The Broken Thread. William Le Queux
murderer? We’ve taken his body over to the empty cottage at the stables. I’m expecting the detectives from London every minute. Inspector Caldwell, from Tunbridge Wells, has wired to Scotland Yard for assistance.”
“Yes. Take me over there, Edgson,” said Raife, boldly. “I wonder if I know him! This secret of my father’s which he intended to reveal to me, though prevented by death, I mean to investigate—to unravel the mystery. Come, Edgson.”
And the young master—now Sir Raife Remington, Baronet—followed the grave old man out of the house and down the broad, gravelled drive, where, in the sunshine, stood the big square stables, the clock of which, in its high, round turret, was at that moment clanging out the hour.
Chapter Three.
The Fatal Fingers.
Upon a bench in the front room of the artistic little cottage, the exterior of which was half hidden by Virginia creeper, lay the body of the stranger.
He was of middle age, with a dark, well-trimmed moustache, high cheek-bones, and hair slightly tinged with grey. He was wearing a smart, dark tweed suit, but his collar had been disarranged, and his tie removed, in the cursory examination made by the police when called.
Upon his cold, stiff hands were thin rubber gloves, such as surgeons wear during operations. They told their own tale. He wore them so as to obviate leaving any finger-prints. Upon his waistcoat there was a large damp patch which showed where Sir Henry’s bullet had struck him.
Old Edgson stood beside his young master, hushed and awed.
“He’s evidently an expert thief,” remarked Raife, as he gazed upon the dead assassin’s calm countenance. The eyes were, closed and he had all the composed appearance of a sleeper. “Have they searched him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied the old man.
“Then I will,” Raife said, and, thereupon, commenced to investigate the dead man’s pockets.
The work did not take long. From the breastpocket of his jacket he drew out a plain envelope containing three five-pound notes, as well as a scrap of torn newspaper. The young fellow, on unfolding it, found it to be the “Agony” column of the Morning Post, in which there was, no doubt, concealed some secret message. There were, however, a dozen or so advertisements, therefore which of them conveyed the message he was unable to decide. So he slipped it into his pocket until such time as he was able to give attention to it.
In the dead man’s vest-pocket he found the return half of a first-class ticket from Charing Cross to Tunbridge Wells, issued four days previously, while in one of the trousers-pockets were four sovereigns, some silver, and in the other a bunch of skeleton keys, together with a small, leather pocket-case containing some strange-looking little steel tools, beautifully finished—the last word in up-to-date instruments for safe-breaking.
Raife, holding them in his hand, carried them to the window and examined them with keen curiosity. It was, indeed, a neat outfit and could be carried in the pocket without exciting the least suspicion. That the unknown assassin was an expert thief was quite clear.
Old Edgson was impatient to return to the house.
“Perhaps her ladyship may be wanting me, sir,” he suggested. “May I go, sir?”
“Yes, Edgson,” replied the young man. “Tell my mother, if you see her, that I’ll be back presently.”
And the old servant, with his mechanical bow, retired, leaving his young master with his father’s murderer.
Raife gazed in silence upon the face of the dead stranger. Then, presently, speaking to himself, he said:
“I wonder who he is? The police will find out, no doubt. He’s probably known, or he would not have been so careful about his finger-prints. By jove!” he added, “if I’d met him in a train or in the street I would never have suspected him of being a criminal. One is too apt to judge a man by his clothes.”
The local police had evidently gone through the man’s pockets for evidence of identification, but finding none, had replaced the articles in the pockets just as they had found them. Therefore, Raife did the same, in order that the London detectives might be able to make full investigation. The only thing he kept was the scrap torn from the Morning Post.
He turned the body over to get at the hip-pocket of the trousers, when from it he at length drew a bundle of soft black material, which, when opened, he found to be a capacious sack of thin black silk, evidently for the purpose of conveying away stolen property.
This he also replaced, and when, on turning the body into its original position, the shirt became further dragged open at the throat he noticed around it something that had probably been overlooked by the local constable who had opened the dead man’s clothes in an endeavour to discover traces of life—a very fine silver chain.
Suspended from the chain was a tiny little ancient Egyptian charm, in the form of a statuette of the goddess Isis, wearing on her head the royal sign, the orb of the sun, supported by cobras on either side.
He removed it from the neck of the unknown, and, holding it in his palm, examined it. The modelling was perfect as a work of ancient art. It was cut in camelian about an inch and a quarter long, and, no doubt, five or six thousand years old. Up the back, from head to foot, were inscribed tiny Egyptian hieroglyphics, the circle of the sun, the feather, the sign of truth, a man kneeling in the act of adoration, a beetle and an ibis, the meaning of which were only intelligible to an Egyptologist.
“He wore this as a talisman, no doubt,” remarked Raife, speaking to himself. “Perhaps it may serve as a clue to his identity. Who knows?”
And, gathering the little goddess and its chain into his palm, he transferred it to his pocket.
Just as he did so, voices sounded outside the cottage. Edgson, with three men in overcoats and bowler hats were coming up the garden path.
They entered the room without ceremony, and old Edgson, who accompanied them, said:
“These are the gentlemen from London, Master Raife.”
Two of the men respectfully saluted the young baronet—for he had now succeeded to the title—while the third, Raife recognised as Inspector Caldwell from Tunbridge Wells.
“Well, Caldwell,” he said. “This is a very sad business for us.”
“Very sad, indeed, sir,” was the dark-bearded man’s reply. “We all sympathise with you and her ladyship very deeply, sir. Sir Henry was highly respected everywhere, sir, and there wasn’t a more just, and yet considerate, magistrate on any county bench in England.”
“Is that the popular opinion?” asked Raife, thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir. That’s what everybody says. The awful news has created the greatest sensation in Tunbridge Wells. I wonder who this blackguardly individual is?” he added.
The two detectives from Scotland Yard had crossed to where the dead man was lying, his white face upturned, and were scrutinising him narrowly.
“I don’t recognise him,” declared the elder of the pair. “He’s done time, no doubt. Look at his gloves.”
“An old hand, that’s quite certain. We’ve got his finger-prints in the Department, you bet,” remarked the other. “We’d better take off his gloves and take some prints as soon as we can; they will, no doubt, establish his identity. Mr. Caldwell, will you please telephone to a printer’s somewhere near for a little printing-ink?”
“Certainly,” replied the inspector. “I’ll ’phone back to Tunbridge Wells and have it sent out by a constable on a