Chapter V

Chapter V“It is the aftermath of the War,” said Aubrey Todmarsh, shaking his head. “You take a man away from his usual occupation and for four years you let him do nothing but kill other men and try to kill other men, and then you are surprised when he comes home and still goes on killing.”“Don't you think, Aubrey, that you had better say straight out that you believe I killed Uncle Luke?” Tony Collyer inquired very quietly, yet with a look in his eyes that his men had known well in the Great War, and had labelled dangerous.Instinctively Aubrey drew back. “My dear Tony,” he said, with what was meant to be an indulgent smile and only succeeded in looking distinctly scared, “why will you turn everything into personalities? I was speaking generally.”“Well, as I happen to be the only man who went to the War and who profits by my uncle's will, and who was at the office the day he was murdered, I will thank you not to speak generally in that fashion,” retorted Anthony.His father lifted up his hand.“Boys, boys! This terrible crime is no time for unseemly bickering,” he said, in much the same tone as he would have used to them twenty years ago at Wexbridge Rectory.The three were in the dining-room of Mr. Bechcombe's house in Carlsford Square. They had been brought there by an urgent summons from the widow of the dead man. Mrs. Bechcombe, prostrated at first by the news of her husband's death, had been roused by learning how that death had been brought about, and, in her determination that it should be immediately avenged, she had insisted on her husband's brother-in-law and his two nephews coming together to consult with her as to the best steps to be taken to discover the assassin.In appearance the last twenty-four hours had aged the rector by as many years. His shoulders were bent as he leaned forward in his chair—the very chair in which Luke Bechcombe had sat at the bottom of his table only the night before last. There were new lines that sorrow and horror had scored upon James Collyer's face, even his hair looked whiter. Glancing round the familiar room it seemed to him impossible that he could never see again the brother-in-law upon whose advice he had unconsciously leaned all his married life. He was just about to speak when the door opened and Mrs. Bechcombe entered. She was a tall, almost a regal-looking woman, with flashing dark eyes and regular, aquiline features. To-day her beautiful formed lips were closely compressed and there was a very sombre light in the dark eyes, and there were great blue marks under them.Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeline, I wish I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will——”“It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”“My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God——” Aubrey Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short, altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.“This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now, he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will be he.”“I hope so, I am sure,” Mr. Steadman said as he shook hands. “This is a most terrible and mysterious crime, but there are several valuable clues. I do not think it should remain undiscovered long.”“I hope not!” the rector sighed. “And yet we cannot bring poor Luke back, we can only punish his murderer.”“And that I mean to do!” Mrs. Bechcombe said passionately. “I have sworn to devote every penny of my money and every moment of my life to avenging my husband.”“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” murmured Aubrey Todmarsh.“Yes, I never professed to be of your way of thinking,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned with unveiled contempt. “I prefer to undertake the vengeance myself, thank you.”Mr. Steadman looked at Anthony. “I understand that you called at the office yesterday morning.”“Yes, I did,” returned Anthony defiantly. “And, when old Thompson told me I couldn't see Mr. Bechcombe, I was fool enough to say I would go round to the private door and get in to him that way.”“And did you?” questioned Mr. Steadman quietly.“Yes, I did, but I did not go in and murder my uncle,” returned Anthony in the same loud, passionate tone.“Did you see him?” Mr. Steadman inquired.“Yes. He came to the door and told me to go away. He was expecting an important client.”“Tony, you did not ask him for money?” his father said piteously.Anthony's face softened as he looked at him. “I was going to, but I didn't get the chance. He wouldn't listen to me. I went on to ask a friend of mine in the next room to come out to lunch with me. As we were passing my uncle's room he came to the door. ‘I want you, Tony,’ he said sharply. My friend went on, telling me to follow to the Field of Rest. Uncle Luke kept me a few minutes talking. He told me that if I had a really good opening he would go into it, if it were really promising the lack of money should not stand in the way. He said I was to come and see him that night and talk things over. I meant to go, of course. But then I heard this——” and Anthony gulped down something in his throat.“Did you keep your friend waiting?” inquired Mr. Steadman.“Yes, I did!” Tony answered, staring at him. “Uncle Luke kept me a minute or two. But then I missed my way to the Field of Rest, and was wandering about the best part of half an hour. I suppose you don't call that a very satisfactory alibi,” he added truculently.“Oh, don't be silly, Tony!” Mrs. Bechcombe interposed fretfully. “Of course we are all sure that you would not have hurt your uncle. We want to know if you saw anyone—if you met this wicked woman——”Tony stared at her.“What wicked woman? What do you mean, Aunt Madeline?”“The woman who left her glove in his room, the woman who killed my husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned, her breath coming quickly and nervously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves.“My dear Madeline,” Mr. Steadman interrupted her, “I do not think it possible that the crime could have been committed by a woman.”“And I am sure that it was,” she contradicted stormily. “Women are as powerful as men nowadays and Luke was not strong. He had a weak heart.” And with the last words she burst into a very tempest of tears.Her cousin looked at her pityingly.“Well, well, my dear girl! At any rate the police are searching everywhere for this woman. The finding her can only be a matter of a few days now. I am going to send your maid to you.” He signed to the other men and they followed him out of the room. “Do her all the good in the world to cry it out,” he remarked confidentially when he had closed the door. “I haven't seen her shed a tear yet. Now I am going to see Inspector Furnival before the inquest opens. That, of course, will be absolutely formal, at first. Can I give any of you a lift?”“I think not, thank you,” Mr. Collyer responded. “There must be some—er—arrangements to be made here and it is quite possible we may be of some real service.”Both young men looked inclined to dissent, but the barrister proffered no further invitation and a minute or two later they saw him drive off.He was shown in at once to Inspector Furnival, who was writing at his office table, briskly making notes in a large parchment-bound book. He got up as the door opened.Mr. Steadman shook hands. “You haven't forgotten me, I hope, inspector?”The inspector permitted himself a slight smile. “I haven't forgotten how you helped me to catch John Bassil.”“Um! Well, my cousin—Mrs. Bechcombe is my cousin, you know—has insisted on my coming to you this morning,” Mr. Steadman went on, taking the chair the inspector placed by the table. “This is a terrible business, inspector. It looks fairly plain sailing at first sight, but I don't know.”The inspector glanced at him. “You think it looks like plain sailing, sir? Well, it may be, but I confess I don't see it quite in that way myself.”Mr. Steadman met the detective's eyes with a curious look in his own. “What of Thompson's disappearance?”The inspector blotted the page in his ledger at which he had been writing and left the blotting-paper on.“Ay, as usual you have put your finger on the spot, Mr. Steadman. What has become of Thompson? He walked out of the office and apparently disappeared into space. For from that moment we have not been able to find anyone who has seen him.”“The inference being——?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows.The inspector laid his hand on a parcel of papers lying on the table at his elbow.“There wasn't much about the case in the papers this morning,” he said, replying indirectly to the barrister's question, “but the one that comes out at ten o'clock—Racing Special they call it: selections on the back page, don't you know—in almost every case gives a large space on its front page to ‘The Murder of a Solicitor in his Office,’ and every one of them mentions the disappearance of his managing clerk. The inference, though the paragraphs are naturally guarded in the extreme, is unmistakable.”Mr. Steadman reached over for one of the papers.“Don't take any notice of these things myself; they have to write up the sensation. Um! Yes! No doubt what they're hinting at, but they're generally wrong. What should Thompson want to kill his employer for, unless——”“Ay, exactly; unless——” the inspector said dryly. “That was one of my first thoughts, sir. John Walls is going through the books with an auditor this morning. And Mr. Turner, who was in the firm until last year, is going over the contents of the safe. When we get their reports we shall know more.”The barrister nodded. “Thompson had been with the firm for many years.”“Eighteen, I believe,” assented the inspector. “He seems to have been a great favourite with Mr. Bechcombe, but it is astonishing how little his fellow-clerks know of him. Only two of them have ever seen him out of the office, and none of them appear to have the least idea where he lives.”Mr. Steadman did not speak for a moment, then he said slowly:“The fact that so little is known seems in itself curious. Is there no way of ascertaining his address?”“One would imagine that there must be a note of it somewhere at the office,” the inspector remarked, “but so far we have not been able to find it.”“How about the woman visitor?” the barrister inquired, changing the subject suddenly.“We haven't been able to identify her at present.” The inspector opened the top drawer at his right hand, and took the white glove that had been found by the murdered man's desk from its wrapping of tissue paper. The most cursory glance showed that it was an expensive glove, even if the maker's name had not been known as one of the most famous in London and Paris. About it there still clung the vague elusive scent that always seems to linger about the belongings of a woman who is attracted by and attractive to the other sex.Mr. Steadman handled it carefully and inspected it thoroughly through his eyeglasses. “Yes. We ought to be able to find the mysterious woman with the aid of this.”“Ah, yes. We shall find the wearer,” the inspector said confidently. “But will that be very much help in solving the mystery of Luke Bechcombe's death?”The barrister looked at him.“I don't know that it will. Still, why doesn't she come forward and say, ‘I saw Mr. Bechcombe the morning he was murdered. My business with him was urgent and I saw him by special appointment.’ She is much more likely to be suspected of the crime if she refuses to come forward. Mrs. Bechcombe seems certain of her guilt, and women do have intuitions.”“I'm not much of a believer in them myself,” remarked Inspector Furnival, shrugging his shoulders. “I would rather have a penn'orth of direct evidence than a pound's worth of intuition. And I don't believe that Mr. Bechcombe was murdered by a woman. A woman doesn't spring at a man and strangle him. She may stab him or shoot him, the weapons being to hand, but strangle him with her hands—no. Besides, this was a premeditated crime. There was an unmistakable smell of chloroform about the body, faint, I grant you, but unmistakable. No, no! It wasn't a woman. As to why she doesn't speak—well, there may be a dozen reasons. In the first place she may not have heard of the murder at all. It doesn't occupy a very conspicuous place in the morning's papers. It will be a different matter to-night. Then, she might not want her business known. And, above all, many a woman—and man too—hates to be mixed up in a murder case, and won't speak out till she is driven to it.”“Quite so!”The barrister sat silent for a minute or two, his eyes staring straight in front of him at nothing in particular. Inspector Furnival took another glance at his notes.“Spencer, the only person we have been able to trace so far who has seen this mysterious woman, fancies that her face is familiar to him, but does not know in what connexion. I have suggested to him that she is possibly an actress, and he is inclined to think that it may be so. I have sent him up a quantity of photographs to see if he can identify any of them. But don't you see, Mr. Steadman, Mr. Spencer's evidence tends rather to exonerate Thompson. Spencer went out after Thompson and met this woman on the stairs. It therefore appears probable that Thompson was off the premises before the woman came on.”Mr. Steadman shook his head.“It isn't safe to assume anything in a case of this kind. We do not know that Thompson went off the premises. We do not know where he went or where he is.”“Very true! I wish we did,” asserted the inspector. “At the same time——”The telephone bell was ringing sharply over his desk. He took up the receiver.“That you, Jones? Yes, what is it? Inspector Furnival speaking.”“Thompson's address has been found in one of Mr. Bechcombe's books. There are several other of the clerks' addresses there all entered in Mr. Bechcombe's writing, and all the others we have verified.”“What is it?”“Number 10 Brooklyn Terrace, North Kensington.”“Um! I will see to it at once.” And the inspector rang off sharply.

“It is the aftermath of the War,” said Aubrey Todmarsh, shaking his head. “You take a man away from his usual occupation and for four years you let him do nothing but kill other men and try to kill other men, and then you are surprised when he comes home and still goes on killing.”

“Don't you think, Aubrey, that you had better say straight out that you believe I killed Uncle Luke?” Tony Collyer inquired very quietly, yet with a look in his eyes that his men had known well in the Great War, and had labelled dangerous.

Instinctively Aubrey drew back. “My dear Tony,” he said, with what was meant to be an indulgent smile and only succeeded in looking distinctly scared, “why will you turn everything into personalities? I was speaking generally.”

“Well, as I happen to be the only man who went to the War and who profits by my uncle's will, and who was at the office the day he was murdered, I will thank you not to speak generally in that fashion,” retorted Anthony.

His father lifted up his hand.

“Boys, boys! This terrible crime is no time for unseemly bickering,” he said, in much the same tone as he would have used to them twenty years ago at Wexbridge Rectory.

The three were in the dining-room of Mr. Bechcombe's house in Carlsford Square. They had been brought there by an urgent summons from the widow of the dead man. Mrs. Bechcombe, prostrated at first by the news of her husband's death, had been roused by learning how that death had been brought about, and, in her determination that it should be immediately avenged, she had insisted on her husband's brother-in-law and his two nephews coming together to consult with her as to the best steps to be taken to discover the assassin.

In appearance the last twenty-four hours had aged the rector by as many years. His shoulders were bent as he leaned forward in his chair—the very chair in which Luke Bechcombe had sat at the bottom of his table only the night before last. There were new lines that sorrow and horror had scored upon James Collyer's face, even his hair looked whiter. Glancing round the familiar room it seemed to him impossible that he could never see again the brother-in-law upon whose advice he had unconsciously leaned all his married life. He was just about to speak when the door opened and Mrs. Bechcombe entered. She was a tall, almost a regal-looking woman, with flashing dark eyes and regular, aquiline features. To-day her beautiful formed lips were closely compressed and there was a very sombre light in the dark eyes, and there were great blue marks under them.

Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeline, I wish I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will——”

“It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”

“My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God——” Aubrey Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short, altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.

Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.

“This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now, he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will be he.”

“I hope so, I am sure,” Mr. Steadman said as he shook hands. “This is a most terrible and mysterious crime, but there are several valuable clues. I do not think it should remain undiscovered long.”

“I hope not!” the rector sighed. “And yet we cannot bring poor Luke back, we can only punish his murderer.”

“And that I mean to do!” Mrs. Bechcombe said passionately. “I have sworn to devote every penny of my money and every moment of my life to avenging my husband.”

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” murmured Aubrey Todmarsh.

“Yes, I never professed to be of your way of thinking,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned with unveiled contempt. “I prefer to undertake the vengeance myself, thank you.”

Mr. Steadman looked at Anthony. “I understand that you called at the office yesterday morning.”

“Yes, I did,” returned Anthony defiantly. “And, when old Thompson told me I couldn't see Mr. Bechcombe, I was fool enough to say I would go round to the private door and get in to him that way.”

“And did you?” questioned Mr. Steadman quietly.

“Yes, I did, but I did not go in and murder my uncle,” returned Anthony in the same loud, passionate tone.

“Did you see him?” Mr. Steadman inquired.

“Yes. He came to the door and told me to go away. He was expecting an important client.”

“Tony, you did not ask him for money?” his father said piteously.

Anthony's face softened as he looked at him. “I was going to, but I didn't get the chance. He wouldn't listen to me. I went on to ask a friend of mine in the next room to come out to lunch with me. As we were passing my uncle's room he came to the door. ‘I want you, Tony,’ he said sharply. My friend went on, telling me to follow to the Field of Rest. Uncle Luke kept me a few minutes talking. He told me that if I had a really good opening he would go into it, if it were really promising the lack of money should not stand in the way. He said I was to come and see him that night and talk things over. I meant to go, of course. But then I heard this——” and Anthony gulped down something in his throat.

“Did you keep your friend waiting?” inquired Mr. Steadman.

“Yes, I did!” Tony answered, staring at him. “Uncle Luke kept me a minute or two. But then I missed my way to the Field of Rest, and was wandering about the best part of half an hour. I suppose you don't call that a very satisfactory alibi,” he added truculently.

“Oh, don't be silly, Tony!” Mrs. Bechcombe interposed fretfully. “Of course we are all sure that you would not have hurt your uncle. We want to know if you saw anyone—if you met this wicked woman——”

Tony stared at her.

“What wicked woman? What do you mean, Aunt Madeline?”

“The woman who left her glove in his room, the woman who killed my husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned, her breath coming quickly and nervously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves.

“My dear Madeline,” Mr. Steadman interrupted her, “I do not think it possible that the crime could have been committed by a woman.”

“And I am sure that it was,” she contradicted stormily. “Women are as powerful as men nowadays and Luke was not strong. He had a weak heart.” And with the last words she burst into a very tempest of tears.

Her cousin looked at her pityingly.

“Well, well, my dear girl! At any rate the police are searching everywhere for this woman. The finding her can only be a matter of a few days now. I am going to send your maid to you.” He signed to the other men and they followed him out of the room. “Do her all the good in the world to cry it out,” he remarked confidentially when he had closed the door. “I haven't seen her shed a tear yet. Now I am going to see Inspector Furnival before the inquest opens. That, of course, will be absolutely formal, at first. Can I give any of you a lift?”

“I think not, thank you,” Mr. Collyer responded. “There must be some—er—arrangements to be made here and it is quite possible we may be of some real service.”

Both young men looked inclined to dissent, but the barrister proffered no further invitation and a minute or two later they saw him drive off.

He was shown in at once to Inspector Furnival, who was writing at his office table, briskly making notes in a large parchment-bound book. He got up as the door opened.

Mr. Steadman shook hands. “You haven't forgotten me, I hope, inspector?”

The inspector permitted himself a slight smile. “I haven't forgotten how you helped me to catch John Bassil.”

“Um! Well, my cousin—Mrs. Bechcombe is my cousin, you know—has insisted on my coming to you this morning,” Mr. Steadman went on, taking the chair the inspector placed by the table. “This is a terrible business, inspector. It looks fairly plain sailing at first sight, but I don't know.”

The inspector glanced at him. “You think it looks like plain sailing, sir? Well, it may be, but I confess I don't see it quite in that way myself.”

Mr. Steadman met the detective's eyes with a curious look in his own. “What of Thompson's disappearance?”

The inspector blotted the page in his ledger at which he had been writing and left the blotting-paper on.

“Ay, as usual you have put your finger on the spot, Mr. Steadman. What has become of Thompson? He walked out of the office and apparently disappeared into space. For from that moment we have not been able to find anyone who has seen him.”

“The inference being——?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows.

The inspector laid his hand on a parcel of papers lying on the table at his elbow.

“There wasn't much about the case in the papers this morning,” he said, replying indirectly to the barrister's question, “but the one that comes out at ten o'clock—Racing Special they call it: selections on the back page, don't you know—in almost every case gives a large space on its front page to ‘The Murder of a Solicitor in his Office,’ and every one of them mentions the disappearance of his managing clerk. The inference, though the paragraphs are naturally guarded in the extreme, is unmistakable.”

Mr. Steadman reached over for one of the papers.

“Don't take any notice of these things myself; they have to write up the sensation. Um! Yes! No doubt what they're hinting at, but they're generally wrong. What should Thompson want to kill his employer for, unless——”

“Ay, exactly; unless——” the inspector said dryly. “That was one of my first thoughts, sir. John Walls is going through the books with an auditor this morning. And Mr. Turner, who was in the firm until last year, is going over the contents of the safe. When we get their reports we shall know more.”

The barrister nodded. “Thompson had been with the firm for many years.”

“Eighteen, I believe,” assented the inspector. “He seems to have been a great favourite with Mr. Bechcombe, but it is astonishing how little his fellow-clerks know of him. Only two of them have ever seen him out of the office, and none of them appear to have the least idea where he lives.”

Mr. Steadman did not speak for a moment, then he said slowly:

“The fact that so little is known seems in itself curious. Is there no way of ascertaining his address?”

“One would imagine that there must be a note of it somewhere at the office,” the inspector remarked, “but so far we have not been able to find it.”

“How about the woman visitor?” the barrister inquired, changing the subject suddenly.

“We haven't been able to identify her at present.” The inspector opened the top drawer at his right hand, and took the white glove that had been found by the murdered man's desk from its wrapping of tissue paper. The most cursory glance showed that it was an expensive glove, even if the maker's name had not been known as one of the most famous in London and Paris. About it there still clung the vague elusive scent that always seems to linger about the belongings of a woman who is attracted by and attractive to the other sex.

Mr. Steadman handled it carefully and inspected it thoroughly through his eyeglasses. “Yes. We ought to be able to find the mysterious woman with the aid of this.”

“Ah, yes. We shall find the wearer,” the inspector said confidently. “But will that be very much help in solving the mystery of Luke Bechcombe's death?”

The barrister looked at him.

“I don't know that it will. Still, why doesn't she come forward and say, ‘I saw Mr. Bechcombe the morning he was murdered. My business with him was urgent and I saw him by special appointment.’ She is much more likely to be suspected of the crime if she refuses to come forward. Mrs. Bechcombe seems certain of her guilt, and women do have intuitions.”

“I'm not much of a believer in them myself,” remarked Inspector Furnival, shrugging his shoulders. “I would rather have a penn'orth of direct evidence than a pound's worth of intuition. And I don't believe that Mr. Bechcombe was murdered by a woman. A woman doesn't spring at a man and strangle him. She may stab him or shoot him, the weapons being to hand, but strangle him with her hands—no. Besides, this was a premeditated crime. There was an unmistakable smell of chloroform about the body, faint, I grant you, but unmistakable. No, no! It wasn't a woman. As to why she doesn't speak—well, there may be a dozen reasons. In the first place she may not have heard of the murder at all. It doesn't occupy a very conspicuous place in the morning's papers. It will be a different matter to-night. Then, she might not want her business known. And, above all, many a woman—and man too—hates to be mixed up in a murder case, and won't speak out till she is driven to it.”

“Quite so!”

The barrister sat silent for a minute or two, his eyes staring straight in front of him at nothing in particular. Inspector Furnival took another glance at his notes.

“Spencer, the only person we have been able to trace so far who has seen this mysterious woman, fancies that her face is familiar to him, but does not know in what connexion. I have suggested to him that she is possibly an actress, and he is inclined to think that it may be so. I have sent him up a quantity of photographs to see if he can identify any of them. But don't you see, Mr. Steadman, Mr. Spencer's evidence tends rather to exonerate Thompson. Spencer went out after Thompson and met this woman on the stairs. It therefore appears probable that Thompson was off the premises before the woman came on.”

Mr. Steadman shook his head.

“It isn't safe to assume anything in a case of this kind. We do not know that Thompson went off the premises. We do not know where he went or where he is.”

“Very true! I wish we did,” asserted the inspector. “At the same time——”

The telephone bell was ringing sharply over his desk. He took up the receiver.

“That you, Jones? Yes, what is it? Inspector Furnival speaking.”

“Thompson's address has been found in one of Mr. Bechcombe's books. There are several other of the clerks' addresses there all entered in Mr. Bechcombe's writing, and all the others we have verified.”

“What is it?”

“Number 10 Brooklyn Terrace, North Kensington.”

“Um! I will see to it at once.” And the inspector rang off sharply.

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