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

if Hannaford, after seeing the reproduction, had got into touch with her or given information about her. To the man in the train Hannaford had remarked that he had said nothing about her until that evening⁠—yes, but was that man the only man to whom he had spoken? So much for that⁠—and the next thing was to find out somehow what had become of the sealed packet which Hannaford undoubtedly had on him when he went out of Malter’s Hotel on the night of his death. VII Black Velvet

Next morning, and before calling on either Kenthwaite or Rhona Hannaford, Hetherwick set out on a tour of the fashionable photographers in the West End of London. After all, there were not so many of them, so many at any rate of the very famous ones. He made a hit and began to work methodically. His first few coverts were drawn blank, but just before noon, and as he was thinking of knocking off for lunch, he started his fox. In a palatial establishment in Bond Street the person to whom he applied, showing his picture, gave an immediate smile of recognition.

“You want to know who is the original of this?” he said. “Certainly! Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking.”

Hetherwick had no deep acquaintance with Debrett nor with Burke, nor even with the list of peers, baronets and knights given in the ordinary reference books, and to him the name of Lady Riversreade was absolutely unknown⁠—he had never heard of her. But the man to whom he had shown the print, and who now held it in his hand, seemed to consider that Lady Riversreade was, or should be, as well known to everybody as she evidently was to him.

“This print is from one of our photographs of Lady Riversreade,” he said, turning to a side table in the reception-room in which they were standing and picking up a framed portrait. “This one.”

“Then you probably know in what newspaper this print appeared?” suggested Hetherwick. “That’s really what I’m desirous of finding out.”

“Oh, it appeared in several,” answered the photographer. “Recently. It was about the time that Lady Riversreade opened some home or institute⁠—I forget what. There was an account of it in the papers, and naturally her portrait was reproduced.”

Hetherwick made a plausible prearranged excuse for his curiosity, and went away. Lady Riversreade!⁠—evidently some woman of rank, or means, or position. But was she identical with the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago⁠—the Mrs. Whittingham who did the Sellithwaite jeweller out of a necklace worth nearly four thousand pounds and cleverly escaped arrest at the hands of Hannaford? And if so⁠ ⁠…

But that led to indefinite vistas; the main thing at present was to find out all that could be found out about Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking. Hetherwick could doubtless have obtained considerable information from the fashionable photographer, but he had carefully refrained from showing too much inquisitiveness. Moreover, he knew a man, one Boxley, a fellow club-member, who was always fully posted up in all the doings of the social and fashionable world and could, if he would, tell him everything about Lady Riversreade⁠—that was, if there was anything to tell about her. Boxley was one of those bachelor men about town who went everywhere, knew everybody, and kept himself fully informed; he invariably lunched at this particular club, the Junior Megatherium, and thither Hetherwick presently proceeded, bent on finding him.

He was fortunate in running Boxley to earth almost as soon as he entered the sacred and exclusive portals. Boxley was lunching and there was no one else at his table. Hetherwick joined him, and began the usual small talk about nothing in particular. But he soon came to his one point.

“Look here!” he said, at a convenient interval. “I want to ask you something. You know everybody and everything. Who is Lady Riversreade, who’s recently opened some home or institution, or hospital or something?”

“One of the richest women in England!” replied Boxley promptly. “Worth a couple of millions or so. That’s who she is⁠—who she was, I don’t know. Don’t suppose anybody else does, either. In this country, anyhow.”

“What, is she a foreigner, then?” asked Hetherwick. “I’ve seen her portrait in the papers⁠—that’s why I asked you who she is. Doesn’t look foreign, I think.”

“I can tell you all that is known about her,” said Boxley, “and that’s not much. She’s the widow of old Sir John Riversreade, the famous contractor⁠—the man who made a pot of money building railways, and dams across big rivers, and that sort of thing, and got a knighthood for it. He also built himself a magnificent place near Dorking, and called it Riversreade Court⁠—just the type of place a modern millionaire would build. Now, old Sir John had been a bachelor all his life, until he was over sixty⁠—no time for anything but his contracts, you know. But when he was about sixty-five, which would be some six or seven years ago, he went over to the United States and made a rather lengthy stay there. And when he returned he brought a wife with him⁠—the lady you’re inquiring about.”

“American, then?” suggested Hetherwick.

“Well, he married her over there, certainly,” said Boxley. “But I should say she isn’t American.”

“You’ve met her⁠—personally?”

“Just. Run across her once or twice at various affairs, and been introduced to her, quite casually. No, I don’t think she’s American. If I wanted to label her, I should say she was cosmopolitan.”

“Woman of the world, eh?”

“Decidedly so. Handsome woman⁠—self-possessed⁠—self-assured⁠—smart, clever. I think she’ll know how to take care of the money her husband left her.”

“Leave her everything?”

“Every penny!⁠—except some inconsiderable legacies to charitable institutions. It was said at the time⁠—it’s two years since the old chap died⁠—that she’s got over two millions.”

“And this institution, or whatever it is?”

“Oh, that! That was in the papers not so long since.”

“I’m no great reader of newspapers. What about it?”

“Oh, she’s started a home for wounded officers near Riversreade Court.