The Riddle of the Night
by Thomas W. Hanshew · English · Gutenberg #33271 · 446,457 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Riddle of the Night
Author: Thomas W. Hanshew
Release date: July 27, 2010 [eBook #33271]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33271
Credits: Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIDDLE OF THE NIGHT ***
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
THE RIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
[Illustration: HE TOOK UP THE DECANTERS ONE BY ONE AND SAMPLED THEIR
CONTENTS IN TURN]
THE INTERNATIONAL
ADVENTURE LIBRARY
[Illustration]
THREE OWLS EDITION
* * * * *
THE RIDDLE OF
THE NIGHT
BY
THOMAS W. HANSHEW
Author of
"Cleek, the Man of the Forty Faces,"
"Cleek of Scotland Yard,"
Etc.
* * * * *
W. R. CALDWELL & CO.
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1915, by_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Mysterious Affair 3
II. How the Chase Ended 14
III. The Shadow That Lay Behind 23
IV. Clews and Suspicions 36
V. The Riddle of the Night 47
VI. A Little Discrepancy 58
VII. "Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before" 72
VIII. Ailsa Lorne 77
IX. Blind Groping 88
X. Another Strand in the Web 101
XI. The Cloudburst 109
XII. The Thunderbolt 120
XIII. A Question of Veracity 127
XIV. A Change in the Program 139
XV. A Clew from the Air 149
XVI. A Bold Stroke 159
XVII. A Blunder and a Discovery 171
XVIII. Springing a Surprise 182
XIX. Picking up Threads 188
XX. "How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth" 199
XXI. When Two and Two Make Four 204
XXII. When Four and Four Make Eight 215
XXIII. The Lady at the Gate 226
XXIV. The Mousetrap 237
XXV. The Fly in the Ointment 248
XXVI. The Open Window 260
XXVII. The View Halloo 268
XXVIII. Loisette is Vindicated 279
XXIX. "Quick! Fire!" 287
XXX. Nearing the Truth! 296
XXXI. How the Truth Was Told 304
CHARACTERS
HAMILTON CLEEK, The Man of the Forty Faces and once known to
the Police as "The Vanishing Cracksman," now the great
Detective in his various disguises as Monsieur Georges de
Lesparre, Philip Barch, George Headland.
SUPERINTENDENT NARKOM, of Scotland Yard.
LENNARD, his chauffeur.
HAMMOND } Detective Sergeants.
PETRIE }
MELLISH, Police Officer.
DOLLOPS, Cleek's trusted assistant.
LORD ST. ULMER, the father of
LADY KATHERINE FORDHAM, who is in love with
GEOFFREY CLAVERING, the only son and heir of
SIR PHILIP CLAVERING, of Clavering Close, and
LADY CLAVERING, his second wife.
COUNT FRANZ DE LOUVISAN, found mysteriously murdered after
having forced Lady Katherine to become engaged to him.
AILSA LORNE, Lady Katherine's friend and companion.
GENERAL and
MRS. RAYNOR, Lady Katherine's relatives.
HARRY RAYNOR, their son.
CHAPTER ONE
A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR
It was half-past eleven on the night of Wednesday, April 14th, when the
well-known red limousine of Mr. Maverick Narkom, superintendent of
Scotland Yard, came abruptly to the head of Mulberry Lane, which, as you
may possibly know, is a narrow road skirting one of the loneliest and
wildest portions of Wimbledon Common.
Lennard, the chauffeur, put on the brake with such suddenness that the
car seemed actually to rise from the earth, performed a sort of buzzing
and snorting semicircle, and all but collided with the rear wall of
Wuthering Grange before coming to a halt in the narrow road space which
lay between that wall and the tree-fringed edge of the great Common.
Under ordinary circumstances one might as soon have expected to run foul
of a specimen of the great auk rearing a family in St. Paul's
churchyard, as to find Mr. Narkom's limousine in the neighbourhood of
Mulberry Lane at any hour of the day or the night throughout the whole
cycle of the year.
For a reason which will be made clear in the course of events, however,
the superintendent had been persuaded to go considerably out of his way
before returning to town after mingling duty with pleasure in taking
part in the festivities attendant upon the coming of age of his friend
Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir, and, incidentally, in seeing, too,
that Petrie and Hammond, two of his sergeants, kept a watchful eye upon
the famous Clavering service of gold plate which had been brought out of
the bank vault for the occasion.
All three were sitting serenely back among the cushions of the limousine
at the period when Lennard brought it to this abrupt and startling halt,
the result of which was to fairly jerk them out of their seats and send
them sprawling over one another in a struggling heap.
There was a moment of something like absolute confusion, for mist and
darkness enveloped both the road and the Common, and none of the three
could see anything from the windows of the car which might decide
whether they had collided with some obstruction or were hovering upon
the brink of some dangerous and unexpected pitfall.
Nor were their fears lessened by perceiving--through the glass
screen--that Lennard had started up from his seat, and, with a hastily
produced electric torch in one upraised hand, was leaning forward and
wildly endeavouring to discern something through the all-enfolding mist.
Mr. Narkom hastily unlatched the door and leaned out.
"What is it? What's gone wrong?" he inquired in the sharp staccato of
excitement. "Anything amiss?"
"Lord, yessir! I heard a shot and a cry. A pistol shot ... and a police
whistle ... and a cry of murder, sir. Up the lane ahead of us!" began
Lennard, in a quaking voice; then he uttered a cry of fright, for, of a
sudden, the darkness was riven by the screaming note of a police
whistle--of two police whistles in fact: shrilling appeal and answer far
up the lonely lane.
Hard on this came a man's voice shouting: "Head him off there, whoever
you are! Don't let him get by you. Look sharp! He's making for the
railway arch!"
"All right, mate. I'm here!" another male voice flung back. "He won't
get past me, the blighter!"
Instantly there struck out the swift-measured sound of heavily shod feet
racing at top speed up the mist-shrouded lane, and rapidly increasing
the distance between the unseen runner and the standing limousine.
No need to tell either Narkom or his men that the man whose steps they
heard was a constable, for there is a distinctive note, to ears that are
trained, rung out by the heavy, cumbersome boots which folly accords to
the British policeman.
Catching the ring of that telltale note now, Narkom shouted out at the
top of his voice: "All right, Constable! Stick to him! Help coming!"
Then with a word of command to Lennard he pulled in his head, slammed
the door, and the chauffeur, dropping back to his seat, threw open the
clutch and sent the limousine bounding up the lane at a fifty-mile clip.
To-night, with the trees shadowing it and the mist crowding in, shoulder
high, from the adjacent Common, the lane was a mere dark funnel; but to
Lennard, whose boyhood had been passed within hailing distance of the
place, it possessed no mysteries that the night or the vapour could
hide.
He knew that it ran on for some seven or eight hundred feet, with the
high brick wall which marked the rear boundary of Wuthering Grange on
one side of it and straggling trees and matted gorse bushes shutting it
in on the other, until it dipped down a steadily increasing incline, and
ran straightway through an old brick-walled, brick-roofed arch of a
long-abandoned Wimbledon Loop line.
Some two hundred feet upon the other side of this it divided into a sort
of "Y," one branch swerving to the left forming a right of way across
the meadows to the public highway, whilst the other struck out over the
Common to the right, crossed Beverly Brook, and merged at length into
the road which leads to Coombe Wood, and thence, through picturesque
ways, to Kingston and the river.
The limousine took those seven or eight hundred feet between the head of
the lane and the old railway arch at such a stupendous pace that it
seemed to have no more than started before the distance was eaten up
and it came to halt again; but this time, in such a din and babel of
struggling and shouting that Lennard seemed to have reached the very
gateway of Sheol.
Narkom and his men were out of the vehicle almost as the brake fell into
place, and clicking their electric pocket torches into sudden flame,
rushed headlong into the black opening of the arch, into which they had
taken but half a dozen steps, when they came upon a startling sight.
Snarling and yapping like a couple of fighting dogs and crying out in
concert: "Got you, you blighter! Got you fast!" were two men, locked
tight in each other's arms, reeling and swaying--one wearing the
official badge of an appointed Common keeper, the other in the helmet
and tunic of an ordinary constable.
"Lend a hand, gov'ner, for Gawd's sake!" rapped out the former. "Name's
Mawson, sir--keeper on the Common-- Number four, sir. Got the
blackguard! Murder, sir--got him red handed!"
"Good Lord!" little more than gulped the man he held.
The two pairs of gripping hands dropped, the struggling figures fell
apart, and the two men who but an instant before had been locked in an
angry embrace stood staring at each other in open-mouthed amazement.
"What kind of a game is this?" demanded Narkom, as with his allies he
crowded forward. "You two people are paid to keep the peace, not to
break it, dash you!"
"My word!" exclaimed the Common keeper, finding his voice suddenly. "A
copper, is it?--a copper! when I thought.... Gawd's truth, Constable,
wot have you done with him? He run in here with me on his blessed heels.
You didn't let him get past you, did you?"
"No fear!" snapped out the constable indignantly. "I stood here
waiting--waiting and shouting to you--until you ran smack into my
blessed arms; and if anybody but you come in _your_ side of the arch, he
never come out o' mine, I'll take my solemn oath!"
"Then where's he gone? Wot's become of him?" shouted the Common keeper
excitedly. "I tell you I was on the very heels of him from the moment I
first whistled and called out to you to head him off. I could a-most
have touched him when he dashed in here; and--and his footsteps never
stopped soundin' for one second the whole blessed time. Murder is wot
he's done--murder!--and I've been on his heels from the very moment he
fired the shot."
Narkom and his allies lost not an instant in revealing their identity
and displaying their insignia of office to the two men.
"Murder is it, Keeper?" exclaimed the superintendent, remembering all at
once what Lennard had said about hearing the cry and the shot. "When and
how? Lead me to the body."
"Lor' bless you, sir, I aren't 'ad no time nor chanct to look after any
body," replied the keeper. "All's I can tell you is that I was out there
in my shelter on the Common when I heard the first cry--like as some one
was callin' for help whiles some one else had 'em by the windpipe, sir;
so I dashes out and cuts through the mist and gorse as fast as my
blessed legs could carry me. Jist as I gets to the edge of the lane,
sir, 'Bang!' goes a revolver shot jist 'arf a dozen feet in front of me,
and a man, wot I couldn't see 'ide nor 'air of on account of the mist,
nicks out o' somewheres, and cuts off down the lane like a blessed race
'orse. I outs with me whistle and blows it as 'ard as I could, and cuts
off after him. He never stopped runnin' for a blessed instant. He never
doubled on me, never turned to the right nor to the left, gov'ner, but
jist dashes into this arch--straight in front of me, sir, and me running
on almost within reachin' distance, until I runs smack into the arms of
this constable here, and grabs _him_, thinkin' I'd got my man for sure.
Wherever he's got to since, I tell you he come in here, sir--smack
_in_!--and me after him; and if he didn't get past the constable----"
"He didn't-- I've told you so once, and I'll stick to it!" interrupted
the constable himself, with some show of heat. "What do you take me
for--an old woman? Look here, Mr. Narkom, sir, my name's Mellish. It's
true I've only been on the force a little over a week, sir, but my
sergeant will tell you I've got my wits about me and aren't in the least
likely to let a man slip past me in the manner that this chap thinks.
_Nothing_ went past me--nothing the size of a cat, let alone a man,
sir--and if the party in question really _did_ come in here----"
"I'll soon settle that question!" rapped in Narkom sharply.
He flung a hurried command to Lennard, waved Petrie and Hammond aside,
and an instant later the limousine moved swiftly up out of the mist
until its bulk filled the entrance of the arch and its blazing acetylene
lamps were sweeping it with light from end to end. Smooth as a rifle
bore, its damp walls and curving roof shone out in the sudden glare--not
a brick displaced, not a crevice big enough to shelter a rat much less a
human being--and of the man the Common keeper had been chasing, not a
sign nor a trace anywhere!
"Whatever the fellow did or wherever he went, he can't have gone far, so
look sharp, my lads!" commanded Narkom. "If we're quick we're sure to
nab him. Come along, Constable, come along, Keeper. Lennard, you stop
where you are and guard the exit from the arch, so if he doubles on us
he can't get by _you_!"
"Right you are, sir!" responded Lennard, as the superintendent and the
four men made a dash toward that end of the arch through which the
keeper was so positive the fugitive had come.
"I say, Mr. Narkom!" he added, raising his voice and shouting after
them. "Eyes sharp to the left, all of you, when you get outside this
arch. Know the neighbourhood like a book, sir. Lane forks out into a 'Y'
after you get about fifty yards on. Branches off on the left where
there's an old house called Gleer Cottage, sir, that hasn't been
tenanted for years and years. Walled garden--tool house--stable. Great
place for man to hide, sir!"
"Good boy! Thanks!" flung back Narkom. "Come on, my lads! Lively!"
Then they swung out of the arch with a rush, and the last that Lennard
saw of them before the shrouding mist took them and blotted them from
his view, they were pelting up the lane at top speed and making headlong
for the branching "Y" to which he had directed them, their footsteps
sounding on the moist surface of the road and their electric torches
emitting every now and again a spark like a glowworm flashing.
Five minutes passed--the click of their flying steps had dropped off
into silence; the flash of their torches had vanished in the distance
and the mist; even the blurred sound of their excited voices was
stilled; and neither ear nor eye could now detect anything but the soft
drip of the moisture from the roof of the arch and the white oblivion of
the close-pressing, ever-thickening mist.
Still he sat there, waiting--alert, watchful, keen--looking straight
before him and keeping a close watch on the unobstructed end of the
miniature tunnel whose entire length was still flooded with the glare
from the motor's lamps. If a mouse had crawled down its damp walls he
must have seen it; if even so much as a shadow had come up out of that
wilderness of mist and crept into the place, he must have detected, it.
But there was nothing; neither man nor beast, neither shade nor shadow;
only the loneliness and the mist and the soft "plick-plick!" of the
dropping moisture.
The five minutes became eight, ten, a dozen, without the slightest
change in anything. Then, all of a sudden, Lennard's tense nerves gave a
sort of jump and a swift prickle flashed up his spine and through his
hair. A sound had come--a rustle--a step--a movement. Not from the
direction in which he was looking, however, but from the lane beyond the
arch and _behind_ the limousine.
He jumped to his feet and rising on tiptoe on his driver's seat flashed
the light of his electric torch back over the top of the vehicle; what
he saw took all the breath out of him and set his heart and pulses
hammering furiously.
Against that thick blanket of mist the penetrating power of the torch's
gleam was so effectually blunted that it could do nothing more than
throw a pale, weak circle of light a few feet into the depths of a
crowding vapour, leaving all beyond and upon either side doubly dark in
contrast.
Yet as the light streamed out and flung that circle into the impinging
mist, there moved across it the figure of a woman, young and fair, with
a scarf of lace thrown over her head, from beneath which fell a glory
of unbound hair, thick and lustrous, over shoulders that were wrapped in
ermine--ermine in mid-April!
A woman! Here! At this hour! In this time of violence and evil doing!
The thing was so uncanny, so unnatural, so startlingly unexpected, that
Lennard's head swam.
She was gone so soon--just glimmering across the circle of light and
then vanishing into the mist as suddenly as she had appeared--that for a
moment or two he lost his nerve and his wits, and ducked down under the
screen of the motor's top, remembering all the tales he had ever heard
of ghosts and apparitions, and, in a moment of folly, half believing he
had looked upon one. But of a sudden his better sense asserted itself,
and realizing that for a woman--_any_ woman, no matter how dressed, no
matter how young and fair and good to look upon--to be moving stealthily
about this place, at this hour, when there was talk of murder, was at
least suspicious, he laid hands upon the wheel, and being unable to turn
the vehicle in the arch and go after _her_, put on full power and went
after Narkom and his men. A swift whizz carried him through the arch and
up the lane, and, once in the open, he laid hand upon the bulb of the
motor horn and sent blast after blast hooting through the stillness,
shouting at the top of his voice as he scorched over the ground:
"Mr. Narkom! Mr. Narkom! This way, sir, this way! This way!"
CHAPTER TWO
HOW THE CHASE ENDED
Meanwhile Mr. Narkom and his zealous assistants had rushed wildly on,
coming forth at last from the old railway arch into the narrow lane
without so much as catching a glimpse or finding the slightest trace of
either victim or murderer.
But that they had not all been deceived by an hallucination of the
night, received proof from the triumphant discovery of Sergeant Petrie,
who, with the aid of his torch and the bull's-eye lantern of Constable
Mellish, had found the unmistakable traces of hurried footsteps on the
soft, yielding earth.
"Lummy, sir! the place is alive with 'em," ejaculated Mellish. "This is
the way he went, sir, down this 'ere lane, and makin' for the right of
way across the fields, like wot that shuvver of yours said, sir."
Narkom, Hammond, and Petrie were at his side before he had finished
speaking. It was true, other footprints were there, all the lonely
tree-girt road was full of them, going down the centre in one long,
unbroken line. They stopped but a moment to make sure of this, then rose
and dashed on in the direction which they led.
Straight on, down the middle of the thoroughfare, without break or
interruption, the foot-made trail drew them; under dripping
overshadowing trees; by natural hedges and unnatural mounds where weeds
and briars scrambled over piles of debris, and the light of their
torches showed Narkom and his men the dim irregular outlines of a
crumbling wall, green with moss and lichen and higher in parts than a
man's head.
On and still on, the deeply dug footprints lessening not a whit in their
clearness, until, all of a moment, they swerved slightly to the left and
then abruptly stopped--stopped dead short, and after that were seen no
more!
"Here's where he went!" called out Hammond, pointing to the left as
Narkom and the others, in a sort of panic, went running round and
endeavouring to pick up the lost trail. "Look, sir--grass here and the
wall beyond. Hopped over on to the grass, that's what he did, then
scaled the wall and 'went to earth' like an idiot in that old house
Lennard told us of. Come along--quick!
"Fair copped him, sir, as sure as eggs," he added excitedly, plunging in
through the mist and the shadow of the trees until he came to the wall
in question. "Break in the wall here, coping gone, dry dust of newly
crumbled mortar on the grass. Got over here, Mr. Narkom--yes, and cut
himself doing it. Hand, most likely; for there are bits of mortar with
broken glass stuck in 'em lying about and a drop of fresh blood on the
top of the wall!"
A single look was enough, when Mr. Narkom came hurrying to his side, to
verify all that had been said; and with an excited, "This way, all of
you. Look sharp!" the superintendent sprang up, gripped the broken top
of the wall, scrambled over it and dropped down into the darkness and
mist upon the other side. The others followed his lead, and the next
moment all were in the dark, walled-in enclosure in the middle of which
the long-abandoned house known as Gleer Cottage stood. They could see
nothing of it from where they were, for the mist and the crowded screen
of long-neglected fruit trees shut it in as with a curtain.
"Better let me go ahead and light the way, gents," said Constable
Mellish in an excited whisper, as he again unshuttered his bull's-eye
and directed its gleam upon the matted and tangled verdure. "Stout boots
and thick trousers is what's wanted to tramp a path through these
briars; them evening clothes of yours 'ud be torn to ribbons and your
ankles cut to the bone before you'd gone a dozen yards. Lummy! there's
another of his footprints--on the edge of that flower bed there! see!
Come on, come on--quick!"
Too excited and too much occupied with the work in hand to care who took
the lead so that they got through the place and ran their quarry to
earth, Narkom and the rest suffered the suburban constable to beat a way
for them through the brambly wilderness, while with bodies bent, nerves
tense as wire, treading on tiptoe along the trail that was being so
cautiously blazed for them, they pressed on after him.
Suddenly, without hint or warning, a faint metallic "click" sounded,
the light they were following went suddenly out, and before Narkom,
realizing that Mellish had sprung the shutter over the flame of his
lamp, could voice a whispered inquiry, the constable's body lurched back
against his own and a shaking hand descended upon his shoulder.
"Don't move, don't speak, sir!" said Mellish's voice close to his ear.
"We've got him right enough. He's in the house itself, and with a light!
There's a board or something put up against the window to shield it, but
you can see the light through the chinks--coming and going, sir, like as
he was carrying it about."
Startling as the statement was, when Narkom and the rest came on tiptoe
to the end of the trampled path and peeped around the last screening
bush into the open beyond, they found it to be the case.
Blurred, shadowy, mist wrapped--like the ghost of a house set in a
ghostly garden--there stood the long-abandoned building, its blank upper
windows lost in the wrapping fog; its dreary face toward the distant
road; its bleak, unlovely side fronting the point from which Narkom and
his men now viewed it; and from one of the two side windows thin
wavering lines of constantly shifting light issued from beneath the
shadow of a veranda.
"Candlelight, sir, and a draught somewhere, nobody moving about,"
whispered Hammond. "Window or a door open--that's what makes the light
rise and fall. What an ass! Barricaded the window and never thought to
stop up the chinks. Lord, for a fellow clever enough to get away from
the constable and the keeper in the manner he did, you'd never look for
an idiot's trick like this."
Narkom might have reminded him that it was an old, old failing on the
part of the criminal class, this overlooking some trifling little point
after a deed of almost diabolical cunning; but at present he was too
much excited to think of anything but getting into that lighted room and
nabbing his man before he slipped the leash again and escaped him.
Ducking down he led a swift but soundless flight across the open space
until he and his allies were close up under the shadow of the building
itself, where he made the rather surprising discovery that the rear door
was unlocked. Through this they made their way down a passage, at the
end of which was evidently the room they sought, for a tiny thread of
light lay between the door and the bare boards of the passage. Here they
halted a moment, their nerves strung to breaking point and their hearts
hammering thickly as they now heard a faint rustling movement and a
noise of tearing paper sounding from behind it.
For a moment these things alone were audible; then Narkom's hand shot
upward as a silent signal; there was a concerted movement, a crash that
carried a broken door inward and sent echoes bellowing and bounding from
landing to landing and wall to wall, a gush of light, a scramble of
crowding figures, a chorus of excited voices, and--the men of Scotland
Yard were in the room.
But no cornered criminal rose to do battle with them, and no startled
outcry greeted their coming--nothing but the squeal and scamper of
frightened rats bolting to safety behind the wainscot; a mere ripple of
sound, and after it a silence which even the intruders had not breath
enough to break with any spoken word.
With peeling walls and mouldering floor the long, low-ceiled room gaped
out before them, littered with fallen plaster and thick with dust and
cobwebs. On the floor, in the blank space between the two boarded-up
windows, a pair of lighted candles guttered and flared, while behind
them, with arms outstretched, sleeves spiked to the wall--a human
crucifix, with lolling head and bended knees--a dead man hung, and the
light shining upon his distorted face revealed the hideous fact that he
had been strangled to death.
However many his years, they could not have totalled more than five and
thirty at most, and ghastly as he was now, in life he must have been
strikingly handsome: fair of hair and moustache, lean of loin and broad
of shoulder, and with that subtle _something_ about him which mutely
stands sponsor for the thing called birth.
He was clad in a long gray topcoat of fine texture and fashionable
cut--a coat unbuttoned and flung open by the same furious hand which had
rent and torn at the suit of evening clothes he wore beneath.
The waistcoat was wrenched apart and a snapped watch chain dangled from
it, and on the broad expanse of shirt bosom thus exposed there was
rudely smeared in thick black letters--as if a finger had been dipped
for the purpose in blacking or axle grease--a string of mystifying
numerals running thus:
[Illustration: 2 X 4 X 1 X 2]
For a moment the men who had stumbled upon this appalling sight stood
staring at it in horrified silence; then Constable Mellish backed
shudderingly away and voiced the first spoken word.
"The Lord deliver us!" he said in a quaking whisper. "_Not_ the murderer
himself, but the party as he murdered! A gent--a swell--strangled in a
place like this! Gawd help us! what was a man like that a-doing of here?
And besides, the shot was fired out there--on the Common--as you know
yourselves. You heard it, didn't you?"
Nobody answered him. For Narkom and his men this horrifying discovery
possessed more startling, more mystifying, more appalling surprises than
that which lay in the mere finding of the victim of a tragedy where they
had been confident of running to earth the assassin alone. For in that
ghastly dead thing spiked to the crumbling wall they saw again a man who
less than four hours ago had stood before them in the full flower of
health and strength and life.
"Good God!" gasped Hammond, laying a shaking hand upon Narkom's arm.
"You see who it is, don't you, sir? It's the Austrian gent who was at
Clavering Close to-night-- Count Whats-his-name!"
"De Louvisan--Count Franz de Louvisan," supplied Narkom agitatedly. "The
last man in the world who _should_ have shown himself in the home of the
man whose sweetheart he was taking away, despite the lady's own desires
and entreaties! And to come to such an end--to-night--in such a place as
this--after such an interview with the two people whose lives he was
wrecking.... Good God!"
A thought almost too horrible to put into words lay behind that last
excited exclamation, for his eyes had fallen on a thin catgut halter--a
violoncello string--thus snatched from its innocent purpose, and through
his mind had floated the strains of the music with which Lady Katharine
Fordham had amused the company but a short time before. He turned
abruptly to his men and had just opened his mouth to issue a command
when the darkness and silence without were riven suddenly by the hooting
of a motor horn and the voice of Lennard shouting.
"Stop!" commanded Narkom, as the men made an excited step toward the
door. "Search this house--guard it--don't let any one enter or leave it
until I come back. If any living man comes near it, arrest him, no
matter who or what he is. But don't leave the place unguarded for a
single instant--remember that. There's only one man in the world for
this affair. Stop where you are until I return with him."
Then he flung himself out of the room, out of the house, and ran as fast
as he could fly in the direction of the tooting horn. At the point where
the branching arm of the "Y" joined the main portion of Mulberry Lane,
he caught sight of two huge, glaring motor lamps coming toward him
through the mist and darkness. In a twinkling the limousine had halted
in front of him, and Lennard was telling excitedly of that startling
experience back there by the old railway arch.
"A woman, sir--a young and beautiful woman! And she must have had
something to do with this night's business, gov'ner, or why should she
be wandering about this place at such a time? Hop in quick, sir, and
I'll run you back to the spot where I saw her."
At any other time, under any other circumstances, Narkom might, probably
would, have complied with that request; but now---- A woman indeed! No
woman's hand could have nailed that grim figure to the wall of Gleer
Cottage, at least not alone, not without assistance. This he realized;
and brushing the suggestion aside, jumped into the limousine and slammed
the door upon himself.
"Drive to Clarges Street! I must see Cleek! Full speed now! Don't let
the devil himself stop you!" he cried; and in a moment they were
bounding away townward at a fifty-mile clip that ate up the distance
like a cat lapping cream.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SHADOW THAT LAY BEHIND
It had but just gone midnight when the car slowed down before the house
in Clarges Street. Here in company with his faithful henchman, Dollops,
and attended upon by an elderly housekeeper and a deaf-and-dumb maid of
all work, there dwelt--under the name and guise of "Captain Horatio
Burbage," a superannuated seaman--that strange and original genius who
chose to call himself "Hamilton Cleek," but who was known to the police
of two continents by the sobriquet of "The Man of the Forty Faces."
In the merest fraction of a minute Narkom was out of the limousine, had
crossed the narrow pavement, mounted the three shallow steps, and was
standing in the shadow of a pillared porch, punching a signal on the
button of an electric bell. In all he could not have been kept waiting
more than a minute, but it seemed forty times that length when he at
last heard a bolt slip, and saw, in the gap of the open door, the figure
of a slim, red-headed youth arrayed in a bed quilt, a suit of pink
flannelette pajamas, and a pair of white canvas tennis shoes.
"Come in, sir, come in quick!" this young man whispered, in the
broadest of Cockney accents, as he opened the door just wide enough for
Narkom to sidle into the semi-dark passage.
"Where's your master, Dollops?" put in the superintendent. "Speak up! Is
he in? I've got to see him at once!"
The voice which answered came, not from Dollops, but from the dark top
of the dim staircase.
"Come up, Mr. Narkom," it said. "I thought that young beggar had gone to
bed ages ago and was just coming down myself to let you in. Come along
up. You know the way."
Narkom acted upon the invitation so promptly that he was up the stairs
and in the cozy, curtained, and lamp-lit room which Cleek called his den
almost as quickly as his host himself. In fact, Cleek had scarcely time
to sweep into the drawer of his writing table a little pile of something
which looked like a collection of odds and ends of jewellery, bits of
faded ribbon, and time-stained letters, and turn the key upon them,
before the police official was at the door.
"Hullo!" said Cleek in a tone of surprise and deep interest as the
superintendent came fairly lurching into the room. "What's in the wind,
Mr. Narkom? You look fairly bowled. Whisky and soda there--at your
elbow--help yourself. I presume it is a case--nothing else would bring
you here at this time and in such a state. What kind is it? And for
whom? Some friend of yours or for the Yard?"
"For both, I'm afraid," replied Narkom, pouring out a stiff peg of
whisky and nervously gulping it down between words. "God knows I hope it
may be only for the Yard, but considering what I know----Get your hat
and coat. Come with me at once, Cleek. It's a murder--a mystery after
your own heart. Lennard's below with the limousine. Come quickly, do,
there's a dear chap. I'll tell you all about it on the way. The thing's
only just been done--within the hour--out Wimbledon way."
"I might have guessed that, Mr. Narkom, considering that you were to
mingle duty with pleasure and spend the evening at Wimbledon with your
old friend, Sir Philip Clavering," replied Cleek, rising at once.
"Certainly I will go with you. Did you ever know the time when I
wouldn't do all that I could to help the best friend I ever
had--yourself? And if it is, as you hint, likely to be in the interest
of the friend of _my_ friend----"
"I'm not so sure of that, Cleek. God knows I hope it's a mistaken idea
of mine; but when you have heard, when you have seen, how abominably
things point to that dear boy of Clavering's and to the girl that dead
fellow was conspiring with her father to take away from him----"
"Oho!" interjected Cleek, with a strong rising inflection. "So there is
that element in the case, eh?--love and a woman in distress! Give me a
minute to throw a few things together and I am with you, my friend."
"Thanks, old chap, I knew I could rely upon you! But don't stop to
bother about a disguise, Cleek, it's too dark for anybody to see that it
isn't 'the Captain' that's going out; and besides, there's everything of
that sort in the limousine, you know. The street is as dark as a pocket,
and there's nobody likely to be on the watch at this hour."
The curious one-sided smile so characteristic of the man looped up the
corner of Cleek's mouth; his features seemed to writhe, a strange,
indefinable change to come over them as he put into operation his
peculiar birth gift; and an instant later, but that he had not stirred
one step and his clothing was still the same, one might have thought
that a totally different man was in the room.
"Will it matter _who_ watches?" he said, with just a suspicion of vanity
over the achievement. "It will be--let us see--yes, a French gentleman
whom we shall call 'Monsieur Georges de Lesparre' to-night, Mr. Narkom.
A French gentleman with a penchant for investigating criminal affairs,
and who comes to you with the strong recommendation of the Parisian
police department. Now cut down to the limousine and wait for me, I'll
join you presently. And, Mr. Narkom?"
"Yes, old chap?"
"As you go out, give Dollops directions where and how to get to the
scene of the tragedy, and tell him to follow us in a taxi as
expeditiously as possible."
"Oh, Molly 'Awkins! There ain't no rest for the wicked and no feedin'
for the 'ungry this side of Kensal Green--and precious little on the
other!" sighed Dollops when he received this message. "Not four weeks it
ain't since I was drug off in the middle of my lunch to go Cingalee
huntin' in Soho for them bounders wot was after Lady Chepstow's 'Sacred
Son,' and now here I am pulled out of my blessed pajamas in the middle
of the night to go 'Tickle Tootsying' in the bally fog at Wimbledon!
Well, all right, sir. Where the gov'ner goes, I goes, bless his 'eart;
so you can look for me as soon as I can get out of these Eytalian
pants."
Narkom made no comment; merely went down and out to the waiting
limousine and took his seat in it, full of a racking, nervous impatience
that was like a consuming fire; and there Cleek found him, ten minutes
later, when he jumped in with his kit bag and gave the signal which set
Lennard to speeding the car back on its way to the scene of the
mysterious tragedy.
"Pull down the blinds and turn up the light, Mr. Narkom, so I can make a
few necessary changes on the way," he said, opening the locker and
groping round in the depths of it as the limousine scudded around the
corner and tore off up Picadilly. "You can give me the particulars of
the case while I'm making up. Come on--let's have them. How did the
affair begin, and where?"
Narkom detailed the occurrences of the night with the utmost clearness,
from the moment when the shot and the cry attracted Lennard's attention
to that when the ghastly discovery was made in the semi-ruined cottage.
"Oho!" said Cleek, with one of his curious smiles. "So our friend the
mysterious assassin disappeared in the middle of a sort of tunnel did
he--and with a man at either end? Hum-m-m! I see, I see!"
"Do you? Well, I'm blest if I do, then. There wasn't a place as big as
your hand to hide anything in, much less shelter a man; and the fellow
who could do a diabolical thing like that----"
"That is a question which simply remains to be seen," interposed Cleek.
"The thing is not so supernatural as it appears at first blush. Once--in
the days that lie behind me, when I was the hunted and not the
hunter--in that old 'Vanishing Cracksman' time of mine, I myself did
that 'amazing disappearance' twice. Once in an alley in New York when
there was a night watchman and a patrolman to be eluded; and once in
Paris when, with Margot's lot, I was being hunted into a trap which
would have been the end of one of the biggest coups of my career had I
been nabbed that night."
"Margot?" repeated Narkom. "Yes, I remember the Queen of the
Apaches--the woman with whom you used to consort. Said she'd get even
with you when you turned down the old life and took sides with the law
instead of against it, I recollect. And you tell me that in those old
days you practised a trick such as this fellow did to-night?"
"Yes. Beat him at it--if you will pardon the conceit--for I vanished in
the middle of a narrow passage with a sergeant de ville chasing me at
one end and a concierge accompanied by a cabman and a commissionaire
racing in at the other, I always fancied that that trick was original
with me. I know of no one but Margot and her crew who were aware of the
exploit, and if any man has borrowed a leaf from the book of those old
times---- Oh, well, it will be the end of all your fears regarding any
friend of ours, Mr. Narkom, for the fellow will stand convicted as a
member of the criminal classes and, possibly, of Margot's crew. We shall
know the truth of that when we get to the scene of this mysterious
vanishment, my friend."
"Yes, but how was it done, Cleek? Where did he go? How did he elude the
chasing keeper and the waiting constable? A man can't vanish into thin
air, and I tell you there wasn't a place of any sort for him to hide in.
Yet you speak of the trick as if it were easy."
"It _is_ easy, provided he had the same cause and adopted the same means
as I did, my friend. Wait until we come to investigate that railway arch
and you will see. Now tell me something, Mr. Narkom: How came you to be
in the neighbourhood of Mulberry Lane at all to-night? It is nowhere
near Clavering Close; and it was decidedly out of your way if, as you
tell me, you were on the way back to town. It is peculiar that you
should have chosen to go out of your way like that."
"I didn't choose to do it. As a matter of fact I was executing a
commission for Lady Clavering. It appears that a jewel had been found by
the maid-in-attendance lying upon the floor of the ladies' room, and as
Lady Clavering recollected seeing that jewel upon Miss Ailsa Lorne's
person to-night, she asked me to stop at Wuthering Grange and return it
to her."
"Ailsa Lorne!" A light flashed into Cleek's face as he repeated the
name, and rising into his eyes, made them positively radiant. "Ailsa
Lorne, Mr. Narkom? You surely do not mean to tell me that Ailsa Lorne is
in Wimbledon?"
"Yes, certainly I do. My dear fellow, how the name seems to interest
you. But I remember: you know the lady, of course."
Know her? Know the woman whose eyes had lit the way back from those old
days of crime to the higher and the better things, the woman who had
been his redemption in this world, and would, perhaps, be his salvation
in the one to come? Cleek's very soul sang hymns of glory at the bare
thought of her.
"I did not know Miss Lorne would be in Wimbledon," he said quietly, "or
anywhere in the neighbourhood of London. I thought she had accepted a
temporary position down in Suffolk as the companion of an old school
friend, Lady Katharine Fordham."
"So she did," replied Narkom. "And it is as that unhappy young lady's
companion that she was at Clavering Close to-night. Lady Katharine, as
you doubtless know, is Lord St. Ulmer's only child."
"Lord St. Ulmer?" repeated Cleek, gathering up his brows thoughtfully.
"Hum-m-m! Ah-h-h! I seem to remember something about a Lord St. Ulmer.
Let me see! Lost his wife when his daughter was a mere baby, didn't he,
and took the loss so much to heart that he went out to Argentina and
left the girl to the care of an aunt? Yes, I recall it now. Story was in
all the papers some months ago. Got hold of a silver mine out there;
made a pot of money, and came home after something like fifteen years of
absence; bought in the old family place, Ulmer Court, down in Suffolk,
after it had been in the hands of strangers for a generation or two, and
took his daughter down there to live. That's the man, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's the man. He's worth something like half a million sterling
to-day--lucky beggar."
"Then why do you allude to his daughter and heiress as an 'unhappy young
lady'? Surely with unlimited wealth at her command----"
"Which I dare say she would gladly give up to get back other things that
she has lost," interposed Mr. Narkom. "Her hopes of becoming young Geoff
Clavering's wife for one!"
"Young Geoff Clavering? The chap whose coming of age was celebrated
to-day?"
"Yes, the son and heir of my friend, Sir Philip Clavering, as fine a boy
as ever stood in shoe leather. He and Lady Katharine have almost grown
up together, as her uncle and aunt, General and Mrs. Raynor, are close
neighbours at Wuthering Grange. They were engaged at seventeen, a
regular idyllic love match, old chap. Sir Philip and Lady Clavering were
immensely fond of her and heartily approved the match. So apparently did
her father, to whom she wrote, although she had not seen him since she
was a baby. Even when he returned to England with a fortune big enough
to warrant his daughter wedding a duke, he still appeared to approve of
the engagement, and suggested that the wedding should be celebrated on
the young man's twenty-first birthday."
"Which, as to-day is that day, and you still speak of her as Lady
Katharine Fordham, I presume did not take place?"
"No, it did not. Some three months ago, a certain Count de Louvisan, an
Austrian, appeared on the scene, claiming acquaintance with St. Ulmer;
and it seems that after a subsequent interview, Lord St. Ulmer informed
his daughter that her engagement with Geoff Clavering must come to an
end, and that it was her father's intention that she should become the
wife of Count de Louvisan."
"Oho!" said Cleek, in two different tones. "All of which goes to suggest
that the count had some hold over the old gentleman and was using it to
feather his own nest. Of course the girl couldn't be compelled to marry
the man against her will, so if she consented to the breaking of the
engagement----Did she?"
"Yes."
"Then something must have been told her--something which was either a
lie or an appalling truth--to make her take a step like that, for a
woman does not break with the man she loves unless something more than
life is at stake. And it is this Count de Louvisan, you tell me, that
has been murdered? Hum-m-m!"
"Yes, the worst of it is," said Mr. Narkom gloomily, "there was a scene
between him and young Clavering but a couple of hours before the murder
was discovered."
"What's that?" rapped out Cleek. "A 'scene'! A quarrel do you mean? How
and where? Or perhaps you don't know?"
"As it happens, I do," said Narkom, "for I happened to be at Clavering
Close when it took place. You see, Lord St. Ulmer is laid up with a
sprained ankle at Wuthering Grange, where he has been staying with his
sister and brother-in-law, the Raynors. Lady Katharine seized the
opportunity to say farewell to Geoff, and came over at about eight
o'clock; and I hope, Cleek, I may never in my life again see anything so
heartbreaking as was made those last few minutes of parting."
"Few? Why few, pray?"
"Because they had not been together half an hour when the Count de
Louvisan came over, posthaste, after his fiancee. Lady Katharine's
absence had been discovered from the Grange, and naturally he was the
one who would come after her. You can guess what followed, Cleek. Young
Clavering fairly flew at the fellow, and would have thrashed him but
that his father and I got hold of him, and Hammond and Petrie hustled
the count out of the room. But even so, nobody could prevent that wild,
impetuous, excited boy from challenging the man, then and there. To that
the count merely threw back a laugh and said, as Petrie and Hammond
hustled him out of the room: 'Monsieur, one does not fight a fallen
foe--one merely pities him!' And it took all his father's strength and
mine to hold the boy in check. 'Pity yourself if ever I meet you!' he
shouted. 'There'll be one blackguard the less in the world if ever I
come within reach of you again, damn you! I had nine years of hope until
you came, and I'll put a mark on you for every one of them that you've
spoilt!"
"'A mark'!" repeated Cleek, with some slight show of agitation. "A mark
for every year? It is true that the barking dog is the last to bite
but---- What were those figures that you tell me were smeared on the
dead man's shirt bosom--2-4-1-2, were they not? And that sum equals
nine!"
"Yes," said Narkom, with a sort of groan. "Just nine, Cleek, just
exactly nine. That's what cut the heart out of me when I saw that dead
man spiked to the cottage wall, bearing the very mark he had sworn that
he should bear."
"I see," murmured Cleek thoughtfully. "Of course, the wisest of men are
sometimes mistaken, but somehow I took those numerals to stand for a
sign of a secret society; but, as you say, the numbers do indeed total
nine--the years of young Clavering's threat, but----"
His voice trailed off; he sat for a moment deep in thought.
"Then there is the 'spike,' that is an old Apache punishment. They
spiked Lanisterre to the wall when he went over to the police. Which is
it? The Apaches or this foolish, hot-headed boy lover?"
Narkom wisely refrained from comment. He knew the ways and methods of
his famous ally only too well, and he sat silent therefore till Lennard
pulled up the limousine sharply in front of Gleer Cottage.
"Here we are at the cottage--unless you would like to see the arch
first?"
"Oh, no," Cleek smiled softly. "That part of the mystery, my friend, is
quite simple. Lead the way, please."
They alighted without further remark, and Narkom was followed by as
complete a specimen of a French dandy as could be found in Paris, from
the gardens of the Tuileries to the benches of the Luxembourg.
CHAPTER FOUR
CLEWS AND SUSPICIONS
A minute more and Cleek was in the house--in the presence of Hammond and
Petrie--and Narkom had introduced him as "Monsieur Georges de Lesparre,
a distinguished French criminologist who had come over to England this
morning upon a matter connected with the French Police Department and
who, in the absence of Mr. Cleek, had consented to take up this peculiar
case."
"My hat! Wouldn't that drive you to drink!" commented Petrie in a
disgusted aside as he eyed this suave and sallow gentleman with open
disapproval. "What will we be importing from the continent next,
Hammond? As if there aren't detectives in England good enough to do the
Yard's work without setting them to twiddling their blessed thumbs
whilst a blooming Froggie runs the show and--beg pardon! what's that?
Yes, Mr. Narkom. Searched the house from top to bottom, sir. Nobody in
it, and nobody been here either, sir, not a soul since you left."
"You are quite sure, monsieur?" This from Cleek. "About the 'nobody in
the house,' I mean, of course. You are quite sure?"
"Of course we're sure!" snapped Hammond savagely. "Been from the top to
the bottom of it--me and Petrie and the constable here--and not a soul
in it anywhere."
"Ah, the constable, eh? You shall tell me, please, Mr. Narkom, is this
the constable who was at the one end of the arch while the keeper was
chasing the man in at the other? Ah, it is, eh? Well--er--shall not we
see the keeper, too? I do not find him about and I should much like to
speak with him. Where is he?"
"Who--the keeper?" said Narkom. "Blest if I know. Is he about, my lads?"
"No, sir. Ain't _been_ about--has he, Petrie?--for the Lord knows how
long. Never thought of the beggar until this moment, sir."
"Nor did I," said Narkom. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen the
fellow since we came to the 'Y' of the road and found those footprints
leading here. No doubt he has gone back to his shelter on the Common
and---- Monsieur! Why are you smiling? Good God! you-- I---- Monsieur,
shall I send my men for the fellow? Do you want to see him?"
"Yes, Monsieur Narkom, I want to see him very, very much indeed--if you
can find him! But you can't, monsieur; and I fear me that you never
will. What you will find, however, if you will send your men to the
shelter of which you speak will be the _real_ keeper, either dead or
stunned or gagged, and his coat and hat and badge removed from his body
by the man who personated him."
"Good heavens above, man, you don't mean to say----"
"That you had the real criminal in your hands and let him go, that you
talked with him, walked with him, were taken in by him, and that he told
you no lie when he said the assassin really _did_ run into the arch,"
replied Cleek quietly. "It is the old old trick of that fellow who was
called the 'Vanishing Cracksman,' my friend: to knock down the fellow
who first gives the alarm, rip off his clothing, and then to lead the
hue and cry until there's a chance to steal away unobserved. Send your
men to the keeper's shelter and see if I have guessed the truth of that
little riddle or not. I'll lay you a sovereign, my friend, that your man
has slipped the leash, and it will be but a fluke of fate if you ever
lay hands on him again."
In a sort of panic Narkom turned to his men and sent them flying from
the house to investigate this startling assertion; and, turning as they
went, Cleek walked into the room where that awful dead figure hung. He
had taken but one step across the threshold, however, when he stopped
suddenly and began to sniff the air--less to the surprise of Narkom, who
had often seen him do this sort of thing before, than to Constable
Mellish, who stood looking at him in open-mouthed amazement.
"Good lud, man-- I should say, monsieur," exclaimed the superintendent
agitatedly, "after what you have just hinted, my head is in a whirl and
I am prepared for almost anything; but surely you cannot find anything
suspicious in the mere atmosphere of the place?"
"No; nothing but what you yourself must have observed. There is a
distinct odour of violets in the room; so that unless that unhappy man
yonder was of the kind that scents itself, we may set it down that a
woman has been in here."
"A woman? But no woman could do a thing like that," pointing to the
position of the dead man. "Nor," after sniffing the air repeatedly, "do
I notice anything of the odour which you speak."
"Nor me nuther, sir," put in the constable.
"Still, the odour is here," returned Cleek. "And--no! it does not
emanate from the dead man. There is scent on him to be sure, but it is
not the scent of violets. Odours last at best but a little time after
the person bearing them has left the room, and as it must now be upward
of an hour since the discovery of the crime----"
Cleek sucked in his upper lip and took his chin between his thumb and
forefinger and pinched it hard. What was that that Narkom had told him
regarding Lennard's startling experience after he had been left on guard
at the old railway arch? Hum-m-m! Certainly there was _one_ woman abroad
in this neighbourhood to-night, and a woman decidedly _not_ of the lower
classes at that, as witness the fact that she had worn an ermine cloak.
Certainly, that would point to the wearer being a woman to whom money
was no object--and to Lady Katharine Fordham, with all the great St.
Ulmer wealth behind her, it assuredly was not. Clearly, then, whoever
was or was not the actual perpetrator of this night's crime, a woman of
the higher walk of life--a rich and fashionable woman, in fact--was in
some way connected with it.
The question was, did Lady Katharine Fordham possess an ermine cloak?
And if she did, would she be likely to have brought it up from Suffolk
at this time of the year? The curious smile slid down his cheek and
vanished. He turned to Mr. Narkom, who had been watching him anxiously
all the time.
"Well, my friend, let us poke about a bit more till your assistants get
back from the shelter on the Common," he said and dropped down on his
knees, examining every inch of the flooring with the aid of a pocket
torch and a magnifying glass. For some moments nothing came of this, but
of a sudden Narkom saw him come to an abrupt halt.
Twitching back his head, he sniffed at the air, two or three times,
after the manner of a hound catching up a lost scent; then he bent over,
brought his nose close to the level of the bare and dirty boards,
sniffed again, blew aside the dust, and exposed to view a tiny grease
spot not bigger than a child's thumbnail.
"_Huile Violette!_" he said, with a sound as of satisfied laughter in
his voice. "No wonder the scent of violets lingered. Look! here is
another spot--and here another," he added, blowing the dust away and
creeping on all fours in the direction the perfumed trail led. "Oh, I
know this stuff well, my friend," he went on. "For many, many years its
manufacture was a secret known only to the Spanish monks who carried it
with them to South America and subsequently established in that part of
the country now known as Argentina a monastery celebrated all over the
world as the only source from which this essential oil could be
procured."
"Argentina?" repeated Narkom agitatedly. "My dear chap, have you
forgotten that it was in Argentina Lord St. Ulmer spent those many years
of his self-imposed exile? If then, the stuff is only to be procured
there----"
"Gently, gently--you rush at top speed, Mr. Narkom. I said '_was_,'
recollect. It is still the chief point of its manufacture, but since
those days when the Spanish monks carried it there others have learned
the secret of it, notably the Turks who now manufacture an attar of
violets just as they have for years manufactured an attar of roses. It
is enormously expensive; for the veriest drop of it is sufficient, with
the necessary addition of alcohol, to manufacture half a pint of the
perfume known to commerce as 'Extract of Violet.' At one time it was a
favourite trick of very great ladies to wear on a bracelet a tiny golden
capsule containing two or three drops of it and supplied with a minute
jewelled stopper attached to a slender golden chain, which stopper they
occasionally removed for a moment or two that the aroma of the contents
might diffuse itself about them. I knew one woman--and one only--who
possessed such a bracelet. You, too, have heard of her. Whatever her
real name may be, she is simply known to those with whom she associates
as 'Margot.'"
"Scotland! The queen of the Apaches?"
"Yes."
"You are sure of that?"
"I ought to be. I, myself, stole the bracelet from the collection of the
Comte de Champdoce and presented it to her. I remember that the stopper
to the capsule was carved from a single emerald that, owing to its
age--it was said to have belonged in its day to Catherine de
Medicis--had worn loose, and could only be prevented from dropping out
and allowing the contents to drip away by wedging it into the orifice in
the capsule by winding the stopper with silk."
Narkom's face positively glowed.
"My dear Cleek, you give me the brightest kind of hope," he said
enthusiastically, as he stooped and investigated the tiny, perfumed
grease spots on the floor, so clearly made by the dropping of some oily
substance that there could be no question regarding their origin. "Then,
there can be no possibility of connecting young Geoff Clavering or the
girl he loves with this ghastly business if that Margot woman has been
here, and it was from her bracelet that these stains were dropped?
Besides, after what you said about that fellow of her crew who was
spiked to the wall as this poor wretch here is----"
"A moment, my friend--you are on the rush again," interjected Cleek.
"All that we actually _know_, at present, Mr. Narkom, is that some one,
and very likely a woman, has been here and--unconsciously, of
course--has spilled some drops of a very valuable and highly
concentrated perfume. This naturally points to a defective stopper to
the article containing that perfume, but whether or not that defective
stopper was one carved from a single emerald and wound with silk----"
He stopped and let the rest of the sentence go by default. All the while
he had been speaking he had been following, after the manner of a hound
on the scent, the trail of that perfume's lead; now it had brought him
to a litter of rat-gnawed paper and a parcel containing a peach and the
remnants of a roasted fowl. As if the scent seemed stronger here than
elsewhere--so strong, in fact, that it was suggestive of a goal--he
began tossing the scraps about, till at last he gave a sort of cry and
pounced upon something in a distant corner.
"Cleek!" rapped out Narkom in an excited but guarded tone, as he noted
this, "Cleek, you have found something? Something that decides?"
"Yes," the detective made answer. "Something which proves that, whoever
the woman who dropped the scent may be, Mr. Narkom, she was _not_
Margot!"
He unclosed his hand and stretched it out toward the superintendent, and
Narkom saw lying on his palm a crushed and gleaming thing which looked
like a child's gold thimble that had been trodden upon. The snapped
fragment of a hairlike gold chain still clung to it, and at the end of
this dangled a liliputian stopper, a wee mite of a thing that was little
more than a short, thick pin of plain, unjewelled, unornamented gold.
"One of the 'capsules' of which I spoke, you see," said Cleek, "and
bearing not the slightest resemblance to the one belonging to Margot.
The thing has snapped from its fastening and been trodden upon--trodden
under a very heavy foot, I should say, from the condition of it. There
is something engraved upon it, something that won't tend to ease your
mind, Mr. Narkom. Take my glass and look at it."
Narkom did so. Engraved on the crushed and fragrant-smelling bit of gold
he saw a coat-of-arms--arms which he, at least, knew to be those of the
house of St. Ulmer--and under this the name "Katharine."
"Good Lord!" he said, and let the crushed bauble fall back upon the palm
from which he had lifted it. "That child--that dear girl who is as much
as life itself to young Geoff Clavering? But how could she--a slip of a
girl like that----"
He turned and looked over at the dead figure spiked to the cottage wall.
Cleek made no reply--at least for the moment. He had gone back to the
"hound's trick" of sniffing the trail and was creeping on again--_past_
the litter of papers this time--and crawling on all fours toward the
very doorway by which the police had first gained access to the room.
"Wait! Cross no bridges until you come to them," he said at last in an
excited whisper. "Some one who trod upon that thing passed out this way.
I _knew_ I smelt the oil the very instant I crossed the threshold; now I
can understand why. The assassin left by the very door you entered, but
whether man or woman----"
By now the trail had led him to the very threshold of the room. Beyond
lay the dark hall by which Narkom and his men had entered the house, and
the light of his upraised electric torch shining out into that black
passage showed him something that made his pulses leap. It was simply a
fragment of some soft pinkish material, caught and torn off from a
woman's skirt by a nail head that protruded above the level of the
boarded floor. He rose and ran out to it; he caught it up and examined
it; then, with a laugh, shut his hand over it and went hurriedly back to
the superintendent's side.
"Mr. Narkom," he said, "tell me something! We have, presumably, found a
perfume receptacle belonging to the Lady Katharine Fordham; but did you
notice--can you remember what manner of frock her ladyship wore at
Clavering Close to-night?"
"I remember it very well indeed. It was a simple white satin frock, very
plain and very girlish, and she wore a bunch of purple pansies with it."
"Ah-h-h!" Cleek's voice was full of relief, his eyes full of sparkle and
life. "Then she did _not_ wear a gown of some soft, gauzy pink material,
eh? An airy sort of gown trimmed at the hem with scalloped embroidery
of rose-coloured silk. Good! Can you remember any lady to-night that
did?"
"Yes," said Narkom promptly. "Miss Ailsa Lorne did. She wore some soft,
gauzy pink stuff--chiffon, I think I've heard the wife call it--with a
lot of rose-coloured silk stitchery on the edges of the flounces, and
she had a band of pink ribbon in her hair."
Cleek made no comment, nor did his countenance betray even the slightest
trace of emotion. He simply put the shut hand that held that gauzy pink
fragment into his pocket and shoved it far down out of sight.
A while ago he could have sworn that Ailsa Lorne's foot had never
crossed the threshold of this house of crime; now he knew that it had,
and if the evidence of this scrap of chiffon stood for anything, crossed
it _after_ she had left Clavering Close--after she had heard that threat
against the Count de Louvisan's life.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE RIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Before Mr. Narkom could ask any questions, the sound of excited voices
and hasty footsteps coming up the drive and making toward the lonely
house drove all other thoughts from his head.
"Come along," he whispered to Cleek. "It's Hammond and Petrie returning
from the keeper's shelter on the Common. I know their voices. And they
have unearthed something startling or they wouldn't be talking so
excitedly."
They had, indeed, as he learned when he hurried out and intercepted them
at the cottage steps; for between them they were supporting a man
stripped of coat, waistcoat, and hat, and wearing bound round his head a
bloodstained handkerchief. His bearded face was bruised and battered,
his shirt and trousers were covered with mud, and he was so weak from
loss of blood that it was next to impossible for him to stand alone.
"Sir," broke out Hammond, as they came up with Mr. Narkom and paused
with this unexpected newcomer before him, "I don't know whether that
French mounseer is a wizard or not, but he copped the lay at the first
guess, Mr. Narkom, and foreigner or not I take off my blessed hat to
him. Here's what we found when we got to the shelter, sir--this here
party, knocked senseless, tied up like a trussed fowl, and tucked out of
sight under the gorse bushes nigh the shelter. Coat, cap, badge, and
truncheon all gone, sir--nicked by that dare-devil who took us in so
nicely down there at the old railway arch. The murderer himself he were,
I'll lay my life; for look here, sir, here's what he most brained this
poor chap with--a hammer, sir--look! And a hammer was used, wasn't it,
to spike that dead man to the wall? Had him, Mr. Narkom, had the rascal
in our very hands, that's what we did, sir, and then like a parcel of
chuckleheads we went and let him go."
"It is a trick that has succeeded with others besides yourselves," said
Cleek, who had been bending over the injured man. He looked up at Narkom
significantly. "Monsieur, I expect my assistant here any minute now.
Would it not be as well to report this shocking affair to the local
authorities?"
"Certainly, monsieur!" agreed Narkom, who had forgotten that Dollops
might arrive now at any moment.
"What about this poor chap here, sir?" interposed Petrie. "He's in a
desperately bad way. Oughtn't we to take him with us, and turn him over
to the hospital folk?"
"Non--that is, not yet, my friend," softly interposed Cleek. "Your good
superintendent and I will look after him for a little time. There is a
question or two to ask. He will bear the strain of talking now better
than he might be able to do later. Notify the hospital officials as you
pass through the town proper, and have an ambulance sent out. That's
all. You may go."
"Well, so help me," began the indignant Petrie, then discreetly shut up
and went. A moment later the limousine had whizzed away into the mist
and darkness with the three men, and Cleek and Narkom were alone with
the injured keeper.
"I expect that is Dollops in his taxi," whispered Cleek. "I thought I
heard the sound of a motor. That will obliterate every track if you
don't stop him. Head him off if you can, dear chap, and set him to work
directly you have dismissed the taxi. Tell Dollops to measure and make a
drawing of every footmark in and about the place. Quickly, please,
before it is too late."
Mr. Narkom hurried off and vanished in the mist, leaving his ally alone
with the dying man, for that he was dying there could be no question.
A bullet had gone through his body; a hammer had battered in the back of
his head; he was but partly conscious--with frequent lapses into
complete insensibility--and the marvel was not that he occasionally
uttered some wandering, half-coherent sentences, but that he was able to
speak at all.
"My poor chap," Cleek said feelingly, as he administered a stimulant by
which the keeper's flagging energies were whipped up. "Try to
speak--try to answer a question or two--try--for a woman's sake."
"A woman's?" he mumbled feebly. "Aye, my poor wife-- Gawd 'elp her--her
and the kiddies! And me a-goin' 'ome, sir--me a-gettin' of my death like
this for jist a-doin' of my duty--doin' of it honest and true, sir, for
king and country!"
"And both letting you face the nightly peril of it unarmed!" said Cleek
bitterly; then, passionately: "Will you wake up, England? Will you wake
up and do justice by these men who give their lives that you may sleep
in peace, and who, with a badge and a truncheon and two willing hands,
must fight your criminal classes and keep law and order for you?"
"Aye--some day, may like--some day, sir," mumbled the dwindling voice;
then it trailed off and sank sobbingly away, and Cleek had to administer
more brandy to bolster up his fading strength.
"A word," he said eagerly, the hammering of his heart getting into his
voice and making it unsteady. "Just one word, but much depends upon it.
Tell me--now--before anybody comes: Who did it? Man or woman?"
"I dunno, sir-- I didn't see. The mist was thick. Whoever it was, come
at me from behind. But there was two--there must have been two--one as I
heard a-runnin' toward me when I challenged, sir, and--and got shot down
like a dog; and 'tother as come at me in the back when I sang out
'Murder' and blew my whistle for help. But men or women, whichever it
may a-been, I never see, sir, never. But one woman _was_ on the Common
to-night. A lady, sir--oh, yes, a lady indeed."
"A lady? Speak to me--quickly--my friend is returning. What did that
lady wear? Was it a pink dress? Or couldn't you see?"
"Oh, yes, I could see--she came near me--she spoke in passing. She gave
me a bit of money, sir, and asked me not to mention about her bein' out
there to-night and me havin' met her. But it wasn't a pink dress, sir;
it was green--all shiny pale green satin with sparklin' things on the
bosom and smellin' like a field o' voylits on a mornin' in May!"
The sense of unspeakable thankfulness that Cleek experienced upon
hearing that the dress of this unknown "lady" was not pink, was lost in
a twinkling in one of utter and overwhelming surprise at learning that
it was _green_! Pink, white, and green, here were three evening dresses
called into the snare of this night's mystery; and yet a _third_ woman
now involved. White satin, that had been Lady Katharine Fordham's gown
to-night; pink chiffon, that had been Ailsa Lorne's. Who then was the
wearer of the pale green satin gown? Here was the riddle of the night
taking yet another perplexing turn.
A clatter of hasty footsteps came along the drive and up the steps to
the veranda, and Narkom, in a state of violent excitement, stood beside
him.
"All right," he said, answering Cleek's inquiring glance. "I headed the
taxi off and set Dollops to work as you suggested--and a blessed good
thing I did, too, otherwise we might have lost valuable clues."
"There _were_ footsteps then?"
"Footsteps? Great Scott, yes, heaps of them: the absolute continuation
of those which led me and my men to this house. But the madness of the
thing, the puzzle of the thing! No man on earth can run away in two
directions, yet there the blessed things are, going down the road at
full tilt and coming back up it again still on a dead run. Two lines of
them, old chap, one going and the other returning and both passing by
the gate of this house. By it, do you hear?--_by_ it, and never once
turning in; yet in the garden we have found marks that correspond with
them to the fraction of a hair, and we know positively that the fellow
_did_ come in here. It licks me, Cleek--it positively licks me. It's
beyond all reason."
"Yes," admitted Cleek, thinking of the green satin dress. "It is, Mr.
Narkom, it certainly is."
"Dollops will bring the drawings he's making to you as soon as he has
covered all the ground," resumed the superintendent almost immediately.
"Clever young dog that and no mistake. But to return to our muttons, old
chap. Did you get anything out of this poor fellow? Any clue to the
party who assaulted him?"
"None. He doesn't know. For one thing, the mist prevented him seeing his
assailant, and for another, he was first shot down by some one who was
running toward him and answered his challenge with a bullet, and then
pounced upon by somebody else who was behind him and floored him with
the hammer. I take it that the person who was running and who fired the
shot was advancing toward him from this direction--was, in fact, the
actual assassin--and that having discharged the pistol and caused this
poor fellow to whistle a call for assistance to the constable in
Mulberry Lane, he was put to it to get out of the box in which he found
himself by those two things. To escape across the Common meant to be
pursued by the constable and driven across the track of one of the other
keepers; so he took the bold hazard of putting on this poor chap's coat,
cap, and badge and playing at joining in the hue and cry in the manner
he did. Is that"--turning to the dying man--"the truth of it?"
The keeper could only nod--he was now too far gone to make any verbal
response, and even the administering of another dose of brandy failed to
whip up his expiring strength.
"I'm afraid we shall never get any more out of him, poor fellow," said
Cleek feelingly. "He is lapsing into unconsciousness, you see. Raise him
a bit, make him a little more comfortable if pos---- Quick! Catch his
head, Mr. Narkom! Don't let it strike the boards. Gone!--a good true
servant of the public gone! And the blackguard that killed him still at
large!"
Then he gently folded the useless hands and closed down the sightless
eyes, and shaking out the coat which Petrie had bundled into a pillow,
spread it over the dead man and was very, very still for a little time.
"There's a widow--and some little nippers, Mr. Narkom," he said when he
at length rose to his feet. "Find them out for me, will you? And if you
can see your way to offer a good substantial reward for the clearing up
of this case and the capture of the criminal, I'll pull it off and you
may pay that reward to the mother of this man's children."
"Cleek, my dear fellow! How ridiculously quixotic. What on earth can you
be thinking about?"
"A woman, Mr. Narkom--just a woman--and a few little nippers ... who
might take the wrong road as--well, as somebody I know of took it
once--if there wasn't a hand to help them or a friend to guide. That's
all, dear friend, that's all!"
Lifting his hat to that silent, covered figure, he turned and walked
away. But at the foot of the steps leading down to the mist and darkness
of the drive he came to a halt; and there Narkom, following almost
instantly, joined him again.
"My dear fellow, of all the impulsive, of all the amazing men," he
began; but got no further, for Cleek's upthrown hand checked him.
"We won't go into that, Mr. Narkom," he said. "We'll stick to the case,
please. I've got something to tell you that you haven't heard as yet.
Something that that poor dead chap did manage to tell me. A woman--a
lady--was out there on the Common to-night and paid him not to disclose
the fact."
"Great Scott! My dear fellow, you don't surely mean to hint that by any
possibility that poor child, Lady Katharine Fordham----"
"No, I do not. The lady in question was neither Lady Katharine Fordham,
who, you tell me, wore a white satin dress to-night, nor yet Miss Ailsa
Lorne, whose frock you say was of gauzy pink. The lady in question wore,
I understand, a gown of very pale green satin with what I take to have
been several diamond ornaments upon the corsage; furthermore, a delicate
but very distinct odour of violets clung about her."
"Good Lord!"
"No wonder you are surprised, Mr. Narkom. Ladies dressed in that fashion
are not, as a general thing, given to wandering about Wimbledon Common
either by night or by day, and the presence of this particular one is
curious, to say the least of it. I am of the opinion, however, that she
was no stranger to the Common keeper, otherwise he would have hurried
her into the shelter the instant she offered to bribe him, whistled up
the constable in Mulberry Lane, and given her in charge as a suspicious
character. Then there is another side to the affair which we must not
overlook. An entertainment was in progress at Clavering Close to-night,
and there must have been quite a number of ladies present dressed in
gala attire. But if your exclamation means that you have no
recollection of seeing one who wore a gown of pale green satin----"
"It doesn't!" rapped in Narkom excitedly. "It was the absurdity, the
madness, the--the utter impossibility of the thing. That she--she of all
women----! What rot!"
"Oho!" said Cleek, with a strong, rising inflection. "Then there _was_
such a gown in the rooms at Clavering Close to-night, eh? And you do
remember the lady that wore it?"
"Remember her? There's nobody I should be likely to remember better. It
was Lady Clavering herself!"
"Whew-w! The hostess?"
"Yes. Sir Philip's wife--young Geoff's stepmother; one of the sweetest,
gentlest, most womanly women that ever lived. And to suggest that she
... either the fellow must have deliberately lied or his statement was
the delusion of a dying man. It couldn't have happened--it simply
couldn't, Cleek. Why, man, her ladyship was there--at the Close--when I
left. It was she who put that jewel into my hand and asked me to leave
it at Wuthering Grange when----"
He stopped, biting his words off short and laying a nervous grip on
Cleek's arm; and Cleek, facing about abruptly, leaned forward into the
mist and darkness, listening.
For of a sudden, a babble of angry voices, mingled with the sounds of a
scuffle, had risen from the road beyond the gates, and hard on the
heels of it there now rang forth sharply the shrill tones of Dollops
crying out at the top of his voice:
"None o' yer larks, now! Got yer! Gov'ner! Mr. Narkom! This way! Come
quick, will yer? I've copped the bounder. Out here in the bushes under
this blessed wall!"
CHAPTER SIX
A LITTLE DISCREPANCY
The distance between the gates of Gleer Cottage and the porch wherein
lay the body of the dead keeper was by no means a short one, but at the
first sound of Dollops's voice the two men sped down the centre of the
dark, mist-wrapped drive and out into the lane, their electric pocket
torches sending two brilliant streams of light in front of them. The
sounds of scuffling feet and of wrangling voices guided them along the
broken, irregular line of the crumbling brick wall which encircled the
grounds of the cottage, and following the lead of them, they came
presently upon an amazing picture.
Close to that identical spot where, earlier in the night, Hammond had
found the gap in the wall, two figures struggled together: the one, in a
vain endeavour to free himself from the clutches of his captor; the
other intent on bringing him to the ground, on which lay scattered all
the drawings and paraphernalia with which Dollops had evidently been
carrying out his master's instructions. The light of the torches
revealed his prisoner to be a sturdy, fair-haired young man, and a first
glance showed Cleek that he was arrayed in a fashionable light-weight
overcoat which, torn open in the struggle, showed him also to be in
immaculate evening dress. It hardly needed Mr. Narkom's startled
exclamation, "Geoff!" to tell the detective that this was indeed the son
and heir of Sir Philip Clavering, the young man whose bitter threats
against the dead man in the cottage had been so swiftly carried out.
But the exclamation had a far-reaching effect upon Dollops's prisoner,
for he ceased struggling at once and faced round upon the superintendent
so that the full glare of the torches could fall upon his features and
leave not a shadow of doubt regarding his identity.
"Hullo! Mr. Narkom!" he exclaimed. "This _is_ a stroke of good luck and
no mistake! Who and what is this enterprising individual upon my back? I
can't see his interesting face, for he pounced upon me in the dark; but
if I had known that his yells and cries were likely to bring _you_ upon
the scene, I certainly shouldn't have gone to the length of struggling
and getting my clothes in this awful mess."
Cleek made a mental tally of that remark, and set alongside of it the
circumstance that Dollops, when he first called out, had most distinctly
mentioned Mr. Narkom by name. He said nothing, however; merely removed
the pressure of his thumb from the controlling button of his torch,
slipped that useful article into his pocket, and busied himself with
picking up Dollops's effects from the ground.
"Here you, whoever you are! You keep your blessed thievin' irons off
them things!" snapped Dollops, with a wink at the superintendent. "I
say, Mr. Narkom, sir, don't let that josser go carryin' off my
drorin's--them's for my gov'ner, _you_ know that. And, sir," he went on
earnestly, "don't you be took in by none of the gammon of this 'ere
person. Actin' suspicious and creepin' along in the dark he was when I
'opped up and copped him, sir, and no matter if he _is_ a party as
you're acquainted with, sir----"
"He is," interrupted the superintendent curtly, not, however, without
some slight show of agitation at finding this particular young man in
the neighbourhood at this particular time. "The gentleman is Mr.
Geoffrey Clavering, my friend Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir."
"Well, sir, I can't 'elp that," began Dollops, but his words were
interrupted by the captive himself.
"I shouldn't have blamed you if you had failed to recognize me from the
state I'm in through the mistaken ardour of this enterprising youth, Mr.
Narkom," he said. "He appears not to have left one inch of my person
unmarked with his hands; and if you would oblige me by requesting him to
detach himself from me as expeditiously as possible, I shall be
unspeakably obliged."
"Certainly, Geoff. Dollops, let the gentleman go."
"But, sir-- Mr. Narkom----"
"Stand back, I tell you!"
"But upon my sacred word of honour, sir----"
"You have heard what I said, haven't you? That's enough," interrupted
Narkom, sharply.
Dollops gave a swift glance at Monsieur Georges de Lesparre's face, then
sullenly relinquished his hold on his prisoner, and with a knowing wink
over his shoulder, busied himself with picking up his scattered and
muddied papers.
"A jolly cheeky young beggar that, Mr. Narkom; I wonder you take his
impertinences so lightly," said young Clavering, who seemed, somehow, to
have lost a little of his self-possession now that it became evident the
matter of his presence must inevitably be the topic of conversation. "I
say, send him away, won't you? And if you would--er--send your friend
away, too, I'd be obliged. I'd like to have a little conversation with
you in private, if you don't mind."
"Certainly, Geoff. Dollops, take yourself off--hot shot!"
"Me, sir? My hat! Where'll I go? Wot'll I do, sir?"
"Go and continue what you were told to do in the first place. Gather up
your traps, and be off about it."
"Oh, yuss--of course--nuthink easier than _that_ after the way as the
gent 'ere has went gallopin' all over 'em with his muddy boots!" said
Dollops with apparent disgust. "Look at that for a sample of drorin',
will yer?"
He slyly twitched the corner of his eye round in Cleek's direction,
turned the mud-stained paper so that he should see the footprint, and
mumbling and muttering shambled away in the direction of the cottage and
disappeared in the mist and darkness.
"I'm afraid, Geoff," went on Narkom as soon as Dollops had gone, "that I
can't humour you to the extent of requesting this gentleman, too, to
leave us; but let me have the pleasure of introducing him--Monsieur
Georges de Lesparre, the famous French criminologist. We are engaged
together upon a very serious matter to-night. In short, an exceptionally
ghastly murder has been committed since I left Clavering Close, Geoff,
and you will be horrified to hear----"
"Gently, gently, monsieur," softly interposed Cleek, who, while
appearing to be absorbed in acknowledging the introduction, had been
quietly taking in every detail relative to the young man's appearance
and had decided offhand that he liked him; that he was simply a
handsome, straight-looking, frank-faced, clear-eyed young fellow who, in
the general order of things, ought not to have one evil impulse in him.
"Shall one go into details that may, possibly, be unnecessary?" he went
on. "Perhaps Mr. Clavering has already heard of the crime, and it is
that which is accountable for his presence in this neighbourhood."
In his heart he knew that there was no such possibility, that there was
not even the ghost of a chance that news of the murder could so soon
have gotten abroad when even the local police had not yet learned of
it, and he threw out this "feeler" hoping that young Clavering would rid
himself of any shadow of complicity by at once rejecting it. To his
disappointment, however, Geoff rose to it as a trout to a fly; and his
face, which had betrayed a strong effort to repress an overwhelming
agitation from the instant Narkom made mention of the crime, now lit
with something like relief and thankfulness.
"Yes, that's the case. You have guessed it, monsieur," he said
gratefully, a sound that seemed a curious blend of a sigh and a sob
getting into his voice despite an effort to keep it level and
emotionless. "I had gone to bed--that is, I mean to say I was getting
ready to go to bed--but I knew I shouldn't be able to sleep, so I came
down into the grounds for a walk and a smoke. The open air always does
me good. All at once a motor came along with Mellish, the police
constable, in it. I stopped him, and he told me of this awful thing. I
nearly went mad. To think what it means to my dear girl! She hasn't
heard yet, of course----"
"No," said Mr. Narkom. "She will have to be told in the morning. Poor
girl, it will be a shock to her, but it means a great obstacle removed
from your path."
"Yes," agreed the young man uneasily. "That's what made me so anxious to
come here and find out for myself if the murderer had been traced. You
see I lost my head a bit to-night," he added half apologetically, "and
you never know what people will say, so I was just coming cautiously
along when that cheeky young chap threw himself on me, mistaking me, I
suppose, for the assassin."
He made an attempt to laugh, but even to Mr. Narkom it was palpable that
the young fellow was making a desperate effort to cover up his
agitation.
"You can't, in the circumstances, blame him for that, Geoff," replied
Narkom. "Besides, it was a most indiscreet thing for you--you of all
men--to come here to-night, especially after what happened at the
Close."
"You mean about my threatening De Louvisan?"
"Yes. At least twenty or thirty persons heard that; and although after
you were calmer and the Austrian had left the house, you excused
yourself to your guests and were said to have gone to your room for the
night----"
"I did go to it!" rapped in Geoff excitedly. "Purviss, my valet, will
prove that if there's any question regarding it. Simply because I didn't
have the heart to indulge in any more dancing or tomfoolery of that sort
when my dear girl had been dragged away from me as though I were a
leper. Good God, Mr. Narkom! _you_ don't believe I had anything to do
with this awful thing, do you?"
Cleek took the reins before Narkom could utter so much as a single word.
"Of a certainty he does not, monsieur. Who could on so slight a thing as
the mere hot-headed outburst of an excited young man?" he said suavely,
making, as was his way, a cunning hazard that should at once prove or
disprove a suspicion that lay at the back of his head. "And to base it
upon no stronger circumstance than that you afterward left the
drawing-room and did not return! Ridiculous! One might as well suspect
Lady Clavering herself when she, too, was obliged to retire and leave
her guests for the time, if merely absenting one's self is to be
regarded as suspicious. It is what you Anglais shall call 'tommyrot,'
that, eh?"
"Of course it is, monsieur--er--what's-your-name--of course!" assented
Geoff gratefully, rather liking this suave and gentle Frenchman who
seemed bent upon coming to his rescue and showing him the way out
whenever matters took an awkward turn. "You're a jolly, sharp-sighted
chap, you are, and you spot the weak points in these affairs like a
shot. My stepmother doesn't often suffer from headaches, but just as it
happens, she was so queer that she had to lie down for about an hour;
but her maid can prove that she stopped in her room, just as Purviss can
vouch for it that I remained in mine."
The curious one-sided smile moved up Cleek's left cheek, then vanished
again.
"Quite so, quite so," he said blandly. "Besides, it is not with Lady
Clavering that we are concerned, but with the owner of a jewel that we
found on the spot--a little gold scent bangle that smelt of violets----"
"My God! Kathie's! She said she lost it!" cried Geoffrey through his
clenched teeth; then realizing what his words meant, he turned on the
two men fiercely.
"What do you mean? What are you trying to infer? That she--my dear
girl---- Good heavens! but if you dare to bring her name into this
horrible business, I'll throttle the pair of you! You shan't connect her
with the abominable affair! By God, you shan't!"
"M'sieur is too quick with his threats," put in Cleek suavely. "Would it
not be as well to wait? Unfortunately, we have only too much proof that
a woman was concerned in the murder, and----"
"But it was not Lady Katharine. That I swear!" The young man's voice
shook with emotion, and his strained eyes gazed from one face to the
other in heartbreaking intensity.
"You are absolutely sure that you have no suspicion of the murderer's
identity?" Cleek asked with a sharpness unusual to him. "No reason to
doubt any living soul?"
For just the merest fraction of a second young Clavering appeared to
hesitate.
"No," he said curtly. "No, I have not. I know no more about it than a
child. Mellish told me about the murder, and it was only natural that I
should come up here to make inquiries."
"But, yes, monsieur, of course," agreed Cleek softly. "There is, then,
no more to be said save good-bye. I fear me I shall not have the
pleasure of meeting you again, as I return to Paris to-morrow. The case
is one of the most mysterious, and I leave it to your English detective,
Mr. George Headland. So it is adieu, monsieur, and not au revoir."
He held out his hand to the young man, who grasped it in his own
trembling one, and then, with a sharp "good-night," Geoff Clavering
turned and strode back in the direction whence he had come.
"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger
and rubbing it up and down. "A total denial! And with enough decency to
blush! Quite so! Quite so!"
Mr. Narkom, knowing the signs and being torn with eagerness for the
father of that rash boy, moved forward and laid a shaking hand upon his
sleeve.
"Cleek," he said in a whisper full of anxiety and excitement, "don't
keep it back, dear chap. You've come to some conclusion. Speak up, do,
and tell me what you make of it?"
"Make of it, Mr. Narkom? Well, for one thing, I make of it that that
young man lied like a pickpocket and deliberately attempted to throw
dust in our eyes. He not only _does_ suspect some one--and with good
grounds, too--but he has been here before and in that house to-night. In
other words, his was the foot that crushed that golden capsule. The
scent of the _Huile Violette_ was upon the drawing paper, the measure,
the muffler, the cap--every blessed thing he trod on in his scuffle with
Dollops!"
"Good God! Oh, his poor father! Surely, surely, Cleek, you do not
believe----"
"My dear Mr. Narkom, I never suffer myself to 'believe' anything until I
have absolute proof of it. What I may _think_ is a different matter."
"And you think of that boy--what?"
"That he is either a hot-headed, quixotic, loyal, lovable young ass, Mr.
Narkom, or he's a remarkably dangerous and crafty criminal! I'm put to
it for the moment to decide which. One thing is pretty certain, and that
is that young Geoffrey Clavering knows more of this crime than he will
admit, and that the woman he is shielding is Lady Katharine Fordham, who
was not only on the Common but in Gleer Cottage itself with Master
Geoffrey."
"Good heavens! Cleek, how do you know that?" cried Mr. Narkom, his voice
hoarse and shaken.
"Firstly, because his clothes are all scented with that peculiar scent
of violets, and although I know from the dead keeper that another woman,
probably Lady Clavering, was on the Common, he is certainly not
shielding her; otherwise he would not have admitted that she had
absented herself from her guests. No, I think you will find that both
the young people were out here to-night. Let's hear now what Dollops has
to say."
A minute later there sounded the familiar cry of a night owl, which
brought the boy himself running up at full speed.
"Lor' lumme, sir!" he cried disgustedly, as a quick glance revealed the
absence of his former prisoner. "You never went and let 'im go after me
a-showin' of you the footprint wot he'd left on my drorin' paper! It's
just the same as one of 'em in the lane wot you told me to measure, sir;
measure 'em off yourself and see. And him a-playin' off innercent and
actin' like he was a respectable gent as was comin' here unsuspectin'
and got copped by mistake! He wasn't, the bounder! He was tryin' to
sneak away, that's wot _he_ was a-doin' of--trying to do a bunk before
anybody dropped to where he was a-hidin'."
"What's that? Hiding? Did you say hiding?"
"Yes, I did, Mr. Narkom, and I'd a-told you of it at the time, only you
wouldn't let me open me blessed mouth, but jist shuts me up and orders
me off prompt. Hidin' in that blessed 'oller tree there--look!" He
flashed the light of his torch upon a tree which stood about three or
four yards distant. "In that he was," he went on, "and jist as soon as
the motor had went and the way was clear, I sees him sneak out and make
toward the Common; so I ups and does a tiptoe run along this strip o'
grass, sir, so's me feet wouldn't make no noise, and jist as he starts
to do a bunk I does a spring, and comes down on his blessed back like a
'awk on a guinea 'en."
Narkom twitched up his chin and looked at Cleek; and for a moment there
was silence, a deep significant silence, then Cleek spoke.
"How shall we sum him up by the measure of these things, Mr. Narkom, as
a hero or as a scoundrel?" he said. "If he is innocent, why was he
hiding? And if not for a criminal purpose, why did he come to this place
at all?"
"Heavens above, man, don't ask _me_!" returned Narkom irritably. "It's
the most infernal riddle I ever encountered. My head's in a positive
whirl. But look here, old chap. Supposing he did have a hand in the
murder, how on earth could he have coaxed De Louvisan to this house--a
man who had cause to dread him, a man whose life he had threatened?"
"Perhaps he didn't, Mr. Narkom; perhaps somebody did the coaxing for
him. A woman is a clever lure, my friend, and we know that one or two,
perhaps three---- Oh, well, let it go at that."
A faint sound of an automobile horn sounded its blare through the
distance and darkness.
"Lennard is coming back with the local authorities. I'd know the hooting
of that horn among a thousand, Mr. Narkom. And with their coming,
'Monsieur de Lesparre' returns to his native kit bag. This way,
Dollops--look sharp! Pick us up at the old railway arch as soon as you
can, Mr. Narkom. We'll be on the lookout for you. Now then, Dollops, my
lad, step lively!"
"Right you are, gov'ner. So long, Mr. Narkom. We're off--as the eggs
said to the cook when she got a whiff of 'em."
"Good-bye for a little time," said Cleek, reaching out and gripping the
superintendent's hand. "At the arch, remember. It has been child's play
up to this, Mr. Narkom. Now the real work begins. And unless all signs
fail, it promises to be the case of my career."
And so, like this, he stepped off into the mist and darkness, and went
his way--to the beginning of the chase; to the reading of the riddle; to
those things of Love and Mystery, of Faith and Unfaith, of Sorrow and of
Joy, whose trail lay under the roof of Wuthering Grange and which walked
as shadows with Lady Katharine Fordham and Ailsa Lorne.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE"
Once the affair had been reported to the local police, news of the
tragedy spread over the neighbourhood with amazing velocity, and by nine
o'clock next morning there wasn't a soul within a radius of five miles
who had not heard of it; by ten the Common and the immediate vicinity of
Gleer Cottage were literally black with morbid-minded sightseers and
reporters.
As yet, however, none but the police and the representatives of the
press had been permitted to cross the threshold of the house or to
obtain even the merest glimpse of the murdered man. For all that,
certain facts relative to the position in which the body had been found,
together with the mysterious marks upon his shirt bosom, had leaked out,
and as Scotland Yard, as represented by Cleek and Superintendent Narkom,
had chosen to remain silent for the present relative to such clues as
had been discovered, this gave room for some fine flights of fancy on
the part of the representatives of the press.
The special correspondent of the _Evening Planet_ "discovered" that the
Count was "a well-known Austrian nobleman" who had offended the famous
Ravaschol group, and was the author of the equally famous "Ninth Clause"
which had acted so disastrously against it--a circumstance which, the
_Planet_ claimed, left no shadow of a doubt regarding "the true meaning
of the mysterious markings upon the shirt bosom of the unfortunate
gentleman." Whereupon the representative of its bitterest rival, the
_Morning Star_, as promptly discovered that he was nothing of the sort;
that he had been "positively identified" as the former keeper of a sort
of club in Soho much frequented by Russian, German, French, and Italian
anarchists; and that, on its being discovered by those gentry that he
had sold to the police of their several countries secrets thus learned,
he had been obliged to disappear from his regular haunts in order to
save his skin. And, furthermore, as the address of the house in which
that club had been maintained, and from which he had carried on his
system of betrayal, was 63 Essex Row, the explanation of the markings
was quite clear--to wit: "Four and two make six; one and two make three;
furthermore, the peculiar formation of the repeated figure 2 is, of
course, a rude attempt to make it serve for the letter S. as well;
which, taken in conjunction with the three X's, leaves no room for doubt
that these markings stand for Number Sixty-three Essex Row and for
nothing else."
Now as it happened that 63 Essex Row had, at one time in its career,
been the seat of just such a club and just such a proceeding as the
_Morning Star_ stated, nothing was left the _Evening Planet_ but
sneeringly to point out that "the imaginative genius of our esteemed
contemporary should not let it fail to remember that the man
Lovetski--to whom it doubtless refers, and whose mysterious vanishment
some years ago has never been cleared up--had his supporters as well as
his accusers. It was clearly shown at the time that although he dwelt in
the house where the 'club' in question held forth, there never was any
absolute proof that he was himself in any way actually connected with
it, his vocation being that of a maker of dressing for boots, shoes,
ladies' bags, and leather goods generally, which dressing he
manufactured upon the premises."
This statement, being correct, gave the _Morning Star_ a chance to
clinch its argument yet more forcibly and to prove itself better
informed than its rival by coming out in its next issue with the
declaration that "there can no longer be any question relative to the
identity of the murdered man. That he is, or rather was, the
long-vanished Ferdinand Lovetski who was formerly identified with the
club _and_ the boot-dressing industry carried on at 63 Essex Row, is
established beyond all cavil, since the marks smeared upon his shirt
bosom are now known to have been made with shoe-blacking of that variety
which is applied and polished with a cloth, and which has of recent
years almost entirely superseded the brush-applied variety of our
fathers' and grandfathers' days!"
Narkom, much impressed thereby, showed these two articles from the
_Morning Star_ to Cleek.
"An ingenious young man that reporter, Mr. Narkom, and his deductions
regarding those marks reflect great credit upon him," said the latter.
"For it is positively certain that whoever he may or may not have been,
the man certainly was _not_ the Count de Louvisan, for the simple reason
that there is _no_ 'Count de Louvisan' in the Austrian nobility, the
title having lapsed some years ago. The theory that the dead man is that
Ferdinand Lovetski who formerly lived at 63 Essex Row, however, will
bear looking into. It is well thought out. I should, perhaps, be more
impressed with the genius of the chap who worked out so likely a
solution to those mysterious figures if he hadn't made me lose faith in
his powers of observation by the 'shoe blacking' statement. It is not a
bad _guess_, in the circumstances--for each would leave marks very
similar, if one trusted to the eye alone--but I happen to _know_ that
the figures were _not_ smeared on with shoe-blacking, but with a stick
of that greasy, highly scented black cosmetic which some actresses use
for their eyelashes and some men employ to disguise the gray hairs in
the moustache. You know the kind of stuff I mean. It is always wrapped
in a brilliant, ruby-coloured tin foil; is to be found in most barbers'
and hairdressers' establishments, and is very heavily and peculiarly
perfumed. You will remember that, when I wanted to ascertain if the
odour of the _Huile Violette_ emanated from the body of the dead man or
not, I told you he _was_ scented, but _not_ with violets? Very well, the
scent which was upon him was the peculiar spicy fragrance of that
particular kind of cosmetic; and I had only to get one whiff of his
shirt bosom to understand what had been used to make those marks upon
it."
"My dear Cleek, could you be sure of that?" ventured Narkom. "I know the
kind of stuff you mean. But few Englishmen use it these days, though I
remember it was once very popular. It comes in light brown shades for
fair people, as well as in black for dark ones; and the Count was
extremely fair, almost flaxen. Could you be positive then that what you
smelt was not on his hair or moustache? If he had used the light sort it
would not show, remember."
"My dear Mr. Narkom, have you so poor an opinion of my methods that you
fancy I would be likely to be slipshod in my examination, and to pass
over so important a possibility as that? The man had brilliantine on his
hair and moustache, and the latter had been dressed with curling irons!
Believe me, when we find who put those marks upon him, we shall find
some one who is addicted to the use of black cosmetic of the kind which
I have mentioned."
And afterward, when the rush of events had crowded yet more important
ones from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered those words and set
that statement down in his diary as another proof of the amazing
thoroughness and the shrewd far-sightedness of this remarkable man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AILSA LORNE
Mrs. Raynor positively jumped as the premonitory knock trembled on the
door before Johnston the butler opened it and entered. Ordinarily she
was but little given to "nerves" and was by no means easily startled,
but this morning was a decided exception to the rule. And why not? You
don't get called up out of your bed every morning to learn that a
gentleman who had been walking about your tulip beds yesterday afternoon
had been barbarously murdered during the night in a house but a few
yards away. Nor is it pleasant to face the likelihood of getting your
name and your residence mentioned in the daily papers in connection with
a police affair, and to know that before nightfall every groom,
washerwoman, and chambermaid within a fifty-mile radius will have read
exactly what the interior of your home is like, exactly what you wore
when "our representative" called, and will know a good deal more about
you than you ever knew about yourself.
"Begging pardon, madam, but a gentleman----" began Johnston, but was
suffered to get no further.
"If it is a reporter I will not see him," interrupted his mistress with
a decisive wave of the hand. "You know very well that your master and
Mr. Harry have gone over to the scene of the abominable affair to
ascertain if there is or is not any likelihood of its being a case of
mistaken identity; and you ought to know better, Johnston, than to admit
strangers of any sort during their absence."
"Your pardon, madam, but nobody has called--at least at the door,"
replied Johnston with grave politeness. "The gentleman in question is
asking over the telephone to speak with Miss Lorne."
"With me?" exclaimed Ailsa, turning around in the recess of the big bay
window of the morning room where she had been standing with her arm
about Lady Katharine Fordham and looking anxiously down the drive which
led to the Grange gates. "Did you say that somebody was asking over the
telephone for _me_, Johnston? Thank you! I will answer the call
directly."
"My dear, do you think that wise? Do you think it discreet?" said Mrs.
Raynor rather anxiously. "Consider what risks you run. It may be a
reporter--I am told that they are up to all sorts of tricks--and to be
trapped into giving an interview in spite of one's self---- Dearest, you
must not let yourself be dragged into this abominable affair."
"I think it will be a clever man who can do that against my will--and
over the telephone," replied Ailsa gayly. "I shan't be gone more than a
minute or two, Kathie dear; and while I'm away, you might get your hat
and be ready for a stroll in the grounds when I come back. And you, too,
Mrs. Raynor, if you will. The weather is glorious, and one might as well
spend the time waiting for the General's and Mr. Harry's return in the
open air as cooped up here at half-past nine o'clock on a brilliant
April morning."
"My dear, you are wonderful, positively wonderful," said Mrs. Raynor
admiringly. "How _do_ you maintain your composure under such trying
circumstances? Look at Katharine and me--both of us shaking like the
proverbial aspen leaf and looking as washed out as though neither of us
had slept a wink all night; and you as fresh and serene as the morning
itself. No, I don't think I will go out, thank you. There may be people
with cameras you know; and to be snapshotted for the edification of the
readers of some abominable halfpenny paper----"
Ailsa did not wait to hear the conclusion of the remark, but slipped
out, went hastily to the library and the telephone, and lost not a
moment in making her presence known to the caller at the other end of
the line. She had barely spoken three words into the receiver, however,
when she gave a little start, eyes and lips were involved in a radiant
smile, and her face became all red and warm with sudden blushes.
"Yes, yes, of course I recognize your voice!" she said in answer to a
query unheard by any ears but hers. "How wonderful you are! You find out
everything. I had meant to write and tell you, but we came up so
unexpectedly and---- What! Yes, I can hear you very distinctly. Pardon?
Yes. I am listening." Then letting her voice drop off into silence she
stood very, very still, with ever-widening eyes, lips parted, and a look
of great seriousness steadily settling down over her paling countenance.
She had said that she would be absent for but a minute or two; it was
five or six, however, before she came back, to find Lady Katharine and
Mrs. Raynor just as she had left them.
"No, it wasn't a reporter," she said gayly in response to Mrs. Raynor's
inquiring look. "It was a dear old friend"--blushing rosily--"a Mr.
Philip Barch, whom I first met through my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in
the days before his second marriage. Mr. Barch has asked if he may be
permitted to call this morning, and I have taken the liberty of saying
that he may."
"Take a further one, dear, and ask him to stop to luncheon when he
comes," said Mrs. Raynor. "When a girl blushes like that over the mere
mentioning of a man's name---- Oh, well, I wasn't always fifty-two, my
dear, and I flatter myself that I know the duties of a hostess."
Miss Lorne's only response was another and a yet more radiant blush and
an immediate return to the side of the slim, dark girl standing in the
recess of the window.
"Kathie, you are positively lazy," she said. "You haven't budged an inch
since I left, and I distinctly asked you to get your hat."
"I know it," admitted Lady Katharine. "But, Ailsa, dear, I simply
couldn't. I am afraid Uncle John and Harry may return, and you know how
anxious I am."
"Still, Kathie, staying in will make no difference," said Ailsa gently,
"and you will soon know when they arrive."
Reluctantly Lady Katharine let herself be piloted through the open
French windows and out into the grounds, ablaze with flowers.
"I should think Geoffrey would be here, too," said Ailsa, with a swift
glance at her companion's pale face. "He must have heard the news by
this time, but something has evidently delayed him."
A wave of scarlet surged into Lady Katharine's face.
"Oh, if only he would!" she muttered. "I am so tired----"
"I daresay, dear," said Ailsa sympathetically. "You did not sleep well,
darling, did you?"
"Yes, but I did--that's just the strange thing," said Lady Katharine
quickly. "What made you think not, Ailsa?"
"Well, for one thing, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the
night. I came within an ace of getting up to see whether you were ill,
but fell asleep again myself."
Her companion looked puzzled. "It must have been a mistake on your part,
Ailsa. I fell asleep almost directly my head touched the pillow, and
slept like a log until morning. But don't let's talk about last night."
She turned impulsively to Ailsa, her voice thrilling with emotion. "It's
no use," she said. "I simply can't feel sorry over it. I know I ought.
Death is always horrible, and such a death!" She shuddered
involuntarily. "But you don't know what a release it is to me. If this
had not happened, I think I should have died----"
Ailsa pressed her arm in silent sympathy, but before she could speak
Mrs. Raynor appeared on the scene. She had guarded herself against
attacks of possible snapshotters by carrying an open parasol, and Ailsa
was glad to change the topic of conversation.
It was some twenty minutes later, when they were still strolling in the
gardens, that a taxicab halted at the lodge gates, and they saw a tall,
slim figure arrayed in an exceedingly well-cut morning suit, with a rose
in his buttonhole and shiny top hat on his closely cropped fair head,
advancing up the drive toward them with that easy grace and perfect
poise which mutely stands sponsor for the thing called breeding.
"My dears!" began Mrs. Raynor admiringly, "what a distinguished looking
man!" She had time to say no more, for Ailsa, with a face like a rose,
had gone to meet the newcomer--who quickened his steps at sight of her
and was now well within earshot--and was greeting him as a woman greets
but one man ever.
"My dear," said Mrs. Raynor to Lady Katharine, in a carefully lowered
tone, "if I know anything, you will be parting with that dear girl's
companionship for good and all before the summer is over. Look at the
man's eyes: they are positively devouring her. Of course we shall have
to remain to welcome him, but I think we shall earn their gratitude if
we leave them to themselves as soon as we decently can."
A few minutes later the opportunity to do this was offered her; and
having lingered just long enough to be introduced to "Mr. Philip Barch"
and to become even more impressed with him at close quarters as not only
a man good to look at, but as an apt and easy conversationalist, she
suddenly remembered that she and Lady Katharine had promised to gather
some hyacinths for the lunch table, and forthwith spirited her away.
Cleek followed her with his eyes as long as she remained in sight, then
he turned to Ailsa. "A very tender and sensitive girl I should say, Miss
Lorne, although she bears herself so well under the cross of last
night's tragedy. I see by your manner of looking at her that you are
attached to her in many ways."
"Not in many, but in all, Mr. Cleek. She is the dearest girl in the
world."
"We won't go into that, otherwise we should disagree for the first time
in the whole course of our acquaintance. Let me thank you for adhering
so closely to all that I asked over the telephone. I didn't mean to, at
first. My original idea was to come here unknown to all, even to you;
but when I came to think over it, it seemed so disloyal, so
underhanded, as if I didn't trust you in all things, _always_--that I
simply couldn't bring myself to do it."
She looked up at him with grave sweet eyes--the eyes that had lit him
back from the path to destruction, that would light him up to the gates
of heaven evermore--and smiled on him, bewildered.
"I am afraid I do not follow you," she said. "I don't quite grasp what
you mean. Oh!" with sudden fear, "if you thought from my cry of surprise
when I recognized your voice over the telephone, that I was not glad----
Why, I was going to write to you this morning. But I expected it to be
Geoffrey Clavering asking for Kathie, you know----"
The name brought a ridge between Cleek's brows as of a sudden
disconcerting thought.
"Geoffrey Clavering? But he has been over here, this morning, has he
not?" he asked anxiously.
"No, he has not, and that is what seems so strange," said Ailsa.
"Did he write no note to Lady Katharine then--send her no message, Miss
Lorne?"
"No. I see that surprises you, Mr. Cleek, as, to be perfectly frank with
you, it surprises me. I can't make it out. I know that his whole life is
bound up in Kathie, as hers is bound up in him. I know that it nearly
drove him frantic when he was told their engagement would have to come
to an end; so one would naturally think that when there is a rumour that
the man who came between them is dead----And he _must_ have heard by
this time."
"Miss Lorne, let me tell you something," said Cleek gravely. "Geoffrey
Clavering does know of the murder. He has known of it since twelve
o'clock last night, to my certain knowledge."
"Mr. Cleek! And yet he has made no move to communicate with Lady
Katharine! But"--with sudden hopefulness--"perhaps he wishes to make
absolutely sure; perhaps the identity of the murdered man is not yet
wholly established! Perhaps it is not really the Count de Louvisan after
all."
"It _is_ the Count de Louvisan, Miss Lorne! That was settled beyond all
question last night."
"And Geoffrey Clavering knew it then?"
"And Geoffrey Clavering knew it then--yes! The man slain is, or rather
was, the one known as the Count de Louvisan; on his dead body numbers
whose total make up the sum of nine were marked; and--I fancy you
remember what Geoffrey Clavering threatened when the fellow went to
Clavering Close last night."
Ailsa looked at him, her eyes dilating, the colour draining slowly out
of her cheeks and lips. It was impossible not to grasp the significance
of these two circumstances, one of which--the mysterious markings on the
dead man's body--she now heard of for the first time.
"Oh, Mr. Cleek, oh!" she said faintly. "You surely can't think---- A
dear lovable boy like that! You can't believe that Geoffrey Clavering
had anything to do with it?"
"I hope not, for, frankly, I like the boy. But one thing is certain: if
_he_ didn't kill the man, he knows who did; knows, too, that there is a
woman implicated in the crime."
"A woman! Oh, Mr. Cleek, a--a woman?"
"Yes--perhaps two women!"
"Women and--and a deed of violence, a deed of horror, like that? No!
Women couldn't. They would be fiends, not women. I hold too high an
estimate of my sex to let you call them that! And for him, for Geoffrey
Clavering, there is but one woman in all the world! Even you shan't hint
it of _her_! No, not even you."
"Hush! I am hinting nothing. Now that I have seen Lady Katharine I would
almost as soon think evil of you as of her."
There was a little summerhouse close at hand. He saw that she was faint,
shocked, overcome, and gently led her to it, loathing himself that even
for one moment he had brought pain within touch of her.
"Who knows better than I how false appearances may be?" he said. "Who
should be less likely to take suspicious circumstances for proof?"
"Oh, but to suspect, even to _suspect_, Kathie--the dearest and the
sweetest girl on earth."
"Again I dispute that!" he threw back with repressed vehemence. "And
again I declare that I am not swayed by facts, black as they may be,
black as they undoubtedly are. If I believed, should I come here and
openly tell you of these things? My duty is to the law. Should I not
carry proofs there if I believed that they were proofs? But my faith is
as a rock. Shall I prove it to you? Then look! I know that you will tell
me the truth; and it is because of that, because in my heart I know it
is a truth which you can and will face openly and with no cause for
fear, that I have declined to hold this thing of sufficient importance
to be called a clue, and as such to be handed over to the police. Miss
Lorne--Ailsa--tell me, will you--have you ever seen this thing before?"
While he was speaking his hand had gone to his pocket and come forth
tightly shut. Now he opened his closed fingers and let her see that
there was a scrap of pink chiffon edged with rose coloured stitchery
lying on his open palm. Her eyes, fixed earnestly upon his face
heretofore, dropped to the gauzy fragment held out to her, and a ridge
dug itself between her level brows.
CHAPTER NINE
BLIND GROPING
Ailsa Lorne gave a little start as she examined the fragment.
"I thought at first that it was torn from my own dress," she said
frankly, looking up at him, "for, as it happens, I was wearing a pink
dress, but not quite of this shade. I will show it to you if you like."
"There is no need, Miss Lorne," said Cleek, his eyes shining. "If you
tell me that you were not at Gleer Cottage last night, then there is no
more to be said," and with a little laugh of sheer happiness he
carefully replaced the bit of chiffon in his pocketbook. "Just one more
question, please, Miss Lorne. Tell me: has Lady Katharine a certain kind
of bracelet to which there is attached a small capsule by a link of
gold, and which smells adorably of violets?"
"Yes. Anybody that knows her could tell you that. Her father, Lord St.
Ulmer, brought it to her from South America. He had her name and the St.
Ulmer arms engraved upon it. At least, upon what you have called the
'capsule,' which contains some highly concentrated perfume that makes
the whole room fragrant whenever she removes a tiny gold stopper from
the delightful thing."
"Thank you! I supposed as much. Now will you tell me, Miss Lorne, how
long it is since Lady Katharine lost that little golden capsule from her
bracelet? Was it, as I am hoping, on the day when you visited Gleer
Cottage in company with her, or since?"
"What a strange question. She hasn't lost it at all. At least, she has
made no mention of having done so, as I am sure she would if it _had_
been lost. Always, of course, providing it wasn't lost without her
knowledge. At any rate, she wore it last night when we went to Clavering
Close. I know that, because I remarked at the time that she had better
let a jeweller look at it, as the ring of the scent globe was very
nearly worn through."
"Was that before you left the Grange or after?"
"After--a long while after--at Clavering Close; in fact, while we were
taking off our wraps preparatory to going down to the drawing-room."
"Hum-m-m!" said Cleek, puckering up his lips and looking grave. "You are
establishing a very unpleasant fact by that statement. It proves that,
in spite of your belief to the contrary, Lady Katharine revisited Gleer
Cottage last night, and that, too, _after_ the affair at Clavering
Close."
"How perfectly absurd! Why, she wasn't out of my sight for a single
instant."
"Nevertheless, she certainly visited Gleer Cottage last night," repeated
Cleek with calm persistence. "I know that beyond all possible doubt,
Miss Lorne; for I myself found the capsule of that bracelet there,
crushed and broken, but still showing that the St. Ulmer arms and the
name 'Katharine' had been engraved upon it. Don't look at me like that,
please, or you will make me hate myself for having to tell you this."
"But I tell you it is impossible," she still protested. "I tell you she
was never out of my sight for one instant from the time we left this
house to the time we returned. No, not for one, Mr. Cleek, up to the
very moment she left me to go to bed."
"Just so. But after that?"
"After that? After----" she began; and then stopped, and grew very pale
and very, very still, for there had come to her a recollection of that
moment when, as she had said, she fancied she heard Lady Katharine's
door open and shut in the night when all the house was still.
"And after that?" repeated Cleek, driving the question home.
"How should I know?" she gave back, in something akin to panic. "How
could I? We do not sleep together. But"--with sudden brightening--"this
I do know, however: the bracelet was still on her wrist and the scent
globe still attached to it, even then. I saw it with my own eyes."
"A clear proof that, as the capsule was dropped after that time, she
left the house last night without your knowledge, Miss Lorne."
"I can't believe it; I will not believe it!" protested Ailsa loyally. "I
know that she did not! I _know_!"
"How?"
"It is likely that you have not heard it, but Katharine is an
accomplished violoncellist, Mr. Cleek. She loves her instrument, and in
times of sorrow or distress she flies to it for comfort, and plays and
plays until her nerves are soothed. Last night, after she left me, I
heard her playing in her room."
"For long?"
"No. Of a sudden something went snap and the music ceased. She opened
her door and called across the passage to me: 'Ailsa, pray for me. I am
so wretched, so abandoned by fortune, that even the solace of my 'cello
is denied me. I have broken the A-string and have not another in the
house. Good-night, dear. I wish I could break the String of Life as
easily!' After that she closed and locked the door, and I heard her go
to bed."
_The A-string!_
Cleek turned away his head and took his chin between his thumb and
forefinger. _The A-string!_ And it was with a noose of catgut that the
Count de Louvisan had been strangled!
"I'll not believe that she left the house," went on Miss Lorne. "She is
the soul of honour, the very embodiment of truth, and she told me
herself that she 'slept like a log until morning.' If she had gone out
after I left her, after I fell asleep----"
"It could be proved and proved easily," interposed Cleek. "The night was
moist and foggy, the roads were wet and muddy. Her clothes, the hem of
her skirt, the state of her shoes---- But I will not ask you to play
the spy upon your friend, Miss Lorne."
"Nor would I do it!" she flashed back spiritedly; then stopped and gave
a little excited exclamation and laid a shaking hand upon Cleek's
sleeve. An automobile had swung suddenly into view in the drive leading
up from the gates to the house, and in it were two men: one white of
hair and snowy of beard but as erect as a statue; the other slim and
young and fashionably dressed, and so clearly of the order "Johnnie"
that he who ran might read. The General and his son had returned from
their visit to Gleer Cottage.
Miss Lorne made that fact clear to Cleek in a few words.
"Now we shall have the full account of everything in Harry Raynor's
original and detestable style," she whispered. "You are so shrewd in
guessing riddles, Mr. Cleek, tell me, if you can, why it is that lions
so often breed asses, and that heroes so often father clowns? If you
were to search the world you could find no truer gentleman, in speech,
in manner, in instincts, in everything, than dear old General Raynor;
and yet, if you were to search it thrice over, you could find no greater
cad than his son."
"From what I can see at this distance he certainly does look like a fine
example of the genus bounder, I must confess," said Cleek. "You do not
appear to have much of an opinion of the young man, Miss Lorne."
"I have not. I detest him! I never did care for 'scented' men; and when
they come down to the 'curling iron' and the 'dye stick' they are simply
abominable!"
"The 'dye stick'?"
"Yes. You mustn't be deceived by that waxed and delicately darkened
moustache of Mr. Harry Raynor's, Mr. Cleek. It would be as sandy as his
hair if the wretched little dandy didn't darken it with black cosmetic
because he is ashamed of the cow colour which nature so appropriately
bestowed upon it."
Cleek screwed round on his heel and looked at Mr. Harry Raynor with
renewed interest.
"I suppose I ought not to have said that," she continued, "but I do
detest him so. I think I had better run and tell Kathie that they have
come back, but I will not keep you waiting many minutes." She smiled
brightly at Cleek, and with a little nod ran lightly off, leaving him to
await her return.
But, despite his interest in Mr. Harry Raynor, Cleek dropped discreetly
out of sight and into one of the many winding paths with which the
grounds abounded. A few minutes' gentle stroll along this particular one
brought him to the rear of the house, and before he quite realized it he
found himself within the precincts of the stable. The yard itself was
deserted save for a single groom who was evidently hard at work
polishing a boot, and which, judging from the muddy appearance of its
companion, must have proved no easy task.
Cleek gave one look at the expensively cut article of footgear, then he
lounged across the yard.
"That's a pretty tough job, isn't it?" said he offhandedly. The groom
looked up, but meeting the visitor's disarming smile, only gave vent to
a grunt.
"Should think it is a tough job," he muttered. "They're his lordship's
boots, an' 'ow 'e comes to make 'em in such a state beats me to fits.
Fair caked with mud, and 'im in bed with a sprained ankle. It's that
valet of 'is, I s'pose----" He broke off, then looked questioningly at
Cleek.
"I've lost my way," he said, plunging his hand into his pocket. "I
strolled down a path from the lawns in front of the house. Which one
will take me back?"
"First path to the right, sir, and thank you," said the gratified groom,
and a minute later found Cleek back at the spot where Ailsa had left
him.
He certainly had to admit that the whole affair was most perplexing, and
he was still pondering over the various points of the case when Ailsa
Lorne returned, and for a few moments they paced the lawn in silence;
then Cleek turned with a little smile.
"I suppose we shall have to go and meet the General," said he serenely.
"Shall we meet Lady Katharine's father as well?"
"Oh, dear, no! The man's in bed with a sprained ankle. Can't put his
foot to the ground."
"Oh! Indeed? Then that explains it, of course. I wondered."
"Explains it? Explains what?"
"Why, his not being about at such a time--not appearing to take any
interest in his daughter's affairs, especially her deliverance from a
loveless marriage. It struck me as curious when I saw her. But I set it
down to the possibility of there being bad blood between them. Is
there?"
"No, there is not," said Ailsa, falling unconsciously into the trap.
"Kathie is not the kind of girl to hold a grudge against any one, Mr.
Cleek. She is intensely emotional, but she is also intensely loyal. The
very last person in the world she would be likely to treat spitefully
would be her father."
"I see. She is fond of him, then? Probably I have heard the wrong
version of the story. Have I? I was told that it was he who compelled
her, very much against her will, to accept the attentions of
the--er--Count de Louvisan and to become engaged to him. That she begged
her father to save her from marrying the man, but he would not--or could
not--consent."
"That is quite true. You have not been misinformed. She did just what
you have been told. Indeed, I happen to know that she even went so far
as to get down on her knees to Lord St. Ulmer and implore him to kill
her rather than to compel her to give up Geoff--and especially for a man
she loathed as she did the Count de Louvisan. It was useless, however.
That same night Lord St. Ulmer asked her to come to him alone in the
library at Ulmer Court. They were together for two hours. The next day
she accepted the Count de Louvisan."
"I see!" said Cleek. "Of course, his lordship told her something which
influenced her beyond her own will and desires. Do you happen to know
what that something was?"
"No. She has never told me one word beyond that she went into that
library with a breaking heart, and came out of it with a broken one."
"And in spite of all that, she still loves this father who compelled her
to give up all that life held, eh?"
"I didn't say that. I said that she was loyal to him, not that she loved
him. How could she love a father whom she had not seen since she was a
baby--whom she did not even know when he came back to claim her? Why,
she hadn't even a picture to tell her what he looked like, and in all
the years he was away he never wrote her so much as one line. A girl
couldn't love a father like that. She might like him, she might be
grateful to him, as Katharine is, for loading her with all the things
that money can buy; but to love him---- What is the matter, Mr. Cleek?
What in the world made you say 'Phew' like that?"
"Nothing! Do you happen to know if the late Count de Louvisan was ever
in Argentina, Miss Lorne?"
"No, I do not. Why?"
"Oh, mere idle curiosity, that's all. Turned up suddenly at Ulmer Court,
didn't he? Any idea from where?"
"Not the slightest. He called quite unexpectedly one evening after we
all--Kathie, his lordship, and I--had been over to the autumn races at
Fourfields. That was an unfortunate day altogether. We did not see the
conclusion of even the first race. Lord St. Ulmer was suddenly taken
ill, although he had been quite well a moment before, and was so bad
that we had to leave immediately. Nothing would do him but that we must
drive home as quickly as possible, so that he could consult our local
doctor."
Cleek glanced at her swiftly. "Hum-m-m! Bad as that, was he?" he asked.
"What did the local doctor think caused the illness? Or did his lordship
recover on the way home, and find it unnecessary to call him in at all?
Ah, he did, eh? Queer things those sudden attacks; you never know when
they will come on or when they will go off again. Possibly his present
illness came just as suddenly. Did it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Miss Lorne. "I wasn't there when it
happened. Nobody was. Kathie and I had just gone into the refreshment
room at the railway station for tea-- Lord St. Ulmer said he didn't care
for any, and would just step round to the news stall and get an
afternoon paper--and when we came out there he was, poor man, sitting on
a seat and groaning. He stepped on a banana peel, he said, and turned
his ankle. A few minutes later Count de Louvisan put in an appearance.
He had arranged to join us at Liverpool Street Station, and, no doubt,
would have done so, but at the last minute Lord St. Ulmer had made up
his mind to journey up to town by an earlier train than originally
arranged. Anyway, his lordship made him go and wire to General Raynor
that he was afraid our visit would have to be postponed indefinitely, as
he had met with an accident and was going direct to the Savoy Hotel. Of
course the General came with his motor, and wouldn't listen to his
stopping there; so we all came on, as agreed, to Wuthering Grange. That
was the day before yesterday, and Lord St. Ulmer has been in bed ever
since."
"Very neat, very neat indeed," commented Cleek. "Couldn't tell me, I
suppose, where I might get a peep at-- I--er--mean who is the doctor
attending to him?"
"He hasn't a doctor. He wouldn't have one. He is a very obstinate man,
Mr. Cleek, and simply would not allow General Raynor to call in the
local practitioner. Claims that he brought some wonderful ointment with
him from Argentina which, as he phrases it, 'beats all the doctors
hollow in the matter of sprains and bruises'; and simply will not allow
anybody to do anything for him."
Cleek puckered up his brows. Obviously it would be useless to represent
himself as an assistant to the local doctor, or even to make himself up
to pass muster for that doctor himself, for the purpose of examining a
man who would not see any medical man upon any pretext whatsoever. And
yet---- He gave a little toss of his shoulders, as if to throw away
these fresh ideas, and came back again to Lady Katharine. What other
proof could he secure? Why had she played the 'cello at all at such a
time? Was it to secure that very string? Was it but a cloak to hide her
designs? A swift idea flashed across his mind, as he recalled Lennard's
story of a lady in an ermine cloak. He turned suddenly to his companion.
"Miss Lorne," he asked, "did Lady Katharine bring her ermine cloak with
her when she came up from Suffolk?"
"No," said Ailsa in reply. "And for the very best of reasons: she hasn't
one."
"Oh, I see. Know anybody who has?"
"Yes, I have. Lady Chepstowe gave me hers when she went to India. Why?"
"Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all," replied Cleek with apparent
offhandedness. "I seem to fancy that I heard something about Lady
Katharine having had her portrait painted wearing a very superb ermine
cloak. But, of course, if she hasn't one--or--yes, she might have
borrowed yours. You'd lend it to her, I know--lend it like a shot. Did
you?"
"I certainly did not. For one thing, she never in her life asked me to;
and for another, whoever told you that tale about her having her
portrait painted wearing one must be blessed with a very remarkable
imagination. She had no such portrait painted. And I never lent her the
cloak for any purpose at any time."
"I see. Couldn't have left it lying about where anybody might pick it
up, could you?"
"How like a man that is," she said gayly. "Fancy a girl, especially one
in my position, being possessed of so valuable a thing as an ermine
cloak, and then leaving it about like a fan or a garden hat! No, I did
not leave it about. Indeed, I couldn't if I had wanted to."
"Why?"
"For the very good reason that I sent it to the furrier's to have it
made into a muff and stole."
"May I ask when? Recently?"
"No; quite two months ago. They are storing it for me, and will make the
alterations in time for next winter's wear. As a cloak, of course, it is
quite useless to a girl in my position. But really, I must go now.
Kathie will think it very heartless of us if we do not fly to hear the
General's report. Wait for me here, please. I shall be back directly."
Then she hurried out of the summerhouse and taking a path which led
round to the rear of the Grange, passed from sight and left Cleek to his
own devices.
CHAPTER TEN
ANOTHER STRAND IN THE WEB
The arrival of Mrs. Raynor and the General upon the scene, with Harry
Raynor in their wake, gave a different atmosphere, so to speak, to
Cleek's thoughts, and he threw himself, heart and soul, into getting
into the good graces of the family. He did not much fancy Mr. Harry
Raynor, who was too self-assertive to be pleasant company to a matured
man of the world, and just at the age which may be best described in the
quotation, "young enough to know everything."
Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to secure an invitation to stay
overnight at Wuthering Grange, in order that he might have a peep at
Lord St. Ulmer, and he knew that it was only by making himself a boon
companion of the young man that he could hope to secure it. About three
and twenty, the idol of an adoring mother, if not of his father, that
gentleman was of the type that favour the ladies of the ballet with
their attentions, and prefer chorus girls, stage doors, and late suppers
to home amusements and the like; and it was not long before Cleek had
him nicely "managed" and in the desired frame of mind.
A casual remark about a certain dashing musical-comedy actress who had
sprung into sudden prominence set the ball rolling; then Cleek expressed
in confidence a burning desire to know the lady and deep disappointment
over the fact that he knew no one who was in a position to introduce
him; and in ten minutes' time he had his fish hooked.
"I say, you know, I'll give you an introduction to her like a shot, old
chap, if you really do want to know her," young Raynor imparted to him
in deep confidence as he led him outside and got him away from the
ladies. "Know her like a book! Rippin' sort! Introduce you any time you
like. My hat! yes!"
"Really?" said Cleek with every appearance of boundless delight. "You
know her--you actually know her?"
"Yes, rather! Know the whole blessed shoot of 'em from Flossie
Twinkletoes down. Get reams of letters from 'em and bushels of
photos--all autographed. I say, come up to my den and have a peep. You
never saw such a gallery!"
Cleek admitted to himself when he saw them that he never had, for the
room was literally smothered under photographs of actresses, gymnasts,
ladies of the music-hall persuasion, and public characters in general.
"Always sport my oak, you know," said the young man with a laugh and a
wink, as he locked the door behind him. "Pater might see 'em, and then
there would be a time of it. Awful old muff, the pater; good sort, you
know, but he'd have this lot in the fire in less than no time if he
knew. Fearful old fossil. Flowers, fruits, rubber at whist, pipe, and an
old army friend--that's his idea of life."
Cleek felt like taking him by the back of the neck and kicking him. He
didn't, however. He had other fish to fry; and he succeeded so well that
before he left that room he had an invitation to stop the night, and as
he had brought no evening clothes with him, the offer of a suit to meet
the emergency.
"Look here, I'll tell you what, Barch," said Raynor when this invitation
and this offer were accepted, turning round as he spoke--he was at a
window which overlooked the drive up from the gates of the Grange "chaps
like us don't want to sit in a drawing-room and waste time with a pair
of prunes and prisms like Lady Katharine Fordham and that prig of a
Lorne girl. If you're in for a lark, we'll slip out and I'll show you a
bit of life on the sly. I like you-- I'm blest if I don't; so if you're
game for a kick up, I'll let you into a secret and give you the time of
your life. Now, then, listen here, old chap."
He stopped abruptly as a sudden grating sound of wheels rose from the
drive, and looking down, he saw that a vehicle had swung in through the
gates and was advancing toward the house.
"Oh Lord! that settles it; now we're in for a visitation!" he said with
an expression of deep disgust. "There's that prig of a chap, Geoff
Clavering, driving in. Can't stick that fellow at any price!"
Geoff Clavering! Cleek rose as he heard the name, walked to the window,
and looked out. So, then, he had not been so far out in his reckoning
after all. Geoff Clavering had come at last to seek an interview with
the girl of his heart.
Why the boy had delayed until now Cleek could not guess, unless it was
because of a shrinking dread of going abroad anywhere at such a time;
but that he had nerved himself to come at last for something more than a
mere call was apparent at first glance; for his face was white and
strained, and it was evident, even from this distance, that he was
labouring under strong excitement.
Undoubtedly there would be, as he had surmised, a private interview
arranged between those two people, and undoubtedly he must manage to
overhear it. What a pity that this should have happened at this
particular time, that young Clavering should have arrived while he was
up here, out of the way of seeing what happened when Geoff and Lady
Katharine first met!
A glance, a movement, a hundred different things, might tell him what he
wanted to know if he were there at that moment of first meeting. But
perhaps it was not yet too late. The carriage hadn't reached the
entrance of the house as yet; perhaps, if he hurried, if he went at
once----
"I say, let's go down, Raynor," he said desperately. "I don't know
what's come over me, but my head's suddenly begun to swim, and I'm
afraid I shall keel over if I don't get out in the air. We can let the
lark you were speaking of rest until afterward. Come on, will you? By
Jove! you know, I'm in a fearful way."
And from the effort to carry out the impression of extreme giddiness a
curious thing came:
Clapping his hand to his head, and wheeling staggeringly round to make
his way to the door, he had the good or ill fortune to blunder against a
little table, upon which stood what was undoubtedly an earthenware
tobacco jar, and to send it crashing to the ground. Instantly and out of
it there rolled, on top of the quantity of spilled tobacco which had
originally been used to cover it, a little silver box, which flew open
as it fell and disgorged a photograph, a couple of letters in a woman's
hand, and a fragment of pink gauze.
Cleek had just stooped to pick these things up and to lay them back upon
the table, when a yet more curious thing happened.
"I say! You let those things alone!" snapped young Raynor excitedly; and
springing forward, whisked them out of his hand. But not before Cleek
had made a rather startling discovery: the letters were written in a
woman's hand--a hand he recognized the instant he saw it--and the
picture which accompanied them was a photograph of Margot. He had no
longer a desire to hurry downstairs.
The rudeness of his act and of his manner of speaking seemed to dawn
upon young Raynor almost as he snatched the photograph and letters, and
he hastened to apologize.
"I say, don't think me stable-bred, Barch," he said, a flush of
mortification reddening his face. "Didn't mean to rip out at you like
that, b'gad! Fact is, I was a bit excited; forgot for a moment that
you're a pal. So don't get your back up, please."
"I haven't the slightest intention of doing so, dear chap," replied
Cleek, who, it must be confessed, was a little shaken by the discovery.
"Every man has a right to cut up a bit rough when he thinks some other
fellow is going to pry into his secrets. And I reckon this is one of
your pet mashes--eh, what?"
"Yes, something like that. The latest--and a ripper. French, you know.
That's what rattled me for the moment. The dad loathes French women. I'm
extra careful to keep this one's picture out of sight. I say! Don't know
what you'll think about my manners, but I forgot all about your asking
to go down and get out into the air. Sorry, old chap! Come along! Take
my arm, and I'll help you."
As the breaking of the tobacco jar had deprived Raynor of again making
use of that as a means of hiding the little silver box and its contents,
he had, while speaking, crammed the letters, the photograph, and the
scrap of pink gauze into an inside pocket of his coat, and now came
forward and took Cleek's arm with the amiable intention of leading him
from the room.
There was, of course, in the circumstances nothing for it but to go,
much as Cleek would have preferred to stop and trace the connection
between young Raynor and Margot; but he was far too careful in his
methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden
attack of a moment before by pretending that it had begun to abate, and
therefore yielded himself to the inevitable.
But he had this consolation in doing it: not only would he now be
enabled to witness the meeting between Geoff Clavering and Lady
Katharine Fordham after all, but as a man who is ill is always more or
less an object of sympathy and attention upon the part of women, he
foresaw that he might induce Lady Katharine to hover round him, and thus
bring Geoff Clavering within close range for easy and careful studying.
Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the
subject of Harry Raynor's acquaintance with Margot. The mere fact that
that young man had the contents of the little silver box upon his person
might easily cause an apprehensive inquiry regarding the risk of
carrying them about where they might be dropped, and so brought to his
father's attention; and from that inquiry it would be simple work
getting back to the subject itself without exciting any suspicion
regarding his keen interest in it. He therefore allowed young Raynor to
lead him from the room.
"Fearfully groggy, old chap, fearfully," he said in answer to young
Raynor's inquiry regarding how he felt as they went down the dim passage
toward the staircase; "head going round like a teetotum; hope I don't
keel over and spoil the evening's sport by having to be put to bed like
a kid. Don't want two sick men on one floor, do you, eh? Or is it on
this floor that Lord St. Ulmer's room is situated?"
"Yes, that one over there--second door from the wing staircase. Speak
low, old chap, or you may disturb him. Sleeps like a cat, they say--one
eye and both ears always open. Doesn't do anything but sleep, I imagine,
day and night, from the way he keeps to his room. Hullo! I say! What's
it? Aren't going to crumple up, Barch, are you?"
This, because Cleek had suddenly lurched against the bannister at the
head of the stairs, and swung clean round until his back was resting
against it.
"No--that is, I hope not; but I do feel rotten, old chap," replied he.
"Just half a second, will you?"
He lolled back his head, gave a sort of groan, and rapidly and silently
began to count the doors and to make sure of the location of Lord St.
Ulmer's room. "All right; only a passing spasm, I reckon, old chap," he
went on as soon as he had discovered that his lordship's door was the
third from the end of the passage, and that his window would, therefore,
be the second from the angle of the wing in the outer wall of the house.
"Come on--let's go down." And leaning heavily upon young Raynor, he
descended to the dining-room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CLOUDBURST
The delay, trifling though it was, occasioned by the smashing of the
tobacco jar and the discovery of the photograph, served to interfere
with the smooth progress of events, as it fell out that Cleek did not,
after all, rejoin the party below in time to witness the first meeting
between Geoffrey Clavering and Lady Katharine Fordham, for the carriage
had arrived at the entrance to the house before he put in an appearance,
and the General and Mrs. Raynor, Ailsa and Lady Katharine, were out on
the veranda talking excitedly with young Clavering when Harry and Cleek
came upon the scene.
There is a subtle magic in love that dispels all other emotions, and
despite the gravity of the situation, a look of happiness radiated from
Lady Katharine's face, reflected, though in a far lesser degree, upon
Geoffrey Clavering's; indeed it did not need an over-keen eye to detect
that the young man was seriously ill at ease, and general conversation
languished.
Cleek's entry, therefore, with young Raynor's announcement of his sudden
attack of faintness, not only drew all attention, but, as he had
foreseen, he became an object of extreme solicitude upon the part of
the ladies.
"Crocked up, poor beggar, and came within an ace of bowling over,"
explained young Raynor as he led him to a seat in a big wicker chair.
"Sharp attack of indigestion, if I know the symptoms. Bet you a hat,
mater, it was that beastly cheese souffle we had for lunch. Enough to
kill a dog, that stuff. But you will give that silly ass of a cook his
head, and let him serve up anything he likes. How are you, Clavering?
Things look like going all right for you after all--eh, what? 'Tisn't
every man who can have his rival's wind shut off to order."
The remark could not be said to be a happy one, despite the fact that
the maker of it laughed as though he had just perpetrated a witticism;
for even his doting mother could not but deplore it.
"Harry, darling, how can you?" she said reproachfully, as young
Clavering coloured and the two girls looked distressed and indignant.
"Darling, you ought to think before you speak."
"Huh!" grunted the disgusted General. "If he did, he probably wouldn't
speak at all. It seems to me, Harry, that you must lie awake at nights
planning how you can arrange to say just the wrong thing upon all
occasions--you do it so constantly."
"Oh, that's it--just lay everything on me!" responded his dutiful
offspring sulkily. "I'm always doing the wrong thing--if you believe
what other people say. Seems to me that the best thing I can do is to
take myself off, and then everybody will be happy. I say, Barch, when
you feel like yourself again you'll find me either at the stables or in
the pater's blessed ruin taking lessons in etiquette from the family
ghost--if the pater has been able to rake up one and coax him to reside
there."
And with this ill-natured dig at his father's pet weakness this engaging
young gentleman lurched down the steps of the veranda and walked surlily
away round the angle of the house.
The place which he had spoken of as "the pater's ruin" was a little fad
of the General's, whose love of antiquities and the like had tempted him
to transform a bare and unattractive part of the Grange grounds into
something at least picturesque if not in the very highest good taste.
Ancient ruins had always been a passion with him, but as you can't have
ancient ruins in modern Wimbledon, the General had had a ruin built for
himself, modelling it after the crumbling remains of an old Scottish
castle which had appealed to his artistic eye, planting it with ferns
and enwrapping ivy and vines of Virginia creeper, and even supplying it
with owls and bats to keep up the illusion. It was his one harmless
weakness, his one foible--that ruin; and nobody but his son ever mocked
him for it, though many laughed in their sleeves and secretly made game
of his foolish whim.
Cleek had heard of the "ruin" at Wuthering Grange before he had ever set
foot inside the gates of the place; and hearing of it again--now, like
this--he felt that he would like to kick the young cub who could
publicly mock his father's folly in this fashion. He saw the General's
kindly old face flush with anger and mortification, and was not at all
surprised when he presently made an excuse to get away and retired
indoors.
Meantime, Cleek's plan of pretending illness had panned out precisely as
he had imagined, and was productive of the results he desired.
Essentially feminine and of a highly sympathetic nature, Lady Katharine
hovered near him, doing all in her power to ease the sufferings of one
whom she shrewdly suspected of being very near to the heart of her
dearest friend, and this naturally brought Geoffrey to the little group
surrounding him, and enabled him to study his attitude at close
quarters.
The more he saw of Sir Philip Clavering's son and heir, the better he
liked him; but although the young man occasionally turned an adoring
look upon Lady Katharine, and appeared to be doing his best to share her
evident high spirits, it was apparent to Cleek, after a moment's study,
that his attitude was for the most part assumed. He made no attempt to
get away from the others and have the lady of his heart all to himself,
and whenever he and she were for a moment separated from Mrs. Raynor and
Ailsa Lorne, he was nervous, distressed, and acted with an air of
restraint that was as puzzling as it was pronounced.
A chance remark regarding the state of Lord St. Ulmer's health brought
from Lord St. Ulmer's daughter the happy, excited remark:
"Oh, Geoff, dear, he's improving every hour, and he has been so
wonderfully kind and tender to me this afternoon that I could kiss him.
Just think, he says that things can go on now just as they did before
Count de Louvisan came; that there is nothing now to come between us,
Geoff; nothing to keep us apart for another moment!"
"Really? That's ripping!" said young Clavering, and in his effort to
appear delighted smiled the ghastliest parody of a smile possible to
conceive. It was so pronounced that even Lady Katharine herself noticed
it and looked puzzled and distressed.
"You don't seem very glad," she said, a note of pain in her voice, a
look of pain in her reproachful eyes. "_Aren't_ you glad, Geoff? And is
that why you did not come over to see me before?"
"Don't be silly, Kathie. I couldn't come any earlier because--well,
because I couldn't, that's all."
"A very lucid explanation, I must say. What is the matter with you,
Geoff? You're not a bit like yourself to-day--is he, Ailsa?"
But Ailsa made no reply. There was none really needed. Geoffrey had
taken hardly any notice, but as if struck with a sudden thought, whipped
out a notebook and began shuffling the pages nervously through his
fingers.
"I'd nearly forgotten, Kathie," he said apologetically; "my mother asked
if you would lend her these books." He handed her the torn leaf with
something scribbled upon it. "Any time will do, but she said you would
have them."
Lady Katharine looked down at the writing, and a wave of colour surged
over her face.
"But----" she commenced.
"I don't want them now; in fact, I can't stop even now, only I just
wanted to know that you were all right."
There was no mistaking the look of adoration on the young man's face,
but she looked at him reproachfully.
"Going back again, so soon!" she said softly, averting her head, while
her lips trembled and her hand clutched painfully on the leaf of the
notebook.
"I'm afraid I must, dear," responded Geoff. Then he turned swiftly to
Cleek, who had been watching the little scene, the peculiar one-sided
smile looping up the corners of his mouth.
"Good-bye, Mr. Barch; pleased to have met you," he said without,
however, coming forward and offering his hand.
"Thanks! same to you; good-bye," replied Cleek, and that same smile was
still on his face when a minute or two later, young Clavering having
taken his departure, Cleek was rejoined by Ailsa Lorne.
"What do you think about it?" she asked abruptly. "What is it that is
wrong? Oh, Mr. Cleek, do you think----"
"I'll be beyond 'thinking' before the morning. I shall know," he
interposed. "Now, show me the way to that ruin, please. I want a word or
two with Mr. Harry Raynor if he is there. Down that path, is it? Thanks
very much." And swinging down from the veranda, he moved away in the
direction indicated.
A brisk two minutes' walk brought him to the picturesque ruin with its
ivy-wrapped walls, its gaping Gothic windows, and its fern-bedded
battlements, so artfully copied that the stones actually seemed to be
crumbling and the plants to have been set there by Nature rather than by
man. Even the appearance of a dried-up moat and a ruined drawbridge was
not wanting to complete the picture and to give an air of genuine
antiquity; and he had just stepped on the latter to make his way across
to the wide arch of the entrance when he was hailed, not from within,
but from behind.
He faced round suddenly to see young Raynor moving quickly toward him.
He was walking rapidly, and appeared to be in a state of great
excitement.
"I say, Barch, hold on a moment, will you?" he sang out. Cleek gave him
time to get to the drawbridge and then the reason for his excitement
became known. "Look here, old chap, I'm afraid we shall have to give up
our little 'lark' for this evening, after all. Rotten bad luck, but I've
just got a message that will call me to--well, somewhere else; and I've
got to go at once. Don't expect I shall be able to get back this side of
midnight; but if you don't mind prolonging your stay and making it two
nights instead of one----"
"Not in the least. Delighted, old chap."
"Oh, well, then, that's all right. Have our night out to-morrow
instead--eh, what? Look here, Barch, blest if I don't like you
immensely. Let you into the secret. It'll be with 'Pink Gauze.'"
"Pink Gauze? Don't mean the little Frenchy, do you--the little beauty of
the photograph?"
"The very identical. Be a good boy, Barchie, and I'll take you to see
her to-morrow night. What do you think--eh, what?"
Cleek didn't say what he thought; it would have surprised the young man
if he had.
"Well, ta-ta until midnight or thereabouts, old chap. So long!" And with
a wave of the hand he was gone.
Cleek stood and looked after him for a moment, a curl on his lip, an
expression of utter contempt in his eyes; then he gave his head a jerk
indicative of a disgust beyond words, and, facing about, walked on into
the ruins.
The General had done the thing well, at all events. The atmosphere of
antiquity was very cleverly reproduced: walls, roof, floor--all had the
appearance of not having been disturbed by the hand of any one for ages.
Half-defaced armorial bearings, iron-studded doors, winding staircases,
even a donjon keep.
This he came to realize when the sight of a rusted iron ring in the
floor tempted him to pull up and lay back a slab of stone that appeared
centuries old, and to expose in doing so a twisting flight of stone
steps leading downward into the very depths of the earth.
Really, you know, the old chap had done it well. Cells down there, no
doubt--cells and chains and all that sort of thing. Well, he had time to
spare; he'd go down and have a look at those cells. And, leaving the
stone trap-slab open, he went down the black stairway into the blacker
depths below, flicking the light of his torch about and going from cell
to cell. One might swear that the place was centuries old. Rusty old
barred doors, rustier old chains hanging from rings in the walls.
Nothing modern, nothing that looked as if it had known use or been
disturbed for these hundreds of years; nothing that---- Hello! There was
a break in the illusion, at all events: a garden spade, with fresh earth
clinging to the blade of it, leaning against the wall. Fancy a man so
careful of preserving an atmosphere of antiquity letting one of the
gardeners leave---- No, b'gad! it hadn't been left merely by chance. It
had been brought here for use, and was probably left for _further_ use.
There was a place over in that corner that most decidedly had been
recently dug up.
He walked over to the place in question and directed the glow of the
torch so that the circle of light fell full upon it. Somebody had been
digging in the earthen floor of the cell, and had made an attempt to
hide the fact by sprinkling bits of stone and plaster scraped from the
walls over it. In the ordinary course of things, and with a light less
powerful than this of the electric torch, the thing would have passed
muster very well, and would, in all probability, have escaped
observation. Now, asked Cleek of himself, what the dickens should any
one wish to dig in this place for? And, having dug, why try to disguise
the fact? Hum-m-m!
He switched round suddenly, walked to the place where the spade stood,
in the angle of the wall opposite, took it up, and, returning, began to
dig where the digging had been done before.
This he had to do in the darkness, for the moment his thumb was removed
from the button of the torch the light went out. But, having once
located the place, this was not difficult, for the earth, having once
before been disturbed, yielded easily to the spade.
For five--possibly six--minutes he worked on, shovelling out the loose
earth and tossing it aside unseen; then, of a sudden, the spade
encountered something which, though soft and yielding, would not allow
the blade to penetrate it at all, press his foot down as hard as he
might. If Cleek knew anything at all, he knew that that betokened a
fabric of some sort, and knew, too, that he had got to the bottom of the
original excavation.
He laid aside the spade, and the electric torch spat its light into the
hole.
Clothing at the bottom of it--buried clothing!
He stooped and pulled it to the surface, letting the articles thus
unearthed drop one by one from his fingers. A cap, a pair of trousers, a
coat with a badge on it, a stick with a loop of leather by which to
carry it, a belt, and a number on that belt.
He looked at the number; it was a brass "4." He looked at the badge, and
then rose upright, clamping his jaws hard and understanding.
What he had unearthed was the clothing of the Common keeper who had been
done to death last night--the clothing which the assassin had stolen and
worn.
And he had found that clothing here, hidden in the grounds of Wuthering
Grange! Why, then, in that case, the murderer---- He stopped; and the
thought went no farther--stopped, and releasing the button of the torch,
let utter darkness swing in and surround him.
Some one had entered the ruin--some one was moving about overhead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE THUNDERBOLT
It was not a man's foot that made that soft noise; his trained ear
recognized that fact at once. A woman, eh? What woman would be coming
here at this time when all the ladies of the household would be in their
rooms dressing for dinner?
He crept in the darkness out of the cell in which he had been digging,
through the one next and through the next again, until he came to the
passage leading to the staircase, and then, dropping on his hands and
knees, went soundlessly up the stone steps.
Above him as he crept upward--as slow as any tortoise and with far less
noise--sounded the woman's faint footfalls pacing the paved floor with
that persistent restlessness which tells of extreme agitation. He had
but just begun to ask himself what that agitation might portend, when
something occurred which caused him to twitch up his head with a jerk
and crouch there, a thing all eyes and ears.
The woman's footsteps had ceased abruptly, brought to a sudden halt by
the ring of others--the nervous, heavy-heeled, fast-falling steps of an
excited man coming across the drawbridge and into the ruin at a pace
which was almost a run; and that man had no more than come into range
of the woman's vision when the thin, eager voice of Lady Katharine
Fordham sounded and made the situation clear.
It was a tryst--the lovers' meeting upon which Cleek had built such high
hopes and upon which he had blundered by the merest fluke.
"Geoff!" sounded that enlightening voice, with a nervous catch in it
which told of a hard-hammering heart. "Thank heaven you have come. Ailsa
thinks I am in my room dressing for dinner. Now tell me what it is all
about, there's a dear, for my head has been in a whirl ever since I read
what you wrote. Why did you want me to come here and meet you without
anybody knowing? Whatever can it be that you 'have to say to me that no
one on this earth must hear'? Do tell me. I'm frightened half to death!"
"Are you?" His footsteps clicked sharply as he moved rapidly across the
floor toward her. "You have not gone so far as I, then, for I believe I
have been frightened _past_ death, and that after this nothing on earth
or in heaven or hell can appall me! Come here, into my arms, and let me
hold you while I speak. How I love you! My God, how I love you!"
"Geoff!"
"Put your arms round me. Kiss me! I want you to know that I love you so
well I'll fight all the dogs of justice and all the devils of hell but
what I'll stand by you and save you from them. They can't kill my love
for you. Nothing on God's earth can do that. I'll come between them and
you no matter what happens, no matter what it costs me--life with all
the rest. That's what I've come to tell you! But, oh, my God, Kathie,
why didn't you let _me_ kill him?"
"Kill him, Geoff? Good heavens, what are you talking about? Kill whom?"
"De Louvisan!"
"De Louvisan? Let you kill De Louvisan-- I? Oh, my God!
Geoff--you--think--_I_--killed--killed--him?"
Geoff groaned and buried his face in his hands. "There was no one in the
house but you," he said hoarsely. "It was you who took me into the
place; it was you who showed me his dead body spiked up there against
the wall--you and you alone. My God! Kathie, what is the use of denying
what we both know?"
Cleek sucked in his breath, drew every muscle of his body taut as wire,
and then crouching back in the darkness listened intently.
Lady Katharine remained perfectly silent for a moment, as though she had
been stricken dumb by the directness of the charge: as though the
half-despairing, half-impatient protest of that final "What is the use
of denying what we both know?" had impressed her with a realization of
the utter futility of longer endeavouring to act a part.
It was either that that held her silent, Cleek told himself, or she was
utterly amazed, utterly overcome by an accusation which had no
foundation in fact and had fallen upon her like a thunderbolt. If the
latter should prove to be the case, why, then, Geoff Clavering would be
lying, and she would be wholly and entirely innocent of the crime with
which he had charged her.
Then she spoke suddenly:
"You mean this thing? You really and truly _mean_ it?"
Geoff bowed his head in silent assent.
"That I--I--did this thing?"
Still he could not answer, could not put into brutal words the
conviction that had been forced upon him.
"That I met you and took you into Gleer Cottage last night?" she went
on. "Took you in there and showed you that man's--body? I?"
"Not exactly showed it to me--that, as we both know, is an exaggeration.
You showed me into the room where it was hanging, however. Or, at least,
you waved me to the door and told me to go in there and wait a minute or
two and you'd rejoin me and show me something that would 'light the way
back to the land of happiness!' But you never did rejoin me. I waited in
that dark room for fully ten minutes but you never came back. Afterward,
when I struck a match to light a cigarette and saw that dead man spiked
to the wall-- God! I think I went mad for the moment. I know I ran out
of the house, although I do not know when nor how; for when I came to my
senses I was racing up and down the right-of-way across the fields; and
if it had not been for you I should have run on until I dropped. But all
of a sudden I remembered you, remembered that in rushing out of the
house I had left you there; and you might come back to that room and
find me gone, and think that I had deserted you. I ran back to the place
as fast as I could. I remembered that when first you met me and took me
into it you had led me in through the gates and up the drive to the
door; but when I got back there a horror of the place seized me. I
couldn't have gone in that way again had my life depended upon it. There
was a break in the boundary wall. I got back into the grounds that way,
cutting my wrist--look, see, here's the mark--on the fragments of broken
glass which still adhered to the coping. I ran through the gardens and
round to the back of the house. I burst open the rear door and raced
along the passage to the room where De Louvisan's body hung. You were
not there. I struck another match to see, noticing this time that there
was the half of a candle standing upon the mantelpiece, where it had
been secured in its own wax. I took that thing and lit it and ran
through all the house, hunting for you. There was not a trace of you
anywhere--and at last, in a panic, I rushed from the house and flew for
my very life. But there was no getting away so easily as all that.
Lights were shining, men were coming, the hue and cry had begun. I could
not go forward; I dared not go back. I remembered the old hollow tree
where we used to play in our kiddy days, you and I. I ran to that and
got inside of it--and I was there through all that followed. I was found
in time, and it might have ended badly for me but for my father's
friend, Mr. Narkom, and a French detective--a muff of a fellow named De
Lesparre. It didn't, however. I got off scot free, thanking God that no
suspicion pointed your way, and telling myself that you had not left so
much as one hair from the ermine cloak you wore that might be caught up
as a clue to bring the thing home to you!"
"The ermine cloak I wore! You say I wore an ermine cloak?"
"Yes. An ermine cloak and the same pretty white frock you had worn at
the Close earlier in the evening. It was the white of the ermine that
first attracted my attention in the darkness when I looked up and saw
you near the gates of Gleer Cottage."
"That is not the truth!" she flung back, with a sudden awakening from
the sort of stupor which, up till now, had mastered her. "I never wore
an ermine cloak in my life! I never was nearer to Gleer Cottage last
night than I am at this minute; and if you say that I met you, that I
spoke to you, that I even saw you, or that you saw me after Ailsa Lorne
led me out of the drawing-room at Clavering Close when you threatened
the Count de Louvisan's life, you are saying what is absolutely untrue."
"Kathie!"
"I repeat it, utterly and absolutely untrue."
"Good God! Do you accuse me of lying?"
"There must be some horrible mistake. Some one impersonated me for some
awful purpose. You never saw me again after I left your father's house
last night, and you know it. But, in any case, since you confess that
you were there, what took you to Gleer Cottage last night at all?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A QUESTION OF VERACITY
Geoffrey Clavering's reply to Lady Katharine's staggering question was
given so promptly that one might have been tempted to believe he had
expected it and prepared himself for the question beforehand.
"I had no idea of going there at first," he said. "I couldn't remain
among the guests after you had left the Close and Narkom's men had
bundled that De Louvisan out of the house; my head seemed full of fire,
and I simply couldn't. I got away as soon as I decently could, and went
upstairs to my own room. I couldn't stop there, either; the stillness
and the loneliness half maddened me and set me to thinking and thinking
until I thought my head would burst. So, in sheer desperation, I caught
up a cap, sneaked down the back stairs, and let myself out. Nobody saw
me go, and, thank God, nobody saw me return, either. I walked about the
Common for heaven knows how long before I turned round at the sound of
some one coming toward me through the mist, and the next thing I knew I
'bumped' smack into that person, and found it to be my stepmother."
"Lady Clavering?" said the girl in a tone of the utmost surprise--and
Cleek could have blessed her for the words, since they voiced an inquiry
upon a subject which he much desired to have explained. "You mean to say
that Lady Clavering was out there on the Common, away from her guests?
What could have impelled her to take such a step--and at such a time?"
"She had come in search of me, she said. She felt anxious, distressed,
afraid, so she said, that I would do something desperate, and went to my
room to talk with me. When she found it empty she jumped to the
conclusion that I had gone out for the purpose of following De Louvisan
and meeting him somewhere for the mere satisfaction of thrashing him.
She begged and implored me to come back to the Close; to do nothing
rash; to think of my father; to remember her; to be careful to do
nothing that would get your name mixed up in a vulgar brawl. And she
wouldn't leave me until I promised her on my word of honour that I would
make no effort to find De Louvisan. When I did that, she was satisfied
and went back to the Close."
In the darkness of the stone staircase Cleek puckered up his brows and
thoughtfully pinched his chin.
Oho! so that was the explanation of her ladyship's presence on the
Common last night, was it? Mere solicitude for the welfare of a beloved
stepson, eh? Hum-m-m! Rather disappointing, to say the least of it, to
find that she had no more connection with the case than just that. After
all, she was merely "a red herring drawn across the trail," eh? He
shouldn't have thought so, but, of course, if young Clavering spoke the
truth, that eliminated _her_ from the affair altogether. Odd that she
should have bribed the Common keeper not to say a word about having met
her! In the circumstances, why should she have done so?
Ah, yes--just so! She wouldn't like to have the affair talked about; she
wouldn't like to have young Geoff put on his guard, so that he might
purposely avoid meeting her, and she would be most anxious to get him
back into the house as quietly and as expeditiously as possible. No,
decidedly, you never can be certain. Women are queer fish at the best of
times, and mothers have odd methods of reasoning when beloved sons are
concerned. But stepmothers? Hum-m-m! Yes, yes! To be sure, there are
always exceptions. Still, he hadn't thought--he decidedly had not
thought----
Young Clavering was speaking again. Cleek let the "thought" trail off
and lose itself, and pricked up his ears to listen.
"I suppose it was her speaking of you that first put the idea into my
head," Geoff went on, "and impelled me to walk over to the place where
we had been so happy before your father returned from Argentina and
spoiled everything for us. That's why I went. That's how I came to meet
you there."
"You did not meet me there!" she flung back indignantly. "Really this is
past a jest."
"A jest? You think I'm likely to jest over it--a thing that threatens
the life of the girl I love? In the name of heaven, Kathie, put an end
to this nonsense. You know I did meet you there! You know how surprised
I was when I got to the place to see you stealing out of the gates. Why,
the very moment you saw me you spoke my name, and that I had no more
than just time to say to you, 'For God's sake, Kathie, how did you come
here?' when you plucked me by the sleeve and said, 'Come in, come in;
I'll show you something that will light the way back to the land of
happiness, dear!' And after all that to face me down like this--to
pretend that you were not there. It is simply ridiculous."
"I am glad you can give it so mild a name," said the girl coldly. "To me
it seems the cruellest and the wickedest falsehood a man could possibly
utter. Dear God! what has come over you, Geoff? Are you mad, or are you
something worse, to come here and make this abominable lying charge
against me--against _me_? And when you know in your heart that there is
not one word of truth in it!"
"Oh, for God's sake, don't treat me as if I were a fool, Katharine. Who
is there to impersonate you, and for what reason? I know what I know, I
know what I've seen, what I've heard, what I've been through! Then what
in heaven's name is the use of keeping up this idle pretence with me?"
"It is not a pretence--it is the truth, the simple and the absolute
truth!" she replied with heat. "If they were the last words I had to
say in this world, I would repeat on the very threshold of the one to
come: _I was not at Gleer Cottage last night._ I came straight from
Clavering Close to Wuthering Grange, and I never left my room for one
instant from that time until I came down to breakfast this morning.
Ailsa Lorne was with me when I returned; she will tell you that I am
speaking the truth."
Yes, decidedly Ailsa Lorne would tell him; that Cleek acknowledged to
himself. Had she not done so already? But again she might also have told
him that she thought she heard Lady Katharine's bedroom door open in the
night and some one steal out of it. Besides, there was another
thing--the golden capsule of the scent bracelet--to be reckoned with.
Hum-m-m! Was there, then, a possibility that Geoff Clavering was
speaking the truth, and that it was Lady Katharine herself who was
lying? Of course, in that case---- Stop a bit--they were going at it
again, and he could not afford to lose a single word.
"I don't care a hang what Ailsa Lorne or anybody else will say; I know
what I know," young Clavering flung in doggedly. "You can't tell me that
I didn't see a thing when I did see it--at least, you can't and expect
to make me believe it. Give me credit for a little common sense."
"How can I when your own words so utterly refute it, when you convict
yourself out of your own mouth, when even the dead man himself is a
witness to the utter folly of this charge?"
"De Louvisan?"
"Yes. He speaks for me!"
"What nonsense!"
"He speaks for me," she repeated, not noticing the interruption, "and if
you will not believe a living witness, then you must believe a dead one.
Uncle Raynor and Harry said this morning that the Count de Louvisan's
body had been found, not lying on the ground, but lifted up and spiked
to the wall; and you who claim to have seen me in that house last night
claim also to have searched the place and found no one but me present.
Will you tell me, then, how I could possibly have lifted the body of a
man weighing ten or eleven stone at the least computation, much less
have lifted it high enough to spike it to a wall?"
"One for the girl!" commented Cleek silently.
"You might have had help; there might have been somebody there who left
before I arrived," replied Geoff.
"And another one for the man!" Cleek was obliged to admit. "Which of
this interesting pair is doing the lying? They can't both be speaking
the truth. At least, they can't unless---- By Jupiter! Hum-m-m! Quite
so! Quite so! 'Write me down an ass, gentlemen,' and an ass with a
capital A." Then the curious one-sided smile travelled up his cheek, and
lingered there longer than usual.
Young Clavering's last remark had hurt the girl more than anything he
had yet said; hurt her so deeply that she gave a little shuddering cry
and, womanlike, broke into tears.
"That is the wickedest thing of all!" she said. "The very wickedest
thing of all. I can't doubt any longer that you have made up your mind
to bolster up this abominable thing by every possible insult to me!"
"Insult? What funny things are sometimes said by accident!" he flung
back stridently. "I am likely to 'insult' you when I'm ready to stand by
you through thick and thin, am I not? And to lie till I'm black in the
face, so that I keep others from knowing what I know!"
"You don't know it--you can't know it! It never happened! I was not in
that house last night, and you did not see me there!"
"Oh, well then, let us say I didn't," impatiently. "What does it matter
one way or the other? Say I didn't, then! Say _I_ murdered him; but, for
God's sake, don't say I insult you when I have come here merely to show
you how much I love you--how ready I am to fight the whole world for
you. Come back into my arms, and let me tell you what I want to tell,
dear. Come back, and don't fear anything or anybody on earth. They
shan't touch you! They shan't lift a finger to harm you, say one single
word against you; and God help the first that tries it, that's all! A
man doesn't cease to love a woman just because she does a desperate
thing for his sake. No, not he! If he's worthy of the name of man, he
loves her all the better for it. That's how I love you! Better to-day
than I ever loved you in all the days that were; better than I shall
ever love anything in all the days that are to be. I don't care if you
are red with the blood of a hundred men, you're the girl I love, the
girl I mean to marry, the girl I'm going to stand up and fight for as
long as there's breath left in my body!"
"Marry--marry?" Her voice struck through his even before he had finished
speaking, and there was a sting in it that bit. "Do you think for one
instant that I would marry you when you make such a charge as that
against me? Do you think I would? Do you? I'd no more marry you than I
would cut off my right hand, Geoff Clavering, after you have slandered
me and lied about me like this."
"Kathie, dearest----"
"No--please! If you touch me I think I shall faint! Stay where you are!
Let me alone! Ah, please do--please! I have suffered and suffered and
suffered, but not like this; oh, never like this before! That you should
say these things--you! That you should even dream of saying them! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself--ashamed!"
"Kathie, darling----"
"No, no--don't, please don't; it would be wicked to touch me when I am
suffering so much. I want to get back to my room-- I want to lie down;
my head will split if I don't. Please do not follow me; please stay
where you are. I won't say a word to anybody; I promise you I won't.
I'll try to bear it, I'll try to forget it. Nine years! Dear God, nine
years; and--those marks totalled nine!"
He jumped as though some one had stabbed him; a red wave rushed up and
crimsoned all his face, then flashed out of existence again and left it
waxen white.
"Good God! you won't attempt to suggest----" he began, then lost the
power of speaking altogether, and stood looking at her with blank eyes
and with colourless lips hard shut as she crept on through the shadowy
dusk to where the doorway of the ruin showed a pointed arch against the
dimming saffron of a twilight sky. A moment her drooping figure stood
there against that shield of yellow light, pausing irresolute with one
foot on the edge of the drawbridge, one hand pressed to her head; then
she turned and looked back at the place where he stood. But in the dim
dusk of the ruin she could scarcely see him.
"I will never speak, I will never tell--even to the day I die I won't!"
she said in a whisper; then waited an instant as if expecting a reply,
and getting none, added yet more sadly, "Good-bye," and went across the
drawbridge to the darkening gardens, and was gone.
For a minute the man made neither movement nor sound till of a sudden
there came something so totally unexpected as to cause him to literally
jump. Some one had given a none too perfect representation of a muffled
sneeze, telling him that he was not alone.
"Who's there? Who are you?" he cried in an excited whisper
But nobody answered.
"Do you hear what I say? Come out and show yourself, whoever you are!"
he called in a slightly louder tone; and then, getting no answer this
time either, he fumbled in his pocket, fished out his match box, and
struck a vesta.
The glimmering light showed him what the dusk had so successfully
concealed heretofore--namely, the gap in the floor and the underside of
the slab which usually covered the entrance to the underground cells,
but which was now laid back on its hinges with its lower side upmost and
the way to the stone staircase in full view. And in the very instant he
made this discovery there rolled up from that gap the sound of somebody
running away.
In a sort of panic young Clavering made a dash for the trap, and was
through it and down the stone steps in almost no time, the wax vesta
flickering and flaring in the fingers of his upraised hand and sending
gushes of light weaving in and out among the arches of the passage and
the gaping doorways of the mimic cells.
Nobody in sight. He called, but nobody answered; he commanded, but
nobody came forth. And with the intention of routing the author of the
sneeze and the footsteps, he had just started forward to investigate the
cells themselves, when the match burnt his fingers and was flung down
sharply. Darkness shut in as though a curtain had fallen. He fumbled
with the box to get another match, and had almost secured one when he
heard a movement behind him and flashed round on his heel.
"Anybody there?" he rapped out sharply.
"Yes; Cleek, of Scotland Yard!" answered a bland voice immediately in
front of him; then there was a sharp spring, a swift rustle, a metallic
click-click! His match box was on the floor, and a band of steel was
locked about each wrist.
"Good Lord! you've put handcuffs on me, you infernal scoundrel!"
Clavering cried out indignantly. "What is the meaning of this outrage?
What are----Here! chuck that! Confound your cheek! what are you doing to
my ankles?"
"Same thing as I've done to your wrists," replied Cleek serenely.
"Sorry, but I shall have to carry you, my young friend; and I can't risk
getting my shins kicked to a pulp."
"Carry me? Carry me where? Good God, man! not to jail?"
"Oh, no. That may come later, and certainly will come if you are guilty.
For the present, however, I am simply going to carry you to a rather
uncomfortable cell at the end of the passage, and put you where you
won't be able to run away. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to
gag you as well as handcuff you, and make you more uncomfortable still.
But I'll manage somehow to get some bedding of some sort, and to see
that you don't miss your dinner. You are going to spend the night here,
my friend. Now, then, up you come and--there you are, on my shoulder.
Steady, if you please, while I get out my pocket torch to light the way.
I suppose you realize that I have heard all that passed between you and
Lady Katharine Fordham this evening?"
"And you know that I lied, don't you?" put in Geoff eagerly. "You know
that she _wasn't_ there last night, after all?"
"To the contrary, my friend, I know that she was."
"It's a lie--it's a dashed lie! She never was near the place. That was
pure bluff. It was I who killed the man."
"Don't tell any more lies than you are obliged to, my lad. I don't
believe she killed him, and I'm not so very sure that you killed
him--and there you are."
"Then what are you arresting me for?"
"I'm not arresting you; I'm simply sifting evidence. Your
stepmother--according to _your_ story--must be very, very fond of you,
and very, very solicitous for your welfare. And if she risked catching
cold and having people talk and all that sort of thing to rush out after
you when you had only been gone for a short time, let's see how she'll
act when you disappear mysteriously and don't come home all night!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A CHANGE IN THE PROGRAM
"I suppose you understand that this is a pretty high-handed sort of
proceeding?" began young Clavering agitatedly, half indignantly. "Even
the processes of the law have their limits; and to abduct a man and
imprison him before there is the ghost of a charge against him----"
There he stopped; his ear caught by a faint metallic click, his eye by a
little gleam of light that spat out through the darkness and made a
luminous circle upon the earthen floor of the passage. Cleek had
switched on his electric torch the better to see his way in carrying his
captive to the cell of which he had spoken and was now moving with him
toward it. His interest attracted in yet another direction, Geoffrey
twitched round his head and made an effort to see the face of his
captor. Pretty nearly everybody in England had, at one time or another,
heard of the man, and a not unnatural curiosity to see what he was like
seized upon young Clavering.
His effort to satisfy that curiosity was, however, without fruit, for
the downward-directed torch cast only that one spot of light upon the
floor and left everything else in the depths of utter darkness. But
that Cleek was aware of this desire upon the part of the young man and
of his effort to satisfy it, was very soon made manifest.
"In a minute, my friend--have a little patience," he said serenely. "If
you wanted to take me unawares you should have remembered that we must
soon come to the cell and I shall have to set you down, and you could
then see all that you wanted to without putting me on my guard. What's
that? Oh, yes, I am frequently off it--even Argus occasionally shut all
his hundred eyes and went to sleep, remember."
By this time he had travelled the entire length of the passage, and now
stood upon the threshold of the cell toward which he was aiming. He was
no longer careful to keep the light from illuminating the surroundings,
however. Indeed, he had merely done that in the first place to prevent
Geoff from seeing, as they passed, the excavation he had made and the
clothing he had dug up. He now flashed the light round and round the
place as if taking stock of everything. He was not, by the way; what he
sought was what he had seen in each of the other cells and hoped to find
here as well--the iron ring in the wall and the short length of rusty
chain attached to it.
The air of antiquity had been perfectly reproduced, and this cell was as
carefully equipped as its mates. He walked toward the ring the instant
he saw it, switched off the light of the torch, swung Geoff down from
his shoulder, unfastened his ankles and one end of the shackles that
held his wrists.
"What are you going to do with me now?" demanded young Clavering with
sudden hopefulness. "I say--look here--is this thing a joke after all,
and are you going to give me my liberty?"
The only response was a sharp click; then Cleek's hands fell away from
his captive entirely, and under the impression that he was free, young
Clavering made an effort to spring up from the ground where he had been
laid.
A sharp backward jerk and a twinge of the right wrist brought him to a
realization that while one end of the handcuffs still encircled that
wrist, the other had been snapped into the ring in the wall, and it was,
therefore, impossible for him to move ten inches from the spot where he
had been left.
In the utter darkness he had no means of telling if Cleek had or had not
left the cell; and in a sort of panic, called out to him.
"I say, officer! Have you left me?" he asked; then hearing a sound quite
close to him, a sound so clearly that of some one moving and breathing
that his question was answered without words, he added nervously: "What
are you up to now? What are you doing that you have to work about it in
the dark?"
"Merely twisting up a handkerchief into a form of gag," replied Cleek,
in a tone which clearly indicated that he was speaking with one end of
that handkerchief held between his teeth. "It is not a nice thought, the
idea of gagging a gentleman as if he were a murderous navvy or a savage
dog that needs muzzling. I should much prefer, Mr. Clavering, accepting
your parole--putting you on your word of honour not to cry out or to
make any effort to attract the attention of anybody who may enter this
ruin to-night; and if you will give me that----"
"I'll give you anything rather than undergo any further indignity,"
snapped Geoff. "Look here, you know, Mr. Thingamy, this is a beastly
caddish trick altogether, jumping on a man in the dark and giving him no
chance to defend himself."
"Unfortunately, the law cannot allow itself to study the niceties of
etiquette, my dear sir," replied Cleek. "It has to go on the principle
that the end justifies the means, and it must always be prepared to
accept risks. I, as one of its representatives, am, as I have told you,
quite ready to accept one now; so if you will give me your word of
honour not to make any outcry, the gag can be dispensed with."
"Very well, then; I do give it."
"Good! And I accept it; so that's the end of that, as the fellow said
when he walked off the pier," said Cleek as he ceased twisting up the
handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. "But why not go farther and
spare us both an unnecessary amount of trouble and discomfort, Mr.
Clavering?"
"I don't know what you mean. Put it a little clearer, please. I'm not
good at guessing things."
"No, you are not; otherwise you might have guessed that when Lady
Katharine Fordham denied so emphatically what you knew to be true----
But no matter; we'll talk of that some other time."
"No, we won't!" flashed in Geoff hotly. "We'll leave Lady Katharine
Fordham's name out of this business altogether. Understand that? I don't
care whether you're a police officer or not, by George! Any man that
tries to drag her into this affair will have to thrash me, or I'll
thrash him, that's all. You can believe what you jolly well please about
what you overheard. You've got no witness to prove that you did hear it;
and as for me--I'll lie like a pickpocket and deny every word if you try
to make capital out of it against her."
Cleek laughed, laughed audibly. But there was a note of gratification,
even of admiration, underlying it; and he found himself liking this
loyal, lovable, hot-tempered boy better and better with every passing
moment. But the laughter nettled Geoff, and he was off like a firework
in a winking.
"Look here! I'll tell you what!" he flung out hotly. "If you'll set me
free from this confounded chain and come outside with me and will take a
sporting chance--if you thrash me I'll take my medicine and do whatever
you tell me; but if I thrash you, you're to let me go about my business,
and to say nothing to anybody about what you happened to hear. Now,
then, speak up. Which are you--a man or a mouse?"
"I know which you are, at all events," replied Cleek, with still another
laugh. "You have some most original ideas of the workings of the law,
it must be admitted, if you think Scotland Yard affairs can be settled
in that way."
"You won't come out and stand up to me like a man, then?"
"No, I won't; because if I did I should catch myself wanting to clap you
on the back and shake hands with you, and wishing to heaven that I were
your father. But--wait--stop! You needn't go off like a blessed
skyrocket, my lad. There's still a way to do very much what you have
proposed, and that I was about to mention when you tore at me about Lady
Katharine. I said, if you remember, that you might go farther than
simply give me your word of honour with regard to the gagging part of
the matter, and might save us both a lot of trouble and discomfort."
"Yes, I know you did. Well, what of it? What trouble and discomfort can
be saved?"
"A great deal if you are wise as well as loyal, my boy. It couldn't be a
very pleasant experience for you to pass the night in a place like this.
Nevertheless, it is absolutely imperative that you should not return to
your home to-night, and that your stepmother should have no hint of
where you had gone or what had become of you."
"Why?"
"That's my affair, and you will have to pardon me if I keep it to
myself. Now, then, why not make matters easier and pleasanter for you
and for me by giving me your word of honour that if I let you go free
from this place, and promise not to say one word of what I overheard
pass between you and Lady Katharine Fordham, you will secretly journey
up to London, stop there the night, and neither by word, nor deed will
let a hint of your whereabouts or of what has passed between us this
evening get to the ears or the eyes of any one at Clavering Close? Come
now; that's a fair proposition, is it not?"
"I don't know; I can't think what's at the bottom of it. Good
Lord!"--with a sudden flash of suspicion "you don't mean that you
suspect that Lady Clavering, my stepmother--and just because I said she
was out on the Common last night? If that's your game---- Look here,
she's as pure as ice and as good as gold, my stepmother, and my dear old
dad loves her as she deserves to be loved. If you've hatched up some
crazy idea of connecting her with this affair simply because De Louvisan
was an Austrian and she's an Austrian, too----"
"Oho!" interjected Cleek. "So Lady Clavering is an Austrian, eh? I see!
I see!"
"No, you don't. And don't you hint one word against her! So if it's part
of your crawling spy business to get me to give my parole so that you
may sneak over to Clavering Close and play another of your sneaking
abduction tricks on her, just as you have played it on me----"
"Ease your mind upon that subject. I have no intention of going near
Clavering Close, nor yet of sending anybody there. Another thing: I
have not, thus far, unearthed even the ghost of a thing that could be
said to connect Lady Clavering with the crime. Do you want me to tell
you the truth? It is you against whom all suspicions point the
strongest; and I want you to go away to-night simply that I may know if
you have spoken the truth, or are an accomplished actor and a finished
liar!"
"What's that? Good Lord! how can my disappearing for a night prove or
disprove that?"
"Shall I tell you? Then listen. I meant at first to keep it to myself,
but----" His voice dropped off; there was a second of silence, then a
faint clicking sound, and a blob of light struck up full upon his face.
"Look here," he said suddenly, "do you know this man?"
Clavering looked up and saw in the circle of light a face he had never
seen in life before--a hard, cynical face with narrowed eyes and a
thin-lipped, cruel mouth.
"No," he said, "if that is what you look like. I never saw such a man
before."
"Nor this one?"
In the circle of light the features of the drawn face writhed curiously,
blent, softened, altered--made of themselves yet another mask. And young
Clavering, pulling himself together with a start, found himself looking
again into the living countenance of Monsieur Georges de Lesparre.
"Good heavens above!" he said with a catch in his voice. "Then you were
that man--you? And Mr. Narkom knew all the time?"
"_Oui, m'sieur_--to both questions--_oui_. It shall again be I, _mon
ami_; and I shall remember me last night vair well. And now since
_m'sieur_ shall haf so good a recollection of zis party--_voila_! He may
tell me what he remembers of this one also."
Then in a flash the face was gone, and another--changed utterly and
completely--was there.
"Barch!" exclaimed young Clavering, shrinking back from the man as
though he were uncanny. "And you are that man--Philip Barch, Ailsa
Lorne's friend? You are that man, too?"
"Yes, I am that man, too," replied Cleek. "I have made these silent
confessions that you may know--that you may understand before I make
another and equally candid one. If I had chosen not to let you know the
real identity of Philip Barch, you have seen how easily I could have
kept that secret. Now that you know me you will understand how honestly
and straightforwardly I intend to deal with you. You ask
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