THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD
I usually invent my plots, arrange my business and consider my
circumstances when in bed, which is by far the best place for such
thought-work. Alone in the darkness of the silent hours, there is no
external influence to prevent concentration, therefore conclusions of
the best can be reached speedier than in the daytime. On the night of
my arrival at Burwain, I took advantage of the opportunity to think
hard and long. It was necessary that matters should be adjusted
clearly in my own mind before I could hope to deal with the situation.
After Mrs. Gilfin's report, I desired more than ever to make Gertrude
Monk my wife, but there were obstacles in the way, which only
deliberate and continuous action could remove. A clear understanding
of the position was decidedly imperative.
I now began to see that Anne Caldershaw's hint to her brother had
reference to the missing monies of Gabriel Monk. Certainly, even if he
had saved every penny of his income for eighty years, he would not
have accumulated fifty thousand pounds: but it was more than probable
that his visits to London were connected with various investments, and
that in one way or another he had gained the fortune mentioned by Mrs.
Caldershaw. But--as I asked myself frequently--if Monk had invested
the money, why was it not discoverable, since investments cannot very
well be concealed. On reflection I decided that the man being a
genuine miser, loving the color and weight and feel of gold, had
probably turned his investments, whatever they might be, into hard
cash, and had hidden this carefully away. In some way Mrs. Caldershaw
had learned the whereabouts of the specie, and the missing eye
indicated the hiding-place. The money, by Gabriel Monk's will,
belonged to Gertrude Monk, but the ex-housekeeper wished her nephew to
get it, and so had left him the clue to the place where it was
concealed. Perhaps she knew that Striver loved her young mistress, and
thought that if he married her, after acquiring the fortune, that
justice would be done. She wished, as the saying is, to kill two birds
with one stone.
But two things puzzled me greatly in connection with the matter. In
the first place it was odd that Mrs. Caldershaw, aware of the
whereabouts of the money, should not have laid hands on it, and in the
second it was difficult to understand how she could arrange that her
glass eye should be a clue to its possession. Then I began to believe
that the dead woman had removed the coin from where the miser had
hidden it, and had drawn a plan of its new resting-place, which she
had concealed behind the eye. But having regard to the shell-like
shape of the eye, as described by Joseph Striver, the plan could not
be delineated on a piece of paper however small, as there was no
shield at the back of the artificial eyes to protect it from wear and
tear. The plan, I fancied, as did Mr. Striver, was drawn on the inward
curve of the eye itself, although it was difficult to imagine that the
details had not been obliterated by the moisture of the flesh. But
this last conjecture was for the moment beside the matter. What I knew
was that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye indicated the whereabouts of
fifty thousand pounds belonging by will to Gertrude Monk. To find that
treasure and marry the girl was what I determined to do. And to manage
this, it was necessary to prevent the fortune from falling into
Striver's hands, by getting the glass eye into my own possession. That
was no easy task, on account of the obscurity which involved the
murder and the theft which had led to the murder.
Of course Gertrude Monk knew that she was legally entitled to her
uncle's money, so it was possible, that having learned Mrs.
Caldershaw's secret, she had gone to Mootley to insist upon the eye
being given up, for the purpose of obtaining her rights. But in that
case, she would scarcely have murdered the woman, since all she had to
do was to compel Mrs. Caldershaw by law to confess the truth. It might
be that she had quarrelled with the old woman, who would not be
inclined to disarrange her plans for the well-being of her nephew; but
I did not think that a girl with so lovely a face and so high a
character--as Mrs. Gilfin avouched for--would have stooped to
committing a crime. Had she done so and had obtained the money, her
conscience would not permit her to rest. Therefore I acquitted the
young lady of homicide, and cast about in my mind to think, who could
possibly have slain Mrs. Caldershaw for the sake of the fortune.
Miss Destiny certainly grudged her niece the money, and being a miser
would have been glad to acquire it, but she was too frail a little
woman to commit the murder. Also, at the time, she was driving to
Mootley, and had not yet reached the place, as the story of her
encounter with my looted motor car clearly proved. She had established
an indefeasible alibi. Mr. Walter Monk was in London at the time of
the murder: Mr. Joseph Striver was at Burwain, and I could think of no
other person who would be driven to murder Mrs. Caldershaw for her
secret. The more I thought of the matter the more complex did it
become. All I could do--I decided this about three o'clock in the
morning--was to revert to my original decision and play a waiting
game. Then I fell asleep and woke at nine o'clock with a headache, the
result of over-thinking.
However, a cold bath, a good breakfast, and a half-hour's gossip with
the landlady banished my pains, and somewhere about eleven I walked
forth to spy out the land. I wished to call on Miss Destiny, and
through her, to gain an introduction to her niece. Once in touch with
Miss Monk, I might learn in some cautious way, how her cloak came to
be in the field. Certainly on the fact of it, I fancied she had worn
it herself and had stolen my Rippler, but it was just possible that
she had given it to Mrs. Caldershaw, and had not been near Mootley at
all. In which case, I, began to wonder more than ever, who was the
clever woman who had taken possession of it. But such wondering was
futile, as I had no certain facts to go upon. Gertrude Monk alone
could give the clue, seeing that the cloak, whether worn by herself or
not, was her property.
There was little difficulty in finding the abode of Miss Destiny who
appeared to be as well-known in Burwain as St. Paul's Cathedral is in
the metropolis. Her miserly character appeared to be common talk, and
when I reached the end of the village and sighted her cottage I could
well understand why it was no secret. A gentlewoman with a certain
amount of money, however small, would never have dwelt in such a
hovel, unless she grudged every farthing to render it sightly and
comfortable. For Miss Destiny had her abode in a tiny house of
galvanized tin, standing some distance from the main road, and almost
hidden by a dank growth of tall weeds, and shrubs and neglected trees.
A sod fence fringed the roadway, and therein was placed midway a
rickety wooden gate with a broken hinge. From this a crooked pathway
made by feet and worn by feet and preserved as an entrance by feet,
meandered to the green-painted front door. On either side docks and
darnells and brambles and coarse grasses and weeds flourished in
profusion breast-high. And overhanging the tin shed--it could scarcely
be called a cottage--were two gigantic elms, which dropped their
decayed branches on the roof and round the walls, where they lay to
add to the sordid confusion of the place. Viewing this desolation, I
could only think of the chateau of the Yellow Dwarf, as described by
Madame D'Aulnoy.
I walked up the sodden path--the tin shed seemed to have been built in
a swamp, so oozy was the ground--and rapped smartly at the narrow
front door. On either side were two small windows, through the glass
of which I caught a glimpse of iron bars, which proved that Miss
Destiny had made necessary provision against burglars. What struck me
as odd was the absence of a chimney, but I had no time to consider
this, for shortly I heard the rattle of a chain and the sound of bolts
being drawn back. Then the door was opened an inch or two to reveal
the dull eyes and mustached lip of Lucinda. The expression of her face
was aggressive and watchful.
"What do you want?" she demanded in her beautiful voice, which struck
me anew as singularly sympathetic despite her rough greeting.
"I am Mr. Cyrus Vance, who was at Mootley," I explained elaborately,
"and I wish to see Miss Destiny."
Before I ended my request I heard a little, low, fluttering laugh, and
Lucinda, opening the door widely, moved aside to show the tiny figure
of her mistress with outstretched hands. "Prince Charming come in
search of the Sleeping Beauty," cried Miss Destiny, romantically, "and
all because he saw a portrait of the lady. Come in, Mr. Vance, come
in. I can promise you flesh and blood this time, my dear adventurer."
There was little change about the old lady. She still wore the
threadbare black silk dress, though without the velvet mantle, and
her snow-white hair was still piled up after the fashion of Louis
XVI's ill-fated queen.
I thrilled when I heard her words, as I guessed that I had arrived in
a happy moment, and that Miss Destiny's niece, the goddess of my
dreams, was seated within that pauper house. Even Lucinda grinned in a
friendly way, as she saw the color come and go in my face. With all my
self-control I could not suppress that sign of emotion.
"Prince Charming," said Miss Destiny, introducing me directly into a
bare sitting-room, for there was no passage in the cottage, "yet me
present you to The Sleeping Beauty," and she looked more like a fairy
godmother than ever as she clapped her skinny hands.
Gertrude Monk was seated in a well-worn horsehair armchair, near the
oil stove which did duty as a fireplace to warm the bleak room. She
was plainly dressed in blue serge, with a toque of the same on her
dark head, and had a muff and boa of silver-fox fur. Nothing could
have been more Puritanic than her array, but the close-fitting frock
showed off her fine figure to advantage, and she looked uncommonly
handsome. I have already described her from her photograph, so there
is no need to go over old ground, but she was even more beautiful and
unapproachable than I had believed her to be, and looked more like the
goddess Diana than ever. The sole thing I found lacking to complete
her perfection was color, for her face was the hue of old ivory, and
even her lips looked pale. Also there was a troubled look in her large
dark eyes, and she welcomed me with some embarrassment. But this last
probably was due to the oddity of our introduction, since Miss Destiny
had evidently informed her of my admiration for her portrait.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Vance," she said sedately and with a
stately bow of her head, "my aunt informed me of your connection with
the sad death of my old nurse."
"I think my connection with the matter is public property, Miss Monk,"
I said, nervously, "for my name has been in all the papers."
"As a playwright that should please you," she said coldly, "anything
for an advertisement. Well, tell us what has been discovered?"
"Nothing as far as I know, Miss Monk."
"Oh!" she raised her fine eyebrows. "I understood," she glanced at
Miss Destiny, "that you promised to come and inform my aunt of any new
developments. As you are here, I thought that something had been
discovered."
"Nothing has been discovered, Miss Monk. I simply came here to see an
old servant of my mother's, who keeps The Robin Redbreast, and intend
to stay for a few days." Of course this was a white lie, but I had to
make some excuse, for her troubled eyes were searching my face
intently.
"Mrs. Gilfin," said she, a smile relaxing the corners of her mouth and
heaving what I took to be a sigh of relief, "I am fond of Mrs.
Gilfin."
"And she is fond of you, Miss Monk. Had she never spoken to you about
me?"
"No," was the reply, so my artful question, failed in its effect. Then
the conversation languished, and Miss Destiny babbled to excuse her
lack of hospitality. Lucinda had left the room.
"I should give you a cup of tea, Gertrude, and you also, Mr. Vance.
But the kettle is not boiling, and the baker has not come, so you must
excuse me."
"I am not hungry, thank you, Miss Destiny. What a comfortable little
place you have here."
In my desperate desire to propitiate the little woman, I told a lie,
and Miss Monk saw that I did, for her lip curled, so contemptuously,
that the color came to my cheeks. I had been undiplomatic, for the
word I had used did not apply in the least to the bare surroundings.
The shed--it had originally been a shed, as I afterwards learned--was
divided by frail partitions into four small rooms: two bedrooms, a
kitchen, and a parlor. These were furnished with the flotsam and
jetsam of auction rooms, in an insufficient manner. If Miss Destiny
had contracted the vice of avarice from the late Gabriel Monk, she
had done so very thoroughly. The bare wooden walls, the drugget on
the floor, the four or five sticks of shaky furniture, and the
evil-smelling oil stove, made up a picture of insistent penury. And
Miss Destiny, lean-faced, keen-eyed and restless, looked like the hag
Poverty herself, as she hovered about the bleak room. And even she saw
through my lying remark.
"Comfortable, no indeed, Mr. Vance," she tittered nervously, "comfort,
to my mind, means laziness and self-indulgence. Lucinda and I live the
simple life, and require only the bare necessities of civilization.
And I'm so poor----"
Her niece intervened coldly. "Is it necessary to inform Mr. Vance of
your private business, aunt?"
"Oh, my dear, he knows it. For instance, that I am your aunt only by
courtesy."
"What do you mean? You are my mother's sister."
"Yes. Poor dear Jane; what a bad marriage she made with that
spendthrift."
"Aunt! aunt! Leave my father alone."
"My dear, I refuse to be contradicted. I never liked Walter, and I
never will, so I disassociate myself from him in every way, as a
sister-in-law, and look upon myself as your aunt by courtesy: merely
by courtesy."
Miss Monk rose with a flush. "This conversation cannot be interesting
to Mr. Vance," she said, quietly. "If you have any business with him,
I shall leave you together."
"No, no, I have no business with him, my dear. Merely I should like to
know if Anne's will really leaves all her property to Joseph."
"If you mean Mr. Striver, I understand that he had got the money and
the lease of the corner shop to say nothing of the contents," said I,
in detail.
"Merely I should like to know if Anne's will really did think Anne
would have remembered me. We were such friends. And with a little
money I could have made myself more comfortable. The garden for
instance: I'm sure I live in a kind of jungle. Gertrude, I wish you
could let Joseph come and put it right. Then we could talk about his
good fortune."
"Joseph takes odd jobs at times," said Miss Monk, trying to speak
calmly, for really her aunt was very trying with her unnecessary
frankness, "if you offer him a good wage, he will come with pleasure."
"Oh, I can't afford to pay money," said Miss Destiny hurriedly, "it is
not to be expected, especially since Gabriel left me nothing. Ah!
Gertrude, you are the lucky one. Fifty thousand pounds," Miss Destiny
smacked her lips, "oh, if it only could be found.'
"It is not likely to be found."
"Mr. Striver intends to find it," I said incautiously, and could have
bitten out my tongue the moment afterwards for so crude a remark.
Both the women turned to face me: Miss Destiny with vulture-like
eagerness, and Miss Monk with an expression of astonishment. "What has
Joseph to do with my money?" asked the latter, pointedly.
"Perhaps he doesn't know that it is your money, Miss Monk."
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"Simply that Striver is searching for the sum of fifty-thousand
pounds. That being the amount of some money belonging to you which is
missing, as Miss Destiny said just now, I apprehend that it is the
same."
"It must be: it must be," cried the little old lady clapping her
skinny hands, "for Anne never could have saved so much out of her
wages. Gertrude I always declared that Anne knew where the money of
Gabriel was hidden. Now, it seems, she told Joseph about it."
"She did not inform him of its whereabouts," I struck in, eager to
enlist Miss Monk's attention, "but he hopes to trace it by means of
the glass eye."
"The glass eye," echoed Miss Monk, very much amazed. "I know that Anne
had a glass eye, and that it is missing. But----"
"I see: I understand," said Miss Destiny feverishly, "don't interrupt
me, Gertrude, for I see it all. Anne always attached a great value to
that glass eye, so in some way--from what Mr. Vance says--it is
connected with the hiding-place of Gabriel's money. Perhaps Gabriel
got Anne to assist him in hiding it. Dear me, and the eye is missing.
If it could only be found, Gertrude, you would be quite an heiress."
"I don't believe that the eye or the money will ever be found," said
Miss Monk impatiently, and walked towards the door. "Are you returning
to the village, Mr. Vance?"
The hint was unmistakable, and I was only too glad to take advantage
of it, since it meant a _tête-à-fête_ with my goddess. "Mrs. Gilfin
will wonder what has become of me," I said, glancing at my watch.
"Oh, don't go, don't go," implored Miss Destiny, grasping my arm. "I
do so want to learn all about this glass eye and the money."
"Ask Joseph Striver then," I replied, disengaging myself, "he knows
all that I know, and more," I ended significantly.
"Really and truly. Oh, I must tell Lucinda," and Miss Destiny vanished
into the back room crying for her handmaid. Miss Monk seized the
opportunity to open the front door and slip out, raising her eyebrows
at me meanwhile. I took the hint at once.
We walked down the meandering path between the weeds, and out on to
the high road. Miss Monk kept silence for some distance, but I was so
taken up with admiring her face, and was so delighted to be in her
presence, that I did not mind her lack of speech. With compressed lips
she stared straight in front of her, then spoke abruptly.
"You seem to know a great deal about our family affairs, Mr. Vance."
"Nothing more than has to do with the murder of Mrs. Caldershaw," I
replied, quietly, "and I am so mixed up in that----"
"Yes! yes!" she interrupted impatiently. "I understand so far. But my
aunt has been talking to you."
"Well, yes and no. I have not gathered much information from Miss
Destiny."
"Why should you wish to gather any information at all?" asked the girl
with some sharpness.
"My dear young lady. This murder interests me, and I wish to learn the
truth. Naturally I seek for information."
"Oh! And you have come here to question my aunt."
"No, indeed. I don't see what she can tell me."
"She can tell you nothing," said Miss Monk, with decision, "my aunt is
not quite sane, as you can easily see. She has a moderately good
income, yet prefers to live in that miserable place, which you"--she
was sarcastic here--"called comfortable, Mr. Vance."
"I wished to put Miss Destiny in a good humor," said I uneasily.
"Why?"
She was so very direct that I nearly came out with the truth. But it
was absurd, on the face of it, to confess a crazy love for one I had
known only half an hour: she would take so sudden a declaration as an
insult. I therefore held my peace and fenced. "Miss Destiny, from what
she said at Mootley, seems to know something about that glass eye,
which was stolen from Mrs. Caldershaw's head when she was dead. I wish
to learn all about it, so as to discover why the eye was stolen and
the woman murdered."
"Then you _did_ come here to question my aunt, in spite of your
denial?"
"Well, if I must confess it, I came to ask about the glass eye."
Miss Monk walked on in silence, and then again spoke abruptly. "You
should be honest with me, Mr. Vance."
"I am honest."
"Pardon me, you are not, since you said that you did not see what my
aunt could tell you." And she looked like an offended goddess.
This was brutally true: I had equivocated. "I throw myself on your
mercy."
She turned a pair of surprised eyes in my direction. "Why on mine?"
"I appear to have offended you," I hesitated.
"What does that matter? we are strangers."
"I wish we were not," said my rash tongue, and Miss Monk stopped.
"I really don't understand you, Mr. Vance. Why should it matter to me
whether we are strangers or not?"
"Your aunt's words when she introduced me----"
Miss Monk flushed and cut me short. "That is my aunt's nonsense," she
said hastily. "You don't expect me to believe that you followed me
here because you admired my photograph."
That was exactly what I had done, but it did not do to tell her so,
for she looked more like an offended goddess than ever. "I came here
about the eye," was my cautious answer.
"You think that a true knowledge of why Anne Caldershaw attached a
value to that eye would enable you to trace her assassin?"
"Yes, I do think so. Do you, Miss Monk?" I spoke with the cloak in my
mind. "Do you wish me to trace her assassin?"
"Why not. She should certainly be captured and punished and the eye
recovered, especially, as you seem to think it can indicate where the
money left to me by Uncle Gabriel is hidden."
"She! she! she!" I positively gasped.
"Of course." Again she looked surprised. "I understand from the report
in the papers, that the woman who ran off with your motor car is the
assassin."
It was with some difficulty that I commanded my voice. Miss Monk, I
thought, must be very sure that she had hidden her trail successfully,
else she would scarcely dare to speak in this way. But, of course, as
I remembered, she did not yet know that I had found her cloak. "You
would like to have the woman traced?"
"Yes," she said coolly, "and the eye recovered, if it means the
recovery of my money. I inherit fifty thousand pounds by----"
"I know: I know," said I hastily, "Mrs. Gilfin told me."
Miss Monk's face clouded. "I daresay," she remarked bitterly, "the
story of the missing money is common property. No doubt Mrs. Gilfin
told you that my uncle Gabriel was a miser."
"Yes. She told me a good deal."
"You asked her?" questioned the girl, suddenly.
"I admit it: in the interests of the case."
"Of course," she said, whether ironically or not I could not
determine, and then walked on in silence.
Shortly we were abreast of a mouldering red-brick wall on the
outskirts of the village. Beyond could be seen the mellow-tiled roofs
of a large mansion.
Miss Monk stopped abruptly. "I live here," she said, with some
coldness, "and must go in. Good-day, Mr. Vance."
She vanished through a heavy green gate, and left me staring down the
deserted road. To me, the sun seemed to have vanished from the sky.