The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

“Can you give me any clue to these letters on the envelope, I wonder?”

But here Mr Morgan was at fault. “We supplied hundreds upon hundreds of customers at the time. And all our old ledgers were burnt in our fire fifteen years ago. But I think I recognise the workmanship of the cipher. I should say that stamp was cut by Millingtons in Clerkenwell Road. They made a speciality of that kind of thing years ago. If you go there, they may have some record. They’re new people there now; old Mr Millington is my senior by ten years or more. He sold the business about fifteen years ago. But he is still alive, and lives somewhere in the Camberwell direction.”

Smeaton entered the address in his notebook, and shook Mr Morgan cordially by the hand. He would go to the Clerkenwell Road, and, if necessary, hunt up the ancient Mr Millington. If he possessed as good a memory as his friend some very useful information might be gathered.

Chapter Sixteen.

Who was Monkton’s Enemy?

At the dingy little shop in Clerkenwell Smeaton received a check. The proprietor was out, and a stupid-looking youth who was in charge could give no information. He turned the envelope listlessly in his fingers, handed it back to the detective, and suggested that he should call later in the day, when his master would be in.

The business bore the appearance of decay, Smeaton thought, and if the master should prove no more intelligent than his assistant, it would only be a waste of time to question him.

Subsequently he called and saw the head of the declining firm, and from him learnt that the last he had heard of old Mr Millington was that he was living in New Church Road, Camberwell.

He at once took a taxi there, but on arrival was sadly disappointed to see that the house was to let, and that inquiries were to be made of a firm of house-agents.

He was soon at their office, and here he found an intelligent clerk, to whom he explained that he wished to make a few inquiries.

“I seem to remember the name,” said the clerk at length. “I believe he was the tenant when I first came into this business; a nice, quiet old man, who paid his rent on the day. The house has been let to two people since then.”

“Do you know where Millington went when he left?”

But the clerk’s mind was a blank on the subject. A bright idea, however, struck him, which, in a moment, would have occurred to Smeaton.

“Look here, sir. Why don’t you go and see the landlord, Mr Clarke? His house is in the Camberwell Road, only five minutes’ walk from here.”

The detective thanked him, and armed with the address set forth on a fresh pilgrimage. In a few moments he was interviewing the landlord, a retired builder who had invested his savings in small property.

“Pleased to give you any help I can,” he said heartily, when the detective had explained the object of his visit. “I remember Millington well; very decent old chap he was too; paid his rent punctually. He moved away some years ago. I don’t know where he went. But I don’t think it matters much. I heard about twelve months ago that the old man was dead.”

Smeaton’s face clouded. So all his inquiries had been waste of time. Millington would never throw any light upon the anonymous and threatening letter.

He went back to Bond Street and saw Mr Morgan.

“I am told that Mr Millington is dead,” he said to him. “I suppose you had not heard of it?”

Morgan looked surprised. “When did he die, sir?”

“My informant told me he heard of it about a year ago.”

“A mistake, sir, a mistake, somebody of the same name,” cried Mr Morgan. “Two months ago I met him in the Strand, and we chatted for a few seconds. We didn’t say much to each other for I was in a hurry to get back to the shop.”

“He never mentioned to you that he had left Camberwell?”

“No; as he said nothing about it I took it for granted that he was still there. But I don’t suppose we exchanged a couple of dozen words altogether. I remember I told him he was looking as well as ever, and he laughed, and said he came of a long-lived family.”

Smeaton breathed again. An hour later he was back again at Camberwell, on the track of the retired engraver.

A man cannot move a houseful of furniture without leaving some traces. After visits to half-a-dozen moving establishments, he hit upon the right one in the Walworth Road. The proprietor referred to his books, and gave Smeaton the information he wanted. The goods had been taken down by road to Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford, a little village in the Thames Valley.

So far, so good. Unless he had been seized with another desire for change, Millington would be found at Beech Cottage, Lower Halliford.

It was too late to pursue the affair further that day. Smeaton would run down the next morning. Millington was an old man; his wits would probably be brighter in the early hours.

The morning found him knocking at the door of Beech Cottage, a pretty little cottage overhung with climbing roses, facing the river. The door was opened by a stout, pleasant-faced woman, whom he at once discovered to be Millington’s niece and housekeeper.

“My uncle is not very well this morning,” she told him; “he suffers a good deal from asthma. But if you’ll come into the parlour, I’ll take your card in. He likes to see people when he can, for it’s terribly dull down here.”

A moment later she reappeared. “My uncle will be glad to see you, sir. I was afraid he was a bit too poorly, but a visitor brightens him up at once. Please step this way.”

Mr Millington was seated in a small room overlooking a somewhat rough and uncultivated piece of garden at the back. He was a bright-looking old man, of small stature, with a wonderfully pink complexion, and small twinkling eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript sort of attire, a long frock-coat, a skullcap, and a pair of carpet slippers.

“Sit down, sir, please,” he said, in a voice that was cordial, if a trifle wheezy. “I see by your card you are from Scotland Yard – eh? What can I do for you?”

Smeaton went to the point at once.

“I heard of you from Morgan, of Grimmel and Grice. I went there to make a few inquiries, and he recommended me to you.”

Mr Millington nodded his head.

“A very good fellow, Morgan; he always put as much business in my way as he could.”

“He directed me to you,” Smeaton said, and he pulled out the envelope and handed it to Millington. “This kind of cipher Mr Morgan tells me was in great vogue between twenty and twenty-five years ago. He thinks that you cut it. Will you kindly examine it, and tell me if you recognise it as your handiwork?”

The answer came readily: “It’s mine, sure enough.”

“Good. The envelope itself is quite an ordinary one, as you see. Now, can you carry your mind back, and give me any particulars of the transaction? Can you tell for whom those letters were cut, and what they stand for?”

Mr Millington put his hand to his forehead. “Let me think a moment,” he said in the quavering voice of old age. “Let me think for a moment, and something will come back to me. At my time of life it’s a good way to go back.”

Smeaton waited in silence for some little time, and then it seemed the old man had struck some chord of memory.

Suddenly he sat upright in his easy-chair, and his eyes sparkled. “It is coming back by degrees,” he said in his thin, husky voice; “it is coming back.”

There was another pause, in which it seemed he was trying to arrange his ideas clearly. Then he spoke slowly but distinctly.

“I remember I had a lot of trouble over the job. The order was first given to some stationers in the City, but the gentleman was so fussy and confused in his instructions that they sent him down straight to me. I thought I understood what he wanted, but I had to engrave it three times before he was satisfied. That’s why I happen to remember it so well.”

“Now, do you remember, or did you ever know, the name of this fussy person who was so hard to please?”

“I ought to remember it,” said Millington plaintively. “It was not an uncommon name either; I should recall it in a moment if I heard it. But it has escaped me.”

Smeaton’s face clouded. “That’s unfortunate, but it may come back to you presently. Proper names are the hardest things to remember as we get on in life.”

Millington struggled for a little time longer with the ebbing tide of reminiscence, but to no purpose.

Smeaton went on another tack.