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16  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 20: Progress---and Regress on: March 28, 2024, 10:32:19 am
I WAS not quite sure of Chaney’s exact meaning, nor of what scheme or plan he had in view, and before going further I wanted some explanation; I wanted, in fact, to know just what he thought of our present position. For Chaney, though always willing to share opinions with his partner, chose his own time for voicing them.

“I wish you’d tell me---before we go into that matter---exactly where you think we’ve got to, Chaney,” I said. “It’s time we took stock. Now, what is your considered opinion about things?”

“Oh, well, I’ll tell you,” he answered, readily for him. “I don’t think there’s the slightest doubt, now, that Stecke and Mrs. Effingham are mixed up in this business---I think Stecke was the second man in the car; the man that the garage-proprietor saw when he sold the new spanner to Seward; I think, too, that Mrs. Effingham’s share was to abstract the keys from her husband’s dressing-room, get the church keys from his study, and hand them out to Stecke and Seward, probably by that side-door which Canon Effingham found open next morning. What we have not cleared up and shall find difficulty in clearing up is the question: how did Stecke come into communication with Seward? And there’s still another: why did he come to us and identify Seward?”

“In the last matter,” I replied, “I feel certain that in coming to us with the story he told he was bluffing us. Seward was dead! Seward couldn’t contradict!”

“What was there to contradict?” asked Chaney. “Stecke, in my opinion, did believe that Seward was the man he’d met in Linwood Church---believed it firmly till the real man, the brother, turned up at the inquest in the City!”

“But---but how can that be?” I said, incredulously. “If Seward and Stecke met subsequently, as they seem to have done, and Stecke believed that he was the man he’d seen in Linwood Church, Seward would have corrected him; Seward, at any rate, knew he wasn’t the man Stecke had seen.”

Chaney smiled and then laughed.

“You’re a bit green yet, Camberwell,” he said. “Never mind---you’ll improve. Now, hasn’t it entered your head, Seward being what we know him to have been, that it was Seward’s game to let Stecke abide in his belief? We’ll suppose they met, here in London, accidentally. Stecke says: ‘Oh, we’ve met before---in Linwood Church. Sorry I couldn’t show you the treasures.’ What was there to stop Seward---a wrong ’un---from quietly sizing up the situation and letting Stecke talk until Seward knew all about it? That’s how it’s been---in my opinion. Somehow or other, Stecke and Seward got in touch with each other and persuaded Mrs. E. into handing over the keys. I say persuaded---but it may be that the correct word is forced. Forced her into it---through fear.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Lord knows! Exposure to her husband of her mania for gambling, perhaps. Anyhow, that’s my opinion. Seward, without doubt, was the man who bought that spanner, and I think that Stecke answers to the description of the man who was with him in the car. Well, Seward’s dead---but Stecke’s alive, and we want him. But---not immediately. We want first to know more about Stecke and Mrs. E.”

“What’s the notion of sending somebody into his hotel?” I inquired.

“To keep an eye on him in case he suddenly departs for climes unknown,” replied Chaney. “Which is a likely contingency. We must have him under continual observation now. And, as I said before, Chip’s no good---he knows Chip.”

“Chippendale may know of somebody who would do,” I said, “Let’s have him in.”

Chippendale, summoned to our presence, listened, knowingly, to Chaney’s remarks and showed his absolute understanding of them.

“You’d be no good, you know,” concluded Chaney. “He’s seen you. So---do you know of anybody, my lad? Somebody that could play the part of temporary visitor to a place like that?”

Chippendale nodded---there was decision in the nod.

“Yes, sir---the very person,” he answered promptly. “My fiancée.”

“Your---what?” exclaimed Chaney, taken aback.

“Young lady---sweetheart---whatever you like to call it, sir,” said Chippendale.

“Didn’t know you had one---at your age, too!” muttered Chaney. “But---any good?”

“I reckon!” declared Chippendale. “Wouldn’t suit me if she wasn’t, Mr. Chaney.”

“Smart girl, eh? Tell about her,” commanded Chaney.

“Twenty-one. Good-looking. Clever. Knows her way about. Eyes on all sides of her head,” replied Chippendale. “Just the sort you want. Cool as a cucumber---when it’s necessary.”

“Name and occupation?” asked Chaney.

“Name, Fanny Pratt,” answered Chippendale. “As to occupation, has earned her own living ever since she was sixteen---five years’ business experience. Cashier in the City until recently---left that to look after her mother, who’s been ill. Mother just getting round again, and Fanny’s going back to her job. But she could spare two or three weeks.”

“We’d better have a look at her,” said Chaney. “Can you get her here, my lad?”

“At once!” replied Chippendale, and went out to the telephone in his room. Chaney turned to me.

“That’ll do very well---if she’s all he makes out,” he said. “A smart young woman who can keep her eyes and ears open is just the thing we want for a job of this kind. Of course Chip may have exaggerated the girl’s powers---we’ll see.”

We saw---within the hour. Precisely fifty minutes after he had summoned her by telephone, Miss Fanny Pratt presented herself, Chippendale proudly hovering in the background, in my room. Chippendale had been modest about her appearance---she was not merely good-looking, but pretty. One glance at her showed that she was intelligent, alert, shrewd; all there, as Chaney put it. Also she was well dressed and knew how to wear her clothes.

Chaney did the necessary talking, after catechizing Miss Pratt as to her abilities and powers. Furnished with proper funds---and no stint in them---Miss Pratt was to take a room---one of the best---at the Artemis Hotel in Bayswater. Settled in there, she was to keep an eye on a gentleman resident, Mr. Hildebrand Stocker. Without obtruding herself on him, or on anyone else’s notice, she was to note his comings and goings as far as ever she could, to observe his visitors, guests, callers, to make herself acquainted with his doings as much as possible. And one thing above all---if she saw anything which led her to believe that Mr. Stocker was about to shift his quarters or to set out on a journey, she was to acquaint us on the instant. In short, her job was to watch, and to watch punctiliously.

“Get it all?” inquired Chaney in conclusion. “All clear?”

“I get it!” replied Miss Pratt. “Clear as a Frosty night! Anything else?”

“All right about---clothes and that sort of thing?” asked Chaney, glancing at Miss Pratt’s smart costume.

“Quite! Well equipped, thank you,” said Miss Pratt.

“When can you start?” inquired Chaney.

“Just now,” responded Miss Pratt. “I shall go along there at once, make inquiry, book the room, pay ’em a week in advance, and go in with my things this afternoon.”

“Good!” said Chaney. “Well, now, you’ll want an accurate description of the man----”

“Oh, no, I shan’t!” interrupted Miss Pratt. “I shall know him. Besides, I’ve seen him.”

“You’ve seen him?” asked Chaney. “Where?”

“Oh, of course I know who it is you’re putting me on to,” answered Miss Pratt. “It’s that parson fellow---Stecke. I saw him at the inquest in the City---I got two or three hours off to go to that. And I’ve read all the newspapers, Mr. Chaney, and Pip---that’s what I call him---” she broke off, pointing to Chippendale---“Pip and I have discussed this case, and I know all about it. You leave Mr. Stocker, alias Stecke or Stecke, alias Stocker, to me, Mr. Chaney---I’ll watch him! But now you listen to me a bit---there are two things on which I must insist, if you want me to do any good.”

“Go ahead!” said Chaney, now full of admiration. “Name ’em!”

“Well, the first is, Pip here must arrange to meet me somewhere every evening to get my report, even if it’s only to hear that there’s nothing whatever to report,” continued Miss Pratt. “And the second---much, much more important---is that while I am in residence at the Artemis Hotel, you must have somebody in constant attendance here day and night, so as to be ready if I phone a message. That I must absolutely insist on, because I might want you in a great hurry.”

“That’s easily settled, Miss Pratt,” I said. “There is always somebody here all day long, and as I live here---in rooms over these offices---I get any night call. Make yourself easy on that point---the other you can arrange with Chippendale.”

“Very good,” replied Miss Pratt. “Then make yourselves easy. From the moment I settle in at the Artemis, Mr. Stecke-Stocker is under my very nose---as long as he’s there. And if he hops it---well, I shall hop after him!”

“Good---good!” exclaimed Chaney. “Excellent! Camberwell, write her an open cheque for expenses.”

Miss Pratt presently received her cheque, and Chippendale went off with her to transform it into cash. Two hours later she phoned us to say that she had fixed things at the Artemis Hotel and was moving in there at once. Chaney rubbed his hands over this piece of engineering; he appeared to consider that Stecke already had his neck in a noose, the ends of which we could pull at any time.

But next day Chaney got a smack in the face---a nasty smack, as he himself fittingly described it. Jalvane turned up at our office, and from an inner pocket drew forth a formal-looking document.

“I’ve got a bit of news for you,” he said. “This thing has been sent on to me by the Superintendent of Police at Havering St. Michael. Interesting stuff, very---I thought I’d bring it along to you.”

“What is it?” asked Chaney. “Statement?”

“Well, that’s just what it is,” replied Jalvane. “A statement made by a man at Devonport, who’s been reading all about this Linwood case in the papers. What does he know about it? You’ll see when you read this. He thinks he knows something, anyhow---in fact, he’s so certain of it that he went to the police at Devonport and made this statement to them---they took it down and he signed it. Read it---both of you.”

I took the document which he handed to me---a double sheet of foolscap---and spread it out on my desk; Chaney and I bent over it and read it together:

This is a statement, voluntarily made by me, Walter James Massie, at present residing at 31, Childhampton Place, Devonport, in the presence of John Alistair Colquhoun, Superintendent of Police at Devonport, and of Martin Sellers, an Inspector of Police at the same place.

I am by trade a fitter and up to the end of March last was employed in the workshops of Jones, Charlesworth & Co., at Wolverhampton. Owing to bad trade several of us were thrown out of work there, and I went to London in search of a fresh job at a place I had heard of down East Ham way. As I failed to get anything, I determined to try Portsmouth. I had enough money to keep me going for a few weeks. As it was fine weather and I am fond of walking, I decided to go to Portsmouth on foot, stopping at various places on the way. I left London one morning in April---as near as I can remember, it would be about the 11th of that month---with the intention of walking as far as either Havering St. Michael or Horsham the first day---one was about twenty-five miles, and the other some ten miles farther, according to a map I had. However, I did not get on as fast as I had meant to do, and about seven o’clock in the evening I was still some miles short of the first place I have just mentioned. I turned in to a roadside inn, near a village, the name of which I don’t know, to get some refreshment before continuing to Havering, where I now meant to sleep. While I was in the bar-parlour, a man drove up in a small car, left it at the door, and came in. He was a medium-sized man, a bit over middle age, I should say, fresh-complexioned, well dressed, what you’d call a gentleman. He asked for a whisky and soda. While he was drinking it, we got talking. I happened to mention that I was going to Havering and had meant to get as far as Horsham. He said: “I can give you a good lift---I’ve got a case between Havering and Horsham; you can get down at which you like, Havering or where I’m going.” I thanked him for his offer; we each had another drink, and then went out to his car. From what he’d mentioned about a case, I took him for a doctor; he looked that sort; I noticed too that he’d a bag, or case, in the car, of the sort that doctors carry. He didn’t say he was a doctor: I just thought he was. We set off along the main road; I sat by him; we talked a bit about the scenery. Some little distance along---I can’t say where exactly, for that district was all strange to me---something went wrong with the car. (I might have mentioned before that the car was an old one, looking as if it had seen plenty of wear.) He pulled up at the roadside and began to examine it---he seemed to know all about cars. I don’t, though; my work’s been in other directions. Then he opened a tool-box, and after pottering about in it a bit, he said he hadn’t got a spanner. We’d just passed a roadside garage; he said he’d go back and get a spanner. I offered to go, but he said no, I shouldn’t know what he wanted. He went back and soon came again, with a brand-new spanner. He did something to the car’s machinery with this and put the spanner in his pocket. I am confident that he did not put it in the box; he put it in the right-hand pocket of the leather coat he was wearing. Then the car was all right, and we went on till we came to a town which he said was Havering St. Michael. He asked me if I’d get out there or would I go on as far as he was going, a few miles farther. I asked how far it would be from where he was going to Horsham, and he said not many miles, so I said I’d go on with him. We went on a few miles until we came to a village where there is a big church with a high square tower. We passed right through this village. At the far end he pulled up at the roadside near a lane that turned into woods on the right hand. He said he’d got to go up that lane, so I got out, thanked him, and bade him good-night. It was then nine o’clock---perhaps a bit more. I walked on south, but before losing sight of him, saw him turn the car up the lane. Having read the newspaper accounts, I feel sure that this man was the one about whom I have read and who was afterwards killed in London.

(Signed) Walter J. Massie

I stood up from the desk and looked at Chaney. Jalvane, too, was looking at him. But Chaney still read---he was re-reading. When at last he, too, straightened himself and looked at us, he seemed puzzled and discomfited.

“If that’s all right,” he muttered, “and it seems to be so, it knocks my theory into a cocked hat! Stecke wasn’t the man who accompanied Seward to Linwood!”

17  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 19: Who Stole the Cards? on: March 28, 2024, 10:05:34 am
I TOLD Chippendale to bring in these unexpected visitors and turned to Chaney. Chaney made a grimace, but it was neither of surprise nor wonder; what it really did express, I think, was a patient acceptance of the fact that one never knows what is going to happen next in this world.

“What now?” he muttered. “Watch ’em both, carefully, Camberwell. They’re up to something or other!”

The two came in; Miss Bolton first. She was very smartly dressed; her manner was alert, vivacious, confident. Mr. Gibbs followed; he looked a little sheepish; it needed very little observation on my part to see that Miss Bolton was the senior partner in this amalgamation.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Miss Bolton. “Let me introduce my fiancé---Mr. Hugh Gibbs. But ah, I’m forgetting! I believe you’ve met Mr. Gibbs before.”

“For a few moments,” I said, Chaney offering no remark. “Literally a few moments. We called on Mr. Gibbs, at Sir Bartle Shardale’s suggestion, to ask if he knew where you were. He didn’t.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course!” said Miss Bolton, sinking into the easy chair which Chaney had drawn forward. “Oh, yes, I remember hearing of it, now that you mention it. Well, of course, you’re wondering what brings us here, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” grunted Chaney. “Not at all!”

Miss Bolton turned and looked at him wonderingly.

“No?” she said. “What, then?”

“The hope of getting or sharing in that five thousand pounds reward,” replied Chaney, promptly. “That’s about it, I think!”

Miss Bolton’s pretty face grew a little pink, but she laughed bravely.

“Well, that’s very clever of you,” she began, “very clever----”

“Not a bit!” said Chaney. “Obvious!---considering the circumstances. But you were going to say----”

“I was going to say,” continued Miss Bolton, “that you’re quite right. We are after that five thousand pounds reward, or as much of it as we can get---for value given. We should be very pleased indeed, Mr. Gibbs and I, to receive the whole lot, but we’ve no objection to a good lump of it. You see, Mr. Chaney, we want to marry, and a few thousand pounds would come in handy for taking and furnishing a house. And if we do know something---eh?”

“Do you know anything?” demanded Chaney.

“More than you think, perhaps,” retorted Miss Bolton. “But---to be perfectly frank with you---we have come to a point where we need help; we have carried our bit of detective work as far as we can. The time has come when we’ve got to tell what we know, and we’ve been debating whether to approach you or to go to Scotland Yard. Finally---this morning---we decided to come to you. And here we are!”

“Depends on what you know---or think you know,” said Chaney. “It may be----”

I thought it high time for me to intervene; Chaney, for some reason or other, was not being sufficiently sympathetic.

“I am quite sure that Miss Bolton would not even think she knew something unless she did know something,” I said, “and something of real importance. And,” I added, turning to her, “I am equally sure that I need not assure Miss Bolton and Mr. Gibbs that whatever they care to tell us----”

“Oh!” interrupted Chaney, taking my cue, “that, of course, goes without saying. Everything within these walls is strictly private, confidential, and all the rest of it.” He twisted round in his chair and gave Miss Bolton a keen look. “But we like plain dealing, so---where have you been all this time?” he asked.

“Lying low---trying to find out something, Mr. Chaney!” she answered.

“Have you found what you wanted?” he demanded.

“I tell you, we’ve got to a stage at which it’s necessary to seek help. That’s why we’re here---confiding in you and Mr. Camberwell rather than in the police.”

“You suspect somebody? Let’s be clear. You think you know who stole those things from Linwood Church and---incidentally---murdered Skate? Is that it?”

“Partly,” admitted Miss Bolton. “What we do think is this---we think we have grounds---sure grounds!---of suspicion against two people as having had some share---we don’t know and can’t say precisely what---in the theft of the church treasures. The murder is---outside.”

“Who is it---who are the persons you suspect?” asked Chaney.

Miss Bolton paused a moment. Then she looked from Chaney to me, and from me back to Chaney.

“Well,” she said slowly, “Mr. Stecke and Mrs. Effingham.”

She looked from one to the other of us again, questioningly; I think she wanted to see if her reply surprised us. But I am sure she saw no surprise on either face.

“Of course,” she went on, “we have grounds---strong grounds. They seem so to us, at any rate.”

“Yes?” said Chaney. “Well---let’s have them.”

Miss Bolton hesitated a moment. But she was only marshalling her forces.

“I was just wondering where to begin,” she said. “I think I’ll begin at the morning of the day on which the inquest was held at Linwood---the inquest on the poacher, Skate. That morning---you’ll remember that the inquest was held in the afternoon?---that morning Mr. Stecke came to the Rectory at a fairly early hour---ten o’clock. He saw Canon Effingham for a few moments only; Canon Effingham and I were very busy with proofs and things that morning. Then he was handed over to Mrs. Effingham, and he was with her, in the drawing-room or in the garden, until lunch-time; as soon as lunch was over, it was time to go across to the schoolroom, to the inquest. Now I might tell you here that while he was taking the duty at Linwood during Canon Effingham’s illness last winter, Mr. Stecke and Mrs. Effingham became very close friends---inseparables. When Mr. Stecke first came there, he condescended to pay his addresses to me---as I was impulsive enough to remark at the inquest---but as I literally loathed the very sight of him and let him see it, he transferred his attention to Mrs. Effingham. And I happen to know that after he left the Rectory, he and Mrs. Effingham used to meet, and not only to meet, but to attend a certain bridge club here in London together.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

Miss Bolton turned to Mr. Gibbs, who up to then had preserved a strict silence.

“Hugh can prove that,” she said. “Hugh sometimes stays at Linwood Hall; he knows Mrs. Effingham and Mr. Stecke quite well by sight. And Hugh has sometimes gone to a certain bridge club called the Bessington and seen these two there. Haven’t you, Hugh?”

Mr. Gibbs, releasing his lips from the top of his walking-cane, nodded.

“Seen ’em there three or four times,” he assented. “Together.”

“Before or after the theft and murder affair?” asked Chaney.

“Before. Never been there myself lately.”

“Do they know you?” inquired Chaney.

“Can’t say. Never went to church at Linwood,” replied Mr. Gibbs. “Saw Mrs. Effingham sometimes in the village, but I don’t know if she knew me---don’t think she did. Only saw the parson chap, Stecke, once at Linwood, last winter. But he’s good to remember---spotted him at once at the Bessington when he came in with her.”

“Not in clerical clothes, I suppose?” suggested Chaney.

“No---mufti. Evening dress.”

“What were they doing at the Bessington Club?” I asked.

Mr. Gibbs turned his somewhat inexpressive countenance on me. A gleam of---something---came into his eyes.

“Oh, well, it’s called a bridge club, you know,” he answered. “But you can play two or three other little things there, you know.”

“Gambling-club, really?” I suggested.

“That’s about it,” assented Mr. Gibbs. “Pretty high play, too, sometimes.”

I turned to Miss Bolton.

“Yes?” I said. “Go on, please.”

“Well, I go on to the inquest now,” she continued. “You may remember that after making my protest against Mr. Stecke’s evidence, as far as it concerned me, I hurriedly left the village schoolroom. Now, do you know why?”

“Not the faintest idea,” replied Chaney. “Felt angry, I suppose.”

“There you’re wrong---partly, anyway,” said Miss Bolton. “I was angry, certainly; but when I left, I was cool enough, for I’d got a sudden notion. I’d read the newspapers carefully that morning and had particularly studied what was said about the so-called Dean of Norchester calling on Mr. Atherton at the Savoy Hotel. I had noticed that this impostor sent in to Mr. Atherton what Mr. Atherton described as a beautifully engraved card bearing the proper inscription. Now, as I sat there at the inquest, I remembered that the real Dean of Norchester whenever he was in London always ran down to Linwood to call on his old friend Canon Effingham, and that on the card-tray in the hall of the Rectory there were two or three of his cards, left there during the preceding winter. And the real reason why I hastily left the village schoolroom and the inquest was to go across to the Rectory to see if the Dean of Norchester’s cards were still there!”

“Good!” muttered Chaney. “Good---very good! And---were they?”

“No!” replied Miss Bolton. “Not one of them! They’d---disappeared! Now, Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell, there’s not a doubt that the man Seward got possession of those cards. Who gave them to him?

“Good---good!” chuckled Chaney. Miss Bolton, it was evident, was going up in his estimation by leaps and bounds. “Go on! What else?”

“Nothing more of that, but now something of another thing,” said Miss Bolton. “As soon as ever I’d made this discovery, I resolved to leave Linwood Rectory there and then. I had a hazy idea of the devilry that was afoot, and I felt that I might be incriminated, and I made up my mind to get away; also, I felt certain that both Mr. Stecke and Mrs. Effingham were concerned in, at any rate, the theft of the church treasures. I ran straight up to my room, made some hasty preparations, took what money I had from the drawer in which I kept it, and left the house without saying anything to anyone. And now comes in the next important thing. You will remember that in the newspapers that very morning there was reference to and stress laid on the fact that Seward after getting Mr. Atherton’s cheque cashed into Bank of England notes went straight across to the Bank of England and changed these notes into Treasury notes of one pound each? Very well---on my way to the station, after leaving the Rectory, I turned into the post office at Linwood to send a telegram to Mr. Gibbs asking him to meet me in town. I had nothing less than a five-pound note in my purse and had to offer that in payment for the telegram to the postmistress, Mrs. Summers. Now, Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell, you listen and pay attention!---Mrs. Summers gave me in change eighteen shillings and sixpence in silver, and four absolutely brand-new one-pound Treasury notes! As far as I remember, I’d never seen a quite new Treasury note before---such a spick and span one, anyway. And I recollect that I said as much to Mrs. Summers. ‘No, miss,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t know that I ever have; they’ve generally been pretty well thumbed and fingered by the time I set eyes on them. But I’ve a stock of ’em this afternoon,’ she continued, ‘I got them from Mr. Stecke, the curate. He came in here just before dinner and asked me if I’d got a couple of five-pound notes I could let him have, and he gave me these new one-pound notes in exchange.’ There. Mr. Chaney!---What do you think of that?”

“Good---good!” muttered Chaney, smiling. “If ever you want a job, come to me! What did you do next?”

“Went up to town, met Mr. Gibbs, and told him all about it,” replied Miss Bolton. “We decided to put our heads together and see what we could do---I mean, what we could find out. I’m bound to admit,” she continued, “that we haven’t found out as much as we hoped to find out; still we’ve found out a few things.”

“Such as---what?” inquired Chaney.

“Well,” replied Miss Bolton, “I’ll tick them off. First, since the Linwood affair Stecke appears to have become possessed of funds. Second, he has discarded his clerical clothes and goes about as a layman. Third, he has left his old lodgings at Laburnam Villas, Newington, and now lives at a private residential hotel, the Artemis, in Bayswater. Fourth, he and Mrs. Effingham still frequent the Bessington Club. And fifth, and perhaps not unimportant, he’s changed his name.”

“How do you know that, Miss Bolton?” I asked.

She gave me a knowing look.

“I’ve been trying a bit of detective work, Mr. Camberwell,” she replied, archly. “And one day, when I’d carefully watched Stecke off the premises and safely away in a taxi, I walked into the Artemis Hotel, told them that I was searching for an American friend of mine who was staying or ought to be staying somewhere in Bayswater, and asked if I might look at their register. They fell to it readily and I searched the register. There is no Reverend Herbert Stecke there, nor Mr. Herbert Stecke, but, you see, I know Stecke’s peculiar handwriting, and there it is. He is now Mr. Hildebrand Stocker.”

I glanced at Chaney, who, during Miss Bolton’s last two or three sentences, had sat smiling and silent, twiddling his thumbs---a trick of his when he was pleased.

“Well?” I said. “What do you think, Chaney?”

“That we’re very much obliged to Miss Bolton for confiding in us,” he said, becoming unusually polite. “Most useful, I’m sure. Every little helps, in these cases.”

“But---what will be done?” asked Miss Bolton. “And what about our chance of the reward?”

“As to the reward, ma’am,” replied Chaney, “you may take it from me that whoever assists in solving the mystery will be rewarded---in due time. The precise amount offered by our enterprising---and inquisitive---American Crœsus may have to be shared---but all who have a just claim will be considered. Now as to what you have told us, I think Mr. Camberwell may have an observation or two to make. You see, ma’am”---Chaney, when he became bland and professional, styled all women “ma’am,” whether they were old or young---“you see, some of the information you have given us was not new---eh, Camberwell?”

“No,” I asserted. “Some of it, Miss Bolton, we certainly knew. But some of it we didn’t know, and your information has, of course, its value. I think you can rely on getting the furniture!”

With this remark---intended to be a pretty compliment---I got rid of Miss Bolton and Mr. Gibbs and turned to business with Chaney.

“Well---what of that?” I asked. “Anything?”

“Good deal on one point, Camberwell,” he replied. “That young woman has brains! She’s cleared up one matter that’s puzzled me a lot---the question of those visiting-cards. There’s no doubt now that the cards with which Seward was armed were taken from the tray at the Rectory. Now, then, how did Seward get them? Did Stecke---who, I feel certain, has tricked us no end about Seward---supply them to him? Or did Mrs. E., who’s another tricky person, hand them over to Stecke? We’ve a lot to find out about Mrs. E. and Stecke, Camberwell. And there’s one thing that must not be overlooked; we must see to it at once. Stecke, this young woman has discovered, is now living at that hotel under the name of Stocker. Now, it’s absolutely necessary for us to keep a constant watch on him. We can’t set Chip on him---he knows Chip. But this is certain---we’ve got to shove somebody into that hotel who knows him and whom he doesn’t know!”

18  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 18: The Little Jew Tailor on: March 28, 2024, 08:54:29 am
CHIPPENDALE’S face, thrust suddenly into my room one morning, gave notice of something important if not unusual.

“There’s a chap outside who wants to see the principals,” he said in a stage whisper. “Won’t have anything to do with me. I tried to pump him; told him you were only seen by appointment---no good!”

“What’s he like?” I inquired.

“Jew!” replied Chippendale. “East End type. Of course I know what he’s after! That five thousand pounds reward.”

“Did he say so?” I asked.

“Not he!---knows better. But I’ll lay anything it’s that. Will you see him?”

Chaney was out and not likely to be in for two or three hours. Still, the man outside might have some valuable information which ought to be in our possession at once.

“Bring him in, Chippendale,” I said. “I’ll soon find out what he wants.”

Chippendale vanished; a moment later he flung the door open again and ushered in a little man who, despite the fact that this was an unusually warm spring day, was buttoned up to the chin in a long black overcoat very shiny at the shoulders and elbows and becoming green with age. Either his boots were too big for him, or the feet within them were of a size incommensurate with his height; his trousers hung in festoons about his ankles; what could be seen of his linen was of a decidedly dingy hue. He presented a very pale, sickly face, a mass of dead-black, slightly curling hair, very full, red lips, and a large nose; I half expected to see him lay his dirty forefinger alongside it as he came into the room, as a hint to me that he desired secrecy. Instead of that, however, he pulled himself up and made me quite a courtly bow.

“Mr. Camberwell?” he said inquiringly, pronouncing the first word with a decided lisp, which I am not going to attempt to represent in writing. “Partner with Mr. Chaney?”

“Exactly!” I answered. “Who----”

Before I could get the next word out, he produced from somewhere a card and handed it over with another polite bow.

“My card, sir,” he said. “Please you to read it.”

I read it.

Solomon Cohen,
Ladies’ & Gentlemen’s Tailor & Outfitter,
528, Newington Causeway, S. E.
Parties’ Own Materials Made Up.

I put the card down on my desk and pointed my visitor to a seat. Already I had an idea of what was coming. Stecke, before migrating to the Artemis Hotel in Bayswater, had lived in Newington.

“Yes, Mr. Cohen?” I said, reseating myself at my desk, “What can I do for you?”

He put his hat---a disreputable old billycock---on the floor at the side of his chair and, plunging his hand into some recess of his coat, pulled out what seemed to be a bundle of newspaper cuttings. He selected one and held it out to me.

“Mr. Camberwell,” he said in a soft, ingratiating voice, “I make bold to ask, sir, if the offer made here is a genuine one?”

I glanced at the bit of newspaper. As I had expected, it referred to Mr. Atherton’s offer of five thousand pounds.

“Quite genuine,” I replied. “Why---can you give any information?”

He made no reply to that question. Instead, he repossessed himself of the scrap of newspaper, returned it to the bundle, and put the bundle back in his pocket.

“I take your word for it, Mr. Camberwell,” he said quietly. “I understand that whoever can give information which would lead---how should it be put, sir?”

“To the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for the murder of Richard Skate at Linwood, and for the theft of certain valuable articles from Linwood Church, will receive the reward mentioned, or such part of it as they are entitled to,” I answered. “That’s about it.”

“Part of it?” he said. “I---what does that mean, Mr. Camberwell?”

“It means this. Suppose you give some information. Suppose somebody else gives some equally valuable information. Well, you’d both expect to be rewarded; but you wouldn’t expect five thousand pounds each, would you?”

“I see,” he replied softly. “I may take it, however, that anybody who gives really practical information----”

“Will be well rewarded, Mr. Cohen,” I interrupted. “You can take my personal assurance for that. Now---do you know anything?”

I already felt sure that my visitor did know something; I felt sure, too, that, in spite of his untidy and almost poverty-stricken appearance, Mr. Solomon Cohen was an intelligent and possibly a clever man; he spoke like an educated one, and his manner, though quiet, was confident and assured.

“Yes, Mr. Camberwell,” he answered, after a pause. “I do know something, and I will tell you what it is, feeling confident that if it is of any use to you in your investigations, you will see that I am suitably rewarded.”

“You may depend on me, Mr. Cohen,” I answered him.

“Well, sir, it is just this,” he continued. “I am, as you see, a tailor and outfitter, in Newington. I have a fairly good business. And one of my customers during the last two years has been the Reverend Herbert Stecke, whose name has appeared in the newspaper accounts in connexion with these affairs at Linwood. I have at one time or another made a good deal of clothing for Mr. Stecke, clerical clothes and layman’s clothes---he wanted the latter for holiday purposes---and at the end of last year he was owing me what---for me, Mr. Camberwell---was really a lot of money----”

“How much?” I asked.

“Well, it was nearly a hundred pounds,” he replied. “The fact was, he had never paid me anything. He had always put me off by telling me that he was going to have a very good post---a living, he called it---presented to him; one that would bring him in several hundreds of pounds a year. I believed him---I knew, of course, that he was a clergyman of the Church of England. But I was put off and put off, and after the end of the year I began to press him for the money---I was obliged to do so, Mr. Camberwell. However, I could not get anything out of him---no, not a penny. And some weeks since---at the beginning of April it was---I told him that I should have to put him in the court. He still persisted that he had no money, but should have some soon. I didn’t believe him---he’d said that so often. But all of a sudden, sir, he came to my shop and paid my account, every penny of it! I was never so surprised in my life. Yes---he came and paid the full amount, all at once. But, sir, I began to think, soon after, and I have been thinking ever since, thinking so much that now I must say to somebody, to you, what I think about! Sir, Mr. Stecke, who had previously said that he hadn’t one penny to rub against another, paid that money, nearly one hundred pounds, to me two days after the affair at Linwood. And, sir, he paid it---ninety odd pounds---in brand-new Treasury notes!”

For the moment I failed to catch his meaning. He saw that, and once more he pulled out his bundle of newspaper cuttings and selected one.

“You may remember, sir,” he went on, “that when the American gentleman, Mr. Atherton, paid for the two old books which he bought from the man who represented himself as being the Dean of Norchester, he gave that man---afterwards identified as one Sewell, alias Seward---an open cheque which the man immediately cashed, receiving Bank of England notes, and that he at once exchanged those for Treasury notes. And you’ll also remember, perhaps, that when the so-called Dean was accidentally killed in the City next day---I think you were present, Mr. Camberwell?---twenty-five hundred pounds’ worth of brand-new Treasury notes were found in his possession---that is, in his bag or suit-case or attaché case?”

“Yes!” I said. “That’s so. And----”

“Well, sir,” he continued, “do you think there’s any connexion between those two facts?---one that Seward had this big stock of brand-new Treasury notes, and that Mr. Stecke just about the same time---I believe the same day---paid me in similar notes? Because---I do!”

I made no answer to this question. Instead I asked a question of him.

“Have you ever seen Mr. Stecke since?”

“No, sir. But I know something about him. This---he no longer lives where he did. He used to lodge at Laburnam Villas, Newington, which is not far from where I live. But he has left.”

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“No, sir; I have no idea.”

“Did you happen to keep any---I mean, have you any---of those notes he gave you---the brand-new notes?”

“I have not, sir. I had a heavy payment to make for cloth just at that time, and I paid them away at once---all of them. You see, sir, I hadn’t read the newspapers then as carefully as I have since.”

I remained silent a minute or two, thinking. Then a notion occurred to me.

“If you’ve read the papers so carefully, Mr. Cohen,” I said, “you’ll have noticed that the man who called himself Dean of Norchester---Sewell, or Seward, as we now know him to be---wore the correct attire of a dean. I suppose you didn’t have anything to do with its supply---through Stecke?”

“No, sir---I never made but one clerical suit for Mr. Stecke,” he answered. “And that was just an ordinary black serge---lounge-jacket style.”

“Can you give me any idea as to where or how Seward could get those things?” I asked. “You know how a dean dresses?”

“I do, sir---from pictures. No---I’ve no idea where he could get a costume of that sort. Peculiar costume, sir---there’s the apron and the gaiters and so on. He might get them second-hand. But I doubt that. There are certain clerical costumes, sir, which are of no use to any but those entitled to wear them---bishops, archdeacons, deans. I know, because I have worked for a clerical tailor in my time. Is the information I have given of any value, sir?”

“Considerable value, and very interesting, Mr. Cohen,” I replied. “I shall discuss it with my partner as soon as he returns.”

“You think I stand some chance of sharing in the reward, sir?” he inquired, a little anxiously. “I am a poor man, Mr. Camberwell.”

“A very good chance,” I said. “Of course, you must remember that it may be a mere coincidence that Stecke paid your account with a lot of brand-new Treasury notes----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, sir, but there’s another perhaps significant fact that I omitted to mention,” he said. “When I counted the notes Mr. Stecke gave me, I noticed that they ran consecutively.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “That is certainly significant! Well---you’ve kept this to yourself so far---all of it?”

“I have not even mentioned it to my wife, sir,” he replied.

“Keep it to yourself a bit longer, Mr. Cohen---in fact, until I send for you,” I said. “I’ll see to your interests.”

He thanked me profusely and went away, and before very long Chaney came in and I told him all that Cohen had told me. Chaney grew more and more attentive and thoughtful as the story progressed.

“This is a damn queer business, Camberwell!” he said at last. “Let’s suppose for the moment that Stecke is mixed up in this affair and that he was one of the principals----”

“And probably the second man in the car, seen by the chap who sold Seward the spanner,” I suggested; “which is likely---if we adopt your supposition.”

“Well, we’ll adopt yours, too, then,” he continued. “Stecke is a principal. He knows from having lived the better part of a month at Linwood all about the church treasures and their value. He enters into a plot with Seward---never mind just now how they became acquainted---for securing them. They go down to Linwood---never mind, too, how they got the keys---and annex books and vessels. Skate---who would recognize Stecke---interrupted them. They settled Skate and put his dead body in the Squire’s pew. They got safely away then. Seward sold the books to Mr. Atherton. Then Seward got accidentally run over and killed. Previously he’d shared the Atherton money with Stecke. And now comes the question to which I want an answer: Why did Stecke come forward to identify Seward as a man he’d once seen in Linwood Church? Eh?”

“If you’re asking me for an answer, Chaney,” I said, “all I’ve got to say is, I haven’t got one! Why, indeed?”

“What was his object?” continued Chaney. “Stecke was clean out of it. We’d never heard of Stecke! Nobody’d ever heard of Stecke---in connexion with this case, anyhow. Why did he suddenly walk on the stage and have the limelight turned full on him? Why, if the first supposition is right, and he’d got his share, should he emerge from his obscurity and draw attention to himself---even if it was only as a witness? He was safe as houses! His partner was dead and so couldn’t speak, and nobody else knew----”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “But how do you know that somebody else didn’t know? How do you know that there isn’t somebody who does know! For I think there may be!”

“Who, then?” he asked.

“Perhaps---Mrs. Effingham!”

“Of the theft---and the murder?”

“Possibly. We know from what Chippendale told us that Mrs. Effingham and Stecke are---shall we say friends?---and visit a bridge club together. We know---at least I remember---that on the day of the inquest on Skate at Linwood Mrs. Effingham and Stecke were in close conversation in the Rectory grounds. I think Mrs. Effingham knows a good deal that she’s never let out.”

“Very likely---and we’ll have to get it out of her,” assented Chaney. “But, still, that doesn’t answer my question: Why did Stecke come forward? What object had he in coming forward? What good did it do him to come forward? He’d nothing whatever to do---I’m still supposing him to have been a partner in the affair of the theft---but kept still, for Seward was silenced. No!---I can’t make out, can’t think of any reason why Stecke, of his own free will, barged in to tell us what he did! Licks me altogether.”

“Well, you can be certain of one thing, Chaney,” I said. “He’d an object!”

“Yes, but what object?” he demanded. “What?”

“To pull the wool over our eyes,” I answered. “Just that! To trick us!”

“Yes, yes!” he said impatiently, “I’ll grant that---but that isn’t telling me anything. I still ask---why?”

“Well, there is this to be thought of,” I remarked, after thinking a bit: “perhaps Stecke was after the first reward. Perhaps he thought we should be satisfied, through his story, that the dead man, Seward, was the one and only originator and accomplisher of the dual crime, that no more inquiries would be made, and that the reward would be paid over to him. How’s that strike you?”

“Um!---may be something in it,” he answered. “It’s possible. But I still think----”

At that moment Chippendale opened my door and looked in. His face was absolutely impassive, but I caught a curious gleam in his eye as he opened his lips.

“Miss Pamela Bolton!” he announced. “And Mr. Hugh Gibbs!”

19  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 17: The Club in Comma Street on: March 28, 2024, 08:26:24 am
I KNEW Chaney well enough by that time, his reticence meant that he wanted to think things over before he spoke about them; I knew, too, that he would speak about them when his mind was made up. And next morning he spoke.

“Camberwell!” he said when we were alone after dismissing Chippendale with a handful of letters to answer. “Do you remember any particular thing that our queer visitor told us yesterday?”

“I remember all she told us,” I replied.

“Ay, but did anything strike you particularly?” he asked. “Think!”

“No!” I said, after reflection. “Can’t say that anything did. I was struck by the general trend of it, though. But you refer to some particular thing, eh?”

“I do!” he replied confidently. “Do you remember that she told us that Mrs. Effingham on her return home after these visits to London was sometimes in very good spirits and sometimes in a bad temper?”

“I do,” I answered.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

But I shook my head. “Do you make anything of it?” I inquired.

“Yes!” he said. “I make this of it. She’s been gambling!”

This was a bit beyond me, and I looked my surprise. He laughed.

“In our trade---or profession, if you like to give it a high-sounding name,” he continued, “it’s a very useful thing to be able to put two and two together in the firm belief that they’ll make four. Let’s put two and two together in this case. Once a week Mrs. Effingham comes to town. Nothing in that, you know---lots of ladies living within a thirty-mile radius of London pay a weekly visit to town. Shopping. Visits to friends. Sightseeing. All that sort of thing. But---it’s usually in the day-time. When it isn’t in the day-time, it’s an evening visit to the theatre or to a concert. But theatre-going and concert attendance on the part of these suburban folk doesn’t usually imply staying the night in town. There’s a splendid series of late trains, run for the special benefit of theatre-goers. But---Mrs. Effingham always stayed in town, returning home early next morning. Now, as, according to Bleacher, she didn’t arrive in town until late in the afternoon and left again early next day, it’s plain that she didn’t come up to shop. What did she come for? And why was she sometimes bad-tempered and sometimes---t’other thing? Plain to see, that!---in my opinion. She was good-tempered when she’d had a good night; bad-tempered when she’d had a bad one. In a word---Mrs. E.’s a gambler!”

“And you think her sole purpose in making these weekly visits is to gamble?” I said.

“Just that!” he replied, confidently. “What her particular form of excitement is we don’t know---but I mean to find out. It may be bridge---in my time I’ve known dozens of women who’ve been ruined, body and soul, especially soul, by bridge. It may be chemin-de-fer---plenty of places where you can indulge yourself in that, and in roulette, and in baccarat---or, yes! Opportunities in this little place for doing any mortal thing you like, Camberwell---as long as you’ve the wherewithal in your pocket.”

“You mean to find out---what?” I asked.

“Where she goes, what she does,” he answered. “We’ll get on with that at once. We don’t know what mayn’t come of it.”

“Mrs. Effingham is very well acquainted with both of us,” I remarked. “Outward appearance, anyway.”

“No doubt---but she isn’t acquainted with our little friend in the next room!” he replied. “We’ll set Chip on to her. He’ll follow her wherever she goes---night or day. All we have to do is to give him his instructions, point the lady out to him, and leave the rest to his own judgment.”

“How can we point her out without attracting her attention?” I asked. “I should say she’s a suspicious woman.”

“Easy!” he answered. “You go down to Waterloo with Chippendale. You point her out, taking care to keep out of her way. Once you’ve shown her to Chip, you can put your hands in your pockets and go home---he’ll track her!”

The next day was Friday, on which day, according to the interesting Miss Anne Bleacher, Mrs. Effingham always came to town by the 4.17 from Havering St. Michael. I gave Chippendale full instructions in the morning, and in the afternoon, after he had been home and attired himself for the part he was to play---which, in his opinion, must be that of a young gentleman just let loose on the town---I accompanied him to Waterloo, where we posted ourselves in a position from whence we could see the passengers of the 4.17 on their leaving it at five o’clock. There was very little danger of Mrs. Effingham’s seeing me; those suburban trains were always full by the time they reached London. The difficulty was to spot her; but spot her I did, though she was attired in much more fashionable style than when I had seen her at Linwood; and when I had made sure that Chippendale had taken her all in and was fairly on the scent, I did precisely what Chaney had said I might do---put my hands in my pockets and went, not home, but into the refreshment room, for a cup of tea. Chippendale, I knew, once on the trail, would keep his nose to the ground till he ran his quarry to earth.

What adventures befell Chippendale we, of course, heard from his own lips next morning. They were not so much exciting as notable, in that they afforded us new ground for suspicion and speculation; indeed, when we had heard all that he had to tell, Chaney and I began to consider the advisability of starting out all over again. It was just one more example of the fact, said Chaney, that in these cases you set off on what appears to be the straight road and get a long, long way upon it only to discover that what you really wanted was some obscure by-path on right or left.

Chippendale followed Mrs. Effingham out of Waterloo. Mrs. Effingham walked down the inclined way into York Road; Chippendale sauntered behind. Mrs. Effingham hailed and boarded a bus; she went inside; Chippendale mounted the same bus and rode outside. The bus in due course reached Piccadilly Circus; Mrs. Effingham left it, and so did Chippendale, taking care that she didn’t notice him. Mrs. Effingham went along Piccadilly and turned into a noted tea-shop; Chippendale thanked his stars that it was of such dimensions that he could follow her and watch her without being seen himself. At a respectful distance he watched her while she ate cakes and sipped tea; he himself being, as he put it, partial to such things, consumed muffins and coffee. Up to that time Mrs. Effingham had been alone, but before she had come to her second cup, she was joined by another lady; Chippendale’s belief was that there had been an appointment between them. He watched the two ladies chat until an hour had gone by; when they rose and departed, he departed too and followed them.

Mrs. Effingham and her companion went out into Piccadilly and hailed a taxi-cab from the nearest rank. Chippendale hailed another and said a word in season to its driver, who was sharp-witted enough to comprehend what his fare was after and played his part like a man and a brother---so Chippendale said, describing his adventures. He followed the first taxi to the respectable quarters of Bayswater and into a quiet street sacred to private residential hotels and first-class boarding-houses. At the door of one of these the first taxi drew up; the ladies dismounted and entered the hotel. But their taxi did not go away; it remained there; obviously its driver had received orders to wait. So Chippendale’s driver went slowly by and halted a little further along the street, and from its back window Chippendale watched—until Mrs. Effingham and her lady friend, some twenty minutes later, came out again.

“And who d’ye think they had with ’em?” said Chippendale at this point of his story. “That chap that came here---the parson! Stecke!”

“Stecke!” I exclaimed.

“Stecke! Reverend Mr. Herbert Stecke, Mr. Camberwell,” replied Chippendale. “Oh, I knew him, at once! But this time---last night, I mean---he wasn’t in his professional toggery. Not he! He was in mufti. Grey suit---soft grey hat, black band---smart enough he was.”

“You’ve no doubt about it, Chippendale?” I said.

“No more than that I see you, sir,” he answered. “It was Stecke, dead certain. I never forget faces, Mr. Camberwell.”

“Well, he came out, you say, with Mrs. Effingham and the other lady. What then? Got into the waiting cab, I suppose?”

“Just so, sir. And off it went, and we after it. Down into the Bayswater Road it went, and back to Oxford Street, and then to Regent Street---do you know a little side-street there, Mr. Camberwell, called Comma Street? Well, I do, if you don’t---anyhow, the taxi turned in there. We slipped past as it pulled up, and I did a bit more squinting through our back window. I saw all three, Stecke and the two ladies, get out and go into a house there. So I paid off my driver then and took a quiet look at the outside of the place they’d entered.”

“Well?” I said, as he paused.

“Name plate on side of door,” continued Chippendale. “Brass plate; well polished; quite smart. Bessington Club. Just that!”

“Never heard of it,” remarked Chaney. “Wasn’t there in my time. I know Comma Street.”

“Well, it’s there now, anyhow, Mr. Chaney,” said Chippendale. “One entrance in Comma Street, and another in Point Street, round the corner. And that’s where they went in. Let ’emselves in, I fancy---I thought I saw Stecke at the latch. Anyhow, the door was tight shut, and so was the other door in Point Street. I hung about a bit, but I didn’t see any other people enter. Then a policeman came along, and I got talking to him---told him just enough of what I was after. ‘What sort of club is this?’ says I. ‘Said to be a bridge club,’ says he. ‘Gambling-hole, I expect.’ ‘Any complaints about it?’ I asked him. ‘Not up to now,’ he says, ‘but it’s only been on tap a few weeks. Used to be called the Arabian Nights Club.’ ”

“Oh, that’s where it is, is it?” remarked Chaney. “Ah, I knew the Arabian Nights. And a nice spot it was, and came to a very pretty end.”

“Well, what else?” I asked, turning to Chippendale.

“That’s all, so far, Mr. Camberwell,” he replied. “I saw no use in hanging about there until the small hours of the morning, as I probably should have had to, and I’d found out where the lady betook herself. However, I know a chap who’s pretty well up in these shady West End places, so this morning, before coming to the office, I just looked him up. He says the Bessington is supposed to be a club for bridge, anchor bridge, and poker, but that it’s pretty well known in his circles that you can get other games there and have a nice flutter---in short, it’s what the policeman suggested, a gambling-resort. Queer spot for a respectable clergyman’s wife, isn’t it, Mr. Camberwell?”

“Keep that moral reflection to yourself, my lad!” said Chaney. “We aren’t inquiring into Mrs. Effingham’s private affairs---in that direction at any rate,” he added. “We just want to know where she goes when she comes up to town. Well, we know where she went last night---to the Bessington Club. Perhaps she’ll go to a May meeting---missionary endeavour or Hottentots Improvement Movement---next time. But now just think again, my lad, on one very important point. Are you dead certain that the man you saw with Mrs. Effingham and her lady friend was the Reverend Mr. Stecke?”

“Dead certain, Mr. Chaney!” asserted Chippendale. “Shouldn’t say so if I weren’t.”

We both felt certain of that, for Chippendale was a model of sureness and of caution, and when he had left us, we began to debate the meaning of this discovery.

“I don’t make much of the fact that Chip saw Stecke in mufti,” said Chaney. “That’s nothing---if, or, rather, as he was going to this club, he’d be sure to be going in a layman’s clothes. And I don’t attach much importance to the other fact that he was going to and did go to the club---he may be a confirmed bridge-player, and even parsons must have some amusement. What I do attach significance to is the fact that he went with Mrs. Effingham, and what I should like to know is: how long has that been going on?”

“There’s a thing that struck me while Chippendale was talking,” I remarked. “Did Stecke know Mrs. Effingham before he went to Linwood to take the duty during Canon Effingham’s illness? Had he met her at the Bessington Club?”

“Good idea!” said Chaney, quick to see the point. “Wish we could find that out! And there’s another thing---who is Stecke? Parson, yes; we know that much. But who is he? What’s his origin? What’s his past? What have you got down about him?”

He was referring to my habit of keeping a sort of register of all the people with whom we did business or came in contact: I considered the keeping of it a highly useful thing.

“Not much,” I answered, getting out my book. “Very little, indeed. Here we are---‘Reverend Herbert Stecke. Clergyman of the Established Church. Took duty for Canon Effingham at Linwood for three Sundays in December last. Recommended to Canon E. by Canon Telson, of Southwark. At present without benefice or employment as curate. Address 247, Laburnam Villas, Newington.’ That’s all.”

“Not enough,” said Chaney, “but as he’s a C. of E. man, there’ll be something in the official books about him. Where’s your library---I mean, haven’t we got anything?”

One of my first cares when we started our business had been to form a small library of highly necessary reference books---I went to it now and took down the current Crockford.

“What is he?” continued Chaney, seeing what I had got. “Oxford? Cambridge?”

“He’s neither,” I replied, presently arriving at what I sought. “He’s no degree from either, anyway, nor from Durham, nor from anywhere---he’s not even an A. K. C. Nor was he educated at any well-known school; at any rate, there’s no mention of it here. He must have been ordained as a literate. Anyhow, he was ordained four years ago, but he only seems to have held one curacy since---at St. Modwen’s, Esterham, two years since. We might enquire there about him.”

“If he’s only had one curacy since he went into the Church, what’s he live on?” asked Chaney. “Earns a bit by doing odd jobs, I suppose, like that he did at Linwood. Well, but you’ve got him down as living at---where?”

“Newington. 247, Laburnam Villas,” I replied.

“But now---at least last night---he was at some address in Bayswater. We must get to know more about that, Camberwell. Let’s have Chip back.”

I rang my bell; Chippendale poked his nose in at the door.

“Chippendale,” said Chaney, “you said that it was a private residential hotel that Stecke and the two ladies came out of. Any name---or merely a number?”

“Artemis Hotel, Ulster Gardens,” replied Chippendale promptly. “Smart place---exterior, anyhow.”

“Big?” asked Chaney.

“Sort of spot where they have accommodation for fifty or sixty guests,” said Chippendale. “You know the type---five or six guineas a week, all in.”

“Well, you listen,” continued Chaney. “We want to know next if this Reverend Mr. Stecke lives there now, and what he’s doing. You’re not to do that job yourself---you can put one of the staff on to it. Post him up---and see he does it thoroughly.”

We got Chippendale’s report on this within the next two or three days. Obviously, the Reverend Herbert Stecke now resided at the Artemis Hotel. Obviously, too, he had completely given up the wearing of clerical costume.

While we were wondering why he had, more light was thrown on this gentleman.

20  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 16: Enter Miss Bleacher on: March 28, 2024, 08:08:18 am
THE letter---written on a sheet of the Linwood Rectory private note-paper---turned out, when carefully deciphered, to run as follows:

Miss Bleacher presents compliments to Mr. Camberwell and Mr. Chaney and would be obliged by interview of private and confidential nature on Wednesday afternoon next when she will be in town. R. S. V. P., to Miss Anne Bleacher, Linwood Rectory, Havering St. Michael, Surrey.

P.S. Miss B. feeling it high time she should make a certain communication.

I handed this remarkable epistle over to Chaney. It appeared to awaken great interest in him.

“Ho-ho!” he exclaimed. “Anne Bleacher, eh? That’s the grenadier woman, isn’t it?---party about seven foot high?”

“Say six and a bit,” I replied. “The parlour-maid, anyway.”

“Tell her to come,” he said. “Any time she likes, Wednesday. We’ll be in for her---and I dare say we shall learn something. She’s on the spot, anyhow.”

I sent a courteous reply to Miss Bleacher, assuring her that anything she might have to say would be received in the strictest confidence, and in due course she turned up at our office. As I have mentioned previously, she was a very tall, gaunt woman, something past middle age, a bit of a character, and inclined, I fancy, to cherish a very good opinion of herself. We had only seen her in her parlour-maid’s rig-out up to then; now she presented herself very well and smartly dressed; she might indeed, as Chaney afterwards remarked, have been an elderly duchess rather than a domestic servant. But---as she let us know in the course of our conversation---she had at one time or another served in noble families and in the establishments of the higher clergy, such as deans and bishops, and there was much grandeur circling about her personality. The black, silver-mounted stick which she carried had been, we learnt, the gift of a dowager countess, and while it was there, it lent distinction to our office.

Bleacher began by drawing off her gloves, into which she blew before depositing them on the edge of my desk.

“There’s a great deal to be said, gentlemen,” she remarked, surveying us severally and conjointly, “and it’s difficult to decide on where to begin saying it. But this I will say and without fear of contradiction: Linwood Rectory is full of mystery! M-y-s-t-e-r-y! Which, I believe, is the one and only word to use under these circumstances.”

I glanced at my partner. Chaney, I felt, was the man to undertake the examination of Miss Bleacher. And Chaney sailed in, willingly.

“I can see you’re a very observant person, ma’am,” he remarked. “You possess great powers that way.”

Bleacher made a gracious acceptance of this little tribute.

“I have eyes in my head, and I have ears,” she answered. “And I have a tongue in my mouth and can keep it as quiet as the grave if I so choose and circumstances require. But circumstances alter cases, and the time comes when silence should no longer be kept. Such is my opinion!”

“And in your case the time’s come, eh, ma’am?” suggested Chaney. “You feel you ought to speak?”

“I feel that there are things that have got to be said,” replied Bleacher. “And I am the person to say them---private and confidential, of course.”

“Oh, of course!” assented Chaney. “Anything said to me and to my partner, ma’am, is of an absolutely confidential character---I mean, is regarded as such. Now about this mystery, ma’am? You refer to what has recently happened---the theft of the church treasures, the murder of the man Skate, and----”

Bleacher waved her black stick.

“Those affairs,” she said, “are what you may term incidentals. They come in, of course. But I refer to what went before them, and what has come after them. And, of course---to use words over again which cannot be avoided---the Canon, he knows nothing at all. Nothing! Being as innocent as---as a lamb!”

“Knows nothing at all about---what, ma’am?” asked Chaney.

Bleacher planted both hands on top of her stick and stared from above them at both of us, steadily, for a half minute of silence.

“His wife!” she said in a deep, sepulchral voice. “Mrs. E.”

“Oh!” remarked Chaney. “Ah! Knows nothing about his wife, eh? Rather serious, that, isn’t it, ma’am? You mean----”

But Bleacher had her own way of telling a story, and she was not to be put off her line and methods.

“The Canon,” she said, “is what I call a lit’ry man. Books---papers---suchlike, which is all very well for playthings, but no good when it comes to practical purposes. And, of course, he was no doubt taken in about his marriage. You see, he was all by himself. If I’d been there, I should have made so bold as to tell him to count twenty. But this woman---I refer to Mrs. E.---she nursed him when he was away ill, and lo and behold! when he comes back, she comes, too, elevated to her present position. Which the Canon, he is a gentleman, if ever there was one, but she---well, I know a lady when I see one, having served many ladies of title. I wouldn’t abide in that house, gentlemen,” continued Bleacher, becoming assertive, “not for a pension, if it weren’t for the Canon! I put up with her for his sake. But the time has come when one must speak. And what I have to say is this---Something there is, of what nature I know not, neither imply, between Mrs. E. and Mr. Stecke!”

“Oh?” said Chaney, affecting great surprise. “What, Mr. Stecke, the clergyman? Dear, dear!”

“Which, of whatever nature, would not surprise me, gentlemen,” replied Bleacher. “Me, in my time, having seen much of the clergy, from bishops to curates, and knowing that the human heart beats similar in all men, though some goes in black coats and some in coloured. But I make no remarks as to the precise nature of whatever there may be between Mrs. E. and Mr. S.”

“Still---you think it’s there?” said Chaney.

“There it is!” repeated Bleacher, with emphasis. “As I well know and am in a position to affirm. During the Canon’s illness, when Mr. S. came to officiate for him, Mrs. E. and Mr. S. became very thick, and were always together----”

“We got the impression that Mr. Stecke made up to Miss Bolton at that time,” interrupted Chaney. “Miss Bolton suggested that at the inquest.”

“Mr. S.,” said Bleacher, “did no doubt cast his eye over Miss B. when he first came to the Rectory, and tried to make up to her, but my impression is that she gave him one for himself very quickly, not being able to abide the looks of him. And however that may be what I do know is that he spent all his spare time with Mrs. E. and was for ever going out motoring with her and sitting with her of an evening and suchlike and now and then accompanying her to town. And upon that there last point I also wish to speak, for, in my opinion, Mrs. E. visits town---which, of course, is another name for London---far too often. A clergyman’s lady should be in her husband’s parish instead of trapesing up here at every opportunity.”

“Oh, Mrs. E. comes up a good deal, does she?” inquired Chaney.

“Never been a week passed since I’ve known her that she doesn’t come up here,” replied Bleacher. “It’s a regular practice of hers to come up for one night a week----”

“A night?” exclaimed Chaney. “Not for the day---shopping and so on?”

“Shopping,” said Bleacher, solemnly, “has nothing to do with it. Mrs. E.’s custom is to come up by a late afternoon train and to return next morning. She’ll arrive here after the shops close, and leave next day before they open.”

“Theatres?” suggested Chaney.

“I know no more than the man in the moon whether it’s theatres or mothers’ meetings,” replied Bleacher, “though highly improbable that it’s the latter, Mrs. E. not being given to piety and suchlike. But this I do know: whatever it may be that she comes for, it has a queer effect on her temper, her coming back sometimes in good spirits and sometimes as if she’d a black dog on her back, as those of us in service there is well aware.”

Chaney began to rub his chin.

“Ah!” he said, ruminatively. “Oh? Hm! Sometimes up and sometimes down, eh? Well, well! And---did Mr. Stecke ever accompany her on these visits, at the time he was at Linwood Rectory, ma’am?”

“He did once,” replied Bleacher. “Leastways, he once went up to town when she did, and he didn’t return until next day. And once or twice besides that, as I said before, he accompanied her to town, but in those cases it was just a run up in the car and back again, all in the day. Of course Mr. S. hadn’t much to do.”

Chaney remained silent for a minute or two. Then he suddenly faced Bleacher with a sharp question.

“Do you think that Mrs. Effingham knows anything about the theft of the church treasures?” he asked. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Bleacher hesitated. It was the first time in our conversation that she had shown any signs of hesitancy, and several minutes elapsed before she answered Chaney’s question.

“I couldn’t say as to that,” she replied at last. “What I say is that she’s mixed up in some way with Mr. S. And, in my opinion, Mr. S. is a crawling serpent!”

“You don’t like him, eh?”

“And never did from the moment he set foot in that house,” asserted Bleacher. “He was the sort that’s always looking out of his eye-corners! A sneak---that’s what he was.”

“You don’t know anything that would connect either him or Mrs. Effingham with the affair of the treasures and the murder?”

“I don’t!” said Bleacher. Then, as if by a flash of inspiration, she exclaimed: “But I know that she and him call each other by their Christian names---which isn’t proper in a married woman and a young man!”

“Sounds pretty familiar, doesn’t it?” agreed Chaney. “Um! Well, now, will you just let your mind go back to the night on which the treasures were stolen?”

“I remember it!” said Bleacher.

“I’m sure you do,” continued Chaney, “and I’m sure nobody can tell more about it---as regards what I’d like to ask you---than you can, ma’am, and I’ve regretted, more than once, that I’ve never had the opportunity of having a little chat with you on the subject.”

“Well, you’ve got it now!” remarked Bleacher. “Of course, I could say a good deal, but I’ve never been asked.”

“Well, now, about those keys of your master’s,” said Chaney. “His private keys. Do you know where he put them at night?”

“Course I do!” exclaimed Bleacher. “Do you think I have been parlour-maid and confidential servant to the Canon all these years without knowing all his little ways? He puts them on a small tray on the dressing-table in his room.”

“Bedroom?”

“No, dressing-room. Keys---watch---purse; all on that tray. Same place every night. The Canon,” said Bleacher, “is a gentleman of fixed habits.”

“Where is that dressing-room?” asked Chaney. “Where, I mean, in relation to his bedroom?”

“Next door. It’s a small room between his bedroom and Mrs. E.’s.”

“Is there a communicating door between his bedroom and his dressing-room? Do they open one into the other?”

“Yes. And there’s a door between her room and his dressing-room. It’s what you might call a suite of three rooms, overlooking the garden.”

“Then she could enter his dressing-room?”

“Nothing to stop her if she wanted,” asserted Bleacher.

“Well, another question: is there any way of getting into that dressing-room except from the two bedrooms?”

“Oh, yes; you can get in from the passage at the back.”

“Then there are three doors to that dressing-room? One from his bedroom; one from Mrs. Effingham’s bedroom; one from the passage?”

“That’s right.”

“The passage, I suppose, runs along the whole of the floor, communicating with the various rooms?”

“In that part of the house, yes. There’s three wings. Our quarters, the servants’, is in another part.”

“You never heard anything that night?”

“Me? No!”

“Where was Miss Bolton’s room?”

“At the far end of the passage, overlooking the churchyard.”

“And where was Mr. Stecke’s when he stayed there?”

“Next door to the Canon’s---in what we call the Blue Room.”

“Well, there’s still a bit more information you can give us, ma’am,” continued Chaney, after a pause. “I’ve heard that you always locked up the house at night?”

“I did---always.”

“Just tell us how. Did you merely turn the keys and push the bolts in or---what?”

“No! None of the keys were left in the locks. I’d a big bunch of keys on a heavy ring. I went round at ten o’clock, locked the doors, bolted them where there were bolts, and took the bunch of keys up to Mrs. E.’s bedroom.”

“What about that door that Canon Effingham said he found open the morning after the things had been stolen from the church---the side-door?”

“Well, the Canon said he found it open when he came back from the church---he went out to the church by his study window, as he generally did! it’s a French window, opening to the ground---but all I know is that I locked it the night before. It’s a door that has no bolts---nothing but just a big, old-fashioned lock. Oh, yes, I locked it all right the night before. Yet, when I came down with the keys next morning, the Canon said he’d found it open.”

“Very odd, very queer!” said Chaney. “Well, we’re very much obliged to you---is it Mrs. or Miss----”

“Miss---Miss!” I hastened to say. “Miss Anne Bleacher!”

“Beg pardon---my fault, of course,” continued Chaney. “Miss Bleacher---very much obliged to you indeed. But---er---I scarcely gather what you want us to do.”

Miss Bleacher played with the silver-mounted ebony stick.

“Well,” she said at last, “I wondered if the Canon oughtn’t to be told----”

“Ah, I think not, I think not, at present, Miss Bleacher!” interrupted Chaney, hastily. “Just wait a while, keep your eyes and ears open, and continue to confide in Mr. Camberwell and me. Now there’s just one little thing you might tell us. Is there some particular day in the week on which Mrs. E. comes to town, or----”

“Always comes the same day, regular,” said Bleacher. “Fridays---by the 4:17 from Havering to Waterloo. Regular as clock-work!”

Presently Bleacher went away, and Chaney turned to me and clapped my shoulder.

“Camberwell,” he said, “that’s the best stroke of luck we’ve had in this case! I’ve got a notion!---and I’m not going to tell you what it is, my lad. Anyway, not today!”

21  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 15: Facts and Gossip on: March 28, 2024, 07:22:45 am
WE were now at something of a dead-lock. Nobody itching for the feel of Mr. Atherton’s good money had come forward so far, though I had no doubt that somewhere or other there were people who were cudgelling their brains as to how they could get hold of it. Seward was dead and buried; there was nothing to be got out of him. If he was the man who had bought the spanner at the roadside garage on the night of the robbery---and there seemed to be no doubt that he was---and the man with him was subsequently his accomplice, we knew nothing as to where they met, how they made their plans, effected the theft of the church treasures, and got away after killing Skate and depositing his body in the Squire’s pew. We hadn’t the ghost of an idea as to who the accomplice was. Nor was any information forthcoming as to where Seward procured the dean’s costume. And as Chaney remarked more than once, it was of no use to theorize; what we wanted was some hard and fast knowledge. Still, theories were in the air, and we could not forget what Jalvane had told us about Miss Bolton’s father in the study at Linwood Rectory. And so I pointed out to my partner.

“Well, well, and that comes to this,” replied Chaney, “and it’s all theory. Theory according to Jalvane. Miss Bolton’s father is an ex-convict---that is, if he’s out, as Jalvane thinks he is, by now. Perhaps Seward was an ex-convict, too---there’s a lot of perhapsing about it! Perhaps Miss Bolton’s father---real name Bascombe---was at the same retreat as Seward. That’s nearly half a dozen perhapses. Then comes another. Perhaps Miss Bolton told her father of the wondrous treasures of Linwood Church, and how much Canon Effingham said they were worth. Perhaps Seward heard, too, from Bascombe. Perhaps he and Bascombe put their heads together as to how they could lay hands on the treasures. And then comes a perhaps which I don’t believe in at all and knocks the bottom clean out of the structure!”

“And what’s that, Chaney?” I inquired.

“Perhaps Miss Bolton handed ’em out the keys from her bedroom window,” said Chaney. “No, no---don’t believe it at all! I don’t believe Miss Bolton had anything whatever to do with it! Wrong tack, my lad!”

“What’s Miss Bolton made herself scarce for?” I asked.

“Her business---not mine, Camberwell,” he said.

“It’s our business to find her---we’re commissioned to do so.” I reminded him. “Canon Effingham’s phoned twice this morning to ask if we’ve any news of her.”

“Umph!” grunted Chaney. “Well, we haven’t. And I don’t expect any until----”

“Until---when?” I asked as he paused.

“Until it suits her to give us some,” he said. “I think that girl’s up to something.”

“How do you mean?” I demanded. “What’s the use of being cryptic?”

“Don’t know that word, Camberwell! Cryptic---what’s it signify?”

“Oh, secret---just that.”

“No secret! What I say---up to something. Run away to get married, maybe.”

“Oh, rot, Chaney!” I exclaimed. “Her disappearance has something to do with this affair! Of course it has! Good Lord!---how can anybody think otherwise? She walks out of that inquest----”

“Hoity-toity, nose in the air, highly indignant! Well?”

“---goes straight to the Rectory, goes straight from there to the station, and catches the next train to town! Why? Come, now!”

Chaney twiddled his thumbs over his ample waistcoat.

“Ah!” he said. “When you’ve reached my age, Camberwell, you’ll never waste one minute in speculating on a woman’s reasons for doing anything. You’ll just accept whatever she does. I’m not going to puzzle my poor brain over Miss Bolton’s disappearance. What I say is---wait! Miss B. will turn up. Probably when least expected, and with some news!”

“News?” I said. “What the devil do you mean?”

Chaney closed one eye and looked at me out of the other.

“What impression did you gain from your interview with the novel-writing lady, Camberwell?” he asked.

“I told you! That she knew quite well where Miss Bolton is.”

“And from the young gentleman in the City?”

“I told you that as well. That he knows where she is, too.”

“Very well! Then what more do you want? All that goes to substantiate what I say---that she’ll turn up, some day, with---news!”

“Hanged if I know what you mean, Chaney!” I said. “We want what you call news before that!”

“Before what?” he asked, mischievously.

“Before she turns up!” I retorted.

“She might turn up tomorrow,” he said. “Or today.”

Then he laughed and went off, to give Chippendale some instructions. But I had to fetch him back in a few minutes, for Jalvane came in and wanted to see the two of us together.

Jalvane, in spite of his grim looks, was a good-natured fellow; up to then he had shared with us whatever information he had acquired. And now, he said, he had got more.

“About Seward, or Sewell,” he proceeded when Chaney had come in and we were all there in conclave. “I’ve traced him---a bit, anyhow. He was convicted, under the name of Shepherd, at Guilford Assizes, six years ago, and got five years’ penal servitude.”

“For what?” asked Chaney.

“Burglary---at a country-house, in Surrey. He was caught in getting away---fell from a window. There were some rather odd features in the case. He gave his name as John Shepherd----”

“Thinking of Jack Shepherd, of course!” I remarked.

“No doubt---bit of fun on his part,” assented Jalvane. “But he refused to give any address or any particulars about himself, and from the time of his arrest---with, of course, the stolen stuff, jewellery, on him---he preserved a stolid, and, to the police, very annoying and baffling silence. They couldn’t, or didn’t, succeed in finding out a single thing about him---his past, I mean. It was very evident---I’m quoting from information supplied to me---that he was an educated man, and probably of superior position, but he kept his mouth shut as much as possible. And of course after he’d been found guilty, the police had no record of his past to bring forward before sentence, for they couldn’t trace him in any way, and he himself refused to say a word. He evidently proved a model prisoner and got his full marks and, after his release, completely disappeared again---until this affair.”

“Sure it’s the same man?” asked Chaney.

“Oh, dead certain! I’ve worked it all out---you can have all the details whenever you like. But to stick to the general line---you remember what I told you about the girl’s, Miss Bolton’s, father? Well, as far as I can ascertain, there’s never been, and never could have been, any connexion between him and Seward. You know, I suggested that perhaps she’d told her father about the church treasures, and he’d told Seward, and----”

“I know!” said Chaney. “Your---possible---theory. Well?”

“It’s knocked clean out. To begin with, Shepherd, or Seward, was not at the same convict prison with Bascombe, which, you’ll remember, is Miss Bolton’s father’s name---and, of course, hers. To end with, I’ve found out that immediately on his release Bascombe and his wife, by the help and kindness of some old City friends, were sent out of this country. He’s been living in New Zealand ever since.”

“Oh!” said Chaney. “Then that’s---exploded?”

“Clean!” assented Jalvane. He replaced some papers which he had taken from his pocket and turned to me. “Miss Bolton?” he asked. “Found her?”

“No!” I answered.

“No news of her? None at all?”

“Not a scrap!”

“Bit queer!” he said. “What’s her game, now? Got some game of course.”

“That’s what Chaney says,” I remarked. “I don’t know what you mean---or what he means! What d’you mean by a game?”

Jalvane looked at Chaney; Chaney looked at Jalvane. No doubt they understood each other, but neither replied to my question. Jalvane turned to me.

“Have you cultivated Linwood?” he asked.

“And again I don’t know what you mean!” I answered.

“Try to make it clear then,” he said good-humouredly. “Linwood is a village, and a small one. In small villages the people talk about small things. Lambs with two heads; gooseberries as big as peaches; hailstones the size of walnuts. In other words---local gossip.”

“Well?” I said. “What then?”

He rubbed his queerly shaped jaw and smiled at Chaney.

“If I know anything about village life,” he continued, “and I ought to, for I was born and bred in a village, there’ll be a great deal of talk going on at Linwood just now. Nine days’ wonder business, you know. Theft of the church treasures. Murder of Skate, the poacher. Disappearance of the secretary. And---so on.”

“Well?” I repeated. “And----”

“And I think---if I were you---I should acquaint myself, as far as possible with the details of that gossip,” he answered. “Good tip! Picked up no end of valuable information myself, one time or another, while I was having a pint of ale and a crust of bread and a bit of cheese in a country inn. A stray word---a chance hint---eh, Chaney?”

“Good business!” agreed Chaney. “Oh, yes---I reckon they’re wagging their chins down there at Linwood.”

“Sure!---as your American gentleman would say,” said Jalvane. “And speaking of him, is it known down there that Mr. Atherton’s offered five thousand pounds reward?”

“I should say,” replied Chaney, “that there isn’t anywhere in this country where it isn’t known. We’ve taken good care to make it known. Papers, posters, handbills---oh, yes, it’s known, right enough.”

“Well, there’ll be somebody down at Linwood whose palms are itching to handle it,” remarked Jalvane, “Take my tip and do something to find out what’s been said---and thought, too---in the neighbourhood. You never know what valuable information you mayn’t get from country-folk---they’re very shrewd, and they’ve an uncanny way of seeing through things. Try it! My job’s elsewhere.”

When Jalvane had left us, Chaney and I talked over his suggestion. I am afraid I was still too much of a neophyte at my job to see the advantages of the course which Jalvane recommended; I, too, knew something of village life, and I knew that the gossip of rustic firesides and country inns is mostly of a non-dependable nature. Still, we did not want to neglect any opportunity, and after discussing matters we decided to send Chippendale down to Linwood for a few days to see what he could do. He had never been there and so was not at all known, and if there was anything to be learnt, he was the one to learn it.

I had noticed, in the course of our own visits to Linwood, that there was quite a decent inn at the centre of the village, the Linwood Arms, overlooking the Green. We decided that Chippendale should go there, in the character of a young gentleman just recovering from an illness and desirous of enjoying the benefits of country air for a week or two. Thither Chippendale duly repaired, properly fitted out for the character he was to assume and provided with the necessary funds and an admonition from Chaney to be hospitable to any Gileses and Timothys who were inclined to talk. And for ten days we neither saw nor heard of Chippendale, but on the eleventh he turned up with the observation that he thought he’d about worked that bit out and saw no use in staying there longer. Then he proceeded to give us a succinct account of his mission.

Chippendale’s report, summarized, came to this:

1. The general opinion in Linwood was that there was a great deal more in the case than anybody had realized so far.

2. That there was a lot in it that didn’t meet the eye.

3. That the theft of the church treasures was a put-up job.

4. That there were those who could tell a lot if they would.

5. That it was a main queer thing that the Rector’s secretary should cut and run as she did.

6. That she knew something.

7. That the mystery about the parson’s keys wasn’t, perhaps, such a mystery as had been made out.

8. That Weasel Dick knew who it was that he found in the church and that if he hadn’t known, he’d never have been killed.

The last suggestion seemed to me the most valuable of the lot. It impressed Chaney, too. Skate knew the thief, or thieves! Therefore----

“We never thought of that, Camberwell,” said Chaney. “Good idea! Skate had to be quieted because of his knowledge. If the thieves had been utter strangers to him---see? But he knew ’em! Or one of ’em! That’s a valuable idea. Well, what next? But I expect something will turn up.”

Something did turn up. It turned up in the shape of a letter, marked “Private and Important,” bearing the Linwood postmark, and addressed to Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell in the most eccentric handwriting I have ever beheld.

22  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 14: Brick Walls on: March 28, 2024, 07:06:33 am
CHANEY left the job of searching for Canon Effingham’s missing secretary to me; we had some other work in hand at the moment which was more in his line. I was not particularly pleased with my task. My opinion was that Miss Bolton had left Linwood Rectory in a fit of temper. I did not believe for one moment that Miss Bolton had anything whatever to do with the theft of the church treasures, and I was only going to look for her to please her late employer.

The difficult thing was where to look. Canon Effingham had given me these references; they were all of a business nature; that is to say, they were all from past employers. The first was from a lady who ran a typewriting and secretarial agency in the West End; I went to her first. She knew nothing about Miss Bolton’s present doings; had never seen or heard of her since she left her employment two years previously. An excellent worker; unusually intelligent and very conscientious, Miss Bolton; that was all this lady had to say. The second was a publisher; Miss B., as he called her, had been his private secretary for some months, and he had much regretted that she didn’t stay with him, for she was just what he wanted. But the hours and the work had been too much for her; she wanted lighter work. Did he know where she was, now? Not he!---knew nothing. Had he read the newspaper account of the inquest on Richard Skate, believed to have been murdered at Linwood? No---never read such things. Miss Bolton’s name mentioned at that inquest? Good Lord!---he’d send out at once for back issues of the newspapers. Disappeared? Hm!---well, she’d no doubt good reason. Not the sort of young woman who would do anything without some reason. Level-headed! And, like the lady who ran the typewriting and secretarial bureau, he didn’t know any private address of Miss Bolton, and never had known.

The third reference had originated with a lady who was famous as a novelist and who lived in a flat in Mayfair. Having sent up my professional card to her, she deigned to see me, there and then. Shown into her sanctum, I found her to be a biggish woman, middle-aged, who was chiefly noticeable for a mop of auburn hair, a florid complexion, light-blue eyes, scarlet lips, and a powdered nose. Dressed in what I took to be a kimono, she sat cross-legged on a sort of low divan, a jewelled cigarette-holder between her fingers, and the ugliest beast of a small dog I have ever seen, nuzzling at her side. There was a lot of manuscript on the floor at her feet, a writing-pad on her unoccupied flank, and a box of cigarettes within easy reach. She inspected me from top to toe when I walked in; evidently I found some favour in her eyes, for they softened, and she smiled as she waved the cigarette-holder at a seat immediately in front of her.

“Well, young man!” she said, in a not unfriendly voice. “What do you want? Some sort of a detective, aren’t you? Are all your sort like you? Much too good-looking I think you are for that sort of thing! But what is it?”

“I am a private inquiry agent,” I replied. “My partner and I specialize in criminology.”

“Criminology, eh?” she said. “What’s that? Murders and so on?”

“Anything relating to crime,” I answered. “From murder to petty larceny. I don’t think we should deal with petty larceny, however.”

“Haven’t the remotest notion of what you’re talking about, my lad!” she said. “What is petty larceny? Never mind---what do you want? Did you come here to look at me? Because, if you did, here I am!”

“I came to ask for information, if you can give it,” I said. “I want to know if you know and can tell me anything about a young lady who was at one time your secretary---Miss Bolton.”

Her expression changed suddenly. Her face became watchful, suspicious. Just as suddenly she picked up my card which lay where she had thrown it on the divan.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “I only looked at the corner of your card---my maid merely said there was a young and good-looking gentleman---Ah, I remember---yes, I’ve heard of you, through the newspapers, in connexion with the Linwood affair. Which are you? Chaney---or Camberwell?”

“Camberwell---at your service,” I replied.

“I’ll employ you, when I’ve a job for you,” she answered, her eyes softening again. “Um---so you want to know about Miss Bolton? Why?”

“I’m inquiring on behalf of Canon Effingham,” I said. “Miss Bolton left Linwood Rectory very suddenly, and he’s anxious about her. Do you know anything?”

She extracted the end of her cigarette from the holder, fitted in another, and put a match to it. When the smoke had begun to curl about the auburn mop of hair, she spoke.

“Lots!” she said.

“Will you tell me---a bit?” I asked.

The auburn mop shook vigorously.

“Not the leastest bit!” she answered. “I’m not going to tell you anything. All the same, you needn’t run away. Talk!”

“What about?”

“Anything! I’m studying you. I’m going to put you in my novel.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But my time is valuable. And if you won’t tell me anything----”

“Well, be good, and I’ll tell you just one thing. Leave Pamela Bolton alone! There!”

I stared at her, in silence, for a minute. She stared back until the corners of her lips began to curl into a smile.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” I asked.

“About Pamela? All! Absolutely all!”

“Then I’m going,” I said, picking up my hat. “Thank you----”

She pointed, imperiously, to the seat I’d vacated.

“I said---talk!” she exclaimed. “Sit down again! Talk!”

I looked at her, a bit wonderingly. Then I sat down again.

“What about?” I repeated.

“Anything! Murders. This murder. Wasn’t it you who found the dead man in the queer old pew?”

“It was!”

“Lovely! Tell about it!”

I told.

“And you saw the---the man who said he was Dean of somewhere or other killed on the spot in the City?”

“I saw that!”

“Splendid! Tell about that!”

I told about that.

“Can you tell lots of things like that?” she demanded.

“Some!” I said. “A few.”

“Come again and tell them. Go away now!---I want to write. Come some afternoon---ring me up first, though, and I’ll be sure to be in. Will you?”

“No!” I said. “You won’t tell me anything----”

“Oh, but I can’t!” she answered reproachfully. “At present, anyway. And I have told you something!”

“Told me something?” I retorted. “What?”

“To leave Pamela Bolton alone. I say!---you’re not dense, are you?”

“I hope not!” I said indignantly.

“Then go away and reflect on what I’ve told you,” she answered. “I’ll repeat it. Leave---Pamela---Bolton---alone! Bye-bye---and do come again.”

I went away feeling certain that the auburn-haired lady knew something---something that Chaney and I would have given a good deal to know. But I felt still more certain that, whatever it was, she wouldn’t tell.

I tried the Glass Slipper next. It was a lady that I interviewed there. She was a pretty lady, and very charming, and very beautifully gowned, and after inspecting me closely she treated me as if I had been her dear boy-cousin, just emerged from his last term at school. But when it came to brass tacks, she asked me, plump, if I really expected her to remember all the people who came to dance and frivol at her night-club? Not . . . likely! She stuck in an adjective between the likely and the not.

So I drew that covert blank, too. But the Glass Slipper reminded me that the Superintendent at Havering St. Michael, in telling us that he had seen Miss Bolton there, had also said that she was in the company of a young gentleman whom he had recognized as an occasional guest of Sir Bartle Shardale’s, at Linwood Hall. Now, Sir Bartle Shardale, in addition to being Squire and Lord of the Manor of Linwood, was also a great financial magnate and had offices in the City. And with considerable trepidation I ventured to approach him. My heart was somewhere beneath the top of my socks when I was shown in to him, but within two minutes I had a stroke of good luck---Sir Bartle turned out to be an old friend of my own father.

“I saw your name in connexion with the Linwood affair, young fellow,” he said, genially. “But it didn’t strike me that you might be my old friend’s son. What made you go in for this?”

I told him how I had fallen into it by accident.

“Rather an interesting occupation, isn’t it?” he said. “And exciting, too. But you don’t want me for anything, do you?”

I told him what I did want, frankly. He nodded, comprehendingly.

“Ah, that’ll be a young kinsman of mine, Hugh Gibbs!” he said. “He’s in my office here. I do have him down at Linwood occasionally, and I dare say he met this girl there---I know we’ve had her up at the Hall now and then, playing lawn tennis and so on. Of course I know her!---know everybody at Linwood. Well, want to see Gibbs?”

This was making things easy and I blessed my luck and said I should be only too glad to have a word or two with Mr. Hugh Gibbs. Sir Bartle rang a bell. A clerk appeared.

“Take this gentleman to a private room and fetch Mr. Gibbs to him,” he commanded. “Well, good-bye, Camberwell, and good luck---work hard!”

I was shown into a waiting-room. Mr. Gibbs was brought to me. He was a typical young City man, reticent, cool in manner, sparing of speech; the sort of man who is going to hear all you have got to say without saying very much himself. I told him everything I knew, frankly, including the statement of the Superintendent about the night-club. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, well, we only went there once!” he said. “Just a lark. Miss Bolton happened to be dining with me one evening when she was in town, and we were talking about night-clubs, and she said she’d never seen even the outside of one, so we went to the Glass Slipper. Rotten hole, after all---dull as ditch-water!”

“Do you know where Miss Bolton is?” I asked, coming to the point. “Canon Effingham is very anxious to know her whereabouts.”

But he shook his head.

“Can’t say,” he answered. “Sort of idea she was going to stay with friends.”

“You’ve seen her, of course, since she left Linwood?”

He appeared to consider a possible reply to that.

“Just for a minute or two, one day,” he said: “She was going to write. I---if I were you, I should just tell Canon Effingham to---well, not to bother himself. Miss Bolton is----” he hesitated at that, boggling at the next word.

“Quite capable of minding her own business, eh?” I suggested.

“Just about that,” he said, smiling. “He---no need to be alarmed about her, you know. All right!”

I saw he would say no more, and I thanked him and went away. But I felt absolutely sure of two things. The lady of the auburn hair and jewelled cigarette-holder knew where Miss Bolton was. And Mr. Hugh Gibbs knew where Miss Bolton was. And both of them knew why she was where she was. And I was equally certain of something else. Neither of these two were going to tell anything.

23  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 13: We Begin to Hear News on: March 28, 2024, 06:40:17 am
CANON Effingham and Mr. Atherton left us at this point, and Mr. Sewell turned to Jalvane.

“I don’t know what you official people intend to do next,” he said, “but as for myself, I propose to go to the house where my unfortunate brother lodged, for the purpose of examining his belongings. There may be something there, papers, for instance, which I ought to know of.”

“I was thinking of doing the same thing, sir,” replied Jalvane. “If not just now, certainly tomorrow. But we may as well go now.”

“Any objection to Camberwell and myself going with you?” asked Chaney.

“None!” said Jalvane. “We’re all in the same boat. Where can we find a taxi?”

I went into the street to look round. A man, obviously a constable in plain clothes, passed me in the doorway. A moment later Jalvane called me back; when I turned, the man was speaking to him.

“All right,” I heard Jalvane say. “Be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let him go.” He turned to me. “Got a taxi?” he asked. “Get one, then. But we’re going to the Yard; there’s a man turned up there who thinks he can tell something about the supposed Dean of Norchester. As all this is in my hands, they sent for me. Better come with us, sir,” he concluded, glancing at Mr. Sewell. “We’ll hear what this man has to say and we can go on to Star Street afterwards.”

The four of us got into a taxi-cab and went off to New Scotland Yard. There, in a waiting-room, we found a man of respectable appearance who, on our entrance, rose to his feet and stood to attention.

“Ah!” remarked Jalvane. “Old soldier, eh?”

The man smiled.

“Late King’s Own, sir,” he answered.

“Name?” asked Jalvane.

“Robert Evison, sir. Now employed at Paddington railway station. We have dressing-rooms there, sir. I’m in charge of them.”

“I understand you can tell something about the man who’s been going about calling himself the Dean of Norchester,” continued Jalvane. “Can you?”

“Well, sir, I’ve read a lot in the newspapers about him, and I firmly believe that I’ve had a bit of business with him,” replied Evison. “That’s my convinced impression, sir, and why I came here.”

“Quite right,” said Jalvane. “Sit down, my lad. Now, then, tell about it.”

Evison resumed his seat; we took chairs and listened.

“Well, sir, it was like this. The other morning,” began Evison, “Tuesday morning it was----”

Jalvane stopped him and turned to me.

“Let’s get things in order,” he said. “What night was it that the stuff was stolen from Linwood Church?”

“Monday last,” I answered.

“What morning was it on which the so-called Dean of Norchester went to the American man?”

“Next morning---Tuesday,” I replied.

“Go on!” said Jalvane, nodding at Evison. “On Tuesday morning last----”

“Tuesday morning it was, sir, about nine o’clock, a gentleman came up to me and said he wanted a dressing-room. I supposed, of course, that he’d just come off a long-distance train. He’d two suit-cases with him; one of ’em a deep, square one; the other a small one, perhaps eighteen by twelve. He----”

“Old or new?” asked Jalvane.

“Well-worn, both of ’em, sir. I showed him into a dressing-room and followed him in to see if there was anything I could get him. He was a pleasant, chatty sort of gentleman----”

“Better describe him before you go any further,” said Jalvane. “What like?”

Evison looked across the room---at Mr. Sewell.

“Well, sir, begging the gentleman’s pardon, he was the very spit of your friend there!” he answered. “Never seen two gentlemen more alike in my life!”

“That’ll do,” said Jalvane. “How was he dressed?”

“Dark-grey tweed suit, sir. But as soon as he got into the dressing-room, he opened the big suit-case and I saw black clothes in it which he began to take out. ‘You’ll see a---a’---he used some long word, sir----”

“Metamorphosis,” suggested Mr. Sewell.

“I think that was it, sir, by the sound. Yes---‘metamos’---whatever it is, ‘when I come out, my friend,’ he said. ‘The fact is, I never travel in my clerical clothes---I prefer to put them on when I reach town.’ Then I gathered he was a clergyman of some sort. So when I’d got him something he’d asked for---fresh soap, or something---I left him. In about a quarter of an hour he opened the door and called me in again. And of course I shouldn’t have known him. He wasn’t dressed like an ordinary clergyman, but like one of these---I don’t know if they’re bishops or what---gaiters on their legs, and a big top hat with strings, and so on. He’d put his other suit in the case, and he was locking it when I went in. ‘Now look here, my friend,’ he said, ‘I shall be coming back to change my clothes again before leaving town this afternoon---what shall I do with this suit-case? Shall I put it in the cloak-room, or do you think you could keep an eye on it?’ ‘Leave it with me, sir,’ I said, ‘I’ll see to it.’ And with that he paid me for the dressing-room, gave me half a crown for myself, and went away, carrying the little case.”

“What did you do with the big one?” asked Chaney.

“Put it in my own place, sir---I have a bit of a spot there where I keep things.”

“Did you notice if it had any lettering on it?” inquired Chaney.

“I looked particular for that, sir---I thought it would perhaps say Bishop of somewhere. But there was nothing of that sort; only two initials. H. S. It was an old suit-case, dark-brown leather; and the letters were a good deal worn.”

“Well,” said Jalvane. “And---did he come back?”

“Yes, sir---about four o’clock that afternoon.”

“Still carrying the small case?”

“Yes, sir. He’d the same room. He changed back into the dark-grey suit, paid me, gave me another halfcrown, and left. I wanted to get him a porter to carry his things, but he wouldn’t let me.”

“Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“No, sir---not a word. And, of course, after he’d left me, I saw nothing more of him. But when I read the papers this morning, and the evidence of that American gentleman, I told my boss all about it, and he said I’d better come here and tell all I knew.”

“Quite right, Evison, and what you’ve told will be very useful,” said Jalvane. “And now just keep all that to yourself till you’re asked to repeat it---and tell your boss to do the same thing.”

Then Evison went away, and we who had listened to his story went out and got into another taxi-cab and set off for Star Street, Paddington.

“Damned clever, that!” murmured Chaney as we moved away. “I’d been wondering where he got into his dean’s clothes! And what I’d now like would be to find ’em---we might trace something.”

“We shall find them,” remarked Jalvane. “Only a question of time---and patience.”

Mrs. Pentridge came to the door of her humble dwelling with a mouth full of tea and toast; she’d just sat down to a quiet cup on returning home, she said. And of course she’d expected the police gentlemen would come, and was truly thankful---and much obliged---we weren’t in uniform, not wishing to draw attention. And this was Mr. Seward’s room, which it was just as he left it, excepting that it had been tidied up and the bed made.

We found ourselves in a ground-floor bed-sitting-room; drab, dismal, but clean. There was a bed in a corner; a chest of drawers that also served as dressing-table; a small writing-table in the window between the dingy lace curtains; an easy chair, a sofa. In a recess were two shelves; the top one was filled with books; the lower one with piles of newspapers---back issues of the Times, chiefly---and magazines. Under the bed was a suit-case---empty. The chest of drawers contained clothing and linen, but an examination of its contents yielded no information. There were no private papers anywhere in the room.

The books, as Mrs. Pentridge had said in her evidence, were all in what she called foreigneering languages; they were, as a matter of fact, almost without exception, Greek and Latin classics. We examined every volume separately; there were plenty of pencil notes on margins, but no name on fly-leaves. The books themselves were chiefly the working editions of the classics issued by the university presses; my own opinion was that they had one and all been picked up at the second-hand bookstalls.

Chaney made the first find. From the midst of a pile of magazines and reviews---all of the serious and heavy sort, and all, like the books, second-hand---he suddenly extracted something which he at once held up between finger and thumb as a notable acquisition.

“Here you are!” he exclaimed. “Back number of the Linwood Parish Magazine, with article on the stolen goods. See? ‘The Treasures of Linwood Church,’ by the Reverend Wilford Effingham, M.A., Rector of Linwood and Canon of the Diocese of Southwark. What’s the date? October 1919. Two years old, this. And look!---the article’s marked in blue pencil. Pictures of the treasures---photographs. The cup and saucer---I mean chalice and paten---and the two old books. Significant we should find this---eh?”

I made the next discovery. Rooting about amongst the papers, I found a shipping list---announcements of sailings to American and Canadian ports. And against one departure---from Liverpool, at a very near date---somebody, Seward presumably, had made a mark, also in blue pencil.

And then Jalvane distinguished himself. He had been poking about in nooks and corners of the room. From a bracket on the wall he had taken down a hideous yellow and purple ornament, a sort of vase; turning this up in his hand, he shook out a bit of folded paper which he picked up and unwrapped.

“There we are!” he said. “I thought we should find something. Cloak-room ticket for a suit-case. Date April the---well, last Tuesday. So there we are!”

“What station?” demanded Chaney.

“Paddington!---and I’m going there, straight off,” replied Jalvane. “It’s close by. You wait here, all of you---have another look round. I’ll be back---with the suit-case---in no time.”

He was actually back within twenty minutes, and when he came, he had the suit-case in his hand and set it down, triumphantly, on the table. We gathered round, staring at it and wondering, no doubt, what it contained.

“Old, well-worn stuff, you see,” remarked Jalvane, tapping somewhat frayed leather. “Had its travels too---see the foreign hotel labels on it? Of course we haven’t the keys, but it’s a very ordinary lock, and I’ve no doubt I’ve something that’ll do.” He produced a bunch of keys and selected one that looked likely. “There you are!” he continued, raising the lid. “Now, what have we here?”

What we had there was, without doubt, the garments in which Seward had presented himself to Mr. Atherton at the Savoy Hotel---everything that a dean should wear, down to the black gaiters and up to the broad-brimmed, stringed hat.

“Wonder how he got all this stuff?” mused Jalvane. “None of it new, you see. I suppose, though, that deans and bishops sometimes get rid of their old clothes---all this stuff is pretty well-worn, and the hat is anything but new. Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything else.”

Chaney, however, was going through the various garments, one by one, and presently he found and held up a card, duly engraved.

“Apparently armed himself with two or three of these,” he observed. “Unless after giving one to Mr. Atherton he picked it up again. What I should like to know is---did he have these cards specially engraved for him, for this job, or have they been stolen from the real Dean of Norchester?”

“That’s one thing we ought to find out,” said Jalvane. “And the other is---where and when did he get these clothes and the hat? The last thing rather licks me. Supposing a real, genuine dean’s toggery did somehow get into a second-hand clothes-shop, who’s likely to want to buy it? It would be no use to an ordinary clergyman, and a dean’s costume isn’t exactly the thing for a fancy-dress ball. Yet---he must have got it somewhere.”

Mr. Sewell left us at that stage. He should stay in town for a few days, he said, to make arrangements about the burial of his unfortunate brother’s remains, and he gave us an address at which we could find him. And after some further discussion with Jalvane as to future procedure we all parted, leaving Seward’s belongings, by arrangement with Mrs. Pentridge, locked up in the room. During the next day or two Chaney and I were busy in giving proper publicity to Mr. Atherton’s munificent offer of five thousand pounds. Chaney attached more importance to that than to any other efforts on the part of ourselves or of the police to unravel the mystery; I myself was not very sanguine about it. It seemed to me that if Seward had an accomplice, there would now, as Seward was dead, be only one person in all the world who would know of it, and that would be the accomplice himself---or herself. And it was not likely that the accomplice would reveal his identity.

Then, two or three days later, we received a communication from the Superintendent of Police at Havering St. Michael. He enclosed for our perusal a copy of a statement just procured, he said, from a man who had voluntarily come forward to make it. It appeared, he continued, to settle the question: had Seward an accomplice? If Seward was the man mentioned in the statement, there was no doubt that he had. The enclosure ran as follows:

Statement of Henry Charles Marsden, garage-proprietor, Pennydoon Corner, near Kingston, Surrey: About dusk on the evening of Monday, April---, I was standing at the door of my garage when a small car, coming from London way and going south, passed me. It was travelling slowly. There were two men in it. About forty or fifty yards from my garage, it pulled up, and both men got out. Something seemed to be wrong. One of the men came back along the road, to me. He was a smallish, spare man, fresh-complexioned; a gentleman by his speech. He wore a leather motoring-coat, but it was slightly open and I noticed his dark-grey tweed suit. He asked if I could sell him a spanner? I fetched a new one and asked if I could do anything to help. He said no, it was a mere nothing---something wanted tightening up; the spanner would do it. He paid for the spanner and went back, and within a few minutes they were off again. At the distance between them and me, I could not see the other man’s face, but he was a tallish, well-built man. The man in the leather coat who bought the spanner drove the car. I have seen a spanner shown to me by the police at Havering St. Michael and am confident that it is the one sold by me to the man I have just described.

“Um!” said Chaney when I had read this over to him. “Well, we always thought it would take two to carry Skate’s body into that old pew. That’s outside help. But what about inside help, Camberwell? Was there any? And don’t forget that Canon Effingham is pestering us for news of Miss Bolton.”

That was true. Canon Effingham was ringing us up two or three times a day with inquiries on that point. For Miss Bolton had never been heard of since she walked out of the Rectory.

24  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 12: Mr. Atherton Launches Forth on: March 27, 2024, 10:37:28 am
TO say that this sudden and dramatic intervention raised a sensation in court would be to understate things. The court was closely packed, and from every corner rose excited murmurs; people elbowed and jostled each other in an effort to see the man who had come forward at this---as it were---eleventh hour. But of all the people present none could possibly be so much surprised as those of us were who had actually seen the man now lying dead in the neighbouring mortuary. For this man, standing before us alive, and quietly watching the Coroner, was so like him that out of Mr. Atherton’s lips issued the exclamation which I, too, had been out to make.

“Double---his double!”

The Coroner was calling for order; so were his officials and the police. A hush fell on the court; the Coroner spoke.

“You had better go into the witness-box and say what you have to say on oath,” he suggested. “You have no objection?”

“None whatever!” replied the stranger. “It is what I came for.”

We waited---some of us breathlessly---to hear what this new witness had to say; to know who he was; what he had to tell.

Francis William Sewell. Retired bank-manager. Residing at Harfordness, near Spalding, in Lincolnshire. A Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries---member of some well-known archæological societies.

“Why are you here, Mr. Sewell?” inquired the Coroner.

“Because first thing this morning I read in my newspaper the account of the proceedings at the inquest held at Linwood yesterday, regarding the murder of the man Skate, and especially the evidence of the witness Mr. Stecke,” replied the new-comer. “And as I knew that I was the person who had spoken to Mr. Stecke in Linwood Church one afternoon last winter, and next morning to a young lady who, I knew at the time, had some connexion with Linwood Rectory and whom I now understand to have been Miss Bolton, Canon Effingham’s secretary, I ran straight off to the station and caught the next train for London, so that I could come here---I knew from the paper that this inquest was to be opened today.”

“We shall be much obliged to you for any information you can give us, Mr. Sewell,” said the Coroner. “You read Mr. Stecke’s evidence given at Linwood yesterday, you say?”

“All of it! And I have just heard him repeat that evidence---I was at the back of the court there, just now, while he gave it.”

“And you suggest that Mr. Stecke is mistaken? He has already positively identified one man---the man into whose death we are inquiring---as the man he saw and spoke to at Linwood. He is mistaken in that?”

“I don’t know---I can’t say, of course---if Mr. Stecke ever saw and spoke to the dead man at Linwood. But I do know that I am the man who approached him in the church one afternoon last winter and did his best to persuade him to show me the treasures which have lately been stolen from the safe in the vestry. I also know that I am the man who spoke to the young lady I have referred to---next morning, in the woods behind Linwood Rectory.”

“Perhaps you can give us particulars, details, Mr. Sewell?” suggested the Coroner. “How you came to be there, for instance?”

“Willingly! I am, as I said at first, retired from business, and I spend my leisure time in antiquarian and archæological pursuits. There are certain very interesting things in the immediate neighbourhood of Havering St. Michael, which is the market town of the Linwood district. As it was very fine weather for the time of year at the period I am speaking of, I went down to Havering St. Michael for a few days, to look round---I stayed at the Havering Arms Hotel there. I knew of the treasures of Linwood Church before going to Havering St. Michael; their existence is well known to antiquaries. Of course I went to see them. I found Mr. Stecke in the church. He told me that Canon Effingham never allowed anyone to see the treasures except in his presence and under his own personal supervision, and that, as Canon Effingham was ill in bed, my wish could not be gratified. I tried persuasion, but it was no good, so I had to return to my hotel disappointed. But I had seen that the country round about Linwood was well worth inspection, so next morning I went back there, to explore a little. I turned up the lane which runs between the church and the Rectory, and as I did so, I saw a young lady come out of the Rectory grounds and go up the lane in advance of me. Near a cottage on the right-hand side I caught up with her and, asking her if she was from the Rectory, said that I had been sorry to hear of Canon Effingham’s illness and hoped that it was not serious. She replied that Canon Effingham was only laid up for a few days and would soon be about again, and we parted. And---that is all.”

The Coroner turned to where Stecke was sitting. Since the appearance on the scene of Mr. Sewell, Stecke had sat motionless, watching him as if fascinated, and when the Coroner addressed him, he started as if frightened.

“Mr. Stecke,” said the Coroner, “you have heard what the witness says? Will you look closely at him? Is he the gentleman you saw in Linwood Church and afterwards speaking to the young lady, Miss Bolton?”

Stecke looked more fascinated, amazed, thunderstruck, than ever. There was something in his mind that was producing a mental cataclysm.

“I---I do not know what to say!” he faltered. “If---if this gentleman says---but then---is it possible for two men----”

He got no further than that. The Coroner turned to the witness-box.

“Mr. Sewell---you see what Mr. Stecke suggests? That the man---the dead man---he identified is so much like you that---you follow me? Now I want to ask you a very particular and perhaps a very delicate question. Have you seen the dead body of the man we are alluding to?”

“No---not yet.”

“This is the delicate question. Have you, from the fact of the likeness just referred to, any idea as to who this dead man really is?”

Mr. Sewell nodded, gravely.

“I have!” he replied.

“Will you go to the mortuary and look?” suggested the Coroner.

Mr. Sewell left the court, accompanied by the two police officials with whom he had previously entered. He was not long away; when he returned, he re-entered the witness-box with as much show of composure as when he had left it. And the Coroner simplified matters by immediately putting a direct question.

“Have you recognized this man, Mr. Sewell?”

Mr. Sewell inclined his head.

“Yes!” he replied.

“Who is he?”

“He is my twin brother, Henry Sewell!”

“You positively identify him?”

“Positively!”

“You could give proof of that?”

“I can give it now. He and I are, as I said, twin brothers. Each bears a certain birth-mark on the left arm---identical in both cases. I have satisfied these two police officers on that point.”

“Can you give us any information, Mr. Sewell?”

“The only information I can give is that until just now, when I saw him dead, I had not seen my brother for eleven years. During the whole of that time I have never heard one word of him. I have never known his whereabouts during that time. I have often wondered if he was dead. He completely passed out of my ken about eleven years ago. None of our family---there are another brother and two sisters---have ever heard of or from him since then.”

“You can give us his exact age, of course, Mr. Sewell?”

“We are fifty-six years of age.”

“Then eleven years ago he would be forty-five. What was his occupation at that time?”

“He was a private tutor.”

“Where?”

“That I can’t say. He came down to see the rest of us in Lincolnshire eleven years ago and told us he was engaged in that way---private teaching. We believed it to be in London. He had always been doing something of that sort---ever since he left Oxford.”

“He was an Oxford man, then? Clever?”

“He was a very clever man; he took a very brilliant degree at Oxford. Classics.”

The Coroner hesitated a little, fingering his papers.

“I don’t want to question you too closely, Mr. Sewell,” he said. “After all, we are here only to inquire into the cause of your brother’s death. But from the evidence we have had it looks as if he came by his death in flying from arrest. Do you wish to say anything more---in view of that? About his---character, for instance?”

“I see no object in concealing the truth,” replied Mr. Sewell. “I am afraid he was a man of no principles. Brilliantly clever, but---I don’t know that I need say any more.”

One of the police officials approached the Coroner and appeared to make a suggestion.

“One more question, Mr. Sewell,” said the Coroner. “Do you know if your brother ever fell into the hands of the police---the law?”

“Not to my knowledge. It must have been within the last eleven years if he did. We had a good deal of trouble with him previous to our last seeing anything of him, in the way of periodically paying off his debts, but I know of nothing worse than that. As to what he did, where he was, during the last eleven years, I repeat that I know nothing whatever.”

This episode then came to an end. So, a few minutes later, did the inquest. As the Coroner had remarked, all he and the jury were there for was to inquire into the cause of the man’s death. Presently, on the Coroner’s direction, the jury found a verdict of accidental death, and we all left---to discuss what had happened and to consider what to do next in the light of our newly-acquired knowledge.

Mr. Stecke stood outside the court, in conversation with Mr. Sewell. Since Mr. Sewell’s appearance in the witness-box, Stecke had shown all the signs of absolute mystification; he was staring at Mr. Sewell now as if he could scarcely believe that he saw him. And when Chaney and I and Jalvane---who had turned up just after the opening of the inquest and had listened with grim watchfulness to all that went on---joined them, he was questioning his companion as if to test his veracity. Mr. Sewell listened to him with an amused air. Suddenly he interrupted him.

“My dear sir!” he said. “Do you really doubt the evidence I have just given---on oath?”

“I---I certainly should not dream of doubting the word of any gentleman!” protested Stecke. “But really I---everything is so very extraordinary!”

“There is nothing so very extraordinary in the fact that twins---especially male twins---closely resemble each other,” said Mr. Sewell. “I have known some remarkable instances in my time. I know two twin brothers so much alike that when they were young men and became engaged, their sweethearts had---for a time, at any rate, until one distinguished himself from the other by growing a beard---the greatest difficulty in knowing which was which! This may seem a very exaggerated case, but I dare say others have occurred.”

“I have known of one such case, myself, sir,” remarked Jalvane. “We had two men in my division at one time, Irishmen, brothers, who were so exactly alike that until we got into the trick of it, we never knew which was Pat and which was Tim! But I will say this, sir---as such men approach middle age, a difference becomes noticeable---as a rule.”

Stecke stood listening and still staring at Mr. Sewell. His wondering gaze travelled from Mr. Sewell’s face to his clothes; he appeared to be making a close study of their cut and texture. Suddenly, with a shake of his head, and without a word, he turned and went off.

“Beats him, completely!” remarked Jalvane. “Well, I don’t wonder. But now I want a word with you, sir, if you please,” he continued, turning to Mr. Sewell. “This brother of yours----”

“Who is it that’s questioning me?” asked Mr. Sewell, with a good-humoured glance at Jalvane’s odd features. “Police?”

“Inspector Jalvane, Criminal Investigation Department, sir, watching this case. This brother of yours, now---you know literally nothing about his doings for some years?”

“Literally nothing, Inspector! Never seen him, heard from him, heard of him! None of us---I mean the family---have.”

“Do you think he’s been out of the country?”

“May have been. I have no idea.”

“Is he---was he, I mean---the sort of man who’d adopt aliases?”

“Well, you know he’d adopted one, anyway---Seward. He may have had several, for anything I know.”

“Adventurer?”

“I should scarcely call him that. It’s difficult to classify him. He was decidedly eccentric. And, I regret to say, he’d no principles. He never had---even as a boy. And he’d a love of sheer, unadulterated mischief.”

“Um!” Jalvane began to finger his queer jaw. “There’s another thing I want to know about,” he went on, presently. “Canon Effingham can perhaps inform me. Those church treasures, now? Were they well known, famous, and so on? I mean, had they been written about, talked about?”

“Both!” said Canon Effingham, with emphasis. “They have frequently been written about; I have written two or three special articles about them myself. Also they have been exhibited in public---twice at the Church Congress; once at South Kensington. They are---you may say famous.”

“Then there’s nothing remarkable in the fact that an educated man like this gentleman’s brother should know of their existence and value?” said Jalvane.

“Nothing!” agreed Canon Effingham.

Jalvane nodded. Then his snuff-box came out and occupied his attention for a minute or two. Refreshed, he suddenly snapped out a brief sentence with all the force of an ex cathedra pronouncement.

“Seward had an accomplice!”

No one said anything. Jalvane took another pinch of snuff and spoke again.

“He---or she!---has got to be found!”

Mr. Atherton found his tongue at that point.

“That is what I hoped you were coming to,” he remarked. “Now I wish to come in there! Put it down, if you like, as a little fancy, a little whim on my part. But I am so deeply interested in the solving of this mystery that I intend to see it through. Now, Canon Effingham has already offered a thousand pounds’ reward in this affair, and I have offered the same amount. I have just now persuaded Canon Effingham to withdraw his offer and to allow me to take the whole thing on my shoulders. I want to know how Seward effected that robbery, and how Skate was killed, and who was Seward’s accomplice, male or female, for I, like Inspector Jalvane, am sure he had one, and a very clever one; I also want to know where the missing chalice is. And to that end I will give five thousand pounds cash down to whosoever---but you can fill in the phraseology. Mr. Chaney, I put this in the able hands of yourself and partner, Mr. Camberwell. Get busy on it during what remains of this very day!”

25  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 11: Mrs. Pentridge’s Lodger on: March 27, 2024, 10:14:33 am
NO one spoke until Jalvane had taken his pinch of snuff. And it was Jalvane who spoke when that had been satisfactorily accomplished.

“Humph!” he muttered. “Now I wonder if she recognized me? I haven’t changed much in the last five years---if any.”

Bleacher was still standing in the doorway, watching her master. Canon Effingham suddenly waved her away.

“Dear, dear, dear!” he said, when she had closed the door. “This is most distressing! Do---do you think this---this annoying episode---has sent her away?”

“That,” replied Jalvane, “is precisely what I do think, sir! Pre-cise-ly!”

“But,” began the Canon. “But really----”

Chaney interrupted him by springing to his feet and pointing to the telephone.

“What’s the number of your local railway station, sir,” he demanded. “Linwood 231? A moment, then.”

He picked up the receiver; within a minute or two he was talking.

“Linwood station? Yes---speaking here on behalf of Canon Effingham. Do you know Miss Bolton, Canon Effingham’s secretary? Yes---have you seen her at the station this afternoon? Yes---what train? Thank you.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to the rest of us.

“Miss Bolton left by the 5.19,” he said. “That’s a Waterloo train. She’ll be there by now. In London---amongst seven million other people. Got any address of hers in London, sir?”

“I---I think I have an address, somewhere,” replied Canon Effingham, who was obviously becoming more and more upset. “Really, this is becoming a very serious matter---very serious indeed!”

“It’s all that, sir,” assented Jalvane. “Serious is the word!”

“I referred to the fact that my secretary and I are in the middle of a most important chapter in my book,” said Canon Effingham. He rose, went to his desk, and, opening a drawer, shuffled about amongst its contents. “I wish,” he continued pettishly, “I wish you had warned Stecke not to mention Miss Bolton’s name! She is a high-spirited young lady, and---dear me, now where did I put that particular letter? Ah, here it is! That is the only address---private address---of hers which I know. You had better take it with the references---and please do your best to find Miss Bolton at once and get her to return to her work.”

He handed a letter to me, and after glancing at the address---a street in Bayswater---I put it away with the other papers. We all rose; there was nothing more to be done. Chaney offered Jalvane a lift back to town in our car, and we went out to the lane by the churchyard, where we had left it. Mrs. Effingham and Mr. Stecke were still walking about there, talking; they were there when we drove off.

Late that evening I went down to Bayswater and to the address from which Miss Bolton had written when, some months previously, she had been in correspondence with Canon Effingham about the secretaryship. It turned out to be a typical Bayswater private hotel; Miss Bolton, said its manageress, had certainly lived there for a few weeks the previous autumn. But she had never been there since, and the manageress knew nothing more about her. Had I carried out Canon Effingham’s last expressed desires, I should have resumed my task of searching for Miss Bolton early next morning, but, in my opinion, Chaney and I had something more important than that in view. The inquest on the dead body of the man who had called himself Dean of Norchester was to be opened that day, and we felt it necessary to be present; indeed, it was possible that our evidence might be called for. So at eleven o’clock we went along, and at the Coroner’s court found Canon Effingham, Mr. Atherton, and Mr. Stecke, together with certain bank officials and the Inspector with whom we had already had some dealings. The Inspector drew us aside.

“I’ve got a witness that knows this dead man,” he said. “Knows, at any rate, what he called himself to her. Woman who lets lodgings---he lodged with her for a while. Came forward through reading the paper accounts. I’ll get her called as soon as the American gentleman and the parsons have done their bits.”

This idea, however, apparently did not suit the Coroner and his immediate officials; the woman of whom the Inspector had spoken to us was called as soon as an eyewitness account (furnished by a City policeman) of the accident which resulted in the man’s death had been given. She was a middle-aged, washed-out bit of a thing, timid, pathetic in the attempt to present a decent appearance in this public ordeal. Mrs. Pentridge---Eliza Pentridge---Number 257, Star Street, Paddington. Widow. Yes, had been shown the body of the dead man now lying in the mortuary.

“Do you recognize it as that of someone you knew, Mrs. Pentridge?” asked the Coroner.

“Yes, sir. A gentleman as has lodged with me, recent.”

“What was his name, Mrs. Pentridge?”

“He give me his name as Seward, sir---Mr. Seward.”

“How long has he lodged with you?”

“It’ll be all about six months, sir.”

“How did he come to lodge at your house? Did you know him at all before he came there?”

“No, sir. He came through the card in the window, which, since my husband was took, I’ve always had a lodger, having one good room to spare.”

“I see---so you put a card in your window?”

“Yes, sir. Lodgings for a respectable gentleman.”

“And this man, Mr. Seward, applied to you?”

“Yes, sir---which he knocked at the door one morning and asked to see the accommodation. And then wanted to know what my charges was. Which I told him ten shilling a week, just for the room.”

“And he took it, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, and paid the first week then and there. Which he always paid, regular, to the minute, every Saturday morning, it being a Saturday when he come in.”

“What did he do about his meals, Mrs. Pentridge? Did you cook for him?”

“No, sir, I never did nothing for him, that way. He had a spirit stove, sir, and he made himself a cup of tea when he happened to want it, mornings and afternoons. He took his dinner at a place close by, sir---a resty-rong.”

“Didn’t give you much trouble, then?”

“None at all, sir. A very quiet, peaceable gentleman. Never had no trouble with him at all, sir.”

“What did he do, Mrs. Pentridge? Any work?”

“Not that I know of, sir. He never mentioned no work to me. He went out every day, but it seems as if it was for no more than a look round. He was a great hand at reading, sir. The boy from the news-agent’s shop left him the Times every morning. And he had a shelf of books, sir, and read in them a great deal. I brought two of them along, sir, as they have names wrote in them, and I thought the police gentlemen might----”

“Very proper, Mrs. Pentridge. Have you got the books there?”

Mrs. Pentridge produced two small, fat volumes, bound in vellum, much stained by use, and handed them over. The Coroner fixed his spectacles and inspected these exhibits with interest.

“Um!” he remarked. “He was evidently a classical scholar. This, gentlemen, is a copy of Horace, in, I should say, a somewhat rare edition; the other is a volume of Plato. Both are in the originals. It is evident that this man, whoever he really was, was familiar with Greek and Latin. As the witness says, there are names on the fly-leaves of both books. They are different, and neither of them is Seward. We will go into that later.” He turned to the witness-box again. “You say he had more of these books, Mrs. Pentridge?”

“A small shelf full, sir---all like them. In foreigneering languages, sir.”

“What other property had he in the room you let him?”

“Nothing very much. I made bold to go through what he had after reading in the papers about his misfortune, sir. He’d a portmanteau---it’s not locked, sir---and a few things in it---what you might call a change of linen, sir. There’s another suit of clothes there, too, and an extra pair of boots, and his toilet things, sir, and that’s about all he had.”

“He hadn’t any clothes such as clergymen wear?”

“No, sir, never while he was with me.”

“You never saw him in such clothes?”

“Never, sir. Never see him in anything but the suit what they showed me in the police station and the one that’s in his room now.”

“Well, now, about his habits again, Mrs. Pentridge. You say he lived a very quiet life. Did he ever have any visitors?”

“Never one, sir, from first to last!”

“Nobody ever dropped in on him?”

“No, sir.”

“Nor inquired for him?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he ever have any letters?”

“Not oft, sir. Now and then.”

“Can you remember how they were addressed?”

“Mr. Seward, sir, or Mr. Henry Seward.”

“Well, now, Mrs. Pentridge, a very important question. You say he lodged at your house some six months. Was he ever away from his room during that time?”

“Never until a few days ago, sir. Then he went away one afternoon, telling me he should be away that night and next day and possibly the second night. I never see him again after that, sir,” added Mrs. Pentridge, “until I see him just now---where he is, sir.”

“He never returned?”

“No, sir.”

“How was he dressed when he went away?”

“In that suit what the police has shown me, sir.”

“Did he take any luggage away with him?”

“Oh, no, sir---nothing.”

“Went out just as he was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I think that’s all, Mrs. Pentridge. One more question, perhaps. Did he ever tell you anything about himself---what he’d been, before he came to lodge at your house, and so on. Anything of that sort?”

“No, sir, never! He never tell me nothing. Which, beyond passing the time of day, and remarking on the weather, he never exchanged no conversation. He was a very quiet gentleman, sir, and always the gentleman. A decayed gentleman, sir---that’s what I considered him,” continued Mrs. Pentridge, who, the longer she occupied the witness-box, became more inclined to talk. “But his money being always there to the minute, and him giving not the least of trouble----”

“You regarded him as a model lodger,” said the Coroner. “Very well, Mrs. Pentridge.”

Mrs. Pentridge retired, conscious that she had done her duty. Mr. Atherton succeeded her in the witness-box. His evidence was a repetition of that he had given the day before at the inquest on Skate at Linwood; it was brought forward here to form a connecting link between the crimes at Linwood and the man into the cause of whose death the Coroner was inquiring. To us, of course, there was nothing new in it, or in that of Canon Effingham, who followed Mr. Atherton and proved that the solid gold paten, found in the dead man’s possession, was the paten stolen from the church safe. Then came an official from Mr. Atherton’s bank, and afterwards another from the Bank of England. Then, just as we were expecting to hear Mr. Stecke’s evidence again, came an interruption. The Inspector with whom we had had our dealings so far was fetched out of court; presently he returned and fetched out another---and higher---police official. This man, coming back a few minutes later, approached the Coroner and made a whispered communication to him. He appeared to be suggesting something, and, the Coroner evidently assenting, he went away again---just as Mr. Stecke was called into the witness-box.

Stecke’s story, of course, was precisely that which Chaney and I had heard at least twice. He said just what he had said at the inquest on Skate; he described his interview with the strange man in Linwood Church and his accidentally seeing that man and Miss Bolton walking and talking together in the wood next morning. His manner, it seemed to me, was more confident than ever; he had evidently recovered from Miss Bolton’s attack on him of the previous afternoon. Confident as he appeared, however, Stecke found the Coroner rather more inquisitive than the Linwood Coroner had been.

“I want to ask you two or three questions, Mr. Stecke,” said he. “Did you tell Canon Effingham of your meeting with this stranger in the church?”

“No---I did not,” replied Stecke.

“Why?”

“Canon Effingham was ill at the time. I did not wish to upset him.”

“Why should that have upset him?”

“I considered---knowing that he was ill---that it would. I exercised my own judgment in the matter.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Effingham?”

“Mrs. Effingham would probably have told her husband.”

“Well, you have told us that you saw this man in conversation with Canon Effingham’s secretary, Miss Bolton, next morning. I want to ask you a particular question about that. Did you think the fact suspicious?”

“Not then!”

“If you had, I suppose you’d have mentioned it?”

“Probably.”

“When did you think it suspicious?”

“I won’t say that I think it suspicious. After learning what I have learnt during the last few days, I considered it my duty to tell all I know.”

“What have you learnt---in particular---during the last few days?”

“That the man who stole the plate and books is the man who spoke to me in the church and whom I saw next day speaking to Miss Bolton!”

“You mean the man whom we now know as Seward?”

“Yes!”

“You have seen Seward’s dead body. Is Seward the man you are referring to?”

“Unquestionably! There is not the slightest doubt of it.”

The Coroner paused and glanced across the court. The police official who had recently spoken to him came forward, leading an elderly, quietly but, very well-dressed man who, confronting the Coroner, paused and made a polite bow.

“I understand,” said the Coroner, “that you wish to give some evidence? Why?”

The new-comer smiled gravely.

“Because,” he answered, “I am the man who spoke to Mr. Stecke in Linwood Church one afternoon, and to Miss Bolton in the woods next morning!”

26  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 10: Revelations on: March 27, 2024, 08:46:21 am
INSPECTOR Jalvane---whose name was known to me as that of a prominent detective who had recently distinguished himself in the pursuit and capture of a notorious criminal---acknowledged our salutations with no more than a quiet nod; he might wish to speak to us, to all of us, as Canon Effingham had said, but he showed no particular interest in the Superintendent, or in Chaney, or in me---it was to the Canon that he addressed himself. And he began to do that as soon as the four of us had seated ourselves round him.

“Now, Canon Effingham,” he said in tones remarkable for their curious combination of gentleness and firmness, “I shall be much obliged if you will answer a few questions which I want to put to you. I want to know more about your two sets of keys---the bunch which---so I gathered from your evidence just now---you carry in your pocket, and the bunch which is comprised of the church key, vestry key, and safe key. I want to be clear about these keys.”

“I don’t know that I can tell more than I have told,” said Canon Effingham. “And I have told it so many times----”

“Never mind, sir---just tell it again---tell me,” replied Jalvane. “Or, rather, answer my questions. Now, to begin with----”

He went on to put a lot of searching questions to the Canon, one or two of which it had not occurred to us to put. But when he had finished his examination, the position, so it seemed to me, was just the same. It could be summarized like this:

1. On the night of the theft the church keys, when Canon Effingham went to bed, were safely locked up in the left-hand top drawer of the big desk-table in his study, their usual place.

2. The key which opened that drawer was on Canon Effingham’s private bunch of keys, which he deposited in its usual place on the table in his dressing-room.

3. The private bunch of keys lay next morning exactly where he had placed it the night before.

4. But the church keys were gone from the drawer in the study and were found hanging from the outside of the chancel door.

It was thus that Jalvane did summarize the matter when he had finished questioning the unfortunate Canon. And suddenly there came out of his rat-trap of a mouth a few words which made Canon Effingham gasp.

“Now, sir---what does all this amount to? This!---that the thief, or thieves, had an accomplice in this house! Sir, who is it?”

Canon Effingham threw up his hands and groaned. When he had groaned two or three times, he looked at Chaney and me imploringly. I fear we---or our faces---gave him little comfort; he groaned again, more deeply than before.

“There is no one, no one!” he protested. “We have gone into all that---I and these gentlemen---previously. There is no one that could be suspected---possibly.”

“Anyone can be suspected,” said Jalvane imperturbably. “No one is safe from suspicion. Your servants, sir?”

“I would stake my own honour on their probity!” declared Canon Effingham. “I have already explained to these gentlemen----”

“I don’t think any of the servants could be suspected,” remarked Chaney.

“No!---no more do I,” added the Superintendent. “And I know them all---well!”

“Then---the young lady, your secretary?” demanded Jalvane. “Remember, sir, what we heard this afternoon! True, she endeavoured to put a different complexion on it, but the fact remains that Mr. Stecke’s evidence was unshaken----”

“I am as convinced of Miss Bolton’s honesty, truthfulness, probity, as I am of---well, as I possibly can be!” asserted Canon Effingham. “I had the most excellent testimonials----”

“Testimonials, sir, are things that I give no heed to,” interrupted Jalvane. “They were, no doubt, testimonials to Miss Bolton’s powers as a private secretary. But---what do you know of Miss Bolton’s private life? Her father? Her connexions? Her past? Do you know anything, sir---anything?”

“I---I’m afraid I do not,” admitted Canon Effingham sorrowfully. “It never occurred to me---such a very well-bred, estimable----”

“Ah!” said Jalvane, allowing himself what I may describe as the fractional part of a thin smile. “I have known estimable and well-bred young ladies who---but we won’t waste time on that! The fact is, sir, beyond her capabilities as a typist and secretary, you know nothing whatever about Miss Bolton?”

“I---I do not know anything about Miss Bolton’s private affairs,” replied Canon Effingham. “No!”

Jalvane drew himself still more erect in the straight-backed chair on which his tall figure was perched. He looked round our circle of faces as if to command our attention.

“Just so!” he said. “Well---I do!”

I heard Chaney draw in his breath as if he was going to whistle. He didn’t---he remained silent. But the Superintendent started---apprehensively.

“I do!” repeated Jalvane. “Something!”

Once again he drew himself up, looking from one to the other. It was not a look of vanity or complacence or smug satisfaction, but, rather, the sort of look which you see on the face of a man who is sure of his facts. None of us made any remark, and presently Jalvane spoke again.

“The truth is,” he said, “I have seen this young lady before; I recognized her as soon as she came into the schoolroom with you and your wife this afternoon, sir. I have a remarkable gift of memory for faces---and up to now I never remember being mistaken. I repeat, I knew this young lady secretary of yours at once.”

“Yes?” said Canon Effingham, feebly. “You had seen her before?”

“Yes,” replied Jalvane, “five years ago. At the Central Criminal Court!”

This announcement affected Jalvane’s four hearers in different ways. As for me, I jumped, involuntarily. The Superintendent of Police said: “Dear, dear, dear---oh, dear!” in a whisper. Canon Effingham said nothing, but I saw his hands shake as he spread them out as if to ward off a blow. And this time Chaney did whistle---and then snapped out one word.

“Dock?”

“No!” replied Jalvane. “Neither dock nor witness-box. But---there!”

“What as?” asked Chaney.

“I’m going to tell you,” answered Jalvane. “Nothing unusual about it. It was not a case of mine, I wasn’t concerned in it at all. But I happened to be down there---at the Central Criminal Court---one morning when a case was put forward which rather interested me, and I sat down to hear it through. Very ordinary case. A solicitor---City solicitor, in, I should say, a rather small way of practice---was charged with fraud. He was found guilty and sentenced to five years’ penal servitude. So he will now have been out for a few months. His name was Bascombe---I remember it very well. And the young lady you know as Miss Bolton, and whom I saw in court at his trial, is his daughter.”

“You may be mistaken,” said Canon Effingham.

Jalvane smiled---pityingly.

“Ask her, sir!” he retorted.

Chaney became business-like and practical.

“Remember the personal appearance of this Bascombe?” he asked.

“Quite well,” replied Jalvane. “Tallish, good-looking man, about forty-five; brown hair and eyes; well made; well set up.”

“Then you aren’t suggesting that this man we’ve heard about as being seen with Miss Bolton was her father?”

“Not at all---nor that---which, of course, I couldn’t suggest!---that the man who called himself Dean of Norchester was Bascombe, either.”

“What are you suggesting, then?” asked Chaney.

“Perhaps something like this. The story of the church treasures here may have been told to Bascombe by his daughter. Bascombe may have entered into a scheme to get them with an ex-convict like himself---the man who called himself Dean of Norchester. And---to put things in a nutshell, the girl may have handed out Canon Effingham’s keys from her window, having previously taken care to see that the side-door of which we have heard was left open.”

“That would make her an accomplice!” said Chaney.

“Well?” remarked Jalvane. “Why not? Anything remarkable in that?”

Canon Effingham moaned---once, twice. He lifted his hands again.

“I cannot believe it!” he said. “I cannot---cannot believe such a thing possible!”

Jalvane put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned snuff-box. Having tapped the lid once or twice, he opened the box and helped himself to a generous pinch of its contents.

“Humph!” he said. “I can believe anything---that’s likely!”

The Superintendent of Police suddenly got out of his chair. For the last five minutes he had been manifesting unmistakable signs of unrest; now he began to walk about the room. He looked as if he wanted to speak---and didn’t know whether he ought to speak.

“Something wrong?” asked Jalvane, laconically.

The Superintendent came back to his chair, threw himself into it, thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looked down at his toes, and showed still more signs of unrest and uncertainty.

“Better out with it!” said Jalvane.

The Superintendent looked up.

“I’ve never liked saying anything against anybody,” he blurted out, desperately. “And especially if it’s a woman! But---circumstances being what they are----”

“And circumstances always altering cases!” murmured Jalvane quietly.

“---it’ll perhaps be better,” continued the Superintendent, “if I admit that I happen---just happen, you understand---to know something!”

“About the lady in question?” asked Chaney.

“Exactly! Information acquired, you know, accidentally,” replied the Superintendent. “Quite accidentally! Something---well, something I saw, with my own eyes. And should never have mentioned to a soul---and never have mentioned till now---if the Inspector here hadn’t said what he has said. And, of course, there may be, and probably is, nothing whatever in it, nothing at all. Still----”

“Still, you’d better tell us what it is,” suggested Jalvane.

“This, then! Some few weeks since, I was having two or three days’ holiday, in London,” continued the Superintendent. “And a friend of mine asked me one evening if I’d care to go to a night-club, just to see what it was like, you know; I’d never even seen the outside of one. So I said I would, leaving it to him where we went. He took me to the Glass Slipper.”

“Ah!” murmured Jalvane. “A good choice!”

“So he said,” assented the Superintendent, who appeared to be possessed of a refreshing innocence in these matters. “Typical!---that was the word he used. Didn’t think much of it myself, once we’d got inside---seemed to me to be a bit dull, though to be sure there was music and dancing----”

“And drinks at an exorbitant price!” interrupted Jalvane.

“We only had one, and my friend paid, and I don’t know what he paid---we weren’t there long,” continued the Superintendent. “The fact was that I saw somebody there that I didn’t want to see me, and we cleared out.”

“Who was the somebody?” demanded Chaney. “You don’t mean----”

“Miss B.,” said the Superintendent, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Miss B.!---she came in soon after we’d got there. But she never saw me---I didn’t want her to see me! You see, everybody about here knows me, and though I was in mufti, of course, I was afraid she’d recognize me. And I didn’t want it to be known that the Superintendent of Police at Havering St. Michael had been seen in plain clothes in a night-club in London!”

“You wouldn’t---in a private capacity,” agreed Jalvane. “Well, this young woman? Was she alone?”

“She was not. She’d a young fellow with her who was in evening dress---just as she was. They were both in very fine feathers. And I knew him---by sight, anyway. I recognized him as a young gentleman who’s occasionally stopped at the Squire’s here---Sir Bartle Shardale’s.”

Canon Effingham, who had been listening to this with strained attention, punctuating the Superintendent’s statement with occasional groans, leaned forward.

“His name---you know his name?”

“No, sir, I did not!” replied the Superintendent. “Only knew him by sight as one of Sir Bartle’s occasional guests---I’ve seen him hereabouts several times.”

“The name can easily be ascertained,” observed Chaney. “Well, what about these two, Superintendent. She didn’t see you?”

“Neither of them saw me---my friend and I, we were in an alcove. They passed on to where dancing was going on. I saw ’em dancing,” continued the Superintendent. “Then I cleared out. I did not want her---or him---to see me at the Glass Slipper.”

Jalvane rubbed his chin.

“The Glass Slipper,” he remarked, “is not exactly the sort of place where they hold Dorcas Societies or mothers’ meetings. Still, we can’t say, because a young lady goes there to hop a bit, that----” He broke off his reflections and turned to Canon Effingham. “I think, sir,” he went on, “that you must see that in view of all we know, Miss Bolton’s antecedents should be inquired into, and the references she gave you examined, and----”

Canon Effingham lifted his hands in protest.

“This is most distressing!” he exclaimed. “I am more pained than I can express. I cannot believe----”

“Let me put this to you, sir,” said Jalvane. “It is in Miss Bolton’s own interest that this should be cleared up. It would be unfair to her not to clear it up. I suggest that as you are employing these two gentlemen, Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell, you hand over to them the references you received and let them use their discretion about them. That, at any rate, can do no harm.”

Canon Effingham reflected a minute or two; then he rose, went to his desk, opened a drawer, and, taking from it some papers, placed them in Chaney’s hands.

“You will find them exceptional testimonials,” he said. “I hand them to you in confidence.”

“That’s good, sir,” said Jalvane. “And now---just let us see Miss Bolton herself for two minutes. I won’t frighten her---all I want is to ask her a question about what she said about the Reverend Mr. Stecke.”

Canon Effingham hesitated, but he rang the bell. The parlour-maid, Bleacher, appearing in answer, he sent her for Miss Bolton. Some minutes passed by; Miss Bolton did not come. Then---more minutes having elapsed---Bleacher reappeared.

“I don’t know where Miss Bolton’s got to, sir,” she reported. “She isn’t in her room; she isn’t anywhere in the house; she’s not in the garden. Cook says she saw her come in from the inquest and go out again, almost immediate!”

Jalvane took out his snuff-box and quietly opened its lid.

27  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 9: The Irate Lady on: March 27, 2024, 08:22:45 am
CHANEY and I went down to Linwood next day in good time for the inquest on Skate; we wanted to talk matters over with the local police in view of all that had happened since the theft of the church treasures and Skate’s murder. We were hoping, too, that the local police would by that time have secured some further information. But the local police so far had found out next to nothing. There was nothing surprising in the fact that they had acquired no knowledge of Skate’s movements on the night of his death; Skate in his lifetime had been essentially a night-bird, a sort of hermit, living in what was little better than a hovel on the outskirts of the village, and no one knew anything of his comings and goings. In his case the first presumption was doubtless correct---he had gone out that night on one of his poaching expeditions, seen a light in the church or seen somebody coming away from it, hailed or laid hands on the person seen, and reaped the reward of his temerity by getting a crack on the head which had proved fatal.

But as to the identity of the man who dealt that blow, the local police knew nothing, had found out nothing. According to the Superintendent at Havering St. Michael, they had made the most searching and exhaustive inquiries and had failed to hear even a whisper of news about the presence of any stranger, suspicious or otherwise, in the village or district. The Superintendent felt sure that the miscreant, or miscreants, had come to Linwood by car, but he had not been able to ascertain that any strange car had been seen waiting about or left in any lonely place or quiet by-lane. In short, he was as wise as ever---which means that he was no nearer a solution of the mystery than when we had last seen him. But he knew what had happened in London, and he and ourselves mapped out to the Coroner, before the evidence was taken at the inquest, the line on which it should run. Matters shaped themselves thus:

1. There was no doubt that on the night into the events of which the Coroner was inquiring, the famous treasures of Linwood Church were stolen from the safe in the vestry.

2. There was no doubt, either, that on that night Skate was killed in Linwood churchyard.

3. Nor was there any doubt that next morning a man calling himself the Dean of Norchester offered and sold to Mr. Atherton at the Savoy Hotel the two old books stolen from Linwood.

4. It was certain, too, from the mere fact that the man killed in the City on the following day had the missing paten in his possession, and from the further fact that Mr. Atherton positively identified him as the supposed Dean of Norchester, that he was concerned in the theft and was in all probability Skate’s murderer.

5. All evidence concerning this man was, accordingly, permissible at the inquest as an aid to the coroner and his jury in their effort to determine the question: how did Richard Skate come by his death?

The village schoolroom was packed to its doors when the Coroner opened the proceedings; it seemed as if everybody in the neighborhood had flocked, open-mouthed, to Linwood. I was only interested in making sure that our witnesses Atherton and Stecke were both there and in making sure that Miss Bolton had come with Canon and Mrs. Effingham. Glancing round, however, just before the proceedings began, I became interested in a man who, I felt sure, was a stranger. He was a tall, spare, ramrod of a man, gaunt, stern of face, who sat in an excellent position for seeing the various witnesses, and once one of them was in the box, never took his eyes off him or her as long as he or she remained there.

The story of the double crime unrolled itself beautifully, in clear sequence---the Coroner, a local solicitor, had arranged it in proper order after his talk with us and the Superintendent of Police. Some villagers who knew him well identified Skate’s dead body. I told how I discovered it. A medical man testified as to the cause of death. Then came Canon Effingham to tell of the theft from the safe in the vestry. That evidence took some little time to give; the Coroner and one or two of the jurymen had several questions to ask, especially about the all-important matter of the keys. And when Canon Effingham had been got rid of, Mr. Atherton filled the picture with his dramatic and sensational story of how a man calling himself the Dean of Norchester had come to him the morning after the theft and by means of a plausible story had sold him the two missing volumes for five thousand pounds. He told also how, being with Chaney, Canon Effingham and me in the City next day, he had suddenly recognized his man in a passer-by, had chased him, and had seen him knocked down and killed on the spot by a heavy motor-drawn vehicle. And---amidst a silence which was almost awe-stricken---he further told how he saw the City police, examining the dead man’s dispatch case, take from it, wrapped in pages of the Linwood Parish Magazine, the stolen paten.

It was easy, at that stage of the proceedings, to sense the general feeling of the excited spectators. Every man and woman there was silently asking a question: Who was this man?

This made an excellent background for the appearance of the Reverend Herbert Stecke. When he modestly advanced into the witness-box, I glanced at Miss Bolton. I saw her flush a little; I noticed a slight puckering of her forehead, as if she were wondering what Mr. Stecke was doing there. She made some remark to Mrs. Effingham; Mrs. Effingham behaved as if she had not heard it.

Mr. Stecke, quietly, lucidly, told the story he had told us. He was precise, methodical, sparing of words. And he concluded his story---as regards the first part of it---at exactly the right place, his leaving the mysterious man in the church.

For leaving it there brought the obvious question from the Coroner, the question which could not have been more aptly put if we had deliberately planned the putting of it:

“And I suppose you saw no more of him---never saw him again?” asked the Coroner.

Mr. Stecke hesitated. He hesitated so long that the Coroner stirred him up.

“Did you?” he said.

“Well---I did,” replied Mr. Stecke, reluctantly. “Yes---once!”

“When---where?”

“Next morning. I saw him from the window of a cottage in the wood---Watson, the gamekeeper’s cottage---where I was paying a sick-call.”

“What was he doing?”

“Walking along the lane,” replied Mr. Stecke. “Towards the woods.”

“Alone?”

Mr. Stecke hesitated again.

“N---o,” he said at last. “No, he was not alone.”

“Who was with him? Anyone you knew?”

Mr. Stecke tapped the ledge of the witness-box, as if perturbed and nervous.

“I---I do not like to mention names,” he said. “I----”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” said the Coroner. “Who was it?”

“Well,” replied Mr. Stecke, more nervously than ever, “Canon Effingham’s secretary, Miss Bolton. I regret that----”

He got no further than that. An excited murmur broke out all round him and rose to unchecked exclamations. I heard some of these and knew from what I heard that Miss Bolton had been suspected in the village. But my attention was fixed on her. When Mr. Stecke pronounced her name, she sat up in her place with a sudden incredulous stare at him and flushed crimson. The next instant she turned first to Mrs. Effingham and then to Canon Effingham, as if to ask them what on earth all this meant. But Mrs. Effingham kept a fixed and stony gaze elsewhere, and Canon Effingham had his hand shading a bent head---Miss Bolton comprehended and suddenly leapt to her feet, fronting the Coroner.

“May I speak?” she demanded eagerly. “I can’t----”

“A moment, if you please,” interrupted the Coroner. “I have not finished with the present witness.” He motioned to Mr. Stecke. “Tell what you saw,” he said.

Mr. Stecke told---what he had told us. When he had finished, the Coroner waved him away. But before he could move, Miss Bolton was on her feet again.

“My name has been mentioned!” she exclaimed. “May I ask this man---this witness---two or three questions?”

The Coroner looked at Miss Bolton. Then he looked at Mr. Stecke---and from Mr. Stecke to Miss Bolton again.

“Yes!” he replied.

Miss Bolton turned a look on Mr. Stecke which I felt thankful was not directed on me.

“Why are you---a clergyman!---endeavouring to put me in a false position?” she demanded. “Why are you---for that’s what it is!---lying about me?”

“Oh, no, oh, no!” protested Mr. Stecke. “I----”

“It is a lie!” broke in Miss Bolton. “You are leading the court to believe that I was walking and talking with the man you have described. That is a downright lie! Mr. Coroner!” she continued, turning away from the witness-box, “I will tell you the real truth! One morning during Canon Effingham’s illness I was walking in the lane near Watson’s cottage when a gentleman---a stranger---overtaking me asked if I was not the Canon’s secretary? On my replying that I was, he said that he was very sorry to hear of his illness and hoped it was not serious and that he would soon recover. He passed me and went on, and that was all that happened. I was neither walking nor talking with the man, as the witness implies----”

“I merely said that I saw you from the cottage window,” protested Mr. Stecke. “I did not say how long the conversation lasted----”

“You implied that I was in company with the man, and you are a liar!” interrupted Miss Bolton. “And you did it for a purpose---out of sheer desire to revenge yourself because I resented and refused the unwelcome attentions you tried to force on me while you were at Linwood Rectory----”

The hubbub in court broke out in worse fashion than ever at that. In the midst of it and the demands for silence and order from the officials, Miss Bolton left her place between Canon Effingham and his wife and made her way to the door. As for Mr. Stecke, he stood in the witness-box, angry, white, protesting. Mr. Atherton, sitting next to me, whispered:

“Say! I don’t like the looks of that fellow! Guess the little lady hit him good and straight. What’s going to happen now?”

What happened, there and then, was an exhibition of good common sense on the part of the Coroner, who, without reference to what had just taken place, and with a few quiet words of advice to the jury, adjourned the proceedings for a fortnight. We all trooped out into the open. Mr. Stecke came up to Canon Effingham, who was talking to me.

“I trust, sir----” he began, “I sincerely trust----”

Canon Effingham gave his former assistant a look.

“I prefer Miss Bolton’s word to yours, Stecke,” he said quietly. “I think you had better go away.”

Mr. Stecke went. But Mrs. Effingham came across his path, and he spoke to her. And I saw that Mrs. Effingham’s reception of him was very different---they moved off together, talking earnestly. When I turned again from watching them, Canon Effingham was speaking to Chaney and the Superintendent, while Mr. Atherton stood by, listening intently.

“I do not attach the slightest importance to Stecke’s evidence,” the Canon was saying. “I have no doubt whatever that some man did speak to him about the church treasures when I was ill---probably someone interested in such things, who had, as he said, come a long way to see them. But I do not believe he was the man who stole them and who afterwards posed as Dean of Norchester.”

“But, my dear sir, Mr. Stecke identified the dead man, the man who said he was the Dean, as the man he saw in your church!” said Chaney. “His identification was positive!”

Canon Effingham shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe Mr. Stecke’s identification is to be trusted!” he said, dryly. “If it is no more trustworthy than what he said about my secretary---whose every word I trust implicitly---it is not to be depended upon for an instant.”

Therewith he turned and went off, alone, towards the Rectory. And, happening to glance after him, I saw the tall, spare man whose presence had attracted me before the inquest opened, following in his footsteps. He walked swiftly and caught up with the Canon; he addressed him; the Canon turned, paused, replied; they exchanged a few words. Then Canon Effingham raised his old-fashioned umbrella and signalled to me. I went along, wondering.

“Mr. Camberwell,” said the Canon, “I want you and Mr. Chaney and the Superintendent to join me and this gentleman in the Rectory. Will you come over at once?”

He turned away, the tall man accompanying him. I went back to where Chaney, the Superintendent, and Mr. Atherton stood in a group; Mr. Atherton was talking. And he was accompanying his talk with a glance of extreme disfavour in the direction of Mr. Stecke and Mrs. Effingham, who were still in close conference some little way off.

“I don’t like that fellow!” Mr. Atherton was saying. “I don’t like his looks; I didn’t like his evidence; I did not like the way in which he brought in that girl’s name! And I incline to the opinion expressed by Reverend Mr. Effingham that the young lady’s word is more to be relied on than this parson fellow’s.”

“He said no more than that he’d seen her talking to the man whom he’d seen and talked to in the church the previous afternoon, sir,” remarked Chaney.

“He said a great deal more, begging your pardon!” retorted Mr. Atherton. “There are more ways than one of saying a thing! His tone and manner suggested a great deal more than the mere words. That girl was honestly indignant---and where you get honest indignation, you get truth. I am not so sure about this Stecke person’s truthfulness---after that.”

“He couldn’t invent all this about the dead man,” said Chaney.

“Why couldn’t he?” asked Mr. Atherton. “You’ve only his word that the man we saw killed and whom he viewed is the man he met in that old church! He may have met somebody there---but you don’t know that that somebody really was the fellow who called himself Dean of Norchester. If I were you, I should want to know a lot about the Reverend Mr. Stecke!”

With this Mr. Atherton said good-bye, got into his car, and was driven off to town, and having given Chaney and the Superintendent Canon Effingham’s message, I took them to the Rectory and into the study. To my surprise, we were no sooner inside the room than Canon Effingham locked the door. Then he pointed to the tall stranger, who was seated in a chair on the hearth.

“This gentleman,” said Canon Effingham, “is Inspector Jalvane, of Scotland Yard. He wishes to speak to us---to all of us---in strict confidence.”

28  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 8: Watson’s Cottage on: March 27, 2024, 07:53:59 am
THERE was that in Mr. Stecke’s tone and manner when he made this announcement which caused Chaney and me to turn on him with some surprise. And Chaney’s glance, I think, had something of suspicion in it---not of Mr. Stecke, but of whatever lay behind Mr. Stecke’s words.

“Oh!” he said. “You---you haven’t told us everything, then?”

“Not quite,” replied Mr. Stecke. “I---as I said just now, I wished to be quite certain, positively certain, that this was the man.”

“Well, you are certain?” said Chaney.

“Quite!” assented Stecke. “That is the man. So----” he hesitated, looking round. “We can’t talk in the street,” he added. “There’s a good deal to say----”

Chaney looked round, too. There was a saloon bar close by---the one he and I had been in the day before. But there was also a tea-shop. Chaney made for the tea-shop.

“Come over here,” he said, leading us towards a quiet corner. “Now, Mr. Stecke! And just a word of advice. Don’t keep anything back!”

“I don’t wish to,” replied Mr. Stecke. “But, you see, I shall have to mention the name of another person. The name of---a woman!”

“A woman? Yes---well?”

“In fact, Miss Bolton,” said Mr. Stecke.

Chaney let out a whistle of astonishment.

“Oh, oh!” he exclaimed when the whistle had died away. “Miss Bolton, eh?”

“Canon Effingham’s secretary,” explained Mr. Stecke.

“Oh, we know!” said Chaney. “We’ve seen her. Well---and how does Miss Bolton come in?”

Mr. Stecke took a sip of the coffee which had been set before him. He shook his head, but not at the quality of his refreshment.

“I do not like to bring any woman’s name into an affair of this sort,” he said slowly. “But considering----”

“Considering that murder comes into it,” suggested Chaney, “I think you’d better put all scruples aside.”

Mr. Stecke hesitated.

“It may be all nothing,” he said, after a pause. “A mere coincidence! But the fact is that the morning after I had seen the man in Linwood Church, I saw him again, in conversation with Miss Bolton.”

“Where?” asked Chaney.

“Not very far away from the Rectory,” replied Mr. Stecke. “I had better explain. You don’t know the surroundings of church and Rectory?”

“Not beyond the very immediate surroundings,” said Chaney.

“Well, you may have noticed that between the grounds of the Rectory and the side of the churchyard there is a lane. That lane leads towards the woods which close in that side of Linwood village. About half a mile along that lane there is a solitary cottage. It is tenanted by Watson, the gamekeeper. At the time I am speaking of, Watson’s wife was ill in bed. On the morning after I had seen the man in the church, I went along to Watson’s cottage to ask how his wife was getting on. Watson himself was out, but the woman who was nursing Mrs. Watson asked me upstairs to see her; she was somewhat better that day. While I was up there, talking to the two women, I happened to glance out of the bedroom window and I saw Miss Bolton---with the man who had accosted me in the church the previous afternoon.”

“You’re sure it was he?” asked Chaney.

“Oh, quite certain! I recognized him at once.”

“Where were they? What were they doing?”

“Walking along the lane, in front of the cottage. The lane bends a little just there before the garden of the cottage. They came round the bend, from the direction of the village, passed the cottage, and disappeared round the corner towards the woods.”

“Were they in conversation?”

“I gathered that they were.”

“Walking alongside each other?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice anything that led you to think they knew each other?”

“Well, you see, I only saw them for a moment. He was talking when they passed in front of the cottage; Miss Bolton was, well, just listening to whatever it was he was saying.”

“And that was all you saw?”

“That was all I saw.”

“Is it very lonely about there, Mr. Stecke?” asked Chaney. “Sort of place where people would meet who wanted to escape observation?”

“Oh, very lonely! Watson’s cottage is the only human habitation anywhere about there. The woods beyond it stretch for miles.”

Chaney reflected awhile in silence on this information. Then:

“I suppose Miss Bolton was there---at Linwood Rectory---when you went there?” he asked.

“Oh, yes---I gathered that she had been there some little time.”

“I suppose you saw a good deal of her?”

“No, not a great deal. She had her work, and I had mine.”

“Canon Effingham reposed a good deal of confidence in her, eh?”

“I don’t know. He only mentioned her to me once---said she was a very clever secretary.”

“Did he keep her constantly employed?”

“I believe so. He’s writing a history of the parish, and she had a great deal to do in copying authorities, making researches, and so on. Once a week she used to go up to town for the night.”

“On his work?”

“No, I think it was---yes, I’m sure it was---a sort of weekly holiday. I heard her speak of it once, jokingly, as her night out.”

Mr. Stecke appeared to have nothing further to tell us, but I still had two or three questions to put to him.

“Did you ever tell anyone about the man who came to you in the church and who wished to see the treasures kept in the safe?” I asked.

“No, I never told anyone---until now,” he replied.

“Why?”

“I---really, I can’t say!”

“Why didn’t you mention it to Canon Effingham?”

“Oh, I can explain that! Canon Effingham, as I have already told you, was ill. I had already realized that he is a very nervous and excitable man, and I felt that if I told him about the stranger’s evidently strong desire to see the church treasures, it might upset him. So I said nothing.”

“And nothing to Mrs. Effingham?”

“No---nothing to her.”

“Nor to Miss Bolton?”

“I did not speak of it to Miss Bolton.”

“That strikes me as a bit odd, Mr. Stecke,” I remarked. “You saw this man with Miss Bolton. I should have thought----”

He held up his hand as if to check me.

“You forget,” he said, “that perhaps Miss Bolton would not have liked it to be known that I, or anybody, had seen her with this man. Anyway, I did not mention the matter to her. As I said just now, I have not mentioned it to anyone previous to telling---yourselves.”

“Well,” I said, “you realize, Mr. Stecke, that, in view of your identification of the dead man, you’ll have to give evidence at the inquest on him?” I said. “And not only at the inquest on him, but at the inquest on Skate---which begins tomorrow. Are you aware of all that?”

“Why at the inquest on Skate?” he asked.

“Because, in view of the evidence accumulated so far, the presumption is that the man whose dead body you have just seen is the man who stole the treasures from Linwood Church safe and who also murdered Skate in Linwood churchyard,” I answered. “We shall have to tell the police authorities of your evidence, and it’ll save time and trouble if you can give me your promise to be at Linwood for the opening of the Skate inquest tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very well,” he said. “If you say it is necessary, I will be there. What time?”

“Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, at the village schoolroom, Mr. Stecke,” I replied. “Probably there’ll be a good deal more evidence than yours.”

“And what am I to say---to tell?” he asked.

“All that you have told us,” I answered.

“And---about Miss Bolton, too?” he said, hesitatingly.

“Most certainly! We shall want to question Miss Bolton about that,” I answered. “We want to know, we and the police, who this dead man is.”

“I will be at Linwood,” he said.

Then he went away, but for a few minutes Chaney and I remained talking over what we had heard. The result of our conversation was that we went back to the office, got our car from the garage close by, and ran out to Linwood. We felt that it was necessary to tell Canon Effingham there and then all that Mr. Stecke had just told us. The introduction of Miss Bolton into this case had made a difference to everything. And before we reached Linwood we had further decided that we would bring Mrs. Effingham into our councils---for obvious reasons. Mrs. Effingham, as a woman, would be much more likely to have an intimate knowledge of Miss Bolton than Canon Effingham, a man, possibly could have, in spite of the fact that she was his private secretary.

Up to then we had never been brought into contact with Mrs. Effingham. We were a good deal surprised to find that she was very much younger than her husband. I was not impressed by her appearance---a tallish, somewhat ungainly woman of florid complexion, sandy hair, pale-blue restless eyes, badly or, perhaps I should say, untidily dressed. She gave one the impression of being both suspicious and watchful; certainly she passed the first few minutes of our interview with Canon Effingham and herself in inspecting me and my partner as if we had been some rare specimens of zoology or entomology and she as a scientist previously unacquainted with such examples. Although I took a dislike to Mrs. Effingham—and I was not surprised, a little later, to find that my first surmise concerning her---that she was not of the same class as her husband---was correct. She had, in fact, been a professional nurse who had attended upon Canon Effingham during a serious illness which attacked him while on holiday in the west of England. Canon Effingham had returned from that holiday, or, rather, from the period of convalescence which followed it, bringing a wife.

Husband and wife were, of course, by this time acquainted with what had happened in London after I had bundled Canon Effingham away from the scene of the accident; the Daily Sentinel lay open on the Canon’s desk. But they did not know of Stecke’s interview with us, or what he had told us. Neither said anything until, retailing this to them, I came to the episode connected with Miss Bolton. Then Mrs. Effingham let out an exclamation.

“There!” she said, with something like a note of triumph. “What have I always told you, Wilford? Haven’t I always said she was sly? Now, why didn’t she tell you that?”

Canon Effingham shook his head in remonstrance.

“My dear, why should Miss Bolton tell me that?---and tell me---what? What I am astonished at---very, very much astonished at!---is, why did not Stecke tell me about the man who wished to see the church treasures? Most unaccountable!”

“No, Wilford, nothing of the sort!” protested Mrs. Effingham. “Mr. Stecke knew that you were ill, and that the doctor had given strict orders---and so, too, had I---that you were not to be bothered about anything. Mr. Stecke did quite right; you’d only have been worrying yourself and bringing on a temperature. But Miss Bolton----”

“But, my dear, what do you expect Miss Bolton could have told me?” protested Canon Effingham. “Supposing the very worst suspicions we could form were true---and I, personally, refuse to hear one word against Miss Bolton---supposing, I say, it were true, and that Miss Bolton was in league---an unbelievable thing!---with this mysterious man----”

“As no doubt she was!” muttered Mrs. Effingham.

“Stuff and nonsense, my dear! But supposing she were,” continued the Canon, “do you for one moment believe that she’d have come and told me? What are you thinking of? Her policy, of course, would have been one of concealment!”

“As it is, no doubt,” said Mrs. Effingham, muttering again. “I’ve always said, from the very first----”

We had had enough of that, and Chaney interrupted Mrs. Effingham without apology or ceremony.

“Is Miss Bolton about, sir?” he asked. “Can we have a word with her?”

“Miss Bolton is not at home today,” replied Canon Effingham. “She has a weekly holiday—”

“And always goes up to town and spends the night there,” added Mrs. Effingham. “And goes in very different costume from what she appears here in. I’ve always said, Wilford----”

“My dear, you have always said a great deal, and you are now saying too much,” interrupted Canon Effingham, at last becoming testy. “I am sure these gentlemen----”

“All we want, sir,” said Chaney, “is just to get at the truth of things. Now, Mr. Stecke will be present at the inquest on Skate, at your village schoolroom tomorrow, and he will have to retell the story he told us, and Miss Bolton’s name will come in. I want to impress upon you and Mrs. Effingham the necessity of not telling Miss Bolton anything whatever of what we have told you, and also the equal necessity of seeing that she is present at the inquest in your company. We want to see the effect on her of Mr. Stecke’s evidence. If you need an excuse, sir, you can tell her you wish her to take a shorthand note of the proceedings.”

“I don’t like all this,” said Canon Effingham. “Is it really necessary?”

“Absolutely necessary, sir!” replied Chaney. “And---you must see that it is in the young lady’s interest that she should be there.”

We left at that. When Chaney and I were half-way to our car, Mrs. Effingham, coming out of the porch, alone called to us and hurried across the lawn.

“We just wanted to know something,” she said. “The dead man---the man who called himself the Dean of Norchester---has anybody identified him yet?”

“By name, ma’am?” replied Chaney. “No! No one.”

“The police---and you---have no idea who he is?” she asked.

“Not the remotest idea, ma’am!” said Chaney. “So far---absolutely unknown.”

Mrs. Effingham made no further remark. She nodded, turned, and went back to the house.

29  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 7: That is the Man! on: March 27, 2024, 07:34:16 am
CHANEY and I were both engrossed in copies of the Daily Sentinel next morning when Chippendale came into our room with a card. It was Chippendale’s habit when bringing in anything of this sort, a card, a pencilled note, any scrap of paper heralding somebody, to accompany whatever he brought with a curt, and usually graphic, hint as to the personality of the sender. On this occasion he was unusually curt.

“Parson!” he said. “Young ’un.”

I glanced at the card.

The Rev. Herbert Stecke

The card was printed---I concluded from that that Mr. Stecke was not conversant with the strict rules in such matters.

“Bring Mr. Stecke in,” I commanded. “And then see that we’re not interrupted while he’s here.”

I tossed the card over to Chaney. Chaney put down his paper.

“Linwood affair, no doubt,” he said. “Find out where he’s from, first. No address there.”

Mr. Stecke entered. I took a good look at him as he came forward to the chair which I indicated at the side of my desk. He was a tallish, well-built, rather good-looking fellow about twenty-eight or thirty years of age, as far as I could judge. Rather sandy-coloured hair and eyebrows---blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Roman collar, black stock, black jacket and vest, dark-grey trousers, stoutly-soled shoes. Good specimen of average young curate. Watchful, somewhat eager expression. No particular feature, except that he had a rather long nose and that his eyes were a little too narrowly set. Later I observed that he had unusually large hands and feet.

Mr. Stecke advanced a little nervously, looking from one to the other of us. He spoke first.

“Mr. Chaney?” he said inquiringly. “Mr. Camberwell?”

“I’m Mr. Camberwell,” I replied. “That is Mr. Chaney. What can we do for you, Mr. Stecke?”

Mr. Stecke took the chair I had motioned him to, and rested his big hands on the head of a big oak stick.

“I---the fact is I called to see you about this Linwood affair,” he replied. “I should have called yesterday, but I was out of town. I----”

“Excuse me a moment,” I said, drawing my note-book forward. “We like to know certain particulars about anyone with whom we have dealings. I see from your card Mr. Stecke, that you are a clergyman. Of what church or denomination?”

“I am a clergyman of the Church of England,” he answered, looking a little surprised. “In priest’s orders.”

“Beneficed, Mr. Stecke?”

“No!”

“Curate---assistant priest anywhere?”

“Not at present. I---I am writing for another curacy---I have one in view. That was why I was out of town yesterday.”

“You live in London, Mr. Stecke?”

“In the suburbs. My address? 247, Laburnum Villas, Newington.”

“Thank you. And why have you come to us, Mr. Stecke, about this Linwood affair, instead of the police?”

“Because I learnt from the newspapers---the Daily Sentinel, I should say---that you are inquiring into the matter on behalf of Canon Effingham. I therefore preferred to come direct to you.”

“As representing Canon Effingham? Yes---why, now?”

“Because I know Canon Effingham, and Linwood. I took three Sundays’ duty at Linwood for Canon Effingham last December and lived in the Rectory.”

“Was Canon Effingham there, too?”

“Canon Effingham was there, but he was confined to bed most of the time and up to within a few days of my leaving Linwood.”

“What was the matter with him? Anything serious?”

“Bronchitis. I believe he is subject to it. Anyway, I was sent there---Canon Effingham had asked a friend of his, Canon Telson, of Southwark, if he could find him some help for a while, and Canon Telson, knowing me and that I was unplaced just then, sent me down. I was there the first three Sundays in December---a little over a fortnight in actual residence.”

“I see! But you didn’t come here merely to tell us that, Mr. Stecke?”

“No! I came to tell you of something that happened while I was there. Since reading the accounts in the newspapers, and especially that in the Daily Sentinel, I feel sure that while I was at Linwood, I saw and had conversation with the man who passed himself off to the American gentleman, Mr. Atherton, as the Dean of Norchester.”

“Indeed! That’s good! Tell us the story, Mr. Stecke.”

“There is really not much to tell. I had forgotten all about it until I read of these recent affairs, in the newspapers. But of course as soon as I had read the papers, the incident was recalled and I saw that it might be of great importance. It was something that happened when I had been at Linwood about a week or ten days. This man that I speak of came up to me in the church one afternoon and wanted to see the chalice, the paten, and the two ancient manuscripts preserved in the vestry. He----”

“Pardon me! You say you had only been at Linwood a week or ten days. Did you know of the existence of these valuables?”

“I should imagine that everybody---I mean every educated person---in the diocese knows of them! They are, I believe I might say, world-famous. Oh, yes, I knew of their existence long before I went to Linwood. You see, they have been written about a good deal. Canon Effingham himself has written about them. More than that, they have more than once been lent for exhibition---at the annual Church Congress and elsewhere. Oh, yes, I knew of them.”

“Yes. When I went to Linwood, early in December, Canon Effingham was ill, but not sufficiently so to be confined to his room or even to the house, and---I think it was the second day after my arrival---he took me across to the church to show me the valuables; it was a day or two after this that he took to his bed. He told me at the time that he never, under any circumstances whatever, allowed anyone to open the safe in which they were kept but himself; he had never even permitted Mrs. Effingham to open it. I remember that he was most peremptory about that---people might inspect the church as freely as they pleased and it was always open to inspection---but his rule as regards the treasures was adamant. Only in his presence and under his personal supervision!”

“Well, this man, Mr. Stecke? What about him?”

“He came to me in the church, rather late one afternoon—I forget what I was doing there; I had gone across on some errand or other, anyway. He asked me if he could see the famous treasures; I think he particularized them. I at once told him it was impossible, for Canon Effingham’s illness had developed and he was by that time confined to bed. The man pressed the point; he said he was an enthusiastic archæologist and had come a long way for the express purpose of inspecting these things, specially the chalice and paten. He suggested that I should go and tell this to Canon Effingham. I told him that was impossible and that I knew for a fact that Canon Effingham would permit no inspection of the treasures unless he himself was present. He remained very persistent, and, with another expression of my regret, I left him.”

“In the church?”

“In the church---yes.”

“He couldn’t get into the vestry, of course?”

“Oh, no---no one could enter the vestry unless Canon Effingham was there.”

At this Chaney put in a question or two.

“You say nobody could enter that vestry unless the Canon was there,” he said. “How did you manage, then, sir, while you were taking the duty for him? Didn’t you require the use of the vestry?”

“No,” replied Mr. Stecke, promptly. “There are two vestries, or, rather, three. That vestry where the safe is kept is sacred to the safe and to the various parish registers. There is another vestry---the vestry, proper---at the west end of the church, under the tower; the clergy robe in it, and next to it is the choir vestry.”

“I see,” said Chaney. “Then you might say that the vestry where the safe is is Canon Effingham’s absolutely strict private preserve?”

“Precisely!”

“So you saw no danger in leaving this persistent gentleman in the church?”

“None at all! I knew that Canon Effingham had the keys of vestry and safe.”

“I was going to ask you about that matter, Mr. Stecke,” I said, resuming my examination of our visitor. “Did you, as a resident in the Rectory, know Canon Effingham’s arrangements about his keys?”

“I only knew what I actually saw. When Canon Effingham said he would show me the treasures, he took a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket and with one of them opened a drawer in his desk in the study. From this he took three keys which were on a stout ring, and when we went across to the church, he used them there for the chancel door, the vestry door, the door of the safe. When we returned to his study, he restored the three keys to his drawer.”

“You never had those keys in your possession, I suppose---as his locum tenens?”

“I? Never!”

“There’s a thing that rather puzzles me, there,” remarked Chaney. “You say, Mr. Stecke, that Linwood Church is always open?”

“From eight o’clock in the morning until six in the evening in summer; from nine till four in winter.”

“Why, then, if it’s open should Canon Effingham bother to let himself and you in by the chancel door when you could have walked in at the open door at the west end?”

“I can only suppose that he did so from habit---or, perhaps, because the chancel door is exactly opposite the little gate which admits from the Rectory grounds to the churchyard.”

“I suppose that’s it,” muttered Chaney. “He took us in by the open door, though, didn’t he?” he went on, turning to me. “Um!---well, Mr. Stecke, can you give us a description of this man who was so keen about seeing the valuables?”

Mr. Stecke’s eyes turned towards the copy of the Daily Sentinel opened out on my desk.

“I think there is a remarkably accurate description of him in that newspaper!” he answered. “It is exactly what I should have written myself had I been asked to describe him for purposes of publication.”

“Would you be able to identify him if you saw him again?” asked Chaney.

“I feel sure I could have identified him, unhesitatingly, had I met him again.”

“The man who called himself Dean of Norchester and who undoubtedly had the missing paten in his possession is dead, as you know,” said Chaney. “Now, if we take you to see his body, do you think you can identify it as that of the man you saw and talked to in Linwood Church?”

“If it is the body of that man, yes,” replied Mr. Stecke, “I can!”

“Then we’d better go along to the City,” said Chaney, rising. “We----”

“Wait a moment,” I said. “There’s another question or two I want to put to Mr. Stecke before we go. Mr. Stecke, as you were an inmate of Linwood Rectory for between a fortnight and three weeks, you became, of course, more or less conversant with the doings of the household?”

“Oh, well,” replied Mr. Stecke, “I suppose I noticed things.”

“Have you noticed, then, in the papers that when Canon Effingham found out about this robbery, he about the same time discovered that a side-door in his house had been left open all night?”

“Yes, I read that.”

“Well, now, do you know anything about this---who saw to the locking-up every night at the Rectory? Canon Effingham himself?”

“No, the parlour-maid, Bleacher, saw to it. I remember all about that; it amused me. Bleacher is a very big woman---a grenadier of a woman! She used to go round the house every night at precisely ten o’clock with an enormous bunch of keys and lock the various doors.”

“A bunch of keys? Then---the keys were not left in the locks?”

“No---the keys were on her bunch.”

“What did she do with the bunch?”

“I can’t say---unless she gave it to Mrs. Effingham.”

That was all I had to ask, just then. We took Mr. Stecke off to the City in our car. And there in the mortuary to which it had been carried we showed him the dead body of the man who had called himself Dean of Norchester. After one steady look at the face Mr. Stecke nodded his head with a gesture of positive affirmation.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “that is the man!”

“You’re sure, sir?” asked Chaney. “It’s not a close resemblance---or anything like that?”

“No! That is the man. I recognized him at once. His is not a common type of countenance, is it? A fine head, too!”

“A good many of these criminals have fine heads!” muttered Chaney. “Seen some really remarkable headpieces amongst ’em in my time. Too much in the way of brains some of ’em have!---that’s my opinion. Well, just come and look here, now, Mr. Stecke.”

Mr. Stecke followed to where the dead man’s effects had been placed, neatly put together.

“Do you recognize that suit?” asked Chaney. “Was he wearing it when you saw him?”

“Yes---I remember the herring-bone pattern. Oh, yes!” Mr. Stecke began turning the three articles of the lounge suit over; I wondered why. Suddenly he pointed to something, a mark, two or three inches above the turn-up of the trousers.

“Chalk!” he said. “Linwood is on the chalk.”

“Um!” remarked Chaney. “It is chalk! Thank you for pointing it out, sir---I hadn’t noticed it myself. Well---now we know that much! This is the man you saw at Linwood Church one afternoon last December.”

Mr. Stecke nodded. It seemed to me that he still had something to say. And as we left the mortuary, he spoke.

“Now that I am certain that that is the man I have told you of,” he said, “I think I had better tell you something which I didn’t want to tell you until I really was certain. The fact is I saw the man again, near Linwood, next morning!”

30  Our Library / J. S. Fletcher - Murder in the Squire's Pew (1932) / 6: Again---who is He? on: March 27, 2024, 07:00:28 am
WE all came to a halt---all, that is, except Mr. Atherton, who after his sudden, startling shout, rushed forward, still shouting and pointing an outstretched arm, after a little man in a dark-blue suit who, carrying a small suit-case, had just passed us at a smart pace. As a matter of fact, I had noticed that this man glanced at us as he edged his way past us; he glanced over his shoulder again as Mr. Atherton shouted. And then he was off, and Mr. Atherton after him, and therewith came one of those curious examples of what a crowd will do and will not do. The street was thick with men---some stood aside to let the fugitive pass; some remained motionless, staring first at pursuer, then at pursued. Suddenly a man coming in the opposite direction woke to his senses and sticking out a foot tried to trip the runaway. And then came something that for a second made me shut my eyes and turned me sick, and at my side I heard Canon Effingham let out a groan of horror. For the hunted man leapt to avoid the tripping foot, cleared it, lost his balance, crashed over the curb, and fell heavily beneath the great wheels of a passing motor-wagon. There was a cry---one!---that rang in my ears for hours and haunted me that night. And then---silence.

We fought our way through the crowd---all except Canon Effingham, who tottered to the nearest support and clung there, gasping for breath. Chaney, big and muscular, fought his way through. There were two policemen there already; a word to them from Chaney and they let him and me close in to where men were drawing the dead man from beneath the wagon. The great near-side wheel had gone clean over his chest. . . .

I went back to Canon Effingham, got him away to his car, put him in charge of his man, and sent him off. When I returned to the scene of the accident, an inspector of the City police had come up who knew Chaney well, and Chaney was telling him all about it from our angle.

“And you’ve no doubt about your recognition of him, sir?” concluded Chaney, turning to Mr. Atherton. “You’re sure of him?”

The dead man was lying close by, a sheet snatched from the wagon that had killed him stretched over his body. Atherton went up, lifted a corner of the sheet, and looked.

“Not a doubt!” he said, gravely. “That is the man!”

A street-ambulance came up; the police lifted the body on to it and moved off; Mr. Atherton, Chaney, and I followed with the Inspector, Chaney still explaining the story and circumstances. The Inspector was vastly interested.

“Think he’s the man you wanted for the Linwood Church affair, then?” he said when he had heard everything. “Well, well, I’ve always said that I didn’t believe in coincidences---reckon there’s some fate about things like this. You’d better come and see his clothing examined; we may find something important.”

“I’m anxious to see what’s inside that suit-case,” said Chaney, pointing to the article mentioned, which one of the policemen was now carrying. “I have an idea that we may find something there that will help.”

“Of course, you’ve no idea who he is?” suggested the Inspector.

“Not the slightest!” replied Chaney. “But whoever he is, he’s been a clever chap in his time. This gentleman here, Mr. Atherton, of New York---forget if I mentioned his name before---says that he’d all the style and manners of an accomplished gentleman and was a scholar into the bargain.”

“And dressed as a---bishop, was it?” asked the Inspector.

“Dean! Said he was the Dean of Norchester.”

The Inspector was profoundly impressed. He was also curious; but before he proceeded to any examination of the dead man’s clothing and the suit-case, he sent for the police surgeon. There was only one thing that the police surgeon could say. The man had been killed instantaneously.

We stood by, watching, while the police searched the clothing---first noting that the blue serge suit, obviously new, was a ready-made one, but of good cut and quality; the sort of suit that you can get at certain shops where better-class ready-to-wear goods can be had at a few minutes’ notice. The man who was conducting the search immediately drew our attention to something that he evidently considered important.

“See here!” he said. “There’s been a tab, a label, inside this coat, with the maker’s name on it. Cut out! And not so long since, either. Didn’t want anybody to know where he’d got it. I reckon---from that---that we aren’t going to find very much on him.”

He was right in this supposition---as regards the clothing, at any rate. The coat contained nothing but a handkerchief---no mark or initials---a theatre play-bill, a brier pipe---new---a tobacco-pouch---also new---and a box of matches. In the left-hand pocket of the waistcoat was a cheap watch; one of the sort you can buy, with a guarantee that it will run for at least twelve months; it, too, was new, and so was the cheap silver chain which connected it with a buttonhole. In the right-hand pocket was a penknife and two bits of lead pencil. The left-hand pocket of the trousers yielded a few coppers; the right a handful of loose silver. But on the right hip there was another pocket, with a flap that buttoned down, and from this the searcher drew forth more likely and interesting things. One was a somewhat bulky envelope, evidently stuffed with papers; the other was a purse.

“The envelope first,” muttered the Inspector. “See what’s in that.”

The contents of the envelope---a square, linen-lined thing---forced exclamations of surprise from Mr. Atherton and myself and even extracted a grunt from Chaney. For the dead man had cut out from every morning paper in London---Times, Post, Telegraph, Express, News, Chronicle, Mail, Mirror, Sketch, Herald, Advertiser---their accounts, long or short, of the Linwood Church affair. Each was cut out very neatly, with the name of its source at the head, written in a scholarly hand, and underneath that the date. And on one cutting there was a marginal comment, the importance of which, remarked Chaney, we might discover later on. One of the newspaper scribes, dilating at some length on the mystery of the theft from the safe in the vestry, concluded:

The most mysterious feature of the case is that which centres round the keys. How did the thief obtain possession of the key---on Canon Effingham’s private bunch---by which was opened the drawer in the desk in the study wherein the church keys were kept? Did he, somehow, enter the rectory in the dead of night and steal the private bunch of keys from the dressing-room? It is possible. Indeed, it looks probable. But in that case why, seeing that he left the church keys dangling from the chancel door, did he trouble to go back to the rectory and restore the private keys to the place whereat Canon Effingham found them in the morning? Why this piece of punctilious politeness? This mystery of the keys is a deep one!

On the margin of this, some hand---the dead man’s, no doubt---had drawn two heavy upright lines, and against them an equally heavy note of admiration. And---about that note of admiration there was something which suggested that its maker was indulging in a cynical laugh as he made it.

“Put ’em all back in the cover,” commanded the Inspector, “We shall want ’em as exhibits. Now see what’s in the purse.”

The purse---again something new---was one of those leather ones in which there are two pockets and an inner and outer flap. The bigger pocket contained a few Treasury notes: two or three twenty-shilling notes and as many for ten shillings. The smaller pocket held but one thing only---a small key, dangling at the end of a bit of stout cord.

The Inspector looked round at the small suit-case, which we had previously found to be locked.

“Try that key on the lock there,” he said. “Looks like fitting it.”

The key did fit---both locks. The searcher snapped them open and threw back the lid. And there before our---I was going to write “astonished eyes,” but I am not sure that all of us were astonished---before our eyes, anyway, lay, in neat rubber-banded bundles, piles and piles of Treasury notes, fresh, virgin, brand-new, crisp, clean!

“Ah!” exclaimed Chaney. “Just what that cashier at your bank said, Mr. Atherton! He’d have no difficulty in changing the big B. of E. notes, and he’d get ’em changed at once into these Treasury things. Evidently he did! Now, how much has he got there?”

But the police were already at work, counting. In a few minutes one of them snapped out the total.

“Twenty-five hundred pounds!”

“One half!” said Chaney. “Um!---now, who’s got the other?”

The searcher turned again to the suit-case. There was a lot of loose paper in it which looked as if it had been torn from some periodical. He picked out a sheet or two, glancing at its heading.

“Wasn’t that robbery at Linwood?” he asked. “Linwood Church, eh? Well, look at that? See? Linwood Parish Magazine!

“Of which I saw a good quantity lying in the vestry,” remarked Chaney. “Yes, that’s right enough. He’s used that to---good Lord, what’s this?”

He had been rummaging in the suit-case as he spoke, and now from amidst the mass of crumpled parish-magazine pages he held up a small parcel that looked as if it might contain a saucer or a small plate. The next instant he had torn the paper away from it and revealed the stolen paten.

I think Mr. Atherton was the only person there who really appreciated this discovery. He took the paten from Chaney with almost reverential fingers, making a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Clk, clk, clk!” he murmured. “So this is----”

“I’ll bet it is!” interrupted Chaney. “One of the two stolen pieces of plate. Two, I know the Canon said. Fourteenth or thirteenth or somethingth century---and priceless. A cup and a---what did he call this thing, Camberwell?”

“What was stolen was a chalice and a paten,” I said. “Both considerably pre-Reformation and worth no end of money.”

Mr. Atherton sighed deeply; he was still fingering and loving the paten.

“Worth no end of money!” he repeated softly. “I should think so!”

The Inspector took the paten from Mr. Atherton’s unwilling hands, turned it over, and stared at it dubiously.

“No end of money?” he exclaimed. “What, this bit of a thing? What d’ye mean by no end of money?”

Chaney winked at Mr. Atherton.

“What would you give for it, sir?” he asked.

Mr. Atherton winked back---unseen by the Inspector.

“No end of money---as you say!” he answered. “Spot cash!”

The Inspector stared again. Then he suddenly shoved the paten back into the hands of the searcher.

“Lock it up again!” he commanded. “And all these Treasury notes! Seal the suit-case and have it locked up. No end of money, eh? Oh, well, the thing is that it’s the article stolen from Linwood Church. No doubt of that, I suppose? None, eh? And not much, I should think, that this dead man stole it? Very well, then the next thing we want to know is---who is he?”

None of us attempting to answer that all-important question, the Inspector followed it up with another.

“Can’t be nobody, can he?” he said, satirically. “And if he isn’t nobody, he must be somebody, and have a name, and live somewhere, eh? Got to find all that out! And we’d better be getting to work.”

Chaney, Mr. Atherton, and I remained in the City until we had been with the Inspector to the Bank of England and with some little trouble had ascertained that the dead man, still posing as the Dean of Norchester, had exchanged his fifty hundred-pound Bank of England notes for one-pound Treasury notes. The official who had effected the exchange was vague about the transaction---an ordinary enough one for him, no doubt. All that he remembered was that a clergyman in apron and gaiters and wearing a very big hat had asked for Treasury notes and had got them. Oh yes, he remembered another thing---he himself had remarked that five thousand notes would be rather heavy to carry, and that the clergyman had replied that he had a car outside.

“So he got the whole amount in small notes?” said Chaney, musingly. “Um---now where’s the remaining twenty-five hundred pounds? Shared with somebody, no doubt. Well, it’s a stiff business tracing one-pound Treasury notes. We could spend years at that game and be no better off!”

We parted then---the Inspector going back to his job, and Mr. Atherton returning to his hotel. But Chaney and I turned into a quiet saloon bar and over a sandwich and a glass of beer discussed matters.

“Publicity!---publicity’s the thing!” affirmed Chaney. “Light!---bring all the light we can get hold of to bear on it. There’ll be no end in the papers tomorrow, and a good deal this evening, but I wonder if we couldn’t do something special that way? Is there one of these morning rags that would make a real flare-up of the story?---do it in such a fashion that every Tom, Dick, and Harry, Susan, Poll, and Kate would know all about it?”

I thought that idea over.

“I know a chap who might know,” I said after considering possibilities.

“Who is he?” demanded Chaney.

“Old schoolfellow---Holford---who’s on the Daily Sentinel,” I replied. “But I don’t think he’s any very big position there.”

“The Daily Sentinel is the paper!” said Chaney. “Could this chap get at the editor?”

“I suppose he could get at somebody,” I answered.

Chaney swallowed his last crumb and drank off his beer.

“Come on!” he said. “Sentinel office!”

We sought Holford---an ingenuous youth whose admission to the ranks of journalism I had never been able to understand, considering his school record. And Holford put us on to the chief reporter, and the chief reporter secured an interview with a somebody who had a rare gift of silence coupled with a greater of listening, and the result was that for the next two or three hours we were engaged in giving the materials of what, as we gave it, seemed to be a chapter torn out of a volume of utterly improbable fiction.

There was a great deal about our affair in all next morning’s papers, but none of them came near the Sentinel. The Sentinel had nearly two whole pages of the story. And it had pictures. Linwood Church, Linwood Rectory. Portrait of Canon Effingham. Portrait of Mr. Atherton. Picture of the two rare books. Picture of Marwood, Littledale’s bank. Picture of exact spot near Royal Exchange where the supposed Dean of Norchester, then in mufti, was killed. And so on and so on. As to gigantic headlines, cross-headings, and sentences in thick type, the pages were full of them. Chaney sighed as he gazed and admired.

“If all that doesn’t make somebody speak,” he said, “then I don’t know what will!”

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