Chapter XXXVIII: Salving a Fortune

In the hasty, yet careful reckoning up of chances which he made as soon as his victim was dead Mr. William Kedgin came to the conclusion that it would be some time before her body was discovered in the empty house. He considered that there were two things in his favour. The first was that when Shrewsbury’s rooms came to be found empty, the impression would be given that he, Kedgin, had helped Mrs. Walsingham to escape, and that the police would give all their attention to her and none to the place which had harboured her for the night--therefore, some little time would necessarily elapse before suspicion would rest on him for the theft of his master’s property. The second--and perhaps more important one--was that he saw no immediate prospect of any examination of the empty house. Kedgin knew all about that house: he had made himself master of it and its history as soon as he came to reside under Richard’s roof. He knew it as a poor old derelict, left to itself until the housebreakers were ready to demolish it, and that event was not yet to come off. He foresaw no possibility of its being entered at once, of the immediate discovery of the body of the woman upon whom he had turned as he led her down the dark stairs, and accordingly believed that he had a clear and a serviceable start of the hounds of Justice which would sooner or later be let loose on his track. His preparations had already been made--made before Sylvie Werrick came on the scene and interrupted them. Then he had seen a further chance of increasing his spoil--that her death was necessary to that increase was, in Kedgin’s opinion, a mere trifling detail. Now that it was over, and her realizable possessions in his power, he could go on with his precious scheme.

So Kedgin went away from the empty house, leaving by the passage which Skarratt had shown to his companions. The passage led him into certain by-ways at the rear of the big houses--finally he emerged into Conduit Street. No one of all the hurrying throngs there, or in Hanover Square, through which he presently sauntered, or in Regent Street, across which he presently hurried, knew him for a murderer: if they saw him at all, they took him for a respectable gentleman’s gentleman, going, no doubt, about his business. He was calm, he was serene--there was nothing on him to show the work in which he had been engaged so recently. Nor did the landlady of the little house in the small side-street off Golden Square, to which Kedgin repaired, and wherein he had tenanted a room for some time past, notice anything out of the way or peculiar about her lodger when he came in, and in passing her on his way upstairs observed that he was going away for a day or two and must pack his portmanteau. She had known Mr. Kidd, she said afterwards, as a very quiet gentleman whom she understood to be engaged at nights, as a rule, and who was only in now and then during the day; who always paid his rent promptly and generously and had a kind word and a sixpence for the children: that he could strangle a lady in a lonely house was more than she could believe.

Kedgin had everything in readiness for his flight. He had soon come to see that young Mr. Shrewsbury was not only callow, but careless, and after Mrs. Kedgin--a lady of whom her husband was weary--had retired to the country to visit a friend, it had been an easy thing to rob him and to turn the proceeds of the robbery into good money. He had the good money in such a form that it was easily carried and always available, and now there was nothing to do but add to it the proceeds of the robbery and removal (he did not care to call it murder) of Sylvie Werrick, who, doubtless, would have been highly disgusted could she have known that her own carefully-laid plans had been made for the benefit of another. So, once in his room, he went about his final preparations quietly, methodically, and without hurry. He was under the firm belief that he had at least twenty-four hours’ start of any pursuit, and he knew where he would be in twenty-four hours from that time.

It was not in Kedgin’s scheme to leave his room just yet, for he had mapped his movements out to a minute. So when he had finished his packing, and had strapped his portmanteau, he indulged himself with a small cigar--one of Richard’s--and a glass of wine--also Richard’s--and idled about his room, destroying whatever small traces of his occupancy still happened to be in it. And after a time he chanced to be near the window and to look out of it. Then he saw something that made the cigar drop from his lips and sent him staggering against the wall at his side.

On the opposite side-walk, following the very track by which he himself had approached the house only an hour before, came a great dog, a blood-hound, red of eye and mouth, straining at a leash held by a big man who hurried behind it. And behind him were other men: Kedgin knew some of them--Captain Burgoyne, and Captain Blair, with his one arm, and Richard Shrewsbury and others. They were excited, they were talking. And the great beast before them came steadily on, came just where he himself had come; if the path had been dripping with blood he could not have come in a straighter line, said Kedgin with a curse. Now he was straining across the street; now the men behind him were pointing upward ... they had seen Kedgin’s white face at the window.

Then Kedgin stepped back and drew a revolver from his pocket. This had been beyond all his calculations. And there was no back way out of this house. This was--the end.

* * * * *

“That was an inspiration of yours, getting that hound, Captain Burgoyne,” said Skarratt, later on in the day, “and it was lucky, sir, that you could put your hand on him there and then. You’ve got to thank Captain Burgoyne, Mr. Shrewsbury, for that notion--if it hadn’t been for that, it strikes me that we might have had some difficulty in running down Kedgin and such property of yours as he had on him and at his command. A cool, determined customer, that, gentlemen!”

Nobody made any reply to the detective’s remarks. They were all back in the rooms at Berkeley Square, and Richard was feeling as if the events of the last few hours had been too much for him. The woman who had deceived and robbed him had met her death at the hands of a murderer; the murderer had taken his own life; it was little satisfaction to him to know that his property was being salved in this fashion. So he gave no answer to Skarratt; instead, he glanced at Burgoyne. And suddenly he jumped up.

“I can’t stand this, Burgoyne!” he said. “I shall choke if I stop in these rooms any longer. I’m going out where I can breathe--and to-night I shall stay at the _Ritz_. I shan’t come back here--I’m sick of this place--I never want to see it again.”

“There are matters to clear up, you know,” replied Burgoyne, slowly. “You can’t do everything at once. There’s--Carsdale, for instance.” He paused and looked at Skarratt. “What are you going to do about Carsdale?” he asked. “There’s no doubt that the property you found on him is Mr. Shrewsbury’s, you know.”

Skarratt smiled.

“No doubt, sir,” he answered. “And, of course, Mr. Shrewsbury can deal with Carsdale when we’ve done with him. And that reminds me of two matters which this morning’s events had put out of my mind for the moment. I may as well tell you that we have just about finished with Carsdale. I, personally, haven’t the least doubt that he told the truth about his presence at Marengo Mansions. We can’t connect him with Werrick’s death. And so--we shall let him go. That’s one thing. And the other is that this morning Carsdale sent for me and asked me to arrange for an interview between himself and a solicitor who would act on your behalf, Mr. Shrewsbury, in your absence. He wants to hand over those securities, and so on, and to explain what he was doing with them. He mentioned a Mr. Winch of Lincoln’s Inn, as a likely man. But as you’re back, Mr. Shrewsbury, hadn’t you better see him yourself and take up your property?”

Richard shook his head. He looked appealingly at Burgoyne.

“No!” he said stoutly. “I won’t see him--it’s no good asking me to see him--I trusted him. Burgoyne--won’t you act for me? Let him give up what he’s got: he’s welcome to anything beyond that. Only let him understand that I don’t want to see him again. Take Winch if you like--do anything you like. You’ll find me at the _Ritz_. I’ll never come into these rooms again.”

“Very well,” said Burgoyne. “I’ll see him.”

So Richard went out of his palatial residence for the last time, a much disillusioned young man, and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, and went away, resolved to sell all the belongings he left behind him, and to clear matters up generally, and when that was done to go back to Trinidad or somewhere equally remote and begin a new life. He was still cogitating these projects when Burgoyne found him at the hotel later in the afternoon. He looked up at Burgoyne apathetically, and watched him without interest as he produced a packet of papers which he laid on a table and placed his hand upon.

“That man, Carsdale,” said Burgoyne, without preface, “is the most plausible person I ever met! Winch and I saw him, in Skarratt’s presence. To any one who did not know him as well as I do, now, his story would have seemed the most straightforward thing in the world. He produced papers signed by you which gave him full power to deal with your securities at the bank. He explained his action in dealing with two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of them by saying that he wished to re-invest. He handed over the papers relating to his transactions--they’re all here, and Winch says you’re all right as regards the two hundred thousand. Then, of course, there’s the fifty thousand worth at the bank, which he didn’t touch. It seems to me that what you’ll lose, Dick, my boy, will be the ten thousand you gave him to play with, as he called it. I should say that’s gone.”

“Let it go!” exclaimed Richard.

“Just so,” agreed Burgoyne. “After all, you’ve bought your experience fairly cheaply in comparison with what you might have paid for it. But, my boy, it was a near touch-and-go. Do you know whom you’ve to thank for keeping an eye on Carsdale?--he’d have got away but for a friend that you haven’t thought of. He swears now that he got those tickets for Mr. and Mrs. Werrick, and was going to send them off, and start them afresh in life, but that’s all rot!--he meant them for himself and the woman. And he’d have got away but for two things on which he didn’t reckon--first the affair at Marengo Mansions, and, second, that he was being watched on your behalf, and that he’d have been arrested that very night. That’s a fact, my son!”

Richard stared at his informant for a full moment of silence.

“Who was watching him on my behalf?” he asked at last.

Burgoyne smiled and passed Richard the packet of papers.

“Miss Leverton,” he answered. “And you ought to thank her that you’ve got--those!”

Richard jumped to his feet, thrusting the papers into his pocket. He seized his hat and made for the door.

“I’ll do that--now!” he said.

* * * * *

He had thought of a thousand things to say as he hurried to Maida Vale, but when he was alone with Miss Frances Leverton, young Mr. Shrewsbury’s ideas and thoughts seemed to have become utterly confused, and he soon felt that he was making a mess of everything. And suddenly he gave up the task.

“That isn’t a bit what I wanted to say,” he said, despairingly. “I’m no good at saying--anything. Only, I wanted you to know that I’m--grateful, you know, because you thought of me, and so on. And--there was a thing I wanted to ask of you.”

“Yes?” said Frances.

“You--you said I might come to tea one Sunday--oh, it seems ages ago, now!--and I didn’t come,” he said. “Will you let me come, some other time?”

Frances turned away, smiling, and touched a bell.

“We are just going to have tea,” she said, quietly. “Won’t you stop?”

THE END

_The novels of_

J. S. FLETCHER

“_Without question the supreme detective story writer of today._”--_Brooklyn Eagle_

DEAD MEN’S MONEY

“Murder and attempted murder and abduction, missing heirs, false
impersonation, and other complications, the unravelling of which
makes an entertaining tale for those who seek relaxation.”

--_Philadelphia Public Ledger_

THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER

A peculiarly puzzling murder story in which the finger of suspicion
darts about from one person to another as erratically as flashes of
lightning.

THE CHESTERMARKE INSTINCT

Concerns the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of the manager of
a country bank.

THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM

The peculiarly moving story of a young man who gets on in life by
hook or crook, with no objection to crime or deception, remarkably
resourceful, and who takes life as a game to be played while the
playing is good.

THE PARADISE MYSTERY

The quiet repose of an old English cathedral town is suddenly
shattered by a series of remarkable crimes whose deep laid mystery is
involved with a charming love story.

THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND

“A rattling good yarn ... the excellence does not depend entirely
however upon its plot ... an uncommonly well written tale.”

--_New York Times_

THE BOROUGH TREASURER

An ingenious tale of crime, cleverly and logically developed. The
absorbed reader will find it difficult to turn his attention to other
matters until he has reached the solution.

THE HERAPATH PROPERTY

An enthralling narrative of a strange testament and of the way
certain individuals tried to break it.

SCARHAVEN KEEP

The mysterious adventure of a popular actor in an ancient English
castle overlooking the sea.

THE RAYNER-SLADE AMALGAMATION

The story of a murderer who was asked to help run down his own crime,
of a beautiful woman who fled across England at the dead of night,
of a daring intrigue which involved the fates of an American, a
Dutchman, and a Russian Princess.

RAVENSDENE COURT

“The most complicated and in some ways the most finished of Mr.
Fletcher’s works in this special line. It will not stop a clock, but
will keep readers from looking at one.” --_New York World_

THE LOST MR. LINTHWAITE

Mr. Linthwaite, charming and gentlemanly, is seen. Mr. Linthwaite is
gone. How? Where?

EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE

Another remarkable murder story, set against a wild and desolate
moorland, and as deftly worked out as anything Mr. Fletcher has ever
written.

THE MARKENMORE MYSTERY

Of course the idea is “Who killed Guy Markenmore and why?”, but the
story is far from an ordinary detective tale, and the interest burns
steadily through the whole book.

THE KING VERSUS WARGRAVE

“As has been the case with many another novel from his pen, the
reader of this volume early gets the impression and retains it to the
end that Mr. Fletcher is a novelist of high order and not merely a
writer of good detective stories.” --_Boston Herald_

THE MAZAROFF MYSTERY

A curious story of sudden death and concealed identity, and one of
the most thrilling of all Fletcher books.

THE TIME-WORN TOWN

A dramatic unravelling of the enigmatic life of the Mayor of
Hathelborough who chose to remain, night after night, undisturbed
with his books and strange papers.

THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB

Three hundred thousand pounds! How much would you do for them? Mr.
Fletcher’s latest fascinating mystery is a marvellously skilful
tangle of finance, law and greed with a woman’s vanity at its center.

_Each volume $2.00 net at all bookstores_

ALFRED · A · KNOPF
730 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.