Collected works of j s f.., p.669
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 669
“Old friends of ours, who live in Clapham now,” replied Mrs. Mansiter. “They used to live at Clayminster, when we did. They lost money in that Land affair. If Cora’s with them, she’ll be safe. But I should have thought Mr. Appleby would have let us know.”
“I suppose you know where Mr. Appleby lives?” suggested Liversedge. “You can give me his address?”
“Oh, yes, I can give you his address,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “But you’ll not go there to-night, will you? Cora is in a strange state — we’ve been frightened about her. Ever since Mr. Henry Marchmont sent for her and me and told us that Land, or Lansdale, was back in this country she’s been queer — it upset her.”
“I told you the reason — when you were here before,” said Sanderthwaite.
“I remember,” agreed Liversedge. “Well!” he went on after a pause. “I don’t want to give you any further trouble, but there are matters I’m bound to go into. We’ve had information that just about the time Mr. Henry Marchmont was shot on the stairs of his office, a woman answering the description of your sister was seen to run across the street outside, as if from the door of the office. Now do you know if your sister was out that evening, at that time?”
The brother and sister looked at each other, wonderingly.
“I couldn’t say,” replied Mrs. Mansiter, after a pause. “I couldn’t say anything as to that, now. She might have been — she’s not to be controlled, Cora, and she has a habit of going out and wandering about. But as to that particular evening — oh, I can’t say anything about that, at all!”
“Nor me!” said Sanderthwaite. “I don’t remember anything about her movements that night. What makes you think the woman you heard about might be my sister Cora?”
“General description, Mr. Sanderthwaite,” replied Liversedge. “It occurred to me that she might have gone there, expecting to meet Lansdale. She — to put it plainly — she’d got Lansdale on the brain after hearing that he was back, hadn’t she?”
Mrs. Mansiter sighed deeply.
“It was a great pity Mr. Henry Marchmont ever sent for us that morning!” she said. “It — it revived old matters that I’d preferred to let be. It upset Cora — and then of course was the news of the murder close upon it. She — she’s firmly convinced that Lansdale killed Mr. Henry Marchmont. And yet — —”
She paused, looking from one to the other of her visitors as if uncertain of what to say next.
“You don’t think so, ma’am?” suggested Liversedge.
“I had a letter from Mr. Henry Marchmont the morning after we’d seen him,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “I couldn’t believe it was Lansdale after getting that.”
“A letter, eh?” exclaimed Liversedge. He contrived to bring his elbow into contact with Richard. “The morning after you’d been to Bedford Row? And what was there in it, Mrs. Mansiter, that made you think Lansdale innocent?”
Mrs. Mansiter got up and went over to an old bureau, where she unlocked a drawer and produced a letter which she handed to the detective.
“That’s it,” she said. “I put it by when I’d read it, for you see, just after getting it we heard about what had happened at Bedford Row, and of course as Mr. Henry Marchmont was dead, there was no use in our going to see him again. I thought, perhaps, that when things were cleared up, I might hear more of what he refers to. But I’ve heard nothing.”
Liversedge and Richard bent over the letter when the detective had laid it on the table at which they were sitting. It bore marks of hasty writing, but Richard had no difficulty in recognising his uncle’s bold hand.
“187, Bedford Row, W.C.
“Tuesday Evening.
“Dear Mrs. Mansiter,
“With regard to our conversation this morning — Lansdale has been here this evening. I’m not sure upon reflection that I may not have been wrong, or misinformed, in my judgment about him in relation to the Clayminster affairs. However, right or wrong, Lansdale is willing to do something for the various sufferers in that matter, and he has placed a large sum of money in my hands which he wants me to distribute. I should like to have a talk with you about this, so please call here again to-morrow, during the morning. If you can think of anybody else, still living, who lost money at Clayminster at that time, make a memorandum of their names,
“Yours truly,
“Henry Marchmont.”
“That’s the letter that Crench told us of, Mr. Marchmont!” whispered Liversedge. “The letter that he went out to post with his own hands! And a really important discovery it is, too! Mrs. Mansiter!” he went on, raising his voice. “You must let me take this! It will be of the greatest service to us — I wish we’d had it before!”
“I didn’t know what to do about it,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “Yes, you can take it. But — do you think there will be money for anybody, as Mr. Henry Marchmont said?”
“I think you’ll find the money to be all right,” answered Liversedge. He put the letter carefully away in his pocket-book, and rose. “Now if you’ll give me Mr. Appleby’s address,” he concluded, “I’ll not keep you longer.”
“You can have the address,” said Mrs. Mansiter, “but we shall go there ourselves to-morrow morning. It’s 591 Clapham Common — north side.”
Once again in the now deserted streets, Liversedge turned eagerly to Richard.
“I’m not certain that this letter isn’t the most important bit of real evidence I’ve got in this case, Mr. Marchmont!” he said. “Rum stroke of luck to get it! You see, it proves Lansdale’s story about the money to be true. You’ll remember what the Coroner said when he heard Lansdale’s story about the notes? — that it was easy to prove that he’d got them from his bank, but nothing to prove that he handed them over to your uncle! Well, here is the proof! Certainly, the amount is not specified in this letter, but it does speak of a large sum. We’ve got a plain, straightforward sequence of facts about the notes now! Drawn from the bank by Lansdale; handed over by him to Mr. Henry Marchmont; found, as regards some of them, at any rate, in possession of Garner, Crench, and Simpson. A splendid find — this letter!”
“Will it help you to settle the big problem?” asked Richard. “Who shot my uncle? That’s what I want to know!”
“Every little thing helps in a case of this sort,” replied Liversedge. “And sometimes on first getting hold of it, you don’t realise how much a comparatively insignificant thing — a seemingly insignificant, I should say — may help. The problem to me is — what was the motive in this case? Was Mr. Henry Marchmont murdered for the twenty thousand pounds? Was he murdered to keep him silent for ever about Lansdale’s past? Or . . . was he murdered in mistake for Lansdale?”
“The last argues that Cora Sanderthwaite is guilty,” said Richard.
“Maybe!” agreed the detective. “I shouldn’t wonder! But I shall go down to Clapham in the morning, after I’ve had another interview with Crench, and, if I can get him to talk, with Simpson. Are you doing anything to-morrow morning, Mr. Marchmont?”
“Nothing!” replied Richard.
“Stay in your rooms till I call — unless I ring you up to join me somewhere,” said Liversedge. “I shall be sure to have some news for you, of some sort. Now I’m going home — dog-tired!”
Richard was tired, too, and in spite of the exciting events of the evening he slept like a top and so far into the morning that he had only just sat down to breakfast, at nearly eleven o’clock, when Scarfe showed Liversedge into the room. He saw at once that the detective was full of whatever it was he had to tell.
“No breakfast, thank you, Mr. Marchmont!” said Liversedge. “I’d mine long since — and a good lot’s happened since then! I told you I should have some news for you, and so I have, but I never expected as much, nor of such quality!”
“Well?” asked Richard. He motioned Liversedge to an easy chair and pushed a box of cigarettes over to him. “Something important?”
“Aye — and just as unexpected!” exclaimed the detective. “Take your time over your breakfast and I’ll tell you. I went round to see our captives of last night as soon as I’d had mine,” he went on, “and as soon as I got there I was told that Simpson wanted to see me if I called. Of course I went to see him. Simpson, mind you, had had the night for reflection. He’s a hard nut — in my opinion, a cool, practised hand at dissimulation and all that sort of thing, and, when fairly cornered the sort who faces facts — he’s not a coward, like Crench. As soon as I went in, he asked me straight out if he and Crench were going to be charged with the murder of your uncle? I gave him the same reply that I gave to Crench last night. Then he pointed out that of the moneys and securities found on him and in his suit-case at the time of his arrest, a certain specified amount was his own lawful property. I agreed. Then he wanted to know if Crench had made a statement, and if so, what it was? After considering matters, I told him that Crench had made a clean breast — according to himself — of all that he knew and all that he and Simpson had done, and had signed it. Then, of course, Simpson wanted to see it. I humoured him in that: I went and got a copy, and I let him read it. He’s as cool as a cucumber, that chap, Mr. Marchmont! — he read Crench’s statement over three times, without moving a muscle or winking an eyelash. At last he handed it back. ‘Yes, Liversedge,’ he said quietly, ‘that’s quite correct as far as Crench and myself are concerned — conjointly. But I can tell more than that, and I’ve decided that I will! I tell you,’ he went on, ‘I’m going to do that in the hope that it will tell in my favour. It’s useless, now, worse luck, to deny that Crench and I were in possession of moneys taken from Henry Marchmont’s safe after his death. We’ve lost that game! — but I don’t want to be let in as regards a charge of murder, any more than Crench does. So I’ll make a statement — not supplementary to Crench’s, for it’ll be on a different matter — and when I’ve made it, I think you’ll have enough stuff in your hands to enable you to put them on the right man! — you’ll be singularly wanting in the very qualities you ought to possess if you haven’t,’ he said. Now that made me prick my ears. ‘Look here, Simpson!’ said I. ‘Regard this as a bit of informal talk! You know where you are, and what hole you’ve got into — worse luck, as you say. But you’re convinced in your own mind of your innocence of Henry Marchmont’s murder! — now, before you make any statement, which, of course, will be a formal matter, have you formed any opinion as to who did kill Henry Marchmont?’ He laughed, in that cold, half-sneering way of his. ‘Why, of course I have, Liversedge!’ he replied. ‘Always have had — never had a doubt about it!’ ‘Who then?’ I asked, wondering, and eager, I can tell you, about what he would answer. ‘Why!’ he said, laughing again, ‘Vandelius, of course — Vandelius!’ ”
Liversedge paused and looked at Richard. Richard had dropped his knife and fork on his plate and sat listening, open-mouthed. The detective smiled.
“Yes!” he said. “That’s just like I felt! — I sat staring at him! For though, as you know, Mr. Marchmont, I’ve had suspicions about Vandelius, it never seemed to come right home — dead heavy! — until Simpson spoke in that cynical way of his. ‘You really think that?’ I said, when I could find my tongue. ‘I’ve already said so, haven’t I?’ retorted he. ‘But — proof!’ said I. He laughed again at that. ‘You get my statement down,’ he said. ‘Then — you’ll see!’ So I made arrangements for his statement to be properly taken down, there and then, and when it was done and he’d signed it, I got a copy made which I’ve brought with me — here it is, Mr. Marchmont, and I’ll read it to you.”
With this, the detective drew from his pocket a foolscap envelope.
XXVI. The Visiting Card
LIVERSEDGE PULLED UP a chair to the table at which Richard was breakfasting, pushed aside a plate or two, and spreading out a closely written document, tapped it with his finger.
“This,” he said significantly, “this, Mr. Marchmont, is, in my opinion, the most important thing I’ve struck in this business! I said last night that I believed Crench’s statement — well, I believe this too! I think that both Simpson and Crench, finding themselves unexpectedly trapped — and it was certainly mere luck that led to their being caught — have decided that it was best to throw up the sponge, confess themselves beaten, and make the best of a bad job by telling the truth. This statement of Simpson’s explains a lot that was mysterious and puzzling. But do you get on with your breakfast while I read to you what Simpson says. Now we start:
“ ’This is a voluntary statement made by me, Hemingway Simpson, solicitor, managing clerk to the late Henry Marchmont, solicitor, of Bedford Row, and is taken down in writing at my request.
“ ’I have had read to me a statement made by Daniel Crench, solicitor, of Chancery Lane, giving his account of certain things that happened at the late Henry Marchmont’s office on the evening on which Henry Marchmont met his death. That statement is substantially truthful and correct. Daniel Crench, however, is not in possession of certain facts known to me only. I now propose to tell what those facts are.
“ ’When Crench and myself heard the sound of the shot to which he refers in his statement, we rushed out of the cupboard in which we had concealed ourselves to listen to the conversation between Henry Marchmont and Lansdale, into Henry Marchmont’s room. Crench immediately made for one of the windows, looking out on Bedford Row. I ran downstairs. I found Henry Marchmont lying on the first landing. He was either dying or just dead. I gave little attention to him at the first glance, for I had already seen something that filled me with utter amazement. Close by Henry Marchmont’s right hand, placed so near it that you would have thought it had fallen from his fingers as he fell, lay a revolver. I at once recognised that revolver as my own.
“ ’It will help to make things clear if I now tell the history of that revolver. Some twenty years ago, in discharge of my duties, I had to collect weekly rents in a low and dangerous quarter of the town. The streets and courts which I had to visit, as a rule of an evening, Friday evening, were anything but safe, being infested with roughs. I bought the revolver for my own safety, and for two or three years carried it in my pocket when I went rent collecting. It was never used, but I always kept it in order. When I gave up collecting those rents, I put the revolver away in a drawer in my desk at Henry Marchmont’s offices. It lay there for many years, untouched, under books and papers. Not long ago — I believe but a day or two before Henry Marchmont’s death — I had occasion to tidy out my desk, and I came across the revolver. Instead of putting it back in the drawer where it had remained so long, I placed it on my desk, intending to take it home and give it away. I placed it in a conspicuous position on my desk for that very purpose — so that I shouldn’t forget it. But it was there — on the desk, where I had placed it, on the day on which Henry Marchmont was shot.
“ ’I now wish, before going further, to emphasise two facts about this revolver. The first is that when I found it in my drawer, I did not examine it, to ascertain whether it was still loaded or not. I think I must have taken it for granted that I had unloaded it when I put it away years ago. At any rate, I didn’t examine it; I just laid it by, as I have said, conspicuously, on my desk. The second fact is that on the butt of the revolver my initials, H.S., were deeply scratched, and a date, 1901. This, of course, proved to me that the revolver I picked up from close by Henry Marchmont’s dead body was my revolver — the revolver which at five o’clock that evening had certainly been lying on my desk in my room, just at the foot of the first flight of stairs, on the right-hand side of the hall.
“ ’My first notion was that Henry Marchmont had committed suicide, though he was the last man in the world to suspect of such a tendency. But without moving or touching him, I at once saw that he had not — it was impossible, for he had been shot through the back. I immediately concluded how the murder had taken place. The murderer had entered the offices — the street door of which was always open until Henry Marchmont himself closed it — had gone into my room, seen my revolver, concealed himself behind my half-closed door and had fired at Henry Marchmont as he went upstairs. The door of my room opens from left to right; the murderer had nothing to do but to keep behind it until Henry Marchmont had passed him and was climbing the staircase, and then, through the half-open door, to fire at him. Obviously, he had then advanced into the hall, and thrown down the revolver by the dead or dying man.
“ ’All this I saw and realised in far less time than it now takes to tell of it. As I realised what had happened, I heard Crench coming downstairs from Henry Marchmont’s room. I snatched up the revolver and put it in my pocket. I said nothing to Crench of what I had found.
“ ’The details and particulars given by Crench in his statement as regards what took place after the discovery of Henry Marchmont’s body are correct. I took the keys of the safe from Henry Marchmont’s pocket; we possessed ourselves of the bundle of Bank of England notes left by Lansdale, and, after I had put the keys back, went away.
“ ’Now I come to two highly important details of which Crench knows nothing. I went to the offices at the usual time next morning. The discovery of Henry Marchmont’s dead body had been made then, and the police, and the police-surgeon, and Detective-Sergeant Liversedge were already there. As I said at the adjourned inquest, Liversedge was the first person to enter and examine Henry Marchmont’s private office; while he went in there, I went into mine.
“ ’Immediately on entering my office, and going up to my desk, I made a remarkable discovery. Late the previous afternoon, an old man from Judd Street, a tradesman for whom we had recently transacted some business, called to pay an account of fifty-three pounds. He paid it to me, in my office. Greatly to my surprise, he paid it in gold — fifty-three sovereigns. It is, of course, a most exceptional thing nowadays to see gold coinage at all, and instead of putting this gold in the office safe, which is in my room, I put it in a canvas bag which I laid on my desk, intending to show it to Henry Marchmont as a curiosity. We were very busy at the end of that afternoon, and I forgot all about the gold. I had brought it to mind, however, before morning, and as soon as I went into my office I looked to the place on my desk where I had put the canvas bag down. I saw at once that it had disappeared.
