The Millionaire Mystery Page 15

  ‘If you annoy Miss Marlow again, I’ll have you arrested,’ said Alan sharply. ‘We don’t permit this sort of thing in England.’

  ‘I shall put the story of Beauchamp’s wickedness in all the papers.’

  ‘As you please. It cannot harm the dead.’

  ‘And will that girl stand by and see her father’s memory disgraced?’

  ‘You seem to forget,’ said Thorold, with quiet irony, ‘that he was not Miss Marlow’s father. Well, there is no more to be said. If you make yourself a nuisance, the law shall deal with you.’

  ‘And I’ll deal with him myself,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll make them eyes of yours blacker than they are by nature.’

  ‘Leave him alone, Joe. He’ll go now.’

  ‘I won’t go!’ cried the man. ‘I’ll have my price.’

  Alan shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I shall have to give you that thrashing, after all.’

  ‘Let me do it, sir,’ put in Mr Brill, who was simply spoiling for a row, and he stepped towards Lestrange.

  The man’s courage, genuine enough of its kind, suddenly gave way before the ferocity of the sailor. He sprang up, ran into an inner room and bolted the door.

  Joe uttered the roar of a baffled tiger.

  ‘Never mind, Joe; we’re quit of him now. He will leave Heathton.’

  ‘I’ll wait for him at the station,’ muttered Joe, following the young Squire out of doors. ‘’T’ain’t right that the swab should get off scot-free.’

  Outside the rain had ceased. Alan looked at his watch, and finding that it was late, turned his face towards home. Suddenly he recollected that Joe had not explained his absence.

  ‘Well, Joe, where have you been?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘After him.’ Joe pointed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘When master’s body was carried away, I thought that shark might have done it. I know’d he was coming from Jamaica, so I went to Southampton to see when he arrived.’

  ‘You did not see him?’

  ‘No,’ was the gloomy reply. ‘But I seed the list of passengers in one of them boats, and his name wos on it. He couldn’t have done it!’

  ‘I found that out myself. No; Lestrange is innocent.’

  ‘If I’d know’d he wos on his way here to make trouble with missy, I’d have waited,’ said the sailor; ‘but I thought if I dropped across him I’d keep him off.’

  ‘He stole a march on you, Joe. And you have been at Southampton all this time?’

  ‘I have, sir—there and in London. But it’s all right now, Mr Alan. He won’t worry Miss Sophy any more. But now you know, sir, why I gave a sov to that tramp. He talked about one as sent him, and I thought he wos talking of Captain Jean, so I hurried him away as soon as I could, lest Miss Sophy should hear.’

  ‘I understand, Joe. But Cicero knew nothing at that time.’

  ‘Ah!’ Joe clenched his fist. ‘He’s another as needs a beating. Beg pardon, sir, but I suppose you ain’t found out who killed the doctor?’

  ‘No; I believe myself it was that man Brown, who was called the Quiet Gentleman. Do you know who he was, Joe?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not,’ replied Joe doggedly. ‘Good-night, Mr Alan,’ and he walked off in great haste.

  The young Squire pursued his way to the Abbey Farm, and all the way wondered if Joe’s sudden departure hinted at an unwillingness to talk of Brown.

  ‘I’ll ask him about the man tomorrow,’ muttered Alan.

  But on the morrow he had other matters to attend to. While he was at breakfast a card was brought to him and he jumped up with a joyful cry.

  ‘Inspector Blair!’ he said, throwing down the card. ‘Show him up, Mrs Hester. Ah! I wonder what he has found out.’

  CHAPTER XIX

  A REAPPEARANCE

  ‘I AM glad to see you, Blair. Sit down and have some breakfast.’

  ‘Aha!’ The inspector rubbed his hands as he looked at the well-spread table. ‘I never say no to a good offer. Thank you, Mr Thorold, I will peck a bit.’

  ‘You are looking well, Blair.’

  ‘Never felt better in my life, Mr Thorold. I have good cause to look jolly.’

  ‘Enjoyed your holiday, no doubt,’ said Alan, as he assisted the officer liberally to ham and eggs. ‘Where did you spend it?’

  ‘In Brighton—pleasant place, Brighton.’

  Blair looked so jocular, and chuckled in so pleasant a manner that the Squire guessed he had good news. However, he resolved to let Blair tell his story in his own way.

  ‘What took you to Brighton of all places?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Well, you might guess. Joe Brill took me.’

  ‘Joe Brill?’

  The inspector nodded.

  ‘I followed him there.’

  ‘But I have seen Joe. He tells me he was at Southampton and in London.’

  ‘No doubt—a clever fellow Joe. He knows how to hold his tongue. Well, Mr Thorold, I hope your troubles about this matter of the lost body will soon be at an end.’

  ‘Blair!’ Alan bent forward in a state of great excitement. ‘You have found out something about it?’

  ‘Yes, enough to gain me a thousand pounds.’

  ‘Not enough to gain you two thousand pounds?’

  ‘No.’ Blair’s face fell. ‘But I intend to get that also. However, I have learned all about the theft of Mr Marlow’s body—how it was removed, and why it was removed.’

  ‘By Jove! How did you find out?’

  ‘Through Joe Brill. Somehow I suspected Joe from the first. That sovereign he gave Cicero Gramp, you know—I always fancied there was something behind his anxiety to get that man away. So I had him watched, and applied for leave of absence. When he left Heathton I followed as a tourist,’ chuckled Blair. ‘Oh, I assure you, Mr Thorold, I make a very good tourist.’

  ‘And he went to Brighton?’

  ‘Yes, direct to Brighton. I went there and found out all about it.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say that he stole the body!’

  ‘Ay, but I do and with the best intentions, too.’

  ‘Was he the short man Cicero Gramp saw with Warrender?’

  ‘He was the short man,’ replied Blair, finishing his coffee.

  ‘Then, why did he not tell me?’ Alan burst out angrily. ‘I saw him last night, yet he said nothing. He knew how anxious Miss Marlow is about the loss of her father’s body.’

  ‘Not her father,’ corrected the inspector. ‘Achille Lestrange was her father.’

  ‘What!’ Alan started from his seat. ‘You know that?’

  ‘I know all—the elopement in Jamaica; the kidnapping of Marie Lestrange, whom we know as Sophy Marlow; the coming of Jean Lestrange to blackmail the girl, and—and—all the rest of it. You see, Mr Thorold, I interviewed Joe Brill this morning, and he told me all about your conversation with that rascal. I am posted up to date, sir.’

  ‘Joe Brill had no business to keep me in the dark,’ said the Squire angrily. ‘He should have relieved my mind and Miss Marlow’s.

  ‘Miss Lestrange,’ hinted Blair.

  ‘No, sir—Sophia Marlow she is, and Sophia Marlow she will remain until she changes her name for mine. Her father is dead, and Jean Lestrange has no claim on her. Sophia Marlow, Mr Inspector, if you please.’

  ‘Well, well—as you please. We shan’t quarrel about a name. Have you anything to smoke, Mr Thorold?’

  Alan got him an excellent cigar, and returned to the point.

  ‘Why did Joe keep me and Miss Marlow in the dark?’ he asked.

  ‘Acted under orders, Mr Thorold.’

  ‘Whose orders?’

  ‘Mr Marlow’s, or rather, I should say Mr Beauchamp’s.’

  ‘Blair!’

  Alan gasped out the name. His face was white and he was appalled at the news. For the moment he believed the inspector must have taken leave of his senses.

  ‘Oh, I dare say your astonishment is natural,’ said the inspector, lighting his cigar. ‘I was astonis
hed myself to find the dead man alive and kicking. Yet I should not have been, for I suspected the truth.’

  Alan had not yet recovered from his amazement.

  ‘You suspected that Mr Marlow was alive!’ he said faintly. ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘On circumstantial evidence,’ said Blair smartly. ‘When I examined the coffin with Mr Phelps I noticed what he did not. At the sides small holes were bored in inconspicuous places, and the shell of the leaden case was pierced. Only one inference could be drawn from this—that the man had designedly been buried alive. The design must have been carried out by Warrender and the short man. I suspected Joe, from the fact of his having given that sovereign to Cicero, and I watched him. Presuming my belief to be correct, I made certain that sooner or later he would rejoin his master. As I say, he went to Brighton. I followed close on his heels to a boarding-house in Lansdowne Place. There I saw Mr Marlow.’

  ‘Did he recognize you?’

  ‘Of course. While he was living at Heathton I had seen Mr Marlow several times on business. He made no attempt when I saw him at Brighton to disguise himself—not thinking, I suppose, that his clever scheme to frustrate Lestrange would come to light in this way.’

  ‘But, Blair, you did not know about Lestrange then!’

  ‘True enough; but I soon heard the whole story. Mr Marlow told it to me himself. As you may guess, he was in a great way about my having discovered him, and seeing no means of evading the truth, he told it. I insisted upon it, in fact; and now I know all.’

  ‘And how did it come about?’

  Blair held up his hand.

  ‘No, Mr Thorold,’ said he, ‘I shall leave Mr Marlow—I think we had better continue to call him so—to tell his own history. He can do it better than I. Besides,’ added the inspector, rising briskly, ‘I have business to do.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘You can judge for yourself. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘Where—what to do?’

  ‘To see Mrs Warrender. You see, it was her husband who carried out this scheme of feigned death to deceive Lestrange. Marlow, accused of having murdered Achille in Jamaica, was afraid that this Captain Jean would have him arrested. Now, Warrender was in Beauchamp’s house at Falmouth, Jamaica, when Mrs Lestrange died, and he knew all about it. It is my belief,’ added the inspector slowly, ‘that Beauchamp is innocent, as he asserts himself to be, and that Warrender knew as much.’

  ‘But, my dear Blair,’ protested Alan, ‘in that case Warrender could have told Marlow the truth, and could have stopped Jean Lestrange from making mischief.’

  ‘I dare say he could, but he did not. Warrender, my dear Mr Thorold, was a blackmailing scoundrel, who assumed the mask of friendship to bamboozle Marlow. I had considerable difficulty in impressing this view on Marlow, for, strange to say, he believed in the doctor. Joe did not, however, and Joe told me a few facts about Warrender’s practice in Jamaica, which showed me that the doctor was not the disinterested person he pretended to be. No, I am sure Warrender knew Beauchamp to be innocent, and kept the fact quiet so as to retain a hold on the man, and get money out of him. Now, do you understand why I want to see his widow?’

  ‘No,’ replied Alan, not following the inspector’s hypothesis, ‘I do not. If Warrender kept the truth from Marlow, he would most certainly have kept it from his wife. The woman would have babbled, even against her own interests, as women always do. Mrs Warrender can tell you nothing—I feel sure of that.’

  ‘You forget that the doctor may have left a confession of his knowledge.’

  ‘Would he have done that?’ said Alan doubtfully. ‘It would have been a foolish thing.’

  ‘And when do criminals do other than foolish things?’ was Blair’s response. ‘The murderer usually returns to the scene of his crime—as often as not sets out its details in writing. It is impossible to account for the actions of human beings, Mr Thorold. It would not surprise me in the least to hear that Warrender had written out the whole story in a diary. If so, his wife must have found it amongst his papers, and she will be disposed to sell it—at a long price.’

  ‘If she had found such a document, she would have shown it to me or to Sophy before now.’

  ‘By no means. If she knew that Marlow were alive, then, of course, she would realize that the document was valuable. But she believes him to be dead.’

  ‘Humph!’ said Alan. ‘You seem very certain that such a document exists.’

  ‘Perhaps I am too sanguine,’ admitted Blair; ‘but Mr Marlow gave me a full account of what happened on the night Achille was murdered. Moreover, he swore that he was innocent, and I believe him. As to Warrender, he was a scoundrel, and I am sure that, like all scoundrels, he has left a record of his villainies in black and white. If this is so, I can prove Marlow’s innocence, and he can defy Lestrange.’

  By this time Alan and the inspector were walking along the road which led to Heathton. It was a bright, sunny morning, and Alan was in high spirits. How happy Blair’s news would make Sophy!

  ‘And Warrender, what about his death?’ he asked. ‘Does Marlow know who killed him?’

  ‘Strange as it may seem, he does not, Mr Thorold. He is as ignorant as you or I. That death is a mystery still.’

  ‘But if Warrender was killed on the heath—’

  ‘I can’t explain, Mr Thorold. Hear Marlow’s story, and you will be as much in the dark as I am. But I suspect Lestrange.’

  ‘So did I,’ replied Alan, speaking in the past tense. ‘But I learned for certain that Lestrange was not in England on the night of the murder.’

  ‘I proved that, too,’ said Blair thoughtfully; ‘yet I can’t help thinking there is some trickery. Lestrange is at the Good Samaritan?’

  ‘Yes, dancing on Miss Marlow’s doorstep in the hope of getting money.’

  ‘Does he receive any letters?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘Merely an idea of mine. I’ll tell you later on what I think.’

  ‘You are keeping me very much in the dark, Blair,’ said Alan, somewhat piqued.

  ‘I don’t care to show incomplete work,’ replied the inspector bluntly. ‘I believe I can unravel the whole of this mystery, but I don’t want to show you the raw material. Let me work it out my own way, Mr Thorold, and judge me by the result.’

  ‘As you please. So long as you do it, I don’t care how you go about it.’

  ‘I am working for two thousand pounds,’ said Blair, ‘and I don’t intend to let anyone else have it. That blackguard tramp would like to be the man.’

  Alan laughed.

  ‘He has already made a clutch at it by accusing me of the theft of Mr Marlow’s body.’

  The inspector nodded and smiled grimly.

  ‘The two are working in unison,’ said he, rubbing his hands; ‘but I’ll catch them.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Thorold, ‘is Mr Marlow coming back here?’

  ‘To be caught by Lestrange? No, I think not. He is not such a fool. If you want to see him, you must go to Brighton.’

  ‘I shall go tomorrow, Blair. I am most anxious to hear the story of that night.’

  ‘A strange story—more like fiction than truth.’

  ‘Truth is always stranger than fiction.’

  Blair assented. They walked on through a steep lane, which led into the High Street of the village. As they breasted this, Mrs Marry, with a basket on her arm, met them. She was evidently excited.

  ‘Well, Mrs Marry,’ said Alan kindly, ‘what is it?’

  ‘The poor dear isn’t dead, after all,’ cried the panting woman. ‘I declare, Mr Thorold, you could ha’ knocked me down wi’ a feather when I saw him.’

  ‘Saw who?’

  ‘Why, Mr Brown, sir—the Quiet Gentleman. He has come back!’

  CHAPTER XX

  THE AMAZEMENT OF ALAN THOROLD

  MRS MARRY delivered her startling piece of news with an air of triumph. She did not guess for one moment how ver
y important it was, or in what peril it placed the Quiet Gentleman.

  ‘He came back last night,’ she continued, ‘and he told me with his fingers how he had been lying ill in London town. Poor dear! he took it into his head to go for a jaunt, he says, and went by the night train. He meant to have come back to me next morning, but a nasty influenza took him and kept him away. I’m that glad he’s come back I can’t tell!’ cried Mrs Marry joyfully, ‘for he do pay most reg’lar, and gives not a bit of trouble, innocent babe that he is!’ and having imparted her news, she hurried on down the lane.

  The two men stood looking at one another.

  ‘Brown back again!’ said Alan. ‘Now we shall know the truth.’

  ‘If he knows it,’ said Blair drily—he was less excited than his companion—‘but I doubt if we shall learn much from him, Mr Thorold. If he had anything to do with the murder, he would not have come back.’

  ‘But he must have something to do with it, man! Have you forgotten that it was he who stole the key of the vault from my desk?’

  ‘No,’ said Blair pointedly, ‘nor have I forgotten that he did not use the key. It was Joe Brill who opened the vault.’

  ‘Indeed! And where did Joe get the key? Not from Mr Phelps, for he still has his key. Ha!’ cried Alan suddenly, ‘did Joe get it from Brown?’

  ‘No, he did not. The key was not used at all. There was a third key in existence, of which neither you nor Mr Phelps were aware. Marlow had had it made to provide against the contingency which arose. He had always resolved to feign death, should Lestrange track him. So he kept the third key, and Joe used it on that night.’

  ‘Well, even granting that such is the case, why should Brown have stolen my key? And how could he have known that it was in my desk?’

  ‘I think we discussed that point before,’ replied the inspector composedly, ‘and that we came to the conclusion that Brown overheard your conversation with Mr Phelps on the day of the funeral. Where are you going?’

  ‘To see Brown. I am determined to get the truth out of him.’

  Blair looked at him.

  ‘Well, Mr Thorold,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm for you to see the man. Meanwhile I will go on to Mrs Warrender’s.’