A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1)

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  He crossed to Peyton’s writing desk. It had three drawers and a small cupboard, all of which were unlocked. Papers, papers — he flicked impatiently but expertly over files in the drawers, turning at last to the cupboard. Here were stacks of fresh paper and writing materials, a box containing a franking rubber stamp and inkpad, a few personal items. He was about to shut the door, when he caught sight of a hook at the top of the cupboard from which hung two keys.

  He seized these, quickly inserting them into the locks of the fastened drawers in the other desk. They turned easily. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  The feeling soon changed to one of disgust. The contents of the drawers were doubtless highly confidential to the Government, but they appeared not to include anything of a personal nature to Cleveland. He closed and locked them again, disappointed, returning the keys to their original place.

  When he came back to stand once more before Cleveland’s desk, looking at it in a puzzled way, he noticed a faint line across the upper portion of the kneehole section. He bent down to examine this more closely by the light of his lantern, then drew in a sharp breath. He could now just discern the outline of what must be a small drawer, fitted in such a way that it was practically undetectable.

  But how to open it? There was no keyhole, nor a handle.

  He had heard of secret drawers which could be opened by releasing a hidden spring and feverishly set about looking for such a device. He found it at last more by luck than judgment. Passing his fingers over the surrounding woodwork, he pressed upon one of a series of small carved flowers and the drawer sprang outwards.

  It contained a notebook and three or four letters. Watts picked up the notebook first and began to turn the pages slowly. It seemed to be concerned chiefly with financial matters.

  At first he was disappointed, scrutinizing the accounting of purely domestic concerns such as the amounts raised by a sale of horses at Tattersall’s. Bearing in mind the lost opportunity with Yarnton’s notebook, however, he persevered, turning page after page.

  Presently his eyes gleamed with excitement. Here was evidence, right enough, and he intended to impound the book. He thrust it in his pocket.

  He turned his attention next to the letters. Only one was of interest to him.

  It was composed of words cut from newsprint.

  The foot patrol officer in Piccadilly scrutinized Joe Watts suspiciously as a matter of course but did not challenge the Runner as he turned into Albemarle Street. Arrived at Justin Rutherford’s house, Watts fitted a key into the lock and quietly admitted himself. It had been previously arranged that Justin’s servants should be sent to bed, out of the way.

  A light was burning in the hall, and Justin emerged from the library to beckon him into the room. He waved the Runner to a chair, handed him a glass of wine poured from a decanter on a side table, then raised his brows interrogatively.

  ‘We’ve got him, guv’nor!’ exclaimed Watts, having taken a gulp at the wine.

  He set down his glass and produced the notebook and letter from his pocket.

  ‘What d’you reckon to that, sir, eh?’

  Justin took the documents, examining the letter first. Seeing its composition he whistled, then studied the wording attentively for several minutes: ‘As usual, £2,000 to Mr Thompson at the Fleet Street office by April eleventh. Fail at your peril.’

  He turned the single sheet over.

  ‘There’s no direction written on it.’

  ‘Reckon he hadn’t got as far as that yet,’ replied Watts, having drained his wine glass. ‘Just finished putting it together, I’d opine. And if you’ll take a look at this entry in the notebook, sir,’ — he took it from Justin’s hand to find the relevant page, then gave it back to him — ‘you’ll see there’s further evidence. Not but what the letter’s damning enough, by all accounts.’

  Justin set down the letter in order to examine the notebook.

  The page to which Watts had turned bore no heading, and there were only four entries:

  1814, October, £2,000, Reading

  1815, April, £2,000, Islington

  1815, October, £2,000, Charing X

  1816, April

  The final entry was incomplete.

  He looked up, frowning.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Watts triumphantly.

  ‘Very well,’ replied Justin slowly. ‘All the same, I do wonder why he didn’t keep a record of the earlier payments.’

  ‘Earlier payments?’

  ‘Yes. Lady Kinver stated that she had been making six-monthly payments of two thousand pounds regularly ever since October of 1811. Now, why do you suppose Cleveland should omit those before the first date shown here?’

  Watts shrugged. ‘He may not have bothered to keep a reckoning at first. If you notice, sir, all the other financial transactions in this here book date from about two years back.’

  Justin turned over the other pages and nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s so,’ he agreed.

  ‘Then, with respect, sir, I can’t see it signifies. There’s enough evidence here to bring him into Bow Street for questioning.’

  ‘Yes, I think we must certainly question him, though the answers may not be quite what we expect. You’ll go there for him tomorrow, I take it?’

  ‘Soon as I can get a warrant signed, sir. Well, I suppose after that there’s not much point in asking how you fared at the doctor’s place?’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ll tell you. I found ample evidence that over the past four years Dr Wetherby has had a succession of expensive ladybirds in keeping. The latest is an actress at the Olympic Theatre, and she left there after the performance this evening in his company. She was wearing a fortune round her neck in the shape of a jewelled necklace. I saw the invoice for it in his bureau, later.’

  Watts whistled. ‘So he has good reason for raising the wind by blackmail too, and we think he may be in the know about Lady Velmond, as well as t’other poor creature whom he does definitely know about. Pity he’s out of the running, as we’ve nailed our man.’

  Justin gave a sceptical grin. ‘Ever heard that proverb about not counting your chickens?’

  CHAPTER 15

  Sir Nathaniel Conant was seriously disturbed at the prospect of bringing in a member of His Majesty’s Government to Bow Street for questioning.

  ‘You must effect the arrest as discreetly as possible,’ he warned Watts. ‘In the eventuality of there being any error, I shudder to think of the repercussions as far as this office is concerned. It is a thousand pities that Mr Rutherford himself cannot handle this in a more private way.’

  ‘But there’s evidence enough, sir, of the MP’s guilt,’ persisted Watts. ‘We can’t let him get away with it, now, can we?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. But if you could perhaps prevail upon Mr Rutherford to go along with you and see what can be done to manage the business without making too much stir? One does not like to trespass on his time — such an influential family — but then, dealing with a Member of Parliament —’

  ‘Lor’ bless you, sir,’ said Watts cheerfully, ‘Captain Rutherford — I should say Mr — will make nothing of a little job like that, I’ll be bound. He’ll come with me, right enough.’

  Thus reassured, Sir Nathaniel issued the required warrant. Watts went hot-foot to Albemarle Street. He found Justin quite agreeable to accompanying him on his errand.

  ‘Naturally, I didn’t consider I should interfere in the official part of this affair, Joe, but since your chief asks it, I’ll be relieved to have a word with Cleveland myself,’ said Justin. ‘And to be present also at the official interrogation — if it comes to that.’

  ‘Which it most certainly will, sir,’ insisted Watts.

  Arrived at Cleveland’s house, Justin handed in his card at the door: a measure they had agreed upon in advance as meeting Sir Nathaniel Conant’s request for discretion. The butler looked surprised. It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning, an hour well in advance of that usual for
the Quality to pay calls upon each other.

  ‘I regret, sir, that Mr Cleveland is not at home,’ the man said formally.

  Justin gave him a quizzical look. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said gently, but with quiet authority. ‘Nevertheless, I believe he will see me if you inform him that it is upon a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I fear I have not made myself quite clear, Mr Rutherford,’ replied the butler apologetically. ‘When I informed you that Mr Cleveland was not at home, I meant that he has gone away. He left for Norfolk less than an hour since and is not expected to return for several days.’

  Watts stifled an exclamation.

  ‘I see,’ said Justin. ‘Then I would like to speak with Mr Cleveland’s secretary, please.’

  The butler shook his head. ‘Mr Peyton has been given leave during Mr Cleveland’s absence, sir, and he also quitted the house early this morning.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me whereabouts in Norfolk I may reach Mr Cleveland,’ replied Justin. ‘It is, as I said, a matter of urgency.’

  The butler was not particularly alarmed by this statement, used as he was to callers desirous of consulting his employer on parliamentary business. He opened the door wider.

  ‘If you will be pleased to enter, Mr Rutherford, I will write down the direction for you. Mr Cleveland is to join Mrs Cleveland at the house of their daughter, Lady Barclay.’

  As Justin was about to step inside, Watts touched his arm.

  ‘See you outside in a few moments,’ he said sotto voce.

  Justin nodded. When he descended the steps into St James’s Square after obtaining the information he needed, there was no sign of the Runner. He strolled slowly along and presently Watts joined him, emerging from the mews of the house a trifle out of breath and looking disturbed.

  ‘All poppycock, sir — this going to Norfolk, I mean! Had a word with my little housemaid, and she’s friendly with one o’ the grooms. Seems Cleveland told this fellow at the last moment to be ready to accompany him in his curricle — where d’ you think, sir? — to Dover! Skipping the country for France, that’s what, I opine. Any hope of catching him, d’ you reckon?’

  ‘We’ll have a damn good try! Whistle up that hack of yours, and we’ll get back to my place. I’ve a pair of blood cattle in my stables — should show a clean pair of heels to anything of Cleveland’s, by all I’ve heard. But he’ll have pretty well an hour’s start of us.’

  ‘If he does intend crossing the Channel, there’ll be some delay in booking a passage and then waiting on the tide,’ mused Watts. ‘Likely we’ll get him at Dover.’

  With the minimum of delay, they were presently bowling along the road towards Greenwich and Dartford in Justin’s lightly sprung, smart curricle. At Dartford they changed horses, leaving Justin’s greys in the charge of his groom until the return journey. While the change was being made, they heard from an ostler that their quarry had also stopped there about half an hour since.

  ‘There’s a sporting chance we might pick him up at Rochester,’ declared Justin. ‘That’s if this pair can stand the pace. They’re not bad,’ he added, flicking his whip at them. ‘Not in the same class as my greys, of course, but one don’t expect that of job cattle.’

  The horses were fresh, however, and acquitted themselves creditably, covering the thirteen miles to the Bull at Rochester in less than an hour. Justin drove through the archway into the cobbled courtyard. An ostler came running at once.

  Watts questioned the man while Justin strode into the inn with the object of taking a quick pull at a tankard of ale before continuing their journey. He had just reached the counter in the taproom when Watts appeared at his elbow, drawing him to one side.

  ‘Our man’s here,’ he said in an undertone, ‘stopped off to get a bite to eat. I’ll have a word with the landlord, see just where we’ll find him. I told ’em in the yard not to put our horses to yet awhile.’

  Justin nodded. ‘Devil take the fellow! I’m parched with thirst, and I’ll wager you are, too. However, duty calls, let’s see mine host.’

  They elicited the information that Cleveland could be found in a private room upstairs, number six. Accordingly, they mounted the broad staircase which led to galleries of bedrooms and private sitting-rooms, soon locating the one they sought.

  Watts rapped smartly on the door and, without waiting for an answer, walked in purposefully, closely followed by Justin.

  Cleveland was sitting there alone at a small table on which were the remains of a meal. He had half risen at the knock and now straightened himself, staring as they entered.

  ‘Who in thunder —?’ he began.

  Watts produced his official baton, displaying the crown stamped on the top of it.

  ‘Bow Street, sir. I’d like you to accompany me back to London for questioning.’

  ‘The devil you would!’

  He took a longer look at Watts, then snorted.

  ‘Aren’t you that officer who came to my house to ask some stupid question or other not more than a week since?’ he demanded.

  ‘The same. Joseph Watts, sir.’

  ‘Well, Watts,’ continued Cleveland, ‘I can only repeat what I told you at the time. I consider that I’ve been pestered more than enough over this business and must warn you that any more harassment on your part will cost you your office.’ He turned to Justin. ‘As for you, Mr Rutherford, I am not perfectly clear as to what I owe the unsolicited honour of your company?’

  Justin bowed. ‘That will emerge, Mr Cleveland. Indeed, I may say that you could be grateful for my presence here, little as you think it now.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Cleveland sneered. ‘You will oblige me by leaving this room immediately, sir, and taking your henchman with you.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ put in Watts grimly. ‘I have a warrant here for your arrest, Mr Henry Cleveland, and I advise you to come quietly.’

  Cleveland’s face paled slightly, and he leaned on the back of his chair for support. For a moment he said nothing.

  ‘I don’t need to ask on what charge,’ he said at last in an altered voice.

  ‘Don’t you, sir?’ demanded Watts. ‘That saves a mort o’ time, then, don’t it? Just you come along.’

  Justin raised a hand to stop them as Cleveland took a few hesitant steps to Watts’s side.

  ‘One moment,’ he said. ‘There are certain misunderstandings which need clearing up first. You say you know what the charge is, Cleveland. Oblige us by stating it.’

  Watts opened his mouth to interrupt, but Justin silenced him with a gesture.

  ‘What the devil’s the good of that?’ asked Cleveland wearily. ‘It’s that Stock Exchange fraud business, isn’t it? When Cochrane was convicted two years ago, I thought myself safe — after all, I didn’t make as much out of it as Cochrane and his brother — a paltry sum by their standards. And after a lapse of two years since the conviction of the principals in the affair, who’d have supposed the Stock Exchange would trouble further? I might have known, though — just my luck. In view of everything, it can’t signify greatly.’ He sighed.

  ‘No, I don’t believe it does,’ replied Justin quietly. ‘But I must put you right on this point, Cleveland; the charge brought against you is not one of fraud.’

  Cleveland stared. ‘Not? Then what, in God’s name?’

  ‘Blackmail,’ stated Watts. ‘We’re in possession of evidence. And leading from that, suspicion of the murder of Marmaduke Yarnton.’

  ‘Blackmail!’ Cleveland choked on the word. ‘I — a blackmailer? Oh, God, what a tangle! And murder — why should I be suspected of murdering Yarnton? I’d got nothing against the man. Didn’t like him, but who did? Hell and the devil, you’ve got it all wrong, man, I swear!’

  ‘Yes, so I thought,’ said Justin. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment, shall we, while we straighten things out? And I think perhaps, Cleveland’ — as the other sank into his chair thankfully, looking as if his legs would no longer support him �
� ‘you’d be the better for finishing the glass of wine we interrupted.’

  Watts frowned at his partner as they both seated themselves on two chairs placed round the table. He could not entirely approve of Justin Rutherford’s manner of conducting this interview, much as he trusted his former captain. Nevertheless, he waited in silence while they watched Cleveland toss down the wine.

  ‘You’ll recall, no doubt,’ began Justin, opening the batting, as he put it to himself, ‘that Officer Watts questioned you a week since about Yarnton’s mention of a man named Thompson?’ Cleveland nodded but said nothing. ‘That reference of Yarnton’s seemed to produce a strong reaction in more than one of his hearers,’ continued Justin. ‘We have since discovered why. Thompson is the pseudonym of a blackmailer.’

  ‘But — but how — who —?’ stuttered Cleveland.

  ‘I collect you mean how do we know? Simply this — one of the blackmailer’s victims confided in a friend, who brought the information to me — with permission, of course, knowing that I was attempting to solve the mystery of Yarnton’s murder. What I was seeking to establish was a strong enough motive for the deed — the opportunity was open to almost every male present at that soirée, while the means were to hand — if you’ll forgive a somewhat grim pun. But once we knew Thompson to be a blackmailer, the motive became clear. Yarnton’s reference to the name implied that he knew the real identity of the blackmailer and that it was one of the guests among the group to whom he mentioned Thompson. You were one of that number.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not the man! You can’t bring this home to me!’

  Cleveland’s voice mounted almost to a pitch of hysteria.

  Watts rose from his chair and slapped down on the table the notebook and letter he had taken from the secret drawer.