# The Lost Mr. Linthwaite/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII
#### MR. MESHAM

Brixey and Gaffkin were at that moment standing outside one of the old gateways which gave access to the Cathedral Close, Silently they walked within it and paced along a quiet lane, fenced about with high .walls, until they came to a point where they were quite alone. Even in this solitude Gaffkin dropped his voice to a whisper.
"I don’t know who this man is," he said, "I don't even know his name. But, as I say, I know him well, by sight, as a man who used to come to the office in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He came there twice a year.
"He first came when I'd been with Mr. Linthwaite about three years. After that he came regularly, at six-monthly intervals, until Mr. Linthwaite retired two years ago, when I, of course, left him. He's the same man, without the slightest doubt."
"Came there all that time, regularly, and yet you don't know his name?" said Brixey. "Queer!"
"No," answered Gaffkin, "I always knew there was a mystery about him; I remember very well indeed the first time he called. It was in spring—about this time. He walked into the outer office one morning. I attended to him. He leaned over the counter and said, in a whisper, 'Tell Mr. Linthwaite that Mr. X is here.'
"He was at once shown in. After that, he came, as I say, at six-monthly intervals—every spring, every autumn. And though Mr. Linthwaite never mentioned him to me, never said one word to me about his visits, I'd a very good idea as to why he came—in fact, it was no idea, it was a certainty."
"Well?" asked Brixey.
"Every time he came, from the first," said Gaffkin, "Mr. Linthwaite used to send me out to cash a cheque for seventy-five pounds."
"His own cheque?" inquired Brixey,
"Mr. Linthwaite's cheque—yes," replied Gaffkin. "Always the same amount. I used to get it in notes and gold. And, of course, it was for this man."
"Did you never see anything in the shape of a receipt?" asked Brixey.
"Never. If the man gave any receipt, Mr. Linthwaite kept it among his private papers!" said Gaffkin, "It never came among the business receipts."
"You're sure this is the same man?" said Brixey. "No mistake?"
"No mistake, sir—I'd know him among a thousand!" asserted Gaffkin.
"Remember," he continued impressively, "it's only two years since I last saw him in Lincoln's Inn Fields. I saw no difference in him except that he's now rather more smartly dressed than when I saw him last, though he was always well dressed in those days,"
"Where did you come across him to-night?" asked Brixey.
"I saw him going into the 'Cavalier' by one door as I came out at another. He went into the lounge," answered Gaffkin.
"Let's go and have a look at him," said Brixey. "But first, that man Wetherby. Did you find him?"
"Yes, and got out of him all he knows—at least, all I wanted to know just now—in a few minutes," replied Gaffkin.
"Martin Byfield met his wife at Nice. She was a Mrs. Sunderland, a young widow from Australia. They were married at the English church at Monaco, about five weeks after their first meeting. Wetherby was present. That's all—you already knew as much."
"Except her name," said Brixey. "Sunderland—Mrs. Sunderland. All right. Now, where's this place where the man is?"
Gaffkin led him out of the old gateway, up the street, and past the "Mitre," to a modern-looking hotel which faced on the point where the main streets of the town intersected at the Market Cross.
"As far as I can make out," observed Gaffkin, "this house, the 'Cavalier' appears to be the popular resort of the young bloods of Selchester. The 'Mitre,' I think, is too highly proper and respectable. The old landlord's mighty particular, and prefers a family trade to a popular one. This place has a lounge bar, and it’s pretty full. All the better—we can perhaps see without being seen."
He led Brixey into a long, low-ceilinged room arranged as a lounge, with numerous alcoves and quiet corners, and furnished with a bar which ran the entire length of the farther side, and was presided over by a couple of smartly-dressed barmaids.
Here and there small groups of men were gathered about the tables in the alcoves, but the majority of those present—a numerous company—were lined up along the bar, and several of them had ranged themselves round a tall, elderly man, who, glass in hand, was evidently laying down the law with unction, and in what looked to be enjoyment of the sound of his own voice.
"The thing's ridiculous!" this person was saying. "Any man who knows anything of the world—and if there's nobody else here who knows it, I can safely claim that I do—knows very well that men often disappear just as this gentleman's done—for their own purposes.
"I said to Crabbe just now, 'Crabbe,' I said, 'you're a dee'd clever policeman, Crabbe, but you're like all the rest of your calling—a bit too previous,' I said. 'Don't go making trouble where no trouble is, Crabbe,' I said.
"‘You want to get up a grand cause célèbre,’ I said. ‘Take the opinion of a hard-bitten old man of the world, Crabbe,' I said, 'The gentleman’s just made himself scarce because he wanted to.' That’s what I said to Crabbe—and damme, what I’d say to anybody!"
Gaffkin drew Brixey into an alcove that lay in shadow, and motioning to a waiter who was hovering about, ordered whisky-and-soda.
"That's the man!" he whispered, nudging his companion. "Take no notice. We'll be hearing his name in a minute."
Brixey, under cover of lighting his, pipe, took a careful look at the oracular person. He was a man of apparently between fifty and sixty years of age, still handsome in a rakish, rather worse-for-wear fashion, who sported a grizzled moustache brushed aggressively upward towards his fresh-coloured cheeks, and wore a monocle in his right eye.
His dress suggested the sportsman; a feather or two from a pheasant’s wing ornamented the band of his green felt hat, worn at a defiant angle; in his hand he carelessly swung a stick furnished at its extremity with a steel spud for cutting out weeds. A self-assertive, self-opinionated person, this, thought Brixey, and evidently a little god among the circle which surrounded him.
"That’s what I’d say to anybody!" he repeated, and set down a tumbler which he had held in his left hand as he talked. "Common sense! 'Crabbe,' I said to our inspector, ‘don’t make mystery where there’s no mystery.' That’s what I said—and what I say. Give me the same old thing, my dear."
"All the same," remarked one of the loungers, "a hundred pounds is a hundred pounds, and there are plenty of folks in Selchester who'd be glad to handle it, Mr. Mesham."
Gaffkin nudged Brixey again. Mesham—Mr. Mesham. And Brixey returned the nudge in token of his understanding. The Mr. X. of. the Lincoln’s Inn Fields days was now the Mr. Mesham of Selchester.
Mr. Mesham took up the replenished tumbler and lifted it. At that moment the waiter who had just served Brixey and Gaffkin turned up the light in their alcove, and the glare fell full on Gaffkin.
Mesham, in the act of drinking, saw Gaffkin, and after a sudden stare and start, obvious though almost imperceptible, hastily drank off his liquor, set down the glass again, and pulled out his watch.
"Aye, just so!" he said absently. "To be sure. By Jove! I’d no idea it was as late as it is. Promised to meet Hetherington at the club at eight, and it’s ten past now. Bye-bye, boys. See you later, perhaps."
He went swiftly, out of the door into the street, and Gaffkin, with a sharp whisper to Brixey, went after him, with Brixey at his heels. Before Mesham had gone many yards, Gaffkin was at his elbow.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, quietly and politely. "Happening yo be in the bar you’ve just left, I recognised you as a gentleman who used to call on Mr. Linthwaite at his office in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Mr. X."
Mesham drew himself up, and glanced uneasily at Brixey, who had come up to Gaffkin’s side, Brixey stared back, watchfully, end Mesham transferred his glance to Gaffkin.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I was Mr. Linthwaite’s clerk during the whole of the time you called there," answered Gaffkin. "I remember you very well, and all the circumstances of your visits. And I think you recognise me."
"What do you want?" growled Mesham. "And who is this with you? If you're a couple of detectives, you can go elsewhere with your questions."
"I am Mr. John Linthwaite’s nephew. My name is at the foot of the reward bill which you were discussing just now," said Brixey with suave intonation, "I am naturally anxious to find my uncle. As Mr. Gaffkin tells me that you were familiar with my uncle's appearance, and as you evidently live in Selchester, may I ask you a question?
"Have you seen anything of Mr. Linthwaite? He was here, and about town, on Monday evening and Tuesday morning. Did you chance to see him?"
Mesham, it was plain to Brixey, was on his guard. He was watching both his questioners. And suddenly he spoke, bending forward with a knowing leer.
"Is this affair in the hands of the police?" he asked. "Of course! Haven't I heard all about it from Crabbe? Then, when I've anything to say, I’ll say it to Crabbe. You’re strangers to me. I know nothing about you."
He swung on his heel and marched off in the direction of the Market Cross, and Brixey, without comment, signed to Gaffkin to follow him into the "Mitre." He beckoned Brackett out of the bar parlour into the private sitting-room.
"Look here," he said, when they were alone. "We just want you to tell us if you know a man who's known here as Mr. Mesham? Do you?"
The old landlord smiled, wagging his head.
"Everybody knows Mesham!" he answered. "That is, as far as there's anything to be known about him. But that’s not much."
"Who is he?" asked Brixey.
"A stranger," replied Brackett. "He came to the town about two years ago. He lives in very good rooms over Strike's, the saddler's; he's a bachelor. Nobody knew anything about him when he came. Nobody knows anything now, except that he’s evidently got plenty of money. He spends his time lounging about the town, either at the club, or at the 'Cavalier,' and he amuses himself with a bit of amateur photography, and a bit of fishing, and a bit of shooting, and so on.
"Sometimes he drops in here, but the ‘Cavalier’s' more to his fancy. We're too old-fashioned and sober-going for his tastes. That's about all I know, Mr. Brixey."
"He wasn't a Selchester man, then, originally?" asked Gaffkin.
"No, sir, not he! Never saw him in the place until he came," answered the landlord. "And I never heard where he came from, either. Nobody knew him. He just came, took those rooms, and settled down. And wherever he gets his money from, he’s not short of it He——"
The waiter knocked at the door and looked at his master.
"Beg pardon, sir—Reverend Mr. Felgrave to see Mr. Brixey," he announced.
"One of our clergymen," whispered Brackett. "Vicar of St. Fridolin's."
"Bring Mr. Felgrave in," said Brixey. He glanced at Gaffkin and smiled. "Now we're going to get some news," he muttered. "This is the first-fruits of the reward bill!"