The Stowmarket Mystery | Page 2

the streets yesterday and none of
them knew me. Yet you pick me out at the first glance, so to speak."
"They might do the same if you spoke to them, Mr.--"
"Hume, if you please."
"Certainly. Why have you dropped part of your surname?"
"It is a long story. My lawyers, Flint & Sharp, of Gray's Inn, heard of
your achievements in the cases of Lady Lyle and the Imperial
Diamonds. They persuaded me to come to you."
"Though, personally, you have little faith in me?"
"Heaven knows, Mr. Brett, I have had good cause to lose faith. My case
defies analysis. It savours of the supernatural."
The barrister shoved his chair sideways until he was able to reach a
bookcase, from which he took a bulky interleaved volume.
"Supernatural," he repeated. "That is new to me. As I remember the
affair, it was highly sensational, perplexing--a blend of romance and
Japanese knives--but I do not remember any abnormal element save
one, utter absence of motive."
"Do you mean to say that you possess a record of the facts?" inquired
Hume, exhibiting some tokens of excitement in face and voice as he
watched Brett turning over the leaves of the scrap-book, in which
newspaper cuttings were neatly pasted, some being freely annotated.
"Yes. The daily press supplies my demands in the way of fiction--a
word, by the way, often misapplied. Where do you find stranger tales

than in the records of every-day life? Ah, here we are!"
He searched through a large number of printed extracts. There were
comments, long reports, and not a few notes, all under the heading:
"The Stowmarket Mystery."
Hume was now deeply agitated; he evidently restrained his feelings by
sheer force of will.
"Mr. Brett," he said, and his voice trembled a little, "surely you could
not have expected my presence here this morning?"
"I no more expected you than the man in the moon," was the reply; "but
I recognised you at once. I watched your face for many hours whilst
you stood in the dock. Professional business took me to the Assizes
during your second trial. At one time I thought of offering my
services."
"To me?"
"No, not to you."
"To whom, then?"
"To the police. Winter, the Scotland Yard man who had charge of the
business, is an old friend of mine."
"What restrained you?"
"Pity, and perhaps doubt. I could see no reason why you should kill
your cousin."
"But you believed me guilty?"
The barrister looked his questioner straight in the eyes. He saw there
the glistening terror of a tortured soul. Somehow he expected to find a
different expression. He was puzzled.
"Why have you come here, Mr. Hume?" he abruptly demanded.

"To implore your assistance. They tell me you are the one man in the
world able to clear my name from the stain of crime. Will you do it?"
Again their eyes met. Hume was fighting now, fighting for all that a
man holds dear. He did not plead. He only demanded his rights. Born a
few centuries earlier, he would have enforced them with cold steel.
"Come, Mr. Brett," he almost shouted. "If you are as good a judge of
men as you say I am of tobacco, you will not think that the cowardly
murderer who struck down my cousin would come to you, of all others,
and reopen the story of a crime closed unwillingly by the law."
Brett could, on occasion, exhibit an obstinate determination not to be
drawn into expressing an opinion. His visitor's masterful manner
annoyed him. Hume, metaphorically speaking, took him by the throat
and compelled his services. He rebelled against this species of
compulsion, but mere politeness required some display of courteous
tolerance.
"It seems to me," he said, "that we are beginning at the end. I may not
be able to help you. What are the facts?"
The stranger was so agitated that he could not reply. Self-restrained
men are not ready with language. Their thoughts may be fiery as
bottled vitriol, but they keep the cork in. The barrister allowed for this
drawback. His sympathies were aroused, and they overcame his slight
resentment.
"Try another cigarette," he said, "I have here a summary of the
evidence. I will read it to you. Do not interrupt. Follow the details
closely, and correct anything that is wrong when I have ended."
Hume was still volcanic, but he took the proffered box.
"Ah," cried Brett, "though you are angry, your judgment is sound. Now
listen!"
Then he read the following statement, prepared by himself in an idle

moment:--
"The Stowmarket Mystery is a strange mixture of the real and the
unreal. Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, fourth baronet, met his death on the
hunting-field. His horse blundered at a brook and the rider