by Fergus Hume
‘That is true,’ assented Alan. ‘But that Cicero by chance saw the affair, I dare say we should have remained in ignorance of the business for many a long day. No one would have gone to the vault. A very clever man, this Brown.’
‘Very clever. But for the accident of Cicero having slept in the churchyard, he would have got off scot-free. As it is, I don’t see how we can hunt him down. His gout, his dumbness, his white hair and beard may have been assumed. The fact of the linen left at Mrs Marry’s being unmarked is proof enough that he was disguised.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Alan doubtfully. ‘What I can’t make out is how he knew I had the key of the vault in my desk.’
‘Did you mention it to anyone?’
‘Only to Mr Phelps.’
‘Where?’
‘In the churchyard after the funeral. We were all round the vault and the service was just over. Phelps locked the door with his key and asked me where mine was. I said, “In my desk in the library.”’
‘Was Brown present at the funeral?’
‘Yes, I think I caught a glimpse of him.’
‘Was there a crowd round the vault door when it was closed?’
‘There was; but I didn’t notice Brown on that occasion.’
Blair nodded.
‘Very probably. You were too much taken up with the business in hand. Yet, I’ll swear Brown was in the crowd, and heard you say where the key was. The clever scoundrel made use of the information that same afternoon.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said Alan, clenching his fist. ‘Oh, I do wish we could find the villain! But what object could he have had in stealing the body?’
‘I can guess. Mr Marlow was a millionaire.’
‘Well, in a small way, yes.’
‘In a way quite big enough to pay a handsome ransom, Mr Thorold.’ The inspector smiled. ‘Depend upon it, we shall hear from this so-called Brown. He will ask a good few thousands for the return of the corpse. Oh, it is not the first time this game has been played.’
‘Well, if Brown writes, we’ll have him arrested for the murder.’
‘Humph!’ said Blair, shaking his head, ‘that is easier said than done. He has been too clever for us so far, he may prove too clever in the matter of obtaining the reward of his wickedness. Well, Mr Thorold, the inquest takes place tomorrow, but I haven’t got much evidence for the jury.’
He was right. All his talk had been built up upon theory, and on the slenderest of circumstantial evidence. The fact that Brown, the mysterious, had stolen the key—and even that was not absolutely proved—did not show that he had stolen the body. Cicero could not swear to his identity, and, even presuming that he had committed the sacrilege, there was no evidence that it was he who had murdered Warrender.
And so the inquest on the body of the ill-fated doctor was held, the theft of the millionaire’s corpse being merely a side-issue. Can it be wondered that the jury were puzzled? All that could be scraped together by Blair was put before them. Cicero related his midnight experience; Mrs Warrender told how her husband went out to see a patient; Mrs Marry how the doctor called at her house, and afterwards followed Brown. Finally, Alan and his housekeeper gave evidence as to the loss of the key, and the forged letter was produced. Out of this sparse detail little could be made, and after some deliberation, the jury brought in the only verdict possible under the circumstances:
‘The deceased has been murdered by some person or persons unknown.’
‘Most unsatisfactory,’ said Blair grimly; ‘but there is no more to be said.’
‘What can you do now?’ asked Alan. ‘Shall you give up the case?’
‘That depends upon you, sir, or, rather, upon Miss Marlow.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the money way, Mr Thorold. I’m a poor man, and must attend to my duties. All the same, if Miss Marlow will offer a reward, I will do my utmost to find out who stole her father’s body and who murdered the doctor.’
‘Why couple the two crimes?’
‘Because, sir, in my opinion, Brown committed both. Give a reward, Mr Thorold, and I’ll do my best; otherwise, as I have other urgent matters on hand, I must drop the business. But I don’t deny,’ continued the inspector, stroking his chin, ‘that if I were a moneyed man I’d work at this business for the sheer love of it. It is a kind of criminal mystery which does not happen every day.’
‘The reward shall be offered,’ said Alan. ‘Miss Marlow will be guided by me.’
Needless to say, Sophy was guided by him. Indeed, so eager was she that the remains of her father should be recovered that, had not Alan suggested it, she would have offered a reward herself. Also, she was anxious to assist Mrs Warrender, who in spite of her vulgarity and somewhat covetous disposition, was really a well-meaning woman.
The result of this was that two rewards were offered—one thousand for the detection of the person who had stolen the body, and a like sum for any information likely to lead to the arrest of Warrender’s murderer. So here were two thousand pounds going a-begging, and hundreds of people hoped to have a chance of gaining the money. The case was so strange and mysterious that it had attracted not a little attention, and the fact that the missing body was that of a millionaire added to the interest excited by the fact of its disappearance. The London papers were full of leaders and letters suggesting solutions of the mystery. The provincial press took up the cry, and throughout the three kingdoms everyone was talking of the case. It was even said that Miss Marlow, the present possessor of all this wealth, would marry the person who secured the thief and the murderer.
‘I won’t marry you, Alan dear, until my father’s body is back in the vault,’ said Sophy; ‘but at the same time, I won’t marry anyone else.’
‘But suppose I fail to find the body, Sophy?’
‘Then I must remain a spinster for the rest of my life.’
‘In that case you condemn me to be a crusty old bachelor.’
‘Never mind. We can still be friends and lovers.’
‘I’d rather we were man and wife,’ sighed Alan.
But he did not believe that she would cling to this idea of perpetual spinsterhood for any length of time. As for Miss Vicky, she thought Sophy mad to have thought of such a thing, and took her roundly to task.
‘A woman ought to marry,’ she said, breaking through the barriers of her ordinary primness. ‘Do you think, if my darling had lived, I should now be a wretched old maid? No, indeed! It would have been my delight to have been an obedient and loving wife to Edward.’
‘I’m sure I wish he had lived!’ cried Sophy, embracing her; ‘and I won’t have you call yourself crabbed. You are the sweetest, dearest woman in the world!’
‘So poor Edward thought,’ sighed Miss Vicky, fingering the precious brooch which always decorated some portion of her small person. ‘Alas the day! How often he told me so! But he died for his country on the field of glory,’ she cried, with a thrill of pride; ‘and in spite of my lonely old age, I don’t grudge his precious blood. Noble—noble Edward!’ and she wept.
‘Don’t cry any more, Vicky.’
‘It’s your obstinacy I’m crying at, Sophia. If your poor dear pa’s remains are not found within a certain time, marry Mr Thorold and be happy.’
‘I can’t—I won’t. How can I be happy knowing poor father isn’t at rest?’
‘His soul is at rest—the earthly tabernacle is nothing. Come, Sophia, don’t break with your life’s happiness!’
‘Alan and I understand one another, Vicky. I dare say we shall marry some day. But the body must be found.’
‘Lord grant it!’ ejaculated Miss Vicky piously, and said no more. For she found that the more she argued the more obstinate Sophy grew.
Amongst those who had hopes of gaining the reward was Cicero. He had come out of the ordeal of a public examination unscathed, and was now in the possession of his well-earned fifty pounds. Being anxious to remain in Heathton for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiri
es, he magnanimously forgave Mrs Timber, and took up his quarters at the Good Samaritan. Now that he had money and paid his bill regularly, the good lady considered it politic to treat him with more civility, although, after the manner of women, she felt constrained to remind him, every now and again, of his former poverty. But these remarks did not affect Mr Gramp in the least. He regarded her no more than if she had been a fly, and sailed about the village in a suit of new broadcloth and the best of tall hats, airing his eloquence. He became an attraction at the inn, and discoursed there every evening in fine style.
Mrs Warrender was much averse to his staying on at Heathton. She lived in constant dread lest the relationship between them should be discovered. But Cicero never mentioned it—nor did he ever mention her. Still, she felt doubtful, and one evening, on the plea that she wished to hear more of what he knew about her husband’s murder, she sent for him. He arrived to find her in a low evening dress, glittering with diamonds, and looking very handsome—so handsome, indeed, that even he could not refrain from giving vent to his admiration.
‘Upon my word, you are a Juno, Clara Maria!’ he said, when they were alone. ‘There is money in you yet!’
‘I know what you mean, Billy,’ replied the doctor’s widow coldly, ‘but I’m not going on the stage again in burlesque or anything else.’
‘How are you going to live?’ he asked with brutal candour.
‘That’s my business,’ retorted Mrs Warrender. ‘I have enough to live on, even without selling my jewels. Perhaps I shall marry again.’
‘I’m sure you will, Clara Maria. You always were a determined woman.’
‘Hold your tongue, and tell me how much longer do you intend to disgrace me here?’
‘How can I tell you, if I am to hold my tongue?’ said Cicero coolly. ‘As to staying here, I’m not disgracing you that I know of. No one knows you are my ungrateful sister.’
‘Billy, if I wasn’t a lady, I’d—Ungrateful, indeed, you brute! Go away at once!’
‘No, Clara Maria, not till I find out who killed my brother-in-law. I never knew him,’ said Cicero, wiping away a tear; ‘but as his nearest relative, I must avenge him.’
‘That won’t do, Billy,’ said his sister sourly; ‘you only want the reward.’
‘Both rewards, Clara Maria. With two thousand pounds I could be a gentleman for the rest of my life.’
‘That you will never be.’
‘I would do nothing—’
‘You never have, you lazy vagabond!’
‘Don’t interrupt and insult me, Clara Maria, but work with me.’
‘Work with you?’ gasped Mrs Warrender. ‘At what?’
‘At this case, Clara Maria. I believe that the secret of this mystery is to be found in the island of Jamaica—in the past life of Mr Marlow. Now, your husband knew the late lamented millionaire in Jamaica, and he might have left some papers relative to the acquaintance. If so, let me see them, and I’ll get on the track of the assassin. We will share the reward.’
‘My husband did leave papers,’ Mrs Warrender said thoughtfully, ‘but I won’t show them to you, Billy. You’d take all the money. No, I’ll read his papers myself, and if I can find anything likely to reveal the name of the person who stole the body and murdered Julian, I shall tell Mr Thorold.’
‘You won’t get the reward!’ cried Cicero in an agony.
‘Oh yes, I will; I’m as clever as you are, Billy. Thank you for the idea!’
‘You won’t work with me?’
‘No,’ said she firmly, ‘I won’t; I know you of old, and I want you to keep out of my way. Leave this village and I’ll give you twenty pounds.’
‘What! when there is a chance to make two thousand? No, Clara Maria.’
‘Then earn the reward yourself. There’s Joe Brill, he might tell you what you want to know,’ mocked Mrs Warrender. ‘My husband said he was with Marlow for thirty years.’
‘I wish I could ask Joe Brill,’ said Cicero gloomily. ‘Ever since he tipped me the sovereign I have suspected Joe Brill; but he’s gone!’
‘Gone! Gone where?’
‘I don’t know. I only heard the news tonight. He’s gone away without a word, and vanished!’ And Cicero groaned.
CHAPTER XI
THE STRANGER
THAT Joe Brill had disappeared from Heathton was perfectly true. So far Cicero was correct; but in stating that the man had vanished without a sign he was wrong. News—to be precise, gossip—travels more quickly in a village than in a town; it also gets more quickly distorted. For the intimacy of villagers is such that they are readier than less acquainted folk to take away from, or add to, any talk about those whose everyday life they know so well.
Joe Brill had left a letter for Sophy, who, in much alarm, consulted Miss Parsh. The consultation was overheard by the footman, who told the servants without mentioning the letter, about which he was not very clear himself, having caught only scraps of the conversation. The kitchen discussed the news, and retailed it to the baker, who, with the assistance of his wife, a noted gossip, spread it broadcast over the village. Thus, in the evening, it came to Cicero’s greedy ears; and so it was that he came to tell his sister that Joe Brill had disappeared without a sign. Sophy knew better.
‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ she said to Miss Vicky. ‘Joe is very cruel to leave me like this in my trouble. He knows that I look upon him as one of my best friends. To be thirty years with father, and then to leave me! Oh, dear Vicky, what does it mean?’
For answer, Miss Vicky read the letter aloud. It was badly written, and badly spelled; but it was short and to the point. Amended it ran as follows:
‘HONOURED MISS,
‘I am called away on business which may turn out well for you. When I’ll come back, miss, I don’t know; but wait in hope. Stand by and nail your colours to the mast. Don’t trust no one but Mr Thorold. Your prayers, honoured miss, are requested for your humble servant,
‘JOSEPH BRILL.’
‘Most extraordinary!’ said Miss Vicky, and laid down the letter to gaze blankly at Sophy.
‘I shall go mad with all this worry!’ cried the poor girl, taking the letter. ‘Oh, dear Vicky, everything has gone wrong since father died.’
‘Hush! Don’t talk of it, Sophia. Your pa’s remains have gone, but his soul is above. Dr Warrender has been buried, and the verdict of twelve intelligent men has been given. We must think no more of these matters. But Joseph’s letter—’
‘Is more of a mystery than all the rest put together,’ finished Sophy. ‘Just listen to the nonsense Joe writes: “I’m called away on business.” What business, Vicky?—and how can it turn out well for me? He doesn’t know when he’ll come back; that means he won’t come back at all. “Wait in hope.” Hope of what, for goodness’ sake, Vicky? And Alan—of course, I’ll trust no one but Alan. How absurd to put that in! Then he finishes by asking my prayers, just as though he were going to die. Vicky, is Joe mad?’
‘No; Joseph is too clear-headed a man to lose his wits. It’s my opinion, Sophia, that he’s gone to search for your poor papa’s remains.’
This was Alan’s opinion also when he read the letter, and heard of Joe’s disappearance. He questioned the servants, but they could give no details. The page, who slept in the same room, declared that he woke at six o’clock to find Joe’s bed empty; but this did not alarm him, as Joe was always the first in the house to be up. So Alan went to the railway-station, and learnt there that the old sailor, carrying some things tied up in a handkerchief, had taken the 6.30 train to the junction. A wire to the junction station-master, who knew Joe, elicited the reply that he had gone on to London by the express. Beyond this it was hopeless to attempt to trace him; for at Waterloo Station Joe had vanished into the crowd, and was lost. Alan told the lamenting Sophy that nothing could now be done but wait for his return.
‘But will he return?’ demanded the girl tearfully.
‘I think so. I agree with Miss Vicky: Joe has gone to search f
or your father’s body.’
‘But he has no idea where it is. If he did, he would surely have told me or you, Alan, knowing how anxious we are!’
‘He may have a clue, and may want to follow it up himself. And I believe, Sophy, that Joe knows more about the matter than we think. Do you remember that he gave Cicero a sovereign to leave the Moat House?’
‘What of that?’
‘Only that a sovereign was a large sum for a servant like Joe to give. He thought, no doubt, that Cicero knew too much, and he wanted to get him away before he could be questioned. It was his guilty conscience which made him so generous.’
‘Guilty conscience, Alan? What had Joe done?’
‘Nothing, so far as I know,’ replied Thorold readily. ‘But I am convinced there is something in your father’s past life, Sophy, which would account for the violation of the vault. Joe knows it, but for some reason he won’t tell. I questioned him about the ridiculous sum he gave to Cicero, but I could get no satisfactory explanation out of him—nor could Blair.’
‘You don’t think he was the short man with Dr Warrender on that night, Alan?’ asked the girl somewhat tremulously.
‘No, I do not; I asked the boy who sleeps in the same room. He said that Joe went to bed as usual, and that he never heard him go out. Besides, Sophy, I am certain the accomplice of Warrender was Brown.’
‘The Quiet Gentleman?’
‘Yes; he had the key of the vault. And also, by the evidence of the stamp, he had something to do with Jamaica. Perhaps he knew your father there.’
‘Perhaps he did. Joe would know.’
‘Joe will not speak, and, at all events, he has gone. We must wait until he comes back.’
