Saunders met me on entering my chambers with the surprising announcement
that a lady had called during my absence, and had desired to see me on
pressing business.
"Did she leave a card?"
"No, sir. She hadn't a card, but she left her name. Miss Ashcombe,
sir."
"Ashcombe?" I repeated. "I don't know anyone of that name," and for a
few moments I tried to recollect whether I had heard of her before, when
it suddenly burst upon me that on a previous occasion I had been puzzled
by a letter bearing the signature "Annie Ashcombe." The note I had
found in Jack's room on the night of the tragedy and which requested
Bethune to meet "her ladyship" at Feltham, had been written by someone
named Ashcombe!
"What kind of lady was she, Saunders?" I inquired eagerly. "Ancient?"
"About thirty-five, I think, sir. She was very excited, dark, plainly
dressed in black, and wore spectacles. She seemed very disappointed
when I said you had only just returned from Wadenhoe, and had gone out
again. She wanted to write a note, so I asked her in and she wrote one,
but afterward tore it up and told me to mention that she had called to
see you on a matter of the most vital importance, and regretted you were
not in."
"Did she promise to call again?"
"She said she was compelled to leave London immediately, but would try
and see you on her return. When I asked if she could make an
appointment for to-morrow, she replied, `I may be absent only three
days, or I may be three months.'"
"Then she gave no intimation whatever of the nature of her business?"
"Not the slightest, sir. I think she's Irish, for she spoke with a
slight accent."
"You say she tore up her note. Where are the pieces?" He went to the
waste-paper basket, turned over its contents, and produced a handful of
fragments of a sheet of my own notepaper. These I spread upon the
table, and when he had left the room I eagerly set to work placing them
together. But the paper had been torn into tiny pieces and it was only
after long and tedious effort that I was enabled to read the words,
hastily written in pencil, which as far as I could gather, were to the
following effect:--
"Dear Sir.--The matter about which I have called to see you is one of
the highest importance both to yourself and one of your friends. It is
not policy, I think, to commit it to paper; therefore, as I am compelled
to leave London at once I must, unfortunately, postpone my interview
with you.
"Yours truly,--
"Annie Ashcombe."
I unlocked the little cabinet and taking therefrom the strangely-worded
letter I had found in Jack's room I compared minutely the handwriting
and found peculiarities identical. The "Annie Ashcombe" who had called
to see me was also the writer of the message from the unknown lady who
had taken the precaution of journeying to Feltham in order to secure a
private interview with Jack Bethune. Annoyed that I had been absent,
and feeling that I had been actually within an ace of obtaining a most
important clue, I cast the fragments into the grate with a sigh and
replaced the letter in the cabinet. The situation was most tantalising;
the mystery inexplicable. From her I might have learnt the identity of
Jack's lady friend, and she could have very possibly thrown some light
upon the causes that had led to the tragedy, for somehow I could not
help strongly suspecting that "her ladyship" referred to in the note was
none other than Mabel. But my visitor had gone, and I should now be
compelled to await her return during that vague period which included
any time from three days to three months.
A fatality seemed always to encompass me, for my efforts in search of
truth were constantly overshadowed by the jade Misfortune. I was
baffled at every turn. To discover the identity of "her ladyship" was,
I had long recognised, a most important fact in clearing or convicting
Jack, but, at least for the present, I could hope for no further
explanation.
Having dressed, I went to the Club, dined with several men I knew, and
afterward descended to one of the smoking-rooms, where I accidentally
picked up an evening paper. The first heading that confronted me was in
bold capitals the words, "Sternroyd Mystery: Supposed Clue. The Missing
Man's Will."
Breathless with eagerness I devoured the lines of faint print. They
seemed to dance before my excited vision as I learnt from them that a
reporter who was investigating the strange affair, had ascertained that
a clue had been obtained by the detectives.
"The mystery," continued the journal, "is likely to develop into one of
the most sensational in the annals of modern crime. We use the word
crime because from information our representative has obtained, it is
absolutely certain that the young millionaire Sternroyd met with foul
play. How, or where, cannot yet be ascertained. At Scotland Yard,
however, they are in possession of reliable information that Mr
Sternroyd had for some time actually anticipated assassination, and had
confided this fact to a person who has now come forward and is actively
assisting the police. Another extraordinary feature in the case is,
that although Mr Sternroyd has a mother and a number of relatives
living, he made a will, only a few weeks before his disappearance,
bequeathing the whole of his enormous fortune to a lady well known in
London society. The police are most actively engaged in solving the
mystery, and now that it has been ascertained that the missing man
anticipated his end at the hand of another, it is confidently believed
that in the course of a few hours the police will arrest a person
suspected."
The secret was out! Mabel had evidently placed her theory before the
police and explained what Gilbert had told her regarding his fears. She
was Jack's enemy, and had placed the detectives on the scent. This,
then, was the reason she had endeavoured to silence me regarding her
interview with Markwick at Blatherwycke. When she had striven to induce
me to swear secrecy, she had without doubt already informed the police
of her suspicions, and well knew that ere long I should be called as a
witness to speak as to Bethune's movements. Our friendship had been
broken. Fortunately I had promised nothing, and was free to speak.
The pink news-sheet I cast from me, congratulating myself that I had not
fallen into the trap the Countess had so cunningly baited.
Even at that moment some men opposite me were discussing the mysterious
affair, and as I smoked, my ears were on the alert to catch every
syllable of their conversation. It was only now that I fully realised
what widespread sensation Sternroyd's disappearance had caused. Having
been absent in the country, I was quite unaware of the intense public
interest now centred in the whereabouts or fate of the young millionaire
whose little peccadilloes and extravagances had from time to time
afforded food for gossip and material for paragraphists in society
journals.
"There is a woman in the case," one of the men was saying between
vigorous pulls at his cigar. "I knew Gilbert well. He wasn't a fellow
to disappear and bury himself in the country or abroad. Whatever he
did, he did openly, and no better-hearted young chap ever breathed. He
was awfully good to his relations. Why, dozens of them actually lived
on his generosity."
"I quite agree," said another. "But I heard something in the Bachelors'
last night that seems to put quite a different complexion on the
affair."
"What is it?" inquired half-a-dozen eager voices in chorus.
"Well, it is now rumoured that he admired the Countess of Fyneshade, and
that he was seen with her on several occasions just prior to his
disappearance. Further, that the will about which to-night's papers
give mysterious hints, is actually in her favour. He's left everything
to her."
The other men gave vent to exclamations of surprise, but this piece of
gossip was immediately seized upon as a text for many theories of the
weird and wonderful order, and when I rose and left, the group were
still as far off solving the mystery to their own satisfaction as they
had been half an hour before.
Wandering aimlessly along to Piccadilly Circus, I turned into the
Criterion expecting to find a man I knew, but he was not there, and as I
started to leave, I suddenly confronted a tall, well-dressed man who had
been lounging beside me at the bar, and who now uttered my name and
greeted me with a breezy "Good-evening, Mr Ridgeway."
Unnerved by the constant strain of excitement, this suddenness with
which we met caused me to start, but in an instant I told myself that I
might learn something advantageous from this man, therefore called for
more refreshment, and we began to chat.
The man's name was Grindlay. He was a detective who owed his position
of inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department mainly to my
father's recommendation. About six years previous a great fraud,
involving a loss of something like thirty thousand pounds, was
perpetrated upon my father's bank by means of forged notes, and
Grindlay, at that time a plain-clothes constable of the City Police,
stationed at Old Jewry, succeeded, after his superiors had failed, in
tracing the manufacturer of the notes to Hamburg and causing his arrest,
extradition, and conviction. The ingenuity of the forger was only
equalled by the cunning displayed by the detective, and in consequence
of a question my father addressed to the Home Secretary in the House,
Grindlay was transferred to Scotland Yard and soon promoted to an
inspectorship. Therefore it was scarcely surprising that he should
always show goodwill toward my family, and on each occasion we met, he
always appeared unusually gentlemanly for one of his calling, and full
of genuine bonhomie.
Immediately after the strange adventures of that memorable night on
which I had been married to a lifeless bride, I had sought his counsel,
but had been informed that he was absent in South America. It was now
with satisfaction that I again met him, although I hesitated to speak to
him upon the subject. Truth to tell I felt I had been ingeniously
tricked, and that now after the lapse of months, even this astute
officer could not assist me. No, as I stood beside him while he told me
briefly how he had had "a smart run through the States, then down to Rio
and home" after a fugitive, I resolved that my secret should still
remain my own.
"Yes," I said at length. "I heard you were away."
"Ah! they told me at the Yard that you had called. Did you want to see
me particularly?" he asked, fixing his dark brown eyes on mine. He was
a handsome fellow of middle age, with clear-cut features, a carefully
twisted moustache and upon his cheeks that glow of health that seems
peculiar to investigators of crime. In his well-made evening clothes
and crush hat, he would have passed well for an army officer.
"No," I answered lightly: "I happened to be near you one day and thought
I would give you a call. What are you doing to-night?"
"Keeping observation upon a man who is going to the Empire," he
answered, glancing hurriedly at his watch. "Come with me?"
For several reasons I accepted his invitation. First because I wanted
some distraction, and secondly because it had occurred to me that I
might ascertain from him something fresh regarding the murder of Gilbert
Sternroyd.
We lit fresh cigars, and, strolling to the Empire Theatre, entered the
lounge at that hour not yet crowded. As we walked up and down, his
sharp, eager eyes darting everywhere in search of the man whose
movements he was watching, I inquired the nature of the case upon which
he was engaged.
"Robbery and attempted murder," he answered under his breath so that
passers-by should not hear. "You remember the robbery of diamonds in
Hatton Garden a year ago, when a diamond merchant was gagged and nearly
killed, while the thief got clear away with every stone in the safe.
Well, it's that case. I traced the stones back to Amsterdam, but failed
to find the thief until three weeks ago."
"And he'll be here to-night?"
"Yes, I expect him. But don't let's talk of it," he said under his
breath. "Somebody may spot me. If you chance to meet any of your
friends here, and am compelled to introduce me, remember I am Captain
Hayden, of the East Surrey Regiment."
"Very well," I answered smiling, for this was not our first evening
together, and I had already been initiated into some of the wiles of
members of the Criminal Investigation Department.
For fully an hour we lounged at the bars, watched the variety
performance, and strolled about, but my friend failed to discover his
man. While standing at one of the bars, however, several men I knew
passed and repassed, among them being the Earl of Fyneshade accompanied
by Markwick and another man whom I had never before seen. The latter,
well-dressed, was apparently a gentleman.
"Do you know that tall man?" I asked Grindlay as they went by, and we
happened to be looking in their direction.
"No," he answered. "Who is he?"
"The Earl of Fyneshade."
"Fyneshade? Fyneshade?" he repeated. "Husband of the Countess, I
suppose. She's reckoned very beautiful, isn't she? Do you know them?"
"Yes," I replied. "They are friends of my family."
"Oh," he said, indifferently. "Who are the other men?"
I told my companion that the name of one was Markwick, and our
conversation then quickly drifted to other topics. Presently, however,
when the Earl repassed along the lounge, he said--
"Have you met his lordship recently? He doesn't appear to have noticed
you."
"I saw both the Earl and the Countess this afternoon," I said. "I
called at Eaton Square."
Almost before the words had left my lips, Fyneshade and his friends
entered the bar, the trio speaking loudly in jovial tones, and in a
moment he recognised me. Markwick and I exchanged glances, but neither
of us acknowledged the other. It was strange, to say the least, that he
of all men should be spending the evening with Mabel's husband.
"Hulloa, Ridgeway!" cried the Earl, coming forward. "Didn't expect to
see you here. Where did you dine?"
"At the club," I answered, and turning, introduced Grindlay as Captain
Hayden.
"Good show here, isn't it," Fyneshade exclaimed enthusiastically to the
detective. "Juniori is excellent tonight. Her last song, `Trois Rue du
Pan,' is immense. It's the best thing she has ever sung, don't you
think so?" Grindlay agreed, criticised the vivacious dark-eyed
chanteuse with the air of a blase man-about-town, and chatted with his
new acquaintance with well-bred ease and confidence. In a few minutes,
however, Fyneshade returned to rejoin his friends at the other end of
the small bar, while Grindlay and myself strolled out again on our
watchful vigil.
At last, after a diligent search, my friend suddenly gripped my arm,
whispering--
"See that man with the rose in his coat. You would hardly suspect him
of a diamond robbery, would you?"
"No, by Jove!" I said. "I never should." As we passed I looked toward
him and saw he was aged about fifty, with hair slightly tinged with
grey; he wore evening clothes, with a fine pearl and emerald solitaire
in his shirt, and upon his hands were lavender gloves. In earnest
conversation with him was a short, stout, elderly man, with grey scraggy
beard and moustache, about whose personality there was something
striking, yet indefinable.
"Oh!" exclaimed Grindlay, when we were out of hearing. "I had not
suspected this!"
"Suspected what?" I asked, eagerly; for tracking criminals was to me a
new experience.
"I did not know that our friend there was acquainted with the little
man. I've seen his face somewhere before, and if I'm not very much
mistaken, we hold a warrant for him with the offer of a reward from the
Belgian Government." Then placing his cigar in his mouth and puffing
thoughtfully at it for a moment, he added, "Let's saunter back. I must
get another look at him."
We turned, strolling slowly along, and as we passed, Grindlay left me
and went close to him to take a match from the little marble table near
which the pair was standing. Leisurely he lit his cigar, then returning
to me, said briefly:
"I'm not yet certain, but I could almost swear he's the man. If he is,
then I've fallen on him quite unexpectedly, and shall arrest him before
he leaves this place. But I must first run down to the Yard and refresh
my memory. Come with me?"
I assented, and we went out, driving to the offices of the Criminal
Investigation Department in a hansom. Through the great entrance hall,
up two wide stone staircases and down a long echoing corridor, he
conducted me until we entered a large room wherein were seated several
clerks. He had thrown away his cigar, his keen face now wore a strange
preoccupied look, and as he approached a shelf, took down a large
ledger, and opened it before him, he glanced up at the clock remarking
as if to himself--
"I've got an hour. They are certain to remain until the end."
His eye ran rapidly down several columns of names, until one arrested
his attention and he closed the index-book, replaced it, and left me for
a few moments, observing with a laugh--"I won't keep you long, but
here--there's something to amuse you."
Taking from one of the unoccupied desks a large, heavily-bound volume,
he placed it before me, adding--"The people in there are mostly
foreigners wanted for crimes abroad, and believed to be living in free
England." And he went out, leaving me to inspect this remarkable
collection of photographs. Each portrait, mounted in the great album,
bore a number written in red ink across it, and I soon found myself
highly interested in them. Presently Grindlay returned hurriedly with a
similar album, the leaves of which he turned over one by one, carefully
scrutinising each picture on the page in his eager search for the
counterfeit presentment of the man who, unsuspicious of detection, was
calmly enjoying the ballet at the Empire.
"Anything there to interest you?" he inquired presently without looking
up, as we stood side by side.
"Yes," I answered, "Are these all foreigners?"
"Mostly. They are wanted for all kinds of crime, from fraud to murder,"
he replied.
They were indeed a most incongruous set. Many were photographs taken by
the French and German and Italian police after the criminal's previous
conviction, and the suspects were often in prison dress; but the
portraits of others were in cabinet size, bearing the names of
well-known Paris, Berlin, and Viennese photographers.
"Have any of these people been arrested?" I inquired.
"No. When they are, we take out the picture and file it. If there is
any reason why they should not be arrested it is written below."
And he went on with his careful but rapid search while carelessly I
turned over leaf after leaf. A few of the men appeared quite refined
and gentlemanly. Some of the women were quiet and inoffensive-looking,
and one or two of them stylishly dressed and exceedingly pretty, but it
could be distinguished that the majority bore the stamp of crime on
their brutal, debased faces.
I had glanced at a number of leaves mechanically, and had grown tired of
inspecting the motley crowd of evildoers, when suddenly an involuntary
cry of abject amazement escaped my lips.
My eyes had fallen upon two portraits placed side by side among a number
of others whose physiognomy clearly betrayed the fact that they were
malefactors. Stupefied by the discovery I stood aghast, staring at
them, scarcely believing my own eyes.
The two portraits were those of Sybil and myself!
Sybil's picture was similar to the one I had purchased in Regent Street,
and was by the same photographer, while mine had evidently been copied
from one that had been taken in Paris two years before.
Of what crime had we been suspected? Here was yet another phase of the
inexplicable mystery of Sybil's marriage and death. Some words were
written beneath her portrait in red ink and initialled. I bent to
examine them and found they read--"Warrant not executed--Death."