UNRAVELLED KNOTS
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1923, 1924, 1925, AND 1926,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1924,
BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY
UNRAVELLED KNOTS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I THE MYSTERY OF THE KHAKI TUNIC
II THE MYSTERY OF THE INGRES MASTERPIECE
III THE MYSTERY OF THE PEARL NECKLACE
IV THE MYSTERY OF THE RUSSIAN PRINCE
V THE MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN BISHOP'S ROAD
VI THE MYSTERY OF THE DOG'S TOOTH CLIFF
VII THE TYTHERTON CASE
VIII THE MYSTERY OF BRUDENELL COURT
IX THE MYSTERY OF THE WHITE CARNATION
X THE MYSTERY OF THE MONTMARTRE HAT
XI THE MISER OF MAIDA VALE
XII THE FULTON GARDENS MYSTERY
XIII A MOORLAND TRAGEDY
By BARONESS ORCZY
UNRAVELLED KNOTS
PIMPERNEL AND ROSEMARY
THE HONOURABLE JIM
THE TRIUMPH OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
NICOLETTE
CASTLES IN THE AIR
THE FIRST SIR PERCY
HIS MAJESTY'S WELL-BELOVED
THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
FLOWER O' THE LILY
THE MAN IN GREY
LORD TONY'S WIFE
LEATHERFACE
THE BRONZE EAGLE
A BRIDE OF THE PLAINS
THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
"UNTO CAESAR"
EL DORADO
MEADOWSWEET
THE NOBLE ROGUE
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
PETTICOAT RULE
New York: George H. Doran Company
UNRAVELLED KNOTS
I
THE MYSTERY OF THE KHAKI TUNIC
§1
I cannot pretend to say how it all happened. I can but relate what
occurred, leaving those of my friends who are versed in psychic
matters to find a plausible explanation for the fact that on that
horrible foggy afternoon I chanced to walk into that blameless
teashop at that particular hour.
Now, I had not been inside a teashop for years, and I had almost
ceased to think of the Old Man in the Corner--the weird, spook-like
creature with the baggy trousers, the huge horn-rimmed spectacles,
and the thin claw-like hands that went on fidgeting, fidgeting,
fidgeting with a piece of string, tying it with nervy deliberation
into innumerable and complicated knots.
And yet, when I walked into that teashop and saw him sitting in the
corner by the fire, I was hardly conscious of surprise, but I did not
think that he would recognise me. So I sat down at the next table to
him, and when I thought that he was most intent on fidgeting with his
piece of string, I stole surreptitious glances at him. The years
seemed to have passed him by; he was just the same; his face no more
wrinkled; his fingers were as agile and restless as they had been
when last I saw him twenty years ago.
Then all at once he spoke, just as he used to do, in the same cracked
voice with the dry, ironic chuckle.
"One of the most interesting cases it has ever been my good fortune
to investigate," he said. I had not realised that he had seen me,
and I gave such a startled jump that I spilt half a cup of tea on my
frock. With a long, bony finger he was pointing to a copy of the
_Express Post_, which lay beside his plate, and almost against my
will my eyes wandered to the flaring headline: "The Mystery of the
Khaki Tunic."
Then I looked up inquiringly at my pixy-like interlocutor. It never
occurred to me to make a conventional little speech about the lapse
of time since last we met; for the moment I had the feeling as if I
had seen him the day before.
"You are still interested in criminology, then?" I asked.
"More than ever," he replied with a bland smile, "and this case has
given me some of the most delightful moments I have ever experienced
in connection with my studies. I have watched the police committing
one blunder after another, and to-day, when they are completely
baffled and the public has started to write letters to the papers
about another undetected crime and another criminal at large, I am
having the time of my life."
"Of course, you have made up your mind," I retorted with what I felt
was withering sarcasm.
"I have arrived at the only possible solution of the mystery," he
replied, unperturbed, "and you will do the same when I have put the
facts clearly and logically before you. As for the police, let 'em
flounder," he went on complacently. "For me it has been an exciting
drama to watch from beginning to end. Every one of the characters in
it stands out before me like a clear-cut cameo.
"There was Miss Mary Clarke, a quiet, middle-aged woman who rented
Hardacres from Lord Foremeere. She had taken the place soon after
the Armistice, and ran a poultry farm there on a small scale with the
occasional assistance of her brother Arthur, an ex-officer in the
East Glebeshires, a young man who had an excellent war-record, but
who seemed, like so many other young men of his kind, to have fallen
into somewhat shiftless and lazy ways since the glorious peace.
"No doubt you know the geography of the place. The halfpenny papers
have been full of maps and plans of Hardacres. It is rather a lonely
house on the road between Langford and Barchester, about
three-quarters of a mile from Meere village. Meere Court is another
half-mile or so farther on, the house hidden by clumps of stately
trees, above which can be perceived the towers of Barchester
Cathedral.
"Very little seems to have been known about Miss Clarke in the
neighbourhood; she seemed to be fairly well-to-do and undoubtedly a
cut above the village folk, but, equally obviously, she did not
belong to the county set. Nor did she encourage visitors, not even
the vicar; she seldom went to church, and neither went to parties nor
ever asked any one to tea; she did most of her shopping herself, in
Meere, and sold her poultry and eggs to Mr. Brook, the local dealer,
who served all the best houses for miles around. Every morning at
seven o'clock a girl from the village, named Emily Baker, came in to
do the housework at Hardacres, and left again after the mid-day
dinner. Once a week regularly, Miss Clarke called at Meere Court.
Always on a Friday. She walked over in the afternoon, whatever the
weather, brought a large basket of eggs with her, and was shown,
without ever being kept waiting, straight into Lady Foremeere's
sitting-room. The interview lasted about ten minutes, sometimes
more, and then she would be shown out again.
"Mind you," the funny creature went on glibly, and raising a long,
pointed finger to emphasise his words, "no one seems to have thought
that there was anything mysterious about Miss Clarke. The fact that
'she kept 'erself to 'erself' was not in itself a sign of anything
odd about her. People, especially women, in outlying country
districts, often lead very self-centred, lonely lives; they arouse a
certain amount of curiosity when they first arrive in the
neighbourhood, but after a while gossip dies out if it is not fed,
and the hermit's estrangement from village life is tacitly accepted.
"On the other hand, Miss Clarke's brother Arthur was exceedingly
gregarious. He was a crack tennis player and an excellent dancer,
and these two accomplishments procured him his entrée into the best
houses in the county--houses which, before the war, when people were
more fastidious in the choice of their guests, would no doubt have
not been quite so freely opened to him.
"It was common gossip that Arthur was deeply in love with April St.
Jude, Lord Foremeere's beautiful daughter by a previous marriage, but
public opinion was unanimous in the assertion that there never could
be any question of marriage between an extemporary gentleman without
money or property of any kind and the society beauty who had been
courted by some of the smartest and richest men in London.
"Nor did Arthur Clarke enjoy the best of reputations in the
neighbourhood. He was over-fond of betting and loafing about the
public-houses of Barchester. People said, that he might help his
sister in the farm more than he did, seeing that he did not appear to
have a sixpence of his own, and that she gave him bed and board, but
as he was very good-looking and could make himself very agreeable if
he chose, the women, at any rate, smiled at his misdeeds and were
content to call Arthur 'rather wild, but not really a bad boy.'
"Then came the tragedy.
"On the twenty-eighth of December last, when Emily Baker came to work
as usual, she was rather surprised not to see or hear Miss Clarke
moving about the place. As a rule she was out in the yard by the
time Emily arrived; the chickens would have had their hot mash and
the empty pans would have been left for Emily to wash up. But this
morning nothing. In the girl's own words there was a creepy kind of
lonely feeling about the house. She knew that Mr. Clarke was not at
home. The day before the servants at Meere Court had their annual
Christmas party, and Mr. Clarke had been asked to help with the tree
and to entertain the children. He had announced his intention of
putting up afterwards at the Deanery Hotel for the night, a thing he
was rather fond of doing whenever he was asked out to parties and did
not know what time he might be able to get away.
"Emily, when she arrived, had found the front door on the latch, as
usual, therefore, she reflected, Miss Clarke must have been
downstairs and drawn the bolts. But where could she be now? Never,
never would she have gone out before feeding her chickens, on such a
cold morning, too!
"At this point Emily gave up reflecting, and proceeded to action.
She went up to her mistress's room. It was empty, and the bed had
not been slept in. Genuinely alarmed now, she ran down again, her
next objective being the parlour. The door was, as usual, locked on
the outside, but, contrary to precedent, the key was not in the lock;
thinking it had dropped out, the girl searched for it, but in vain,
and at one moment, when she moved the small mat which stood before
the door of the locked room, she at once became aware of an
over-powering smell of gas.
"This proved the death-blow to Emily's fortitude; she took to her
heels and ran out of the house and down the road toward the village,
nor did she halt until she came to the local police-station, where
she gave as coherent an account as she could of the terrible state of
things at Hardacres.
"You will remember that when the police broke open the door of the
parlour, the first thing they saw was the body of Miss Clarke lying
full-length on the floor. The poor woman was quite dead, suffocated
by the poisonous fumes of gas which was fully turned on in the
old-fashioned chandelier above her head. The one window had been
carefully latched, and the thick curtains closely drawn together; the
chimney had been stuffed up with newspaper and paper had been thrust
into every aperture so as to exclude the slightest possible breath of
air. There was a wad of it in the keyhole, and the mat on the
landing outside had been carefully arranged against the door with the
same sinister object.
"The news spread like wildfire and soon the entire neighbourhood was
gloating over a sensation the like of which had not come its way for
generations past."
§2
"The London evening papers got hold of the story for their noonday
edition," the Old Man in the Corner went on, after a slight pause,
"and I with my passion for the enigmatical and the perplexing, made
up my mind then and there to probe the mystery on my own account,
because I knew well enough that this was just the sort of case which
would send the county police blundering all over the wrong track.
"I arrived at Barchester on the Tuesday, in time for the inquest, but
nothing of much importance transpired that day. Medical evidence
went to prove that the deceased had first been struck on the back of
the head by some heavy instrument, a weighted stick or something of
the sort, which had no doubt stunned her, but she actually died of
gas poisoning, which she inhaled in large quantities while she was
half-conscious. The medical officer went on to say that Miss Clarke
must have been dead twelve hours or more when he was called in by the
police at about eight o'clock in the morning.
"After this, a couple of neighbours testified to having seen Miss
Clarke at her front door at about half-past five the previous
evening. It was a very dark night, if you remember, and a thick
Scotch mist was falling. When the neighbours went by, Miss Clarke
had apparently just introduced a visitor into her house, the gas was
alight in the small hall, and they had vaguely perceived the outline
of a man or woman, they could not swear which, in a huge coat,
standing for a moment immediately behind Miss Clarke; the neighbours
also heard Miss Clarke's voice speaking to her visitor, but what she
said they could not distinguish. The weather was so atrocious that
every one who was abroad that night hurried along without taking much
notice of what went on around.
"Evidence of a more or less formal character followed, and the
inquest was then adjourned until the Friday, every one going away
with the feeling that sensational developments were already in the
air.
"And the developments came tumbling in thick and fast. To begin
with, it appears that Arthur Clarke, when first questioned by the
police, had made a somewhat lame statement.
"'I was asked,' he said, 'to help with the servants' Christmas party
at Meere Court. I walked over to Barchester at about three o'clock
in the afternoon, with my suit-case, as I was going to spend the
night at the Deanery Hotel. I went on to Meere Court soon after
half-past three, and stayed until past seven; after which I walked
back to the Deanery, had some dinner, and went early to bed. I never
knew that anything had happened to my sister until the police
telephoned to me soon after eight o'clock the next morning. And,' he
added, 'that's all about it!'
"But it certainly was not 'all about it,' because several of the
servants at Meere Court who were asked at what time Mr. Clarke went
away that night, said that he must have gone very soon after five
o'clock. They all finished their tea about that time, and then the
gramophone was set going for dancing; they were quite sure that they
had not seen Mr. Clarke after that.
"On the other hand, Miss St. Jude said that the servants were
mistaken; they were far too deeply engrossed in their own amusements
to be at all reliable in their statements. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Clarke went away, as he said, at about seven o'clock; she herself had
danced with him most of the time, and said good-night to him in the
hall at a few minutes after seven.
"Here was a neat little complication, do you see--a direct conflict
of evidence at the very outset of this mysterious case. Can you
wonder that amateur detectives already shrugged their shoulders and
raised their eyebrows, declaring that the Hon. April St. Jude was
obviously in love with Arthur Clarke, and was trying to shield him,
well knowing that he had something to hide.
"Of course the police themselves were very reticent, but even they
could not keep people from gossiping. And gossip, I can assure you,
had enough and to spare to feed on. At first, of course, the crime
had seemed entirely motiveless. The deceased had not an enemy, or,
as far as that goes, many acquaintances in the world. In the drawer
of the desk, in the parlour, the sum of twenty pounds odd in notes
and cash were found, and in a little box by the side of the money
poor Mary Clarke's little bits of jewellery.
"But twenty-four hours later no one could remain in doubt as to the
assassin's purpose. You will remember that on the day following the
adjourned inquest there had arrived from the depths of Yorkshire an
old sister of the deceased, a respectable spinster, to whom Arthur
himself, it seems, had communicated the terrible news. She had come
to Barchester for the funeral. This elder Miss Clarke, Euphemia by
name, though she could not say much that was informative, did, at any
rate, throw light upon one dark passage in her sister's history.
"'For the past four years,' she told the police, 'my sister had an
allowance of four pounds a week from a member of the aristocracy. I
did not know much about her affairs, but I do know that she had a
packet of letters on which she set great store. What these letters
were I have not the slightest idea, nor do I know what Mary
ultimately did with them. On one occasion, before she was actually
settled at Hardacres, she met me in London and asked me to take care
of this packet for her, and she told me then that they were very
valuable. I also know that she and my brother Arthur had most heated
arguments together on the subject of these letters. Arthur was
always wanting her to give them up to him, and she always refused.
On one occasion she told me that she could, if she wanted, sell that
packet of letters for five thousand pounds. "Why on earth don't
you?" I asked her. But she replied: "Oh, Arthur would only get the
money out of me! It's better as it is."'
"This story, as you may well imagine, gave food enough for gossip; at
once a romance was woven of blackmail and drama of love and passion,
whilst the name of a certain great lady in the neighbourhood, to whom
Miss Clarke had been in the habit of paying mysterious weekly visits,
already was on everybody's lips.
"And then the climax came. By evening it had transpired that in
Arthur Clarke's room at Hardacres, the detectives had found an old
khaki tunic stuffed away at the bottom of a drawer, and in the pocket
of the tunic the key of the locked parlour door. It was an officer's
tunic, which had at some time had its buttons and badges taken off;
its right sleeve was so torn that it was nearly out at its armhole;
the cuff was all crumpled, as if it had been crushed in a damp, hot
hand, and there was a small piece of the cloth torn clean out of it.
And I will leave you to guess the importance of this fact--in the
tightly-clenched hand of the murdered woman was found the small piece
of khaki cloth which corresponded to a hair's-breadth with the
missing bit in the sleeve of the tunic.
"After that the man in the street shook his head and declared that
Arthur Clarke was as good as hung already."
§3
The Old Man in the Corner had drawn out of his capacious pocket a
fresh piece of string. And now his claw-like fingers started to work
on it with feverish intentness. I watched him, fascinated, well
knowing that his keen mind was just as busy with the Hardacres
mystery as were his hands in the fashioning of some intricate and
complicated knot.
"I am not," he said after a while, "going to give you an elaborate
description of the inquest and of the crowds that collected both
inside and out of the court-room, hoping to get a glimpse of the
principal actors in the exciting drama. By now, of course, all those
who had talked of the crime being without apparent motive had
effectually been silenced. To every amateur detective, as well as to
the professional, the murderer and his nefarious object appeared
absolutely revealed to the light of day. Every indication, every
scrap of evidence collected up to this hour, both direct and
circumstantial, pointed to Arthur Clarke as the murderer of his
sister. There were the letters, which were alleged to be worth five
thousand pounds, to the mysterious member of the aristocracy who was
paying Miss Clarke a weekly pittance, obviously in order to silence
her; there was the strong love motive--the young man in love with the
girl far above him in station and wanting to get hold of a large sum
of money, no doubt, to embark on some profitable business which might
help him in his wooing; and there, above all, was the damning bit of
khaki cloth in the murdered woman's hand, and the tunic with the key
of the locked door in its pocket found in a drawer in Clarke's own
room.
"No, indeed, the inquest was not likely to be a dull affair, more
especially as no one doubted what the verdict would be, whilst a good
many people anticipated that Clarke would at once be arrested on the
coroner's warrant and committed for trial at the next assizes on the
capital charge.
"But though we all knew that the inquest would not be dull, yet we
were not prepared for the surprises which were in store for us, and
which will render that inquest a memorable one in the annals of
criminal investigation. To begin with we already knew that Arthur
Clarke had now the assistance of Mr. Markham, one of the leading
solicitors of Barchester, in his difficult position. Acting on that
gentleman's advice Clarke had amplified the statement which he had
originally made as to his movements on the fatal afternoon. This
amplified statement he now reiterated on oath, and though frankly no
one believed him, we were bound to admit that if he could
substantiate it, an extraordinary complication would arise, which
though it might not eventually clear him altogether, in the minds of
thinking people, would at any rate give him the benefit of the doubt.
What he now stated was in substance this:
"'The servants at Meere Court,' he said, 'are quite right when they
say that I left the party soon after five o'clock. I was rather
tired, and after a last dance with Miss St. Jude, I went upstairs to
pay my respects to Lady Foremeere. Her ladyship, however, kept me
talking for some considerable time on one subject and another, until,
to my astonishment, I saw that it was close on seven o'clock, when I
hastily took my leave.
"'While I was looking for my coat in the hall, I remember that Lord
Foremeere came out of the smoking-room and asked me if I knew whether
the party downstairs had broken up. "These things are such a bore,"
he said, "but I will see if I can get one of them to come up and show
you out." I told his lordship not to trouble. However, he rang the
bell, and presently the butler, Spinks, came through from the
servants' quarters, and his lordship then went upstairs, I think. A
minute or two later Miss St. Jude came, also from the servants'
quarters; she sent Spinks away, telling him that she would look after
me; we talked together for a few moments, and then I said good-night,
and went straight back to the hotel.'
"Now we had already learned from both the hall-porter and the head
waiter at the Deanery that Mr. Clarke was back at the hotel soon
after seven o'clock, that he had his dinner in the restaurant at
half-past, and that after spending an hour or so in the lounge after
dinner, he went up to his room, and did not go out again until the
following morning. Therefore, all that was needed now was a
confirmatory statement from Lady Foremeere to prove Arthur Clarke's
innocence, because in that case every hour of his time would be
accounted for, from half-past three onwards, whilst Miss Clarke was
actually seen alive by two neighbours when she introduced a visitor
into her house at half-past five.
"The question would then resolve itself into, Who was that visitor?
leaving the more important one of the khaki tunic as a baffling
mystery, rather than as damning evidence.
"The entire courtroom was on the tiptoe of expectation when Lady
Foremeere was formally called. I can assure you that the ubiquitous
pin could have been heard to drop during the brief moment's silence
when the elegant Society woman stood up and disposed her exquisite
sable cape about her shoulders and then swore to tell the whole truth
and nothing but the truth.
"She answered the coroner's questions in a clear, audible voice, and
never wavered in her assertions. She said that her step-daughter had
come up to her boudoir and asked her if she would see Mr. Arthur
Clarke for a few moments; he had something very important to say to
her.
"'I was rather surprised at the strange request,' Lady Foremeere
continued with the utmost composure, 'and suggested that Mr. Clarke
should make his important communication to Lord Foremeere, but my
step-daughter insisted, and to please her I agreed. I thought that I
would get my husband to be present at this mysterious interview, but
his lordship was having a short rest in the smoking-room, so on
second consideration I decided not to disturb him.
"'A minute or two later, Mr.--er--Clarke presented himself, and at
once I realised that he had had too much to drink. He talked wildly
about his desire to marry Miss St. Jude, and very excitedly about
some compromising letters which he alleged were in his possession,
and which he threatened to show to Lord Foremeere if I did not at
once give him so many thousand pounds. Naturally, I ordered him out
of the place. But he wouldn't go for a long time; he got more and
more incoherent and excited, and it was not until I threatened to
fetch Lord Foremeere immediately that he sobered down and finally
went away. He had been in my room about half an hour.'
"'About half an hour?' was the coroner's earnest comment on this
amazing piece of evidence, 'But Mr. Clarke said that when he left
your ladyship it was close on seven.'
"'Mr.--er--Clarke is in error,' her ladyship asserted firmly. 'The
clock had just struck half-past five when I succeeded in ridding
myself of him.'
"You can easily imagine how great was the excitement at this moment
and how intensified it became when Lord Foremeere gave evidence in
his turn and further confused the issues. He began by corroborating
Arthur Clarke's statement about his having spoken to him in the hall
at _seven o'clock_. It was almost unbelievable! Everybody gasped
and the coroner almost gave a jump:
"'But her ladyship has just told us,' he said, 'that Clarke left her
at half-past five!'
"'That, no doubt, is accurate,' Lord Foremeere rejoined in his stiff,
prim manner, 'since her ladyship said so. All I know is that I was
asleep in front of the fire in the smoking-room when I heard a loud
bang issuing from the hall. I went to see what it was and there I
certainly saw Clarke. He was just coming through the glass door
which divides the outside vestibule from the hall, and he appeared to
me to have come straight out of the wet and to have left his hat and
coat in the outer vestibule.'
"'But,' the coroner insisted, 'what made your lordship think that he
had come from outside?'
"'Well, for one thing his face and hands were quite wet, and he was
wiping them with his handkerchief when I first caught sight of him.
His boots, too, were wet, and so were the edges of his trousers. And
then, as I said, he was coming into the hall from the outer
vestibule, and it was the banging of the front door which had roused
me.'
"'And the hour then was?'
"'The clock had not long since struck seven. But my butler will be
able to confirm this.'
"And Spinks the butler did confirm this portion of his lordship's
statement, though he could say nothing about Mr. Clarke's boots being
wet, nor did he help Mr. Clarke on with his coat and hat, or open the
door for him. Miss St. Jude had practically followed Spinks into the
hall, and had at once dismissed him, saying she would look after Mr.
Clarke. His lordship in the meanwhile had gone upstairs, and Spinks
went back into the servants' hall.
"Of course, Miss St. Jude was called. You remember that she had
previously stated that Clarke had only left the party at about seven
o'clock, that she herself had danced with him most of the time until
then, and finally said good-bye to him in the hall. But as this
statement was not even corroborated by Clarke's own assertions, and
entirely contradicted by both Lord and Lady Foremeere's evidence, she
was fortunately advised not to repeat it on oath. But she hotly
denied the suggestion that Clarke had come in from outside when she
said good-bye to him in the hall. She saw him put on his hat and
coat, and they were quite dry. But nobody felt that her evidence was
of any value because she would naturally do her utmost to help her
sweetheart.
"Finally, one of the most interesting moments in that memorable
inquiry was reached when Lady Foremeere was recalled and asked to
state what she knew of Miss Clarke's antecedents.
"'Very little,' she replied. 'I only knew her in France when she
worked under me in a hospital. I was very ill at one time and she
nursed me devotedly; ever since that I helped her financially as much
as I could.'
"'You made her a weekly allowance?' her ladyship was asked.
"'Not exactly,' she replied. 'I just bought her eggs and poultry at
a higher figure than she would get from any one else.'
"'Do you know anything about some letters that she thought were so
valuable?'
"'Oh, yes!' the lady replied with a kindly smile. 'Mary had a
collection of autograph letters which she had collected whilst she
was nursing in France. Among them were some by august, and others by
very distinguished, personages. She had the idea that these were
extraordinarily valuable.'
"'Do you know what became of those letters?'
"'No,' her ladyship replied, 'I do not know.'
"'But there were other letters, were there not?' the coroner
insisted, 'in which you yourself were interested? The ones Mr.
Clarke spoke to you about?'
"'They existed only in Mr. Clarke's imagination, I fancy,' Lady
Foremeere replied, 'but he was in such a highly excited state that
afternoon that I really could not quite make out what it was that he
desired to sell to me.'
"Lady Foremeere spoke very quietly and very simply, without a single
note of spite or acerbity in her soft, musical voice. One felt that
she was stating quite simple facts that rather bored her, but to
which she did not attach any importance. And later on when Miss
Euphemia Clarke retold the story of the packet of letters and of the
quarrels which the deceased and her brother had about them, and when
the damning evidence of the khaki tunic stood out like an avenging
Nemesis pointing at the unfortunate young man, those in court who had
imagination, saw--positively saw--the hangman's rope tightening
around his neck."
§4
"And yet the verdict was one of wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown," I said, after a slight pause, waiting for the funny
creature to take up his narrative again.
"Yes," he replied, "Arthur Clarke has been cleared of every
suspicion. He left the court a free man. His innocence was proved
beyond question through what every one thought was the most damnatory
piece of evidence against him--the evidence of the khaki tunic. The
khaki tunic exonerated Arthur Clarke as completely as the most
skilful defender could do. Because it did not fit him. Arthur
Clarke was a rather heavy, full-grown, broad-shouldered man, the
khaki tunic would only fit a slim lad of eighteen. Clarke had
admitted the tunic was his, but he had never thought of examining it,
and certainly, not of trying it on. It was Miss St. Jude who thought
of that. Trust a woman in love for getting an inspiration.
"When she was called at the end of the day to affirm the statements
which she had previously made to the police and realised that these
statements of hers were actually in contradiction with Clarke's own
assertions, she worked herself up into a state bordering on hysteria,
in the midst of which she caught sight of the khaki tunic on the
coroner's table. Of course, she, like every one else in the
neighbourhood, knew all about the tunic, but when April St. Jude
actually saw it with her own eyes and realised what its existence
meant to her sweetheart, she gave a wild shriek.
"'I'll not believe it,' she cried, 'I'll not believe it. It can't
be. It is not Arthur's tunic at all.' Then her eyes dilated, her
voice sank to a hoarse whisper, and with a trembling hand she pointed
at the tunic. 'Why,' she murmured, 'it is so small--so small!
Arthur! Where is Arthur? Why does he not show them all that he
never could have worn that tunic?'
"Proverbially there is but a narrow dividing line between tragedy and
farce: While some people shuddered and gasped and men literally held
their breath, marvelling what would happen next, quite a number of
women fell into hysterical giggling. Of course you remember what
happened. The papers have told you all about it. Arthur Clarke was
made to try on the khaki tunic, and he could not even get his arms
into the sleeves. Under no circumstances could he ever have worn
that particular tunic. It was several sizes too small for him. Then
he examined it closely and recognised it as one he wore in his school
O.T.C. when he was a lad. When he was originally confronted with it,
he explained, he was so upset, so genuinely terrified at the
consequences of certain follies which he undoubtedly had committed,
that he could hardly see out of his eyes. The tunic was shown to
him, and he had admitted that it was his, for he had quite a
collection of old tunics which he had always kept. But for the
moment he had forgotten the one which he had worn more than eight
years ago at school.
"And so the khaki tunic, instead of condemning Clarke, had entirely
cleared him, for it now became quite evident that the miscreant who
had committed the dastardly murder had added this hideous act to his
greater crime, and deliberately set to work to fasten the guilt on an
innocent man. He had gone up to Clarke's room, opened the wardrobe,
picked up a likely garment, no doubt tearing a piece of cloth out of
it whilst so doing, and thus getting the fiendish idea of inserting
that piece of khaki between the fingers of the murdered woman.
Finally, after locking the parlour door, he put the key in the pocket
of the tunic and stuffed the latter in the bottom of a drawer.
"It was a clever and cruel trick which well nigh succeeded in hanging
an innocent man. As it is, it has enveloped the affair in an almost
impenetrable mystery. I say 'almost' because I know who killed Miss
Clarke, even though the public has thrown out an erroneous
conjecture. 'It was Lady Foremeere,' they say, 'who killed Miss
Clarke.' But at once comes the question: 'How could she?' And the
query: 'When?'
"Arthur Clarke says he was with her until seven, and after that hour
there were several members of her household who waited upon her,
notably her maid who it seems came up to dress her at about that
time, and she and Lord Foremeere sat down to dinner as usual at eight
o'clock.
"That there had been one or two dark passages in Lady Foremeere's
life, prior to her marriage four years ago, and that Miss Clarke was
murdered for the sake of letters which were in some way connected
with her ladyship were the only actual undisputable facts in that
mysterious case. That it was not Arthur Clarke who killed his sister
has been indubitably proved; that a great deal of the evidence was
contradictory every one has admitted. And if the police do not act
on certain suggestions which I have made to them, the Hardacres
murder will remain a mystery to the public to the end of time."
"And what are those suggestions?" I asked, without the slightest
vestige of irony, for, much against my will, the man's personality
exercised a curious fascination over me.
"To keep an eye on Lord Foremeere," the funny creature replied with
his dry chuckle, "and see when and how he finally disposes of a wet
coat, a dripping hat and soaked boots, which he has succeeded in
keeping concealed somewhere in the smoking-room, away from the prying
eyes even of his own valet."
"You mean----" I asked, with an involuntary gasp.
"Yes," he replied. "I mean that it was Lord Foremeere who murdered
Miss Clarke for the sake of those letters which apparently contained
matter that was highly compromising to his wife.
"Everything to my mind points to him as the murderer. Whether he
knew all along of the existence of the compromising letters, or
whether he first knew of this through the conversation between her
ladyship and Clarke the day of the servants' party, it is impossible
to say; certain it is that he did overhear that conversation and that
he made up his mind to end the impossible situation then and there,
and to put a stop once and for all to any further attempt at
blackmail.
"It was easy enough for him on that day to pass in and out of the
house unperceived. No doubt his primary object in going to Hardacres
was to purchase the letters from Miss Clarke, money down; perhaps she
proved obstinate, perhaps he merely thought that dead men tell no
tales. This we shall never know.
"After the hideous deed, which must have revolted his otherwise
fastidious senses, he must have become conscious of an overwhelming
hatred for the man who had, as it were, pushed him into crime, and my
belief is that the elaborate _mise en scène_ of the khaki tunic, and
the circumstantial lie that when he came out of the smoking-room
Arthur Clarke had obviously just come in from outside was invented,
not so much with the object of averting any suspicion from himself,
as with the passionate desire to be revenged on Clarke.
"Think it over," the Old Man in the Corner concluded, as he stuffed
his beloved bit of string into his capacious pocket; "time,
opportunity, motive, all are in favour of my theory, so do not be
surprised if the early editions of to-morrow's evening papers contain
the final sensation in this interesting case."
He was gone before I could say another word, and all that I saw of
him was his spook-like figure disappearing through the swing-door.
There was no one now in the place, so a moment or two later I too
paid my bill and went away.
§5
The Old Man in the Corner proved to be right in the end. At eleven
o'clock the next morning the street corners were full of newspaper
placards with the flaring headlines: "Sudden death of Lord Foremeere."
It was reported that on the previous evening his lordship was
examining a new automatic which he had just bought and explaining the
mechanism to his valet. At one moment he actually made the remark:
"It is all right, it isn't loaded," but apparently there was one
cartridge left in one of the chambers. His lordship, it seems, was
looking straight down the barrel and his finger must accidentally
have touched the trigger; anyway, according to the valet's story,
there was a sudden explosion, and Lord Foremeere fell shot right
between the eyes.
The verdict at the inquest was, of course, one of accidental death,
the coroner and jury expressing the greatest possible sympathy with
Lady Foremeere and Miss St. Jude. It was only subsequently that one
or two facts came to light which appeared obscure and unimportant to
the man in the street, but which for me, in the light of my
conversation with the Old Man in the Corner, bore special
significance.
It seems that an hour or two before the accident, the chief
superintendent of police had called with two constables at Meere
Court and were closeted for a considerable time with Lord Foremeere
in the smoking-room. And Spinks, the butler, who subsequently let
the three men out, noticed that one of the constables was carrying a
coat and a hat, which Spinks knew were old ones belonging to his
lordship.
Then I knew that the funny creature in the loud check tweeds and
baggy trousers had found the true solution of the Hardacres mystery.
Oh, and you wish to know what was the sequel to the pretty love story
between April St. Jude and Arthur Clarke. Well, you know, she
married Amos Rottenberg, the New York banker, last year, and Clarke
runs a successful garage now somewhere in the North. A kind friend
must have lent him the capital wherewith to make a start. I can make
a shrewd guess who that kind friend was.
II
THE MYSTERY OF THE INGRES MASTERPIECE
§1
I did not see the Old Man in the Corner for several weeks after that
strange meeting in the blameless teashop. The exigencies of my work
kept me busy, and somehow the sensational suicide of Lord Foremeere
which had appeared like the logical sequence of the spook-like
creature's deductions, had left a painful impression on my mind.
Entirely illogically, I admit, I felt that the Old Man in the Corner
had had something to do with the tragedy.
But when in March of that year we were all thrilled by the mystery of
the valuable Ingres picture, and wherever one went one heard
conjectures and explanations of that extraordinary case, my thoughts
very naturally reverted to the funny creature and his bit of string,
and I found myself often wondering what his explanation of what
seemed a truly impenetrable mystery could possibly be.
The facts certainly were very puzzling in themselves. When first I
was deputed by the _Express Post_ to put them clearly and succinctly
before its readers, I found the task strangely difficult; this, for
the simple reason that I myself could not see daylight through it
all, and often did I stand in front of the admirable reproduction
which I possess of the Ingres "La Fiancée" wondering if those smiling
lips would not presently speak and tell me how an original and
exquisite picture could possibly have been at two different places at
one and the same time.
For that, in truth, was the depth of the puzzle. We will, if you
please, call the original owners of the picture the Duc and Duchesse
Paul de Rochechouart. That, of course, is not their name, but, as
you all know who they really are, it matters not what I call them for
the purpose of recording their singular adventure.
His Grace had early in life married a Swedish lady of great talent
and singular beauty. She was an artist of no mean order, having
exhibited pictures of merit both at the Paris Salon and at the Royal
Academy in London; she was also an accomplished musician, and had
published one or two very charming volumes of poetry.
The Duke and his wife were devoted to one another; they lived for the
greater part of the year at their beautiful château on the Oise, not
far from Chantilly, and here they entertained a great deal, more
after the homely and hospitable manner of English country houses than
in the more formal fashion. Here, too, they had collected some rare
furniture, tapestries, and objects of art and vertu, amongst which
certain highly-prized pictures of the French School of the Nineteenth
Century.
The war, we may imagine, left the Duc de Rochechouart and his
charming wife a good deal poorer, as it left most other people in
France, and soon it became known amongst the art dealers of London,
Paris and New York that they had decided to sell one or two of their
most valuable pictures; foremost amongst these was the celebrated "La
Fiancée" by Ingres.
Immediately there was what is technically known as a ramp after the
picture. Dealers travelled backwards and forwards from all the great
Continental cities to the château on the Oise to view the picture.
Offers were made for it by cable, telegram and telephone, and the
whole art world was kept in a flutter over what certainly promised to
be a sensational deal.
Alas! as with most of the beautiful possessions of this impoverished
old world, the coveted prize was destined to go to the country that
had the longest purse. A certain Mr. Aaron Jacobs, the Chicago
multi-millionaire, presently cabled an offer of half a million
dollars for the picture, an offer which, rumour had it, the Duc de
Rochechouart had since accepted. Mr. Jacobs was said to be a
charming, highly-cultured man, a great art connoisseur and a great
art lover, and presently one heard that he had already set sail for
Europe with the intention of fetching away his newly-acquired
treasure himself.
On the very day following Mr. Jacobs's arrival as the guest of the
Duc and Duchesse de Rochechouart at the latter's château, the
world-famous picture was stolen in broad daylight by a thief or
thieves who contrived to make away with their booty without leaving
the slightest clue, so it was said, that might put the police on
their track. The picture was cut clean out of the frame, an
operation which must have taken at least two or three minutes. It
always used to hang above the tall chimneypiece in the Duchesse's
studio, but that self-same morning it had been lifted down and placed
on an easel in the dining-hall, no doubt for closer inspection by the
purchaser. This easel stood in a corner of the hall, close to one of
the great windows that overlooked the gardens of the château.
The amazing point in this daring theft was that a garden fête and
tennis tournament were in progress at the time. A crowd of guests
was spread all over the lawns and grounds in full view of the windows
of the hall, and, as far as the preliminary investigations were able
to establish, there were not more than twenty or twenty-five minutes
at most during which some servant or other inmate of the château had
not either actually been through the hall or had occasion to observe
the windows.
The dining-hall itself has monumental doors which open on the great
central vestibule, and immediately facing it similar doors give on
the library. The marble vestibule runs right through the centre of
the main building, it has both a front and a garden entrance, and all
the reception rooms open out of it, right and left. Close to the
front door entrance is one of the main ways into the kitchens and
offices.
Now right away until half-past four on that fateful afternoon the
servants were up and down the vestibule, busy with arrangements for
tea which they were serving outside on the lawns. The tennis
tournament was then drawing to a close, the Duchesse was on the lawn
with her guests, dispensing tea, and at half-past four precisely the
Duc de Rochechouart came into the château by way of the garden
entrance, went across the vestibule and into the library to fetch the
prizes which were to be distributed to the victors in the tournament,
and which were locked up in his desk. The doors of the dining-hall
were wide open and the Duc walking past them peeped into the room.
The picture was in its place then, and he gave a glance at it as he
passed, conscious of a pang of regret at the thought that he must
needs part with this precious treasure. It took the Duc some little
time to sort the prizes, and as in the meanwhile the afternoon post
had come in and a few letters had been laid on his desk, he could not
resist the desire to glance through his correspondence. On the whole
he thought that he might have been in the library about a quarter of
an hour or perhaps more. He had closed the door when he entered the
room, and when he came out again he certainly noticed that the doors
of the dining-hall were shut. But there was nothing in this to
arouse his suspicions, and with the neatly tied parcels containing
the prizes under his arm, he recrossed the vestibule and went once
more into the garden.
At five o'clock M. Amédé, the chief butler, had occasion to go into
the dining-hall to fetch a particular silver tray which he required.
He owned to being astonished at finding the doors closed, because he
had been past them a quarter of an hour before that and they were
wide open then. However, he entered the room without any serious
misgivings, but the next moment he nearly fainted with horror at
sight of the empty frame upon the easel. The very first glance had
indeed revealed the nefarious deed. The picture had not been moved
out of its frame, it was the canvas that had been cut. M. Amédé,
however, knowing what was due to his own dignity did not disturb the
entire household then and there; he made his way quietly back into
the garden where the distribution of prizes after the tournament was
taking place and, seizing a favourable opportunity, he caught M. le
Duc's eye and imparted to him the awful news.
Even so nothing was said until after the guests had departed. By the
Duc's orders the doors leading into the dining-hall were locked, and
to various enquiries after the masterpiece made by inquisitive
ladies, the evasive answer was given that the picture was in the
hands of the packers.
There remained the house party, which, of course, included Mr. Aaron
Jacobs. There were also several ladies and gentlemen staying at the
château, and before they all went up to their rooms to dress for
dinner, they were told what had happened. In the meanwhile the
police had already been sent for, and M. le Commissaire was
conducting his preliminary investigations. The rooms and belongings
of all the servants were searched, and, with the consent of the
guests themselves, this search was extended to their rooms. A work
of art worth half a million dollars could not thus be allowed to
disappear and the thief to remain undetected for the sake of social
conventions, and as the law stands in France any man may be guilty of
a crime until he be proved innocent.
§2
The theft of the Ingres masterpiece was one of those cases which
interest the public in every civilised country, and here in England
where most people are bitten with the craze for criminal
investigation it created quite a sensation in its way.