The Millionaire Mystery

by Fergus Hume

  ‘All very well,’ said Slack the schoolmaster; ‘but if he took away Mr Marlow’s body, how did he put Dr Warrender’s in its place? And how could he without the key of the vault?’

  ‘No,’ said the stonemason, ‘he couldn’t get into that there vault without a key. I built him myself, me and my mates. If that fat man put the doctor there, he must have killed him. There’s a hole in his heart as you could put your fist in. It’s murder!’ cried the man, dashing his hand on the table, ‘sacrilege and murder!’

  It took a good many tankards of Mrs Timber’s strong ale to wash down the sinister word ‘murder’. Every point of the matter was discussed, but no one could arrive at any decision. Slack voiced the general sentiment when he rose to go.

  ‘We must wait for the police,’ said Slack.

  But Alan Thorold was of the contrary opinion. He did not wish to wait for the police, or to have anything to do with the police. The difficulty was that he could not get the Rector to take this view, and the next morning Mr Phelps sent the village constable for the inspector at Burchester, the big market town twenty miles away across the heath. Meantime, at an early hour, Alan presented himself at the Moat House. He broke the news as gently as he could. Both Sophy and Miss Vicky were horrified.

  ‘To think of such things taking place in a Christian graveyard!’ cried the little woman, wringing her hands. ‘Sacrilege and murder! It makes one believe in the existence of atheists and anarchists, and such-like dreadful people—it does, indeed!’

  Contrary to Thorold’s expectation, Sophy proved to be the more composed of the two. She neither wept nor fainted, but, very pale and very still, listened to all that he had to say. When he had finished, she had only one question to ask.

  ‘Who did it?’ she demanded in the calmest voice.

  ‘I can’t say—I don’t know,’ stammered Alan, taken aback by her attitude generally. ‘We must find out. If your father had enemies—but even an enemy would have had no object in doing this.’

  ‘What about the man in Bournemouth?’

  ‘Cicero Gramp? I intend to go up to London tomorrow and see him. If he can tell the truth, it will be well worth the money he demands.’

  ‘So I think, Alan. Can’t you go today?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There is so much to do here, Sophy. The Rector has gone to break the news of her husband’s death to Mrs Warrender. And he has sent over to Burchester for the police. The inspector—Blair is his name—will be here at noon. I did not want the police brought into the matter, but Mr Phelps insisted.’

  ‘Why did you not want to consult the police?’

  ‘I am afraid if this vagabond gets wind that the law has intervened he may give us the slip. However, I shall go up to Dixon’s Rents first thing in the morning, before the case gets into the papers.’

  ‘Do you think this man Gramp has anything to do with the murder, and with the removing of poor father’s body?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Alan promptly. ‘He would not dare to give evidence if he were. I hear that he was turned out of the Good Samaritan on the night of the funeral. It is likely enough that he saw the removal of the body, and possibly the murder. Naturally, such a creature as that wants to sell his information. He is a blackmailer, this man, but I don’t credit him with murder or body-snatching.’

  ‘Body-snatching!’ cried Miss Vicky, who was dabbing her red eyes with eau-de-Cologne. ‘Oh, the terrible word!’

  ‘Alan,’ said Sophy, after a pause, ‘do you believe the man who took my father’s body killed Dr Warrender?’

  ‘I do. Warrender was out on that night, and might have come across the man carrying away the body, and the murder might have arisen out of that.’

  ‘How do you know Dr Warrender was out?’ cross-examined Sophy.

  ‘Mrs Warrender told the Rector so. Warrender went to see the Quiet Gentleman, but not finding him in, said that he would return. He never did, and now we know the reason.’

  ‘Why don’t you make certain whether he saw the Quiet Gentleman?’

  ‘Brown? That’s impossible; he also has disappeared.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alan gloomily.

  ‘Does anyone know?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Perhaps the police may find out. Sophy, what is the matter?’

  For the girl was clapping her hands and laughing hysterically.

  ‘It was Brown who took my father’s body and killed the doctor!’ she cried. ‘I am certain of it!’

  ‘Why are you certain?’

  ‘I feel it. I can’t say why.’

  ‘But your father did not know this man. I never heard him allude to the Quiet Gentleman.’

  ‘I dare say not,’ returned Sophy doggedly; ‘but if the man had nothing to do with it, why should he disappear? And Dr Warrender went to see him. Oh! I am sure he is the guilty person. He might be an enemy of father’s.’

  ‘Sophia, your father did not know him,’ put in Miss Vicky, who was listening open-mouthed to all this.

  ‘Oh, I am not so sure of that!’ cried the girl impatiently. ‘If he did, Joe will know. Ring the bell for him.’

  ‘Did Joe know the Quiet Gentleman?’ Alan asked when he had rung.

  ‘I do not think that Joseph did,’ said Miss Vicky. ‘He told me that he tried several times to speak to him, but got no reply.’

  ‘I don’t wonder at that,’ replied the young man drily; ‘the man was dumb.’

  ‘Dumb?’ echoed the ladies.

  ‘Didn’t you know? Ah, well, perhaps not. I didn’t know myself until the Rector told me last night. Yes, he was dumb—that was why the village called him the Quiet Gentleman. Oh, here is Joe!’

  ‘Joe,’ said Sophy, going directly to the point, ‘have you heard about—?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Joe, interrupting to save her mentioning so painful a subject, ‘I know, and if I find the swab as did it, I’ll kill him.’

  Joe said this in a quietly savage way, which made Miss Vicky shudder.

  ‘Have you any idea who carried off the body, Joe?’

  ‘No, sir, I have not—but,’ added the man grimly, ‘I’m going to look for him.’

  The old maid shuddered again at the expression in his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘“Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord”,’ she put in severely.

  ‘All werry good,’ said Mr Brill, ‘but I guess the Lord needs an instrument to carry out that text.’ He spat on his hands and added slowly, ‘I’m that instrument!’

  ‘Had my father any enemies that you know of, Joe?’

  ‘No, miss, not that I knowed of. He had rows, as a man should, had the Cap’n, but I don’t know any swab as ’ud have stolen his corpse.’

  ‘And murdered Dr Warrender,’ said Alan, who was watching the man.

  ‘As you say, sir,’ replied the sailor calmly, ‘and murdered Dr Warrender. No, I can’t rightly call anyone to mind.’

  ‘Did you know the Quiet Gentleman, Joe?’

  ‘I did not, miss. Brown he called hisself—leastways, Mrs Marry told me so, for Brown had no tongue. I tried to pass the time o’ day, meeting him friendly like on the road, but he only put his hand to his mouth and shook his white head. I don’t know nothing about him.’

  ‘Do you know a tramp named Cicero Gramp?’ asked Alan, after a pause.

  ‘Well, I did in a way.’ Joe drew his huge hand across his mouth, and seemed to be considering his reply. ‘In this way, sir. He comed here to the kitchen and put ’em all wrong with his lies. I kicked him out—leastways, I giv ’im something to take ’imself orf.’

  ‘What did he come here for?’

  Joe clenched his teeth and frowned dreadfully.

  ‘I wish I knowed, I’d ha’ broken his cocoanut!’ said he. ‘He was a liar, miss, savin’ your presence. Said ’e knowed your father, the Cap’n, which,’ said Joe slowly, ‘was a d—d lie—beggin’ your pardon, miss.’

  ‘Said he knew my
father?’ echoed Sophy anxiously. ‘What did he know about him?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ replied Joe firmly. ‘Make your mind easy, miss—nothin’.’

  It seemed to Alan as though the old sailor wished to intimate that there really was something in Marlow’s past which might be known, but that the tramp was ignorant of it. He evidently wanted to reassure the girl, yet Alan was well aware that Sophy knew practically nothing of her father’s life. He resolved to try the effect of a surprise.

  ‘Joe,’ said he slowly, ‘it was this tramp who told me the body had been stolen.’

  Joe’s hard, shiny hat, which he had been twisting nervously in his hands, fell to the ground. His face was a dark crimson when he stooped to pick it up, and he stammered:

  ‘Hi, sir! that—that lubber. How did he know?’

  ‘That I have to find out. He offers to sell the information for a hundred pounds.’

  Joe rubbed his hands and looked ferocious.

  ‘What I want to know, sir, is, where is the swab?’

  ‘In London. I’m going up to see him tomorrow.’

  ‘This afternoon,’ put in Sophy sharply. ‘You are going this afternoon, Alan.’

  ‘Certainly, my dear,’ Alan said promptly; ‘I’ll go this afternoon—if the police don’t want me.’

  ‘The police!’ gasped Joe, shifting nervously from one leg to the other.

  ‘Yes.’ Alan darted a keen glance at him. ‘Mr Phelps has sent for the police to investigate this murder of Dr Warrender.’

  ‘Well, I hope they’ll find him, sir,’ said Joe, recovering his stolidity, ‘for I make no doubt that the swab as killed the doctor carried off the Cap’n’s body.’

  ‘So I think, Joe, and I am going to London to find out from Cicero Gramp.’

  ‘You’ll find he’ll tell you that the Quiet Gentleman killed Dr Warrender,’ put in Sophy.

  The old sailor choked, and looked at her with absolute terror.

  ‘How do you know that, miss?’ he asked.

  ‘I only think so. The Quiet Gentleman has disappeared. Probably he killed the doctor, and then took my father’s body.’

  ‘It might be so, miss. If I find him—’

  Joe repeated his former savage declaration, and Miss Vicky duly shuddered.

  ‘Then you can’t help us in any way, Joe?’ said Alan, eyeing him thoughtfully.

  ‘No, sir, I can’t. I don’t know who carried off the Cap’n, and I don’t know who stabbed the doctor. If I did, I’d kill him. When you find him, sir, let me know.’

  After which speech the old sailor again pulled his forelock, scraped his foot, and rolled out of the room. He appeared somewhat relieved to get away.

  Alan did not quite know what to make of Joe. The man was so nervous that it seemed as though he knew something and was afraid of committing himself. On the other hand, this sailor was devoted to Sophy, and had been in Marlow’s service for thirty years. It was only reasonable to conclude, therefore, that he would wish her to benefit by any knowledge he might possess. On the whole, Alan was perplexed, but he kept it to himself, determining, nevertheless, to keep an eye on Joe. When the door was closed, Sophy turned to Alan.

  ‘Alan,’ she said slowly, ‘I love you dearly, as you know, and I wish to become your wife. But I swear by the memory of my father that until you find out who has done this wicked thing and bring the man to justice, I will not marry you!’

  ‘Sophy!’ cried Thorold entreatingly.

  ‘I mean what I say,’ repeated the girl, in a low, fierce voice. ‘We must avenge my father. When the wretch is caught and hanged, then I’ll marry you, Alan.’

  ‘Sophia, a marriage under such circumstances—’

  ‘Miss Parsh,’ cried Sophy, turning on the meek old maid, ‘do you think I can sit down tamely under this insult to the dead? My father’s body has been carried off. It must be found again before I marry—before I can think of marriage, Alan.’

  ‘Sophy is right,’ cried Thorold, drawing the girl to him and kissing her. ‘She is right, Miss Parsh. I swear also that I will devote my life to solving this mystery. Your father’s body shall be brought back, Sophy, and the murderer of Dr Warrender shall hang. Good-bye, dear. Today I go to London. The first step towards the discovery of this crime will be to see Cicero Gramp. He may supply the clue.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Bribe him; pay him anything, so long as you get at the truth.’

  Alan kissed the girl again, and then left the room. Before he started, he intended to see the Rector and the local inspector of police. As he stepped out on to the road, he noticed Phelps coming along in the hot sunshine. The little parson was puffing and blowing and wiping his forehead.

  ‘Alan! Alan!’ he called out in short gasps as he came within speaking distance. ‘She’s gone! She’s gone to—’

  ‘She! Gone! Who’s gone? Where?’

  ‘Why, Mrs Warrender! She’s disappeared. Oh, dear me; how terrible all this is! Whew!’

  CHAPTER VI

  THE MISSING KEY

  SO excited was the little parson that Alan feared lest he should take a fit. The Good Samaritan was no great distance away, so thither he led him, into Mrs Timber’s private parlour.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Alan, when his old tutor seemed somewhat more composed, ‘tell me all about Mrs Warrender.’

  But before Mr Phelps could reply, the vixenish landlady made her appearance. She was highly honoured at seeing the Rector within her doors, and curtsied a hint for orders. And, in truth, the little clergyman, undone with excitement, was quite ready to stimulate his jaded nerves.

  ‘Eh, Mrs Timber?’ he said. ‘Yes; you might get us a little Cognac, I think. Old; the best you have, Mrs Timber, and a jug of fresh-drawn water from the well, please. Alan?’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said young Thorold promptly.

  He, too, felt that he was in nowise beyond reach of a little stimulant.

  Silent for once in her life, Mrs Timber brought of her best, which, be it said, was passing good. Mr Phelps lost no time in brewing his measure and drank it down with gusto.

  ‘That’s good, Alan, my boy; very good,’ said he, setting down the tumbler with a sigh of relief. ‘God forgive me, I fear to think what my good brethren would say did they see their Rector in a public-house! though to be sure the Good Samaritan is a most respectable hostelry. But, Alan, why did you bring me here?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, I feared you would be ill out there in the blazing sun. I did only what I thought wise. But about Mrs Warrender—you say she has disappeared?’

  ‘Eh, yes.’ Mr Phelps wiped his bald head vigorously. ‘I went to break the news to her after you had gone to see Sophy, and I found she had left for London.’

  ‘London? Why London?’

  ‘That is just what I wanted to know, my dear Alan. It seems she received last night a letter which threw her into a state of great excitement. She was bad enough that way, as it was, the servant said; but this letter, it appears, drove her into a perfect frenzy.’

  ‘Do you know what was in the letter?’

  ‘I asked that—oh, trust me, Alan, to be precise about details—but the servant said she did not know. Mrs Warrender put it in her pocket. That spoke volumes from the servant’s point of view. All night long, it appears, she was walking about the room using the most fearful language—God forgive her!—and this morning at eight o’clock she started off to catch the 9.30 express at the Junction.’

  ‘And is she coming back?’

  ‘That I don’t know, my boy.’

  Mr Phelps looked round cautiously and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘She took her jewels with her.’

  ‘Her jewels?’

  ‘Yes; she had a quantity of jewellery. She put all the money she could get from her husband into clothes and diamonds—a most extravagant woman, Alan. Well, she’s gone, that’s certain, jewels and all. She left no address, and said no word about returning. What do you think of it?’

  ‘Upon my word, sir, I don’t k
now what to think. The whole place has gone mad, it seems to me; the entire village is topsy-turvy. Marlow’s body stolen, Warrender murdered, and his body placed in poor Marlow’s coffin; and now here is Mrs Warrender cleared out significantly with her jewels; and the Quiet Gentleman—’

  ‘Brown, the dumb man? What about him? I know he, too, has vanished; but what else?’

  ‘I’m going to tell you, sir. The key of the vault—’

  ‘Not your key, Alan?’

  ‘Yes, my key, Mr Phelps; the Quiet Gentleman has it!’

  ‘God bless me—that is, God forgive me, Alan, are you mad too?’

  ‘No, sir, not yet; though I admit I’m fairly on the way, with all this. Tell me, do you know who this so-called Quiet Gentleman really is?’

  ‘No, Alan, I don’t. I spoke to him, but found he was dumb. Now he too is gone.’

  ‘Yes, with Marlow’s body on his hands, and Warrender’s death on his soul!’

  ‘You don’t mean that! Are you sure?’

  Mr Phelps was greatly agitated.

  ‘I go only by circumstantial evidence, it is true. You know, of course, the funeral of Mr Marlow took place in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, yes; and at two o’clock you took Sophy and Miss Parsh to Bournemouth.’

  ‘I did. Well, about five o’clock, Brown—we’ll call him that instead of the Quiet Gentleman, though I don’t believe it really is his name—well, about that time Brown walked over to Abbey Farm. He brought a letter purporting to come from me to my housekeeper, Mrs Hester.’

  ‘From you, Alan?’

  ‘Yes, the letter was forged,’ said Alan with emphasis. ‘It directed Mrs Hester to allow Brown to remain at the farm until I returned. It was in my handwriting, and signed with my name. She knew nothing about Brown, save that he was staying at Mrs Marry’s, and she thought it somewhat strange he should come to stop at the farm during my absence. But as the instructions in the letter were quite plain, and she knew my handwriting well—that shows how expert the forgery was—she gave Brown the run of the place. In the meantime she wrote to me at Bournemouth asking me if all was right, and enclosed the forged letter. Here it is!’