25: The Dead Man’s Letter

[Admin]

SANDERTHWAITE moved aside as he volunteered this information, and Liversedge, taking the movement as an invitation to enter, stepped into the hall, followed by Richard. There, coming down the stairs they saw Mrs. Mansiter, who, like her brother, appeared to have risen hastily from bed.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously, peering at the detective. “Is it----?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid about, ma’am,” said Liversedge, going forward. “You know me—and Mr. Richard Marchmont. If we could just have a word or two with you and your brother?”

Sanderthwaite turned into the room in which Richard had witnessed Cora’s strange outburst of fury against Lansdale, and lighted the gas. The visitors walked in, followed by Mrs. Mansiter; in the gloom they saw that her face, despite the detective’s assurance, was full of doubt.

“There must be something, when you come at this hour of the night,” she said. “Past twelve o’clock! If it’s my sister----”

“Your brother says she’s not with you,” interrupted Liversedge. “I wanted to ask her a question or two, Mrs. Mansiter. Perhaps you can tell me----”

Mrs. Mansiter made an uneasy movement. It was plain to Liversedge that she was put out and anxious; she was watching her visitors closely; so, too, was Sanderthwaite.

“We’ve had a great deal of trouble with Cora,” she remarked presently. “Ever since all this began she’s been strange in manner. And some days ago---a week---she went away. We don’t know where she is.”

Liversedge turned to Richard.

“Mr. Marchmont saw her, though, a day or two ago,” he said. “She was at the adjourned inquest. She spoke to Mr. Marchmont.”

“There was a man with her,” said Richard. He went on to describe Cora’s companion. “They sat together and went away together.”

Mrs. Mansiter looked at her brother.

“That would be Mr. Appleby, Liney!” she said. “She must have gone there---to Mr. and Mrs. Appleby.”

“Who are they, ma’am?” inquired Liversedge.

“Old friends of ours, who live in Clapham now,” replied Mrs. Mansiter. “They used to live at Clayminster, when we did. They lost money in that Land affair. If Cora’s with them, she’ll be safe. But I should have thought Mr. Appleby would have let us know.”

“I suppose you know where Mr. Appleby lives?” suggested Liversedge. “You can give me his address?”

“Oh, yes, I can give you his address,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “But you’ll not go there to-night, will you? Cora is in a strange state---we’ve been frightened about her. Ever since Mr. Henry Marchmont sent for her and me and told us that Land, or Lansdale, was back in this country she’s been queer---it upset her.”

“I told you the reason---when you were here before,” said Sanderthwaite.

“I remember,” agreed Liversedge. “Well!” he went on after a pause. “I don’t want to give you any further trouble, but there are matters I’m bound to go into. We’ve had information that just about the time Mr. Henry Marchmont was shot on the stairs of his office, a woman answering the description of your sister was seen to run across the street outside, as if from the door of the office. Now do you know if your sister was out that evening, at that time?”

The brother and sister looked at each other, wonderingly.

“I couldn’t say,” replied Mrs. Mansiter, after a pause. “I couldn’t say anything as to that, now. She might have been---she’s not to be controlled, Cora, and she has a habit of going out and wandering about. But as to that particular evening---oh, I can’t say anything about that, at all!”

“Nor me!” said Sanderthwaite. “I don’t remember anything about her movements that night. What makes you think the woman you heard about might be my sister Cora?”

“General description, Mr. Sanderthwaite,” replied Liversedge. “It occurred to me that she might have gone there, expecting to meet Lansdale. She---to put it plainly---she’d got Lansdale on the brain after hearing that he was back, hadn’t she?”

Mrs. Mansiter sighed deeply.

“It was a great pity Mr. Henry Marchmont ever sent for us that morning!” she said. “It---it revived old matters that I’d preferred to let be. It upset Cora---and then of course was the news of the murder close upon it. She---she’s firmly convinced that Lansdale killed Mr. Henry Marchmont. And yet----”

She paused, looking from one to the other of her visitors as if uncertain of what to say next.

“You don’t think so, ma’am?” suggested Liversedge.

“I had a letter from Mr. Henry Marchmont the morning after we’d seen him,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “I couldn’t believe it was Lansdale after getting that.”

“A letter, eh?” exclaimed Liversedge. He contrived to bring his elbow into contact with Richard. “The morning after you’d been to Bedford Row? And what was there in it, Mrs. Mansiter, that made you think Lansdale innocent?”

Mrs. Mansiter got up and went over to an old bureau, where she unlocked a drawer and produced a letter which she handed to the detective.

“That’s it,” she said. “I put it by when I’d read it, for you see, just after getting it we heard about what had happened at Bedford Row, and of course as Mr. Henry Marchmont was dead, there was no use in our going to see him again. I thought, perhaps, that when things were cleared up, I might hear more of what he refers to. But I’ve heard nothing.”

Liversedge and Richard bent over the letter when the detective had laid it on the table at which they were sitting. It bore marks of hasty writing, but Richard had no difficulty in recognising his uncle’s bold hand.

    “187, Bedford Row, W.C.
    “Tuesday Evening.
    “Dear Mrs. Mansiter,
    “With regard to our conversation this morning---Lansdale has been here this evening. I’m not sure upon reflection that I may not have been wrong, or misinformed, in my judgment about him in relation to the Clayminster affairs. However, right or wrong, Lansdale is willing to do something for the various sufferers in that matter, and he has placed a large sum of money in my hands which he wants me to distribute. I should like to have a talk with you about this, so please call here again to-morrow, during the morning. If you can think of anybody else, still living, who lost money at Clayminster at that time, make a memorandum of their names,
    “Yours truly,
    “Henry Marchmont.”

“That’s the letter that Crench told us of, Mr. Marchmont!” whispered Liversedge. “The letter that he went out to post with his own hands! And a really important discovery it is, too! Mrs. Mansiter!” he went on, raising his voice. “You must let me take this! It will be of the greatest service to us---I wish we’d had it before!”

“I didn’t know what to do about it,” said Mrs. Mansiter. “Yes, you can take it. But---do you think there will be money for anybody, as Mr. Henry Marchmont said?”

“I think you’ll find the money to be all right,” answered Liversedge. He put the letter carefully away in his pocket-book, and rose. “Now if you’ll give me Mr. Appleby’s address,” he concluded, “I’ll not keep you longer.”

“You can have the address,” said Mrs. Mansiter, “but we shall go there ourselves to-morrow morning. It’s 591 Clapham Common—north side.”

Once again in the now deserted streets, Liversedge turned eagerly to Richard.

“I’m not certain that this letter isn’t the most important bit of real evidence I’ve got in this case, Mr. Marchmont!” he said. “Rum stroke of luck to get it! You see, it proves Lansdale’s story about the money to be true. You’ll remember what the Coroner said when he heard Lansdale’s story about the notes?---that it was easy to prove that he’d got them from his bank, but nothing to prove that he handed them over to your uncle! Well, here is the proof! Certainly, the amount is not specified in this letter, but it does speak of a large sum. We’ve got a plain, straightforward sequence of facts about the notes now! Drawn from the bank by Lansdale; handed over by him to Mr. Henry Marchmont; found, as regards some of them, at any rate, in possession of Garner, Crench, and Simpson. A splendid find---this letter!”

“Will it help you to settle the big problem?” asked Richard. “Who shot my uncle? That’s what I want to know!”

“Every little thing helps in a case of this sort,” replied Liversedge. “And sometimes on first getting hold of it, you don’t realise how much a comparatively insignificant thing---a seemingly insignificant, I should say---may help. The problem to me is---what was the motive in this case? Was Mr. Henry Marchmont murdered for the twenty thousand pounds? Was he murdered to keep him silent for ever about Lansdale’s past? Or . . . was he murdered in mistake for Lansdale?”

“The last argues that Cora Sanderthwaite is guilty,” said Richard.

“Maybe!” agreed the detective. “I shouldn’t wonder! But I shall go down to Clapham in the morning, after I’ve had another interview with Crench, and, if I can get him to talk, with Simpson. Are you doing anything to-morrow morning, Mr. Marchmont?”

“Nothing!” replied Richard.

“Stay in your rooms till I call---unless I ring you up to join me somewhere,” said Liversedge. “I shall be sure to have some news for you, of some sort. Now I’m going home---dog-tired!”

Richard was tired, too, and in spite of the exciting events of the evening he slept like a top and so far into the morning that he had only just sat down to breakfast, at nearly eleven o’clock, when Scarfe showed Liversedge into the room. He saw at once that the detective was full of whatever it was he had to tell.

“No breakfast, thank you, Mr. Marchmont!” said Liversedge. “I’d mine long since---and a good lot’s happened since then! I told you I should have some news for you, and so I have, but I never expected as much, nor of such quality!”

“Well?” asked Richard. He motioned Liversedge to an easy chair and pushed a box of cigarettes over to him. “Something important?”

“Aye---and just as unexpected!” exclaimed the detective. “Take your time over your breakfast and I’ll tell you. I went round to see our captives of last night as soon as I’d had mine,” he went on, “and as soon as I got there I was told that Simpson wanted to see me if I called. Of course I went to see him. Simpson, mind you, had had the night for reflection. He’s a hard nut---in my opinion, a cool, practised hand at dissimulation and all that sort of thing, and, when fairly cornered the sort who faces facts---he’s not a coward, like Crench. As soon as I went in, he asked me straight out if he and Crench were going to be charged with the murder of your uncle? I gave him the same reply that I gave to Crench last night. Then he pointed out that of the moneys and securities found on him and in his suit-case at the time of his arrest, a certain specified amount was his own lawful property. I agreed. Then he wanted to know if Crench had made a statement, and if so, what it was? After considering matters, I told him that Crench had made a clean breast---according to himself---of all that he knew and all that he and Simpson had done, and had signed it. Then, of course, Simpson wanted to see it. I humoured him in that: I went and got a copy, and I let him read it. He’s as cool as a cucumber, that chap, Mr. Marchmont!---he read Crench’s statement over three times, without moving a muscle or winking an eyelash. At last he handed it back. ‘Yes, Liversedge,’ he said quietly, ‘that’s quite correct as far as Crench and myself are concerned---conjointly. But I can tell more than that, and I’ve decided that I will! I tell you,’ he went on, ‘I’m going to do that in the hope that it will tell in my favour. It’s useless, now, worse luck, to deny that Crench and I were in possession of moneys taken from Henry Marchmont’s safe after his death. We’ve lost that game!---but I don’t want to be let in as regards a charge of murder, any more than Crench does. So I’ll make a statement---not supplementary to Crench’s, for it’ll be on a different matter---and when I’ve made it, I think you’ll have enough stuff in your hands to enable you to put them on the right man!---you’ll be singularly wanting in the very qualities you ought to possess if you haven’t,’ he said. Now that made me prick my ears. ‘Look here, Simpson!’ said I. ‘Regard this as a bit of informal talk! You know where you are, and what hole you’ve got into---worse luck, as you say. But you’re convinced in your own mind of your innocence of Henry Marchmont’s murder!---now, before you make any statement, which, of course, will be a formal matter, have you formed any opinion as to who did kill Henry Marchmont?’ He laughed, in that cold, half-sneering way of his. ‘Why, of course I have, Liversedge!’ he replied. ‘Always have had---never had a doubt about it!’ ‘Who then?’ I asked, wondering, and eager, I can tell you, about what he would answer. ‘Why!’ he said, laughing again, ‘Vandelius, of course---Vandelius!’ ”

Liversedge paused and looked at Richard. Richard had dropped his knife and fork on his plate and sat listening, open-mouthed. The detective smiled.

“Yes!” he said. “That’s just like I felt!---I sat staring at him! For though, as you know, Mr. Marchmont, I’ve had suspicions about Vandelius, it never seemed to come right home---dead heavy!---until Simpson spoke in that cynical way of his. ‘You really think that?’ I said, when I could find my tongue. ‘I’ve already said so, haven’t I?’ retorted he. ‘But---proof!’ said I. He laughed again at that. ‘You get my statement down,’ he said. ‘Then---you’ll see!’ So I made arrangements for his statement to be properly taken down, there and then, and when it was done and he’d signed it, I got a copy made which I’ve brought with me---here it is, Mr. Marchmont, and I’ll read it to you.”

With this, the detective drew from his pocket a foolscap envelope.