Dead Men's Money

  CHAPTER XXIX

  ALL IN ORDER

  So that we might have it to ourselves, we had returned from Newcastle toBerwick in a first-class compartment, and in its privacy Mr. Lindsey hadtold Mr. Portlethorpe the whole of the Smeaton story. Mr. Portlethorpehad listened--so it seemed to me--with a good deal of irritation andimpatience; he was clearly one of those people who do not likeinterference with what they regard as an established order of things, andit evidently irked him to have any questions raised as to the Carstairsaffairs--which, of course, he himself had done much to settle when SirGilbert succeeded to the title. In his opinion, the whole thing was cut,dried, and done with, and he was still impatient and restive when Mr.Lindsey laid before him the letter which Mr. Gavin Smeaton had lent us,and invited him to look carefully at the handwriting. He made no properresponse to that invitation; what he did was to give a peevish glance atthe letter, and then push it aside, with an equally peevish exclamation.

  "What of it?" he said. "It conveys nothing to me!"

  "Take your time, Portlethorpe," remonstrated Mr. Lindsey, who wasunlocking a drawer in his desk. "It'll perhaps convey something to youwhen you compare that writing with a certain signature which I shall nowshow you. This," he continued, as he produced Gilverthwaite's will, andlaid it before his visitor, "is the will of the man whose coming toBerwick ushered in all these mysteries. Now, then--do you see who was oneof the witnesses to the will? Look, man!"

  Mr. Portlethorpe looked--and was startled out of his peevishness.

  "God bless me!" he exclaimed. "Michael Carstairs!"

  "Just that," said Mr. Lindsey. "Now then, compare Michael Carstairs'handwriting with the handwriting of that letter. Come here, Hugh!--you,too, have a look. And--there's no need for any very close or carefullooking, either!--no need for expert calligraphic evidence, or for theuse of microscopes. I'll stake all I'm worth that that signature and thatletter are the work of the same hand!"

  Now that I saw the Smeaton letter and the signature of the first witnessto Gilverthwaite's will, side by side, I had no hesitation in thinkingas Mr. Lindsey did. It was an exceptionally curious, not to sayeccentric, handwriting--some of the letters were oddly formed, otherletters were indicated rather than formed at all. It seemed impossiblethat two different individuals could write in that style; it was ratherthe style developed for himself by a man who scorned all conventionalmatters, and was as self-distinct in his penmanship as he probably wasin his life and thoughts. Anyway, there was an undeniable, anextraordinary similarity, and even Mr. Portlethorpe had to admit that itwas--undoubtedly--there. He threw off his impatience and irritability,and became interested--and grave.

  "That's very strange, and uncommonly important, Lindsey!" he said."I--yes, I am certainly inclined to agree with you. Now, what do youmake of it?"

  "If you want to know my precise idea," replied Mr. Lindsey, "it's justthis--Michael Carstairs and Martin Smeaton are one and the same man--or,I should say, were! That's about it, Portlethorpe."

  "Then in that case--that young fellow at Dundee is Michael Carstairs'son?" exclaimed Mr. Portlethorpe.

  "And, in my opinion, that's not far off the truth," said Mr. Lindsey."You've hit it!"

  "But--Michael Carstairs was never married!" declared Mr. Portlethorpe.

  Mr. Lindsey picked up Gilverthwaite's will and the Smeaton letter, andcarefully locked them away in his drawer.

  "I'm not so sure about that," he remarked, drily. "Michael Carstairs wasvery evidently a queer man who did a lot of things in a peculiar fashionof his own, and--"

  "The solicitor who sent us formal proof of his death, from Havana,previous to Sir Alexander's death, said distinctly that Michael had neverbeen married," interrupted Mr. Portlethorpe. "And surely he would know!"

  "And I say just as surely that from all I've heard of Michael Carstairsthere'd be a lot of things that no solicitor would know, even if he satat Michael's dying bed!" retorted Mr. Lindsey. "But we'll see. Andtalking of beds, it's time I was showing you to yours, and that we wereall between the sheets, for it's one o'clock in the morning, and we'llhave to be stirring again at six sharp. And I'll tell you what we'll do,Portlethorpe, to save time--we'll just take a mere cup of coffee and amouthful of bread here, and we'll breakfast in Edinburgh--we'll be thereby eight-thirty. So now come to your beds."

  He marshalled us upstairs--he and Mr. Portlethorpe had already takentheir night-caps while they talked,--and when he had bestowed the seniorvisitor in his room, he came to me in mine, carrying an alarm clock whichhe set down at my bed-head.

  "Hugh, my man!" he said, "you'll have to stir yourself an hour beforeMr. Portlethorpe and me. I've set that implement for five o'clock. Getyourself up when it rings, and make yourself ready and go round toMurray at the police-station--rouse him out of his bed. Tell him what weheard from that man Hollins tonight, and bid him communicate with theGlasgow police to look out for Sir Gilbert Carstairs. Tell him, too,that we're going on to Edinburgh, and why, and that, if need be, I'llring him up from the Station Hotel during the morning with any news wehave, and I'll ask for his at the same time. Insist on his getting intouch with Glasgow--it's there, without doubt, that Lady Carstairs wentoff, and where Sir Gilbert would meet her; let him start inquiriesabout the shipping offices and the like. And that's all--and get yourbit of sleep."

  I had Murray out of his bed before half-past five that morning, and Ilaid it on him heavily about the Glasgow affair, which, as we came toknow later, was the biggest mistake we made, and one that involved us inno end of sore trouble; and at a quarter-past six Mr. Lindsey and Mr.Portlethorpe and I were drinking our coffee and blinking at each otherover the rims of the cups. But Mr. Lindsey was sharp enough of his witseven at that hour, and before we set off from Berwick he wrote out atelegram to Mr. Gavin Smeaton, asking him to meet us in Edinburgh duringthe day, so that Mr. Portlethorpe might make his acquaintance. Thistelegram he left with his housekeeper--to be dispatched as soon as thepost-office was open. And then we were off, and by half-past eight wereat breakfast in the Waverley Station; and as the last stroke of ten wassounding from the Edinburgh clocks we were walking into the premises ofthe Scottish-American Bank.

  The manager, who presently received us in his private rooms, looked atMr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe with evident surprise--it may have beenthat there was mystery in their countenances. I know that I, on my part,felt as if a purblind man might have seen that I was clothed about withmystery from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot! And he appearedstill more surprised when Mr. Lindsey, briefly, but fully, explained whywe had called upon him.

  "Of course, I've read the newspapers about your strange doings atBerwick," he observed, when Mr. Lindsey--aided by some remarks from Mr.Portlethorpe--had come to the end of his explanation. "And I gather thatyou now want to know what we, here, know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs and Mr.John Paley. I can reply to that in a sentence--nothing that is to theirdiscredit! They are two thoroughly estimable and trustworthy gentlemen,so far as we are aware."

  "Then there _is_ a Mr. John Paley?" demanded Mr. Lindsey, who wasobviously surprised.

  The manager, evidently, was also surprised--by the signs of Mr.Lindsey's surprise.

  "Mr. John Paley is a stockbroker in this city," he replied. "Quite wellknown! The fact is, we--that is, I--introduced Sir Gilbert Carstairs tohim. Perhaps," he continued, glancing from one gentleman to the other, "Ihad better tell you all the facts. They're very simple, and quite of anordinary nature. Sir Gilbert Carstairs came in here, introducing himself,some months ago. He told me that he was intending to sell off a good dealof the Carstairs property, and that he wanted to reinvest his proceeds inthe very best American securities. I gathered that he had spent a lot oftime in America, that he preferred America to England, and, in short,that he had a decided intention of going back to the States, keepingHathercleugh as a place to come to occasionally. He asked me if I couldrecommend him a broker here in Edinburgh who was thoroughly wellacquainted with the very best class of American i
nvestments, and I atonce recommended Mr. John Paley. And--that's all I know, gentlemen."

  "Except," remarked Mr. Lindsey, "that you know that considerabletransactions have taken place between Mr. Paley and Sir GilbertCarstairs. We know that, from what we heard last night in Newcastle."

  "Precisely!--then you know as much as I can tell you," replied themanager. "But I have no objection to saying that large sums of money,coming from Sir Gilbert Carstairs, have certainly been passed through Mr.Paley's banking account here, and I suppose Mr. Paley has made theinvestments which Sir Gilbert desired--in fact, I know he has. And--Ishould suggest you call on Mr. Paley himself."

  We went away upon that, and it seemed to me that Mr. Lindsey was somewhattaken aback. And we were no sooner clear of the bank than Mr.Portlethorpe, a little triumphantly, a little maliciously, turned on him.

  "There! what did I say?" he exclaimed. "Everything is in order, you see,Lindsey! I confess I'm surprised to hear about those Americaninvestments; but, after all, Sir Gilbert has a right to do what he likeswith his own. I told you we were running our heads against thewall--personally, I don't see what use there is in seeing this Mr. Paley.We're only interfering with other people's business. As I say, SirGilbert can make what disposal he pleases of his own property."

  "And what I say, Portlethorpe," retorted Mr. Lindsey, "is that I'm goingto be convinced that it is his own property! I'm going to see Paleywhether you do or not--and you'll be a fool if you don't come."

  Mr. Portlethorpe protested--but he accompanied us. And we were very soonin Mr. John Paley's office--a quiet, self-possessed sort of man whoshowed no surprise at our appearance; indeed, he at once remarked thatthe bank manager had just telephoned that we were on the way, and why.

  "Then I'll ask you a question at once," said Mr. Lindsey. "And I'm sureyou'll be good enough to answer it. When did you last see Sir GilbertCarstairs?"

  Mr. Paley immediately turned to a diary which lay on his desk, andgave one glance at it. "Three days ago," he answered promptly."Wednesday--eleven o'clock."