The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 14

read this message twice over, excused himself again to Mr. Semmerby and, moving away, beckoned to Empidge, who was waiting behind him.

"Got a local time table?" he asked. The boots produced a much-thumbed railway guide, and Brixey, running through its pages, quickly memorised the information he needed.

"Look here!" he said, handing back the guide. "Tell Mr. Brackett I'm going to be away during the afternoon. I shall be back at the 'Mitre' just about seven tills evening.

"Now, another thing. You know Robinson, the printer? Go to him, and tell him that Mr. Brixey says he can withdraw those men who are carrying the placards at twelve o’clock, or sooner, if—but only if—Mr. Crabbe asks him to do so. That's all, except that I shall want dinner when I get back."

He hurried away down the street and went off to the station, where he presently caught an eastward-bound train. And all the way to Newhaven he was wondering and speculating about the exact meaning and significance of Gaffkin's wire

That the repeated wire, purporting to originate from Mr. Linthwaite was really genuine Brixey did not believe for one moment. He knew his uncle well enough to feel sure that if circumstances had arisen necessitating an alteration in his plans he would not only have wired more explicitly, but have supplemented the telegram by a letter giving details.

The telegram quoted by Gaffkin was, in Brixey's opinion, a fraud, and, as he had said, a clumsy one, and a feature in what he was rapidly coming to consider a strange and mysterious conspiracy. It had been sent to him as a blind, in his uncle’s name, in order to throw him off a possible scent.

Yet there were certain facts to be faced, and Brixey put these to himself in the form of questions, revolving each in turn as the tram carried him along the Sussex coast line. Some person who was not Mr. Linthwaite had send the message which Gaffkin had found on arriving in London. So how had that person obtained Brixey’s private address?

How did the person know that he, Brixey, had arranged to meet Mr. Linthwaite at Winchester last Friday morning? Why was Tuesday or Wednesday in the coming week mentioned as a probable date for Mr. Linthwaite to communicate again with his nephew?

Finally, why was it necessary to put him, Brixey, into the position of believing that Mr. Linthwaite’s arrangements were so altered that there would be no meeting between uncle and nephew for at least four or five days?

Before he reached Brighton and changed into a local train for Newhaven, Brixey had worked out certain conclusions, which, when he re-considered seemed obvious enough. First, whoever had sent the wire from Newhaven was in touch with Mr. Linthwaite. Second, Mr. Linthwaite had without doubt furnished, of his own will or under pressure, the address of the rooms in the Temple which he and his nephew shared. Third, the obvious intention of the wire was that Brixey, for some days at any rate, should have uneasiness or wonder as to his uncle's whereabouts.

Hew was to be under the comfortable impression that Mr. Linthwaite had, for some reason or other, altered his arrangements; that they were to meet at the "White Hart" at Salisbury some days later than they had meant to meet at Winchester, and that their projected holiday together would then begin.

So, what did it all mean?

Brixey got the solution of the mystery in a flash as he stood nibbling a sandwich and sipping a cup of coffee in the refreshment room at Brighton during a ten minutes' wait.

Kidnapped!

While he journeyed round through Lewes to Newhaven, Brixey did more thinking. He tried to reconstruct things. Mr. Linthwaite goes to Selchester intent on no more than amusing and interesting himself in its antiquities, among which he means to idle a few days pleasantly away.

By sheer accident, he lights on some people he has known One is Mrs. Byfield; the other is Mr. Christopher Mesham, the Mr. X of another period. What secret of theirs, or of hers, does he discover? Was it a mutual secret? Was it the secret of one only? Did it come to the surface, just when it was not wanted, when the three met in the old ruins that morning? Did Mr. Linthwaite already know it? Or did he only become acquainted with it at that meeting?

Anyway,in Brixey’s opinion, what had happened was this—these people had a secret, and a design in hand arising out of it which would be absolutely smashed up if Mr. Linthwaite was allowed to remain at large with power to use his knowledge of the secret; therefore he was cleverly and quietly trapped, until the moment came whereat that knowledge would be useless.

And, evidently, from the trick of the telegram, that time was limited to four or five five, days—certainly to within a week. Therefore, whatever it was that these people were doing, they were doing it now. Now—just now.

Brixey left the train at Newhaven town station and walked up to the post office. He had to wait some little time before the clerk was found who had taken in the telegram about which he had called, but thereafter he had no difficulty in getting his first piece of information. The telegram had not been handed in over the counter at all, but telephoned from an hotel in the town.

"Man's voice or woman's?" asked Brixey.

"Man's—I should say a young man’s," answered the clerk.

"You’ve an arrangement, I suppose, by which the hotel people or people staying there can telephone messages up to you for transmission by telegram?" suggested Brixey.

"Just so," said the clerk. "Often done."

Brixey went off to the hotel. He was on the track of something, and of somebody; the next thing was to discover who the person was who had come to Newhaven in order to send that designedly misleading message. Would the hotel folk, who no doubt saw a great many people, be likely to remember any particular person who had been there, perhaps only for a few minutes, two days before?

He was encouraged in his hopes by finding that the hotel was a small one. He walked into the coffee-room, that was otherwise unoccupied, and, finding that it was already past three o’clock, rang the bell and asked for tea. While the waitress went for it he sat down and reflected on his next movement.

He was anxious not to excite undue interest, for he was by that time convinced that he had to do with a conspiracy, and he did not know how far its ramifications might extend. For anything he knew to the contrary, one of the persons concerned in it might live in Newhaven, might use that very house regularly. It was, in any case, necessary to proceed with caution.

From sheer habit when stranded in such surroundings and being one of those people who can think of one thing and read about another at the same time, Brixey looked round for a newspaper.

Then he saw one close at his knee; someone had carelessly thrown the Daily Express on top of a big waste-paper basket which stood between his easy-chair and the corner of the fender. He leaned forward and picked it up, and the next instant found himself staring at a scrap of paper on which part of his own name and address was plainly written. And—in Mr. Linthwaite’s familiar caligraphy [sic]!

Brixey had already experienced too much of it not to believe in luck. He had known several strokes of luck—luck so extraordinary as to be almost miraculous. And he knew that here, once more, his luck was with him again. By sheer, good, absolute luck he was on the verge of a discovery.

Before placing even the tip of a finger on it, he bent over the basket and looked narrowly at its contents. He saw at once that they had been accumulating there for days. He saw, too, what had happened in the case of the scrap of paper on which Mr. Linthwaite’s writing appeared.

Someone, probably sitting in that very chair, probably waiting, as he was, for a cup of tea had torn up a half-sheet of notepaper into small pieces, and had then dropped the pieces, in a solid sheaf, into the basket. Having arrived at that conclusion, Brixey carefully took the pieces out, made sure that there were no more of them, and put them, unsorted, into his pocket.

The tea came. Once more he had the room to himself. He drew a chair to the table, poured out a cup of tea, lighted a cigarette, and examined his find, laying each scrap of paper on the cloth. Then he counted them. Thirty-two in all.

He knew then what had happened. The destroyer had half a sheet of notepaper. He had torn it in two—torn it again—repeated the process three times after that, until the one piece had become thirty-two pieces. All right—the thirty-two pieces were there; all that was necessary was to put them carefully together.

There was no great difficulty in the task, granted that whoever essayed it was possessed of patience and aptitude. In ten minutes Brixey had brought it to a successful conclusion, and had the tangible result before him. And he was then more surprised than ever.

There were two messages on the half-sheet of paper, and each was in a different handwriting. One, written evidently rather hastily in pencil, was in the handwriting of Mr. Linthwaite; the other, in ink, was in a hand quite unfamiliar to Brixey.

What Mr. Linthwaite had written was this:

""

All of this, except the address, had been crossed out in ink. Underneath the unknown hand had written another message:

""

This, of course, was identical, word for word, with the wire which Gaffkin had quoted to Brixey in his own wire of that morning. The variation from the original message had, of course, been made with a purpose, and

The waitress entered the room at that moment, bringing some hot toast, and Brixey, after a sharp, observant glance at her, determined on a bold stroke. He motioned her to put the door to, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Look here!" he said, with a meaning look. "Would you like to earn a sovereign?"