They went out and left them alone, two people who found in this moment
a heaven which is not beyond the reach of humanity, but which is seldom
attained to. Belinda Mary had an eager audience all to her very self.
“Of course she didn't die,” she said scornfully. “Kara was playing on
his fears all the time. He never even harmed her--in the way Mr. Lexman
feared. He told Mrs. Lexman that her husband was dead just as he told
John Lexman his wife was gone. What happened was that he brought her
back to England--”
“Who?” asked T. X., incredulously.
“Grace Lexman,” said the girl, with a smile. “You wouldn't think it
possible, but when you realize that he had a yacht of his own and that
he could travel up from whatever landing place he chose to his house in
Cadogan Square by motorcar and that he could take her straight away into
his cellar without disturbing his household, you'll understand that the
only difficulty he had was in landing her. It was in the lower cellar
that I found her.”
“You found her in the cellar?” demanded the Chief Commissioner.
The girl nodded.
“I found her and the dog--you heard how Kara terrified her--and I
killed the dog with my own hands,” she said a little proudly, and then
shivered. “It was very beastly,” she admitted.
“And she's been living with you all this time and you've said nothing!”
asked T. X., incredulously. Belinda Mary nodded.
“And that is why you didn't want me to know where you were living?” She
nodded again.
“You see she was very ill,” she said, “and I had to nurse her up, and of
course I knew that it was Lexman who had killed Kara and I couldn't tell
you about Grace Lexman without betraying him. So when Mr. Lexman decided
to tell his story, I thought I'd better supply the grand denouement.”
The men looked at one another.
“What are you going to do about Lexman?” asked the Chief Commissioner,
“and, by the way, T. X., how does all this fit your theories!”
“Fairly well,” replied T. X. coolly; “obviously the man who committed
the murder was the man introduced into the room as Gathercole and as
obviously it was not Gathercole, although to all appearance, he had lost
his left arm.”
“Why obvious?” asked the Chief Commissioner.
“Because,” answered T. X. Meredith, “the real Gathercole had lost his
right arm--that was the one error Lexman made.”
“H'm,” the Chief pulled at his moustache and looked enquiringly round
the room, “we have to make up our minds very quickly about Lexman,” he
said. “What do you think, Carlneau?”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
“For my part I should not only importune your Home Secretary to pardon
him, but I should recommend him for a pension,” he said flippantly.
“What do you think, Savorsky?”
The Russian smiled a little.
“It is a very impressive story,” he said dispassionately; “it occurs to
me that if you intend bringing your M. Lexman to judgment you are likely
to expose some very pretty scandals. Incidentally,” he said, stroking
his trim little moustache, “I might remark that any exposure which drew
attention to the lawless conditions of Albania would not be regarded by
my government with favour.”
The Chief Commissioner's eyes twinkled and he nodded.
“That is also my view,” said the Chief of the Italian bureau; “naturally
we are greatly interested in all that happens on the Adriatic littoral.
It seems to me that Kara has come to a very merciful end and I am not
inclined to regard a prosecution of Mr. Lexman with equanimity.”
“Well, I guess the political aspect of the case doesn't affect us very
much,” said O'Grady, “but as one who was once mighty near asphyxiated
by stirring up the wrong kind of mud, I should leave the matter where it
is.”
The Chief Commissioner was deep in thought and Belinda Mary eyed him
anxiously.
“Tell them to come in,” he said bluntly.
The girl went and brought John Lexman and his wife, and they came in
hand in hand supremely and serenely happy whatever the future might hold
for them. The Chief Commissioner cleared his throat.
“Lexman, we're all very much obliged to you,” he said, “for a very
interesting story and a most interesting theory. What you have done, as
I understand the matter,” he proceeded deliberately, “is to put yourself
in the murderer's place and advance a theory not only as to how the
murder was actually committed, but as to the motive for that murder. It
is, I might say, a remarkable piece of reconstruction,” he spoke very
deliberately, and swept away John Lexman's astonished interruption with
a stern hand, “please wait and do not speak until I am out of hearing,”
he growled. “You have got into the skin of the actual assassin and have
spoken most convincingly. One might almost think that the man who
killed Remington Kara was actually standing before us. For that piece
of impersonation we are all very grateful;” he glared round over
his spectacles at his understanding colleagues and they murmured
approvingly.
He looked at his watch.
“Now I am afraid I must be off,” he crossed the room and put out his
hand to John Lexman. “I wish you good luck,” he said, and took both
Grace Lexman's hands in his. “One of these days,” he said paternally, “I
shall come down to Beston Tracey and your husband shall tell me another
and a happier story.”
He paused at the door as he was going out and looking back caught the
grateful eyes of Lexman.
“By the way, Mr. Lexman,” he said hesitatingly, “I don't think I should
ever write a story called 'The Clue of the Twisted Candle,' if I were
you.”
John Lexman shook his head.
“It will never be written,” he said, “--by me.”
End of Project Gutenberg's The Clue of the Twisted Candle, by Edgar Wallace