SANCTUARY
For once in a way the newspaper men had got a murder case in which
there was very little mystery. Carsdale had spoken the truth so freely,
Sophie Guyner had treated everybody to her mind on the matter with
such abandon, that there was opportunity for the writing of columns of
plain narrative. And, departing from their usual modes of procedure,
the police had kept nothing back, had, rather, given the reporters
every information they could and every facility for obtaining more.
This was on Inspector Skarratt’s initiative--it had readily occurred to
him that no good could be done by concealment, for the one thing that
was important was to find the lady who called herself Mrs. Walsingham,
and was in reality Mrs. Sylvie Werrick. Therefore, argued Skarratt,
use the press as a medium; circulate the whole story as widely and as
circumstantially as possible; everybody, from idlers to errand boys,
will then be on the outlook for a woman in a nun’s dress, and it will
be a wonder if an arrest does not speedily follow. The newspaper men
blessed Skarratt, and every paper came out with as much stuff about the
Bloomsbury Mystery as ever perspiring sub-editors and worried foremen
could cram into it.
Richard Shrewsbury, breakfasting with Burgoyne in a private room at the
_Charing Cross Hotel_, read the first news before his friend came in;
Burgoyne, when he entered, found him trembling with excitement. He
thrust the paper into Burgoyne’s hands.
“She--she was married!” he cried. “Married, all the time! And--they say
she’s shot her husband. Look!”
“What are you raving about?” asked Burgoyne, taking the paper and
seeing the headlines. “Steady, man!”
“Steady enough,” retorted Richard. “I’m talking about--Sylvie. See
there--she was married to a fellow named Werrick--and they say she’s
shot him--murdered him. Good God!--what a lot seems to be happening!
I’m going out to get some more papers--there may be something with
later news. Read it--read it all!”
Burgoyne sat down and read steadily. The newspaper which Richard had
thrust upon him had favoured its readers with a résumé of the matter,
and had printed it in large type; within a few minutes, therefore,
Burgoyne was in full possession of the outstanding facts.
This is what he read:--
A tragedy, which still has certain elements of mystery about it,
occurred about eight o’clock last evening at a flat in Marengo
Mansions, Bloomsbury.
The flat, Number 29, has for some time--nearly three years, it is
understood--been tenanted by a lady known as Mrs. Walsingham, who
lived there with a maid named Sophie Guyner. Mrs. Walsingham, who
appears to have been comfortably off, judging from the appearance
of her rooms and from her general style of living, was engaged in
financial work, and had for some time acted as secretary to the firm
of Leverton & Carsdale, general agents, of Abbotsbury House, Norfolk
Street, Strand. The senior partner died recently, and the business
was then carried on by Mr. John Carsdale, Mrs. Walsingham retaining
her secretaryship.
Yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Walsingham telephoned to her maid, Sophie
Guyner, from the City, saying that she was sending her two tickets
for the Hyperion Theatre for last night, and that she herself should
not be home until very late. The tickets duly arrived by the hands
of Griffkin, the office-boy at Mr. Carsdale’s offices, and Guyner
proceeded to the theatre with a friend. She--Guyner--was not feeling
very well, however, and almost as soon as the performance began, she
was obliged to leave the theatre and to go home.
Upon entering the flat, Guyner was horrified to find the body of a
man lying across the threshold of her mistress’s bedroom, apparently
dead. On the other side of it, and in the bedroom, she saw Mr. John
Carsdale, holding a revolver in his hand, which, Guyner alleges,
was still smoking. [This latter fact the police do not credit for a
moment, as it has been abundantly proved that at the time of Guyner’s
entrance the man had been dead quite half an hour, and only one
chamber of the revolver had been discharged.]
Guyner immediately raised an alarm, and some of the porters of the
building, together with the police, were quickly on the scene. It was
then found that the man had been shot through the heart, and that
death must have been instantaneous. To the police, Mr. John Carsdale
at once gave a full and unreserved account of his presence at the
flat. He explained that Mrs. Walsingham was his cousin, and that she
was really the wife of the man whose body lay before them, and whose
name was Sydney Werrick. According to Mr. Carsdale, Werrick had been
convicted of forgery in New York and sent to prison there; since his
release he had lived in America. Recently he had turned up in London,
and had been befriended by Mr. Carsdale on the condition that he
should not molest his wife.
Mr. Carsdale’s theory is that Werrick by some means obtained an
entrance to the flat yesterday evening when Mrs. Walsingham (Werrick)
was alone, and that she shot him in self-defence or on the spur of
the moment. There had recently been a burglary at Marengo Mansions,
and she had been very much alarmed about it, and Mr. Carsdale had
brought her the revolver with which Werrick undoubtedly had been shot.
Mr. Carsdale says that he entered the flat--to which he had a
private key--a little after eight o’clock last night, and that there
was no living person in it. He at once discovered the body of the
dead man, and he had just picked up the revolver, and was examining
it, when the maid, Sophie Guyner, returned.
An examination of the flat and of Mrs. Walsingham’s (Werrick’s)
belongings show that she must have gone away from Marengo Mansions
wearing the dress of a nun, a full description of which will be
found below. Up to a late hour last night, no trace of her had been
met with. It is believed that she will endeavour to escape to the
Continent, and the cross-Channel boats will be closely watched at the
various ports this morning, as also will all railway stations.
In consequence of certain facts not yet made public, Mr. John
Carsdale has been detained by the police authorities.
Burgoyne had just finished reading this condensed narrative, when
Richard burst into the room with an armful of newspapers.
“Have you read that?” he demanded, excitedly. “Have you read it? Have
you ever read anything like it? To trick me like that!--And Carsdale
knew all the time!”
“Keep cool, Dick,” said Burgoyne. “It’s no use getting excited--we
shall want all our wits. There’s one thing I can see very plainly
already.”
“What?” demanded Richard, who was feverishly turning over his bundle of
papers. “What?”
“That my diamond necklace has probably vanished with the woman,”
answered Burgoyne grimly. “She wouldn’t be very likely to leave that
behind her. And whether she meant to shoot her husband or not, I should
say that as she knew he was in London she was probably preparing for
flight. I suppose she hadn’t any property of yours, Dick, beyond what
you’d given her?”
“No,” answered Richard. “Except that I gave her a blank cheque the
other day which she was to fill up.”
Burgoyne whistled.
“By Jove!” he said. “Well, you can soon find out what’s happened to
that by telephoning to the bank as soon as it’s open. Of course, if
Carsdale knew that the husband was in town, he would tell her. I should
say she meant to be off. And in that case, she would feather her nest.
I dare say the man tried to stop her. Then she shot him, and----”
Richard suddenly uttered a sharp exclamation.
“Listen!” he said. “Here’s some more in a late morning edition. It’s
about Carsdale.
“We understand that, in consequence of certain information supplied
to them last night, the police have formally arrested the Norfolk
Street financial agent, John Carsdale, on a charge of being concerned
in the death of Sydney Werrick at Mrs. Walsingham’s or Werrick’s flat
in Marengo Mansions, Bloomsbury.
“It is said that upon Carsdale there were found certain securities
valued at two hundred thousand pounds, and that he was also in
possession of two first-class tickets for passage to Buenos Aires,
available by the Royal Mail Steam Packet Company’s steamer which
leaves Southampton this morning. It appears that Carsdale had
chartered a motor-car from a well-known firm in Long Acre, and had
ordered it to be in readiness for him at a certain hour last night,
and the theory of the police now is that he and Mrs. Walsingham
intended to leave the country in this way; that he went to her flat
to fetch her, and that Werrick interrupted their final preparations,
with the fatal result now known. It should, however, be pointed out
in relation to this, that there seems no reason why Carsdale should
not have escaped as readily as Mrs. Walsingham, or Werrick, did, and
that the police-surgeon who was on the spot within a few minutes of
Carsdale’s being found in the flat is positive that Werrick had then
been dead half an hour.
“According to our information, the securities found upon Carsdale
are probably the property of a young gentleman of fortune, for whom
he seems to have recently acted as financial agent, and who is, we
learn, at present travelling on the Continent.
“Up to the hour of going to press, no news had been heard of Mrs.
Walsingham, for whom a strict look-out is being kept at all railway
stations and ports.”
“Dick,” said Burgoyne. “You must be down at your bankers as soon as
ever their doors open. That’ll be nine o’clock. Come, let’s breakfast,
and then to business. We are back on the very nick of time.”
“You think that Carsdale’s robbed me?” said Richard quietly.
“What does it look like?” asked Burgoyne. “You must make sure. I’ll
drive down with you.”
They were in the City before the clocks began to chime nine, and within
the bank before the chimes had finished. The manager seemed in no wise
surprised to see Richard; he had read the papers on his way from home.
He began to answer Richard’s question before it was completely voiced.
“Mr. Carsdale was here yesterday, Mr. Shrewsbury,” he answered. “He
saw the two principals. He produced to them a written order from you
authorizing them to deliver up whatever securities of yours we held.
He selected two hundred thousand pounds’ worth. I was present. He said
that he was going to re-invest on your behalf. Of course, he gave a
receipt. Wasn’t your order a genuine one? The signature looked all
right.”
“I signed some papers the other day without knowing what I signed,”
replied Richard, bitterly. “I trusted him fully, as you know.”
The manager looked at Burgoyne, and shook his head. He turned to
Richard again.
“There’s another matter I may mention,” he said. “The--er--lady who
figures in these newspaper reports this morning cashed a cheque of
yours here yesterday afternoon, not so very long after Carsdale had
been here. It was for fifteen thousand pounds. Was that in order?”
“That’s all right,” answered Richard. He took an unceremonious leave,
and went out. Burgoyne followed him.
“Look here, Dick,” he said. “Let’s go down to Blair--he’ll advise. Come
along!”
“No!” replied Richard. “I’m going home--there’s something I want to
look into. You go to Blair, if you like.”
“Then I shall bring him along to Berkeley Square,” said Burgoyne. “We
want advice, I tell you.”
Richard nodded, and got into a taxi-cab. He drove West in a whirl of
thoughts and emotions; his world seemed to have been turned upside
down. At that moment he forgot even Burgoyne’s devotion.
Kedgin met him at his own door. And Kedgin, usually the most
self-possessed of men, heaved a great sigh of relief when he saw his
master.
“Oh, sir!” he exclaimed. “I’m--I’m thankful you’ve come home, sir!--I
haven’t known what to do--I daren’t telephone to Paris. Sir--Mrs.
Walsingham’s here--she’s been here since last night!”