The Mysterious Suspect

By John Rhode

The Mysterious Suspect, first published in 1953 (and also known by the title By Registered Post), is part of the series of mysteries featuring private detective Dr. Priestley. Author John Rhode, a pen name of Cecil Street (1884-1964), was a prolific writer of mostly detective novels, publishing more than 140 books between 1924 and 1961.

In The Mysterious Suspect, wealthy industrialist Peter Horningtoft is found dead in his study after apparently drinking poison from a bottle sent to him as a rheumatism treatment. Jimmy Waghorn is called in and blunders through the case initially until assisted by Dr Priestley. A second murder, disguised as a suicide, re-ignites the investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839740756

John Rhode

John Rhode was born Cecil John Charles Street in 1884. He was the author of 140 novels under the names John Rhode, Miles Burton, and Cecil Wade before his death in 1964.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE MYSTERIOUS SUSPECT

A Dr. Priestley Detective Story

JOHN RHODE

The Mysterious Suspect was originally published in 1953 by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc., New York. The British edition of the book was entitled By Registered Post.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

I 5

II 11

III 17

IV 23

V 29

VI 36

VII 43

VIII 50

IX 56

X 62

XI 69

XII 75

XIII 81

XIV 87

XV 93

XVI 100

XVII 106

XVIII 112

XIX 118

XX 125

XXI 130

XXII 136

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 140

I

It was understood that Mr. Peter Horningtoft did not join his guests after dinner in the drawing-room. For many years, and since he had lived at Firlands, it had been his habit to spend the evenings in his study, where he dealt with the correspondence which had arrived during the day. He found it easier to concentrate then than at any other time. Frequently he did not go to bed until after midnight.

Mr. Peter Horningtoft was a man just past his sixty-third birthday. He was the first to proclaim, even to boast of, his humble origins. As a boy he had been apprenticed to a small firm of manufacturers, and in a remarkably short time, through his own sheer ability aided by a series of fortunate chances, had become the managing director of the firm. From then his progress had been rapid. The original small business had swollen into an extensive combine, of which he was chairman. In addition, he had secured a controlling interest in several other concerns. He was, in fact, a man of considerable power and influence.

Despite this, there was nothing of the tyrant about him. Everyone concerned, from his own children to the youngest office-boy, knew his word was law, but, at the same time, that that law was always reasonable. He was ready to listen to argument, and, if it were sound, to agree with it. He never made a decision without first consulting those whom that decision would affect; but, once it was made, he expected all, from the highest to the lowest, to conform to it loyally and without question.

If anyone didn’t like it, he was perfectly prepared to dispense with their further services. To use his own expression, he was never sorry to get rid of an unwilling horse.

If Mr. Peter Horningtoft had a weakness, it concerned his health. He was by nature abstemious, eating and drinking sparingly, and had always made a point of taking sufficient exercise. As a result, he was as fit as any man of his age could expect to be. But he had convinced himself that the stiffening of his joints, due to increasing years, was a symptom of rheumatism, or some allied complaint. It was useless for Dr. Mowbray, who from attending Mrs. Horningtoft had become a personal friend, to attempt to persuade him to the contrary. If the medical profession could not rid him of these troublesome symptoms, no doubt there were others who could. It was a remarkable thing that Mr. Peter Horningtoft, who never took things, or people, for granted, had an implicit faith in the advertised virtues of patent medicines. A sure way to his favor was to introduce to him some new nostrum. Whenever he read an advertisement of a patent medicine claiming to relieve any complaint remotely connected with rheumatism, he immediately bought some. As a result, a large cupboard in his study, which he kept jealously locked, was stocked with every variety of bottles and boxes. To these, in his interminable search for the unattainable, he helped himself as the fancy took him.

On the evening of January 16th, the usual procedure took place. At the end of dinner, Mr. Peter Horningtoft bade good night to the company, who filed from the room. Mrs. Horningtoft led the way to the drawing-room, followed in succession by Mrs. Bodmin, Mr. Gretton, and Hilary Horningtoft. He waited until they had gone, then went to his study and shut the door.

Rhoda Horningtoft was Peter’s second wife, some ten years younger than her husband. The first few years of her married life had not been easy, for Peter, intent upon building up his fortunes, had shown little consideration for her, or anyone else. Perhaps in consequence of this, her early good looks had faded and she had become self-centered and apt to be querulous. She did not share her husband’s infatuation for patent medicines, but was solicitous for her own health, and consulted Dr. Mowbray upon the slightest pretext.

Whatever she might have gone through in her earlier days, she was now surrounded with every luxury. Some fifteen years earlier, her husband had bought Firlands, a moderate-sized old-fashioned house on the outskirts of Stonehill, some thirty miles from London. Everything was arranged there for comfort, as Peter understood it. Certainly his wife had nothing to complain of. She even had her own car, which, however, she did not drive herself. She was wont to tell people that she was not at all strong. But Walcot, the chauffeur, was nearly always available to drive her when she wished to go out.

There were two children of the second marriage, of which Jennifer Bodmin was the younger. She had inherited her mother’s good looks, and now, at the age of thirty-two, had retained them. She was a tall, graceful woman, concealing a good deal of her father’s shrewdness beneath a somewhat languid manner. During the war, at the age of twenty-one, she had married Captain Bodmin, who had been killed in action the following year. She had no children, and normally lived by herself in a small mews flat in Kensington. For the past fortnight she had been staying with her parents at Firlands.

The elder child of the second marriage was a son, Robin, now thirty-four. He had married a year earlier than his sister, and had two children, both girls, aged ten and eight respectively. He was an infrequent visitor to Firlands, for he lived in Leeds, where he managed one of the concerns in which his father had a controlling interest.

Hilary Horningtoft was the only child of the first marriage. His mother and father had been brought up next door to one another, and nobody was in the least surprised when young Peter Horningtoft married Nancy Claydon. Though only twenty-five at the time, he was already drawing a salary, as opposed to wages, which, in the circle in which he and Nancy lived, was a high distinction. But Nancy did not long survive her marriage. She died of diphtheria when Hilary was only a few months old.

Hilary, at this time thirty-seven, was remarkably like his father in appearance, rather short and inclined to stoutness, with determined features and a somewhat protruding chin. At times his manner was rough and overbearing, and he lacked his father’s tact in dealing with men. He had never married, and lived in a service flat in Westminster, spending most of his leisure time at his club. A couple of years earlier he had been appointed managing director of Horningtoft Products Ltd., the large combine of which his father was chairman. He was not popular with his subordinates, a fact of which his father was uneasily aware.

The offices of Horningtoft Products, Ltd., were in the city, but Peter went there at the most a couple of days a week. As he grew older, it had become his habit to summon such people as he wished to see to Firlands. It was due to such a summons that Hilary had driven down to Firlands that day to tea and dinner. Between these meals he and his father had been closeted together in the study.

The fourth member of the party which entered the drawing-room, Arthur Gretton, was an old friend of the family. He was a man of forty, tall, dark, and good-looking, and his mother had been a cousin of Peter’s first wife, Nancy Claydon. He had lived a somewhat humdrum existence as a clerk in a big London store, until the outbreak of war. Being already a private in a volunteer regiment, he had been mobilized immediately, and found his true vocation as a soldier. Within a year he had secured a commission, and before very long had been decorated for gallantry. While serving with the Eighth Army he was wounded and sent home. On his recovery he was given an administrative post in Lancashire.

Serving in the camp of which he was in charge was a detachment of A.T.S., among them the only daughter of a wealthy cotton-spinner. His fellow-officers speculated among themselves whether it was the girl’s looks or her father’s money that so obviously attracted their C.O.

Whichever it was, they became engaged, and at the end of the war Arthur Gretton married her, and a most generous settlement into the bargain. They lived together for three years after Arthur’s demobilization, when she was killed in a flying accident.

So Arthur was left a widower, with no encumbrances, and a sufficient income. Having no desire to gather moss of any description, he occupied his time in wandering about as his inclination led him. Peter liked him, and he was always welcome at Firlands, being expected to suggest when he would like to come. He was staying there now for a few days, more or less on his own invitation, and had arrived the previous day.

The four of them settled down in the drawing-room, and very shortly Elizabeth Langport, Miss Bessie, as she was familiarly known, brought in the coffee tray. Peter did not drink coffee. Somebody had once remarked in his hearing that coffee was supposed to be bad for rheumatism, and that was sufficient reason for his abstention. Miss Bessie laid down the tray, glanced round the room to see that everything was in order, and departed.

Robin Horningtoft, of whose flippancy his father disapproved, had once described Miss Bessie as an heirloom. And so in a sense she was. She had been a friend of Nancy Claydon, they had worked in the same shop before Nancy’s marriage to the rapidly rising Peter.

After the marriage, Bessie had spent much of her spare time helping Nancy with the house. Then, when his wife, an expectant mother, became incapable of fulfilling her domestic duties, it was only natural that Peter should turn to Bessie, suggesting that she should give up her not very lucrative job in the shop and come and live with them.

She was still with them when Nancy died. And then, of course, something had to be done about the infant Hilary. Bessie stayed on, combining the duties of Hilary’s nurse and Peter’s housekeeper. There was no doubt of her devotion to Peter, or if not devotion, at least intense admiration of his success. There was something in common between them, for Bessie had her own masterful ways. But she had too much common sense to cherish any hope that he would marry her. Peter, under her very eyes, was rocketing in the social scale, and she realized that she could never follow him.

All the same, Peter’s second marriage came as something of a shock to her. It was one thing to be housekeeper to a widower with a small boy, and quite another to be maid-of-all-work in a family. But Peter would not hear of her leaving him. She had been invaluable to him in the past, and no doubt would be even more so in the future. Rhoda, who did not altogether approve of the arrangement, was glad enough of Bessie’s services when Robin and Jennifer were born. Bessie was fully capable of taking charge of the nursery.

As time went on, the nursery stage passed, but Bessie remained. Peter, despite his profound knowledge of men, was imperceptive of feminine cross-currents. Rhoda had ventured to suggest that now all the children were going to school, Bessie’s services had become unnecessary. But Peter had been genuinely shocked. Why, Bessie had looked after them all for years. It would be the height of ingratitude to pension her off now. Besides, he wasn’t going to have his wife a slave to domestic duties. They had risen above that, thank goodness. And there was the highly experienced Bessie, ready to take all that sort of thing off her hands. Rhoda could run round enjoying herself, and leave the management of the house to Bessie.

A silent struggle ensued between the two women, but from the first it was obvious that Rhoda must be the loser. Bessie was by far the stronger character, and, in addition, she had Peter behind her. By the time the Horningtofts moved to Firlands, Bessie’s position was firmly established. She ruled the establishment from the kitchen, with the assistance of two women, sisters, who worked in the house by day. Rhoda accepted her defeat, and resigned herself to the situation. But she didn’t really like Bessie, and Bessie didn’t really like her.

During dinner Rhoda had noticed that Hilary had been silent and moody, in contrast to his usual assertive self. She waited until Bessie had gone to remark upon this. Jennifer and Arthur were sitting together upon a sofa, talking with some animation. Rhoda leant over towards her stepson. You don’t seem particularly cheerful this evening, Hilary. Is there anything the matter with you?

Oh, no, I’m all right, Hilary replied. The guv’nor has been a bit awkward, that’s all. Give me some more coffee, will you, Mum?

There was no real affection between the two, and there never had been. Rhoda was by no means the unkind stepmother, but she had always displayed a preference for her own children. From his earliest days Hilary had been aware of this, without any particular resentment. Latterly she had become increasingly jealous of Hilary, whom in her eyes Peter favored unduly. He had been given a far better position than Robin who, after all, was only three years younger, and had a family to keep. However, she always showed a solicitous care for Hilary’s welfare, and he called her Mum, possibly because he had never known his own mother.

She took his cup and refilled it. I hope your father isn’t upset? she asked anxiously.

Hilary laughed shortly. You ought to know that it takes a lot to upset the guv’nor. No, it’s not he who’s upset, but me. If he carries out what he was talking about this evening, it would cause me considerable inconvenience. I won’t put it more strongly than that. There, we won’t talk about it any more.

They seemed unable to find anything else to talk about. Hilary finished his second cup of coffee, then lighted a cigarette. He sat frowning over this for a few minutes, then got up. Obviously restless, he glanced round the room. Jennifer and Arthur were still chatting away happily enough. Then Hilary’s eyes falling on the wireless, he strolled over and turned it on. He was greeted by the irritating voice of a man, who, judging by the carefully regulated laughter of the claque in the studio, was doing his best to be funny.

He was about to turn it off again when Rhoda intervened. Oh, do leave it on, Hilary. That’s Lucky Lackwit. I love listening to him, he is so good. There! Did you hear that?

Hilary had missed that shaft of humor. But if his stepmother wanted to listen to the fellow, he was at least spared the necessity of making conversation to her. Rhoda sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap and a rapt expression on her faded, face. Hilary remained standing, every now and then glancing at the clock. A burst of artificial applause betokened the end of the funny man’s turn. The announcer informed listeners that they would now hear a talk on the mental processes of tadpoles.

You won’t want to listen to that, Mum! said Hilary. He turned off the wireless, then went to a window and peeped through the curtains. By jove, it’s snowing hard. I’d better get along before it’s any worse.

Snowing, dear? Rhoda replied. You’ll have a terrible drive back to London. You’d much better stay here for the night. We needn’t disturb Bessie. Jennifer and I can make you a bed in no time.

Thanks, Mum, but I’d rather get back, said Hilary, The guv’nor wouldn’t be too pleased to see me still here at breakfast in the morning. Besides, I’ve got a very important conference in Birmingham tomorrow afternoon, and a lot of things to do in the office before I leave. I’ll bring the car to the door, then come in again to say good night.

He went out, and several minutes later those in the drawing-room heard the slam of a car-door, in the drive outside. Hilary appeared, fully equipped for his drive, his greatcoat flecked with snow. It’s coming down pretty steadily, he remarked. The sooner I get started the better. Good night, everybody.

Have you said good night to your father? Rhoda asked. Hilary shook his head. No need to. You know how he hates being disturbed.

I’ll come out with you and open the drive gate, said Arthur. Save you getting out of the car. As the two men left the room together, Jennifer glanced at her mother. What’s wrong with Hilary this evening?

I don’t know, my dear, Rhoda replied. I’ve never known him like that. I asked him what was the matter. It was something your father had said to him. He didn’t tell me what it was.

I wonder what it could have been? Jennifer said speculatively. Hilary has always been his daddy’s blue-eyed baby. It’s too much to hope that they’ve come to loggerheads at last.

You oughtn’t to talk like that, dear, Rhoda replied. Your father is very good to all of you.

So long as we do what he tells us to, Jennifer agreed bitterly. I haven’t forgotten what he said to me after lunch. That I was idling away my time doing nothing. What does he expect me to do?

I don’t know, dear, said Rhoda. But I am quite sure if you ask him, he’d find something for you to do at once.

Further conversation was interrupted by the return of Arthur, who appeared for a moment in the doorway. He had put on a pair of gum-boots, and thrown a raincoat over his shoulders. He’ll have a pretty rotten drive, with the snow beating on his wind-screen, he remarked. But he’ll get there all right. There’s not more than an inch or so of snow on the road. I’ll just take these things off, then come back.

He was absent for a few minutes. With his return to the drawing-room the atmosphere became more cheerful. Arthur could be entertaining enough when he chose, and kept the ball of conversation rolling for some time. At last Jennifer yawned and got up. I’m going to bed. This weather always makes me feel sleepy.

I shan’t be very long after you, dear, said Rhoda. It’s past ten o’clock. Jennifer said good night and left the room. Rhoda and Arthur stayed talking for a few minutes longer, then Rhoda got up from her chair. I think I’ll be off to bed, if you’ll excuse me, Arthur. You know where to find a drink, if you want one. Good night.