The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 2

hours later, as the dusk of the May evening settled into night, Brixey found himself in an old-fashioned omnibus which two ancient horses drew clumsily over the cobble-paved street of a quiet town. Loo king out through the narrow windows, he was aware of old, high-gabled houses, of a tall spire rising high above trees, and of a general air of antiquity.

The omnibus turned a corner into a wider street, rumbled under an archway and came to a stand; and, Brixey, assisting his companion to alight, found himself in a queer old courtyard, flanked on either side by picturesque bow windows, through the red curtains of which shone a warm and cheery glow. A waiter and a chambermaid appeared at a door and seized on Brixey’s belongings; behind them came a tall, sturdy rosy-cheeked, who hurried out with evident anxiety.

"This is Mr. Brackett," said Miss Byfield. Brixey held out a hand to the landlord, who took it with old-fashioned politeness.

"Your servant, sir," he said hurriedly. "Glad you've come down, sir. But have you any news of this poor gentleman?" Brixey shook his head.

"Have you?" he asked. That's the most important point."

"Come this way, sir," said the landlord. He led Brixey into the house, across a shadowy old hall, and into a cosy parlour where a bright fire of logs burned on the hearth. "This is the' sitting-room I gave Mr. Linthwaite," he said, as they entered. "There's some of the papers and books he was reading the night he came in. No, sir, I've no news. After I sent up to you this morning, I just gave a quiet hint to the police, and they've been making inquiries round the town, but up to an hour ago they'd heard nothing. Nobody seems to have even seen the poor gentleman since he walked out of here on Tuesday morning."

Brixey took off his hat and gloves and laid them aside.

"Very well," he said. "Then I've just got to find him, Mr. Brackett. So let me have some supper in here, and book me a room, and in the meantime show me the room he had and what he left there."

He presently followed the landlord up an old-fashioned, heavily-balustered staircase, and along a succession of winding corridors. From habit and training Brixey kept his eyes active, and as he went along he made note of old pictures, cabinets of glass and china and silver, ancient furniture, and the various oddments that accumulate in old houses; he noted, too, the unevenness of the doors which he trod, and the queer angles and nooks wherein doors were set.

"An old place this," he observed, as the landlord stopped at a door. "Very old indeed, I should think."

"Goes back to old Harry the Eighth, sir, some of it," answered Brackett. "It's been in my family's hands since Queen Anne's times. One Stephen Brackett after another has. held it ever since then—I'm the seventh in a straight line. It used to be a famous coaching house in the old days, but now—well, we get a few motorists for an hour or two. The old times, sir, are gone. This is the room Mr. Linthwaite had."

He ushered Brixey into a roomy, comfortable apartment, and lighted a couple of candles which stood in tall plated sticks on the dressing-table.

"All's just as he left it on Tuesday," he continued. "I made bold to look through his things first thing this morning, to see if I could find any address, otherwise nothing's been touched."

There was little to see or to examine. An old-fashioned portmanteau lay open on a stand? some garments were hanging on pegs various toilet articles lay about s a book or two lay on a table near the bed.

"If I hadn't found your letter lying open there on the dressing-table, have known what to do, You see Mr. Linthwaite didn't enter any address of his own when he came—just London, and no more. I suppose you've no theory of your own, sir?"

"None!" answered Brixey. "And so I must get to work. I'll have that bit of supper, Mr. Brackett, and then, late as it is, I must see your police. My own idea is that my uncle's met with some accident. Your young lady mentioned some sheet of water that you thought he might have fallen into."

"I suggested that to Inspector Crabbe this afternoon," said Brackett. "He promised to have that water looked at, and I expect him in before the evening's over. I'll give you the next room to this, sir, if you'll come this way, and you shall have some hot supper in ten minutes."

Left to himself, Brixey, as he washed his hands and brushed his red hair, faced the problem before him. His uncle, John Linthwaite, was a particularly hale and hearty man of sixty-three. He was well-to-do. He had not a care in the world. He had no business. He spent much of his time in travelling. He was an antiquary of some repute. It was his love of antiquarianism that had brought him to Selchester, where he had proposed to spend a few days before joining his nephew at Winchester, preparatory to a joint tour in the south-west of England.

Why, then, this extraordinary disappearance? Accident, surer there, had been some accident—Brixey could think of no other explanation. He knew his uncle’s love of exploring old places—there were many old places in Selchester. He might have got into some ruin or other, had a bad fall, be lying there even then, unable to get help—he might be dead.

But, dead or alive—he had to be found. And it was no use speculating, and no use inventing theories. The thing required was that for which Brixey was famous among his journalistic associates—action.

He looked at his watch as he sat down to his supper in the little parlour into which Brackett had first brought him—9.15. Fleet Street and its noise seemed a long way off, and the strange quietude of the old cathedral town inclined Brixey to the opinion that its inhabitants were probably in the habit of going to bed before ten. But between then and midnight Brixey meant to do things, and to extend their doing beyond midnight if necessary.

Once in action he was not inclined to ease off—that, he said to himself, was not the Brixey way. He had been doing sub-editorial work the Morning Sentinel for two years, but before that he had worked as a reporter, and there were certain notable, things to his fame and credit in Fleet Street. It was Brixey who tracked the Surbiton murderer to discovery when the police utterly failed; Brixey who got the exclusive news of the Hammerstein-Martin affair, the biggest scoop that Fleet Street had known for many a long day.

And now here was a personal matter, with the added incentive that Richard Brixey, nephew, was something more than fond of John Linthwaite, uncle. They were not only relations, but affectionate friends.

Brixey ate as he did everything else—swiftly. He had got through a plate of hot soup and a steak of cod, and was rapidly devouring a grilled chop when the waiter asked if he would see Mr. Brackett and Inspector Crabbe.

"This minute!" responded Brixey. "Bring 'em in here, just now."

The last mouthful of mutton disappeared as the landlord led in the policeman, and Brixey, with a sharp nod to the official, plunged straight into business.

"Any news, Inspector?" he asked. "I suppose Mr. Brackett's told you who I am?—Mr. Linthwaite’s nephew, and out to find him. I propose to start on to that game right here and now, so if you've heard, anything—eh?"

Inspector Crabbe, a tall, soldierly-looking man of grave manners, took Brixey in at a comprehensive glance, and recognised him as a person of unbounded energy.

"We've heard nothing whatever, sir, until just now," he answered. "One of my men has just been in to tell me that Mrs. Crosse, the landlady of the 'Lame Hussar,' believes that Mr. Linthwaite called at her house about eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning—that would be (if it was Mr. Linthwaite) about half an hour after he left this hotel. Anyway, a strange gentleman—elderly—dropped in there for a few minutes, and"

"Where is this place?" demanded Brixey, snatching up his hat. "Up North Street? Come on then, Inspector; that's the first clue I've heard, and we'll be on to it.

"This," he continued as they went out into the courtyard, "is a very serious affair. There's no reason in the world why my uncle should disappear. He was in the very best of health; he's a well-to-do man; he came here to enjoy himself by looking round your old spots, and I'm afraid he's had an accident."

"That's what I'm afraid of, sir," assented Crabbe. "But there are odd features about this matter. You can see for yourself," he went on, as he led Brixey round the corner, "this is a very small town. There are only these four main streets, all going off from the centre here—from that old Market Cross—in it.

"Your uncle was a stranger—and, I'm told, a fine-looking gentleman. How is it nobody saw him on Tuesday morning? At least, how is it we can't hear of anybody who saw him—in a bit of a place like this, where a stranger can scarcely fail to be noticed!"

"Aye!" said Brixey. "But you don't know yet that he wasn't seen by somebody. Now, if it should be that that somebody won't tell—what then?"

"In that case, sir, if you ask me, I should say there's been foul play," answered Crabbe. "Now, had your uncle much money on him?"

"He usually carried about a hundred pounds in his pockets," replied Brixey indifferently. "That's no great incentive to—shall we say murder?"

Crabbe made no answer; but he shook his head. They had walked swiftly up the street, and had come to what Brixey saw to be the old walls of the town. Just before reaching them the inspector pointed to a red-curtained window in a high-gabled, ancient house, in front of which stood a tall pole whence hung an old-fashioned swinging sign.

"This is the spot, sir," he said. "The 'Lame Hussar'—one of our oldest inns."