CHAPTER XIX. Colson Makes an Appointment
Anthony Crosby, busy man as he was, found a little time to follow up, from a natural curiosity, the strange letter that Reginald Templeton had addressed to him. As the letter had surmised, this was not very difficult to do. He consulted several old law lists, and made certain inquiries at the office of the Law Society in Chancery Lane.
The result was that he went to the newspaper reading-room, of the British Museum, where he had a reader’s ticket, applied for files of newspapers twenty years old, and very soon made himself acquainted with the charge that had been brought against Winnie’s father all those years ago. He shook his head as he read the case—embezzlement of clients’ monies.
“No wonder Templeton advised her mother to keep it from the girl,” he murmured. “No—there is no occasion to tell her now—— Hallo! That’s curious!”
He read on carefully, then gave back the file of papers to the attendant. As he walked away he said to himself:
“This chap Ezra Grice is a bit of a puzzle. I wonder what Templeton knew about him? I think I’ll run down to Frattenbury and have a talk with the Chief Constable; it’s better than writing. I can do it without mentioning Winnie Cotterill, of course. She mustn’t come in.”
Walking down Kingsway he met a friend of his, a stockbroker whom he had not seen for some time, and invited him to a cup of tea at a neighbouring restaurant. In the course of conversation the broker remarked:
“I was saying something to my partner this morning not very complimentary to your profession, Crosby.”
“What was that?”
“That the three classes of persons who make fools of themselves in finance are lawyers, parsons and old women.”
“That’s not kind,” said Crosby with a laugh.
“It’s true, though. We’ve had a big slump in the mining market to-day—‘Virginian Reefs.’ You haven’t got any, I hope?”
“Not I!”
“You’re lucky. They’ve gone down to three or four shillings—if you can get a bid. Now, look here, Crosby. I’m ready to bet you a new hat that you’ll find a lot of old women and parsons and lawyers—not one of ’em knowing anything about mines—well hit over the job. I’ve bought myself, for a country vicar and the curate of a seaside town—and the biggest order I had for ‘Virginian Reefs’ came from a lawyer—a chap who won’t take my advice.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s not a fair question. Staid old chap, living in a cathedral town—Frattenbury. I’ve had a frantic wire from him to sell out, but there aren’t bidders for all the lot he holds. Well, he’s wealthy, and can afford to drop a bit. Good-bye, old chap. I must be off.”
Down in quiet, sleepy Frattenbury the superintendent received a wire that day from Sir James Perrivale:
E. G. started from Cape. Boat due Plymouth December 8.
“It’s a waiting game, sir, then, for a few weeks,” said Colson, to whom the superintendent showed the wire. “But I want a little time.”
“Your week’s up, and more,” said the other. “Have you anything to tell the chief? He’s getting restive.”
“All right,” said Colson. “I can tell him enough to keep him quiet—though I’ve several things to see to before I can satisfy him. I’m just off for a final visit to Marsh Quay. There’s a question I want to ask that little blighter, Proctor, which has only just occurred to me.”
“What’s that?”
But Colson only shook his head, and started forth on his bicycle. The little man grinned at him when he was shown into his house at Marsh Quay.
“Come to arrest me again?”
“No, Mr. Proctor, I haven’t. But I want to ask you something. Just carry your mind back to the inquest. Do you remember how that cigar band went round the jury?”
“Yes—perfectly. The Canon gave it to the coroner and he handed it to the jury. Nine of them had it before it came to me. I handed it over to the two others—across the table—and they returned it to the coroner.”
“Yes—that’s so. Then I suppose you recognised that band across the table—or somehow—before it got to you?”
“No, I didn’t. It was only when I found it in my hand that I recognised it. Why do you ask?”
“Then why the dickens did you get ready to change it before you knew what it was?”
“Change it!” exclaimed Proctor. “What are you talking about? I never changed it!”
“What?” cried the detective, springing from his seat. “Do you mean to tell me you never——” He stopped suddenly. “Good Lord!” he said, sitting down in his chair again.
“What is it?” asked Proctor.
The detective thought rapidly.
“One of those two jurymen must have changed it,” he said. “It was another band we found we had afterwards. For heaven’s sake keep your mouth shut about it, Mr. Proctor.”
“The jurymen. What—Bailey or Westall? They were the two. Why, my dear sir, Bailey is a most respectable man—so is Westall.”
“It isn’t a respectable man we’re after, Mr. Proctor. It’s a murderer. Remember, we even suspected you.”
“But I can’t believe——”
“Don’t try, sir, don’t try. Promise me you’ll say nothing, now. It mustn’t get out till we’ve investigated.”
“Of course I’ll say nothing. But you astound me.”
“I’m astounded myself,” said Colson, “though I really ought not to be. Good day, Mr. Proctor—mum’s the word, remember.”
He rushed back to Frattenbury and called at the Deanery. To his question, the maid informed him the Dean was abroad, and wouldn’t be back till the first week in December. His language, as he came away, concerning clergy in general and Cathedral dignitaries in particular, was awful.
For two hours that evening he was closeted with the Chief Constable and the superintendent. All three men were exceedingly grave. Major Renshaw said at length:
“We must get all the evidence, Colson. It’s an awful thing, if it’s true. How about that stick!”
“I don’t want to have to use it till we’ve proved the rest, sir. He might slip out of our hands on that alone.”
“Also, there’s Ezra Grice,” said the superintendent.
“Yes—there’s Ezra Grice,” repeated the Chief Constable. “We’ll wait for him.”
As the weeks went by, Frattenbury and the newspapers forgot all about the murder. There were other matters for local gossip. People hinted that Francis Norwood was getting closer than ever with his cash. He demanded payments almost before he gave advice or transacted business. He sold a block of cottages belonging to him. And sundry creditors began to say they wished he was as ready to pay his bills as he was to be paid.
The Dean returned from his trip to the Riviera, and Colson called on him again. This time he came out of the Deanery evoking blessings on the heads of the clergy, instead of curses. There was another long conference between the three policemen—and their faces were graver than ever. Colson watched the shipping news anxiously, and one day took himself off to Plymouth, returning with a sallow-faced man who joined the trio at a further conference that evening—and it was very late when Colson took the stranger to his own house—where Mrs. Colson had a spare room ready for him.
“To-morrow, then,” the Chief Constable had said, when Colson left, and Colson had repeated the words.
In the morning, the detective, who was carrying the stick he had found in the dinghy, met Canon Fittleworth. He stopped him.
“In confidence, sir,” he said, “I shall have some news to tell you this evening—about your late cousin. Shall you be at home?”
“Indeed?” said the Canon, much interested. “Let me see—I’m alone in the house, and I’ve asked Mr. Norwood to dine with me—at half-past seven. Can you come about an hour earlier?”
A smile lingered on the detective’s face, and he replied:
“Mr. Norwood might like to hear my news as well. Should I be intruding at—say nine o’clock?”
“Come, by all means.”
“Thank you, sir—you won’t mention this to Mr. Norwood?”
“If you don’t want me to.”
“I’d rather not, sir.”
“Very well.”
Colson, after this interview, did not pursue his way up the street. Instead, he retraced it to the police station.
“Better still, by and by,” he remarked.
About eight o’clock he was walking up the street again, carrying the stick. He rang the bell of a quiet house in a quiet street. He was about five minutes inside that house, and then he went back to the police station, outwardly calm, but inwardly realising that this was the most intense moment of his life.
“It’s perfectly true, sir,” he said to the Chief Constable, holding out the walking-stick.
The Chief Constable sighed deeply.
“Very well,” he said, “then there’s nothing more to say about it.”
A little before nine the three policemen, and the stranger staying in Colson’s house, walked up the South Street together, and disappeared through the gateway half-way up the street into the quiet regions of the Cathedral Close.
“I ordered the taxi, sir,” said Colson. “It will be all ready—outside the house—about half-past nine.”
Major Renshaw nodded in silence. He was feeling the situation acutely.