Collected works of j s f.., p.663
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 663
“Twenty thousand pounds!”
Once more a ripple of excited murmur ran round the court; once more Barwick’s quiet voice was heard as it died away.
“Twenty thousand pounds! In what form? You spoke of cash — notes?”
“There were forty Bank of England notes of five hundred pounds each — in a wad, with an india-rubber band round them.”
“Very well — go on, Mr. Lansdale.”
“I went to the office in Bedford Row just about half-past-seven. Henry Marchmont himself admitted me, and took me upstairs to what I took to be his private office. I saw no one else, nor did I hear anything that led me to suspect the presence of anybody else in the house — I judged that we had the place to ourselves. I found out before I had been there a moment that Henry Marchmont was not inclined to treat me with even ordinary courtesy. He sat down himself, at his desk, but he never offered me a seat. His demeanour was harsh, arrogant, impatient, contemptuous. He began by saying that he wondered how I dared to show my face in England, and especially in the City amongst financiers of repute. He was plainly in a temper: I kept mine, and I endeavoured to show him good reasons to prove that he was doing me a wrong, and that the financial smash at Clayminster was not due to anything dishonest on my part. He utterly refused to credit that, and said that if I wished to convince him or anybody of it, I must go down to Clayminster and whitewash myself there. I said my arrangements would not permit of that, but to show my good intentions in the matter I wished to make a proposition to him. He was fidgeting about at his desk all this time, displaying, as he did all through, considerable impatience and testiness; he neither said he would hear my proposition or that he wouldn’t, and I went on to make it, on the lines I have already told you of, and when I had said what I had to say I drew the roll of bank-notes from my pocket and laid it before him, on his blotting-pad. He pushed it aside, saying he would have nothing to do with it — and then he added a remark that at last roused my temper. He said that as far as he knew that was not as much as I had done Clayminster people out of, and he didn’t believe a word of what I’d been saying. On that, I picked up my hat and walked out of the room!”
“Leaving the money on his desk?” asked Barwick.
“I left the twenty thousand pounds’ worth of notes on his desk,” replied Lansdale. “As I walked through the door he called after me. I repeat his exact words: ‘If you don’t remove this confounded money, I shall put it and you into the hands of the police first thing to-morrow morning!’”
“Did you go back and remove it?”
“Not I! I took no notice whatever of his threat. I walked downstairs and out of the house.”
“I gather that by that time you were somewhat upset — agitated?”
“I was very much upset — I was indignant. I was so much agitated that when I went out of the house into Bedford Row I took the wrong turning. I had come into Bedford Row from the Holborn side, through the passage that leads from Holborn into Gray’s Inn, and I meant to return to Holborn by the same way. But being upset I turned up Bedford Row and crossed Theobald’s Road, and found myself in some narrow streets on the other side of it before I knew where I was — I was in Little James Street when I came to my senses. I then went back by the way I had come, and down Bedford Row again towards Holborn. I passed Henry Marchmont’s office. And, just as I had passed the door, which I observed — for I gave an indignant glance at it — was closed, I heard what sounded like a shot! I hesitated for a moment; then, coming to the conclusion that the sound came from the banging of a door, I walked on.”
“About what time would it be, Mr. Lansdale when you passed Henry Marchmont’s door and heard the sound you speak of?”
“I should say about eight o’clock.”
“Your first impression of the sound was that it was that of a shot?”
“Decidedly! But I have very little knowledge of fire-arms, and I thought myself mistaken — that it was merely a door banging.”
“Did you see anyone about there?”
“No! It was dark, of course, except for the street lamps.”
“What did you do after leaving Bedford Row?”
“I walked along Holborn, down Kingsway, and turned into the Waldorf Hotel, where I sat for some time, smoking and thinking — I was still very much agitated. Eventually, I went to my own hotel, the Cecil. Mr. Vandelius came there — he wanted to know how I had got on with Henry Marchmont. I told him everything — except about the money.”
“Why did you not tell him that?”
“Well, it had been my own notion — anyway, I didn’t tell him. We talked about Henry Marchmont’s general attitude. Mr. Vandelius suggested that I should go with him to his country house for a few days — until we got the papers and signed them. I went. Next day, my daughter joined me there. I remained at Vandelius’s house until the papers came — they arrived last night. We signed them. Then, this morning, early, having had a visit from detectives, I decided to come back to town, see a solicitor, and tell all I know. I saw Sir John Crowe on arrival — and on his advice I have come here and told everything.”
Barwick hesitated a moment, glancing at the Coroner. Then he turned once more to his witness.
“There is just another question — or two — I should like to put to you, Mr. Lansdale,” he said. “You are aware, no doubt, that a reward of ten thousand pounds has been offered to anyone giving information which will lead to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of Henry Marchmont? Had you anything to do with that?”
“No! — nothing!”
“Do you know who is responsible for it?”
“I do now — I didn’t until two days ago. Mr. Vandelius is responsible. His idea was — when the news of the murder came to hand — that if suspicion attached to me, it would be best removed by finding the real culprit.”
“Mr. Vandelius, then, made this offer on his own initiative, and without consulting you?”
“Just so! I knew nothing about it until he told me.”
Barwick looked at the Coroner and suddenly sat down with the gesture of a man who has done his work. The Coroner turned to Lansdale.
“You say you took twenty thousand pounds in bank-notes, Bank of England notes, of course, to Henry Marchmont, and left the entire sum with him,” he said. “Have you the numbers of those notes?”
“No,” replied Lansdale promptly. “But my bankers will have.”
“Who are your bankers?”
“The British-Argentine Banking Company, Lombard Street.”
“The numbers of the notes were taken when issued to you?”
“Of course — I saw them taken and entered. They are easily obtainable.”
The Coroner turned to the police officials.
“This must be inquired into at once,” he remarked. “The numbers of the notes must be got, and inquiries must be made at the Bank of England to ascertain if they have been presented there for payment. But now, following on what we have heard from the witness, I want some information about the arrangements at Bedford Row. I gathered at our first sitting that Henry Marchmont lived in a private suite of rooms above his offices, and that no one else lived in the house. I gathered also that his dead body was found early in the morning by the charwoman, Mrs. Pardoe. Mrs. Pardoe” — here the Coroner turned to his notes and consulted them for several minutes.— “Yes. Mrs. Pardoe found Henry Marchmont lying dead on the first landing of the staircase, and immediately hurried out to get a policeman. It would, of course, be some time before anyone made any thorough examination of the premises. Now I want to know, and you, gentlemen of the jury, want to know, too — who first entered Henry Marchmont’s private room, where, on his desk, Mr. Lansdale says he left the twenty thousand pounds’ worth of bank-notes?”
The Coroner was still addressing the police officials, and one of them rose, pointing to Simpson, who sat near.
“The late Mr. Marchmont’s managing clerk is here, sir,” he said. “Mr. Simpson. He can probably tell that.”
“Let Mr. Simpson come forward,” said the Coroner. “Mr. Simpson, you have heard the evidence that has just been given — that a packet of forty bank-notes, each of a nominal value of five hundred pounds, was left on Mr. Henry Marchmont’s desk in his private room on the evening on which he was murdered. As far as we are aware, none of his staff entered that room until next morning after the discovery of the murder. Now, can you tell us who was the very first person to go into the room that morning — the very first?”
Simpson replied promptly.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Detective-Sergeant Liversedge.”
XVIII. Trace the Notes
LIVERSEDGE WAS ON his feet and moving towards the centre of the court before the Coroner could ask if he, too, was present. And as he moved away, Richard, following his movements, was suddenly aware that close by his own seat sat Cora Sanderthwaite. Rapt in the proceedings following Lansdale’s appearance in the witness-box, he had not noticed her before, but now that he saw her for the moment forgot all else. For Cora Sanderthwaite was watching Lansdale as if she would never and could never take her gaze off him, and in her eyes was an expression of vindictive hatred that made Richard feel a sense of cold horror such as he had never known before. She sat, slightly leaning forward in her seat, her elbow supported on her knee, her chin resting in her hand, immovable, staring, staring . . . the stare suggested murder. And Richard stared at her, fascinated, until he became aware that seated next to her, and evidently in her company, from the fact that he turned and whispered something in her ear, was a curious-looking little man, grey-haired, elderly in spite of his smooth, clean-shaven face, who was dressed in very old-fashioned clothes that had evidently been of smart cut in their day, and in spite of their threadbare state were still neatly kept and carefully brushed. Was this another of the victims of the Clayminster smash, he wondered? — for the little man, too, was watching Lansdale, though not with the vindictive hate manifested by his companion.
But the Coroner was talking, addressing himself to the police authorities and to Simpson and Liversedge, who by this time had gone up to the table.
“Oh, Detective-Sergeant Liversedge is here, is he?” he said. “Just so! — well, in view of the evidence which we have just heard, what I want to get at is this — who was the first person to make any examination of Mr. Henry Marchmont’s private office after the discovery of his dead body that morning? The supposition is that he was shot, murdered, by some person about eight o’clock the previous evening, and that no one entered the place until next morning when Mrs. Pardoe went in. Now I want to know what happened immediately after that? Perhaps Mr. Simpson — —”
He glanced inquiringly at the managing clerk, and Simpson responded readily.
“I can give that information, sir,” he said. “When Mrs. Pardoe made her discovery she ran straight out of the house to a policeman at the head of the street. He sent for help to the police station, which is close by, in Gray’s Inn Road. Within a few minutes two or three officers came; a doctor came with them, so did Detective-Sergeant Liversedge. I arrived at the same time. After some conversation in the hall, Detective-Sergeant Liversedge said he would like to look round the room which Mr. Henry Marchmont was likely to have been in last. I showed him the door of the private office — which, in fact, was open — and he went in there.”
The Coroner turned to Liversedge.
“Did you make any examination of Mr. Marchmont’s desk?” he asked.
“Only a superficial one, sir,” replied Liversedge. “I looked round the room generally. I wanted to see if there were any signs of Mr. Marchmont’s having had a visitor late the previous evening, or if there was anything on his desk that would give any clue of any sort. I touched nothing. There was nothing much on his desk. I certainly saw no bank-notes. To the best of my recollection, sir, there was nothing on the desk but a blotting-pad. I remember thinking at the time that Mr. Marchmont had evidently been a man of very neat and precise habits — everything was very tidy.”
“Who subsequently examined Mr. Marchmont’s room and effects?” demanded the Coroner.
“I did, sir,” answered Simpson. “In company, at various times, with Mr. Richard Marchmont. We went through everything — drawers, bureaux, the private safe. As Mr. Liversedge has just inferred, the late Mr. Marchmont was a man of unusually tidy and precise habits; he was the sort of man who kept everything in its exact place, and grew very angry indeed if his clerks didn’t follow his example. Mr. Richard Marchmont and myself found everything in strict order, but we found no bank-notes.”
“You don’t know if Mr. Marchmont had any secret hiding-places where he would be likely to place twenty thousand pounds’ worth of bank-notes for the night?” suggested the Coroner. Simpson shook his head.
“I don’t think that is at all likely, sir,” he replied. “I have been in the late Mr. Marchmont’s employ for a great many years, and I never knew of his having any such place.”
The Coroner leaned back in his chair, and looked at Barwick.
“Well, here we have Mr. Lansdale saying that he left a parcel of forty Bank of England notes of five hundred pounds each on Mr. Marchmont’s desk!” he began. “Yet — —”
Barwick got to his feet with a deprecating shrug of his shoulders.
“With all respect, sir,” he said smoothly, “it seems to me that this informal conversation is against the interests of my client! It appears to be moving in a direction of suspicion — and that is not at all in accordance with the theory I represent!”
“What is your theory, then?” asked the Coroner, a little impatiently.
“My theory, sir, is that Henry Marchmont was not only murdered, but robbed! — robbed of the twenty thousand pounds lying on his desk — of the bank-notes laid there by my client!” said Barwick. “It is that he was murdered for the sake of robbery!”
The Coroner moved uneasily in his chair.
“We have heard Mr. Lansdale’s evidence,” he said, with still a note of impatience in his voice. “But I am bound to point out that up to now there is nothing to corroborate it. No doubt he drew twenty thousand pounds in notes from his bank. But we have no proof beyond his own allegation — —”
“On oath, sir!” interrupted Barwick.
“On oath, to be sure — that he left those notes on Mr. Marchmont’s desk,” continued the Coroner. “However, he tells us that his bankers will have the numbers of the notes, and I suggest that Mr. Lansdale should at once assist the police to get them, and then to trace the notes to the Bank of England. Of course, as far as I am aware, the Bank of England is bound to cash its own notes on presentation, and even though these particular notes are for large amounts, five hundred each, I suppose no questions would be asked on their presentation — so there may be some difficulty in tracing them through the different hands in which they may have been since the date on which they were drawn from Mr. Lansdale’s bank. Still, the police will no doubt see to this immediately, and in the meantime I suggest that I should adjourn again for — shall we say a week or a fortnight?”
When the Coroner and the police authorities had settled this point between themselves, and the court began to clear, Richard made his way towards Lansdale and his daughter. He suddenly felt a fierce grip on his elbow, and turning found himself in the clutch of Cora Sanderthwaite. She pointed a quivering finger at Lansdale, who was busily talking to his legal advisers and Liversedge.
“Are they going to arrest him?” she hissed in Richard’s ear. “To lock him up? Tell me!”
Richard looked at her, half in surprise, half in pity, for he had already formed the opinion that the woman was crazy. Then he saw that the man at her side, the little, oddly dressed man, was also staring at him with the same eagerness that was manifest in Cora Sanderthwaite’s burning eyes. The two of them together made an unpleasant exhibition of vindictive hatred.
“I can’t tell you,” he answered, endeavouring to disengage his sleeve from the woman’s clutching fingers. “You must excuse me, please!”
But Cora Sanderthwaite hung on to him.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young Marchmont!” she exclaimed. “Your murdered uncle’s nephew! — faugh! If I’d been you — his blood relation! — I’d have had that man in irons before now — till they can hang him! Yet you’ve just sat there and heard him tell his lies — lies, lies, all lies!”
“Will you let me go, if you please?” asked Richard.
The oddly dressed man spoke.
“Let him go, Cora!” he said. “No good, my girl — all of a bunch, together!”
Cora Sanderthwaite suddenly released her grip on Richard’s arm and turned to the nearest door; her companion followed her, muttering. Richard made his way to the group on the floor of the court; Barwick was speaking to Lansdale.
“You’ve ample time before the banks close at four o’clock,” he said. “It’s only a little past three now. Get down there with Liversedge, get the numbers of those notes, and let Liversedge get to work tracing them.”
“Whatever you suggest,” responded Lansdale. He turned to his daughter as she laid her hand on his arm and drew his attention to Richard. “Mr. Marchmont? — Mr. Richard Marchmont,” he said. “I have heard all about you, sir, from my girl — I hope to have a talk with you when we have an opportunity. You have heard all I have to say? — now I must go with these people on this bank-note business — perhaps you will take my daughter to our hotel?”
He turned away with Liversedge and the two lawyers, and Richard found himself alone with Angelita in the thinning court. She gave him a questioning look.
“You heard all my father had to say?” she asked.
“Every word!” replied Richard.
“You believe him?”
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t. It seems to me that that is just what would take place.”
She turned, pointing to the Coroner’s empty chair.
“That old gentleman didn’t seem to,” she said doubtfully. “Why? He appeared to be against him!”
