The Charing Cross Mystery - J. S. Fletcher (ereader with android .txt) 📗

rate, with Mrs. Keeley. Hetherwick went straight to the matter that had brought him.

“That print of a woman’s photograph which your grandfather had in his pocketbook,” he said, “and that’s now in mine. Out of what paper did he cut it?⁠—a newspaper, evidently.”

“Yes, but I don’t know what paper,” answered Rhona. “All I know is that it was a paper which he got by post, the morning that he left Sellithwaite. We were just leaving for the station when the post came. He put his letters and papers⁠—there were several things⁠—in his overcoat pocket, and opened them in the train. It was somewhere on the way to London that he cut out that picture. He threw the paper away⁠—with others. He had a habit of buying a lot of papers, and used to cut out paragraphs.”

“Well⁠—I suppose it can be traced,” muttered Hetherwick, thinking aloud. He glanced at the evidences of Rhona’s departure. “So you’re going to live with your aunt?” he said.

“For a time⁠—yes,” she answered.

“I hope you’ll let me call?” suggested Hetherwick. “I’m awfully interested in this affair, and I may be able to tell you something about it.”

“We’d be pleased,” she replied. “I’ll give you the address. I don’t intend to be idle though⁠—unless you call in the evening, you’ll probably find me out.”

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.

“I think of going in for secretarial work,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I had a training for that, in Sellithwaite. Typewriting, correspondence, accounts, French, German⁠—I’m pretty well equipped.”

“Don’t think me inquisitive,” said Hetherwick, suddenly. “I hope your grandfather hasn’t forgotten you in his will⁠—I heard he’d left one!”

“Thank you,” replied Rhona. “He hasn’t. He left me everything. I’ve got about three hundred a year⁠—rather more. But that’s no reason why I should sit down, and do nothing, is it?”

“Good!” said Hetherwick. “But⁠—if that sealed packet could be found? What was worth a hundred thousand to him, would be worth a hundred thousand to his sole legatee. Worth finding!”

“I wonder if anything will be found?” she answered. “The whole thing’s a mystery that I’m not even on the edge of solving.”

“Time!” said Hetherwick. “And⁠—patience.”

He went away presently, and strolled round to Brick Court, where Kenthwaite had his chambers.

“Doing anything?” he asked, as he walked in.

“Nothing,” replied Kenthwaite. “Go ahead!”

Hetherwick sat down, and lighted his pipe.

“You know Sellithwaite, don’t you?” he asked when he had got his tobacco well going. “Your town, eh?”

“Born and bred there, and engaged to a girl there,” replied Kenthwaite. “Ought to! What about Sellithwaite?”

“Were you there ten years ago?” demanded Hetherwick.

“Ten years ago? No⁠—except in the holidays. I was at school ten years ago. Why?”

“Do you remember any police case at Sellithwaite about that time in which a very handsome woman was concerned⁠—probably as defendant?”

“No! But I was more interested in cricket than in crime, in those days. Are you thinking about the woman Hannaford spoke of in the train to the chap they can’t come across?”

“I am! Seems to me there’s more in that than the police think.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. Let’s see: Hannaford spoke of that woman as⁠—what?”

“Said she’d been through his hands, ten years ago.”

“Well, that’s easy! If she was through Hannaford’s hands, as Superintendent of Police, ten years ago, that would be at Sellithwaite. And there’ll be records, particulars, and so on at Sellithwaite.”

Hetherwick nodded, and smoked in silence for awhile.

“Think I shall go down there,” he said at last.

Kenthwaite stared, wonderingly.

“Keen as all that!” he exclaimed.

“Queer business!” said Hetherwick. “Like to solve it.”

“Oh, well, it’s only a four hours’ run from King’s Cross,” observed Kenthwaite. “Interesting town, too. Old as the hills and modern as they make ’em. Excellent hotel⁠—White Bear. And I’ll tell you what, my future’s brother is a solicitor there⁠—Michael Hollis. I’ll give you a letter of introduction to him, and he’ll show you round and give you any help you need.”

“Good man!” said Hetherwick. “Write it!”

Kenthwaite sat down and wrote, and handed over the result.

“What do you want to find out, exactly?” he asked, as Hetherwick thanked him, and rose to go.

“All about the woman, and why Hannaford cut her picture out of the paper,” answered Hetherwick. “Well⁠—see you when I get back.”

He went off to his own chambers, packed a bag, and drove to King’s Cross to catch the early afternoon train for the North. At half-past seven that evening he found himself in Sellithwaite, a grey, smoke-laden town set in the midst of bleak and rugged hills, where the folk⁠—if the railway officials were anything to go by⁠—spoke a dialect which, to Hetherwick’s southern ears, sounded like some barbaric language. But the White Bear, in which he was presently installed, yielded all the comforts and luxuries of a first-class hotel: the dining-room, into which Hetherwick turned as soon as he had booked his room, seemed to be thronged by a thoroughly cosmopolitan crowd of men; he heard most of the principal European languages being spoken⁠—later, he found that his fellow-guests were principally Continental business men, buyers, intent on replenishing exhausted stocks from the great warehouses and manufactories of Sellithwaite. All this was interesting, nor was he destined to spend the remainder of his evening in contemplating it from a solitary corner, for he had scarcely eaten his dinner when a hall-porter came to tell him that Mr. Hollis was asking for Mr. Hetherwick.

Hetherwick hastened into the lounge, and found a keen-faced, friendly-eyed man of forty or thereabouts stretching out a hand to him.

“Kenthwaite wired me this afternoon that you were coming down, and asked me to look you up here,” he said. “I’d have asked you to dine with me, but I’ve been kept at my office until just now, and again, I live a good many miles out of town. But tomorrow night⁠—”

“You’re awfully good,” replied Hetherwick. “I’d no idea that Kenthwaite was wiring. He gave me a letter of introduction to you, but I suppose he thought I wanted to lose no time. And I don’t, and I dare say you can tell