“He held out his hands for the irons”
“‘You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?’ asked the Coroner”
“The woman gave a shriek which unmistakably was one of fear”
“He had been found dead in the garden of his villa”
“‘Well,’ said Lady Molly, ‘… what is it that you want us to do in the
matter?’”
“She was ashy-pale, staring straight before her”
“‘I sent Pegram to her room with orders to break open the locks of her
hand-bag and dressing-case’”
“Ten minutes later the dainty clouds of lace and chiffon were finally
wafted out”
“‘Not too late, I think,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘Break it open,
Danvers’”
“Confronting the old woman, with a look of hate gleaming in his eyes”
“Now we could distinctly see the glimmer of white paper”
“‘Go and pack your boxes and leave the house this instant’”
“Still talking shrilly … the pseudo Mrs. Stein dragged her into our
own sitting-room”
“Lady Irene, with a cry of agony, fell senseless in my dear lady’s
arms”
“Philip Baddock looked defiant, and Felkin taciturn and sulky”
“‘Ask Philip Baddock if my threats are paltry’”
LADY MOLLY OF SCOTLAND
YARD
I.
THE NINESCORE MYSTERY
Well, you know, some say she is the daughter of a duke, others that
she was born in the gutter, and that the handle has been soldered on
to her name in order to give her style and influence.
I could say a lot, of course, but “my lips are sealed,” as the poets
say. All through her successful career at the Yard she honoured me
with her friendship and confidence, but when she took me in
partnership, as it were, she made me promise that I would never
breathe a word of her private life, and this I swore on my Bible
oath--“wish I may die,” and all the rest of it.
Yes, we always called her “my lady,” from the moment that she was put
at the head of our section; and the chief called her “Lady Molly” in
our presence. We of the Female Department are dreadfully snubbed by
the men, though don’t tell me that women have not ten times as much
intuition as the blundering and sterner sex; my firm belief is that we
shouldn’t have half so many undetected crimes if some of the so-called
mysteries were put to the test of feminine investigation.
Do you suppose for a moment, for instance, that the truth about that
extraordinary case at Ninescore would ever have come to light if the
men alone had had the handling of it? Would any man have taken so bold
a risk as Lady Molly did when---- But I am anticipating.
Let me go back to that memorable morning when she came into my room in
a wild state of agitation.
“The chief says I may go down to Ninescore if I like, Mary,” she said
in a voice all a-quiver with excitement.
“You!” I ejaculated. “What for?”
“What for--what for?” she repeated eagerly. “Mary, don’t you
understand? It is the chance I have been waiting for--the chance of a
lifetime? They are all desperate about the case up at the Yard; the
public is furious, and columns of sarcastic letters appear in the
daily press. None of our men know what to do; they are at their wits’
end, and so this morning I went to the chief----”
“Yes?” I queried eagerly, for she had suddenly ceased speaking.
“Well, never mind now how I did it--I will tell you all about it on
the way, for we have just got time to catch the 11 a.m. down to
Canterbury. The chief says I may go, and that I may take whom I like
with me. He suggested one of the men, but somehow I feel that this is
woman’s work, and I’d rather have you, Mary, than anyone. We will go
over the preliminaries of the case together in the train, as I don’t
suppose that you have got them at your fingers’ ends yet, and you have
only just got time to put a few things together and meet me at Charing
Cross booking-office in time for that 11.0 sharp.”
She was off before I could ask her any more questions, and anyhow I
was too flabbergasted to say much. A murder case in the hands of the
Female Department! Such a thing had been unheard of until now. But I
was all excitement, too, and you may be sure I was at the station in
good time.
Fortunately Lady Molly and I had a carriage to ourselves. It was a
non-stop run to Canterbury, so we had plenty of time before us, and I
was longing to know all about this case, you bet, since I was to have
the honour of helping Lady Molly in it.
The murder of Mary Nicholls had actually been committed at Ash Court,
a fine old mansion which stands in the village of Ninescore. The Court
is surrounded by magnificently timbered grounds, the most fascinating
portion of which is an island in the midst of a small pond, which is
spanned by a tiny rustic bridge. The island is called “The
Wilderness,” and is at the furthermost end of the grounds, out of
sight and earshot of the mansion itself. It was in this charming spot,
on the edge of the pond, that the body of a girl was found on the 5th
of February last.
I will spare you the horrible details of this gruesome discovery.
Suffice it to say for the present that the unfortunate woman was lying
on her face, with the lower portion of her body on the small
grass-covered embankment, and her head, arms, and shoulders sunk in
the slime of the stagnant water just below.
It was Timothy Coleman, one of the under-gardeners at Ash Court, who
first made this appalling discovery. He had crossed the rustic bridge
and traversed the little island in its entirety, when he noticed
something blue lying half in and half out of the water beyond. Timothy
is a stolid, unemotional kind of yokel, and, once having ascertained
that the object was a woman’s body in a blue dress with white facings,
he quietly stooped and tried to lift it out of the mud.
But here even his stolidity gave way at the terrible sight which was
revealed before him. That the woman--whoever she might be--had been
brutally murdered was obvious, her dress in front being stained with
blood; but what was so awful that it even turned old Timothy sick with
horror, was that, owing to the head, arms and shoulders having
apparently been in the slime for some time, they were in an advanced
state of decomposition.
Well, whatever was necessary was immediately done, of course. Coleman
went to get assistance from the lodge, and soon the police were on the
scene and had removed the unfortunate victim’s remains to the small
local police-station.
Ninescore is a sleepy, out-of-the-way village, situated some seven
miles from Canterbury and four from Sandwich. Soon everyone in the
place had heard that a terrible murder had been committed in the
village, and all the details were already freely discussed at the
Green Man.
To begin with, everyone said that though the body itself might be
practically unrecognisable, the bright blue serge dress with the white
facings was unmistakable, as were the pearl and ruby ring and the red
leather purse found by Inspector Meisures close to the murdered
woman’s hand.
Within two hours of Timothy Coleman’s gruesome find the identity of
the unfortunate victim was firmly established as that of Mary
Nicholls, who lived with her sister Susan at 2, Elm Cottages, in
Ninescore Lane, almost opposite Ash Court. It was also known that when
the police called at that address they found the place locked and
apparently uninhabited.
Mrs. Hooker, who lived at No. 1 next door, explained to Inspector
Meisures that Susan and Mary Nicholls had left home about a fortnight
ago, and that she had not seen them since.
“It’ll be a fortnight to-morrow,” she said. “I was just inside my own
front door a-calling to the cat to come in. It was past seven o’clock,
and as dark a night as ever you did see. You could hardly see your
’and afore your eyes, and there was a nasty damp drizzle comin’ from
everywhere. Susan and Mary come out of their cottage; I couldn’t
rightly see Susan, but I ’eard Mary’s voice quite distinck. She says:
‘We’ll have to ’urry,’ says she. I, thinkin’ they might be goin’ to do
some shoppin’ in the village, calls out to them that I’d just ’eard
the church clock strike seven, and that bein’ Thursday, and early
closin’, they’d find all the shops shut at Ninescore. But they took no
notice, and walked off towards the village, and that’s the last I ever
seed o’ them two.”
Further questioning among the village folk brought forth many curious
details. It seems that Mary Nicholls was a very flighty young woman,
about whom there had already been quite a good deal of scandal, whilst
Susan, on the other hand--who was very sober and steady in her
conduct--had chafed considerably under her younger sister’s
questionable reputation, and, according to Mrs. Hooker, many were the
bitter quarrels which occurred between the two girls. These quarrels,
it seems, had been especially violent within the last year whenever
Mr. Lionel Lydgate called at the cottage. He was a London gentleman,
it appears--a young man about town, it afterwards transpired--but he
frequently stayed at Canterbury, where he had some friends, and on
those occasions he would come over to Ninescore in his smart dogcart
and take Mary out for drives.
Mr. Lydgate is brother to Lord Edbrooke, the multi-millionaire, who
was the recipient of birthday honours last year. His lordship resides
at Edbrooke Castle, but he and his brother Lionel had rented Ash Court
once or twice, as both were keen golfers and Sandwich Links are very
close by. Lord Edbrooke, I may add, is a married man. Mr. Lionel
Lydgate, on the other hand, is just engaged to Miss Marbury, daughter
of one of the canons of Canterbury.
No wonder, therefore, that Susan Nicholls strongly objected to her
sister’s name being still coupled with that of a young man far above
her in station, who, moreover, was about to marry a young lady in his
own rank of life.
But Mary seemed not to care. She was a young woman who only liked fun
and pleasure, and she shrugged her shoulders at public opinion, even
though there were ugly rumours anent the parentage of a little baby
girl whom she herself had placed under the care of Mrs. Williams, a
widow who lived in a somewhat isolated cottage on the Canterbury road.
Mary had told Mrs. Williams that the father of the child, who was her
own brother, had died very suddenly, leaving the little one on her and
Susan’s hands; and, as they couldn’t look after it properly, they
wished Mrs. Williams to have charge of it. To this the latter readily
agreed.
The sum for the keep of the infant was decided upon, and thereafter
Mary Nicholls had come every week to see the little girl, and always
brought the money with her.
Inspector Meisures called on Mrs. Williams, and certainly the worthy
widow had a very startling sequel to relate to the above story.
“A fortnight to-morrow,” explained Mrs. Williams to the inspector, “a
little after seven o’clock, Mary Nicholls come runnin’ into my
cottage. It was an awful night, pitch dark and a nasty drizzle. Mary
says to me she’s in a great hurry; she is goin’ up to London by a
train from Canterbury and wants to say good-bye to the child. She
seemed terribly excited, and her clothes were very wet. I brings baby
to her, and she kisses it rather wild-like and says to me: ‘You’ll
take great care of her, Mrs. Williams,’ she says; ‘I may be gone some
time.’ Then she puts baby down and gives me £2, the child’s keep for
eight weeks.”
After which, it appears, Mary once more said “good-bye” and ran out of
the cottage, Mrs. Williams going as far as the front door with her.
The night was very dark, and she couldn’t see if Mary was alone or
not, until presently she heard her voice saying tearfully: “I had to
kiss baby----” then the voice died out in the distance “on the way to
Canterbury,” Mrs. Williams said most emphatically.
So far, you see, Inspector Meisures was able to fix the departure of
the two sisters Nicholls from Ninescore on the night of January 23rd.
Obviously they left their cottage about seven, went to Mrs. Williams,
where Susan remained outside while Mary went in to say good-bye to the
child.
After that all traces of them seem to have vanished. Whether they did
go to Canterbury, and caught the last up train, at what station they
alighted, or when poor Mary came back, could not at present be
discovered.
According to the medical officer, the unfortunate girl must have been
dead twelve or thirteen days at the very least, as, though the
stagnant water may have accelerated decomposition, the head could not
have got into such an advanced state much under a fortnight.
At Canterbury station neither the booking-clerk nor the porters could
throw any light upon the subject. Canterbury West is a busy station,
and scores of passengers buy tickets and go through the barriers every
day. It was impossible, therefore, to give any positive information
about two young women who may or may not have travelled by the last up
train on Saturday, January 23rd--that is, a fortnight before.
One thing only was certain--whether Susan went to Canterbury and
travelled by that up train or not, alone or with her sister--Mary had
undoubtedly come back to Ninescore either the same night or the
following day, since Timothy Coleman found her half-decomposed remains
in the grounds of Ash Court a fortnight later.
Had she come back to meet her lover, or what? And where was Susan now?
From the first, therefore, you see, there was a great element of
mystery about the whole case, and it was only natural that the local
police should feel that, unless something more definite came out at
the inquest, they would like to have the assistance of some of the
fellows at the Yard.
So the preliminary notes were sent up to London, and some of them
drifted into our hands. Lady Molly was deeply interested in it from
the first, and my firm belief is that she simply worried the chief
into allowing her to go down to Ninescore and see what she could do.
2
At first it was understood that Lady Molly should only go down to
Canterbury after the inquest, if the local police still felt that they
were in want of assistance from London. But nothing was further from
my lady’s intentions than to wait until then.
“I was not going to miss the first act of a romantic drama,” she said
to me just as our train steamed into Canterbury station. “Pick up your
bag, Mary. We’re going to tramp it to Ninescore--two lady artists on a
sketching tour, remember--and we’ll find lodgings in the village, I
dare say.”
We had some lunch in Canterbury, and then we started to walk the six
and a half miles to Ninescore, carrying our bags. We put up at one of
the cottages, where the legend “Apartments for single respectable lady
or gentleman” had hospitably invited us to enter, and at eight o’clock
the next morning we found our way to the local police-station, where
the inquest was to take place. Such a funny little place, you
know--just a cottage converted for official use--and the small room
packed to its utmost holding capacity. The entire able-bodied
population of the neighbourhood had, I verily believe, congregated in
these ten cubic yards of stuffy atmosphere.
Inspector Meisures, apprised by the chief of our arrival, had reserved
two good places for us well in sight of witnesses, coroner and jury.
The room was insupportably close, but I assure you that neither Lady
Molly nor I thought much about our comfort then. We were terribly
interested.
From the outset the case seemed, as it were, to wrap itself more and
more in its mantle of impenetrable mystery. There was precious little
in the way of clues, only that awful intuition, that dark unspoken
suspicion with regard to one particular man’s guilt, which one could
feel hovering in the minds of all those present.
Neither the police nor Timothy Coleman had anything to add to what was
already known. The ring and purse were produced, also the dress worn
by the murdered woman. All were sworn to by several witnesses as
having been the property of Mary Nicholls.
Timothy, on being closely questioned, said that, in his opinion, the
girl’s body had been pushed into the mud, as the head was absolutely
embedded in it, and he didn’t see how she could have fallen like that
Medical evidence was repeated; it was as uncertain--as vague--as
before. Owing to the state of the head and neck it was impossible to
ascertain by what means the death blow had been dealt. The doctor
repeated his statement that the unfortunate girl must have been dead
quite a fortnight. The body was discovered on February 5th--a
fortnight before that would have been on or about January 23rd.
The caretaker who lived at the lodge at Ash Court could also throw but
little light on the mysterious event. Neither he nor any member of his
family had seen or heard anything to arouse their suspicions. Against
that he explained that “The Wilderness,” where the murder was
committed, is situated some 200 yards from the lodge, with the mansion
and flower garden lying between. Replying to a question put to him by
a juryman, he said that that portion of the grounds is only divided
off from Ninescore Lane by a low, brick wall, which has a door in it,
opening into the lane almost opposite Elm Cottages. He added that the
mansion had been empty for over a year, and that he succeeded the last
man, who died, about twelve months ago. Mr. Lydgate had not been down
for golf since witness had been in charge.
It would be useless to recapitulate all that the various witnesses had
already told the police, and were now prepared to swear to. The
private life of the two sisters Nicholls was gone into at full length,
as much, at least, as was publicly known. But you know what village
folk are; except when there is a bit of scandal and gossip, they know
precious little of one another’s inner lives.
The two girls appeared to be very comfortably off. Mary was always
smartly dressed; and the baby girl, whom she had placed in Mrs.
Williams’s charge, had plenty of good and expensive clothes, whilst
her keep, 5s. a week, was paid with unfailing regularity. What seemed
certain, however, was that they did not get on well together, that
Susan violently objected to Mary’s association with Mr. Lydgate, and
that recently she had spoken to the vicar asking him to try to
persuade her sister to go away from Ninescore altogether, so as to
break entirely with the past. The Reverend Octavius Ludlow, Vicar of
Ninescore, seems thereupon to have had a little talk with Mary on the
subject, suggesting that she should accept a good situation in London.
“But,” continued the reverend gentleman, “I didn’t make much
impression on her. All she replied to me was that she certainly need
never go into service, as she had a good income of her own, and could
obtain £5,000 or more quite easily at any time if she chose.”
“Did you mention Mr. Lydgate’s name to her at all?” asked the coroner.
“Yes, I did,” said the vicar, after a slight hesitation.
“Well, what was her attitude then?”
“I am afraid she laughed,” replied the Reverend Octavius, primly, “and
said very picturesquely, if somewhat ungrammatically, that ‘some folks
didn’t know what they was talkin’ about.’”
All very indefinite, you see. Nothing to get hold of, no motive
suggested--beyond a very vague suspicion, perhaps, of blackmail--to
account for a brutal crime. I must not, however, forget to tell you
the two other facts which came to light in the course of this
extraordinary inquest. Though, at the time, these facts seemed of
wonderful moment for the elucidation of the mystery, they only helped
ultimately to plunge the whole case into darkness still more
impenetrable than before.
I am alluding, firstly, to the deposition of James Franklin, a carter
in the employ of one of the local farmers. He stated that about
half-past six on that same Saturday night, January 23rd, he was
walking along Ninescore Lane leading his horse and cart, as the night
was indeed pitch dark. Just as he came somewhere near Elm Cottages he
heard a man’s voice saying in a kind of hoarse whisper:
“Open the door, can’t you? It’s as dark as blazes!”
Then a pause, after which the same voice added:
“Mary, where the dickens are you?” Whereupon a girl’s voice replied:
“All right, I’m coming.”
James Franklin heard nothing more after that, nor did he see anyone in
the gloom.
With the stolidity peculiar to the Kentish peasantry, he thought no
more of this until the day when he heard that Mary Nicholls had been
murdered; then he voluntarily came forward and told his story to the
police. Now, when he was closely questioned, he was quite unable to
say whether these voices proceeded from that side of the lane where
stand Elm Cottages or from the other side, which is edged by the low,
brick wall.
Finally, Inspector Meisures, who really showed an extraordinary sense
of what was dramatic, here produced a document which he had reserved
for the last. This was a piece of paper which he had found in the red
leather purse already mentioned, and which at first had not been
thought very important, as the writing was identified by several
people as that of the deceased, and consisted merely of a series of
dates and hours scribbled in pencil on a scrap of notepaper. But
suddenly these dates had assumed a weird and terrible significance:
two of them, at least--December 26th and January 1st followed by “10
a.m.”--were days on which Mr. Lydgate came over to Ninescore and took
Mary for drives. One or two witnesses swore to this positively. Both
dates had been local meets of the harriers, to which other folk from
the village had gone, and Mary had openly said afterwards how much she
had enjoyed these.
The other dates (there were six altogether) were more or less vague.
One Mrs. Hooker remembered as being coincident with a day Mary
Nicholls had spent away from home; but the last date, scribbled in the
same handwriting, was January 23rd, and below it the hour--6 p.m.
The coroner now adjourned the inquest. An explanation from Mr. Lionel
Lydgate had become imperative.
3
Public excitement had by now reached a very high pitch; it was no
longer a case of mere local interest. The country inns all round the
immediate neighbourhood were packed with visitors from London,
artists, journalists, dramatists, and actor-managers, whilst the
hotels and fly-proprietors of Canterbury were doing a roaring trade.
Certain facts and one vivid picture stood out clearly before the
thoughtful mind in the midst of a chaos of conflicting and irrelevant
evidence: the picture was that of the two women tramping in the wet
and pitch dark night towards Canterbury. Beyond that everything was a
blur.
When did Mary Nicholls come back to Ninescore, and why?
To keep an appointment made with Lionel Lydgate, it was openly
whispered; but that appointment--if the rough notes were interpreted
rightly--was for the very day on which she and her sister went away
from home. A man’s voice called to her at half-past six certainly, and
she replied to it. Franklin, the carter, heard her; but half an hour
afterwards Mrs. Hooker heard her voice when she left home with her
sister, and she visited Mrs. Williams after that.
The only theory compatible with all this was, of course, that Mary
merely accompanied Susan part of the way to Canterbury, then went back
to meet her lover, who enticed her into the deserted grounds of Ash
Court, and there murdered her.
The motive was not far to seek. Mr. Lionel Lydgate, about to marry,
wished to silence for ever a voice that threatened to be unpleasantly
persistent in its demands for money and in its threats of scandal.
But there was one great argument against that theory--the
disappearance of Susan Nicholls. She had been extensively advertised
for. The murder of her sister was published broadcast in every
newspaper in the United Kingdom--she could not be ignorant of it. And,
above all, she hated Mr. Lydgate. Why did she not come and add the
weight of her testimony against him if, indeed, he was guilty?
And if Mr. Lydgate was innocent, then where was the criminal? And why
had Susan Nicholls disappeared?
Why? why? why?
Well, the next day would show. Mr. Lionel Lydgate had been cited by
the police to give evidence at the adjourned inquest.
Good-looking, very athletic, and obviously frightfully upset and
nervous, he entered the little courtroom, accompanied by his
solicitor, just before the coroner and jury took their seats.
He looked keenly at Lady Molly as he sat down, and from the expression
of his face I guessed that he was much puzzled to know who she was.
He was the first witness called. Manfully and clearly he gave a
concise account of his association with the deceased.
“She was pretty and amusing,” he said. “I liked to take her out when I
was in the neighbourhood; it was no trouble to me. There was no harm
in her, whatever the village gossips might say. I know she had been in
trouble, as they say, but that had nothing to do with me. It wasn’t
for me to be hard on a girl, and I fancy that she has been very badly
treated by some scoundrel.”
Here he was hard pressed by the coroner, who wished him to explain
what he meant. But Mr. Lydgate turned obstinate, and to every leading
question he replied stolidly and very emphatically:
“I don’t know who it was. It had nothing to do with me, but I was
sorry for the girl because of everyone turning against her, including
her sister, and I tried to give her a little pleasure when I could.”
That was all right. Very sympathetically told. The public quite liked
this pleasing specimen of English cricket-, golf- and football-loving
manhood. Subsequently Mr. Lydgate admitted meeting Mary on December
26th and January 1st, but he swore most emphatically that that was the
last he ever saw of her.
[IMAGE: images/img019.jpg
CAPTION: “‘You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?’ asked the coroner”]
“But the 23rd of January,” here insinuated the coroner; “you made an
appointment with the deceased then?”
“Certainly not,” he replied.
“But you met her on that day?”
“Most emphatically no,” he replied quietly. “I went down to Edbrooke
Castle, my brother’s place in Lincolnshire, on the 20th of last month,
and only got back to town about three days ago.”
“You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?” asked the coroner.
“I do, indeed, and there are a score of witnesses to bear me out. The
family, the house-party, the servants.”
He tried to dominate his own excitement. I suppose, poor man, he had
only just realised that certain horrible suspicions had been resting
upon him. His solicitor pacified him, and presently he sat down,
whilst I must say that everyone there present was relieved at the
thought that the handsome young athlete was not a murderer, after all.
To look at him it certainly seemed preposterous.
But then, of course, there was the deadlock, and as there were no more
witnesses to be heard, no new facts to elucidate, the jury returned
the usual verdict against some person or persons unknown; and we, the
keenly interested spectators, were left to face the problem--Who
murdered Mary Nicholls, and where was her sister Susan?
4
After the verdict we found our way back to our lodgings. Lady Molly
tramped along silently, with that deep furrow between her brows which
I knew meant that she was deep in thought.
“Now we’ll have some tea,” I said, with a sigh of relief, as soon as
we entered the cottage door.
“No, you won’t,” replied my lady, dryly. “I am going to write out a
telegram, and we’ll go straight on to Canterbury and send it from
there.”
“To Canterbury!” I gasped. “Two hours’ walk at least, for I don’t
suppose we can get a trap, and it is past three o’clock. Why not send
your telegram from Ninescore?”
“Mary, you are stupid,” was all the reply I got.
She wrote out two telegrams--one of which was at least three dozen
words long--and, once more calling to me to come along, we set out for
Canterbury.
I was tea-less, cross, and puzzled. Lady Molly was alert, cheerful,
and irritatingly active.
We reached the first telegraph office a little before five. My lady
sent the telegram without condescending to tell me anything of its
destination or contents; then she took me to the Castle Hotel and
graciously offered me tea.
“May I be allowed to inquire whether you propose tramping back to
Ninescore to-night?” I asked with a slight touch of sarcasm, as I
really felt put out.
“No, Mary,” she replied, quietly munching a bit of Sally Lunn; “I have
engaged a couple of rooms at this hotel and wired the chief that any
message will find us here to-morrow morning.”
After that there was nothing for it but quietude, patience, and
finally supper and bed.
The next morning my lady walked into my room before I had finished
dressing. She had a newspaper in her hand, and threw it down on the
bed as she said calmly:
“It was in the evening paper all right last night. I think we shall be
in time.”
No use asking her what “it” meant. It was easier to pick up the paper,
which I did. It was a late edition of one of the leading London
evening shockers, and at once the front page, with its startling
headline, attracted my attention:
THE NINESCORE MYSTERY
MARY NICHOLLS’S BABY DYING