MY RIVAL
Had I not been in love--and with a face, instead of the flesh and
blood woman--I suppose I would have gone off at once to Dredge to
announce my discovery and show what I had found. But, in spite of
evidence to the very strong contrary, I could not believe that
Gertrude Monk was guilty of her old nurse's murder. She might have
locked me in, she might have run off with my car and practically
wrecked it, and she might have hidden in the hedge these incriminating
garments: but she assuredly had not--in my now terribly biassed
opinion--thrust the hat-pin into Mrs. Caldershaw's heart. Unless she
confessed her guilt to my face, I resolutely declined to believe that
she had perpetrated a sordid crime.
However, it was useless to stand in that chilly field weighing pros
and cons, when I knew nothing of the woman, save that she was
exquisitely lovely, and had captured my fancy against my will, as it
were. I had a natural revulsion of doubt; then believed in her more
than ever, even to the extent of vowing, that if by chance she were
guilty, she should never go to the scaffold through me. But if I
wished to prevent that, there was no time to be lost in getting rid of
that infernal cloak and veil, for Inspector Dredge with unexpected
insight might come nosing about the field. Not that I credited him
with such perspicuity, but--as I swiftly determined--it was just as
well to be on the safe side. I therefore rolled up veil and cloak
into as small a compass as possible, and thrusting them under my
overcoat--I wore one as the morning was breezy--I regained the road
and hastened my return to Murchester Barracks. I felt that I was
compounding a crime one minute, and exulted the next that I was saving
the life of an innocent woman. And yet, on the face of it, she was
surely guilty.
Luckily, when I arrived at Cannington's quarters he was still absent
on duty, so I unpacked a portmanteau, which had been sent down from
London, and stowed away the incriminating evidence at the bottom of
some books, manuscripts, shirts, and pyjamas. Then I strapped and
locked the portmanteau, so that Cannington's soldier servant should
not officiously wish to pack my belongings. He could use the other
portmanteau, I thought. Just as I completed my task, Cannington
entered unbuckling his sword.
"Ouf! I am tired," said he pitching himself into a chair. "What a bore
it is sitting on court-martials."
"What was the punishment?" I asked, lighting my pipe, and asked more
for the sake of regaining my self-control, shaken by my discovery,
than because I took any interest in Private Tommy Atkins.
"Five days C. B. It was only a drunken fight. Throw me over the
cigarettes, Vance. Thanks, awfully." He fielded the case deftly. "Wait
till I change, and we'll go to luncheon. I'm shockingly hungry. Where
have you been? Fighting with the Barracks cat I should say, from the
scratches."
But I did not intend to say too much even to Cannington. "I went for a
cross-country walk," I answered carelessly, "and met some brambles on
the way. What are you doing after luncheon?"
"Well, I was just coming to that," said the boy, who was now busy
changing his kit, smoking the while. "I have to run up to town for
three or four hours, as my lawyer wants to see me. I'm trying to raise
some cash for a Christmas spree." He grinned. "Hope you won't mind my
leaving you. But there's Trent, of course, who can look after you."
"Oh, hang it, I'm not a child to require a nurse," I snapped, for my
nerves were worn thin with the situation. "You leave me alone,
Cannington, and I'll attend to myself."
"All right old son, don't get your hair off. I believe this murder
case has got on your nerves."
"It has," I confessed, very truthfully. "Sorry I spoke like a
fractious brat. To make amends I'll let you take the Rippler to town."
"Oh, that will be frabjious," said Cannington, who had lately been
reading, "Alice through the Looking-glass." "Won't you come too?"
"Thanks, no. I'm walking out to Mootley this afternoon."
"Huh! I should think you had enough of walking. What's on?"
"Mrs. Caldershaw's funeral."
"They aren't losing much time in planting her," said Cannington, with
a shrug. "It's only five days since the death. But I say, old son,
don't you think you might give this business a rest? It's getting on
your nerves, you know, and isn't good goods at the best."
"Oh, that's all right, I only want to see the last of the poor woman."
"And then?" Cannington's tone was highly suspicious.
"I'll go over to Burwain."
"After that girl?"
I scratched my chin and eyed him severely. "See here, I'm not quite
the infant you take me to be. Miss Monk's face attracted me, I admit,
but that doesn't mean I am in love with her."
"You talked enough about her anyhow."
"All the more reason that _you_ shouldn't talk," I retorted. "I can
say all I want to say for myself. Do stop rotting."
Cannington nodded with an air of resignation. "I shan't say another
word, Vance. Didn't think you were in earnest."
"I am in earnest about searching out this mystery, if that is what you
mean, and I go over to Burwain to-morrow to make a start."
"With Miss Monk?"
"Yes," I replied, feeling qualmish. "She was Mrs. Caldershaw's
nursling, and may be able to throw some light on that glass eye. I
feel convinced that therein lies the solution of the mystery."
"The worst of you literary men," said Cannington, addressing the
ceiling, "is that you talk too much like a book. Touched wood! touched
wood!" He fled for the door, as I swung up a chair cushion. "Don't
disarrange my hair, but come along to luncheon."
I obeyed. "But don't tell anyone that I am going to Mootley," said I
hastily.
"Right oh. I'll take the Rippler and light out for town at two
o'clock. I shall meet you at dinner, and then you can tell me all
about the funeral."
So it was arranged, and we made a very good meal. At least the boy
did, being unworried with secret disagreeables; but I did not eat much
myself. The knowledge of what was hidden in my second portmanteau lay
heavily on my mind, and I fear I betrayed my discomfort, for
Cannington remarked it. It occurred to me that a murderer would have
to possess amazing nerve to conduct himself as an ordinary human
being, seeing that I, with no crime on my mind, was so easily
discomfited. . . . Of course, under the circumstances, I should have
thought of a guilty "she" rather than of a guilty "he"; but I really
could not bring myself to believe that Diana of the Ephesians had
murdered her old nurse.
Cannington did not waste the Rippler on himself. He invited a cheery
subaltern to join him, and the two boys went off in the highest
spirits, with his lordship spanchelled between the seat and the wheel.
I resisted a kindly-meant invitation of Trent to play stickey, and
turned my face in the direction of Mootley, thankful to be by myself.
During the few miles to that village I had ample to think about, and
could not help wondering at the strange whirl of circumstances which
had gathered round me during the last week. I had come out to seek an
adventure and had found one with a vengeance. How it would end I could
not tell.
The sun came out during the afternoon, so I found the walk--but for
disturbing thoughts--extremely pleasant. On passing the field, I
congratulated myself that I had emptied it of its incriminating
contents. Whatever inquiries Dredge made, on the face of it he could
learn nothing, as I alone possessed a tangible clue. And as that clue,
so far, led to Miss Gertrude Monk, and a thorough explanation would
have to be forthcoming before it could go past her, it was just as
well for her own peace of mind, and mine also, that she should give it
to a friendly-disposed inquirer. Thinking of this, and wondering how
she would explain her flight from the corner shop in my motor car, I
drew near the outskirts of Mootley. The famous shop, which had
appeared in several illustrated daily papers, was closed, so I did not
pause but went on. Directly round the corner I met Mr. Sam Giles, the
ex-greengrocer, who greeted me in a most friendly manner.
"You're just too late, sir!" said he, touching his hat, and quite
ready to give all information, "she's planted."
"Mrs. Caldershaw?"
"Yes, sir. It was quite a pretty funeral, with plenty of mourners and
wreaths for the coffin. We made a holiday of it this morning, and I
don't think, sir, that there's much doing this afternoon, as the
excitement was too great." I could not help smiling, in spite of the
gravity of my errand, at the idea of the villagers extracting pleasure
from such a dismal affair as the funeral of a murdered woman. But
Giles apparently had the morbid love of his class for such things, and
went on supplying information in high spirits.
"A heap of gentlemen of the press came from London," he said
importantly, "and they photographed the grave. What with motor cars
and bicycles and traps and carts, the place was like a fair. It will
advertise Mootley a lot, and I shouldn't wonder if land went up in
value hereabouts."
I nodded. "Mrs. Caldershaw has been quite a benefactress to the
village, Mr. Giles. By the way, did Miss Monk and Miss Destiny appear
at the funeral?"
"No, sir, and none of Mrs. Caldershaw's Burwain friends came to see
the last of her, poor soul, which was unkind, I take it. Only Mr.
Striver put in an appearance. But to be sure he could not do less,"
added Giles thoughtfully, "since she left him all her property."
"Striver! Striver! That's the nephew?"
"Yes, Mr. Vance, and a handsome young man he is. A gardener, I
believe, who works for Mr. Walter Monk at Burwain. Not that he'll do
much work now, for I daresay his aunt has left him enough to live like
a gentleman. Her lawyer--he's a Murchester man in a small way of
business--told me that there was over five hundred pounds in the bank;
besides there's the lease of the shop for two years and its contents."
"Lucky Mr. Striver, and it's all left to him," I bantered.
"Yes, sir, along with the glass eye."
I had set my face towards the village, but wheeled at the last word.
"Why the dickens did she leave him the glass eye?"
"Goodness only knows, Mr. Vance, but leave it she did. Mr. Striver's
quite annoyed he hasn't got it and intends to offer a reward for it."
"He'll have to find the guilty person first," I said grimly.
"The white-cloaked lady, sir?"
I winced. "She may not be the guilty person, after all. There! there!"
I went on hastily, as Giles showed a disposition to argue. "I know
nothing more about the matter than you do"--this was an absolutely
necessary white lie considering the circumstances--"but tell me, Mr.
Giles, does this young man know why his aunt valued her glass eye so
greatly?"
"No, sir. He told me that he couldn't guess why it was left to him. He
is all on fire to find out, and that is why he intends to offer the
reward. At present he's in the shop looking over things."
"Does he intend to give up his gardening and turn shopkeeper?" I
asked.
"I don't know, sir; nothing has been settled. But he returns to
Burwain--so he told me--this evening. I'm going to Murchester myself,
sir, on an errand for the wife, so if you will excuse me----"
"One moment, Giles. Has anything fresh been discovered?"
"No, sir; and you mark my words, sir, nothing more ever will be
discovered. The woman in the white cloak has vanished entirely, glass
eye and all. You are taking an interest in the case, Mr. Vance."
"Can you wonder at it, seeing how I am mixed up in the business. I
want to solve the mystery if I can, out of sheer curiosity. Here's my
address, Mr. Giles," I hastily scribbled it on a card, "and if you
hear of anything new, let me know at once."
Giles took the pasteboard, and promised faithfully to keep his ears
and eyes open and his mind on the alert. Then he moved away down the
road to Murchester, with a parting advice that I should inspect the
grave. "It's a pretty grave," said Giles cheerfully, "with a lovely
view!"
But I did not go to look at the grave, or at the view, which the
corpse--I presume--was supposed by Giles to appreciate, for it struck
me that Striver being in the corner shop it would be an excellent
opportunity for me to gain possession of the photograph. I therefore
turned back, and in a few minutes was knocking smartly at the closed
door. Shortly it was thrown open, and on the threshold appeared one of
the handsomest young men I had ever seen. There were signs of good
breeding about him also, and in his navy-blue serge, with a tweed cap
and brown boots--rather an odd dress for a funeral, I thought--he
looked less like a gardener and more like a smart city clerk. And yet
in his bearing there was a smack of the West-End.
Mr. Joseph Striver was moderately tall and perfectly made--slim in
figure, with the alert poise of an athlete. His hands and feet
certainly betrayed the plebeian, but no one could deny the beauty of
his clean-shaven face. I say "beauty" advisedly, although it is an odd
adjective to apply to a man. It was a Greek face and a Greek head,
clean-cut and virile, of the fair, golden Saxon type, yet more
intellectual than the same generally is. A fashionable lady might have
envied his transparent complexion, his blue eyes, and the curve of his
lips. His form also was irreproachable, and his small head, set
proudly on the white column of his throat, possessed a snake-like
grace. On the whole, Mrs. Caldershaw's heir was a singularly handsome
young fellow, and with her small fortune added to his personal
advantages would be certain to succeed in life. It seemed quite a pity
that so splendid a youth should be a mere gardener. Yet the employment
is eminently respectable, since Father Adam originally took up the
profession.
He looked inquiringly at me, so I opened the conversation. "My name is
Vance, Mr. Striver, and----"
"Oh," he interrupted, in a very pleasant and somewhat cultured voice.
"You are the gentleman who gave evidence at the inquest. Come in
please." He stepped aside to let me past. "I am very glad to see you,
as I wish to ask you some questions."
I proceeded him into the shop, while he closed the door. "I said all I
had to say at the inquest," I answered quickly.
"I read all about it in the papers, Mr. Vance."
"You did not come to the inquest then?"
"No, you might have guessed that, seeing you were present. I only
came over to the funeral, when I heard that my aunt had left me her
money--not in very appropriate clothes, I fear, though; but I had no
time to get an outfit, you see. Now I am looking into things."
We were in the back room by this time, and a heap of letters and
papers lay untidily on the floor. Miss Monk's photograph still smiled
from the mantelpiece, and I stole a glance at it, which left me more
enthralled than ever. "You won't mind my going on with my sorting,"
said Striver, placing a chair for me, and dropping on his knees; "but
I want to get things straight before dark, as I have to return to
Burwain for a few days."
He was so amazingly cheerful, that I could not help saying so. He
looked up smiling. "You can't expect a poor man who has come in for
money to be miserable," said Striver, with much truth. "Besides my
aunt never did care for me, and I was quite surprised to learn that I
was her heir. Had we been at all attached to one another I should have
come to the inquest, and even before, seeing she met with so dreadful
a death. But there wasn't much love lost between us, Mr. Vance, so
only as her heir did I come to the funeral. I can't pretend to feel
very sorry."
"That sounds rather heartless, seeing how you have benefited by her
death."
Striver shrugged. "I daresay; but I never was a hypocrite. Put
yourself in my place. If a disagreeable old woman left you the money
she could no longer use, would you break your heart?"
I laughed. "No, I can't say that I would."
"Very well, then," he reiterated coolly, "put yourself in my place.
I'm sorry, of course, as I would be for any human being who was
murdered. Otherwise," he shrugged again, "well, there's no more to be
said."
There came a pause. "I believe you hinted that you wished to ask me
some questions?"
Striver straightened himself. "Well, yes. Have you any idea who
murdered my unfortunate aunt?"
"Not in the least."
"What about the lady in the white cloak?"
"Appearances are against her. All the same, she may be innocent."
The young man's blue eyes flashed like sapphires. "I doubt that; else
why should she run off with your motor car and lock you in?"
"Well," I drawled, not very sure of my ground, "she may have found
your aunt dead, and in a fright----"
"Oh, that won't wash," he interrupted in a somewhat common way. "You
swore at the inquest, that you were attracted into this room by a
groan from my aunt, in which case she could not have been dead when
this lady went up the stairs."
"That is true," I admitted, "but I don't hold a brief for the escaped
lady, remember."
"You speak as though you did," he retorted and went on with his
sorting. "Has anything been heard of her?"
"Nothing. I found my motor car in the field; but the lady has
vanished."
"Don't you think," Striver raised himself up to ask this question,
"that she could be traced by means of that white cloak?"
I shrugged in my turn and fenced, as I was not going to admit the
truth. "I daresay the cloak was noticeable enough. All the same, she
has _not_ been traced. Now, she never will be. I should not be
surprised if the police gave up the case."
The young man rose quickly. "No," he said promptly, "I intend to offer
a reward."
"Ah! You wish to have this lady hanged."
"If she is guilty, why not?" he asked bluntly, "But if you will have
the truth, Mr. Vance, I don't care either one way or the other about a
possible hanging. I want to find the glass eye."
"And you think the lady has it?"
"I--I--I suppose so," he muttered in a hesitating manner, then burst
out: "Yes, indeed, I _do_ want to find the glass eye. There's a
fortune connected with it, Mr. Vance--a large fortune."
"Oh!" I could not help betraying surprise. "So this was why Mrs.
Caldershaw attached such value to it?"
"Exactly. In some way--I don't exactly know how--that eye reveals the
whereabouts of the fortune I speak of."
"Humph. Do you mean to say that Mrs. Caldershaw concealed her money
and concealed its whereabouts in her glass eye?"
"Yes, I do, in a way. That is, this fortune does not consist of my
aunt's savings. I have those and the shop also. But when she lived at
Burwain, she talked of a large fortune--some fifty thousand pounds,
she mentioned on one occasion--which was concealed somewhere."
"Whose fortune was it?"
"I can't say. But my father, her brother--he's dead now--was always
bothering her about the money. She never would tell him anything, but
said that when she died he could learn all he wanted to know from the
glass eye. As my father has passed over, of course the glass eye along
with the money comes to me,--the fortune also. Fifty thousand pounds!"
He raised his arms with an ecstatic expression. "What couldn't I do
with such a heap of coin, Mr. Vance. Why I could marry----" He halted,
cast an uneasy look on me, and again began to sort the letters.
"Oh, you're in love," I said smiling.
"A man of my age is always in love," he remarked curtly. "But never
mind about that, I want to find some clue to the glass eye," and he
tossed over the papers feverishly.
"To its whereabouts?"
"No, I know that much. The person who murdered my aunt has the eye,
and killed her for the sake of learning the secret. But my aunt may
have left some letter, or paper, or description, saying _how_ the eye
can reveal the whereabouts of the fifty thousand pounds. Can you
imagine," he sat back on his hams, "how the eye can be the clue?"
"No," I said, after a pause, "unless there is a piece of paper hidden
in it."
"Oh, that's impossible. Do you know what a glass eye is like?"
"Well, no, I have never seen one, unless fixed in a person's head."
Striver laughed. "I had the same idea about a piece of paper," he
explained carefully, "and went to an optician in Tarhaven to examine
an eye. I suppose you think--as I did--that an artificial eye is the
shape and size and the fatness of an almond."
"Something like that," I admitted, "with the paper enclosed within."
Striver laughed again. "It's shaped exactly like a small sea-shell:
simply a curve of thin glass, convex and concave, and fits into the
socket like a--a--what shall I say?--like a cupping-glass."
"Humph! In that case, it would be impossible to conceal a piece of
paper behind it without damage."
"Of course, taking also into consideration the smallness of the eye.
The only thing I can think of," he added, half to himself, "is that
there is a plan or some writing on the back part, which reveals the
whereabouts of this money."
"But there's no space to write in," I objected, considerably
interested.
"Why not. Writing done with a magnifying-glass, you know. I have seen
the Lord's Prayer written on a sixpence."
I nodded. "There may be something in what you say," I admitted, "and,
as it appears that Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered for the sake of the
eye, it must have some value. Perhaps," I added with a brilliant
afterthought, "she hid a diamond behind it."
"It would have to be a very large diamond to bring in fifty thousand
pounds," said Striver, seriously. "No, I believe that the eye is
simply a clue to this treasure."
"Treasure?"
"Well, money, jewels, gold, bank-notes, what not. All I know is that
my aunt certainly mentioned fifty thousand pounds to my father."
"Why didn't she secure the treasure herself?"
"Perhaps she did and has buried it somewhere. Well, never mind," he
turned over the papers again, "come what may, I must find the eye."
"You won't find it there," I said, rising to take my leave, and with
one eye on Miss Monk's photograph. "Better get the police to trace the
white-cloaked lady, since you believe she has taken it."
"I don't see who else could have committed the murder and have stolen
the glass eye," said Striver decisively. "In one way or another, she
must be found, somehow."
"And then----?"
"Then she must deliver up the glass eye."
"And be hanged."
"I don't want to go so far as that," he muttered nervously. "Of
course, she is a woman."
"And being so, is clever enough not to be caught. I daresay she will
learn the secret of Mrs. Caldershaw, procure the fortune, and bolt to
America." I moved towards the door, and Striver straightened himself
to show me out. Then with an apparent afterthought I drew his
attention to the smiling face of Miss Monk. "I admire that," said I,
pointing.
The effect was somewhat unexpected. "Why?" he asked roughly, and
flushed scarlet through his fair skin, looking more handsome than
ever.
"Why?" I stared at him in surprise. "Why not? you should ask. It is a
very lovely face, and I admire it as a work of art."
"Oh, as a work of art. That's all right," he retorted quickly, "but it
happens to be the photograph of a real person."
"Miss Gertrude Monk."
"How do you know that?" demanded the young man, again flushing
angrily.
"Miss Destiny told me that the photograph was one of her niece. I
suppose, Mr. Striver, you would not mind my buying it."
"I'll see you hanged first," he retorted vehemently, and clenched his
fists. "What is Miss Monk to you?"
"I have never met her, Mr. Striver, so calm yourself. But you display
such heat at my apparently simple question, that I must ask, what is
she to you?"
Striver stared at me and his eyes were as hard as a piece of jade. "I
love her," he said defiantly.
I was taken aback by this statement, and flushed in my turn, making
the not very polite reply, "Nonsense!"
"And why nonsense," shouted Striver, who had by this time completely
lost his temper, "how dare you say that? Even though I am a gardener I
have the feelings of a human being."
"But your difference in rank," I exclaimed hotly.
"Love levels all ranks."
"Indeed. Then I take it that Miss Monk favors your suit?"
"Mind your own business, Mr. Vance."
"I intend to make it my business," I snapped, now as angry as he was,
for it did seem ridiculous that this Claud Melnotte, handsome as he
was, should aspire to the apple on the topmost bough.
"You're talking damned rot and damned insolence. If you have never
seen Miss Monk, you can't possibly be in love with her," he raged
furiously.
"I said nothing about love. But that photograph took my fancy, and I
wish to buy it if possible."
Striver snatched the photograph, silver frame and all, off the
mantelpiece to cram it roughly into his pocket. "There," he cried
vehemently, "that's all you'll ever see of it."
"Then I must seek out the original," said I, walking into the shop.
He was after me in a moment. "If you dare to come interfering," he
growled in a voice thick with passion, "I'll break your neck."
"That is easier said than done," I jeered, now being content that the
young man was my rival and a dangerous one at that. "Let me pass."
Striver paused irresolutely, then did as he was asked. I left the shop
leisurely, and glanced back when some distance down the road. Mr.
Joseph Striver drew the photograph out of his pocket and insolently
kissed it, apparently to intimate that I was odd man out.