Call Mr. Fortune · Case IV (2/3)

At the dead man’s house, his solicitor, old Sir Thomas Long, was busy in the library, and helping him, to Reggie’s surprise, was Herbert Charlecote. Herbert revealed himself as a pallid, dandyish man, punctiliously polite. Colourless⁠—Dr. Newton hit him off to the life.

Herbert was very gratified to make Mr. Fortune’s acquaintance.

“I don’t know whether to hope you can throw any light on this miserable affair, sir?”

Reggie shook his head. “Your uncle was stabbed, and died immediately of the wounds. That is the whole case, Mr. Charlecote. I suppose you can’t help us?”

“I am bewildered. Quite dazed, Mr. Fortune.”

Reggie nodded and lingered, and Herbert discreetly left him with the solicitor.

“Well, Mr. Fortune?” Sir Thomas took off his glasses and pursed his lips.

“Nothing. Well, Sir Thomas?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Ah. That was a little odd, wasn’t it?” Reggie nodded at the door by which Herbert had gone out.

“Mr. Herbert Charlecote offered to help me. He used to act as his uncle’s secretary. It was hardly for me to point out that there might be objections, if he was afraid of none.”

“Does he know of the new will?”

“Neither he nor his cousin Geoffrey. Mr. Herbert, I infer, believes himself sole heir, and Mr. Geoffrey believes himself disinherited.”

“And yet, just after the new will is made the old man is murdered! Oh, it’s all wrong,” Reggie said peevishly.

“An odd case. A very odd case, Mr. Fortune.” Sir Thomas put on his eyeglasses again. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Superintendent Bell opened the door. But Reggie seemed reluctant to go, and on the stairs he loitered so much that the Superintendent turned⁠—“Anything doing, sir?”

“That gastric catarrh,” Reggie murmured. “Let’s see the valet.”

The valet, an oldish man, was found. He testified that Mr. Charlecote had been much upset by the quarrel with Geoffrey. Mr. Charlecote had complained a good deal about his health. But there were no particular symptoms. Dr. Newton had been attending him for a long while. But the valet did not think that he had done Mr. Charlecote any good. For one thing, Mr. Charlecote did not take his medicine. There had been a good deal of medicine. Mr. Charlecote’s instructions were always to pour it down the sink.

“And that’s that,” said Reggie as they went out.

“We don’t get anywhere, sir, do we?” the Superintendent sympathized. “Anything you suggest?”

“How does it strike Superintendent Bell?”

“Looks like a bad case, sir. One of those where the criminal has all the luck. Verdict, persons unknown.”

“So Scotland Yard leaves it at that?”

“Unless Mr. Fortune has something up his sleeve.”

“Nary card. But you know we’ve missed something, Bell.”

“Have we, indeed, sir? And where shall we look for it?”

“Oh, watch out. Watch everybody.”

“Life is short, sir,” said Superintendent Bell gloomily, and with that they parted.

The Superintendent was a true prophet. The sensational inquest upon Stephenson Charlecote ended in an unsatisfactory verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. It was obvious that public opinion, and the coroner, as the voice thereof, directed suspicion against Geoffrey. He made a bad witness. He was agitated, nervous, and under the coroner’s hostile examination lost his temper.

When he was asked if he knew that his father had on the morning of the murder made a will leaving everything to him, he displayed a violent agitation, swore (not merely as a witness but with profane oaths) that he knew nothing about it, insulted the coroner, and roared out a declaration that he would not touch the money, which disgusted everybody as a bit of false melodrama. If distrust and dislike were grounds for hanging a man, the jury would have made an end of Geoffrey, but the evidence, as Lomas complained, could not hang a yellow dog.

And the next day, Reggie Fortune, bland as ever, called on Geoffrey. It was a very humble house in a Chelsea cul-de-sac. The aged servant who took in Reggie’s name left him on the doorstep, from which he had the glimpse of a narrow bare hall and uncarpeted stairs. He was kept waiting some time, and heard confused noises. When at last he was shown into the studio he met signs of storm. Geoffrey was flushed and visibly in the sulkiest of tempers, his wife pale and tired.

“Well, what is it now?” Geoffrey growled.

His wife smiled. “Mr. Fortune? That is so kind. If you would please sit down. Some tea, yes?”

And Reggie was saying to himself. “Oh, my aunt! She isn’t a woman, she’s a child.” For Lucia Charlecote was so frail, of such a simplicity, that she looked rather like an angel in one of the primitive Italian pictures than a woman.

“Shut up, Lucia,” Geoffrey growled. “What do you want here, Mr. Fortune? Trying a bit of your detective work?”

“You’re rather difficult, aren’t you?” Reggie said mildly. “You know, you told me you wanted to have the truth brought out, justice for your father, all that sort of thing. Well, I’m still on it.”

“Much good you’ve done, haven’t you?”

“I don’t mind confessin’ we’ve missed something.”

“Missed! Yes, you haven’t quite hanged me, thanks. You’ve only made everybody think I murdered my father. And so that don’t satisfy you! Thanks very much!”

“Well, are you satisfied?” said Reggie. “You know, you’re not fair. I’m makin’ every allowance. But you’re not fair. If you want the thing cleared up, you’ve got to give us something more. And that’s why I’m here. Now, is there anything new?”

“Oh, go to the devil!”

“Geoffrey!” Lucia, standing behind him, touched his shoulder. “Mr. Fortune is very kind. He desires to help us,” and she smiled and nodded at Reggie.

“Oh, hold your tongue, baby. Mr. Fortune’s a damned tricky policeman, and he can take his tricks to another market.”

“But you are impossible!” Lucia cried. “Mr. Fortune, you see what I have to live with. This great bear!” She rumpled Geoffrey’s hair, and he made an exclamation of disgust and dashed her hand away. “But yes, Mr. Fortune, there is something new. This great animal, he desires not to take his father’s money. He writes to the lawyer to say he will not have it. But I forbid him. I say it is mad. Say if I am right, Mr. Fortune. What is the father’s it is the son’s. And Geoffrey, he has done nothing. But if he says he will not take it”⁠—she made a fine theatrical gesture⁠—“people will think it is because he is guilty. Is it not, Mr. Fortune?”

“Why can’t you hold your tongue?” Geoffrey snarled at her, and turned to glare at Reggie. “There’s a pretty story for you. And what’s your beastly detective trade make of that?”

“You know, Mrs. Charlecote, he’s always in such a hurry,” Reggie said confidentially. “Very disturbin’, isn’t it? You are difficult, Charlecote, old thing. Is your mind capable of receivin’ a thought? Yes. Well just suppose that I may have refused to act for you, because it would be better for the son and heir I shouldn’t be actin’ to his order.”

“What the deuce do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t quite know, you know. Do you? Is there anything you really want to tell me?”

“I never want to see you again.”

“Geoffrey!” his wife protested.

“Oh, he’s not chatty this afternoon, Mrs. Charlecote. So sorry.” Reggie extricated himself from her offers of tea, and slid away.

But he was annoyed. Against his will, the opinion of Dr. Newton forced itself into his mind. “An odd strain in Geoffrey, as it were something abnormal or thrawn, a certain violence of temperament.” It was so. Confound the oily old family doctor. Why did Geoffrey want to give up the money? Mere quixotry? A passionate desire to clear himself from the ill-fame of profiting by the old man’s death? Probably, oh, probably. But there was a feeling called remorse found in human nature. And why did the angel wife tell Geoffrey to keep the money? She ought to want her husband clear of ill-fame. You would expect a woman to care more about that than the man himself. And you would expect a woman to share her husband’s rage with the horrid man who had not stuck up for him. Instead of which the angel wife was very anxious to keep on good terms with that horrid man. Because he represented the police? Or why else? She had a dubious way with her, the angel wife.

Reggie was worried⁠—a rare state for him⁠—and he took himself to his least sociable club. He was sitting there, glowering at a scientific American paper, when the voice of Lomas addressed him.

“Care killed a cat, Reginald. Why so blue?”

Reggie sat up. “Life is real, life is earnest, Lomas. And the grave is not the goal. That’s because of our filthy profession, which is always bothering the corpses. Come away. I am worried. I am going to worry you.”

As they walked in St. James’s Park, Reggie told him of the queer talk in the studio. “I want comfort, Lomas, old thing,” he concluded. “Comfort me.”

“My dear Fortune! It’s quite clear, what? Unsatisfactory case, profoundly unsatisfactory. But it’s quite clear. I always thought those two were in it. Probably the sweet young wife did it, or put Geoffrey up to it. Now he funks and she doesn’t. Women carry off these things better than men, don’t you know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Lomas, old dear, you are grateful and comfortin’, you really are. I knew you’d say that. And I know it’s all wrong.”

“My poor dear fellow! You never will reconcile yourself to an unsatisfactory case. It’s so common too⁠—a case you can’t act on while you know it’s sound.”

“Oh, Peter! You can always act on a sound case.”

“You’re so young,” Lomas smiled indulgently.

“We’ve missed something, don’t you see?”

“And what have we missed, Reginald?”

Reggie pulled him up and looked at the ducks. For a long time he looked at the ducks. Then, “Cousin Herbert,” he said. “The evasive, elusive Cousin Herbert. Why do we never come up against Cousin Herbert?”

“Because he had nothing to do with it, what?”

“Because we haven’t looked for him.”

Lomas gave an impatient laugh. “This is absurd, my dear fellow. That pallid, tame cat of a man!”

“You let some of your fellows sniff round him.”

“My dear Fortune! Of course they have. He’s quite a blameless sort of fellow. Plays a bit, spends a bit⁠—nothing more.”

“Oh, he wanted money⁠—did he?”

“My dear Fortune, you’re right off the wicket. He had an alibi. He was with some people at Maidenhead at the time of the murder.”

“Oh, my aunt, anybody can have an alibi,” Reggie grumbled.

Lomas laughed and shook his head. “It won’t do, Reginald. Don’t try to be subtle.”

“Well, that isn’t your complaint,” Reggie snarled, and for once they parted in nasty tempers.

Three days afterwards a telephone message called him to Scotland Yard, and he found Lomas in conference with Superintendent Bell.

“Ah, here’s the prophet,” Lomas smiled. “Do you remember⁠—in the Charlecote murder⁠—you backed Herbert both ways? Well, the latest from the course is that Herbert has vanished.”

“Then it’s damned careless of you. I told you to watch him. You’re not intelligent in the force, but, hang it, you might be active.”

“His valet reports him disappeared. He had a dinner engagement last night. Didn’t come home to dress for it. Didn’t come home at all. He went out after lunch yesterday, and hasn’t been seen since.”

Reggie sat down. “One of your larger cigars would do me, good, Lomas,” he said, and helped himself. “Oh, Mr. Lomas, sir, this is so sudden. Cousin Herbert was feeling nervous, no doubt. But why this dramatic exit? What gave Cousin Herbert cold feet yesterday?”

Superintendent Bell coughed. “I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Fortune had taken any steps on his own with regard to Herbert. To alarm him, so to speak.”

“Nary step. Why the blazes didn’t you watch him?”

“After all, sir, we’ve not a thing against him.”

“Not now?”

“Well, sir, it’s not criminal to disappear. But I don’t mind saying it’s odd, quite odd.”

“Oh, I expect Geoffrey and the angel wife murdered him too. Just to round it off, Lomas, old thing.”

“You’re very merry and bright,” Lomas grumbled. “I wish you’d tell me how this helps us. Why should he bolt now?”

“There is another unknown quantity somewhere,” Reggie admitted.

The telephone claimed Lomas. He took it up, and his face was eloquent as he listened. He put it down again very gently. “Afraid you’re right out of it, Fortune. Herbert Charlecote didn’t bolt. Herbert Charlecote has been found drowned in the Basingstoke Canal.”

“Good Lord, sir!” the Superintendent exclaimed.

“Pretty conclusive, what?” Lomas shrugged.

“And why the Basingstoke Canal?” said Reggie placidly. “Lots of nice places to drown in nearer home. I ask you, why the Basingstoke Canal?”

Lomas and his Superintendent looked at each other. “It really is a crazy case,” Lomas said slowly, “I don’t quite⁠—”

Reggie jumped up. “Oh, come on. Let’s go and look at him. My car’s outside. Where is he?”

“Woking. Half a minute.” Lomas rang his bell and turned to his papers.

So Reggie went down first. He dismissed his chauffeur with some long instructions, and himself took the chauffeur’s seat. Superintendent Bell joined him. “Darker and darker, sir, isn’t it?”

“Changeable weather,” Reggie said. “Come on, Lomas, all aboard! Are we downhearted? No!” The car shot forward. And when it stopped in Woking:

“Is my hair white, Fortune?” Lomas said.

The two stood humbly aside while the expert was busy with the corpse. “As often as I’ve seen this game, sir, I’ll never like it,” Bell said, and Lomas nodded. But Reggie Fortune whistled as he worked.

When he turned from the body and put a scrap of something in his pocketbook⁠—“Well, what is it?” Lomas said. “He was drowned, I suppose?”

“He was drowned all right⁠—about teatime last night. Say at dusk. Now for the scene of death. Where is it?”

“Just by a bridge on a byroad somewhere between here and Byfleet Station.”

“I ask you, why does a gentleman of fashion about to commit suicide come and look for a bridge on a byroad somewhere between here and Byfleet Station?”

“Somebody’s took some pains in this Charlecote business,” the Superintendent said.

Reggie laughed. “The Superintendent touches the spot⁠—as ever. Come on!”

He stopped his car some distance from the bridge, and they went forward on foot.

“There’s a big car been over here,” Bell said. “Yet you wouldn’t think it was much of a motor road.” It was a narrow gravel road and very loose. Just below the steep pitch of the bridge a car had been stopped, and in stopping or starting again had torn up the loose gravel. Thence to the canal was only half a dozen yards. The path was much trampled and the grass and bushes by the bank beaten down. “All that may have been done fishing him out,” Bell said. “But that don’t explain the car. They took him off in a wood cart. I suppose since motors were invented there never was one came down this road and stopped just here.”

“Not till last night,” Lomas nodded.

“So somebody,” said Reggie, “somebody put Herbert in a car, brought him down here, and chucked him in. Who was somebody? Geoffrey and the angel wife, eh, Lomas, old thing?”

“Somebody put in some fine work, what? He wouldn’t have been found for weeks or forever, but a barge came along and stirred him up. And they don’t have a barge along here once a month.”

“Yes, there’s plenty of brains about somewhere. Well, let’s get busy. Herbert’s happy home comes next.”

The car again broke the law on the way back.

Herbert Charlecote had lived in a big block of flats several stories up.

“Did himself pretty expensively, don’t you know,” Lomas said, looking round the elaborate room.

“He’s paid for all now, sir,” said Superintendent Bell.

“Do you know, I don’t feel sentimental about dear Herbert’s doom,” Reggie smiled. “You’d better get on to his papers. I want a man on the phone,” and he went out and was gone some time.