“About bringing anyone here—no! He never said anything to me about it. But about a photograph, or rather about a print of one—yes. I do know something about that.”
“What?” asked Hetherwick eagerly.
“Well, this,” she answered. “My grandfather, who, as I dare say you know by this time, was for a good many years Superintendent of Police at Sellithwaite, had a habit of cutting things out of newspapers—paragraphs, accounts of criminal trials, and so on. He had several boxes full of such cuttings. When we were coming to town the other day I saw him cut a photograph out of some illustrated paper he was reading in the train, and put it away in his pocketbook—in a pocketbook, I ought to say, for he had two or three pocketbooks. This morning I was looking through various things which he had left lying about on his dressing-table upstairs, and in one of his pocketbooks I found the photograph which he cut out in the train. That must be the one you mention—it’s of a very handsome, distinguished-looking woman.”
“If I may see it—” suggested Hetherwick.
Within a couple of minutes he had the cutting in his hand—a scrap of paper, neatly snipped out of its surrounding letterpress, which was a print of a photograph of a woman of apparently thirty-five to forty years of age, evidently of high position, and certainly, as Rhona Hannaford had remarked, of handsome and distinguished features. But it was not at the photograph that Hetherwick gazed with eyes into which surmise and speculation were beginning to steal; after a mere glance at it, his attention fixed itself on some pencilled words on the margin at its sides:
Through my hands ten years ago!
“Is that your grandfather’s writing?” he inquired suddenly.
“Yes, that’s his,” replied Rhona. “He had a habit of pencilling notes and comments on his cuttings—all sorts of remarks.”
“He didn’t mention this particular cutting to you when he cut it out?”
“No—he said nothing about it. I saw him cut it out, and heard him chuckle as he put it away, but he said—nothing.”
“You don’t know who this lady is?”
“Oh, no! You see, there’s no name beneath it. I suppose there was in the paper, but he cut out nothing but the picture and the bit of margin. But from what he’s written there, I conclude that this is a portrait of some woman who had been in trouble with the police at some time or other.”
“Obvious!” muttered Hetherwick. He sat silently inspecting the picture for a minute or two.
“Look here,” he said suddenly, “I want you to let me help in trying to get at the bottom of this—naturally you want to have it cleared up. And to begin with, let me have this cutting, and for the present don’t tell anyone—I mean the police or any inquirers—that I have it. I’d like to have a talk about it to Kenthwaite. You understand? As I was present at your grandfather’s death, I’d like to solve the mystery of it. If you’ll leave this to me—”
“Oh, yes!” replied Rhona. “But—you think there has been foul play?—that he didn’t die a natural death?—that it wasn’t just heart failure or—”
The door of the little coffee-room was opened and Matherfield looked in. Seeing Hetherwick there, he beckoned him into the hall, closing the door again as the young barrister joined him. Hetherwick saw that he was full of news, and instantly thought of the man with the stained fingers.
“Well?” he said eagerly, “laid your hands on that fellow?”
“Oh, him?—no!” answered Matherfield. “Not a word or sign of him—so far! But the doctors have finished their postmortem. And there’s no doubt about their verdict. Poisoned!”
Matherfield sank his voice to a whisper as he spoke the last word. And Hetherwick, ready though he was for the news, started when he got it—the definiteness of the announcement seemed like opening a window upon a vista of obscured and misty distances. He glanced at the door behind him.
“Of course, they’ll have to be told, in there,” said Matherfield, interpreting his thoughts. “But the thing’s certain. Our surgeon suspected it from the first, and he got a Home Office specialist to help at the autopsy—they say the man was poisoned by some drug or other—I don’t understand these things—that had been administered to him two or three hours before he died, and that when it did work, worked with absolutely lightning-like effect.”
“Yes,” muttered Hetherwick thoughtfully. “Lightning-like effect—good phrase. I can testify that it did that!”
Matherfield laid a hand on the door.
“Well,” he said, “I’d better tell these ladies. Then—there are things I want to know from the granddaughter. I’ve seen her—and her aunt—before this morning. I found out that Hannaford brought up and educated this girl, and that she lived with him in Sellithwaite since she left school, so she’ll know more about him than anybody. And I want to learn all I can. Come in with me.”
III
The Potential Fortune
Elder and younger woman alike took Matherfield’s intimation quietly. Rhona made no remark. But Mrs. Keeley spoke impulsively.
“There never was a more popular man than he was—with everybody!” she exclaimed. “Who should want to take his life?”
“That’s just what we’ve got to find out, ma’am,” said Matherfield. “And I want to know as much as I can—I dare say Miss Hannaford can tell me a lot. Now, let’s see what we do know from what you told me this morning. Mr. Hannaford had been Superintendent of Police at Sellithwaite for some years. He had recently retired on his pension. He proposed to live in London, and you and he, Miss Hannaford, came to London to look for a suitable house, arrived three days ago, and put up at this hotel. That’s all correct? Very
