WHAT THE DEAD MAN LEFT
IT was news to Fetherston that Bellairs had dined at his club on that
fateful night.
He had believed that Enid had dined with him. He had proved beyond all
doubt that she had been to his rooms that afternoon during Barker's
absence. That feather from the boa, and the perfume, were sufficient
evidence of her visit.
Yet why had Barker remained in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus if
sent by his master with a message to Richmond? He could not doubt a
single word that Trendall had told him, for the latter's information was
beyond question. Well he knew with what care and cunning such an inquiry
would have been made, and how every point would have been proved before
being reported to that ever active man who was head of that Department of
the Home Office that never sleeps.
"What secret do you suggest might have been divulged?" he asked at last
after a long pause.
The big room--the Room of Secrets--was silent, for the double windows
prevented the noise of the traffic and the "honk" of the taxi horns from
penetrating there. Only the low ticking of the clock broke the quiet.
"I scarcely have any suggestion to offer in that direction," was
Trendall's slow reply. "That feature of the affair still remains a
mystery."
"But cannot this man Barker be induced to make some statement?" he
queried.
"He will scarcely betray the woman to whom he owes his present
prosperity, for he is prosperous and has a snug little balance at his
bank. Besides, even though we took the matter in hand, what could we do?
There is no evidence against him or against the woman. The farcical
proceedings in the coroner's court had tied their hands."
"An open verdict was returned?"
"Yes, at our suggestion. But Professors Dale and Boyd failed to find any
traces of poison or of foul play."
"And yet there _was_ foul play--that is absolutely certain!" declared the
novelist.
"Unfortunately, yes. Poor Bellairs was a brilliant and promising officer,
a man destined to make a distinct mark in the world. It was a pity,
perhaps, that he was such a lady-killer."
"A pity that he fell victim to what was evidently a clever plot, and
yet--yet--I cannot bring myself to believe that your surmise can be
actually correct. He surely would never have sent for the very person who
was his enemy and who had plotted to kill him--it doesn't seem feasible,
does it?"
"Quite as feasible as any of the strange and crooked circumstances which
one finds every day in life's undercurrents," was the quiet rejoinder.
"Remember, he was very fond of her--fascinated by her remarkable beauty."
"But he was engaged to Lady Blanche?"
"He intended to marry her, probably for wealth and position. The woman a
man of Harry's stamp marries is seldom, if ever, the woman he loves,"
added the chief with a somewhat cynical smile, for he was essentially a
man of the world.
"But what secret could Enid Orlebar desire to hide?" exclaimed Fetherston
wonderingly. "If he loved her, he certainly would never have threatened
exposure."
"My dear fellow, I've told you briefly my own theory--a theory formed
upon all the evidence I could collect," replied the tall, dark-eyed man,
as he thrust his hands deeply into his trousers pockets and looked
straight into the eyes of his friend.
"If you are so certain that Enid Orlebar is implicated in the affair, if
not the actual assassin, why don't you interrogate her?" asked Walter
boldly.
"Well--well, to tell the truth, our inquiries are not yet complete. When
they are, we may be in a better position--we probably shall be--to put to
her certain pointed questions. But," he added quickly, "perhaps I ought
not to say this, for I know she is a friend of yours."
"What you tell me is in confidence, as always, Trendall," he replied
quickly. "I knew long ago that Enid was deeply attached to Bellairs. But
much that you have just told me is entirely fresh to me. I must find
Barker and question him."
"I don't think I'd do that. Wait until we have completed our inquiries,"
urged the other. "If Bellairs was killed in so secret and scientific a
manner that no trace was left, he was killed with a cunning and
craftiness which betrays a jealous woman rather than a man. Besides,
there are other facts we have gathered which go further to prove that
Enid Orlebar is the actual culprit."
"What are they? Tell me, Trendall."
"No, my dear chap; you are the lady's friend--it is really unfair to ask
me," he protested. "Where the usual mysteries are concerned, I'm always
open and above-board with you. But in private investigations like this
you must allow me to retain certain knowledge to myself."
"But I beg of you to tell me everything," demanded the other. "I have
taken an intense interest in the matter, as you have, even though my
motive has been of an entirely different character."
"You have no suspicion that Bellairs was in possession of any great
secret--a secret which it was to Miss Orlebar's advantage should be
kept?"
"No," was the novelist's prompt response. "But I can't see the drift of
your question," he added.
"Well," replied the keen, alert man, who, again seated in his
writing-chair, bent slightly towards his visitor, "well, as you've asked
me to reveal all I know, Fetherston, I will do so, even though I feel
some reluctance, in face of the fact that Miss Orlebar is your friend."
"That makes no difference," declared the other firmly. "I am anxious to
clear up the mystery of Bellairs' death."
"Then I think that you need seek no farther for the correct solution,"
replied Trendall quietly, looking into the other's pale countenance.
"Your lady friend killed him--_in order to preserve her own secret_."
"But what was her secret?"
"We have that yet to establish. It must have been a serious one for her
to close his lips in such a manner."
"But they were good friends," declared Fetherston. "He surely had not
threatened to expose her?"
"I do not think he had. My own belief is that she became madly jealous of
Lady Blanche, and at the same time, fearing the exposure of her secret to
the woman to whom her lover had become engaged, she took the subtle means
of silencing him. Besides----" And he paused without concluding his
sentence.
"Besides what?"
"From the first you suspected Sir Hugh's stepdaughter, eh?"
Fetherston hesitated. Then afterwards he nodded slowly in the
affirmative.
"Yes," went on Trendall, "I knew all along that you were suspicious. You
made a certain remarkable discovery, eh, Fetherston?"
The novelist started. At what did his friend hint? Was it possible that
the inquiries had led to a suspicion of Sir Hugh's criminal conduct? The
very thought appalled him.
"I--well, in the course of the inquiries I made I found that the lady in
question was greatly attached to the dead man," replied Fetherston rather
lamely.
Trendall smiled. "It was to Enid Orlebar that Harry sent when he felt his
fatal seizure. Instead of sending for a doctor, he sent Barker to her,
and she at once flew to his side, but, alas! too late to remedy the harm
she had already caused. When she arrived he was dead!"
Fetherston was silent. He saw that the inquiries made by the Criminal
Investigation Department had led to exactly the same conclusion that he
himself had formed.
"This is a most distressing thought--that Enid Orlebar is a murderess!"
he declared after a moment's pause.
"It is--I admit. Yet we cannot close our eyes to such outstanding facts,
my dear chap. Depend upon it that there is something behind the poor
fellow's death of which we have no knowledge. In his death your friend
Miss Orlebar sought safety. The letter he wrote to her a week before his
assassination is sufficient evidence of that."
"A letter!" gasped Fetherston. "Is there one in existence?"
"Yes; it is in our possession; it reveals the existence of the secret."
"But what was its nature?" cried Fetherston in dismay. "What terrible
secret could there possibly be that could only be preserved by Bellairs'
silence?"
"That's just the puzzle we have to solve--just the very point which has
mystified us all along."
And then he turned to his correspondence again, opening his letters one
after the other--letters which, addressed to a box at the General Post
Office in the City, contained secret information from various unsuspected
quarters at home and abroad.
Suddenly, in order to change the topic of conversation, which he knew was
painful to Walter Fetherston, he mentioned the excellence of the opera at
Covent Garden on the previous night. And afterwards he referred to an
article in that day's paper which dealt with the idea of obtaining
exclusive political intelligence through spirit-bureaux. Then, speaking
of the labour unrest, Trendall pronounced his opinion as follows:
"The whole situation would be ludicrous were it not urged so
persistently as to be a menace not so much in this country, where we know
too well the temperaments of its sponsors, but abroad, where public
opinion, imperfectly instructed, may imagine it represents a serious
national feeling. The continuance of it is an intolerable negation of
civilisation; it is supported by no public men of credit; it has been
disproved again and again. Ridicule may be left to give the menace the
_coup de grâce_! And this," he laughed, "in face of what you and I know,
eh? Ah! how long will the British public be lulled to sleep by anonymous
scribblers?"
"One day they'll have a rude awakening," declared Fetherston, still
thinking, however, of that letter of the dead man to Enid. "I wonder," he
added, "I wonder who inspires these denials? We know, of course, that
each time anything against enemy interests appears in a certain section
of the Press there arises a ready army of letter-writers who rush into
print and append their names to assurances that the enemy is nowadays our
best friend. Those 'patriotic Englishmen' are, many of them, in high
positions.
"When responsible papers wilfully mislead the public, what can be
expected?" Walter went on. "But," he added after a pause, "we did not
arrive at any definite conclusion regarding the tragic death of Bellairs.
What about that letter of his?"
Trendall was thoughtful for a few minutes.
"My conclusion--the only one that can be formed," he answered at last,
disregarding his friend's question--"is that Enid Orlebar is the guilty
person; and before long I hope to be in possession of that secret which
she strove by her crime to suppress--a secret which I feel convinced we
shall discover to be one of an amazing character."
Walter stood motionless as a statue.
Surely Bellairs had not died by Enid's hand!