“But the murder?” I asked eagerly, for the man in the corner had
paused, intent upon the manufacture of innumerable knots in a long
piece of string.
“Ah, yes, the murder, of course,” he replied with a chuckle, “the
second mystery in this extraordinary case. Well, of course, whatever
the identity of the deceased really was, there was no doubt in the
minds of the police that Harold Le Cheminant had murdered him. To him,
at any rate, the Collins family were unknown; he only knew the man who
had supplanted him in his uncle’s affections, and snatched a rich
inheritance away from him. The charge brought against him at the
Westminster Court was also one of the greatest sensations of this
truly remarkable case.
“It looked, indeed, as if the unfortunate young man had committed a
crime which was as appalling as it was useless. Instead of murdering
the impostor—if impostor he was—how much more simple it would have
been to have tried to unmask him. But, strange to say, this he never
seems to have done, at any rate as far as the public knew.
“But here again mystery stepped in. When brought before the
magistrate, Harold Le Cheminant was able to refute the terrible charge
brought against him by the simple means of a complete _alibi_. After
the stormy episode at the Junior Grosvenor Club he had gone to his own
club in Pall Mall, and fortunately for him, did not leave it until
twenty minutes past eleven, some few minutes _after_ the two men in
evening dress got into the hansom in Shaftesbury Avenue.
“But for this lucky fact, for which he had one or two witnesses, it
might have fared ill with him, for feeling unduly excited, he walked
all the way home afterwards; and had he left his club earlier, he
might have found it difficult to account for his time. As it was, he
was, of course, discharged.
“But one more strange fact came out during the course of the
magisterial investigation, and that was that Harold Le Cheminant, on
the very day preceding the murder, had booked a passage for St.
Vincent. He admitted in court that he meant to conduct certain
investigations there, with regard to the identity of the supposed heir
to the Tremarn peerage.
“And thus the curtain came down on the last act of that extraordinary
drama, leaving two great mysteries unsolved: the real identity of the
murdered man, and that of the man who killed him. Some people still
persist in thinking it was Harold Le Cheminant. Well, we may easily
dismiss _that_ supposition. Harold had decided to investigate the
matter for himself; he was on his way to St. Vincent.
“Surely common-sense would assert that, having gone so far, he would
assure himself first, whether the man was an impostor or not, before
he resorted to crime, in order to rid himself of him. Moreover, the
witnesses who saw him leave his own club at twenty minutes past eleven
were quite independent and very emphatic.
“Another theory is that the Collins’ gang tried to blackmail Philip Le
Cheminant or William Collins whichever we like to call him—and that it
was one of them who murdered him out of spite, when he refused to
submit to the blackmailing process.
“Against that theory, however, there are two unanswerable
arguments—firstly, the weapon used, which certainly was not one that
would commend itself to the average British middle-class man on murder
intent—a razor or knife would be more in his line; secondly, there is
no doubt whatever that the murderer wore evening dress and an opera
hat, a costume not likely to have been worn by any member of the
Collins’ family, or their friends. We may, therefore, dismiss that
theory also with equal certainty.”
And he surveyed placidly the row of fine knots in his bit of string.
“But then, according to you, who was the man in evening dress, and who
but Harold Le Cheminant had any interest in getting rid of the
claimant?” I asked at last.
“Who, indeed?” he replied with a chuckle “who but the man who was as
wax in the hands of that impostor.”
“Whom do you mean?” I gasped.
“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said, with ever-growing
excitement, “and take the one thing which is absolutely beyond
dispute, and that is the authenticity of the _papers_—the marriage
certificate of Lucie Legrand, etc.—as against the authenticity of the
_man_. Let us admit that the real Philip Le Cheminant was a refugee at
St. Vincent, that he found out about his parentage and determined to
go to England. He writes to his uncle, then sails for Europe, lands at
Havre, and arrives in Paris.”
“Why, Paris?” I asked.
“Because you, like the police and like the public, have persistently
shut your eyes to an event which, to my mind has bearing upon the
whole of this mysterious case, and that is the original murder
committed in Paris a year ago, also in a cab, also with a
stiletto—which that time was _not_ found—in fact, in the self-same
manner as this murder a week ago.
“Well, that crime was never brought home to its perpetrator any more
than this one will be. But my contention is, that the man who
committed that murder a year ago, repeated this crime last week—that
the man who was murdered in Paris was the real Philip Le Cheminant,
whilst the man who was murdered in London was some friend to whom he
had confided his story, and probably his papers, and who then hit upon
the bold plan of assuming the personality of the Martinique creole,
heir to an English peerage.”
“But what in the world makes you imagine such a preposterous thing?” I
gasped.
“One tiny unanswerable fact,” he replied quietly. “William Collins,
the impostor, when he came to London, called upon a solicitor, and
deposited with him the valuable papers, _after that_ he obtained his
interview with Lord Tremarn. Then mark what happens. Without any
question, immediately after that interview, and, therefore, without
even having seen the papers of identification, Lord Tremarn accepts
the claimant as his newly-found nephew.
“And why?
“Only because that claimant has a tremendous hold over the Earl, which
makes the old man as wax in his hands, and it is only logical to
conclude that that hold was none other than that Lord Tremarn had met
his real nephew in Paris, and had killed him, sooner than to see him
supplant his beloved heir, Harold.
“I followed up the subsequent history of that Paris crime, and found
that the Paris police had never established the identity of the
murdered man. Being a stranger, and moneyless, he had apparently
lodged in one of those innumerable ill-famed little hotels that abound
in Paris, the proprietors of which have very good cause to shun the
police, and therefore would not even venture so far as to go and
identify the body when it lay in the Morgue.
“But William Collins knew who the murdered man was; no doubt he lodged
at the same hotel, and could lay his hands on the all-important
papers. I imagine that the two young men originally met in St.
Vincent, or perhaps on board ship. He assumed the personality of the
deceased, crossed over to England, and confronted Lord Tremarn with
the threat to bring the murder home to him if he ventured to dispute
his claim.
“Think of it all, and you will see that I am right. When Lord Tremarn
first heard from his brother Arthur’s son, he went to Paris in order
to assure himself of the validity of his claim. Seeing that there was
no doubt of that, he assumed a friendly attitude towards the young
man, and one evening took him out for a drive in a cab and murdered
him on the way.
“Then came Nemesis in the shape of William Collins, whom he dared not
denounce, lest his crime be brought home to him. How could he come
forward and say: ‘I know that this man is an impostor, as I happened
to have murdered my nephew myself’?
“No; he preferred to temporise, and bide his time until, perhaps,
chance would give him his opportunity. It took a year in coming. The
yoke had become too heavy. ‘It must be he or I!’ he said to himself
that very night. Apparently he was on the best of terms with his
tormentor, but in his heart of hearts he had always meant to be even
with him at the last.
“Everything favoured him; the foggy night, even the dispute between
Harold and the impostor at the club. Can you not picture him meeting
William Collins outside the theatre, hearing from him the story of the
quarrel, and then saying, ‘Come with me to Harold’s; I’ll soon make
the young jackanapes apologise to you’?
“Mind you, a year had passed by since the original crime. William
Collins, no doubt, never thought he had anything to fear from the old
man. He got into the cab with him, and thus this remarkable story has
closed, and Harold Le Cheminant is once more heir to the Earldom of
Tremarn.
“Think it all over, and bear in mind that Lord Tremarn _never_ made
the slightest attempt to prove the rights or wrongs of the impostor’s
claim. On this base your own conclusions, and then see if they do not
inevitably lead you to admit mine as the only possible solution of
this double mystery.”
He was gone, leaving me bewildered and amazed, staring at my _Daily
Telegraph_, where, side by side with a long recapitulation of the
mysterious claimant of the Earldom there was the following brief
announcement:
“We regret to say that the condition of Lord Tremarn is decidedly
worse to-day, and that but little hope is entertained of his recovery.
Mr. Harold Le Cheminant has been his uncle’s constant and devoted
companion during the noble Earl’s illness.”
VIII. The Fate of the _Artemis_
Chapter I
“Well, I’m ——!” was my inelegant mental comment upon the news in that
morning’s paper.
“So are most people,” rejoined the man in the corner, with that eerie
way he had of reading my thoughts. “The _Artemis_ has come home,
having safely delivered her dangerous cargo, and Captain Jutland’s
explanations only serve to deepen the mystery.”
“Then you admit there is one in this case?” I said.
“Only to the public. Not to me. But I do admit that the puzzle is a
hard one. Do you remember the earlier details of the case? It was
towards the end of 1903. Negotiations between Russia and Japan were
just reaching a point of uncomfortable tension, and the man in the
street guessed that war in the Far East was imminent.
“Messrs. Mills and Co. had just completed an order for a number of
their celebrated quick-firing guns for the Russian Government, and
these—according to the terms of the contract—were to be delivered at
Port Arthur on or about 1st February, 1904. Effectively, then, on 1st
December last, the _Artemis_, under the command of Captain Jutland,
sailed from Goole, with her valuable cargo on board, and with orders
to proceed along as fast as possible, in view of the probable outbreak
of hostilities.
“Less than two hours after she had started, Messrs. Mills received
intimation from the highest official quarters, that in all probability
before the _Artemis_ could reach Port Arthur, and in view of coming
eventualities, the submarine mines would have been laid at the
entrance to the harbour. A secret plan of the port was therefore sent
to the firm for Captain Jutland’s use, showing the only way through
which he could possibly hope to navigate the _Artemis_ safely into the
harbour, and without which she would inevitably come in contact with
one of those terrible engines of wholesale destruction, which have
since worked such awful havoc in this war.
“But _there_ was the trouble. This official intimation, together with
the plan, reached Messrs. Mills just two hours too late; it is a way
peculiar to many official intimations. Fortunately, however, the
_Artemis_ was to touch at Portsmouth on private business of the
firm’s, and, therefore, it only meant finding a trustworthy messenger
to meet Captain Jutland there, and to hand him over that all-important
plan.
“Of course, there was no time to be lost, but, above all, some one of
extreme trustworthiness must be found for so important a mission. You
must remember that the great European Power in question is beset by
many foes in the shape of her own disaffected children, who desire her
downfall even more keenly than does her Asiatic opponent. Also in
times like these, when every method is fair which gives one adversary
an advantage over the other, we must remember that our plucky little
allies of the Far East are past masters in that art which is politely
known as secret intelligence.
“All this, you see, made it an absolute necessity to keep the mission
to Captain Jutland a profound secret. I need not impress upon you the
fact, I think, that it is not expedient for the plans of an important
harbour to fall under prying eyes.
“Finally, the choice fell on Captain Markham, R.N.R., lately of the
mercantile marine, and at the time in the employ of our own Secret
Intelligence Department, to which he has rendered frequent and
valuable services. This choice was determined also mainly through the
fact that Captain Markham’s wife had relatives living in Portsmouth,
and that, therefore, his journey thither could easily be supposed to
have an unofficial and quite ordinary character—especially if he took
his wife with him, which he did.
“Captain and Mrs. Markham left Waterloo for Portsmouth at ten minutes
past twelve on Wednesday, 2nd December, the secret plan lying safely
concealed at the bottom of Mrs. Markham’s jewel-case.
“As the _Artemis_ would not touch at Portsmouth until the following
morning, Captain Markham thought it best not to spend the night at an
hotel, but to go into rooms; his choice fell on a place, highly
recommended by his wife’s relations, and which was situated in a quiet
street on the Southsea side of the town. There he and his wife stayed
the night, pending the arrival of the _Artemis_.
“But at twelve o’clock on the following morning the police were
hastily called in by Mrs. Bowden, the landlady of 49, Gastle Street,
where the Markhams had been staying. Captain Markham had been found
lying half-insensible, gagged and bound, on the floor of the
sitting-room, his hands and feet tightly pinioned, and a woollen
comforter wound closely round his mouth and neck; whilst Mrs.
Markham’s jewel-case, containing valuable jewellery and the secret
plans of Port Arthur, had disappeared.”
Chapter II
“Mind you,” continued the man in the corner, after he had assured
himself of my undivided attention, “all these details were unknown to
the public at first. I have merely co-ordinated them, and told them to
you in the actual sequence in which they occurred, so that you may be
able to understand the subsequent events.
“At the time—that is to say, on 3rd December, 1903—the evening papers
only contained an account of what was then called ‘the mysterious
outrage at Gastle Street, Portsmouth.’ A private gentleman was
presumably assaulted and robbed in broad daylight, and inside a highly
respectable house in a busy part of the city.
“Mrs. Bowden, the landlady, was, as you may imagine, most excited and
indignant. Her house and herself had been grossly insulted by this
abominable outrage, and she did her level best to throw what light she
could on this mysterious occurrence.
“The story she told the police was indeed extraordinary, and as she
repeated it to all her friends, and subsequently to one or two
journalists, it roused public excitement to its highest pitch.
“What she related at great length to the detective in charge of the
case, was briefly this:
“Captain and Mrs. Markham, it appears, arrived at 49, Gastle Street,
on Wednesday afternoon, 2nd December, and Mrs. Bowden accommodated
them with a sitting-room and bedroom, both on the ground floor. In the
evening Mrs. Markham went out to dine with her brother, a Mr. Paulton,
who is a well-known Portsmouth resident, but Captain Markham stayed in
and had dinner alone in his sitting-room.
“According to Mrs. Bowden’s version of the story, at about nine
o’clock a stranger called to see Captain Markham. This stranger was
obviously a foreigner, for he spoke broken English. Unfortunately, the
hall at 49, Gastle Street, was very dark, and, moreover, the foreigner
was attired in a magnificent fur coat, the collar of which hid the
lower part of his face. All Mrs. Bowden could see of him was that he
was very tall, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles.
“‘He was so very peremptory in his manner,’ continued Mrs. Bowden,
‘that I had to show him in at once. The Captain seemed surprised to
see him—in fact, he looked decidedly annoyed, I might say; but just as
I was closing the door I heard the stranger laugh, and say quite
pleasantly: “You gave me the slip, my friend, but you see I have found
you out all right.”’
“Mrs. Bowden, after the manner of her class, seems to have made
vigorous efforts to hear what went on in the sitting-room after that,”
continued the man in the corner, “but she was not successful. Later
on, however, the Captain rang and ordered whiskies and sodas. Both
gentlemen were then sitting by the fire, looking quite friendly.
“‘I took a look round the room,’ explained the worthy landlady, ‘and
took particular notice that the jewel-case was on the table, with the
lid open. Captain Markham, as soon he saw me, closed it very quickly.’
“The stranger seems to have gone away at about half-past ten, and
subsequently again Mrs. Markham came home accompanied by her brother,
Mr. Paulton. The next morning she went out at a quarter past eleven
o’clock, and about half an hour later the mysterious stranger called
again.
“This time he pushed his way straight into the sitting-room; but the
very next moment he uttered a cry of intense horror and astonishment,
and rushed back into the hall, gesticulating wildly, and shrieking: ‘A
robbery!—a murder!—I go for the police!’ And before Mrs. Bowden could
stop him, or even could realise what had occurred, he had dashed out
of the house.
“‘I called to Meggie,’ continued Mrs. Bowden, ‘I was so frightened, I
didn’t dare go into the parlour alone. But she was more frightened
than I was, and we stood trembling in the hall waiting for the police.
At last I began to have my suspicions, and I got Meggie to run out
into the street and see if she could bring in a policeman.’
“When the police at last arrived upon the scene, they pushed open the
sitting-room door, and there found Captain Markham in a most helpless
condition, his hands tied behind his back, and himself half-choked by
the scarf over his mouth. As soon as he recovered his breath, he
explained that he had no idea who his assailant was; he was standing
with his back to the door, when he was suddenly dealt a blow on the
head from behind, and he remembered nothing more.
“In the meantime Mrs. Markham had come home, and of course was
horrified beyond measure at the outrage which had been committed. She
declared that her jewel-case was in the sitting-room when she went out
in the morning—a fact confirmed by Captain Markham himself.
“But here, at once, the police were seriously puzzled. Mrs. Bowden, of
course, told her story of the foreigner—a story which was corroborated
by her daughter, Meggie. Captain Markham, pressed by the police, and
by his wife, admitted that a friend had visited him the evening
before.
“‘He is an old friend I met years ago abroad, who happened to be in
Portsmouth yesterday, and quite accidentally caught sight of me as I
drove up to this door, and naturally came in to see me,’ was the
Captain’s somewhat lame explanation.
“Nothing more was to be got out of him that day; he was still feeling
very bewildered he said, and certainly he looked very ill. Mrs.
Markham then put the whole matter in the hands of the police.
“Captain Markham had given a description of ‘the old friend he had met
years ago abroad.’ This description vaguely coincided with that given
by Mrs. Bowden of the mysterious foreigner. But the Captain’s replies
to the cross-questionings of the detectives in charge of the case were
always singularly reticent and lame. ‘I had lost sight of him for
nearly twenty years,’ he explained, ‘and do not know what his present
abode and occupation might be. When I knew him years ago, he was a man
of independent means, without a fixed abode, and a great traveller. I
believe that he is a German by nationality, but I don’t think that I
ever knew this as a fact. His name was Johann Schmidt.’
“I may as well tell you here, at once, that the mysterious foreigner
managed to make good his escape. He was traced as far as the South
Western Railway Station, where he was seen to rush through the
barrier, just in time to catch the express up to town. At Waterloo he
was lost sight of in the crowd.
“The police were keenly on the alert; no trace of the missing jewels
had as yet been found. Then it was that, gradually, the story of the
secret plan of Port Arthur reached the ears of the general public. Who
first told it, and to whom, it is difficult to conjecture, but you
know what a way things of that sort have of leaking out.
“The secret of Captain Markham’s mission had of necessity been known
to several people, and a secret shared by many soon ceases to be one
at all; anyway, within a week of the so-called ‘Portsmouth outrage,’
it began to be loudly whispered that the robbery of Mrs. Markham’s
jewels was only a mask that covered the deliberate theft of the plans
of Port Arthur.
“And then the inevitable happened. Already Captain Markham’s strange
attitude had been severely commented upon, and now the public, backed
by the crowd of amateur detectives who read penny novelettes and form
conclusions of their own, had made up its mind that Captain Markham
was a party to the theft—that he was either the tool or the accomplice
of the mysterious foreigner and that, in fact, he had been either
bribed or terrorised into giving up the plan of Port Arthur to an
enemy of the Russian government. The crime was all the more heinous as
by this act of treachery a British ship, manned by a British crew, had
been sent to certain destruction.
“What rendered the whole case doubly mysterious was that Messrs. Mills
and Co. seemed to take the matter with complete indifference. They
refused to be interviewed, or to give any information about the
_Artemis_ at all, and seemed callously willing to await events.
“The public was furious; the newspapers stormed; every one felt that
the _Artemis_ should be stopped at any cost at her next port of call,
and not allowed to continue her perilous journey.
“And yet the days went by; the public read with horror at Lloyds’ that
the _Artemis_ had called at Malta, at Port Said, at Aden, and was now
well on her way to the Far East. Feeling ran so high throughout
England, that, if the mysterious stranger had been discovered by the
police, no protection from them would have saved him from being
lynched.
“As for Captain Markham, public opinion reserved its final judgment. A
cloud hung over him, of that there was no doubt; many said openly that
he had sold the secret plans of Port Arthur, either to the Japanese or
to the Nihilists, either through fear or intimidation, if not through
greed.
“Then the inevitable climax came: A certain Mr. Carleton constituted
himself the spokesman of the general public; he met Captain Markham
one day at one of the clubs in London. There were hot words between
them. Mr. Carleton did not mince matters; he openly accused Captain
Markham of that which public opinion had already whispered, and
finally, completely losing his temper, he struck the Captain in the
face, calling him every opprobrious name he could think of.
“But for the timely interference of friends, there would have been
murder committed then and there; as it was, Captain Markham was
induced by his own friends to bring a criminal charge of slander and
of assault against Mr. Carleton, as the only means of making the whole
story public, and possibly vindicating his character.”
Chapter III
“A criminal action for slander and assault is always an interesting
one,” continued the man in the corner, after a while, “as it always
argues an unusual amount of personal animosity on the part of the
plaintiff.
“In this case, of course, public interest was roused to its highest
pitch. Practically, though Captain Markham was the prosecutor, he
would stand before his fellow-citizens after this action either as an
innocent man, or as one of the most dastardly scoundrels this nation
has ever known.
“The case for the Captain was briefly stated by his counsel. For the
defence Sir Arthur Inglewood, on behalf of Mr. Carleton, pleaded
justification. With wonderful eloquence Sir Arthur related the whole
story of the secret plan of Port Arthur confided to the honour of
Captain Markham, and which involved the safety of the British ship and
the lives of a whole British crew.
“The first witnesses called for the defence were Mrs. Bowden and her
daughter, Meggie. Both related the story I have already told you. When
they came to the point of having seen the jewel-case _open_ on the
table during that interview between Captain Markham and the mysterious
stranger, there was a regular murmur of indignation throughout the
whole crowd, so much so, that the judge threatened to clear the court,
for Sir Arthur argued this to be a proof that Captain Markham had been
a willing accomplice in the theft of the secret plans, and had merely
played the comedy of being assaulted, bound, and gagged.
“But there was more to come.
“It appears that on the morning of 2nd December—that is to say, before
going to Portsmouth—Captain Markham, directly after breakfast, and
while his wife was up in her own room, received a message which seemed
greatly to disturb him. It was Jane Mason, the parlour-maid at the
Markhams’ town house, who told the story.
“A letter bearing no stamp had been dropped into the letter-box, she
had taken it to her master, who, on reading it, became greatly
agitated; he tore up the letter, stuffed it into his pocket and
presently took up his hat and rushed out of the house.
“‘When the master was gone,’ continued Jane, ‘I found a scrap of
paper, which had fallen out of his pocket.’
“This scrap of paper Jane Mason had carefully put away. She was a
shrewd girl, and scented some mystery. It was now produced in court,
and the few fragmentary words were read out by Sir Arthur Inglewood,
amidst boundless excitement:
“‘....if you lend a hand........Port Arthur safely.......hold my
tongue....’
“And at the end there were four letters in large capitals, ‘STOW.’
“In view of all the evidence taken, there was momentous significance
to be attached to those few words, of which only the last four letters
seemed mysterious, but these probably were part of the confederate’s
signature, who had—no one doubted it now—some hold upon Captain
Markham, and had by a process of blackmail induced him to send the
_Artemis_ to her doom.
“After that, according to a statement made by the head clerk of
Messrs. Mills and Co., Captain Markham came round to the office
begging that some one else should be sent to meet Captain Jutland at
Portsmouth. ‘This,’ explained the head clerk, who had been subpœnaed
for the defence, ‘was quite impossible at this eleventh hour, and, in
the absence of the heads of the firm, I had on Mr. Mills’ behalf to
hold Captain Markham to his promise.’
“This closed the case for the defence, and in view of the lateness of
the hour, counsels’ speeches were reserved for the following day.
There was not a doubt in anybody’s mind that Captain Markham was
guilty, and but for the presence of a large body of police, I assure
you he would have been torn to pieces by the crowd.”
The man in the corner paused in his narrative and blinked at me over
his bone-rimmed spectacles, like some lean and frowzy tom-cat, eager
for a fight.
“Well?” I said eagerly.
“Well, surely you remember what happened the following day?” he
replied, with a dry chuckle. “Personally, I don’t think that there
ever was quite so much sensation in any English court of law.
“It was crowded, of course, when counsel for the plaintiff rose to
speak. He made, however, only a short statement, briefly and to the
point; but this statement caused every one to look at his neighbour,
wondering if he were awake or dreaming.
“Counsel began by saying that Messrs. Mills and Co., in view of the
obvious conspiracy that had existed against the _Artemis_, had
decided, in conjunction with Captain Markham himself, to say nothing
about the safety of the ship until she was in port; but now counsel
had much pleasure in informing the court and public that the _Artemis_
had safely arrived at Port Arthur, had landed her guns, and was on her
way home again by now. A cablegram _via_ St. Petersburg had been
received by Messrs. Mills and Co., from Captain Jutland that very
morning.
“That cablegram was read by counsel in court, and was received with
loud and prolonged cheering which could not be suppressed.
“With heroic fortitude—explained counsel—Captain Markham had borne the
gross suspicions against his integrity, only hoping that news of the
safety of the _Artemis_ would reach England in time to allow him to
vindicate his character. But until Captain Jutland was safe in port,
he had sworn to hold his tongue and to bear insult and violence,
sooner than once more jeopardise the safety of the British ship by
openly avowing that she carried the plans of the important port with
her.
“Well, you know the rest. The parties, at the suggestion of the judge,
arranged the case amicably, and, Captain Markham being fully
satisfied, Mr. Carleton was nominally ordered to come up for trial
when called upon.
“Captain Markham was the hero of the hour; but presently, after the
first excitement had subsided, sensible people began to ponder. Every
one, of course, appreciated the fact that Messrs. Mills and Co.,
prompted by the highest authorities, had insisted on not jeopardising
the safety of the _Artemis_ by shouting on the housetops that she was
carrying the plans of Port Arthur on board. Hostilities in the Far
East were on the point of breaking out, and I need not insist, I
think, on the obvious fact that silence in such matters and at such a
time was absolutely imperative.
“But what sensible people wanted to know was, what part had Captain
Markham played in all this?
“In the evening of that memorable 2nd December, he was sitting
amicably by the fire with the mysterious stranger, who was evidently
blackmailing him, and with the jewel-case, which contained the plans
of Port Arthur, open between them. What, then, had caused Captain
Markham to change his attitude? What dispelled the fear of the
stranger? Was he really assaulted? Was the jewel-case really stolen?
“Captain Jutland, of the _Artemis_, has explained that he was only on
shore for one hour at Portsmouth on the memorable morning of 3rd
December, namely, between 10.30 and 11.30 a.m. On landing at the Hard
from his gig, he was met by a gentleman, whom he did not know, and
who, without a word of comment, handed him some papers, which proved
to be plans of Port Arthur.
“Now, at that very hour Captain Markham was lying helpless in his
bedroom, and the question now is, who abstracted the plans from the
jewel-case, and then mysteriously handed them to Captain Jutland? Why
was it not done openly? Why?—why? and, above all, by whom?——”
Chapter IV
“Indeed, why?” I retorted, for he had paused, and was peering at me
through his bone-rimmed spectacles. “You must have a theory,” I added,
as I quietly handed him a beautiful bit of string across the table.
“Of course, I have a theory,” he replied placidly; “nay, more, the
only explanation of those mysterious events. But for this I must refer
you to the scrap of paper found by Jane Mason, and containing the four
fragmentary sentences which have puzzled every one, and which Captain
Markham always refused to explain.
“Do you remember,” he went on, as he began feverishly to construct
knot upon knot on that piece of string, “the wreck of the _Ridstow_
some twenty years ago? She was a pleasure boat belonging to Mr. Eyres,
the great millionaire financier, and was supposed to have been wrecked
in the South Seas, with nearly all hands. Five of her crew, however,
were picked up by H.M.S. _Pomona_, on a bit of rocky island to which
they had managed to swim.
“I looked up the files of the newspapers relating to the rescue of
these five shipwrecked mariners, who told a most pitiable tale of the
loss of the yacht and their subsequent escape to, and sufferings on
the island. Fire had broken out in the hull of the _Ridstow_, and all
her crew were drowned, with the exception of three sailors, a Russian
friend, or rather secretary, of Mr. Eyres, and a young petty officer
named Markham.
“You see, the letters stow had given me the clue. Clearly Markham, on
receiving the message on the morning of 2nd December, was frightened,
and when we analyse the fragments of that message and try to
reconstruct the missing fragments, do we not get something like this:
“‘If _you lend a hand_ in allowing the _Artemis_ to reach _Port Arthur
safely_, and to land her cargo there, I will no longer _hold my
tongue_ about the events which occurred on board the _Ridstow_.’
“Clearly the mysterious stranger had a great hold over Captain
Markham, for every scrap of evidence, if you think it over, points to
his having been _frightened_. Did he not beg the clerk to find some
one else to meet Captain Jutland in Portsmouth? He did not wish _to
lend a hand_ in allowing the _Artemis_ to reach _Port Arthur safely_.
“We must, therefore, take it that on board the _Ridstow_ some such
tragedy was enacted as, alas! is not of unfrequent occurrence. The
tragedy of a mutiny, a wholesale murder, the robbery of the rich
financier, the burning of the yacht. Markham, then barely twenty, was
no doubt an unwilling, perhaps passive, accomplice; one can trace the
hand of a cunning, daring Russian in the whole of this mysterious
tragedy.
“Since then, Markham, through twenty years’ faithful service of his
country, had tried to redeem the passive crime of his early years. But
then came the crisis: The cunning leader of that bygone tragedy no
doubt kept a strong hand over his weaker accomplices.
“What happened to the other three we do not know, but we have seen how
terrified Markham is of him, how he dare not resist him, and when the
mysterious Russian—some Nihilist, no doubt, at war with his own
Government—wishes to deal his country a terrible blow by possessing
himself of the plan of her most important harbour, so that he might
sell it to her enemies, Markham dare not say him nay.
“But mark what happens. Captain Markham terrorised, confronted with a
past crime, threatened with exposure, is as wax in the hands of his
unscrupulous tormentor. But beside him there is the saving presence of
his wife.”
“His wife?” I gasped.
“Yes, the woman! Did you think this was a crime without the inevitable
woman! I sought her, and found her in Captain Markham’s wife. To save
her husband both from falling a victim to his implacable accomplice,
and from committing another even more heinous crime, she suggests the
comedy which was so cleverly enacted in the morning of 3rd December.
“When the landlady and her daughter saw the jewel-case open on the
table the evening before, Markham was playing the first act of the
comedy invented by his wife. She had the plan safely in her own
keeping by then. He pretended to agree to the Russian’s demands, but
showed him that he had not then the plan in his possession, promising,
however, to deliver it up on the morrow.
“Then in the morning, Mrs. Markham helps to gag and strap her husband
down; he pretends to lie unconscious, and she goes out carrying the
jewel-case. Her brother, Mr. Paulton, of course helps them both;
without him it would have been more difficult; as it is, he takes
charge of the jewel-case, abstracts the plan and papers, and finally
meets Captain Jutland at the Hard, and hands him over the plan of Port
Arthur.
“Thus through the wits of a clever and devoted woman, not only are the
_Artemis_ and her British crew saved, but Captain Markham is
effectually rid of the blackmailer, who otherwise would have poisoned
his life, and probably out of revenge at being foiled, have ruined his
victim altogether.
“To my mind, that was the neatest thing in the whole plan. The general
public believed that Captain Markham (who obviously at the instigation
of his wife had confided in Messrs. Mills and Co.) held his tongue as
to the safety of the _Artemis_ merely out of heroism, in order not to
run her into any further danger. Now, I maintain that this was the
masterstroke of that clever woman’s plan.
“By holding his tongue, by letting the public fear for the safety of
the British crew and British ship, public feeling was stirred to such
a pitch of excitement that the Russian now would never _dare_ show
himself. Not only—by denouncing Captain Markham now—would he never be
even listened to for a moment, but, if he came forward at all, if he
even showed himself, he would stand before the British public
self-convicted as the man who had tried through the criminal process
of blackmail to terrorise an Englishman into sending a British ship
and thirty British sailors to certain annihilation.
“No; I think we may take it for granted that the Russian will not dare
to show his face in England again.”
And the funny creature was gone before I could say another word.
IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini
Chapter I
He was very argumentative that morning; whatever I said he invariably
contradicted flatly and at once, and we both had finally succeeded in
losing our temper.
The man in the corner was riding one of his favourite hobby-horses.
“It is _impossible_ for any person to completely disappear in a
civilised country,” he said emphatically, “provided that person has
either friends or enemies of means and substance, who are interested
in finding his or her whereabouts.”
“Impossible is a sweeping word,” I rejoined.
“None too big for the argument,” he concluded, as he surveyed with
evident pride and pleasure a gigantic and complicated knot which his
bony fingers had just fashioned.
“I think that, nevertheless, you should not use it,” I said placidly.
“It is not _impossible_, though it may be very difficult to disappear
without leaving the slightest clue or trace behind you.”
“Prove it,” he said, with a snap of his thin lips.
“I can, quite easily.”
“Now I know what is going on in your mind,” said the uncanny creature,
“you are thinking of that case last autumn.”
“Well, I was,” I admitted. “And you cannot deny that Count Collini has
disappeared as effectually as if the sea had swallowed him up—many
people think it did.”
“Many idiots, you mean,” he rejoined dryly. “Yes, I knew you would
quote that case. It certainly was a curious one; all the more so,
perhaps, as there was no inquest, no sensational police court
proceedings, nothing dramatic, in fact, save that strange and
wonderful disappearance.
“I don’t know if you call to mind the whole plot of that weird drama.
There was Thomas Checkfield, a retired biscuit baker of Reading, who
died leaving a comfortable fortune, mostly invested in freehold
property, and amounting to about £80,000, to his only child, Alice.
“At the time of her father’s death, Alice Checkfield was just
eighteen, and at school in Switzerland, where she had spent most of
her life. Old Checkfield had been a widower ever since the birth of
his daughter, and seems to have led a very lonely and eccentric life;
leaving the girl at school abroad for years, only going very
occasionally to see her, and seemingly having but little affection for
her.
“The girl herself had not been home in England since she was eight
years old, and even when old Checkfield was dying he would not allow
the girl to be apprised of his impending death, and to be brought home
to a house of loneliness and mourning.
“‘What’s the good of upsetting a young girl, not eighteen,’ he said to
his friend, Mr. Turnour, ‘by letting her see all the sad paraphernalia
of death? She hasn’t seen much of her old father anyway, and will soon
get over her loss, with young company round her, to help her bear up.’
“But though Thomas Checkfield cared little enough for his daughter,
when he died he left his entire fortune to her, amounting altogether
to £80,000; and he appointed his friend, Reginald Turnour, to be her
trustee and guardian until her marriage or until she should attain her
majority.
“It was generally understood that the words ‘until her marriage’ were
put in because it had all along been arranged that Alice should marry
Hubert Turnour, Reginald’s younger brother.
“Hubert was old Checkfield’s godson, and if the old man had any
affection for anybody it certainly was for Hubert. The latter had been
a great deal in his godfather’s house, when he and Alice were both
small children, and had called each other ‘hubby’ and ‘wifey’ in play,
when they were still in the nursery. Later on, whenever old Checkfield
went abroad to see his daughter, he always took Hubert with him, and a
boy and girl flirtation sprang up between the two young people; a
flirtation which had old Checkfield’s complete approval, and no doubt
he looked upon their marriage as a _fait accompli_, merely desiring
the elder Mr. Turnour to administer the girl’s fortune until then.
“Hubert Turnour, at the time of the subsequent tragedy, was a
good-looking young fellow, and by profession what is vaguely known as
a ‘commission agent.’ He lived in London, where he had an office in a
huge block of buildings close to Cannon Street Station.
“There is no doubt that at the time of old Checkfield’s death, Alice
looked upon herself as the young man’s _fiancée_. When the girl
reached her nineteenth year, it was at last decided that she should
leave school and come to England. The question as to what should be
done with her until her majority, or until she married Hubert, was a
great puzzle to Mr. Turnour. He was a bachelor, who lived in
comfortable furnished rooms in Reading, and he did not at all relish
the idea of starting housekeeping for the sake of his young ward, whom
he had not seen since she was out of the nursery, and whom he looked
upon as an intolerable nuisance.
“Fortunately for him this vexed question was most satisfactorily and
unexpectedly settled by Alice herself. She wrote to her guardian, from
Geneva, that a Mrs. Brackenbury, the mother of her dearest
schoolfellow had asked her to come and live with them, at any rate for
a time, as this would be a more becoming arrangement than that of a
young girl sharing a bachelor’s establishment.
“Mr. Turnour seems to have hesitated for some time: he was a
conscientious sort of man, who took his duties of guardianship very
seriously. What ultimately decided him, however, was that his brother
Hubert added the weight of his eloquent letters of appeal to those of
Alice herself. Hubert naturally was delighted at the idea of having
his rich _fiancée_ under his eye in London, and after a good deal of
correspondence, Mr. Turnour finally gave his consent, and Alice
Checkfield duly arrived from Switzerland in order to make a prolonged
stay in Mrs. Brackenbury’s house.”
Chapter II
“All seems to have gone on happily and smoothly for a time in Mrs.
Brackenbury’s pretty house in Kensington,” continued the man in the
corner. “Hubert Turnour was a constant visitor there, and the two
young people seem to have had all the freedom of an engaged couple.
“Alice Checkfield was in no sense of the word an attractive girl; she
was not good-looking, and no effort on Mrs. Brackenbury’s part could
succeed in making her look stylish. Still, Hubert Turnour seemed quite
satisfied, and the girl herself ready enough at first to continue the
boy and girl flirtation as of old.
“Soon, however, as time went on, things began to change. Now that
Alice had become mistress of a comfortable fortune, there were plenty
of people ready to persuade her that a ‘commission agent,’ with but
vague business prospects, was not half good enough for her, and that
her £80,000 entitled her to more ambitious matrimonial hopes. Needless
to say that in these counsels Mrs. Brackenbury was very much to the
fore.
“She lived in Kensington, and had social ambitions, foremost among
which was to see her daughter’s bosom friend married to, at least, a
baronet, if not a peer.
“A young girl’s head is quickly turned. Within six months of her stay
in London, Alice was giving Hubert Turnour the cold shoulder, and the
young man had soon realised that she was trying to get out of her
engagement.
“Scarcely had Alice reached her twentieth birthday, than she gave her
erstwhile _fiancé_ his formal _congé_.
“At first Hubert seems to have taken his discomfiture very much to
heart. £80,000 were not likely to come his way again in a hurry.
According to Mrs. Brackenbury’s servants, there were one or two
violent scenes between him and Alice, until finally Mrs. Brackenbury
herself was forced to ask the young man to discontinue his visits.
“It was soon after that that Alice Checkfield first met Count Collini
at one of the brilliant subscription dances given by the Italian
colony in London, the winter before last. Mrs. Brackenbury was charmed
with him, Alice Checkfield was enchanted! The Count, having danced
with Alice half the evening, was allowed to pay his respects at the
house in Kensington.
“He seemed to be extremely well off, for he was staying at the
Carlton, and, after one or two calls on Mrs. Brackenbury, he began
taking the ladies to theatres and concerts, always presenting them
with the choicest and most expensive flowers, and paying them various
other equally costly attentions.
“Mrs. and Miss Brackenbury welcomed the Count with open arms
(figuratively speaking). Alice was shy, but apparently over head and
ears in love at first sight.
“At first Mrs. Brackenbury did her best to keep this new
acquaintanceship a secret from Hubert Turnour. I suppose that the old
matchmaker feared another unpleasant scene. But the inevitable soon
happened. Hubert, contrite, perhaps still hopeful, called at the house
one day, when the Count was there, and, according to the story
subsequently told by Miss Brackenbury herself, there was a violent
scene between him and Alice. As soon as the fascinating foreigner had
gone, Hubert reproached his _fiancée_ for her fickleness in no
measured language, and there was a good deal of evidence to prove that
he then and there swore to be even with the man who had supplanted him
in her affections. There was nothing to do then but for Mrs.
Brackenbury to ‘burn her boats.’ She peremptorily ordered Hubert out
of her house, and admitted that Count Collini was a suitor, favoured
by herself, for the hand of Alice Checkfield.
“You see, I am bound to give you all these details of the situation,”
continued the man in the corner, with his bland smile, “so that you
may better form a judgment as to the subsequent fate of Count Collini.
From the description which Mrs. Brackenbury herself subsequently gave
to the police, the Count was then in the prime of life; of a dark
olive complexion, dark eyes, extremely black hair and moustache. He
had a very slight limp, owing to an accident he had had in early
youth, which made his walk and general carriage unusual and distinctly
noticeable. His was certainly not a personality that could pass
unperceived in a crowd.
“Hubert Turnour, furious and heartsick, wrote letter after letter to
his brother, to ask him to interfere on his behalf; this Mr. Turnour
did, to the best of his ability, but he had to deal with an ambitious
matchmaker and with a girl in love, and it is small wonder that he
signally failed. Alice Checkfield by now had become deeply enamoured
of her Count, his gallantries flattered her vanity, his title and the
accounts he gave of his riches and his estates in Italy fascinated
her, and she declared that she would marry him, either with or without
her guardian’s consent, either at once, or as soon as she had attained
her majority, and was mistress of herself and of her fortune.
“Mr. Turnour did all he could to prevent this absurd marriage. Being a
sensible, middle-class Britisher, he had no respect for foreign
titles, and little belief in foreign wealth. He wrote the most urgent
letters to Alice, warning her against a man whom he firmly believed to
be an impostor; finally, he flatly refused to give his consent to the
marriage.
“Thus a few months went by. The Count had been away in Italy all
through the winter and spring, and returned to London for the season,
apparently more enamoured with the Reading biscuit baker’s daughter
than ever. Alice Checkfield was then within nine months of her
twenty-first birthday, and determined to marry the Count. She openly
defied her guardian.
“‘Nothing,’ she wrote to him, ‘would ever induce me to marry Hubert.’
“I suppose it was this which finally induced Mr. Turnour to give up
all opposition to the marriage. Seeing that his brother’s chances were
absolutely _nil_, and that Alice was within nine months of her
majority, he no doubt thought all further argument useless, and with
great reluctance finally gave his consent.
“The marriage, owing to the difference of religion, was to be
performed before a registrar, and was finally fixed to take place on
22nd October, 1903, which was just a week after Alice’s twenty-first
birthday.
“Of course the question of Alice’s fortune immediately cropped up: she
desired her money in cash, as her husband was taking her over to live
in Italy, where she desired to make all further investments. She,
therefore, asked Mr. Turnour to dispose of her freehold property for
her. There again Mr. Turnour hesitated, and argued, but once he had
given his consent to the marriage, all opposition was useless, more
especially as Mrs. Brackenbury’s solicitors had drawn up a very
satisfactory marriage settlement, which the Count himself had
suggested, by which Alice was to retain sole use and control of her
own private fortune.
“The marriage was then duly performed before a registrar on that 22nd
of October, and Alice Checkfield could henceforth style herself
Countess Collini. The young couple were to start for Italy almost
directly, but meant to spend a day or two at Dover quietly together.
There were, however, one or two tiresome legal formalities to go
through. Mr. Turnour had, by Alice’s desire, handed over the sum of
£80,000 in notes to her solicitor, Mr. R. W. Stanford. Mr. Stanford
had gone down to Reading two days before the marriage, had received
the money from Mr. Turnour, and then called upon the new Countess, and
formally handed her over her fortune in Bank of England notes.
“Then it was necessary, in view of immediate and future arrangements,
to change the English money into foreign, which the Count and his
young wife did themselves that afternoon.
“At 5 o’clock p.m. they started for Dover, accompanied by Mrs.
Brackenbury, who desired to see the last of her young friend, prior to
the latter’s departure for abroad. The Count had engaged a magnificent
suite of rooms at the Lord Warden Hotel, and thither the party
proceeded.
“So far, you see,” added the man in the corner, “the story is of the
utmost simplicity. You might even call it commonplace. A foreign
Count, an ambitious matchmaker, and a credulous girl; these form the
ingredients of many a domestic drama, that culminates at the police
courts. But at this point this particular drama becomes more
complicated, and, if you remember, ends in one of the strangest
mysteries that has ever baffled the detective forces on both sides of
the Channel.”
Chapter III
The man in the corner paused in his narrative. I could see that he was
coming to the palpitating part of the story, for his fingers fidgeted
incessantly with that bit of string.
“Hubert Turnour, as you may imagine,” he continued after a while, “did
not take his final discomfiture very quietly. He was a very
violent-tempered young man, and it was certainly enough to make any
one cross. According to Mrs. Brackenbury’s servants he used most
threatening language in reference to Count Collini; and on one
occasion was with difficulty prevented from personally assaulting the
Count in the hall of Mrs. Brackenbury’s pretty Kensington house.
“Count Collini finally had to threaten Hubert Turnour with the police
court: this seemed to have calmed the young man’s nerves somewhat, for
he kept quite quiet after that, ceased to call on Mrs. Brackenbury,
and subsequently sent the future Countess a wedding present.
“When the Count and Countess Collini, accompanied by Mrs. Brackenbury,
arrived at the Lord Warden, Alice found a letter awaiting her there.
It was from Hubert Turnour. In it he begged for forgiveness for all
the annoyance he had caused her, hoped that she would always look upon
him as a friend, and finally expressed a strong desire to see her once
more before her departure for abroad, saying that he would be in Dover
either this same day or the next, and would give himself the pleasure
of calling upon her and her husband.
“Effectively at about eight o’clock, when the wedding party was just
sitting down to dinner, Hubert Turnour was announced. Every one was
most cordial to him, agreeing to let bygones be bygones: the Count,
especially, was most genial and pleasant towards his former rival, and
insisted upon his staying and dining with them.
“Later on in the evening, Hubert Turnour took an affectionate leave of
the ladies, Count Collini offering to walk back with him to the Grand
Hotel, where he was staying. The two men went out together, and—well!
you know the rest!—for that was the last the young Countess Collini
ever saw of her husband. He disappeared as effectually, as completely,
as if the sea had swallowed him up.
“‘And so it had,’ say the public,” continued the man in the corner,
after a slight pause, “that delicious, short-sighted, irresponsible
public is wondering, to this day, why Hubert Turnour was not hung for
the murder of that Count Collini.”
“Well! and why wasn’t he?” I retorted.
“For the very simple reason,” he replied, “that in this country you
cannot hang a man for murder unless there is proof positive that a
murder has been committed. Now, there was absolutely no proof that the
Count was murdered at all. What happened was this: the Countess
Collini and Mrs. Brackenbury became anxious as time went on and the
Count did not return. One o’clock, then two in the morning, and their
anxiety became positive alarm. At last, as Alice was verging on
hysterics, Mrs. Brackenbury, in spite of the lateness of the hour,
went round to the police station.
“It was, of course, too late to do anything in the middle of the
night; the constable on duty tried to reassure the unfortunate lady,
and promised to send word round to the Lord Warden at the earliest
possible opportunity in the morning.
“Mrs. Brackenbury went back with a heavy heart. No doubt Mr. Turnour’s
sensible letters from Reading recurred to her mind. She had already
ascertained from the distracted bride that the Count had taken the
strange precaution to keep in his own pocket-book the £80,000, now
converted into French and Italian banknotes, and Mrs. Brackenbury
feared not so much that he had met with some accident, but that he had
absconded with the whole of his girl-wife’s fortune.
“The next morning brought but scanty news. No one answering to the
Count’s description had met with an accident during the night, or been
conveyed to a hospital, and no one answering his description had
crossed over to Calais or Ostend by the night boats. Moreover, Hubert
Turnour, who presumably had last been in Count Collini’s company, had
left Dover for town by the boat train at 1.50 a.m.
“Then the search began in earnest after the missing man, and primarily
Hubert Turnour was subjected to the closest and most searching
cross-examination, by one of the most able men on our detective staff,
Inspector Macpherson.
“Hubert Turnour’s story was briefly this: He had strolled about on the
parade with Count Collini for a while. It was a very blustery night,
the wind blowing a regular gale, and the sea was rolling gigantic
waves, which looked magnificent, as there was brilliant moonlight.
‘Soon after ten o’clock,’ he continued, ‘the Count and I went back to
the Grand Hotel, and we had whiskies and sodas up in my room, and a
bit of a chat until past eleven o’clock. Then he said good-night and
went off.’
“‘You saw him down to the hall, of course?’ asked the detective.
“‘No, I did not,’ replied Hubert Turnour. ‘I had a few letters to
write, and meant to catch the 1.50 a.m. back to town.’
“‘How long were you in Dover altogether?’ asked Macpherson carelessly.
“‘Only a few hours. I came down in the afternoon.’
“‘Strange, is it not, that you should have taken a room with a private
sitting-room at an expensive hotel, just for those few hours?’
“‘Not at all. I originally meant to stay longer. And my expenses are
nobody’s business, I take it,’ replied Hubert Turnour, with some show
of temper. ‘Anyway,’ he added impatiently, after a while, ‘if you
choose to disbelieve me, you can make inquiries at the hotel, and
ascertain if I have told the truth.’
“Undoubtedly he had spoken the truth; at any rate, to that extent.
Inquiries at the Grand Hotel went to prove that he had arrived there
in the early part of the afternoon, had engaged a couple of rooms, and
then gone out. Soon after ten o’clock in the evening he came in,
accompanied by a gentleman, whose description, as given by three
witnesses, _employés_ of the hotel, who saw him, corresponded exactly
with that of the Count.
“Together the two gentlemen went up to Mr. Hubert Turnour’s rooms, and
at half-past ten they ordered whisky to be taken up to them. But at
this point all trace of Count Collini had completely vanished. The
passengers arriving by the 10.49 boat train, and who had elected to
spend the night in Dover, owing to the gale, had crowded up and filled
the hall.
“No one saw Count Collini leave the Grand Hotel. But Mr. Hubert
Turnour came down into the hall at about half-past eleven. He said he
would be leaving by the 1.50 a.m. boat train for town, but would walk
round to the station as he only had a small bag with him. He paid his
account, then waited in the coffee-room until it was time to go.
“And there the matter has remained. Mrs. Brackenbury has spent half
her own fortune in trying to trace the missing man. She has remained
perfectly convinced that he slipped across the Channel, taking Alice
Checkfield’s money with him. But, as you know, at all ports of call on
the South Coast, detectives are perpetually on the watch. The Count
was a man of peculiar appearance, and there is no doubt that no one
answering to his description crossed over to France or Belgium that
night. By the following morning the detectives on both sides of the
Channel were on the alert. There is no disguise that would have held
good. If the Count had tried to cross over, he would have been spotted
either on board or on landing; and we may take it as an absolute and
positive certainty that he did not cross the Channel.
“He remained in England, but in that case, where is he? You would be
the first to admit that, with the whole of our detective staff at his
heels, it seems incredible that a man of the Count’s singular
appearance could hide himself so completely as to baffle detection.
Moreover, the question at once arises, that if he did not cross over
to France or Belgium, what in the world did he do with the money? What
was the use of disappearing and living the life of a hunted beast
hiding for his life, with £80,000 worth of foreign money, which was
practically useless to him?
“Now, I told you from the first,” concluded the man in the corner,
with a dry chuckle, “that this strange episode contained no
sensational incident, nor dramatic inquest or criminal procedure.
Merely the complete, total disappearance, one may almost call it
extinction, of a striking-looking man, in the midst of our vaunted
civilisation, and in spite of the untiring energy and constant watch
of a whole staff of able men.”
Chapter IV
“Very well, then,” I retorted in triumph, “that proves that Hubert
Turnour murdered Count Collini out of revenge, not for greed of money,
and probably threw the body of his victim, together with the foreign
banknotes, into the sea.”
“But where? When? How?” he asked, smiling good-humouredly at me over
his great bone-rimmed spectacles.
“Ah! that I don’t know.”
“No, I thought not,” he rejoined placidly. “You had, I think,
forgotten one incident, namely, that Hubert Turnour, accompanied by
the Count, was in the former’s room at the Grand Hotel drinking whisky
at half-past ten o’clock. You must admit that, even though the hall of
the hotel was very crowded later on, a man would nevertheless find it
somewhat difficult to convey the body of his murdered enemy through a
whole concourse of people.”
“He did not murder the Count in the hotel,” I argued. “The two men
walked out again, when the hall was crowded, and they passed
unnoticed. Hubert Turnour led the Count to a lonely part of the
cliffs, then threw him into the sea.”
“The nearest point at which the cliffs might be called ‘lonely’ for
purposes of a murder, is at least twenty minutes’ walk from the Grand
Hotel,” he said, with a smile, “always supposing that the Count walked
quickly and willingly to such a lonely spot at eleven o’clock at
night, and with a man who had already, more than once, threatened his
life. Mr. Hubert Turnour, remember, was seen in the hall of the hotel
at half-past eleven, after which hour he only left the hotel to go to
the station after 1 o’clock a.m.
“The hall was crowded by the passengers from the boat train a little
after eleven. There was no time between that and half-past to lead
even a willing enemy to the slaughter, throw him into the sea, and
come back again, all in the space of five-and-twenty minutes.”
“Then what is your explanation of that extraordinary disappearance?” I
retorted, beginning to feel very cross about it all.
“A simple one,” he rejoined quietly, as he once more began to fidget
with his bit of string. “A very simple one indeed; namely, that Count
Collini, at the present moment, is living comfortably in England,
calmly awaiting a favourable opportunity of changing his foreign money
back into English notes.”
“But you say yourself that that is impossible, as the most able
detectives in England are on the watch for him.”
“They are on the watch for a certain Count Collini,” he said drily,
“who might disguise himself, perhaps, but whose hidden identity would
sooner or later be discovered by one of these intelligent human
bloodhounds.”
“Yes? Well?” I asked.
“Well, that Count Collini never existed. It was _his_ personality that
was the disguise. Now it is thrown off. The Count is not dead, he is
not hiding, but has merely ceased to exist. There is no fear that he
will ever come to life again. Mr. Turnour senior will see to that.”
“Mr. Turnour!” I ejaculated.
“Why, yes,” he rejoined excitedly; “do you mean to tell me you never
saw through it all? The money lying in his hands; his brother about to
wed the rich heiress; then Mrs. Brackenbury’s matrimonial ambitions,
Alice Checkfield’s coldness to Hubert Turnour, the golden prize
slipping away right out of the family for ever. Then the scheme was
evolved by those two scoundrels, who deserve to be called geniuses in
their criminal way. It could not be managed, except by collaboration,
but as it was, the scheme was perfect in conception, and easy of
execution.
“Remember that disguise _previous_ to a crime is always fairly safe
from detection, for then it has no suspicion to contend against, it
merely deceives those who have no cause to be otherwise _but_
deceived. Mrs. Brackenbury lived in London, Reginald Turnour in
Reading; they did not know each other personally, nor did they know
each other’s friends, of course; whilst Alice Checkfield had not seen
her guardian since she was quite a child.
“Then the disguise was so perfect. I went down to Reading, some little
time ago, and Reginald Turnour was pointed out to me: he is a
Scotchman, with very light, sandy hair. That face clean shaved, made
swarthy, the hair, eyebrows, and lashes dyed a jet black, would render
him absolutely unrecognisable. Add to this the fact that a foreign
accent completely changes the voice, and that the slight limp was a
masterstroke of genius to hide the general carriage.
“Then the winter came round; it was, perhaps, important that Mr.
Turnour should not be absent too long from Reading, for fear of
exciting suspicion there; and the scoundrel played his part with
marvellous skill. Can’t you see him yourself leaving the Carlton
Hotel, ostensibly going abroad, driving to Charing Cross, but only
booking to Cannon Street.
“Then getting out at that crowded station and slipping round to his
brother’s office in one of those huge blocks of buildings where there
is perpetual coming and going, and where any individual would easily
pass unperceived.
“There, with the aid of a little soap and water, Mr. Turnour resumed
his Scotch appearance, went on to Reading, and spent winter and spring
there, only returning to London to make a formal proposal, as Count
Collini, for Alice Checkfield’s hand. Hubert Turnour’s office was
undoubtedly the place where he changed his identity, from that of the
British middle-class man, to the interesting personality of the
Italian nobleman.
“He had, of course, to repeat the journey to Reading a day or two
before his wedding, in order to hand over his ward’s fortune to Mrs.
Brackenbury’s solicitor. Then there were the supposed rows between
Hubert Turnour and his rival; the letters of warning from the
guardian, for which Hubert no doubt journeyed down to Reading, in
order to post them there: all this was dust thrown into the eyes of
two credulous ladies.
“After that came the wedding, the meeting with Hubert Turnour, who,
you see, was obliged to take a room in one of the big hotels, wherein,
with more soap and water, the Italian Count could finally disappear.
When the hall of the hotel was crowded, the sandy-haired Scotchman
slipped out of it quite quietly: he was not remarkable, and no one
specially noticed him. Since then the hue and cry has been after a
dark Italian, who limps, and speaks broken English; and it has never
struck any one that such a person never existed.
“Mr. Turnour is fairly safe by now; and we may take it for granted
that he will not seek the acquaintanceship of the Brackenburys, whilst
Alice Checkfield is no longer his ward. He will wait a year or two
longer perhaps, then he and Hubert will begin quietly to re-convert
their foreign money into English notes—they will take frequent little
trips abroad, and gradually change the money at the various _bureaux
de change_, on the Continent.
“Think of it all—it is so simple—not even dramatic, only the work of a
genius from first to last, worthy of a better cause, perhaps, but
undoubtedly worthy of success.”
He was gone, leaving me quite bewildered. Yet the disappearance had
always puzzled me, and now I felt that that animated scarecrow had
found the true explanation of it after all.
X. The Ayrsham Mystery
Chapter I
“I have never had a great opinion of our detective force here in
England,” said the man in the corner, in his funny, gentle, apologetic
manner, “but the way that department mismanaged the affair at Ayrsham
simply passes comprehension.”
“Indeed?” I said, with all the quiet dignity I could command. “It is a
pity they did not consult you in the matter, wasn’t it?”
“It is a pity,” he retorted with aggravating meekness, “that they do
not use a little common sense. The case resembles that of Columbus’
egg, and is every bit as simple.
“It was one evening last October, wasn’t it? that two labourers,
walking home from Ayrsham village, turned down a lane, which, it
appears, is a short cut to the block of cottages some distance off,
where they lodged.
“The night was very dark, and there was a nasty drizzle in the air. In
the picturesque vernacular of the two labourers, ‘You couldn’t see
your ’and before your eyes.’ Suddenly they stumbled over the body of a
man lying right across the path.
“‘At first we thought ’e was drunk,’ explained one of them
subsequently, ‘but when we took a look at ’im, we soon saw there was
something very wrong. Me and my mate turned ’im over, and “foul play”
we both says at once. Then we see that it was Old Man Newton. Poor
chap, ’e was dead, and no mistake.’
“Old Man Newton, as he was universally called by his large circle of
acquaintances, was very well known throughout the entire
neighbourhood, most particularly at every inn and public bar for some
miles around.
“He also kept a local sweet-stuff shop at Ayrsham. No wonder that the
men were horrified at finding him in such a terrible condition; even
in their uneducated minds there could be no doubt that the old man had
been murdered, for his skull had been literally shattered by a fearful
blow, dealt him from behind by some powerful assailant.
“Whilst the labourers were cogitating as to what they had better do
next, they heard footsteps also turning into the lane, and the next
moment Samuel Holder, a well-known inhabitant of Ayrsham, arrived upon
the scene.
“‘Hello! is that you, Mat Newton?’ shouted Samuel, as he came near.
“‘Ay! ’tis Old Man Newton, right enough,’ replied one of the
labourers, ‘but ’e won’t answer you no more.’
“Samuel Holder seemed absolutely horrified when he saw the body of Old
Man Newton; he uttered various ejaculations, which the two labourers,
however, did not take special notice of at the time.
“Then the three men held a brief consultation together, with the
result that one of them ran back to Ayrsham village to fetch the local
police, whilst the two others remained in the lane to guard the body.
“The mystery—for it seemed one from the first—created a great deal of
sensation in Ayrsham and all round the neighbourhood, and much
sympathy was felt for, and shown to Mary Newton, the murdered man’s
only child, a young girl about two-or-three-and-twenty, who, moreover,
was in ill-health.
“True, Old Man Newton was not a satisfactory protector for a young
girl. He was very much addicted to drink; he neglected the little bit
of local business he had; and, moreover, had recently shamefully
ill-treated his daughter, the neighbours testifying to the many and
loud quarrels that occurred in the small back parlour behind the
sweet-stuff shop.
“A case of murder—the moment an element of mystery hovers around
it—immediately excites the attention of the newspaper-reading public,
who is always seeking for new sensations.
“Very soon the history of Old Man Newton and of his daughter found its
way into the London and provincial dailies, and the Ayrsham murder
became a topic of all-absorbing interest.
“It appears that Old Man Newton was at one time a highly respectable
local tradesman, always in a very small way, as there is not much
business doing at Ayrsham. It is a poor and straggling village,
although its railway station is an important junction on the Midland
system.
“There is some very good shooting in the neighbourhood, and about four
or five years ago some of it, together with ‘The Limes,’ a pretty
house just outside the village, was rented for the autumn by Mr.
Ledbury and his brother.
“You know the firm of Ledbury and Co., do you not; the great small
arms manufacturers? The elder Mr. Ledbury was the recipient of
Birthday honours last year, and is the present Lord Walterton; his
younger brother, Mervin, was in those days, and is still, a handsome
young fellow in the Hussars.
“At the time—I mean about five years ago—Mary Newton was the local
beauty of Ayrsham; she did a little dressmaking in her odd moments,
but it appears that she spent most of her time in flirting. She was
nominally engaged to be married to Samuel Holder, a young carpenter,
but there was a good deal of scandal talked about her, for she was
thought to be very fast; village gossip coupled her name with that of
several young men in the neighbourhood, who were known to have paid
the village beauty marked attention, and among these admirers of Mary
Newton during the autumn of which I am speaking, young Mr. Mervin
Ledbury figured conspicuously.
“Be that as it may, certain it is that Mary Newton had a very bad
reputation among the scandalmongers of Ayrsham, and though everybody
was shocked, no one was astonished when one fine day in the winter
following she suddenly left her father and her home, and went no one
knew whither. She left, it appears, a very pathetic letter behind,
begging for her father’s forgiveness, and that of Samuel Holder, whom
she was jilting, but she was going to marry a gentleman above them all
in station, and was going to be a real lady; then only would she
return home.
“A very unusual village tragedy, as you see. Four years went by, and
Mary Newton did not return home. As time went by and with it no news
of his daughter, Old Man Newton took her disappearance very much to
heart. He began to neglect his business, and then his house, which
became dirty and ill-kept by an occasional charwoman who would do a
bit of promiscuous tidying for him from time to time. He was
ill-tempered, sullen, and morose, and very soon became hopelessly
addicted to drink.
“Then suddenly, as unexpectedly as she had gone, Mary Newton returned
to her home one fine day, after an absence of four years. What had
become of her in the interim, no one in the village ever knew; she was
generally supposed to have earned a living by dressmaking, until her
failing health had driven her well nigh to starvation, and then back
to the home and her father she had so heedlessly left.
“Needless to say that all the talk of her ‘marriage with a gentleman
above her in station’ was entirely at an end. As for Old Man Newton,
he seems after his daughter’s return to have become more sullen and
morose than ever, and the neighbours now busied themselves with talk
of the fearful rows which frequently occurred in the back parlour of
the little sweet-stuff shop.
“Father and daughter seemed to be leading a veritable cat-and-dog life
together. Old Man Newton was hardly ever sober, and at the village
inns he threw out weird and strange hints about ‘breach of promise
actions with £5,000 damages, which his daughter would get, if only he
knew where to lay hands upon the scoundrel.’
“He also made vague and wholly useless enquiries about young Mervin
Ledbury, but in a sleepy, out-of-the-way village like Ayrsham, no one
knows anything about what goes on beyond a narrow five-mile radius at
most. ‘The Limes’ and the shooting were let to different tenants year
after year, and neither Lord Walterton nor Mr. Mervin Ledbury had ever
rented them again.”
Chapter II
“That was the past history of Old Newton,” continued the man in the
corner, after a brief pause, “that is to say, of the man who on a dark
night last October was found murdered in a lonely lane, not far from
Ayrsham. The public, as you may well imagine, took a very keen
interest in the case from the outset: the story of Mary Newton, of the
threatened breach of promise, of the £5,000 damages, roused masses of
conjecture to which no one has yet dared to give definite shape.
“One name, however, had already been whispered significantly, that of
Mr. Mervin Ledbury, the young Hussar, one of Mary Newton’s admirers at
the very time she left home in order, as she said, to be married to
some one above her in station.
“Many thinking people, too, wanted to know what Samuel Holder, Mary’s
jilted _fiancé_, was doing close to the scene of the murder that
night, and how he came to make the remark: ‘Hello! Is that you, Mat
Newton?’ when the Old Man lived nearly half-a-mile away, and really
had no cause for being in that particular lane, at that hour of the
night in the drizzling rain.
“The inquest, which, for want of other accommodation, was held at the
local police station, was, as you may imagine, very largely attended.
“I had read a brief statement of the case in the London papers, and
had hurried down to Ayrsham Junction, as I scented a mystery, and knew
I should enjoy myself.
“When I got there, the room was already packed, and the medical
evidence was being gone through.
“Old Man Newton, it appears, had been knocked on the head by a
heavily-loaded cane, which was found in the ditch close to the
murdered man’s body.
“The cane was produced in court; it was as stout as an old-fashioned
club, and of terrific weight. The man who wielded it must have been
very powerful, for he had only dealt one blow, but that blow had
cracked the old man’s skull. The cane was undoubtedly of foreign make,
for it had a solid silver ferrule at one end, which was not English
hall-marked.
“In the opinion of the medical expert, death was the result of the
blow, and must have been almost instantaneous.
“The labourers who first came across the body of the murdered man then
repeated their story; they had nothing new to add, and their evidence
was of no importance. But after that there was some stir in the court.
Samuel Holder had been called and sworn to tell the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth.
“He was a youngish, heavily-built man of about five-and-thirty, with a
nervous, not altogether prepossessing expression of face. Pressed by
the coroner, he gave us a few details of Old Man Newton’s earlier
history, such as I have already told you.
“‘Old Mat,’ he explained, with some hesitation, ‘was for ever wanting
to find out who the gentleman was who had promised marriage to Mary
four years ago. But Mary was that obstinate, and wouldn’t tell him,
and this exasperated the old man terribly, so that they had many rows
on the subject.’
“‘I suppose,’ said the coroner tentatively, ‘that you never knew who
that gentleman was?’
“Samuel Holder seemed to hesitate for a moment. His manner became even
more nervous than before; he shifted his position from one foot to the
other; finally, he said:
“‘I don’t know as I ought to say, but——’
“‘I am quite sure that you must tell us everything you know which
might throw light upon this extraordinary and terrible murder,’
retorted the coroner sternly.
“‘Well,’ replied Samuel Holder, whilst great beads of perspiration
stood out upon his forehead, ‘Mary never would give up the letters she
had had from him, and she would not hear anything about a breach of
promise case and £5,000 damages; but old Mat ’e often says to me, says
’e, “It’s young Mr. Ledbury,” ’e says, “she’s told me that once. I got
it out of ’er, and if I only knew where to find ’im——”’
“‘You are quite sure of this?’ asked the coroner, for Holder had
paused, and seemed quite horrified at the enormity of what he had
said.
“‘Yes—yes—your worship—your honour——’ stammered Holder. ‘’E’s told me
’twas young Mr. Ledbury times out of count, and——’
“But Samuel Holder here completely broke down; he seemed unable to
speak, his lips twitched convulsively, and the coroner, fearing that
the man would faint, had him conveyed into the next room to recover
himself, whilst another witness was brought forward.
“This was Michael Pitkin, landlord of the Fernhead Arms, at Ayrsham,
who had been on very intimate terms with old Newton during the four
years which elapsed after Mary’s disappearance. He had a very curious
story to tell, which aroused public excitement to its highest pitch.
“It appears that to him also the old man had often confided the fact
that it was Mr. Ledbury who had promised to marry Mary, and then had
shamefully left her stranded and moneyless in London.