17: Twenty Thousand Pounds

THERE was a distinct ripple of excited comment in the crowded court when Lansdale spoke these last words, and Liversedge, who had been watching the witness with concentrated attention, nudged his companion’s elbow.

“It’s coming, Mr. Marchmont!” he whispered. “If this man has a secret, it’s coming out now. And---what’s it going to be?”

Richard made no answer and no guess. He, too, was watching Lansdale. It seemed to him that the longer Lansdale remained in the witness-box the more confident he grew; at first he had seemed nervous and uncertain and his voice had been husky, but as his examination progressed he had held himself more erect and his demeanour more spirited; once or twice, when reference had been made to the Clayminster episode, a note of mingled defiance and indignation had come into his answers. And in his last remarks he had looked round the ring of expectant faces with the air of a man who has it in his power to say words of the highest importance.

Barwick’s voice, cool, quiet, broke the silence which had fallen over the court after the murmur of excitement.

“You determined on a course of procedure which you kept to yourself, Mr. Lansdale?---is that what we are to understand?”

“Yes!---I mentioned it to no one---have mentioned it to no one until now. Perhaps I made a mistake in keeping it to myself---but I am prepared to say why I have kept it back until this moment---I had good reasons.”

“Very well!---but what was it you decided to do---and, I suppose, did?”

Lansdale leaned over the ledge of the box, and looking alternately from the Coroner to the legal men and officials grouped about the table, assumed a confidential, conversational tone.

“Well, it was this. Although twenty-five years had elapsed since the Clayminster affair, I could see quite clearly from Henry Marchmont’s demeanour at the City dinner I referred to just now, and from the tone he adopted in speaking to me, that he still regarded me as a black sheep, a bad lot. I remembered him in the old days as a very hard man, and I had no doubt that he was as hard as ever, perhaps harder. In that case, I knew he could do me a mischief. He could have noised it abroad in the City that I had left Clayminster under doubtful circumstances; he could---in short, he could have done me a lot of harm. Eventually, he could have done me none, for I took good care before leaving Clayminster to place all my books and papers in safe keeping in an adjacent town, and they are there now, to prove the absolute honesty of my business transactions. But he could have made trouble at the moment, and that would have interfered most seriously with the business deal in which Mr. Vandelius and myself were engaged; it might have wrecked it, and in any case it would have caused delay, and delay was the last thing we desired: it was necessary to our purposes to carry this deal through quickly and all that remained was to sign certain papers which we expected to arrive from South America at any moment. So, after thinking matters over by myself, I decided that it would be well to placate Henry Marchmont. I preferred to do that in this way: while steadily denying any personal responsibility for the losses of the Clayminster people twenty-five years before, and wholly disclaiming any bad faith in my dealings with them, I would tell Henry Marchmont that I, being now a wealthy man, was willing to do something for those who had lost money at that time, or, if they were dead, for their descendants, and to place in his hands a sum of money to be distributed amongst them. I considered that such an action on my part would show him that I was acting in good faith, and would stop him from circulating rumours or positive statements about me. Of course, I meant to insist strongly that anything I gave to these people would be in the nature of a voluntary gift; that there was not the slightest obligation on my part to give a penny! There wasn’t!---I am not indebted in any way, even what is called morally, to any man or woman in Clayminster!”

Lansdale smote the edge of the witness-box as he spoke the last words, and his eyes, dull at first, but now bright with excitement, flashed defiance. He looked round as if to invite comment; all that came was in the cool tones of the barrister.

“Continue, if you please, Mr. Lansdale.”

“Well, having decided on this course, I went to my bank, drew a certain amount of money in ready cash---that is, in notes---so as to have it in readiness to offer to Henry Marchmont when I went to see him that evening. And in due course I went to his office in Bedford Row. That----”

“A moment, Mr. Lansdale!” interrupted Barwick, with a meaning glance at the Coroner and the jury. “You took the certain amount of money you have just mentioned in your pocket when you repaired to Bedford Row?”

“Certainly!---that’s why I got it from my bank---to take with me.”

“What was that certain amount of money? The exact figure, please?”

Lansdale hesitated a moment. Then his answer came sharply:

“Twenty thousand pounds!”

Once more a ripple of excited murmur ran round the court; once more Barwick’s quiet voice was heard as it died away.

“Twenty thousand pounds! In what form? You spoke of cash---notes?”

“There were forty Bank of England notes of five hundred pounds each---in a wad, with an india-rubber band round them.”

“Very well---go on, Mr. Lansdale.”

“I went to the office in Bedford Row just about half-past-seven. Henry Marchmont himself admitted me, and took me upstairs to what I took to be his private office. I saw no one else, nor did I hear anything that led me to suspect the presence of anybody else in the house---I judged that we had the place to ourselves. I found out before I had been there a moment that Henry Marchmont was not inclined to treat me with even ordinary courtesy. He sat down himself, at his desk, but he never offered me a seat. His demeanour was harsh, arrogant, impatient, contemptuous. He began by saying that he wondered how I dared to show my face in England, and especially in the City amongst financiers of repute. He was plainly in a temper: I kept mine, and I endeavoured to show him good reasons to prove that he was doing me a wrong, and that the financial smash at Clayminster was not due to anything dishonest on my part. He utterly refused to credit that, and said that if I wished to convince him or anybody of it, I must go down to Clayminster and whitewash myself there. I said my arrangements would not permit of that, but to show my good intentions in the matter I wished to make a proposition to him. He was fidgeting about at his desk all this time, displaying, as he did all through, considerable impatience and testiness; he neither said he would hear my proposition or that he wouldn’t, and I went on to make it, on the lines I have already told you of, and when I had said what I had to say I drew the roll of bank-notes from my pocket and laid it before him, on his blotting-pad. He pushed it aside, saying he would have nothing to do with it---and then he added a remark that at last roused my temper. He said that as far as he knew that was not as much as I had done Clayminster people out of, and he didn’t believe a word of what I’d been saying. On that, I picked up my hat and walked out of the room!”

“Leaving the money on his desk?” asked Barwick.

“I left the twenty thousand pounds’ worth of notes on his desk,” replied Lansdale. “As I walked through the door he called after me. I repeat his exact words: ‘If you don’t remove this confounded money, I shall put it and you into the hands of the police first thing to-morrow morning!’”

“Did you go back and remove it?”

“Not I! I took no notice whatever of his threat. I walked downstairs and out of the house.”

“I gather that by that time you were somewhat upset---agitated?”

“I was very much upset---I was indignant. I was so much agitated that when I went out of the house into Bedford Row I took the wrong turning. I had come into Bedford Row from the Holborn side, through the passage that leads from Holborn into Gray’s Inn, and I meant to return to Holborn by the same way. But being upset I turned up Bedford Row and crossed Theobald’s Road, and found myself in some narrow streets on the other side of it before I knew where I was---I was in Little James Street when I came to my senses. I then went back by the way I had come, and down Bedford Row again towards Holborn. I passed Henry Marchmont’s office. And, just as I had passed the door, which I observed---or I gave an indignant glance at it---was closed, I heard what sounded like a shot! I hesitated for a moment; then, coming to the conclusion that the sound came from the banging of a door, I walked on.”

“About what time would it be, Mr. Lansdale when you passed Henry Marchmont’s door and heard the sound you speak of?”

“I should say about eight o’clock.”

“Your first impression of the sound was that it was that of a shot?”

“Decidedly! But I have very little knowledge of fire-arms, and I thought myself mistaken---that it was merely a door banging.”

“Did you see anyone about there?”

“No! It was dark, of course, except for the street lamps.”

“What did you do after leaving Bedford Row?”

“I walked along Holborn, down Kingsway, and turned into the Waldorf Hotel, where I sat for some time, smoking and thinking---I was still very much agitated. Eventually, I went to my own hotel, the Cecil. Mr. Vandelius came there---he wanted to know how I had got on with Henry Marchmont. I told him everything---except about the money.”

“Why did you not tell him that?”

“Well, it had been my own notion---anyway, I didn’t tell him. We talked about Henry Marchmont’s general attitude. Mr. Vandelius suggested that I should go with him to his country house for a few days---until we got the papers and signed them. I went. Next day, my daughter joined me there. I remained at Vandelius’s house until the papers came---they arrived last night. We signed them. Then, this morning, early, having had a visit from detectives, I decided to come back to town, see a solicitor, and tell all I know. I saw Sir John Crowe on arrival---and on his advice I have come here and told everything.”

Barwick hesitated a moment, glancing at the Coroner. Then he turned once more to his witness.

“There is just another question---or two---I should like to put to you, Mr. Lansdale,” he said. “You are aware, no doubt, that a reward of ten thousand pounds has been offered to anyone giving information which will lead to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of Henry Marchmont? Had you anything to do with that?”

“No!---nothing!”

“Do you know who is responsible for it?”

“I do now---I didn’t until two days ago. Mr. Vandelius is responsible. His idea was---when the news of the murder came to hand---that if suspicion attached to me, it would be best removed by finding the real culprit.”

“Mr. Vandelius, then, made this offer on his own initiative, and without consulting you?”

“Just so! I knew nothing about it until he told me.”

Barwick looked at the Coroner and suddenly sat down with the gesture of a man who has done his work. The Coroner turned to Lansdale.

“You say you took twenty thousand pounds in bank-notes, Bank of England notes, of course, to Henry Marchmont, and left the entire sum with him,” he said. “Have you the numbers of those notes?”

“No,” replied Lansdale promptly. “But my bankers will have.”

“Who are your bankers?”

“The British-Argentine Banking Company, Lombard Street.”

“The numbers of the notes were taken when issued to you?”

“Of course---I saw them taken and entered. They are easily obtainable.”

The Coroner turned to the police officials.

“This must be inquired into at once,” he remarked. “The numbers of the notes must be got, and inquiries must be made at the Bank of England to ascertain if they have been presented there for payment. But now, following on what we have heard from the witness, I want some information about the arrangements at Bedford Row. I gathered at our first sitting that Henry Marchmont lived in a private suite of rooms above his offices, and that no one else lived in the house. I gathered also that his dead body was found early in the morning by the charwoman, Mrs. Pardoe. Mrs. Pardoe”---here the Coroner turned to his notes and consulted them for several minutes.---“Yes. Mrs. Pardoe found Henry Marchmont lying dead on the first landing of the staircase, and immediately hurried out to get a policeman. It would, of course, be some time before anyone made any thorough examination of the premises. Now I want to know, and you, gentlemen of the jury, want to know, too---who first entered Henry Marchmont’s private room, where, on his desk, Mr. Lansdale says he left the twenty thousand pounds’ worth of bank-notes?”

The Coroner was still addressing the police officials, and one of them rose, pointing to Simpson, who sat near.

“The late Mr. Marchmont’s managing clerk is here, sir,” he said. “Mr. Simpson. He can probably tell that.”

“Let Mr. Simpson come forward,” said the Coroner. “Mr. Simpson, you have heard the evidence that has just been given---that a packet of forty bank-notes, each of a nominal value of five hundred pounds, was left on Mr. Henry Marchmont’s desk in his private room on the evening on which he was murdered. As far as we are aware, none of his staff entered that room until next morning after the discovery of the murder. Now, can you tell us who was the very first person to go into the room that morning---the very first?”

Simpson replied promptly.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Detective-Sergeant Liversedge.”