The Merafield Mystery

Evening Star, Issue 19776, 28 January 1928, Page 14

The Merafield Mystery

By R. A. J. Walling

(Author of ‘The Third Degree,’ ‘Fatal Glove,’ etc.)

Special Note.—All the names, characters, and incidents in this story are entirely fictitious.

CHAPTER IX,

No more panic-stricken man in England that morning than 1, as I stood behind that green baize door and listened to that conversation! If I had not been able to convince the publisher’s manager of my good faith, then the card house I had been building up would come fluttering down—and 1 did not know what would happen to Overbury or to Atkins or to Lady Merafield.

“Not quite,” said I. “They can’t get at the proof through the Fifty-Two Club. We’ve hung them up for a bit, anyhow.” “And now, Mr Franks, since you seem to know so much, you can’t refuse to tell me what you do know, and what your interest in the matter is, and what’s all this nonsense about Quance masquerading as a chauffeur.’' Certain that I could not refuse—and also that I had no wish to refuse, I had received in the last hour such a demonstration of the quality of Mr Sargent that I did not hesitate to tell him the whole story. It left him in a state of complete mystification, but confident that neither Overbury nor Quance had anything to do with the murder of Merafield. He knew the men. “Preposterous!” ho said. “They weren’t that sort of men.” It was curious how I found people repeating ’my wife’s favorite formula in this case “Scotland Yard,” said I, “has made up its mind that Rossiter’s theory is right. It is now looking for a connection which shall bring New!and and Overbury together. You know 0 •-•- bury well?” “Yes, quite well. In fact, ho has done some law work for mo.”

The detectives addressed him as Mr Sargent; it was the first time I had heard his name.

Did he recognise this? They were evidently showing him the proofs. A pause. Yes, he recognised this. It was a proof of chapter five of a, book which they were reissuing in the autumn.

Could he say to whom the proof had been sent by the firm? Yes, certainly ho could. It was sent to the author of the book, Professor Stanley Newland. Ah! The name of Professor Newland was well known to Scotland Yard. And could ho say where Professor Newland was now? So far as Mr Sargent knew Professor Newland was in Franco. He understood that the professor was taking his usual August holiday in the country. Was the writing of Professor Nowland well known to Mr Sargent? It was. Then perhaps he would say whether the manuscript note on the bottom of the proof was in his hand? Yes, it was. And could Mr Sargent say to whom Professor Newland would have been likely to. send a proof for revision in this way? I trembled for the critical answer to this question. But Mr Sargent answered without hesitation.

“Then you know whether Newland am! he would bo likely, to bo mixed up together in any private concerns?” “I don’t think they are. Just club friends. Newland has not many social connections. His wife is dead; he lives alone in a flat, and his girl votes the role of a devoted daughter too slow. Lively, intelligent girl, M’ss Newland, but rather wayward. She’s had all sorts of irons in the fire—from nursing to running a woman’s paper. I <used to think Bertram Quance was rather sweet on her. hut I fancy that went off a hit some time ago.” “Would you mind describing Miss Newland to me?” I asked. “ Little bit of a thing with bobbed hair, a good face, bright blue eyes, mousey color about the hair, rather a slangy style of speech, very modern, unconventional, and independent. She has a jolly good brain, though.” “That,” said I. “is a speaking likeness of Mrs Briscoe.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr Sargent. “ And Quance. And all down there mixed up in tho dirty affair? I give it up 1” But, so far from giving it up, every •step I took led me into it deeper.

“ Oh,” said he, “it would be extremely difficult to say. He might have sent it to half a dozen people; his acquaintance among scientists is so extensive. Naturally, you know all about that. Newland always has six proofs of his work, and I’ve no doubt he consults all sorts of people about it.” I conceived immediately a great admiration for Mr Sargent. This was indeed an ingenious line. Here was a better psychologist than I! Ho switched off attention from the close pursuit of any particular correspondent of Newland by bringing in half a dozen.

It worked perfectly. “Would you mind telling us,” said Scotland Yard, “ whether you have any communication or instruction from Professor Newland about this particular proof?” “ I’ll see,” said Mr Sargent. “ Would you mind touching that bell?” The door opened, I supposed, to admit a clerk.

“ You fend hotter have Professor Newland’s letter back, in case I should forget it,” said I. Mr Sargent repelled it with a gesture almost angry.

“ Please bring me the file of Professor Newland’s letters,” said he. “ I think it’s there, sir,” said the clerk.

“ Keep it! Take it away! Burn it! TV) anything you like with it!” lie exclaimed. “ Only by giving it to you did I save myself just now from perjuring my immortal soul! I don’t want to see it again.” “If I may keep it,” said I, “I will,” and I replaced ft in my pocket. I wondered how far I could, go with Mr Sargent. If I could xuitupo a little farther, he might provide mo with a short cut on my road. “As a member of the Fifty-two Club,” I ventured, “you probably knew poor Merafield?” “Just—only just. Overhury and I and .another. man were talking golf in the smoking rom one afternoon after lunch, and Merafiold, who had only lately been elected, came up. Wo were all introduced in a casual sort of way. He seemed to know a lot about sport—especially fishing. After that, of course, we’d nod or pass a word or two. but that was all.’* “Had lie any particular friends in the club?" “ I don’t think so. He wasn’t there much. Ho seemed to shape up to Overbury more than anybody Gse.” I thought I might safely go a little further with Mr Sargent. “You quite realise,” said I, “that, wanting to get at the bottom of tins business, it would be of great importance to me to get to know as much as possible about Mcrafield and the people ho know and mixed with.” Ho looked at me curiously. “ Yes. I suppose so,” he said. “ But from all I have heard I should conclude that you would have to get acquainted with a queer lot of people.” “Oh?”

Oh! Yes, this Is it. M-m-m-,” Mr Sargent muttered. “ This is about the Chlorine book. . . . Royalties.

. . . Article in ‘ Nature.’ . . . ‘ Chemical Review.’ No, there is nothing here about the proofs, but that’s not surprising. They w'ere sent to him just before he loft England.” I conceived immediately a greater admiration for Air Sargent than* ever before. I saw now why he had planted that letter- of Newland’s on me. He had been able, without stating anything untrue, to get by a very short route at the goal I desired. If only Scotland Yard would go away now! .

But that was not written in the book of fate.- Mr Sargent-said ;- “ Sorry I cannot help you any further. But would it be indiscreet to inquire what it’s all about?” There was an interval before the answer came. Scotland Yard was whispering to itself. “Well, no, Mr Sargent. We can tell you something, at any rate, to show that our visit is not altogether’ without good reason. Have you read of what is known as the Merafield case—the murder of Sir Charles Merafield at his country house?”

“Phew!” Mr Sargent w'histled. “Yes, of course. They are hunting for my friend Overbury. A strange business. But what on earth have Newland’s proofs got to do with it? ” “Just this. Mr Sargent; that the proofs were round in the bedroom of the chauffeur at Merafield house, who isn’t a chauffeur at all, and has been arrested on a charge of complicity in the murder. Wo cannot discover his identity. If we can trace_ thaso proofs we shall bo able to identify him, and when he is identified the whole case is likely to become quite clear.” I tried to imagine Mr Sargent’s face as he received this information. I literally shivered while waiting for his reply. . . “Great Scot! You astonish me!” he said. “ It’s almost unbelievable. Can’t be any mistake, ! suppose?” Thus he played for time. “No mistake at all. W’vo got one of our best men down there—Rossiter. I’ve just had a long talk with him on the telephone. But something you said just now, Mr Sargent—about your friend Overbury. You know Major Overbury?” “ Oh, yes, very well. He’s a member of the same club.”

“ Yon know something of Merafielcl’s reputation? What Lady Merafield told you was, I imagine, a very mild version of the truth. Merafield’s effigy would certainly have been out of place in a stained-glass window.” Further than that Mr Sargent would not He knew nothing first hand. Ono knew how this sort of reputation got about. You obtained a general impression, and you left it there without any inquiry, unless you were attracted to the man,.- and for his part he waa rather shy of_ men like Merafield—they weren’t his sort. ‘‘But, look here!” he said, suddenly. “ Are you engaged to lunch today? No? Well, meet me at the Fifty-two at a quarter to 1; I’ll bo waiting for you. Ronald Greene will be lunching here—he does every day. I never heard anybody hold forth about Merafield as ho did. I’ll introduce you.” I accepted the invitation with gratitude. “Mr Ronald Greene?” 1 asked. “Dou you mean the King’s Counsel?” “That’s the man. Know him?” “ Quite well,” I replied. Greene had had many a fat brief from our firm in Chancery cases. “ So that you will perceive, Mr Sargent, that it will bo very necessary not to give him an inkling that I am curious about Meraficld. Let him raise the matter himself, HeTl know that I am familiar with the case so far as the public knows anything about it. He’s sure to bring it in.” I “ Absolutely sure. Ho can’t keep off it. Through Overbury and Meralield’s membership of the club it has become a perfect nightmare to us. But I’ll he perfectly discreet.” And so, having destroyed a busy man’s morning, I -went away. Mr Sargent was well ahead of mo at the club. He had already_ engaged a table for three in a convenient 'miner. He had happened upon Greene, had told him that I was coming to lunch, and had learnt from Greene that he would he very glad to meet rho old buffer again. “Not my delineation, Mr Franks, but Greene’s,” he said. I knew Greene’s way. He received me boisterously, we had an uproarious lunch (so far as anything could be said to be uproarious in a rather sedate club aud smoked a cigar afterwards. But Greene did not mention the Merafield case. I thought once or twice that Mr Sargent was going to try a lead in that direction, but gave him a warning glance. The talk seemed to be petering out in an aimless way when Greene said: noon?” “ What are you doing this after- “ Nothing but dodge Satan,” said I. “Then'your safest place is with me. I’ve got to go back to the Temple. Come in my taxi. When I’ve been through some papers I’d like to have • jaw'with'you. Not-interfering with any of your plans, Sargent?” ’ 1 ‘ Not at all,” said Mr Sargent. “Get along, and God be with you,

“ Ah, the Fifty-Two. And Professor Newland—ijs he a member of the Fifty-Two? ” “ Certainly.” “And,” said Scotland Yard, “ should you say that Professor Newland and Major Overbury were very friendly? ” “ Oh, yes, in a clubman’s way, certainly.” “Thank you, Mr Sargeant. Perhaps you will agreo that it was not so very astonishing that we found that proof at Merafield’s house, after all? ” Nothing more material was said. Scotland Yard seemed to be satisfied that it had a good cine, and went away to pursue it, swearing Mr Sargent to secrecy about their inquiry, and asking him, finally, whether ho had Professor Newlarid’s address in France.

This was an awkward question if ho was not to tell a deliberate lie.

“ I’ve looked all through the file,” he said, “ and there’s not in it a single scrap from Newland since he went away.” Admirable Mr Sargent 1

He allowed the officers three minutes to get clear of the building, then he pushed open the green baize door, and said to me; “Come out!”

It would be futile to attempt to describe’ the reproach in Mr Sargent’s face as he said those two words, “ Come out!” And it would be a waste of time to narrate the whole conversation that followed between us. I might, as he said, have let him in for a pretty thing. “You needn’t be alarmed,” said I. “ I’m quite certain that _ before long Scotland Yard will have discovered the identity of the chauffeur after all. The accidental mention of Overbury as a friend of yours did it. They are off to the Fifty-Two Club now, to discover all they can there. The Fifty-Two Club has a most chatty porter, who’ll tell them everything they want to know,”

“And therefore all your machinations have been in vain,’ said Mr Sar-

Franks. Come in and see me on your way back west.” By 3 o’clock we were in ireeue’s .chambers in Paper court. He told bis clerk we were not to be disturbed, pro- ■ duced a box of cigars, pushed me into an armchair, and sat on the edge of his table. “Now, then, Mr Attorney Franks,” said ho, “ you’re clerk to the justices of the Merafield division, aren’t youP So! .Then tell me what all this nonsense is about our friend Overbury. When are the police going to stop their wildgoose chase and go for the right man, Or. still better, leave the unclean thing alone? Eh?” Although 1 knew my Greene, i was startled by this outburst. “Don’t bo afraid,” said he; were close-tiled here. What’s it all mean?’ “ Too many questions at once, I answered. “ First, I don’t' know anything about Overbury. He’s vanished. Privately. I don’t think they’ll get him. If they did he could tell them all about it. But I doubt whether he would.” “Well,” said he, “that settles one thing. Your eyesight is gpod enough to see farther through a brick wall than the police, who haven’t got the sense to look over the top.” “ The next question you asked was when the police were going to stop their wild-goose chase. I don’t know. But 1 think they have now got hold of something which will lead them after a more promising bird. I don t mind tclliiif you, Greene, that the reason why we lunched together to-day was that I wanted to talk to you about this.” “Oh, eminent attorney!” cried he, “as if I couldn’t see that from the moment when Sargent made such a to-do about the luncheon table. Go on. ialk to me about it.” \nd then, for the second time m a day 1 found myself embarked on a narrative of tho Merafield case and the part 1 had played m it. Me were close tiled. 1 told Greene everything from A to Z. 1 even showed him Overhury’s letter to me, Merafield s letter to Overbnry, Overbury’s letter to Merafield, and Ncwland’s letter to Sargent’s linn. ; He listened to everything without comment, and read everything. “Well, Don Quixote,” said he } as he returned the papers, “got yourself into a pretty mess for Dulcinea s beautiful eyes, haven’t you? Shouldn’t have guessed it—at your age, too* Bnt that’s your funeral. Many thanks tor telling me all about it. You relieve me on the score of Overbury. He 11 certainly be all right if they do lay hands on him. But I warn you—Rossiter’s the very devil. You can t deceive him, and he works quicker than any man I know. He’ll have out all this about Quanco and Miss Newland in a brace of shakes. I’m not sure he won’t get at Don Quixote as well. If ho does, what’s your line?” “My only concern,” said I, is to find tho person who really killed Merafield, and therefore to get Lady Merafield out of the horrible plight she is in.” Greene’s face .shadowed. “ Why worry about Lady Merafield?” he asked. “ She’ll get out of it all right. If they don’t find Overhury they have nothing against her. If they do find Overbury the truth is hound to come out. Why barge in at all?” I looked at him, puzzled. “Don’t you want to have out tho truth?” I asked him. “I can’t quite see what you’re driving at, Greene. Isn’t it a desirable thing to find the person who killed Merafield?” “ Do you know who did kill Mera/field?” he countered. “ No,” said I. “If I did I shouldn’t be here talking it over with you. And you haven’t answered my question. Isn’t it proper to try to find Merafield’s murderer?”

Greene pulled at his chin and spoke very slowly. “No, Franks.” he said; “I think it’s improper. The right thing to do is to pass him a vote of thanks and let him go his way.”_ •a I gasped my astonishment. ■ -■“Plainly, although you lived next door to him, Franks, you knew nothing about Merafield. There should have been a ‘Hallelujah!’ in every decent man’s month when he was executed.”

“Executed?” f cried. “But— Greene 1” “Yes, executed. A lenient death, my dear Franks—too lenient.” A distinguished King’s counsel, who might some day be a distinguished judge, told mo this without irony and without passion. I stared at him, probably with my jaws hanging open. “Give it up,” ho said. “Lady Merafield will have to suffer a little inconvenience, Qnance may have got himself into an awkward hole, but nothing can be proved against them. It is better that they should be inconvenienced for a time than that Mcrafield’s executioner should be brought into the hands of unseeing justice.” I was half-horrified and half-fascin-ated.

“Then, Greene,” said I, “you know who killed Merafield?” “I know nothing,” said Greene. “But, knowing nothing, you are yet certain of the fact.”

He took two or three paces about his room, puffing big clouds of smoke from his cigar. He returned and sat on the edge of his table again, leaning towards me with an elbow on his knee.

“ Listen, Franks—but heaven help you if ever you say a word of this to another soul! You will he damned in your conscience to tho day of your death. I am going to tell you something about Merafield. How I know it does not matter. I know lots of things about lots of people, Merafield was a scoundrel—a loose-living, foul-minded scoundrel. It was an offence to heaven when ho married Mary Sheen. Why she married him God alone knows. Why do women do these things? She ought to have been wise enough to recognise an actor when she saw one, but she didn’t —until it was too late. She was abroad in the years that mattered, just after the war, when Merafield’s conduct was a crying disgrace even to the worst dregs of the West End. They could tell you something about Merafield at Scotland Yard, by Jove! I don’t trouble about his dirty life so long as he kept it outside the pale of decent society. But he didn’t.” Greene paused a moment._ “ In that letter you had from Overbury,” he resumed, “ he spoke of Newland having said that Merafield was not a nice man. Do you know what that meant? ” “ Only in the vaguest and most general way. Ono heard stories, or, rather, whispers of stories.” “Well,” said Greene, “no stories that you heard or could possibly have imagined would come probably anywhere near tho truth.. I’m not goiiy; to toll yon what the truth was, Franks. But if ever a man deserved to be removed from earth that man was Merafield. Yon must take it from me. I know. Lot Merafield’s executioner alone. He is a public benefactor.” “ But, Greene, it is something new to vindicate the public by means of a private vendetta,” said I. “ Never mind, my dear attorney,” he exclaimed. “ I don’t think I want to worry about the means by which this particular end was reached. You go back to the west and sit tight. Your friends, Lady Merafield and Bertram Quance;* will come to no harm, I promise you that.” “ Quance is no friend of mine,” 1 said. “ I neved met him in any other character than ns Atkins, the chauffeur.” “Nevertheless, you seem to have tried to befriend him.” “ I’m probably the most foolish of middle-aged sentimentalists,” I confessed. “ The romance of the pseudo chauffeur Atkins and the pseudo Mrs Briscoe must have put me off my balance. You know Quance well?” “ Quite well,” said Greene. “Then you know whether he and Merafield were acquainted at the Fiftytwo.” “Of course they were. How could it be otherwise? ” “ Therefore

I paused, considering the effect of this. If Merafield was well aware that Atkins was Quance in masquerade, and Overbury had recognised Quance that morning when he drove him to Merafield Tower “Therefore,” said I, “it was Merafield himself, and not his wife, _as the police suggest, who was privy to Quance’s presence in the pretended character of Atkins? ” “My dear fellow, the police theory is all bunkum. Lady Merafield knew nothing whatever about it.” “Then,” I remarked. “I’m utterly at sea.” “I can’t help it, Franks. Perhaps when you piece it all together you’ll be able to make sense of it. But I’m not going to say another word. I will repeat that Merafield was executed, and that he deserved it. Now leave it alone. Let tho police go their way. Rossiter is a sharp fellow, but there are better brains than his at work. Have no fear for the result. That’s all I’ve got to say. This thing is known only to people who will never speak. ft was unfortunate for Overbnry that he came into it at all. But Overbury’s a man. Think it over, Franks. I’ll tell you this—that I knew you were coming to London, and I guessed we sh Id meet. Else I should have been down at Westport within two days to put you wise about it.” “You knew!” I cried. “How did you know ? ” Greene smiled at my astonishment. (To be continued.)