Reeves has just been in to inform me that Davenant has been hung. A laughable misconception, of course; he has not been hung, he has been hanged.
I write as you asked me to write, to supply what information I can about the actual course of events in connection with what is locally called the Links Mystery. I have put it together with some difficulty; part of it, of course, came out at the trial; part I had from Miss Rendall-Smith, part from the priest at Paston Bridge, upon whom I called specially for the purpose. A not unintelligent man, who seemed to me to know more about the neighbourhood and the people who live here than Marryatt will ever know. He was, of course, debarred by professional scruples from telling me one or two things about which my curiosity prompted me to ask, but he did not appear to be unduly distressed about Davenant. “Depend upon it, Mr. Carmichael,” he said, “there’s others do worse and never get found out. A nice, clean death he’ll make of it. Goes to Communion every morning, you know—an example to all of us.” I told him, of course, that I was not narrow-minded, and could see good in all religions.
Well, the outlines of the thing seem to have been very simple indeed. Davenant saw that Brotherhood meant to persecute the lady because of the money, and determined to try and dissuade him. Brotherhood was just leaving the office when Davenant reached it; Davenant hailed a taxi, and followed him. Brotherhood did not go straight to the station; he went to a flat somewhere out Chelsea way—no doubt this was where he used to spend his weekends. No doubt he had decided that this double life must come to an end, now that it was necessary for him to live on his wife’s money, and therefore wanted to collect all his personal effects. He came out in about ten minutes’ time, cramming an old-fashioned watch into his waistcoat pocket—presumably, in the hurry of the moment, he wound up this watch, which had been left about in the flat, mistiming it by an hour. With the help of the taximan he managed to get an enormous trunk on to the cab and then set out for the station. He was nipping pretty freely from a flask in his pocket. Davenant shadowed him all the way at a distance: he could not have kept up with him if he had not heard his orders to the taxi-driver.
When he got to the station, Brotherhood bought a third-class ticket, and crammed it in his waistcoat pocket. The purpose of this appeared when he was having his trunk labelled—it was cheaper than paying excess luggage. He had his season-ticket in his greatcoat pocket. By the way, why did we not question ourselves more over the singular fact that Brotherhood’s body was found without umbrella or greatcoat, on such an inclement day? He got into a first-class carriage, already occupied; and Davenant, seeing that there was no chance of a personal interview, travelled third himself, always hoping that something would turn up.
At Paston Oatvile something did turn up—Brotherhood got out of the train decidedly the worse for drink. Davenant, it is clear, had up to this time no sinister intentions, for he talked to one of the porters when he alighted, and then went up to Brotherhood and hailed him as an acquaintance. Brotherhood was far too muzzy to be afraid of him; he hailed him as good old Davenant, and suggested that they should have a drink between trains at the inn opposite the station. Davenant knew that drinks were not served at that hour, but he accompanied him willingly enough; they wasted a little time trying the door, and then saw the train for Paston Whitchurch steaming out of the station. You will observe that Brotherhood was by now artificially deprived of his luggage. His box went on to Binver, so did his greatcoat (with the season-ticket in it) which he had thrown into the 4:50 from the platform. Both were afterwards recovered by the police, but were of little use to them.
Had Brotherhood been sober, he would have gone back to the station, no doubt, so as to telegraph to Binver about his things. As it was, he willingly fell in with Davenant’s suggestion that they should walk across to Paston Whitchurch by the field path, crossing the valley by the railway viaduct. They walked, then, through the fog, not much behind the train; perhaps Davenant may even have suggested the possibly of overtaking it if it were held up by the signals. They did not, in fact, overtake it. Davenant began to commiserate with Brotherhood upon his bankruptcy, at which Brotherhood became extremely cheerful, and explained that he had a wife, a deuced fine woman, who had got a lot of his money in her own name, and he was going back to her. Davenant expostulated, threatened, implored; nothing would disturb the drunkard’s irritating good temper. Finally, Brotherhood became lyrical over the charms of his wife just as they began to cross the viaduct. It was too much for Davenant; in a fit of disgusted rage, he turned and threw his gross companion over the edge of the slope. There was one startled cry, and then nothing but silence and the fog.
Up to that moment Davenant had no plans; he had not thought of murder even as a contingency. It is true, he had to confess to having sent the cipher warning: but this, he insisted, had been a mere threat; he was anxious to prevent Brotherhood doing anything before he could have a talk with him. By the way, Brotherhood was at home the weekend before his death, contrary to his usual custom. Mrs. Bramston does not abide our question, otherwise we might have elicited the fact from her. Davenant travelled up in the same train with him, and saw him beginning Momerie’s Immortality—that
