The Mill House Murder

J. S. Fletcher

Description

It tells of the murder of James Martenroyde, a Yorkshire mill-owner who is about to marry for the second time. His body is found one night near his own home. Suspicion falls on his nephew and the latter's mother. Certainly there was something very strange about their house. Why was it so carefully locked up and what did the detective find there when he broke in? Above all, why was the old woman servant of that house found murdered in exactly the same manner as Mr. Martenroyde? The solution of this ingenious mystery is startling and exciting, satisfactorily completing a singularly well-written thriller in which all the characters are interesting and colorful.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective
• Private Investigators

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 08 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774643693
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Mill House Murder
by J. S. Fletcher

First published in 1937
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
J. S. FLETCHER’S
last detective story
has all the suspense, exciting action, and shrewd deductionthat made Mr. Fletcher (in Will Cuppy’swords) “the dean of mystery writers.”
It tells of the murder of James Martenroyde, aYorkshire mill-owner who is about to marry for thesecond time. His body is found one night near hisown home. Suspicion falls on his nephew and thelatter’s mother. Certainly there was something verystrange about their house. Why was it so carefullylocked up and what did the detective find there whenhe broke in? Above all, why was the old woman servantof that house found murdered in exactly the samemanner as Mr. Martenroyde? The solution of thisingenious mystery is startling and exciting, satisfactorilycompleting a singularly well-written thriller inwhich all the characters are interesting and colorful.
This excellent detective story was left not quitefinished on Mr. Fletcher’s death last year. It has beencompleted by “Torquemada” (the brilliant mysterycritic of the London Observer ) so successfully thatfew, if any, readers will be able to detect whereFletcher ends and “Torquemada” begins.
“THE WORLD’S
MOST FAMOUS MYSTERY STORY WRITER,”

says The Saturday Review of Literature
THE MILL HOUSE MURDER


BEING THE LAST OF THE ADVENTURES
OF RONALD CAMBERWELL



by J. S. Fletcher

TO
THE WOODS OF THRESHFIELD
AND
THE WOODS OF BURNSALL

CHAPTER I MRS. JOHN MARTENROYDE
It was in the winter following the resumption of myassociations with my old firm (formerly called Camberwell& Chaney, but now styled Chaney & Chippendale)that on walking into our Jermyn Street office one Januarymorning I found Chaney knitting his brows over a letterwhich he presently passed across to me.
“This seems to be something in your line, Camberwell,”he remarked. “Perhaps you’ll attend to it? Thegentleman appears to want us to do some work for himin London, but to go all the way to Yorkshire for instructions.I can’t go, nor can Chippendale. You’re the travellingman—you take it on.”
I sat down at my desk and read the letter, which waswritten on a big sheet of letter paper in a bold, masculinehand of a somewhat rudimentary sort—my idea was thatthe writer was not much given to the use of his pen. Andthis is what I read:

Todmanhawe Grange
Shipton, Yorkshire
Jan. 24th, 19—
Messrs. Chaney & Chippendale
Jermyn St., W. 1
Dear Sirs ,—I have some business that I want attendingto in London; business of a very private and confidentialnature, and having had your firm highlyrecommended to me by a London friend, I should beglad if you could undertake said business. As I shallnot be able to go to London at present, and the businessis urgent, I shall be obliged if you can send oneof your firm down here to take my instructions, as soonas possible after your receipt of this letter. For yourinformation I had better tell you how to reach thisplace. If your representative would take the 12 o’clocktrain from St. Pancras Station, London, to Leeds, hewould arrive there at 3.52, and after changing wouldcatch the 4.07 to Shipton, where my car would meethim at 4.43. As already said, I should like to see yourrepresentative as soon as possible and to offer himevery hospitality during his visit here.
Yours truly,
James Martenroyde
Then followed a characteristic addition.

PS. As you may not know my name, I may state that Iam the sole proprietor of Todmanhawe Mills, and thatmy bankers are the Shipton Old Bank, Ltd. My Londonoffice is 59a, Gresham Street, E.C.
It was not the way of our firm to make delay in anything,and after sending off a telegram to Mr. JamesMartenroyde, informing him that Mr. Ronald Camberwell,of Chaney & Chippendale, would be at Shipton at4.43 that afternoon, I picked up the suitcase which Ialways kept ready packed for any emergency and set offto St. Pancras. And some five hours later I stepped outof a warm first-class carriage on to the wind-swept platformof Shipton station and shivered in recognition ofthe wintry landscape of which for the last twenty milesI had been getting glimpses in the rapidly gathering dusk.
A smartly liveried young chauffeur came along theplatform, eyeing the various passengers who had left thetrain. He spotted me and my suitcase and came forward.
“Mr. Camberwell, sir? From Mr. Martenroyde, sir.This way, sir—the car’s outside.”
Seizing my suitcase, he led the way over a bridge anddown the opposite platform to the exit from the station.There stood a handsome limousine, one of the most expensiveof the luxury makes—capacious enough to carrya small family. Opening one of the doors, the chauffeurushered me inside, installed me in a thickly cushionedcorner, and drew a rug over my knees.
“Beg your pardon, sir, but you won’t mind if we giveMr. Martenroyde’s sister-in-law a lift back?” he asked ashe tucked me up. “Mrs. John Martenroyde, sir. She’s inthe town and as she lives close by our place—”
“Oh, of course,” I replied. “By all means. Is the ladyhere?”
“No, sir—pick her up in the market place. All right,sir?”
I assured him that I was very comfortable, and afterswitching on the electric light above my head, hemounted his seat and drove off. It was now almost dark,and I could see little of the town through which we drove—therewas a long street, flanked on one side by greatbuildings which I took to be mills or workshops, all brilliantlylighted, and at the end of it a long, wide spacewhich I set down as the market square of which my driverhad just spoken. There were crowds of people on thepavements there, and between the pavements and theroadway were rows of canopied stalls on which all sortsof merchandise lay displayed—this, I concluded, must bea market-day at Shipton. Half-way along the square, thecar drew up before the front of an old-fashioned, bow-windowedhotel, the lower casements of which wereveiled by red blinds. The chauffeur dismounted andwalked into the open door; following his movementsalong the wide hall within, I saw him turn into one ofthe rooms. But he was out again at once, and turninginto another; evidently he knew where to look for thelady he was expecting. Presently he came out to the carand opened the door.
“Not here yet, sir,” he said. “Doing a bit of shopping,I expect. I’ll just look round for her, sir—I know whereshe’s likely to be.”
He turned off towards a row of shops, and thinkingthat he might be some time in finding my prospectivefellow-traveller, I got out of the car and looked about me.I had never been in that part of the country before—this,I concluded, was doubtless a typical Dale town. That itwas in the heart of the pastoral country which lies betweenthe Yorkshire hills and the Lancashire border Iknew; that I was a couple of hundred miles from LondonI soon recognized by hearing the speech of the folk whopassed me or gathered about the stalls. I was taking allthis in when the chauffeur came back, alone.
“Can’t see her yet, sir,” he said. “But she can’t be long.Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I’m in no hurry. You’renot a Yorkshireman, I think?”
“Londoner, sir,” he answered. “Mr. Martenroydebrought me up here when he bought this car at the showat Olympia, two years ago.”
“Like these people?” I asked.
He smiled at the question.
“They’re all right, sir—when you get to know them,”he answered. “Bit queer, sir—to us southerners, at first.Couldn’t understand their lingo when I first came here,but I know it pretty well now. Here’s Mrs. John, sir.”
I turned—to see a tall, finely built woman, warmlywrapped in a magnificent fur coat, bearing down uponus. In the glow of light from the street lamps and fromthe naphtha flares which hung above the stalls, I had agood view of her as she came up. She was apparently betweenfifty and sixty years of age, still uncommonly good-lookingand with much of the fire of youth still shiningfrom her dark, keen eyes; and from the sharp, questioninglook which she gave me, taking me all in as she drewnear, I saw that she was a woman of perception andcharacter.
“Good evening,” she said, as I drew aside from theopen door of the car and raised my hat. “I’m sorry to keepyou waiting. Orris,” she continued, turning to the chauffeur,“just stop at Simpson’s, top of the market place, andgo in and ask for a parcel for Mrs. John Martenroyde—youcan put it in the front seat. And that’s all.”
She stepped into the car, and I followed; Orris spreadthe rugs over our knees, and we moved off. At the top ofthe square Orris pulled up again and vanished into a dry-goodsshop; presently he came out carrying a bulky parcel.Mrs. J