CHAPTER III.
THE AFFAIR AT CHARLWOOD STREET
As the chief drove Inspector Medland along in the landaulette which had been waiting, the detective again took from his pocket the document which Sir George had been so anxious to destroy before his death. He read, by the little light in the car, as follows:
“I, George Ravenscourt, Baronet, desire, on this seventeenth day of January, 1908, to place upon record a most strange and amazing circumstance which has occurred here in the city of Westminster. Eighteen years ago the nation, and indeed all political parties, suffered an irreparable loss by the death of one who was a great Imperialist. Without one showy accomplishment, without wit to amuse or eloquence to persuade, with a voice unmelodious and a manner ungraceful, and barely able to speak plain sense in still plainer language, he nevertheless exercised in the House of Commons an influence and even a dominion greater than Pitt the father, Pitt the son, Canning, or Castlereagh. He was the very model and type of an English gentleman. Modest without diffidence, confident without vanity, ardently desiring the good of his country without the slightest personal ambition, high minded, unaffected, sensible, well educated, in his political principles he was consistent, liberal, and enlightened, and he did more to extend the Empire beyond the seas than any statesman of the century.
“Suddenly, while at the zenith of his power, he became attacked by a virulent disease, which within a week proved fatal. His burial was a public one, and even until to-day no man who has occupied his place has shown such tact, forethought, and eminent statecraft. England still mourns his death, and will continue to do so for a long time to come. Had he lived, there would not now have been that deplorably small margin between the strength of the German and British fleets. While he lived he upheld the ‘two-Power standard’ as a reality. By his death the strong man for the Navy was taken from us, and alas! his mantle has not fallen on the shoulders of any of his successors.
“And to-day, in the afternoon of the day mentioned in this record of fact, I have, by merest chance, discovered a most romantic and remarkable circumstance--one that has held me completely astounded and staggers belief.
“Sworn to secrecy, I am penning this record to be attached to my will, in order that you, my executors, alone shall learn the remarkable truth which I desire and direct shall remain undisclosed for at least ten years after my death, when it may be published in whatever manner you may think most fitting.
“My bewildering discovery was made in the following circumstances. This afternoon, at three o’clock, I called at a house, number 78 Charlwood Street, Pimlico, there to consult a certain gentleman named Richard Goodrick, a retired schoolmaster, whose hobby is the collection of curios. I was, unfortunately, by no means a welcome guest, though we had been friends through many years. I went there with a distinct yet most unusual object, for I carried with me negotiable securities to the extent of fifty thousand pounds, ready to hand to him in exchange for a certain secret which he held. I had learnt one amazing fact, and desired to learn yet another. My negotiations were, alas! unsuccessful. The old gentleman’s anger was aroused, and…”
There the uneven manuscript ended. That was all. In the act of penning that last sentence he had been struck down by a stealthy, unknown hand.
The chief, who had been looking over the detective’s shoulder as he read, exclaimed:
“That’s really very curious, Medland. I wonder what secret could this man in Charlwood Street possess that was worth fifty thousand pounds to Sir George? It was unfortunate that he did not live to conclude his statement.”
“Yes,” replied the other, scanning the unfinished document. “But I can’t see what the mention of a dead statesman refers to. He seems to have commenced by eulogising some dead friend.”
“It is a mysterious and tantalising record, to say the least,” declared his chief. “And the more extraordinary now that the man he visited to-day--the man with the secret--has also been assassinated.”
“Well, the statesman, whoever he was, who died eighteen years ago could have had no hand in the affair--that’s very clear. He can’t concern us,” declared Medland. “Somebody else wanted to learn the secret of this old man Goodrick, that’s very evident.”
It was still dark as the car approached Victoria Station, whence a stream of early workmen were emerging, and, turning up Vauxhall Bridge Road, soon pulled up before the house in Charlwood Street, a house of the typical London type with area, one window beside the neat front door, and two windows above leading out upon a rickety iron balcony.
Wagner opened the door, and as the inspector entered said in a low voice of suppressed excitement:
“There’s a very strange mystery here, sir. We knocked the people up--a Mr. and Mrs. Ayres, who are the occupiers--and they told us that their lodger, an old gentleman named Goodrick, had gone out about six o’clock last night and had not returned. In face of your orders we were not satisfied, so we asked to see his rooms--and we found him dead in the sitting-room yonder.”
The trio passed along the narrow passage where, at the foot of the stairs, stood the frightened landlady and her husband.
“We ’ad no idea ’e’d come in!” exclaimed the white-faced woman. “We didn’t ’ear ’im, though we left the door on the latch at ’alf-past twelve, in case ’e came in. My ’usband and I listened--but we ’eard nothing.”
“No sound at all?” asked Medland quickly.
“None--till the police banged at the front door and woke us up with a start. They gave us a terrible turn, I can tell you.”
Medland grunted and followed Wagner into the small, stuffy little room heaped with curios, where the flaring gas-jet revealed the body of Richard Goodrick lying near the fireplace, crouched with his knees to his chin, quite dead.
“We’ve found no weapon--only this,” exclaimed Wagner, handing his chief an old flint-lock horse-pistol, “and it hasn’t been fired for years.”
“Didn’t you hear any sound?” asked Medland of Mrs. Ayres, for it seemed incredible.
“Well, sir, I did ’ear a sound in the night--a sharp, dull sound, but I thought it were somethink out in the street. It must ’ave been the street door. I ’ad no idea poor old Mr. Goodrick ’ad been murdered.”
“What time was it, do you think?”
“Well, as far as I can guess, it must ’ave been nearly three o’clock. I recollect a-’earing Big Ben a-chiming the three-quarters past two. It was soon after that.”
“This is a queer sort of abode,” remarked the chief, glancing around. “He must have been a rather quaint character, I should think.”
“Yes, he was--according to all accounts, sir,” interposed Wagner. “He was a very snappy old chap of a rather quarrelsome disposition. His movements were often mysterious.”
“Much known about him?” inquired Medland.
“Nothing, except that he’s lodged here for years, and was a retired schoolmaster. He was once second master at Dulwich College, it appears. He was sometimes eccentric in his habits, but usually went to bed early and rose early. He was a very studious man, always immersed in his books.”
“Mrs. Ayres,” exclaimed Medland, “did your lodger have a visitor yesterday afternoon--a well-dressed man, with a rather red, pimply face?”
“Yes, sir. ’E stayed about an hour and a ’alf, and they were shut in together a-talkin’ business.”
“Had you ever seen that gentleman before?”
“Never, sir, to my knowledge. Mr. Goodrick seldom, if ever, had any visitors.”
“Who were the persons who visited him?”
“Well, sir, there was my brother-in-law, Tom Macquire, who lives out at Ealin’, and old Mr. Mellini, the Italian priest, who lives up Denbigh Street. They were ’is two closest friends. ’E was a very reserved man, as you might say. ’E never spoke of ’is business or affairs to anybody. But oh! it’s terrible,” she broke forth, “terrible to think that ’e should be murdered like this!”
“Yes, Mrs. Ayres,” replied the detective calmly. “It’s quite plain that your lodger has been murdered. Somebody crept behind him and struck him with some sharp instrument which had been poisoned.”
“But who could have done it?” asked her bewildered husband, an insignificant little man with a large grey moustache.
“Somebody who had a grudge against him, I should fancy,” replied Medland. “You say he was a rather quarrelsome man. Did he keep any money here? If so, robbery might have been a motive,” he added, recollecting the fifty thousand pounds admitted by Sir George that he had conveyed there.
“I don’t think ’e ever kept much ’ere,” was the good woman’s reply. “’E always paid ’is bill regularly, but ’e wasn’t too flush o’ funds. ’E spent it all on ’is curiosities. Sometimes ’e went away for days an’ days.”
“He bought all these antiques,” remarked the detective. “He must have had money to do so. We’ll have to search the place,” he added, gazing around in bewilderment upon the hopeless chaos. A marine-store dealer’s could not have contained a greater variety of articles than did that narrow little back sitting-room.
The doctor--the same divisional surgeon who had earlier in the night been called to Carlton House Terrace--summoned by telephone, arrived and made an examination of the dead man. Life had been extinct about three hours, as far as he could judge. In the nape of the neck, just among the short hair, was a tiny puncture, exactly as in the case of Sir George Ravenscourt.
“The manner in which the deceased has been done to death is certainly peculiar,” declared the doctor. “To me it seems as though the victim had been seated in this arm-chair and fallen asleep, when the murderer, entering, had with fiendish triumph crept up and struck the blow. See!” he added, pointing to the mark, “there is every evidence that death was caused in that way.”
Medland searched the dead man’s pockets. In them he found nothing but an old-fashioned red handkerchief, a couple of newspaper cuttings regarding an electoral contest in Dorset, four and sixpence in silver, and an old envelope addressed to Goodrick.
“This Mr. Mellini! Did he visit him frequently?” asked Medland of Mrs. Ayres.
“Not very often, sir. ’E was ’ere about three days ago,” was the woman’s reply. “Mr. Goodrick called ’im Don Mario.”
The detectives examined the lock of the front door, but found no trace of it having been tampered with.
“The assassin must have entered with a key,” said Medland.
“Or perhaps the guilty person might have been in here when the victim came in,” remarked the doctor.
“Possibly,” said Medland. “Yet the chief mystery is the connecting link between this tragedy and the death of Sir George Ravenscourt. Was the assassin one and the same person?”
“I’m inclined to suspect so,” remarked the chief. “Why should Sir George desire that record to be destroyed, unless he feared some evil result?”
“What evil result could he fear?” asked Medland, “save that, in the terror of his dying moments, he did not recollect how much he had written, or the extent of the truth which the record contained.”
“There was evidently some great mystery surrounding this man,” the chief said, pointing to the rigid body. “When you have cleared that up, Medland, the rest should not be difficult. The priest Don Mario should be seen.”
“I quite agree,” replied the eminent detective, his eyes searching around the narrow, overcrowded room. “There’s some very remarkable connection between the two crimes. If we are to be successful, no word of what has really happened must become known by the Press. We must give them a bogus story, and then pursue our inquiries unhampered by Press comments, or the publication of ‘latest details.’”
“Exactly. You must arrange that at the coroner’s court it must appear a case of suicide. Understand,” the other said, turning to the landlady and her husband, “Mr. Goodrick swallowed poison. That is the report we shall give to the world. If the reporters ask you anything, just tell them that it was a clear case of suicide. Then leave the rest to us.”
“Very well, sir,” was Mrs. Ayres’s response. “We’ll do exactly as you say, sir. But it wasn’t suicide at all.”
“Of course not. But in order to evade our inquisitive friends of the Press that is the verdict which must be given before the coroner. It will clear the ground for Inspector Medland and his officers. We must find the assassin at all costs. The whole affair is most remarkable, for the mystery seems to have increased rather than diminished.”