18: Trace the Notes

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LIVERSEDGE was on his feet and moving towards the centre of the court before the Coroner could ask if he, too, was present. And as he moved away, Richard, following his movements, was suddenly aware that close by his own seat sat Cora Sanderthwaite. Rapt in the proceedings following Lansdale’s appearance in the witness-box, he had not noticed her before, but now that he saw her for the moment he forgot all else. For Cora Sanderthwaite was watching Lansdale as if she would never and could never take her gaze off him, and in her eyes was an expression of vindictive hatred that made Richard feel a sense of cold horror such as he had never known before. She sat, slightly leaning forward in her seat, her elbow supported on her knee, her chin resting in her hand, immovable, staring, staring . . . the stare suggested murder. And Richard stared at her, fascinated, until he became aware that seated next to her, and evidently in her company, from the fact that he turned and whispered something in her ear, was a curious-looking little man, grey-haired, elderly in spite of his smooth, clean-shaven face, who was dressed in very old-fashioned clothes that had evidently been of smart cut in their day, and in spite of their threadbare state were still neatly kept and carefully brushed. Was this another of the victims of the Clayminster smash, he wondered?---for the little man, too, was watching Lansdale, though not with the vindictive hate manifested by his companion.

But the Coroner was talking, addressing himself to the police authorities and to Simpson and Liversedge, who by this time had gone up to the table.

“Oh, Detective-Sergeant Liversedge is here, is he?” he said. “Just so!---well, in view of the evidence which we have just heard, what I want to get at is this---who was the first person to make any examination of Mr. Henry Marchmont’s private office after the discovery of his dead body that morning? The supposition is that he was shot, murdered, by some person about eight o’clock the previous evening, and that no one entered the place until next morning when Mrs. Pardoe went in. Now I want to know what happened immediately after that? Perhaps Mr. Simpson----”

He glanced inquiringly at the managing clerk, and Simpson responded readily.

“I can give that information, sir,” he said. “When Mrs. Pardoe made her discovery she ran straight out of the house to a policeman at the head of the street. He sent for help to the police station, which is close by, in Gray’s Inn Road. Within a few minutes two or three officers came; a doctor came with them, so did Detective-Sergeant Liversedge. I arrived at the same time. After some conversation in the hall, Detective-Sergeant Liversedge said he would like to look round the room which Mr. Henry Marchmont was likely to have been in last. I showed him the door of the private office---which, in fact, was open---and he went in there.”

The Coroner turned to Liversedge.

“Did you make any examination of Mr. Marchmont’s desk?” he asked.

“Only a superficial one, sir,” replied Liversedge. “I looked round the room generally. I wanted to see if there were any signs of Mr. Marchmont’s having had a visitor late the previous evening, or if there was anything on his desk that would give any clue of any sort. I touched nothing. There was nothing much on his desk. I certainly saw no bank-notes. To the best of my recollection, sir, there was nothing on the desk but a blotting-pad. I remember thinking at the time that Mr. Marchmont had evidently been a man of very neat and precise habits---everything was very tidy.”

“Who subsequently examined Mr. Marchmont’s room and effects?” demanded the Coroner.

“I did, sir,” answered Simpson. “In company, at various times, with Mr. Richard Marchmont. We went through everything---drawers, bureaux, the private safe. As Mr. Liversedge has just inferred, the late Mr. Marchmont was a man of unusually tidy and precise habits; he was the sort of man who kept everything in its exact place, and grew very angry indeed if his clerks didn’t follow his example. Mr. Richard Marchmont and myself found everything in strict order, but we found no bank-notes.”

“You don’t know if Mr. Marchmont had any secret hiding-places where he would be likely to place twenty thousand pounds’ worth of bank-notes for the night?” suggested the Coroner. Simpson shook his head.

“I don’t think that is at all likely, sir,” he replied. “I have been in the late Mr. Marchmont’s employ for a great many years, and I never knew of his having any such place.”

The Coroner leaned back in his chair, and looked at Barwick.

“Well, here we have Mr. Lansdale saying that he left a parcel of forty Bank of England notes of five hundred pounds each on Mr. Marchmont’s desk!” he began. “Yet----”

Barwick got to his feet with a deprecating shrug of his shoulders.

“With all respect, sir,” he said smoothly, “it seems to me that this informal conversation is against the interests of my client! It appears to be moving in a direction of suspicion---and that is not at all in accordance with the theory I represent!”

“What is your theory, then?” asked the Coroner, a little impatiently.

“My theory, sir, is that Henry Marchmont was not only murdered, but robbed!---robbed of the twenty thousand pounds lying on his desk---of the bank-notes laid there by my client!” said Barwick. “It is that he was murdered for the sake of robbery!”

The Coroner moved uneasily in his chair.

“We have heard Mr. Lansdale’s evidence,” he said, with still a note of impatience in his voice. “But I am bound to point out that up to now there is nothing to corroborate it. No doubt he drew twenty thousand pounds in notes from his bank. But we have no proof beyond his own allegation----”

“On oath, sir!” interrupted Barwick.

“On oath, to be sure---that he left those notes on Mr. Marchmont’s desk,” continued the Coroner. “However, he tells us that his bankers will have the numbers of the notes, and I suggest that Mr. Lansdale should at once assist the police to get them, and then to trace the notes to the Bank of England. Of course, as far as I am aware, the Bank of England is bound to cash its own notes on presentation, and even though these particular notes are for large amounts, five hundred each, I suppose no questions would be asked on their presentation---so there may be some difficulty in tracing them through the different hands in which they may have been since the date on which they were drawn from Mr. Lansdale’s bank. Still, the police will no doubt see to this immediately, and in the meantime I suggest that I should adjourn again for---shall we say a week or a fortnight?”

When the Coroner and the police authorities had settled this point between themselves, and the court began to clear, Richard made his way towards Lansdale and his daughter. He suddenly felt a fierce grip on his elbow, and turning found himself in the clutch of Cora Sanderthwaite. She pointed a quivering finger at Lansdale, who was busily talking to his legal advisers and Liversedge.

“Are they going to arrest him?” she hissed in Richard’s ear. “To lock him up? Tell me!”

Richard looked at her, half in surprise, half in pity, for he had already formed the opinion that the woman was crazy. Then he saw that the man at her side, the little, oddly dressed man, was also staring at him with the same eagerness that was manifest in Cora Sanderthwaite’s burning eyes. The two of them together made an unpleasant exhibition of vindictive hatred.

“I can’t tell you,” he answered, endeavouring to disengage his sleeve from the woman’s clutching fingers. “You must excuse me, please!”

But Cora Sanderthwaite hung on to him.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young Marchmont!” she exclaimed. “Your murdered uncle’s nephew!---faugh! If I’d been you---his blood relation!---I’d have had that man in irons before now---till they can hang him! Yet you’ve just sat there and heard him tell his lies---lies, lies, all lies!”

“Will you let me go, if you please?” asked Richard.

The oddly dressed man spoke.

“Let him go, Cora!” he said. “No good, my girl---all of a bunch, together!”

Cora Sanderthwaite suddenly released her grip on Richard’s arm and turned to the nearest door; her companion followed her, muttering. Richard made his way to the group on the floor of the court; Barwick was speaking to Lansdale.

“You’ve ample time before the banks close at four o’clock,” he said. “It’s only a little past three now. Get down there with Liversedge, get the numbers of those notes, and let Liversedge get to work tracing them.”

“Whatever you suggest,” responded Lansdale. He turned to his daughter as she laid her hand on his arm and drew his attention to Richard. “Mr. Marchmont?---Mr. Richard Marchmont,” he said. “I have heard all about you, sir, from my girl---I hope to have a talk with you when we have an opportunity. You have heard all I have to say?---now I must go with these people on this bank-note business---perhaps you will take my daughter to our hotel?”

He turned away with Liversedge and the two lawyers, and Richard found himself alone with Angelita in the thinning court. She gave him a questioning look.

“You heard all my father had to say?” she asked.

“Every word!” replied Richard.

“You believe him?”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t. It seems to me that that is just what would take place.”

She turned, pointing to the Coroner’s empty chair.

“That old gentleman didn’t seem to,” she said doubtfully. “Why? He appeared to be against him!”

“Scarcely that,” answered Richard. “He merely pointed out that there was no evidence to corroborate your father’s statement about the notes. But never mind that!---they’ll get the evidence they want. Yourself?”

“I’m all right,” she said, with a shy look at him. “But I haven’t understood things, and I didn’t like being at Malbourne. You got my letter?”

“Yes, and I hurried down there at once---instantly!” replied Richard. “You spoke of being prisoners---were you really prisoners?”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it---to be kept to certain rooms, and to a certain part of the gardens, and to feel that there were men watching you all the time!” she answered. “My father said we weren’t; that it was all business---but I felt that we were. And I don’t like Vandelius----”

She paused suddenly, and Richard, turning in the direction in which she looked, saw Simpson coming up to him.

“Can you make it convenient to come to the office, Mr. Marchmont?” he asked. “There are some matters there which require your attention. I telephoned to your rooms yesterday and again this morning, but you weren’t at home.”

“I’ll come in an hour from now,” replied Richard. He turned to Angelita when the clerk had withdrawn. “You heard what your father said?” he went on. “I’m to take you back to your hotel. Come along---we can have half an hour together, at any rate. . . .” But at the end of the half-hour he tore himself away, and hurried to Bedford Row, where he found Simpson in the room that had been Henry Marchmont’s. Simpson, as being in charge of the business, had installed himself in his old master’s room and chair, but he rose from the chair when Richard walked in and offered it to him as by right. From a drawer he produced a sheaf of documents.

“These are the matters arising out of the will, Mr. Marchmont,” he said. “You told me that you’d like to pay out the legacies as soon as possible, and of course you can do that at any time without waiting to take out probate. So I’ve prepared the cheques for your signature---these other papers relate to some business matters.”

He laid several already filled-in cheques on the blotting-pad; Richard, who knew next to nothing of legal matters, proceeded, without demur or question, to sign them.

“What are you going to do with your ten thousand pounds, Simpson?” he asked, half jokingly, as he handed the cheque back. “Very useful legacy, isn’t it?

“It will be exceedingly useful to me, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Simpson solemnly. “I propose, as you are selling this business as a going concern, to buy myself a partnership in another firm.”

“Why don’t you join the people who are taking this over?” asked Richard.

“I don’t think they want another partner,” said Simpson. “There are four of them already. No!---I know of a very good firm in the West End, sir, where I can get a partnership---a firm with a first-rate conveyancing practice. The matter can be arranged now that I have received my legacy---for which, Mr. Marchmont, I assure you I am truly grateful to my late employer!”

“Oh, well, I’m sure he was glad to leave it to you, Simpson,” said Richard. “But I say---as regards that evidence we heard this afternoon---is there nowhere, no place in which my uncle could have put those bank-notes for safety?”

“I cannot think of any place, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Simpson. “I---sometimes with you, sometimes alone---have been through the whole office. I am quite sure no bank-notes were in this house that morning!”

“What do you think about their disappearance, then?” asked Richard. “What’s your theory?”

Simpson assumed the demeanour of a man who thinks, or has thought, a good deal about the subject proposed to him, but who is not sure that it would be wise to say what his thoughts are or have been.

“Well, Mr. Marchmont,” he replied at last, “the matter is, of course, sub judice. But a great deal might be said. We must remember that your uncle did sometimes have callers here at night. I know for a fact that men sometimes came here of an evening who sold him old books, curios, things of that sort. The sight of those notes lying on his desk would tempt some men---even to murder! And . . . the doctors may have been mistaken as to the exact time of his death. It may have been an hour or two later---he may have had visitors of the sort I have just referred to. The present thing to do is to trace those notes---if it can be done. It will take time.”

But before noon next day Richard heard that Liversedge had achieved success in the first stage of the note inquiry. All but five of the forty £500 notes had already been cashed at the Bank of England.