Man with the Dark Beard (27 page)

The superintendent watched him in silence for a few minutes. At last he said:

“Well, inspector, what do you say – is it Sir John Burslem?” 

“I believe so,” the inspector said without hesitation. “It is Sir John Burslem, I firmly believe. But I only had a casual acquaintance with him.”

And, hardened though he was, Stoddart turned aside and blew his nose as his mind glanced from the twisted, broken thing before him to the prosperous financial magnate of whom he retained so vivid a recollection. He replaced the covering over the shattered head and looked at his watch.

“The valet should be here directly. It seems to me we must await more positive identification from him. Until he comes, I should like a few words with you, doctor. How long had death taken place when you first saw the body?”

The doctor coughed. “It is difficult to say with precision. I reached here about half-past seven this morning. I should say the man had been dead at least five hours when I saw him, possibly more, certainly not less.”

“The cause of death?”

“Evidently the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. For anything more we must wait for the post-mortem.” He added a few technical details.

Harbord waited outside with Major Vincent and the superintendent.

“Sir John Burslem,” he repeated thoughtfully. “A financier, you say. I seem to remember this name in some other connection.” 

“He was a big gun in what is called high finance,” Major Vincent told him. “It is said that no international deal, no great scheme of Government stock was launched without his advice. For himself, he was head of the great firm of Burslem & Latimer, the iron and jute merchants, Wellmorton Street, and of Burslem & Co., diamond merchants of South Africa, besides being director of Heaven knows how many companies. Sir John Burslem's name spelt success to any undertaking.”

“And will this” – Harbord jerked his head backward – “mean failure?”

The major shrugged his shoulders. “Heaven knows! One's imagination fails to picture the world of speculation without Jack Burslem, as he was generally known. But here's the valet, Ellerby, I expect,” as a car stopped.

An elderly man got out and came towards them. He was looking white and shaken.

“Gentlemen,” he began in a quaking voice as he got near them, “they say that he – that Sir John has had an accident. He – he can't be – dead!”

“That is what we have brought you here to ascertain, Mr. Ellerby,” Major Vincent said, a touch of pity in his tone as he thought of the ordeal that lay before the man. “You will be able to tell us definitely. The clothes at any rate you will be able to recognize. The face has been – in the water for some time and is terribly swollen.”

The man looked at him, his mouth twitching. “I should know Sir John anywhere, sir,” he said, his manner becoming more composed. “I couldn't be deceived about him. It is an impossibility.''

Stoddart went in with him. Harbord stood with the other three at the door. They heard a cry of horror, then a hoarse sob, and Ellerby's voice, broken now:

“Oh, it is Sir John, sure enough! Oh, yes, his poor face is all swollen, but I could swear to him anywhere. There is the dress coat I put on him yesterday evening, and his shoes, and his eyeglass on his cord, and his wrist-watch. Oh, it is Sir John safe enough. And what are we going to do without him? And her poor young ladyship – and Miss Pamela?”

He came out wiping his eyes openly.

“You identify the body positively as that of Sir John Burslem?” Major Vincent questioned authoritatively.

“Oh, yes, sir, there is not no doubt possible.” Ellerby's careful, rather precise grammar was forgotten now in his excitement and his own real grief. “I could tell without looking at his face,” he went on, “for there's just the things I put out for him last night, little thinking. And her poor ladyship with a big party today going to the races!”

“The races – by Jove!” Stoddart looked at his watch and then at Harbord. “Of course that accounts for all the traffic on the road; it's Derby Day!” 

“You are right, sir.”

The valet put away his handkerchief and steadied his voice. “It seems but the other day that poor Sir John was telling us to put our shirts on Peep o' Day – ‘Best colt Matt Harker ever trained,' he says, ‘and a dead cert for the Derby; maybe the last we'll have before the tote comes in,' Sir John said, ‘so get the best you can beforehand.' And we did, all of us, at Sir John's own bucket shop.”

Stoddart's face altered indefinably. “I hope you didn't build on the colt winning, Mr. Ellerby.”

“That I have, sir.” The man looked at him half fearfully. “All my own savings and my wife's I have put on, and I borrowed my sister's too. It is a tidy lot I stand to win when Peep o' Day passes the winning-post! Though poor Sir John will never lead her in now.”

“Nor anyone else as the winner of the Derby,” Stoddart said gravely. Don't you realize what that” – with a nod at the barn – “means to all of you who have put your money on Peep o' Day?”

Ellerby began to tremble. “No, sir, I don't. But we got our money on right enough. Sir John, he said it was as safe as if it was in the bank.”

“So he may have thought, though in a gamble there is often a slip betwixt the cup and the lip,” Stoddart said dryly. “But don't you know that an owner's death renders void all his horses' nominations and entries. Peep o' Day is automatically scratched. If Sir John Burslem had died one minute before the race was run, and, not knowing, Peep o' Day's number had gone up, he would be disqualified. Today will be a grand day for the bookies. The favourite scratched at the last minute. You get your money back though, but we must wire at once for the sake of the poor devils who are putting on, on the course. Harker's the trainer, you said.”

“Yes, sir,” Ellerby stammered, his face working painfully. “Matt Harker said that Peep o' Day was the best three-year-old he had ever had in training. He carried all the stable money.”

“Well, it is to be hoped Harker hedged a bit,” Stoddart said slowly. “For Peep o' Day won't run to-day. And I wonder, I wonder –”