Читать книгу Murder of the Ninth Baronet - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 4

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I pricked up my ears at that; there was some hidden meaning in Chaney’s remark.

“Well?” I said. “What are you after, Chaney?”

“Fifty thousand a year is a lot of money,” he replied. “Even in these days, with income-tax and death-duties and estate-duties and all there is in the way of deductions, it’s a lot of money.”

“Still I don’t know what you’re after,” I repeated. “And how do you know the Maxtondale property represents such an income?”

“I remember the Maxtondale case being before the courts,” he answered. “I mean when they got leave to presume John Maxtondale’s death. Fifty thousand pounds was mentioned as the annual value of the property. Also, a few years ago, before I knew you, Camberwell, I had a case in that neighbourhood, and I heard a good deal about the family and its possessions. Old, very old family, settled there at Heronswood for three or four hundred years as country squires. Not so well off once upon a time, but of late—rolling!”

“What caused the change?” I asked.

“Coal, my son, coal! Found a splendid seam on the estate—have you never seen trucks with ‘Heronswood Colliery Company’ on ’em? That’s the nugget. And it’ll go on producing for many a generation yet.”

“Pity to have a coal-pit on a fine old property,” I remarked.

“Well, as it happens, Camberwell, the coal-pit doesn’t show—it’s hidden away from the house by thick woods. Very fine old place, Heronswood—I went over it while I was there. Pictures—books—old china and glass—old silver; that sort of thing. But you’ll see it for yourself today or tomorrow.”

“Then—you knew something about the Maxtondale family history before we heard Sir Stephen’s story just now?”

“Knew all about it, my son! But I wasn’t going to let Sir Stephen—Mr. Stephen, I suppose we should call him, though if John’s dead, he may be Sir Stephen, unless John had a son who’s living—know that I knew. I wanted to hear what he’d got to say.”

I made no remark on that; Chaney had his own way of doing things. He had also a wonderful store of knowledge of all sorts and was continually digging into it in a surprising and sometimes highly convenient fashion; the fact was that he had a remarkable memory and was always on the look-out for anything to treasure up for future reference.

“I suppose we’re going, then?” I said.

“Of course! Let’s put things shipshape, give Chip his orders, and get to Euston,” he replied. “Last thing, however, we’ll just phone the Waldorf and inquire if Mr. Maxton has been heard of there.”

We phoned the Waldorf Hotel at 11.30. No, Mr. Maxton had not returned. On that we repaired to Euston and met Sir Stephen Maxtondale and Mr. Ellerthorpe. Over lunch in the train we naturally fell to a further discussion of the disappearance. Mr. Ellerthorpe suddenly introduced a new theory.

“Since John Maxtondale disappeared from Heronswood, the colliery has been started,” he said. “It’s occurred to me that he would hear of this from Marston the other night. Now, supposing his curiosity led him, yesterday morning, to go and have a look at the pit and its workings? To get there from Marston’s place, Sedbury Manor, he would have to go through the woods which lie between Sedbury and Heronswood Park. And I believe”—here he turned to Sir Stephen for confirmation—“I believe that in those woods there are old trial workings—shafts?”

“Yes,” assented Sir Stephen.

“Supposing he fell down one of them?” suggested Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Not improbable.”

“Not very probable,” said Sir Stephen. “Fenced in, those places, or overgrown by now. I think my theory is more likely to be the correct one. Our home farm, Robson’s place,” he added, “is, though on our property, just at the foot of Marston’s park. Lonely place, too.”

“You stick to the Robson idea, Sir Stephen?” said Chaney.

Sir Stephen shook his head.

“I know Robson,” he answered. “He is the sort of man who, having once felt himself deeply wronged, would nurse his feelings of revenge assiduously. Instead of growing fainter with the passage of years, they’d wax stronger. The more I reflect on this affair, the more I feel convinced that my brother met Robson when he left Marston’s house yesterday morning.”

“We shall find that out, Sir Stephen,” said Chaney confidently. “By the by, who and what is Mr. Marston? Other than an old friend or acquaintance of yours, I mean.”

“Oh,” replied Sir Stephen, smiling, “there is nothing much that one could say about Henry Marston. A typical country squire—old bachelor—horses—dogs-hunting—shooting—cricketer, once—good company—assiduous in discharge of his duties as magistrate, and so on. That’s about all one can say.”

“And as far as you are aware, the last man to see the man who announced himself as John Maxtondale,” said Chaney. “We must see him first.”

“Not the last man,” corrected Sir Stephen. “The last man to see my brother—you observe that I am firmly convinced that it is John whose disappearance is in question—was Marston’s butler, Moysey.”

“We must see Moysey, too. But I want to know what your brother told Mr. Marston on his arrival at Sedbury Manor,” said Chaney. “I don’t suppose they went to bed there and then—Marston must know something about John Maxtondale’s doings during the years that had elapsed since leaving home.”

“My car will be in waiting at Monkseaton,” observed Sir Stephen. “We will drive out to Sedbury Manor at once.”

We were at Sedbury Manor by soon after three o’clock. I took a careful look at the place as we drove up to it: a big, square-built house standing in a wide-stretching, well-treed park, with a great lawn in front, and walled gardens at the side, and having, as far as we could see, no other houses or even farmsteads or cottages near it—a distinctly lonely place. Sir Stephen, as we turned up the carriage-drive, pointed across the park.

“If you look straight across there, due south,” he said, “you will see the chimneys of Heronswood, above the trees. And there, more to the south-east, you can just see the wheel of the colliery, over the top of the coppices—we can’t see that from our windows. And yonder, at the foot of Marston’s park, though really, as I said before, in our land, is the home farm. Robson’s place. Anyone going from here to Heronswood, or to the colliery,” he added reflectively, “would pass the farm. There is a foot-path across this park, running alongside the home-farm buildings.”

“Are there no other houses or cottages about here?” asked Chaney. “Is this place of Mr. Marston’s absolutely isolated?”

Sir Stephen pointed to a great screen of elms on the east side of the lawn.

“Sedbury village lies there,” he replied. “It’s quite hidden from here, you see, but there it is. There’s a church, a vicarage, two or three farmsteads, a score of cottages. And here and there in these grounds, amongst the trees, are other cottages housing Marston’s outdoor servants, gamekeepers and so on. Some fine shooting here—and fishing. There’s the lake.”

He pointed to a sudden opening in the trees which revealed a sheet of water of evidently considerable size, and so shaded by the overhanging foliage that its surface looked black and dismal. For a second I let myself wonder if the man into whose disappearance we were to inquire was lying beneath those murky waters.

Mr. Marston met us at his front door—a big, broad-shouldered, bluff Englishman. He instantly fired off a question at Sir Stephen.

“Heard anything of him?” he asked.

“Nothing!” replied Sir Stephen.

Mr. Marston turned on his heel, shepherding the four of us into the big, stone-paved, stone-walled hall.

“Umph!” he said. “Neither have I! Come in!”

He led us into a small room, the sort of snug den in which a sportsman delights, and summoning his butler, insisted on giving us all a drink before any business was mentioned. Over our glasses Sir Stephen introduced Chaney and me; Mr. Marston considered us thoughtfully, as if we had been two new specimens of natural history.

“Queer business!” he remarked, setting down his empty glass. “Don’t know what to make of it.”

“Mr. Chaney wants to ask you a few questions,” said Sir Stephen.

Mr. Marston turned to Chaney and stared attentively at him—in silence.

“Nothing very much, sir,” said Chaney. “To start with—about identity, now. This man who came to you, the night before last—do you feel positively assured that he was Sir John Maxtondale?”

Mr. Marston nodded his head in a gesture meant to signify unqualified assent and rapped out five words, staccato.

“Not a doubt of it!”

“Did he tell you anything of his adventures?”

“Not a word!”

“Didn’t he say where he’d been all these years?”

“No!”

“Didn’t you ask him?”

“No business of mine!”

“Didn’t he even say where he’d come from last?”

“Oh, well, he said that. Waldorf Hotel, London.”

“But before that, Mr. Marston? Didn’t he mention any place or country—Asia, Africa, America?”

“No—none of ’em.”

“Did he say what he intended to do—about the title or estates?”

“No—nothing. Never mentioned ’em.”

“Didn’t he even mention his family—his brother?”

“Oh, well, he just said that he supposed Stephen was over there at Heronswood.”

“No more?”

“No!”

Chaney smiled.

“I suppose you and he, old friends, sat up and talked a bit that night, Mr. Marston? Since he kept off all these subjects, what did you talk about?”

“Old times—hunting, shooting, fishing.”

“I see! And next morning, when you went off to sit on the bench at Monkseaton, it was the understood thing that he wasn’t to go across to Heronswood until you returned?”

“Well, it was this—I told him that if he’d wait till I came back at one o’clock, we’d have lunch and then I’d go with him to Heronswood.”

“And when you’d got back, he’d disappeared? Well, just one more question, Mr. Marston. You’re aware of the threats uttered, years ago, by Robson, the farmer? Yes? Did you tell Sir John about that matter?”

“No! Not I! I knew of the threats—long since—but I didn’t believe for a moment that Robson would ever have carried them out.”

“Not at any time?”

“Oh, well, perhaps at the time. But certainly not now.”

“Sir Stephen thinks he would, Mr. Marston.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Then you don’t suspect Robson?”

“Not for a second!”

“What do you think’s happened to Sir John, then?”

But there Mr. Marston shook his head with emphatic decision.

“No!” he replied. “That’s your job!”

“Quite so,” agreed Chaney. “Then, can we have a word or two with your butler?”

Mr. Marston rang the bell; the footman appeared and at a word from his master led us through the hall and a series of passages to the butler’s pantry. Moysey, the butler, was engaged at that moment in polishing some fine old plate; a dish in one hand, a cloth in the other, he looked us over questioningly. He was a good type of the old-fashioned family servant, something over middle age, and of that intense solemnity and respectability which seem to be inseparably connected with his office.

“Well, Mr. Moysey,” said Chaney, taking the easiest chair in the room, “we’ve come to have a little talk with you. You’re the last person who saw the gentleman who disappeared yesterday, eh?”

“As far as I’m aware, sir. There may have been others. But—not in this house, sir.”

“Do you know who the gentleman was, Mr. Moysey?”

“I do not, sir. I heard my master address him as John, but beyond that, sir, I have no notion whatever of his identity.”

“Never seen him before, eh?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“How long have you been here, then?”

“Fifteen years, sir.”

“Ah!” said Chaney. “Then it would be before your time.”

Moysey looked a question at this.

“Yes, sir? Of course I don’t know what you refer to.”

“Never mind! Well, about yesterday morning, Mr. Marston, after breakfast, went to Monkseaton, didn’t he, leaving the gentleman here, alone? What did he do after your master went out?”

“For some time, sir, he was in the morning room, reading the Times newspaper. Then—I happening to go into that room, sir—he said to me that he thought he’d have a look round the park. He asked me what time we should have lunch, and when I told him one o’clock, he said he’d be back by then.”

“And then, I suppose, he went out?”

Moysey hesitated.

“As far as I’m aware, sir, he went out. He said he was going out.”

“But didn’t you see him go out?”

“No, sir! And it may seem odd, sir, but there’s nobody in the house who saw him go out.”

“None of the other servants?”

“None, sir! There was our first footman in the hall, but he says the gentleman didn’t go out that way. And there were other servants about—women servants, parlour-maids, housemaids—none of them saw him leave. Of course, there are several doors by which he could have left, but he wasn’t seen to leave. And there were men, gardeners, working on the lawn, and in the gardens on either side of the house—no one can remember seeing him.”

“Odd thing!” said Chaney. “Why, where did he go after telling you that he was going out? Did you leave him in the morning room?”

“No, sir. He left me in the morning room. He went out into the hall. Possibly he went up to his room. But where he went after that nobody knows. All I know is that he didn’t come in for lunch and has never returned.”

“Who admitted him when he first came, Mr. Moysey?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did he give any name?”

“No, sir. He asked me to tell Mr. Marston that an old friend had called to see him.”

“Had he any luggage with him?”

“No, sir, nothing. After Mr. Marston had told me that the gentleman was staying the night, I prepared a room for him, got him some sleeping-things, and in the morning took him some toilet articles.”

Chaney got up from his chair.

“Just let’s have a look at his room,” he said. “He may have something there that might give us a clue.”

“Nothing there, I think, sir, but what I lent him from Mr. Marston’s dining-room and some papers he brought,” said Moysey. “If you will follow me, sir.”

We followed Moysey upstairs to a big bedroom, the windows of which looked out over the park. And, as Moysey had said, there was nothing—except, on a table at the bedside, a couple of evening newspapers of the date of two days before and a copy of the Fortnightly Review. I dare say I should have taken small notice of these, but Chaney picked up all three and suddenly drew my attention to a pencilled note on the cover of the periodical.

“See that?” he said. “An address! 203 A, Hatton Garden, E.C.1.”