Collected works of j s f.., p.660
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 660
“Did he go?” asked Richard.
It was the first time he had opened his lips since Vandelius began his story, and the tone in which he asked this apparently simple question was quiet enough. But in reality he was conscious that he was now about to hear the truth, and under his stolid demeanour his nerves were tense with anxiety.
“He went!” replied Vandelius. “He saw Henry Marchmont. Henry Marchmont was iron! Obdurate, adamant, immovable! He refused to have anything to do with Lansdale. He delivered to Lansdale an ultimatum. If Lansdale wished to clear himself of the matter of twenty-five years ago let him repair to the town whence he fled, and do it there — publicly! Otherwise, he, Henry Marchmont, would take it upon himself to let the financial world know that Lansdale, the now successful, was identical with Land, the defaulter! A hard man! — implacable!”
“Well?” asked Richard.
“Lansdale leaves Henry Marchmont. Lansdale goes away, much upset. He feels that Henry Marchmont is unjust, harsh, for he, Lansdale, did not cheat or rob anybody — he was the victim of circumstance as much as the people who employed his services. He returns to his hotel. He is very unhappy! He feels broken; he could shed tears. And at that stage in walks Vandelius! Vandelius is a man of vast human sympathies — Lansdale, earlier in the day, has told Vandelius of the unfortunate rencontre with Henry Marchmont, and of the proposed interview, and Vandelius has now come to hear how the interview went off. Lansdale tells him — tells him, moreover, that he fears — yes, fears! — that Henry Marchmont will denounce him! — yes, perhaps to the police! What is to be done? For both Vandelius and Lansdale must consider this great deal, this stupendous affair, papers relating to which are on the way, may arrive in a few days, next day, perhaps are already in the postman’s wallet, awaiting delivery! It is frightful; it is nerve-destroying; something must be done. They talk — quickly! Finally, it seems to Vandelius that the thing to do is to remove Lansdale to a place of safety where nothing can occur to prevent him from attaching his necessary signature to those arriving papers. It is done! — Vandelius carries Lansdale away!”
“To Malbourne Manor,” remarked Richard in his driest tones. “Just so, Mr. Vandelius! And next day you got Miss Lansdale here!”
“By a little, quite kindly ruse,” smiled Vandelius. “In her own interests — and her father’s.”
“Don’t think it was very kind to tell her that her father was ill,” said Richard. “That — —”
“My good young gentleman, her father was ill!” retorted Vandelius. “He was very poorly indeed for several days — so upset had he been by your uncle’s manner towards him. He is not well now, but he has every comfort and attention — so has his daughter. And I am doing all I can to clear him of any suspicion. Vandelius acts! Figure to yourself, Mr. Marchmont, my predicament! The very day after I carry Lansdale away to this quiet country retreat, I hear that your uncle, the Henry Marchmont we have talked of, has been found murdered! — must have been murdered very soon after Lansdale left him — and that suspicion has already fallen upon Lansdale, of whom Henry Marchmont has told his managing clerk! What a state of things; what a mess! I spring into action! — I move! — I instruct friend Crench here to offer a reward, a big reward — by finding the real murderer we will clear Lansdale. Get the right man, and all suspicion against the wrong one falls flat!”
“Has Mr. Crench had any luck? — any response?” asked Richard.
The solicitor shook his head.
“Not a letter, not a word!” he replied. “Nothing has turned up yet.”
“But it is early,” remarked Vandelius hastily. “There must be somebody; there must be something. And I am going to send down to this town of the long ago — Clayminster, eh? — to have that matter cleared up — Lansdale must be set right!”
Richard rose to his feet.
“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Vandelius,” he said. “I shall respect your confidence, of course. Now I want to know if I may see Mr. Lansdale and his daughter?”
He was conscious of a murmur of disapproval from Crench, and a restless movement on the part of Garner as he made this request, but Vandelius showed no sign of any intention to refuse it. On the contrary he nodded his assent.
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t see any reason why you should not, Mr. Marchmont. It seems to me that we are what you call all in the same boat — you don’t believe that Lansdale murdered your uncle, and you are anxious to establish his innocence, and so am I, so there is a common purpose between us — —”
“Mr. Marchmont has promised not to tell anything of what has passed between you and him, sir,” interrupted Crench, “but there’s no bond of secrecy entered into as regards what might pass between him and Lansdale. Mr. Marchmont, to my knowledge, is in close touch with a Scotland Yard man, Liversedge. Now — —”
Before Crench could say more, and as Richard was on the point of interrupting him, a sudden knock at the door prefaced the entrance of the man who had arrested and catechised him in the park, and who now inquired in a low voice if he might speak to Mr. Garner. Garner left the room with him; he was scarcely over the threshold when he looked in again, and hurriedly asked Vandelius and the solicitor to step outside. That some event of a probably important nature had happened, Richard felt sure from the expression on Garner’s face; what it might be he could only guess at. Perhaps the papers of which Vandelius spoke had arrived; perhaps some information had come for Crench; perhaps . . .
It suddenly struck him that the three men were a long time in coming back; several minutes had gone by, several more went, and still he had the room to himself. At last the door opened, and the man who had called Garner out came in again, alone.
“Mr. Vandelius sends you his compliments, sir,” he said in tones which were now as polite as formerly they had been menacing, “and regrets that he cannot see you again this evening, nor introduce you to Mr. Lansdale, owing to important business. He will be much obliged if you will tell me where you can be found in Malbourne, so that he can communicate with you to-morrow morning.”
“I am staying at the Malbourne Arms,” said Richard. He saw that there was nothing else to be done, and no other answer to be given. “How do I get out?” he went on. “Not, of course, as I came in!”
He said this with a smile, but the man to whom he spoke looked as if he never smiled. He answered that a servant would show the way; and led Richard to a footman who presently let him out of the house, and told him how to pass through the lodge at the end of the great drive. And without further adventure Richard went away, and returned to the hotel, greatly to the delight of Scarfe, who was hanging restlessly about the portals, and in due time he retired to bed, more satisfied in mind than he had been for many days. He half-expected to dream of moats and ruins and all the rest of it, but he dreamt of nothing, and was sound asleep when a loud knocking on his door preluded his sudden waking in a grey dawn to see Liversedge standing at his bedside.
XIV. Through the Lady’s Maid
RICHARD, LIKE MOST men who spend the greater part of life in open-air pursuits, was a sound sleeper, and not apt to awake very readily. But he awoke speedily enough at sight of the detective and his wits came to him with surprising readiness.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed as he struggled out of his blankets. “What are you doing here?”
“I might have asked that question of you, Mr. Marchmont, a few hours ago,” replied Liversedge, with a laugh. “But I’ve the advantage of you! — I know why you’re here.”
“How did you find out I was here?” asked Richard.
“Heard of it from the curious gentleman up at the Manor,” answered the detective. He crossed over to the window, drew up the blinds, and returning, perched himself at a corner of the bed. “Strange man, that, Mr. Marchmont, very strange!”
“You mean Vandelius?”
“Nobody else! — oddest chap I’ve come across of late, if ever!”
“So you’ve been at the Manor?”
“Been there all night! — that is, since just before midnight, until an hour ago. Three of us. The other two are up there now — I came down to see you.”
Richard got out of bed and consulted his watch. Nearly seven o’clock. He rang the bell.
“I suppose you’ve got a tale to tell, Liversedge,” he remarked as he got into a dressing-gown. “We’ll have some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea for me,” said the detective. “Weakness for tea of a morning — and I’ve had a stiff night. Yes,” he went on when Richard had ordered tea from the chambermaid who answered his summons, “I’ve some rather interesting news to give you. But — how came you to strike this place, Mr. Marchmont? You’d no idea of it, I think, when I saw you last.”
Richard told him of Angelita’s letter and of his subsequent discoveries and eventual interview with Vandelius, but nothing of what Vandelius had said.
“Aye, well!” remarked Liversedge. “I suppose you were in a hurry to do what you could for the young lady, but you ought to have let us know at the Yard — you might have run yourself into serious danger. However, this man Vandelius, queer though he is, doesn’t seem to be of the sort that would resort to criminal practices in any shape — his foible appears to be in a mistaken notion that his money will enable him to do anything! Sad error, that! — as he’ll find out!”
“How came you here?” asked Richard. “That’s more to the point — my point!”
“More interesting, eh?” laughed Liversedge. “Well, I’m going to tell you. I happened to be at headquarters last night, rather late, and I was just thinking of going home when word was brought in that a young man had called who said that he wanted to see somebody in connection with the disappearance of Mr. Lansdale and his daughter. He was brought in to see me and one or two more of our men who chanced to be there. He turned out to be a superior sort of young fellow, a clerk in some West End establishment — name of Charles Summers. Summers had a romantic tale to tell. He said that he was the fiancé (funny what grand phrases these people use so glibly, Mr. Marchmont!) of Miss Amy Meecher. Miss Amy Meecher, he went on to explain, was, and is, maid, lady’s maid, to Miss Lansdale. Miss Lansdale engaged Miss Meecher’s services, through an agency, soon after she, Miss Lansdale, came with her father to the Hotel Cecil; it was one condition of service that Mr. Summers, as Miss Meecher’s sweetheart, should be allowed to visit Miss Meecher at the hotel. Mr. Summers availed himself of this privilege pretty regularly, I fancy. And he appears, from a comparison of dates, to have been there on the evening on which Lansdale disappeared — a few hours before that disappearance took place. On that occasion Miss Meecher said nothing to him that indicated any movement on the part of her mistress or her mistress’s father; on the contrary, she fixed up an appointment with Summers to call next evening, when Miss Lansdale was going to dine out somewhere, to call and take her to the theatre. Summers called — only to hear that Miss Lansdale and her maid had gone off with an unknown lady that morning, hurriedly, and had never returned!”
At this point of the story, the chambermaid entered with the tea; when Liversedge had got his cup in his hand he went on:
“Summers, disappointed, went home to his lodgings, expecting to find a letter of explanation from Miss Meecher. He didn’t find anything then; he didn’t receive anything later. He called at the hotel two or three times — no news of Miss Meecher or her young mistress had come to hand. Then he began to read things in the paper — about the disappearance of Lansdale, and Lansdale’s connection with Henry Marchmont, and about the murder in Bedford Row, and he got decidedly anxious and uneasy about his sweetheart. But he seems to be a diffident and nervous sort of chap, and didn’t like, he says, to apply to the police — besides, he was hoping, every day, to hear from Miss Meecher. And at last, yesterday evening, he did hear from her!”
Richard nodded. It had been yesterday evening when he, too, heard from his sweetheart. He began to put two and two together. Evidently these two young women, immured at Malbourne Manor, had joined wits in the endeavour to get into touch with their young men — and had succeeded.
“Yes?” he said. “Deeply interesting, Liversedge. And what said Meecher?”
“A lot more than your young lady said to you, Mr. Marchmont!” replied Liversedge, with a laugh. “She must have taken a bit of time over her letter — I read it, but, of course, we gave it back to Summers. She told how she and Miss Lansdale were got away from the Hotel Cecil and brought a good way into the country to a big country house where Lansdale was, how they were exceedingly well treated in the matter of lodging, food, and all creature comforts, but were virtually prisoners, not allowed to go out except under surveillance, nor to see newspapers, nor to send letters, nor to communicate with servants except those detailed to look after them. However, this is evidently a smart girl, gifted with resource and unusual power of observation. As maid to Miss Lansdale, she enjoyed a certain amount of liberty inside the house, and in the way of fetching and carrying, I suppose, and she noted a feature of its arrangements — namely, that at seven o’clock every evening a footman cleared a letter box in the hall, placed the letters, without inspection, in a bag, and handed the bag to a page who immediately went off to the post with it. So she announced in her letter that she should watch her opportunity and slip her letter into that box — presumably, from what you tell me, she subsequently did the same thing for her young mistress.”
“The letters appear to have been delivered about the same time,” agreed Richard. “Well — what more?”
“This: Meecher said in her letter to Summers that she didn’t know the name of the house or place in which they were confined: she suggested that Summers should look at the postmark — as in the case of your letter. Fortunately, the postmark was quite clear — very often, as you know, they’re illegible — and he saw it was Malbourne. And so, Mr. Marchmont, he did just what you ought to have done, you know, and didn’t do! — he came straight to us.”
“I’d reasons,” said Richard. “I didn’t want you to interfere!”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure!” laughed the detective. “Though I don’t see your reasons!”
“I thought that you’d probably arrest Lansdale, if you found him there,” said Richard. “I don’t want him to be arrested!”
“Well, of course, we have found Lansdale,” said Liversedge. “But I don’t know what we’ll do with him, yet! What we really want with Lansdale, at first, you know — I won’t say what may happen later — is to get information out of him; we want him to explain himself, and tell us things. However, I was telling you what took place last night. After we’d heard all this from Summers and seen Meecher’s letter, and had a consultation at headquarters, and got instructions, I and two of my associates chartered a fast car and came down here. We struck this place just after eleven o’clock, and of course made first for the local police. We roused out the superintendent, and in five minutes were sure that the house we wanted to find was Malbourne Manor, the residence of a more or less mysterious person named Vandelius. So, reinforced by the superintendent and one of his sergeants, we set off there, and reached it before midnight.”
“How did you get in?” asked Richard. “The place is semi-fortified!”
“We got in easily enough,” replied the detective. “There was a bit of delay at the gateway while the gatekeeper, who had, of course, to be roused, telephoned up to the house, but Vandelius evidently made no bones about our being admitted. He himself met us at his front door — a queer, strange character, I should say! Of course, we’d a talk with him; he was very anxious to know how we’d got there. We didn’t tell him, you may be sure. He inquired if we knew anything about you — we knew nothing, as you know. Then he told us you were here, at this hotel, and that you’d had an interview with him last night, and that he’d told you frankly why Lansdale was here, and he went on to say that he’d be equally frank with us.”
“And was he?” asked Richard.
“As far as one can tell, I should say he was,” answered Liversedge. “It came to this — that he brought Lansdale here until this mess could be cleared out of the way and their business carried to a satisfactory conclusion — which, I understand, was done last night . . .”
“Eh?” exclaimed Richard, interrupting him sharply. “Last night? How? It hadn’t been done when I was there!”
“Well, I didn’t pay much attention to it,” said the detective. “It was something about some papers of vast importance which had to be signed by Lansdale and Vandelius — relating to some huge deal in South America. I gathered that they arrived last night, by a special messenger from Southampton, and Lansdale and Vandelius signed them — that, I imagine, was why Crench, the solicitor, was there.”
“Um!” remarked Richard. “So that’s carried through! — but, after all, Liversedge, that had nothing to do with your job, eh?”
“Well, not so far as we know, you know,” agreed Liversedge. “And as I said to Vandelius. Of course, our job is to ascertain what Lansdale had to do, if anything, with the murder of your uncle. I pointed that out to Vandelius. Then he told us that it’s he who’s at the back of that offer of ten thousand pounds reward. But you know that?”
“Yes,” assented Richard. “I do, now!”
“Well, his notion — Vandelius’s — is that by getting at the real culprit you’ll free the supposed one — if Lansdale is that. But, as I immediately pointed out to him and Crench, we, the police, haven’t had a single approach in respect of that offer, and I said that I didn’t believe Crench had. Crench admitted he hadn’t! So, as I went on to urge them, it comes to this — we must regard Lansdale as the only person known to us at present whose doings on that evening . . . eh?”
“I see your point,” said Richard. “Well?”
“I told him that I must see Lansdale, and at once,” continued Liversedge. “And before they could warn him that I was there and who and what I was!”
