of her."
Charles Emery bit his lip and managed to stifle the ejaculation which
rose to his lips.
The truth was out! It was Ena Pollen whom he had seen at Mrs.
Braybourne's window, and Ena Pollen had, he saw, posed for insurance
purposes as Mrs. Augusta Morrison--the rich widow of Carsphairn.
For a moment the discovery dumbfounded him. He scribbled a few lines.
Then he tore them up, and, making excuse for troubling the maid, he rose
and said he would call next day. Then he pressed into her hand a
ten-shilling note.
But just before he took his leave, he turned to her in the hall, and
asked suddenly:
"Oh, by the way, has Mrs. Morrison been here to visit your mistress
lately?"
"Not lately, sir," she answered. "Poor lady, she's dead, so I hear."
"Did she often visit your mistress?"
"Yes, sir. The last time she was here was at a dinner party with Mr.
and Mrs. Braybourne."
"Oh! Then Mrs. Braybourne is a friend of your mistress, is she? I know
her quite well. She lives in Pont Street, eh?"
"Yes, sir; she's a very great friend," was the girl's reply. "So is Mr.
Braybourne."
"And who is Mr. Braybourne?"
"Why, Mrs. Braybourne's husband, of course."
As Emery descended the stairs to the street he wondered who could be
"Mr. Braybourne"--if Mrs. Braybourne was a widow, as alleged.
At the end of the street he hailed a taxi and returned at once to the
head office of the insurance company, where he revealed certain other
suspicions which had arisen in his mind after his interview with Mrs.
Braybourne.
*CHAPTER XXX*
*THROUGH THE DARKNESS*
Events happened apace.
The criminal dovecot in Pont Street was now seriously disturbed.
Even Boyne, usually so calm and unruffled in face of any peril or
difficulty, saw that matters had grown very serious. He was in complete
ignorance of the return of Gerald Durrant. Nor did he know that at
Wimbledon Park the doctor, on calling again late that afternoon, had
pronounced that the serum was doing its work, and that Marigold was
decidedly better.
It had been just a toss-up. According to his judgment, the serum
injected to fight the germs of disease had been administered a few hours
too late. The human machine is, however, a curious thing, and the throw
of the dice with Death is always weighted upon the side of the living.
Gerald, pale, anxious, and emaciated after all the hardships he had gone
through, sat by the bedside of his well-beloved, watching her eagerly.
To his delight, she was slowly recovering. It is one of the features of
the malady from which Marigold was suffering--thanks to the brutal plot
to kill her--that after a certain fixed period, death supervenes or
recovery comes very quickly.
In her case the doctor himself was agreeably surprised. She was
recovering, he had said! She would yet live to cheat her enemies!
Gerald, realising this, was in the seventh heaven of delight. He was,
of course, in ignorance of what had transpired at Pont Street, or of the
suspicion of Charles Emery, the man who had made the actual assignment
of Mrs. Morrison's insurance.
On the following morning, after hearing the doctor's good news, he sat
beside Marigold's bed, and by slow degrees the girl recognised her lover
as he bent over her and tenderly kissed her upon the brow.
The light of recognition suddenly shone in her eyes, and smiling, she
gripped his hand.
"Yes, darling, I am home again!" he said in a soft voice. "Home--to
find that you are getting better. You've been very ill. But you'll
soon be well again, thank God!"
For some moments the girl was too overcome by emotion to speak, but at
last her lips moved, and in a voice scarcely audible she pronounced his
name.
"Gerald!" she articulated with difficulty, raising her hand until it
rested against his cheek. "Gerald! _My Gerald_!"
"Yes, darling! I am here with you!" he assured her soothingly, for they
were alone together, the doctor having just left. "You have been very,
very ill."
"Yes," she whispered, "very ill."
Then she closed her eyes for fully five minutes, as though the strain of
speaking had been too much for her, while he sat at her bedside watching
breathlessly the white countenance of the girl who was all in all to
him.
At last she again opened her eyes, and in a voice scarce above a
whisper, asked:
"Where have you been all this long, long time?"
"Abroad, dear. But don't worry about that! I'm back," he said
cheerfully. "Back with you. Rest, and you will soon be quite well
again."
Again she closed her eyes and turned her head slightly upon the pillow.
And as she did this, Gerald again kissed her upon the brow.
About two hours later her condition showed a marked improvement, but
Gerald had not left her side for a moment.
At noon she seemed so much better that he decided to go over to Ealing
and obtain a suit of his own clothes, so as to make himself more
presentable. This he did.
His sister was naturally delighted to see him, but save for a brief
explanation of his absence he did not enter into any details concerning
it. His anxiety was to return to Wimbledon Park. He had at first
contemplated going to Mincing Lane to explain his absence, but had now
decided to postpone that until the morrow.
So about three o'clock he was back again at Marigold's bedside,
delighted to find the great improvement which had taken place during the
past few hours. The serum was doing its work, and slowly she was
returning to her old self again.
When they were alone, and Gerald was once more seated beside her, she
turned to him, and in a low, intense voice asked if her sister had told
him of the fire in Bridge Place.
"Yes, dearest," he answered. "I know all about it. I've seen the ruin,
and I've talked to your aunt. You both had narrow escapes!"
"Mr. Boyne--set--it--on--fire--Gerald," she said weakly, "so as to get
rid of what was in that upstairs room!"
"Without a doubt."
"I--I tried to learn more about it. That's--well, that's why I dined
with Mr. Boyne."
"You dined with him?" echoed her lover.
"Yes--in order to try and learn something more. Did we not agree to keep
a watchful eye upon him?"
"We did. But I fell into a cunningly devised trap on the night I
disappeared," he said. "I will describe it to you later. Well, when
you dined with the fellow, did you discover why he spends his evenings
among those smart people in the West End?"
"No, Gerald; but I came to the conclusion that he is a very remarkable
crook."
"Of that I'm certain, dear. We've both had proof of it. He knew we
were watching him, and his intention, no doubt, was to get rid of both
of us."
"Yes, I quite agree," replied the girl faintly, yet smiling into his
face. Then she added: "Do you know, Gerald, that--that ever since I
dined with Mr. Boyne I haven't been the same. I felt ill next morning,
and gradually the illness increased, until I had to go to bed and the
doctor came to see me."
Gerald Durrant knit his brows.
"By Gad!" he gasped. "I--I never thought of that! He invited you to
dinner--eh?"
In reply to his question, Marigold described the chance meeting near the
bank and the invitation that followed.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "He had got rid of me, and intended
that you should die--truly a most diabolical plot! I see it all! But
we will be even with him yet, darling--never fear!"
Assuring the girl that he would return very soon, Gerald Durrant left
the house determined to take direct action. His failure to convince the
police at Hammersmith that "Busy" Boyne, the pious insurance agent, was
a master-criminal, had irritated and angered him. Probably if he went
direct to Scotland Yard and re-told the story, laying stress upon the
plots against Marigold and himself, they would hear him and make some
investigation.
The mystery of that upstairs room and its weird occupant was ever
uppermost in his mind. And now that it was destroyed, it made it
plainer than ever that there had been some guilty secret hidden there.
He went to Charing Cross, and presently entered the headquarters of the
Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, where he was
courteously received by Detective-Inspector Shaw in one of the cold,
bare, official waiting-rooms.
The inspector, a short, stout, brusque man, listened very patiently to
the strange story related to him, and once or twice jotted down notes.
But his countenance was imperturbable, and Gerald's heart had already
sunk within him, for he saw that he was quite unimpressed.
At last Shaw stirred himself, and said:
"Well, Mr. Durrant, all that you've just told me is extremely
interesting. Will you wait a few moments?" and rising, he left the
room. On his return five minutes later, he asked Gerald to accompany
him. They went together down a long corridor, where the young man was
ushered into a comfortable office. A well-dressed man of rather dapper
appearance was seated at a table, and Gerald was invited to a chair,
when he was closely questioned, more especially regarding his
observations and those of Marigold upon the houses in Pont Street and
Upper Brook Street, and also concerning the trap into which he himself
had fallen, and Marigold's inexplicable illness.
"Is the young lady yet fit to see anyone, do you think?" asked the
superintendent. "Is she well enough to make a statement?"
"Not to-day, I fear. Perhaps she will be to-morrow."
His interrogator reflected for a few moments.
"When is that appointment due with Mr. Macdonald and the
Frenchman--Galtier is his name, isn't it?" he asked his secretary, who
was seated at a table on the opposite side of the room.
"They are due here now," was the latter's reply as he glanced at the
clock.
"Mr. Emery is also to be here, is he not, Mr. Francis?"
"Yes, sir," replied the secretary.
Five minutes later there assembled in that room five other persons.
Charles Emery was shown in with the inquisitive little man, Alexander
Macdonald, who had arrived in Ardlui, and, giving his name as John
Greig, had watched the Red Widow by orders from the detective office in
Glasgow, and had gone back down Loch Lomond only half convinced that he
was on the wrong track, and that she was not the notorious woman, Sarah
Slade, for whom he was in search.
Alexander Macdonald was, however, a very shrewd person, and when the
first suspicion of a new case was aroused against Ena Pollen, as she now
called herself, he saw that he had been sadly misled. Therefore, unknown
to Scotland Yard, the Glasgow police had been doing underground work in
order to fix the identity of the lady of Upper Brook Street.
Almost simultaneously with the arrival of the two men there came Celine
and Galtier, together with a well-dressed elderly man, the manager of
the insurance company in which the false Mrs. Morrison had taken out a
policy.
For a full hour they sat with the superintendent of the Criminal
Investigation Department, who, with a shorthand writer at his elbow,
heard the further statement of each in turn. At last, turning to
Inspector Shaw, he said:
"There is certainly sufficient evidence to justify the immediate arrest
of the two women and the man Boyne. We must get the statements of Miss
Ramsay and her aunt later."
Then, taking a sheet of pale-yellow official paper, he scribbled one or
two lines, signed them, and handed it to Shaw.
"I think that is all we can do at the moment," he said, addressing the
party. "It is quite evident that a great insurance conspiracy has been
attempted, and not for the first time. Apparently the late Mr. Martin
was a victim, together with other persons, whose names and circumstances
we shall later on discover. To me it seems that great credit is due to
the intelligence of Miss Ramsay and of Mr. Durrant, who watched the man
Boyne so ingeniously until they must have somehow betrayed themselves,
and thus have placed their lives in jeopardy."
"I think," said the Manchester solicitor, "that if Mrs. Braybourne had
pretended to remain in ignorance for a month or so, and not sought to
establish her claim, the company would have, no doubt, paid the sum
without question."
"Yes," laughed the superintendent. "But criminals always betray
themselves by overdue anxiety. But we have here to deal with a very
dangerous gang. and it only shows to the insurance world how easily they
may be defrauded by a well-established organisation."
Shaw had left the room, and already the telephone was at work to ensure
the arrest of the criminals.
"It will certainly be highly interesting to discover how many innocent
people have actually been the victims of this desperate and relentless
trio who dealt secret death in order to enrich themselves," remarked the
superintendent.
"There was a grave suspicion of the woman Pollen in another case about
two years ago," said Macdonald. "Therefore, on a report from Ardlui, I
ran up from Glasgow, but I failed to identify her as the woman who had
called herself Slade, though I had very strong suspicions. Her social
standing deceived me, I admit. Poor Mrs. Morrison of Carsphairn!"
exclaimed Macdonald in his strong Glasgow accent. "She was a good
lady--a very good lady!"
"Well," said the superintendent, rising from his chair. "We have to
thank you all for your combined efforts, and especially Mademoiselle and
Mr. Durrant. Let's hope we shall get the guilty ones, and then we shall
all meet again as witnesses at the Old Bailey."
And thus, just after five o'clock, he dismissed them, Gerald, excitedly
and with all haste, making his way back to the bedside of his loved one
in order to tell her the intentions of the police.
At last the devilish crimes of the Red Widow and her accomplices were to
be exposed, and the trio of death-dealers punished.
*CONCLUSION*
Scotland Yard is difficult to arouse, but when once actual evidence of
crime is forthcoming it is quick of action.
At half-past five that afternoon a small, under-sized man, who wore the
uniform of the Metropolitan Water Board, rang at the basement entrance
of the house in Pont Street, and the cook opened the door. "Well,
missus?" he exclaimed merrily. "What's the trouble with the water
here--eh?"
"Trouble? There's no trouble," replied the cook, who never suspected
that four other men were in close vicinity awaiting their leader's call.
"Oh! but we've had a report that you've got a bad leak in one of your
pipes. So I'll just have to look at it," and he carried in what looked
like a walking-stick in wood with a wide trumpet end.
The cook took him into the scullery, and he placed the end of his stick
upon the pipe. He listened intently, using it like a huge stethoscope.
Then he went from pipe to pipe, chatting merrily with the cook and the
man-servant all the time.
"Are your people at home?" he asked the cook.
"No. They went away an hour ago in a car down to Brighton for three
weeks. So we're all off for a bit of a holiday, so hurry up! Do you
find anything wrong, mister?"
"No," replied the shrewd little man. "There must be some mistake, I
suppose. There's no leak here, as far as I can detect. But what a time
you will have--eh? Did they take much luggage?"
"No, not very much. Madam said she would come up and get some more on
Tuesday."
"Went sudden-like--eh?"
"Yes. All of a hurry. Their friend, Mrs. Pollen, slept here last
night--which is a bit unusual. But my mistress had a 'phone message.
Then they rang up for a car and all three went off. They left their
address--the Metropole."
"Do you know where they got the car from?"
"No. That I don't! Why? I heard Mrs. Pollen ordering it on the
'phone. But where it came from, I don't know."
"You think that they're at the Metropole, at Brighton?"
"Of course they are. But are you going down there to report a leak of
water, mister? If so, yours must be a nice comfortable job."
The little man laughed mysteriously, and leaving, walked to the corner
of Pont Street, where he reported to his colleagues that the birds had
flown.
Inquiry at Upper Brook Street brought no better result. Mrs. Pollen had
not been seen there since the previous day.
Already news of the flight had been telephoned to Scotland Yard, who, in
turn, telephoned to the Brighton police, and within ten minutes the
telegraph wires were at work to the various ports of embarkation,
circulating descriptions of the trio--Boyne's description being
furnished by the police at Hammersmith, where he was so well known.
That night Gerald sat with Marigold, and both were filled with wonder at
what was happening.
Expert criminals of the type of the death-dealers never fail to arrange
for a safe bolt-hole in case sudden escape becomes necessary. The
police knew this well, and had already taken certain precautions for
their arrest.
The story, of what followed is a brief, but dramatic one.
The car hired to take them to Brighton conveyed them only as far as
Redhill, where they dismissed it. The Red Widow, having already
alighted at Sutton, in Surrey, and returning to Victoria by train,
claimed her two trunks. Then, by the aid of her false passport, and
adding age and shabbiness to her appearance, she managed to travel
third-class from Folkestone to Boulogne and, passed by the police and
passport officer there, went on to Paris, where already she had a safe
asylum awaiting her.
At Redhill Boyne and his wife halted at an hotel, and after being inside
for ten minutes the fugitives came out, paid the man, gave him a
handsome douceur and said that they had changed their minds. Thus
dismissed the man returned to London well satisfied.
The pair separated half an hour later, Boyne returning as far as Clapham
Junction, where he changed and went on to Waterloo. His idea was to get
away by Southampton that evening to the Channel Islands, and thence,
after a few days, across to Havre. He knew too well that the game was
up and that his only chance was to get abroad.
On arrival he went into the refreshment room at Waterloo, for he had a
full hour to wait for the next train to Southampton. Having leisurely
drunk a cup of tea, he was just about to emerge when three men near the
door dashed out and pounced upon him.
In an instant he fought like a tiger, but just as quickly the men
gripped him, though not a word was spoken, except that a terrible
imprecation escaped the assassin's lips.
He was a master-criminal, and the detectives had not gauged the extent
of his wily cleverness.
"Very well," he laughed grimly at last. "You needn't hurt my arm.
Really, this is all extremely annoying."
A crowd had at once assembled at the first sign of a struggle, but the
detectives hurried him unceremoniously to a taxi, into which they
bundled him. Of that very act Bernard Boyne was swift to take advantage,
for ere they could prevent him he had managed to slip his hand to his
mouth and swallowed something--so quickly, indeed, that the detectives
who sat with him could scarcely realise his action.
Then, as the taxi sped across Waterloo Bridge on its way to Bow Street,
Boyne, turning to his captors with a gay laugh of defiance, said:
"Gentlemen, you have done your duty, but you've bruised my arm very
badly. Yet I forgive you. Bernard Boyne has had a long life and a merry
one. But"--he gasped, his face suddenly changed--"but he cheats--he
cheats you--after--after all!"
Next second their prisoner collapsed, and his captors saw to their
horror that he was dead.
Lilla, in ignorance of what had happened, spent the night with a friend
at Reigate, and went next day to Victoria, where she presented the
voucher and obtained her luggage, which she took with her to Liverpool,
having succeeded in purchasing a second-class passage to Canada in the
name of Anna Mansfield, the name upon her forged passport.
When, however, two days later she had boarded the big liner and was
sitting comfortably at tea within an hour of sailing, she was politely
invited by the steward to step ashore again as a friend was awaiting
her. She at once realised that she had been followed. Two minutes later
she was under arrest. In the night she was brought to London, and
before the magistrate at Bow Street next morning.
The suicide of Bernard Boyne prevented the whole details of the amazing
conspiracy from being explained at Lilla's trial, which later on took
place at the Old Bailey. She was, however, sent to penal servitude for
life as the accomplice of her husband--a just sentence she is still
serving.
Not until nearly three months afterwards was anything heard of the Red
Widow, until one night she was arrested in Lyons, and on being brought
to Paris it was found by the Surete Generale that she was wanted by them
for a similar offence in Biarritz--the mysterious death of a red-haired
Englishman named Pearson about three years previously--and that she had,
even then, been in active association with Boyne and his wife.
She was brought before the Examining Magistrate, M. Decoud, and her
guilt proved. Just before the date of her trial at the Assize Court of
the Seine she followed the master-criminal's example by poisoning
herself with one of the same tiny pilules which the insane toxicologist
of Harpur Street had prepared for emergency. This little white pilule
she had succeeded in secreting in the hem of her skirt for nearly four
months, hoping to escape justice. But at last, being convinced of the
terrible sentence which awaited her, she ended her notorious career.
The demented scientist in Harpur Street, whom Boyne had held so
completely in his power, came to the end of his resources in a month,
and was certified as insane and sent to an asylum. He made wild
allegations against a person named Wisden, but they were always
unintelligible to the attendants.
The insurance company which had issued the policy on the life of the
unfortunate Mrs. Morrison, combined with three other companies which had
also been defrauded, awarded to Gerald Durrant and Marigold Ramsay the
very substantial sum of one thousand pounds each for their services in
breaking up the dangerous and unscrupulous gang, for had the truth not
been discovered they would in all probability be carrying on their
murderous work at the present moment.
The reward which the young people received went a long way towards
buying the pretty little home they occupy at Hampstead, for they are now
united as man and wife.
Gerald is back again at Mincing Lane, where he has been promoted to a
responsible and lucrative position as assistant manager, but Marigold,
of course, no longer goes daily to the City.
They are never tired of talking of those dark days of their danger and
distress, but there is one person to whom they have agreed never to
refer--that handsome woman of many crimes both known and unknown--the
Red Widow.
PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED,
LA BELLE SAUVAGE,
LONDON, E.C.4
F.45.320
* * * * * * * *
*"THE MASTER OF MYSTERY"*
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