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

book I might well have the clue which would enable me to get to the real heart of the mystery.
    I know that this was something in every way reprehensible. I ought not to have tried to keep anything to myself. But I salved my conscience by telling myself that Shelley had not told me by any means all he knew. That, indeed, was almost certainly so; but I knew that I ought to have told him something about these notebooks. Still, I thought that if this new book gave me a clue which would enable me to find out something about the original book I should be able to go to Shelley in real triumph, a first-rate piece of work done.
    The first glance at the pages of the new notebook gave me a sense of genuine exultation. I could see, since there were a series of names and addresses, with some cryptic signs and symbols opposite each of them. This was doubtless the clue to enable me to decipher the original book. I made a mental resolution to hand the two books over to Shelley when I got back to Kent. But meanwhile I should spend an hour or two over them, in the hope that I should be able to do something in the way of getting the information that they hid.
    I became conscious of the fact that the porter was looking at me curiously.
    â€œAnything else you want to see, guv’nor?” he asked quietly, as if he felt that I had been spending a long time over things that were totally unimportant.
    â€œI want to have a look around,” I explained. “But you need not stay, if you are busy.”
    â€œCan’t leave you here on your own, guv’nor,” he explained. “You see, guv’nor, I don’t mean to insult you, but I don’t know who you are, really, and if anything was missing after you’d gone, they’d say I was responsible. They’d say, I expect, that I’d pinched the stuff. And I’ve got my good name to consider. I’ve been working here for nine years, I have, and no black mark against my name in all that time. I don’t want to spoil that there record, you see.”
    I did see. I knew that from the point of view of this man I was a pretty suspicious sort of character. Indeed, if I had been in his position I should have felt very doubtful about allowing any stranger to have a look around the place, And, to do him due justice, I think that the porter had felt pretty doubtful; it was only his natural cupidity, when he realised that I was prepared to pay for the privilege of examining Tilsley’s apartment, that had overcome his natural suspicions of me.
    So I strolled into Tilsley’s bedroom, closely followed by the porter. There was, I soon saw, nothing at all here to deserve my attention. Well-kept and neatly-pressed clothes hung in the wardrobe. On the wall was a reproduction, nicely framed, of Augustus John’s portrait of Suggia. On the dressing-table was a picture of the lady whom I had met in the Charrington Hotel at Broadgate. The personal background of the case hung together all right.
    I made my way back to the sitting-room again. There was a small roll-top desk beside the window. I opened it (it was not locked), and looked for a few moments at the papers in it. These were piled up in a neat way that seemed to me to indicate that the police had been here before me.
    Of course, it was pretty obvious that the police would tend to concentrate on the desk. There was the place where the men from Scotland Yard would expect to find the material they were after. I didn’t think that it was really much good for me to go through the masses of papers that there were left. Anything that was of any real importance would have been taken away. No doubt at this moment—or very soon, anyhow—all the valuable stuff from here would be on Shelley’s desk. And I should be able to swap my notebooks for whatever information Shelley had managed to extract from the papers.
    I couldn’t think how the police had missed the little black notebook. Probably they had