The Yard has its own short cuts, and after a couple of hours of strenuous trunk-calls, he was able to get into touch with a certain solicitor, a Mr. Russell, of Russell and Son, of Perth, who, when driven into a corner, finally admitted that he acted, since his father's retirement, as legal adviser to the particular branch of Erskines in whom the Yard was interested.
“It's about young Erskine who's come over from Canada lately——”
This seemed to galvanise the man at the other end. So much so that it was some time before Pointer could get his query through the Scotsman's ejaculations.
“He's dead. Suicide apparently. Could you identify the body?” With many repetitions he got a general description of “Eames” over the line. The watch clinched it. The invisible Russell said he would come to town by the earliest possible train. Then followed a little difference of opinion as to the exact meaning of that term, Russell pointing out that he said the earliest possible, while Pointer maintained time-tables to be the only standard. He won finally, and Mr. Russell agreed to take the midnight express south, leaving his office in the hands of his father.
He arrived at the Yard late the following afternoon, and almost in silence the two men drove to the chamber where “Eames” still lay in his patent ice-coffin.
Russell recognised him at once, and the Scotsman's air of almost suspicious reserve—as that of a man whose valuable time might be wasted—left him. Seated in the Chief Inspector's room at the Yard over a glass of his own mixing, Mr. Russell told all that he knew of the young man.
“You're quite sure, Mr. Russell, that you recognise the corpse?”
Pointer was writing swiftly. So was Watts.
“Aye, only too sure. I knew him as a boy well enough, and besides he's the very image of his father.” He stared ruminatingly out of the window. “It's not easy to know how much I ought to tell you, Inspector Pointer. Under ordinary circumstances I should, of course, say nothing till I had talked with Mrs. Erskine—poor leddy! poor, poor leddy!—but as you say time is important—well, I've thought it over well coming down here, and I've decided to tell you the whole family story as far as it concerns young Robert Erskine. Their branch has been settled in Perthshire since the battle of Flodden Field. His father—Mr. Henry Erskine—was the owner of a fine bit of land and fortune. He sold all the land long ago, all but a park with the dower-house in it which was included in his wife's settlements. She had a property of her own, too, and comes of an equally good house. She was an Abercrombie and is still alive. The father is dead. The marriage, I fancy, was not an over great success. She is a quiet, deeply religious body, and Mr. Erskine—well, he liked concerts, and operas, and paintings, and travelling. He had one younger brother Ian who had bought a large ranch in Canada, and seventeen years ago—Robert was then twelve—Mr. Erskine and his son went on a year's visit to this brother. While there—I think it was only after a couple of months,—Mr. Henry Erskine was thrown from his horse and killed. By his will—I have a copy of it here with me—he left the use of his property to his wife during her life-time with remainder to his son should he outlive her. In case of Robert Erskine's death, before his mother, half was to become his wife's possession absolutely, and the other half goes to found art scholarships in Perth. In case both son and wife were dead, the estate, it was worth about seven thousand a year at the time of Mr. Erskine's death, and has since greatly appreciated—to be split up into various art scholarships at Scotch towns. His brother, Ian Erskine was a wealthy man, a bachelor, who had expressed his intention—in writing—of leaving his entire fortune to his only nephew Robert. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Oh, quite,” breathed the two police officers, who were lapping up the information thirstily.