This House to Let

His recent interview with Davis had established the fact that four persons were connected with the mystery of Cathcart Square – Davis himself, Caroline Masters (the elder sister), Iris Deane (the younger sister), and, most important of all, Hugh Murchison.

He dismissed, for the moment, the first three from his mind. But Hugh Murchison, with his resemblance to Reginald Davis, was the connecting link between them and another set of actors.

Murchison had consulted him with the view of identifying Mrs Spencer and George Dutton with the Norah and George Burton of those far-off days at Blankfield, and he had identified them as the same persons. He had then handed over the Major to the astute Parkinson, who would find out as much as he could with regard to the present relations between the precious pair.

Bryant had been very busy of late, and he had almost dismissed the Murchison episode from his mind. But when the Major had completed his investigations he would undoubtedly take steps to turn such a scheming and unscrupulous adventuress out of her husband’s house. As to the way in which he would proceed to accomplish that purpose, Bryant, of course, had no knowledge. Neither did he know which Murchison would approach first, the husband or the wife. Perhaps both together.

One thing stood out pretty clearly, from the evidence of Iris Deane, that she had met Murchison alone at the house in Cathcart Square a few days before the discovery of the dead body.

Another thing also stood out equally clearly, that the dead man bore a remarkable likeness to Reginald Davis. If not, Caroline Masters would not have dared to perjure herself as she had done. And he himself had recognised the superficial resemblance between the two men.

Assuming that it was a murder, and not a suicide, and Bryant was beginning to incline, like Davis, to the former theory, why had the murderer fixed upon the name of Reginald Davis, and forged a letter to the Coroner? He must have been somebody who had known Davis at some time, and was acquainted with his handwriting. Like Caroline Masters, he must have been inclined to do the hunted fugitive a good turn, and have trusted to his gratitude to keep a silent tongue.

An hour’s steady thinking had cleared his brain. The conclusions he arrived at were as follows: Hugh Murchison had been murdered by somebody, and buried as a suicide under the name of Reginald Davis. The next question was who was the murderer, and what was the motive for committing the murder? Here he could make a pretty shrewd guess. If Murchison had gone about his mission in a straightforward, but rather blundering, fashion the motive was clear enough.

With Bryant to think was to act. Davis was having a week’s holiday in London, staying with his sister, Mrs Masters. That same afternoon the young man was again in the Inspector’s room, in response to an urgent summons on the telephone.

“Now, Mr Davis, I have been thinking deeply over this rather complicated affair of Cathcart Square, and I am beginning to see a streak or two of daylight. I told you this morning I know a bit more about Major Murchison than you do, and there is just a chance you might help me. I take it you have had a somewhat adventurous career, your sister admitted as much at the inquest. She said in fact that you had been the black sheep of the family.”

Davis hung his head in a shame-faced fashion. “I have to admit it, sir. It’s no use attempting to deny it, when Carrie gave me away like that.”

“I have no desire to pry into your past, except so far as it helps me in my present quest. But I expect, in your time, you have associated with a few undesirable characters.” Reginald Davis admitted the fact quite frankly.

“Now, of course, it is only just a chance. But did you ever come across a man named George Burton, and a young woman who passed as his sister? My first knowledge of them is that they ran a gambling-saloon in Paris, she a good-looking girl, acting as decoy. Then he quitted the card-sharping game and went in for more criminal pursuits.”

“I did know them, sir. If I tell you what I do know, am I letting myself in for anything?” queried Mr Davis cautiously. “You see, since that awful thing happened, I have turned over a new leaf. Nobody could tempt me to go the least bit on the crook.”

“Make your mind quite easy, Davis. We have nothing against you. You know that, or you would have hardly dared to come to life again.”

“Well, sir, I did know George Burton pretty intimately at one time, after he left Paris. He was in the forgery business and he tried to drag me in, but I was clever enough to keep out of it. They used, in his own set, to call him ‘George the Penman.’”

“Good,” said Bryant; “and what did you know about the girl?”

“Not very much, sir. She passed as his sister, but one or two of his pals believed her to be his wife, although there was no evidence of it.”

“Did you ever learn anything of her origin?”

“Well, one chap who seemed to know more about them than their other pals, told me that she was by way of being a lady, the illegitimate daughter of a man well-known in London Society.”

“Do you know the name of the man?”

Davis tapped his forehead in the effort of recollection.

“It’s on the tip of my tongue, sir: it will come to me in a moment – a man who was mixed up in a gambling scandal, and had to leave the country. Ah, I have got it now, he was known familiarly as Tommie Esmond.”

Mr Bryant rose. He had got all he could out of his new acquaintance. The threads in his hand were drawing closer into a web.

“Well, Mr Davis, good-day. Many thanks for the information you have given me, it has been very helpful. I will keep in touch with you.”

“And you think, with me, it was a murder, and not a suicide?” questioned Davis as he left.

But Bryant was not the man to express a decided opinion until he was fully justified by the facts. He kept his thoughts to himself till the last moment.

He smiled pleasantly. “Time will show. I shall have that body exhumed, as soon as I have made a few further inquiries.”

Davis had to be content with this oracular utterance, and bowed himself out. He solaced himself by narrating all that had occurred to the wondering Carrie.

The matter had now become one for the activities of Scotland Yard. The first thing to be done was to ascertain the whereabouts of Hugh Murchison, that is to say, if he was still in the land of the living. Some time had elapsed since he had communicated with Parkinson. Of course, in itself, there would be nothing strange in that. Parkinson had got the information that was required, been paid for it, and with that payment, their relations had ended.

Bryant went to the hotel where the Major had stayed, at any rate up to the time that the detective had last seen him, and interviewed the manager, whom he had known for some years in his professional capacity. This person, a genial and cosmopolitan Italian, readily answered his questions.

Yes, the Major had stayed there for some little time. When he came, he explained that he was only paying a flying visit to London. Had he brought a servant with him? No, he had not. A somewhat strange omission for a man in his position, was it not? The circumstance was easily explained. The Major had had to dismiss his late valet for theft, and was not in a hurry, for the present, to suit himself with a fresh one. This he had told the manager and he was valeted at the hotel.

He had left some time. How long? The manager would find out the exact date. This he did. On the afternoon of the fourth of July. The Major had taken his things down to Victoria Station in a cab with the view of depositing them there, as he was going to take an evening train to Brighton.

Bryant brightened up at this information. The discovery of the dead body at Cathcart Square had taken place early on the morning of the fifth.

Now arose the question, had the Major got through his business with the Spencers before the fourth of July? In that case Mrs Spencer was hardly likely to be still living at Eaton Place with her husband.

Inquiries at Eaton Place soon established the fact that Mrs Spencer was still there. What had happened? Had the Major communicated the result of his research to the husband, with the result that, infatuated with his wife, that husband had refused to credit the story and accepted Stella’s denials?

It was a fairly plausible theory. When men are deeply in love, women can twist them round their little finger. In that case, it was easy to understand that, disgusted with the failure of his intervention, the Major had made up his mind to leave London at once.

One other thing was to be done, to ascertain if the Major had intimated to any of his friends his intention of leaving London so abruptly. For this purpose, Bryant sought out the brother Roderick, who had rooms in Jermyn Street.

Yes, Roderick had met the Major in Bond Street in the morning, and learned of the proposed journey to Brighton. The young man added that his brother was very erratic in his movements, and sometimes would disappear for weeks at a stretch without communicating with any of his friends or relatives.

There was now one of two theories that stood out: the first one that Guy Spencer had been told, and refused to believe the true facts about his wife. The second was, that the Major had shirked the unpleasantness of a personal interview of such a delicate character, and had gone down to Brighton intending to write privately to Spencer from there.

Further inquiries elicited the fact that the Major had never made that projected journey to Brighton. His belongings had never been claimed, they were still lying in the cloak room at Victoria Station.

There was now no further doubt as to what steps had to be taken. The Major had disappeared at a date practically coinciding with the discovery of the dead body at Cathcart Square, the dead body which had been wrongly identified as that of Reginald Davis, whose likeness to the Major was so pronounced. Of that fact, Bryant himself was aware.

The authorities were applied to, and gave permission for the body to be exhumed. As the living Reginald Davis had established his identity to the satisfaction of Scotland Yard, it was necessary to find out, if possible, that of the man who had been mistaken for him.

The body was exhumed and pronounced by half-a-dozen people, including Guy Spencer, to be that of the Major.

It had now become clearly a case of murder, and although those in charge of the case had little or no doubt as to the guilty persons, it might have been very difficult to prove, but for one convincing fact, supplied by the murdered man himself.

But this evidence, which was overwhelming, the police kept to themselves for some little time, for their own good reasons.

Chapter Twenty Four

The luggage which had been left at Victoria Station on the fatal day was, of course, seized by the police. They searched it thoroughly in the hope that they would find something useful to them in the shape of letters or memoranda.

Of letters there were only two, brief ones from Iris Deane, in which she expressed her determination of sticking out for her ten thousand pounds. As we know, in the end she gave way and accepted seven.

But they did find one priceless thing, and that was a diary, bound in red leather, a small volume as to the size of the page, but very bulky. It had evidently been the dead man’s habit to keep a fairly close record of his doings, for it was numbered, and contained entries from some date in May 1919 up to July 3rd, the day before he left the hotel, and announced to the manager that he intended to take a late train to Brighton.