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TITLE: THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
AUTHOR: JOHN R. WATSON
EBOOK: E00144 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 
 
BY JOHN R. WATSON & ARTHUR J. REES 
 
1916 
 
TO ARTHUR BLACK IN MEMORY OF OLD TIMES 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
"Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?" 
 
"Yes. Who are you?" 
 
"Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon 
I want him, and be quick about it." 
 
"Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I'll put you through to him at once." 
 
Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the 
receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet 
of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, 
faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and 
covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at 
irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the 
letters formed words, and the words read: 
 
SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT 
 
WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU 
WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK 
 
HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART 
 
"Hallo!" 
 
"Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?" 
 
"Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out 
your way?" 
 
"Can't say that I have. Have you?" 
 
"Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been 
murdered--shot." 
 
"Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot--murdered!" Inspector Seldon gave expression 
to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the 
telephone. Then he added, after a moment's reflection, "There must be 
some mistake. He is away." 
 
"Away where?" 
 
"In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth--when the shooting 
season opened." 
 
"Are you sure of that?" 
 
"Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on 
his house while he was away." 
 
There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector 
Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard. 
 
"We may have been hoaxed," he said at length. "But I have been ringing 
up his house and can get no answer. You had better send up a couple of 
men there at once--better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may 
require tactful handling. Let me know, and I'll come out immediately if 
there is anything wrong. Stay! How long will it take you to get up to 
the house?" 
 
"Not more than fifteen minutes--in a taxi." 
 
"Well, I'll ring you up at the house in half an hour. Should our 
information be correct see that everything is left exactly as you find it 
till I arrive." 
 
Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his telephone, bundled up the 
papers scattered on his desk, closed it, and stepped out of his office 
into the next room. 
 
"Anyone about?" he hurriedly asked the sergeant who was making entries in 
the charge-book. 
 
"Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago." 
 
"Get him at once and call a taxi. Scotland Yard's rung through to say 
they've received a report that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered." 
 
"Murdered?" echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen interest. "Who told 
Scotland Yard that?" 
 
"I don't know. Who was on that beat last night?" 
 
"Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own house? I thought he was 
in Scotland." 
 
"So did I, but he may have returned--ah, here's the taxi." 
 
Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for the appearance of a 
cab from the rank round the corner in response to the shrill blast which 
the sergeant had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the door of 
the station leading into the yard and sharply called: 
 
"Flack!" 
 
In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, came running up 
the steps from the basement, which was used as a gymnasium. 
 
"Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as you can. He is in a 
devil of a hurry." 
 
Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when Flack appeared. He had 
been impatiently drumming his fingers on the door of the cab. 
 
"Jump in, man," he said angrily. "What has kept you all this time?" 
 
Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been running and was out 
of breath, but he made no reply to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon 
turned to him and remarked severely: 
 
"Why didn't you let me know that Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned from 
Scotland?" 
 
Flack looked astonished. 
 
"But he hasn't returned, sir," he said. "He's away for a month at least," 
he ventured to add. 
 
"Who told you that?" 
 
"The housemaid at Riversbrook--before he went away." 
 
"H'm." The inspector's next question contained a moral rebuke rather than 
an official one. "You're a married man, Flack?" 
 
"Yes, sir." 
 
"So the housemaid told you he was going away for a month. Well, she ought 
to know. When did she tell you?" 
 
"A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the servants except the 
butler were going down to Dellmere the next day--that is Sir Horace's 
country place--and that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the 
shooting and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the shooting 
season was over." 
 
"And are you sure he hasn't returned?" 
 
"Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday morning, and he 
told me that his master was sure to be in Scotland for at least a 
month longer." 
 
"It's very strange," muttered the inspector, half to himself. "It will be 
a deuced awkward situation to face if Scotland Yard has been hoaxed." 
 
"Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong about Sir Horace?" 
 
"Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he has been murdered." 
 
Flack's surprise was so great that it lifted the lid of official humility 
which habitually covered his natural feelings. 
 
"Murdered!" he exclaimed. "Sir Horace Fewbanks murdered? You 
don't say so!" 
 
"But I do say so. I've just said so," retorted Inspector Seldon 
irritably. He was angry at the fact that the information, whether true or 
false, had gone direct to Scotland Yard instead of reaching him first. 
 
"When was he murdered, sir?" asked Flack. 
 
"Last night--when you were on that beat." 
 
Flack paled at this remark. 
 
"Last night, sir?" he cried. 
 
"Don't repeat my words like a parrot," ejaculated the inspector 
peevishly. "Didn't you notice anything suspicious when you were 
along there?" 
 
"No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?" 
 
"His dead body is supposed to be lying there now in the library," said 
Inspector Seldon. "How Scotland Yard got wind of it is more than I know. 
We ought to have heard of it before them. How many times did you go along 
there last night?" 
 
"Twice, sir. About eleven o'clock, and then about three." 
 
"And there was nothing suspicious--you saw no one?" 
 
"I saw Mr. Roberts and his lady coming home from the theatre. But he 
lives at the other end of Tanton Gardens. And I saw the housemaid at Mr. 
Fielding's come out to the pillar-box. That was a few minutes after 
eleven. I didn't see anybody at all the second time." 

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