“Had you any better luck?” he went on.
“Acting upon instructions received, I proceeded first of all to the offices of Messrs. Masterman, Formby and Jarrold, Solicitors. It’s one of those jolly old Queen Anne houses facing on the High Street; with a flagged walk up to the front door and blue gates that need painting—or rather, it would spoil them if you did. It’s been turned into an office, and the inside is all musty and smells of decaying paper. The mustiest thing there was the old clerk I went up to and asked if I could see Mr. Masterman. And he said, ‘I’m afraid not, sir; Mr. Masterman is dead.’ ”
“Dead? How? When?”
“My very words. And the old gentleman said, ‘About twenty-three years ago. Would you like to see Mr. Jarrold?’ Well, that did me in rather, because even if old Masterman did bequeath his handkerchiefs to Jarrold, it isn’t likely that old Jarrold would be still using them, though they would about match his furniture if he did.”
“How did you get out of it? You were rather badly placed.”
“I was, and I cursed you pretty freely. However, I extricated myself without any heart-to-heart talks with Mr. Jarrold. I just said, ‘I’m so sorry, I must have made some mistake; this is Doctor Masterman’s house, isn’t it?’ That killed two birds with one stone, I eluded suspicion and also got directed to the other Masterman house, a big house, the man said, at the other end of the water-meadow behind the church.”
“So you went on there?”
“No; it occurred to me that a man who lived in a house that size probably kept a manservant or two, and it was up to me to personate one of them. So I went round to the Binver Steam Laundry, where I’m not known personally; and said I was from Dr. Masterman’s, and could they be kind enough to inform Dr. Masterman as to what action they intended taking about the twelve last handkerchiefs that hadn’t come back from the wash. That sounds risky, but it wasn’t really, because all men think they’ve more clothes at the wash than they really have. The lady in charge was quite patient and kind, obviously well accustomed to that sort of complaint; she said all Dr. Masterman’s handkerchiefs had been sent back. Fortunately I bluffed, and insisted upon a search; after a bit she came and put into my hands a pile of handkerchiefs, which I took away with me. There were five of them, four Mastermans and a Brotherhood.”
“Oh! That rather looks as if—”
“Exactly; it looks as if we ought to have recognized the touch of the Binver Steam Laundry. In fact, it would be very suspicious in these parts if you found a dead man wearing one of his own handkerchiefs. Well, there seemed no point in keeping any of them, so I dropped the lot into Masterman’s letter-box. Unusual, perhaps, but I felt it would save explanations.”
“Well, I’m sure we’re all very grateful to Mr. Gordon for his splendid work among the Mastermen. But it begins to look as if we were left very much where we were. We still don’t even know who the corpse was.”
There was a knock at the door, and the unwelcome figure of Carmichael obtruded itself. “Sorry if I interrupt,” he said, “but I thought you might be interested in this poor fellow we found yesterday. My caddie this morning was giving me the latest news. It’s extraordinary how these caddies pick up everything except one’s ball.”
“What news?” gasped Reeves.
“Well, it seems that Brotherhood was insured at one of these American offices. And they’re a great deal more particular than our own Insurance people. And after all they’re right to be: one’s so apt to think of the Insurance Company as a set of sharks, when in reality they are only protecting the interests of their policyholders.”
“Granted,” said Gordon. “Proceed.”
“Well, as soon as they heard of the bankruptcy and then saw the news in the morning paper about the Links Tragedy, the Insurance Company pricked up its ears. Apparently, in the actuarial world, bankruptcy followed by alleged suicide is a matter of daily occurrence, and they have their suspicions. That is why I say they are quite within their rights when they insist upon registering a man by his birthmarks before they insure him. It’s an extraordinary thing about birthmarks; we really know nothing about them—”
“Nor want to,” said Reeves, “for the time being. What happened?”
“I was just telling you. A man came down from the Insurance Company to identify the corpse; and my caddie heard about it from—”
“Heard what?”
“Why, that it is Brotherhood. They recognized him from the birthmark.”
“So that’s that,” said Mordaunt Reeves, a little bitterly. “Trust the Insurance people not to make a mistake. I confess that, after the handkerchief clue failed, I had begun to think it must be Brotherhood who was dead. I suppose your caddie didn’t happen to mention whether it was suicide or murder?”
“He assumed it to be suicide; but not, I think, with any inside information. Of course, it was a foggy day. Did you know that, as a matter of statistics, there are more suicides in November than in any other month?”
“I will make a note of the fact,” said Mordaunt Reeves.
V
On the Railway
The afternoon seemed a compensation for yesterday; October sun glowed temperately over the links, with the air of a kind old gentleman producing sweetmeats unexpectedly. The rich but transient gold of summer evenings seemed hoarded in this summer of St. Luke; the air not overcharged with uneasy heat, but lucid and caressing; the leaves no longer in the shock of their summer finery, but dignified in the decayed gentility of their autumn gold. A perfect day for golf, such was the immediate impression of the Paston Oatvile mind; but to Reeves a second thought occurred—it was
