[IMAGE: images/img164.jpg
CAPTION: “Now we could distinctly see the glimmer of white paper”]
to the last--had played this gigantic hoax on her scheming relatives.
Whilst they directed all their unscrupulous energies towards trying to
obtain possession of her will in one place, she had calmly put it
securely somewhere else.
Meantime, Monsieur le Marquis had sufficient presence of mind, and, I
must own, sufficient dignity, not only to release me from my bonds but
also to offer me the fifty thousand francs which he had promised me.
“I can wind up the clock now,” he said dully, “and you can walk
straight out of this place. No one need know that you impersonated
your friend. She, no doubt, knew of this--hoax; therefore we found the
scheme to keep her out of the way so easy of accomplishment. It was a
grisly joke, wasn’t it? How the old witch must be chortling in her
grave!”
Needless to say, I did not take his money. He escorted me downstairs
silently, subdued, no doubt, by the spirit of hatred which had
followed him up from the land of shadows.
He even showed no surprise when, on reaching the hall, he was met by
his late aunt’s lawyer, Maître Vendôme, and also by Lady Molly, who
had just arrived. Madame la Marquise de Terhoven was nowhere to be
seen.
My dear lady smiled at me approvingly, and when I came near her she
contrived to draw me aside and to whisper hurriedly:
“You have done admirably, Mary. I came to fetch you. But now that this
young blackguard is thoroughly outwitted, we may as well go, for our
work here is done.”
The Marquis did not even glance at her as she slightly bowed her head
to him, took leave of Maître Vendôme, and finally walked out of the
château with me.
As soon as we were out in the open air I begged for an explanation.
“Maître Vendôme has Mademoiselle’s will,” she replied. “She had
enjoined him to read it in the château to-day in the presence of the
three trustees appointed for the poor of Porhoët, who inherit all her
wealth.”
“And the Terhovens?” I asked.
“They’ve got his confession back,” she said dryly, “and they will
receive an annuity from the trustees.”
“And you knew this all along?” I rejoined somewhat reproachfully.
“Yes, so did the Curé, but Mademoiselle made me swear a most solemn
oath not to reveal her secret even to you; she was so afraid of the
machinations of the Terhovens. You see,” continued Lady Molly, smiling
at my eagerness, “Miss de Genneville possessed the ancient key
wherewith she could open the clock case at any time. Obviously, even
so perfect a piece of mechanism might go wrong, when examination and
re-adjustment of the works would be necessary. After the family
conclave wherein she had announced that her will was hidden in the
clock, I--at my next interview with her--begged her to modify this
idea, to send her will to her solicitor, but to leave the Terhovens
under the impression that it was still lying in its strange hiding
place. At first she refused to listen to me or to discuss the subject,
but I am happy to say that I finally succeeded in persuading her, with
what result you already know.”
“But poor Monsieur le Curé!” I ejaculated.
Her bright eyes gleamed with merriment.
“Oh! that was a final little hoax. He himself, poor dear, was afraid
lest he might blurt out the whole thing. His illness was partly a
sham, and he is quite all right again now, but the doctor at the Brest
hospital is a great friend of his, and is keeping him there until all
this business has blown over.”
“I was the only one who was kept in the dark,” I concluded ruefully.
“Yes, Mary, dear,” said my dear lady, gently; “it was a promise,
remember. But I never thought that we should get so much excitement
outside our own professional work.”
It certainly had been a non-professional experience; but here, too, as
in the detection of crime, her keen intuition had proved more than a
match for an unscrupulous blackguard, and certainly on the 20th day of
September last I lived through the most exciting ten minutes of my
life.
VII.
A CHRISTMAS TRAGEDY
It was a fairly merry Christmas party, although the surliness of our
host somewhat marred the festivities. But imagine two such beautiful
young women as my own dear lady and Margaret Ceely, and a Christmas
Eve Cinderella in the beautiful ball-room at Clevere Hall, and you
will understand that even Major Ceely’s well-known cantankerous temper
could not altogether spoil the merriment of a good, old-fashioned,
festive gathering.
It is a far cry from a Christmas Eve party to a series of
cattle-maiming outrages, yet I am forced to mention these now, for
although they were ultimately proved to have no connection with the
murder of the unfortunate Major, yet they were undoubtedly the means
whereby the miscreant was enabled to accomplish the horrible deed with
surety, swiftness, and--as it turned out afterwards--a very grave
chance of immunity.
Everyone in the neighbourhood had been taking the keenest possible
interest in those dastardly outrages against innocent animals. They
were either the work of desperate ruffians who stick at nothing in
order to obtain a few shillings, or else of madmen with weird
propensities for purposeless crimes.
Once or twice suspicious characters had been seen lurking about in the
fields, and on more than one occasion a cart was heard in the middle
of the night driving away at furious speed. Whenever this occurred the
discovery of a fresh outrage was sure to follow, but, so far, the
miscreants had succeeded in baffling not only the police, but also the
many farm hands who had formed themselves into a band of volunteer
watchmen, determined to bring the cattle maimers to justice.
We had all been talking about these mysterious events during the
dinner which preceded the dance at Clevere Hall; but later on, when
the young people had assembled, and when the first strains of “The
Merry Widow” waltz had set us aglow with prospective enjoyment, the
unpleasant topic was wholly forgotten.
The guests went away early, Major Ceely, as usual, doing nothing to
detain them; and by midnight all of us who were staying in the house
had gone up to bed.
My dear lady and I shared a bedroom and dressing-room together, our
windows giving on the front. Clevere Hall is, as you know, not very
far from York, on the other side of Bishopthorpe, and is one of the
finest old mansions in the neighbourhood, its only disadvantage being
that, in spite of the gardens being very extensive in the rear, the
front of the house lies very near the road.
It was about two hours after I had switched off the electric light and
called out “Good-night” to my dear lady, that something roused me out
of my first sleep. Suddenly I felt very wide-awake, and sat up in bed.
Most unmistakably--though still from some considerable distance along
the road--came the sound of a cart being driven at unusual speed.
Evidently my dear lady was also awake. She jumped out of bed and,
drawing aside the curtains, looked out of the window. The same idea
had, of course, flashed upon us both, at the very moment of waking:
all the conversations anent the cattle-maimers and their cart, which
we had heard since our arrival at Clevere, recurring to our minds
simultaneously.
I had joined Lady Molly beside the window, and I don’t know how many
minutes we remained there in observation, not more than two probably,
for anon the sound of the cart died away in the distance along a side
road. Suddenly we were startled with a terrible cry of “Murder! Help!
Help!” issuing from the other side of the house, followed by an awful,
deadly silence. I stood there near the window shivering with terror,
while my dear lady, having already turned on the light, was hastily
slipping into some clothes.
The cry had, of course, aroused the entire household, but my dear lady
was even then the first to get downstairs, and to reach the garden
door at the back of the house, whence the weird and despairing cry had
undoubtedly proceeded.
That door was wide open. Two steps lead from it to the terraced walk
which borders the house on that side, and along these steps Major
Ceely was lying, face downwards, with arms outstretched, and a
terrible wound between his shoulder-blades.
A gun was lying close by--his own. It was easy to conjecture that he,
too, hearing the rumble of the wheels, had run out, gun in hand,
meaning, no doubt, to effect, or at least to help, in the capture of
the escaping criminals. Someone had been lying in wait for him; that
was obvious--someone who had perhaps waited and watched for this
special opportunity for days, or even weeks, in order to catch the
unfortunate man unawares.
Well, it were useless to recapitulate all the various little incidents
which occurred from the moment when Lady Molly and the butler first
lifted the Major’s lifeless body from the terrace steps until that
instant when Miss Ceely, with remarkable coolness and presence of
mind, gave what details she could of the terrible event to the local
police inspector and to the doctor, both hastily summoned.
These little incidents, with but slight variations, occur in every
instance when a crime has been committed. The broad facts alone are of
weird and paramount interest.
Major Ceely was dead. He had been stabbed with amazing sureness and
terrible violence in the back. The weapon used must have been some
sort of heavy, clasp knife. The murdered man was now lying in his own
bedroom upstairs, even as the Christmas bells on that cold, crisp
morning sent cheering echoes through the stillness of the air.
We had, of course, left the house, as had all the other guests.
Everyone felt the deepest possible sympathy for the beautiful young
girl who had been so full of the joy of living but a few hours ago,
and was now the pivot round which revolved the weird shadow of
tragedy, of curious suspicions and of an ever-growing mystery. But at
such times all strangers, acquaintances, and even friends in a house,
are only an additional burden to an already overwhelming load of
sorrow and of trouble.
We took up our quarters at the “Black Swan,” in York. The local
superintendent, hearing that Lady Molly had been actually a guest at
Clevere on the night of the murder, had asked her to remain in the
neighbourhood.
There was no doubt that she could easily obtain the chief’s consent to
assist the local police in the elucidation of this extraordinary
crime. At this time both her reputation and her remarkable powers were
at their zenith, and there was not a single member of the entire
police force in the kingdom who would not have availed himself gladly
of her help when confronted with a seemingly impenetrable mystery.
That the murder of Major Ceely threatened to become such no one could
deny. In cases of this sort, when no robbery of any kind has
accompanied the graver crime, it is the duty of the police and also of
the coroner to try to find out, first and foremost, what possible
motive there could be behind so cowardly an assault; and among
motives, of course, deadly hatred, revenge, and animosity stand
paramount.
But here the police were at once confronted with the terrible
difficulty, not of discovering whether Major Ceely had an enemy at
all, but rather which, of all those people who owed him a grudge,
hated him sufficiently to risk hanging for the sake of getting him out
of the way.
As a matter of fact, the unfortunate Major was one of those miserable
people who seem to live in a state of perpetual enmity with everything
and everybody. Morning, noon and night he grumbled, and when he did
not grumble he quarrelled either with his own daughter or with the
people of his household, or with his neighbours.
I had often heard about him and his eccentric, disagreeable ways from
Lady Molly, who had known him for many years. She--like everybody in
the county who otherwise would have shunned the old man--kept up a
semblance of friendship with him for the sake of the daughter.
Margaret Ceely was a singularly beautiful girl, and as the Major was
reputed to be very wealthy, these two facts perhaps combined to
prevent the irascible gentleman from living in quite so complete an
isolation as he would have wished.
Mammas of marriageable young men vied with one another in their
welcome to Miss Ceely at garden parties, dances and bazaars. Indeed,
Margaret had been surrounded with admirers ever since she had come out
of the schoolroom. Needless to say, the cantankerous Major received
these pretenders to his daughter’s hand not only with insolent
disdain, but at times even with violent opposition.
In spite of this the moths fluttered round the candle, and amongst
this venturesome tribe none stood out more prominently than Mr.
Laurence Smethick, son of the M.P. for the Pakethorpe division. Some
folk there were who vowed that the young people were secretly engaged,
in spite of the fact that Margaret was an outrageous flirt and openly
encouraged more than one of her crowd of adorers.
Be that as it may, one thing was very certain--namely, that Major
Ceely did not approve of Mr. Smethick any more than he did of the
others, and there had been more than one quarrel between the young man
and his prospective father-in-law.
On that memorable Christmas Eve at Clevere none of us could fail to
notice his absence; whilst Margaret, on the other hand, had shown
marked predilection for the society of Captain Glynne, who, since the
sudden death of his cousin, Viscount Heslington, Lord Ullesthorpe’s
only son (who was killed in the hunting field last October, if you
remember), had become heir to the earldom and its £40,000 a year.
Personally, I strongly disapproved of Margaret’s behaviour the night
of the dance; her attitude with regard to Mr. Smethick--whose constant
attendance on her had justified the rumour that they were
engaged--being more than callous.
On that morning of December 24th--Christmas Eve, in fact--the young
man had called at Clevere. I remember seeing him just as he was being
shown into the boudoir downstairs. A few moments later the sound of
angry voices rose with appalling distinctness from that room. We all
tried not to listen, yet could not fail to hear Major Ceely’s
overbearing words of rudeness to the visitor, who, it seems, had
merely asked to see Miss Ceely, and had been most unexpectedly
confronted by the irascible and extremely disagreeable Major. Of
course, the young man speedily lost his temper, too, and the whole
incident ended with a very unpleasant quarrel between the two men in
the hall, and with the Major peremptorily forbidding Mr. Smethick ever
to darken his doors again.
On that night Major Ceely was murdered.
2
Of course, at first, no one attached any importance to this weird
coincidence. The very thought of connecting the idea of murder with
that of the personality of a bright, good-looking young Yorkshireman
like Mr. Smethick seemed, indeed, preposterous, and with one accord
all of us who were practically witnesses to the quarrel between the
two men, tacitly agreed to say nothing at all about it at the inquest,
unless we were absolutely obliged to do so on oath.
In view of the Major’s terrible temper, this quarrel, mind you, had
not the importance which it otherwise would have had; and we all
flattered ourselves that we had well succeeded in parrying the
coroner’s questions.
The verdict at the inquest was against some person or persons unknown;
and I, for one, was very glad that young Smethick’s name had not been
mentioned in connection with this terrible crime.
Two days later the superintendent at Bishopthorpe sent an urgent
telephonic message to Lady Molly, begging her to come to the
police-station immediately. We had the use of a motor all the while
that we stayed at the “Black Swan,” and in less than ten minutes we
were bowling along at express speed towards Bishopthorpe.
On arrival we were immediately shown into Superintendent Etty’s
private room behind the office. He was there talking with Danvers--who
had recently come down from London. In a corner of the room, sitting
very straight on a high-backed chair, was a youngish woman of the
servant class, who, as we entered, cast a quick, and I thought
suspicious, glance at us both.
She was dressed in a coat and skirt of shabby-looking black, and
although her face might have been called good-looking--for she had
fine, dark eyes--her entire appearance was distinctly repellent. It
suggested slatternliness in an unusual degree; there were holes in her
shoes and in her stockings, the sleeve of her coat was half unsewn,
and the braid on her skirt hung in loops all round the bottom. She had
very red and very coarse-looking hands, and undoubtedly there was a
furtive expression in her eyes, which, when she began speaking,
changed to one of defiance.
Etty came forward with great alacrity when my dear lady entered. He
looked perturbed, and seemed greatly relieved at sight of her.
“She is the wife of one of the outdoor men at Clevere,” he explained
rapidly to Lady Molly, nodding in the direction of the young woman,
“and she has come here with such a queer tale that I thought you would
like to hear it.”
“She knows something about the murder?” asked Lady Molly.
“Noa! I didn’t say that!” here interposed the woman, roughly, “doan’t
you go and tell no lies, Master Inspector. I thought as how you might
wish to know what my husband saw on the night when the Major was
murdered, that’s all; and I’ve come to tell you.”
“Why didn’t your husband come himself?” asked Lady Molly.
“Oh, Haggett ain’t well enough--he----” she began explaining, with a
careless shrug of the shoulders, “so to speak----”
“The fact of the matter is, my lady,” interposed Etty, “this woman’s
husband is half-witted. I believe he is only kept on in the garden
because he is very strong and can help with the digging. It is because
his testimony is so little to be relied on that I wished to consult
you as to how we should act in the matter.”
“What is his testimony, then?”
“Tell this lady what you have just told us, Mrs. Haggett, will you?”
said Etty, curtly.
Again that quick, suspicious glance shot into the woman’s eyes. Lady
Molly took the chair which Danvers had brought forward for her, and
sat down opposite Mrs. Haggett, fixing her earnest, calm gaze upon
her.
“There’s not much to tell,” said the woman, sullenly. “Haggett is
certainly queer in his head sometimes--and when he is queer he goes
wandering about the place of nights.”
“Yes?” said my lady, for Mrs. Haggett had paused awhile and now seemed
unwilling to proceed.
“Well!” she resumed with sudden determination, “he had got one of his
queer fits on on Christmas Eve, and didn’t come in till long after
midnight. He told me as how he’d seen a young gentleman prowling about
the garden on the terrace side. He heard the cry of ‘Murder’ and
‘Help’ soon after that, and ran in home because he was frightened.”
“Home?” asked Lady Molly, quietly, “where is home?”
“The cottage where we live. Just back of the kitchen garden.”
“Why didn’t you tell all this to the superintendent before?”
“Because Haggett only told me last night, when he seemed less
queer-like. He is mighty silent when the fits are on him.”
“Did he know who the gentleman was whom he saw?”
“No, ma’am--I don’t suppose he did--leastways he wouldn’t
say--but----”
“Yes? But?”
“He found this in the garden yesterday,” said the woman, holding out a
screw of paper which apparently she had held tightly clutched up to
now, “and maybe that’s what brought Christmas Eve and the murder back
to his mind.”
Lady Molly took the thing from her, and undid the soiled bit of paper
with her dainty fingers. The next moment she held up for Etty’s
inspection a beautiful ring composed of an exquisitely carved
moonstone surrounded with diamonds of unusual brilliance.
At the moment the setting and the stones themselves were marred by
scraps of sticky mud which clung to them; the ring obviously having
lain on the ground, and perhaps been trampled on for some days, and
then been only very partially washed.
“At any rate you can find out the ownership of the ring,” commented my
dear lady after awhile, in answer to Etty’s silent attitude of
expectancy. “There would be no harm in that.”
Then she turned once more to the woman.
“I’ll walk with you to your cottage, if I may,” she said decisively,
“and have a chat with your husband. Is he at home?”
I thought Mrs. Haggett took this suggestion with marked reluctance. I
could well imagine, from her own personal appearance, that her home
was most unlikely to be in a fit state for a lady’s visit. However,
she could, of course, do nothing but obey, and, after a few muttered
words of grudging acquiescence, she rose from her chair and stalked
towards the door, leaving my lady to follow as she chose.
Before going, however, she turned and shot an angry glance at Etty.
“You’ll give me back the ring, Master Inspector,” she said with her
usual tone of sullen defiance. “‘Findings is keepings’ you know.”
“I am afraid not,” replied Etty, curtly; “but there’s always the
reward offered by Miss Ceely for information which would lead to the
apprehension of her father’s murderer. You may get that, you know. It
is a hundred pounds.”
“Yes! I knew that,” she remarked dryly, as, without further comment,
she finally went out of the room.
3
My dear lady came back very disappointed from her interview with
Haggett.
It seems that he was indeed half-witted--almost an imbecile, in fact,
with but a few lucid intervals, of which this present day was one.
But, of course, his testimony was practically valueless.
He reiterated the story already told by his wife, adding no details.
He had seen a young gentleman roaming on the terraced walk on the
night of the murder. He did not know who the young gentleman was. He
was going homewards when he heard the cry of “Murder,” and ran to his
cottage because he was frightened. He picked up the ring yesterday in
the perennial border below the terrace and gave it to his wife.
Two of these brief statements made by the imbecile were easily proved
to be true, and my dear lady had ascertained this before she returned
to me. One of the Clevere under-gardeners said he had seen Haggett
running home in the small hours of that fateful Christmas morning. He
himself had been on the watch for the cattle-maimers that night, and
remembered the little circumstance quite plainly. He added that
Haggett certainly looked to be in a panic.
Then Newby, another outdoor man at the Hall, saw Haggett pick up the
ring in the perennial border and advised him to take it to the police.
Somehow, all of us who were so interested in that terrible Christmas
tragedy felt strangely perturbed at all this. No names had been
mentioned as yet, but whenever my dear lady and I looked at one
another, or whenever we talked to Etty or Danvers, we all felt that a
certain name, one particular personality, was lurking at the back of
all our minds.
The two men, of course, had no sentimental scruples to worry them.
Taking the Haggett story merely as a clue, they worked diligently on
that, with the result that twenty-four hours later Etty appeared in
our private room at the “Black Swan” and calmly informed us that he
had just got a warrant out against Mr. Laurence Smethick on a charge
of murder, and was on his way even now to effect the arrest.
“Mr. Smethick did _not_ murder Major Ceely,” was Lady Molly’s firm and
only comment when she heard the news.
“Well, my lady, that’s as it may be!” rejoined Etty, speaking with
that deference with which the entire force invariably addressed my
dear lady; “but we have collected a sufficiency of evidence, at any
rate, to justify the arrest, and, in my opinion, enough of it to hang
any man. Mr. Smethick purchased the moonstone and diamond ring at
Nicholson’s in Coney Street about a week ago. He was seen abroad on
Christmas Eve by several persons, loitering round the gates at Clevere
Hall, somewhere about the time when the guests were leaving after the
dance, and, again, some few moments after the first cry of ‘Murder’
had been heard. His own valet admits that his master did not get home
that night until long after 2.0 a.m., whilst even Miss Granard here
won’t deny that there was a terrible quarrel between Mr. Smethick and
Major Ceely less than twenty-four hours before the latter was
murdered.”
Lady Molly offered no remark to this array of facts which Etty thus
pitilessly marshalled before us, but I could not refrain from
exclaiming:
“Mr. Smethick is innocent, I am sure.”
“I hope, for his sake, he may be,” retorted Etty, gravely, “but
somehow ’tis a pity that he don’t seem able to give a good account of
himself between midnight and two o’clock that Christmas morning.”
“Oh!” I ejaculated, “what does he say about that?”
“Nothing,” replied the man, dryly; “that’s just the trouble.”
Well, of course, as you who read the papers will doubtless remember,
Mr. Laurence Smethick, son of Colonel Smethick, M.P., of Pakethorpe
Hall, Yorks, was arrested on the charge of having murdered Major Ceely
on the night of December 24th-25th, and, after the usual magisterial
inquiry, was duly committed to stand his trial at the next York
assizes.
I remember well that, throughout his preliminary ordeal, young
Smethick bore himself like one who had given up all hope of refuting
the terrible charges brought against him, and, I must say, the
formidable number of witnesses which the police brought up against him
more than explained that attitude.
Of course, Haggett was not called, but, as it happened, there were
plenty of people to swear that Mr. Laurence Smethick was seen
loitering round the gates of Clevere Hall after the guests had
departed on Christmas Eve. The head gardener, who lives at the lodge,
actually spoke to him, and Captain Glynne, leaning out of his brougham
window, was heard to exclaim:
“Hello, Smethick, what are you doing here at this time of night?”
And there were others, too.
To Captain Glynne’s credit, be it here recorded, he tried his best to
deny having recognised his unfortunate friend in the dark. Pressed by
the magistrate, he said obstinately:
“I thought at the time that it was Mr. Smethick standing by the lodge
gates, but on thinking the matter over I feel sure that I was
mistaken.”
On the other hand, what stood dead against young Smethick was,
firstly, the question of the ring, and then the fact that he was seen
in the immediate neighbourhood of Clevere, both at midnight and again
at about two, when some men, who had been on the watch for the
cattle-maimers, saw him walking away rapidly in the direction of
Pakethorpe.
What was, of course, unexplainable and very terrible to witness was
Mr. Smethick’s obstinate silence with regard to his own movements
during those fatal hours on that night. He did not contradict those
who said that they had seen him at about midnight near the gates of
Clevere, nor his own valet’s statements as to the hour when he
returned home. All he said was that he could not account for what he
did between the time when the guests left the Hall and he himself went
back to Pakethorpe. He realised the danger in which he stood, and what
caused him to be silent about a matter which might mean life or death
to him could not easily be conjectured.
The ownership of the ring he could not and did not dispute. He had
lost it in the grounds of Clevere, he said. But the jeweller in Coney
Street swore that he had sold the ring to Mr. Smethick on the 18th of
December, whilst it was a well-known and an admitted fact that the
young man had not openly been inside the gates of Clevere for over a
fortnight before that.
On this evidence Laurence Smethick was committed for trial. Though the
actual weapon with which the unfortunate Major had been stabbed had
not been found, nor its ownership traced, there was such a vast array
of circumstantial evidence against the young man that bail was
refused.
He had, on the advice of his solicitor, Mr. Grayson--one of the ablest
lawyers in York--reserved his defence, and on that miserable afternoon
at the close of the year, we all filed out of the crowded court,
feeling terribly depressed and anxious.
4
My dear lady and I walked back to our hotel in silence. Our hearts
seemed to weigh heavily within us. We felt mortally sorry for that
good-looking young Yorkshireman, who, we were convinced, was innocent,
yet at the same time seemed involved in a tangled web of deadly
circumstances from which he seemed quite unable to extricate himself.
We did not feel like discussing the matter in the open streets,
neither did we make any comment when presently, in a block in the
traffic in Coney Street, we saw Margaret Ceely driving her smart
dog-cart, whilst sitting beside her, and talking with great
earnestness close to her ear, sat Captain Glynne.
She was in deep mourning, and had obviously been doing some shopping,
for she was surrounded with parcels; so perhaps it was hypercritical
to blame her. Yet somehow it struck me that just at the moment when
there hung in the balance the life and honour of a man with whose name
her own had oft been linked by popular rumour, it showed more than
callous contempt for his welfare to be seen driving about with another
man who, since his sudden access to fortune, had undoubtedly become a
rival in her favours.
When we arrived at the “Black Swan,” we were surprised to hear that
Mr. Grayson had called to see my dear lady, and was upstairs waiting.
Lady Molly ran up to our sitting-room and greeted him with marked
cordiality. Mr. Grayson is an elderly, dry-looking man, but he looked
visibly affected, and it was some time before he seemed able to plunge
into the subject which had brought him hither. He fidgeted in his
chair, and started talking about the weather.
“I am not here in a strictly professional capacity, you know,” said
Lady Molly presently, with a kindly smile and with a view to helping
him out of his embarrassment. “Our police, I fear me, have an
exaggerated view of my capacities, and the men here asked me
unofficially to remain in the neighbourhood and to give them my advice
if they should require it. Our chief is very lenient to me, and has
allowed me to stay. Therefore, if there is anything I can do----”
“Indeed, indeed there is!” ejaculated Mr. Grayson with sudden energy.
“From all I hear, there is not another soul in the kingdom but you who
can save this innocent man from the gallows.”
My dear lady heaved a little sigh of satisfaction. She had all along
wanted to have a more important finger in that Yorkshire pie.
“Mr. Smethick?” she said.
“Yes; my unfortunate young client,” replied the lawyer. “I may as well
tell you,” he resumed after a slight pause, during which he seemed to
pull himself together, “as briefly as possible what occurred on
December 24th last and on the following Christmas morning. You will
then understand the terrible plight in which my client finds himself,
and how impossible it is for him to explain his actions on that
eventful night. You will understand, also, why I have come to ask your
help and your advice. Mr. Smethick considered himself engaged to Miss
Ceely. The engagement had not been made public because of Major
Ceely’s anticipated opposition, but the young people had been very
intimate, and many letters had passed between them. On the morning of
the 24th Mr. Smethick called at the Hall, his intention then being
merely to present his _fiancée_ with the ring you know of. You
remember the unfortunate _contretemps_ that occurred: I mean the
unprovoked quarrel sought by Major Ceely with my poor client, ending
with the irascible old man forbidding Mr. Smethick the house.
“My client walked out of Clevere feeling, as you may well imagine,
very wrathful; on the doorstep, just as he was leaving, he met Miss
Margaret, and told her very briefly what had occurred. She took the
matter very lightly at first, but finally became more serious, and
ended the brief interview with the request that, since he could not
come to the dance after what had occurred, he should come and see her
afterwards, meeting her in the gardens soon after midnight. She would
not take the ring from him then, but talked a good deal of sentiment
about Christmas morning, asking him to bring the ring to her at night,
and also the letters which she had written him. Well--you can guess
the rest.”
Lady Molly nodded thoughtfully.
“Miss Ceely was playing a double game,” continued Mr. Grayson,
earnestly. “She was determined to break off all relationship with Mr.
Smethick, for she had transferred her volatile affections to Captain
Glynne, who had lately become heir to an earldom and £40,000 a year.
Under the guise of sentimental twaddle she got my unfortunate client
to meet her at night in the grounds of Clevere and to give up to her
the letters which might have compromised her in the eyes of her new
lover. At two o’clock a.m. Major Ceely was murdered by one of his
numerous enemies; as to which I do not know, nor does Mr. Smethick. He
had just parted from Miss Ceely at the very moment when the first cry
of ‘Murder’ roused Clevere from its slumbers. This she could confirm
if she only would, for the two were still in sight of each other, she
inside the gates, he just a little way down the road. Mr. Smethick saw
Margaret Ceely run rapidly back towards the house. He waited about a
little while, half hesitating what to do; then he reflected that his
presence might be embarrassing, or even compromising to her whom, in
spite of all, he still loved dearly; and knowing that there were
plenty of men in and about the house to render what assistance was
necessary, he finally turned his steps and went home a broken-hearted
man, since she had given him the go-by, taken her letters away, and
flung contemptuously into the mud the ring he had bought for her.”
The lawyer paused, mopping his forehead and gazing with whole-souled
earnestness at my lady’s beautiful, thoughtful face.
“Has Mr. Smethick spoken to Miss Ceely since?” asked Lady Molly, after
a while.
“No; but I did,” replied the lawyer.
“What was her attitude?”
“One of bitter and callous contempt. She denies my unfortunate
client’s story from beginning to end; declares that she never saw him
after she bade him ‘good-morning’ on the doorstep of Clevere Hall,
when she heard of his unfortunate quarrel with her father. Nay, more;
she scornfully calls the whole tale a cowardly attempt to shield a
dastardly crime behind a still more dastardly libel on a defenceless
girl.”
We were all silent now, buried in thought which none of us would have
cared to translate into words. That the _impasse_ seemed indeed
hopeless no one could deny.
The tower of damning evidence against the unfortunate young man had
indeed been built by remorseless circumstances with no faltering hand.
Margaret Ceely alone could have saved him, but with brutal
indifference she preferred the sacrifice of an innocent man’s life and
honour to that of her own chances of a brilliant marriage. There are
such women in the world; thank God I have never met any but that one!
Yet am I wrong when I say that she alone could save the unfortunate
young man, who throughout was behaving with such consummate gallantry,
refusing to give his own explanation of the events that occurred on
that Christmas morning, unless she chose first to tell the tale. There
was one present now in the dingy little room at the “Black Swan” who
could disentangle that weird skein of coincidences, if any human being
not gifted with miraculous powers could indeed do it at this eleventh
hour.
She now said, gently:
“What would you like me to do in this matter, Mr. Grayson? And why
have you come to me rather than to the police?”
“How can I go with this tale to the police?” he ejaculated in obvious
despair. “Would they not also look upon it as a dastardly libel on a
woman’s reputation? We have no proofs, remember, and Miss Ceely denies
the whole story from first to last. No, no!” he exclaimed with
wonderful fervour. “I came to you because I have heard of your
marvellous gifts, your extraordinary intuition. Someone murdered Major
Ceely! It was not my old friend Colonel Smethick’s son. Find out who
it was, then! I beg of you, find out who it was!”
He fell back in his chair, broken down with grief. With inexpressible
gentleness Lady Molly went up to him and placed her beautiful white
hand on his shoulder.
“I will do my best, Mr. Grayson,” she said simply.
5
We remained alone and singularly quiet the whole of that evening.
That my dear lady’s active brain was hard at work I could guess by the
brilliance of her eyes, and that sort of absolute stillness in her
person through which one could almost feel the delicate nerves
vibrating.
The story told her by the lawyer had moved her singularly. Mind you,
she had always been morally convinced of young Smethick’s innocence,
but in her the professional woman always fought hard battles against
the sentimentalist, and in this instance the overwhelming
circumstantial evidence and the conviction of her superiors had forced
her to accept the young man’s guilt as something out of her ken.
By his silence, too, the young man had tacitly confessed; and if a man
is perceived on the very scene of a crime, both before it has been
committed and directly afterwards; if something admittedly belonging
to him is found within three yards of where the murderer must have
stood; if, added to this, he has had a bitter quarrel with the victim,
and can give no account of his actions or whereabouts during the fatal
time, it were vain to cling to optimistic beliefs in that same man’s
innocence.
But now matters had assumed an altogether different aspect. The story
told by Mr. Smethick’s lawyer had all the appearance of truth.
Margaret Ceely’s character, her callousness on the very day when her
late _fiancé_ stood in the dock, her quick transference of her
affections to the richer man, all made the account of the events on
Christmas night as told by Mr. Grayson extremely plausible.
No wonder my dear lady was buried in thought.
“I shall have to take the threads up from the beginning, Mary,” she
said to me the following morning, when after breakfast she appeared in
her neat coat and skirt, with hat and gloves, ready to go out, “so, on
the whole, I think I will begin with a visit to the Haggetts.”
“I may come with you, I suppose?” I suggested meekly.
“Oh, yes!” she rejoined carelessly.
Somehow I had an inkling that the carelessness of her mood was only on
the surface. It was not likely that she--my sweet, womanly,
ultra-feminine, beautiful lady--should feel callously on this
absorbing subject.
We motored down to Bishopthorpe. It was bitterly cold, raw, damp, and
foggy. The chauffeur had some difficulty in finding the cottage, the
“home” of the imbecile gardener and his wife.
There was certainly not much look of home about the place. When, after
much knocking at the door, Mrs. Haggett finally opened it, we saw
before us one of the most miserable, slatternly places I think I ever
saw.
In reply to Lady Molly’s somewhat curt inquiry, the woman said that
Haggett was in bed, suffering from one of his “fits.”
“That is a great pity,” said my dear lady, rather unsympathetically, I
thought, “for I must speak with him at once.”
“What is it about?” asked the woman, sullenly. “I can take a message.”
“I am afraid not,” rejoined my lady. “I was asked to see Haggett
personally.”
“By whom, I’d like to know,” she retorted, now almost insolently.
“I dare say you would. But you are wasting precious time. Hadn’t you
better help your husband on with his clothes? This lady and I will
wait in the parlour.”
After some hesitation the woman finally complied, looking very sulky
the while.
We went into the miserable little room wherein not only grinding
poverty but also untidiness and dirt were visible all round. We sat
down on two of the cleanest-looking chairs, and waited whilst a
colloquy in subdued voices went on in the room over our heads.
The colloquy, I may say, seemed to consist of agitated whispers on one
part, and wailing complaints on the other. This was followed presently
by some thuds and much shuffling, and presently Haggett, looking
uncared-for, dirty, and unkempt, entered the parlour, followed by his
wife.
He came forward, dragging his ill-shod feet and pulling nervously at
his forelock.
“Ah!” said my lady, kindly; “I am glad to see you down, Haggett,
though I am afraid I haven’t very good news for you.”
“Yes, miss!” murmured the man, obviously not quite comprehending what
was said to him.
“I represent the workhouse authorities,” continued Lady Molly, “and I
thought we could arrange for you and your wife to come into the Union
to-night, perhaps.”
“The Union?” here interposed the woman, roughly. “What do you mean? We
ain’t going to the Union?”
“Well! but since you are not staying here,” rejoined my lady, blandly,
“you will find it impossible to get another situation for your husband
in his present mental condition.”
“Miss Ceely won’t give us the go-by,” she retorted defiantly.
“She might wish to carry out her late father’s intentions,” said Lady
Molly with seeming carelessness.
“The Major was a cruel, cantankerous brute,” shouted the woman with
unpremeditated violence. “Haggett had served him faithfully for twelve
years, and----”
She checked herself abruptly, and cast one of her quick, furtive
glances at Lady Molly.
Her silence now had become as significant as her outburst of rage, and
it was Lady Molly who concluded the phrase for her.
“And yet he dismissed him without warning,” she said calmly.
“Who told you that?” retorted the woman.
“The same people, no doubt, who declare that you and Haggett had a
grudge against the Major for this dismissal.”
“That’s a lie,” asserted Mrs. Haggett, doggedly; “we gave information
about Mr. Smethick having killed the Major because----”
“Ah,” interrupted Lady Molly, quickly, “but then Mr. Smethick did not
murder Major Ceely, and your information therefore was useless!”
“Then who killed the Major, I should like to know?”
Her manner was arrogant, coarse, and extremely unpleasant. I marvelled
why my dear lady put up with it, and what was going on in that busy
brain of hers. She looked quite urbane and smiling, whilst I wondered
what in the world she meant by this story of the workhouse and the
dismissal of Haggett.
“Ah, that’s what none of us know!” she now said lightly; “some folks
say it was your husband.”
“They lie!” she retorted quickly, whilst the imbecile, evidently not
understanding the drift of the conversation, was mechanically stroking
his red mop of hair and looking helplessly all round him.
“He was home before the cries of ‘Murder’ were heard in the house,”
continued Mrs. Haggett.
“How do you know?” asked Lady Molly, quickly.
“How do I know?”
“Yes; you couldn’t have heard the cries all the way to this
cottage--why, it’s over half a mile from the Hall!”
“He was home, I say,” she repeated with dogged obstinacy.
“You sent him?”
“He didn’t do it----”
“No one will believe you, especially when the knife is found.”
“What knife?”
“His clasp knife, with which he killed Major Ceely,” said Lady Molly,
quietly; “see, he has it in his hand now.”
And with a sudden, wholly unexpected gesture she pointed to the
imbecile, who in an aimless way had prowled round the room whilst this
rapid colloquy was going on.
The purport of it all must in some sort of way have found an echo in
his enfeebled brain. He wandered up to the dresser whereon lay the
remnants of that morning’s breakfast, together with some crockery and
utensils.
In that same half-witted and irresponsible way he had picked up one of
the knives and now was holding it out towards his wife, whilst a look
of fear spread over his countenance.
“I can’t do it, Annie, I can’t--you’d better do it,” he said.
There was dead silence in the little room. The woman Haggett stood as
if turned to stone. Ignorant and superstitious as she was, I suppose
that the situation had laid hold of her nerves, and that she felt that
the finger of a relentless Fate was even now being pointed at her.
The imbecile was shuffling forward, closer and closer to his wife,
still holding out the knife towards her and murmuring brokenly:
“I can’t do it. You’d better, Annie--you’d better----”
He was close to her now, and all at once her rigidity and nerve-strain
gave way; she gave a hoarse cry, and snatching the knife from the poor
wretch, she rushed at him ready to strike.
Lady Molly and I were both young, active and strong; and there was
nothing of the squeamish _grande dame_ about my dear lady when quick
action was needed. But even then we had some difficulty in dragging
Annie Haggett away from her miserable husband. Blinded with fury, she
was ready to kill the man who had betrayed her. Finally, we succeeded
in wresting the knife from her.
You may be sure that it required some pluck after that to sit down
again quietly and to remain in the same room with this woman, who
already had one crime upon her conscience, and with this weird,
half-witted creature who kept on murmuring pitiably:
“You’d better do it, Annie----”
Well, you’ve read the account of the case, so you know what followed.
Lady Molly did not move from that room until she had obtained the
woman’s full confession. All she did for her own protection was to
order me to open the window and to blow the police whistle which she
handed to me. The police-station fortunately was not very far, and
sound carried in the frosty air.
She admitted to me afterwards that it had been foolish, perhaps, not
to have brought Etty or Danvers with her, but she was supremely
anxious not to put the woman on the alert from the very start, hence
her circumlocutory speeches anent the workhouse, and Haggett’s
probable dismissal.
That the woman had had some connection with the crime, Lady Molly,
with her keen intuition, had always felt; but as there was no witness
to the murder itself, and all circumstantial evidence was dead against
young Smethick, there was only one chance of successful discovery, and
that was the murderer’s own confession.
If you think over the interview between my dear lady and the Haggetts
on that memorable morning, you will realise how admirably Lady Molly
had led up to the weird finish. She would not speak to the woman
unless Haggett was present, and she felt sure that as soon as the
subject of the murder cropped up, the imbecile would either do or say
something that would reveal the truth.
Mechanically, when Major Ceely’s name was mentioned, he had taken up
the knife. The whole scene recurred to his tottering mind. That the
Major had summarily dismissed him recently was one of those bold
guesses which Lady Molly was wont to make.
That Haggett had been merely egged on by his wife, and had been too
terrified at the last to do the deed himself was no surprise to her,
and hardly one to me, whilst the fact that the woman ultimately
wreaked her own passionate revenge upon the unfortunate Major was
hardly to be wondered at, in the face of her own coarse and elemental
personality.
Cowed by the quickness of events, and by the appearance of Danvers and
Etty on the scene, she finally made full confession.
She was maddened by the Major’s brutality, when with rough, cruel
words he suddenly turned her husband adrift, refusing to give him
further employment. She herself had great ascendency over the
imbecile, and had drilled him into a part of hate and of revenge. At
first he had seemed ready and willing to obey. It was arranged that he
was to watch on the terrace every night until such time as an alarm of
the recurrence of the cattle-maiming outrages should lure the Major
out alone.
This effectually occurred on Christmas morning, but not before
Haggett, frightened and pusillanimous, was ready to flee rather than
to accomplish the villainous deed. But Annie Haggett, guessing perhaps
that he would shrink from the crime at the last, had also kept watch
every night. Picture the prospective murderer watching and being
watched!
When Haggett came across his wife he deputed her to do the deed
herself.
I suppose that either terror of discovery or merely desire for the
promised reward had caused the woman to fasten the crime on another.
The finding of the ring by Haggett was the beginning of that cruel
thought which, but for my dear lady’s marvellous powers, would indeed
have sent a brave young man to the gallows.
Ah, you wish to know if Margaret Ceely is married? No! Captain Glynne
cried off. What suspicions crossed his mind I cannot say; but he never
proposed to Margaret, and now she is in Australia--staying with an
aunt, I think--and she has sold Clevere Hall.
VIII.
THE BAG OF SAND
Of course, I knew at once by the expression of her face that morning
that my dear lady had some important business on hand.
She had a bundle in her arms, consisting of a shabby-looking coat and
skirt, and a very dowdy hat trimmed with bunches of cheap, calico
roses.
“Put on these things at once, Mary,” she said curtly, “for you are
going to apply for the situation of ‘good plain cook,’ so mind you
look the part.”
“But where in the world----?” I gasped in astonishment.
“In the house of Mr. Nicholas Jones, in Eaton Terrace,” she
interrupted dryly, “the one occupied until recently by his sister, the
late Mrs. Dunstan. Mrs. Jones is advertising for a cook, and you must
get that place.”
As you know, I have carried obedience to the level of a fine art. Nor
was I altogether astonished that my dear lady had at last been asked
to put one of her dainty fingers in that Dunstan pie, which was
puzzling our fellows more completely than any other case I have ever
known.
I don’t know if you remember the many circumstances, the various
contradictions which were cropping up at every turn, and which baffled
our ablest detectives at the very moment when they thought themselves
most near the solution of that strange mystery.
Mrs. Dunstan herself was a very uninteresting individual:
self-righteous, self-conscious and fat, a perfect type of the moneyed
middle-class woman whose balance at the local bank is invariably
heavier than that of her neighbours. Her niece, Violet Frostwicke,
lived with her: a smart, pretty girl, inordinately fond of dainty
clothes and other luxuries which money can give. Being totally
impecunious herself, she bore with the older woman’s constantly
varying caprices with almost angelic patience, a fact probably
attributable to Mrs. Dunstan’s testamentary intentions, which, as she
often averred, were in favour of her niece.
In addition to these two ladies, the household consisted of three
servants and Miss Cruikshank. The latter was a quiet, unassuming girl
who was by way of being secretary and lady-help to Mrs. Dunstan, but
who, in reality, was nothing but a willing drudge. Up betimes in the
morning, she combined the work of a housekeeper with that of an upper
servant. She interviewed the tradespeople, kept the servants in order,
and ironed and smartened up Miss Violet’s blouses. A Cinderella, in
fact.
Mrs. Dunstan kept a cook and two maids, all of whom had been with her
for years. In addition to these, a charwoman came very early in the
morning to light fires, clean boots, and do the front steps.
On November 22nd, 1907--for the early history of this curious drama
dates back to that year--the charwoman who had been employed at Mrs.
Dunstan’s house in Eaton Terrace for some considerable time, sent word
in the morning that in future she would be unable to come. Her husband
had been obliged to move to lodgings nearer to his work, and she
herself could not undertake to come the greater distance at the early
hour at which Mrs. Dunstan required her.
The woman had written a very nice letter explaining these facts, and
sent it by hand, stating at the same time that the bearer of the note
was a very respectable woman, a friend of her own, who would be very
pleased to “oblige” Mrs. Dunstan by taking on the morning’s work.
I must tell you that the message and its bearer arrived at Eaton
Terrace somewhere about 6.0 a.m., when no one was down except the
Cinderella of the house, Miss Cruikshank.
She saw the woman, liked her appearance, and there and then engaged
her to do the work, subject to Mrs. Dunstan’s approval.
The woman, who had given her name as Mrs. Thomas, seemed very quiet
and respectable. She said that she lived close by, in St. Peter’s
Mews, and therefore could come as early as Mrs. Dunstan wished. In
fact, from that day, she came every morning at 5.30 a.m., and by seven
o’clock had finished her work, and was able to go home.
If, in addition to these details, I tell you that, at that time,
pretty Miss Violet Frostwicke was engaged to a young Scotsman, Mr.
David Athol, of whom her aunt totally disapproved, I shall have put
before you all the personages who, directly or indirectly, were
connected with that drama, the final act of which has not yet been
witnessed either by the police or by the public.
2
On the following New Year’s Eve, Mrs. Dunstan, as was her invariable
custom on that day, went to her married brother’s house to dine and to
see the New Year in.
During her absence the usual thing occurred at Eaton Terrace. Miss
Violet Frostwicke took the opportunity of inviting Mr. David Athol to
spend the evening with her.
Mrs. Dunstan’s servants, mind you, all knew of the engagement between
the young people, and with the characteristic sentimentality of their
class, connived at these secret meetings and helped to hoodwink the
irascible old aunt.
Mr. Athol was a good-looking young man, whose chief demerit lay in his
total lack of money or prospects. Also he was by way of being an
actor, another deadly sin in the eyes of the puritanically-minded old
lady.
Already, on more than one occasion, there had been vigorous wordy
warfare ’twixt Mr. Athol and Mrs. Dunstan, and the latter had declared
that if Violet chose to take up with this mountebank, she should never
see a penny of her aunt’s money now or in the future.
The young man did not come very often to Eaton Terrace, but on this
festive New Year’s Eve, when Mrs. Dunstan was not expected to be home
until long after midnight, it seemed too splendid an opportunity for
an ardent lover to miss.
As ill-luck would have it, Mrs. Dunstan had not felt very well after
her copious dinner, and her brother, Mr. Nicholas Jones, escorted her
home soon after ten o’clock.
Jane, the parlour-maid who opened the front door, was, in her own
graphic language, “knocked all of a heap” when she saw her mistress,
knowing full well that Mr. Athol was still in the dining-room with
Miss Violet, and that Miss Cruikshank was at that very moment busy
getting him a whisky and soda.
Meanwhile the coat and hat in the hall had revealed the young man’s
presence in the house.
For a moment Mrs. Dunstan paused, whilst Jane stood by trembling with
fright. Then the old lady turned to Mr. Nicholas Jones, who was still
standing on the doorstep, and said quietly:
“Will you telephone over to Mr. Blenkinsop, Nick, the first thing in
the morning, and tell him I’ll be at his office by ten o’clock?”
Mr. Blenkinsop was Mrs. Dunstan’s solicitor, and as Jane explained to
the cook later on, what could such an appointment mean but a
determination to cut Miss Violet out of the missis’s will with the
proverbial shilling?
After this Mrs. Dunstan took leave of her brother and went straight
into the dining-room.
According to the subsequent testimony of all three servants, the
mistress “went on dreadful.” Words were not easily distinguishable
from behind the closed door, but it seems that, immediately she
entered, Mrs. Dunstan’s voice was raised as if in terrible anger, and
a few moments later Miss Violet fled crying from the dining-room, and
ran quickly upstairs.
Whilst the door was thus momentarily opened and shut, the voice of the
old lady was heard saying, in majestic wrath:
“That’s what you have done. Get out of this house. As for her, she’ll
never see a penny of my money, and she may starve for aught I care!”
The quarrel seems to have continued for a short while after that, the
servants being too deeply awed by those last vindictive words which
they had heard to take much note of what went on subsequently.
Mrs. Dunstan and Mr. Athol were closeted together for some time; but
apparently the old lady’s wrath did not subside, for when she marched
up to bed an hour later she was heard to say:
“Out of this house she shall go, and the first thing in the morning,
too. I’ll have no goings-on with a mountebank like you.”
Miss Cruikshank was terribly upset.
“It is a frightful blow for Miss Violet,” she said to cook, “but
perhaps Mrs. Dunstan will feel more forgiving in the morning. I’ll
take her up a glass of champagne now. She is very fond of that, and it
will help her to get to sleep.”
Miss Cruikshank went up with the champagne, and told cook to see Mr.
Athol out of the house; but the young man, who seemed very anxious and
agitated, would not go away immediately. He stayed in the dining-room,
smoking, for a while, and when the two younger servants went up to
bed, he asked cook to let him remain until he had seen Miss Violet
once more, for he was sure she would come down again--he had asked
Miss Cruikshank to beg her to do so.
Mrs. Kennett, the cook, was a kind-hearted old woman. She had taken
the young people under her special protection, and felt very vexed
that the course of true love should not be allowed to run quite
smoothly. So she told Mr. Athol to make himself happy and comfortable
in the dining-room, and she would sit up by the fire in the library
until he was ready to go.
The good soul thereupon made up the fire in the library, drew a chair
in front of it, and--went fast to sleep.
Suddenly something awoke her. She sat up and looked round in that
dazed manner peculiar to people just aroused from deep sleep.
She looked at the clock; it was past three. Surely, she thought, it
must have been Mr. Athol calling to her which had caused her to wake.
She went into the hall, where the gas had not yet been turned off, and
there she saw Miss Violet, fully dressed and wearing a hat and coat,
in the very act of going out at the front door.
In the cook’s own words, before she could ask a question or even utter
a sound, the young girl had opened the front door, which was still on
the latch, and then banged it to again, she herself having disappeared
into the darkness of the street beyond.
Mrs. Kennett ran to the door and out into the street as fast as her
old legs would let her; but the night was an exceptionally foggy one.
Violet, no doubt, had walked rapidly away, and there came no answer to
Mrs. Kennett’s repeated calls.
Thoroughly upset, and not knowing what to do, the good woman went back
into the house. Mr. Athol had evidently left, for there was no sign of
him in the dining-room or elsewhere. She then went upstairs and
knocked at Mrs. Dunstan’s door. To her astonishment the gas was still
burning in her mistress’s room, as she could see a thin ray of light
filtering through the keyhole. At her first knock there came a quick,
impatient answer:
“What is it?”
“Miss Violet, ’m,” said the cook, who was too agitated to speak very
coherently, “she is gone----”
“The best thing she could do,” came promptly from the other side of
the door. “You go to bed, Mrs. Kennett, and don’t worry.”
Whereupon the gas was suddenly turned off inside the room, and, in
spite of Mrs. Kennett’s further feeble protests, no other word issued
from the room save another impatient:
“Go to bed.”
The cook then did as she was bid; but before going to bed she made the
round of the house, turned off all the gas, and finally bolted the
front door.
3
Some three hours later the servants were called, as usual, by Miss
Cruikshank, who then went down to open the area door to Mrs. Thomas,
the charwoman.
At half-past six, when Mary the housemaid came down, candle in hand,
she saw the charwoman a flight or two lower down, also apparently in
the act of going downstairs. This astonished Mary not a little, as the
woman’s work lay entirely in the basement, and she was supposed never
to come to the upper floors.
The woman, though walking rapidly down the stairs, seemed, moreover,
to be carrying something heavy.
“Anything wrong, Mrs. Thomas?” asked Mary, in a whisper.
The woman looked up, pausing a moment immediately under the gas
bracket, the by-pass of which shed a feeble light upon her and upon
her burden. The latter Mary recognised as the bag containing the sand
which, on frosty mornings, had to be strewn on the front steps of the
house.
On the whole, though she certainly was puzzled, Mary did not think
very much about the incident then. As was her custom, she went into
the housemaid’s closet, got the hot water for Miss Cruikshank’s bath,
and carried it to the latter’s room, where she also pulled up the
blinds and got things ready generally. For Miss Cruikshank usually ran
down in her dressing-gown, and came up to tidy herself later on.
As a rule, by the time the three servants got downstairs, it was
nearly seven, and Mrs. Thomas had generally gone by that time; but on
this occasion Mary was earlier. Miss Cruikshank was busy in the
kitchen getting Mrs. Dunstan’s tea ready. Mary spoke about seeing Mrs.
Thomas on the stairs with the bag of sand, and Miss Cruikshank, too,
was very astonished at the occurrence.
Mrs. Kennett was not yet down, and the charwoman apparently had gone;
her work had been done as usual, and the sand was strewn over the
stone steps in front, as the frosty fog had rendered them very
slippery.
At a quarter past seven Miss Cruikshank went up with Mrs. Dunstan’s
tea, and less than two minutes later a fearful scream rang through the
entire house, followed by the noise of breaking crockery.
In an instant the two maids ran upstairs, straight to Mrs. Dunstan’s
room, the door of which stood wide open.
The first thing Mary and Jane were conscious of was a terrific smell
of gas, then of Miss Cruikshank, with eyes dilated with horror,
staring at the bed in front of her, whereon lay Mrs. Dunstan, with one
end of a piece of indiarubber piping still resting in her mouth, her
jaw having dropped in death. The other end of that piece of piping was
attached to the burner of a gas-bracket on the wall close by.
Every window in the room was fastened and the curtains drawn. The
whole room reeked of gas.
Mrs. Dunstan had been asphyxiated by its fumes.
4
A year went by after the discovery of the mysterious tragedy, and I
can assure you that our fellows at the Yard had one of the toughest
jobs in connection with the case that ever fell to their lot. Just
think of all the contradictions which met them at every turn.
Firstly, the disappearance of Miss Violet.
No sooner had the women in the Dunstan household roused themselves
sufficiently from their horror at the terrible discovery which they
had just made, than they were confronted with another almost equally
awful fact--awful, of course, because of its connection with the
primary tragedy.
Miss Violet Frostwicke had gone. Her room was empty, her bed had not
been slept in. She herself had been seen by the cook, Mrs. Kennett,
stealing out of the house at dead of night.
To connect the pretty, dainty young girl even remotely with a crime so
hideous, so callous, as the deliberate murder of an old woman, who had
been as a mother to her, seemed absolutely out of the question, and by
tacit consent the four women, who now remained in the desolate and
gloom-laden house at Eaton Terrace, forbore to mention Miss Violet
Frostwicke’s name either to police or doctor.
Both these, of course, had been summoned immediately; Miss Cruikshank
sending Mary to the police-station and thence to Dr. Folwell, in Eaton
Square, whilst Jane went off in a cab to fetch Mr. Nicholas Jones,
who, fortunately, had not yet left for his place of business.
The doctor’s and the police-inspector’s first thought, on examining
the _mise en scène_ of the terrible tragedy, was that Mrs. Dunstan
had committed suicide. It was practically impossible to imagine that a
woman in full possession of health and strength would allow a piece of
indiarubber piping to be fixed between her teeth, and would, without a
struggle, continue to inhale the poisonous fumes which would mean
certain death. Yet there were no marks of injury upon the body,
nothing to show how sufficient unconsciousness had been produced in
the victim to permit of the miscreant completing his awesome deed.
But the theory of suicide set up by Dr. Folwell was promptly refuted
by the most cursory examination of the room.
Though the drawers were found closed, they had obviously been turned
over, as if the murderer had been in search either of money or papers,
or the key of the safe.
The latter, on investigation, was found to be open, whilst the key lay
on the floor close by. A brief examination of the safe revealed the
fact that the tin boxes must have been ransacked, for they contained
neither money nor important papers now, whilst the gold and platinum
settings of necklaces, bracelets, and a tiara showed that the
stones--which, as Mr. Nicholas Jones subsequently averred, were of
considerable value--had been carefully, if somewhat clumsily, taken
out by obviously inexperienced hands.
On the whole, therefore, appearances suggested deliberate, systematic,
and very leisurely robbery, which wholly contradicted the theory of
suicide.
Then suddenly the name of Miss Frostwicke was mentioned. Who first
brought it on the _tapis_ no one subsequently could say; but in a
moment the whole story of the young girl’s engagement to Mr. Athol, in
defiance of her aunt’s wishes, the quarrel of the night before, and
the final disappearance of both young people from the house during the
small hours of the morning, was dragged from the four unwilling
witnesses by the able police-inspector.
Nay, more. One very unpleasant little circumstance was detailed by one
of the maids and corroborated by Miss Cruikshank.
It seems that when the latter took up the champagne to Mrs. Dunstan,
the old lady desired Miss Violet to come to her room. Mary, the
housemaid, was on the stairs when she saw the young girl, still
dressed in her evening gown of white chiffon, her eyes still swollen
with tears, knocking at her aunt’s door.
The police-inspector was busy taking notes, already building up in his
mind a simple, if very sensational, case against Violet Frostwicke,
when Mrs. Kennett promptly upset all his calculations.
Miss Violet could have had nothing to do with the murder of her aunt,
seeing that Mrs. Dunstan was alive and actually spoke to the cook when
the latter knocked at her bedroom door after she had seen the young
girl walk out of the house.
Then came the question of Mr. Athol. But, if you remember, it was
quite impossible even to begin to build up a case against the young
man. His own statement that he left the house at about midnight,
having totally forgotten to rouse the cook when he did so, was amply
corroborated from every side.
The cabman who took him up to the corner of Eaton Terrace at 11.50
p.m. was one witness in his favour; his landlady at his rooms in
Jermyn Street, who let him in, since he had mislaid his latchkey, and
who took him up some tea at seven o’clock the next morning, was
another; whilst, when Mary saw Miss Violet going into her aunt’s room,
the clock at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, was just striking twelve.
I dare say you think I ought by now to have mentioned the charwoman,
Mrs. Thomas, who represented the final, most complete, most hopeless
contradiction in this remarkable case.
Mrs. Thomas was seen by Mary, the housemaid, at half-past six o’clock
in the morning, coming down from the upper floors, where she had no
business to be, and carrying the bag of sand used for strewing over
the slippery front-door steps.
The bag of sand, of course, was always kept in the area.
The moment that bag of sand was mentioned Dr. Folwell gave a curious
gasp. Here, at least, was the solution to one mystery. The victim had
been stunned whilst still in bed by a blow on the head dealt with that
bag of sand; and whilst she was unconscious the callous miscreant had
robbed her and finally asphyxiated her with the gas fumes.
Where was the woman who, at half-past six in the morning, was seen in
possession of the silent instrument of death?
Mrs. Thomas had disappeared. The last that was then or ever has been
seen of her was when she passed underneath the dim light of a by-pass
on the landing, as if tired out with the weight which she was
carrying.
Since then, as you know, the police have been unswerving in their
efforts to find Mrs. Thomas. The address which she had given in St.
Peter’s Mews was found to be false. No one of that name or appearance
had ever been seen there.
The woman who was supposed to have sent her with a letter of
recommendation to Mrs. Dunstan knew nothing of her. She swore that she
had never sent anyone with a letter to Mrs. Dunstan. She gave up her
work there one day because she found it too hard at such an early hour
in the morning; but she never heard anything more from her late
employer after that.
Strange, wasn’t it, that two people should have disappeared out of
that house on that same memorable night?
Of course, you will remember the tremendous sensation that was caused
some twenty-four hours later, when it transpired that the young person
who had thrown herself into the river from Waterloo Bridge on that
same eventful morning, and whose body was subsequently recovered and
conveyed to the Thames Police station, was identified as Miss Violet
Frostwicke, the niece of the lady who had been murdered in her own
house in Eaton Terrace.
Neither money nor diamonds were found on poor Miss Violet. She had
herself given the most complete proof that she, at least, had no hand
in robbing or killing Mrs. Dunstan.
The public wondered why she took her aunt’s wrath and her probable
disinheritance so fearfully to heart, and sympathised with Mr. David
Athol for the terribly sad loss which he had sustained.
But Mrs. Thomas, the charwoman, had not yet been found.
5
I think I looked an extremely respectable, good plain cook when I
presented myself at the house in Eaton Terrace in response to the
advertisement in the “Daily Telegraph.”
As, in addition to my prepossessing appearance, I also asked very low
wages and declared myself ready to do anything except scour the front
steps and the stone area, I was immediately engaged by Mrs. Jones, and
was duly installed in the house the following day under the name of
Mrs. Curwen.
But few events had occurred here since the discovery of the dual
tragedy, now more than a year ago, and none that had thrown any light
upon the mystery which surrounded it.
The verdict at the inquest had been one of wilful murder against a
person known as Mrs. Thomas, the weight of evidence, coupled with her
disappearance, having been very heavy against her; and there was a
warrant out for her arrest.
Mrs. Dunstan had died intestate. To the astonishment of all those in
the know, she had never signed the will which Messrs. Blenkinsop and
Blenkinsop had drafted for her, and wherein she bequeathed £20,000
and the lease of her house in Eaton Terrace to her beloved niece,
Violet Frostwicke, £1,000 to Miss Cruikshank, and other, smaller,
legacies to friends or servants.
In default of a will, Mr. Nicholas Jones, only brother of the
deceased, became possessed of all her wealth.
He was a very rich man himself, and many people thought that he ought
to give Miss Cruikshank the £1,000 which the poor girl had thus lost
through no fault of her own.
What his ultimate intentions were with regard to this no one could
know. For the present he contented himself with moving to Eaton
Terrace with his family; and, as his wife was a great invalid, he
asked Miss Cruikshank to continue to make her home in the house and to
help in its management.
Neither the diamonds nor the money stolen from Mrs. Dunstan’s safe
were ever traced. It seems that Mrs. Dunstan, a day or two before her
death, had sold a freehold cottage which she owned near Teddington.
The money, as is customary, had been handed over to her in gold, in
Mr. Blenkinsop’s office, and she had been foolish enough not to bank
it immediately. This money and the diamonds had been the chief spoils
of her assailant. And all the while no trace of Mrs. Thomas, in spite
of the most strenuous efforts on the part of the police to find her.
Strangely enough, when I had been in Eaton Terrace about three days,
and was already getting very tired of early rising and hard work, the
charwoman there fell ill one day and did not come to her work as
usual.
I, of course, grumbled like six, for I had to be on my hands and knees
the next morning scrubbing stone steps, and my thoughts of Lady Molly,
for the moment, were not quite as loyal as they usually were.
Suddenly I heard a shuffling footstep close behind me. I turned and
saw a rough-looking, ill-dressed woman standing at the bottom of the
steps.
“What do you want?” I asked sourly, for I was in a very bad humour.
“I saw you scrubbing them steps, miss,” she replied in a raucous
voice; “my ’usband is out of work, and the children hain’t ’ad no
breakfast this morning. I’d do them steps, miss, if you’d give me a
trifle.”
The woman certainly did not look very prepossessing, with her shabby,
broad-brimmed hat hiding the upper part of her face, and her skirt,
torn and muddy, pinned up untidily round her stooping figure.
However, I did not think that I could be doing anything very wrong by
letting her do this one bit of rough work, which I hated, so I agreed
to give her sixpence, and left her there with kneeling mat and
scrubbing-brush, and went in, leaving, however, the front door open.
In the hall I met Miss Cruikshank, who, as usual, was down before
everybody else.
“What is it, Curwen?” she asked, for through the open door she had
caught sight of the woman kneeling on the step.
“A woman, miss,” I replied, somewhat curtly. “She offered to do the
steps. I thought Mrs. Jones wouldn’t mind, as Mrs. Callaghan hasn’t
turned up.”
Miss Cruikshank hesitated an instant, and then walked up to the front
door.
At the same moment the woman looked up, rose from her knees, and
boldly went up to accost Miss Cruikshank.
“You’ll remember me, miss,” she said, in her raucous voice. “I used to
work for Mrs. Dunstan once. My name is Mrs. Thomas.”
No wonder Miss Cruikshank uttered a quickly smothered cry of horror.
Thinking that she would faint, I ran to her assistance; but she waved
me aside and then said quite quietly:
“This poor woman’s mind is deranged. She is no more Mrs. Thomas than I
am. Perhaps we had better send for the police.”
“Yes, miss; p’r’aps you’d better,” said the woman with a sigh. “My
secret has been weighin’ heavy on me of late.”
“But, my good woman,” said Miss Cruikshank, very kindly, for I suppose
that she thought, as I did, that this was one of those singular cases
of madness which sometimes cause innocent people to accuse themselves
of undiscovered crimes. “You are not Mrs. Thomas at all. I knew Mrs.
Thomas well, of course--and----”
“Of course you knew me, miss,” replied the woman. “The last
conversation you and I had together was in the kitchen that morning,
when Mrs. Dunstan was killed. I remember your saying to me----”
“Fetch the police, Curwen,” said Miss Cruikshank, peremptorily.
Whereupon the woman broke into a harsh and loud laugh of defiance.
To tell you the truth, I was not a little puzzled. That this scene had
been foreseen by my dear lady, and that she had sent me to this house
on purpose that I should witness it, I was absolutely convinced.
But--here was my dilemma: ought I to warn the police at once or not?
On the whole, I decided that my best plan would undoubtedly be to
communicate with Lady Molly first of all, and to await her
instructions. So I ran upstairs, scribbled a hasty note to my dear
lady, and, in response to Miss Cruikshank’s orders, flew out of the
house through the area gate, noticing, as I did so, that Miss
Cruikshank was still parleying with the woman on the doorstep.
I sent the note off to Maida Vale by taxicab; then I went back to
Eaton Terrace. Miss Cruikshank met me at the front door, and told me
that she had tried to detain the woman, pending my return; but that
she felt very sorry for the unfortunate creature, who obviously was
labouring under a delusion, and she had allowed her to go away.
About an hour later I received a curt note from Lady Molly ordering me
to do nothing whatever without her special authorisation.
In the course of the day, Miss Cruikshank told me that she had been to
the police-station, and had consulted with the inspector, who said
there would be no harm in engaging the pseudo Mrs. Thomas to work at
Eaton Terrace, especially as thus she would remain under observation.
Then followed a curious era in Mr. Nicholas Jones’s otherwise
well-ordered household. We three servants, instead of being called at
six as heretofore, were allowed to sleep on until seven. When we came
down we were not scolded. On the contrary, we found our work already
done.
The charwoman--whoever she was--must have been a very hard-working
woman. It was marvellous what she accomplished single-handed before
seven a.m., by which time she had invariably gone.
The two maids, of course, were content to let this pleasant state of
things go on, but I was devoured with curiosity.
One morning I crept quietly downstairs and went into the kitchen soon
after six. I found the pseudo Mrs. Thomas sitting at a very copious
breakfast. I noticed that she had on altogether different--though
equally shabby and dirty--clothes from those she had worn when she
first appeared on the doorstep of 180, Eaton Terrace. Near her plate
were three or four golden sovereigns over which she had thrown her
grimy hand.
Miss Cruikshank the while was on her hands and knees scrubbing the
floor. At sight of me she jumped up, and with obvious confusion
muttered something about “hating to be idle,” etc.
That day Miss Cruikshank told me that I did not suit Mrs. Jones, who
wished me to leave at the end of my month. In the afternoon I received
a little note from my dear lady, telling me to be downstairs by six
o’clock the following morning.
I did as I was ordered, of course, and when I came into the kitchen
punctually at six a.m. I found the charwoman sitting at the table with
a pile of gold in front of her, which she was counting over with a
very grubby finger. She had her back to me, and was saying as I
entered:
“I think if you was to give me another fifty quid I’d leave you the
rest now. You’d still have the diamonds and the rest of the money.”
She spoke to Miss Cruikshank, who was facing me, and who, on seeing me
appear, turned as white as a ghost. But she quickly recovered herself,
and, standing between me and the woman, she said vehemently:
“What do you mean by prying on me like this? Go and pack your boxes
and leave the house this instant.”
But before I could reply the woman had interposed.
[IMAGE: images/img224.jpg
CAPTION: “‘Go and pack your boxes and leave the house this
instant’”]
“Don’t you fret yourself, miss,” she said, placing her grimy hand on
Miss Cruikshank’s shoulder. “There’s the bag of sand in that there
corner; we’ll knock ’er down as we did Mrs. Dunstan--eh?”
“Hold your tongue, you lying fool!” said the girl, who now looked like
a maddened fury.
“Give me that other fifty quid and I’ll hold my tongue,” retorted the
woman, boldly.
“This creature is mad,” said Miss Cruikshank, who had made a vigorous
and successful effort to recover herself. “She is under the delusion
that not only is she Mrs. Thomas, but that she murdered Mrs.
Dunstan----”
“No--no!” interrupted the woman. “I only came back that morning
because I recollected that you had left the bag of sand upstairs after
you so cleverly did away with Mrs. Dunstan, robbed her of all her
money and jewels, and even were sharp enough to imitate her voice when
Mrs. Kennett, the cook, terrified you by speaking to Mrs. Dunstan
through the door.”
“It is false! You are not Mrs. Thomas. The two maids who are here now,
and who were in this house at the time, can swear that you are a
liar.”
“Let us change clothes now, Miss Cruikshank,” said a voice, which
sounded almost weirdly in my ear in spite of its familiarity, for I
could not locate whence it came, “and see if in a charwoman’s dress
those two maids would not recognise _you_.”
“Mary,” continued the same familiar voice, “help me out of these
filthy clothes. Perhaps Miss Cruikshank would like to resume her own
part of Mrs. Thomas, the charwoman.”
“Liars and impostors--both!” shouted the girl, who was rapidly losing
all presence of mind. “I’ll send for the police.”
“Quite unnecessary,” rejoined Lady Molly coolly; “Detective-Inspector
Danvers is just outside that door.”
The girl made a dash for the other door, but I was too quick for her,
and held her back, even whilst Lady Molly gave a short, sharp call
which brought Danvers on the scene.
I must say that Miss Cruikshank made a bold fight, but Danvers had two
of our fellows with him, and arrested her on the warrant for the
apprehension of the person known as Mrs. Thomas.
The clothes of the charwoman who had so mysteriously disappeared had
been found by Lady Molly at the back of the coal cellar, and she was
still dressed in them at the present moment.
No wonder I had not recognised my own dainty lady in the grimy woman
who had so successfully played the part of a blackmailer on the
murderess of Mrs. Dunstan. She explained to me subsequently that the
first inkling that she had had of the horrible truth--namely, that it
was Miss Cruikshank who had deliberately planned to murder Mrs.
Dunstan by impersonating a charwoman for a while, and thus throwing
dust in the eyes of the police--was when she heard of the callous
words which the old lady was supposed to have uttered when she was
told of Miss Violet’s flight from the house in the middle of the
night.
“She may have been very angry at the girl’s escapade,” explained Lady
Molly to me, “but she would not have allowed her to starve. Such
cruelty was out of all proportion to the offence. Then I looked about
me for a stronger motive for the old lady’s wrath; and, remembering
what she said on New Year’s Eve, when Violet fled crying from the
room, I came to the conclusion that her anger was not directed against
her niece, but against the other girl, and against the man who had
transferred his affections from Violet Frostwicke to Miss Cruikshank,
and had not only irritated Mrs. Dunstan by this clandestine,
double-faced love-making, but had broken the heart of his trusting
_fiancée_.
“No doubt Miss Cruikshank did not know that the will, whereby she was
to inherit £1,000, was not signed, and no doubt she and young Athol
planned out that cruel murder between them. The charwoman was also a
bag of sand which was literally thrown in the eyes of the police.”
“But,” I objected, “I can’t understand how a cold-blooded creature
like that Miss Cruikshank could have allowed herself to be terrorised
and blackmailed. She knew that you could not be Mrs. Thomas, since
Mrs. Thomas never existed.”
“Yes; but one must reckon a little sometimes with that negligible
quantity known as conscience. My appearance as Mrs. Thomas vaguely
frightened Miss Cruikshank. She wondered who I was and what I knew.
When, three days later, I found the shabby clothes in the coal-cellar
and appeared dressed in them, she lost her head. She gave me money!
From that moment she was done for. Confession was only a matter of
time.”
And Miss Cruikshank did make full confession. She was recommended to
mercy on account of her sex, but she was plucky enough not to
implicate David Athol in the recital of her crime.
He has since emigrated to Western Canada.
IX.
THE MAN IN THE INVERNESS CAPE
I have heard many people say--people, too, mind you, who read their
daily paper regularly--that it is quite impossible for anyone to
“disappear” within the confines of the British Isles. At the same time
these wise people invariably admit one great exception to their
otherwise unimpeachable theory, and that is the case of Mr. Leonard
Marvell, who, as you know, walked out one afternoon from the Scotia
Hotel in Cromwell Road and has never been seen or heard of since.
Information had originally been given to the police by Mr. Marvell’s
sister Olive, a Scotchwoman of the usually accepted type: tall, bony,
with sandy-coloured hair, and a somewhat melancholy expression in her
blue-grey eyes.
Her brother, she said, had gone out on a rather foggy afternoon. I
think it was the 3rd of February, just about a year ago. His intention
had been to go and consult a solicitor in the City--whose address had
been given him recently by a friend--about some private business of
his own.
Mr. Marvell had told his sister that he would get a train at South
Kensington Station to Moorgate Street, and walk thence to Finsbury
Square. She was to expect him home by dinner-time.
As he was, however, very irregular in his habits, being fond of
spending his evenings at restaurants and music-halls, the sister did
not feel the least anxious when he did not return home at the
appointed time. She had her dinner in the _table d’hôte_ room, and
went to bed soon after 10.0.
She and her brother occupied two bedrooms and a sitting-room on the
second floor of the little private hotel. Miss Marvell, moreover, had
a maid always with her, as she was somewhat of an invalid. This girl,
Rosie Campbell, a nice-looking Scotch lassie, slept on the top floor.
It was only on the following morning, when Mr. Leonard did not put in
an appearance at breakfast, that Miss Marvell began to feel anxious.
According to her own account, she sent Rosie in to see if anything was
the matter, and the girl, wide-eyed and not a little frightened, came
back with the news that Mr. Marvell was not in his room, and that his
bed had not been slept in that night.
With characteristic Scottish reserve, Miss Olive said nothing about
the matter at the time to anyone, nor did she give information to the
police until two days later, when she herself had exhausted every
means in her power to discover her brother’s whereabouts.
She had seen the lawyer to whose office Leonard Marvell had intended
going that afternoon, but Mr. Statham, the solicitor in question, had
seen nothing of the missing man.
With great adroitness Rosie, the maid, had made inquiries at South
Kensington and Moorgate Street stations. At the former, the booking
clerk, who knew Mr. Marvell by sight, distinctly remembered selling
him a first-class ticket to one of the City stations in the early part
of the afternoon; but at Moorgate Street, which is a very busy
station, no one recollected seeing a tall, red-haired Scotchman in an
Inverness cape--such was the description given of the missing man. By
that time the fog had become very thick in the City; traffic was
disorganised, and everyone felt fussy, ill-tempered, and self-centred.
These, in substance, were the details which Miss Marvell gave to the
police on the subject of her brother’s strange disappearance.
At first she did not appear very anxious; she seemed to have great
faith in Mr. Marvell’s power to look after himself; moreover, she
declared positively that her brother had neither valuables nor money
about his person when he went out that afternoon.
But as day succeeded day and no trace of the missing man had yet been
found, matters became more serious, and the search instituted by our
fellows at the Yard waxed more keen.
A description of Mr. Leonard Marvell was published in the leading
London and provincial dailies. Unfortunately, there was no good
photograph of him extant, and descriptions are apt to prove vague.
Very little was known about the man beyond his disappearance, which
had rendered him famous. He and his sister had arrived at the Scotia
Hotel about a month previously, and subsequently they were joined by
the maid Campbell.
Scotch people are far too reserved ever to speak of themselves or
their affairs to strangers. Brother and sister spoke very little to
anyone at the hotel. They had their meals in their sitting-room,
waited on by the maid, who messed with the staff. But, in face of the
present terrible calamity, Miss Marvell’s frigidity relaxed before the
police inspector, to whom she gave what information she could about
her brother.
“He was like a son to me,” she explained with scarcely restrained
tears, “for we lost our parents early in life, and as we were left
very, very badly off, our relations took but little notice of us. My
brother was years younger than I am--and though he was a little wild
and fond of pleasure, he was as good as gold to me, and has supported
us both for years by journalistic work. We came to London from Glasgow
about a month ago, because Leonard got a very good appointment on the
staff of the ‘Daily Post.’”
All this, of course, was soon proved to be true; and although, on
minute inquiries being instituted in Glasgow, but little seemed to be
known about Mr. Leonard Marvell in that city, there seemed no doubt
that he had done some reporting for the “Courier,” and that latterly,
in response to an advertisement, he had applied for and obtained
regular employment on the “Daily Post.”
The latter enterprising halfpenny journal, with characteristic
magnanimity, made an offer of £50 reward to any of its subscribers
who gave information which would lead to the discovery of the
whereabouts of Mr. Leonard Marvell.
But time went by, and that £50 remained unclaimed.
2
Lady Molly had not seemed as interested as she usually was in cases
of this sort. With strange flippancy--wholly unlike herself--she
remarked that one Scotch journalist more or less in London did not
vastly matter.
I was much amused, therefore, one morning about three weeks after the
mysterious disappearance of Mr. Leonard Marvell, when Jane, our little
parlour-maid, brought in a card accompanied by a letter.
The card bore the name “Miss Olive Marvell.” The letter was the usual
formula from the chief, asking Lady Molly to have a talk with the lady
in question, and to come and see him on the subject after the
interview.
With a smothered yawn my dear lady told Jane to show in Miss Marvell.
“There are two of them, my lady,” said Jane, as she prepared to obey.
“Two what?” asked Lady Molly with a laugh.
“Two ladies, I mean,” explained Jane.
“Well! Show them both into the drawing-room,” said Lady Molly,
impatiently.
Then, as Jane went off on this errand, a very funny thing happened;
funny, because during the entire course of my intimate association
with my dear lady, I had never known her act with such marked
indifference in the face of an obviously interesting case. She turned
to me and said:
“Mary, you had better see these two women, whoever they may be; I feel
that they would bore me to distraction. Take note of what they say,
and let me know. Now, don’t argue,” she added with a laugh, which
peremptorily put a stop to my rising protest, “but go and interview
Miss Marvell and Co.”
Needless to say, I promptly did as I was told, and the next few
seconds saw me installed in our little drawing-room, saying polite
preliminaries to the two ladies who sat opposite to me.
I had no need to ask which of them was Miss Marvell. Tall, ill-dressed
in deep black, with a heavy crape veil over her face, and black cotton
gloves, she looked the uncompromising Scotchwoman to the life. In
strange contrast to her depressing appearance, there sat beside her an
over-dressed, much behatted, peroxided young woman, who bore the stamp
of _the_ profession all over her pretty, painted face.
Miss Marvell, I was glad to note, was not long in plunging into the
subject which had brought her here.
“I saw a gentleman at Scotland Yard,” she explained, after a short
preamble, “because Miss--er--Lulu Fay came to me at the hotel this
very morning with a story which, in my opinion, should have been told
to the police directly my brother’s disappearance became known, and
not three weeks later.”
The emphasis which she laid on the last few words, and the stern look
with which she regarded the golden-haired young woman beside her,
showed the disapproval with which the rigid Scotchwoman viewed any
connection which her brother might have had with the lady, whose very
name seemed unpleasant to her lips.
Miss--er--Lulu Fay blushed even through her rouge, and turned a pair
of large, liquid eyes imploringly upon me.