Thereupon, Brodribb drew the letters out of the envelopes, and having deposited the former in the deed box, which he closed and locked, bestowed the latter in his wallet.
“May want the seals to show to the police,” he explained as he slipped the wallet into his pocket. “Now let us be off.”
We made our way out of the square by the Carey Street gate and headed for the Strand by way of Bell Yard. At the stand by St. Clement’s Church we picked up an unoccupied ‘Growler,’ and, when we had jammed ourselves into its interior, Brodribb communicated the destination to the cabman, who looked in on us as he closed the door. “Clarendon Club, Piccadilly.”
The cabman thereupon climbed to his box and gave the reins a shake, and our conveyance started forward on its career towards the west.
“I take it,” said Thorndyke, “that Sir Edward wears this ring on his finger?”
“Not as a rule,” Brodribb replied. “It is an old ring—an heirloom, in fact—and it is rather a loose fit and apt to drop off. For that reason, and because he sets a good deal of value on it, Sir Edward usually carries it in his waistcoat pocket in a little wash-leather case.”
“And what is the ring like? Is it of any considerable intrinsic value?
“As to its intrinsic value,” replied Brodribb, “I can’t tell you much, as I have not been told and don’t know much about jewels. But I can tell you what it is like, and perhaps you can judge of its value from the description. The stone, I understand, is a green tourmaline of an unusually fine colour, flat on the front, which, of course bears the engraved device, and convex at the back. The ring itself is rather massive and ornamented with a certain amount of chased work, but the general effect is rather plain and simple. What should you say as to its value?”
“Principally artistic and sentimental,” Thorndyke replied. “A tourmaline is a very beautiful stone, especially if it is cut so as to display the double colouring—which, apparently, this one was not; but it is not one of the very precious stones. On the other hand, a green tourmaline might easily be mistaken by a person who had no special knowledge for an emerald, which is, in certain cases, the most precious of all stones.”
“In any case,” said I, “it would be worth stealing, and certainly worth picking up if it happened to be dropped.”
The discussion was interrupted by the stopping of the cab opposite the club. We all alighted, and, as Thorndyke was paying the cabman, I followed Brodribb up the steps to the hall, where our friend presented his card to the porter and asked to see the secretary. Almost immediately, the messenger returned and ushered us to the private office where we found a small, grave-looking gentleman standing beside his desk to receive us.
“I am extremely relieved to see you, Mr. Brodribb,” the secretary said when the necessary introductions had been made and the purpose of our visit stated. “I had the feeling that I ought to communicate with the police, but you understand the difficulty. The club members wouldn’t like a public fuss or scandal; and then there is Sir Edward, himself. He would be annoyed if he should return to find himself the subject of a newspaper sensation. But now,” he smiled deprecatingly, “I can transfer the burden of responsibility to your shoulders. Is there any information that I can give you?”
“If you have any,” replied Brodribb. “I have seen your letter to Weeks, Sir Edward’s butler.”
“Then I think you know all that I have to tell. But perhaps there is something more that—” he broke off undecidedly and looked from Brodribb to Thorndyke with an air of vague enquiry.
“Could we have a look at the bedroom that Sir Edward occupied?” Thorndyke asked.
“Certainly,” was the ready, almost eager response. “I will go and get the key.”
He hurried away, evidently all agog to pass on his embarrassments to Brodribb and be clear of them. When he returned with the key in his hand, he invited us to follow him and preceded us along a corridor and up a back stairway, to another corridor at a door in which he halted to insert and turn the key. As the door swung open, he stood aside to let us pass, and, when we had entered, he followed and closed the door after him.
For a minute or more we all stood silently glancing around and taking in the general aspect of the room; and I could see that the distinctly uncomfortable impression that the appearance of the room produced on me was shared by my companions. Not that there was anything unusual or abnormal in its aspect. On the contrary, the room had precisely the appearance that one would expect to find in the bedroom of a gentleman who was in residence at his club. And that was, in the circumstances, the disquieting fact. For thus had the room been lying in a state of suspended animation, as one might say, for close upon a week; a fact which every object in it seemed to stress. The neatly-made bed with the folded pyjamas on the pillow, the brushes, nail scissors and other little toilet implements on the dressing-table, the tooth-brush, nail-brush and sponge on the wash-stand; all offered the same sinister suggestion.
“I take it,” said Thorndyke, voicing my own conclusion, “that Sir Edward wears a beard?”
“Yes,” Brodribb replied.
“Then, since he had no razors, and all his travelling necessaries appear to be here, we may assume that he took nothing with him.”
“Yes, that seems to be the case,” Brodribb agreed, gloomily.
“Which implies,” Thorndyke continued, “that, when he went away, he had the intention of returning here to sleep.”
The implication was so obvious that Brodribb acknowledged it only with a nod and an inarticulate grunt. Then turning to the secretary, he asked: “Did he leave anything in your custody, Mr. Northbrook?”
“Nothing,” was the reply. “Whatever he had with him and did not take away is in this room.”
On this, Thorndyke stepped over to the dressing-chest and pulled out the drawers, one after another. Finding them all empty, he transferred his attention to a suitcase that rested on a trunk-stand. It proved to be locked, but the lock was an artless affair which soon yielded to a small key from Mr. Brodribb’s voluminous bunch.
“Nothing much there,” the latter commented as he held up the lid and glanced disparagingly at a few collars and a couple of shirts which seemed to form the sole contents of the case. He was about to lower the lid when Thorndyke, with characteristic thoroughness, took out the collars and lifted the shirts. The result drew from our friend an exclamation of surprise; for the removal of the shirts brought into view some objects that had been—perhaps intentionally—concealed by them; a large and handsome gold watch and guard, a bunch of keys, a tie-pin, set with a single large pearl and one or two opened letters addressed to the missing man. The latter, Brodribb scanned eagerly and then replaced with an air of disappointment.
“Family letters,” he explained. “Nothing in them that is of any use to us. But,” he added, looking anxiously at Thorndyke, “this is a most extraordinary affair. Most alarming, too. It looks as if he had deliberately removed from his person everything of intrinsic value.”
“Excepting the ring,” Thorndyke interposed.
“True, excepting the ring. He may have forgotten that, unless he had intended to use it—to seal some document, for instance. But otherwise he seems to have jettisoned everything of value. I need not ask you what that suggests.”
“No,” Thorndyke replied, answering Brodribb’s interrogative glance rather than his words. “Taking appearances at their face value one would infer that he was intending to go to some place where personal property is not very secure. That is the obvious suggestion, but there are other possibilities.”
“So there may be,” said Brodribb, “but I shall adopt the obvious suggestion until I see reason to change my mind. Sir Edward went from here to some place where, as you say, personal chattels are not very safe. And where a man’s property is not safe his life is usually not safe either. What we have seen here, coupled with his disappearance, fills me with alarm, indeed with despair; for I fear that the danger, whatever it was, has already taken eff
ect. This is the seventh day since he left here.”
Thorndyke nodded gloomily. “I am afraid, Brodribb,” he said, “that I can only agree with you. Still, whatever we may think or feel, there is only one thing to be done. We must go at once to Scotland Yard and put the authorities there in possession of all the facts that are known to us. This is essentially a police case. It involves the simultaneous search of a number of likely localities by men who know those localities and their inhabitants by heart.”
Brodribb assented immediately to Thorndyke’s suggestion, and when he had taken possession of the derelict valuables and given Mr. Northbrook a receipt for them, we shook hands with that gentleman and took our leave.
At Scotland Yard we had the rather unexpected good fortune to learn that our old friend, Superintendent Miller, was in the building, and, after a brief parley, we were conducted to his office. On our entrance, he greeted us collectively and motioned to the messenger to place chairs for us; then, regarding Thorndyke with a quizzical smile, he enquired: “Is this a deputation?”
“In a way,” replied Thorndyke, “it is. My friend, here, Mr. Brodribb, whom you have met on some previous occasions, has come to ask for your assistance in regard to a client of his who is missing.”
“Anyone I know?” enquired Miller.
“Sir Edward Hardcastle of Bradstow in Kent,” Brodribb replied.
The Superintendent shook his head. “I don’t think I have ever heard the name,” said he. “However, we will see what can be done, if you will give us the necessary particulars.”
He laid a sheet of paper on the desk before him, and, taking up his fountain pen, looked interrogatively at Brodribb.
“I think,” said the latter, “you had better hear the whole story first and then take down the particulars. Or I could supply you with a full account in writing, which would save time just now.”
“Yes,” Miller agreed, “that would be the best plan,” but nevertheless he held his pen in readiness and jotted down a note from time to time as Brodribb proceeded with his narrative. But he made no comments and asked no questions until that narrative was concluded, listening with the closest attention and obviously with the keenest professional interest.
“Well,” he exclaimed, as Brodribb concluded, “that is a queer story, and the queerest part of it is that sealed letter. I can make nothing of that. It may be some odd chance or it may be a practical joke. But there is an unpleasant air of purpose about it. We can hardly believe that Sir Edward sealed the letter; and if he didn’t, his ring was in someone else’s possession. If it was, it may have been lost and picked up or it may have been stolen. There’s an alarming lot of ‘ifs’ in this case. Do you know anything about Sir Edward’s habits?”
“Not a great deal,” replied Brodribb. “He is a quiet, studious man, rather solitary and reserved.”
“Not in the habit of attending race meetings?”
“I should say not.”
“Nor addicted to slumming?”
“No. I believe he spends most of his time at his place in Kent, and, apart from books, I think his principal interest is gardening.”
“Ha!” said Miller. “Well, that leaves us pretty much in the dark. If a man was proposing to attend a race meeting, he might naturally leave his more valuable portable property at home; and the same if he was bound on some expedition into the slums, or if he expected to be in some sort of rough crowd. At any rate, the fact remains that he did turn out his pockets before starting from the club, so we can take it that he had in view the possibility of his getting into some shady company. We shall have to find out a bit more about his habits. What is this butler man, Weeks, like?”
“A most intelligent, conscientious, responsible man. He could probably tell you more about Sir Edward’s habits than anyone. Would you like him to come and see you?”
“We’ve got to see him,” Miller replied, “to fill in details, but I think it would be better for one of our men—unless I can manage it myself—to go down and see him at the house. You see, we shall want a full description of the missing man and at least one photograph, if we can get it. And we may want to go over his clothes and hats for private marks and Bertillon measurements.”
“For Bertillon measurements!” exclaimed Brodribb. “But I thought you required the most minute accuracy for them.”
“So you do if you can get it,” replied Miller. “But, you see, the system depends on what we may call multiple agreements, like circumstantial evidence. It isn’t a question of one or two accurate measurements but of the coincidence of a large number with no disagreements. If we should find an unrecognisable body with legs and forearms, thighs and upper arms about the same length as Sir Edward’s; and if the chest and waist measurements were about the same as his and if the head would fit his hats, the hands would fit his gloves and the feet would fit his boots, and if there was no disagreement in any one measurement, then we should have established a very strong probability that the body was his body. It is surprising how much information an experienced man can get from clothes. Of course, I am speaking of clothes that have been worn and that have creases that mark the position of the joints. But even new clothes will tell you quite a lot.”
“Will they really?” said Brodribb, in a slightly shocked tone—for, despite his expressed pessimism, he was hardly prepared to consider his client in the character of a body. “I can understand their use for comparison with those on the—er—person, but I should not have expected them to furnish measurements of scientific value. However, I think you have Weeks’s address?”
“Yes, and I will just jot down one or two particulars—dates, for instance.”
He did so; and when he had finished, as our business seemed to be concluded, we thanked him for his interest in the case and rose to depart. As we moved towards the door, Brodribb turned to make a last enquiry.
“Would it be admissible to ask if you think there is a reasonable chance of your being able to trace my missing client?”
Miller reflected awhile, assisting the process of cogitation by gently scratching the back of his head. “Well, Mr. Brodribb,” he replied, at length, “I’m like the doctor, I’m not fond of guessing. The position is that this gentleman is either alive or dead. If he is dead, his body must be lying somewhere and it is pretty certain to come to light before very long. If he is alive, the matter is not so simple, for he must be keeping out of sight intentionally; and as he is not known to any of our people, he might be straying about a long time before he was recognised and reported. But I can promise you that everything that is possible shall be done. When we have got a good photograph and a description, they will be circulated among the police in all likely districts and instructions issued for a sharp lookout to be kept. That is about all that we can do. I suppose you would not care for us to publish the photograph and description?”
“I don’t think it would be advisable,” Brodribb replied. “If he should, after all, return to his club, it would be so extremely unpleasant for him—and for me. Later, it may be necessary, but for the present, the less fuss that we make, the better.”
The Superintendent was disposed to agree with this view; and when Brodribb had once more promised to send full written particulars with a special impression of the missing seal, we finally took our departure.
CHAPTER IV
MR. BRODRIBB’S PERPLEXITIES
(Dr. Jervis’s Narrative)
During the next few weeks we saw a good deal of Mr. Brodribb; indeed, his visits to our chambers became so frequent, and he became so acutely conscious of their frequency, that he was reduced to the most abject apologies for thus constantly intruding on our privacy. But we always received him with the warmest of welcomes, not only for the sake of our long-standing friendship but because we both realised that the warm-hearted old lawyer was passing through a period of heavy tribulation. For Mr. Brodribb took his responsibilities as a family solicitor very seriously. To him, the clients whose affairs he managed were as his own
family, their welfare and their interests took precedence over every other consideration and their property was as precious and sacred as if it had been his own.
Hence, as the time ran on and no tidings of the missing man came to hand, the usually jovial old fellow grew more and more worried and depressed. It was not only the suspense of waiting for news that kept his nerves on edge, but the foreboding that when the tidings should at last come they would be tidings of tragedy and horror. Nor even was this all; for, presently, it began to transpire that there were further causes of anxiety.
From chance phrases of rather ambiguous import we inferred that the baronet’s disappearance bade fair to create a situation of some difficulty from the legal point of view; but as to the nature of the difficulties we were unable to judge until a certain evening when Brodribb at last unburdened himself of his anxieties and entered into explicit particulars. I do not think that he started with the intention of going into details, but the matter arose naturally in the course of conversation.
“I suppose,” he began, “we could hardly expect to keep this horrible affair to ourselves, but I had rather hoped that we might have avoided scandal and gossip, at least until something of legitimate public interest occurred.”
“And haven’t we?” asked Thorndyke.
“No. There has been a leakage of information somewhere. Police, I suspect, unless it was someone at the club. It would hardly be Northwood, though, for he was more anxious than any of us to keep the affair dark. Anyhow, a notice of the disappearance has got into at least one newspaper.”
“Which newspaper was it?”
“Ah, that is what I have been unable to ascertain. The way in which I became aware of it was this: a man—a relative of Sir Edward’s and an interested party—called on me a day or two ago to make enquiries. He said that he had heard a rumour that Sir Edward was missing and wished to know if there was any truth in it. I asked him where he heard the rumour and he said that he had seen some obscure reference to the matter in one of the evening papers, but he couldn’t remember which paper it was. I pressed him to try to remember for it struck me as most remarkable that he should have forgotten the name of the paper, he being, as I have said, an interested party. I should have expected him to preserve the paper or at least have cut out the paragraph. But he persisted that he had no idea whatever as to what paper it was.”
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