IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS
The man with whom Stonor was walking on the pier was none other than
Julian Little!
He was wearing a suit that I had never seen before, and with his hat
slightly drawn down over his eyes there seemed an effort at disguise.
I had imagined him to be in Belgrade, but, on the contrary, he seemed
to be in hiding at the Hôtel de Paris at Cromer. That he had actually
travelled to Servia was proved by the fact that Wakeley had received a
telegram from King Peter's capital announcing his arrival there. But it
seemed most probable that he had, after despatching the message, taken
the Orient Express back again to Ostend, and thence straight to Cromer.
I looked about, but saw nothing of Whitlock. He had not dared to
follow, lest Little should recognise him.
Two queries arose within my mind. First, the object of Julian's
subterfuge, and secondly, the reason of his intimate friendship with
the man who had taken the unfortunate girl, Louise Lorimer, to the
photographer's. That the pair were in guilty co-operation seemed more
than possible. If Julian was in hiding, then only to his best friend
could he betray his hiding-place. That was certain. Then, why was this
fugitive his best friend? Surely there must be some guilty bond between
them!
Whitlock had suspected Little from the very first. The detective's
visit to our chambers in Gray's Inn was the cause of Julian's sudden
flight--an escape apparently well known to Daisy, who had, in other
words, alleged that I was in possession of his secret. The skein was
becoming more and more tangled, and yet had we not returned again to
the Whitlock starting-point--the suspicion of Julian Little?
I recollected that half-smoked Greek cigarette that we had found in
the empty grate at Barnes--the cigarette of that brand which he alone
had brought from Patras. Again, the story of old Mrs Davis about the
two men endeavouring to enter our chambers. Could one of them have
been Julian? I remembered that he had left his own latchkey upon the
mantelshelf when he had left so hurriedly for Belgrade. There might be
something in his writing-table which he wished to obtain possession of
or to destroy.
And yet, as I watched the receding figures of the pair as they walked
to the pier-head, I could not bring myself to believe that Julian was
guilty of a crime. He was my friend--my best friend. Old Sir Halliday
Little, of Winholt Hall, had been a life-long friend of my father's,
even while he was still in the Diplomatic Service. My father had been
his guest on more than one occasion at the Embassy in Madrid, where Sir
Halliday had been British Ambassador for seven years, and prior to that
at Athens, where he was Chargé d'Affaires for three years.
The son took after the father, inasmuch as he was a thorough-going
cosmopolitan--honourable, upright, and with all the pride of honour
characteristic of an English gentleman. No. As I could not believe in
Daisy's wilful deceit, so I could not credit that Julian Little was
implicated in the assassination of a lonely and defenceless woman.
He and Stonor turned as I watched, and faced me, causing me to quickly
turn away and seek concealment. They were in earnest conversation,
Julian emphasising his words with his index finger, a habit of his when
he wished to impress a fact. Stonor was wholly a listener; he heard
what his friend had to say without offering any comment whatsoever. It
was now quite evident to me that Stonor, alarmed by our presence at
Kazan House, had fled across England and back again in order to evade
anyone that might follow. That he should have failed to discover me was
most fortunate. I, of course, had exercised every precaution, yet I
regarded my first attempt at shadowing with pardonable pride. The man
Stonor flew from Scarborough to confer with Julian!
Why had the latter been so antagonistic towards Daisy? That she was
equally an enemy of Julian's was proved by those words she had uttered
in Kensington Gardens. True it is that life is a variety entertainment
and things are not what they really seem. Woman has become a term of
endearment, and marriage is a perpetual armistice. The Speaker is one
who seldom speaks, and Parliament is but a popular delusion. Have
these and many other incongruities of our national life never occurred
to you? Have you not seen the honest man "go under" because of his
scrupulous probity, and have you not likewise seen the unscrupulous
swindler in business with his flaring offices, shining brass-plates
and rows of clerks, rise to become a millionaire, give a substantial
donation to "the Party funds," and blossom forth a titled personage
with a suddenly superior air, and a cockade in his coachman's hat?
Truly this England of ours to-day is the world of make-believe.
I walked back to my hotel puzzled and perplexed. I had never dreamed
that Julian was in England. I knew that he passed from city to city
with a rapidity that often astounded me, but that he should be living
quietly in a seaside hotel had never occurred to me.
Whitlock must certainly have had some good ground for suspicion from
the very first. But what was it, I wondered?
Fearing to stroll about the town lest I might come face to face with
my fellow-occupant of the chambers in Gray's Inn, I idled in the hotel
until half-past ten, when, quite punctually, Whitlock was shown up to
my bedroom for greater privacy.
"Well," he exclaimed, when the door was shut. "You saw them--eh?"
"Yes. It is amazing!"
"I agree with you, Keene. It is a staggerer," he said. "What is your
friend Little doing here? I thought you said he was in Servia?"
"I believed him to be in Belgrade," I replied. "Indeed, he wired from
there to the office announcing his arrival, as he always does."
"And evidently he returned here immediately. Depend upon it, he went to
Servia for some ulterior reason."
"Nothing connected with the affair we are investigating, surely!" I
remarked. "What connection can he possibly have with the mystery at
Barnes?"
"Well--he's an intimate friend of Stonor, isn't he? Otherwise the man
from Scarborough would not desire to consult him. You've done well,
Keene, to track Stonor here. I congratulate you upon a very clever bit
of observation."
"But what are we to do now?" I inquired.
"Remain patient and watch. They'll probably live here for some time,
believing themselves quite safe. I've got Sergeant Beale staying at the
Crown. I've left the Paris and my bag is already at the station. Beale
will go to the Paris to-morrow and learn what he can. Little knows us
both, therefore we cannot be too careful."
"And do you propose to remain here!"
"No. We leave by the first train in the morning. The adjourned inquest
is fixed for three to-morrow afternoon and I have to be present. After
that we may return here--or we may not. All depends upon Beale's
report."
I got my companion a room and we remained smoking until nearly
midnight, when we parted and turned in. Next morning, at eight, we left
Cromer and duly arrived at King's Cross. Snatching a hasty lunch at a
small Italian restaurant opposite the station, we took a cab to Gray's
Inn, where we had a wash and brush-up, and afterwards went by the
"tube" from Holborn to Hammersmith.
Across Hammersmith Bridge we walked into Barnes, past the empty house
that had been the scene of the mysterious tragedy, and on to the Red
Lion, where the coroner was about to open his adjourned inquiry.
The public crowded the court, the jury were expectant, and the
reporters and "liners" had pencils ready sharpened to take down some
startling evidence which would form the "feature" of that night's
papers.
But Whitlock had already arranged privately with the coroner that the
evidence should be vague, and contain nothing which should put the
assassin on his guard.
The jury having been sworn, the coroner briefly addressed them,
referring to the curious circumstances of the death of the young woman
and the suicide of the other woman, who apparently came to visit her
in secret. It was a nocturnal tragedy, full of mysterious features. He
recalled to the minds of the jury the evidence they had already heard,
and then proceeded to read it over from the sheets of blue foolscap
upon which he had written it.
This ended, there was a stir in court, and then a tension of excitement
as Inspector Whitlock came forward and kissed the Testament.
"You are Inspector Whitlock, Criminal Investigation Department?" asked
the coroner, in those businesslike tones he used when dealing with a
professional witness. "Well?"
"It is not our intention, sir, to offer much additional evidence," my
friend said. "We are still making investigations."
"Have you established the identity of the deceased woman?"
"Yes, sir. Her name was Louise Lorimer."
"And address?"
"She had several. She at one time lived in Scarborough."
"And the woman who committed suicide?"
"Her identity is not yet established."
"I need not ask you if you have any suspicion of any person who was the
enemy of this Louise Lorimer, and who would be capable of taking her
life. That is your own affair. All I would like to know is whether you
propose to offer any further evidence to-day?"
"No, sir. We do not!"
"Any question of the witness?" asked the coroner of the foreman of the
jury.
"We would like to know whether Inspector Whitlock has any clue
to--well, to the assassin?"
"I'm afraid, sir, that is not a question you can ask," interrupted the
coroner. "Scotland Yard is doing its best, but such a question is, at
this stage, indiscreet, and, if answered, might defeat the ends of
justice."
"Then I don't see why we should be brought here any more," grumbled the
foreman. "The affair is a mystery, and it isn't yet cleared up."
"Except in one important particular--the identification of the woman
found shot," remarked the coroner. Then, after a pause, he went on.
"Of course, gentlemen, it rests entirely with you if you return your
verdict to-day, or not. I am quite willing to adjourn, say, for another
seven days, but honestly, I do not myself see the use of it. You are
here to state by what means, in your opinion, these two women came
by their deaths. You have heard the whole of the evidence, and if
you believe that they died from natural causes, you must return your
verdict to that effect. If, on the contrary, you believe they died by
their own hand or by violence, it is your duty to record that fact. It
is not for me to influence you in any way whatsoever. I merely place
the facts before you as I have them here--the evidence of the police
and of the doctors. You see what the post-mortem has shown, and I ask
you to carefully consider whether you would like to conclude the case,
as far as this court is concerned, to-day, or adjourn again?"
The jury, after a brief consultation, announced their decision to
return their verdict that day.
"In those circumstances, then," the coroner went on, "it is my duty
to briefly review the whole case as it appears in evidence," and,
clearly and succinctly, he laid the facts, as far as had been given in
evidence, before the twelve local tradesmen who had been empanelled as
a jury.
The public in the body of the court were very disappointed. They had
anticipated a sensation, but there was none forthcoming.
For a quarter of an hour the coroner continued to describe the
mysterious circumstances, until, in conclusion, he said--
"And it now remains with you, gentlemen, to record your verdict. If you
wish to retire you are perfectly at liberty to do so."
The foreman announced that his brother-jurors wished to consult in
private. Therefore they all filed out into an adjoining room, where for
ten minutes or so they remained with locked door.
Then, on their return, they reseated themselves, and the foreman,
bending forward, said--
"We are agreed, sir, that the younger woman, Louise Lorimer, was
wilfully murdered by some person unknown, and that the woman
unidentified committed suicide."
"What? A verdict of _felo-de-se_!" exclaimed the coroner, in surprise.
"No, sir--suicide we mean--while in an unsound state of mind."
"Very well, gentlemen," replied the coroner. "Then I record that as
your verdict." He wrote it down upon his blue paper, then read it over.
The foreman signed it, and the remainder of the investigation was left
in the able hands of my friend Whitlock.
That night, the _Evening Herald_ and other papers made a feature of the
verdict, but as I glanced down the column I reflected what a sensation
the real facts, as I knew them, would cause if I only dared to publish
them.
The verdict had been given, but we were, alas! no nearer the truth.