An old man, a jobbing gardener, named Alexander Abercorn, stopped one
of the day policemen at the West End one morning in July, and said in
great concern and agitation—
“Man, I’m afraid this house has been robbed in the night time. And
the worst of it is I have the keys, and they’ll be sure to say it’s
been done by me.”
The house in question was a big one known as the Freelands, and
occupied by a Mr Arthurlie and his family. The family were gone
to country quarters, and the house was empty even of servants.
Abercorn hurriedly explained, what indeed was already known to the
policeman, that he had a contract for doing the gardening about the
place, and, being a tried and trusted man, had been left with the
keys of the place, with orders to enter it every day to see if all
was safe. Other families had left him a similar charge, and he had
some half-dozen bunches of keys, which he showed to the policeman
in confirmation. Hitherto his task had been easy, and the result
satisfactory enough, but now for the first time a calamity had come,
and he begged the officer to step in and see. They entered the house,
and the old gardener walked straight to the pantry, in which was
built an iron safe for containing the plate and valuables of the
family. This safe was inserted bodily into a large cupboard, which
had an ordinary wooden door fastened with a common sixpenny lock,
and so looked innocent enough outside. The wooden door stood wide
open, and so also did that of the iron safe within, though both had
hitherto been locked.
There were no breakages, or marks of prising with crowbars or
chisels—the door appeared to have been opened in the ordinary way,
by inserting a key and turning back the bolts of the locks. The
detectors on the lock of the safe showed that no skeleton keys had
been applied or used, and yet the old gardener declared that the
key of the safe had never been intrusted to him. He did not know who
had it, or where it was kept. He had the keys of all the rooms, and
also the key of the press in which the safe was built, but not the
actual key of the safe. The entire contents of the safe had been
turned out on the pantry floor, and the thieves had then shown great
discrimination in the selection of their plunder. None of the plated
articles had been removed; only genuine silver, and, as some of these
exactly resembled each other, the thieves had shown a skill almost
magical.
The old gardener, of course, knew nothing of what had been in the
safe; and, seeing the plated articles littering the floor, he only
said he _thought_ the place had been robbed. It was only after word
had been sent to the Central Office, and we had telegraphed to the
Arthurlies, that we learned that the value of the silver plate alone
was upwards of £500, and that there had been in the safe other
articles of value which brought the total loss nearly up to £800.
Within an hour of the report being sent in, I was out at the house,
and was shown over the various rooms by the old gardener. To say
that the old man looked excited and strange would be but faintly to
describe his appearance. He was deathly pale; he trembled at the
slightest question or look; his teeth chattered when he spoke; and
he gave the most stupid and confused answers to some of the simplest
queries. I had not been long in the premises when I found that there
were several peculiarities about the robbery which marked it off from
the ordinary burglary. There were three doors to the house. Two of
these—the area door and the back door—had never been touched. They
were bolted and locked just as they had been left. No window had been
forced; every one was closed, and fastened, and shuttered exactly as
it had been left. This narrowed the means of ingress to one door—the
main door, which was secured by two patent locks. It was the keys
of these locks which the old gardener carried and used in entering
the house. I examined these locks closely, and when done, decided
that they had not been opened with skeleton keys or tampered with
in any way; either the door had been left unlocked, or the keys, or
duplicates of these keys, had been used in effecting an entrance.
The second peculiarity was that no room in the whole house of three
storeys had been entered but the pantry. There had been no rummaging
through bedrooms for valuables, no turning out of rare china and
curiosities in the drawing-room, though there were articles of that
kind there far exceeding in value the plate stolen. The thieves
appeared to have had but one object in view—the contents of the
safe—and for that they had made without a single divergence right or
left. Now, that is not at all like the ordinary housebreaker, who is
never satisfied with a moderately good haul, but must go tearing, and
searching, and smashing, and destroying all over a house before he is
convinced that there is no more to carry off. Then, what professional
housebreaker could have resisted at least tasting a bottle of those
rare wines which were within arm’s length of him in the pantry! I
have caught them drunk on the spot just through that weakness, but
I never knew them to be so rigidly abstemious as to pass good drink
untouched.
When I had concluded my examination, the old gardener was very
anxious to know my opinion. Had any one else plied me with the
question, I might have answered, but with him I was forced for the
present to be silent. The truth is, I suspected him, and nobody but
him, as the thief. He was a poor man to begin with; the clothes he
stood in were not worth ten shillings; and I was led to believe
that being somewhat old and frail, and having a daughter entirely
dependent upon him, these formed almost his sole possessions. I
could not conceive, indeed, how so many had thought fit to trust
him with the keys of their houses, but then I did not know that he
had the reputation of being a sterling and honest man, respected
alike for his deep religious feeling and humble worth. He had
a poverty-stricken look to my eyes, and then his confusion and
agitation, and the other discoveries, were against him. The same
afternoon Mr Arthurlie and his wife came to town by express; and then
I got from them the surprising intelligence that the keys of the safe
were always kept secreted in a little niche in a wooden cupboard
exactly opposite the press containing the safe. This precaution had
been taken through the keys once having been lost by being carried
about, thus necessitating the fitting on of a new lock on the safe.
Until I saw the hiding-place I thought this arrangement one of the
most foolhardy imaginable; but when I went out to the house I found
that the nail on which the keys were usually hung was in a place the
last that an ordinary thief would have looked to. It was in behind
the hinge of the door of a wooden press or wine rack. You had to
open first the door of the press, then grope in behind the left-hand
door and get the keys. No one knew of this place but the tablemaid
and the housekeeper. The Arthurlies kept no man-servant. They were
positive that the old gardener, Abercorn, did not know of the keys
being thus hid in the place, though they admitted that he might have
discovered them if he had exerted himself to search. I had found the
keys of the safe lying on the floor of the pantry under some of the
discarded plated articles, so it was certain that the thief had not
only searched for the keys but found them and used them. I began to
question the Arthurlies regarding old Abercorn, the gardener, and
they, divining at once the drift of my suspicions, assured me that I
was quite mistaken, and gave me such a description of the man that I
felt half ashamed of my own convictions. I had thought of at least a
search in the gardener’s humble home, but implicit trust and strong
protestations of the Arthurlies forced me to shelve that idea for the
present. So long as the man was not a prisoner or formally accused
I could question him to my heart’s content, and I resolved to take
full advantage of the circumstance, by making him account for his
actions from the time he had been in the house on the morning before
the robbery until the discovery of the robbery as already described.
He had asserted most positively that upon his last visit there had
been not an article out of place or the slightest trace of a robbery,
and if that were true the whole must have been executed within the
twenty-four hours. Again, it was not likely that a thief would choose
the day time for such a feat, so this further limited the time by
twelve hours at least. What had Abercorn been about during that
night? If he could not account for that time I should have a fair
excuse for arresting him.
I therefore said no more to the Arthurlies, but got the address of
the old gardener—a little cottage down by the Dean—and next day
went down to have a talk with him. The place was easily found, for
he had in front of the cottage a strip of ground full of all kinds
of flowers, and “Alex. Abercorn, Jobbing Gardener,” conspicuously
painted on the little gate. An old woman opened the door, and I asked
for the gardener.
“He’s no in; he’s working,” was her reply, and the news was rather
pleasing to me than otherwise.
“Oh, well, I daresay you will do quite as well,” I said pleasantly.
“You’re Mrs Abercorn, I suppose?”
“Na, na, I’m only his hoosekeeper,” she promptly answered. “Mrs
Abercorn’s deid three years syne. I never was married, and maybe
never will be.”
As she was old enough to have been my mother, I thought her marriage
by no means a likely occurrence, but took care to throw out no hint
to that effect. We chatted together very nicely for a minute or two,
during which I got from her nearly her whole life story, and then
she invited me to enter and see the gardener’s daughter. But for the
fact that this daughter, Jeanie, as she named her, was an invalid,
the old woman declared that she would not have been needed in the
place, as they were “very poor.” I followed her into the front room,
in which was a bed facing the window. In the bed was a young woman
of perhaps twenty-five years. She had a sweet face, and a delicate
complexion, gradually tinging out into rosy cheeks, and a pair of
big, lustrous eyes, which were turned on me, wide open with wonder,
as I entered. But the beauty of the face, and its fine hues, and even
the brightness of the great eyes, was not of the kind to draw out
one’s admiration so much as to stir in the bosom a thrill of pity,
for the stamp of death was over it all. Consumption was written on
that face, with a sure and early death, as plainly as if the green
turf had already been spread above her. I scarcely liked to look into
the face—it was so eager, and bright, and beautiful.
It was a little difficult to explain my business, but before I had
made much of an attempt in that direction I was surprised to find
that neither the invalid nor the old housekeeper had heard aught of
the robbery. I was staggered. Why had the old gardener concealed
that from his little household? I had to put aside the query and go
on with those more important. Could they remember what time the old
gardener had come home the night before last?
Oh, perfectly. He had been home about seven o’clock, for he was
rather busy, and might have stayed at his work later, but for the
fact that Jeanie had taken a bad turn that day, and he was anxious to
be beside her.
Did he stay long at home?
The question appeared to puzzle them both, and then, when I
explained, they said, as a matter of course, that he had never gone
out again the whole evening. Why should he, indeed? His daughter was
all in all to him; he was never happy but when he was beside her; and
if walking round the world barefooted would have made her well, he
would cheerfully have undertaken the task.
“I never will be well, though, till I go abroad,” added the girl
with a smile, which made her look still more lovely. “The doctor
said so long ago, but father is so poor and has to work so hard for
every penny, that till lately he could not think of it. But now it’s
settled that I’m to go before the winter comes on. Father has got
the money from some one. He wouldn’t say who it was, but it’s a kind
friend anyhow who would lend such a sum—and I’m to get strong and go
back to service next spring.”
Her very heart seemed to overflow with exultation and proud hope as
she uttered the words. It almost drew tears to my eyes to witness her
joy.
“Then your father was with you in this house all night? You’re quite
sure of that?” I said, reverting to the old theme.
“Oh, quite, for he was never away from my bedside. He did not go to
bed at all, seeing me so ill, but just dovered the best way he could
in that big chair. I watched him all the time, and when he did fall
asleep I couldn’t help crying a little to think what a hard lot he
has, all on account of me being so weak and ill. What I would give
for strength to work and slave for him as he deserves—oh, what I
would give!”
“And the bunches of keys he has—the keys of the houses that are empty
just now—where were they all the time?”
“Oh, in the box there,” said the housekeeper, taking up the question
at once, and without the slightest trepidation. “I put them in there
myself. They lie there every nicht.”
“And would it not be possible for any one to get at them there?” I
pursued. “I mean any one who wished to make use of them to effect a
robbery at one of the houses?”
“Oh, no! They both assured me that such a thing was impossible. Not a
soul ever came near the house, and certainly no one had been within
the door on that particular night.” The daughter concluded by saying
proudly that she was quite sure that no one would ever get near the
houses, or into them, so long as her father had charge of the places.
He was so careful and reliable, that he was better than twenty
policemen.
“He has not told you, then, that one of the houses has been entered?”
I said, in an unguarded moment of surprise.
“No; was it really?” they both exclaimed in a breath.
The expression of the two faces was a study. The withered face of
the old woman was scarcely stirred—it showed interest indeed, but
merely that of a passing curiosity. The face of the invalid girl,
on the contrary, was full of changes and fluttering emotions, as her
own mind was evidently full of tumult. She questioned me rapidly,
and I answered her as guardedly as possible, but her features as I
proceeded became slowly blanched with a kind of rigid horror. That
strange look—so full of far-reaching thought and deep anguish—I could
not at the moment understand. To say that suspicion was hovering
over her father did not account for all that was pictured in her
face—there was something behind all that, and I am afraid my words
became somewhat incoherent in trying to fathom what that secret was.
I never saw a face which told so much, if I had but had the key to
those flitting expressions.
Her horror, and anguish, and deadly despair, and the tears which
would force themselves into her eyes to make them more pitifully
beautiful, arose from something I had said, which had evidently more
meaning to her than to me, and I cudgelled my brains in vain to
recall anything which should so affect her.
I did not remain long after this queer change had come over the
invalid, for with that change had come reticence, thoughtfulness,
and silence. Her brightness and loquacity were gone, and the gossipy
old woman had all the talking to herself. My impression of the whole
case, when I had left the cottage, was that there was guilt behind
all I had seen, and that the best plan would be to arrest the old
gardener, and have his house thoroughly searched.
That was the substance of my report; but against this was brought the
strenuous request of the Arthurlies, and the arrest was delayed that
I might have the suspected man watched, and, if possible, accumulate
stronger evidence of his guilt. I was not sorry for the delay in the
light of the curious incident which followed. Two days after my visit
to the cottage a parcel was handed in at the Central Office, which on
being opened was found to contain bank-notes to the amount of £70,
and the following brief note:—
“One of those concerned in the robbery at Mr Arthurlie’s returns his
share of the proceeds, which his conscience will not allow him to
keep.”
It needed but one reading of these lines to convince one that no
professional thief ever composed or penned them. The diction was
too correct, to say nothing of the spelling; and whoever heard of a
professional housebreaker having a conscience, or returning entire
his share of a robbery on that account? Then in looking over the
note it was evident that there was a painful effort to disguise the
handwriting—to make it heavy and lumpy, and strong like that of an
unlettered man, while the verdict of all who looked upon it was that
the writing was that of a woman. Who could that woman be, and how
could she have accomplished the robbery? If she had got only a fair
share of the proceeds, there must have been at least seven or eight
more in the robbery. The parcel had been handed to one of our men
outside the Office by a boy, who had walked off the moment he got rid
of it. He had spoken enough, however, to reveal that he was of that
class of country folks living outside the city proper—the accent of
these being strong and broad, and easily distinguishable from that of
the city.
The moment these facts were made known to me I had a cab brought, and
drove rapidly over to the Dean, taking the man with me. When we got
to the place we dismissed the cab and took up our station near the
cottage of the gardener. I was in hope that if the boy had been sent
from that place he would return to report, but I was mistaken. We
waited about for fully an hour, and then gave up the task in despair,
and wandered through the little village to have a look at the faces.
In doing so my companion spotted a boy at play, and collared him
sharply with the words—
“It was you who gave me the parcel at the Police Office, wasn’t it?”
The boy denied it stoutly, but in a tone which left no doubt on
our minds that he was lying. When threatened with the cells he
admitted that he had got sixpence to deliver it, from old Marjory,
the gardener’s housekeeper! Taking the boy with us, we went to the
gardener’s cottage. Old Marjory was outside cutting vegetables in the
garden, and the moment her eye fell upon us I felt convinced that we
would have no easy task in getting information from her.
“You sent this boy with a parcel to the office, Marjory?” I began.
“Where did you get it?”
“Somebody gied me it, and it wasna Maister Abercorn, either,” she
dourly answered.
“Do you know what was in it?”
“No, me—I never asked.”
“Did you not write the letter that was inside?”
“No, I canna write, or read either—a’body kens that.”
“You could rob, though, at a pinch, I suppose?” I dryly returned.
She flashed a pair of angry eyes on me, and then said—“I never robbed
onybody in my life, and it’s no likely I’ll begin now.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell all you know about that parcel, or go to
jail, that’s all,” I shortly answered.
“I canna leave the lassie,” she said, dourly, “she’s rael ill, and
there’s naebody can attend till her like me.”
“I thought she was going away abroad?”
“She’s no gaun now,” said the queer old woman with a slight softening
in her tones. “She’ll never get to a foreign country till she reaches
the better land. The puir thing’s sinking fast. I wad ask ye to come
and see her, but I’m feared the sicht o’ you wad upset her as it did
before. She’s never been weel since ye was here.”
This news startled me. Why should my presence agitate the invalid?
Could it be possible that she was the thief? How could she, when she
had not been able to leave the house for months?
The old woman determinedly refused to speak, and while we were
arguing the point, Abercorn himself appeared. He appeared quite
overwhelmed with confusion when the position of affairs was explained
to him. I told him that his housekeeper, Marjory, was arrested, and
that he must go with her. He made no complaint or demonstration of
any kind, except when I regretted that his daughter was so ill that I
could not take her too, when he gave me a glance so full of anguish
that I half regretted having spoken the words. He quietly asked leave
to go in and see his lassie, and to satisfy myself that the girl was
really unable to go with us I accompanied him. The girl, by a kind
of instinct, seemed to read the dreadful truth in our faces, and I
thought she would have died before we got her and her father parted.
Only one exclamation I thought strange—that was when she was clinging
to him and raining her tears in his face, and cried bitterly—
“Oh, father, I’ve brought all this on you—I’ve brought it all on you,
and I meant to save you!”
When the old man and his housekeeper were examined they had no
declaration to emit—nothing to say. They had made it up between them,
I suppose, to take refuge in stern silence, and perhaps on the whole
the course was as wise a one for themselves as any they could have
been directed to follow. Not an hour after they had been locked up, I
got an urgent message from the invalid daughter to come and see her.
How urgent it was may be judged from one expression in the message,
which was, “Come to-night—to-morrow may be too late, for then I may
be dead.”
I found her in a state of great prostration; but she roused up at the
sight of my face, and was able to dismiss her attendant, in order
that none might hear what passed between us.
“You can never know what I have suffered since you were first here,”
she said with an earnestness fearful to behold. “I have sent for you
to see if it is not possible to save my father. It is the real robber
you wish to put in prison, is it not? My father is innocent, except
that he was tempted, and that his love for me made him weak. Would it
not be in his favour—would it not save him—if you were put in the way
of taking the real criminal?”
“I cannot pledge my word that it would save him, but it would
certainly go far to lighten his punishment,” I soothingly returned.
“If he is really innocent it can do him nothing but good to reveal
all you know. Nothing is more certain than that, as the case now
stands, he will be convicted and probably severely punished.”
“I will trust all to you—I may not live to see it, but I will leave
you to do what is best for my poor old father,” she said, weeping
freely. “I only suspected something of the truth when you came here
first and said there had been a robbery. I had noticed something
strange about my father for a day or two, and when he told me that at
last he was to get the money that was to take me abroad and make me
strong, it was said in such a queer way, that I didn’t know whether
to cry or be glad. I fretted over the horrid thought for a whole
night, and then I spoke to him about it. I saw by his face that he
had done it—that he had become a criminal for me. I was horrified,
but could I be angry? It was his love for me—it was to save my life
he had risked his whole life, and reputation, and immortality. Who
could be angry at being so loved? Then he told me all he had done.
The Arthurlies used to keep a man-servant, but he was put away for
drunkenness and dishonesty. I have seen him once or twice. His name
is David Denham. This man met father one day and asked for me, and
was sorry to hear that father could not get the money to send me
abroad. Then he said that _he_ could get the money, and would get
it if father would just lend him the keys of the Freelands for one
night. Father would not hear of it at first, but the other kept
tempting him, and saying how cruel it was of him to let his only
daughter die, and at last he gave in. The keys were only out of his
keeping for one night, and Denham knew where the keys of the safe
were kept, and so got at the silver plate and carried it all off.
It was sent to Glasgow to some one who had agreed to buy it, and
Denham brought the money to father after dark. I could not bear to
look at it or touch it. I seemed to see in it the thing that was to
part me and my father for ever, instead of letting us spend eternity
in heaven, with neither poverty nor suffering. I bundled it up and
wrote the note which you would get with it. I felt so happy when it
was gone, and I made Marjory send it in a way that would not give
you a chance to find out the sender. But you did find it out, and I
have done more harm than good. It would have been better for my poor
father if I had had no conscience troubling me.”
I soothed and cheered her as well as I could, and then went after
Denham. I found he had gone to Glasgow, and, by sending off a
telegram, had him neatly nipped up at the station by Johnny Farrel.
Denham was thoroughly taken by surprise, and in his amazement did
a rash thing. He had had some disagreement with the fence about
the plunder, and had gone through to settle that, but only to find
himself nipped up at the station. What could be clearer? He had been
betrayed by the swindling fence. Would it not be a fair retaliation
to betray the fence in turn? He thought it would, and did so; which
greatly rejoiced our hearts, for it enabled us to recover a deal of
the plunder before it went into the melting-pot.
Jeanie Abercorn declined rapidly after her statement to me, and in a
week had passed to her long rest. Her last message was to her father
in prison, telling him that she was only going out of his sight for
a time; that God would forgive him, whether men did or no, knowing
that it was his great love for her that tempted him to the crime. The
old gardener received the message in a stupefied state. He had never
appeared the same man since the arrest. He was told that he would be
accepted as a witness against Denham, and agreed in a dull, listless
manner to tell all he knew, which he did, with the result that Denham
was convicted and sentenced to five years’ penal servitude. When the
trial was over, the old gardener was told that he might go.
“What have I to gang to?” was his reply, as he wrung his hands and
tottered out. “What have I to gang to?”
In a month or two the poor old man had drifted away to join Jeanie in
the Great Unknown, beyond earth and sky.