The Clevedon Case

WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT The well-known authority on criminology, Dennis Holt, inherited a house in a remote village, the sort of place in which, to quote himself, “nothing ever happens.” One night at fifty-three minutes past eleven (he was always meticulously accurate about time), his attention was attracted by a peremptory tapping on the window pane. A moment later, the lower sash was slowly pushed up and a young girl appeared.

“Let me in!” she whispered. “Please—I have hurt myself.”

That was the beginning of a bewildering series of happenings in the life of Dennis Holt. Suddenly he found himself precipitated into the midst of a bewildering mystery, which at one time seemed to threaten even his own liberty.

Patiently piecing together the ascertained facts, Holt eventually presented a remarkable reconstruction of what had taken place on that dramatic night.

THE CLEVEDON : : CASE : :

BY NANCY & JOHN OAKLEY

* * * * *

PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

* * * * *

Printed in Great Britain by Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 9 II. THE TRAGEDY AT WHITE TOWERS 23 III. A MEETING IN THE DARK 34 IV. THE SILVER-HEADED HATPIN 45 V. KITTY CLEVEDON AND RONALD THOYNE 59 VI. A NEW SENSATION 70 VII. EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST 80 VIII. THE STORY OF A QUARREL 94 IX. WHAT KITTY CLEVEDON SAID 105 X. AN INVITATION FROM LADY CLEVEDON 117 XI. A VISIT FROM RONALD THOYNE 129 XII. RONALD THOYNE DISAPPEARS 145 XIII. THE VICAR’S STORY 154 XIV. KITTY SENDS A TELEGRAM 163 XV. ON RONALD THOYNE’S YACHT 172 XVI. THE MYSTERY OF BILLY CLEVEDON 185 XVII. MORE ABOUT BILLY CLEVEDON 193 XVIII. THE ANONYMOUS LETTERS 205 XIX. THE HAIRPIN CLUE 217 XX. STILL MORE ABOUT BILLY CLEVEDON 227 XXI. WHY TULMIN BLACKMAILED CLEVEDON 239 XXII. MORE ANONYMOUS LETTERS 251 XXIII. TULMIN’S QUEER STORY 263 XXIV. THE WRATH OF RONALD THOYNE 275 XXV. THE STORY OF MARY GRAINGER 286 XXVI. NORA LEPLEY’S EXPLANATION 297 XXVII. WHO KILLED PHILIP CLEVEDON 306

CHAPTER I A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

I BECAME mixed up with the Clevedon case—the Cartordale Mystery, as it has been called—in curious fashion. True, it was to some extent in my line of business, though I do not actually earn my living by straightening out tangles. With me it is all a matter of “copy.”

You may or may not have read my various books—there are eight of them now—on criminology. Their preparation has led me into all sorts of queer by-ways and has given me a curiously clear and analytical insight into the mind of the criminal. I have solved many mysteries—you will forgive the apparent boastfulness, but I have no useful Watson to detail my exploits—but I stop there, with solving them, I mean. When I know the answer, I hand the whole matter over to the police. “There is your man (or woman)—take him,” I say. And sometimes they do take him—and hang him. But occasionally they reply, “But we can’t take him—we couldn’t prove it against him.” That, however, is no business of mine. I am a scientist, not a police official, and have nothing to do with the foolery of their law courts or the flummery of what they call their rules of evidence.

I have supplied the answer to the conundrum and that suffices me. The mystery and its solution go into my notebooks, to be used eventually for my own purpose, it may be to illustrate a theory, or perhaps to demonstrate a scientific fact. I have no desire to pose and no intention of posing as a worker of miracles.