Kitabı oku: «Ravensdene Court», sayfa 8

Miss Raven, timid, and a little shy of concentrated attention, laid the photograph again on the table.

"Don't – don't you think there may be some explanation of this in what Salter Quick said to Mr. Middlebrook when they met on the cliffs?" she asked. "He told Mr. Middlebrook that he wanted to find a churchyard where there were graves of people named Netherfield, but he didn't know exactly where it was, though it was somewhere in this locality. Now supposing this is a rough outline of that churchyard? These outer lines may be the wall – then these little marks may show the situation of the Netherfield graves. And that cross in the corner – perhaps there is something buried, hidden, there, which Salter Quick wanted to find?"

The detective uttered a sharp exclamation and snatched up the photograph again.

"Good! Good!" he said. "Upon my word, I shouldn't wonder! To be sure, that may be it. What's against it?"

"This," remarked Mr. Cazalette solemnly. "That there isn't anybody of the name of Netherfield buried between Alnmouth and Budle Bay! That's a fact."

"Established," added the police-inspector, "by as an exhaustive inquiry as anybody could make. It is a fact – as Mr. Cazalette says."

"Well," observed Scarterfield, "but Salter Quick may have been wrong in his locality. You can be sure of this – whatever secret he held was got from somebody else. He may have been twenty, thirty, even fifty miles out. But we know something – the Netherfield who was with him on the Elizabeth Robinson hailed from Blyth, in this county. I'm going to Blyth myself – tomorrow; I'll find out if there are Netherfields buried about there. Personally, I believe Miss Raven's hit the nail on the head – this is a rough chart of a spot Salter Quick wanted to find – where, no doubt, something is hidden. What? Who knows? But – judging from the fact that two men have been murdered for the secret of it – something of great value. Buried treasure, no doubt."

"That's precisely what I've been thinking from the very first," murmured Mr. Cazalette. "And ye'll have to go back – to go back, my man!"

"It's certainly the only way of going forward," agreed Scarterfield with a laugh. "But now, before we part, gentlemen, let us see where we've got to. I, for myself, have drawn five distinct conclusions about this affair:

"First– That the Quicks, Noah and Salter, were in possession of a secret, which was probably connected with their shipmate of the Elizabeth Robinson, Netherfield, who hailed from Blyth;

"Second– That certain men knew the Quicks to be in possession of that secret and murdered both to get hold of it;

"Third– That they failed to get it from either Noah or Salter;

"Fourth– That Mr. Cazalette's zeal about the tobacco-box, publicly expressed, put the criminals on a new scent, and that they, in pursuance of it, stole both the tobacco-box and Mr. Cazalette's pocket-book;

"Fifth– That the criminals are – or were very recently, in fact, this very morning – in the vicinity of this place.

"So," he continued, looking round, "the thing's narrowing. Let Mr. Wing there help by getting some news of Chuh Fen, if possible; as for me, I'm going to follow up the Netherfield line. I think we shall track these fellows yet – you never know how unexpectedly a clue may turn up."

"You've not said anything about the handkerchief that I found," observed Mr. Cazalette. "There's a clue, surely!"

"Difficult to follow up, sir," replied Scarterfield. "There is such a thing as little articles of that sort being lost at the laundry, put into the wrong basket, and so on. Now if we could trace the owner of the handkerchief and find where he gets his washing done, and a great deal more – you see? But we'll not lose sight of it, Mr. Cazalette – only, there are more important clues than that to go on in the meantime. The great thing is – what was this precious secret that the Quicks shared, and that certainly had to do with some place here in Northumberland? Let's get at that – if we can."

The two police officials went away with Dr. Lorrimore and his servant, all in deep converse, and the four of us who were left behind endeavoured to settle our minds for the repose of the night. But I saw that Mr. Raven had been upset by the recent talk: he had got it firmly fixed in his consciousness that the murderer of Salter Quick was, as it were, in our very midst.

"How do I know that the guilty man mayn't be one of my own servants?" he muttered, as he, Mr. Cazalette and I took up our candles. "There are six men in the house – all strangers to me – and several employed outside. The idea's deucedly unpleasant!"

"Ye may put it clear away from you, Raven," said Mr. Cazalette. "The murderer may be within bow-shot, but he's none o' yours. Ye'll look deeper, far, far deeper than that – this is no ordinary affair, and no ordinary men at the bottom of it." Then, when he and I had left our host, and were going along one of the upstairs passages towards our own rooms, he added: "No ordinary man, Middlebrook! but you see how ordinary folk are suspicioned! Raven'll be doubting the bona fides of his own footmen and his own garden lads next. No – no! it'll be deeper down than that, my lad!"

"The mystery is deep," I agreed.

"Aye – and I'm wondering if it was well to let yon Chinese fellow into all of it," he muttered significantly. "I'm no great believer in Orientals, Middlebrook."

"Lorrimore answers for him," said I.

"And who answers for Lorrimore?" he demanded. "What do you or I know of Lorrimore? I'm thinking yon Lorrimore was far too glib of his tongue – and maybe I was too ready myself and talked beyond reason to strangers. I don't know Lorrimore – nor his Chinaman."

From which I gathered that Mr. Cazalette himself was not superior to suspicions.

CHAPTER XII
NETHERFIELD BAXTER

However Mr. Raven's nerves may have been wrung by the mysterious events which found place around his recently acquired possessions, nothing untoward or disturbing occurred at Ravensdene Court itself at that time. Indeed, had it not been for what we heard from outside, and for such doings as the visit of the inspector and Scarterfield, the daily life under Mr. Raven's roof would have been regular and decorous almost to the point of monotony. We were all engaged in our respective avocations – Mr. Cazalette with his coins and medals; I with my books and papers; Mr. Raven with his steward, his gardeners, and his various potterings about the estate; Miss Raven with her flowers and her golf. Certainly there was relaxation – and in taking it, we sorted out each other. Mr. Raven and Mr. Cazalette made common cause of an afternoon; they were of that period of life – despite the gulf of twenty years between them – when lounging in comfortable chairs under old cedar trees on a sunlit lawn is preferable to active exercise; Miss Raven and I being younger, found our diversion in golf and in occasional explorations of the surrounding country. She had a touch of the nomadic instinct in her; so had I; the neighbourhood was new to both; we began to find great pleasure in setting out on some excursion as soon as lunch was over and prolonging our wanderings until the falling shadows warned us that it was time to make for home. What these pilgrimages led to – in more ways than one – will eventually appear.

We heard nothing of Scarterfield, the detective, nor of Wing, pressed into his service, for some days after the consultation in Mr. Raven's dining-room. Then, as we were breakfasting one morning, the post-bag was brought in, and Mr. Raven, opening it, presently handed me a letter in an unfamiliar handwriting, the envelope of which bore the post-mark Blyth. I guessed, of course, that it was from Scarterfield, and immediately began to wonder what on earth made him write to me. But there it was – he had written, and here is what he wrote:

"North Sea Hotel,

"Blyth, Northumberland

"April 23, 1912

"Dear Sir:

"You will remember that when we were discussing matters the other night round Mr. Raven's table I mentioned that I intended visiting this town in order to make some inquiries about the man Netherfield who was with the brothers Quick on the Elizabeth Robinson. I have been here two days, and I have made some very curious discoveries. And I am now writing to ask you if you could so far oblige and help me in my investigations as to join me here for a day or two, at once? The fact is, I want your assistance – I understand that you are an expert in deciphering documents and the like, and I have come across certain things here in connection with this case which are beyond me. I can assure you that if you could make it convenient to spare me even a few hours of your valuable time you would put me under great obligations to you.

"Yours truly,

"Thomas Scarterfield."

I read this letter twice over before handing it to Mr. Raven. Its perusal seemed to excite him.

"Bless me!" he exclaimed. "How very extraordinary! What strange mysteries we seem to be living amongst? You'll go, of course, Middlebrook?"

"You think I should?" I asked.

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" he said with emphasis. "If any of us can do anything to solve this strange problem, I think we should. Of course, one hasn't the faintest idea what it is that the man wants. But from what I observed of him the other evening, I should say that Scarterfield is a clever fellow – a very clever fellow who should be helped."

"Scarterfield," I remarked, glancing at Miss Raven and at Mr. Cazalette, who were manifesting curiosity, "has made some discoveries at Blyth – about the Netherfield man – and he wants me to go over there and help him – to elucidate something, I think, but what it is, I don't know."

"Oh, of course, you must go!" exclaimed Miss Raven. "How exciting! Mr. Cazalette! aren't you jealous already?"

"No, but I'm curious," answered Mr. Cazalette, to whom I had passed the letter. "I see the man wants something deciphered – aye, that'll be in your line, Middlebrook. Didn't I tell all of you, all along, that there'd be more in this business than met the eye? Well, I'll be inquisitive to know what new developments have arisen! It's a strange fact, but it is a fact, that in affairs of this sort there's often evidence, circumstantial, strong, lying ready to be picked up. Next door, as it were – and as it is evidently in this case, for Blyth's a town that's not so far away."

Far away or near away, it took me some hours to get to Blyth, for I had to drive to Alnwick, and later to change at Morpeth, and again at Newsham. But there I was at last, in the middle of the afternoon, and there, on the platform to meet me was the detective, as rubicund and cheerful as ever, and full of gratitude for my speedy response to his request.

"I got your telegram, Mr. Middlebrook," he remarked as we walked away from the station, "and I've booked you the most comfortable room I could get in the hotel, which is a nice quiet house where we'll be able to talk in privacy, for barring you and myself there's nobody stopping in it, except a few commercial travellers, and to be sure, they've their own quarters. You'll have had your lunch?"

"While I waited at Morpeth," I answered.

"Aye," he said, "I figured on that. So we'll just get into a corner of the smoking-room and have a quiet glass over a cigar, and I'll tell you what I've made out here – and a very strange and queer tale it is, and one that's worth hearing, whether it really has to do with our affair or no!"

"You're not sure that it has?" I asked.

"I'm as sure as may be that it probably has!" he replied. "But still, there's a gulf between extreme probability and absolute certainty that's a bit wider than the unthinking reckon for. However, here we are – and we'll just get comfortable."

Scarterfield's ideas of comfort, I found, were to dispose himself in the easiest of chairs in the quietest of corners with whisky and soda on one hand and a box of cigars on the other – this sort of thing he evidently regarded as a proper relaxation from his severe mental labours. I had no objection to it myself after four hours slow travelling – yet I confess I felt keenly impatient until he had mixed our drinks, lighted his cigar and settled down at my elbow.

"Now," he said confidentially, "I'll set it all out in order – what I've done and found out since I came here two days ago. There's no need, Mr. Middlebrook, to go into detail about how I set to work to get information: we've our own ways and methods of getting hold of stuff when we strike a strange town. But you know what I came here for. There's been talk, all through this case, of the name Netherfield – from the questions that Salter Quick put to you when you met him on the cliffs, and from what was said at the Mariner's Joy. Very good – now I fell across that name, too, in my investigations in London, as being the name of a man who was on the Elizabeth Robinson, of uncertain memory, lost or disappeared in the year 1907, with the two Quicks. He was set down, that Netherfield, as being of Blyth, Northumberland. Clearly, then, Blyth was a place to get in touch with – and here in Blyth we are!"

"A clear bit of preface, Scarterfield," said I approvingly. "Go ahead! I'm bearing in mind that you've been here forty-eight hours."

"I've made good use of my time!" he chuckled, with a knowing grin. "Although I say it myself, Mr. Middlebrook, I'm a bit of a hustler. Well, self-praise, they say, is no recommendation, though to be sure I'm no believer in that old proverb, for, after all, who knows a man better than himself? So we'll get to the story. I came here, of course, to see if I could learn anything of a man of this place who answered to what I had already learnt about Netherfield of the Elizabeth Robinson. I went to the likely people for news, and I very soon found out something. Nobody knew anything of any man, old or young, named William Netherfield, belonging, present or past, to this town. But a good many people – most, if not all people – do know of a man who used to be in much evidence here some years ago; a man of the name of Netherfield Baxter."

"Netherfield Baxter," I repeated. "Not a name to be readily forgotten – once known."

"He's not forgotten," said Scarterfield, grimly, "and he was well enough known, here, once upon a time, and not so long since, either. And now, who was Netherfield Baxter? Well, he was the only child of an old tradesman of this town, whose wife died when Netherfield was a mere boy, and who died himself when his son was only seventeen years of age. Old Baxter was a remarkably foolish man. He left all he had to this lad – some twelve thousand pounds – in such a fashion that he came into absolute, uncontrolled possession of it on attaining his twenty-first birthday. Now then you can imagine what happened! My young gentleman, nobody to say him nay, no father, mother, sister, brother, to restrain him or give him a word in season – or a hearty kicking, which would have been more to the purpose! – went the pace, pretty considerably. Horses, cards, champagne – you know! The twelve thousand began to melt like wax in a fire. He carried on longer than was expected, for now and then he had luck on the race-course; won a good deal once, I heard, on the big race at Newcastle – what they call the Pitman's Darby. But it went – all of it went! – and by the beginning of the year 1904 – bear the date in mind, Mr. Middlebrook – Netherfield Baxter was just about on his last legs – he was, in fact, living from hand to mouth. He was then – I've been particular about collecting facts and statistics – just twenty-nine years of age, so, one way or another, he'd made his little fortune last him eight years; he still had good clothes – a very taking, good-looking fellow he was, they say – and he'd a decent lodging. But in spring 1904 he was living on the proceeds of chance betting, and was sometimes very low down, and in May of that year he disappeared, in startlingly sudden fashion, without saying a word to anybody, and since then nobody has ever seen a vestige or ever heard a word of him."

Scarterfield paused, looking at me as if to ask what I thought of it. I thought a good deal of it.

"A very interesting bit of life-drama, Scarterfield," said I. "And there have been far stranger things than it would be if this Netherfield Baxter of Blyth turned out to be the William Netherfield of the Elizabeth Robinson. You haven't hit on anything in the shape of a bridge, a connecting link between the two?"

"Not yet, anyway," he answered. "And I don't think it's at all likely that I shall, here, for, as I said just now, nobody in this place has ever heard of Netherfield Baxter since he walked out of his lodging one evening and clean vanished. To be sure, there's been nobody at all anxious to hear of him. For one thing, he left no near and dear relations or friends – for another, he left no debts behind him. The last fact, of course," added Scarterfield, with a wink, "was due to another, very pertinent fact – nobody, to be sure, in his latter stages, would give him credit!"

"You've more to tell," I suggested.

"Oh, much more!" he acquiesced. "We're about half-way through the surface matters. Now then – you're bearing in mind that Netherfield Baxter disappeared, very suddenly, in May 1904. Perhaps the town didn't make much to do over his disappearance for a good reason – it was just then in the very midst of what we generally call a nine days' wonder. For some months the Old Alliance Bank here had been in charge of a temporary manager, in consequence of the regular manager's long-continued illness. This temporary manager was a chap named Lester – John Martindale Lester – who had come here from a branch of the same bank at Hexham, across country. Now, this Lester was a young man who was greatly given to going about on a motor-cycle – not so many of those things about, then, as we see now; he was always tearing about the country, they say, on half-holidays, and Saturdays and Sundays. And one evening, careering round a sharp corner, somewhere just outside the town, in the dark, he ran full tilt into a cart that carried no tail-light, and – broke his neck! They picked him up dead."

"Well?" said I.

"You're wondering if that's anything to do with Netherfield Baxter's disappearance?" said Scarterfield. "Well – it's an odd thing, but out of all the folk that I've made inquiry of in the town, I haven't come across one yet who voluntarily suggested that it had! But – I do! And you'll presently see why I think so. Now, this man, John Martindale Lester, was accidentally killed about the beginning of the first week in May 1904. Three or four days later, Netherfield Baxter cleared out. I've been careful, in my conversations with the townfolk – officials, mostly – not to appear to connect Lester's death with Baxter's departure. But that there was a connection, I'm dead certain. Baxter hooked it, Mr. Middlebrook, because he knew that Lester's sudden death would lead to an examination of things at the Old Alliance Bank!"

"Ah!" said I. "I begin to see things!"

"So do I – through smoked glass, though, as yet," assented Scarterfield. "But – it's getting clearer. Now, things at the bank were examined – and some nice revelations came forth! To begin with, there was a cash deficiency – not a heavy one, but quite heavy enough. In addition to that, certain jewels were missing, which had been deposited with the bankers for security by a lady in this neighbourhood – they were worth some thousands of pounds. And, to add to this, two chests of plate were gone which had been placed with the bank some years before by the executors of the will of the late Lord Forestburne, to be kept there till the coming of age of his heir, a minor when his father died. Altogether, Mr. John Martindale Lester and his accomplices, or accomplice, had helped themselves very freely to things until then safe in the vaults and strong room."

"Have you found out if Netherfield Baxter and the temporary bank-manager were acquainted?" I asked.

"No – that's a matter I've very carefully refrained from inquiring into," answered Scarterfield. "So far, no one has mentioned their acquaintanceship or association to me, and I haven't suggested it, for I don't want to raise suspicions – I want to keep things to myself, so that I can play my own game. No – I've never heard the two men spoken of in connection with each other."

"What is thought in the town about Lester and the valuables?" I inquired. "They must have some theory?"

"Oh, of course, they have," he replied. "The theory is that Lester had accomplices in London, that he shipped these valuables off there, and that when his accomplices heard of his sudden death they – why, they just held their tongues. But – my notion is that the only accomplice Lester had was our friend Netherfield Baxter."

"You've some ground?" I asked.

"Yes – or I shouldn't think so," said Scarterfield. "I'm now coming to the reason of my sending for you, Mr. Middlebrook. I told you that this fellow Baxter had a decent lodging in the town. Well, I made it my business to go there yesterday morning, and finding that the landlady was a sensible woman and likely to keep a quiet tongue I just told her a bit of my business and asked her some questions. Then I found out that Baxter left various matters behind him, which she still had – clothes, books (he was evidently a chap for reading, and of superior education, which probably accounts for what I'm going to tell you), papers, and the like. I got her to let me have a sight of them. And amongst the papers I found two, which seem to me to have been written hundreds of years ago and to be lists with names and figures in them. My impression is that Lester found them in those chests of plate, couldn't make them out, and gave them to Netherfield Baxter, as being a better educated man – Baxter, I found out, did well at school and could read and write two or three languages. Well, now, I persuaded the landlady to lend me these documents for a day or two, and I've got them in my room upstairs, safely locked up – I'll fetch them down presently and you shall see if you can decipher them – very old they are, and the writing crabbed and queer – but Lord bless you, the ink's as black as jet!"

"Scarterfield!" said I. "It strikes me you've possibly hit on a discovery. Supposing this stolen stuff is safely hidden somewhere about? Supposing Netherfield Baxter knew where, and that he's the William Netherfield of the Elizabeth Robinson? Supposing that he let the Quicks into the secret? Supposing – but, bless me! there are a hundred things one can suppose! Anyhow, I believe we're getting at something."

"I've been supposing a lot of what you've just suggested ever since yesterday morning," he answered quietly. "Didn't I say we should have to hark back? Well, I'll fetch down these documents."

He went away, and while he was absent I stood at the window of the smoking-room, looking out on the life of the little town and wondering. There, across the street, immediately in front of the hotel was the bank of which Scarterfield had been telling me – an old-fashioned, grey-walled, red-roofed place, the outer door of which was just then being closed for the day by a white-whiskered old porter in a sober-hued uniform. Was it possible – could it really be – that the story which had recently ended in a double murder had begun in that quiet-looking house, through the criminality of an untrustworthy employee? But did I say ended? – nay, for all I knew the murderers of the Quicks were only an episode, a chapter in the story – the end was – where?

Then Scarterfield came back and from a big envelope drew forth and placed in my hands two folded pieces of old, time-yellowed parchment.