Читать книгу The Mill House Murder: Being the Last of the Adventures of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Mr. Eddison motioned the man to precede us into the room. But he hung back, pointing to a fellow-workman who stood a little apart, watching us.

“He’s in it with me,” said the first man. “We’ve both a word to say. What I have to say, you see, Mr. Eddison, he can back up.”

“Come in, both of you,” replied the solicitor. He ushered us all into the room and closed the door. “Now, my lad,” he went on, “what is it?”

The first man looked round at the rest of us. Something in his attitude suggested his desire for secrecy, and when he spoke, it was in hushed tones.

“You know me, Mr. Eddison,” he said. “Outwin—worked in this mill, boy and man, a good thirty years. And,” he continued, pointing to the other man, “you know Guest here, too—he’s been here very near as long as what I have. And we’re neither on us given to telling lies. And what we’ve got to tell you is Gospel truth. We don’t want to make no trouble—but you ought to know, Mr. Eddison, what me and Guest knows.”

“Well,” said Mr. Eddison, “go on, Outwin.”

Outwin drew a long breath and once more looked from one to another of us.

“You heard what Mrs. John said just now, Mr. Eddison, when you asked her where her sons were?” he said. “She said that Mr. Sugden went off to London yesterday afternoon. That’s not true. Sugden was here, at Todmanhawe, last night.”

“Close at hand, anyway,” said Guest.

Mr. Eddison looked at Beverley.

“You’ll want to know about this?” he asked. “Mrs. John Martenroyde certainly said that her son Sugden had gone off to London yesterday afternoon.”

“He was here last night,” said Outwin, doggedly. “Me and Guest knows he was.”

Beverley turned to me, whispering.

“Has this anything to do with what you have to tell, Camberwell?” he asked.

“It may have,” I answered. “Hear what they have to say.”

“Which afternoon—and night—do you mean, Outwin?” said Beverley, turning to the men. “These that are just past—it’s morning now, getting on to four o’clock. You mean last night—this last evening?”

“That’s what I mean, Superintendent,” replied Outwin. “This is Tuesday morning. I mean Monday evening—last night. And Mrs. John meant Monday afternoon—yesterday afternoon. She said Sugden set off for London yesterday—that’s Monday—afternoon. Whether he did or not, he was in this neighbourhood last night—of that I’m willing to take my Bible oath. And so,” he added, turning to his companion, “so is Guest here.”

“Ay!” said Guest. “For why? I saw him!”

“Let’s be clear about this, now, my lads,” said Beverley. “Where did you see Mr. Sugden Martenroyde last night? But first of all, was he supposed to have set off for London yesterday afternoon? Did you know that he’d set off? Or that he was supposed to have set off?”

“I didn’t,” replied Outwin.

“Nor me,” said Guest.

“I knew that he was said to have set off,” I remarked.

“You?” exclaimed Beverley, in surprise. “How did you know, Camberwell?”

“Mrs. John Martenroyde told me,” I said. “She rode with me in her brother-in-law’s car from Shipton, and she mentioned that her son Sugden, who, she told me, was his uncle’s representative in London, had been down here for a while and had gone back that afternoon—yesterday afternoon.”

Beverley turned to the two workmen again.

“Where did you see Mr. Sugden?” he asked abruptly.

“In Hartwick village—this end of the street,” replied Outwin.

“What time was that?”

“All about half past seven.”

“What was he doing?”

“Walking as fast as ever he could go towards Todmanhawe.”

“You mean,” said Beverley, “you saw him on the road that runs from Hartwick to Todmanhawe village and passes just behind Todmanhawe Grange?”

“That’s it. But he was in Hartwick—this end of Hartwick.”

“What were you doing up there, Outwin, at that time?”

“Me and Guest here had gone up there to see Boothroyd, the blacksmith, about a bit of a job I wanted doing. We were in his shed, outside the smithy, when Sugden passed. It was raining, pretty smartly. He’d a mackintosh on, with the collar turned up.”

“How could you recognize him, to be sure of him, at that time of the evening—quite dark?” asked Beverley.

“Easy enough—he walked right in front of Boothroyd’s house, and there were strong lights in the windows. It was Sugden right enough!”

“No doubt of that,” said Guest. “We’ve both of us known Sugden ever since he was the height of two pennyworth of coppers!”

“And you say he was walking sharply towards Todmanhawe?” asked Beverley.

“Well, as you know, Superintendent, that road leads nowhere else,” replied Outwin. “After you leave Hartwick village end—town-end as us fellows calls it—there is naught till you come to Todmanhawe. Leastways, there’s naught much. There’s Dakin Heggus’s house, on the hillside, and there’s Todmanhawe Grange, and then there’s naught till you come to Todmanhawe. He was walking—as hard as he could go—in the direction of Todmanhawe.”

“Last night—about seven thirty,” said Beverley. He had been making a note or two in his pocket-book, and now he closed and put it away. “Very well, my lads—now then, just keep all that to yourselves till I ask you to speak. You know the importance of silence.”

“Nobody’ll hear aught from me,” said Outwin.

“Nor from me,” said Guest. “But we thought you ought to know.”

“Quite right,” agreed Beverley. “Now, just a word before you go. If Mr. Sugden set off for London yesterday afternoon, which station would he go to and how would he get to it?”

“He’d go from Abbeyside,” replied Outwin promptly. “And he’d go there in Ramsden’s car—Ramsden’s man would drive him.”

“Ramsden’s man? Chauffeur, do you mean?” asked Beverley.

“Why, you can call him that, if you like fancy names. He’s a fellow that attends to the garden at Mill House and does odd jobs, and drives Ramsden’s car now and then. Sam Thorp—that’s his name.”

“Where’s Sam live, then?” demanded Beverley. “Near the mill?”

“Two or three doors away—anybody’ll tell you,” said Outwin. “Just up the lane, his cottage is—close by.”

“Very well. Now, mind what I’ve told you,” said Beverley. “Keep things to yourselves.”

He turned to the rest of us when the two men had gone away.

“It’s very serious news, that,” he went on. “What was Sugden Martenroyde doing here last night when it was supposed that he’d gone to London? And if what these two men say is true—and I should say it is—where’s Sugden now? His mother’s evidently under the impression that he’s in London.”

Mr. Eddison turned to me.

“I think Mr. Camberwell has something to tell us,” he said. “Possibly it has some relation to what we’ve just heard.”

I had been thinking matters over while Beverley was questioning the two men, and had come to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to tell all I knew. And I proceeded to do so, setting forth all the facts, from my firm’s receipt of James Martenroyde’s letter—which I had with me and produced—to his leaving me in my room at the grange. Finally I handed Mr. Eddison the letter from William Heggus. This, after reading it, he passed over to Mr. Halstead and Beverley. Beverley’s face assumed a new expression.

“Sugden’s at the bottom of this!” he exclaimed. “I’d give a lot to know where he was going last night when those men saw him! Mr. Eddison—just talk this over with Camberwell, you and Mr. Halstead, while I go round to see Sam Thorp.”

He hurried away, and the three of us left behind discussed matters. One fact that had come out in James Martenroyde’s talk with me seemed to Mr. Eddison to be of significance and importance. James Martenroyde had told Sugden that he, James, would be in town very shortly and would take the opportunity of going through the books with him. Did Sugden know that the books wouldn’t bear examination?

“We shall have to fetch William Heggus up here,” said Mr. Eddison. “I know him—his brother lives across the river there; they’re a Todmanhawe family, respectable, trustworthy. William wouldn’t have written that letter to James Martenroyde unless he’d been seriously concerned about Sugden. I’m afraid that Beverley was right—Sugden Martenroyde’s at the bottom of this.”

Beverley came back just then, shaking his head as if puzzled.

“I’ve seen Sam Thorp,” he said. “Found him up. They’re all up in these cottages—I’m going back in a minute to make some more inquiries. Well, Sam Thorp—I pledged him to silence, of course—says that he did drive Sugden to Abbeyside station yesterday afternoon, to catch the 5.41. What’s more, he saw him and his luggage into the train.”

“That’s a local train to Leeds,” remarked Mr. Halstead. “He could leave it at two or three places.”

“I shall have to go into that,” said Beverley. “Anyway, he set off. What I want to know now is—is he anywhere about?”

We left the mill after that. Mr. Eddison said that he must go up to the grange and asked Mr. Halstead and myself to accompany him. We left Beverley and his men making a further examination of the river-bank, and, crossing the weir bridge, followed the path along which Orris and I had come, a few hours before, in search of the man who had now been carried back to his house dead. That was midnight; it was now approaching the first grey of the winter morning.

We let ourselves into the house and turned into the dining-room. There was a roaring fire in the grate, and at a little table drawn up to it sat Mrs. John Martenroyde, calmly refreshing herself with tea and buttered toast. Her attitude was that of possession.