My former experiences had unnerved me, so I armed myself, with the
crowbar, and together we went through the basement rooms, where only
rats and dirt attracted our attention. Regaining the hall, Grindlay
urged the necessity for making no noise, and having whispered the query
"All right?" to his subordinate, receiving an assurance in the
affirmative from the man on guard, we together ascended the great flight
of stairs.
The place was silent as the grave, but our footsteps awoke no echoes as
we gained the staircase and softly crept into the once handsome, but now
faded, moth-eaten drawing-room.
Crossing the great apartment we came to the small door that Dora had
opened at the moment I had been struck down. The crimson-shaded lamp,
now burned out, still stood upon the table, but the door leading to the
inner chamber, wherein some unknown sight had so strangely affected her,
was closed and secured by a wide, strong iron bar placed right across in
the manner that window shutters are barred.
"Hulloa! What's this?" whispered the detective when he noticed it.
"There's some mystery here. Hold the lamp and lend me the jemmy."
I handed him the tool, and inserting the pronged end between the
wood-work and one of the great sockets he gave it such a sudden wrench
that the socket snapped.
In an instant he had unbarred the door, and, throwing it open, dashed
forward.
I followed, but a cry of amazement escaped my lips. The room into which
the detective and myself effected a forced entrance was small and
shabby. It had apparently once been a boudoir, but the greater part of
the furniture had long ago been removed, and what remained was dusty,
faded and decaying. The shutters were closed, and secured by a heavy
padlocked bar, and the cheap white-shaded lamp that burned dimly upon
the table did not shed sufficient light to fully illuminate the place.
Suddenly, as Grindlay took the bull's-eye from my hand and turned its
light upon the opposite side of the room, we were both amazed to
discover lying upon one of those cheap convertible chair-bedsteads that
are the delight of lower-class housewives, a female form in a light
dress. With one accord we both advanced toward her. The woman's face
was turned from us, but our entrance apparently aroused her, and she
slowly moved and raised her head.
From my lips there escaped an anguished cry of amazement.
The blanched features were familiar, but upon them was such a strange,
wild look that I stopped short to assure myself that this strange scene
was not merely imaginary.
"My God!" I cried. "Dora, is it you?"
Raising herself upon her elbow with a sudden movement she pushed her
hair from her white brow, glared for a few moments at me with an
unnatural fire in her eyes, then, without replying to my question, gave
vent to a long, loud, discordant laugh.
"Speak!" I urged, rushing toward her, grasping her hand. "Tell me how
it is that we discover you here, locked in this room?"
But she answered not. The light in her clear eyes grew more brilliant
as she fixed her gaze inquiringly upon me. She did not recognise me.
Her face was drawn and haggard, around her eyes were dark rings, and her
features that had been so admired seemed now almost hideous, while the
dress she wore, soiled and tumbled, was the same handsome evening gown
in which I had seen her determinedly entering that room.
"Go!" she screamed suddenly. "Do not torture me, you brute! Let me
die, I say! Let me kill myself!" and as she uttered the words she tore
at her throat with both hands in an attempt to strangle herself.
Grindlay flew to her side and with difficulty gripped her hands. But
she seemed possessed of demon strength, and even the detective, muscular
and athletic as he was, found he had a hard task to hold her down.
"Do you know her?" he gasped at last, turning to me. "Who is she?"
"An old friend," I answered, with poignant sorrow. "Her name is Dora;
she is younger daughter of Lady Stretton."
"Lady Stretton--Stretton," the detective repeated thoughtfully. "The
name is familiar. Ah! I remember. The lady who benefits so largely by
the murdered man's will is eldest daughter of her ladyship, isn't she?"
I nodded in the affirmative, but the violent struggles of the would-be
suicide interrupted our conversation, and our combined efforts were
necessary in order to prevent her from accomplishing her purpose.
The melancholy fact could not be disguised that Dora, whose beauty had
been so frequently commented upon by Society journals, and whose
appearance in ball-rooms since she "came out" had never failed to cause
a sensation, was actually insane. The bright fire of madness was in her
eyes as she wildly accused me of unknown crimes. She did not address me
by name, but evidently in her hallucination believed me to be an enemy
of whom she had just cause for the bitterest hatred. When I tried to
seize her hands she shrank from me as if my contact stung her, and when
I gripped her determinedly she fought and bit with a strength of which I
had never believed a woman capable.
In the fierce straggle the lamp was nearly overturned, and at length
Grindlay, finding that all attempts to calm her proved futile, slipped a
pair of handcuffs from his pocket and with a murmur of apology for
treating any friend of mine, and especially a lady, with such indignity,
he locked them upon her slender wrists.
"It is the only way we can manage her," he said. "We must, however, be
careful of her head."
Already she was swaying her head from side to side, uttering strings of
wild, incoherent words, and after brief consultation it was arranged
that the detective should call up his assistant, who had remained on
guard below, and we should then convey the unfortunate girl to her home.
After two shrill blasts upon the inspector's whistle we were quickly
joined by his assistant, who, without betraying any surprise at this
discovery, recognised the position of affairs at a glance, and at once
held Dora's head, in order to prevent her injuring herself.
"Remain here, and keep a sharp eye on her while we search the place,"
Grindlay commanded; and taking up the lantern and jemmy we returned
together to the spacious, faded room wherein the strange marriage
ceremony had taken place. The boudoir had no other door leading out of
it, except the one communicating with the larger apartment that we had
burst open, and with its window closely shuttered, the cries of any
person held captive were not likely to be heard, for the window
overlooked the garden, and there were no passers-by.
From the floor whereon we had made this amazing discovery we ascended,
searching diligently, even to the garrets, but found nothing noteworthy.
Each room was dusty, neglected, and decaying, but they showed plainly
that the mansion had once been furnished in luxurious tasteful style,
and that its splendour had long ago departed.
When we had arrived at the topmost garret, Grindlay, who had moved
quickly, almost silently, poking into every corner, and leaving no place
uninspected large enough for any person to conceal himself, paused, and,
turning to me, said:
"This affair is, I confess, a most remarkable one! In the same house,
to all appearances closed and uninhabited, we find the body of the
murdered man concealed, and the sister of the woman he admired insane,
apparently held captive."
"By whom?" I queried.
"Ah! We must ascertain that," he said, flashing his lantern suddenly
into a far corner, but finding nothing. "There must be some
exceptionally strong motive for keeping your young lady friend away from
her home. Has she, as far as you are aware, ever before shown signs of
insanity?"
"Never; I have known her ever since a child, and her mind has been
always normal. She was particularly intelligent, an excellent pianist,
and a fair linguist."
"Some sight unusually horrible, a paroxysm of bitter grief, or some
great terror, may have temporarily unhinged her mind. Let us hope it is
not incurable," he said, sympathetically.
"Do you think she is really demented?" I asked eagerly. "Will she
never recover?"
"I really can't tell you; I'm not a mental specialist," he answered.
"It's true that I've seen two similar cases among women."
"And did they recover?"
He hesitated, then looking at me gravely he answered: "No; unfortunately
they did not One woman, whose symptoms were similar, had murdered her
child. The other had so severely injured her husband by throwing a
lighted lamp at him that he is incurable. Both are now at Woking
Asylum."
"Is there no hope for them?"
"None. In each case I made the arrest, and the doctor afterward told me
that their condition of mind was consequent upon the realisation of the
enormity of their crimes."
Dora's symptoms were the same as those of murderesses. Such suggestion
was appalling.
"Do you then suspect that Lady Stretton's daughter, Mabel, is--has
committed a crime?"
"Hardly that," he replied, quickly. "We must, I think, seek for the
guilty one in another quarter." He seemed to speak with conviction.
"In which quarter?" I eagerly inquired.
"I have formed no definite opinion at present," he replied quietly. "If
we can induce your lady friend to speak rationally for a few minutes she
may confirm or dispel my suspicions. Our discoveries this evening have
made one fact plain, and they will be the cause of the withdrawal of one
warrant," he added, looking at me with a curious smile.
"For whose arrest?"
"Your own."
"A warrant for my arrest!" I cried in dismay. "What do you mean? I
have committed no offence."
"Exactly. I have already proved that to my entire satisfaction, and
that is the reason the warrant in my pocket will to-morrow be
cancelled."
"But why was it ever issued?" I demanded.
"Because certain suspicions attached themselves to you. Did it never
occur to you that it was you yourself upon whom I was keeping
observation on that evening we spent together at the Empire?"
"It did; but the suggestion seemed so preposterous that I cast it aside.
Now, however, I see that the reason you took me to Scotland Yard was to
show me two photographs in your book. One was a picture of myself, and
the other that of a woman I loved--"
"You loved her--eh?" he interrupted.
"Yes. But why do you speak in that tone?" I inquired. "You seem to
suggest that my affection was misdirected."
"Pardon me," he said politely. "I suggest nothing--nothing beyond the
fact that it was an indiscretion, as was surely proved by later events."
"Later events!" I echoed. "Then you know the truth, Grindlay! Tell
me--tell me all, if you are my friend."
"Before we make an arrest our clues are secret," the inspector said, not
unkindly. "By divulging any of them the ends of justice may be
defeated. All I can tell you at present is, that we held a warrant for
the arrest of that lady whose portrait adorns our collection, and it was
not executed, for the reason stated below it in red ink."
"Because she died. Yes; I am aware of it," I said. "I was present when
she breathed her last, when the police burst into this house, and when
they retired on finding the person `wanted' was no longer alive. But
for what offence was that warrant issued? Surely I, her husband, have a
right to know?"
"I regret, Mr Ridgeway, I am unable to tell you," he replied evasively.
"You must be well aware that I was abroad at the time, and the warrant,
therefore, did not pass through my hands."
I saw in this a polite refusal to give me the information I sought, and
was piqued in consequence. Soon we descended the stairs to the room
where Dora remained, still uttering incoherent sentences, and after
consultation the two police officers called a cab, and having placed the
unfortunate girl in it we all drove to Lady Stretton's, the inspector
having first taken the precaution to send to the nearest police station
for a "plain-clothes man" to mount guard over the house wherein the body
of the murdered man was lying.
Our arrival at Lady Stretton's caused the greatest consternation among
the servants, her ladyship, and her two lady visitors. Lady Stretton
herself fainted, the family doctor, a noted mental specialist, was
quickly summoned, and Dora taken to her room. From the servants I
gathered that Dora had only been absent from home for two days, and that
very little anxiety had been felt on her account, for it was believed
that having had some disagreement with her mother, and having announced
her intention of visiting some friends in Yorkshire, she had gone
thither.
It was, however, a most severe blow to all when she returned in the
custody of two police officers a raving lunatic.
The doctor, who could obtain no rational reply to any of his questions,
summoned another great specialist on mental ailments, who quickly
pronounced the case as extremely grave, but not altogether incurable.
Insanity of the character from which she was suffering frequently, he
said, took a most acute form, but he was not without hope that, with
careful and proper treatment, the balance of her mind might again be
restored. The family were instructed not to allow, on any account, any
question to be put to her regarding the manner in which the attack had
commenced. The strain of endeavouring to recollect would, the doctor
assured us, do her incalculable harm.
Grindlay remained with me at Lady Stretton's for an hour or more, and
when we left we drove together as far as my chambers, where I alighted,
while he went on to Scotland Yard.
"Remember," he said, before I wished him good-night, and promised to see
him on the morrow, "not a word to a soul that we have discovered the
body. Only by keeping our own counsel, and acting with the greatest
discretion and patience, can we arrest the guilty one."
"Grindlay, you suspect my friend, Captain Bethune," I said. "It's
useless to deny it."
"It is the privilege of a man in my profession to suspect, and his
suspicions often fall on innocent persons," he said, with a faint smile.
"The body has now been discovered, and we know a crime has been
committed. Therefore, we can obtain a warrant against any person upon
whom suspicion may rest."
I pursued the subject no further, but sat back in the cab, fully
convinced by these words of his intention to arrest Jack on a charge of
murder.