The Millionaire Mystery Page 17

  ‘No,’ said Alan decisively. ‘Under the circumstances, I don’t see what else you could do. So you escaped?’

  ‘I did. I went on board my yacht and told Joe all. Of course, he believed in my innocence, and strongly advised me to leave at once. We sailed down the coast of South America, round the Horn, and home to England. I called myself Richard Marlow, and I sold the yacht under another name at a French seaport. I had plenty of money, and there was no one who suspected my past.’

  ‘I suppose the news of the murder had not reached England?’

  ‘No. I believe there was a casual reference in one of the papers, but that was all. The yacht was supposed to have foundered. I felt secure from pursuit, and determined to start a new life. I gave out that Marie was my daughter, and I called her Sophy. Then I placed her in the convent at Hampstead, with a sum of money for her education, and besides that, I secured a certain sum on her for life in case of my death. When this was settled I went to Africa. There Fortune, tired of persecuting me, gave me smiles instead of frowns. I made a fortune in the gold-mines, and became celebrated as Richard Marlow the millionaire. The rest of my story you know.’

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Alan significantly. ‘I know how you bought this place and settled here with Sophy. But the letter from Barkham—’

  ‘Ah! Joe told you about that, did he?’ said Beauchamp composedly. ‘Yes, the letter was from an old friend of mine called Barkham. He told me that Jean Lestrange had recognized my portrait in an illustrated paper, and that he intended to come to England to hunt me down. The letter was sent to the office of the paper, and by them forwarded here. You may guess my feelings. I thought myself lost. I showed the letter to Warrender, and he suggested that I should feign death. I jumped at the idea, made a will, allowing myself an income under my true name of Herbert Beauchamp, got another key of the vault fashioned from the one which afterwards was taken to Phelps, and took Joe into my confidence. Then Warrender drugged me.’

  ‘What did he give you?’ asked Alan. ‘You looked really dead.’

  ‘I can’t tell you the name of the drug. He said it was some vegetable preparation used by the negroes. Then I died—apparently—and I was buried. They had bored holes in the coffin, and that night, when you were all absent, Joe and Warrender took me out of the vault and carried me to the hut on the heath, where Warrender revived me. It was while he was doing this that he heard a noise, and ran out. He never came back, and when I was myself again we went out to find his body. He was quite dead, stabbed to the heart, and lying some distance from the hut. Who killed him I do not know.’

  ‘But how did his body get into the vault?’

  ‘Joe did it. After he had got me away, he dragged the body into the hut, and next night came back and took it to the vault. He put it into the coffin, never dreaming that anyone would look for it there. Nor would they, and all would have been well had it not been for that man Cicero Gramp. He saw too much, and—’

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  ALAN started to his feet at that imperative summons. Had Beauchamp been overheard by Mrs Marry? Had his disguise been penetrated? Had she brought someone to witness the discovery? These thoughts rushed through his mind with lightning speed, and for the moment he lost his presence of mind. Not so the man who was truly in danger. Adopting the peculiar shuffle of the Quiet Gentleman, he crossed the room and opened the door. As the key turned in the lock Alan fully expected to see Lestrange, menacing and sinister, on the threshold. But the newcomer proved to be Blair.

  ‘How are you getting on, Mr Thorold?’ he said, stepping through the door, which Beauchamp locked behind him. ‘You know now who the Quiet Gentleman is. Don’t look so scared, sir.’

  ‘Can’t help it,’ muttered the young man.

  ‘This business has been rather too much for me. I thought when you knocked, that Lestrange had run his prey to earth.’

  ‘He won’t get much out of his prey if he does,’ said Blair, with a nod to Beauchamp. ‘I have seen Mrs Warrender.’

  The old man turned as white as the beard he wore.

  ‘And—and—what does she say?’ he stammered.

  ‘Say!’ Blair seated himself and chuckled. ‘She says two thousand pounds will pay her for that confession.’

  ‘Then it does exist! Warrender knew the truth!’

  ‘Of course. Didn’t I tell you the man was a blackmailing scoundrel? Faith! and his wife is not much better. Two thousand pounds for a bit of paper!’

  ‘And for my freedom!’ said Beauchamp excitedly. ‘Oh to think of being free from the horror which has hung over me all these years! And Warrender knew the truth! What a scoundrel! He always swore that he knew nothing, and I paid him money to hold his tongue about my supposed guilt. Ungrateful wretch! He and his wife arrived in England almost penniless. I met him in London, and, as he knew my story, I brought him down here. I helped him in every way. How was it he left a confession behind him?’

  ‘It is an old confession,’ replied Blair. ‘It seems that Warrender fell ill of fever in New Orleans. His conscience smote him for his villainy, and he made a full confession, signed it, and had it witnessed. When he recovered he did not destroy it, but kept it safely with the rest of his papers. There Mrs Warrender found it, and she is now prepared to sell it for two thousand pounds. A nice sum, upon my word!’ grumbled Blair.

  ‘She shall have it,’ said Beauchamp eagerly. ‘I would pay five thousand for that confession—I would indeed!’

  ‘I dare say. But Mrs Warrender will give it to you for the lesser sum, sir.’

  ‘Does she know that I am here? Did you tell her?’

  ‘Not such a fool, Mr Beauchamp. She’d have asked five thousand if she had known that. The woman has the blackmailing instinct.’

  ‘Like her brother,’ put in Alan. Then, observing the looks of surprise directed at him by the other two, he added: ‘Didn’t you know? Cicero Gramp is Mrs Warrender’s brother. I found that out in London.’

  ‘A nice pair of jail-birds!’ cried Blair. ‘I’d best get that confession at once, or she’ll be giving it to Cicero, and they’ll demand more money. Mr Beauchamp, can you give me a cheque?’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You forget, Blair, I am dead and buried, and, what’s more, I do not intend ever to come to life again as Marlow. But Mr Thorold, as Sophy’s trustee, can give you the money.’

  ‘If Blair will come to the Abbey Farm, I will do so,’ said Alan, rising. ‘I agree that the sooner the confession is obtained the better, or Cicero may give trouble. By the way, who was it killed Achille, Blair? Was it the doctor himself?’

  ‘No, no!’ cried Beauchamp. ‘It was Scipio, the negro.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that;’ and the inspector shook his head. ‘Mrs Warrender declares that you are innocent, Mr Beauchamp; but she declines to give any further information until she has received her pound of flesh.’

  ‘She shall have it this very day,’ said Alan, putting on his cap. ‘Come, Blair. Mr Beauchamp, will you remain here?’

  ‘Yes. I am safer as the Quiet Gentleman than as anything else.’

  ‘You don’t want me to bring Sophy here?’

  ‘Not until we get that confession, Alan. Sophy might make a scene when she met me. Mrs Marry would learn the truth, and the news would spread. If Lestrange knew, all would be lost. Get the confession, Alan.’

  ‘Yes, I think that is the best plan. Good-day, Mr Brown,’ said the inspector, speaking for the benefit of Mrs Marry, and with Alan he left the house.

  Alone again, Beauchamp fell on his knees and thanked God that his innocence was about to be vindicated. For years he had lived in dread of discovery; now he was about to be relieved of the nightmare.

  Talking as they went of the strange and unexpected turn the case, as Blair called it, had taken, the two men walked through Heathton and out on to the country road. On turning down a quiet lane w
hich led to the Abbey Farm, they saw a ponderous man behaving in a most extraordinary manner. He danced in the white dust, he shook his fist at the sky, and he spun round like a distracted elephant. Blair’s keen eye recognized him at once.

  ‘Very pretty, Mr Cicero Gramp,’ he observed drily. ‘Are you in training for a ballet-dancer?’

  The man stopped short, and turned a disturbed face on them.

  ‘I’ll be even with him!’ he gasped, wiping his streaming forehead. ‘Oh, the wretch! oh, the Judas! Gentlemen, proceed, and leave an unhappy man to fight down a whirl of conflicting emotions. E pluribus unum!’ quoted Cicero, in a pathetic voice; ‘that is me—Ai! Ai! I utter the wail of Orestes.’

  ‘And, like Orestes, you seem to be mad,’ observed Alan, as the fat man returned to his dancing.

  ‘And no wonder, Mr Thorold. I have lost thousands. Lestrange—’

  Cicero could say no more. He was choked with emotion, and gave vent to his feelings by shaking his fist at the sky.

  ‘Ah,’ said Blair, who had been taking in the situation, ‘Lestrange! You have found a cleverer villain than yourself.’

  ‘He has gone away!’ roared Cicero, with the voice of an angry bull. ‘Yes, you may look. He went this morning, bag and baggage. I don’t know where he is, save that he roams the wilderness of London. And my money—he paid his bill to mine hostess of the hostel with my money!’

  ‘The deuce he did!’ said Alan. ‘And how did you come to lend him money?’

  ‘I do not mind explaining,’ said Mr Gramp, with a defiant glance at the gentleman who represented the police. ‘I went into partnership with Lestrange. He had no money; I lent him a goodly part of your fifty pounds, Mr Thorold, on an undertaking that I should get half of what he received from Miss Marlow.’

  ‘A very creditable bargain,’ remarked Alan grimly; ‘but you invested your cash in a bad cause, Mr Gramp. I saw Lestrange last night, and assured him that he would not get one penny of the blackmail he proposed to extort. I dare say, after my visit, he found the game was up, and thought it advisable to clear out. I should recommend you to do the same.’

  ‘So should I,’ put in Blair significantly, ‘or I’ll have you arrested as a vagabond without proper means of support.’

  ‘I am a professor of eloquence and elocution!’ cried Cicero, his fat cheeks turning pale at this stern hint. ‘You dare not arrest me; and you, Mr Thorold, will be sorry if you do not employ me.’

  ‘Employ you? In which way?’

  ‘To hunt Lestrange down.’

  Alan shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I do not wish to see the man again.’

  ‘But I know something about him. Promise to pay me some money, and I’ll show you a letter written to Captain Lestrange, which came to the inn after he left. I took it and opened it to find out his plans.’

  ‘Well, you are a scoundrel!’ said Alan, looking Mr Gramp’s portly figure up and down. ‘By opening another person’s letter you have placed yourself within reach of the law.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ cried Cicero recklessly. ‘I am desperate. Will you pay me for a sight of that letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the inspector before Alan could reply, ‘if it is worth paying for. On the other hand, you could be arrested for opening it. Come, the letter!’

  Cicero produced the document in question, and kept firm hold of it while he made his bargain.

  ‘How much, Mr Thorold?’

  ‘If it proves to be of use,’ replied the young Squire leisurely, ‘I’ll pay you well. Leave the amount to me.’

  The tramp still hesitated, but Inspector Blair, becoming impatient, snatched it out of his hand and proceeded to read it aloud. It was a short note to the effect that if the writer did not receive a certain sum of money ‘at once’ (underlined), he would come down to Heathton and ‘tell all’ (also underlined) to Miss Marlow. These few lines were signed, ‘O. Barkham.’

  ‘Barkham!’ exclaimed Alan. ‘That must be the man who warned Beauchamp that Lestrange was coming. I wonder what he knows.’

  ‘Humph!’ grunted Blair, putting the letter into his pocket, ‘very likely he will be able to tell us sufficient to enable us to dispense with Mrs Warrender’s confession. I am not particularly anxious to pay her two thousand pounds for nothing.’

  ‘Two thousand pounds!’ wailed Cicero, with his eyes staring out of his head. ‘Oh, Clara Maria! Has she got that out of you? My own sister—my very own!’ wept the old scamp, ‘and she won’t go shares! Yet I offered to work with her!’ he finished.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll get a sixpence out of her,’ said Alan; ‘a desire to grab money evidently runs in your family. However, if this letter turns out to be of any assistance in clearing up these mysteries, I’ll see what I can do.’

  Mr Gramp, seeing no other alternative, accepted this offer.

  ‘When am I to get it?’ he asked sulkily.

  ‘When I choose,’ Alan replied tartly. ‘Go back to the Good Samaritan, and don’t let me catch you annoying your sister, or I’ll make it hot for you!’ and he moved away, followed by Blair.

  Cicero shook his fist at them, and spent the rest of the day making futile guesses as to how much they would give him.

  ‘What’s to do now, Blair?’ asked Thorold abruptly.

  ‘I shall pay Mrs Warrender and get the confession. You can take it to Mr Beauchamp and set his mind at rest.’

  ‘And you—what will you do?’

  ‘Catch the 6.30 train to London. I shall go straight to the address given in this letter’—Blair tapped his breast-pocket—‘and see Barkham, and,’ he added, ‘I shall see Lestrange.’

  ‘Will he be with Barkham?’

  ‘I think so. He—Lestrange, I mean—went away before he got this letter. It is likely enough that he has gone to London to see his accomplice.’

  ‘If Barkham were an accomplice, he would not have written, warning Beauchamp of Lestrange’s departure from Jamaica.’

  ‘It is on that point I wish to be clear,’ retorted Blair. ‘It seems to me that Barkham is running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll find out sufficient to solve the mystery,’ said Alan, bringing the conversation to a close; ‘but I confess I am doubtful.’

  The cheque duly written and safely deposited in the inspector’s pocket, the two men set out on their visit to Mrs Warrender, who was graciously pleased to accept the money, in exchange for which she handed over the confession. Alan and Blair read it on the spot, and were greatly astonished at the contents. Then the inspector hurried away to catch the London train, and Alan set out for Mrs Marry’s cottage, taking with him the precious document. Mrs Warrender—fearful lest the cheque should be stopped—left for London by a later train. She had decided that she would cash it herself the moment the bank opened the following morning. Her business capacities were indeed undeniable.

  Alan returned home, tired out with the day’s work, and was glad enough to sit down to the excellent meal provided by Mrs Hester. But his troubles and excitements were not yet over. Hardly had he finished his dinner when a note from Sophy was brought in.

  ‘Come at once,’ she wrote; ‘Lestrange is here.’

  CHAPTER XXIII

  ONE PART OF THE TRUTH

  AFTER his interview with Alan, Captain Lestrange had come to the conclusion that it would be the best and wisest course to retreat before the enemy. Alan knew much, Brill knew more, and the two together might prove too much for him. Moreover, since his design of passing as Sophy’s father had been rendered useless, it was not necessary that he should remain in Heathton. Therefore, he paid his account at the inn with money borrowed from Cicero, and departed in hot haste before that gentleman was afoot. It was not until he got to the Junction that he began to wonder if he was acting judiciously. It struck him that he should have made at least one attempt to get money out of Sophy.

  For some time he pondered over this question, and finally decided to leave his baggage in the
Junction cloak-room and steal back to Heathton under cover of darkness. True, his accomplice Barkham was waiting for him in London, but he would not get much of a welcome from that gentleman unless he brought money with him. Moreover, after Joe’s intimation that it was Barkham who had warned Beauchamp of the plot to hunt him down, Lestrange had had no confidence in him. But that Barkham knew enough to be very dangerous, he would have left him out of his calculations altogether. He decided at last that he must get money out of Sophy, bribe Barkham to return to Jamaica, and then deal alone and unaided with the lucrative business of extracting further blackmail. Having made up his mind to this course of action, he loitered about at the Junction until he could with safety return to Heathton.

  It was during this time that he had a surprise. While lurking in the waiting-room, he saw Blair arrive by a local train and catch the London express. What could he be doing? Was he hunting him down? The very idea terrified him, and he began to congratulate himself on having remained at the Junction. Had he known that Blair was now on his way to see Barkham, he would have had still greater cause for alarm. Matters were indeed coming to a crisis, but Lestrange did not guess that the crisis was so near at hand.

  When he had seen the lights of the London express disappear, he took his seat in a local train, which was timed to leave shortly after eight o’clock. On arriving at Heathton, he left the station hurriedly, and stole through deserted by-ways to the Moat House. Here he asked for Miss Marlow, and sent in his card, on which he had scribbled, ‘News of your father’. The lie, which was not all a lie, gained him the interview he sought; but before seeing him, Sophy sent off the note to Alan. Then she induced Miss Vicky to retire, and received her visitor alone in the drawing-room.