great liking for his clerk’s company. And as soon as he had gone through his letters he turned on Simmons, intent on getting him off at once.
“Hackdale! — you can leave all that for me to attend to; that, and everything else,” he said. “There’s something I want you to do. You know that property we’re negotiating about on behalf of Major Hampole?”
“The Dorsetshire property?” answered Simmons. “Yes?”
“I’m not at all satisfied about the reports we’ve had of it,” continued Shelmore. “I’d like to have it personally inspected. I want you to go off at once — this morning — and have a thorough look over it. You can catch the eleven twenty — eight, can’t you? — that’ll enable you to get the twelve — fourteen for Dorchester at Portsmouth.”
Simmons glanced at his watch.
“Oh, yes, I can catch that,” he answered. “Plenty of time. No time to see much this afternoon, though. It’s a four or five hours’ run to Dorchester.”
“Of course not!” agreed Shelmore. “You’ll get down there today, and look round tomorrow and the following morning. I’ll write a cheque for your expenses. There’s no need to get home tomorrow — I want you to make a thorough inspection of that farm. See what state of repair it is in as regards buildings, fences, roads, and all that — the letters about it are vague. Keep your eyes open to everything about it — Major Hampole will be calling in a few days, and I want to be able to tell him the precise facts about the condition of the property he’s proposing to buy.”
“I understand.” answered Simmons. “I’ll see to it.”
He presently took the cheque which Shelmore wrote out and went away to cash it at the neighbouring bank, and to hurry to his rooms and pack a bag. He had no objection to a mission of this sort; it meant staying at a good hotel, eating and drinking of the best, seeing new places and new people, and generally having a good time. True, he had an appointment with Miss Pretty for that evening, but he would send her a wire from Portsmouth saying that he was called away on business for a day or two; as for his other plots and plans they must wait until he came back. With every intention of enjoying himself on the liberal amount of expense money in his pocket, he went off to the station and bought his ticket.
Five minutes later Simmons wished that he hadn’t bought a ticket at all — or that he had only taken one to Portsmouth instead of booking right through to Dorchester. This wish came into existence by his looking out of the window of his compartment at the very last moment, in quest of a newspaper boy. There was no newspaper boy handy — but Simmons saw and recognised a man who had evidently just left the train — a London to Portsmouth express — and who was giving the porter instructions about his suitcase. A well — fed, rosy — cheeked, substantial — looking man, with a professional air: a stranger, observant people would have said, by the way he looked about him, and the questions he was asking. But Simmons knew him — and muttered his name in accents of anxious wonder. Mr. Palsford, solicitor, of Normansholt! — head of the firm on which he, Simmons, had waited recently, at the time when Swilford Swale told him the mysterious story of Arradeane and his disappearance. Palsford, of course! — no mistaking him. What was he doing there — in Southernstowe?
But Simmons’ ready wit supplied the answer to the question as soon as it was asked. The dispute between Sir Reville Childerstone and his tenant at Normansholt was still going on; it was indeed more of a dispute than ever; Palsford had probably thought it well, on behalf of his client, to come and see Shelmore personally about it. For that Simmons cared nothing: Palsford, or his partner, or his clerks could come to Southernstowe and jaw about legal matters as much as ever they liked for all it mattered to him. But Palsford was a Normansholt man; Palsford would know all about the Arradeane case of many years ago. Supposing, while he was in Southernstowe, he saw Mrs. Champernowne, who was always a good deal about the town, and recognised her as Mrs. Arradeane? — a not unlikely thing? What would happen? — Where would he, Simmons, be? — where would his rapidly-maturing schemes of personal profit get to? What had seemed half-an-hour ago a bit of luck now seemed a misfortune. He ought to be on the spot — ready for any eventuality.
But — he had not gone far. Nor did he go far. He left the train at Portsmouth, and instead of catching the twelve — fourteen to Dorchester, went to an hotel and lunched. He thought, and thought — and could not decide what to do. Eventually he decided to stay in Portsmouth for the night, and to consider matters more deeply. Dining early in the evening at his hotel, he subsequently went out for the theatre. And going theatre-ward, Simmons got a further shock. There, on the other side of the street, he saw Bartlett — in company with Superintendent Mellapont.
CHAPTER XX. COIL WITHIN COIL
THE COMFORTABLE AND prosperous looking gentleman whom Simmons Hackdale had recognised as Mr. Palsford, solicitor, of Normansholt, having made due enquiry at Southernstowe railway station as to the best hotel in the place, left his luggage to be sent on there, and walked slowly away into the streets. In so small a town he had little difficulty in finding the office he wanted, and before Simmons had travelled half way to Portsmouth, Mr. Palsford was climbing the stairs which the clerk had so lately descended. He opened the door of the anteroom in which Simmons usually sat, and finding it empty, rapped on the table: Shelmore poked his head out of the inner office.
“Mr. Palsford, of Normansholt!” announced the caller, with a bland smile. “Mr. Shelmore, I presume?”
Shelmore looked his surprise and hastened to get his fellow-solicitor inside.
“My clerk’s away for the time being,” he remarked, as he drew forward an easy chair. “I only run one at present, Mr. Palsford — early days. But what brings you into these parts?”
“I had business in London,” replied Palsford, with a benign smile. “And I thought, when it was over, that being within sixty miles of your interesting city, I would kill three birds with one stone, Mr. Shelmore. The first — I would see Southernstowe, which I have often heard of and never seen. The second — this affair between your client, Sir Reville Childerstone, and my client, his tenant. The third — possibly — I say possibly — the most important of the three.”
“And what’s that?” asked Shelmore.
Palsford, with an enigmatic smile playing about his lips, produced a long cigarette holder, a cigarette case, and a box of matches. He continued to smile while adjusting a cigarette to the holder; he was still smiling when he had lighted the cigarette and puffed at it a little. There was something sly, confidential, and humorous about the smile, and Shelmore began to be inquisitive.
“You are a Southernstowe man, Mr. Shelmore?” suggested Palsford. “Native?”
“I am!” admitted Shelmore. “Born and bred here.”
“Then you know everybody. Do you know a lady here who calls herself Mrs. Champernowne?”
Shelmore stared in astonishment.
“Calls herself’?” he exclaimed. “That implies — but yes, certainly I know Mrs. Champernowne! Who doesn’t? She’s Mayor of Southernstowe, a very smart and capable business woman; and very wealthy. What about her?”
Palsford smiled again, and producing a pocket book, drew from amongst a quantity of papers a cutting which he laid on Shelmore’s desk. Shelmore found himself looking at a reproduced picture of Mrs. Champernowne, beneath which were a few lines of print.
“That she?” asked Palsford, laconically.
“To be sure!” said Shelmore. “A recent photograph!”
“Very good!” remarked Palsford. “Mrs. Champernowne, Mayor of Southernstowe. But I knew that lady as — somebody else!”
Shelmore started again. His eyes grew incredulous. But Palsford only smiled.
“As — somebody else!” he repeated. “I knew her as a Mrs. Arradeane, she lived in my own town some twenty years ago. I have no more doubt that Mrs. Champernowne of Southernstowe and Mrs. Arradeane late of Normansholt are one and the same person than I have that that is the eminently graceful spire of Southernstowe Cathedral which I see through your window!”
Shelmore was feeling as a man might feel who has been brought nose-close to a curtain which is just about to be drawn up. What lay behind? Before he could speak, Palsford went on, tapping the scrap of paper.
“I happened to pick that up on my wife’s table,” he said. “I mean the paper. I cut it from — a fashionable society paper. You see, Shelmore, what it announces beneath the picture? — that Mrs. Champernowne is shortly to marry Sir Reville Childerstone — your client. Is that so?”
“That is so — oh, yes!” assented Shelmore.
Palsford waved his cigarette holder.
“All right.” he said. “But — if she’s the woman I’m confident she is — she can’t marry Sir Reville Childerstone nor any other man. That’s flat!”
“Why?” asked Shelmore.
“Because her husband’s alive!” answered Palsford drily. “That’s why.”
“You mean that — that, if Mrs. Champernowne is really Mrs. Arradeane, there’s some man named Arradeane, her husband, actually alive?” asked Shelmore. “That it?”
“Some man? A man! — the man!” said Palsford. “James Arradeane, the husband of the woman I knew as Mrs. Arradeane, and whom I believe to be identical with your Mrs. Champernowne is, I tell you, alive. Or,” he suddenly added, “he was, four months ago! — and I haven’t heard of his death.”
