The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 25

bookseller produced an old-fashioned pocket-book, and, after a little searching among its contents, extracted a five-pound note, new, crisp and crackling. Archington at the same moment unlocked a drawer, and took another from beneath some papers. In silence they handed the notes to Brixey, who glanced straight at the numbers.

"X 61 23784," he muttered. "X 61 23785. A moment—I’ll write those numbers down. Thank you, gentlemen," he continued, as he produced a notebook and pencil.

"That's the first direct clue I've had! You've hit the target without a doubt! I'm about as sure as I can be that this is not the first time I've handled these two notes."

"You yourself?" asked Archington.

"I, myself!" affirmed Brixey. "My uncle and I bank at the same bank—the Amalgamated Counties, in Fleet Street. A week since last Saturday I cashed a cheque for him there. I took a hundred pounds of it in five-pound notes, all of which he'd have on him when he left town. If these are not two of them, I shall be much surprised. But I'll know definitely before the day's out."

"And if they are?" asked Willett.

"I want to have your advice on that matter," said Brixey "Now, you said, Mr. Archington, that your impression is that my uncle is locked up in the old Priory. Do you think that possible? Possible, I mean, that a man could be locked up there for several days without it leaking out? Do you mean to say that it's a place in which it's possible to imprison in that way?"

Archington pointed to the bookseller.

"Willett knows more about that than I do," he answered. "I'm not as familiar with our old places as he is."

"Well, it is possible," said Willett as Brixey turned to him. "Unless you've been all over those ruins, Mr. Brixey, you'd be astonished in what a good state of preservation they are, and what a lot of room there is in them. Two or three resolute and determined people, bent on doing it, could keep a man prisoner there for as long as they liked.

"There's the old tower, for instance. The base of that is Lee's dwelling-house, put in repair some years ago, when the museum was started, for the caretaker to live in. Above it there are several rooms and places, all in good architectural repair, with strong doors, and so on.

"In one of them a lot of corporation records and things are stored, but it's very rarely that that room is visited. And there are rooms above that. Yes, I certainly think a man might be locked up there, and nobody the wiser."

"But, think!" objected Brixey. "Those Priory grounds are visited all day long! Do you mean to say that a man so imprisoned couldn't attract attention from the windows, couldn't shout to those below?"

"There are rooms in that tower, sir," answered Willett, "in which the windows are so small and set so high in the walls above the flooring that a man couldn't get at them."

"What about lights at night in these rooms, or in one of them?" suggested Brixey. "Wouldn’t that attract attention?"

"Do you think the gaolers would allow lights?" asked Willett dryly.

"No! Besides, there are one or two places in there that don't touch the outer walls—inner rooms. That's one of the most massive towers in England."

"Your theory, of course," Brixey concluded as he rose, "is that Mr. Linthwaite is being kept there a prisoner until—what?"

"Ah, that's it!" said Archington, with a laugh. "Until—what? Well, I should say, until something's taken place that his presence in this town was likely to prevent."

"That's it!" agreed Willett, "He turned up just when somebody didn't want him. And so—he's been quietly interned." "How do you—how would you—account for it that if he's locked up in that way he’s free to buy wine and books?" asked Brixey. "That's queer!"

"Not a bit," said Archington. "He got the girl to manage it—probably paid her well to get him a few comforts. She's a sharp young minx, and it looks to me as if he'd been told that he'd got to stop where he was for some days, and so determined to make the best of it. I noticed you started when I said that Debbie Lee ordered Château Laffite?"

"My uncle's favourite wine, that's' all," answered Brixey.

"There you are!" exclaimed Archington triumphantly. "Well, what'll you do? Go to the police?"

"No!" replied Brixey. "Not yet, anyway. I'll satisfy myself about these notes, and then I shall consider further operations. I feel pretty comfortable now about one thing.

"From what you tell me, my uncle, if he is a prisoner, is not likely to be either in chains or on bread and water. That's something to know. And now I'm going to wire to the bank."

Archington pointed to a sheaf of telegram forms on his desk, and Brixey wrote out his message:

"" "You shall know what I hear about this," he said, as he went off. "In the meantime, silence all round!"

He handed in the wire to the post office and then walked back to the "Mitre," expecting to encounter Gaffkin either in the streets or about the hotel. But Gaffkin was not in evidence; Brackett, the barmaid, said, had gone out on business, and Brixey was left to his thoughts.

On one point Brixey's mind was already made up—he was going to know the secret of the Priory before the day was out. He hung around the "Mitre," wishing that Gaffkin would turn up, so that he could consult with him. But noon was chimed and rung from all the city clocks and from the great bell in the cathedral tower, and no Gaffkin appeared.

Then, at half-past twelve, as Brixey was moodily strolling up and down near the Market Cross, keeping an eye on the ends of four streets along any one of which Gaffkin might have appeared, he saw Empidge come out of the "Mitre" courtyard, look round, catch sight of him, and point him out to a railway porter who carried an envelope in his hand. The man came hurrying up to him.

"Mr. Brixey, sir?" he asked. "Gentleman down at the station asked me to bring you this, sir. No answer."

Brixey took a dirty and crumpled envelope from its bearer and extracted a scrap of paper on which Gaffkin had hastily scrawled a message.

""

Brixey gave the porter a shilling and was turning away when a thought occurred to him.

"Here!" he said, calling the man back. "Do you know Mr. Mr. Mesham?"

"Mr. Mesham—him that lives at Strike's, sir?" answered the porter. "Yes, sir, well enough by sight, sir."

"Did you happen to see him go away by the 9.41 this morning?" asked Brixey. "You did. Well, was he alone?"

"As far as I know, he was, sir," replied the man. "I saw him in a first-class smoker, sir—hadn’t no one with him that I noticed."

Brixey nodded in silence, and turned into the "Mitre." He was disappointed at not being able to communicate his news to Gaffkin, but a little reflection made him determined not to tell even Brackett of it. He had already made up his mind that he would not share it with Crabbe and the police—yet.

Gaffkin would probably return from Brighton before night; if not, he would visit the Priory alone. And while he lunched he thought out a plan of action. Know whether his uncle was immured or not in those ruins he would before he slept.

Three o’clock brought Brixey a wire from the bank in London. After one glance at it he walked over to Chantry Passage and showed it to Willett.

"There you are!" he said. "Just as I expected. You see, the twenty five-pound notes I got in exchange for Mr Linthwaite's cheque were numbered X 61 23768 to X 61 23787, both numbers inclusive! Your note and Mr. Archington’s are X 61 23784 and X 61 23785. Nothing could be clearer!"

"What are you going to do? asked Willett.

"Without saying anything to anybody, answered Brixey, "I'm going to pay a quiet visit to that spot this evening, after dark. Are you a yearly subscriber to those grounds? You are? Then it would be a help if you’d lend me your key. I want to get in on quiet."

"You don’t think you’re running into danger?" asked Willett.

"Possibly, but it will only be for about the twentieth time, replied Brixey. "That's merely incidental. I'll keep you posted."

He lounged away the afternoon around and within the cathedral. And as he sat down to dinner that evening, still alone, a second wire arrived from Gaffkin. Mesham was in company with an elderly man, much resembling himself, at Brighton, and Gaffkin was carefully watching all their movements.