“No, daddy, it wasn’t Andy.” She shivered.
“Did somebody knock?” asked Andy.
She nodded.
“I sleep very lightly,” she said, “and I must have heard the knock the
first time. I thought it was you and opened the window to look out. I
saw somebody down below standing on the path. He was quite distinct.”
“How was he dressed?” asked Andy quickly. “In a dressing-gown?”
“Have you seen him?” she said. “Who was it, Andy?”
“Go on, my dear, what happened?”
“I called out ‘Who is it?’ and he didn’t answer at first,” Stella went
on, “and then in a deep kind of voice he said, ‘Have you got your
scarf?’ I didn’t know what he meant at first, then I remembered the
scarf which had been found in the orchard. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Who are
you?’ But he didn’t answer, and I saw him walking away. I sat for a
long time in the dark puzzling my head as to who it could be. It wasn’t
your voice; it wasn’t the voice of anybody unless—but that is absurd.”
“Unless it was Merrivan’s?” said Andy quietly.
“Of course it wasn’t his, but it was very low and gentle, just as his
was, and the more I thought about it the more frightened I became. Yes,
I did think it was Mr. Merrivan’s, and fought hard against the idea.
Then I put my light on and came downstairs, intending to call father
and to get a glass of milk. Then you knocked, Andy.”
“It is extraordinary,” said Andy, and told them what he had seen and
heard in the night. “Johnston is a dithering wreck. You’ll have to let
him go away, Mr. Nelson.”
“But who could it be? Do you think it was somebody trying to frighten
us?”
“They succeeded very well if it was,” said Andy.
“My theory is,” said Mr. Nelson, who was never at a loss for a theory,
“that you were all upset by that wretched woman’s fit. I knew you were
upset the moment I came in.”
“Johnston wasn’t upset,” said Andy, “and I think my nerves are in
pretty good order.”
He took the key out of his pocket.
“Go along and have a look at Merrivan’s house,” he smiled.
“Not for a thousand,” said Mr. Nelson fervently. “Now, off you go to
bed, Stella. You’ll be a wreck in the morning.”
“It is morning now,” said the girl, pulling aside the blinds. “I wonder
if Arthur Wilmot is awake?”
The same thought had come into Andy’s mind, and, having extracted a
solemn promise from Stella that she would go straight to bed, he left
her and made his way to Mr. Wilmot’s bijou residence.
It was a very long time before he aroused the milliner, and Arthur
Wilmot received the news with strange calmness.
“It is curious,” he said. “I was in the house yesterday. In fact, it
was I who put the bolts in the back window. They haven’t been bolted
since the murder.”
“You have seen nothing?” asked Andy.
“Nothing whatever,” said Wilmot. “If you’ll wait a minute while I
dress, I’ll come over to the house with you. It ought to be light
enough then to see whether there are any footprints in the garden.”
“Don’t bother your head about footprints,” said Andy irritably. “A
cinder path and an asphalted courtyard are not the best material to
collect that sort of evidence from.”
Nevertheless, he accompanied Arthur to the house, and they made a
thorough search of the rooms, beginning at the hall.
“Here’s something.”
Wilmot pointed to the floor.
“Candle grease,” said Andy, interested. “Have you had anybody here with
candles?”
Arthur Wilmot shook his head.
They found another gout of grease in Merrivan’s room, and then they
discovered a half-burnt candle. It lay at the back of the deep
fireplace.
“I didn’t need this to know that something more substantial than a
spirit had been in this place,” said Andy. “Without professing to be
an authority on ghosts, I always understood they carried their own
illumination.”
He wrapped the candle carefully in paper.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Wilmot in astonishment, and
Andy smiled.
“Really, for a man who suggests that I should look for footprints on
asphalt you are singularly dense, Wilmot. This candle is covered with
finger-prints.”
The murderer, sane or insane, was attracted to the scene of the crime,
and probably his visits were of frequent occurrence.
He said nothing about his plans to Wilmot or to the Nelsons. His first
business lay with Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor, but that lady was not visible.
More than that, when Andy urged the imperative necessity for an
interview, she flatly and firmly refused to see him. And Scottie was
her messenger.
“Women’s whims,” murmured Scottie. “It is no good, Macleod, she is as
hard as a neolithic fossil. I have done my best, but she won’t see you.”
“Now, Scottie,” said Andy, “I have treated you fair and you have got to
help me. What was Abraham Selim to her?”
Scottie gave an elaborate shrug.
“Never enquire into a woman’s past, Macleod,” he said. “‘The past is
dead, so let it die’ as the song says, ‘and happiness is with the
future.’”
“I am not concerned with the future, but with Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor’s
past,” said Andy unpleasantly, “and I intend seeing that lady or there
is going to be serious trouble.”
Scottie disappeared, and was gone for nearly half an hour before he
returned.
“She’s ill, Macleod, there is no doubt about it. You as a medical man,
will see it with half an eye. But she’ll give you two minutes.”
Mrs. Bonsor was lying on a couch, and Scottie had not exaggerated the
tragic effect which his chance reference of the previous night had
produced upon the woman. Her plump cheeks seemed to have grown haggard;
the insolence in her blue eyes had departed.
“I’ve got nothing to tell you, mister,” she said sharply, almost as
soon as Andy was in the room. “I don’t know Abraham Selim and I don’t
want to talk about him. If he is a friend of yours, well, I don’t
admire your taste.”
“Hasn’t Scottie told you——” he began.
“Scottie has told me nothing,” she said shrilly, “and I don’t see why
you should come up here into my private sitting-room—God knows they
charge me enough for it—and try to pump me.”
“Did you ever know Abraham Selim?”
She hesitated.
“Well, I did,” she said reluctantly. “That was years and years ago. I
don’t want to talk to you about it, mister. My private affairs are my
own private affairs. I don’t care who you are, policeman or not. My
character will bear investigation, believe me.”
Andy waited until she was finished, and then he said:
“Your name was Hilda Masters, and you married John Severn at St. Paul’s
Church, Marylebone.”
Her jaw dropped, and she stared up at him. And then she began to cry,
and from tears she turned to laughter.
It was a wonderful Scottie that Andrew Macleod saw in that moment of
the woman’s despair. He was by turns tender and authoritative, soothing
and sarcastic. Andy in his discretion left them alone for half an hour,
at the end of which time Scottie came to him.
“Macleod,” he said quietly, “she’s going to tell you the whole truth,
and, stenography being my long suit, I’d like to take it down for
you. Mirabel,” he hesitated, “hasn’t got what I might term my _flair_
for high-class language, and I guess it will look better if I put
it into police-English than if you dig up the hotel stenog. She’s a
freckle-nosed woman with gold-filled teeth. I took a dislike to her the
first time I saw her. Your surprise at my versatility does credit to
your intelligence, but I used to do 180 when I was a youngster, and few
key-punchers have ever passed me in a straightforward bit of typing.
I’m keen on this girl. She’s not a girl to you, but you’ll get elastic
in your ideas as you get older. Will you let me do it? You fire in the
questions and I’ll sort out the answers and fix ’em together.”
Andy nodded, and of this strange partnership was born a stranger story.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE STATEMENT OF MRS. CRAFTON-BONSOR
“My name is Mirabel Hilda Crafton-Bonsor. I am not sure whether
that was my late husband’s real name. I believe that it was Michael
Murphy. He was of Irish extraction, and when I first met him he was a
contractor in the City of Sacramento, in the State of California.
“I was born in the village of Uckfield, Sussex, but came to London when
I was aged seven. My parents dying, I lived with an aunt, Mrs. Pawl, of
Bayham Street, Camden Town, and entered domestic service at the age of
sixteen, going as parlourmaid to Miss Janet Severn, of 104 Manchester
Square. Miss Severn was a maiden lady and very eccentric. She had
strong views about marriage, and particularly about the marriages of
the lower classes.
“The only other person in the house beside Miss Janet and the other
servants was Mr. John Severn, Miss Severn’s nephew, and he was only
there during vacations. He was a student at Cambridge University. I do
not know the College, but I know that it was Cambridge, because I have
posted a good many letters from Miss Janet to him and she always read
out the address aloud before she gave it to me. I know the college had
a religious name.
“Unfortunately, I cannot read or write, and though I have since learnt
to write my name on a cheque I can do no more. That explains why I
never read of the murder, nor knew the names of the persons concerned.
I used to see a lot of Mr. John when he was at home. He was partial to
me, for in those days I was a very good-looking girl, but he never made
love to me.
“Whilst I was in Manchester Square I met a man who was called Mr.
Selim—Abraham Selim. He used to come to the servants’ entrance once
a week, and I thought he was one of those people who sell goods to
servants on credit. I afterwards found out that he was a moneylender
who had a big trade in the West End amongst servants. The cook was
heavily in his debt and a house-maid named Rachael was also in debt to
him.
“He was not a bad-looking fellow, and when he found that I didn’t want
to borrow money, but had a bit of my own in the savings bank (I being
a saving kind, and always was), he seemed to be struck on me, and
asked if I would go walking with him on my first Sunday out. I said
yes, because I’d never had a fellow, and, as I say, he was not at all
bad-looking. He met me the next Sunday. We drove to Hampton in a hansom
cab. I must say that it was a grand experience for me. He gave me
everything of the best and behaved like a gentleman in every way.
“To cut a long story short, he met me a good number of times, and then
suggested that we should get married. He said that it would have to be
secret, and I should have to stay on in my job for a month or two, as
he had certain plans. I didn’t mind that idea, because I was perfectly
comfortable with Miss Janet. So one Monday I had the day off, and we
were married before the registrar at Brixton, where he lived, and in
the evening I went back to Miss Janet’s.
“Then one day he came in a state of great excitement and asked me if
I’d ever heard of a gentleman whose name I forget. I told him I’d heard
Miss Janet speak of him. He was her brother-in-law, and she was not on
speaking terms with him, because he had treated his wife (her sister)
badly. He was well off, but from what I heard neither Miss Janet nor
Mr. John ever expected a penny from the old man. I told my husband all
that I knew, and he seemed very pleased. He asked me if Mr. John ever
made love to me, and I was very upset at the question, for I was a
respectable girl and did not hold with such things. He pacified me and
said that perhaps he could make a fortune if I’d help him. He also said
that when he married me he had no idea until I put an X on the register
instead of my name that I couldn’t read or write, and that was going to
be a handicap to him.
“But I could help him a lot if I could find out where Mr. John went in
the evenings. I discovered afterwards that he wanted this information
in order to plan a meeting with Mr. John, whom he did not know. I did
know that Mr. John was in debt. He’d told me that the cost of living
at Cambridge was very heavy and that he had borrowed money, and begged
me not to say a word to his aunt.
“I naturally thought that Abraham had got word of this and wanted to
do a little business with Mr. John. If I had known what their meeting
would lead to I’d have cut my tongue out rather than told Abraham the
place where Mr. John spent his evenings—which was in a club in Soho
where young gentlemen used to go to gamble.
“About a week after, Selim informed me that he had met Mr. John and had
helped him.
“‘Whatever you do, don’t tell him that you know me in any shape or
form.’
“I promised, and I wasn’t likely to tell. Miss Janet was very
straight-laced, and there would have been trouble for me if she knew
that I was married and was masquerading as a single girl. The Severns
are a very old family, and have a motto which means class people must
never do anything mean. It was in Latin. And there was a bird’s head
on the notepaper, holding a snake in its beak. She did explain what it
meant, but I’ve forgotten. I don’t know what business he had with Mr.
John, but Abraham seemed very pleased when he met me. He had given up
calling at the house now and sent a clerk.
“It is a strange thing that the clerk had never seen Abraham, and I
afterwards found out that although Selim said that he had met Mr. John
they had never been face to face. It was just about that time that
Abraham began to be very secretive. I found this out when Mr. John told
me that he had done a very good stroke of business with a man who had
written to him.
“‘He thinks I am going to inherit an estate,’ he said. ‘I told him
there was no hope, but he insisted on lending me all the money I
wanted.’
“I told Abe this when I saw him, but he only laughed. I remember the
evening I told him very well. It was a Sunday, and we had met at a
restaurant near King’s Cross. I want to say that although I had been
married to him over a month he and I had never met except, so to speak,
in public. He never kissed me in his life.
“It had been raining very heavily, and when we came out of the
restaurant he put me in a hansom and told the driver to drop me at the
corner of Portman Square. It was about ten o’clock when I paid the
cabman—Abraham always gave me plenty of money—and I had the shock of my
life when I turned away from the cab and almost ran into the arms of
Miss Janet. She didn’t say anything then, but when I got home she sent
for me.
“She said she couldn’t understand how a respectable girl could ride in
a hansom cab, and where did I get the money from? I told her that I
had money saved and that a friend paid for the cab. She didn’t like it
a bit, I could see that, and I knew that I should get notice next pay
day.
“‘Please wait up for Mr. John,’ she said. ‘He’s dining with some
friends, but he will not be later than eleven.’
“I was glad to see the back of her when she went upstairs to bed. Mr.
John did not come in until past twelve and I could see with half an eye
that he had been drinking. I had laid a little supper for him in the
breakfast-room and I waited on him.
“He was what we call in America ‘fresh’ called me his darling little
girl, and told me that he was going to buy me a pearl brooch.
“And then, before I knew what was happening, he had taken me in his
arms and was kissing me. I struggled with him, but he was very strong,
and he had his lips against mine when the door opened—and there was
Miss Janet.
“She gave me one look and pointed to the door and I went, and glad I
was to go. I fully expected the next morning to be packed off bag and
baggage, especially as Miss Janet had sent up word to say that I was
not on any account to do any work. At about ten o’clock she sent for me
to the drawing-room.
“I shall never forget her sitting there in her black alpaca, with her
little white lace cap and her beautiful hands folded on her lap. She
had lovely hands; all we servants used to admire them.
“‘Hilda,’ she said, ‘my nephew has done you a great wrong, how great
I have not enquired. I understand now why you have so much money and
showed the cook five golden sovereigns only last week. But that
is beside the point. You are a young girl in my house and under my
protection. I have a great responsibility, both to God and my fellows,
and I have arranged that my nephew shall do the honourable thing and
marry you.’
“I simply couldn’t speak. In the first place, I’d started the crying
the moment she began to talk, and in a second place her words struck me
all of a heap. I wanted to tell her that I was already married and had
my certificate to prove it. At least I hadn’t got it, but Abraham had.
I think it was remembering this that shut me up.
“‘I have spoken to my nephew and I have sent a note to my lawyer giving
him the necessary particulars in order that he may get a licence from
the bishop. You will be married at St. Paul’s Marylebone, on Thursday
next.’
“And with that she sort of waved me out of the room. When Miss Janet
moved her hand that way nobody breathing would have the courage to
argue with her. When I came to my senses I wanted to go back and
tell her the truth, and I asked if I could see her. But the other
parlourmaid came back to say that Miss Janet was feeling poorly and
that I could have the day off.
“I went straight away to find Abraham. He had a little office above
Ashlar’s, the tobacconist. Ashlar became a rich man after, I believe,
and has a building named after him. Abe was there, for a wonder, but
it was a long time before he unlocked the door and let me in. He told
me that he never saw clients personally and was rather annoyed with
me for coming. But when I told him the fix I was in he sort of changed
his tone. I said that I should have to tell Miss Janet, but he wouldn’t
hear of it.
“‘I always thought something like this might happen,’ he said. ‘Now,
Hilda, you’ve got to be a good girl and do something for me. I’ve
treated you very well, and it is now your turn to help me.’
“When I found what it was he wanted me to do I couldn’t believe my
ears. I was to marry Mr. John!
“‘But how can I when I’m already married?’ I said. ‘I should get put in
prison.’
“‘Nobody will ever know,’ he said. ‘You were married to me in another
part of the town. I promise you that you shall leave him at the church
and never see him again. Do this for me, Hilda, and I will give you a
hundred pounds.’
“He said that if I married Mr. John we should both be rich for life,
but he didn’t say why. He was always a wonderful talker, and he
confused me so that I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels.
He made black look white as the saying goes, and the long and the short
of it was that I consented. I suppose I was a weak fool, but I admired
his cleverness and his education so much that I simply didn’t think for
myself.
“I’ve often wondered whether he did this to get rid of me, but that
doesn’t seem right, because there was no reason why he should have
married me at all. I think now that he wanted a pretty girl in the
house who was so bound up with him that she would do what he told her
to do. I don’t think he ever expected Mr. John would ask me to marry
him, but perhaps he foresaw something worse than that. There wasn’t a
meaner, more cold-blooded villain in the world than Abraham Selim.
“On the day before the marriage I went to see Miss Janet.
“‘Hilda,’ she said, ‘to-morrow you will marry my nephew. I need not
tell you that I am not boasting of this marriage, and I advise you to
keep your own counsel. Now as to the future, it is not reasonable to
expect that Mr. John, who is a gentleman, will want to introduce a
girl like you to his friends. You are totally uneducated, and, if your
manners are nice, your terrible Cockney accent is impossible.’
“It is strange how I remember every single word that Miss Janet said,
though it is over thirty years ago. I felt very upset and crushed
by her words, but I did pluck up enough spirit to ask her what she
intended doing.
“‘I am going to send you to a first-class establishment where neglected
educations are improved. You will be there until you are twenty-two,
and by that time you will be fit to take your place by your husband’s
side without humiliating him or yourself.’
“In a way this fitted in with what Abraham had promised me. In fact, I
thought that he had arranged it, but I can see now that, if he had a
plan, this was Miss Janet’s own.
“Not until I walked into St. Paul’s Church on the Thursday did I see
Mr. John. I don’t know now what passed between him and his aunt. I do
know that he was very pale and very stand-offish, though polite. There
were only about four people in the church, and the ceremony was over
quicker than I expected. I had learnt to write my own name, so I didn’t
disgrace him by putting my mark. Why he married me I don’t know. I am
prepared to take an oath on the Bible that there was nothing between us
but that kissing of his, and then he wasn’t quite himself. But marry me
he did. Perhaps the Latin motto of the family and the bird’s head had
something to do with it. It seems silly to me even now. Before I came
to the church Miss Janet gave me £50 and the address I was to go to. It
was in Victoria Drive, Eastbourne. She also wrote out the times of the
trains.
“I just said good-bye to Mr. John and walked out of the church, leaving
him and his friend—Miss Janet did not come—and I never saw him again.
“Abraham had arranged to meet and take me to dinner (or lunch, as it
was; it was dinner to me in those days).
“Sure enough, there he was, waiting for me outside the King’s Cross
restaurant, and when we got inside I told him just what had occurred.
“‘Let me have the certificate,’ he said, and I gave him my new
marriage lines. We did not talk very much more about the marriage,
though I was a little nervous. I didn’t want to go to Eastbourne, and,
what was more, I never intended going. But I was dependent on Abraham.
I knew he would have a plan for me. He had. But it wasn’t as I had
hoped and prayed—that we should go into the country somewhere (which
he’d promised when I agreed to marry Mr. John) and begin our married
life in reality.
“When we had nearly finished the meal he pulled out a big envelope from
his pocket.
“‘I’ve got you a good berth—first-class. If you keep your mouth shut
nobody will know that you’re a domestic servant. There’s £500 in notes,
and you will have two days to get yourself some clothes.’
“I was bewildered. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“‘You’re going to America,’ he said. ‘I have got you some letters of
introduction from my friend, Mr. Merry—something.’ It may have been
Merrivan. I think it was. I understood from him that Mr. Merrivan was a
client. ‘They’ll get you a job,’ he said, ‘and you have all that money.’
“‘But I don’t want to go, and I won’t go,’ I almost shouted at him. I
knew that I spoke so loudly that the people in the restaurant turned
round and looked at us.
“That made him mad. I’ve never seen a man who could look so like a
devil as he did. It frightened me.
“‘You’ll either go or I’ll call a policeman and give you in charge for
having committed bigamy.’
“I just hadn’t the strength to fight him. I left by a ship called the
_Lucania_ for New York. From New York I went to a place called Denver
City, where one of my letters was addressed to. I was in a situation
for a year. They do not call you a ‘servant,’ but a ‘help.’ I was a
‘help’ for thirteen months, and then I had an offer to go as working
housekeeper to Mr. Bonsor, who was a widower with one child that died.
When Mr. Bonsor asked me to marry him I had to tell him the truth,
and he said a marriage more or less made no difference to him. He had
independent views about religion.
“I never saw Abraham again, but I know that he wrote to the place where
I was working in Denver asking what had become of me. The people did
not know. That was seven years after I arrived in the United States.
I have not heard of Mr. John, but I know that Miss Janet died a month
after I left from pneumonia. I found this out by a notice Mr. Bonsor
saw in an English paper.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE LAYING OF GHOSTS
There was one person to whom the statement of Hilda Masters should be
shown, thought Andy. For some time he had had a suspicion that Mr. Boyd
Salter could have thrown more illumination upon his friend Severn’s
life and folly than he cared to cast.
He sent a wire to the master of Beverley Hall asking for an interview,
and had found a note awaiting him on his return to the Green asking him
to come up at once.
“I’ll go up with you,” said Stella. “You can leave me in the car
outside.”
Tilling, that anxious man, seemed a little more nervous than usual.
“You’ll be careful with the squire, doctor, won’t you? He hasn’t been
sleeping any too well, and the doctor told Mr. Francis—that’s our young
master—that his nerves may go at any moment.”
“Thank you, Tilling,” said Andy, “I will be careful.”
He was to find that Tilling had not exaggerated Mr. Salter’s condition.
His face was grey and sunken, but he greeted the detective with a
smile.