Chapter I

The Case of Miss Elliott

by Baroness Orczy

Published 1909, Greening & Co., Ltd. (London)

Contents.

I. The Case of Miss Elliott

II. The Hocussing of Cigarette

III. The Tragedy in Dartmoor Terrace

IV. Who Stove the Black Diamonds?

V. The Murder of Miss Pebmarsh

VI. The Lisson Grove Mystery

VII. The Tremarn Case

VIII. The Fate of the “Artemis”

IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini

X. The Ayrsham Mystery

XI. The Affair at the Novelty Theatre

XII. The Tragedy of Barnsdale Manor

[Frontispiece: A horse-drawn hansom cab at night-time. In the shadowy

interior of the cab sits a man in evening dress, leaning against the

side of the cab as if dozing. Another man stands beside the cab,

tentatively reaching in. Caption: “’E was dead and no mistake.”]

I. The Case of Miss Elliott

Chapter I

The man in the corner was watching me over the top of his great

bone-rimmed spectacles.

“Well?” he asked, after a little while.

“Well?” I repeated with some acerbity. I had been wondering for the

last ten minutes how many more knots he would manage to make in that

same bit of string, before he actually started undoing them again.

“Do I fidget you?” he asked apologetically, whilst his long bony

fingers buried themselves, string, knots, and all, into the capacious

pockets of his magnificent tweed ulster.

“Yes, that is another awful tragedy,” he said quietly, after a while.

“Lady doctors are having a pretty bad time of it just now.”

This was only his usual habit of speaking in response to my thoughts.

There was no doubt that at the present moment my mind was filled with

that extraordinary mystery which was setting all Scotland Yard by the

ears, and had completely thrown into the shade the sad story of Miss

Hickman’s tragic fate.

The _Daily Telegraph_ had printed two columns headed “Murder or

Suicide?” on the subject of the mysterious death of Miss Elliott,

matron of the Convalescent Home, in Suffolk Avenue—and I must confess

that a more profound and bewildering mystery had never been set before

our able detective department.

“It has puzzled them this time, and no mistake,” said the man in the

corner, with one of his most gruesome chuckles, “but I daresay the

public is quite satisfied that there is no solution to be found, since

the police have found none.”

“Can you find one?” I retorted with withering sarcasm.

“Oh, my solution would only be sneered at,” he replied. “It is far too

simple—and yet how logical! There was Miss Elliott, a good-looking,

youngish, lady-like woman, fully qualified in the medical profession

and in charge of the Convalescent Home in Suffolk Avenue, which is a

private institution largely patronised by the benevolent.

“For some time, already, there had appeared vague comments and rumours

in various papers, that the extensive charitable contributions did not

all go towards the up-keep of the Home. But, as is usual in

institutions of that sort, the public was not allowed to know anything

very definite, and contributions continued to flow in, whilst the

Honorary Treasurer of the great Convalescent Home kept up his

beautiful house in Hamilton Terrace, in a style which would not have

shamed a peer of the realm.

“That is how matters stood, when on 2nd November last the morning

papers contained the brief announcement that at a quarter past

midnight two workmen walking along Blomfield Road, Maida Vale,

suddenly came across the body of a young lady, lying on her face,

close to the wooden steps of the narrow foot-bridge which at this

point crosses the canal.

“This part of Maida Vale is, as you know, very lonely at all times,

but at night it is usually quite deserted. Blomfield Road, with its

row of small houses and bits of front gardens, faces the canal, and

beyond the foot-bridge is continued in a series of small riverside

wharves, which is practically unknown ground to the average Londoner.

The foot-bridge itself, with steps at right angles and high wooden

parapet, would offer excellent shelter at all hours of the night for

any nefarious deed.

“It was within its shadows that the men had found the body, and to

their credit be it said, they behaved like good and dutiful

citizens—one of them went off in search of the police, whilst the

other remained beside the corpse.

“From papers and books found upon her person, it was soon ascertained

that the deceased was Miss Elliott, the young matron of the Suffolk

Avenue Convalescent Home; and as she was very popular in her

profession and had a great many friends, the terrible tragedy caused a

sensation, all the more acute as very quickly the rumour gained ground

that the unfortunate young woman had taken her own life in a most

gruesome and mysterious manner.

“Preliminary medical and police investigation had revealed

the fact that Miss Elliott had died through a deep and

scientifically-administered gash in the throat, whilst the surgical

knife with which the deadly wound was inflicted still lay tightly

grasped in her clenched hand.”

Chapter II

The man in the corner, ever conscious of any effect he produced upon

my excited imagination, had paused for a while, giving me time, as it

were, to co-ordinate in my mind the few simple facts he had put before

me. I had no wish to make a remark, knowing of old that my one chance

of getting the whole of his interesting argument was to offer neither

comment nor contradiction.

“When a young, good-looking woman in the heyday of her success in an

interesting profession,” he began at last, “is alleged to have

committed suicide, the outside public immediately want to know the

reason why she did such a thing, and a kind of freemasonic, amateur

detective work goes on, which generally brings a few important truths

to light. Thus, in the case of Miss Elliott, certain facts had begun

to leak out, even before the inquest, with its many sensational

developments. Rumours concerning the internal administration, or

rather maladministration of the Home began to take more definite form.

“That its finances had been in a very shaky condition for some time

was known to all those who were interested in its welfare. What was

not so universally known was that few hospitals had had more

munificent donations and subscriptions showered upon them in recent

years, and yet it was openly spoken of by all the nurses that Miss

Elliott had on more than one occasion petitioned for actual

necessities for the patients—necessities which were denied to her on

the plea of necessary economy.

“The Convalescent Home was, as sometimes happens in institutions of

this sort, under the control of a committee of benevolent and

fashionable people who understood nothing about business, and less

still about the management of a hospital. Dr. Kinnaird, President of

the institution, was a young, eminently successful consultant; he had

recently married the daughter of a peer, who had boundless ambitions

for herself and her husband.

“Dr. Kinnaird, by adding the prestige of his name to the Home, no

doubt felt that he had done enough for its welfare. Against that, Dr.

Stapylton, Honorary Secretary and Treasurer of the Home, threw himself

heart and soul into the work connected with it, and gave a great deal

of his time to it. All subscriptions and donations went, of course,

through his hands, the benevolent and fashionable committee being only

too willing to shift all their financial responsibilities on to his

willing shoulders. He was a very popular man in society—a bachelor

with a magnificent house in Hamilton Terrace, where he entertained the

more eminent and fashionable clique in his own profession.

“It was the evening papers, however, which contained the most

sensational development of this tragic case. It appears that on the

Saturday afternoon Mary Dawson, one of the nurses in the Home was

going to the house surgeon’s office with a message from the head

nurse, when her attention was suddenly arrested in one of the passages

by the sound of loud voices proceeding from one of the rooms. She

paused to listen for a moment and at once recognised the voices of

Miss Elliott and of Dr. Stapylton, the Honorary Treasurer and Chairman

of Committee.

“The subject of conversation was evidently that of the eternal

question of finance. Miss Elliott spoke very indignantly, and Nurse

Dawson caught the words:

“‘Surely you must agree with me that Dr. Kinnaird ought to be informed

at once.’

“Dr. Stapylton’s voice in reply seems to have been at first bitingly

sarcastic, then threatening. Dawson heard nothing more after that, and

went on to deliver her message. On her way back she stopped in the

passage again, and tried to listen. This time it seemed to her as if

she could hear the sound of some one crying bitterly, and Dr.

Stapylton’s voice speaking very gently.

“‘You may be right, Nellie,’ he was saying. ‘At any rate, wait a few

days before telling Kinnaird. You know what he is—he’ll make a

frightful fuss and——’

“Whereupon Miss Elliott interrupted him.

“‘It isn’t fair to Dr. Kinnaird to keep him in ignorance any longer.

Whoever the thief may be it is your duty or mine to expose him, and if

necessary bring him to justice.’

“There was a good deal of discussion at the time, if you remember, as

to whether Nurse Dawson had overheard and repeated this speech

accurately: whether, in point of fact, Miss Elliott had used the words

‘_or_ mine’ or ‘_and_ mine.’ You see the neat little point, don’t

you?” continued the man in the corner. “The little word ‘and’ would

imply that she considered herself at one with Dr. Stapylton in the

matter, but ‘or’ would mean that she was resolved to act alone if he

refused to join her in unmasking the thief.

“All these facts, as I remarked before, had leaked out, as such facts

have a way of doing. No wonder, therefore, that on the day fixed for

the inquest the coroner’s court was filled to overflowing, both with

the public—ever eager for new sensations—and with the many friends of

the deceased lady, among whom young medical students of both sexes and

nurses in uniform were most conspicuous.

“I was there early, and therefore had a good seat, from which I could

comfortably watch the various actors in the drama about to be

performed. People who seemed to be in the know pointed out various

personages to one another, and it was a matter of note that, in spite

of professional engagements, the members of the staff of the

Convalescent Home were present in full force and stayed on almost the

whole time. The personages who chiefly arrested my attention were,

firstly, Dr. Kinnaird, a good-looking Irishman of about forty, and

President of the institution; also Dr. Earnshaw, a rising young

consultant, with boundless belief in himself written all over his

pleasant rubicund countenance.

“The expert medical evidence was once again thoroughly gone into.

There was absolutely no doubt that Miss Elliott had died from having

her throat cut with the surgical knife which was found grasped in her

right hand. There was absolutely no signs of a personal struggle in

the immediate vicinity of the body, and rigid examination proved that

there was no other mark of violence upon the body; there was nothing

therefore, to prove that the poor girl had not committed suicide in a

moment of mental aberration or of great personal grief.

“Of course, it was strange that she should have chosen this curious

mode of taking her own life. She had access to all kinds of poisons,

amongst which her medical knowledge could prompt her to choose the

least painful and most efficacious ones. Therefore, to have walked out

on a Sunday night to a wretched and unfrequented spot and there

committed suicide in that grim fashion seemed almost the work of a mad

woman. And yet the evidence of her family and friends all tended to

prove that Miss Elliott was a peculiarly sane, large-minded, and happy

individual.

“However, the suicide theory was at this stage of the proceedings

taken as being absolutely established, and when Police-Constable Fiske

came forward to give his evidence no one in the court was prepared for

a statement which suddenly revealed this case to be as mysterious as

it was tragic.

“Fiske’s story was this: Close upon midnight on that memorable Sunday

night he was walking down Blomfield Road along the side of the canal

and towards the foot-bridge, when he overtook a lady and gentleman who

were walking in the same direction as himself. He turned to look at

them, and noticed that the gentleman was in evening dress and wore a

high hat, and that the lady was crying.

“Blomfield Road is at best very badly lighted, especially on the side

next to the canal, where there are no lamps at all. Fiske, however,

was prepared to swear positively that the lady was the deceased. As

for the gentleman, he might know him again or he might not.

“Fiske then crossed the foot-bridge, and walked on towards the Harrow

Road. As he did so, he heard St. Mary Magdalen’s church clock chime

the hour of midnight. It was a quarter of an hour after that, that the

body of the unfortunate girl was found, and clasping in her hand the

knife with which that awful deed had been done. By whom? Was it really

by her own self? But if so, why did not that man in evening dress who

had last seen her alive come forward and throw some light upon this

fast thickening veil of mystery?

“It was Mr. James Elliott, brother of the deceased, however, who first

mentioned a name then in open court, which has ever since in the minds

of every one been associated with Miss Elliott’s tragic fate.

“He was speaking in answer to a question of the coroner’s anent his

sister’s disposition and recent frame of mind.

“‘She was always extremely cheerful,’ he said, ‘but recently had been

peculiarly bright and happy. I understood from her that this was

because she believed that a man for whom she had a great regard was

also very much attached to her, and meant to ask her to be his wife.’

“‘And do you know who this man was?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Elliott, ‘it was Dr. Stapylton.’

“Every one had expected that name of course, for every one remembered

Nurse Dawson’s story, yet when it came, there crept over all those

present an undescribable feeling that something terrible was

impending.

“‘Is Dr. Stapylton here?’

“But Dr. Stapylton had sent in an excuse. A professional case of the

utmost urgency had kept him at a patient’s bedside. But Dr. Kinnaird,

the President of the institution, came forward.

“Questioned by the coroner, Dr. Kinnaird, however, who evidently had a

great regard for his colleague, repudiated any idea that the funds of

the institution had ever been tampered with by the Treasurer.

“‘The very suggestion of such a thing,’ he said, ‘was an outrage upon

one of the most brilliant men in the profession.’

“He further added that, although he knew that Dr. Stapylton thought

very highly of Miss Elliott, he did not think that there was any

actual engagement, and most decidedly he (Dr. Kinnaird) had heard

nothing of any disagreement between them.

“‘Then did Dr. Stapylton never tell you that Miss Elliott had often

chafed under the extraordinary economy practised in the richly-endowed

Home?’ asked the coroner again.

“‘No,’ replied Dr. Kinnaird.

“‘Was not that rather strange reticence?’

“‘Certainly not. I am only the Honorary President of the

institution—Stapylton has chief control of its finances.’

“‘Ah!’ remarked the coroner blandly.

“However, it was clearly no business of his at this moment to enter

into the financial affairs of the Home. His duty at this point was to

try and find out if Dr. Stapylton and the man in evening dress were

one and the same person.

“The men who found the body testified to the hour: a quarter past

midnight. As Fiske had seen the unfortunate girl alive a little before

twelve, she must have been murdered or had committed suicide between

midnight and a quarter past. But there was something more to come.

“How strange and dramatic it all was!” continued the man in the

corner, with a bland smile, altogether out of keeping with the

poignancy of his narrative; “all these people in that crowded court

trying to reconstruct the last chapter of that bright young matron’s

life and then—but I must not anticipate.

“One more witness was to be heard—one whom the police, with a totally

unconscious sense of what is dramatic, had reserved for the last. This

was Dr. Earnshaw, one of the staff of the Convalescent Home. His

evidence was very short, but of deeply momentous import. He explained

that he had consulting rooms in Weymouth Street, but resided in

Westbourne Square. On Sunday, 1st November, he had been dining out in

Maida Vale, and returning home a little before midnight saw a woman

standing close by the steps of the foot-bridge in the Blomfield Road.

“‘I had been coming down Formosa Street and had not specially taken

notice of her, when just as I reached the corner of Blomfield Road she

was joined by a man in evening dress and high hat. Then I crossed the

road, and recognised both Miss Elliott and——’

“The young doctor paused, almost as if hesitating before the enormity

of what he was about to say, whilst the excitement in court became

almost painful.

“‘And——?’ urged the coroner.

“‘And Dr. Stapylton,’ said Dr. Earnshaw at last, almost under his

breath.

“‘You are quite sure?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Absolutely positive. I spoke to them both, and they spoke to me.’

“‘What did you say?’

“‘Oh, the usual, “Hello, Stapylton,” to which he replied, “Hello!” I

then said “Good-night” to them both, and Miss Elliott also said

“Good-night.” I saw her face more clearly then, and thought that she

looked very tearful and unhappy, and Stapylton looked ill-tempered. I

wondered why they had chosen that unhallowed spot for a midnight

walk.’

“‘And you say the hour was——?’ asked the coroner.

“‘Ten minutes to twelve. I looked at my watch as I crossed the

foot-bridge, and had heard a quarter to twelve strike five minutes

before.’

“Then it was that the coroner adjourned the inquest. Dr. Stapylton’s

attendance had become absolutely imperative. According to Dr.

Earnshaw’s testimony, he had been with deceased certainly a quarter of

an hour before she met her terrible death. Fiske had seen them

together ten minutes later; she was then crying bitterly. There was as

yet no actual charge against the fashionable and rich doctor, but

already the ghostly bird of suspicion had touched him with its ugly

wing.”

Chapter III

“As for the next day,” continued the man in the corner after a slight

pause, “I can assure you that there was not a square foot of standing

room in the coroner’s court for the adjourned inquest. It was timed

for eleven a.m., and at six o’clock on that cold winter’s morning the

pavement outside the court was already crowded. As for me, I always

manage to get a front seat, and I did on that occasion, too. I fancy

that I was the first among the general public to note Dr. Stapylton as

he entered the room accompanied by his solicitor, and by Dr. Kinnaird,

with whom he was chatting very cheerfully and pleasantly.

“Mind you, I am a great admirer of the medical profession, and I think

a clever and successful doctor usually has a most delightful air about

him—the consciousness of great and good work done—with profit to

himself—which is quite unique and quite admirable.

“Dr. Stapylton had that air even to a greater extent than his

colleague, and from the affectionate way in which Dr. Kinnaird finally

shook him by the hand, it was quite clear that the respected chief of

the Convalescent Home, at any rate, refused to harbour any suspicion

of the integrity of its Treasurer.

“Well, I must not weary you by dwelling on the unimportant details of

this momentous inquest. Constable Fiske, who was asked to identify the

gentleman in evening dress whom he had seen with the deceased at a few

minutes before twelve, failed to recognise Dr. Stapylton very

positively: pressed very closely, he finally refused to swear either

way. Against that, Dr. Earnshaw repeated clearly and categorically,

looking his colleague straight in the face the while, the damnatory

evidence he had given the day before.

“‘I saw Dr. Stapylton, I spoke to him, and he spoke to me,’ he

repeated most emphatically.

“Every one in that court was watching Dr. Stapylton’s face, which wore

an air of supreme nonchalance, even of contempt, but certainly neither

of guilt nor of fear.

“Of course, by that time _I_ had fully made up my mind as to where the

hitch lay in this extraordinary mystery; but no one else had, and

every one held their breath as Dr. Stapylton quietly stepped into the

box, and after a few preliminary questions the coroner asked him very

abruptly:

“‘You were in the company of the deceased a few minutes before she

died, Dr. Stapylton?’

“‘Pardon me,’ replied the latter quietly, ‘I last saw Miss Elliott

alive on Saturday afternoon, just before I went home from my work.’

“This calm reply, delivered without a tremor, positively made every

one gasp. For the moment coroner and jury were alike staggered.

“‘But we have two witnesses here who saw you in the company of the

deceased within a few minutes of twelve o’clock on the Sunday night!’

the coroner managed to gasp out at last.

“‘Pardon me,’ again interposed the doctor, ‘these witnesses were

mistaken.’

“‘Mistaken!’

“I think every one would have shouted out the word in boundless

astonishment had they dared to do so.

“‘Dr. Earnshaw was mistaken,’ reiterated Dr. Stapylton quietly. ‘He

neither saw me nor did he speak to me.’

“‘You can substantiate that, of course?’ queried the coroner.

“‘Pardon me,’ once more said the doctor, with utmost calm, ‘it is

surely Dr. Earnshaw who should substantiate _his_ statement.’

“‘There is Constable Fiske’s corroborative evidence for that,’

retorted the coroner, somewhat nettled.

“‘Hardly, I think. You see, the constable states that he saw a

gentleman in evening dress, etc., talking to the deceased at a minute

or two before twelve o’clock, and that when he heard the clock of St.

Mary Magdalen chime the hour of midnight he was just walking away from

the foot-bridge. Now, just as that very church clock was chiming that

hour, I was stepping into a cab at the corner of Harrow Road, not a

hundred yards _in front_ of Constable Fiske.’

“‘You swear to that?’ queried the coroner in amazement.

“‘I can easily prove it,’ said Dr. Stapylton. ‘The cabman who drove me

from there to my club is here and can corroborate my statement.’

“And amidst boundless excitement, John Smith, a hansom cab-driver,

stated that he was hailed in the Harrow Road by the last witness, who

told him to drive to the Royal Clinical Club, in Mardon Street. Just

as he started off, St. Mary Magdalen’s church, close by, struck the

hour of midnight.

“At that very moment, if you remember, Constable Fiske had just

crossed the foot-bridge, and was walking towards the Harrow Road, and

he was quite sure (for he was closely questioned afterwards) that no

one overtook him from behind. Now there would be no way of getting

from one side of the canal to the other at this point except over that

foot-bridge; the nearest bridge is fully two hundred yards further

down the Blomfield Road. The girl was alive a minute _before_ the

constable crossed the foot-bridge, and it would have been absolutely

impossible for any one to have murdered a girl, placed the knife in

her hand, run a couple of hundred yards to the next bridge and another

three hundred to the corner of Harrow Road, all in the space of three

minutes.

“This _alibi_, therefore, absolutely cleared Dr. Stapylton from any

suspicion of having murdered Miss Elliott. And yet, looking on that

man as he sat there, calm, cool and contemptuous, no one could have

had the slightest doubt but that he was lying—lying when he said he

had not seen Miss Elliott that evening; lying when he denied Dr.

Earnshaw’s statement; lying when he professed himself ignorant of the

poor girl’s fate.

“Dr. Earnshaw repeated his statement with the same emphasis, but it

was one man’s word against another’s, and as Dr. Stapylton was so

glaringly innocent of the actual murder, there seemed no valid reason

at all why he should have denied having seen her that night, and the

point was allowed to drop. As for Nurse Dawson’s story of his alleged

quarrel with Miss Elliott on the Saturday night, Dr. Stapylton again

had a simple and logical explanation.

“‘People who listen at keyholes,’ he said quietly, ‘are apt to hear

only fragments of conversation, and often mistake ordinary loud voices

for quarrels. As a matter of fact, Miss Elliott and I were discussing

the dismissal of certain nurses from the Home, whom she deemed

incompetent. Nurse Dawson was among that number. She desired their

immediate dismissal, and I tried to pacify her. That was the subject

of my conversation with the deceased lady. I can swear to every word

of it.’”

Chapter IV

The man in the corner had long ceased speaking, and was placing

quietly before me a number of photographs. One by one I saw the series

of faces which had been watched so eagerly in the coroner’s court that

memorable afternoon by an excited crowd.

“So the fate of poor Miss Elliott has remained wrapt in mystery?” I

said thoughtfully at last.

“To every one,” rejoined the funny creature, “except to me.”

“Ah! What is your theory, then?”

“A simple one, dear lady: so simple that it really amazes me, that no

one, not even you, my faithful pupil, ever thought of it.”

“It may be so simple that it becomes idiotic,” I retorted with lofty

disdain.

“Well, that may be. Shall I at any rate try to make it clear.”

“If you like.”

“For this I think the best way would be, if you were to follow me

through what transpired before the inquest. But first tell me, what do

you think of Dr. Earnshaw’s statement?”

“Well,” I replied, “a good many people thought that it was he who

murdered Miss Elliott, and that his story of meeting Dr. Stapylton

with her was a lie from beginning to end.”

“Impossible!” he retorted, making an elaborate knot in his bit of

string. “Dr. Earnshaw’s friends, with whom he had been dining that

night, swore that he was _not_ in evening dress, nor wore a high hat.

And on that point—the evening dress, and the hat—Constable Fiske was

most positive.”

“Then Dr. Earnshaw was mistaken, and it was not Dr. Stapylton he met.”

“Impossible!” he shrieked, whilst another knot went to join its

fellows. “He spoke to Dr. Stapylton, and Dr. Stapylton spoke to him.”

“Very well, then,” I argued; “why should Dr. Stapylton tell a lie

about it? He had such a conclusive _alibi_ that there could be no

object in his making a false statement about that.”

“No object!” shrieked the excited creature. “Why, don’t you _see_ that

he had to tell the lie in order to set police, coroner and jury by the

ears, because he did not wish it to be even remotely hinted at, that

the man whom Dr. Earnshaw saw with Miss Elliott, and the man whom

Constable Fiske saw with her ten minutes later, were _two different

persons_.”

“Two different persons!” I ejaculated.

“Ay! two confederates in this villany. No one has ever attempted to

deny the truth of the shaky finances of the Home; no one has really

denied that Miss Elliott suspected certain defalcations and was trying

to force the hands of the Honorary Treasurer towards a full enquiry.

That the Honorary Treasurer knew where all the money went to was

pretty clear all along—his magnificent house in Hamilton Terrace fully

testifies to that. That the President of the institution was a party

to these defalcations and largely profited by them I for one am

equally convinced.”

“Dr. Kinnaird?” I ejaculated in amazement.

“Ay, Dr. Kinnaird. Do you mean to tell me that he alone among the

entire staff of that Home was ignorant of those defalcations?

Impossible! And if he knew of them, and did neither inquire into them

nor attempt to stop them, then he _must_ have been a party to them. Do

you admit that?”

“Yes, I admit that,” I replied.

“Very well, then. The rest is quite simple. Those two men, unworthy to

bear the noble appellation of doctor, must for years have quietly

stolen the money subscribed by the benevolent for the Home, and

converted it to their own use: then, they suddenly find themselves

face to face with immediate discovery in the shape of a young girl

determined to unmask the systematic frauds of the past few years. That

meant exposure, disgrace, ruin for them both, and they determine to be

rid of her.

“Under the pretence of an evening walk, her so-called lover entices

her to a lonely and suitable spot; his confederate is close by, hidden

in the shadows, ready to give him assistance if the girl struggles and

screams. But suddenly Dr. Earnshaw appears. He recognises Stapylton

and challenges him. For a moment the villains are nonplussed, then

Kinnaird—the cleverer of the two—steps forward, greets the two lovers

unconcernedly, and after two minutes’ conversation casually reminds

Stapylton of an appointment the latter is presumed to have at a club

in St. James’ Street.

“The latter understands and takes the hint, and takes a quick farewell

of the girl, leaving her in his friend’s charge, then as fast as he

can, goes off, presently takes a cab, leaving his friend to do the

deed, whilst the _alibi_ he can prove, coupled with Dr. Earnshaw’s

statement, was sure to bewilder and mislead the police and the public.

“Thus it was that though Dr. Earnshaw saw and recognised Dr.

Stapylton, Constable Fiske saw Dr. Kinnaird, whom he did _not_

recognise, on whom no suspicion had fallen, and whose name had never

been coupled with that of Miss Elliott. When Constable Fiske had

turned his back, Kinnaird murdered the girl and went off quietly,

whilst Dr. Stapylton, on whom all suspicions were bound to fasten

sooner or later, was able to prove the most perfect _alibi_ ever

concocted.

“One day I feel certain that the frauds at the Home will be

discovered, and then who knows what else may see the light?

“Think of it all quietly when I am gone, and to-morrow when we meet

tell me whether if _I_ am wrong what is _your_ explanation of this

extraordinary mystery.”

Before I could reply he had gone, and I was left wondering, gazing at

the photographs of two good-looking, highly respectable and respected

men, whom an animated scarecrow had just boldly accused of committing

one of the most dastardly crimes ever recorded in our annals.

II. The Hocussing of Cigarette

Chapter I

Quite by chance I found myself one morning sitting before a

marble-topped table in the A.B.C. shop. I really wondered for the

moment what had brought me there, and felt cross with myself for being

there at all. Having sampled my tea and roll, I soon buried myself in

the capacious folds of my _Daily Telegraph_.

“A glass of milk and a cheesecake, please,” said a well-known voice.

The next moment I was staring into the corner, straight at a pair of

mild, watery blue eyes, hidden behind great bone-rimmed spectacles,

and at ten long bony fingers, round which a piece of string was

provokingly intertwined.

There he was as usual, wearing—for it was chilly—a huge tweed ulster,

of a pattern too lofty to be described. Smiling, bland, apologetic,

and fidgety, he sat before me as the living embodiment of the reason

why I had come to the A.B.C. shop that morning.

“How do you do?” I said with as much dignity as I could command.

“I see that you are interested in Cigarette,” he remarked, pointing to

a special column in the _Daily Telegraph_.

“She is quite herself again,” I said.

“Yes, but you don’t know who tried to poison her and succeeded in

making her very ill. You don’t know whether the man Palk had anything

to do with it, whether he was bribed, or whether it was Mrs. Keeson or

the groom Cockram who told a lie, or why——?”

“No,” I admitted reluctantly; “I don’t know any of these things.”

He was fidgeting nervously in the corner, wriggling about like an

animated scarecrow. Then suddenly a bland smile illuminated his entire

face. His long bony finger had caught the end of the bit of string,

and there he was at it again, just as I had seen him a year ago,

worrying and fidgeting, making knot upon knot, and untying them again,

whilst his blue eyes peered at me over the top of his gigantic

spectacles.

“I would like to know what your theory is about the whole thing,” I

was compelled to say at last; for the case had interested me deeply,

and, after all, I had come to the A.B.C. shop for the sole purpose of

discussing the adventures of Cigarette with him.

“Oh, my theories are not worth considering,” he said meekly. “The

police would not give me five shillings for any one of them. They

always prefer a mystery to any logical conclusion, if it is arrived at

by an outsider. But you may be more lucky. The owner of Cigarette did

offer £100 reward for the elucidation of the mystery. The noble Earl

must have backed Cigarette for all he was worth. Malicious tongues go

even so far as to say that he is practically a ruined man now, and

that the beautiful Lady Agnes is only too glad to find herself the

wife of Harold Keeson, the son of the well-known trainer.

“If you ever go to Newmarket,” continued the man in the corner, after

a slight pause, during which he had been absorbed in unravelling one

of his most complicated knots, “any one will point out the Keesons’

house to you. It is called Manor House, and stands in the midst of

beautiful gardens. Mr. Keeson himself is a man of about fifty, and, as

a matter of fact, is of very good family, the Keesons having owned

property in the Midlands for the past eight hundred years. Of this

fact he is, it appears, extremely proud. His father, however, was a

notorious spendthrift, who squandered his property, and died in the

nick of time, leaving his son absolutely penniless and proud as

Lucifer.

“Fate, however, has been kind to George Keeson. His knowledge of

horses and of all matters connected with the turf stood him in good

stead; hard work and perseverance did the rest. Now, at fifty years of

age, he is a very rich man, and practically at the head of a

profession, which if not exactly that of a gentleman, is, at any rate,

highly remunerative.

“He owns Manor House, and lived there with his young wife and his only

son and heir, Harold.

“It was Mr. Keeson who had trained Cigarette for the Earl of

Okehampton, and who, of course, had charge of her during her

apprenticeship, before she was destined to win a fortune for her

owner, her trainer, and those favoured few who had got wind of her

capabilities. For Cigarette was to be kept a dark horse—not an easy

matter in these days, when the neighbourhood of every racecourse

abounds with rascals who eke out a precarious livelihood by various

methods more or less shady, of which the gleaning of early information

is perhaps the least disreputable.

“Fortunately for Mr. Keeson, however, he had in the groom, Cockram, a

trusted and valued servant, who had been in his employ for over ten

years. To say that Cockram took a special pride in Cigarette would be

but to put it mildly. He positively loved the mare, and I don’t think

that any one ever doubted that his interest in her welfare was every

bit as keen as that of the Earl of Okehampton or of Mr. Keeson.

“It was to Cockram, therefore, that Mr. Keeson entrusted the care of

Cigarette. She was lodged in the private stables adjoining the Manor

House, and during the few days immediately preceding the ‘Coronation

Stakes’ the groom practically never left her side, either night or

day. He slept in the loosebox with her, and ate all his meals in her

company; nor was any one allowed to come within measurable distance of

the living treasure, save Mr. Keeson or the Earl of Okehampton

himself.

“And yet, in spite of all these precautions, in spite of every care

that human ingenuity could devise, on the very morning of the race

Cigarette was seized with every symptom of poisoning, and although, as

you say, she is quite herself again now, she was far too ill to fulfil

her engagement, and, if rumour speaks correctly, completed thereby the

ruin of the Earl of Okehampton.”

Chapter II

The man in the corner looked at me through his bone-rimmed spectacles,

and his mild blue eyes gazed pleasantly into mine.

“You may well imagine,” he continued, after a while, “what a

thunderbolt such a catastrophe means to those whose hopes of a fortune

rested upon the fitness of the bay mare. Mr. Keeson lost his temper

for an instant, they say—but for one instant only. When he was hastily

summoned at six o’clock in the morning to Cigarette’s stables, and saw

her lying on the straw, rigid and with glassy eyes, he raised his

heavy riding-whip over the head of Cockram. Some assert that he

actually struck him, and that the groom was too wretched and too dazed

to resent either words or blows. After a good deal of hesitation he

reluctantly admitted that for the first time since Cigarette had been

in his charge he had slept long and heavily.

“‘I am such a light sleeper, you know, sir,’ he said in a tear-choked

voice. ‘Usually I could hear every noise the mare made if she stirred

at all. But there—last night I cannot say _what_ happened. I remember

that I felt rather drowsy after my supper, and must have dropped off

to sleep very quickly. Once during the night I woke up; the mare was

all right then.’

“The man paused, and seemed to be searching for something in his

mind—the recollection of a dream, perhaps. But the veterinary surgeon,

who was present at the time, having also been hastily summoned to the

stables, took up the glass which had contained the beer for Cockram’s

supper. He sniffed it, and then tasted it, and said quietly:

“‘No wonder you slept heavily, my man. This beer was drugged: it

contained opium.’

“‘Drugged!’ ejaculated Cockram, who, on hearing this fact, which in

every way exonerated him from blame, seemed more hopelessly wretched

than he had been before.

“It appears that every night Cockram’s supper was brought out to him

in the stables by one of the servants from the Manor House. On this

particular night Mrs. Keeson’s maid, a young girl named Alice Image,

had brought him a glass of beer and some bread and cheese on a tray at

about eleven o’clock.

“Closely questioned by Mr. Keeson, the girl emphatically denied all

knowledge of any drug in the beer. She had often taken the supper-tray

across to Cockram, who was her sweetheart, she said. It was usually

placed ready for her in the hall, and when she had finished attending

upon her mistress’s night toilet she went over to the stables with it.

She had certainly never touched the beer, and the tray had stood in

its accustomed place on the hall table looking just the same as usual.

‘As if I’d go and poison my Cockram!’ she said in the midst of a

deluge of tears.

“All these somewhat scanty facts crept into the evening papers that

same day. That an outrage of a peculiarly daring and cunning character

had been perpetrated was not for a moment in doubt. So much money had

been at stake, so many people would be half ruined by it, that even

the non-racing public at once took the keenest interest in the case.

All the papers admitted, of course, that for the moment the affair

seemed peculiarly mysterious, yet all commented upon one fact, which

they suggested should prove an important clue: this fact was Cockram’s

strange attitude.

“At first he had been dazed—probably owing to the after-effects of the

drug; he had also seemed too wretched even to resent Mr. Keeson’s very

natural outburst of wrath. But then, when the presence of the drug in

his beer was detected, which proved _him_ at any rate, to have been

guiltless in the matter, his answers, according to all accounts,

became somewhat confused; and all Mr. Keeson and the ‘vet.,’ who were

present, got out of him after that, was a perpetual ejaculation:

‘What’s to be done? What’s to be done?’

“Two days later the sporting papers were the first to announce, with

much glee, that, thanks to the untiring energy of the Scotland Yard

authorities, daylight seemed at last to have been brought to bear upon

the mystery which surrounded the dastardly outrage on the Earl of

Okehampton’s mare, Cigarette, and that an important arrest in

connection with it had already been effected.

“It appears that a man named Charles Palk, seemingly of no address,

had all along been suspected of having at least a hand in the outrage.

He was believed to be a bookmaker’s tout, and was a man upon whom the

police had long since kept a watchful eye. Palk had been seen loafing

round the Manor House for the past week, and had been warned off the

grounds once or twice by the grooms.

“It now transpired that on the day preceding the outrage he had hung

about the neighbourhood of the Manor House the whole afternoon, trying

to get into conversation with the stable-boys, or even with Mr.

Keeson’s indoor servants. No one, however, would have anything to do

with him, as Mr. Keeson’s orders in those respects were very strict:

he had often threatened any one of his _employés_ with instant

dismissal if he found him in company with one of these touts.

“Detective Twiss, however, who was in charge of the case, obtained the

information that Alice Image, the maid, had been seen on more than one

occasion talking to Palk, and that on the very day before the

Coronation Stakes she had been seen in his company. Closely questioned

by the detective, Alice Image at first denied her intercourse with the

tout, but finally was forced to admit that she had held conversation

with him once or twice.

“She was fond of putting a bit now and again upon a horse, but

Cockram, she added, was such a muff that he never would give her a

tip, for he did not approve of betting for young women. Palk had

always been very civil and nice-spoken she further explained.

Moreover, he came from Buckinghamshire, her own part of the country,

where she was born; anyway, she had never had cause to regret having

entrusted a half-sovereign or so of her wages to him.

“All these explanations delivered by Alice Image, with the flow of

tears peculiar to her kind, were not considered satisfactory, and the

next day she and Charles Palk were both arrested on the charge of

being concerned in the poisoning of the Earl of Okehampton’s mare

Cigarette, with intent to do her grievous bodily harm.”

Chapter III

“These sort of cases,” continued the man in the corner after a slight

pause, during which his nervous fingers toyed incessantly with that

eternal bit of string—“these sort of cases always create a great deal

of attention amongst the public, the majority of whom in this country

have very strong sporting proclivities. It was small wonder,

therefore, when Alice Image and Charles Palk were brought before the

local magistrates, that the court was crowded to overflowing, both

with Pressmen and with the general public.

“I had all along been very much interested in the case, so I went down

to Newmarket, and, in spite of the huge crowd, managed to get a good

seat, whence I could command a full view of the chief personages

concerned in this thrilling sporting drama.

“Firstly, there was the Earl of Okehampton—good-looking, but for an

unmistakable air of the broken-down sporting man about his whole

person; the trainer, Mr. Keeson—a lean, clean-shaven man, with a fine,

proud carriage, and a general air of ancient lineage and the ‘Domesday

Booke’ about him; Mrs. Keeson—a pale, nervous-looking creature, who

seemed very much out of place in this sporting set; and, finally, the

accused—Alice Image, dissolved in tears, and Charles Palk,

over-dressed, defiant, horsey, and unsympathetic.

“There was also Cockram, the groom. My short-sighted eyes had fastened

on him the moment I entered the court. A more wretched, miserable,

bewildered expression I have never seen on any man’s face.

“Both Alice Image and Charles Palk flatly denied the charge. Alice

declared, amid a renewed deluge of tears, that she was engaged to be

married to Cockram, that she ‘no more would have hurt him or the

pretty creature he was in charge of, for anything.’ How could she? As

for Palk—conscious, no doubt, of his own evil reputation—he merely

contented himself with shrugging his shoulders and various denials,

usually accompanied with emphatic language.

“As neither of the accused attempted to deny that they had been

together the day before the outrage, there was no occasion to call

witnesses to further prove that fact. Both, however, asserted

emphatically that their conversation was entirely confined to the

subject of Alice’s proposed flutters on the favourite for the next

day’s race.

“Thus the only really important witness was the groom Cockram. Once

again his attitude as a witness caused a great deal of surprise, and

gradually, as he gave his evidence in a peculiarly halting and nervous

manner, that surprise was changed into suspicion.

“Questioned by the magistrate, he tried his hardest to exonerate Alice

from all blame; and yet when asked whether he had cause to suspect any

one else he became more confused than ever, said, ‘No,’ emphatically

first, then, ‘Yes,’ and finally looked round the court appealingly,

like some poor animal at bay. That the man was hiding something, that

he was, in point of fact, lying, was apparent to every one. He had

drunk the beer, he said, unsuspectingly, on that fatal night; he had

then dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and never woke until

about six a.m., when a glance at the mare at once told him that there

was something very wrong.

“However, whether Cockram was lying or not—whether he suspected any

one else or was merely trying to shield his sweetheart, there was, in

the opinion of the magistrate, quite sufficient evidence to prove that

Alice Image, at any rate, had a hand in the hocussing of Cigarette,

since it was she who had brought the drugged beer to Cockram. Beyond

that there was not sufficient evidence to show either that she was a

tool in the hands of Palk, or that they both were merely instruments

in the hands of some third person.

“Anyway, the magistrate—it was Major Laverton, J.P., a great personal

friend of the Earl of Okehampton, and a remarkably clever and acute

man—tried his hardest to induce Alice to confess. He questioned the

poor girl so closely and so rigorously that gradually she lost what

little self-control she had, and every one in the court blamed Major

Laverton not a little, for he was gradually getting the poor girl into

a state of hysterics.

“As for me, I inwardly commended the learned J.P., for already I had

guessed what he was driving at, and was not the least astonished when

the dramatic incident occurred which rendered this case so memorable.

“Alice Image, namely, now thoroughly unnerved, harassed with the

Major’s questions, suddenly turned to where Cockram was sitting, and,

with a hysterical cry, she stretched out both her arms towards him.

“‘Joe! my Joe!’ she cried; ‘you know I didn’t do it! Can’t you do

anything to help me?’

“It was pathetic in the extreme: every one in the court felt deeply

moved. As for Cockram, a sudden change came over him. I am accustomed

to read the faces of my fellow men, and in that rough countenance I

saw then emerging, in response to the girl’s appeal, a quick and firm

resolution.

“‘Ay, and I will, Alice!’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I have tried

to do my duty. If the gentlemen will hear me I will say all I know.’

“Needless to say ‘the gentlemen’ were only too ready to hear him. Like

a man who, having made up his mind, is now resolved to act upon it,

the groom Cockram began his story.

“‘I told your worship that, having drunk the beer that night, I

dropped off to sleep very fast and very heavy-like. How long I’d been

asleep I couldn’t say, when suddenly something seemed not exactly to

wake me, but to dispel my dreams, so to speak. I opened my eyes, and

at first I couldn’t see anything, as the gas in the stable was turned

on very low; but I put out my hand to feel the mare’s fetlocks, just

by way of telling her that I was there all right enough, and looking

after her—bless her! At that moment, your worship, I noticed that the

stable-door was open, and that some one—I couldn’t see who it was—was

goin’ out of it. “Who goes there!” says I, for I still felt very

sleepy and dull, when, to my astonishment, who should reply to me

but——’

“The man paused, and once more over his rough, honest face came the

old look of perplexity and misery.

“‘But——?’ queried the magistrate, whose nerves were obviously as much

on tension as those of every one else in that court.

“‘Speak, Joe—won’t you?’ appealed Alice Image pathetically.

“‘But the mistress—Mrs. Keeson, sir,’ came from the groom in an almost

inaudible whisper. ‘You know, ma’am,’ he added, while the gathering

tears choked his voice, ‘I wouldn’t ’ave spoke. But she’s my

sweetheart, ma’am; and I couldn’t bear that the shame should rest on

her.’

“There was a moment’s deadly silence in that crowded court. Every

one’s eyes wandered towards the pale face of Mrs. Keeson, which,

however, though almost livid in colour, expressed nothing but the most

boundless astonishment. As for Mr. Keeson, surprise, incredulity, then

furious wrath at the slander, could be seen chasing one another upon

his handsome face.

“‘What lie is this?’ burst involuntarily from his lips, as his fingers

closed more tightly upon the heavy riding-whip which he was holding.

“‘Silence, please!’ said the Major with authority. ‘Now, Cockram, go

on. You say Mrs. Keeson spoke to you. What did she say?’

“‘She seemed rather upset, sir,’ continued Cockram, still looking with

humble apology across at his mistress, ‘for she only stammered

something about: “Oh, it’s nothing, Cockram. I only wanted to speak to

my son—er—to Mr. Harold—I——”’

“‘Harold?’ thundered Mr. Keeson, who was fast losing his temper.

“‘I must ask you, Mr. Keeson, to be silent,’ said the Major. ‘Go on,

Cockram.’

“And Cockram continued his narrative:

“‘“Mr. Harold, ma’am?” I said. “What should ’e be doing ’ere in the

stables at this time of night?” “Oh, nothing,” says she to me, “I

thought I saw him come in here. I must have been mistaken. Never mind,

Cockram; it’s all right. Good-night.”

“‘I said good-night too, and then fell to wondering what Mr. ’Arold

could have wanted prowling round the stables at this hour of the

night. Just then the clock of St. Saviour’s struck four o’clock, and

while I was still wondering I fell asleep again, and never awoke till

six, when the mare was as sick as she could be. And that’s the whole

truth, gentlemen; and I would never have spoke—for Mr. and Mrs. Keeson

have always been good to me, and I’d have done anything to save them

the disgrace—but Alice is goin’ to be my wife, and I couldn’t bear any

shame to rest upon ’er.’

“When Cockram had finished speaking you might have heard a pin drop as

Major Laverton asked Mrs. Keeson to step into the witness-box. She

looked fragile and pale but otherwise quite self-possessed, as she

quietly kissed the book and said in a very firm tone of voice:

“‘I can only say in reply to the extraordinary story which this man

has just told that the drug in the beer must have given him peculiarly

vivid dreams. At the hour he names I was in bed fast asleep, as my

husband can testify; and the whole of Cockram’s narrative is a

fabrication from beginning to end. I may add that I am more than

willing to forgive him. No doubt his brain was clouded by the opiate;

and now he is beside himself owing to Alice Image’s predicament. As

for my son Harold, he was absent from home that night; he was spending

it with some bachelor friends at the “Stag and Mantle” hotel in

Newmarket.’

“‘Yes! By the way,’ said the magistrate, ‘where is Mr. Harold Keeson?

I have no doubt that he will be able to give a very good account of

himself on that memorable night.’

“‘My son is abroad, your worship,’ said Mrs. Keeson, while a shade of

a still more livid hue passed over her face.

“‘Abroad, is he?’ said the magistrate cheerfully. ‘Well, that settles

the point satisfactorily for him—doesn’t it? When did he go?’

“‘Last Thursday, your worship,’ replied Mrs. Keeson.

“Then there was silence again in the court, for that last Thursday was

the day of the ‘Coronation Stakes’—the day immediately following the

memorable night on which the mare Cigarette had been poisoned by an

unknown hand.”

Chapter IV

“I doubt whether in all the annals of criminal procedure there ever

occurred a more dramatic moment than that when so strange a ray of

daylight was shed on the mysterious outrage on Cigarette. The

magistrate, having dismissed Mrs. Keeson, hardly dared to look across

at the trainer, who was a personal friend of his, and who had just

received such a cruel blow through this terrible charge against his

only son—for at that moment I doubt if there were two people in that

court who did not think that Mrs. Keeson had just sworn a false oath,

and that both she and her son had been in the stables that night—for

what purpose only they and their own conscience could tell.

“Alice Image and Charles Palk were both discharged; and it is greatly

to the credit of Cockram that in the midst of his joy in seeing his

sweetheart safe he still remained very gloomy and upset. As for Mr.

Keeson, he must have suffered terribly at all this mud cast at his

only son. He had been wounded in what he worshipped more than anything

else in the world—his family honour. What was the use of money and the

old estates if such a stain rested upon his name?

“As for Mrs. Keeson, public sympathy was very much overshadowed with

contempt for her stupidity. Had she only held her tongue when Cockram

challenged her, suspicion would never have fastened upon Harold. The

fact that she had lied in the witness-box in order to try and remedy

her blunder was also very severely commented upon. The young man had

gone abroad on that memorable Thursday accompanied by two of his

bachelor friends. They had gone on a fishing expedition to Norway, and

were not expected home for three weeks. As they meant to move from

place to place they had left no address: letters and telegrams were

therefore useless.

“During those three weeks pending Harold Keeson’s return certain facts

leaked out which did not tend to improve his case. It appears that he

had long been in love with Lady Agnes Stourcliffe, the daughter of the

Earl of Okehampton. Some people asserted that the young people were

actually—though secretly—engaged. The Earl, however, seems all along

to have objected to the marriage of his daughter with the son of a

trainer, and on more than one occasion had remarked that he had not

sunk quite so low yet as to allow so preposterous a _mésalliance_. Mr.

Keeson, whose family pride was at least equal to that of the Earl, had

naturally very much resented this attitude, and had often begged his

son to give up his pretensions, since they were manifestly so

unwelcome.

“Harold Keeson, however, was deeply in love; and Lady Agnes stuck to

him with womanly constancy and devotion. Unfortunately a climax was

reached some days before the disastrous events at Newmarket. The Earl

of Okehampton suddenly took up a very firm stand on the subject of

Harold Keeson’s courtship of his daughter. Some hot words were

exchanged between the two men, ending in an open breach, the Earl

positively forbidding the young man ever to enter his house again.

“Harold was terribly unhappy at this turn of events. Pride forbade him

to take an unfair advantage of a young girl’s devotion, and, acting on

the advice of his parents, he started for his tour in Norway,

ostensibly in order to try and forget the fair Lady Agnes. This

unhappy love-affair, ending in an open and bitter quarrel between

himself and the owner of Cigarette, did—as I said before—the young

man’s case no good. At the instance of the Earl of Okehampton, who

determined to prosecute him, he was arrested on landing at Harwich.

“Well,” continued the man in the corner, “the next events must be

still fresh in your mind. When Harold Keeson appeared in the dock,

charged with such meanness as to wreak his private grievance upon a

dumb animal, public sympathy at once veered round in his favour. He

looked so handsome, so frank and honest, that at once one felt

convinced that _his_ hand, at any rate, could never have done such a

dastardly thing.

“Mr. Keeson, who was a rich man, moreover, had enlisted the services

of Sir Arthur Inglewood, who had, in the short time at his disposal,

collected all the most important evidence on behalf of his client.

“The two young men who had been travelling in Norway with Harold

Keeson had been present with him on the memorable night at a bachelor

party given by a mutual friend at the ‘Stag and Mantle.’ Both

testified that the party had played bridge until the small hours of

the morning, that between two rubbers—the rooms being very hot—they

had all strolled out to smoke a cigar in the streets. Just as they

were about to re-enter the hotel two church clocks—one of which was

St. Saviour’s—chimed out the hour—four o’clock.

“Four o’clock was the hour when Cockram said that he had spoken to

Mrs. Keeson. Harold had not left the party at the ‘Stag and Mantle’

since ten o’clock, which was an hour before Alice Image took the

drugged beer to the groom. The whole edifice of the prosecution thus

crumbled together like a house of cards, and Harold Keeson was

discharged, without the slightest suspicion clinging to him.

“Six months later he married Lady Agnes Stourcliffe. The Earl, now a

completely ruined man, offered no further opposition to the union of

his daughter with a man who, at any rate, could keep her in comfort

and luxury; for though both Mr. Keeson and his son lost heavily

through Cigarette’s illness, yet the trainer was sufficiently rich to

offer his son and his bride a very beautiful home.”

The man in the corner called to the waitress, and paid for his glass

of milk and cheesecake, whilst I remained absorbed in thought, gazing

at the _Daily Telegraph_, which, in its “London Day by Day,” had this

very morning announced that Mr. and Lady Agnes Keeson had returned to

town from “The Rookery,” Newmarket.

Chapter V

“But who poisoned Cigarette?” I asked after a while; “and why?”

“Ah, who did, I wonder?” he replied with exasperating mildness.

“Surely you have a theory,” I suggested.

“Ah, but my theories are not worth considering. The police would take

no notice of them.”

“Why did Mrs. Keeson go to the stables that night? Did she go?” I

asked.

“Cockram swears she did.”

“She swears she didn’t. If she did why should she have asked for her

son? Surely she did not wish to incriminate her son in order to save

herself?”

“No,” he replied; “women don’t save themselves usually at the expense

of their children, and women don’t usually ‘hocus’ a horse. It is not

a female crime at all—is it?”

The aggravating creature was getting terribly sarcastic; and I began

to fear that he was not going to speak, after all. He was looking

dejectedly all around him. I had one or two parcels by me. I undid a

piece of string from one of them, and handed it to him with the most

perfectly indifferent air I could command.

“I wonder if it was Cockram who told a lie?” I then said

unconcernedly.

But already he had seized on that bit of string, and, nervously now,

his long fingers began fashioning a series of complicated knots.

“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said at last. “The

beginning of the mystery was the contradictory statements made by the

groom Cockram and Mrs. Keeson respectively. Let us take, first of all,

the question of the groom. The matter is simple enough: either he saw

Mrs. Keeson or he did not. If he did not see her then he must have

told a lie, either unintentionally or by design—unintentionally if he

was mistaken; but this could not very well be since he asserted that

Mrs. Keeson spoke to him, and even mentioned her son, Mr. Harold

Keeson. Therefore, if Cockram did not see Mrs. Keeson he told a lie by

design for some purpose of his own. You follow me?”

“Yes,” I replied; “I have thought all that out for myself already.”

“Very well. Now, could there be some even remotely plausible motive

why Cockram should have told that deliberate lie?”

“To save his sweetheart, Alice Image,” I said.

“But you forget that his sweetheart was not accused at first, and

that, from the very beginning, Cockram’s manner, when questioned on

the subject of the events of that night was strange and contradictory

in the extreme.”

“He may have known from the first that Alice Image was guilty,” I

argued.

“In that case he would have merely asserted that he had seen and heard

nothing during the night, or if he wished to lie about it, he would

have said that it was Palk, the tout, who sneaked into the stables,

rather than incriminate his mistress, who had been good and kind to

him for years.”

“He may have wished to be revenged on Mrs. Keeson for some reason

which has not yet transpired.”

“How? By making a statement which, if untrue, could be so easily

disproved by Mr. Keeson himself, who, as a matter of fact, could

easily assert that his wife did not leave her bedroom that night; or

by incriminating Mr. Harold Keeson, who could prove an _alibi_? Not

much of a revenge there, you must admit. No, no; the more you reflect

seriously upon these possibilities the deeper will become your

conviction that Cockram did not lie either accidentally or on purpose;

that he did see Mrs. Keeson at that hour at the stable-door; that she

did speak to him; and that it was she who told the lie in open court.”

“But,” I asked, feeling more bewildered than before, “why should Mrs.

Keeson have gone to the stables and asked for her son when she must

have known that he was not there, but that her inquiry would make it,

to say the least, extremely unpleasant for him?”

“Why?” he shrieked excitedly, jumping up like a veritable

jack-in-the-box. “Ah, if you would only learn to reflect you might in

time become a fairly able journalist. Why did Mrs. Keeson momentarily

incriminate her son?—for it was only a momentary incrimination. Think,

think! A woman does not incriminate her child to save herself; but she

might do it to save some one else—some one who was dearer to her than

that child.”

“Nonsense!” I protested.

“Nonsense, is it?” he replied. “You have only to think of the

characters of the chief personages who figured in the drama—of the

trainer Keeson, with his hasty temper and his inordinate family pride.

Was it likely when the half-ruined Earl of Okehampton talked of

_mésalliance_, and forbade the marriage of his daughter with his

trainer’s son that the latter would not resent that insult with

terrible bitterness? and, resenting it, not think of some means of

being even with the noble Earl? Can you not imagine the proud man

boiling with indignation on hearing his son’s tale of how Lord

Okehampton had forbidden him the house? Can you not hear him saying to

himself:

“‘Well, by —— the trainer’s son _shall_ marry the Earl’s daughter!’

“And the scheme—simple and effectual—whereby the ruin of the arrogant

nobleman would be made so complete that he would be only too willing

to allow his daughter to marry any one who would give her a good home

and him a helping hand?”

“But,” I objected, “why should Mr. Keeson take the trouble to drug the

groom and sneak out to the stables at dead of night when he had access

to the mare at all hours of the day?”

“Why?” shrieked the animated scarecrow. “Why? Because Keeson was just

one of those clever criminals, with a sufficiency of brains to throw

police and public alike off the scent. Cockram, remember, spent every

moment of the day and night with the mare. Therefore, if he had been

in full possession of his senses and could positively swear that no

one had had access to Cigarette but his master and himself, suspicion

was bound to fasten, sooner or later, on Keeson. But Keeson was a bit

of a genius in the criminal line. Seemingly, he could have had no

motive for drugging the groom, yet he added that last artistic touch

to his clever crime, and thus threw a final bucketful of sand in the

eyes of the police.”

“Even then,” I argued, “Cockram might just have woke up—might just

have caught Keeson in the act.”

“Exactly. And that is, no doubt, what Mrs. Keeson feared.

“She was a brave woman, if ever there was one. Can you not picture

her, knowing her husband’s violent temper, his indomitable pride, and

guessing that he would find some means of being revenged on the Earl

of Okehampton. Can you not imagine her watching her husband and

gradually guessing, realising what he had in his mind when, in the

middle of the night, she saw him steal out of bed and out of the

house? Can you not see her following him stealthily—afraid of him,

perhaps—not daring to interfere—terrified above all things of the

consequences of his crime, of the risks of Cockram waking up, of the

exposure, the disgrace?

“Then the final tableau:—Keeson having accomplished his purpose, goes

back towards the house, and she—perhaps with a vague hope that she

might yet save the mare by taking away the poison which Keeson had

prepared—in her turn goes to the stables. But this time the groom is

half awake, and challenges her. Then her instinct—that unerring

instinct which always prompts a really good woman when the loved one

is in danger—suggests to Mrs. Keeson the clever subterfuge of

pretending that she had seen her son entering the stables.

“She asks for him, _knowing well that she could do him no harm_ since

he could so easily prove an _alibi_, but thereby throwing a veritable

cloud of dust in the eyes of the keenest enquirer, and casting over

the hocussing of Cigarette so thick a mantle of mystery that

suspicion, groping blindly round, could never fasten tightly on any

one.

“Think of it all,” he added as, gathering up his hat and umbrella, he

prepared to go, “and remember at the same time that it was Mr. Keeson

alone who could disprove that his wife never left her room that night,

that he did not do this, that he guessed what she had done and why she

had done it, and I think that you will admit that not one link is

missing in the chain of evidence which I have had the privilege of

laying before you.”

Before I could reply he had gone, and I saw his strange scarecrow-like

figure disappearing through the glass door. Then I had a good think on

the subject of the hocussing of Cigarette, and I was reluctantly bound

to admit that once again the man in the corner had found the only

possible solution to the mystery.

III. The Tragedy in Dartmoor Terrace

Chapter I

“It is not by any means the Law and Police Courts that form the only

interesting reading in the daily papers,” said the man in the corner

airily, as he munched his eternal bit of cheesecake and sipped his

glass of milk, like a frowsy old tom-cat.

“You don’t agree with me,” he added, for I offered no comment to his

obvious remark.

“No?” I answered. “I suppose you were thinking——”

“Of the tragic death of Mrs. Yule, for instance,” he replied eagerly.

“Beyond the inquest, and its very unsatisfactory verdict, very few

circumstances connected with that interesting case ever got into the

papers at all.”

“I forget what the verdict actually was,” I said, eager, too, on my

side to hear him talk about that mysterious tragedy, which, as a

matter of fact, had puzzled a good many people.

“Oh, it was as vague and as wordy as the English language would allow.

The jury found that ‘Mrs. Yule had died through falling downstairs, in

consequence of a fainting attack, but _how_ she came to fall is not

clearly shown.’

“What had happened was this: Mrs. Yule was a rich and eccentric old

lady, who lived very quietly in a small house in Kensington; No. 9

Dartmoor Terrace is, I believe, the correct address.

“She had no expensive tastes, for she lived, as I said before, very

simply and quietly in a small Kensington house, with two female

servants—a cook and a housemaid—and a young fellow whom she had

adopted as her son.

“The story of this adoption is, of course, the pivot round which all

the circumstances of the mysterious tragedy revolved. Mrs. Yule,

namely, had an only son, William, to whom she was passionately

attached, but, like many a fond mother, she had the desire of mapping

out that son’s future entirely according to her own ideas. William

Yule, on the other hand, had his own views with regard to his own

happiness, and one fine day went so far as to marry the girl of his

choice, and that in direct opposition to his mother’s wishes.

“Mrs. Yule’s chagrin and horror at what she called her son’s base

ingratitude knew no bounds; at first it was even thought that she

would never get over it.

“‘He has gone in direct opposition to my fondest wishes, and chose a

wife whom I could never accept as a daughter; he shall have none of

the property which has enriched me, and which I know he covets.’

“At first her friends imagined that she meant to leave all her money

to charitable institutions; but oh! dear me, no! Mrs. Yule was one of

those women who never did anything that other people expected her to.

Within three years of her son’s marriage she had filled up the place

which he had vacated, both in her house and in her heart. She had

adopted a son, preferring, as she said, that her money should benefit

an individual rather than an institution.

“Her choice had fallen upon the only son of a poor man—an

ex-soldier—who used to come twice a week to Dartmoor Terrace to tidy

up the small garden at the back: he was very respectable and very

honest—was born in the same part of England as Mrs. Yule, and had an

only son whose name happened to be William; he rejoiced in the surname

of Bloggs.

“‘It suits me in every way,’ explained Mrs. Yule to old Mr. Statham,

her friend and solicitor. ‘You see, I am used to the name of William,

and the boy is nice-looking and has done very well at the Board

School. Moreover, old Bloggs will die within a year or two, and

William will be left without any encumbrances.’

“Herein Mrs. Yule’s prophecy proved to be correct. Old Bloggs did die

very soon, and his son was duly adopted by the rich and eccentric old

lady, sent to a good school, and finally given a berth in the Union

Bank.

“I saw young Bloggs—it is not a euphonious name, is it?—at that

memorable inquest later on. He was very young and unassuming, and used

to keep very much out of the way of Mrs. Yule’s friends, who, mind

you, strongly disapproved of his presence in the rich old widow’s

house, to the detriment of the only legitimate son and heir.

“What happened within the intimate and close circle of 9, Dartmoor

Terrace, during the next three years of course nobody can tell.

Certain it is that by the time young Bloggs was nearing his

twenty-first birthday, he had become the very apple of his adopted

mother’s eye.

“During those three years Mr. Statham and other old friends had worked

hard in the interests of William Yule. Every one felt that the latter

was being very badly treated indeed. He had studied painting in his

younger days, and now had set up a small studio in Hampstead, and was

making perhaps a couple of hundred or so a year, and that, with much

difficulty, whilst the gardener’s son had supplanted him in his

mother’s affections, and, worse still, in his mother’s purse.

“The old lady was more obdurate than ever. In deference to the strong

feelings of her friends she had agreed to see her son occasionally,

and William Yule would call upon his mother from time to time—in the

middle of the day when Bloggs was out of the way at the Bank—stay to

tea, and part from her in frigid, though otherwise amicable, terms.

“‘I have no ill-feeling against my son,’ the old lady would say, ‘but

when he married against my wishes, he became a stranger to me—that is

all—a stranger, however, whose pleasant acquaintanceship I am pleased

to keep up.’

“That the old lady meant to carry her eccentricities in this respect

to the bitter end, became all the more evident when she sent for her

old friend and lawyer, Mr. Statham, and explained to him that she

wished to make over to young Bloggs the whole of her property by deed

of gift, during her lifetime—on condition that on his twenty-first

birthday he legally took up the name of Yule.

“Mr. Statham subsequently made public, as you know, the whole of this

interview which he had with Mrs. Yule.

“‘I tried to dissuade her, of course,’ he said, ‘for I thought it so

terribly unfair on William Yule and his children. Moreover, I had

always hoped that when Mrs. Yule grew older and more feeble she would

surely relent towards her only son. But she was terribly obstinate.’

“‘It is because I may become weak in my dotage,’ she said, ‘that I

want to make the whole thing absolutely final—I don’t want to relent.

I wish that William should suffer, where I think he will suffer most,

for he was always over fond of money. If I make a will in favour of

Bloggs, who knows I might repent it, and alter it at the eleventh

hour? One is apt to become maudlin when one is dying, and has people

weeping all round one. No!—I want the whole thing to be absolutely

irrevocable; and I shall present the deed of gift to young Bloggs on

his twenty-first birthday. I can always make it a condition that he

keeps me in moderate comfort to the end of my days. He is too big a

fool to be really ungrateful, and after all I don’t think I should

very much mind ending my life in the workhouse.’

“‘What could I do?’ added Mr. Statham. ‘If I had refused to draw up

that iniquitous deed of gift, she only would have employed some other

lawyer to do it for her. As it is, I secured an annuity of £500 a year

for the old lady, in consideration of a gift worth some £30,000 made

over absolutely to Mr. William Bloggs.’

“The deed was drawn up,” continued the man in the corner, “there is no

doubt of that. Mr. Statham saw to it. The old lady even insisted on

having two more legal opinions upon it, lest there should be the

slightest flaw that might render the deed invalid. Moreover, she

caused herself to be examined by two specialists in order that they

might testify that she was absolutely sound in mind, and in full

possession of all her faculties.

“When the deed was all that the law could wish, Mr. Statham handed it

over to Mrs. Yule, who wished to keep it by her until 3rd April—young

Bloggs’ twenty-first birthday—on which day she meant to surprise him

with it.

“Mr. Statham handed over the deed to Mrs. Yule on 14th February, and

on 28th March—that is to say, six days before Bloggs’ majority—the old

lady was found dead at the foot of the stairs in Dartmoor Terrace,

whilst her desk was found to have been broken open, and the deed of

gift had disappeared.”

Chapter II

“From the very first the public took a very great interest in the sad

death of Mrs. Yule. The old lady’s eccentricities were pretty well

known throughout all her neighbourhood, at any rate. Then, she had a

large circle of friends, who all took sides, either for the disowned

son or for the old lady’s rigid and staunch principles of filial

obedience.

“Directly, therefore, that the papers mentioned the sudden death of

Mrs. Yule, tongues began to wag, and, whilst some asserted ‘Accident,’

others had already begun to whisper ‘Murder.’

“For the moment nothing definite was known. Mr. Bloggs had sent for

Mr. Statham, and the most persevering and most inquisitive persons of

both sexes could glean no information from the cautious old lawyer.

“The inquest was to be held on the following day, and perforce

curiosity had to be bridled until then. But you may imagine how that

coroner’s court at Kensington was packed on that day. I, of course,

was at my usual place—well to the front—for I was already keenly

interested in the tragedy, and knew that a palpitating mystery lurked

behind the old lady’s death.

“Annie, the housemaid at Dartmoor Terrace, was the first, and I may

say the only really important witness during that interesting inquest.

The story she told amounted to this: Mrs. Yule, it appears, was very

religious, and, in spite of her advancing years and decided weakness

of the heart, was in the habit of going to early morning service every

day of her life at six o’clock. She would get up before any one else

in the house, and winter or summer, rain, snow, or fine, she would

walk round to St. Matthias’ Church, coming home at about a quarter to

seven, just when her servants were getting up.

“On this sad morning (28th March) Annie explained that she got up as

usual and went downstairs (the servants slept at the top of the house)

at seven o’clock. She noticed nothing wrong, her mistress’s bedroom

door was open as usual, Annie merely remarking to herself that the

mistress was later than usual from church that morning. Then suddenly,

in the hall at the foot of the stairs, she caught sight of Mrs. Yule

lying head downwards, her head on the mat, motionless.

“‘I ran downstairs as quickly as I could,’ continued Annie, ‘and I

suppose I must ’ave screamed, for cook came out of ’er room upstairs,

and Mr. Bloggs, too, shouted down to know what was the matter. At

first we thought Mrs. Yule was unconscious-like. Me and Mr. Bloggs

carried ’er to ’er room, and then Mr. Bloggs ran for the doctor.’

“The rest of Annie’s story,” continued the man in the corner, “was

drowned in a deluge of tears. As for the doctor, he could add but

little to what the public had already known and guessed. Mrs. Yule

undoubtedly suffered from a weak heart, although she had never been

known to faint. In this instance, however, she undoubtedly must have

turned giddy, as she was about to go downstairs, and fallen headlong.

She was of course very much injured, the doctor explained, but she

actually died of heart failure, brought on by the shock of the fall.

She must have been on her way to church, for her prayer book was found

on the floor close by her, also a candle—which she must have carried,

as it was a dark morning—had rolled along and extinguished itself as

it rolled. From these facts, therefore, it was gathered that the poor

old lady came by this tragic death at about six o’clock, the hour at

which she regularly started out for morning service. Both the servants

and also Mr. Bloggs slept at the top of the house, and it is a known

fact that sleep in most cases is always heaviest in the early morning

hours; there was, therefore, nothing strange in the fact that no one

heard either the fall or a scream, if Mrs. Yule uttered one, which is

doubtful.

“So far, you see,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight

pause, “there did not appear to be anything very out of the way or

mysterious about Mrs. Yule’s tragic death. But the public expected

interesting developments, and I must say their expectations were more

than fully realised.

“Jane, the cook, was the first witness to give the public an inkling

of the sensations to come.

“She deposed that on Thursday, the 27th, she was alone in the kitchen

in the evening after dinner, as it was the housemaid’s evening out,

when, at about nine o’clock, there was a ring at the bell.

“‘I went to answer the door,’ said Jane, ‘and there was a lady, all

dressed in black, as far as I could see—as the ’all gas always did

burn very badly—still, I think she was dressed dark, and she ’ad on a

big ’at and a veil with spots. She says to me: “Mrs. Yule lives ’ere?”

I says, “She do, ’m,” though I don’t think she was quite the lady, so

I don’t know why I said ’m, but——’

“‘Yes, yes!’ here interrupted the coroner somewhat impatiently, ‘it

doesn’t matter what you said. Tell us what happened.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ continued Jane, quite undisturbed, ‘as I was saying, I

asked the lady her name, and she says: “Tell Mrs. Yule I would wish to

speak with her,” then as she saw me ’esitating, for I didn’t like

leaving her all alone in the ’all, she said, “Tell Mrs. Yule that Mrs.

William Yule wishes to speak with ’er.”’

“Jane paused to take breath, for she talked fast and volubly, and all

eyes were turned to a corner of the room, where William Yule, dressed

in the careless fashion affected by artists, sat watching and

listening eagerly to everything that was going on. At the mention of

his wife’s name he shrugged his shoulders, and I thought for the

moment that he would jump up and say something; but he evidently

thought better of it, and remained as before, silent and quietly

watching.

“‘You showed the lady upstairs?’ asked the coroner, after an instant’s

most dramatic pause.

“‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jane; ‘but I went to ask the mistress first. Mrs.

Yule was sitting in the drawing-room, reading. She says to me, “Show

the lady up at once; and, Jane,” she says, “ask Mr. Bloggs to kindly

come to the drawing-room.” I showed the lady up, and I told Mr.

Bloggs, who was smoking in the library, and ’e went to the

drawing-room.

“‘When Annie come in,’ continued Jane with increased volubility, ‘I

told ’er ’oo ’ad come, and she and me was very astonished, because we

’ad often seen Mr. William Yule come to see ’is mother, but we ’ad

never seen ’is wife. “Did you see what she was like cook?” says Annie

to me. “No,” I says, “the ’all gas was burnin’ that badly, and she ’ad

a veil on.” Then Annie ups and says, “I must go up, cook,” she says,

“for my things is all wet. I never did see such rain in all my life. I

tell you my boots and petticoats is all soaked through.” Then up she

runs, and I thought then that per’aps she meant to see if she couldn’t

’ear anything that was goin’ on upstairs. Presently she come down——’

“But at this point Jane’s flow of eloquence received an unexpected

check. The coroner preferred to hear from Annie herself whatever the

latter may have overheard, and Jane, very wrathful and indignant, had

to stand aside, while Annie, who was then recalled, completed the

story.

“‘I don’t know what made me stop on the landing,’ she explained

timidly, ‘and I’m sure I didn’t mean to listen. I was going upstairs

to change my things, and put on my cap and apron, in case the mistress

wanted anything.

“‘Then, I don’t think I ever ’eard Mrs. Yule’s voice so loud and

angry.’

“‘You stopped to listen?’ asked the coroner.

“‘I couldn’t help it, sir. Mrs. Yule was shouting at the top of ’er

voice. “Out of my house,” she says; “I never wish to see you or your

precious husband inside my doors again.”’

“‘You are quite sure that you heard those very words?’ asked the

coroner earnestly.

“‘I’ll take my Bible oath on every one of them, sir,’ said Annie

emphatically. ‘Then I could ’ear some one crying and moaning: “Oh!

what have I done? Oh! what have I done?” I didn’t like to stand on the

landing then, for fear some one should come out, so I ran upstairs,

and put on my cap and apron, for I was all in a tremble, what with

what I’d heard, and the storm outside, which was coming down terrible.

“‘When I went down again, I ’ardly durst stand on the landing, but the

door of the drawing-room was ajar, and I ’eard Mr. Bloggs say: “Surely

you will not turn a human being, much less a woman, out on a night

like this?” And the mistress said, still speaking very angrily: “Very

well, you may sleep here; but remember, I don’t wish to see your face

again. I go to church at six and come home again at seven; mind you

are out of the house before then. There are plenty of trains after

seven o’clock.”’

“After that,” continued the man in the corner, “Mrs. Yule rang for the

housemaid and gave orders that the spare-room should be got ready, and

that the visitor should have some tea and toast brought to her in the

morning as soon as Annie was up.

“But Annie was rather late on that eventful morning of the 28th. She

did not go downstairs till seven o’clock. When she did, she found her

mistress lying dead at the foot of the stairs. It was not until after

the doctor had been and gone that both the servants suddenly

recollected the guest in the spare room. Annie knocked at her door,

and, receiving no answer, she walked in; the bed had not been slept

in, and the spare room was empty.

“‘There, now!’ was the housemaid’s decisive comment, ‘me and cook did

’ear some one cross the ’all, and the front door bang about an hour

after every one else was in bed.’

“Presumably, therefore, Mrs. William Yule had braved the elements and

left the house at about midnight, leaving no trace behind her, save

perhaps the broken lock of the desk that had held the deed of gift in

favour of young Bloggs.”

Chapter III

“Some say there’s a Providence that watches over us,” said the man in

the corner, when he had looked at me keenly, and had assured himself

that I was really interested in his narrative, “others use the less

poetic and more direct formula, that ‘the devil takes care of his

own.’ The impression of the general public during this interesting

coroner’s inquest was that the devil was taking special care of his

own—(‘his own’ being in this instance represented by Mrs. William

Yule, who, by the way, was not present).

“What the Evil One had done for her was this: He caused the hall gas

to burn so badly on that eventful Thursday night, 27th March, that

Jane, the cook, had not been able to see Mrs. William Yule at all

distinctly. He, moreover, decreed that when Annie went into the

drawing-room later on to take her mistress’s orders, with regard to

the spare room, Mrs. William was apparently dissolved in tears, for

she only presented the back of her head to the inquisitive glances of

the young housemaid.

“After that the two servants went to bed, and heard some one cross the

hall and leave the house about an hour or so later; but neither of

them could swear positively that they would recognise the mysterious

visitor if they set eyes on her again.

“Throughout all these proceedings, however, you may be sure that Mr.

William Yule did not remain a passive spectator. In fact I, who

watched him, could see quite clearly that he had the greatest possible

difficulty in controlling himself. Mind you, I knew by then exactly

where the hitch lay, and I could, and will presently, tell you exactly

all that occurred on Thursday evening, 27th March, at No. 9, Dartmoor

Terrace, just as if I had spent that memorable night there myself; and

I can assure you that it gave me great pleasure to watch the faces of

the two men most interested in the verdict of this coroner’s jury.

“Every one’s sympathy had by now entirely veered round to young

Bloggs, who for years had been brought up to expect a fortune, and had

then, at the last moment, been defrauded of it, through what looked

already much like a crime. The deed of gift had, of course, not been

what the lawyers call ‘completed.’ It had rested in Mrs. Yule’s desk,

and had never been ‘delivered’ by the donor to the donee, or even to

another person on his behalf.

“Young Bloggs, therefore, saw himself suddenly destined to live his

life as penniless as he had been when he was still the old gardener’s

son.

“No doubt the public felt that what lurked mostly in his mind was a

desire for revenge, and I think everyone forgave him when he gave his

evidence with a distinct tone of animosity against the woman who had

apparently succeeded in robbing him of a fortune.

“He had only met Mrs. William Yule once before, he explained, but he

was ready to swear that it was she who called that night. As for the

original motive of the quarrel between the two ladies, young Bloggs

was inclined to think that it was mostly on the question of money.

“‘Mrs. William,’ continued the young man, ‘made certain peremptory

demands on Mrs. Yule, which the old lady bitterly resented.’

“But here there was an awful and sudden interruption. William Yule,

now quite beside himself with rage, had with one bound reached the

witness-box, and struck young Bloggs a violent blow in the face.

“‘Liar and cheat!’ he roared, ‘take that!’

“And he prepared to deal the young man another even more vigorous

blow, when he was overpowered and seized by the constables. Young

Bloggs had become positively livid; his face looked grey and ashen,

except there, where his powerful assailant’s fist had left a deep

purple mark.

“‘You have done your wife’s cause no good,’ remarked the coroner

drily, as William Yule, sullen and defiant, was forcibly dragged back

to his place. ‘I shall adjourn the inquest until Monday, and will

expect Mrs. Yule to be present and to explain exactly what happened

after her quarrel with the deceased, and why she left the house so

suddenly and mysteriously that night.’

“William Yule tried an explanation even then. His wife had never left

the studio in Sheriff Road, West Hampstead, the whole of that Thursday

evening. It was a fearfully stormy night, and she never went outside

the door. But the Yules kept no servant at the cheap little rooms; a

charwoman used to come in every morning only for an hour or two, to do

the rough work; there was no one, therefore, except the husband

himself to prove Mrs. William Yule’s _alibi_.

“At the adjourned inquest, on the Monday, Mrs. William Yule duly

appeared; she was a young, delicate-looking woman, with a patient and

suffering face, that had not an atom of determination or vice in it.

“Her evidence was very simple; she merely swore solemnly that she had

spent the whole evening indoors, she had never been to 9, Dartmoor

Terrace, in her life, and, as a matter of fact, would never have dared

to call on her irreconcilable mother-in-law. Neither she nor her

husband were specially in want of money either.

“‘My husband had just sold a picture at the Water Colour Institute,’

she explained, ‘we were not hard up; and certainly I should never have

attempted to make the slightest demand on Mrs. Yule.’

“There the matter had to rest with regard to the theft of the

document, for that was no business of the coroner’s or of the jury.

According to medical evidence the old lady’s death had been due to a

very natural and possible accident—a sudden feeling of giddiness—and

the verdict had to be in accordance with this.

“There was no real proof against Mrs. William Yule—only one man’s

word, that of young Bloggs; and it would no doubt always have been

felt that his evidence might not be wholly unbiased. He was therefore

well advised not to prosecute. The world was quite content to believe

that the Yules had planned and executed the theft, but he never would

have got a conviction against Mrs. William Yule just on his own

evidence.”

Chapter IV

“Then William Yule and his wife were left in full possession of their

fortune?” I asked eagerly.

“Yes, they were,” he replied; “but they had to go and travel abroad

for a while, feeling was so high against them. The deed of course, not

having been ‘delivered,’ could not be upheld in a court of law; that

was the opinion of several eminent counsel whom Mr. Statham, with a

lofty sense of justice, consulted on behalf of young Bloggs.”

“And young Bloggs was left penniless?”

“No,” said the man in the corner, as, with a weird and satisfied

smile, he pulled a piece of string out of his pocket; “the friends of

the late Mrs. Yule subscribed the sum of £1,000 for him, for they all

thought he had been so terribly badly treated, and Mr. Statham has

taken him in his office as articled pupil. No! no! young Bloggs has

not done so badly either——”

“What seems strange to me,” I remarked “is that for all she knew, Mrs.

William Yule might have committed only a silly and purposeless theft.

If Mrs. Yule had not died suddenly and accidentally the next morning,

she would, no doubt, have executed a fresh deed of gift, and all would

have been _in statu quo_.”

“Exactly,” he replied drily, whilst his fingers fidgeted nervously

with his bit of string.

“Of course,” I suggested, for I felt that the funny creature wanted

to be drawn out; “she may have reckoned on the old lady’s weak

heart, and the shock to her generally, but it was, after all, very

problematical.”

“Very,” he said, “and surely you are not still under the impression

that Mrs. Yule’s death was purely the result of an accident?”

“What else could it be?” I urged.

“The result of a slight push from the top of the stairs,” he remarked

placidly, whilst a complicated knot went to join a row of its fellows.

“But Mrs. William Yule had left the house before midnight—or, at any

rate, some one had. Do you think she had an accomplice?”

“I think,” he said excitedly, “that the mysterious visitor who left

the house that night had an instigator whose name was William Bloggs.”

“I don’t understand,” I gasped in amazement.

“Point No. 1,” he shrieked, while the row of knots followed each other

in rapid succession, “young Bloggs swore a lie when he swore that it

was Mrs. William Yule who called at Dartmoor Terrace that night.”

“What makes you say that,” I retorted.

“One very simple fact,” he replied, “so simple that it was, of course,

overlooked. Do you remember that one of the things which Annie

overheard was old Mrs. Yule’s irate words, ‘Very well, you may sleep

here; but, remember, I do not wish to see your face again. You can

leave my house before I return from church; you can get plenty of

trains after seven o’clock.’ Now what do you make of that?” he added

triumphantly.

“Nothing in particular,” I rejoined; “it was an awfully wet night,

and——”

“And High Street, Kensington Station, within two minutes’ walk of

Dartmoor Terrace, with plenty of trains to West Hampstead, and Sheriff

Road within two minutes of this latter station,” he shrieked, getting

more and more excited, “and the hour only about ten o’clock, when

there _are_ plenty of trains from one part of London to another? Old

Mrs. Yule, with her irascible temper and obstinate ways, would have

said: ‘There’s the station, not two minutes’ walk, get out of my

house, and don’t ever let me see your face again,’ wouldn’t she now?”

“It certainly seems more likely.”

“Of course it does. She only allowed the woman to stay because the

woman had either a very long way to go to get a train, or perhaps had

missed her last train—a connection on a branch line presumably—and

could not possibly get home at all that night.”

“Yes, that sounds logical,” I admitted.

“Point No. 2,” he shrieked, “young Bloggs having told a lie, had some

object in telling it. That was my starting point; from there I worked

steadily until I had reconstructed the events of that Thursday

night—nay, more, until I knew something more about young Bloggs’

immediate future, in order that I might then imagine his past.

“And this is what I found.

“After the tragic death of Mrs. Yule, young Bloggs went abroad at the

expense of some kind friends, and came home with a wife, whom he is

supposed to have met and married in Switzerland. From that point

everything became clear to me. Young Bloggs had told a lie when he

swore that it was Mrs. William Yule; therefore it was somebody who

either represented herself as such, or who believed herself to be Mrs.

William Yule.

“The first supposition,” continued the funny creature, “I soon

dismissed as impossible; young Bloggs knew Mrs. William Yule by

sight—and since he had lied, he had done so deliberately. Therefore to

my mind the lady who called herself Mrs. William Yule did so because

she believed that she had a right to that name; that she had married a

man, who, for purposes of his own, had chosen to call himself by that

name. From this point to that of guessing who that man was was simple

enough.”

“Do you mean young Bloggs himself?” I asked in amazement.

“And whom else?” he replied. “Isn’t that sort of thing done every day?

Bloggs was a hideous name, and Yule was eventually to be his own. With

William Yule’s example before him, he must have known that it would be

dangerous to broach the marriage question at all before the old lady,

and probably only meant to wait for a favourable opportunity of doing

so. But after a while the young wife would naturally become troubled

and anxious, and like most women under the same circumstances, would

become jealous and inquisitive as well.

“She soon found out where he lived, and no doubt called there,

thinking that old Mrs. Yule was her husband’s own fond mother.

“You can picture the rest. Mrs. Yule, furious at having been deceived,

herself destroys the deed of gift which she meant to present to her

adopted son, and from that hour young Bloggs sees himself penniless.

“The false Mrs. Yule left the house, and young Bloggs waited for his

opportunity on the dark landing of a small London house. One push and

the deed was done. With her weak heart, Mrs. Yule was sure to die of

the shock, if not of the fall.

“Before that, already the desk had been broken open and every

appearance of a theft given to it. After the tragedy, then, young

Bloggs retired quietly to his room. The whole thing looked so like an

accident that, even had the servants heard the fall at once, there

would still have been time enough for the young villain to sneak into

his room, and then to reappear at his door as if he, too, had been

just awakened by the noise.

“The result turned out just as he had expected. The William Yules have

been and still are suspected of the theft; and young Bloggs is a hero

of romance with whom every one is in sympathy.”

IV. Who Stole the Black Diamonds?

Chapter I

“Do you know who that is?” said the man in the corner, as he pushed a

small packet of photos across the table.

The picture on the top represented an entrancingly beautiful woman,

with bare arms and neck, and a profusion of pearl and diamond

ornaments about her head and throat.

“Surely this is the Queen of——?”

“Hush!” he broke in abruptly, with mock dismay; “you must mention no

names.”

“Why not?” I asked, laughing, for he looked so droll in his distress.

“Look closely at the photo,” he replied, “and at the necklace and

tiara that the lady is wearing.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well?”

“Do you mean to say you don’t recognise them?”

I looked at the picture more closely, and then there suddenly came

back to my mind that mysterious story of the Black Diamonds, which had

not only bewildered the police of Europe, but also some of its

diplomats.

“Ah! I see you do recognise the jewels!” said the funny creature,

after a while. “No wonder! for their design is unique, and photographs

of that necklace and tiara were circulated practically throughout the

world.

“Of course I am not going to mention names, for you know very well who

the royal heroes of this mysterious adventure were. For the purposes

of my narrative, suppose I call them the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia.’

“The value of the stones was said to be fabulous, and it was only

natural when the King of ‘Bohemia’ found himself somewhat in want of

money—a want which has made itself felt before now with even the most

powerful European monarchs—that he should decide to sell the precious

trinkets, worth a small kingdom in themselves. In order to be in

closer touch with the most likely customers, their Majesties of

‘Bohemia’ came over to England during the season of 1902—a season

memorable alike for its deep sorrow and its great joy.

“After the sad postponement of the Coronation festivities, they rented

Eton Chase, a beautiful mansion just outside Chislehurst, for the

summer months. There they entertained right royally, for the Queen was

very gracious and the King a real sportsman—there also the rumour

first got about that His Majesty had decided to sell the world-famous

_parure_ of Black Diamonds.

“Needless to say, they were not long in the market: quite a host of

American millionaires had already coveted them for their wives, and

brisk and sensational offers were made to His Majesty’s business man

both by letter and telegram.

“At last, however, Mr. Wilson, the multi-millionaire, was understood

to have made an offer, for the necklace and tiara, of £500,000, which

had been accepted.

“But a very few days later, that is to say, on the Sunday and Monday,

6th and 7th July, there appeared in the papers the short but deeply

sensational announcement that a burglary had occurred at Eton Chase,

Chislehurst, the mansion inhabited by Their Majesties the King and

Queen of ‘Bohemia’; and that among the objects stolen was the famous

_parure_ of Black Diamonds, for which a bid of half a million sterling

had just been made and accepted.

“The burglary had been one of the most daring and most mysterious ones

ever brought under the notice of the police authorities. The mansion

was full of guests at the time, among whom were many diplomatic

notabilities, and also Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, the future owners of the

gems; there were also a very large staff of servants. The burglary

must have occurred between the hours of 10 and 11.30 p.m., though the

precise moment could not be ascertained.

“The house itself stands in the midst of a large garden, and has deep

French windows opening out upon a terrace at the back. There are

ornamental iron balconies to the windows of the upper floors, and it

was to one of these, situated immediately above the dining-room, that

a rope-ladder was found to be attached.

“The burglar must have chosen a moment when the guests were dispersed

in the smoking, billiard, and drawing-rooms; the servants were having

their own meal, and the dining-room was deserted. He must have swung

his rope-ladder, and entered Her Majesty’s own bedroom by the window

which—as the night was very warm—had been left open. The jewels were

locked up in a small iron box, which stood upon the dressing-table,

and the burglar took the box bodily away with him, and then, no doubt,

returned the way he came.

“The wonderful point in this daring attempt was the fact that most of

the windows on the ground floor were slightly open that night, that

the rooms themselves were filled with guests, and that the dining-room

was not empty for more than a few minutes at a time, as the servants

were still busy clearing away after dinner.

“At nine o’clock some of the younger guests had strolled out on to the

terrace, and the last of these returned to the drawing-room at ten

o’clock; at half-past eleven one of the servants caught sight of the

rope-ladder in front of one of the dining-room windows, and the alarm

was given.

“All traces of the burglar, however, and of his princely booty had

completely disappeared.”

Chapter II

“Not only did this daring burglary cause a great deal of excitement,”

continued the man in the corner, “but it also roused a good deal of

sympathy in the public mind for the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia’ who

thus found their hope of raising half a million sterling suddenly

dashed to the ground. The loss to them would, of course, be

irreparable.

“Matters, were, however, practically at a standstill, all enquiries

from enterprising journalists only eliciting the vague information

that the police ‘held a clue.’ We all know what that means. Then all

at once a wonderful rumour got about.

“Goodness only knows how these rumours originate—sometimes solely in

the imagination of the man in the street. In this instance certainly,

that worthy gentleman had a very sensational theory. It was namely

rumoured all over London that the clue which the police held pointed

to no less a person than Mr. Wilson himself.

“What had happened was this: Minute enquiries on the part of the most

able detectives of Scotland Yard had brought to light the fact that

the burglary at Eton Chase must have occurred precisely between ten

minutes and a quarter past eleven; at every other moment of the entire

evening somebody or other had observed either the terrace or the

dining-room windows.

“I told you that until ten o’clock some of Their Majesties’ guests

were walking up and down the terrace; between ten and half-past

servants were clearing away in the dining-room, and here it was

positively ascertained beyond any doubt that no burglar could have

slung a rope-ladder and climbed up it immediately outside those

windows, for one or other of the six servants engaged in clearing away

the dinner must of necessity have caught sight of him.

“At half-past ten John Lucas, the head gardener, was walking through

the gardens with a dog at his heels, and did not get back to the lodge

until just upon eleven. He certainly did not go as far as the terrace,

and as that side of the house was in shadow he could not say

positively whether the ladder was there or not, but he certainly did

assert most emphatically that there was no burglar about the _grounds_

then, for the dog was a good watch-dog and would have barked if any

stranger was about. Lucas took the dog in with him and gave him a bit

of supper, and only fastened him to his kennel outside at a

quarter-past eleven.

“Surmising, therefore, that at half-past ten, when John Lucas started

on his round, the deed was not yet done, that quarter of an hour would

give the burglar the only possible opportunity of entering the

premises _from the outside_, without being barked at by the dog. Now,

during most of that same quarter of an hour, His Majesty the King of

‘Bohemia’ himself had retired into a small library with his private

secretary, in order to glance through certain despatches which had

arrived earlier in the evening.

“The window of this library was immediately next to the one outside

which the ladder was found, and both the secretary and His Majesty

himself think that they would have seen something or heard a noise if

the rope-ladder had been slung while they were in the room. They both,

however, returned to the drawing-room at ten minutes past eleven.

“And here,” continued the man in the corner, rubbing his long, bony

fingers together, “arose the neatest little complication I have ever

come across in a case of this kind. His Majesty had, it appears,

privately made up his mind to accept Mr. Wilson’s bid, but the

transaction had not yet been completed. Mr. Wilson and his wife came

down to stay at Eton Chase on 29th June, and directly they arrived

many of those present noticed that Mr. Wilson was obviously repenting

of his bargain. This impression had deepened day by day, Mrs. Wilson

herself often throwing out covert hints about ‘fictitious value’ and

‘fancy prices for merely notorious trinkets.’ In fact, it became

obvious that the Wilsons were really seeking a loophole for evading

the conclusion of the bargain.

“On the memorable evening of the 5th July, Mrs. Wilson had been forced

to retire to her room early in the evening, owing, she said, to a bad

headache; her room was in the west wing of the Chase, and opened out

on the same corridor as the apartments of Her Majesty the Queen. At

half-past eleven Mrs. Wilson rang for her maid—Mary Pritchard, who, on

entering her mistress’s room, met Mr. Wilson just coming out of it,

and the girl heard him say: ‘Oh, don’t worry! I’ll have the whole

reset when we get back.’

“The detectives, on the other hand, had obtained information that two

or three days previously Mr. Wilson had sustained a very severe loss

on the ’Change, and that he had subsequently remarked to two or three

business friends that the Black Diamonds had become a luxury which he

had no right to afford.

“Be this as it may, certain it is that within a week of the notorious

burglary the rumour was current in every club in London that James S.

Wilson, the reputed American millionaire, having found himself unable

to complete the purchase of the Black Diamonds, had found this other

very much less legitimate means of gaining possession of the gems.

“You must admit that the case looked black enough against him—all

circumstantial, of course, for there was absolutely nothing to prove

that he had the jewels in his possession; in fact no trace of them

whatever had been found, but the public argued that Mr. Wilson would

lie low with them for a while, and then have them reset when he

returned to America.

“Of course, ugly rumours of that description don’t become general

about a man without his getting some inkling of them. Mr. Wilson very

soon found his position in London absolutely intolerable: his friends

ignored him at the club, ladies ceased to call upon his wife, and one

fine day he was openly cut by Lord Barnsdale, an M.F.H., in the

hunting field.

“Then Mr. Wilson thought it high time to take action. He placed the

whole matter in the hands of an able if not very scrupulous solicitor

who promised within a given time to find him a defendant with plenty

of means, against whom he could bring a sensational libel suit, with

thundering damages.

“The solicitor was as good as his word. He bribed some of the waiters

at the Carlton, and so laid his snares that within six months, Lord

and Lady Barnsdale had been overheard to say in public what everybody

now thought in private, namely, that Mr. James S. Wilson, finding

himself unable to purchase the celebrated Black Diamonds, had thought

it more profitable to steal them.

“Two days later Mr. James S. Wilson entered an action in the High

Courts for slander against Lord and Lady Barnsdale, claiming damages

to the tune of £50,000.”

Chapter III

“Still the mystery of the lost jewels was no nearer to its solution.

Their Majesties the King and Queen of ‘Bohemia,’ had left England soon

after the disastrous event which deprived them of what amounted to a

small fortune.

“It was expected that the sensational slander case would come on in

the autumn, or rather more than sixteen months after the mysterious

disappearance of the Black Diamonds.

“This last season was not a very brilliant one, if you remember; the

wet weather, I believe, had quite a good deal to do with the fact;

nevertheless London, that great world centre, was, as usual, full of

distinguished visitors, among whom Mrs. Vanderdellen, who arrived the

second week in July, was perhaps the most interesting.

“Her enormous wealth spread a positive halo round her, it being

generally asserted that she was the richest woman in the world. Add to

this that she was young, strikingly handsome, and a widow, and you

will easily understand what a _furore_ her appearance during this

London season caused in all high social circles.

“Though she was still in slight mourning for her husband, she was

asked everywhere, went everywhere, and was courted and admired by

everybody, including some of the highest in the land; her dresses and

jewellery were the talk of the ladies’ papers, her style and charm the

gossip of all the clubs. And no doubt that, although the July evening

Court promised to be very brilliant, every one thought that it would

be doubly so, since Mrs. Vanderdellen had been honoured with an

invitation, and would presumably be present.

“I like to picture to myself that scene at Buckingham Palace,”

continued the man in the corner, as his fingers toyed lovingly with a

beautiful and brand-new bit of string. “Of course, I was not present

actually, but I can see it all before me; the lights, the crowds, the

pretty women, the glistening diamonds; then, in the midst of the

chatter, a sudden silence fell as ‘Mrs. Vanderdellen’ was announced.

“All women turned to look at the beautiful American as she entered,

because her dress—on this her first appearance at the English

Court—was sure to be a vision of style and beauty. But for once nobody

noticed the dress from Felix, nobody even gave a glance at the

exquisitely lovely face of the wearer. Every one’s eyes had fastened

on one thing only, and every one’s lips framed but one exclamation,

and that an ‘Oh!’ half of amazement and half of awe.

“For round her neck and upon her head Mrs. Vanderdellen was wearing a

gorgeously magnificent _parure_ composed of black diamonds.”

Chapter IV

“I don’t know how the case of Wilson _v._ Barnsdale was settled, for

it never came into court. There were many people in London who owed

the Wilsons an apology, and it is to be hoped that these were tendered

in full.

“As for Mrs. Vanderdellen, she seemed quite unaware why her appearance

at Their Majesties’ Court had caused quite so much sensation. No one,

of course, broached the subject of the diamonds to her, and she no

doubt attributed those significant ‘Oh’s’ to her own dazzling beauty.

“The next day, however, Detective Marsh, of Scotland Yard, had a very

difficult task before him. He had to go and ask a beautiful, rich, and

refined woman how she happened to be in possession of stolen

jewellery.

“Luckily for Marsh, however, he had to deal with a woman who was also

charming, and who met his polite enquiry with an equally pleasant

reply:

“‘My husband gave me the Black Diamonds,’ she said, ‘a year ago on his

return from Europe. I had them set in Vienna last Spring, and wore

them for the first time last night. Will you please tell me the reason

of this strange enquiry?’

“‘Your husband?’ echoed Marsh, ignoring her question, ‘Mr.

Vanderdellen?’

“‘Oh, yes,’ she replied sweetly, ‘I dare say you have never heard of

him. His name is very well known in America, where they call him the

“Petrol King.” One of his hobbies was the collection of gems, which he

was very fond of seeing me wear, and he gave me some magnificent

jewels. The Black Diamonds certainly are very handsome. May I now

request you to tell me,’ she repeated, with a certain assumption of

hauteur, ‘the reason of all these enquiries?’

“‘The reason is simple enough, madam,’ replied the detective abruptly,

‘those diamonds were the property of Her Majesty the Queen of

“Bohemia,” and were stolen from Their Majesties’ residence, Eton

Chase, Chislehurst, on the 5th of July last year.’

“‘Stolen!’ she repeated, aghast and obviously incredulous.

“‘Yes, stolen,’ said old Marsh. ‘I don’t wish to distress you

unnecessarily, Madam, but you will see how imperative it is that you

should place me in immediate communication with Mr. Vanderdellen, as

an explanation from him has become necessary.’

“‘Unfortunately, that is impossible,’ said Mrs. Vanderdellen, who

seemed under the spell of a strong emotion.

“‘Impossible?’

“‘Mr. Vanderdellen has been dead just over a year. He died three days

after his return to New York, and the Black Diamonds were the last

present he ever made me.’

“There was a pause after that. Marsh—experienced detective though he

was—was literally at his wits’ ends what to do. He said afterwards

that Mrs. Vanderdellen, though very young and frivolous outwardly,

seemed at the same time an exceedingly shrewd, farseeing business

woman. To begin with, she absolutely refused to have the matter hushed

up, and to return the jewels until their rightful ownership had been

properly proved.

“‘It would be tantamount,’ she said, ‘to admitting that my husband had

come by them unlawfully.’

“At the same time she offered the princely reward of £10,000 to any

one who found the true solution of the mystery; for, mind you, the

late Mr. Vanderdellen sailed from Havre for New York on July the 8th,

1902, that is to say, three clear days after the theft of the diamonds

from Eton Chase, and he presented his wife with the loose gems

immediately on his arrival in New York. Three days after that he died.

“It was difficult to suppose that Mr. Vanderdellen purchased those

diamonds not knowing that they must have been stolen, since, directly

after the burglary the English police telegraphed to all their

Continental colleagues, and within four-and-twenty hours a description

of the stolen jewels was circulated throughout Europe.

“It was, to say the least of it, very strange that an experienced

business man and shrewd collector like Mr. Vanderdellen should have

purchased such priceless gems without making some enquiries as to

their history, more especially as they must have been offered to him

in a more or less ‘hole-in-the-corner’ way.

“Still, Mrs. Vanderdellen stuck to her guns, and refused to give up

the jewels pending certain enquiries she wished to make. She declared

that she wished to be sued for the diamonds in open court, charged

with wilfully detaining stolen goods if necessary, for the more

publicity was given to the whole affair the better she would like it,

so firmly did she believe in her husband’s innocence.

“The matter was indeed brought to the High Courts, and the sensational

action brought against Mrs. Vanderdellen by the representative of His

Majesty the King of ‘Bohemia’ for the recovery of the Black Diamonds

is, no doubt, still fresh in your memory.

“No one was allowed to know what witnesses Mrs. Vanderdellen would

bring forward in her defence. She had engaged the services of Sir

Arthur Inglewood, and of some of the most eminent counsel at the Bar.

The court was packed with the most fashionable crowd ever seen inside

the Law Courts; and both days that the action lasted Mrs. Vanderdellen

appeared in exquisite gowns and ideal hats.

“The evidence for the Royal plaintiff was simple enough. It all went

to prove that the very day after the burglary not a jeweller,

pawnbroker, or diamond merchant throughout the whole of Europe could

have failed to know that a unique _parure_ of black diamonds had been

stolen, and would probably be offered for sale. The Black Diamonds in

themselves, and out of their setting, were absolutely unique, and if

the late Mr. Vanderdellen purchased them in Paris from some private

individual, he must at least have very strongly suspected that they

were stolen.

“Throughout the whole of that first day Mrs. Vanderdellen sat in

court, absolutely calm and placid. She listened to the evidence, made

little notes, and chatted with two or three American friends—elderly

men—who were with her.

“Then came the turn of the defence.

“Everybody had expected something sensational, and listened more

eagerly than ever as the name of Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley was called.

He was a tall, elderly man, the regular angular type of the American,

with his nasal twang and reposeful manner.

“His story was brief and simple. He was a great friend of the late Mr.

Vanderdellen, and had gone on a European tour with him in the early

spring of 1902. They were together in Vienna in the month of March,

staying at the Hotel Imperial, when one day Vanderdellen came to his

room with a remarkable story.

“‘He told me,’ continued Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley, ‘that he had just

purchased some very beautiful diamonds, which he meant to present to

his wife on his return to New York. He would not tell me where he

bought them, nor would he show them to me, but he spoke about the

beauty and rarity of the stones, which were that rarest of all things,

beautiful black diamonds.

“‘As the whole story sounded to me a little bit queer and mysterious,

I gave him a word of caution, but he was quite confident as to the

integrity of the vendor of the jewels, since the latter had made a

somewhat curious bargain. Vanderdellen was to have the diamonds in his

keeping for three months without paying any money, merely giving a

formal receipt for them; then, if after three months he was quite

satisfied with his bargain, and there had been no suspicion or rumour

of any kind that the diamonds were stolen, then only was the money,

£500,000, to be paid.

“‘Vanderdellen thought this very fair and above-board, and so it

sounded to me. The only thing I didn’t like about it all was that the

vendor had given what I thought was a false name and no address; the

money was to be paid over to him in French notes when the three months

had expired, at an hotel in Paris, where Vanderdellen would be staying

at the time, and where he would call for it.

“‘I heard nothing more about the mysterious diamonds and their still

more mysterious vendor,’ continued Mr. Sedley, amidst intense

excitement, ‘for Vanderdellen and I soon parted company after that, he

going one way and I another. But at the beginning of July I met him in

Paris, and on the 4th I dined with him at the Elysee Palace Hotel,

where he was staying.

“‘Mr. Cornelius R. Shee was there too, and Vanderdellen related to him

during dinner the history of his mysterious purchase of the Black

Diamonds, adding that the vendor had called upon him that very day as

arranged, and that he (Vanderdellen) had had no hesitation in handing

him over the agreed price of £500,000, which he thought a very low

one. Both Mr. Shee and I agreed that the whole thing must have been

clear and above-board, for jewels of such fabulous value could not

have been stolen since last spring without the hue and cry being in

every paper in Europe.

“‘It is my opinion, therefore,’ said Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley, at the

conclusion of this remarkable evidence, ‘that Mr. Vanderdellen bought

those diamonds in perfect good faith. He would never have wittingly

subjected his wife to the indignity of being seen in public with

stolen jewels round her neck. If after 5th July he did happen to hear

that a _parure_ of black diamonds had been stolen in England at the

date, he could not possibly think that there could be the slightest

connection between these and those he had purchased more than three

months ago.’

“And, amidst indescribable excitement, Mr. Albert V. B. Sedley stepped

back into his place.

“That he had spoken the truth from beginning to end no one could doubt

for a single moment. His own social position, wealth, and important

commercial reputation placed him above any suspicion of committing

perjury, even for the sake of a dead friend. Moreover, the story told

by Vanderdellen at the dinner in Paris was corroborated by Mr.

Cornelius R. Shee in every point.

“But there! a dead man’s words are _not_ evidence in a court of law.

Unfortunately, Mr. Vanderdellen had not shown the diamonds to his

friends at the time. He had certainly drawn enormous sums of money

from his bank about the end of June and beginning of July, amounting

in all to just over a million sterling; and there was nothing to prove

which special day he had paid away a sum of £500,000, whether _before_

or _after_ the burglary at Eton Chase.

“He had made extensive purchases in Paris of pictures, furniture, and

other works of art, all of priceless value, for the decoration of his

new palace in Fifth Avenue, and no diary of private expenditure was

produced in court. Mrs. Vanderdellen herself had said that after her

husband’s death, as all his affairs were in perfect order, she had

destroyed his personal and private diaries.

“Thus the counsel for the plaintiff was able to demolish the whole

edifice of the defence bit by bit, for it rested on but very ephemeral

foundations: a story related by a dead man.

“Judgment was entered for the plaintiff, although every one’s

sympathy, including that of judge and of jury, was entirely for the

defendant, who had so nobly determined to vindicate her husband’s

reputation.

“But Mrs. Vanderdellen proved to the last that she was no ordinary and

everyday woman. She had kept one final sensation up her sleeve. Two

days after she had legally been made to give up the Black Diamonds,

she offered to purchase them back for £500,000. Her bid was accepted,

and during last autumn, on the occasion of the last Royal visit to

London and the consequent grand society functions, no one was more

admired, more _fêted_ and envied, than beautiful Mrs. Vanderdellen as

she entered a drawing-room exquisitely gowned, and adorned with the

_parure_ of which an Empress might have been proud.”

The man in the corner had paused, and was idly tapping his fingers on

the marble-topped table of the A.B.C. shop.

“It was a curious story, wasn’t it?” said the funny creature, after a

while. “More like a romance than a reality.”

“It is absolutely bewildering,” I said.

“What is your theory?” he asked.

“What about?” I retorted.

“Well, there are so many points, aren’t there, of which only one is

quite clear, namely, that the _parure_ of Black Diamonds disappeared

from Eton Chase, Chislehurst, on 5th July, 1902, and that the next

time they were seen they were on the neck and head of Mrs.

Vanderdellen, the widow of one of the richest men of modern times,

whilst the story of how her husband came by them was, to all intents

and purposes, _legally_ disbelieved.”

“Then,” I argued, “the only logical conclusions to arrive at in all

this is that the Black Diamonds, owned by His Majesty the King of

‘Bohemia,’ were not unique, and that Mr. Vanderdellen bought some

duplicate ones.”

“If you knew anything about diamonds,” he said irritably, “you would

also know that your statement is an absurdity. There are no such

things as ‘duplicate’ diamonds.”

“Then what _is_ the only logical conclusion to arrive at?” I retorted,

for he had given up playing with the photos and was twisting and

twining that bit of string as if his brain was contained inside it and

he feared it might escape.

“Well, to me,” he said, “the only logical conclusion of the affair is

that the Black Diamonds which Mrs. Vanderdellen wore were the only and

original ones belonging to the Crown of ‘Bohemia.’”

“Then you think that a man in Mr. Vanderdellen’s position would have

been fool enough to buy gems worth £500,000 at the very moment when

there was a hue and cry for them all over Europe?”

“No, I don’t,” he replied quietly.

“But then——” I began.

“No?” he repeated once again, as his long fingers completed knot

number one in that eternal piece of string. “The Black Diamonds which

Mrs. Vanderdellen wore were bought by her husband in all good faith

from the mysterious vendor in Vienna, in March, 1902.”

“Impossible!” I retorted. “Her Majesty the Queen of ‘Bohemia’ wore

them regularly during the months of May and June, and they were stolen

from Eton Chase on July the 5th.”

“Her Majesty the Queen of ‘Bohemia’ wore a _parure_ of Black Diamonds

during those months, and those certainly were stolen on July the 5th,”

he said excitedly; “but what was there to prove that _those_ were the

genuine stones?”

“Why!——” I ejaculated.

“Point No. 2,” he said, jumping about like a monkey on a stick;

“although Mr. Wilson was acknowledged to be innocent of the theft of

the diamonds, isn’t it strange that no one has ever been proved guilty

of it?”

“But I don’t understand——”

“Yet it is simple as daylight. I maintain that His Majesty the King

of ‘Bohemia’ being short, very short, of money, decided to sell

the celebrated Black Diamonds; to avoid all risks the stones are

taken out of their settings, and a trusted and secret emissary is

then deputed to find a possible purchaser; his choice falls on the

multi-millionaire Vanderdellen, who is travelling in Europe, is

a noted collector of rare jewellery, and has a beautiful young

wife—three attributes, you see, which make him a very likely

purchaser.

“The emissary then seeks him out, and offers him the diamonds for

sale. Mr. Vanderdellen at first hesitates, wondering how such valuable

gems had come in the vendor’s possession, but the bargain suggested by

the latter—the three months during which the gems are to be held on

trust by the purchaser—seems so fair and above-board, that Mr.

Vanderdellen’s objections fall to the ground; he accepts the bargain,

and three months later completes the purchase.”

“But I don’t understand,” I repeated again, more bewildered than

before. “You say the King of ‘Bohemia’ sold the loose gems originally

to Mr. Vanderdellen; then, what about the _parure_ worn by the Queen

and offered for sale to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson? What about the theft at

Eton Chase?”

“Point No. 3,” he shrieked excitedly, as another series of complicated

knots went to join its fellows. “I told you that the King of ‘Bohemia’

was _very_ short of money, every one knows _that_. He sells the Black

Diamonds to Mr. Vanderdellen, but before he does it, he causes

duplicates of them to be made, but this time in exquisite, beautiful,

perfect Parisian imitation, and has these mounted into the original

settings by some trusted man who, you may be sure, was well paid to

hold his tongue. Then it is given out that the _parure_ is for sale; a

purchaser is found, and a few days later the false diamonds are

stolen.”

“By whom?”

“By the King of ‘Bohemia’s’ valued and trusted friend, who has helped

in the little piece of villainy throughout; it is he who drops a

rope-ladder through Her Majesty’s bedroom window on to the terrace

below, and then hands the imitation _parure_ to his Royal master, who

sees to its complete destruction and disappearance. Then there is a

hue and cry for the _real_ stones, and after a year or so they are

found on the person of a lady, who is legally forced to give them up.

And thus His Majesty the King of ‘Bohemia’ got one solid million for

the Black Diamonds, instead of half that sum, for if Mrs. Vanderdellen

had not purchased the jewels, some one else would have done so.”

And he was gone, leaving me to gaze at the pictures of three lovely

women, and wondering if indeed it was the Royal lady herself who could

best solve the mystery of who stole the Black Diamonds.

V. The Murder of Miss Pebmarsh

Chapter I

“You must admit,” said the man in the corner to me one day, as I

folded up and put aside my _Daily Telegraph_, which I had been reading

with great care, “that it would be difficult to find a more

interesting plot, or more thrilling situations, than occurred during

the case of Miss Pamela Pebmarsh. As for downright cold-blooded

villainy, commend me to some of the actors in that real drama.

“The facts were simple enough; Miss Lucy Ann Pebmarsh was an old maid

who lived with her young niece Pamela and an elderly servant in one of

the small, newly-built houses not far from the railway station at

Boreham Wood. The fact that she kept a servant at all, and that the

little house always looked very spick and span, was taken by the

neighbours to mean that Miss Pebmarsh was a lady of means; but she

kept very much to herself, seldom went to church, and never attended

any of the mothers’ meetings, parochial teas, and other social

gatherings for which that popular neighbourhood has long been famous.

“Very little, therefore, was known of the Pebmarsh household, save

that the old lady had seen better days, that she had taken her niece

to live with her recently, and that the latter had had a somewhat

checkered career before she had found her present haven of refuge;

some more venturesome gossips went so far as to hint—but only just

above a whisper—that Miss Pamela Pebmarsh had been on the stage.

“Certain it is that that young lady seemed to chafe very much under

the restraint imposed upon her by her aunt, who seldom allowed her out

of her sight, and evidently kept her very short of money, for, in

spite of Miss Pamela’s obvious love of fine clothes, she had latterly

been constrained to wear the plainest of frocks and most unbecoming of

hats.

“All very commonplace and uninteresting, you see, until that memorable

Wednesday in October, after which the little house in Boreham Wood

became a nine days’ wonder throughout newspaper-reading England.

“On that day Miss Pebmarsh’s servant, Jemima Gadd, went over to Luton

to see a sick sister; she was not expected back until the next

morning. On that same afternoon Miss Pamela—strangely enough—seems

also to have elected to go up to town, leaving her aunt all alone in

the house, and not returning home until the late train, which reaches

Boreham Wood a few minutes before one.

“It was about five minutes past one that the neighbours in the quiet

little street were roused from their slumbers by most frantic and

agonised shrieks. The next moment Miss Pamela was seen to rush out of

her aunt’s house and then to hammer violently at the door of one of

her neighbours, still uttering piercing shrieks. You may imagine what

a commotion such a scene at midnight would cause in a place like

Boreham Wood. Heads were thrust out of the windows; one or two

neighbours in hastily-donned miscellaneous attire came running out;

and very soon the news spread round like wild-fire that Miss Pamela on

coming home had found her aunt lying dead in the sitting-room.

“Mr. Miller, the local greengrocer, was the first to pluck up

sufficient courage to effect an entrance into the house. Miss Pamela

dared not follow him; she had become quite hysterical, and was

shrieking at the top of her voice that her aunt had been murdered. The

sight that greeted Mr. Miller and those who had been venturesome

enough to follow him, was certainly calculated to unhinge any young

girl’s mind.

“In the small bow-window of the sitting-room stood a writing-table,

with drawers open and papers scattered all over and around it; in a

chair in front of it, half sitting and half lying across the table,

face downwards, and with arms outstretched, was the dead body of Miss

Pebmarsh. There was sufficient indications to show to the most casual

observer that, undoubtedly, the unfortunate lady had been murdered.

“One of the neighbours, who possessed a bicycle, had in the meantime

had the good sense to ride over to the police station. Very soon two

constables were on the spot; they quickly cleared the room of

gossiping neighbours, and then endeavoured to obtain from Miss Pamela

some lucid information as to the terrible event.

“At first she seemed quite unable to answer coherently the many

questions which were being put to her; however, with infinite patience

and wonderful kindness, Sergeant Evans at last managed to obtain from

her the following statement.

“‘I had had an invitation to go to the theatre this evening; it was an

old invitation, and my aunt had said long ago that I might accept it.

When Jemima Gadd wanted to go to Luton, I didn’t see why I should give

up the theatre and offend my friend, just because of her. My aunt and

I had some words about it, but I went. . . . I came back by the last

train, and walked straight home from the station. I had taken the

latch-key with me, and went straight into the sitting-room; the lamp

was alight, and—and——’

“The rest was chaos in the poor girl’s mind; she was only conscious of

having seen something awful and terrible, and of having rushed out

screaming for help. Sergeant Evans asked her no further questions

then; a kind neighbour had offered to take charge of Pamela for the

night, and took her away with her, the constable remaining in charge

of the body and the house until the arrival of higher authorities.”

Chapter II

“Although, as you may well suppose,” continued the man in the corner,

after a pause, “the excitement was intense at Boreham Wood, it had not

as yet reached the general newspaper-reading public. As the tragic

event had occurred at one o’clock in the morning, the papers the

following day only contained a brief announcement that an old lady had

been found murdered at Boreham Wood under somewhat mysterious

circumstances. Later on, the evening editions added that the police

were extremely reticent, but that it was generally understood that

they held an important clue.

“The following day had been fixed for the inquest, and I went down

myself in the morning, for somehow I felt that this case was going to

be an interesting one. A murder which at first seems absolutely

purposeless always, in my experience, reveals, sooner or later, an

interesting trait in human nature.

“As soon as I arrived at Boreham Wood, I found that the murder of Miss

Pebmarsh and the forthcoming inquest seemed to be the sole subjects of

gossip and conversation. After I had been in the place half an hour

the news began to spread like wild-fire that the murderer had been

arrested; five minutes later the name of the murderer was on

everybody’s lips.

“It was that of the murdered woman’s niece, Miss Pamela Pebmarsh.

“‘Oh, oh!’ I said to myself, ‘my instincts have not deceived me: this

case is indeed going to be interesting.’

“It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when I at last managed to

find my way to the little police station, where the inquest was to be

held. There was scarcely standing room, I can tell you, and I had some

difficulty in getting a front place from which I could see the

principal actors in this village drama.

“Pamela Pebmarsh was there in the custody of two constables—she, a

young girl scarcely five-and-twenty, stood there accused of having

murdered, in a peculiarly brutal way, an old lady of seventy, her

relative who had befriended her and given her a home.”

The man in the corner paused for a moment, and from the capacious

pocket of his magnificent ulster he drew two or three small photos,

which he placed before me.

“This is Miss Pamela Pebmarsh,” he said, pointing to one of these;

“tall and good-looking, in spite of the shabby bit of mourning with

which she had contrived to deck herself. Of course, this photo does

not give you an idea of what she looked like that day at the inquest.

Her face then was almost ashen in colour; her large eyes were staring

before her with a look of horror and of fear; and her hands were

twitching incessantly, with spasmodic and painful nervousness.

“It was pretty clear that public feeling went dead against her from

the very first. A murmur of disapproval greeted her appearance, to

which she seemed to reply with a look of defiance. I could hear many

uncharitable remarks spoken all round me; Boreham Wood found it

evidently hard to forgive Miss Pamela her good looks and her unavowed

past.

“The medical evidence was brief and simple. Miss Pebmarsh had been

stabbed in the back with some sharp instrument, the blade of which had

pierced the left lung. She had evidently been sitting in the chair in

front of her writing-table when the murderer had caught her unawares.

Death had ensued within the next few seconds.

“The medical officer was very closely questioned upon this point by

the coroner; it was evident that the latter had something very serious

in his mind, to which the doctor’s replies would give confirmation.

“‘In your opinion,’ he asked, ‘would it have been possible for Miss

Pebmarsh to do anything after she was stabbed. Could she have moved,

for instance?’

“‘Slightly, perhaps,’ replied the doctor; ‘but she did not attempt to

rise from her chair.’

“‘No; but could she have tried to reach the hand-bell, for instance,

which was on the table, or—the pen and ink—and written a word or two?’

“‘Well, yes,’ said the doctor thoughtfully; ‘she might have done that,

if pen and ink, or the hand-bell, were _very_ close to her hand. I

doubt, though, if she could have written anything very clearly, but

still it is impossible to say quite definitely—anyhow, it could only

have been a matter of a few seconds.’

“Delightfully vague, you see,” continued the man in the corner, “as

these learned gentlemen’s evidence usually is.

“Sergeant Evans then repeated the story which Pamela Pebmarsh had

originally told him, and from which she had never departed in any

detail. She had gone to the theatre, leaving her aunt all alone in the

house; she had arrived home at one o’clock by the late Wednesday night

train, and had gone straight into the sitting-room, where she had

found her aunt dead before her writing-table.

“That she travelled up to London in the afternoon was easily proved;

the station-master and the porters had seen her go. Unfortunately for

her _alibi_, however, those late ‘theatre’ trains on that line are

always very crowded; the night had been dark and foggy, and no one at

or near the station could swear positively to having seen her arrive

home again by the train she named.

“There was one thing more; although the importance of it had been

firmly impressed upon Pamela Pebmarsh, she absolutely refused to name

the friends with whom she had been to the theatre that night, and who,

presumably, might have helped her to prove at what hour she left

London for home.

“Whilst all this was going on, I was watching Pamela’s face intently.

That the girl was frightened—nay more, terrified—there could be no

doubt; the twitching of her hands, her eyes dilated with terror, spoke

of some awful secret which she dare not reveal, but which she felt was

being gradually brought to light. Was that secret the secret of a

crime—a crime so horrible, so gruesome, that surely so young a girl

would be incapable of committing?

“So far, however, what struck every one mostly during this inquest was

the seeming purposelessness of this cruel murder. The old lady, as far

as could be ascertained, had no money to leave, so why should Pamela

Pebmarsh have deliberately murdered the aunt who provided her, at any

rate, with the comforts of a home? But the police, assisted by one of

the most able detectives on the staff, had not effected so sensational

an arrest without due cause; they had a formidable array of witnesses

to prove their case up to the hilt. One of these was Jemima Gadd, the

late Miss Pebmarsh’s servant.

“She came forward attired in deep black, and wearing a monumental

crape bonnet crowned with a quantity of glistening black beads. With

her face the colour of yellow wax, and her thin lips pinched tightly

together, she stood as the very personification of puritanism and

uncharitableness.

“She did not look once towards Pamela, who gazed at her like some

wretched bird caught in a net, which sees the meshes tightening round

it more and more.

“Replying to the coroner, Jemima Gadd explained that on the Wednesday

morning she had had a letter from her sister at Luton, asking her to

come over and see her some day.

“‘As there was plenty of cold meat in the ’ouse,’ she said, ‘I asked

the mistress if she could spare me until the next day, and she said

yes, she could. Miss Pamela and she could manage quite well.’

“‘She said nothing about her niece going out, too, on the same day?’

asked the coroner.

“‘No,’ replied Jemima acidly, ‘she did not. And later on, at

breakfast, Miss Pebmarsh said to Miss Pamela before me: “Pamela,” she

says, “Jemima is going to Luton, and won’t be back until to-morrow.

You and I will be alone in the ’ouse until then.”’

“‘And what did the accused say?’

“‘She says, “All right, aunt.”’

“‘Nothing more?’

“‘No, nothing more.’

“‘There was no question, then, of the accused going out also, and

leaving Miss Pebmarsh all alone in the house?’

“‘None at all,’ said Jemima emphatically. ‘If there ’ad been I’d ’ave

’eard of it. I needn’t ’ave gone that day. Any day would ’ave done for

me.’

“She closed her thin lips with a snap, and darted a vicious look at

Pamela. There was obviously some old animosity lurking beneath that

gigantic crape monument on the top of Jemima’s wax-coloured head.

“‘You know nothing, then, about any disagreement between the deceased

and the accused on the subject of her going to the theatre that day?’

asked the coroner, after a while.

“‘No, not about _that_,’ said Jemima curtly, ‘but there was plenty of

disagreements between those two, I can tell you.’

“‘Ah! what about?’

“‘Money, mostly. Miss Pamela was over-fond of fine clothes, but Miss

Pebmarsh, who was giving ’er a ’ome and daily bread, ’adn’t much money

to spare for fallalery. Miss Pebmarsh ’ad a small pension from a lady

of the haristocracy, but it wasn’t much—a pound a week it was. Miss

Pebmarsh might ’ave ’ad a lot more if she’d wanted to.’

“‘Oh?’ queried the coroner, ‘how was that?’

“‘Well, you see, that fine lady ’ad not always been as good as she

ought to be. She’d been Miss Pamela’s friend when they were both on

the stage together, and pretty goings on, I can tell you, those two

were up to, and——’

“‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the coroner sternly. ‘Confine yourself,

please, to telling the jury about the pension Miss Pebmarsh had from a

lady.’

“‘I was speaking about that,’ said Jemima, with another snap of her

thin lips. ‘Miss Pebmarsh knew a thing or two about this fine lady,

and she had some letters which she often told me that fine lady would

not care for her ’usband or her fine friends to read. Miss Pamela got

to know about these letters, and she worried her poor aunt to death,

for she wanted to get those letters and sell them to the fine lady for

’undreds of pounds. I ’ave ’eard ’er ask for those letters times and

again, but Miss Pebmarsh wouldn’t give them to ’er, and they were

locked up in the writing-table drawer, and Miss Pamela wanted those

letters, for she wanted to get ’undreds of pounds from the fine lady,

and my poor mistress was murdered for those letters—and she was

murdered by that wicked girl ’oo eat her bread and ’oo would ’ave

starved but for ’er. And so I tell you, and I don’t care ’oo ’ears me

say it.’

“No one had attempted to interrupt Jemima Gadd as she delivered

herself of this extraordinary tale, which so suddenly threw an

unexpected and lurid light upon the mystery of poor Miss Pebmarsh’s

death.

“That the tale was a true one, no one doubted for a single instant.

One look at the face of the accused was sufficient to prove it beyond

question. Pamela Pebmarsh had become absolutely livid; she tottered

almost as if she would fall, and the constable had to support her

until a chair was brought forward for her.

“As for Jemima Gadd, she remained absolutely impassive. Having given

her evidence, she stepped aside automatically like a yellow waxen

image, which had been wound up and had now run down. There was silence

for a while. Pamela Pebmarsh, more dead than alive, was sipping a

glass of brandy and water, which alone prevented her from falling in a

dead faint.

“Detective Inspector Robinson now stepped forward. All the spectators

there could read on his face the consciousness that his evidence would

be of the most supreme import.

“‘I was telegraphed for from the Yard,’ he said, in reply to the

coroner, ‘and came down here by the first train on the Thursday

morning. Beyond the short medical examination the body had not been

touched; as the constables know, we don’t like things interfered with

in cases of this kind. When I went up to look at deceased, the first

thing I saw was a piece of paper just under her right hand. Sergeant

Evans had seen it before, and pointed it out to me. Deceased had a pen

in her hand, and the ink-bottle was close by. This is the paper I

found, sir.’

“And amidst a deadly silence, during which nothing could be heard but

the scarcely-perceptible rustle of the paper, the inspector handed a

small note across to the coroner. The latter glanced at it for a

moment, and his face became very grave and solemn as he turned towards

the jury.

“‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ he said, ‘these are the contents of the

paper which the inspector found under the hand of the deceased.’

“He paused once more before he began to read, whilst we all in that

crowded court held our breath to listen:

“‘_I am dying. My murderess is my niece, Pam_——’

“‘That is all, gentlemen,’ added the coroner, as he folded up the

note. ‘Death overtook the unfortunate woman in the very act of writing

down the name of her murderess.’

“Then there was a wild and agonised shriek of horror. Pamela Pebmarsh,

with hair dishevelled and eyes in which the light of madness had begun

to gleam, threw up her hands, and without a groan, fell down senseless

upon the floor.”

Chapter III

“Yes,” said the man in the corner with a chuckle, “there was enough

evidence there to hang twenty people, let alone that one fool of a

girl who had run her neck so madly into a noose. I don’t suppose that

any one left the court that day with the slightest doubt in their

minds as to what the verdict would be; for the coroner had adjourned

the inquest, much to the annoyance of the jury, who had fully made up

their minds and had their verdict pat on the tips of their tongues:

‘Wilful murder against Pamela Pebmarsh.’

“But this was a case which to the last kept up its reputation for

surprises. By the next morning rumour had got about that ‘the lady of

the aristocracy’ referred to by Jemima Gadd, and who was supposed to

have paid a regular pension to Miss Pebmarsh, was none other than Lady

de Chavasse.

“When the name was first mentioned every one—especially the fair

sex—shrugged their shoulders, and said: ‘Of course what else _could_

one expect?’

“As a matter of fact, Lady de Chavasse, _née_ Birdie Fay, was one of

the most fashionable women in society; she was at the head of a dozen

benevolent institutions, was a generous patron of hospitals, and her

house was one of the most exclusive houses in London. True, she had

been on the stage in her younger days, and when Sir Percival de

Chavasse married her, his own relations looked somewhat askance at the

showy, handsome girl who had so daringly entered the ancient country

family.

“Sir Percival himself was an extraordinarily proud man—proud of his

lineage, of his social status, of the honour of his name. His very

pride had forced his relations, had forced society to accept his

beautiful young wife, and to Lady de Chavasse’s credit be it said, not

one breath of scandal as to her past life had ever become public

gossip. No one could assert that they _knew_ anything derogatory to

Birdie Fay before she became the proud baronet’s wife. As a matter of

fact, all society asserted that Sir Percival would never have married

her and introduced her to his own family circle if there had been any

gossip about her.

“Now suddenly the name of Lady de Chavasse was on everybody’s tongue.

People at first spoke it under their breath, for every one felt great

sympathy with her. She was so rich, and entertained so lavishly. She

was very charming, too; most fascinating in her ways; deferential to

her austere mother-in-law; not a little afraid of her proud husband;

very careful lest by word or look she betrayed her early connection

with the stage before him.

“On the following day, however, we had further surprises in store for

us. Pamela Pebmarsh, advised by a shrewd and clear-headed solicitor,

had at last made up her mind to view her danger a little more coolly,

and to speak rather more of the truth than she had done hitherto.

“Still looking very haggard, but perhaps a little less scared, she now

made a statement which, when it was fully substantiated, as she stated

it could be, would go far towards clearing her of the terrible

imputation against her. Her story was this: On the memorable day in

question, she did go up to town, intending to go to the theatre. At

the station she purchased an evening paper, which she began to read.

This paper in its fashionable columns contained an announcement which

arrested her attention; this was that Sir Percival and Lady de

Chavasse had returned to their flat in town at 51, Marsden Mansions,

Belgravia, from ‘The Chase,’ Melton Mowbray.

“‘De Chavasse,’ continued Pamela, ‘was the name of the lady who paid

my aunt the small pension on which she lived. I knew her years ago,

when she was on the stage, and I suddenly thought I would like to go

and see her, just to have a chat over old times. Instead of going to

the theatre I went and had some dinner at Slater’s, in Piccadilly, and

then I thought I would take my chance, and go and see if Lady de

Chavasse was at home. I got to 51, Marsden Mansions, about eight

o’clock, and was fortunate enough to see Lady de Chavasse at once. She

kept me talking some considerable time; so much, in fact, that I

missed the 11 from St. Pancras. I only left Marsden Mansions at a

quarter to eleven, and had to wait at St. Pancras until twenty minutes

past midnight.’

“This was all reasonable and clear enough, and as her legal adviser

had subpœnaed Lady de Chavasse as a witness, Pamela Pebmarsh seemed to

have found an excellent way out of her terrible difficulties, the only

question being whether Lady de Chavasse’s testimony alone would, in

view of her being Pamela’s friend, be sufficient to weigh against the

terrible overwhelming evidence of Miss Pebmarsh’s dying accusation.

“But Lady de Chavasse settled this doubtful point in the way least

expected by any one. Exquisitely dressed, golden-haired, and brilliant

complexioned, she looked strangely out of place in this fusty little

village court, amidst the local dames in their plain gowns and

antiquated bonnets. She was, moreover, extremely self-possessed, and

only cast a short, very haughty, look at the unfortunate girl whose

life probably hung upon that fashionable woman’s word.

“‘Yes,’ she said sweetly, in reply to the coroner, ‘she was the wife

of Sir Percival de Chavasse, and resided at 51, Marsden Mansions,

Belgravia.’

“‘The accused, I understand, has been known to you for some time?’

continued the coroner.

“‘Pardon me,’ rejoined Lady de Chavasse, speaking in a beautiful

modulated voice, ‘I did know this young—hem—person, years ago, when I

was on the stage, but, of course, I had not seen her for years.’

“‘She called on you on Wednesday last at about nine o’clock?’

“‘Yes, she did, for the purpose of levying blackmail upon me.’

“There was no mistaking the look of profound aversion and contempt

which the fashionable lady now threw upon the poor girl before her.

“‘She had some preposterous story about some letters which she alleged

would be compromising to my reputation,’ continued Lady de Chavasse

quietly. ‘These she had the kindness to offer me for sale for a

hundred pounds. At first her impudence staggered me, as, of course, I

had no knowledge of any such letters. She threatened to take them to

my husband, however, and I then—rather foolishly, perhaps—suggested

that she should bring them to me first. I forget how the conversation

went on, but she left me with the understanding that she would get the

letters from her aunt, Miss Pebmarsh, who, by the way, had been my

governess when I was a child, and to whom I paid a small pension in

consideration of her having been left absolutely without means.’

“And Lady de Chavasse, conscious of her own disinterested benevolence,

pressed a highly-scented bit of cambric to her delicate nose.

“‘Then the accused did spend the evening with you on that Wednesday?’

asked the coroner, while a great sigh of relief seemed to come from

poor Pamela’s breast.

“‘Pardon me,’ said Lady de Chavasse, ‘she spent a little time with me.

She came about nine o’clock.’

“‘Yes. And when did she leave?’

“‘I really couldn’t tell you—about ten o’clock, I think.’

“‘You are not sure?’ persisted the coroner. ‘Think, Lady de Chavasse,’

he added earnestly, ‘try to think—the life of a fellow-creature may,

perhaps, depend upon your memory.’

“‘I am indeed sorry,’ she replied in the same musical voice. ‘I could

not swear without being positive, could I? And I am not quite

positive.’

“‘But your servants?’

“‘They were at the back of the flat—the girl let herself out.’

“‘But your husband?’

“‘Oh! when he saw me engaged with the girl, he went out to his club,

and was not yet home when she left.’

“‘Birdie! Birdie! won’t you try and remember?’ here came in an

agonised cry from the unfortunate girl, who thus saw her last hope

vanish before her eyes.

“But Lady de Chavasse only lifted a little higher a pair of very

prettily-arched eyebrows, and having finished her evidence she stepped

on one side and presently left the court, leaving behind her a faint

aroma of violet sachet powder, and taking away with her, perhaps, the

last hope of an innocent fellow-creature.”

Chapter IV

“But Pamela Pebmarsh?” I asked after a while, for he had paused and

was gazing attentively at the photograph of a very beautiful and

exquisitely-gowned woman.

“Ah, yes, Pamela Pebmarsh,” he said with a smile. “There was yet

another act in that palpitating drama of her life—one act—the

_dénouement_ as unexpected as it was thrilling. Salvation came where

it was least expected—from Jemima Gadd, who seemed to have made up her

mind that Pamela had killed her aunt, and yet who was the first to

prove her innocence.

“She had been shown the few words which the murdered woman was alleged

to have written after she had been stabbed. Jemima, not a very good

scholar, found it difficult to decipher the words herself.

“‘Ah, well, poor dear,’ she said after a while, with a deep sigh, ‘’er

’andwriting was always peculiar, seein’ as ’ow she wrote always with

’er left ’and.’

“‘_Her left hand!!!_’ gasped the coroner, while public and jury alike,

hardly liking to credit their ears, hung upon the woman’s thin lips,

amazed, aghast, puzzled.

“‘Why, yes!’ said Jemima placidly. ‘Didn’t you know she ’ad a bad

accident to ’er right ’and when she was a child, and never could ’old

anything in it? ’Er fingers were like paralysed; the ink-pot was

always on the left of ’er writing-table. Oh! she couldn’t write with

’er right ’and at all.’

“Then a strange revulsion of feeling came over every one there.

“Stabbed in the back, with her lung pierced through and through, how

could she have done, dying, what she never did in life?

“Impossible!

“The murderer, whoever it was, had placed pen and paper to her hand,

and had written on it the cruel words which were intended to delude

justice and to send an innocent fellow-creature—a young girl not

five-and-twenty—to an unjust and ignominious death. But, fortunately

for that innocent girl, the cowardly miscreant had ignored the fact

that Miss Pebmarsh’s right hand had been paralysed for years.

“The inquest was adjourned for a week,” continued the man in the

corner, “which enabled Pamela’s solicitor to obtain further evidence

of her innocence. Fortunately for her he was enabled to find two

witnesses who had seen her in an omnibus going towards St. Pancras at

about 11.15 p.m., and a passenger on the 12.25 train, who had

travelled down with her as far as Hendon. Thus, when the inquest was

resumed, Pamela Pebmarsh left the court without a stain upon her

character.

“But the murder of Miss Pebmarsh has remained a mystery to this day—as

has also the secret history of the compromising letters. Did they

exist or not? is a question the interested spectators at that

memorable inquest have often asked themselves. Certain it is that

failing Pamela Pebmarsh, who might have wanted them for purpose of

blackmail, no one else could be interested in them except Lady de

Chavasse.”

“Lady de Chavasse!” I ejaculated in surprise. “Surely you are not

going to pretend that that elegant lady went down to Boreham Wood in

the middle of the night in order to murder Miss Pebmarsh, and then to

lay the crime at another woman’s door?”

“I only pretend what’s logic,” replied the man in the corner, with

inimitable conceit; “and in Pamela Pebmarsh’s own statement, she was

with Lady de Chavasse at 51, Marsden Mansions, until eleven o’clock,

and there is no train from St. Pancras to Boreham Wood between eleven

and twenty-five minutes past midnight. Pamela’s _alibi_ becomes that

of Lady de Chavasse, and is quite conclusive. Besides, that elegant

lady was not one to do that sort of work for herself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you mean to say you never thought of the real solution of this

mystery?” he retorted sarcastically.

“I confess——” I began a little irritably.

“Confess that I have not yet taught you to think logically, and to

look at the beginning of things.”

“What do you call the beginning of this case, then?”

“Why! the compromising letters, of course.”

“But——” I argued.

“Wait a minute!” he shrieked excitedly, whilst with frantic haste he

began fidgeting, fidgeting again at that eternal bit of string. “These

did exist, otherwise why did Lady de Chavasse parley with Pamela

Pebmarsh? Why did she not order her out of the house then and there,

if she had nothing to fear from her?”

“I admit that,” I said.

“Very well; then, as she was too fine, too delicate to commit the

villainous murder of which she afterwards accused poor Miss Pamela,

who was there sufficiently interested in those letters to try and gain

possession of them for her?”

“Who, indeed?” I queried, still puzzled, still not understanding.

“Ay! who but her husband,” shrieked the funny creature, as with a

sharp snap he broke his beloved string in two.

“Her husband!” I gasped.

“Why not? He had plenty of time, plenty of pluck. In a flat it is easy

enough to overhear conversations that take place in the next room—he

was in the house at the time, remember, for Lady de Chavasse said

herself that he went out afterwards. No doubt he overheard

everything—the compromising letters, and Pamela’s attempt at levying

blackmail. What the effect of such a discovery must have been upon the

proud man I leave you to imagine—his wife’s social position ruined, a

stain upon his ancient name, his relations pointing the finger of

scorn at his folly.

“Can’t you picture him, hearing the two women’s talk in the next room,

and then resolving at all costs to possess himself of those

compromising letters? He had just time to catch the 10 train to

Boreham Wood.

“Mind you, I don’t suppose that he went down there with any evil

intent. Most likely he only meant to buy those letters from Miss

Pebmarsh. What happened, however, nobody can say but the murderer

himself.

“Who knows? But the deed done, imagine the horror of a refined

aristocratic man, face to face with such a crime as that.

“Was it this terror, or merely rage at the girl who had been the

original cause of all this, that prompted him to commit the final

villany of writing out a false accusation and placing it under the

dead woman’s hand? Who can tell?

“Then, the deed done, and the _mise-en-scène_ complete, he is able to

catch the last train—11.23—back to town. A man travelling alone would

pass practically unperceived.

“Pamela’s innocence was proved, and the murder of Miss Pebmarsh has

remained a mystery, but if you will reflect on my conclusions, you

will admit that no one else—_no one else_—could have committed that

murder, for no one else had a greater interest in the destruction of

those letters.”

VI. The Lisson Grove Mystery

Chapter I

The man in the corner ordered another glass of milk, and timidly asked

for a second cheese-cake at the same time.

“I am going down to Marylebone Police Court, to see those people

brought up before the ‘Beak,’” he remarked.

“What people?” I queried.

“What people!” he exclaimed, in the greatest excitement. “You don’t

mean to say that you have not studied the Lisson Grove Mystery?”

I had to confess that my knowledge on that subject was of the most

superficial character.

“One of the most interesting cases that has cropped up in recent

years,” he said, with an indescribable look of reproach.

“Perhaps. I did not study it in the papers because I preferred to hear

_you_ tell me all about it,” I said.

“Oh, if that’s it,” he replied, as he settled himself down in his

corner like a great bird after the rain, “then you showed more sense

than lady journalists usually possess. I can, of course, give you a

far clearer account than the newspapers have done; as for the

police—well! I never saw such a muddle as they are making of this

case.”

“I daresay it is a peculiarly difficult one,” I retorted, for I am

ever a champion of that hard-working department.

“H’m!” he said, “so, so—it is a tragedy in a prologue and three acts.

I am going down this afternoon to see the curtain fall for the third

time on what, if I mistake not, will prove a good burlesque; but it

all began dramatically enough. It was last Saturday, 21st November,

that two boys, playing in the little spinney just outside Wembley Park

Station, came across three large parcels done up in American cloth.

“With the curiosity natural to their age, they at once proceeded to

undo these parcels, and what they found so upset the little beggars

that they ran howling through the spinney and the polo ground,

straight as a dart to Wembley Park Station. Half frantic with

excitement, they told their tale to one of the porters off duty, who

walked back to the spinney with them. The three parcels, in point of

fact, contained the remains of a dismembered human body. The porter

sent one of the boys for the local police, and the remains were duly

conveyed to the mortuary, where they were kept for identification.

“Three days later—that is to say, on Tuesday, 24th November—Miss

Amelia Dyke, residing at Lisson Grove Crescent, returned from

Edinburgh, where she had spent three or four days with a friend. She

drove up from St. Pancras in a cab, and carried her small box up

herself to the door of the flat, at which she knocked loudly and

repeatedly—so loudly and so persistently, in fact, that the

inhabitants of the neighbouring flats came out on to their respective

landings to see what the noise was about.

“Miss Amelia Dyke was getting anxious. Her father, she said, must be

seriously ill, or else why did he not come and open the door to her.

Her anxiety, however, reached its culminating point when Mr. and Mrs.

Pitt, who reside in the flat immediately beneath that occupied by the

Dykes, came forward with the alarming statement that, as a matter of

fact, they had themselves been wondering if anything were wrong with

old Mr. Dyke, as they had not heard any sound overhead for the last

few days.

“Miss Amelia, now absolutely terrified, begged one of the neighbours

to fetch either the police or a locksmith, or both. Mr. Pitt ran out

at once, both police and locksmith were brought upon the scene, the

door was forcibly opened, and amidst indescribable excitement

Constable Turner, followed by Miss Dyke, who was faint and trembling

with apprehension, effected an entrance into the flat.

“Everything in it was tidy and neat to a degree, all the fires were

laid, the beds made, the floors were clean and washed, the brasses

polished, only a slight, very slight layer of dust lay over

everything, dust that could not have accumulated for more than a few

days. The flat consisted of four rooms and a bathroom; in not one of

them was there the faintest trace of old Mr. Dyke.

“In order to fully comprehend the consternation which all the

neighbours felt at this discovery,” continued the man in the corner,

“you must understand that old Mr. Dyke was a helpless cripple; he had

been a mining engineer in his young days, and a terrible blasting

accident deprived him, at the age of forty, of both legs. They had

been amputated just above the knee, and the unfortunate man—then a

widower with one little girl—had spent the remainder of his life on

crutches. He had a small—a very small pension, which, as soon as his

daughter Amelia was grown up, had enabled him to live in comparative

comfort in the small flat in Lisson Grove Crescent.

“His misfortune, however, had left him terribly sensitive; he never

could bear the looks of compassion thrown upon him, whenever he

ventured out on his crutches, and even the kindliest sympathy was

positive torture to him. Gradually, therefore, as he got on in life,

he took to staying more and more at home, and after a while gave up

going out altogether. By the time he was sixty-five years old and Miss

Amelia a fine young woman of seven-and-twenty, old Dyke had not been

outside the door of his flat for at least five years.

“And yet, when Constable Turner, aided by the locksmith, entered the

flat on that memorable 24th November, there was not a trace anywhere

of the old man.

“Miss Amelia was in the last stages of despair, and at first she

seemed far too upset and hysterical to give the police any coherent

and definite information. At last, however, from amid the chaos of

tears and of ejaculations, Constable Turner gathered the following

facts:

“Miss Amelia had some great friends in Edinburgh, whom she had long

wished to visit, her father’s crippled condition making this extremely

difficult. A fortnight ago however, in response to a very urgent

invitation, she at last decided to accept it, but in order to leave

her father altogether comfortable, she advertised in the local paper

for a respectable woman who would come to the flat every day and see

to all the work, cook his dinner, make the bed, and so on.

“She had several applications in reply to this advertisement, and

ultimately selected a very worthy-looking elderly person, who, for

seven shillings a week, undertook to come daily from seven in the

morning until about six in the afternoon, to see to all Mr. Dyke’s

comforts.

“Miss Amelia was very favourably impressed with this person’s

respectable and motherly appearance, and she left for Edinburgh by the

5.15 a.m. train on the morning of Thursday, 19th November, feeling

confident that her father would be well looked after. She certainly

had not heard from the old man while she was away, but she had not

expected to hear unless, indeed, something had been wrong.

“Miss Amelia was quite sure that something dreadful had happened to

her father, as he could not possibly have walked downstairs and out of

the house alone; certainly his crutches were nowhere to be found, but

this only helped to deepen the mystery of the old man’s disappearance.

“The constable, having got thus far with his notes, thought it best to

refer the whole matter at this stage to higher authority. He got from

Miss Amelia the name and address of the charwoman, and then went back

to the station.

“There, the very first news that greeted him was that the medical

officer of the district had just sent round to the various police

stations his report on the human remains found in Wembley Park the

previous Saturday. They had proved to be the dismembered body of an

old man between sixty and seventy years of age, the immediate cause of

whose death had undoubtedly been a violent blow on the back of the

head with a heavy instrument, which had shattered the cranium. Expert

examination further revealed the fact that deceased had had in early

life both legs removed by a surgical operation just above the knee.

“That was the end of the prologue in the Lisson Grove tragedy,”

continued the man in the corner, after a slight and dramatic pause,

“as far as the public was concerned. When the curtain was subsequently

raised upon the first act, the situation had been considerably

changed.

“The remains had been positively identified as those of old Mr. Dyke,

and a charge of wilful murder had been brought against Alfred Wyatt,

of no occupation, residing in Warlock Road, Lisson Grove, and against

Amelia Dyke for complicity in the crime. They are the two people whom

I am going to see this afternoon brought before the Beak at the

Marylebone Police Court.”

Chapter II

“Two very important bits of evidence, I must tell you, had come to

light, on the first day of the inquest, and had decided the police to

make this double arrest.

“In the first place, according to one or two of the neighbours, who

happened to know something of the Dyke household, Miss Amelia had kept

company for some time with a young man named Alfred Wyatt; he was an

electrical engineer, resided in the neighbourhood, and was some years

younger than Miss Dyke. As he was known not to be very steady, it was

generally supposed that the old man did not altogether approve of his

daughter’s engagement.

“Mrs. Pitt, residing in the flat immediately below the one occupied by

the Dykes, had stated, moreover, that on Wednesday the 18th, at about

midday, she heard very loud and angry voices proceeding from above;

Miss Amelia’s shrill tones being specially audible. Shortly afterwards

she saw Wyatt go out of the house; but the quarrel continued for some

little time without him, for the neighbours could still hear Miss

Amelia’s high-pitched voice, speaking very excitedly and volubly.

“‘An hour later,’ further explained Mrs. Pitt, ‘I met Miss Dyke on the

stairs; she seemed very flushed and looked as if she had been crying.

I suppose she saw that I noticed this, for she stopped and said to me:

“‘“All this fuss, you know, Mrs. Pitt, because Alfred asked me to go

for a drive with him this afternoon, but I am going all the same.”

“‘Later in the afternoon—it must have been quite half-past four, for

it was getting dark—young Wyatt drove up in a motor-car, and presently

I heard Miss Dyke’s voice on the stairs saying very pleasantly and

cheerfully: “All right, daddy, we shan’t be long.” Then Mr. Dyke must

have said something, which I didn’t hear, for she added. “Oh, that’s

all right; I am well wrapped up, and we have plenty of rugs.”’

“Mrs. Pitt then went to her window and saw Wyatt and Amelia Dyke start

off in a motor. She concluded that the old man had been mollified, for

both Amelia and Wyatt waved their hands affectionately up towards the

window. They returned from their drive about six o’clock; Wyatt saw

Amelia to the door, and then went off again. The next day Miss Dyke

went to Scotland.

“As you see,” continued the man in the corner, “Alfred Wyatt had

become a very important personality in this case; he was Amelia’s

sweetheart, and it was strange—to say the least of it—that she had

never as yet even mentioned his name. Therefore, when she was recalled

in order to give further evidence, you may be sure that she was pretty

sharply questioned on the subject of Alfred Wyatt.

“In her evidence before the coroner, she adhered fairly closely to her

original statement:

“‘I did not mention Mr. Wyatt’s name,’ she explained, ‘because I did

not think it was of any importance; if he knew anything about my dead

father’s mysterious fate he would have come forward at once, of

course, and helped me to find out who the cowardly murderer was who

could attack a poor, crippled old man. Mr. Wyatt was devoted to my

father, and it is perfectly ridiculous to say that daddy objected to

my engagement; on the contrary, he gave us his full consent, and we

were going to be married directly after the New Year, and continue to

live with father in the flat.’

“‘But,’ questioned the coroner, who had not by any means departed from

his severity, ‘what about this quarrel which the last witness

overheard on the subject of your going out driving with Mr. Wyatt?’

“‘Oh, that was nothing,’ replied Miss Dyke very quietly. ‘Daddy only

objected because he thought that it was rather too late to start at

four o’clock, and that I should be cold. When he saw that we had

plenty of rugs he was quite pleased for me to go.’

“‘Isn’t it rather astonishing, then,’ asked the coroner, ‘seeing that

Mr. Wyatt was on such good terms with your father, that he did not go

to see him while you were away?’

“‘Not at all,’ she replied unconcernedly; ‘Alfred went down to

Edinburgh on the Thursday evening. He couldn’t travel with me in the

morning, for he had some business to see to in town that day; but he

joined me at my friends’ house on the Friday morning, having travelled

all night.’

“‘Ah!’ remarked the coroner drily, ‘then he had not seen your father

since you left.’

“‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Amelia; ‘he called round to see dad during the

day, and found him looking well and cheerful.’

“Miss Amelia Dyke, as she gave this evidence, seemed absolutely

unconscious of saying anything that might in any way incriminate her

lover. She is a handsome, though somewhat coarse-looking woman, nearer

thirty, I should say, than she would care to own. I was present at the

inquest, mind you, for that case had too many mysteries about it from

the first for it to have eluded my observation, and I watched her

closely throughout. Her voice struck me as fine and rich, with—in this

instance, also—a shade of coarseness in it; certainly, it was very far

from being high-pitched, as Mrs. Pitt had described it.

“When she had finished her evidence she went back to her seat, looking

neither flustered nor uncomfortable, although many looks of contempt

and even of suspicion were darted at her from every corner of the

crowded court.

“Nor did she lose her composure in the slightest degree when Mr.

Parlett, clerk to Messrs. Snow and Patterson, solicitors, of Bedford

Row, in his turn came forward and gave evidence; only while the little

man spoke her full red lips curled and parted with a look of complete

contempt.

“Mr. Parlett’s story was indeed a remarkable one, inasmuch as it

suddenly seemed to tear asunder the veil of mystery which so far had

surrounded the murder of old Dyke by supplying it with a motive—a

strong motive too: the eternal greed of gain.

“In June last, namely, it appears that Messrs. Snow and Patterson

received intimation from a firm of Melbourne solicitors that a man of

the name of Dyke had died there recently, leaving a legacy of £4,000

to his only brother James Arthur Dyke, a mining engineer, who in 1890

was residing at Lisson Grove Crescent. The Melbourne solicitors in

their communication asked for Messrs. Snow and Patterson’s kind

assistance in helping them to find the legatee.

“The search was easy enough, since James Arthur Dyke, mining engineer,

had never ceased to reside at Lisson Grove Crescent. Armed, therefore,

with full instructions from their Melbourne correspondent, Messrs.

Snow and Patterson communicated with Dyke, and after a little

preliminary correspondence, the sum of £4,000 in Bank of Australia

notes and various securities were handed over by Mr. Parlett to the

old cripple.

“The money and securities were—so Mr. Parlett understood—subsequently

deposited by Mr. Dyke at the Portland Road Branch of the London and

South Western Bank; as the old man apparently died intestate, the

whole of the £4,000 would naturally devolve upon his only daughter and

natural legatee.

“Mind you, all through the proceedings the public had instinctively

felt that money was somewhere at the bottom of this gruesome and

mysterious crime. There is not much object in murdering an old cripple

except for purposes of gain, but now Mr. Parlett’s evidence had indeed

furnished a damning motive for the appalling murder.

“What more likely than that Alfred Wyatt, wanting to finger that

£4,000, had done away with the old man? And if Amelia Dyke did not

turn away from him in horror, after such a cowardly crime, then she

must have known of it and had perhaps connived in it.

“As for Nicholson, the charwoman, her evidence had certainly done more

to puzzle everybody all round than any other detail in this strange

and mysterious crime.

“She deposed that on Friday, 13th November, in answer to an

advertisement in the _Marylebone Star_, she had called on Miss Dyke at

Lisson Grove, when it was arranged that she should do a week’s work at

the flat, beginning Thursday, the 19th, from seven in the morning

until six in the afternoon. She was to keep the place clean, get Mr.

Dyke—who, she understood was an invalid—all his meals, and make

herself generally useful to him.

“Accordingly, Nicholson turned up on the Thursday morning. She let

herself into the flat, as Miss Dyke had entrusted the latch-key to

her, and went on with the work. Mr. Dyke was in bed, and she got him

all his meals that day. She thought she was giving him satisfaction,

and was very astonished when, at six o’clock, having cleared away his

tea, he told her that he would not require her again. He gave her no

explanation, asked her for the latch-key, and gave her her full week’s

money—seven shillings in full. Nicholson then put on her bonnet, and

went away.

“Now,” continued the man in the corner, leaning excitedly forward, and

marking each sentence he uttered with an exquisitely complicated knot

in his bit of string, “an hour later, another neighbour, Mrs. Marsh,

who lived on the same floor as the Dykes, on starting to go out, met

Alfred Wyatt on the landing. He took off his hat to her, and then

knocked at the door of the Dykes’ flat.

“When she came home at eight o’clock, she again passed him on the

stairs; he was then going out. She stopped to ask him how Mr. Dyke

was, and Wyatt replied: ‘Oh, fairly well, but he misses his daughter,

you know.’

“Mrs. Marsh, now closely questioned, said that she thought Wyatt was

carrying a large parcel under his arm, but she could not distinguish

the shape of the parcel as the angle of the stairs, where she met him,

was very dark. She stated, though, that he was running down the stairs

very fast.

“It was on all that evidence that the police felt justified in

arresting Alfred Wyatt for the murder of James Arthur Dyke, and Amelia

Dyke for connivance in the crime. And now this very morning, those two

young people have been brought before the magistrate, and at this

moment evidence—circumstantial, mind you, but positively damning—is

being heaped upon them by the prosecution. The police did their work

quickly. The very evening after the first day of the inquest, the

warrant was out for their arrest.”

He looked at a huge silver watch which he always carried in his

waistcoat pocket.

“I don’t want to miss the defence,” he said, “for I know that it will

be sensational. But I did not want to hear the police and medical

evidence all over again. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I shall be back

here for five o’clock tea. I know you will be glad to hear all about

it.”

Chapter III

When I returned to the A.B.C shop for my tea at five minutes past

five, there he sat in his accustomed corner, with a cup of tea before

him, another placed opposite to him, presumably for me, and a long

piece of string between his bony fingers.

“What will you have with your tea?” he asked politely, the moment I

was seated.

“A roll and butter and the end of the story,” I replied.

“Oh, the story has no end,” he said with a chuckle; “at least, not for

the public. As for me, why, I never met a more simple ‘mystery.’

Perhaps that is why the police were so completely at sea.”

“Well, and what happened?” I queried, with some impatience.

“Why, the usual thing,” he said, as he once more began to fidget

nervously with his bit of string. “The prisoners had pleaded not

guilty, and the evidence for the prosecution was gone into in full.

Mr. Parlett repeated his story of the £4,000 legacy, and all the

neighbours had some story or other to tell about Alfred Wyatt, who,

according to them, was altogether a most undesirable young man.

“I heard the fag end of Mrs. Marsh’s evidence. When I reached the

court she was repeating the story she had already told to the police.

“Some one else in the house had also heard Wyatt running

helter-skelter downstairs at eight o’clock on the Thursday evening;

this was a point, though a small one, in favour of the accused. A man

cannot run downstairs when he is carrying the whole weight of a dead

body, and the theory of the prosecution was that Wyatt had murdered

old Dyke on that Thursday evening, got into his motor-car somewhere,

scorched down to Wembley with the dismembered body of his victim,

deposited it in the spinney where it was subsequently found, and

finally had driven back to town, stabled his motor car, and reached

King’s Cross in time for the 11.30 night express to Edinburgh. He

would have time for all that, remember, for he would have three hours

and a half to do it in.

“Besides which the prosecution had unearthed one more witness, who was

able to add another tiny link to the already damning chain of evidence

built up against the accused.

“Wilfred Poad, namely, manager of a large cycle and motor-car depôt in

Euston Road, stated that on Thursday afternoon, 19th November, at

about half-past six o’clock, Alfred Wyatt, with whom he had had some

business dealings before, had hired a small car from him, with the

understanding that he need not bring it back until after 11 p.m. This

was agreed to, Poad keeping the place open until just before eleven,

when Wyatt drove up in the car, paid for the hire of it, and then

walked away from the shop in the direction of the Great Northern

terminus.

“That was pretty strong against the male prisoner, wasn’t it? For,

mind you, Wyatt had given no satisfactory account whatever of his time

between 8 p.m., when Mrs. Marsh had met him going out of Lisson Grove

Crescent, and 11 p.m. when he brought back the car to the Euston Road

shop. ‘He had been driving about aimlessly,’ so he said. Now, one

doesn’t go out motoring for hours on a cold, drizzly night in November

for no purpose whatever.

“As for the female prisoner, the charge against her was merely one of

complicity.

“This closed the case for the prosecution,” continued the funny

creature, with one of his inimitable chuckles, “leaving but one tiny

point obscure, and that was, the murdered man’s strange conduct in

dismissing the woman Nicholson.

“Yes, the case was strong enough, and yet there stood both prisoners

in the dock with that sublime air of indifference and contempt which

only complete innocence or hardened guilt could give.

“Then when the prosecution had had their say, Alfred Wyatt chose to

enter the witness-box and make a statement in his own defence.

Quietly, and as if he were making the most casual observation, he

said:

“‘I am not guilty of the murder of Mr. Dyke, and in proof of this I

solemnly assert that on Thursday, 19th November, the day I am supposed

to have committed the crime, the old man was still alive at half-past

ten o’clock in the evening.’

“He paused a moment, like a born actor, watching the effect he had

produced. I tell you, it was astounding.

“‘I have three separate and independent witnesses here,’ continued

Wyatt, with the same deliberate calm, ‘who heard and saw Mr. Dyke as

late as half-past ten that night. Now, I understand that the

dismembered body of the old man was found close to Wembley Park. How

could I, between half-past ten and eleven o’clock, have killed Dyke,

cut him up, cleaned and put the flat all tidy, carried the body to the

car, driven on to Wembley, hidden the corpse in the spinney, and be

back in Euston Road, all in the space of half-an-hour? I am absolutely

innocent of this crime, and fortunately, it is easy for me now to

prove my innocence.’

“Alfred Wyatt had made no idle boast. Mrs. Marsh had seen him running

downstairs at 8 p.m. An hour after that, the Pitts in the flat beneath

heard the old man moving about overhead.

“‘Just as usual,’ observed Mrs. Pitt. ‘He always went to bed about

nine, and we could always hear him most distinctly.’

“John Pitt, the husband, corroborated this statement: the old man’s

movements were quite unmistakable because of his crutches.

“Henry Ogden, on the other hand, who lived in the house facing the

block of flats, saw the light in Dyke’s window that evening, and the

old man’s silhouette upon the blind from time to time. The light was

put out at half-past ten. This statement again was corroborated by

Mrs. Ogden, who also had noticed the silhouette and the light being

extinguished at half-past ten.

“But this was not all; both Mr. and Mrs. Ogden had seen old Dyke at

his window, sitting in his accustomed armchair, between half-past

eight and nine o’clock. He was gesticulating, and apparently talking

to some one else in the room whom they could not see.

“Alfred Wyatt, therefore was quite right when he said that he would

have no difficulty in proving his innocence. The man whom he was

supposed to have murdered was, according to the testimony, alive at

six o’clock; according to Mr. and Mrs. Ogden he was alive and sitting

in his window until nine; again, he was heard to move about until ten

o’clock by both the Pitts, and at half-past ten only was the light put

out in his flat. Obviously, therefore, as his dead body was found

twelve miles away, Wyatt, who was out of the Crescent at eight, and in

Euston Road at eleven, could not have done the deed.

“He was discharged, of course; the magistrate adding a very severe

remark on the subject of ‘carelessly collected evidence.’ As for Miss

Amelia, she sailed out of the court like a queen after her coronation,

for with Wyatt’s discharge the case against her naturally collapsed.

As for me, I walked out too, with an elated feeling at the thought

that the intelligence of the British race had not yet sunk so low as

our friends on the Continent would have us believe.”

Chapter IV

“But then, who murdered the old man?” I asked, for I confess the

matter was puzzling me in an irritating kind of way.

“Ah! who indeed?” he rejoined sarcastically, while an artistic knot

went to join its fellows along that never-ending bit of string.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s in your mind,” I said, feeling peculiarly

irritated with him just at that moment.

“What’s in my mind?” he replied, with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

“Oh, only a certain degree of admiration!”

“Admiration at what?”

“At a pair of exceedingly clever criminals.”

“Then you do think that Wyatt murdered Dyke?”

“I don’t think—I am sure.”

“But when did they do it?”

“Ah, that’s more to the point. Personally, I should say between them

on Wednesday morning, 18th November.”

“The day they went for that motor-car ride?” I gasped.

“And carried away the old man’s remains beneath a multiplicity of

rugs,” he added.

“But he was _alive_ long after that!” I urged. “The woman Nicholson——”

“The woman Nicholson saw and spoke to a man in bed, whom she

_supposed_ was old Mr. Dyke. Among the many questions put to her by

those clever detectives, no one thought, of course, of asking her to

describe the old man. But even if she had done so Wyatt was far too

great an artist in crime not to have contrived a make-up which,

described by a witness who had never before seen Dyke, would easily

pass as a description of the old man himself.”

“Impossible!” I said, struck in spite of myself by the simplicity of

his logic.

“Impossible, you say?” he shrieked excitedly. “Why, I call that crime

a masterpiece from beginning to end; a display of ingenuity which,

fortunately, the criminal classes seldom possess, or where would

society be? Here was a crime committed, where everything was most

beautifully stage-managed, nothing left unforeseen. Shall I

reconstruct it for you?”

“Do!” I said, handing across the table to him a brand new, beautiful

bit of string, on which his talon-like fingers fastened as upon a

prey.

“Very well,” he said, marking each point with a scientific knot. “Here

it is, scene by scene: There was Alfred Wyatt and Amelia Dyke—a pair

of blackguards, eager to obtain that £4,000 which only the old man’s

death could secure for them. They decide upon killing him, and: Scene

1—Miss Amelia makes _her_ arrangements. She advertises for a

charwoman, and engages one, who is to be a very useful witness

presently.

“Scene 2.—The murder, brutal, horrible, on the person of an old

cripple, whilst his own daughter stands by, and the dismembering of

the body.

“Scene 3.—The ride in the motor-car—after dark, remember, and with

plenty of rugs, beneath which the gruesome burden is concealed. The

scene is accompanied by the comedy of Miss Dyke speaking to her

father, and waving her hand affectionately at him from below. I tell

you, that woman must have had some nerve!

“Then, Scene 4.—The arrival at Wembley, and the hiding of the remains.

“Scene 5.—Amelia goes to Edinburgh by the 5.15 a.m. train, and thus

secures her own _alibi_. After that, the comedy begins in earnest. The

impersonation of the dead man by Wyatt during the whole of that

memorable Thursday. Mind you, that was not very difficult; it only

needed the brain to invent, and the nerve to carry it through. The

charwoman had never seen old Dyke before; she only knew that he was an

invalid. What more natural than that she should accept as her new

master the man who lay in bed all day, and only spoke a few words to

her? A very slight make-up of hair and beard would complete the

illusion.

“Then, at six o’clock, the woman gone, Wyatt steals out of the house,

bespeaks the motor-car, leaves it in the street in a convenient spot,

and is back in time to be seen by Mrs. Marsh at seven.

“The rest is simplicity itself. The silhouette at the window was easy

enough to arrange; the sound of a man walking on crutches is easily

imitated with a couple of umbrellas—the actual crutches were, no

doubt, burned directly after the murder. Lastly, the putting out of

the light at half-past ten was the crowning stroke of genius.

“One little thing might have upset the whole wonderful plan, but that

one thing only; and that was if the body had been found _before_ the

great comedy scene of Thursday had been fully played. But that spinney

near Wembley was well chosen. People don’t go wandering under trees

and in woods on cold November days, and the remains were not found

until the Saturday.

“Ah, it was cleverly stage-managed, and no mistake. I couldn’t have

done it better myself. Won’t you have another cup of tea? No? Don’t

look so upset. The world does not contain many such clever criminals

as Alfred Wyatt and Amelia Dyke.”

VII. The Tremarn Case

Chapter I

“Well, it certainly is most amazing!” I said that day, when I had

finished reading about it all in the _Daily Telegraph_.

“Yet the most natural thing in the world,” retorted the man in the

corner, as soon as he had ordered his lunch. “Crime invariably begets

crime. No sooner is a murder, theft, or fraud committed in a novel or

striking way, than this method is aped—probably within the next few

days—by some other less imaginative scoundrel.

“Take this case, for instance,” he continued, as he slowly began

sipping his glass of milk, “which seems to amaze you so much. It was

less than a year ago, was it not? that in Paris a man was found dead

in a cab, stabbed in a most peculiar way—right through the neck from

ear to ear—with, presumably, a long, sharp instrument of the type of

an Italian stiletto.

“No one in England took much count of the crime, beyond a contemptuous

shrug of the shoulders at the want of safety of the Paris streets, and

the incapacity of the French detectives, who not only never discovered

the murderer, who had managed to slip out of the cab unperceived, but

who did not even succeed in establishing the identity of the victim.

“But this case,” he added, pointing once more to my daily paper,

“strikes nearer home. Less than a year has passed, and last week, in

the very midst of our much vaunted London streets, a crime of a

similar nature has been committed. I do not know if your paper gives

full details, but this is what happened: Last Monday evening two

gentlemen, both in evening dress and wearing opera hats, hailed a

hansom in Shaftesbury Avenue. It was about a quarter past eleven, and

the night, if you remember, was a typical November one—dark, drizzly,

and foggy. The various theatres in the immediate neighbourhood were

disgorging a continuous stream of people after the evening

performance.

“The cabman did not take special notice of his fares. They jumped in

very quickly, and one of them, through the little trap above, gave him

an address in Cromwell Road. He drove there as quickly as the fog

would permit him, and pulled up at the number given. One of the

gentlemen then handed him a very liberal fare—again through the little

trap—and told him to drive his friend on to Westminster Chambers,

Victoria Street.

“Cabby noticed that the ‘swell,’ when he got out of the hansom,

stopped for a moment to say a few words to his friend, who had

remained inside; then he crossed over the road and walked quickly in

the direction of the Natural History Museum.

“When the cabman pulled up at Westminster Chambers, he waited for the

second fare to get out; the latter seemingly making no movement that

way, cabby looked down at him through the trap.

“‘I thought ’e was asleep,’ he explained to the police later on. ‘’E

was leaning back in ’is corner, and ’is ’ead was turned towards the

window. I gets down and calls to ’im, but ’e don’t move. Then I gets

on to the step and give ’im a shake. . . . There!—I’ll say no

more. . . . We was near a lamp-post, the mare took a step forward, and

the light fell full on the gent’s face. ’E was dead and no mistake. I

saw the wound just underneath ’is ear, and “Murder!” I says to myself

at once.’

“Cabby lost no time in whistling for the nearest point policeman, then

he called the night porter of the Westminster Chambers. The latter

looked at the murdered man, and declared that he knew nothing of him;

certainly he was not a tenant of the Chambers.

“By the time a couple of policemen arrived upon the scene, quite a

crowd had gathered around the cab, in spite of the lateness of the

hour and the darkness of the night. The matter was such an important

one that one of the constables thought it best at once to jump into

the hansom beside the murdered man and to order the cabman to drive to

the nearest police station.

“There the cause of death was soon ascertained; the victim of this

daring outrage had been stabbed through the neck from ear to ear with

a long, sharp instrument, in shape like an antique stiletto, which, I

may tell you, was subsequently found under the cushions of the hansom.

The murderer must have watched his opportunity, when his victim’s head

was turned away from him, and then dealt the blow, just below the left

ear, with amazing swiftness and precision.

“Of course the papers were full of it the next day; this was such a

lovely opportunity for driving home a moral lesson, of how one crime

engenders another, and how—but for that murder in Paris a year ago—we

should not now have to deplore a crime committed in the very centre of

fashionable London, the detection of which seems likely to completely

baffle the police.

“Plenty more in that strain, of course, from which the reading public

quickly jumped to the conclusion that the police held absolutely no

clue as to the identity of the daring and mysterious miscreant.

“A most usual and natural thing had happened; cabby could only give a

very vague description of his other ‘fare,’ of the ‘swell’ who had got

out at Cromwell Road, and been lost to sight after having committed so

dastardly and so daring a crime.

“This was scarcely to be wondered at, for the night had been very

foggy, and the murderer had been careful to pull his opera hat well

over his face; thus hiding the whole of his forehead and eyes;

moreover, he had always taken the additional precaution of only

communicating with the cabman through the little trap-door.

“All cabby had seen of him was a clean-shaven chin. As to the murdered

man, it was not until about noon, when the early editions of the

evening papers came out with a fuller account of the crime and a

description of the victim, that his identity was at last established.

“Then the news spread like wildfire, and the evening papers came out

with some of the most sensational headlines it had ever been their

good fortune to print. The man who had been so mysteriously murdered

in the cab was none other than Mr. Philip Le Cheminant, the nephew and

heir-presumptive of the Earl of Tremarn.”