The Borough Treasurer

"He wasn't taken, your Worship," replied the man. "Leastways, not in what you'd call the proper way. He came back to his house half an hour or so ago—when it was just getting nicely light—and two of our men that were there told him what was going on, and he appeared to come straight down with them. He says he knows naught, your Worship."

"That's what you'd expect," remarked Mallalieu, drily. "He'd be a fool if he said aught else."

He put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and, followed by the others, strolled into the police-station as if he were dropping in on business of trifling importance. And there was nothing to be seen there which betokened that a drama of life and death was being constructed in that formal-looking place of neutral-coloured walls, precise furniture, and atmosphere of repression. Three or four men stood near the superintendent's desk; a policeman was writing slowly and laboriously on a big sheet of blue paper at a side-table, a woman was coaxing a sluggish fire to burn.

"The whole thing's ridiculous!" said a man's scornful voice. "It shouldn't take five seconds to see that."

Brereton instinctively picked out the speaker. That was Harborough, of course—the tall man who stood facing the others and looking at them as if he wondered how they could be as foolish as he evidently considered them to be. He looked at this man with great curiosity. There was certainly something noticeable about him, he decided. A wiry, alert, keen-eyed man, with good, somewhat gipsy-like features, much tanned by the weather, as if he were perpetually exposed to sun and wind, rain and hail; sharp of movement, evidently of more than ordinary intelligence, and, in spite of his rough garments and fur cap, having an indefinable air of gentility and breeding about him. Brereton had already noticed the pitch and inflection of his voice; now, as Harborough touched his cap to the Mayor, he noticed that his hands, though coarsened and weather-browned, were well-shaped and delicate. Something about him, something in his attitude, the glance of his eye, seemed to indicate that he was the social superior of the policemen, uniformed or plain-clothed, who were watching him with speculative and slightly puzzled looks.

"Well, and what's all this, now?" said Mallalieu coming to a halt and looking round. "What's he got to say, like?"

The superintendent looked at Harborough and nodded. And Harborough took that nod at its true meaning, and he spoke—readily.

"This!" he said, turning to the new-comers, and finally addressing himself to Mallalieu. "And it's what I've already said to the superintendent here. I know nothing about what's happened to Kitely. I know no more of his murder than you do—not so much, I should say—for I know naught at all beyond what I've been told. I left my house at eight o'clock last night—I've been away all night—I got back at six o'clock this morning. As soon as I heard what was afoot, I came straight here. I put it to you, Mr. Mayor—if I'd killed this old man, do you think I'd have come back? Is it likely?"

"You might ha' done, you know," answered Mallalieu. "There's no accounting for what folks will do—in such cases. But—what else? Say aught you like—it's all informal, this."

"Very well," continued Harborough. "They tell me the old man was strangled by a piece of cord that was evidently cut off one of my coils. Now, is there any man in his common senses would believe that if I did that job, I should leave such a bit of clear evidence behind me? I'm not a fool!"

"You might ha' been interrupted before you could take that cord off his neck," suggested Mallalieu.

"Aye—but you'd have to reckon up the average chances of that!" exclaimed Harborough, with a sharp glance at the bystanders. "And the chances are in my favour. No, sir!—whoever did this job, cut that length of cord off my coil, which anybody could get at, and used it to throw suspicion on me! That's the truth—and you'll find it out some day, whatever happens now."

Mallalieu exchanged glances with the superintendent and then faced Harborough squarely, with an air of inviting confidence.

"Now, my lad!" he said, almost coaxingly. "There's a very simple thing to do, and it'll clear this up as far as you're concerned. Just answer a plain question. Where ha' you been all night?"

A tense silence fell—broken by the crackling of the wood in the grate, which the charwoman had at last succeeded in stirring into a blaze, and by the rattling of the fire-irons which she now arranged in the fender. Everybody was watching the suspected man, and nobody as keenly as Brereton. And Brereton saw that a deadlock was at hand. A strange look of obstinacy and hardness came into Harborough's eyes, and he shook his head.

"No!" he answered. "I shan't say! The truth'll come out in good time without that. It's not necessary for me to say. Where I was during the night is my business—nobody else's."

"You'll not tell?" asked Mallalieu.

"I shan't tell," replied Harborough.

"You're in danger, you know," said Mallalieu.

"In your opinion," responded Harborough, doggedly. "Not in mine! There's law in this country. You can arrest me, if you like—but you'll have your work set to prove that I killed yon old man. No, sir! But–" here he paused, and looking round him, laughed almost maliciously "—but I'll tell you what I'll do," he went on. "I'll tell you this, if it'll do you any good—if I liked to say the word, I could prove my innocence down to the ground! There!"

"And you won't say that word?" asked Mallalieu.

"I shan't! Why? Because it's not necessary. Why!" demanded Harborough, laughing with an expresssion of genuine contempt. "What is there against me? Naught! As I say, there's law in this country—there's such a thing as a jury. Do you believe that any jury would convict a man on what you've got? It's utter nonsense!"

The constable who had come down from the Shawl with Bent and Brereton had for some time been endeavouring to catch the eye of the superintendent. Succeeding in his attempts at last, he beckoned that official into a quiet corner of the room, and turning his back on the group near the fireplace, pulled something out of his pocket. The two men bent over it, and the constable began to talk in whispers.

Mallalieu meanwhile was eyeing Harborough in his stealthy, steady fashion. He looked as if he was reckoning him up.

"Well, my lad," he observed at last. "You're making a mistake. If you can't or won't tell what you've been doing with yourself between eight last night and six this morning, why, then–"

The superintendent came back, holding something in his hand. He, too, looked at Harborough.

"Will you hold up your left foot?—turn the sole up," he asked. "Just to see—something."

Harborough complied, readily, but with obvious scornful impatience. And when he had shown the sole of the left foot, the superintendent opened his hand and revealed a small crescent-shaped bit of bright steel.

"That's off the toe of your boot, Harborough," he said. "You know it is! And it's been picked up—just now, as it were—where this affair happened. You must have lost it there during the last few hours, because it's quite bright—not a speck of rust on it, you see. What do you say to that, now?"

"Naught!" retorted Harborough, defiantly. "It is mine, of course—I noticed it was working loose yesterday. And if it was picked up in that wood, what then? I passed through there last night on my way to—where I was going. God—you don't mean to say you'd set a man's life on bits o'things like that!"

Mallalieu beckoned the superintendent aside and talked with him. Almost at once he himself turned away and left the room, and the superintendent came back to the group by the fireplace.

"Well, there's no help for it, Harborough," he said. "We shall have to detain you—and I shall have to charge you, presently. It can't be helped—and I hope you'll be able to clear yourself."

"I expected nothing else," replied Harborough. "I'm not blaming you—nor anybody. Mr. Bent," he continued, turning to where Bent and Brereton stood a little apart. "I'd be obliged to you if you'd do something for me. Go and tell my daughter about this, if you please! You see, I came straight down here—I didn't go into my house when I got back. If you'd just step up and tell her—and bid her not be afraid—there's naught to be afraid of, as she'll find—as everybody'll find."

"Certainly," said Bent. "I'll go at once." He tapped Brereton on the arm, and led him out into the street. "Well?" he asked, when they were outside. "What do you think of that, now?"

"That man gives one all the suggestion of innocence," remarked Brereton, thoughtfully, "and from a merely superficial observation of him, I, personally, should say he is innocent. But then, you know, I've known the most hardened and crafty criminals assume an air of innocence, and keep it up, to the very end. However, we aren't concerned about that just now—the critical point here, for Harborough, at any rate, is the evidence against him."

"And what do you think of that?" asked Bent.

"There's enough to warrant his arrest," answered Brereton, "and he'll be committed on it, and he'll go for trial. All that's certain—unless he's a sensible man, and tells what he was doing with himself between eight and ten o'clock last night."

"Ah, and why doesn't he?" said Bent. "He must have some good reason. I wonder if his daughter can persuade him?"

"Isn't that his daughter coming towards us?" inquired Brereton.

Bent glanced along the road and saw Avice Harborough at a little distance, hastening in their direction and talking earnestly to a middle-aged man who was evidently listening with grave concern to what she said.

"Yes, that's she," he replied, "and that's Northrop with her—the man that Mallalieu was playing cards with last night. She's governess to Northrop's two younger children—I expect she's heard about her father, and has been to get Northrop to come down with her—he's a magistrate."

Avice listened with ill-concealed impatience while Bent delivered his message. He twice repeated Harborough's injunction that she was not to be afraid, and her impatience increased.

"I'm not afraid," she answered. "That is, afraid of nothing but my father's obstinacy! I know him. And I know that if he's said he won't tell anything about his whereabouts last night, he won't! And if you want to help him—as you seem to do—you must recognize that."

"Wouldn't he tell you?" suggested Brereton.

The girl shook her head.

"Once or twice a year," she answered, "he goes away for a night, like that, and I never know—never have known—where he goes. There's some mystery about it—I know there is. He won't tell—he'll let things go to the last, and even then he won't tell. You won't be able to help him that way—there's only one way you can help."

"What way?" asked Bent.

"Find the murderer!" exclaimed Avice with a quick flash of her eyes in Brereton's direction. "My father is as innocent as I am—find the man who did it and clear him that way. Don't wait for what these police people do—they'll waste time over my father. Do something! They're all on the wrong track—let somebody get on the right one!"

"She's right!" said Northrop, a shrewd-faced little man, who looked genuinely disturbed. "You know what police are, Mr. Bent—if they get hold of one notion they're deaf to all others. While they're concentrating on Harborough, you know, the real man'll be going free—laughing in his sleeve, very like."

"But—what are we to do?" asked Bent. "What are we to start on?"

"Find out about Kitely himself!" exclaimed Avice. "Who knows anything about him? He may have had enemies—he may have been tracked here. Find out if there was any motive!" She paused and looked half appealingly, half-searchingly at Brereton. "I heard you're a barrister—a clever one," she went on, hesitating a little. "Can't—can't you suggest anything?"

"There's something I'll suggest at once," responded Brereton impulsively. "Whatever else is done, your father's got to be defended. I'll defend him—to the best of my ability—if you'll let me—and at no cost to him."

"Well spoken, sir!" exclaimed Northrop. "That's the style!"

"But we must keep to legal etiquette," continued Brereton, smiling at the little man's enthusiasm. "You must go to a solicitor and tell him to instruct me—it's a mere form. Mr. Bent will take you to his solicitor, and he'll see me. Then I can appear in due form when they bring your father before the magistrates. Look here, Bent," he went on, wishing to stop any expression of gratitude from the girl, "you take Miss Harborough to your solicitor—if he isn't up, rouse him out. Tell him what I propose to do, and make an appointment with him for me. Now run along, both of you—I want to speak to this gentleman a minute."

He took Northrop's arm, turned him in the direction of the Shawl, walked him a few paces, and then asked him a direct question.

"Now, what do you know of this man Harborough?"

"He's a queer chap—a mystery man, sir," answered Northrop. "A sort of jack-of-all-trades. He's a better sort—you'd say, to hear him talk, he'd been a gentleman. You can see what his daughter is—he educated her well. He's means of some sort—apart from what he earns. Yes, there's some mystery about that man, sir—but I'll never believe he did this job. No, sir!"

"Then we must act on the daughter's suggestion and find out who did," observed Brereton. "There is as much mystery about that as about Harborough."

"All mystery, sir!" agreed Northrop. "It's odd—I came through them woods on the Shawl there about a quarter to ten last night: I'd been across to the other side to see a man of mine that's poorly in bed. Now, I never heard aught, never saw aught—but then, it's true I was hurrying—I'd made an appointment for a hand at whist with the Mayor at my house at ten o'clock, and I thought I was late. I never heard a sound—not so much as a dead twig snap! But then, it would ha' been before that—at some time."

"Yes, at some time," agreed Brereton. "Well,—I'll see you in court, no doubt."

He turned back, and followed Bent and Avice at a distance, watching them thoughtfully.

"At some time?" he mused. "Um! Well, I'm now conversant with the movements of two inhabitants of Highmarket at a critical period of last night. Mallalieu didn't go to cards with Northrop until ten o'clock, and at ten o'clock Cotherstone returned to his house after being absent—one hour."

CHAPTER IX

ANTECEDENTS

During the interval which elapsed between these early morning proceedings and the bringing up of Harborough before the borough magistrates in a densely-packed court, Brereton made up his mind as to what he would do. He would act on Avice Harborough's suggestion, and, while watching the trend of affairs on behalf of the suspected man, would find out all he could about the murdered one. At that moment—so far as Brereton knew—there was only one person in Highmarket who was likely to know anything about Kitely: that person, of course, was the queer-looking housekeeper. He accordingly determined, even at that early stage of the proceedings, to have Miss Pett in the witness-box.

Harborough, who had been formally arrested and charged by the police after the conversation at the police-station, was not produced in court until eleven o'clock, by which time the whole town and neighbourhood were astir with excitement. Somewhat to Brereton's surprise, the prosecuting counsel, who had been hastily fetched from Norcaster and instructed on the way, went more fully into the case than was usual. Brereton had expected that the police would ask for an adjournment after the usual evidence of the superficial facts, and of the prisoner's arrest, had been offered; instead of that, the prosecution brought forward several witnesses, and amongst them the bank-manager, who said that when he cashed Kitely's draft for him the previous morning, in Harborough's presence, he gave Kitely the one half of the money in gold. The significance of this evidence immediately transpired: a constable succeeded the bank-manager and testified that after searching the prisoner after his arrest he found on him over twenty pounds in sovereigns and half-sovereigns, placed in a wash-leather bag.

Brereton immediately recognized the impression which this evidence made. He saw that it weighed with the half-dozen solid and slow-thinking men who sat on one side or the other of Mallalieu on the magisterial bench; he felt the atmosphere of suspicion which it engendered in the court. But he did nothing: he had already learned sufficient from Avice in a consultation with her and Bent's solicitor to know that it would be very easy to prove to a jury that it was no unusual thing for Harborough to carry twenty or thirty pounds in gold on him. Of all these witnesses Brereton asked scarcely anything—but he made it clear that when Harborough was met near his cottage at daybreak that morning by two constables who informed him of what had happened, he expressed great astonishment, jeered at the notion that he had had anything to do with the murder, and, without going on to his own door, offered voluntarily to walk straight to the police-station.

But when Miss Pett—who had discarded her red and yellow turban, and appeared in rusty black garments which accentuated the old-ivory tint of her remarkable countenance—had come into the witness-box and answered a few common-place questions as to the dead man's movements on the previous evening, Brereton prepared himself for the episode which he knew to be important. Amidst a deep silence—something suggesting to everybody that Mr. Bent's sharp-looking London friend was about to get at things—he put his first question to Miss Pett.

"How long have you known Mr. Kitely?"

"Ever since I engaged with him as his housekeeper," answered Miss Pett.

"How long since is that?" asked Brereton.

"Nine to ten years—nearly ten."

"You have been with him, as housekeeper, nearly ten years—continuously?"

"Never left him since I first came to him."

"Where did you first come to him—where did he live then?"

"In London."

"Yes—and where, in London?"

"83, Acacia Grove, Camberwell."

"You lived with Mr. Kitely at 83, Acacia Grove, Camberwell, from the time you became his housekeeper until now—nearly ten years in all. So we may take it that you knew Mr. Kitely very well indeed?"

"As well as anybody could know—him," replied Miss Pett, grimly. "He wasn't the sort that's easy to know."

"Still, you knew him for ten years. Now," continued Brereton, concentrating his gaze on Miss Pett's curious features, "who and what was Mr. Kitely?"

Miss Pett drummed her black-gloved fingers on the edge of the witness-box and shook her head.

"I don't know," she answered. "I never have known."

"But you must have some idea, some notion—after ten years' acquaintanceship! Come now. What did he do with himself in London? Had he no business?"

"He had business," said Miss Pett. "He was out most of the day at it. I don't know what it was."

"Never mentioned it to you?"

"Never in his life."

"Did you gain no idea of it? For instance, did it take him out at regular hours?"

"No, it didn't. Sometimes he'd go out very early—sometimes late—some days he never went out at all. And sometimes he'd be out at night—and away for days together. I never asked him anything, of course."

"Whatever it was, he retired from it eventually?"

"Yes—just before we came here."

"Do you know why Mr. Kitely came here?"

"Well," said Miss Pett, "he'd always said he wanted a nice little place in the country, and preferably in the North. He came up this way for a holiday some months since, and when he got back he said he'd found just the house and neighbourhood to suit him, so, of course, we removed here."

"And you have been here—how long?"

"Just over three months."

Brereton let a moment or two elapse before he asked his next question, which was accompanied by another searching inspection of the witness.

"Do you know anything about Mr. Kitely's relations?"

"No!" answered Miss Pett. "And for a simple reason. He always said he had none."

"He was never visited by anybody claiming to be a relation?"

"Not during the ten years I knew him."

"Do you think he had property—money—to leave to anybody?"

Miss Pett began to toy with the fur boa which depended from her thin neck.

"Well—yes, he said he had," she replied hesitatingly.

"Did you ever hear him say what would become of it at his death?"

Miss Pett looked round the court and smiled a little.

"Well," she answered, still more hesitatingly, "he—he always said that as he'd no relations of his own, he'd leave it to me."

Brereton leaned a little closer across the table towards the witness-box and dropped his voice.

"Do you know if Mr. Kitely ever made a will?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Miss Pett. "He did."

"When?"

"Just before we left London."

"Do you know the contents of that will?"

"No!" said Miss Pett. "I do not—so there!"

"Did you witness it?"

"No, I didn't."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, I know that."

"Where is it?"

"My nephew has it," replied Miss Pett. "He's a solicitor, and he made it."

"What is your nephew's name and address?" asked Brereton.

"Mr. Christopher Pett, 23b Cursitor Street," answered Miss Pett, readily enough.

"Have you let him know of Mr. Kitely's death?"

"Yes. I sent him a telegram first thing this morning."

"Asking him to bring the will?"

"No, I did not!" exclaimed Miss Pett, indignantly. "I never mentioned the will. Mr. Kitely was very fond of my nephew—he considered him a very clever young man."

"We shall, no doubt, have the pleasure of seeing your nephew," remarked Brereton. "Well, now, I want to ask you a question or two about yourself. What had you been before you became housekeeper to Mr. Kitely?"

"Housekeeper to another gentleman!" replied Miss Pett, acidly.

"Who was he?"

"Well, if you want to know, he was a Major Stilman, a retired officer—though what that has–"

"Where did Major Stilman live?" asked Brereton.

"He lived at Kandahar Cottage, Woking," replied Miss Pett, who was now showing signs of rising anger. "But–"

"Answer my questions, if you please, and don't make remarks," said Brereton. "Is Major Stilman alive?"

"No, he isn't—he's dead this ten years," answered Miss Pett. "And if you're going to ask me any more questions about who and what I am, young man, I'll save you the trouble. I was with Major Stilman a many years, and before that I was store-keeper at one London hotel, and linen-keeper at another, and before that I lived at home with my father, who was a respectable farmer in Sussex. And what all this has to do with what we're here for, I should like–"

"Just give me the names of the two hotels you were at in London, will you?" asked Brereton.

"One was the Royal Belvedere in Bayswater, and the other the Mervyn Crescent in Kensington," replied Miss Pett. "Highly respectable, both of 'em."

"And you come originally from—where in Sussex?"

"Oakbarrow Farm, near Horsham. Do you want to know any–"

"I shan't trouble you much longer," said Brereton suavely. "But you might just tell me this—has Mr. Kitely ever had any visitors since he came to Highmarket?"

"Only one," answered Miss Pett. "And it was my nephew, who came up for a week-end to see him on business. Of course, I don't know what the business was. Mr. Kitely had property in London; house-property, and–"

"And your nephew, as his solicitor, no doubt came to see him about it," interrupted Brereton. "Thank you, Miss Pett—I don't want to trouble you any more."

He sat down as the housekeeper left the witness-box—confident that he had succeeded in introducing a new atmosphere into the case. Already there were whisperings going on in the crowded court; he felt that these country folk, always quick to form suspicions, were beginning to ask themselves if there was not something dark and sinister behind the mystery of Kitely's murder, and he was callous enough—from a purely professional standpoint—to care nothing if they began to form ideas about Miss Pett. For Brereton knew that nothing is so useful in the breaking-down of one prejudice as to set up another, and his great object just then was to divert primary prejudice away from his client. Nevertheless, nothing, he knew well, could at that stage prevent Harborough's ultimate committal—unless Harborough himself chose to prove the alibi of which he had boasted. But Harborough refused to do anything towards that, and when the case had been adjourned for a week, and the prisoner removed to a cell pending his removal to Norcaster gaol, a visit from Brereton and Avice in company failed to move him.