"Why? Because you're going to have five thousand pounds. I'm not
going to pay you and do the dirty work myself. Off with every
rag--the jewels you can keep for yourself."
Still the Indian hesitated. "But why should we strip the body?"
he said.
"Why?--to put those rags on it."
"And then?"
"Well, then all we've got to do is wait till there isn't a soul
about and then pop the body outside on the doorstep."
"But the police--they will make inquiries."
"The police will do nothing of the sort. A wretched, ragged outcast
will be found on a doorstep dead. She will be taken to the mortuary
and a post-mortem made. The cause of death will be found to be
starvation and drink, and the body will be buried. The law doesn't
trouble itself about paupers found dead on a doorstep."
"Ah!" exclaimed Aleem, "that is what you wanted with those rags then?"
"Yes. Now, then, let me see what sort of a lady's maid you make."
At that moment the corpse moved slightly under the scarlet blanket.
Barraclough sprang back. "You fool--she's _not_ dead!" he cried.
"No," exclaimed Inspector Stromberg, leaping up and flinging the
blanket from him. "We're all very much alive."
At the same moment the sacking in the corner lifted up, and the
plain-clothes officer slipped from under it, and Dorcas, pushing
the door open, ran into the room.
"Mr. Barraclough," said the Inspector. "I arrest you on a charge of
attempting to murder your wife, Marian Judkins."
The millionaire grasped the situation in a moment.
"You infernal traitor!" he hissed at the mild Mohammed. "I'll--
I'll----"
In a moment the two officers had him by the arms.
"Come along," said the Inspector. "We'll get a four-wheeler to the
door. I presume you haven't got your brougham waiting outside?"
As the men went downstairs with their prisoner, Dorcas nodded
pleasantly to the Inspector.
"Thank you so much," she said, "for helping me to find out what
those clothes in the cupboard were for." Then she turned to me and
said, "You've had twenty-four hours' excitement straight off--you
must be tired. Go home and go to bed."
"And you?"
"I'm going to Berkeley Square to tell the lady this scoundrel
married that she is a free woman, and to offer her my sincere
congratulations."
_X. THE HAVERSTOCK HILL MURDER_
The blinds had been down at the house in Oak Tree Road and the house
shut for nearly six weeks. I had received a note from Dorcas saying
that she was engaged on a case which would take her away for some
little time, and that as Paul had not been very well lately she had
arranged that he and her mother should accompany her. She would
advise me as soon as they returned. I called once at Oak Tree Road
and found it was in charge of the two servants and Toddlekins, the
bulldog. The housemaid informed me that Mrs. Dene had not written,
so that she did not know where she was or when she would be back,
but that letters which arrived for her were forwarded by her
instructions to Mr. Jackson, of Penton Street, King's Cross.
Mr. Jackson, I remembered, was the ex-police-sergeant who was
generally employed by Dorcas when she wanted a house watched or
certain inquiries made among tradespeople. I felt that it would be
unfair to go to Jackson. Had Dorcas wanted me to know where she was
she would have told me in her letter.
The departure had been a hurried one. I had gone to the North in
connection with a business matter of my own on a Thursday evening,
leaving Dorcas at Oak Tree Road, and when I returned on Monday
afternoon I found Dorcas's letter at my chambers. It was written on
the Saturday, and evidently on the eve of departure.
But something that Dorcas did not tell me I learned quite
accidentally from my old friend Inspector Swanage, of Scotland Yard,
whom I met one cold February afternoon at Kempton Park Steeplechases.
Inspector Swanage has a greater acquaintance with the fraternity
known as "the boys" than any other officer. He has attended race
meetings for years, and the "boys" always greet him respectfully,
though they wish him further. Many a prettily-planned coup of theirs
has he nipped in the bud, and many an unsuspecting greenhorn has he
saved from pillage by a timely whisper that the well-dressed young
gentlemen who are putting their fivers on so merrily and coming out
of the enclosure with their pockets stuffed full of bank-notes are
men who get their living by clever swindling, and are far more
dangerous than the ordinary vulgar pickpocket.
On one occasion not many years ago I found a well-known publisher at
a race meeting in earnest conversation with a beautifully-dressed,
grey-haired sportsman. The publisher informed me that his new
acquaintance was the owner of a horse which was certain to win the
next race, and that it would start at ten to one. Only in order not
to shorten the price nobody was to know the name of the horse, as
the stable had three in the race. He had obligingly taken a fiver
off the publisher to put on with his own money.
I told the publisher that he was the victim of a "tale-pitcher," and
that he would never see his fiver again. At that moment Inspector
Swanage came on the scene, and the owner of race horses disappeared
as if by magic. Swanage recognised the man instantly, and having
heard my publisher's story said, "If I have the man taken will you
prosecute?" The publisher shook his head. He didn't want to send his
authors mad with delight at the idea that somebody had eventually
succeeded in getting a fiver the best of him. So Inspector Swanage
strolled away. Half an hour later he came to us in the enclosure and
said, "Your friend's horse doesn't run, so he's given me that fiver
back again for you." And with a broad grin he handed my friend a
bank-note.
It was Inspector Swanage's skill and kindness on this occasion that
made me always eager to have a chat with him when I saw him at a race
meeting, for his conversation was always interesting.
The February afternoon had been a cold one, and soon after the
commencement of racing there were signs of fog. Now a foggy afternoon
is dear to the hearts of the "boys." It conceals their operations,
and helps to cover their retreat. As the fog came up the Inspector
began to look anxious, and I went up to him.
"You don't like the look of things?" I said.
"No, if this gets worse the band will begin to play--there are some
very warm members of it here this afternoon. It was a day just like
this last year that they held up a bookmaker going to the station,
and eased him of over £500. Hullo?"
As he uttered the exclamation the Inspector pulled out his race card
and seemed to be anxiously studying it.
But under his voice he said to me, "Do you see that tall man in a fur
coat talking to a bookmaker? See, he's just handed him a bank-note."
"Where?--I don't see him."
"Yonder. Do you see that old gipsy-looking woman with race cards?
She has just thrust her hand through the railings and offered one
to the man."
"Yes, yes--I see him now."
"That's Flash George. I've missed him lately, and I heard he was
broke, but he's in funds again evidently by his get-up."
"One of the boys?"
"Has been--but he's been on another lay lately. He was mixed up in
that big jewel case--£10,000 worth of diamonds stolen from a
demi-mondaine. He got rid of some of the jewels for the thieves, but
we could never bring it home to him. But he was watched for a long
time afterwards and his game stopped. The last we heard of him he
was hard up and borrowing from some of his pals. He's gone now. I'll
just go and ask the bookie what he's betting to."
The Inspector stepped across to the bookmaker and presently returned.
"He _is_ in luck again," he said. "He's put a hundred ready on the
favourite for this race. By the bye, how's your friend Mrs. Dene
getting on with her case?"
I confessed my ignorance as to what Dorcas was doing at the present
moment--all I knew was that she was away.
"Oh, I thought you'd have known all about it," said the Inspector.
"She's on the Hannaford case."
"What, the murder?"
"Yes."
"But surely that was settled by the police? The husband was arrested
immediately after the inquest."
"Yes, and the case against him was very strong, but we know that
Dorcas Dene has been engaged by Mr. Hannaford's family, who have
made up their minds that the police, firmly believing him guilty,
won't look anywhere else for the murderer of course they are
convinced of his innocence. But you must excuse me--the fog looks
like thickening, and may stop racing--I must go and put my men
to work."
"One moment before you go--why did you suddenly ask me how Mrs. Dene
was getting on? Was it anything to do with Flash George that put it
in your head?"
The Inspector looked at me curiously.
"Yes," he said, "though I didn't expect you'd see the connection. It
was a mere coincidence. On the night that Mrs. Hannaford was murdered
Flash George, who had been lost sight of for some time by our people,
was reported to have been seen by the Inspector who was going his
rounds in the neighbourhood. He was seen about half-past two o'clock
in the morning looking rather dilapidated and seedy. When the report
of the murder came in the Inspector at once remembered that he had
seen Flash George in Haverstock Hill. But there was nothing in it--
as the house hadn't been broken into and there was nothing stolen.
You understand now why seeing Flash George carried my train of
thought on to the Hannaford murder and Dorcas Dene. Good-bye."
The Inspector hurried away and a few minutes afterwards the favourite
came in alone for the second race on the card. The stewards
immediately afterwards announced that racing would be abandoned on
the account of the fog increasing, and I made my way to the railway
station and went home by the members' train.
Directly I reached home I turned eagerly to my newspaper file and
read up the Hannaford murder. I knew the leading features, but every
detail of it had now a special interest to me, seeing that Dorcas
Dene had taken the case up.
These were the facts as reported in the Press:
Early in the morning of January 5 a maid-servant rushed out of the
house, standing in its own grounds on Haverstock Hill, calling
"Murder!" Several people who were passing instantly came to her and
inquired what was the matter, but all she could gasp was, "Fetch a
policeman." When the policeman arrived he followed the terrified
girl into the house and was conducted to the drawing-room, where he
found a lady lying in her night-dress in the centre of the room
covered with blood, but still alive. He sent one of the servants
for a doctor, and another to the police-station to inform the
superintendent. The doctor came immediately and declared that the
woman was dying. He did everything that could be done for her, and
presently she partially regained consciousness. The superintendent
had by this time arrived, and in the presence of the doctor asked
her who had injured her.
She seemed anxious to say something, but the effort was too much for
her, and presently she relapsed into unconsciousness. She died two
hours later, without speaking.
The woman's injuries had been inflicted with some heavy instrument.
On making a search of the room the poker was found lying between the
fireplace and the body. The poker was found to have blood upon it,
and some hair from the unfortunate lady's head.
The servants stated that their master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs.
Hannaford, had retired to rest at their usual time, shortly before
midnight. The housemaid had seen them go up together. She had been
working at a dress which she wanted for next Sunday, and sat up
late, using her sewing-machine in the kitchen. It was one o'clock in
the morning when she passed her master and mistress's door, and she
judged by what she heard that they were quarrelling. Mr. Hannaford
was not in the house when the murder was discovered. The house was
searched thoroughly in every direction, the first idea of the police
being that he had committed suicide. The telegraph was then set to
work, and at ten o'clock a man answering to Mr. Hannaford's
description was arrested at Paddington Station, where he was taking
a ticket for Uxbridge.
Taken to the police-station and informed that he would be charged
with murdering his wife, he appeared to be horrified, and for some
time was a prey to the most violent emotion. When he had recovered
himself and was made aware of the serious position in which he stood,
he volunteered a statement. He was warned, but he insisted on making
it. He declared that he and his wife had quarrelled violently after
they had retired to rest. Their quarrel was about a purely domestic
matter, but he was in an irritable, nervous condition, owing to his
health, and at last he had worked himself up into such a state, that
he had risen, dressed himself, and gone out into the street. That
would be about two in the morning. He had wandered about in a
state of nervous excitement until daybreak. At seven he had gone into
a coffee-house and had breakfast, and had then gone into the park and
sat on a seat and fallen asleep. When he woke up it was nine o'clock.
He had taken a cab to Paddington, and had intended to go to Uxbridge
to see his mother, who resided there. Quarrels between himself and
his wife had been frequent of late, and he was ill and wanted
to get away, and he thought perhaps if he went to his mother for a
day or two he might get calmer and feel better. He had been very much
worried lately over business matters. He was a stockjobber, and the
market in the securities in which he had been speculating was
against him.
At the conclusion of the statement, which was made in a nervous,
excited manner, he broke down so completely that it was deemed
desirable to send for the doctor and keep him under close observation.
Police investigation of the premises failed to find any further clue.
Everything pointed to the supposition that the result of the quarrel
had been an attack by the husband--possibly in a sudden fit of
homicidal mania--on the unfortunate woman. The police suggestion was
that the lady, terrified by her husband's behaviour, had risen in
the night and run down the stairs to the drawing-room, and that he
had followed her there, picked up the poker, and furiously attacked
her. When she fell, apparently lifeless, he had run back to his
bedroom, dressed himself, and made his escape quietly from the
house. There was nothing missing so far as could be ascertained--
nothing to suggest in any way that any third party, a burglar from
outside or some person inside, had had anything to do with the matter.
The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder, and the
husband was charged before a magistrate and committed for trial. But
in the interval his reason gave way, and, the doctors certifying
that he was undoubtedly insane, he was sent to Broadmoor.
Nobody had the slightest doubt of his guilt, and it was his mother
who, broken-hearted, and absolutely refusing to believe in her son's
guilt, had come to Dorcas Dene and requested her to take up the case
privately and investigate it. The poor old lady declared that she was
perfectly certain that her son could not have been guilty of such a
deed, but the police were satisfied, and would make no further
investigation.
This I learnt afterwards when I went to see Inspector Swanage. All
I knew when I had finished reading up the case in the newspapers was
that the husband of Mrs. Hannaford was in Broadmoor, practically
condemned for the murder of his wife, and that Dorcas Dene had left
home to try and prove his innocence.
This history of the Hannafords as given in the public Press was as
follows: Mrs. Hannaford was a widow when Mr. Hannaford, a man of
six-and-thirty, married her. Her first husband was a Mr. Charles
Drayson, a financier, who had been among the victims of the fire at
the Paris Opéra Comique. His wife was with him in a loge that fatal
night. When the fire broke out they both tried to escape together.
They became separated in the crush. She was only slightly injured,
and succeeded in getting out; he was less fortunate. His gold watch,
a presentation one, with an inscription, was found among a mass of
charred, unrecognisable remains when the ruins were searched.
Three years after this tragedy the widow married Mr. Hannaford. The
death of her first husband did not leave her well off. It was found
that he was heavily in debt, and had he lived a serious charge of
fraud would undoubtedly have been preferred against him. As it was,
his partner, a Mr. Thomas Holmes, was arrested and sentenced to five
years' penal servitude in connection with a joint fraudulent
transaction.
The estate of Mr. Drayson went to satisfy the creditors, but
Mrs. Drayson, the widow, retained the house at Haverstock Hill,
which he had purchased and settled on her, with all the furniture
and contents, some years previously. She wished to continue living
in the house when she married again, and Mr. Hannaford consented,
and they made it their home. Hannaford himself, though not a wealthy
man, was a fairly successful stockjobber, and until the crisis, which
had brought on great anxiety and helped to break down his health, had
had no financial worries. But the marriage, so it was alleged, had
not been a very happy one and quarrels had been frequent. Old
Mrs. Hannaford was against it from the first, and to her her son
always turned in his later matrimonial troubles. Now that his life
had probably been spared by this mental breakdown, and he had been
sent to Broadmoor, she had but one object in life--to set her son
free, some day restored to reason, and with his innocence proved to
the world.
* * * * * * *
It was about a fortnight after my interview with Inspector Swanage,
and my study of the details of the Haverstock Hill murder, that one
morning I opened a telegram and to my intense delight found that it
was from Dorcas Dene. It was from London, and informed me that in
the evening they would be very pleased to see me at Oak Tree Road.
In the evening I presented myself about eight o'clock. Paul was
alone in the drawing-room when I entered, but his face and his voice
when he greeted me showed me plainly that he had benefited greatly
by the change.
"Where have you been, to look so well?" I asked. "The South of
Europe, I suppose--Nice or Monte Carlo?"
"No," said Paul smiling, "we haven't been nearly so far as that. But
I mustn't tell tales out of school. You must ask Dorcas."
At that moment Dorcas came in and gave me a cordial greeting.
"Well," I said, after the first conversational preliminaries, "who
committed the Haverstock Hill murder?"
"Oh, so you know that I have taken that up, do you? I imagined it
would get about through the Yard people. You see, Paul dear, how
wise I was to give out that I had gone away."
"Give out!" I exclaimed. "_Haven't_ you been away then?"
"No, Paul and mother have been staying at Hastings, and I have been
down whenever I have been able to spare a day, but as a matter of
fact I have been in London the greater part of the time."
"But I don't see the use of your pretending you were going away."
"I did it on purpose. I knew the fact that old Mrs. Hannaford had
engaged me would get about in certain circles, and I wanted certain
people to think that I had gone away to investigate some clue which
I thought I had discovered. In order to baulk all possible inquirers
I didn't even let the servants forward my letters. They went to
Jackson, who sent them on to me."
"Then you were really investigating in London?"
"Now shall I tell you where you heard that I was on this case?"
"Yes."
"You heard it at Kempton Park Steeplechases, and your informant was
Inspector Swanage."
"You have seen him and he has told you."
"No; I saw you there talking to him."
"_You_ saw me? You were at Kempton Park? I never saw you."
"Yes, you did, for I caught you looking full at me. I was trying to
sell some race cards just before the second race, and was holding
them between the railings of the enclosure."
"What! You were that old gipsy woman? I'm certain Swanage didn't
know you."
"I didn't want him to, or anybody else."
"It was an astonishing disguise. But come, aren't you going to tell
me anything about the Hannaford case? I've been reading it up, but
I fail entirely to see the slightest suspicion against anyone but
the husband. Everything points to his having committed the crime in
a moment of madness. The fact that he has since gone completely out
of his mind seems to me to show that conclusively."
"It is a good job he did go out of his mind--but for that I am
afraid he would have suffered for the crime, and the poor
broken-hearted old mother for whom I working would soon have
followed him to the grave."
"Then you don't share the general belief in his guilt?"
"I did at first, but I don't now."
"You have discovered the guilty party?"
"No--not yet--but I hope to."
"Tell me exactly all that has happened--there may still be a chance
for your 'assistant.'"
"Yes, it is quite possible that now I may be able to avail myself of
your services. You say you have studied the details of this case--
let us just run through them together, and see what you think of my
plan of campaign so far as it has gone. When old Mrs. Hannaford came
to me, her son had already been declared insane and unable to plead,
and had gone to Broadmoor. That was nearly a month after the
commission of the crime, so that much valuable time had been lost.
At first I declined to take the matter up--the police had so
thoroughly investigated the affair. The case seemed so absolutely
conclusive that I told her that it would be useless for her to incur
the heavy expense of a private investigation. But she pleaded so
earnestly--her faith in her son was so great--and she seemed such a
sweet, dear old lady, that at last she conquered my scruples, and I
consented to study the case, and see if there was the slightest
alternative theory to go on. I had almost abandoned hope, for there
was nothing in the published reports to encourage it, when I
determined to go to the fountain-head, and see the Superintendent
who had had the case in hand.
"He received me courteously, and told me everything. He was certain
that the husband committed the murder. There was an entire absence
of motive for anyone else in the house to have done it, and the
husband's flight from the house in the middle of the night was
absolutely damning. I inquired if they had found anyone who had seen
the husband in the street--anyone who could fix the time at which he
had left the house. He replied that no such witness had been found.
Then I asked if the policeman on duty that night had made any report
of any suspicious characters being seen about. He said No, the only
person he had noticed at all was a man well known to the police--a
man named Flash George. I asked what time Flash George had been seen
and whereabouts, and I ascertained that it was at half-past two in
the morning, and about a hundred yards below the scene of the crime,
that when the policeman spoke to him he said he was coming from
Hampstead, and was going to Covent Garden Market. He walked away in
the direction of the Chalk Farm Road. I enquired what Flash George's
record was, and I ascertained that he was the associate of thieves
and swindlers, and he was suspected of having disposed of some
jewels, the proceeds of a robbery which had made a nine days'
sensation. But the police had failed to bring the charge home to him,
and the jewels had never been traced. He was also a gambler, a
frequenter of racecourses and certain night-clubs of evil repute,
and had not been seen about for some time previous to that evening."
"And didn't the police make any further investigations in that
direction?"
"No. Why should they? There was nothing missing from the house--not
the slightest sign of an attempted burglary. All their efforts were
directed to proving the guilt of the unfortunate woman's husband."
"And you?"
"I had a different task--mine was to prove the husband's innocence.
I determined to find out something more of Flash George. I shut the
house up, gave out that I had gone away, and took, amongst other
things, to selling cards and pencils on racecourses. The day that
Flash George made his reappearance on the turf after a long absence
was the day he backed the winner of the second race at Kempton Park
for a hundred pounds."
"But surely that proves that if he had been connected with any crime
it must have been one in which money was obtained. No one has
attempted to associate the murder of Mrs. Hannaford with robbery."
"No. But one thing is certain--that on the night of the crime Flash
George was in the neighbourhood. Two days previously he had
borrowed a few pounds of a pal because he was 'stoney broke.' When
he reappears as a racing man he has on a fur coat, is evidently in
first-class circumstances, and he bets in hundred-pound notes. He is
a considerably richer man after the murder of Mrs. Hannaford than
he was before, and he was seen within a hundred yards of the house
at half-past two o'clock on the night that the crime was committed."
"That might have been a mere accident. His sudden wealth may be the
result of a lucky gamble, or a swindle of which you know nothing. I
can't see that it can possibly have any bearing on the Hannaford
crime, because nothing was taken from the house."
"Quite true. But here is a remarkable fact. When he went up to the
betting man he went to one who was betting close to the rails, and I
pushed my cards in between and asked him to buy one. Flash George is
a 'suspected character,' and quite capable on a foggy day of trying
to swindle a bookmaker. The bookmaker took the precaution to open
that note, it being for a hundred pounds, and examined it carefully.
That enabled me to see the number. I had sharpened pencils to sell,
and with one of them I hastily took down the number of that note----
²ₓ❘35421."
"That was clever. And you have traced it?"
"Yes."
"And has that furnished you with any clue?"
"It has placed me in possession of a most remarkable fact. The
hundred-pound note which was in Flash George's possession on Kempton
Park racecourse was one of a number which were paid over the counter
of the Union Bank of London for a five-thousand-pound cheque over
seven years ago. And that cheque was drawn by the murdered woman's
husband."
"Mr. Hannaford!"
"No; her first husband--Mr. Charles Drayson."
_XI. THE BROWN BEAR LAMP_
When Dorcas Dene told me that the £100 note Flash George had handed
to the bookmaker at Kempton Park was one which had some years
previously been paid to Mr. Charles Drayson, the first husband of
the murdered woman, Mrs. Hannaford, I had to sit still and think
for a moment.
It was curious certainly, but after all much more remarkable
coincidences than that occur daily. I could not see what practical
value there was in Dorcas's extraordinary discovery, because
Mr. Charles Drayson was dead, and it was hardly likely that his wife
would have kept a £100 note of his for several years. And if she had,
she had not been murdered for that, because there were no signs of
the house having been broken into. The more I thought the business
over the more confused I became in my attempt to establish a clue
from it, and so after a minute's silence I frankly confessed to
Dorcas that I didn't see where her discovery led to.
"I don't say that it leads very far by itself," said Dorcas. "But
you must look at _all_ the circumstances. During the night of
January 5 a lady is murdered in her own drawing-room. Round about
the time that the attack is supposed to have been made upon her a
well-known bad character is seen close to the house. That person,
who just previously has been ascertained to have been so hard up
that he had been borrowing of his associates, reappears on the
turf a few weeks later expensively dressed and in possession of
money. He bets with a £100 note, and that £100 note I have traced
to the previous possession of the murdered woman's first husband,
who lost his life in the Opéra Comique disaster in Paris, while on
a short visit to that capital."
"Yes, it certainly is curious, but----"
"Wait a minute--I haven't finished yet. Of the bank-notes--several of
them for £100--which were paid some years ago to Mr. Charles Drayson,
not one had come back to the bank _before_ the murder.
"Indeed!"
"Since the murder _several_ of them have come in. Now, is it not a
remarkable circumstance that during all those years £5,000 worth of
bank-notes should have remained out!"
"It is remarkable, but after all bank-notes circulate--they may
pass through hundreds of hands before returning to the bank."
"Some may, undoubtedly, but it is highly improbable that _all_ would
under ordinary circumstances--especially notes for £100. These are
sums which are not passed from pocket to pocket. As a rule they go
to the bank of one of the early receivers of them, and from that
bank into the Bank of England."
"You mean that is an extraordinary fact that for many years not one
of the notes paid to Mr. Charles Drayson by the Union Bank came back
to the Bank of England."
"Yes, that _is_ an extraordinary fact, but there is a fact which is
more extraordinary still, and that is that soon after the murder of
Mrs. Hannaford that state of things ceases. It looks as though the
murderer had placed the notes in circulation again."
"It does, certainly. Have you traced back any of the other notes
that have come in?"
"Yes; but they have been cleverly worked. They have nearly all been
circulated in the betting ring; those that have not have come in
from money-changers in Paris and Rotterdam. My own belief is that
before long the whole of those notes will come back to the bank."
"Then, my dear Dorcas, it seems to me that your course is plain, and
you ought to go to the police and get them to get the bank to
circulate a list of the notes."
Dorcas shook her head. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm going to carry
this case through on my own account. The police are convinced that
the murderer is Mr. Hannaford, who is at present in Broadmoor, and
the bank has absolutely no reason to interfere. No question has been
raised of the notes having been stolen. They were paid to the man
who died over seven years ago, not to the woman who was murdered
last January."
"But you have traced one note to Flash George, who is a bad lot, and
he was near the house on the night of the tragedy. You suspect Flash
George and----"
"I do not suspect Flash George of the actual murder," she said, "and
I don't see how he is to be arrested for being in possession of a
bank-note which forms no part of the police case, and which he might
easily say he had received in the betting ring."
"Then what _are_ you going to do?"
"Follow up the clue I have. I have been shadowing Flash George all
the time I have been away. I know where he lives--I know who are
his companions."
"And do you think the murderer is among them?"
"No. They are all a little astonished at his sudden good fortune. I
have heard them 'chip' him, as they call it, on the subject. I have
carried my investigations up to a certain point and there they stop
short. I am going a step further to-morrow evening, and it is in
that step that I want assistance."
"And you have come to me?" I said eagerly.
"Yes."
"What do you want me to do?"
"To-morrow morning I am going to make a thorough examination of the
room in which the murder was committed. To-morrow evening I have to
meet a gentleman of whom I know nothing but his career and his name.
I want you to accompany me."
"Certainly; but if I am your assistant in the evening I shall expect
to be your assistant in the morning--I should very much like to
see the scene of the crime."
"I have no objection. The house on Haverstock Hill is at present
shut up and in charge of a caretaker, but the solicitors who are
managing the late Mrs. Hannaford's estate have given me permission
to go over it and examine it."
The next day at eleven o'clock I met Dorcas outside Mrs. Hannaford's
house, and the caretaker, who had received his instructions,
admitted us.
He was the gardener, and an old servant, and had been present during
the police investigation.
The bedroom in which Mr. Hannaford and his wife slept on the fatal
night was on the floor above. Dorcas told me to go upstairs, shut
the door, lie down on the bed, and listen. Directly a noise in the
room attracted my attention, I was to jump up, open the door and
call out.
I obeyed her instructions and listened intently, but lying on the
bed I heard nothing for a long time. It must have been quite a
quarter of an hour when suddenly I heard a sound as of a door
opening with a cracking sound. I leapt up, ran to the balusters,
and called over, "I heard that!"
"All right, then, come down," said Dorcas, who was standing in the
hall with the caretaker.
She explained to me that she had been moving about the drawing-room
with the man, and they had both made as much noise with their feet
as they could. They had even opened and shut the drawing-room door,
but nothing had attracted my attention. Then Dorcas had sent the man
to open the front door. It had opened with the cracking sound that I
had heard.
"Now," said Dorcas to the caretaker, "you were here when the police
were coming and going--did the front door always make a sound like
that?"
"Yes, madam. The door had swollen or warped, or something, and it
was always difficult to open. Mrs. Hannaford spoke about it once
and was going to have it eased."
"That's it, then," said Dorcas to me. "The probability is that it
was the noise made by the opening of that front door which first
attracted the attention of the murdered woman."
"That was Hannaford going out--if his story is correct."
"No; Hannaford went out in a rage. He would pull the door open
violently, and probably bang it too. That she would understand. It
was when the door _opened again_ with a sharp crack that she
listened, thinking it was her husband come back."
"But she was murdered in the drawing-room?"
"Yes. My theory, therefore, is that after the opening of the front
door she expected her husband to come upstairs. He didn't do so,
and she concluded that he had gone into one of the rooms downstairs
to spend the night, and she got up and came down to find him and
ask him to get over his temper and come back to bed. She went into
the drawing-room to see if he was there, and was struck down from
behind before she had time to utter a cry. The servants heard
nothing, remember."
"They said so at the inquest--yes."
"Now come into the drawing-room. This is where the caretaker tells
me the body was found--here in the centre of the room--the poker
with which the fatal blow had been struck was lying between the body
and the fireplace. The absence of a cry and the position of the body
show that when Mrs. Hannaford opened the door she _saw no one_
(I am of course presuming that the murderer was _not_ her husband)
and she came in further. But there must have been someone in the
room or she couldn't have been murdered in it."
"That is indisputable; but he might not have been in the room at the
time--the person might have been hiding in the hall and followed
her in."
"To suppose that we must presume that the murderer came into the
room, took the poker from the fireplace, and went out again in order
to come in again. That poker was secured, I am convinced, when the
intruder heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He picked up the
poker then concealed himself _here._"
"Then why, my dear Dorcas, shouldn't he have remained concealed
until Mrs. Hannaford had gone out of the room again?"
"I think she was turning to go when he rushed out and struck her
down. He probably thought that she had heard the noise of the door,
and might go and alarm the servants."
"But just now you said she came in believing that her husband had
returned and was in one of the rooms."
"The intruder could hardly be in possession of _her thoughts._"
"In the meantime he could have got out at the front door."
"Yes; but if his object was robbery he would have to go without the
plunder. He struck the woman down in order to have time to get what
he wanted."
"Then you think he left her here senseless while he searched the
house?"
"Nobody got anything by searching the house, ma'am," broke in the
caretaker. "The police satisfied themselves that nothing had been
disturbed. Every door was locked, the plate was all complete, not
a bit of jewellery or anything was missing. The servants were all
examined about that, and the detectives went over every room and
every cupboard to prove it wasn't no burglar broke in or anything
of that sort. Besides, the windows were all fastened."
"What he says is quite true," said Dorcas to me, "but something
alarmed Mrs. Hannaford in the night and brought her to the
drawing-room in her nightdress. If it was as I suspect, the opening
of the front door, that is how the guilty person got in."
The caretaker shook his head. "It was the poor master as did it,
ma'am, right enough. He was out of his mind."
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. "If he had done it, it would have
been a furious attack, there would have been oaths and cries, and
the poor lady would have received a rain of blows. The medical
evidence shows that death resulted from _one_ heavy blow on the
_back_ of the skull. But let us see where the murderer could have
concealed himself ready armed with the poker here in the
drawing-room."
In front of the drawing-room window were heavy curtains, and I at
once suggested that curtains were the usual place of concealment on
the stage and might be in real life.
As soon as I had asked the question Dorcas turned to the caretaker.
"You are certain that every article of furniture is in its place
exactly as it was that night?"
"Yes; the police prepared a plan of the room for the trial, and
since then by the solicitors' orders we have not touched a thing."
"That settles the curtains then," continued Dorcas. "Look at the
windows for yourself. In front of one, close by the curtains, is an
ornamental table covered with china and glass and bric-à-brac; and
in front of the other a large settee. No man could have come from
behind those curtains without shifting that furniture out of his way.
That would have immediately attracted Mrs. Hannaford's attention and
given her time to scream and rush out of the room. No, we must find
some other place for the assassin. Ah!--I wonder if----"
Dorcas's eyes were fixed on a large brown bear which stood nearly
against the wall near the fireplace. The bear, a very fine, big
specimen, was supported in its upright position by an ornamental
iron pole, at the top of which was fixed an oil lamp covered with
a yellow silk shade.
"That's a fine bear lamp," exclaimed Dorcas.
"Yes," said the caretaker, "it's been here ever since I've been in
the family's service. It was bought by the poor mistress's first
husband, Mr. Drayson, and he thought a lot of it. But," he added,
looking at it curiously, "I always thought it stood closer to the
wall than that. It used to--right against it."
"Ah," exclaimed Dorcas, "that's interesting. Pull the curtains right
back and give me all the light you can."
As the man obeyed her directions she went down on her hands and
knees and examined the carpet carefully.
"You are right," she said. "This has been moved a little forward,
and not so very long ago--the carpet for a square of some inches is
a different colour to the rest. The brown bear stands on a square
mahogany stand, and the exact square now shows in the colour of the
carpet that has been hidden by it. Only here is a discoloured
portion and the bear does not now stand on it."
The evidence of the bear having been moved forward from a position
it had long occupied was indisputable. Dorcas got up and went to the
door of the drawing-room.
"Go and stand behind that bear," she said. "Stand as compact as you
can, as though you were endeavouring to conceal yourself."
I obeyed, and Dorcas, standing in the drawing-room doorway, declared
that I was completely hidden.
"Now," she said, coming to the centre of the room and turning her
back to me, "reach down from where you are and see if you can pick
up the shovel from the fireplace without making a noise."
I reached out carefully and had the shovel in my hand without
making a sound.
"I have it," I said.
"That's right. The poker would have been on the same side as the
shovel, and much easier to pick up quietly. Now, while my back is
turned, grasp the shovel by the handle, leap out at me, and raise
the shovel as if to hit me--but don't get excited and do it, because
I don't want to realise the scene _too_ completely."
I obeyed. My footsteps were scarcely heard on the heavy-pile
drawing-room carpet. When Dorcas turned round the shovel was above
her head ready to strike.
"Thank you for letting me off," she said, with a smile. Then her
face becoming serious again, she exclaimed: "The murderer of
Mrs. Hannaford concealed himself behind that brown bear lamp, and
attacked her in exactly the way I have indicated. But why had he
moved the bear two or three inches forward?"
"To conceal himself behind it."
"Nonsense! His concealment was a sudden act. That bear is heavy--the
glass chimney of the lamp would have rattled if it had been done
violently and hurriedly while Mrs. Hannaford was coming downstairs--
that would have attracted her attention and she would have called
out, 'Who's there?' at the doorway, and not have come in looking
about for her husband."
Dorcas looked the animal over carefully, prodded it with her fingers,
and then went behind it.
After a minute or two's close examination, she uttered a little cry
and called me to her side.
She had found in the back of the bear a small straight slit. This
was quite invisible. She had only discovered it by an accidentally
violent thrust of her fingers into the animal's fur. Into this slit
she thrust her hand, and the aperture yielded sufficiently for her
to thrust her arm in. The interior of the bear was hollow, but
Dorcas's hand as it went down struck against a wooden bottom. Then
she withdrew her arm and the aperture closed up. It had evidently
been specially prepared as a place of concealment, and only the most
careful examination would have revealed it.
"Now," exclaimed Dorcas, triumphantly, "I think we are on a straight
road! This, I believe, is where those missing bank-notes lay
concealed for years. They were probably placed there by Mr. Drayson
with the idea that some day his frauds might be discovered or he
might be made a bankrupt. This was his little nest-egg, and his death
in Paris before his fraud was discovered prevented his making use of
them. Mrs. Hannaford evidently knew nothing of the hidden treasure,
or she would speedily have removed it. But _someone_ knew, and that
someone put his knowledge to practical use the night that
Mrs. Hannaford was murdered. The man who got in at the front door
that night, got in to relieve the bear of its valuable stuffing; he
moved the bear to get at the aperture, and was behind it when
Mrs. Hannaford came in. The rest is easy to understand."
"But how did he get in at the front door?"
"That's what I have to find out. I am sure now that Flash George was
in it. He was seen outside, and some of the notes that were concealed
in the brown bear lamp have been traced to him. Who was Flash
George's accomplice we may discover to-night. I think I have an idea,
and if that is correct we shall have the solution of the whole
mystery before dawn to-morrow morning."
"Why do you think you will learn so much to-night?"
"Because Flash George met a man two nights ago outside the Criterion.
I was selling wax matches, and followed them up, pestering them. I
heard George say to his companion, whom I had never seen with him
before, 'Tell him Hungerford Bridge, midnight, Wednesday. Tell him
to bring the lot and I'll cash up for them!'"
"And you think the 'him'----?"
"Is the man who rifled the brown bear and killed Mrs. Hannaford."
* * * * * * *
At eleven o'clock that evening I met Dorcas Dene in Villiers Street.
I knew what she would be like, otherwise her disguise would have
completely baffled me. She was dressed as an Italian street musician,
and was with a man who looked like an Italian organ-grinder.
Dorcas took my breath away by her first words.
"Allow me to introduce you," she said, "to Mr. Thomas Holmes. This
is the gentleman who was Charles Drayson's partner, and was sentenced
to five years' penal servitude over the partnership frauds."
"Yes," replied the organ-grinder in excellent English. "I suppose I
deserved it for being a fool, but the villain was Drayson--he had
all my money, and involved me in a fraud at the finish."
"I have told Mr. Holmes the story of our discovery," said Dorcas. "I
have been in communication with him ever since I discovered the notes
were in circulation. He knew Drayson's affairs, and he has given me
some valuable information. He is with us to-night because he knew
Mr. Drayson's former associates, and he may be able to identify the
man who knew the secret of the house at Haverstock Hill."
"You think that is the man Flash George is to meet?"
"I do. What else can 'Tell him to bring the lot and I'll cash up'
mean but the rest of the bank-notes?"
Shortly before twelve we got on to Hungerford Bridge--the narrow
footway that runs across the Thames by the side of the railway.
I was to walk ahead and keep clear of the Italians until I heard a
signal.
We crossed the bridge after that once or twice, I coming from one
end and the Italians from the other, and passing each other about
the centre.
At five minutes to midnight I saw Flash George come slowly along
from the Middlesex side. The Italians were not far behind. A minute
later an old man with a grey beard, and wearing an old Inverness
cape, passed me, coming from the Surrey side. When he met Flash
George the two stopped and leant over the parapet, apparently
interested in the river. Suddenly I heard Dorcas's signal. She
began to sing the Italian song, "Santa Lucia."
I had my instructions. I jostled up against the two men and begged
their pardon.
Flash George turned fiercely round. At the same moment I seized the
old man and shouted for help. The Italians came hastily up. Several
foot passengers rushed to the scene and inquired what was the matter.
"He was going to commit suicide," I cried. "He was just going to
jump into the water."
The old man was struggling in my grasp. The crowd were keeping back
Flash George. They believed the old man was struggling to get free
to throw himself into the water.
The Italian rushed up to me.
"Ah, poor old man!" he said. "Don't let him get away!"
He gave a violent tug to the grey beard. It came off in his hands.
Then with an oath he seized the supposed would-be suicide by
the throat.
"You infernal villain!" he said.
"Who is he?" asked Dorcas.
"Who is he!" exclaimed Thomas Holmes, "why, the villain who brought
me to ruin--_my precious partner--Charles Drayson!_"
As the words escaped from the supposed Italian's lips, Charles
Drayson gave a cry of terror, and leaping on to the parapet, plunged
into the river.
Flash George turned to run, but was stopped by a policeman who had
just come up.
Dorcas whispered something in the man's ear, and the officer,
thrusting his hand in the rascal's pocket, drew out a bundle of
bank-notes.
A few minutes later the would-be suicide was brought ashore. He
was still alive, but had injured himself terribly in his fall, and
was taken to the hospital.
Before he died he was induced to confess that he had taken advantage
of the Paris fire to disappear. He had flung his watch down in order
that it might be found as evidence of his death. He had, previously
to visiting the Opéra Comique, received a letter at his hotel which
told him pretty plainly the game was up, and he knew that at any
moment a warrant might be issued against him. After reading his name
amongst the victims, he lived as best he could abroad, but after
some years, being in desperate straits, he determined to do a bold
thing, return to London and endeavour to get into his house and
obtain possession of the money which was lying unsuspected in the
interior of the brown bear lamp. He had concealed it, well knowing
that at any time the crash might come, and everything belonging to
him be seized. The hiding-place he had selected was one which
neither his creditors nor his relatives would suspect.
On the night he entered the house, Flash George, whose acquaintance
he had made in London, kept watch for him _while he let himself in
with his latch-key,_ which he had carefully preserved.
Mr. Hannaford's leaving the house was one of those pieces of good
fortune which occasionally favour the wicked.
With his dying breath Charles Drayson declared that he had no
intention of killing his wife. He feared that, having heard a noise,
she had come to see what it was, and might alarm the house in her
terror, and as she turned to go out of the drawing-room he struck
her, intending only to render her senseless until he had secured
the booty.
* * * * * * *
Mr. Hannaford, completely recovered and in his right mind, was in
due time released from Broadmoor. The letter from his mother to
Dorcas Dene, thanking her for clearing her son's character and
proving his innocence of the terrible crime for which he had been
practically condemned, brought tears to my eyes as Dorcas read it
aloud to Paul and myself. It was touching and beautiful to a degree.
As she folded it up and put it away, I saw that Dorcas herself
was deeply moved.
"These are the _rewards_ of my profession," she said.
"They compensate for everything."
_THE END_
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
- Underscores have been used to enclose words and phrases which are,
in the original text, italicized. As in: _Italics_