A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller’s in a carriage or
a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but inclined to think that it
was a private carriage—in broad daylight, and at the most fashionable
hour. He was rather a pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord
Dundreary type, with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly
during the interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the
newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with the
trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He wore patent boots
fitting him like a glove, and appeared particularly vain of his neat
foot and the valuable rings on his white fingers.
When this distinguished customer had been accommodated with a seat
by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he managed to produce a
card-case, and then dropped a card bearing the name of Samuel
Whitmore. The address at the corner at once gave the jeweller a clear
idea of the identity of his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy
family, having an estate of considerable size in the West, and had,
in addition to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in
Edinburgh and another in England. There was a large family of them,
but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now understood
he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said to be a fast
young man, with no great intellect, but traits of that kind are not
so uncommon among the rich as to excite comment among tradesmen.
The follies of some are the food of others, and the jeweller was no
sooner aware of the identity of his visitor than he mentally decided
that he was about to get a good order. He was not disappointed—at
least in that particular.
“I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the best sort of
thing to give—ah—to a young lady—you know—as a present,” languidly
began the pretty young gentleman. “It must be a real tip-top
thing—artistic, pretty, and all that; and you must be willing to take
it back if she shouldn’t like it—that is, in exchange for something
as good or better.”
“Hadn’t we better send a variety of articles to the young lady, and
let her choose for herself?” suggested Mr Ward.
“Oh, hang it, no!—that would never do,” said Mr Whitmore, with
considerable energy. “She’d stick to the lot, you know; women are
never satisfied;” and he gave a peculiar wink to convey the idea he
wished to express. “You just be good enough to show me the things,
and I’ll choose what I think best, and you can send them to the house
addressed to me. I’ll take them to her myself to-morrow, and if they
don’t suit, I’ll send them back by my valet, or bring them myself.”
All this was fair and quite business-like, and Mr Ward hastened to
display his most tempting treasures to his customer, who, however,
speedily rejected the best of them on account of their high price.
At length he chose a lady’s small gold lever, ornamented with jewels
on the back, and a set of gold ear-rings, with brooch and necklet to
match. The price of the whole came to a trifle under £60, and the
buyer expressed much satisfaction at the reasonable charges and the
beauty of the articles.
“You will put them up carefully and send them home, and, if I
keep them, you can send in your bill at the usual time,” said the
agreeable customer; and so the pleasant transaction concluded, the
jeweller showed him out, the cab was entered, and Mr Whitmore not
only disappeared from the jeweller’s sight, but also, as it seemed,
from every one else’s. As he left the shop, the languid gentleman had
looked at his watch, and the jeweller had just time to notice that it
was an expensive gold one, with a very peculiar dial of gold figures
on a black ground. Some reference had also been made to diamonds
during the selection of the presents, and Mr Whitmore had been
obliging enough to remove one of the rings from his white fingers
and place it in the hands of the jeweller, when that gentleman read
inside the initials “S. W.”
These two circumstances were afterwards to add to the intricacy
of the case when it came into our hands. From the moment when the
pretty-faced gentleman was shown out by Mr Ward, he could not have
vanished more effectually if he had driven out of the world. Half
an hour after, a young apprentice lad in Mr Ward’s employ took the
small parcel given him by his master out to the stately residence
of the Whitmores at the West End, and, according to his statement
afterwards, duly delivered the same. There was no name-plate upon
the door, but there was a big brass number which corresponded with
that on the card left by the pleasant customer. The messenger, who
was no stupid boy, but a lad of seventeen, declared most positively
that he looked for the number in that fine crescent, rang the bell,
and was answered by a dignified footman. He then asked if the house
was that of the Whitmores, was answered with a stately affirmative,
and then departed. None of the articles thus sent home were returned,
and they were therefore entered in the books as sold. A month or two
later the account was made up and sent to the buyer. There was no
response for many weeks, but at length the answer did come, and in
a manner altogether unexpected. A gentleman, young, but by no means
good-looking, drove up to the shop door one forenoon and entered
the shop. Mr Ward had never seen him before, but the card which he
placed before the jeweller was familiar enough to cause him to start
strangely. It bore the name, “Samuel Whitmore,” with the address at
the lower corner—it was, indeed, the _facsimile_ of that which had
been produced by Mr Ward’s languid but agreeable customer months
before.
“I wish to see Mr Ward,” said the new comer, evidently as ignorant of
the jeweller’s appearance as that gentleman was of his.
“I am Mr Ward, sir,” was the reply; and then the stranger brought
out some papers, from which he selected Mr Ward’s account for
the articles of jewellery, which he placed before the astonished
tradesman, with the words—
“I am Mr Whitmore, and this account has been sent to me by mistake.
It would have been checked sooner, but it happened that I was away
in Paris when it was sent, and as I was expected home they did not
trouble to forward the paper.”
The jeweller stared at his visitor. He was a young man, and wore
Dundreary whiskers, and had on his fingers just such rings as Mr Ward
remembered seeing on the hand of his customer, but there was not the
slightest resemblance of features.
“You Mr Samuel Whitmore?” he vacantly echoed, picking up the card of
the gentleman, and mentally asking himself whether he was dreaming or
awake.
“Mr Samuel Whitmore,” calmly answered the gentleman.
“Son of Mr Whitmore of Castleton Lee?”
“The same, sir.”
“Then you have a brother, I suppose?” stammered the jeweller. “There
has been a mistake of some kind.”
“I have no brother, and never had,” quietly answered his visitor;
“and I never bought an article in this shop that I know of, and
certainly did not purchase the things which you have here charged
against me.”
“A gentleman came here—drove up in a cab, just as you have done—and
presented a card like this,” said the jeweller, beginning to feel
slightly alarmed. “Surely I have not been imposed upon? and yet that
is impossible, for the things were safely sent home and delivered at
your house.”
The gentleman smiled, and shook his head.
“I thought it possible that my father might have ordered and received
these things,” he politely observed, “but on making inquiry I learned
that not only was that not the case, but no such articles ever came
near the house.”
This was too much for the jeweller. He touched a bell and had the
apprentice lad, Edward Price, sent for, and drew from him such a
minute account of the delivery of the parcel, that it became the
gentleman’s turn to be staggered and to doubt his own convictions.
The lad described the house, the hall, and the clean-shaven footman
so clearly and accurately that his narrative bore an unmistakable
impress of truthfulness. The gentleman could, therefore, only suggest
the possibility of Price having mistaken the _number_ of the house,
and the things being accepted as a present by the persons who had
thus received them by mistake. But even this supposition—which was
afterwards proved to be fallacious—did not account for the most
mysterious feature in the case—how the things had been ordered and
by whom. It was clear to Mr Ward that the gentleman before him and
the buyer of the presents were two distinct persons, having no facial
resemblance; but the new Mr Whitmore having, in his impatience to be
gone, drawn from his pocket a gold watch, with the peculiar black
dial already described, a fresh shade of mystery was cast over the
case.
“I have seen that watch before,” he ventured to say. “The gentleman
who ordered the things wore just such a watch as that. I saw it when
he was leaving. And he had on his finger a diamond ring very like
that which you wear. I had it in my hand for a few moments, and it
bore his initials inside.”
The gentleman, looking doubly surprised, drew from his finger the
ring in question and placed it in the jeweller’s hand. The initials
“S.W.” were there inside, exactly as he had seen them on the ring of
the mysterious representative.
“Did you ever lend this ring to any one?” he asked in amazement.
“Never; and, what is more, it is never off my finger but when I
am asleep,” was the decided reply; and then he listened patiently
while Mr Ward related the whole of the circumstances attending the
selection of the articles. No light was thrown on the matter by the
narrative; but the gentleman, who before had been somewhat angry
and impatient, now sobered down, and showed sufficient interest to
advise Mr Ward to put the case in our hands, promising him every
assistance in his power to get at the culprit. This advice was acted
upon, and the next day I was collecting the facts I have recorded.
I had no idea of the lad Price being involved in the affair, but I
nevertheless thought proper to make sure of every step by taking him
out to the Crescent and getting him to show me the house at which he
delivered the parcel. He conducted me without a moment’s hesitation
to the right house. I rang the bell, and when the door was opened by
a clean-shaven footman, Price rapidly identified the various features
of the hall. He failed, however, to identify the footman as the
person who had taken the parcel from him. I was not disappointed,
but rather pleased at that circumstance. I had begun to believe that
the footman, like the purchaser, was a “double.” Being now on the
spot, I asked to see Mr Samuel Whitmore, and, being shown up, I began
to question that gentleman as to his whereabouts on the day of the
purchase. That was not easily settled. Mr Whitmore’s time was his
own, and one day was so very like another with him that he frankly
told me that to answer that question was quite beyond his power.
By referring to Mr Ward’s account, however, we got the exact day and
month of the purchase, and the naming of the month quickened the
gentleman’s memory. That day had been one of many days spent in the
same manner, for he had been two weeks confined to bed by illness.
He could not give me the exact date, but I guessed rightly that his
medical man would have a better idea, and, getting that gentleman’s
address, I soon found beyond doubt that Mr Samuel Whitmore had on
the day of the purchase been confined to his own room, and so ill
that his life was in actual danger.
“Some of his friends may have personated him for a lark,” was my
next thought, but a few inquiries soon dispelled that idea. None of
Mr Whitmore’s friends had looked near him during his illness, and to
complete the impersonation, it was necessary that they should have
had his ring and watch, which he declared had never been out of his
possession.
The discovery of these facts narrowed down the inquiry considerably.
They all seemed to focus towards that invisible and mysterious
footman who had taken in the parcel.
There is a great deal in a name. The lad Price had used the word
“footman” in describing the servant, probably because he had a vague
idea that any one was a footman who wore livery and opened a door.
It had never struck him to ask if there was any other man-servant in
the house, and it might not have struck me either if I had not seen
another—a valet—busy brushing his young master’s clothes in a bedroom
close to the apartment in which we conversed.
“Who is that brushing the clothes?” I asked of Mr Whitmore. “The
coachman?”
“Oh, no; the coachman does not live in the house while we are in
town; that’s my valet.”
“And what does he do?”
“Attends me—gets my clothes, helps me to dress—looks after
everything, and serves me generally.”
“Does he ever answer the door bell?”
“Really, I could not say,” was the answer, somewhat wearily given,
“but you may ask him.”
The gentleman, I could see, had a sovereign contempt for both me and
my calling, and was impatient to see me gone; but that, of course,
did not disturb me in the least.
I had the valet called in, and in reply to my question he gave me to
understand very clearly that answering the door bell “was not his
work,” but lay entirely between the footman and tablemaid.
“Supposing they were both out of the way, and you were near the door
when the bell rang, would you not answer it by opening the door?”
“No, certainly not.”
He appeared to think me very simple to ask such a question.
“Then who would open the door?”
“I don’t know; somebody else—it wouldn’t be me; but they wouldn’t be
both out of the way at once without leaving some one to attend the
door.”
“Just so; and that one might be you. Now don’t interrupt, and try to
carry your mind back five months, and to the 21st day of that month,
while your master here lay ill, and tell me if you did not answer the
door bell and take in a small parcel addressed to your master?”
“I wasn’t here five months ago, sir,” was the quick response; “I was
serving in the north then.”
“Indeed!” and I turned to his master in some surprise; “have you
discharged your valet within that time?”
“Oh, yes,” he lazily drawled; “I had Atkinson before him.”
“At the time you were ill?”
“Possibly so. I really don’t remember.”
“You did not tell me of this before.”
“No? Well, it doesn’t matter much, I suppose?”
I found it difficult to keep my temper. I had the lad Price brought
up from the hall, and he said most decidedly that the valet before us
was not the man who had taken in the parcel.
“Why did Atkinson leave you?” I resumed, to the master.
“He did not leave exactly. I was tired of him. He put on so many airs
that some thought that he was the master and I the man—fact, I assure
you. He was too fast, and conceited, and vain; and I thought—though
I’d be the last to say it—he wasn’t quite what you call honest, you
know.”
“Good-looking fellow?”
“Oh, passable as to that,” was the somewhat grudging reply. Mr
Whitmore himself was very ugly.
“Did he ever put on your clothes—that is, wear them when you were not
using them yourself?”
“Oh, yes; the beggar had impudence enough for anything.”
“And your jewellery, and watch, too, I suppose?”
“Well, I don’t know as to that—perhaps he did. I could believe him
capable of anything that was impudent—coolest rascal I ever met. I
tell you, Mr—Mr—Mr M^cFadden—I beg your pardon, M^cGadden—ah, I’m
not good at remembering names—I tell you, I’ve an idea; just struck
me, and you’re as welcome to it as if it were your own. P’r’aps that
rascal Atkinson has ordered those things, and got them when they were
sent home. Rather smart of me to think of that, eh?”
“Very smart,” I answered, with great emphasis, while his valet
grinned behind a coat. “The affinity of great minds is shown in the
fact that the same idea struck me. Can you help me to Atkinson’s
present address?”
He could. Although he had been wearied and disgusted with the fellow
himself, he had not only given Atkinson a written character of a high
order, but personally recommended him to one of his acquaintances
with whom, he presumed, the man was still serving. I took down the
address and left for Moray Place, taking the lad Price with me.
When we came to the house a most distinguished-looking individual
opened the door—much haughtier and more dignified than a Lord of
State—and while he was answering my inquiries, the lad Price gave me
a suggestive nudge. When I quickly turned in reply and bent my ear,
he whispered—
“That’s like the man that took the parcel from me at Whitmore’s.”
“Like him? Can you swear it is him?”
The lad took another steady look at the haughty flunkey, and finally
shook his head and said, “No, I cannot swear to him, but it is like
him.”
The haughty individual was John Atkinson, formerly valet to Mr
Whitmore. A few questions, a second look at the lad Price, and one
naming of Mr Ward the jeweller, disturbed his highness greatly, but
failed to draw from him anything but the most indignant protestations
of innocence.
I decided to risk the matter and take him with me. He insisted upon
me first searching his room and turning over all his possessions, to
show that none of the articles were in his keeping. I felt certain
of his guilt. There was in his manner an absence of that flurry and
excitement with which the innocent always greet an accusation of the
kind; but his cool request as to searching made me a little doubtful
of bringing the charge home to him. It convinced me, at least, that
the articles themselves were far beyond our reach. From this I
reasoned that they had not been procured for the ordinary purposes of
robbery—that is, to be sold or turned into money. The buyer had said
that they were intended as a present for a lady: could it be possible
that he had told the truth?
I began to have a deep interest in Atkinson’s love affairs and a
strong desire to learn who was the favoured lady. On our way to the
Office I called in at Mr Ward’s, but the jeweller failed to identify
Atkinson as the buyer of the articles. He was like him, he said, but
the other had Dundreary whiskers, and this man was clean shaven.
Afterwards, when I had clapped a pair of artificial whiskers upon
Atkinson, the jeweller was inclined to alter his opinion and say
positively that it was the man, but, on the whole, the case was so
weak that it never went to trial.
Atkinson was released, and returned to his place “without a stain
upon his character,” and so justice appeared to be defeated. The
first act of the drama had ended with villainy triumphant.
Let me now bring on “the wrong umbrella.” A great party was given,
some months after, in a house in the New Town, and, as usual at such
gatherings, there was some confusion and accidental misappropriation
at the close. All that happened was easily explained and adjusted,
but the case of the umbrella. Most of the guests had come in cabs,
but one or two living near had come on foot, bringing umbrellas with
them. The number of these could have been counted on the fingers
of one hand, yet, when the party was over, the lady of the house
discovered that a fine gold-mounted ivory-handled umbrella of hers
had been taken, and a wretched alpaca left in its place. The missing
umbrella was a present, and therefore highly prized; it was also
almost fresh from the maker. It was rather suggestive, too, that the
wretched thing left in its place was a gentleman’s umbrella—a big,
clumsy thing, which could not have been mistaken for the other by a
blind man. It seemed therefore more like a theft than a mistake, and
after fruitless inquiries all round, the lady sent word to us, and a
full description of the stolen umbrella was entered in the books.
The theory formed by the owner was that the umbrella had been stolen
by some thief who had gained admittance during the confusion, and
that the umbrella left in its place had simply been forgotten by some
of the guests, and had no connection with the removal of her own.
Reasoning upon this ground, I first tried the pawnbrokers, without
success, and then, remembering that the missing article had been
heavily mounted with gold, I thought of trying some of the jewellers
to see if they had bought the mounting as old gold. I had no success
on that trial either, but, to my astonishment and delight, M^cSweeny,
whom I had sent out to hunt on the same lines in the afternoon,
brought in the umbrella, safe and sound, as it had been taken from
the owner’s house. The surprising thing was that the umbrella had
been got in a jeweller’s shop, at which it had been left by a
gentleman to get the initials E. H. engraved on the gold top. It was
a mere chance remark which led to its discovery, for when M^cSweeny
called the umbrella was away at an engraver’s, and had to be sent for.
I went over to the New Town very quickly and showed the umbrella to
the lady, who identified it—with the exception of the initials—and
showed marks and points about the ivory handle which proved it hers
beyond doubt. I kept the umbrella, and went to the jeweller who had
undertaken the engraving of the initials. He described the gentleman
who had left the umbrella, and, turning up his books, gave me the
name and address, which I soon found to be fictitious. He stated,
however, that the umbrella was to be called for on the following day,
and I arranged to be there at least an hour before the stated time
to receive him. When I had been there a couple of hours or so—seated
in the back shop reading the papers—a single stroke at a bell near
me, connected with the front shop, told me that my man had come.
I advanced and looked through a little pane of glass, carefully
concealed from the front, and took a good look at him. What was my
astonishment to find that the “gentleman” was no other than my old
acquaintance, John Atkinson, the valet!
According to the arrangement I had made with the jeweller—in
anticipation of finding the thief to be a man in a good position in
society—the umbrella was handed over to the caller, the engraving
paid for, and the man allowed to leave the shop.
I never followed any one with greater alacrity or a stronger
determination not to let him slip. I fully expected him to go to his
place in Moray Place, and intended to just let him get comfortably
settled there, and then go in and arrest him before his master, who
had been very wrathful at the last “insult to his trusted servant.”
But John did not turn his face in that direction at all. He moved
away out to a quiet street at the South Side, where he stopped before
a main door flat bearing the name “Miss Huntley” on a brass plate. A
smart servant girl opened the door, and John was admitted by her with
much deference. When he had been in the house a short time, I rang
the bell and asked for him.
“He is with Miss Huntley,” said the girl, with some embarrassment,
evidently wishing me to take the hint and leave.
“Indeed! and she is his sweetheart, I suppose?”
The girl laughed merrily, and said she supposed so.
I only understood that laugh when I saw Miss Huntley—a toothless
old woman, old enough to be my mother, or John’s grandmother. From
the girl I learned that her mistress was possessed of considerable
property, and that John and she were soon to be made one.
I doubted that, but did not say so. I had no qualms whatever, and
sharply demanded to be shown in. John became ghastly pale the moment
he sighted my face. Miss Huntley had the stolen umbrella in her
hands, and was admiringly examining her initials on the gold top.
“Is that your umbrella, ma’am?” I asked, in a tone which made her
blink at me over her spectacles.
“Yes, I’ve just got it in a present from Mr Atkinson,” she answered.
“Oh, indeed! And did he give you any other presents?” I sternly
pursued, as John sank feebly into a chair.
She refused to answer until I should say who I was and what was my
business there; but when I did explain matters, the poor old skeleton
was quite beyond answering me. She was horrified at the discovery
that John was a thief, but more so, I am convinced, to find that he
was not a gentleman at all, but only a flunkey. In the confusion of
her fainting and hysterics, I had the opportunity of examining the
gold watch, which was taken from her pocket by the servant, and found
inside the back of the case a watch-paper bearing Mr Ward’s name and
address, and also the written date of the sale, which corresponded
exactly with that already in my possession. The brooch and other
articles were readily given up by Miss Huntley, as soon as she was
restored to her senses. Had she been fit for removal, we should have
taken her too, but the shock had been too much for her, and her
medical man positively forbade the arrest.
John made a clean breast of the swindle and impersonation, and went
to prison for a year, while the poor old woman he had made love to
went to a grave which could scarcely be called early. I met John some
years after in a seedy and broken-down condition, and looking the
very opposite of the haughty aristocrat he had seemed when first we
met. I scarcely recognised him, but when I did, I said significantly—
“Ah, it’s you? I’m afraid, John, you took the _wrong_ umbrella that
time!”
“I did,” he impressively returned, with a rueful shake of the head;
and I saw him no more.