UNTWISTING THE THREADS
In the big uncurtained ballroom of Cheyne Court the next morning, a
plentiful gathering assembled for the inquest which had been postponed
from the week before, and Mr. Narkom, who had entered with Cleek and a
number of strangers that to an observant eye would have revealed
themselves as plain-clothes men, watched the entry of every newcomer
with almost morbid expectancy.
Early arrivals were Lady Brenton and Sir Edgar, who at Cleek's request
had returned from town that same morning, after a presumably futile
search for any trace of Lady Margaret. The boy's face was lined and
anxious, his nerves evidently strained to breaking point. Close beside
him sat Lady Brenton, her arm clenched tight in his, and Cleek smiled a
little as he noticed that she wore a gold scarf--obviously the one which
had been given such unwonted publicity the preceding week. It was not
exactly morning attire, but she had evidently worn it in defiance of all
gossip.
Jennifer Wynne and her brother were there, too, pale both of them, with
eyes that told a tale of sleepless nights. Close beside them stood the
immaculate, dapper figure of Gunga Dall, his dark eyes flashing from one
face to the other, and lingering with a little smile on the perturbed
countenance of Lady Brenton. It seemed as though he were quite satisfied
with his work.
For a little while Cleek appeared to take no notice whatsoever of his
surroundings, and it was not until the Coroner had got through the
preliminaries of the inquest and proposed calling a witness that Cleek
roused himself from his reverie, and said in a clear, incisive voice:
"Witnesses are unnecessary, Mr. Coroner, for I will venture to call on
the murderer himself."
Had a bombshell fallen near the assembly it could not have caused more
consternation, and Cleek, as he took the centre of the room, let the
queer, one-sided smile travel up his face. There was a theatrical touch
in this announcement which pleased him considerably.
"Yes, one murderer," he continued, "the other, fortunately, is dead. No,
Mr. Wynne," he continued, rapidly, "please don't try to get to that
door, they are all guarded and the windows, too. So if you don't
mind----"
Suddenly he leapt swiftly in Bobby Wynne's direction. The startled young
man was standing as if rooted to the spot, powerless with terror to move
a step further. But with a spring Cleek bore down upon the figure of the
man who was sitting smiling and complacent beside him--the figure of the
Hindoo, Gunga Dall!
"Got you, you beauty! Got you!" he exclaimed, as the man tried to fight
him off. "Thought to evade justice by casting the blame upon another,
eh? But you came to the wrong person this time. Here, Petrie, Hammond,
snap the bracelets on him, for he's as slippery as the proverbial eel,
and I've no desire to have my wrists broken. That's it! Now the fish is
caught at last. The game's up, Jimmy my lad."
Speaking he bent forward and stared into the man's dark, furious face.
As he did so, the man's lips opened, and from his mouth issued a stream
of cockney vituperation which would have shamed a Billingsgate
barrow-holder.
"'Ere what yer gettin' at, blarst yer!" ended up the erstwhile Gunga
Dall as his breath failed him. "And why does yer call me Jimmy? Just
like yer bloomin' cheek, damn yer!"
"And just like my blooming knowledge, too, my friend," responded Cleek
with a little harsh laugh. "I don't forget friends quite so soon as you
do, Blake. Remember me now?"
Of a sudden his features writhed, twisted, altered, and the man whom he
addressed as Blake, looking up into his eyes, turned white and shrank
back with a sudden, overpowering fear.
"God! the Cracksman," he ejaculated, and his head fell forward upon his
breast.
"Yes, and now--just Cleek, of Scotland Yard," came the reply.
"_Cleek!_" exclaimed the Coroner in amazement, and the name echoed from
every mouth in that crowded room.
"Just Cleek," was the reply.
Suddenly Blake's face underwent a change.
"I don't care who you are, blarst yer! I haven't done nothing but get up
as an Indian, and there's nothing criminal in _that_!"
"No, my friend," said Cleek, quietly. "But there is in murder and when
it comes to killing your own brother--what's that? Oh, yes, it is. I
know the dead man now: Sam Blake, tipster and member of the Pentacle
Club. And you--you are James Blake, head of the Club, the biggest gang
of jewel thieves in the world!"
"It's a lie!" shrieked the man. "I am not. I did not kill him!"
"You did," flung back Cleek. "You killed him with a little white pellet
of prussic acid. I daresay--yes--they are----" His deft fingers felt in
one of the resisting man's pockets.
With a little gasp of triumph, he held up a small box, and opening the
lid, showed about a dozen white pellets similar to the fragment found in
the mouth of the dead man. His face grew tense and grim as he surveyed
them.
"See, here is the weapon," he said, "and if you want further proof, I
have it here in finger-prints. These are the official prints of James
Blake, and they correspond to the marks on the dead man's throat. One
more thing, the footprints----"
Diving into his pocket, Cleek produced the roll of papers over which
Dollops had taken such care.
"See," he said in sharp tones, "these are the marks of the footprints
which led direct from the body itself. These, too, are the footprints
which I found in Miss Jennifer Wynne's garden, at the foot of a certain
window. To make things more sure, I think you will find that this"--he
held up a scrap of gray tweed material--"is proof that this interesting
gentleman climbed up by means of the wistaria plant, and obtained the
prussic acid and magnesia from old Dr. Wynne's surgery."
A startled cry burst from the lips of the brother and sister, and their
eyes met with such a mutually significant look that a little smile crept
into Cleek's eyes for a moment. It so obviously explained the situation
between them; each had suspected the other, and each had wished to
shield the other.
Then Cleek turned his gaze back to the prisoner, who was a picture of
sullen dejection.
"There is one more overwhelming proof of my story," Cleek said, and
taking out his notebook, he scribbled something rapidly. Then detaching
a leaf, he continued, "If Mr. Narkom will fetch it and if I am right, I
do not think Mr. Coroner need hesitate any further."
Mr. Narkom gave but one glance at the scrap of paper in his hand, but
those standing near him heard his exclamation of astonishment. Then he
was gone, and attention was once more rivetted on Cleek's slim figure.
"You made a mistake, my friend, in drawing my attention to the gold
scarves last week for I knew that you lied in saying that you had given
Lady Margaret that scarf. It was her father's gift, not yours, so your
effort to draw a red herring across the path was a failure," continued
that gentleman as he peered into the face of the prisoner. "You made a
bigger one to-day in leaving off that seal ring which left its mark on
your brother's throat last week."
A string of vile expletives followed this statement as the bound man
strove feebly to wrench his hand from the firm grasp which held it.
At this, a little cry burst from the lips of Dr. Verrall, and again
Cleek smiled.
"You jumped to the conclusion too quickly that it was Miss Jennifer's
ring, Doctor," he said, softly. "Not even a strong woman could have
subjugated a man like Blake."
Dr. Verrall gave a little groan as he met Cleek's quizzical eyes, but
Jennifer, who was standing near, stared at him in open-mouthed
amazement. Then she said almost under her breath:
"Oh, Edgar, you thought that I--that it was poor old Dad's ring on my
hand. Is that why you wanted me to put it away?"
Swiftly Dr. Verrall turned to her and even as he did so, the attention
of the people around was speedily withdrawn, for the door of the room
was opened, and Mr. Narkom stood in the doorway.
"Was I right?" said Cleek, a trifle anxiously.
"Right as a trivet," was the complacent reply. "And here she is----"
He stepped aside, and then a cry arose, for framed in the doorway, pale
and worn, but otherwise unharmed, stood the missing heiress, Lady
Margaret Cheyne herself!
A scramble ensued, but it was Sir Edgar who reached her first, and
disregarding the surging crowd around them gathered her bodily into his
arms.
"Margaret, my darling!" he said in a choked, broken voice.
Cleek smiled.
"You found her where I said?" he asked, addressing the Superintendent
who stood breathless but triumphant beside him.
The query reduced the roomful of people to a state of breathless silence
as Mr. Narkom nodded vigorously.
"Yes," said he, briskly. "She was in Gunga Dall's house, and bound and
gagged, poor child, although she seems to have recovered herself very
well now."
He smiled at her as she stood crimson and shy beside the upright figure
of her lover, and she gave him a smile in return.
"Yes," she said in a soft voice, looking up into Sir Edgar's eyes, "I am
perfectly recovered, thank you!... No, Edgar, you mustn't," as that
gentleman sprang forward in Gunga Dall's direction and made as if to
attack him; "he will meet with the justice he deserves, dear, soon
enough."
"Well said," threw in Cleek with an approving smile at this
philosophical young person, "I agree with Sir Edgar's sentiments, Lady
Margaret, so long as they _remain_ sentiments and nothing else. But now
what about that story which we are all waiting so breathlessly for? Do
you feel up to relating your adventures, just to clear away the
curiosity which I see written on every face?"
He set a chair for her and she thanked him with a gesture. Seating
herself, she blushed crimson at the sight of the crowd that surrounded
her.
"Of course I will tell you my story," she began in a low voice, "but
first of all I want you to believe that I did not kill that man. I truly
did not!"
"What man, my dear young lady?" asked the startled Coroner before any
one else could speak.
"Why, the man who impersonated my poor aunt!" she responded, tearfully.
"But Mr. Dall said everybody was looking for me, and he intended to take
me out of the country. I did not want to go--it is all too wicked!" She
clung trembling to Sir Edgar, who was divided between his longing to
wreak his vengeance on the prisoner who stood sullen and discomforted
and his efforts to restore Lady Margaret.
"You need not fear any trouble on that score, Lady Margaret," said
Cleek, quietly, smiling at her. "It was Gunga Dall himself who murdered
the man, his own brother. And all we want to find out is how your scarf
came to be involved. When did you discover the trick that had been
played?"
"I never thought of there being any trick," she said with a little
shiver. "Poor Auntie was always very queer and undemonstrative, even
when I was a child, and, too, she always disliked me. That was why she
kept me so long at school. So I never thought of its being any one else
till I came down to meet Edgar--on the terrace. Then the sound of the
laughter, and all men's laughter, caused me to look into the room. When
I saw what I had believed to be my aunt, with her wig half off, smoking
a big cigar and holding up my jewels----" She broke off with a little
shudder and Ailsa Lorne, who stood near, leaned forward and took Lady
Margaret's shaking hand into her own.
"What happened afterward, Lady Margaret?" Cleek then asked. "Can you
tell us? It is necessary evidence, you know----"
"Yes," she said, bravely, "they gagged me and bound my eyes and laid me
on a couch in the ballroom.... I don't know what happened then, but I
found myself at last in the wine-cellar with the servant Aggie keeping
watch over me. It seemed ages and ages before Gunga Dall came to me, and
while Aggie was sleeping--she had been drinking all the time she was
with me--he got me through the window, and out into the lane, where he
had a carriage waiting. He said he was going to drive me to Lady
Brenton, but when I found he was not, I got frightened and wondered if
you had got the bit of paper I slipped from the window when I saw you.
_Did_ you get it?" she turned to Ailsa, who nodded.
"Yes, dear, and gave it to Sir Edgar."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she said in a broken voice. "Well, after that he
drove me to his own house, and promised to fetch Lady Brenton to me!"
"The devil!" burst out Sir Edgar, impetuously, his face crimson with
fury, his whole figure shaking, "as if he couldn't have brought you
direct to us if he had wanted to----"
"I never thought of that," she responded. "All I thought of was getting
away from Cheyne Court. He said then that all the countryside was
looking for me as I was accused of having murdered that awful creature
whom I had believed to be my aunt. I wanted to confront them, but he
wouldn't let me go. At last he said if I would give him my gold scarf,
it would be the means of setting me free...."
A little one-sided smile crept up Cleek's face as he listened to the
girlish recital.
"The clever devil!" he ejaculated. "He went straight back to Blake, not
knowing perhaps that the jewels were already in their possession and
took the scarf as a proof that he had Lady Margaret in his power...."
Then he turned on his heel and faced the prisoner.
"Come, Blake, own up--the truth. It will serve you best."
The prisoner scowled blackly and stared into Cleek's eyes with hatred in
his own.
"What's the good?" he muttered, angrily. "You seem to know it all just
as if you were there. It's true enough. I went to Sam, who had no
business to have acted without me, and told him I'd got the girl and
would let on to the police if he didn't give me a share. I didn't know
it wasn't the old girl herself, till the day before when I followed them
up to London, then I recognized Sammy. Considering I had been away in
Paris for over a year planning how to get hold of them jewels, and even
joined up with that there crowd of Hindoo niggers, in order to have
assistance--they only wanted the 'Purple Emperor,' said I could have
what I liked if I helped them to get that, without their having to take
life--well, it isn't surprising that I didn't mean to be bested by Sam
and his pals."
Cleek nodded as if in approval, though it was really the proof of the
correctness of his own theories that caused the unconscious movement.
"But the law was one too many for both of you, Jimmy my lad," he
interrupted, "and you came to grief at last. But what I want to know is
how did you get into Cheyne Court?"
"Through a secret entrance hidden in the wall, if yer wants ter know!"
replied James Blake, sullenly. "Might as well know it first as last.
There's a hole in the dried-up moat what leads to the foundations and I
happened to discover it when I was hiding there. So I nipped in and then
stumbled upon Lady Margaret, lying in the cellar, and saw it was a
chance to get even with Sammy. But he only laughed at me when I said I'd
got her and told me I'd never find the jewels where he'd hidden 'em.
Blast 'im, I never have. But we came to blows then and he clutched at
the scarf I held and nicked a piece out of it, just as he fell, then I
scuttled upstairs and threw it back into the girl's room--and that's all
the blooming story."
"Back into her room?" ejaculated Sir Edgar, furiously, at the end of
this recital. "So he threw suspicion on my dear girl. Well, I'll wring
his damned neck for him as a little return for his trouble!"
He leapt forward, but Cleek caught at his shoulder, and with a smile
drew him back.
"A very creditable performance, my friend," said he, serenely, "but I
don't think I should carry it out. As Lady Margaret herself suggested
the law will take its course and mete out full justice. Meanwhile, there
is still more work to be done. This part of the case is clear enough.
This man, James Blake is his right name, although we have all known him
as Gunga Dall, is the head of the Pentacle Club, and the murdered man
Sam, his brother, was also a member of the gang. As you see, it has been
a deeply laid plot on their part to secure that ill-fated 'The Purple
Emperor,' and as I have long imagined, the Hindoo priests are still on
its track. When I went up to London to find out about James Blake, I
learned by chance of the existence of this brother and then I knew what
had happened. There is no doubt, as I shall prove to you, that Sam had
made ingenious arrangements to get the jewels safely away before the
return of his brother, and it was the knowledge of a safe hiding place
which led him to be defiant, and that was obviously the cause of his
death.
"However, there is one thing to console ourselves with, and that is that
he but anticipated the law. There is little doubt that he was the
murderer of Miss Cheyne, and also the perpetrator of another crime in
the East of London--the murder of an 'ole clo' woman. He stabbed her to
death for a bundle of second-hand clothing and a wig. That shows the
nature of the man, doesn't it? But that is the way he obtained the
clothing to dress his part, and the little second-hand clothes dealer's
case passed out of the public eye under the screen of 'found murdered by
person or persons unknown.' But her death and Miss Cheyne's are avenged.
We have Mr. James Blake to thank for _that_!"
He paused a moment and looked about him at the expectant faces of the
audience, then bent and whispered something to Mr. Narkom, who nodded
vigorously and spoke to the Coroner.
Then Cleek spoke again.
"I don't think there is anything more to be done now so far as the
public is concerned," he said in a clear voice which penetrated to the
ends of the crowded room, "and I think they may safely consider the case
at an end. I shall be glad, therefore, if they will leave this room as
quickly and as quietly as possible."
They left forthwith, as the prisoner was led away, but once out in the
spring sunshine, it came to them suddenly that that very clever
gentlemen had left off at the most critical point--and that the hiding
place of the famous Cheyne Court jewels had never been revealed.