

E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team



THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY

BY JOHN R. WATSON & ARTHUR J. REES

1916







TO ARTHUR BLACK IN MEMORY OF OLD TIMES




CHAPTER I


"Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

"Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon
I want him, and be quick about it."

"Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I'll put you through to him at once."

Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the
receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet
of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy,
faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and
covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at
irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the
letters formed words, and the words read:

SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT

WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU
WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK

HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART

"Hallo!"

"Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?"

"Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out
your way?"

"Can't say that I have. Have you?"

"Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been
murdered--shot."

"Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot--murdered!" Inspector Seldon gave expression
to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the
telephone. Then he added, after a moment's reflection, "There must be
some mistake. He is away."

"Away where?"

"In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth--when the shooting
season opened."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on
his house while he was away."

There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector
Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard.

"We may have been hoaxed," he said at length. "But I have been ringing
up his house and can get no answer. You had better send up a couple of
men there at once--better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may
require tactful handling. Let me know, and I'll come out immediately if
there is anything wrong. Stay! How long will it take you to get up to
the house?"

"Not more than fifteen minutes--in a taxi."

"Well, I'll ring you up at the house in half an hour. Should our
information be correct see that everything is left exactly as you find it
till I arrive."

Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his telephone, bundled up the
papers scattered on his desk, closed it, and stepped out of his office
into the next room.

"Anyone about?" he hurriedly asked the sergeant who was making entries in
the charge-book.

"Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago."

"Get him at once and call a taxi. Scotland Yard's rung through to say
they've received a report that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered."

"Murdered?" echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen interest. "Who told
Scotland Yard that?"

"I don't know. Who was on that beat last night?"

"Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own house? I thought he was
in Scotland."

"So did I, but he may have returned--ah, here's the taxi."

Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for the appearance of a
cab from the rank round the corner in response to the shrill blast which
the sergeant had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the door of
the station leading into the yard and sharply called:

"Flack!"

In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, came running up
the steps from the basement, which was used as a gymnasium.

"Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as you can. He is in a
devil of a hurry."

Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when Flack appeared. He had
been impatiently drumming his fingers on the door of the cab.

"Jump in, man," he said angrily. "What has kept you all this time?"

Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been running and was out
of breath, but he made no reply to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon
turned to him and remarked severely:

"Why didn't you let me know that Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned from
Scotland?"

Flack looked astonished.

"But he hasn't returned, sir," he said. "He's away for a month at least,"
he ventured to add.

"Who told you that?"

"The housemaid at Riversbrook--before he went away."

"H'm." The inspector's next question contained a moral rebuke rather than
an official one. "You're a married man, Flack?"

"Yes, sir."

"So the housemaid told you he was going away for a month. Well, she ought
to know. When did she tell you?"

"A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the servants except the
butler were going down to Dellmere the next day--that is Sir Horace's
country place--and that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the
shooting and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the shooting
season was over."

"And are you sure he hasn't returned?"

"Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday morning, and he
told me that his master was sure to be in Scotland for at least a
month longer."

"It's very strange," muttered the inspector, half to himself. "It will be
a deuced awkward situation to face if Scotland Yard has been hoaxed."

"Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong about Sir Horace?"

"Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he has been murdered."

Flack's surprise was so great that it lifted the lid of official humility
which habitually covered his natural feelings.

"Murdered!" he exclaimed. "Sir Horace Fewbanks murdered? You
don't say so!"

"But I do say so. I've just said so," retorted Inspector Seldon
irritably. He was angry at the fact that the information, whether true or
false, had gone direct to Scotland Yard instead of reaching him first.

"When was he murdered, sir?" asked Flack.

"Last night--when you were on that beat."

Flack paled at this remark.

"Last night, sir?" he cried.

"Don't repeat my words like a parrot," ejaculated the inspector
peevishly. "Didn't you notice anything suspicious when you were
along there?"

"No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?"

"His dead body is supposed to be lying there now in the library," said
Inspector Seldon. "How Scotland Yard got wind of it is more than I know.
We ought to have heard of it before them. How many times did you go along
there last night?"

"Twice, sir. About eleven o'clock, and then about three."

"And there was nothing suspicious--you saw no one?"

"I saw Mr. Roberts and his lady coming home from the theatre. But he
lives at the other end of Tanton Gardens. And I saw the housemaid at Mr.
Fielding's come out to the pillar-box. That was a few minutes after
eleven. I didn't see anybody at all the second time."

"Nobody at the judge's place--no taxi, or anything like that?"

"No, sir."

The taxi-cab turned swiftly into the shady avenue of Tanton Gardens,
where Sir Horace Fewbanks lived, and in a few moments pulled up outside
of Riversbrook. The house stood a long way back from the road in its own
grounds. Inspector Seldon and Flack passed rapidly through the grounds
and reached the front door of the mansion. There was nobody about; the
place seemed deserted, and the blinds were down on the ground-floor
windows. Inspector Seldon knocked loudly at the front door with the big,
old-fashioned brass knocker, and rang the bell. He listened intently for
a response, but no sound followed except the sharp note of the electric
bell as Flack rang it again while Inspector Seldon bent down with his ear
at the keyhole. Then the inspector stepped back and regarded the house
keenly for a moment or two.

"Put your finger on that bell and keep on ringing it, Flack," he said
suddenly. "I see that some of the blinds are down, but there's one on the
first floor which is partly up. It looks as though the house had been
shut up and somebody had come back unexpectedly."

"Perhaps it's Hill, the butler," said Flack.

"If he's inside he ought to answer the bell. But keep on ringing while I
knock again."

The heavy brass knocker again reverberated on the thick oak door, and
Inspector Seldon placed his ear against the keyhole to ascertain if any
sound was to be heard.

"Take your finger off that bell, Flack," he commanded. "I cannot hear
whether anybody is coming or not." He remained in a listening attitude
for half a minute and then plied the knocker again. Again he listened for
footsteps within the house. "Ring again, Flack. Keep on ringing while I
go round the house to see if there is any way I can get in. I may have to
break a window. Don't move from here."

Inspector Seldon went quickly round the side of the house, trying the
windows as he went. Towards the rear of the house, on the west side, he
came across a curious abutment of masonry jutting out squarely from the
wall. On the other side of this abutment, which gave the house something
of an unfinished appearance, were three French windows close together.
The blinds of these windows were closely drawn, but the inspector's keen
eye detected that one of the catches had been broken, and there were
marks of some instrument on the outside woodwork.

"This looks like business," he muttered.

He pulled open the window, and walked into the room. The light of an
afternoon sun showed him that the apartment was a breakfast room, well
and solidly furnished in an old-fashioned way, with most of the furniture
in covers, as though the occupants of the house were away. The daylight
penetrated to the door at the far end of the room. It was wide open, and
revealed an empty passage. Inspector Seldon walked into the passage. The
drawn blinds made the passage seem quite dark after the bright August
sunshine outside, but he produced an electric torch, and by its light he
saw that the passage ran into the main hall.

His footsteps echoed in the empty house. The electric bell rang
continuously as Flack pressed it outside. Inspector Seldon walked along
the passage to the hall, flashing his torch into each room he passed. He
saw nothing, and went to the front door to admit Flack.

"That is enough of that noise, Flack," he said. "Come inside and help me
search the house above. It's empty on this floor so far as I've been over
it. If you find anything call me, and mind you do not touch anything.
Where did you say the library was?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, look about you on the ground floor while I go upstairs. Call me if
you hear anything."

Inspector Seldon mounted the stairs swiftly in order to continue
his search.

The staircase was a wide one, with broad shallow steps, thickly carpeted,
and a handsome carved mahogany baluster. The inspector, flashing his
torch as he ran up, saw a small electric light niche in the wall before
he reached the first landing. The catch of the light was underneath, and
Inspector Seldon turned it on. The light revealed that the stairs swept
round at that point to the landing of the first floor, which was screened
from view by heavy velvet hangings, partly caught back by the bent arm
of a marble figure of Diana, which faced downstairs, with its other arm
upraised and about to launch a hunting spear. By this graceful device the
curtains were drawn back sufficiently to give access to the corridor on
the first floor.

Inspector Seldon looked closely at the figure and the hangings. Something
strange about the former arrested his eye. It was standing awry on its
pedestal--was, indeed, almost toppling over. He looked up and saw that
one of the curtains supported by the arm hung loosely from one of the
curtain rings. It was as though some violent hand had torn at the curtain
in passing, almost dragging it from the pole and precipitating the figure
down the stairs. Immediately beyond the landing, in the corridor, was a
door on the right, flung wide open.

The inspector entered the room with the open door. It was a large room
forming part of the front of the house--a lofty large room, partly
lighted by the half-drawn blind of one of the windows. One side was lined
with bookshelves. In the corner of the room farthest from the door, was a
roll-top desk, which was open. In the centre of the room was a table, and
a huddled up figure was lying beside it, in a dark pool of blood which
had oozed into the carpet.

The inspector stepped quickly back to the landing.

"Flack!" he called, and unconsciously his voice dropped to a sharp
whisper in the presence of death. "Flack, come here."

When Flack reached the door of the library he saw his chief kneeling
beside the prostrate body of a dead man. The body lay clear of the table,
near the foot of an arm-chair. Instinctively Flack walked on tiptoe to
his chief.

"Is he dead, sir?" he asked.

"Cold and stiff," replied the inspector, in a hushed voice. "He's been
dead for hours."

Flack noted that the body was fully dressed, and he saw a dark stain
above the breast where the blood had welled forth and soaked the dead
man's clothes and formed a pool on the carpet beside him.

Inspector Seldon opened the dead man's clothes. Over his heart he found
the wound from which the blood had flowed.

"There it is, Flack," he said, touching the wound lightly with his
finger. "It doesn't take a big wound to kill a man."

As he spoke the sharp ring of a telephone bell from downstairs
reached them.

"That's Inspector Chippenfield," said Inspector Seldon, rising to his
feet. "Stay here, Flack, till I go and speak to him."




CHAPTER II


"Six-thirty edition: High Court Judge murdered!"

It was not quite 5 p.m., but the enterprising section of the London
evening newspapers had their 6.30 editions on sale in the streets. To
such a pitch had the policy of giving the public what it wants been
elevated that the halfpenny newspapers were able to give the people of
London the news each afternoon a full ninety minutes before the
edition was supposed to have left the press. The time of the edition
was boldly printed in the top right-hand corner of each paper as a
guarantee of enterprise if not of good faith. On practical enterprise
of this kind does journalism forge ahead. Some people who have been
bred up in a conservative atmosphere sneer at such journalistic
enterprise. They affect to regard as unreliable the up-to-date news
contained in newspapers which are unable to tell the truth about the
hands of the clock.

From the cries of the news-boys and from the announcements on the
newspaper bills which they displayed, it was assumed by those with a
greedy appetite for sensations that a judge of the High Court had been
murdered on the bench. Such an appetite easily swallowed the difficulty
created by the fact that the Law Courts had been closed for the long
vacation. In imagination they saw a dramatic scene in court--the
disappointed demented desperate litigant suddenly drawing a revolver and
with unerring aim shooting the judge through the brain before the deadly
weapon could be wrenched from his hands. But though the sensation created
by the murder of a judge of the High Court was destined to grow and to be
fed by unexpected developments, the changing phases of which monopolised
public attention throughout England on successive occasions, there was
little in the evening papers to satisfy the appetite for sensation. In
journalistic vernacular "they were late in getting on to it," and
therefore their reference to the crime occupied only a few lines in the
"stop press news," beneath some late horse-racing results. The _Evening
Courier,_ which was first in the streets with the news, made its
announcement of the crime in the following brief paragraph:

"The dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the distinguished High Court
judge, was found by the police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton
Gardens, Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through the heart. The
police have no doubt that he was murdered."

But the morning papers of the following day did full justice to the
sensation. It was the month of August when Parliament is "up," the Law
Courts closed for the long vacation, and when everybody who is anybody is
out of London for the summer holidays. News was scarce and the papers
vied with one another in making the utmost of the murder of a High Court
judge. Each of the morning papers sent out a man to Hampstead soon after
the news of the crime reached their offices in the afternoon, and some of
the more enterprising sent two or three men. Scotland Yard and
Riversbrook were visited by a succession of pressmen representing the
London dailies, the provincial press, and the news agencies.

The two points on which the newspaper accounts of the tragedy laid stress
were the mysterious letter which had been sent to Scotland Yard stating
that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered, and the mystery surrounding
the sudden return of Sir Horace from Scotland to his town house. On the
first point there was room for much varied speculation. Why was
information about the murder sent to Scotland Yard, and why was it sent
in a disguised way? If the person who had sent this letter had no
connection with the crime and was anxious to help the police, why had he
not gone to Scotland Yard personally and told the detectives all he knew
about the tragedy? If, on the other hand, he was implicated in the crime