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Updated: May 14, 2025
"According to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his clever career he had on four occasions written to his late friend, William Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case, since they were written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw, moreover, had lost them so he said long ago.
Smithers or Smethurst or something. People old ladies, you know, and people bring him their dogs to be cured when they get sick. He has an infallible remedy, Jerry tells me. He makes a lot of money at it." "Money?" Pett, the student, became Pett, the financier, at the magic word. "There might be something in that if one got behind it. Dogs are fashionable.
"I've played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry Vardon in last year's Open." The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier. "You play in ze Open? Why," he demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smethurst, "was I not been introducted to this young man who play in opens?" "Well, really," faltered Mrs. Smethurst. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Brusiloff " She broke off.
Still, there was the assignation, and the undisputed meeting between Smethurst and Kershaw, and those two and a half hours of a foggy evening to satisfactorily account for." The man in the corner made a long pause, keeping the girl on tenterhooks. He had fidgeted with his bit of string till there was not an inch of it free from the most complicated and elaborate knots.
According to him, however, the first of these letters was written when Smethurst, alias Barker, had spent all the money he had obtained from the crime, and found himself destitute in New York. "Kershaw, then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a £10 note for the sake of old times.
It was in the last stages of decomposition, and, of course, could not be identified; but the police would have it that it was the body of William Kershaw. "It never entered their heads that it was the body of Francis Smethurst, and that William Kershaw was his murderer. "Ah! it was cleverly, artistically conceived! Kershaw is a genius. Think of it all! His disguise!
I warned him once that, if he did it again, awful things would happen to him, but he didn't believe me. I suppose, Jerry what sort of a man is your friend, Mr. Smethurst?" "Do you mean Smithers, Miss Ann?" "I knew it was either Smithers or Smethurst. The dog man, I mean. Is he a man you can trust?" "With my last buck. I've known him since we were kids." "I don't mean as regards money.
The second, when the tables had turned, and Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then already called himself, sent his whilom friend £50.
When I came up to the hat manufactory, Smethurst himself was standing in the garden gate. He was brushing one Canadian felt hat, and several others had been put to await their turn one above the other on his own head, so that he looked something like the typical Jew old-clothesman.
I do not know if you have had any experience of suburban literary societies, but the one that flourished under the eye of Mrs. Willoughby Smethurst at Wood Hills was rather more so than the average. With my feeble powers of narrative, I cannot hope to make clear to you all that Cuthbert Banks endured in the next few weeks. And, even if I could, I doubt if I should do so.
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