MISS CHEYNE AGAIN
At the police station Cleek found Mr. Narkom awaiting him.
"You look worried," he said, with a twitch of his head and a lift of the
eyebrows in that gentleman's direction.
"I am worried," responded the Superintendent, excitedly. "Cleek, I
thought you were never coming! I've a search warrant here for Cheyne
Court." Speaking, he drew Cleek in through the door of Constable
Roberts' private sanctum and shut it sharply behind him. "If we don't
find something to throw a little light on the matter I will eat my
head."
"And a very indigestible quantity you'll find it, too," retorted Cleek
with a laugh. "We'd better be getting along at once, the sooner the
better, and try to get to the bottom of this most distressing affair."
For answer Mr. Narkom grabbed his hat, clapped it upon his head and
together they went out to the red limousine. Petrie and Hammond, who
had arrived and were in the ante room, followed in their wake.
"Cheyne Court, Lennard. When you fellows get there, I want you to search
that dried-up moat while we do the house," said the Superintendent as he
climbed in after Cleek and shut the door behind them. Like a shot the
motor was off, taking a pace which would make the police of the
neighbourhood wink with astonishment. In the space of a few minutes the
car drew up outside of Cheyne Court and armed with a bunch of skeleton
keys which would lay every room and cupboard open to them, Cleek and Mr.
Narkom jumped out.
Having sent Petrie and Hammond to their respective tasks, they set to
work to make a systematic search from the top to the bottom of the big,
rambling house.
From room to room and floor to floor they passed, but the broad daylight
revealed no more than their torches had done at night. That there was
some secret entry was obvious, but tap and prod as they might, it was
all in vain. The walls were solid, the cupboards stern realities; and at
the end of an hour, the question as to how the murderer had entered and
escaped on that eventful night remained as great a mystery as ever.
Finally, they reached the upper landing, and at a small room at the
back, the door of which stood wide open, Cleek stopped short.
"This must be Lady Margaret's own room," he said, turning to Mr. Narkom
excitedly, his eyes alight; "here is the coat she wore when I drove her
over on that eventful night."
He lifted a blue travelling cloak from the back of a chair, beside the
smooth, untumbled bed.
"Let's poke about in here for a while and see if we can't get some clues
as to what happened," he continued.
Suiting the action to the word, he dropped on his knees, and commenced
examining every inch of the floor which was covered with cocoanut
matting.
Suddenly Mr. Narkom saw him come to an abrupt halt, every nerve tense,
as he sniffed repeatedly at the air.
Then he bent still farther over the matting.
"Humn," he said, ruminatively. "That scent again. _Huile de jasmin_,
eh?" There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "_Huile de jasmin!_
No wonder it lingered. Look, here is another spot," creeping on all
fours in the direction of the perfumed trail, he put his finger upon a
tiny oily patch and smiled up into the astonished Superintendent's face.
"Oh, I know this stuff well. At one time its real scent was only used
in the harems of the great Rajahs, and they used to have a few drops put
in receptacles attached to the back of their jewels. Sometimes a ring
would bear its odour, sometimes a bracelet or earring. Later, though, it
became more common and was used in the bazaars."
"Bazaars?" said Mr. Narkom. "Then it's Indian, you mean."
"My dear chap, do you remember that Lady Brenton was born in India? That
is where Sir Edgar's father met and married her."
Cleek nodded and went on as though Mr. Narkom had not interrupted him.
"I said 'was', remember," he said. "It is still just as generally used,
but since the days when the favourites of the Harem alone had permission
to use it, I have no doubt some enterprising Eurasian has manufactured
it, and sells the scent over here. Not but what I am not going to keep
an eye on all that little Hindoo gang over the other side of the
village. I have set Dollops to work, too. I had the pleasure of meeting
one of them, a Mr. Gunga Dall, a few hours ago, and before I make up my
mind, there are still others. Lady Brenton herself uses the scent; Miss
Jennifer, too, is mighty fond of it--I noticed at lunch. But don't
forget Dr. Verrall is also an Anglo-Indian. Yes, my friend, a good many
roads lead to Rome--still----" His voice trailed off into silence, for
his mind had gone back again to that first eventful journey to Cheyne
Court, when, looking out in the March mist, he had seen the figure of a
woman cross the lawn.
But was it a woman, or simply a man in the flowing robes of the East? If
it had been Miss Jennifer, what was she doing that other night when the
man was murdered?
His gaze was fixed almost unseeing in its intentness, but suddenly his
eye caught a stray sunbeam which was reflected on something thrown down
beside the white bed. He gave a sort of cry and pounced upon it.
Mr. Narkom fairly gasped in his excitement, at this action.
"Cleek!" Mr. Narkom said, agitatedly. "What is it?"
"This," he made answer. "Something which looks as if there were at least
two women in this room last night, and Lady Margaret herself was one of
them." He held up the object as he spoke. It was a long, glittering gold
scarf from the end of which a fragment had been torn violently away.
Taking out his pocketbook, Cleek unfolded with trembling fingers the
torn scrap of lace found clutched in the dead hand and fitted it into
the damaged place.
"By James!" Mr. Narkom gasped, letting the scarf drop like a golden
snake to the ground. "It fits; it fits. Cleek! how could that child have
perpetrated a deed like that and escape, vanish without a sound? It is
impossible--utterly and ridiculously impossible!"
Cleek made no reply. His mind sped back over his last chat with Ailsa.
What was it that she had said? The scarf had been given Lady Margaret by
her dead father. H'mn--a valued possession, then, not likely to be given
up lightly, or even lent, much less left about like this.
"Perhaps someone stole it," suggested Mr. Narkom.
"But who; and why leave it here?" responded Cleek, grimly. "It must be
the identical scarf, the fragment proves that, and yet--Lady Brenton has
one, Miss Jennifer has another----" his words trailed away again as the
complexities of the clue were borne in on him.
Certainly there had been two women abroad in the neighbourhood of the
house on the night of the murder. Two, possibly three. But even if one
were Lady Margaret herself this could not absolutely convict her of
murder. It would take more than a young girl's strength to overpower an
active man, and yet--despair lends strength.
Before, however, either of them could voice the thoughts that were
racing through their minds, the sound of excited voices, and heavy
trampling feet coming up the drive toward the house for the moment drove
all other thoughts out of their minds.
"Come along down, Cleek," said Mr. Narkom, his voice shaking with
excitement. "It's Hammond and Petrie. I set them to search the grounds
and the river. It seems as if they had discovered something startling
from the noise."
They found Petrie and Hammond surrounded by a little knot of villagers,
and bearing a hidden burden upon a hastily contrived stretcher. Their
faces were white, and rather frightened.
"Sir," broke out Petrie, as the procession came up with Mr. Narkom, "we
searched the river by the landing stage, and we found this dead body.
Almost naked it was, sir, but it's a woman, and shot through the heart.
If you would look for yourself----"
Cleek and Narkom did look for themselves. Here, undoubtedly, was the
real Miss Cheyne, robbed of her dress and rings, to clothe the man who
had so ably undertaken her part on that night when Cleek and Roberts had
been driven forth by him and his accomplices.
Here, too, was the explanation of that ominous sound of a revolver shot
which Cleek had heard while he and his innocent charge stood on the
threshold of the ill-fated house. If only he had obeyed his first
instinct, and driven the girl back to Ailsa Lorne!
The poor old lady had evidently been shot at that moment, and her body
thrown into the river directly Cleek had left the room, where his
inopportune entry must have caused considerable dismay to the hidden
assassin, or assassins. Hidden; but where? That was still a deeper
mystery. And through what secret egress had the body disappeared? And
why had they not attacked him?
Evidently it was the girl they wanted; the girl and possession of the
Cheyne jewels. But how, and where, had they escaped? And what had become
of the girl now? These were questions for which there were no answers
save those which time would show.
Bidding them take the body on its stretcher down to the village
mortuary, Cleek turned on his heel and with a few directions to Mr.
Narkom made his way back into the house, once more to wrestle with the
problem of its secret entrance and exit.