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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter X</h3> <h2>The Black Museum</h2> Return to Table of Contents Winter, who had never seen Capella, was so well posted by Brett as to his personal appearance that he experienced no difficulty in picking out the Italian when he alighted from the train at Liverpool Street Station next morning. Capella did not conduct himself like a furtive villain. He jumped into a hansom. His valet followed in a four-wheeler with the luggage. In each instance the address given to the driver was that of a well-known West End hotel. The detective’s cab kept pace with Capella’s through Old Broad Street, Queen Victoria Street, and along the Embankment. At the Mansion House, and again at Blackfriars, they halted side by side, and Winter noticed that his quarry was looking into space with sullen, vindictive eyes. “He means mischief to somebody,” was Winter’s summing up. “I wonder if he intends to knife Hume?” for Brett had given his professional confrère a synopsis of all that happened before they met, and of his subsequent conversation with the “happy couple” in Beechcroft Hall. He repeated this remark to the barrister when he reached Brett’s chambers. “Capella will do nothing so crude,” was the comment. “He is no fool. I do not credit him with the murder of Sir Alan, but if I am mistaken in this respect, it is impossible to suppose that he can dream of clearing his path again by the same drastic method. Of course he means mischief, but he will stab reputations, not individuals.” “When will you come to the Black Museum?” “At once, if you like. But before we set out I want to discuss Mr. Okasaki with you. What sort of person is he?” “A genuine Jap, small, lively, and oval-faced. His eyes are like tiny slits in a water melon, and when he laughs his grin goes back to his ears.” “Really, Winter, I did not credit you with such a fund of picturesque imagery. Would you know him again?” “I can’t be certain. All Japs are very much alike, to my thinking, but if I heard him talk I would be almost sure. Why do you ask?” “Because I have been looking up a little information with reference to the Ko-Katana and its uses. Now, Okasaki is the name of a Japanese town. Family names almost invariably have a topographical foundation, referring to some village, river, street, or mountain, and there may be thousands of Okasakis. Then, again, it was the custom some years ago for a man to be called one name at birth, another when he came of age, a third when he obtained some official position, and so on. For instance, you would be called Spring when you were born, Summer when you were twenty-one, Autumn when you became a policeman, and Winter when you reached your present rank.” “Oh, Christopher!” cried the detective. “And if I were made Chief Inspector?” “Then your title would be ‘Top Dog’ or something of the sort.” Mr. Winter assimilated the foregoing information with a profound thankfulness that we in England do these things differently. “Why are you so interested in Mr. Okasaki?” he inquired. “I will answer your question by another. Why was he so interested in the Ko-Katana?” “That is hardly what I told you, Mr. Brett. He professed to be interested in the crime itself. But now I come to think of it, he did ask me to let him see the thing.” “And did you?” “Yes; I wanted all the information I could get.” “My position exactly. Let us go to Scotland Yard.” The famous Black Museum has so often been the subject of articles in the public press that no detailed description is needed here. It contains, in glass cases, or hanging on the walls, a weird collection of articles famous in the annals of crime. It is not open to the public, and Brett, who had not seen the place before, examined its relics with much curiosity. The detective exhibited a pardonable pride in some of them, but his companion damped his enthusiasm by saying: “This is a depressing sight.” “In what way?” “British rogues are evidently of low intelligence in the average. A bludgeon and a halter make up their history.” “There’s more than that in a good many cases.” “Ah, I forgot the handcuffs.” “Well, here is the Ko-Katana,” said Winter shortly. The barrister took the fateful weapon, not more deadly than a paper-knife in appearance, and scrutinised it closely. “It has not been cleaned,” he said. “No, it was left untouched after the doctor withdrew it from the poor young fellow’s breast.” Brett produced a magnifying glass. Beneath the rust on the blade he thought he could distinguish some Japanese characters in the quaint pictorial script adapted by that singular people from the Chinese system of writing. He brought the knife nearer to the window and carefully focussed it. Then he produced a note-book and made a pencil drawing of the following inscription: <div class="figure"><ANTIMG src= "images/01.png" alt="Japanese writing" id="img01" name="img01" width="90%" /></div> Winter watched him with quiet agony. He had never noticed the signs before. “Mr. Okasaki did not tell you what these scratches meant?” inquired the barrister. “No. He did not see them.” “Sure?” “Quite positive. Of course, it is very smart on your part to hit upon them so quickly, but what possible purpose can it serve to find out the meaning of something carved in Japan more than fifty years ago, at the very least?” “I do not know. It is very stupid of me, I admit, but I have not the faintest notion.” “Does it make the finding of Okasaki more important?” “To a certain extent. We want to have everything explained. At present we have so little of what I regard as really definite evidence.” “May I ask what that little is?” “Sir Alan Hume-Frazer was murdered with a knife produced by a man like David Hume, whom ‘Rabbit Jack’ saw standing beneath the yews. Not much, eh?” Winter shook his head dubiously. “If Sir Alan were shot instead of stabbed,” went on the barrister, “the first thing you would endeavour to determine would be the calibre and nature of the bullet. Why not be equally particular about the knife?” “But this weapon has been for fifty years in Glen Tochan. Its history is thoroughly established.” “Is it? Who made it? Whose crest does it bear? What does this motto signify? If you wanted to kill a man would you use this toy? Why was not the sword itself employed?” “That string of questions leaves me out, Mr. Brett.” “I am equally uninformed. I can only answer the last one. The sword is intended for suicidal purposes, the Ko-Katana for an enemy. This is a case of murder, not suicide.” The detective wheeled sharply on his heels, thereby upsetting Charles Peace’s telescopic ladder. “You suspect Okasaki!” he cried. “My dear fellow! Okasaki is, say, five feet nothing. The murderer is five feet ten inches in height. Japanese are clever people, but they are not—telescopes,” and he picked up the ladder. Winter grinned. “You always make capital out of my blunders,” he said. “Pooh! My banking account is limited. Let us go. The moral atmosphere in this room is vile.” Outside the Central Police Office they separated, Brett to pay some long-neglected calls, Winter to hunt up Capella’s movements and initiate inquiries about Okasaki. The detective came to Brett’s chambers at five o’clock, in a great state of excitement. “Thank goodness you are at home, sir.” he cried, when Smith admitted him to the barrister’s sanctum. “Capella is off to Naples.” Naples, the scene of his marriage! What did this journey portend? Naught but the gravest considerations would take him so far away from home when he knew that David and Helen were reunited. “How did you discover this fact?” asked Brett, awaking out of a brown study. “Easily enough, as it happened. Ninety-nine per cent. of gentlemen’s valets are keen sports. Barbers and hotel-porters run them close. I do a bit that way myself—” The barrister groaned. “Not often, sir, but this is holiday time, you see. Anyhow, I gave the hall-porter, whom I know, the wink to come to a neighbouring bar during his time off for tea. He actually brought Capella’s man—William his name is—with him. I told them I had backed the first winner to-day, an eight to one chance, and that started them. I offered to put them on a certainty next week, and William’s face fell. ‘It’s a beastly nuisance,’ he said, ‘I’m off to Naples with my boss to-morrow.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you’re not going before the night train, perhaps I may be able—’ But that made him worse, because they leave by the 11 A.M., Victoria.” Brett began to pace the room. He could not make up his mind to visit Naples in person. For one thing, he did not speak Italian. But Capella must be followed. At last he decided upon a course of action. “Winter,” he said, “do you know a man we can trust, an Italian, or better still, an Italian-speaking Englishman, who can undertake this commission for us?” “Would you mind ringing for Smith, sir?” replied the detective, who seemed to be mightily pleased with himself. Smith appeared. “At the foot of the stairs you will find a gentleman named Holden,” said Winter. “Ask him to come up, please.” Holden appeared, a sallow personage, long-nosed and shrewd-looking. The detective explained that Mr. Holden was an ex-police sergeant, retained for many years at headquarters on account of his fluency in the language of Tasso. Winter did not mention Tasso. This is figurative. An arrangement was quickly made. He was to start that evening and meet Capella on arrival at Naples; Winter would telegraph the fact of the Italian’s departure according to programme. Holden was not to spare expense in employing local assistance if necessary. He was to report everything he could learn about Capella’s movements. Brett wanted to hand him £50, but found that all the money he had in his possession at the moment only totalled up to £35. Winter produced a small bag. “It was quite true what I said,” he smirked. “I did back the first winner, and, what’s more, I drew it—sixteen of the best.” “I had no idea the police force was so corrupt,” sighed Brett, as he completed the financial transaction, and Mr. Holden took his departure. The detective also went off to search for Okasaki. About nine o’clock Hume arrived. “You will be glad to hear,” he said, “that the rector invited me to lunch. He approves of my project, and will pray for my success. It has been a most pleasant day for me, I can assure you.” “The rector retired to his study immediately after lunch, I presume?” “Yes,” said David innocently. “Has anything important occurred in town?” Brett gave him a resumé of events. A chance allusion to Sir Alan caused the young man to exclaim: “By the way, you have never seen his photograph. He and I were very much alike, you know, and I have brought from my rooms a few pictures which may interest you.” He handed to Brett photographs of himself and his two cousins, and of the older Sir Alan and Lady Hume-Frazer, taken singly and in groups. The barrister examined them minutely. “Alan and I,” pointed out his client, “were photographed during our last visit to London. Poor chap! He never saw this picture. The proofs were not sent until after his death.” Something seemed to puzzle Brett very considerably. He compared the pictures one with the other, and paid heed to every detail. “Let me understand,” Brett said at last. “I think I have it in my notes that at the time of the murder you were twenty-seven, Sir Alan twenty-four, and Mrs. Capella twenty-six?” “That is so, approximately. We were born respectively in January, October, and December. My twenty-seventh birthday fell on the 11th.” “Stated exactly, you were two years and nine months older than he?” “Yes.” “You don’t look it.” “I never did. We were always about the same size as boys, but he matured at an earlier age than I.” “It is odd. How old were you when this group was taken?” The photograph depicted a family gathering on the lawn at Beechcroft. There were eight persons in it, three being elderly men. David reflected. “That was before I left Harrow, and Christmas time. Seventeen almost, within a couple of weeks.” “So your cousin Margaret was sixteen?” “Yes.” “She was remarkably tall, well-developed for her age.” “That was a notable characteristic from an early age. We boys used to call her ‘Mama,’ when we wanted to vex her.” “The three old gentlemen are very much alike. This is the baronet. Who are the others?” “My father and uncle.” “What! Do you mean to tell me there is another branch of the family?” “Well, yes, in a sense. My uncle is dead. His son, my age or a little older, for the youngest of the three brothers was married first, was last heard of in Argentina.” Brett threw the photograph down with clatter. “Good Heavens!” he vociferated, “when shall I begin to comprehend this business in its entirety? How many more uncles, and aunts, and cousins have you?” Amazed by this outburst, Hume endeavoured to put matters right. “I never thought—” he commenced. “You come to me to do the thinking, Hume. For goodness’ sake switch your memory for five minutes from Miss Layton, and tell me all you know of your family history. Have you any other relations?” “None whatever.” “And this newly-arrived cousin, what of him?” “He was in the navy, and being of a quarrelsome disposition, was court-martialled for some small outbreak. He would not submit to discipline, and resigned the service. Then his father died, and Bob went off to South America. I have never heard of him since. I know very little about my younger uncle’s household. Indeed, the occasion recorded by the photograph was the last time the old men met in friendship. There was a dispute about money matters. My Uncle Charles was in the city, the two estates being left by my grandfather to the two oldest sons. Charles Hume-Frazer died a poor man, having lost his fortune by speculation.” “Have you seen your cousin Robert? Did he resemble Alan and you?” “We were all as like as peas. People say that our house is remarkable for the unchanging type of its male line. That is readily demonstrated by the family portraits. You have not been in the dining-room or picture-gallery at Beechcroft, or you must have noticed this instantly.” Brett flung himself into a chair. “The Argentine!” he muttered. “A nice school for a ‘quarrelsome’ Hume-Frazer.” He had calmed sufficiently to reach for his cigarette-case when Smith entered with a note, delivered by a boy messenger. It was from Winter: “Have found Okasaki. His name is now Numagawa Jiro, so you were right, as usual. He and Mrs. Jiro live at 17 St. John’s Mansions, Kensington.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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