“Found them?” exclaimed Branston in marked surprise.
“Found them?” echoed Bannister, incredulously. “Where—in the name of goodness?”
Mrs. Bertenshaw looked feebly across at Branston, seemingly to invite assistance. But it was unavailing. If Branston knew anything he was not intending to divulge it. Mrs. Bertenshaw must tell her own story in her own way.
“I found those notes,” she repeated, “and the money was a perfect God-sent to me. No woman could ever speak truer words than those. I yielded to the temptation to keep silent about it. Please forgive me, Mr. Branston, if I’ve unwittingly brought any trouble to you. Nothing was farther from my intention. It makes me feel that I’ve repaid your kindness so badly. But I’ll make a clean breast of the whole affair.” She wiped her lips with her handkerchief. “In a way I’m glad it’s all come out. I’ve been dreadfully worried and scared about it ever since it happened. I haven’t been able to sleep properly. I found those notes on the very afternoon that Miss Delaney was murdered.”
“Where?” rapped Bannister.
“I’ll tell you. About five o’clock that afternoon—after the first excitement and everything had died down a bit—I had occasion to go along the passage towards the door where the master’s patients usually come in. The door that’s in Coolwater Avenue. In the hall there, we have a very handsome art-pot that stands on a pedestal in the corner—that high.” She indicated the height with her right hand. “As I walked past it—on my way back that is from the door—I noticed something that I thought was tissue-paper lying inside the art-pot. I put my hand in—to remove it—almost mechanically—you might say—it looked untidy—a thing I hate—when to my utter surprise I found that what I had thought was a bundle of tissue-paper was in reality a wad of bank-notes amounting to a hundred points. I was knocked all of a heap! My first inclination was to call Mr. Branston. But I hesitated. Then the temptation to say nothing came to me.” Her voice broke and her self-control deserted her. She burst out sobbing. “I needed money badly. You people who never want for a few pounds don’t realise what it is to be in debt year after year and to see little chance of ever getting out. To be forced to borrow for anything special because you have no margin. Self-denial and going without most of the things that make life worth living may mean the saving of a few shillings, month by month, but no more than that. It takes a life-time to scrape fifty pounds together saving like that—and there was a hundred pounds here.”
“How did you know it didn’t belong to Mr. Branston?” Bannister flashed the question at her. She shook her head.
“I didn’t know,” she sobbed. “I had to take my chance. I listened, though, to hear any mention of him having lost any money—or if anybody else had. But I heard nothing—so I kept part of it myself and re-paid the fifty pounds I owed to Mr. Branston.”
“Didn’t it occur to you to connect it with the murder?” exclaimed the Inspector.
“I didn’t know what to think. I was terribly worried. What I said to myself was this. If the young lady had been murdered for her money—why was the money thrown into the art-pot? I puzzled my head over it at least fifty times—but I was never able to satisfy myself. There was no mention in any of the papers of the young lady having lost any money—so I could be certain you see.”
“She’s right Inspector,” interposed Branston. “That’s a poser to me—I frankly confess it. If the murderer took the money off Miss Delaney why in the name of all that’s wonderful did he leave it behind—deliberately, at that?”
“He may have realised that to retain the notes spelt ‘Danger’ in capital letters. That is assuming this last story to be true. I’m damned if I know where I’m getting to. Shew me this passage where you say you found the notes.”
Mrs. Bertenshaw conducted them down. The art-pot stood upon the pedestal as she had described it—approximately four feet high. “That was where I found the money,” she said simply. “It is easy to see into there as you pass by—especially on your way back from the door.”
Bannister looked inside and then turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “Come on, Godfrey,” he said, “this case is getting on my nerves. Good-afternoon, everybody.” He opened the door of the car and motioned to the Sergeant to precede him. “What do you make of it?” queried the latter. “Leaving those notes behind—I mean! After all—as the woman herself said—why take them to leave them behind?”
Bannister leaned over authoritatively and tapped him on the arm. “Supposing,” he said, “supposing the murderer wanted something—very badly—and couldn’t get that particular something without first taking the notes well—what then?”
“I’m not good at riddles,” said Sergeant Godfrey.
Chapter XXI
The Lord Lieutenant goes back a few years
Mr. Bathurst strolled to the window of the smoke-room of the Grand Hotel, Westhampton, and looked at the red chimney pots of the town. It was certainly a very beautiful morning. The two miles along the Bedford road that he intended to travel within the next hour or so—the two miles that would bring him to Dovaston Court—would seem, he felt sure, more like two yards that two miles, under the exhilarating influence of that morning sun. Mr. Bathurst felt more light-hearted that morning than he had felt for may mornings since he had left London. The first part of his task was over—accomplished. His interview of the previous day with Alan Warburton had definitely cleared up the first part of the case. The task that had been entrusted to him by Alexis of Clorania had been successfully completed “There now remains,” he said to himself, half-humorously, “the Mystery
