The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

have a large dog and cat hospital behind,” she explained, “and a veterinary surgeon who is always in attendance. The animals are treated there as they are brought in, and fed up if they are out of condition. When they are ready to sell, we show them.”

      “But is this a commercial undertaking,” Francis enquired carefully, “or is it a branch of the S.P.C.A.?”

      “It’s quite a private affair, sir,” the woman told him. “We charge only five shillings for the dogs and half-a-crown for the cats, but every one who has one must sign our book, promising to give it a good home, and has to be either known to us or to produce references. We do not attempt, of course, to snake a profit.”

      “Who on earth is responsible for the upkeep?”

      “We are not allowed to mention any names here, sir, but as a matter of fact I think that your friend knows. He met the gentleman in here one day. Would you care to have a look at the hospital, sir?”

      Francis spent a quarter of an hour wandering around. When they left the place, Shopland turned to him with a smile.

      “Now, sir,” he said, “shall I tell you at whose expense that place is run?”

      “I think I can guess,” Francis replied. “I should say that Sir Timothy Brast was responsible for it.”

      The detective nodded. He was a little disappointed.

      “You know about his collection of broken-down horses in the park at The Walled House, too, then, I suppose? They come whinnying after him like a flock of sheep whenever he shows himself.”

      “I know about them, too,” Francis admitted. “I was present once when he got out of his car, knocked a carter down who was ill-treating a horse, bought it on the spot and sent it home.”

      Shopland smiled, inscrutably yet with the air of one vastly pleased.

      “These little side-shows,” he said, “are what help to make this, which I believe will be the greatest case of my life, so supremely interesting. Any one of my fraternity,” he continued, with an air of satisfaction, “can take hold of a thread and follow it step by step, and wind up with the handcuffs, as I did myself with the young man Fairfax. But a case like this, which includes a study of temperament, requires something more.”

      They were seated once more in the taxicab, on their way westward. Francis for the first time was conscious of an utterly new sensation with regard to his companion. He watched him through half-closed eyes—an insignificant-looking little man whose clothes, though neat, were ill-chosen, and whose tie was an offense. There was nothing in the face to denote unusual intelligence, but the eyes were small and cunning and the mouth dogged. Francis looked away out of the window. A sudden flash of realisation had come to him, a wave of unreasoning but positive dislike.

      “When do you hope to bring your case to an end?” he asked.

      The man smiled once more, and the very smile irritated his companion.

      “Within the course of the next few days, sir,” he replied.

      “And the charge?”

      The detective turned around.

      “Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “we have been old friends, if you will allow me to use the word, ever since I was promoted to my present position in the Force. You have trusted me with a good many cases, and I acknowledge myself your debtor, but in the matter of Sir Timothy Brast, you will forgive my saying with all respect, sir, that our ways seem to lie a little apart.”

      “Will you tell me why you have arrived at that conclusion?” Francis asked. “It was I who first incited you to set a watch upon Sir Timothy. It was to you I first mentioned certain suspicions I myself had with regard to him. I treated you with every confidence. Why do you now withhold yours from me?”

      “It is quite true, Mr. Ledsam,” Shopland admitted, “that it was you who first pointed out Sir Timothy as an interesting study for my profession, but that was a matter of months ago. If you will forgive my saying so, your relations with Sir Timothy have altered since then. You have been his guest at The Sanctuary, and there is a rumour, sir—you will pardon me if I seem to be taking a liberty—that you are engaged to be married to his daughter, Oliver Hilditch’s widow.”

      “You seem to be tolerably well informed as to my affairs, Shopland,” Francis remarked.

      “Only so far as regards your associations with Sir Timothy,” was the deprecating reply. “If you will excuse me, sir, this is where I should like to descend.”

      “You have no message for Mr. Wilmore, then?” Francis asked.

      “Nothing definite, sir, but you can assure him of this. His brother is not likely to come to any particular harm. I have no absolute information to offer, but it is my impression that Mr. Reginald Wilmore will be home before a week is past. Good afternoon, sir.”

      Shopland stepped out of the taxicab and, raising his hat, walked quickly away. Francis directed the man to drive to Clarges Street. As they drove off, he was conscious of a folded piece of paper in the corner where his late companion had been seated. He picked it up, opened it, realised that it was a letter from a firm of lawyers, addressed to Shopland, and deliberately read it through. It was dated from a small town not far from Hatch End:

       DEAR SIR: Mr. John Phillips of this firm, who is coroner for the district, has desired me to answer the enquiry contained in your official letter of the 13th. The number of inquests held upon bodies recovered from the Thames in the neighbourhood to which you allude, during the present year has been seven. Four of these have been identified. Concerning the remaining three nothing has ever been heard. Such particulars as are on our file will be available to any accredited representative of the police at any time.

       Faithfully yours, PHILLIPS & SON.

      The taxicab came to a sudden stop. Francis glanced up. Very breathless, Shopland put his head in at the window.

      “I dropped a letter,” he gasped.

      Francis folded it up and handed it to him.

      “What about these three unidentified people, Shopland?” he asked, looking at him intently.

      The man frowned angrily. There was a note of defiance in his tone as he stowed the letter away in his pocketbook.

      “There were two men and one woman,” he replied, “all three of the upper classes. The bodies were recovered from Wilson’s lock, some three hundred yards from The Walled House.”

      “Do they form part of your case?” Francis persisted.

      Shopland stepped back.

      “Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “I told you, some little time ago, that so far as this particular case was concerned I had no confidences to share with you. I am sorry that you saw that letter. Since you did, however, I hope you will not take it as a liberty from one in my position if I advise you most strenuously to do nothing which might impede the course of the law. Good day, sir!”

      CHAPTER XXIV

       Table of Contents

      Francis, in that pleasant half-hour before dinner which he spent in Margaret’s sitting-room, told her of the dogs’ home near Wardour Street. She listened sympathetically to his description of the place.

      “I had never heard of it,” she acknowledged, “but I am not in anyway surprised. My father spends at least an hour of every day, when he is down at Hatch End, amongst the horses, and every time a fresh crock is brought down, he is as interested as though it were a new toy.”

      “It is a remarkable trait in a very remarkable character,” Francis commented.

      “I could tell you many things that would surprise you,” Margaret continued.