Collected works of j s f.., p.792
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 792
Chaney tore open the envelope, glanced at its contents, and nodded.
“Just what I expected,” he muttered. “It’s from Mallwood. Sir Stephen’s dead. Read that.”
I took the telegram and read it carefully.
Sir Stephen Maxtondale met with strange accident this morning and has since died certain of foul play probably murder glad of your assistance at once Mallwood.
I glanced at Chaney. He nodded again.
“We can catch the twelve o’clock,” he said. “Go down with those other two, of course. But — I’m wondering, Camberwell.”
“What about?” I asked.
“If we’ll tell them about that,” he answered, pointing to the telegram, “or if we’ll keep it to ourselves. Most likely they’ll get a wire handed in at Rugby. ‘Foul play — probably murder’! says Mallwood. Good Lord! — I wonder what’s happened. No, we won’t show the wire to those two; we’ll keep the news to ourselves — for the present.”
CHAPTER XVII. LADY SYBIL’S BRIDGE
THERE WAS NO time to lose if we were to catch the twelve o’clock train from Euston to Monkseaton, and I began to make the necessary preparations. Chaney was already making his. Presently he came into my room.
“Camberwell,” he said, “we’ll take Chip with us.”
“Why?” I asked. “And — who’s to remain in charge here?”
“Chip maybe uncommonly useful,” he answered, “and we can get that girl of his to come and look after things. I’ll see to it — I want Chip to be there; you don’t know what we may need in the way of help.”
He went out to Chippendale and I heard him get on the phone to Miss Pratt. A moment later he poked his head in at my door again and informed me that she was coming. And within twenty minutes Miss Pratt, business-like as ever, arrived and took everything over as calmly and collectedly as if she had been running our office all her life; and Chaney, Chippendale, and I set out for Euston.
Sir Rupert Maxtondale — as we now knew him to be — and Mr. Ellerthorpe were already in the restaurant car when we boarded the train, and as they appeared to be deep in consultation, we three took seats at some little distance from them. Neither had shown any surprise at our presence, but when the train had started, Mr. Ellerthorpe came along to us.
“I’m not surprised to see you here,” he said, “but I should like to know if anyone sent for you, Chaney.”
“Yes,” replied Chaney, promptly; “Mallwood. We found a wire from him when we got back to our office.”
“And—” began Mr. Ellerthorpe.
“Pretty much like yours from Weekes,” said Chaney. “Serious accident.” He glanced along the car. “Probably fatal,” he added. “And — he wanted us.”
“I wonder why,” said Mr. Ellerthorpe. “But we must wait. I expect another wire at Rugby.”
He left us then and went back to Sir Rupert. Lunch was being served; we ate and drank and looked out of the windows. Rugby came: Mr. Ellerthorpe went to the door of the car. A wire was handed to him. He came back into the car opening it. I saw his face change. He showed the wire to his companion. Sir Rupert looked, nodded, said nothing, turned to the window again. Mr. Ellerthorpe came along to us.
“Sir Stephen is dead!” he said. “Died at nine o’clock this morning.”
“From Weekes?” inquired Chaney.
“From Weekes.”
“Does he say what time the accident happened?”
“He says no more than this: ‘Sir Stephen died at nine o’clock, never having regained consciousness,’ ” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Of course, we haven’t a notion as to the nature of the accident.”
“Sit down a minute,” said Chaney, making room on his own seat. “Don’t tell Sir Rupert, Mr. Ellerthorpe,” he went on in a low voice, “but, as a matter of fact, we knew that Sir Stephen was dead when we came to the train.”
“You did! How?” exclaimed Mr. Ellerthorpe.
“Mallwood told us in his wire. Here it is,” continued Chaney, producing the telegram from his pocket. “Now, notice two or three things. Mallwood first refers to the accident as ‘strange.’ Then he suggests ‘foul play.’ And then he hints at ‘murder.’ ”
Mr. Ellerthorpe groaned.
“Good heavens!” he muttered. “When are we going to get to the bottom of this? What does it all mean? When is it going to end? If this last affair is murder.”
“We shall have to redouble our efforts, sir — that’s all,” said Chaney. “And this time we must stick at nothing. I suppose,” he went on, with a glance along the car, “I suppose, sir, you know how things are left? The title, of course, is settled — nothing can interfere with that. But — the estates and the personalty.”
Mr. Ellerthorpe glanced at Chippendale. Chaney hastened to speak.
“Our clerk, sir, is as secret as we are,” he said, reassuringly. “Only — more so!”
“Excellent tribute to his character!” remarked Mr. Ellerthorpe, smiling. “Well, there’s no reason for secrecy. Sir Stephen Maxtondale has died intestate!”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Chaney. “And all that money — and lands and all the rest of it. Fifty thousand a year, I’ve heard.”
“It is a fact, though,” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. “I have never been able to persuade him to make a will. He — the fact is, he wanted to wait until the end of what he considered his son’s probation. And now — it’s too late.”
“Then — Sir Rupert comes in for — what?” asked Chaney.
“Everything!” said Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Everything!”
He went away at that, and Chaney turned to Chippendale and me, sitting side by side, opposite him.
“Queer life, this!” he said. “Two hours or so ago our friend at the other end of the car was — well, we know how he stood, approximately, in this world’s goods! Now a baronet and in command of fifty thousand a year!”
“Millionaire!” observed Chippendale, laconically.
“Quite right, my lad!” agreed Chaney. “A millionaire! Well — what shall we hear next? What’ll happen next?”
What happened next was that when we all got out of the train at Monkseaton, a policeman in plain clothes met us. Superintendent Mallwood’s compliments and there was one of the cars from Heronswood outside and would we all drive straight to the Weekeses’ house in Heronswood Park? — the Superintendent was waiting for us there.
We followed the man outside the station to the car — its chauffeur greeted his new master with the recognition of his sudden access to fortune. Chaney drew the plain-clothes man aside, motioning me to follow.
“Have you been over there?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Just come from there. The Superintendent felt sure you’d come by this train, so he sent me in to meet you.”
“What was the accident to Sir Stephen?” inquired Chaney.
“Fell through a bridge, sir — a drop of sixty feet. It’s a bridge in the park, near the steward’s lodge, which, I understand, Sir Stephen used to cross every morning, regularly. He didn’t live many minutes after he was found. Never regained consciousness, I understand.”
“Superintendent Mallwood, in his wire to me, said something about foul play — suspected foul play,” said Chaney. “Do you know anything about that?”
The man gave us a significant look and dropped his voice to a whisper.
“They’re saying,” he answered, “they’re saying, thereabouts, that the bridge had been interfered with! I didn’t quite catch how, exactly, but that’s what I gathered. They’ll be able to tell you more when you get there, Mr. Chaney.”
We went back to the car. Chaney and I got in with Mr. Ellerthorpe and Sir Rupert; Chippendale sat in front, by the chauffeur. We moved off in silence, but once clear of the town, Mr. Ellerthorpe turned on Chaney.
“Learn anything from that man?” he asked.
“Next to nothing,” replied Chaney. “He says that Sir Stephen met with a serious fall from some bridge near Weekes’s house—”
Sir Rupert let out a sudden exclamation.
“Good God!” he said. “That must be Lady Sybil’s Bridge! — I’ve told him more than once that it was rotten and ought to be replaced. Did — did he fall from it?”
“I gathered that,” replied Chaney.
“A drop of sixty feet, at least!” muttered Sir Rupert. “The last time I crossed it, I said it wasn’t safe — it’s been there a hundred years, I’ll bet, without ever being touched.”
“What bridge is it?” asked Mr. Ellerthorpe. “I can’t place it from my memory.”
“You may never have seen it,” said Sir Rupert. “It’s a narrow foot-bridge in the woods, spanning a very deep ravine through which one of the park roads runs. It’s on a path which runs from the house, through the woods, to the steward’s lodge and about fifty yards from Weekes’s orchard. My father used to take that path every morning, you know,” he went on, turning to Mr. Ellerthorpe; “he was a very early riser and always breakfasted at eight o’clock, winter and summer, and as soon as he’d breakfasted, set off to the estate office at Weekes’s place — never knew him miss doing that in all my experience of him. And he always took the path I’m telling you of, and of course always crossed the bridge.”
“I suppose that habit of his was well known?” asked Chaney.
“Everybody knew of it,” said Sir Rupert. “Everybody! Regular as clock-work, he was, about that walk to the estate office. He’d fixed habits. And he’d one about that bridge. My great-grandmother, Lady Sybil, who had it made — and the path cut, too — stuck the bridge where it is because from it there’s a wonderful view of the park. When my father crossed the bridge every morning, he used to stop to admire that view. He never missed doing that. And I see now how it happened, Ellerthorpe. The rotten old railings must have given way! And — a drop of sixty feet! I told him, last time I was at home, the whole thing should be mended — what was really needed was a new bridge. But he’d such a fancy for keeping old things untouched.”
We were in Heronswood Park by that, and presently we pulled up at the gateway of the steward’s lodge. Weekes came out to us; behind him came Mallwood. And while Weekes went into the house with the new baronet and Mr. Ellerthorpe, Mallwood remained with us in the garden.
Mallwood looked graver than I had ever seen him look. After assuring himself of Chippendale’s identity, he motioned us to follow him towards a gate which gave access from Weekes’s garden to the estate office, a building that stood on the edge of the park.
“My man tell you anything when he met you at the station?” he asked as we walked along. “Any details?”
“He merely told us that Sir Stephen had fallen from a bridge, and that there was some idea that the bridge had been interfered with,” replied Chaney. “Coming along in the car, Sir Rupert, having heard that much, told us more — about his father’s habit of crossing the bridge every morning on his way to the estate office, and so on. Sir Rupert also said that when he was here last, he formed the opinion that the bridge was rotten and should be repaired.”
“Rotten, eh?” muttered Mallwood. “Humph! Well — you shall see something for yourselves!”
Entering the estate office and leading us along its main passage, he paused at a door at its farther end and, producing a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and admitted us to an unfurnished room in which there was but one object. That — set up against a wall — was what appeared to be a length of what is called rustic railing, such as would be used for the sides of a short foot-bridge. It was some nine or ten feet in length and, save for signs of some slight damage through a fall, intact.
“Look at this!” said Mallwood. “This is a piece of the railings which formed the left-hand side of the bridge you’ve heard of. That bridge carries a certain foot-path over a ravine or cutting which is a good sixty feet below. Sir Stephen crossed the bridge every morning of his life when he was at Heronswood, on his way to the estate office. And when he crossed it, he always did the same thing — there’s scarcely a man or woman about here, or child either, that hasn’t seen him doing it! When he got to the centre of the bridge, he used to lean both hands on the railing on the left-hand side and stand, sometimes for a good five minutes, admiring the view — there’s a wonderful view from that bridge, as you’ll presently see. Well, this morning, at a little after half past eight, his usual hour, he was seen—”
“Ah!” exclaimed Chaney, starting. “He was seen — actually seen — was he?”
“He was actually seen — by two workmen, whose evidence you’ll hear,” continued Mallwood. “Oh, yes, the affair was witnessed, right enough. He was seen to walk on to the bridge and half-way across to stop, as usual, and place his hands on the top rail of the left-hand side. And the next instant he and the railing on which he was leaning his full weight crashed to the road beneath — a sixty-foot drop! And — why?”
He paused, staring at us for a minute; then he suddenly pointed a finger to the length of railing set up against the wall.
“That railing had been sawn through in four separate places!” he whispered. “When Sir Stephen put his hands on it, it was hanging by what you might call four threads. Look for yourselves!”
We all three went closer and looked at the railing. What Mallwood had said was true enough. The top rail had been sawn through at both ends of the length before us; the connexions at the bottom had been similarly treated. Nothing could be more certain than that a sudden and fearful death awaited the man who leaned on that rail above a drop of sixty feet.
Chaney examined the signs of severance with great care.
“Freshly done,” he muttered. “Small-toothed saw. I suppose,” he went on, turning to Mallwood, “I suppose you examined the bridge as soon as you got to it? Did you notice any traces of sawdust?”
“I thought of that,” replied Mallwood. “No, there were none. But there was a high wind blowing this morning, and it blew pretty hard up that valley.”
“Well, there’s no doubt about what’s happened,” said Chaney. “And no doubt, either, that this is murder! Just that — murder!”
“Murder, right enough!” agreed Mallwood. “I should just think so. Just as much as the other affairs were murder. Cool, deliberate murder!”
“Any suspicions — clues — anything?” asked Chaney.
Mallwood hesitated in answering.
“I’ve ideas of my own,” he said after a pause, “but I’m not going to say anything about them yet.”
“Found anything helpful?” inquired Chaney.
“We’ve discovered that a saw, such as would do this job, is missing from the estate carpenter’s shop since yesterday,” replied Mallwood.
“Estate carpenter’s shop, eh?” said Chaney. “Ah! — isn’t that where that fellow Batty was employed till Weekes fired him?”
“It is!” answered Mallwood.
“Is Batty out of prison — he got a month for assaulting Weekes, didn’t he?” asked Chaney.
“He did — and I think the month was up a few days ago,” replied Mallwood.
Chaney gave Mallwood a searching look.
“Thinking of him, I reckon?” he said.
“Something of the sort,” admitted Mallwood. “He vowed vengeance on Weekes in the dock, and he may have thought that Weekes, living close to it, would step on the bridge. Weekes often walked out along that path to meet Sir Stephen of a morning. But I’ve set inquiries on foot as to whether Batty’s been seen about.”
The door opened just then. Sir Rupert Maxtondale came in, with Mr. Ellerthorpe and Weekes in attendance. Once again Mallwood had to tell the tale he had told us.
CHAPTER XVIII. BATTY ONCE MORE
PRESENTLY WE ALL left the estate office and walked out to Lady Sybil’s Bridge. As Chaney and I had never been in that part of the Heronswood properties before, I made careful note of our surroundings and of the relation of the bridge to, first, Heronswood itself and, second, to the steward’s house and the estate office. Just behind the office a path led across a corner of Weekes’s grounds and then passed through a wicket-gate with a thick coppice, which it traversed for some fifty or sixty yards. At the farther extremity of this coppice we came out on a terrace of green turf, and from this projected the foot-bridge made by the Lady Sybil of long ago. Spanning a ravine or cutting of some sixty to seventy feet in depth, the bridge, at its other end, communicated with another level of turf, beyond which was the edge of the deep woods of Heronswood Park.
Mallwood had caused both ends of the bridge to be roped off, and a constable in uniform to be posted at that end of it which we now approached. Passing through the ropes, we went close to the bridge and made a careful inspection of its shattered timbers. It was easy to comprehend what had happened; where the piece of rail-fencing which we had just seen at the estate office should have been, there was now a wide gap. It was not a pleasant thing to think of a man plunging through that gap to the depths below. And one could not fail to notice that the road at the foot of the ravine, on which anyone so plunging would fall, was of a hard, granite-stoned surface. We stood looking at all this for some time, in silence. Then Chaney spoke, addressing Weekes.
“I understand that somebody witnessed the accident?” he said.
Weekes, who was obviously much upset by the death of his employer, nodded, pointing towards the road on the other side of the cutting.
“There were two of our estate workmen doing a job over there,” he answered. “Mending a fence. They saw Sir Stephen come out of the wood and walk on to the bridge. They saw him — it was his usual habit — put his hands on the railings, on that side, looking up the valley, as he always did. And they say that the instant he leaned his weight on it, the rail gave way, and — down he went!”
“Yes?” said Chaney. “And—”
Weekes looked at Sir Rupert, as if doubtful whether these details should be gone into.
“Go on!” said Sir Rupert. “He wants to know.”
“One of the men made his way down the cutting,” continued Weekes. “The other ran for me. I got some help and came here and we carried Sir Stephen up to the office.”
