CHAPTER IV. What Canon Fittleworth Found on the “Firefly”
Canon Fittleworth had only just returned to his house in the Close from the early Sunday service in the Cathedral, and had sat down to his breakfast with his wife and daughter. He was a cheerful-looking ecclesiastic, apparently midway between forty and fifty, wearing pince-nez over a pair of keen brown eyes.
He had just answered a question put by his daughter, and was beginning to attack his egg, when a servant came in.
“If you please, sir, Superintendent Norton wishes to speak to you. He says it’s very particular. I’ve shown him into the study, sir.”
“The police!” exclaimed Doris Fittleworth. “What have you been doing, father?”
“I’ve quite a clear conscience, dear. Tell him to wait ten minutes,” he added to the servant.
“Please, sir, he said he must see you at once,” she replied.
“Oh, very well,” said the Canon, not pleased to be interrupted at his meal. “Keep my toast warm,” he added to his wife as he went out of the room.
“Good morning, Superintendent. You wanted to see me!”
“Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s urgent.”
“Anything wrong?”
“I’m afraid so. Will you tell me, please—do you know a Mr. Reginald Templeton, and have you seen him lately?”
“Why, of course I do. He’s my cousin. He was only dining with me last evening. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. What is it?”
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Canon, that Mr. Templeton was discovered on his yacht at Marsh Quay this morning, dead.”
“Dead? Why, he was in the best of health last night!”
“Murdered,” went on the inspector gravely.
The Canon started, and seized both arms of the chair in which he was seated.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “This is terrible, Superintendent. Reginald murdered, you say?”
Briefly the superintendent gave him the details, explaining how he had ascertained that the Canon knew the murdered man.
“Exactly. He wrote to me from Weymouth, and again from Ryde. I was expecting him last night. I hadn’t seen him for six or seven years—he’d been abroad. I wanted him to stay the night, but he wouldn’t. He was always keen on boating, and was enjoying the life, he told me. Would to heaven he had stayed!”
“What time did he leave you?”
“He got here between five and six. We dined early—at seven. He left about half-past eight.”
“Going straight back to Marsh Quay, I suppose?”
The superintendent had taken out his notebook.
“No, he said he had a call to pay first in Frattenbury.”
“On whom?” asked the other, keenly interested.
“He didn’t say. He was a very reticent man—always. I wondered at the time, because I didn’t remember that he knew anyone here besides ourselves.”
“I thought perhaps, Canon, you would like to see him—in fact, I should wish you to, if you can. I have to see the coroner, then—in about a quarter of an hour—I can come back and run you down in my car.”
“By all means,” replied the Canon. “I’ll come if you think I can be of any use.”
“Thank you, Canon, I’m sure it will help us.”
He went out, and the Canon returned to break the terrible news to his family.
The superintendent drove a little way through the ancient city to a quiet, Georgian street, and stopped before a solid, square-looking house, which bore a brass plate on the door with the inscription, “Mr. F. Norwood, Solicitor.” A minute later he was in the presence of Mr. Norwood, who rose from his chair to greet him.
Mr. Francis Norwood was one of the best-known professional men in Frattenbury and its neighbourhood. He had a large and select practice, an old-established one inherited from his father. He was an austere-looking man, with a hatchet-shaped face, large nose, thin, tightly-compressed lips, and old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers. His hair, which was inclined to be grey, was thin and carefully parted in the middle. He wore dark trousers, a black cutaway coat, and black tie with a small gold pin.
He looked the very epitome of a dry, respectable lawyer, and eminently suitable for the environment of a cathedral city. He had never married—people said unkind things about him in this respect—that no woman would accept such a dry stick of a man—that he was too fond of himself and too close with his money to risk a partner.
For many years he had held the office of coroner—as his father had done before him. Many people called him selfish in still holding it. There were younger and struggling men who would have been glad of the occasional fees, whereas Francis Norwood was reputed wealthy. But this criticism—even if he knew it—had no effect upon the staid lawyer. He stuck to his post and he stuck to the fees which it brought him.
“Good morning, Superintendent; won’t you sit down?” said the lawyer, motioning the other to a chair, and reseating himself. “What is it?”
“A case of murder, I’m afraid, Mr. Norwood.”
“Murder? Dear, dear! That’s very serious. Tell me about it.”
As the superintendent told his story, the coroner sat bolt upright, listening intently, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed together.
“Yes,” he said, as the other finished, “a bad case—a very bad case. I’ll open the inquiry to-morrow. We shall have to adjourn it, of course. Let me see” —and he consulted a pocket diary. “Two o’clock to-morrow. Will that do?”
“Quite well, Mr. Norwood. It will give us time to get the preliminary facts in order.”
“Just so. As far as my recollection serves me, there is a public-house close to the quay?”
“The ‘Mariner’s Arms,’ ”
“Ah, just so. The inquest will take place there. You will summon a jury?”
“Certainly.”
The coroner folded his hands again. He was an extremely stiff individual.
“This will mean a lot of work for you,” he said. “Have you any clue so far?”
“There’s been no time yet, Mr. Norwood. I left the very best man we’ve got at Marsh Quay—Detective-Sergeant Colson, an extremely smart fellow.”
“I see. Exactly. Do you intend to call in the services of Scotland Yard?”
The superintendent smiled.
“That depends on what the Chief Constable says, Mr. Norwood—when I’ve made my report to him. But we like, if we can, to get the credit of a case like this ourselves. And I’ve great confidence in Colson. However, developments will probably answer your question.”
“Exactly. It’s no affair of mine of course. But I hope you’ll take every step to find the murderer.”
“You can trust us for that,” replied the other as he rose to go. “Two o’clock to-morrow, then?”
“Two o’clock to-morrow, Superintendent,” repeated the coroner. “I’ll be there.”
He accompanied the policeman out of the room and through a big square, stone-paved hall to the front door, shaking hands with him stiffly and limply as he left.
A few minutes later, the superintendent was driving Canon Fittleworth to Marsh Quay. As they reached the spot, he pointed out the Firefly.
“Dear me,” said the Canon, “we were to have come over for a sail in her to-morrow. How terribly sad!”
When they arrived on the yacht they found Colson sitting on deck, smoking. He hardly looked at them. The superintendent, who knew his man, took the Canon into the little saloon. The body had been laid on the table ready for removal; a handkerchief was over the face.
Canon Fittleworth lifted it reverently.
“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed; “it’s Reginald Templeton, of course—poor fellow!”
He was almost breaking down. The superintendent, a sympathetic and sensitive man himself, said:
“I’m going to speak to Colson, sir.”
The other nodded. When he was alone he kneeled down, bowed his head, and prayed silently for a few minutes. Then, without rising, he looked about him mechanically.
At times of great stress the smallest objects are often noticeable. An instance of this strange truth occurred just then. The Canon’s gaze fell on something lying on the floor of the cabin—partly bright red and partly shining. With a sort of muffled curiosity, he stooped and picked it up. It was a cigar band.
Now there is nothing particularly striking in a cigar band. It is a common enough object. True, cigar bands vary in their queer little heraldic designs and miniature shields, and inscriptions of the firms that produced them, in Spanish. But, as the Canon looked at that torn object, he suddenly started.
“That’s queer,” he murmured, smoothing it out and regarding it intently. He took off his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief, and had another look. His brow puckered. Again he said:
“Queer—very queer.”
Now the Canon was entirely ignorant of police methods—they had never come within his sphere. Also, by virtue of his office and dignity, he was accustomed to act on his own initiative. Besides, that particular cigar band had led his thoughts far away from that scene of death—it was something personal that was arresting his attention. Also, he had been, all his life, one of those men who are reticent up to a point, that point being the exact moment when they are ready to lay all their cards on the table. He wanted to compare this particular bit of red and gold with something else before he could be quite certain of the matter that was agitating his mind.
These several reasons combined to prevent him doing what many a man would have done under similar circumstances—calling in the superintendent. It never entered his head at that moment that he ought to do any such thing. Instead, he took out a his pocket-case and carefully deposited the cigar band within it.
Then he rose from his knees and looked round the cabin, gazed again at the cold, white face on the table, spread the handkerchief over it, and slowly left the saloon—a great weight on his mind as the thought of his murdered cousin pressed itself uppermost. In silence he rejoined the two policemen on the deck, took his seat in the boat, and came ashore with them. For the time being the incident of the cigar band had passed out of his mind.
Mr. Proctor greeted them.
“Canon Fittleworth, I presume?” he asked politely. “My name is Proctor. May I be allowed to express my sympathy, sir? I understand the unfortunate gentleman is a relative of yours.”
“Thank you very much.”
“And may I venture to ask you both to come in and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit? I’m sure you both need something after such a strain. It will give me much pleasure if you will.”
“It’s very good of you,” said the Canon. “And I won’t refuse.”
The little man took them into a cosy dining-room which overlooked the estuary. On the table was a plate of sandwiches, biscuits, a decanter of wine and glasses. He helped them to refreshments and then said:
“If you’ll excuse me—pray make yourselves at home.”
“Thank you,” said the superintendent as Mr. Proctor left the room. He did not press him to stay, as he wanted a few minutes’ conversation with Canon Fittleworth.
“We shall have to ask you to give formal evidence of identification at the inquest to-morrow, Canon. And, of course, you will tell the jury what you know of Mr. Templeton—and his movements last evening.”
“Certainly. Though, as a matter of fact, I know very little of him. As I told you, he has been abroad for some years. He’s a bachelor—and was always a rolling stone. He told us something of his travels last night—not very much.”
The superintendent nodded. “There are one or two questions I want to ask, please.”
“By all means.”
“Tell me—do you think Mr. Templeton had any object in coming to Marsh Quay other than paying you a visit?”
“Yes,” answered the Canon, “I feel sure he had. He spoke vaguely of having business in the neighbourhood—but I haven’t the slightest idea what it was—except, yes—now I come to think of it he did drop a hint.”
“What was it?” asked the superintendent, leaning forward.
“He said that ever since he landed in Plymouth he’d been carrying about something valuable that made him a bit anxious—that he was glad to be getting rid of.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“No. He only mentioned it casually.”
“H’m,” mused the other, “there may be something in this. It may mean the motive for the crime—robbery.”
“That is quite possible. I wish he’d told us more.”
“Exactly. One other question. You say he was going to see someone in Frattenbury last evening——”
“Yes—but I haven’t the slightest idea who it was.”
“I know—but I was going to ask, did he give you a hint of anyone else he knew in this neighbourhood?”
The Canon thought carefully before he replied:
“Only that, as I said, he referred to some business that he had in hand here.”
The superintendent was silent. He drank his glass of wine and looked out of the window. Colson was coming up the garden path. In a few seconds he entered the room.
“There’s something I must tell you at once, sir.” And he looked at the Canon.
“Go on,” said the superintendent. “We are speaking in confidence,” he added.
“Certainly,” said the Canon.
“I’ve just been talking to a man named Gale who was here all day yesterday. He saw the Firefly come in and anchor, and what’s more he saw Templeton row himself across to the other side—yonder,” and he pointed out of the window, “and reappear after about three-quarters of an hour with a Jew named Moss, who lives in that house you can see above the trees. He recognised him distinctly, even at that distance. Then Templeton pulled himself back to the yacht—and afterwards came ashore here.”
“Good!” exclaimed the superintendent, springing to his feet. “We’ll interview this man Moss at once.”
“I should like to come too, if I may,” said Canon Fittleworth.
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. Ah—Webb is about still. We’ll get him to row us across. Come along, Colson.”
Arrived on the other side of the estuary, they made their way through the woody path and in a few minutes came out on an open space where the house was standing. It was a modern two-storied villa, with a small garden and a garage.
The superintendent rang the front door bell. The door was opened by a woman of about five and thirty. Her face paled a little as she saw the police uniform.
“Does Mr. Moss live here?”
“Yes, sir—when he’s down here for week-ends.”
“Is he in?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
“He’s gone back to London, sir, with Mrs. Moss.”
“Gone back to London, when?”
“This morning, sir—by the early train from Frattenbury. My husband motored them both into Frattenbury.”
“Do you live here with your husband?”
“Yes, sir. We’re caretakers all the week. I do the cooking, and Mrs. Moss brings down a maid when they come for week-ends.”
“Is your husband in?”
“Yes, sir—I hope there’s nothing the matter?”
“Nothing for you to disturb yourself about. Will you call your husband, please, and come back yourself.”
The man who appeared was a little defiant, but the superintendent cautioned him sharply, and he answered the questions he put—though rather sullenly.
“You drove your master and mistress into Frattenbury this morning?”
“Yes—I did.”
“At what time?”
“To catch the 7.35 up train.”
“When did you get the order—last night?”
“No—this morning.”
“It must have been very early?”
“Soon after six o’clock.”
“Do they often go up by this Sunday morning train?”
“No, sir—I never knew them do it before. It’s generally on Mondays they leave—or, leastways, Mr. Moss always does.”
“Do either of you know where he lives in London?”
“Not his private house, sir—we forward any letters that come—or write to him at his business address.”
“And what’s that?”
“13a, Hatton Garden, sir.”
The superintendent and Colson exchanged significant glances.
“That seems to point out what his trade is,” said the latter.
The superintendent nodded, then he went on with his questions.
“Did your master receive any visitor yesterday afternoon? Now, be careful, please.”
The woman shot a glance at her husband—who only stared stonily back, with his hands in his pockets.
“I—I didn’t let anyone in, sir.”
“Oh, you didn’t. But you saw someone?—you must tell me, please.”
“I—I happened to be looking out of the window, sir—and Mr. Moss was sitting on a chair on the lawn—with another gentleman.”
“What was he like?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I didn’t notice him particularly. And he had his back to me.”
“Very well. What time was this?”
“Somewhere between four and five, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Mr. Moss must have brought him indoors, sir. I heard them talking in his study, as I came by, but I never saw him.”
“Did you hear anything they said?”
“No, sir—I should scorn to listen.”
The superintendent thought for a moment, then he said:
“Thank you—that’s all.”
The man stepped forward.
“I should like to know if there’s any trouble about, sir. We’re decent folk, my wife and I, and we don’t want to be mixed up in no rows—especially if the police are in it.”
“That’s all right, my man—don’t worry. We only wanted to see your master about this visitor of his. Another time will do very well. Good day.”
As they walked back to the boat, the Canon remarked:
“We don’t seem to have got very much information here.”
“No, but it’s important,” replied the superintendent, “and we’ve got to find out why this Mr. Moss left in such a hurry. We’ll very soon get onto his track.”
Colson nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. He was a silent man when at his work—except when he was drawing out information. Then he could be companionable enough. But he rarely made remarks as to probable or possible results while he was actually investigating a case.
When they came back to Marsh Quay, Colson was left in charge, and the constable instructed to warn men for the jury. The body had been carried over to the “Mariner’s Arms” and laid on a bed in one of Mrs. Yates’s rooms. The superintendent drove Canon Fittleworth back to Frattenbury, and then went on to report to Major Renshaw, the Chief Constable, who lived just outside the city.
That evening, Canon Fittleworth sat in his comfortable study, discussing the events of the day with his wife and daughter. He put his hand in his pocket for something, and felt his case there. Then he remembered.
“Oh!” he said, “that reminds me.”
“What, dear?” asked his wife.
“Wait a minute.”
He got up, unlocked a cabinet, and took out a box of cigars. Then he produced the red and gold band from his pocket, and carefully compared it with those on the cigars in the box.
“Look here,” he said, as he went back to his seat; “I found this lying on the floor in the cabin where poor Reginald was murdered.”
“Poor man,” said his daughter, as she took the cigar band to look at it; “do you think that he was smoking when he was murdered?”
“No,” said the Canon; “Reginald did not smoke. I offered him a cigar last night and he refused it. He said he hadn’t smoked for years, and he disliked it.”
“Oh, daddy,” exclaimed the girl, “you ought to have shown this to the police!”
“I suppose I ought—yes—I never thought of it. However, I shall bring it forward at the inquest to-morrow. But there’s something very queer about it,” he went on.
“What is it, Charles?” asked his wife.
“Why, it’s off one of my own cigars!”
“Off one of your own cigars?” exclaimed his daughter.
“Look for yourself,” and he passed the box over to them.
“But,” said the girl, when they had both compared the band with the others, “anyone might smoke the same sort of cigar.”
“No, they mightn’t. That’s just the point,” replied the Canon dryly. “This box was sent to me by my Spanish friend, De Garcia—you remember him? Well, he wrote to say they are a special brand reserved for the planters. They never sell them anywhere. What do you think of that?”