On the arrest of a man for murder he is taken before the magistrates at
the earliest possible opportunity, but only to be formally charged—that
is, evidence of arrest is given, and a remand, generally for a week, is
asked for and obtained.
During that long week Dr. Maclean was the least unhappy of the unhappy
inmates of Bonnie Doon because he was forced to follow his profession.
The fact that Harry Garlett—it was taken as a fact—had poisoned his wife
for love of Jean Bower did not prevent men and women in the
neighbourhood falling ill and sending for the doctor. Indeed, quite a
number of his old patients suddenly developed some kind of slight
complaint in order that he or she might have the intense satisfaction of
a short talk with Jean Bower’s uncle.
At first Dr. Maclean had keenly resented these strange manifestations of
inquisitive human nature, and he dreaded the questions which he knew
would be put to him. But after two or three days he became quite
accustomed to the usual opening:
“Dr. Maclean, I hope you won’t be offended if I say how very, very sorry
I feel for you and for Mrs. Maclean over this terrible Garlett business.
I hardly like to ask you what you _really_ think about Harry Garlett,
but you and I are such old friends I’m sure you won’t mind my asking?”
From the first he had taken up a line to which he steadfastly adhered:
“I should much like to tell you my theories—but if I am to be a witness
next week, when Mr. Garlett is brought up before the magistrates, it
would not only be unprofessional but very wrong for me to say anything
at all to you about the case.”
As was only natural, nine times out of ten, the lady—for it was
generally a lady who asked him the indiscreet question—afterward told
her husband, her friends, and her acquaintances, that Dr. Maclean,
though he was too kind to say so, undoubtedly believed Harry Garlett
guilty, for the simple reason that had he thought Garlett innocent there
was no reason in the world why he should not have said so right out.
But if Dr. Maclean found it far from easy to put off his patients, his
real trouble in connection with the painful mystery with which all their
hearts were filled was with his one-time happy home.
Jean Bower’s eyes followed him about as a dog’s eyes follow his master.
She never actually asked him to declare his belief in her lover’s
innocence, yet he always felt that she was asking him, mutely, for some
such declaration.
At last, feeling he could bear her speechless interrogation no longer,
he put his arm round her shoulder and said very quietly: “It’s no good,
Jean! I’m an honest man, and I can’t deceive you. I would like with all
my heart to feel sure that Harry is absolutely innocent, but the truth
is I can’t make up my mind.”
As for Mrs. Maclean, she longed to talk the whole matter out with Jean,
but her Scotch reserve kept her silent. Even Elsie said nothing, but
more than once Jean heard her administer a vigorous, well-directed snub
at some one who tried to engage her in conversation at the back door on
what had now become the forbidden subject at Bonnie Doon.
But if that strange, unnatural silence was preserved in Dr. Maclean’s
house, that was not the case anywhere else. Within a circuit of thirty
miles round, Harry Garlett and his affairs were discussed constantly,
and that by men and women of every class and kind, of every social
position, of every degree of poverty and wealth. Strange rumours flew
hither and thither, some of them absurdly false.
One fact gradually emerged. Little by little it became known that no
arsenic had been traced to the possession of the man now lying under
remand in Grendon prison. This was the missing link in the chain of
circumstantial evidence which, it was beginning to be believed, would
certainly in the end hang the famous cricketer. Meanwhile, not only the
local papers, but the great London papers had become busy over the case.
Harry Garlett’s special interest in life, his wonderful cricketing
records, his popularity, his character as an employer, everything and
anything that touched on his personality, was made the subject of
comment.
Often during that long week Jean Bower felt as though she had fallen
into a bath of ill-smelling mud from whose stains she would never be
wholly cleansed. British law considers a man innocent until he is proved
guilty, but it is amazing what the English language can do in the way of
innuendo, and that without in any way sailing too near the dangerous law
of libel.
Half way through that terrible week of waiting suspense there came to
Jean one happy hour. Dr. Maclean had insisted that the girl should go
out with him, if only to get a little fresh air, and they were both
coming in tired from a long round when they saw Elsie’s face at the
kitchen window. Before the doctor had time to jump out of his two-seater
she was at the door.
“Mr. Kentworthy has arrived, sir. He’s with the mistress in the dining
room. She has given him some tea. He’s fair longing to see you and Miss
Jean!”
Mr. Toogood would have been surprised had he seen how utterly the girl
who now walked quickly forward into the dining room of Bonnie Doon had
changed in looks from the sad, listless, pale young creature to whom he
had delivered her lover’s message a few days before. Mr. Kentworthy
grasped her hand warmly and his eyes twinkled as he exclaimed:
“I’ve got up from my sick-bed in spite of my wife’s protests. I said to
Mrs. Kentworthy, ‘Now, this is just the sort of job I’m going to enjoy
thoroughly—clearing an innocent man of a foul charge’—for that’s what
we’re going to do, Miss Bower. We may have a difficult task before us,
but there are already several very important points in our favour.”
“Yes,” chimed in Mrs. Maclean, “Mr. Kentworthy has been telling me that
the Crown, in spite of the limitless money at their disposal, have
failed to trace any arsenic to Harry’s possession. But I’m astonished to
hear that there’s arsenic in almost everything in use. Did you know
that?” She turned to her husband.
“Of course I did,” he answered curtly.
“Even in chocolate,” went on Mrs. Maclean, with a touch of excitement.
“Every chocolate manufacturer has a certain amount of arsenic allowed
him by the Government—so much per ton of chocolate.”
“That’s why it’s lucky for us, my dear madam, that Mr. Garlett made
china instead of sweets,” exclaimed the private detective, smiling. “And
now,” he said, turning to Dr. Maclean, “I suppose we must get down to
business. Shall we go into your study, sir? I have got your former
statement to me here. We must go over the whole thing again, and I want
you to put your mind to telling me anything—however small or apparently
unimportant—that may be of value to us.”
But in spite of skilful cross-examination and shrewd suggestive
questioning, the hour which followed in Dr. Maclean’s consulting room
yielded little or no fresh material for Mr. Kentworthy to work upon, and
at last he said:
“I wonder, sir, if you would mind my seeing Miss Bower alone? She is
more likely to talk frankly to me if there are none of her family
present.”
Dr. Maclean looked dubious.
“I don’t believe that would be the case with my niece,” he replied. “But
it shall be as you wish, Mr. Kentworthy. Talk to the girl frankly—as
frankly as you have talked to me. For one thing she deserves frankness.”
He added, in a rather shamefaced voice, “I take it, Mr. Kentworthy, that
you still feel an unshaken belief in Garlett’s innocence?”
The detective allowed a moment to pass by before he answered, but at
last his words came out clearly:
“I do believe in Mr. Garlett’s innocence. But to err is human, and I
shall be able to tell you more as to what I really think and feel after
I have made fresh investigations. I’d like, for instance, to have a talk
with that Miss Cheale. You never know in a case of this sort who may
give you a valuable clue. I take it she will be on our side?”
Dr. Maclean hesitated, a fact which was duly registered by Kentworthy.
“I don’t think Miss Cheale will be able to add much to our knowledge.”
“I suppose the fact has occurred to you, doctor, that this young lady—I
mean Miss Cheale—had a certain interest in Mrs. Garlett’s death? She was
left, I understand, a thousand pounds.”
“Yes, but she was receiving three hundred pounds a year, and all found,”
was the quick answer. “Besides, I feel convinced that she knew nothing
of that legacy. It took us all, even Mr. Garlett, entirely by surprise.”
He went to the door and called out: “Jean! Mr. Kentworthy is ready to
see you.”
Pale, but absolutely composed, the girl came in. “Mr. Kentworthy would
prefer to see you alone,” said Dr. Maclean.
“I should prefer that also, Uncle Jock.”
After her uncle had left the room there came a pathetic eagerness into
her manner. She knew that James Kentworthy believed in her lover’s
innocence, and she also knew, though she would have scarcely admitted it
even to herself, that very few people shared that belief.
But though they discussed at length every detail of the story, he soon
became aware that Jean had nothing to say that threw any light on the
mystery.
“You suspect no one?” he asked at last, looking at her rather hard.
“There is no secret thought lying at the back of your mind?”
“No,” she answered very gravely. “I suspect no one, and, what is more, I
know Mr. Garlett does not either.”
Kentworthy gave her a long, measuring look. He was wondering whether she
could be trusted with a secret. Finally he made up his mind that he
would run the risk.
“Did Dr. Maclean tell you what first caused the Home Office to take
action?” he asked.
“He doesn’t know!” she exclaimed. “Only the other day my aunt was saying
she’d give anything to find out what had caused those first inquiries as
to Mrs. Garlett’s death.”
“Your uncle is a man of his word,” said the detective briefly. “I myself
told him what started the whole business, but I made him promise not to
pass the knowledge on. However, I’m now going to tell you the secret,
and I must ask you to make me the same promise that he made me.”
She looked at him with wide-open eyes, and then he said in a hesitating
voice:
“Mr. Garlett has some bitter enemy, some one who, as soon as the news of
his forthcoming marriage to you had begun to leak out in the
neighbourhood, formed, as I believe, an infamous plot to bring him to
disgrace.”
“A bitter enemy?” faltered Jean.
“Yes, a bitter enemy, to my mind certainly a woman, who wrote the three
anonymous letters which led indirectly to the exhumation of Mrs. Emily
Garlett.”
As she stared at him, overwhelmed with horror and dismay, he laid before
her on her uncle’s writing table the three sinister sheets of paper.
“By rights I ought not to have kept these facsimiles in my possession.
But I made up my mind that it would be right for me to keep even that
which does not belong to me—if it will help me to save an innocent man.”
Jean gazed down at the first impersonal note, that in which the writer
said he felt it his duty to draw the attention of the Head Commissioner
of Police to “certain mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of
Mrs. Garlett.”
“This,” she said doubtfully, “was perhaps written by some one who really
thought there should have been an inquest?”
Kentworthy shook his head.
“You are too kind, my dear young lady. Look at No. 2.”
“But surely this letter was not written by the same person who wrote the
first one?” exclaimed Jean, as she gazed at the second, ill-written,
comma-less letter.
Then, as she read it over, she grew deeply red. Indeed, she felt as if
the words: “The doctor’s niece can tell you why poor Mrs. Garlett’s
doctor made no fuss,” had been burnt, with a hot iron, for ever on the
tablets of her memory.
“Now look at No. 3—that which purports to be written by the sender of
the first letter.”
She read over the long sentence, and then a look of bewilderment and
pain struggled together in her face.
“Well,” asked the detective gravely, “have you any suspicion at all as
to who wrote these letters?”
She knitted her forehead and remained silent for quite a long time, and
James Kentworthy’s hopes rose high.
But at last: “I have no suspicion,” said Jean Bower slowly.
“Your uncle thought that they might be the work of that Miss Prince, who
lives in the Thatched Cottage.”
“I’m sure not,” said Jean, shaking her head. “Miss Prince is a spiteful
woman, and she has never liked Harry, but she’s not a fiend.”
James Kentworthy looked at her with increased respect.
“I agree,” he said, “it’s never any use trying to convince oneself of
what, deep at the back of one’s mind, one knows is not the case. But I
won’t conceal from you that I’m disappointed! Somehow I hoped you would
be able to help me, Miss Bower, and now I feel as if we were up against
a blank wall.”
She said nothing, for she felt terribly oppressed—the knowledge that
there was some one in the world who intensely hated both Harry Garlett
and herself filled her with a kind of unreasoning terror.
“I’m not giving up hope, mind you,” went on Kentworthy. “We’ve a long
time before us yet, and after all”—he was now speaking as if to
himself—“we’re lucky to have secured Sir Harold Anstey.”
Jean’s lip quivered. She felt as if, in spite of his brave words, he was
beginning to believe that he was confronted with an unfathomable
mystery.
“Sir Harold and I are old friends,” went on the detective with a queer
smile. “Thanks to me, a murderer Sir Harold was bent on getting off was
hung. So there’s no love lost between us! Still, he’s a tower of
strength with a jury—makes them see black’s white, so to speak.”
“Do you think that will be necessary?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“I think Sir Harold will start some queer theory of his own—such as that
the poor lady may have poisoned herself.”
“That won’t be the truth,” said Jean.
“And when you are in the witness-box it will be very pleasant for you,
Miss Bower—very pleasant, I mean, that Sir Harold will be with you, and
not against you.”
“Mr. Garlett means to go into the box,” said Jean quickly.
“I know he does,” said the other, “and I’m sorry for it. It’s an unfair
thing that any man now standing on trial for his life has to go into the
box or be considered guilty! Why, it’s a monstrous thing in a way. Those
who changed the law never thought it would be like that.”
“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed, bewildered. “Why shouldn’t he go
into the box?”
“Because, Miss Bower, he’ll be up against people very much cleverer than
himself, if you’ll forgive me for saying so—people, too, who’ll be keen
and resourceful, while he’ll be nervous and dejected. Now take one
thing”—he looked at her hard, hesitated in his own mind, then determined
that he would go through with what he felt ought to be said—“Mr. Garlett
will be asked when he first began to feel for you those—well—sentiments
that led to his asking you to be his wife? If he is an absolutely honest
man I expect he will feel compelled to answer that he was attached to
you long before anybody else knew that he was. That will look pretty bad
from our point of view. _Motive_, Miss Bower—that’s what judge, jury,
everybody in a word, is always looking for in a murder mystery. And
_you_ would provide a very strong motive—if you take my meaning.”
He saw her face change. It was as if all the colour was ebbing out of
it. He suddenly regretted that he had been so frank.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked piteously.
He shook his head regretfully.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be any good my seeing Sir Harold Anstey?”
Mr. Kentworthy remained silent for a moment, and then he answered in a
rather singular tone:
“I think it would be a good thing for you to see him, Miss Bower. But,
mind you—it would be irregular—very irregular! Mr. Toogood wouldn’t lend
himself to anything of that sort.”
“If you think it would help Mr. Garlett, I’d manage to see Sir Harold
Anstey somehow,” she exclaimed, the colour coming back into her face.
“I expect you would. But——”
“But what?” she said eagerly.
“I shouldn’t like it to be known that I advised your doing such a thing.
It isn’t my business to advise what isn’t proper,” he said irresolutely.
“You haven’t advised it,” she exclaimed. “The moment I heard that Sir
Harold was going to defend Harry I made up my mind to see him.”
“Between you and me,” went on the worthy man, “it has always seemed to
me to be dashed stupid that the advocate who is going to defend a man
accused of a serious crime isn’t allowed to see him! In this case it
might make a real difference, for if Mr. Garlett convinced _me_ of his
innocence, who’d gone to see him feeling pretty sure he was guilty, then
think of the effect seeing him might have on a man who wants to think
him innocent?”
“Can’t I persuade Sir Harold to see Harry?”
The detective gave a short barklike laugh.
“Sir Harold won’t see Mr. Garlett till they’re both in court, and one of
them in the dock!”
Jean covered her eyes with her hand, but that made her see all the more
clearly the awful picture conjured up by Mr. Kentworthy’s words.
“Look here, Miss Bower. If you will keep your word you’ll never let Sir
Harold know how you obtained them, I’ll give you these anonymous letters
to show him. I’m sure the Prosecution don’t mean to produce those
letters. ’Twould put people off writing to the police if they thought
their letters would be put in among the exhibits.”
“Exhibits?” echoed Jean, “what are they?”
“Exhibits are the actual, concrete objects connected with the case,”
explained Kentworthy. “If you show Sir Harold these letters he may
demand that the originals be ‘put in,’ as they call it. That will add a
useful touch of mystery—and he’ll make the most of it, never fear!”
“Then I’m to leave these facsimile letters with him?”
“Indeed you’re to do nothing of the kind! If we have the good luck to
run across their writer we may be very glad of them.”
“How soon ought I to try to see Sir Harold?”
“As soon as I hear Sir Harold is back at work I’ll wire to you: ‘Have
hopes of a clue.’ But look here, Miss Bower. If I were you I’d tell no
one of what you mean to do, for it’s irregular—very irregular! If the
case were reversed, if you were a gentleman and not a young lady, I’d
never advise you to try to see Sir Harold. But I think he’ll see _you_.”
Sir Harold was what is known in common parlance as a ladies’ man. But
somehow the detective felt it best to leave Jean Bower to discover that
fact for herself.