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« on: March 12, 2023, 03:31:08 am » |
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"ARE you sure, Mrs. Clifton? Where did you hear this?"
She told him of the letter she had had from her father, and Bourke listened, fingering his big face.
"She wasn't broken down last night---in fact, I never saw a woman who looked less like neurasthenia. Eight-thirty---that means she's gone to Belgium. You've no idea what's her destination?"
"I can find out," said Jane, "if you'll come back to the house."
To her surprise, he seemed to consider this question of Marjorie's departure to be of sufficient importance to justify a change of plan. She got on to Donald Wells at once.
"Yes, Marjorie went abroad this morning," said Donald. "I wanted to get her out of the way of this beastly case---she's gone to Germany, and she'll be away a couple of months. She wanted to phone you, but I thought it best not to bother you with her plans. How are you feeling? I'm going back to see Peter to-day and to attend that infernal inquiry. Where is Bourke? I expected a call from him this morning."
It was one of those over-loud telephones, and evidently Mr. Bourke heard the inquiry, for his lips said "Longford Manor."
"He's at Longford Manor," said Jane.
"I can't understand Peter making a friend of that fellow---he drinks too much, for one thing." (Out of the corner of her eye Jane saw the superintendent grin, and knew that he also had heard this.) "You've got to be very careful with him, Jane. Under the pretence of friendship these people gain one's confidence, and you may say something that is very harmful to Peter."
"I will be very careful," said Jane.
He seemed to regard that assurance as ending the conversation, for he hung up.
"He doesn't like me," said Bourke mournfully.
Here was an opportunity which she could not afford to miss.
"What was the trouble at Nunhead, Mr. Bourke?"
"Nunhead? Oh, you mean with Wells? That happened years ago. There was a very rich old lady who lived on the outskirts of Brockley. She was one of Wells's patients. She told him, or told somebody else, that she was leaving him her entire fortune---she was one of those cantankerous old girls who spend their lives quarrelling with their relations. She died so suddenly that the coroner refused Wells's certificate and ordered an inquest. There was some talk of poison, but the experts disagreed. Anyway, when it was discovered that she had not left a penny to Wells, motive was entirely missing. I think possibly the will was as much of a surprise to him as the inquest. What made it look black against him was that he was undoubtedly a specialist in the art of drug-blending---I don't know whether that is the technical word for the practice, but certainly he knew more about the properties of vegetable poisons than most doctors. That came out at the inquest. However, the whole thing blew over, and about six months later Wells---he was plain Dr. Wells then and hadn't got his 'Cheyne'---left the district. How he got to Harley Street Heaven knows, for he left owing money in all directions. There were scores of judgment summonses out against him. The next time I heard of him he was in Harley Street." He looked at his watch. "I'd better hop down to that dear old manor house," he said sarcastically. "I don't think anybody has been murdered in my absence, because I left a couple of particularly reliable men---unless they've killed Rouper, who isn't very popular at the Yard. Did he stay long yesterday afternoon?"
"Not very long," she answered.
"You had the search, of course, and Rouper was very thorough. By the way, did he know the code for the safe?"
She nodded.
"Thought he would," chuckled Bourke. "That's certainly the most widely known combination that any man has. You know it of course---'Janet.' That was his mother's name. Didn't I tell you? I'm terribly sorry. He gave it to me before I came up and told me you could have it."
The door had hardly closed on Superintendent Bourke before she was in Peter's library and was spinning the dial. In another second the safe opened to "Janet," and after a brief search amongst the envelopes she found the will.
What would this document make plain to her? Her breath came a little quicker; she sat down at Peter's writing table and opened the stiff paper.
Apparently this was a typewritten copy of the will, and she read it carefully. After a few preliminary bequests, including one to "Peter Clifton Welerson of £100,000," the will went on:
"The residue of my estate I bequeath to the aforesaid Peter Clifton Welerson, who was born at Elm House in the village of Chadwick on the fourth of May in the year of Our Lord 1902, and I would charge him that all his life he follows the example of sincerity, modesty and loving kindness which made his mother so exemplary a woman, and that he emulates the diligence and the self-effacing qualities of his illustrious father."
Jane would not have been human if she had not smiled at this little piece of egoism.
She read the will carefully from beginning to end, but saw nothing that was in any way illuminating.
That afternoon, browsing along the well-filled bookshelves in the study, she had further evidence of the late Mr. Welerson's many-sidedness. On one shelf which was packed with old school books her eyes suddenly caught the word "Welerson" on the back cover. She took down the slim book and turned to the title page. It was evidently printed for private circulation, and the title was, curiously enough, "The History of Paper Currency," by Alexander Welerson, B.A.(Cambs).
The book was well illustrated---and now she understood why the printing had been private, for there were half a dozen reproductions of famous forgeries, with the errors of the forgers circled in red ink.
Welerson had written other books, for there was a foot-note on one page which ran: "See Acid Reactions, Messrs. Gibbson & Fry, by the same author."
There was genius here---genius that had since crossed the invisible borderline that marks the boundaries of sanity.
She was putting the book away when the front flyleaf, which had been stuck to the cover, came open. Written in a flowing hand were the words "To my dear wife, Janet Welerson," and in brackets, "This book was published on the day our darling Peter was born."
She put the book back on the shelf with a deep sigh. She had hoped to hear from the old lawyer Radlow, but neither the first nor the second post had brought any communication. Peter had telephoned in the afternoon to say that the inquest had been adjourned for a week, and that he would be coming up that night. She was still talking at the phone when Walker brought in a telegram. It bore no signature, she found when she opened it, and had been handed in at Amsterdam at one o'clock.
Tell nobody I wired you. Write me Continental Berlin telling me everything happened. You must trust Donald implicitly: you don't know what he is doing for Peter.
It was obviously from Marjorie, but why had she not put her name? What was behind this mysterious flight of hers? At school Jane had learnt a system of shorthand: she was not particularly proficient in the matter of speed, but she found this method of writing a very useful one, and she copied the telegram in a little notebook which served as diary and engagement tablet, before she consigned Marjorie's message to the fire.
Peter had not returned at four, nor at five. At six o'clock she rang up Longford Manor and his voice answered her.
"I'm afraid I shan't be back in time for dinner, Jane. Bourke will tell you everything that happened."
"Why are you staying on?" she asked, her heart sinking. "You are not----?"
She heard his short laugh.
"Not under arrest---no, thank Heaven! I don't know how long that happy state of affairs will continue. I have asked Bourke to put a man on duty in Carlton House Terrace."
"Why?" she asked, but he gave her no satisfaction.
"Well---I don't want you to be bothered by reporters. I'll be home at ten. Is your father with you?"
"No," she answered, and something in her tone caused him to ask:
"Is he very angry with me---I shouldn't blame him."
"No, no," she assured him.
Mr. Bourke did not arrive until about nine o'clock. It was raining heavily and his waterproof coat was soaked, although he had only walked a short distance.
"Is Peter here?"
He was genuinely surprised---she almost thought alarmed---when she shook her head.
"He said he wouldn't be here till ten," she answered.
His eyes narrowed.
"He left Longford an hour ago."
Something of his alarm communicated itself to Jane.
"Alone?"
Bourke nodded.
"Yes. Wells and the other doctor came away at seven. They insisted upon having some sort of consultation, and I presume the subject has been our unfortunate Peter. Will you see if that is from him?" he asked, as Walker came in with a telegram.
She tore open the buff envelope and, taking out two closely written sheets of paper, read them and passed them across to Bourke. The wire was not from Peter. The first word he looked for was the signature. It was "Radlow."
"This is meant for Peter," he said, but read it aloud.
Re your telephone call have decided in view of innuendoes to-night's papers make fullest statement to-night come Lands Sydenham ten-thirty draft statement be ready Commissioner to-morrow.
"I can't understand much of this," she said. "Mr. Radlow is almost as laconic in his telegrams as he is in his speech. What are 'Lands'?"
"That's the name of his house at Sydenham. I suppose it is old man Radlow?"
Bourke looked the telegram over. There was no office of origin, simply the word "London," which meant that the message had been put on the telephone.
"Peter won't be back till ten o'clock. I think we might as well go down---are you on duty or off?" she challenged him.
"Off," he replied promptly. "Is your car available?"
She rang for Walker and ordered the Rolls to be brought round.
"If Peter turns up before we leave, he'll have to come along. Anyway, you'd better write a message and tell him where you've gone."
He looked at his watch again and frowned.
"I don't like this," he said. "He ought to have been here by now. It's a good road and he should be on the outskirts of London twenty minutes after he leaves the house."
While they were waiting for the car he re-read the telegram and explained the cryptic words at the end.
"He means he is preparing a statement to take before a Commissioner of Oaths. The telephone inquiry I don't understand, but I've no doubt he will tell us all about it."
In spite of the rain the night was warm, and she took a raincoat and later was glad of this precaution, for so heavily was the rain falling that, but for the protection of the butler's umbrella, she would have been wet through walking from the door to the car. It was dark, and the way out of London to Sydenham was one to be negotiated with the greatest caution. Most of the route lay along car lines, and in some places the road was thick with mud. On the way he told her something of Radlow's history.
The old man had the reputation of being a misanthrope and lived practically alone, except for three servants, in the big house where his wife had died and where some of the happiest years of his life had been spent. Although his business lay in Southport, he had been the owner of Lands for forty years.
The house stood in an island site on Sydenham Hill, a high, rather gaunt-looking edifice, surrounded by a triangular acre of garden enclosed in a high brick wall. Bourke had to rely largely upon his memory, and made the error of turning into a side thoroughfare, under the impression that the front of the house faced north. This mistake was pardonable, for by the side of the kerb near a fairly large wooden door let into the wall he saw the lights of a car and ordered the chauffeur to draw up well short of this.
"Just wait a moment," he said to the girl, and, getting down, went forward through the driving rain to the doorway. One glance and he saw that he had made an error and had come to the garden gate.
He walked back to Jane, who was leaning out of the window, looking ahead.
"We've come the wrong side----" he began.
"Whose car is that?" she asked in a low voice. "I'm sure it's Peter's!"
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