The late afternoon edition of the evening papers were just out when Hetherwick and Matherfield reached Victoria. Matherfield snatched one up; a moment later he thrust it before Hetherwick, pointing to some big black capitals.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Look at that!"
Hetherwick looked, and gasped his astonishment at what he read.
MURDER OF ROBERT HANNAFORD.FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD.
Hetherwick turned on his companion with a look that was both questioning and surprised.
"This is probably—no, certainly!—what Penteney referred to when he told Baseverie to look in the newspapers!" he said. "That was yesterday; it must have been in last night's papers, and this morning's. I saw neither."
"Wait!" said Matherfield. He hurried back to the bookstall and returned with an armful of papers, turning the topmost over as he came. "It's here—and here!" he continued. "Let's get a quiet corner somewhere and look this thing carefully over!"
"Come into a waiting-room, then," said Hetherwick. "Odd!" he muttered, as they turned away. "Who should offer a reward—like that, too!—who isn't concerned in the case?"
"How do we know who isn't concerned in the case?" exclaimed Matherfield. "Somebody evidently is!—somebody who can not only afford to offer five thousand pounds, but isn't afraid to spend no end in advertising. Look at that—and that—and that," he went on, turning over his purchases rapidly. "It's in every paper in London!"
"Let's read it carefully," said Hetherwick. He spread out one of the newspapers on the waiting-room table and muttered the wording of the advertisement while Matherfield looked over his shoulder. "Mysterious, very!" he concluded. "What's it mean?"
But Matherfield was re-reading the advertisement.
Whereas Robert Hannaford, formerly Superintendent of Police at Sellithwaite, Yorkshire, died suddenly in an Underground Railway train, near Charing Cross (Embankment) Station about 1.15 a.m. on March 19th last, and expert medical investigation has proved that he was poisoned, and there is evidence to warrant the belief that the poison was administered by some person or persons with intent to cause his death, this is to give notice that the above-mentioned sum of Five Thousand Pounds will be paid to anyone first giving information which will lead to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons concerned in administering the said poison and that such information should be given to the undersigned, who will pay the said reward in accordance with the above-stated conditions.
PENTENEY, BLENKINSOP & PENTENEY,Solicitors.
April 22nd, 1920.853, Lincoln's Inn Fields,London, W.C.
Matherfield pointed to the names of the signatories.
"Penteney," he remarked. "That's the name of the man Miss Hannaford mentioned as having given Baseverie his dismissal."
"Of course—Major Penteney," said Hetherwick. "Probably a junior partner in the firm. I know their names, but not much about them."
"I thought he was a soldier," said Matherfield. "Major, she called him."
"Very likely a Territorial officer," replied Hetherwick. "Anyway, it's very plain what this is, Matherfield, considering all we know. This advertisement has been issued on behalf of Lady Riversreade. Penteney, Blenkinsop & Penteney are no doubt her solicitors. But—why?"
"Aye, why?" exclaimed Matherfield. "That's just what beats me! What interest has she in Hannaford's murder? Why should she want to bring his murderer to justice? If his granddaughter had offered, say, a hundred pounds for information, I could understand it—she's his flesh and blood. But Lady Riversreade! Why, if she's really the woman who was once Mrs. Whittingham, you'd have thought she'd have been rather glad that Hannaford was out of the way! And, after all, this mayn't come from her."
"I'm absolutely certain it does," asserted Hetherwick. "Putting everything together, what other conclusion can we come to? It comes from Lady Riversreade—and her adviser—Major Penteney, and it's something to do with that man Baseverie. But—what?"
"It ought to be looked into," muttered Matherfield. "They've never approached us on the matter. It's a purely voluntary offer on their part. They've left the police clean out."
"Well, I make a suggestion," said Hetherwick. "I think you and I had better call at Penteney's to-morrow morning. We can tell them something—perhaps they'll tell us something. Anyway, it's a foolish thing to divide forces; we'd far better unite in a common effort."
"Um!" replied Matherfield doubtfully. "But these lawyer chaps—they've generally got something up their sleeves—some card that they want to play at their own moment. However, we can try 'em."
"Meet me at the south-east corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields at half-past ten to-morrow morning," said Hetherwick. "Penteney's offices are close by. We'll go together—and ask them straight out what this advertisement means."
"All right—but if they won't tell?" suggested Matherfield.
"Then, in that case, we'll introduce Lady Riversreade's name, and ask them if Lady Riversreade of Riversreade Court and Mrs. Whittingham, formerly of Sellithwaite, are one and the same person," replied Hetherwick. "Come! I think we can show them that we already know a good deal."
"We have certainly a card or two to play," admitted Matherfield. "All right, Mr. Hetherwick! To-morrow morning, then, as you suggest."
He was waiting at the appointed place when Hetherwick hurried up next morning. Hetherwick immediately turned him down the lower side of the Fields.
"I've found out something about these people we're going to see," he said. "My clerk, Mapperley, told me a bit; he's a sort of walking encyclopædia. Old, highly respectable firm this. Penteney, senior, is retired; the firm is now really Blenkinsop & Penteney, junior. And Penteney, junior, is the Major Penteney who takes such an interest in Lady Riversreade's Home—and in Lady Riversreade. As I suggested last night, he was a Territorial officer—so now he's back at his own job. Now then, Matherfield, let's arrange our plan of campaign. You, of course, have your official credentials—I'm a deeply interested person, the man who chanced to witness Hannaford's death. I think you'd better be spokesman."
"Well, you'll come in when wanted?" suggested Matherfield. "You're better used to lawyers than I am, being one yourself."
"I fear my acquaintance with solicitors is, so far, extremely limited, Matherfield," replied Hetherwick with a laugh. "I have seen a brief!—but only occasionally. However, here we are at 853, and a solid and sombre old house it is."
The two callers had to wait for some time before any apparent notice was taken of their cards by the persons to whom they had been sent in. Matherfield was beginning to chafe when, at last, an elderly clerk conducted them up to an inner room wherein one cold-eyed, immobile-faced man sat at a desk, while another, scarcely less stern in appearance, in whom Hetherwick immediately recognised the Major Penteney pointed out by Rhona, stood, hands in pockets, on the hearthrug. Each stared silently at the two callers; the man at the desk pointed to chairs on either side of his fortress. He looked at Matherfield.
"Yes?" he asked.
"Mr. Blenkinsop, I presume?" began Matherfield, with a polite bow to the desk. "And Mr. Penteney?" with another to the hearthrug.
"Just so," agreed Blenkinsop. "Precisely! Yes?"
"You have my card, gentlemen, and so you know who I am," continued Matherfield. "The police——"
"A moment," interrupted Blenkinsop. He picked up Hetherwick's card and glanced from it to its presenter. "Mr. Guy Hetherwick," he remarked. "Does Mr. Hetherwick also call on behalf of the police? Because," he added, with a dry smile, "I think I've seen Mr. Hetherwick in wig and gown."
"I am the man who was present at Robert Hannaford's death," said Hetherwick. "If you are conversant with the case——"
"Quite!—every detail!" said Blenkinsop.
"Then you know what I saw, and what evidence I gave at the inquest," continued Hetherwick. "I have followed up the case ever since—and that's why I am here."
"Not asamicus curiæ, then?" remarked Blenkinsop with a still dryer smile. "You're not a disinterested adviser. I see! And Mr. Matherfield—why is he here?"
"I was saying, Mr. Blenkinsop, that the police have seen the advertisement signed by your firm, offering five thousand pounds reward—etcetera," answered Matherfield. "Now, I have this Hannaford case in hand, and I can assure you I've done a lot of work at it. So, in his way, has Mr. Hetherwick. We're convinced that Hannaford was murdered by poison, and that whoever poisoned him also poisoned the man Granett at the same time. Now, as either you or some person—a client, I suppose—behind you is so much concerned in bringing Hannaford's murderer to justice as to offer a big sum for necessary information, we think you must know a great deal, and I suggest to you, gentlemen, that you ought to place your knowledge at our disposal. I hope my suggestion is welcome, gentlemen."
Blenkinsop drummed the blotting-pad before him with the tips of his fingers, and his face became more inscrutable than ever. As for Penteney, he maintained the same attitude which he had preserved ever since the visitors entered the room, lounging against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets, and his eyes alternately fixed on either Hetherwick or Matherfield. There was a brief silence; at last Blenkinsop spoke abruptly.
"I don't think we have anything to say," he said. "What we have to say has been said already in the advertisement. We shall pay the offered reward to the person who gives satisfactory information. I don't think that interferes with the police work."
"That doesn't help me much, Mr. Blenkinsop," protested Matherfield. "You, or your client, must know more than that! There must be good reasons why your client should offer such a big sum as reward. I think we ought to know—more."
"I am not prepared to tell you more," answered Blenkinsop. "Except that if we get the information which we think we shall get, we shall not be slow to hand it over to the police authorities."
"That might be too late," urged Matherfield. "This is an intricate case—there are a good many wheels within wheels." Then, interpreting a glance which he had just received from Hetherwick as a signal to go further, he added: "We know what a lot of wheels there are—no one better! For example, gentlemen, there is the curious fashion in which this affair is mixed up with Lady Riversreade!"
In spite of their evidently habitual practice of self-control, the two solicitors could not repress signs of astonishment. Blenkinsop's face fell; Penteney started out of his lounging attitude and stood upright. And for the first time he spoke.
"What do you know about Lady Riversreade?" he demanded.
"A good deal, sir, but not so much as I intend to know," answered Matherfield firmly. "But I do know this—that Hannaford, just previous to his sudden death, was in possession of a portrait of Lady Riversreade, and believed her to be identical with a certain Mrs. Whittingham who was through his hands on a charge of fraud, ten years ago, at Sellithwaite, in Yorkshire. I, too, believe that this Mrs. Whittingham is now Lady Riversreade, and I may tell you that I'm in full possession of all the facts relating to the Sellithwaite affair—an affair of obtaining a diamond necklace, worth about four thousand pounds, by means of a worthless cheque, and——"
Blenkinsop suddenly rose from his chair, holding up a hand.
"A moment, if you please!" he said. "Penteney," he continued, turning to his partner, "a word with you in your room."
Matherfield glanced triumphantly after the retreating pair, and laughed when a door had closed on them.
"That's got 'em, Mr. Hetherwick!" he exclaimed. "They see that we know more than they reckoned for. In some way or other, it strikes me, this advertisement is a piece of bluff!"
"Bluff!" said Hetherwick. "What do you mean?"
"What I say," answered Matherfield. "Bluff! Done to prevent somebody from bringing up that old Sellithwaite affair. Lay you a thousand to one it is. You'll see these two lawyers will be more communicative when they come back. Now they shall talk—and we'll listen!"
"If you have to do any more talking, Matherfield," said Hetherwick, "keep Miss Hannaford's name out of it. She's in a rather awkward position. She went there, of course, to find out what she could, and the result's been that she's taken a fancy to Lady Riversreade, got a genuine interest in the work there, and wants to stop. Bit of a bother, all that, and it'll need some straightening out. Anyway, keep her name out of it here."
"As I say, sir, when these chaps come back to us, they'll do the talking!" answered Matherfield, with a chuckle. "You'll see! If you want to keep Miss Hannaford's name out, so do they want to keep Lady Riversreade's name out—I know the signs!"
Blenkinsop and Penteney suddenly came back and seated themselves, Blenkinsop at his desk and Penteney close by. And Blenkinsop immediately turned to his callers. His manner had changed; he looked now like a man who is anxious to get a settlement of a difficult question.
"We have decided to talk freely to you," he said at once. "That means, to tell you everything we know about this matter. You, Mr. Matherfield, as representing the police, will, of course, treat our communication confidentially. I needn't ask you, Mr. Hetherwick, to regard all that's said here, as—you know! Now, to begin with—just get one fact, an absolutely irrefutable fact, into your minds at once. Lady Riversreade is not the woman who was known as Mrs. Whittingham at Sellithwaite ten years ago, nor did Hannaford believe that she was either!"
"What?" exclaimed Matherfield. "But——" he turned to Hetherwick. "You hear that?" he went on. "Why, we know——"
"Let Mr. Blenkinsop go on," said Hetherwick quietly. "He's explaining, I think."
"Just so," agreed Blenkinsop. "And I'm beginning by endeavouring to clear away a few mistaken ideas from your minds. Lady Riversreade is not Mrs. Whittingham. Hannaford did not think she was Mrs. Whittingham. It was not Lady Riversreade's portrait that Hannaford cut out of the paper."
Hetherwick could not repress a start at that.
"Whose was it, then?" he demanded. "For I certainly believed it was!"
Blenkinsop stooped and drew out a drawer from his desk. From a bundle of documents he produced a newspaper, carefully folded and labelled. Opening this, he laid it before the two visitors, pointing to a picture marked with blue pencil. And Hetherwick at once saw that here was a duplicate of the portrait in his own pocket-book. But there was this important difference—while Hannaford had cut away the lettering under his picture, it was there in the one which Blenkinsop exhibited. He started again as he read it—Madame Anita Listorelle.
"That's the picture which Hannaford cut out of the paper," said Blenkinsop. "It is not that of Lady Riversreade."
"Then it's that of a woman who's her double!" exclaimed Matherfield. "I'll lay anything that if you asked a hundred men who've seen Lady Riversreade if that's her picture, they'd swear it is!"
"I see," said Hetherwick, disregarding his companion's outburst, "that this purports to be a portrait of a Madame Listorelle, who is described in the accompanying letterpress as a famous connoisseur of precious stones. Now, in relation to what we're discussing, may I ask a plain question? Who is Madame Listorelle?"
Blenkinsop smiled—oracularly.
"Madame Listorelle," he replied, "is the twin sister of Lady Riversreade!"
Blenkinsop's sudden announcement, not altogether unexpected by Hetherwick as a result of the last few minutes' proceedings, seemed to strike Matherfield with all the force of a lightning-like illumination. His mouth opened; his eyes widened; he turned on Hetherwick as if, having been lost for a while in a baffling maze, he had suddenly seen a way pointed out to him.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he exclaimed. "A twin sister, eh? Then—but go on, Mr. Blenkinsop; I'm beginning to see things."
"The matter is doubtless puzzling—to outsiders," responded Blenkinsop. "To clear it up, I shall have to go into some family history. Lady Riversreade and Madame Listorelle are, I repeat, twin sisters. They are the daughters of a man who in his time was captain of various merchant ships—the old sailing ships—and who knocked about the world a good deal. He married an American woman, and his two daughters were born in Galveston, Texas. They were educated in America—but there's no need to go into the particulars of their early lives——"
"There's a certain particular that I should like to have some information about, if you please," interrupted Hetherwick. "The Mrs. Whittingham who was at Sellithwaite ten years ago had the figure of a snake tattooed round a wrist, in various colours. She wore a black velvet band to cover it. Now——"
Blenkinsop turned to his partner with a smile.
"I thought that would come up," he said. "Well Mr. Hetherwick, if you want to know about that matter, both sisters are tattooed in the same fashion. That was a bit of work of the old sea-dog, their father—a fancy, and a very foolish one, of his. He had the children tattooed in that way when they were quite young, much to their disgust when they grew older. Each lady wears a covering velvet armlet—as I know."
"Proceed, if you please," said Hetherwick. "That's cleared up!"
"I gather that you've been making inquiries on your own account," observed Blenkinsop. "Well, since we're determined to tell you everything, we'll be as good as our word. So let's come to the Sellithwaite affair. You've probably heard only one version—you may have got it from Hannaford; you may have got it from old newspapers; you may have got it on the spot—it's immaterial to us. But you haven't heard the version of the lady who was then Mrs. Whittingham. That puts a rather different complexion on things. For reasons of her own, with which we've nothing to do, Mrs. Whittingham—her proper and legal name at that time—stayed at Sellithwaite for a while. She had various transactions with a jeweller there; eventually she bought from him a diamond necklace at a price—three thousand nine hundred pounds. She gave him a cheque for the amount, fully expecting that by the time it reached her bankers in Manchester certain funds for her credit would have reached them from America. There was a hitch—the funds didn't arrive—the cheque was returned. The jeweller approached the police—Hannaford, their superintendent there, got out a warrant and tracked down Mrs. Whittingham. He arrested her, and she got away from him, left England, and returned to America. For some time she was in financial straits. But she did not forget her liabilities, and eventually she sent the Sellithwaite jeweller the agreed price of the diamond necklace, and eight years' interest at five per cent. on the amount. She holds his formal receipt for the money she sent him. So much for that episode—whether Hannaford ever knew of the payment or not, I don't know. We are rather inclined to believe that he didn't. But—the necklace was paid for, and paid for handsomely."
"I may as well say that I'm aware of that," remarked Hetherwick. "I have been informed of the fact at first hand."
"Very good. I see you have been at Sellithwaite," said Blenkinsop with another of his shrewd smiles. "Now then, we come to what is far more pertinent—recent events. The situation as regards Lady Riversreade and Madame Listorelle some little time ago—say, when Hannaford came to town—was this: Lady Riversreade, widow of Sir John Riversreade, had inherited his considerable fortune, was settled at Riversreade Court in Surrey, and had founded a Home for wounded officers close by, of which my friend and partner, Major Penteney there, is London representative. Her sister, Madame Listorelle, had a flat at Paddington and another in New York. She was chiefly in New York, but she was sometimes in London and sometimes in Paris. As a matter of fact, Madame Listorelle is an expert in precious stones, and a dealer in them. But she has recently become engaged to be married to a well-known peer, an elderly, very wealthy man—which possibly has a good deal to do with what I am going to tell you."
"Probably, I think, Blenkinsop—not possibly," suggested Penteney. "Probably!—decidedly."
"Probably, then—probably!" assented Blenkinsop. He leaned forward across his desk towards the two listeners. "Now, gentlemen, your closest attention, for I'm coming to the really important points of this matter—those that affect the police particularly. About a fortnight ago Lady Riversreade, being in her private office at her home, close by Riversreade Court, was waited upon by a man who sent in a card bearing the name of Dr. Cyprian Baseverie. Lady Riversreade thought that the presenter of this card was some medical man who wished to inspect the Home, and he was admitted to see her. She soon found out that he had come on no such errand as she had imagined. He told her a strange tale. He let her know, to begin with, that he was fully conversant with that episode in her sister's life which related to Sellithwaite and the diamond necklace. Lady Riversreade, who knew all about it, felt that the man's information had been gained at first hand. He also let her know that Madame Listorelle's whereabouts and engagement were familiar to him; in short, he showed that he was well up in the present family history, both as regards Lady Riversreade and her sister. Then he let his hand be seen more plainly. He told Lady Riversreade that a certain gang of men in London had become acquainted with the facts of the Sellithwaite matter, the warrant, the arrest, the escape, and that they were also aware of Madame Listorelle's engagement to Lord—we will leave his name out at present, or refer to him as Lord X—and that they wanted a price for their silence. In other words, they were determined on blackmail. If they were not paid their price, they were going to Lord X, with all the facts, to tell him that he was engaged to a woman who, as they would put it, was still liable by the law of the land to arrest and prosecution for fraud."
"Isn't she?" asked Matherfield suddenly. "No time-limit in these sort of cases, I think, Mr. Blenkinsop. Liable ten or twenty or thirty years after—I think!"
"I've already said that the Sellithwaite affair was one of account," replied Blenkinsop. "There was no intent to defraud, and the full amount and interest on it was duly paid. But that's not the point—we're dealing with the presentment of this to Lady Riversreade by the man Baseverie. Of course, Lady Riversreade didn't know how the law might be, and she was alarmed on her sister's account. She asked Baseverie what he wanted. He told her plainly then that he could settle these men—if she would find the money. He had, he said, a certain hold over them which he could use to advantage. Lady Riversreade wanted to know what that hold was; he wouldn't tell her. She then wanted to know how much the men wanted; he wouldn't say. What he did say was that if she would be prepared to find the money to silence them, he, during the next week, would exert pressure on them to accept a reasonable amount, and would call on her on the following Friday and tell her what they would take. She made that appointment with him."
"And, I hope, took advice in the meantime," muttered Matherfield. "Ought to have handed him over there and then!"
"No—she took no advice in the meantime," continued Blenkinsop. "Madame Listorelle was in Paris—Major Penteney was away on business in the country. Lady Riversreade awaited Baseverie's next coming. When he came he told her what his gang wanted—thirty thousand pounds. He specified, too, the way in which it was to be paid—in a fashion which would have prevented the payment being traced to the people who received it. But now Lady Riversreade was more prepared—she had had time to think. She expected Major Penteney next day; she also knew that her sister would return from Paris on the following Monday. So she told Baseverie that she would give him an answer on Monday evening if he would make an appointment to meet her at some place in London. Eventually they made an appointment at Vivian's, in Candlestick Passage. Baseverie went away; next day Lady Riversreade told Major Penteney all that had happened. As a result, he went with her to Vivian's on Monday evening. They waited an hour beyond the fixed time. Baseverie made no appearance——"
"Just so!" muttered Matherfield. "He wouldn't—the Major being there!"
"Perhaps," assented Blenkinsop. "Anyway, he didn't materialise. So Lady Riversreade went away, leaving Major Penteney behind her. I may say that he stopped there for some further time, keeping a sharp look-out for the man whom Lady Riversreade had described in detail—a remarkable man in appearance, I understand. But he never saw him."
"No!" exclaimed Matherfield cynically. "Of course he didn't! But she would ha' done—if she'd gone alone!"
"Well, there it was," continued Blenkinsop. "Now for Lady Riversreade. She drove to her sister's flat in Paddington, and found Madame Listorelle just returned from Paris. She told her all that had happened. Madame Listorelle determined to go to New York at once and get certain papers from her flat there which would definitely establish her absolute innocence in the Sellithwaite affair. Leaving Lady Riversreade in the flat, Madame Listorelle set off for Southampton before five o'clock next morning—yes?"
Matherfield, uttering a deep groan, smote his forehead.
"Aye!" he muttered. "Just so! To be sure! But go on!—go on, sir."
"You seem to be highly surprised," said Blenkinsop. "However—at Southampton she booked a passage in a name she always used when travelling—her maiden name—by theTartaric, sailing that afternoon. That done, she went to a hotel for lunch. Then she began to think things over more calmly. And in the end, instead of sailing for New York, she went back, cancelled her booking, and set off by train to Lord X's country seat in Wiltshire, and told him the whole story. She wired to her sister as to what she had done, and in the evening wrote to her. Meanwhile, Lady Riversreade had returned, early in the morning, to Riversreade Court. Major Penteney went with her. He was confident that Baseverie would turn up. He did turn up! But he did not see Lady Riversreade. He saw Major Penteney—alone. And Major Penteney, after a little plain talk to him, metaphorically kicked him out, and told him to do his worst. He went—warned that if ever he showed himself there again he would be handed over to the police."
Matherfield groaned again, but the reason of his distress was obviously of a different nature.
"A mistake, sir—a great mistake!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at Penteney. "You shouldn't have let that fellow go like that! You should have handed him over there and then. Go? You don't know where he may be!"
"Oh, well, we're not quite such fools as we seem, Matherfield," he replied. "When I went down to Dorking with Lady Riversreade on Tuesday morning I had with me a smart man whom I can trust. He saw Baseverie arrive; he saw Baseverie leave. I think we shall be able to put our fingers on Baseverie at any moment. Our man won't lose sight of him!"
"Oh, well, that's better, sir, that's much better!" said Matherfield. "That's all right! A chap like that should be watched night and day. But now, gentlemen, about this reward! Your notion of offering it sprang, of course, from this Baseverie business. But—how, exactly? Did he mention Hannaford to Lady Riversreade?"
"No!" replied Blenkinsop. "I'll tell you how we came to issue the advertisement. All Sunday afternoon and evening, and for some time on Monday morning, Lady Riversreade, Major Penteney, and myself were in close consultation about this affair. I'll tell you at once how and why we connected it with the poisoning of Hannaford, of which, of course, all of us had read in the newspapers."
"Aye!—how, now?" asked Matherfield.
"Because of this," answered Blenkinsop. He tapped his desk to emphasise his words, watching Matherfield keenly as he spoke. "Because of this: Baseverie told Lady Riversreade that the gang of blackmailers had in their possession the original warrant for Mrs. Whittingham's arrest!"
Hetherwick felt himself impelled to jump in his chair, to exclaim loudly. He repressed the inclination, but Matherfield was less reserved.
"Ah!" he exclaimed sharply. "Ah!"
"Baseverie made a false step there," continued Blenkinsop. "He should never have told that. But he did—no doubt he thought a rich woman easy prey. Now, of course, when we came to consult, we knew all about the Sellithwaite affair; we knew, too, that Hannaford was superintendent at the time and that he had the warrant; it was not at all improbable that he had preserved it in his pocket-book, and had it on him when he came to London. What, then, was the obvious conclusion—that the men who now held that warrant had got it, probably by foul means, from Hannaford, and were concerned in his murder? And—more than that—did the gang of which Baseverie spoke really exist? Wasn't it likely that the gang was—Baseverie?"
"Aye!" muttered Matherfield. "I've been thinking of that!"
"Yet," said Blenkinsop, "it was on the cards that there might be a gang. We searched all the newspapers' accounts thoroughly. We found that next to no information could be got as to Hannaford's movements between the time of his arrival in London and the night of his death. The one man who might have given more information about Hannaford's doings on the evening preceding his death—Granett—was dead, evidently poisoned, as Hannaford was poisoned. These were circumstances—they've probably occurred to both of you—which led us to believe that Hannaford had formed the acquaintance of folk here in town who were of a shady sort. And one thing was absolutely certain—if the gang, or if Baseverie, had really got that warrant, they had got it from Hannaford! Eh?"
"That may be taken as certain," assented Hetherwick. "Either directly or indirectly, it must have been from him."
"We think they, or he, got it directly from him," said Blenkinsop. "Our theory is that if there is a gang Baseverie is an active, perhaps the leading, member; that Hannaford was previously acquainted with him or some other member; that Hannaford was with him or them on the evening preceding his death; that he jokingly told them that he had discovered the identity of Madame Listorelle with Mrs. Whittingham; and that they poisoned him—and Granett, as being present—in order to keep the secret to themselves and to blackmail Madame Listorelle and her sister, Lady Riversreade. That's our general idea—and that's why, on Monday noon, we issued the advertisement. We meant to keep things to ourselves at first, and if substantial evidence came, to pass it over to the police. Now you know everything. It may be, if there is a gang, that one member will turn traitor for the sake of five thousand pounds and if he can exculpate himself satisfactorily; it may be, too, that matters will develop until we're in a position to fasten things on Baseverie——"
"I still wish that either Lady Riversreade or Major Penteney had handed him over to custody!" said Matherfield. "You see——"
"You've got to remember that Baseverie never demanded anything for himself," interrupted Penteney. "He represented himself as a go-between. But our man's safe enough—a retired detective, and——"
Just then a clerk opened the door and entered with a telegram. Blenkinsop tore open the envelope, glanced hurriedly at the message and flung the form on his desk with an exclamation of annoyance.
"This is from our man!" he said. "Sent from Dover. Followed Baseverie down there—and Baseverie's slipped him!"
Penteney strode forward and picked up the telegram; a moment later he passed it over to Hetherwick.
"That's most unfortunate!" he exclaimed. "And unexpected, too! Of course, the fellow's slipped off to the Continent."
Matherfield looked over Hetherwick's shoulder and read the message.
"Followed him down here last night. Put up at same hotel, but he slipped me and got clear away early this morning. Returning now."
"You should have employed two men, gentlemen," said Matherfield. "One's not enough—in a case of that sort. But it's as I said before—this man should have been given into custody at once. However——"
He got up from his chair, as if there was no more to be said, and moved towards the door. But half-way across the room he paused.
"You'll let me know if anybody comes forward about that reward?" he suggested. "It's more of a police matter, you know."
The two partners, who were obviously much annoyed by the telegram, nodded.
"We shall let you know—at once," answered Blenkinsop. "Of course, you'll regard all we've told you as strictly confidential?"
"Oh, to be sure, sir," replied Matherfield. "It's not the only private and confidential feature of this affair, I assure you."
Outside he turned to Hetherwick.
"Well!" he said. "We've cleared up a few things, Mr. Hetherwick—or, rather, those two have cleared them up for us. But are we any nearer answering the question that we want answering—who poisoned Robert Hannaford?"
"I think we are!" replied Hetherwick. "I am, anyhow! Either Baseverie poisoned him—or he knows who did!"
"Knows who did!" repeated Matherfield. "Ah!—that's more like it. I don't think he did it—he wouldn't be so ready about showing himself forward."
"I'm not so sure of that," remarked Hetherwick. "From what we've heard of him, he seems to be a bold and daring sort of scamp. Probably he thought he'd have a very easy prey in Lady Riversreade; probably, too, he believed that a woman who's got all that money would make little to do about parting with thirty thousand pounds. One thing's sure, however—Baseverie knows what we want to know. And—he's gone!"
"Perhaps—perhaps!" said Matherfield. "And perhaps not. This man of Penteney's no doubt tracked him to Dover, and there he lost him, but that isn't saying that Baseverie's gone on the Continent. If Baseverie's the cute customer that he seems to be, he'd put two and two together when Major Penteney warned him off Riversreade Court. He'd probably suspect Penteney of setting a watch on him; he may have spotted the very man who was watching. Then, if he'd any sense, he'd lead that man a bit of a dance, and eventually double on him. No!—I should say Baseverie's back here in town! That's about it, Mr. Hetherwick. But what's this? Here's one of my men coming to meet us. I left word where I should be found."
Hetherwick looked up and saw a man, who was obviously a policeman in plain clothes, coming towards them. He was a quiet-looking, stodgy-faced man, but he had news written all over his plain face.
"Well, Marler?" inquired Matherfield as they met. "Got something?"
There was nobody about in that quiet corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, yet the man looked round as if anxious to escape observation, and he spoke in a whisper.
"I believe I've got that chemist!" he answered. "Leastways, it's like this. There's a chemist I tried this morning—name of Macpherson, in Maiden Lane. I showed him the facsimiles of the lost labels on the medicine bottles, and asked him if he could give me any information. He's a very cautious sort of man, I think; he examined the facsimiles a long time, saying nothing. Then he said he supposed I was a policeman, and so on, and of course I had to tell him a bit—only a bit. Then he said, all of a sudden, 'Look here, my friend,' he said, 'you'd better tell me, straight out—has this to do with that Hannaford poisoning case?' So, of course, I said that, between ourselves, it had. 'Isn't Matherfield in charge of that?' he said. Of course, I said you were. 'Very well' he said. 'You send Matherfield to me. I'm not going to say anything to you,' he said. 'What I've got to say I'll say to Matherfield.' So I went back to head-quarters, and they told me you'd gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields."
"All right, my lad!" said Matherfield. "If you've found the right man, I'll remember you. What's his name—Macpherson, Maiden Lane? Very good—then I'll just step along and see him. Not a word to anybody, Marler!" he added, as the man turned away. "Keep close. Now, this is a bit of all right, Mr. Hetherwick!" he continued, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "This beats all we heard at Penteney's! Only let me get the name and address of the man for whom that bottle of medicine was made up, and I think I shall have taken a long stride! But come along—we'll see the chemist together."
The shop in Maiden Lane before which they presently paused was a small, narrow-fronted, old-fashioned establishment, with little in its windows beyond the usual coloured bottles and over the front no more than the name "Macpherson" in faded gilt letters on a time-stained signboard. It was dark and stuffy within the shop, and Hetherwick had to strain his eyes to see a tall, thin, elderly, spectacled man, very precise and trim in appearance, who stood behind the single counter, silently regarding him and Matherfield.
"Mr. Macpherson?" inquired Matherfield. "Just so! Good morning, sir. My name is Matherfield—Inspector Matherfield. One of my men tells me——"
"One moment!" interrupted the chemist. He stepped behind a screen at the rear of his shop and presently returned with a young man, to whom he whispered a word or two. Then he beckoned to his two visitors, and opening a door at the further corner, ushered them into a private parlour. "We shall be to ourselves here, Mr. Matherfield," he said. "And I've no doubt your business is of a highly confidential nature."
"Something of that sort, Mr. Macpherson," assented Matherfield, as he and Hetherwick took chairs at a centre table. "But my man'll have prepared you a bit, no doubt. He tells me he showed you the photographed facsimiles of certain torn labels that are on a medicine bottle which figures in the Hannaford case, and that in consequence of your seeing them you asked to see me. Well, sir, here I am!"
"Aye, just so, Mr. Matherfield, just so, precisely," replied the chemist, turning up the gas-jet which hung above the table. "Aye, to be sure!" He, too, sat down at the table, and folded his thin long fingers together. "Aye, and you'll be thinking, Mr. Matherfield, that yon bottle has something to do with the poisoning of Hannaford?"
"I'll be candid with you, Mr. Macpherson," answered Matherfield. "But first let me ask you something. Have you read the newspaper accounts of this affair?"
"I've done that, Mr. Matherfield—yes, all I could lay hands on."
"Then you'll be aware that there was another man poisoned as well as Hannaford—a man named Granett, who was in Hannaford's company on the night when it all happened? This gentleman here is the one that was in the Underground train and saw Hannaford die, and Granett make off, as he said, to fetch a doctor."
"That'll be Mr. Hetherwick, I'm thinking," said the chemist, with a polite bow. "Aye, just so!"
"I see you've read the reports of the inquest," remarked Matherfield, with a smile. "Very well, as I say, Granett was found dead later. I discovered a medicine bottle and a glass at his bedside. There'd been whisky in both, but according to the medical experts there had also been poison—the traces, they say, were indisputable. Now, on that medicine bottle were two torn labels—on the upper one, as you see from the facsimile photograph, there's been a name written—all that's left is the initial C. and the first letter of a surname, A. All the rest's gone. And what I want to know is—are you the chemist that made up the medicine or the tonic, or whatever it was, that was in that bottle, and, if so, who is the customer for whom you made it, and whose Christian name begins with C. and surname with A.? Do you comprehend me?"
"Aye, aye, Mr. Matherfield!" answered the chemist eagerly. "I'm appreciating every word you're saying, and very lucid it all is. And I'm willing to give you all the information in my power, but first I'd just like to have a bit myself on a highly pertinent matter. Now, you'll be aware, Mr. Matherfield, if you've seen the newspapers of this last day or two, that there's a firm of solicitors in Lincoln's Inn Fields that's offering a reward of five thousand pounds——"
"I'm well enough aware of it, Mr. Macpherson," interrupted Matherfield with a laugh and a sly glance at Hetherwick. "Mr. Hetherwick and myself have just come straight from their office, and what you want to know is—if you give me information will it be the same thing as giving it to them? You want to make sure about the reward?"
"Precisely, Mr. Matherfield, precisely!" assented the chemist eagerly. "You've hit my meaning exactly. For, of course, when there's a reward like yon——"
"If you give us information, Mr. Macpherson, that'll lead to the arrest and conviction of the guilty party, you can rest assured you'll get that reward," said Matherfield. "And Mr. Hetherwick'll support me in that, I'm sure."
"I'm satisfied—I'm satisfied, gentlemen!" exclaimed Macpherson, as Hetherwick murmured his confirmation. "Well, it's a strange, black business, and I'd no idea that I would come to be associated with it until that man of yours called in this morning, Mr. Matherfield. But then I knew! And I'll shorten matters by telling you, at once—I made up the tonic that was in that bottle!"
Matherfield rubbed his hands.
"Good!" he said quietly. "Good! And now, then—the critical question! For whom?"
"For a Dr. Charles Ambrose, from a prescription of his own," replied Macpherson. "It's a sort of pick-me-up tonic. I first made it up for him two years ago; I've made it up for him several times since. The last occasion was about six weeks ago. I have all the dates, though, in my books; I can show you them."
"Wait a bit," said Matherfield. "That's of no great importance—yet. Dr. Charles Ambrose, eh? Have you his address?"
"Aye, to be sure!" answered the chemist. "His address is 38, Number 59, John Street."
"Adelphi!" suggested Matherfield.
"Adelphi, precisely—38, Number 59, John Street, Adelphi," repeated Macpherson. "That's in the books, too."
Matherfield suddenly became silent, staring at the floor. When he looked up again it was at Hetherwick.
"Didn't Granett exclaim that he knew of a doctor, close by, when he rushed out of that train at Charing Cross Underground?" he asked. "Gave the impression that he knew of one close by, anyway?"
"He said distinctly close by," answered Hetherwick. "Why, are you thinking——"
Matherfield interrupted him with a wave of the hand, and turned again to the chemist. "You've seen this Dr. Charles Ambrose?" he asked abruptly.
"Oh, I have, Mr. Matherfield, many a time and often," replied Macpherson. "But now I come to think of it, not lately."
"When—last?" demanded Matherfield.
"I should think last when he called in and told me to make him another bottle of his tonic," answered Macpherson, after some thought. "As I said just now, perhaps about six weeks ago. But the books——"
"Never mind the books yet. What's this Dr. Charles Ambrose like?"
"A tall, handsome man, distinguished-looking—I should say about forty years of age. A dark man—hair, eyes, beard. He wears his moustache and beard in—well, a sort of foreign fashion; in fact, he's more like a Spaniard than an Englishman."
"But—is he an Englishman?"
"He was always taken by me for an Englishman; he speaks like one—that is, like an Englishman of the upper classes. He once told me he was an Oxford man—we'd been talking about universities."
"Well-dressed man?"
"Aye, he was that! A smart, fine man."
"Did you ever see him in a big, dark overcoat, with a large white silk muffler about his neck and the lower part of his face?"
"Aye, I've seen him like that! On chilly evenings. Indeed, that's another thing he told me—he was subject to bronchial attacks."
"Muffled himself well up, eh?" suggested Matherfield.
"Aye, just so! He's been in here like that."
Matherfield turned to Hetherwick with a significant glance.
"That's the man who met Hannaford at Victoria Station that night!—the man that Ledbitter saw, and that nobody's seen since!" he exclaimed. "A million to one on it! Now then, who is he?"
"You know his name and his address," remarked Hetherwick.
"Yes—and I know, too, that Mr. Macpherson here hasn't seen him lately!" retorted Matherfield dryly. "How often, now, Mr. Macpherson, did you use to see him? I mean, did you use to see him at other times than when he came into your shop?"
"Oh, yes! I've seen him in the street, outside," replied the chemist. "I've seen him, too, going in and out of Rule's, and in and out of Romano's."
"In other words," remarked Matherfield, "he was pretty well known about this end of the Strand. I'm not sure, now, that I don't remember such a man myself—black, silky, carefully-trimmed beard, always a big swell. But—Mr. Macpherson hasn't seen him lately! Hm! Do you know if he was in practice, Mr. Macpherson?"
"I could not say as to that, Mr. Matherfield. Seeing that he called himself Dr. Ambrose, I supposed he was a medical practitioner, but I don't know what his degrees or qualifications were at all."
Matherfield glanced at a row of books which stood over a desk at the side of the parlour.
"Have you got an up-to-date medical directory?" he asked. "Good! Let's look the man up. You turn up his name, Mr. Hetherwick," he went on as the chemist handed down a volume; "you're more used to books than I am. Find out if there's anything about him."
Hetherwick turned over the pages of the directory, and presently shook his head.
"There's no Charles Ambrose here," he said. "Look for yourselves."
Matherfield glanced at the place indicated and said nothing. Macpherson made an exclamation of surprise.
"Aye, well, he may be a foreigner, after all," he observed. "But I shouldn't have considered him one, and he certainly told me he was an Oxford graduate."
"Foreigner or Oxforder, I'm going to know more about him!" declared Matherfield, rising and grasping his stick with an air of determination. "Well, Mr. Macpherson, we're obliged to you, and if this results in anything—you know! But for the moment—a bit of that caution that you Scotsmen are famous for—eh?"
Outside, Matherfield laid his hand on Hetherwick's elbow.
"Mr. Hetherwick," he said solemnly, "we're on the track—at last! Sure as my name's Matherfield, we've hit the trail! Now we're going to John Street, Adelphi—and I'll lay you anything you like that the man's vanished!"