CHAPTER V
Forsome time Yardley and Parkyns devoted themselves diligently to the search for Mrs. Garnett, but the effort proved like seeking a needle in a bundle of hay. They had nothing to go upon—no detail from which they could make a start. The hotel porters had not the smallest recollection of the lady’s departure, and could give no hint how she had left the hotel nor what might have been her destination.
At length, Yardley, confessing himself conquered, applied to Tempest.
“I know it isn’t fair to come bothering you,” he had said to the barrister; “but the thing’s beaten me. If it were ordinary professional work of mine, I should just report a failure and drop it. I really don’t think it’s any good worrying over it any more, and Parkyns says he’s had enough ofit too. But you sent for me to go to the inquest, and you say you are interested, so I decided I would see you again before actually reporting to Lady Stableford.”
“I’m not sure I can help you much. I’m certainly not going to drop it myself, but I don’t at present see how I can put you much further along the road at present. Still, there’s one point. You remember what I suggested as the reason Miss Stableford’s body was stripped?”
“You said it was an attempt to hide her identity; and that if we could find any person upon whom suspicion attached, merely because the body was that of Miss Stableford, that we should then have a clue. That was what you said, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, exactly. But you couldn’t find any such person in relation to Miss Stableford?”
“No, we couldn’t.”
“Well, here’s a suggestion. I tell youfrankly, I don’t think it could be substantiated in court. I don’t give it to you as a certain deduction—it’s only a suggestion. The only mystery you can learn of in connection with Miss Stableford is the mystery of her birth.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Well, now, it’s pretty certain that the murderer of Miss Stableford was a woman—this Mrs. Garnett.”
“Granted. What next?”
The barrister paused. “How old was Mrs. Garnett? The hotel people say middle-aged, forty to forty-five.”
“Old enough to be Miss Stableford’s mother?”
“Yes, the girl was a bit short of twenty-one.”
“Well, Yardley, suppose you’ve got it now?”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Suppose Mrs. Garnett were MissStableford’s mother, she would naturally be concerned in the mystery of the girl’s birth? Yardley, I tell you, if you can find out who was that girl’s mother, you’ll be a big step onwards towards finding out the clue to this mystery. I am fairly certain you will know then who Mrs. Garnett is.”
“Whatever made you think of that, Tempest?”
The barrister made no answer as he walked to the table, picked up a cigarette and lighted it. Apparently he had dismissed the subject from his mind. His next question had no relation to it.
“Have you done anything in the Rellingham murder case, Yardley?”
“How did you know I was working on it?”
“Oh, I advised them to retain you.”
“Then you’re in that as well, are you, Tempest?”
“It all depends what you mean by ‘in’it. I’m not hunting for the murderer, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you know all about it?”
“I do. What did they tell you, Yardley? You can speak frankly, for I know all there is to be known about it, and I’m curious to know how much they disclosed to you.”
“I think they told me all they knew themselves.”
“About the secret trust?”
“Oh, yes, they told me that;” and Yardley briefly recapitulated the details Tempest already knew.
“I’m glad they told you, Yardley, else I should have had to hold my tongue. You’ve seen the letter Sir John wrote?”
“I’ve got a copy,” and the detective produced it from his letter-case. “Can you give me any tips about that? I want some badly, though I’m not at the end of my tether with that case yet.”
“Well, Yardley, there’s one very curious sentence. Sir John says that if the eventuality the trust is to provide for doesn’t turn up in one hundred years from the 18th of August, 1881, it never will. What do you make of that?”
“If you want to know my candid opinion, I think it’s all damned rot! I believe Sir John was insane, and I’ve been interviewing his doctors. I can’t say they welcome the suggestion, but that’s what I think. Look here, Tempest, how can you call such a trust sane? Did you ever hear of one like it before? It just seems wildly preposterous to me. I think the fact that he could create such a trust—the will’s all in his own handwriting, so he couldn’t have had advice—is just the best proof you could want to demonstrate the truth of his insanity.”
“Yardley, I’m a lawyer—you aren’t. You can take it from me—even if it werenot a judgment in court—that the trust is legal, and I think it is perfectly sane. The difficulty is this. Sir John had to deal with a secret, and he did his best to make that secret sacred. But Sir John knew nothing apparently about deduction, for it’s possible to get a good deal of explanation out of the thing as it stands. All I am doubtful about is how far one is justified in trying to find any explanation at all. You see, he leaves things to his partners, trusting blindly in their honour and integrity, and they accept the matter as sacred. I don’t blame them. It’s what they ought to do. They retain me in one way and you in another, and they disclose to us what they decline to make public. You see, you and I in all decency—paid by them, working in their interests—must adopt their standpoint. If they are not justified in ferretting, neither are we.”
“Well, Tempest, your morality is chalksabove mine; but take it as you say, I don’t see what you are driving at.”
“I’m simply trying to decide what is the point at which we must stop; but I think we are justified in going this far. It seems to me pretty certain Sir John was considering the honour or the reputation of some third party.”
“That’s so. I’ll admit that, if you bar insanity, I think the same.”
“Very well; that’s one step. Now, he speaks of an interval of one hundred years. What can you connect one hundred years with?”
“It’s a blooming century, if that’s any help.”
“It isn’t, Yardley. To be perfectly candid, I have racked my brains for days over it, and I can think of nothing in which one hundred years from any given date is an integral and essential part of any fact, idea, or supposition.”
“Well, Tempest, if you can’t think of anything, I’m willing to bet there is nothing.”
“I distrust your premise, but I agree with your conclusion, Yardley. What I believe is that it is an outside interval which is sufficient for one to be certain it covers some other known but uncertain interval. Now, what does a hundred years cover?”
“As much as charity. I’ve no doubt you’ve settled it to your own satisfaction. Go on; don’t wait for me.”
“Well, Yardley, I think I can tell you. What’s the length of a man’s life?”
“‘The days of our years shall be three score years and ten, and if by reason of strength they be four score years’—there, you’ve got Bible authority for that, Mr. Tempest.”
“Precisely. An interval of one hundred years is bound to embrace and coverthe whole period of any person’s life—to include his birth and his death.”
“How about the centenarians?”
“They are too rare to take into consideration.”
“Well, take it then, Tempest, that you are right. The hundred years is to cover some person’s life. Whose?”
“The life of some person born on the 18th of August, 1881. Now, Yardley, who was born on that day?”
“Really, I’m not the Registrar-General.”
“No, of course not; but I wouldn’t give tuppence for your memory, my dear Yardley.”
“Oh, go on; don’t beat about the bush. Take it for granted I’m as stupid as an owl. I assure you I feel I am when I’m talking to you.”
The barrister laughed, and, taking his cigarette from his mouth, he watched it asthe smoke curled away from the burning end.
“Yardley, the water-tight compartments of your mind get locked a bit too tightly. The 18th of August, 1881, is probably—pretty certainly—the date of the birth of Evangeline Stableford. At any rate that is the date of the birth of the child which was offered to Lady Stableford for adoption, and the probabilities are overwhelming that the child that was planted on her was that child.”
“Then do you mean to say Mrs. Garnett murdered Sir John as well?”
The barrister’s eyes half closed, and he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“No, Yardley, I don’t; but mark you, I do say this, that that secret trust refers to Evangeline Stableford, and that Sir John was safeguarding the honour of that girl’s mother, and her mother I am pretty certain was Mrs. Garnett. Now, find the explanationof the one, and you’ve explained the other. The two mysteries are one and the same; of that I’m positive. What we have got to do is to trace Mrs. Garnett, and find out who she is. The more I think of it the more convinced I am that the papers Sir John left, which have been destroyed, would give us the clue. But this also I am certain of, that they were never preserved to clear up murder mysteries.”
“What do you really think, Tempest?”
“No; that’s not fair. I’ve told you what I feel certain about—the things that it seems to me one is justified in arriving at by pure deduction, and justified in acting upon. What I’ve told you already I’ll stand to. Anything beyond that is just guessing, for which I won’t be held responsible.”
“Quite so; but what do you guess?”
“Well, if you will treat this as no more than a guess, and not bracket it as equallya certainty with all the rest that I’ve told you, I don’t mind your knowing what I do think. I believe that Miss Stableford was the daughter of Sir John and Mrs. Garnett, and that the secret trust is an attempt by Sir John to secure that his daughter should be provided for.”
“But that doesn’t explain his death or hers?”
“I grant you that: and that’s precisely why I doubt the accuracy of my guess. Still, it’s the only logical conclusion I have argued out so far. Look here, Yardley. Take it for granted that Miss Stableford was Sir John’s daughter. He can disclose his own position as the father, but he stands to hurt his daughter by labelling her a bastard, and he also stands to damage her mother by labelling her to be immoral. Now, either risk is considerable whilst the two women are alive. Neither matters twopence when they are both dead. SirJohn must have known Evangeline was for the present well provided for. The probability was that Lady Stableford would leave her a fortune, and in that case no further provision would be necessary. With that probability it was, it would certainly be, a positive shame to label Evangeline Stableford as illegitimate or her mother as immoral. It would be so absolutely unnecessary.”
“But, steady on, Tempest, how on earth was Sir John to be sure Lady Stableford would leave the girl a fortune? Suppose the girl had lived, and Lady Stableford had left her nothing? How was Sir John to know? How were his partners to know from what you presume—assume it all to be true—that the occasion had arisen when the trust came into operation?”
“They wouldn’t know.”
“Then your argument falls to the ground?”
“No, Yardley, it doesn’t. Your remark takes it one step further forward.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Assume it all to be true, then something else has to be done to bring about the occasion for the intervention of the trust. You can argue it out, and think it over till the crack of doom, Yardley, but I am positive that that trust cannot come into operation by mere fortuitous circumstance. Somebody else has still got to do something; therefore, Yardley, mark this—there is somebody else alive now who knows the whole of the circumstances which were known to Sir John, and that somebody else will create at the proper time,if it be necessary, such an occasion that resort to the trust will be essential. That person is the person whose honour Sir John was safeguarding. Now, that person’s honour is precious in his or her lifetime—it will matter little or nothing after death. Therefore,the other person was watching Miss Stableford’s career. If Evangeline had been provided for by Lady Stableford, nothing would ever have been done. But supposing the old lady had left her unprovided for, then that person by his or her will could and was intended to disclose sufficient to bring the trust into operation for the benefit of Evangeline. You can discuss the thing for a century, Yardley, but you will find that it is the only logical conclusion you can come to on what we know. It’s the only one possible.”
“Why didn’t Sir John simply hand over £20,000 in his lifetime to Miss Stableford? It could have been done anonymously, if there were any secret to be guarded.”
“Very likely he meant to when she came of age. Don’t forget she died a minor.”
“Well, then, why didn’t he hand the money to this other person whom you say knows everything and is now alive?”
“I don’t know, Yardley; but it was probably because he didn’t trust that person. He did trust his partners. Look here, there are scores of people in this world who can be trusted to do a specified thing who are absolute fools over money. They are not necessarily dishonest. It simply is that they muddle money away. Pay it all into a single banking account, and find to their horror, when it is too late, that they have overdrawn their accounts. That’s how half the trust funds which are lost go. That is what Sir John was afraid of.”
“Who do you think that other person is, Tempest?”
“You can take it for granted Sir John never gave away a client in his life. The child’s mother is bound to have known. I expect that other person was the mother.
“Still, after all, Yardley,” said the barrister, as he helped himself to another cigarettefrom his case, “you see, if it were merely the providing for the welfare of a certain person, there are hundreds of ways in which this could have been done without exciting any suspicion at all. Sir John was a clever lawyer, and knew of those ways. The secret trust was so unnecessary. Therefore, though I am still inclined to think my guess correct, I’m certain that if it be correct, there is a lot more to come out. You see, it is quite possible no provision will ever be claimed under the trust—which makes one doubt the daughter idea. What we know or can guess won’t properly explain everything. Yardley, you must find out Mrs. Garnett and who she is.”
“Can’t you set me something easier to do? Working with you somehow always seems to involve these forlorn hopes, wild-goose sort of hunts. HowamI to find the woman?”
“God knows, Yardley; I don’t. I thinkthe most likely way would be to trace the birth of Miss Stableford.”
“But we’ve tried that, and failed.”
“I know; but we’ve only tried England. I’ve never been in such a position myself, and perhaps I don’t know, but it’s always a standing mystery to me, why the illegitimate child of a woman who wants to cover up its birth is ever born in England. A few pounds take you over to France, where not a soul knows you. The mother can call herself Mrs. anybody, and register the child as the child of any father or a mythical father, if you like. The fraud couldn’t possibly come out till afterwards, when the mother is safe back in England. I’ve never looked it up, but I doubt if they would extradite for such an offence. It’s forgery here by Act of Parliament, but I don’t suppose it is in France.”
“You might say the same of any country in Europe?”
“Yes, I agree; but don’t forget the child was only ten days old when it was left with Lady Stableford. The baby was already born, for her sex was disclosed when the first letter was written to Lady Stableford. Between the date at which the lady disclosed her name and address and her finding of the child, there was no time for the infant to have been brought from any great distance. The baby was probably born in France.”
“Do you think it’s worth while going to France and making inquiries there?”
“Hardly; for the odds are 20,000 to one against the birth being registered in the correct or any genuine name. Nor do we know what name to look for. Obviously it couldn’t be Stableford.”
“Up against a blank wall again. Which way round are you going?”
“Well, you’ve got the remarkable likeness between Evangeline Stableford andDolores Alvarez. Dolores was certainly not the child’s mother. She had never had a child; but it’s worth your while to work out the Alvarez pedigree, for I shall be everlastingly surprised if there proves to have been no blood relationship at all between the two women. I don’t promise you that you’ll find the solution; but that’s the only channel I think of at present, and it’s worth trying. Still, there’s one other alternative. Suppose Sir John is trying to protect the honour of a man, and that the child is not his at all? Suppose Sir John himself were only a trustee, and that he did not create the trust, but only passed it on?”
“Suppose indeed, Tempest! However do you think of things as you do?”
“Think! One can’t help thinking. The alternatives jump at you. But you can take it for granted that if Sir John were protecting a man, that man was no ordinary client. Any man will go to anylengths in the interests of a woman, particularly if she be a pretty woman; but I’m hanged if I think many men would go to the bother Sir John did simply in the interests of a man. Besides, a man’s interests never get so important in this avenue that they are worth such procedure. In fact, it is hardly a very likely solution.”
“Tempest, suppose her father were a king?”
“I’ve thought of that, but then kings’ mistresses are always the wives of other men, who father their children for them. Added to which, Yardley, a king lives his life so much in the open that his bastards are known to many people, often to all the world. They can’t be hidden up. No, it isn’t a king. Do you remember the story of poor Parnell? It’s always been a mystery to me that the Irish have ever tolerated the English Liberal Party since. The Irish were more powerful under Parnellthan they have ever been before or since. Yet they let the Radical Nonconformist conscience fire the ultimatum at them that they must throw Parnell over. And so they broke him and broke themselves. It was such sickening cant—that ultimatum. Yardley, she was far more likely to be the child of a man in the position of Parnell than the child of a king. You see, a king is not dependent on public support for his position. A public man is, and the whole of his private life is expected to be white as driven snow. If it isn’t, he’s got to whitewash over the shady places till the public can’t spot them. And that takes some doing. What I doubt is that Sir John would lend himself to it. You see, both the alternatives are unlikely. Which is the least unlikely?”
“Hanged if I know!”
“I’m sure I don’t, Yardley. As far as we know at present, it’s just a case of ‘youpays your money and you takes your choice.’”
“Tempest, what sort of a man was Sir John?”
“Can’t tell you. I’ve seen him in court a few times. Just knew the old boy to nod to, but that’s all. I never held a brief for him. You see, he was one of the beastly respectable sort of solicitor. A divorce case or anything nasty or criminal he’d send on at once to another firm. Nice stodgy conveyancing, chancery work or family trust deeds and things of that kind were all he would do. He was a splendid father to unregenerate cubs.”
“And all the time—as likely as not—he was a hot ’un at home, eh?”
“May have been, for all I know; but I never heard a whisper of that kind of thing about him. He wasn’t a Wesleyan or a class leader or any other advertised kind of humbug. He would play cards at theclub. I’ve seen him at Ascot and Good-wood. He was a great first-nighter, and all that sounds pretty decent and ordinary.”
“Have you asked his partners if he had any private clients?”
“Yes, I did. They know of none. As far as they are aware, all the business he did went through the office in the regular way. Occasionally he would press-copy a letter himself in a private letter-book he kept. But Baxter has been through that, and he says there is nothing suspicious in it and nothing the other partners didn’t know about.”
“Then why did he keep the letter-book private?”
“Baxter told me that the letters certainly were private—the sort of letters you wouldn’t let the office boy see, but nothing more than that.”
“I’d like to see that book, Tempest.”
“So should I. But in the face of what Baxter says, I hardly see how we could press the point. We mustn’t let them get the idea that we are merely curious, or they will all just shut up like oysters. Still, Baxter isn’t a fool; and if he says it wouldn’t help us, the probabilities certainly are that he is right. To sum it all up, Yardley, you’ve got the mystery of the death of Sir John, the mystery of the secret trust, and the mystery of the death of Miss Stableford, and I am convinced that all the lot are really only one mystery. But all the same, we haven’t got the explanation of that mystery.”
Some days later, Arthur Baxter came round to Tempest’s chambers.
“I haven’t any idea,” he said, “whether there is anything in it or not, but you asked me about Sir John’s private letter-book. Yesterday I found a letter had been copied in it which I had never previously noticed;and as I can’t explain it, and as neither of my partners know or can even guess to what it refers, we three have all come to the conclusion that you had better be told about it, in case there may be any clue to be got from it.”
“How did you come to miss it before?”
“Well, the old boy didn’t copy it following on the others. It was on a page quite by itself, very nearly at the end of the book. I was looking in the index. I wanted some figures from a certain letter which I knew Sir John had copied in his own book, and I came across the reference ‘S. T. 477.’ Now, it is a 500-page letter-book. The last copied letter is on page 304. Naturally we didn’t look on through a lot of blank pages, and so we missed it. I can’t imagine why he copied it there and not in its proper place.”
“Probably he half meant to tear it out. It was most likely copied fortemporaryreference, and when the opportunity for its use was over he probably intended to destroy it. That would be why it was only indexed under initials.”
“What do you suppose ‘S. T.’ means?”
“Secret trust, I should guess. Would that fit the letter? Let me see it,” said Tempest.
“Well, here’s a copy of it.”
“Sir John Rellingham has received and carefully considered the letter. In the exercise of his discretion he must decline the request. He cannot but think that the interview is essential.”
“Who was it written to?”
“There isn’t a hint, and it isn’t dated.”
“When was it written?”
“Some time during the week before his death.”
“How can you prove that?”
“Well, it’s rather funny. The copying-ink we used to use in the office was a stickypurple kind of stuff. But we changed to Stephen’s blue-black copying-ink for some reason or other a week before he died, and this letter was written in the new ink.”
“Did Sir John open his own letters at the office?”
“No, the confidential clerk opened everything addressed to anybody. It was the understood thing amongst the lot of us that everything that arrived at that address must be the common interest and knowledge of the firm, so nobody used the address for his private purposes.”
“But suppose a letter marked ‘Private,’ and addressed to one of you personally arrived. What would happen?”
“Oh, Smith would open it!”
“Has Smith seen this copy?”
“Yes, and he says no letters arrived at the office for Sir John, within the last month of his life, that this could possibly have related to.”
“Then Sir John must have received it at his own address?”
“That’s probable. You see, the letter carries over to the second page. Sir John’s private notepaper (he kept some at the office) would fit this letter. The office paper won’t. So much of our stuff is typewritten that all the office paper is the single sheet, square quarto stuff. Our paper never does carry over, because one sheet is one page. Therefore, as he used his private notepaper, with his own address on, to answer it, I should guess it was a reply to a letter which had reached him at home.”
“Baxter, I suppose you haven’t found any letters this could possibly be a reply to?”
“No, there’s nothing. I’ve been through all the letters in his pocket, or that came to the office during the last ten days of his life, and there was nothing at his house. It couldn’t possibly fit anything. Still,Sir John often said that the safest place for a secret was in the fire.”
“Then we had better take it that whatever letter it was a reply to has been destroyed?”
“That seems pretty certainly so. Tempest, can’t you think of any explanation? Can’t you unravel the business? They say you’ve never failed with any one of these murder cases that you’ve tackled. Why have you failed us?”
“No, Baxter, that isn’t cricket. I’m not a detective, and I never undertook to play detective for you. When I have had to get a prisoner off, there’s precious little I stick at. I’ve done all that lay to my hand. I’ve sometimes gone out of my way and done a bit more, but I don’t undertake to do detective work.”
“Tempest, for God’s sake have pity on us! Since this bother cropped up, forty-five clients have formally removed theirbusiness from us. Goodness only knows how many more have quietly dropped us without making a fuss and intend never to come back. In twelve months’ time we shan’t have a client left. I’m not married, no more is Marston, and he’s young, but Moorhouse has a wife and family. It’s serious enough for all of us, but it’s Gehenna for him. Can’t you suggest something? What do you think?”
Tempest and the solicitor walked out of Lincoln’s Inn together, and slowly across the fields, and as they went the barrister repeated the story he had argued out with Yardley.
The solicitor stopped and turned and faced the other man on the pavement.
“Tempest, you were present when that trust case was on. Do you remember that woman in court, sitting by herself, heavily veiled at the back, and we wondered what brought her there?”
“Remember! Damn! damn! damn! Why didn’t I think of it? What an asinine fool I was. That must have been Mrs. Garnett. Baxter, why don’t you kick me?”
“I ought to be kicked myself. We were a pair of fools.”
“That explains why she was so interested. Yes, she wanted to know about the trust.”
“Tempest, had you thought all this out when that case was on? If you had, then I will kick you.”
“No, old man, I hadn’t. I was arguing it out with Yardley a few days ago. To be perfectly frank, I tried to put a certain proposition to him, and he kept on objecting and objecting; and all the time, as I was explaining away his objections to him, I was step by step arguing myself further on. That’s the real truth.”
“I wish we had got hold of that woman.Her presence in court that day seems to confirm your theory, Tempest.”
“Baxter, go back to your office and make inquiries whether any of your clients have altered their wills since the date of Evangeline Stableford’s death.”
“I’ve asked that already. We know of no alteration of a will by any client. Of course, we’ve made a good many wills since; but, as far as I can find out, none of them are for any client for whom we held a previous one. But Sir John was a clever lawyer, and I don’t for one moment suppose that the firm would hold such a will as you suppose exists, if we held the other ends of the tangled thread, as apparently we do. It’s all amazingly funny, Tempest.”
“I think it is,” began the barrister, as with his eyes on the ground he slowly paced on along the pavement.
“I’ve a warrant for your arrest, Mr.Baxter!” and both the men turned, as an inspector of police, overtaking them, placed his hand on the solicitor’s arm.
“It’s really come, then?” he gasped, as he turned, his face blanching deathly pale.
“Damn you, Baxter! hold your tongue!” said Tempest, whose mind, accustomed to criminal work, at once saw the danger of the ghastly remark the solicitor had made. “Robson,” he added, for he recognised the inspector, “what’s this arrest for?”
“Murder of Sir John Rellingham, sir.”
“But I understood Parkyns had got that case in hand?”
“So he has, Mr. Tempest. I’m simply making the arrest for him. He’s ill in bed.”
“What’s your evidence, Robson?”
“There’s a lot, Mr. Tempest—all that secret trust business.”
“Oh, that’s only the halfpenny rag stuff! You haven’t arrested Mr. Baxter on that.What’s turned up fresh? Come on—out with it. You’ll have to tell the magistrate under twenty-four hours.”
“Well, Mr. Tempest, a revolver has been found in Mr. Baxter’s rooms, with one chamber empty, whilst the other bullets match the one Sir John Rellingham was killed with.”
“It’s a——” began the solicitor, but Tempest’s hand closed on his arm like a vice. “Be quiet,” he said; adding, “I can’t do much before the magistrate, but I’ll be there.”
“Tempest, try and get me bail?”
“Hopeless, old man. It’s a charge of murder.”
The inspector formally gave his prisoner the usual warning; and Tempest asked, “Where are you going to charge him?”
“Bow Street, sir.”
“When?”
“Now, at once.”
“Then I’ll come along with you.”
The clerk of a friend of Tempest’s passed at the moment, and the barrister stopped him. “Just go into my chambers, and tell my clerk to come along to me at Bow Street at once, will you?”
The three men got into a four-wheeler, and were rapidly driven to the police station. A few minutes of brief formality and Arthur Baxter was charged before the magistrate and remanded. Evidence of arrest and of the finding of the revolver was given.
Tempest knew that, as the necessity for further investigations had been alleged, it was purposeless to try to break up the case at that stage, and he merely contented himself with reserving his cross-examination of the witness.
The inspector asked for a search warrant, to enable a search to be made of the offices of the firm.
Tempest at once objected, pleading the privilege of the solicitor.
“Is there any case on this point, Mr. Tempest?” said the magistrate. “It seems rather an interesting one.”
“I know of none, sir; and, even if there were, his partners could plead the same privilege.”
The inspector urged the necessity of the search strongly, but Tempest strenuously objected.
“I am not sure you are not right, Mr. Tempest. Still, it’s a point that ought to be authoritatively settled. Would you be content if I grant the application of the inspector, subject to an undertaking that no attempt to execute it is made till your appeal is decided? I suppose you will appeal?”
“Certainly.”
“Then that is how it had better stand.”
“But papers may be destroyed meanwhile,your worship?” objected the inspector.
“You must take that risk, inspector. It doesn’t amount to much, for if there ever were anything compromising, I’ve no doubt it was destroyed long ago. Still, it’s an interesting point that ought to be settled. Who issued the search warrant for Mr. Baxter’s rooms, inspector?”
“That was done at Scotland Yard, your worship. But because of this privilege I was told to apply to you, sir, for this other warrant.”
“Quite so—quite so,” assented the magistrate, and Arthur Baxter was led away to the cells.
“Mr. Tempest,” said the magistrate, as the barrister, picking up his hat and stick, was preparing to leave the court, “I’ve no doubt this appeal will take some time. I quite appreciate the reason why you did not ask for bail. It is never ordinarilygranted in a charge of murder. Butprima facieit seems so unlikely that anyone in the position of Mr. Baxter would be likely to be guilty of the crime, that I look with a good deal of apprehension at the possibility of retaining an innocent man in custody until that appeal can be argued. Between now and next week you will doubtless have an opportunity of consulting your client; and if you find there is any really satisfactory explanation of the discovery of the revolver, and you are in a position to then substantiate it with proper evidence, I am at present inclined to think I might favourably consider an application for bail, providing there is not then any additional evidence. But, of course, it will need to be very substantial bail.”
“I’ll undertake it shall be forthcoming to any amount, sir,” answered the barrister.
The next day Tempest had an interviewwith the prisoner. “Now, how about this revolver?” he asked.
“My dear man, I know no more about it than you do. I’ve never had a revolver in my hand in my life, much less fired one. I never put it there. I never knew it was there.”
“The inspector swore he found it in your empty suit-case in your bedroom. When did you last use your suit-case?”
“About a fortnight before Sir John was shot. I stayed a week-end with the Trelawneys at Ashover.”
“Haven’t you been away from town since?”
“Oh, yes; but I’ve got a larger case, which I generally use.”
“Who unpacked for you when you came back from Ashover?”
“My man, Bailey.”
“Well, the inspector says the suit-case was not locked—just strapped.”
“That’s how it always is. Do you think the police put it there, Tempest?”
“Oh, no. Parkyns was present when Robson found it. I know Parkyns well, and I’d trust him anywhere. Besides, the police don’t do that kind of thing. They try to get convictions, of course; and if a simple constable makes a mistake he can always get his pals to come and back him up. But higher up in the force they wouldn’t even do that. They are a fine lot of men. Can you trust Bailey?”
“If I find I can’t, I’ll never believe in anyone else so long as I live. I’d have cheerfully trusted my life to him.”
“Well, Baxter, it’s simply this, unless that revolver can be explained it won’t be much good asking for bail. Can you suggest anything? I’ll go and cross-question Bailey, and I’ll see if Parkyns will tell me whether the police have found out where it was purchased. That may help us.”
The barrister left the prison, puzzled and troubled. After the broad hint the magistrate had given him it was disheartening to him as an advocate, and damning to his client, that he could put forward no explanation.
He went straight to Baxter’s rooms and interviewed Bailey. As he had expected, he learned that, of course, the revolver was not in the case when Bailey had unpacked it.
“Did you lock it up then?”
“No, sir; just strapped it. To be quite frank, Mr. Baxter has lost the key of it. That happened years ago. If he ever uses it he always takes it in the railway carriage with him.”
“Were you in the room when the police found it?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t.”
“Bailey, what are Mr. Baxter’s arrangementshere? Who are the other servants?”
“There’s only my wife and myself, sir. It’s quite a small flat. The dining-room, the sitting-room, the kitchen, and three bedrooms.”
“Is it ever left entirely empty?”
“Not as a rule, sir; if one’s out the other’s in. Mr. Baxter makes a point of that, unless sometimes when he’s been in himself he’s told me to take my wife out for a walk.”
“Then it’s never been quite empty?”
“Well, I can’t say that. Some time ago my wife’s mother was very ill, and she went home to nurse her. You know, sir, I used to be soldier-servant to Mr. Baxter’s brother—the one who was killed in South Africa. He was in the Army Service Corps. So I could do most things. So Mr. Baxter said that if I could manage hisbreakfasts he would dine out till my wife came back. That was how we managed it; but, of course, I often had to run out to do shopping, and then the flat would be empty.”
“There would be the chance then that somebody could enter the flat without you knowing?”
“Yes, sir, at those times.”
“But you wouldn’t leave the flat unlocked?”
“No, sir, of course not; but there was only the one latch;” and the man led the way to the door.
Tempest wondered at the array of bolts and chains which was there, and doubtless brought into use every night when three people were sleeping in the flat; whilst all the time a single drop latch was the only protection when the place was unoccupied.
“Who carries the key?”
“There are two, sir. I carry one and Mr. Baxter has one.”
“Has yours ever left your possession?”
“Never, sir.”
“Well, Bailey, unless you or your master are hiding something from me, the explanation of this revolver business must come from you. Can you suggest anything? Look here, I’m on Mr. Baxter’s side, so you needn’t mind what you say to me. Tell me anything you know or can think of—no matter how black it looks. The truth always helps, no matter what it is, when a prisoner is innocent.”
The man hesitated, and Tempest saw at once there was something to come out. He began once or twice in a stammering way, and then stopped.
“Now, what is it?”
“Please, sir, perhaps you ought to know Sir John Rellingham came here the day before he was murdered.”
“Came here! Whatever for?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What time of day?”
“About nine o’clock in the evening, sir.”
“Well, why shouldn’t he?”
“No reason at all, sir—only what he said when he left.”
“What was that?”
“I think Mr. Baxter was trying to persuade him to something; for, as he stood in the doorway, I heard Sir John say—‘No, Arthur; don’t say any more. It’s quite final. I will not; I can’t;’ and then I let him out and called a cab for him.”
The barrister’s face grew grave. “Had there been a quarrel?” he asked.
“No, sir. They didn’t seem to have been quarrelling. They seemed to part quite friends, but they had had a long argument. I could hear that much.”
Tempest turned away and moodily walked down the stairs. What had beenthe point of difference between the two men? When he got back to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn he found a note from Inspector Parkyns.