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<h2>CHAPTER XXII MORE ANONYMOUS LETTERS</h2> I sent Stillman back to keep an eye on Tulmin until I could myself interview him and then set myself to arrange a meeting with Thoyne.  He was staying at White Towers and I had no difficulty in finding him. “Hallo!” he cried.  “You look very serious, Holt.  What is the matter?  Have you made a fresh discovery?” “Yes,” I said, “I have.” “Well, cheer up.  I can’t say you look pleased about it.” “Thoyne,” I responded, looking him straight in the face.  “Did you ever hear the name of Calcott?” He sent me a quick glance that was partly, I think, surprise but was not entirely devoid of wrath.  The name had evidently no very pleasant sound in his ears. “You see,” I went on, interpreting his half-instinctive movement in my own way, “you have given me a lot of quite unnecessary trouble.  Had you been frank with me—” “I was frank on everything that mattered,” he said sullenly. “You thought the fact that Clevedon had been an American crook known as Calcott whom you had met in Chicago—” “That’s a lie, anyway.” “You needn’t get excited about it,” I rejoined equably. “Excited, the devil!” he cried.  “I am not excited.  I’m as calm as you are.” “Then perhaps you would like to tell me the whole story.” “What story?” “The story of Calcott, the crook, and what you knew about him in Chicago.” “I did not know him in Chicago.” He sat himself down and ran his fingers two or three times through his thick hair. “You are rather a marvel,” he said, with a smile that was just a little rueful.  “How you get these things sorted out amazes me.  First one and then another, you get them all straightened and leave no loose ends.  No, I never knew Calcott, though I’d heard of him.  But I had known Tulmin in Chicago.  I caught him looting my baggage—it was in the car outside my house and he was just moving off with a bag.  I caught him and thrashed him and let him go.  I recognised him when I met him here, and he knew me also.  I didn’t interfere.  He seemed to be living an honest life as far as I could gather and I didn’t want to rob the poor devil of his chance.  It was he who told me about Calcott.  You see, after they quarrelled—” “Quarrelled!” I repeated.  “Did—but I must have the whole story now.  There is more in this than I thought.  If there was a quarrel—” “Yes, what of it?” Thoyne spoke a little impatiently as if he were tired of the whole subject and merely wanted to bury it. “Well, a quarrel—is sometimes a motive for murder—” “I always thought Tulmin did it,” he responded quietly.  “But I’ll tell you all I know and then perhaps you can leave me alone.  Damn Clevedon and damn Tulmin.  Why should I be worried about their affairs in this fashion? I didn’t ask to be mixed up in it, did I?  Of course, I did it to help Kitty, and would do it all again, and more for her.  And all through the infernal foolery of this secret marriage.  Why couldn’t Clevedon tell his sister he was going to be married?  The whole thing’s been a nightmare to me and I’m dead sick of it.  I didn’t murder Clevedon and I don’t know who did, unless it was Tulmin.  If you would find the assassin and tie him up I might get some peace.” “But it was you who took Tulmin away and hid him,” I replied. “Yes, I know it was—what of it?” “But if you thought he was the murderer—?” “Of course I thought he was the murderer.  You don’t think I should have involved an innocent man, do you?  Yes, I persuaded Tulmin to go away in order to keep suspicion off Billy Clevedon.  Kitty was terrified and I was a bit anxious myself.” “And as to this quarrel?” I interposed. “I don’t know the rights of that, except that Tulmin had wanted more money than Clevedon was willing to pay.  Kitty had told me, you know, that Clevedon had wanted her to marry him and that she intended to consent.  We were not formally engaged then, though it was all but fixed up between us.  But the word lay with her, of course, and I was trying to be as philosophical as I could over my dismissal when one night Tulmin came to me with a queer, mixed yarn, of which at first I could make p. 255nothing.  ‘What have you come to me for?’ I said.  ‘I’ve come to sell you a secret,’ he replied.  My first idea was to give the swine a good sound kicking and pack him off.  ‘I could tell you something about Sir Philip that’ll make Miss Kitty impossible,’ he added, and at that I waited. “I dare say you’ll blame me, but I don’t pretend to be any better than anybody else, and besides, he’d stolen her from me.  So I listened.  He told me he knew something against Clevedon, who had been paying him to keep silence.  Now he wanted to go back to America—Tulmin did, I mean—and had asked Clevedon for a lump sum, and Clevedon had threatened to shoot him.  That is the best thing I ever heard about Clevedon.  Tulmin is a little rat, for whom shooting is a lot too good.  But Clevedon had stolen my woman and I didn’t mean to lose any chance that came.  I said he could have the money if I found the secret worth it.  He wanted it in advance, but I told him he’d have it my way or no way.  And then he told me what Clevedon had been across the water. “At first I took him to mean that Clevedon was an impostor and had no right to the title and estates, but it seems I was wrong there.  I went off to Clevedon next day and we had a p. 256right royal rumpus about it—that was the interview described at the inquest.  I didn’t mention Tulmin’s name—the little rat had made that a condition.  ‘You can’t deny it,’ I said to Clevedon.  ‘I come from Chicago, you know.  I recognised you months ago.’  He seemed impressed and it was rather a good lie.  ‘But I didn’t interfere,’ I went on, ‘until you tried to steal my woman, and we Americans are always ready to fight for our women.’  That housekeeper woman didn’t hear all that, apparently.  Then Clevedon denied the whole story and we began to get angry.” “I see,” I interposed, “and when you said you’d find a way of making him give Miss Clevedon up, you meant—” “I meant I would get the Chicago police on his trail.” “Did you know that Clevedon gave Tulmin a cheque for £500 the day before the murder?” “No, did he?  Well, evidently Tulmin didn’t think it enough.” “What day was it Tulmin came to see you?” “It was that same morning, February 23rd.” “Clevedon gave Tulmin £500, which was less than Tulmin wanted, so Tulmin double-crossed Clevedon and came to you.” “That seems like it.” p. 257“It opens all sorts of fresh avenues,” I remarked. “Don’t say that,” Thoyne murmured, with a groan.  “I was hoping it would end the case.  I never want to be mixed up in another murder mystery.  It is the very deuce.” “Suppose Clevedon, having quarrelled with Tulmin, and knowing you also had penetrated his secret—” “Do you mean it was suicide?” Thoyne cried, his whole face lighting up.  “If you could prove that I would—I would give you a cheque for ten thousand pounds.  It would settle such a lot, wouldn’t it?  Suicide, yes, I think after all it must be suicide.” He gazed eagerly at my unresponsive face, then shrugged his shoulders a little angrily. “Yes,” I replied slowly, “but then, what of the hatpin?” His face fell at that. “Clevedon certainly didn’t stab himself with a hatpin,” I added.  “But you may as well finish the story,” I went on, “and tell me why you spirited Tulmin away.” “Oh, that’s quite simple,” he replied.  “Kitty was worried about her brother, whose absence puzzled her, as it did the rest of us.  So I offered Tulmin a job, and he jumped at it.” p. 258“Did you tell him—” “Of course not, I’m not a fool.” “And was that why you offered to buy my house?” He laughed at the recollection of that particular interview. “I dare say you thought me an awful idiot,” he said. “And now you’ve told me everything.” “Yes,” he responded, “everything.” The truth or otherwise of which will appear in due course. On my way out old Lady Clevedon met me, grimmer and more caustic than ever. “Any discoveries, Mr. Detective?” she cried.  “But I suppose I need not ask.  Have you seen the Midlington Courier to-day?  It has an interesting article on the Clevedon Case—I forget how many weeks gone and nothing done.  It wants to know if the police—” “But I have nothing to do with the police,” I interrupted smilingly. Pepster, whom I found awaiting me at Stone Hollow, began on the newspaper article as soon as we met. “What do you think of that?” he cried, waving the cutting as if it had been a flag.  “Have you read it?  ‘Unfortunately, we cannot p. 259congratulate the police, who seem to have been waiting, like the famous Micawber, for something to turn up.’  What do you think of it?” “Oh, newspaper writers are very fond of dragging Mr. Micawber in,” I replied.  “He is overworked.” “Damn Micawber!” “Yes,” I rejoined, with a quiet laugh.  “I should feel like that if I belonged to the police.” “Well, you’re in the case, anyway,” Pepster said tartly.  “And that reminds me.  I have some news for you.  At least, I think I have.  But with you one never knows.  Quite likely you have it all entered up already.  Did you ever hear of Mary Grainger?” “No, who is she?” “Thank God, I’ve got a novelty at last.  She’s daughter to Grainger, the Midlington chemist.  Did you know he had a daughter?” “No, does she live at home?” “She doesn’t live anywhere, she’s dead.” “Yes?” “Did you know that?” I shook my head to express a negative. “Then it really is one to me,” he said, with an air of great satisfaction. “Yes,” I agreed, “it is one to you if it means anything.  I take it there is more behind.  The decease of a young lady I never met is hardly a matter for excitement in itself.” “Yes, there is more behind,” he said slowly, nodding his head.  “There is, for instance, Nora Lepley behind.  She and Mary Grainger both attended the High School in Midlington and have been for years inseparable friends.  Nora frequently spent weeks at a time with the Graingers at Midlington and apparently had the run of the shop.  She goes frequently to see the old man even now.  She was there one day last week.  Now suppose—well, Nora Lepley could have got the prussic acid that way.” “It is certainly one to you,” I agreed, slowly and thoughtfully. “I have something else,” Pepster went on, taking out his wallet. “More anonymous letters?” I queried. “Yes, two.” He handed them across to me.  One was a fragment of blue paper, on which was printed in red ink: <blockquote>THOYNE IS STILL AT LIBERTY.  WHY? </blockquote> The other was a picture postcard—a view of the Midlington Parish Church—and the message, in pencil, ran: <blockquote>WHY ARE YOU PROTECTING THOYNE.  HAS HE PAID YOU? </blockquote> “It wasn’t sent open like that,” Pepster explained.  “It came in an envelope.  It’s a popular card, printed by the hundred and sold by every stationer in Midlington.  Somebody seems to have a rare grudge against Thoyne.” “Does he know anything of these?” “I haven’t told him.” “Nor of the others?” “No” “It might be a good idea—just to see how he took it.” “If there was anything in them it might put him on his guard.” I did not press the matter further just then, though I could not help wondering what story there was behind this queer series. “Put a personal in the Courier,” I suggested, “inviting the writer of communications to the Peakborough police to send his address confidentially.” “I did.” “No result?” p. 262“A personal in reply which ran, ‘Take him first and then I will.’  You know he said in one of the other letters that if we would arrest Thoyne he would supply the evidence.” “No, you can’t do that,” I agreed.  “And now,” I added, “if you’ll sit still and not interrupt I’ll tell you a long story.” And I proceeded to recount the past history of Sir Philip Clevedon and Tulmin, and Thoyne’s connection with it.  Pepster heard me to the end in silence. “This case,” he said, when I had finished, “is the very devil.  I’m half inclined to think Tulmin did it after all.  At any rate there are three of them in it—Tulmin, Thoyne and Nora Lepley, but which is which—or are they all three in it?” It was a possibility that had occurred to me more than once. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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