Читать книгу Craven Fortune - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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Beyond all question the man in the bed was dead, though there appeared to be no great cause for agitation. James Everton was old and miserly; it was reported in Middlesworth that he denied himself proper food. Nobody ever came to look after him and for years he had done entirely for himself. An accident would have found him helpless. It seemed a fitting end for such a man. They usually died that way, as most people who study the newspapers know.

"It is an amazing coincidence," Saxby said with white lips.

"I don't think so," Wilfrid replied. In his professional capacity he was accustomed to sights like this, so that he did not lose his coolness. "Most people die with people looking after them. Mr. Everton chose to look after himself. If it had not been for you and me it might have been the milk-man's luck to find him in the morning. I only hope----"

Wilfrid was about to say that he only hoped the dead man had not made a will, in which case his property would go to Freda's father. But it was not the correct thing to utter such a thought and Wilfrid checked it in time.

"I'll see what was the matter," he said. "My profession gives me the privilege of making some investigation. I don't suppose any other doctor has been called in. Light those gas brackets, Frank."

After some trouble and with the aid of a pin, Saxby managed to clean the burners, and a great light flared up. As Wilfrid drew back the counterpane that covered the dead man to the throat he gave a sudden cry. He had made a discovery indeed.

"The man has been murdered," he exclaimed. "Look here, Frank."

Though the body had been covered up to the throat, it was fully dressed, even to the boots on the feet. For some extraordinary reason his hands had been tightly bound together with cords which were afterwards drawn up and securely tied round the brass rail of the bed. All this had taken time, for the murdered man had fought for his life, the drawn hard face still looking as fierce and grim as it had been in life. There was a deep wound in the left breast, from which the blood had gushed out and congealed on the shabby coat. The hands were tightly clenched.

"This is a ghastly business," Saxby stammered. "It never occurred to me----"

"Of course it didn't," Wilfrid put in. "It never occurred to me, though I have had experience in tragedies, till I pulled down the counterpane. But there is no occasion to inquire into the cause of death. The murderer's knife must have gone clean through the poor fellow's heart. Death must have been instantaneous."

"Before or after he was tied up?" Saxby asked.

"That I cannot say. This is a startling business, Frank. One would hardly think the assassin would take that trouble after he had committed the crime. And yet if it was done before, why are there no signs of a struggle?"

"Is it possible that drugs were used?" Saxby asked.

"That is a pretty good suggestion, my dear fellow," said Wilfrid. "After what we have found out, I don't think it would be prudent to take more upon ourselves. I'll stay here whilst you go for the police. You'd better go at once."

Saxby slipped out of the house without delay. He was back very soon with an inspector and two officers in plain clothes. Inspector Morran touched his laced cap. He remarked that this was a dreadful affair and then fell to business.

"I am bound to ask you a few questions, sir," he said at length, to Saxby. "Can you tell me the exact time that you made the discovery?"

Saxby replied that it was certainly within the last twenty minutes. He had called to see Mr. Everton on business, late as the hour was. Morran raised his eyebrows.

"It was very late," he said. "Did you tell anybody you were coming here, sir?"

"Yes, I told my friend, Dr. Bayfield. I was staying with the doctor to-night and I said I would go round and see Mr. Everton. I knew he was a man of peculiar habits; he frequently lay in bed all day and sat up working all night. I did him a small service some time ago and he has never forgotten it and gave me the privilege of calling when I liked."

"I see," the inspector said thoughtfully. "Did you find the door tampered with?"

"Not at all," Saxby replied. "The door was not fastened. Mr. Everton had the reputation--which was, I'm afraid, true--of being a miser, but he never fastened his front door. He was a sardonic kind of man in his way and wished perhaps to tempt people to try to rob him. Personally, I never saw any valuables lying about, as the big safe----"

"We'll get to that presently," Morran said. "Tell me what happened to-night."

"There is not very much more to tell," Saxby resumed. "I opened the door and walked in. I should not have done so had I not seen the gas burning in the sitting-room. This showed that Mr. Everton was about, for he would not have gone to bed and allowed the gas to waste like that. Nobody was in the sitting-room, so I went upstairs; Mr. Everton was lying on the bed apparently asleep. The whole thing was so unlike him that I became uneasy and suspicious. I touched the sleeper and it seemed to me instantly that he was dead. Then I decided to send for Dr. Bayfield, and I summoned him by a note which I gave to a loafer."

"Who was hanging about outside?" Morran asked sharply.

"No, I could hardly say that," Saxby went on. "I know the loafer by sight and am sure that he was passing the house quite by accident. I don't think you need worry about him. If there is anything more that I can tell you, why----"

But Morran had no further questions to ask for the present. The next thing to do was to make a thorough search of the house. All this took time and it seemed as if it were going to be labour wasted. Then one of the men in plain clothes pulled back the disturbed counterpane and something tinkled on the floor. As the man picked it up the light fell on the glittering trinket, and the room was full of trembling rays of fire.

"A diamond necklace," Morran explained. "And a marvellously fine one. Rather too heavy for the modern idea of comfort, but these enamels are wonderful."

"May I have a look at it?" Wilfrid asked. "Yes, it is remarkably heavy, Morran."

It was not only heavy, but, in some vague way, quite familiar. The necklace consisted of some twenty blue enamel medallions edged and set with magnificent diamonds, the whole threaded together with a slender gold wire twisted in a peculiar pattern, so as to keep the medallions just the fraction of an inch apart. As Wilfrid spread the gem out on the bed he noticed a thing that had escaped Morran's keen eyes--one of the medallions near the middle of the necklace had gone. He pointed this out to the inspector.

"Well, this may be a clue," the latter said. "At the same time it may only be an accident. That may have been missing for years. Still----"

"I don't think so," Wilfrid interrupted eagerly. "I fancy not. The colour of the wires by which the medallion was attached is brighter than the rest. If the thing had been missing for a considerable period the wires would have dulled. Besides----"

Wilfrid did not finish his sentence; the words stuck in his throat. He turned his head away, for he had no desire that Morran should see his face. Fortunately the latter was too busy examining the wires of the necklace. For Wilfrid had made a stupendous discovery; nothing less than the fact that the missing medallion was the same gem that Freda had tried to force upon him in Morrison's conservatory.

Wilfrid tried to think that he was mistaken, but the thing was impossible. The gem was so rare and so curious that he could not be in error. At the same moment one of the men in plain clothes came upstairs with a sheet of paper in his hand.

"We may get something out of this, sir," he said to his chief. "It is a letter I found on the table downstairs. It seems to have been written to-night."

Morran laid the letter on the bed so that everybody could see it. The address was plainly inscribed and the note ran as follows, the date being affixed so that there could be no mistake:--

"Dear Sir,--I received your letter by the last post to-night. I have carefully considered the matter and I cannot see my way to grant your request. I have not touched that kind of business for years and it is quite outside my line now. Anything more legitimate I shall be always pleased to entertain.--Yours faithfully."

There was no signature, but the letter was addressed to Mr. Edward Gibson. As there was no envelope with the letter it was impossible to locate the Mr. Gibson for whom it was intended.

"'Um, not much in that," said Morran thoughtfully. "It is just a typical business letter written to somebody who wants something--to borrow money probably. What does it prove, Jakes?"

"It proves that Mr. Everton was alive at ten o'clock and after, sir," Jakes said. "The last post does not get here till 9.45, and I don't suppose that Mr. Everton wrote the letter at once. It may be useful to know that later."

"It may," the chief admitted. "But why is it not signed? Perhaps the assassin appeared while the letter was being written. A very clear, almost effeminate, writing for an old business man like Mr. Everton."

Saxby pressed eagerly forward. He had not as yet looked at the letter itself.

"What's that you say?" he asked. "Mr. Everton write an affected hand! He had a precious hard fist that resembled a file of soldiers on parade. Let me look at it."

As Saxby looked he shook his head in a decided way. There was not the slightest hesitation in his manner.

"No more Mr. Everton's writing than it is mine," he pronounced. "That letter was dictated to somebody who was here just lately or at any rate between ten and twelve. It is an educated hand and what makes the thing more puzzling it is the handwriting of a lady. When I say a lady, I mean a lady. There is no suggestion of the tradesman's bookkeeper about that. And yet it seems impossible for----"

"A woman, to say nothing of a lady, committing a murder like that," Wilfrid exclaimed. "No woman ever tied up poor Everton's body to the bedstead in that way. When we find the mysterious lady she may be able to give us some useful information, but as to the crime, never."

Morran seemed to be of the same opinion. There was no more to be done for the present, so the house was locked up and the parties separated. Saxby and Wilfrid walked home silently to the latter's house; it was only in the sitting-room under the lamplight that Saxby saw how white and agitated his friend looked.

"This thing seems to have upset you, old man," he said.

Wilfrid seemed as if trying to pull himself together. Then he rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"It was that letter," he said. "By heavens, Frank, the discovery nearly stifled me. When I found out who it was that wrote that letter----"

"Who wrote that letter?" Saxby cried. "Do you mean to say that you know who wrote that letter----"

A deep sigh broke from Wilfrid. He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper.

"I must tell somebody," he said. "That letter to some Gibson was written by Freda Everton--my Freda."