“I am that man,” replied the stranger, with a ready nod and smile. “No other!”
“Do you mind telling me who you are?” asked Blick. “And what you are?”
“I do not! My name is Edward Lansbury, and I’m a financier, with businesses in New York and in London. Who are you and what’s your business?”
“Detective-Sergeant Blick, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard! I have this case in hand, Mr. Lansbury, and I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me what you know about it.”
“Sure! Everything! That’s what I’ve run up from Falmouth for. Where’ll we talk?”
“Come this way,” said Blick. The plain-clothes men had come up behind him; he turned and whispered to them, and they went away in the direction of the police-station. “Don’t wait for me, Grimsdale,” he continued. “I shall be detained here for some time, so you can go back at once.”
But Grimsdale brought a hand out of his pocket, offering something to Lansbury.
“Your change, sir,” he said. “Three pound fourteen. Bill was twenty-six shillings, sir.”
Lansbury started, laughed, took the money, and handed some of the silver back.
“Guess I’d forgotten all about that!” he said. “Here!—get yourself a drink.”
“Thought you had, sir,” remarked Grimsdale, phlegmatic as ever. “Thank you, sir.”
He went over to his trap and drove off, and Blick signed to his companion to follow him towards the Chief Constable’s office.
“I’m truly thankful you came, Mr. Lansbury,” he said, as they walked up the street. “Everything’s in more or less of a fog about this affair!”
“Well, beyond what I know myself—which is not a great deal—all I know of it has been got from a London paper that I picked up in my hotel at Falmouth yesterday evening,” said Lansbury. “I set off here almost at once—been on the train practically all night. What’s the latest development?”
“The latest development,” replied Blick, “is one of which I’ve only heard within the last few minutes. Do you know the Baron von Eckhardstein?”
“Sure! I know him well. He was with me and Markenmore at the little inn that night—I left Markenmore and him together at three o’clock or so, Tuesday morning. Von Eckhardstein, of course, was the tall man that the landlord saw us walk up the road with—as, I saw, the landlord mentioned in his evidence.”
“Well—von Eckhardstein has disappeared! During this last night. Clean gone! I suppose you don’t know anything about that?”
“Less than nothing! But what’s all this about? Seems to me——”
“Wait a bit,” interrupted Blick. “We’ll be alone with the Chief Constable in a minute. Then—tell me all you know. We want it!”
The Chief Constable, to whom Blick had sent a message by the plain-clothes men, was awaiting him and the new-comer in his private office. He looked at Lansbury with considerable interest, and suddenly asked a direct question.
“Are you the Mr. Edward Lansbury who had a good deal to do with the Vilona Real Estate Development Company some few years ago?” he enquired. “You are, eh? Um!—I’ve got a pretty fair holding in that—very profitable it’s been, too. And what can you tell of this Markenmore affair, Mr. Lansbury? We shall be very glad to know.”
Lansbury dropped into an easy chair at the side of the Chief Constable’s desk, and put the tips of his fingers together.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you all that I can tell—that is, all that I actually know. As regards the actual murder of Guy Markenmore, seems like it amounts to nothing; as regards what happened just before it, well, you must make out of that what you can! All I can tell you is as to what took place at the Sceptre Inn.”
“And why you, Markenmore, and von Eckhardstein met there,” said Blick quietly.
“Sure! Well, as to why we met there,” continued Lansbury. “As I told you at the railway station just now, I am a financier. I have business interests in this country as well as in my own. I have an office in London, just as I have an office in New York. Naturally I know a great many financial operators in both countries. I knew Guy Markenmore well enough—a smart man who had done well. I know von Eckhardstein, not so well, but sufficiently. He, of course, is better known than I am, or than Markenmore was—known in London, Paris, and Vienna.”
“A German, I suppose?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No—von Eckhardstein is an Austrian,” said Lansbury. “Well—I have had dealings with these two—separately, you understand, never together—on various occasions, and always found them very good, straight men of business. Now, very recently, Markenmore wrote to me that he had a business deal on in which I should find it profitable to join, with the idea of developing its results in the States. He told me in a letter what it was—but I do not wish, at present, to tell you, for the thing is a most important secret. I will, of course, tell if it becomes necessary to do so in the interests of justice: that is, if my telling the precise details will help in the arrest of Markenmore’s murderer. But just now I would rather not say, and it’s not relative to the pertinent matter. It’s sufficient to tell you that Markenmore had the chance—an option, in fact—of buying a certain something from a certain somebody, and he invited me to go in with him; his proposition was that I should acquire one-third, he would take up another, and we would find a third man to buy the remaining third. We had a little correspondence about the thing to be purchased—I may tell you that that thing was a trade secret. While we had this correspondence, Markenmore was in London, and I was at either Southampton or at Falmouth—I have business at both places just now. Now, about the middle of last week, Markenmore wrote to me and said that as I was at Southampton, would I meet him at the Sceptre Inn, Markenmore, Selcaster, on the next Monday night?—he was going to Markenmore Court that evening, he said, on family business, and would join me at the Sceptre when it was over—at ten-thirty or so. We fixed this up. I came on from Southampton by an evening train, walked out to Markenmore, booked a room at the Sceptre, and ordered supper for two. While it was being got ready, I took a walk outside—I had been kept indoors a great deal for some days in a close-atmosphered place, and I was enjoying the fresh air. I strolled outside this village of Markenmore, and I met von Eckhardstein.”
“A moment,” interrupted Blick. “What time was that?”
“It would be between nine-thirty and ten, as near as I can remember,” replied Lansbury.
“Dark, then?”
“Oh, quite dark! I should not have seen von Eckhardstein but for the fact that I struck a match to light my cigar. He saw me—he was leaning against a gate, close by. He hailed me, and after I had expressed my surprise at our meeting, told me that he was the guest of a lady in the village. Then he wanted to know what I was doing there. It immediately occurred to me that he was the very man to take up the remaining one-third share I have mentioned to you, so I told him my business. I also explained the proposition, and told him what Markenmore and I proposed to do.”
“Another question,” said Blick. “Did von Eckhardstein know Markenmore? Had they ever had any dealings?”
“I do not think they had—no. As to knowing each other, I daresay they may have been, and probably were, familiar with each other’s name, as financiers. But I am sure that until that night they had never known each other personally.”
“That,” remarked Blick, “is precisely what I wanted to know. Go on!”
CHAPTER XV
Lansbury smiled at the note of eagerness in the detective’s voice. He leaned forward in his chair, looking from one to the other of his listeners as if to indicate that he was now coming to the really important part of his story.
“Go back a bit, you mean,” he said with a laugh “to my meeting with von Eckhardstein. Well, as I said, I explained the proposition to him. We walked along the road, leading outward from Markenmore, for some time, discussing matters. We——”
“Meet anybody—see anybody?” interrupted Blick.
“I don’t remember that we encountered a soul!” answered Lansbury. “Pretty lonely parts, those. We walked up that road, perhaps a mile; then turned and came back to about where we’d met. By that time we’d got on to other topics than that which I’d first mentioned. Von Eckhardstein was not greatly taken with the matter I put before him. He saw its value as a commercial proposition, but while he felt that it would materialize well in this country and in mine, he was not so sure if he could make it a big thing in the mid-European countries, because of certain German opposition. However, he neither said yes nor no: and when we were about to part he asked me where I was staying, and what time I’d be likely to go to bed. I told him I had put up at the Sceptre Inn, close by, and that I expected Markenmore there about ten-thirty to eleven, to supper, and that he and I would be sure to sit up late as we’d a good deal to talk about. Von Eckhardstein then told me a thing which may be of some significance to you police people, now that things have turned out as they have. He said that he was suffering badly from insomnia; couldn’t sleep at night—at any rate as he ought to—and that since coming to this place where he was visiting, he’d frequently gone out long walks in the middle of the night to see if he could induce sleep. He said that if he so went out that night, and if, in the meantime, he’d changed his mind about the proposition I’d put before him, he’d likely drop in on Markenmore and myself if he saw a light in my sitting-room window. So——”
“From his last remark you gathered that he knew the Sceptre?” enquired Blick. “Enough to know where your sitting-room was, eh?”
“Well, that’s what he said, anyhow,” replied Lansbury. “As for my sitting-room, it was one which the landlord showed me into when I stepped into his house—a biggish room on the left-hand side of the hall, with a French window that opened on the front garden.”
“Precisely,” said Blick. “I’m occupying that room, now. Well——?”
“Well, we parted on that,” continued Lansbury. “Von Eckhardstein turned into a little gate that led, I suppose, to the house where he was staying, and I strolled back to the Sceptre. I sat down and waited for Markenmore. He was very late in coming; in fact, he didn’t come until close on twelve o’clock. He was in very high spirits—he told me, as we sat at supper, that he’d met his old sweetheart (handsomest woman in England, he called her!), and that they were both so pleased to meet again that they’d fixed it up to be married right off, and I’d have to be his best man. Then we got on to business, and I mentioned von Eckhardstein. Of course he knew all about von Eckhardstein, and he said that von Eckhardstein was staying with this lady, he, Markenmore, was going to marry, though he hadn’t met him then, being more pleasantly engaged. We went on discussing our business until close on two o’clock in the morning. Just about that time I heard the latch of the garden gate snap, and guessing that was von Eckhardstein out on one of his nocturnal rambles, I opened the French window and stepped into the garden. There he was, coming across the bit of lawn, and I took him in and introduced him to Markenmore, and we began to re-discuss the business proposition. That——”
“A moment, if you please!” interrupted Blick. “Before you tell us about that, will you answer a question which has just occurred to me? During the time you three were together, did Markenmore ever mention his approaching marriage to von Eckhardstein? I want to know—particularly.”
“No, I am sure he did not,” replied Lansbury promptly. “While the three of us were together, nothing but the immediate business proposition was discussed. What Markenmore may have said on that subject—if he said anything—to von Eckhardstein later, when I parted from them and left them together, I can’t presume to speculate on, but during the hour or so in which we were all in company, nothing was talked of but business. Now, without telling you the exact details of the secret, I’ll tell what that business was. A young fellow who lived in a small country town between this city and London, getting in touch with Markenmore as a financial man, offered him a trade secret which he was anxious to sell outright, for strict cash, for a certain amount of money that he required to set himself up in business. The amount asked was three thousand pounds. It was a good bargain—a very good bargain. The advantage was on the side of the purchaser—but the young fellow had fixed his own price and would evidently be well content if he got it. After von Eckhardstein came to the Sceptre we all three talked the matter out—Markenmore had the papers and showed them—and we decided to buy: that is, von Eckhardstein decided to come in, for Markenmore and myself had already made up our minds. We then settled matters: von Eckhardstein and myself each giving Markenmore a thousand pounds in notes as our shares——”
“Do I understand that you each gave Markenmore one thousand pounds, in notes, there and then?” asked Blick abruptly. “Notes?”
“Why, certainly!” answered Lansbury. “That’s just what I said. Bank of England notes. To which, of course, he added a similar sum of his own—to make up the three thousand. What’s surprising you?”
“Do you mean to say that all three of you were carrying large sums of money on you—like those?” asked Blick. “Walking about with as much as a thousand pounds on you?”
“That’s no great sum to carry,” replied Lansbury. “Men in our line have to carry a good deal of ready money about them. A thousand pounds doesn’t take up much room in a wallet.”
“There would be notes of big denominations, I suppose?” suggested the Chief Constable.
“Exactly!” assented Lansbury. “Mostly so, at any rate. Notes of five hundred or two hundred each. I remember that von Eckhardstein handed over two notes of five hundred. Mine were smaller—four two hundreds, one one hundred, and two fifties, I don’t know anything of Markenmore’s—he simply put our money to his in an envelope with the rest of the papers.”
“Why notes at all?” asked Blick, in whom an absolutely new train of thought was now developing. “Why could not this transaction have been settled by a cheque?”
“Because the young fellow of whom I have told you—the seller—particularly wanted his money in notes,” replied Lansbury. “I said he lives in a small town between this city of yours and London. Well, Markenmore was going to call on him on his way back, hand him the cash, and the thing was settled. Do you get that?”
Blick was beginning to manifest a certain restlessness. He got out of his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room with bent head. Suddenly he twisted round on Lansbury.
“Then, when Guy Markenmore went out of that inn, the Sceptre, at three o’clock on Tuesday morning, he’d three thousand pounds, in Bank of England notes, on him?” he said. “Is that a fact?”
“Sure!” replied Lansbury. “He had!”
Blick gave the Chief Constable a significant look and snapped out a significant word.
“Robbery!”
The Chief Constable nodded. He, too, was beginning to see developments.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Murdered for what he had on him. And yet——” he paused, looking at the detective with professional appeal. “Odd,” he went on, “that everything else was untouched.”
“That makes things all the more significant,” observed Blick. He turned to Lansbury. “Did you see where Markenmore put the money—the banknotes—and the papers you referred to just now?” he asked.
“I did! In the inner breast pocket of his coat.”
“Just put them in—as one puts letters, or anything of that sort, into one’s pocket?”
“Sure!”
“Did he ever leave that room in which you were all three sitting until you all left it for good?”
“He did not! None of us did.”
“Well,” said Blick, after a pause, during which he appeared to be deep in reflection. “What happened after you’d finished this business?”
“Nothing unusual. We talked a bit, had a whisky and soda, lighted a fresh cigar, perhaps——”
“Ah!” remarked Blick. “That reminds me of another question. Were you all smoking cigars?”
“No,” replied Lansbury. “Von Eckhardstein was smoking a pipe. He said cigars made his insomnia worse.”
“Well—you left at about three o’clock, I think?” suggested Blick.
“About that. Markenmore was going across country to a station called Mitbourne: we said we would walk a little way with him. We left by the French window: it was then beginning to get grey in the sky—you could see things. We walked up the road, past the village cross and the old church. A little further on, I remembered that I had bought a local railway time-table at Selcaster on arriving there the previous evening. I pulled it out, and on consulting it, found that I could get a train at Selcaster soon after four o’clock which would get me to Southampton and Salisbury, and thence on to Falmouth. I decided to catch it, and said I shouldn’t bother about returning to the inn. Markenmore then pointed out a footpath which, he said, led across the meadows to Selcaster, and advised me to take it; he himself, he remarked, was going by another, exactly opposite, on the other side of the road, which made a short cut over the downs to Mitbourne station. We then bade each other farewell, and parted. I took the footpath to Selcaster; Markenmore took the other, up the hillside; von Eckhardstein went with him, observing that he would walk a little more before turning in. The last I saw of them they were rounding the corner of a high hedge, together, in close conversation.”
“And that’s all you know?” said Blick.
“That is all I know,” answered Lansbury. “All!”
A pause in the conversation ensued: Blick began to pace the room again, thinking. The Chief Constable, who, during the whole of Lansbury’s narrative, had occupied himself in drawing apparently aimless lines on his blotting-pad, laid down his pen, sat back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling; he, too, was apparently in deep thought. But it was he who first broke the silence.
“I suppose von Eckhardstein is a wealthy man?” he said, turning to Lansbury.
“He enjoys that reputation in financial circles,” replied Lansbury. “You may safely say he is!”
“Not likely to murder another man for a couple of thousand pounds?”
“I should say not!”
“Well,” remarked the Chief Constable, with a glance at Blick, “it now looks as if Guy Markenmore was murdered for—not two, but three thousand pounds! Anyway, according to you, Mr. Lansbury, he’d that sum on him when you left him at, say, half-past three, and it wasn’t on him when his clothing was examined by Blick there, a very few hours later! Who got it? Where is it?”
Blick turned in his walk and came back to the hearth by which they were talking.
“Have you got the numbers of the notes you gave to Markenmore?” he asked. “I suppose you have, of course!”
“I have not,” replied Lansbury. “Careless, perhaps, but that’s so—I haven’t. But I reckon my bankers may have them—they enter numbers when paying them out, don’t they?”
“Who are your bankers?” asked Blick.
“International Banking Corporation—London office in Bishopsgate,” replied Lansbury promptly. “But I can’t be certain that I got those particular notes there. I may have—in which case, they will have. But I mayn’t—in which case they won’t have. Those notes—or some of them—may have been paid to me by other people. And—once or twice, recently—I have cashed cheques for large amounts in other places than London. My financial operations are considerable, and I handle notes in large numbers.”
“All the same,” said Blick, “we’ll have to do what we can in tracing those notes. But now we’re faced with another matter. Von Eckhardstein is missing. His hostess thinks he’s had an accident while out on one of his night walks. I don’t!—I think he’s run away.”
“Why, now, Blick?” asked the Chief Constable.
“Why didn’t he come forward at the inquest and tell us what Mr. Lansbury has just told us?” answered Blick. “He’d the chance!—and he sat there and said nothing. Von Eckhardstein knows something—and he must be found. I wish I’d laid hands on him last night. Now, we must get to work on tracking him. You’d better come out with me to Markenmore, and let’s see into things.”
“I hope you don’t want me?” said Lansbury. “I am particularly anxious to get back to Falmouth. But I shall return from Falmouth in two days, and shall then be for several days at Southampton—close by you.”
“Leave us an address—or addresses—that will find you at short notice,” said Blick. “There’s no need to keep you from your business, Mr. Lansbury. And we’d better be getting to work on our own!”
He presently hurried the Chief Constable off to Markenmore and Mrs. Tretheroe. The events and revelations of the morning had given him an entirely new conception of the case in hand, and he was now blaming himself bitterly for not having asked von Eckhardstein to account for his possession of the pipe as soon as he had discovered that it was in the financier’s overcoat pocket.
“But I was saving that up for this morning,” he said grumblingly, as he and the Chief Constable drove along to Markenmore. “I meant to stop him as he was entering the station to catch that ten-eight express; tell him that you and I wanted some information from him, to get him to your office, and have things out with him. Now—it’s too late!”
“You don’t know that yet, Blick,” remarked the Chief Constable. “If this man was accustomed to strolling about at night he may easily have had an accident, and be lying in some lonely part of those downs or woods waiting for help. Anyhow, so far, I don’t see anything to incriminate him—in my opinion.”
“He was the last man known to be with Guy Markenmore,” said Blick.
“Maybe! But it isn’t likely that he’d murder him for the sake of those bank notes!” retorted the Chief Constable. “Von Eckhardstein’s name is known to me—he’s a man who’s dealt in millions in his time, and been in at some of the biggest flotations of late years. My opinion is that he walked some distance up that path with Guy Markenmore, left him, returned to the Dower House, and knew nothing of Markenmore’s murder until he heard of it later. Markenmore met the actual murderer after he parted with von Eckhardstein, and I should say that the murderer is a man who was thoroughly conversant with Markenmore’s movements and doings, knew that he was to take that path to Mitbourne Station, and lay in wait for him at Markenmore Hollow. That’s how I work it out.”
Blick made no reply to this for a few minutes. The Chief Constable’s dogcart had covered another half-mile of road before he spoke.
“There’s no doubt that the briar-wood pipe of which we’ve heard a good deal was von Eckhardstein’s,” he said, at last. “Nor that he left it at the Sceptre, nor that Grimsdale produced it at the inquest, nor that von Eckhardstein picked it up from the solicitor’s table as he went out. Now, if he’s an absolutely innocent man, why didn’t he get up at that inquest, explain his presence at the Sceptre, admit that he did leave his pipe there, and behave candidly and openly, instead of keeping everything back and purloining that pipe as cleverly as any pickpocket? Come!”
“Can’t say,” answered the Chief Constable. “I should imagine that he’d reasons of his own for keeping silence—especially after he’d heard Grimsdale say that he couldn’t identify the third man of the party.”
“Well, there’s another queer thing,” remarked Blick. “Von Eckhardstein must have known that, eventually, this man Lansbury would come forward! He’d known that Lansbury would let the truth out—as he has. We’ve got at that, anyhow!”
“Have we got at the truth of anything?” asked the Chief Constable a little cynically. “If we’re going in for mere theorizing, I can suggest a dozen theories. Here’s one to cogitate over, Blick—supposing there’s some big financial operation at the bottom of all this, and that the removal of Guy Markenmore was a necessity to those chiefly responsible? I’ve known of men getting a bullet through their brains simply because they were in the way! And as to truth—well, give me proof! Truth’s not so easy to come at in these matters—and I doubt if we shall get any substantial contribution to it here,” he added significantly, as they drove up to the Dower House.
“Haven’t the least idea what we shall get!” responded Blick, equally cynical. “But we may find something.”
What they did find was Mrs. Tretheroe in a state of high excitement. She was convinced that her guest, unable to sleep, had gone out for one of his midnight strolls, and had fallen into some old pit or disused quarry. Her own men-servants, several villagers, and the local policeman had been searching for him since breakfast-time, with no result. She scouted the idea that he had taken it into his head to go away, and it was with scorn and indignation that she gave Blick his private and business addresses in London. Blick cared nothing for either indignation or scorn; he went off to the village telegraph office and wired for news; he also sent private messages of his own to headquarters in London in furtherance of his object—one way or another, he meant to have news of von Eckhardstein.
“After all,” he said to the Chief Constable, as they lunched together at the Sceptre, “there’s no getting away from the fact that, according to our information, von Eckhardstein was the last person who saw Guy Markenmore alive!”
“No!” answered the Chief Constable. “You’re wrong, Blick. The last person who saw Guy Markenmore alive was the man who murdered him.”
Blick regarded this as a verbal quibble and changed the subject. Late in the afternoon he got replies to his various telegrams. Nothing had been seen or heard of von Eckhardstein at his usual London haunts. Nor, when night fell again, had any news of him come to hand in Markenmore.
CHAPTER XVI
Early in the morning of that day, Mr. Fransemmery, in common with the rest of the Markenmore people, heard of the strange disappearance of Baron von Eckhardstein, and like many of them, he joined in a search for the missing man. Since his coming to The Warren, Mr. Fransemmery had become minutely acquainted with his immediate surroundings, and he knew of many nooks and corners of the woods and downs wherein a stranger might easily have met with an accident. There were queer places in that neighbourhood; two thousand years ago, the folk who were here before the Romans had quarried the hill-sides, scooped out caves and pit-dwellings, and made long lines of fortifications and trenches. These primeval works, grown over in course of time, were danger-traps for the unwary who wandered through the backwoods or crossed the rough, unfrequented parts of the uplands; more than once, in Mr. Fransemmery’s short experience of Markenmore, he had known of man or horse falling into some unexpected cavity. Some such accident as this he conceived to have been possible in the present instance, and when he heard of von Eckhardstein’s disappearance, he took his stoutest walking-stick, some lunch in his pocket, and a small flask of brandy and water, and set out to prospect. In the course of the day he met many folk who were similarly engaged. Mrs. Tretheroe was so much concerned about the fate of her guest, and so convinced that evil had befallen him, that she had pressed into service every villager who could be spared from his proper and usual labours, and had offered a handsome reward for success. But when eventide came again, and Mr. Fransemmery, weary with tramping up hill and down dale, returned to his own fireside, no success had materialized; Baron von Eckhardstein, as far as Markenmore folk were concerned, had vanished.
Mr. Fransemmery sat down to his solitary dinner, puzzled and wondering. He had thought of little else than the Markenmore problem since it was first presented to him, and the more he thought, the more he was bewildered. He had listened with care and patience, and, he hoped, with understanding, to the evidence put before himself and his fellow-jurymen, and he was bound to confess that he had made little out of it. What seemed to him much the most important fact of that evidence was the affair of the briar-wood pipe. There was no doubt that that pipe had been left on the supper-table at the Sceptre by one of the two men who were there with Guy Markenmore. There was no doubt that Grimsdale produced it at the inquest, passed it round, and left it lying on the table; there was no doubt—none whatever—that it was abstracted from that table between the moment of adjoining and the moment wherein the officious newspaper reporter asked to see it. What was to be deduced from that? In Mr. Fransemmery’s opinion one certain conclusion—the owner of that pipe, the man who had left it at the Sceptre, was present at the inquest, and had kept silence. Who was he? Mr. Fransemmery had asked himself that question a hundred times, and got no answer. He was unaware of Blick’s doings and discoveries, and had only his own knowledge to go on. But he felt sure of one thing—the owner of the pipe had purloined it from the solicitors’ table of the temporary court in the old dining-hall so that it could not be used in evidence against him. Once more—who was he?
Mr. Fransemmery was still puzzling about this and various other collateral questions when his bachelor dinner came to its end. He rose from his chair and meditated a little; then, remembering that he had had a very hard and trying day, he went to his modest cellar, found a bottle of his best good old port, and carefully decanting it, carried the decanter and a brightly polished glass or two into his library. With his slippered feet on the padded fender-rail, the decanter of port at his elbow, and a cheery fire of beech-logs in front of him, Mr. Fransemmery proceeded to do more thinking. But he had not followed his train of thought very far when his trim parlourmaid entered to his presence, and informed him that Mr. Harborough was in the hall, and would be obliged if Mr. Fransemmery would see him for a few minutes.
Mr. Fransemmery rose from his deep chair with alacrity. He had never had speech with Harborough before the occasion on which they met at Markenmore Court on the morning of the murder, but he knew all about him as the wealthy owner of Greycloister; he regarded him as a wrongly accused man, and he was sorry that his home-coming should have been marred by so much unpleasantness. Moreover, Mr. Fransemmery was the sort of man who is always glad of a chat with anybody—and just now, in spite of the Coroner’s admonition to him and his fellow-jurymen, he felt that he had plenty to talk about. He accordingly hastened into the hall with open hand and welcoming smile.
“Hope I am not disturbing you?” said Harborough, as his host led him into the cosy library. “An odd time to call—but I had a reason.”
“My dear sir, I am only too delighted!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery hospitably. “Try that chair—and a glass of my port. I can recommend both.”
“You are very good,” responded Harborough. “I’m no great judge of wines,” he added, taking the glass which his host handed him with old-fashioned courtesy, “and as to easy-chairs, I haven’t had much acquaintance with them of late years—a camp-stool has been more in my line, Mr. Fransemmery! Well,” he continued, as Mr. Fransemmery resumed his own seat, “I came to ask your advice about something; I rather formed the opinion, when I met you the other day, that you were the most likely man round here to take a common-sense view of things.”
“Flattered, I’m sure!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I hope I am a common-sense person.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” observed Harborough. “You’re not likely to let local prejudices and gossip affect you. Now, I want to ask your advice—as I said just now. Tomorrow, Sir Anthony and his elder son are to be buried in Markenmore churchyard. I, of course, have known the Markenmore family ever since I knew anything. Guy Markenmore and I were close friends as boys and young men, until the estrangement happened, of which you heard the other day. Now, do you think it would be proper if I attended the funeral—having regard to present circumstances?”
Mr. Fransemmery fell into a naturally judicial attitude. His face became thoughtful, and, at first, a little doubtful. But suddenly it cleared.
“My dear sir!” he said. “It is, I believe, within my recollection that, when you were giving evidence before myself and my fellow-jurymen the other morning, you said, clearly, plainly distinctly, without any apparent mental reserve that your one-time feeling of anger and resentment against the late Guy Markenmore had completely died out years ago, and that, had you met him again, you would have offered him your hand. Am I right?”
“Quite!” replied Harborough. “On all points.”
“Then I see no reason why you should not attend the funeral ceremonies,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “None!”
“Well—one’s got to remember that there are people—close at hand—who believe I killed Guy Markenmore,” said Harborough.
“Um!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery dryly. “But—are there? I mean—seriously?”
“Mrs. Tretheroe—and her following,” suggested Harborough.
“Has she any following?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, more dryly. “And as for herself—temper, my dear sir, temper! I don’t believe the woman thinks anything of the sort, if you could really get at her mind—if she has one.”
“I think she did—at first,” said Harborough, after a moment’s reflection. “Natural, perhaps.”
“Natural, perhaps, if one is foolish enough to believe that people cherish resentment indefinitely,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “She must know that her accusation was ridiculous! I do not think I should attach the slightest importance to Mrs. Tretheroe’s opinion. But,” he added, as if struck by a sudden happy thought, “I know what I should do!—I should just ask the two young people at Markenmore Court what their wishes are. My opinion is that they would be glad of your presence.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” said Harborough. “Bit slow, I think. I’m sorry enough for them, God knows! And I think they know that whatever I once felt about their brother I—well, I got over it long since.”
Mr. Fransemmery gave his visitor a keen, sidelong glance. “I suppose Guy Markenmore really did treat you badly?” he suggested.
“Yes!” answered Harborough, with simple directness. “But—I’ve forgotten it. And—not all his fault, either. As I say—I’ve forgotten it.”
“Queer business, this murder!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “And now here’s a second mystery. You’ve heard, of course, about this Baron von Eckhardstein?”
“No,” replied Harborough. “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been away from Greycloister since very early this morning until just now—came straight to see you as soon as I got back. What about von Eckhardstein?”
“Disappeared!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Last night. Clean gone!—no one knows where.” He proceeded to give his guest a circumstantial account of the day’s doings, and of his own share in them. “What do you think of that?” he asked in conclusion. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“The whole affair’s odd,” asserted Harborough. “It looks to me as if—but, really, I think that’s impossible!”
“What’s impossible?” demanded Mr. Fransemmery.
“Well, I was thinking—I was going to say—it almost looks as though this might be a second murder!” answered Harborough diffidently. “I’ve been wondering—but, as I said, I’m a bit slow at the thinking game, sometimes—if von Eckhardstein wasn’t the man who turned up at the Sceptre at two o’clock in the morning? In that case——”
Mr. Fransemmery started.
“Ah!” he said. “When you came in, I was just getting to some such conclusion myself! If he was that man, then that accounts for something else. But—supposing he was—you were going to say.”
“I was going to say that in that case, it looks as if he and Guy Markenmore had been mixed up in business matters,” replied Harborough. “And if so, business matters—some big money deal—may be at the bottom of this. For instance, somebody may have wanted to get rid of both of ’em? Heard of cases of that sort myself—not in this country, though.”
“It may be, it may be!” assented Mr. Fransemmery. “The whole thing is a mystery which seems difficult of solution, and——”
What more Mr. Fransemmery was going to say was never said. At that moment the door opened, the trim parlour-maid murmured something indistinctly, stepped aside, vanished, and gave place to Valencia Markenmore, who came into the room so rapidly that she failed to see Harborough, whose tall figure was hidden from her by a screen.
“Oh, Mr. Fransemmery!” she exclaimed, as she entered. “Do forgive me for rushing in on you so unceremoniously, but I’m in an awful lot of trouble, and I want your help, and—oh!”
She had rounded the screen by that time, and had caught sight of Harborough. Harborough got to his feet, looking uncertain and awkward.
“I’ll go!” he said.
“No, indeed!” protested Valencia. “Not a bit of it—I’d—I’d just as soon tell you as Mr. Fransemmery—I’ll tell you both. You’re men—you’ll know what to do.”
Mr. Fransemmery signed to Harborough to stay where he was and drew a chair forward to the hearth.
“What is it, my dear?” he enquired, as Valencia seated herself. “Anything that we can do, I am quite sure will be done—if it’s within our power.”
“I don’t know that it’s in anybody’s power to do,” answered Valencia. “Nothing, I should think! The thing’s done, and can’t be undone!”
“And what is done?” asked Mr. Fransemmery softly.
Valencia looked from one man to the other. Each was watching her attentively; each saw that she was somewhat excited and vexed, and probably angry.
“I may as well blurt it straight out!” she said suddenly. “My brother Harry is married to Poppy Wrenne!”
Again she glanced at the two men—this time enquiringly. Harborough became Sphinx-like in expression; Mr. Fransemmery took off his spectacles and began to polish them.
“Um!” he said, in still softer accents. “A secret marriage?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Valencia. “Three months ago—in London.”
“And known, until now, to nobody?” enquired Mr. Fransemmery.
“Yes, it was known!” said Valencia. “It was known to Mrs. Braxfield!”
“The bride’s mother!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery slowly. “Dear me! Really! And so—Poppy Wrenne is really Lady Markenmore?”
“Of course!” snapped Valencia.
“There’s no doubt about the marriage?—its legality, I mean?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“None!” declared Valencia, as curtly as before, “whatever!”
Mr. Fransemmery remained silent a moment. Then he looked past Valencia, towards Harborough. Harborough, rubbing his chin, stared at the fire. Mr. Fransemmery turned to Valencia.
“And what is the trouble?” he enquired. “As you say, my dear, since the thing is done—why, it is done!”
“The trouble’s this, Mr. Fransemmery,” replied Valencia. “Harry came and told me this an hour ago. He said that he and Poppy Wrenne had been in love with each other ever since she left that boarding-school that her mother sent her to, and lately Mrs. Braxfield had been in the secret, and she had consented, not only to their engagement, but to their marriage in London, when Poppy was staying there three months since. It was when Harry went up to town for a holiday—he was away quite a month. Well, now—now that things are as they are—you both know what I mean—Mrs. Braxfield insists that the time has come for this to be made public; she insists that her daughter shall take her rightful place at—at the funeral tomorrow, as Lady Markenmore, and she has threatened Harry that unless this is done, she will—well, I suppose she’ll make a scene!”
“And—your brother?” asked Mr. Fransemmery. “What does he say?”
“He would rather have postponed it until the funeral is over,” replied Valencia. “Then he was going to announce it, in due form. But Mrs. Braxfield is adamant—he’s seen her twice today, and she won’t budge an inch! She insists that Lady Markenmore should be in her rightful place tomorrow—to be seen and known as Lady Markenmore by everybody.”
Mr. Fransemmery caught his other guest’s eye.
“What do you say, Harborough?” he asked.
Harborough, conscious of Valencia’s sudden gaze in his direction, flushed under his brown skin.
“I—er—oh, well, I—don’t think I’m much of a hand at advising in these matters,” he said shyly. “I—er—don’t know much about ’em, don’t you know. But—er—it seems to me that it might be—I might ask, eh?—What does the young lady—Lady Markenmore—say about it?”
“Good!” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Excellent! Now, my dear, whatdoesLady Markenmore say about it?”
“Lady Markenmore, who isn’t at home, but who’s arriving there late tonight, writes that she would infinitely prefer to do precisely what her husband prefers and proposes to do,” replied Valencia. “She agrees entirely with Harry—but as far as I can gather, Mrs. Braxfield is the sort of person who will either have her own way or make things very disagreeable if she doesn’t get it! That’s the situation—and don’t you think, Mr. Fransemmery, that as you know all of us, you might see Mrs. Braxfield, tonight, and persuade her to listen to reason? I don’t want any scenes tomorrow.”
“I will go!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I will talk to Mrs. Braxfield. But—do I understand that your brother’s intention——”
“Harry’s intention is to announce his marriage as soon as the funeral is over,” said Valencia. “I am not going to the church—there will only be men there. When they come back to the house, there will be some legal formalities—my father’s will, and so on. Mr. Chilford will be there, and others, kinsfolk, you know. He will make the announcement then.”
“I will go and see Mrs. Braxfield at once,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “Whether I have sufficient influence with the good lady to move her to accede to your proposition, my dear, I do not know, but I will do my utmost. But you,” he continued, as all three went out into the hall, where he took down his overcoat and cap, “you, my dear, cannot go back across the park alone! Harborough?”
“All right, sir,” said Harborough quietly. “I’m going with her.”
“Thank you—both,” murmured Valencia. “Not that I’m afraid of crossing the park by myself, though.”
Mr. Fransemmery opened his front door, went along a path in his garden, and whistled.
The two people behind him heard a rustle; then the rattling of a chain.
“My dog!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I never go out at night without him. Down, Tinker!—I call him Tinker,” he continued, “because I bought him, as a pup, from a disreputable fellow who came round here mending pots and pans.”
“What is he?” asked Valencia. “A mongrel? of sorts?”
“No,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s a pure-bred Airedale—the finest breed in the world for—shall we say?—police purposes. That’s what I bought him for. This is a lonely situation—and we have queer folk round here sometimes.”
At the gate of Mr. Fransemmery’s garden the three separated; the two younger people went away across the hill-side and the park in the direction of Markenmore Court; Mr. Fransemmery took the nearest route to Woodland Cottage, his dog running a little in front of him. The dusk had come long since; the skies were dark; Mr. Fransemmery, who had gained much knowledge of weather since taking up his residence in the country, fancied that there would be rain before morning. And it was dark on the surface of the land, and in Deep Lane, into which he presently descended, it was black as a winter midnight. Down there, in the few yards which he had to traverse before climbing the opposite bank, Mr. Fransemmery’s Airedale terrier left him; presently he heard him whimper amongst the thick bushes.
“Rabbits!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “Come away for this time, Tinker!”
The terrier came back, still whining, and obviously restless and unwilling. He behaved as if he wished to return to the spot he had just left, but his master called him to heel, and went forward. Just then Mr. Fransemmery’s thoughts were not of rabbit-warrens and eager dogs—they were of the unexpected revelation which Valencia Markenmore had made to him, and of his coming interview with that capable and masterful woman, Mrs. Braxfield.
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Braxfield herself opened the door of Woodland Cottage to Mr. Fransemmery, and making out his identity by the light of the lamp in her hall, bade him enter in tones of warm welcome.
“Never rains but it pours!” she exclaimed, as she ushered the visitor towards her parlour. “I’ve got one caller already, and now here’s another; glad to see you, Mr. Fransemmery!”
Mr. Fransemmery stepped into a well-lighted, cosy sitting-room, and found himself staring at Blick. Blick smiled and nodded; he recognized the newcomer as the bland and spectacled gentleman who had acted as foreman of the jury at the recent inquest. Mr. Fransemmery, of course, knew who Blick was. He hesitated on the threshold.
“If you’re talking business matters—” he suggested.
“Not at all!” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield. “This young gentleman—too young, I tell him, to have such a job as he has!—simply came to ask me what he calls a pertinent question about my evidence the other morning. I’m a very good-tempered woman, as you well know, Mr. Fransemmery, or I might have given his question another name, and called it impertinent! What do you think he wanted to know, Mr. Fransemmery? If I was certain that the man I saw on the hill-side the morning of the murder was Mr. John Harborough? The idea!”
Blick, who looked very much at home in an easy chair, gave Mrs. Braxfield a whimsical glance.
“Well, you haven’t told me yet if you were certain!” he said.
Mrs. Braxfield bridled.
“I’m not so old that I’ve lost the use of my eyes, my lad!” she exclaimed. “I can see as well as you can!—better, for anything I know.”
“It was very early in the morning,” remarked Blick. “The light was uncertain—I’ve learned that there was a good deal of mist about on the hill-sides—Hobbs, the man who found Guy Markenmore’s body, says that about here it was very misty indeed that Tuesday morning——”
“How does he know?” demanded Mrs. Braxfield sharply. “Was he about here at that time—four o’clock?”
“He was about here an hour and a half later, and if it was misty at five-thirty it would be still more so at four-fifteen,” retorted Blick. “Now, if it was—as it was!—misty you might easily mistake one person for another, Mrs. Braxfield. And, at that time you referred to in your evidence, there was a man, closely resembling Mr. Harborough in height, build, and general appearance—I don’t refer to facial resemblance—who was somewhere in this immediate neighbourhood.”
“What man?” asked Mrs. Braxfield suspiciously.
“Baron von Eckhardstein,” said Blick. “That’s a fact!”
Mrs. Braxfield turned to Mr. Fransemmery, who had been standing during the exchange of words, and pointed him to an easy chair, opposite that in which Blick sat. She took another, between the two men.
“Oh!” she said. “So he was up here, was he? That foreign man, staying at Mrs. Tretheroe’s? Oh! Indeed! Well, I never saw him!—the man I saw was Mr. Harborough. To be sure, now to think of it, that foreigner is about Mr. Harborough’s height and figure.”
“Now that you think of it again, don’t you think that you may have been mistaken?” suggested Blick. “Don’t you think that the man you saw may have been von Eckhardstein, and not Harborough? Come, now!”
“No!” said Mrs. Braxfield. “You won’t come it over me, young man! I’ve been in a law-court before today, and you’re suggesting answers to your witness. The man I saw, and that I spoke about in that witness-box was John Harborough! Do you think that I shouldn’t know a man who’s been well known to me ever since he was that high? Ridiculous!”
“You hadn’t seen Harborough for seven years,” said Blick.
“What’s seven years out of thirty-five?” retorted Mrs. Braxfield, with scorn. “I remember John Harborough being born, there at Greycloister. I tell you it was him that I saw on Tuesday morning—of course it was! It is ridiculous, isn’t it, Mr. Fransemmery?”
Mr. Fransemmery, utterly puzzled to know what all this was about, glanced at the detective.
“I—er—thought that Mr. Harborough fully admitted that he was up this way on Tuesday morning about four o’clock?” he observed.
“Mr. Harborough did; Mr. Harborough was up here,” agreed Blick. “There’s no question of that. But, so was another man—von Eckhardstein. It’s all—for me—a question of exact times and places. I thought that Mrs. Braxfield might have been mistaken, but as she was not, I can only congratulate her on her excellent eyesight! Oh, by the way, Mrs. Braxfield,” he added, with a smile. “There’s another matter—a pleasanter one—-on which I must congratulate you! I heard in the village, just before I came up, of the event which you had announced. I wish your daughter every happiness in her new station; from what I’m told she’ll fill it admirably.”
“Why, thank you, I think she will, and I’m much obliged to you,” responded Mrs. Braxfield. “But that’ll be so much Greek to Mr. Fransemmery—you don’t know what he’s talking about, Mr. Fransemmery, do you?
“I—I think I do, Mrs. Braxfield,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “I—the fact is, just before coming out, I had a visit from Miss Markenmore. She told me that her brother, now Sir Henry Markenmore, was married to your daughter, and that he intends to make public announcement of the fact to his kinsfolk and his solicitor tomorrow, after the sad ceremony of which we are all aware is over. But—er—I understood that no other announcement had yet been made?”
“Did you?” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield, a little contemptuously. “No doubt you would—from Valencia Markenmore! But they have me to reckon with, Mr. Fransemmery, and I intend that my daughter, Lady Markenmore, shall occupy her rightful position tomorrow! She’ll get home here tonight from London, where she’s been staying with friends—I expect her from Selcaster station about eleven o’clock. She’s coming by the last train, and tomorrow morning she’ll assume her proper place at Markenmore Court. As to whether she attends the funeral ceremonies of Sir Anthony and Mr. Guy she and her husband, Sir Harry, can decide; I’m nothing to do with that, Mr. Fransemmery. What I have to do with is making sure that my daughter, now that she is Lady Markenmore, is in her proper position as mistress of Markenmore Court when its late master is carried out for burial!”
Mr. Fransemmery made no immediate reply. He was conscious now that the ground had been cut from under his feet; there was no chance of fulfilling his promise to Valencia. Evidently, the new Lady Markenmore’s mother had assumed responsibility, mounted her high horse, and had her own way.
“I sincerely hope the young people will be happy,” he said lamely. “I—er—trust so!”
“Be their own fault if they aren’t!” declared Mrs. Braxfield sharply. “What’s to prevent it? I shan’t! I’ve been uncommonly good to them—especially to him; far more so than most mothers would have been in similar circumstances, I assure you, Mr. Fransemmery. You don’t know everything!”
“I know next to nothing, ma’am,” protested Mr. Fransemmery. “I am just acquainted with the bare fact of the marriage.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Braxfield. “I don’t mind your knowing, and I don’t mind this young man knowing, stranger though he is——”
“I’ve been trying to say good-bye for the last ten minutes,” said Blick good-humouredly. “But you were so engrossed with your family affairs that you didn’t notice I’d risen, Mrs. Braxfield. I wasn’t lingering to listen—out of curiosity.”
“Never said you were!” retorted Mrs. Braxfield. “Sit down again—as you’re concerned in Guy Markenmore’s affairs, you’re concerned in his brother’s, my son-in-law. I said I didn’t mind your knowing the facts of this marriage—I don’t mind anybody knowing; it’s not my fault that it hasn’t been open. It was like this, Mr. Fransemmery. You know that my daughter is a very pretty, very graceful, highly accomplished girl. She gets her good looks from my family—all our women have been distinguished for their good looks, though I say it myself.”
“You may safely and justly say it for yourself, ma’am!” murmured Mr. Fransemmery. “As I have frequently observed.”
“I join in Mr. Fransemmery’s sentiments, Mrs. Braxfield,” added Blick with a bow. “Precisely what I was thinking!”
“Well, I’ve worn very well,” said Mrs. Braxfield complacently. “We all do—and as I say, my daughter has inherited the family good looks. And as for her accomplishments—well, if she isn’t a well-educated young woman, it’s her own fault. She went to the Girl’s High School at Selcaster from being ten until she was fifteen; then she’d two years at the very best boarding-school I could hear of in London, and she finished off with twelve months in Paris. Cost me no end of money, I can tell you, her education did! And having brought her up like that, well, I sold my business at the Sceptre and retired here, so that the girl would have proper surroundings. And it was not so long after coming here, Mr. Fransemmery, that I found out that she and young Harry Markenmore were sweet on each other, and meeting in these woods and so on. I wasn’t going to have that going on unless I knew what it all meant, and what it was going to lead to, so I had it out with him. Then he got me to consent to an engagement, though he persuaded me to let him keep that secret from his father and sister for a while. And in the end he got round me about this marriage—he promised that if I’d only consent to that, he’d tell Sir Anthony of it very soon afterwards. So I gave way, and I saw them married, in a London church, and just afterwards Sir Anthony fell ill, and Harry made that an excuse for putting things off, and though there were times—plenty of them, Mr. Fransemmery!—when he could have told his father—and of course, he could have told his sister at any time—he was always making excuses. So when Sir Anthony died the other day, and this affair of Guy’s happened, and Harry came into the title and estates, I made up my mind that I’d have the thing seen to and put right at once, and I told him so. I’ve seen him twice today, and he’s just like every Markenmore that ever I knew—obstinate and self-willed! He wanted to put it off again—until his father and brother were buried. I said No!—my daughter was going to take her proper position as mistress of Markenmore Court tomorrow morning. And so she will!”
“I think, ma’am,” observed Mr. Fransemmery quietly, “you said just now that you had announced this marriage?”
“I have!” answered Mrs. Braxfield.
“To whom, may I ask?” enquired the elder visitor. “Mr. Blick, I think, has heard it from somebody in the village?”
“I announced it to the proper people,” replied Mrs. Braxfield with spirit. “I’m not the sort of person to do otherwise. I announced it to the Vicar; to Mr. Chilford, the Markenmore’s family solicitor; and to Mrs. Perrin, the wife of the principal tenant-farmer.”
“With leave, I suppose, to tell the news to any one?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery.
“Of course! Why not, Mr. Fransemmery?” exclaimed Mrs. Braxfield. “My daughter is Lady Markenmore!”
Mr. Fransemmery coughed—a short, dry, embarrassed cough—and Mrs. Braxfield looked at him, suddenly and sharply. She had detected, or fancied she had detected, some meaning in that cough.
“What now?” she asked, a note of impatience in her voice. “What’s that mean, Mr. Fransemmery? I know you’re a lawyer, though you don’t practise it—are you implying that my daughter isn’t Lady Markenmore?”
“If her husband is Sir Harry Markenmore, ma’am, your daughter is certainly Lady Markenmore,” replied Mr. Fransemmery calmly. “But—is he?”
Mrs. Braxfield’s rosy cheeks turned pale. Blick, who was watching her closely, saw a sudden compression of her lips; he saw, too, an involuntary, mechanical lifting of her hand, upward. But the colour came back as she turned on Mr. Fransemmery.
“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded with an awkward attempt at an incredulous laugh. “Sir Harry! Of course, he’s Sir Harry! His father’s dead—his brother’s dead——”
“Supposing his brother left a son?” said Mr. Fransemmery, in quiet, level tones. “What then?”
Mrs. Braxfield turned paler than before. And now Blick, keenly alive to the new situation and possibilities, saw that she was really alarmed. She stared silently at Mr. Fransemmery—stared and stared, and still remained silent. And Blick spoke, looking at the elder man.
“You wouldn’t say that unless you’d some grounds for saying it,” he observed. “Have you? Because, if so, I’d like to know. It’s my duty to get all the information I can about Guy Markenmore.”
“Mr. Blick,” answered Mr. Fransemmery in his gravest accents, “your profession being what it is, I can speak freely to you. And I will speak freely to Mrs. Braxfield, things having developed as they have. What I am going to say has only been known to me for a few hours; I think it may be known to the Markenmores’ solicitor by now—it may be—and possibly to Harry Markenmore. But I’ll tell you and Mrs. Braxfield what it is, now—it may save some trouble. Mind, this is nothing that I can personally vouch for!—it is only something that I have heard. And it is this—I may tell you that I have spent the whole day searching for Baron von Eckhardstein; I have been all up and down in the lonelier parts of the woods and in some of the Down valleys. About noon I was in that very out-of-the-way valley on the other side of one hill, called Grayling Bottom—a wild, solitary place, Mr. Blick. There is just one human habitation in it, tenanted by a woman whom Mrs. Braxfield no doubt knows—Margaret Hilson. It was very chilly in that valley—a sunless, cold place always—and I asked Margaret Hilson to let me sit by her cottage fire while I ate my lunch, which I had carried out with me. This woman is a close, reserved person—the sort, I should say, who could keep secrets for ever if she chose—but she talked to me with some freedom about the present events and situation. And finding that I was a lawyer, she talked still more freely, and in the end—knowing, as she said, that things would have to come out—she said she would tell me something that she had kept entirely to herself for four years. Briefly, it was this: Margaret Hilson says that at just about the time of Guy Markenmore’s disappearance from these parts, there also disappeared a girl named Myra Halliwell, a very pretty girl, one of two daughters of a small farmer in this neighbourhood, whose sister, Daphne Halliwell, she said, went out to India as lady’s-maid to Mrs. Tretheroe, came back with her, and is now in her service at the Dower House. This Myra, says Margaret Hilson, was considered to be engaged to be married to a man named Roper—James Roper—a woodman, still, I believe, employed on the Markenmore estate. But, as I have said, she, according to Margaret Hilson, completely disappeared at the same time that Guy Markenmore left the Court. That,” observed Mr. Fransemmery, pausing in his narration and glancing significantly at the detective, “is an important matter to keep in mind—in view of what follows.”
Blick nodded. But he was not watching Mr. Fransemmery so much as he was watching Mrs. Braxfield. Obviously she was more than deeply interested in the story which was being so unexpectedly revealed to her, and since the introduction of Myra Halliwell’s name her interest had deepened almost to the point of agitation. Her colour came and went; her lips were alternately compressed and relaxed; clearly, thought Blick, this woman was distinctly anxious, not to say alarmed. And when Mr. Fransemmery paused, she kept her eyes on him with an expression which showed that she was waiting, with almost frightened eagerness, to know what was coming next.
“Well,” continued Mr. Fransemmery, “what follows is this: Margaret Hilson, some four years after the disappearance of Myra Halliwell from these parts, went to London to visit a sister of hers who lived near Wandsworth Common. Margaret usually went out on the Common of a morning, to take the air, while her sister, a working-man’s wife, was engaged on her household tasks. One morning, as she was strolling about, she saw a young, smartly dressed woman whose appearance seemed familiar to her, and who had with her a nursemaid in charge of a perambulator in which was a child. They came near, and in the smart young woman Margaret Hilson recognized Myra Halliwell. The recognition was mutual; they stopped and spoke to each other. And the result was that Myra Halliwell, pledging Margaret to secrecy, confided to her that she was married to Mr. Guy Markenmore, and that the child in the perambulator, now three years old, was their son——”
Mrs. Braxfield suddenly smote the table with her clenched fist.
“A lie!” she exclaimed hoarsely. “A lie—all through! Why!—he asked Mrs. Tretheroe to marry him, the night he was here! You both heard her swear it—in the witness-box; you know you did!”
Blick said nothing. He was watching Mr. Fransemmery now—convinced that there was more in and behind this story than he had at first imagined. Its various phases were opening up new ideas, new visions to him; he was becoming professionally excited over it.
“I have not yet finished, Mrs. Braxfield,” said Mr. Fransemmery quietly. “Allow me—now, Margaret Hilson, who, in my opinion, is just the woman to keep close thoughts—promised young Mrs. Guy that she would keep the secret, and she did. But, a year ago, Margaret Hilson went to visit her sister again—at the same place. Again, she took her walks on Wandsworth Common. And, one morning, she met, not Mrs. Guy Markenmore, but the same nurse, with the same child, then grown into a sturdy boy of five. She spoke to the nurse, who told her that the mother was dead—had died a year previously, of pneumonia; the child, she said, was being brought up by a lady to whose care he had been entrusted on his mother’s death, and she, the nurse, remained with him. The nurse, who probably saw no reason why she should not talk freely to a woman with whom she had seen her late mistress in close and intimate conversation, added some details. She said that the child’s father came to see him twice a week, and always spent Sunday afternoon with him; she, the nurse, spoke of him as a handsome and well-to-do man. She further said that the child was called after him—Guy. Finally, she told Margaret Hilson where her late mistress was buried, and Margaret Hilson went to see the grave. She found it easily enough from the particulars given her, and she saw the inscription on the tombstone—Myra, wife of Guy Markenmore. That, too, Margaret Hilson has kept to herself—but, Mrs. Braxfield, she was not going to keep it to herself longer than tonight! Her intention, when I called at her cottage, was to tell Mr. Chilford all that she knew, this evening; as I did call, she told me. I advised her to tell Chilford at once—by now, she may have done so—I suppose she has. I don’t think there’s the slightest ground for doubting the truth of her story—why should there be? And it is, of course, absolutely certain that if the late Guy Markenmore’s little boy is alive—why, he’s the heir to the title and the estates!”
CHAPTER XVIII