In the Mayor's Parlour
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"Did you happen to be in Green & Polford's shop—the front shop, I mean—when Alderman Crood brought in that machine?" he asked.
"I was there at the time, sir," replied Owthwaite.
"Did he come quite openly?"
"Yes, sir. In a cab, as a matter of fact. The cabman carried in the machine."
"Did Alderman Crood say who he was?"
"Well, sir, to be exact, he saw me as soon as he came in, and recognized me. He said, 'Oh, a Hathelsborough lad, I see? You'll know me, young man.' Then he told Mr. Jeaveson and myself what he wanted."
"The whole business was quite open and above-board, then?"
"Quite so, sir."
"He drew your attention himself to the defects of the machine?"
"He did, sir."
"And this was after—not before—that facsimile appeared in the Monitor?"
"After, sir."
"Now I want a particularly careful answer, Owthwaite, to my next question. Did Alderman Crood ask you to get these repairs made immediately?"
"No, sir, he did not. He said he was in no hurry."
"You were to take your own time about them, the machine remaining with you?"
"Just that, sir."
Stedman sat down, as if satisfied, and Owthwaite left the witness-box. At the calling of the next witness's name Tansley nudged Brent.
"Now we may hear something lively!" he whispered. "This chap's been the Borough Accountant for some years, and I've often wondered if he doesn't know a good deal that he's kept to himself. But, if he does, will he let it out? Old Crood doesn't look over pleased to see him anyway!"
Brent glanced from the new witness, a quiet, reserved-looking man of middle age, to Simon Crood. There was a dark scowl on the heavy features, and, Brent fancied, a look of apprehension. Once more Simon beckoned to his solicitor and exchanged a few whispered words with him across the front of the dock before turning to the witness. And to him Brent also turned, with an instinctive feeling that he possibly held a key to those mysteries which had not yet been produced.
Matthew James Nettleton, Member of the Society of Incorporated Accountants and Auditors. Borough Accountant of Hathelsborough during the last seven years. During that period in close touch with all the persons concerned in the present matter.
"Mr. Nettleton," said Meeking, "you are Borough Accountant of Hathelsborough?"
The witness folded his hands on the ledge of the box and shook his head.
"No," he answered. "Was."
"Was? What do you mean?"
"I have resigned my appointment."
"When?"
"Yesterday—at six o'clock last evening, to be precise."
"May I ask why?"
"You may, sir. Because I knew the inquiry just held by the Inspector of the Local Government Board to be an absolute farce! Because I know that the financial affairs of the borough are rotten-ripe! Because I utterly refuse to be a cat's paw in the hands of the Town Trustees any longer! Those are my reasons."
Tansley dug his elbow into Brent's ribs as an irrepressible murmur of surprise broke out all round the court. But Brent was watching the men in the dock. Krevin Crood smiled cynically; the smile developed into a short, sharp laugh. But Simon's flabby face turned a dull red, and presently he lifted his big silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Meeking waited a moment, letting the witness's outburst have its full effect. Then, amidst a dead silence, he leaned towards the box.
"Why didn't you say all that at the recent inquiry?" he asked.
"Because it wouldn't have been a scrap of good!" retorted the witness. "Those affairs are all cut-and-dried. My only course was to do what I did last night—resign. And to give evidence now."
Meeking twisted his gown together and looked at the magistrates. He ran his eye carefully along the row of faces, and finally let it settle again on his witness.
"Tell their Worships, in your own fashion, your considered opinion as to the state of the borough finances," he said. "Your opinion based on your experience."
"They are, as I said just now, absolutely rotten!" declared Nettleton. "It is now seven years since I came to this place as Borough Accountant. I found that under an ancient charter the whole of the financial business of the borough was in the hands of a small body known as the Town Trustees, three only in number. It is marvellous that such a body should be allowed to exist in these days! The Town Trustees are responsible to nobody. They elect themselves. That is to say, if one dies, the surviving two elect his successor. They are not bound to render accounts to anyone; the Corporation, of which they are a permanent committee, only know what they choose to tell. This has gone on for at least three centuries. It may have served some good purpose at some period, under men of strict probity, but, in my opinion, based on such experience as I have been able to command, it has of late years led to nothing but secret peculation, jobbery and knavery. As regards my own position, it has simply been that I have never at any time been permitted to see any accounts other than those placed before me by the Town Trustees. My belief is that no one but themselves actually knows what the financial condition of the town really is. I am of impression that this Corporation, as a Corporation, is bankrupt!"
There now arose a murmur in court which the Chairman and officials found it difficult to suppress. But curiosity prevailed over excitement, and the silence was deep enough when Meeking got in his next question.
"You affirm all this in face of the recent inquiry?"
"I do—and strongly! The accounts shown at the recent inquiry were all carefully manipulated, arranged, cooked by the Town Trustees. I had nothing to do with them. They were prepared by the Town Trustees, chiefly, I imagine, by Mallett and Coppinger, with Crood's approval and consent. They were never shown to me. In short, my position has been this, simply, I have had certain accounts placed before me by the Town Trustees with the curt intimation that my sole duty was to see that the merely arithmetical features were correct and to sign them as accountant."
"Could you not have made a statement to this effect at the inquiry?"
"I could not!"
"Why, now?"
"Because I could not have produced the books and papers. All the books and papers to which I have ever had access are merely such things as rate books and so on—the sort of things that can't be concealed. But the really important books and papers, showing the real state of things, are in the possession of Mallett and Coppinger, who, with Crood, have never allowed anybody to see them. If I could have had those things brought before the inspector, I could have proved something. But I couldn't bring them before a court of inquiry like that. You can bring them before this!"
"How?" demanded Meeking.
"Because, I take it, they bear a very sinister relation to the murder of the late Mayor," replied the witness. "He was as well aware as I am that things were all wrong."
"You know that?"
"I know that he did his best, from such material as he could get at, to find out what the true state of things was. He worked hard at examining such accounts as were available. To my knowledge he did his best to get at the secret accounts kept by the Town Trustees. He failed utterly—they defied him. Yet, just before his murder, he was getting at facts in a fashion which was not only unpleasant but highly dangerous to them, and they were aware of it."
"Can you give us an example of any of these facts—these discoveries?"
"Yes, I can give you one in particular. Wallingford was slowly but surely getting at the knowledge of the system of secret payment which has gone on in this place for a long time under the rule of the Town Trustees. He had found out the truth, for instance, as regards Krevin Crood. Krevin Crood was supposed to be paid a pension of £150 a year; in reality he was paid £300 a year. Wallingford ascertained this beyond all doubt, and that it had gone on ever since Krevin Crood's retirement from his official position. There are other men in the borough, hangers-on and supporters of the Town Trustees, who benefit by public money in the shape of pensions, grants, doles—in every case the actual amount paid is much more than the amount set down in such accounts as are shown. Wallingford meant to sweep all this jobbery clean away!"
"How?"
"By getting the financial affairs of the town into the full and absolute control of the Corporation. He wanted to abolish the Town Trustees as a body. If he had succeeded in his aims, he would have done away with all the abuses which they not only kept up but encouraged."
"Then, if Wallingford's reforms had been carried out, Krevin Crood would have lost £150 a year?"
"He would have lost £300 a year. Wallingford's scheme included the utter abolition of all these Town Trustee-created pensions and doles. Lock, stock and barrel, they were all to go."
"And the Town Trustees—Crood, Mallett, Coppinger—were fully acquainted with his intentions and those of his party?"
The witness shrugged his shoulders.
"That's well known!" he answered. "They were frightened of him and his schemes to the last degree. They knew what it meant."
"What did it mean?"
Nettleton glanced at Simon Crood and smiled.
"Just what it's come to, at last," he said. "Exposure—and disgrace!"
"Well," said Meeking, when a murmur of excited feeling had once more run round the court, "a more particular question, Mr. Nettleton. Did the late Mayor ever come to your office in the course of his investigations?"
"He did, frequently. Not that I had much to show him. But he carefully examined all the books and papers of which I was in possession."
"Did he make notes?"
"Notes and memoranda—yes. At considerable length, sometimes."
"What in?"
"In a thickish memorandum book, with a stout cover of red leather, which he always carried in his pocket."
"Could you identify that book if you saw it?"
"Certainly! Besides, you would find it full of his notes and figures."
"That will do for the present, Mr. Nettleton, unless my friend here wants to examine you. No? Then recall Superintendent Hawthwaite for a moment. Superintendent, you have just heard of a certain pocket-book which belonged to the late Mayor. Was it found on his dead body, or on his desk, or anywhere, after the murder? No? Not after the most careful and thorough search? Completely disappeared? Very good. Now let us have Louisa Speck."
A smartly-dressed, self-possessed young woman came forward, and Tansley, nudging Brent, whispered that this was Mallett's parlour-maid and that things were getting deuced interesting.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PARLOUR-MAID
That the appearance of Louisa Speck in the witness-box came as something more than an intense surprise to at any rate two particular persons in that court was evident at once to Brent's watchful eye. Mrs. Mallett, a close observer of what was going on, started as her parlour-maid's name was called, and lifting her eye-glass surveyed the girl with a wondering stare of prolonged inspection. And in the dock Krevin Crood also let a start of astonishment escape him; he, too, stared at Louisa Speck, and a frown showed itself between his eyebrows, as if he were endeavouring to explain her presence to himself. Suddenly it cleared, and he indulged his fancies with a sharp laugh, and turning to Simon made some whispered observation. Simon nodded sullenly, as if he comprehended; from that point forward he kept his small eyes firmly fixed on the witness. Tansley, too, noticed these things, and bent towards his companion with a meaning glance.
"This young woman knows something!" he muttered. "And those two chaps in the dock know what it is!"
The young woman upon whom all eyes were fixed was perhaps the most self-possessed person present. She answered the preliminary questions as coolly as if she had been giving evidence in murder cases as a regular thing. Louisa Speck. Twenty-six years of age. Been in the employ of Mrs. Mallett, of the Bank House, for three years. Still in that employment, as far as she knew. What did she mean by that? Well, that Mrs. Mallett had left the house some days before, and that since yesterday afternoon Mr. Mallett had not been there, and, accordingly, neither she nor the other servants knew exactly how things stood.
"Just so," observed Meeking. "Somewhat uncertain, eh? Very well." He paused a moment, glanced at his papers, and suddenly leaned forward towards the witness-box with a sharp, direct look at its occupant. "Now then!" he said. "When did you first hear of the murder of the late Mayor, Mr. Wallingford?"
Louisa Speck's answer came promptly:
"The night it happened."
"What time—and who told you of it?"
"About nine o'clock. Robertshaw, the policeman, told me. I was at the front door, looking out on the market square, and he was going past."
"I see. So you remember that evening very well?"
"Quite well."
"Do you remember the previous evening—equally well?"
"Yes!"
"Were you at the Bank House that evening—the evening before the murder?"
"I was."
"What was going on there that evening? Anything that makes you particularly remember it?"
"Yes."
"What, now?"
"Well, Mrs. Mallett went away that day to visit her sister, Mrs. Coppinger, for a day or two. About noon Mr. Mallett told me and cook that he wanted to have some gentlemen to dinner that evening, and we were to prepare accordingly."
"I see. Sort of special dinner, eh?"
"Yes."
"Did the gentlemen come?"
"Yes."
"Who were they?"
"Mr. Coppinger and Alderman Crood."
"What time was that?"
"Between six and half-past."
"What happened after their arrival?"
"They went into the morning-room with Mr. Mallett. I took some brown sherry in there and glasses. Soon after that, Mr. Mallett went out. I was just inside the dining-room as he crossed the hall. He told me there'd very likely be another gentleman to dinner, and I must lay another cover. He went out then, and was away about ten minutes. Then he came back with Mr. Krevin Crood."
"Came back with Mr. Krevin Crood. Did you see them come in together?"
"I let them in."
"Did you hear anything said as they entered?"
"Yes, I heard Mr. Krevin Crood say that he wasn't dressed for dinner-parties. Mr. Mallett then told me to take Mr. Krevin upstairs and get him anything he wanted."
"Did you take Mr. Krevin upstairs?"
"Yes. I took him up to Mr. Mallett's dressing-room. I showed him the hot water arrangement, got him clean towels, and asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted a clean shirt, a collar, and a handkerchief."
"A handkerchief?"
"Yes, a handkerchief."
"Did you get him these things?"
"I showed him where to get them. I opened the drawers in which Mr. Mallett's shirts, collars and handkerchiefs are kept, so that he could help himself. Then I asked him if there was anything more I could get him. He said there was nothing but a clothes brush. I got him that, and left him."
"When did you see him next?"
"About twenty minutes after, when he came downstairs and went into the morning-room to the other gentlemen."
"Was he smartened up then?"
"He was smart enough—smarter than the others, I should say."
"Had he taken one of Mr. Mallett's shirts?"
"Yes, one of his very best white ones."
"Very good. Now then, talking about shirts, who looks after the laundry affairs at the Bank House?"
"I do."
"You send the linen to the laundry?"
"Yes."
"And receive it and put it away when it comes back?"
"Yes."
"Always?"
"Always!"
"When does it go, and when does it return?"
"It goes on Monday morning and comes home on Saturday afternoon."
"Do you put it away on Saturday afternoon?"
"Not finally. It goes into a hot cupboard to air. Then on Monday, some time, I put it away in the proper place—sort it out."
"I see. Do you remember sorting it out and putting away the different articles in their proper places on the Monday before this little dinner-party?"
"Yes, I do."
"Did you notice the presence of any article which didn't belong to the Mallett family?"
"Yes—at least, I was doubtful."
"Doubtful, eh? Well, what was it?"
"A gentleman's handkerchief."
"You weren't sure that it was Mr. Mallett's?"
"I wasn't sure that it wasn't. And I didn't think it was."
"Why were you uncertain?"
"Well, this wasn't like Mr. Mallett's handkerchiefs. He has dozens of them, nearly all fancy ones, with coloured borders. This was a very fine cambric handkerchief—I'd never seen one like it before. But, still, I wasn't certain that it wasn't Mr. Mallett's after all."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes when Mr. Mallett was away for the day he'd buy a spare handkerchief—he's a lot of odd handkerchiefs that he's brought home in his pockets. I thought this might have been got that way."
"You didn't mention its presence to anybody?"
"No—I didn't think of it."
"Well, what did you do with the handkerchief about which you were doubtful?"
"I laid it on top of one of several piles of handkerchiefs that were in Mr. Mallett's handkerchief drawer in the dressing-room."
"Why did you put it on top?"
"In case any inquiry was made about it from Marriners' Laundry."
"Was any inquiry made?"
"No."
"Now was that drawer you have just spoken of the drawer that you pulled open for Mr. Krevin Crood?"
"Yes."
"Was the handkerchief there then?"
"Yes, it was there!"
"You saw it?"
"I saw it."
"Have you ever seen it since?"
"Never!"
"Do you know if Mr. Krevin Crood took it out of the drawer?"
"No!"
"Did you see it in his possession that evening?"
"No! I didn't. But it wasn't in the drawer next morning."
"You are sure of that?"
"Positive. I went into Mr. Mallett's dressing-room very early next morning, and I noticed that Mr. Krevin had left the drawers half-open. The handkerchief drawer stuck a little, and I pulled it right out before pushing it in. I noticed then that the handkerchief had gone."
"Did you conclude that Mr. Krevin had taken it?"
"No, I don't think so. I didn't conclude anything. If I thought anything, it would be that Mr. Mallett had taken it. Mr. Mallett would think nothing of taking half a dozen handkerchiefs a day."
"But the handkerchief was there when you opened the drawer for Mr. Krevin that evening, and it wasn't there when you looked into the drawer next morning early? That so?"
"Yes, that's so."
"Very well! Now then, about this little dinner. Mr. Mallett had three guests, Mr. Simon Crood, Mr. Krevin Crood, Mr. Coppinger? Nobody else?"
"No; no one else."
"Was it a nice dinner?"
"It was a very good dinner."
"Wine?"
"There were several sorts of wine."
"What time was dinner?"
"About a quarter-past seven."
"And what time did the gentlemen rise from table?"
"They didn't rise from table. When dinner was over, Mr. Mallett decanted some very special port that he has in the wine-cellar, and they settled down to it round the dinner-table, talking."
"I see. Did you hear any of the conversation?"
"No, I didn't. I carried two decanters of the port into the dining-room for Mr. Mallett, and got out port glasses from the sideboard, and after that I never went into the room again."
"Until what hour did Mr. Mallett's guests remain with him?"
"Well, Alderman Crood and Mr. Krevin Crood left at about a quarter to eleven. They went away together. Mr. Coppinger stopped till about half-past eleven."
Meeking paused at this point, put his hand underneath the papers which lay in front of him and produced a cardboard box. From this, after slowly undoing various wrappings, he took the fragment of stained and charred handkerchief which had been found in the Mayor's Parlour, and passed it across to the witness.
"Take that in your hand and look at it carefully," he said. "Now, do you recognize that as part of the handkerchief to which I have been referring?"
"It's the same sort of stuff," replied Louisa. "I should say it was part of that handkerchief. It's just like it."
"Same material?—an unusual material?"
"I think it is the same handkerchief. It's an unusually broad hem—I noticed that at the time."
"To the best of your belief is that the handkerchief you've been talking about?"
"Yes," declared Louisa Speck, this time without hesitation. "It is!"
Meeking sat down and glanced at Simon Crood's solicitor. Stedman accepted the challenge and, rising, threw some scornful meaning into his first question to the witness.
"Who got you to tell all this tale?" he asked satirically. "Who got at you?"
Louisa Speck bridled.
"Nobody got at me!" she retorted. "What do you mean by such a question?"
"You don't mean to tell their Worships that you haven't been induced to come forward and tell all this?" suggested Stedman incredulously. "Come, now! Who helped you to refresh your memory, and to put all this together?"
"Nobody helped me," replied Louisa Speck, with rising indignation. "Do you think I'm not capable of doing things on my own? I can use my eyes and ears as well as you can—and perhaps better!"
"Answer my question!" said Stedman, as a laugh rose against him. "Who got you to go to the police?"
"Nobody got me to go to the police! I went to the police on my own account. I read the newspaper about what took place at the inquest—the last inquest, I mean—and as soon as I heard about the handkerchief, I knew very well that that was the one I'd noticed in our laundry, and so I went to see Mr. Hawthwaite. Mr. Hawthwaite's known what I had to tell you for a good while now."
Stedman was taken aback. But he put a definite question.
"On your oath, did you see that handkerchief in Mr. Krevin Crood's possession that night he was at Mr. Mallett's?" he asked.
"I've already told him I never did," retorted Louisa Speck, pointing at Meeking. "I didn't see him with it. But I'm very certain he got it!"
Stedman waved the witness away, and Meeking proceeded to put in the depositions taken before the Coroner in regard to the finding of the fragment of handkerchief and its ownership, and called evidence to show that the piece just produced was that which had been picked up from the hearth in the Mayor's Parlour on the evening of the murder, soon after the finding of the dead man, and to prove that it had remained in the custody of the police ever since. The fragment went the round of the bench of magistrates, and Tansley whispered to Brent that if Meeking could prove that Krevin Crood had taken that handkerchief out of Mallett's drawer, and had thrown it away on the following evening in the Mayor's Parlour, Krevin's neck was in danger.
"But there's a link missing yet," he murmured. "How did Krevin get at Wallingford? They've got to prove that! However, Meeking's evidently well primed and knows what he's after. What's coming next?"
What came next was the glancing of the barrister's eye towards a venerable, grey-bearded man who sat in the front row of spectators, leaning on a gold-headed cane. He rose as Meeking looked at him, and came slowly forward—a curious figure in those sombre surroundings.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CONNECTING WALL
From a certain amount of whispering and nodding that went on around him, Brent gathered that this ancient gentleman was not unknown to many of those present. But Tansley was turning to him, ready as always with information.
"That's old Dr. Pellery," he whispered. "Old Dr. Septimus Pellery. Tremendous big pot on antiquarianism, archæology, and that sort of stuff. Used to live here in Hathelsborough, years ago, when I was a youngster. I should have thought he was dead, long since! Wonder where they unearthed him, and what he's here for? No end of a swell, in his own line anyway."
Meeking seemed determined to impress on the court the character and extent of Dr. Pellery's qualifications as an expert in archæological matters. Addressing him in an almost reverential manner, he proceeded to enumerate the witness's distinctions.
"Dr. Pellery, you are, I believe, a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries?"
"I have that honour."
"And a member of more than one archæological society?"