The Charing Cross Mystery, J. S. Fletcher [portable ebook reader .txt] 📗

“Three hundred a year,” said Hetherwick. He exchanged a meaning glance with Matherfield. “That,” he added, “looks as if he felt assured of a considerable income, and as though he had already realised on his discovery or was very certain of doing so.”

“To be sure,” agreed Matherfield. “Of course, I don’t know what his private means were, but I know what his retiring pension would be⁠—and three hundred a year for rent alone means⁠—a good deal! Um!⁠—we’ll have to endeavour to trace that sealed envelope.”

“It seems to me, Matherfield,” observed Hetherwick, “that the first thing to do is to trace Hannaford’s movements last night, from the time he left this hotel until his death in the train.”

“We’re at that already,” replied Matherfield. “We’ve a small army of men at work. But as we want all the help we can get, I’m going to stir up the newspaper men, Mr. Hetherwick⁠—the Press, sir, is always valuable in this sort of thing!⁠—and I want Miss Hannaford, if she’s got one, to give me a recent photograph of her grandfather so that it can appear in the papers. Somebody, you know, may recognise it⁠—somebody who saw him last night with somebody else.”

Rhona had a new photograph of the dead man, taken in plain clothes just before he left Sellithwaite, and she gave Matherfield some copies of it. Reproductions appeared in the Meteor and other evening papers that night, and in some of the dailies next morning. And, as a result, a man came forward at the inquest, a few hours later, who declared with positive assurance that he had seen Hannaford early in the evening of the murder. His appearance was the only sensational thing about these necessarily only preliminary proceedings before the coroner; until he stepped forward nothing had transpired with which Hetherwick was not already familiar. There had been his own evidence; somewhat to his surprise neither coroner nor police seemed to pay much attention to his account of the conversation about the woman’s portrait; they appeared to regard Hannaford’s observations as a bit of garrulous reminiscence about some criminal or other. There had been Rhona’s⁠—a repetition of what she had told Matherfield and Hetherwick at Malter’s Hotel: police and coroner evidently fixed on the missing sealed envelope and its mysterious secret as a highly important factor in the case. Then there had been the expert testimony of the two doctors as to the cause of death⁠—that had been confined to positive declarations that Hannaford died from the administration of some subtle poison, the exact details being left over until experts could tell more at the adjourned proceedings. And the coroner was about to adjourn for a fortnight when a man, who had entered the court and been in conversation with the officials, was put into the witness-box to tell a story which certainly added information and, at the same time, accentuated mystery.

This man was a highly-respectable person in appearance, middle-aged, giving the name of Martin Charles Ledbitter, manager of an insurance office in Westminster, and residing at Sutton, in Surrey. It was his habit, he said, to travel every evening from Victoria to Sutton by the 7:20 train. As a rule he arrived at Victoria just before seven and took a cup of tea in the refreshment-room. He did this on the night before last. While he was drinking his tea at the counter, an elderly man came in and stood by him, whom he was sure beyond doubt was the same man whose photograph was reproduced in some of last night’s and some of this morning’s newspapers. He had no doubt whatever about this. He first noticed the man’s stained fingers as he took up the glass of whisky-and-soda which he had ordered; he had, at the time, wondered at the contrast between those fingers and the general spick-and-spanness of the man and his smart attire; also he had noticed his gold-headed walking-cane and that the head was fashioned like a crown. They stood side by side for some minutes, then the man went out. A minute or two later he saw him again⁠—this time at the right-hand side bookstall; he was there obviously looking out for somebody.

This was the point where the interest really began; everybody in court strained eyes and ears as the coroner put a direct question.

“Looking out for somebody? Did you see him meet anybody?”

“I did!”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw this. When I approached the bookstall, to buy some evening papers, the man whom I had seen in the refreshment-room was standing close by. He was looking about him, but chiefly at the entrances to the big space between the offices and the platforms. Once or twice he looked at his watch. It was then⁠—by the station clock⁠—about ten minutes past seven. He seemed impatient; he moved restlessly about. I passed him and went to the bookstall. When I turned round again he was standing a few yards away, shaking hands with another man. From the way in which they shook hands, I concluded that they were old friends, who perhaps had not seen each other for some time.”

“Their greeting was cordial?”

“I should call it effusive.”

“Can you describe the other man?”

“I can describe a sort of general impression of both. He was a tall man, taller than Hannaford, but not so broadly built. He wore a dark ulster overcoat, with a strap at the back; it was either a very dark blue or a black in colour. He had a silk hat⁠—new and glossy. He gave me the impression of being a smartly-dressed man⁠—smart boots and gloves and that sort of thing⁠—you know the general impression you get at a quick glance. But as to his features, I can’t tell you anything.”

“Why not?” asked the coroner.

“Because, to begin with, he wore an unusually large pair of blue spectacles, which completely veiled his eyes, and to end with, his throat and chin were swathed in a heavy white muffler, which