The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 23

needed no particular exercise of observation on Brixey's part to convince him that Mesham was completely taken aback by what he had just seen. He remained standing just within the entrance to the platform, his eyes fixed on the disappearing train, his mouth open with surprise.

He was so oblivious of all else but what he was staring at that he did not even see Brixey, who stood only a few yards in front of him. But Brixey saw and watched him, and was quick to understand. Mesham's whole air was that of a man from whom something had been snatched in which he was keeping jealous guard.

There was anger in his look, but it was not so markedly evident as a bewildered surprise. He looked, in short, decided Brixey, precisely as Fanshawe had said—sold. And Brixey began to wonder why.

Mesham drew a long breath at last, and his gaze shifted from the train, now rounding the curve outside the station, to nearer objects. He suddenly caught sight of Brixey, and his cheeks flushed angrily.

Brixey returned his glance with a stare of cool, premeditated insolence, and when Mesham, with a scowl, turned away and walked up the platform to the bookstall, he deliberately followed. He was going to force himself upon Mesham whenever he could.

The London morning newspapers had just come in, and the bookstall boys were busily sorting and folding them. The manager, standing near, was turning over a copy of the Sentinel, and as Mesham went up, he looked up and smiled at him meaningly.

"Have a Sentinel this morning, Mr. Mesham?" he asked, holding up the paper. "There's your name in it, sir—and a good lot more. Working up a nice bit of copy out of this affair, aren't they?"

"Give me a Daily Express," he growled. "Do you think I want to read a damned rag like that? What the devil do I care what they say in the Sentinel?—all empty sensationalism!"

"There's a whole column of it, anyhow," said the manager, "and whoever's written it seems to know what he's writing about. He's not afraid of mentioning names, either!"

Brixey pushed himself in between Mesham and another customer and looked at the manager.

"Has he mentioned the name of one Charles Melsome yet?" he asked in a loud voice.

The manager took this for a casual and innocent inquiry, and not knowing his questioner from Adam, turned the Sentinel over again, and ran his eye down a well-leaded column, freely adorned with cross headings.

"Melsome, sir, Melsome?" he said. "I don’t see that name. Perhaps you’ll look for yourself, sir. Thank you."

Brixey laid down a penny and picked up the paper, purposely keeping his eyes on it. He felt Melsham move quietly away; a moment later, looking up, he saw him leaving the station. At the door of the booking-office he turned and glanced back in Brixey's direction. Brixey caught his eye and grinned maliciously at him.

"That’s to let you know that I know, my boy!" muttered Brixey. "Now go away and be very, very frightened!"

Mesham went off up the street, and Brixey followed leisurely at a distance, saw him presently meet a man with whom, after the exchange of a word or two, he turned down a quiet alley that led towards the Cathedral close.

They a were some distance along it when Brixey came up to its mouth, and he then could see no more of Mesham’s companion than that he was a medium-sized man, who wore a somewhat loud-patterned Norfolk jacket. He had his back to Brixey, and while he and Mesham talked, standing by a blank wall half-way down the place into which they had retreated. Mesham was evidently so engrossed in what he was saying that he never looked in Brixey’s direction.

And Brixey, highly gratified that he had given Mesham something to think about, and perhaps to talk about, went on to the "Mitre," and found Gaffkin and breakfast waiting for him.

"Brackett wants to see us together, after breakfast," remarked Gaffkin as they sat down. "He met me outside just now. He's very mysterious about something or other—some secret.

"Well, I’m thinking of going for Mesham. Can't you suggest some means of giving him infinite worry and annoyance, Gaffkin, without our breaking the law? I want, somehow, to goad that chap until he's fairly desperate!

"By the by, I’ve had one little passage with him this morning," he added, and went on to tell Gaffkin of what had happened at the station. "I’d give a lot to know why Mesham looked so fearfully done when he saw Fanshawe Byfield and his mother sailing off before his eyes," he concluded. "I never saw a man who so represented absolute disappointment of a queer sort." Gaffkin had listened to all this with quiet attention. "Aye!" he remarked meditatively. "It may be, Mr. Brixey, that in whatever plot or scheme or conspiracy it is that Mesham has in hand, for it’s certain he has one, the Byfields, mother and son, were to play a part—probably an unwilling part. And so, when he saw them being removed—eh?"

"Do you know what I think, Gaffkin?" exclaimed Brixey. "I think that chap ought to be watched. I think that we ought to concentrate on him—him! And I propose to give ourselves up to dogging his every footstep—following him wherever he goes.

"If he visits the 'Cavalier,' so will we, or one of us; if he leaves the, town, we must certainly be after him. If we can only make things so hot for him as to force his hand"

"We don't know yet what old Brackett has to tell us," said Gaffkin. "Better hear his story."

They found Brackett at the end of the stable-yard, inspecting his horses, and it was in a quiet corner of his harness-room that he told them his news.

"I was going to mention this last night," said Brackett, "but I was a bit busy and upset about Miss going off to London. Of course, it's quite right that she should go, under the circumstances, though what they are, I'm sure I've no idea—and I hadn't a chance of seeing you gentlemen.

"Well, it's this way—there's a few of us here in Selchester who have a little private club of our own—a few of the tradesmen and a few retired men, and two or three like myself-—we have some very nice rooms over Walkerman's shop. Sunday night, gentlemen, is our best night for meeting—always a good number on Sunday night.

"I was there last night for an hour or two, as usual, and, of course, the talk ran a good deal on the disappearance of your uncle, Mr. Brixey—naturally, it's the topic of the town, just now. And as you'd expect, if there was one theory put out, there were a dozen!"

"Any of 'em any good?" asked Brixey.

"Some of 'em were pretty far-fetched," replied Brackett, with a laugh. "One man has an idea that Mr. Linthwaite will be found to be an absconding trustee. Another is certain that it's an elopement. The favourite notion, of course, is that the first police theory was right, and that the poor gentleman was murdered. But all this is neither here nor there, as regards what I'm going to tell you.

"You know, gentlemen," he went on, with a knowing wink, "there are men who keep close in company—quiet, reserved sort of men, who aren't going to say all they think or tell all they know, when there's what you might call a general, promiscuous talk going on in such places as club smoking-rooms.

"We've such men in our little club, and two in particular—Mr. Willett, the bookseller, and Mr. Archington, the wine and spirit merchant, I dare say you've noticed their places in the town?"

"I've seen them," assented Brixey.

"Very quiet, close men, both," continued the old landlord. "Not the sort to express opinions readily. Those of our members that I've just referred to were what one understands as ready talkers—you know.

"Now Mr. Willett and Mr. Archington, they're the sort that sits quiet, and smokes its pipe or cigar, and takes all in, and gives little out—eh? Well, last night these two were there in the corner that they generally get together in, and they heard all that was said without saying much themselves, as usual

"But just before I was leaving Mr. Willett beckoned me to them, and they made room for me between their chairs. 'Brackett,' says Mr. Willett, 'there's been a good deal of talk-to-night about the disappearance of this Mr. Linthwaite. Now, you've got the gentleman's nephew at your house, haven't you?' 'Since Thursday evening,' says I, 'and very anxious about his  uncle he is.'

"'Well,' says Willett, 'talk and gossip about one's fellow-townsfolk is not to my taste, nor to Mr. Archington's either, but you can take the young gentleman a message from both of us. Tell him,' he says, with a look at Archington, 'that if he likes to call on us to-morrow morning, we'll tell him something that may be a bit of help.'

"‘I will indeed!' says I, 'and glad he'll be to have it.' 'Well,' says Archington, 'it's to be strictly private, Brackett, and it mayn't be any help at all. But we both think there's something in it.’"

"I'll go and see them now," said Brixey. He motioned Gaffkin out into the yard. "While I'm gone," he said, "take a walk round and see if Mesham's about the town. And if he is, let him see, openly, that you're shadowing him. Do it boldly. Thrust it before his very eyes!"