Читать книгу The Borgia Cabinet - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 7

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Mr. Gilford was waiting for the police officials in his late partner’s study—a little, elderly, obviously exceedingly upset and anxious man, who was almost breathless with excitement. He seized instantly on Harding.

“I came the moment I got your message,” he said, plunging into rapid talk. “I didn’t go to my office this morning—they telephoned down to me at home, so I got in my car and came straight here. Is it true that Sir Charles is dead?”

“Quite true, sir,” replied Harding. “He was found dead in bed, early this morning.”

“And,”—Mr. Gilford paused, looking an inquiry which he seemed afraid to put into words—“and—your presence, and this gentleman’s, seems to indicate that there’s some suspicion of—not foul play, surely?”

“Dr. Holmes thinks that Sir Charles was poisoned, sir,” said Harding, “and that the poison wasn’t self-administered, either. He’s sent for Dr. Salmon, to consult on the matter.”

Mr. Gilford looked his horror. His anxiety deepened, palpably.

“Just tell me all you know, briefly,” he said. “I suppose you’ve been inquiring into things already? Is—is anyone suspected?”

Harding nodded at Charlesworth, and the detective gave Mr. Gilford a concise account of everything that had taken place since his, Charlesworth’s, own arrival that morning.

“As regards Lady Stanmore,” he concluded, “I am not going to say anything at present, Mr. Gilford—I propose to call on her cousin, Dr. Beck, during the day. What I should like to get at is some clue as to the identity of the person who undoubtedly came home with Sir Charles Stanmore last night. For I feel convinced that somebody did come home with him. Can you throw any light on that? Do you know of anyone with whom he had an appointment?”

“No!” declared Gilford. “I do not! But——” he paused, looking at Harding. “Has any examination been made of the clothes which Sir Charles was wearing last night?” he asked. “If he was home late, he would be wearing the suit he wore yesterday in town. Has that been examined?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harding. “I ran through the pockets to see if I could find any clue or memorandum as to where he’d been yesterday evening. I didn’t find anything. There was just what you’d expect to find—the usual things that a well-to-do gentleman carries. But no papers that yielded any information. Everything I found is locked up in a drawer in Sir Charles’ bedroom. I have his bunch of keys, too. I’ve made no use of them, so far.”

Mr. Gilford remained silent for a moment, evidently deep in thought.

“You didn’t find anything in his clothes and in the room that struck you as being particularly valuable?” he asked, anxiously. “Jewellery, for instance?”

“Nothing beyond his own gold watch and chain and a very fine diamond ring,” replied Harding.

Mr. Gilford again kept silence for a while. Then he turned to the two men and threw out his hands.

“Well, gentlemen!” he said. “I may as well tell you that Sir Charles, to the best of my belief, ought to have had on him, or there ought to be somewhere in this house, an article of extreme value! To put it in plain words, a certain diamond necklace, worth—I don’t really know what it’s worth, but at least twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds! I’d better tell you all about it, for the mere fact of his possession of it may have had something to do with his death. A few days ago—three days, to be exact—our client Lady Verringham, the Countess of Verringham, you know, called to see Sir Charles. I was in his room when she was shown in, and as she knows me very well, she asked me to remain while she told Sir Charles her business. She produced a magnificent diamond necklace which she said was her own private property—not an heirloom of the family—inherited from her mother. She said that she wished to sell it, to the best advantage, and knowing that Sir Charles had influence and business connections amongst diamond merchants she’d brought it to him, to do the best he could with it. He accepted the task!—very much against my wishes: I wanted him to send Lady Verringham to somebody who would be professionally interested; it didn’t seem to me the proper thing for a solicitor to peddle precious stones. But Sir Charles was a man who always had his own way. He told Lady Verringham she’d brought the goods to the right place, gave her a receipt for the necklace, and put it—it was in a small morocco leather case—in his pocket. And, gentlemen, when he left the office yesterday afternoon, at five o’clock, it was still in his pocket! I know it was, for he took it out, just before leaving, showed it again to me—his reason was to draw my attention to the beautiful old setting of the diamonds—and put it back. And the question is now—where is it?”

Charlesworth had listened to all this with deep interest; Mr. Gilford’s story aroused new ideas, new possibilities in his mind. He made no reply to the solicitor’s question, but Harding made the obvious one.

“I should think he’d lock it up when he got home, sir,” he said. “There’s a safe there, in that corner, and I suppose there’ll be a key in this bunch. I’d better hand these keys over to you?”

“Well, as I’m his partner, and am also one of his executors,” replied Gilford, “I suppose you had. What is imperative is that we should at once make an exhaustive and thorough search for that necklace. Now tell me—is there anyone in the house, any member of the family, any servant, who saw Sir Charles after he got home last night?”

“No, sir!” said Harding. “There’s no one. Sir Charles was not seen by anybody in this house last night after his return.”

“That is—as far as we know,” remarked Charlesworth. “We have not been able to ascertain that anyone did see him. But,” he turned to Harding and smiled, “we don’t know for a positive fact that somebody didn’t!”

“My information,” retorted Harding, a little resentfully, “is that nobody did! I’ve no evidence that anybody did.”

“Well, I must examine the contents of that safe,” said Gilford. “And in fact every place in which he might have deposited the necklace. And I must see Lady Stanmore and Mrs. John Stanmore—probably he showed the necklace to both. It’s got to be found!”

The two police officials stood by while Gilford opened the safe and examined its contents. The diamond necklace was not amongst them. Nor was it in any of the drawers in the dead man’s desk, nor in a cabinet that stood close by, nor anywhere in that room. Nor was it in any drawer or cupboard in his bedroom, nor in his dressing-room. And neither Lady Stanmore nor Mrs. John Stanmore, duly interviewed and questioned by Gilford, had seen or even heard of it.

Gilford turned despairingly to Charlesworth.

“You say you feel convinced that Sir Charles brought some person in with him last night?” he said. “Is there any proof of that beyond the two used glasses? Because, you see, he might have used both glasses himself.”

“Yes—I thought of that, too,” replied Charlesworth. “But I have some other proof. Here it is!” and he brought out the sheet of blotting paper, and explained how he had found it. “It looks to me,” he went on, “as if Sir Charles had brought some man here in the hope of doing a deal with him about that necklace, and as if he had agreed to give the man an option on it. But—in that case, would he allow the man to carry it away?”

Gilford, frowning over the piece of blotting paper, shook his head.

“I don’t know—I don’t know!” he answered, fretfully. “Sir Charles was very, very careless in some things—extremely careless! Most unbusiness-like, in fact—from my point of view. He was the sort of man who would have and would go his own way. Well—how to find the man?”

“If he’s an honest man, he’ll come forward at once, on hearing of Sir Charles’ death,” said Charlesworth. “But I am going to town now, and I want to make some inquiries about several matters. Just give me a little information, if you please, Mr. Gilford. You say Sir Charles left your office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields yesterday afternoon at five o’clock, with the necklace in his possession? You’re sure of that?”

“Positive—absolutely positive! He had the morocco case in his hip-pocket.”

“Where would he go?” asked Charlesworth. “We know he didn’t come home to dinner.”

“I know where he would go, and what he would do, if he followed his usual habits,” replied Gilford. “I say if, mind you! He would walk to his club in Pall Mall—the Royal Automobile. He would probably have a swim there—he might afterwards amuse himself with a game of squash rackets or of billiards. He would dine there and perhaps spend the rest of the evening there. Eventually he would go to the garage where he always kept his car, get it, and drive himself home.”

“Where is that garage?” asked Charlesworth, getting out his note-book.

“Fisher’s, in Stillman’s Mews, Haymarket,” replied Gilford. “He always put up his car there—had done so for years.”

“I’ll make some inquiries at the club and at the garage,” said Charlesworth. “Just a word, Mr. Gilford. You heard what we told you as regards the charge that Lady Stanmore brought against Sir Charles and Miss Fawdale? Can you say anything about that?”

But Gilford’s face became impassive. He shook his head, determinedly.

“Nothing, sir!” he answered firmly. “I know nothing of my late partner’s private life—nothing! Nor do I want to—unless I am compelled!”

Charlesworth went out to the powerful car in which he had come down from London. Harding came up to him in the hall.

“You’ll be passing the police-station,” he said. “You can give me a lift as far as that—it’s at the further end of the village. This is a strange case!” he went on as the car moved off down the drive. “I don’t know what to make of it! Do you?”

“Not yet!” replied Charlesworth. “But we’re only beginning. There’s one thing that rather puzzles me that you could perhaps clear up, Superintendent. If Sir Charles brought some man home with him last night, it was in all probability from London. Now, how did that man get away from the Manor? Sir Charles didn’t drive him back, I fancy. Yet, he must have gone back since he wasn’t in the house this morning.”

“He could get away from this village easy enough,” replied Harding. “There are two stations here—on different lines. And there are late trains from both. He could get trains at half-hour intervals up to 12.30 midnight, and there’s another on one of the lines at 1.15.”

“Make inquiries at both stations, will you?” said Charlesworth. “I shall be back from town during the afternoon, and we’ll go more thoroughly into things. And no doubt by that time the doctors will have something definite to say, and then we shall be able—hullo, who’s this?”

The big car slowed up suddenly, at the lodge gates, where a smaller car, driven by its single occupant, a young man, had just come to a halt, the driver bending over the side to speak to a lady whom Harding and Charlesworth suddenly recognized as Miss Fawdale.

“It’s Sir Guy—the new baronet!” whispered Harding. “I suppose his mother telephoned for him. Good morning, Sir Guy!” he continued, obsequiously, as the young man glanced across at him and nodded. “Sorry you’ve had such bad news, sir—unexpected....”

The new baronet stared, frowningly, from Harding to Charlesworth.

“Mr. Gilford got here yet?” he asked surlily.

“He has, Sir Guy!” replied Harding. “You’ll find him in the study, Sir Guy. And if there’s anything that you want me for, sir, if you’ll ’phone down to the police-station——”

Sir Guy Stanmore made no answer: he was plainly in anything but a good temper. He moved his car forward, leaving a clear passage through the lodge gates for Charlesworth’s, and turned again to Miss Fawdale.

“Nice sort of young man!” remarked Charlesworth. “Good manners, eh?”

Harding heaved a deep sigh.

“I wish I’d his luck!” he said. “He’s come into a nice thing, I’ll bet!”

“Yes?” asked Charlesworth. “In addition to the title?”

“I should say so,” replied Harding. “There are no children. And Sir Charles always made a great fuss of this young chap—spoiled child, I should call him!—always had everything he wanted.”

“Well, don’t you spoil him any more!” said Charlesworth, with a sly laugh. “Don’t soft-soap him too much.”

“Got to—in these country parts,” growled Harding. “You don’t know—you town chaps. If you want to be comfortable in these places, keep in with the nobs! That’s my motto, anyhow. Here’s the police-station. Come in when you get back.”

Charlesworth nodded his assent, and went on towards London; an hour later he stood in the waiting-room of Dr. James Beck’s house in Wimpole Street. Dr. Beck, after the fashion of medical men, visited in their own domains, kept him waiting longer than Charlesworth liked or approved of. But at last he came, Charlesworth’s professional card in his hand, and looked wonderingly from it to Charlesworth. And Charlesworth saw at one glance that Dr. James Beck neither knew what he had come about, nor that Lady Stanmore’s husband was dead.