THE DEATH-TRAP IN THE TUDOR ROOM
I had not been to Chelsea for some weeks--indeed, I had not been in
town, business having kept me in the country--and I returned to find a
letter from Quarles which had been waiting for me for three days.
Several cases were in my hands just then--affairs of no great
difficulty nor any particular interest--and only in one case had I had
any worry. This trouble was due, not so much to the case itself as to
the fact that it had brought me in contact with another detective
named Baines, who would persist in treating me as a rival. He was as
irritating as Quarles himself could be on occasion, and was entirely
without the professor's genius. To be candid, I may admit Baines had
some excuse. Circumstances brought me into the affair at the eleventh
hour, and he was afraid I should reap where he had planted.
It was a strange business from first to last, and one I am never
likely to forget.
A man, riding across an open piece of country near Aylesbury early one
morning, came upon a motor cyclist lying near his machine on the
roadside. The machine had been reduced to scrap-iron. The man, who was
dressed in overalls, seemed to have been killed outright by a blow on
the head. Since the man still wore his goggles, and there was no sign
of a struggle, Baines argued, and reasonably, I think, that death was
not the result of foul play. That he had been run into by a motor car,
and that the people in the car had either not stopped to see what
damage was done, or, having seen it, feared to give information, was
perhaps giving too loose a rein to imagination.
However, this was Baines's idea; and he had succeeded in hearing of a
car with only one man in it which had been driven through Aylesbury at
a furious pace on the night when a second and similar tragedy
occurred, this time near Saffron Walden.
The man had been killed in the same fashion, he wore goggles and
overalls, and the machine was smashed, though not so completely.
Neither of the men had been identified. In the first case, there might
be a reason for this, as the man was a foreigner. In the second case,
the man was an Englishman. Both the machines were old patterns, and of
a cheap make, carried fictitious numbers, and Baines had been unable
to find out where they had been purchased.
He held to his theory of the car, but was now inclined to think that
the cyclists had been purposely driven into. Granted a certain shape
of bonnet--and the car driven through Aylesbury appeared to have this
shape--he contended that, in endeavoring to avoid the collision, a
cyclist would be struck in exactly the manner indicated by the
appearance of the head. He was therefore busy trying to trace a
devil-mad motorist.
The discovery of a dead chauffeur on a lonely road near Newbury now
brought me into the affair. He had apparently been killed in precisely
the same manner as the victims of the Aylesbury and Saffron Walden
tragedies; and so I was brought in contact with Baines. From the first
he scorned my arguments and suggestions. It seemed to me that this
third tragedy went to disprove his theory of a madly driven motor
car, but he insisted that it was only a further proof. Was it not
possible, he asked, that the mad owner of the car, believing that his
chauffeur knew the truth, had killed him to protect himself? I asked
him how he supposed the car had been driven at the chauffeur in order
to injure him, exactly as it had injured men on cycles. When Baines
answered that the chauffeur was probably on a cycle at the time, I
wanted to know why, in this case, the motorist had gathered up the
broken machine and taken it away. In short, we quarreled over the
affair, and Baines was furious when I was able to prove that in
neither case was the wrecked cycle a complete machine. True, in one
case, only some trivial pieces were missing which might have been
driven into the ground by the force of the fall; but in the other an
important part was wanting, without which the machine could not have
been driven.
I came to the conclusion that there had been foul play, that the
broken machines were a blind, and that the men had been brought to the
places where they were found after they were dead.
I returned to London to pursue inquiries in this direction, and found
the letter from Quarles asking me to go and see him as soon as
possible.
I went to Chelsea that evening, and was shown into the dining-room.
The professor looked a little old to-night, I thought.
"Very glad to see you, Wigan. I want your help."
"I shall be delighted to give it, you have helped me so often. Your
granddaughter is well, I trust?"
"Yes, she is away. She has taken a situation."
"A situation!" I exclaimed.
"The world hasn't much use for a professor of philosophy in these
days, and that leads to financial difficulty for the professor,"
Quarles answered. "You glance round at the luxury of this room, I
notice, and I can guess your thoughts. Selfish old brute, you are
saying to yourself. But it was the child's wish, and we bide our time.
She is made much of where she is. I think it is my loneliness which
deserves most pity. Besides, there is no disgrace in honest work,
either for man or woman."
Something of challenge was in his tone, and I hastened to agree with
him. In a sense, the information was not unpleasant to me. Life was
not to be all luxury for Zena Quarles. The social standing of a
detective, however successful he may be, is not very high, and the
necessity for her to work seemed to bring us nearer together. The
value of what I could offer her was increased, and a spirit of
hopefulness took possession of me.
"But I didn't ask you here to pity either Zena or myself," Quarles
went on, after a pause. "I daresay you have heard of Mrs. Barrymore?"
"I have."
"She advertised for a private secretary, and Zena answered the
advertisement. When a woman goes deeply into philanthropic work,
visits hospitals, rescue homes, and the like, she often does it to
fill a life which would otherwise be empty. Not to Mrs. Barrymore. She
is a society woman as well, is to be met here, there and everywhere.
She is a golfer, a yachtswoman, fond of sport generally, and withal a
charming hostess. It is no wonder she wants a secretary. You don't
suppose I should let Zena go anywhere to be treated as a kind of
housemaid, and in a way that no self-respecting servant would stand?"
"Of course not. I gather that you know Mrs. Barrymore personally?"
"I saw her once or twice when she was a child. I knew her mother."
I looked up quickly, struck by his tone.
"There is romance in every life, Wigan. Here you touch mine. Mrs.
Barrymore's mother married an American. She chose him rather than me,
and, although I afterwards married, I have never forgotten her.
Naturally, I feel an interest in her daughter, Mrs. Barrymore, and I
want your help."
"In what way?"
"I want your opinion of her."
"But I don't know her."
"You must get to know her. She puzzles me, and certain things which
Zena has told me make me think I might help her. I should like to do
so, if I can. We have been useful to each other, Wigan, because our
methods are different. I have formed a certain opinion of Mrs.
Barrymore, the result of theorizing. I shall not tell you what it is
because I want your unbiased view, arrived at by your method of going
to work."
"There is a mystery about her, then?"
"My dear Wigan, that is exactly what I want to find out."
"How am I to make her acquaintance?" I asked.
"Not as Murray Wigan, certainly," he said, and then he added, after a
pause: "Would you mind pretending to be Zena's lover? When I saw her a
few days ago I said I would suggest this way to her."
Mind? Pretend! The professor little knew how the proposal pleased me.
He was offering me a part I could play to perfection.
"It is a good idea," was all I said.
"We even thought of a name for you--George Hastings--and you are a
surveyor. Being in Richmond, you thought you might venture to call,
not having seen Zena for some time. Mrs. Barrymore lives at Lantern
House, Richmond. If you see Mrs. Barrymore, as I hope you will, and
make yourself agreeable, she may give you permission to come again. I
think it will work all right."
"Will to-morrow be too soon to go?" I asked.
"No."
"If I am given the chance, I will certainly go again when I can.
Unfortunately, I am very busy just now."
"Ah, I haven't asked you about your work. Anything interesting?"
"One case, or, rather, three cases in one." And I told him about the
cyclists and the chauffeur.
"Only wounds in the head? What kind of wounds?" he asked.
"I did not see the cyclists. I can only speak of the chauffeur from
direct knowledge. The forehead, just by the margin of the hair, was
bruised and the skin slightly abraded. At the base of the head behind,
under the hair, there was another bruise--round, the size of half a
crown. There was no swelling, no blood. I am told that the cyclists
were also bruised about the temples."
"What had the doctor to say?"
"Very little in the chauffeur's case. Some severe blow had been
delivered, but he could not say how. He was puzzled. When I suggested
the man might have been run down by a car--quoting Baines's idea--he
said it was a possible explanation. He said so, I fancy, merely
because he had no other suggestion to offer."
"And the man's face, Wigan?"
"If a man could see death in some horrible shape, and his features
become suddenly fixed with terror, he might look like the chauffeur
did," I answered.
"He has not been identified either?"
"Not yet, but I'm hoping to trace him."
"Have you thought of one point, Wigan?" said Quarles, with some
eagerness. "He may not have been a chauffeur, nor the others cyclists.
They may only have worn the clothes."
"It is possible," I returned. "His hands had done manual work, but not
of an arduous kind. There were curious marks on the body, a
discoloration under the arms, and the skin somewhat chafed. Also, on
the outer side of the arms, there were marks just above the
elbows--depressions rather than discolorations. A rope bound round the
body might have produced the latter."
"There would have been marks upon the chest and back as well," said
Quarles.
"I do not say it was a rope," I returned. "Have you any helpful
theory, professor?"
For a few moments he had seemed keen--I should not have been surprised
had he suggested our going to the empty room. Now he became apathetic,
loose-minded, a man incapable of concentration. I had never known
Quarles quite like this before.
"I will think of it. When I read the accounts in the papers, I thought
I should like to assist you," he said slowly. "But it is impossible
to-night. Zena is not here. I am an incomplete machine without her.
You must have realized that, Wigan, by this time."
I have intimated before that the empty room, the listening for
inspiration, and Quarles's faith in Zena's questions did not impress
me very much. His excuse now I took as an intimation that he wanted to
be alone.
"I will call at Mrs. Barrymore's to-morrow," I said as I rose to go.
"That's right; Lantern House, Richmond. And, by the way, Mr.
Hastings--that is your name, remember--my granddaughter does not call
herself Zena Quarles, but Mary Corbett. I have an old friend, Mrs.
Corbett, and she has lent her name and her address for letters. Mrs.
Barrymore may have heard of me from her mother, and mine is not a name
easily forgotten. Besides----"
"I understand. You would help Mrs. Barrymore without her knowing it."
"There may be another reason. One does not advertise his financial
difficulties if he can help it."
"Professor, we are friends," I said, with some hesitation. "If you
want----"
"No, no," he answered quickly, "I do not want to borrow yet. Thank you
all the same, Wigan. Good night. And don't forget you are in love with
Mary Corbett."
On the following afternoon I went to Richmond, having supplied myself
with some surveying instruments to support the part I was to play.
This was unnecessary, perhaps, but I like to be on the safe side. I
was excited. I was in love, there was no pretense about it, and if I
could contrive to let Zena see the reality through the pretense, so
much the better.
Lantern House, which had grounds running down to the river, was large,
rambling, and parts of it were very old, contemporaneous with the old
Palace of Richmond, it was said. A small cupola in the central
portion of the building, possibly once used for star gazing, may have
suggested the name.
Zena evidently expected me, for the servant, without making any
inquiry, showed me into a room opening on to the gardens at the back.
Zena rose hastily from a writing-table and hurried to meet me.
"George!" she exclaimed.
I caught both her outstretched hands in mine.
"Dearest!"
She turned quickly, a color in her cheeks, and then I saw that we were
not alone. A lady had risen from a chair at the end of the room, and
came forward.
"This is George Hastings, Mrs. Barrymore," Zena said.
"Well, Mr. Hastings, you may kiss her if you like. I shall not be
shocked," and she laughed good-humoredly. "Mary told me that you might
come, and I am interested in the man she honors. So many girls make
fools of themselves, and marry worthless specimens. Outwardly, I see
nothing to take exception to in you. Your character----"
"I think Mary is satisfied," I said.
"So it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, eh?"
I laughed a little awkwardly, playing my part well, I fancy, and
showing just sufficient anxiety to impress Mrs. Barrymore favorably.
She was a very handsome woman, tall, athletic, and evidently addicted
to sport. Yet there was nothing ungraceful about her. Her manner was
gracious and attractive, her dress was charming. It was a marvel she
had succeeded in remaining a widow.
"I will leave you," she said presently. "But I can only spare Mary for
a very short time to-day. You know, my dear, how busy we are with the
appeal for that rescue society. Don't look so disappointed, Mr.
Hastings. You may come to-morrow and have tea with Mary."
"Thank you so much."
"But remember, only a few minutes to-day."
As she went out of the room, Zena gave me a warning look. I was
evidently to play my part even when Mrs. Barrymore was not there.
"Was there any harm in my coming, Mary?" I asked.
"No, dear. Mrs. Barrymore is very kind to me. George, you haven't
kissed me yet."
She was afraid that curious eyes might be upon us, and felt that the
parts we had assumed must be played thoroughly. I think the color
deepened in my own cheeks as I bent and touched her forehead with my
lips. I know hers did. For me it was a lover's kiss, the first I had
ever given.
"There is danger, but I am not sure what it is," she whispered, as we
stood close together. And then, drawing me to a chair, she said aloud:
"Tell me all you have been doing, George."
I concocted a story of my surveying work, and managed to be the lover
too. If we had an audience I fancy the deception was complete.
We were not left long together. Mrs. Barrymore came back with an
apology, and I departed, thinking a great deal more about Zena than of
any mystery there might be about her employer. Yet, from thinking of
her, I began to fear for her. What danger could there be at Lantern
House?
There was some mystery--the professor had said as much--but surely he
would not let his granddaughter run any risk? Still there was danger
enough for Zena to take precaution that our deception should not be
discovered, even to the extent of allowing me to kiss her. I passed a
restless night, and was in Richmond next day long before it was
possible for me to go to the house.
When I did go, I was at least an hour before my time.
I was shown into the same room as on the previous day. Mrs. Barrymore
was there alone.
"You are early," she said with a smile. "Lovers are ever impatient.
Did you meet Mary?"
"No. Is she out?"
"Oh, you need not go. She will be back to tea, and I am not sorry to
have a quiet talk with you, Mr. Hastings. I am interested in Mary
Corbett. She is nearly alone in the world, and my sympathy goes out to
such women. I have worked a great deal for societies dealing with
women's status and employment, and am most anxious to see a revision
of the laws which at present press too heavily on my sex. Come, tell
me all about yourself, your present position, your prospects--everything."
The story I told her would not have done discredit to a weaver of
romance, and she was so sympathetic a listener that I felt a little
ashamed of myself for practicing such deception.
"I think I am satisfied," she said at last, "and I judge you have a
soul above the mere commercial side of a surveyor's business--that the
beautiful has an appeal to you. Do you know anything about this
house?"
"I believe part of it is old," I said.
"Very old," she returned. "I like modern comforts, but I love the old
things too. We have a few minutes before tea and Mary's return. I will
show you the old part of Lantern House, if you like. I have tried to
give the rooms their original appearance, and am rather proud of my
achievement."
She was giving me an opportunity which I could hardly have expected, a
chance of seeing something which would give me a clew to the mystery
concerning her. I might have known better what to look for if only the
professor had been more explicit.
Talking pleasantly, calling my attention to a view from a window, or
to some unique piece of furniture, Mrs. Barrymore led me through
several rooms, the contents of which told of the wealth and taste of
the mistress of the house.
"I only use the old rooms on great occasions," she said, as we passed
from a small boudoir into a dim passage. "I have thought of letting
the public see them on certain days on payment of a small fee for the
benefit of some charity, but I have not quite made up my mind. It
would cut into my privacy a little, and in some ways I am selfish.
There are two steps down, Mr. Hastings."
She had opened a door and preceded me into a room, Tudor in its
construction, Tudor in its contents--at least, I suppose the contents
were all in keeping, but I had not sufficient knowledge to be quite
definite upon the point. The effect, if somewhat stiff and severe, was
pleasing.
"A Philistine friend of mine complains of the somberness," said Mrs.
Barrymore, "and wants me to have the electric light here as it is in
the rest of the house. Fancy Henry the Eighth wooing his many wives
under the electric light! Why, they would almost have seen what a
villain he was. Sit down for a moment, Mr. Hastings, and imagine
yourself back across the centuries. It was just such a chair as that
which the fat king used when he talked statecraft or divorce with
Wolsey."
She seated herself by the table, and I took the chair she indicated.
Never did blind man walk into a pit more unsuspectingly. The seat gave
under me, half a dozen inches, perhaps, setting the hidden mechanism
to quick work. My ankles were gripped, the arms closed across me,
pinning me securely just above the elbows, and a bar shot under my
chin, holding my head rigidly against the back of the chair.
Mrs. Barrymore got up quickly, went behind me, and, in a moment, had
passed a cloth of some thick material over my mouth. Then she came and
stood in front of me.
"Caught!" she said. "That chair holds you helpless and speechless. I
know just how you feel. I am going to tell you why. I daresay you know
I am an American--at least my father was, although my mother was
English. I married an Englishman, who was a genius, a crank, and a
devil. We lived in the States, where you know electrocution is the
death penalty, and my husband, a genius in all that had to do with
electricity, invented an improved method, using little current and
dangerous in one particular--it is impossible to tell how the victim
has died. He was so pleased with his invention he would not make it
public. He used it chiefly to terrify me. I was rich, my money was my
own, and to get money from me he has forced me into that chair, also
an invention of his, and sworn he would kill me. Mine was a life of
torture and terror. Then I played the siren with him. I asked him to
explain his devilish machine to me, and vowed to make over to him a
large sum of money in exchange for the secret. He agreed--the fool! I
kept my promise and paid the money, but one night when he was drunk, I
pushed him into that chair. He was the first victim of his own
invention, and to this day his death remains a mystery."
She laughed very quietly--not like a mad woman--and, going to a corner
of the room, she opened a panel near the floor and brought out a
curious contrivance, circular in shape, but not a complete
circle--something like a metal cap with a triangular piece missing at
the back. Wires were attached to it, and were also secured within the
cupboard. They uncoiled as she came across the room carrying the metal
cap in her hand.
"My husband was the type of brute who loves to torture women in some
form or other," she said. "There are thousands of such men, especially
in England, I think, or why are societies so necessary to protect
women, to help them, to relieve them? Such devils are better out of
the world, and I had the power to be something more than a
philanthropist. I had the knowledge and the money to be an active
agent. I came to England. I hate Englishmen because of my husband, and
I have made a beginning. It was easy among my charitable concerns to
hear of men who were brutes, and who would not be missed. In such a
man I took an interest, was kind to him, brought him here to Lantern
House to befriend him. He has sat in that chair as you are sitting, he
has worn this cap as you wear it. How to get rid of him afterward?
Underneath us is a basement where I have a car ready, a car I drive
myself, and of the existence of which nobody knows. An old house was
an advantage to me, you see. It is easy to put goggles and overalls on
a dead man. To contrive an iron frame which should keep him in a
sitting position was not difficult, and you are exactly over a trap
through which you can be lowered into the car. Then a drive in the
night, when I am dressed like a man, and have a companion with me who
sits upright beside me, then an unfrequented piece of country, and I
come home again--alone. Twice cyclists have been found--one of them a
foreigner--their broken machines beside them. It was easy to buy a
fifth rate motor machine, smash it, and carry it in the car. The cycle
confused investigation, and I was secure from detection. Then a
chauffeur was found. I did not take so much trouble with him, and I
wondered how his death would be explained."
She laughed again.
"You may say you are not one of these brutes--perhaps not. But do you
remember the day Lord Delmouth married Lady Evelyn Malling? Such a
wealth of wedding presents required careful watching, and a guest was
pointed out to me as Murray Wigan, the great detective. I never forget
a face, and I never underrate an enemy. I heard that Murray Wigan was
inquiring into the mysterious death of the chauffeur. I knew you the
moment you came into the house. Who the girl is, I do not care. Your
accomplice has nothing to fear--I do not war against women. I sent her
to London. When she returns she will learn that you have been and
gone. You will be found, Murray Wigan, sixty or seventy miles from
London, and since death by this method draws the features strangely,
it is doubtful if you will be identified. You were clever to get upon
my track, but you pay the penalty."
The perspiration stood out heavily upon me. Fear gripped me, and I was
helpless. Yet even in this supreme moment, even when this fiend of a
woman fitted that horrible metal cap upon my head, I remembered the
marks upon the dead chauffeur. He had been electrocuted as I was to
be. It was the frame holding him in a sitting posture which had marked
his body--it was this awful chair which had left those depressions on
his arms. I was glad to know the truth. It was the ruling passion,
strong in death.
The woman crossed to the cupboard quickly. There was a click, the
moving of the switch, and then--nothing. Thank God! Nothing. The cap
gripped my head, that was all.
The woman looked at me, and then rushed to the door, only to stagger
backward as Christopher Quarles and Zena met her on the threshold.
Their first thought was for me, and Mrs. Barrymore had the moment for
which she had always been prepared, doubtless. The poison pilule had
been concealed in a signet ring she wore, and in a few moments she was
lying dead in that horrible Tudor room.
That Mrs. Barrymore had invited me to come to tea on the following
day, when there was no reason why I should not have stayed then, had
aroused Zena's suspicions, and she had watched Mrs. Barrymore's every
movement. Until then she knew nothing of the secret of the Tudor room,
but she saw her employer go there and examine the cupboard.
In the night Zena went and examined it, and destroyed the current by
rendering the switch ineffective. Every day since Zena had been at
Lantern House Quarles had met her in the grounds. Of course she had
not gone to London that day, but had met her grandfather, and they had
entered the house together, unseen. They would have been in time to
prevent my going through that horrible ordeal had I not arrived an
hour before I was expected.
"You had no right to let Zena ran such a risk," I said to Quarles.
"You ought not to have sent her to Lantern House to test your
theories."
"She ran no risk," was his answer. "It was only against man Mrs.
Barrymore fought. I am sorry you had such an experience, Wigan. I
never supposed she would attempt your life, did not imagine she would
know who you were. Indeed, I was doubtful of my theory altogether.
When the first cyclist was found, I suspected electrocution in some
form, and the other two cases went to confirm the suspicion. I knew
something of Barrymore, a hateful brute but a genius, and I knew his
wonderful knowledge of electricity. His death must have been a relief
to his wife, and the manner of it made me suspicious of her. He was
found on a lonely road miles away from his home in Washington, and no
one could tell how he died. Was it remarkable I should wonder if Mrs.
Barrymore were responsible for the crimes here? And I would have saved
her if I could, for the sake of her mother. If I could have done that,
Wigan, you would have got no theory out of me in this case, and your
friend Baines might have gone on hunting for his mad motorist for the
rest of his days."
So I had touched the professor's romance, and now had one of my own. I
had pretended to be a lover, and I had found a moment to tell Zena
that it was no pretense with me. The color deepened in her cheeks as
it had done when I kissed her, but she did not stop my confession.
"My grandfather----"
"He can still remain with us," I said eagerly, seeing no difficulties.
"Say yes, Zena."
"It must not be yet."
"But some day?"
"Perhaps--some day."
And I was content.