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

Riversreade used to be Mrs. Whittingham, then I’d like to know all about Mrs. Whittingham until she became Lady Riversreade, and who she was before she was Mrs. Whittingham, if she ever was Mrs. Whittingham!”

“Stiff job, Matherfield,” said Hetherwick. “I think we shall have enough to do to keep an eye on Lady Riversreade.”

“You anticipate something there?” suggested Matherfield.

“I think something may transpire,” replied Hetherwick.

Matherfield got to his feet.

“Well,” he said, “keep me informed, and I’ll keep you informed. We’ve something to go on⁠—Lord knows what we shall make out of it!”

“You’re doing your best to trace the tall man?” asked Hetherwick.

“Best!” exclaimed Matherfield with an air of disgust. “We’ve done our best and our better than best! I’ve had special men all round that Victoria district; I should think every tall man in that part’s been eyed over. And I believe that Mr. Ledbitter has so got the thing on his brain that he’s been spending all his spare time patrolling the neighbourhood and going in and out of restaurants and saloons looking for the man he saw⁠—of course, without result!”

“All the same,” said Hetherwick, “that man is⁠—somewhere!”

Matherfield went away, and except at the inquest on Granett⁠—whereat nothing transpired which was not already known⁠—Hetherwick did not see him again for several days. He himself progressed no further in his investigations during that time. Rhona Hannaford betook herself to Riversreade Court, as secretary to its mistress’s Home, and until the Sunday succeeding his departure Hetherwick heard nothing of her. Then she came up to town on the Sunday morning and, in accordance with their previous arrangement, Hetherwick met her at Victoria, and took her to lunch at a neighbouring hotel.

“Anything to tell?” he asked, when they had settled down to their soup. “Any happenings?”

“Nothing!” answered Rhona. “Everything exceedingly proper, businesslike, and orderly. And Lady Riversreade appears to me to be a model sort of person⁠—her devotion to that Home and its inmates is remarkable! I don’t believe anything’s going to happen, or that I shall ever have anything to report.”

“Well, that’ll have its compensations,” said Hetherwick. “Leave us all the more time for ourselves, won’t it?”

He gave her a look to which Rhona responded, shyly but unmistakably; she knew, as well as he did, that they were getting fond of each other’s society. And they continued to meet on Sundays, and three or four went by, and still she had nothing to tell that related to the mystery of Hannaford and Granett.

Three weeks elapsed before Matherfield had anything to tell, either. Then he walked into Hetherwick’s chambers one morning with news in his face.

“Traced it!” he said. “Knew I should! That five-pound note⁠—brand new. Only a question of time to do that, of course.”

“Well?” inquired Hetherwick.

“It was one of twenty fivers paid by the cashier of the London and Country Bank in Piccadilly to the secretary of Vivian’s,” continued Matherfield. “Date⁠—day before Hannaford’s death. Vivian’s, let me tell you, is a swell night club. Now then, how did that note get into the hands of Granett? That’s going to be a stiff ’un!”

“So stiff that I’m afraid you mustn’t ask me to go in at it,” agreed Hetherwick good-humouredly. “I must stick to my own line⁠—when the chance comes.”

The chance came on the following Sunday, when, in pursuance of now established custom, he met Rhona. She gave him a significant look as soon as she got out of the train.

“News⁠—at last!” she said, as they turned up the platform. “Something’s happened⁠—but what it means I don’t know.”

X The Mysterious Visitor

The headwaiter in the restaurant to which Hetherwick and Rhona repaired every Sunday immediately upon her arrival now knew these two well by sight, and forming his own conclusions about them, always reserved for them a table in a quiet and secluded corner. Hither they now proceeded, and had scarcely taken their accustomed seats before Rhona plunged into her story.

“I expect you want to know what it’s all about, so I won’t keep you waiting,” she said. “It was on Friday⁠—Friday morning⁠—that it happened, and I half thought of writing to you about it that evening. Then I thought it best to tell you personally today⁠—besides, I should have had to write an awfully long letter. There are things to explain; I’d better explain them first. Our arrangements down there at Riversreade, for instance. They’re like this: Lady Riversreade and I always breakfast together at the Court, about nine o’clock. At ten we go across the grounds to the Home. There we have a sort of formal office⁠—two rooms, one of which, the first opening from the hall, I have, the other, opening out of it, is Lady Riversreade’s private sanctum. In the hall itself we have an ex-army man, Mitchell, as hall-porter, to attend to the door and so on. All the morning we are busy with letters, accounts, reports of the staff, and that sort of thing. We have lunch at the Home, and we’re generally busy until four or five o’clock. Got all that?”

“Every scrap!” replied Hetherwick. “Perfectly plain.”

“Very well,” continued Rhona. “One more detail, however. A good many people, chiefly medical men and folk interested in homes and hospitals, call, wanting to look over and to know about the place⁠—which, I may tell you in parenthesis, costs Lady Riversreade a pretty tidy penny! Mitchell’s instructions as regards all callers are to bring their cards to me⁠—I interview them first; if I can deal with them, I do; if I think it necessary or desirable, I take them in to Lady Riversreade. We have to sort them out⁠—some, I am sure, come out of mere idle curiosity; in fact, the only visitors we want to see there are either medical men who have a genuine interest in the place and can do something for it, or people who are connected with its particular inmates. Well, on Friday morning last, about a quarter to twelve, as I was busy with my letters, I heard a car come up