Dick Donovan

From Clue To Capture

A Series of Thrilling Detective Stories

Warsaw 2022

Contents

I. THE CHAMBER OF SHADOWS

II. A MISPLACED LOVE

III. THE JEWELLED SKULL

IV. THE WORM IN THE BUD

V. THE STORY OF THE GREAT CAT'S-EYE

VI. THE SILVER DAGGER

VII. THE SECRETS OF THE BLACK BROTHERHOOD

VIII. CHECKMATED

IX. THE STORY OF AN INFAMOUS CABAL, AND HOW IT WAS DETECTED

X. AN UNREHEARSED TRAGEDY

XI. THE SECRETS OF A HAUNTED HOUSE

XII. THE CLUE OF THE HANDPRINT

I. THE CHAMBER OF SHADOWS

IT was somewhere about the year 1820 that a poor and almost friendless youth, named Samuel Trelawney, found himself in Liverpool, with not even the proverbial sixpence in his pocket. Fortunately he attracted the notice of a gentleman engaged in the East India trade. This gentleman took such a fancy to Samuel that he offered to send him out to his house in Bombay, where he would receive a commercial training. This was the golden opportunity, and eagerly seized upon by the young man, who, after five years in the East Indies, returned to Liverpool owing to the death of his patron. But this time he was no longer a penniless youth. He had managed to scrape a little money together, and having acquired a thorough knowledge of commercial matters, he set up in business on his own account in a very small way. That was the beginning of the great concern that was to extend its ramifications to the four quarters of the globe.

Under Samuel’s able guidance the business continued to grow, and he took in a partner–a Mr. Richard Lindmark. Soon the concern began to assume gigantic proportions, and the partners decided to turn it into a joint-stock company. Such a reputation had they gained that the required capital was subscribed three times over.

So much for the history of the firm of Trelawney, Lindmark, and Co. And it is necessary now that some reference should be made to the private history of Mr. Trelawney, who not only retained a very large financial interest in the company, but as managing director had almost the entire control of it.

At this period wonder was often expressed why Mr. Trelawney had never married. But there was a tender passage in his life that he carefully concealed from the vulgar gaze of the curious. He had had his little romance. The lady he loved was a light- headed, frivolous person who, knowing not the treasure she was throwing away, gave him up and bestowed her hand on a handsome but worthless Italian adventurer. There is not the slightest doubt that Mr. Trelawney had been passionately attached to the lady, and he felt the disappointment with a keenness that the world knew little of. But concealing his sorrow as best he could, he took his youngest sister Bertha as his housekeeper.

He had bought a charming estate on the Cheshire side of the Mersey, consisting of a mansion standing in about seven acres of grounds. It was known as the “Dingle,” and here Mr. Trelawney and his sister Bertha dispensed lavish hospitality. Soon a mystery in connection with this place cropped up, and set the tongues of the gossips wagging. It was this. Into his house Mr. Trelawney received a boy child with a view to adopting it. Mr. Trelawney went from home one day, and after a week’s absence he returned late one night, bringing the child, then about four years old, with him. The following morning he called all his household together in his library and said:

“Being a childless man, and never likely to marry, I intend to adopt this boy, who will be known to you as Jasper Trelawney. You will respect him as my son, for I shall be a father to him, as both his father and mother are dead.”

This was all the explanation and information Mr. Trelawney condescended to give; and being so meagre, it simply aroused curiosity without in any way satisfying it.

The child was a dark-eyed, olive-skinned, curly-headed fellow, who speedily became a favourite. From boy to youth, from youth to young manhood every whim and wish of his was gratified by his over-indulgent foster parents–for Bertha Trelawney was no less attached to him than her brother was.

At his own earnest desire he had been taken into the business of Trelawney, Lindmark, and Co., and though he was not quite as steady and persevering as he might have been great hopes were formed of him.

But now the mystery that had begun when Jasper was brought as a child to the “Dingle” was increased by his sudden and unexplained disappearance. All that was allowed to leak out was this: A servant entered the library one morning suddenly not knowing that anyone was there, but to her amazement she saw Mr. Trelawney seated in a chair, though his face was bowed on the table as if he were overcome with some passion of grief. Grasped and crumpled in his left hand was a letter, and on her knees beside him, and weeping bitterly, her hands clasped on his shoulder, was his sister Bertha. The servant withdrew without disturbing them; but this scene had a strange significance when in the course of a day or two it became known that Jasper Trelawney had gone away.

Twenty years went by, and Jasper Trelawney was entirely forgotten by all, perhaps, save his foster parents. Bertha and Mr. Trelawney were growing old, and he had become a silent, reserved, and brooding man. Owing to enfeebled health he was now only nominally the head of the great business which he had been mainly instrumental in building up, but he was said to have wealth almost beyond the dreams of avarice, and so great was the faith of the world in him and his company, that capital to almost any extent might have been obtained.

Fortunate was the man considered who held shares, or could obtain shares, in Trelawney, Lindmark, and Co. It can therefore be understood how those who were interested stood aghast, and how the commercial world was dumfoundered when one day, without any preliminary warning, it was announced that Trelawney, Lindmark, and Co. had failed for an enormous amount, and that everyone interested in the company would be utterly ruined. There was no limited liability then, and many a family, as they read the announcement of the failure, must have felt that misery and poverty stared them in the face. It was said that the assets were practically nil, while the liabilities were enormous. The great London firm of accountants–Rogers, Millbank, and Farmer–were appointed liquidators, and a few days later Mr. Rogers requested me to call upon him. He was a stern, hard-faced, practical man who seemed to ooze figures at every pore, and who had not one single atom of poetry or sentiment in his nature. He viewed the world, life, and all its associations through an atmosphere of arithmetic.

He informed me that enormous sums had been taken out of the business, and never accounted for, by some person unknown; that bogus bonds to a vast amount had been put upon the market, and, what was still more serious, that the register of the bond- holders had been stolen, so as to render it difficult, if not impossible, to detect the bogus bonds from the real ones. It was my task to trace the missing register and to find the thief. There was no suspicion, and no clue. The whole affair seemed an inexplicable mystery.

Having jotted down a few notes, and got all the details from him I could, I took my departure and began to plan out a course of action. From the high opinion in which Mr. Trelawney was held I felt that I could not do better than seek an interview with him at the outset, and I therefore lost no time in going down to the “Dingle.”

The time of year was about the middle of October–chill October. A cold wind was moaning over the land, which was sear and brown; and the deep tints of decay dyed the foliage of the trees. Although the coming winter was thus making itself felt, the “Dingle” looked picturesque and beautiful. The grounds were well wooded, and full of many surprises. There were rockeries, arbours, bowers, and green retreats, where gurgled tiny fountains; and through one portion of the estate flowed a stream of deep water, which ultimately formed a miniature lake, on the banks of which was a boat house. Ferns grew everywhere in profusion, but they were drooping now to their winter death. I noted that weeds had been allowed to spring up in the paths, as if the master spirit of the place had ceased to interest himself in it.

As I made my way up through the wooded grounds and crossed a leaf-strewn lawn in front of the house, I beheld an old, bowed, grey-headed man, dressed in a long coat and wide-awake hat. He was pacing to and fro on the gravel path by the main entrance to the house. His hands were clasped behind his back, and seemingly he was so absorbed that he did not notice me until I was close to him. Then he turned suddenly, and confronted me with an inquiring gaze. His face was pale and haggard, and bore evident traces of mental anguish.

“Mr. Trelawney, I presume?” I said, as I raised my hat.

“Alas! yes, I am Trelawney,” he answered with a sigh. “Once the head of a great and wealthy commercial house; now a ruined, despairing, and broken man. But you are a stranger to me. Permit me to ask your name and business?”

“My name is Donovan. My business has reference to a painful matter in which I hope for your assistance.”

“I am at your service,” he answered, mournfully. “Pray, command me. But let us go into the house. It is cold and dreary here.”

He led the way through the great hall to the library. A charming room, which–if I may use the expression–was redolent of literature. There were books from floor to ceiling; where books would not go were pictures, all perfect works of art; and where pictures could not be squeezed in there were elegant trifles, such as a man of refined taste loves to gather about him. The window commanded a view over a range of flower-beds to the stream beyond, which had for a background a dark wood, that was sombre with pines and cedars. Mr. Trelawney motioned me to an easy chair of the most ample proportions, delightfully cushioned; and, as I seated myself, he did the same in a similar chair beside the fire.

“I am here on behalf of the liquidators,” I began, as he leaned back, folded his hands, and waited for me to speak.

“Yes,” was the only answer he made; and it was uttered in a sort of dreamy way, as though his thoughts were not with what he said.

“You are aware,” I proceeded, as I watched his face, which seemed to be absolutely expressionless at that moment–”you are aware that a very important book is missing?”

“Yes,” he answered, again in the same dreamy way. “I heard it through Rogers, Millbank, and Farmer.”

“But do you mean to say, Mr. Trelawney,” I exclaimed, “that you did not know the register was missing until the liquidators made it known?”

He started into life at this. He sat up, with his long white hands nervously clutching the ends of the chair-arms; and his pale face lighted up with some inward passion that he was trying hard to conceal.

At this moment the door suddenly opened and a lady entered, but visibly started and drew back as she observed me, and looking at Mr. Trelawney she stammered:

“I–I–beg your pardon, but I didn’t know you had anyone with you.”

“This is a gentleman from London–Mr. Donovan,” he exclaimed, as he sprang to his feet; and then, introducing her to me, he added: “My sister, sir, Miss Bertha Trelawney.”

I bowed and she bowed. She was dressed in black; her white hair was neatly arranged beneath a cap; but her face, like her brother’s, was pale and lined with thought and care. She seemed greatly agitated and suffering from nervous tremor and I was sure that she regarded me with mixed feelings of anxiety and fear. I watched her narrowly, and saw her exchange looks with her brother.

“Did you wish to speak to me?” asked her brother, apparently with the object of cutting short the interview.

“Yes,” came the answer in low tones; and, asking me to excuse him for a few minutes, Mr. Trelawney and his sister went out of the room. In about ten minutes he returned, and he too seemed agitated.

“When my sister entered,” he began as he resumed his seat, “I was about to tell you that the discovery of defalcations and the loss of the register is as much a revelation to me as it is to anyone. There is one thing I think that I may mention, and I do it with all reserve. But it is perhaps better that the information should come from me than from anyone else. About two years ago–it may be two and a half, I am not quite clear on the subject–I placed a gentleman in the concern as a confidential clerk. His name was David Brinsley. He was the son of an old friend of mine, who went out to Australia long ago, and died there. David, who had been partly brought up in the colonies, came to England after his father’s death and sought me out. As he brought excellent testimonials, I had no hesitation in giving him a position of trust. Three months ago he was taken suddenly ill, and was dead in a few days. I remember now that it was immediately after David’s death that I heard something about the register being missing.”

“This is a remarkable story, Mr. Trelawney,” I remarked, pointedly.

“Heaven forbid,” he exclaimed, excitedly, “that I should cast aspersions on the character of a dead man; but I mention the incident for what it is worth. It is for you to make such inquiries as you think the matter deserves.”

“Certainly,” I answered, in a way intended to suggest that I did not think very much about the matter; but the truth was, I was morally certain I had got hold of the key to the mystery.

As I did not see that any object was to be served by my prolonging the interview then, I took my departure after a few casual questions bearing on the death of David Brinsley. As I left the steps and was crossing the lawn, I turned and looked at the house, and saw at the curtained window of a side room the deathly-white face of a woman, who seemed to be glaring at me. Directly she saw that she was observed, she dropped the curtain which she had been holding aside with her hand, and hurriedly withdrew. This trivial incident was not without its significance for me, and I began to weave out a theory as I pursued my way to Liverpool.

And one resolve I made was to look upon David Brinsley, alive or dead. Of course if, as Mr. Trelawney said, he was dead and buried, I could not see him alive. But, anyway, I wanted to see that he was as dead as he ought to be if he was really buried.

Necessarily there were certain legal formalities to comply with before my resolve could be put into practical shape. But certain information having been lodged, and all the forms of law been duly observed, an order was issued from the Home Office for the exhumation of the body of David Brinsley, who in the death certificate was described as a native of Australia; aged forty; and his decease was attributed to “pericardiac inflammation.”

The disinterment took place at night after the cemetery gates were closed for the day. A small tent had been put up near the grave, and the oak coffin having been hoisted from the grave, was placed on trestles in the tent; and the undertaker’s men proceeded to remove the lid and expose the face of the corpse, which proved to be in a remarkably good state of preservation. I had taken care to have several persons present who had been acquainted with David Brinsley, and as the lid of the coffin was taken off, I said collectively to these people as they crowded round:

“Look well at the face of that dead man, and tell me if it is David Brinsley’s face.”

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.