Chapter Twenty.
Two months had elapsed since the meeting between Major Murchison and Stella Spencer, recorded in the last chapter.
A handsome, well-set-up man of about thirty was travelling up from Manchester to London. The reason of his journey was his desire to visit his sister, Caroline Masters, who occupied a small flat in the neighbourhood of King’s Cross.
Up to a short time ago this handsome, well-set-up man had been leading a very quiet life in the busy city of Manchester. He was an electrician by trade, and a very clever one. He was civil, well-spoken, intelligent beyond his station, but he had not foregathered much with his fellow-workers, had kept himself very much to himself. And yet, strange to say, this self-isolation had not provoked suspicion or resentment on the part of his daily associates.
Reginald Davis, for such was his name, had been unjustly suspected of murder, and the police had been hot on his track. Then had come the suicide in Number 10 Cathcart Square, and his sister, Caroline Masters, had identified the dead body as that of her brother.
Caroline Masters had always been a plucky, resourceful girl, and devoted to him. The dead man, no doubt, bore some resemblance to himself, and she had taken advantage of the opportunity to swear to a false identification, and remove from him the sleepless vigilance of the police. This much she had conveyed to him in a guarded letter.
Reginald Davis, the man falsely accused of murder, was dead in the eyes of the law: in a sense, he had nothing further to fear. But at the same time, caution must be observed. The few friends he had were in London; at any time he might run across one or more of them. So, taking another name, he had hidden himself in Manchester, and corresponded secretly with the one of the two sisters he could trust, Caroline Masters.
And then, suddenly, the burden had been lifted from his soul. There was a small paragraph in the evening newspapers, afterwards reproduced in the morning ones, which told him that he need not skulk through the world any longer.
A man lying under sentence of death for a brutal murder and without hope of reprieve, had confessed to the crime of which Davis had been falsely accused. In the paragraph, which was, of course, essentially the same in all the papers, were a few words of sympathy for the unfortunate Reginald Davis who had stolen into Number 10 Cathcart Square and committed suicide, under a sense of abject terror. The police had carefully investigated the statements of the condemned man, with the result that they found the late Reginald Davis absolutely innocent.
The late Reginald Davis, very alive and well, knocked at the door of his sister’s flat. She had been apprised of his coming, and greeted him affectionately. She sat him down before a well-cooked supper. He was hungry and ate heartily. She did not disturb him with much conversation till he had finished.
“Well, Reggie, that was a bit of luck indeed.” She was, of course, alluding to the confession of the real murderer. “Now you are as free as air. You were always a bit of a bad egg, old boy, but never a criminal to that extent.”
“No, hang it all, I am not particular in a general way, but murder was not in my line,” he answered briefly. “It was hard lines to get scot-free of the other things, and then to be suspected of that at the end.”
He looked at her admiringly. “By Jove! Carrie, you were always the cleverest of the lot of us. That was a brain-wave of yours, walking in and identifying me as the suicide.” Mrs Masters smiled appreciatively. “Yes, it came to me in a flash. I read the account in the papers. It struck me I might do something useful. I went up to the court with the tale of a missing brother. I saw the body; the poor creature might have been your twin. Of course, I swore it was you, and gave you a new lease of life.” She added severely, “I hope you have taken advantage of what I did, and become a reformed character.” Davis spoke very gravely. “Yes, Carrie, I swear to you I have. That shock was the making of me. I have lain very low, worked hard, and put by money.”
He pulled out an envelope from his breastpocket, and thrust it into her hand; it was full of one-pound notes.
“Fifty of the best, old girl, for a little nest-egg. I have not forgotten my best pal, you see.”
The tears came into Mrs Masters’ eyes. He had been a bad egg, but he had a good heart at bottom.
“That is very sweet of you, Reggie; it will come in very useful. And now to go back for a moment to Cathcart Square. Who was the poor devil who killed himself there? He was as like you as two peas are like each other.”
“I think we have got to find that out,” said Reginald Davis gravely. “Nor, reading the account in the papers, am I quite sure that it was a suicide.”
“But that was the verdict,” interrupted the sister.
“I know, but there are peculiar things about the case. Letters addressed to Reginald Davis were found on him; there was a letter signed Reginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner, announcing his intention to commit suicide. Those letters had been placed there by the person who murdered him, and that person who murdered him was somebody who knew me, unless it was the accidental taking of a common name.”
“But the razor was clutched in his hand, Reggie!”
“Quite easy,” replied Davis, who, if not a murderer himself, could easily project himself, apparently, into the mind of one. “We will assume, for the moment, it was a man. He cut the poor devil’s throat, and then thrust the razor into his stiffening hand, to convey the idea of suicide.”
“It might be,” agreed Mrs Masters.
“Well, Carrie, one thing I have fixed on, and it is one of the things for which I have come up. I go to Scotland Yard to-morrow, tell them straight I am Reginald Davis, without a stain upon my character, explain to them that you were misled by a close resemblance. We will have that body exhumed. I am firmly convinced it was a murder.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, Reggie,” advised Mrs Masters, who had a horror of the law and its subtle ways. “Never mind who was the poor devil who was found there, whether he was murdered or committed suicide. It is no affair of yours.”
“It is an affair of mine in this way,” replied Davis in a dogged tone. “The person who murdered the poor devil, as you call him, knew something about me, and took a liberty with my name.”
“It served you a good turn, Reggie, anyway.”
“I know; I admit that. But the murderer did not know he was doing me, thanks to you, a good turn when he killed the other fellow.” Mrs Masters thought deeply for a few moments. “Reggie, you have been a very bad egg, I am sure. I shall never guess a quarter of what you have been guilty of.”
He laid his hand affectionately on her arm. “Well for you, old girl, you can’t. That is all past and done with. By the way, that letter found on the poor chap, announcing his intention to commit suicide, did they ask you to identify my handwriting? Of course, the others addressed to him didn’t matter much. Anybody could have written them. But my letter was a forgery. Did they ask you to identify that particular letter?”
“They did, Reggie, and my brain was in such a whirl that I could hardly read it. I said that I believed it was in your handwriting. It was certainly very like, although, as you can imagine, I looked at it through a sort of mist. Anyway, it was as like your handwriting as the dead man was like you.” Davis ruminated for a few moments. “That letter was forged by somebody who knew me and could imitate my hand to a nicety. I am thinking of all the wrong ’uns I knew in the old days. I think I can fix him.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Masters breathlessly. She was capable of great daring in the cause and the service of those she loved, but she was not habituated to the ways of hardened criminals.
“A man I was a bit associated with in the old days; luckily he didn’t drag me in far enough. He was an expert forger. We used to call him ‘George the Penman.’”
Mrs Masters shuddered. “Oh, you poor weak soul, you were so near it as that?”
“Very near, Carrie. The shock of the false accusation of murder pulled me up straight. I saw where I was drifting, and made up my mind that the straight path was the surest.” At the moment that Mr Davis gave utterance to this honourable sentiment there was a ring at the bell.
Mrs Masters rose at once. “It is Iris. I dropped her a note to say you were coming. She will be so pleased to see you.”
There floated into the small sitting-room a very dainty and ethereal figure, Miss Iris Deane, a charming member of the chorus at the Frivolity Theatre.
She flung her arms round the neck of her handsome brother. “Oh Reggie, dear, what a treat to see you! And all this dreadful thing is lifted from you.”
Iris was not his favourite sister. She was clever in a worldly way, and had made good. But she had not the sterling loyalty of Caroline.
Davis gently checked her enthusiasm. “And how have you been getting on, Iris? Always floating on the top as usual?”
Miss Iris showed her dimples. “Always floating on the top, as you say, dear old boy. A silly, soft chap fell in love with me; wrote most impassioned love-letters. Well, he was too soppy for me to care much about him, and when his rich brother came along, offering me a price for his love-letters, I can tell you I just jumped at the chance.”
“Did you get a good price?” queried her brother.
“I stuck out for ten thousand,” explained the capable Iris; “but this chap was a good bargainer, and I let them go at seven. It was better on the whole. If I had married Roddie, I should have been so fed-up in a month that I should have run away from him, and then Heaven knows where I might have ended.”
Davis looked at his sister approvingly. There was enough of the old Adam left in him to entertain a slight envy of his sister’s chances. Seven thousand pounds, a little fortune in itself, was a good bit of work, a handsome reward for the display of her dimples.
“Roddie who, dear? You might tell us his other name,” queried Mrs Masters, who perhaps was also smitten with a sense of envy.
“That’s telling,” answered the sprightly Iris, who was not given to be too frank about her own affairs. “But if either of you two dear things want a little ready, apply to me. Of course, you will remember I have got to take care of myself, to make provision for my old age.”
Davis and Carrie exchanged glances. They knew the volatile Iris of old. As a child she had always been mean and grasping. Not much of the seven thousand would come their way, if they were on the verge of starvation.
Carrie spoke in cold accents. “You are really too generous, Iris. But we shall not have to trespass upon your generosity. I have enough for my humble wants. And Reggie has been able to put by, so much so that he has been kind enough to make me a very handsome money present to-night.”
“Dear old Reggie,” said the sweetly smiling Iris. “I am so glad you have made good.”
And then Davis spoke: “Thanks, in great part, to Carrie, who told that splendid lie about the suicide, or murder, at 10 Cathcart Square. You remember that, of course?”
“Suicide, wasn’t it?” said Iris, but her cheek had grown a little pale.
“I don’t think so. There was a forged letter purporting to be written by me. I am going to Scotland Yard to-morrow, stating frankly who I am, and urging them to exhume the body. We will find out who the man, buried under the name of Reginald Davis, really was.”
And then the agitation of his younger sister became extreme. She clutched convulsively at his arm.
“Reggie, you will not do this. What does it matter to you who the man was? Go under some other name, and let sleeping dogs lie.” Unconsciously she had used the same expression as Mrs Masters, but from different motives.
“I have been under a different name for a longer time than I care to remember,” answered Davis doggedly. “I have a fancy to resume my own, and make a clean breast of it to the police. They have nothing else to charge me with.”
Iris fell on her knees, and the tears rained down her cheeks.
“For my sake, Reggie, if not for your own.”
“And why for your sake? Tell us what you mean,” demanded her brother sternly.
And Iris spoke as clearly as she could speak amidst her strangled sobs.
“If you try and unearth that mystery at Cathcart Square, I might be dragged in, and it might be very awkward for me.”
Chapter Twenty One.
Davis directed a keen glance at his elder sister over the bowed head of Iris. The younger woman was by no means of an emotional nature. Light, frivolous and volatile, she had danced through life, and, on the whole, had had a good time. One could not picture her in a tragic mood.
And yet, she was the personification of deep emotion now. She could hardly speak for those convulsive sobs, and in her frightened eyes there was a deep and haunting terror. At what point, and through what circumstances, had tragedy touched this little selfish, self-centred butterfly, gifted with a certain amount of cunning and sharpness, but utterly brainless.
“What do you know of Number 10 Cathcart Square, except what you gleaned from the newspapers?” demanded her brother sternly. “How can you be implicated in the murder of the unknown man whom Carrie mistook for me?”
“But Carrie did not mistake him for you,” wailed Iris. “She told me afterwards that the idea suggested itself in a flash, and when she read the newspaper she was not sure whether it was you who had crept in there, according to the evidence, and made away with yourself, through fear of the police.”
“Leave Carrie out of it for the moment,” said Davis. “Whatever she did was well thought out. Of course, we both know her object was to identify me, if possible, and put Scotland Yard off the scent. What we want to know is, how did you come to be acquainted with the house? What do you mean by saying that, if further investigations are made, you might be dragged in?”
“I was there on four occasions: on the last a few days before the murder, or suicide, whatever it was.”
Davis gasped, and Carrie lifted her hands in horror. What did this confession mean? It was impossible that this slim, weak girl had herself been the murderess, could have killed a big, powerful man of the same build as the supposed Davis, with those slim, weak hands.
She saw the horror in their faces, and hastened to reassure them. “Oh no, not that, I swear to you. I am no more a murderess than you were a murderer, Reggie. But if the whole thing is raked up, and the man whom I believe it to be, accurately identified this time, things might look very black for me.”
Davis lifted her from her kneeling position, and placed her in an easy-chair. “Calm yourself, and tell us the whole story of why and how you came to be in Cathcart Square at all.”
Iris waited a few moments till the convulsive sobbing ceased. She spoke with little occasional gasps, but it was very evident it was a relief to unbosom herself.
“It is a very long story,” she began tremulously.
“If the telling of it lasts till midnight, we must have it,” said her brother in an inflexible voice.
And compelled by his resolute manner, the girl, whom they had always regarded as a frivolous butterfly, embarked upon her strange and thrilling narrative.
“It all arose out of the sale of those letters I spoke to you about. Carrie just now asked me the name of the man who wrote them. Well, I didn’t get further than Roddie, which doesn’t carry you very far. If it had not been for your threat of going to Scotland Yard, I should have stopped at that. A still tongue makes a wise head, you know.”
They could quite believe that. In spite of her ceaseless chatter, Iris had always been very reticent about her own affairs. She had seen next to nothing of her brother for a few years, not very much of Carrie Masters. And, on these occasions, she had always avoided, in a marked manner, any allusion to her private affairs.
“I told you of a soppy young chap who started to make love to me last year. I didn’t care a snap for him, but he was very persistent, and at last wrote me most urgent letters imploring me to be his wife. His full name was Roderick Murchison, a member of the great brewing family; his father has been dead for some time, he died during the War, and Roddie came in for tons of money, although he was not the eldest son. I don’t know if you have ever heard of him?”
No, neither Davis nor Carrie had known of the existence of such a young man. They had a hazy idea that there was a big brewing firm of that name, that was all.
“Well, as I say, I didn’t care a snap for him, although he was awfully good and generous, overwhelmed me with, all kinds of lovely presents: rings, bracelets, fur coats, etc. In our life, you know, one accepts these things from the mugs who are gone on us without attaching very much importance to the fact.” It was evident that Miss Iris had struck out her own line of life, and made a very good thing out of it.
“Well, then, Roddie began to grow desperate, and declared he couldn’t live without me. It was all so genuine that at last I began to think seriously of it. There were tons of money, and although I didn’t cotton much to the sort of life I should have to lead as his wife, still there were worse things than being Mrs Roderick Murchison, with the future well assured, and a handsome settlement.”
Davis and his elder sister exchanged wondering glances. So this butterfly little girl, whom they had always regarded as rather shallow and feather-brained, had had this wonderful chance of marrying a gentleman and a rich man.
“It was difficult to bring myself up to the scratch, in spite of the advantages, for he was so soft and soppy that he irritated me in a thousand-and-one ways, and I knew in a very short time I should grow to hate and despise him. Then one night, after a very excellent champagne supper at the ‘Excelsior,’ he got me in a yielding mood, and I promised to marry him.”
Brother and sister could only marvel at the girl’s extraordinary good fortune, reluctant as she seemed to avail herself of it.
“He told me that before he went to bed that night he wrote to his family acquainting them with the news, anticipating fully their objections, but expressing his strong determination to brook no interference or remonstrance. You see he was his own master, nobody could take his money away from him, and he didn’t care whether his relatives were offended or not.”
“And how did the family take it?” queried Davis.
“I am coming to that,” replied Iris. She was growing much calmer now. It was a relief to unburden her secret to an audience whom she could trust. For she was sure that neither her brother nor sister would ever allow her to put herself into real danger.
“I am coming to that,” she repeated. “A few days after he had written those letters, one to his widowed mother, one to his elder brother, who had inherited the bulk of the big fortune, the elder brother called upon me in my flat. He was a very handsome, well-set-up man, although he had been through a good deal in the War. He was very like you, Reggie.”
“Ah,” ejaculated Mr Davis. He looked at Carrie, keenly watching her sister, with a glance that suggested they would soon be coming to the real pith of this rambling confession.
“He begged the favour of a short conversation. He was perfectly open and above-board. He told me straight he was Roddie’s elder brother, and that his name was Hugh Murchison. He pointed out to me very kindly that his brother was an impetuous young ass—a judgment which I privately endorsed—that Roddie had been infatuated, in his short day, with quite a number of other girls, although, perhaps, not to the same extent as with me.” Iris, getting back rapidly into her light mind, let her volatile and easily impressed nature peep out in her next words.
“Oh, Hugh Murchison was a darling, so quiet, so sensible, and so strong. If he had been fool enough to ask me to marry him, I would not have given him up for seven thousand pounds.”
“But you were prepared to chuck Roddie for that?” suggested her brother quietly.
“I think I let him go a bit too cheap,” answered the fair Iris in a reflective voice. “Many girls have got more than I asked for compromising a breach of promise. But to tell the absolute truth, Hugh Murchison hypnotised me a bit. He was so quiet and yet so strong that I felt he could twist me round his little finger.”
“We want to get to Cathcart Square,” interjected Davis a little impatiently. “We don’t seem to be near it yet.”
“I must tell my story my own way, it is no use driving me,” replied Iris, pouting a little. “Well, as I tell you, he called that day at my flat—that was the beginning of negotiations. Where were we to meet to discuss details? I couldn’t have him at my flat, because Roddie was always popping in and out. He couldn’t have me at his hotel, because nobody knew whom we might come across, and Roddie was always coming there. He said he would think out a plan and telephone or wire me.”
“Ah,” said Carrie, with a sigh of relief: she was a very practical person. “Now, I suppose we are coming to it.”
Iris, heedless of the interruption, went on with her story.
“Next day he ’phoned me up, and after ascertaining that I was quite alone, told me to meet him at 10 Cathcart Square to resume our conversation.”
“Why, in the name of all that is wonderful—” began Reginald Davis, but his sister motioned him to silence.
“Don’t interrupt, please, you will know everything in a few minutes. I went to Number 10 Cathcart Square at the time appointed. He opened the door himself. It was a big house in an old-fashioned square, ages old, I should say, and in the front court was an agent’s board, intimating that this particular house was to let, furnished.”
“I know Cathcart Square well, it’s in an old-world quarter of Kensington,” interrupted Davis. He added grimly, “I know it well, although I did not have the misfortune to commit suicide there.”
“He told me a very funny story. The afternoon of the day before, he had been up to Kensington to visit an old nurse of the family who lived near by. He had strolled round to Cathcart Square to fill up an idle half-hour. He had been struck by the appearance of the house, and loitered before it, when suddenly the door opened, and a somewhat bibulous-looking caretaker came out.”
Davis indulged in a sigh of relief. “We are really coming to it now, then?”
“Yes, you are coming to it. He told me a sudden idea had occurred to him. Here would be a quiet little spot for our meetings, a place where Roddie would never dream of following us. He accosted the caretaker, evidently a drunken and corrupt creature. He explained that he wanted to rent a couple of rooms where he could receive a certain visitor he was expecting in the course of the next week or fortnight. It was no use going to the house agents for that, they would turn down such a proposition. The caretaker, with a couple of five-pound notes in his hand, took an intelligent view of the situation. He gave Hugh a key, and intimated that, if he had sufficient notice, he would make himself scarce on the occasions when the visitor was expected.”
“Of all the mad things—” began Davis, but his sister for the second time motioned her brother to silence.
“Not quite so mad as you think. I fancy I can see into his mind. We could have met at a dozen different restaurants in London, but Roddie was here, there and everywhere: at any moment he might have come across us. He would never get as far as Kensington.” David nodded his sagacious head. “I think I see. Go on.”
“I met him there, in all four times, the last meeting was a few days before the tragedy.”
“And what took place at that meeting?”
“He paid me the seven thousand pounds in notes. I signed a paper agreeing to give Roddie up. I carried out my bargain. I wrote Roddie that same night, giving him his dismissal, and assuring him that nothing he could urge would induce me to reconsider my determination. He sent me frantic telegrams the next day, but I replied to the same effect. After taking his seven thousand pounds, I could not break faith with Hugh, could I?”
Davis was not quite sure that Iris would not break faith with anybody if it suited her purpose. But clearly Hugh Murchison had subjugated her to the extent of respecting an honourable bargain. No doubt she had fallen in love with him, so far as a person of her shallow temperament could fall in love.
“And what has become of Roddie?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. He has bored me to extinction for over nine months. I am glad to be shut of him.”
Davis put a question. “You say Hugh Murchison paid you in notes. What have you done with them? His bank will have the numbers.”
“Will they?” cried Iris, the frightened look again coming into her eyes; she knew nothing of business methods. “I paid them into my own account. Now, you see, if you rake this up I might be implicated.”
“Your opinion is, then, that the man found in Number 10 Cathcart Square was Hugh Murchison?”
“I am as nearly sure as I can be, after reading the caretaker’s evidence. He had some other stunt on beside my own. I was not the only visitor he received.”
Davis thought deeply before he spoke. “If I have him dug up, and he is identified by those who know him, a lot will come to light. Your notes will be traced, for one thing.”
“I am afraid of everything, Reggie. For the love of Heaven, let him rest where he is.” Caroline Masters breathed softly to herself. “You were half in love with him, or perhaps three-quarters, and you don’t want to know the real truth. Oh, you miserable little, paltry soul!”
And then a sudden thought came to Davis. “Now, Iris, you could never think very clearly about things when they got a little bit complicated. You are quite sure the last occasion on which you saw him was a few days before the discovery of the body?”
“I will swear to it,” cried Iris firmly.
“The date of his cheque, which the Bank has, will show that. He probably cashed it himself on the day he paid you, any way the day before. Now, on the day preceding and the day following that tragedy, can you prove where you were?”
Iris began to see light. “Of course I can. The day after I had the notes, I got up a sprained ankle, an obliging doctor, an old (or rather young) friend of mine, sent a certificate to the theatre. I motored down to Brighton with Johnny Lascelles—who, by the way, used to make Roddie fearfully jealous. We joined a jolly little party at ‘The Old Ship.’ I came back the day after the discovery in Cathcart Square.”
Davis rose and gave a great shout: “You have witnesses who can swear to that?”
“Of course,” answered Iris, not even yet comprehending the full drift of the question. “Johnny Lascelles motored me there and drove me back. Then there was Cissy Monteith, Katie Havard, Jack Legard and others who were with me all the time.”
“You silly little idiot,” cried Reginald Davis. “And what the deuce do you mean by saying that you might be implicated?”
“The notes,” she faltered. “My meeting him alone in that empty house. They might suggest I murdered him, if you say he was murdered.”
Davis smote his forehead in impotent anger at her denseness. “How could you have murdered him when you were at Brighton all the time?”
He smote the palms of his hands together.
“I will find out who the dead man was, and also the man who forged my name to that letter to the Coroner.”
He turned to his sister: “As for you, young woman, it may be you will have a bad quarter of an hour, if it all comes out about Roddie. But never mind, you will have a splendid advertisement. The next bunch of letters you get hold of, the price will be twice seven thousand pounds.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
The following morning Reginald Davis, resolved to unearth the mystery of 10 Cathcart Square, stood in the private room of Mr Bryant of Scotland Yard.
He had easily overcome his younger sister’s scruples, her terror at having to give evidence in a court of justice, and being forced to disclose certain transactions not too creditable to herself. She had come to see from the point of view artfully suggested by Davis, that, on the whole, it would be a very good advertisement. It might even take her from her place in the chorus to a small acting part, and then her fortune would be made. She might be able to come across another rich man whom she would like well enough to marry, a man quite different from the somewhat invertebrate Roddie.
Bryant looked up from his papers, and regarded the young man with his keen and steady gaze. Davis’s good looks, and frank air impressed him favourably.
“Well, my man, what do you want with me? I don’t usually see strangers who approach me in such a mysterious fashion. You would neither state your name nor business, only said vaguely that you wanted to interview me on a matter of great urgency.”
“I wished to keep my business for your private ear, sir. Can you throw your mind back to a certain gruesome affair that happened at 10 Cathcart Square?”
“Certainly, although I was not in charge of the matter. The man was identified as Reginald Davis, who was wanted on a charge of murder, the circumstantial evidence against him being very strong; the verdict returned was one of suicide. If I recollect rightly, he had broken a pane of glass in one of the back windows of the house, unhasped the latch of the window, and cut his throat upstairs after he got inside. The facts were accepted at the time as conclusive evidence of his guilt.”
“And you recollect, sir, what happened a short time ago with regard to the crime of which Reginald Davis was accused?”
“Perfectly. The real criminal has confessed. And this poor devil, overwhelmed no doubt by the circumstantial evidence which told so strongly against him, acted too hastily.”
“If the police had caught him, he would probably have been hanged by now,” said Davis a little bitterly.
Mr Bryant looked a little uneasy. “I should say it is more than probable from what I remember of the case; well, you know, the law makes mistakes at times, I will admit.”
“And juries at inquests make mistakes at times, also,” remarked Davis quietly. “This particular jury made a mistake. The dead man was no more Reginald Davis than you are.”
It was not easy to startle Mr Bryant, he had been through too many strange experiences for that, but he exhibited a mild surprise as he put the question: “And what authority have you for saying that?”
“I think you will admit the best. I, who stand before you, am the Reginald Davis who was wanted on that false charge of murder, and branded by that intelligent jury as a suicide.”
“You can prove this, of course. I mean that you are the real Reginald Davis.”
“Of course I can, sir; I can bring a dozen witnesses, if necessary, half of whom have known me since a boy.”
Needless to say that a man of Bryant’s experience did not, as a rule, believe one quarter of what he was told. But this man’s face—this man’s tones—convinced him that he was listening to the truth.
He rose from his chair. “Wait here a moment, please, while I hunt up the particulars of this case. As I told you just now, I was not in charge of it, and I should like to refresh my memory as to certain details.”
He came back after a few moments. “I know it all now, from A to Z. You were identified by a married sister, a Mrs Masters, who gave some details of your career, which did not seem to have been a very healthy one. She was also shown a letter which you were supposed to have written to the Coroner, and she believed it to be in your handwriting. This wants some explanation, I think, Mr Davis, to call you by the name which you say is your right one.”
“Quite so, sir,” answered Reginald composedly. “It certainly requires a good deal of explanation, but if you will listen to me with a little patience, I think I can convince you that the thing is more natural than it appears.” The Inspector threw himself back in his chair: “I have no doubt it was your sister who identified you, but how did she come to mistake the actual suicide for you?”
And Mr Davis gave the explanation which Bryant might believe or not, or believe in part, as he chose.
“My sister Caroline was deeply attached to me. She was in despair when she heard that I was suspected of murder, and was being hunted by the police. As day after day, week after week, went by, and there was no news of my capture, she got it firmly fixed in her mind that I had committed suicide. She hunted the newspapers every morning to find some paragraph that would confirm her fears. And then one day she read about what had happened at Cathcart Square.”
Mr Bryant was now deeply interested. He leaned forward in his chair, and his attitude betokened his eagerness.
“It is possible that her mind had become a little unhinged by her anxiety. She expected to find me, and she found a man who might have passed for my twin brother. So she tells me now that I have revealed myself, for, of course, I lay very low until this belated confession of the real murderer.”
Bryant only made a brief comment on this particular portion of the narrative which Davis was twisting about with some skill. Of course, Mrs Masters had not been deceived by the accidental resemblance, but in pretending to be she had given that brother a new lease of life.
“You say that the man was so like you that the sister, who had known you from childhood, was ready to swear he was her brother?”
“There is no doubt, sir, that at the time her mind was clouded. She went there expecting to find me, and as a not altogether unnatural result, she found what she expected.”
“We will let that pass,” said the Inspector drily. “No doubt, under extraordinary circumstances, strange hallucinations are apt to occur. It was very fortunate for you that your sister made that mistake, and that it was accepted. As you admitted just now, if you had been caught and tried it would have gone very hardly with you.”
Whatever Bryant thought in his own mind, it was evident that he was prepared to admit that Mrs Masters had acted in good faith when she swore that the dead man was her brother. Davis could see there would be no trouble on that score.
“Now we come to the letter,” pursued Davis. “I questioned my sister very closely about that last night. She says she was so overwhelmed with the discovery that she read that letter through a mist, as it were, but she is positive that it closely resembled my handwriting.”
“Another hallucination, I suppose, or an accidental resemblance. Well, if you will leave a specimen of your own calligraphy with us, we can compare them,” said Bryant.
“And I suppose, sir, you will have the body exhumed, for the purpose of discovering who the man really was?”
“I suppose so,” replied the Inspector a little unwillingly. “Although I don’t expect we shall ever find out. Nobody came forward at the time when your sister made that mistake. Is it likely anybody will come forward now? Some poor derelict, weary of life I suppose, without kith or kin to claim him at the end. There are scores of suicides in the year, Mr Davis, who are buried unidentified.”
He added, after a moment’s pause: “Of course, before taking any such steps, we must formally prove, from unimpeachable testimony, that not only are you Reginald Davis, but the particular Reginald Davis who was falsely accused of murder.”
“I quite understand,” answered Davis a little stiffly. “Before I leave this room, I will indicate the quarters where you can obtain the information you want.”
“Then, when I have verified that, I will ask you to come and see me again.” Bryant’s manner as he said these words, indicated that the interview was at an end.
But Davis kept his seat, he had not finished yet.
“May I take the liberty of detaining you for a few moments longer, sir, to impress upon you the importance of having that body exhumed? You may be correct in your theory it is that of some poor derelict, but I have a different theory altogether.”
The Inspector looked sharply at him, and drew a deep breath. “Ah, then, you have some knowledge of something: your visit to me has been leading up to this, eh?”
“No actual knowledge, sir, but a surmise that has, I venture to think, some foundation. I have two sisters. The elder one I have already spoken of to you.”
There was a slight note of sarcasm in the Inspector’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mrs Masters, whose fortunate mistake was of such excellent service to you, during the time you were waiting for the real criminal’s confession.” Davis did not suffer himself to resent this. Of course, a man of the world like Bryant did not believe in this camouflaged story. Mrs Masters was a clever young woman, and had taken advantage of an accidental resemblance to get her brother out of jeopardy.
“My other sister, Iris Deane, is in the chorus of the Frivolity Theatre. I don’t suppose you have ever heard of her?”
Mr Bryant shook his head. He knew a great deal about all classes of criminals, but young ladies in the chorus of the Frivolity, or any other theatre, were not in his line.
“She was at Mrs Masters’s house last night. She came over especially to welcome me, on my re-introduction to the world which I was supposed to have quitted. She made to us a very startling confession, and that confession is intimately associated with the events at Cathcart Square.”
And this time, Bryant was genuinely surprised, and was at no pains to conceal it. Reginald Davis—he was beginning to believe in the man’s identity now—was evidently a member of a very remarkable family.
“You astound me, Mr Davis. Yourself and both your sisters mixed up with what happened there! It sounds like a romance. Pray proceed!”
Davis told the story as Iris had told him, carefully concealing the names of the two men concerned in it for the moment. He was careful to point out that on the night of the suicide she could establish a complete and unquestioned alibi.
Bryant turned on him sharply. “It occurs to me that you don’t think it was a suicide, Mr Davis.”
“I don’t, sir, and at present I can’t quite tell you why.”
“But you must have some reason for thinking that,” said Bryant in the same sharp tone.
“My only reason is this—if the man who was buried under the name of Reginald Davis is the man I believe him to be, there was no earthly reason why he should commit suicide. To the best of my belief, he was murdered for some motive that I cannot guess, and the murderer, after cutting his throat, put the razor in his stiffening hand.”
“It is a theory worth thinking about,” said Bryant, who was beginning to appreciate his visitor very much. “And now, Mr Davis, the name of the man whom your sister met in the empty house?”
“I have kept that to the last, to surprise you. You will know the name, but I don’t suppose you ever came across the man. It was Major Hugh Murchison.”
At this startling announcement, the Inspector literally jumped from his chair.
“But I do know Major Hugh Murchison,” he cried. “He was in my office not so very long ago. Let me see, when was it?”
He turned to his diary and verified the date, and gave it to Reginald Davis. It was longer back than he thought.
“And you have not seen him since that day?”
“No,” answered the Inspector. “Wait a moment till I ring up my friend Parkinson. I couldn’t undertake the job he called on, as it was quite a private matter. I handed it over to Parkinson.”
He rang up his old friend and former colleague. Davis could gather enough from the conversation on Bryant’s side to be sure that a considerable interval had elapsed since Parkinson had seen his client.
Bryant sat down in his chair. “Mr Davis, I cannot say how much obliged I am to you for your visit, and the information you have given me. Now, I know a great deal more than you do about the proceedings and movements of Major Murchison, I know on what business he was engaged, in addition to that little matter of your sister’s. I will go into the inquiries concerning yourself, and please hold yourself at my disposal, give me an address where I can communicate with you readily.”
Davis did so, and said good-bye to the Inspector.
After he had left, Bryant gave instructions he was not to be disturbed for an hour. And during that hour he did the hardest bit of thinking he had ever done in his life.
And now that Davis had mentioned it, the man did bear a superficial resemblance to Hugh Murchison.
Chapter Twenty Three.
It was a very hard nut he had to crack. Thanks to his peculiar position, he was in possession of reliable and exclusive information from more than one quarter. He held several threads in his capable hands, but would he be able to weave them into a net wide enough for his purpose?
His recent interview with Davis had established the fact that four persons were connected with the mystery of Cathcart Square—Davis himself, Caroline Masters (the elder sister), Iris Deane (the younger sister), and, most important of all, Hugh Murchison.
He dismissed, for the moment, the first three from his mind. But Hugh Murchison, with his resemblance to Reginald Davis, was the connecting link between them and another set of actors.
Murchison had consulted him with the view of identifying Mrs Spencer and George Dutton with the Norah and George Burton of those far-off days at Blankfield, and he had identified them as the same persons. He had then handed over the Major to the astute Parkinson, who would find out as much as he could with regard to the present relations between the precious pair.
Bryant had been very busy of late, and he had almost dismissed the Murchison episode from his mind. But when the Major had completed his investigations he would undoubtedly take steps to turn such a scheming and unscrupulous adventuress out of her husband’s house. As to the way in which he would proceed to accomplish that purpose, Bryant, of course, had no knowledge. Neither did he know which Murchison would approach first, the husband or the wife. Perhaps both together.
One thing stood out pretty clearly, from the evidence of Iris Deane, that she had met Murchison alone at the house in Cathcart Square a few days before the discovery of the dead body.
Another thing also stood out equally clearly, that the dead man bore a remarkable likeness to Reginald Davis. If not, Caroline Masters would not have dared to perjure herself as she had done. And he himself had recognised the superficial resemblance between the two men.
Assuming that it was a murder, and not a suicide, and Bryant was beginning to incline, like Davis, to the former theory, why had the murderer fixed upon the name of Reginald Davis, and forged a letter to the Coroner? He must have been somebody who had known Davis at some time, and was acquainted with his handwriting. Like Caroline Masters, he must have been inclined to do the hunted fugitive a good turn, and have trusted to his gratitude to keep a silent tongue.
An hour’s steady thinking had cleared his brain. The conclusions he arrived at were as follows: Hugh Murchison had been murdered by somebody, and buried as a suicide under the name of Reginald Davis. The next question was who was the murderer, and what was the motive for committing the murder? Here he could make a pretty shrewd guess. If Murchison had gone about his mission in a straightforward, but rather blundering, fashion the motive was clear enough.
With Bryant to think was to act. Davis was having a week’s holiday in London, staying with his sister, Mrs Masters. That same afternoon the young man was again in the Inspector’s room, in response to an urgent summons on the telephone.
“Now, Mr Davis, I have been thinking deeply over this rather complicated affair of Cathcart Square, and I am beginning to see a streak or two of daylight. I told you this morning I know a bit more about Major Murchison than you do, and there is just a chance you might help me. I take it you have had a somewhat adventurous career, your sister admitted as much at the inquest. She said in fact that you had been the black sheep of the family.”
Davis hung his head in a shame-faced fashion. “I have to admit it, sir. It’s no use attempting to deny it, when Carrie gave me away like that.”
“I have no desire to pry into your past, except so far as it helps me in my present quest. But I expect, in your time, you have associated with a few undesirable characters.” Reginald Davis admitted the fact quite frankly.
“Now, of course, it is only just a chance. But did you ever come across a man named George Burton, and a young woman who passed as his sister? My first knowledge of them is that they ran a gambling-saloon in Paris, she a good-looking girl, acting as decoy. Then he quitted the card-sharping game and went in for more criminal pursuits.”
“I did know them, sir. If I tell you what I do know, am I letting myself in for anything?” queried Mr Davis cautiously. “You see, since that awful thing happened, I have turned over a new leaf. Nobody could tempt me to go the least bit on the crook.”
“Make your mind quite easy, Davis. We have nothing against you. You know that, or you would have hardly dared to come to life again.”
“Well, sir, I did know George Burton pretty intimately at one time, after he left Paris. He was in the forgery business and he tried to drag me in, but I was clever enough to keep out of it. They used, in his own set, to call him ‘George the Penman.’”
“Good,” said Bryant; “and what did you know about the girl?”
“Not very much, sir. She passed as his sister, but one or two of his pals believed her to be his wife, although there was no evidence of it.”
“Did you ever learn anything of her origin?”
“Well, one chap who seemed to know more about them than their other pals, told me that she was by way of being a lady, the illegitimate daughter of a man well-known in London Society.”
“Do you know the name of the man?”
Davis tapped his forehead in the effort of recollection.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue, sir: it will come to me in a moment—a man who was mixed up in a gambling scandal, and had to leave the country. Ah, I have got it now, he was known familiarly as Tommie Esmond.”
Mr Bryant rose. He had got all he could out of his new acquaintance. The threads in his hand were drawing closer into a web.
“Well, Mr Davis, good-day. Many thanks for the information you have given me, it has been very helpful. I will keep in touch with you.”
“And you think, with me, it was a murder, and not a suicide?” questioned Davis as he left.
But Bryant was not the man to express a decided opinion until he was fully justified by the facts. He kept his thoughts to himself till the last moment.
He smiled pleasantly. “Time will show. I shall have that body exhumed, as soon as I have made a few further inquiries.”
Davis had to be content with this oracular utterance, and bowed himself out. He solaced himself by narrating all that had occurred to the wondering Carrie.
The matter had now become one for the activities of Scotland Yard. The first thing to be done was to ascertain the whereabouts of Hugh Murchison, that is to say, if he was still in the land of the living. Some time had elapsed since he had communicated with Parkinson. Of course, in itself, there would be nothing strange in that. Parkinson had got the information that was required, been paid for it, and with that payment, their relations had ended.
Bryant went to the hotel where the Major had stayed, at any rate up to the time that the detective had last seen him, and interviewed the manager, whom he had known for some years in his professional capacity. This person, a genial and cosmopolitan Italian, readily answered his questions.
Yes, the Major had stayed there for some little time. When he came, he explained that he was only paying a flying visit to London. Had he brought a servant with him? No, he had not. A somewhat strange omission for a man in his position, was it not? The circumstance was easily explained. The Major had had to dismiss his late valet for theft, and was not in a hurry, for the present, to suit himself with a fresh one. This he had told the manager and he was valeted at the hotel.
He had left some time. How long? The manager would find out the exact date. This he did. On the afternoon of the fourth of July. The Major had taken his things down to Victoria Station in a cab with the view of depositing them there, as he was going to take an evening train to Brighton.
Bryant brightened up at this information. The discovery of the dead body at Cathcart Square had taken place early on the morning of the fifth.
Now arose the question, had the Major got through his business with the Spencers before the fourth of July? In that case Mrs Spencer was hardly likely to be still living at Eaton Place with her husband.
Inquiries at Eaton Place soon established the fact that Mrs Spencer was still there. What had happened? Had the Major communicated the result of his research to the husband, with the result that, infatuated with his wife, that husband had refused to credit the story and accepted Stella’s denials?
It was a fairly plausible theory. When men are deeply in love, women can twist them round their little finger. In that case, it was easy to understand that, disgusted with the failure of his intervention, the Major had made up his mind to leave London at once.
One other thing was to be done, to ascertain if the Major had intimated to any of his friends his intention of leaving London so abruptly. For this purpose, Bryant sought out the brother Roderick, who had rooms in Jermyn Street.
Yes, Roderick had met the Major in Bond Street in the morning, and learned of the proposed journey to Brighton. The young man added that his brother was very erratic in his movements, and sometimes would disappear for weeks at a stretch without communicating with any of his friends or relatives.
There was now one of two theories that stood out: the first one that Guy Spencer had been told, and refused to believe the true facts about his wife. The second was, that the Major had shirked the unpleasantness of a personal interview of such a delicate character, and had gone down to Brighton intending to write privately to Spencer from there.
Further inquiries elicited the fact that the Major had never made that projected journey to Brighton. His belongings had never been claimed, they were still lying in the cloak room at Victoria Station.
There was now no further doubt as to what steps had to be taken. The Major had disappeared at a date practically coinciding with the discovery of the dead body at Cathcart Square, the dead body which had been wrongly identified as that of Reginald Davis, whose likeness to the Major was so pronounced. Of that fact, Bryant himself was aware.
The authorities were applied to, and gave permission for the body to be exhumed. As the living Reginald Davis had established his identity to the satisfaction of Scotland Yard, it was necessary to find out, if possible, that of the man who had been mistaken for him.
The body was exhumed and pronounced by half-a-dozen people, including Guy Spencer, to be that of the Major.
It had now become clearly a case of murder, and although those in charge of the case had little or no doubt as to the guilty persons, it might have been very difficult to prove, but for one convincing fact, supplied by the murdered man himself.
But this evidence, which was overwhelming, the police kept to themselves for some little time, for their own good reasons.