A FAMILY HISTORY.
Mr. Dowker was not a man to let grass grow under his feet, so he went
straight to the photographer whose name was on the back of the
portrait found in Lena Sarschine's possession, and ascertained without
much difficulty that it was that of Lady Balscombe.
"Now, what the deuce was that portrait doing in her desk?" he
muttered, as he left the gallery, "and why should Lydia Fenny mistake
it for her mistress? I wish I could get a picture of Miss Sarschine."
But he could not manage this, for, according to Lydia Fenny, Miss
Sarschine would never consent to have her portrait taken, so that he
had no means of learning if there was such a wonderful resemblance
between the two women, except by personal description, which was not
by any means satisfactory.
Under these circumstances there was only one thing to be done--see
Captain Dicksfall, the father of Lena--so putting a few things
together Dowker caught the afternoon train to Folkestone from Charing
Cross.
Dowker duly arrived at Folkestone and took up his abode in an hotel in
the Sandigate Road, where he ordered himself a pleasant little dinner
and made the acquaintance of a fatherly old waiter who knew everyone
and everything.
Barbers have the credit of being most notorious gossips, videlicet
Figaro, and the Barber in "The Arabian Nights," but, as a matter of
fact, they are not worse than waiters, who generally hear everything
that's going on in their locality, and, being of a garrulous nature,
do not keep their knowledge to themselves.
This waiter at the Prince's Hotel rejoiced in the name of Martin, and,
hovering about Dowker, armed with a napkin and a pint bottle of
Heidsieck, managed to satisfy that gentleman's curiosity concerning
the existence of Captain Michael Dicksfall.
"Yes, sir--know him well, sir--by sight, sir," he said, brimming the
empty glass with champagne. "H'old gentleman, sir--bin in the
army--'ad two daughters."
"Two daughters?" repeated Dowker eagerly.
"Yes, sir--Miss Amelia and Miss Helena, sir--twins--as fine-looking
gals as you ever saw, sir--tall, 'andsome, and golden 'air."
"Oh, indeed!" replied Dowker indifferently. "And are they living with
Captain Dicksfall?"
"No, sir," said Martin gravely. "You see, sir, Miss Helena fell in
love with a gent who was stopping at the Pavilion, sir, and went off
with him."
"What was his name?"
"Don't know, sir. He called himself Carrill, but they do say it was
not his right name."
"Humph!"
Dowker pondered a little over this. It was as he had thought after
reading the letters. Lord Calliston had masqueraded at Folkestone
under the name of Carrill, and had inveigled Helena Dicksfall away
from home, and kept her in St. John's Wood as "Lena Sarschine."
"And the other young lady," he asked, "Miss Amelia?"
"Oh, she made a good match, sir," replied Martin. "Married Sir Rupert
Balscombe, sir, about a year ago. But I did 'ear, sir, as 'ow she 'ad
bolted last week, sir, with Lord Calliston--same blood, sir; it will
come out," and Martin departed to attend upon an important customer.
"Same blood," repeated Dowker musingly. "I wonder if he knows it's the
same man? Calliston evidently had a _penchant_ for the family, for
there seems to be no doubt that Miss Sarschine and Lady Balscombe were
sisters. So he kept one and made love to the other! Queer--deuced
queer! Well, I think I had better look up Captain Dicksfall."
He finished his wine, and putting on his hat, went out into the cool
evening and strolled leisurely along the Leas, first having taken the
precaution of putting Dicksfall's address in his pocket.
There were a great number of people on the Leas, and that pleasant
promenade was crowded with youth, beauty, and fashion. Charming girls
in charming dresses, well-dressed men, happy-looking boys, and here
and there a shaky-looking invalid, formed the greater part of the
assembly, so that Dowker found a good deal of amusement in watching
the passers-by. The lift was hard at work lowering people to the beach
below or taking them up to the higher level, and the pier was full of
gaily-dressed idlers, who looked like pigmies from the heights above.
Very pleasant and amusing to an unoccupied man, but Dowker being down
on business, and not pleasure, turned away from the pleasant scene and
went up past Harvey's statue towards the heart of the new town.
He had no difficulty in finding Captain Dicksfall's cottage, which was
a comfortable-looking place with a small garden in front. A neat
maid-servant admitted him into a dusky passage, and from thence showed
him into a small drawing-room, at the end of which, near the window,
Captain Dicksfall lay on a sofa, looking out on to the quiet street. A
haggard, pale face, worn by suffering, but which had once been
handsome. He lay supinely on the sofa in an attitude of utter
lassitude, covered by a heavy rug, and his slender white hands were
toying with a book which was lying on his lap.
He turned fretfully when Dowker entered, and spoke in the querulous
voice of an invalid.
"What is it, my good man?" he said peevishly. "Why do you come and
disturb me at this hour? My doctor has ordered complete rest, and how
can I get it if you trouble me?"
"Selfish old chap," thought Dowker, but without saying a word he took
his seat near the invalid and commenced to talk.
"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," he said respectfully, "but I wanted
to see you about your daughters."
"My daughters!" echoed Captain Dicksfall, angrily. "You are making a
mistake, I have only one--Lady Balscombe!"
Dowker felt disappointed. Only one daughter! If so, Lena Sarschine
could be no relation of Lady Balscombe, and his theory about the
possible motive for the committal of the Piccadilly crime would fall
to the ground. But then the name, Helena Dicksfall--the portrait of
the old gentleman before him. It must be true.
"I understood you had two daughters, sir, Lady Balscombe and Miss
Helena Dicksfall?"
The invalid turned sharply on him.
"Who the devil are you to intrude yourself into my private affairs?"
Dowker came at once promptly to the point.
"My name is Dowker. I am a detective."
Captain Dicksfall struck his hand angrily down on the pillow.
"Sent by Sir Rupert, I presume?" he said with a sneer. "He
wants to get a divorce, and you have come to me for evidence. I know
nothing--my daughter was always a good daughter to me, and if Sir
Rupert had treated her well, this elopement with Lord Calliston would
never have taken place. He is to blame--not she."
"I do not come from Sir Rupert," said Dowker coldly, "but from
Scotland Yard."
"About what?"
"The death of your other daughter."
Captain Dicksfall started up with a groan, and stared wildly at
Dowker.
"Good God! Is Helena dead?"
"Who is Helena?" asked Dowker, stolidly.
"My daughter--my daughter."
"I thought you said you'd only one, sir."
The sick man turned away his face.
"I had two," he said in a low tone, "but one, the eldest, ran away
with some scamp, called Carrill. Since then I have heard nothing of
her, so I always say I have only one."
Dowker thought for a few moments. It was a very delicate position to
occupy, and, feeling it to be so, for a moment he was doubtful as to
how to proceed.
"Captain Dicksfall," he said at length, "I know I am only a common man
and you are a gentleman; it is not for such as me to speak to you
about your private affairs, but this is a matter of life or death to a
human being, and, if you hear my story, I am sure you will not refuse
to help me by telling me what I want to know."
Dicksfall was looking at the detective with a sombre fire burning in
his unusually bright eyes, then with a sigh he lay down and prepared
to listen.
"Tell me what you wish," he said languidly, "and, if possible, I will
do what you require."
Whereupon, Dowker told him the story of the Jermyn Street murder, the
elopement of Lady Balscombe, and the reasons he had for believing that
the two incidents were connected in some mysterious way. He also
informed him of the arrest of Myles Desmond, and of the doubts he
entertained concerning his criminality.
At the conclusion, Dicksfall was silent for a minute, then turned
towards the detective, and clasped his thin fingers nervously
together.
"I am a proud man," he said with a touch of pathos, "and do not care
about telling the world my private affairs; but in a case like this I
think it is only right I should put myself aside for the sake of
clearing the character of an innocent man. What do you wish to know?"
"Was Lena Sarschine your daughter?"
For answer Dicksfall pointed to a small table near at hand, upon which
was a morocco frame containing two portraits. Dowker took them to the
window and looked at them.
"Both of the same lady?" he asked.
Dicksfall smiled faintly.
"You are not the first who has been deceived," he said with a sigh.
"No! One is my daughter Helena, who, from your story, I believe to be
Lena Sarschine, and the other is Amelia, Lady Balscombe--twins."
Dowker examined the photographs closely, and was astonished at the
likeness, which was further aided by both of them being dressed
exactly alike.
"It is wonderful," he said, and no longer marvelled at the way in
which Lydia Fenny and Anne Lifford had confused the identity of the
portrait found in Lena Sarschine's desk.
"I have been living here for many years," said Dicksfall in a low
voice, "and my two daughters lived with me. Their mother has been dead
a long time. About three years ago, a young man, who called himself
Carrill, came here and stopped at the Pavilion Hotel. He obtained an
introduction to me by some means, and appeared to be struck with the
beauty of Helena. I thought he was going to marry her, when I heard
rumours as to the fastness of his life, and also that he was not what
he represented himself to be. I taxed him with it, but he denied the
accusation, yet so transparent was his denial that I forbade him the
house, The result was that Helena ran away with him, and, until the
time you spoke to me of her and told me his real name, I did not know
it, and never entertained any suspicion as to his real rank in life. I
was so angry that I forbade Helena's name to be mentioned in my
hearing, and always said, as I did to-night, that I had only one
daughter--my daughter Amelia, married to Sir Rupert Balscombe last
year, and I thought that she would, at least, not follow the example
of her sister. Now, however, I know all, but, to tell you the truth, I
blame Sir Rupert for her elopement, as I know she was a kind daughter,
and I am sure she'd have made a good wife. He was very jealous of her,
and had a fearful temper, so I daresay he drove her to it. From what
you say, I suppose my poor Helena went to see her sister on the night
of the elopement to dissuade her from going with Lord Calliston, and
surely she had the best right to speak of one who had ruined her own
life, but evidently her arguments were of no avail, and she called at
Calliston's chambers to remonstrate with him. He was not there, and
she went out to her death, and then Amelia eloped with him, as you
have told me. I was a fast man in my youth, and the sins of the father
are being visited on the children."
"But this does not clear up the mystery of Lena Sarschine's death."
"Don't call her by that name," said Dicksfall angrily. "It is the name
that shames her. No; you are right, it does not explain her death, but
I do not know, from what you say, what motive Myles Desmond could have
had in murdering her."
"I don't believe he did," said Dowker bluntly, "but I want to find out
your daughter's past life. Had she any lovers?"
Dicksfall flushed a deep red.
"She was always a good daughter to me," he said quietly, "but I
believe she was very much admired."
"Do you know the name of anyone who admired her?"
"No."
"Not one?
"Not one."
There was clearly nothing more to be gained from Dicksfall, so Dowker
respectfully said good-bye and took his leave.
"At all events," he said to himself, as he wended his way back to his
hotel, "I've found out one thing--Lena Sarschine and Lady Balscombe
were sisters, and both loved the same man. What I'd like to know is,
whether Lady Balscombe killed her sister out of jealousy. D--n it, I'm
getting more perplexed than ever. This visit instead of clearing up
the mystery deepens it. I think I'll see Sir Rupert Balscombe and ask
him about things; as his wife is mixed up in it, I've a right, and I'd
give anything to save that young fellow's life, because I'm sure he's
innocent."