Viner, too, had risen; he looked at Miss Wickham.
“I hope my aunt called on you this morning?” he asked. “I was coming with her, but I had to go round to the police-station.”
“She did call, and she was very kind indeed, thank you,” said Miss Wickham. “I hope she’ll come again.”
“We shall both be glad to do anything,” said Viner. “Please don’t hesitate about sending round for me if there’s anything at all I can do.” He followed Mr. Pawle into the square, and turned him towards his own house. “Come and lunch with me,” he said. “We can talk over this at our leisure.”
“Thank you—I will,” answered Mr. Pawle. “Very pleased. Between you and me, Mr. Viner, this is a very queer business. I’m quite prepared to believe the story that young fellow Hyde tells. I wish he’d told it straight out in court. But you must see that he’s in a very dangerous position—very dangerous indeed! The police, of course, won’t credit a word of his tale—not they! They’ve got a strong prima facie case against him, and they’ll follow it up for all they’re worth. The real thing to do, if you’re to save him, is to find the real murderer. And to do that, you’ll need all your wits! If one only had some theory!”
Viner introduced Mr. Pawle to Miss Penkridge with the remark that she was something of an authority in mysteries, and as soon as they had sat down to lunch, told her of Langton Hyde and his statement.
“Just so!” said Miss Penkridge dryly. “That’s much more likely to be the real truth than that this lad killed Ashton. There’s a great deal more in this murder than is on the surface, and I dare say Mr. Pawle agrees with me.”
“I dare say I do,” assented Mr. Pawle. “The difficulty is—how to penetrate into the thick cloak of mystery.”
“When I was round there, at Number Seven, this morning,” observed Miss Penkridge, “those two talked very freely to me about Mr. Ashton. Now, there’s one thing struck me at once—there must be men in London who knew him. He couldn’t go out and about, as he evidently did, without meeting men. Even if it wasn’t in business, he’d meet men somewhere. And if I were you, I should invite men who knew him to come forward and tell what they know.”
“It shall be done—very good advice, ma’am,” said Mr. Pawle.
“And there’s another thing,” said Miss Penkridge. “I should find out what can be told about Mr. Ashton where he came from. I believe you can get telegraphic information from Australia within a few hours. Why not go to the expense—when there’s so much at stake? Depend upon it, the real secret of this murder lies back in the past—perhaps the far past.”
“That too shall be done,” agreed Mr. Pawle. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right.”
“In my opinion,” remarked Miss Penkridge, dryly, “the robbing of this dead man was all a blind. Robbery wasn’t the motive. Murder was the thing in view! And why? It may have been revenge. It may be that Ashton had to be got out of the way. And I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that isn’t at the bottom of it, which is at the top and bottom of pretty nearly everything!”
“And that, ma’am?” asked Mr. Pawle, who evidently admired Miss Penkridge’s shrewd observations, “that is what, now?”
“Money!” said Miss Penkridge. “Money!”
The old solicitor went away, promising to get to work on the lines suggested by Miss Penkridge, and next day he telephoned to Viner asking him to go down to his offices in Bedford Row. Viner hurried off, and on arriving found Mr. Pawle with a cablegram before him.
“I sent a pretty long message to Melbourne, to Ashton’s old bankers, as soon as I left you yesterday,” he said. “I gave them the news of his murder, and asked for certain information. Here’s their answer. I rang you up as soon as I got it.”
Viner read the cablegram carefully:
Deeply regret news. Ashton well known here thirty years dealer in real estate. Respected, wealthy. Quiet man, bachelor. Have made inquiries in quarters likely to know. Cannot trace anything about friend named Wickham. Ashton was away from Melbourne, up country, four years, some years ago. May have known Wickham then. Ashton left here end July, by Maraquibo, for London. Was accompanied by two friends Fosdick and Stephens. Please inform if can do more.
“What do you think of that?” asked Mr. Pawle. “Not much in it, is there?”
“There’s the mention of two men who might know something of Ashton’s habits,” said Viner. “If Fosdick and Stephens are still in England and were Ashton’s friends, one would naturally conclude that he’d seen them sometimes. Yet we haven’t heard of their ever going to his house.”
“We can be quite certain that they never did—from what the two ladies say,” remarked Mr. Pawle. “Perhaps they don’t live in London. I’ll advertise for both. But now, here’s another matter. I asked these people if they could tell me anything about Wickham, the father of this girl to whom Ashton’s left his very considerable fortune. Well, you see, they can’t. Now, it’s a very curious thing, but Miss Wickham has no papers, has, in fact, nothing whatever to prove her identity. Nor have I. Ashton left nothing of that sort. I know no more, and she knows no more, than what he told both of us—that her father died when she was a mere child, her mother already being dead, that the father left her in Ashton’s guardianship, and that Ashton, after sending her here to school, eventually came and took her to live with him. There isn’t a single document really to show who she is, who her father was, or anything about her family.”
“Is that very
