Collected works of j s f.., p.767
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 767
‘I think Paley’s a bad lot, in any case,’ replied Miss Hetherley, frankly. ‘I always have thought so. He’s a schemer.’
‘Very well, then, you’ll help us,’ said Chaney. ‘It’s not much I want you to do, but it’s highly important.’
‘What is it?’ asked Miss Hetherley.
‘Just this! If you do find any private papers or documents here, in Hannington’s desk or cabinet, which seem to you to have reference to his murder or to the visit Mrs. Clayton paid to him, do not hand them over to Paley! Don’t even show them to the Scotland Yard people. Let Mr. Camberwell and myself see them. Can you promise this? It’s of the utmost importance.’
Miss Hetherley considered matters during a moment’s silence. Then she nodded.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I give you my word. But — you think I may find something?’
‘I’ll tell you frankly what I do think,’ replied Chaney. ‘You told us that Mrs. Clayton came here with a handful of papers, and that when Hannington saw her out of that door the papers were in his hand, not hers. Now I think it highly probable that there was something amongst those papers which he wouldn’t carry about with him, but would at once put in a place of safety — here!’
Miss Hetherley reflected.
‘Possible!’ she said. ‘Very well, Mr. Chaney. It’s a bargain. I’ll look most carefully. And if I find anything, I’ll come straight to your office.’
Chaney sighed with relief when we went away.
‘That’s another valuable aid!’ he said. ‘What that woman says she’ll do, she will do! And I thoroughly believe what I said to her just now — there may be something there.’
Two days later Miss Hetherley was shown into us by the admiring Chippendale. She carried a small despatch case, and from it she extracted a foolscap envelope.
‘I’ve found something!’ she said quietly. ‘In Hannington’s cabinet. Now look — an ordinary foolscap envelope — sealed. There’s something inside — a mere sheet of paper, by the feel. Here, outside, you see two initials, A.C. Is that Mrs. Clayton’s? Here again are two more initials — T.H. That’s Hannington’s. And here’s a date — the exact date of her call on him. Now — what’s inside?’
PART THREE. GO NORTH, GO SOUTH!
I
BEFORE MISS HETHERLEY could slit the envelope which she now showed us, Chaney held out a hand and took it from her.
‘Let’s be exact and careful, Miss Hetherley,’ he said. ‘Now, you’re certain that these initials are in the late Mr. Hannington’s handwriting?’
‘No doubt of that!’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘Of course they are!’
‘And this date is the precise date on which the mysterious lady, whom we know as Mrs. Clayton, called on him?’
‘No doubt of that, either, Mr. Chaney.’
‘Very well,’ continued Chaney. ‘Now we’ll see what’s inside the envelope.’ He took out his penknife, slipped it through the flap, and drew out a paper, folded in three. One quick glance at it, and he laid it before us. ‘A certificate of marriage!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look!’
Miss Hetherley and myself bent over his shoulders and inspected the document. It was exactly what he said — a certificate of marriage between one Frank Crowther and one Alice Holroyd, celebrated before the Registrar at Milthwaite, in Yorkshire, some twelve years previously.
‘There!’ said Chaney. ‘Now, my idea is that this is what’s commonly called the marriage lines of the dead woman who gave her name — a fictitious one, no doubt — as Mrs. Clayton. Note certain things about it. Alice Holroyd, full age, is described as a spinster, and her address is given as the Angel Hotel, Milthwaite — perhaps she was the proprietor’s daughter. Frank Crowther, aged twenty-nine, is described as a salesman — his address is given at 21, Laburnum Grove, Milthwaite. Very well! — let’s conclude that Alice Holroyd, or Mrs. Crowther, and Mrs. Clayton are identical. But who’s Frank Crowther — and where is he? And why did Mrs. Clayton or Crowther deposit this document with Mr. Thomas Hannington?’
Miss Hetherley had picked up the marriage certificate and was carefully re-reading it. She put it back on the desk before Chaney.
‘There’s something strikes me at once,’ she said. ‘Now and then, Mr. Hannington used to talk to me about his experiences as a journalist. He was at one time, but I don’t know exactly when, a sub-editor on the Milthwaite Observer.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Chaney, triumphantly. ‘There you are! Mrs. Clayton, or Crowther, and Hannington were old friends, or acquaintances. That’s why she came to him. But — what did she come for? Why did she leave this marriage certificate with him? Camberwell!’ he went on. ‘The political-crime theory is vanishing! This has been a sordid murder — couple of ’em, rather — arising out of a private matter. My opinion, anyhow! — now that I’ve seen this.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Miss Hetherley.
‘Do?’ said Chaney. ‘Well, for the present, Miss Hetherley, you, Camberwell there, and I are going to enter into conspiracy of silence — dead silence! Not a word to anybody — police, Lord Cheverdale, Paley, anybody at all — about this certificate. We’ll lock it up in that safe — after making a careful copy of it — and no one is to know you found it until — until the right moment comes. We can rely on you?’
‘You can rely on me, Mr. Chaney,’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘You know me!’
She went away presently, and after we had made a careful copy of it, I locked up the marriage certificate in our office safe.
‘What next?’ I asked, turning to Chaney.
‘The next thing, Camberwell, is that you and I go down to Milthwaite,’ he said. ‘Milthwaite, my lad, is the spot where we start out on this particular voyage of discovery! We want to know who Alice Holroyd was, who Frank Crowther was — if Alice Holroyd, or Crowther, is identical with Mrs. Clayton, murdered in Little Customs Street, and where her husband has got to. Milthwaite, certainly — and at once! But first we must see Lord Cheverdale. And mind you, we’re to be very particular what we say to him. Leave that to me. And now let’s go and see him at once.’
We got a taxi-cab and drove up to Cheverdale Lodge. And there we were in luck: we found Lord Cheverdale alone: Paley, for once, was not in evidence. Lord Cheverdale seemed pleased — or relieved — to see us.
‘Any news, any news?’ he demanded. ‘Those Scotland Yard men have none! — none at all, so far. Slow — slow! Have you any?’
‘Well, my lord, these things take time,’ replied Chaney. ‘And your lordship will understand that one can’t always speak definitely. But Mr. Camberwell and myself have come to say that we have got an idea, a slight clue, which we wish to keep to ourselves, and should like to follow up, with your lordship’s approval and permission.’
‘Oh, take my approval and permission for granted!’ replied Lord Cheverdale, hurriedly. ‘Yes, yes — to be sure. Do anything you think necessary. Carte blanche, you know.’
‘Much obliged to your lordship,’ said Chaney. ‘The plan we propose will necessitate some travelling — we may have to cross the Channel. Your lordship will remember that the dead woman is believed to have come from France.’
Lord Cheverdale threw out his arms with a sweeping gesture.
‘Go north — go south!’ he exclaimed. ‘Go anywhere you like! — east, west, north, south! Only get at something — that’s what I want!’
‘We shall leave no stone unturned, my lord,’ said Chaney. ‘Your lordship understands, of course, that there will be expense — —’
Again Lord Cheverdale shot out his arms.
‘Spare no expense!’ he commanded. ‘Expense is neither here nor there. If you want money, tell Paley. He’ll give you — —’
‘We’re not wanting any money, my lord,’ replied Chaney. ‘All that can be settled when we’ve done our job. We will now get to work on our present idea, and we shall hope to report to your lordship in due course.’
‘Very good, very good — business-like!’ muttered Lord Cheverdale. ‘Yes, yes — get to work; work is the thing. Clear everything up — everything! Make it well worth your while, then!’
We left Cheverdale Lodge at that and went back to our office. There were things to clear up before we could leave for Milthwaite. But Chippendale had already proved himself to be an excellent and capable right-hand man, and we had every confidence in his ability to look after the matters left in his charge. We were able to set out on our journey North early that evening, and by ten o’clock were safely housed in the Midland Hotel, at Milthwaite. At breakfast next morning we discussed our procedure — Chaney’s great desire was to keep everything as secret and private as possible. At his suggestion we first visited the Registrar. And there, as soon as we obtained an interview, we saw that we were in luck. The Registrar was an elderly gentleman, and was, therefore, in all probability, the official who had officiated at the civil marriage of Alice Holroyd and Frank Crowther twelve years before.
II
THE REGISTRAR LISTENED with polite attention to the explanation of our presence which Chaney gave him, and looked with interest at the copy of the marriage certificate which we had made from the original.
‘Oh, yes, yes!’ he said at once. ‘I remember those people. Pretty young woman, and a smart young fellow. You’ve noticed, no doubt, that her address is given as the Angel Hotel in this town. She was a barmaid there — I think she’d a good many admirers. If you want information there, you’d no doubt get it from Mr. Milford, the proprietor — he’s an old man now, but I believe his memory is quite good. And then there are other people you can apply to. The two people who witnessed the ceremony, for instance. There they are — Mr. John Halstead; he’s now a well-known manufacturer in the town. Miss Milford — she’s Milford’s daughter, and still unmarried. You see I’m pretty well up in local knowledge!’
‘Much obliged to you, sir,’ said Chaney. ‘But as regards your own recollection, now? Can you give us any idea of what this man, Frank Crowther, was like?’
But the Registrar smiled and lifted a deprecating hand.
‘No, no!’ he said. ‘I can’t do that! — can’t remember now if he was tall or short, dark or light. All I remember is that he struck me as a smart young fellow, and that they seemed a well-matched couple.’
‘Do you know anything of what became of them again after you’d married them?’ enquired Chaney.
‘I heard that they left the town, immediately, after the wedding,’ replied the Registrar. ‘But beyond that I know nothing. They probably know more at the Angel. You haven’t been there yet?’
‘Not yet!’ replied Chaney. ‘We came to you first.’
‘The Angel is in White Market Street,’ said the Registrar. ‘An old-fashioned house, very strictly conducted — Milford, the proprietor, is a bit of what we call a character. Go and see him — but you’ll get more information out of his daughter, who, nowadays, is the real manager of the place. She probably knows a good deal about the matter you’re enquiring into.’
We went off to the Angel — a big, rambling, old-world hostelry, reminiscent of Tudor days outside and full of old oak within. And presently we were in the presence of its proprietor, a fairly ancient gentleman who sat, a cigar between his lips, and a comforting glass in front of him, by a bright fire in his own parlour. He was a little deaf, and we had some difficulty in explaining our presence and object.
‘You want to know about — who?’ he demanded at last. ‘What name?’
‘Alice Holroyd, sir — formerly barmaid in your employ,’ replied Chaney.
‘Alice? Left me ten or twelve years ago. Got wed. What do you want to know about her?’
‘We want to trace her and her husband, sir.’
‘Don’t know anything about ’em. Left here when she got wed. What do you want to know for?’
‘It’s a very important matter, sir — very important.’
‘Umph!’ Mr. Milford looked us both over carefully, from head to foot. ‘Lawyers, I reckon, what?’
‘Something of that sort, sir. We’re very anxious to trace Alice Holroyd and the man she married. We’ve come all the way from London for that purpose.’
Mr. Milford said ‘Umph!’ once more, and then, raising the stout stick he carried, thumped it heavily against the oak panelling by which he sat, and vociferated loudly ‘Sophia!’
A door opened in the panelling, and from a room behind it stepped out a sharp-eyed middle-aged woman, who glanced enquiringly from the landlord to ourselves. Mr. Milford pointed his stick at us.
‘These gentlemen want to know if you can tell them anything about Alice — that lass we had about ten or twelve years since, Sophia,’ he said. ‘Her that got wed to some chap or other and went away. I can’t tell ’em aught.’
Miss Milford looked at us again. She was evidently sizing us up.
‘Oh, well, of course, I could tell a good deal about Alice Holroyd,’ she said, hesitatingly. ‘Is it — perhaps you’d say what business it is?’
Chaney, mentioning the Registrar, gave Miss Milford some idea of what we were after. She became communicative at once, and sat down; Mr. Milford, lifting himself from his easy chair by means of his stout stick, went out of the room; his daughter closed the door after him.
‘Well,’ she said, resuming her seat, ‘of course, Alice Holroyd was a barmaid here for three years before she was married, so I knew her well. She was a very nice, clever, managing girl. Her father and mother were dead, and she’d no brothers or sisters. She had a bit of money of her own; about £2,000 or so, invested in a building society here in the town, and she’d a very nice salary here — quite a well-off young woman, you might say, and very well-conducted and respectable. She’d a good many offers of marriage, I can tell you — there were lots of steady young fellows in the town that would have been only too ready to marry her. But she never had any affairs till this Frank Crowther came along. And then — well, it was pretty sudden.’
‘Who was he, ma’am?’ enquired Chaney. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Not till then,’ replied Miss Milford. ‘He wasn’t a Milthwaite man. He came to the town on business, though what his exact business was I never could make out. He seemed to be nicely off — always smartly dressed and plenty of money to spend and so on. Anyway, Alice took a strong fancy to him — he used to come here a good deal when he was in the town — and the next thing I heard was that they were going to be married. And married they were, very soon, at the Registrar’s office. And I was a witness, for Alice, and I remember that I thought it a very queer thing that Crowther had no relations or friends there — not even a friend! His witness was a Milthwaite gentleman, Mr. John Halstead — I think Crowther used to do a bit of business with him and got him to attend. Of course, Alice, being an orphan, had no relations, to speak of.’
‘What happened after the wedding, ma’am?’ asked Chaney.
‘Oh, well, we had a bit of a wedding-breakfast here,’ replied Miss Milford, ‘and in the afternoon they went off to London. I’ve never seen either of them since.’
‘Nor heard of them?’ enquired Chaney.
‘Ah, well, that’s a different matter!’ said Miss Milford, shaking her head. ‘Yes, I heard two things: one, almost at once; the other, about a year afterwards. The first was — I got it from a solicitor in the town whom she’d employed, unknown to me — that two or three days before the marriage she drew all her money out of the building society — as I said before, about £2,000. The second was a letter I got from her — the first she’d written me since the wedding. It was from Mentone, in the South of France. She said that she and her husband were in business there, but she didn’t say what business. And why she wrote at all, in my opinion, was because she wanted me to send her a box of clothing that she’d left here. I sent it, and I never replied to her letter, and that’s all I know about her.’
‘Never heard from her since, ma’am?’ suggested Chaney. ‘Nor of her?’
‘Neither from nor of her,’ replied Miss Milford. ‘I’ve told you all I know. If you want to know anything about Crowther, perhaps Mr. John Halstead may know something — I don’t.’
Mr. Halstead, in quest of whom we set off without further delay, turned out to be one of the leading manufacturers of the town. We were fortunate enough to find him in his office — a big, burly, shrewd, outspoken Yorkshireman, who eyed us over carefully as Chaney made explanation of our mission. He said nothing until Chaney had finished; then he motioned us to chairs, and taking a seat at his desk, put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat and looked quizzically from one to the other of us.
‘Now what are you chaps really after?’ he asked, with a twinkle of his sharp eyes. ‘There’s more behind what you’ve told me! What is it?’
Chaney looked at me.
‘I think we can take Mr. Halstead into our full confidence, eh, Camberwell?’ he said. ‘The fullest confidence!’
Halstead laughed.
‘You’ll get nothing out of me if you don’t!’ he said. ‘No half-measures with a Yorkshireman, my lads! All or nothing!’
‘Very well, sir,’ responded Chaney. ‘Then it’s all! You’ve read the newspaper accounts of the murder of Mr. Thomas Hannington at Lord Cheverdale’s place in Regent’s Park?’
‘I have! Queer business.’
‘And of the murder, the same night, of a woman, in Little Custom Street — a woman known there as Mrs. Clayton?’
‘I’ve read that, too. Still queerer business.’
‘Very well! We believe Mrs. Clayton to be identical with one Alice Holroyd, whose marriage to a man named Frank Crowther you witnessed, in this town, some twelve years ago.’
Halstead jumped in his seat.
‘The devil you do!’ he exclaimed. ‘Alice Holroyd! Why, what grounds — —’
‘I’m going to tell you,’ said Chaney. He went on to give Halstead further explanations. ‘Now,’ he concluded, ‘what can you tell us, Mr. Halstead, about Alice Holroyd and Frank Crowther, especially about Crowther? You were his best man, or witness, at the ceremony, before the registrar. What did you know of him then? — what have you known of him since?’
