Ravensdene Court Part 17

"Aye," he said, "I figured on that. So we'll just get into a corner of the smoking-room and have a quiet gla.s.s over a cigar, and I'll tell you what I've made out here--and a very strange and queer tale it is, and one that's worth hearing, whether it really has to do with our affair or no!"

"You're not sure that it has?" I asked.

"I'm as sure as may be that it probably has!" he replied. "But still, there's a gulf between extreme probability and absolute certainty that's a bit wider than the unthinking reckon for. However, here we are--and we'll just get comfortable."

Scarterfield's ideas of comfort, I found, were to dispose himself in the easiest of chairs in the quietest of corners with whisky and soda on one hand and a box of cigars on the other--this sort of thing he evidently regarded as a proper relaxation from his severe mental labours. I had no objection to it myself after four hours slow travelling--yet I confess I felt keenly impatient until he had mixed our drinks, lighted his cigar and settled down at my elbow.

"Now," he said confidentially, "I'll set it all out in order--what I've done and found out since I came here two days ago. There's no need, Mr. Middlebrook, to go into detail about how I set to work to get information: we've our own ways and methods of getting hold of stuff when we strike a strange town. But you know what I came here for. There's been talk, all through this case, of the name Netherfield--from the questions that Salter Quick put to you when you met him on the cliffs, and from what was said at the Mariner's Joy.

Very good--now I fell across that name, too, in my investigations in London, as being the name of a man who was on the _Elizabeth Robinson_, of uncertain memory, lost or disappeared in the year 1907, with the two Quicks. He was set down, that Netherfield, as being of Blyth, Northumberland. Clearly, then, Blyth was a place to get in touch with--and here in Blyth we are!"

"A clear bit of preface, Scarterfield," said I approvingly. "Go ahead!

I'm bearing in mind that you've been here forty-eight hours."

"I've made good use of my time!" he chuckled, with a knowing grin.

"Although I say it myself, Mr. Middlebrook, I'm a bit of a hustler.

Well, self-praise, they say, is no recommendation, though to be sure I'm no believer in that old proverb, for, after all, who knows a man better than himself? So we'll get to the story. I came here, of course, to see if I could learn anything of a man of this place who answered to what I had already learnt about Netherfield of the _Elizabeth Robinson_. I went to the likely people for news, and I very soon found out something. n.o.body knew anything of any man, old or young, named William Netherfield, belonging, present or past, to this town. But a good many people--most, if not all people--do know of a man who used to be in much evidence here some years ago; a man of the name of Netherfield Baxter."

"Netherfield Baxter," I repeated. "Not a name to be readily forgotten--once known."

"He's not forgotten," said Scarterfield, grimly, "and he was well enough known, here, once upon a time, and not so long since, either.

And now, who was Netherfield Baxter? Well, he was the only child of an old tradesman of this town, whose wife died when Netherfield was a mere boy, and who died himself when his son was only seventeen years of age. Old Baxter was a remarkably foolish man. He left all he had to this lad--some twelve thousand pounds--in such a fashion that he came into absolute, uncontrolled possession of it on attaining his twenty-first birthday. Now then you can imagine what happened! My young gentleman, n.o.body to say him nay, no father, mother, sister, brother, to restrain him or give him a word in season--or a hearty kicking, which would have been more to the purpose!--went the pace, pretty considerably. Horses, cards, champagne--you know! The twelve thousand began to melt like wax in a fire. He carried on longer than was expected, for now and then he had luck on the race-course; won a good deal once, I heard, on the big race at Newcastle--what they call the Pitman's Darby. But it went--all of it went!--and by the beginning of the year 1904--bear the date in mind, Mr. Middlebrook--Netherfield Baxter was just about on his last legs--he was, in fact, living from hand to mouth. He was then--I've been particular about collecting facts and statistics--just twenty-nine years of age, so, one way or another, he'd made his little fortune last him eight years; he still had good clothes--a very taking, good-looking fellow he was, they say--and he'd a decent lodging. But in spring 1904 he was living on the proceeds of chance betting, and was sometimes very low down, and in May of that year he disappeared, in startlingly sudden fashion, without saying a word to anybody, and since then n.o.body has ever seen a vestige or ever heard a word of him."

Scarterfield paused, looking at me as if to ask what I thought of it.

I thought a good deal of it.

"A very interesting bit of life-drama, Scarterfield," said I. "And there have been far stranger things than it would be if this Netherfield Baxter of Blyth turned out to be the William Netherfield of the _Elizabeth Robinson_. You haven't hit on anything in the shape of a bridge, a connecting link between the two?"

"Not yet, anyway," he answered. "And I don't think it's at all likely that I shall, here, for, as I said just now, n.o.body in this place has ever heard of Netherfield Baxter since he walked out of his lodging one evening and clean vanished. To be sure, there's been n.o.body at all anxious to hear of him. For one thing, he left no near and dear relations or friends--for another, he left no debts behind him. The last fact, of course," added Scarterfield, with a wink, "was due to another, very pertinent fact--n.o.body, to be sure, in his latter stages, would give him credit!"

"You've more to tell," I suggested.

"Oh, much more!" he acquiesced. "We're about half-way through the surface matters. Now then--you're bearing in mind that Netherfield Baxter disappeared, very suddenly, in May 1904. Perhaps the town didn't make much to do over his disappearance for a good reason--it was just then in the very midst of what we generally call a nine days'

wonder. For some months the Old Alliance Bank here had been in charge of a temporary manager, in consequence of the regular manager's long-continued illness. This temporary manager was a chap named Lester--John Martindale Lester--who had come here from a branch of the same bank at Hexham, across country. Now, this Lester was a young man who was greatly given to going about on a motor-cycle--not so many of those things about, then, as we see now; he was always tearing about the country, they say, on half-holidays, and Sat.u.r.days and Sundays.

And one evening, careering round a sharp corner, somewhere just outside the town, in the dark, he ran full tilt into a cart that carried no tail-light, and--broke his neck! They picked him up dead."

"Well?" said I.

"You're wondering if that's anything to do with Netherfield Baxter's disappearance?" said Scarterfield. "Well--it's an odd thing, but out of all the folk that I've made inquiry of in the town, I haven't come across one yet who voluntarily suggested that it had! But--I do! And you'll presently see why I think so. Now, this man, John Martindale Lester, was accidentally killed about the beginning of the first week in May 1904. Three or four days later, Netherfield Baxter cleared out.

I've been careful, in my conversations with the townfolk--officials, mostly--not to appear to connect Lester's death with Baxter's departure. But that there was a connection, I'm dead certain. Baxter hooked it, Mr. Middlebrook, because he knew that Lester's sudden death would lead to an examination of things at the Old Alliance Bank!"

"Ah!" said I. "I begin to see things!"

"So do I--through smoked gla.s.s, though, as yet," a.s.sented Scarterfield. "But--it's getting clearer. Now, things at the bank were examined--and some nice revelations came forth! To begin with, there was a cash deficiency--not a heavy one, but quite heavy enough. In addition to that, certain jewels were missing, which had been deposited with the bankers for security by a lady in this neighbourhood--they were worth some thousands of pounds. And, to add to this, two chests of plate were gone which had been placed with the bank some years before by the executors of the will of the late Lord Forestburne, to be kept there till the coming of age of his heir, a minor when his father died. Altogether, Mr. John Martindale Lester and his accomplices, or accomplice, had helped themselves very freely to things until then safe in the vaults and strong room."

"Have you found out if Netherfield Baxter and the temporary bank-manager were acquainted?" I asked.

"No--that's a matter I've very carefully refrained from inquiring into," answered Scarterfield. "So far, no one has mentioned their acquaintanceship or a.s.sociation to me, and I haven't suggested it, for I don't want to raise suspicions--I want to keep things to myself, so that I can play my own game. No--I've never heard the two men spoken of in connection with each other."

"What is thought in the town about Lester and the valuables?" I inquired. "They must have some theory?"

"Oh, of course, they have," he replied. "The theory is that Lester had accomplices in London, that he shipped these valuables off there, and that when his accomplices heard of his sudden death they--why, they just held their tongues. But--my notion is that the only accomplice Lester had was our friend Netherfield Baxter."

"You've some ground?" I asked.

"Yes--or I shouldn't think so," said Scarterfield. "I'm now coming to the reason of my sending for you, Mr. Middlebrook. I told you that this fellow Baxter had a decent lodging in the town. Well, I made it my business to go there yesterday morning, and finding that the landlady was a sensible woman and likely to keep a quiet tongue I just told her a bit of my business and asked her some questions. Then I found out that Baxter left various matters behind him, which she still had--clothes, books (he was evidently a chap for reading, and of superior education, which probably accounts for what I'm going to tell you), papers, and the like. I got her to let me have a sight of them.

And amongst the papers I found two, which seem to me to have been written hundreds of years ago and to be lists with names and figures in them. My impression is that Lester found them in those chests of plate, couldn't make them out, and gave them to Netherfield Baxter, as being a better educated man--Baxter, I found out, did well at school and could read and write two or three languages. Well, now, I persuaded the landlady to lend me these doc.u.ments for a day or two, and I've got them in my room upstairs, safely locked up--I'll fetch them down presently and you shall see if you can decipher them--very old they are, and the writing crabbed and queer--but Lord bless you, the ink's as black as jet!"

"Scarterfield!" said I. "It strikes me you've possibly hit on a discovery. Supposing this stolen stuff is safely hidden somewhere about? Supposing Netherfield Baxter knew where, and that he's the William Netherfield of the _Elizabeth Robinson_? Supposing that he let the Quicks into the secret? Supposing--but, bless me! there are a hundred things one can suppose! Anyhow, I believe we're getting at something."

"I've been supposing a lot of what you've just suggested ever since yesterday morning," he answered quietly. "Didn't I say we should have to hark back? Well, I'll fetch down these doc.u.ments."

He went away, and while he was absent I stood at the window of the smoking-room, looking out on the life of the little town and wondering. There, across the street, immediately in front of the hotel was the bank of which Scarterfield had been telling me--an old-fashioned, grey-walled, red-roofed place, the outer door of which was just then being closed for the day by a white-whiskered old porter in a sober-hued uniform. Was it possible--could it really be--that the story which had recently ended in a double murder had begun in that quiet-looking house, through the criminality of an untrustworthy employee? But did I say ended?--nay, for all I knew the murderers of the Quicks were only an episode, a chapter in the story--the end was--where?

Then Scarterfield came back and from a big envelope drew forth and placed in my hands two folded pieces of old, time-yellowed parchment.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SPOILS OF SACRILEGE

Until that moment I had not thought much about the reason of my presence at Blyth--I had, at any rate, thought no more than that Scarterfield had merely come across some writing which he found it hard to decipher. But one glance at the doc.u.ments which he placed in my hands showed me that he had accidentally come across a really important find; within another moment I was deeply engrossed, and he saw that I was. He sat silently watching me; once or twice, looking up at him, I saw him nod as if to imply that he had felt sure of the importance of the things he had given me. And presently, laying the doc.u.ments on the table between us, I smiled at him.

"Scarterfield!" I said. "Are you at all up in the history of your own country?"

"Couldn't say that I am, Mr. Middlebrook," he answered with a shake of his head. "Not beyond what a lad learns at school--and I dare say I've forgotten a lot of that. My job, you see, has always been with the hard facts of the actual present--not with what took place in the past."

"But you're up to certain notable episodes?" I suggested. "You know, for instance, that when the religious houses were suppressed--abbeys, priories, convents, hospitals--in the reign of Henry the Eighth, a great deal of their plate and jewels were confiscated to the use of the King?"

"Oh, I've heard that!" he admitted. "Nice haul the old chap got, too, I'm given to understand."

"He didn't get all," said I. "A great deal of the monastic plate disappeared--clean vanished. It used to be said that a lot of it was hidden away or buried by its owners, but it's much more likely that it was stolen by the covetous and greedy folk of the neighbourhood--the big men, of course. Anyway, while a great deal was certainly sent by the commissioners to the king's treasury in London, a lot more--especially in out-of-the-way places and districts--just disappeared and was never heard of again. Up here in the North of England that was very often the case. And all this is merely a preface to what I'm going to tell you. Have you the least idea of what these doc.u.ments are?"

"No," he replied. "Unless they're lists of something--I did make out that they might be, by the way the words and figures are arranged.

Like--inventories."

"They are inventories!" I exclaimed. "Both. Written in crabbed caligraphy, too, but easy enough to read if you're acquainted with sixteenth century penmanship, spelling and abbreviations. Look at the first one. It is here described as an inventory of all the jewels, plate, et cetera, appertaining and belonging unto the Abbey of Forestburne, and it was made in the year 1536--this abbey, therefore, was one of the smaller houses that came under the 200 limit and was accordingly suppressed in the year just mentioned. Now look at the second. It also is an inventory--of the jewels and plate of the Priory of Mellerton, made in the same year, and similarly suppressed. But though both these houses were of the smaller sort, it is quite evident, from a cursory glance at these inventories that they were pretty rich in jewels and plate. By the term jewels is meant plate wherein jewels were set; as to the plate it was, of course, the sacramental vessels and appurtenances. And judging by these entries the whole ma.s.s of plate must have been considerable!"

"Worth a good deal, eh?" he asked.

"A great deal!--and if it's in existence now, much more than a great deal," I replied. "But I'll read you some of the items set down here--I'll read a few haphazard. They are set down, you see, with their weight in ounces specified, and you'll observe what a number of items there are in each inventory. We'll look at just a few. A chalice, twenty-eight ounces. Another chalice, thirty-six ounces. A mazer, forty-seven ounces. One pair candlesticks, fifty-two ounces.

Two cruets, thirty-one ounces. One censer, twenty-eight ounces. One cross, fifty-eight ounces. Another cross, forty-eight ounces. Three dozen spoons, forty-eight ounces. One salt, with covering, twenty-eight ounces. A great cross, seventy-two ounces. A paten, sixteen ounces. Another paten, twenty ounces. Three tablets of proper gold work, eighty-five ounces in all. And so on and so on!--a very nice collection, Scarterfield, considering that these are only a few items at random, out of some seventy or eighty altogether. But we can easily reckon up the total weight--indeed, it's already reckoned up at the foot of each inventory. At Forestburne, you see, there was a sum total of two thousand two hundred and thirty-eight ounces of plate; at Mellerton, one thousand eight hundred and seventy ounces--so these two inventories represent a ma.s.s of about four thousand ounces. Worth having, Scarterfield!--in either the sixteenth or the twentieth century."

"And, in the main, it would be--what?" asked Scarterfield. "Gold, silver?"

"Some of it gold, some silver, a good deal of it silver-gilt," I replied. "I can tell all that by reading the inventories more attentively. But I've told you what a mere, cursory glance shows."