There was a loud cry of despair like an animal at bay, a shrill cry,
followed by a deep one from Pegram of “No, you don’t,” and before
anyone could prevent her, Joan’s graceful young figure stood outlined
for a short moment at the open window.
The next moment she had disappeared into the depth below, and we heard
a dull thud which nearly froze the blood in my veins.
Pegram ran out of the room, but Lady Molly sat quite still.
“I have succeeded in clearing the innocent,” she said quietly; “but
the guilty has meted out to herself her own punishment.”
“Then it was she?” I murmured, horror-struck.
“Yes. I suspected it from the first,” replied Lady Molly calmly. “It
was this conversion of Roonah to Roman Catholicism and her consequent
change of manner which gave me the first clue.”
“But why--why?” I muttered.
“A simple reason, Mary,” she rejoined, tapping the packet of papers
with her delicate hand; and, breaking open the string that held the
letters, she laid them out upon the table. “The whole thing was a
fraud from beginning to end. The woman’s marriage certificate was all
right, of course, but I mistrusted the genuineness of the other papers
from the moment that I heard that Roonah would not part with them and
would not allow Mr. McKinley to have charge of them. I am sure that
the idea at first was merely one of blackmail. The papers were only to
be the means of extorting money from the old lady, and there was no
thought of taking them into court.
“Roonah’s part was, of course, the important thing in the whole case,
since she was here prepared to swear to the actual date of the first
Madame Duplessis’s death. The initiative, of course, may have come
either from Joan or from Captain Duplessis himself, out of hatred for
the family who would have nothing to do with him and his favourite
younger daughter. That, of course, we shall never know. At first
Roonah was a Parsee, with a dog-like devotion to the girl whom she had
nursed as a baby, and who no doubt had drilled her well into the part
she was to play. But presently she became a Roman Catholic--an ardent
convert, remember, with all a Roman Catholic’s fear of hell-fire. I
went to the convent this morning. I heard the priest’s sermon there,
and I realised what an influence his eloquence must have had over
poor, ignorant, superstitious Roonah. She was still ready to die for
her young mistress, but she was no longer prepared to swear to a lie
for her sake. After Mass I called at Fordwych Castle. I explained my
position to old Lady d’Alboukirk, who took me into the room where
Roonah had slept and died. There I found two things,” continued Lady
Molly, as she opened the elegant reticule which still hung upon her
arm, and placed a big key and a prayer-book before me.
“The key I found in a drawer of an old cupboard in the dressing-room
where Roonah slept, with all sorts of odds and ends belonging to the
unfortunate woman, and going to the door which led into what
[IMAGE: images/img107.jpg
CAPTION: “‘I sent Pegram to her room with orders to break open the
locks of her hand-bag and dressing-case’”]
had been Joan’s bedroom, I found that it was locked, and that this key
fitted into the lock. Roonah had locked that door herself on her own
side--_she was afraid of her mistress_. I knew now that I was right in
my surmise. The prayer-book is a Roman Catholic one. It is heavily
thumbmarked there, where false oaths and lying are denounced as being
deadly sins for which hell-fire would be the punishment. Roonah,
terrorised by fear of the supernatural, a new convert to the faith,
was afraid of committing a deadly sin.
“Who knows what passed between the two women, both of whom have come
to so violent and terrible an end? Who can tell what prayers, tears,
persuasions Joan Duplessis employed from the time she realised that
Roonah did not mean to swear to the lie which would have brought her
mistress wealth and glamour until the awful day when she finally
understood that Roonah would no longer even hold her tongue, and
devised a terrible means of silencing her for ever?
“With this certainty before me, I ventured on my big _coup_. I was so
sure, you see. I kept Joan talking in here whilst I sent Pegram to her
room with orders to break open the locks of her hand-bag and
dressing-case. There!--I told you that if I was wrong I would probably
be dismissed the force for irregularity, as of course I had no right
to do that; but if Pegram found the papers there where I felt sure
they would be, we could bring the murderer to justice. I know my own
sex pretty well, don’t I, Mary? I knew that Joan Duplessis had not
destroyed--never would destroy--those papers.”
Even as Lady Molly spoke we could hear heavy tramping outside the
passage. I ran to the door, and there was met by Pegram.
“She is quite dead, miss,” he said. “It was a drop of forty feet, and
a stone pavement down below.”
The guilty had indeed meted out her own punishment to herself!
Lady d’Alboukirk sent Lady Molly a cheque for £5,000 the day the
whole affair was made known to the public.
I think you will say that it had been well earned. With her own dainty
hands my dear lady had lifted the veil which hung over the tragedy of
Fordwych Castle, and with the finding of the papers in Joan
Duplessis’s dressing-bag, and the unfortunate girl’s suicide, the
murder of the Indian woman was no longer a mystery.
V.
A DAY’S FOLLY
I don’t think that anyone ever knew that the real elucidation of the
extraordinary mystery known to the newspaper-reading public as the
“Somersetshire Outrage” was evolved in my own dear lady’s quick,
intuitive brain.
As a matter of fact, to this day--as far as the public is
concerned--the Somersetshire outrage never was properly explained; and
it is a very usual thing for those busybodies who are so fond of
criticising the police to point to that case as an instance of
remarkable incompetence on the part of our detective department.
A young woman named Jane Turner, a visitor at Weston-super-Mare, had
been discovered one afternoon in a helpless condition, bound and
gagged, and suffering from terror and inanition, in the bedroom which
she occupied in a well-known apartment-house of that town. The police
had been immediately sent for, and as soon as Miss Turner had
recovered she gave what explanation she could of the mysterious
occurrence.
She was employed in one of the large drapery shops in Bristol, and was
spending her annual holiday at Weston-super-Mare. Her father was the
local butcher at Banwell--a village distant about four miles from
Weston--and it appears that somewhere near one o’clock in the
afternoon of Friday, the 3rd of September, she was busy in her bedroom
putting a few things together in a handbag, preparatory to driving out
to Banwell, meaning to pay her parents a week-end visit.
There was a knock at her door, and a voice said, “It’s me, Jane--may I
come in?”
She did not recognise the voice, but somehow thought that it must be
that of a friend, so she shouted, “Come in!”
This was all that the poor thing recollected definitely, for the next
moment the door was thrown open, someone rushed at her with amazing
violence, she heard the crash of a falling table and felt a blow on
the side of her head, whilst a damp handkerchief was pressed to her
nose and mouth.
Then she remembered nothing more.
When she gradually came to her senses she found herself in the
terrible plight in which Mrs. Skeward--her landlady--discovered her
twenty-four hours later.
When pressed to try and describe her assailant, she said that when the
door was thrown open she thought that she saw an elderly woman in a
wide mantle and wearing bonnet and veil, but that, at the same time,
she was quite sure, from the strength and brutality of the onslaught,
that she was attacked by a man. She had no enemies, and no possessions
worth stealing; but her hand-bag, which, however, only contained a few
worthless trifles, had certainly disappeared.
The people of the house, on the other hand, could throw but little
light on the mystery which surrounded this very extraordinary and
seemingly purposeless assault.
Mrs. Skeward only remembered that on Friday Miss Turner told her that
she was just off to Banwell, and would be away for the week-end; but
that she wished to keep her room on, against her return on the Monday
following.
That was somewhere about half-past twelve o’clock, at the hour when
luncheons were being got ready for the various lodgers; small wonder,
therefore, that no one in the busy apartment-house took much count of
the fact that Miss Turner was not seen to leave the house after that,
and no doubt the wretched girl would have been left for several days
in the pitiable condition in which she was ultimately found but for
the fact that Mrs. Skeward happened to be of the usual grasping type
common to those of her kind.
Weston-super-Mare was over-full that week-end, and Mrs. Skeward, beset
by applicants for accommodation, did not see why she should not let
her absent lodger’s room for the night or two that the latter happened
to be away, and thus get money twice over for it.
She conducted a visitor up to Miss Turner’s room on the Saturday
afternoon, and, throwing open the door--which, by the way, was not
locked--was horrified to see the poor girl half-sitting, half-slipping
off the chair to which she had been tied with a rope, whilst a woollen
shawl was wound round the lower part of her face.
As soon as she had released the unfortunate victim, Mrs. Skeward sent
for the police, and it was through the intelligent efforts of
Detective Parsons--a local man--that a few scraps of very hazy
evidence were then and there collected.
First, there was the question of the elderly female in the wide
mantle, spoken of by Jane Turner as her assailant. It seems that
someone answering to that description had called on the Friday at
about one o’clock, and asked to see Miss Turner. The maid who answered
the door replied that she thought Miss Turner had gone to Banwell.
“Oh!” said the old dame, “she won’t have started yet. I am Miss
Turner’s mother, and I was to call for her so that we might drive out
together.”
“Then p’r’aps Miss Turner is still in her room,” suggested the maid.
“Shall I go and see?”
“Don’t trouble,” replied the woman; “I know my way. I’ll go myself.”
Whereupon the old dame walked past the servant, crossed the hall, and
went upstairs. No one saw her come down again, but one of the lodgers
seems to have heard a knock at Jane Turner’s door, and the female
voice saying, “It’s me, Jane--may I come in?”
What happened subsequently, who the mysterious old female was, and how
and for what purpose she assaulted Jane Turner and robbed her of a few
valueless articles, was the puzzle which faced the police then, and
which--so far as the public is concerned--has never been solved. Jane
Turner’s mother was in bed at the time suffering from a broken ankle
and unable to move. The elderly woman was, therefore, an impostor, and
the search after her--though keen and hot enough at the time, I assure
you--has remained, in the eyes of the public, absolutely fruitless.
But of this more anon.
On the actual scene of the crime there was but little to guide
subsequent investigation. The rope with which Jane Turner had been
pinioned supplied no clue; the wool shawl was Miss Turner’s own,
snatched up by the miscreant to smother the girl’s screams; on the
floor was a handkerchief, without initial or laundry mark, which
obviously had been saturated with chloroform; and close by a bottle
which had contained the anæsthetic. A small table was overturned, and
the articles which had been resting upon it were lying all
around--such as a vase which had held a few flowers, a box of
biscuits, and several issues of the _West of England Times_.
And nothing more. The miscreant, having accomplished his fell purpose,
succeeded evidently in walking straight out of the house unobserved;
his exit being undoubtedly easily managed owing to it being the busy
luncheon hour.
Various theories were, of course, put forward by some of our ablest
fellows at the Yard; the most likely solution being the guilt or, at
least, the complicity of the girl’s sweetheart, Arthur Cutbush--a
ne’er-do-well, who spent the greater part of his time on race-courses.
Inspector Danvers, whom the chief had sent down to assist the local
police, declared that Jane Turner herself suspected her sweetheart,
and was trying to shield him by stating that she possessed nothing of
any value; whereas, no doubt, the young blackguard knew that she had
some money, and had planned this amazing _coup_ in order to rob her of
it.
Danvers was quite chagrined when, on investigation, it was proved that
Arthur Cutbush had gone to the York races three days before the
assault, and never left that city until the Saturday evening, when a
telegram from Miss Turner summoned him to Weston.
Moreover, the girl did not break off her engagement with young
Cutbush, and thus the total absence of motive was a serious bar to the
likelihood of the theory.
Then it was that the Chief sent for Lady Molly. No doubt he began to
feel that here, too, was a case where feminine tact and my lady’s own
marvellous intuition might prove more useful than the more approved
methods of the sterner sex.
2
“Of course, there is a woman in the case, Mary,” said Lady Molly to
me, when she came home from the interview with the chief, “although
they all pooh-pooh that theory at the Yard, and declare that the
female voice--to which the only two witnesses we have are prepared to
swear--was a disguised one.”
“You think, then, that a woman assaulted Jane Turner?”
“Well,” she replied somewhat evasively, “if a man assumes a feminine
voice, the result is a high-pitched, unnatural treble; and that, I
feel convinced, would have struck either the maid or the lodger, or
both, as peculiar.”
This was the train of thought which my dear lady and I were following
up, when, with that sudden transition of manner so characteristic of
her, she said abruptly to me:
“Mary, look out a train for Weston-super-Mare. We must try and get
down there to-night.”
“Chief’s orders?” I asked.
“No--mine,” she replied laconically. “Where’s the A B C?”
Well, we got off that self-same afternoon, and in the evening we were
having dinner at the Grand Hotel, Weston-super-Mare.
My dear lady had been pondering all through the journey, and even now
she was singularly silent and absorbed. There was a deep frown between
her eyes, and every now and then the luminous, dark orbs would
suddenly narrow, and the pupils contract as if smitten with a sudden
light.
I was not a little puzzled as to what was going on in that active
brain of hers, but my experience was that silence on my part was the
surest card to play.
Lady Molly had entered our names in the hotel book as Mrs. Walter Bell
and Miss Granard from London; and the day after our arrival there came
two heavy parcels for her under that name. She had them taken upstairs
to our private sitting-room, and there we undid them together.
To my astonishment they contained stacks of newspapers: as far as I
could see at a glance, back numbers of the _West of England Times_
covering a whole year.
“Find and cut out the ‘Personal’ column of every number, Mary,” said
Lady Molly to me. “I’ll look through them on my return. I am going for
a walk, and will be home by lunch time.”
I knew, of course, that she was intent on her business and on that
only, and as soon as she had gone out I set myself to the wearisome
task which she had allotted me. My dear lady was evidently working out
a problem in her mind, the solution of which she expected to find in a
back number of the _West of England Times_.
By the time she returned I had the “Personal” column of some three
hundred numbers of the paper neatly filed and docketed for her
perusal. She thanked me for my promptitude with one of her charming
looks, but said little, if anything, all through luncheon. After that
meal she set to work. I could see her studying each scrap of paper
minutely, comparing one with the other, arranging them in sets in
front of her, and making marginal notes on them all the while.
With but a brief interval for tea, she sat at her table for close on
four hours, at the end of which time she swept all the scraps of paper
on one side, with the exception of a few which she kept in her hand.
Then she looked up at me, and I sighed with relief.
My dear lady was positively beaming.
“You have found what you wanted?” I asked eagerly.
“What I expected,” she replied.
“May I know?”
She spread out the bits of paper before me. There were six altogether,
and each of these columns had one paragraph specially marked with a
cross.
“Only look at the paragraphs which I have marked,” she said.
I did as I was told. But if in my heart I had vaguely hoped that I
should then and there be confronted with the solution of the mystery
which surrounded the Somersetshire outrage, I was doomed to
disappointment.
Each of the marked paragraphs in the “Personal” columns bore the
initials H. S. H., and their purport was invariably an assignation at
one of the small railway stations on the line between Bristol and
Weston.
I suppose that my bewilderment must have been supremely comical, for
my dear lady’s rippling laugh went echoing through the bare, dull
hotel sitting-room.
“You don’t see it, Mary?” she asked gaily.
“I confess I don’t,” I replied. “It completely baffles me.”
“And yet,” she said more gravely, “those few silly paragraphs have
given me the clue to the mysterious assault on Jane Turner, which has
been puzzling our fellows at the Yard for over three weeks.”
“But how? I don’t understand.”
“You will, Mary, directly we get back to town. During my morning walk
I have learnt all that I want to know, and now these paragraphs have
set my mind at rest.”
3
The next day we were back in town.
Already, at Bristol, we had bought a London morning paper, which
contained in its centre page a short notice under the following
startling headlines:
THE SOMERSETSHIRE OUTRAGE
AMAZING DISCOVERY BY THE POLICE
AN UNEXPECTED CLUE
The article went on to say:
“We are officially informed that the police have recently obtained
knowledge of certain facts which establish beyond a doubt the motive
of the brutal assault committed on the person of Miss Jane Turner. We
are not authorised to say more at present than that certain startling
developments are imminent.”
On the way up my dear lady had initiated me into some of her views
with regard to the case itself, which at the chief’s desire she had
now taken entirely in hand, and also into her immediate plans, of
which the above article was merely the preface.
She it was who had “officially informed” the Press Association, and,
needless to say, the news duly appeared in most of the London and
provincial dailies.
How unerring was her intuition, and how well thought out her scheme,
was proved within the next four-and-twenty hours in our own little
flat, when our Emily, looking somewhat important and awed, announced
Her Serene Highness the Countess of Hohengebirg.
H. S. H.--the conspicuous initials in the “Personal” columns of the
_West of England Times_! You may imagine how I stared at the exquisite
apparition--all lace and chiffon and roses--which the next moment
literally swept into our office, past poor, open-mouthed Emily.
Had my dear lady taken leave of her senses when she suggested that
this beautiful young woman with the soft, fair hair, with the pleading
blue eyes and childlike mouth, had anything to do with a brutal
assault on a shop girl?
The young Countess shook hands with Lady Molly and with me, and then,
with a deep sigh, she sank into the comfortable chair which I was
offering her.
Speaking throughout with great diffidence, but always in the gentle
tones of a child that knows it has been naughty, she began by
explaining that she had been to Scotland Yard, where a very charming
man--the chief, I presume--had been most kind and sent her hither,
where he promised her she would find help and consolation in her
dreadful, dreadful trouble.
Encouraged by Lady Molly, she soon plunged into her narrative: a
pathetic tale of her own frivolity and foolishness.
She was originally Lady Muriel Wolfe-Strongham, daughter of the Duke
of Weston, and when scarce out of the schoolroom had met the Grand
Duke of Starkburg-Nauheim, who fell in love with her and married her.
The union was a morganatic one, the Grand Duke conferring on his
English wife the title of Countess of Hohengebirg and the rank of
Serene Highness.
It seems that, at first, the marriage was a fairly happy one, in spite
of the bitter animosity of the mother and sister of the Grand Duke:
the Dowager Grand Duchess holding that all English girls were loud and
unwomanly, and the Princess Amalie, seeing in her brother’s marriage a
serious bar to the fulfilment of her own highly ambitious matrimonial
hopes.
“They can’t bear me, because I don’t knit socks and don’t know how to
bake almond cakes,” said her dear little Serene Highness, looking up
with tender appeal at Lady Molly’s grave and beautiful face; “and they
will be so happy to see a real estrangement between my husband and
myself.”
It appears that last year, whilst the Grand Duke was doing his annual
cure at Marienbad, the Countess of Hohengebirg went to Folkestone for
the benefit of her little boy’s health. She stayed at one of the
Hotels there merely as any English lady of wealth might do--with
nurses and her own maid, of course, but without the paraphernalia and
nuisance of her usual German retinue.
Whilst there she met an old acquaintance of her father’s, a Mr.
Rumboldt, who is a rich financier, it seems, and who at one time moved
in the best society, but whose reputation had greatly suffered
recently, owing to a much talked of divorce case which brought his
name into unenviable notoriety.
Her Serene Highness, with more mopping of her blue eyes, assured Lady
Molly that over at Schloss Starkburg she did not read the English
papers, and was therefore quite unaware that Mr. Rumboldt, who used to
be a _persona grata_ in her father’s house, was no longer a fit and
proper acquaintance for her.
“It was a very fine morning,” she continued with gentle pathos, “and I
was deadly dull at Folkestone. Mr. Rumboldt persuaded me to go with
him on a short trip on his yacht. We were to cross over to Boulogne,
have luncheon there, and come home in the cool of the evening.”
“And, of course, something occurred to disable the yacht,” concluded
Lady Molly gravely, as the lady herself had paused in her narrative.
“Of course,” whispered the little Countess through her tears.
“And, of course, it was too late to get back by the ordinary afternoon
mail boat?”
“That boat had gone an hour before, and the next did not leave until
the middle of the night.”
“So you had perforce to wait until then, and in the meanwhile you were
seen by a girl named Jane Turner, who knew you by sight, and who has
been blackmailing you ever since.”
“How did you guess that?” ejaculated Her Highness, with a look of such
comical bewilderment in her large, blue eyes that Lady Molly and I had
perforce to laugh.
“Well,” replied my dear lady after awhile, resuming her gravity, “we
have a way in our profession of putting two and two together, haven’t
we? And in this case it was not very difficult. The assignations for
secret meetings at out-of-the-way railway stations which were
addressed to H. S. H. in the columns of the _West of England Times_
recently, gave me one clue, shall we say? The mysterious assault on a
young woman, whose home was close to those very railway stations as
well as to Bristol Castle--your parents’ residence--where you have
frequently been staying of late, was another piece that fitted in the
puzzle; whilst the number of copies of the _West of England Times_
that were found in that same young woman’s room helped to draw my
thoughts to her. Then your visit to me to-day--it is very simple, you
see.”
“I suppose so,” said H. S. H. with a sigh. “Only it is worse even than
you suggest, for that horrid Jane Turner, to whom I had been ever so
kind when I was a girl, took a snapshot of me and Mr. Rumboldt
standing on the steps of the Hôtel des Bains at Boulogne. I saw her
doing it and rushed down the steps to stop her. She talked quite
nicely then--hypocritical wretch!--and said that perhaps the plate
would be no good when it was developed, and if it were she would
destroy it. I was not to worry; she would contrive to let me know
through the agony column of the _West of England Times_, which--as I
was going home to Bristol Castle to stay with my parents--I could see
every day, but she had no idea I should have minded, and all that sort
of rigmarole. Oh! she is a wicked girl, isn’t she, to worry me so?”
And once again the lace handkerchief found its way to the most
beautiful pair of blue eyes I think I have ever seen. I could not help
smiling, though I was really very sorry for the silly, emotional, dear
little thing.
“And instead of reassurance in the _West of England Times_, you found
a demand for a secret meeting at a country railway station?”
“Yes! And when I went there--terrified lest I should be seen--Jane
Turner did not meet me herself. Her mother came and at once talked of
selling the photograph to my husband or to my mother-in-law. She said
it was worth four thousand pounds to Jane, and that she had advised
her daughter not to sell it to me for less.”
“What did you reply?”
“That I hadn’t got four thousand pounds,” said the Countess ruefully;
“so after a lot of argument it was agreed that I was to pay Jane two
hundred and fifty pounds a year out of my dress allowance. She would
keep the negative as security, but promised never to let anyone see it
so long as she got her money regularly. It was also arranged that
whenever I stayed with my parents at Bristol Castle, Jane would make
appointments to meet me through the columns of the _West of England
Times_, and I was to pay up the instalments then just as she
directed.”
I could have laughed, if the whole thing had not been so tragic, for
truly the way this silly, harmless little woman had allowed herself to
be bullied and blackmailed by a pair of grasping females was beyond
belief.
“And this has been going on for over a year,” commented Lady Molly
gravely.
“Yes, but I never met Jane Turner again: it was always her mother who
came.”
“You knew her mother before that, I presume?”
“Oh, no. I only knew Jane because she had been sewing-maid at the
Castle some few years ago.”
“I see,” said Lady Molly slowly. “What was the woman like whom you
used to meet at the railway stations, and to whom you paid over Miss
Turner’s annuity?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you what she was like. I never saw her properly.”
“Never saw her properly?” ejaculated Lady Molly, and it seemed to my
well-trained ears as if there was a ring of exultation in my dear
lady’s voice.
“No,” replied the little Countess ruefully. “She always appointed a
late hour of the evening, and those little stations on that line are
very badly lighted. I had such difficulties in getting away from home
without exciting comment, and used to beg her to let me meet her at a
more convenient hour. But she always refused.”
Lady Molly remained thoughtful for a while; then she asked abruptly:
“Why don’t you prosecute Jane Turner for blackmail?”
“Oh, I dare not--I dare not!” ejaculated the little Countess, in
genuine terror. “My husband would never forgive me, and his female
relations would do their best afterwards to widen the breach between
us. It was because of the article in the London newspaper about the
assault on Jane Turner--the talk of a clue and of startling
developments--that I got terrified, and went to Scotland Yard. Oh, no!
no! no! Promise me that my name won’t be dragged into this case. It
would ruin me for ever!”
She was sobbing now; her grief and fear were very pathetic to witness,
and she moaned through her sobs:
“Those wicked people know that I daren’t risk an exposure, and simply
prey upon me like vampires because of that. The last time I saw the
old woman I told her that I would confess everything to my husband--I
couldn’t bear to go on like this. But she only laughed; she knew I
should never dare.”
“When was this?” asked Lady Molly.
“About three weeks ago--just before Jane Turner was assaulted and
robbed of the photographs.”
“How do you know she was robbed of the photographs?”
“She wrote and told me so,” replied the young Countess, who seemed
strangely awed now by my dear lady’s earnest question. And from a
dainty reticule she took a piece of paper, which bore traces of many
bitter tears on its crumpled surface. This she handed to Lady Molly,
who took it from her. It was a type-written letter, which bore no
signature. Lady Molly perused it in silence first, then read its
contents out aloud to me:--
“To H.S.H. the Countess of Hohengebirg.
“You think I have been worrying you the past twelve months about your
adventure with Mr. Rumboldt in Boulogne. But it was not me; it was one
who has power over me, and who knew about the photograph. He made me
act as I did. But whilst I kept the photo you were safe. Now he has
assaulted me and nearly killed me, and taken the negative away. I can,
and will, get it out of him again, but it will mean a large sum down.
Can you manage one thousand pounds?”
“When did you get this?” asked Lady Molly.
“Only a few days ago,” replied the Countess. “And oh! I have been
enduring agonies of doubt and fear for the past three weeks, for I had
heard nothing from Jane since the assault, and I wondered what had
happened.”
“You have not sent a reply, I hope.”
“No. I was going to, when I saw the article in the London paper, and
the fear that all had been discovered threw me into such a state of
agony that I came straight up to town and saw the gentleman at
Scotland Yard, who sent me on to you. Oh!” she entreated again and
again, “you won’t do anything that will cause a scandal! Promise
me--promise me! I believe I should commit suicide rather than face
it--and I could find a thousand pounds.”
“I don’t think you need do either,” said Lady Molly. “Now, may I think
over the whole matter quietly to myself,” she added, “and talk it over
with my friend here? I may be able to let you have some good news
shortly.”
She rose, intimating kindly that the interview was over. But it was by
no means that yet, for there was still a good deal of entreaty and a
great many tears on the one part, and reiterated kind assurances on
the other. However when, some ten minutes later, the dainty clouds of
lace and chiffon were finally wafted out of our office, we both felt
that the poor, harmless, unutterably foolish little lady felt
distinctly consoled and more happy than she had been for the past
twelve months.
4
“Yes! she has been an utter little goose,” Lady Molly was saying to
me an hour later when we were having luncheon; “but that Jane Turner
is a remarkably clever girl.”
“I suppose you think, as I do, that the mysterious elderly female, who
seems to have impersonated the mother all through, was an accomplice
of Jane Turner’s, and that the assault was a put-up job between them,”
I said. “Inspector Danvers will be delighted--for this theory is a
near approach to his own.”
“H’m!” was all the comment vouchsafed on my remark.
“I am sure it was Arthur Cutbush, the girl’s sweetheart, after all,” I
retorted hotly, “and you’ll see that, put to the test of sworn
evidence, his alibi at the time of the assault itself won’t hold good.
Moreover, now,” I added triumphantly, “we have knowledge
[IMAGE: images/img128.jpg
CAPTION: “Ten minutes later the dainty clouds of lace and chiffon
were finally wafted out”]
which has been lacking all along--the motive.”
“Ah!” said my lady, smiling at my enthusiasm, “that’s how you argue,
Mary, is it?”
“Yes, and in my opinion the only question in doubt is whether Arthur
Cutbush acted in collusion with Jane Turner or against her.”
“Well, suppose we go and elucidate that point--and some others--at
once,” concluded Lady Molly as she rose from the table.
She decided to return to Bristol that same evening. We were going by
the 8.50 p.m., and I was just getting ready--the cab being already at
the door--when I was somewhat startled by the sudden appearance into
my room of an old lady, very beautifully dressed, with snow-white hair
dressed high above a severe, interesting face.
A merry, rippling laugh issuing from the wrinkled mouth, and a closer
scrutiny on my part, soon revealed the identity of my dear lady,
dressed up to look like an extremely dignified _grande dame_ of the
old school, whilst a pair of long, old-fashioned earrings gave a
curious, foreign look to her whole appearance.
I didn’t quite see why she chose to arrive at the Grand Hotel,
Bristol, in that particular disguise, nor why she entered our names in
the hotel book as Grand Duchess and Princess Amalie von Starkburg,
from Germany; nor did she tell me anything that evening.
But by the next afternoon, when we drove out together in a fly, I was
well up in the _rôle_ which I had to play. My lady had made me dress
in a very rich black silk dress of her own, and ordered me to do my
hair in a somewhat frumpish fashion, with a parting, and a “bun” at
the back. She herself looked more like Royalty travelling incognito
than ever, and no wonder small children and tradesmen’s boys stared
open-mouthed when we alighted from our fly outside one of the
mean-looking little houses in Bread Street.
In answer to our ring, a smutty little servant opened the door, and my
lady asked her if Miss Jane Turner lived here and if she were in.
“Yes, Miss Turner lives here, and it bein’ Thursday and early closin’
she’s home from business.”
“Then please tell her,” said Lady Molly in her grandest manner, “that
the Dowager Grand Duchess of Starkburg-Nauheim and the Princess Amalie
desire to see her.”
The poor little maid nearly fell backwards with astonishment. She
gasped an agitated “Lor!” and then flew down the narrow passage and up
the steep staircase, closely followed by my dear lady and myself.
On the first-floor landing the girl, with nervous haste, knocked at a
door, opened it and muttered half audibly:
“Ladies to see you, miss!”
Then she fled incontinently upstairs. I have never been able to decide
whether that little girl thought that we were lunatics, ghosts, or
criminals.
But already Lady Molly had sailed into the room, where Miss Jane
Turner apparently had been sitting reading a novel. She jumped up when
we entered, and stared open-eyed at the gorgeous apparitions. She was
not a bad-looking girl but for the provoking, bold look in her black
eyes, and the general slatternly appearance of her person.
“Pray do not disturb yourself, Miss Turner,” said Lady Molly in broken
English, as she sank into a chair, and beckoned me to do likewise.
“Pray sit down--I vill be brief. You have a compromising
photograph--is it not?--of my daughter-in-law ze Countess of
Hohengebirg. I am ze Grand Duchess of Starkburg-Nauheim--zis is my
daughter, ze Princess Amalie. We are here incognito. You understand?
Not?”
And, with inimitable elegance of gesture, my dear lady raised a pair
of “starers” to her eyes and fixed them on Jane Turner’s quaking
figure.
Never had I seen suspicion, nay terror, depicted so plainly on a young
face, but I will do the girl the justice to state that she pulled
herself together with marvellous strength of will.
She fought down her awed respect of this great lady; or rather shall I
say that the British middle-class want of respect for social
superiority, especially if it be foreign, now stood her in good stead?
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said with an arrogant
toss of the head.
“Zat is a lie, is it not?” rejoined Lady Molly calmly, as she drew
from her reticule the typewritten letter which Jane Turner had sent to
the Countess of Hohengebirg. “Zis you wrote to my daughter-in-law; ze
letter reached me instead of her. It interests me much. I vill give
you two tousend pounds for ze photograph of her and Mr.--er--Rumboldt.
You vill sell it to me for zat, is it not?”
The production of the letter had somewhat cowed Jane’s bold spirit.
But she was still defiant.
“I haven’t got the photograph here,” she said.
“Ah, no! but you vill get it--yes?” said my lady, quietly replacing
the letter in her reticule. “In ze letter you offer to get it for
tousend pound. I vill give you two tousend. To-day is a holiday for
you. You vill get ze photograph from ze gentleman--not? And I vill
vait here till you come back.”
Whereupon she rearranged her skirts round her and folded her hands
placidly, like one prepared to wait.
“I haven’t got the photograph,” said Jane Turner, doggedly, “and I
can’t get it to-day. The--the person who has it doesn’t live in
Bristol.”
“No? Ah! but quite close, isn’t it?” rejoined my lady, placidly. “I
can vait all ze day.”
“No, you shan’t!” retorted Jane Turner, whose voice now shook with
obvious rage or fear--I knew not which. “I can’t get the photograph
to-day--so there! And I won’t sell it to you--I won’t. I don’t want
your two thousand pounds. How do I know you are not an impostor?”
“From zis, my good girl,” said Lady Molly, quietly; “that if I leave
zis room wizout ze photograph, I go straight to ze police with zis
letter, and you shall be prosecuted by ze Grand Duke, my son, for
blackmailing his wife. You see, I am not like my daughter-in-law; I am
not afraid of a scandal. So you vill fetch ze photograph--isn’t it? I
and ze Princess Amalie vill vait for it here. Zat is your
bedroom--not?” she added, pointing to a door which obviously gave on
an inner room. “Vill you put on your hat and go at once, please? Two
tousend pound or two years in prison--you have ze choice--isn’t it?”
Jane Turner tried to keep up her air of defiance, looking Lady Molly
full in the face; but I who watched her could see the boldness in her
eyes gradually giving place to fear, and then to terror and even
despair; the girl’s face seemed literally to grow old as I looked at
it--pale, haggard, and drawn--whilst Lady Molly kept her stern,
luminous eyes fixed steadily upon her.
Then, with a curious, wild gesture, which somehow filled me with a
nameless fear, Jane Turner turned on her heel and ran into the inner
room.
There followed a moment of silence. To me it was tense and agonising.
I was straining my ears to hear what was going on in that inner room.
That my dear lady was not as callous as she wished to appear was shown
by the strange look of expectancy in her beautiful eyes.
The minutes sped on--how many I could not afterwards have said. I was
conscious of a clock ticking monotonously over the shabby mantelpiece,
of an errand boy outside shouting at the top of his voice, of the
measured step of the cab horse which had brought us hither being
walked up and down the street.
Then suddenly there was a violent crash, as of heavy furniture being
thrown down. I could not suppress a scream, for my nerves by now were
terribly on the jar.
“Quick, Mary--the inner room!” said Lady Molly. “I thought the girl
might do that.”
I dared not pause in order to ask what “that” meant, but flew to the
door.
It was locked.
“Downstairs--quick!” commanded my lady. “I ordered Danvers to be on
the watch outside.”
You may imagine how I flew, and how I blessed my dear lady’s
forethought in the midst of her daring plan, when, having literally
torn open the front door, I saw Inspector Danvers in plain clothes,
calmly patrolling the street. I beckoned to him--he was keeping a
sharp look-out--and together we ran back into the house.
Fortunately, the landlady and the servant were busy in the basement,
and had neither heard the crash nor seen me run in search of Danvers.
My dear lady was still alone in the dingy parlour, stooping against
the door of the inner room, her ear glued to the key-hole.
“Not too late, I think,” she whispered hurriedly. “Break it open,
Danvers.”
Danvers, who is a great, strong man, soon put his shoulder to the
rickety door, which yielded to the first blow.
The sight which greeted us filled me with horror, for I had never seen
such a tragedy before. The wretched girl, Jane Turner, had tied a rope
to a ring in the ceiling, which I suppose at one time held a hanging
lamp; the other end of that rope she had formed into a slip-noose, and
passed round her neck.
She had apparently climbed on to a table, and then used her best
efforts to end her life by kicking the table away from under her. This
was the crash which we had heard, and which had caused us to come to
her rescue. Fortunately, her feet had caught in the back of a chair
close by; the slip-noose was strangling her, and her face was awful to
behold, but she was not dead.
Danvers soon got her down. He is a first-aid man, and has done these
terrible jobs before. As soon as the girl had partially recovered,
Lady Molly sent him and me out of the room. In the dark and dusty
parlour, where but a few moments ago I had played my small part in a
grim comedy, I now waited to hear what the sequel to it would be.
Danvers had been gone some time, and the shades of evening were
drawing in; outside, the mean-looking street looked particularly
dreary. It was close on six o’clock when at last I heard the welcome
rustle of silks, the opening of a door, and at last my dear
lady--looking grave but serene--came out of the inner room, and,
beckoning to me, without a word led the way out of the house and into
the fly, which was still waiting at the door.
“We’ll send a doctor to her,” were her first words as soon as we were
clear of Bread Street. “But she is quite all right now, save that she
wants a sleeping draught. Well, she has been punished enough, I think.
She won’t try her hand at blackmailing again.”
“Then the photograph never existed?” I asked amazed.
“No; the plate was a failure, but Jane Turner would not thus readily
give up the idea of getting money out of the poor, pusillanimous
Countess. We know how she succeeded in terrorising that silly little
woman. It is wonderful how cleverly a girl like that worked out such a
complicated scheme, all alone.”
“All alone?”
“Yes; there was no one else. She was the elderly woman who used to
meet the Countess, and who rang at the front door of the Weston
apartment-house. She arranged the whole of the _mise en scène_ of the
assault on herself, all alone, and took everybody in with it--it was
so perfectly done. She planned and executed it
[IMAGE: images/img135.jpg
CAPTION: “‘Not too late, I think,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘Break
it open, Danvers’”]
because she was afraid that the little Countess would be goaded into
confessing her folly to her husband, or to her own parents, when a
prosecution for blackmail would inevitably follow. So she risked
everything on a big _coup_, and almost succeeded in getting a thousand
pounds from Her Serene Highness, meaning to reassure her, as soon as
she had the money, by the statement that the negative and prints had
been destroyed. But the appearance of the Grand Duchess of
Starkburg-Nauheim this afternoon frightened her into an act of
despair. Confronted with the prosecution she dreaded and with the
prison she dared not face, she, in a mad moment, attempted to take her
life.”
“I suppose now the whole matter will be hushed up.”
“Yes,” replied Lady Molly with a wistful sigh. “The public will never
know who assaulted Jane Turner.”
She was naturally a little regretful at that. But it was a joy to see
her the day when she was able to assure Her Serene Highness the
Countess of Hohengebirg that she need never again fear the
consequences of that fatal day’s folly.
VI.
A CASTLE IN BRITTANY
Yes! we are just back from our holiday, my dear lady and I--a
well-earned holiday, I can tell you that.
We went to Porhoët, you know--a dear little village in the hinterland
of Brittany, not very far from the coast; an enchanting spot, hidden
away in a valley, bordered by a mountain stream, wild, romantic,
picturesque--Brittany, in fact.
We had discovered the little place quite accidentally last year, in
the course of our wanderings, and stayed there then about three weeks,
laying the foundations of that strange adventure which reached its
culminating point just a month ago.
I don’t know if the story will interest you, for Lady Molly’s share in
the adventure was purely a private one and had nothing whatever to do
with her professional work. At the same time it illustrates in a very
marked manner that extraordinary faculty which she possesses of
divining her fellow-creatures’ motives and intentions.
We had rooms and _pension_ in the dear little convent on the outskirts
of the village, close to the quaint church and the picturesque
presbytery, and soon we made the acquaintance of the Curé, a
simple-minded, kindly old man, whose sorrow at the thought that two
such charming English ladies as Lady Molly and myself should be
heretics was more than counterbalanced by his delight in having
someone of the “great outside world”--as he called it--to talk to,
whilst he told us quite ingenuously something of his own simple life,
of this village which he loved, and also of his parishioners.
One personality among the latter occupied his thoughts and
conversation a great deal, and I must say interested us keenly. It was
that of Miss Angela de Genneville, who owned the magnificent château
of Porhoët, one of the seven wonders of architectural France. She was
an Englishwoman by birth--being of a Jersey family--and was immensely
wealthy, her uncle, who was also her godfather, having bequeathed to
her the largest cigar factory in St. Heliers, besides three-quarters
of a million sterling.
To say that Miss de Genneville was eccentric was but to put it mildly;
in the village she was generally thought to be quite mad. The Curé
vaguely hinted that a tragic love story was at the bottom of all her
eccentricities. Certain it is that, for no apparent reason, and when
she was still a youngish woman, she had sold the Jersey business and
realised the whole of her fortune. After two years of continuous
travelling, she came to Brittany on a visit to her sister--the widowed
Marquise de Terhoven, who owned a small property close to Porhoët,
and lived there in retirement and poverty with her only son, Amédé.
Miss Angela de Genneville was agreeably taken with the beauty and
quietude of this remote little village. The beautiful château of
Porhoët being for sale at the time, she bought it, took out letters
of naturalisation, became a French subject, and from that moment never
went outside the precincts of her newly acquired domain.
She never returned to England, and, with the exception of the Curé
and her own sister and nephew, saw no one beyond her small retinue of
servants.
But the dear old Curé thought all the world of her, for she was
supremely charitable to him and to the poor, and scarcely a day passed
but he told us something either of her kindness or of her eccentric
ways. One day he arrived at the convent at an unaccustomed hour; we
had just finished our simple _déjeuner_ of steaming coffee and rolls
when we saw him coming towards us across the garden.
That he was excited and perturbed was at once apparent by his hurried
gait and by the flush on his kindly face. He bade us a very hasty
“Good morning, my daughters!” and plunged abruptly into his subject.
He explained with great volubility, which was intended to mask his
agitation, that he was the bearer of an invitation to the charming
English lady--a curious invitation, ah, yes! perhaps!--Mademoiselle de
Genneville--very eccentric--but she is in great trouble--in very
serious trouble--and very ill too, now--poor lady--half paralysed and
feeble--yes, feeble in the brain--and then her nephew, the Marquis
Amédé de Terhoven--such a misguided young man--has got into bad
company in that den of wickedness called Paris--since then it has been
debts--always debts--his mother is so indulgent!--too indulgent! but
an only son!--the charming English ladies would understand. It was
very sad--very, very sad--and no wonder Mademoiselle de Genneville was
very angry. She had paid Monsieur le Marquis’ debts once, twice, three
times--but now she will not pay any more--but she is in great trouble
and wants a friend--a female friend, one of her own country, she
declares--for he himself, alas! was only a poor _curé de village_,
and did not understand great ladies and their curious ways. It would
be true Christian charity if the charming English lady would come and
see Mademoiselle.
“But her own sister, the Marquise?” suggested Lady Molly, breaking in
on the old man’s volubility.
“Ah! her sister, of course,” he replied with a sigh. “Madame la
Marquise--but then she is Monsieur le Marquis’ mother, and the
charming English lady would understand--a mother’s heart, of
course----”
“But I am a complete stranger to Miss de Genneville,” protested Lady
Molly.
“Ah, but Mademoiselle has always remained an Englishwoman at heart,”
replied the Curé. “She said to me to-day: ‘I seem to long for an
Englishwoman’s handshake, a sober-minded, sensible Englishwoman, to
help me in this difficulty. Bring your English friend to me, Monsieur
le Curé, if she will come to the assistance of an old woman who has
no one to turn to in her distress.’”
Of course, after that I knew that my dear lady would yield. Moreover,
she was keenly interested in Miss de Genneville, and without further
discussion she told Monsieur le Curé that she was quite ready to
accompany him to the château of Porhoët.
2
Of course, I was not present at the interview, but Lady Molly has so
often told me all that happened and how it happened, and with such a
wealth of picturesque and minute detail, that sometimes I find it
difficult to realise that I myself was not there in person.
It seems that Monsieur le Curé himself ushered my lady into the
presence of Miss Angela de Genneville. The old lady was not alone when
they entered; Madame la Marquise de Terhoven, an elderly, somewhat
florid woman, whose features, though distinctly coarse, recalled those
of her sister, sat on a high-backed chair close to a table, on which
her fingers were nervously drumming a tattoo, whilst in the window
embrasure stood a young man whose resemblance to both the ladies at
once proclaimed him to Lady Molly’s quick perception as the son of the
one and nephew of the other--the Marquis de Terhoven, in fact.
Miss de Genneville sat erect in a huge armchair; her face was the hue
of yellow wax, the flesh literally shrivelled on the bones, the eyes
of a curious, unnatural brilliance; one hand clutched feverishly the
arm of her chair, the other, totally paralysed, lay limp and inert on
her lap.
“Ah! the Englishwoman at last, thank God!” she said in a high-pitched,
strident voice as soon as Lady Molly entered the room. “Come here, my
dear, for I have wanted one of your kind badly. A true-hearted
Englishwoman is the finest product of God’s earth, after all’s said
and done. _Pardieu!_ but I breathe again,” she added, as my dear lady
advanced somewhat diffidently to greet her, and took the trembling
hand which Miss Angela extended to her.
“Sit down close to me,” commanded the eccentric old lady, whilst Lady
Molly, confused, and not a little angered at finding herself in the
very midst of what was obviously a family conclave, was vaguely
wondering how soon she could slip away again. But the trembling hand
of the paralytic clutched her own slender wrist so tightly, forcing
her to sink into a low chair close by, and holding her there as with a
grip of steel, that it would have been useless and perhaps cruel to
resist.
Satisfied now that her newly found friend, as well as Monsieur le
Curé, were prepared to remain by her and to listen to what she had to
say, the sick woman turned with a look of violent wrath towards the
window embrasure.
“I was just telling that fine nephew of mine that he is counting his
chickens before they are hatched. I am not yet dead, as Monsieur my
nephew can see; and I have made a will--aye, and placed it where his
thievish fingers can never reach it.”
The young man, who up to now had been gazing stolidly out of the
window, now suddenly turned on his heel, confronting the old woman,
with a look of hate gleaming in his eyes.
“We can fight the will,” here interposed Madame la Marquise, icily.
“On what grounds?” queried the other.
“That you were paralysed and imbecile when you made it,” replied the
Marquise, dryly.
Monsieur le Curé, who up to now had been fidgeting nervously with his
hat, now raised his hands and eyes up to the ceiling to emphasise the
horror which he felt at this callous suggestion. Lady Molly no longer
desired to go; the half-paralysed grip on her wrist had relaxed, but
she sat there quietly, interested with every fibre of her quick
intelligence in the moving drama which was being unfolded before her.
There was a pause now, a silence broken only by the monotonous ticking
of a monumental, curious-looking clock which stood in an angle of the
room. Miss de Genneville had made no reply to her sister’s cruel
taunt, but a look, furtive, maniacal, almost dangerous, now crept into
her eyes.
[IMAGE: images/img144.jpg
CAPTION: “Confronting the old woman, with a look of hate gleaming
in his eyes”]
Then she addressed the Curé.
“I pray you pen, ink and paper--here, on this table,” she requested.
Then as he complied with alacrity, she once more turned to her nephew,
and pointing to the writing materials:
“Sit down and write, Amédé,” she commanded.
“Write what?” he queried.
“A confession, my nephew,” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. “A
confession of those little peccadilloes of yours, which, unless I come
to your rescue now, will land you for seven years in a penal
settlement, if I mistake not. Eh, my fine nephew?”
“A confession?” retorted Amédé de Terhoven savagely. “Do you take me
for a fool?”
“No, my nephew, I take you for a wise man--who understands that his
dear aunt will not buy those interesting forgeries, perpetrated by
Monsieur le Marquis Amédé de Terhoven, and offered to her by
Rubinstein the money-lender, unless that confession is written and
signed by you. Write Amédé, write that confession, my dear nephew,
if you do not wish to see yourself in the dock on a charge of forging
your aunt’s name to a bill for one hundred thousand francs.”
Amédé muttered a curse between his teeth. Obviously the old woman’s
shaft had struck home. He knew himself to be in a hopeless plight. It
appears that a money-lender had threatened to send the forged bills to
Monsieur le Procureur de la République unless they were paid within
twenty-four hours, and no one could pay them but Miss de Genneville,
who had refused to do it except at the price of this humiliating
confession.
A look of intelligence passed between mother and son. Intercepted by
Lady Molly and interpreted by her, it seemed to suggest the idea of
humouring the old aunt, for the moment, until the forgeries were
safely out of the money-lender’s hands, then of mollifying her later
on, when perhaps she would have forgotten, or sunk deeper into
helplessness and imbecility.
As if in answer to his mother’s look the young man now said curtly:
“I must know what use you mean to make of the confession if I do write
it.”
“That will depend on yourself,” replied Mademoiselle, dryly. “You may
be sure that I will not willingly send my own nephew to penal
servitude.”
For another moment the young man hesitated, then he sat down, sullen
and wrathful, and said:
“I’ll write--you may dictate----”
The old woman laughed a short, dry, sarcastic laugh. Then, at her
dictation, Amédé wrote:
“I, Amédé, Marquis de Terhoven, hereby make confession to having
forged Mademoiselle Angela de Genneville’s name to the annexed bills,
thereby obtaining the sum of one hundred thousand francs from Abraham
Rubinstein, of Brest.”
“Now, Monsieur le Curé, will you kindly witness le Marquis’
signature?” said the irascible old lady when Amédé had finished
writing; “and you, too, my dear?” she added, turning to Lady Molly.
My dear lady hesitated for a moment. Naturally she did not desire to
be thus mixed up in this family feud, but a strange impulse had drawn
her sympathy to this eccentric old lady, who, in the midst of her
semi-regal splendour seemed so forlorn, between her nephew, who was a
criminal and a blackguard, and her sister, who was but little less
contemptible.
Obeying this impulse, and also a look of entreaty from the Curé, she
affixed her own signature as witness to the document, and this despite
the fact that both the Marquise and her son threw her a look of hate
which might have made a weaker spirit tremble with foreboding.
Not so Lady Molly. Those very same threatening looks served but to
decide her. Then, at Mademoiselle’s command, she folded up the
document, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, and finally
addressed it to M. le Procureur de la République, resident at Caen.
Amédé watched all these proceedings with eyes that were burning with
impotent wrath.
“This letter,” now resumed the old lady, more calmly, “will be sent
under cover to my lawyer, Maître Vendôme, of Paris, who drew up my
will, with orders only to post it in case of certain eventualities,
which I will explain later on. In the meanwhile, my dear nephew, you
may apprise your friend, Abraham Rubinstein, that I will buy back
those interesting forgeries of yours the day on which I hear from
Maître Vendôme that he has safely received my letter with this
enclosure.”
“This is infamous----” here broke in the Marquise, rising in full
wrath, unable to control herself any longer. “I’ll have you put under
restraint as a dangerous lunatic. I----”
“Then, of course, I could not buy back the bills from Rubinstein,”
rejoined Mademoiselle, calmly.
Then, as the Marquise subsided--cowed, terrified, realising the
hopelessness of her son’s position--the old lady turned placidly to my
dear lady, whilst her trembling fingers once more clutched the slender
hand of her newly found English friend.
“I have asked you, my dear, and Monsieur le Curé, to come to me
to-day,” she said, “because I wish you both to be of assistance to me
in the carrying out of my dying wishes. You must promise me most
solemnly, both of you, that when I am dead you will carry out these
wishes to the letter. Promise!” she added with passionate earnestness.
The promise was duly given by Lady Molly and the old Curé, then
Mademoiselle resumed more calmly:
“And now I want you to look at that clock,” she said abruptly, with
seeming irrelevance. “It is an old heirloom which belonged to the
former owners of Porhoët, and which I bought along with the house.
You will notice that it is one of the most remarkable pieces of
mechanism which brain of man has ever devised, for it has this great
peculiarity, that it goes for three hundred and sixty-six days
consecutively, keeping most perfect time. When the works have all but
run down, the weights--which are enormous--release a certain spring,
and the great doors of the case open of themselves, thus allowing the
clock to be wound up. After that is done, and the doors pushed to
again, no one can open them until another three hundred and sixty-six
days have gone by--that is to say, not without breaking the case to
pieces.”
Lady Molly examined the curious old clock with great attention.
Vaguely she guessed already what the drift of the old lady’s curious
explanations would be.
“Two days ago,” continued Mademoiselle, “the clock was open, and
Monsieur le Curé wound it up, but before I pushed the doors to again
I slipped certain papers into the case--you remember, Monsieur?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, I remember,” responded the old man.
“Those papers were my last will and testament, bequeathing all I
possess to the parish of Porhoët,” said Miss de Genneville, dryly,
“and now the doors of the massive case are closed. No one can get at
my will for another three hundred and sixty-four days--no one,” she
added with a shrill laugh, “not even my nephew, Amédé de Terhoven.”
A silence ensued, only broken by the rustle of Madame la Marquise’s
silk dress as she shrugged her shoulders and gave a short, sarcastic
chuckle.
“My dear,” resumed Mademoiselle, looking straight into Lady Molly’s
eager, glowing face, “you must promise me that, three hundred and
sixty-four days hence, that is to say on the 20th September next year,
you and Monsieur le Curé--or one of you if the other be
incapacitated--will be present in this room at this hour when the door
of the clock will open. You will then wind up the family heirloom,
take out the papers which you will find buried beneath the weights,
and hand them over to Maître Vendôme for probate at the earliest
opportunity. Monseigneur the Bishop of Caen, the Mayor of this
Commune, and the Souspréfet of this Department have all been informed
of the contents of my will, and also that it is practically in the
keeping of le Curé de Porhoët, who, no doubt, realises what the
serious consequences to himself would be if he failed to produce the
will at the necessary time.”
The poor Curé gasped with terror.
“But--but--but----” he stammered meekly, “I may be forcibly prevented
from entering the house--I might be ill or----”
He shuddered with an unavowable fear, then added more calmly:
“I might be unjustly accused then of stealing the will--of defrauding
the poor of Porhoët in favour of--Mademoiselle’s direct heirs.”
“Have no fear, my good friend,” said Mademoiselle, dryly; “though I
have one foot in the grave I am not quite so imbecile as my dear
sister and nephew here would suggest, and I have provided for every
eventuality. If you are ill or otherwise prevented by outside causes
from being present here on the day and hour named, this charming
English lady will be able to replace you. But if either of you is
forcibly prevented from entering this house, or if, having entered
this room, the slightest violence or even pressure is put upon you, or
if you should find the clock broken, damaged and--stripped of its
contents, all you need do is to apprise Maître Vendôme of the fact.
He will know how to act.”
“What would he do?”
“Send a certain confession we all know of to Monsieur le Procureur de
la République,” replied the old lady, fixing the young Marquis
Amédé with her irascible eye. “That same confession,” she continued
lightly, “Maître Vendôme is instructed to destroy if you, Monsieur,
and my English friend here, and the clock, are all undamaged on the
eventful day.”
There was silence in the great, dark room for awhile, broken only by
the sarcastic chuckle of the enfeebled invalid, tired out after this
harrowing scene, wherein she had pitted her half-maniacal ingenuity
against the greed and rapacity of a conscienceless roué.
That she had hemmed her nephew and sister in on every side could not
be denied. Lady Molly herself felt somewhat awed at this weird revenge
conceived by the outraged old lady against her grasping relatives.
She was far too interested in the whole drama to give up her own part
in it, and, as she subsequently explained to me, she felt it her duty
to remain the partner and co-worker of the poor Curé in this
dangerous task of securing to the poor of Porhoët the fortune which
otherwise would be squandered away on gaming tables and race-courses.
For this, and many reasons too complicated to analyse, she decided to
accept her share in the trust imposed upon her by her newly-found
friend.
Neither the Marquise nor her son took any notice of Lady Molly as she
presently took leave of Mademoiselle de Genneville, who, at the last,
made her take a solemn oath that she would stand by the Curé and
fulfil the wishes of a dying and much-wronged woman.
Much perturbed, Monsieur le Curé went away. Lady Molly went several
times after that to the château of Porhoët to see the invalid, who
had taken a violent fancy to her. In October we had, perforce, to
return to England and to work, and the following spring we had news
from the Curé that Mademoiselle de Genneville was dead.
3
Lady Molly had certainly been working too hard, and was in a feeble
state of health when we reached Porhoët the following 19th of
September, less than twenty-four hours before the eventful moment when
the old clock would reveal the will and testament of Mademoiselle de
Genneville.
We walked straight from the station to the presbytery, anxious to see
the Curé and to make all arrangements for to-morrow’s business. To
our terrible sorrow and distress, we were informed by the housekeeper
that the Curé was very seriously ill at the hospital at Brest,
whither he had been removed by the doctor’s orders.
This was the first inkling I had that things would not go as smoothly
as I had anticipated. Miss de Genneville’s dispositions with regard to
the sensational disclosure of her will had, to my mind, been so ably
taken that it had never struck me until now that the Marquise de
Terhoven and her precious son would make a desperate fight before they
gave up all thoughts of the coveted fortune.
I imagined the Marquis hemmed in on every side; any violence offered
against the Curé or Lady Molly when they entered the château in
order to accomplish the task allotted to them being visited by the
sending of the confession to Monsieur le Procureur de la République,
when prosecution for forgery would immediately follow. Damage to the
clock itself would be punished in the same way.
But I had never thought of sudden illnesses, of--heaven help
us!--poison or unaccountable accidents to either the Curé or to the
woman I loved best in all the world.
No wonder Lady Molly looked pale and fragile as, having thanked the
housekeeper, we found our way back in silence to the convent where we
had once again engaged rooms.
Somehow the hospitality shown us last year had lost something of its
cordiality. Moreover, our bedrooms this time did not communicate with
one another, but opened out independently on to a stone passage.
The sister who showed us upstairs explained, somewhat shamefacedly,
that as the Mother Superior had not expected us, she had let the room
which was between our two bedrooms to a lady visitor, who, however,
was ill in bed at the present moment.
That sixth sense, of which so much has been said and written, but
which I will not attempt to explain, told me plainly enough that we
were no longer amidst friends in the convent.
Had bribery been at work? Was the lady visitor a spy set upon our
movements by the Terhovens? It was impossible to say. I could no
longer chase away the many gloomy forebodings which assailed me the
rest of that day and drove away sleep during the night. I can assure
you that in my heart I wished all eccentric old ladies and their
hidden wills at the bottom of the sea.
My dear lady was apparently also very deeply perturbed; any attempt on
my part to broach the subject of Miss de Genneville’s will was
promptly and authoritatively checked by her. At the same time I knew
her well enough to guess that all these nameless dangers which seemed
to have crept up round her only served to enhance her determination to
carry out her old friend’s dying wishes to the letter.
We went to bed quite early; for the first time without that delightful
final gossip, when events, plans, surmises and work were freely
discussed between us. The unseen lady visitor in the room which
separated us acted as a wet blanket on our intimacy.
I stayed with Lady Molly until she was in bed. She hardly talked to me
whilst she undressed, but when I kissed her “good-night” she whispered
almost inaudibly right into my ear:
“The Terhoven faction are at work. They may waylay you and offer you a
bribe to keep me out of the château to-morrow. Pretend to fall in
with their views. Accept all bribes and place yourself at their
disposal. I must not say more now. We are being spied upon.”
That my lady was, as usual, right in her surmises was proved within
the next five minutes. I had slipped out of her room, and was just
going into mine, when I heard my name spoken hardly above a whisper,
whilst I felt my arm gently seized from behind.
An elderly, somewhat florid, woman stood before me attired in a
dingy-coloured dressing-gown. She was pointing towards my own bedroom
door, implying her desire to accompany me to my room. Remembering my
dear lady’s parting injunctions, I nodded in acquiescence. She
followed me, after having peered cautiously up and down the passage.
Then, when the door was duly closed, and she was satisfied that we
were alone, she said very abruptly:
“Miss Granard, tell me! you are poor, eh?--a paid companion to your
rich friend, what?”
Still thinking of Lady Molly’s commands, I replied with a pathetic
sigh.
“Then,” said the old lady, eagerly, “would you like to earn fifty
thousand francs?”
The eagerness with which I responded “Rather!” apparently pleased her,
for she gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“You know the story of my sister’s will--of the clock?” she asked
eagerly: “of your friend’s _rôle_ in this shameless business?”
Once more I nodded. I knew that my lady had guessed rightly. This was
the Marquise de Terhoven, planted here in the convent to gain my
confidence, to spy on Lady Molly, and to offer me a bribe.
Now for some clever tactics on my part.
“Can you prevent your friend from being at the château to-morrow
before one o’clock?” asked the Marquise.
“Easily,” I replied calmly.
“How?”
“She is ill, as you know. The doctor has ordered her a sleeping
draught. I administer it. I can arrange that she has a strong dose in
the morning instead of her other medicine. She will sleep till the
late afternoon.”
I rattled this off glibly in my best French. Madame la Marquise heaved
a deep sigh of relief.
“Ah! that is good!” she said. “Then listen to me. Do as I tell you,
and to-morrow you will be richer by fifty thousand francs. Come to the
château in the morning, dressed in your friend’s clothes. My son will
be there; together you will assist at the opening of the secret doors,
and when my son has wound up the old clock himself, he will place
fifty thousand francs in your hands.”
“But Monsieur le Curé?” I suggested tentatively.
“He is ill,” she replied curtly.
But as she spoke these three words there was such an evil sneer in her
face, such a look of cruel triumph in her eyes, that all my worst
suspicions were at once confirmed.
Had these people’s unscrupulous rapacity indeed bribed some needy
country practitioner to put the Curé temporarily out of the way? It
was too awful to think of, and I can tell you that I needed all my
presence of mind, all my desire to act my part bravely and
intelligently to the end, not to fly from this woman in horror.
She gave me a few more instructions with regard to the services which
she and her precious son would expect of me on the morrow. It seems
that, some time before her death, Miss de Genneville had laid strict
injunctions on two of her most trusted men-servants to remain in the
château, and to be on the watch on the eventful 20th day of September
of this year, lest any serious violence be done to the English lady or
to the Curé. It was with a view to allay any suspicion which might
arise in the minds of these two men that the Marquis desired me to
impersonate Lady Molly to-morrow, and to enter with him--on seemingly
friendly terms--the room where stood the monumental clock.
For these services, together with those whereby Lady Molly was to be
sent into a drugged sleep whilst the theft of the will was being
carried through, I--Mary Granard--was to receive from Monsieur le
Marquis de Terhoven the sum of fifty thousand francs.
All these matters being settled to this wicked woman’s apparent
satisfaction, she presently took hold of both my hands, shook them
warmly, and called me her dearest friend; assured me of everlasting
gratitude, and finally, to my intense relief, slipped noiselessly out
of my room.
4
I surmised--I think correctly--that Madame la Marquise would spend
most of the night with her ear glued to the thin partition which
separated her room from that of Lady Molly; so I did not dare to go
and report myself and the momentous conversation which I had just had,
and vaguely wondered when I should have an opportunity of talking
matters over with my dear lady without feeling that a spy was at my
heels.
The next morning when I went into her room, to my boundless
amazement--and before I had time to utter a word--she moaned audibly,
as if in great pain, and said feebly, but very distinctly:
“Oh, Mary! I’m so glad you’ve come. I feel terribly ill. I haven’t had
a wink of sleep all night, and I am too weak to attempt to get up.”
Fortunately my perceptions had not been dulled by the excitement of
the past few hours, and I could see that she was not so ill as she
made out. Her eyes sought mine as I approached her bed, and her lips
alone framed the words which I believed I interpreted correctly.
“Do as they want. I stay in bed. Will explain later.”
Evidently she had reason to think that we were being closely watched;
but what I could not understand was, what did she expect would happen
if she herself were not present when the opening of the clock door
would disclose the will? Did she want me to snatch the document: to
bear the brunt of the Terhovens’ wrath and disappointment? It was not
like her to be afraid of fulfilling a duty, however dangerous that
fulfilment might prove; and it certainly was not like her to break a
promise given to a dying person.
But, of course, my business was to obey. Assuming that our movements
were being watched, I poured out a dose of medicine for my dear lady,
which she took and then fell back on her pillows as if exhausted.
“I think I could sleep now, Mary,” she said; “but wake me later on; I
must be at the château by twelve o’clock, you know.”
As one of Lady Molly’s boxes was in my room, I had no difficulty in
arraying myself in some of her clothes. Thus equipped and closely
veiled, still ignorant of my lady’s plans, anxious, but determined to
obey like a soldier, blindly and unquestioningly, I made my way to the
château a little before noon.
An old butler opened the door in answer to my ring, and in the inner
hall sat the Marquise de Terhoven, whilst her son was walking
agitatedly up and down.
“Ah! here comes my lady,” said the Marquise, with easy unconcern. “You
have come, my lady,” she added, rising and taking my hand, “to perform
a duty which will rob my son of a fortune which by right should have
been his. We can put no hindrance in your way, under penalty of an
appalling disgrace which would then fall on my son; moreover, my late
sister has filled this house with guards and spies. So, believe me,
you need have no fear. You can perform your duty undisturbed. Perhaps
you will not object to my son keeping you company. My precious sister
had the door of her room removed before her death and a curtain put in
its stead,” she concluded with what was intended to be the sneer of a
disappointed fortune-hunter, “so the least call from you will bring
her spies to your assistance.”
Without a word the Marquis and I bowed to one another, then, preceded
by the old family butler, we went up the monumental staircase to what
I suppose had been the eccentric old lady’s room.
The butler drew the _portière_ curtain aside and he remained in the
corridor whilst we went within. There stood the massive clock exactly
as my lady had often described it to me. It was ticking with slow and
deep-toned majesty.
Monsieur le Marquis pointed to an armchair for me. He was obviously in
a state of terrible nerve-tension. He could not sit still, and his
fingers were incessantly clasped and unclasped with a curious, febrile
movement, which betrayed his intense agitation.
I was about to make a remark when he abruptly seized my wrist, placed
one finger to his lips, and pointed in the direction of the
_portière_. Apparently he thought that someone was on the watch
outside, but the clock itself was so placed that it could not be seen
by anyone who was not actually in the room.
After that we were both silent, whilst that old piece of mechanism
ticked on relentlessly, still hiding the secret which it contained.
I would have given two years’ salary to know what Lady Molly would
have wished me to do. Frankly, I fully expected to see her walk in at
any moment. I could not bring myself to believe that she meant to
shirk her duty.
But she had said to me, “Fall in with their views,” so that when,
presently, the Marquis beckoned to me across the room to come and
examine the clock, I obeyed readily enough. I felt, by that time, as
if my entire body was stuffed with needles and pins, which were
pricking my nerves and skin until I could have yelled with the agony
of the sensation.
I walked across the room as if in a dream, and looked at the curious
clock which, in less than fifteen minutes, would reveal its hidden
secret. I suppose cleverer people than poor Mary Granard could enter
into long philosophical disquisitions as to this dumb piece of
mechanism which held the fate of this ruined, unscrupulous gambler
safely within its doors; but I was only conscious of that incessant
tick, tick, tick, whilst my eyes literally ached with staring at the
door.
I don’t know now how it all happened, for, of course, I was taken
unawares; but the next moment I found myself quite helpless, hardly
able to breathe, for a woollen scarf was being wound round my mouth,
whilst two strong arms encircled my body so that I could not move.
“This is only a protection for myself, my dear Miss Granard,” a
trembling voice whispered in my ear; “keep quite still; no harm will
come to you. In ten minutes you shall have your fifty thousand francs
in your pocket, and can walk unconcernedly out of the château.
Neither your English lady nor Monsieur le Curé can say that they
suffered any violence, nor will the clock be damaged. What happens
after that I care not. The law cannot wrest the old fool’s fortune
from me, once I have destroyed her accursed will.”
To begin to tell you what passed in my mind then were an
impossibility. Did I actually guess what would happen, and what my
dear lady had planned? Or was it merely the ingrafted sympathy which
exists between her and me which caused me to act blindly in accordance
with her wishes?
“Fall in with their views. Take their bribes,” she had said, and
I--like a soldier--obeyed this command to the letter.
I remained absolutely still, scarcely moving an eyelid as I watched
the face of the clock, the minutes speeding on--now three--now
five--now ten----