THE OTHER WHITE ROOM
Coleridge Lane, Hampstead, was named after the great poet, who had
once resided in the neighbourhood. If he lived in this special
locality, he could not have found it congenial to his Muse, for the
crooked, winding, sloping passage could hardly be called a lane, much
less a road. Also, it was damp by reason of the ancient trees that
nearly met overhead. On either side were small cottages standing
amidst weedy gardens, the survivals of a far-off age, when a wide view
and careful drainage were not considered as necessary to any human
habitation. An air of melancholy hung over the place, and only because
the rents were low did the cottages contain tenants.
Before the gate of one of these cottages stood Inspector Derrick one
summer's morning. He was in private clothes, and looked, as usual,
smart and alert. With a sharp look on his stern face he stared at the
damp, discoloured walls of the cottage, which matched with a
moss-grown thatched roof. Yet, in spite of the apparent decay of the
house, there was evidence that the occupier had some idea of tidiness
and comfort. The garden was well weeded, and filled with homely
cottage flowers now in full bloom. A green-painted fence divided the
garden from the lane, and there was a narrow gate which bore the name
"Fairy Lodge." The windows were draped with lace curtains tied with
smart pink ribbons. The brass door-knocker was well polished, and the
step thoroughly whitewashed. Apparently the landlord would not, and
the tenant could not, renovate the cottage, but much had been done to
render it a little less melancholy than the neighbouring houses.
Derrick stood enjoying the cool breeze and sunshine on that bright
morning, and wondering if the person he had appointed to meet him
there would come. It was already five minutes past the hour of
eleven, so the person was late. But even while the inspector looked
at his watch, the individual appeared. He was an old man, thin and
weather-worn, dressed in shabby clothes, and looking as though he had
not enough to eat. He appeared to be almost as shabby as the
neighbourhood, and hobbled towards Derrick coughing, and limping with
the aid of a stout stick. As soon as he came within eyeshot--for his
sight did not seem to be good--he halted mistrustfully. Derrick,
guessing that he was the man who was to meet him, advanced. "You are
Mr. Webb?" said he briskly.
"I might be," returned the old fellow cautiously, "if you are Mr.
Derrick I wrote to at a certain place."
"I am Inspector Derrick, and I come in answer to your letter about
Mrs. Brand and the White Room."
"Will there be any reward for my setting the police on the track?"
asked Webb cunningly.
"Well, I can hardly say. Mr. Fane, in whose house this woman was
murdered, promised to recompense me should I discover anything likely
to lead to the detection of the assassin. I dare say he will give me a
hundred pounds."
"Halves," said the old man, coughing, "or I don't let you in."
"I fear you won't be able to stop me," said Derrick, smiling. "On the
strength of your letter I procured a search-warrant. I represent the
law, you see. You should have made a bargain before you wrote the
letter, Mr. Webb."
"Rogues, thieves, and liars, the lot of you," said the old man,
striking the ground violently with his stick. "What about my rent?"
"I don't owe you any. Did this woman?"
"No. She's paid me up to date. But here's my cottage without a tenant.
I'll find it difficult to let it again, if she was done to death as
the papers said."
"We don't know that Mrs. Brand is the same woman."
"Well, Mrs. Brand hasn't been seen since the day that crime took
place," retorted Webb, "and then there's the room, you know."
"Ah! I want to see the room. It is strange she should have been killed
in a room similar to that occupied by herself. I can't understand it."
"If you made it worth my while I might assist you. I am poor; oh! how
poor I am. Look at my clothes. You wouldn't pick them off a
dunghill--not you. And I live on sausages. They're cheap, but not
filling. Do you know of anything that taken at one meal would keep me
going for a week?"
"No," said Derrick abruptly, and thinking the old man a queer
character. "Show me the house."
"All in good time," said the ancient, hobbling to the gate. "Ah!" He
wheeled round and shook his fist at a butcher's boy. "Hear that brat.
Why don't you run him in for insulting language?"
"Miser! miser!" chanted the boy, leering across the lane at the old
creature, who shook his fist in impotent rage. "Golly, what clothes.
Say, mister"--this was to Derrick--"if I come across to deliver the
meat, will you stop the old cove from pitching into me?"
"I'll bash your head, you imp," yelled Webb, quivering with rage.
"Leave him alone," said Derrick good-humouredly. "Boys will be boys.
Now then, young shaver, come along!"
But the boy declined. He darted across the road, thrust a chop into
the inspector's hand, and darted back. "You give it to Mrs. Brand,
governor," said the boy, grinning; "the old cove's got his bleary eye
on yours truly."
"Beast of a boy," said Webb, and entering the gate he hobbled up to
the door.
Derrick lingered behind, and produced a shilling. "See here, boy," he
remarked persuasively, "do you deliver meat to Mrs. Brand every day?"
"Every second day," said the boy advancing, lured by the shilling.
"Has the meat been taken in as usual?"
"No, it ain't. Not for over a week. Nearly a fortnight, you might
say. I brings them though--the chops, I mean--and puts them in the
meat-safe at the back of the house. There's lots there, but she ain't
bin home to eat them."
"When did you last see her?"
"Over a fortnight ago," said the boy, counting on his fingers,
and apparently not very sure as to his dates. "On a Thursday that
was. She took the chop in as usual. On Saturday I brought a steak
late--somewhere about six--so that it might be quite fresh for Sunday,
and she wasn't in. Ain't seen her since. Say, mister, if y' know her,
say as master 'ull charge her for the meat. It's her own fault she
ain't eaten it."
"Why didn't she leave a servant in charge?"
"Too poor," said the boy, taking the shilling and spitting on it for
luck. "She always did the housework herself. But she was a real lady
for all that. Say, mister"--the boy stared--"nothing ain't gone wrong
with her?"
"No. I merely called to see her."
"Well, she ain't at home as I can see. There ain't no smoke coming
from the chimney, though to be sure she may be saving the coals. I
thought the miser might have done away with her. He's an old rip as
ought to be in gaol. I saw him making eyes at her."
"Ah! Then Mrs. Brand is a pretty woman?"
"Yes, in a kind of delicate sort of way. Brown hair and blue eyes and
pale and little. Looked like a widder," said the boy confidentially,
"but she wasn't. Bless you, no! Her husband's a commercial gent as
comes home every now and then. But he's away for the most part of the
time."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"In the dark I did. A tall gent. But I can't tell you his looks."
"You are a smart boy," said Derrick, taking out his note-book. "I
should like to see more of you."
"My name's Potter," said the boy, grinning at this praise. "I work for
old Rams the butcher."
"Ah, I know the shop," said Derrick, noting this. "I once lived in
Hampstead, and dealt with Mr. Rams."
"My, ain't he sharp over the money. But Mrs. Brand always paid up like
a lady. Guess the miser got his rent."
"Webb hailed Derrick at this moment. Are you going to talk to that
brat all day, officer?" he inquired shrilly, peering out of the open
door.
At the word "officer" Potter backed with a look of apprehension. "I
say, you're a peeler. Lor! Anything wrong?"
"No," said Derrick, vexed at being thus betrayed. "Hold your tongue
about this conversation. I'll make it worth your while."
"I'm fly," said Master Potter, with a whistle and an easier look. He
showed a disposition to linger at the gate; but Derrick ordered him
sway sharply, and he departed, casting looks over his shoulder, too
amazed at his discovery of Derrick's profession to call old Webb bad
names. Derrick went inside.
"If Mr. Brand arrives I can show him this as my authority for entering
the cottage," said Derrick, displaying a search-warrant.
"Brand! Mrs. Brand?"
"Mister! The husband."
"Never saw him," grumbled Webb. "Mrs. Brand said she had one, but she
paid the rent and looked after the house, and kept very much to
herself. I never set eyes on him."
"He's a commercial traveller," the boy said.
"The boy's a liar," retorted the agreeable Mr. Webb. "Mrs. Brand was
too much the lady to marry a commercial. She used to talk of her
husband, but she never let on his employment."
"Did she rent the cottage in her own name?"
"Yes. I don't believe she had a husband."
"What reference did she give."
"Six months' rent in advance. Stop! She did refer me to a
schoolmaster."
"A schoolmaster? What is his name?"
"Professor Bocaros."
"A professor--of what?"
"Lord," said Webb testily, "how do I know? Any one can call themselves
professors if they've a mind to--especially foreigners."
Derrick, who was standing in the small hall, started, and remembered
what Miss Mason had said when he mentioned the stiletto. "Is this
professor a foreigner?" he asked eagerly.
"A Greek. Bocaros means bull's head or bull's tail--at least it did
when I was at school. Ah! I've been educated, though you mightn't
think so, Mister Inspector."
Derrick passed over this remark. "Did you see this man?"
"No. My time's too valuable to run after foreigners. I wrote to him at
the address given by Mrs. Brand. She said he was a cousin of hers. He
wrote back saying that she was a respectable person. I dare say she
was, but I don't believe she had a husband. If she had, why didn't he
show? A commercial gent! Bah! Don't tell me."
"What address did Mrs. Brand give you?"
"Now that's queer. She gave me Ulysses Street, Troy!"
This time Derrick could not suppress an exclamation. "Why, that is
only a stone-throw from Achilles Avenue. It's near Meadow Lane."
"I said it was queer," remarked Webb, nodding. "Perhaps he did her to
death. What do you think?"
"I think you may have put a clue into my hand," said the inspector,
noting the address in his useful little book. "Don't speak of this to
any one. I'll make it worth your while."
"Halves," said the miser again; "though it's only fifty pounds. I
think Mr.--what's his name?--Fane should give me the whole hundred."
"Oh, indeed." Derrick put the book into his pocket. "And what about
me, Mr. Webb, if you please?"
"You're paid for finding criminals, I ain't," said Webb, entering a
side door. "Come and look at the room. My time's valuable. I can't
stand talking to you all day. The drawing-room this is."
"Ha!" Derrick stood at the door, and looked at the small room, which
was furnished in the same fashion as the larger one in Ajax Villa,
though not in so costly a manner. The walls and hangings were white,
the carpet and furniture also, and even the piano was cased in white
wood. In all respects, save in the way of luxury, the room was the
same. It was strange that Mrs. Brand should have been killed in a room
similar to her drawing-room, and in a house situated at the other end
of London. "Though we don't know if the dead woman is Mrs. Brand,"
said Derrick, looking round.
"That's easily settled," said Webb, who had taken up his position in a
cane chair. "There's her portrait."
On the mantel-piece were two silver frames, one on either side of a
gimcrack French clock. The frame to the left contained the photograph
of a pretty slight woman, in whom Derrick immediately recognised the
dead unknown. "That's her sure enough," said he, taking a long look.
"I wonder how she came to die in a room similar to this," and he
glanced around again. "The mystery is growing deeper every discovery I
make. What of the other silver frame?"
"It's got the photograph of a man--the husband, I suppose."
"No." Derrick took down the frame. "The photograph has been removed."
"Lord!" said Webb, when a close examination assured him of this fact.
"Why, so it has. But she showed it to me one day when I asked about
Mr. Brand, and said it was his picture."
"Do you remember what the man was like in looks?" said the inspector,
replacing the frame, much disappointed.
"No," replied the old man; "my eyesight's that bad as I can hardly
tell A from B. It was the picture of a bearded man."
"A pointed beard?"
"I can't say. He had a beard, that's all I know. Mrs. Brand said that
his business took him away a good deal. But she didn't say he was a
commercial gent."
"Did Mrs. Brand, go out much?"
"Not at all. I told you so before. She kept very much to herself, in a
haughty kind of way. Thought herself a fine lady, I suppose, and
there's no denying she was a lady. She has been my tenant for over
five years, and always paid regular, but she knew no one, and when any
one called she never would let them in. I only got to know of this
room because I came for my rent."
"Did she pay her bills regularly?"
"Yes. I asked that, being fearful for my rent. She always paid up like
a lady. Not that she took much in. Generally she lived by herself, so
didn't eat much, keeping no servant either."
"Did she ever go out to concerts or theatres or anywhere?"
"When her husband came home she used to enjoy herself. I believe she
went to the opera, or to concerts, being fond of music."
"Ah!" Derrick recalled the song. "Did she sing?"
"Not that I ever heard of. She told me very little about herself, and
what I know I had to drag out of her. She came five years ago and took
this cottage by herself. Afterwards her husband, as she called him,
came. I never saw him, and she always paid her rent regularly. That's
all I know."
"Why do you think Mr. Brand was not her husband?"
"I never said he wasn't. I don't know. She seemed a respectable
person, and was very quiet in her living and dress. Sometimes she shut
up the cottage and went away for a week."
"Always for a week?"
"Yes. She never was absent long. I suppose she and her husband had a
jaunt all to themselves. She had no children. But ain't you going to
look at the rest of the house?"
"Yes." Derrick cast his eyes round the room again. On the round white
wood table was a photograph album bound in white leather. He opened
this, and found that all the portraits therein--the book was only half
full--were those of women. Several were of Mrs. Brand as child and
girl and woman. Spaces showed that five or six portraits had been
removed. Derrick noted this, and then left the drawing-room
thoughtfully. It seemed to him as though all the male portraits had
been removed on purpose. And the chances were that in an album
belonging to the wife, portraits of the husband might be found. At the
door of the white room he cast his eyes on the ground. "Has it been
raining?" he asked.
Webb, who was already in the passage, came back, and stared at the
footmarks--muddy footmarks which were printed on the white carpet.
"It's not been raining for over a week," he said. "Strange that there
should be this mess. Mrs. Brand was always a particularly tidy woman.
She never let a spot of dirt remain in this room."
"We've had a dry summer," said Derrick, pinching his lip.
"Very dry," assented Webb. "To be sure, there was that big
thunderstorm eight days ago."
"And before that we had three weeks of sunshine."
"Yes." The old man stared. "What of that?"
"It seems to me----" said Derrick; then he paused, and shook his head.
"Let us examine the rest of the house."
Webb, not knowing what was passing in the officer's mind, stared again
and hobbled round as cicerone. They went to the small kitchen, to the
one bedroom, to the tiny dining-room, and examined the small
conservatory opening out of this last. At the back of the house there
was a small garden filled with gaudy sunflowers and tall hollyhocks.
The red brick walls which enclosed the plot of ground scarcely larger
than a handkerchief were draped with ivy, carefully trimmed and
tended. The conservatory was filled with cheap flowers neatly ranged.
Apparently Mrs. Brand, judging by the conservatory and the back and
front gardens, was fond of flowers, and made it the pleasure of her
life to tend them.
The kitchen and the dining-room were plainly furnished. In the
meat-safe outside the back door were the chops and steaks left by the
butcher's boy, and also loaves of bread. A milk-can was on the ground
and empty, showing that probably all the cats in the place had been
enjoying themselves. Derrick found that a narrow passage between the
enclosing wall and the house led from the front garden to the back.
Having assured himself of this, he re-entered the house, and examined
the bedroom.
This was better furnished than the rest of the house. There was a
smart dressing-table decked with muslin and pink ribbons. On it were
articles of female toilette. Several dresses (plain for the most part)
were hanging up in the wardrobe, and there was a warm but untrimmed
dressing-gown in the bathroom. But Derrick could not see any male
apparel, and pointed this out to Webb.
"Perhaps Mr. Brand wasn't her husband after all," said the old man.
"He may have been a friend of hers, and came here occasionally. But he
didn't live here."
"The boy said he did sometimes."
"The boy's a liar," said Webb vindictively.
"Hum! I don't know that. I have an idea."
"Of what?"
"I'll tell you directly." Derrick opened all the drawers in the
bedroom. He found linen, hats, handkerchiefs, ribbons--all articles of
female attire, but again nothing appertaining to a man's dress.
"Where's her desk?" he asked abruptly.
"In the white room. I was sitting near it."
"The inspector, having searched the bedroom again to see if he could
find any papers, led the way back to the drawing-room. The desk was
near the window, and unlocked; that is, it opened easily enough, and
Derrick thought it was unlocked. But a glance showed him that the lock
was broken. The desk has been forced," he said, and threw wide the
lid, "and the contents have been removed," he added.
Webb stared at the empty desk. There were a few bundles of receipted
bills, some writing-paper and envelopes, and a stick or two of red
sealing-wax. But no scrap of writing was there to reveal anything
about Mrs. Brand. Yet on a knowledge of her past depended the
discovery of the reason she had been stabbed in Troy. The inspector
looked at the desk, at the floor, and drew his own conclusions. "Some
one has been here eight days ago, and has removed all papers and
pictures likely to give a clue to the past of this woman and to the
identity of the husband."
"How do you know?" asked Webb, startled.
Derrick pointed to the muddy marks on the carpet. "The fact that the
carpet is white betrays the truth," said he. "For the last month or
so, that is, before and since the murder, we have had only one
storm--that was eight days ago. The person who removed the portraits
from the album and from the silver frame, who forced the desk and
destroyed the papers, came on that day----"
"The thunderstorm was at night," interrupted Webb.
"Then at night, which would be the better concealment of his purpose.
He came here with mud on his boots, as is proved by these marks. He
wished to remove all evidence of Mr. Brand's identity. Therefore----"
"Well," said Webb, seeing that Derrick hesitated. "I believe that
Brand himself did so, and that Brand is the man who killed his wife in
Ajax Villa."