Читать книгу Murder of the Ninth Baronet - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 3

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Chaney and I first heard of the mysterious disappearance of Sir John Maxtondale on the morning of May 15, 1923. About half past nine o’clock, just as we were settling down to a discussion of our day’s business (in which, as it happened, there was nothing of any particular importance), Chippendale came into our room and announced Mr. Ellerthorpe. We knew Mr. Ellerthorpe; he was a well-known solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, having a considerable practice amongst county families, and we had occasionally done business with him. Up to that time, however, it had never been of any serious nature; none of its occasions, certainly, would have caused Mr. Ellerthorpe to present himself in person at our offices at that early hour of the forenoon, and hearing that he was there, we glanced at each other and at Chippendale with questioning eyes.

“He’s got a gentleman with him,” added Chippendale. “Swell!”

That was Chippendale’s way; he always sized up any stranger before approaching us as to entry.

“Bring them in,” said Chaney.

Mr. Ellerthorpe entered—hurriedly. He was a little inclined to be fussy, and he lost no time in wheeling round and indicating his companion, a tall, elderly man of the country-gentleman type, who looked at us and our surroundings with a detached, speculative air.

“Morning, morning!” began Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Glad to find you here—both. This is very urgent, important business. Allow me—Sir Stephen Maxtondale.”

We made our obeisances to Sir Stephen Maxtondale. Chaney rose from his desk and placed chairs.

“Yes, Mr. Ellerthorpe,” he said, resuming his own. “What is it?”

“Sir Stephen,” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe, “is a client of mine—a very old client. He came up to town last night to consult me. What he wished to consult me about—and did consult me about—is, well, a mystery! I am no good at the solution of mysteries—not in my line. So—”

“You came to us, Mr. Ellerthorpe,” said Chaney. “Well—and the mystery?”

Mr. Ellerthorpe glanced at his client. But Sir Stephen made no response.

“Well,” continued Mr. Ellerthorpe, “the fact is, it is a case of disappearance. Of—of somebody vanishing. Clean gone!”

“Yes?” said Chaney. “And—who is it that is clean gone?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Now, to give a really truthful reply to that question is beyond me! Not possible, at present. At—present, you understand? May be possible later. But—well, the disappearance is that of a—a person who says he is Sir John Maxtondale, elder brother of Sir Stephen.”

“Says?” questioned Chaney. “But—is he?”

Mr. Ellerthorpe and Sir Stephen Maxtondale exchanged glances.

“Er—he might be,” admitted Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Might!”

Chaney reached to a shelf at the side of his desk and took down a copy of the current Who’s Who. Silently he turned over its pages and presently looked up at Sir Stephen.

“I see you are the ninth holder of the title—the baronetcy?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Sir Stephen.

“Then—supposing this man of whom Mr. Ellerthorpe speaks to be what he claims to be—where does he come in?” asked Chaney.

“He would be the ninth,” replied Sir Stephen. He hesitated a moment. “If—if he is really what he says he is, he is the ninth baronet! I—in that case—have no claim. You see—”

He hesitated again, obviously at a loss. But, no one making any observation or asking a question, he went on:

“You see, we don’t know whether he ever did succeed or not. I mean, I don’t know if he succeeded his father—”

“Your father?” interrupted Chaney.

“Exactly! Perhaps I had better explain? The whole thing is a bit muddling to anyone not conversant—”

“That would be excellent, Sir Stephen. If you can make things clear—”

“Well, it’s like this. My father, Sir William Maxtondale, the eighth holder of the title, had two sons, my elder brother, John, and myself, Stephen. When John was about twenty-five years of age, and I three years younger, he had a very serious quarrel with my father; so serious that he left home—”

“A moment, Sir Stephen,” interrupted Chaney. “I am making mental notes—so, too, is my partner, Mr. Camberwell. Let us have all the details clear. By home, you mean your place in Warwickshire—Heronswood Park? Very well—now, what was the cause of the difference between your father and your brother?”

“This!” continued Sir Stephen. “John had fallen in love with, and wanted to marry, the daughter of one of our tenant farmers. My father positively forbade this match and no doubt threatened my brother with all sorts of dire consequences if he persisted in his intentions. So—”

“Again a moment. The estates—were they entailed?”

“No! They were absolutely at my father’s disposal.”

“Then he could have penalized your brother pretty heavily?”

“Yes, but since his coming of age John had been quite independent of my father. Our maternal grandfather had left him a lot of money, and in addition to that he had inherited my mother’s private fortune. He was well off.”

“Could—from a monetary point of view—do as he liked, eh?”

“Exactly. And—he did! As I say, he left home—for good. Disappeared!—without a word to anyone.”

“And the girl?”

“She disappeared, too, at the same time.”

“To join him, of course. Well?”

“Well, time went on, and we never heard anything of John. Nor did the girl’s people ever hear anything of her. Inquiries—of a tentative sort—were made on both sides, but nothing resulted. Then, eventually, my father died, and we began to search for John in earnest. We left no stone unturned—”

“I can speak as to that,” interrupted Mr. Ellerthorpe. “I engineered the inquiries. We advertised in every quarter of the globe; the bill for advertisements was enormous. We employed private inquiry agents—you weren’t in business at the time, Chaney, or I’d have employed you—and we never got one single scrap of information!”

“And so—?” asked Chaney.

“And so,” continued Mr. Ellerthorpe, taking up the story in response to a nod from Sir Stephen, “in due course the courts sanctioned an application to presume the death of John Maxtondale, and Sir Stephen here assumed the title. But—”

“What about the estates?” asked Chaney. “I presume Sir William had devised them to Sir Stephen?”

Once more Mr. Ellerthorpe and his client exchanged glances.

“Er—no!” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. “The fact is, Sir William died intestate. He was always going to make a will, and never did. He died very suddenly.”

“Then—if John Maxtondale is alive—eh?” suggested Chaney.

“Exactly!” agreed Mr. Ellerthorpe. “You are quite right!”

“Let me know in plain words if I am right, though,” said Chaney. “Am I right in concluding that if John Maxtondale is alive, the estates and titles are his? Is that it?”

“That,” responded Mr. Ellerthorpe, gravely, “is it! They are!”

Chaney turned to me.

“Got it, Camberwell?” he asked. “All clear?”

“Clear enough!” I said. “I’ve got it—all!”

“Well,” continued Chaney, facing on our visitors again, “this man you spoke of at first? Is he the man you referred to as having disappeared?”

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. He turned to Sir Stephen. “You can tell that best,” he added.

“What I can tell,” responded Sir Stephen, “is just this. Yesterday afternoon, about three o’clock, my neighbour Mr. Henry Marston, of Sedbury Manor, who is just about my own age and has known me ever since we were all boys together, came to me with a strange story—he was very much agitated. He said that the previous evening there came to his house, very late, a man who, on securing an interview with him, announced himself as John Maxtondale. Now, my brother John and Henry Marston were old schoolfellows and had always, as boys, been very close friends, and their friendship had lasted until John’s disappearance—Marston, indeed, had been the very last person to see John before he went away so suddenly. Of course Marston had believed him dead, and he was of the opinion, at first, that this caller was an impostor. But within a few minutes, according to his own account, he began to think differently. He put certain very searching questions to his visitor, which were answered promptly and satisfactorily; moreover, knowing that John Maxtondale had a very peculiar birth-mark on his upper left arm, he got the man to turn up his sleeve—the birth-mark was there! Marston came to the conclusion that he had the real John Maxtondale before him.”

“Yes?” said Chaney, as Sir Stephen paused. “Well, did he give Mr. Marston any explanation of his movements during the time—a great many years!—that had elapsed since his disappearance?”

“He may have done; I can’t say,” replied Sir Stephen. “Marston was hurried, agitated; we only had a short interview. You see, he had rushed over to tell me that his visitor had disappeared.”

“Ah!—that’s the disappearance you came to tell us of?” said Chaney. “Well?”

“Marston says that after becoming convinced that the man before him really was John Maxtondale, he asked if he was staying in the neighbourhood and if he had been to me. He replied that he had come to Marston first—from the Waldorf Hotel in London, where he had been living for two or three weeks since his return to England. He had wanted to see Marston first, he said, before seeing any of his own family, but he proposed calling on me next morning. On that, Marston asked him to stay the night with him at Sedbury. He did so. Next morning—that is, yesterday morning—Marston was obliged to go over to Monkseaton to a meeting of magistrates. He left home just after breakfast, first extracting a promise from his visitor that he would not go to Heronswood until his return, when they would go together. The visitor replied that he wouldn’t leave the house till Marston came back. But when Marston came back at one o’clock for lunch, he had gone. Marston’s butler said the gentleman had gone out about ten o’clock, saying he would have a look round the park and be back for lunch at one. But he never came in—and eventually Marston rode over to Heronswood and told me all about it. I returned with him to Sedbury, but we got no news, and late in the afternoon I telephoned to the Waldorf to ascertain if Mr. Maxton—the name he had told Marston he was going by—had returned there. They replied that though Mr. Maxton’s belongings were in his room, Mr. Maxton had gone out the day before and had not returned. So I at once caught the evening train to town, knocked up Mr. Ellerthorpe, and told him all about it. This morning at eight o’clock we called at the Waldorf Hotel; there was no news of Mr. Maxton. They allowed us to see his room. There is luggage there, showing—the labels, I mean—that he had recently travelled from South America to Southampton. We got no other information about him, except that a smoking-room waiter was able to tell us that a few days ago Mr. Maxton was twice visited in one day by a man who was evidently a Jew, well dressed, a sort of prosperous business man, the waiter said. Otherwise he was not known to have had any visitors, and there was no correspondence awaiting him. After leaving the Waldorf I telephoned to Marston; he replied that he had not heard anything. And so Mr. Ellerthorpe brought me to you.”

Chaney had listened to all this with silent attention. Now he put a straight question.

“It is only a few hours since this man—Sir John or not—disappeared,” he said. “Why are you so concerned about it? Tell me—do you fear something?”

“Yes!” replied Sir Stephen, promptly. “Foul play!”

“Why?”

Sir Stephen hesitated; hesitated, indeed, so long that Chaney spoke again.

“Don’t keep anything back, sir,” he said. “Better let us know everything.”

“I don’t care to incriminate anyone,” replied Sir Stephen, “but the fact is that when my brother left Heronswood, all those years ago, he left a bitter enemy behind him. That enemy is still living—and, I believe, is still as bitter and desirous of revenge as ever.”

“Yes,” said Chaney. “A man, of course?”

“Just so,” agreed Sir Stephen. “In fact, one of our tenant farmers.”

“Jilted suitor of the girl your brother ran off with, no doubt?” suggested Chaney.

“You are quite right in your surmise. That is precisely it!”

“What’s the man’s name?” asked Chaney.

“Robson—James Robson. He is tenant of our home farm—it has been in the occupancy of his family for two hundred years or more.”

“An elderly man, I presume, Sir Stephen?” suggested Chaney.

“He is about the same age as my brother John,” replied Sir Stephen. “Fifty-eight.”

“And you say that your brother ousted him in the affections of the girl who, you believe, ran away with your brother?”

“Robson, it was said, was formerly engaged to the girl. Whether she really did accompany my brother I can’t say positively. She disappeared at the same time that he did. Besides, John had told our father that he wanted to marry her—was deeply in love with her. Everything was very sudden—it all occurred in a few days. My father heard something—he spoke to John—they had a violent altercation—John left Heronswood. Then we heard that the girl had left her home, too.”

“And this man, James Robson? He took it badly?”

“Very! He was, of course, a young man then, and he was noted—and always has been noted—for his violent temper. He set off at once for London, in the endeavour to trace my brother and the girl. Whether he came upon any trace of them in London we never knew, but he went on from London to Paris, in a further search. He was away, trying to track them, for some weeks. When he returned, he preserved an obstinate silence, and he has kept it ever since. But at the time of my brother’s disappearance Robson declared publicly, at Monkseaton market, that if he had to wait thirty years, or forty years, or fifty years, he would kill John Maxtondale the first time they met. And—he meant it!”

“Has Robson ever married?”

“No! He is a silent, morose man, given, I should say, to brooding over this. He is a good tenant and a very clever farmer. But—I don’t think he has ever lived down his almost insane desire for revenge.”

“And you think it quite possible that he may have met your brother—if this man really is your brother, which seems very likely—when Sir John left Mr. Marston’s house yesterday morning, and—killed him?”

“I think it very possible. Our property and Mr. Marston’s adjoin—if my brother (and, as you say, I think it very likely that the man concerned is my brother) went across the park at Sedbury Manor, he would be on Robson’s land. They may have met.”

“You haven’t questioned Robson, Sir Stephen?”

“Oh, no, I have had no opportunity, and I don’t think I should have questioned him if I had. You see, I lost no time in coming up to see Mr. Ellerthorpe.”

“Why, now? What was the hurry?”

“I thought that if this man really was John, he might have called on Mr. Ellerthorpe. Mr. Ellerthorpe is our family solicitor. John, of course, knew him in the old days.”

“Sir John and I,” remarked Mr. Ellerthorpe, “are of an age.”

“Sir John hasn’t been to see you, Mr. Ellerthorpe? Just so—you know nothing of him—of his return? Very well. Now, gentlemen, what do you wish my partner and me to do?”

“If you would go down to Heronswood and get at the truth,” said Sir Stephen. “The matter must be cleared up. I am going down myself by the twelve o’clock from Euston to Monkseaton. Mr. Ellerthorpe is going with we. Will you go with us?”

Chaney glanced at me; I nodded my consent.

“We will both go,” said Chaney. “Euston, then—the twelve o’clock train.”

A moment later our two visitors had gone, and Chaney turned to me.

“Camberwell,” he said, “I know something about this matter that you don’t know. That Maxtondale estate in Warwickshire is worth about fifty thousand pounds a year!”