16: Lansdale Speaks

LANSDALE and his daughter were not alone. Seated close by, and in earnest conversation with them, were two men who, Richard felt sure, belonged to the legal profession. One was a tall, handsome, white-haired man with whose features he was vaguely familiar; he must have seen this man’s portrait in the illustrated papers, he thought, or have had him pointed out at some time as some notability. The other, a middle-aged man of striking countenance, bore the unmistakable stamp of the barrister; his was a face only seen at the bar or on the bench. And he was doing most of the talking, emphasising whatever he was saying with a liberal use of gesture, and appealing at times to the white-haired man as if to seek agreement in his arguments. Angelita was listening intently to him; so intently that it was some time before Richard, wedged in at the back of the court, could catch her eye. At last she saw him and smiled; there was something reassuring in that smile, and still more reassuring in the way in which after giving it she motioned him towards the two legal-looking men as if to imply that here was powerful help. Richard made pantomimic signs to her, indicating his wish to join her, but she shook her head and then pointed to a door; he took that to mean that he was to meet her when the proceedings were over. And as he nodded his assent, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning sharply, saw Liversedge at his elbow.

“You’ve seen ’em, I see, Mr. Marchmont!” said the detective. “Surprise, no doubt! But we heard of it half an hour ago. Do you know what’s going to happen? Lansdale’s going to tell his tale---in that witness-box!”

“How did you hear?” asked Richard.

“In this way,” replied Liversedge, squeezing himself into a seat by Richard’s side. “You see the white-haired old gentleman sitting next to Lansdale? That’s Sir John Crowe, the cleverest and smartest and deepest solicitor in London!---and that’s saying a good deal! And the other man next to Miss Lansdale is Mr. Charles Barwick, the famous criminal barrister, just as eminent in his line as Sir John Crowe is in his. Now, about half an hour ago, I learnt that just after noon Sir John telephoned our people that he was going to produce Lansdale at the adjourned inquest this afternoon, and that his client would go into the witness-box and give evidence as regards all he knew about the Henry Marchmont affair, adding that he, Sir John, had already notified the Coroner to the same effect. So---there you are! And---there they are! And I’m pretty keen, as I guess you are, Mr. Marchmont, to know what Lansdale’s got to say!”

“Probably anything but what you expect,” suggested Richard.

“I never expect anything, definitely,” replied the detective. “I don’t anticipate---I wait. But I reckon there’ll be some stuff for the newspaper people. They’re in full force, the reporters. And so are other interested folk. Look across there, Mr. Marchmont! See any familiar faces?”

Richard looked in the direction indicated, and in a gloomy corner of the court saw Crench and Garner. A little way from them sat Simpson, gazing intently at Lansdale and his daughter.

“Three of ’em there of whom I’d like to know a good deal more,” muttered Liversedge. “Now if only Vandelius would turn up, eh? But here’s the Coroner.”

The Coroner came to his presidential desk; the jurymen, endeavouring to look as if they had kept their minds clear and open since the opening stages of the inquiry, filed into their places; the crowded court settled into silence. The Coroner put on his spectacles, fidgeted with his papers, and turning to the twelve good men and true told them that since the previous sitting, and in fact during the last hour or two, he had received notice that a very important witness had come forward whose evidence would be all the more notable, and incidentally useful to them in the discharge of their duties, from the fact that his name had been very freely, perhaps much too freely, mentioned in the papers. This witness, he went on to say, was Mr. John Lansdale, who, it had been rumoured, had visited the deceased Henry Marchmont on the evening on which he was believed to have been murdered. Mr. Lansdale was now in court, and, he believed---here came a glance in the direction of Sir John Crowe and Mr. Barwick---was, as he had a right to be, legally represented. It would perhaps be well to take Mr. Lansdale’s evidence at once. . . .

The Coroner here favoured the representatives of the police authorities with a look which seemed to inquire if they had any objection; nobody offering any, he glanced invitingly at Mr. Barwick, who rose to his feet amidst an expectant silence.

“I represent Mr. Lansdale, sir,” he began, “and I may say at once that my client desires to go into that box and to give whatever evidence he can give on the subject of this inquiry, and to submit himself to any examination that you, sir, or the representatives of the deceased, or the representatives of the police, choose to put him to. He has no desire but to tell the plain truth about whatever he knows, especially in view of the fact that, since the death of the late Mr. Henry Marchmont, a great many baseless and unauthorised statements have appeared in the public press relating to his knowledge of Mr. Marchmont and to certain events in the earlier history of both. If I may propose a course of procedure, sir, I should suggest that Mr. Lansdale should go at once into the box to be examined by myself in accordance with my instructions from his solicitor, Sir John Crowe, after which, of course, he can be further examined. Mr. Lansdale’s wish is to place you, sir, and the gentlemen of the jury, as soon as possible, in possession of all, of everything---I repeat those words with emphasis!---of all, of everything that he can tell!”

“Let Mr. Lansdale be called,” said the Coroner.

Richard fixed all his attention on Angelita’s father as he rose from his seat and went through the preliminaries in the witness-box. He was strangely struck by the fact that when Lansdale stood at his full height he was curiously like Henry Marchmont---a tall, well-set up, broad-shouldered man, of florid complexion and silvering hair; the general similarity of face and figure was striking. But in particulars the resemblance was not great; Henry Marchmont had been of a gay, lively disposition and a debonair appearance; the sort of man who had taken life easily and showed his enjoyment of it in his lips and eyes; Lansdale’s appearance was that of a man who had lived a hard life, and whose nerves and health had suffered; the face which he turned upon the court after taking the oath was that of a tired man.

It was amidst a dead silence that the exchange of question and answer between Barwick and his witness began; the silence grew deeper as it was carried on.

“I believe you first knew the late Henry Marchmont some years ago, Mr. Lansdale?”

“Thirty years ago!---first.”

“Where was that?”

“At Clayminster.”

“Was he then practising as a solicitor?”

“He was---a young solicitor.”

“What were you doing at that time?”

“I had just begun business as a stock and share broker.”

“Under your own name?”

“No---under the name of James Land.”

“Your real name, then, is John Lansdale?”

“Exactly! I took the name of James Land for business purposes at Clayminster.”

“Have you seen much of the newspapers since the death of Henry Marchmont?”

“I have seen all the principal London papers every day.”

“You are aware that there has been a good deal about you in them, then, and you have seen that it has been said that your real name is Land?”

“Yes. It is a mistake. I assumed the name of Land at Clayminster. When I left Clayminster I reverted to my real name---John Lansdale.”

“You can give full proof that that is your real name, and of your parentage, and where you were born, and so on, if necessary, I suppose?”

“Full proof! There is no mystery about it.”

“Have you read in the recent papers certain rumours or suggestions that you left Clayminster twenty-five years ago under discreditable circumstances?”

“I have. There is no truth in them! The truth is that a number of my clients in Clayminster developed a craze for what was nothing more nor less than a gamble in certain foreign securities; it was at the time of a prevalent mania for speculation in such things. There was a sudden crash; many of them lost heavily. There were many unreasonable people amongst them; some of them took a violent dislike to me, personally, though I was a mere instrument. The real reason why I left Clayminster suddenly was that my life was in danger.”

“Had you been threatened?”

“I received several threatening letters---anonymous, of course. Rather than claim police protection, I cleared out. I saw that my business was gone, and I decided to go elsewhere.”

“You insist that your record at Clayminster was a clean one, that your transactions were honest and above-board, that you defrauded no one?”

“I do claim all that!”

“Still, you are aware that your sudden disappearance, and the secret manner of it, gave rise to unpleasant rumour?”

“Quite aware of it! I know that great suspicion was aroused. Henry Marchmont was a chief promoter of that suspicion. He never liked me. He blackballed me at the Clayminster Club---some time before the smash.”

“Had he any reason for disliking you?”

“None that I know of. But he had an aversion to what he called gambling in stocks and shares. I was the only broker in Clayminster, which is a very small place. He disliked my setting up in the town, and he wanted to get me out of it.”

“Did you bear him any ill will?”

“Never! I was absolutely indifferent---one way or the other. All I wanted was to be left alone.”

“Well, you left Clayminster---in your own opinion, and according to your conscience, with clean hands---and I believe you went to South America?”

“Yes---to the Argentine. And as my career seems about to be closely inquired into, I should like to say that the last phase of it, covering twenty-five years, is well known out there. I married a lady who came of a Spanish-American family, I settled down to business in connection with the development of the country, and I built up a reputation which I confidently assert is second to none as regards probity!”

“And as a result, Mr. Lansdale, I believe you have done very well---to use a current phrase which is well understood?”

“I am a wealthy man!”

“I am glad to hear it!---and now we will come to your present visit to England. Why did you come here?”

“In connection with a big financial deal, to be carried out in co-operation with Mr. Louis Vandelius.”

“Who is Mr. Louis Vandelius?”

“A man interested in big financial matters, not much known to the public, but well known to financiers all over the world.”

“Did you know him before you came to London?”

“I had met him in New York, five years ago, and in Buenos Ayres, last year.”

“How long had you been in London before the death of Henry Marchmont?”

“A few weeks.”

“During those weeks did you ever go down to Clayminster?”

“No---never!”

“Nor heard any Clayminster news?”

“No!”

“Did you know that Henry Marchmont had left Clayminster soon after you did, or at about the same time, and was practising in London?”

“No!---I knew nothing about Henry Marchmont’s doings or whereabouts until I met him accidentally, at a dinner, a financial dinner, in the City.”

“Tell me what happened, Mr. Lansdale.”

“I recognised him at once. I saw that he recognised me. His air, his look, was threatening, unpleasant. I knew him in the old days as a man who was somewhat free of his tongue, and it looked to me as if he might say something about me to some of our fellow-guests which would do me no good, in view of the very important business on which I had come to London. I drew him aside and asked him to give me an interview---he was churlish, almost insolent in manner, but said that if I wanted to see him, I could see him, and named his office, and from seven-thirty to eight the following evening, as place and time. I told him I would be there.”

“Was this before or after the dinner you speak of?”

“Before.”

“Did you have any more conversation with him that evening?”

“No! We were seated well apart. But I saw him looking at me now and then, and his glances were distinctly unfriendly. I realised that I had an enemy in him. It naturally made me uneasy.”

“What did you do?”

“Next day I had a consultation with Mr. Vandelius and with two associates of his----”

“Better give their names, Mr. Lansdale.”

“Mr. Crench, a solicitor, and Mr. Garner, who is a sort of agent for Mr. Vandelius. I told these three all the circumstances of the Clayminster affair, and about Henry Marchmont’s dislike and suspicion of me, and of my conviction that he meant to do me a mischief. They, of course, accepted my story, but Mr. Vandelius was much concerned, seriously concerned, lest any action of Henry Marchmont’s should interfere with our present big deal. It was decided that I should keep the appointment with Henry Marchmont and attempt to prove to him that he had formed and was cherishing a totally wrong impression of my doings at Clayminster. This, I say, was decided upon between Mr. Vandelius, Crench, Garner, and myself. But . . . after leaving them, and thinking matters over again, I decided, entirely on my own notion, to do something in addition, which something, in my opinion, now, has had a great deal to do with Henry Marchmont’s murder!”