The Borough Treasurer

J >> Joseph Smith Fletcher >> The Borough Treasurer

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"You don't mean to say that you suspect that queer old atomy of a
woman!" he exclaimed incredulously as they sat down to Bent's bachelor
table. "And yet--you really looked as if you did--and contrived to throw
something very like it into your voice, too! Man, alive!--half the
Highmarket wiseacres'll be sitting down to their roast mutton at this
minute in the full belief that Miss Pett strangled her master!"

"Well, and why not?" asked Brereton, coolly. "Surely, if you face facts,
there's just as much reason to suspect Miss Pett as there is to suspect
Harborough. They're both as innocent as you are, in all probability.
Granted there's some nasty evidence against Harborough, there's also the
presumption--founded on words from her own lips--that Miss Pett expects
to benefit by this old man's death. She's a strong and wiry woman, and
you tell me Kitely was getting somewhat enfeebled--she might have killed
him, you know. Murders, my dear fellow, are committed by the most
unlikely people, and for curious reasons: they have been committed by
quite respectable females--like Miss Pett--for nothing but a mere whim."

"Do you really suspect her?" demanded Bent. "That's what I want to
know."

"That's what I shan't tell you," replied Brereton, with a good-humoured
laugh. "All I shall tell you is that I believe this murder to be either
an exceedingly simple affair, or a very intricate affair. Wait a
little--wait, for instance, until Mr. Christopher Pett arrives with that
will. Then we shall advance a considerable stage."

"I'm sorry for Avice Harborough, anyway," remarked Bent, "and it's
utterly beyond me to imagine why her father can't say where he was last
night. I suppose there'd be an end of the case if he'd prove where he
was, eh?"

"He'd have to account for every minute between nine and ten o'clock,"
answered Brereton. "It would be no good, for instance, if we proved to a
jury that from say ten o'clock until five o'clock next morning,
Harborough was at--shall we say your county town, Norcaster. You may say
it would take Harborough an hour to get from here to Norcaster, and an
hour to return, and that would account for his whereabouts between nine
and ten last night, and between five and six this morning. That wouldn't
do--because, according to the evidence, Kitely left his house just
before nine o'clock, and he may have been killed immediately. Supposing
Harborough killed him at nine o'clock precisely, Harborough would even
then be able to arrive in Norcaster by ten. What we want to know, in
order to fully establish Harborough's innocence is--where was he, what
was he doing, from the moment he left his cottage last night until say a
quarter past nine, the latest moment at which, according to what the
doctor said, the murder could have been committed?"

"Off on one of his poaching expeditions, I suppose," said Bent.

"No--that's not at all likely," answered Brereton. "There's some very
strange mystery about that man, and I'll have to get at the truth of
it--in spite of his determined reticence! Bent!--I'm going to see this
thing right through! The Norcaster Assizes will be on next month, and of
course Harborough will be brought up then. I shall stop in this
neighbourhood and work out the case--it'll do me a lot of good in all
sorts of ways--experience--work--the interest in it--and the _kudos_ I
shall win if I get my man off--as I will! So I shall unashamedly ask you
to give me house-room for that time."

"Of course," replied Bent. "The house is yours--only too glad, old chap.
But what a queer case it is! I'd give something, you know, to know what
you really think about it."

"I've not yet settled in my own mind what I do think about it," said
Brereton. "But I'll suggest a few things to you which you can think over
at your leisure. What motive could Harborough have had for killing
Kitely? There's abundant testimony in the town--from his daughter, from
neighbours, from tradesmen--that Harborough was never short of
money--he's always had more money than most men in his position are
supposed to have. Do you think it likely that he'd have killed Kitely
for thirty pounds? Again--does anybody of sense believe that a man of
Harborough's evident ability would have murdered his victim so clumsily
as to leave a direct clue behind him? Now turn to another side. Is it
not evident that if Miss Pett wanted to murder Kitely she'd excellent
chances of not only doing so, but of directing suspicion to another
person? She knew her master's habits--she knew the surroundings--she
knew where Harborough kept that cord--she is the sort of person who
could steal about as quietly as a cat. If--as may be established by the
will which her nephew has, and of which, in spite of all she affirmed,
or, rather, swore, she may have accurate knowledge--she benefits by
Kitely's death, is there not motive there? Clearly, Miss Pett is to be
suspected!"

"Do you mean to tell me that she'd kill old Kitely just to get
possession of the bit he had to leave?" asked Bent incredulously. "Come,
now,--that's a stiff proposition."

"Not to me," replied Brereton. "I've known of a case in which a young
wife carefully murdered an old husband because she was so eager to get
out of the dull life she led with him that she couldn't wait a year or
two for his natural decease; I've heard of a case in which an elderly
woman poisoned her twin-sister, so that she could inherit her share of
an estate and go to live in style at Brighton. I don't want to do Miss
Pett any injustice, but I say that there are grounds for suspecting
her--and they may be widened."

"Then it comes to this," said Bent. "There are two people under
suspicion: Harborough's suspected by the police--Miss Pett's suspected
by you. And it may be, and probably is, the truth that both are entirely
innocent. In that case, who's the guilty person?"

"Ah, who indeed?" assented Brereton, half carelessly. "That is a
question. But my duty is to prove that my client is not guilty. And as
you're going to attend to your business this afternoon, I'll do a little
attending to mine by thinking things over."

When Bent had gone away to the town, Brereton lighted a cigar, stretched
himself in an easy chair in front of a warm fire in his host's
smoking-room, and tried to think clearly. He had said to Bent all that
was in his mind about Harborough and about Miss Pett--but he had said
nothing, had been determined to say nothing, about a curious thought, an
unformed, vague suspicion which was there. It was that as yet formless
suspicion which occupied all his mental powers now--he put Harborough
and Miss Pett clean away from him.

And as he sat there, he asked himself first of all--why had this curious
doubt about two apparently highly-respectable men of this little,
out-of-the-world town come into his mind? He traced it back to its first
source--Cotherstone. Brereton was a close observer of men; it was his
natural instinct to observe, and he was always giving it a further
training and development. He had felt certain as he sat at supper with
him, the night before, that Cotherstone had something in his thoughts
which was not of his guests, his daughter, or himself. His whole
behaviour suggested pre-occupation, occasional absent-mindedness: once
or twice he obviously did not hear the remarks which were addressed to
him. He had certainly betrayed some curious sort of confusion when
Kitely's name was mentioned. And he had manifested great astonishment,
been much upset, when Garthwaite came in with the news of Kitely's
death.

Now here came in what Brereton felt to be the all-important, the
critical point of this, his first attempt to think things out. He was
not at all sure that Cotherstone's astonishment on hearing Garthwaite's
announcement was not feigned, was not a piece of pure acting. Why? He
smiled cynically as he answered his own question. The answer
was--_Because when Cotherstone, Garthwaite, Bent, and Brereton set out
from Cotherstone's house to look at the dead man's body, Cotherstone led
the way straight to it_.

How did Cotherstone know exactly where, in that half-mile of wooded
hill-side, the murder had been committed of which he had only heard five
minutes before? Yet, he led them all to within a few yards of the dead
man, until he suddenly checked himself, thrust the lantern into
Garthwaite's hands and said that of course he didn't know where the body
was! Now might not that really mean, when fully analyzed, that even if
Cotherstone did not kill Kitely himself during the full hour in which
he was absent from his house he knew that Kitely had been killed, and
where--and possibly by whom?

Anyway, here were certain facts--and they had to be reckoned with.
Kitely was murdered about a quarter-past nine o'clock. Cotherstone was
out of his house from ten minutes to nine o'clock until five minutes to
ten. He was clearly excited when he returned: he was more excited when
he went with the rest of them up the wood. Was it not probable that
under the stress of that excitement he forgot his presence of mind, and
mechanically went straight to the all-important spot?

So much for that. But there was something more. Mallalieu was
Cotherstone's partner. Mallalieu went to Northrop's house to play cards
at ten o'clock. It might be well to find out, quietly, what Mallalieu
was doing with himself up to ten o'clock. But the main thing was--what
was Cotherstone doing during that hour of absence? And--had Cotherstone
any reason--of his own, or shared with his partner--for wishing to get
rid of Kitely?

Brereton sat thinking all these things over until he had finished his
cigar; he then left Bent's house and strolled up into the woods of the
Shawl. He wanted to have a quiet look round the scene of the murder. He
had not been up there since the previous evening; it now occurred to him
that it would be well to see how the place looked by daylight. There was
no difficulty about finding the exact spot, even in those close coverts
of fir and pine; a thin line of inquisitive sightseers was threading its
way up the Shawl in front of him, each of its units agog to see the
place where a fellow-being had been done to death.

But no one could get at the precise scene of the murder. The police had
roped a portion of the coppice off from the rest, and two or three
constables in uniform were acting as guards over this enclosed space,
while a couple of men in plain clothes, whom Brereton by that time knew
to be detectives from Norcaster, were inside it, evidently searching the
ground with great care. Round and about the fenced-in portion stood
townsfolk, young and old, talking, speculating, keenly alive to the
goings-on, hoping that the searchers would find something just then, so
that they themselves could carry some sensational news back to the town
and their own comfortable tea-tables. Most of them had been in or
outside the Court House that morning and recognized Brereton and made
way for him as he advanced to the ropes. One of the detectives
recognized him, too, and invited him to step inside.

"Found anything?" asked Brereton, who was secretly wondering why the
police should be so foolish as to waste time in a search which was
almost certain to be non-productive.

"No, sir--we've been chiefly making out for certain where the actual
murder took place before the dead man was dragged behind that rock,"
answered the detective. "As far as we can reckon from the disturbance of
these pine needles, the murderer must have sprung on Kitely from behind
that clump of gorse--there where it's grown to such a height--and then
dragged him here, away from that bit of a path. No--we've found
nothing. But I suppose you've heard of the find at Harborough's
cottage?"

"No!" exclaimed Brereton, startled out of his habitual composure. "What
find?"

"Some of our people made a search there as soon as the police-court
proceedings were over," replied the detective. "It was the first chance
they'd had of doing anything systematically. They found the bank-notes
which Kitely got at the Bank yesterday evening, and a quantity of
letters and papers that we presume had been in that empty pocket-book.
They were all hidden in a hole in the thatch of Harborough's shed."

"Where are they?" asked Brereton.

"Down at the police-station--the superintendent has them," answered the
detective. "He'd show you them, sir, if you care to go down."

Brereton went off to the police-station at once and was shown into the
superintendent's office without delay. That official immediately drew
open a drawer of his desk and produced a packet folded in brown paper.

"I suppose this is what you want to see, Mr. Brereton," he said. "I
guess you've heard about the discovery? Shoved away in a rat-hole in the
thatch of Harborough's shed these were, sir--upon my honour, I don't
know what to make of it! You'd have thought that a man of Harborough's
sense and cleverness would never have put these things there, where they
were certain to be found."

"I don't believe Harborough did put them there," said Brereton. "But
what are they?"

The superintendent motioned his visitor to sit by him and then opened
the papers out on his desk.

"Not so much," he answered. "Three five-pound notes--I've proved that
they're those which poor Kitely got at the bank yesterday. A number of
letters--chiefly about old books, antiquarian matters, and so
forth--some scraps of newspaper cuttings, of the same nature. And this
bit of a memorandum book, that fits that empty pocket-book we found,
with pencil entries in it--naught of any importance. Look 'em over, if
you like, Mr. Brereton. I make nothing out of 'em."

Brereton made nothing out either, at first glance. The papers were just
what the superintendent described them to be, and he went rapidly
through them without finding anything particularly worthy of notice. But
to the little memorandum book he gave more attention, especially to the
recent entries. And one of these, made within the last three months,
struck him as soon as he looked at it, insignificant as it seemed to be.
It was only of one line, and the one line was only of a few initials, an
abbreviation or two, and a date: _M. & C. v. S. B. cir. 81_. And why
this apparently innocent entry struck Brereton was because he was still
thinking as an under-current to all this, of Mallalieu and
Cotherstone--and M. and C. were certainly the initials of those not too
common names.

CHAPTER XI

CHRISTOPHER PETT

The two men sat staring silently at the paper-strewn desk for several
moments; each occupied with his own thoughts. At last the superintendent
began to put the several exhibits together, and he turned to Brereton
with a gesture which suggested a certain amount of mental impatience.

"There's one thing in all this that I can't understand, sir," he said.
"And it's this--it's very evident that whoever killed Kitely wanted the
papers that Kitely carried in that pocket-book. Why did he take 'em out
of the pocket-book and throw the pocket-book away? I don't know how that
strikes you--but it licks me, altogether!"

"Yes," agreed Brereton, "it's puzzling--certainly. You'd think that the
murderer would have carried off the pocket-book, there and then. That he
took the papers from it, threw the pocket-book itself away, and then
placed the papers--or some of them--where your people have just found
them--in Harborough's shed--seems to me to argue something which is even
more puzzling. I daresay you see what I mean?"

"Can't say that I do, sir," answered the superintendent. "I haven't had
much experience in this sort of work, you know, Mr. Brereton--it's a
good bit off our usual line. What do you mean, then?"

"Why," replied Brereton, laughing a little, "I mean this--it looks as if
the murderer had taken his time about his proceedings!--after Kitely was
killed. The pocket-book, as you know, was picked up close to the body.
It was empty--as we all saw. Now what can we infer from that but that
the murderer actually stopped by his victim to examine the papers? And
in that case he must have had a light. He may have carried an electric
torch. Let's try and reconstruct the affair. We'll suppose that the
murderer, whoever he was, was so anxious to find some paper that he
wanted, and that he believed Kitely to have on him, that he immediately
examined the contents of the pocket-book. He turned on his electric
torch and took all the papers out of the pocket-book, laying the
pocket-book aside. He was looking through the papers when he heard a
sound in the neighbouring coppices or bushes. He immediately turned off
his light, made off with the papers, and left the empty case--possibly
completely forgetting its existence for the moment. How does that strike
you--as a theory?"

"Very good, sir," replied the superintendent. "Very good--but it is only
a theory, you know, Mr. Brereton."

Brereton rose, with another laugh.

"Just so," he said. "But suppose you try to reduce it to practice? In
this way--you no doubt have tradesmen in this town who deal in such
things as electric torches. Find out--in absolute secrecy--if any of
them have sold electric torches of late to any one in the town, and if
so, to whom. For I'm certain of this--that pocket-book and its contents
was examined on the spot, and that examination could only have been made
with a light, and an electric torch would be the handiest means of
providing that light. And so--so you see how even a little clue like
that might help, eh?"

"I'll see to it," assented the superintendent. "Well, it's all very
queer, sir, and I'm getting more than ever convinced that we've laid
hands on the wrong man. And yet--what could, and what can we do?"

"Oh, nothing, at present," replied Brereton. "Let matters develop.
They're only beginning."

He went away then, not to think about the last subject of conversation,
but to take out his own pocket-book as soon as he was clear of the
police-station, and to write down that entry which he had seen in
Kitely's memoranda:--_M. & C. v. S. B. cir. 81_. And again he was struck
by the fact that the initials were those of Mallalieu and Cotherstone,
and again he wondered what they meant. They might have no reference
whatever to the Mayor and his partner--but under the circumstances it
was at any rate a curious coincidence, and he had an overwhelming
intuition that something lay behind that entry. But--what?

That evening, as Bent and his guest were lighting their cigars after
dinner, Bent's parlour-maid came into the smoking-room with a card. Bent
glanced from it to Brereton with a look of surprise.

"Mr. Christopher Pett!" he exclaimed. "What on earth does he want me
for? Bring Mr. Pett in here, anyway," he continued, turning to the
parlour-maid. "Is he alone?--or is Miss Pett with him?"

"The police-superintendent's with him, sir," answered the girl. "They
said--could they see you and Mr. Brereton for half an hour, on
business?"

"Bring them both in, then," said Bent. He looked at Brereton again, with
more interrogation. "Fresh stuff, eh?" he went on. "Mr. Christopher
Pett's the old dragon's nephew, I suppose. But what can he want
with--oh, well, I guess he wants you--I'm the audience."

Brereton made no reply. He was watching the door. And through it
presently came a figure and face which he at once recognized as those of
an undersized, common-looking, sly-faced little man whom he had often
seen about the Law Courts in London, and had taken for a solicitor's
clerk. He looked just as common and sly as ever as he sidled into the
smoking-room, removing his silk hat with one hand and depositing a brief
bag on the table with the other, and he favoured Brereton with a sickly
grin of recognition after he had made a bow to the master of the house.
That done he rubbed together two long and very thin white hands and
smiled at Brereton once more.

"Good-evening, Mr. Brereton," he said in a thin, wheedling voice. "I've
no doubt you've seen me before, sir?--I've seen you often--round about
the Courts, Mr. Brereton--though I've never had the pleasure of putting
business in your way--as yet, Mr. Brereton, as yet, sir! But----"

Brereton, to whom Bent had transferred Mr. Christopher Pett's card,
glanced again at it, and from it to its owner.

"I see your address is that of Messrs. Popham & Pilboody in Cursitor
Street, Mr. Pett," he observed frigidly. "Any connection with that
well-known firm?"

Mr. Pett rubbed his hands, and taking the chair which Bent silently
indicated, sat down and pulled his trousers up about a pair of bony
knees. He smiled widely, showing a set of curiously shaped teeth.

"Mr. Popham, sir," he answered softly, "has always been my very good
friend. I entered Mr. Popham's service, sir, at an early age. Mr.
Popham, sir, acted very handsomely by me. He gave me my articles, sir.
And when I was admitted--two years ago, Mr. Brereton--Messrs. Popham &
Pilboody gave me--very generously--an office in their suite, so that I
could have my name up, and do a bit on my own, sir. Oh yes!--I'm
connected--intimately--with that famous firm, Mr. Brereton!"

There was an assurance about Mr. Pett, a cocksureness of demeanour, a
cheerful confidence in himself, which made Brereton long to kick him;
but he restrained his feelings and said coldly that he supposed Mr. Pett
wished to speak to Mr. Bent and himself on business.

"Not on my own business, sir," replied Pett, laying his queer-looking
white fingers on his brief bag. "On the business of my esteemed feminine
relative, Miss Pett. I am informed, Mr. Brereton--no offence, sir, oh,
none whatever!--that you put some--no doubt necessary--questions to
Miss Pett at the court this morning which had the effect of prejudicing
her in the eyes--or shall we say ears?--of those who were present. Miss
Pett accordingly desires that I, as her legal representative, should
lose no time in putting before you the true state of the case as regards
her relations with Kitely, deceased, and I accordingly, sir, in the
presence of our friend, the superintendent, whom I have already spoken
to outside, desire to tell you what the truth is. Informally, you
understand, Mr. Brereton, informally!"

"Just as you please," answered Brereton. "All this is, as you say,
informal."

"Quite informal, sir," agreed Pett, who gained in cheerfulness with
every word. "Oh, absolutely so. Between ourselves, of course. But it'll
be all the pleasanter if you know. My aunt, Miss Pett, naturally does
not wish, Mr. Brereton, that any person--hereabouts or elsewhere--should
entertain such suspicions of her as you seemed--I speak, sir, from
information furnished--to suggest, in your examination of her today. And
so, sir, I wish to tell you this. I acted as legal adviser to the late
Mr. Kitely. I made his will. I have that will in this bag. And--to put
matters in a nutshell, Mr. Brereton--there is not a living soul in this
world who knows the contents of that will but--your humble and
obedient!"

"Do you propose to communicate the contents of the late Mr. Kitely's
will to us?" asked Brereton, drily.

"I do, sir," replied Mr. Pett. "And for this reason. My relative--Miss
Pett--does not know what Mr. Kitely's profession had been, nor what Mr.
Kitely died possessed of. She does not know--anything! And she will not
know until I read this will to her after I have communicated the gist of
it to you. And I will do that in a few words. The late Mr. Kitely, sir,
was an ex-member of the detective police force. By dint of economy and
thrift he had got together a nice little property--house-property, in
London--Brixton, to be exact. It is worth about one hundred and fifty
pounds per annum. And--to cut matters short--he has left it absolutely
to Miss Pett. I myself, Mr. Brereton, am sole executor. If you desire to
see the will, sir, you, or Mr. Bent, or the superintendent, are at
liberty to inspect it."

Brereton waved the proffered document aside and got up from his chair.

"No, thank you, Mr. Pett," he said. "I've no desire to see Mr. Kitely's
will. I quite accept all that you say about it. You, as a lawyer, know
very well that whatever I asked Miss Pett this morning was asked in the
interests of my client. No--you can put the will away as far as I'm
concerned. You've assured me that Miss Pett is as yet in ignorance of
its contents, and--I take your word. I think, however, that Miss Pett
won't be exactly surprised."

"Oh, I daresay my aunt has a pretty good idea, Mr. Brereton," agreed
Pett, who having offered the will to both Bent and the superintendent,
only to meet with a polite refusal from each, now put it back in his
bag. "We all of us have some little idea which quarter the wind's in,
you know, sir, in these cases. Of course, Kitely, deceased, had no
relatives, Mr. Brereton: in fact, so far as Miss Pett and self are
aware, beyond ourselves, he'd no friends."

"I was going to ask you a somewhat pertinent question, Mr. Pett," said
Brereton. "Quite an informal one, you know. Do you think he had any
enemies?"

Pett put his long white fingers together and inclined his head to one
side. His slit of a mouth opened slightly, and his queer teeth showed
themselves in a sly grin.

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