The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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about.
"Aye, well, Mr. Lindsey," he responded, "maybe there's not so much mystery in this affair as there seems to be once you've got at an idea. I'll tell you how I got at mine and what's come of it. Of course, you'll not know, for I think you didn't come to Berwick yourself until after I'd left the neighbourhood—but I was connected with the Hathercleugh estate from the time I was a lad until fifteen years ago, when I gave up the steward's job and went to live on a bit of property of my own, near Alnwick. Of course, I knew the two sons—Michael and Gilbert; and I remember well enough when, owing to perpetual quarrelling with their father, he gave them both a good lot of money and they went their several ways. And after that, neither ever came back that I heard of, nor did I ever come across either, except on one occasion—to which I'll refer in due course. In time, as I've just said, I retired; in time, too, Sir Alexander died, and I heard that, Mr. Michael being dead in the West Indies, Sir Gilbert had come into the title and estates. I did think, once or twice, of coming over to see him; but the older a man gets, the fonder he is of his own fireside—and I didn't come here, nor did I ever hear much of him; he certainly made no attempt to see me. And so we come to the beginning of what we'll call the present crisis. That beginning came with the man who turned up in Berwick this spring."
"You mean Gilverthwaite?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"Aye—but I didn't know him by that name!" assented Mr. Elphinstone, with a sly smile. "I didn't know him by any name. What I know is this. It must have been about a week—certainly not more—before Gilverthwaite's death that he—I'm sure of his identity, because of his description—called on me at my house, and with a good deal of hinting and such-like told me that he was a private inquiry agent, and could I tell him something about the late Michael Carstairs?—and that, it turned out, was: Did I know if Michael was married before he left England, and if so, where, and to whom? Of course, I knew nothing about it, and as the man wouldn't give me the least information I packed him off pretty sharply. And the next thing I heard was of the murder of John Phillips. I didn't connect that with the visit of the mysterious man at first; but of course I read the account of the inquest, and Mr. Ridley's evidence, and then I began to see there was some strange business going on, though I couldn't even guess at what it could be. And I did nothing, and said nothing—there seemed nothing, then, that I could do or say, though I meant to come forward later—until I saw the affair of Crone in the newspapers, and I knew then that there was more in the matter than was on the surface. So, when I learnt that a man named Carter had been arrested on the charge of murdering Crone, I came to Berwick, and went to the court to hear what was said when Carter was put before the magistrates. I got a quiet seat in the court—and maybe you didn't see me."
"I did!" I exclaimed. "I remember you perfectly, Mr. Elphinstone."
"Aye!" he said with an amused smile. "You're the lad that's had his finger in the pie pretty deep—you're well out of it, my man! Well—there I was, and a man sitting by me that knew everybody, and before ever the case was called this man pointed out Sir Gilbert Carstairs coming in and being given a seat on the bench. And I knew that there was a fine to-do, and perhaps nobody but myself knowing of it, for the man pointed out to me was no Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nor any Carstairs at all—not he! But—I knew him!"
"You knew him!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "Man!—that's the first direct bit of real illumination we've had! And—who is he, then, Mr. Elphinstone?"
"Take your time!" answered Mr. Elphinstone. "We'll have to go back a bit: you'll put the police court out of your mind a while. It's about—I forget rightly how long since, but it was just after I gave up the stewardship that I had occasion to go up to London on business of my own. And there, one morning, as I was sauntering down the lower end of Regent Street, I met Gilbert Carstairs, whom I'd never seen since he left home. He'd his arm in mine in a minute, and he would have me go with him to his rooms in Jermyn Street, close by—there was no denying him. I went, and found his rooms full of trunks, and cases, and the like—he and a friend of his, he said, were just off on a sort of hunting-exploration trip to some part of Central America; I don't know what they weren't going to do, but it was to be a big affair, and they were to come back loaded up with natural-history specimens and to make a pile of money out of the venture, too. And he was telling me all about it in his eager, excitable way when the other man came in, and I was introduced to him. And, gentlemen, that's the man I saw—under the name of Sir Gilbert Carstairs—on the bench at Berwick only the other day! He's changed, of course—more than I should have thought he would have done in fifteen years, for that's about the time since I saw him and Gilbert together there in Jermyn Street,—but I knew him as soon as I clapped eyes on him, and whatever doubt I had went as soon as I saw him lift his right hand to his moustache, for there are two fingers missing on that hand—the middle ones—and I remembered that fact about the man Gilbert Carstairs had introduced to me. I knew, I tell you, as I sat in that court, that the fellow there on the bench, listening, was an impostor!"
We were all bending forward across the table, listening eagerly—and there was a question in all our thoughts, which Mr. Lindsey put into words.
"The man's name?"
"It was given to me, in Jermyn Street that morning, as Meekin—Dr. Meekin," answered Mr. Elphinstone. "Gilbert Carstairs, as you're aware, was a medical man himself—he'd qualified, anyway—and this was a friend of his. But that was all I gathered then—they were both up to the eyes in their preparations, for they were off for Southampton that night, and I left them to it—and, of course, never heard of them again. But now to come back to the police court the other day: I tell you, I was—purposely—in a quiet corner, and there I kept till the case was over; but just when everybody was getting away, the man on the bench caught sight of me—"
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey, looking across at me. "Ah! that's another reason—that supplements the ice-ax one! Aye!—he caught sight of you, Mr. Elphinstone—"
"And," continued Mr. Elphinstone, "I saw a queer, puzzled look come into his face. He looked again—looked hard. I took no notice of his look, though I continued to watch him, and presently he turned away and went out. But I knew he had recognized me as a man he had seen somewhere. Now remember, when Gilbert Carstairs introduced me to this man, Gilbert did not mention any connection of mine with Hathercleugh—he merely spoke of me as an old friend; so Meekin, when he came into these parts, would have no idea of finding me here. But I saw he was afraid—badly afraid—because of his recognition and doubt about me. And the next question was—what was I to do? I'm not the man to do things in haste, and I could see this was a black, deep business, with maybe two murders in it. I went off and got my lunch—and thought. At the end of it, rather than go to the police, I went to your office, Mr. Lindsey. And your office was locked up, and you were all away for the day. And then an idea struck me: I have a relative—the man outside with Murray—who's a high-placed officer in the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard—I would go to him. So—I went straight off to London by the very next South express. Why? To see if he could trace anything about this Meekin."
"Aye!" nodded Mr. Lindsey admiringly. "You were in the right of it, there—that was a good notion. And—you did?"
"Not since the Jermyn Street affair," answered Mr. Elphinstone. "We traced him in the medical register all right up to that point. His name is Francis Meekin—he's various medical letters to it. He was in one of the London hospitals with Gilbert Carstairs—he shared those rooms in Jermyn Street with Gilbert Carstairs. We found—easily—a man who'd been their valet, and who remembered their setting off on the hunting expedition. They never came back—to Jermyn Street, anyway. Nothing was ever heard or seen of them in their old haunts about that quarter from that time. And when we'd found all that out, we came straight down, last evening, to the police—and that's all, Mr. Lindsey. And, of course, the thing is plain to me—Gilbert probably died while in this man's company; this man possessed himself of his letters and papers and so on; and in time, hearing how things were, and when the chance came, he presented himself to the family solicitors as Gilbert Carstairs. Could anything be plainer?"
"Nothing!" exclaimed Mr. Lindsey. "It's a sure case—and simple when you see it in the light of your knowledge; a case of common personation. But I'm wondering what the connection between the Gilverthwaite and Phillips affair