Читать книгу The Mill House Murder: Being the Last of the Adventures of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 4

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It was a big, burly man, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned, active in movement, alert of eye, who came striding into the room, gave me a quick, all-embracing glance, and held out a strong, firm hand, with a smile which denoted a genuine desire to make me welcome to his hearth.

“Mr. Camberwell?” he said. “How do you do, sir? I must ask your pardon for not being on the spot when you arrived, but us poor mill-owners, you know, we have to keep our eyes on things in these hard times—it’s all we can do to make a living, Mr. Camberwell, nowadays. However,” he went on, with a sly glance which developed into an unmistakable wink of his right eyelid, “there’s still bite and sup to be had—what’ll you take after that long, cold journey and before your dinner? I’ve some rare fine old brown sherry here—or perhaps you’d prefer a drop of whisky? These newfangled cocktail drinks I know nothing about, nor even how to mix ’em. Say the word, sir.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Sherry, please.”

He turned to the sideboard, found the decanter he wanted, and filled two glasses. Pressing one into my hand, he lifted the other.

“Here’s your very good health, sir,” he said. “Nay, we’ll put it in Yorkshire talk—you may never have heard this before—‘Here’s to thee and to me and to all on us, and may we never want nowt, noän on us!’ A fine sentiment, Mr. Camberwell! But sit you down till dinner’s ready. Have you ever been in this part of the country before?”

“Not quite hereabouts, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “But I’ve been within a few miles of you, to the northeast, in the next dale.”

He gave me a comprehending look and nodded.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I remember now—it was you that was in that Middlesmoor murder case. Ay—just so! Well, I don’t want to introduce you to any job of that sort, not I!—mine’s a private business affair. But we’ll leave it be till we’ve had our dinners. Never talk business on an empty stomach—that’s one of my mottoes, Mr. Camberwell. My chauffeur brought you home all right and comfortable?”

“I’ve never travelled in greater luxury, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s a magnificent car of yours.”

“Ay, it’s a good car,” he said, almost indifferently, “but I shall be getting a better very soon—I’ve had that two year. And you see”—he half-paused, giving me a half-shy, half-sly glance “—you see, I’m going to what they call alter my condition—I’m going to be wed!”

“I congratulate you, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said.

“You’ll congratulate me again when you see the lady,” he answered, with a confident nod of his head. “A lass in a thousand, she is, sir! But there—if I can’t show her in the flesh, I can show you her picture. I hope you’re a good judge, Mr. Camberwell?”

“Expert, Mr. Martenroyde!” I answered, entering into his humour. “You can trust my judgment.”

He laughed at that, and going over to a desk in one of the alcoves, unlocked a drawer and took out a portfolio. Coming back to me at the fireside, he handed me a large photograph—the work of a fashionable Bond Street photographer.

“There!” he said. “What do you think of that? Full-face, that is.”

The photograph was that of a young woman whose charm lay not so much in absolute beauty as in the signs of intelligence manifested in her large expressive eyes and firm, well-cut lips: good sense and good temper were there in all the lines and contours. Before I could express an opinion, he handed me another portrait.

“Side-face,” he remarked. “And this”—giving me another—“full-length. Now you’ve got her at all angles, as one might say.”

The full-length view showed the young lady to be tall, well developed, a typical out-of-doors girl—well matched with the big man lingering at my elbow.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Martenroyde!” I said. “A very handsome young lady. May one know her name?”

“You may,” he answered. “Mary Houston’s the name. She’s the only daughter—only child, as a fact—of my friend Colonel Houston. He comes here every year fishing and always brings Mary with him, so you see she and I are old pals. And last year—well, we fixed things up. A grand lass, sir!”

“And the happy event, Mr. Martenroyde?—when’s that to be?” I asked.

“First week in March—in London,” he answered. “They live in London—Bayswater. You shall have an invitation to the wedding if you’d care to come.”

“I should be delighted,” I replied. “And I shall congratulate the bride as heartily as I congratulate you.”

He laughed as he took the photographs from my hands and put them back in the desk. Then he shook his head and made a grimace.

“Ay, well,” he said, “I’ve a right to please myself, and it’s nobody’s concern but mine, but there’s always folks who criticize, and I’ve relations that are none so pleased that I should wed at what they call my time of life. Time of life!—I’m at my best!”

“I shouldn’t think there’s much doubt of that, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said. “You look uncommonly fit.”

“I am,” he said. “Never been fitter in my life. But come this way, Mr. Camberwell—I’ll show you a bit of preparation I’ve been making. When you’re going to be married to a young London lady, you know, you have to do a bit of smartening up. Take a look at this, now.”

He led me across the room to a door on its farther side and, opening this and switching on the electric light inside, pushed me gently into what appeared to be a blaze of white and gold.

“Drawing-room,” he said complacently. “A young lady must have a drawing-room. I’ll tell you what I did. I found out which was the best furnishing company in London—a real, slap up-to-date firm. I told ’em to send a man down here. I showed him this room—you see its windows look out on my flower-gardens. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘furnish, fit, ornament this room in the very best style—expense no object,’ I said. And here’s the result. Fit for a queen—what?”

“A beautiful room!” I agreed. “I should like to see it when the sunlight’s on it. Excellent taste, too, Mr. Martenroyde—excellent!”

“Ah!” he said. “I told ’em it had all got to be of the best. Pretty penny it cost, too!—they don’t do things for naught, firms like that.”

“No,” I said. “You’d have a pretty fine old bill. But,” I added, slyly, “it shows that you’ve still got a shot or two in the locker.”

“Ah, you have me there!” he replied, laughing. “Ay, well, of course I’ve done well in my time, and if things aren’t quite what they used to be in my trade, we can keep on—we can keep on, Mr. Camberwell. But you must be getting hungry—where’s our dinner?”

He led me back to the dining-room, pressed more sherry on me, and kept up a flow of talk about one thing and another, until a smart, red-cheeked damsel appeared with the first signs of dinner. Thereupon my host bade me pull a chair in and fall to—and for the greater part of the next hour showed himself a good trencherman, an accomplished judge of sound wine, and the most assiduous of men in taking pains to make a guest at home.

I had formed a very good impression of Mr. Martenroyde by the time dinner was over—I thought him a good-natured, frank, open-hearted fellow, full of humour and essentially sociable and friendly. But when the rosy-cheeked servant had cleared the table and he and I were comfortably installed in a couple of easy chairs by the crackling fire, each with a fine cigar between his lips, I was to learn more of him.

“Now we’ll talk a bit of business, Mr. Camberwell,” he said. “As I remarked before, mine isn’t a case of murder nor aught like it—it’ll seem tame enough to you, no doubt. But am I right in thinking that your firm undertakes private inquiry?”

“Quite right, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s our business. We’re private inquiry agents. Of course, the term is a wide one. As a matter of fact, we do a great deal of detective work.”

“I understood so,” he said. “Well, now, I’ll tell you what I want, in confidence. You must know, to start with, that I’m sole proprietor of the business known as Todmanhawe Mill. I made that business, Mr. Camberwell. I’ve built it up from the start, my own self. Never had one stretch of a helping hand with or in it, sir—all my own unaided self—I’m a self-made man, and proud of it. Never mind how I started in life—it was in a very humble way, I can assure you. But I did get a start—and here I am, what they call a warm man. Well, now, I had a brother—he and I were the only two children our parents ever had—my brother John, a year or two younger than me. John never made out—I don’t know how it was—or happen I do know—but the more I prospered, the more he went downhill. I had to do a lot for him, and in the end he left a widow and two young lads, and I had to provide for them, for John left—naught! I sent the lads to school, put their mother in a good house in the village, and paid the piper for the lot. When the lads got to the right age I took ’em into my business, and they’re in it today. The eldest lad, Ramsden, is my manager here, and his brother, Sugden, is my representative in London, where I have an office in Gresham Street. And their mother—and them—lives at Mill House, down by the bridge yonder. You’ll be seeing ’em.”

“I’ve seen Mrs. John Martenroyde already,” I said, thinking it best to let him know of this fact. “Your chauffeur gave her a ride back from Shipton, when he went there to meet me.”

He gave me a look of surprise which changed to one of sly inquiry.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “He did, did he? Quite right—so you rode home with Mrs. John, did you? Well, you’d hear her tongue, I’ll bet!”

“She certainly talked,” I assented.

“I’ll lay she did!” he said, chuckling. “Never does aught else—powerful gift of the gab, has Mrs. John. She’d say something about me getting wed, no doubt?”

“Well, a word or two, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “In confidence, you know.”

“Oh, you needn’t repeat what she said,” he chuckled. “I’ve a pretty good idea—I told you I’d relations that weren’t best pleased that I’m going to be a wed man. Never mind ’em—let’s go back to business. And that’s about my nephew Sugden. I told you just now that Sugden’s my man in London—been there two years. Now Sugden’s been home lately for a two or three weeks’ holiday; he only went back to London this very afternoon. And while he was at home I got a letter about him—from London. It’s about that letter that I want to consult you and to engage your services.”

“An anonymous letter, Mr. Martenroyde?” I inquired.

“Nay, it isn’t,” he replied. “No—if it had been, it would have gone into the fire, unread; I never have aught to do with letters of that sort. No, it’s from a man that I know well enough—old employee of mine, William Heggus. He’s a Todmanhawe man; I sent him to London, as warehouseman, when I started my office there.”

“And he’s written to you about Mr. Sugden?” I asked. “A private letter, of course?”

“Ay, it’s so marked,” he answered, “and it came registered. But here it is, and I want you to read it and then we’ll discuss it.”

He took a pocket-book from inside his lounge coat and presently found among numerous other papers a letter which he unfolded and passed across to me. The handwriting was a plain commercial copperplate style, and I had soon mastered the contents. There was really not a great deal in it. The writer, evidently an old-fashioned man, appeared to be uneasy about the way in which Mr. Sugden Martenroyde was living in London—he seemed to fear that the young gentleman was living rather a fast life among companions of a sort and quality he had not been accustomed to in Todmanhawe. Also he feared that Sugden was inclined to neglect his uncle’s business—he was not at the offices sometimes when there was urgent need of his presence, and the writer had reason to believe that he frequented the races and had transactions with bookmakers. Finally, though disclaiming any accurate knowledge, he suggested to Mr. Martenroyde that it was not a desirable thing to let the account-books of the London office go so long unexamined—Mr. Sugden had full control of them and of the banking account, and so on and so on. I read the letter twice over and proceeded to restore it to its envelope.

“Well, what do you make of it?” demanded Mr. Martenroyde.

“The writer is evidently anxious,” I said. “He may, of course, be all wrong. But tell me—did you show this letter to Mr. Sugden while he was here?”

“Eh, bless you, no!” he exclaimed. “Private—and confidential!”

“Nor mention it to him?” I asked.

“Not a word!” he said. “Not I!”

“Did you ask him any questions which suggested themselves to you after you’d read this letter?” I continued.

“Not a question,” he answered. “I said naught. Not my way. My way is to find out things for myself.”

“Then Mr. Sugden,” I said, “has gone back to London quite unaware that you have had this letter and that you are wanting to know something about his mode of life there?”

“Exactly,” he assented. “I said naught to Sugden, except that I should be in London myself in about a fortnight, and that I’d go through the books of the London office with him.”

“Oh, you told him that, did you?” I asked. “Did that seem to take him aback?”

“Nay, I don’t know that it did,” he replied. “He’s a pretty cool customer, is Sugden. No, he made no remark.”

I passed the letter over to him, but he waved it back.

“You keep it,” he said. “You might have to see Heggus about it.”

I put the letter in my own pocket-book.

“What do you wish us to do, Mr. Martenroyde?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, looking at the end of his cigar.

“Eh, well,” he replied at last, “I don’t like spying or eavesdropping, but I know William Heggus well enough to know that he wouldn’t have written that letter unless he felt that he’d good reason. What I’d like is that you could just find out what Sugden really does with himself there in London. Of course, he’s only a young chap, and London’s full of temptations. You could find out, I suppose?”

“Nothing easier, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Give me Mr. Sugden’s private address in London—I have his business address—and in a very short time we’ll tell you everything about him, at any rate as regards how he spends his time. We’ll tell you what time he goes to business and what time he leaves it; where he spends his evenings; if he goes to the races; what he does on Sundays; what sort of companions he has, male and female. One thing, of course, we can’t deal with.”

“Ay—and what’s that?” he asked inquisitively.

“Money matters,” I said. “We can’t examine your books at Gresham Street.”

“Now, you can leave all that to me,” he replied. “I shall see to that when I come up. Of course,” he continued, his tone altering somewhat, “if I found that Sugden had been monkeying with money matters, it would be serious. I’m not the sort of man to stand aught of that sort, Mr. Camberwell—Sugden would catch it from me if I found aught wrong! I’m particular—What is it?” he asked, breaking off and looking at me. “Hear something?”

“For the last quarter of an hour,” I said, pointing to a door which stood very slightly ajar in one corner of the big room, “I’ve heard slight sounds from behind that door—just rustlings. You haven’t any ghosts, Mr. Martenroyde?”

“Nay, I haven’t noticed any,” he replied, dryly. “It’s one of our cats you hear. There’s a conservatory behind that door, and there’s a broken pane or two which my gardener’s always forgetting to mend, and our cats—we’ve three or four of ’em about—they walk in and out; I hear ’em myself, but I take no notice till they knock a plant-pot down and then I go for ’em. Well, as I was saying, Mr. Camberwell, I should be—but I’ll not pursue that subject. I hope there’s naught wrong with Sugden. But—I must know if there’s aught in that letter.”

“Leave it to me,” I said. “You shall have a full and accurate report very quickly. Say in three weeks, or a month anyway.”

“Well, I’m going up to town myself in about that,” he remarked. “Have it ready for me then. You’ve a good staff, I suppose, Mr. Camberwell?”

“An excellent staff, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “Both men and women. They’re chiefly young. And they’re all keen and enthusiastic.”

“Women, too?” he said. “Young women? Where do you get ’em from, then? Are they trained to it—like bloodhounds?”

“Well, scarcely that,” I replied, smiling. “They do get some training after we take them in hand, certainly. But they’re usually young people who appear to have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. The cleverest woman assistant we have, Mr. Martenroyde, was a girl clerk. We’ve another who was a milliner’s assistant; a third who was a nursery governess.”

“And they’re all good at this sort of thing, watching and tracking folks?” he asked. “Stick to ’em like leeches—what?”

“Leeches is a good word,” I agreed. “Leeches—or limpets.”

“Well, well!” he said. “Strange things in this life, aren’t there? Let’s have a drop of whisky.”

We had a drop of whisky, and we went on talking about one thing or another until the time drew near to ten o’clock. Pleading sleepiness after my long journey, I asked permission to retire, and he took me up to my room and looked round as if to see that I had everything I needed.

“No bed for me yet,” he said as we shook hands. “Every night, wet or fine, summer or winter, I walk round my mill. Done it ever since the mill was built—regular habit now. Well—sleep sound, sir. See you at breakfast-time tomorrow.”

He went off and soon afterwards I heard the front door close with a bang, and his firm steps on the gravel of the carriage drive. They died away, and a few moments later I was in bed and asleep. And I was sleeping soundly when, two hours later, a hand came thumping heavily and insistently on the panels of my bedroom door.