GERTRUDE'S DEFENCE
As may be guessed, I passed a very perturbed four and twenty hours
until my arranged interview with Miss Monk. Miss Destiny had not seen
the glass eye in the drawing-room, and so far could prove nothing
against her niece. I believe that, so far, she was speaking the truth,
as if she had seen the eye, she would have only been too pleased to
adduce its presence as a proof of Gertrude's guilt. But, as things
were, what she knew was damning enough. She could swear to the girl's
presence at Mootley on the evening of the murder, and to the ownership
of the white cloak, worn by the lady who had stolen my motor car.
Fortunately, from sheer shame, since Miss Monk was her niece, Miss
Destiny promised to hold her tongue.
In the face of what the old woman had said and that I already knew, it
seemed certain that Gertrude was guilty. Miss Destiny could even
declare that her niece had possessed certain blue glass-headed
hat-pins, with one of which the crime had been committed. Then again
Gertrude wished to get the money, which, after all, was rightfully her
own. It seemed probable--on the face of it--that while waiting with
Anne Caldershaw for Miss Destiny's arrival, she had tried to learn
what the ex-housekeeper knew as to the whereabouts of the money. Anne
may have boasted that the secret was locked up in her glass eye, and
then--well, I shuddered to think of what took place. Nine people out
of ten would have pronounced Gertrude guilty with the greatest
promptitude: but I happened to be the tenth, and I hesitated to give
an opinion. But then I was in love, and my decision was biassed.
But I really could not believe that so lovely a girl was guilty.
Besides, her demeanor was not that of a brazen criminal, and she had
seemed really puzzled by my over-attentive gaze. Tossing and turning
on my bed, I tried to see some ray of light, but all was utter
darkness. The evidence was dead against Gertrude Monk, and her fate
was in the hands of her vindictive aunt. Miss Destiny might hold her
tongue for the time being, but it would take very little to set it
wagging. And being a miser, she might try to blackmail her niece. My
brain ached with trying to get at the truth. To Inspector Dredge it
would have have been readily apparent; but in the face of stern facts
I refused to believe the girl to be guilty.
Then there was Giles. During the night I thought a good deal of Giles,
whom I had met that very evening when I returned to the Robin
Redbreast. He was remaining there for the night, and informed me that
he had come over to Burwain that day in order to see Striver about the
lease of the corner shop.
"You see, Mr. Vance," said Giles, shortly before I retired to bed, and
while we were in the bar, "my wife wants to have a shop of her own, so
I thought I would get Mr. Striver to make over the lease of Mrs.
Caldershaw's shop to me. My wife is set on having it, and I think Mr.
Striver will agree to the terms I propose."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes, sir. I went to his house to-day and found he was at the Lodge,
working in the garden. I sought him out there and we had a talk, just
before Miss Destiny came to bother him. I went away then, and
afterwards you came."
"Oh," my mind swiftly ran over the events of the day, "then you were
in the grounds of the Lodge before I arrived?"
"Yes, Mr. Vance," said Giles, readily enough. "Mr. Striver wasn't in
the garden at the time, as he had gone round to the back of the house.
I walked up to the front door and asked for him. The servant sent a
message, and we were talking over our deal when the little old lady
arrived. She spoilt the business, for the time being; but I saw Mr.
Striver this evening, and we have arranged about the matter. My wife
will have the shop."
I thought a good deal about this conversation when in bed. Giles had
been alone in the grounds of The Lodge and had gone up to the house to
seek for Striver. Might he not have placed the eye on the table, since
he could easily do so, when the middle French window was open. But
then I had absolutely no reason to suspect Giles, as the glass eye
would be meaningless to him. But stop! Would it indeed be meaningless?
Certainly Mrs. Giles had denied that she knew about Mrs. Caldershaw's
glass eye, but then she had admitted that the ex-housekeeper had said
she would never die in her bed. In one way or another Mrs. Giles may
have learned the secret of the hidden money, and thus Giles might have
killed Mrs. Caldershaw to obtain the glass eye which was the clue. But
after reflection I dismissed this theory as utterly ridiculous. Giles
could not have gained possession of the hat-pin belonging--according to
Miss Destiny--to Gertrude Monk; and certainly, having the eye, would
not come over to Burwain to leave it in the drawing-room of The Lodge.
Giles, on the face of it, was utterly innocent. Yet it was strange
that he should have been in the grounds of the Jacobean house nearly
at the time I had seen the glass eye, and that [it] had disappeared.
If Giles had not placed it there, he might have taken it.
"No! no! no! no!" I muttered in drowsy tones; "it's absurd. Giles has
nothing to do with the matter. He merely came over to arrange about
the shop. He did not place the glass eye there: nor did Striver. If
Striver had possessed the eye he would have gained possession of the
money. Besides, he was not at Mootley until the funeral took place.
Mr. Monk! He's innocent enough, as he was in London when the crime was
committed. Moreover, if he possessed the eye, he also would be in
possession of the fortune. Gertrude is the only person to whom
suspicion points. I shall insist upon a full explanation to-morrow. I
alone can save her if she is guilty." And then I fell into a troubled
sleep, reproaching myself for daring to doubt my divinity.
Giles departed next morning before I arose, and I did not see him
again. Haunted still by undefined suspicions, I regretted his
departure, and determined later to look him up at Mootley. Of course,
the mere idea of thinking that the respectable sturdy greengrocer was
guilty seemed ridiculous, but in my anxiety to save Gertrude from
danger I was willing to sacrifice anyone and everyone. To such a state
does love bring the most just of mankind.
By the midday post I received an impetuous letter from Cannington, who
informed me that he had snaffled--the word is his own--a couple of
weeks' leave. For the present he was staying with his aunt, Lady
Denham, because Mabel wished it, but proposed, when I came up, to take
rooms at a hotel, where he would--as he put it--be less tied by the
leg. Then he went on to say that I had remained long enough at
Burwain, and that if I did not come to him he would come to me, like
Mahomet and the proverbial mountain. Bearing in mind Mr. Monk's
aspirations for a titled son-in-law, this was the last thing I
desired, so I arranged promptly in my own mind to accept his
invitation. Besides, after my interview with Gertrude, in which I
hoped to come to an understanding, there would be no need for me to
remain at Burwain. Her story might send me farther afield in search of
new clues.
Reading between the lines of Cannington's letter, I saw that he was
devoured with curiosity concerning Miss Monk. He knew that I had
fallen in love with the portrait, and as he had always regarded me as
a particularly staid, sedate personage, he naturally doubted if I
would carry on so fantastic a romance. However, he evidently had his
suspicions, since I chose to linger in a dull country village, and
therefore was desperately anxious to see the lady who could thus move
my elderly heart. As Cannington was a most pertinacious mortal, I
wrote by the next post that I would be in London next week, and then
would have much to tell him about the case. And as a matter of fact I
did wish to have some safe person with whom to discuss matters. I
could always rely on Cannington to hold his tongue, even if his advice
did not prove to be particularly good. At all events the boy could
always be relied upon to keep silent, which was more than I could say
for many people I know. So to Cannington I resolved to confide the
full tale of my discoveries, and--in the interests of my wooing--I
ended my letter with a repetition of the fact that I was coming to see
him. Had I not emphasized this the boy might have appeared the next
day to make inquiries.
After posting this letter I consulted with Mrs. Gilfin about afternoon
tea, and that able old creature bustled about to some purpose. She
arranged flowers in my sitting room, stoked the fire, dusted the
furniture unnecessarily, and spread a truly gorgeous tea for my
visitor. I protested that neither one of us could eat so many cakes
and buns and jam and bread as loaded the table. Mrs. Gilfin--who had
some idea of my state of mind--admitted with a beaming smile that love
did spoil the appetite. But she objected to the presence of my second
portmanteau in the sitting-room.
"It do spile the looks of things," said Mrs. Gilfin; "why not put it
in the bedroom, Master Cyrus?"
"I have use for it here, Cuckoo," I answered, and so I had, for in it
was snugly folded the celebrated cloak, which I proposed to show to
Gertrude when the time came for explanations.
At four o'clock all was spic and span, as the room was as comfortable
as the afternoon tea was tempting. Miss Monk duly arrived--this time
without Puddles as an escort--and looked more beautiful than ever in
her plain dress. Poor girl, she nearly always wore the same frock,
which showed how very short in cash Mr. Monk kept her. She should have
been arrayed in silk attire, and I inwardly swore, when establishing
her in a deep-seated armchair by the fire, that some day she should
be, at my expense. Meantime I handed her a cup of tea, and piled her
with thin bread and butter, much to Mrs. Gilfin's satisfaction. That
good lady had looked in to see that we were comfortable. "Eat all you
can, miss," urged Mrs. Gilfin, "you don't look as fat as you ought to
be."
Gertrude shuddered. "I don't want to grow fat," said she, laughing.
"There's worse things than fat," said Mrs. Gilfin sensibly. "Lean
people with wrinkles are never so nice as them without. If Miss
Destiny had more flesh on her bones she be more popular," and after
delivering herself of this dictum the landlady departed with a fat
chuckle.
Gertrude's face clouded when her aunt was mentioned. I noticed this
and commented thereon. "You are not fond of Miss Destiny," I remarked.
"I have little reason to be," she replied with a nervous air. "Aunt
Julia----"
"Is that her name?"
"Yes. Julia Destiny--a strange name, isn't it? Well, then, she has
always behaved harshly to me. Even when I was a child she never liked
me, and since Uncle Gabriel left me this fortune she has scarcely been
able to bear the sight of me. Then this morning----"
"What about this morning?" I asked, seeing her hesitation.
"Aunt Julia came to me and said all manner of dreadful things. Even if
you had not arranged this afternoon tea, Mr. Vance, I should have come
to see you. I need a friend more than ever."
I privately thought--and I was right in thinking so--that Miss Destiny
had been making herself disagreeable over the visit to Mootley, and
perhaps had added threats. However I said nothing for the moment, as I
wished Gertrude to tell her story in her own way. "Take some cake and
another cup of tea," I murmured sympathetically, "then we can talk."
Gertrude handed me her cup. "I can't eat or drink anything more, thank
you, Mr. Vance. I want to speak seriously to you. No one can hear us,
I hope?"
I glanced at the door and window; both were closed. "No one can hear
us," I assented, taking the chair opposite to her, "and you can depend
upon my being secret about whatever you choose to tell me; you know
that."
"Yes." She looked straightly at me, and her royal beauty impressed me
anew. "I have studied your character closely, so that I might be
certain of making no mistake."
"And you are satisfied?"
"Perfectly." She glanced round again, then leaned back in her chair.
"Listen, Mr. Vance, and don't interrupt me more than you can help, as
it is difficult for me to tell my story clearly."
"I am all attention," said I, leaning forward.
"You know that I told you of the fifty thousand pound, which my Uncle
Gabriel left me."
"Yes, the fortune which is missing."
Gertrude nodded. "Uncle Gabriel was a miser, and concealed his riches.
My father has inherited the income and the property, but the fifty
thousand pounds has been hidden away. When the will was read I learned
that such a sum had been left to me, but its whereabouts could not be
discovered. I searched through all my late uncle's papers without
result. Then, about the end of July, I came across an old box in the
attic filled with foolscap sheets covered with figures. Also there was
some writing in the form of a diary, two or three loose sheets pinned
together."
"Have you the diary and the other papers?"
"Yes; you can see them when you come to The Lodge. Meanwhile it is
easier for me to tell you the contents, as the writing is extremely.
crabbed. I learned that Uncle Gabriel had for years used the family
income of five hundred per annum in purchasing diamonds."
"Really! He could buy many valuable stones at such a price."
"You forget that he had the income for forty years or thereabouts and
lived like a pauper. He was always saving money and buying diamonds.
At times--as the diary said--he went to London and Amsterdam and Paris
and traded in stones. He turned over what he had bought, as a matter
of fact, and in one way and another managed to accumulate fifty
thousand pounds' worth of jewels."
"Then the fortune, which is hidden, consists of diamonds?"
"Exactly. In the diary Uncle Gabriel hinted that the jewels were for
me, but that he mistrusted my father, and would put them safely away."
"Why did he mistrust your father?" I asked, although I had a very
shrewd suspicion of what the answer would be.
The girl flushed. "Uncle Gabriel was never just to my father," she
said in a low voice. "Oh, I know that papa has his faults, but his
heart is in the right place. Papa has no idea of money: he is like a
child; so Uncle Gabriel thought that if papa secured the diamonds he
might squander their value."
"What!" said I, significantly, "when they belonged to you?"
She colored again. "I think papa believes what is mine is his. You see
Uncle Gabriel died when I was about sixteen--five years ago--and he
thought that if papa could lay hands on the jewels then that they
would not come to me. He mistrusted papa."
"And with very good reason," I murmured, too low for Gertrude to hear.
Walter Monk, as I truly believed; would act exactly in the way his
brother suspected he would.
"What's that you say?"
"Never mind. I understand that the diamonds were concealed so that
your father might not be tempted. But surely your uncle intended them
to come into your hands sooner or later."
"Yes. The diary said that the jewels were hidden in a certain place."
"What place?" I asked abruptly.
"Ah, that was kept secret. But Uncle Gabriel talked about trusting
Anne----"
"Ah!" I said, rubbing my hands with satisfaction, "now we are coming
to the gist of the matter. Any mention of the eye?"
"No. You see, in the diary--it can hardly be called one--Uncle Gabriel
only jotted down scraps of the scheme in his head. To make a long
story short, I gathered that he had entrusted the secret of the
whereabouts of the diamonds to Anne Caldershaw, as he had known her
for years and esteemed her an honest woman."
"I see; and she was not honest."
"Don't you think so?"
"No. Evidently she intended to tell Striver the secret, since she left
him the glass eye in the will. He was to get the money, and then--I
daresay--he could ask you to marry him."
"Ridiculous," said Miss Monk, coloring.
"Perhaps. Nevertheless I believe that such was the scheme of Mrs.
Caldershaw, for she intended to enrich her nephew at your expense,
hoping that you would marry him, and thus gain the benefit of what was
rightfully your own. The idea of a marriage salved her conscience, as
it were."
"The idea is absurd. I would never marry a man like Joseph, although
he is handsome and fairly well educated."
"You know that he loves you."
"Yes, I know," she replied, blushing, but in a somewhat cold tone.
"Never mind: the thing--as I say--is absurd. But it might be as you
say, Mr. Vance, that Anne had such a scheme in her head. However, you
understand that I gathered from the so-called diary that she knew of
the whereabouts of the jewels."
"Yes. I know that. What did you do?"
"I determined to go over and see Anne Caldershaw."
"And did you?"
"Yes." She looked at me nervously.
"You were at Mootley then, when--when----"
"No," she burst out fiercely. "Not though Aunt Julia swears I was."
"Oh. You did not go to Mootley at all?"
"Yes I did. I arranged to meet Aunt Julia at Anne's house at five
o'clock. I got there before that time."
"Then you were at Mootley on the evening of the murder."
"I have never denied it," she said, cresting her head like a snake and
looking haughty, "but I do deny that I was in the house when the crime
was committed. I was not the woman who ran away with your motor car,
whatever Aunt Julia may say."
"Who was the woman, then?"
"I don't know. I never set eyes on her."
"Ah!" said I thoughtfully, "talking of eyes, was Mrs. Caldershaw's
glass optic in her head when you spoke to her?"
"Yes, it was. And remember, please, that I never knew--as it appears
from your ingenious theory--that the secret was hidden in that eye. I
came at half-past four, and went into the back room, where I talked
with Anne. I related to her what I had discovered, and asked her to
tell me where the diamonds were. She said she did not know."
"She did not know," I echoed in utter astonishment.
"So she said. She declared that Uncle Gabriel had given her a cipher,
in which he had concealed the whereabouts of the diamonds. Anne could
not read it herself, so she had no idea of where the jewels were."
"Did you ask her for the cipher?"
"Yes, I did. She refused to give it to me."
"On what grounds?"
Gertrude grew red and looked nervously into the fire. "I may as well
be quite frank," she said, with an outburst of candor. "Anne really
did wish me to marry her nephew, and said she would give me the cipher
if I promised to marry Joseph. I refused, and then----"
"Well, what then?" I asked impatiently, and indignant at the plot
between the dead woman and the gardener to force Miss Monk into
unwilling matrimony.
"Then I heard a voice in the shop calling for Mrs. Caldershaw. She
went away, and shortly afterwards returned to ask me to leave at once.
There was someone who wished to speak to her, and she did not wish me
to meet this person. Therefore she asked me to leave at once."
"Did you know who this person was?"
Gertrude hesitated. "I could answer you that frankly," she said, after
a pause, "as I caught a glimpse of the person through the half-open
shop door. The mere sight of this person sent me away, as I did not
wish to meet----" Here she hesitated.
"Him or her?" I asked inquisitively.
"I would rather not say just now," she replied with reserve.
"But you must say," I insisted. "Don't you see that this person,
whether man or woman, may have been the one who murdered Mrs.
Caldershaw."
She grew pale. "I have thought of that myself," she said hurriedly,
"therefore I refuse to tell you who the person was. If a certain
contingency happens I shall speak out."
"You won't tell me now?" I said, somewhat wounded.
"No. Don't ask me to. Perhaps later on." She seemed greatly
distressed. "You see it's a terrible thing for me to give the name of
a person who might be accused of the crime. If this person was hanged,
even if guilty, I should not be able to rest in my bed." She shuddered
and burst into tears. "My position is very hard," she wailed.
"But I can assist you if you will speak plainly."
She shook her head. "I cannot speak plainer than I am doing. Later on,
yes, later on, I may tell you, but just now I dare not--I dare not,"
and again she began to weep.
As it was evident that she had some strong reason to conceal the name
of this mysterious person I did not press her further, although I was
most anxious to learn all about the matter. Instead, I asked another
question in soothing tones. "How did you leave?"
"By the back door," said Gertrude, drying her eyes. "In that way I
escaped coming face to face with the person in question."
"But there is no gate out of the back yard by which you could escape.
I examined the fence myself."
"You did not examine it carefully enough. The gate is at the side of
the house, and is exactly like the fence. When it is closed no one
could tell that there was a gate. I expect that is why you overlooked
it. Outside the gate, a path led amongst those elm-trees some little
distance, until it came out on to the high road some distance down the
slope. I went along the path, and on gaining the road I walked to
Murchester, where I caught the half-past six train. So you see that I
had nothing to do with the murder. I was horrified when I heard of it,
and seeing the danger I was in of being suspected, I held my peace. I
even denied to Aunt Julia that I had been to Mootley at all, saying
that I had changed my mind."
I recalled the conversation with Miss Destiny, and recognized that
Gertrude was speaking the exact truth. "Mrs. Caldershaw was alive and
well when you left her?" I asked, rising to drag out my portmanteau.
"Quite well. What are you doing?"
"I'll show you in one moment. Mrs. Caldershaw did not appear to be
afraid of being killed?"
"No; she was quite her usual self."
"Did you take your cloak with you?"
"My cloak?" She rose, much agitated. "How do you know that I wore a
cloak?"
"You must have had one to take such a journey," I said evasively.
"Yes," replied Gertrude, somewhat reassured; "but--oh!" she gasped, as
I displayed the garment I had produced from the portmanteau.
"Yes," I said, unfolding it, "this is the cloak worn by the lady who
took my motor car. I found it concealed in the field. And it is your
cloak?"
"Yes," she admitted with white lips, "it is my cloak."