A COUNCIL OF WAR.
That evening there was a mysterious private gathering of ladies in Mrs.
Dumaresq’s room, chosen because it was the largest. To it came first of
all the medical woman, bursting with importance and revelations. Mrs.
Whitley, Mrs. Dumaresq herself, and the specially invited Mrs. Wilcox
made up the conclave.
Mrs. Wilcox was nervous and agitated. She felt sure the medical woman
had something dreadful to tell her, and whether that something related
to the contagious nature of Miss Prudence Semaphore’s illness, or to
something darker but less infectious, she did not know.
“Well, ladies,” she began nervously, as by Mrs. Dumaresq’s request she
seated herself, “what have you to say to me? I hope,” she added, turning
to Miss Lord, “that your patient’s illness has not taken a serious
form?”
There was an awful pause. The medical woman knew when she had got a good
thing, and was in no hurry to begin.
“Is it—is it diphtheria?” quavered Mrs. Wilcox.
Still the medical woman sat silent, with every eye fixed on her.
“Oh, do tell us! Tell us the worst,” pleaded Mrs. Wilcox. “Is she going
to die?”
“She will live,” said the medical woman solemnly. “She will live—to die
on the scaffold.”
“Gracious Heavens!” exclaimed everyone simultaneously.
“Yes, ladies. To die on the scaffold. I repeat it. Prudence Semaphore
is, I fear—a murderess.”
Mrs. Wilcox screamed.
“Miss Lord, Miss Lord,” she cried. “Pray be careful. Do not say such
dreadful things. Miss Semaphore and her sister came to me with the
highest recommendations, and you really—”
“Aye,” said the medical woman, with stately and awful triumph, “she came
with her sister—where is her sister now?”
“At the seaside somewhere, I suppose. She did not leave me her address,”
said Mrs. Wilcox weakly.
“At the seaside you suppose,” echoed the medical woman with fine scorn.
“No, my dear madam, she is dead—and Prudence Semaphore murdered
her—murdered her in this very house. Oh, you need not look at me like
that. I’ve not spoken until I have traced every link in the chain of
crime.”
“What did I say?” interposed Mrs. Dumaresq.
“What did I say from the very first?” She looked round appealingly at
Mrs. Whitley. “I said I hoped she had not been murdered. You remember I
used those very words.”
No one heeded her, for everyone was looking at the medical woman, as she
gloated over the sensation she had caused.
“For pity sake, tell us all—all in strict confidence,” gasped Mrs.
Wilcox. “What Captain Wilcox will say, I really cannot imagine.”
“Well,” said the medical woman, “I had my suspicions front the first,
but they were vague. I felt that something was wrong, but did not know
what that something was. The confusion of manner of Prudence Semaphore,
her refusal to say plainly what ailed her sister, her reluctance to call
in a doctor, and the extraordinarily small amount of nourishment she
provided for her, were all remarkable. Then she would let no one see
her. She put you off, Mrs. Wilcox, and she burst into quite a rage when,
in the interests of humanity, I desired to visit the poor neglected
sufferer. No doubt by that time Miss Semaphore was beyond human help,
for now I recall, there was an indescribable air of guilt about that
unhappy woman, and she showed a ferocity of character for which I had
not given her credit. Still, I said nothing. Then came the discovery
that Miss Semaphore had disappeared. That threw me off the scent for a
time. I am always disposed to think as well of other people as possible,
and while her leaving the house so suddenly and mysteriously seemed to
point to her having a dangerous and possibly infectious illness, and
being smuggled out of the way by Prudence, I did not seriously think she
was dead. Our search of the room revealed nothing. The renewed calm of
manner shown by that wretched creature, and the plausible story she told
of her sister having gone to the seaside, I confess, lulled my
suspicions to sleep. The story was queer, but it was not too improbable.
Then came the visit paid Prudence by a drunken woman, who insisted on
seeing her, and made such an uproar in the hall. Mrs. Dumaresq declares
that she heard her say something about a cheque and an infant—”
“So I did,” corroborated Mrs. Dumaresq.
“Well I didn’t catch the words, but events have proved that you were
right. Next followed”—she hesitated.
“Her fainting,” said Mrs. Whitley.
“Yes, her fainting suddenly in the drawing-room, when Major Jones was
reading out something about that horrid baby farming case. I did not
connect these events, Mrs. Dumaresq did.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, with modest triumph. “I observed her face of
terror, and remembering what the woman had said, I put two and two
together.”
“Well, you mentioned the matter to me, and I confess I was sceptical. My
suspicions ran in a different groove, but it now seems that we were both
right.”
Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Whitley gasped simultaneously.
“You know some of what followed,” said the medical woman, addressing
Mrs. Dumaresq. “This afternoon a man called to see that wretched
criminal. I, suspecting nothing, went down to see him and ask his
business, for she had just taken a sleeping draught. He told me—.” The
medical woman paused to gain her full effect. “He told me that he was a
detective from Scotland Yard, and that his business with Miss Prudence
Semaphore was personal and private. Mrs. Dumaresq’s words flashed on me
like a thunderbolt, and quite suddenly I asked him, as if I knew all
about it, if he wanted to see her in connection with the baby farming
case, and he said ‘Yes,’—he said ‘_Yes._’—I expect he saw then he had
made a mistake, for I could not get another word out of him after that,
but he is to call again the day after to-morrow.”
The horror of Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Whitley could not be expressed. Mrs.
Dumaresq listened with the calm air of one who has been in the secret
all along.
“When I saw,” said the medical woman, “that Justice was upon her track,
that she was mixed up with detectives and baby-farmers, all my former
suspicions came back with a rush, but I felt the necessity for being
calm and just. I remembered the curious circumstances I have mentioned,
and also the queer relapse she had to-day when Mrs. Dumaresq asked for
her sister’s address, finally saying she did not know. The whole thing
was as plain as possible. Her sister had disappeared, because she had
been somehow made away with. No doubt there were circumstances in the
past life of Prudence Semaphore that she dreaded coming to her
knowledge, for we all know how particular poor dear Miss Semaphore was.
Still, I resolved to search, to enquire before I decided. I told Mrs.
Dumaresq about the detective, and then I began a rigorous investigation,
beginning quietly with the servants.”
“But perhaps her sister really is at the seaside somewhere,” suggested
Mrs. Wilcox. “All this is very shocking about the detective and the baby
farming; but Miss Semaphore may be alive and well, for all that proves
to the contrary.”
“Wait till you hear,” said the medical woman, shaking a solemn finger at
Mrs. Wilcox. “First of all, I made cautious enquiries from the servants.
Mary tells me that from the day Prudence reported that Miss Semaphore
was ill, she was never permitted to enter her room. Never saw her again,
in fact. She tried to get in, but the door was always locked. This, too,
was my own experience. Then something was said about a letter having
come for Prudence from her sister. Müller and Mary both know Miss
Semaphore’s handwriting, and they agree that to their knowledge no such
letter has been delivered here. I next enquired as to whether anyone had
seen Miss Semaphore leave the house. It was unlikely that an invalid,
probably still weak from illness, should be able to get downstairs and
out of the house unobserved. Besides, there was the question of luggage.
She could hardly have gone and taken nothing with her, not even a change
of dress. But no one saw her. I then put on my bonnet, went out and
spoke to the men on the two nearest cab ranks. They all agree in saying
that none of them took up a lady fare, or two ladies, with or without
luggage, on the Tuesday, from this house. Major Jones tells us he saw
someone, who he is sure was Miss Prudence Semaphore, and alone, crossing
the road hastily near Tate Street. That would have been shortly after
dinner on Tuesday evening. It seems absolutely plain, therefore, that
Miss Semaphore did not leave the house at all.”
“But we saw her empty room that night,” said Mrs. Whitley. “We saw her
empty bed. She must have gone some time before we went upstairs to visit
her.”
“My theory is,” said the medical woman, “that she was then concealed in
that very room.”
“But where? Not in the wardrobe, for we opened that, nor under the bed,
for we looked there, and there really was no place else.”
“Oh, yes, there was. You remember that the very next day, I think,
Prudence sent away two boxes, ostensibly full of her sister’s
belongings. Now my theory is, and time will prove whether I am not
right, that in one of those boxes, the big grey one, bound with iron,
was the body of Miss Semaphore!”
By this time the medical woman’s hearers were trembling in every limb.
“How awful!” quaked Mrs. Whitley. “Why it is just like that East End
tragedy. I forget the name—when a woman—no, a man, was taken away dead
in a box.”
“This is a serious accusation,” said Mrs. Wilcox, after a time of
digestive silence, “and it doesn’t seem to me to be proved.”
“Doesn’t it?” enquired the medical woman indignantly. “Well, I presume
you’ll believe it when you see the poor creature dead before you, and
are called on to identify her remains, as I have no doubt you will be.”
“But Miss Prudence is really so gentle; besides, what motive could she
have for killing her sister?”
“Gentle? A woman—a hypocrite like that, with her baby-farmers and
detectives after her? Don’t tell me! And as for motives, it seems plain
enough that she may have had several that we cannot guess at. Mary tells
me the Semaphores had a violent quarrel about a fortnight ago, and
probably that decided her.”
“Oh, they often quarrelled. Poor Miss Semaphore, you know, was trying
enough at times, but Miss Prudence never bore malice.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, it seems to me you think she is a plaster saint, and
if so, there is no use my saying anything more—but I warn you. Time will
tell.”
“Indeed, I don’t,” said Mrs. Wilcox hastily. “I think the whole affair
is terrible and disgraceful enough on the face of it, and the sooner I
get Miss Prudence Semaphore out of the house, the better. I must speak
to Captain Wilcox at once. But then murder—. No, I can’t believe it.”
“Well, if you are going to risk allowing an infamous criminal to escape
justice, a Cain whose hands are dyed in her sister’s blood, I confess I
am surprised at you.”
“But think of the disgrace to the house,” pleaded Mrs. Wilcox. “It will
be put in the papers, and we shall be ruined, and you know, after all,
Miss Lord, we are not quite sure. Miss Semaphore may be alive and well
somewhere, and what fools we should look if we made a fuss, and then she
turned up all right.”
“She never will turn up,” said the medical woman gloomily. “There never
was a clearer case of circumstantial evidence. It doesn’t take a
Sherlock Holmes to piece it together.”
“But what do you want me to do?”
“I think that as I have placed all the facts before you, your duty is to
inform the police at once. You are the head of this house, and if you
sanction such goings on, it is no place for respectable people.”
Mrs. Wilcox wrung her hands despairingly.
“I appeal to you, ladies,” she said, addressing Mrs. Dumaresq and Mrs.
Whitley, “to consider that if Miss Semaphore is alive, we might, by
saying a word, lay ourselves, all four, open to an action for libel. It
may be as Miss Lord says; still, until things develop, until we know a
little more about this trial and the baby farming, and the connection of
Miss Prudence with it all, it is better to be silent, and get her away
peaceably. Even if nobody saw Miss Semaphore leave, there is no proof
that she did not slip out unobserved, though I grant it seems unlikely.”
“Do as you wish,” said the medical woman in a towering rage. “I will be
no party to these concealments. My duty is clear, and however painful it
may be, I will do it.”
“But the libel, Miss Lord,” suggested Mrs. Whitley. “What Mrs. Wilcox
says is true. If Miss Semaphore turns up, her sister may prosecute you.”
This rather sobered the medical woman.
“Well,” she said, more conciliatingly, “what do you suggest should be
done?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “I think it would be more diplomatic to
wait until this trial, or whatever it is, comes off. If Miss Semaphore
is alive, I should think it certain she will turn up at it. Or perhaps,
indeed, the suspicion of the authorities has already fallen on Prudence.
We don’t really know why the detectives are after her. Let us wait. Let
us go to that trial and hear what comes out. If she does not clear
herself of this charge, whatever it may be, and if her sister does not
put in an appearance, I think it might be well for you, Mrs. Wilcox, to
suggest to the prosecuting counsel that he should cross-examine her as
to her sister’s whereabouts. Then, if she cannot give satisfactory
replies, and if anything to her disadvantage comes out, she will
probably be suspected, and the whole affair will be gone into without
our making ourselves responsible in any way.”
“That,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I consider to be an excellent idea. And now,
ladies, I beg of you not to let a word of all this escape you. In a
house like ours, one cannot be too careful. Until we really know the
truth, there is no use in telling anyone what we think. Will you all
promise me to be silent about it?”
Mrs. Dumaresq and Mrs. Whitley agreed, and after some persuasion a
reluctant consent was won from the medical woman, who promised to hold
her tongue, until after the trial, any way.