the Fernhead Arms, ‘the likes of us down here didn’t know what became
of Mr. Ledbury after he left “The Limes,” until one day I reads in the
local paper that Sir John Fernhead’s daughter is going to be married
to Captain Mervin Ledbury. Of course, your honour and me, and all of
us know Sir John, our squire, down at Fernhead Towers, and I says to
old Mat: “It strikes me,” I says, “that you’ve got your man.” Sure
enough it was the same Mr. Ledbury who rented “The Limes” years ago,
who was engaged to the young lady up at the Towers, and last week
there was grand doings there—lords and ladies and lots of quality
staying there, and also the Captain.’
“‘Well?’ asked the coroner eagerly, whilst every one held their
breath, wondering what was to come.
“‘Well,’ continued Michael Pitkin, ‘Old Man Newton went down to the
Towers one day. ’E was determined to see young Mr. Ledbury, and went.
What ’appened I don’t know, for old Mat wouldn’t tell me, but he came
back mighty furious from ’is visit, and swore ’e would ruin the young
man and make no end of a scandal, and he would bring the law agin’ ’im
and get £5,000 damages.’
“This story, embellished, of course, by many details, was the gist of
what the worthy landlord of the Fernhead Arms had to say, but you may
imagine how every one’s excitement and curiosity was aroused; in the
meanwhile Samuel Holder was getting over his nervousness, and was more
ready to give a clear account of what happened on the fatal night
itself.
“‘It was about nine o’clock,’ he explained, in answer to the coroner,
‘and I was hurrying back to Ayrsham, through the fields; it was dark
and raining, and I was about to strike across the hedge into the lane
when I heard voices—a woman’s, then a man’s. Of course, I could see
nothing, and the man spoke in a whisper, but I had recognised Mary’s
voice quite plainly. She kept on saying: “’Tisn’t my fault!” she says,
“it’s father’s, ’e has made up ’is mind. I held out as long as I
could, but ’e worried me, and now ’e’s got your letters, and it’s too
late.”’
“Samuel Holder again paused a moment, then continued:
“‘They talked together for a long time: Mary seemed very upset and the
man very angry. Presently ’e says to ’er: “Well, tell your father to
come out here and speak to me for a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”
Mary seemed to ’esitate for a time, then she went away, and the man
waited there in the drizzling rain, with me the other side of the
’edge watchin’ ’im. I waited for a long time, for I wanted to know
what was going to ’appen; then time went on. I thought perhaps that
old Mat was at the Fernhead Arms, and that Mary couldn’t find ’im, so
I went back to Ayrsham by the fields, ’oping to find the old man. The
stranger didn’t budge. ’E seemed inclined to wait—so I left ’im
there—and—and—that’s all. I went to the Fernhead Arms, saw old Mat
wasn’t there—then I went back to the lane—and—Old Man Newton was dead,
and the stranger was gone.’
“There was a moment or two of dead silence in the court when Samuel
Holder had given his evidence, then the coroner asked quietly:
“‘You do not know who the stranger was?’
“‘Well, I couldn’t be sure, your honour,’ replied Samuel nervously,
‘it was pitch dark. I wouldn’t like to swear a fellow-creature’s life
and character away.’
“‘No, no, quite so,’ rejoined the coroner; ‘but do you happen to know
what time it was when all this occurred?’
“‘Oh yes, your honour,’ said Samuel decisively, ‘as I walked away from
the Fernhead Arms I ’eard Ayrsham church clock strike ten o’clock.’
“‘Ah! that’s always something,’ said the coroner, with a sigh of
satisfaction. ‘Call Mary Newton, please.’”
Chapter III
“You may imagine,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause, “with what palpitating interest we all watched the pathetic
little figure, clad in deep black, who now stepped forward to give
evidence.
“It was difficult to imagine that Mary Newton could ever have been
pretty; trouble had obviously wrought sad havoc with her good looks;
she was now a wizened little thing, with dark rings under her eyes,
and a pale, anæmic complexion. She stood perfectly listlessly before
the coroner, waiting to be questioned, but otherwise not seeming to
take the slightest interest in the proceedings. In an even, toneless
voice she told her name, age, and status, then waited for further
questions.
“‘Your father went out a little before ten o’clock on Tuesday night
last, did he not?’ asked the coroner very kindly.
“‘Yes, sir, he did,’ replied Mary quietly.
“‘You had brought him a message from a gentleman whom you had met in
the lane, and who wished to speak with your father?’
“‘No, sir,’ replied Mary, in the same even and toneless voice; ‘I
brought no message to father, and he went out on his own.’
“‘But the gentleman you met in the lane?’ insisted the coroner with
some impatience.
“‘I didn’t meet any one in the lane, sir. I never went out of the
house that Tuesday night, it rained so.’
“‘But the last witness, Samuel Holder, heard you talking in the lane
at nine o’clock.’
“‘Samuel Holder was mistaken,’ she replied imperturbably; ‘I wasn’t
out of the house the whole of that night.’
“It would be useless for me,” continued the man in the corner, “to
attempt to convey to you the intense feeling of excitement which
pervaded that crowded court, as that wizened little figure stood there
for over half-an-hour, quietly and obstinately parrying the most rigid
cross-examination.
“That she was lying—lying to shield the very man who perhaps had
murdered her father—no one doubted for a single instant. Yet there she
stood, sullen, apathetic, and defiant, flatly denying Samuel Holder’s
story from end to end, strictly adhering and swearing to her first
statement, that her father went out ‘on his own,’ that she did not
know where he was going to, and that she herself had never left the
house that fatal Tuesday night.
“It did not seem to occur to her that by these statements she was
hopelessly incriminating Samuel Holder, whom she was thus openly
accusing of deliberate lies; on the contrary, many noticed a distinct
touch of bitter animosity in the young girl against her former
sweetheart, which was singularly emphasised when the coroner asked her
whether she approved of the idea of a breach of promise action being
brought against Mr. Ledbury.
“‘No,’ she said; ‘all that talk about damages and breach of promise
was between father and Sam Holder, because Sam had told father that he
wouldn’t mind marrying me if I had £5,000 of my own.’
“It would be impossible to render the tone of hatred and contempt with
which the young girl uttered these words. One seemed to live through
the whole tragedy of the past few months—the girl, pestered by the
greed of her father, yet refusing obstinately to aid in causing a
scandal, perhaps disgrace, to the man whom she had once loved and
trusted.
“As nothing more could be got out of her, and as circumstances now
seemed to demand it, the coroner adjourned the inquest. The police, as
you may well imagine, wanted to make certain enquiries. Mind you, Mary
Newton flatly refused to mention Mr. Ledbury’s name; she was
questioned and cross-questioned, yet her answer uniformly was:
“‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The person I was going to
marry four years ago has gone out of my life—I have never seen him
since. I saw no one on that Tuesday night.’
“Against that, when she was asked to swear that it was _not_ Mr.—now
Captain—Ledbury who had promised her marriage she flatly refused to do
so.
“Of course, there was not a soul there who had not made up his or her
mind that Captain Ledbury _had_ met Mary Newton in the lane, and had
heard from her that all his love letters to her were now in her
father’s hands, and that the old man meant to use these in order to
extort money from him.
“Fearing the exposure and disgrace of so sensational a breach of
promise action, and not having the money with which to meet Mat
Newton’s preposterous demands, he probably lost control over himself,
and in a moment of impulse and mad rage had silenced the old man for
ever.
“I assure you that at the adjourned inquest everybody expected to see
Captain Ledbury in the custody of two constables. The police in the
interim had been extremely reticent, and no fresh details of the
extraordinary case had found its way into the papers, but fresh
details of a sensational character were fully expected, and I can
assure you the public were not disappointed.
“It is no use my telling you all the proceedings of that second most
memorable day; I will try and confine myself to the most important
points of this interesting mystery.
“I must tell you that the story told by the landlord of the Fernhead
Arms was fully corroborated by several witnesses, all of whom
testified to the fact that the old man came back from his visit to
Fernhead Towers in a terrible fury, swearing to bring disgrace upon
the scoundrel who had ruined his daughter.
“What occurred during that visit was explained by Edward Sanders, the
butler at The Towers. According to the testimony of this witness,
there was a large house-party staying with Sir John Fernhead to
celebrate the engagement of his daughter; the party naturally included
Captain Mervin Ledbury, his brother, Lord Walterton, with the latter’s
newly-married young wife, also many neighbours and friends.
“At about six o’clock on Monday evening, it appears, a
disreputable-looking old man, whom Edward Sanders did not know, but
who gave the name of Newton, rang at the front door bell of The Towers
and demanded to see Mr. Ledbury. Sanders naturally refused to admit
him, but the old man was so persistent, and used such strange
language, that the butler, after much hesitation, decided to apprise
Captain Ledbury of his extraordinary visitor.
“Captain Ledbury, on hearing that Old Man Newton wished to speak to
him, much to Sanders’ astonishment, came downstairs and elected to
interview his extraordinary visitor in the dining-room, which was then
deserted. Sanders showed the old man in, and waited in the hall. Very
soon, however, he heard loud and angry voices, and the next moment
Captain Ledbury threw open the dining-room door, and said:
“‘This man is mad or drunk; show him out, Sanders.’
“And without another word the Captain walked upstairs, leaving Sanders
the pleasant task of ‘showing the old man out.’ That this was done
very speedily and pretty roughly we may infer from Old Man Newton’s
subsequent fury, and the threats he uttered even while he was being
‘shown out.’
“Now you see, do you not?” continued the man in the corner, “that this
evidence seemed to add another link to the chain which was
incriminating young Mr. Ledbury in this terrible charge of murdering
Old Man Newton.
“The young man himself was now with his regiment stationed at York. It
appears that the house-party at Fernhead Towers was breaking up on the
very day of Old Man Newton’s strange visit thither. Lord and Lady
Walterton left for town on the Tuesday morning, and Captain Ledbury
went up to York on that very same fatal night.
“You must know that the small local station of Fernhead is quite close
to The Towers. Captain Ledbury took the late local train there for
Ayrsham Junction after dinner that night, arriving at the latter place
at 9.15, with the intention of picking up the Midland express to the
north at 10.15 p.m. later on.
“The police had ascertained that Captain Ledbury had got out of the
local train at Ayrsham Junction at 9.15, and aimlessly strolled out of
the station. Against that, it was definitely proved by several
witnesses that the young man did catch the Midland express at 10.15
p.m., and travelled up north by it.
“Now, there was the hitch, do you see?” added the funny creature
excitedly. “Samuel Holder overheard a conversation in the fatal lane
between Mary Newton and the stranger, whom everybody by now believed
to be Captain Ledbury. Good! That was between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m., and,
as it happened, the young man does seem to have unaccountably strolled
about in the neighbourhood whilst waiting for his train; but remember
that when Sam Holder left the stranger waiting in the lane, and went
back towards Ayrsham in order to try and find Old Man Newton, he
distinctly heard Ayrsham church clock striking ten.
“Now, the lane where the murder occurred is two-and-a-half miles from
Ayrsham Junction station, therefore it could not have been Captain
Ledbury who was there lying in wait for the old man, as he could not
possibly have had his interview with old Mat, quarrelled with him and
murdered him, and then caught his train two-and-a-half miles further
on, all in the space of fifteen minutes.
“Thus, even before the final verdict of ‘Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown,’ the case against Captain Mervin Ledbury
had completely fallen to the ground. He must also have succeeded in
convincing Sir John Fernhead of his innocence, as I see by the papers
that Miss Fernhead has since become Mrs. Ledbury.
“But the result has been that the Ayrsham tragedy has remained an
impenetrable mystery.
“‘Who killed Old Man Newton? and why?’ is a question which many
people, including our clever criminal investigation department, have
asked themselves many a time.
“It was not a case of vulgar assault and robbery, as the old man was
not worth robbing, and the few coppers he possessed were found intact
in his waistcoat pocket.
“Many people assert that Samuel Holder quarrelled with the old man and
murdered him, but there are three reasons why that theory is bound to
fall to the ground. Firstly, the total absence of any motive. Samuel
Holder could have no possible object in killing the old man, but
still, we’ll waive that; people do quarrel—especially if they are
confederates, as these two undoubtedly were—and quarrels do sometimes
end fatally. Secondly, the weapon which caused the old man’s death—a
heavily-leaded cane of foreign make, with solid silver ferrule.
“Now, I ask you, where in the world could a village carpenter pick up
an instrument of that sort? Moreover no one ever saw such a thing in
Sam Holder’s hands or in his house. When he walked to the Fernhead
Arms in order to try and find the old man, he had nothing of the sort
in his hand, and in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of
the police, the history of that cane was never traced.
“Then, there is a third reason why obviously Sam Holder was not guilty
of the murder, though that reason is a moral one; I am referring to
Mary Newton’s attitude at the inquest. She lied, of that there could
not be a shadow of doubt; she was determined to shield her former
lover, and incriminated Sam Holder only because she wished to save
another man.
“Obviously, old Newton went out on that dark, wet night in order to
meet someone in the lane, that someone could not have been Sam Holder,
whom he met anywhere and everywhere, and every day in his own house.
“There! you see that Sam Holder was obviously innocent, that Captain
Ledbury could not have committed the murder, that surely Mary Newton
did not kill her own father, and that in such a case, common sense
should have come to the rescue, and not have left this case, what it
now is, a tragic and impenetrable mystery.”
Chapter IV
“But,” I said at last, for indeed I was deeply mystified, “what does
common sense argue?—the case seems to be absolutely hopeless.”
He surveyed his beloved bit of string for a moment, and his mild blue
eyes blinked at me over his bone-rimmed spectacles.
“Common sense,” he said at last, with his most apologetic manner,
“tells me that Ayrsham village is a remote little place, where a daily
paper is unknown, and where no one reads the fashionable intelligence
or knows anything about Birthday honours.”
“What _do_ you mean?” I gasped in amazement.
“Simply this, that no one at Ayrsham village, certainly not Mary
Newton herself, had realised that one of the Mr. Ledburys, whom all
had known at ‘The Limes’ four years ago, had since become Lord
Walterton.”
“Lord Walterton!” I ejaculated, wholly incredulously.
“Why, yes!” he replied quietly. “Do you mean to say you never thought
of that? that it never occurred to you that Mary Newton may have
admitted to her father that Mr. Ledbury had been the man who had so
wickedly wronged her, but that she, in her remote little village, had
also no idea that the Mr. Ledbury she meant was recently made, and is
now styled, Lord Walterton?
“Old Man Newton, who knew of the gossip which had coupled his
daughter’s name, years ago, with the younger Mr. Ledbury, naturally
took it for granted that she was referring to him. Moreover, we may
take it from the girl’s subsequent attitude that she did all she could
to shield the man whom she had once loved; women, you know, have that
sort of little way with them.
“Old Newton, fully convinced that young Ledbury was the man he wanted,
went up to The Towers and had the stormy interview, which no doubt
greatly puzzled the young Hussar. He undoubtedly spoke of it to his
brother, Lord Walterton, who, newly married and of high social
position, would necessarily dread a scandal as much as anybody.
“Lord Walterton went up to town with his young wife the following
morning. Ayrsham is only forty minutes from London. He came down in
the evening, met Mary in the lane, asked to see her father, and killed
him in a moment of passion, when he found that the old man’s demands
were preposterously unreasonable. Moreover, Englishmen in all grades
of society have an innate horror of being bullied or blackmailed; the
murder probably was not premeditated, but the outcome of rage at being
browbeaten by the old man.
“You see, the police did not use their common sense over so simple a
matter. They naturally made no enquiries as to Lord Walterton’s
movements, who seemingly had absolutely nothing to do with the case.
If they had, I feel convinced that they would have found that his
lordship would have had some difficulty in satisfying everybody as to
his whereabouts on that particular Tuesday night.
“Think of it, it is so simple—the only possible solution of that
strange and unaccountable mystery.”
XI. The Affair at the Novelty Theatre
Chapter I
“Talking of mysteries,” said the man in the corner, rather
irrelevantly, for he had not opened his mouth since he sat down and
ordered his lunch, “talking of mysteries, it is always a puzzle to me
how few thefts are committed in the dressing-rooms of fashionable
actresses during a performance.”
“There have been one or two,” I suggested, “but nothing of any value
was stolen.”
“Yet you remember that affair at the Novelty Theatre a year or two
ago, don’t you?” he added. “It created a great deal of sensation at
the time. You see, Miss Phyllis Morgan was, and still is, a very
fashionable and popular actress, and her pearls are quite amongst the
wonders of the world. She herself valued them at £10,000, and several
experts who remember the pearls quite concur with that valuation.
“During the period of her short tenancy of the Novelty Theatre last
season, she entrusted those beautiful pearls to Mr. Kidd, the
well-known Bond Street jeweller, to be re-strung. There were seven
rows of perfectly matched pearls, held together by a small diamond
clasp of ‘art-nouveau’ design.
“Kidd and Co. are, as you know, a very eminent and old established
firm of jewellers. Mr. Thomas Kidd, its present sole representative,
was some time president of the London Chamber of Commerce, and a man
whose integrity has always been held to be above suspicion. His
clerks, salesmen, and book-keeper had all been in his employ for
years, and most of the work was executed on the premises.
“In the case of Miss Phyllis Morgan’s valuable pearls they were
re-strung and re-set in the back shop by Mr. Kidd’s most valued and
most trusted workman, a man named James Rumford, who is justly
considered to be one of the cleverest craftsmen here in England.
“When the pearls were ready, Mr. Kidd himself took them down to the
theatre, and delivered them into Miss Morgan’s own hands.
“It appears that the worthy jeweller was extremely fond of the
theatre; but, like so many persons in affluent circumstances, he was
also very fond of getting a free seat when he could.
“All along he had made up his mind to take the pearls down to the
Novelty Theatre one night, and to see Miss Morgan for a moment before
the performance; she would then, he hoped, place a stall at his
disposal.
“His previsions were correct. Miss Morgan received the pearls, and Mr.
Kidd was on that celebrated night accommodated with a seat in the
stalls.
“I don’t know if you remember all the circumstances connected with
that case, but, to make my point clear, I must remind you of one or
two of the most salient details.
“In the drama in which Miss Phyllis Morgan was acting at the time,
there is a brilliant masked ball scene which is the crux of the whole
play; it occurs in the second act, and Miss Phyllis Morgan, as the
hapless heroine, dressed in the shabbiest of clothes, appears in the
midst of a gay and giddy throng; she apostrophises all and sundry
there, including the villain, and has a magnificent scene which always
brings down the house, and nightly adds to her histrionic laurels.
“For this scene a large number of supers are engaged, and in order to
further swell the crowd, practically all the available stage hands
have to ‘walk on’ dressed in various coloured dominoes, and all
wearing masks.
“You have, of course, heard the name of Mr. Howard Dennis in
connection with this extraordinary mystery. He is what is usually
called ‘a young man about town,’ and was one of Miss Phyllis Morgan’s
most favoured admirers. As a matter of fact, he was generally
understood to be the popular actress’s _fiancé_, and as such, had of
course the _entrée_ of the Novelty Theatre.
“Like many another idle young man about town, Mr. Howard Dennis was
stage-mad, and one of his greatest delights was to don nightly a mask
and a blue domino, and to ‘walk on’ in the second act, not so much in
order to gratify his love for the stage, as to watch Miss Phyllis
Morgan in her great scene, and to be present, close by her, when she
received her usual salvo of enthusiastic applause from a delighted
public.
“On this eventful night—it was on 20th July last—the second act was in
full swing; the supers, the stage hands, and all the principals were
on the scene, the back of the stage was practically deserted. The
beautiful pearls, fresh from the hands of Mr. Kidd, were in Miss
Morgan’s dressing-room, as she meant to wear them in the last act.
“Of course, since that memorable affair, many people have talked of
the foolhardiness of leaving such valuable jewellery in the sole
charge of a young girl—Miss Morgan’s dresser—who acted with
unpardonable folly and carelessness, but you must remember that this
part of the theatre is only accessible through the stage door, where
sits enthroned that uncorruptible dragon, the stage door-keeper.
“No one can get at it from the front, and the dressing-rooms for the
supers and lesser members of the company are on the opposite side of
the stage to that reserved for Miss Morgan and one or two of the
principals.
“It was just a quarter to ten, and the curtain was about to be rung
down, when George Finch, the stage door-keeper, rushed excitedly into
the wings; he was terribly upset, and was wildly clutching his coat,
beneath which he evidently held something concealed.
“In response to the rapidly-whispered queries of the one or two stage
hands that stood about, Finch only shook his head excitedly. He seemed
scarcely able to control his impatience, during the close of the act,
and the subsequent prolonged applause.
“When at last Miss Morgan, flushed with her triumph, came off the
stage, Finch made a sudden rush for her.
“‘Oh, Madam!’ he gasped excitedly, ‘it might have been such an awful
misfortune! The rascal! I nearly got him through! but he
escaped—fortunately it is safe—— I have got it——!’
“It was some time before Miss Morgan understood what in the world the
otherwise sober stage door-keeper was driving at. Every one who heard
him certainly thought that he had been drinking. But the next moment
from under his coat he pulled out, with another ejaculation of
excitement, the magnificent pearl necklace which Miss Morgan had
thought safely put away in her dressing-room.
“‘What in the world does all this mean?’ asked Mr. Howard Dennis, who,
as usual, was escorting his _fiancée_. ‘Finch, what are you doing with
Madam’s necklace?’
“Miss Phyllis Morgan herself was too bewildered to question Finch; she
gazed at him, then at her necklace, in speechless astonishment.
“‘Well, you see, Madam, it was this way,’ Finch managed to explain at
last, as with awestruck reverence he finally deposited the precious
necklace in the actress’s hands. ‘As you know, Madam, it is a very hot
night. I had seen every one into the theatre and counted in the
supers; there was nothing much for me to do, and I got rather tired
and very thirsty. I see’d a man loafing close to the door, and I ask
him to fetch me a pint of beer from round the corner, and I give him
some coppers; I had noticed him loafing round before, and it was so
hot I didn’t think I was doin’ no harm.’
“‘No, no,’ said Miss Morgan impatiently. ‘Well!’
“‘Well,’ continued Finch, ‘the man, he brought me the beer, and I had
some of it—and—and—afterwards, I don’t quite know how it happened—it
was the heat, perhaps—but—I was sitting in my box, and I suppose I
must have dropped asleep. I just remember hearing the ring up for the
second act, and the call-boy calling you, Madam, then there’s a sort
of a blank in my mind. All of a sudden I seemed to wake with the
feeling that there was something wrong somehow. In a moment I jumped
up, and I tell you I was wide awake then, and I saw a man sneaking
down the passage, past my box, towards the door. I challenged him, and
he tried to dart past me, but I was too quick for him, and got him by
the tails of his coat, for I saw at once that he was carrying
something, and I had recognised the loafer who brought me the beer. I
shouted for help, but there’s never anybody about in this back street,
and the loafer, he struggled like old Harry, and sure enough he
managed to get free from me and away before I could stop him, but in
his fright the rascal dropped his booty, for which Heaven be praised!
and it was your pearls, Madam. Oh, my! but I did have a tussle,’
concluded the worthy door-keeper, mopping his forehead, ‘and I do
hope, Madam, the scoundrel didn’t take nothing else.’
“That was the story,” continued the man in the corner, “which George
Finch had to tell, and which he subsequently repeated without the
slightest deviation. Miss Phyllis Morgan, with the light-heartedness
peculiar to ladies of her profession, took the matter very quietly;
all she said at the time was that she had nothing else of value in her
dressing-room, but that Miss Knight—the dresser—deserved a scolding
for leaving the room unprotected.
“‘All’s well that ends well,’ she said gaily, as she finally went into
her dressing-room, carrying the pearls in her hand.
“It appears that the moment she opened the door, she found Miss Knight
sitting in the room, in a deluge of tears. The girl had overheard
George Finch telling his story, and was terribly upset at her own
carelessness.
“In answer to Miss Morgan’s questions, she admitted that she had gone
into the wings, and lingered there to watch the great actress’s
beautiful performance. She thought no one could possibly get to the
dressing-room, as nearly all hands were on the stage at the time, and
of course George Finch was guarding the door.
“However, as there really had been no harm done, beyond a wholesome
fright to everybody concerned, Miss Morgan readily forgave the girl
and proceeded with her change of attire for the next act. Incidentally
she noticed a bunch of roses, which were placed on her dressing-table,
and asked Knight who had put them there.
“‘Mr. Dennis brought them,’ replied the girl.
“Miss Morgan looked pleased, blushed, and dismissing the whole matter
from her mind, she proceeded with her toilette for the next act, in
which, the hapless heroine having come into her own again, she was
able to wear her beautiful pearls around her neck.
“George Finch, however, took some time to recover himself; his
indignation was only equalled by his volubility. When his excitement
had somewhat subsided, he took the precaution of saving the few drops
of beer which had remained at the bottom of the mug, brought to him by
the loafer. This was subsequently shown to a chemist in the
neighbourhood, who, without a moment’s hesitation, pronounced the beer
to contain an appreciable quantity of chloral.”
Chapter II
“The whole matter, as you may imagine, did not affect Miss Morgan’s
spirits that night,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause.
“‘All’s well that ends well,’ she had said gaily, since almost by a
miracle, her pearls were once more safely round her neck.
“But the next day brought the rude awakening. Something had indeed
happened which made the affair at the Novelty Theatre, what it has
ever since remained, a curious and unexplainable mystery.
“The following morning Miss Phyllis Morgan decided that it was
foolhardy to leave valuable property about in her dressing-room, when
for stage purposes, imitation jewellery did just as well. She
therefore determined to place her pearls in the bank until the
termination of her London season.
“The moment, however, that, in broad daylight, she once more handled
the necklace, she instinctively felt that there was something wrong
with it. She examined it eagerly and closely, and, hardly daring to
face her sudden terrible suspicions, she rushed round to the nearest
jeweller, and begged him to examine the pearls.
“The examination did not take many moments: the jeweller at once
pronounced the pearls to be false. There could be no doubt about it;
the necklace was a perfect imitation of the original, even the clasp
was an exact copy. Half-hysterical with rage and anxiety, Miss Morgan
at once drove to Bond Street, and asked to see Mr. Kidd.
“Well, you may easily imagine the stormy interview that took place.
Miss Phyllis Morgan, in no measured language, boldly accused Mr.
Thomas Kidd, late president of the London Chamber of Commerce, of
having substituted false pearls for her own priceless ones.
“The worthy jeweller, at first completely taken by surprise, examined
the necklace, and was horrified to see that Miss Morgan’s statements
were, alas! too true. Mr. Kidd was indeed in a terribly awkward
position.
“The evening before, after business hours, he had taken the necklace
home with him. Before starting for the theatre, he had examined it to
see that it was quite in order. He had then, with his own hands, and
in the presence of his wife, placed it in its case, and driven
straight to the Novelty, where he finally gave it over to Miss Morgan
herself.
“To all this he swore most positively; moreover, all his _employés_
and workmen could swear that they had last seen the necklace just
after closing time at the shop, when Mr. Kidd walked off towards
Piccadilly, with the precious article in the inner pocket of his coat.
“One point certainly was curious, and undoubtedly helped to deepen the
mystery which to this day clings to the affair at the Novelty Theatre.
“When Mr. Kidd handed the packet containing the necklace to Miss
Morgan, she was too busy to open it at once. She only spoke to Mr.
Kidd through her dressing-room door, and never opened the packet till
nearly an hour later, after she had dressed ready for the second act;
the packet at that time had been untouched, and was wrapped up just as
she had had it from Mr. Kidd’s own hands. She undid the packet, and
handled the pearls; certainly, by the artificial light she could see
nothing wrong with the necklace.
“Poor Mr. Kidd was nearly distracted with the horror of his position.
Thirty years of an honest reputation suddenly tarnished with this
awful suspicion—for he realised at once that Miss Morgan refused to
believe his statements; in fact, she openly said that she would—unless
immediate compensation was made to her—place the matter at once in the
hands of the police.
“From the stormy interview in Bond Street, the irate actress drove at
once to Scotland Yard; but the old-established firm of Kidd and Co.
was not destined to remain under any cloud that threatened its
integrity.
“Mr. Kidd at once called upon his solicitor, with the result that an
offer was made to Miss Morgan, whereby the jeweller would deposit the
full value of the original necklace, _i.e._, £10,000, in the hands of
Messrs. Bentley and Co., bankers, that sum to be held by them for a
whole year, at the end of which time, if the perpetrator of the fraud
had not been discovered, the money was to be handed over to Miss
Morgan in its entirety.
“Nothing could have been more fair, more equitable, or more just, but
at the same time nothing could have been more mysterious.
“As Mr. Kidd swore that he had placed the real pearls in Miss Morgan’s
hands, and was ready to back his oath by the sum of £10,000, no more
suspicion could possibly attach to him. When the announcement of his
generous offer appeared in the papers, the entire public approved and
exonerated him, and then turned to wonder who the perpetrator of the
daring fraud had been.
“How came a valueless necklace in exact imitation of the original one
to be in Miss Morgan’s dressing-room? Where were the real pearls?
Clearly the loafer who had drugged the stage door-keeper, and sneaked
into the theatre to steal a necklace, was not aware that he was
risking several years’ hard labour for the sake of a worthless trifle.
He had been one of the many dupes of this extraordinary adventure.
“Macpherson, one of the most able men on the detective staff, had,
indeed, his work cut out. The police were extremely reticent, but, in
spite of this, one or two facts gradually found their way into the
papers, and aroused public interest and curiosity to its highest
pitch.
“What had transpired was this:
“Clara Knight, the dresser, had been very rigorously cross-questioned,
and, from her many statements, the following seemed quite positive.
“After the curtain had rung up for the second act, and Miss Morgan had
left her dressing-room, Knight had waited about for some time, and had
even, it appears, handled and admired the necklace. Then,
unfortunately, she was seized with the burning desire of seeing the
famous scene from the wings. She thought that the place was quite
safe, and that George Finch was as usual at his post.
“‘I was going along the short passage that leads to the wings,’ she
exclaimed to the detectives, ‘when I became aware of some one moving
some distance behind me. I turned and saw a blue domino about to enter
Miss Morgan’s dressing-room.
“‘I thought nothing of that,’ continued the girl, ‘as we all know that
Mr. Dennis is engaged to Miss Morgan. He is very fond of “walking on”
in the ball-room scene, and he always wears a blue domino when he
does; so I was not at all alarmed. He had his mask on as usual, and he
was carrying a bunch of roses. When he saw me at the other end of the
passage, he waved his hand to me and pointed to the flowers. I nodded
to him, and then he went into the room.’
“These statements, as you may imagine, created a great deal of
sensation; so much so, in fact, that Mr. Kidd, with his £10,000 and
his reputation in mind, moved heaven and earth to bring about the
prosecution of Mr. Dennis for theft and fraud.
“The papers were full of it, for Mr. Howard Dennis was well known in
fashionable London Society. His answer to these curious statements was
looked forward to eagerly; when it came it satisfied no one and
puzzled everybody.
“‘Miss Knight was mistaken,’ he said most emphatically, ‘I did not
bring any roses for Miss Morgan that night. It was not I that she saw
in a blue domino by the door, as I was on the stage before the curtain
was rung up for the second act, and never left it until the close.’
“This part of Howard Dennis’ statement was a little difficult to
substantiate. No one on the stage could swear positively whether he
was ‘on’ early in the act or not, although, mind you, Macpherson had
ascertained that in the whole crowd of supers on the stage, he was the
only one who wore a blue domino.
“Mr. Kidd was very active in the matter, but Miss Morgan flatly
refused to believe in her _fiancé’s_ guilt. The worthy jeweller
maintained that Mr. Howard Dennis was the only person who knew the
celebrated pearls and their quaint clasp well enough to have a
facsimile made of them, and that when Miss Knight saw him enter the
dressing-room, he actually substituted the false necklace for the real
one; whilst the loafer who drugged George Finch’s beer was—as every
one supposed—only a dupe.
“Things had reached a very acute and painful stage, when one more
detail found its way into the papers, which, whilst entirely clearing
Mr. Howard Dennis’ character, has helped to make the whole affair a
hopeless mystery.
“Whilst questioning George Finch, Macpherson had ascertained that the
stage door-keeper had seen Mr. Dennis enter the theatre some time
before the beginning of the celebrated second act. He stopped to speak
to George Finch for a moment or two, and the latter could swear
positively that Mr. Dennis was not carrying any roses then.
“On the other hand a flower-girl, who was selling roses in the
neighbourhood of the Novelty Theatre late that memorable night,
remembers selling some roses to a shabbily-dressed man, who looked
like a labourer out of work. When Mr. Dennis was pointed out to her
she swore positively that it was not he.
“‘The man looked like a labourer,’ she explained. ‘I took particular
note of him, as I remember thinking that he didn’t look much as if he
could afford to buy roses.’
“Now you see,” concluded the man in the corner excitedly, “where the
hitch lies. There is absolutely no doubt, judging from the evidence of
George Finch and of the flower-girl, that the loafer had provided
himself with the roses, and had somehow or other managed to get hold
of a blue domino, for the purpose of committing the theft. His giving
drugged beer to Finch, moreover, proved his guilt beyond a doubt.
“But here the mystery becomes hopeless,” he added with a chuckle, “for
the loafer dropped the booty which he had stolen—that booty was the
false necklace, and it has remained an impenetrable mystery to this
day as to who made the substitution and when.
“A whole year has elapsed since then, but the real necklace has never
been traced or found; so Mr. Kidd has paid, with absolute quixotic
chivalry, the sum of £10,000 to Miss Morgan, and thus he has
completely cleared the firm of Kidd and Co. of any suspicion as to its
integrity.”
Chapter III
“But then, what in the world is the explanation of it all?” I asked
bewildered, as the funny creature paused in his narrative and seemed
absorbed in the contemplation of a beautiful knot he had just
completed in his bit of string.
“The explanation is so simple,” he replied, “for it is obvious, is it
not, that only four people could possibly have committed the fraud?”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, whilst his bony fingers began to fidget with that
eternal piece of string, “there is, of course, old Mr. Kidd; but as
the worthy jeweller has paid £10,000 to prove that he did not steal
the real necklace and substitute a false one in its stead, we must
assume that he was guiltless. Then, secondly, there is Mr. Howard
Dennis.”
“Well, yes,” I said, “what about him?”
“There were several points in his favour,” he rejoined, marking each
point with a fresh and most complicated knot; “it was not he who
bought the roses, therefore it was not he who, clad in a blue domino,
entered Miss Morgan’s dressing-room directly after Knight left it.
“And mark the force of this point,” he added excitedly.
“Just before the curtain rang up for the second act, Miss Morgan had
been in her room, and had then undone the packet, which, in her own
words, was just as she had received it from Mr. Kidd’s hands.
“After that Miss Knight remained in charge, and a mere ten seconds
after she left the room she saw the blue domino carrying the roses at
the door.
“The flower-girl’s story and that of George Finch have proved that the
blue domino could not have been Mr. Dennis, but it was the loafer who
evidently stole the false necklace.
“If you bear all this in mind you will realise that there was no time
in those ten seconds for Mr. Dennis to have made the substitution
_before_ the theft was committed. It stands to reason that he could
not have done it afterwards.
“Then, again, many people suspected Miss Knight, the dresser, but this
supposition we may easily dismiss. An uneducated, stupid girl, not
three-and-twenty, could not possibly have planned so clever a
substitution. An imitation necklace of that particular calibre and
made to order would cost far more money than a poor theatrical dresser
could ever afford; let alone the risks of ordering such an ornament to
be made.
“No,” said the funny creature, with comic emphasis, “there is but one
theory possible, which is my own.”
“And that is?” I asked eagerly.
“The workman, Rumford, of course,” he responded triumphantly. “Why! it
jumps to the eyes, as our French friends would tell us. Who, other
than he, could have the opportunity of making an exact copy of the
necklace which had been entrusted to his firm?
“Being in the trade he could easily obtain the false stones without
exciting any undue suspicion; being a skilled craftsman, he could
easily make the clasp, and string the pearls in exact imitation of the
original; he could do this secretly in his own home and without the
slightest risk.
“Then the plan, though extremely simple, was very cleverly thought
out. Disguised as the loafer——”
“The loafer!” I exclaimed.
“Why, yes! the loafer,” he replied quietly, “disguised as the loafer,
he hung round the stage door of the Novelty after business hours,
until he had collected the bits of gossip and information he wanted;
thus he learnt that Mr. Howard Dennis was Miss Morgan’s accredited
_fiancé_; that he, like everybody else who was available, ‘walked on’
in the second act; and that during that time the back of the stage was
practically deserted.
“No doubt he knew all along that Mr. Kidd meant to take the pearls
down to the theatre himself that night, and it was quite easy to
ascertain that Miss Morgan—as the hapless heroine—wore no jewellery in
the second act, and that Mr. Howard Dennis invariably wore a blue
domino.
“Some people might incline to the belief that Miss Knight was a paid
accomplice, that she left the dressing-room unprotected on purpose,
and that her story of the blue domino and the roses was pre-arranged
between herself and Rumford, but that is not my opinion.
“I think that the scoundrel was far too clever to need any accomplice,
and too shrewd to put himself thereby at the mercy of a girl like
Knight.
“Rumford, I find, is a married man: this to me explains the blue
domino, which the police were never able to trace to any business
place, where it might have been bought or hired. Like the necklace
itself, it was ‘home-made.’
“Having got his properties and his plans ready, Rumford then set to
work. You must remember that a stage door-keeper is never above
accepting a glass of beer from a friendly acquaintance; and, no doubt,
if George Finch had not asked the loafer to bring him a glass, the
latter would have offered him one. To drug the beer was simple enough;
then Rumford went to buy the roses, and, I should say, met his wife
somewhere round the corner, who handed him the blue domino and the
mask; all this was done in order to completely puzzle the police
subsequently, and also in order to throw suspicion, if possible, upon
young Dennis.
“As soon as the drug took effect upon George Finch, Rumford slipped
into the theatre. To slip a mask and domino on and off is, as you
know, a matter of a few seconds. Probably his intention had been—if he
found Knight in the room—to knock her down if she attempted to raise
an alarm; but here fortune favoured him. Knight saw him from a
distance, and mistook him easily for Mr. Dennis.
“After the theft of the real necklace, Rumford sneaked out of the
theatre. And here you see how clever was the scoundrel’s plan: if he
had merely substituted one necklace for another there would have been
no doubt whatever that the loafer—whoever he was—was the culprit—the
drugged beer would have been quite sufficient proof for that. The hue
and cry would have been after the loafer, and, who knows? there might
have been some one or something which might have identified that
loafer with himself.
“He must have bought the shabby clothes somewhere, he certainly bought
the roses from a flower-girl; anyhow, there were a hundred and one
little risks and contingencies which might have brought the theft home
to him.
“But mark what happens: he steals the real necklace, and keeps the
false one in his hand, intending to drop it sooner or later, and thus
sent the police entirely on the wrong scent. As the loafer, he was
supposed to have stolen the false necklace, then dropped it whilst
struggling with George Finch. The result is that no one has troubled
about the loafer; no one thought that he had anything to do with the
substitution, which was the main point at issue, and no very great
effort has ever been made to find that mysterious loafer.
“It never occurred to any one that the fraud and the theft were
committed by one and the same person, and that that person could be
none other than James Rumford.”
XII. The Tragedy of Barnsdale Manor
Chapter I
“We have heard so much about the evils of Bridge,” said the man in the
corner that afternoon, “but I doubt whether that fashionable game has
ever been responsible for a more terrible tragedy than the one at
Barnsdale Manor.”
“You think, then,” I asked, for I saw he was waiting to be drawn out,
“you think that the high play at Bridge did have something to do with
that awful murder?”
“Most people think that much, I fancy,” he replied, “although no one
has arrived any nearer to the solution of the mystery which surrounds
the tragic death of Mme. Quesnard at Barnsdale Manor on the 23rd
September last.
“On that fateful occasion, you must remember that the house party at
the Manor included a number of sporting and fashionable friends of
Lord and Lady Barnsdale, among whom Sir Gilbert Culworth was the only
one whose name was actually mentioned during the hearing of this
extraordinary case.
“It seems to have been a very gay house party indeed. In the daytime
Lord Barnsdale took some of his guests to shoot and fish, whilst a few
devotees remained at home in order to indulge their passion for the
modern craze of Bridge. It was generally understood that Lord
Barnsdale did not altogether approve of quite so much gambling. He was
not by any means well off; and although he was very much in love with
his beautiful wife, he could ill afford to pay her losses at cards.
“This was the reason, no doubt, that Bridge at Barnsdale Manor was
only indulged in whilst the host himself was out shooting or fishing;
in the evenings there was music or billiards, but never any cards.
“One of the most interesting personalities in the Barnsdale _ménage_
was undoubtedly Madame Nathalie Quesnard, a sister of Lord Barnsdale’s
mother, who, if you remember, was a Mademoiselle de la Trémouille.
This Mme. Quesnard was extremely wealthy, the widow of a French West
Indian planter, who had made millions in Martinique.
“She was very fond of her nephew, to whom, as she had no children or
other relatives of her own, she intended to leave the bulk of her vast
fortune. Pending her death, which was not likely to occur for some
time, as she was not more than fifty, she took up her abode at
Barnsdale Manor, together with her companion and amanuensis, a poor
girl named Alice Holt.
“Mme. Quesnard was seemingly an amiable old lady; the only unpleasant
trait in her character being her intense dislike of her nephew’s
beautiful and fashionable young wife. The old Frenchwoman, who, with
all her wealth, had the unbounded and innate thriftiness peculiar to
her nation, looked with perfect horror on Lady Barnsdale’s
extravagances, and above all on her fondness for gambling; and
subsequently several of the servants at the Manor testified to the
amount of mischief the old lady strove to make between her nephew and
his young wife.
“Mme. Quesnard’s dislike for Lady Barnsdale seems, moreover, to have
been shared by her dependent and companion, the girl Alice Holt.
Between them, these two ladies seem to have cordially hated the
brilliant and much-admired mistress of Barnsdale Manor.
“Such were the chief inmates of the Manor last September, at the time
the tragedy occurred. On that memorable night Alice Holt, who occupied
a bedroom immediately above that of Mme. Quesnard, was awakened in the
middle of the night by a persistent noise, which undoubtedly came from
her mistress’s room. The walls and floorings at the old Manor are very
thick, and the sound was a very confused one, although the girl was
quite sure that she could hear Mme. Quesnard’s shrill voice raised as
if in anger.
“She tried to listen for a time, and presently she heard a sound as if
some piece of furniture had been knocked over, then nothing more.
Somehow the sudden silence seemed to have frightened the girl more
than the noise had done. Trembling with nervousness she waited for
some few minutes, then, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she
got out of bed, slipped on her shoes and dressing-gown, and determined
to run downstairs to see if anything were amiss.
“To her horror she found on trying her door that it had been locked on
the outside. Quite convinced now that something must indeed be very
wrong, she started screaming and banging against the door, determined
to arouse the household, which she, of course, quickly succeeded in
doing.
“The first to emerge from his room was Lord Barnsdale. He at once
realised that the shrieks proceeded from Alice Holt’s room. He ran
upstairs helter-skelter, and as the key had been left in the door, he
soon released the unfortunate girl, who by now was quite hysterical
with anxiety for her mistress.
“Altogether, I take it, some six or seven minutes must have elapsed
from the time when Alice Holt was first alarmed by the sudden silence
following the noise in Mme. Quesnard’s room until she was released by
Lord Barnsdale.
“As quickly and as coherently as she could, she blurted forth all her
fears about her mistress. I can imagine how picturesque the old Manor
House must have looked then, with everybody, ladies and gentlemen, and
servants, crowding into the hall, arrayed in various _négligé_ attire,
asking hurried questions, getting in each other’s way, and all only
dimly to be seen by the light of candles, carried by some of the more
sensible ones in this motley crowd.
“However, in the meanwhile, Lord Barnsdale had managed to understand
Alice Holt. He ran downstairs again and knocked at his aunt’s door; he
received no reply—he tried the handle, but the door was locked from
the inside.
“Genuinely frightened now, he forced open the door, and then recoiled
in horror.
“The window was wide open, and a brilliant moonlight streamed into the
room, weirdly illumining Mme. Quesnard’s inanimate body, which lay
full length upon the ground. Hastily begging the ladies not to follow
him, Lord Barnsdale quickly went forward and bent over his aunt’s
body.
“There was no doubt that she was dead. An ugly wound at the back of
her head, some red marks round her throat, all testified to the fact
that the poor old lady had been assaulted and murdered. Lord Barnsdale
at once sent for the nearest doctor, whilst he and Miss Holt lifted
the unfortunate lady back to bed.
“The messenger who had gone for the doctor was at the same time
instructed to deliver a note, hastily scribbled by Lord Barnsdale, at
the local police station.
“That a hideous crime had been committed, with burglary for its
object, no one could be in doubt for a moment. Lord Barnsdale and two
or three of his guests had already thrown a glance into the next room,
a little boudoir, which Mme. Quesnard used as a sitting-room. There
the heavy oak bureau bore silent testimony to the motive of this
dastardly outrage. Mme. Quesnard, with the unfortunate and foolhardy
habit peculiar to all French people, kept a very large quantity of
loose and ready money by her. That habit, mind you, is the chief
reason why burglary is so rife and so profitable all over France.
“In this case the old lady’s national characteristic was evidently the
chief cause of her tragic fate; the drawer of the bureau had been
forced open, and no one could doubt for a moment that a large sum of
money had been abstracted from it.
“The burglar had then obviously made good his escape through the
window, which he could do quite easily, as Mme. Quesnard’s apartments
were on the ground floor. She suffered from shortness of breath, it
appears, and had a horror of stairs; she was, moreover, not the least
bit nervous, and her windows were usually barred and shuttered.
“One very curious fact, however, at once struck all those present,
even before the arrival of the detectives, and that was, that the old
lady was partially dressed when she was found lying on the ground. She
had slipped on an elaborate dressing-gown, had smoothed her hair, and
put on her slippers. In fact, it was evident that she had in some
measure prepared herself for the reception of the burglar.
“Throughout these hasty and amateurish observations conducted by Lord
Barnsdale and two of his male guests, Alice Holt had remained seated
beside her late employer’s bedside sobbing bitterly. In spite of Lord
Barnsdale’s entreaties she refused to move; and wildly waved aside any
attempt at consolation offered to her by one or two of the older
female servants who were present.
“It was only when everybody at last made up their minds to return to
their rooms, that some one mentioned Lady Barnsdale’s name. She had
been taken ill and faint the evening before, and had not been well all
night. Jane Barlow, her maid, expressed the hope that her ladyship was
none the worse for this awful commotion, and must be wondering what it
all meant.
“At this, suddenly, Alice Holt jumped up, like a madwoman.
“‘What it all means?’ she shrieked, whilst every one looked at her in
speechless horror, ‘it means that that woman has murdered my mistress,
and robbed her. I know it—I know it—I know it!’
“And once more sinking beside the bed, she covered her dead mistress’s
hand with kisses, and sobbed and wailed as if her heart would break.”
Chapter II
“You may well imagine the awful commotion the girl’s wild outburst had
created in the old Manor House. Lady Barnsdale had been taken ill the
previous evening, and, of course, no one had breathed a word of it to
her, but equally, of course, it was freely talked about at Barnsdale
Manor, in the neighbourhood, and even so far as in the London clubs.
“Lord and Lady Barnsdale were very well known in London society, and
Lord Barnsdale’s adoration for his beautiful wife was quite notorious.
“Alice Holt, after her frantic outburst, had not breathed another
word. Silent and sullen she went up to her room, packed her things,
and left the house, where, of course, it became impossible that she
should stay another day. She refused Lord Barnsdale’s generous offer
of money and help, and only stayed long enough to see the detectives
and reply to the questions they thought fit to put to her.
“The whole neighbourhood was in a fever of excitement; many gossips
would have it that the evidence against Lady Barnsdale was conclusive,
and that a warrant for her arrest had already been applied for.
“What had transpired was this:
“It appears that the day preceding the tragedy, Bridge was, as usual,
being played for, I believe, guinea points. Lord Barnsdale was out
shooting all day, and though the guests at the Manor were very loyal
to their hostess, and refused to make any positive statements, there
seems to be no doubt that Lady Barnsdale lost a very large sum of
money to Sir Gilbert Culworth.
“Be that as it may, nothing further could be gleaned by enterprising
reporters fresh from town; the police were more than usually reticent,
and every one eagerly awaited the opening of the inquest, when
sensational developments were expected in this mysterious case.
“It was held on September the 25th, in the servants’ hall of Barnsdale
Manor, and you may be sure that the large room was crowded to its
utmost capacity. Lord Barnsdale was, of course, present, so was Sir
Gilbert Culworth, but it was understood that Lady Barnsdale was still
suffering from nervous prostration, and was unable to be present.
“When I arrived there, and gradually made my way to the front rank,
the doctor who had been originally summoned to the murdered lady’s
bedside was giving his evidence.
“He gave it as his opinion that the fractured skull from which Mme.
Quesnard died was caused through her hitting the back of her head
against the corner of the marble-topped washstand, in the immediate
proximity of which she lay outstretched, when Lord Barnsdale first
forced open the door. The stains on the marble had confirmed him in
that opinion. Mme. Quesnard, he thought, must have fallen, owing to an
onslaught made upon her by the burglar; the marks round the old lady’s
throat testified to this, although these were not the cause of death.
“After this there was a good deal of police evidence, with regard to
the subsequent movements of the unknown miscreant. He had undoubtedly
broken open the drawer of the bureau in the adjoining boudoir, the
door of communication between this and Mme. Quesnard’s bedroom being
always kept open, and it was presumed that he had made a considerable
haul both in gold and notes. He had then locked the bedroom door on
the inside and made good his escape through the window.
“Immediately beneath this window, the flower-bed, muddy with the
recent rain, bore the imprint of having been hastily trampled upon;
but all actual footmarks had been carefully obliterated. Beyond this,
all round the house, the garden paths are asphalted, and the burglar
had evidently taken the precaution to keep to these asphalted paths,
or else to cross the garden by the lawns.
“You must understand,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight
pause, “that throughout all this preliminary evidence, everything went
to prove that the crime had been committed by an inmate of the house,
or at any rate by some one well acquainted with its usages and its
_ménages_. Alice Holt, whose room was immediately above that of Mme.
Quesnard, and who was, therefore, most likely to hear the noise of the
conflict and to run to her mistress’s assistance, had been first of
all locked up in her room. It had, therefore, become quite evident
that the miscreant had commenced operations from inside the house, and
had entered Mme. Quesnard’s room by the door, and not by the window,
as had been at first supposed.
“But,” added the funny creature excitedly, “as the old lady had,
according to evidence, locked her door that night, it became more and
more clear, as the case progressed, that she must of her own accord
have admitted the person who subsequently caused her tragic death.
This was, of course, confirmed by the fact that she was partially
dressed when she was subsequently found dead.
“Strangely enough, with the exception of Alice Holt, no one else had
heard any noise during the night. But, as I remarked before, the walls
of these old houses are very thick, and no one else slept on the
ground floor.
“Another fact which in the early part of the inquest went to prove
that the outrage was committed by some one familiar with the house,
was that Ben, the watch-dog, had not raised any alarm. His kennel was
quite close to Mme. Quesnard’s windows, and he had not even barked.
“I doubt if the law would take official cognisance of the dumb
testimony of a dog; nevertheless, Ben’s evidence was in this case
quite worthy of consideration.
“You may imagine how gradually, as these facts were unfolded,
excitement grew to fever pitch, and when at last Alice Holt was
called, every one literally held their breath, eagerly waiting to hear
what was coming.
“She is a tall, handsome-looking girl, with fine eyes and a rich
voice. Dressed in deep black she certainly looked an imposing figure
as she stood there, repeating the story of how she was awakened in the
night, by the sound of her mistress’s angry voice, of the noise and
sudden silence, and also of her terror, when she found that she had
been locked up in her room.
“But obviously the girl had more to tell, and was only waiting for the
coroner’s direct question.
“‘Will you tell the jury the reason why you made such an extraordinary
and unwarrantable accusation against Lady Barnsdale?’ he asked her at
last, amid breathless silence in the crowded room.
“Every one instinctively looked across the room to where Lord
Barnsdale sat between his friend Sir Gilbert Culworth and his lawyer,
Sir Arthur Inglewood, who had evidently come down from London in order
to watch the case on his client’s behalf. Alice Holt, too, looked
across at Lord Barnsdale for a moment. He seemed attentive and
interested, but otherwise quite calm and impassive.
“I, who watched the girl, saw a look of pity cross her face as she
gazed at him, and I think, when we bear in mind that the distinguished
English gentleman and the poor paid companion had known each other
years ago, when they were girl and boy together in old Mme. Quesnard’s
French home, we may make a pretty shrewd guess why Alice Holt hated
the beautiful Lady Barnsdale.
“‘It was about six o’clock in the afternoon,’ she began at last, in
the same quiet tone of voice, ‘I was sitting sewing in Madame’s
boudoir, when Lady Barnsdale came into the bedroom. She did not see
me, I know, for she began at once talking volubly to Madame about a
serious loss she had just sustained at Bridge; several hundred pounds,
she said.’
“‘Well?’ queried the coroner, for the girl had paused, almost as if
she regretted what she had already said. She certainly threw an
appealing look at Lord Barnsdale, who, however, seemed to take no
notice of her.
“‘Well,’ she continued with sudden resolution, ‘Madame was very angry
at this; she declared that Lady Barnsdale deserved a severe lesson;
her extravagances were a positive scandal. “Not a penny will I give
you to pay your gambling debts,” said Madame; “and, moreover, I shall
make it my business to inform my nephew of your goings-on whilst he is
absent.”
“‘Lady Barnsdale was in a wild state of excitement. She begged and
implored Madame to say nothing to Lord Barnsdale about it, and did her
very best to try to induce her to help her out of her difficulties,
just this once more. But Madame was obdurate. Thereupon Lady Barnsdale
turned on her like a fury, called her every opprobrious name under the
sun, and finally flounced out of the room, banging the door behind
her.
“‘Madame was very much upset after this,’ continued Alice Holt, ‘and I
was not a bit astonished when directly after dinner she rang for me,
and asked to be put to bed. It was then nine o’clock.
“‘That is the last I saw of poor Madame alive.
“‘She was very excited then, and told me that she was quite frightened
of Lady Barnsdale—a gambler, she said, was as likely as not to become
a thief, if opportunity arose. I offered to sleep on the sofa in the
next room, for the old lady seemed quite nervous, a thing I have never
known her to be. But she was too proud to own to nervousness, and she
dismissed me finally, saying that she would lock her door, for once: a
thing she scarcely ever did.’
“It was a curious story, to say the least of it, which Alice Holt thus
told to an excited public. Cross-examined by the coroner, she never
departed from a single point of it, her calm and presence of mind
being only equalled throughout this trying ordeal by that of Lord
Barnsdale, who sat seemingly unmoved whilst these terrible
insinuations were made against his wife.
“But there was more to come. Sir Gilbert Culworth had been called; in
the interest of justice, and in accordance with his duty as a citizen,
he was forced to stand up and, all unwillingly, to add another tiny
link to the chain of evidence that implicated his friend’s wife in
this most terrible crime.
“Right loyally he tried to shield her in every possible way, but
cross-questioned by the coroner, harassed nearly out of his senses, he
was forced to admit two facts—namely, that Lady Barnsdale had lost
nearly £800 at Bridge the day before the murder, and that she had paid
her debt to himself in full, on the following morning, in gold and
notes.
“He had been forced, much against his will, to show the notes to the
police; unfortunately for the justice of the case, however, the
numbers of these could not be directly traceable as having been in
Mme. Quesnard’s possession at the time of her death. No diaries or
books of accounts of any kind were found. Like most French people, she
arranged all her money affairs herself, receiving her vast dividends
in foreign money, and converting this into English notes and gold, as
occasion demanded, at the nearest money-changer’s that happened to be
handy.
“She had, like a great many foreigners, a holy horror of banks. She
would have mistrusted the Bank of England itself; as for solicitors,
she held them in perfect abhorrence. She only went once to one in her
life, and that was in order to make a will leaving everything she
possessed unconditionally to her beloved nephew, Lord Barnsdale.
“But in spite of this difficulty about the notes, you see for
yourself, do you not, how terribly strong was the circumstantial
evidence against Lady Barnsdale? Her losses at cards, her appeal to
Mme. Quesnard, the latter’s refusal to help her, and finally the
payment in full of the debt to Sir Gilbert Culworth on the following
morning.
“There was only one thing that spoke for her, and that was the very
horror of the crime itself. It was practically impossible to conceive
that a woman of Lady Barnsdale’s refinement and education should have
sprung upon an elderly woman, like some navvy’s wife by the docks, and
then that she should have had the presence of mind to jump out of the
window, to obliterate her footmarks in the flower-bed, and, in fact,
to have given the crime the look of a clever burglary.
“Still, we all know that money difficulties will debase the noblest of
us, that greed will madden the sanest and most refined. When the
inquest was adjourned, I can assure you that no one had any doubt
whatever that within twenty-four hours Lady Barnsdale would be
arrested on the capital charge.”
Chapter III
“But the detectives in charge of the case had reckoned without Sir
Arthur Inglewood, the great lawyer, who was watching the proceedings
on behalf of his aristocratic clients,” said the man in the corner,
when he had assured himself of my undivided attention.
“The adjourned inquest brought with it, I assure you, its full quota
of sensation. Again Lord Barnsdale was present, calm, haughty, and
impassive, whilst Lady Barnsdale was still too ill to attend. But she
had made a statement upon oath, in which, whilst flatly denying that
her interview with the deceased at 6 p.m. had been of an acrimonious
character as alleged by Alice Holt, she swore most positively that all
through the night she had been ill, and had not left her room after
11.30 p.m.
“The first witness called after this affidavit had been read was Jane
Barlow, Lady Barnsdale’s maid.
“The girl deposed that on that memorable evening preceding the murder,
she went up to her mistress’s room at about 11.30 in order to get
everything ready for the night. As a rule, of course, there was nobody
about in the bedroom at that hour, but on this occasion when Jane
Barlow entered the room, which she did without knocking, she saw her
mistress sitting by her desk.
“‘Her ladyship looked up when I came in,’ continued Jane Barlow, ‘and
seemed very cross with me for not knocking at the door. I apologised,
then began to get the room tidy; as I did so I could see that my lady
was busy counting a lot of money. There were lots of sovereigns and
banknotes. My lady put some together in an envelope and addressed it,
then she got up from her desk and went to lock up the remainder of the
money in her jewel safe.’
“‘And this was at what time?’ asked the coroner.
“‘At about half-past eleven, I think, sir,’ repeated the girl.
“‘Well,’ said the coroner, ‘did you notice anything else?’
“‘Yes,’ replied Jane, ‘whilst my lady was at her safe, I saw the
envelope in which she had put the money lying on the desk. I couldn’t
help looking at it, for I knew it was ever so full of banknotes, and I
saw that my lady had addressed it to Sir Gilbert Culworth.’
“At this point Sir Arthur Inglewood jumped to his feet and handed
something over to the coroner; it was evidently an envelope which had
been torn open. The coroner looked at it very intently, then suddenly
asked Jane Barlow if she had happened to notice anything about the
envelope which was lying on her ladyship’s desk that evening.
“‘Oh, yes, sir!’ she replied unhesitatingly, ‘I noticed my lady had
made a splotch, right on top of the C in Sir Gilbert Culworth’s name.’
“‘This, then, is the envelope,’ was the coroner’s quiet comment, as he
handed the paper across to the girl.
“‘Yes, there’s the splotch,’ she replied, ‘I’d know it anywhere.’
“So you see,” continued the man in the corner, with a chuckle, “that
the chain of circumstantial evidence against Lady Barnsdale was
getting somewhat entangled. It was indeed fortunate for her that Sir
Gilbert Culworth had not destroyed the envelope in which she had
handed him over the money on the following day.
“Alice Holt, as you know, heard the conflict and raised the alarm much
later in the night, when everybody was already in bed, whilst long
before that Lady Barnsdale was apparently in possession of the money
with which she could pay back her debt.
“Thus the motive for the crime, so far as she was concerned, was
entirely done away with. Directly after the episode witnessed by Jane
Barlow, Lady Barnsdale had a sort of nervous collapse, and went to bed
feeling very ill. Lord Barnsdale was terribly concerned about her; he
and the maid remained alternately by her bedside for an hour or two;
finally Lord Barnsdale went to sleep in his dressing-room, whilst Jane
also finally retired to rest.
“Ill as Lady Barnsdale undoubtedly was then, it was absolutely
preposterous to conceive that she could after that have planned and
carried out so monstrous a crime, without any motive whatever. To have
locked Alice Holt’s door, then gone downstairs, forced her way into
the old lady’s room, struggled with her, to have jumped out of the
window, and run back into the house by the garden, might have been the
work of a determined woman, driven mad by the desire for money, but
became absolutely out of the question in the case of a woman suffering
from nervous collapse, and having apparently no motive for the crime.
“Of course Sir Arthur Inglewood made the most of the fact that no mud
was found on any shoes or dress belonging to Lady Barnsdale. The
flower-bed was very soft with the heavy rain of the day before, and
Lady Barnsdale could not possibly have jumped even from a ground-floor
window and trampled on the flower-bed without staining her skirts.
“Then there was another point which the clever lawyer brought to the
coroner’s notice. As Alice Holt had stated in her sworn evidence that
Mme. Quesnard had owned to being frightened of Lady Barnsdale that
night, was it likely that she would _of her own accord_ have opened
the door to her in the middle of the night, without at least calling
for assistance?
“Thus the matter has remained a strange and unaccountable puzzle. It
has always been called the ‘Barnsdale Mystery’ for that very reason.
Every one, somehow, has always felt that Lady Barnsdale did have
something to do with that terrible tragedy. Her husband has taken her
abroad, and they have let Barnsdale Manor; it almost seems as if the
ghost of the old Frenchwoman had driven them forth from their own
country.
“As for Alice Holt, she maintains to this day that Lady Barnsdale was
the culprit, and I understand that she has not yet given up all hope
of collecting a sufficiency of evidence to have the beautiful and
fashionable woman of society arraigned for this hideous murder.”
Chapter IV
“Will she succeed, do you think?” I asked at last.
“Succeed? Of course she won’t,” he retorted excitedly. “Lady Barnsdale
never committed that murder; no woman, except, perhaps, an East-end
factory hand, could have done it at all.”
“But then——” I urged.
“Why, then,” he replied, with a chuckle, “the only logical conclusion
is that the robbery and the murder were not committed by the same
person, nor at the same hour of the night; moreover, I contend that
there was no premeditated murder, but that the old lady died from the
result of a pure accident.”
“But how?” I gasped.
“This is my version of the story,” he said excitedly, as his long bony
fingers started fidgeting, fidgeting with that eternal bit of string.
“Lady Barnsdale, pressed for money, made an appeal to Mme. Quesnard,
which the latter refused, as we know. Then there was an acrimonious
dispute between the two ladies, after which came the dinner hour, then
Madame, feeling ill and upset, went up to bed at nine o’clock.
“Now my contention is that undoubtedly the robbery had been committed
before that, between the dispute and Madame’s bedtime.”
“By whom?”
“By Lady Barnsdale, of course, who, as the mistress of the house,
could come and go from room to room without exciting any comment, who,
moreover, at 6 p.m. was hard pressed for money, and who but a few
hours later was handling a mass of gold and banknotes.
“But the strain of committing even an ordinary theft is very great
upon a refined woman’s organisation. Lady Barnsdale has a nervous
breakdown. Well! what is the most likely thing to happen? Why! that
she should confess everything to her husband, who worships her, and no
doubt express her repentance at what she had done.
“Then imagine Lord Barnsdale’s horror! The old lady had not discovered
the theft before going to bed. That was only natural, since she was
feeling unwell, and was not likely to sit up at night counting her
money; the lock of the bureau drawer having been tampered with, would
perhaps not attract her attention at night.
“But in the morning, the very first thing, she would discover
everything, at once suspect the worst, and who knows, make a scandal,
talk of it before Alice Holt, Lady Barnsdale’s arch enemy, and all
before restitution could be made.
“No, no, that restitution must be made at once! not a minute must be
lost, since any moment might bring forth discovery, and perhaps an
awful catastrophe.
“I take it that Mme. Quesnard and her nephew were on very intimate
terms. He hoped to arouse no one by going to his aunt’s room, but in
order to make quite sure that Alice Holt, hearing a noise in her
mistress’s room, should not surreptitiously come down, and perhaps
play eavesdropper at the momentous interview, he turned the key of the
girl’s door as he went past, and locked her in.
“Then he knocked at his aunt’s door (gently, of course, for old people
are light sleepers), and called her by name. Mme. Quesnard,
recognising her nephew’s voice, slipped on her dressing-gown, smoothed
her hair, and let him in.
“Exactly what took place at the interview it is, of course, impossible
for any human being to say. Here even I can but conjecture,” he added,
with inimitable conceit, “but we can only imagine that, having heard
Lord Barnsdale’s confession of his wife’s folly, the old lady, who as
a Frenchwoman was of quick temper and unbridled tongue, would indulge
in not very elegant rhetoric on the subject of the woman she had
always disliked.
“Lord Barnsdale would, of course, defend his wife, and the old lady,
with feminine obstinacy, would continue the attack. Then some
insulting epithet, a word only perhaps, roused the devoted husband’s
towering indignation—the meekest man on earth becomes a mad bull when
he really loves, and the woman he loves is insulted.
“I maintain that the old lady’s death was really due to a pure
accident; that Lord Barnsdale gripped her by the throat, in a moment
of mad anger, at some hideous insult hurled at his wife; of that I am
as convinced as if I had witnessed the whole scene. Then the old lady
fell, hit her head against the marble, and Lord Barnsdale realised
that he was alone at night in his aunt’s room, and that he had killed
her.
“What would anyone do under the circumstances?” he added excitedly.
“Why, of course, collect his senses and try to save himself from what
might prove to be consequences of the most awful kind. This Lord
Barnsdale thought he could best do by giving the accident, which
looked so like murder, the appearance of a burglary.
“The lock of the desk in the next room had already been forced open;
he now locked the door on the inside, threw open the shutter and the
window, jumped out as any burglar would have done; and, being careful
to obliterate his own footmarks, he crept back into the house and
thence into his own room, without alarming the watch-dog, who
naturally knew his own master. He was, of course, just in time before
Alice Holt succeeded in rousing the household with her screams.
“And thus you see,” he added, “there are no such things as mysteries.
The police call them so, so do the public, but every crime has its
perpetrator, and every puzzle its solution. My experience is that the
simplest solution is invariably the right one.”
The End
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the original 1909 publication.
However, the following alterations have been made to correct what are
believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:
* “interwined” has been changed to “intertwined” (I., Ch. I).
* “Chiselhurst” has been changed to “Chislehurst” (IV., Ch. IV).
* “Vandervellen” has been changed to “Vanderdellen” (IV., Ch. IV).
* “had affected” has been changed to “had effected” (V., Ch. II).
* “glanced at if” has been changed to “glanced at it” (V., Ch. II).
* “incoherent and definite” has been changed to
“coherent and definite” (VI., Ch. I).
* “Wembly” has been changed to “Wembley” (VI., Ch. I).
* “immedate” has been changed to “immediate” (VI., Ch. I).
* “Athur” has been changed to “Arthur” (VII., Ch. II).
* “cetain” has been changed to “certain” (VIII., Ch. II).
* “signficance” has been changed to “significance” (VIII., Ch. III).
* “Mr. Carlton” has been changed to “Mr. Carleton” (VIII., Ch. III).
Additionally, several occurrences of incorrectly matched quotation
marks have been repaired. All other ostensible inconsistencies have
been left unchanged from the original.