of course rose above the £60 and seldom fell below £20. To carry on my simile, any monies that were over after raising the current account to £60 he considered capital, and they went out to swell the hoard in the safe at Starvel. In addition he kept a sum of £500 on deposit receipt. I don’t know exactly why he did so, but I presume it was as a sort of nest-egg in the event of his safe being burgled. You follow me?’
‘I follow you all right, but, by Jove! it was a queer arrangement.’
‘Everything the poor old man did was queer, but, as you know, he was—’ Mr Tarkington shook his head significantly. ‘However, to go on with my story. These monies that were to be sent out to Starvel I used to keep until they reached at least a hundred, and then I used to send a clerk out with the cash. The mission usually fell to Bloxham—you know Bloxham, of course? Averill liked him and asked me to send him when I could. Bloxham has seen into the safe on two or three occasions, and it is from him I know that it was packed with notes as well as the gold.’
‘I never can get over all that money being burnt,’ Mr Oxley interjected. ‘It makes me sick to think of even now. Such stupid, needless, wicked waste!’
Mr Tarkington took no notice of this outburst.
‘It happened that about a week before the tragedy, he went on in his precise manner, ‘a cheque for £346 came in from the Leeds property. The current account was then standing at £27, so I paid £26 into it, raising it to £53, and sent Bloxham with the balance, £320, out to Starvel. The money was in sixteen twenties, the numbers of which were kept. As I said, it was one of the old man’s peculiarities that he liked his money in £20 notes. I suppose it made it easier to hoard and count. Bloxham saw Averill lock these notes away in his safe and brought me the old man’s receipt.’
Mr Tarkington paused to draw at his cigarette, then continued:
‘In my report about the affair to our headquarters in Throgmorton Avenue, I mentioned among other things that these notes, giving the numbers, had been destroyed in the fire. Well, Oxley, what do you think has happened? I heard from headquarters today and they tell me that one of those notes has just been paid in!’
Mr Oxley looked slightly bewildered.
‘Well, what of it?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t follow. You reported that these notes had been destroyed in the fire. But wasn’t that only a guess? How did you actually know?’
‘It was a guess, of course, and I didn’t actually know,’ Mr Tarkington agreed. ‘But I think it was a justifiable guess. I am acquainted with Averill’s habits; he made no secret of them. Monies he paid out he paid by cheque on the current account—everything that one can think of went through it, even the Ropers’ salaries. The cash sent out to Starvel went into the hoard.’
‘All of it didn’t.’
‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘The ten pounds to Ruth Averill didn’t.’
Mr Tarkington seemed slightly taken aback.
‘Well, that’s true,’ he admitted slowly. ‘I forgot about the ten pounds. I—’
‘And there’s another twenty that didn’t,’ Mr Oxley continued, ‘and that’s the twenty that turned up in London. I don’t get your idea, Tarkington. Just what is in your mind?’
Mr Tarkington moved uneasily in the big arm-chair.
‘It seems far-fetched, I know, and I hardly like putting it into words, but are you satisfied in your own mind that business was all just as it appeared to be?’
‘What? The fire? How do you mean “as it appeared to be”?’
‘That it really was the accident we thought it.’
Mr Oxley whistled.
‘Oh, come now, Tarkington, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Do you mean arson? What possible grounds could you have for suggesting such a thing?’
‘I don’t exactly suggest it; I came to ask your opinion about it. But what passed through my mind was this: There have been several burglaries lately—skilful burglaries, and, as you know, the police have been completely at fault. Averill was universally believed to be wealthy—the legend of the safe was common property. Is it impossible that some of these burglars might have decided to make an attempt on Starvel? Remember the situation was one of the loneliest in England. Assume that they got in and that something unexpected happened—that they were surprised by Roper, for example. In the resulting disturbance Roper might easily have been killed—possibly quite accidentally. The intruders would then be fighting for their lives as well as their fortunes. And in what better way could they do it than to murder the other members of the household; lay them on their beds and burn the house down?’
Mr Oxley did not reply. The idea was chimerical, fantastic, absurd, and yet—it was certainly possible. There had been a number of daring burglaries within the last few months, which were generally believed to be the work of one gang, and in no single instance had the police been able to effect an arrest. The belief in the old miser’s hoard was universal, and from the point of view of the thief, Starvel would be one of the easiest cribs to crack. Moreover, on second thoughts Tarkington’s suggestion as to the origin of the fire was not so fanciful, after all. The safe containing the money was in Averill’s bedroom, and the old man would have to be quieted in some way before it could be opened. Roper’s attention might easily have been attracted, and the burglars, either by accident or in self-defence, might have killed him. If so, the fire would be their obvious way of safety. Yes, the thing was possible. All the same there wasn’t a shred of evidence that it had happened.
‘But, my dear fellow,’ Oxley said at last, ‘that’s all my eye! Very ingenious and all that, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence for it. Why invent a complicated, far-fetched explanation when you have a simple one ready to hand? Sounds as if you had been reading too many detective stories lately.’
Tarkington did not smile with his friend.
‘You think it nonsense?’ he asked earnestly. ‘You think I needn’t tell the police about the note?’
‘I don’t think you have any evidence: not evidence to justify even a suspicion. You’ve no real reason to suppose Averill did not hand that twenty-pound note to someone from whom it passed to the man who paid it in.’
‘To whom, for example?’
‘I don’t know. Neither of us knows what visitors the old man might have had. But that doesn’t prove he had none.’
Mr Tarkington seemed far from satisfied. He threw away his cigarette and took another from the box, handling it delicately in his long, thin fingers. He moved nervously in his chair and then said in a low voice:
‘I suppose then, Oxley, I may take it that you were quite satisfied about that business—I mean at the time?’
Mr Oxley looked at his friend in surprise.
‘Good gracious, Tarkington, what bee have you got in your bonnet? Do you mean satisfied that the fire was an accident and that those three poor people were burned? Of course I was. It never occurred to me to doubt it.’
The other seemed slightly relieved.
‘I hope sincerely that you’re right,’ he answered. ‘But I may tell you that I wasn’t satisfied—neither at the time nor yet since. That’s the reason that when I heard about the note I came at once to consult you. There’s a point which you and the coroner and the police and everyone concerned seem to have overlooked,’ he dropped his voice still further and became very impressive. ‘What about the papers that were burnt in the safe?’
Mr Oxley was surprised at his friend’s persistence.
‘Well, what in Heaven’s name about them? For the life of me I don’t see what you’re driving at.’ ‘Haven’t you ever been in Averill’s bedroom?’
‘Yes. What of it?’