|Davis directed a keen glance at his elder sister over the bowed head of
Iris. The younger woman was by no means of an emotional nature. Light,
frivolous and volatile, she had danced through life, and, on the whole,
had had a good time. One could not picture her in a tragic mood.
And yet, she was the personification of deep emotion now. She could
hardly speak for those convulsive sobs, and in her frightened eyes
there was a deep and haunting terror. At what point, and through what
circumstances, had tragedy touched this little selfish, self-centred
butterfly, gifted with a certain amount of cunning and sharpness, but
utterly brainless.
"What do you know of No. 10 Cathcart Square, except what you gleaned
from the newspapers?" demanded her brother sternly. "How can you be
implicated in the murder of the unknown man whom Carrie mistook for me?"
"But Carrie did not mistake him for you," wailed Iris. "She told me
afterwards that the idea suggested itself in a flash, and when she
read the newspaper she was not sure whether it was you who had crept in
there, according to the evidence, and made away with yourself, through
fear of the police."
"Leave Carrie out of it for the moment," said Davis. "Whatever she did
was well thought out. Of course, we both know her object was to identify
me, if possible, and put Scotland Yard off the scent. What we want to
know is, how did you come to be acquainted with the house? what do you
mean by saying that, if further investigations are made, you might be
dragged in?"
"I was there on four occasions: on the last a few days before the
murder, or suicide, whatever it was."
Davis gasped, and Carrie lifted her hands in horror. What did this
confession mean? It was impossible that this slim, weak girl had herself
been the murderess, could have killed a big, powerful man of the same
build as the supposed Davis, with those slim, weak hands.
She saw the horror in their faces, and hastened to reassure them. "Oh
no, not that, I swear to you. I am no more a murderess than you were a
murderer, Reggie. But if the whole thing is raked up, and the man whom
I believe it to be, accurately identified this time, things might look
very black for me."
Davis lifted her from her kneeling position, and placed her in an
easy-chair. "Calm yourself, and tell us the whole story of why and how
you came to be in Cathcart Square at all."
Iris waited a few moments till the convulsive sobbing ceased. She spoke
with little occasional gasps, but it was very evident it was a relief to
unbosom herself.
"It is a very long story," she began tremulously.
"If the telling of it lasts till midnight, we must have it," said her
brother in an inflexible voice.
And compelled by his resolute manner, the girl, whom they had always
regarded as a frivolous butterfly, embarked upon her strange and
thrilling narrative.
"It all arose out of the sale of those letters I spoke to you about.
Carrie just now asked me the name of the man who wrote them. Well, I
didn't get further than Roddie, which doesn't carry you very far. If it
had not been for your threat of going to Scotland Yard, I should have
stopped at that. A still tongue makes a wise head, you know."
They could quite believe that. In spite of her ceaseless chatter, Iris
had always been very reticent about her own affairs. She had seen next
to nothing of her brother for a few years, not very much of Carrie
Masters. And, on these occasions, she had always avoided, in a marked
manner, any allusion to her private affairs.
"I told you of a soppy young chap who started to make love to me last
year. I didn't care a snap for him, but he was very persistent, and at
last wrote me most urgent letters imploring me to be his wife. His full
name was Roderick Murchison, a member of the great brewing family; his
father has been dead for some time, he died during the war, and Roddie
came in for tons of money, although he was not the eldest son. I don't
know if you have ever heard of him?"
No, neither Davis nor Carrie had known of the existence of such a young
man. They had a hazy idea that there was a big brewing firm of that
name, that was all.
"Well, as I say, I didn't care a snap for him, although he was awfully
good and generous, overwhelmed me with, all kinds of lovely presents:
rings, bracelets, fur coats, etc. In our life, you know, one accepts
these things from the mugs who are gone on us without attaching very
much importance to the fact."
It was evident that Miss Iris had struck out her own line of life, and
made a very good thing out of it.
"Well, then, Roddie began to grow desperate, and declared he couldn't
live without me. It was all so genuine that at last I began to think
seriously of it. There were tons of money, and although I didn't cotton
much to the sort of life I should have to lead as his wife, still there
were worse things than being Mrs. Roderick Murchison, with the future
well assured, and a handsome settlement."
Davis and his elder sister exchanged wondering glances. So this
butterfly little girl, whom they had always regarded as rather shallow
and feather-brained, had had this wonderful chance of marrying a
gentleman and a rich man.
"It was difficult to bring myself up to the scratch, in spite of the
advantages, for he was so soft and soppy that he irritated me in a
thousand-and-one ways, and I knew in a very short time I should grow to
hate and despise him. Then one night, after a very excellent champagne
supper at the 'Excelsior,' he got me in a yielding mood, and I promised
to marry him."
Brother and sister could only marvel at the girl's extraordinary good
fortune, reluctant as she seemed to avail herself of it.
"He told me that before he went to bed that night he wrote to his family
acquainting them with the news, anticipating fully their objections,
but expressing his strong determination to brook no interference or
remonstrance. You see he was his own master, nobody could take his money
away from him, and he didn't care whether his relatives were offended or
not."
"And how did the family take it?" queried Davis.
"I am coming to that," replied Iris. She was growing much calmer now. It
was a relief to unburden her secret to an audience whom she could trust.
For she was sure that neither her brother nor sister would ever allow
her to put herself into real danger.
"I am coming to that," she repeated. "A few days after he had written
those letters, one to his widowed mother, one to his elder brother, who
had inherited the bulk of the big fortune, the elder brother called upon
me in my flat. He was a very handsome, well-set-up man, although he had
been through a good deal in the war. He was very like you, Reggie."
"Ah," ejaculated Mr. Davis. He looked at Carrie, keenly watching her
sister, with a glance that suggested they would soon be coming to the
real pith of this rambling confession.
"He begged the favour of a short conversation. He was perfectly open and
above-board. He told me straight he was Roddie's elder brother, and that
his name was Hugh Murchison. He pointed out to me very kindly that
his brother was an impetuous young ass--a judgment which I privately
endorsed--that Roddie had been infatuated, in his short day, with quite
a number of other girls, although, perhaps, not to the same extent
as with me." Iris, getting back rapidly into her light mind, let her
volatile and easily impressed nature peep out in her next words.
"Oh, Hugh Murchison was a darling, so quiet, so sensible, and so strong.
If he had been fool enough to ask me to marry him, I would not have
given him up for seven thousand pounds."
"But you were prepared to chuck Roddie for that?" suggested her brother
quietly.
"I think I let him go a bit too cheap," answered the fair Iris in
a reflective voice. "Many girls have got more than I asked for
compromising a breach of promise. But to tell the absolute truth, Hugh
Murchison hypnotised me a bit. He was so quiet and yet so strong that I
felt he could twist me round his little finger."
"We want to get to Cathcart Square," interjected Davis a little
impatiently. "We don't seem to be near it yet."
"I must tell my story my own way, it is no use driving me," replied
Iris, pouting a little. "Well, as I tell you, he called that day at my
flat--that was the beginning of negotiations. Where were we to meet
to discuss details? I couldn't have him at my flat, because Roddie was
always popping in and out. He couldn't have me at his hotel, because
nobody knew whom we might come across, and Roddie was always coming
there. He said he would think out a plan and telephone or wire me."
"Ah," said Carrie, with a sigh of relief: she was a very practical
person. "Now, I suppose we are coming to it."
Iris, heedless of the interruption, went on with her story.
"Next day he 'phoned me up, and after ascertaining that I was quite
alone, told me to meet him at 10 Cathcart Square to resume our
conversation."
"Why, in the name of all that is wonderful----" began Reginald Davis,
but his sister motioned him to silence.
"Don't interrupt, please, you will know everything in a few minutes. I
went to No. 10 Cathcart Square at the time appointed. He opened the
door himself. It was a big house in an old-fashioned square, ages old, I
should say, and in the front court was an agent's board, intimating that
this particular house was to let, furnished."
"I know Cathcart Square well, it's in an old-world quarter of
Kensington," interrupted Davis. He added grimly, "I know it well,
although I did not have the misfortune to commit suicide there."
"He told me a very funny story. The afternoon of the day before, he had
been up to Kensington to visit an old nurse of the family who lived
near by. He had strolled round to Cathcart Square to fill up an idle
half-hour. He had been struck by the appearance of the house, and
loitered before it, when suddenly the door opened, and a somewhat
bibulous-looking caretaker came out."
Davis indulged in a sigh of relief. "We are really coming to it now,
then?"
"Yes, you are coming to it. He told me a sudden idea had occurred to
him. Here would be a quiet little spot for our meetings, a place where
Roddie would never dream of following us. He accosted the caretaker,
evidently a drunken and corrupt creature. He explained that he wanted to
rent a couple of rooms where he could receive a certain visitor he was
expecting in the course of the next week or fortnight. It was no
use going to the house agents for that, they would turn down such a
proposition. The caretaker, with a couple of five-pound notes in his
hand, took an intelligent view of the situation. He gave Hugh a key,
and intimated that, if he had sufficient notice, he would make himself
scarce on the occasions when the visitor was expected."
"Of all the mad things----" began Davis, but his sister for the second
time motioned her brother to silence.
"Not quite so mad as you think. I fancy I can see into his mind. We
could have met at a dozen different restaurants in London, but Roddie
was here, there and everywhere: at any moment he might have come across
us. He would never get as far as Kensington." David nodded his sagacious
head. "I think I see. Go on."
"I met him there, in all four times, the last meeting was a few days
before the tragedy."
"And what took place at that meeting?"
"He paid me the seven thousand pounds in notes. I signed a paper
agreeing to give Roddie up. I carried out my bargain. I wrote Roddie
that same night, giving him his dismissal, and assuring him that nothing
he could urge would induce me to reconsider my determination. He sent me
frantic telegrams the next day, but I replied to the same effect. After
taking his seven thousand pounds, I could not break faith with Hugh,
could I?"
Davis was not quite sure that Iris would not break faith with anybody if
it suited her purpose. But clearly Hugh Murchison had subjugated her to
the extent of respecting an honourable bargain. No doubt she had fallen
in love with him, so far as a person of her shallow temperament could
fall in love.
"And what has become of Roddie?"
"I don't know, and I don't care. He has bored me to extinction for over
nine months. I am glad to be shut of him."
Davis put a question. "You say Hugh Murchison paid you in notes. What
have you done with them? His bank will have the numbers."
"Will they?" cried Iris, the frightened look again coming into her eyes;
she knew nothing of business methods. "I paid them into my own account.
Now, you see, if you rake this up I might be implicated."
"Your opinion is, then, that the man found in No. 10 Cathcart Square was
Hugh Murchison?"
"I am as nearly sure as I can be, after reading the caretaker's
evidence. He had some other stunt on beside my own. I was not the only
visitor he received."
Davis thought deeply before he spoke. "If I have him dug up, and he is
identified by those who know him, a lot will come to light. Your notes
will be traced, for one thing."
"I am afraid of everything, Reggie. For the love of Heaven, let him rest
where he is." Caroline Masters breathed softly to herself. "You were
half in love with him, or perhaps three-quarters, and you don't want to
know the real truth. Oh, you miserable little, paltry soul!"
And then a sudden thought came to Davis. "Now, Iris, you could never
think very clearly about things when they got a little bit complicated.
You are quite sure the last occasion on which you saw him was a few days
before the discovery of the body?"
"I will swear to it," cried Iris firmly.
"The date of his cheque, which the Bank has, will show that. He probably
cashed it himself on the day he paid you, any way the day before. Now,
on the day preceding and the day following that tragedy, can you prove
where you were?"
Iris began to see light. "Of course I can. The day after I had the
notes, I got up a sprained ankle, an obliging doctor, an old (or rather
young) friend of mine, sent a certificate to the theatre. I motored down
to Brighton with Johnny Lascelles--who, by the way, used to make Roddie
fearfully jealous. We joined a jolly little party at 'The Old Ship.' I
came back the day after the discovery in Cathcart Square."
Davis rose and gave a great shout: "You have witnesses who can swear to
that?"
"Of course," answered Iris, not even yet comprehending the full drift of
the question. "Johnny Lascelles motored me there and drove me back. Then
there was Cissy Monteith, Katie Havard, Jack Legard and others who were
with me all the time."
"You silly little idiot," cried Reginald Davis. "And what the deuce do
you mean by saying that you might be implicated?"
"The notes," she faltered. "My meeting him alone in that empty house.
They might suggest I murdered him, if you say he was murdered."
Davis smote his forehead in impotent anger at her denseness. "How could
you have murdered him when you were at Brighton all the time?"
He smote the palms of his hands together.
"I will find out who the dead man was, and also the man who forged my
name to that letter to the Coroner."
He turned to his sister: "As for you, young woman, it may be you will
have a bad quarter of an hour, if it all comes out about Roddie. But
never mind, you will have a splendid advertisement. The next bunch of
letters you get hold of, the price will be twice seven thousand pounds."
CHAPTER XII
|The following morning Reginald Davis, resolved to unearth the mystery
of 10 Cath-cart Square, stood in the private room of Mr. Bryant of
Scotland Yard.
He had easily overcome his younger sister's scruples, her terror at
having to give evidence in a court of justice, and being forced to
disclose certain transactions not too creditable to herself. She had
come to see from the point of view artfully suggested by Davis, that, on
the whole, it would be a very good advertisement. It might even take
her from her place in the chorus to a small acting part, and then her
fortune would be made. She might be able to come across another rich man
whom she would like well enough to marry, a man quite different from the
somewhat invertebrate Roddie.
Bryant looked up from his papers, and regarded the young man with his
keen and steady gaze. Davis's good looks, and frank air impressed him
favourably.
"Well, my man, what do you want with me? I don't usually see strangers
who approach me in such a mysterious fashion. You would neither state
your name nor business, only said vaguely that you wanted to interview
me on a matter of great urgency."
"I wished to keep my business for your private ear, sir. Can you throw
your mind back to a certain gruesome affair that happened at 10 Cathcart
Square?"
"Certainly, although I was not in charge of the matter. The man was
identified as Reginald Davis, who was wanted on a charge of murder,
the circumstantial evidence against him being very strong; the verdict
returned was one of suicide. If I recollect rightly, he had broken a
pane of glass in one of the back windows of the house, unhasped the
latch of the window, and cut his throat upstairs after he got inside.
The facts were accepted at the time as conclusive evidence of his
guilt."
"And you recollect, sir, what happened a short time ago with regard to
the crime of which Reginald Davis was accused?"
"Perfectly. The real criminal has confessed. And this poor devil,
overwhelmed no doubt by the circumstantial evidence which told so
strongly against him, acted too hastily."
"If the police had caught him, he would probably have been hanged by
now," said Davis a little bitterly.
Mr. Bryant looked a little uneasy. "I should say it is more than
probable from what I remember of the case; well, you know, the law makes
mistakes at times, I will admit."
"And juries at inquests make mistakes at times, also," remarked Davis
quietly. "This particular jury made a mistake. The dead man was no more
Reginald Davis than you are."
It was not easy to startle Mr. Bryant, he had been through too many
strange experiences for that, but he exhibited a mild surprise as he put
the question: "And what authority have you for saying that?"
"I think you will admit the best. I who stand before you am the Reginald
Davis who was wanted on that false charge of murder, and branded by that
intelligent jury as a suicide."
"You can prove this, of course. I mean that you are the real Reginald
Davis."
"Of course I can, sir; I can bring a dozen witnesses, if necessary, half
of whom have known me since a boy."
Needless to say that a man of Bryant's experience did not, as a rule,
believe one quarter of what he was told. But this man's face--this man's
tones--convinced him that he was listening to the truth.
He rose from his chair. "Wait here a moment, please, while I hunt up the
particulars of this case. As I told you just now, I was not in charge of
it, and I should like to refresh my memory as to certain details."
He came back after a few moments. "I know it all now, from A to Z.
You were identified by a married sister, a Mrs. Masters, who gave some
details of your career, which did not seem to have been a very healthy
one. She was also shown a letter which you were supposed to have written
to the Coroner, and she believed it to be in your handwriting. This
wants some explanation, I think, Mr. Davis, to call you by the name
which you say is your right one."
"Quite so, sir," answered Reginald composedly. "It certainly requires
a good deal of explanation, but if you will listen to me with a little
patience, I think I can convince you that the thing is more natural than
it appears." The Inspector threw himself back in his chair: "I have no
doubt it was your sister who identified you, but how did she come to
mistake the actual suicide for you?"
And Mr. Davis gave the explanation which Bryant might believe or not, or
believe in part, as he chose.
"My sister Caroline was deeply attached to me. She was in despair when
she heard that I was suspected of murder, and was being hunted by the
police. As day after day, week after week, went by, and there was no
news of my capture, she got it firmly fixed in her mind that I had
committed suicide. She hunted the newspapers every morning to find some
paragraph that would confirm her fears. And then one day she read about
what had happened at Cathcart Square."
Mr. Bryant was now deeply interested. He leaned forward in his chair,
and his attitude betokened his eagerness.
"It is possible that her mind had become a little unhinged by her
anxiety. She expected to find me, and she found a man who might have
passed for my twin brother. So she tells me now that I have revealed
myself, for, of course, I lay very low until this belated confession of
the real murderer."
Bryant only made a brief comment on this particular portion of the
narrative which Davis was twisting about with some skill. Of course,
Mrs. Masters had not been deceived by the accidental resemblance, but in
pretending to be she had given that brother a new lease of life.
"You say that the man was so like you that the sister, who had known you
from childhood, was ready to swear he was her brother?"
"There is no doubt, sir, that at the time her mind was clouded. She went
there expecting to find me, and as a not altogether unnatural result,
she found what she expected."
"We will let that pass," said the Inspector drily. "No doubt, under
extraordinary circumstances, strange hallucinations are apt to occur. It
was very fortunate for you that your sister made that mistake, and that
it was accepted. As you admitted just now, if you had been caught and
tried it would have gone very hardly with you."
Whatever Bryant thought in his own mind, it was evident that he was
prepared to admit that Mrs. Masters had acted in good faith when she
swore that the dead man was her brother. Davis could see there would be
no trouble on that score.
"Now we come to the letter," pursued Davis. "I questioned my sister very
closely about that last night. She says she was so overwhelmed with the
discovery that she read that letter through a mist, as it were, but she
is positive that it closely resembled my handwriting."
"Another hallucination, I suppose, or an accidental resemblance. Well,
if you will leave a specimen of your own caligraphy with us, we can
compare them," said Bryant.
"And I suppose, sir, you will have the body exhumed, for the purpose of
discovering who the man really was?"
"I suppose so," replied the Inspector a little unwillingly. "Although
I don't expect we shall ever find out. Nobody came forward at the time
when your sister made that mistake. Is it likely anybody will come
forward now? Some poor derelict, weary of life I suppose, without kith
or kin to claim him at the end. There are scores of suicides in the
year, Mr. Davis, who are buried unidentified."
He added, after a moment's pause: "Of course, before taking any such
steps, we must formally prove, from unimpeachable testimony, that not
only are you Reginald Davis, but the particular Reginald Davis who was
falsely accused of murder."
"I quite understand," answered Davis a little stiffly. "Before I
leave this room, I will indicate the quarters where you can obtain the
information you want."
"Then, when I have verified that, I will ask you to come and see me
again." Bryant's manner as he said these words, indicated that the
interview was at an end.
But Davis kept his seat, he had not finished yet.
"May I take the liberty of detaining you for a few moments longer, sir,
to impress upon you the importance of having that body exhumed? You may
be correct in your theory it is that of some poor derelict, but I have a
different theory altogether."
The Inspector looked sharply at him, and drew a deep breath. "Ah, then,
you have some knowledge of something: your visit to me has been leading
up to this, eh?"
"No actual knowledge, sir, but a surmise that has, I venture to think,
some foundation. I have two sisters. The elder one I have already spoken
of to you."
There was a slight note of sarcasm in the Inspector's voice as he
replied, "Yes, Mrs. Masters, whose fortunate mistake was of such
excellent service to you, during the time you were waiting for the real
criminal's confession." Davis did not suffer himself to resent this.
Of course, a man of the world like Bryant did not believe in this
camouflaged story. Mrs. Masters was a clever young woman, and had
taken advantage of an accidental resemblance to get her brother out of
jeopardy.
"My other sister, Iris Deane, is in the chorus of the Frivolity Theatre.
I don't suppose you have ever heard of her?"
Mr. Bryant shook his head. He knew a great deal about all classes of
criminals, but young ladies in the chorus of the Frivolity, or any other
theatre, were not in his line.
"She was at Mrs. Masters's house last night. She came over especially
to welcome me, on my reintroduction to the world which I was supposed
to have quitted. She made to us a very startling confession, and that
confession is intimately associated with the events at Cathcart Square."
And this time, Bryant was genuinely surprised, and was at no pains to
conceal it. Reginald Davis--he was beginning to believe in the man's
identity now--was evidently a member of a very remarkable family.
"You astound me, Mr. Davis. Yourself and both your sisters mixed up with
what happened there! It sounds like a romance. Pray proceed!"
Davis told the story as Iris had told him, carefully concealing the
names of the two men concerned in it for the moment. He was careful
to point out that on the night of the suicide she could establish a
complete and unquestioned alibi.
Bryant turned on him sharply. "It occurs to me that you don't think it
was a suicide, Mr. Davis."
"I don't, sir, and at present I can't quite tell you why."
"But you must have some reason for thinking that," said Bryant in the
same sharp tone.
"My only reason is this--if the man who was buried under the name of
Reginald Davis is the man I believe him to be, there was no earthly
reason why he should commit suicide. To the best of my belief, he was
murdered for some motive that I cannot guess, and the murderer, after
cutting his throat, put the razor in his stiffening hand."
"It is a theory worth thinking about," said Bryant, who was beginning to
appreciate his visitor very much. "And now, Mr. Davis, the name of the
man whom your sister met in the empty house?"
"I have kept that to the last, to surprise you. You will know the name,
but I don't suppose you ever came across the man. It was Major Hugh
Murchison."
At this startling announcement, the Inspector literally jumped from his
chair.
"But I do know Major Hugh Murchison," he cried. "He was in my office not
so very long ago. Let me see, when was it?"
He turned to his diary and verified the date, and gave it to Reginald
Davis. It was longer back than he thought.
"And you have not seen him since that day?"
"No," answered the Inspector. "Wait a moment till I ring up my friend
Parkinson. I couldn't undertake the job he called on, as it was quite a
private matter. I handed it over to Parkinson."
He rang up his old friend and former colleague. Davis could gather
enough from the conversation on Bryant's side to be sure that a
considerable interval had elapsed since Parkinson had seen his client.
Bryant sat down in his chair. "Mr. Davis, I cannot say how much obliged
I am to you for your visit, and the information you have given me. Now,
I know a great deal more than you do about the proceedings and movements
of Major Murchison, I know on what business he was engaged, in addition
to that little matter of your sister's. I will go into the inquiries
concerning yourself, and please hold yourself at my disposal, give me an
address where I can communicate with you readily."
Davis did so, and said good-bye to the Inspector.
After he had left, Bryant gave instructions he was not to be disturbed
for an hour. And during that hour he did the hardest bit of thinking he
had ever done in his life.
And now that Davis had mentioned it, the man did bear a superficial
resemblance to Hugh Murchison.
CHAPTER XXIII
|It was a very hard nut he had to crack. Thanks to his peculiar
position, he was in possession of reliable and exclusive information
from more than one quarter. He held several threads in his capable
hands, but would he be able to weave them into a net wide enough for his
purpose?
His recent interview with Davis had established the fact that four
persons were connected with the mystery of Cathcart Square--Davis
himself, Caroline Masters (the elder sister), Iris Deane (the younger
sister), and, most important of all, Hugh Murchison.
He dismissed, for the moment, the first three from his mind. But Hugh
Murchison, with his resemblance to Reginald Davis, was the connecting
link between them and another set of actors.
Murchison had consulted him with the view of identifying Mrs. Spencer
and George Dutton with the Norah and George Burton of those far-off days
at Blankfield, and he had identified them as the same persons. He had
then handed over the Major to the astute Parkinson, who would find out
as much as he could with regard to the present relations between the
precious pair.
Bryant had been very busy of late, and he had almost dismissed the
Murchison episode from his mind. But when the Major had completed his
investigations he would undoubtedly take steps to turn such a scheming
and unscrupulous adventuress out of her husband's house. As to the way
in which he would proceed to accomplish that purpose, Bryant, of course,
had no knowledge. Neither did he know which Murchison would approach
first, the husband or the wife. Perhaps both together.
One thing stood out pretty clearly, from the evidence of Iris Deane,
that she had met Murchison alone at the house in Cathcart Square a few
days before the discovery of the dead body.
Another thing also stood out equally clearly, that the dead man bore a
remarkable likeness to Reginald Davis. If not, Caroline Masters would
not have dared to perjure herself as she had done. And he himself had
recognised the superficial resemblance between the two men.
Assuming that it was a murder, and not a suicide, and Bryant was
beginning to incline, like Davis, to the former theory, why had the
murderer fixed upon the name of Reginald Davis, and forged a letter
to the Coroner? He must have been somebody who had known Davis at some
time, and was acquainted with his handwriting. Like Caroline Masters, he
must have been inclined to do the hunted fugitive a good turn, and have
trusted to his gratitude to keep a silent tongue.
An hour's steady thinking had cleared his brain. The conclusions
he arrived at were as follows: Hugh Murchison had been murdered by
somebody, and buried as a suicide under the name of Reginald Davis.
The next question was who was the murderer, and what was the motive
for committing the murder? Here he could make a pretty shrewd guess. If
Murchison had gone about his mission in a straightforward, but rather
blundering, fashion the motive was clear enough.
With Bryant to think was to act. Davis was having a week's holiday in
London, staying with his sister, Mrs. Masters. That same afternoon the
young man was again in the Inspector's room, in response to an urgent
summons on the telephone.
"Now, Mr. Davis, I have been thinking deeply over this rather
complicated affair of Cathcart Square, and I am beginning to see a
streak or two of daylight. I told you this morning I know a bit more
about Major Murchison than you do, and there is just a chance you might
help me. I take it you have had a somewhat adventurous career, your
sister admitted as much at the inquest. She said in fact that you had
been the black sheep of the family."
Davis hung his head in a shame-faced fashion. "I have to admit it, sir.
It's no use attempting to deny it, when Carrie gave me away like that."
"I have no desire to pry into your past, except so far as it helps me in
my present quest. But I expect, in your time, you have associated with
a few undesirable characters." Reginald Davis admitted the fact quite
frankly.
"Now, of course, it is only just a chance. But did you ever come across
a man named George Burton, and a young woman who passed as his sister?
My first knowledge of them is that they ran a gambling saloon in
Paris, she a good-looking girl, acting as decoy. Then he quitted the
card-sharping game and went in for more criminal pursuits."
"I did know them, sir. If I tell you what I do know, am I letting myself
in for anything?" queried Mr. Davis cautiously. "You see, since that
awful thing happened, I have turned over a new leaf. Nobody could tempt
me to go the least bit on the crook."
"Make your mind quite easy, Davis. We have nothing against you. You know
that, or you would have hardly dared to come to life again."
"Well, sir, I did know George Burton pretty intimately at one time,
after he left Paris. He was in the forgery business and he tried to drag
me in, but I was clever enough to keep out of it. They used, in his own
set, to call him 'George the Penman.'"
"Good," said Bryant; "and what did you know about the girl?"
"Not very much, sir. She passed as his sister, but one or two of his
pals believed her to be his wife, although there was no evidence of it."
"Did you ever learn anything of her origin?"
"Well, one chap who seemed to know more about them than their other
pals, told me that she was by way of being a lady, the illegitimate
daughter of a man well-known in London Society."
"Do you know the name of the man?"
Davis tapped his forehead in the effort of recollection.
"It's on the tip of my tongue, sir: it will come to me in a moment--a
man who was mixed up in a gambling scandal, and had to leave the
country. Ah, I have got it now, he was known familiarly as Tommie
Esmond."
Mr. Bryant rose. He had got all he could out of his new acquaintance.
The threads in his hand were drawing closer into a web.
"Well, Mr. Davis, good-day. Many thanks for the information you have
given me, it has been very helpful. I will keep in touch with you."
"And you think, with me, it was a murder, and not a suicide?" questioned
Davis as he left.
But Bryant was not the man to express a decided opinion until he was
fully justified by the facts. He kept his thoughts to himself till the
last moment.
He smiled pleasantly. "Time will show. I shall have that body exhumed,
as soon as I have made a few further inquiries."
Davis had to be content with this oracular utterance, and bowed himself
out. He solaced himself by narrating all that had occurred to the
wondering Carrie.
The matter had now become one for the activities of Scotland Yard.
The first thing to be done was to ascertain the whereabouts of Hugh
Murchison, that is to say, if he was still in the land of the living.
Some time had elapsed since he had communicated with Parkinson. Of
course, in itself, there would be nothing strange in that. Parkinson had
got the information that was required, been paid for it, and with that
payment, their relations had ended.
Bryant went to the hotel where the Major had stayed, at any rate up
to the time that the detective had last seen him, and interviewed the
manager, whom he had known for some years in his professional capacity.
This person, a genial and cosmopolitan Italian, readily answered his
questions.
Yes, the Major had stayed there for some little time. When he came,
he explained that he was only paying a flying visit to London. Had he
brought a servant with him? No, he had not. A somewhat strange omission
for a man in his position, was it not? The circumstance was easily
explained. The Major had had to dismiss his late valet for theft, and
was not in a hurry, for the present, to suit himself with a fresh one.
This he had told the manager and he was valeted at the hotel.
He had left some time. How long? The manager would find out the exact
date. This he did. On the afternoon of the fourth of July.
The Major had taken his things down to Victoria Station in a cab with
the view of depositing them there, as he was going to take an evening
train to Brighton.
Bryant brightened up at this information. The discovery of the dead body
at Cathcart Square had taken place early on the morning of the fifth.
Now arose the question, had the Major got through his business with the
Spencers before the fourth of July? In that case Mrs. Spencer was hardly
likely to be still living at Eaton Place with her husband.
Inquiries at Eaton Place soon established the fact that Mrs. Spencer was
still there. What had happened? Had the Major communicated the result of
his research to the husband, with the result that, infatuated with his
wife, that husband had refused to credit the story and accepted Stella's
denials?
It was a fairly plausible theory. When men are deeply in love, women
can twist them round their little finger. In that case, it was easy to
understand that, disgusted with the failure of his intervention, the
Major had made up his mind to leave London at once.
One other thing was to be done, to ascertain if the Major had intimated
to any of his friends his intention of leaving London so abruptly. For
this purpose, Bryant sought out the brother Roderick, who had rooms in
Jermyn Street.
Yes, Roderick had met the Major in Bond Street in the morning, and
learned of the proposed journey to Brighton. The young man added that
his brother was very erratic in his movements, and sometimes would
disappear for weeks at a stretch without communicating with any of his
friends or relatives.
There was now one of two theories that stood out: the first one that Guy
Spencer had been told, and refused to believe the true facts about his
wife. The second was, that the Major had shirked the unpleasantness of
a personal interview of such a delicate character, and had gone down to
Brighton intending to write privately to Spencer from there.
Further inquiries elicited the fact that the Major had never made that
projected journey to Brighton. His belongings had never been claimed,
they were still lying in the cloak room at Victoria Station.
There was now no further doubt as to what steps had to be taken.
The Major had disappeared at a date practically coinciding with the
discovery of the dead body at Cathcart Square, the dead body which had
been wrongly identified as that of Reginald Davis, whose likeness to the
Major was so pronounced. Of that fact, Bryant himself was aware.
The authorities were applied to, and gave permission for the body to be
exhumed. As the living Reginald Davis had established his identity to
the satisfaction of Scotland Yard, it was necessary to find out, if
possible, that of the man who had been mistaken for him.
The body was exhumed and pronounced by half-a-dozen people, including
Guy Spencer, to be that of the Major.
It had now become clearly a case of murder, and although those in charge
of the case had little or no doubt as to the guilty persons, it might
have been very difficult to prove, but for one convincing fact, supplied
by the murdered man himself.
But this evidence, which was overwhelming, the police kept to themselves
for some little time, for their own good reasons.
CHAPTER XXIV
|The luggage which had been left at Victoria Station on the fatal day
was, of course, seized by the police. They searched it thoroughly in
the hope that they would find something useful to them in the shape of
letters or memoranda.
Of letters there were only two, brief ones from Iris Deane, in which she
expressed her determination of sticking out for her ten thousand pounds.
As we know, in the end she gave way and accepted seven.
But they did find one priceless thing, and that was a diary, bound in
red leather, a small volume as to the size of the page, but very bulky.
It had evidently been the dead man's habit to keep a fairly close record
of his doings, for it was numbered, and contained entries from some
date in May 1919 up to July 3rd, the day before he left the hotel,
and announced to the manager that he intended to take a late train to
Brighton.
For the twentieth time since he had discovered this important piece
of evidence, Mr. Bryant sat in his room at Scotland Yard, reading and
re-reading the entries which he knew almost by heart.
With the entries, before the visit to London, Bryant had no concern.
They recorded trifling events which had no reference to the tragedy
at Cathcart Square. There was, of course, allusion to the letter from
Roderick which had so startled his family, the letter announcing his
engagement to the chorus girl, Iris Deane, and his fixed resolve to make
her his wife. There was a note of a family council, in which the elder
brother was deputed to approach the young woman herself, with the object
of buying her off.
There were a few records of his first days in London, after a long
absence, his visits to his clubs, his meeting with old pre-war
acquaintances, his first interview with Iris Deane, the difficulty of
arranging further interviews either at his hotel or her flat, owing to
the fear of Roddie popping in unexpectedly.
Then came the whimsical record of his strolling round Kensington,
halting opposite the house with the board announcing that it was to be
let furnished, his interview with the accommodating caretaker who, in
return for a very handsome _douceur_, gave him a duplicate key to enter
the house at any time he liked. He had casually mentioned to Miles that
his name was Sanderson.
The Major seemed childishly pleased over what he considered a very
astute move, especially the giving of another name. Here in this quiet
backwater of the world, for so it would seem to a man of his wealth and
position, he could continue his negotiations with the somewhat obstinate
Iris. In the portion of the diary concerned with the grasping and
frivolous young chorus-girl, Bryant was not greatly interested. He had
learned this already from Iris Deane, whom he had interviewed a few
times, and Reginald Davis.
He turned from the bulky little volume, the pages of which were covered
with the Major's small, rather methodical handwriting, to a slenderer
book lying beside him. Into this had been copied all the extracts
bearing on the relations between the dead man and Mrs. Spencer,
otherwise Stella Keane, otherwise Norah Burton.
The first entry recorded the dinner-party at Carlton House Terrace, when
he had been struck by the remarkable likeness of his friend's wife to
the pretty adventuress at Blankfield, who had driven his old friend,
Jack Pomfret, to his death; his endeavours to startle her by allusions
to that garrison town.
An important entry was that of his interview with his old acquaintance
at the club, Gilbert Fairfax, from whom he had learned something of the
atmosphere of the L'Estrange flat in Elsinore Gardens, the branding of
Tommie Esmond as a card-sharper, the flight of the fat little man to the
Continent, the visit of Stella Keane to Charing Cross Station to bid the
detected cheat farewell. There was a comment upon this fact: "Whether
she is Norah Burton or not, her intimacy with the L'Estrange set, her
solicitude for Tommie Esmond, are sufficient to make her unfit to be the
wife of a straight, honest fellow like my old friend Guy Spencer."
There followed further entries, relating his interview with Bryant, the
confirmation by the detective that Stella Keane was Norah Burton, that
George Dutton, the keeper of the obscure little bucket-shop in the City,
was the same George Burton who had been arrested at Blank-field on a
charge of forgery, and who, thanks to one of the cleverest advocates at
the criminal bar, had got off with a very light sentence.
There was a full record of the long interview with Mrs. Spencer, in
which she had been finally confounded, and forced to confession, of her
acceptance of his terms, of the words she had uttered when, while rather
regretting that things could not go on as they were, lamenting the fact
that her accuser had ever been born, she was not at all satisfied with
her present environment, and would experience a certain measure of
relief in quitting it for a more congenial sphere.
On the day he had parted from her, the day on which she had yielded to
his inflexible determination that she must remain under her husband's
roof as short a time as possible, he recorded the fact that, up to the
present moment, he had not made up his mind as to the precise way in
which he was going to bring about the separation. He wanted to choose
the way which would least hurt Guy.
There had flashed through his mind that, in addition to the confession
she was about to make to him of her whole career, she should confess to
her husband that she was not legally his wife, being in reality the wife
of George Burton, alias George Dutton. There followed here a note. "I am
convinced she and this rascal were married, the sister and cousin dodges
were always a fake. I must see Parkinson to find out if he can ferret
out anything on that point. But the time is short. In a week I must be
ready for action."
A further entry showed that he had called on Parkinson with this object,
only to learn that the detective had gone on an important mission
abroad, and could undertake no further work till his return, which would
be some ten days hence. That idea therefore had to be dismissed. He must
think out some other plan.
Then came the last and most important entry of all, dated on the fourth
of July, written no doubt a few hours before he took his luggage to
Victoria Station.
"I meet Norah Burton, I always think of her by that old name, at
Cathcart Square at six o'clock to-night. I have given the caretaker a
holiday to keep him out of the way. I have drawn up two copies of
the confession, one of which she is to sign. I have also drawn up an
undertaking on my part to keep her from want in case Guy should prove
obdurate. But this I am sure he will not do. Besides, if she is his
wife, and thinking it over, I have my doubts as to whether she was ever
really married to Burton, he would have to support her, in spite of her
unsavoury associations."
Bryant paused for a moment as he finished this paragraph to reflect a
little. Personally, he did not believe that she was the wife of George
Burton; in his opinion, their association had been the result of mutual
interests. With this knowledge hanging over her head, she would hardly
have been daring enough to go through the ceremony of marriage with two
other men. Anyway, it was a debatable point.
Moreover, Burton, like most criminals, would be very wide awake and
calculating. To marry her would be to handicap himself. He could get
more out of her by marrying her to a rich man.
Then came the last paragraph of all.
"Now, for my action after the final interview of to-night, when she has
signed the confession. I may do one of two things, forbid her to return
to her husband's house, and go myself straight to Eaton Place, and break
the news to Spencer without any preamble. In that case, I shall take
with me some ready money to hand to her, as she will probably have very
little upon her.
"And yet I rather shrink from this course; it would be painful for me to
watch his agony while I struck such a terrible blow. I will run down
to Brighton, drop him a note telling him that an important letter will
reach him at his club by registered post to-morrow, that he is on no
account to let his wife know he has heard from me till he has read the
contents of that registered packet.
"I shall post him the copy of the confession, telling him he can inspect
the original at any time he likes, meeting me either in Brighton or
London, leaving him to deal with her as he chooses. After all, his is
the right to dispose of his private affairs, my duty really ends when I
have put him in possession of the facts. My first method must have the
effect of creating open scandal at once, by my insisting upon her not
returning to Eaton Place.
"He may wish to devise some plan that will create a scandal less open,
to save, as far as he can, the disgrace to himself and his family. If I
know the man, and here, perhaps, I am arguing from the knowledge only of
my own temperament, I should say his love would turn to hatred after he
reads that confession. Jack Pomfret was a weaker man than Guy, but he
acted as I should have done under the circumstances, and refused all
further communication with her, refused to give her the opportunity of
denial or explanation.
"Still, there is no knowing to what lengths a deep-rooted infatuation
for a fascinating woman will lead a man. In this respect, Guy may be
less adamant than Pomfret, although I am sure he will never imitate poor
Jack's final weakness. He is too sturdily built for that.
"When confronted with that confession she may plead artfully, and,
perhaps to him, convincingly, that while she admits everything contained
in it, she was more sinned against than sinning, that she tried to
escape from her odious bondage by marrying Jack, and that with his
suicide and the frustration of her hopes, she was compelled to return
to an environment which she loathed. He might consent to believe and
forgive, although to me such a thing seems incredible, impossible."
Bryant closed the book on the last entry. That little red-leather volume
threw a lurid light on the mystery of Cathcart Square. The exhumed body
was found to be that of Major Murchison, wrongly identified in the first
instance as that of Reginald Davis. It was all very clear.
That meeting had taken place, and the unfortunate man had been done
to death by the precious pair, Norah Burton and the scoundrel brother,
cousin or life-long lover, whichever he was. Reginald Davis was an old
acquaintance of theirs, had been possibly a more intimate one than
the cautious Davis was prepared to admit. They took with them letters
addressed to their old friend, they forged a letter from him intimating
his intention to commit suicide.
If Davis read of all this in the papers, he was too concerned with his
own danger to emerge from his hiding-place and publish the truth to the
world. He would be thankful that, through the villainy of others, he
could take a new lease of life, unmenaced by detection. Of course, they
had never thought of the possibility that Davis would be cleared by the
confession of the real criminal. Like Scotland Yard, they were sure he
was guilty, and his silence was a matter of certainty.
And slowly Bryant, drawing from the stores of his vast experience, began
to construct in his own mind the details of the murder, executed by
two desperate criminals, almost driven to the verge of madness by the
knowledge that their carefully-laid plans were about to be frustrated by
the action of one man.
The woman, the weaker of the two, was probably more disposed to yield to
the force and strength of circumstances. Once before, in her marriage to
Jack Pomfret, she had had the cup snatched from her lips, and bowed
to the inevitable. From the few words recorded in the Major's accusing
diary, it would seem that, secured of a modest competence, she was ready
a second time to accept her fate.
And then, in that week's interval, it was easy to guess what had
happened. She had consulted her old partner in crime, George Burton. He
had reasoned, as it turned out, a little shallowly, remove Murchison,
and the danger will be past. The resemblance of Murchison to Reginald
Davis had occurred to the pair, hence the cunningly prepared letters.
And how was the actual murder accomplished? Had they gone to Cathcart
Square together, or had Burton followed her, getting in by means of that
broken window-pane at the back? And did they know the Major was alone?
In that last interview with Mrs. Spencer, had he let out the fact
that he had given the caretaker a holiday, so that they should not be
disturbed?
These were side problems that could not be solved at the moment. Only
two persons could solve them, and those two, in all probability, would
never speak.
But how had they killed him? The Major was a strong, muscular fellow who
would fight tenaciously for his life. Norah Burton was a slender woman,
almost verging on frailness, George Dutton, to call him by his latest
name, was certainly of a muscular build, although of only average
height.
Well, of course, they had foreseen and prepared for all that.
while talking to him, she had sprayed over him the essence of some
overpowering and stupefying drug, and while he was staggering about,
dazed and blinded, the man had stepped in and done the rest.
Owing to the absence of the caretaker, they had plenty of time. They had
rifled his pockets, taking out of them the money which, according to
his diary, he had brought along with him, his personal belongings, the
ticket which he had received at the luggage room of Victoria Station,
and, of course, the confession which Norah Burton had or had not signed.
No doubt, they had also examined his linen and underclothing to make
sure that his name was not on them. If it had been, they would have
dealt with it by stripping the body.
They had carried it out pretty well, on the whole. There were two things
they had not reckoned on. One was the resuscitation of Reginald Davis.
The other was the fact that Murchison kept a diary, one of the last
things that a man of his sort was likely to do.
Bryant, although not a very emotional man, felt very depressed as he
came to the result of his meditations. He felt sure that, if Norah
Burton could have had her own way, she would have accepted her fate,
gone forth on the world again with the slender pittance that either of
the two men, her husband or his friend, would have allowed her.
She had suffered herself to be dominated by a more reckless and criminal
spirit, with the result that the life of an honourable man had been
taken, and she was already standing at the foot of the gallows.
The pair, only knowing that the body had been exhumed and proved to
be that of Hugh Murchison--a terribly disturbing thought to them--but
ignorant of the discovery of that incriminating diary, were being
closely watched. But they felt sure that nothing could be traced to
them, they had hidden their tracks so cleverly, as they thought.
It was now only a question of a few hours as to when they should be
taken. And Bryant felt that Guy Spencer should know the truth before
anybody else. Poor fellow! He would soften the blow to him as much as he
could.
That same evening he went round to Eaton Place, about seven o'clock.
He reckoned that he would catch Spencer before he went up to dress for
dinner. "Poor devil," thought Bryant, "he won't have much appetite for
dinner after he has read through that diary!"
Spencer was in the library, and the detective, whom he had met before
in connection with the mystery of Cathcart Square, was shown in. Spencer
welcomed him with his usual cordiality.
"Good-evening, Mr. Bryant. Any fresh light upon this terrible thing?"
The footman had left the library door slightly open, after showing
Bryant in, and had retired swiftly to his quarters.
He was hardly out of the hall when Stella opened the front-door with
her key, and glided noiselessly in. All her movements were noiseless,
suggesting, as somebody had once remarked of her, the silent motions of
a snake. She always carried a key, declaring that she could not be kept
waiting for servants to answer the door.
The library door was open, through the aperture she heard voices, and
one of them she recognised. It was that of the Scotland Yard detective,
who had cross-examined her very closely as to her various meetings with
the dead man. She had been afraid of Bryant. He had looked at her so
searchingly, and his manner always conveyed that he knew so much more
than he was prepared to disclose.
Bryant was speaking in a low, but very clear voice. Her hearing was
singularly acute, and she could catch every word.
"I am come on a very painful errand, Mr. Spencer. There is a small
volume here which throws a very clear light on what happened at Cathcart
Square on that fatal evening of July the fourth."
Guy's cheerful accents rang out. "You mean you have got a clue, Mr.
Bryant. But why painful to me? If you are on the track of the murderer
of my poor old friend, nobody will be more rejoiced than I."
Again the low, grave tones of Bryant:
"Mr. Spencer, you will be a very stricken man when you have read through
it. Your poor friend left behind him a very copious diary, made up to
the morning of the day on which he was murdered. The original is at my
office, you can inspect it at any time you like. This is a copy of the
entries relating to Cathcart Square. It touches your domestic life very
closely, in addition to proving why and by whom he was murdered."
Stella waited to hear no more. Her face had gone livid, she felt shaking
in every limb. That her old enemy, Murchison, had left a diary! They
had never thought of that possibility. The game was up. She had staked
something on her marriage as Norah Burton with Jack Pomfret, and had
lost. This time she had staked everything and lost again, but now she
had lost liberty and life in addition. There was but one end. She must
seek at once the man who had, in a way, been a good and faithful friend,
but also her evil genius.
She stole as quietly out of the hall as she had entered it, and hailed
a passing taxi. She knew she would never enter the house at Eaton Place
again.
CHAPTER XXV
|Mrs. Spencer had plenty of money in her pocket. She was always
accustomed to carry a large sum about her. Her adventurous life had
taught her that it was always wiser to have a good amount of cash in her
possession. The time might come at any moment when you were in a tight
corner. She had promised a handsome reward to the taxi-cab driver if he
could get to a certain destination within the speed limit.
That destination was Kew Bridge, where it abuts on a little-known
neighbourhood called Strand-on-the-Green.
At the foot of Kew Bridge, the wretched and hunted woman halted, and
paid the driver his extravagant fare. What did it matter what she paid
to-night? To-morrow she might not be able to pay. She shuddered as she
thought of that to-morrow.
The taxi-driver drove slowly out of sight. She waited, from a sense of
habitual caution, till he was well out of the way. And then, remembering
everything, she smiled bitterly. Was there any need of caution now?
She went down a narrow lane, halted at the door of a small cottage, and
rang the front-door bell. As she did so, she was aware of a man a few
yards away from her, who seemed to be strolling aimlessly about, a man
dressed in ill-fitting clothes, and heavy boots.
A detective certainly! This man had followed her from Eaton Place in a
taxi almost as swift as her own. Bryant knew his business, he was not
going to lose sight of her, or of her reputed cousin, George Dutton.
The door was opened cautiously by George Dutton, alias George Burton.
It was a small furnished cottage that he had rented for some months
past, at a rent commensurate with his means. He kept no servant; a
feeble old woman came in the morning to clean him up and prepare his
breakfast. When he came back at night from the not very prosperous
bucket-shop, he looked after himself, and cooked over a gas-stove his
evening meal.
The evenings were drawing in, and it was rather a dark night. He peered
for a moment at his visitor, before he recognised her.
"Stella, by all that is wonderful." He called her by the new name,
not the old one of Norah. "Come in, dear, but your arrival in this
unexpected fashion does not suggest good news."
She passed hastily through the open doorway. "Shut it quick," she said,
in a low, hoarse voice. "There is a man watching outside, I am sure he
is a detective."
As a matter of fact, there were two detectives within a few feet of each
other, but in her agitation she had not observed the second man, who was
deputed to keep watch on the movements of Mr. George Dutton.
George Dutton was an old hand, and not to be lightly disturbed by small
incidents. But he recognised the significance of this visit. His ruddy
colour died away.
"You have bad news," he said quietly.
"The worst, George. Bryant, the detective, paid a visit to Guy this
evening. I came in just in the nick of time. The library door was ajar,
I heard what Bryant said. The Major has left a diary behind him, and, of
course, he had put it all down, up to the arranged meeting in Cathcart
Square. The game is up, you will recognise that."
Dutton's mentality was a little bit slower than her own. "Did you hear
any extracts read from the diary?"
"What a fool you are!" she cried indignantly. "Why should I wait to
hear? If the man kept a diary, is it not easy to guess that he would
have related every incident connected with me, from our first meeting at
the Southleigh dinner-party? Bryant is watching me, there is a detective
waiting outside. No doubt he is watching you, too. He is just waiting to
pounce."
"Then why has he gone to your husband?"
"Oh, you are too dense for worlds. Just to soften the blow. Can't you
understand that he wants to warn him beforehand of the shame that is
going to fall upon him, the discovery that his wife is a murderess?"
And then Mr. Dutton understood. He stretched out appealing arms to her.
"My poor little girl, my ever faithful pal! And I have brought you to
this!"
"You have brought me to this," she said bitterly. "Did I not implore you
upon my knees to accept the Major's terms, and you were so obstinate,
so set. You would insist upon the other way because it seemed better to
you. And I, fool that I was, always yielding to your sinister influence,
gave way as I always have done."
Scoundrel and criminal as he was, hardened by years of evil-doing, the
man's self-control gave way at that accusation. He drew her to him, and,
strange to say, she did not shrink from his embrace..
"My poor Stella, I have tried to do my best for you always, even
sacrificed myself. But the end has come."
He recognised that, as she did.
"Yes," she said stoically, "as you say, the end has come. You have
always been very adept in falling into holes, and then digging yourself
out again. How are you going to dig yourself and me out of this hole, in
the face of that incriminating diary?"
Dutton walked up and down, his face working, his hands and his body
trembling. He was up against the gravest problem of his adventurous
career. The shadow of the prison had always hovered over him, but now
there was a more ghastly menace, the shadow of the gallows. From the
prison, he could return. There was no return from the other.
He paused in his restless pacing, and came to a halt before the stricken
woman. He had recovered himself to a certain extent. He had gambled and
lost, he was prepared to accept the fate of the unsuccessful gambler.
"You are brave, old girl?" he asked briefly.
She looked up at him with a wan smile.
"Yes, I think I am brave. I can guess what you are about to suggest,
with the detectives watching us outside." She burst into a little sob.
"Oh, you always thought you were so clever, and yet, if I had had the
management of affairs, things might have been so different."
He spoke humbly. "I think you are right, Norah. I was always full of
arrogance and self-conceit. You were weaker in character than I was, but
you had always more brains. And I was a blind fool not to admit it. Many
a time you gave me your advice, and I rejected it."
"And what do you suggest now?" she asked, in a voice that had sunk to a
whisper.
He looked at her steadily. He had screwed up his courage to the sticking
point. Could he count upon an equal fortitude in her?
"It is the finish, old girl. You say the detectives are waiting outside.
Bryant has got a good case, and the diary will hang us. There is no
getting over that."
"You propose----" she said falteringly.
He spoke quite steadily. The end had come, he had made up his mind, so
far as regards himself.
"We neither of us want to hang for the murder of Hugh Murchison?"
She shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. "Oh, that awful evening!
It has been like a nightmare ever since."
"I know," said Dutton soothingly. "It was one of my fatal mistakes. But
it is no use crying over spilt milk. To-night we are face to face with
facts. We have gambled, and we have lost, and we have got to pay the
penalty."
The wretched woman rose up, and wrung her hands. "And to think I might
have been the Countess of Southleigh."
"I know; don't think I am not reckoning up all that," replied Dutton.
"But we have got to deal with facts to-night, with the detectives
waiting outside. The game is up, you know that as well as I do. We have
only a few hours before us, perhaps a few minutes, in which to make the
choice."
"I know," she answered. "You mean our only alternative is to cheat the
law."
He looked at her steadily. "That is the only way. If we suffer ourselves
to be taken, we have not got a dog's chance."
Weak woman as she was, she gathered something of his iron resolution.
Yes, they must die and die together, to cheat the law. Such was to be
the end of the brilliant adventuress who had inveigled two men into
marriage, Jack Pomfret and Guy Spencer, with her subtle and elusive
charm.
"And what do you suggest, George? You have thought of these things more
than I have."
"I have always thought of them," said Dutton gloomily. "Well, there are
various ways I can suggest to you. I can shoot you first, and myself
afterwards."
She shuddered. "Some other way than that."
"I can give you some tabloids."
"Is there any pain?" she queried.
"Hardly any."
She shuddered again. "Hardly any. That does not sound very convincing."
He proposed a third alternative. "You can come up to my room, and lie on
the bed. I will paper up all the doors and cracks and turn up the gas.
You will simply go to sleep and never wake."
"That is the best," she said.
"If we had plenty of time. But they may take us in a few minutes. Bryant
has seen your husband, he will not wait long after that interview."
"The tabloids, then," she said firmly.
Yes, it had come to this, she must cheat the law. Twice, she had had
her chance, once as the wife of Jack Pomfret, again as the wife of Guy
Spencer. And twice had the cup of triumph been snatched from her lips.
She must die, like a rat in a hole, in this obscure little cottage at
Strand-on-the-Green, in the company of the man who had always been her
evil genius.
Dutton went across to a small cupboard built in the wall of the shabby
parlour, and brought out a little bottle filled with capsules. He
extracted one and handed it to the shrinking woman.
"Take yours first, dear, I will take mine after." There was a look of
infinite compassion in the scoundrel's face as he offered it to her.
Bravely she took it, and swallowed it with a great gulp, sitting in the
shabby easy-chair. The effect was almost instantaneous, and when Dutton
had made sure that she was beyond human aid, he took a similar tabloid
himself, with the same result.
An hour later there was a thundering knock at the door of the cottage.
One of the detectives had gone to a telephone office and informed Bryant
that the woman had come to Strand-on-the-Green, and was with Dutton. The
order came back from Bryant, who had only stayed a few minutes at Eaton
Place, that the pair were to be arrested at once.
Of course there was no response. After waiting for a few moments, the
men broke in the frail door. But they were too late.
Norah Burton, and the man who had been so long associated with
her--brother, cousin, lover, whatever he might be--had gone to their
judgment.
It was a nine-days' wonder, and while his friends and acquaintances were
still discussing it at clubs and over tea-tables, Guy Spencer slipped
quietly abroad. When he returned to England, at the end of twelve
months, these tragic happenings had become little more than a memory to
his world.
He stayed a week with the Southleighs at their ancestral home in Sussex,
and at the end of that week their friends read an important announcement
in _The Morning Post_:
"A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Mr.
Guy Spencer and his cousin, Lady Nina, only daughter and child of the
Earl of Southleigh."
THE END