The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 27

was a bit of crumpled, dirty paper, a scrap evidently torn from a small memorandum-book, at which Brixey looked. On it were a few words scribbled in pencil in a man’s handwriting—an address. Whether it signified much or little, Brixey instantly memorised it.

Wolmark’s Private Hotel, Trinity Square, E.C.

He repeated it once or twice and packed it away in a safe corner of his brain for future use if need arose. Woimark’s Private Hotel, Trinity Square—down by the Tower, and near the Docks.

What was an address like that doing in Debbie Lee’s purse, there in Selchester?

But before Brixey had time to consider this problem his attention was otherwise occupied. Outside the room in which he stood there was a landing, and on that landing a window was open. All the time he had been there he had heard the hooting of the owls in the old trees across the grounds.

Now he heard something else—the steady throb of the engine of a motor-car. That sound drew nearer and nearer; slowed down, ceased. He knew it to have come from the road outside; knew the car to have pulled up close to the gates of the Priory, and he instantly slipped the bit of paper back into the purse, laid the purse where he had found it, half covered by the handkerchief, and turned off the light of his lamp.

The next instant he heard footsteps on the drive below—somebody was running towards the house. And he knew then that Debbie Dee had missed her purse, and was either hurrying back herself or had sent somebody to fetch it.

Brixey, in glancing round the room, had noticed a curtain which hung from a shelf in an alcove. To slip behind that curtain was the work of an instant.

Another instant and he heard the hurrying steps in the yard beneath, then in the living-room below, then on the stair. And he knew then that it was a man who had come back for the green purse.

The man came running fast up the stairs. Brixey heard him panting. He turned straight into the room. Brixey saw his figure outlined against the grey light of the curtainless window. But the next instant the man struck a match; it flared up brightly.

And then the watcher knew that he had indeed made a discovery. The man standing before him, glancing eagerly at the contents of the dressing-table, was, without doubt, the man whom the Newhaven landlord had described—a very ordinary-looking fellow to whom an unmistakable cast or squint gave a sinister appearance.

Also, Brixey was certain that he was the man to whom he had seen Mesham talking that very morning in the side-alley when he followed Mesham from the station after the Byfields had gone off to London. He knew him by his coat; its cut, its loud pattern.

In the same instant in which Brixey made these discoveries, the man caught sight of the purse and grabbed it with a muttered exclamation of relief. The next instant he had flung down the match, run out of the room, and was flying down the stairs; the next he was out of the house again, and running down the drive.

Brixey then emerged from his hiding-place, and, hurrying to the open window on the landing, put out his head and shoulders, and listened. A moment later he heard the motor-car's engine begin to throb—another moment and it had gone off once more into the night.

And once more silence fell over the old place, broken now and then by the mournful hooting of the owls.

Brixey thought a good deal to that eerie accompaniment. That Lee and his daughter were in flight he was certain. That the squint-eyed man was in collusion, or league or conspiracy with them seemed pretty positive. But what was it all about? Had it anything to do with the mystery which seemed to centre in Mrs. Byfield? Was it in relation to, or in consequence of, the disappearance of Mr. Linthwaite? Without doubt the man who had just been to fetch the green purse was the man who had sent that mysterious telegram from Newhaven, and had torn up and thrown away the actual message written by Mr. linthwaite himself. Therefore he must have been in touch with Mr. Linthwaite in the first day or two of his disappearance, and probably ever since.

And if he, as now seemed probable, was running away with the Lees, where was Mr. Linthwaite, who had probably been in their custody?

That last question seemed, after all, the immediately important one, and Brixey determined to continue his search. And now, feeling sure that nobody else would come to the old tower, he turned on the light of his lamp and boldly and carefully explored his surroundings. Before he left it, he was going to make certain whether Mr. Linthwaite was in that tower or not.

There were yet upper regions to explore, and Brixey climbed what was evidently the last flight of stair.

And before he knew of it he had set foot in what he very quickly assured himself to have been his uncle’s prison. The stair terminated on a narrow landing whereon was an ancient archway in which a door, clamped and ironed, was deeply set. That door was open. The vaulted chamber behind it was empty. But there was a door in the farther wall of that chamber, also open, through which Brixey instantly strode.

And he had not thrown the gleam of his lamp round the small room inside it for more than a few observant seconds than he knew that one part of the mystery was solved. Here, without a doubt, Mr. Linthwaite had been immured.

But he was not there! The place was empty and silent. Yet that he had been locked up there Brixey never doubted after his first rapid inspection—nay, he was certain that he had been there recently. And now that he had settled that point he proceeded to take a careful look round this curious jail.

An oil lamp stood on a table set against one of the bare walls. He lighted it and turned it up to the full. In its fairly strong light he saw how it was that Mr. Linthwaite had been incarcerated in this place without anyone knowing outside the circle—large or small—of his jailers.

The room was some twelve feet square in floor space, but of a considerable height. Its two windows were set high in the wails, much too high for a tall man to reach, even if standing on chair or table. The door was strong, thick, and closely set in its framework. Brixey saw that when it was closed the room must be sound-proof.

These facts showed him that a prisoner confined in the room would have little chance of attracting the attention of any person outside.

He turned from them to the proofs of his uncle’s presence. The place had been fitted up as a bed-sitting-room, and was not uncomfortably furnished. A thick, if somewhat timeworn, carpet had been spread on the floor, a camp-bed placed in one corner, a roomy arm-chair stood by a table set in the centre. On another and smaller table lay books, newspapers, periodicals.

Brixey turned them over—the last newspapers were of that day’s date; the books were those which Debbie Lee had bought from Willett. Writing materials lay near. A quantity of manuscript revealed the fact that Mr. Linthwaite had solaced the hours of imprisonment by making copious notes from the "History of Selchester." There was no mistaking his somewhat crabbed penmanship.

And ranged on the same table, in company with a cruet-stand and certain table appointments, stood the half-dozen bottles of Château Laffitte which Archington had spoken of; three of them were still uncorked.

A sudden fear sprang up in Brixey’s mind as he took in all these various details and proofs. Was it possible that the evidently sudden and hurried departure of the Lees and the squint-eyed man had brought about some tragedy?

The Airedale terrier was lying dead in the yard. Was it possible that Mr. linthwaiie was hung dead, too, somewhere among these ruins? It might be that these folk had been faced with some situation which made them desperate—desperate enough to take life.

And at that thought and its dreadful possibilities Brixey hastily ran down the stairs, left the Priory grounds, and hurried along the streets to the police station. Now, at last, the police would be of use.

Crabbe was in his office, writing letters, when Brixey was shown in to him. He looked up in astonishment.

"News?" he asked.

"Look here!'" exclaimed Brixey. "We've got to stir—quick! Never mind all the particulars. I'll tell you them later. But I’ve made a discovery.

"My uncle's been locked in a room in the top of that tower at the old Priory. There's no doubt about it, as you'll see for yourself. But he's not there now, and those Lees are gone—both father and daughter. They've gone off to-night, in a motor-car. I saw them go.

"Now, something's been done with my uncle before they left. We've got to find out what. Get some of your men and come up there. I'll tell you a lot more as we go along."

Crabbe got to his feet and made for the door. But before he could open it the policeman who had just ushered Brixey in came back with an expression of face which betokened news.

"Well?" demanded Crabbe. "What now?"

The policeman, obviously excited, jerked a thick thumb in the direction of the front office.

"There's a man there from one of those cottages up North Bar way, sir," he said. "Outside the walls—between the Priory grounds and the lake. He says there's somebody on that island in the middle of the lake shouting for help!" Brixey started forward. In his observations of the big sheet of water behind the Priory grounds he had noticed the small, thickly-wooded island of which the policeman spoke, and now a sudden light flashed field of mental vision. He clapped the inspector on the shoulder.

"Come on at once!" he exclaimed. "I've an idea what that means. Come! Bring more men. Get this man outside to show us the nearest way."

Ten minutes later at the head of half a dozen men, Brixey was standing on the edge of the black surface of the lake, striving to penetrate the gloom. Not even his sharp eyes could make out the island, half a mile away, but it needed little acuteness of hearing to catch a cry which came through the night.

"Help there! Help!"