the dead woman. The inquest
elicited the following facts.
Shortly after one o'clock on January 8th, a
well-dressed woman with a slight foreign
accent had entered the offices of Messrs.
Butler and Park, house-agents, in Knightsbridge.
She explained that she wanted to rent
or purchase a house on the Thames within
easy reach of London. The particulars of
several were given to her, including those of
the Mill House. She gave the name of Mrs.
de Castina and her address as the Ritz, but
there proved to be no one of that name
staying there, and the hotel people failed to
identify the body.
Mrs. James, the wife of Sir Eustace
Pedler's gardener, who acted as caretaker to
the Mill House and inhabited the small lodge
opening on the main road, gave evidence.
About three o'clock that afternoon a lady
came to see over the house. She produced an
order from the house-agents, and, as was the
39
usual custom, Mrs. James gave her the keys
of the house. It was situated at some distance
from the lodge, and she was not in the habit
of accompanying prospective tenants. A few
minutes later a young man arrived. Mrs.
James described him as tall and broadshouldered,
with a bronzed face and light
grey eyes. He was clean-shaven and was
wearing a brown suit. He explained to Mrs.
James that he was a friend of the lady who
had come to look over the house, but had
stopped at the post office to send a telegram.
She directed him to the house, and thought
no more about the matter.
Five minutes later he reappeared, handed
her back the keys and explained that he feared
the house would not suit them. Mrs. James
did not see the lady, but thought that she had
gone on ahead. What she did notice was that
the young man seemed very much upset
about something. "He looked like a man
who'd seen a ghost. I thought he was taken
ill."
On the following day another lady and
gentleman came to see the property and
discovered the body lying on the floor in one
of the upstairs rooms. Mrs. James identified
it as that of the lady who had come the day
40
before. The house-agents also recognized it as
that of "Mrs. de Castina." The police
surgeon gave it as his opinion that the woman
had been dead about twenty-four hours. The
Daily Budget had jumped to the conclusion
that the man in the Tube had murdered the
woman and afterwards committed suicide.
However, as the Tube victim was dead at two
o'clock, and the woman was alive and well at
three o'clock, the only logical conclusion to
come to was that the two occurrences had
nothing to do with each other, and that the
order to view the house at Marlow found in
the dead man's pocket was merely one of
those coincidences which so often occur in
this life.
A verdict of "Wilful Murder against some
person or persons unknown" was returned,
and the police (and the Daily Budget) were
left to look for "the man in the brown suit."
Since Mrs. James was positive that there was
no one in the house when the lady entered it,
and that nobody except the young man in
question entered it until the following
afternoon, it seemed only logical to conclude
that he was the murderer of the unfortunate
Mrs. de Castina. She had been strangled with
a piece of stout black cord, and had evidently
41
been caught unawares with no time to cry
out. The black silk handbag which she
carried contained a well-filled notecase and
some loose change, a fine lace handkerchief, unmarked, and the return half of a first-class
ticket to London. Nothing much there to go
upon.
Such were the details published broadcast
by the Daily Budget, and "Find the Man in
the Brown Suit" was their daily war-cry. On
an average about five hundred people wrote
daily to announce their success in the quest, and tall young men with well-tanned faces
cursed the day when their tailors had persuaded
them to a brown suit. The accident in
the Tube, dismissed as a coincidence, faded
out of the public mind.
Was it a coincidence? I was not so sure. No
doubt I was prejudiced--the Tube incident
was my own pet mystery--but there certainly
seemed to me to be a connection of some kind
between the two fatalities. In each there was a
man with a tanned face--evidently an
Englishman living abroad--and there were
other things. It was the consideration of these
other things that finally impelled me to what
I considered a dashing step. I presented
myself at Scotland Yard and demanded to see
42
whoever was in charge of the Mill House
case.
My request took some time to understand,
as I had inadvertently selected the
department for lost umbrellas, but eventually
I was ushered into a small room and
presented to Detective Inspector Meadows.
Inspector Meadows was a small man with a
ginger head and what I considered a
peculiarly irritating manner. A satellite, also
in plain clothes, sat unobtrusively in a corner.
"Good morning," I said nervously.
"Good morning. Will you take a seat? I
understand you've something to tell me that
you think may be of use to us."
His tone seemed to indicate that such a
thing was unlikely in the extreme. I felt my
temper stirred.
"Of course you know about the man who
was killed in the Tube? The man who had an
order to view this same house at Marlow in
his pocket."
"Ah!" said the inspector. "You are the
Miss Beddingfield who gave evidence at the
inquest. Certainly the man had an order in
his pocket. A lot of other people may have
had too—only they didn't happen to be
killed."
TMITBS4 43
I rallied my forces.
"You don't think it odd that this man had
no ticket in his pocket?"
"Easiest thing in the world to drop your
ticket. Done it myself."
"And no money."
"He had some loose change in his trousers
pocket."
"But no notecase."
"Some men don't carry a pocket-book or
notecase of any kind."
I tried another tack.
"You don't think it's odd that the doctor
never came forward afterwards?"
"A busy medical man very often doesn't
read the papers. He probably forgot all about
the accident."
"In fact, inspector, you are determined to
find nothing odd," I said sweetly.
"Well, I'm inclined to think
you're a little
too fond of the word. Miss Beddingfield.
Young ladies are romantic, I know—fond of
mysteries and such-like. But as I'm a busy
man——"
I took the hint and rose.
The man in the corner raised a meek voice.
"Perhaps if the young lady would tell us
44
briefly what her ideas really are on the
subject, inspector?"
The inspector fell in with the suggestion
readily enough.
"Yes, come now. Miss Beddingfield, don't
be offended. You've asked questions and
hinted things. Just say straight out what it is
you've got in your head."
I wavered between injured dignity and the
overwhelming desire to express my theories.
Injured dignity went to the wall.
"You said at the inquest you were positive
it wasn't suicide?"
"Yes, I'm quite certain of that. The man
was frightened. What frightened him? It
wasn't me. But someone might have been
walking up the platform towards us—someone
he recognized."
"You didn't see anyone?"
"No," I admitted. "I didn't turn my head.
Then, as soon as the body was recovered from
the line, a man pushed forward to examine it,
saying he was a doctor."
"Nothing unusual in that," said the
inspector dryly.
"But he wasn't a doctor."
"What?"
"He wasn't a doctor," I repeated.
45
"How do you know that. Miss Beddingfield?"
"It's
difficult to say, exactly. I've worked in
hospitals during the war, and I've seen
doctors handle bodies. There's a sort of deft
professional callousness that this man hadn't
got. Besides, a doctor doesn't usually feel for
the heart on the right side of the body."
"He did that?"
"Yes, I didn't notice it specially at the
time—except that I felt there was something
wrong. But I worked it out when I got home,
and then I saw why the whole thing had
looked so unhandy to me at the time."
"H'm," said the inspector. He was
reaching slowly for pen and paper.
"In running his hands over the upper part
of the man's body he would have ample
opportunity to take anything he wanted from
the pockets."
"Doesn't sound likely to me," said the
inspector. "But—well, can you describe him
at all?"
"He was tall and broad-shouldered, wore a
dark overcoat and black boots, a bowler hat.
He had a dark pointed beard and goldrimmed
eyeglasses."
"Take away the overcoat, the beard and the
46
eyeglasses, and there wouldn't be much to
know him by," gmmbled the inspector. "He
could alter his appearance easily enough in
five minutes if he wanted to—which he could
do if he's the swell pickpocket you suggest."
I had not intended to suggest anything of
the kind. But from this moment I gave the
inspector up as hopeless.
"Nothing more you can tell us about him?"
he demanded, as I rose to depart.
"Yes," I said. I seized my opportunity to
fire a parting shot. "His head was markedly
brachycephalic. He will not find it so easy to
alter that."
I observed with pleasure that Inspector
Meadows's pen wavered. It was clear that he
did not know how to spell brachycephalic.
47
5
N the first heat of indignation, I found my
next step unexpectedly easy to tackle. I
had had a half-formed plan in my head
when I went into Scotland Yard. One to be
carried out if my interview there was unsatisfactory
(it had been profoundly unsatisfactory).
That is, if I had the nerve to go
through with it.
I
Things that one would shrink from
attempting normally are easily tackled in a
flush of anger. Without giving myself time to
reflect, I walked straight into the house of
Lord Nasby.
Lord Nasby was the millionaire owner of
the Daily Budget. He owned other papers- several of them, but the Daily Budget was his
special child. It was as the owner of the Daily
Budget that he was known to every householder
in the United Kingdom. Owing to the
fact that an itinerary of the great man's daily
proceedings had just been published, I knew
exactly where to find him at this moment. It
48
was his hour for dictating to his secretary in
his own house.
I did not, of course, suppose that any young
woman who chose to come and ask for him
would be at once admitted to the august
presence. But I had attended to that side of
the matter. In the card-tray in the hall of the
Flemmings* house, I had observed the card of
the Marquis of Loamsley, England's most
famous sporting peer. I had removed the
card, cleaned it carefully with bread-crumbs,
and pencilled upon it the words: "Please give
Miss Beddingfield a few moments of your
time." Adventuresses must not be too
scrupulous in their methods.
The thing worked. A powdered footman
received the card and bore it away. Presently
a pale secretary appeared. I fenced with him
successfully. He retired defeated. He again
reappeared and begged me to follow him. I
did so. I entered a large room, a frightenedlooking
shorthand-typist fled past me like a
visitant from the spirit-world. Then the door
shut and I was face to face with Lord Nasby.
A big man. Big head. Big face. Big
moustache. Big stomach. I pulled myself
together. I had not come here to comment on
49
Lord Nasby's stomach. He was already
roaring at me.
"Well, what is it? What does Loamsley
want? You are his secretary? What's it all
about?"
"To begin with," I said with as great an
appearance of coolness as I could manage, "I
don't know Lord Loamsley, and he certainly
knows nothing about me. I took his card from
the tray in the house of the people I'm staying
with, and I wrote those words on it myself. It
was important that I should see you."
For a moment it appeared to be a toss up as
to whether Lord Nasby had apoplexy or not.
In the end he swallowed twice and got over it.
"I admire your coolness, young woman.
Well, you see me! If you interest me, you will
continue to see me for exactly two minutes
longer."
"That will be ample," I replied. "And I
shall interest you. It's the Mill House
Mystery."
"If you've found "The Man in the Brown
Suit,' write to the Editor," he interrupted
hastily.
"If you will interrupt, I shall be more than
two minutes," I said stern
ly. "I haven't
50
found "The Man in the Brown Suit,' but I'm
quite likely to do so."
In as few words as possible I put the facts of
the Tube accident and the conclusions I had
drawn from them before him. When I had
finished he said unexpectedly, "What do you
know of brachycephalic heads?"
I mentioned Papa.
"The Monkey man? Eh? Well, you seem to
have a head of some kind upon your
shoulders, young woman. But it's all pretty
thin, you know. Not much to go upon. And
no use to us--as it stands."
"I'm perfectly aware of that."
"What d'you want, then?"
"I want a job on your paper to investigate
this matter."
"Can't do that. We've got our own special
man on it."
"And I've got my own special knowledge."
"What you've just told me, eh?"
"Oh, no. Lord Nasby. I've still got something
up my sleeve."
"Oh, you have, have you? You seem a
bright sort of girl. Well, what is it?"
"When this so-called doctor got into the
lift, he dropped a piece of paper. I picked it
up. It smelt of moth-balls. So did the dead
51
man. The doctor didn't. So I saw at once that
the doctor must have taken it off the body. It
had two words written on it and some
figures."
"Let's see it."
Lord Nasby stretched out a careless hand.
"I think not," I said, smiling. "It's my find
you see."
"I'm right. You are a bright girl. Quite
right to hang on to it. No scruples about not
handing it over to the police?"
"I went there to do so this morning. They
persisted in regarding the whole thing as
having nothing to do with the Marlow affair,
so I thought that in the circumstances I was
justified in retaining the paper. Besides, the
inspector put my back up."
"Short-sighted man. Well, my dear girl,
here's all I can do for you. Go on working on
this line of yours. If you get anything—anything
that's publishable—send it along and
you shall have your chance. There's always
room for real talent on the Daily Budget. But
you've got to make good first. See?"
I thanked him, and apologized for my
methods.
"Don't mention it. I rather like cheek—
from a pretty girl. By the way, you said two
52
minutes and you've been three, allowing for
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