in his evidence before the coroner that the two servants had had
leave, it being Bank Holiday, to be out all day. In the evening his
wife said she would have a bath. She had complained of the heat. She
went into the bath-room. She was a long time gone, and going upstairs
and not hearing any sound he opened the bath-room door, and found her
lying with her face under water. He got her out, and called to a
neighbour from a window to go for a doctor.
"Dr. William Ferguson deposed that he was the regular medical
attendant. He had attended Mrs. Coombes occasionally for epileptic
fits, to which she was subject. When he arrived he found her dead.
The cause of death was drowning. He had no doubt that she had a fit
in the bath.
"After further evidence the coroner expressed himself satisfied,
and the jury found a verdict of 'Accidentally drowned owing to an
epileptic seizure while in a bath,' and expressed their sympathy
with the bereaved husband.
"That evening I called upon Dr. William Ferguson, obtaining an
introduction to him from an eminent physician who is a personal
friend of mine.
"He readily gave me the particulars. He had known Mrs. Coombes
for some years, but had not had to visit her often. The fits from
which she suffered were not frequent--perhaps two a year. The
Coombes were a most devoted couple. He had no doubt the cause of
death was what he had suggested. Had he made a post-mortem? Yes. The
body was quite healthy, and there was nothing else to cause death.
The epileptic seizure in the bath fully accounted for the accident.
He had known several cases in the course of his professional
experience.
"How long after the accident did he see the body? About an hour.
He was out at the time he was sent for. Life must have been extinct
when the body was taken out of the bath. Probably the unfortunate
lady had been under the water for ten minutes or a quarter of an
hour when her husband discovered her.
"The next day I made particular inquiries in the neighbourhood.
Mr. Coombes had moved immediately after the funeral. The furniture
had been sold by auction. I found the auctioneers. They had
forwarded the proceeds to Mr. Coombes' solicitors.
"I found the solicitors. They wanted to know what Mr. Coombes'
affairs had to do with me. I explained that having read the inquest
in the papers I had formed the idea that Mrs. Coombes was a relative
of mine whom I had not seen for some years. They gave me
Mr. Coombes' address. He was living in chambers in Great
Russell Street.
"Then I went to Mrs. Edwards and asked her to come with me. I had
an idea that I might be able to give her some information as to her
daughter's fate. We went to Great Russell Street, and I asked to see
Mr. Coombes.
"The porter told us that he was out, but was expected back at
about four o'clock. At a quarter to four we returned. Mr. Coombes
had not come in.
"At about ten minutes past four a gentleman came hurrying along.
"As he came near, Mrs. Edwards gave a cry, and, had I not caught her,
would have fallen to the ground.
"'What is it?' I said.
"'That--that man!' gasped the old lady. 'It is John Carlton.'
"The man was quite near us; he was turning into Russell Chambers.
"I went up to him, and said, 'Mr. John Coombes, _alias_ John Carlton,
where is Miriam Edwards?'
"At that moment I heard a shriek; I looked round--the old lady had
fainted. I ran to her assistance.
"When I had, with the help of the hall porter, lifted her up,
Mr. John Coombes had disappeared.
"I sent the old lady home and waited. Mr. Coombes did not return.
Then I went to Scotland Yard and saw one of the heads, and gave him
all the particulars in my possession.
"Official information was soon obtained. Mr. John Coombes, whose
wife had died in her bath from an epileptic fit, was not quite
unconsoled for the loss of his partner. The lady was insured for
£5,000 in a life assurance office. The policy was an old one, and
dated from the time of her marriage.
"The claim had not been paid, owing to certain formalities, but it
was not disputed. No idea of fraud had entered anyone's head. But
it is disputed now, and when Mr. Coombes is found he will be charged
with wilful murder."
"He murdered his wife!" I exclaimed.
"No," said Dorcas, "he murdered Miriam Edwards."
"But----"
"He didn't murder his wife, because the woman we found at Dover, who
was so like Miriam, _was_ his wife. There is no doubt they were very
fond of each other. All the evidence we could obtain pointed to that
fact. But he was in desperate need of money, so we found out, and his
accidental meeting one night with a girl who was the exact counterpart
of his wife in form and feature put a diabolical idea into his head.
"He laid his plans well. He courted Miriam Edwards. On the Bank
Holiday he sent his wife away quietly, probably telling her to keep
out of the way for a time, for reasons on which his safety depended.
He got Miriam Edwards to the house on the pretence that it was the
one he had taken as a future home for them to live in when they were
married. The servants were away. The poor girl was done to death in
that house in some way which defied detection. The presumption is
that she was chloroformed. That would leave her powerless, and all
trace of the crime would have vanished before the post-mortem
examination. She was rendered insensible and laid in the bath, under
the water, and the rest was easy. There would be no resistance, no
outcry, only certain death, which would look like accident.
"The resemblance of Miriam Edwards to Mrs. Coombes deceived everyone
but the mother. The doctor never dreamed that the body he was called
in to see was not that of Mrs. Coombes, the patient he was attending
for epileptic fits."
"But surely," I said, "all this cannot be proved? The person who
might do so is not likely to speak, for she is his wife, and the man
was presumably alone, and would not convict himself."
"No; we can only assume that the thing happened as I have said. But
we are certain that Miriam Edwards is in the coffin at Highgate
which lies under the stone on which is the inscription, 'Sacred to
the Memory of Jane, the beloved Wife of John Coombes.' The grave is
to be opened by the Home Secretary's order.
"That is the mystery of the disappearance of Miriam Edwards."
"But the jewellery?"
"Must have been taken from the body of Miriam Edwards by Coombes
and given to his wife when he met her shortly afterwards. In all
probability it was his wife's jewellery first, and he borrowed it to
give to Miriam, for the purposes of his villainous plot."
* * * * * *
Later on I learned further particulars from Dorcas.
When the body was exhumed by the Home Secretary's order, poor old
Mrs. Edwards recognised her daughter by certain birth-marks. There was
no doubt that Dorcas's theory was correct, and that the scoundrel had
murdered his wife's double in order to obtain his wife's insurance
money.
John Coombes made good his escape. It is probable that, getting
abroad, he was there joined by his wife, who may still be in ignorance
of her husband's motive in disappearing for a time and travelling
about under a false name. Or she may have been a party to the
crime.
* * * * * *
Dorcas was congratulated by the chiefs of Scotland Yard on the
marvellous skill with which she had elucidated a mystery which at one
time looked like baffling even her exceptional abilities.
It would probably have been a mystery still but for the fortunate
discovery of that Piece of Brown Paper with the torn label of
Messrs. Shoolbred and Co. upon it, in which Mrs. Coombes had wrapped
up her boots.
_VIII. PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN_
I was busy writing in my study one evening about ten o'clock when
there came a loud ring at the bell.
I am suspicious of loud rings after the last postal delivery. They
generally mean a long colloquy at the front door between my servant
and the bell-ringer, and as long as that colloquy lasts I am nervous
and excited. I live in a constant terror of being interrupted in my
evening's work. I set the night apart for the exercise of the
vocation by which I earn my daily bread, and any interruption is
fatal.
In times gone by I occasionally yielded to urgent messages and
plausible tales, and gave the caller the five minutes demanded, but
I invariably found that I had been victimised by a bore with an axe
to grind, or a professional beggar who hoped that I should part with
a sovereign or some loose silver in order to get rid of the
interruption.
Only those who have had actual experience of the dodges by which
unwelcome visitors obtain access to a busy man whose name may happen
to be before the public will understand the terror with which an
author who is working against time hears a ring at his front door
bell at ten o'clock at night. I have known men who have suffered
such systematic persecution in this direction that they have, in
sheer nervous terror, left London and buried themselves in
out-of-the-way places, and even then they have not secured the
privacy which was their heart's desire.
"But that," as Rudyard Kipling has it, "is another story." On the
present occasion I had just made up my mind to walk out into the hall
and tell the intruder in strong language to go away, and never to
touch my bell again at that hour of the night, if he valued his life,
when my servant entered.
"I'm very sorry, sir," she said, "but it is an old gentleman, and
he says he must see you; and he seems very upset, sir, and I thought
I'd better bring his card."
I snatched the extended card with an angry exclamation and looked
at it. Then, with a sigh of resignation, I pushed my work away from
me and said, "Show the gentleman in."
The name on the card was "Sir Joshua Broome," and Sir Joshua Broome
was a City magnate, a gentleman who had on more than one occasion
done me friendly service, and I could hardly drive him from my door
on the plea that I was engaged now that my servant had admitted that
I was at home.
Directly Sir Joshua entered my study I saw that he was prey to the
most violent agitation. He apologised in a trembling voice for his
intrusion at that hour--he knew that my evenings were sacred to my
work--but the matter on which he had come to see me was of the most
vital importance to himself.
He had heard me speak of my friend Dorcas Dene, the lady detective.
Would I give him her address?
I wondered what on earth Sir Joshua Broome could want with a private
detective, but I wrote down the number in Oak Tree Road and handed
it to him.
He thanked me, and rose to go. I saw at once that he was ill, and
having a great liking for the fine old fellow, I offered to accompany
him to Oak Tree Road and introduce him to Dorcas personally.
He was evidently relieved by my offer. "It would be a great kindness
to me if you would," he said, "but I mustn't take you from your
writing!"
"I shan't do any more to-night," I said, and I spoke the truth. The
thread was broken, and I might as well go and see Dorcas as sit
staring at the ceiling till midnight in the vain hope of recapturing
my lost ideas.
Seeing that he was really eager for me to accompany him, I put on
my hat, lit a cigar, and went out into the street with him.
Sir Joshua's brougham was at the door.
I gave the coachman the address, and in ten minutes we were ringing
the bell of the garden gate in Oak Tree Road. My companion was still
agitated. When we got out of the carriage he leant on my arm for
support.
He had only spoken once during the journey.
When I said to him, "I trust it is not serious, Sir Joshua?" he
replied, "I don't know what to think, but if you care to hear my
story stay while I tell it to Mrs. Dene--I owe you every
confidence after your goodness in bringing me to her."
* * * * * *
"Now, Sir Joshua," said Dorcas, as soon as I had made the
introduction and explained that my friend was not only willing but
anxious that I should assist at the conference, "let me understand
in what way you think I can be of service to you."
"I will explain as briefly as I can," replied Sir Joshua. "You
are possibly acquainted with my history, because it has lately been
in the papers, and I am, I suppose, a well-known public man.
Commencing in a very small way of business, I became in time a
leading City merchant, and I have lately received the honour of
knighthood in connection with the services I have been able to
render my political party.
"At the last Drawing Room my wife, Lady Broome, was presented to
her Majesty. That is a week ago. This evening, on returning from
the City to my home at Wimbledon, I found a number of letters
awaiting me. Among them was this."
He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Dorcas.
"Read that," he said, "and you will understand why I have ventured
to intrude upon you at such an hour as this."
Dorcas opened the letter and read it out aloud. It was written in
a disguised female hand:
"Sir Joshua Broome,--I see your wife's name on the list of ladies
presented to the Queen.
"It will be a nice disgrace to you and her and all your family when
you see in the _Court Circular_ that the presentation of Lady Broome
has been cancelled by the Queen's command.
"Well, that is what will happen if my information gets to the Lord
Chamberlain's ears. I know something about Lady B. before you
married her.
"The Queen does not have people of her sort presented at Court.
Lady B., before you married her, had been in prison, and I can
prove it.
"But I'll hold my tongue for a thousand pounds. If you'll pay that
for the sake of your reputation in the City and your wife's in
society, put a line in the agony column of the _Daily Telegraph_--
'To One Who Knows.--Agree terms.'--and I'll arrange where the
bank-notes are to be sent.
"But don't try Scotland Yard or anything of that sort, because if I
am arrested I'll speak what I know, and it will be in every
newspaper in England.
"This is genuine, and had better be attended to quickly.
--Yours, ONE WHO KNOWS."
"It is an infamous attempt to blackmail!" exclaimed Sir Joshua,
as Dorcas finished the letter. "There is not a word of truth in it.
But it is a terrible thing to have said even in an anonymous letter.
I want you to take the matter up, Mrs. Dene, and try and find out
who the scoundrel is."
"Yes," said Dorcas, looking keenly at the knight, "I can quite
understand that you are anxious to know; but, as there is not a word
of truth in it, why not put it in the hands of the police?"
"But my wife's name--the allegation is so serious--the scandal
would be so terrible!"
"What scandal?" said Dorcas, quietly. "You say that the story is
an infamous fabrication--that there is absolutely no truth in
it. Neither you nor Lady Broome can be injured by attempting to bring
the author of such a letter as this to justice."
"I don't see it that way. It's horrible--I wouldn't have such a
thing as this get about for worlds. The police would go to the
Lord Chamberlain with it."
"Well?"
"And he would have to take some notice of it."
"If there is no word of truth in it, you and your wife would have
only his sincere sympathy."
"I can't do it!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, rising and pacing the room.
"I come to you to conduct the investigation for me privately. I want
to know who wrote the letter--that, it seems to me, is the first
thing to be done. Will you undertake the task of finding the writer?"
"Certainly--if you wish it--that is my business. But I must be placed
in possession of the facts. Nothing must be kept back from me. If
the allegation were true it would be comparatively easy to trace the
author of it. We should then be able to work among those who were
_likely_ to know. As you say it is false, the field is very largely
extended. Anyone can trump up a charge that is false--only those who
know the facts can put forward a charge that is true."
"You must take it from me that this thing is a lie," exclaimed the
knight somewhat testily. "I will answer for my wife's good name with
my life."
"Very well," said Dorcas. "Then what I have to find is either
someone who believes that you are weak enough to part with £1,000 in
order to prevent a lying communication, which you can easily disprove,
being sent to the Lord Chamberlain, or someone who has a grudge
against your wife, and thinks that this letter will cause you to be
suspicious of her.
"Now you must excuse me asking you certain questions, but it is
important I should have facts to go upon.
"Who was Lady Broome when you married her?--who were her people,
and how long had you known her before you made her your wife?"
Sir Joshua did not tell his story well--he was too excited to be
concise. But briefly the facts as he gave them to Dorcas Dene were
these.
Some ten years previously, being a widower with two sons and a
young daughter, he engaged a governess for his little girl, who was
then fourteen.
The governess came to him with excellent references. She had no
relatives, and apparently no friends, for she had no correspondence.
She was a Miss Grey. Her Christian name was Margaret. She was a very
handsome girl, and Mr. Broome--he was not Sir Joshua then--fell in
love with her. After she had been in his service six months he
proposed to her.
She asked time to consider his proposal and went away. A few days
later he received a letter from her declining his offer, and saying
that under the circumstances of course she could not return to his
house. She had obtained a situation elsewhere. She presumed that he
would give her a reference to a lady.
The lady eventually wrote to him, and he replied that she was
everything that she could wish--he could do no less, and he was
only speaking the truth. Miss Grey had won the regard of everyone in
the house.
For two years after that he neither saw nor heard of Margaret Grey.
Then one day he accidentally met her in Kensington Gardens. She was
out of a situation and living in lodgings. He proposed to her again
and this time was accepted.
Two months later the marriage took place, and he had never had
the slightest reason to regret it.
His children were devoted to her and she to them, and she was
greatly admired wherever she went. There was not a more graceful or
more beautiful woman at the Drawing Room, and he had every reason to
be proud of her.
"I have no doubt of it," said Dorcas, "but you must excuse me for
saying that all this is no _proof_ that your wife has not at
some point in her career been in one of her Majesty's prisons. Have
you shown her this letter?"
"Yes."
"What does she say?"
"She is naturally terribly upset at such a monstrous charge--she is
quite prostrated by it."
"And of course she indignantly denies it?"
"Of course. Good heavens, madam! you don't suppose that I have
really married an ex-convict and presented her to the Queen! I tell
you this is a vile conspiracy to frighten me out of £1,000."
"Yes, of course that is so under _any_ circumstances," said Dorcas.
"Now, if you please, you must furnish me with the date of Miss Grey's
first coming to you, the names and addresses of the people to whom
she referred you, and the date of your marriage to her."
"I can do that from memory. Miss Grey came to me in the spring of
'87, and left me in the autumn. We met again early in '90, and were
married in the spring of that year."
"And the references?"
"She came to me in answer to an advertisement I inserted in the
_Times._ She referred me to the family with whom she had been
living, an American gentleman, a Mr. Garrod and his wife, who were
returning to America with the two children to whom Miss Grey had been
governess. That was why she was leaving."
"Where did you see Mrs. Garrod?"
"It was Mr. Garrod I saw. He was staying at the Langham Hotel."
"Where had Miss Grey been governess to the Garrods?"
"They had been travelling about England. For some months previous
to Margaret leaving them she and the children had been with Mr. Garrod
on the Continent; Mrs. Garrod, who was Mr. Garrod's second wife, and
not the mother of the children, had returned to America on account of
a relative's illness."
"And when Miss Grey met you again two years after she had left
your employment, did she tell you where she had been living?"
"With the lady who had referred to me. She lived with her as
governess to her daughters until the lady, owing to a reverse of
fortune, was compelled to dispense with her services. But if these
particulars are absolutely necessary to enable you to trace the
writer of this letter I will obtain every information of my
wife--she can, of course, give them more accurately than I can."
"Naturally," said Dorcas, rising. "And now, Sir Joshua, if you will
allow me, I will come to Wimbledon to-morrow morning, and see Lady
Broome myself. It is quite possible she may be able to tell me
something which will give me a clue. Good night."
"Good night," said Sir Joshua, rising. "I presume you will take
this matter up and go into it thoroughly. I wish no expense spared."
"You may rely upon me," said Dorcas. "If Lady Broome will assist me I
have no doubt we shall run the writer to earth in a very short time.
"But the first thing I shall do on your behalf will be to advertise
in the _Daily Telegraph:_ 'One who Knows.--Will agree terms if date
and particulars sent.' We shall then at least be in communication
with the writer."
Sir Joshua bowed, and Dorcas and I accompanied him to the door, and
stood watching while the lights of his carriage disappeared as the
brougham turned into the St. John's Wood Road.
"What do you think of it?" I said when we had returned to the
drawing-room where Paul, who had heard the visitor depart, had
already preceded us. "Do you think poor old Sir Joshua has really
made a terrible mistake in presenting his wife?"
"I'll tell you after I've seen Lady Broome," said Dorcas. "To-day
is Tuesday--come in on Thursday evening. Make it late--say
eleven o'clock. I shall probably know a good deal more about the
case by that time."
* * * * * *
At eleven o'clock on Thursday evening when I arrived at Oak Tree
Road Dorcas was out, but Paul informed me she had sent a wire to say
she should be at home at midnight.
It was a quarter-past twelve when she came, and she was evidently
tired with a long day's work.
"Well," I said, as we gathered round the supper table--late supper
was a feature of the Dene _ménage,_ and one necessitated by the
exigencies of Dorcas's profession--"what news of the Broome case?
Did you see Lady Broome?"
"Yes, I saw her the following morning, and found her all that her
husband had described her--handsome, graceful, and charming. But
of course I saw her at a great disadvantage. This anonymous threat
was preying on her mind."
"Did she give you the particulars you wanted?"
"To a certain extent, but the writer of the letter has given them
more fully.
"My advertisement appeared in the _Daily Telegraph_ this morning.
At twelve o'clock Sir Joshua received this telegram, handed in at
the Central Office."
I took the telegram from Dorcas and read it.
"Old Bailey, November Sessions, 1886. Six months' imprisonment.
See case. Send notes--Thomson, c/o Winter, 17, Wellborough Street,
Borough, or must communicate Chamberlain."
"Good gracious!" I said, as I returned the telegram to Dorcas,
"that's definite enough, and the sender evidently doesn't fear
arrest, as he gives address."
"Yes, the charge is definite enough, and I've referred to the Old
Bailey records.
"Margaret Grey, governess, aged twenty-five, was sentenced to six
months' imprisonment for stealing some rings from a jeweller's tray
while examining goods.
"The jeweller's suspicions being aroused by the hasty manner in
which she turned to leave the shop after saying that the articles
were too dear, he stopped her, and two valuable rings were found in
the palm of her glove. At the police-station she at first refused
to give her name, but ultimately admitted that it was Margaret Grey,
and that she was a governess.
"She desired that her employer might be telegraphed for.
"Her employer, a Mr. John Garrod, attended at the police-court and
said Miss Grey had been in his employ for some time and bore a most
estimable character. He felt convinced she had no dishonest
intention; at the most it was a case of kleptomania. He expressed
his willingness if she were discharged to take her back immediately
into his employ, but the magistrate committed her for trial.
"At the Central Criminal Court the judge, taking everything into
consideration, sentenced Margaret Grey to six months' imprisonment."
"Garrod!" I exclaimed. "Why, that was the name of the gentleman
Sir Joshua saw at the Langham Hotel--it was he who gave Miss Grey
her reference."
"Exactly," replied Dorcas, "and the date--the spring of 1887-- would
tally with the date at which Margaret Grey would be liberated."
"But what does Lady Broome say to this?"