Part 18 (1/2)

By various winding ways and devious pa.s.sages he led the two young men down to the stage door. Its keeper, not being particularly busy at that time, was reading the evening newspaper in his gla.s.s-walled box, and glanced inquiringly at the strangers as Mr. Montmorency pulled them up before him.

”p.r.i.c.kett,” said Mr. Montmorency, leaning into the sanctum over its half-door and speaking confidentially. ”You keep a sort of register of lodgings don't you, p.r.i.c.kett? Now I wonder if you could tell me where Miss Adela Chatfield, of the Mrs. Swayne's Necklace Company stopped when she was last here?-that's a year ago or about it. p.r.i.c.kett,” he went on, turning to Gilling, ”puts all this sort of thing down, methodically, so that he can send callers on, or send up urgent letters or parcels during the day-isn't that it, p.r.i.c.kett?”

”That's about it, sir,” answered the door-keeper. He had taken down a sort of ledger as the manager spoke, and was now turning over its leaves. He suddenly ran his finger down a page and stopped its course at a particular line.

”Mrs. Salmon, 5, Montargis Crescent-second to the right outside,” he announced briefly. ”Very good lodgings, too, are those.”

Gilling promised Mr. Montmorency that he would look him up later on, and went away with Copplestone to Montargis Crescent. Within five minutes they were standing in a comfortably furnished, old-fas.h.i.+oned sitting-room, liberally ornamented with the photographs of actors and actresses and confronting a stout, sharp-eyed little woman who listened intently to all that Gilling said and sniffed loudly when he had finished.

”Remember Miss Chatfield being here!” she exclaimed. ”I should think I do remember! I ought to! Bringing mortal sickness into my house-and then death-and then a funeral-and her and her father going away never giving me an extra penny for the trouble!”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LIE ON THE TOMBSTONE

Gilling's glance at his companion was quiet enough, but it spoke volumes.

Here, by sheer chance, was such a revelation as they had never dreamed of hearing!-here was the probable explanation of at least half the mystery.

He turned composedly to the landlady.

”I've already told you who and what I am,” he said, pointing to the card which he had handed to her. ”There are certain mysterious circ.u.mstances about this affair which I want to get at. What you've said just now is abundant evidence that you can help. If you do and will help, you'll be well paid for your trouble. Now, you speak of sickness-death-a funeral. Will you tell us all about it?”

”I never knew there was any mystery about it,” answered the landlady, as she motioned her visitors to seat themselves. ”It was all above-board as far as I knew. Of course, I've always been sore about it-I'd a great deal of trouble, and as I say, I never got anything for it-that is, anything extra. And me doing it really to oblige her and her father!”

”They brought a sick man here?” suggested Gilling.

”I'll tell you how it was,” said Mrs. Salmon, seating herself and showing signs of a disposition to confidence. ”Miss Chatfield, she'd been here, I think, three days that time-I'd had her once before a year or two previous. One morning-I'm sure it was about the third day that the Swayne Necklace Company was here-she came in from rehearsal in a regular take-on. She said that her father had just called on her at the theatre. She said he'd been to Falmouth to meet a relation of theirs who'd come from America and had found him to be very ill on landing-so ill that a Falmouth doctor had given strict orders that he mustn't travel any further than Bristol, on his way wherever he wanted to go. They'd got to Bristol and the young man was so done up that Mr. Chatfield had had to drive him to another doctor-one close by here-Dr. Valdey-as soon as they arrived. Dr. Valdey said he must go to bed at once and have at least two days' complete rest in bed, and he advised Mr. Chatfield to get quiet rooms instead of going to a hotel. So Mr. Chatfield, knowing that his daughter was here, do you see, sought her out and told her all about it. She came to me and asked me if I knew where they could get rooms. Well now, I had my drawing-room floor empty that week, and as it was only for two or three days that they wanted rooms I offered to take Mr. Chatfield and the young man in. Of course, if I'd known how ill he was, I shouldn't. What I understood-and mind you, I don't say they wilfully deceived me, for I don't think they did-what I understood was that the young man simply wanted a real good rest. But he was evidently a deal worse than what even Dr. Valdey thought. He'd stopped at Dr. Valdey's surgery while Mr. Chatfield went to see about rooms, and they moved him from there straight in here. And as I say, he was a deal worse than they thought, much worse, and the doctor had to be fetched to him more than once during the afternoon. Still Dr. Valdey himself never said to me that there was any immediate danger. But that's neither here nor there-the young fellow died that night.”

”That night!” exclaimed Gilling, ”the night he came here?”

”Very same night,” a.s.sented Mrs. Salmon. ”Brought in here about two in the afternoon and died just before midnight-soon after Miss Chatfield came in from the theatre. Went very suddenly at the end.”

”Were you present?” asked Copplestone.

”I wasn't. n.o.body was with him but Mr. Chatfield-Miss Chatfield was getting her supper down here,” replied Mrs. Salmon. ”And I was busy elsewhere.”

”Was there an inquest then, inquired Gilling?”

”Oh, no!” said Mrs. Salmon, shaking her head. ”Oh, no!-there was no need for that-the doctor, ye see, had been seeing him all day. Oh, no-the cause of death was evident enough, in a way of speaking. Heart.”

”Did they bury him here, then?” asked Gilling.

”Two days after,” replied Mrs. Salmon. ”Kept everything very quiet, they did. I don't believe Miss Chatfield told any of the theatre people-she went to her work just the same, of course. The old gentleman saw to everything-funeral and all. I'll say this for them.-they gave me no unnecessary trouble, but still, there's trouble that is necessary when you've death in a house and a funeral at the door, and they ought to have given me something for what I did. But they didn't, so I considered it very mean. Mr. Chatfield, he stayed two days after the funeral, and when he left he just said that his daughter would settle up with me. But when she came to pay she added nothing to my bill, and she walked out remarking that if her father hadn't given me anything extra she was sure she shouldn't. Shabby!”

”Very shabby!” agreed Gilling. ”Well, you won't find my clients quite so mean, ma'am. But just a word-don't mention this matter to anybody until you hear from me. And as I like to give some earnest of payment here's a bank-note which you can slip into your purse-on account, you understand. Now, just a question or two:-Did you hear the young man's name?”

The landlady, whose spirits rose visibly on receipt of the bank-note, appeared to reflect on hearing this question, and she shook her head as if surprised at her own inability to answer it satisfactorily.

”Well, now,” she said, ”it may seem a queer thing to say, but I don't recollect that I ever did! You see, I didn't see much of him after he once got here. I was never in his room with them, and they didn't mention his name-that I can remember-when they spoke about him before me. I understood he was a relative-cousin or something of that sort.”

”Didn't you see any name on the coffin?” asked Gilling.