“About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer killed
cousin. Cousin talked girl in road.
Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met
girl in wood after 1 a.m.”
Brett jumped up in instant excitement. Ha placed the two documents on a table near the window, where the afternoon sun fell directly on them.
“Written by the murderer!” he cried “The result of perusing the evening papers containing a report of the first proceedings before the magistrates! The production of an illiterate man, who knew neither the use of a hyphen nor the correct word to describe the avenue! Not wholly exact either, if your story be true, Hume.”
“My story is true. Helen herself will tell it you, word for word.”
“This is most important. Look at that broken small ‘c,’ and the bent capital ‘D.’ The letter ‘a,’ too, is out of gear, and does not register accurately. Do you note the irregular spacing in ‘market,’ ‘Frazer,’ ‘talked’? You got that letter, Winter, and yet you did not test every Remington type-writer in London.”
“Oh, of course it’s my fault!”
Mr. Winter’s coup has fallen on himself, and he knew it.
“Oh, Winter, Winter! Come to me twice a week from six to seven, Tuesdays and Fridays, and I will give you a night-school training. Now, I wonder if that type-writer has been repaired?”
The detective had seldom seen Brett so thoroughly roused. His eyes were brilliant, his nose dilated as if he could smell the very scent of the anonymous scribe.
“An illiterate man,” he repeated, “in evening dress; the same height and appearance as Hume; in a village like Sleagill on a New Year’s Eve; four miles from everywhere. Was ever clue so simple provided by a careless scoundrel! And eighteen months have elapsed. This is positively maddening!”
“Look here, old chap,” said Hume, still smarting under the recollections of Brett’s caustic utterance, “say you forgive me for keeping that thing back. There is nothing else, believe me. It was for Helen’s sake.”
“Rubbish!” cried the barrister. “The only wonder is that you are not long since assimilated in quicklime in a prison grave. You are all cracked, I think—living spooks, human March hares. As for you, Winter, I weep for you.”
He strode rapidly to and fro along the length of the room, smoking prodigiously, with frowning brows and concentrated eyes. The others did not speak, but Winter treated Hume to an informing wink, as one might say.
“Now you will hear something.”
Thinking aloud, rather than addressing his companions, Brett began again:—
“The man must have had some place in which to change his clothes, for he would not court attention by walking about in evening dress by broad daylight He met and spoke with Alan Hume-Frazer that afternoon. The result was unsatisfactory. The stranger resolved to visit him again at night—the night of the ball. In a country village on such an occasion, a swallow-tailed coat was a passe-partout, as many gentry had come in from the surrounding district.”
“Yes, that is so,” broke in Hume.
Brett momentarily looked through him, and the detective shook his head to deprecate any further interruption.
“He could not enter Mrs. Eastham’s house, for there everybody knew everybody else. He could not enter the library of the Hall, because the footman was on duty for several hours. Is not that so?”
He seemed to bite both men with the question.
“Yes,” they answered.
“Then he was compelled to hang about the avenue, watching his opportunity—his opportunity for what? Not to commit a murder! He was unarmed, or, at any rate, his implement was a haphazard choice, selected on the spur of the moment. He saw David Hume leave the dance, and watched his brief talk with the butler. He correctly interpreted Hume’s preparations to await his cousin’s arrival. Did Hume’s sleepiness suggest the crime, and its probable explanation? Perhaps. I cannot determine that point now. Assuredly it gave the opportunity to commit a theft. Something was stolen from the secretaire. A bold rascal, to force a drawer whilst another man was in the room! Did he fear the consequences if he were caught? I think not. He succeeded in his object, and went off, but before he reached the gates he saw Miss Layton, whom he did not know, talking to the baronet. He secreted himself until the baronet entered the park alone. For some reason, he made his presence known, and walked with Sir Alan to the lawn outside the window, still retaining in his hand the small knife used to prise open the lock. There was a short and vehement dispute. Possibly the baronet guessed the object of this unexpected appearance. There may have been a struggle. Then the knife was sent home, with such singular skill that the victim fell without a word, a groan, to arouse attention. The murderer made off down the avenue, but he was far too cold-blooded to run away and encounter unforeseen dangers. No; he waited among the trees to ascertain what would happen when his victim was discovered, and frame his plans accordingly. It was then that he saw Helen Layton and David Hume. As soon as the news of the murder spread abroad the dance broke up. Amidst the wondering crowd, slowly dispersing in their carriages, he could easily slip away unseen, for the police, of course, were sure that David Hume killed his cousin. Don’t you see, Winter?”
The inspector did not see.
“You are making up a fine tale, Mr. Brett,” he said doggedly, “but I’m blessed if I can follow your reasoning.”
“No, of course not. Eighteen months of settled conviction are not to be dispelled in an instant. But accept my theory. This man, the guilty man, must have resided in Stowmarket for some hours, if not days. Many people saw him. He could not live in Sleagill, where even the village dogs would suspect him. But the addle-headed police, ready to handcuff David Hume, never thought of inquiring about strangers who came and went at Stowmarket in those days. Stowmarket is a metropolis, a wilderness of changeful beings, to a country policeman. It has a market-day, an occasional drunken man—life is a whirl in Stowmarket. Fortunately, people have memories. At that time you did not wear a beard, Hume.”
“No,” was the reply, “though I never told you that.”
“Of course you told me, many times. Did not your acquaintances fail to recognise you? Had not Mrs. Capella to look twice at you before she knew you? Now, Winter, start out. Ascertain, in each hotel in the town, if they had any strange guests about the period of the murder. There is a remote chance that you may learn something. Describe Mr. Hume without a beard, and hint at a reward if information is forthcoming. Money quickens the agricultural intellect.”
The detective, doubting much, obeyed. Hume, asking if there was any reason why he should not drive back to Sleagill for an hour before dinner, was sarcastically advised to go a good deal farther. Indeed, the sight of that tiny type-written slip had stirred Brett to volcanic activity.
He tramped backwards and forwards, enveloped in smoke. Once he halted and tore at the bell.
A waiter came.
“Go to my room, No. 11, and bring me a leather dressing-case, marked ‘R.B.’ Run! I give you twenty seconds. After that you lose sixpence a second out of your tip.”
He pulled out his watch. The man dashed along the corridor, much to the amazement of a passing chamber-maid. He returned, bearing the bag in triumph.
“Seventeen seconds! By the law of equity you are entitled to eighteenpence.”
Brett produced the money and led the gaping waiter out of the room, promptly shutting the door on him.
“He’s a rum gentleman that,” said the waiter to the girl.
“He must be, to make you hurry in such fashion. Why, you wouldn’t have gone faster for a free pint.”
“I consider that an impertinent observation.” With tilted nose the man turned and cannoned against Hume.
“Here!” cried the latter. “Run to the stables and get me a horse and trap. If they are ready in two minutes I’ll give you two shillings.”
“Talk about makin’ money!” gasped the waiter, as he flew downstairs, “this is coinin’. But, by gum, they are in a hurry.”
Brett unlocked his bag and took from it the book of newspaper cuttings.
“Ah!” he said, after a rapid glance at his concluding notes. “I thought so. Here is what I wrote when the affair was fresh in my mind:—
“‘Why were no inquiries made at Stowmarket to learn what, if any, strangers were in the town on New Year’s Eve?
“‘Most minute investigations should be pursued with reference to Margaret Hume-Frazer’s friends and associates.
“‘Has Fergusson ever been asked if his master received any visitors on the day of the murder or during the preceding week? If so, who were they?
“What is the precise purpose of the knife attached to the Japanese sword? It appears to be too small to be used as a dagger. In any case, the sword scabbard would be an unsuitable place to carry an auxiliary weapon, to European ideas.’
“Now, I wonder if Fergusson is still at the Hall? The other matters must wait.”
Winter returned about the same time as Hume. Brett and the latter dressed for dinner, and the adroit detective, not to be beaten, borrowed a dress-suit from the landlord, after telegraphing to London for his own clothes.
During the progress of the meal the little party scrupulously refrained from discussing business, an excellent habit always insisted on by Brett.
They had reached the stage of coffee and cigars when a waiter entered and whispered something to the police officer.
“‘Rabbit Jack’ is here,” exclaimed Winter.
“Capital! Tell him to wait.”
When the servant had left, Brett detailed his proposed test. He and Hume would go into the hotel garden, after donning overcoats and deer-stalker hats, for Hume told him that both his cousin and he himself had worn that style of headgear.
They would stand, with their faces hidden, beneath the trees, and Winter was to bring the poacher towards them, after asking him to pick out the man who most resembled the person he had seen standing in the avenue at Beechcroft.
The test was most successful. “Rabbit Jack” instantly selected Hume.
“It’s either the chap hisself or his dead spit,” was the poacher’s dictum.
Then he was cautioned to keep his own counsel as to the incident, and he went away to get gloriously drunk on half-a-sovereign.
In the seclusion of the sitting-room, Winter related the outcome of his inquiries. They were negative.
Landlords and barmaids remembered a few commercial travellers by referring to old lodgers, but they one and all united in the opinion that New Year’s Eve was a most unlikely time for the hotels to contain casual visitors.
“I was afraid it would be a wild-goose chase from the start,” opined Winter.
“Obviously,” replied Brett; “yet ten minutes ago you produced a man who actually watched the murderer for a considerable time that night.”
Whilst Winter was searching his wits for a suitable argument, the barrister continued:
“Where is Fergusson now?”
“I can answer that,” exclaimed Hume. “He is my father’s butler. When Capella came to Beechcroft, the old man wrote and said he could not take orders from an Italian. It was like receiving instructions from a French cook. So my father brought him to Glen Tochan.”
“Then your father must send him to London. He may be very useful. I understand he was very many years at Beechcroft?”
“Forty-six, man and boy, as he puts it.”
“Write to-morrow and bring him to town. He can stay at your hotel. I will not keep him long; just one conversation—no more. Can you or your father tell me anything else about that sword?”
“I fear not. Admiral Cunningham—”
“I guess I’m the authority there,” broke in Winter. “I got to know all about it from Mr. Okasaki.”
“And who, pray, is Mr. Okasaki?”
“A Japanese gentleman, who came to Ipswich to hear the first trial. He was interested in the case, owing to the curious fact that a murder in a little English village should be committed with such a weapon, so he came down to listen to the evidence. And, by the way, he took a barmaid back with him. There was rather a sensation.”
“The Japs are very enterprising. What did he tell you about the sword?”
The detective produced a note-book.
“It is all here,” he said, turning over the leaves. “A Japanese Samurai, or gentleman, in former days carried two swords, one long blade for use against his enemies, and a shorter one for committing suicide if he was beaten or disgraced. The sword Mr. Hume gave his cousin was a short one, and the knife which accompanied it is called the Ko-Katana, or little sword. As well as I could understand Mr. Okasaki, a Jap uses this as a pen-knife, and also as a queer sort of visiting-card. If he slays an enemy he sticks the Ko-Katana between the other fellow’s ribs, or into his ear, and leaves it there.”
“A P.P.C. card, in fact!”
“You always have some joke against the P.C.’s,” growled the detective. “I never—”
“You have just made a most excellent one yourself. Please continue, Winter. Your researches are valuable.”
“That is all. Would you like to see the Ko-Katana that killed Sir Alan?”
“Yes. Where is it?”
“In the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. I will take you there.”
“Thank you. By the way, concerning this man, Okasaki. Supposing we should want any further information from him on this curious topic, can you find him? You say he indulged in some liaison with an Ipswich girl, so I assume he has not gone back to Japan.”
“The last I heard of him was at that time. Some one told me that he was an independent gentleman, noted for his art tastes. The disappearance of the girl created a rare old row in Ipswich.”
“Make a note of him. We may need his skilled assistance. Was there any special design on the Ko-Katana?”
“It was ornamented in some way, but I forget the pattern.”
“I can help you in that matter,” said Hume. “I remember perfectly that the handle, of polished gun-metal, bore a beautiful embossed design in gold and silver of a setting sun surmounted by clouds and two birds.”
“Correct, Mr. Hume, I recall it now,” said the detective. “The same thing appears on the handle of the sword.”
Brett ruminated silently on this fresh information. Like the other pieces in the puzzle, it seemed to have no sort of connection with the cause of the crime.
“Why do you say ‘setting sun’? How does one distinguish it from the rising sun in embossed or inlaid work?” he asked Hume.
“I do not know. I only repeat Alan’s remark. I gave the beastly thing to him because he became interested in Japanese arms during his Eastern tour, you will recollect.”
“Ah, well. That is a nice point for Mr. Okasaki to settle if we chance to come across him. Don’t forget, Winter, I want to see that Ko-Katana. Whom did you meet at Sleagill, Hume?”
The young man laughed. “Helen, of course.”
“Any other person?”
“No. I told her I might chance to drive out in that direction about five o’clock, so—”
“Dear me! You were not at all certain.”
“By no means. I am at your orders.”
“Excellent! Then my orders are that you shall meet the young lady on every possible occasion. You took her for a drive?”
“Well—er—yes, I did. You do not leave me much to tell.”
“Did she say anything of importance—bearing upon our inquiry, I mean?”
“Nothing. She had not quitted the rectory since we came away. I asked her to pick up any village gossip about the people at the Hall, and let us know at the earliest moment if she regarded it as valuable in any way.”
“That was thoughtful of you. A great deal may happen there at any moment.”
A waiter knocked and entered. He handed a letter to Hume.
“From Nellie,” said David hastily.
He opened the envelope and perused a short note, which he gave to Brett. It ran:—
“DEAREST,—I have just heard from Jane, our under-housemaid, that Mr. Capella is leaving the Hall for London by an early train to-morrow. Jane ‘walks out’ with Mr. Capella’s valet, and is in tears. Tell Mr. Brett. I am going to help Mrs. Eastham to select prize books for the school treat to-morrow at eleven.
“—With love, yours,
“NELLIE.”
“Who brought this note?” inquired Hume from the waiter as he picked up pen and paper.
“A man from Sleagill, sir. Any reply?”
“Certainly. Tell him to wait in the tap-room at my expense.” He commenced to write.
“Any message?” he asked Brett.
“Yes. Give Miss Layton my compliments, and say I regret to hear that Jane is in tears. Ask her—Miss Layton—to get Jane to find out from the valet what train his master will travel by.”
“Why?”
“Because I will go by an earlier one, if possible.”
“But what about me! Confound it, I promised—”
“To meet Miss Layton at eleven. Do so, my dear fellow. But come to town to-morrow evening. Winter and I may want you.”
So the detective sent another telegram to detain that dress suit, and Hume seemed to have quickly conquered his disinclination to visit Stowmarket.
Winter, who had never seen Capella, was so well posted by Brett as to his personal appearance that he experienced no difficulty in picking out the Italian when he alighted from the train at Liverpool Street Station next morning.
Capella did not conduct himself like a furtive villain. He jumped into a hansom. His valet followed in a four-wheeler with the luggage. In each instance the address given to the driver was that of a well-known West End hotel.
The detective’s cab kept pace with Capella’s through Old Broad Street, Queen Victoria Street, and along the Embankment. At the Mansion House, and again at Blackfriars, they halted side by side, and Winter noticed that his quarry was looking into space with sullen, vindictive eyes.
“He means mischief to somebody,” was Winter’s summing up. “I wonder if he intends to knife Hume?” for Brett had given his professional confrère a synopsis of all that happened before they met, and of his subsequent conversation with the “happy couple” in Beechcroft Hall.
He repeated this remark to the barrister when he reached Brett’s chambers.
“Capella will do nothing so crude,” was the comment. “He is no fool. I do not credit him with the murder of Sir Alan, but if I am mistaken in this respect, it is impossible to suppose that he can dream of clearing his path again by the same drastic method. Of course he means mischief, but he will stab reputations, not individuals.”
“When will you come to the Black Museum?”
“At once, if you like. But before we set out I want to discuss Mr. Okasaki with you. What sort of person is he?”
“A genuine Jap, small, lively, and oval-faced. His eyes are like tiny slits in a water melon, and when he laughs his grin goes back to his ears.”
“Really, Winter, I did not credit you with such a fund of picturesque imagery. Would you know him again?”
“I can’t be certain. All Japs are very much alike, to my thinking, but if I heard him talk I would be almost sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have been looking up a little information with reference to the Ko-Katana and its uses. Now, Okasaki is the name of a Japanese town. Family names almost invariably have a topographical foundation, referring to some village, river, street, or mountain, and there may be thousands of Okasakis. Then, again, it was the custom some years ago for a man to be called one name at birth, another when he came of age, a third when he obtained some official position, and so on. For instance, you would be called Spring when you were born, Summer when you were twenty-one, Autumn when you became a policeman, and Winter when you reached your present rank.”
“Oh, Christopher!” cried the detective. “And if I were made Chief Inspector?”
“Then your title would be ‘Top Dog’ or something of the sort.”
Mr. Winter assimilated the foregoing information with a profound thankfulness that we in England do these things differently.
“Why are you so interested in Mr. Okasaki?” he inquired.
“I will answer your question by another. Why was he so interested in the Ko-Katana?”
“That is hardly what I told you, Mr. Brett. He professed to be interested in the crime itself. But now I come to think of it, he did ask me to let him see the thing.”
“And did you?”
“Yes; I wanted all the information I could get.”
“My position exactly. Let us go to Scotland Yard.”
The famous Black Museum has so often been the subject of articles in the public press that no detailed description is needed here. It contains, in glass cases, or hanging on the walls, a weird collection of articles famous in the annals of crime. It is not open to the public, and Brett, who had not seen the place before, examined its relics with much curiosity.
The detective exhibited a pardonable pride in some of them, but his companion damped his enthusiasm by saying:
“This is a depressing sight.”
“In what way?”
“British rogues are evidently of low intelligence in the average. A bludgeon and a halter make up their history.”
“There’s more than that in a good many cases.”
“Ah, I forgot the handcuffs.”
“Well, here is the Ko-Katana,” said Winter shortly.
The barrister took the fateful weapon, not more deadly than a paper-knife in appearance, and scrutinised it closely.
“It has not been cleaned,” he said.
“No, it was left untouched after the doctor withdrew it from the poor young fellow’s breast.”
Brett produced a magnifying glass. Beneath the rust on the blade he thought he could distinguish some Japanese characters in the quaint pictorial script adapted by that singular people from the Chinese system of writing.
He brought the knife nearer to the window and carefully focussed it. Then he produced a note-book and made a pencil drawing of the following inscription:
Winter watched him with quiet agony. He had never noticed the signs before.
“Mr. Okasaki did not tell you what these scratches meant?” inquired the barrister.
“No. He did not see them.”
“Sure?”
“Quite positive. Of course, it is very smart on your part to hit upon them so quickly, but what possible purpose can it serve to find out the meaning of something carved in Japan more than fifty years ago, at the very least?”
“I do not know. It is very stupid of me, I admit, but I have not the faintest notion.”
“Does it make the finding of Okasaki more important?”
“To a certain extent. We want to have everything explained. At present we have so little of what I regard as really definite evidence.”
“May I ask what that little is?”
“Sir Alan Hume-Frazer was murdered with a knife produced by a man like David Hume, whom ‘Rabbit Jack’ saw standing beneath the yews. Not much, eh?”
Winter shook his head dubiously.
“If Sir Alan were shot instead of stabbed,” went on the barrister, “the first thing you would endeavour to determine would be the calibre and nature of the bullet. Why not be equally particular about the knife?”
“But this weapon has been for fifty years in Glen Tochan. Its history is thoroughly established.”
“Is it? Who made it? Whose crest does it bear? What does this motto signify? If you wanted to kill a man would you use this toy? Why was not the sword itself employed?”
“That string of questions leaves me out, Mr. Brett.”
“I am equally uninformed. I can only answer the last one. The sword is intended for suicidal purposes, the Ko-Katana for an enemy. This is a case of murder, not suicide.”
The detective wheeled sharply on his heels, thereby upsetting Charles Peace’s telescopic ladder.
“You suspect Okasaki!” he cried.
“My dear fellow! Okasaki is, say, five feet nothing. The murderer is five feet ten inches in height. Japanese are clever people, but they are not—telescopes,” and he picked up the ladder.
Winter grinned. “You always make capital out of my blunders,” he said.
“Pooh! My banking account is limited. Let us go. The moral atmosphere in this room is vile.”
Outside the Central Police Office they separated, Brett to pay some long-neglected calls, Winter to hunt up Capella’s movements and initiate inquiries about Okasaki.
The detective came to Brett’s chambers at five o’clock, in a great state of excitement.
“Thank goodness you are at home, sir.” he cried, when Smith admitted him to the barrister’s sanctum. “Capella is off to Naples.”
Naples, the scene of his marriage! What did this journey portend? Naught but the gravest considerations would take him so far away from home when he knew that David and Helen were reunited.
“How did you discover this fact?” asked Brett, awaking out of a brown study.
“Easily enough, as it happened. Ninety-nine per cent. of gentlemen’s valets are keen sports. Barbers and hotel-porters run them close. I do a bit that way myself—”
The barrister groaned.
“Not often, sir, but this is holiday time, you see. Anyhow, I gave the hall-porter, whom I know, the wink to come to a neighbouring bar during his time off for tea. He actually brought Capella’s man—William his name is—with him. I told them I had backed the first winner to-day, an eight to one chance, and that started them. I offered to put them on a certainty next week, and William’s face fell. ‘It’s a beastly nuisance,’ he said, ‘I’m off to Naples with my boss to-morrow.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you’re not going before the night train, perhaps I may be able—’ But that made him worse, because they leave by the 11 A.M., Victoria.”
Brett began to pace the room. He could not make up his mind to visit Naples in person. For one thing, he did not speak Italian. But Capella must be followed. At last he decided upon a course of action.
“Winter,” he said, “do you know a man we can trust, an Italian, or better still, an Italian-speaking Englishman, who can undertake this commission for us?”
“Would you mind ringing for Smith, sir?” replied the detective, who seemed to be mightily pleased with himself.
Smith appeared.
“At the foot of the stairs you will find a gentleman named Holden,” said Winter. “Ask him to come up, please.”
Holden appeared, a sallow personage, long-nosed and shrewd-looking. The detective explained that Mr. Holden was an ex-police sergeant, retained for many years at headquarters on account of his fluency in the language of Tasso. Winter did not mention Tasso. This is figurative.
An arrangement was quickly made. He was to start that evening and meet Capella on arrival at Naples; Winter would telegraph the fact of the Italian’s departure according to programme. Holden was not to spare expense in employing local assistance if necessary. He was to report everything he could learn about Capella’s movements.
Brett wanted to hand him £50, but found that all the money he had in his possession at the moment only totalled up to £35.
Winter produced a small bag.
“It was quite true what I said,” he smirked. “I did back the first winner, and, what’s more, I drew it—sixteen of the best.”
“I had no idea the police force was so corrupt,” sighed Brett, as he completed the financial transaction, and Mr. Holden took his departure. The detective also went off to search for Okasaki.
About nine o’clock Hume arrived.
“You will be glad to hear,” he said, “that the rector invited me to lunch. He approves of my project, and will pray for my success. It has been a most pleasant day for me, I can assure you.”
“The rector retired to his study immediately after lunch, I presume?”
“Yes,” said David innocently. “Has anything important occurred in town?”
Brett gave him a resumé of events. A chance allusion to Sir Alan caused the young man to exclaim:
“By the way, you have never seen his photograph. He and I were very much alike, you know, and I have brought from my rooms a few pictures which may interest you.”
He handed to Brett photographs of himself and his two cousins, and of the older Sir Alan and Lady Hume-Frazer, taken singly and in groups.
The barrister examined them minutely.
“Alan and I,” pointed out his client, “were photographed during our last visit to London. Poor chap! He never saw this picture. The proofs were not sent until after his death.”
Something seemed to puzzle Brett very considerably. He compared the pictures one with the other, and paid heed to every detail.
“Let me understand,” Brett said at last. “I think I have it in my notes that at the time of the murder you were twenty-seven, Sir Alan twenty-four, and Mrs. Capella twenty-six?”
“That is so, approximately. We were born respectively in January, October, and December. My twenty-seventh birthday fell on the 11th.”
“Stated exactly, you were two years and nine months older than he?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I never did. We were always about the same size as boys, but he matured at an earlier age than I.”
“It is odd. How old were you when this group was taken?”
The photograph depicted a family gathering on the lawn at Beechcroft. There were eight persons in it, three being elderly men.
David reflected.
“That was before I left Harrow, and Christmas time. Seventeen almost, within a couple of weeks.”
“So your cousin Margaret was sixteen?”
“Yes.”
“She was remarkably tall, well-developed for her age.”
“That was a notable characteristic from an early age. We boys used to call her ‘Mama,’ when we wanted to vex her.”
“The three old gentlemen are very much alike. This is the baronet. Who are the others?”
“My father and uncle.”
“What! Do you mean to tell me there is another branch of the family?”
“Well, yes, in a sense. My uncle is dead. His son, my age or a little older, for the youngest of the three brothers was married first, was last heard of in Argentina.”
Brett threw the photograph down with clatter.
“Good Heavens!” he vociferated, “when shall I begin to comprehend this business in its entirety? How many more uncles, and aunts, and cousins have you?”
Amazed by this outburst, Hume endeavoured to put matters right.
“I never thought—” he commenced.
“You come to me to do the thinking, Hume. For goodness’ sake switch your memory for five minutes from Miss Layton, and tell me all you know of your family history. Have you any other relations?”
“None whatever.”
“And this newly-arrived cousin, what of him?”
“He was in the navy, and being of a quarrelsome disposition, was court-martialled for some small outbreak. He would not submit to discipline, and resigned the service. Then his father died, and Bob went off to South America. I have never heard of him since. I know very little about my younger uncle’s household. Indeed, the occasion recorded by the photograph was the last time the old men met in friendship. There was a dispute about money matters. My Uncle Charles was in the city, the two estates being left by my grandfather to the two oldest sons. Charles Hume-Frazer died a poor man, having lost his fortune by speculation.”
“Have you seen your cousin Robert? Did he resemble Alan and you?”
“We were all as like as peas. People say that our house is remarkable for the unchanging type of its male line. That is readily demonstrated by the family portraits. You have not been in the dining-room or picture-gallery at Beechcroft, or you must have noticed this instantly.”
Brett flung himself into a chair.
“The Argentine!” he muttered. “A nice school for a ‘quarrelsome’ Hume-Frazer.”
He had calmed sufficiently to reach for his cigarette-case when Smith entered with a note, delivered by a boy messenger.
It was from Winter:
“Have found Okasaki. His name is now Numagawa Jiro, so you were right, as usual. He and Mrs. Jiro live at 17 St. John’s Mansions, Kensington.”
In fifteen minutes Brett was bowling along Knightsbridge in a hansom, having left Hume with a strict injunction to rack his brains for any further undiscovered facts bearing upon the inquiry, and turn up promptly at ten o’clock next morning.
Although the hour was late for calling upon a complete stranger, the barrister could not rest until he had inspected the Jiro ménage. No. 17 was a long way from the ground level. Indeed, the cats of Kensington, if sufficiently enterprising, inhabitated the floor above.
He rang, and was surveyed with astonishment by a very small maid-servant.
“Is Mr. Numagawa Jiro at home?” he inquired.
“No, sir, but Mrs. Jiro is.”
An infantine wail from one of the apartments showed that there was also a young Jiro.
The maid neither advanced nor retreated. She simply stood stock still, petrified by the sight of a well-dressed visitor.
Brett suggested that she should inform her mistress of his presence.
“Please, sir,” whispered the girl, “are you from Ipswich?”
“No; from Victoria Street.”
“I only asked, sir, because master is particular about people from Ipswich. They upset missus so.”
She vanished into the interior, and came back to usher him into the drawing-room. The flat was expensively furnished, but very untidy. He at once perceived, however, that the “former” Mr. Okasaki was not romancing when he boasted of his artistic tastes. The Japanese articles in the room were gems of faience and lacquer work.
The entrance of Mrs. Jiro drew the barrister’s eyes from surrounding objects. He was momentarily stunned. The woman was almost a giantess, and amazingly stout. In a tiny flat, waited on by a diminutive servant, and married to a Japanese, she was grotesque.
Originally a very tall and fairly good-looking girl, she had evidently blossomed out like one of the gorgeous chrysanthemums of her husband’s favoured land.
Assuredly she had acquired no Japanese traits either in manner or appearance. At first she seemed to be in a genuinely British bad temper, but Brett excelled in the art of smoothing the ruffled plumes of femininity.
“What is it?” she demanded, surveying him suspiciously.
“I wish to see Mr. Jiro,” he said, “but permit me to apologise for making such an untimely call. As he is not at home, I must not trouble you beyond inquiring a likely hour to see him to-morrow.”
He smiled so pleasantly that the lady became more complaisant.
“He may not be very long—” she commenced, but the youthful Jiro’s voice was again heard in fretful complaint.
“My baby is not well to-night,” she explained.
“Poor little darling!” said Brett.
He was tempted to add: “What is its name?” but refrained.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Mrs. Jiro. “As I was saying, my husband may not be very long—”
She was fated not to complete that doubly accurate sentence, for at that moment a key rattled in the outer door.
“Here he is,” she announced; and Mr. Jiro entered.
It was fortunate that the gravity of his errand, no less than his power of self-control, kept Brett from laughing. As it was, he smiled very broadly when he greeted the master of the flat, for the little man was small even for a Japanese.
The contrast between him and his helpmate was ludicrous. He could not possibly kiss her unless she stooped, nor would his arms encircle her shoulders.
“And how is my pretty karasu?” he asked, regarding his wife fondly.
“Don’t call me that, Nummie!” she cried.
Turning to Brett she explained: “He calls me a crow, and says it is a compliment, but I don’t like it.”
“In Japan the clow speaks with the voice of love,” grinned Jiro.
“Well, it sounds funny in London, so just attend to this gentleman. He has come to see you on business.”
Mrs. Jiro forthwith seated herself to listen to the conclave. Brett, though warned by the maid’s remark, could not help himself, so he went straight to the point.
“Over a year ago,” he said, “you were in Ipswich.”
Instantly a severe chill fell upon his hearers. The man shrank, the woman expanded, but before either could utter a word, the barrister continued:
“Personally, I know no one in Ipswich. I have only visited the town twice, during an Assize week. It has come to my knowledge that you gave the police some information with reference to a Japanese weapon which figured in a noted crime, and I have ventured to come here to ask you for additional details.”
Mrs. Jiro heaved a great sigh of relief.
“My gracious!” she cried, “you did startle me. I can’t bear to hear the name of Ipswich nowadays. I was married from there.”
“Indeed!” said Brett, with polite interest.
“Yes; and my people are always hunting me up and making a row because I married Mr. Jiro. Sometimes they make me that ill that I feel half inclined to go with him to Japan. He is always worrying me to leave London, but the more I hear about Japan the less I fancy it.”
“Ah, my own little gan—” broke in her husband.
“There you go again,” she snapped. “Calling me a gan—a goose, indeed! Now, Mr. Brett, how would you like to be called a wild goose?”
“I have often deserved it,” he said.
“You do not understand,” chirped Jiro. “In Japan the goose is beautiful, elegant. It flies fast like a white spilit.”
His English was almost perfect, but in words containing a rolled “r” he often substituted an “l.”
“I understand enough to keep away from Japan, a place where they have an earthquake every five minutes, and people live in paper houses. Besides, look at the size of your women-folk. Just imagine me, Mr. Brett, walking about among those little dolls, like a turkey among tom-tits.”
“We give fat people much admilation,” said Jiro.
“Nummie, I do hate that word fat. I can’t help being tall and well developed; but it is only short women who become ‘fat’.”
She hissed the word venomously, as if she possessed the scorpion’s fabled power to sting herself. Evidently Mrs. Jiro dreaded corpulence more than earthquakes.
Brett had never previously met such a strangely assorted couple. He would willingly have prolonged his visit for mere amusement, but he was compelled to return to the cause of his presence. Unless he asked direct questions he would make no progress. He took from his pocket-book the drawing made in the Black Museum, and handed it to the Japanese, saying:
“Would you mind telling me the meaning of that?”
Jiro screwed his queer little eyes upon the scrawling characters. The methods of writing in the Far East, being pictorial and inexact, require scrutiny of the context before a given sentence can be correctly interpreted.
The little man made no trouble about it, however.
“They are old chalacters,” he said. “In Japan we joke a lot. Evely sign has sevelal meanings. This can be lead two ways. It is a plovelb, and says, ‘A new field gives a small clop,’ or ‘Human life is but fifty years.’ Where did you see it?”
“On the blade of the Ko-Katana that killed Sir Alan Hume-Frazer,” answered Brett.
And now he experienced a fresh difficulty. The Japanese face is exceedingly expressive. When a native of the Island Empire smiles or scowls, exhibits surprise or fear, he apparently does these things with his whole soul. Such facial plasticity provides far more effective concealment of real emotions than the phlegmatic indifference of the Briton, who, in the words of Emerson, requires “pitchforks or the cry of ‘fire!’” to arouse him.
It is possible to throw an Englishman off his guard by a shrewd thrust; but Mr. Numagawa Jiro was one of those persons whose lineaments would reveal the same amount of pain over a cut finger as a broken leg.
Nevertheless, Brett’s reply did unquestionably make him jump, and even Mrs. Jiro’s bulging features became anxious.
“Is that possible?” said the Japanese. “It is velly stlange the police gentleman did not tell me about it.”
“He did not know of it until to-day,” explained Brett, “and that is why I am here now. It is the motto of some important Japanese family, is it not?”
“It is a plovelb,” repeated Jiro, who evidently intended to take thought.
“So I understand, but used in this way it represents a family, a clan?”
“I do not know.”
“What! A man so interested in his country’s art as to go to an out-of-the-way English provincial town merely to see a small knife, must surely be able to decide such a trivial matter as the use of mottoes on sword blades!”
Mr. Jiro’s excellent knowledge of English seemed to fail him, but his wife took up the defence.
“My husband had more to think about in Ipswich than a small knife, Mr. Brett.”
“Very much more, but it was the knife which brought him to the place. He carried the major attraction away with him.”
Mrs. Jiro thought this sounded nice. She turned to her husband:
“Why don’t you tell the gentleman all you know about it, Nummie?”
The little man looked at her curiously before he spoke to the barrister.
“I have nothing to tell,” he said. “I told the police all that they asked me. That was a velly old Ko-Katana, a hundred yeals old. It was made by a famous altist. I have told you the meaning of the liting. That is all I know.”
“Why did you give your name at Ipswich as Okasaki?” demanded Brett.
“Oh, that is vely easy. Okosaki is my family name. You English people say it quicker than Numaguwa Jiro, so I give it. But when I got mallied I used my light name. Japanese law does not pelmit the change of names now. My ploper name is Numagawa Jiro”—which he pronounced “Jilo.”
“You told the detective at Ipswich that the device on the handle represented the setting sun. How did you know the sun was setting, and not rising?”
It was a haphazard shot. The description was Hume’s, not Winter’s.
Again the Japanese paused before answering.
“It was shown by the way in which the gold was used. Japanese altists have symbols for ideas. That is one.”
“Thank you. I imagined you recognised the device, and could speak off-hand in the matter. By the way, do you use a type-writer?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Jiro. “My husband is clever at all that sort of thing, and when he found the people could not read his writing he bought a machine.”
“I have sold it again,” interfered Jiro, after a hasty glance round the room, “and I am going to buy another.”
Mrs. Jiro rose to stir the fire unnecessarily.
“They are most useful,” said Brett. “Which make do you prefer?”
“They are all vely much alike,” answered the Japanese, “but I am going to buy a Yost or a Hammond.”
“I am very much obliged to you for receiving me at this late hour,” said the barrister, rising, “but before I go allow me to compliment you on your remarkable knowledge of English. I am sure you are indebted to your good lady for your idiomatic command of the language.”
“I studied it for yeals in Japan—” began Jiro, but in vain, for his very much better half resented the word “idiomatic.”
“I don’t know about that,” she snorted. “He talked a lot of nonsense when we were married, but I’ve made him drop it, and he is teaching me Japanese.”
“His task is a pleasant one. It is the tongue of poetry and love.”
Again there was a pause. A minute later Brett was standing in the street trying to determine how best to act.
He was fully persuaded that Jiro had, in the first place, identified the crest as belonging to one of the many Samurai clans. But the motto was new to him, and its discovery had revealed the particular family which claimed its use.
Why did he refuse to impart his knowledge? There must be plenty of Japanese in London who would give this information readily.
Again, why did he lie about the type-writer, and endeavour to mislead him as to the make of the machine he used?
To-morrow, for a certainty, Jiro would dispose of the Remington which he now possessed. Well, he should meet with a ready purchaser, if a letter from Brett to every agency in London would expedite matters.
He did not credit Jiro with the death of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, nor even with complicity in the crime. The Japanese had acted as the unwitting tool of a stronger personality, and the little man’s brain was even at this moment considering fresh aspects of the affair not previously within his ken.
Moreover, how maddening the whole thing was! Beginning with Hume’s fantastic dream, he reviewed the hitherto unknown elements in the case—Capella’s fierce passion and queer behaviour, culminating in a sudden journey to Italy, Margaret’s silent agony, the existence of an Argentine cousin, the evidence of “Rabbit Jack,” the punning motto on the Ko-Katana, Jiro’s perturbation and desire to prevent his wife’s unconscious disclosures.
With the final item came the ludicrous remembrance of that ill-assorted couple. Laughing, Brett hailed a hansom.
The number of type-writer exchanges in London is not large. Impressing the services of Smith and his wife as amanuenses, Brett despatched the requisite letters before he retired for the night.
He was up betimes and out before breakfast, surprising the domestics of his club by an early visit to the library. The Etona contained a great many service members, and made a feature of its complete editions of Army and Navy lists.
In one of the latter, eight years old, Brett found, among the officers of the Northumberland, at that time in commission, “Robert Hume-Fraser, sub-lieutenant.” A later volume recorded his retirement from the service.
Hume and Winter reached Brett’s flat together.
“Any luck with the Jap, sir?” asked the detective cheerily.
Brett told them what had happened, and Winter sighed. Here, indeed, was a promising subject for an arrest. Why not lock him up, and seize the type-writer? But he knew the barrister by this time, and uttered no word.
“And now,” said Brett, after a malicious pause to enable Winter to declare himself, “I am going back to Stowmarket. No, Hume, you are not coming with me. When does Fergusson arrive here?”
The question drove from David’s face the disappointed look with which he received his friend’s announcement.
“To-morrow evening,” he replied. “My father thinks the old man should not risk an all-night journey. He has also sent me every detail he can get together, either from documents or recollection, bearing upon our family history.”
He produced a formidable roll of manuscript. The old gentleman had evidently devoted many hours and some literary skill to the compilation.
“I will read that in the train,” said Brett. “You must start at once for Portsmouth. I have here a list of all the officers serving with your cousin Robert on the Northumberland immediately prior to his quitting the Navy. Portsmouth, Devonport, Southsea, and the neighbourhood will almost certainly contain some of them. If not, people there will know where they are to be found. You must make yourself known to them, and endeavour to gain any sort of news concerning the ex-lieutenant. Naval men roam all over the world. Some of them may have met him in the Argentine, or in any of the South American ports where British warships are constantly calling. He was a sailor. He left the Navy under no cloud. Hence, the presence of a British man-o’-war would draw him like a magnet. Do not come back here until you bring news of him.”
“Why is it so important? You cannot imagine—”
“No; I endeavour to restrain my imagination. I want facts. You are the best person to obtain them. One relative inquiring for another is a natural proceeding. It will not arouse suspicions that you are a debt-collector.”
“Suppose I obtain news of his whereabouts?”
“Telegraph to me and I will give you fresh instructions.”
Hume walked to the door.
“Give my kind regards to Miss Layton,” he said grimly.
“I will be delighted. Work hard. You will see her all the sooner.”
“There goes a man in love,” continued Brett, addressing the back of Winter’s skull, though looking him straight in the face. “His career, his reputation, everything he values most in this world is at stake. He is a sensible, level-headed fellow, who has become embittered by unjust suspicion; yet he would unwillingly let a material item like his cousin’s proceedings sink into oblivion just for the sake of telling a girl that she looks more charming to-day than she did yesterday, or some equally original remark peculiar to love-making. How do you account for it, Winter?”
“I give it up,” sighed the detective. “We are all fools where women are concerned.”
“You surprise me,” said the barrister sternly. “Such a personal confession of weakness is unexpected—I may say distressing.”
Winter shook his head.
“You’re not married, Mr. Brett, or you wouldn’t talk like that.”
“Well, let it pass. I want you to make the acquaintance of that loving couple, Mr. and Mrs. Numagawa Jiro. You must disguise yourself. Jiro is to be shadowed constantly. Get any help you require, but do it. Be off, Winter, on the wings of the wind. Fasten on to Jiro. Batten on him. Become his invisible vampire. Above all else, discover his associates. Run now to the bank and cash this cheque. It repays the sum you advanced last night, and provides money for expenses.”
“I must first see Capella off,” gasped the detective.
“All the more reason that you should fly.”
Left to himself, the barrister compiled memoranda for an hour or more. He read through what he had written.
“The web is spreading quickly,” he murmured. “I wonder what sort of fly we shall catch! Is he buzzing about under our very noses, or will he be an unknown variety? As they say in the Argentine—Quien sabe?”
During the journey to Stowmarket he mastered the contents of the bulky document sent from Glen Tochan. It contained a great many irrelevant details, but he made the following notes:—
After the duel in 1763, David Hume, the man who avenged with his sword the supposed injury inflicted upon his father by the first Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, escaped to the Netherlands, and was never heard of again.
There was a local tradition on the Scotch estate that five Hume-Frazers would meet with violent deaths in England. The reason for this singular belief was found in the recorded utterances of an old nurse, popularly credited with the gift of second sight, who prophesied, after the outlawry of the Humes in 1745, that there would be five long-lived generations of both families, and that five Frazers would die in their boots.
“Curiously enough,” commented the old gentleman who supplied this information, “Aunt Elspeth’s prediction is capable of two interpretations, owing to the fact that the first Sir Alan Frazer assumed the additional surname of Hume. I have absolutely no knowledge of any distinct branch of the Hume family. David Hume’s sister was married to my ancestor at the time of the duel.”
Admiral Cunningham, the hardy old salt who brought from Japan the sword used by a Samurai to commit hari-kara, or suicide by disembowelling, commanded the British vessels of the combined squadron which sailed up the Bay of Yedo on July 6, 1853, to intimidate the Mikado.
He narrowly escaped assassination at the hands of a two-sword man, who was knocked down by a sailor and soundly kicked, after being disarmed.
The Admiral brought home the two weapons taken from his assailant, and the larger sword was still to be seen in the armoury at Glen Tochan.
The three brothers, of whom the writer alone survived, quarrelled over money matters about eight years before the murder of the fifth baronet. The youngest, Charles, had entangled himself in a disastrous speculation in the city, and bitterly reproached Alan and David (the narrator) because they would not come to his assistance.
The old gentleman laboured through many pages to explain the reasons which actuated this decision, but Brett skipped all of them.
Finally, he suspected no one of committing the crime itself, which was utterly inexplicable.
At Stowmarket the barrister sought a few minutes’ conversation with the stationmaster.
“Have you been long in charge of this station?” he asked, when the official ushered him into a private office.
“Nearly five years, sir,” was the surprised answer.
“Ah, then you know nearly all the members of the Hume-Frazer family?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“Do you remember the New Year’s Eve when the young baronet was killed?”
“Yes, generally speaking, I do remember it.”
The stationmaster was evidently doubtful of the motives which actuated this cross-examination, and resolved not to commit himself to positive statements.
“You recollect, of course, that Mr. David Hume-Frazer was arrested and tried for the murder of his cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Now I want you to search your memory well and tell me if you saw anyone belonging to the family in the station on that New Year’s Eve. The terrible occurrence at Beechcroft the same night must have fixed the facts in your mind.”
The stationmaster, a cautious man of kindly disposition, seemed to be troubled by the interrogatory.
“Do you mind if I ask you, sir, why you are seeking this information?” he inquired, after a thoughtful pause.
“A very proper question. Mr. David Hume-Frazer is a friend of mine, and he has sought my help to clear away the mystery attached to his cousin’s death.”
“But why do you come to me?”
“Because you are a very likely person to have some knowledge on the point I raised. You see every person who enters or leaves Stowmarket by train.”
“That is true. We railway men see far more than people think,” said the official, with a smile. “But it is very odd that you should be the first gentleman to think of talking to me in connection with the affair, though I can assure you certain things puzzled me a good deal at the time.”
“And what were they?”
“You are the gentleman who came here three days ago with Mr. David, whom, by the way, I hardly recognised at first?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I suppose it is all right. I did not interfere because I could not see my way clear to voluntarily give evidence. Of course, were I summoned by the police, it would be a different matter. The incidents of that New Year’s Eve fairly bewildered me.”
“Indeed!”
“It was stated at the trial, sir, that Mr. David came from Scotland that morning, left Liverpool Street at 3.20 p.m., and reached Stowmarket at 5.22 p.m.”
“Yes.”
“Further, he was admittedly the second person to see his cousin’s dead body, and remained at the Hall until arrested by the police on a warrant.”
Brett nodded. The stationmaster’s statement promised to be intensely interesting.
“Well, sir,” continued the man excitedly, “I was mystified enough on New Year’s Eve, but after the murder came out I thought I was fairly bewitched. That season is always a busy one for us, what between parcels, passengers, and bad weather. On the morning of December 31, I fancied I saw Mr. David leave the London train due here at 12.15 midday. I only caught a glimpse of him, because there was a crowd of people, and he was all muffled up. I didn’t give the matter a second thought until I saw him again step out of a first-class carriage at 2.20 p.m. I looked at him rather sharp that time. He was differently dressed, and hurried off without any luggage. He left the station quickly, so I imagined I had been mistaken a couple of hours earlier. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he appeared by the 5.22 p.m. This time he had several leather trunks, and a footman from the Hall was waiting for him on the platform. Excuse me, sir, but it was a fair licker!”
“It must have been. I wonder you did not speak to him!”
“I wish I had done so. Mr. David is usually a very affable young gentleman, but, what between my surprise and the bustle of getting the train away, I lost the opportunity. However, the queerest part of my story is coming. I’m blest if he didn’t leave here again by the last train at 5.58 p.m. I missed his entrance to the station, but had a good look at him as the train went out. He showed the ticket-examiner at Ipswich a return half to London, because I asked by wire. Now what did it all mean?”
“If I could tell you, it would save me much trouble,” said Brett gravely. “But why did you not mention these incidents subsequently?”
“Perhaps I was wrong, sir. I did not know what to do for the best. Every one at the Hall, including Mr. David himself, would have proved that I was a liar with respect to his two earlier arrivals and his departure by the 5.58. I did not see what I would accomplish except to arouse a strong suspicion that I had been drinking.”
“Which would be unjustifiable?”
The stationmaster regained his dignity.
“I have been a teetotaler, sir, for more than twenty years.”
“You are sure you are making no mistake?”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. I must have been very much mistaken, but I did not think so at the time, and it bothered me more than enough. If my evidence promised to be of any service to Mr. David, no consideration would have kept me back. As it was—”
“You thought it would damage him?”
“I’m afraid that was my idea.”
“I agree with you. It is far better that it never came to the knowledge of the police. I am greatly obliged to you.”
“May I ask, sir, if what I have told you will be useful in your inquiry?”
“Most decidedly. Some day soon Mr. David Hume-Frazer will thank you in person. I suppose you have no objection to placing your observations in written form for my private use, and sending the statement to me at the County Hotel?”
“Not the least, sir; good-day.”
The barrister walked to the hotel, having despatched his bag by a porter.
“I suppose,” he said to himself, “that when Winter came here he rushed straight to the police-station. How his round eyes will bulge out of their sockets when I tell him what I have just learnt.”