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Chestermarke Instinct, The

<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> <h2>THE INCOMPLETE CHEQUE</h2> Neale, startled and amazed by this sudden outburst on the part of a man whom up to that time he had taken to be unusually cool-headed and phlegmatic, did not immediately answer. He was watching the Ellersdeane constable, who was running after Gabriel Chestermarke's rapidly retreating figure. He saw Gabriel stop, listen to an evident question, and then lift his hand and point to various features of the Hollow. The policeman touched his helmet, and came back to Polke. "Mr. Chestermarke, sir, says the moorland is in three parishes," he reported pantingly. "From Scarnham Bridge corner to Ellersdeane Tower yonder is in Scarnham parish: this side the Hollow is in Ellersdeane; everything beyond the Tower is in Middlethorpe." "Then we're in Scarnham," said Polke. "He'll have to be taken down to the town mortuary. We'd better see to it at once. What are you going to do, Starmidge?" he asked, as the detective turned away with Neale. "I'll take this short cut back," said Starmidge. "I want to get to the post-office. Yes, sir!" he went on, as he and Neale slowly walked towards Betty. "I say—he knew him! knew him, Mr. Neale, knew him!—as soon as ever he clapped his eyes on him!" "You're very certain about it," said Neale. "Dead certain!" exclaimed the detective. "I was watching him—purposely. I've taught myself to watch men. The slightest quiver of a lip—the least bit of light in an eye—the merest twitch of a little finger—ah! don't I know 'em all, and know what they mean! And, when Gabriel Chestermarke stepped up to look at that body, I was watching that face of his as I've never watched mortal man before!" "And you saw—what?" asked Neale. "I saw—Recognition!" said Starmidge. "Recognition, sir! I'll stake my reputation as a detective officer that Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke has seen that dead man before. He mayn't know him personally. He may never have spoken to him. But—he knew him! He'd seen him!" "Will your conviction of that help at all?" inquired Neale. "It'll help me," replied the detective quickly. "I'm gradually getting some ideas. But I shan't tell Polke—nor anybody else—of it. You can tell Miss Fosdyke if you like—she'll understand: women have more intuition than men. Now I'm off—I want to get a wire away to London. Look here—drop in at the police-station when you get back. We shall examine Hollis's clothing, you know—there may be some clue to Horbury." He hurried off towards the town, and Neale rejoined Betty. And as they slowly followed the detective, he told her what Starmidge had just said with such evident belief—and Betty understood, as Starmidge had prophesied, and she grew more thoughtful than ever. "When are we going to find a way out of all this miserable business!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Are we any nearer a solution because of what's just happened? Does that help us to finding out what's become of my uncle?" "I suppose one thing's sure to lead to another," said Neale. "That seems to be the detective's notion, anyhow. If Starmidge is so certain that Gabriel Chestermarke knew Hollis, he'll work that for all it's worth. It's my opinion—whatever that's worth!—that Hollis came down here to see the Chestermarkes. Did he see them? There's the problem. If one could only find out—that!" "I wish you and I could do something—apart from the police," suggested Betty. "Isn't there anything we could do?" Neale pointed ahead to the high roof of Joseph Chestermarke's house across the river. "There's one thing I'd like to do—if I could," he answered. "I'd just like to know all the secrets of that place! That there are some I'm as certain as that we're crossing this moor. You see that queer-shaped structure—sort of conical chimney—sticking up amongst the trees in Joseph Chestermarke's garden? That's a workshop, or a laboratory, or something, in which Joseph spends his leisure moments. I'd like to know what he does there. But nobody knows! Nobody is ever allowed in that house, nor in the garden. I don't know a single soul in all Scarnham that's ever been inside either. I'm perfectly certain Mr. Horbury was never asked there. Once Joseph's across his thresholds, back or front, there's an end of him—till he comes out again!" "But—he doesn't live entirely alone, does he?" asked Betty. "As near as can be," replied Neale. "His entire staff consists of an old man and an old woman—man and wife—who've been with him—oh, ever since he was born, I believe! You may have seen the old man about the town—old Palfreman. Everybody knows him—queer, old-fashioned chap: he goes out to buy in whatever's wanted: the old woman never shows. That's the trio that live in there—a queer lot, aren't they?" "It's all queer!" sighed Betty. "But now that this unfortunate man's body has been found—Wallie! do you think it possible he was thrown down that mine? That would mean murder!" "If he was thrown down there, already dead," answered Neale grimly, "it would not only mean murder but that more than one person was concerned in it. We shall know more when they've examined the body and searched the clothing. I'm going round to the police-station when I've seen you back to the hotel—I'm hoping they'll find something that'll settle the one point that's so worrying." "Which point?" asked Betty. "The real critical point—in my opinion," answered Neale. "Who it was that Hollis came to see on Saturday? There may be letters, papers, on him that'll settle that. And if we once know that—ah! that will make a difference! Because then—then——" "What then?" demanded Betty. "Then the police can ask that person if Hollis did meet him!" exclaimed Neale. "And they can ask, too, what that person did with Hollis. Solve that, and we'll see daylight!" But Betty shook her head with clear indications of doubt as to the validity of this theory. "No!" she said. "It won't come off, Wallie. If there's been foul play, the guilty people will have had too much cleverness to leave any evidences on their victim. I don't believe they'll find anything on Hollis that'll clear things up. Daylight isn't coming from that quarter!" "Where are we to look for it, then?" asked Neale dismally. "It's somewhere far back," declared Betty. "I've felt that all along. The secret of all this affair isn't in anything that's been done here and lately—it's in something deep down. And how to get at it, and to find out about my uncle, I don't know." Neale felt it worse than idle to offer more theories—speculation was becoming useless. He left Betty at the Scarnham Arms, and went round to the police-station to meet Starmidge: together they went over to the mortuary. And before noon they knew all that medical examination and careful searching could tell them about the dead man. Hollis, said the police-surgeon and another medical man who had been called in to assist him, bore no marks of violence other than those which were inevitable in the case of a man who had fallen seventy feet. His neck was broken; he must have died instantaneously. There was nothing to show that there had been any struggle previous to his fall. Had such a struggle taken place, the doctors would have expected to find certain signs and traces of it on the body: there were none. Everything seemed to point to the theory that he had leaned over the insecure fencing of the old shaft to look into its depths; probably to drop stones into them; that the loose, unmortared parapet had given way with his weight, and that he had plunged headlong to the bottom. He might have been pushed in—from behind—of course, but that was conjecture. Under ordinary circumstances, agreed both doctors, everything would have seemed to point to accident. And one of them suggested that it was very probable that what really had happened was this—Hollis, on his way to call on some person in the neighbourhood, or on his return from such a call, had crossed the moor, been attracted by inquisitiveness to the old mine, had leaned over its parapet, and fallen in. Accident!—it all looked like sheer accident. In one of the rooms at the police-station, Neale anxiously watched Polke and Starmidge examine the dead man's clothing and personal effects. The detective rapidly laid aside certain articles of the sort which he evidently expected to find—a purse, a cigar-case; the usual small things found in a well-to-do man's pockets; a watch and chain; a ring or two. He gave no particular attention to any of these beyond ascertaining that there was a good deal of loose money in the purse—some twelve or fifteen pounds in gold—and pointing out that the watch had stopped at ten minutes to eight. "That shows the time of the accident," he remarked. "Are you sure?" suggested Polke doubtfully. "It may merely mean that the watch ran itself out then." Starmidge picked up the watch—a stem winder—and examined it. "No," he said, "it's broken—by the fall. See there!—the spring's snapped. Ten minutes to eight, Saturday night, Mr. Polke—that's when this affair happened. Now then, this is what I want!" From an inner pocket of the dead man's smart morning-coat, he drew a morocco-leather letter-case, and carefully extracted the papers from it. With Neale looking on at one side, and Polke at the other, Starmidge examined every separate paper. Nothing that he found bore any reference to Scarnham. There were one or two bills—from booksellers—made out to Frederick Hollis, Esquire. There was a folded playbill which showed that Mr. Hollis had recently been to a theatre, and—because of some pencilled notes on its margins—had taken an unusual interest in what he saw there. There were two or three letters from correspondents who evidently shared with Mr. Hollis a taste for collecting old books and engravings. There were some cuttings from newspapers: they, too, related to collecting. And Neale suddenly got an idea. "I say!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Horbury was a bit of a collector of that sort of thing, as you probably saw from his house. This man may have run down to see him about some affair of that sort." But at that moment Starmidge unfolded a slip of paper which he had drawn from an inner pocket of the letter-case. He gave one glance at it, and laid it flat on the table before his companions. "No!" he said. "That's probably what brought Hollis down to Scarnham! A cheque for ten thousand pounds! And—incomplete!" The three men bent wonderingly over the bit of pink paper. Neale's quick eyes took in its contents at a glance. London: May 12th, 1912. Vanderkiste, Mullineau & Company, 563 Lombard Street, E.C. Pay .............................. or Order the sum of Ten Thousand Pounds £10,000.00. ................... "That's extraordinary!" exclaimed Neale. "Date and amount filled in—and the names of payee and drawer omitted! What does it mean?" "Ah!" said Starmidge, "when we know that, Mr. Neale, we shall know a lot! But I'm pretty sure of one thing. Mr. Hollis came down here intending to pay somebody ten thousand pounds. And—he wasn't exactly certain who that somebody was!" "Good!" muttered Polke. "Good! That looks like it." "So," said Starmidge, "he didn't fill in either the name of the payee or his own name until he was—sure! See, Mr. Neale!" "Why did he fill in the amount?" remarked Neale, sceptically. Starmidge winked at Polke. "Very likely to dangle before somebody's eyes," he answered slyly. "Can't you reconstruct the scene, Mr. Neale? 'Here you are!' says Hollis, showing this cheque. 'Ten thousand of the very best, lying to be picked up at my bankers. Say the word, and I'll fill in your name and mine!' Lay you a pound to a penny that's been it, gentlemen!" "Good!" repeated Polke. "Good, sergeant! I believe you're right. Now, what'll you do about it?" The detective carefully folded up the cheque and replaced it in the slit from which he had taken it. He also replaced all the other papers, put the letter-case in a stout envelope and handed it to the superintendent. "Seal it up and put it away in your safe till the inquest tomorrow," he said. "What shall I do? Oh, well—you needn't mention it, either of you, except to Miss Fosdyke, of course—but as soon as the inquest is adjourned—as it'll have to be—I shall slip back to town and see those bankers. I don't know, but I don't think it's likely that Mr. Hollis would have ten thousand pounds always lying at his bank. I should say this ten thousand has been lodged there for a special purpose. And what I shall want to find out from them, in that case, is—what special purpose? And—what had it to do with Scarnham, or anybody at Scarnham? See? And I'll tell you what, Mr. Polke—I don't know whether we'll produce that cheque at the inquest on Hollis—at first, anyhow. The coroner's bound to adjourn—all he'll want tomorrow will be formal identification of the body—all other evidence can be left till later. I've wired for Simmons—he'll be able to identify. No—we'll keep this cheque business back till I've been to London. I shall find out something from Vanderkistes—they're highly respectable private bankers, and they'll tell me——" At that moment a policeman entered the room and presented Polke with a card. "Gentleman's just come in, sir," he said. "Wants to see you particular." Polke glanced at the card, and read the name aloud, with a start of surprise: "Mr. Leonard Hollis!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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