The Dartmoor Enigma (15 page)

“Do Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn live here?” asked the visitor.

“Yes.”

“And you are Mr. Dearborn's son?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I could see your father for a minute?”

“I'll ask him if you like. Who shall I say?”

“Just say that Mr. Richardson would like to speak to him for a few minutes.”

The young man seemed to remember the laws of hospitality practised by his elders, and asked the visitor to come in and take a seat. He led him into the swept and garnished sitting-room and went to find his mother.

“There's a gent asking to see one of you,” he announced in the bedroom upstairs. “I've shown him into the parlour.”

“Can't be the gas man,” remarked the mother. “He wouldn't come on a Sunday.”

“No, he isn't the gas man, he's a gentleman from London, I should say by the look of him.”

“Funny thing,” she grumbled; “what's a gentleman from London want with us on a Sunday morning?” Then she brightened. “I know what it is; one of those life insurance gentlemen who wanted to be sure to catch us at home. Well, your dad won't be fit to be seen. I'll have to go down myself. If he minds waiting, he shouldn't have come.”

The lady prepared herself to be a family sacrifice, as Richardson could tell from the quaking of the ceiling above him and the jingling of the glass chandelier. The builder had saved money on the rafters. Presently the footfalls were transferred to the pitch-pine staircase, which seemed to be the solidest part of the house. The door opened and Mrs. Dearborn stood before him. He rose to greet her. She was a comfortable-looking matron, nearly sixty, grey-haired, well preserved and pleasant-mannered. Richardson knew this type of mother well; he guessed that she would not be communicative with a stranger about her son until her confidence had been won.

“I may be bringing you bad news, madam,” he began; “a Mr. Charles Dearborn died two weeks ago in South Devon and I am anxious to trace his relatives.”

For a moment a startled look of horror showed on her face and then she asked, “Are you sure that it was two weeks ago?”

“Yes; it was on the 29th of September.” Her look of relief did not escape Richardson's keen gaze.

“He couldn't have been a relative of ours.”

“It was to make sure of that that I have called.”

“How did you find out our address?”

“Your daughter-in-law gave it to me.”

Mrs. Dearborn was too well brought up to snort; she made an inarticulate sound which was an equivalent.

“Oh, she told you, did she?”

“Yes; there would be no breach of confidence if I told you that she is trying to prove that the Mr. Dearborn who died a fortnight ago was her husband.”

“Ah! She wanted to know that, did she? You'll excuse me, but I don't quite understand how you come into the business, unless, of course, you're her lawyer.”

“No, madam, I'm not acting for her, but for the other Mrs. Dearborn, the widow of the man who died. You see, she doesn't like to think that her late husband committed bigamy in marrying her.”

“Oh, that daughter-in-law of mine wouldn't mind what unhappiness she brought into the homes of other people.”

“Can you tell me where her husband, your son, is now?”

He saw a look of obstinacy hardening her face.

“I'm sorry I can't. We haven't heard from him for six years.”

“Did you send anyone—your other son, for instance—down to Devonshire to ask whether the dead Charles Dearborn was a relation?”

“No, I knew we hadn't lost any relation.”

“Then you know that your son Charles is alive, “said Richardson, with a smile to turn away the wrath of a woman who has fallen into a trap.

“Now look here, I see what it is. She's sent you down here to find out where Charles is. She's been trying all along to find him, and now that she's made a pot of money on the films she's employing other people.”

“I assure you, madam, that I'm not acting for her, but for the legal wife of the man who is dead. As I told you, your daughter-in-law wished to claim him as her husband in order to be free to marry again.”

“To be free? She can't want that more than we do. She ruined my son's life. Ever since she won that beauty competition, she spent every penny he made on decking herself out; when he came home tired from his day's work he'd find nothing in the house to eat because she'd gone off with some admirer to dine and go to the pictures. She ruined his temper by nagging at him, and then one day he answered his boss back before everybody in the shop and of course he got the sack; he was a cashier at the time. Then she got an offer from a film company and said she wasn't going to keep him; he'd better clear out. So he left her and never wants to see her again.”

“I quite understand that,” said Richardson soothingly. “I wish I could persuade you to give me his address for the sake of my client.”

The lady demurred. “If I was sure…”

“I assure you that I won't give his address to your daughter-in-law until your son himself desires it.”

She laughed shortly. “He won't desire it; never fear. I don't mind telling you that he's coming round here to have dinner with us, and if you were to look in here at about half-past two you could have a talk to him.”

“Why, if he's living in this village I could go and see him now.”

“He's not. He's working a milk round near Bath, but he generally gets over here on a Sunday.”

“His wife told me she'd been down here making inquiries, but she couldn't get any sense out of any of the neighbours.”

Mrs. Dearborn laughed. “I'm not surprised to hear that. There was no one in the village that liked her or would do a hand's turn to help her; besides, nobody here knows where he's working.”

“How many sons have you, Mrs. Dearborn?”

“Only the two—Charles and Albert, who opened the door to you.”

“Someone told me that you had a son with freckles all over his face.”

She laughed in reminiscence. “That was Albert. You never saw such freckles as he had up to the age of fourteen, but they're all gone now. You see, as a small boy he was always out-of-doors, but when he went into an office at fifteen they began to disappear. You can still see them in a strong light, but they're not noticeable.”

Richardson rose. “I must apologize for having kept you so long, Mrs. Dearborn. Please believe that I'm very much obliged to you for taking me into your confidence.”

“Well, I was thinking of that poor woman you are representing. It isn't very nice for anyone to learn that she's committed bigamy.”

“You are sure you don't mind introducing me to your son this afternoon?”

“Not at all. We shall expect you at half-past two.”

While Richardson was lunching modestly at the local inn, he went over his morning's work in his mind. He had not really expected very much from this visit to Abbott's Ashton, except to verify the fact that Jane Smith's husband was not the subject of his inquiries in South Devon. There were two men of the same name; that happens frequently enough when the name is a common one; but when it is not, the usual explanation is that one of the two who bear it has assumed it for some purpose of his own. Arguing on this line, it was quite possible that the Charles Dearborn of Winterton had in some way heard the name and adopted it. That opened up a future line of inquiry.

Though it had no actual bearing on the murder case, Richardson could not pretend that the adventures of Jane Smith, who by her own efforts had succeeded in attaining wealth and position in six years, failed to interest him. She might not be a pleasant person to live with, but at least she had character, and no doubt her husband was a poor creature—that very afternoon he would know how poor.

Punctually at half-past two he was back at Chatsworth, and the boy who had parted with his freckles showed him into the dining-room. The family party was sitting round the fire; the room was heavy with tobacco smoke. Mrs. Dearborn presented the guest to her husband and son.

“I've explained to my son how I came to give his secret away, and he agrees that for the sake of that poor woman down in Devonshire I could not have done anything else.”

Richardson was looking curiously at this Charles Dearborn. He was very much as he had imagined him—a poor, backboneless man of irreproachable honesty, of an affectionate disposition, but entirely devoid of the driving-power required for success in modern life. That was why his progress had always been downhill, until now he rose almost when other people were going to bed, to drive a car round the farms near Bath collecting milk for the city dairies. He looked almost old enough to be the father of his younger brother.

After a little desultory conversation with Mr. Dearborn senior, to whom he had taken a liking, Richardson decided to lay his cards on the table.

“I ought to tell you that I am not a lawyer or any of those professions that you may have thought of. I am a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, engaged in solving the mystery of the late Charles Dearborn's death.” He felt rather than saw the electric wave of excitement created by his words. “The Charles Dearborn of Winterton met with a violent death, though the coroner's jury ascribed it to a motor accident.”

Mrs. Dearborn's expression became portentous. “If that daughter-in-law of mine came over from Hollywood with the idea of being free to marry again, and heard that a man of her husband's name was living down there, what with her head being full of gangsters and hold-up men, she might well have had a hand in it.”

“Oh, come, Mother,” said her husband; “that's going a little too far.”

“If you'd read as many detective stories as I have, Father,” said his eldest son, “you wouldn't be surprised at anything.”

Richardson smiled. “I don't think we can accuse the lady who now calls herself Jane Smith of anything like that. The dead man came to Winterton about three years ago. Can you think of anyone whom you knew three years ago, who might have borrowed your name, because we don't think he had any right to the name under which he was passing.”

“Three years ago? Why, that's about the time that I took on my present job, isn't it, Mother?”

“Yes, but you weren't seeing anyone but the farmers when they took you with them on the milk round.”

“I believe that when you were in Bristol you were a cashier in a big shop,” said Richardson. “Have you had any job as a cashier since?”

The young man shook his head. “No, you can't get that kind of job without a reference. I went to Bath for a bit to get away from my wife, but I couldn't get work for some time and my mother had to send me money. I was ready to take anything that offered. I watched the advertisement columns every morning, and at last I came down to being a cleaner in the Pump Room.”

“I believe I could have got his employer in Bristol to take him back again,” broke in the father, “but he wouldn't come back to work here for fear of running across that wife of his.”

“You never acted as private chauffeur or servant to anyone? I ask this because the man who was killed at Winterton was a man of means and might have employed you and afterwards used your name.”

“No, I had to take all kinds of jobs because beggars can't be choosers, but I never took a job like that. I've worked on my present job for three years, and I'm sure that none of the people I work for could be passing under a false name. They're all well-known farmers who've been for years in the place.”

“Well, I'm very much obliged to you all, but I'm afraid the case is likely to remain a mystery.” He turned to Charles. “I promise you that I won't give your wife your present address, but I ought to warn you that she'll leave no stone unturned to find you. She wants you either alive or dead. If dead, she will be free to marry again; if alive, to divorce you.”

The old father left his chair and became excited. “Why not, my son? Why not let her divorce you, and be free from her for ever?”

“Oh, let me be as I am. It would all be such a bother.”

“Not such a bother as you think,” replied Richardson. “She has plenty of money and divorces are very easily managed in America. However, you must do as you think best.”

“No, my son,” said the father. “You must show some grit for once. Come out into the open and let her divorce you.”

“Yes,” added the mother; “you've been in hiding like a criminal for six years, afraid to come to your own home for fear of her finding you.”

“Well, I won't see her alone; she mustn't come down after me.”

With the light of battle in her eye the mother said, “Let her come here and I'll see you through the interview. Perhaps the gentleman will be kind enough to tell her that she can come and see you here any Sunday afternoon.”

“That's arranged, then,” said Richardson. “I'll let her know.”

They parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. Richardson returned to the inn to await the char-à-banc back to Bristol, where at the railway hotel he discovered as he had feared, that on Sunday night it would be impossible to find a train for Plymouth. He reflected ruefully that he had solved a mystery for the film star, Jane Smith, but that he had not advanced a step in the direction of clearing up the murder of Charles Dearborn at Winterton. He spent the evening in writing up his notes of what he had done that afternoon, and as he had no right to spend his time in revisiting Jane Smith, he sat down to write her a letter at her flat.