The Safety Pin by J.S. Fletcher

Simmons went home that night fully convinced that the secret of Deane's murder rested with Mrs. Champernowne. He was already sure beyond doubt that Deane was Arradeane, once of Normansholt; that Mrs. Champernowne was Mrs. Arradeane; that Mr. Alfred was the loafing, idle brother. There were all sorts of surmises arising out of this. Perhaps Mrs. Champernowne shot Deane with her own hand: it was not at all unlikely. Perhaps Mr. Alfred shot him--that was less likely, but still possible. Perhaps some camper out, a derelict from the fair, shot him and robbed him--to Simmons that was a very insignificant detail in comparison with the fact that, so nearly as he could reckon things up, Arradeane had seen and recognised his wife at the picture house, and had subsequently had an interview with her in her own garden. Husband and wife had met!--that was a fact. As to what happened after their meeting, Simmons was yet in the dark, though he meant to emerge into the light. But already he had another surmise, and it grew with every hour--grew until it became an obsession. Did his brother, John Hackdale, know anything of Mrs. Champernowne's secret? Was he privy to the fact that the murdered man had met Mrs. Champernowne on the night of his death? In short, was John conversant with the things that had gone on behind the rail, which so far neither policeman nor civilians had managed to penetrate?

Simmons had a name for everything, and he had a reason for suspecting his brother. In spite of his youth he was a hardened cynic. He was a sneering sceptic about altruism: nobody in his opinion ever did anything for nothing; whoever did was a fool. Whenever you saw a man suddenly advanced in station and material prosperity, said Simmons in his self communings, you could be absolutely certain that it had been in somebody's interest to advance him. And he put a question--what he called a very nasty question--to himself: Why, suddenly, without preface, on the spur of a moment, as it were, did Mrs. Champernowne lift John from an under--managership at six pounds a week to a position which, he had already learnt, was to be worth a very big salary? What was the consideration, the inducement, the quid pro quo--or quo pro quid? It was all damn rot, said Simmons, to be asked to believe that John's abilities and John's cleverness as a business man had brought about this desirable preferment: damn rot to be invited to agree to the proposition that John was the one man for the job. Simmons knew enough of the world to know that there were scores of men, hundreds of men, quite as well, if not far better fitted than John for the sort of manager-secretary to the new company who would have been glad, joyful, eager to fill it for two thirds the salary that John was to have. No!--tell all that to the marines! He knew better than to believe it. There were reasons for this sudden advancement--wasn't it significant that it had been made the very day after the discovery of Deane's dead body? John knew something! and the new post, the handsome salary, were in the nature of bribes to keep his mouth shut. But what did he know?