Hetherwick went away from the sordid atmosphere of Fligwood's Rents wondering more than ever at this new development; he continued to wonder and to speculate all the rest of that day and most of the next. That Granett's sudden death had followed on Hannaford's seemed to him a sure proof that there was more behind this mystery than anybody had so far conceived of. Personally, he had not the slightest doubt that whoever poisoned Hannaford had also poisoned Granett. And he was not at all surprised when, late in the afternoon of the day following upon that of the visit to Dorking, Matherfield walked into his chambers with a face full of news.
"I know what you're going to tell me, Matherfield," said Hetherwick, motioning his visitor to an easy chair. "The doctors have held a post-mortem on Granett, and they find that he was poisoned."
Matherfield's face fell; he was robbed of his chance of a dramatic announcement.
"Well, and that's just what I was going to tell you," he answered. "That's what they do say. Same doctors that performed the autopsy on Hannaford. Doesn't surprise you?"
"Not in the least," replied Hetherwick. "I expected it. They're sure of it?"
"Dead certain! But, as in Hannaford's case, they're not certain of the particular poison used. However—also as in his case—they've submitted the whole case to two big swells in that line, one of 'em the man that's always employed by the Home Office in these affairs, and the other that famous specialist at St. Martha's Hospital—I forget his name. They'll get to work; they're at work on the Hannaford case now. Difficult job, I understand—some very subtle poison, probably little known. However, I believe we've got a clue about it."
"A clue—about the poison?" exclaimed Hetherwick. "What clue?"
"Well, this," answered Matherfield. "After you'd gone away from Fligwood's Rents yesterday afternoon, and while I was making arrangements for the removal of the poor chap's body, I took another careful look round the room. Now, if you noticed things as closely as all that, you may have observed that Granett's bed was partly in a sort of alcove—the head part. In the corner of that alcove, or recess, just where he could have set them down by reaching his arm out of bed, I found a bottle and a glass tumbler. The bottle was an ordinary medicine bottle—not a very big one. It had the cork in it and about an inch of fluid, which, on taking out the cork, I found to be whisky, and, I should say by the smell, whisky of very good quality. But I noticed that there was the very slightest trace of some sort of sediment at the bottom. There was a trace of similar sediment in the bottom of the tumbler. Now, of course, I put these things up most carefully, sealed them, and handed them over to the doctors. For it was very evident to me—reconstructing things, you know—that Granett had mixed himself a drink, a nightcap, if you like to call it so, from that bottle on getting into bed, and then had put bottle and glass down by his bed-head, in the corner. And just as I mean to trace that five-pound note, Mr. Hetherwick, so I mean to trace that bottle!"
"How?" asked Hetherwick, closely interested. "And to what, or whom?"
"To the chemists where it came from," answered Matherfield. "It came from some chemist's, and I'll find which!"
"There are hundreds of chemists in London," said Hetherwick. "It's a stiff proposition."
"It's going to be done, anyway," asserted Matherfield. "And it mayn't be such a stiff job as it at first looks to be. See here! There were labels on that bottle, both of 'em torn and defaced, it's true, but still with enough on them to narrow down the field of inquiry. I've had the face of the bottle photographed—here's a print of the result."
He brought out a photographic print, roughly finished and mounted on a card, and handed it over to Hetherwick, who took it to the light and examined it carefully. It showed the front of the medicine bottle, with a label at the top and another at the bottom. Each had been torn, as if to obliterate names and addresses, but a good deal of the lettering was left.
+-----------------------------+| C. A , Esq., || The mix re as before || No. A.1152 |+-----------------------------++-----------------------------+| _Note_.--This medicine has || been dispensed by a fully || qualified Chemist with the || to possible drugs || is guaranteed || wishes of || the Pres- || || M.P.S. || St. W.C. |+-----------------------------+
"That bottom label's the thing, Mr. Hetherwick," remarked Matherfield. "Let me get that hiatus filled up with the name and address of the chemist, and I'll soon find out who C. A. blank, Esquire, is! The chemist is one in the West Central district; he's a member of the Pharmaceutical Society; he'll have somebody whose initials are C. A. on his books; he'll recognise the number A.1152 of the prescription. It's a decided clue; and even if there are, as there undoubtedly are, scores of chemists in the West Central district, I'll run this one down!"
Hetherwick handed back the photograph and began to pace up and down the room. Suddenly he turned on his visitor, his mind made up to tell him what he himself had been doing.
"Matherfield," he said, dropping into his chair again and adopting a tone of confidence, "what do you make of this? I mean—what's your theory? Is it your opinion that the deaths of these two men are—so to speak—all of a piece?"
"That is my opinion!" answered Matherfield with an emphatic nod. "I've no more doubt about it than I have that I see you, Mr. Hetherwick. All of a piece, to be sure! Whoever poisoned Hannaford poisoned Granett! I'll tell you how I've figured it out since the doctors told me, only a couple of hours since, what their opinion is about Granett. This way: Hannaford and Granett knew each other at Sellithwaite ten years ago. That night when Granett left Appleyard in Horseferry Road and turned into Victoria Street, he met Hannaford—accidentally."
"Why accidentally?" asked Hetherwick.
"Well, that's what I think," said Matherfield. "I've figured in that way. Of course, it may have been by appointment. But anyway, they met—we know that. Now then, where did they spend their time between then and the time they got into your carriage at St. James's Park? We don't know. But here comes in an unknown factor—what about the strange man at Victoria, the man muffled to his eyes? Two things suggest themselves to me, Mr. Hetherwick. Did Hannaford take Granett to see that man, or did Hannaford and Granett meet at that man's? For I think that man, whoever he is, is at the bottom of every thing."
"Why should they meet at that man's?" asked Hetherwick.
"Well," answered Matherfield, "I think that secret of Hannaford's has something to do with it. He had the sealed packet on him when he left Malter's Hotel; it had disappeared when we searched his clothing after his death. Now, the granddaughter says it had to do with chemicals. Suppose the tall, muffled man was a chap whose business opinion on this secret Hannaford wanted, and that they met at Victoria and went to the man's rooms somewhere in that district? Suppose Granett—another man in the chemistry line—came there, knowing both? Supposing the muffled man poisoned both of 'em, to keep the secret to himself? Do you see what I'm after? Very well! There you are. The thing is to hunt out that man, whoever he is. I wish I knew what Hannaford's secret was, though—its precise nature."
"Matherfield," said Hetherwick, "I'll tell you! You've been very confidential with me; I'll be equally so with you, on condition that we work together from this. The fact is, I've been at work. I'm immensely interested in this case. Ever since I saw Hannaford die in that train and in that awfully mysterious fashion it's fascinated me, and I'm going to the very end of it. Now I'll tell you all I've been doing, and what I've discovered. Listen carefully."
He went on to tell his visitor the whole details of his visit to Sellithwaite, of the results of his investigations there, and of Rhona's doings and observations at Riversreade Court. Matherfield listened in absorbed silence.
"Is Miss Hannaford going to this secretaryship, then?" he demanded abruptly, at the end of Hetherwick's story. "Is it settled?"
"Practically, yes," replied Hetherwick. "I heard from Lady Riversreade this morning; so did Mr. Kenthwaite. We gave Miss Hannaford—to be known to Lady Riversreade as Miss Featherstone—very good recommendations for the post, and I expect that as soon as she's had our letters, Lady Riversreade will telephone to Miss Hannaford that she's to go at once. Then—she'll go."
"To act as—spy?" suggested Matherfield.
"If you put it that way, yes," assented Hetherwick. "Though, from what she saw of her yesterday, Miss Hannaford formed a very favourable opinion of Lady Riversreade. However, I'm so certain that somehow or other, perhaps innocently, she's connected with this affair, that we mustn't lose any chance."
"And Miss Hannaford will report anything likely to you?" asked Matherfield.
"Just so! Miss Hannaford's duties don't include any Sunday work; on Sunday she'll come to town, and if there's anything to tell, she'll tell it—to me. She's a smart, clever girl, Matherfield, and she'll keep her eyes open."
Matherfield nodded, and for a while sat silent, evidently lost in his own thoughts.
"Oh, she's a clever girl, right enough!" he said suddenly. "Um! I wonder who this Lady Riversreade really is, now?"
"This Lady Riversreade!" laughed Hetherwick. "A multi-millionairess!"
"Aye, just so; but who was she before her marriage? If she is the woman who was known as Mrs. Whittingham——"
"Can there be any doubt about it after what I found out?"
"You never know, Mr. Hetherwick! Lord bless you! they talk about the long arm of coincidence. Why, in my time I've known of things that make me feel there's nothing wonderful about the most amazing coincidence! But—if Lady Riversreade used to be Mrs. Whittingham, then I'd like to know all about Mrs. Whittingham until she became Lady Riversreade, and who she was before she was Mrs. Whittingham, if she ever was Mrs. Whittingham!"
"Stiff job, Matherfield," said Hetherwick. "I think we shall have enough to do to keep an eye on Lady Riversreade."
"You anticipate something there?" suggested Matherfield.
"I think something may transpire," replied Hetherwick.
Matherfield got to his feet.
"Well," he said, "keep me informed, and I'll keep you informed. We've something to go on—Lord knows what we shall make out of it!"
"You're doing your best to trace the tall man?" asked Hetherwick.
"Best!" exclaimed Matherfield with an air of disgust. "We've done our best and our better than best! I've had special men all round that Victoria district; I should think every tall man in that part's been eyed over. And I believe that Mr. Ledbitter has so got the thing on his brain that he's been spending all his spare time patrolling the neighbourhood and going in and out of restaurants and saloons looking for the man he saw—of course, without result!"
"All the same," said Hetherwick, "that man is—somewhere!"
Matherfield went away, and except at the inquest on Granett—whereat nothing transpired which was not already known—Hetherwick did not see him again for several days. He himself progressed no further in his investigations during that time. Rhona Hannaford betook herself to Riversreade Court, as secretary to its mistress's Home, and until the Sunday succeeding his departure Hetherwick heard nothing of her. Then she came up to town on the Sunday morning and, in accordance with their previous arrangement, Hetherwick met her at Victoria, and took her to lunch at a neighbouring hotel.
"Anything to tell?" he asked, when they had settled down to their soup. "Any happenings?"
"Nothing!" answered Rhona. "Everything exceedingly proper, business-like, and orderly. And Lady Riversreade appears to me to be a model sort of person—her devotion to that Home and its inmates is remarkable! I don't believe anything's going to happen, or that I shall ever have anything to report."
"Well, that'll have its compensations," said Hetherwick. "Leave us all the more time for ourselves, won't it?"
He gave her a look to which Rhona responded, shyly but unmistakably; she knew, as well as he did, that they were getting fond of each other's society. And they continued to meet on Sundays, and three or four went by, and still she had nothing to tell that related to the mystery of Hannaford and Granett.
Three weeks elapsed before Matherfield had anything to tell, either. Then he walked into Hetherwick's chambers one morning with news in his face.
"Traced it!" he said. "Knew I should! That five-pound note—brand new. Only a question of time to do that, of course."
"Well?" inquired Hetherwick.
"It was one of twenty fivers paid by the cashier of the London and Country Bank in Piccadilly to the secretary of Vivian's," continued Matherfield. "Date—day before Hannaford's death. Vivian's, let me tell you, is a swell night club. Now then, how did that note get into the hands of Granett? That's going to be a stiff 'un!"
"So stiff that I'm afraid you mustn't ask me to go in at it," agreed Hetherwick good-humouredly. "I must stick to my own line—when the chance comes."
The chance came on the following Sunday, when, in pursuance of now established custom, he met Rhona. She gave him a significant look as soon as she got out of the train.
"News—at last!" she said, as they turned up the platform. "Something's happened—but what it means I don't know."
The head-waiter in the restaurant to which Hetherwick and Rhona repaired every Sunday immediately upon her arrival now knew these two well by sight, and forming his own conclusions about them, always reserved for them a table in a quiet and secluded corner. Hither they now proceeded, and had scarcely taken their accustomed seats before Rhona plunged into her story.
"I expect you want to know what it's all about, so I won't keep you waiting," she said. "It was on Friday—Friday morning—that it happened, and I half thought of writing to you about it that evening. Then I thought it best to tell you personally to-day—besides, I should have had to write an awfully long letter. There are things to explain; I'd better explain them first. Our arrangements down there at Riversreade, for instance. They're like this: Lady Riversreade and I always breakfast together at the Court, about nine o'clock. At ten we go across the grounds to the Home. There we have a sort of formal office—two rooms, one of which, the first opening from the hall, I have, the other, opening out of it, is Lady Riversreade's private sanctum. In the hall itself we have an ex-army man, Mitchell, as hall-porter, to attend to the door and so on. All the morning we are busy with letters, accounts, reports of the staff, and that sort of thing. We have lunch at the Home, and we're generally busy until four or five o'clock. Got all that?"
"Every scrap!" replied Hetherwick. "Perfectly plain."
"Very well," continued Rhona. "One more detail, however. A good many people, chiefly medical men and folk interested in homes and hospitals, call, wanting to look over and to know about the place—which, I may tell you in parenthesis, costs Lady Riversreade a pretty tidy penny! Mitchell's instructions as regards all callers are to bring their cards to me—I interview them first; if I can deal with them, I do; if I think it necessary or desirable, I take them in to Lady Riversreade. We have to sort them out—some, I am sure, come out of mere idle curiosity; in fact, the only visitors we want to see there are either medical men who have a genuine interest in the place and can do something for it, or people who are connected with its particular inmates. Well, on Friday morning last, about a quarter to twelve, as I was busy with my letters, I heard a car come up the drive, and presently Mitchell came into my room with a card bearing the nameDr. Cyprian Baseverie. Instead of being an engraved card as, by all the recognised standards, it should have been, it was a printed card—that was the first thing I noticed."
"Your powers of observation," remarked Hetherwick admiringly, "are excellent, and should prove most useful."
"Thank you for the compliment!—but that didn't need much observation," retorted Rhona with a laugh. "It was obvious. However, I asked Mitchell what Dr. Baseverie wanted; Mitchell replied that the gentleman desired an interview with Lady Riversreade. Now, as I said before, we never refuse doctors, so I told Mitchell to bring Dr. Baseverie to me. A moment later Dr. Baseverie entered. I want to describe him particularly, and you must listen most attentively. Figure, then, to yourself a man of medium height, neither stout nor slender, but comfortably plump, and apparently about forty-five years of age, dressed very correctly and fashionably in a black morning coat and vest, dark striped trousers, immaculate as to linen and neckwear, and furnished with a new silk hat, pearl-grey gloves and a tightly rolled gold-mounted umbrella. Incidentally, he wore a thin gold watch-chain, white spats and highly polished shoes. Got that?"
"I see him—his clothes and things, I mean," assented Hetherwick. "Fashionable medico sort, evidently! But—himself?"
"Now his face," continued Rhona. "Imagine a man with an almost absolutely bloodless countenance—a face the colour of old ivory—lighted by a pair of peculiarly piercing eyes, black as sloes, and the pallor of the face heightened by a rather heavy black moustache and equally black, slightly crinkled hair, thick enough above the ears but becoming sparse and thin on the crown. Imagine, too, a pair of full, red lips above a round but determined chin and a decidedly hooked nose, and you have—the man I'm describing!"
"Um!" said Hetherwick reflectingly. "Hebraic, I think, from your description."
"That's just what I thought myself," agreed Rhona. "I said to myself at once, 'Whatever and whoever else you are, my friend, you're a Jew!' But the creature's manner and speech were English enough—very English. He had all the well-accustomed air of the medical practitioner who is also a bit of a man of the world, and I saw at once that anybody who tried to fence with him would usually come off second-best. His explanation of his presence was reasonable and commonplace enough: he was deeply interested in the sort of cases we had in the Home, and desired to acquaint himself with our methods and arrangements and so on. He made use of a few technical terms and phrases which were quite beyond my humble powers, and I carried in his card to Lady Riversreade. Lady Riversreade is always accessible when there's a doctor in the case, and in two minutes Dr. Baseverie was closeted with her."
"That ends the first chapter, I suppose?" said Hetherwick. "Interesting—very! A good curtain! And the next?"
"The events of the second chapter," replied Rhona, "took place in Lady Riversreade's room, and I cannot even guess at their nature. I can only tell of things that I know. But there's a good deal in that. To begin with, although Dr. Baseverie had said to me that he desired to see the Home—which, of course, in the ordinary way meant his being either taken round by Lady Riversreade or by our resident house physician—he was not taken round. He never left that room from the moment he entered it until the moment in which he left it. And he remained in it an entire hour!"
"With Lady Riversreade?"
"With Lady Riversreade! She never left it, either. Nor did I go into it; she hates me to go in if she has anybody with her at any time. No!—there those two were together, from ten minutes to twelve until five minutes to one. Yet the man had said that he wanted to look round!"
"Is there any other way by which they could have left that room?" suggested Hetherwick. "Another door—or a French window?"
"There is nothing of the sort. The door into my room is the only means of entrance or exit to or from Lady Riversreade's. No—they were there all the time."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Nothing! The house in which Lady Riversreade set up this Home is an old, solid, well-built one—none of your modern gimcrack work in it!—it's a far better house than the Court, grand as that may be. All the doors and windows fit—I never heard a sound from the room."
"Well," asked Hetherwick, after due meditation, "and at the end of the hour?"
"At the end of the hour the door suddenly opened and Dr. Baseverie appeared, hat, gloves and umbrella in hand. He half turned as he came out and said a few words to Lady Riversreade. I heard them. He said, 'Well, then, next Friday morning at the same time?' Then he nodded, stepped into my room, closed the door behind him, made me a very polite, smiling bow as he passed my desk, and went out. A moment later he drove off in the car—it had been waiting at the entrance all that time."
"I suppose that's the end of chapter two," suggested Hetherwick. "Is there more?"
"Some," responded Rhona. "During the hour which Dr. Baseverie had spent with Lady Riversreade I had been very busy typing letters. When he had gone I took them into her room, so that she could sign them. I suppose I was a bit curious about what had just happened and may have been more than usually observant—anyway, I felt certain that the visit of this man, whoever he is, had considerably upset Lady Riversreade. She looked it."
"Precisely how?" inquired Hetherwick.
"Well, I couldn't exactly tell you. Perhaps a man wouldn't have noticed it. But being a woman, I did. She was perturbed—she'd been annoyed, or distressed, or surprised, or—something. I saw signs which, as a woman, were unmistakable—to a woman. The man's visit had been distasteful—troubling. I'm as certain of that as I am that this is roast mutton."
"Did she say anything?"
"Not one word. She was unusually taciturn—silent, in fact. She took the letters in silence, signed them in silence. No, on reflection, she never spoke a word while I was in the room. I took the letters away and began putting them in their envelopes. Soon afterwards Lady Riversreade came through my room and went out, and I saw her go across the grounds to the Court. She didn't turn up at the usual luncheon at the Home, and I didn't see her again that afternoon. In fact, I didn't see her again that day, for when I went home to the Court at five o'clock, Lady Riversreade's maid told me that her mistress had gone up to town and wouldn't be home until late that night. I went to bed before she returned."
"Next morning?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Next morning she was just as usual, and things went on in the usual way."
"Did she ever mention this man and his visit to you?" asked Hetherwick.
"No—not a word of him. But I found out something about him myself on Friday afternoon."
"What? Something relevant?"
"May be relevant to—something. I was wondering about him—and his printed card. I thought it odd that a medical man, so smartly dressed and all that, should present a card like that—not one well printed, a cheap thing! Besides, it had no address. I wondered—mere inquisitiveness, perhaps—where the creature came from. Now, we've a jolly good lot of the usual reference-books there at the Home—and there's a first-class right up-to-date medical directory amongst them. So I looked up the name of Dr. Cyprian Baseverie. I say, looked it up—but I didn't do that—for it wasn't there! He's neither an English, nor a Scottish, nor an Irish medical man."
"Foreigner, then," said Hetherwick. "French, perhaps, or—American."
"May be an Egyptian, or a Persian, or a Eurasian, for anything I know," remarked Rhona. "What I know is that he's not on the list in that directory, though from his speech and manner you'd think he'd been practising in the West End all his life! Anyway, that's the story. Is there anything in it?"
Hetherwick picked up his glass of claret by its stem and looked thoughtfully through the contents of the bowl.
"The particular thing is—the extent and quality of Lady Riversreade's annoyance, or dismay, or perturbation, occasioned by the man's visit," he said at last. "If she was really very much upset——"
"If you want my honest opinion as eye-witness and as woman," remarked Rhona, "Lady Riversreade was very much upset. She gave me the impression that she'd just received very bad, disconcerting, unpleasant news. After seeing and watching her as she signed the letters I had no doubt whatever that the man had deliberately lied to me when he said he wanted to see the Home and its working—what he really wanted was access to Lady Riversreade."
"Look here!" exclaimed Hetherwick suddenly "Were you present when this man went into Lady Riversreade's room?"
"Present? Of course I was! I took him in—myself."
"You saw them meet?"
"To be sure!"
"Well, then, you know! Were they strangers? Did she recognise him? Did she show any sign of recognition whatever when she set eyes on him?"
"No, none! I'm perfectly certain she'd never seen the man before in her life! I could see quite well that he was an absolute stranger to her."
"And she to him?"
"Oh, that I don't know! He may have seen her a thousand times. But I'm sure she'd never seen him."
Hetherwick laid down his knife and fork with a gesture of finality.
"I'm going to find out who that chap is," he answered. "Got to!"
"You think his visit may have something to do with this?" asked Rhona.
"May, yes. Anyway, I'm not going to let any chance go. There's enough mystery in what you tell me about the man to make it worth while following him up. It must be done."
"How will you do it?"
"You say he said that he was going there again next Friday at the same time? Well, the thing to do, then, is to watch and follow him when he goes away."
"I'm afraid I'm no use for that! He'd know me."
"Nor am I!—I'm too conspicuous," laughed Hetherwick. "If I were a head and shoulders shorter, I might be some use. But I've got the very man—my clerk, one Mapperley. He's just the sort to follow and dog anybody and yet never be seen himself. As you'll say, when you've the pleasure of seeing him, Mapperley's the most ordinary, commonplace chap you ever set eyes on—pass absolutely unnoticed in any Cockney crowd. But he's as sharp as they make 'em, veiling a peculiar astuteness under his eminently undistinguished features. And what I shall do is this—I'll give Mapperley a full and detailed description of Dr. Cyprian Baseverie: I've memorised yours already; Mapperley will memorise mine. Now Baseverie, whoever he may be, will probably go down to Dorking by the 10.10 from here; so will Mapperley. And after Mapperley has once spotted his man, he'll not lose sight of him."
"And he'll do—what?" asked Rhona.
"Follow him to Dorking—watch him—follow him back to London—find out where he goes when he returns—run him to earth, in fact. Then he'll report to me—and we shall know more than we do now, and also what to do next."
"I wonder what it's all going to lead to?" said Rhona. "Pretty much of a maze, isn't it?"
"It is," agreed Hetherwick. "But if we can only get a firm hold on a thread——"
"And that might break!" she laughed.
"Well, then, one that won't break," he said. "There are several loose ends lying about already. Matherfield's got a hold on one or two."
He went to see Matherfield next morning and told him the story that he had heard from Rhona. Matherfield grew thoughtful.
"Well, Mr. Hetherwick," he said, after a pause, "it's as I've said before—if this Lady Riversreade is mixed up in it, the thing to do is to go back and get as full a history as can possibly be got of her antecedents. We'll have to get on to that—but we'll wait to see what that clerk of yours discovers about this man. There may be something in it—in the meantime I'm hard at work on my own clues."
"Any luck?" asked Hetherwick.
"Scarcely that. But, as I say, we're at work. The five-pound note is a difficult matter. Given in change, of course, at Vivian's Night Club—but they tell me there that it's no uncommon thing to change ten, twenty, and even fifty-pound notes for their customers—it's a swell lot who forgather there—and of course they've no recollection whatever about that particular note or night. Still, the fact remains—that note came through Vivian's, and through one of its frequenters, to Granett, and I'm in hopes."
"And the medicine bottle?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Ah, there is more chance!" responded Matherfield, with a lightening eye. "That's only a question of time! I've got a man going round all the chemists in the West Central district—stiff job, for there are more of 'em than I believed. But he's bound to hit on the right one eventually. And then—well, we shall have a pretty good idea, if not positive proof, as to how Granett got hold of the stuff that poisoned him."
"I suppose there's no doubt that there was poison in that bottle?" inquired Hetherwick.
"According to the specialists, none," replied Matherfield. "And in the glass too. What sort of poison, I don't know—you know what these experts are—so mysterious about things! But they have told me this—the stuff that settled Granett was identical with that which finished off Hannaford. That's certain."
"Then it probably came from the same source," said Hetherwick.
"Oh, my notion is that the man or men who poisoned one man poisoned the other," exclaimed Matherfield. "And at the same time. At least, I think Granett got his dose at the same time—probably carried it off in his pocket and drank it when he got home. But—we shall trace that bottle! Let me know what you find out about this man Baseverie, Mr. Hetherwick—every little helps."
Hetherwick duly coached Mapperley in the part he wanted him to play, and Mapperley, with money in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth, lounged off to Victoria on the following Friday morning. His principal saw nothing and heard nothing of him all that day.
As Hetherwick was breakfasting next morning, Mapperley, outwardly commonplace and phlegmatic as ever, walked into his room.
"Brief outline first, Mapperley," commanded Hetherwick, instinctively scenting news. "Details later. Well?"
"Spotted him at once at Victoria," said Mapperley. "Followed him down there. He was at Riversreade an hour. Then went back to Dorking—had lunch at 'Red Lion.' He stopped there till four o'clock, lunching and idling. Went back to town by the 4.29, arriving 6.5. I followed him then to the Café de Paris. He dined there and hung about till past ten. And then he went to Vivian's Night Club."
Hetherwick pricked up his ears at that. Vivian's Night Club!—here, at any rate, seemed to be a link in the chain of which Matherfield believed himself to hold at least one end. The five-pound note found on Granett had been traced to Vivian's Night Club: now Mapperley had tracked Lady Riversreade's mysterious visitor to the same resort.
"To Vivian's Night Club, eh, Mapperley?" he said. "Let's see?—where is that?"
"Entrance is in Candlestick Passage, off St. Martin's Lane," replied Mapperley with promptitude. "Club's on first floor—jolly fine suite of rooms, too!"
"You've been in it?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Twice! Not last night, though. You didn't give me any further orders than to see where he went finally, after returning to town. So, when I'd run him to earth at Vivian's, I went home. I argued that if he was wanted further, Vivian's would find him."
"All right, Mapperley. But before that? You followed him to Riversreade Court?"
Mapperley grinned widely.
"No!—I did better than that. I was there before him—much better that, than following. I spotted him quick enough at Victoria, and made sure he got into the 10.10. Then I got in. As soon as we got to Dorking, I jumped out, got outside the station and chartered a taxi and drove off to Riversreade Court. I made the driver hide his cab up the road: I laid low in the plantation opposite the entrance gates. Presently my lord came along and drove up to the house. He was there the best part of an hour; then he drove off again towards Dorking. I followed at a good distance: kept him in sight, all the same. He got out of his conveyance in the High Street: so did I. He went into the Red Lion: so did I. He had lunch there: so had I. After that he lounged about in the smoking-room: I kept an eye on him."
"I suppose he didn't meet anybody?"
"Nobody!"
"Well, and at the Café de Paris? Did he meet anybody there?"
"He exchanged a nod and a word here and there with men—and women—that came in and went out. But as to any arranged meeting, I should say not. I should say, too, that he was well known at the Café de Paris."
"Did he seem to be a man of means? You know what I mean?"
"He did himself very well at lunch and dinner, anyway," said Mapperley, with another grin. "Bottle of claret at Dorking, and a pint of champagne at the Café de Paris—big cigars, too. That sort of man, you know."
Hetherwick considered matters a moment.
"How do you get in to this Vivian's Night Club?" he asked suddenly.
"Pay!" answered Mapperley laconically. "At the door. Some nonsense about being proposed, but that's all bosh! Two of you go—say Brown and Smith. Brown proposes Smith and Smith proposes Brown. All rot! Anybody can get in—with money."
"And what goes on there?"
"Dancing! Drinking! Devilry! Quite respectable, though," replied Mapperley. "Been no prosecutions, anyway—so far."
"What time does it open?"
"Nine o'clock," answered Mapperley, with a suggestive grin. "In the old days it didn't open till after the theatres. But now—earlier."
"Really not a night-club at all—in the old acceptation of the term," suggested Hetherwick. "Evening, really?"
"That's about it," agreed Mapperley. "Anyhow, it's Vivian's."
For the second time in the course of his investigations, Hetherwick's thoughts turned to Boxley. Boxley's love of intimate acquaintance with all sides of London life had doubtless led him to look in at Vivian's: he would ask Boxley for some further information. And he looked up Boxley at the club.
Boxley knew Vivian's well enough—innocent and innocuous now, said Boxley, what with all these new regulations and so on: degenerated, indeed—or improved, just whichever way you regarded it—into a supper club and that sort of thing. Dancing?—oh yes, there was dancing, and so on—but things had altered—altered.
"Well, I don't want to dance there, nor to go there at all, for that matter, unless I'm obliged to," said Hetherwick. "What I want to know is something about a man who, I believe, frequents the place—a somewhat notable man."
"Describe him!" commanded Boxley.
Hetherwick retailed Rhona's description of Baseverie: Boxley nodded.
"I know that man—by sight," he said. "Seen him there. I believe he's something to do with the proprietorship: that place is owned by a small syndicate. But I don't know his name. I've seen him outside too—round about Leicester Square and its purlieus."
Hetherwick went from Boxley to Matherfield and told him the result of Mapperley's work.
"I know Vivian's, of course," said Matherfield. "Been in there two or three times lately in relation to this five-pound note. Don't remember seeing this man, though. But in view of what your clerk says, I'd like to see him. Come with me. We'll go to-night."
"Make it Monday," suggested Hetherwick. "To-morrow, Sunday, I shall be meeting Miss Hannaford again, and before we go to Vivian's I'd like to know if she has anything to tell about the last visit of Baseverie to Riversreade Court—the visit that Mapperley watched yesterday. She may have."
"Monday night then," agreed Matherfield. "I don't know what we can expect, but I'd certainly like to know who this man is and why he goes to Lady Riversreade."
"No good, you may be sure!" said Hetherwick. "But we'll ferret it out—somehow."
"Odd, that things seem to be centring round Vivian's!" mused Matherfield. "The fiver—and now this. Well—Monday evening then?—perhaps Miss Hannaford can supply a bit of extra news to-morrow."
Hetherwick, meeting Rhona at Victoria next day, found his arm grasped in Rhona's right hand and himself twisted round.
"If you want to see Lady Riversreade in the flesh, there she is!" whispered Rhona. "Came up by the same train—there, going towards the bookstall; a tall man with her!"
At that moment Lady Riversreade turned to speak to a porter who was carrying some light luggage for her, and Hetherwick had a full and good view of her face and figure. A fine, handsome, capable-looking woman, he said to himself, and one that once seen would not easily be forgotten.
"Who's the man?" he asked, looking from Lady Riversreade to her companion, a tall, bronzed man of military appearance, and apparently of about her own age.
"Major Penteney," replied Rhona promptly. "He's a friend of hers, who takes a tremendous interest in the Home—in fact, he acts as a sort of representative of it here in town. He's often down at the Court—I believe he's in love with her."
"Well-matched couple," observed Hetherwick, as the two people under notice moved away towards the exit. "And what's Lady Riversreade come up for?"
"Oh, I don't know that," replied Rhona. "She never tells me anything about her private doings. I heard her say that she was going to Town this morning and shouldn't be back until Tuesday, but that's all I know."
"That man, Baseverie, came again on Friday?" suggested Hetherwick. "But I know he did—Mapperley watched him. Anything happen?"
"Nothing—except that Lady Riversreade told me that if Dr. Baseverie called he was to be brought in to her at once," answered Rhona. "He came at the same time as before, and was with her an hour."
"Any signs on her part of being further upset?" asked Hetherwick.
"No—on the contrary she seemed quite cool and collected after he'd gone," said Rhona. "Of course she made no reference to his visit."
"Has she never mentioned him to you?"
"Never! In spite of the fact that his professed object was to see the Home and the patients, he's seen neither."
"Which shows that that was all a mere excuse to get speech with her!" muttered Hetherwick. "Well—we're going to find out who this Dr. Baseverie is! Matherfield and I intend to get in touch with him to-morrow night."
But when the next night came Hetherwick's plans about the visit to Vivian's were frustrated by an unexpected happening, and neither he nor Matherfield as much as crossed the threshold of the night-club in Candlestick Passage. They went there at ten o'clock: that, said Matherfield, was a likely hour—between then and eleven-thirty the place would be full of its habitual frequenters: the notion was to mingle unobtrusively with whatever crowd chanced to be there and to keep eyes and ears open for whatever happened to transpire.
Candlestick Passage, unfamiliar to Hetherwick until that evening, proved to be one of the many narrow alleys which open out of St. Martin's Lane in the neighbourhood of the theatres. It wore a very commonplace, not to say shabby complexion, and there was nothing in its atmosphere to suggest adventure or romance. Not was there anything alluring about the entrance to Vivian's, which was merely a wide, double doorway, ornamented by two evergreen shrubs set in tubs and revealing swing-doors within, and a carpeted staircase beyond. Hetherwick and Matherfield, however, never reached swing-doors or staircase: as they approached the outer entrance a tall woman emerged, and without so much as a look right or left turned down the passage towards the street. She paid no attention to the two men as she walked quickly past them—but Hetherwick softly seized his companion's arm.
"Lady Riversreade, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That woman!"
Matherfield turned sharply, gazing after the retreating figure.
"That," he said incredulously, "coming out of here? Certain?"
"Dead sure!" affirmed Hetherwick. "I knew her at once—I'd had a particularly good look at her, yesterday. That's she!"
"What's she doing at Vivian's?" muttered Matherfield. "Queer, that!"
"But she's going away from it," said Hetherwick. "Come on!—let's see where she goes. We can easily come back here. But why not follow her first?"
"Good!" agreed Matherfield. "Come on then! easily keep her in sight."
Lady Riversreade at that moment was turning out of the passage, to her left hand. When the two men emerged from it, she was already several yards ahead, going towards St. Martin's Church. Her tall figure made her good to follow, but Matherfield kept Hetherwick back; no use, he said, in pressing too closely on your quarry.
"Tall as she is and tall as we are," he whispered, as they threaded in out of the crowds on the pavement, "we can spot her at twenty yards. Cautiously, now—she's making for the cab rank!"
They watched Lady Riversreade charter and enter a taxi-cab: in another minute it moved away. But it had scarcely moved when Matherfield was at the door of the next cab on the rank.
"You saw that cab go off with a tall woman in it?" he said to the driver. "There!—just rounding the corner, know its driver? Right!—follow it carefully. Note where it stops, and if the woman gets out. Drive slowly past wherever that is, and then pull up a bit farther on. Be sharp, now—this is——" he bent towards the man and whispered a word or two: a second later he and Hetherwick were in the cab and across the top side of Trafalgar Square.
"This is getting a bit thick, Mr. Hetherwick," remarked Matherfield. "Your clerk tracks his man to Vivian's on Friday night, we find Lady Riversreade coming out of Vivian's on Monday night. Now I shouldn't think Lady Riversreade, whom we hear of chiefly as a humanitarian, a likely sort of lady to visit Vivian's!"
"She came out of Vivian's, anyway!" replied Hetherwick.
"Then, of course, she'd been in!" said Matherfield. "But why? I should say—to have a meeting with Baseverie, or with somebody representing him, or having something to do with the business that took him to Riversreade Court. What business is it? Has it anything to do with our business? However, there's Lady Riversreade in that cab in front, and we'll just follow her to find out where she goes—no doubt she's bound for some swell West End hotel. And that knowledge will be useful, for I may want to see her in the morning—to ask a question or two."
"Somewhat early for that, isn't it?" suggested Hetherwick. "Do we know enough?"
"Depends on what you call enough," replied Matherfield dryly. "What I know is this: that man Granett was poisoned. He had on him a brand new five-pound note. That note I've traced as far as Vivian's, where it was certainly paid to some customer in change on the very day before Granett and Hannaford's deaths: Vivian's is accordingly a place of interest. Now I hear of a mysterious man visiting Lady Riversreade—the man is tracked to Vivian's—I myself see Lady Riversreade emerging from Vivian's. I think I must ask Lady Riversreade what she knows about Vivian's and a certain Dr. Baseverie, and, incidentally, if she ever heard of a place called Sellithwaite and a police-superintendent named Hannaford? Eh! But we're leaving the region of the fashionable hotels."
Hetherwick looked out of the window, what he saw seemed unfamiliar.
"We're going up Edgware Road," said Matherfield. He leaned out of the cab and gave some further instructions to the driver. "I don't want to arouse any suspicion there in front," he remarked, dropping into his seat again. "The probability is that she's going to some private house, and I don't want her to get any idea that she's followed. Ah!—now we turn into Harrow Road."
The cab went away by Paddington Green, turned sharply at the Town Hall, and made up St. Mary's Terrace. Presently it slowed down; proceeded still more slowly; passed the other cab which had come to a standstill in front of a block of high buildings; a few yards farther on it stopped altogether. The driver got down from his seat and came to the door.
"That tall lady!" he said confidentially. "Her as got into the other cab. She's gone into St. Mary's Mansions—just below."
"Flats, aren't they?" asked Matherfield.
"That's it, sir," answered the driver. He looked down the street. "Cab's going off again, sir. Porter came out and paid."
"That looks as if she was going to stay here awhile," remarked Matherfield in an undertone. "Well, we'll get out, too, and take a look round." He paid and dismissed the driver, and crossing over to the opposite side of the roadway, pointed out to Hetherwick the block of flats into which Lady Riversreade had disappeared. "Big place," he muttered. "Regular rabbit-warren. However, no other entrance than this—the old burial ground's at the back, no way out there, I do know that! So she can't very well vanish that way."
"You're going to wait, then?" asked Hetherwick.
"I don't believe in starting out on any game unless I see it through," replied Matherfield. "Yes, I think we'll wait. But there's no necessity to hang around in the open street. I know this district—used to be at the police station round the corner. You see all these houses on this side, Mr. Hetherwick? They're all lodging-houses, and I know most of their keepers. Wait here a minute, and I'll soon get a room that we can watch from, without being seen ourselves."
He left Hetherwick standing under the shadow of a neighbouring high wall, and went a little way down the street. Hetherwick heard him open the gate of one of the little gardens and knock at a door. There some little delay. Hetherwick passed the time in staring at the long rows of lighted windows in the flats opposite, wondering to which of them Lady Riversreade had gone and what she was doing there at all. It was clear to him that this was some adventure connected with the mysterious Baseverie and with Vivian's Night Club—but how, and of what nature?
Matherfield came back presently, cheerful and reassuring.
"Come along, Mr. Hetherwick!" he whispered. "There's a man here—lodging-house keeper—who knows me. We can have his front parlour window to watch from. Far better that than patrolling the street. We shall be comfortable there."
"You're intent on watching, then?" said Hetherwick as they moved off.
"I'm not coming all that way for nothing," replied Matherfield. "I'm going to follow her up till she settles for the night. That won't be here; she'll be off to some hotel or other before long."
But Matherfield's prediction proved to be faulty. Time dragged slowly by in the stuffy and shabby little room in which he and Hetherwick took up a position and from the window of which Matherfield kept a constant watch on the entrance of the flats, exactly opposite. Midnight came and went, but nothing happened. And at half-past twelve Hetherwick suggested that the game wasn't worth the candle, and that he should prefer to depart.
"You do as you like, Mr. Hetherwick," said Matherfield, stifling a suspicious yawn. "I'm sick enough of it, too. But here I stop till she comes out—whether it's this side of breakfast or the other side!"
"And what then?" asked Hetherwick, half derisively.
"Then we'll see—or I'll see, if you're going—where she goes next! Don't believe in half measures!" retorted Matherfield.
"Oh, I'll see it out!" said Hetherwick. "After all, it'll be daylight soon."
Daylight came over the house-tops at four o'clock. They had seen nothing up to then. But at twenty minutes to five Matherfield tugged his companion's arm. Lady Riversreade, in a big ulster travelling-coat and carrying a small suit-case, was emerging alone from the opposite door.