IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS
"A very charming portrait," Frayne remarked. "I see it was taken in
London. We ought to have no great difficulty in discovering the
original--eh, Treeton--if we find it necessary?"
I smiled to myself, for well I knew that the police would experience
considerable difficulty in ascertaining the identity of the original of
that picture.
"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Dean, that it was the same lady who came to
visit Mr. Gregory?" I asked the landlady.
"Quite positive, sir. That funny little pendant she is wearing in the
photograph, she was wearing when she came to see the old gentleman--a
funny little green stone thing--shaped like one of them heathen idols."
I knew to what she referred--the small green figure of Maat, the Goddess
of Truth--an ancient amulet I had found, while prying about in the ruins
of a temple on the left bank of the Nile, a few miles beyond
Wady-Halfa--the gate of the Sudan. I knew that amulet well, knew the
hieroglyphic inscription upon its back, for I had given it to her as a
souvenir.
Then Lola--the mysterious Lola, whose memory had occupied my thoughts,
both night and day, for many and many a month--had reappeared from
nowhere, and had visited the eccentric Gregory.
In that room I stood, unconscious of what was going on about me;
unconscious of that glittering litter of plate and jewels; of fifteenth
century chalices and gem-encrusted cups; of sixteenth century silver,
much of it ecclesiastical--probably from churches in France, Italy, and
Spain--of those heavy nineteenth century ornaments, that wonderful array
of diamonds and other precious stones, in ponderous early-Victorian
settings, which lay upon the faded, threadbare carpet at my feet.
I was thinking only of the past--of that strange adventure of mine,
which was now almost like some half-forgotten dream--and of Lola, the
beautiful and the mysterious--whose photograph I now held in my
nerveless fingers, just as the detective had given it to me.
At that moment a constable entered with a note for his inspector, who
took it and opened it.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning to Frayne. "Here's another surprise for us!
I made inquiries this morning of the Sheffield police concerning old Mr.
Gregory. Here's their reply. They've been up to Messrs. Gregory and
Thorpe's works, but there is no Mr. Gregory. Mr. Vernon Gregory, senior
partner in the firm, died, while on a voyage to India, nearly a year
ago!"
"What?" shrieked Mrs. Dean in scandalized tones. "Do you mean to say
that that there old man, my lodger, wasn't Mr. Gregory?"
"He may have been _a_ Mr. Gregory, but he certainly was not Mr. Vernon
Gregory, the steel manufacturer," responded Treeton, calmly.
"Well, that beats everything!" she gasped. "Then that old man was a
humbugging impostor--eh?"
"So it seems," Frayne replied.
"But it can't be true? I can't believe it! He was a real gentleman. See,
here, what he had got put away in that old box of his. Them there
Sheffield police is mistook, I'm sure they be. There'll be some good
explanation of all this, I'll be bound, if 'tis looked for."
"I sincerely hope so," I remarked. "But at present I certainly don't see
any."
Truth to tell, I was utterly staggered and confounded, the more so, by
that report from Sheffield. I confess I had all along believed old
Gregory to be what he had represented himself as being to the people of
Cromer.
Now I realized that I was face to face with a profound and amazing
problem--one which those provincial police-officers, patient and
well-meaning as they were, could never hope to solve.
Yes, old Vernon Gregory was an impostor. The reply from the Sheffield
police proved that beyond a doubt. Therefore, it also followed that the
man lying dead was certainly not what he had represented himself to
be--nephew of the great steel magnate.
But who was he? That was the present great question that baffled us.
The photograph I held in my hand bore the name: "Callard, Photographer,
Shepherd's Bush Road." But I knew that whatever inquiries were made at
that address, the result would be negative. The mysterious Lola was an
elusive little person, not at all likely to betray her identity to any
photographer.
There were reasons for her secrecy--very strong reasons, I knew.
So I smiled, when Frayne announced that he should send the picture up to
London, and put through an inquiry.
I picked up some pieces of the jewellery that was lying at my feet. In
my hand I held a splendid golden coronet in which were set great
emeralds and rubies of enormous value. Even my inexpert eye could see
that the workmanship was very ancient, and the stones but roughly cut
and polished. I judged it to be a crown which had adorned the head of
some famous Madonna in an Italian or Spanish church; a truly regal
ornament.
Again stooping, I picked up a small heavy box of blackened repoussé
silver of genuine Italian Renaissance work, and opening it, found it
filled with rings of all kinds, both ancient and modern. There were
signet rings bearing coats of arms; ladies' gem rings; men's plain gold
rings; and rings of various fancy devices.
One I picked out was distinctly curious. A man's flat gold ring set with
eight finely-coloured turquoises at equal intervals. It looked brighter
and newer than the others, and as I fingered it, a small portion of the
outer edge opened, revealing a neatly enamelled inscription in French,
"Thou art Mine." On further examination I found that each of the spaces
in which a turquoise was set, opened, and in each was also a tender love
passage, "I love you," "Faithful and True," and so on, executed probably
a century ago.
Yes, each piece in that wonderful collection was unique--the treasure of
one who was undoubtedly a connoisseur of gems and antiques. Indeed, in
no national collection had I ever seen a display more remarkable than
that flung out so unceremoniously upon the carpet, around that
mysterious flash-lamp.
While one of the detectives, at Frayne's order, began repacking the
treasure, I went with the two inspectors to a sitting-room on the
ground-floor, where, with the door closed, we discussed the situation.
Outside, upon the path in front of the house, were a knot of curious
persons, among them Mr. Day, and his subordinate officer who had made
the tragic discovery.
"Well," exclaimed Frayne, slowly rubbing his chin, "it's a very curious
case. What will you do now, Treeton?"
"Do?" asked the local officer. "Why, I've done all I can do. I've
reported it to the Coroner, and I suppose they'll make the post-mortem
to-day, and hold the inquest to-morrow."
"Yes, I know," said the other. "But we must find this old man, Gregory.
He seems to have been pretty slick at getting away."
"Frightened, I suppose," said Treeton.
"What. Do you think he killed his nephew?" queried the man from Norwich.
"Looks suspiciously like it," Treeton replied.
"Yes, but why did Craig go out disguised as the old man--that's the
question?"
"Yes," I repeated. "That is indeed the question."
"And all that jewellery? The old man is not likely to leave that lot
behind--unless he's guilty," said Frayne. "Again, that visit of the
young lady. If we could only get track of her, she'd have something to
tell us without a doubt."
"Of course," said Treeton. "Send the photograph to London, and find out
who she is. What a bit of luck, wasn't it, that Mrs. Dean kept the
picture she found in the waste-paper basket?"
I remained silent. Yes, if we could only discover the original of that
photograph we should, no doubt, learn much that would be startling. But
I felt assured that we should never find trace of her. The police could
follow in her direction if they chose. I intended to proceed upon an
entirely different path.
What I had learned in that brief hour, had staggered me. I could
scarcely realize that once again I was face to face with the mystery of
Lola--the sweetest, strangest, most shadowy little person I had ever met
in all my life. And yet she was so real, so enchanting, so
delightful--such a merry, light-hearted little friend.
Lola!
I drew a long breath when I recalled that perfect oval face, with the
wonderful blue eyes, the soft little hand--those lips that were made for
kisses.
Even as I stood there in the plainly-furnished sitting-room of that
seaside lodging-house, I remembered a strangely different scene. A fine,
luxurious chamber, rich with heavy gilt furniture, and crimson damask,
aglow under shaded electric lights.
I saw her upon her knees before me, her white hands grasping mine, her
hair dishevelled upon her shoulders, pleading with me--pleading, ah! I
remembered her wild, passionate words, her bitter tears--her terrible
confession.
And this provincial detective, whose chief feats had been confined to
cases of petty larceny, speed limit, and trivial offences, dealt with by
the local Justices of the Peace, actually hoped to unravel a mystery
which I instinctively felt to be fraught with a thousand difficulties.
Any swindler, providing he has made sufficient money by his tricks, has
bought a place in the country, and has been agreeable to the
Deputy-Lieutenant of the County, can become one of His Majesty's
Justices of the Peace. Some such are now and then unmasked, and off to
penal servitude have gone, men who have been the foremost to inflict
fines and imprisonment on the poor for the most trivial offences--men
who made the poaching of a rabbit a heinous crime.
I venture to assert that the past of many a J. P. does not bear
investigation. But even when glaring injustices are exposed to the Home
Secretary, he is often afraid to order an inquiry, for political
reasons. It is always "Party" that must be first considered in this poor
old England of ours to-day.
What does "Party" mean? Be it Liberal, Unionist, Conservative, Labour,
anything, there should at least be honesty, fair dealing, plain speaking
and uprightness. But alas, this is an age of sham in England.
Journalists, novelists, preachers, playwrights, are afraid to speak the
truth frankly, though they know it, and feel it. It is "Party" always.
Many a criminal has escaped conviction before our County Benches because
of "Party," and for the same reason many innocents have been condemned
and suffered.
This case of Mr. Vernon Gregory was a provincial case. The amusing farce
of local investigation, and local justice, would no doubt be duly
played. The coroner always agrees with the evidence of his own family
doctor, or the prominent local medico, and the twelve honest tradesmen
forming the jury are almost invariably led by the coroner in the
direction of the verdict.
Oh, the farce of it all! I hold no brief for France, Belgium, Germany,
or any other continental nation, for England is my native land. But I do
feel that methods of inquiry on the continent are just, though minutely
searching, that there Justice is merciful though inexorable, that her
scales weigh all evidence to the uttermost gramme.
These reflections passed through my mind as I stood in that
lodging-house room, while the two police officers discussed as to their
further procedure in the amazing case with which they had been called
upon to deal. I could not help such thoughts arising, for I was dubious,
very dubious, as to the thoroughness of investigation that would be
given to the affair by the local authorities. Slackness, undue delay,
party or personal interests, any one of these things might imperil the
inquiry and frustrate the ends of justice.
I knew we were confronted by one of the greatest criminal problems that
had ever been offered for solution, calling for the most prompt,
delicate and minute methods of investigation, if it was to be handled
successfully. And as I contrasted the heavy, cumbrous, restricted
conditions of English criminal procedure with the swift, far-reaching
methods in use across the Channel, I felt that something of the latter
was needed here if the mystery of Craig's death was ever to be solved.