THE HANDWRITING
Like most men, Claude took a different view of events in the morning to
that which he entertained over night.
Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete embodiments, each
distinct and emphatic. To-day they were merged in the general mass of
contradictory details that made up this most bewildering inquiry.
That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present state was
clear; that they would, in the natural course of things, reveal
themselves more definitely, even if unaided, was also patent.
Mrs. Hillmer's partial admissions, her brother's evident knowledge of
some salient features of the puzzle, that utterly strange letter in the
admitted handwriting of Lady Dyke herself, and bearing the prosaic
testimony of dates stamped by the Post-office--these sensational
elements, when brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction into
clearer phases.
Long experience in criminal investigation told him that, under certain
circumstances, the best course of all was one of inactivity.
On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many people that
"letters left unanswered answer themselves," the barrister knew that
there must be an outcome from the queer medley of occurrences at his
residence on the Monday evening.
Reviewing the history of the past three months several odd features
stood out from the general jumble.
In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to deduce any
pertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs. Hillmer's dining-room was
furnished on the occasion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.
He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an unusual room
littered with unusual articles, when the luxurious and well-appointed
suite of apartments was considered as a whole. It was suggested to him
at the time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his second visit,
was dismantled earlier, but he did not connect this trivial incident
with the feature in Mensmore's flat that he noted immediately--namely,
the discrepancies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and the
other chambers in the place.
These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them as a guide for
future use.
Lady Dyke's motive for that secret visit to Raleigh Mansions--that was
the key to the mystery. But how to discover it? Who was her confidant?
To whom could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless to
broach the matter again to her husband. The baronet and his wife had
been friends sharing the same _menage_ rather than husband and wife. Her
relatives had already been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of the
slightest value in this search for truth.
In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding cropped up. She was
the personal maid of the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quick
wits. Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten.
Here at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.
If she refused what could be her motive?
Anyhow it was worth while to make a fresh effort. Early in the afternoon
he called at the stage-door of the Jollity Theatre.
"Is Miss Marie le Marchant still employed here?" he asked the attendant.
"I dunno," was the careless answer.
"Well, think hard," said the barrister, laying a half-crown on the
battered blotting-pad which is an indispensable part of the furniture in
the letter bureau of a theatre.
"Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on a week's leave."
"Indeed. Has she returned?"
"I was off last night, sir, but if you will pardon me a moment I'll
inquire from the man who took my place."
The stage-doorkeeper disappeared into the dark interior, to return
quickly with the information that Miss le Marchant had appeared as usual
on Monday night.
"She was away most part of last week, sir," added the man, "and I
believe it wasn't a holiday, as she was a-sort of flurried about it as
if some one was ill."
"Thank you. Do you know where she lives?"
A momentary hesitation was soon softened by another half-crown.
"It's against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near Jubilee
Buildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out."
The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant's name was painted
outside a second-floor flat.
Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he had
no difficulty in recognizing.
"Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?" he said.
For a moment she could not speak for surprise.
"Well, I never," she cried, "but London is a funny place. Do you know
me, sir?"
"Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not take
you for her elder sister," he said. Bruce's smile was irresistible.
"My daughter is not in just now, sir," replied Mrs. Harding, "but I
expect her in to tea almost immediately."
"Then may I come in and await her arrival?"
"Certainly, sir."
Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairly
comfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady's maid's legacy must
have been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poor
pittance of a coryphee would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover,
the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor in
her favor.
Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. She
seated herself near the window and resumed some sewing.
"Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?" he said, by way of being
civil.
"In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughter
got along so well in her new profession. She's a good girl, is my
daughter."
"Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?"
"Oh yes, sir. Why, she's been earning L6 a week, and last week she was
sent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she's
going to buy me a new dress out of the money."
"Really," said the barrister, "you ought to be proud of her."
"I am," admitted the admiring mother. "I only wish her brother, who
went off and 'listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well."
Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniform
on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at
the intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girl
could be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother?
In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? The
story about "L6 a week" was a myth.
Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaque
presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, and
make-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, "Ever
yours sincerely, Marie le Marchant." And no sooner had Bruce caught
sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.
The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.
Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. The
resemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanation
of this phenomenon.
"Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding," he said,
turning the photograph towards her.
"Yes," said the complacent mother, "she taught herself when--before she
went on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew up
she improved herself. I wasn't able to afford her much schooling when
she was young."
"I have seldom seen a nicer hand," he went on. "Have you any other
specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not
private."
The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive
fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not
mistaken.
"Oh yes. She's just copying out the part of Ophelia in _Hamlet_. And she
acts it beautiful."
Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the
first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion has
moved millions to tears.
He admired Miss Marie le Marchant's efforts in the matter of
self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her
some explanation of her actions.
The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the
coveted "part," and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage
experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a
"professional" touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her
skirt.
She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother's
explanation that "this gentleman has just called to see you, dear."
"All right, mother," she cried. "I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea
ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes." This with
a defiant look at the visitor.
When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp
accents of ill-temper:
"What do you want with me, now?"
"I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in
the name of your dead mistress."
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of
absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie
le Marchant's assurance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At
last she managed to ejaculate:
"I--I--why do you ask me that question?"
"Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a
very dangerous game."
That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for
the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming
to read the secrets of her heart.
Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of
bursting into tears, she snapped viciously:
"I will tell you nothing. Go away."
"You are obstinate, I know," said Bruce, "but I must warn you that you
are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can
trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to
conceal Lady Dyke's death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the
question in a court of law."
"You have no right to come here annoying me!" she retorted.
"I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to
you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities
information which they ought to possess."
"What information?"
"The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke's house so
suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you,
doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use
your ability to imitate her ladyship's handwriting in order to spread
the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and
your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment."
"I don't care _that_ for you, Mr. Bruce," replied the girl, her face set
now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize the
words. "You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing."
"You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke last
Saturday?"
"I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can't ask you to join me."
"Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself--your
own production--written on paper of which you have a quantity in this
very room."
The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was
staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the
original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in
the house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British,
notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would
have died sooner than beat a retreat.
"I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce," she said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but
the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He
had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which
he could not fathom the ex-lady's maid not only knew of her mistress's
death, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the
inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke was
actually killed. What did it all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir
Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
The baronet at first was sceptical. "Do you mean to say, Claude," he
cried, fretfully, "that I do not know my wife's writing when I see it?"
"You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly,
of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable,
was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that
Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal
of excellence. Don't harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. The
letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am
sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental
resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out
was her motive for the deceit."
"It is a queer business altogether," said Sir Charles wearily; "I wish
it were ended."