MORE SUSPICIONS
Women are extraordinary—a platitude, of course, for everybody who has
mixed with women and who possesses a gleam of intelligence knows that
they are extraordinary, just as he knows, or ought to know, that if they
were not _bizarre_ and mystifying, complex and erratic, they would be
less insidiously captivating than they are.
There are, however, exceptions to most rules—some misguided _savant_ of
a bygone epoch formulated a maxim which says that "the exception proves
the rule," obviously an absurd statement, for if one man has no nose on
his face it is no proof that all other men have noses on theirs. Aunt
Hannah constituted an exception to the rule that women are rendered
additionally attractive through being extraordinary. Had she been less
extraordinary she would have been more lovable. As it was she came near,
at this time, to being the reverse of lovable, or so it struck me when,
upon my endeavour to talk calmly and rationally to her after hearing all
that Jack Osborne had just told us, and striving to induce her to listen
to reason, she remained prejudiced, illogical.
I should not have cared a button, naturally, had it not been for Dulcie
and the estrangement between us that the foolish old lady's behaviour
created. Dulcie thought no end of her aunt, respected her views and
sentiments—she had been brought up to do so, poor child—and, I knew,
really loved her. "Well," I said to myself tartly, "she will now have to
choose between Aunt Hannah and me," and feeling cock-sure, after all
that had occurred between us, that I should be the favoured one and that
Aunt Hannah would be metaphorically relegated to the scrap-heap, I
decided to approach Dulcie at once.
No, first I must see the original of that telegram, I reflected.
Accompanied, therefore, by the police officer, I made my way to the post
office in Regent Street. Having explained that I wanted to see the
original of the telegram "because," as I said, "I think a mistake has
been made in transcribing it," I was presently confronted by the
postmaster, a most courteous, obliging person.
"Why, certainly," he said, when I had repeated my untruth. "You shall
see it at once."
I waited in anxious expectancy, chatting lightly with the policeman,
while the postmaster looked through the file of the day's messages.
"This is it, I think," he said presently—we were in his private room.
"But," he went on, glancing from the message that had been sent to the
original, "your original message is unsigned. Is that the alleged
mistake of which you complain?"
"Unsigned!" I exclaimed, taking both papers from him. "Why yes, so it
is! Then how does that message that was sent off come to be signed?"
The original message was type-written. The wording was exactly the same
as that in the telegram received, with this exception—the telegram
received was signed "Michael Berrington," the typed message had no
signature.
"How do you account for this discrepancy?" I asked quickly.
"If you will kindly wait a moment," he answered, "I will inquire into
this."
He left the room. The policeman, to whom I had handed both messages,
was still contemplating them with a look of perplexity in his round
eyes, when the postmaster returned, bringing with him an
intelligent-looking girl.
"This," he said, "is the young lady who transmitted the message."
I am afraid I smiled. How long, I wonder, will post-office assistants,
and shop girls, bar tenders, and others continue to be "young ladies,"
while ladies in the correct sense of the word never think, when talking
of one another, of using terms more distinctive and dignified than
"girl" and "woman"?
"Do you remember my sending this telegram this morning?" I asked,
looking her full in the eyes.
"I remember taking in the message, but I'm afraid I don't remember your
face, sir," she answered nervously, evidently afraid that I was about to
get her into trouble. "You see, we see so many people, and most of them
only for a few moments. I recall rather clearly taking in that message,
because it was typed, which most telegrams are not. And—and I thought
it was handed in by a lady, and not by a gentleman. In fact I feel sure
it was. Was it really you who gave it to me to send off?"
"No, it was not," I answered quickly. "A lady? Can you remember what she
was like?"
"I can. She was, I think, really the most beautiful lady I have ever
seen. She was quite tall, as tall as a man, and she had a lovely figure.
It did seem to set off her beautiful clothes so well. Then her face was
lovely too—long, dark eyebrows she had, if I remember rightly, and her
eyes were large. Oh, and she had a lot of auburn hair—red you might
almost call it—I don't know which it was really, but I never saw
such hair."
"Good!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the policeman.
"She has described beyond doubt a woman I know; a woman you will
probably soon know something about too."
"Indeed, sir?" he said, interested.
"But about this signature," I went on, again addressing the operator.
"How does this telegram you sent off come to be signed if the original
was not signed?"
"It was signed, sir. It must have been. Otherwise the name wouldn't have
been telegraphed. Ah—I remember!"
"Remember what?"
"The signature was in pencil. Just after the telegram had been
despatched, the lady came in again and asked if she might see the
message again just for a moment—she was not sure if she had said
something she had meant to say, she said. I got it and gave it to her,
and a moment or two afterwards she gave it back to me, thanking me very
much for having let her see it. She must have rubbed off the signature
then. She could do it easy with a damp finger. Of course, I ought to
have looked, but I didn't think to."
"I think we have now solved the mystery—in part," I exclaimed
triumphantly. "This is some abominable conspiracy, and I am going to get
to the bottom of it. My name was evidently signed, telegraphed, and then
purposely obliterated."
After thanking the postmaster for his extreme courtesy and for the
trouble he had taken, and impressing upon him that under no
circumstances was the bright-eyed little operator to be censured, or
allowed to get into any trouble, I returned with the policeman, who was
now quite apologetic, to the house in Grafton Street. The door was
locked. A constable standing by, however, told us that Osborne and
Easterton had driven away together in a car—"his lordship's car, which
his lordship had telephoned for," he said, and that "the two ladies had
gone to the Ritz for tea"—he had heard them say, as they walked away,
that they were going there.
Alone I followed them. I know my way about the Ritz as though I lived
there, being there so often with friends, and I soon found Aunt Hannah
and Dulcie. They were alone in a cosy private tea-room leading out of
one of the large rooms which is but seldom used, having tea.
I saw Aunt Hannah stiffen as I approached. I saw too—and this disturbed
me far more—that Dulcie had been weeping. Her eyes were still
quite moist.
"What do you wish, Mr. Berrington?" Aunt Hannah inquired starchily,
sitting bolt upright in her chair as I approached.
I detest the use of the word "wish" in place of "want"; I don't know
why, but I always associate it with prim, prudish, highly-conventional
old ladies.
"I have come to explain everything, and to set your mind at rest," I
said, trying to speak lightly, and intentionally saying "mind" instead
of "minds," for I did not want Dulcie to suppose that I thought she
shared her aunt's grotesque belief in this matter—the belief that I
actually had sent that hateful telegram.
"I hope you will succeed," Aunt Hannah observed, then shut her lips
tightly.
She did not offer me a cup of tea, but I feigned not to notice this
paltry affront, and proceeded briefly to relate what had just taken
place at the post office. At last, when I had, as I thought, completely
cleared my character, I stopped speaking. To my surprise the old lady
remained as unbending as ever.
"I don't know why I've gone to the trouble of telling you all this," I
said, hiding the mortification I felt, "but you see, at any rate, that I
_had_ an explanation to offer, though I grant you that at present it can
only be a partial one. That is no fault of mine, however."
"'Partial'—yes, it certainly is that," muttered the old lady.
Aunt Hannah has small green eyes, and they seemed to snap. She still sat
up stiffly, her entire aspect rigid.
"This," I thought, "is the limit. Decidedly the moment of battle has
arrived"—indeed, the initial encounter had already taken place. I don't
mind confessing that my spirit quailed—for an instant. Then, realizing
that I was "up against it," my courage returned. My engagement to Dulcie
hung in the balance. I must face the music.
Perhaps at first I overdid it, but something is to be conceded to
nervousness. Aunt Hannah kept tapping her teaspoon against her saucer
with nervous little taps. The constant "small noise" was very
irritating. Determined to stop it, I leant suddenly forward across the
little table, till my face was close to Aunt Hannah's. Anger boiled in
my heart. Sympathy for Dulcie rose up and flooded my mind. Though I
allowed my most charming "boudoir" smile to overspread my face, it was
all I could do not to seize hold of that old lady and shake her.
Inwardly I craved to grasp her lean wrists in a firm grip, and force her
to listen to reason. "A dear" Dulcie had sometimes called her. "A dear"
she might be when in a nice mood, but in the peevish vein she was now
in, her obstinacy held a particularly maddening quality.
"You know," I said, still smiling hypocritically, "you are really
_trying_ to disbelieve me now. You are trying to make mischief between
Dulcie and me—and you enjoy it," and I glanced in the direction of my
darling, whose eyes were shining strangely. "Why don't you answer?" I
went on, as Aunt Hannah remained silent; I could hear her gulping with
rage. At last she spoke:
"What impudence—what unwarrantable impudence!" The words were shot from
between her teeth. "You—you dare to speak to me like this—you—you—"
"After all, Miss Challoner," I cut in, "it's true. I no more sent that,
or any telegram, to Dulcie than I am flying over the moon at this
moment. And if you still disbelieve me, at least tell me why. Yes, I
must know. Don't evade an answer. You have something else in your mind,
I can see that, and I am not going to rest until I know what that
something is."
"Oh, you very rude young man," she burst out. "Yes, you shall know what
it is! If, as you say, the telegram was not sent by you—and I suppose I
must believe you—why was it not sent to Sir Roland? Such a telegram
should have been sent to him, and not to his daughter—if the stolen
property had been found, it was for him to come to Town, or even for me
to, but certainly it was not Dulcie's place to go gallivanting about in
London. Now, I maintain it was sent to Dulcie because the sender knew
Sir Roland to be away from home—and who, but you, knew him to be away?
He left only yesterday, and he should return to-night. You knew
because, so my niece tells me, she told you in a letter that he was to
leave home for a day."
"My niece!" Really, Aunt Hannah was qualifying for _opera bouffe!_ Just
then she knocked her spoon so loudly against her cup that it
startled me.
"Don't worry, Dulcie," I said, seeing how distressed she looked. "You
believe I didn't send it, anyway—I don't mind what anybody else
thinks," I added spitefully. "The mystery will be cleared up sooner or
later, and 'he laughs longest ...' you know the rest. Only one thing I
wonder," I ended, again facing Aunt Hannah, "if you thought that, why
did you bring Dulcie up to town? Why didn't you leave her at Holt, and
come up alone?"
"I will tell you why," she snapped back. "Because, wilful and
disobedient as she has always been, she refused to stay at Holt and let
me come up alone."
Dulcie looked at me without answering, and I read love and confidence in
her eyes. That was all I really cared to know, and the look afforded me
immense relief.
I felt there was no good purpose to be served by remaining there longer,
so after shaking hands warmly with Dulcie—to the manifold disapproval
of Aunt Hannah, who stared at me frigidly and barely even bowed as I
took my leave—I sauntered out into Piccadilly.
My thoughts wandered. They were not, I must say, of the happiest.
Obviously there was an enemy somewhere—it might be enemies. But who
could it be? Why should I have, we have—for Dulcie suffered equally—an
enemy? What reason could anyone have for wishing to make Dulcie, or me,
or any of the Challoners, unhappy? Everybody I knew who knew them seemed
to love them, particularly the tenantry. Sir Roland was looked up to
and respected by both county people and villagers for miles around Holt
Stacey, while Dulcie was literally adored by men and women alike, or so
I believed. True, old Aunt Hannah sometimes put people out owing to her
eccentricities and her irascible temper, but then they mostly looked
upon her as a rather queer old lady, and made allowances for her, and
she had not, I felt sure, an enemy in the country-side.
As for myself, well, I could not recollect ever doing any particularly
bad turn—I had my likes and dislikes among the people I knew,
naturally. Then suddenly a thought struck me—my engagement to Dulcie.
Could that be—
I smiled as I dismissed the thought—it seemed too grotesque. No; once
and for all I decided that the whole affair could have nothing to do
with any kind of personal animosity. Criminals were at work, desperate
criminals, perhaps, and Osborne and Dulcie and I had chanced to prove
very useful as pawns in some scheme of theirs for securing plunder. I
glanced at my watch. It was just five o'clock. Concluding that Jack
Osborne must now be at his rooms, I drove to the Russell Hotel. Yes, he
particularly wanted to see me; would I please go up at once, the clerk
said when he had telephoned up my name and my inquiry if Mr. Osborne
were at home to anybody.
Easterton was with him still; a doctor was on the point of leaving as I
entered the room where Jack sat in his dressing-gown in a big chair,
drinking a cup of soup. Already he looked better, I thought, than when I
had seen him at the house in Grafton Street, barely two hours before.
After exchanging a few remarks with him, and being assured by Easterton
that the doctor had said that Jack might now see anyone he pleased, I
came straight to the question of the telegram, repeating to him almost
word for word what I had told Aunt Hannah.
For nearly a minute after I had stopped speaking he did not utter. He
appeared to be thinking deeply, judging by the way his brows were knit.
Then, suddenly looking straight at me, he said:
"Mike, I don't like this business—I don't like it at all. There's
something radically wrong about the whole thing. Now, look here, you
know that when I say a thing I mean it. Therefore I tell you this—I am
going to set to work, as soon as I have quite recovered from the
nightmare I have been through, to discover what is happening. I am going
to solve every detail of this mystery, and if there is some gang of
scoundrels at work committing burglaries and what not—because I feel
quite sure this affair is in some way connected with the robbery at
Holt—I am going to get them convicted. The doctor tells me I shall be
perfectly all right in a couple of days. I have nothing to do. You have
nothing to do. Will you join me in this attempt I am going to make to
track these men down? I hear it said that you are engaged to be married
to Dulcie Challoner. If that's so, then you should be even more anxious
than I am to get this gang arrested—the police say it must be a gang.
They have looted some thousands of pounds' worth of jewellery which
practically belonged to Dulcie Challoner. Think what it will mean to her
if through your efforts all that is restored to her. Besides, she will
think you a hero—I mean an even greater hero than she already considers
you, most likely; I confess I don't agree with her, old man. You are a
very good chap—but a hero? No. Say, then, will you help me in this
search? It may prove exciting too; on the other hand, it may not."
Jack's breezy manner and almost boyish enthusiasm appealed to me. After
all, I had, as he said, nothing on earth to do—I often wished I
had—and I was rather keen on anything that might lead to or savour of
adventure. Though I was engaged to Dulcie, there were family reasons why
the marriage could not take place at once, and then I thought again of
what Jack had just said about the stolen jewels—Dulcie was still
greatly upset at their loss, and there was even the possibility, I
thought with a smile, that if I were directly or indirectly responsible
for their recovery Aunt Hannah might eventually deign again to smile
upon me—which would, of course, give me great joy!
"Yes, old chap," I said, "I'll do anything you jolly well like. I'm sick
of doing nothing."
"First rate!" he answered. "Then that's settled. I've all sorts of ideas
and theories about the Holt Manor robbery and this affair of mine, and
that telegram to-day, and other things that have happened—some you know
about, some you don't. I have a friend who was for twenty years at
Scotland Yard—George Preston, wonderful chap, knows London upside-down
and inside-out, and now he's kicking his heels with nothing to do he'll
be only too glad to earn a bit. You might ring him up for me now, and
ask him to come here to-morrow."
Somebody knocked, and I went to the door, Jack having told me that he
did not want to see anybody likely to bore him.
It was only an hotel messenger. The clerk in the office had tried to
ring up the room, he said, but could get no answer. Turning, I saw that
Jack had forgotten to replace the receiver the last time he had spoken.
"What do you want?" I asked.
The messenger said that a "young gentleman" had just called. He wanted
to see "a Mr. Berrington" who was probably with Mr. Osborne.
"What about?" I said. "And didn't he give his name?"
"He wouldn't say what about, sir, though he was asked. He said it was
'most important.' He said to say 'Mr. Richard Challoner.'"
"Dick!" I exclaimed. "Good heavens, what is Dick doing up in London? Oh,
go down," I said to the messenger, "and send him up at once."
"It's Dick Challoner," I said, turning to Osborne and Easterton, "Sir
Roland's boy, the little chap I told you about who behaved so pluckily
when the thieves at Holt got hold of him. I wonder what _he's_ doing in
town, and why he wants to see me."
Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. I little suspected what an
amazing story I was about to hear.