THE PEOPLE AT LANCASTER GATE
JUNE 11TH
I obtained the situation as maid to Miss Rutherford-Morgan through the
medium of the _Morning Post_.
She lived with her father in one of those large houses in Lancaster Gate,
a pretty dark-haired girl of twenty-two.
When I arrived, with my trunk on the top of a four-wheeler as usual, a
big green motor-car was standing at the door, and there descended the
steps a middle-aged round-faced jovial-looking man, clean shaven, spruce
in dress, and wearing round, gold-rimmed glasses. I saw that only one
arm—the left—was in his thick grey motor-coat, for the right was in a
black sling beneath.
He was very helpless, having recently broken his arm. Behind him came a
well-dressed young lady, his daughter. She wore a splendid seal-skin coat
reaching to her heels, and behind her pale-blue motor veil I discerned
that she was uncommonly good-looking.
They were my master and young mistress, Mr. and Miss Rutherford-Morgan.
Mademoiselle spoke briefly with me, then she entered the car with her
father and drove off, leaving me to settle myself to my new work.
They were not back before an hour previous to dinner, and as I dressed
her I found she was a particularly _chic_ and gay little person. From the
first moment I took to her. She liked smart frocks and hats, and seemed
to possess a most extensive wardrobe. From her conversation she seemed to
be a constant play-goer, and presently she said—
“I shall want you, Mariette, to come out with me in the car very often.
My father, who is such an invalid with his broken arm, does not care much
for motoring, and I hate going about alone.”
“_Bien_, Mademoiselle,” was my response. I loved to ride _en automobile_.
_Mais oui_, my new situation was full of rosy promise.
There seemed but little mending to do. Some pressing of ribbons and
laces, and a little repairing of chiffon upon the _demi-toilettes_;
but the duties were certainly not exacting, and the pay most generous.
English ladies pay well for a French maid of the first order.
Monsieur, the father of Mademoiselle, frequently complained of his arm.
He carried it in a sling and was unable to move it. He had, it seemed,
been knocked down by a cab in Piccadilly and sustained a compound
fracture.
Almost from the first I went out with Mademoiselle Violet, accompanying
her upon long runs in the car to Hitchin, Dorking, Tunbridge Wells,
Hindhead, Oxford, and other places frequented by motorists.
Twice when we had arranged to go out together Mademoiselle’s father had
suddenly changed his mind and, it being bright weather, had come with us.
On the first occasion we ran down to Guildford, and had lunched at the
Angel, when he and Mademoiselle Violet went out to re-enter the car to
return home. The “boots” was not outside as usual. Therefore Monsieur
went to open the door for his daughter, and _chose extraordinaire!_ he
used his right hand in doing so. Yet, next second, he replaced it in the
black sling, and held it there as before.
Again, another strange incident occurred about a week later. We had
gone down to Brighton one Sunday, and put up at the Métropole as usual.
Monsieur’s arm had been rather painful for several days, hence we had not
been out. Indeed, that morning, when I had respectfully asked him how he
felt, he had replied—
“None too grand, Mariette, I’m sorry to say. My arm doesn’t get better
at all. I’ve got no use in it.”
And yet that same afternoon, on searching for him in the crowded
Métropole at Brighton, I saw him in the smoking-room seated with his back
to me, writing a letter!
_Mystère!_
Mademoiselle had gone out along King’s Road with a young gentleman friend
she had met at the Métropole, a Monsieur Cave. I had seen him once
before, and I did not like him. He was a _blagueur_, over-dressed and
somewhat caddish in his manners.
I could never see what attraction she found in him.
A fortnight later, as I was walking in Westbourne Grove and looking into
Whiteley’s windows, it being my afternoon out, a tall elderly monsieur
raised his hat, and addressed me by name, saying he wished to have a few
moments private conversation with me.
“I think, Mademoiselle,” he said, “that you know a young man named Cave—a
friend of your mistress—eh?”
In surprise, I admitted that I did.
“Well,” he said, “the fact is I am a solicitor,” and he handed me his
card, “and I am deputed to make some inquiries as to the young man’s
mode of life. He has a very wealthy aunt, a client of mine, who is about
to make a will in his favour; but she desires to know something of his
ways of living. My client lives in Scotland, an infirm old lady. You, of
course, know where young Cave lives.”
“In Ebury Street, Number 44a. I took a note there for Mademoiselle the
other day.”
“Exactly; I thought you could perhaps watch and give me some information.
I will make it worth your while. Cave is rather sweet on her, eh?” he
asked.
“I think so,” I laughed, and then the solicitor, whose name was Percival,
after asking a number of other questions and urging me to assist him in
his inquiries, turned and left me.
Next day was Mademoiselle’s birthday, and she had arranged that I should
go with her in the car for a long run.
Just, however, as we were going out Monsieur met us in the hall, and said—
“I’ll come out with you, dear, if you’ll wait while I get on my coat. I
want to do a little shopping.”
Then later on, when he was sitting in the car, he turned to Edwards, the
chauffeur, and said—
“We’ll do some shopping this morning. Go first to Horton Brothers, the
jewellers, in Old Bond Street.”
Mademoiselle was sitting opposite me, and on our way up Grosvenor Place
she remarked with enthusiasm—
“Really my father is awfully good, Mariette. He’s going to buy me a
splendid birthday present—a diamond necklet.”
I congratulated her and she chatted until, after threading the unusually
congested traffic, we at last pulled up before the well-known jewellers.
No jewellery was displayed in the windows, which were merely closed with
brown wire blinds bearing the name “Horton Brothers. Diamond Merchants.”
I suppose I had waited in the car for perhaps twenty minutes when a
constable came up and asked us to move on for we were blocking the
traffic at the narrowest part of Bond Street. Compelled to go round into
Clifford Street I walked back to the shop, and going in told Monsieur
where we were.
As I entered father and daughter were seated at a small glass-covered
counter with several splendid diamond necklets displayed before them,
while Mr. Horton, the senior partner, was attending to his customers
himself.
“This,” he was saying, holding one of the necklets in his hand, “is worth
two thousand pounds. But, as I tell you, owing to the slump in diamonds,
I’m prepared to take seventeen hundred-and-fifty for it. And more, if
your daughter don’t like it in twelve months’ time I’ll buy it back from
her at the same figure. I’ll give you a written agreement. I can’t say
more, can I?”
Monsieur was haggling over the price. He wanted it for sixteen hundred,
but the dealer remained obdurate.
“It’s a really handsome present for your daughter,” Mr. Horton was
saying, with a laugh, holding it up to the light by the two clasps and
then placing it against the dark-blue velvet stand shaped like a woman’s
neck.
“They’re the best Cape diamonds, and you may call in any independent
expert you wish before taking them away,” he added.
“I do not doubt you,” replied his customer. “Your reputation in the trade
is so very high that surely nobody could doubt your word.”
“Some persons would,” laughed the dealer. “It is so very easy in our
trade to deceive all but experts. I must admit not one man in a million
can tell a notable diamond at first glance.”
But I went back to the car in Clifford Street, reflecting that
Mademoiselle was a very lucky young person to receive such a handsome
birthday present.
I had waited another twenty minutes or so when Mademoiselle came around
the corner with a note in her hand.
“I want Edwards to take this round to Horton’s head office in Hatton
Garden and bring back a reply at once,” she said to me. “We are waiting
here till you get back.”
“_Bien, Mademoiselle_,” I said, and Edwards started his engine and we
drove off, with the letter.
We had but little difficulty in finding the office of Horton Brothers,
apparently a rather dingy first-floor suite in that colony of diamond
dealers. Edwards took the note up-stairs, and after waiting ten minutes
or so was given a square sealed packet addressed to Mr. Henry Horton, Old
Bond Street, with injunction to be careful of it.
I supposed it to be another necklet which the firm had in stock there,
and which Mademoiselle wanted to see.
On coming slowly along Clifford Street I saw the tall, well-dressed
figure of Mademoiselle impatiently waiting us. So I pulled up and gave
her the packet with which she disappeared around the corner and into
Horton’s shop.
About ten minutes afterwards both father and daughter returned to the
car, and as Mademoiselle entered, she exclaimed with delight—
“Oh, Mariette! dad has bought me such a lovely present.”
“Drive to the Dieudonne,” said her father to Edwards, “we’ll lunch there.”
So I went round with them to the restaurant, where the pair descended,
leaving me to drive round to Lancaster Gate to get my lunch.
“You had better remain at home this afternoon, Mariette,” said
Mademoiselle. “I shall be back about three.”
So Edwards and I drove off.
I waited till evening—nay, till night, but neither Mademoiselle or
Monsieur returned. I went to the Dieudonne next day, but neither had been
seen there.
This caused me to wonder greatly. What could have happened?
On the third day, about eleven o’clock in the morning, the butler told me
that a gentleman wished to speak with me in the dining-room.
So ascending from the kitchen I found two strangers awaiting me. One of
them was Mr. Henry Horton.
“That’s the woman!” he exclaimed, pointing to me.
“_Dieu!_ What does this mean?” I cried, starting in surprise.
“It means, Mademoiselle Le Bas, that I’m a detective officer,” the other
explained, “and you are arrested on a charge of being an accomplice with
others in a very ingenious piece of fraud. You’ll have to come to the
station with me.”
I protested loudly; but I was compelled to go with the pair in a cab to
Vine Street Police Station, where I was seen by Mr. Percival, who now
revealed to me the fact that he was not a solicitor, but a detective.
I was not long, of course, in convincing the police of my innocence of
any criminal action.
Presently, however, before I was released, Detective-inspector Percival
said—
“I had my suspicions of Cave, who was through my hands about three
years ago. But he was evidently watchful. He somehow knew that I had
seen you, and, smelling a rat, made himself scarce. Your employers,
Rutherford-Morgan and his daughter, were, we’ve since discovered, none
other than Dick Traill and Lily Mayhew, both celebrated jewel thieves,
members of the Shorland gang, who are wanted in nearly every European
capital.”
“The Shorland gang!” I recollected my strange experience of Monsieur and
Madame Shorland. I gasped, utterly amazed. “_Diable!_”
“Yes. And their game this time was, to say the least, extremely
ingenious. Traill or his confederates—who are ever on the watch for a
coup—evidently discovered that at the head office of Horton Brothers a
big sum in cash is usually kept in the safe for the purpose of buying
diamonds from the Dutch dealers. Pretending his arm was broken, Traill
went with his female accomplice to the Bond Street shop and there saw
Mr. Henry Horton. He picked out a necklet and agreed to pay sixteen
hundred-and-eighty pounds for it. Then he explained that he would have to
send his chauffeur to his brother’s for the sum in cash, and he asked Mr.
Horton to write a note for him. His daughter said she had unfortunately
fallen at the rink on the previous day and hurt her wrist. So the pair
were both incapable. Horton wrote the letter for Mr. Rutherford-Morgan,
who addressed his brother as ‘Dear George,’ and asked Mr. Horton to sign
it ‘Your affectionate brother, Harry.’ The letter was addressed to ‘Henry
Rutherford, Esq., 305, Newgate Street, E.C.’ Then the customer’s supposed
daughter took it outside to you, and——”
“But the letter we took was addressed to Mr. George Horton, of Horton
Brothers!”
“Of course. That was the trick! The girl changed the envelopes as she
went around to Clifford Street, and you delivered the letter asking for
eighteen hundred pounds in notes to be sent by bearer, to Mr. George
Horton, the writer’s brother! He always signed himself ‘Harry,’ and the
letter being perfectly genuine his brother had no suspicion that it was
not an actual transaction until at night when the brothers met at their
club.”
I stood dumfounded.
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” the detective added, “it was a very neat bit of
business. All three have gone—got clear away to the Continent, no doubt.
The irony of it, however, is that Messrs. Hortons’ own money paid for
Miss Violet’s birthday present!”
_Drôle, n’cest pas?_
To-morrow I am leaving London to return home to Pont-Pagny. I have saved
a few thousand francs, so I shall not again go back to service.
_Assez!_
THE END
_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._