Hollis led the way farther along the alley, between high, black, windowless walls, and suddenly turning into a little court, paused before a door set deep in the side of an old half-timbered house.
"Queer old place, this!" he remarked over his shoulder. "But you'll get a glass of as good port or sherry from this chap as you'd get anywhere in England—he knows his customers! Come in."
He led the way into a place the like of which Hetherwick had never seen—a snug, cosy room, panelled and raftered in old oak, with a bright fire burning in an open hearth and the flicker of its flames dancing on the old brass and pewter that ornamented the walls. There was a small bar-counter on one side of it; and behind this, in his shirt-sleeves, and with a cigar protruding from the corner of a pair of clean-shaven, humorous lips, stood a keen-eyed man, busily engaged in polishing wine-glasses.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" he said heartily. "Nice morning, Mr. Hollis, for the time o' year. And what can I do for you and your friend, sir?"
Hollis glanced round the room—empty, save for themselves. He drew a stool to the bar and motioned Hetherwick to follow his example.
"I think we'll try your very excellent dry sherry, Hudson," he answered. "That is, if it's as good as it was last time I tasted it."
"Always up to standard, Mr. Hollis, always up to standard, sir!" replied the bar-keeper. "No inferior qualities, no substitutes, and no trading on past reputation in this establishment, gentlemen! As good a glass of dry sherry here, sir, as you'd get where sherry wine comes from—and you can't say that of most places in England, I think. Everything's of the best here, Mr. Hollis—as you know!"
Hollis responded with a little light chaff; suddenly he bent across the bar.
"Hudson!" he said confidentially. "My friend here has something he'd like to show you. Now, then," he continued, as Hetherwick, in response to this, had produced the picture, "do you recognise that?"
The bar-keeper put on a pair of spectacles and turned the picture to the light, examining it closely. His lips tightened; then relaxed in a cynical smile.
"Aye!" he said, half carelessly. "It's the woman that did old Malladale out of that diamond necklace. Of course!—Mistress Whittingham!"
"Would you know her again, if you met her—now?" asked Hollis.
The bar-keeper picked up one of his glasses and began a vigorous polishing.
"Aye!" he answered, laconically. "And I should know her by something else than her face!"
Just then two men came in, and Hudson broke off to attend to their wants. But presently they carried their glasses away to a snug corner near the fire, and the bar-keeper once more turned to Hollis and Hetherwick.
"Aye!" he said confidentially. "If need were, I could tell that party by something else than her face, handsome as that is! I used to tell Hannaford when he was busy trying to find her that if he'd any difficulty about making certain, I could identify her if nobody else could! You see, I saw a deal of her when she was stopping at the 'White Bear.' And I knew something that nobody else knew."
"What is it?" asked Hetherwick.
Hudson leaned closer across the counter and lowered his voice.
"She was a big, handsome woman, this Mrs. Whittingham," he continued. "Very showy, dressy woman; fond of fine clothes and jewellery, and so on; sort of woman, you know, that would attract attention anywhere. And one of these women, too, that was evidently used to being waited on hand and foot—she took her money's worth out of the 'White Bear,' I can tell you! I did a deal for her, one way or another, and I'll say this for her: she was free enough with her money. If it so happened that she wanted things doing for her, she kept you fairly on the go till they were done, but she threw five-shilling pieces and half-crowns about as if they were farthings! She'd send you to take a sixpenny telegram and give you a couple of shillings for taking it. Well, now, as I say, I saw a deal of her, one way and another, getting cabs for her, and taking things up to her room, and doing this, that, and t'other. And it was with going up there one day sudden-like, with a telegram that had just come, that I found out something about her—something that, as I say, I could have told her by anywhere, even if she could have changed her face and put a wig on!"
"Aye—and what, now?" asked Hollis.
"This!" answered Hudson with a knowing look. "Maybe I'm a noticing sort of chap—anyhow, there was a thing I always noticed about Mrs. Whittingham. Wherever she was, and no matter how she was dressed, whether it was in her going-out things or her dinner finery, she always wore a band of black velvet round her right forearm, just above the wrist, where women wear bracelets. In fact, it was a sort of bracelet, a strip, as I say, of black velvet, happen about two inches wide, and on the front a cameo ornament, the size of a shilling, white stone or something of that sort, with one of these heathen figures carved on it. There were other folk about the place noticed that black velvet band, too—I tell you she was never seen without it; the chambermaids said she slept with it on. But on the occasion I'm telling you about, when I went up to her room with a telegram, I caught her without it. She opened her door to see who knocked—she was in a dressing-gown, going to change for dinner, I reckon, and she held out her right hand for what I'd brought her. The black velvet band wasn't on it, and for just a second like I saw what was on her arm!"
"Yes?" said Hollis. "Something—remarkable?"
"For a lady—aye!" replied Hudson, with a grim laugh. "Her arm was tattooed! Right round the place where she always wore this black velvet band there was a snake, red and green, and yellow, and blue, with its tail in its mouth!—wonderfully done, too; it had been no novice that had done that bit of work, I can tell you! Of course, I just saw it, and no more, but there was a strong electric light close by, and I did see it, and saw it plain and all. And that's a thing that that woman, whoever she may be, and wherever she's got to, can never rub off, nor scrub off!—she'll carry that to the day of her death."
The two listeners looked at each other.
"Odd!" remarked Hollis.
Hetherwick turned to the bar-keeper.
"Did she notice that you saw that her arm was tattooed?" he asked.
"Nay, I don't think she did," replied Hudson. "Of course, the thing was over in a second. I made no sign that I'd seen aught particular, and she said nought. But—I saw!"
Just then other customers came in, and the bar-keeper turned away to attend to their wants. Hollis and Hetherwick moved from the counter to one of the snug corners at the farther end of the room.
"Whoever she may be, wherever she may be—as Hudson said just now," remarked Hollis, "and if this woman really had anything to do with the mysterious circumstances of Hannaford's death, she ought not to be difficult to find. A woman who carries an indefaceable mark like that on her arm, and whose picture has recently appeared in a newspaper, should easily be traced."
"I think I shall get at her through the picture," agreed Hetherwick. "The newspaper production seems to have been done from a photograph which, from its clearness and finish, was probably taken by some first-class firm in London. I shall go round such firms as soon as I get back. It may be, of course, that she's nothing whatever to do with Hannaford's murder, but still, it's a trail that's got to be followed to the end now that one's started out on it. Well! that seems to finish my business here—as far as she's concerned. But there's another matter—I told you that when Hannaford came to town he had on him a sealed packet containing the secret of some invention or discovery, and that it's strangely and unaccountably missing. His granddaughter says that he worked this thing out—whatever it is—in a laboratory that he had in his garden. Now then, before I go I want to see that laboratory. As he's only recently left the place, I suppose things will still be pretty much as he left them at his old house. Where did he live?"
"He lived on the outskirts of the town," replied Hollis. "An old-fashioned house that he bought some years ago—I know it by sight well enough, though I've never been in it. I don't suppose it's let yet, though I know it's being advertised in the local papers. Let's get some lunch at the 'White Bear,' and then we'll drive up there and see what we can do. You want to get an idea of what it was that Hannaford had invented?"
"Just so," assented Hetherwick. "If the secret was worth all that he told his granddaughter it was, he may have been murdered by somebody who wanted to get sole possession of it. Anyway, it's another trail that's got to be worked on."
"I never heard of Hannaford as an inventor or experimenter," remarked Hollis. "But there, I knew little about him, except in his official capacity: he and his granddaughter, and an elderly woman they kept as a working housekeeper, were quiet sort of folk. I knew that he brought up his granddaughter from infancy, and gave her a rattling good education at the Girls' High School, but beyond that, I know little of their private affairs. I suppose he amused himself in this laboratory you speak of in his spare time?"
"Dabbled in chemistry, I understand," said Hetherwick. "And, if it hasn't been dismantled, we may find something in that laboratory that will give us a clue of some sort."
Hollis seemed to reflect for a minute or two.
"I've an idea!" he said suddenly. "There's a man who lunches at the 'White Bear' every day—a man named Collison; he's analytical chemist to a big firm of dyers in the town. I've seen him in conversation with Hannaford now and then. Perhaps he could tell us something on this point. Come on! this is just about his time for lunch."
A few minutes later, in the coffee-room of the hotel, Hollis led Hetherwick up to a bearded and spectacled man who had just sat down to lunch, and having introduced him, briefly detailed the object of his visit to Sellithwaite. Collison nodded and smiled.
"I understand," he said, as they seated themselves at his table. "Hannaford did dabble a bit in chemistry—in quite an amateur way. But as to inventing anything that was worth all that—come! Still, he was an ingenious man, for an amateur, and he may have hit on something fairly valuable."
"You've no idea what he was after?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Of late, no! But some time ago he was immensely interested in aniline dyes," replied Collison. "He used to talk to me about them. That's a subject of infinite importance in this district. Of course, as I dare say you know, the Germans have been vastly ahead of us as regards aniline dyes, and we've got most, if not all, of the stuff used, from Germany. Hannaford used to worry himself as to why we couldn't make our own aniline dyes, and I believe he experimented. But, with his resources, as an amateur, of course, that was hopeless."
"I've sometimes seen him talking to you," observed Hollis. "You've no idea what he was after, of late?"
"No. He used to ask me technical questions," answered Collison. "You know, I just regarded him as a man who had a natural taste for experimenting with things. This was evidently his hobby. I used to chaff him about it. Still, he was a purposeful man, and by reading and experiment he'd picked up a lot of knowledge."
"And, I suppose, it's within the bounds of possibility that he had hit on something of practical value?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Oh, quite within such bounds!—and he may have done," agreed Collison. "I've known of much greater amateurs suddenly discovering something. The question then is—do they know enough to turn their discovery to any practical purpose and account?"
"Evidently, from what he told his granddaughter, Hannaford did think he knew enough," said Hetherwick. "What I want to find out from a visit to his old laboratory is—what had he discovered?"
"And as you're not a chemist, nor even a dabbler," remarked Hollis, with a laugh, "that won't be easy! You'd better come with us after lunch, Collison."
"I can give you a couple of hours," assented Collison. "I'm already curious—especially if any discovery we can make tends to throw light on the mystery of Hannaford's death. Pity the police haven't got hold of the man who was with him," he added, glancing at Hetherwick. "I suppose you could identify him?"
"Unless he's an absolute adept at disguising himself, yes—positively!" replied Hetherwick. "He was a noticeable man."
An hour later the three men drove up to a house which stood a little way out of the town, on the edge of the moorland that stretched towards the great range of hills on the west. The house, an old-fashioned, solitary place, was empty, save for a caretaker who had been installed in its back rooms to keep it aired and to show it to possible tenants. The laboratory, a stone-walled, timber-roofed shed at the end of the garden, had never been opened, said the caretaker, since Mr. Hannaford locked it up and left it. But the key was speedily forthcoming, and the three visitors entered and looked round, each with different valuings of what he saw.
The whole place was a wilderness of litter and untidiness. Whatever Hannaford had possessed in the way of laboratory plant and appliances had been removed, and now there was little but rubbish—glass, whole and broken, paper, derelict boxes and crates, odds and ends of wreckage—to look at. But the analytical chemist glanced about him with a knowing eye, examining bottles and boxes, picking up a thing here and another there, and before long he turned to his companions with a laugh, pointing at the same time to a table in a corner which was covered with and dust-lined pots.
"It's very easy to see what Hannaford was after!" he said. "He's been trying to evolve a new ink!"
"Ink!" exclaimed Hollis incredulously. "Aren't there plenty of inks on the market?"
"No end!" agreed Collison with another laugh, and again pointing to the table. "These are specimens of all the better-known ones—British, of course, for no really decent ink is made elsewhere. But even the very best ink, up to now, isn't perfect. Hannaford perhaps thought, being an amateur, that he could make a better than the known best. Ink!—that's what he's been after. A superior, perfectly-fluid, penetrating, permanent, non-corrosive writing-ink—that's been his notion, a thousand to one! I observe the presence of lots of stuffs that he's used."
He showed them various things, explaining their properties and adding some remarks on the history of the manufacture of writing-inks during the last hundred years.
"Taking it altogether," he concluded, "and in spite of manufacturers' advertisements and boasting, there isn't a really absolutely perfect writing-fluid on the market—that I know of, anyway. If Hannaford thought he could make one, and succeeded, well, I'd be glad to have his formula! Money in it!"
"To the extent of a hundred thousand pounds?" asked Hetherwick, remembering what Rhona had told him. "All that?"
"Oh, well!" laughed Collison, "you must remember that inventors are always very sanguine; always apt to see everything through rose-coloured spectacles; invariably prone to exaggerate the merits of their inventions. But if Hannaford, by experiment, really hit on a first-class formula for making a writing-ink superior in all the necessary qualities to its rivals—yes, there'd be a pot of money in it. No doubt of that!"
"I suppose he'd have to take out a patent for his invention?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Oh, to be sure! I should think that was one of his reasons for going to London—to see after it." assented Collison. He looked round again, and again laughed. "Well," he said, "I think you know now—you may be confident about it from what I've seen here—what Hannaford was after! Ink—just ink!"
Hetherwick accepted this judgment, and when he left Sellithwaite later in the afternoon on his return journey to London, he summed up the results of his visit. They were two. First, he had discovered that the woman of whom Hannaford had spoken in the train was a person who ten years before had been known as Mrs. Whittingham, appeared to be some sort of an adventuress, and, in spite of her restitution to the jeweller whom she had defrauded, was still liable to arrest, conviction, and punishment—if she could be found. Second, he had found out that the precious invention of which Hannaford had spoken so confidently and enthusiastically to his granddaughter and the particulars of which had mysteriously disappeared, related to the manufacture of a new writing-ink, which might, in truth, prove a very valuable commercial asset. So far, so good; he was finding things out. As he ate his dinner in the restaurant car he considered his next steps. But it needed little consideration to resolve on them. He must find out all about the woman whose picture lay in his pocketbook—what she now called herself; where she was; how her photograph came to be reproduced in a newspaper; and, last, but far from least, if Hannaford, after seeing the reproduction, had got into touch with her or given information about her. To the man in the train Hannaford had remarked that he had said nothing about her until that evening—yes, but was that man the only man to whom he had spoken? So much for that—and the next thing was to find out somehow what had become of the sealed packet which Hannaford undoubtedly had on him when he went out of Malter's Hotel on the night of his death.
Next morning, and before calling on either Kenthwaite or Rhona Hannaford, Hetherwick set out on a tour of the fashionable photographers in the West End of London. After all, there were not so many of them, so many at any rate of the very famous ones. He made a hit and began to work methodically. His first few coverts were drawn blank, but just before noon, and as he was thinking of knocking off for lunch, he started his fox. In a palatial establishment in Bond Street the person to whom he applied, showing his picture, gave an immediate smile of recognition.
"You want to know who is the original of this?" he said. "Certainly! Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking."
Hetherwick had no deep acquaintance with Debrett nor with Burke, nor even with the list of peers, baronets and knights given in the ordinary reference books, and to him the name of Lady Riversreade was absolutely unknown—he had never heard of her. But the man to whom he had shown the print, and who now held it in his hand, seemed to consider that Lady Riversreade was, or should be, as well known to everybody as she evidently was to him.
"This print is from one of our photographs of Lady Riversreade," he said, turning to a side table in the reception-room in which they were standing and picking up a framed portrait. "This one."
"Then you probably know in what newspaper this print appeared?" suggested Hetherwick. "That's really what I'm desirous of finding out."
"Oh, it appeared in several," answered the photographer. "Recently. It was about the time that Lady Riversreade opened some home or institute—I forget what. There was an account of it in the papers, and naturally her portrait was reproduced."
Hetherwick made a plausible prearranged excuse for his curiosity, and went away. Lady Riversreade!—evidently some woman of rank, or means, or position. But was she identical with the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago—the Mrs. Whittingham who did the Sellithwaite jeweller out of a necklace worth nearly four thousand pounds and cleverly escaped arrest at the hands of Hannaford? And if so...
But that led to indefinite vistas; the main thing at present was to find out all that could be found out about Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking. Hetherwick could doubtless have obtained considerable information from the fashionable photographer, but he had carefully refrained from showing too much inquisitiveness. Moreover, he knew a man, one Boxley, a fellow club-member, who was always fully posted up in all the doings of the social and fashionable world and could, if he would, tell him everything about Lady Riversreade—that was, if there was anything to tell about her. Boxley was one of those bachelor men about town who went everywhere, knew everybody, and kept himself fully informed; he invariably lunched at this particular club, the Junior Megatherium, and thither Hetherwick presently proceeded, bent on finding him.
He was fortunate in running Boxley to earth almost as soon as he entered the sacred and exclusive portals. Boxley was lunching and there was no one else at his table. Hetherwick joined him, and began the usual small talk about nothing in particular. But he soon came to his one point.
"Look here!" he said, at a convenient interval. "I want to ask you something. You know everybody and everything. Who is Lady Riversreade, who's recently opened some home or institution, or hospital or something?"
"One of the richest women in England!" replied Boxley promptly. "Worth a couple of millions or so. That's who she is—who she was, I don't know. Don't suppose anybody else does, either. In this country, anyhow."
"What, is she a foreigner, then?" asked Hetherwick. "I've seen her portrait in the papers—that's why I asked you who she is. Doesn't look foreign, I think."
"I can tell you all that is known about her," said Boxley, "and that's not much. She's the widow of old Sir John Riversreade, the famous contractor—the man who made a pot of money building railways, and dams across big rivers, and that sort of thing, and got a knighthood for it. He also built himself a magnificent place near Dorking, and called it Riversreade Court—just the type of place a modern millionaire would build. Now, old Sir John had been a bachelor all his life, until he was over sixty—no time for anything but his contracts, you know. But when he was about sixty-five, which would be some six or seven years ago, he went over to the United States and made a rather lengthy stay there. And when he returned he brought a wife with him—the lady you're inquiring about."
"American, then?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Well, he married her over there, certainly," said Boxley. "But I should say she isn't American."
"You've met her—personally?"
"Just. Run across her once or twice at various affairs, and been introduced to her, quite casually. No, I don't think she's American. If I wanted to label her, I should say she was cosmopolitan."
"Woman of the world, eh?"
"Decidedly so. Handsome woman—self-possessed—self-assured—smart, clever. I think she'll know how to take care of the money her husband left her."
"Leave her everything?"
"Every penny!—except some inconsiderable legacies to charitable institutions. It was said at the time—it's two years since the old chap died—that she's got over two millions."
"And this institution, or whatever it is?"
"Oh, that! That was in the papers not so long since."
"I'm no great reader of newspapers. What about it?"
"Oh, she's started a home for wounded officers near Riversreade Court. There was some big country house near there empty—couldn't really be sold or let. She bought it, renovated it, fitted it up, stuck a staff of nurses and servants in, and got it blessed by the War Office. Jolly nice place, I believe, and she pays the piper."
"Doing the benevolent business, eh?"
"So it appears. Easy game, too, when you've got a couple of millions behind you. Useful, though."
Boxley went away soon after that, and Hetherwick, wondering about what he had learned, and now infinitely inquisitive about the identity of Lady Riversreade with Mrs. Whittingham, went into the smoking-room, and more from habit than because he really wanted to see it, picked up a copy ofThe Times. Almost the first thing on which his glance lighted was the name that was just then in his thoughts—there it was, in capitals, at the head of an advertisement:
"LADY RIVERSREADE'S HOME FOR WOUNDED OFFICERS, SURREY.—Required at once a Resident Lady-Secretary, fully competent to undertake accounts and correspondence and thoroughly trained in shorthand and typewriting; a knowledge of French and German would be a high recommendation. Application should be made personally any day this week between 10.0 and 12.0 and 3.0 and 5.0 to Lady Riversreade, Riversreade Court, Dorking."
Hetherwick threw the paper aside, left the club, and at the first newsagent's he came to bought another copy. With this in his hand he jumped into a taxi-cab and set off for Surrey Street, wondering if he would find Rhona Hannaford still at Malter's Hotel. He was fortunate in that—she had not yet left—and in a few minutes he was giving her a full and detailed account of his doings since his last interview with her. She listened to his story about Sellithwaite and his discoveries of that morning with a slightly puzzled look.
"Why are you taking all this trouble?" she asked suddenly and abruptly. "You're doing more, going into things more, than the police are. Matherfield was here this morning to tell me, he said, how they were getting on. They aren't getting on at all!—they haven't made one single discovery; they've heard nothing, found out nothing, about the man in the train or the man at Victoria—they're just where they were. But you—you've found out a lot! Why are you so energetic about it?"
"Put it down to professional inquisitiveness, if you like," answered Hetherwick, smiling. "I'm—interested. Tremendously! You see—I, too, was there in the train, like the man they haven't found. Well, now—now that I've got to this point I've arrived at, I want you to take a hand."
"I? In what way?" exclaimed Rhona.
Hetherwick pulled outThe Timesand pointed to the advertisement.
"I want you to go down to Dorking to-morrow morning and personally interview Lady Riversreade in response to that," he said. "You've all the qualifications she specifies, so you've an excellent excuse for calling on her. Whether you'd care to take the post is another matter—what I want is that you should see her under conditions that will enable you to observe her closely."
"Why?" asked Rhona.
"I want you to see if she wears such a band as that which Hudson told Hollis and myself about," replied Hetherwick. "Sharp eyes like yours will soon see that. And—if she does, then she's Mrs. Whittingham! In that case, I might ask you to do more—still more."
"What, for instance?" she inquired.
"Well, to do your best to get this post," he answered. "I think that you, with your qualifications, could get it."
"And—your object in that?" she asked.
"To keep an eye on Lady Riversreade," he replied promptly. "If the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago at Sellithwaite is the same woman as the Lady Riversreade of Riversreade Court of to-day, then, in view of your grandfather's murder, I want to know a lot more about her! To have you—there!—would be an immense help."
"I'm to be a sort of spy, eh?" asked Rhona.
"Detective, if you like," assented Hetherwick. "Why not?"
"You forget this," she remarked. "If this Lady Riversreade is identical with the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago, she'd remember my name—Hannaford! She's not likely to have forgotten Superintendent Hannaford of Sellithwaite!"
"Exactly—but I've thought of that little matter," replied Hetherwick. "Call yourself by some other name. Your mother's, for instance."
"That was Featherstone," said Rhona.
"There you are! Go as Miss Featherstone. As for your address, give your aunt's address at Tooting. Easy enough, you see," laughed Hetherwick. "Once you begin it properly."
"There's another thing, though," she objected. "References! She'll want those."
"Just as easy," answered Hetherwick. "Give me as one and Kenthwaite as the other. I'll speak to him about it. Two barristers of the Middle Temple!—excellent! Come!—all you've got to do is to work the scheme out fully and carry it out with assurance, and you don't know what we might discover."
Rhona considered matters awhile, watching him steadily.
"You think that—somehow—this woman may be at the back of the mystery surrounding my grandfather's murder?" she suddenly asked.
"I think it's quite within the bounds of probability," he answered.
"All right," she said abruptly. "I'll go. To-morrow morning, I suppose?"
"Sooner the better," agreed Hetherwick. "And, look here, I'll go down with you. We'll go by the 10.10 from Victoria, drive to this place, and I'll wait outside while you have your interview. After that we'll get some lunch in Dorking—and you can tell me your news."
Next morning found Hetherwick pacing the platform at Victoria and on the look-out for his fellow-companion. She came to him a little before the train was due to leave, and he noticed at once that she had discarded the mourning garments in which he had found her the previous afternoon; she now appeared in a smart tailor-made coat and skirt, and looked the part he wanted her to assume—that of a capable and self-reliant young business woman.
"Good!" he said approvingly, as they went to find their seats. "Nothing like dressing up to it. You're all ready with your lines, eh?—I mean, you've settled on all you're going to say and do?"
"Leave that to me," she answered with a laugh, "I shan't forget the primary object, anyway. But I've been wondering—supposing we come to the conclusion that this Lady Riversreade is the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago? What are you going to do then?"
"My ideas are hazy on that point—at present," confessed Hetherwick. "The first thing, surely, is to establish identity. Don't forget that the main thing to do at Riversreade Court is to get a good look at Lady Riversreade's right wrist, and see what's on it!"
Riversreade Court proved to be some distance from Dorking, in the Leith Hill district; Hetherwick charted a taxi-cab and gave his companion final instructions as they rode out. Half an hour's run brought them to the house—a big, pretentious, imitation Elizabethan structure, set on the hill-side amongst a grove of firs and pines, and having an ornamental park laid out between its gardens and terraces and the high road. At the lodge gates he stopped the driver and got out.
"I'll wait here for you," he said to Rhona. "You ride up to the house, get your business done, and come back here. Be watchful now—of anything."
Rhona nodded reassuringly and went off; Hetherwick lighted his pipe and strolled about admiring the scenery. But his thoughts were with Rhona; he was wondering what adventures she was having in the big mansion which the late contractor had built amidst the woods. And Rhona kept him wondering some time; an hour had elapsed before the cab came back. With a hand on its door, he turned to the driver:
"Go to the 'White Horse' now," he said. "We'll lunch there, and afterwards you can take us to the station. Well?" he continued, as he got in and seated himself at Rhona's side. "What luck?"
"Good, I should say," answered Rhona. "She wears a broad black velvet band on her right wrist, and on the outer face is a small cameo. How's that?"
"Precisely!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Just what that bar-keeper chap at Sellithwaite described. Wears it openly—makes no attempt at concealment beneath her sleeve, eh?"
"None," answered Rhona. "She was wearing a smart, fashionable, short-sleeved jumper. She'd a very fine diamond bracelet on the other wrist."
"And she herself," asked Hetherwick. "What sort of woman is she?"
"That's a very good photograph of her that my grandfather cut out of the paper," replied Rhona. "Very good, indeed! I knew her at once. She's a tall, fine, handsome, well-preserved woman, perhaps forty, perhaps less. Very easy, accustomed manner; a regular woman of the world I should think. Quite ready to talk about herself and her doings—she told me the whole history of this Home she's started and took me to see it—it's a fine old house, much more attractive than the Court, a little way along the hillside. She told me that it was her great hobby, and that she's devoting all her time to it. I should say that she's genuinely interested in its welfare—genuinely!"
"She impressed you?" suggested Hetherwick.
"I think, from what I saw and heard, that she's a good-natured, probably warm-hearted, woman. She spoke very feelingly of the patients she's got in her Home, anyhow."
"And the post—the secretaryship?"
"I can have it if I want it—of course, I told her I did. She examined me pretty closely about my qualifications—she herself speaks French and German like a native—and I mentioned you and Mr. Kenthwaite as references. She's going to write to you both to-day. So—it's for you to decide."
"I suppose it's really for you!"
"No!—I'm willing, eager, indeed, to do anything to clear up the mystery about my grandfather's murder. But—I don't think this woman had anything to do with it. In my opinion—and I suppose I've got some feminine intuition—she's honest and straightforward enough."
"And yet it looks as if she were certainly the Mrs. Whittingham who did a Sellithwaite jeweller to the tune of four thousand pounds!" laughed Hetherwick. "That wasn't very honest or straightforward!"
"I've been thinking about that," said Rhona. "Perhaps, after all, she really thought the cheque would be met, and anyway, she did send the man his money, even though it was a long time afterwards. And again—an important matter!—Lady Riversreade may not be Mrs. Whittingham at all. More women than one wear wristlets of velvet."
"But—the portrait!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "The positive identity!"
"Well," answered Rhona, "I'm willing to go there and to try to find out more. But, frankly, I think Lady Riversreade's all right! First impression, anyhow!"
The cab drew up at the "White Horse," and Hetherwick led Rhona into the coffee-room. But they had hardly taken their seats when the manager came in.
"Does your name happen to be Hetherwick, sir?" he inquired. "Just so—thank you. A Mr. Mapperley has twice rung you up here during the last hour—he's on the phone again now, if you'll speak to him."
"I'll come," said Hetherwick. "That's my clerk," he murmured to Rhona as he rose. "I told him to ring me up here between twelve and three if necessary. Back in a minute."
But he was away several minutes, and when he came to her again, his face was grave. "Here's a new development!" he said, bending across the table and whispering. "The police have found the man who was with your grandfather in the train! Matherfield wants me to identify him. And you'll gather from that that they've found him dead! We must lunch quickly and catch the two-twenty-four."
Hetherwick went to the hotel telephone again before he had finished his lunch, and as a result Matherfield was on the platform at Victoria when the two-twenty-four ran in. He showed no surprise at seeing Hetherwick and Rhona together; his manifest concern was to get Hetherwick to himself and away from the station. And Hetherwick, seeing this, said good-bye to Rhona with a whispered word that he would look in at Malter's Hotel before evening; a few minutes later he and Matherfield were in a taxi-cab together, hastening along Buckingham Palace Road.
"Well?" inquired Hetherwick. "This man?"
"I don't think there's any doubt about his being the man you saw with Hannaford," replied Matherfield. "He answers to your description, anyway. But I'll tell you how we came across his track. Last night a man named Appleyard came to me—he's a chap who has a chemist's shop in Horseferry Road, Westminster—a middle-aged, quiet sort of man, who prefaced his remarks by telling us that he very rarely had time to read newspapers or he'd have been round to see us before. But yesterday he happened to pick up a copy of one of last Sunday's papers, and he read an account of the Hannaford affair. Then he remembered something that seemed to him to have a possible connection with it. Some little time ago he advertised for an assistant—a qualified assistant. He'd two or three applications which weren't exactly satisfactory. Then, one evening—he couldn't give any exact date, but from various things he told us I reckoned up that it must have been on the very evening on which Hannaford met his death—a man came and made a personal application. Appleyard described him—medium-sized, a spare man, sallow-complexioned, thin face and beard, large dark eyes, very intelligent, superior manner, poorly dressed, and evidently in low water——"
"That's the man, I'll be bound!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Did he give this chemist his name?"
"He did—-name and address," answered Matherfield. "He said his name was James Granett, and his address Number 8, Fligwood's Rents, Gray's Inn Road—Holborn end. He told Appleyard that he was a qualified chemist, and produced his proofs and some references. He also said that though he'd never had a business of his own he'd been employed, as, indeed, the references showed, by some good provincial firms at one time or another. Lately he'd been in the employ of a firm of manufacturing chemists in East Ham—for some reason or other their trade had fallen off, and they'd had to reduce their staff, and he'd been thrown out of work, and had had the further bad luck to be seriously ill. This, he said, had exhausted his small means, and he was very anxious to get another job—so anxious that he appeared to come to Appleyard on very low terms. Appleyard told him he'd inquire into the references and write to him in a day or two. He did inquire, found the references quite satisfactory, and wrote to Granett engaging him. But Granett never turned up, and Appleyard heard no more of him until he read this Sunday paper. Then he felt sure Granett was the man, and came to me."
"I shouldn't think there's any doubt in the case," remarked Hetherwick. "But before we go any further, a question. Did Appleyard say what time it was when this man came to him that evening?"
"He did. It was just as he was closing his shop—nine o'clock. Granett stopped talking with him about half an hour. Indeed, Appleyard told me more. After they'd finished their talk, Appleyard, who doesn't live at the shop, locked it up, and he then invited Granett to step across the street with him and have a drink before going home. They had a drink together in a neighbouring saloon bar, and chatted a bit there; it would be nearly ten o'clock, according to Appleyard, when Granett left him. And he remembered that Granett, on leaving him, went round the corner into Victoria Street, on his way, no doubt, to the Underground."
"And in Victoria Street, equally without doubt, he met Hannaford," muttered Hetherwick. "Well, and the rest of it?"
"Well, of course, as soon as I learnt all this, I determined to go myself to Fligwood's Rents," replied Matherfield. "I went, first thing this morning. Fligwood's Rents is a slum street—only a man who is very low down in the world would ever dream of renting a room there. It's a sort of alley or court on the right-hand side of Gray's Inn Road, going up—some half-dozen squalid houses on each side, let off in tenements. Number 8 was a particularly squalid house!—slatternly women and squalling brats about the door and general dirt and shabbiness all round. None of the women about the place knew the name of Granett, but after I'd described the man I wanted they argued that it must be the gentleman on the top back; they added the further information that they hadn't seen him for some days. I went up a filthy stair to the room they indicated; the door was locked and I couldn't get any response to my repeated knockings. So then I set out to discover the landlord, and eventually unearthed a beery individual in a neighbouring low-class tavern. I got out of him that he had a lodger named Granett, who paid him six shillings a week for this top back room, and he suddenly remembered that Granett hadn't paid his last week's rent. That made more impression on him than anything I said, and he went with me to the house. And to cut things short, we forced the door, and found the man dead in his bed!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Dead—then?"
"Dead then—yes, and he'd been dead several days, according to the doctors," replied Matherfield grimly. "Dead enough! It was a poor room, but clean—you could see from various little things that the man had been used to a better condition. But as regards himself—he'd evidently gone to bed in the usual way. His clothes were all carefully folded and arranged, and by the side of the bed there was a chair on which was a half-burnt candle and an evening newspaper."
"That would fix the date," suggested Hetherwick.
"Of course, it did—and it was the same date as that on which Hannaford died," answered Matherfield. "I've made a careful note of that circumstance! Everything looked as if the man had gone to bed in just his ordinary way, read the paper a bit, blown out his light, dropped off to sleep, and died in his sleep."
"Yes!—and from what cause, I wonder?" exclaimed Hetherwick.
"Precisely the same idea occurred to me, knowing what I did about Hannaford," said Matherfield. "However, the doctors will tell us more about that. But to wind up—I had a man of mine with me, and I left him in charge while I got further help, and sent for Appleyard. Appleyard identified the dead man at once as the man who had been to see him. Indeed, on opening the door, we found Appleyard's letter, engaging him, lying with one or two others, just inside. So that's about all, except that I now want to know if you can positively identify him as the man you saw with Hannaford, and that I also want to open a locked box that we found in the room, which may contain something that will give us further information. Altogether, it's a step forward."
"Yes," admitted Hetherwick. "It's something. But there's spade-work to be done yet, Matherfield. I don't think there's any doubt, now, that Granett encountered Hannaford after he left Appleyard—and that indicates that Granett and Hannaford were old acquaintances. But, supposing they met at, or soon after, ten o'clock—where did they go, where did they spend their time between that and the time they entered my compartment at St. James's Park?"
"That would be—what?" asked Matherfield.
"It was well after midnight—mine was the last train going east, anyway," said Hetherwick. "I only just caught it at Sloane Square. But we can ascertain the exact time, to a minute. Still, those two, meeting accidentally, as I conclude they did, must have been together two or three hours. Where?—at that time of night. Surely there must be some way of finding that out! Two men, each rather noticeable—somebody must have seen them together, somewhere! It seems impossible that they shouldn't have been seen."
"Aye, but in my experience, Mr. Hetherwick, it's the impossible that happens!" rejoined Matherfield. "In a bee-hive like this, where every man's intent on his own business, ninety-nine men out of a hundred never observe anything unless it's shoved right under their very eyes. Of course, if we could find out if and where Hannaford and Granett were together that night, and where Granett went to after he slipped away at Charing Cross, it would vastly simplify matters. But how are we going to find out? There's been immense publicity given to this case in the papers, you know, Mr. Hetherwick—portraits of Hannaford, and details about the whole affair, and so on, and yet we've had surprisingly little help and less information. I'll tell you what it is, sir—what we want is that tall, muffled-up chap who met Hannaford at Victoria! Who is he, now?"
"Who, indeed!" assented Hetherwick. "Vanished!—without a trace."
"Oh, well!" said Matherfield cheerfully, "you never know when you might light on a trace. But here we are at this unsavoury Fligwood's Rents."
The cab pulled up at the entrance to a dark, high-walled, stone-paved alley, which at that moment appeared to be full of women and children; so, too, did the windows on either side. The whole place was sombre and evil-smelling, and Hetherwick felt a sense of pity for the unfortunate man whose luck had been bad enough to bring him there.
"A murder, a suicide, or a sudden death is as a breath of heaven to these folk!" said Matherfield as they made their way through the ragged and frowsy gathering. "It's an event in uneventful lives. Here's the place," he added, as they came to a doorway whereat a policeman stood on guard. "And here are the stairs—mind you don't slip on 'em, for the wood's broken and the banisters are smashed."
Hetherwick cautiously followed his guide to the top of the house. There at another door stood a second policeman, engaged when they caught sight of him in looking out through the dirt-obscured window of the landing. His bored countenance brightened when he saw Matherfield; stepping back he quietly opened the door at his side. And the two new-comers, silent in view of the task before them, tiptoed into the room beyond.
It was, as Matherfield had remarked, a poor place, but it was clean and orderly, and its occupant had evidently tried to make it as habitable and comfortable as his means would allow. There were one or two good prints on the table; half a dozen books on an old chest of drawers; in a cracked vase on the mantelpiece there were a few flowers, wilted and dead. Hetherwick took in all this at a glance; then he turned to Matherfield, who silently drew aside a sheet from the head and shoulders of the rigid figure on the bed, and looked inquiringly at his companion. And Hetherwick gave the dead man's face one careful inspection and nodded.
"Yes!" he said. "That's the man!"
"Without doubt?" asked Matherfield.
"No doubt at all," affirmed Hetherwick. "That is the man who was with Hannaford in the train. I knew him instantly."
Matherfield replaced the sheet and turned to a small table which stood in the window. On it was a box, a square, old-fashioned thing, clamped at the corners.
"This seems to be the only thing he had that's what you may call private," he observed. "It's locked, but I've got a tool here that'll open it. I want to know what's in it—there may be something that'll give us a clue."
Hetherwick stood by while Matherfield forced open the lock with an instrument which he produced from his pocket, and began to examine the contents of the box. At first there seemed little that was likely to yield information. There was a complete suit of clothes and an outfit of decent linen; it seemed as if Granett had carefully kept these in view of better days. There were more books, all of a technical nature, relating to chemistry; there was a small case containing chemical apparatus, and another in which lay a pair of scales; in a third they found a microscope.
"He wasn't down to the very end of his resources, or he'd have pawned these things," muttered Matherfield. "They all look good stuff, especially the microscope. But here's more what I want—letters!"
He drew forth two bundles of letters, neatly arranged and tied up with tape. Unloosing the fastenings and rapidly spreading the envelopes out on the table, he suddenly put his finger on an address.
"There you are, Mr. Hetherwick," he exclaimed. "That's just what I expected to find out—though I certainly didn't think we should discover it so quickly This man has lived at Sellithwaite some time or other. Look there, at this address—Mr. James Granett, 7, Victoria Terrace, Sellithwaite, Yorkshire. Of course!—that's how he came to know and be with Hannaford. They were old acquaintances. See, there are several letters."
Hetherwick took two or three of the envelopes in his hand and looked closely at them. He perceived at once what Matherfield had not noticed.
"Just so!" he said. "But what's of far more importance is the date. Look at this—you see? That shows that Granett was living at Sellithwaite ten years ago—it was of that time that Hannaford was talking to him in the train."
"Oh, we're getting at something!" assented Matherfield. "Now we'll put everything back, and I'll take this box away and examine it thoroughly at leisure." He replaced the various articles, twisted a cord round the box, knotted it, and turned to the dead man's clothes, lying neatly folded on a chair close by. "I haven't had a look at the pockets of those things yet," he continued. "I'll just take a glance—you never know."
Hetherwick again watched in silence. There was little of interest revealed until Matherfield suddenly drew a folded bit of paper from one of the waistcoat pockets. Smoothing it out he uttered a sharp exclamation.
"Good!" he said. "See this? A brand new five pound note! Now, I'll lay anything he hadn't had that on him long! Got it that night, doubtless. And—from whom?"
"I should say Hannaford gave it to him," suggested Hetherwick.
But Matherfield shook his head and put the note in his own pocket.
"That's a definite clue!" he said, with emphasis. "I can trace that!"