8: The Detective Theorises

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DAVERILL was too much preoccupied with his recollections to notice Richard’s start of surprise, and Liversedge was just then lighting a second cigar and consequently failed to see it. And Richard was thankful that it was unobserved; he had already made up his mind to keep that matter to himself for the time being; the idea had flashed across him that he might get some information from Mrs. Mansiter and her sister when he returned to town. He listened more eagerly than before as the ex-superintendent rambled on.

“The case of those Sanderthwaites was a particularly bad one,” he said. “They were people who lived just outside the town, on a nice place---an old family of these parts, theirs was, and they were comfortably off. There was a father, a couple of daughters, and a son. The daughters were fine girls---Bessie and Cora, I remember them well enough, and the son, Lionel, or Liney, as they called him, was a smart young fellow. I don’t know about Bessie---she was a quieter sort than her sister---but the father, and Cora, and Liney were all bitten with this gambling fever; they said in the town that they were never off Land’s office doorstep! And when the smash came they were very badly hit. The children had money of their own; it all went, unless Bessie saved, or had taken care to keep safe, some of hers. But the old man was ruined, and it finished him off---anyway, he never got over it and died soon after. The place was sold up, and the brother and two sisters went clear away---I did hear, years after, that they started a lodging-house, or something of that sort, in London. I remember having a talk to Cora---she was the youngest---just before they left the town. She was one of those I mentioned to you---she’d cheerfully have murdered Land!---she blamed him for everything. But I don’t know!---they were of the gambling sort, those Sanderthwaites---the sort of people that’ll sit up round a card-table all night. The old man was a great race-goer and used to bet heavily. Cora---she was a fine, dashing girl who used to go hunting a good deal---she said that it was Land who persuaded them to go in for these deals that came to nothing, but it’s my opinion and always has been that folk of this kind need precious little persuasion. Still, when I spoke to her about it, Cora Sanderthwaite was---well, murderous in her hatred of Land!”

“But you never knew of any real, actual misdoing on Land’s part?” asked Liversedge. “Never knew that he brought himself within the law?”

“No,” replied Daverill. “It was nothing but vague rumour, hints, suggestions---all coming from people who’d suffered, and who were naturally very sore about it. Of course, in a small country town like this, there are always people who talk off the top and say wild things. It was said that Land had never invested the money some of these folk had placed in his hands; that he’d put it in his own pockets; that he’d made a nice warm nest somewhere and was off to it. That, of course, was after he’d gone.”

“How did he go?” inquired Liversedge. “Any mystery about it?”

“Mystery!” exclaimed the old man. “It was all mystery! The night before the smash came---that is, the night before the news of the smash got generally known here in Clayminster---Land was in this hotel; as a matter of fact he was in this very room, and may have been sitting in this very chair, for all I know!---he used to spend his evenings here. Nobody noticed anything unusual about him or his manner, though seeing that he’s now turned up again, he must have known what was going to happen, and what he himself was going to do. He walked out of this room---of course, we got every possible detail about it afterwards---and out of this hotel at ten o’clock, his invariable time for leaving, and he was never seen again!”

“Made a complete disappearance, eh?” said Liversedge. “Just---vanished!”

“Couldn’t have vanished more successfully if he’d been a ghost!” answered Daverill. “From the moment he walked into the road outside---it was a dark night, about this time of the year, middle of autumn---nobody set eyes on him. Might ha’ been spirited away!”

“Where did he live in the town?” inquired the detective.

“Why, he didn’t live in the town. He was a single man, and he had rooms in a fine old farm-house at Elmcote, about three-quarters of a mile out,” replied Daverill. “When he left this hotel, he’d cross the road, go down Church Pavement, and turn into Elmcote Lane. When he reached Elmcote---which is a tiny bit of a place, a couple of farmsteads and a sprinkling of cottages---he’d turn into another lane, really a cart-track, that led to the farm-house through a spinney. Our notion was that he’d been waylaid----”

Liversedge stopped the flood of recollection with a sharp exclamation.

“But I say!” he said. “This was before the smash came!---the day, or night, before! Why should anybody waylay him? The victims---if they were victims---didn’t know of the smash then!”

The ex-superintendent smiled knowingly.

“I said---before the smash became generally known,” he answered. “Generally. We found out, afterwards, that what you might call the inner circle---those most closely concerned---did know; they knew enough, at any rate, to know that their money had gone! Oh, yes---plenty of ’em knew; had known for a day or two. However, that’s how it was---we believed he’d been waylaid and murdered, and that his body had been got rid of. That wouldn’t have been difficult, thereabouts; there are a great many old pit-workings in that district, and the disused shafts are very deep, and covered over with growth; he could have been thrown down any one of them. And just to show you how thoroughly we did believe that Land had been got rid of---we had a lot of these old shafts examined! Of course, we found nothing; anyway, we didn’t find his body. But his disappearance was so complete, and the efforts to trace were such equally complete failures, that, as I tell you, I’ve always held to the opinion that he was murdered. And now---he turns up, after all these years, in London!”

“I suppose you could identify him, Mr. Daverill?” suggested Liversedge.

“Oh, yes, I could identify him,” replied the old man. “He has---that is, Land had---a dropped eyelid. The left eyelid. It gave him rather an odd appearance---as if he was half-asleep, on that side of his face. Oh, yes, I should know him---if he’s the man!”

“I don’t suppose he’ll have got rid of that little physical infirmity in twenty-five years, certainly,” remarked the detective. “Can’t have got himself a new eyelid, anyhow! But what was he like when you knew him here?---what make of man?”

Daverill smiled and turned to Richard.

“Why,” he answered, “he wasn’t at all unlike your uncle, sir---Mr. Henry. The similarity of appearance was often noticed. They were both good-looking men; tall, fresh-coloured, clean-shaved; very similar in features and in carriage. Of course, I’m speaking of a generation back: I don’t know how they wore as time went on. But they were very much alike in the time we’ve been talking about.”

When the ex-superintendent had gone away, Liversedge remained for some time walking about the room as if in deep thought. At last he came back to the hearth and dropped into his chair again.

“Mr. Marchmont,” he said, “I’m wondering! Some people might say the motive was impossible, far-fetched, extravagant, but I don’t know. Anyhow, I’m wondering if your uncle was shot by somebody who took him for Land!”

Richard made no reply for the moment. Some such idea as that now voiced by the detective had been floating, a vague and nebulous thing, through his own brain ever since the old ex-superintendent had mentioned the hatred felt for Land amongst a certain section of Clayminster people and by such particular sufferers as the Sanderthwaites. And now he was wondering, more than ever, if Henry Marchmont had told Mrs. Mansiter and her sister about Land’s presence in London and that he was going to Bedford Row that evening, and if----But Liversedge broke in again on his speculating.

“The notion mayn’t be as far-fetched as it seems at first sight,” he remarked. “I’ve known of much more unlikely things.”

“I could understand its possibility better if the murder had taken place anywhere else than where it did,” said Richard, after another pause. “But supposing somebody did mistake my uncle for Land---somebody who still bore an unconquerable grudge against Land---how should such a person get inside my uncle’s offices?”

“Aye, just so, but I don’t see the impossibility, or rather, improbability of that, either, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Liversedge. “I took in all that Simpson told us about your uncle’s general habits, and I remember that when he wasn’t dining out with anybody he used to get his dinner at a fairly early hour at some restaurant or hotel and return to Bedford Row by eight o’clock. Now supposing---you’ve got to suppose a lot in trying to get a clear notion in these affairs!---supposing that on the night of his death Mr. Henry Marchmont had dined somewhere, as of course he did, and there, at restaurant or hotel, or on the way home, had been taken for Land by somebody anxious to pay off an old score? What was to prevent such a person following him to Bedford Row, slipping into the hall of the offices after him, and shooting him on the stair? That similarity of appearance may be significant.”

Richard nodded---and refrained from expressing any opinion. He was beginning to realise the wisdom of keeping his own counsel in some matters, even from Liversedge. He turned the conversation to another matter.

“Can you make any suggestion as to why Lansdale---to give him the name he’s now known by---disappeared that night?” he asked. “Do you think it really had anything to do with my uncle’s death?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, Mr. Marchmont, undoubtedly!” exclaimed the detective. “I’ve thought all that out, and I’ve formed an opinion of my own, which may be wrong, but may be right. I think that Lansdale is here in England on some big, probably very big financial deal. He’s no doubt mixed up with great moneyed men in the City. He met Henry Marchmont unexpectedly. Under the fear that Henry Marchmont might rake up his past---and when all’s said and done, his Clayminster record is a bit shady, if nothing else!---he sought and got an interview with him. He found that your uncle was adamant---wouldn’t have anything to do with him---gave him the impression that he’d expose him. Lansdale went to his hotel. One of his business clients---the dark, swarthy chap we heard about---called to see him; Lansdale told him what had happened. Perhaps the dark man called for the express purpose of hearing what Henry Marchmont was going to do. This man advised Lansdale to clear out at once---to some place where his business deal couldn’t be interrupted. And he carried him off there and then---and they arranged for Miss Lansdale to be brought to join her father next morning. See?”

“I follow you,” assented Richard. “It’s possible.”

“Well, it’s just a theory,” said Liversedge. “But I’ve an alternative one. I don’t think there’s any doubt whatever that Lansdale did go to Bedford Row that night. He must have been the man seen by the caretaker next door, old Mother Capstick, as she came back with the supper beer from the Plume of Feathers. Mother Capstick says that the gentleman she met and whom she at first took for your uncle seemed excited, and was talking and muttering to himself. Now, Mr. Marchmont, just you imagine a dramatic situation. Lansdale, in pursuance of the agreement made with your uncle, goes to Bedford Row to keep the appointment. He has no difficulty in gaining access; I ascertained from Simpson that although the actual business offices on the ground floor were locked up by him every afternoon at five-thirty when he and the clerks left, the front door was never locked or fastened in any way until Mr. Henry Marchmont himself locked it last thing at night. Lansdale, accordingly, enters, and—probably following your uncle’s instructions of the previous evening, when the appointment was made---proceeds upstairs. On the landing he comes across the body of the man he’s come to see---dead! Just dead!---and shot!” The detective paused, looking at Richard as if to emphasise his words.

“What do you suppose Lansdale would do, Mr. Marchmont?” he went on suddenly. “Remember, from all we know, Lansdale had gone there under exceptional circumstances. He knew that Henry Marchmont had a hold over him, or believed he had. I think that Lansdale, making such a startling discovery, would say to himself or think within himself, ‘If I’m found here, I shall be suspected of this---suspected of killing the man in order to ensure his silence---let me get out of it!’ Well, he gets out of it! But even then he’s afraid---mortally afraid! He thinks it more than likely that Henry Marchmont may have told---as we know Henry Marchmont did---and that as soon as the news of Henry’s murder gets abroad he’ll be suspected. So, when the dark man calls on him at his hotel, he pours out the whole story to him. From that point this theory runs on the same lines as the previous one---Lansdale gets away, of course, with the other man’s help, and they get his daughter away too. I think that whether one or other of these theories is right or wrong, Mr. Marchmont, neither will be very far from the truth. Lansdale’s disappearance sprang out of your uncle’s death.”

“What astonishes me,” remarked Richard, “is that a man can disappear so easily!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the detective. “That’s no difficult job. We hear and know a lot of that in our line of work. I’ve known a case where a man disappeared for twelve years and was eventually found to have been living all the time within half a mile of the house he cleared out of. London’s the finest place in the world for successful games at hide-and-seek; I mean on the part of those who hide. But I don’t believe Lansdale and his daughter are in London any longer---nor in England, either.”

“Where are they, then?” asked Richard.

“Oh, I should say, by this time, in Paris, or in Brussels, or perhaps travelling further afield!” replied Liversedge. “Off! I don’t suppose there will be any news of them from any of our people when we get back to town to-morrow morning. However, we’ve got a bit---though I don’t know how we’re going to develop it. Frankly, Mr. Marchmont, I don’t see much development at present!”

But there was some development of a phase of the situation when Richard and his companion walked into the Bedford Row office at noon next day. Simpson, in whose hands Richard had necessarily placed many matters for disposal and arrangement, took him and Liversedge into what had been Henry Marchmont’s private room. He placed a long, unsealed envelope in Richard’s hands.

“This, Mr. Marchmont,” he said quietly, “is, as you will see by the endorsement, your uncle’s will. I came across it yesterday after you had left.”