The Mill House Murder E-Book

J.S. Fletcher

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

It tells about the murder of James Martenroyd, the owner of the Yorkshire mill, who was going to marry a second time. Suddenly, his body is found near his own house. Under suspicion is his nephew. Why was his door so carefully shut? There are many questions that need to be solved.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. MRS. JOHN MARTENROYDE

CHAPTER II. THE MILL-OWNER

CHAPTER III. THE MILL WEIR

CHAPTER IV. FOUL PLAY

CHAPTER V. SUSPICION

CHAPTER VI. FAMILY AFFAIRS

CHAPTER VII. DEAD MAN’S GOODS

CHAPTER VIII. HANNAH’S CASTLE

CHAPTER IX. HEAR ALL: SAY NAUGHT

CHAPTER X. WHO WAS IT?

CHAPTER XI. MOTIVE

CHAPTER XII. WHAT OF TOMORROW?

CHAPTER XIII. THE PERFECT ALIBI

CHAPTER XIV. PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

CHAPTER XV. THE CONSERVATORY DOOR

CHAPTER XVI. THE SILENT HOUSE

CHAPTER XVII. THE LONELY MOOR

CHAPTER XVIII. LOYALTY

CHAPTER XIX. DR. PONSFORD CALLED IN

CHAPTER XX. FAMILY EVIDENCE

CHAPTER XXI. A CERTAIN SENTENCE

CHAPTER XXII. DOCTORS AGREE

CHAPTER XXIII. THE GUILTY WIFE

CHAPTER XXIV. PAST HISTORY

CHAPTER XXV. ASSAULT OF HANNAH’S CASTLE

CHAPTER XXVI. THE RINGING IN THE NIGHT

CHAPTER XXVII. VOLUME OF EVIDENCE

CHAPTER XXVIII. TWO OF A KIND

CHAPTER XXIX. THE LAST OF THE MARTENROYDES

CHAPTER I. MRS. JOHN MARTENROYDE

It was in the winter following the resumption of my associations with my old firm (formerly called Camberwell & Chaney, but now styled Chaney & Chippendale) that on walking into our Jermyn Street office one January morning I found Chaney knitting his brows over a letter which he presently passed across to me.

“This seems to be something in your line, Camberwell,” he remarked. “Perhaps you’ll attend to it? The gentleman appears to want us to do some work for him in London, but to go all the way to Yorkshire for instructions. I can’t go, nor can Chippendale. You’re the travelling man–you take it on.”

I sat down at my desk and read the letter, which was written on a big sheet of letter paper in a bold, masculine hand of a somewhat rudimentary sort–my idea was that the writer was not much given to the use of his pen. And this is what I read:

Todmanhawe Grange

Shipton, Yorkshire

Jan. 24th, 19–

Messrs. Chaney & Chippendale

Jermyn St., W. 1

Dear Sirs,–I have some business that I want attending to in London; business of a very private and confidential nature, and having had your firm highly recommended to me by a London friend, I should be glad if you could undertake said business. As I shall not be able to go to London at present, and the business is urgent, I shall be obliged if you can send one of your firm down here to take my instructions, as soon as possible after your receipt of this letter. For your information I had better tell you how to reach this place. If your representative would take the 12 o’clock train from St. Pancras Station, London, to Leeds, he would arrive there at 3.52, and after changing would catch the 4.07 to Shipton, where my car would meet him at 4.43. As already said, I should like to see your representative as soon as possible and to offer him every hospitality during his visit here.

Yours truly,

James Martenroyde

Then followed a characteristic addition.

PS. As you may not know my name, I may state that I am the sole proprietor of Todmanhawe Mills, and that my bankers are the Shipton Old Bank, Ltd. My London office is 59a, Gresham Street, E.C.

It was not the way of our firm to make delay in anything, and after sending off a telegram to Mr. James Martenroyde, informing him that Mr. Ronald Camberwell, of Chaney & Chippendale, would be at Shipton at 4.43 that afternoon, I picked up the suitcase which I always kept ready packed for any emergency and set off to St. Pancras. And some five hours later I stepped out of a warm first-class carriage on to the wind-swept platform of Shipton station and shivered in recognition of the wintry landscape of which for the last twenty miles I had been getting glimpses in the rapidly gathering dusk.

A smartly liveried young chauffeur came along the platform, eyeing the various passengers who had left the train. He spotted me and my suitcase and came forward.

“Mr. Camberwell, sir? From Mr. Martenroyde, sir. This way, sir–the car’s outside.”

Seizing my suitcase, he led the way over a bridge and down the opposite platform to the exit from the station. There stood a handsome limousine, one of the most expensive of the luxury makes–capacious enough to carry a small family. Opening one of the doors, the chauffeur ushered me inside, installed me in a thickly cushioned corner, and drew a rug over my knees.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but you won’t mind if we give Mr. Martenroyde’s sister-in-law a lift back?” he asked as he tucked me up. “Mrs. John Martenroyde, sir. She’s in the town and as she lives close by our place–”

“Oh, of course,” I replied. “By all means. Is the lady here?”

“No, sir–pick her up in the market place. All right, sir?”

I assured him that I was very comfortable, and after switching on the electric light above my head, he mounted his seat and drove off. It was now almost dark, and I could see little of the town through which we drove–there was a long street, flanked on one side by great buildings which I took to be mills or workshops, all brilliantly lighted, and at the end of it a long, wide space which I set down as the market square of which my driver had just spoken. There were crowds of people on the pavements there, and between the pavements and the roadway were rows of canopied stalls on which all sorts of merchandise lay displayed–this, I concluded, must be a market-day at Shipton. Half-way along the square, the car drew up before the front of an old-fashioned, bow-windowed hotel, the lower casements of which were veiled by red blinds. The chauffeur dismounted and walked into the open door; following his movements along the wide hall within, I saw him turn into one of the rooms. But he was out again at once, and turning into another; evidently he knew where to look for the lady he was expecting. Presently he came out to the car and opened the door.

“Not here yet, sir,” he said. “Doing a bit of shopping, I expect. I’ll just look round for her, sir–I know where she’s likely to be.”

He turned off towards a row of shops, and thinking that he might be some time in finding my prospective fellow-traveller, I got out of the car and looked about me. I had never been in that part of the country before–this, I concluded, was doubtless a typical Dale town. That it was in the heart of the pastoral country which lies between the Yorkshire hills and the Lancashire border I knew; that I was a couple of hundred miles from London I soon recognized by hearing the speech of the folk who passed me or gathered about the stalls. I was taking all this in when the chauffeur came back, alone.

“Can’t see her yet, sir,” he said. “But she can’t be long. Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I’m in no hurry. You’re not a Yorkshireman, I think?”

“Londoner, sir,” he answered. “Mr. Martenroyde brought me up here when he bought this car at the show at Olympia, two years ago.”

“Like these people?” I asked.

He smiled at the question.

“They’re all right, sir–when you get to know them,” he answered. “Bit queer, sir–to us southerners, at first. Couldn’t understand their lingo when I first came here, but I know it pretty well now. Here’s Mrs. John, sir.”

I turned–to see a tall, finely built woman, warmly wrapped in a magnificent fur coat, bearing down upon us. In the glow of light from the street lamps and from the naphtha flares which hung above the stalls, I had a good view of her as she came up. She was apparently between fifty and sixty years of age, still uncommonly good-looking and with much of the fire of youth still shining from her dark, keen eyes; and from the sharp, questioning look which she gave me, taking me all in as she drew near, I saw that she was a woman of perception and character.

“Good evening,” she said, as I drew aside from the open door of the car and raised my hat. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Orris,” she continued, turning to the chauffeur, “just stop at Simpson’s, top of the market place, and go in and ask for a parcel for Mrs. John Martenroyde–you can put it in the front seat. And that’s all.”

She stepped into the car, and I followed; Orris spread the rugs over our knees, and we moved off. At the top of the square Orris pulled up again and vanished into a dry-goods shop; presently he came out carrying a bulky parcel. Mrs. John Martenroyde leaned forward and watched its disposal on the front seat. Then as we set off again, she settled herself in her corner and tucked her share of the big fur-lined rug round her plump person.

“A cold evening,” she remarked. “You’ll no doubt feel it. You’ll be from London, I expect? Orris, he said there was a gentleman from London expected.”

“I am from London–yes,” I assented. “But it was very cold in London this morning.”

She received this news in silence, as if slightly incredulous of it.

“I never was in London but once in all my life,” she said after a pause. “Me and my husband, John Martenroyde, once went there, for a week, not so long after we were wed. But eh, I was glad to get home again!–I couldn’t stand the crowds in the streets and the noise of the traffic. I was rare and pleased to see Todmanhawe again, Mister–I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Camberwell, Mrs. Martenroyde,” I said. “I heard yours from the chauffeur.”

“Mrs. John Martenroyde,” she remarked. “My husband–dead some years now, Mr. Camberwell–being younger brother to Mr. James Martenroyde that you’re going to see. And very quiet you’ll find it, our way, after London.”

“Todmanhawe is a quiet place, then?” I suggested.

“Last place God ever made, some of them say that lives in it,” she answered. “Out of the world, you see. Of course it isn’t so bad, what there is of it. There’s five hundred people employed at my brother-in-law’s mill, and there’s others in the place, and there’s a few private residents, and there’s Todmanhawe Grange, where James lives, and the Mill House, where me and my two sons live, so it isn’t a desert. But, of course, one of my sons, Mr. Sugden Martenroyde, he’s not at home now–he’s his uncle’s manager, or representative, as they term it, in London–perhaps you know him?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t that pleasure, Mrs. Martenroyde.”

“Well, of course London’s a big place, and there’s a deal of people in it,” she said. “You couldn’t be expected to know everybody, same as you do here. But Sugden, he’s been in London two years now, and he likes it–I expect there’s things in London that appeal to young people. However, he’s just been home for a fortnight–gone back this afternoon. I like him to come home now and then–it’s not right for young men to forget their home-tree. Now, my other son, Mr. Ramsden Martenroyde, he’s always at home, always has been. He’s a real home-bird, Ramsden. But then, you see, Ramsden’s work is at home–he’s manager of his uncle’s mill. A good, steady business man, is Ramsden–I often say that I don’t know what James Martenroyde and Todmanhawe Mill would do without him.”

“Is Mr. James Martenroyde married?” I ventured to ask. “Shall I find a Mrs. Martenroyde at Todmanhawe Grange?”

It seemed to me that my companion stiffened. She drew herself up in her corner, and when she replied, there was a new note in her tone.

“Nay, you won’t!” she said. “James Martenroyde is a single man yet. But if you’d come a bit later on in the year, you’d have found a Mrs. Martenroyde there–if you understand what I mean, Mr. Camberwell.”

“Oh!” I said. “Mr. Martenroyde’s going to be married?”

“That’s what’s arranged,” she answered. “Of course, a wilful man must have his own way. They say us women are wilful, but I consider men far worse.”

“You–you don’t approve of Mr. James Martenroyde’s marriage?” I suggested.

She gave me a look full of meaning and shook her head.

“No need to say aught,” she answered. “But I don’t approve of elderly men marrying girls young enough to be their grand-daughters.”

I allowed myself to laugh–quietly.

“Well, as you say, Mrs. Martenroyde, we men are very wilful,” I said. “I suppose Mr. Martenroyde must have his way.”

“Oh, he’ll have that, mister, don’t you make any mistake,” she said. “There’s nobody has ever crossed James Martenroyde in aught he wanted to do, I can tell you. A masterful man–that’s what James is. But of course you know him?”

This was a question which I had rather not have answered. But Mrs. Martenroyde was not the sort of person one can put off with silence or evasion.

“I can’t say that I do–yet,” I replied. “Mr. Martenroyde sent for me on a matter of business–I’ve never met him before.”

“Eh, well,” she remarked, “you’ll meet a fine man, as far as looks go. I’ll say that for James–he’s a good man to set your eyes on. But you know, Mr. Camberwell, a man of sixty years of age didn’t ought to wed a young girl of two-and-twenty! Why, Lord bless us, when she’s at her best he’ll be a doddering old fellow of eighty, if he’s alive. Nay, in my view of things, like should wed with like, mister–I never could bring myself to approve of old men marrying young women!”

I was saved from offering an opinion on this thorny subject by the sudden turning of the car from the shadow of a thick belt of trees into a clearer space from which I got an equally sudden view of a great building, lying in a valley, far down below us, its long ranges of windows blazing with light. Behind it I made out against the darkening sky the irregular lines of a ridge of high hills, on the sides of which, dotted here and there, were other lights, betokening the presence of farmsteads or cottages. But the great mill was the conspicuous object in this suddenly revealed panorama, and as we drew nearer I saw that it was a building of six storeys and that lights shone in the windows of each.

“Yon’s Todmanhawe Mill,” remarked Mrs. John Martenroyde complacently. “The electric light makes a good show, doesn’t it, mister?–lights all Scarthdale up.”

“This, then, that we see before us is Scarthdale, is it?” I inquired.

“Scarthdale it is,” she answered. “Yon’s Scarth Fell at the back–when you see it tomorrow morning, you’ll find that it’s covered with snow. And, as I say, that’s Todmanhawe Mill, or if you look up the hillside where there’s a big house lighted up, that’s Todmanhawe Grange, where you’re going–the river runs between the grange and the mill, deep down in the valley. My house is near the mill, on this side of the river; I can see a light in one of its windows, but you won’t–it’s a small place compared with the grange. We’re going down into the valley now, Mr. Camberwell, and I hope this young fellow will be careful–it’s a one-in-three business hereabouts, my son Ramsden tells me, and there’s two of these hairpin bends before you get to the bottom.”

Orris took us safely down a winding road which, dark as it was by that time, I realized to be of a precipitous sort. The great mill and its blaze of light drew nearer and nearer; finally, having reached the level of the river, the car stopped at a house which stood at the angle of a narrow lane leading to the mill, and Mrs. John Martenroyde announced that she was safely home. She bade me a polite good-night, hoped she had not incommoded me by her presence, and, Orris carrying her parcels for her, made for her door.

As I waited for the chauffeur to return, I became aware of three distinct sounds. Somewhere, close by, I heard the swish of water. Somewhere, farther off, there was the roar of water rushing over rocks. And as an accompaniment to these sounds I heard the steady throb of machinery. I gathered from all this that we were now close to the river Scarth, that somewhere not far away the river ran through a defile or over a weir–the hum of machinery, of course, came from the big mill whose lighted windows were now high above my head.

Orris came back; again we moved forward and were presently crossing a long bridge of stone–so long that I reckoned it must be of seven or eight arches. Then we began to climb again. Cottages and small houses appeared on either side of the road; this I took to be Todmanhawe, or a part of it. Still we were climbing and continued to climb until the cottages were left behind. Then came a turn to the right into a narrower road, and then presently into a carriage drive, bordered by trees and shrubs. The car pulled up before the front door of a big house, and dismounting from it, I found myself standing on a terrace that overlooked the valley. Once more the great mill and its long ranges of lighted windows lay far below me.

The door of the house opened and a blaze of light and breath of warm air greeted me. So, too, did an elderly, cheery-looking woman who held the door wide open and motioned me to enter.

“Come your ways in, sir,” she cried. “Mr. Camberwell, isn’t it? I’m Mrs. Haines, Mr. Martenroyde’s housekeeper, sir. Mr. Martenroyde, sir, his compliments, and will you excuse his not being here to welcome you?–he’ll be kept down at the mill till six o’clock or so. But I can look after you, sir. Now, perhaps you’d like to take something after your cold ride?–a drop of whisky, now, or maybe a cup of tea–dinner won’t be till seven o’clock, sir?”

She had bustled me into the hall as she talked, and through an open door I had a glimpse of a big, inviting dining-room, with bottles and decanters on its sideboard, a centre table already laid for dinner, and in the wide fireplace a great fire of logs. Towards these comforts the good woman stretched a hospitable hand.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Haines–not at present,” I said. “What I want more than anything is a good wash–I’d tea on the train, just before I left it.”

“Then I’ll take you up to your room, sir,” she said. “There’s a grand fire up there, for I saw to it myself. Orris, you bring Mr. Camberwell’s luggage up–you know which room he’s in. This way, sir.”

She led me up a thickly carpeted stair, the walls of which were covered with old engravings, and presently inducted me into a big bedroom wherein a fire was piled half-way up the grate. And there, after pointing out various features of the room and telling me that there was a bathroom next door, she left me. Evidently Mr. James Martenroyde believed in having his guests well looked after!

I went to one of the four windows of the room and, drawing the heavy curtain, looked out, to find that I was facing the valley and that the big mill and its rows of lighted windows lay almost in front, deep down beyond the river, stretches of which I could see glittering in the shafts of light from the mill. Somehow, that mill and its blazing lights fascinated me–I imagined the hundreds of workers there, finishing their day’s toil amidst the hum of the machinery. I opened the window and leaned out, thinking to hear that steady, monotonous hum myself. But all I heard was a rising wind among the trees and shrubberies of Mr. Martenroyde’s gardens, and through that the rushing of the river over its rocky bed.

I made my toilet and went downstairs again, and into the room in which I had seen the cheery fire. It was a big room filled with old-fashioned furniture, and there were old pictures on the walls, and in an alcove on one side of the fireplace two or three shelves of old books. Something in its atmosphere suggested the old bachelor, and I was wondering what sort of man I should find Mr. Martenroyde to be when I heard the front door opened and closed, a firm, heavy step in the hall, a loud voice demanding Mrs. Haines’s presence; and, a few moments later, I found myself confronting the man who had commissioned my services.

CHAPTER II. THE MILL-OWNER

It was a big, burly man, clean-shaven, fresh-complexioned, active in movement, alert of eye, who came striding into the room, gave me a quick, all-embracing glance, and held out a strong, firm hand, with a smile which denoted a genuine desire to make me welcome to his hearth.

“Mr. Camberwell?” he said. “How do you do, sir? I must ask your pardon for not being on the spot when you arrived, but us poor mill-owners, you know, we have to keep our eyes on things in these hard times–it’s all we can do to make a living, Mr. Camberwell, nowadays. However,” he went on, with a sly glance which developed into an unmistakable wink of his right eyelid, “there’s still bite and sup to be had–what’ll you take after that long, cold journey and before your dinner? I’ve some rare fine old brown sherry here–or perhaps you’d prefer a drop of whisky? These newfangled cocktail drinks I know nothing about, nor even how to mix ’em. Say the word, sir.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Sherry, please.”

He turned to the sideboard, found the decanter he wanted, and filled two glasses. Pressing one into my hand, he lifted the other.

“Here’s your very good health, sir,” he said. “Nay, we’ll put it in Yorkshire talk–you may never have heard this before–”Here’s to thee and to me and to all on us, and may we never want nowt, noän on us!’ A fine sentiment, Mr. Camberwell! But sit you down till dinner’s ready. Have you ever been in this part of the country before?”

“Not quite hereabouts, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “But I’ve been within a few miles of you, to the northeast, in the next dale.”

He gave me a comprehending look and nodded.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I remember now–it was you that was in that Middlesmoor murder case. Ay–just so! Well, I don’t want to introduce you to any job of that sort, not I!–mine’s a private business affair. But we’ll leave it be till we’ve had our dinners. Never talk business on an empty stomach–that’s one of my mottoes, Mr. Camberwell. My chauffeur brought you home all right and comfortable?”

“I’ve never travelled in greater luxury, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s a magnificent car of yours.”

“Ay, it’s a good car,” he said, almost indifferently, “but I shall be getting a better very soon–I’ve had that two year. And you see”–he half-paused, giving me a half-shy, half-sly glance “–you see, I’m going to what they call alter my condition–I’m going to be wed!”

“I congratulate you, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said.

“You’ll congratulate me again when you see the lady,” he answered, with a confident nod of his head. “A lass in a thousand, she is, sir! But there–if I can’t show her in the flesh, I can show you her picture. I hope you’re a good judge, Mr. Camberwell?”

“Expert, Mr. Martenroyde!” I answered, entering into his humour. “You can trust my judgment.”

He laughed at that, and going over to a desk in one of the alcoves, unlocked a drawer and took out a portfolio. Coming back to me at the fireside, he handed me a large photograph–the work of a fashionable Bond Street photographer.

“There!” he said. “What do you think of that? Full-face, that is.”

The photograph was that of a young woman whose charm lay not so much in absolute beauty as in the signs of intelligence manifested in her large expressive eyes and firm, well-cut lips: good sense and good temper were there in all the lines and contours. Before I could express an opinion, he handed me another portrait.

“Side-face,” he remarked. “And this”–giving me another–“full-length. Now you’ve got her at all angles, as one might say.”

The full-length view showed the young lady to be tall, well developed, a typical out-of-doors girl–well matched with the big man lingering at my elbow.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Martenroyde!” I said. “A very handsome young lady. May one know her name?”

“You may,” he answered. “Mary Houston’s the name. She’s the only daughter–only child, as a fact–of my friend Colonel Houston. He comes here every year fishing and always brings Mary with him, so you see she and I are old pals. And last year–well, we fixed things up. A grand lass, sir!”

“And the happy event, Mr. Martenroyde?–when’s that to be?” I asked.

“First week in March–in London,” he answered. “They live in London–Bayswater. You shall have an invitation to the wedding if you’d care to come.”

“I should be delighted,” I replied. “And I shall congratulate the bride as heartily as I congratulate you.”

He laughed as he took the photographs from my hands and put them back in the desk. Then he shook his head and made a grimace.

“Ay, well,” he said, “I’ve a right to please myself, and it’s nobody’s concern but mine, but there’s always folks who criticize, and I’ve relations that are none so pleased that I should wed at what they call my time of life. Time of life!–I’m at my best!”

“I shouldn’t think there’s much doubt of that, Mr. Martenroyde,” I said. “You look uncommonly fit.”

“I am,” he said. “Never been fitter in my life. But come this way, Mr. Camberwell–I’ll show you a bit of preparation I’ve been making. When you’re going to be married to a young London lady, you know, you have to do a bit of smartening up. Take a look at this, now.”

He led me across the room to a door on its farther side and, opening this and switching on the electric light inside, pushed me gently into what appeared to be a blaze of white and gold.

“Drawing-room,” he said complacently. “A young lady must have a drawing-room. I’ll tell you what I did. I found out which was the best furnishing company in London–a real, slap up-to-date firm. I told ’em to send a man down here. I showed him this room–you see its windows look out on my flower-gardens. “Now,’ I said, “furnish, fit, ornament this room in the very best style–expense no object,’ I said. And here’s the result. Fit for a queen–what?”

“A beautiful room!” I agreed. “I should like to see it when the sunlight’s on it. Excellent taste, too, Mr. Martenroyde–excellent!”

“Ah!” he said. “I told ’em it had all got to be of the best. Pretty penny it cost, too!–they don’t do things for naught, firms like that.”

“No,” I said. “You’d have a pretty fine old bill. But,” I added, slyly, “it shows that you’ve still got a shot or two in the locker.”

“Ah, you have me there!” he replied, laughing. “Ay, well, of course I’ve done well in my time, and if things aren’t quite what they used to be in my trade, we can keep on–we can keep on, Mr. Camberwell. But you must be getting hungry–where’s our dinner?”

He led me back to the dining-room, pressed more sherry on me, and kept up a flow of talk about one thing and another, until a smart, red-cheeked damsel appeared with the first signs of dinner. Thereupon my host bade me pull a chair in and fall to–and for the greater part of the next hour showed himself a good trencherman, an accomplished judge of sound wine, and the most assiduous of men in taking pains to make a guest at home.

I had formed a very good impression of Mr. Martenroyde by the time dinner was over–I thought him a good-natured, frank, open-hearted fellow, full of humour and essentially sociable and friendly. But when the rosy-cheeked servant had cleared the table and he and I were comfortably installed in a couple of easy chairs by the crackling fire, each with a fine cigar between his lips, I was to learn more of him.

“Now we’ll talk a bit of business, Mr. Camberwell,” he said. “As I remarked before, mine isn’t a case of murder nor aught like it–it’ll seem tame enough to you, no doubt. But am I right in thinking that your firm undertakes private inquiry?”

“Quite right, Mr. Martenroyde,” I replied. “That’s our business. We’re private inquiry agents. Of course, the term is a wide one. As a matter of fact, we do a great deal of detective work.”

“I understood so,” he said. “Well, now, I’ll tell you what I want, in confidence. You must know, to start with, that I’m sole proprietor of the business known as Todmanhawe Mill. I made that business, Mr. Camberwell. I’ve built it up from the start, my own self. Never had one stretch of a helping hand with or in it, sir–all my own unaided self–I’m a self-made man, and proud of it. Never mind how I started in life–it was in a very humble way, I can assure you. But I did get a start–and here I am, what they call a warm man. Well, now, I had a brother–he and I were the only two children our parents ever had–my brother John, a year or two younger than me. John never made out–I don’t know how it was–or happen I do know–but the more I prospered, the more he went downhill. I had to do a lot for him, and in the end he left a widow and two young lads, and I had to provide for them, for John left–naught! I sent the lads to school, put their mother in a good house in the village, and paid the piper for the lot. When the lads got to the right age I took ’em into my business, and they’re in it today. The eldest lad, Ramsden, is my manager here, and his brother, Sugden, is my representative in London, where I have an office in Gresham Street. And their mother–and them–lives at Mill House, down by the bridge yonder. You’ll be seeing ’em.”

“I’ve seen Mrs. John Martenroyde already,” I said, thinking it best to let him know of this fact. “Your chauffeur gave her a ride back from Shipton, when he went there to meet me.”

He gave me a look of surprise which changed to one of sly inquiry.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “He did, did he? Quite right–so you rode home with Mrs. John, did you? Well, you’d hear her tongue, I’ll bet!”

“She certainly talked,” I assented.

“I’ll lay she did!” he said, chuckling. “Never does aught else–powerful gift of the gab, has Mrs. John. She’d say something about me getting wed, no doubt?”

“Well, a word or two, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “In confidence, you know.”

“Oh, you needn’t repeat what she said,” he chuckled. “I’ve a pretty good idea–I told you I’d relations that weren’t best pleased that I’m going to be a wed man. Never mind ’em–let’s go back to business. And that’s about my nephew Sugden. I told you just now that Sugden’s my man in London–been there two years. Now Sugden’s been home lately for a two or three weeks’ holiday; he only went back to London this very afternoon. And while he was at home I got a letter about him–from London. It’s about that letter that I want to consult you and to engage your services.”

“An anonymous letter, Mr. Martenroyde?” I inquired.

“Nay, it isn’t,” he replied. “No–if it had been, it would have gone into the fire, unread; I never have aught to do with letters of that sort. No, it’s from a man that I know well enough–old employee of mine, William Heggus. He’s a Todmanhawe man; I sent him to London, as warehouseman, when I started my office there.”

“And he’s written to you about Mr. Sugden?” I asked. “A private letter, of course?”

“Ay, it’s so marked,” he answered, “and it came registered. But here it is, and I want you to read it and then we’ll discuss it.”

He took a pocket-book from inside his lounge coat and presently found among numerous other papers a letter which he unfolded and passed across to me. The handwriting was a plain commercial copperplate style, and I had soon mastered the contents. There was really not a great deal in it. The writer, evidently an old-fashioned man, appeared to be uneasy about the way in which Mr. Sugden Martenroyde was living in London–he seemed to fear that the young gentleman was living rather a fast life among companions of a sort and quality he had not been accustomed to in Todmanhawe. Also he feared that Sugden was inclined to neglect his uncle’s business–he was not at the offices sometimes when there was urgent need of his presence, and the writer had reason to believe that he frequented the races and had transactions with bookmakers. Finally, though disclaiming any accurate knowledge, he suggested to Mr. Martenroyde that it was not a desirable thing to let the account-books of the London office go so long unexamined–Mr. Sugden had full control of them and of the banking account, and so on and so on. I read the letter twice over and proceeded to restore it to its envelope.

“Well, what do you make of it?” demanded Mr. Martenroyde.

“The writer is evidently anxious,” I said. “He may, of course, be all wrong. But tell me–did you show this letter to Mr. Sugden while he was here?”

“Eh, bless you, no!” he exclaimed. “Private–and confidential!”

“Nor mention it to him?” I asked.

“Not a word!” he said. “Not I!”

“Did you ask him any questions which suggested themselves to you after you’d read this letter?” I continued.

“Not a question,” he answered. “I said naught. Not my way. My way is to find out things for myself.”

“Then Mr. Sugden,” I said, “has gone back to London quite unaware that you have had this letter and that you are wanting to know something about his mode of life there?”

“Exactly,” he assented. “I said naught to Sugden, except that I should be in London myself in about a fortnight, and that I’d go through the books of the London office with him.”

“Oh, you told him that, did you?” I asked. “Did that seem to take him aback?”

“Nay, I don’t know that it did,” he replied. “He’s a pretty cool customer, is Sugden. No, he made no remark.”

I passed the letter over to him, but he waved it back.

“You keep it,” he said. “You might have to see Heggus about it.”

I put the letter in my own pocket-book.

“What do you wish us to do, Mr. Martenroyde?” I asked.

He hesitated a moment, looking at the end of his cigar.

“Eh, well,” he replied at last, “I don’t like spying or eavesdropping, but I know William Heggus well enough to know that he wouldn’t have written that letter unless he felt that he’d good reason. What I’d like is that you could just find out what Sugden really does with himself there in London. Of course, he’s only a young chap, and London’s full of temptations. You could find out, I suppose?”

“Nothing easier, Mr. Martenroyde,” I answered. “Give me Mr. Sugden’s private address in London–I have his business address–and in a very short time we’ll tell you everything about him, at any rate as regards how he spends his time. We’ll tell you what time he goes to business and what time he leaves it; where he spends his evenings; if he goes to the races; what he does on Sundays; what sort of companions he has, male and female. One thing, of course, we can’t deal with.”

“Ay–and what’s that?” he asked inquisitively.

“Money matters,” I said. “We can’t examine your books at Gresham Street.”