Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic (15 page)

As no comment was forthcoming, however, he went on: “I asked him countless times to return this five pounds, as, though I am by no means a poor man, Inspector, five pounds is more money than I care to throw down a drain, so to speak.”

“I quite understand,” said Shelley.

“But,” went on Henry, “he showed no desire whatever to pay this perfectly just debt. Every time I asked him for the money, he had some excuse to make. He would have some other debt which was more urgent, as his creditor had threatened to issue a summons if the cash wasn't paid by a certain date. Or there would be some books which he had to buy for the literary research he was engaged upon—”

“Literary research work?” Shelley swiftly interrupted. “I never heard that Mr. Wallace was interested in any sort of literature.”

“Oh, he was exceedingly well read. He knew, especially, all about the lesser Elizabethan dramatists…” Henry's voice slowly died away. A look of sudden comprehension came over his face. “Is that the connection with the death of Professor Arnell?” he asked in excited tones.

“It may be one connection,” Shelley admitted. “But a more or less accidental one, I imagine. Probably it was some such item of knowledge which suggested the way in which the murder was carried out.”

“Then he is the murderer?” Henry was really excited now.

“Yes.”

“But…but…I don't see what he has to do with Professor Arnell,” complained Henry.

“Neither do I,” said Shelley. “I know how it was done. He probably knew Professor Arnell as a fellow-worker in the British Museum Library. He inserted the poisoned sweet in the packet which the Professor used to leave on his table in the library as he went to the central desk to hand in his tickets requesting books.”

“And Dr. Crocker?”

“He was enticed up from Oxford on a pledge of secrecy; probably by a forged note asking him to come to meet Professor Arnell, or, more likely, someone who could assist him to show up Professor Arnell as a fraud.”

“That's possible. But what about Harry Baker?”

“Another decoy letter. Harry said that a letter had brought him there. You see, the decoy letter seems to be a favourite system of his. He used one—if what Moses Moss says is true—to get Moss away from Miss Arnell last evening so that he could bring off his little kidnapping trick.”

“But what on earth is the reason for all this?” asked Henry in astonishment.

“That's what puzzles me, too,” Shelley admitted. “I can't make up my mind what is the explanation. My feeling is that Mr. Wallace has disguised himself in some way, and has been leading, so to speak, a double life. We may already have come across him in some other capacity in this case, so that we should know, could we only ‘spot' his present identity, what he was after. Until we can link up the two halves of Mr. Wallace, there is no chance of doing anything in the matter.”

“Did you ever see him in the old days?” asked Henry.

“No. That's the trouble. If I did the case would probably be solved,” answered Shelley. “But you did not finish your story. What happened finally in your little business dealings with the gentleman?”

“Oh, when I couldn't recover my five pounds, I wrote to him and told him that I wanted nothing more to do with him.”

“Wisest thing to do,” was Shelley's comment on this.

“I also said that I was compelled to refuse his invitation to spend a week-end with him at his cottage in Penistone, and—”

“What?” Shelley almost jumped out of his seat as he yelled the question. “Did you say his cottage at
Penistone
?”

Henry looked puzzled. “Yes; what of it?” he asked.

“Have you any idea where Penistone is?” the detective asked.

Henry shook his head.

“Somewhere in the West Riding,” he said. “That's all I knew.”

“Less than twelve miles from Sheffield,” said Shelley. “And it was in Sheffield that he was seen with Miss Arnell yesterday evening.”

“Heavens!” Henry looked amazed. “Then…then…it is the last lap.”

“The last lap,” said Shelley with a grim smile.

The train roared on through the darkness. Sparks flew thickly from its chimney, and the other passengers, unconscious of the messenger of the law who was speeding in it towards the place where he was to meet a murderer, did their best to sleep.

Chapter XIX

The Chase Begins

Sheffield railway station is not an especially attractive place at any time. At four o'clock in the morning, with lights shining dimly through the gloom, Shelley thought that it looked the most dismal place on earth.

They were met by an excited police inspector, who began talking in quick, sharp sentences as soon as they had reached the car which was waiting outside the station.

“Don't know where they've gone yet,” he said. “Seems they went out Barnsley way. Out over the moors, that is. We've got a crowd of men on the trail. News soon, I hope.”

Shelley looked at him for a moment with a twinkling eye.

“Might they be going to a place called Penistone?” he asked.

The local man gazed at him in amazement. “How did you hear about that, now?” he asked. “For that's roughly the direction that they would be going. About twelve miles out. They'd be there long ago.”

“That's cheerful hearing, anyway,” answered Shelley, with quite a happy smile that belied the sarcastic tones of his voice. “The fact is that we have a gentleman with us”—he indicated Henry Fairhurst—“who knew the man in the past.”

“Is that so, now?” The local man indicated the liveliest interest.

“Yes,” returned Shelley. “And, what's more, he was once invited to spend a week-end with the rascal at Penistone.”

“Eh, that's grand!”

“Looks as if we're pretty close on his trail, I think; don't you?” asked Shelley.

“Ay; it does that,” responded the other heartily. His name, it seemed, was Bowes; and he had been in the Sheffield Constabulary for more years than he cared to reckon. At any rate, Shelley thought, he would prove a very useful ally; for he claimed to know the countryside like the back of his hand—a very useful asset in such a case as the present one, since it seemed probable that they would have to do a good deal of chasing and tracking over the hills.

“The only difficulty,” Shelley explained, “is that Mr. Fairhurst was never given the address—or if he was he has completely forgotten it, since it was eight or nine years ago.”

“Was it in Penistone itself, or somewhere outside the town?” asked Inspector Bowes, turning towards Henry and addressing him for the first time.

“That's the trouble,” answered Henry, smiling. “I really can't remember anything about the house. You see, it wasn't as if I ever visited it. It was only that I was once invited there, and I never accepted the invitation. I've never been in Penistone, and I shouldn't recognise the house if I saw it. It's all,” he concluded, “rather difficult, and I'm only sorry that I can't help more.”

“So is Mr. Shelley, I'll be bound,” said Inspector Bowes.

“Oh, I don't know,” smiled Shelley. “After all, we've been very lucky to get hold of the information which Mr. Fairhurst has already given us, you know.”

“Have you got any idea at all about this place?” asked Inspector Bowes, but then interrupted before Henry had time to reply. “Here we are at the station, Mr. Shelley. May as well make ourselves comfortable in front of a fire, as talk out here in the cold, you know.”

“Agreed,” said Shelley. So they left the car, walked over the cobbled pavement into a cosy little room with a roaring fire in the grate.

“Now, Mr. Fairhurst,” said Inspector Bowes, when they had settled themselves down in this room, pipes well alight, and feet inside the fender. “I think you were just going to answer that question of mine about whether you had any idea at all about this place.”

Henry smiled weakly. “But in a very disappointing way, I fear, Inspector,” he said. “You see, I don't know anything at all about it.”

Shelley quickly interposed: “But that really shouldn't matter much, you know. I imagine that youngish men with black beards aren't so common in Yorkshire as they are—say, in Chelsea.”

“That's true,” returned Bowes. “Still, I'd say it'll be a matter of some hours before we get anywhere at all. You know, our men, patrolling the moors here, are bound to be few and far between; so that it may be some time before any news comes through.”

“What do you suggest we do?” asked Shelley.

“I should say a bit of sleep wouldn't do you any harm,” replied the other.

“That's true,” returned Shelley. “I must say that for my part I'm dog-tired after all this rushing about the country. What do you say, folks?”

Cunningham and Henry Fairhurst agreed.

“Sorry I can't offer you a bedroom,” the local man went on; “but there are plenty of cushions about; and, with the chairs and the couch, you should be able to make yourselves comfortable for a few hours.”

“Quite,” said Shelley.

“I'll leave you, then.”

“Yes. But let us know the moment any news comes through.”

“Ay; I'll do that all right, never fear.”

Bowes left them; and they settled down to try to get a few hours' badly needed sleep. In somewhat incongruous positions, Henry Fairhurst curled up like a small boy in a huge leather arm-chair, Cunningham with his feet stretched before the fire, his bulky body compressed within the confining arms of another chair, and Shelley on the couch, his feet hanging over the arm at one end and his head over the other. In spite of all these handicaps, however, they managed to get a little sleep, even though it was somewhat disturbed slumber.

Then Shelley woke suddenly, shaking himself with surprise and gazing around him with a puzzled frown. The effort of realising precisely where he was had, at first, been too much for him; but he soon came to his senses, and made up his mind what had happened. But what had wakened him? He looked up and saw Henry Fairhurst, the stubble of twenty-four hours' growth looking strangely out of place on his usually immaculate chin. Henry had gripped Shelley by the shoulder and was shaking him vigorously.

“What's the matter?” Shelley asked sleepily.

“Are you awake, Mr. Shelley?”

“Yes. What's the matter?”

“I've remembered something important.”

“Important? What about?”

“About Wallace's house.”

“Wallace's house? In Penistone?”

“Yes.”

Shelley struggled into an upright position, rubbed his eyes with a gesture curiously reminiscent of a sleepy child, and looked Henry Fairhurst straight in the face. At last he was fully awake, and prepared to receive whatever this important information might be.

“What is it you've remembered?” he asked briskly. “Shoot!”

“I have been lying awake,” answered Mr. Fairhurst, “and trying to recall the name of the house.”

“So you did know the name of the house once?”

“Naturally. Wallace wrote to me from there when he asked me to come down for the week-end that time.”

“Good. And could you remember it?” Shelley wished with all his heart that Henry would come to the point a little more quickly, and would not so “beat about the bush.”

“I've only got the vaguest memory,” answered Henry. “All that I can remember is that ‘Black' came somewhere in it.”

“Black?” Shelley was puzzled again.

“Yes. It may have been called Black House, or Black Manor, or even Black Farm.”

Shelley looked thoughtful. “That all you can remember about it?” he asked.

Henry was very apologetic. “I'm afraid it is,” he admitted.

“H'm. Might be helpful or might not,” Shelley announced. “Still, there's only one way to be sure. We must ask Bowes if he knows of anywhere in or near Penistone that is called Black something.”

“It might even be Black-something House,” suggested Henry, not particularly helpfully. Shelley snorted.

But he went to the door, opened it, and looked around. It was now broad daylight, and in the outer room of the Sheffield Police Station there were several constables on duty.

“Inspector Bowes about?” Shelley asked the nearest one of these men.

“Ay! Do you want to see him?” asked the policeman.

“Right away.”

“I'll get him.” And get him the constable did, for in less than a minute Bowes was with them again.

Shelley explained: “Mr. Fairhurst's memory has played him a nasty trick.”

“H'm.” A non-committal grunt was Bowes's only contribution to the discussion at this stage. Typically Yorkshire phlegm characterised him, and he was resolute in showing no emotion, even when these crazy folk from London (as he thought of them) began to get excited and worked up with what they so fondly imagined was important information.

“Yes.” Shelley saw that he would have to explain the whole affair before any information would be granted him. “He remembered that the house was called Black something. It may be Black Manor or anything. All that Mr. Fairhurst remembers is that the word ‘Black' comes into the title somewhere. Now, do you know of anywhere in or near Penistone that has such a name?”

“Let me see, now.” Inspector Bowes winkled up his ruddy brow in the effort at thought. He scratched his head and muttered to himself, his face growing more and more blank as the moments passed. Then he turned to them again.

“Can't say I remember any house or farm of the name,” he said. “But then you must recall that I'm a Sheffield lad, born and bred. Maybe somebody from Penistone would be able to tell more than I can about the places there. It may be some sort of place of the name there—but it might happen that I had never heard of it, you see.”

“Have you any Penistone men here?” asked Shelley. “It would save time; we shouldn't have to hunt around Penistone when we got there.”

“That's true,” admitted Bowes, and thought once more. This time, however, his brow quickly cleared, and he smiled cheerily. “As it happens, we have,” he said. “There's a Constable Cartwright. He's only just joined the force, as it happens, and his home is in Penistone, so that he'll be able to tell us where the place is, if anybody could.”

“Is he on duty at the moment?” asked Shelley eagerly.

“Ay,” answered the other, without a trace of excitement. “I'll just call him in, and you can question him if you want to.”

Cartwright, on being called in, turned out to be a raw-boned young man, freckled and tanned. He stood awkwardly on one foot, and looked from one to the other of the four men who faced him. Inspector Bowes he knew, his expression seemed to say, but who on earth were these strangers?

“Now, Cartwright,” said Shelley, “I understand that you come from Penistone?”

“Ay.”

“That's your home, is it?”

“Ay.”

“Lived there all your life?”

“Ay.”

“So I suppose that you'll know pretty well everyone in the place, where they live, and so on.”

“Ay.”

Cartwright, Shelley told himself with an inward smile, was clearly a man of few words.

“Well, then, I want you to think and then answer me to the best of your ability,” Shelley said, and again the young man said “Ay.”

“Do you know a house or farm or something in or near Penistone the name of which begins with the word ‘Black'?” asked Shelley.

There was dead silence for a few moments. They all looked at the awkward young man and waited for him to make up his mind about the matter. It seemed an endless time, while he stood awkwardly by, before he made up his mind, and found his tongue.

“Ay,” he said. “I remember them, but which one would you want?”

“Which one? Is there more than one house of that name?” asked Shelley.

“Ay.”

“What are they called?”

“There's Blackdown House, and there's Blackthorn Farm, and there's Black Horse Inn. That's three, anyhow.”

“Should think we could cut out the inn, in any case,” was Shelley's comment. “But what about the other two? Either of them strike a familiar chord in your memory, Mr. Fairhurst?”

Henry shook his head helplessly. “Not an atom of remembrance of either of them, Mr. Shelley,” he admitted.

“Ah, well, that's one of the perils of a detective's job,” said Shelley in playful ruefulness. “His best witness always seems to let him down at the moment when it is most necessary that he should not.”

“But what do you propose to do?” asked Inspector Bowes.

“If you'll be so kind as to lend us this young man for an hour or two, I propose to have a look at both of the houses mentioned,” Shelley explained. “I think it's pretty certain that we'll find Mr. Wallace in one of them.”

“Certainly,” answered the local man. “Cartwright, you'll go with Inspector Shelley and show him where the two houses are. Got that?”

“Ay, sir.”

“And don't you dare to do anything foolish. Inspector Shelley has come from Scotland Yard, and the man you're helping him to catch is a murderer. Do you get that, Cartwright, my lad?”

“Ay, sir.” There was not a movement in his impassive face, not a quiver of a muscle to show the excitement which young Constable Cartwright was feeling. To think, he told himself, that he was working with a man from Scotland Yard! And in a murder case, too!

“There's a car at your service, Mr. Shelley,” Inspector Bowes told him. “It'll be round in a moment now. And the driver will take you to the door.”

“Thanks, Inspector. Very decent of you,” answered Shelley. “We don't always meet with such consideration from the local men we have to work with, I can assure you. And it's a real pleasure to meet a man who understands exactly what's wanted.”

Without obviously flattering, Shelley always thought it worth while to keep in with the local men with whom he had to work. It made for better feelings, and for greater efficiency. He had known of Scotland Yard men who had failed because in a foolish manner they had antagonised the local police; and so had not been put into touch with some vital clue.