On examination, the Rippler appeared to have suffered but trifling hurt. Either by accident, or design, the flying lady had driven the machine straight through an ancient five-barred gate, which fortunately was much too decayed to present any serious obstacle. Across a stubbled field--as the ripping and ploughing of the grounds showed--the car had reeled drunkenly, until by its own weight it was bogged in the friable furrows. Here it had been deserted, with smashed lamps, a slightly damaged front, and with a considerable amount of paint scraped off. But an immediate test showed that the machinery was in excellent working order.
It was no easy task to restore the derelict to the hard levels of the high-road. But Cannington collected a gang of agriculturals from unknown quarters and we set to work. With spades and crowbars, broad weather-boards from an adjacent incomplete building as temporary tram-lines, and a tow-rope from Trent's machine to mine, we managed the job fairly expeditiously, considering the environment. With water from the nearest pond for the outside of the car, and oil and petrol for the interior, I managed to get the Rippler into working order, although she was more or less shaken, and did not run very smoothly. Fortunately the lady had abandoned her loot within half a mile of Murchester, so with careful driving I contrived to get over that distance in safety. After storing the Rippler in a convenient garage, to be repaired and overhauled, I went on to the Barracks with Cannington in Trent's motor. Here I proposed to put up until the inquest was at an end and I was free to leave the neighbourhood. It was rather a nuisance to be thus publicly housed, as one might put it, for everyone, from the Colonel to the latest-joined subaltern, asked questions and aired impossible theories. My intimate connection with the affair made me an object of interest to one and all. And small wonder that it should be so, for the mystery of the affair was most enthralling.
On the way to his quarters, Cannington--perhaps to distract my thoughts from more immediate troubles--mentioned casually that Wentworth Marr had left a card for him at Mess, just before we had arrived on the day of the murder. I did not take any interest in Marr, as I had never seen him, so it was a matter of indifference to me whether he had called or not. But the boy fidgeted over the matter, as he made sure he was about to be asked a knotty question officially, as the head of the Wotton family.
"I am certain that Marr wishes to know if I will agree to his marrying my sister," said Cannington irritably. "And I don't know what to say."
"Refer him to the lady," I suggested absently.
"I sha'nt. He's too old for Mabel, and I don't want her to marry him in any case. I wish Weston would come up to the scratch, for he told me that he loved Mabel, and I was quite pleased. Weston's no end of a good sort, and we--that is Mabel and I--have known him almost as long as we have you, Vance. Marr's all right, and deuced rich from all one hears. But I don't want such an old chap as a brother-in-law, for all his thousands of pounds."
"Oh, very well then," said I ungraciously. "Tell him to keep off the grass, or you'll punch his head. Is he stopping at Murchester?"
"I suppose so. His card has the Lion's Head--that's the best hotel here--pencilled on it. He called somewhere about three yesterday, before we arrived, and he said he'd turn up again. I expect to find him waiting for me now, and I'm hanged," lamented Cannington, "if I know what to say."
But, as after events proved, the boy was worrying himself needlessly, for Wentworth Marr did not reappear at the Barracks. On inquiry, we learned that he stayed only the one night in Murchester, and then went back to London in his motor--for he also travelled in the latest vehicle of transit. I only mention these apparently trivial facts, because they form certain links in the chain of evidence which led up to the discovery of the amazing truth. Meanwhile, not foreseeing the importance of trifles, I was rather annoyed with Cannington for babbling. My mind was far too much taken up with the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's murder, and with--I must confess it--the face of Gertrude Monk, to permit me to think of Lady Mabel Wotton and her wooers, elderly or otherwise.
Lady Mabel herself appeared a day or so later, and at an inopportune moment, for her brother and I were greatly fatigued with what had occurred during the interval. However, we returned from Mootley in my renovated Rippler on the third day, and found her waiting impatiently for afternoon tea in Cannington's quarters. She was a tall, fresh-coloured, dashing girl, amazingly like her brother, and if he had worn her tailor-made dress instead of his khaki, I do not think anyone, unless a very close observer, would have been the wiser. I had known the family for more years that I cared to remember, and liked Lady Mabel immensely, as she was outspoken and companionable, and did not want a man to be always telling her that she was a goddess. All the same, she could flirt when inclined, although she never did so with me. It could not have been my age, for I was younger than this confounded Marr she came to talk about; so I presume she looked upon me as Cannington's elder brother. At all events, our friendship was always prosaic and matter of fact.
We had tea, while Lady Mabel presided and told us that she had just come down for an hour, and that she was very miserable, and that Cannington ought to have written her, and that she did not know what to do, though Cyrus--that was me--might give some advice and----
"I never give advice," I interrupted hastily. "I'm not clever enough."
"I never said you were," she retorted. "But you are slow and sure."
"Thanks, Lady Mabel."
"I think you're just horrid, and why you should be so stiff with me I don't know, seeing that you knew Cannington and myself since we could toddle."
"Oh, come now, I'm not so old as all that."
"You are, and ever so much older, you--you bachelor."
"I can't help that, since you refuse to marry me," I said smiling.
"You've never asked me to--not that I would accept you," she replied promptly. "All the same, you needn't call me Lady Mabel, as if you were keeping me off with a pitchfork."
"Well, then--Mabel."
"That's better." She gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You know that I look on you as a good sort, Cyrus, and the oldest friend we have."
I wriggled. "Why do you emphasise age so much?"
Cannington laughed, and I knew that he was thinking of my admiration of Miss Monk's photograph. "Vance doesn't like to be reminded of his age--now."
"Why now?" questioned Lady Mabel suspiciously.
"Oh, never mind," I said crossly. "What do you want my advice about?"
Our fair companion put down her cup in despair. "Haven't I been telling you for the last half hour. Mr. Marr wants to marry me. He asked me four days ago, and then came down to enlist Cannington on his side."
"Huh," said the boy, sagaciously, "that sounds as though you had refused him."
"No, I didn't."
"Then you accepted him."
"No, I didn't," she said again. "I left it an open question, until I consulted you and Cyrus. After all he is rich, and not bad-looking."
"Oh, Mabel," cried Cannington, rising to perambulate the narrow room, "you know very well that you love Dickey Weston."
"What's the use of loving a man who won't speak his mind? Dickey always lives in the moon, and I only love him from habit.
"You never loved me from habit," I remarked lazily.
Mabel put her head on one side, and surveyed me critically. "No, I never did," she said candidly, "and yet you're better-looking than Dickey. But he's got a way with him--I don't know what it is."
"Absent-mindedness," suggested Cannington. "May we smoke, Mab?"
"Oh, yes, and you can give me a cigarette also, if they're Egyptian. Thanks awfully." She accepted one, and I struck a match for the lighting. "Of course, Dickey Weston is absent-minded and selfish," she continued frankly. "All the same, I love him and I don't mind anyone knowing it."
"Every one does, except Dickey," said I with a shrug.
"I suppose you think that's clever."
"It's the truth. After all, I don't see why you need be shy with a man you have known for centuries. Why not go to Dickey and tell him that you want to marry him and go trips in his airship?"
"Dickey would agree, and never know what had happened until he found me breakfasting opposite to him without a chaperon. Well, what's to be done?" She leaned back, and placed her hands behind her head. "Dickey won't ask me to be his wife, and Mr. Marr--who is rich--wants me to marry him right away."
"Do you love Marr, Mabel?" asked Cannington seriously.
"No," she said promptly.
"Then refuse him."
"He's too rich to refuse."
"Mabel"--I spoke this time and severely--"you are much too nice a girl to make such a sordid match, and with a man who might be your father. Chuck him, and chuck it, and make Dickey Weston do his duty."
"Which Dickey will be quite willing to do," said Cannington amiably, "especially as he told me that he loved you, Mab."
"Oh," the girl jumped up and with a fine blush threw the half-finished cigarette into the fireplace. "Why didn't you tell me that before, Cannington? I know what I'll do." She reflected for three seconds. "I'll tell Mr. Marr that he shall have his answer as a Christmas box, and meanwhile I'll see if I can't make Dickey jealous. Cannington, you are sure that Dickey said what you say he said?"
"Quite sure. He said it twice."
"Then he must mean it," cried Mabel energetically. "So I can hold off Mr. Marr and make Dickey jealous by pretending to flirt with him. After all I love Dickey and Dickey loves me, so why shouldn't we marry?"
"I am sure," said I cynically, "that if you put the position clearly to Weston in that way he would do his duty."
"I don't want him to do his duty, just as if I was driving him to the altar," she said, much exasperated. "I wouldn't marry Dickey if I didn't love him, not if he were twice as rich."
"What about Marr?"
She wilfully chose to ignore my hint. "He can remain as a second string to my bow, Cyrus. After all I must marry money. Aunt Lucy"--this was Lady Denham, the late earl's sister--"is always grumbling about my dresses. And--and--and--oh, well, then, never mind, I must be getting back to town." She looked at her bracelet watch. "There's a theatre party and supper at the Ritz to-night, so I haven't much time.
"And the situation?" asked Cannington, helping her on with her cloak.
"I'll temporise and give Dickey a chance."
"Which means that Marr will have none," I said gravely, "that's not fair."
Mabel shrugged her shoulders, and made the truly feminine answer. "You're a man and don't understand. Oh," she stopped at the door suddenly, "by the way, Aunt Lucy told me that your name was in the papers, Cyrus, about some murder. I've just thought about it. Aren't you accused of sticking pins into some one? Tell me all about it on the way to the station; it will amuse me, you know."
This refreshing candour made me laugh right out, as we descended the stairs. "I am glad that you have even an afterthought of my amusing position," said I, very drily.
She had the grace to colour. "Oh, I didn't quite mean that, Cyrus; but after all, I can't think of everything at once."
"Cannington did that, Mabel. He has been a brick, and but for his assistance I should never have pulled through."
"What rot," muttered the boy, but he was secretly pleased.
"Then you are in danger?" cried Mabel, startled.
"I have been," I replied with emphasis, "as I discovered the body. But my own spotless reputation and Cannington's asseverations of my honesty, prevented my being arrested."
"I'm so glad, Cyrus. Such a horrid thing for one's friend being arrested for a nasty pin-sticking crime."
"Horrid indeed--for the friend."
"Where did you hear of the murder, Mab?" questioned her brother.
"Oh, the papers yesterday and this morning were full of it. Aunt Lucy drew my attention to them, as she knew that I knew you," said Mabel incoherently. "You were at the inquest, weren't you, Cyrus, and gave evidence? Tell me all about it, as I only read scraps."
"There's very little to tell," I answered, yawning, for really I felt extremely tired. "I found Mrs. Caldershaw dead in the back room, and a woman in a white cloak, presumably her murderess, ran off with my motor car."
"I read all that. What else?"
"Nothing else, save that we found the car and not the woman. A jury of twelve good and lawful yokels brought in a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown."
"But I thought you said this woman was guilty?"
"It is presumed so, since she bolted with my car and hasn't turned up. Her name is unknown, so the verdict is quite right."
"But persons," persisted Lady Mabel inquisitively.
"A mere graceful addition to round off the sentence. I believe that this woman stabbed Mrs. Caldershaw with a sapphire-headed hat-pin."
"Sapphire-headed; she must have been rich."
"Oh, Vance is drawing on his theatrical imagination," struck in Cannington impatiently, "the sapphire he talks of was only blue glass."
"Oh, that reminds me that the papers said something about a glass eye."
"I expect they said a very great deal about it," I assented gravely. "Catch your journalist missing a chance of hinting at mystery."
"Is it a mystery?" asked Mabel, walking before us into the station.
"More or less--possibly more. Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered by this unknown woman, presumably for the sake of her glass eye."
"But why?"
Cannington laughed. "That's what the police are trying to learn; not that they ever will. I believe the truth will never be discovered."
"Are there no letters, no papers? Is there no gossip likely to----"
I interrupted, impatiently, for the absence of circumstantial evidence bothered me greatly. "Inspector Dredge looked over all the papers and letters of the dead woman, and found nothing likely to lead to the discovery of the guilty person's name. As to gossip, it appears that Mrs. Caldershaw kept to herself in the corner shop, and little was known about her. She came to Mootley five years ago with her savings, having been the housekeeper of Gabriel Monk of Burwain, near Gattlingsands. There she started a shop, and at times received a visit from Miss Gertrude Monk, whom she nursed, and from Miss Destiny, who is the young lady's aunt."
"Two women," breathed Mabel, facing me; "do you think----"
"That either one is guilty?" I interrupted again and somewhat sharply. "No, I certainly do not. Miss Destiny was on her way to stay the night with Mrs. Caldershaw when the crime was committed; and at the inquest she stated that she left her niece behind at The Lodge, Burwain."
"You needn't be so cross about it," said Mabel, staring at my acrid tone. "I only suggested possibilities. What are you laughing at, Cannington?"
"Nothing," said the boy untruthfully, and looked hard at me. The fact of my admiration for Miss Monk's pictured face--we had discussed her several times before and after the inquest--was in his mind, as I well knew. But he had grace enough to keep this to himself, and not set Lady Mabel's too ready tongue chattering.
"I wish you wouldn't giggle, Cannington," she said, accepting the excuse, "it's growing on you. Well," she faced me, "and what are you going to do?"
"About what, if you please?"
"About this murder?"
"What the deuce should he do?" cried Cannington, openly surprised. "He's well out of an awkward situation, so there's no more to be said. I daresay he'll write a melodrama on the case and solve the mystery in the wrong way."
"I am not so sure," said I pointedly, "that I won't try to solve it the right way."
"What do you mean by that?" asked my friend, staring.
"I mean that the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye fascinates me, and that I intend to follow up what clues there are."
"There aren't any," said Cannington promptly. "You heard what Inspector Dredge remarked at the inquest."
"He admitted that he could find no evidence, it is true, but that doesn't mean to say that evidence is not to be found."
"Are you about to turn an amateur detective?"
"Why not? Now why are you laughing?"
"Oh, he's crazy," said Mabel disdainfully. "Here comes my train. I'll have a rush to reach town and dress. Aunt Lucy is always so punctual, I'm sure to get into hot water."
"Ask Mr. Wentworth Marr to get you out of it," said I jokingly.
"He could," she replied seriously, leaning out of the carriage window. "Aunt Lucy thinks no end of him, and would be glad to see me his wife."
"Don't you do anything in a hurry, Mabel,"--began Cannington, when his expostulations were cut short by the departure of the train. When the ruddy tail light of the guard's van disappeared, he took my arm with a friendly hug. "I didn't give you away, did I, Vance?"
"There's nothing to give away," I said gruffly.
"Oh! oh! oh!" said Cannington, in three distinct keys. "What about love at first sight, old man? You intend to follow up this case, so as to get into touch with the original of that photograph."
"Rubbish! You are jumping in the dark."
"Don't you jump," advised the boy shrewdly. "Your fancy has evidently been caught by Miss Monk's face, and if you meet her, there's no telling but that you may be a married man before Christmas."
I denied this hotly, and proceeded to show that my interest in the case was more or less official. "Mystery piques every man," said I insistently, "so I mean to learn why Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered, and why she attached such value to that glass eye of hers."
Cannington laughed and declined to believe, but being a thoroughly good fellow, ceased to chaff me when he saw that I looked annoyed. "All the same," he remarked, as we strolled back to his quarters, "I shall keep an eye on you, Vance. You're too inflammable, and I don't want you to marry in haste and repent at leisure."
Of course I laughed, uneasily maybe, for Cannington was right in the main. I certainly was anxious to solve the mystery, but I doubted if my zeal would have been equal to so arduous a task, had not the memory of that lovely face lured me onward, like a will-o'-the-wisp. I had long since wished to secure the photograph, so as to have the image of my divinity constantly before my eyes, but Dredge very reasonably declined to permit the illegal annexation. Mrs. Caldershaw's will, which had been found by the Inspector amongst her shop accounts, left all she died possessed of to her nephew, Joseph Striver. He proved on inquiry to be a Burwain gardener in the employment of Mr. Walter Monk. "If Striver will give, or sell you the portrait," said Dredge, with official phlegm, "I have no objection; it isn't my property."
The police-officer was much too grim and unromantic to guess why I sought to possess the photograph, and needless to say, I did not tell him. Also he was considerably annoyed by his failure to solve the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's murder, since its solution would have procured him both praise and promotion. So no one but Cannington guessed my silly infatuation, which assuredly was silly, for who but an idiot would fall in love with a pictured face on the instant. But there was no denying it, that I was in the toils of Venus, so, although angered by such unaccountable weakness, I was bent upon meeting the original. Then,--ah, well, the future is on the knees of the gods.
However, since I was minded to trace out the truth of the crime, it was necessary to find some clue to start the trail. All that evening after dinner, and later in the billiard-room, where I played snooker with sundry young officers, I inwardly wondered how I could and should begin. The hat-pin revealed nothing, as every woman uses hat-pins, and such with blue-glass heads were probably common enough. The missing eye might have thrown some light on the darkness, but that was safe in the pocket of the assassin. It will be noticed that, in spite of the open verdict of the jury, I clung to the idea that the white-cloaked woman was guilty. Not only had she fled with my car, but she had locked me in with her victim to prevent immediate pursuit. Also the abandonment of the motor pointed to guilt. She had been seen by Giles, by Miss Destiny, and by Lucinda, but from the time my machine had been sent crashing through the five-barred gate by her reckless, or intendedly reckless, driving, she had vanished as completely as though the earth had opened to swallow her up. Yet she might have guessed that the aggressively striking white cloak would betray her. In my opinion, a woman who had so cleverly engineered her escape would scarcely be foolish enough to risk detection by her dress, so I conjectured that she must have got rid of the cloak as she had got rid of the Rippler. With this idea in my head, I settled, without telling Cannington, to explore the field wherein the machine had been abandoned.
When at rest for the night, I remembered that Mrs. Giles, who had not been called as a witness, had stated how Mrs. Caldershaw entertained the idea that she would not die in her bed. I had questioned the greengrocer's wife on this point, but she could tell me nothing more. Mrs. Caldershaw gave no hint of any enemy, or even of the possibility of a tragic death. All she had done was to make the above statement to Mrs. Giles in a burst of confidence, and to shiver when the Litany mentioned "murder and sudden death." Mrs. Giles was particular about this point. "I was sitting next to her in the same pew," said Mrs. Giles insistently, "and she shivered and shook and looked over her shoulder, apprehensive like. It happened three times, and that was what made me observe it. I'm sure she was frightened of something or of someone."
This might have been the case, but Mrs. Caldershaw never explained, and carried the reason of her fright in silence to her untimely grave. Connecting Mrs. Giles' story with the remark of Miss Destiny as to the value set on the glass eye by the woman, and with the sinister fact that the glass eye was missing, I felt certain that the way to begin the search was to take the eye itself as a clue. Local gossip in Mootley revealed few useful facts, as Mrs. Faith appeared to be the sole person who had been told about the eye by its owner, and none of the villagers seemed to know that one eye had been different to the other. But in Burwain, where Mrs. Caldershaw had lived for years as Gabriel Monk's housekeeper, and as nurse to his niece, the truth might be found by careful inquiry. If I could learn where the unfortunate woman got her glass eye, and what accident had brought about the necessity for a glass eye, the chances were that I might learn something which would enable me to trace the truth. Therefore I determined to go to Burwain and hunt out all information about Mrs. Caldershaw's past. Meanwhile there remained the field near Murchester to be explored.
Next morning Cannington was engaged on some court-martial so I was left to my own devices, although he wanted to hand me over for entertainment to a less busy brother officer. I excused myself on the plea that I wished to walk off a headache, and so contrived to leave the Barracks unhindered. It was nine o'clock when I set out, and the morning was wonderfully clear for misty August. The field, as I stated before, was only half a mile from Murchester, so I speedily arrived therein. I left the middle of it, where the Rippler had been stranded, severely alone, and skirted round the sides to examine the hedges. These were ragged and untrimmed, with deep ditches on their inner sides, and consisted of holly, bramble, hawthorn, and various saplings. I scratched myself more or less severely for quite one hour, but without discovering any sign of the white cloak. Perhaps, I thought, much discouraged, the woman had risked wearing it after all. Yet I could not believe that she had been such a fool, seeing how cleverly she had manipulated her escape.
Then I noticed that there were two gates to the field, one with the broken bars, through which she had entered from the high-road in the car, and the other on the far side, to the right-hand looking from the road. It then occurred to me that the flying lady, scared by meeting Miss Destiny's trap, and perhaps afraid lest she had injured it and would be stopped for damages, might have left the field by this last gate. I immediately walked towards it and found that it opened on to a narrow lane, which in winter must have become a stream of mud. The hedges were very ragged and tangled here, and the gate was nearly hidden, a common five-barred, unpainted gate, in a worse condition than that opening on to the road.
I knew that I had struck on the flying woman's trail, almost as soon as I arrived at this hidden gate. On one of the brambles a filmy scrap of gauze fluttered in the wind. Apparently while getting over the gate in her hurried flight, the woman's veil had caught in the thorns and she had twitched it irritably away, leaving the scrap unthinkingly behind as evidence. I secured the same and placed it in my pocket-book, then made a thorough examination of the gate on both sides. No further evidence was forthcoming until I searched the ditch, which in this instance was on the farther side of the hedge. There, hidden amongst the dank weeds, thrust into a convenient rabbit-hole in the crumbling clay bank, was the cloak itself. I drew it out with a sensation of triumph, and from it was wafted the torn veil. I had the outfit complete, save for the motoring cap.
Evidently the rending of the veil had drawn the woman's attention to the eccentricity of a white cloak worn on a chilly autumnal evening. Acting promptly, as was her custom--I guessed that from the theft of my car--she had concealed cloak and veil, and then had vanished down the muddy lane, heaven only knows whither. But I had now the evidence.
It was a white cloak, of good and even expensive material. Round the neck, down the front, and along the hem, two letters were embroidered repeatedly in blue silk so as to form a pattern. They were G. M. I dropped the cloak and gasped with dismay. G. M., in twisted fanciful letters, formed the running adornment of the cloak worn by the woman who had stolen my car and who had, to all appearances, murdered Mrs. Anne Caldershaw. And the name of the child she had nursed, of the woman with whose portrait I had fallen so unexpectedly in love, was Gertrude Monk.
"It's a lie," I said aloud to nobody in particular. "I don't believe it."
All the same, the accusing initials were there, G. M.--Gertrude Monk.
Had I not been in love--and with a face, instead of the flesh and blood woman--I suppose I would have gone off at once to Dredge to announce my discovery and show what I had found. But, in spite of evidence to the very strong contrary, I could not believe that Gertrude Monk was guilty of her old nurse's murder. She might have locked me in, she might have run off with my car and practically wrecked it, and she might have hidden in the hedge these incriminating garments: but she assuredly had not--in my now terribly biassed opinion--thrust the hat-pin into Mrs. Caldershaw's heart. Unless she confessed her guilt to my face, I resolutely declined to believe that she had perpetrated a sordid crime.
However, it was useless to stand in that chilly field weighing pros and cons, when I knew nothing of the woman, save that she was exquisitely lovely, and had captured my fancy against my will, as it were. I had a natural revulsion of doubt; then believed in her more than ever, even to the extent of vowing, that if by chance she were guilty, she should never go to the scaffold through me. But if I wished to prevent that, there was no time to be lost in getting rid of that infernal cloak and veil, for Inspector Dredge with unexpected insight might come nosing about the field. Not that I credited him with such perspicuity, but--as I swiftly determined--it was just as well to be on the safe side. I therefore rolled up veil and cloak into as small a compass as possible, and thrusting them under my overcoat--I wore one as the morning was breezy--I regained the road and hastened my return to Murchester Barracks. I felt that I was compounding a crime one minute, and exulted the next that I was saving the life of an innocent woman. And yet, on the face of it, she was surely guilty.
Luckily, when I arrived at Cannington's quarters he was still absent on duty, so I unpacked a portmanteau, which had been sent down from London, and stowed away the incriminating evidence at the bottom of some books, manuscripts, shirts, and pyjamas. Then I strapped and locked the portmanteau, so that Cannington's soldier servant should not officiously wish to pack my belongings. He could use the other portmanteau, I thought. Just as I completed my task, Cannington entered unbuckling his sword.
"Ouf! I am tired," said he pitching himself into a chair. "What a bore it is sitting on court-martials."
"What was the punishment?" I asked, lighting my pipe, and asked more for the sake of regaining my self-control, shaken by my discovery, than because I took any interest in Private Tommy Atkins.
"Five days C. B. It was only a drunken fight. Throw me over the cigarettes, Vance. Thanks, awfully." He fielded the case deftly. "Wait till I change, and we'll go to luncheon. I'm shockingly hungry. Where have you been? Fighting with the Barracks cat I should say, from the scratches."
But I did not intend to say too much even to Cannington. "I went for a cross-country walk," I answered carelessly, "and met some brambles on the way. What are you doing after luncheon?"
"Well, I was just coming to that," said the boy, who was now busy changing his kit, smoking the while. "I have to run up to town for three or four hours, as my lawyer wants to see me. I'm trying to raise some cash for a Christmas spree." He grinned. "Hope you won't mind my leaving you. But there's Trent, of course, who can look after you."
"Oh, hang it, I'm not a child to require a nurse," I snapped, for my nerves were worn thin with the situation. "You leave me alone, Cannington, and I'll attend to myself."
"All right old son, don't get your hair off. I believe this murder case has got on your nerves."
"It has," I confessed, very truthfully. "Sorry I spoke like a fractious brat. To make amends I'll let you take the Rippler to town."
"Oh, that will be frabjious," said Cannington, who had lately been reading, "Alice through the Looking-glass." "Won't you come too?"
"Thanks, no. I'm walking out to Mootley this afternoon."
"Huh! I should think you had enough of walking. What's on?"
"Mrs. Caldershaw's funeral."
"They aren't losing much time in planting her," said Cannington, with a shrug. "It's only five days since the death. But I say, old son, don't you think you might give this business a rest? It's getting on your nerves, you know, and isn't good goods at the best."
"Oh, that's all right, I only want to see the last of the poor woman."
"And then?" Cannington's tone was highly suspicious.
"I'll go over to Burwain."
"After that girl?"
I scratched my chin and eyed him severely. "See here, I'm not quite the infant you take me to be. Miss Monk's face attracted me, I admit, but that doesn't mean I am in love with her."
"You talked enough about her anyhow."
"All the more reason thatyoushouldn't talk," I retorted. "I can say all I want to say for myself. Do stop rotting."
Cannington nodded with an air of resignation. "I shan't say another word, Vance. Didn't think you were in earnest."
"I am in earnest about searching out this mystery, if that is what you mean, and I go over to Burwain to-morrow to make a start."
"With Miss Monk?"
"Yes," I replied, feeling qualmish. "She was Mrs. Caldershaw's nursling, and may be able to throw some light on that glass eye. I feel convinced that therein lies the solution of the mystery."
"The worst of you literary men," said Cannington, addressing the ceiling, "is that you talk too much like a book. Touched wood! touched wood!" He fled for the door, as I swung up a chair cushion. "Don't disarrange my hair, but come along to luncheon."
I obeyed. "But don't tell anyone that I am going to Mootley," said I hastily.
"Right oh. I'll take the Rippler and light out for town at two o'clock. I shall meet you at dinner, and then you can tell me all about the funeral."
So it was arranged, and we made a very good meal. At least the boy did, being unworried with secret disagreeables; but I did not eat much myself. The knowledge of what was hidden in my second portmanteau lay heavily on my mind, and I fear I betrayed my discomfort, for Cannington remarked it. It occurred to me that a murderer would have to possess amazing nerve to conduct himself as an ordinary human being, seeing that I, with no crime on my mind, was so easily discomfited. . . . Of course, under the circumstances, I should have thought of a guilty "she" rather than of a guilty "he"; but I really could not bring myself to believe that Diana of the Ephesians had murdered her old nurse.
Cannington did not waste the Rippler on himself. He invited a cheery subaltern to join him, and the two boys went off in the highest spirits, with his lordship spanchelled between the seat and the wheel. I resisted a kindly-meant invitation of Trent to play stickey, and turned my face in the direction of Mootley, thankful to be by myself. During the few miles to that village I had ample to think about, and could not help wondering at the strange whirl of circumstances which had gathered round me during the last week. I had come out to seek an adventure and had found one with a vengeance. How it would end I could not tell.
The sun came out during the afternoon, so I found the walk--but for disturbing thoughts--extremely pleasant. On passing the field, I congratulated myself that I had emptied it of its incriminating contents. Whatever inquiries Dredge made, on the face of it he could learn nothing, as I alone possessed a tangible clue. And as that clue, so far, led to Miss Gertrude Monk, and a thorough explanation would have to be forthcoming before it could go past her, it was just as well for her own peace of mind, and mine also, that she should give it to a friendly-disposed inquirer. Thinking of this, and wondering how she would explain her flight from the corner shop in my motor car, I drew near the outskirts of Mootley. The famous shop, which had appeared in several illustrated daily papers, was closed, so I did not pause but went on. Directly round the corner I met Mr. Sam Giles, the ex-greengrocer, who greeted me in a most friendly manner.
"You're just too late, sir!" said he, touching his hat, and quite ready to give all information, "she's planted."
"Mrs. Caldershaw?"
"Yes, sir. It was quite a pretty funeral, with plenty of mourners and wreaths for the coffin. We made a holiday of it this morning, and I don't think, sir, that there's much doing this afternoon, as the excitement was too great." I could not help smiling, in spite of the gravity of my errand, at the idea of the villagers extracting pleasure from such a dismal affair as the funeral of a murdered woman. But Giles apparently had the morbid love of his class for such things, and went on supplying information in high spirits.
"A heap of gentlemen of the press came from London," he said importantly, "and they photographed the grave. What with motor cars and bicycles and traps and carts, the place was like a fair. It will advertise Mootley a lot, and I shouldn't wonder if land went up in value hereabouts."
I nodded. "Mrs. Caldershaw has been quite a benefactress to the village, Mr. Giles. By the way, did Miss Monk and Miss Destiny appear at the funeral?"
"No, sir, and none of Mrs. Caldershaw's Burwain friends came to see the last of her, poor soul, which was unkind, I take it. Only Mr. Striver put in an appearance. But to be sure he could not do less," added Giles thoughtfully, "since she left him all her property."
"Striver! Striver! That's the nephew?"
"Yes, Mr. Vance, and a handsome young man he is. A gardener, I believe, who works for Mr. Walter Monk at Burwain. Not that he'll do much work now, for I daresay his aunt has left him enough to live like a gentleman. Her lawyer--he's a Murchester man in a small way of business--told me that there was over five hundred pounds in the bank; besides there's the lease of the shop for two years and its contents."
"Lucky Mr. Striver, and it's all left to him," I bantered.
"Yes, sir, along with the glass eye."
I had set my face towards the village, but wheeled at the last word. "Why the dickens did she leave him the glass eye?"
"Goodness only knows, Mr. Vance, but leave it she did. Mr. Striver's quite annoyed he hasn't got it and intends to offer a reward for it."
"He'll have to find the guilty person first," I said grimly.
"The white-cloaked lady, sir?"
I winced. "She may not be the guilty person, after all. There! there!" I went on hastily, as Giles showed a disposition to argue. "I know nothing more about the matter than you do"--this was an absolutely necessary white lie considering the circumstances--"but tell me, Mr. Giles, does this young man know why his aunt valued her glass eye so greatly?"
"No, sir. He told me that he couldn't guess why it was left to him. He is all on fire to find out, and that is why he intends to offer the reward. At present he's in the shop looking over things."
"Does he intend to give up his gardening and turn shopkeeper?" I asked.
"I don't know, sir; nothing has been settled. But he returns to Burwain--so he told me--this evening. I'm going to Murchester myself, sir, on an errand for the wife, so if you will excuse me----"
"One moment, Giles. Has anything fresh been discovered?"
"No, sir; and you mark my words, sir, nothing more ever will be discovered. The woman in the white cloak has vanished entirely, glass eye and all. You are taking an interest in the case, Mr. Vance."
"Can you wonder at it, seeing how I am mixed up in the business. I want to solve the mystery if I can, out of sheer curiosity. Here's my address, Mr. Giles," I hastily scribbled it on a card, "and if you hear of anything new, let me know at once."
Giles took the pasteboard, and promised faithfully to keep his ears and eyes open and his mind on the alert. Then he moved away down the road to Murchester, with a parting advice that I should inspect the grave. "It's a pretty grave," said Giles cheerfully, "with a lovely view!"
But I did not go to look at the grave, or at the view, which the corpse--I presume--was supposed by Giles to appreciate, for it struck me that Striver being in the corner shop it would be an excellent opportunity for me to gain possession of the photograph. I therefore turned back, and in a few minutes was knocking smartly at the closed door. Shortly it was thrown open, and on the threshold appeared one of the handsomest young men I had ever seen. There were signs of good breeding about him also, and in his navy-blue serge, with a tweed cap and brown boots--rather an odd dress for a funeral, I thought--he looked less like a gardener and more like a smart city clerk. And yet in his bearing there was a smack of the West-End.
Mr. Joseph Striver was moderately tall and perfectly made--slim in figure, with the alert poise of an athlete. His hands and feet certainly betrayed the plebeian, but no one could deny the beauty of his clean-shaven face. I say "beauty" advisedly, although it is an odd adjective to apply to a man. It was a Greek face and a Greek head, clean-cut and virile, of the fair, golden Saxon type, yet more intellectual than the same generally is. A fashionable lady might have envied his transparent complexion, his blue eyes, and the curve of his lips. His form also was irreproachable, and his small head, set proudly on the white column of his throat, possessed a snake-like grace. On the whole, Mrs. Caldershaw's heir was a singularly handsome young fellow, and with her small fortune added to his personal advantages would be certain to succeed in life. It seemed quite a pity that so splendid a youth should be a mere gardener. Yet the employment is eminently respectable, since Father Adam originally took up the profession.
He looked inquiringly at me, so I opened the conversation. "My name is Vance, Mr. Striver, and----"
"Oh," he interrupted, in a very pleasant and somewhat cultured voice. "You are the gentleman who gave evidence at the inquest. Come in please." He stepped aside to let me past. "I am very glad to see you, as I wish to ask you some questions."
I proceeded him into the shop, while he closed the door. "I said all I had to say at the inquest," I answered quickly.
"I read all about it in the papers, Mr. Vance."
"You did not come to the inquest then?"
"No, you might have guessed that, seeing you were present. I only came over to the funeral, when I heard that my aunt had left me her money--not in very appropriate clothes, I fear, though; but I had no time to get an outfit, you see. Now I am looking into things."
We were in the back room by this time, and a heap of letters and papers lay untidily on the floor. Miss Monk's photograph still smiled from the mantelpiece, and I stole a glance at it, which left me more enthralled than ever. "You won't mind my going on with my sorting," said Striver, placing a chair for me, and dropping on his knees; "but I want to get things straight before dark, as I have to return to Burwain for a few days."
He was so amazingly cheerful, that I could not help saying so. He looked up smiling. "You can't expect a poor man who has come in for money to be miserable," said Striver, with much truth. "Besides my aunt never did care for me, and I was quite surprised to learn that I was her heir. Had we been at all attached to one another I should have come to the inquest, and even before, seeing she met with so dreadful a death. But there wasn't much love lost between us, Mr. Vance, so only as her heir did I come to the funeral. I can't pretend to feel very sorry."
"That sounds rather heartless, seeing how you have benefited by her death."
Striver shrugged. "I daresay; but I never was a hypocrite. Put yourself in my place. If a disagreeable old woman left you the money she could no longer use, would you break your heart?"
I laughed. "No, I can't say that I would."
"Very well, then," he reiterated coolly, "put yourself in my place. I'm sorry, of course, as I would be for any human being who was murdered. Otherwise," he shrugged again, "well, there's no more to be said."
There came a pause. "I believe you hinted that you wished to ask me some questions?"
Striver straightened himself. "Well, yes. Have you any idea who murdered my unfortunate aunt?"
"Not in the least."
"What about the lady in the white cloak?"
"Appearances are against her. All the same, she may be innocent."
The young man's blue eyes flashed like sapphires. "I doubt that; else why should she run off with your motor car and lock you in?"
"Well," I drawled, not very sure of my ground, "she may have found your aunt dead, and in a fright----"
"Oh, that won't wash," he interrupted in a somewhat common way. "You swore at the inquest, that you were attracted into this room by a groan from my aunt, in which case she could not have been dead when this lady went up the stairs."
"That is true," I admitted, "but I don't hold a brief for the escaped lady, remember."
"You speak as though you did," he retorted and went on with his sorting. "Has anything been heard of her?"
"Nothing. I found my motor car in the field; but the lady has vanished."
"Don't you think," Striver raised himself up to ask this question, "that she could be traced by means of that white cloak?"
I shrugged in my turn and fenced, as I was not going to admit the truth. "I daresay the cloak was noticeable enough. All the same, she hasnotbeen traced. Now, she never will be. I should not be surprised if the police gave up the case."
The young man rose quickly. "No," he said promptly, "I intend to offer a reward."
"Ah! You wish to have this lady hanged."
"If she is guilty, why not?" he asked bluntly, "But if you will have the truth, Mr. Vance, I don't care either one way or the other about a possible hanging. I want to find the glass eye."
"And you think the lady has it?"
"I--I--I suppose so," he muttered in a hesitating manner, then burst out: "Yes, indeed, Idowant to find the glass eye. There's a fortune connected with it, Mr. Vance--a large fortune."
"Oh!" I could not help betraying surprise. "So this was why Mrs. Caldershaw attached such value to it?"
"Exactly. In some way--I don't exactly know how--that eye reveals the whereabouts of the fortune I speak of."
"Humph. Do you mean to say that Mrs. Caldershaw concealed her money and concealed its whereabouts in her glass eye?"
"Yes, I do, in a way. That is, this fortune does not consist of my aunt's savings. I have those and the shop also. But when she lived at Burwain, she talked of a large fortune--some fifty thousand pounds, she mentioned on one occasion--which was concealed somewhere."
"Whose fortune was it?"
"I can't say. But my father, her brother--he's dead now--was always bothering her about the money. She never would tell him anything, but said that when she died he could learn all he wanted to know from the glass eye. As my father has passed over, of course the glass eye along with the money comes to me,--the fortune also. Fifty thousand pounds!" He raised his arms with an ecstatic expression. "What couldn't I do with such a heap of coin, Mr. Vance. Why I could marry----" He halted, cast an uneasy look on me, and again began to sort the letters.
"Oh, you're in love," I said smiling.
"A man of my age is always in love," he remarked curtly. "But never mind about that, I want to find some clue to the glass eye," and he tossed over the papers feverishly.
"To its whereabouts?"
"No, I know that much. The person who murdered my aunt has the eye, and killed her for the sake of learning the secret. But my aunt may have left some letter, or paper, or description, sayinghowthe eye can reveal the whereabouts of the fifty thousand pounds. Can you imagine," he sat back on his hams, "how the eye can be the clue?"
"No," I said, after a pause, "unless there is a piece of paper hidden in it."
"Oh, that's impossible. Do you know what a glass eye is like?"
"Well, no, I have never seen one, unless fixed in a person's head."
Striver laughed. "I had the same idea about a piece of paper," he explained carefully, "and went to an optician in Tarhaven to examine an eye. I suppose you think--as I did--that an artificial eye is the shape and size and the fatness of an almond."
"Something like that," I admitted, "with the paper enclosed within."
Striver laughed again. "It's shaped exactly like a small sea-shell: simply a curve of thin glass, convex and concave, and fits into the socket like a--a--what shall I say?--like a cupping-glass."
"Humph! In that case, it would be impossible to conceal a piece of paper behind it without damage."
"Of course, taking also into consideration the smallness of the eye. The only thing I can think of," he added, half to himself, "is that there is a plan or some writing on the back part, which reveals the whereabouts of this money."
"But there's no space to write in," I objected, considerably interested.
"Why not. Writing done with a magnifying-glass, you know. I have seen the Lord's Prayer written on a sixpence."
I nodded. "There may be something in what you say," I admitted, "and, as it appears that Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered for the sake of the eye, it must have some value. Perhaps," I added with a brilliant afterthought, "she hid a diamond behind it."
"It would have to be a very large diamond to bring in fifty thousand pounds," said Striver, seriously. "No, I believe that the eye is simply a clue to this treasure."
"Treasure?"
"Well, money, jewels, gold, bank-notes, what not. All I know is that my aunt certainly mentioned fifty thousand pounds to my father."
"Why didn't she secure the treasure herself?"
"Perhaps she did and has buried it somewhere. Well, never mind," he turned over the papers again, "come what may, I must find the eye."
"You won't find it there," I said, rising to take my leave, and with one eye on Miss Monk's photograph. "Better get the police to trace the white-cloaked lady, since you believe she has taken it."
"I don't see who else could have committed the murder and have stolen the glass eye," said Striver decisively. "In one way or another, she must be found, somehow."
"And then----?"
"Then she must deliver up the glass eye."
"And be hanged."
"I don't want to go so far as that," he muttered nervously. "Of course, she is a woman."
"And being so, is clever enough not to be caught. I daresay she will learn the secret of Mrs. Caldershaw, procure the fortune, and bolt to America." I moved towards the door, and Striver straightened himself to show me out. Then with an apparent afterthought I drew his attention to the smiling face of Miss Monk. "I admire that," said I, pointing.
The effect was somewhat unexpected. "Why?" he asked roughly, and flushed scarlet through his fair skin, looking more handsome than ever.
"Why?" I stared at him in surprise. "Why not? you should ask. It is a very lovely face, and I admire it as a work of art."
"Oh, as a work of art. That's all right," he retorted quickly, "but it happens to be the photograph of a real person."
"Miss Gertrude Monk."
"How do you know that?" demanded the young man, again flushing angrily.
"Miss Destiny told me that the photograph was one of her niece. I suppose, Mr. Striver, you would not mind my buying it."
"I'll see you hanged first," he retorted vehemently, and clenched his fists. "What is Miss Monk to you?"
"I have never met her, Mr. Striver, so calm yourself. But you display such heat at my apparently simple question, that I must ask, what is she to you?"
Striver stared at me and his eyes were as hard as a piece of jade. "I love her," he said defiantly.
I was taken aback by this statement, and flushed in my turn, making the not very polite reply, "Nonsense!"
"And why nonsense," shouted Striver, who had by this time completely lost his temper, "how dare you say that? Even though I am a gardener I have the feelings of a human being."
"But your difference in rank," I exclaimed hotly.
"Love levels all ranks."
"Indeed. Then I take it that Miss Monk favors your suit?"
"Mind your own business, Mr. Vance."
"I intend to make it my business," I snapped, now as angry as he was, for it did seem ridiculous that this Claud Melnotte, handsome as he was, should aspire to the apple on the topmost bough.
"You're talking damned rot and damned insolence. If you have never seen Miss Monk, you can't possibly be in love with her," he raged furiously.
"I said nothing about love. But that photograph took my fancy, and I wish to buy it if possible."
Striver snatched the photograph, silver frame and all, off the mantelpiece to cram it roughly into his pocket. "There," he cried vehemently, "that's all you'll ever see of it."
"Then I must seek out the original," said I, walking into the shop.
He was after me in a moment. "If you dare to come interfering," he growled in a voice thick with passion, "I'll break your neck."
"That is easier said than done," I jeered, now being content that the young man was my rival and a dangerous one at that. "Let me pass."
Striver paused irresolutely, then did as he was asked. I left the shop leisurely, and glanced back when some distance down the road. Mr. Joseph Striver drew the photograph out of his pocket and insolently kissed it, apparently to intimate that I was odd man out.