The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 4

hurried himself into indispensable, garments and threw, open his door. A man stood outside—a shrewd-faced, sharp-eyed fellow who regarded him with interest as he held out Brixey’s shoes, already polished.

"You the boots?" asked Brixey.

"That and other things, sir," answered the man with a smile. "Odd-job man."

"Who brought this message?" demanded Brixey.

"A policeman, sir—said you were to have it at once," replied the other. "Like a cup of tea or coffee before you go out, sir?"

"No, thank you," said Brixey, who was already pulling on his shoes. "I’ll go straight there." He glanced at his caller, who was lingering at the open door. "Want to say anything?" he asked.

"There was a matter I thought of last night, sir," answered the man, "after I’d heard you was down here. That gentleman, sir, Mr. Lintwhaite, he asked me a question before he went out that morning. Wanted to know his way to Mardene Mill."

"Where’s that?" asked Brixey.

"North-east of the town, sir, on the Downs," said the boots, "He'd have to pass through a very lonely bit of country to get at that, sir, the way I told him. There’s some queer folks camps out thereabouts—vanners, and gipsies, and such-like. Thought I’d mention it, sir."

"What's your name?" inquired, Brixey.

"Empidge, sir—Jim Empidge," replied the man.

"You’re a sharp-looking chap," said Brixey. "And you no doubt hear a good deal of town gossip. You keep your eyes and ears open, Empidge, and let me know what you hear and see. Eh?"

"I understand, sir’ said Empidge, with a scarcely perceptible flicker of an eyelid. "I’ll see to it, sir."

"Any bit of news, you know," suggested Brixey. "Now I'm off. Order my breakfast for eight o’clock sharp."

Six was striking from the town clocks as he walked out of the old courtyard into the fresh air of the May morning. There was scarcely a soul about in the streets, and the policeman who admitted him to Inspector Crabbe's presence looked half asleep; Crabbe himself was in little more of a wakeful condition.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Brixey," he said, leading the way into an inner office, "but you said I was to let you know if anything turned up. A man that lives outside the town, Mardene way, knocked me up at a quarter past live and brought me these things. He was on his way to his work when he found them. Can you recognise them?"

He lifted a sheet of brown paper which had covered some objects lying on a side table, and revealed a grey felt Homburg hat and a gold-mounted umbrella. "Of course," answered Brixey. "Those are my uncle's." He picked up the hat and pointed to the name of the maker. "Always gets his hats there" he said. "And there, too, are his initials on the umbrella."

"The stick of the umbrella's broken" observed Crabbe. "And it was an uncommon stout one, too! Well—there's something." Brixey took the umbrella in his hands. The silk was wet as if from exposure; the strong hazel stick was snapped a few inches below the crook.

"Where were these things found?" he asked.

Crabbe walked across to a drawer and returned with a large map, which he spread out on the table before Brixey.

"Ordnance map—Selchester and district," he said. "Now, you see here, Mr. Brixey. There's the Lame Hussar Inn, where we called last night. There's the Priory grounds, and the woodlands in it. That's a path that runs right through the wood on the top side, out of the walls there by that postern gate, and past the sheet of water you've heard about. From that point, you see, it goes away across the country in the direction of Mardene."

"I've just heard from the boots at the 'Mitre,' that my uncle asked his way to Mardene Mill before he went out on Tuesday morning," remarked Brixey.

"Aye, just so!—that explains things, then" said Crabbe. "For this is the way he'd take. Now, you see where this path leads into a lane—Foxglove Lane—leading to the open Downs? That's where the hat and umbrella were picked up, as near as I could gather from the man who brought them, just there. A very lonely spot, too."

Brixey gave minute to studying the map.

"You say this man comes from Mardene every morning to work in Selchester?" asked. "Very well. This is Friday morning. He's come in three times since Tuesday. Presumably he's gone back the same way—three times. Therefore, he's passed the place where he found these things six times since Tuesday. How is it he never saw 'em before?"

"Can’t say," answered Crabbe. "He didn't strike me as a very noticing sort of chap. You can see him for yourself—I know where he works. He said they were lying behind some gorse bushes—he caught the gleam of the sun on the gold-mounting of the umbrella—that's what drew his attention. But that's not the thing just now, Mr. Brixey."

"No?" said Brixey, affecting interest. "What is, then?"

"You said your uncle would have at least a hundred pounds on him," suggested Grabbe, with a meaning looker.

"He never carried less when he was travelling about," replied Brixey. "But, as a matter of fact, I've a pretty good idea what he would have on him. I cashed a cheque for him last Saturday morning for a hundred and fifty, and gave him the money in notes, which, of course, can be traced.

"He left London for Dorking last Saturday afternoon. He spent the week-end at Dorking and came on here Monday afternoon. So he’d probably have at least a hundred and forty pounds on him—perhaps a bit more."

"Aye" said Grabbe, with a knowing look. "And other things, that could be seen, Mr. Brixey! His money couldn’t be seen, but he no doubt had valuables that could."

"As to that," answered Brixey, "he had. He wore a very valuable watch and chain—gold, of course—and he’d a diamond scarf-pin that was a bit noticeable, and a very fine diamond ring."

Crabbe picked up the hat and umbrella with a significant gesture, and, carrying them across to a cupboard, turned the key on them.

"Then the whole affair’s as plain as a pikestaff, sir!" he exclaimed, "The poor gentleman’s been murdered!"

Brixey pulled out a cigarette case and struck a match with fingers that moved as steadily as a machine.

"Think so?" he said, "Um! Did you ever study the natural history of fallacies, Inspector? No? Well, I have—just a bit. And in this case I should say that what you’ve just said doesn’t follow. Non sequitur, my dear sir! But I’m quite sure you’ve already got a theory."

"I know what I think," answered Crabbe, who had a suspicion that Brixey was pulling his leg. "And it’s what anybody would think who exercised common sense."

"Common sense," observed Brixey dryly, "is a valuable asset. Now, Empidge, the man at the 'Mitre,’ tells me that round about this Foxglove Lane it’s a usual thing for gipsies and caravan dwellers to camp. That so?"

"It is so—and I reckon some of ’em have done your uncle in," said Crabbe, "That’s about it!" "Then, in that case, you’ll give your attention to ascertaining who was about there on Tuesday, and if they’re still there, and where they’ve moved to if they aren’t there now?" suggested Brixey.

"Of course—and at once," assented Grabbe. "I shall go out that way with some of my men as soon as I’ve had breakfast."

"Good," said Brixey. "You follow your line. In the meantime, can you tell me of a printer—a man who can do work quickly?"

"There's a good printing office just down the street," answered Crabbe. "Rollinson’s. Then you won’t go out there with us?"

Brixey shook his head and pointed to the ordnance map.

"That's enough for me," he said. "I know, where the things were found. But when you want me, come to the 'Mitre.’"

He went away without more words, and turned slowly down the street. Early as it was, the printer’s establishment was open, and while a small boy went to fetch its proprietor, Brixey leaned against the counter and thought.

"Conclusion one," he muttered, "is that Mrs. Byfield told me a lie last night. Conclusion two is that my uncle’s hat, and umbrella were carried to Foxglove Lane and thrown away there. And the next thing’s—this."

When the printer came down, half dressed, he found a red-haired stranger leaning over his counter preparing copy. That copy, when finished, proved to be a terse announcement to the effect that one hundred pounds would be paid to anyone who would give information which would lead to the discovery of Mr. John Linthwaite, missing since the previous Tuesday, such information to be brought direct to Richard Brixey at the Mitre Hotel.

"You’ll have that printed, and you’ll get it posted and distributed broadcast by noon to-day" commanded Brixey, as he pulled out a pocket-book. "Reckon up the whole job—printing, posting, and distributing—and I'll pay you right now. Speed is the thing."

"Town and district, I suppose, sir?" asked the printer, beginning to figure out his costs.

"Town and district" answered Brixey. "Take in a twelve-mile radius."

He went back to the "Mitre" and leisurely completed his toilet. To all appearance he was an unconcerned young man who might have been taken for an idle tourist when, at eight o’clock, he strolled down to his private parlour and rang the bell for his breakfast.

He looked just as idle when, three-quarters of an hour later, he lounged out into the courtyard and gave a cheery good-morning to old Brackett, who stood at the entrance looking out on the waking town. Brixey led him off towards a quiet corner.

"You’re the sort of man one can give confidences to, I think, Mr. Brackett," he said. "I’m going to give you mine." He went on to tell him of what had happened at the "Lame Hussar," and of Mrs. Byfield’s direct negative to the straight question which he had put to her.

"Now," he continued, "between you and me, I don’t believe Mrs. Byfield. I believe my uncle recognised her as somebody he knew. I believe he went after her, to speak to her. I believe he did speak to her. And so—between you and me, again—who is Mrs. Byfield?"

Brackett, who had been listening with vast interest to Brixey's story, half turned and jerked his thumb in the direction of the bow-windows of the house.

"That young lady, my book-keeper, is a Byfield," he said. "She’s the niece of Martin Byfield, Mrs. Byfield’s late husband."

"Well?" said Brixey. "What then?"

"Come into that private sitting-room of yours, sir," answered the landlord. "I’ll fetch her in. Between her and me, we can tell you something, but as to what it amounts to, in relation to this affair—well, I know nothing."