The Charing Cross Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

“It ought to be looked into,” muttered Matherfield. “They’ve never approached us on the matter. It’s a purely voluntary offer on their part. They’ve left the police clean out.”

“Well, I make a suggestion,” said Hetherwick. “I think you and I had better call at Penteney’s tomorrow morning. We can tell them something⁠—perhaps they’ll tell us something. Anyway, it’s a foolish thing to divide forces; we’d far better unite in a common effort.”

“Um!” replied Matherfield doubtfully. “But these lawyer chaps⁠—they’ve generally got something up their sleeves⁠—some card that they want to play at their own moment. However, we can try ’em.”

“Meet me at the southeast corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields at half-past ten tomorrow morning,” said Hetherwick. “Penteney’s offices are close by. We’ll go together⁠—and ask them straight out what this advertisement means.”

“All right⁠—but if they won’t tell?” suggested Matherfield.

“Then, in that case, we’ll introduce Lady Riversreade’s name, and ask them if Lady Riversreade of Riversreade Court and Mrs. Whittingham, formerly of Sellithwaite, are one and the same person,” replied Hetherwick. “Come! I think we can show them that we already know a good deal.”

“We have certainly a card or two to play,” admitted Matherfield. “All right, Mr. Hetherwick! Tomorrow morning, then, as you suggest.”

He was waiting at the appointed place when Hetherwick hurried up next morning. Hetherwick immediately turned him down the lower side of the Fields.

“I’ve found out something about these people we’re going to see,” he said. “My clerk, Mapperley, told me a bit; he’s a sort of walking encyclopaedia. Old, highly respectable firm this. Penteney, senior, is retired; the firm is now really Blenkinsop & Penteney, junior. And Penteney, junior, is the Major Penteney who takes such an interest in Lady Riversreade’s Home⁠—and in Lady Riversreade. As I suggested last night, he was a Territorial officer⁠—so now he’s back at his own job. Now then, Matherfield, let’s arrange our plan of campaign. You, of course, have your official credentials⁠—I’m a deeply interested person, the man who chanced to witness Hannaford’s death. I think you’d better be spokesman.”

“Well, you’ll come in when wanted?” suggested Matherfield. “You’re better used to lawyers than I am, being one yourself.”

“I fear my acquaintance with solicitors is, so far, extremely limited, Matherfield,” replied Hetherwick with a laugh. “I have seen a brief!⁠—but only occasionally. However, here we are at 853, and a solid and sombre old house it is.”

The two callers had to wait for some time before any apparent notice was taken of their cards by the persons to whom they had been sent in. Matherfield was beginning to chafe when, at last, an elderly clerk conducted them up to an inner room wherein one cold-eyed, immobile-faced man sat at a desk, while another, scarcely less stern in appearance, in whom Hetherwick immediately recognised the Major Penteney pointed out by Rhona, stood, hands in pockets, on the hearthrug. Each stared silently at the two callers; the man at the desk pointed to chairs on either side of his fortress. He looked at Matherfield.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Mr. Blenkinsop, I presume?” began Matherfield, with a polite bow to the desk. “And Mr. Penteney?” with another to the hearthrug.

“Just so,” agreed Blenkinsop. “Precisely! Yes?”

“You have my card, gentlemen, and so you know who I am,” continued Matherfield. “The police⁠—”

“A moment,” interrupted Blenkinsop. He picked up Hetherwick’s card and glanced from it to its presenter. “Mr. Guy Hetherwick,” he remarked. “Does Mr. Hetherwick also call on behalf of the police? Because,” he added, with a dry smile, “I think I’ve seen Mr. Hetherwick in wig and gown.”

“I am the man who was present at Robert Hannaford’s death,” said Hetherwick. “If you are conversant with the case⁠—”

“Quite!⁠—every detail!” said Blenkinsop.

“Then you know what I saw, and what evidence I gave at the inquest,” continued Hetherwick. “I have followed up the case ever since⁠—and that’s why I am here.”

“Not as amicus curiae, then?” remarked Blenkinsop with a still dryer smile. “You’re not a disinterested adviser. I see! And Mr. Matherfield⁠—why is he here?”

“I was saying, Mr. Blenkinsop, that the police have seen the advertisement signed by your firm, offering five thousand pounds reward⁠—et cetera,” answered Matherfield. “Now, I have this Hannaford case in hand, and I can assure you I’ve done a lot of work at it. So, in his way, has Mr. Hetherwick. We’re convinced that Hannaford was murdered by poison, and that whoever poisoned him also poisoned the man Granett at the same time. Now, as either you or some person⁠—a client, I suppose⁠—behind you is so much concerned in bringing Hannaford’s murderer to justice as to offer a big sum for necessary information, we think you must know a great deal, and I suggest to you, gentlemen, that you ought to place your knowledge at our disposal. I hope my suggestion is welcome, gentlemen.”

Blenkinsop drummed the blotting-pad before him with the tips of his fingers, and his face became more inscrutable than ever. As for Penteney, he maintained the same attitude which he had preserved ever since the visitors entered the room, lounging against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets, and his eyes alternately fixed on either Hetherwick or Matherfield. There was a brief silence; at last Blenkinsop spoke abruptly.

“I don’t think we have anything to say,” he said. “What we have to say has been said already in the advertisement. We shall pay the offered reward to the person who gives satisfactory information. I don’t think that interferes with the police work.”

“That doesn’t help me much, Mr. Blenkinsop,” protested Matherfield. “You, or your client, must know more than that! There must be good reasons why your client should offer such a big sum as reward. I think we ought to know⁠—more.”

“I am not prepared to tell you more,” answered Blenkinsop. “Except that if we get the information which we think we shall get, we shall not be slow to hand it over to the police authorities.”

“That might be too late,” urged Matherfield. “This is an intricate case⁠—there are a good many wheels within wheels.” Then, interpreting a glance which he had just