“A startling sequel has followed the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner, who left their home early in the week and whose whereabouts were only yesterday discovered. Oneof these ladies, Mrs. Vanderstein, who, it will be remembered, we ascertained to be staying at Boulogne, was found dead in her room at the Hôtel de Douvres yesterday afternoon, and foul play is strongly suspected. Traces of violence were plainly to be seen and it is thought likely that the poor lady was strangled to death. A curious feature of the affair is that though Mrs. Vanderstein had with her a large quantity of her valuable jewellery, some of which was actually lying on the table at the time, so far as is at present known none of it has been stolen.“A page in the service of the hotel reports that he showed a visitor to Mrs. Vanderstein’s room soon after luncheon, and this stranger, who is described as a tall man with a black beard, left the hotel shortly before three o’clock, after delivering a message from the lady to the effect that she did not wish to be disturbed again that day. The order was duly given to the domestics of the hotel, and if a messenger from London had not arrived by the five o’clock boat on important business and insisted on penetrating to Mrs. Vanderstein’s presence, it is probable that the murder would not have been discovered until to-day. The authorities are investigating the affair with the utmost energy, and it is believed that they are on the track of the man with the black beard.”
“A startling sequel has followed the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner, who left their home early in the week and whose whereabouts were only yesterday discovered. Oneof these ladies, Mrs. Vanderstein, who, it will be remembered, we ascertained to be staying at Boulogne, was found dead in her room at the Hôtel de Douvres yesterday afternoon, and foul play is strongly suspected. Traces of violence were plainly to be seen and it is thought likely that the poor lady was strangled to death. A curious feature of the affair is that though Mrs. Vanderstein had with her a large quantity of her valuable jewellery, some of which was actually lying on the table at the time, so far as is at present known none of it has been stolen.
“A page in the service of the hotel reports that he showed a visitor to Mrs. Vanderstein’s room soon after luncheon, and this stranger, who is described as a tall man with a black beard, left the hotel shortly before three o’clock, after delivering a message from the lady to the effect that she did not wish to be disturbed again that day. The order was duly given to the domestics of the hotel, and if a messenger from London had not arrived by the five o’clock boat on important business and insisted on penetrating to Mrs. Vanderstein’s presence, it is probable that the murder would not have been discovered until to-day. The authorities are investigating the affair with the utmost energy, and it is believed that they are on the track of the man with the black beard.”
Gimblet put down the paper. “There are various other paragraphs saying the same thing in different words,” he remarked.
“It certainly looks as if you were right again,” observed Jennins reflectively, “about all this being the work of the same gang, I mean.”
“There’s not a doubt of it,” said Gimblet. “I was sure of it from the first, though I admit that I had not much to go on. A mere whiff of perfume. Let ussee how much we know now. To go back to Monday night, Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner voluntarily entered the house in Scholefield Avenue, though whether in response to an invitation from the so-called West or not we do not know, in spite of a theory I have on the subject. They then presumably separated, Miss Turner being imprisoned in the room on the ground floor, very much against her will and to her alarm since she broke a window in the hope of escaping, and when that attempt failed wrote a despairing message on the wall, in which she stated her fear that something dreadful was being done to somebody in the drawing-room. You will, I am sure, agree with me that, though the message says that her alarm was for ‘Mr’ and then stops, an s would have been added if Miss Turner had not been interrupted, and it was her intention to write ‘Mrs.’ But whether this would have referred to the woman who was buried in the flower stand or whether she was thinking of her friend, Mrs. Vanderstein, is not clear.
“Was Mrs. Vanderstein in the drawing-room at the time of the murder, and if so what was her business there, is the next question where our knowledge fails us. We know she was in that room at some time or other—I knew that the moment I smelt her perfume on the powder puff and note—but whether or no she was there at the moment of the crime we cannot tell. In either case her subsequent proceedings are extraordinary. If she was detained in the house against her will and made her escape by some unknown means, why did she fly to Boulogne, instead of to her own house or to the nearest police station? Why, when she got to Boulogne, did she not communicate with her friends until yesterday? It is true she said she had written previously, but it would have been more natural if she had telegraphed, and if she receivedno reply had telegraphed again. Why did she display no anxiety on Miss Turner’s account? Her actions seem at present to be inexplicable and strange to the last degree. Had she suddenly gone off her head? That is the most probable solution, to my mind. If so, it may well be that it was she who committed the terrible crime I discovered in Scholefield Avenue, and then, with the mixture of cunning and recklessness common to lunatics of a criminal type, retired to Boulogne to wait till the affair should have blown over. There are, however, several drawbacks to such a theory, and one of them is that it does not account for the black-bearded man, unless he was a lover, and indeed it seems most likely that he was.
“We don’t know what was the part he played on Monday night. Perhaps he helped Mrs. Vanderstein to escape more effectually than he did Miss Turner, in spite of his promise to her.
“All we know is that he took the girl out of the house on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning and that they went together to the bank of the canal in Regent’s Park, where Matterson came upon them. We know that ‘black-beard’ carried a heavy spade with him. What for? Not to use it as he did, I think; neither was it to dig a grave with after Miss Turner had been disposed of in some other way. Think, Jennins, there was a cord attached to the handle, and the canal was within a few yards of them. Do those two facts suggest nothing to you? Surely it is obvious that his intention was to throw the young lady into the water, having previously tied the spade to her so as to make sure she would sink. No doubt she guessed what was in his mind, and that was why Matterson saw her defending herself, poor girl, and heard her scream. Such at least is my opinion.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve hit the nail on the headthis time,” agreed the inspector. “The question is, what’s the next thing to be done?”
“It’s high time I followed up a clue contained in the letter purporting to come from Prince Felipe,” replied Gimblet. “I should have done so long ago, if I had not waited for Mrs. Vanderstein’s version of the affair. You remember a Madame Q. is mentioned as the bearer of the note. Well, who is Madame Q.? I telegraphed early yesterday to Mrs. Vanderstein saying, ‘Were you at 13 Scholefield Avenue on Monday night, and who else was present? Letter has been found there apparently addressed to you by Prince F. mentioning Madame Q. Please wire very fully, and give Madame Q.’s full name and address. Very grave matters involved.’ If the lady had replied to my wire we should doubtless have been spared a lot of trouble, though we might not have been able to save her life; but, as things are, I propose to try and sift the question of Madame Q.’s identity for myself.”
Jennins went away; and Gimblet, after being detained by a short visit from Sidney—who was on his way to catch the eleven o’clock train to Boulogne—also took up his hat and left the house.
A quarter of an hour later he was standing on the doorstep of Mrs. Vanderstein’s Grosvenor Street house.
He found, as was natural, a shocked and dislocated household. The cook and Blake were seated in the morning-room, where the cook was flourishing a handkerchief, and reiterating observations to the effect that she had always known something terrible was going to happen ever since the second footman had broken the looking-glass in the pantry; while the young man referred to was standing just outside the door, and putting his head into the room every few minutes to remark defiantly, though with a certain uneasiness, that it wasn’t in nature for so tremendous an event tobe brought about by such an insignificant piece of glass as the one he had had the “misfortune” with. From the drawing-room came the penetrating shrillness of Amélie’s voice, apparently filling in the newspaper account of the murder, with all the embellishing detail an unshrinkingly gruesome imagination could suggest, for the benefit of the rest of the maids, whose chorusing groans could also be distinguished. But, on the whole, there was more perturbation as to the effect the tragedy would be likely to have on their own futures than distress at the dreadful fate of their mistress; and Gimblet, if he had to listen to much lamentation, found himself also beset with many anxious questions.
It was some minutes before he was able to introduce his own object in coming there; but at last he drew Blake to one side, and asked him if Mrs. Vanderstein had kept a visiting book with a list of the people she called on.
She had done so, and it was produced, but to Gimblet’s disappointment contained no name beginning with the letter Q. There were, however, the names of two or three French ladies, and he wondered whether Q were merely a cipher for Gerady or Kerigoet. Blake, cross-questioned, could think of no foreign lady with whom Mrs. Vanderstein was on familiar terms.
Gimblet remembered Amélie’s thorough knowledge in the matter of her mistress’ correspondence, and called to her to come and speak to him.
“Had Mrs. Vanderstein a friend of your nationality?” he asked. “Was there any French lady whom she knew well, and whose name, perhaps, began with a Q?”
“A lady? No,” said Amélie. “A friend? Hardly! Il ne manquait plus que cela! But she was acquainted with a French woman, whose name begins with Q. Without doubt, it is of that Justine you speak.”
“Justine?”
“Eh! Yes. Justine Querterot. Madame Querterot, as she calls herself, though, for me, I never saw that she had a husband. It is said that he shot himself, the poor man, and I do not see what he could have done better with a wife like that one! Ah, monsieur, a nasty, bad woman!”
“There are people like that,” Gimblet agreed diplomatically; “but tell me, how did Mrs. Vanderstein know this Madame Querterot?”
“She came for a time tocoifferMadame, and to rejuvenate her complexion, which needed nothing of the kind, I assure you. But she had the idea to be massaged, and for some months that woman was daily in the house. Never did I comprehend how Mrs. Vanderstein could tolerate her. A woman so vulgar, so familiar, and who never ceased to talk and talk and talk!”
Amélie spoke with virtuous indignation, as one to whom the gift of silence has been vouchsafed.
“She is a masseuse, then?”
“Not a real masseuse, though so she calls herself; but, to say the truth, she is just a hairdresser who tries to make people believe she knows something of the care of the skin. For some reason she appeared to amuse Madame, and I think it was chiefly for that reason that she let her come.”
“Did she come every day, and has she been here since Mrs. Vanderstein left home?”
“For two or three months she came every day,” replied Amélie bitterly. “Indeed I thought she was coming always, but only last Monday—the very day Madame went away—I heard la Justine say that it was her final visit; and, in truth, she has not been here since, I am very happy to say it.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet. “Well, I shall have to go andsee her. Let me see, you said she is a tall, dark woman, did you not?”
“But no,” cried Amélie, “on the contrary she is short, and has yellow hair in the worst possible taste.”
“What makes you dislike this woman so much? Do you know anything against her, by any chance?”
But it appeared that Amélie knew nothing against Madame Querterot. Vague accusations and dark charges of a general character were all she had to bring; and, after listening to a tirade of this kind for a considerable time, Gimblet cut it short by asking for the masseuse’s address.
“Your mistress left a letter for her,” he said, “which has been sent over to us by the French police. It is of no importance, and contains, I think, only a reference to Madame Querterot’s account, but I am anxious to deliver it; and, as the poor lady had got no further with the address than Madame Q, without your assistance it would have been a matter of some difficulty.”
It was unfortunate that the detective should have hit upon this excuse to explain his interrogations, for the idea that even death had not put a stop to intercourse between Mrs. Vanderstein and her enemy nearly suffocated Amélie, whose jealous suspicions woke again at the challenge.
“This is the address, monsieur,” she said, as she gave it to him, “but I would not count on finding the bird in the nest. It is in the neighbourhood of Boulogne that you should look for that infamous woman. One of her kind is capable of everything; and, in my opinion, nothing is more probable than that it is she who is the real assassin of my poor Madame! A black beard, indeed! Is she not a hairdresser?”
Gimblet fled before the storm of words he hadprovoked, and hurried to the Pimlico address that he had obtained.
In spite of himself, Amélie’s words echoed in his ears: “Is she not a hairdresser?” A black beard was a simple enough disguise, and fair hair may be covered. But he had been told also that the masseuse was a short woman, and height is not so easily simulated. Such were his thoughts as he turned the handle of the shop door.
There was no one inside, and Gimblet had time to remark the empty shelves and forlorn look of the window—which the waxen lady no longer graced with her presence—before, in answer to the rapping of his hand on the counter and his repeated cry of “Shop, please,” the door leading to the back room opened and Julie Querterot made her appearance.
It was a sad enough figure she presented to him that day: paler, thinner, more tired-looking than ever. There was a scared look in her eyes now, and black lines under them. She came forward slowly, almost timidly.
“Did you want anything?” she said. “I am afraid our stock is nearly all—sold out.”
“Thanks,” said Gimblet. “I called to see Madame Querterot—is it possible that I am speaking to her?”
“Oh no,” said Julie with a little smile. “I am her daughter. But I fear you cannot see my mother just now. She is—out.”
“Never mind,” returned Gimblet. “I will wait. Perhaps she will be in by luncheon-time? I have a message for her.”
“I do not know when she will be back,” said the girl. “Can you not leave the message with me?”
“It is for her own ear,” said Gimblet. “If you don’t mind, I will wait a little.”
He sat down as he spoke, and Julie, after a hesitating glance, went back to the inner room, leaving the door ajar between the two.
Gimblet, left to himself, was surprised to notice again how very few were the articles exposed for sale. Bare as the shop had looked when he first entered, he now saw it to be even emptier than he had thought. A tradesman’s almanack on one wall, a picture from an illustrated paper on the other, two or three bottles of hair-wash and a few packets of hair-pins seemed to constitute the whole stock in trade.
Gimblet was still wondering whether the massage was in as bad a way as the hairdressing side of the Querterot business, when a subdued sound coming from the next room drew his attention.
What was it, that sort of low, muffled panting?
The detective got up softly, and stole to the door.
Peeping shamelessly through the crack, he saw that a chair had been drawn up to the table and that Julie sat there with her head bent and resting on her hands. It was from her that the sound came which had caught his ear, for her whole body was shaking with the sobs which she tried in vain to stifle.
Gimblet opened the door and passed boldly through.
“I am so sorry,” he said, “to have come at a time when you are unhappy. But won’t you tell me all about it? Who knows, I may be able to help you.”
At sight of him the girl started up, with a renewed effort to get the better of her grief; but the kind tone of Gimblet’s voice put the finishing touch to her emotions: losing all attempt at self-control, she laid her head down on the table before her and gave way to unrestrained and passionate tears.
Gimblet let her weep for a while, then he sat downnear her and tried to comfort her. He took one of her hands and patted it gently, as if she had been a child.
“There, there,” he said, “don’t cry any more. Tell me what’s the matter and let’s see if something can’t be done about it.”
Gradually her tears came more slowly; the convulsive sobs that had shaken her died away, and she sat up and dried her eyes, looking at him from time to time with furtive shyness.
“You are very kind, sir,” she said at last, succumbing reluctantly to that feeling of confidence which Gimblet always succeeded in inspiring if he tried. “It was—it was only because you asked to see my mother.”
“How’s that?”
“She—she—I don’t know where she is.”
“No? But never mind. You will hear where she has been when she comes home.”
“You don’t understand. She hasn’t been home for four days, and I have no idea when she is coming back. She did not tell me anything.”
“Dear me!” Gimblet looked grave. “When do you say you saw her last?”
“It was on Tuesday morning,” said Julie. “She came and woke me very early; she seemed to have been out, for she still wore her hat, and in her hand she had a black bag. After that she went away. I heard her moving about for some time, till at last she went downstairs and I heard the front door slam. I jumped out of bed and looked out of the window and saw her going down the street with a big bag in each hand. And I haven’t seen or heard anything of her since. But I am sure, oh, Iknowshe did not mean to come back!”
“How do you know that?” Gimblet asked.
“I know it from what she said, and from what she did, before she went.”
“Won’t you tell me?”
Julie looked at him doubtfully.
“Bert—that is a friend of mine—tried to make me promise not to say anything about it, but I told him I should go to the police if I didn’t hear soon. And I feel I must tell some one, for something dreadful may have happened to her,” Julie added, half to herself. “Have you anything to do with the police?” she asked.
“Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact; in an indirect way.”
“You will know what to do then, if I tell you. Bert doesn’t seem to know what to do; he only rages. Well, I think my mother has gone away for good, because, before she went, she got a man to come to the house and buy nearly every portable thing in it. There is hardly anything left besides these chairs and table, and my bed upstairs. Soon after she had gone they came and took away the things.”
“Did she leave you no money?”
“No, but she left me the house, you see; only the rent is due and I have nothing to pay it with. And she told me to collect any bills that were due for her services, and that she made me a present of the money. So when she was gone I looked in the ledger and found that everything owing to her had been paid up during the last few days, except one account. It was that of Mrs. Vanderstein, the poor lady who was murdered at Boulogne yesterday, as perhaps you have seen in the papers?”
Gimblet inclined his head gravely, and she went on.
“My mother used to go to massage the complexion of Mrs. Vanderstein, and the amount owing was large, over twenty pounds. I was grateful that such a sumshould be given to me; but, when I saw the next morning that the lady had disappeared, I made sure it was because she was unable to pay her bills, and it seemed likely that my mother had known this when she was so generous to me. I made sure I should never see a penny of that money, and I was in despair, as I didn’t know what to do about the rent, or even how to live in the meantime. I went up to Mrs. Vanderstein’s house to see if she had really gone, and a kind old gentleman told me the bill would be paid all the same. That was a great comfort, but I knew it would not be for some time, at any rate, and perhaps not till I was starving. It did not really matter so very much,” Julie added loyally, “for I am anxious to enter a religious sisterhood, and they will take me, I am sure, even if I have nothing to bring them. But I can’t bear to go to them as a beggar, and I wish, I wish she hadn’t left me quite destitute without any warning,” she concluded, her eyes filling with tears again.
“Then what did she wake you up to say, early on Tuesday morning?”
“I told you she had a bag in her hand? She took some clothes out of it and gave them to me. She told me to burn them and that she would explain why when she came back. But she said I might keep the linings to make myself petticoats. Such fine petticoats would be no use to me. Still, it was kind of her. And then she took out this and gave it to me to take care of”—Julie put her hand to her neck and pulled out from under her blouse a long string of enormous pearls. “She said that one of her customers had asked her to look after them while she was travelling,” continued the girl, lifting the necklace over her head and holding it out to Gimblet. “I don’t know if they are real, though she told me to be very carefulof them and to wear them always. But I think if they had been real she would not have left them.”
Gimblet took the necklace without a word. He was for the moment incapable of speaking.
“That was all my mother said to me,” went on Julie, “but she seemed very pleased about something; and at the same time excited. When I looked out of the window and saw her walking away, she was wearing clothes I had never seen before; they must have been quite new. They were simple, certainly, just a coat and skirt and a small hat; but they were beautifully made and fitted her so well, not at all like what she generally wore. There is something about expensive clothes that makes people look so different. I should hardly have known her if it had not been for a way she has of walking. I could only see the top of her head, but the hat was a very smart one, with a beautiful osprey in it. Somehow she had the air of a person going to a wedding, and I can’t help thinking that perhaps it was her own wedding she was going to. She may have married some one above us in station and not have wanted him to know of my existence. That is what I think, but Bert says not.”
Gimblet cleared his throat. “I wonder,” he said, “if you would mind showing me the clothes you spoke of that your mother gave you before she left.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Julie. “I—you see I had no money—I sold them to a second-hand clothes shop in Victoria Street. Bert wanted to see them too. He thinks my mother must have had some special reason for saying they were to be burnt, but I don’t believe she would have told me I could keep the linings if they had been infectious.”
“What were they like?” Gimblet asked. It needed all his self-control to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Two beautiful white evening dresses,” said Julie, “and two opera cloaks of red and mauve silk all covered with lovely embroidery and lace. Of course I could never have worn them and it seemed a pity to cut them up. I simply couldn’t have burned them. The shop only gave me five pounds for the lot, but that will keep me for some time till I have decided what to do. Still, Bert says I ought not to have sold them.”
“By the way,” said Gimblet, “who is Bert?”
The girl flushed. “He’s just a boy I know,” she said. “He used to go to school with me, and he is always good to me. I shouldn’t like to annoy him or to hurt his feelings, and I ought not to have spoken of him, because when he advised me not to go to the police, and I wouldn’t promise, he said that I should see that harm would come of it. And so I told him that if my mother came back and blamed me for having spoken of her absence, as he seems to think she would, I would say that he had urged me not to. And then he got quite angry and told me to do as I pleased, but not to mix him up in it, and so I said of course I’d never mention his name if he didn’t like; but now I’ve done it.” She stopped, breathless.
“Well, give Bert a message from me,” said Gimblet; “tell him I agree with him so far, and think you have no need to go to the police yet awhile. But you had better not tell him I have anything to do with them, as he seems to dislike them so much. Shall you see him soon?”
“Yes, I expect he will come this evening when he leaves off work; he generally does. And I think I shan’t tell him anything about you. Really, it isn’t his business and I don’t like being always lectured.”
“I think you are quite right,” said Gimblet. “Now one question. Have you any idea as to the man withwhom you think your mother may have gone off? Had you any suspicion before that she was thinking of marrying again?”
The girl hesitated a moment. “No,” she said, “I have no idea at all who it could be.”
Gimbletwas late for the inquest, which had been fixed for two o’clock. By the time he arrived the evidence of Higgs and the policeman he had fetched, and that of Brampton, the artist, and the house agents’ clerk had been already taken, and there only remained his own and the doctor’s to be heard.
Nothing new was brought to light, and the jury returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”
Gimblet did not judge it expedient to disclose the theories he had formed on the subject of the crime. As he walked away from the house in the company of Jennins, whom he had found there when he arrived, the inspector said to him:
“An old-clothes dealer in Victoria Street has communicated with us. They have bought what they think, from the published description, to be the dresses and cloaks worn by Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner on Monday night. I am going to get that French maid of theirs to go down to the place with me and see if the people are right in their assumption. They say they bought the things from a young woman who gave an address in Pimlico and the name of Julie Querterot. Can she be the Madame Q. of the note? If she is, it is strange that she should not give a false name; but everything about this case is mysterious.”
“It is not she,” said Gimblet, “it was her mother.I have just been to their house and seen her. As for mysteries, there is only one left as far as I am concerned, and that is the whereabouts of West, and the question whether he has not by this time exchanged his disguise of a black beard for another in which it will be harder to identify him. Everything else, I think, is quite clear, with the exception of a few trifling details, and I do not think it will be long before we may hope to lay our hands on Mr. West himself.”
Gimblet refused, however, to impart his lately acquired information to Jennins, telling him, much to the inspector’s disgust, that he would know all about it soon enough.
“And a tangled web you’ll find it, Jennins,” said he.
They were interrupted by a messenger, who informed Jennins that Miss Turner was conscious and anxious to make a statement.
Gimblet and the inspector went together to the hospital, where they found Barbara looking very much better than the day before. She was recovering wonderfully, they were told, but must not excite herself more than could be avoided. Indeed, she would not have been allowed to see them yet, if she had not been fretting so much to tell her story that it was thought best to let her do it. She must not, however, be made aware of the death of her friend if it were possible to conceal it from her for the next few days.
She greeted the two men with a feeble smile. “I hear that I was rescued by one of your men,” she said to Jennins, “and I am more grateful to him than I can say, though I do not remember very much after I realised that that man was trying to tie his spade round my neck.”
“It’s lucky you were seen in time,” replied Jennins. “We don’t want to bother you to-day, but at the sametime we are, of course, anxious to hear anything you can tell us about the scoundrel you were with.”
“Oh, I want to tell you all about it so that you may be able to catch him—and the woman too. I suppose you haven’t got them yet?”
Jennins shook his head.
“I thought perhaps Mrs. Vanderstein had been able to put you on the track. How glad I am that she escaped. I was afraid—but no matter now. Has she told you how she managed to get away?”
“Mrs. Vanderstein went abroad immediately,” said Gimblet evasively; “we have not heard any details from her yet. But will you not tell us your adventures from the beginning? How was it you found yourselves in Scholefield Avenue?”
Barbara looked at him blankly. “Scholefield Avenue,” she repeated, “where is that?”
“The house in which you were imprisoned is there,” said Gimblet; “have you forgotten? You went there with Mrs. Vanderstein on Monday night after the opera. I want you to tell us why you went to it.”
“I didn’t know where it was,” said Barbara, “but I don’t think I can tell you why we went. I don’t think Mrs. Vanderstein would like me to do that.”
“As you wish,” replied Gimblet; “but this will show you that I already know something of your friend’s private affairs.” He took out the sheet of notepaper bearing the arms of Targona, and handed it to her.
“She gave you this!” cried the girl, and as Gimblet remained silent: “Then she cannot mind my speaking of it. Yes, it is true that we went to that house to meet Prince Felipe, but I don’t know if he came there or not.”
“No, he did not go.”
“Then the whole thing was false! I thought so atthe beginning, but afterwards I was not sure. It was on Monday morning that Mrs. Vanderstein spoke to me about it. For a week she had been looking strange: excited, pleased—I don’t know what exactly—happier, younger, somehow different from her usual look. And on Monday she came to my room and told me, blushing and smiling, that it was her happiness to be loved by Prince Felipe of Targona, and that in all probability she was going to marry him. They had only seen each other in the distance, she said, but it had been love at first sight for both of them, and she was so happy, so happy! And wouldn’t I say I was glad? I asked her how she knew what he felt for her, if they had never met, and she said she had had letters from him and had written to him herself, and that she was going to meet him that very night after the opera, at the house of a friend of his. She said they could not meet in public, or at his hotel, or in her own home, as he was surrounded by his suite, and his mother, who was also with him, watched his every movement, so that all his comings and goings were seen and marked.
“They were staying at Fianti’s Hotel just opposite to us in Grosvenor Street, you know, so it would have been rather difficult for the Prince to come to our house without being noticed. It was intended that he should marry for political reasons, and at any sign of his affections being bestowed on a private individual an outcry would have been raised, which would have been hard to ignore. It was Prince Felipe’s plan, so Mrs. Vanderstein told me, that they should be married quietly and that he should then abdicate; to which less objection would be made when it was known that he was irretrievably disposed of from a matrimonial point of view. The whole story appeared to me so improbable and fantastic that I couldn’t help laughing at it, which offended my friend very much, and inorder to convince me she finally showed me some of the Prince’s letters, including the one you have there. I could not doubt any longer after I had seen them, though I was surprised and, I must say, shocked to hear that the go-between in the affair and the bearer of all the notes was a Frenchwoman, a hairdresser employed by Mrs. Vanderstein, and also, it seemed, by one of the suite of Prince Felipe.
“When I heard that Mrs. Vanderstein had no idea where the house to which she was to go that night was situated, but had left all details to Madame Querterot and the Prince, I tried to convince her of the folly of such an arrangement, but nothing I could say had any effect. At last I told her that I should accompany her on this escapade; and, though she didn’t like the idea and even grew quite angry with me about it, I stuck to my point, and was so firm on the subject that in the end she gave in and said I could come if I liked. It was, all the same, with serious misgivings that I set forth with her that evening for Covent Garden, where we were first to attend the gala performance. We had hardly entered the theatre when Mrs. Vanderstein told me to run back and tell the motor not to come to fetch us. We were to go away in a carriage sent by the Prince, she said.
“I was too much worried to enjoy the opera. I don’t know whether Mrs. Vanderstein did or not, but she kept looking at her watch and fidgeting, so I think her thoughts were elsewhere. Before the last act was nearly over we left the box and went down into the hall, which was nearly empty, and told a man to call Mr. Targon’s carriage, for so it appeared the Prince was to be alluded to on this occasion. In a few minutes a brougham drove up, drawn by a dun coloured horse, which dished badly and had an odd white blaze across its nose and one eye. I noticed, too, that it was drivenby a very odd-looking man, who wore a hat much too large for him crammed down over his eyes and a great scarf wrapped round his neck and high over his chin and ears; though even so I could see that he wore a beard, which is, to say the least of it, unusual in a coachman.”
“One moment,” Jennins interrupted; “do you think you could recognise the horse, Miss Turner, if you should see him again?”
“I am nearly sure I should,” Barbara replied. “There can’t be many with a blaze like that. I am more sure of it than I am of the driver. He drove very badly,” she went on, “pulling up under the arch with a jerk and throwing up his hands, each of which clutched at a rein, nearly over his head. ‘Surely there is some mistake,’ I said. ‘Are you from Mr. Targon?’ ‘I am from Mr. Targon,’ he answered hoarsely, ‘but I think there is a mistake, as you say; I was to fetch one lady, not two.’ ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Mrs. Vanderstein hurriedly. ‘Jump in, Barbara.’ And she got into the brougham herself, so that I had no choice but to follow her, and we drove off.
“Oh dear, how badly that man drove! Luckily there was hardly any traffic about, but we bumped into three things before we got to the top of Regent Street, and went over the curb at the corners I don’t know how often. Once the carriage stopped and the driver leant down and called through the window that he had orders to fetch one lady, and that I must get out. This I absolutely refused to do, and by this time Mrs. Vanderstein was so much alarmed by the reckless way in which he drove that I don’t think she would have allowed me to leave her even if I had wished to do so. After a heated dispute a small crowd began to gather round us, and the coachman seeing, I fancy, the shadow of an approaching policeman, suddenlyabandoned the contest, and whipping up his horse we lurched forward again as the animal started with a bound.
“It was a long drive, and towards the end of it I lost all notion of direction and had no idea where we were going. At last, with a final bump and jolt, we drove in at the gate of a little house, which seemed to stand back from the road in a tiny garden, and pulled up with a jerk before a flight of steps, at the top of which a door was flung open the moment we stopped, and I recognised the figure of Madame Querterot standing back from it in the half light of the passage.
“We got out, and Mrs. Vanderstein, who is timid driving at any time, began to abuse the man in a very angry tone. She had been thoroughly frightened, poor dear, and had sat holding my hand with a white face all the way, as I could see from time to time in the light of a passing lamp. ‘What do you mean by driving like that?’ she called out from the pavement. ‘I think you are drunk. A nice thing, indeed. I shall complain of you, do not fear. It is most disgraceful to be in such a state. Never, never have I been driven like that! It is a wonder we were not all killed!’ The man flicked at the horse and drove away, but Mrs. Vanderstein was so angry with him that she actually made as if to follow. She only went a step or two, however, and then with a laugh turned back, and we went up the steps, into the house.
“We were received by Madame Querterot, looking, I must say, more tidy than usual, in a neat black dress and a large apron, put on, I suppose, in keeping with her part of parlourmaid. I was struck by the strange expression on her face when she first caught sight of me, and she murmured something to the effect that Mrs. Vanderstein had promised to come alone; butmy friend, who was still flushed from her encounter with the coachman, did not answer her at all and marched on with her chin in the air. Madame Querterot recovered her usual amiability in a moment, and with many smiles and blandishments conducted us up to the drawing-room, where she left us, saying that His Highness had not yet arrived.
“There we waited for what seemed a long time; twenty minutes perhaps, or half an hour. My friend was very nervous and could not sit still, but walked up and down, up and down, restlessly, the whole time. Now she would plump down on a sofa and arrange herself in a graceful attitude; a minute later she would jump to her feet and run to the looking-glass to pat her curls into place, or dab her nose with powder. ‘How do I look?’ she asked me more than once, and hardly seemed to hear me when I answered her.
“At last there was a slight noise downstairs; the front door shut, and I could catch the mumble of voices talking low. After what seemed again an interminable delay the door opened and Madame Querterot came in. ‘If Mademoiselle will come with me into another room for a short time,’ said she. ‘His Highness has just arrived.’ I only hesitated a second. There was such an imploring look in Mrs. Vanderstein’s eyes that I could not refuse to go, much as I disapproved of the whole thing. I took her hand, and kissed her encouragingly, and then left the room without a word; for indeed there was something pathetic about her emotion, and I was too much moved by it myself to trust my voice.
“Madame Querterot led me down to a small back room that seemed to be a library, and left me, shutting the door behind her. I heard feet ascending the stairs, the drawing-room door open and shut, and then all was still for a moment.
“Suddenly, however, there came a noise from above. Something seemed to have been knocked over, then came a sound of running footsteps and finally a dragging noise as if a heavy object were being pulled across the floor overhead. I started up in alarm. What was happening upstairs? Surely there was something wrong! Without waiting to think, I rushed into the hall and tore upstairs and in at the drawing-room door. I found myself confronted by a tall man with a thick black beard and a pale, blotchy face. Behind him at the further end of the room I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Vanderstein, apparently lying on a sofa, and Madame Querterot bending over her. ‘What is it. Is she ill?’ I cried. ‘Take her away, take her away,’ exclaimed Madame Querterot, looking up over her shoulder, and before I had time to speak again I was hustled out of the room by the tall man and dragged downstairs again to the library. I was so infuriated at his daring to touch me that I could scarcely speak, but I managed to stammer again: ‘Is she ill? Is Mrs. Vanderstein ill?’ ‘She is not feeling quite well,’ he replied, ‘she will be best without you.’
“I looked at him curiously. I had seen Prince Felipe, and this was not he. Indeed I thought I recognised the driver of the brougham. He was a strange-looking man, dressed in ordinary day clothes, and I noticed with astonishment that he wore thick brown leather gloves on both hands. ‘I think she will be better with me,’ I said defiantly, and advanced towards the door, but he barred the way. ‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘Must!’ I said; ‘what do you mean? Let me go this instant.’ He didn’t answer, but just stood with his back to the door, grinning in a foolish way. ‘Let me out, let me out,’ I exclaimed, on the point of tears by this time, I am afraid. ‘Let me out or—or—I’ll set fire to the house!’
“I caught up my scarf and held it towards the gas, but the man leapt forward and, before I knew what he was doing, had turned out the flame altogether, leaving us in the dark. As I still stood, bewildered, I heard the door open and in an instant he had vanished through it and the key was turned in the lock outside.
“This was followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and in the silence that succeeded it is no exaggeration to say that the noise of my pulses throbbing in my ears sounded as loud as the tramp of a whole army on the march. I felt my way to a chair, and for a time sat in a trembling silence, shaken and unstrung by terror the most unnerving, if of the vaguest nature.
“Why would they not let me go to Mrs. Vanderstein if she was ill? What was the matter with her? Why had Madame Querterot looked as she did when she saw me on the doorstep? What was she doing, kneeling by the sofa? And, above all, what was the meaning of the man’s behaviour to me? It was, I think, the touch of his hand, as he dragged me downstairs, that took away my courage altogether.
“I sat for a long while, immovable in the darkness. From time to time sounds came from the room above, but they did not convey any meaning to me. At last I grew calmer, and indignation began to take the place of my fears. I got up and moved about the room, feeling my way as I went. In this manner I soon had an idea of the position and character of the furniture, even of the fire-place and the coal scuttle; and I must have blacked my fingers nicely in the process. I had a wild notion that it might be useful to me to know where the poker was, though I had no definite idea what I would do with it. Still, in one way or another I was determined to escape from this imprisonment. What did they mean by shutting me in this room? They must, they should, let me out!
“I began to cry for help. I felt my way to the door and beat against it with my hands, but no answer came. Then I had a brilliant thought—the room was on the ground floor, surely I could get out of the window. I reached it and tried to open it, but it was stiff and heavy. In spite of all my efforts I could not raise the sash. I groped for the poker again and, standing back for fear of the splintering glass, I aimed a blow at the place where I knew the window to be and heard with delight the crash of a shattered pane. Even as I delivered the blow, it struck me as curious that no light came into the room from the night outside; and, thrusting the poker through the hole I had broken, I found to my dismay that there were strong wooden shutters beyond it. But the noise I had made seemed to have attracted some attention at last, for I heard a door open and the sound of some one running down the stairs.
“A moment later the key was turned, and the door opened just enough to let in the tall man, who shut it behind him again as soon as he was inside. He had a little electric torch, which he turned in my direction, so that the glare blinded me and I couldn’t see him at all. ‘It’s no good making all this row, Miss Turner,’ he said, ‘no sort of earthly, kicking up such a shindy as a young lady like you ought to be ashamed to raise. Besides,’ he said, and now there was something in his tone that turned me sick, ‘it isn’tsafe. Do you understand? It is notsafe. Now, you see I don’t mean you any harm or I simply shouldn’t bother to warn you. But no, I like the look of you, and I’m sorry to see you in this house, where I tell you again it’s dangerous to stay. But be a sensible young lady and do as I tell you, and I’m blowed if I don’t help you to escape when the time comes. What do you say to that? I can’t say fairer, can I?’
“I suppose you will think me a dreadful coward, but there was something about the man which frightened me horribly. I think it was that he seemed to be himself in the extremity of fear. How I gathered that impression I am not sure. It may have been the low, hurried agitation of his voice, or the way in which his hand was shaking, so that the light behind which he was concealed danced and wavered between us like a will-o’-the-wisp; or perhaps it was the mere telepathic infection of fear. At all events I was ready to agree to anything he said, and jumped at the idea of escape. ‘I’ll do anything, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,’ I cried beseechingly, ‘if you’ll only let me go away.’ ‘That’s right,’ he said approvingly. ‘I’ll help you, never fear. And to show that I mean it,’ he went on, ‘here’s a change of clothes for you. You’d never escape in that white and red costume, you know.’ He threw down a bundle on the table. ‘Make haste and get into these togs, and let me take away your own things. I’ll leave you the lamp to change by, but you must look sharp, and mind you change every single thing, down to your shift.’
“So saying he put down the lamp and left the room again. No sooner was the door shut than I caught up the lamp and ran to the window. Peering through the glass, I tried to make out the fastening of the shutters and to see if I could get at it by putting my arm through the broken pane; but it was quite out of reach and I realised that I could do nothing without smashing more glass, and I did not dare do that now. So I put down the lamp again, and fell to changing my clothes as the man had suggested.
“They were horrible clothes he had brought, and it made me sick to put them on; but I felt he was right in saying that I could not escape in my evening dress. So, though I didn’t see why I should change all myunder things, I thought there might be some reason for that also, and anyhow I think I was too much frightened not to do as I was told. It was soon done, but not too soon, for without so much as a knock the wretch walked in again as I was fastening the last button of the shabby coat over a chemise so rough that my skin prickled all over. He looked at me with some satisfaction. ‘You must alter your hair,’ he said; ‘do it up tight and plain, so that it won’t show more than can be helped.’
“With that, he gathered up my clothes and went away, taking the lamp with him this time, and I saw no more of him for a long while. There was no need to twist my hair up so hurriedly, for after that was done I sat down and waited for what seemed like days. It was terrible, waiting, waiting, waiting in the darkness, which my fears peopled with invisible presences, so that I found myself holding my breath lest the door handle should turn again, and some one, or some thing, enter unheard by me. At the thought, I got up and dragged a heavy chair across the room, where I sat down on it with my back against the door, my anxiety to get out quite forgotten and overwhelmed in the awful possibility of not being certain whether or not I were alone.
“If only Mrs. Vanderstein had still been with me. But, believe me, it was not only selfishly that I longed for her: the vision of her, ill, and no doubt in danger equal to mine as an inmate of this dreadful house, sat on me like a nightmare; and, if I was frightened by the peril of my own position, I trembled still more at the danger to which my friend might be exposed. Why was the man afraid? It was the recollection of his terror that cowed me, so that I sat there rigid, paralysed by the fear of I knew not what. From time to time noises broke the silence, the noise of peoplemoving in the room above; and presently some one descended the stairs and approached the door against which I crouched.
“A violent trembling fit seized me and my teeth chattered so convulsively that I could hardly hear the footsteps outside; but they passed on, and I heard a door opened at the end of the passage. A minute later they returned, sounding loud on the linoleum of the hall and muffled as they went up the stairs; only to come down again in a few moments. Over and over again this process was repeated: some one apparently walking down the stairs, down the passage, and through a door at the back of the house, then retracing his steps, and in a minute or two beginning all over again. This went on, I should think, for more than an hour, and then after an interval I heard two people come down and go to the door; soon it was gently shut and only one pair of feet returned.
“Presently another noise began—rather a comforting, familiar noise—the sound of sweeping and brushing, both on the stairs and in the room overhead. It seemed as if a housemaid were about, beginning the morning’s work, for by now I could see through a tiny space in the shutters that it was daylight. I called out once: ‘Is there anyone there?’ at which the noise of sweeping ceased, and a warning ‘Hush’ was breathed at me through the keyhole, close by my ear. After a time all these sounds stopped altogether. The sweeper passed my door again, and again went through the door at the end of the passage. This time it was closed with a snap of the lock, and then silence settled on the house. I don’t know how long I sat there without hearing a sound. I think I must have dozed. I know I began to feel so stiff and tired that fear seemed a secondary consideration, and I didn’t care what happened any more. Heaven knows how long he left me there,dozing and waking, perhaps for hours, perhaps for days. You know more about that than I do.
“It was after what seemed like a week that the storm began. It was that which definitely roused me from the sort of stupor into which I had fallen, and stirred me to rack my brains again for some means of escape. It was dreadfully hot in that little room; the atmosphere was close and stifling till it seemed to weigh one down with an unbearable oppression, and if it had not been for the glass I had broken—through which an occasional breath of air penetrated by way of a crack in the shutter—I suppose it would have been even worse than it was. From time to time I had been conscious of the distant rumbling of thunder, and hoped dimly that it would clear the air, for before the storm actually burst my head was like to split; and it was with a certain relief that I heard the first large drops of rain begin to fall. Soon afterwards there was a tremendous clap of thunder.
“I was appallingly hungry, and wondered if I were being purposely left to die of starvation. With a vague idea that I might find something edible I began feeling about again around the room and considering the possibility, if the worst came to the worst, of eating my shoes, as I had heard of starving men being forced to do. But I was not hungry enough for that yet, and besides I wasn’t sure if the soles of my satin slippers were of leather, or onlypapier mâché. On the table my fingers came across a stump of pencil, and that distracted my thoughts for a little while. I had to feel it all over before I was sure what it was; it was the point that made me almost certain, and I began at once to ask myself whether I could not by some means send a message to the outside world. I could think of no way of doing so, however, and even if I could have, I had nothing to write on. Then theidea came to me of writing on the wall. I thought to myself that if the man meant to play me false, at least I could leave a token of my presence, which possibly at some future day might lead to the punishment of these people. I knew there were pictures on the walls, and feeling my way to the fire-place I lifted up one hanging above it, so that by inserting my hand under the frame I could write on that part of the wallpaper which, as far as I could tell, lay behind.
“I had only written a few words, when the key was turned and the door opened. A rumbling of thunder had prevented my hearing the sound of approaching feet, and I had only just time to let the picture fall back into its place and to move a few steps away from the mantelpiece before the black-bearded man entered the room. Fortunately, the chair I had pushed against the door retarded its opening for a moment, or he would have seen what I was doing. ‘Come,’ he said, taking hold of my arm, ‘now is the time for you to escape to a place of safety.’
“Without further words he led me into the hall, and along it to the front door. Here we paused, while he opened it very cautiously and peered out. For my part, I was more nervous with regard to dangers that might lurk in the house behind us; but his inspection of the outside world seemed to satisfy him, for picking up, to my astonishment, a large garden spade that was leaning against the wall he opened the door wide and we passed through it together. I cannot tell you with what feelings of gladness and thankfulness I hastened down the steps and out into the street, nor with what joy I felt my unrestrained feet splashing into the puddles, and the free air of the night blow freshly on my face. We had gone some hundreds of yards and turned more than one corner before I dared speak. ‘What has happened to my friend?’ I then said; ‘has she escapedtoo?’ ‘She has gone,’ he answered evasively, and still quickened his pace till I was half running to keep up with him.
“It was wild weather to be abroad: the storm was still at its height and the flashes of lightning and the thunder claps succeeded each other with increasing frequency; rain was falling in torrents, the roads and pavements were like seething rivers, and the gutters ran a foot deep at the edge of the kerb, as I discovered by stepping into one when we crossed the street. There was not a soul to be seen except the black-cloaked figure of an occasional policeman, and whenever we approached one of these my companion gripped my arm more tightly, and wheeled away in a new direction. It was thus, with many turns and by circuitous routes, that we progressed on our way. And, though I asked more than once where we were going, not another word did I extract from the black-bearded man; and I soon fell the more readily into a like silence, as the rapid pace at which we walked left me little breath for speech.
“In this manner, and after we had hurried along for at least half an hour, we made our way into an enclosure, which I guessed to be Regent’s Park. The first elation caused by leaving the house where I had been imprisoned was wearing off and I had time to ask myself whither I was being led, receiving in reply no very comforting assurances. Was I being taken from one place of incarceration to another? I wondered, and at the thought I tried to shake off the hand that lay upon my arm. ‘If you will let me go now,’ I said timidly, ‘I shall be all right by myself. I shall never forget that you helped me to escape, but now, if you don’t mind, I—I had rather be alone.’ But I got no answer, nor did the clutch on my arm relax. In a fresh panic I made up my mind that the next time we saw a policeman I would scream for help.
“It was not many minutes after I had taken this decision that my companion paused in his rapid walk; and after looking about him doubtfully seemed to recognise some landmark in the darkness, and came to a sudden halt. ‘Can you get over these railings?’ he said. We had been following the line of an iron fence that bordered the path, and I could feel rather than see that it reached above the height of my waist and was ornamented with spikes. ‘I think it is hardly possible,’ I replied; ‘but why should I get over?’ He did not answer, but seemed to consider. ‘I think I can lift you over,’ he said at length, and before I could object he had his arms around me, and with a tremendous effort swung me up in the air and across the railings. ‘Now you must help me,’ he said, holding tightly to my arm as I landed safely on the other side. And partly by my help, partly by holding on to a tree that leant up against the fence near by, he managed to scramble over.
“Now, by the roughness of the ground under my feet, I knew we were on the grass, even before a flash of lightning showed me that we had wandered away from the fence and were standing on the top of an embankment, at the bottom of which I caught sight of a high wooden paling. With instinctive reluctance, I hung back as my companion began to descend the bank, tugging me in his wake. At the bottom of the hill we came to the high wall, which we followed for a little way, and presently stopped before an opening through which I saw the gleam of water. ‘We must get through here,’ said the man. ‘There’s plenty of room where these two boards have been torn off.’ There was, as he said, a gap where some planks were missing and only the cross pieces of wood remained. ‘Why should we go this way?’ I asked again, full of misgivings. ‘Where are you taking me?’ ‘Where you will besafe,’ said he. ‘Come on,’ and stepping before me through the gap he dragged me roughly after him.
“Then, for the first time, he suddenly removed the hand that all this while had clutched me by the arm; and as I stood there, bewildered, not knowing what to do with my freedom, the scene was lighted up by a tremendous flash, brighter than any that had gone before, and I saw that he was fumbling with a cord that was attached to the handle of the spade he carried. His arms were stretched towards me, and before the light had faded from the sky I realised that he was trying to throw the end of the rope round my neck, passing it from one hand to the other as he did so.
“Perhaps I leapt too suddenly to a conclusion, or perhaps—as I think more likely—my understanding was quickened by fear, but in that instant I became as certain of his intention as though he had explained it to me in every detail. He was going to drown me in the canal, first tying the heavy spade to me to make sure that I should sink, never to rise again. I screamed aloud and pushed him away with all my strength. On that steeply sloping bank he was at a disadvantage, the rain had made it slippery, and for a minute I frustrated his purpose. Then came another flash, and by it the man seemed to catch sight of something behind me, which at the same time horrified and infuriated him, for I saw his expression change, and with a snarl of frightened rage he lifted up the spade and hit at me with it. Somehow I managed to jump aside, but I saw him raise it for another blow, and after that—after that—I can remember no more.”
Barbara’s story was finished. It had been told slowly, and at intervals the girl lay back with closed eyes, too weak to continue. But on any proposal to defer her account to another day she had rousedherself, and proceeded with it resolutely till she came to the end.
The shadows had time to grow long during the telling of it, so that when at length, after they had finally taken leave of the invalid and issued forth once more from the doors of the hospital, the two men found themselves again in the open air it was already dinnertime.
“Come back with me, Jennins, and have something to eat,” said Gimblet, as they walked away. “There is sure to be food of sorts ready for me at the flat.”
But Jennins was bound elsewhere.
“I’m going to have a try at hunting out that horse,” he said. “Miss Turner thinks she’d know it again and, as she says, the number of dun coloured beasts with a decided dish and a peculiar crooked blaze of white over the nose and one eye must be more or less limited. Then, you remember, she thinks the driver was no other than our friend West, and if, after he had set the ladies down in Scholefield Avenue, he was less than half an hour in making his reappearance, one may argue that the stables were not half a mile away from No. 13. Don’t you think I am right?”
“I think your reasoning is perfectly sound,” said Gimblet. “You ought to be able to find out something about the horse without much trouble; and incidentally, I hope, about the driver. Let me know as soon as you have news. For my part I will try and see if I can’t get some information about him also. In the meantime, I’ve eaten nothing since breakfast, and exhausted nature calls. I’m off to get some dinner.”
“I suppose,” Jennins called after him, “from what you said to me this afternoon, that you have ascertainedthat this Madame Querterot is beyond our reach for the moment?”
“Yes,” said Gimblet.
“And do you think the girl, her daughter, has any idea as to the woman’s whereabouts?”
“No,” said Gimblet gently, “I am sure she has not.”
In the flat Gimblet found a telegram awaiting him. It was from Boulogne, and ran as follows: