Henry smiled, for his master’s tone did not suggest that he was very unwilling to accept the invitation.
“A very nice place, Henry. Norton must have a pleasant income to be able to keep it up. My impression, on talking to him, was as good as when I saw him at the inquest. Both he and Hillyard are that type of clean young Englishman for whom I have a great affection. He was almost embarrassingly grateful. Did not know what he would have done without me and all that sort of thing. I told him not to exaggerate, and he replied by producing a first-rate cigar.”
“He knew your weakness, sir.”
“Most people seem to nowadays, Henry. I told him what I had said to Hillyard that my job was finished and I was glad if I had seemed to him to have been of some slight service. ‘It’s because of what I hope you are going to do for me that I had the courage to go through with it,’ he said. I told him I didn’t understand. ‘Don’t try to be kind to me, Mr. Harrison, I can’t stand it,’ was his answer. ‘You know as well as I do that Sybil committed suicide.’”
“A bit awkward, sir.”
“I hedged, and suggested we had better not discuss it. The verdict was an accident. Far better leave it at that. ‘We can’t leave it at that,’ was his reply, ‘I lied to the coroner to get that verdict. Sybil had been different. She was a great actress and did her best to hide things but I could tell. She was worried about something, cruelly worried. I didn’t dare ask her what it was, because she was so definitely trying not to appear worried, but I knew.’ And he said he wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew what it was had taken his wife from him.”
“Very dangerous,” said Henry, gravely.
“I told him that. I said that I must talk to him as a man of the world. It would do no one any good to stir up a muddy pool. He might find out something about his wife which she would rather he had never known. I could not believe myself that it was anything very terrible, but, even then, was it worth it? He said that was how he might have felt if she hadn’t recently been drawing out large amounts of cash from the bank. He had found that out after the tragedy.”
“Blackmail, sir, of course.”
“If we assume she committed suicide, pretty obviously so, Henry,” answered Harrison. “That was what Norton himself thought. He said some swine was responsible. His wife had been murdered, if it came to that. And he wasn’t going to rest until he found out who the swine was, and got even with him. Whatever the truth was, he was going to know it. Nothing could alter his wife in his eyes. She had been happy with him, he was certain of that, and all her happiness had been foully taken from her. He was only doing his duty to get the man.”
“Or woman, sir.”
“Maybe, Henry, but in this class of blackmail it’s ten to one on a man. And so, as he didn’t feel himself very well equipped for the job of detective, he counted on me to find the man for him.”
“And of course you said you would?”
“That sounds a bit sarcastic, Henry.”
“Heaven forbid, sir,” answered Henry, unconvincingly. “But from the way you described Mr. Norton and Mr. Hillyard it seemed a bit inevitable.”
“I held out for a bit, Henry, really I did,” apologised Harrison. “But you’re perfectly right. I liked the two young men so much that I had to give in.”
“And where do you start, sir?”
“If we take for granted that the money Mrs. Norton drew out was paid away as blackmail, it looks as if we shall have to delve into her past. Nothing is likely to have happened since she was married, but she was an actress and had a very wide stage experience before she married Norton. That makes a pretty broad field for our inquiries. It might be something to do with any member of any company in which she acted during her whole career.”
“Something to occupy our leisure,” said Henry.
“Don’t be facetious, Henry,” returned Harrison. “We’re only discussing possibilities. That would be the case if this were an ordinary affair but it isn’t. A woman like Sybil Norton commits suicide. That’s not ordinary. There is no hint as to why she did it. That’s not ordinary. It looks to me like a professional blackmailer who thoroughly understands his job.”
Henry’s face brightened. “That sounds right, sir,” he said. “It may be a job after your own heart.”
“Don’t be too optimistic,” said Harrison. “Still there is so little to go on that I feel it is almost a challenge to my professional vanity. I’ve told you everything, I think, Henry; now what do we know? I mean, as genuine, hard, fact.”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Steady, Henry. We know one thing.”
“If you mean that Mrs. Norton committed suicide?”
“No, I don’t mean that. We know that she had a telephone conversation just before it happened.”
“But Mr. Bonnington explained that, sir.”
“Did he, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“You said he did, sir,” replied Henry, knowing that he was not helping matters, and wondering what his master had in mind.
“Let’s think of it another way,” said Harrison. “Why did you know the name of Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington?”
“A very well-known firm, sir.”
“I should have hardly said that myself. We have never had any dealings with them, have we?”
“No, sir.”
“Think again, Henry.”
“I suppose it’s a name that sticks, sir.”
“You can’t think of anything else?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Henry, cudgelling his brains but finding no response.
“Then I’ll tell you, Henry,” said Harrison. “There was a peculiarly sad case in the papers about six months ago. A young solicitor’s clerk died of an overdose of drugs, and the evidence at the inquest showed that he had been systematically robbing his employer and spending the money on a young woman who was certainly not his wife and the name of the firm was—”
“That’s it, sir,” cried Henry, “Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington.”
Chapter IV
Strange Tale Of Lewis Cant
“Very interesting and pretty sordid,” said Harrison, finishing the last of the cuttings which Henry had produced next morning, with his usual efficiency, giving lurid details of the inquest on Lewis Cant, a junior clerk in the employment of Messrs. Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington.
“How far do they help, sir?” asked Henry, doubtfully.
“Just far enough to make conversation with Mr. Bonnington,” answered Harrison. “By the way, have you rung him up?”
“Yes, sir. He will be delighted to see you, any time you care to step over.”
“Good, then I’ll go straight away.”
“And the Home Office, sir?” asked Henry, as if fearing the mention of this Government Department would bring down Harrison’s wrath upon his head.
“Tell them not to let the man land. I’ll give them my reasons later,” was the reply as Harrison disappeared from the chambers.
He strolled into the Strand, the glorious bustle of which appealed to him almost as much as its earlier movements had impressed Dr. Johnson and the Brontes. To Clay Harrison the activities of life reached their zenith on its pavements. The road to the law and the Press, what more could a man desire who wanted to see every type of face, character and figure pass before him. He claimed that in his chambers in the Temple he lived in the country with the whole world at his front door.
Crossing to Kingsway he found the firm of Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington, housed on the first floor of some relatively newly-built offices. This was rather a shock to him, as he had instinctively connected Mr. Stephen Bonnington with solid mid-Victorian surroundings. An oldish house with a picturesque front door, possibly in a quiet square, had seemed the appropriate home of such a typical solicitor. This spot seemed unfittingly up-to-date.
In an outer office, fitted with modern furniture, he was courteously received by a man whom he assumed to be the head clerk of the place from his quiet but autho
ritative manner. Harrison recognised him as having been with Mr. Bonnington at the inquest. He was a thin, tall man, as far as Harrison could sum him up, with no very distinctive feature except that, if there is a type, he looked as much an efficient subordinate as his master did a benevolent principal. “We are honoured by your visit, Mr. Harrison,” he said softly. “Mr. Bonnington will not keep you a moment.” Harrison murmured his gratitude. “I assume you wish to see him about the Norton case?” the clerk continued. “Very sad. Very sad indeed.”
“Very,” replied Harrison.
“Mr. Bonnington was most upset about it,” said the clerk. “Most unfortunate that his name should come into it at all.”
“Yes,” said Harrison, feeling that an effort was being made to draw him.
“A very fitting verdict, of course,” said the clerk. “A most unfortunate accident and such a charming lady, too.”
“I have heard she was very charming,” answered Harrison.
“We are informed that you had been retained by Mr. Norton,” said the clerk. “Mr. Bonnington will be most interested to talk to you.”
“Thank you,” said Harrison politely, and the clerk then seemed to decide that his efforts were disappointing and so gave up the struggle, leaving Harrison to his own thoughts until a summons came to the solicitor’s room.
Harrison was once more impressed by the almost radiant benevolence of Mr. Stephen Bonnington’s features, to which was now added a gentle old-world courtesy as the solicitor greeted him. Again, however, he felt that the up-to-date office furniture with which this room also was fitted was a disappointing background.
“I am honoured by your visit,” said the solicitor, in the same friendly tone as his clerk.
“It is I who should be obliged to you, Mr. Bonnington,” answered Harrison, “for arranging to see me so readily.”
“Nonsense,” said the other, genially. “A great detective like yourself is more than welcome. Do you know, Mr. Harrison, a solicitor has very often to be a detective on his own account. In a very small and amateur way, of course. I’m not drawing invidious comparisons. Indeed, if I dare, I would like to warn you as a colleague in detection that you have already betrayed something to me by your face.”
“Indeed?” answered Harrison, greatly intrigued.
“You are disappointed in my surroundings,” announced the solicitor gravely.
“Perfectly true,” said Harrison, with a laugh. “I must take a little more care over my expression.”
“Don’t worry,” was the reply. “That’s about the only look in which I could catch you out. You see, so many people come into my room with the self-same expression. They think of me with a mid-Victorian desk, mid-Victorian hangings and mid-Victorian mouldiness generally, just as you did, didn’t you?”
“I regret to have to admit it,” answered Harrison.
“And would you trust me any more if I had them?”
“It’s difficult to decide, Mr. Bonnington.”
“I doubt if you would,” said the solicitor, with a chuckle. “It was not my own idea. Let us give credit where credit is due. Mr. Sleet, my invaluable clerk—you saw him before you came in to me—suggested it. The lease of our old quarters fell in about five years ago and renewal meant a very heavily- increased rental. Indeed, Mr. Harrison, I was so upset that I nearly took a vow never to advise a landlord on law again. My old room was somewhat according to the picture you might have expected, but these premises seemed eminently suitable, and then Mr. Sleet had the inspiration to recommend that we should modernise ourselves.”
“It must have gone against the grain, Mr. Bonnington,” said Harrison.
“In a way it did, but Mr. Sleet was right. He usually is. I gradually got used to being clean and tidy, a most unusual thing for a solicitor, and my clients, after the first shock, congratulated me on being so business-like. I didn’t lose anybody, at any rate. Mr. Sleet said that the age of the bedside manner was over. Just as a doctor nowadays had to know his job, first and foremost, so had a solicitor. And this is the result. I may add, Mr. Harrison, that I have no reason to complain.”
Harrison smiled. The surgery might be shiningly bright and gloriously antiseptic but the bedside manner was still very much in evidence.
“But you didn’t come to talk about my furniture, Mr. Harrison,” went on Bonnington; “I suppose you came about the Norton case. I was informed you were present at the inquest. I am afraid there is little I can do to help you, but I am at your service.”
“I am more than grateful,” answered Harrison. “First of all I would like to know whether there is anything more you can tell me—beyond what you said at the inquest.”
“Nothing, I am afraid,” was the reply. “Had I not talked to the poor lady on the telephone I should have had nothing whatever to do with it.”
“I see,” said Harrison. “You can yourself assign no reason for her to commit suicide?”
“None at all.”
“And you have no theory as to what that reason was?”
“But she did not commit suicide,” answered the solicitor.
“You feel sure of that,” said Harrison, looking keenly at him.
“I should have thought there was not the shadow of a doubt about it,” was the reply. “I personally thought the coroner’s verdict a very just and proper one. Mr. Sleet and I were definitely of that opinion.”
“Mr. Sleet?”
“The relations between a solicitor and his clerk become very intimate and cordial, Mr. Harrison, when they have been together a number of years. I place great reliance on Mr. Sleet’s judgment. I may say, if I had had any doubts, which I had not, they would have disappeared after my talk with Mr. Sleet. He was very definite that Mrs. Norton could not possibly have committed suicide.”
“That is very interesting,” said Harrison.
“And you are of a different opinion?” asked the solicitor.
“An open mind, Mr. Bonnington, that’s all. But there is another thing I wanted to talk to you about. This time there seemed no doubt of suicide.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Harrison.”
“It may be rather painful to you, Mr. Bonnington,” said Harrison, “but I want to verify my facts regarding Lewis Cant.”
The solicitor gave a start of surprise. “Really, Mr. Harrison,” he said, “I don’t see quite what poor young Cant has to do with any inquiries you may be making.”
“I said I was afraid it might be painful,” apologised Harrison.
“It is painful, very painful,” said Bonnington, “and I really don’t see—”
“I have my own reasons which I am not at liberty to disclose,” answered Harrison. “But I understand your reluctance, Mr. Bonnington, and will certainly not pursue the matter if you do not wish it.”
“I am only reluctant to go over the details of that very painful episode again, Mr. Harrison,” was the reply. “But far be it from me to hinder you. What do you want to know?”
“As I said, I want to verify my facts, that’s all. Lewis Cant was a junior clerk here for four years?”
“That is so.”
“And roughly six months ago he was found dead in bed from an overdose of drugs. At first it was thought to be an accident, as he had been, taking these particular drugs for sleeplessness from which he had been suffering. Then it was discovered that he had been methodically tampering with your books, and a young woman came forward to say that he had been spending most of the money on her.”
“It was a terrible shock to me,” said Bonnington, sadly.
“I can understand that,” said Harrison, sympathetically. “It was stated that young Cant—he was twenty-three, wasn’t he?—had been married for just two years and, to all appearances, seemed very fond of his wife and led a happy home life. And you had no reason to suspect anything else?”
“None at all, Mr. Harrison,” was the reply. “I could hardly believe it myself. Cant had always seemed a very steady-going lad, and I was extremely satisfied with him, f
or that matter. So was Mr. Sleet. We both thought him very promising. Yet, Mr. Harrison, you and I know enough of the strange byways of life to realise that nothing to do with human actions is unbelievable.”
“Cant seemed to have shown the most callous cunning, all the same. Not only was he defrauding you while giving the appearance of a faithful servant, but he was going home cheerfully each night to his wife while spending his lunch time with a different kind of woman altogether.”
“No doubt of that, I am sorry to say.”
“It really is almost unbelievable,” said Harrison. “How much did he embezzle altogether?”
“About a hundred pounds,” said Bonnington. “Mr. Sleet produced the exact figure at the time.”
“And the lady in the case, Dorice Locket was the name, wasn’t it?”
“As far as I remember.”
“She wasn’t a very impressive individual?”
“A common little street baggage,” answered Bonnington, vehemently.
“She said he kept her for six months. Do you think a hundred pounds would have been enough?”
“Judging by her dress and manner, I should say, ample,” said the solicitor.
“And Mrs. Cant? Did you know her?”
“A delightful young woman, Mr. Harrison, charming and cultured, a wife for any decent young man to be proud of. That is why the whole case was so painful to me. I was a guest at their wedding, and I saw her once or twice afterwards. It was a profound shock to me that Cant, with a wife like that, could have any dealings with a little street trollop.”
“And only married two years?” said Harrison.
“Poor girl,” said Bonnington. “It was a terrible blow. She was very much in love with him, but it was also a blow to her pride that he could have acted in that way. I hate to talk about myself, Mr. Harrison, and there was, of course, no earthly claim on me, but I could not let the poor girl suffer further and I allow her a little income, which saves her from having to struggle for her living.”
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