The Millionaire Mystery. Peter Haining
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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.’
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