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

a highly pertinent matter. Now, you’ll be aware, Mr. Matherfield, if you’ve seen the newspapers of this last day or two, that there’s a firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields that’s offering a reward of five thousand pounds⁠—”

“I’m well enough aware of it, Mr. Macpherson,” interrupted Matherfield with a laugh and a sly glance at Hetherwick. “Mr. Hetherwick and myself have just come straight from their office, and what you want to know is⁠—if you give me information will it be the same thing as giving it to them? You want to make sure about the reward?”

“Precisely, Mr. Matherfield, precisely!” assented the chemist eagerly. “You’ve hit my meaning exactly. For, of course, when there’s a reward like yon⁠—”

“If you give us information, Mr. Macpherson, that’ll lead to the arrest and conviction of the guilty party, you can rest assured you’ll get that reward,” said Matherfield. “And Mr. Hetherwick’ll support me in that, I’m sure.”

“I’m satisfied⁠—I’m satisfied, gentlemen!” exclaimed Macpherson, as Hetherwick murmured his confirmation. “Well, it’s a strange, black business, and I’d no idea that I would come to be associated with it until that man of yours called in this morning, Mr. Matherfield. But then I knew! And I’ll shorten matters by telling you, at once⁠—I made up the tonic that was in that bottle!”

Matherfield rubbed his hands.

“Good!” he said quietly. “Good! And now, then⁠—the critical question! For whom?”

“For a Dr. Charles Ambrose, from a prescription of his own,” replied Macpherson. “It’s a sort of pick-me-up tonic. I first made it up for him two years ago; I’ve made it up for him several times since. The last occasion was about six weeks ago. I have all the dates, though, in my books; I can show you them.”

“Wait a bit,” said Matherfield. “That’s of no great importance⁠—yet. Dr. Charles Ambrose, eh? Have you his address?”

“Aye, to be sure!” answered the chemist. “His address is 38, Number 59, John Street.”

“Adelphi!” suggested Matherfield.

“Adelphi, precisely⁠—38, Number 59, John Street, Adelphi,” repeated Macpherson. “That’s in the books, too.”

Matherfield suddenly became silent, staring at the floor. When he looked up again it was at Hetherwick.

“Didn’t Granett exclaim that he knew of a doctor, close by, when he rushed out of that train at Charing Cross Underground?” he asked. “Gave the impression that he knew of one close by, anyway?”

“He said distinctly close by,” answered Hetherwick. “Why, are you thinking⁠—”

Matherfield interrupted him with a wave of the hand, and turned again to the chemist. “You’ve seen this Dr. Charles Ambrose?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, I have, Mr. Matherfield, many a time and often,” replied Macpherson. “But now I come to think of it, not lately.”

“When⁠—last?” demanded Matherfield.

“I should think last when he called in and told me to make him another bottle of his tonic,” answered Macpherson, after some thought. “As I said just now, perhaps about six weeks ago. But the books⁠—”

“Never mind the books yet. What’s this Dr. Charles Ambrose like?”

“A tall, handsome man, distinguished-looking⁠—I should say about forty years of age. A dark man⁠—hair, eyes, beard. He wears his moustache and beard in⁠—well, a sort of foreign fashion; in fact, he’s more like a Spaniard than an Englishman.”

“But⁠—is he an Englishman?”

“He was always taken by me for an Englishman; he speaks like one⁠—that is, like an Englishman of the upper classes. He once told me he was an Oxford man⁠—we’d been talking about universities.”

“Well-dressed man?”

“Aye, he was that! A smart, fine man.”

“Did you ever see him in a big, dark overcoat, with a large white silk muffler about his neck and the lower part of his face?”

“Aye, I’ve seen him like that! On chilly evenings. Indeed, that’s another thing he told me⁠—he was subject to bronchial attacks.”

“Muffled himself well up, eh?” suggested Matherfield.

“Aye, just so! He’s been in here like that.”

Matherfield turned to Hetherwick with a significant glance.

“That’s the man who met Hannaford at Victoria Station that night!⁠—the man that Ledbitter saw, and that nobody’s seen since!” he exclaimed. “A million to one on it! Now then, who is he?”

“You know his name and his address,” remarked Hetherwick.

“Yes⁠—and I know, too, that Mr. Macpherson here hasn’t seen him lately!” retorted Matherfield dryly. “How often, now, Mr. Macpherson, did you use to see him? I mean, did you use to see him at other times than when he came into your shop?”

“Oh, yes! I’ve seen him in the street, outside,” replied the chemist. “I’ve seen him, too, going in and out of Rule’s, and in and out of Romano’s.”

“In other words,” remarked Matherfield, “he was pretty well known about this end of the Strand. I’m not sure, now, that I don’t remember such a man myself⁠—black, silky, carefully-trimmed beard, always a big swell. But⁠—Mr. Macpherson hasn’t seen him lately! Hm! Do you know if he was in practice, Mr. Macpherson?”

“I could not say as to that, Mr. Matherfield. Seeing that he called himself Dr. Ambrose, I supposed he was a medical practitioner, but I don’t know what his degrees or qualifications were at all.”

Matherfield glanced at a row of books which stood over a desk at the side of the parlour.

“Have you got an up-to-date medical directory?” he asked. “Good! Let’s look the man up. You turn up his name, Mr. Hetherwick,” he went on as the chemist handed down a volume; “you’re more used to books than I am. Find out if there’s anything about him.”

Hetherwick turned over the pages of the directory, and presently shook his head.

“There’s no Charles Ambrose here,” he said. “Look for yourselves.”

Matherfield glanced at the place indicated and said nothing. Macpherson made an exclamation of surprise.

“Aye, well, he may be a foreigner, after all,” he observed. “But I shouldn’t have considered him one, and he certainly told me he was an Oxford graduate.”

“Foreigner or Oxforder, I’m going to know more about him!” declared Matherfield, rising and grasping his stick with an air of determination. “Well, Mr. Macpherson, we’re obliged to you, and if this results in anything⁠—you know! But for the moment⁠—a bit of that caution that you Scotsmen are famous for⁠—eh?”

Outside, Matherfield laid his hand on Hetherwick’s elbow.

“Mr. Hetherwick,” he said solemnly, “we’re on the track⁠—at last!