THE TATTOOED CROSS.
Fanks was prepared for most surprises, and, from experience, he was
capable, of controlling his emotions thoroughly. In this instance,
however, he was so overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the discovery
that it was some time before he could arrange his thoughts and plan of
action. The coincidence of the tattooed cross was extraordinary, but
the resemblance of the portraits was still more so. Before he could
comment on the fact Hersham asked an abrupt question.
"Why do you speak of these things?" he said anxiously, "and what do
you know about Miss Colmer?"
"I know nothing about Miss Colmer," replied Fanks, quickly. "Hold on a
minute, my good fellow, I have had what people call a turn."
Hersham accepted this explanation with a doubtful air, and pushed the
spirits towards the detective. Accepting this attention, Fanks poured
himself out a stiff glass. A sip or two braced his nerves and set his
brain to work, so that shortly he was able to face the unexpected
situation. For obvious reasons he did not wish to reveal too much to
Hersham; yet under the peculiar circumstances of the case he was
forced to tell him a certain amount. To gain his ends with the least
possible risk to his plans he was reduced to manufacturing a plausible
theory from the facts within his knowledge. The task was one of some
little difficulty, but he succeeded fairly well in suppressing so much
of the truth as he did not wish known.
"That photograph took me by surprise, Hersham," he said after a pause.
"Why should it take you by surprise?" said the other, jealously. "Have
you ever met with Miss Colmer?"
"I have not met the lady," replied Fanks, slowly, "but I have seen
some one who greatly resembles her. So greatly indeed that I thought
the person I saw was the original of that photograph."
"Where did you see this person?"
"At Paris--in the Morgue."
It seemed to Fanks that Hersham changed colour on hearing this; but he
kept his feelings under control, and merely remarked, "In the Morgue?
A case of murder, no doubt."
"No! Suicide by drowning. Afterwards I heard that the body was that
of an English girl called Emma Calvert." He purposely suppressed
the fact of the marriage. "She is buried in Pere la Chaise under the
name--whether true or not, I cannot say--of Calvert. You cannot wonder
that the sight of that picture, which I took for that of the dead
woman, should startle me, the more especially as you assure me that
the original of that photograph is still alive and is engaged to you."
"Was it for this purpose that you came to see me?" demanded Hersham.
"No; I came to see you about something else. Nevertheless, before
telling you the object of my visit, I should like to have the mystery
of the photograph explained."
"How do you know that I can explain it?"
"Perhaps you can, perhaps you can't. On the other hand, perhaps you
can and perhaps you--won't."
Hersham bit his lip, and took a turn up and down the room. He appeared
to be on the verge of revealing something, but checked himself when
about to speak. At this stage Fanks wisely held his tongue, and
resolved to let Hersham make the first remark. Evidently the young man
had something on his mind, and what the something was Fanks was
determined to find out; but he left the mode of revelation entirely to
his host. Hersham was aware of this, and hesitated and faltered and
frowned. Ultimately he resumed his seat and accepted the situation.
"I have always looked upon you as a friend, Fanks," he said in a
hesitating manner; "and I have every reason to believe that you wish
me well."
"My dear fellow," said Fanks, wondering what could be the reason of
this appeal, "you are perfectly right. I would do anything to prove my
friendship for you."
"Then answer me candidly. Did you come here to ask me about that cross
which you know is tattooed on my left arm?"
"Yes," said Fanks, unhesitatingly; "I did. How did you guess my
errand?"
"I read the report of the inquest on the body of Fellenger, and I
remarked the fact of the poisoned needle and the tattooed cross. I was
informed that you had the case in hand; I knew that you had seen the
mark on my arm. So when you wrote asking me to see you it was not hard
for me to guess what you wanted. You see, I was right."
"I congratulate you on your penetration, my dear Hersham," replied.
Fanks, coolly. "At the same time, I do not see what this speech has to
do with your former one about friendship."
"I can explain. You asked me a question about that photograph; and to
answer it in a satisfactory manner I shall be forced to tell you
something about the family of the girl to whom I am engaged."
"Does your explanation concern the late Sir Gregory Fellenger?"
"Yes. It has a great deal to do with the late Sir Gregory."
"And with Emma Calvert?"
"With the woman you call Emma Calvert."
"Ought I to say Lady Fellenger?" said Fanks, quickly.
Hersham shrugged his shoulders. "That makes no difference to my
explanation," he said, and rose to get the photograph off the
mantelshelf. "You think that this is the picture of Emma Calvert?"
For answer, Fanks produced the portrait he had found in Fellenger's
rooms, and showed it to Hersham. "Is this the picture of Anne Colmer?"
he asked.
"No, that is Emma Calvert."
"Then these photographs are those of two different women?"
"Certainly. The one is Emma Calvert who committed suicide in Paris.
The other is Anne Colmer who is alive and engaged to me."
Fanks considered for a minute. "I now begin to see light," he said, in
a sober tone. "Am I right in assuming that Emma is the sister of
Anne?"
"You are perfectly right. She is the twin-sister."
"Ah! That accounts for the resemblance."
"It does," replied Hersham, with a nod, "the two sisters were so
exactly alike that apart you could not tell one from the other--at
least, so I have been told."
"Oh! Then you never saw the two sisters together?"
"I did not. I never saw Emma in my life."
"Of course you know her sad story," said Fanks, after a pause.
"Anne's mother told it to me. I know that Emma married Fellenger
secretly, and was driven to her death by his brutality. Now, you can
see why I reminded you of our friendship before telling you the
truth."
"No!" said Fanks, sharply, "I can't see."
"Why! I am engaged to the sister of the dead girl; so I thought--"
"That I might accuse you of killing Sir Gregory out of revenge?"
"Well, I did have that thought in my head; and then the coincidence of
the cross, you know."
Fanks laughed, and took the hand of Hersham. "My dear lad," he said.
"I have no idea of accusing you of the crime; your engagement to Miss
Colmer is no proof that you killed the man who acted so badly towards
her sister. Do not, therefore, hesitate to tell me all you know. How
Emma Calvert came to London; how she met with Sir Gregory; and how she
was loved by Herbert Vaud?"
"What!" cried Hersham. "You know that also?"
"I know more than you think, Hersham; therefore, if you attempt to
deceive me I shall find you out. Now go on with your story."
"I do not want to deceive you," replied the journalist, "but you
must understand that I only speak from hearsay. If you want the tale
first-hand you must see old Mrs. Colmer, at Taxton-on-Thames."
"Hum!" said Fanks, remembering his theory regarding the directing of
the envelope which contained the cardboard star. "What kind of a
person is the lady in question?"
"An invalid," said Hersham, promptly. "A paralytic; she has not moved
hand or foot for years."
"Confound it!"
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing. Only your information has upset a theory. Never mind; go
on."
"There isn't much to tell," said Hersham. "Mrs. Colmer is a decayed
gentlewoman, whose husband died and left her with two little girls.
To support these she set up a dressmaker's establishment at
Taxton-on-Thames. When the children grew up, Mrs. Colmer was smitten
with paralysis and laid on the shelf. Anne and Emma carried on the
business, and thus supported their mother. Emma came to London to gain
experience in a fashionable dressmaker's establishment; and Anne
remained behind to look after the shop at Taxton-on-Thames. While in
London, Emma met with young Vaud at the house of a friend of her
mother's. He fell in love with Emma and wished to marry her. She liked
him, but she did not love him; nevertheless, for her mother's sake,
she accepted his offer. Then in an unlucky hour Herbert introduced
Fellenger to Emma; she loved him, or was attracted by his title. At
all events, she ran away with him to Paris and became his wife."
"She was married in a London office. Registrar's."
"I did not know that," said Hersham. "Emma told her mother that she
was married, but she did not write where. Well, young Vaud had an
attack of brain fever, and afterwards he went on a sea voyage. On his
return he crossed to Paris to learn what had become of Emma. He
ascertained that she was dead and buried; in some way he learned the
whole miserable history. Vaud returned to England to see Fellenger;
but before he could meet with him the baronet was killed in Tooley's
Alley; and the fate of Emma was avenged by an unknown hand. That is
the story, Fanks; you can make what use you like of it."
"It is a wretched story," replied Fanks. "I can now understand the
hatred which young Vaud bears towards the memory of his false friend;
and I can understand also how I mistook Anne for Emma. But," added
Fanks, with emphasis, "I cannot understand why Anne came to the
chambers of Fellenger, and why she ran away when she saw me."
Hersham looked jealous, and frowned. "I cannot understand that
myself," he said. "She hated Fellenger as much as did Herbert Vaud;
and I do not know why she should go to the rooms of the scoundrel."
"She asked for the valet."
"Robert, the whimpering, pitiful dog?"
"Anne might have gone to see him to ask for particulars of her sister's
death."
"Well, yes," replied Fanks, thoughtfully; "but that does not explain
why she went away when she saw me."
"I can only surmise that she did not wish to explain what brought her
there, and so tell the tale of her sister's death to a stranger."
"No, there is more in it than that," said the detective, remembering
that Anne had been among the crowd on the night of the murder; "but we
will talk of this hereafter. In the meantime, let us return to the
main object of my visit, and show me this famous cross."
Hersham made no objection to this request, and removed his coat.
Rolling up his sleeve he exposed the cross tattooed on the flesh of
the left forearm. It was a St. Catherine cross, the size of a florin,
and Fanks examined it long and carefully. "Did you get that tattooed
at school?" he asked when Hersham had resumed his coat.
"I did not get it done at all. I have had it ever since I can
remember; and I have asked my father often about it, but he cannot, or
will not, give me any information."
"He will not most probably. Are you sure that there is no story
attached to the tattooing?"
"None that I know of; but my father might be better informed."
"Would your mother know?"
"I have no mother; she died when I was a baby."
"Strange," muttered Fanks, pensively; "it is strange that you should
have this mark on you and yet be ignorant of its significance. I wish
you would speak to your father about it."
"He won't tell me anything; I have asked him before."
"You have no idea why a cross similar to this should have been
tattooed on Sir Gregory's arm by a negro?"
"Certainly not. I did not even know Sir Gregory."
"I wonder if your father could tell me?"
"I don't know. He might or he might not. Do you think that this cross
has anything to do with the murder you are investigating?"
"That is just what I do think," retorted Fanks. "The man was killed by
means of a poisoned needle used to prick in a cross similar to that on
your arm."
"But that insinuates that I am mixed up in the matter."
"It does nothing of the sort. Don't be an ass."
But Hersham was not content with this friendly assurance. "You think
that I have something to do with the crime," he said obstinately.
Fanks looked at his agitated face, at his trembling hands, and a
strange suspicion entered his mind. "I'll tell you what I do think,"
he said in an abrupt tone; "I think that you have not told me all the
truth."
Hersham trembled still more, and clasped his hands together. "I
cannot," he muttered, shrinking away from Fanks; "I dare not."