Collected works of j s f.., p.836
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 836
“I am,” he said. “Never been fitter in my life. But come this way, Mr. Camberwell — I’ll show you a bit of preparation I’ve been making. When you’re going to be married to a young London lady, you know, you have to do a bit of smartening up. Take a look at this, now.”
He led me across the room to a door on its farther side and, opening this and switching on the electric light inside, pushed me gently into what appeared to be a blaze of white and gold.
“Drawing-room,” he said complacently. “A young lady must have a drawing-room. I’ll tell you what I did. I found out which was the best furnishing company in London — a real, slap up-to-date firm. I told ’em to send a man down here. I showed him this room — you see its windows look out on my flower-gardens. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘furnish, fit, ornament this room in the very best style — expense no object,’ I said. And here’s the result. Fit for a queen — what?”
“A beautiful room!” I agreed. “I should like to see it when the sunlight’s on it. Excellent taste, too, Mr. Martenroyde — excellent!”
“Ah!” he said. “I told ’em it had all got to be of the best. Pretty penny it cost, too! — they don’t do things for naught, firms like that.”
“No,” I said. “You’d have a pretty fine old bill. But,” I added, slyly, “it shows that you’ve still got a shot or two in the locker.”
“Ah, you have me there!” he replied, laughing. “Ay, well, of course I’ve done well in my time, and if things aren’t quite what they used to be in my trade, we can keep on — we can keep on, Mr. Camberwell. But you must be getting hungry — where’s our dinner?”
He led me back to the dining-room, pressed more sherry on me, and kept up a flow of talk about one thing and another, until a smart, red-cheeked damsel appeared with the first signs of dinner. Thereupon my host bade me pull a chair in and fall to — and for the greater part of the next hour showed himself a good trencherman, an accomplished judge of sound wine, and the most assiduous of men in taking pains to make a guest at home.
I had formed a very good impression of Mr. Martenroyde by the time dinner was over — I thought him a good-natured, frank, open-hearted fellow, full of humour and essentially sociable and friendly. But when the rosy-cheeked servant had cleared the table and he and I were comfortably installed in a couple of easy chairs by the crackling fire, each with a fine cigar between his lips, I was to learn more of him.
“Now we’ll talk a bit of business, Mr. Camberwell,” he said. “As I remarked before, mine isn’t a case of murder nor aught like it — it’ll seem tame enough to you, no doubt. But am I right in thinking that your firm undertakes private inquiry?”
“Quite right, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s our business. We’re private inquiry agents. Of course, the term is a wide one. As a matter of fact, we do a great deal of detective work.”
“I understood so,” he said. “Well, now, I’ll tell you what I want, in confidence. You must know, to start with, that I’m sole proprietor of the business known as Todmanhawe Mill. I made that business, Mr. Camberwell. I’ve built it up from the start, my own self. Never had one stretch of a helping hand with or in it, sir — all my own unaided self — I’m a self-made man, and proud of it. Never mind how I started in life — it was in a very humble way, I can assure you. But I did get a start — and here I am, what they call a warm man. Well, now, I had a brother — he and I were the only two children our parents ever had — my brother John, a year or two younger than me. John never made out — I don’t know how it was — or happen I do know — but the more I prospered, the more he went downhill. I had to do a lot for him, and in the end he left a widow and two young lads, and I had to provide for them, for John left — naught! I sent the lads to school, put their mother in a good house in the village, and paid the piper for the lot. When the lads got to the right age I took ’em into my business, and they’re in it today. The eldest lad, Ramsden, is my manager here, and his brother, Sugden, is my representative in London, where I have an office in Gresham Street. And their mother — and them — lives at Mill House, down by the bridge yonder. You’ll be seeing ’em.”
“I’ve seen Mrs. John Martenroyde already,” I said, thinking it best to let him know of this fact. “Your chauffeur gave her a ride back from Shipton, when he went there to meet me.”
He gave me a look of surprise which changed to one of sly inquiry.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “He did, did he? Quite right — so you rode home with Mrs. John, did you? Well, you’d hear her tongue, I’ll bet!”
“She certainly talked,” I assented.
“I’ll lay she did!” he said, chuckling. “Never does aught else — powerful gift of the gab, has Mrs. John. She’d say something about me getting wed, no doubt?”
“Well, a word or two, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “In confidence, you know.”
“Oh, you needn’t repeat what she said,” he chuckled. “I’ve a pretty good idea — I told you I’d relations that weren’t best pleased that I’m going to be a wed man. Never mind ’em — let’s go back to business. And that’s about my nephew Sugden. I told you just now that Sugden’s my man in London — been there two years. Now Sugden’s been home lately for a two or three weeks’ holiday; he only went back to London this very afternoon. And while he was at home I got a letter about him — from London. It’s about that letter that I want to consult you and to engage your services.”
“An anonymous letter, Mr. Martenroyde?” I inquired.
“Nay, it isn’t,” he replied. “No — if it had been, it would have gone into the fire, unread; I never have aught to do with letters of that sort. No, it’s from a man that I know well enough — old employee of mine, William Heggus. He’s a Todmanhawe man; I sent him to London, as warehouseman, when I started my office there.”
“And he’s written to you about Mr. Sugden?” I asked. “A private letter, of course?”
“Ay, it’s so marked,” he answered, “and it came registered. But here it is, and I want you to read it and then we’ll discuss it.”
He took a pocket-book from inside his lounge coat and presently found among numerous other papers a letter which he unfolded and passed across to me. The handwriting was a plain commercial copperplate style, and I had soon mastered the contents. There was really not a great deal in it. The writer, evidently an old-fashioned man, appeared to be uneasy about the way in which Mr. Sugden Martenroyde was living in London — he seemed to fear that the young gentleman was living rather a fast life among companions of a sort and quality he had not been accustomed to in Todmanhawe. Also he feared that Sugden was inclined to neglect his uncle’s business — he was not at the offices sometimes when there was urgent need of his presence, and the writer had reason to believe that he frequented the races and had transactions with bookmakers. Finally, though disclaiming any accurate knowledge, he suggested to Mr. Martenroyde that it was not a desirable thing to let the account-books of the London office go so long unexamined — Mr. Sugden had full control of them and of the banking account, and so on and so on. I read the letter twice over and proceeded to restore it to its envelope.
“Well, what do you make of it?” demanded Mr. Martenroyde.
“The writer is evidently anxious,” I said. “He may, of course, be all wrong. But tell me — did you show this letter to Mr. Sugden while he was here?”
“Eh, bless you, no!” he exclaimed. “Private — and confidential!”
“Nor mention it to him?” I asked.
“Not a word!” he said. “Not I!”
“Did you ask him any questions which suggested themselves to you after you’d read this letter?” I continued.
“Not a question,” he answered. “I said naught. Not my way. My way is to find out things for myself.”
“Then Mr. Sugden,” I said, “has gone back to London quite unaware that you have had this letter and that you are wanting to know something about his mode of life there?”
“Exactly,” he assented. “I said naught to Sugden, except that I should be in London myself in about a fortnight, and that I’d go through the books of the London office with him.”
“Oh, you told him that, did you?” I asked. “Did that seem to take him aback?”
“Nay, I don’t know that it did,” he replied. “He’s a pretty cool customer, is Sugden. No, he made no remark.”
I passed the letter over to him, but he waved it back.
“You keep it,” he said. “You might have to see Heggus about it.”
I put the letter in my own pocket-book.
“What do you wish us to do, Mr. Martenroyde?” I asked.
He hesitated a moment, looking at the end of his cigar.
“Eh, well,” he replied at last, “I don’t like spying or eavesdropping, but I know William Heggus well enough to know that he wouldn’t have written that letter unless he felt that he’d good reason. What I’d like is that you could just find out what Sugden really does with himself there in London. Of course, he’s only a young chap, and London’s full of temptations. You could find out, I suppose?”
“Nothing easier, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Give me Mr. Sugden’s private address in London — I have his business address — and in a very short time we’ll tell you everything about him, at any rate as regards how he spends his time. We’ll tell you what time he goes to business and what time he leaves it; where he spends his evenings; if he goes to the races; what he does on Sundays; what sort of companions he has, male and female. One thing, of course, we can’t deal with.”
“Ay — and what’s that?” he asked inquisitively.
“Money matters,” I said. “We can’t examine your books at Gresham Street.”
“Now, you can leave all that to me,” he replied. “I shall see to that when I come up. Of course,” he continued, his tone altering somewhat, “if I found that Sugden had been monkeying with money matters, it would be serious. I’m not the sort of man to stand aught of that sort, Mr. Camberwell — Sugden would catch it from me if I found aught wrong! I’m particular — What is it?” he asked, breaking off and looking at me. “Hear something?”
“For the last quarter of an hour,” I said, pointing to a door which stood very slightly ajar in one corner of the big room, “I’ve heard slight sounds from behind that door — just rustlings. You haven’t any ghosts, Mr. Martenroyde?”
“Nay, I haven’t noticed any,” he replied, dryly. “It’s one of our cats you hear. There’s a conservatory behind that door, and there’s a broken pane or two which my gardener’s always forgetting to mend, and our cats — we’ve three or four of ’em about — they walk in and out; I hear ’em myself, but I take no notice till they knock a plant-pot down and then I go for ’em. Well, as I was saying, Mr. Camberwell, I should be — but I’ll not pursue that subject. I hope there’s naught wrong with Sugden. But — I must know if there’s aught in that letter.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “You shall have a full and accurate report very quickly. Say in three weeks, or a month anyway.”
“Well, I’m going up to town myself in about that,” he remarked. “Have it ready for me then. You’ve a good staff, I suppose, Mr. Camberwell?”
“An excellent staff, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “Both men and women. They’re chiefly young. And they’re all keen and enthusiastic.”
“Women, too?” he said. “Young women? Where do you get ’em from, then? Are they trained to it — like bloodhounds?”
“Well, scarcely that,” I replied, smiling. “They do get some training after we take them in hand, certainly. But they’re usually young people who appear to have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. The cleverest woman assistant we have, Mr. Martenroyde, was a girl clerk. We’ve another who was a milliner’s assistant; a third who was a nursery governess.”
“And they’re all good at this sort of thing, watching and tracking folks?” he asked. “Stick to ’em like leeches — what?”
“Leeches is a good word,” I agreed. “Leeches — or limpets.”
“Well, well!” he said. “Strange things in this life, aren’t there? Let’s have a drop of whisky.”
We had a drop of whisky, and we went on talking about one thing or another until the time drew near to ten o’clock. Pleading sleepiness after my long journey, I asked permission to retire, and he took me up to my room and looked round as if to see that I had everything I needed.
“No bed for me yet,” he said as we shook hands. “Every night, wet or fine, summer or winter, I walk round my mill. Done it ever since the mill was built — regular habit now. Well — sleep sound, sir. See you at breakfast-time tomorrow.”
He went off and soon afterwards I heard the front door close with a bang, and his firm steps on the gravel of the carriage drive. They died away, and a few moments later I was in bed and asleep. And I was sleeping soundly when, two hours later, a hand came thumping heavily and insistently on the panels of my bedroom door.
CHAPTER III. THE MILL WEIR
WHEN MY SLOWLY awakening senses fairly realized that this thunderous summoning was intended for me, I jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and reached for a dressing-gown. As I slipped into it I saw, by a side-glance at my watch, that the time was twenty minutes past midnight: I had been in bed and asleep two hours.
I flung open the door. There, in the garments in which I had last seen them — thereby proving that they had not been to bed — stood the housekeeper and the chauffeur. And eager as they had been to rouse me, neither of them, now that they had roused me, seemed capable of speech. They stood, wide-eyed, staring.
“What’s the matter?” I demanded. “Something wrong?”
Mrs. Haines moistened her lips and spoke.
“It’s the master, sir,” she said, “Mr. Martenroyde. He’s never come home.”
It was my turn to stare. But I found my tongue.
“Never — come home?” I exclaimed. “Why — what time does he usually come home?”
“He’s never out more than half an hour,” said Orris. “Just walks round by the mill and back. Half an hour does it, sir. But — he’s been out over two hours this time.”
“Half past ten’s his bedtime,” said Mrs. Haines. “We always sit up for him, me and Orris here, in case he wants aught or has any orders to give for morning. I’ve never once in all these years known him to be out at this time. There’s something wrong.”
Pausing for a moment to reflect on the next thing to be done, I was conscious that since I had gone to bed the weather had changed. I had left one of my bedroom windows fairly wide open, and now as I stood there between it and the door I became aware that a high, rough wind had arisen — I could hear it tearing through the trees in the grounds outside. I could also hear the river foaming along over its rocky bed in the valley. Was it possible that Mr. Martenroyde —
“How does your master get across the river?” I asked. “Does he go round by the road to the mill, or how?”
“He goes over the weir bridge, a foot-bridge, near the mill,” replied the chauffeur. “It’s a narrow plank bridge, sir — dangerous on a night like this.”
I hesitated no longer — Mr. Martenroyde must be looked for.
“Go down and get some lanterns, Orris,” I said. “Find some that won’t get blown out. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“I’m sure something’s wrong,” repeated Mrs. Haines as they turned away from my door. “Many and many a year he’s gone out for that last look round, but this is the first time he’s failed to come back. Something’s happened him!”
I dressed hurriedly and went down to the front hall, to find Orris awaiting me with a couple of lanterns, and Mrs. Haines still bemoaning her master’s unaccountable absence.
“Now,” I said as I got into my overcoat, “just tell me — is there any house at which Mr. Martenroyde may have called and where he may have stopped talking or been detained?”
“Eh, no, mister,” she answered in surprise. “He’d never call anywhere this time of night! — I never knew him do such a thing. He just walks round by the mill and back again — it’s not likely he’d call anywhere. If he did, it would only be if there was something wrong at the mill, and we should have heard before now.”
“But supposing he found something wrong at the mill,” I said, “where would he call?”
“Why, I can’t think of anywhere but at the Mill House,” she answered. “Mr. Ramsden Martenroyde, his nephew — he’s manager — he has the keys. Orris knows where that is.”
Orris and I went out, each carrying a lantern. The wind was blowing hard round the corners of the house — a keen, sharp wind from the north-west — and I could hear the rushing of the river as an undertone to the sweeping blasts.
“Now,” I said, “take the way by which your master goes every night — I suppose you know it?”
“Every yard of it, sir,” he answered. “This way, sir — to the left.”
He led me along the carriage drive to a gate which admitted us to the kitchen gardens; passing through these we came to another gate beyond which lay the hillside that sloped down to the river. There was a path there, on the left-hand side of which rose a plantation of fir and pine; on the right there was open land. As we followed the path, drawing nearer to the bank of the river, I began, getting used to the darkness, to make out the spume of the surging waters — evidently there was a great press of water coming down from the upper reaches of the valley.
“Does this river ever get in flood?” I asked.
“Yes, sir — comes right over the banks, often,” replied Orris. “There’s a row of stepping-stones a bit farther along, sir, near the bridge over the weir — I should say they’ll be covered tonight, those stones. In dry weather Mr. Martenroyde always goes across them, but he’d have to take the bridge this time. I’ve seen the water cover that, too, more than once.”
Presently we reached the river-bank; the path was alongside it for some distance. Flashing the light of my lantern over the swirling waters, I saw that they were racing along in considerable volume. It was a shallow river, that, and its bed was unusually rocky — great boulders stood up here and there, breaking the face of the stream and sending up clouds of spume and froth. My companion suddenly stopped.
