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

“Now for the letters,” he said.

In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: “Letters from Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle.”

Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two. There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the present non-payment of dividends.

Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes.

But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it.

“Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man, but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet you there.”

Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. “My dear Wingate, take the whole packet, if you wish. After the noble way in which you have behaved to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?”

“Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be up betimes to-morrow morning.”

He left, after refusing Boyle’s earnest request to join him in a final whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed.

Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening letter.

“I will put all the documents in the hands of an expert for confirmation,” he said, “but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I shall follow up the clue at once.”

“You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck,” observed Austin. “Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature, Boyle, for both!”

“He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance,” said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather harsh features.

“To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?” was Wingate’s next question.

“It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution. They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men. Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand, the Wrenwyck one requires some experience and finesse, both of which qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the two to a subordinate.”

He passed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind. He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at once.

“I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue,” he explained to Wingate. “It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great promptitude in the Wrenwyck matter.”

Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him Smeaton issued brief instructions.

“About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid.”

Mr Johnson bowed. “I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress’s confidence.”

The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a trifle unconventional.

“Of course, sir, in circumstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been known to give their maids a holiday.”

“I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at once, and confer with me when necessary.”

Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor.

“Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days. I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth telling.”

He set to work at once on the Bellamy dossier. Up to a certain point the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street.

So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his assumed name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He spoke English with a perfect accent.

He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he amassed money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money back until just at the end.

And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had appeared and obtained a verdict for the restitution of the sums acquired by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was bound to follow.

This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an assumed name.

Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, under this assumed name. At the trial it was conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and eloquence of Monkton.

He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries, where no doubt he still pursued his profession of chevalier d’industrie, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the active interference of justice till about five years ago.

At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of a suspicious nature was known.

Here Smeaton came to a cul-de-sac. At that date Ivan Bolinski was living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton. Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an abrupt close his nefarious career in this country.

To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him. The door was opened by an elderly woman.

“I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here five years ago,” he said, going to the point at once.

She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going on in the big world outside her little corner of earth.

“Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about that time.”

She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At Smeaton’s request she told him all about her lodger.

“He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to see him occasionally.”

“Can you describe this visitor to me?” asked Smeaton.

“A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like a foreigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlike they were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and the other after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not his proper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property.”

A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this simple woman could do him no harm.

The landlady went on with her narrative.

“As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, who lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother – it was a long foreign name, and I can’t remember it.”

“Bolinski,” suggested Smeaton.

The woman looked puzzled. “Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B. Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, a matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his words: ‘The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate we will have the real one. It doesn’t matter now. It was assumed for reasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.’”

“When did he die?” asked Smeaton eagerly.

“A little over two years ago, sir, this very month.”

Then, as the detective rose, she added: “If you would like to step round to Doctor Mayhew’s he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you full particulars of the end.”