The Charing Cross Mystery J. S. Fletcher (summer reading list TXT) 📖

“I shan’t forget the primary object, anyway. But I’ve been wondering⁠—supposing we come to the conclusion that this Lady Riversreade is the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago? What are you going to do then?”

“My ideas are hazy on that point⁠—at present,” confessed Hetherwick. “The first thing, surely, is to establish identity. Don’t forget that the main thing to do at Riversreade Court is to get a good look at Lady Riversreade’s right wrist, and see what’s on it!”

Riversreade Court proved to be some distance from Dorking, in the Leith Hill district; Hetherwick charted a taxicab and gave his companion final instructions as they rode out. Half an hour’s run brought them to the house⁠—a big, pretentious, imitation Elizabethan structure, set on the hillside amongst a grove of firs and pines, and having an ornamental park laid out between its gardens and terraces and the high road. At the lodge gates he stopped the driver and got out.

“I’ll wait here for you,” he said to Rhona. “You ride up to the house, get your business done, and come back here. Be watchful now⁠—of anything.”

Rhona nodded reassuringly and went off; Hetherwick lighted his pipe and strolled about admiring the scenery. But his thoughts were with Rhona; he was wondering what adventures she was having in the big mansion which the late contractor had built amidst the woods. And Rhona kept him wondering some time; an hour had elapsed before the cab came back. With a hand on its door, he turned to the driver:

“Go to the White Horse now,” he said. “We’ll lunch there, and afterwards you can take us to the station. Well?” he continued, as he got in and seated himself at Rhona’s side. “What luck?”

“Good, I should say,” answered Rhona. “She wears a broad black velvet band on her right wrist, and on the outer face is a small cameo. How’s that?”

“Precisely!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Just what that barkeeper chap at Sellithwaite described. Wears it openly⁠—makes no attempt at concealment beneath her sleeve, eh?”

“None,” answered Rhona. “She was wearing a smart, fashionable, short-sleeved jumper. She’d a very fine diamond bracelet on the other wrist.”

“And she herself,” asked Hetherwick. “What sort of woman is she?”

“That’s a very good photograph of her that my grandfather cut out of the paper,” replied Rhona. “Very good, indeed! I knew her at once. She’s a tall, fine, handsome, well-preserved woman, perhaps forty, perhaps less. Very easy, accustomed manner; a regular woman of the world I should think. Quite ready to talk about herself and her doings⁠—she told me the whole history of this Home she’s started and took me to see it⁠—it’s a fine old house, much more attractive than the Court, a little way along the hillside. She told me that it was her great hobby, and that she’s devoting all her time to it. I should say that she’s genuinely interested in its welfare⁠—genuinely!”

“She impressed you?” suggested Hetherwick.

“I think, from what I saw and heard, that she’s a good-natured, probably warmhearted, woman. She spoke very feelingly of the patients she’s got in her Home, anyhow.”

“And the post⁠—the secretaryship?”

“I can have it if I want it⁠—of course, I told her I did. She examined me pretty closely about my qualifications⁠—she herself speaks French and German like a native⁠—and I mentioned you and Mr. Kenthwaite as references. She’s going to write to you both today. So⁠—it’s for you to decide.”

“I suppose it’s really for you!”

“No!⁠—I’m willing, eager, indeed, to do anything to clear up the mystery about my grandfather’s murder. But⁠—I don’t think this woman had anything to do with it. In my opinion⁠—and I suppose I’ve got some feminine intuition⁠—she’s honest and straightforward enough.”

“And yet it looks as if she were certainly the Mrs. Whittingham who did a Sellithwaite jeweller to the tune of four thousand pounds!” laughed Hetherwick. “That wasn’t very honest or straightforward!”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Rhona. “Perhaps, after all, she really thought the cheque would be met, and anyway, she did send the man his money, even though it was a long time afterwards. And again⁠—an important matter!⁠—Lady Riversreade may not be Mrs. Whittingham at all. More women than one wear wristlets of velvet.”

“But⁠—the portrait!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “The positive identity!”

“Well,” answered Rhona, “I’m willing to go there and to try to find out more. But, frankly, I think Lady Riversreade’s all right! First impression, anyhow!”

The cab drew up at the White Horse, and Hetherwick led Rhona into the coffee-room. But they had hardly taken their seats when the manager came in.

“Does your name happen to be Hetherwick, sir?” he inquired. “Just so⁠—thank you. A Mr. Mapperley has twice rung you up here during the last hour⁠—he’s on the phone again now, if you’ll speak to him.”

“I’ll come,” said Hetherwick. “That’s my clerk,” he murmured to Rhona as he rose. “I told him to ring me up here between twelve and three if necessary. Back in a minute.”

But he was away several minutes, and when he came to her again, his face was grave. “Here’s a new development!” he said, bending across the table and whispering. “The police have found the man who was with your grandfather in the train! Matherfield wants me to identify him. And you’ll gather from that that they’ve found him dead! We must lunch quickly and catch the two-twenty-four.”

VIII Fligwood’s Rents

Hetherwick went to the hotel telephone again before he had finished his lunch, and as a result Matherfield was on the platform at Victoria when the two-twenty-four ran in. He showed no surprise at seeing Hetherwick and Rhona together; his manifest concern was to get Hetherwick to himself and away from the station. And Hetherwick, seeing this, said goodbye to Rhona with a whispered word that he would look in at Malter’s Hotel before evening; a few minutes later he and Matherfield were in a taxicab together, hastening along Buckingham Palace Road.

“Well?” inquired Hetherwick. “This man?”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about his being the man you saw with Hannaford,” replied Matherfield. “He