The Bedford Row Mystery

J. S. Fletcher

Description

Henry Marchmont is a prosperous and respectable solicitor with an uneventful past. However, one night he is found murdered in his London home. The scanty clues seem to poin to a mysterious Mr Landale, who has met the solicitor on the very day of his death, for the first time in twenty-five years. But the detective and young Richard Marchmont soon discover that there is a triangle of financial intrigue to unravel before the truth can be learned, and that not one suspicious character, but several, have been lurking near Mr Marchmont's home at the hour of the crime!
Slowly the police start to wring startling and incriminating confessions from a cold-hearted assistant clerk, from another lawyer, from a woman, and from a millionaire recluse, until amazing facts eventually emerge...

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Fiction
• Mystery
• Detective
• Private Investigators

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642832
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Bedford Row Mystery
by J. S. Fletcher

First published in 1925
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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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.

The Bedford Row Mystery



by J. S. Fletcher

I——Called to Remembrance
Bedford Row, on the western edge of Gray’sInn, is well known to all Londoners as beingchiefly the business abode of limbs of thelaw; a severely respectable street of Georgianhouses in age-coloured red brick; quiet,sombre, disdainful of change. Law is practisedin nearly every one of its tall doorways;the rooms to which they admit smell ofparchment and sealing-wax; the men whocome out of them or hurry into them carrybrief-bags, or bundles of papers tied aboutwith red-tape; you may feel confident, ifyou chance to pace along the pavements,that nine out of ten of the individuals youencounter are connected in some way withlegal processes—law, in short, is the life-businessof Bedford Row, and there are fewpeople entering it who are not there as eitherplaintiffs or defendants or as agents or witnessesfor one or the other.
Nevertheless there are people who go intoBedford Row in pursuit of something otherthan law, and a young man who turned itscorner at noon one October day certainlydid not look as if he wanted to serve somebodywith a writ, or had just been servedwith one himself. He was a well-built,athletic fellow of twenty-five or so, whosebronzed cheeks, clear eyes, and alert expressionbetokened a love of and close acquaintanceshipwith outdoor life; and had therebeen anybody about who knew him theycould have told you that he was RichardMarchmont, well known on the leadingEnglish cricket grounds as one of the bestall-round amateurs of the Middlesex CountyEleven, and that he was scarcely less eminentas an exponent of Rugby football. He wasof the sort that loathes gloves and overcoats,and though the October air was keen thatmorning he wore neither, and his suit of greytweed and soft cap to match made a contrastto the black-coated law folk againstwhom he rubbed shoulders. It was not oftenthat Richard Marchmont walked into BedfordRow; its character and atmosphere hadno charm for him, used as he was to the levelgreens of the playing-fields. Yet he had aclose connection with the place. At thefarther end of the street, in one of the oldestand largest houses, lived his uncle, Mr. HenryMarchmont, sole surviving partner in thefirm of Fosdyke, Cletherton, & Marchmont,Solicitors. Mr. Henry Marchmont was anold-fashioned solicitor, and an old-fashionedman. Being a confirmed bachelor, he livedabove his offices, in a suite of rooms whichhe had arranged and furnished—long since—inaccordance with his own taste. Therehe was occasionally visited by his nephew,who preferred to live in another quarter ofthe town, in a smart flat in Jermyn Street,close to his favourite club, the Olympic, everymember of which was a figure of note in theathletic world. Richard, wealthy himself,used to wonder what made his uncle, equallywealthy, tie his life down to the sombrenessof Bedford Row when he might have had aproper establishment in the West End. Henry,teased on this point, always declared that heset his own neighbourhood high above eitherMayfair or Belgravia, and the pavementbefore his front door to the flags of PallMall; he had taken root there, he said, andnothing should pull him up.
Henry Marchmont was at his front door, or,rather, on the broad, well-scoured step of itas Richard came along. He was a tall, fine-lookingman, well and sturdily built, fresh-coloured,blue-eyed, silver-haired, very particularabout his personal appearance. Helooked very distinguished as he stood therenow, in his smart black morning coat, hisfamiliar monocle screwed into his right eye,bending down from the step to talk withtwo women who stood on the pavement, andwhom Richard took for clients that Henryhad seen to the door. Richard knew enoughof his uncle and his habits to know that thatwas an honour the old lawyer accorded tofew of his visitors, and he looked more closelyat the women. He decided that they werethe sort of women of whom one says at oncethat they have seen better days; theirclothes looked as if they were usually laid upin lavender and only brought out on veryspecial occasions. Richard knew—from amore or less diligent reading of backnumbers of Punch —that the style and cutof their garments was after the fashion oftwenty years before. But just then HenryMarchmont caught sight of his nephew andbeckoned him to approach. He drew theattention of the two women to him with asmile.
“You don’t know this chap!” he saidjocularly. “Chip of the old block, though!This is John’s boy—Richard.”
The elder of the two women held out agloved hand. Richard noticed that the glovewas carefully darned.
“You don’t say so, Mr. Henry!” sheexclaimed. “Dear me!—yes, I see the likenessto his father. Mr. Richard Marchmont.Ah! My sister and I knew your father well,sir, in the old days.”
“This lady is Mrs. Mansiter, Dick; this,Miss Sanderthwaite,” said Henry Marchmont.“As Mrs. Mansiter says, they knew yourfather in the old days. Long before youwere born, my lad!”
Richard made some remark—what, hescarcely knew. He remembered very littleof his father, Henry’s elder brother, and hewas wondering when and where John Marchmonthad known these ladies, each so faded,so reminiscent of the past. He looked atthem curiously; although they were sistersthere was a difference between them. Mrs.Mansiter was a somewhat comfortable, placidsort of person—the sort of woman who gavethe idea of a too-ready acceptance of thingsas they came along; her manner and toneindicated acquiescence. But her sister, thin,wiry, old-maid in every look and movement,struck Richard as one in whom hidden firesmight be concealed; there was still a burningvitality in her deep-sunken black eyes; aflash came from them as she turned to inspecthim. Once, he was quick to see, thishad been a handsome woman, perhaps abeauty. And he began to wonder whattragedy lay behind the old-fashioned clothesand under the queer old hats of these two,who looked like ships of a century ago,washed out of some backwater. . . .
“Oh, yes, long before he was born!” Mrs.Mansiter was saying. “Oh, yes, time willfly, Mr. Henry! And we must fly too,sister——”
When they had gone, with old-fashionedbows and smiles, Henry Marchmont lookedafter them and shook his head.
“Knew those two when your father and Iwere boys, Dick!” he said. “They were ofsome consequence in the world, in our part,in those days—their family, I mean. Now,those two poor old things keep a boarding-housein Bloomsbury! Egad!—I rememberthe time when the younger one, Cora Sanderthwaite,used to ride to hounds—she wasa fine horsewoman and always well horsedtoo. Well, well!—and how are you, myboy?”
“All right, thanks; no need to ask howyou are,” replied Richard. “You alwayslook in the best of condition. I dropped into see if you’d lunch with me?”
“I will, my boy—but I won’t go up West,”answered Henry. “Too far off—I’m busythis afternoon. I’ll go round to the Holbornwith you, though. But come in a minute—Imust just speak to Simpson.”
He led the way into the house, with thearrangements of which Richard was thoroughlyfamiliar. It had been a family mansiona hundred and fifty years before; theresidence, no doubt, of some rich City merchant,and Henry Marchmont, a lover of theantique, had always since his coming to itkept a careful eye on its upkeep and preservation.There was a fine, if dark, panelledhall on the lower floor, and fine rooms oneither side; the staircase was of rare woodand the mouldings of the ceilings and fireplacesof singular artistic quality; the upperfloors, in which Henry had his private residence,were similarly panelled and decorated.Richard knew that his uncle was prouder ofthe whole place than he ever admitted. Itwas, indeed, impossible for Henry Marchmontto cross the hall or climb the stairs withouta lingering glance of admiration at thepolish of one or the carving of the other;he and the old house, he always said, justfitted.
Henry led his nephew into his private officeand rang a bell that stood on his desk. Aman whom Richard knew as HemingwaySimpson, managing clerk, and whom, forsome unexplainable reason, he cordiallydetested, put his head in at the door. Hewas a sharp-nosed, ferret-eyed man, whosenaturally somewhat supercilious air washeightened by his pince-nez spectacles; toRichard he always conveyed the impressionof being both prig and sneak. But he knewthat his uncle had the greatest belief in Simpson’sabilities as a solicitor and relied firmlyon his advice.
“Oh, Simpson!” said Henry, as theclerk silently looked his attention. “I’vebeen thinking over that matter we spoke ofthis morning. I think it’ll be best, wisest,if I see the fellow alone—he’ll probably talkmore freely if there’s no other person present.What do you think?”
“It might be more advisable, certainly,Mr. Marchmont,” replied the clerk. “Ifhe thinks you have me here on purpose——”
“That’s just it!” interrupted Henry.“He would! All right, Simpson—I’ll seehim alone, then—I shall get more out of him,no doubt. So you needn’t stay, you know.Now, Dick,” he went on, as the clerk’s headwas withdrawn, “that’s all. At your service,my lad—and I can give you just an hour anda half. Got an important appointment hereat three o’clock, and it’s one now. Comealong!”
He chattered about anything and nothingas they walked together to the HolbornRestaurant, and turned to no particularsubject across the luncheon table. But later,in a quiet corner, over a cigar and coffee, hesuddenly turned to his nephew with a look ofconfidence.
“Dick, my boy!”