He was taking from his pocket-book an envelope containing the bank-note found gummed between the pages of a detective novel. The two numbers were identical.
“Well, all’s well that ends well. I’ve got my note back. I’ll take it down to the bank to-morrow; it’ll help to pay my income-tax.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t give it back to you yet, Lady Penmore; we may require it in evidence.”
“Surely you’re not going to try the man who knocked out such an arch-scoundrel as Frank Willis? Why, he was a public benefactor.”
“We haven’t found him yet, and perhaps we never shall.”
“Not at the rate you seem to be going; but if you’re going to prove my godson’s innocence and you can’t do it without the note, I suppose I must let you keep it. I’ve washed my hands of the young idiot, who first of all allows himself to be bled to the white by that scoundrel, Willis, and then when they let him out of prison goes down to work with other members of that tainted family in a garage. He wouldn’t have been convicted if he’d told all he knew about that family, but a man when he’s in love…Well, I won’t dwell on it, for fear I may use plain English and shock you.”
“Do you remember how you sent the note to Mr. Sutcliffe? Did you hand it to him personally?”
“No; the young fool was never to be found in his office. I stuck it into a sealed envelope with directions about investing it, and left it with the office boy to be given to my godson as soon as he came in.”
“And Mr. Frank Willis was not in the office at the time?”
“I didn’t stop to ask; it would have been too great a strain on my nervous system to have to be civil to the man. I never could stand him.”
With the note still in his pocket Richardson took his leave.
Chapter Eighteen
“AT LAST we seem to have got to something definite,” said Jago, as they walked to the station.
“I can see that you’re relieved to find that there is a definite link between the murder on Dartmoor and the Sutcliffe case,” said Richardson with a twinkle. “I hope to have more before the day is over.”
They were fortunate in the hour when they reached the station. The London express—one of the best trains in the day—was due in seven minutes. As usual when a train is likely to be crowded, they seated themselves in opposite corners and treated one another as strangers. The carriage filled up; the train pulled out and Richardson composed himself to sleep.
They crossed from Paddington to Victoria in a taxi, since they were already late for their interview with Sutcliffe at the garage, and the Inner Circle trains took half an hour. It was nearly seven o’clock when they reached Bromley.
“Ah! Here you are at last,” exclaimed Sutcliffe, emerging from the gloom. “I volunteered for night duty so as not to miss you.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t keep our appointment,” said Richardson, “but we had to be down at Bristol and Bath this morning and that is why we are so late.”
“I have something for you,” said Sutcliffe. “You asked me yesterday whether there was a photograph of Frank Willis. His sister told you that there was not, and that was the truth as far as she was concerned, but the old woman who has worked for the family for years and dotes on them all, told me that she had a photograph, a fairly recent one, in which ‘Master Frank,’ as she called him, appears with his brother and sister. She was very loath to part with it even for an afternoon, but I assured her that she should have it back at the earliest possible moment. You mustn’t let me down about this.”
“I won’t,” said Richardson. “I’ll get the photograph copied to-morrow morning and give the original back to you.”
Acting on this assurance Sutcliffe went into the office and brought back the photograph neatly done up in tissue paper. Richardson opened the packet and looked at it critically. It was like most other family groups of two young men and a young woman, save that the picture was redeemed from banality by the beauty of the girl. Richardson had never seen the body of the man who had been buried at Winterton, therefore he could draw no conclusions from the portrait of the elder brother, which in features distantly reminded him of the sister.
“Thank you, Mr. Sutcliffe. This shall be shown to the widow of the murdered man, or rather, the copy shall be shown, and you shall have the original back by eleven o’clock to-morrow morning at latest. And now I want to ask you one or two questions. How long had Frank Willis been with you before the crash came?”
“When you say how long had he been with me you mean how long had he had the run of my office? Well, the crash came in May and he first took to coming to the office in the previous December—five months before.”
“Before December did he not come to the office at all?”
“No—for the excellent reason that he wasn’t in England.”
“Now, as regards your banking arrangements, was your personal account kept separate from the accounts of the firm?”
“It ought to have been, of course, but I’m afraid that it wasn’t. You see, the firm was myself, and any money that accrued to it accrued to me personally.”
“You had a pass-book, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, but I can’t say truthfully that I looked into it much. Occasionally I looked at my balance, but I left all that to the office.”
“How long had your office staff been with you?”
“Oh, Instone my chief clerk had been with my father before I succeeded to the business. He must have been with the firm for ten years. The boy Reddy came to the firm on leaving school.”
“You conducted your own defence at your trial?”
“I did, but I was greatly helped by my clerk, Instone, who virtually prepared my defence. It was he who furnished me with all the necessary information, and it seemed absurd to spend a lot of money on an advocate. The facts were against me.”
“You didn’t call Mr. Frank Willis as a witness for your defence?”
“No, he was abroad. If you like to put it crudely, he had run away.”
“Have you kept any papers belonging to your former office?”
“All books and papers at the office were taken charge of by my brother, and I believe that they are stored away in an upper room or in the cellar of his office in Mincing Lane.”
“I should like very much to run through them,” said Richardson; “not to make an audit of your accounts, but to look at any letters that might be useful to my inquiry.”
“Very well, I’ll take you down to Mincing Lane to-morrow morning. The chief clerk is very obliging and I’ve no doubt that he can dig out the papers and give us a corner in which to look through them.”
At that moment the big bell rang in the garage, signifying that a customer was coming in with his car. Sutcliffe stepped to a switch and every lamp flashed into brilliance. A car came slowly in on its first speed and a rather haughty young man switched off the engine and descended.
“Have her filled up with petrol, oil and water by eight o’clock to-morrow morning and I’ll come round for her.”
“Very good, sir,” said Sutcliffe.
And then a second car hooted at the garage door and crept in like the other. Richardson and his sergeant slipped out; Sutcliffe was likely to be engaged for an hour or two.
“Let’s stroll along the main street and choose a photographer for copying this picture. The only men to avoid are the fashionable ones who display portraits of mawkish young females in their windows; the smaller men are the most use for what we want.”
They found what they wanted in a small and rather humble shop a little farther down. Richardson drew a bow at a venture by sounding the door-bell. The proprietor, it appeared, lived over his shop and was eager for custom at any hour.
“Forgive me for disturbing you after closing time,” said Richardson, “but I have to get a copy made of a group which is urgently wanted. Will you do it for me?”
“Let me have a look at it. Oh, yes, it’s all plain sailing. I can do it right away and you wo
n’t quarrel with the price.”
“Thank you. I’ll be round between eight and nine to-morrow morning. You’ll take care of the original, won’t you?”
“You can trust me for that, sir.”
“Now,” said Richardson, “I think we’ve done enough for to-day, and bed’s the place for us. We must get back home.”
The two police officers found themselves in Bromley again next morning by eight o’clock. Their first call was on the photographer, who delivered to them two excellent copies of the family group and the original folded nattily into its tissue paper. From thence they went on to the garage, where they found Sutcliffe awaiting them in his best clothes.
“I took off my overalls and had a wash-up as I knew you were coming,” he said. “I’m ready to start for Mincing Lane whenever you like.”
“Here is the original of the photograph you lent me last night,” said Richardson. “I’ve had some excellent copies made.”
“Certainly you people don’t waste time. Let me just put this in the office with a note and then we’ll be off to Mincing Lane.”
“Poor devil!” said Jago. “I wouldn’t like to exchange jobs with him. He’s been up all night taking in cars, and now we’re going to drag him off to the City.”
“Probably if he knew what we have to do he wouldn’t change places with you,” observed Richardson. “Every man to his job.”
In Mincing Lane they were received by the chief clerk, a man who had been in the service of the tea company for many years. Peter Sutcliffe took him aside and explained the object of their visit. The old man laughed and said to Richardson, “We don’t have the honour of a visit from a Chief Inspector of the C.I.D. every day in the year. I’m afraid that we had to put the papers you want down among the rats in the cellar, and I won’t answer for the state they are in.” He gave an order to the porter and took them into his own sanctum to wait. Presently there was a knock at the door and the porter entered, a little out of breath with the weight of the case he was carrying. It was covered with dust and mildew.
“If you are going to open the case in here, sir,” he said, “I should advise you to turn up the rugs and have a brush handy. I’ll draw the screws.”
The rats had not gnawed their way in, but every other agency that destroys records had been busily at work—dust, damp and mildew. Clearly it was going to be a dirty job. Fortunately the books were all at the bottom of the case, and it was only the papers at the top with which Richardson was concerned. He went down on his knees beside the case and began to pull them out, while Jago stood by with a duster.
“What are you looking for?” asked Sutcliffe. “I may be able to help you.”
“I want specimens of the handwriting of Instone, your clerk, and of Reddy your office boy.”
“Oh, those are easily found. Here you are! This is Instone’s—it’s only a list of documents, but that will do as well as anything else. And here, by good luck, is a specimen of Reddy’s. Now what else do you want?”
“I should like to have any letter from that woman, Dora Straight, who made a complaint to the Bristol police about your dealings with that mine.”
“I doubt whether you’ll find that. I can’t remember that she ever wrote to me. Hullo! What’s this? A letter that has never been opened.”
Sutcliffe tore open the envelope and read the letter. He tossed it over to Richardson. It was an abusive letter signed “Dora Straight,” the very document they were seeking.
“The lady little thought that all this vitriol was going to stay more than four years unopened,” observed Sutcliffe, with a bitter laugh, “and that it is going to be used now by the Criminal Investigation Department.”
“I wanted it only for her address,” said Richardson, pulling out his pencil. “I want to call upon her. You have no objection to me taking away these letters?”
“Not the least in the world.”
After thanking the chief clerk and taking leave of Sutcliffe, the two police officers looked up their time-table and made for Waterloo.
They had the carriage to themselves and were therefore free to discuss the case.
“I didn’t quite follow what you wanted those letters for,” said Jago.
“You’ve forgotten that we haven’t yet cleared up the identity of the murdered man. Quite a number of people seem to think that it was he who was Frank Willis. I thought so myself until yesterday; but we shall know for certain when we have shown Mrs. Dearborn the photograph I have in my pocket.”
“Then who do you think it was?”
“I have my own theory, but I’m not going to tell you what it is until we see Mrs. Dearborn again. Anyway, I’m beginning to see daylight. I hope that Superintendent Carstairs will send the car to meet us. We must catch Mrs. Dearborn before she goes to bed.”
Sergeant Jago was the first to catch sight of the police car as they neared Tavistock station. “I can see the car,” he shouted. “Now we shan’t be long.”
They had a warm welcome from the driver. “Mr. Carstairs was wondering only this morning when he would see you back,” he said.
“Has anything been happening since we’ve been away?”
“The newspapers have been full of your movements. They’ve worked up quite a lot of public feeling about the case—making you a ‘man of mystery who always gets home on his cases in the end.’ They will be deadly disappointed if you don’t get home on this one.”
“Have the reporters been worrying Mrs. Dearborn?”
“There are always a couple of them hanging about the gate of The Firs. Yesterday she had to telephone to Mr. Carstairs to come down and speak to them.” The constable laughed in reminiscence of the scene. “You should have heard him talking to them as if they belonged to the lower deck. He put them through it properly and they slunk off to get away from his tongue.”
“Will Mr. Carstairs be expecting us?”
“Yes, he’ll be out on the porch as we drive up.”
It was a shrewd prediction. The Superintendent came up to the car to shake hands before they alighted. “We’ve been wanting you back badly, Mr. Richardson. Step into my office for a moment and tell me how you’ve been getting on.”
“We haven’t been wasting our time, Mr. Carstairs,” said Richardson as soon as the door was shut. “But I shan’t be able to tell you our conclusions until I’ve seen Mrs. Dearborn at The Firs. I think, if you don’t mind, that we’ll go along there now and catch her before she goes to bed. Then I shall be able to tell you the real identity of her late husband and a good deal besides. Would you care to come with me?”
Carstairs shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Richardson. I’ll stick to my resolution to leave the case to you, but I should like to hear what conclusion you have come to when you’ve seen her.”
Mrs. Dearborn had not gone to bed. She might have been expecting them, so quickly did she open the door in response to their ring. She led the way into the sitting-room and begged them to sit down.
“I’ll waste no time,” said Richardson, taking from his pocket a large envelope containing photographs and letters. “I want you first to look at this photograph.” It was that of the group of the Willis family. “Are either of these two men your late husband?”
She looked carefully at them and shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically. “But what a lovely girl! The one sitting between them.”
Then followed the document in Charles Instone’s handwriting. “Do you recognize this handwriting?”
“It is something like my husband’s, but his was more careless if you know what I mean. He might have written just like this if he were taking pains.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dearborn. That is all I want to ask you this evening. Go and have a good night’s rest and we’ll have another talk to-morrow.”
“But I should like to know a little more. Who was my husband?”
“I hope to be able to tell you his real name to-morrow. To-night you have nothing to do but go to bed and get a good sleep. Good
night!”
On the way back to the police station Sergeant Jago began to pump his chief. “Who was Dearborn then?”
“If you haven’t guessed I don’t think that I ought to enlighten you. But I will. He was Charles Instone, Peter Sutcliffe’s trusted clerk.”
“But how did he come by all that money?”
“By consistently robbing his employer to the tune of twenty-five thousand pounds in a single year.”
Chapter Nineteen
“ARE YOU going to tell Superintendent Carstairs?” asked Jago as they came in sight of the police station. “I could see that his tongue was hanging out for news.”
“Certainly. I shall tell him at once.”
As they approached they saw a constable who had been watching the road from the steps enter the building, doubtless to tell Carstairs that they were coming. They found him standing at the door of his office evidently agog for news.
“Step in here, Mr. Richardson. How are things going?”
“We are doing pretty well. I had to see Mrs. Dearborn to get her to identify some photographs and specimens of handwriting, and now we know the real identity of her husband.”
“Ah! That’s something, anyhow. Who was he?”
“A solicitor’s clerk from Bristol named Charles Instone.”
“A solicitor’s clerk? How does that fit in with his being a quarry-owner and a rich man?”
“He was rich because he had been robbing his employer of twenty-five thousand pounds. I haven’t got to the bottom of his other villainies yet, but I am confident now that I shall.”
The Superintendent was too much astonished by this information to do more than make clicking noises with his lips. At last he found his tongue.
“It’s a wonderful piece of work that you’ve done, Mr. Richardson. I don’t know how you did it and I’m not going to ask you, but it’s wonderful work. I suppose you’ll be able to prove it?”
“Up to the hilt when the time comes, but now I’m beginning to feel that it’s sleep I want, and so I fancy do you, so I’ll say good night. By the way, if you can spare your car to-morrow I should like it to take me up to Duketon for an inquiry.”
The Dartmoor Enigma Page 17
