“We haven’t found her, sir,” said Bell heavily. “She’s not in the river.” Reggie dropped into a long chair and, watching him with dreamy eyes, filled a pipe. Bell glowered. “I thought you were going to say, ‘I told you so.’”
Reggie smiled. “I don’t remember that I told you anything.”
“That was about the size of it, sir,” Bell reproached him.
“Well, I thought it was possible the body was in the river. But not probable.”
“Nothing’s probable that I can see. Roses are a bit simpler, aren’t they, sir?”
“Simpler!” Reggie cried. “You’re no gardener. You should take it up, Bell. It develops the finer feelings. Now, don’t be cross again. I can’t bear it. I haven’t forgotten your horrible case. Nothing’s probable, as you say. But one or two things are certain all the same. Sylvia Sheridan’s servants have nothing up their sleeves. They’re as lost as you are. They are being quite natural. But Rose Darcourt has a chauffeur who interests me. He is a convivial animal and his pub is the ‘Dog and Duck.’ But he hasn’t been at the ‘Dog and Duck’ since Sylvia vanished. The ‘Dog and Duck’ is surprised at him. Also he has been hanging about Sylvia’s house. He has suddenly begun an affair with her parlourmaid. He seems to have a deuce of a lot of time on his hands. Rose Darcourt don’t show. She’s reported ill. And the reputation of the chauffeur is that he’s always been very free and easy with his mistress.”
Bell grunted and meditated and Reggie pushed a cigar-case across to help his meditations. “Well, sir, it sounds queer as you put it. But it might be explained easy. And that’s what Mr. Lomas says about the whole case. Maybe he’s right.” The thought plunged the Superintendent into deeper gloom.
“What a horrible idea,” said Reggie. “My dear fellow, don’t be so despondent. I’ve been waiting for you to take me to the parlourmaid. I want a chaperon.”
Inspector Oxtoby in plain clothes, Superintendent Bell in clothes still plainer and Mr. Fortune in flannels conducted an examination of that frightened damsel, who was by turns impudent and plaintive, till soothed by Mr. Fortune’s benignity. It then emerged that she was not walking out with Mr. Loveday the chauffeur: nothing of the kind: only Mr. Loveday had been attentive.
“And very natural, too,” Reggie murmured. “But why has he only just begun?”
The parlourmaid was startled. They had had a many fellows round the house since mistress went off. She smiled. It was implied that others beside the chauffeur had remarked her charms.
“And Mr. Loveday never came before? Does he ask after your mistress?”
“Well, of course he always wants to know if she’s been heard of. It’s only civil, sir.” She stopped and stared at Reggie. “I suppose he does talk a deal about the mistress,” she said slowly.
“When he ought to be talking about you,” Reggie murmured.
The parlourmaid looked frightened. “But it’s as if he was always expecting some news of her,” she protested.
“Oh, is it!” said Inspector Oxtoby, and Reggie frowned at him.
“Yes, it is!” she cried. “And I don’t care what you say. And a good mistress she was”—she began to weep again, and was incoherent.
“I’m sure she was,” Reggie said, “and you’re fond of her. That’s why we’re here, you know. You want to help her, don’t you? When was Mr. Loveday going to meet you again?”
Through sobs it was stated that Mr. Loveday had said he would be by the little gate at his usual time that night.
“Well, I don’t want you to see him, Gladys,” said Reggie gently. “You’re to stay indoors like a good girl. Don’t say anything to anybody and you’ll be all right.”
On that they left her, and Reggie, taking Bell’s arm as they crossed the garden, murmured, “I like Gladys. She’s a pleasant shape. This job’s opening out, Bell, isn’t it?”
“It beats me,” said Bell. “What’s the fellow after?”
“He knows something,” said Oxtoby.
“And he’s not quite sure what he knows,” said Reggie. “Well, well. An early dinner is indicated. It’s a hard world. Come and dine with me.”
That night as it grew dark the chauffeur stood by the little gate of Sylvia Sheridan’s garden, an object of interest to three men behind a laurel hedge. He waited some time in vain. He lit a cigarette and exhibited for a moment a large flat face. He waited longer, opened the gate and approached the back of the house.
“Better take him now,” said Reggie. “Loitering with intent. I’ll go down to the station.”
Inspector Oxtoby, with Bell in support, closed upon the man in the kitchen garden.
In the little office at Stanton police-station Albert Edward Loveday was charged with loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house with intent to commit a felony. He was loudly indignant, protesting that he had only gone to see his girl. He was told that he could say all that to the magistrates, and was removed still noisy.
Mr. Fortune came out of the shadow. “I don’t take to Albert Edward,” he said. “I fear he’s a bit of a bully.”
Bell nodded. “That’s his measure, sir. A chap generally shows what he’s made of when you get him in the charge room. I never could understand that. You’d think any fellow with a head on him would take care to hide what sort he is here. But they don’t seem as if they could help themselves.”
“Most of the fellows you get in the charge room haven’t heads. I doubt if Albert Edward has. He looks as if he hadn’t thought things out.”
Inspector Oxtoby came back in a hurry. “My oath, Mr. Fortune, you’ve put us on the right man,” he said. “Look what the beggar had on him.” It was a small gold cigarette-case. It bore the monogram S.S., and inside was engraved “Sylvia from Bingo.”
“That’s done him in,” said Bell. “Any explanation?”
“He wouldn’t say a word. Barring that he cursed freely. No, Mr. Albert Edward Loveday wants to see his solicitor. He knows something.”
“Yes. Yes, I wonder what it is?” Reggie murmured.
“He had some pawn-tickets for jewellery too. Pretty heavy stuff. We’ll have to follow that up. And a hundred and fifty quid—some clean notes, some deuced dirty.”
Bell laughed grimly. “He’s done himself proud, hasn’t he?”
“Some clean, some dirty,” Reggie repeated. “He got the dirty ones from the pawnbroker. Where did he get the clean ones? Still several unknown quantities in the equation.”
“How’s that, sir?” said Inspector Oxtoby.
“Well, there’s the body, for instance,” said Reggie mildly. “We lack the body. You know, I think we might ask Miss Darcourt to say a few words. Send a man up in a car to tell her she’s wanted at the police-station, because her chauffeur has been arrested. I should think she’ll come.”
“That’s the stuff!” Inspector Oxtoby chuckled and set about it.
“You always had a notion she knew something, sir,” said Bell reverently.
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
She did come. The little room seemed suddenly crowded, so large was the gold pattern on her black cloak, so complex her sinuous movements, as she glided in and sat down. She smiled at them, and certainly she had been handsome. From a white face dark eyes glittered, very big eyes, all pupil. “Oh, my aunt,” said Reggie to himself, “drugged.”
“Miss Rose Darcourt?” Inspector Oxtoby’s pen scratched. “Thank you, madam. Your chauffeur Albert Edward Loveday (that’s right?) has been arrested loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house. He was found in possession of Miss Sheridan’s gold cigarette-case. Can you explain that?”
“I? Why should I explain it? I know nothing about it.”
“The man is in your service, madam.”
“Yes, and he is a very good chauffeur. What then? Why should you arrest him?” She talked very fast. “I don’t understand it at all. I don’t understand what you want me to say.”
“Only the truth,” said Reggie gently out of the shadow.
“What do you mean by the truth? I know nothing about what he had. I can’t imagine, I can’t conceive”—her voice went up high—“how he could have Miss Sheridan’s cigarette-case. If he really had.”
“Oh, he had it all right,” said Inspector Oxtoby.
“Why, then perhaps she gave it him.” She laughed so suddenly that the men looked at each other. “Have you asked him? What did he say? I know nothing about Miss Sheridan.”
“You can tell us nothing?” said Reggie.
“What should I tell you?” she cried.
There was silence but for the scratching of the Inspector’s pen. “Very good, madam,” he said. “You have no explanation. I had better tell you the case will go into court. Thank you for coming. Would you like to have the car back?”
“What has Loveday said?” She leaned forward.
“He’s asked for his solicitor, madam. That’s all.”
“What is this charge, then?”
The Inspector smiled. “That’s as may be, madam.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not alone, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Bell.
“What?” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“The car’ll take you back, ma’am.”
She stared at him a long minute. “The car?” she started up. “I don’t need your car. I’ll not have it. I can go, can I?” she laughed.
Bell opened the door. “Phew!” he puffed as he closed it. “She looked murder, didn’t she?”
“Nice young woman for a quiet tea-party,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder. I wonder. I think I’ll use that car.”
As it drew out upon the bridge he saw the tall shape of Miss Darcourt ahead. She was going slowly. She stopped. She glanced behind her at the lights of the car. She climbed the parapet and was gone.
“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fortune. “Stop the bus.” He sprang out, looked down for a moment at the foam and the eddies and dived after her.
Some minutes afterwards he arrived at the bank with Miss Darcourt in tow and waddled out, dragging her after him without delicacy and swearing in gasps. She was in no case to protest. She did not hear. Mr. Fortune rolled her over and knelt beside her.
“What’ll I do, sir? Can’t I do something?” cried the chauffeur.
“Police-station,” Reggie panted. “Bring down the Inspector or the Superintendent. Quick! Damn quick!” And he wrought with Miss Darcourt’s body. . . .
He looked up at the large shape of Superintendent Bell. “Suicide, sir?”
“Attempted suicide. She’ll do, I think. Wrap her in every dam’ thing you’ve got and take her to hospital quick.”
“I know this game, sir,” Bell said, and stooped and gathered the woman up: “you run along home.”
“Run!” said Reggie. “My only aunt.”
In the morning when he rang for his letters, “Superintendent Bell called, sir,” said the maid. “About eight it was. He said I wasn’t to waken you. He only wanted to tell you she was going on all right. And there’s a message by telephone from Mr. Lomas. He says you should be at Paddington by twelve, car will meet you, very urgent. And to tell you he has the body.”
“Oh, my Lord!” said Reggie. He sprang out of bed. Superintendent Bell was rung up and told to commit himself to nothing over Albert Edward Loveday and his mistress.
“Remanded for inquiries—that’ll do for him, sir,” said Bell’s voice. “And she can wait. Hope you’re all right, Mr. Fortune.”
“I’m suffering from shock, Bell. Mr. Lomas is shocking me. He’s begun to sit up and take notice.”
Inadequately fed and melancholy, Mr. Fortune was borne into Paddington by a quarter-past twelve. He there beheld Lomas sitting in Lomas’s car and regarding him with a satirical eye. Mr. Fortune entered the car in dignity and silence.
“My dear fellow, I hate to disappoint you,” Lomas smiled. “You’ve done wonderfully well. Arrested a chauffeur, driven a lady to suicide—admirable. It is really your masterpiece. Art for art’s sake in the grand style. You must find it horribly disappointing to act with a dull fellow like me.”
“I do,” said Mr. Fortune.
Lomas chuckled. “I know, I know. I can’t help seeing it. And really I hate to spoil your work. But the plain fact is I’ve got the body.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Fortune.
“And unfortunately—I really do sympathize with you—it isn’t dead.”
“When did I say it was?” said Mr. Fortune. “I said you hadn’t a corpse for me—and you haven’t got one now. I said it was all muddled—and so it is, a dam’ muddle.”
“Don’t you want to know why the fair Sylvia left home?”
“Yes. Do you know, Lomas?”
“She’s gone off with a man, my dear fellow,” Lomas laughed.
“Well, well,” said Reggie mildly. “And that’s why the Darcourt’s chauffeur had her cigarette-case in his pocket! And that’s why the Darcourt jumped into the river when we asked her to explain! You make it all so clear, Lomas.”
“Theft, I suppose, and fright.” Lomas shrugged. “But we’ll ask Sylvia.”
“Where is she?”
“I had information of some one like her from a little place in the wilds of Suffolk. I sent a fellow down and he has no doubt it’s the lady. She’s been living there since she vanished, with a man.”
“What man?”
“Not identified. Smith by name,” said Lomas curtly. “You’d better ask her yourself, Fortune.”
“Yes. There’s quite a lot of things I’d like to ask her,” said Reggie, and conversation languished. Even the elaborate lunch which Reggie insisted on eating in Colchester did not revive it, for Lomas was fretful at the delay. So at last, with Reggie somnolent and Lomas feverish, the car drew up at the ancient inn of the village of Baldon.
A young fellow who was drinking ginger-beer in the porch looked up and came to meet them. “She’s done a bunk, sir,” he said in a low voice. “She and her Mr. Smith went off half an hour ago. Some luggage in the car. Took the London road.”
“My poor Lomas!” Reggie chuckled.
“Damme, we must have passed them on the road,” Lomas cried. “Any idea why she went, Blakiston?”
“No, sir. The man went into Ipswich in their car this morning. Soon after he came back, they bolted together. I couldn’t do anything, you know, sir.”
“You’re sure Mrs. Smith is Miss Sheridan?”
“I’d swear to her, sir.”
“It’s damned awkward,” Lomas frowned. “Sorry, Fortune. We’d better be off back.”
“I want my tea,” said Reggie firmly, and got out: and vainly Lomas followed to protest that after the Colchester lunch he could want no more to eat for twenty-four hours. He was already negotiating for cream. “If it hadn’t been for your confounded lunch we should have caught her,” Lomas grumbled. “Now she’s off into the blue again.”
Reggie fell into the window seat and took up the local paper. “And where is he that knows?” he murmured. “From the great deep to the great deep she goes. But why? Assumin’ for the sake of argument that she is our leading lady, why does she make this hurried exit?”
“How the devil should I know?”
Reggie smiled at him over the top of the papers. “This is a very interestin’ journal,” he remarked. “Do you know what it is, Lomas? It’s the Ipswich evening paper with the 2.30 winner. Were you backing anything? No? Well, well. Not a race for a careful man. I read also that Miss Darcourt’s chauffeur was brought up before the Stanton magistrates this morning and Miss Darcourt jumped into the river last night. It makes quite a lot of headlines. The Press is a great power, Lomas.”
Lomas damned the Press.
“You’re so old-fashioned,” Reggie said sadly. “My child, don’t you see? Mr. Smith went to Ipswich, Mr. Smith read the early evening paper and hustled back to tell Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith felt that duty called her. Assuming that Mrs. Smith is our Sylvia, where would it call her? Back to Stanton, to clear up the mess.”
“I suppose so,” said Lomas drearily. “She can go to the devil for me.”
“My dear chap, you do want your tea,” said Reggie. Then Lomas swore.
It was late that night when a dusty car driven by Mr. Fortune approached the lights of Stanton. Mr. Fortune turned away from the bridge down a leafy byway and drew up with a jerk. Another car was standing by Miss Sheridan’s gate. The man in it turned to stare. Reggie was already at his side. “Mr. Smith, I presume?” he said.
“Who the devil are you?” said a voice that seemed to him familiar.
The night was then rent by a scream, which resolved itself into a cry of “Thieves! Help, help! Police!” It came from the house.
Reggie made for the door and banged upon it. It was opened by an oldish woman in disarray. “We’ve got burglars,” she cried. “Come in, sir, come in.”
“Rather,” said Mr. Fortune. “Where are they?”
“On the stair, sir. I hit him. I know I hit one. It give me such a turn.”
Reggie ran upstairs. The light was on in the hall, but on the landing, in the shadow, he stumbled over something soft. He ran his hand along the wall for a switch and found it. What he saw was Sylvia Sheridan lying with blood upon her face.
“It’s all right. You’ve only knocked out your mistress,” he called over the stairs.
“Oh, my God!” the housekeeper gasped. “The poker on her poor head! Oh, sir, she’s not dead, is she?”
“Not a bit. Come along, where’s her room?” Reggie picked her up.
The man from the car was at his elbow. “Thank you, I’ll do that,” he said.
“Why, it’s Mr. Woodcote. Fancy that!” Reggie smiled. “But why should the dramatist carry the leading lady?”
“I’m her husband,” said Woodcote fiercely. “Any objection, Mr. Fortune?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Smith. I beg pardon, Mr. Woodcote. But you’ll want me, you know. If it’s only to sew her up.”
He bore the lady off to her bedroom.
* * * * * *
The case ended as it began, with a morning voyage in a punt. Lomas brought that craft in to the landing-stage and embarked Reggie, who laid himself down on the cushions elaborately and sighed. “My dear fellow, I know you were always a lady’s man,” Lomas remonstrated. “But you’re overdoing it. You’re enfeebled. You wilt.”
Reggie moaned gently. “I know it. I feel like a curate, Lomas. They coo over me. It’s weakening to the intellect. Rose holds my hand and tells me she’s sorry she was so naughty, and Sylvia looks tenderly from her unbandaged eye and says she’ll never do it again.”
“Have you got anything rational out of them?”
“I have it all. It’s quite simple. Sylvia heard that Rose was trying to do her out of the part. She was pained. She went round in a hurry to talk to Rose. In the garden she saw Albert Edward, the chauffeur, who told her that Rose was on the boat-house balcony, her favourite place on a fine evening. Sylvia went there straight. Hence none of the servants but Albert Edward knew that Sylvia had called that night. Sylvia and Rose had words. Sylvia says she offered Rose quite a good minor part. Rose says Sylvia insulted her. I fear that Rose tried to slap her face. Anyway, Sylvia tumbled down the boat-house steps and there was a splash. Rose heard it and thought Sylvia had gone in and was delighted. Albert Edward heard it as he had heard the row, and thought something could be done about it. But he saw Sylvia rush off rather draggled round the skirts, and knew she wasn’t drowned. Rose didn’t take the trouble to see Sylvia scramble out. She was too happy. Sylvia was annoyed, but she has an ingenious mind. It occurred to her that if she did a disappearance Rose would get the wind up badly and it would be a howling advertisement for Miss Sylvia Sheridan and Woodcote’s new play. Yes, Lomas dear, you were quite right. Only Bell was too. Sylvia scurried off to London and let herself into her flat and telephoned to Woodcote and told him all about it. He was badly gone on Sylvia before. He gave way to his emotions and those two geese arranged their elopement that night. She went off at break of day and he got a special licence. Meanwhile Albert Edward was getting busy. He collected the cigarette-case from the boat-house first thing in the morning, he found out Sylvia hadn’t gone home and he started blackmailing Rose. That was why we saw her looking desperate. She got more and more funky, she paid that bright lad all the money she could spare (the clean notes) and most of her jewellery (the pawn-tickets). The only thing that worried Albert Edward was when Sylvia would turn up again. Hence that interest in the parlourmaid which gave him away. Poor Rose tried to drown her sorrows in morphia, and when she found Albert Edward was in the cells, she wanted to go under quiet and quick.”
“I have a mild, manly longing to smack Sylvia,” said Lomas.
“Well, well. The housekeeper did that. With a poker,” Reggie murmured. “Life is quite just to the wicked. But wearing to the virtuous. I am much worn, Lomas. I want my lunch.”
CASE VII
ONCE upon a time a number of men in a club discussed how Mr. Reginald Fortune came to be the expert adviser of the Home Office upon crime. The doctors admitted that though he is a competent surgeon, pathologist and what not, he never showed international form. There was a Fellow of the Royal Society who urged that Fortune knew more about natural science than most schoolboys, politicians and civil servants. An artist said he had been told Fortune understood business, and his banker believed Fortune was a judge of old furniture. But they all agreed that he is a jolly good fellow. Which means, being interpreted, he can be all things to all men.
Mr. Fortune himself is convinced that he was meant by Providence to be a general practitioner: to attend to my lumbago and your daughter’s measles. He has been heard to complain of the chance that has made him, knowing something of everything, nothing completely, into a specialist. His only qualification, he will tell you, is that he doesn’t get muddled.
There you have it, then. He is singularly sensitive to people. “Very odd how he knows men,” said Superintendent Bell reverently. “As if he had an extra sense to tell him of people’s souls, like smells or colours.” And he has a clear head. He is never confused about what is important and what isn’t, and he has never been known to hesitate in doing what is necessary.
Consider his dealing with the affair of the unknown murderer.
There was not much interesting crime that Christmas. The singular case of Sir Humphrey Bigod, who was found dead in a chalkpit on the eve of his marriage, therefore obtained a lot of space in the papers, which kept it up, even after the coroner’s jury had declared for death by misadventure, with irrelevant inventions and bloodthirsty hints of murder and tales of clues. This did not disturb the peace of the scientific adviser to the Criminal Investigation Department, who knew that the lad was killed by a fall and that there was no means of knowing any more. Mr. Fortune was much occupied in being happy, for after long endeavour he had engaged Joan Amber to marry him. The lady has said the endeavour was hers, but I am not now telling that story. Just after Christmas she took him to the children’s party at the Home of Help.
It is an old-fashioned orphanage, a huge barrack of a building, but homely and kind. Time out of mind people of all sorts, with old titles and new, with money and with brains, have been the friends of its children. When Miss Amber brought Reggie Fortune under the flags and the strings of paper roses into its hall, which was as noisy as the parrot house, he gasped slightly. “Be brave, child,” she said. “This is quiet to what it will be after tea. And cool. You will be much hotter. You don’t know how hot you’ll be.”
“Woman, you have deceived me,” said Mr. Fortune bitterly. “I thought philanthropists were respectable.”
“Yes, dear. Don’t be frightened. You’re only a philanthropist for the afternoon.”
“I ask you. Is that Crab Warnham?”
“Of course it’s Captain Warnham.” Miss Amber smiled beautifully at a gaunt man with a face like an old jockey. He flushed as he leered back. “Do you know his wife? She’s rather precious.”
“Poor woman. He doesn’t look comfortable here, does he? The last time I saw Crab Warnham was in a place that’s several kinds of hell in Berlin. He was quite at home there.”
“Forget it,” said Miss Amber gently. “You will when you meet his wife. And their boy’s a darling.”
“His boy?” Reggie was startled.
“Oh, no. She was a widow. He worships her and the child.”
Reggie said nothing. It appeared to him that Captain Warnham, for a man who worshipped his wife, had a hungry eye on women. And the next moment Captain Warnham was called to attention. A small woman, still pretty though earnest, talked to him like a mother or a commanding officer. He was embarrassed, and when she had done with him he fled.
The small woman, who was austerely but daintily clad in black with some white at the neck, continued to flit among the company, finding everyone a job of work. “She says to one, Go, and he goeth, and to another, Come, and he cometh. And who is she, Joan?”
“Lady Chantry,” said Miss Amber. “She’s providence here, you know.”
And Lady Chantry was upon them. Reggie found himself looking down into a pair of uncommonly bright eyes and wondering what it felt like to be as strenuous as the little woman who was congratulating him on Joan, thanking him for being there and arranging his afternoon for him all in one breath. He had never heard anyone talk so fast. In a condition of stupor he saw Joan reft from him to tell the story of Cinderella to magic lantern pictures in one dormitory, while he was led to another to help in a scratch concert. And as the door closed on him he heard the swift clear voice of Lady Chantry exhorting staff and visitors to play round games.
He suffered. People who had no voices sang showy songs, people who had too much voice sang ragtime to those solemn, respectful children. In pity for the children and himself he set up as a conjurer, and the dormitory was growing merry when a shriek cut into his patter. “That’s only my bones creaking,” he went on quickly, for the children were frightened; “they always do that when I put the knife in at the ear and take it out of my hind leg. So. But it doesn’t hurt. As the motor-car said when it ran over the policeman’s feet. All done by kindness. Come here, Jenny Wren. You mustn’t use your nose as a money-box.” A small person submitted to have pennies taken out of her face.
The door opened and a pallid nurse said faintly: “The doctor. Are you the doctor?”
“Of course,” said Reggie. “One moment, people. Mr. Punch has fallen over the baby. It always hurts him. In the hump. Are we down-hearted? No. Pack up your troubles in the old kit bag——” He went out to a joyful roar of that lyric. “What’s the trouble?” The nurse was shaking.
“In there, sir—she’s up there.”
Reggie went up the stairs in quick time. The door of a little sitting-room stood open. Inside it people were staring at a woman who sat at her desk. Her dress was dark and wet. Her head lolled forward. A deep gash ran across her throat.
“Yes. There’s too many of us here,” he said, and waved the spectators away. One lingered, an old woman, large and imposing, and announced that she was the matron. Reggie shut the door and came back to the body in the chair. He held the limp hands a moment, he lifted the head and looked close into the flaccid face. “When was she found? When I heard that scream? Yes.” He examined the floor. “Quite so.” He turned to the matron. “Well, well. Who is she?”
“It’s our resident medical officer, Dr. Emily Hall. But Dr. Fortune, can’t you do anything?”
“She’s gone,” said Reggie.
“But this is terrible, doctor. What does it mean?”
“Well, I don’t know what it means. Her throat was cut by a highly efficient knife, probably from behind. She lingered a little while quite helpless, and died. Not so very long ago. Who screamed?”
“The nurse who found her. One of our own girls, Dr. Fortune, Edith Baker. She was always a favourite of poor Dr. Hall’s. She has been kept on here at Dr. Hall’s wish to train as a nurse. She was devoted to Dr. Hall. One of these girlish passions.”
“And she came into the room and found—this—and screamed?”
“So she tells me,” said the matron.
“Well, well,” Reggie sighed. “Poor kiddies! And now you must send for the police.”
“I have given instructions, Dr. Fortune,” said the matron with dignity.
“And I think you ought to keep Edith Baker from talking about it.” Reggie opened the door.
“Edith will not talk,” said the matron coldly. “She is a very reserved creature.”
“Poor thing. But I’m afraid some of our visitors will. And they had better not, you know.” At last he got rid of the lady and turned the key in the lock and stood looking at it. “Yes, quite natural, but very convenient,” said he, and turned away from it and contemplated a big easy chair. The loose cushion on the seat showed that somebody had been sitting in it, a fact not in itself remarkable. But there was a tiny smear of blood on the arm still wet. He picked up the cushion. On the under side was a larger smear of blood. Mr. Fortune’s brow contracted. “The unknown murderer cuts her throat—comes over here—makes a mess on the chair—turns the cushion over—and sits down—to watch the woman die. This is rather diabolical.” He began to wander round the room. It offered him no other signs but some drops of blood on the hearthrug and the hearth. He knelt down and peered into the fire, and with the tongs drew from it a thin piece of metal. It was a surgical knife. He looked at the dead woman. “From your hospital equipment, Dr. Hall. And Edith Baker is a nurse. And Edith Baker had ‘a girlish passion’ for you. I wonder.”
Some one was trying the door. He unlocked it, to find an inspector of police. “I am Reginald Fortune,” he explained. “Here’s your case.”
“I’ve heard of you, sir,” said the inspector reverently. “Bad business, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s very lucky you were here.”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“Could it be suicide, sir?”
Reggie shook his head. “I wish it could. Not a nice murder. Not at all a nice murder. By the way, there’s the knife. I picked it out of the fire.”
“Doctor’s tool, isn’t it, sir? Have you got any theory about it?” Reggie shook his head. “There’s the girl who gave the alarm: she’s a nurse in the hospital, I’m told.”
“I don’t know the girl,” said Reggie. “You’d better see what you make of the room. I shall be downstairs.”
In the big hall the decorations and the Christmas tree with its ungiven presents glowed to emptiness and silence. Joan Amber came forward to meet him. He did not speak to her. He continued to stare at the ungiven presents on the Christmas tree. “What do you want to do?” she said at last.
“This is the end of a perfect day,” said Mr. Fortune. “Poor kiddies.”
“The matron packed them all off to their dormitories.”
Mr. Fortune laughed. “Just as well to rub it in, isn’t it?”
Miss Amber did not answer him for a moment. “Do you know, you look rather terrible?” she said, and indeed his normally plump, fresh-coloured, cheery face had a certain ferocity.
“I feel like a fool, Joan. Where is everybody?”
“She sent everybody away too.”
“She would. Great organizer. No brain. My only aunt! A woman’s murdered and every stranger who was in the place is hustled off before the police get to work. This isn’t a crime, it’s a nightmare.”
“Well, of course they were anxious to go.”
“They would be.”
“Reggie, who are you thinking of?”
“I can’t think. There are no facts. Where’s this matron now?”
The inspector came upon them as they were going to her room. “I’ve finished upstairs, sir. Not much for me, is there? Plenty downstairs, though. I reckon I’ll hear some queer stories before I’ve done. These homes are always full of gossip. People living too close together, wonderful what bad blood it makes. I——” He broke off and stared at Reggie. From the matron’s room came the sound of sobbing. He opened the door without a knock.
The matron sat at her writing-table, coldly judicial. A girl in nurse’s uniform was crying on the bosom of Lady Chantry, who caressed her and murmured in her ear.
“Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” the inspector said, staring hard.
“You don’t interrupt. This girl is Edith Baker, who seems to have been the last person who saw Dr. Hall alive and was certainly the first person who saw her dead.”
“And who was very, very fond of her,” Lady Chantry said gently. “Weren’t you, dear?”
“I’ll have to take her statement,” said the inspector. But the girl was torn with sobbing.
“Come, dear, come.” Lady Chantry strove with her. “The Inspector only wants you to say how you left her and how you found her.”
“Edith, you must control yourself.” The matron lifted her voice.
“I hate you,” the girl cried, and tore herself away and rushed out of the room.
“She’ll have to speak, you know, ma’am,” the inspector said.
“I am very sorry to say she has always had a passionate temperament,” said the matron.
“Poor child!” Lady Chantry rose. “She was so fond of the doctor, you see. I’ll go to her, matron, and see what I can do.”
“Does anyone here know what the girl was up to this afternoon, ma’am?” said the inspector.
“I will try to find out for you,” said the matron, and rang her bell.
“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune. “Every little helps. You might find out what all the other people were doing this afternoon.”
The matron stared at him. “Surely you’re not thinking of the visitors, Mr. Fortune?”
“I’m thinking of your children,” said Reggie, and she was the more amazed. “Not a nice murder, you know, not at all a nice murder.”
And then he took Miss Amber home. She found him taciturn, which is his habit when he is angry. But she had never seen him angry before. She is a wise woman. When he was leaving her: “Do you know what it is about you, sir?” she said. “You’re always just right.”
When the Hon. Sidney Lomas came to his room in Scotland Yard the next morning, Reggie Fortune was waiting for him. “My dear fellow!” he protested. “What is this? You’re not really up, are you? It’s not eleven. You’re an hallucination.”
“Zeal, all zeal, Lomas. The orphanage murder is my trouble.”
“Have you come to give yourself up? I suspected you from the first, Fortune. Where is it?” He took a copy of the “Daily Wire” from the rack. “Yes. ‘Dr. Reginald Fortune, the eminent surgeon, was attending the function and was able to give the police a first-hand account of the crime. Dr. Fortune states that the weapon used was a surgical knife.’ My dear fellow, the case looks black indeed.”
Reggie was not amused. “Yes. I also was present. And several others,” he said. “Do you know anything about any of us?”
Lomas put up his eyeglass. “There’s a certain bitterness about you, Fortune. This is unusual. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t like this murder,” said Reggie. “It spoilt the children’s party.”
“That would be a by-product,” Lomas agreed. “You’re getting very domestic in your emotions. Oh, I like it, my dear fellow. But it makes you a little irrelevant.”
“Domestic be damned. I’m highly relevant. It spoilt the children’s party. Why did it happen at the children’s party? Lots of other nice days to kill the resident medical officer.”
“You’re suggesting it was one of the visitors?”
“No, no. It isn’t the only day visitors visit. I’m suggesting life is real, life is earnest—and rather diabolical sometimes.”
“I’ll call for the reports,” Lomas said, and did so. “Good Gad! Reams! Barton’s put in some heavy work.”
“I thought he would,” said Reggie, and went to read over Lomas’s shoulder.
At the end Lomas lay back and looked up at him. “Well? Barton’s put his money on this young nurse, Edith Baker.”
“Yes. That’s the matron’s tip. I saw the matron. One of the world’s organizers, Lomas. A place for everything and everything in its place. And if you don’t fit, God help you. Edith Baker didn’t fit. Edith Baker has emotions. Therefore she does murders. Q.E.D.”
“Well, the matron ought to know the girl.”
“She ought,” Reggie agreed. “And our case is, gentlemen, that the matron who ought to know girls says Edith Baker isn’t a nice young person. Lomas dear, why do policemen always believe what they’re told? What the matron don’t like isn’t evidence.”
“There is some evidence. The girl had one of these hysterical affections for the dead woman, passionately devoted and passionately jealous and so forth. The girl had access to the hospital instruments. All her time in the afternoon can’t be accounted for, and she was the first to know of the murder.”
“It’s not good enough, Lomas. Why did she give the alarm?”
Lomas shrugged. “A murderer does now and then. Cunning or fright.”
“And why did she wait for the children’s party to do the murder?”
“Something may have happened there to rouse her jealousy.”
“Something with one of the visitors?” Reggie suggested. “I wonder.” And then he laughed. “A party of the visitors went round the hospital, Lomas. They had access to the surgical instruments.”
“And were suddenly seized with a desire for homicide? They also went to the gymnasium and the kitchen. Did any of them start boiling potatoes? My dear Fortune, you are not as plausible as usual.”
“It isn’t plausible,” Reggie said. “I know that. It’s too dam’ wicked.”
“Abnormal,” Lomas nodded. “Of course the essence of the thing is that it’s abnormal. Every once in a while we have these murders in an orphanage or school or some place where women and children are herded together. Nine times out of ten they are cases of hysteria. Your young friend Miss Baker seems to be a highly hysterical subject.”
“You know more than I do.”
“Why, that’s in the evidence. And you saw her yourself half crazy with emotion after the murder.”
“Good Lord!” said Reggie. “Lomas, old thing, you do run on. Pantin’ time toils after you in vain. That girl wasn’t crazy. She was the most natural of us all. You send a girl in her teens into the room where the woman she is keen on is sitting with her throat cut. She won’t talk to you like a little lady. The evidence! Why do you believe what people tell you about people? They’re always lying—by accident if not on purpose. This matron don’t like the girl because she worshipped the lady doctor. Therefore the girl is called abnormal and jealous. Did you never hear of a girl in her teens worshipping a teacher? It’s common form. Did you never hear of another teacher being vicious about it? That’s just as common.”
“Do you mean the matron was jealous of them both?”
Reggie shrugged. “It hits you in the eye.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Do you suspect the matron?”
“I suspect the devil,” said Reggie gravely. “Lomas, my child, whoever did that murder cut the woman’s throat and then sat down in her easy chair and watched her die. I call that devilish.” And he told of the blood-stains and the turned cushions.
“Good Gad,” said Lomas once more, “there’s some hate in that.”
“Not a nice murder. Also it stopped the children’s party.”
“You harp on that.” Lomas looked at him curiously. “Are you thinking of the visitors?”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”
“Here’s the list,” Lomas said, and Reggie came slowly to look. “Sir George and Lady Bean, Lady Chantry, Mrs. Carroway,”—he ran his pencil down—“all well-known, blameless busybodies, full of good works. Nothing doing.”
“Crab Warnham,” said Reggie.
“Oh, Warnham: his wife took him, I suppose. She’s a saint, and he eats out of her hand, they say. Well, he was a loose fish, of course, but murder! I don’t see Warnham at that.”
“He has an eye for a woman.”
“Still? I dare say. But good Gad, he can’t have known this lady doctor. Was she pretty?” Reggie nodded. “Well, we might look for a link between them. Not likely, is it?”
“We’re catching at straws,” said Reggie sombrely.
Lomas pushed the papers away. “Confound it, it’s another case without evidence. I suppose it can’t be suicide like that Bigod affair?”
Reggie, who was lighting a cigar, looked up and let the match burn his fingers. “Not suicide. No,” he said. “Was Bigod’s?”
“Well, it was a deuced queer death by misadventure.”
“As you say.” Reggie nodded and wandered dreamily out.
This seems to have been the first time that anyone thought of comparing the Bigod case to the orphanage murder. When the inquest on the lady doctor was held the police had no more evidence to produce than you have heard, and the jury returned a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. Newspapers strove to enliven the dull calm of the holiday season by declaiming against the inefficiency of a police force which allowed murderers to remain anonymous, and hashed up the Bigod case again to prove that the fall of Sir Humphrey Bigod into his chalkpit, though called accidental, was just as mysterious as the cut throat of Dr. Hall. And the Hon. Sidney Lomas cursed the man who invented printing.
These assaults certainly did not disturb Reggie Fortune, who has never cared what people say of him. With the help of Joan Amber he found a quiet remote place for the unhappy girl suspected of the murder (Lady Chantry was prettily angry with Miss Amber about that, protesting that she wanted to look after Edith herself), and said he was only in the case as a philanthropist. After which he gave all his time to preparing his house and Miss Amber for married life. But the lady found him dreamy.
It was in fact while he was showing her how the new colours in the drawing-room looked under the new lighting that Dr. Eden called him up. Dr. Eden has a general practice in Kensington. Dr. Eden wanted to consult him about a case: most urgent: 3 King William’s Walk.
“May I take the car?” said Reggie to Joan. “He sounds rattled. You can go on home afterwards. It’s not far from you either. I wonder who lives at 3 King William’s Walk.”
“But it’s Mrs. Warnham!” she cried.
“Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie Fortune; and said no more.
And Joan Amber could not call him out of his thoughts. She was as grave as he. Only when he was getting out of the car, “Be good to her, dear,” she said gently. He kissed the hand on his arm.
The door was opened by a woman in evening-dress. “It is Mr. Fortune, isn’t it? Please come in. It’s so kind of you to come.” She turned to the maid in the background. “Tell Dr. Eden, Maggie. It’s my little boy—and we are so anxious.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Warnham.” Reggie took her hand and found it cold. The face he remembered for its gentle calm was sternly set. “What is the trouble?”
“Gerald went to a party this afternoon. He came home gloriously happy and went to bed. He didn’t go to sleep at once, he was rather excited, but he was quite well. Then he woke up crying with pain and was very sick. I sent for Dr. Eden. It isn’t like Gerald to cry, Mr. Fortune. And——”
A hoarse voice said “Catherine, you oughtn’t to be out there in the cold.” Reggie saw the gaunt face of Captain Warnham looking round a door at them.
“What does it matter?” she cried. “Dr. Eden doesn’t want me to be with him, Mr. Fortune. He is still in pain. And I don’t think Dr. Eden knows.”
Dr. Eden came down in time to hear that. A large young man, he stood over them looking very awkward and uncomfortable.
“I’m sure Dr. Eden has done everything that can be done,” said Reggie gently. “I’ll go up, please.” And they left the mother to her husband, that flushed, gaunt face peering round the corner as they kept step on the stairs.
“The child’s seven years old,” said Eden. “There’s no history of any gastric trouble. Rather a good digestion. And then this—out of the blue!” Reggie went into a nursery where a small boy lay huddled and restless with all the apparatus of sickness by his bed. He raised a pale face on which beads of sweat stood.
“Hallo, Gerald,” Reggie said quietly. “Mother sent me up to make you all right again.” He took the child’s hand and felt for the pulse. “I’m Mr. Fortune, your fortune, good fortune.” The child tried to smile and Reggie’s hands moved over the uneasy body and all the while he murmured softly nonsense talk. . . .
The child did not want him to go, but at last he went off with Eden into a corner of the room. “Quite right to send for me,” he said gravely, and Eden put his hand to his head. “I know. I know. It’s horrible when it’s a child. One of the irritant poisons. Probably arsenic. Have you given an emetic?”
“He’s been very sick. And he’s so weak.”
“I know. Have you got anything with you?”
“I sent home. But I didn’t care to——”
“I’ll do it. Sulphate of zinc. You go and send for a nurse. And find some safe milk. I wouldn’t use the household stuff.”
“My God, Fortune! Surely it was at the party?”
“Not the household stuff,” Reggie repeated, and he went back to the child. . . .
It was many hours afterwards that he came softly downstairs. In the hall husband and wife met him. It seemed to him that it was the man who had been crying. “Are you going away?” Mrs. Warnham said.
“There’s no more pain. He is asleep.”
Her eyes darkened. “You mean he’s—dead?” the man gasped.
“I hope he’ll live longer than any of us, Captain Warnham. But no one must disturb him. The nurse will be watching, you know. And I’m sure we all want to sleep sound—don’t we?” He was gone. But he stayed a moment on the doorstep. He heard emotions within.
On the next afternoon Dr. Eden came into his laboratory at St. Saviour’s. “One moment. One moment.” Reggie was bent over a notebook. “When I go to hell they’ll set me doing sums.” He frowned at his figures. “The third time is lucky. That’s plausible if it isn’t right. Well, how’s our large patient?”
“He’s doing well. Quite easy and cheerful.”
Reggie stood up. “I think we might say, thank God.”
“Yes, rather. I thought he was gone last night, Fortune. He would have been without you. It was wonderful how he bucked up in your hands. You ought to have been a children’s specialist.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m the kind of fellow who would always ought to have been something else. And so I’m doing sums in a laboratory which God knows I’m not fit for.”
“Have you found out what it was?”
“Oh, arsenic, of course. Quite a fair dose he must have had. It’s queer how they always will use arsenic.”
Eden stared at him. “What are we to do?” he said in a low voice. “Fortune, I suppose it couldn’t have been accidental?”
“What is a child likely to eat in which he would find grains of accidental arsenic?”
“Yes, but then—— I mean, who could want to kill that child?”
“That is the unknown quantity in the equation. But people do want to murder children, quite nice children.”
Eden grew pale. “What do you mean? You know he’s not Warnham’s child. Warnham’s his step-father.”
“Yes. Yes. Have you ever seen the two together?”
Eden hesitated. “He—well, he didn’t seem to take to Warnham. But I’d have sworn Warnham was fond of him.”
“And that’s all quite natural, isn’t it? Well, well. I hope he’s in.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“Tell Mrs. Warnham—with her husband listening.”
Dr. Eden followed him out like a man going to be hanged.
Mrs. Warnham indeed met them in her hall. “Mr. Fortune,”—she took his hand, she had won back her old calm, but her eyes grew dark as she looked at him—“Gerald has been asking for you. And I want to speak to you.”
“I shall be glad to talk over the case with you and Captain Warnham,” said Reggie gravely. “I’ll see the small boy first, if you don’t mind.” And the small boy kept his Mr. Fortune a long time.
Mrs. Warnham had her husband with her when the doctors came down. “I say, Fortune,” Captain Warnham started up, “awfully good of you to take so much trouble. I mean to say,”—he cleared his throat—“I feel it, you know. How is the little beggar?”
“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t do well,” Reggie said slowly. “But it’s a strange case. Captain Warnham. Yes, a strange case. You may take it, there is no doubt the child was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” Warnham cried out in that queer hoarse voice.
“You mean it was something Gerald shouldn’t have eaten?” Mrs. Warnham said gently.
“It was arsenic, Captain Warnham. Not much more than an hour before the time he felt ill, perhaps less, he had swallowed enough arsenic to kill him.”
“I say, are you certain of all that? I mean to say, no doubt about anything?” Warnham was flushed. “Arsenic—and the time—and the dose? It’s pretty thick, you know.”
“There is no doubt. I have found arsenic. I can estimate the dose. And arsenic acts within that time.”
“But I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Warnham said. “It would be too horribly cruel. Mr. Fortune, couldn’t it have been accident? Something in his food?”
“It was certainly in his food or drink. But not accident, Mrs. Warnham. That is not possible.”
“I say, let’s have it all out, Fortune,” Warnham growled. “Do you suspect anyone?”
“That’s rather for you, isn’t it?” said Reggie.
“Who could want to poison Gerald?” Mrs. Warnham cried.
“He says some one did,” Warnham growled.
“When do you suppose he took the stuff, Fortune? At the party or after he came home?”
“What did he have when he came home?”
Warnham looked at his wife. “Only a little milk. He wouldn’t eat anything,” she said. “And I tasted his milk, I remember. It was quite nice.”
“That points to the party,” Eden said.
“But I can’t believe it. Who could want to poison Gerald?”
“I’ve seen some of the people who were there,” Eden frowned. “I don’t believe there’s another child ill. Only this one of the whole party.”
“Yes. Yes. A strange case,” said Reggie. “Was there anyone there with a grudge against you, Mrs. Warnham?”
“I don’t think there’s anyone with a grudge against me in the world.”
“I don’t believe there is, Catherine,” her husband looked at her. “But damn it. Fortune found the stuff in the child. I say, Fortune, what do you advise?”
“You’re sure of your own household? There’s nobody here jealous of the child?”
Mrs. Warnham looked her distress. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t doubt anybody. There isn’t any reason. You know, it doesn’t seem real.”
“And there it is,” Warnham growled.
“Yes. Well, I shouldn’t talk about it, you know. When he’s up again take him right away, somewhere quiet. You’ll live with him yourself, of course. That’s all safe. And I—well, I shan’t forget the case. Good-bye.”
“Oh, Mr. Fortune——” she started up and caught his hands.
“Yes, yes, good-bye,” said Reggie, and got away. But as Warnham let them out he felt Warnham’s lean hand grip into his arm.
“A little homely comfort would be grateful,” Reggie murmured. “Come and have tea at the Academies, Eden. They keep a pleasing muffin.” He sank down in his car at Eden’s side with a happy sigh.
But Eden’s brow was troubled. “Do you think the child will be safe now, Fortune?” he said.
“Oh, I think so. If it was Warnham or Mrs. Warnham who poisoned him——”
“Good Lord! You don’t think that?”
“They are frightened,” said Reggie placidly, “I frightened ’em quite a lot. And if it was somebody else—the child is going away and Mrs. Warnham will be eating and drinking everything he eats and drinks. The small Gerald will be all right. There remains only the little problem, who was it?”
“It’s a diabolical affair. Who could want to kill that child?”
“Diabolical is the word,” Reggie agreed. “And a little simple food is what we need,” and they went into the club and through a long tea he talked to Eden of rock gardens and Chinese nursery rhymes.
But when Eden, somewhat dazed by his appetite and the variety of his conversation, was gone, he made for that corner of the club where Lomas sat drinking tea made in the Russian manner. He pointed a finger at the clear weak fluid. “It was sad and bad and mad and it was not even sweet,” he complained. “Take care, Lomas. Think what’s happened to Russia. You would never be happy as a Bolshevik.”
“I understand that the detective police force is the one institution which has survived in Russia.”
“Put down that repulsive concoction and come and take the air.”
Lomas stared at him in horror. “Where’s your young lady? I thought you were walking out. You’re a faithless fellow, Fortune. Go and walk like a little gentleman.” But there was that in Reggie’s eye which made him get up with a groan. “You’re the most ruthless man I know.”
The car moved away from the club and Reggie shrank under his rug as the January east wind met them. “I hope you are cold,” said Lomas. “What is it now?”
“It was nearly another anonymous murder,” and Reggie told him the story.
“Diabolical,” said Lomas.
“Yes, I believe in the devil,” Reggie nodded.
“Who stood to gain by the child’s death? It’s clear enough. There’s only Warnham. Mrs. Warnham was left a rich woman when her first husband died, old Staveleigh. Every one knew that was why Warnham was after her. But the bulk of the fortune would go to the child. So he took the necessary action. Good Gad! We all knew Crab Warnham didn’t stick at a trifle. But this——! Cold-blooded scoundrel. Can you make a case of it?”
“I like you, Lomas. You’re so natural,” Reggie said. “That’s all quite clear. And it’s all wrong. This case isn’t natural, you see. It hath a devil.”
“Do you mean to say it wasn’t Warnham?”
“It wasn’t Warnham. I tried to frighten him. He was frightened. But not for himself. Because the child has an enemy and he doesn’t know who it is.”
“Oh, my dear fellow! He’s not a murderer because you like his face.”
“Who could like his face? No. The poison was given at the party where Warnham wasn’t.”
“But why? What possible motive? Some homicidal lunatic goes to a Kensington children’s party and picks out this one child to poison. Not very credible, is it?”
“No, it’s diabolical. I didn’t say a lunatic. When you tell me what lunacy is, we’ll discuss whether the poisoner was sane. But the diabolical is getting a little too common, Lomas. There was Bigod: young, healthy, well off, just engaged to a jolly girl. He falls into a chalkpit and the jury says it was misadventure. There was the lady doctor: young, clean living, not a ghost of a past, everybody liking her. She is murdered and a girl who was very fond of her nearly goes mad over it. Now there’s the small Gerald: a dear kid, his mother worships him, his step-father’s mighty keen on him, everybody likes him. Somebody tries to poison him and nearly brings it off.”
“What are you arguing, Fortune? It’s odd the cases should follow one another. It’s deuced awkward we can’t clean them up. But what then? They’re not really related. The people are unconnected. There’s a different method of murder—if the Bigod case was murder. The only common feature is that the man who attempted murder is not known.”
“You think so? Well, well. What I want to know is, was there any one at Mrs. Lawley’s party in Kensington who was also at the Home of Help party and also staying somewhere near the chalkpit when Bigod fell into it. Put your men on to that.”
“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “But the cases are not comparable—not in the same class. Different method—different kind of victim. What motive could any creature have for picking out just these three to kill?”
Reggie looked at him. “Not nice murders, are they?” he said. “I could guess—and I dare say we’ll only guess in the end.”
That night he was taking Miss Amber, poor girl, to a state dinner of his relations. They had ten minutes together before the horrors of the ceremony began and she was benign to him about the recovery of the small Gerald. “It was dear of you to ring up and tell me. I love Gerry. Poor Mrs. Warnham! I just had to go round to her and she was sweet. But she has been frightened. You’re rather a wonderful person, sir. I didn’t know you were a children’s doctor—as well as a million other things. What was the matter? Mrs. Warnham didn’t tell us. It must——”
“Who are ‘us,’ Joan?”
“Why, Lady Chantry was with her. She didn’t tell us what it really was. After we came away Lady Chantry asked me if I knew.”
“But I’m afraid you don’t,” Reggie said. “Joan, I don’t want you to talk about the small Gerry? Do you mind?”
“My dear, of course not.” Her eyes grew bigger. “But Reggie—the boy’s going to be all right.”
“Yes. Yes. You’re rather a dear, you know.”
And at the dinner-table which then received them his family found him of an unwonted solemnity. It was agreed, with surprise and reluctance, that engagement had improved him: that there might be some merit in Miss Amber after all.
A week went by. He had been separated from Miss Amber for one long afternoon to give evidence in the case of the illegitimate Pekinese when she rang him up on the telephone. Lady Chantry, she said, had asked her to choose a day and bring Mr. Fortune to dine. Lady Chantry did so want to know him.
“Does she, though?” said Mr. Fortune.
“She was so nice about it,” said the telephone. “And she really is a good sort, Reggie. She’s always doing something kind.”
“Joan,” said Mr. Fortune, “you’re not to go into her house.”
“Reggie!” said the telephone.
“That’s that,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’ll speak to Lady Chantry.”
Lady Chantry was at home. She sat in her austerely pleasant drawing-room, toasting a foot at the fire, a small foot which brought out a pretty leg. Of course she was in black with some white about her neck, but the loose gown had grace. She smiled at him and tossed back her hair. Not a thread of white showed in its crisp brown and it occurred to Reggie that he had never seen a woman of her age carry off bobbed hair so well. What was her age? Her eyes were as bright as a bird’s and her clear pallor was unfurrowed.
“So good of you, Mr. Fortune——”
“Miss Amber has just told me——”
They spoke together. She got the lead then. “It was kind of her to let you know at once. But she’s always kind, isn’t she? I did so want you to come, and make friends with me before you’re married, and it will be very soon now, won’t it? Oh, but do let me give you some tea.”
“No tea, thank you.”
“Won’t you? Well, please ring the bell. I don’t know how men can exist without tea. But most of them don’t now, do they? You’re almost unique, you know. I suppose it’s the penalty of greatness.”
“I came round to say that Miss Amber won’t be able to dine with you, Lady Chantry.”
It was a moment before she answered. “But that is too bad. She told me she was sure you could find a day.”
“She can’t come,” said Reggie sharply.
“The man has spoken,” she laughed. “Oh, of course, she mustn’t go behind that.” He was given a keen mocking glance. “And can’t you come either, Mr. Fortune?”
“I have a great deal of work. Lady Chantry. It’s come rather unexpectedly.”
“Indeed, you do look worried. I’m so sorry. I’m sure you ought to take a rest, a long rest.” A servant came in. “Won’t you really have some tea?”
“No, thank you. Goodbye, Lady Chantry.”
He went home and rang up Lomas. Lomas, like the father of Baby Bunting, had gone a-hunting. Lomas was in Leicestershire. Superintendent Bell replied: Did Bell know if they had anything new about the unknown murderer?
“Inquiries are proceeding, sir,” said Superintendent Bell.
“Damn it, Bell, I’m not the House of Commons. Have you got anything?”
“Not what you’d call definite, sir, no.”
“You’ll say that on the Day of Judgment,” said Reggie.
It was on the next day that he found a telegram waiting for him when he came home to dress for dinner:
Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come sending car to meet evening trains.
Warnham
Fernhurst
Blackover.
He scrambled into the last carriage of the half-past six as it drew out of Waterloo.
Mrs. Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, one of which throws out towards it a feeble and spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie arrived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in his emptiness, on the dimly-lit platform of Blackover. The porter of all work who took his ticket thought there was a car outside.
In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: “Do you come from Fernhurst?” he called, and the small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat.
They dashed off into the night, climbing up by narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. The chauffeur was getting down.
“What’s the trouble?” said Reggie, with his head out of window: and slipped the catch and came out in a bundle.
The chauffeur’s face was the face of Lady Chantry. He saw it in the flash of a pistol overhead as he closed with her. “I will, I will,” she muttered, and fought him fiercely. Another shot went into the pines. He wrenched her hand round. The third was fired into her face. The struggling body fell away from him, limp.
He carried it into the rays of the headlights and looked close. “That’s that,” he said with a shrug, and put it into the car.
He lit a cigar and listened. There was no sound anywhere but the sough of the wind in the pines. He climbed into the chauffeur’s place and drove away. At the next crossroads he took that which led north and west, and so in a while came out on the Portsmouth road.
That night the frost gathered on a motor-car in a lane between Hindhead and Shottermill. Mr. Fortune unobtrusively caught the last train from Haslemere.
When he came out from a matinee with Joan Amber next day, the newsboys were shouting “Motor Car Mystery.” Mr. Fortune did not buy a paper.