This House to Let

“Of course I can, sir; I can bring a dozen witnesses, if necessary, half of whom have known me since a boy.”

Needless to say that a man of Bryant’s experience did not, as a rule, believe one quarter of what he was told. But this man’s face – this man’s tones – convinced him that he was listening to the truth.

He rose from his chair. “Wait here a moment, please, while I hunt up the particulars of this case. As I told you just now, I was not in charge of it, and I should like to refresh my memory as to certain details.”

He came back after a few moments. “I know it all now, from A to Z. You were identified by a married sister, a Mrs Masters, who gave some details of your career, which did not seem to have been a very healthy one. She was also shown a letter which you were supposed to have written to the Coroner, and she believed it to be in your handwriting. This wants some explanation, I think, Mr Davis, to call you by the name which you say is your right one.”

“Quite so, sir,” answered Reginald composedly. “It certainly requires a good deal of explanation, but if you will listen to me with a little patience, I think I can convince you that the thing is more natural than it appears.” The Inspector threw himself back in his chair: “I have no doubt it was your sister who identified you, but how did she come to mistake the actual suicide for you?”

And Mr Davis gave the explanation which Bryant might believe or not, or believe in part, as he chose.

“My sister Caroline was deeply attached to me. She was in despair when she heard that I was suspected of murder, and was being hunted by the police. As day after day, week after week, went by, and there was no news of my capture, she got it firmly fixed in her mind that I had committed suicide. She hunted the newspapers every morning to find some paragraph that would confirm her fears. And then one day she read about what had happened at Cathcart Square.”

Mr Bryant was now deeply interested. He leaned forward in his chair, and his attitude betokened his eagerness.

“It is possible that her mind had become a little unhinged by her anxiety. She expected to find me, and she found a man who might have passed for my twin brother. So she tells me now that I have revealed myself, for, of course, I lay very low until this belated confession of the real murderer.”

Bryant only made a brief comment on this particular portion of the narrative which Davis was twisting about with some skill. Of course, Mrs Masters had not been deceived by the accidental resemblance, but in pretending to be she had given that brother a new lease of life.

“You say that the man was so like you that the sister, who had known you from childhood, was ready to swear he was her brother?”

“There is no doubt, sir, that at the time her mind was clouded. She went there expecting to find me, and as a not altogether unnatural result, she found what she expected.”

“We will let that pass,” said the Inspector drily. “No doubt, under extraordinary circumstances, strange hallucinations are apt to occur. It was very fortunate for you that your sister made that mistake, and that it was accepted. As you admitted just now, if you had been caught and tried it would have gone very hardly with you.”

Whatever Bryant thought in his own mind, it was evident that he was prepared to admit that Mrs Masters had acted in good faith when she swore that the dead man was her brother. Davis could see there would be no trouble on that score.

“Now we come to the letter,” pursued Davis. “I questioned my sister very closely about that last night. She says she was so overwhelmed with the discovery that she read that letter through a mist, as it were, but she is positive that it closely resembled my handwriting.”

“Another hallucination, I suppose, or an accidental resemblance. Well, if you will leave a specimen of your own calligraphy with us, we can compare them,” said Bryant.

“And I suppose, sir, you will have the body exhumed, for the purpose of discovering who the man really was?”

“I suppose so,” replied the Inspector a little unwillingly. “Although I don’t expect we shall ever find out. Nobody came forward at the time when your sister made that mistake. Is it likely anybody will come forward now? Some poor derelict, weary of life I suppose, without kith or kin to claim him at the end. There are scores of suicides in the year, Mr Davis, who are buried unidentified.”

He added, after a moment’s pause: “Of course, before taking any such steps, we must formally prove, from unimpeachable testimony, that not only are you Reginald Davis, but the particular Reginald Davis who was falsely accused of murder.”

“I quite understand,” answered Davis a little stiffly. “Before I leave this room, I will indicate the quarters where you can obtain the information you want.”

“Then, when I have verified that, I will ask you to come and see me again.” Bryant’s manner as he said these words, indicated that the interview was at an end.

But Davis kept his seat, he had not finished yet.

“May I take the liberty of detaining you for a few moments longer, sir, to impress upon you the importance of having that body exhumed? You may be correct in your theory it is that of some poor derelict, but I have a different theory altogether.”

The Inspector looked sharply at him, and drew a deep breath. “Ah, then, you have some knowledge of something: your visit to me has been leading up to this, eh?”

“No actual knowledge, sir, but a surmise that has, I venture to think, some foundation. I have two sisters. The elder one I have already spoken of to you.”

There was a slight note of sarcasm in the Inspector’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mrs Masters, whose fortunate mistake was of such excellent service to you, during the time you were waiting for the real criminal’s confession.” Davis did not suffer himself to resent this. Of course, a man of the world like Bryant did not believe in this camouflaged story. Mrs Masters was a clever young woman, and had taken advantage of an accidental resemblance to get her brother out of jeopardy.

“My other sister, Iris Deane, is in the chorus of the Frivolity Theatre. I don’t suppose you have ever heard of her?”

Mr Bryant shook his head. He knew a great deal about all classes of criminals, but young ladies in the chorus of the Frivolity, or any other theatre, were not in his line.

“She was at Mrs Masters’s house last night. She came over especially to welcome me, on my re-introduction to the world which I was supposed to have quitted. She made to us a very startling confession, and that confession is intimately associated with the events at Cathcart Square.”

And this time, Bryant was genuinely surprised, and was at no pains to conceal it. Reginald Davis – he was beginning to believe in the man’s identity now – was evidently a member of a very remarkable family.

“You astound me, Mr Davis. Yourself and both your sisters mixed up with what happened there! It sounds like a romance. Pray proceed!”

Davis told the story as Iris had told him, carefully concealing the names of the two men concerned in it for the moment. He was careful to point out that on the night of the suicide she could establish a complete and unquestioned alibi.

Bryant turned on him sharply. “It occurs to me that you don’t think it was a suicide, Mr Davis.”

“I don’t, sir, and at present I can’t quite tell you why.”

“But you must have some reason for thinking that,” said Bryant in the same sharp tone.

“My only reason is this – if the man who was buried under the name of Reginald Davis is the man I believe him to be, there was no earthly reason why he should commit suicide. To the best of my belief, he was murdered for some motive that I cannot guess, and the murderer, after cutting his throat, put the razor in his stiffening hand.”

“It is a theory worth thinking about,” said Bryant, who was beginning to appreciate his visitor very much. “And now, Mr Davis, the name of the man whom your sister met in the empty house?”

“I have kept that to the last, to surprise you. You will know the name, but I don’t suppose you ever came across the man. It was Major Hugh Murchison.”

At this startling announcement, the Inspector literally jumped from his chair.

“But I do know Major Hugh Murchison,” he cried. “He was in my office not so very long ago. Let me see, when was it?”

He turned to his diary and verified the date, and gave it to Reginald Davis. It was longer back than he thought.

“And you have not seen him since that day?”

“No,” answered the Inspector. “Wait a moment till I ring up my friend Parkinson. I couldn’t undertake the job he called on, as it was quite a private matter. I handed it over to Parkinson.”

He rang up his old friend and former colleague. Davis could gather enough from the conversation on Bryant’s side to be sure that a considerable interval had elapsed since Parkinson had seen his client.

Bryant sat down in his chair. “Mr Davis, I cannot say how much obliged I am to you for your visit, and the information you have given me. Now, I know a great deal more than you do about the proceedings and movements of Major Murchison, I know on what business he was engaged, in addition to that little matter of your sister’s. I will go into the inquiries concerning yourself, and please hold yourself at my disposal, give me an address where I can communicate with you readily.”

Davis did so, and said good-bye to the Inspector.

After he had left, Bryant gave instructions he was not to be disturbed for an hour. And during that hour he did the hardest bit of thinking he had ever done in his life.

And now that Davis had mentioned it, the man did bear a superficial resemblance to Hugh Murchison.

Chapter Twenty Three

It was a very hard nut he had to crack. Thanks to his peculiar position, he was in possession of reliable and exclusive information from more than one quarter. He held several threads in his capable hands, but would he be able to weave them into a net wide enough for his purpose?