The Millionaire Mystery

by Fergus Hume

  The Rector’s nerves had received such a shock at the abrupt way in which Alan had told his news that he very willingly poured himself out a liqueur. Then he relighted his cigar, and signed to the young man to proceed.

  ‘If I must hear it!’ sighed he. ‘Such a pity, too, when I was so comfortable. Ah! Man is born to trouble. Go on, my dear lad!’

  ‘You will find it really interesting,’ said Thorold encouragingly, and told his story in as concise a way as he could. The narrative was interrupted frequently by the Rector. When it was ended he was too much astonished to make any remark, and the other had to stir up his intelligence. ‘What do you think of it, sir?’

  ‘Really—bless me!—I hardly know. Do you believe it, Alan?’

  ‘There are so many things in it which I know to be true, that I can’t help thinking the man is honest, in so far as his story goes,’ said Alan gloomily. ‘Whether Sophy is really his child I can’t say. She is certainly very like him, and the certificate appears to be genuine. Again, Mr Phelps, you heard Warrender call Marlow “Beauchamp”, and, as I told you, a sum of two thousand a year is by Marlow’s will to be paid to a Herbert Beauchamp. What if he should be Marlow himself?’

  ‘I can’t—I won’t believe it!’ cried the Rector, rubbing his bald head. ‘The man is as dead as a doornail—you saw the corpse yourself, Alan. The body was put in a leaden casing, hermetically sealed, and that in a tightly-screwed-down oaken coffin. Even if Marlow had been in a trance—if that is what you mean—he could not have survived that! He would have died of suffocation—he would have been asphyxiated. Bless my soul! I don’t believe it for one moment.’

  ‘But how do you account for the income left to Herbert Beauchamp?’

  ‘He must be a relative,’ said the Rector.

  ‘But the same Christian name, Mr Phelps? Still, of course, that is not impossible—he might be a relative. I will see the manager of the bank, and insist upon knowing the address of this man.’

  ‘Supposing he won’t give it?’

  ‘Then I shall call in the police. I must get to the bottom of this affair. Why should that body have been stolen?’

  ‘Perhaps Lestrange can tell you, Alan.’ The little parson jumped up in a state of wild excitement. ‘What if he should be the Quiet Gentleman—Brown?’

  ‘Impossible—he landed at Southampton only two days ago.’

  ‘Oh! so he says, but you must find out if it is true.’

  ‘I will examine the passenger-list of the last steamer.’

  ‘It is strange,’ said the Rector—‘strange that Marlow—let us call him Marlow—should have died so opportunely. If you remember, he was much worried by a West Indian letter he received a week before his death.’

  ‘Yes; I believe that was written to warn him against Lestrange. To escape being arrested on a charge of murder, he—he—well, what did he do?’

  ‘He didn’t feign death, at all events,’ said Mr Phelps. ‘Bless me, Alan! I know the feel and the look of a corpse. I’ve seen dozens! Besides, you studied for medicine—your knowledge must tell you—’

  ‘Yes, I could have sworn he was, as you say, dead as a doornail. Of course’—Alan cast about in his mind for some hypothesis—‘that is—the shock of impending danger hinted at in that letter might have killed him. He died in a fit, sir, and died very suddenly.’

  ‘Humph! You didn’t attend him?’

  ‘I—a layman! My dear sir, Warrender attended him.’

  ‘And Warrender was his bosom friend in Jamaica. Alan, Warrender must have recognized him as Beauchamp—must have known Sophy was not his daughter—must have known that he had been accused of murder in Jamaica.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Alan composedly, ‘and so Mrs Warrender’s diamonds are accounted for. He blackmailed Marlow. I can see it plainly.’

  ‘Then the murder of—of Warrender?’ whispered the Rector, with a look of terror.

  ‘Ah! we are still in the dark about that. Marlow, being dead, could not have killed him. Humph! I wonder if Lestrange is the Quiet Gentleman after all!’

  ‘Alan!’ said Phelps suddenly. ‘Joe Brill!’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you think he is guilty? He was devoted to his master. Warrender possessed his master’s secret, and Joe might have killed him, and have run away to escape arrest.’

  Alan shook his head.

  ‘There was no suspicion against Joe,’ he said. ‘Why should he have run away?’

  ‘His guilty conscience, perhaps.’

  ‘A man who had nerve enough to commit such a murder and take the corpse of his victim back to the vault wouldn’t have any conscience to speak of. Besides, the boy who slept in Joe’s room says he was not out on that night.’

  ‘No, no—of course not,’ said the Rector. ‘Then it can’t be Joe. Well, I give it up!’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Alan grimly. ‘I go to London tomorrow to solve the mystery.’

  This he did. He left next morning and was away for three days, leaving Mr Phelps to console and protect Sophy from any annoyance on the part of Lestrange, who remained in the village. The Captain propitiated Mrs Timber by the payment of a week’s board and lodging in advance, and this was enough to convince the landlady that he was a most estimable person.

  Naturally enough, he and Cicero Gramp came into contact, and, equally naturally, Cicero did his best to find out what business the Captain had in Heathton. But this was no easy task, for Lestrange was guarded in speech, and did not at first encourage his advances, judging very truly that Mr Gramp was a scoundrel, and could be dangerous. But finally he decided that the gentleman in broadcloth, if properly handled, could be converted into a useful tool, and he determined to make use of him in that capacity. The intimacy began one night when Cicero, having taken more than was good for him, allowed his tongue to wag more freely than usual. Lestrange thus became aware that it could dispense useful knowledge.

  ‘I tell you what it is, my noble Captain,’ said Cicero, with drunken gravity, ‘you are a clever man—I am another. Why shouldn’t we get that reward by working together?’

  ‘Really, my friend, I hardly see what I can do. I am a stranger here.’

  ‘That’s why we ought to work together. You are not in these parts for nothing. The gossip of servants—ah!’ Gramp looked significantly at Lestrange. ‘Oh, I heard how you were turned out of the Moat House.’

  ‘What do you mean, my dear friend?’ asked the Captain, in silky tones.

  ‘Oh! that you’ve got some game on—so have I. Let us work together.’

  ‘Pooh! pooh! You are talking nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense which may mean money. See here, I know that you were kicked out of the Moat House. Ah! the gossip of menials.’

  ‘Pardon me, but I was not kicked out.’

  ‘You were. Young Thorold did it. He wants all the money, and he’ll get it by marrying that girl—if I let him.’

  ‘If you let him? What do you mean?’

  ‘Mean? Why, that I hate young Thorold, and that I want a few thousands!’

  ‘Oh! and how do you intend to get them?’

  ‘Never you mind. If we work together—but, then, we don’t. Cedant arma togae—which means, you’re a soldier, I’m a lawyer—so that’s all right. Good-night.’

  And he staggered off, leaving Lestrange with much food for meditation.

  The outcome of this was that next morning the Captain met Cicero half-way, and later in the day Sophy received a note from Lestrange asking to see her. If she would not consent, he added, Mr Thorold would be placed in a position of great danger.

  After some reflection Sophy sent for Mr Phelps, and they decided to see the scamp. So on a Saturday morning Captain Lestrange was received in the library of the Rectory.

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Phelps, ‘and what have you to say about Mr Thorold?’

  ‘Only this,’ was the reply: ‘that he is a scoundrel!’

  ‘Indeed!’ the Rector stopped Sophy’s exclamations. ‘
On what grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds that it was he who stole the body of Richard Marlow!’

  CHAPTER XV

  TROUBLE

  THE Rector and Sophy looked at one another, and then at Lestrange, smiling and confident. They knew Alan too well to credit so monstrous an accusation for one moment. Indeed, the idea appeared so ridiculous to Sophy that she laughed outright.

  Lestrange frowned.

  ‘You laugh now,’ he said. ‘You will weep later. What I say is true. Thorold stole the body of your father—your supposed father!’ he sneered, ‘for, say what you like, you are my child.’

  ‘I don’t acknowledge the relationship,’ retorted the girl with spirit, ‘and I never will. Mr Marlow was my father. I shall always think of him as such. As to your accusation of Mr Thorold, it is merely another trick to cause me trouble. I suppose you will say next that he murdered Dr Warrender?’

  ‘I say nothing of the sort,’ replied the Captain, nettled by her open contempt, ‘yet he may have done so, for all I know. But I state only what I can prove.’

  ‘You cannot prove this ridiculous charge!’ cried the Rector. ‘Mr Thorold is incapable of such a crime.’

  ‘Ah!’ drawled the other coolly, ‘you see, Mr Thorold is scientific, and does not look upon his deed as a crime.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Mr Phelps sharply.

  ‘I mean that Mr Thorold was once a medical student—at least, I have been told as much.’

  ‘It is true, quite true,’ said Sophy, opening her eyes, for in her innocence she did not see what the man meant. But the Rector did, and winced. He anticipated the accuser.

  ‘You mean that Mr Thorold stole the body for scientific purposes?’

  ‘For dissection—yes. Mr Thorold is, I understand, an enthusiast in surgery. Marlow—or, rather, I should say, Beauchamp—died of an obscure disease, and Warrender and Thorold removed the body to hold a post-mortem on it. They were the men seen by Cicero Gramp—you see, I know all about it. They probably carried the body to the moor hut to dissect it. Whether they quarrelled or not, I do not know, nor do I know if it was Thorold who killed the doctor. All I say is, that those two stole the body.’

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ remarked Mr Phelps ironically, ‘and Thorold put the remains of Dr Warrender back in the vault, I suppose? And what did he do with Marlow’s body?’

  ‘I don’t know. Buried it on the moor, very likely.’

  ‘Mr Thorold had not the key of the vault,’ cried Sophy indignantly. ‘It had been stolen by the Quiet Gentleman.’

  ‘So I understand,’ retorted Lestrange sharply. ‘And who says so? Mr Thorold himself. Believe me, sir,’ he turned to the Rector, ‘that key was never stolen. Thorold had it in his pocket. He lied about that for his own safety.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mr Phelps decisively. ‘Thorold was at Bournemouth on the night the crime was committed.’

  ‘I know he was!’ cried Sophy, with emphasis. ‘He was with me and Miss Parsh.’

  ‘You are wrong, both of you. He came back to Heathton on that night, and returned to Bournemouth before dawn. I understand it is only an hour’s journey from here.’

  ‘It is not true,’ insisted Sophy uneasily. ‘I saw Mr Thorold at eight o’clock that night at the Soudan Hotel.’

  ‘I dare say. But at ten o’clock he was at Heathton.’

  ‘How can you prove that?’

  ‘If you will permit me,’ said Lestrange, and rising, he left the room.

  Before Mr Phelps and Sophy could exchange a remark, he was back again with a man who had evidently been waiting.

  ‘Jarks!’ cried the Rector, much annoyed. ‘And what has Jarks to do with this preposterous story?’

  ‘If you ask him he will tell you,’ said Lestrange politely, and resumed his seat.

  The Rector looked indignantly at his sexton, who, as a minor official in the church, should have quailed before his superior. But there was no quailing or cringing about Jarks. The old fellow was as malicious as a magpie, and as garrulous. Looking more rusty than ever, he stood twisting his greasy old hat, and shifting from one leg to the other.

  ‘Oh, I seed Muster Alan; yes, I seed un. On the night o’ the funeral I were in the yard, a lookin’ at ’em as I’d tucked away, an’ I clapped eyes on Muster Alan. He wor’ lookin’ at the vault where I’d put away the last of ’em, he wor.’

  ‘About what time was that?’ asked Mr Phelps, with severity.

  ‘Well, it might be about ten, Muster Phelps, sir.’

  ‘And what were you doing out of bed at that hour?’

  ‘Lookin’ at ’em,’ retorted Jarks, wiping his mouth. ‘Lor’ bless you, Muster Phelps, all in the yard’s m’own handiwork save some of the old uns. I like to see ’em all quiet an’ humble in their narrow homes. Ay, an’ I seed Muster Alan, an’ he sez, “I’ve come to look round, Jarks, an’ you needn’t say as I’ve bin about. Here’s money for ye.” Ay, he did say that, an’ guv me money. Course I said nothin’ as there isn’t no law agin folk walkin’ round to see how them as has passed away is gettin’ along.’

  ‘How long was Mr Thorold with you?’

  ‘It might be about five minutes, sir. He went to ketch a train at the half-hour to go back to Miss Sophy—hopin’ I sees you well, miss!’ with a pull of his forelock to the girl, who was standing pale and trembling at this disastrous confirmation.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this, Jarks?’

  ‘Lor’ bless you, Miss Sophy, ’twas little use vexin’ you. ’Sides, when I found Muster Marlow was gone, arter bein’ put away comfortable-like in the vault, I did say to Muster Alan arterwards as it wasn’t friendly-like of him to upset my handiwork. But Muster Alan he says as he had nowt to do with the takin’ of him, an’ how he got out of the vault, being screwed and soldered down, was more than he knew. So he being the Squire, Miss Sophy, it wasn’t my place to say nothin’. I knows the station of life I’ve bin called to.’

  ‘It was your duty to come to me,’ said the Rector severely.

  ‘Naw, naw!’ Jarks shook his head. ‘’T’ain’t no good makin’ bad blood, Muster Phelps. Muster Alan wor in the yard, but he didn’t take the last of ’em away.’

  ‘I say he did!’ put in Lestrange, with emphasis.

  ‘Ay, ay! You thinks you knows a lot. But I tell you, you don’t. If it wasn’t that I let slip to that fat un while mazed wi’ drink, as I seed Muster Alan, you’d niver have know’d naught. Naw! But when the wine’s in Jarks he talks foolish-like. Ay, he babbles as a babe does Jarks!’

  ‘Who is this fat man he speaks of?’ asked Sophy.

  ‘My other witness,’ replied Lestrange promptly. ‘You can go, Jarks. Send in Cicero.’

  The sexton nodded, wiped his mouth, and backed to the door with a final excuse.

  ‘As I wor sayin’, Muster Phelps, ’twouldn’t be right to blame Jarks for holdin’ the tongue o’ he, Muster Alan wantin’ it so. But the red wine—which is to say, beer an’ such like—maketh the heart of Jarks glad, as sez Holy Scripture. An’ I’ll go now, wishin’ you an’ Miss Sophy happiness an’ long life.’

  After which apologetic speech the old sinner creaked out of the room pulling his forelock.

  ‘You see,’ said Lestrange, with a triumphant look at the other two, ‘Thorold was in Heathton, and in the churchyard on that night.’

  ‘It would seem so; but that does not prove he took away the body,’ put in Sophy.

  ‘My second witness can prove that. Come in, Cicero.’

  The fat man, resplendent in new clothes, rolled into the room.

  ‘Pax vobiscum,’ said he.

  The Rector turned an angry glance on him.

  ‘This is not the time for playing the fool,’ he said cuttingly. ‘You are a cunning rogue, but some day you will overreach yourself. Now, then, out with your lie.’

  ‘Lie! I scorn to pervert the truth, reverend sir. I shall tell the truth in puris naturalibus.’

  ‘I hope not,’ th
rew in the Rector, laughing, in spite of himself, at this abuse of quotation.

  ‘Which means, reverend sir,’ went on the old scoundrel coolly, ‘that in the hut on the heath I found the corpse of Dr Warrender.’

  ‘But not the body of my father,’ said Sophy.

  ‘No, but I saw that taken away from the vault. Undoubtedly, Miss Marlow, the body was carried to the hut for the purpose of dissection by Mr Thorold. He was foolish enough to leave behind him evidence of his iniquitous purposes. Behold!’ and Cicero produced a lancet in his most dramatic manner. ‘Nota bene,’ said he grandly.

  Phelps bent forward and took the instrument in his hand. It had an ivory handle, on which were carved two letters, ‘A.T.’

  ‘You found this in the hut?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, reverend sir. It must have been dropped by Mr Thorold. If not, how did it come there? I pause for a reply.’

  ‘Why did you not tell Mr Thorold about this?’ demanded Sophy.

  ‘I bided my time—’

  ‘To blackmail him!’ she cried, with scorn.

  ‘A harsh word, Miss Sophia. Certainly I would have demanded a small payment from Mr Thorold, had I shown him that. But Mr Thorold insulted me, it matters not how. Nemo me impune lacessit, Miss Sophia, and I determined to punish the young man. My military friend was good enough to enter into partnership with me for the purpose of clearing up this matter, hence I told him of my discovery. There is no more to be said.’

  ‘Save this,’ put in Lestrange, who appeared to be getting somewhat weary of Cicero’s cumbersome diction, ‘that here is the proof that it was Thorold who carried off the body. Do you believe now in his guilt?’

  ‘I reserve my opinion,’ said the Rector, who could not but acknowledge to himself that things looked black for Alan.

  ‘I don’t!’ cried Sophy, rising. ‘If fifty men, with fifty lancets, came to tell me this story, I would not believe a word against Mr Thorold. He can explain. I believe in him firmly, and, to prove my belief, I shall marry him as soon as I can.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ cried Lestrange, losing his temper. ‘I am your father, and I command you to come with me.’