Collected works of j s f.., p.754
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 754
“I can, certainly,” I replied.
“Very well,” he continued, “do-and meet me at half past nine tomorrow morning at, say, Temple Bar. We’ll search the files of the likely newspapers-I’ve a pretty good idea of where a man like Ogden would turn. He’d go for the lurid, sensational Sunday papers. Perhaps we shan’t find anything-but it’s worth trying, anyway.”
I stayed in town that night, and at the time and place agreed upon met Chaney, and we walked down Fleet Street and began our task. Chaney had thought out what we had better do. According to our information, it was early in April when Ogden asked advice of Mrs. Gesh and of her lodger; there was no use, therefore, in looking over files of a date prior to say April 7th. But to make sure we consulted files dating from April 1st; if any advertisement had appeared it must have been between that date and April 17th. Going from one office to another, we had looked through the columns of half a dozen likely papers by half past eleven and had found nothing. Chaney began to shake his head.
“No good, I’m afraid,” he said. “He may have meant to do it, but hadn’t done it when he went to Wrides Park. I’m afraid that’s all useless, Mr. Camberwell-we’d better give it up.”
“There’s another source we haven’t tried,” I said. “The personal column of The Times.”
“Oh, that’s no good!” he exclaimed. “Ogden would never think of that!”
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But Ogden may have consulted a solicitor. And any solicitor would know that the personal column of The Times is a very valuable medium for that sort of thing.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” he admitted. “And, as we’re close to it, we may as well drop in at The Times office. Of course, there are personal columns in other dailies than The Times. But let’s try it, first.”
We went round to Printing House Square and began a systematic examination of the personal columns of The Times from the first day of April onwards. It was a weary business-and when we got to April 15th we were both inclined to give it up, especially as that was about the last date on which Ogden could have advertised. But I just glanced at the issue of April 17th-and there, staring me in the face, was the name Ogden.
“Here we are, Chaney!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “Here it is!-and on the very day on which he was murdered, too! That’s an extraordinary coincidence. But this is his advertisement, without a doubt, though you’ll observe that he’s kept himself out of it!”
There, standing side by side, we read the advertisement:
OGDEN
If this should meet the eye of Sarah Ogden, formerly Sarah Harrison, at one time resident at Chelmsford, she will learn of something to her advantage by communicating in person with Mr. F. B. Barfitt, Solicitor, 529 Colebrooke Row, Islington, N.I.
Chaney pulled out his watch.
“Half past twelve!” he said. “Time to catch this lawyer before he goes to lunch. Come on, Mr. Camberwell-let’s get the first taxi we see.”
We hurried up to Islington and along Colebrooke Row, a quiet, semi-secluded thoroughfare of old redbrick houses, until we came to Mr. F. B. Barfitt’s brass plate affixed on a green door. In a few minutes we were closeted with Mr. Barfitt, a somewhat youthful gentleman, evidently not long set up in practice, who regarded us with curiosity and Chaney and his professional card with speculative interest. Chaney had provided himself with a copy of The Times for April 17th, and had marked the advertisement with blue pencil; he now placed the marked paper before Mr. Barfitt.
“We want to acquire some information about that!” he said. “As your name is attached to it, Mr. Barfitt, we came to you.”
Mr. Barfitt glanced at the advertisement. His eyes brightened.
“Ah, that?” he said. “Yes-just so. On whose behalf do you come?”
“Our own!” replied Chaney. “We are endeavouring to clear up the mystery of the murder of a man named James Ogden, who met his death at Wrides Park, in Surrey, on April 17th, and we believe that this advertisement has some connexion with the mystery. You have heard, of course, of the Wrides Park affair, Mr. Barfitt? Ogden, a big, heavily built fellow, was found-”
Mr. Barfitt let out a sudden exclamation.
“Good lord!” he said. “That must have been the man who came to me!”
Chaney paused, looking a question.
“To-you?” he asked.
“To me! The man who brought me that advertisement. I-I never connected him with the Ogden I read about-the murdered man. But-it must have been the same. Bless me!-why didn’t I think of it before?”
“Do you mind telling us all about this advertisement, Mr. Barfitt?” asked Chaney. “It’s most important we should know why it was inserted and by whose instructions. You know who I am by my card. This gentleman, Mr. Ronald Camberwell, is the private secretary of Mr. Christopher Nicholas, the man charged with Ogden’s murder. We’re convinced of Mr. Nicholas’s innocence, and we’re trying-”
“Oh, I’ll tell you all I know!” interrupted Mr. Barfitt. “It’s not a great deal, but it contains a good many mystifying and curious incidents. On April-wait a minute, and I’ll give you the exact date from my desk diary-yes, here we are-on April 14th a man answering your description, a big heavily built man, called on me. He asked me how one could find somebody who was missing-a woman, in this case I recommended advertising. He then said that he wanted to find a woman named Sarah Ogden, whose maiden name was Sarah Harrison; the reason being that he had ascertained since coming home from a long absence somewhere else that there was money and property due to her. I then asked him for further particulars. He wouldn’t give any.”
“Wouldn’t give any?” exclaimed Chaney.
“Not a particular! He wouldn’t tell me his name nor give his address. He wouldn’t say what, if any, relation the wanted woman was to him, nor how much money and what property it was that was waiting for her. All that, he said, could stand over until she was found. If she came forward, he would then give full information. I said, of course, that all that seemed very unsatisfactory-was there anything he wanted me to do, professionally? He then pulled out two five-pound notes and said he wished me to draw up the advertisement, insert it in what I considered a likely paper or papers, and pay myself for my trouble. Between us we concocted the advertisement you see there, and I suggested he should leave it to me as to where I sent it. As he had told me that the missing woman would probably be found occupying a place as cook or housekeeper, I sent it, to begin with, to The Times as you see. Well, after we’d arranged this, the man went away, saying he’d call again in a week. But-he never did! And it certainly never dawned on me that he was the man who was found murdered down there in Surrey. Of course, the murdered man’s name didn’t come out at once, did it?”
“It didn’t,” agreed Chaney. “But, Mr. Barfitt, here’s a perhaps more important question. Did you ever get any response to the advertisement?”
Mr. Barfitt nodded, promptly, and once more referred to his desk diary.
“Yes!” he replied. “On April 21st. A woman called!”
Chaney started and became, obviously, more keenly attentive.
“The woman?” he exclaimed.
“No!-a woman. I’ll tell you about it,” continued Mr. Barfitt. “The man had been mysterious, but this woman was more so. She came here, as I said, on April 21st, and on my seeing her said she’d come about the advertisement in The Times. I at once asked her if she was Sarah Ogden. She said no-but she knew her. I questioned her further, she was difficult to manage. Eventually I got this much out of her. She had known the woman wanted all her life, first as Sarah Harrison, then as Sarah Ogden. She knew where she was now; she also knew that Sarah Ogden née Harrison, had for some years been living under another name. In fact, she could bring Sarah Ogden into the limelight-but she wanted paying!”
“Reward?” suggested Chaney.
“She wanted paying for her information,” replied Barfitt. “She looked that sort-grasping. No pay, no news! Of course, I told her that I was only an agent in the matter and could do nothing until I’d seen my client, the advertiser. I took her address and promised to write to her when he called again. But, as I’ve told you, he never did call again.”
“And you’ve not heard or seen anything of this woman since?” asked Chaney.
“Nothing.”
“But you have her name and address?”
“Here in my diary. Mrs. Luke, 850 Harley Street. I should imagine she is in service there.”
Chaney rose from his chair.
“Mr. Barfitt,” he said, “we must have that information! I suggest you should see this woman and get it. How much do you think she’d want?”
“No idea,” replied Mr. Barfitt. “No sum was mentioned when she was here. But, as I said before, I should say she was a grasping woman. What she said was that if my client, the advertiser, was so anxious to get news of Sarah Ogden, and if, as seemed likely, there was money or property coming to Sarah Ogden, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t be paid for telling where Sarah Ogden was and what name she now went by.”
“Can you suggest a figure?” asked Chaney.
“Oh, well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Barfitt. “I dare say the sight of fifty pounds would extract everything from her-perhaps less.”
Chaney turned to me. I knew what he was asking, and I nodded-we were fairly in for it by that time, and it was no use boggling at fifty pounds.
“Yes!” I said.
A few minutes later, Mr. Barfitt’s clerk having summoned a taxi-cab, the three of us set out westward. We called at my bank for ready money, and I handed the solicitor fifty pounds in crisp new notes. At the Cavendish Square end of Harley Street we left the cab, and Mr. Barfitt, bidding us wait at a certain corner for him, set off on his mission.
“How do you propose to profit by this, Chaney?” I asked, when he had gone. “You’ve no idea, of course?”
“My idea is that the more we find out about Ogden’s past, the nearer we’re getting to the truth about his murder,” he answered. “Dig down-it’s only a question of waiting.”
We had not very long to wait for Mr. Barfitt. Within half an hour he came hurrying back, and as he drew near us, he waved a scrap of paper.
“The fifty pounds did it!” he exclaimed. “Here’s the name and address.”
He thrust the scrap of paper into my hand, and I opened and read what was pencilled there.
Mrs. Hands, Wrides Park, Havering St. Michael.
CHAPTER XIX. WHO WAS IT?
FOR SOME REASON or other Mr. Barfitt had handed the scrap of paper to me instead of to Chaney, and it was my eye alone that first read the words Mrs. Luke had written on it in exchange for fifty pounds. To say that what I read gave me a shock is to put the matter mildly-I felt as if I had been groping about in a darkened room and had suddenly had a flood of blinding light let in on me. I saw and realized!-and from that moment I had a pretty clear vision of the track we had to follow.
“What is it?” Chaney was asking at my elbow. “Let’s see, Mr. Camberwell.”
But I kept the scrap of paper firmly rolled in my hand.
“A moment!” I said, and turned to the solicitor. “You’ve seen what’s written here, Mr. Barfitt? Well, just oblige me by keeping it secret for the present. We’ll see you again-and now you’ll excuse Chaney and me-there’s something I must say to him at once.”
Mr. Barfitt looked a little surprised and mystified, but he understood and was good enough to take himself off. I turned to Chaney, who was looking even more surprised.
“Something unusual, Mr. Camberwell?” he asked. “Startling?”
“You remember what the woman was to give, Chaney?” I said. “The name by which Sarah Ogden, formerly Sarah Harrison, now called herself, and her present address? Very well-here’s name and address written down. Do you see?-Mrs. Hands, Wrides Park!”
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “The-the housekeeper.”
“The housekeeper-Mr. Nicholas’s housekeeper,” I assented. “Well, there’s a revelation for you. Chaney, Mrs. Hands is-Sarah Ogden! And now we’ve got to talk, and to think. Here, let’s go somewhere and get some lunch-it’s two o’clock and we’ve had nothing since breakfast.”
We turned into Regent Street and, finding a restaurant, entered and got into a quiet corner. The waiter who came to us doubtless thought us strange or absent-minded, for we were both too excited to remember at first what we had gone there for. But when he ordered something, I plunged into matters.
“Chaney, we’ve got at-I don’t know what!-at last,” I said, “though we’ve been a long way round to get at it. We ought to have begun at home! Here’s the fact-if this woman informant is right-that Mrs. Hands, the severely respectable housekeeper of Mr. Christopher Nicholas, is Sarah Ogden! Now remember this-take it in order. On April 17th Ogden, calling himself Dengo, comes to the front door of Wrides Park and asks for Mr. Nicholas. Jeeves, the footman, says that Mr. Nicholas is out. Ogden forces his way in, enters the dining-room, helps himself to whisky from the sideboard. Jeeves, alarmed, comes to me. I go to the dining-room; Ogden bullies and blusters, and he demands a sandwich. Thinking it wise to humour him, I go in quest of a sandwich and meet Mrs. Hands. Mrs. Hands says she’ll take him a sandwich herself. She does so-she enters the dining-room, and Ogden meets-Sarah!”
“Ay-ay!” muttered Chaney. “Wife-sister-cousin-what?”
“You may be perfectly certain of the relationship,” I replied. “Ogden wouldn’t bother himself about advertising for a cousin or a sister. Wife, Chaney, wife, of course! Well, there you are-husband (who’s been in penal servitude) and wife (who’s struck out a line for herself) meet, there in Mr. Nicholas’s dining-room. I remember now that Mrs. Hands was there with our blustering visitor for several minutes-I believed that she was engaged in the laudable task of keeping him quiet till Mr. Nicholas returned. But we may now be perfectly certain that Mr. and Mrs. Ogden, having recognized each other, were having a hurried talk about their own concerns. And now, Chaney-”
But just there the waiter came and we had to bring our minds back to the fact that it was necessary to eat and drink. I went on, however, before I had well swallowed my first mouthful.
“Now remember a little more of the events of that day and evening,” I continued. “Ogden went away with Mr. Nicholas. Mr. Nicholas walked with him into Havering St. Michael, drew money-fifteen hundred pounds-from his bank, and handed it, in notes, to Ogden, from whom he then parted. Mr. Nicholas believed that Ogden, having got what he wanted, would go back to town. But we know that Ogden did not go back to town! Ogden turned up at the Wagon and Horses that evening; told Welman that some business would necessitate his staying the night in the neighbourhood, and asked if he could book a room. He did book a room-and soon afterwards, saying that he had an appointment, went out. Now, then-who was Ogden going to meet when he went out? Do you think there’s any doubt about it? He was going to meet Mrs. Ogden, alias Mrs. Hands!-to resume the conversation begun that morning. What do you say, Chaney?”
“Looks like it-uncommonly like it,” muttered Chaney. “Do you remember anything about her movements that night?”
“No!-how should I? She was in one part of the house, I in another-I never did see her of an evening. I don’t know what she was doing that night, at all. But we can find out-even now.”
Chaney ate and drank in silence for a few minutes. Then he gave me a questioning look.
“The sword-stick?” he said. “Have you thought about that?”
“I’ve thought about a lot of things during the last half-hour!” I replied. “Including that! I suggest that Mrs. Hands, otherwise Mrs. Ogden, took the sword-stick. I think Mrs. Ogden was probably afraid of her precious husband, and that, passing through the hall on her way out, she picked up the sword-stick on the spur of the moment so that she might have a weapon of defence at hand-literally, in hand-if Ogden became ugly. I think, too, that Ogden did become ugly-and paid for it.”
“You think, then, that she did it?” suggested Chaney.
“Killed Ogden? I think it’s very likely, now that we know all we do,” I replied. “Far more likely, than that poor, muddled, bewildered, desperate Mr. Nicholas did!”
“Well, we shall have to know more,” he observed. “How can we find out anything about Mrs. Hands’ movements that evening?”
“Jeeves is the man!” I said. “Jeeves is a dependable chap, we can trust him. Had Hoiler been at home that evening, I’d have taken him into confidence. But I remember that Hoiler was away until late that night. It was Hoiler’s day off, and he went, as he always does, to town. Jeeves will probably remember what Mrs. Hands was doing on the evening of that day-he’s a good memory.”
“I’ll go back with you,” said Chaney. “We’d better get on this track at once. By the by-isn’t Mr. Nicholas’s niece the mistress of the house at Wrides?”
“Nominal mistress, anyhow,” I replied.
“Well, mightn’t she be able to remember something about the housekeeper’s doings that evening?” he suggested. “I should have thought her a likely person.”
“Well-she might,” I admitted, after considering this proposal. “No harm in asking her, anyway, Chaney. She’s in town at present, staying with friends. Look here-you meet me at Waterloo at five o’clock. In the mean time I’ll see Miss Starr and ask her a question or two.”
Miss Starr was staying with an old school-friend in Kensington, and when I called at the house, I was lucky enough to find her in. Without telling her anything about our recent doings and discoveries I said that for certain reasons connected with her uncle’s defence Chaney and I were endeavouring to trace the movements of all the servants at Wrides Park on the evening of the murder-could she help me? Gradually I led the way to a direct question about Mrs. Hands. But Miss Starr knew nothing about Mrs. Hands-as far as that evening was concerned.
“You’re not suspecting Mrs. Hands?” she exclaimed. “Surely not! My uncle regards her and Hoiler as trustworthy beyond corruption. Mrs. Hands! Oh, no!”
