“You see,” he added, “that’s awfully like Dolores. There’s the same
type again, submerging any likelihood of a likeness to the other
parent, for old Lord Madeley was fair and fat and podgy--blue eyes,
as a matter of fact. Sir John was fair, and his features were very
indefinite. Evangeline’s mother and Lady Madeley, even if there were
no relationship, were of the same physiological type, and that an
aggressive one, and you see the type reproduces itself. I’m almost
beginning to think it must be merely type and domination of type, and
that alone, with no question of consanguinity. Besides, when all’s said
and done, it’s a foreign type.”
“But what does that matter?”
“What I mean is this: Just as all niggers look alike to an Englishman,
and just as we find it hard to distinguish one Chinaman from another,
so a strange type to us overrides in our observations the little
differences by which in our own type we distinguish one another and
recognise each other. Therefore, may not this type--Spanish, I suppose
it must be, from the name Alvarez--override, in our observation (from
the fact that it is foreign and unusual), the little niceties of
difference by which those who belonged to the type would themselves
differentiate?”
“Then, do you mean that these people may not really be so alike as we
think they are?”
“That’s precisely what I do mean. Here we have apparently Eulalie Lady
Madeley, and Dolores Alvarez, and Consuelo Lady Madeley, whom we know
to be related, all very much alike. We have Lady Rellingham and another
girl, Evangeline Stableford, and yet another, Sir John’s daughter,
if they are not one and the same, though I am sure they are. We are
trying to presume an Alvarez relationship for Evangeline, solely on
account of her remarkable likeness and the presumed likeness of Lady
Rellingham. There is not one other single solitary reason from which
relationship can be presumed; and after all, to a person familiar with
the type, the likeness might not be so pronounced as to us it appears
to be. To a Spaniard, for instance, it might not be sufficient to even
suggest relationship. You’ve always got to bear that in mind. So long
as the identity of Evangeline was a mystery, we had to clutch at any
straw that might prove who she was, and perhaps I attached too great an
importance to the likeness. It is nothing like so important now we are
practically certain Evangeline was Sir John’s daughter and that we know
who her mother was. Besides, Lady Rellingham’s name was Manuel. That
name is Spanish or Portuguese, and very likely Jewish as well, which
accounts for the occurrence of the type, and, as I said, the likeness
may be no more than identity of type.”
“Tempest,” said Marston, “I’m beginning to understand your wonderful
success with juries. We argued this likeness point once before, when
you were putting forward a very different theory. I thoroughly accepted
what you said then, but you have convinced me just as thoroughly of
your new proposition.”
The barrister laughed. “I’ll tell you the secret of that. There
are weak points in both propositions, because there is in each an
unknown quantity, and one argues on the ‘may’ and the ‘might’ and
the ‘probable.’ One can always persuade a reasonable man that a
thing ‘may’ be so, if the proposition you offer is plausible and
not self-negatived. But when you lay down a proposition as not only
possible but unquestionably correct, and one goes on to the words ‘is’
and ‘must be’ and ‘therefore,’ one needs to prove things. However, what
are we going to do to-night? What do you say, Baxter? How about the
Palace?”
Baxter shivered. “Don’t let me stop you others, if you want to go; but
I don’t feel up to it. God! It’s only a few hours since the noose was
around my neck, and I haven’t got over the horror of it yet.”
The others looked at him with sympathy. They had been ready enough to
forget what was over and done with.
“But I told you yesterday, Baxter, that I would get you off. Didn’t you
believe I could?”
“It wasn’t you I doubted, Tempest; it was the jury. One does get
such damned fools sometimes as jurymen, and there’s an awful lot of
prejudice against us. That newspaper campaign was carried to ghastly
lengths. Tempest, have you got any nearer in your own way to solving
the mystery of either Sir John’s death or Evangeline’s death?”
“No, not an inch nearer; except that I’m pretty certain Evangeline
was Sir John’s daughter. At present it’s arguing with several unknown
quantities. Still, one has got a bit of a foundation now. Sir John has
been proved to have married a certain Sarah Jane Manuel.”
“Then Sarah Jane Manuel was Evangeline’s mother, Q. E. D.? Go along,
Tempest!”
“How do you know, Marston? I don’t feel by any means certain on the
point. Look here, then, why didn’t Sir John acknowledge his wife and
daughter? He told you, Baxter, that he couldn’t because that would
involve the disclosure of somebody else’s secret. If she were his
daughter by his wedded wife, what secret could there be about her
birth? I can assure you that it looks very much as if Evangeline were
his illegitimate daughter. Only, if she were, what earthly object could
anyone have in murdering her? Sir John had left her nothing in his
will. She was not his heir. She stood in no one’s way.”
“Why didn’t Sir John provide for her, Tempest? He was a just,
honourable man, with plenty of money. He leaves the whole of his money
practically to us--the three of us; and none of us had any claim on
him. As a matter of fact, it was the contrary. We were all indebted to
Sir John.”
“But you’ve forgotten the probability is that Sir John did provide for
her by means of the secret trust. Evangeline was expected to be the
heir of Lady Stableford. Here, of course, it won’t go any further.
You fellows have got the old lady’s will at your office. Now, did she
provide for the girl?”
“Yes. Sir John drew her will, so he knew what she had done.”
“Quite so; and if she did provide, Sir John was under no necessity to
disclose the other person’s secret, which he was guarding, by providing
for the girl in his own will. But Evangeline had quarrelled once with
Lady Stableford, and had been cut out of the will once before. There
was always the risk of another quarrel and the same thing happening
again. That was the risk for which the secret trust provides--of that
I’m positive now. Yes, I think we can take that as certain;” and the
barrister, lighting another of his eternal cigarettes, tilted his chair
back and lapsed into silence as he thought.
The other men kept silent. Tempest was so obviously puzzling the thing
out further. At last Marston broke the silence. “Granted all that,
Tempest. But what on earth was the good to Evangeline of creating that
trust at all, if we, the trustees, don’t know when we are to call it
into operation for her benefit?”
“Don’t you forget your instructions. You were to wait till something
happened from outside, to put you all in motion. You must assume Sir
John had laid his plans for this something to be made to happen, if
necessary. As he would then be dead, the making of the happening
rested with some third person, probably Evangeline herself. Have you
fellows forgotten the basis of a cryptogram? The key is divided into
two parts, and those two parts must come together in unison before the
key is apparent. You three have one part of the cryptogram in your
hands contained in your instructions. It was probable Evangeline had
the other part. She was probably to write to you, if through a change
of Lady Stableford’s will she needed the money. She is dead. She will
never claim the money, and you three can spend it now with a light
heart. Still, here’s another thing. If Evangeline knew all, and could
call that trust into operation merely by writing to you, what was to
prevent her doing so, whether she needed the money or not? If Sir John
left things in that state, the secret was at the mercy of Evangeline,
and I don’t think it was her secret. She may not have known what the
secret was, nor indeed that there was one at all, but nevertheless its
disclosure rested with her. There was probably a third part to the
cryptogram in the hands of someone else.”
“Who would that be likely to be?”
“Probably the person whose secret it was?”
“But if that were so, what would the inducement be to her to ever
disclose her secret?”
“One or other of two things. Either she is to participate in the trust,
or else Sir John depended on the affection of a mother to efface
herself for her child in case of dire necessity. Remember, it’s only
a disclosure to you three, and that’s not a very serious risk. Few
people need mind that.”
“Then, why didn’t Sir John disclose it to us?”
“Firstly, his loyalty regarding the secret of another person; secondly,
the risk run by putting it on paper, when very likely, in all
probability, he would outlive Lady Stableford, and himself know whether
or not Evangeline had been provided for; because, if in his lifetime
he knew Lady Stableford had left her money to Evangeline, the trust
was quite unnecessary, and Sir John would at once have destroyed his
present will and made another. Now, assuming all that to be true, who
stood to benefit by Evangeline’s death?”
“We three did.”
“Quite so. Consequently it was jolly lucky for Baxter the terms of the
trust are not public.”
“God! Tempest. What a risk I ran!”
“You did at first, old man. But there was somebody else who would
benefit. If Evangeline were illegitimate, the person whose secret was
at stake might desire her death. If Evangeline were legitimate, her
heir would benefit. In either case it is the mother. Now, didn’t I
tell you once before--argued from a totally different standpoint--that
Evangeline’s mother had murdered her?”
“But it’s such a horrible thought, Tempest, that a mother would murder
her own child!”
“I know it is; but horrible or not, Marston, it’s a thing done every
day. Scarcely a session at the Old Bailey goes by that some poor
wretched girl or other isn’t taking her trial for it. We generally
get them let off as Not Guilty, or else only guilty of concealment of
birth, and then they are usually discharged. But it’s generally murder
all the same. We all know it--the police know it--and the judge knows
it; but there is a kind of unwritten code that in cases of infanticide
the girl is to get off, if the facts can in any way be sufficiently
twisted.”
“But Evangeline wasn’t an infant.”
“No; but you were objecting only on the score of maternal feeling. With
an infant, the maternal feeling is often overcome; and as Evangeline’s
mother got rid of her as an infant, the maternal feeling can’t have
been any greater. It never had any opportunity of growing.”
“Then you think, Tempest, that if we find Evangeline’s mother, that we
shall have got to the solution of the girl’s murder?”
“You’ll have got the guilty person; but assuming you do get hold of
her, I don’t see how you will ever convict her or get a full solution,
except by means of a confession.”
“Tempest, how about the murder of Sir John? That is what we are most
concerned about.”
“Yes, I know; and it puzzles me far more than the other one. Outside
you three, what earthly object could anyone have had in murdering him?
Any client with a grievance has got to murder all the lot of you,
either to wreak a revenge for a business grievance to alter the course
of any events.”
“But, Tempest, we haven’t got such a client. We scarcely ever litigate
in the ordinary sense. Chancery motions, by mutual arrangement to get
orders of the court, and that kind of thing, don’t beget clients or
opponents with a grievance. Our business is conveyancing and trust work
and family settlements. In the whole history of the firm, we’ve never
quarrelled with a client over his or her account.”
“Then you are arguing yourselves a bit closer. I’m certain of
this much. Sir John had an appointment at the office that evening
with someone over a matter which was not the business of the firm.
If Smith’s tale be true, Smith was practically made to clear out.
Therefore, Sir John himself answers the door and admits somebody.
That somebody shoots him, and lets himself or herself out afterwards,
taking the revolver with him. As far as I can see, that is all you are
justified as taking to be provable by deduction, and you must start
guessing. Now, what was the only thing we are any of us aware of that
Sir John was keeping secret?”
“His secret trust.”
“Well, put it rather the secret of this other person to safeguard,
which Sir John created, the secret trust?”
“What next?”
“Who were the people who knew the secret?”
“Sir John.”
“Yes, and also the person it concerned, and perhaps Evangeline
Stableford, too, though I rather doubt if she knew the whole or indeed
very much of it. Now, as I’ve told you, I believe it to be Evangeline’s
mother whose secret is being safeguarded.”
“Then do you say it was Evangeline’s mother who murdered Sir John?”
“Oh, wait a bit! What was to prevent Sir John having arranged a meeting
between the two of them there in his presence, to make arrangements
about calling the trust into operation, if it were ever necessary?
Let’s assume he did. Assume they met there, which of them would be the
more likely to shoot him?”
“The daughter,” said Marston.
“Why do you think that?”
“She murdered him and then committed suicide.”
Tempest shook his head. “No, I think you are wrong. The mother shot Sir
John in the presence of her daughter; then she murders the daughter
as well, to cover up the disclosure. _Voila tout._ There you have a
complete explanation--a logical explanation, and a sufficient one for
both murders.”
“Tempest, I believe you’ve hit it.”
“I may have done; but it’s all pure guesswork. It won’t hang her.”
“How did she put the revolver in my suit-case?”
“God knows, old man! That I fancy will always be a mystery. When was
the revolver put there?”
“I wish I knew.”
“If the woman had thought, as she probably did, she would know that
you, with a man servant, would never pack for yourself. She couldn’t
know which bag you used, nor could she know when you would use
any particular one. If she put that revolver there any long time
afterwards, she must have guessed that the veriest fool would know that
Bailey might have packed and unpacked in the interval, and could swear
to the absence of the revolver on the days he packed and unpacked for
you. No, she probably put it there soon after the murder--probably when
Bailey’s wife was away. That was soon after the murder was committed.
It’s quite likely you were watched.”
“But why should she pitch upon me?”
“Because the first person suspected of an unexplained murder is a
person who would stand to profit by the death. Don’t forget she knew
the broad outlines of the secret trust--probably was the only person
to know them--and knew you three would benefit greatly. Any one of you
three would satisfy her purpose. She simply followed the line of least
resistance.”
“But you are making her out, and assuming her to be, as clever as
yourself in thinking things out. It’s a wrong presumption, Tempest. I
think I’d pass for a man of average intelligence any day, but I should
never have thought of half the things you’ve laid down.”
“No! no! Baxter. You may be a wee bit surprised at my thinking them
out--you may, even as you say, have failed to do it yourself, but the
surprise to you rests on the arrival at the conclusion from apparently
unknown premises. You must remember there was nothing unknown to her,
whilst we are groping in the dark. She was in the full light of a
complete knowledge of all the facts. I wish I knew whether the woman
were Sir John’s wife, or the mother of Evangeline, or a third person
altogether. She may be both wife and mother. What I advise you to do
now is to search again for the birth of Evangeline under the names of
Manuel and Rellingham. Search in England, Scotland, and Ireland, and
France and Belgium and Holland. There’s hardly time enough for her to
have been born further afield.”
“Is that all we can do?”
“Well, one step at a time isn’t a bad plan. But as it happens there is
something else you can do. Look here! Assume that I am right, and that
the interview with one or both of the women took place in reference to
the trust. It’s a big assumption of course; but take it for granted
for the moment. Why did Sir John provoke or permit that interview?
Lady Stableford had altered her will, cutting out Evangeline nearly
two years before; yet Sir John took no steps. His will was certainly
in existence some time before his death; but, as I explained to you,
one, if not two, other people had to be let into their share of the
cryptogram. If they knew before, we can hardly presume the meeting to
have a reference to this point. On the other hand, why have the meeting
at all, when Evangeline would come of age so soon after? The moment she
came of age Sir John could have given her the money without any other
explanation than that he was her father. He needn’t even have told her
that much. Any tale would have done, and he had plenty of money to
provide for her in cash, and might just as well have done so, instead
of putting the money in the trust. Why didn’t he wait a few months
longer? He had already waited twenty years. He wasn’t an old man--only
fifty-five. Why should he have anticipated his own death?”
“Goodness only knows! But go on. I can see you’ve got some idea. Out
with it.”
“Who was Sir John’s doctor?”
“Old Allingham of Harley Street.”
“I don’t know the gentleman; but go to him, and ask him whether, at any
time shortly before his death, Sir John consulted him? I expect you
will find Allingham told him his heart was affected. If he did, then
you have the reason why Sir John precipitated the matter. And mind you,
if you do find that to be true, it’s pretty good confirmation that all
the rest of the supposition I put to you will hold water.”
Soon afterwards the party broke off, and Tempest heard no more of the
matter until ten days later, when Baxter called to show him a copy
of the birth-certificate of an unnamed female child, born in Dublin
on the 18th of August, 1881, and registered as the daughter of John
Rellingham, solicitor, and Sarah Jane, formerly Manuel. Tempest laughed
as he read the certificate through. “Isn’t it funny,” he said, “that
when we were hunting high and low for the birth of that child, it
never entered our heads to look for a daughter of Sir John? She’s
registered in the right name, too.”
“I’ve seen Allingham. You were quite right in your guess. He thoroughly
examined Sir John about a month before the date of the murder. It
wasn’t heart disease. It was cancer of the throat. He told Sir John he
could count on at least three months. He strongly advised an operation,
and Sir John was very much inclined to agree; in fact it was almost
arranged, but it would have been a very risky operation.”
“Then, that’s why he was making his arrangements? Didn’t he say
anything to any of you three?”
“Not a word; but then he was always very reserved about himself.”
The barrister hummed a tune, and then, lighting a cigarette, fell to
pacing his room, as he always did when working out his problems.
“Well, Baxter, Sir John provoked that interview, which we presume
was about the secret trust, in order to make the different parts
of the key to the cryptogram ready to work, in case he died before
Evangeline came of age. Do you remember that letter you found copied
in his private letter-book? That was an invitation to the interview.
Now, knowing it was going to take place, knowing he had to provide for
Evangeline’s future, he goes to see you the night before and asks you
to marry the girl. Then he could have settled everything by leaving
the money to you. That would have excited no comment, and probably
he would have abandoned his secret trust, and no doubt he would have
taken a different line at the interview. But you wouldn’t promise
unconditionally to marry the girl?”
“He wanted me to marry her in a day or two’s time by special licence. I
couldn’t do it. I’d never seen the girl.”
“And Sir John knew he couldn’t wait.”
“I almost wish I’d consented. I wonder if it would have altered
matters?”
“That we shall never know.”
The solicitor was grave enough as he added, “Something else has
happened.”
“What’s that?”
“What do you guess, Tempest?”
“How do I know, unless you’ve found the lady?”
Baxter pitched him a letter across the table. The barrister picked it
up and read it.
“135 CHANCERY LANE, W. C.
“DEAR SIRS,--We are instructed by our client, Lady Rellingham, relict
of Sir John Rellingham, deceased, late the senior partner in your
firm, to make formal claim to the £20,000 held in trust for her,
under Sir John’s will, by yourselves, his surviving partners and
executors. The terms of the will are before us, and of course these
do not specifically allude to Lady Rellingham by that or any other
name or description; but we are enclosing a copy, and are prepared
to produce, for your inspection, the original of a letter from the
late Sir John Rellingham, in his own handwriting, which can leave no
doubt of his intentions, and we have no doubt it will be in accord
with those directions to yourself to which the will alludes. We
should have ventured to express our surprise that the money should
have remained in your hands so long, and that during that time no
effort should have been made to fulfil the obligations of the trust,
were it not that our client informs us that she has been abroad for
many years past, that her marriage to Sir John has always been kept a
profound secret, and that she was, until quite recently, unaware of
Sir John’s death. We are prepared to produce, as and when required,
proof of the marriage of Sir John to our client and of her identity.
Our client has no desire to encourage any greater publicity than
may be necessary in view of the terms of separation which had long
existed between herself and her husband; in fact, she would prefer
to maintain the silence which has hitherto been observed concerning
the marriage. In this we trust you will feel disposed and able to act
in unison and conformity with such expression of her wishes; and we
should suppose, as he subsequently contracted a bigamous marriage,
that for the sake of Sir John Rellingham’s reputation, you would
yourselves prefer to do so. But, of course, the large sum at stake
precludes any suggestion of less favourable terms being accepted
merely to obtain an avoidance of publicity. If you require publicity,
our client will not shrink from it.--We are, dear sirs, yours
faithfully, CLUTCH & HOLDEM.
“To Messrs. Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse.”
The enclosure was as follows:--
“MY DEAR,--As a tangible evidence of my wish when you claim the money
which I am leaving in trust for you to have, if you are so placed
that you ever need it after I am gone, I write you this letter. You
understand it, so will my partners when you produce it.--Yours most
affectionately, JOHN RELLINGHAM.”
“What do you think of it, Tempest?” asked the solicitor.
“It’s precisely what I’ve been expecting.”
“Expecting! Why should you expect it?”
“When I told the judge in open court (I shouldn’t have said it, of
course, if I hadn’t known of the duplicate set of papers), but when I
told him that the directions for the disposal of the trust were in a
sealed packet, and that that packet had been destroyed, and that you
three didn’t yourselves know what were the original intentions of Sir
John in creating the trust, I felt pretty confident you would have a
crop of bogus claims. This is the first. I was inviting them, and I
knew it.”
“But this looks genuine. They have the fact of the marriage. That is
not public property, but we know it is true.”
“Quite so, Baxter; but at least three other people, the witnesses and
the parson, must also have known it originally. And goodness only knows
who they have since told, and very likely there are several other
people as well,--the relatives of Sir John’s wife.”
“But the letter fits so well.”
“Of course it does; but in view of what the public know, anybody could
have concocted that letter. It could have been made to fit. You weren’t
likely to have a letter fired at you that wouldn’t fit. Now, there are
these points you must bear in mind: (1) The letter may be a forgery.
(2) There may be no Lady Rellingham now in existence, and this may be
a simple ramp on the part of Clutch & Holdem--you know the sort of
reputation that firm has? (3) They may have a client who is claiming
to be Lady Rellingham, but who is nothing of the kind. (4) But even if
she is Lady Rellingham, and even if the letter is genuine, it doesn’t
follow that it refers to the secret trust. Then added to all that, by a
decree of the court, under the terms of the will, the money now belongs
to you three in fee simple.”
“But we’ve reconstituted the trust.”
“Yes, but who knows except yourselves? That didn’t come out in court.
All that came out was, that you three still held the money.”
“Is that a complete answer?”
“I’m not quite sure. I work on the common law side, and I don’t want to
dogmatise on a chancery point; but it seems to me at any rate arguable
that if the trust is a simple trust for her benefit, claimable by her
on Sir John’s death, if she were then alive, then it had already vested
in her before the Treasury took action against you, and consequently
the trust created by the will was at an end, and the money would be her
absolute property before the court decrees it to yourselves. If it were
hers I should fancy the decree could hardly divest her of her absolute
property. You’ll probably have to open that packet, if the thing is
pressed, for it has the semblance of being a genuine claim and one that
looks _prima facie_ as if it might be substantiated.”
“Do you recommend us to pay or get out the papers?”
“I wouldn’t get ’em out yet. Sir John trusted you all so implicitly
that I wouldn’t get them out until the very last resort. If this is a
mere bluff, you may stop it by bluffing back. Go and see the letter,
and if it’s in Sir John’s handwriting, then ask for proof of the
marriage and proof of identity. When those are forthcoming, if they
are, simply point-blank refuse to pay, and see what happens. Say that
under the judgment of the court the trust is over and the money vested
in yourselves. Here, I’ll draft you the reply.”
Seating himself at his writing-table Tempest wrote as follows:--
“Messrs. CLUTCH & HOLDEM.
“DEAR SIRS,--Without attempting to discuss the merits of the claim,
if any, which your client may conceive herself to possess, we would
refer you to the terms of the will of Sir John Rellingham, of which
you appear to have ample knowledge. We would remind you that the
Crown commenced legal proceedings against us, to compel a disclosure
of the terms of the trust; that we resisted this; and that the court
decreed that under the expressed terms of Sir John’s will the capital
funds had vested in us as our absolute property.--Yours faithfully,
RELLINGHAM, BAXTER, MARSTON & MOORHOUSE.”
The solicitor read the draft.
“I don’t like it, Tempest. All three of us are ready and anxious to pay
over the money, if this be really Sir John’s intention.”
“Of course I know that; but the odds are so heavy that this is a bogus
claim that you are bound to fight it.”
By return of post came the following reply, which Baxter took round to
his chambers for Tempest to see:--
“DEAR SIRS,--We are surprised at the tone and contents of your
letter. We had not overlooked the facts you allude to, but we are
advised by counsel that the trust moneys had already become vested
in our client before the Crown took action, and that therefore the
decree is of no weight. We shall be glad if you will give the matter
further consideration, as we do not wish to resort to litigation
unnecessarily.--Yours faithfully, CLUTCH & HOLDEM.”
“This seems to be getting interesting,” said Tempest as he read the
letter.
“Now write to them, and ask them to produce, for your inspection, the
original of the letter written by Sir John and the certificate of the
marriage. You should also ask them how they propose to prove the
identity of their client with the lady who married Sir John? Let me
know what they say.”
The letter was duly written; and Tempest learned afterwards from
Baxter that there could be no doubt whatever that the letter had been
written by Sir John. “It’s on the firm’s paper. It’s all in his own
handwriting. It couldn’t have been forged so perfectly. You see, it
isn’t just the question of a signature.”
“Very well, then, I take it that Sir John wrote it. Did you ask to see
the envelope.”
“Yes; and I was told it was given personally to Lady Rellingham by Sir
John, and was never put into an envelope.”
“Oh, that’s important; as the admission, if it were true, would prove
she had seen Sir John since or at the date of the making of the will.
Anything else?”
“Yes, it was written in the new copying-ink. I told you about that once
before, so it must have been written within a week or so before he
died.”
“Had the letter been copied?”
“Yes, press-copied. That was evident.”
“Can you find the copy in Sir John’s private book?”
“No, I’ve looked carefully. It isn’t there.”
“Are there any pages torn out?”
“No, I’ve gone carefully through the pages. There are no numbers
missing.”
“Then I’ll tell you where the press-copy is--it’s in the sealed packet.
There were probably two copies taken. Baxter, that letter was never
written to Lady Rellingham.”
“Why not?”
“It’s written in terms of genuine affection. If Sir John had been on
such terms with his wife, he would not have been separated from her so
completely that not one of you three had ever heard of her existence.
Why, Sir John couldn’t have known she were still alive, or he wouldn’t
have married a second time.”
“Then who was it written to?”
“Evangeline Stableford.”
“Then how did it come into Lady Rellingham’s hands?”
“Assuming there is a person posing as Lady Rellingham, you get a motive
which may account for the fact that Evangeline was murdered. I’m not
sure at present that it was the actual motive. There may, perhaps, have
been another, but the letter was stolen at the time of her death. You
know I’ve always said she was murdered by that woman who was staying in
the hotel in the name of Mrs. Garnett. Mrs. Garnett is the woman who is
now posing as Lady Rellingham. She is the woman who was in the court on
those two occasions--the woman Yardley tracked to the Hotel Victoria,
where she was staying as Mrs. Seymour. Now, mark you! the letter is
not used on Sir John’s death. It is not used until I have declared, in
open court, that the directions for disposing of the trust have been
destroyed. Clutch & Holdem have probably got as their client that woman
Mrs. Garnett, but it doesn’t absolutely follow she is identical with
Lady Rellingham. Still, I think she must be. You see, Evangeline was
the legitimate daughter of Sir John. I’ve felt fairly certain all along
that Mrs. Garnett was Evangeline’s mother.”
“Well, what had we better do? I’m here for professional advice,
Tempest.”
“Oh! you must decline to pay. Say you will accept service of a writ,
as you prefer to submit the matter to the arbitrament of the court.
I’ll keep your name straight before the court. Nobody shall go away
with the impression that you were declining to pay simply so that you
could stick to the money. You see, Baxter, they must produce their
client in court. They can’t get out of doing it. The only documents
they can cite are the will and this letter. As the two stand together
they don’t prove their case. They must obviously explain the letter
by the evidence of their client. You must have the papers in court,
in case the jury seem inclined to believe the woman. We’ll open the
packet there, if necessary. This letter from Sir John is obviously the
eventuality he created and ample justification for your opening the
packet; but, as I am pretty sure it has got into the wrong hands, we
won’t meddle with the secret until it becomes unavoidable, and then
we’ll cross-examine this Lady Rellingham.”
“Can we keep the papers secret until then? Surely Clutch & Holdem will
get discovery?”
“How can they? They can’t get a general fishing order. They can only
get discovery of documents they can specify.”
“But they’ll require an affidavit of documents?”
“I suppose they will. Put into the affidavit the sealed packet you had,
and say that it was destroyed. They know that much. They will never
dream of there being a duplicate set of papers. Why, this action is
only brought because they know the papers have been destroyed. Besides,
the set which are now at the safe deposit place have never been
reduced into custody yet. I tell you what. Don’t swear an affidavit of
documents at all. Don’t wait till you are asked for one, but treat it
as all in the day’s march; and, before they ask, send them an informal
list of your documents. Send it with a kind of put-off letter, saying
you don’t wish to inconvenience them, so send them at once a list of
the documents, and say that a thorough search is being made amongst
the office papers for additional papers, if any; and consequently, with
their consent, you will postpone swearing a formal affidavit till the
last moment. Then forget all about it. They’ll probably never tumble
to what your game is. They’ve very likely got one or two documents
themselves which they would rather keep up their sleeve at the moment,
so, if you don’t worry them for their affidavit, very likely they
won’t bother you. They think they know you have nothing of the least
importance.”
In due course the case came on for hearing in one of the chancery
courts. Barnett, K. C., and Mr. Hayford were for Lady Rellingham;
Tempest was alone, as usual, for the surviving partners in the firm of
Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse.
In an easy tone the well-known K. C. opened the case. He dwelt at
some length on the strange circumstances of the death of Sir John
Rellingham, described how he had been found murdered, and mentioned
the newspaper agitation which had resulted first in the action taken
by the Crown against the partners to compel disclosure of the terms of
the trust, which action had resulted in the court decreeing the capital
moneys to be the property of the surviving partners in their own right.
“We now know,” said Mr. Barnett, “that in defiance of the injunction
of the court, certainly an order obtained _ex parte_, but a valid
injunction nevertheless, the partners and executors of Sir John took
it upon themselves to destroy the sealed packet containing Sir John’s
instructions as to the conduct and disposal of the trust.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Barnett?”
“My lord,” answered the K. C., “my learned friend who is against me
in this case made a statement to that effect a few weeks ago, when
acting for one of the partners in a motion in one of the other courts
concerning the distribution of the money. I presume he will not
contradict his previous statement?”
“Oh, dear no!” said Tempest, without rising from his seat. “If my
learned friend’s client hadn’t known the papers had been destroyed, she
wouldn’t have dared to bring this action.”
“I can only say,” continued the K. C., “that this is a most improper
observation to have made, and I am surprised at my learned friend
allowing such a scandalous suggestion to have been put into his mouth.”
“Mr. Barnett,” said the judge with a smile, “we hear many scandalous
suggestions of that kind in this court. I should have thought
that, with your experience of them, you would hardly allowed your
imperturbable equanimity to be ruffled by what Mr. Tempest said. He
has still to prove it, you know.”
“Quite so, my lord;” and then the K. C. passed to another result of
the newspaper agitation which had been “the cause of the arrest and
trial of Mr. Baxter, one of the defendants in the present case, for
the murder of his partner, the late Sir John Rellingham. I know your
lordship will permit me to dissociate myself and my client from any
possible accusation of repeating any such suggestion here. Rather, if
I may, would I tender to Mr. Baxter congratulations on behalf of our
mutual profession at the happy issue of those proceedings, and I would
congratulate my learned friend as well, for he was closely concerned in
that issue.”
“Mr. Barnett, aren’t you rather on the horns of a dilemma? If you
congratulate Mr. Tempest too much, you’ll be making the very suggestion
you repudiate.”
A smile went round the court, and, as the ushers called for “silence,”
the learned counsel resumed his speech.
“The delay in bringing this action, my lord, or rather the delay in
making the claim which has resulted in this action, was not due to
the reason suggested in the innuendo of my learned friend, but simply
to the fact that Lady Rellingham was absent from England, and was not
aware of the death of Sir John. I cannot ignore the unhappy fact, my
lord--it is bound to come out in these proceedings; but Sir John and
Lady Rellingham separated within a few months of their marriage, and
since that separation never again cohabited with each other, and I
understand never again met each other. So complete was this separation,
that it came as a great surprise to all of us, including those of us
who had known the late Sir John Rellingham intimately, to be informed
that he had ever been married before his marriage to the late Lady
Rellingham, whom we all knew. My client will go into the box, my lord,
and will give the court the short history of her brief married life.
I shall put in the certificate of the marriage. None of the witnesses
are now alive. It was a marriage in a London city church; and the two
witnesses, the verger and a cleaner, were then both old, and they and
the clergyman who performed the ceremony are all dead. But I shall call
before your lordship the mother of the plaintiff, who will identify her
daughter. She was aware of her marriage; and there cannot therefore be
any objection, successfully upheld, that my client, Lady Rellingham,
is any other person than the lady who went through the ceremony of
marriage with Sir John. The real difficulty I have to face, my lord,
is that the terms of Sir John’s will are so strange. Not only does he
create a secret trust, but he attached to it this curious clause:
“‘And I further direct that if at any time this trust or the capital
moneys of this trust shall be or shall become the subject matter of
litigation through the interference or intervention of any party or
parties other than my said partners, or the survivor or survivors of
them, then and forthwith, and from the commencement of such litigation,
the said trust shall cease and determine, and the capital sums of the
said trust shall be distributed and applied in the form and manner next
above provided.’”
“What was that form and manner, Mr. Barnett?”
“Your lordship has a copy of the will before you. The previous clause
directs the distribution of the money amongst the partners for their
own benefit in a certain eventually.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“Now, the surviving partners of the late Sir John profess ignorance of
the original purposes of the trust. They assert that their instructions
were sealed in a packet which was only to be opened in a certain
eventuality; and they say, also, that those instructions directed them,
in the event of litigation, to destroy the parcel unopened.
“The Crown commenced litigation. The parcel was destroyed. But the
result of that litigation was that, under the clause in Sir John’s
will, which I have just read to your lordship, the court decrees the
trust funds to have vested in the three surviving partners in their
own right. But if the trustees and executors are really in the entire
ignorance they suggest, we are not. Not only was Lady Rellingham aware
of the purposes of the trust, but what we believe are the actual terms
of the instructions concerning it were within her knowledge. Amongst
certain papers of Sir John’s, which were in her possession, is a paper
containing these words:--
“‘Upon trust, to be settled tightly for her exclusive use and benefit,
without power of alienation or anticipation in the names of suitable
trustees, the new trust deed to be executed immediately after my death,
and to contain a clause cancelling the trust created by my will.’
“That paper was given to Lady Rellingham at the same time as the letter
which I shall presently read to your lordship and which she was to show
to the trustees and executors. Now, my lord, if, as I submit, we have
a right to assume those were either the actual words or an epitome of
the instructions Sir John left to his executors, then I submit to your
lordship that it was their duty to at once transfer this money, and
themselves create this trust in favour of Lady Rellingham. I submit
it had vested in her as the beneficiary, and, as a new trust, was
not subject to the clause by which litigation transferred it to the
surviving partners. Alternatively, my lord, I shall submit, that if the
old trust still existed, and the money therefore under the terms of the
will was still subject to the forfeiture clause, and was accordingly
forfeited, then the trustees were guilty of negligence in not having
constituted the new trust, and through their negligence Lady Rellingham
has found the provision made for her forfeited through causes over
which she had no control, and for which negligence she is entitled to
damages. Her statement of claim, my lord, as you will see, alleges the
further negligence that the forfeiture was consequent upon the refusal
of the partners to disclose the terms of the trust, and that they were
not justified in that refusal, but, on the other hand, deliberately
provoked the litigation which resulted in the forfeiture. Before
calling my client, my lord, I propose to proceed chronologically by
first proving the marriage.”
Formal proof of the marriage and the certificate was given, and then
Mr. Barnett called “Esther Manuel.”
An old woman, dressed plainly but inexpensively, came forward, and was
sworn. She gave her name and her residence in Nassau Street, Dublin,
and said that she was the widow of Pedro Manuel.
“Who was Pedro Manuel?”
“He was a hairdresser.”
“Where did he carry on business?”
“In Dublin.”
“When did he die?”
“Eight years after my marriage, in 1865.”
“How many children had you?”
“Two daughters.”
“When were they born?”
“Sarah Jane was born in 1858 and Dorothy in 1860.”
“What has became of Dorothy?”
“She died about twenty years ago. I don’t know the exact date.”
“Where did she die?”
“In London.”
“Now, your elder daughter. Do you see her in court?”
“Yes--that lady;” and the old woman pointed to the plaintiff, who was
seated at the solicitor’s table.
“Will you raise your veil, please, Lady Rellingham?” said the judge.
“Now,” he added, turning to the witness, “is that your daughter Sarah
Jane?”
“Yes. I’m positive. I should know her anywhere.”
As Lady Rellingham raised her veil for a moment, Tempest saw her face
and started in amazement. An older woman certainly, but nevertheless
the likeness to Evangeline Stableford was startling in the extreme.
There could be no doubt of the relationship of those two.
Tempest rose to cross-examine. “When did your daughters leave home?”
“Oh, many a year ago! I couldn’t tell you the date.”
“How old were they?”
“I think Sarah Jane was seventeen or eighteen, and Dorothy was two
years younger.”
“Why did they leave home? Was there any quarrel?”
“Oh, no, sir. They left home to go into service. I found it very hard
to support them, and they had good situations offered to them.”
“What were the situations?”
“They went to some dressmaker’s shop here in London. I forget the name.”
“When was the next time you saw them?”
“I never saw Dorothy again. She died.”
“Did they write to you?”
“Sometimes; but not often. I’m not much of a scholar myself, and I
couldn’t write back, so I suppose they got tired of writing.”
“When did you next see your daughter Sarah Jane?”
The witness hesitated, but the question was pressed, and finally came
the answer, “Yesterday.”
“Then, from the day they left home until yesterday, an interval of
between twenty and thirty years, you have never set eyes on your
daughter?”
“No, sir.”
“And yet you are positive she is your daughter?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Did you know of her marriage?”
“Yes.”
“When did you hear of it?”
“I can’t say exactly. She wrote and told me she had married a rich man,
and since then she’s always allowed me ten shillings a week, and with
the little bit of money I had that made me very comfortable.”
“Did you know whom she married?”
“No. I didn’t know the name.”
“How did you address your letters to her when you wrote?”
“I used to write them to Miss Manuel. She told me to.”
“What address did you send them to?”
“I always sent them to her at an address she gave me.” The old lady
mentioned the address, but it told Tempest nothing. He guessed it to be
an accommodation address--a surmise which subsequently proved correct.
“How did you get to know of your daughter Dorothy’s death?”
“Sarah Jane--her ladyship--wrote and told me.”
“Did she tell you where she died?”
“I don’t remember, sir. I don’t think so.”
“Did she tell you what was the cause of her death?”
“No, sir. I wrote and asked her to send me word about it, but I didn’t
hear again after that from Sarah Jane for a long time, and then she
wrote and said she’d been living in France.”
“Did you ever write and ask your daughter Sarah Jane who it was she had
married?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she tell you?”
“No. She said she had to keep her marriage quite secret, and it was
safest to say nothing.”
“Did either of your daughters tell you when they left their situation?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, for all you knew to the contrary, Sarah Jane might still have
been there all these years?”
“Well, sir, she said she had married a rich man, so naturally I didn’t
suppose she would have to go on working for her living.”
“Did she ever send you word whether she had a child?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know now whether or not she has ever had one?”
“No, sir.”
Lady Rellingham was the next witness called, and, in answer to her
counsel, said she left home about the year 1875. It might be 1876; she
could not be certain. She had left home with her sister, and they both
obtained situations in the same milliner’s shop. There she had met Mr.
John Rellingham, as he then was, and she had married him after a very
short engagement. Their marriage had been kept secret by her wish at
first. She did not wish to give up her employment. They never had a
joint home. She and her sister shared rooms, and she used to go away
with her husband for week ends.
“Then I think you separated from your husband. Can you tell the court
the reason?”
“We couldn’t get on. We were always quarrelling, and we both felt it
was hopeless to pretend to keep up the farce of appearing fond of each
other. So we just agreed to part. That was easy. Because no one knew of
our marriage except my sister.”
“Did Sir John make any provision for you?”
“He allowed me an income for a few years, and then it ceased.”
“Did you ever see Sir John again?”
“Not until shortly before his death, when he gave me the letter and
paper I produce.”
“Do you identify this letter (and it was handed to the witness) as in
the handwriting of Sir John?”
“Yes, it is in his writing.”
“You are perfectly familiar with his writing? Now, this other paper--is
that in his handwriting?”
“No. He had it ready written out, and he gave it me with the letter.”
“Why were they given to you?”
“So that I could claim the money which he told me he was putting into
trust for me under his will.”
“What was the reason for making it a secret trust and not leaving it to
you by name?”
“Sir John still wished our marriage kept secret. You see, he had been
married again himself.”
“Do you swear on your oath that Sir John intended that trust for your
benefit?”
“He told me so. He told me I should only have to show that letter to
his partners, that they would understand it; and he gave me the paper,
and told me that those were the instructions he had left for his
partners.”
“I really don’t know how much of this is evidence,” interrupted the
judge.
Tempest rose. “I make no objection to it, my lord. I am not here to
assist my clients to retain money which should rightly go elsewhere;
and under the curious, I might say the utterly weird, circumstances
of this present case, I think it very desirable we should have all
possible information we can get.”
“If you raise no objection, Mr. Tempest, I am very much inclined to
agree with you;” and the examination was continued.
“When did you hear of Sir John’s death?”
“Only a few weeks ago. I have been travelling in Egypt.”
“And that is the reason, I understand, why you have only recently
instructed your solicitors to claim the money?”
“That is so;” and the examination then closed, and Tempest began to
cross-examine.
“For how long, Lady Rellingham, have you used that title?”
“Only since I commenced this claim.”
“That, I take it, is since the death of Sir John, and since he has been
unable to raise objection to your doing so. Is not that the case?”
“Yes.”
“What name were you known by previously?”
“My maiden name was Sarah Jane Manuel.”
“What name were you known by previously, Lady Rellingham, if you
please?”
“I decline to answer.”
“Will you answer my question, please?”
“I decline to.”
“Was it the name of another man?”
“Yes.”
“Was that why Sir John Rellingham ceased to pay your allowance?”
“I don’t know.”
The question was pressed.
“I don’t think it was.”
“What was the reason?”
“My husband thought I was dead.”
Tempest’s face plainly showed his surprise.
“How did you know he thought you were dead?”
“He heard of the death of my sister, and must have thought it was my
death, for he wrote to my sister to condole with her, and offering to
pay the expenses of the funeral. It suited me to let him think so, so
I answered it in my sister’s name, and I never undeceived him.”
“If he thought you were dead, then why did he wish to provide for you
by making this trust?”
“He found out his mistake.”
“How?”
“We met, and he recognised me.”
“When did you meet?”
“It was just before his death, when he gave me that letter and the
paper.”
“How was it you came to meet?”
“He wrote that he had some business he wanted to discuss with me.”
“But he thought you were dead?”
“Yes; but he thought my sister--his sister-in-law--was alive.”
Tempest hunted through his papers, and then, turning to the witness,
asked, “Was this the letter?” and Tempest read out:
“‘Sir John Rellingham has received and carefully considered the
letter. In the exercise of his discretion, he must decline the request.
He cannot but think the interview was essential.’”
“It was something like that.”
“Was that the letter, please? Yes or no?”
“I believe it was.”
“Did the interview take place after you received that letter?”
“Yes.”
“Then we can date it. That letter was written within a week of Sir
John’s death.”
“Do you propose to prove that, Mr. Tempest?” asked the judge.
“Certainly, my lord--now that it has become material.--Now, do I
understand that, until that interview took place, Sir John Rellingham
had no idea that you, his wife, were still alive?”
“That is so.”
“Lady Rellingham, Sir John died in the week preceding Easter in 1902.
If he were not aware you were alive until the interview took place
in 1902, how do you account for the fact that his will was made in
1900--the trust drawn up in 1900--a trust which you say was for your
benefit, whereas he did not know in 1900, when he drew his will, that
you were alive?”
There was no answer, and, time after time, the question was repeated.
Lady Rellingham got whiter and whiter, till her face was a pale ashy
grey; but she made not even a suggestion in reply. At last came her
whispered reply, “I cannot say.”
“Mr. Tempest, of course it’s quite possible--mind, I do not say it is
so--but it is possible that the trust may have been created for the
benefit of someone else, and Sir John may have changed his mind, when
he became aware that his wife was still alive.”
Tempest listened in growing irritation as the judge helped the witness
out of the pitfall he had dug so carefully for her, and curtly answered:
“That is a point I shall have to discuss at some length a little
later;” and then, turning to the witness, he asked: “Did Sir John write
this letter and this paper in your presence?”
“Yes, and handed them to me.”
“Where did this interview take place?”
“At his office.”
“How is it, then, that neither of Sir John’s partners nor any of the
clerks in the office are aware of such an interview having taken place?”
“It was after office hours, and all the clerks had gone.”
“Who admitted you?”
“Sir John himself. He had made the appointment, and expected us.”
“Did Sir John leave you in his room and go into any other room whilst
you were there?”
“No.”
“Then, Lady Rellingham, how do you account for this letter having been
press-copied?”
“I really cannot tell. Perhaps he did it in his own room, and I never
noticed him copying it. I don’t know how letters are copied.”
“But I do know, Lady Rellingham. It needs a press to press-copy a
letter, and the press is in the clerks’ office.”
“Perhaps we were in the clerks’ office?”
“Will you describe the room, Lady Rellingham?”
“It was a room on the first floor, not looking into the square, and it
had a large table and some chairs.”
“Then, Lady Rellingham, if I can prove the clerks’ offices are all on
the ground floor, and that none of them have chairs or tables, but all
have desks and stools, you must be mistaken?”
“Are you going to prove that, Mr. Tempest?”
“Oh certainly, my lord; if you wish it. Now, Lady Rellingham, a moment
ago you said Sir John admitted you. Your exact words were, ‘He had made
the appointment and expected us.’ Who was the other person?”
“That was a mistake. I went alone.”
“Did you expect to meet anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else go there?”
“No.”
“Was no one else present at the interview between yourself and Sir
John?”
“No one at all.”
“What time was it when the interview took place?”
“About a quarter to seven.”
“And none of the clerks were present?”
“No.”
“Now, Lady Rellingham, if I can prove, as I am going to do
presently--now just listen, please--if I can prove that that letter
was written less than a week before Sir John died, and that during
that week there was only one evening on which all of the clerks had
gone before seven o’clock, and that on that evening Sir John sent the
last one away at half-past six, that must have been the evening the
interview took place?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And if that evening was the evening Sir John was murdered, you must
have been the last person who saw Sir John alive? Now, Lady Rellingham,
I will ask you again, was no one else present at the interview between
Sir John and yourself?”
“There was someone else.”
“I thought so. Who was that other person?”
“I decline to say.”
“But don’t you see, Lady Rellingham, that if that other person can
corroborate what you say, you have won your case. If, as you admit,
there was another person, and you don’t call that person as a witness,
the natural presumption is that you are afraid to do so because that
person would tell a different story. Now, who was that other person?”
“The other person is dead.”
“Well, we’ll leave that point for the present. Have you any children,
Lady Rellingham?”
“No.”
Tempest handed the witness a birth-certificate. “Isn’t that the
certificate of the birth of a daughter of Sir John and yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then, why did you say you had no children?”
“You asked me if I have any children. That child was adopted by
somebody very soon after it was born. I didn’t want anyone to know I
had had a child.”
“Who adopted it?”
“I don’t know. I told the monthly nurse to make arrangements, and it
was adopted on condition that I was not to know where it went, and I
was never to claim it.”
“Was your husband with you when the child was born?”
“No.”
“Did he know you had had a child?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know what became of it?”
“I think he found out afterwards.”
“Did he tell you what name it was known by, or what had become of it
when you had this interview with him?”
“Yes.”
“What was the name?”
“I decline to say.”
“I insist on your answering;” and as the witness remained silent, the
judge intervened. “You know, Lady Rellingham, I can commit you to
prison if you do not answer; and if you do not tell the truth, you will
be guilty of perjury.”
“Lady Rellingham, I put it to you that your daughter went by the name
of Evangeline Stableford. Is not that a fact?” And reluctantly came the
admission that it was.
“Now, then, I put it to you that the other person who was present was
Evangeline Stableford. Isn’t that so?”
And that was admitted.
“Now, didn’t Sir John tell you he was suffering from cancer of the
throat, and was going to be operated on?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t he remind you that Evangeline had not yet come of age?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t he say he hoped Lady Stableford would provide for her adopted
daughter, Evangeline, in her will?”
“Yes.”
“But there was always the chance that Lady Stableford might change her
mind, and that Evangeline had no legal claim on her?”
“He might have done.”
“Didn’t he?”
“Yes, I think he did.”
“Now, you say he thought you were Evangeline’s aunt and not her mother?”
“Yes.”
“Then, was it that he wished to leave Evangeline in your charge in case
he died under the operation, and before Evangeline came of age, that he
had sent for you?”
“I suppose so.”
“And your story is that when he saw you he recognised you as his wife?”
“Yes; that is what happened.”
“And that, whatever may have been his previous intentions, he thereupon
changed his mind and wrote the letter, so that you should benefit by
the trust.”
“Yes. I promised him to leave the money to Evangeline at my death, that
is, if Lady Stableford did not provide for her.”
“Lady Rellingham, isn’t the real fact that Sir John had known you were
alive for some five or six years--before he ever made the will which
you say was to benefit you?”
“He may, perhaps, have done. He may have seen me, and recognised me,
without my knowledge.”
“Lady Rellingham,” said Tempest in his quiet voice as he leaned
forward, “isn’t it the fact that Sir John had found out you were alive
and living under another man’s name, and he sent for you and sent for
Evangeline, and he told you, in her presence, that he knew and had
known, but that he was going to respect your secret, if it could be
protected, so long as you lived; and that if he died before Evangeline
came of age, and that if then Lady Stableford had not provided for her,
Evangeline was to be able to claim the money he put in trust; but that,
as that would probably result in your secret being disclosed, he gave
you the opportunity of providing for Evangeline during your lifetime,
so that your secret need not be revealed whilst you were alive? Isn’t
that the real fact?”
“No, it is not.”
“Isn’t it the fact that that letter was written for Evangeline and
given to her in your presence?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Lady Rellingham, I know your secret. Isn’t what I put to you the fact?”
“Certainly not.”
“Did Evangeline know?”
“No. I stopped him telling her. She only knew I was her mother.”
“I’ve tried to keep your secret. I’m afraid it will have to come out
now;” and then, turning to Baxter, he said, “Let me have that parcel,”
and a sealed packet was handed to him.
“Lady Rellingham,” said Tempest, “did Sir John tell you that the
instructions to his partners as to the execution of the trust were in a
sealed packet, and that they would not be aware of the contents until
the time came for them to act?”
“He did.”
“You were aware that that parcel was destroyed unopened?”
“I saw it in the papers that you said so in court.”
“Did Sir John tell you he had created a duplicate, in case that parcel
was destroyed?”
“No, he did not.”
“It’s news to you, then, that there was such a duplicate?”
“Quite news. I don’t believe it.”
“You won’t believe me, then, if I tell you this is the duplicate?”
“No, I shall not. You’re only trying to frighten me.”
“Are you willing to let this case depend upon the result of opening
this duplicate?”
“Certainly not. How do I know it’s genuine?”
“I shall require you to prove that, Mr. Tempest,” said the judge.
“As your lordship pleases,” replied the barrister.
“My lord,” said Mr. Barnett, “I shall strongly object to the production
of that document. It is not mentioned in their affidavit of documents.”
“I haven’t the remotest idea what is in the parcel,” said Tempest.
“I imagine the documents it contains will be in the handwriting of
Sir John, and will practically prove themselves. But I can assure
my learned friend that I was only intending to use the contents in
cross-examination. He seems much more afraid of them than I am.”
As Tempest took a pen-knife from his pocket and cut the sealed string,
there was a dramatic pause, and the court hushed into breathless
silence. One could hear the wax breaking as the string was cut; and
Lady Rellingham, gripping the rail of the witness-box, gasped towards
her solicitor, “I withdraw! I withdraw!”
“Then, my lord, I ask you to order the arrest of the witness.”
“On what ground, Mr. Tempest?”
“Perjury, my lord, at least.”
“But you haven’t proved that her evidence is incorrect?”
“I take it, my lord, that her withdrawal is tantamount to such an
admission.”
Mr. Clutch hurriedly passed to the witness-box and urged his client not
to withdraw.
Tempest’s voice was clear above the racket and bustle in the court. “I
object to anyone tampering with the witness.”
[Illustration: “‘I object to anyone tampering with the witness’”]
“No--no. She has a right to take counsel with her advisers on such a
matter as a withdrawal of her claim. You mustn’t forget, Mr. Tempest,
she has practically admitted there is some secret of hers mixed up
in this matter. You yourself have suggested it is a secret that Sir
John created this trust to obviate the disclosure of, and you have
practically threatened the witness with a disclosure of her secret,
if she continues her claim. She may well prefer to forfeit a just
claim rather than have it disclosed; and, Mr. Tempest, I must remind
you I shall not permit any disclosure of a matter which is entirely
irrelevant to the issue for the mere purpose of harassing the witness.”
“As your lordship pleases. I could have hoped, my lord, that you would
not have thought such a warning necessary to me.”
As Tempest finished speaking there was a momentary hush, and Clutch was
heard to say, “I tell you he’s simply bluffing. He often does. Very
likely it’s only waste-paper.”
A few whispered words passed between the solicitor and the K. C., and
the latter rose, and said, “My client does not withdraw, my lord.”
Tempest calmly broke the remaining seals, and in the dead silence
every eye watched him as he took the papers one by one from the
packet and unfolded them. The first two were obviously Somerset
House certificates. The next was a buff-coloured piece of
tissue-paper--obviously the press-copy of a letter. With a cursory
glance that also was laid aside. The last remaining paper was a letter
which Tempest read through as the court waited. Refolding it he slipped
the papers back into the parcel, and resumed his cross-examination.
“Lady Rellingham, I will ask you again, were not the letter and the
other paper you produce given to Evangeline Stableford?”
“They were not.”
“How did they come into your possession?”
“Sir John gave them to me himself with his own hands.”
“Didn’t you take them from the dead body of Evangeline Stableford?”
“Don’t answer. I object to such a question, my lord,” said Mr. Barnett.
“I think you must take your answer, Mr. Tempest,” replied the judge.
“As your lordship pleases. What was your occupation, Lady Rellingham,
at the time of your marriage?”
“I had a situation at a milliner’s.”
“Lady Rellingham, when did you go on the stage? Weren’t you on the
stage when you married?”
And in a whisper the admission came.
“Now, wasn’t your stage name Eulalie Alvarez?”
“Yes.”
“And your sister Dorothy Manuel was Dolores Alvarez?”
“Yes.”
“Now, when your husband heard of your engagement to Lord Madeley,
didn’t he object strongly and threaten to make your marriage to him
public?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you tell him that you were about to have a child, and that
it wouldn’t be possible for you to marry Lord Madeley, and that, taking
advantage of Lord Madeley’s inexperience of women, you and your sister
had arranged that, though Eulalie Alvarez was engaged to him, it was
Dolores Alvarez who was going to go through the ceremony of marriage
with Lord Madeley in the name of Eulalie Alvarez?”
“Yes.”
“So that, when Dolores Alvarez was found dead, Sir John Rellingham
thought it was his wife who was dead, and troubled no more, and stopped
the allowance. Isn’t that so?”
And without waiting for a reply Tempest went on:
“Now, then, are you Sarah Jane Manuel--Eulalie Alvarez--Lady
Rellingham? or are you Dorothy Manuel--Dolores Alvarez--Lady Madeley?”
“I’m Lady Rellingham--Eulalie.”
“Then it was Lady Madeley--Dolores--who died, and you have been living
all these years masquerading as Lady Madeley? Isn’t that so?”
There was no answer.
“That was the secret Sir John tried to protect for you?”
Again there was no answer.
“Now, once again I ask you: Was not the letter you have produced given
to Evangeline Stableford, and wasn’t the trust created for her benefit?”
Tempest hesitated, and then sat down; but the witness had fainted.
Barnett, K. C., rose, and remarked that he felt he had no alternative
consistent with the dignity of his profession but to retire from the
case, and his junior did the same. The judge adjourned, and the court
slowly emptied.
With a grave face Tempest returned to his chambers.
Baxter and Marston joined him in the corridor, and the three men walked
in silence across New Square.
“Come along in. I know a great deal more than you do, and I’m at my
wits’ end what to do,” said the barrister. Handing his wig and gown to
his clerk he lighted a cigarette, and backwards and forwards he paced
along the narrow pathway across his carpet.
“I ought to have done it, but I simply couldn’t. Very few people in
court could know all the facts. It’s simply a coincidence that all of
them happen to have come into my hands. The chances can be only one
in a thousand that such a thing could happen. The two Manuel girls
were the two sisters Alvarez, and to-day Lady Rellingham has given the
explanation of the whole thing. Do you remember the suicide of Dolores
Alvarez twenty years ago?”
“Yes, I remember something of it. It was a nine days’ wonder at the
time.”
“That’s Dolores,” said Tempest, as he pointed to the painted miniature
over the mantelpiece. “I was in that case, and it has always puzzled
me. You remember she was found dead in her flat--stark nude on the bed,
and by the side an opened bottle of champagne, with prussic acid in the
glass? The evidence was that her sister, Lady Madeley, called; that she
sent her maid out; that the maid came back, found Lady Madeley gone,
and her mistress at once sent her out again, and the maid came back
to find the dead body of Dolores. The coroner’s verdict was suicide.
Now, I’ve puzzled over that for twenty years. Then comes the death
of Evangeline Stableford--the body found nude at the Charing Cross
Hotel, and again the opened bottle of champagne and prussic acid; and
then there was the utterly marvellous likeness between Dolores and
Evangeline. But they could not be mother and daughter, for Dolores had
never had a child, and I had always assumed Evangeline could not be
the daughter of Lady Madeley, because she was born on the day Lord and
Lady Madeley were married. It never dawned on me that the two sisters
changed places.”
“But, even if they did, you can’t make it fit. Look here----”
“My dear Baxter, it does fit. They changed places, and then changed
back again. I’d thought of the possibility of one change; it never
dawned on me that there were two changes. This is what happened:
Eulalie married Sir John, and keeps her marriage secret, and Sir
John makes her an allowance. His father was alive then, and probably
didn’t approve of actresses. Then she gets engaged to Lord Madeley,
for I daresay Rellingham wasn’t much catch then. Now, she can’t marry
Lord Madeley--that would be bigamy; and she’s just going to have a
child, so she persuades her sister Dolores to go through the ceremony
in her place and in her name; and I have no doubt whatever that the
arrangement was that Eulalie was to take the place of Lady Madeley when
the honey-moon was over. I knew Lord Madeley, and it would have been
quite possible with him. He never noticed the difference between one
woman and another.
“Now, Sir John Rellingham hears of the engagement and protests.
Eulalie tells him of the expected child, and explains that it is her
sister who is really to marry Lord Madeley, and that it was arranged
that she would marry him in the name of Eulalie Alvarez. That being
merely an assumed name, one sister has no greater right to it than
the other. So Sir John was content, for, of course, he wouldn’t be
told the sisters intended to change places after the marriage. Well,
the marriage does take place, and Eulalie’s child Evangeline is born
and adopted by Lady Stableford. Then Lord and Lady Madeley come back
from the honey-moon, and Eulalie, of course, wants her sister to stand
down and carry out the arrangement they had come to. Dolores, who has
found her feet, very naturally objects. Then she goes to tea with her
sister. The maid sees the two sisters together, and is sent out on an
errand. Eulalie poisons Dolores in the bedroom. The maid comes back,
is told Lady Madeley has gone, and is at once sent out again. Then
Eulalie strips the body of Dolores, and puts those clothes on. She
leaves her own clothes in the bedroom, because she cannot dress the
dead body in them. From that moment she becomes Lady Madeley, and
she leaves the flat before the maid returns. She bears Lord Madeley a
child, the present Consuelo, Baroness Madeley. Lord Madeley dies. Lady
Madeley has a small jointure, but she has a handsome allowance for the
maintenance of Consuelo, and has the use of Madeley Manor. Consuelo
will be of age in a year’s time, and Eulalie’s income would be reduced
to her jointure. Consuelo, I hear, is engaged already, so there was no
chance of staving off the drop to the jointure. Sir John, believing his
wife was dead, later on marries again. Now Sir John, as time goes by,
discovers that his first wife, whom he had thought was dead, is really
alive, and masquerading as Lady Madeley. He ought to have shown her
up at once, but he hesitates to do so, because not only does it lay
his wife open to a charge of fraud and probable imprisonment, but it
also bastardises Consuelo and creates a huge scandal, and, moreover,
it is a slur on the memory of his second wife, to whom he was very
devoted. Added to all, it means that he himself has committed bigamy.
So he lets things slide. Then Lady Stableford quarrels with Evangeline,
and alters her will, and Sir John realises that somehow or other he
must provide for his daughter. He therefore creates the secret trust,
knowing that if he puts everything in your hands in that way he can
trust his wife’s secret not to be revealed, if this can possibly be
avoided; but he is so loyal that even to you he won’t reveal it, unless
this becomes absolutely unavoidable. If he hadn’t been murdered, none
of this would ever have come out. Then, knowing he was going to be
operated upon whilst Evangeline was still a minor, he sends to Lady
Madeley to come to his office, and he sends for Evangeline. He gives
that paper and letter to Evangeline, but tells her she is not to use
it if Lady Stableford provides for her. But if he himself dies before
she comes of age, and if Lady Stableford does not provide for her,
then she is to use it, unless, to obviate the risk of her secret being
disclosed, Lady Madeley, her mother, prefers to make the necessary
provision. He probably tells them in each other’s presence, so as to
give each the hold on the other. But Lady Madeley, knowing she will be
reduced to her jointure in a year or two, or else trying to avert the
disclosure, or in temper, kills Sir John. I fancy it must have been a
right down quarrel, and she probably killed him in temper, though the
use of the revolver looks as if she had planned it out beforehand.
It may have been that she was fond of Consuelo, and was willing to
sacrifice anything to prevent her succession being interfered with or
jeopardised. Sir John may have threatened her with disclosure, or she
may have shot him to stop his speaking. Anyhow, she kills him, and then
it dawns on her that she is at the mercy of Evangeline, who knows she
has killed him. So she determines to murder Evangeline. She remembers
that Dolores’ death was put down to suicide, and the nude body was used
as an argument to suggest insanity. So she lays her plans, takes a room
at Charing Cross Hotel, and entices Evangeline there, and poisons her.
She takes away her clothes, to prevent or delay a discovery of the
identity of the body, and to suggest insanity, forgetting all the time
that at an hotel the absence of any clothes in the room would establish
the complicity of another person. She finds the letter from Sir John in
the pocket of Evangeline, and appropriates it. As soon as I had stated
in court that the directions to your partners had been destroyed, she
sees her chance, and, knowing her income will very shortly be reduced,
and relying on this letter, she brings the action against you three.
As to the other paper, very likely Clutch & Holdem wrote that out, and
were responsible for that part of the story. Now, that’s the whole
explanation of everything.”
“Shall you tell the police, Tempest?”
“No, old man. I don’t hunt murderers for a living. The police read the
papers. If they like to put two and two together, from what came out in
court to-day, let them. It’s not my business or yours.”
“Would she be convicted?”
“I doubt it. I’m certain of what I’ve told you; but there’s too much
deduction for a jury. A jury will only convict for murder on cold-drawn
facts, and plenty of them. But that woman will save them the trouble.
Unless they’ve arrested her already, I expect she’ll commit suicide
before the morning. She’s shown up to the world--utterly discredited.
She isn’t Lady Madeley, and consequently she hasn’t got any income
now. And she knows what the chances are, that she’ll be arrested for
murder. You’ll see she won’t risk it.”
“Then Consuelo isn’t Lady Madeley either?”
“As it happens, she is, because I happen to know that her trustees very
wisely got letters patent of confirmation when she succeeded. It only
means that Billy Fitz Aylwyn succeeds to the old barony, whilst the
girl gets a new peerage, dating from her patent.”
* * * * *
The next morning the daily papers announced that during the passage of
the Dover-Calais boat a lady passenger had been missed. The unclaimed
luggage left behind proved her to have been Eulalie, Lady Madeley.
* * * * *
Some six weeks later, Tempest received a letter:
“DEAR MR. TEMPEST,--In thinking things over quietly, I have come to
the conclusion that you probably knew a great deal more than you made
public at the trial. If I am right, I am grateful to you, though you
left me no alternative but to leave England at once. If you will do
one generous action, you will do another. Evangeline I never knew
or cared about; Consuelo is and was the delight of my life. Will
you, whatever happens, whatever comes out, please do everything that
is possible for her? She has no one to guard her now, for, as an
illegitimate child, she has not inherited the property, and so the
trustees who have been acting are not really her trustees at all.
Will you please do what you can to straighten out the tangle I have
made? You will never hear of me again. I am going to Australia, to
earn my living, and start again, if I can. If I cannot, then in
reality I shall end it, as the world already thinks I have done.
Please don’t try to find me.
“Now, for the last time I sign myself by the name to which I have no
right.--Yours, EULALIE MADELEY.”
* * * * *
Sometimes things straighten themselves out without much outside
interference. Billy Fitz Aylwyn preferred to waive his own claims in
view of the realisation of his great desire. Let the _Times_ tell the
conclusion of the story.
“FITZ AYLWYN--MADELEY.--On the 17th inst., at St. Peter’s, Eaton
Square, Wilbraham Plantagenet de Bohun, only son of the late Sir
Brabazon Fitz Aylwyn, G.C.B., to Consuelo, Baroness Madeley.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber for the reader's
convenience and is entered into the public domain.