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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XXI</h3> <h2>Concerning Chickens, and Motives</h2> Return to Table of Contents The detective cooled off by the time they reached Brett’s flat. On the dining-room tables they found two telegrams and a Remington type-writer. The messages were from Holden, Naples. The first: “Johnson arrived here this morning.” The second: “Johnson’s proceedings refer to poorhouse and church registers.” “Johnson is Capella,” explained Winter. “I forgot to tell you we had arranged that.” Brett surveyed the second telegram so intently that the detective inquired: “How do you read that, sir?” “Capella is securing copies of certificates—marriages, births, or deaths; perhaps all three. He is also getting hold of living witnesses.” “Of what?” “He will tell us himself. He is preparing a bombshell of sorts. It will explode here. Goodness only knows who will be blown up by it.” He took the cover off the type-writer, seized a sheet of paper, and began to manipulate the keyboard with the methodical carefulness of one unaccustomed to its use. He wrote: <div class="quote" style="font-family:monospace;"> “About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road. Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m.” </div> “Do you mean to say,” cried the detective, “that you can remember the anonymous letter word for word? You have only seen it once, and that was several days ago.” “Not only word for word, but the spacing, the number of words in a line, the lines between which creases appear. Look, Winter. Here is the small broken ‘c,’ the bent capital ‘D,’ the letter ‘a’ out of register. Where is the original?” “Here, in my pocket-book.” They silently compared the two typed sheets. It needed no expert to note that they had been written by the same machine. “It would take a clever counsel to upset that piece of evidence,” said Winter. “I wish I had hold of the writer.” “You have spoken to him several times.” “Surely you cannot mean Jiro!” “Who else? Jiro is but the tool of a superior scoundrel. He is just beginning to suspect the fact, and trying to use it for his own benefit. I wish I was in Naples with your friend Holden.” “But, Mr. Brett, the murderer is in London! What about this morning’s attempt—” “My dear fellow, you are already constructing the gallows. Leave that to the gaol officials. What we do not yet know is the motive. The key to the mystery is in Naples, probably in Capella’s hands at this moment. If I were there it would be in mine, too. Do not question me, Winter. I am not inspired. I can only indulge in vague imaginings. Capella will bring the reality to London.” “Then what are we to do meanwhile?” “Await events patiently. Watch Jiro with the calm persistence of a cat watching a hole into which a mouse has disappeared. At this moment, eat something.” He rang for Smith, and told him to attend to the wants of the waiting cabman, whilst Mrs. Smith made the speediest arrangements for an immediate dinner. The two men sat down, and Winter could not help asking another question. “Why are you keeping the cab, Mr. Brett?” “Because I am superstitious.” The detective opened wide his eyes at this unlooked-for statement. “I mean it,” said the barrister. “Look at all I have learnt to-day whilst darting about London in that particular hansom, which, mind you, I carefully selected from a rank of twenty. Abandon it until I am dropped at my starting-point! Never!” Winter sighed. “I never feel that way about anything on wheels,” he said. “Do you really think you will be able to clear up this affair, sir? It seems to me to be a bigger muddle now than when I left it after the second trial. Don’t laugh at me. That is awkwardly put, I know. But then we had a straightforward crime to deal with. Now, goodness knows where we have landed.” Smith entered, and commenced laying the table. Brett did not reply to the detective’s spoken reverie. Both men idly watched the deft servant’s preparations. “Smith,” suddenly cried the master of the household, “what sort of chicken have we for dinner?” “Cold chicken, sir.” “Thank you. As you seem to demand Miltonic precision in phrase, I amend my words. What breed of chicken have we for dinner?” “A dorking, sir.” “And how do you know it is a dorking?” “Oh, there’s lots of ways of knowin’ that, sir. You can tell by the size, by its head and feet, and by the tuft of feathers left on its neck.” “Q.E.D.” “Beg pardon, sir!” “I was only saying, ‘Right you are!’” Smith went out, and Brett turned to his companion: “Did you note Smith’s philosophy in the matter of dorkings?” he inquired. “Yes.” “Does it convey no moral to you? I fear not. Now mark me, Winter. Just as the breed of the chicken is indelibly stamped on it in the eyes of a man skilled in chickens, so is the murder we are investigating marked by characteristics so plain that a child of ten, properly trained to use his eyes, might discern them. What you and I suffer from are defects implanted by idle nursemaids and doting mothers. Let us, for the moment, adopt the policy of the theosophists and sit in consultation apart from our astral bodies. Who killed Sir Alan Hume-Frazer? I answer, a relative. What relative? Someone we do not know, whom he did not know, or who committed murder because he was known. What sort of person is the murderer? A man physically like either David or Robert, so like that ‘Rabbit Jack’ would swear to the identity of either of them as readily as to the person of the real murderer. Why did he use such a weird instrument as the Ko-Katana? Because he found it under his hand and recognised its sinister purpose, to be left implanted in the breast or brain of an enemy’s lifeless body. Where is the man now? In London, perhaps outside this building, perhaps watching the Northumberland Avenue Hotel, waiting quietly for another chance to take the life of the person who caused us to reopen this inquiry. To sum up, Winter, let us find such an individual, a Hume-Frazer with black, deadly eyes, with a cold, calculating, remorseless brain, with a knowledge of trick and fence not generally an attribute of the Anglo-Saxon race—let us lay hands on him, I say, and you can book him for kingdom come, viâ the Old Bailey.” “Yes, sir!” broke in Winter excitedly. “But the motive!” “Et tu, Brute! Would the disciple rend his master? Have I not told you that Capella will bring that knowledge with him from Naples? I have hopes even of your long-nosed friend, Holden, giving us all the details we need.” “What did the murderer steal from Sir Alan’s writing-desk, from the drawer broken open before the blow was struck?” Smith entered, bearing a chicken. “The motive, Winter! The motive!” laughed Brett, and in pursuance of his invariable practice, he refused to say another word about the crime or its perpetrator during the meal. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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