The Millionaire Mystery

‘Why, Mrs Warrender! She’s disappeared. Oh, dear me; how terrible all this is! Whew!’

CHAPTER VI (#ulink_d050b9e5-c7f4-54f5-980d-3c288adea6d2)

THE MISSING KEY

SO excited was the little parson that Alan feared lest he should take a fit. The Good Samaritan was no great distance away, so thither he led him, into Mrs Timber’s private parlour.

‘Now, sir,’ said Alan, when his old tutor seemed somewhat more composed, ‘tell me all about Mrs Warrender.’

But before Mr Phelps could reply, the vixenish landlady made her appearance. She was highly honoured at seeing the Rector within her doors, and curtsied a hint for orders. And, in truth, the little clergyman, undone with excitement, was quite ready to stimulate his jaded nerves.

‘Eh, Mrs Timber?’ he said. ‘Yes; you might get us a little Cognac, I think. Old; the best you have, Mrs Timber, and a jug of fresh-drawn water from the well, please. Alan?’

‘I’ll join you,’ said young Thorold promptly.

He, too, felt that he was in nowise beyond reach of a little stimulant.

Silent for once in her life, Mrs Timber brought of her best, which, be it said, was passing good. Mr Phelps lost no time in brewing his measure and drank it down with gusto.

‘That’s good, Alan, my boy; very good,’ said he, setting down the tumbler with a sigh of relief. ‘God forgive me, I fear to think what my good brethren would say did they see their Rector in a public-house! though to be sure the Good Samaritan is a most respectable hostelry. But, Alan, why did you bring me here?’

‘Indeed, sir, I feared you would be ill out there in the blazing sun. I did only what I thought wise. But about Mrs Warrender—you say she has disappeared?’

‘Eh, yes.’ Mr Phelps wiped his bald head vigorously. ‘I went to break the news to her after you had gone to see Sophy, and I found she had left for London.’

‘London? Why London?’

‘That is just what I wanted to know, my dear Alan. It seems she received last night a letter which threw her into a state of great excitement. She was bad enough that way, as it was, the servant said; but this letter, it appears, drove her into a perfect frenzy.’

‘Do you know what was in the letter?’

‘I asked that—oh, trust me, Alan, to be precise about details—but the servant said she did not know. Mrs Warrender put it in her pocket. That spoke volumes from the servant’s point of view. All night long, it appears, she was walking about the room using the most fearful language—God forgive her!—and this morning at eight o’clock she started off to catch the 9.30 express at the Junction.’

‘And is she coming back?’

‘That I don’t know, my boy.’

Mr Phelps looked round cautiously and lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘She took her jewels with her.’

‘Her jewels?’

‘Yes; she had a quantity of jewellery. She put all the money she could get from her husband into clothes and diamonds—a most extravagant woman, Alan. Well, she’s gone, that’s certain, jewels and all. She left no address, and said no word about returning. What do you think of it?’

‘Upon my word, sir, I don’t know what to think. The whole place has gone mad, it seems to me; the entire village is topsy-turvy. Marlow’s body stolen, Warrender murdered, and his body placed in poor Marlow’s coffin; and now here is Mrs Warrender cleared out significantly with her jewels; and the Quiet Gentleman—’

‘Brown, the dumb man? What about him? I know he, too, has vanished; but what else?’

‘I’m going to tell you, sir. The key of the vault—’

‘Not your key, Alan?’

‘Yes, my key, Mr Phelps; the Quiet Gentleman has it!’

‘God bless me—that is, God forgive me, Alan, are you mad too?’

‘No, sir, not yet; though I admit I’m fairly on the way, with all this. Tell me, do you know who this so-called Quiet Gentleman really is?’

‘No, Alan, I don’t. I spoke to him, but found he was dumb. Now he too is gone.’

‘Yes, with Marlow’s body on his hands, and Warrender’s death on his soul!’

‘You don’t mean that! Are you sure?’

Mr Phelps was greatly agitated.

‘I go only by circumstantial evidence, it is true. You know, of course, the funeral of Mr Marlow took place in the morning?’

‘Yes, yes; and at two o’clock you took Sophy and Miss Parsh to Bournemouth.’

‘I did. Well, about five o’clock, Brown—we’ll call him that instead of the Quiet Gentleman, though I don’t believe it really is his name—well, about that time Brown walked over to Abbey Farm. He brought a letter purporting to come from me to my housekeeper, Mrs Hester.’

‘From you, Alan?’

‘Yes, the letter was forged,’ said Alan with emphasis. ‘It directed Mrs Hester to allow Brown to remain at the farm until I returned. It was in my handwriting, and signed with my name. She knew nothing about Brown, save that he was staying at Mrs Marry’s, and she thought it somewhat strange he should come to stop at the farm during my absence. But as the instructions in the letter were quite plain, and she knew my handwriting well—that shows how expert the forgery was—she gave Brown the run of the place. In the meantime she wrote to me at Bournemouth asking me if all was right, and enclosed the forged letter. Here it is!’

As he saw the handwriting, Mr Phelps started.

‘Upon my word, Alan, I don’t wonder Mrs Hester was deceived, especially when you consider her sight is not good! Why, I myself with my eyes should certainly take it for yours.’ (Mr Phelps wore pince-nez, but nevertheless resented any aspersion on his optical powers.) ‘But why on earth didn’t she telegraph to you?’

‘Well, you know how old-fashioned and conservative she is, sir. She makes out through the Scriptures—how, I cannot tell you—that the telegraph is a sinful institution. Therefore it is not to be wondered at that she trusted to the post. I got her letter only this morning as, of course, it followed me on from Bournemouth. Nevertheless, I knew about the loss of the key last night.’

‘Ah! the loss of the key. Yes, go on, Alan.’

‘Very well. Brown, being allowed to remain in my house, proceeded to make himself quite at home in the library. Mrs Hester, writing her letter—no easy task for her—took no further heed of him. He was in the room for quite an hour, and amused himself, it appears, in breaking open my desk. Having forced several of the drawers, he found at last the one he wanted—the one containing the key of the vault. Then he made all things beautifully smooth, so that Mrs Hester should not see they had been tampered with, and leaving a message that he would return to dinner, went out ostensibly for a walk. He returned, it appears, to his lodging, and left there again about nine o’clock in the evening. Since then nothing has been seen or heard of him.’