The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
that!"
"I shall be much surprised if it is not found to be the case, sir," answered Hollins, whose name I now heard for the first time. "And—incidentally, as it were—I may mention that I think it will be discovered that a good deal has gone with them!"
"What—property?" demanded Mr. Portlethorpe. "Impossible!—they couldn't carry property away—going as they seem to have done—or are said to have done!"
Hollins coughed behind one of his big, fat hands, and glanced knowingly at Mr. Lindsey, who was listening silently but with deep attention.
"I'm not so sure about that, sir," he said. "You're aware that there were certain small matters at Hathercleugh of what we may term the heirloom nature, though whether they were heirlooms or not I can't say—the miniature of himself set in diamonds, given by George the Third to the second baronet; the necklace, also diamonds, which belonged to a Queen of Spain; the small picture, priceless, given to the fifth baronet by a Czar of Russia; and similar things, Mr. Portlethorpe. And, gentlemen, the family jewels!—all of which had been reset. They've got all those!"
"You mean to say—of your own knowledge—they're not at Hathercleugh?" suddenly inquired Mr. Lindsey.
"I mean to say they positively are not, sir," replied the butler. "They were kept in a certain safe in a small room used by Lady Carstairs as her boudoir. Her ladyship left very hastily and secretly yesterday, as I understand the police have told you, and, in her haste, she forgot to lock up that safe—which she had no doubt unlocked before her departure. That safe, sir, is empty—of those things, at any rate."
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe, greatly agitated. "This is really terrible!"
"Could she carry those things—all of them—on her bicycle—by which I hear she left?" asked Mr. Lindsey.
"Easily, sir," replied Hollins. "She had a small luggage-carrier on her bicycle—it would hold all those things. They were not bulky, of course."
"You've no idea where she went on that bicycle?" inquired Mr. Lindsey.
Hollins smiled cunningly, and drew his chair a little nearer to us.
"I hadn't—when I went to Mr. Murray, at the police-station, this morning," he answered. "But—I've an idea, now. That's precisely why I came in to see you, Mr. Lindsey."
He put his hand inside his overcoat and produced a pocket-book, from which he presently drew out a scrap of paper.
"After I'd seen Mr. Murray this morning," he continued, "I went back to Hathercleugh, and took it upon myself to have a look round. I didn't find anything of a remarkably suspicious nature until this afternoon, pretty late, when I made the discovery about the safe in the boudoir—that all the articles I'd mentioned had disappeared. Then I began to examine a waste-paper basket in the boudoir—I'd personally seen Lady Carstairs tear up some letters which she received yesterday morning by the first post, and throw the scraps into that basket, which hadn't been emptied since. And I found this, gentlemen—and you can, perhaps, draw some conclusion from it—I've had no difficulty in drawing one myself."
He laid on the table a torn scrap of paper, over which all three of us at once bent. There was no more on it than the terminations of lines—but the wording was certainly suggestive:—
"…. at once, quietly …. best time would be before lunch …. at Kelso …. usual place in Glasgow."
Mr. Portlethorpe started at sight of the handwriting.
"That's Sir Gilbert's!" he exclaimed. "No doubt of that. What are we to understand by it, Lindsey?"
"What do you make of this?" asked Mr. Lindsey, turning to Hollins. "You say you've drawn a deduction?"
"I make this out, sir," answered the butler, quietly. "Yesterday morning there were only four letters for Lady Carstairs. Two were from London—in the handwriting of ladies. One was a tradesman's letter—from Newcastle. The fourth was in a registered envelope—and the address was typewritten—and the post-mark Edinburgh. I'm convinced, Mr. Lindsey, that the registered one contained—that! A letter, you understand, from Sir Gilbert—I found other scraps of it, but so small that it's impossible to piece them together, though I have them here. And I conclude that he gave Lady Carstairs orders to cycle to Kelso—an easy ride for her,—and to take the train to Glasgow, where he'd meet her. Glasgow, sir, is a highly convenient city, I believe, for people who wish to disappear. And—I should suggest that Glasgow should be communicated with."
"Have you ever known Sir Gilbert Carstairs visit Glasgow recently?" asked Mr. Lindsey, who had listened attentively to all this.
"He was there three weeks ago," replied Hollins.
"And—Edinburgh?" suggested Mr. Lindsey.
"He went regularly to Edinburgh—at one time—twice a week," said the butler. And then, Mr. Lindsey not making any further remark, he glanced at him and at Mr. Portlethorpe. "Of course, gentlemen," he continued, "this is all between ourselves. I feel it my duty, you know."
Mr. Lindsey answered that we all understood the situation, and presently he let the man out, after a whispered sentence or two between them in the hall. Then he came back to us, and without a word as to what had just transpired, drew the Smeaton letter from his pocket.
Chapter XXIX. All In Order
So that we might have it to ourselves, we had returned from Newcastle to Berwick in a first-class compartment, and in its privacy Mr. Lindsey had told Mr. Portlethorpe the whole of the Smeaton story. Mr. Portlethorpe had listened—so it seemed to me—with a good deal of irritation and impatience; he was clearly one of those people who do not like interference with what they regard as an established order of things, and it evidently irked him to have any questions raised as to the Carstairs affairs—which, of course, he himself had done much to settle when Sir Gilbert succeeded to the title. In his opinion, the whole thing was cut, dried, and done with, and he was still impatient and restive when Mr. Lindsey laid before him the letter which Mr. Gavin Smeaton had lent us, and invited him to look carefully at the handwriting. He made no proper response to that invitation; what he did was to give a peevish glance at the letter, and then push it aside, with an equally peevish exclamation.
"What of it?" he said. "It conveys nothing to me!"
"Take your time, Portlethorpe," remonstrated Mr. Lindsey, who was unlocking a drawer in his desk. "It'll perhaps convey something to you when you compare that writing with a certain signature which I shall now show you. This," he continued, as he produced Gilverthwaite's will, and laid it before his visitor, "is the will of the man whose coming to Berwick ushered in all these mysteries. Now, then—do you see who was one of the witnesses to the will? Look, man!"
Mr. Portlethorpe looked—and was startled out of his peevishness.
"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "Michael Carstairs!"
"Just that," said Mr. Lindsey. "Now then, compare Michael Carstairs' handwriting with the handwriting of that letter. Come here, Hugh!—you, too, have a look. And—there's no need for any very close or careful looking, either!—no need for expert calligraphic evidence, or for the use of microscopes. I'll stake all I'm worth that that signature and that letter are the work of the same hand!"
Now that I saw the Smeaton letter and the signature of the first witness to Gilverthwaite's will, side by side, I had no hesitation in thinking as Mr. Lindsey did. It was an exceptionally curious, not to say eccentric, handwriting—some of the letters were oddly formed, other letters were indicated rather than formed at all. It seemed impossible that two different individuals could write in that style; it was rather the style developed for himself by a man who scorned all conventional matters, and was as self-distinct in his penmanship as he probably was in his life and thoughts. Anyway, there was an undeniable, an extraordinary similarity, and even Mr. Portlethorpe had to admit that it was—undoubtedly—there. He threw off his impatience and irritability,