It was close on eleven when the cab drew up before the door of Sidney's
lodging in York Street, St. James's, and as luck would have it Sidney
himself was standing on the doorstep, in the act of inserting his
latch-key in the lock. Gimblet saw himself recognised as he sprang
out of the taxi, and saw also a look of unmistakable pleasure in the
recognition.
"This man is as innocent as I am," he thought, as the young soldier
greeted him.
"Come in, do," Sidney said, "you're the very man I wanted to see. I went
to your flat this evening, but you'd just gone out, so the porter said.
I am anxious to hear if you have any news of my aunt and Miss Turner."
He led the way upstairs as he spoke, and ushered the detective into a
sitting-room on the first floor, switching on the light as he did so.
Gimblet waited till the door was shut behind them, and then turned a
grave face to his host.
"The news is very bad," he said slowly, and waited a moment to give time
for the significance of the words to sink in, and to prepare Sidney for
what was to come.
"What has happened?" cried Sidney. "Are they hurt? Is Miss Turner----"
He stopped short, grasping the back of a chair.
"I don't know what has happened to Miss Turner," Gimblet said, "but I
have terrible news of your poor aunt. Mrs. Vanderstein has been foully
and cruelly murdered. I come now from the discovery of her dead body."
"Murdered!" cried Sidney, "murdered! Who by? How? Where?" He sat down
mechanically, and stared at Gimblet. "And Miss Turner? Have they killed
her too?"
The detective repeated that at present he knew nothing of the younger
lady.
"Good God!" said Sidney, "what a dreadful thing."
Leaning his elbows on the table, he hid his face in his hands for a few
minutes, and Gimblet sat silent opposite him, waiting till he should
recover from the first shock of the news.
When Sidney raised his head again the face he disclosed was pale and
drawn.
"Poor Aunt Ruth," he said. "Poor thing, poor thing. To think that she
should be dead. I can hardly realise it, you know. She has been killed
for her jewels, I suppose, after all. The devils! You haven't caught
them, have you?" and, as Gimblet only shook his head: "How can such a
thing be possible here in civilised London? And to think of that beastly
old raven, Chark, going about croaking as he has been, and hinting that
I'd killed her! To think of his being right after all! I don't mean
about my killing her," he added, "but there it is, she's dead; and
I come into her money just in time to save me from ruin. I hate the
thought of it!" He was talking to himself more than to his listener, and
Gimblet let him talk. "I almost wish she had altered her will," he went
on, "it's a beastly notion: her death being my profit, you know. And I
suppose they'll say I've murdered her all the more now?" He looked up
interrogatively; then, as he received no answer, his expression changed
and he started up, alert and wide awake once more. "I say," said he,
"do you think I did it, too?"
Gimblet hesitated a moment before answering.
"As a matter of fact," he said at last, "I do not. I don't think so
for a moment. But that is merely my personal opinion and, to tell you
the truth, I think it will be just as well if you can account for your
movements since Monday to the satisfaction of more people than myself. I
ought to suspect you--it's my business to suspect every one--but, as I
say, I don't."
"I daresay things do look rather black against me," Sidney said; "it's
my fault for not having bothered to defend myself. You see, it seems
so eccentric to me that anyone should think such a thing. It seems so
impossible, and absurd, if you don't mind my saying so. One forgets that
other people don't know what one is capable of as one does oneself, and
it never struck me yesterday that you, or Sir Gregory either, might
suspect me. I did go and see the editor of the worst of the newspapers,
and explained things to him, and told him to let old Chark know he was
wrong. You may have noticed he's eaten his words in to-day's paper.
But I didn't think it necessary to say anything to anyone else. You
see, I've got what you call an alibi. I was in the country from Monday
evening till yesterday morning. I met a pal almost on Aunt Ruth's
doorstep when she turned me out of the house, and he got me to go off
with him down to his house near Ascot to play golf, and I was down there
till Wednesday. I had only just come back, in fact, when I came to see
you. I didn't know about my aunt's disappearance till I read it in the
train coming up; my friend came up at the same time and stayed with me
till I left him at your door. It's waste of time suspecting me; I admit
that it looks as if I ought to have murdered the poor dear, but in view
of the facts that theory doesn't hold water."
"I'm very glad to hear what you say," said Gimblet, "and I wish you'd
told me before, though I never really thought you had any direct
knowledge of the affair. Still, you must confess, Mr. Sidney, that you
were not quite open with me: there was something which you knew, and
which you kept to yourself when we talked about it."
"I'm blessed if there was!" cried Sidney. "What was it?"
For answer Gimblet took Barbara's telegraph form out of his notebook and
handed it to the young man.
"You didn't tell me you had received this telegram from Miss Turner," he
said, "not even though I quoted most of its contents to you by way of a
hint."
Sidney took the form, and stared at it for a moment.
"It is her writing," he said at last. "I wonder what the deuce she
meant."
He, also, produced a folded paper from his pocket and pushed it across
the table to the detective.
It was the message as he had received it.
"You will observe," he said, "that there is no signature. How was I
to know who it came from? As a matter of fact, I guessed, or at least
thought it possible she had sent it, as no one else cares whether I
go to blazes or not. But I've no idea whatever why she chose to think
I should get some money or good news on Wednesday. I need hardly
say that I didn't. And I saw no reason to speak to you of what only
concerns a young lady and myself. It can have no possible bearing on her
disappearance, or that of my aunt."
"You think not?" Gimblet looked at him oddly.
"How could it? I can't imagine what connection there could be. But
of course you're the sort of fellow who can read the secret of dark
mysteries in anything, from the Tower Bridge to a baked potato, aren't
you? So perhaps there's some occult inference that I fail to draw. By
the way, you've not told me much yet. How did you discover the murder,
and where?"
"I found the poor lady's body buried in a house in the north of London,"
said Gimblet, "No. 13 Scholefield Avenue. As to how I discovered it,
it was by the help of two or three facts from which I was able to draw
certain inferences."
"I wish you would tell me all about it."
"Well," said Gimblet, "as Sir Gregory told you over the telephone
this morning, I heard, as a result of the advertisement I gave you
yesterday to have inserted in the papers, that the two ladies were seen
by an actress on Monday night, standing under a board 'To Let,' before
a detached house in some street on the way to Carolina Road. I was
unable to find that street yesterday, and it was not until I could get
hold of the cabman who had driven the actress that I ascertained that
Scholefield Avenue was the only street he had passed through on Monday
night which contains detached houses. I went there at once and found
out that No. 13 had recently been let, the board having been removed
on Tuesday morning. I rang the bell, but no one came to the door, so
after getting the name of the house agent from a neighbour I went to the
office and interviewed the agent. From him I learnt that the house had
only been let since Monday, and that the tenant was a man named West
who had been ready to pay a high rent for immediate possession, and who
gave out that he was a recluse, desiring nothing so much as solitude and
privacy. The agent happened to have a spare key of No. 13 Scholefield
Avenue and he sent his clerk down with me to open the door.
"As soon as I got in I ran over the house with my servant, who as well
as Sir Gregory had accompanied me, but there was no one to be seen in
it, and so I proceeded to make a careful and searching examination. Not
to weary you with details, I soon found a considerable number of small
paste spangles, or imitation diamonds, such as are sewn on to the more
elaborate and gorgeous kinds of ladies' evening dresses. As I found
several of these on the staircase between the hall and the drawing-room
and a good many more in the drawing-room itself, but none in any other
part of the house, I thought it was likely that, if they came off Mrs.
Vanderstein's gown, this was the only room she had visited. There was,
of course, the possibility that they had fallen from the dress of some
one who had been in the room before the place was let, but I set against
this the improbability of the mistress of the house or her friends being
rich people who would wear such expensively ornamented materials, and
also the fact that your aunt's maid in describing her toilette to me had
spoken of it as '_diamantée_.'
"The next discovery was a most alarming one. On moving the sofa I saw
beneath it a large stain in the carpet, which various indications
assured me was the result of some acid that had been upset. From the
nature of the damage I was pretty certain that it had been caused by
sulphuric acid or vitriol. Now this is a strange thing to find traces
of in a lady's drawing-room, and when you find it in an empty house
which a young and beautiful lady has been seen to enter, but which she
has never been seen to leave, and when you further reflect that the
disappearance of this lady appears to be complete, and on the fact
that when last seen she was wearing a fortune in jewellery, one of two
conclusions appears inevitable, unless you assume that all these facts
are entirely unconnected and the result of pure coincidence. Assume them
on the contrary to be related to each other, and you are led, as I say,
to consider two possibilities. So I asked myself at once whether Mrs.
Vanderstein had been decoyed to the house by some demented creature bent
on assuaging a mad jealousy by throwing vitriol at her, or whether she
had been induced to visit it to satisfy the still more fatal greed of
a robber. And the more I looked at it, the more likely it seemed that
the poor lady had been murdered for her jewels and that the vitriol was
used to make the recognition of her body, if it should be discovered,
a negligible danger. A few minutes later I came across a powder puff
perfumed with the peculiar scent your aunt was in the habit of using--I
daresay you know it--and this dispelled any doubts I still had as to her
having been in the room.
"I still hoped against hope, however, that she might have left it
alive, and I found some evidence downstairs which led me to think she
had been locked in one of the lower rooms for a time; but if so it must
have been before she was taken up to the drawing-room. In the library
a pane of the window was broken, no doubt by some one trying to escape
or attract attention, and obviously it had been done by a woman, as a
man could have opened the window, which was so stiff as to require more
than a woman's strength. The broken glass had been carefully removed
from the frame, so that, but for the draught, it might well have passed
unnoticed.
"That it had been broken since the letting of the house was clear, since
I found a dustpan full of broken glass, which would not have been left
so by the landlord's servants, or by the charwoman who cleaned up after
their departure. The sight of that dustpan filled me with hopes that
were doomed to disappointment. Nothing offers a better ground for the
impression and retention of finger marks than a piece of shining metal,
and I expected to find a whole collection on the tin surface of the
pan. But to my astonishment and disgust I could not find a single one;
and this strengthened my opinion that I had to deal with deliberate
crime, and that of no ordinary stamp, for it was plain that not only had
some one cleaned and polished the dustpan after using it, but that the
person who had done so had worn gloves. And it was the same all over the
house. Not a finger-print to be seen, except in the room with the broken
pane, on the white painted door of which I found several distinct marks
of fingers. What more likely than that the poor lady, finding herself
locked into a strange room, should have broken the window and beaten
on the door with her hands in a sudden panic? In the same cupboard as
the dustpan was an old newspaper crumpled into a ball, which I found to
contain a handful or so of what appeared to be garden mould, and I could
not at first imagine why it should be there, though I can account for
it now. I had by this time been all over the house and made the most
thorough and exhaustive search, but the only other clue I could discover
was a negative one.
"I must tell you that I had made sure that there was no article in
the house belonging to the tenant, Mr. West, as he called himself;
everything was accounted for in the inventory and belonged to Mr. Mill,
the owner. It became clear to me that West must have taken the place for
a definite purpose other than the usual one of living in it, and since I
knew that it had been occupied on Monday evening, his object doubtless
fulfilled itself then in a terrible manner and he probably fled from
the scene of his crime the moment he had, to the best of his ability,
removed all traces of it. In his haste he had left the little spangles
which had scattered themselves in the wake of his victim; and, though he
cleaned up the dustpan as if he feared it should tell tales in spite
of the precautionary gloves, he seemed to have thought the broken glass
could not betray him, or else, perhaps, he had no time to dispose of it.
But, if he had left nothing behind him, it looked as if he had taken
something away.
"The chairs and sofas in the drawing-room were provided with loose
chintz covers, with one exception. There was a small sofa which stood
opposite the door naked and unashamed, in all the hideousness of the
original, ugly upholstery. Not only was the tapestry which covered
it of a meretricious nineteenth-century design, quite out of keeping
with the good taste displayed all over the house in the choice of
pattern and decoration, but the legs and arms, which were very much in
evidence, were made of brown varnished wood peculiarly objectionable in
appearance. It seems to me in the last degree unlikely that in a room
so full of beauty and quiet refinement this one thing should have been
allowed to flaunt its vulgarity, and hold the eye of the visitor with
an awful fascination. I felt convinced that West was responsible for
its nakedness, and it was quite likely that he, a man doubtless devoid
of any artistic sense, would imagine that the absence of that cover
might pass unnoticed, as the tapestry resembled the chintzes in general
colouring."
"But why should he remove it? What could he want with a loose chintz
sofa cover?" asked Sidney, as the detective paused.
"I asked myself these questions," continued Gimblet, "and I saw that
there were only two explanations which met all the facts. It might be
that the chintz bore traces of his crime that at all costs must be
destroyed; it might be, for instance, stained with blood. But in that
case he would probably have tried to burn it; that would be a difficult
job, and there was no sign of a fire having been lighted lately in any
of the grates. No coal in the cellar and no firewood. He would have
needed brushes and blacking to make all ship-shape again, and his grate
cleaning would probably have been amateurish. Or he might have had a
use for the chintz. It would be a handy thing to wrap a dead body in
before carrying it out to the grave he would dig for it in the garden.
For it seemed to me certain that after killing his victim he would have
buried her in the garden. There was a toolshed at the end of it, and I
hunted there for a spade that should show signs of recent use; but to my
surprise there was no spade at all.
"By this time it was dark and late, and I returned to the house with the
intention of deferring till to-morrow a search for the grave, which I
felt sure of finding if it was there. I had little hope that the poor
lady had escaped, but it was still quite possible that my theories were
mistaken, and that even the signs of vitriol having been used were
capable of some other interpretation; and I gladly admitted to myself
that I had no actual proof of foul play. And then, just as I was on the
point of knocking off for the night, an elusive memory that had been
troubling me ever since I entered the house suddenly flashed clearly
into conscious recollection, and I knew that I had made no mistake.
"When I opened the drawing-room door for the first time I had been aware
of a faint odour, which I seemed to catch a whiff of as it passed me,
so to speak, and to lose again immediately. During the second in which
I perceived it, its name was on my tongue, but before I could utter it
the smell was gone and with it my knowledge of what it was. I racked
my brains to remember it without the least result; but, though I gave
up the attempt and concentrated every effort on investigating what
was apparent to my other senses, the thing bothered me, and I did not
entirely forget it. As I stood in front of the house after my vain
search for a spade, it suddenly flashed into my mind what it was that I
had smelt: it was the never to be mistaken smell of chloroform.
"I was staring absently up at the balcony of the drawing-room when the
knowledge came to me, and in an instant another light dawned on me with
equal suddenness. There was a great box or stand for plants on the
balcony, and the neighbour who had given me some information as to the
tenant had remarked that the mistress of the house would be sad to see
her flowers so neglected. Indeed, they were all faded and withered,
and he had implied that it was for want of water. Now, the thought
that leapt into my brain as swift and as illuminating as lightning was
this one: Why should the flowers die for want of water when we have
had constant rain for the last two days? Clearly it was not drought
that they were suffering from. But how if the _soidisant_ West, having
cruelly murdered your unfortunate aunt, proceeded to uproot the flowers
and to bury her, wrapped in the sofa cover, in the flower stand? It was
quite large enough for such a purpose, and if he had then replanted the
flowers it was probable enough that they would feel the effects of his
attempt at gardening.
"I went up at once and put this theory to the test. I am very sorry to
say that it proved to be correct in every detail."
Gimblet ceased speaking, and Sidney, who had listened in sad silence,
lifted his head, and asked a question.
"The vitriol? They had used it--as you thought?" His voice was hoarse,
and his face stern and grim.
"Alas, yes."
"Hanging is too good for such brutes; but I will never rest till they
hang for it. Have you any idea who are the fiends who did this?"
"An idea? Say rather that I have a suspicion," returned Gimblet. "Surely
you can see the direction in which the circumstances point?"
"Unless it was the chauffeur," said Sidney, "I can't imagine who can
have done it."
"I don't think there is anything in the theory that the chauffeur or
any one of the servants had a hand in it. There are several things
which make that idea hardly worth considering. But there is one person
against whom things look very black. Do you mean to say you can't see
who it is?"
"No, I can't," repeated Sidney.
"Mr. Sidney," said the detective slowly, "where do you suppose Miss
Turner is?"
"I only wish I knew," answered the young man; "it is horrible not to
know. Where do you think she can possibly be? Tell me the truth, Mr.
Gimblet: do you believe she is dead?" He spoke harshly, and with averted
eyes.
"No," said Gimblet, "I don't think she is dead."
Something in his tone made Sidney look up. Gimblet was looking at
him with a strange expression, and as their eyes met he turned away
uneasily. For a minute Sidney stared at him wonderingly, and then an
incredulous enlightenment stole over him.
"You can't mean," he said slowly, "that you imagine she had any
knowledge of the attack on my aunt?"
Gimblet was silent; and his silence was more eloquent than words.
"But it is impossible," cried Sidney, "that anyone out of a lunatic
asylum should think such a thing. You don't know her, Mr. Gimblet, she
is the sweetest, dearest girl. The most unselfish, the most devoted, the
loyalest girl in the world! How can you hint at it? Oh, I know it is
your business to suspect people, but you go too far! I cannot hear a
word against her."
Gimblet turned and faced him.
"Be reasonable, Mr. Sidney," he said, "and accept it as a fact that the
young lady will be suspected. If she is innocent it will be better to
try and clear her than to refuse to hear what there is to be said as to
her possible complicity. I understand your feelings, but you must see
that there is nothing to gain by disguising the truth. It is because I
thought it possible that you might feel a keen interest in Miss Turner
that I have told you I suspect her. I hope you may be able to help me to
convince myself of her innocence, and surely the best way to do that is
to try and get at the truth."
"I will try and be reasonable, as you call it," said Sidney, after a
pause, "and I suppose by that you mean listening to your abominable
accusations. Well, let's hear your evidence, and if I can prevent myself
from throttling you I will! More than that no man could say," he added,
with an attempt at a smile. "And I feel a beast even to allow you to
speak of the thing."
"I am extremely sorry to have to do it," said Gimblet, "but no good
ever came of shutting one's eyes to facts, and it's facts that make me
suspect Miss Turner. In the first place, there is the fact that she
stands to profit by Mrs. Vanderstein's death to the tune of £30,000."
"That applies to me, too, only more so," interrupted Sidney.
"Yes, and I don't think it of much importance," admitted the detective.
"I mention it as one of the points which is outside the region of
speculation, and therefore not negligible. The second fact is that you
were at your wits' end for money."
"I daresay! But what that's got to do with your suspecting Miss Turner
beats me," cried Sidney.
"It's got this to do, though I'm afraid you will not like my alluding to
your most private affairs--Miss Turner is in love with you. We may call
that fact No. 3."
"There is absolutely no foundation for that statement," said Sidney,
flushing hotly, while he could not but be conscious of a strange
acceleration in the beating of his heart.
"Is there not?" asked Gimblet, looking at him thoughtfully. "Well, we
will waive that point if you like. Let us say that Miss Turner has an
unusually friendly feeling for you. So friendly that she would go to
any length to provide you with the necessary funds. You yourself have
as good as told me so much. You cannot deny that she was the person who
urged you to try to get the money by false pretences."
"I am sure she did not look at it in that light," protested Sidney,
while inwardly he cursed himself for the slip by which, on the previous
day, he had allowed the sex of his friend to escape him.
"I saw you with her in the Park last Sunday, did I not?" said the
detective; "I noticed her expression. I am rather an observant fellow in
my way, you know. I have only seen that look on the faces of people very
much in love. I find I must go back to that, after all, in spite of your
objection to the suggestion."
"I do object very much. Miss Turner has no such feelings for me, I am
sure, and I can't let you impute them to her."
"I am afraid you must," said Gimblet tranquilly. "People who are
madly in love," he continued, "as I believe her to be, are capable
of any sacrifice, of any heroism, or of any villainy. In that state
of exaltation they are apt to lose their sense of proportion, and to
confound extremes; they may see in the basest depths of infamy only
another aspect of noble heights of self-abnegation; if the object
of their affections is in danger, they may consider no expedient too
shameful if it can be made to provide a means of extricating him.
"There is nothing inherently impossible in imagining that Miss Turner,
conscious of nothing but your need, blindly strove to supply it and was
in no mood to boggle at any feasible method. I don't know if you are
aware of the character borne by her father. He was a man of the worst
reputation: an utterly merciless and unscrupulous swindler. His daughter
may not have escaped the taint of heredity; it is, at all events,
conceivable that her principles suffered from her early association with
him. He is said to have died in South America, where he was obliged to
fly to escape his just deserts, but there is no proof at all that he
really did die.
"I know that I am for the moment dealing in theory, if I say, suppose
this man to be secretly in London and in secret communication with
his daughter. Suppose she let him see how direly she needed money
at this moment. Might not a scoundrel of his description seize the
opportunity to persuade her to help him in some such nefarious business
as the robbery of Mrs. Vanderstein, and secure her silence, if not her
assistance, in even a more dastardly business? To return to the realm of
fact; the order to the motor not to fetch the ladies from the opera was
given by Miss Turner. She ran back alone to tell the chauffeur, after
your aunt had gone into the theatre. She had previously sent you this
wire, in which she was very positive that the money you required would
be forthcoming.
"She was seen by Miss Finner standing at the door of the house in
Scholefield Avenue in the company of your aunt, and it is not too much
to presume that she subsequently entered it with her. There would be
no imaginable motive to induce a thief or gang of thieves to decoy
her to the house: she had no jewels to be deprived of. There would be,
on the contrary, every reason why she should be prevented from going
anywhere near the place. Since, then, she assuredly went there on her
own initiative, it seems probable that Mrs. Vanderstein was persuaded to
accompany her by the girl herself.
"To go back for the moment to speculation, one may imagine that it
was old Turner who masqueraded as West, the tenant, who is described
as a horsey-looking elderly man who had lived much in a hot climate.
This accords with a description of Turner I took the trouble to obtain
yesterday, with the exception of the beard or imperial worn by West,
which he may easily have grown of late years. It may have been the
girl's father, therefore, who opened the door to the two women, and
who, once he had her safe inside, first locked your aunt in the library
while he finished his preparations upstairs, and then led her to the
drawing-room, as in times more in harmony with his deeds he might have
led her to the nearest tree.
"Finally, in support of this theory, or at least of Miss Turner's
complicity in the affair, we have the facts that the two ladies were
last seen together, and that, while the one has been found robbed and
murdered, the other has departed without a word or a sign. It is only
too likely that she is half way to America. The ports are being watched,
but by now it is probably too late."
Gimblet finished speaking and sat watching the face of the younger man.
Sidney looked troubled, but his manner was confident as he gave his
opinion.
"If she has not been heard of," he said, "it is because for some
reason she is unable to communicate with anyone. I have heard all your
arguments attentively, Mr. Gimblet, and I must confess that you have
not in the least convinced me that there is anything in your idea. It
all sounds very plausible, no doubt, but if you knew the young lady
as I have the pleasure of doing you would see that the whole thing is
ridiculous. No one can be what she is and act in the way you suggest.
Her nature is such as to put it out of the question. I can only repeat
that the thing is ludicrously impossible, and that if you knew her you
would be the first to see it. However, I agree with you that the best
way of proving what I say is to find the real murderer. My only fear is
that to-morrow you may discover that she too has been killed and buried
in the garden."
"I am not afraid of that," said Gimblet, "because, as I tell you, if
her presence had not been desirable she would never have been near the
place. She would have been kept as unaware of its existence as you were
yourself. The first essential of such a plan as the murderer must have
concocted would be to get hold of Mrs. Vanderstein alone and unsuspected
by anyone who was not a confederate."
Sidney made an impatient movement.
"I am absolutely convinced that Miss Turner had nothing whatever to do
with it," he said.
"Well," returned Gimblet as he rose to go, "I hope you are right and
that further investigations will lead me to share your view. If we can
lay hands on Mr. West we shall get at the truth, and unless he is very
careful how he disposes of the jewels we are sure to catch him. From
what I hear, Mrs. Vanderstein's rope of pearls is well known to every
jeweller in Europe; and, if he tries to sell so much as one of them,
he'll find a very different sort of rope around his neck. Now I must be
off; they are expecting me at Scotland Yard."