XLIV
Gilder stopped the taxi and, springing out, grabbed at a paper. A flaring headline met his eye.
LORD CHELFORD CARRIED OFF BY UNKNOWN MURDERER.
FEARED DOUBLE TRAGEDY IN A
SUSSEX VILLAGE
There were other sub-headings, but his eye ran down to the story.
At 11 o’clock last night screams were heard in the grounds of Fossaway Manor, the fine old Tudor mansion which has been the country seat of the Earls of Chelford for hundreds of years. The Hon. Richard Alford, the only brother of Lord Chelford, ran out, accompanied by Detective-Sergeant Puttler, who was staying at the Manor as Mr. Alford’s guest. They were horrified to discover, lying on the grass, the dead body of a man dressed in the habit of the famous Black Abbot. The local police were immediately called in, and hardly had their investigations begun when, unknown to them, a second tragedy occurred. A maid in the employ of the Earl of Chelford, Alice Barter, who sleeps in a room over that occupied by Lord Chelford, states that at one-forty-five o’clock in the morning she heard sounds of a terrific struggle in his lordship’s room. In terror, she did not report the occurrence till four o’clock in the morning. Lord Chelford’s door was broken open and a terrible scene met the eyes of the police officers. The room was in confusion: mirrors and furniture were smashed; and it was evident from the indications that a terrible struggle had taken place, and, either stunned or killed, Lord Chelford was pulled to the window and thrown out. A search of the grounds left no doubt that his body was dragged for some distance along the ground. At the moment of telephoning, says our correspondent, no trace of the body has been found, but from certain indications there can be little doubt that the unfortunate peer has been a victim of foul play. Certain of his property is missing, whilst a cash box which he kept in the drawer of a desk in his library has been found empty. Detective-Sergeant Puttler of Scotland Yard is in charge of the case.
The newsboy was still waiting for payment. Mr. Gilder put his hand in his pocket mechanically and, giving him a shilling, reëntered the cab.
“Drive me round the Outer Circle,” he said. He wanted time to think.
In a dim, uneasy way he realized how deeply he was involved in this tragedy. Fabrian Gilder had a lawyer’s mind. He saw the connection between Thomas, himself, and Chelford. Thomas, a known thief, harboured in his cottage, goes out, with or without associates, and is killed. Chelford, lately engaged to the girl whom Gilder himself was pursuing, disappears in circumstances which leave no doubt as to his death.
Round and round the Regent’s Park Circle the cab moved slowly, and all the time he was piecing together a version which would sound plausible. He had known Thomas; was aware that the man was dismissed, but did not know his criminal connections. The man had asked for shelter for a few days, and in charity Gilder had given it to him. He himself was in London when the crime was committed; had unchallengeable alibis if necessary.
Perhaps he was exaggerating the seriousness of the situation, he thought. Putting his head out of the window, he directed the driver to take him to Regency Mansions. He had forgotten his key; had to ring the bell, and the maid who opened the door handed him the post, which had arrived a few minutes before. He examined the three letters carefully: none was from Leslie. But at the moment he was too occupied with the happenings at Chelfordbury to be disappointed.
And then came a thunderbolt.
“Mr. Arthur Gwyn is waiting for you in the library,” said the girl.
“Mr. Gwyn!” he said in astonishment. “When did he come?”
“Ten minutes ago, sir.”
“Oh!” said Gilder blankly.
Had she sent her brother instead of a letter? Had she told him… well, it was a situation that had to be faced.
He walked carelessly into the little library and found Arthur Gwyn sitting in one of the easiest chairs, a book in his hand, a half-smoked cigar between his teeth.
“Good-morning, Gilder.”
His voice was cheerful and almost amiable, and for a moment Mr. Gilder’s heart leapt. This was a friendly ambassador sent by the girl to make the necessary arrangements.
“I think we’d better forget all that’s passed,” said Arthur. “We both lost our temper, and there’s no sense in keeping the old trouble alive. You don’t mind my smoking?”
He replaced the book he had taken from one of the shelves, dusted his knees carefully, and then laughed.
“You’re thinking of marrying Leslie, I understand?”
Gilder nodded, watching his visitor closely.
“Expecting a letter from her? Well, I’m afraid you won’t get it.”
“Why not?” asked the other, with a sudden tightening at his heart.
“Because friend Thomas, who spent the evening in wholesale robbery—incidentally, he stole a very ancient dagger from my hall, a silver teapot, and a few other etceteras—added to his infamy by attempting to rob a letter box. He didn’t succeed in opening the box, but he put the lock out of order.”
Gilder breathed again.
“So there was no collection, eh?” he said huskily. “Well, that is rather a relief.”
There was a quizzical smile in Arthur Gwyn’s eyes; the discolouration on the left cheek had faded to a pale green.
“I understand you’re going to help me?”
“I am going to get you out of your trouble, yes.”
“It occurred to me”—Arthur leaned sideways and very carefully dusted the ash of his cigar into a silver tray on the library table—“it occurred to me that you might care to give me proof and evidence of your good feeling.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Gilder.
Arthur hesitated.
“I wondered whether you would write me a letter, to the effect that you are lending me this very large sum. You see, Gilder, although you plan to marry my sister, I am vain enough to wish that it should not be regarded as a gift or the price—the price of her marriage—but as a loan to me.” He laughed. “Don’t look at me like that, my dear fellow. I am not asking you for money, I am seeking a salve to my conscience. I don’t want people to say ‘Leslie Gwyn was sold for fifty thousand pounds.’ I want to produce evidence that you did no more than lend me the money.”
A slow smile dawned on Gilder’s face.
“There’s no objection to that,” he said. “I’ll give it to you now, if you like. Do you mind if I address you as ‘Dear—Arthur’?”
“Charmed,” murmured Arthur.
“One has to keep up the pretence of friendliness,” said Gilder as he wrote rapidly; “and really, I’ve no strong feeling against you, Gwyn. You’ve been a useful man to me.”
“Damned useful,” said Arthur, without heat.
The man blotted the letter, brought it across, and Arthur Gwyn read it carefully.
“Thank you,” he said, folded and put it into his pocket. “You may think I’m rather weak—which of course I am—and vain. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about that! You will hear from Leslie when the mail box is cleared—that is, if the letters are intact. There is some suspicion that our friend Thomas, baffled in his attempt to open the box, and inspired with that instinct for destruction which is one of the characteristics of the unbalanced criminal, threw in a couple of lighted matches. I had the curiosity to smell at the letter slot, and I think it is very likely that the police theory is correct.”
He rose, took up his silk hat, and stifled a yawn.
“We’ve had rather an exciting night in my part of the world. You’ve probably read all about it in the newspapers?”
“Has Chelford been found?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Not at the time I left,” he said. “Unfortunately Leslie was a witness, if not to the murder, to the finding of the first body. The poor little girl was knocked all to pieces. Don’t bother her for a day or two—do you mind?”
He held out his hand and Gilder took the soft, cool palm in his.
“I think we shall get on together, Gwyn.”
“I’m sure we shall,” said Arthur. “Do you mind showing me the way out? Your flat is rather like a box of tricks, and I’m never sure which is a door and which is a cupboard.”
Arthur dispensed with his car. A taxicab took him into the City, and another cab to a small flat in Gray’s Inn where he slept when he was in town. He changed into a plain blue suit, carefully and reluctantly shaved off his moustache, and took from his pocket a pair of newly purchased horn-rimmed pince-nez. Surveying himself in the glass with a certain amount of satisfaction, he sat down and wrote a letter to his sister, then, taking a final survey of the little flat where he had spent many a happy bachelor evening, he locked the door, went out and posted the letter in the Holborn post office.
Another taxicab took him to Croyden aërodrome, where he arrived in the early afternoon. He showed the officer his brand-new passport.
“That’s in order, Mr. Steele,” said the official. “Your taxi is waiting.”
His “taxi” was a sturdy two-seater aëroplane. Five minutes after his arrival he was zooming up to the blue, and was soon a speck in the hazy sky, heading for France, possibly for Genoa, as likely as not, by an Italian liner, for Rio de Janeiro. Everything depended on how Mr. Fabrian Gilder swallowed the pill which Arthur had administered.