Free Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic by John Rowland Page B

take it to him as soon as I had finished with the rest of the documents here.
    The next thing to which I turned was a postcard. This was postmarked “Broadgate,” I noticed, and was scrawled in a hand that was either naturally uneducated, or had been deliberately designed to look like the writing of an uneducated person. This certainly seemed as if it had some direct connection with the tragic events I was enquiring into, for it read:—
    â€œBe careful. They’re after you, Take my word for it, be careful.”
    Again there was no signature. I thought to myself that John Tilsley seemed to be getting rather a lot of warnings of one sort or another. Whether those warnings had any direct connection with the murder, it was, of course, impossible to say as yet, though, naturally, I inclined to the view that they had. But I hadn’t really got enough experience of this sort of thing to be at all certain. I was glad that I had Shelley and all the powers of the police behind me; I knew that Shelley would be only too pleased to have my information, and to let me know how he interpreted it. But these two letters were, in a way, more than I had expected to get. I had hoped for some lead as to the sort of business that Tilsley had been doing. As yet I had no kind of indication on that point. But otherwise I was doing pretty well. I patted myself on the back, so to speak. Then I turned back to the remaining letters.
    There were two or three of the purely personal ones, which I rapidly glanced at, and put on one side. There were one or two, addressed to him from Broadgate to his address in London. These were from Mrs. Skilbeck, who had, I noticed, the remarkable first name of Phoebe. They did not express any deep emotion, though, knowing the lady, I should not have expected them to do so. They began “Darling John,” and ended “Love, Phoebe,” which was, I imagined, as much as she would allow herself in the way of tender emotions on paper. But the letters, like the picture of the lady on the dressing table, provided some small confirmation of the truth of the story which she had told about being engaged to Tilsley. In fact, I had been quite impressed by the sincerity of Mrs. Skilbeck. I thought that she was one of the most patently sincere people I had ever met. I believed that she had told the truth; and if Tilsley had been a crook of some sort, I was pretty sure that she had known nothing at all about it.
    I had now come more or less to the end of the letters. I had, it was true, learned nothing about Tilsley’s business, but I had found a little about the way in which there might have been a basis for murder. In fact, considering the fact that I had been there such a short time, and had, really, only known of the man’s existence for a matter of an hour or two, I thought I had done very well.
    I left the room and made my way down the stairs. I had locked the door of Tilsley’s room, and I handed the key to Mrs. Skilbeck, who was still standing inside the little reception kiosk, as if nothing at all unusual had happened.
    â€œAny luck?” she asked quietly as I handed the key over to her.
    â€œSome,” I said. “But there is nothing there to give any sort of indication of what exactly Mr. Tilsley’s business was. You can’t clarify my ideas on that point at all, I suppose?”
    â€œExcept what I have already told you—that he was working as a commission agent for various firms—I know nothing of the details of his business,” she admitted, though I felt that she might be keeping something back.
    â€œDo you know the names of any of the firms he was working for?” I asked.
    She shook her head. It was clear that I was not going to get anywhere along these lines.
    â€œDo you know of anyone who was threatening him, of any sort of danger in which he might be?”
    She looked surprised. “Did you find threatening letters?” she