I returned to Murchester, rather annoyed to find that I had a rival, even though he was but a gardener. There was no denying that the fellow was uncommonly handsome, and thus might captivate the affections of a woman above him in stations. As I have said before, I can lay no claim to good looks, so if Miss Monk was a young lady whose heart was in her eye, as the saying goes, I stood rather a poor chance. Certainly Striver, while professing that he loved her, had not ventured to say that there was any response to his daring. Still, for all I knew, the romance might be a reversal of King Cophetua and the beggar-maid, in which not unlikely case, a journey to Burwain would certainly destroy my peace of mind. If I loved the picture of the goddess, how much more would I love the goddess herself, when she became flesh and blood to my hungry eyes. When searching for an adventure, I had not counted upon this entanglement.
However, on reflection, I did not see why I should not stand as good a chance as the gardener. He assuredly was better-looking and younger, possessing a certain amount of money, if not a man of any exalted rank. I was a gentleman, in the prime of life, and well on the way to make a comfortable income, if not exactly a fortune. Also I possessed a recognised position as a rising dramatist, and I had a large circle of pleasant, well-to-do friends to whom I could introduce my wife. So I made up my mind to stick to my guns, or in other words, to see Miss Monk, and learn how the land lay. Of course if she loved young Striver, there was nothing more to be said; but if she did not, and the love was all on his part, I could then try my luck. And at this point I recalled the memory of that infernal glass eye.
If good looks did not tempt the lady, fifty thousand pounds might do so, and should Striver become possessed of the glass eye he stood a remarkably good chance of securing that fortune. So far we were equal, for I knew as much about the case as he did. Nay, I knew more, since I had found the famous cloak with the initial embroidery. I wondered whether it would be better to tell Miss Monk nothing about my discovery, or dare the utmost, and show her that she was in my power. She certainly was, as the mere production of the cloak would result in her arrest. With regard to possession of the goddess, I was therefore in a stronger position that Mr. Striver, and yet I did not see how I could make use of the weapon I had in my hand. A man could not very well force a lady to marry him because he could hang her if she did not. Moreover she might be able to exonerate herself completely, although I did not see how, and then would scornfully refuse to have anything more to do with--let me put it plainly--such a blackmailing ruffian.
No! Come what might, I decided to play the game fair. Not only that, but I decided to use my information, as best I could, to protect Miss Monk from the gardener. In making inquiries, he might possibly chance upon a clue which would reveal the fact that Miss Monk was the heroine of the missing motor car. In that case, it might be that he would use his knowledge to insist upon the unequal marriage. I could then intervene,--I did not see very plainly at the moment to what purpose,--but at any rate I could offer myself as the lady's champion. But then--here was the crux of the matter--for all I knew Miss Monk might be as much in love with Striver as he apparently was with her. Only a visit to Burwain and a personal interview with my goddess would prove the truth of that.
Then another thing occurred to me while I slowly dressed for dinner. If Miss Monk had stolen the motor car and had locked me in the back room along with the dead Mrs. Caldershaw, she must necessarily be the possessor of the glass eye. On the face of it, she appeared to be guilty, but I could not bring myself to condemn her. Yet she could scarcely have the glass eye unless she had murdered her old nurse with that damned hat-pin, which was so grave a proof that the assassin was a woman. But the eye was the clue to some concealed treasure--this appeared to be plain enough from what Striver had said of his late aunt's babble--so if Miss Monk became unexpectedly wealthy, it would prove that she was a thief, if not a murderess. It seemed to be that there was nothing to be done but to take up my abode in Burwain, meet the lady if possible, and then play a waiting game. Whether Mr. Striver or his master's daughter got the fifty thousand pounds, her guilt would be manifest, since he could only get the glass eye from her, to learn the clue to the treasure. And if she had the glass eye, she must have----
"No no! no!" I said aloud at this point, and startled Cannington's servant, who was valeting me. "It's nothing, Johnston," I said, and went on mentally with my defence of Miss Monk, although I could not deduce a single particle of evidence in her favor. "She can't be guilty," my thoughts ran furiously, "she is much too lovely to be guilty. There must be some mistake. She undoubtedly will be able to explain. And yet--and yet--oh, hang it, I'll not decide the question either one way or the other until I see her."
This being settled so far--although I unsettled my mind again and again through the long night--I went to mess and made a pretence of eating. Cannington and his friend had not yet returned, which made me believe that the two featherheads had smashed my car. If so it was a great nuisance, as I wanted the Rippler to drive over to Burwain on the morrow. However, the two arrived about midnight with a long account of a police trap which had detained them, and I went off to bed, leaving them to their supper. Cannington came to my bedside to relate his London adventures, but I used such bad language that he retreated promptly. Next morning I departed immediately after breakfast, more puzzled than ever over the problem I was setting out to solve. Had Miss Monk the glass eye? If so, was she guilty? If she had not the glass eye, who had? Did she love Joseph Striver? Would he find the glass eye, and consequently the fortune? If he did, would he marry Miss Monk, etc. etc. etc.: my brain was an absolute chaos.
"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Cannington, taking leave, and looking very spic and span in his uniform. "Tell me all about it in London."
"Tell you what?"
"I may not mention her name," he said, and winked solemnly.
"Don't be an ass," I retorted, leaning down to whisper, "things are much more serious than you guess."
"What? Have you learned anything about--"
"Shut up! When I return from Burwain to town I may need your assistance."
"Right oh," said Cannington, looking grave, for he saw I was in deadly earnest.
"And don't tell anyone where I am going."
"No. You're supposed to be on your way to London. But, I say----"
"Oh, I can't stop to chatter. Hold your tongue and wait until I see you again, boy. Understand?"
"Yes, that is----"
He would have detained me for I had, very cruelly perhaps, raised his curiosity immensely. But I gave the steering-wheel a twist, and the machinery being in motion, glided away before he could ask further questions. I glanced back to see him shake his fist at me, and then spun rapidly through the gritty square of the Barracks, down the road, into the street, and finally emerged through a steep lane into the country proper. A long smooth Roman road without twists or turns lay before me, and as there was no policeman in sight I let the Rippler go up to her full speed of forty miles an hour. The motion somewhat relieved my mind, which was considerably worried. I wondered if I was held up for exceeding the speed limit, and if my second portmanteau was examined, what the police would say. I knew very well what they would do, that is, lodge me in the nearest jail as an accomplice of the lady in the white cloak. Fortunately the luck held, and I got through safely.
I can't say that my drive was over-pleasant, as the rain came on, just after I left Murchester and it poured steadily throughout the day. Then as the wheels would not bite in particularly soaked and slippery places, the car skidded considerably; also the gear jammed on two occasions, and once I ran short of petrol. Never was there such a series of accidents, and my temper was none of the best when I struck Tarhaven. Here I halted for luncheon, and went to the post-office to see if any letters awaited me. I found only one from my agent, but as that contained two weeks' fees for my new melodrama it proved to be most acceptable. A visit to the haberdasher's took up some of my time, and it was late in the afternoon when I turned the Rippler in the direction of Burwain. However, the distance from Tarhaven was but a short one, and I soon slowed down before the one hotel of the village. I call it an hotel, but it was really a tumbledown inn, quaint, old-fashioned, and comfortable, with a robin red-breast for its sign.
Burwain is an isolated little place, lying low in a hollow depression of the land, some distance from the sea. On its outskirts the road ran through levels of stunted shrubs not big enough to be called trees, and there were also tall hedges, which muffled the village as though it were wrapped in cotton-wool. By reason of this the place is stuffy, and the air seems to be twice breathed. The streets stretch to the four quarters in the form of a crooked cross, and there was a tolerably wide green in the centre, which is faced by the Robin Redbreast Inn. I pulled up, and jumped out to meet the landlady in the passage and receive a great surprise.
"Cuckoo!" I said, halting in much astonishment. "Well, I'm blest."
"Mrs. Gilfin now, Master Cyrus," said the old lady, as amazed as I was. "Well, well to think that you of all gentlemen should come here."
"It's fate," said I, for I knew that from Mrs. Gilfin, if anyone, I could obtain all necessary news, unless she had changed her gossiping habits, which I did not think at all likely.
Still exclaiming at our unexpected meeting, Mrs. Gilfin led the way to a small sitting-room, and we faced one another to talk over the past. Mrs. Gilfin had been my mother's cook when I was a schoolboy, and then we had been the greatest of friends. As a child I had always called her Cuckoo, from some dim association with her employment, and many a time had I been indebted to her for tit-bits. When the home was broken up she had vanished into the unknown, but now reappeared in the character of a married woman and the landlady, of this old-world inn. She was a fat little woman, with a pudding-face, who wore spectacles, behind which sharp little pig's eyes twinkled knowingly. In old days she had always been a great talker, and did not seemed to have changed in this respect: a cause of rejoicing to me, since I hoped to learn all I could about Miss Monk and her dead nurse.
"What brought you to Burwain, Master Cyrus?" asked Mrs. Gilfin, when we had complimented each other on the gentle way in which time had dealt with our looks.
I had already arranged what to say, as, if I wanted Mrs. Gilfin's assistance, it was necessary to take her, in some degree, into my confidence. Moreover, I knew of old that she was a very worthy and silent--when it suited her--woman. "Love brings me here, Cuckoo," I replied, "and love will keep me here for at least a week, if not longer. So give me a sitting-room and a bedroom and recall the special dishes I like. Don't ask questions just yet. I shall tell you all when I have had dinner, but just now I am much too hungry to talk. Have you been long here?" I asked, contradicting my last assertion.
"Ten years, Master Cyrus. First as cook, and afterwards as mistress. My husband had this inn from his father, but was letting it go to wreck and ruin when I arrived, owing to his being fat. So he married me, so that I could look after it. I would only stay when I saw the wedding-ring."
"Owing to his being fat?" I questioned, rather puzzled.
"Come Master Cyrus and see?" said Mrs. Gilfin, and led me into a low-ceiling bar of the Dickens epoch, all white-wash and smoky oaken beams. Here I beheld a pre-historic ingle-nook in which was placed a capacious armchair, and in it was seated the fattest man I had ever set eyes on. He smoked a churchwarden pipe and drank beer from a huge tankard placed on a small table beside him. "This is my husband," said Mrs. Gilfin and introduced me.
Mr. Gilfin, who smoked with his eyes closed, opened them sleepily! "Glad to see you sir. I hope you'll be comfortable. The missus will look after you. It's fine weather for this time of the year, although I ain't been out to see!" and having made these original remarks, he closed his eyes again and pulled at his pipe, a large mass of adipose, contented and purely animal.
"He doesn't talk much," explained Mrs. Gilfin, beaming through her spectacles on her Daniel Lambert, "but folk come for miles to see his size. He don't go out of doors either, Master Cyrus, but sits there smoking and eating and drinking so as to keep himself in good condition to be a draw."
"To be a draw?" I echoed, while Mr. Gilfin blinked drowsily.
"Customers come to look at him, and wish they were like him, Master Cyrus. I look after things, but John is the attraction. The Burly Beast of Burwain they call him, and though it ain't polite, it makes people curious to call. And you can see, Master Cyrus," added Mrs. Gilfin, as she left her husband to his pipe and beer, "how the inn, with such a man, was going to wreck and ruin. It was a good job he married me, not but what I'm thankful to be the mistress of the Robin Redbreast. It's poor work being a cook at my age, and under mistresses who don't know their place ain't in the kitchen. Your poor dear ma, now, Master Cyrus, always stopped in the doring-room, as a lady should."
I assented, as there was little use in arguing with Mrs. Gilfin, who--as I knew of old--always had an answer to the most pertinent objections. Although not so fat as her spouse, she was still very stout, and her looks, along with those of John, said a good deal for the style of living obtainable at the inn. I engaged the sitting-room in which we had our first conversation and a bedroom immediately over head. Then I had my traps taken into the house, and having stowed away the Rippler in a convenient outhouse, sat down to besiege Burwain in due form. After dinner--and a very good dinner it was too--I told Mrs. Gilfin as much as I thought necessary, which did not include any reference to the discovery of the cloak.
"Dear! dear!" said Mrs. Gilfin, who had frequently raised her fat hands at intervals, during my narrative, "to think of the young gentleman, who was so fond of my custards, being in love, and with Miss Gertrude, of all young ladies. Well, she's the beauty of the world, and no mistake, Master Cyrus."
"So I thought from the photograph, Cuckoo. By the way, did you not know this poor woman who was murdered?"
"Do I know the nose on my face?" asked Mrs. Gilfin, severely. "Of course I knew her well, when she was housekeeper to Mr. Miser Monk."
"Miser Monk--you mean Gabriel Monk?"
"No I don't, Master Cyrus, if you'll excuse me for contradicting you. Gabriel he was christened, I daresay, but Miser he was called by them who knew how he hoarded up money."
"He was a genuine miser then?"
"Genuine." Mrs. Gilfin's fat hands flew up, and her pigs' eyes twinkled, "he would skin a flea for its hide and squeeze blood out of a stone, and take the trousers off a Highlandman, Master Cyrus. A nasty stooping lean old man, with a black-velvet skull-cap and a stick and a suit of clothes you wouldn't have picked up off the dung-hill. Of good family too," added Mrs. Gilfin, nodding, until her cap-ribbons quivered. "The Monks are an old Essex family, who used to own Burwain and all the land from Gattlingsands to Tarhaven. But they came down in the world, and only The Lodge remained to Mr. Miser Monk, as his father was a spendthrift, and scattered everything. But the miser invested what was left, Master Cyrus, and I believe had an income of five hundred golden pounds a year, although he never spent a penny of it. He never repaired The Lodge, or attended to the garden, or gave a farthing to the poor, but saved and saved. As he lived for eighty years, Master Cyrus, you may guess that his savings came to a pretty penny. He died five years ago, when Anne Caldershaw took her savings and herself to live at Mootley."
"What became of his money?" I asked, anxiously.
"Ask me something I know, Master Cyrus? The Lodge and the few acres round it and the five hundred a year, which was so tied up that it couldn't be touched, went to Mr. Walter Monk. Miss Destiny didn't like that, though why she should have expected to be remembered in the will, when she was only Mr. Miser Monk's brother's sister-in-law, I can't make out."
"She lived with Mr. Monk, didn't she?"
Mrs. Gilfin nodded. "For years and years, and so got into his misery habits."
"Ah," said I, recalling certain traits of the little old lady at Mootley, "so I should imagine. Miss Monk lived with her uncle also, it seems."
Mrs. Gilfin nodded again. "Mr. Miser Monk loved his niece: she was the only person he ever loved. Mr. Walter Monk was always away, as he is now, and being a widower, there was no one to look after the child. Mr. Miser Monk took Miss Gertrude to live with him, when she was quite a baby, and asked Miss Destiny to come to him also. Anne looked after the house, and the four lived together in that tumbledown old place like rats in a cheese. If Miss Gertrude hadn't gone for years to a boarding-school at Hampstead and got good food there, she never would have grown into the handsome young lady she is."
"Ah," I exclaimed, greatly interested, "then she is handsome?"
"As paint, Master Cyrus, and the sweetest young lady you ever met. Takes after her pa, she does, who is nice enough, though he's selfish I don't deny."
"In what way?"
"Why," said Mrs. Gilfin, casting about in her mind for an explanation, "he's hardly ever at home, being always in London, on business he says, though I think he's too lazy to do much, especially," added Mrs. Gilfin with emphasis, "as he has five hundred a year sure. But he only comes down here once in a blue moon, as you might say, and leaves that poor young lady to live the life of a nun at The Lodge along with one servant to do all the housework."
"Why doesn't Miss Destiny continue to live with her niece?" I asked.
"Ah!" Mrs. Gilfin nodded vigorously, "she'd be glad to do so, as being a miser like the late Mr. Gabriel Monk, it would save her living expenses. But the fact is, Master Cyrus, that Miss Destiny don't like Miss Gertrude, and Miss Gertrude don't like Miss Destiny: nor does Mr. Walter Monk, for the matter of that. The five hundred a year being left to him is a sore point with Miss Destiny, so she cleared out when Mr. Miser Monk died, and now lives at the end of the village in a small cottage along with that half-mad creature, Lucinda Tyke, she picked up in the Rochford workhouse, and don't pay no wages to."
I was playing with the poker as Mrs. Gilfin spoke. "Then I take it that Mr. Walter Monk has five hundred a year, and no more?"
"Except The Lodge and the three or four acres round about, Master Cyrus. He spends most of the money on himself too, and Miss Gertrude has enough to do to make both ends meet, though from her looks she should be a queen and sit on a throne."
"But if the late Mr. Gabriel Monk was a miser, what became of his savings?"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Gilfin, significantly, "now you're growing hot, Master Cyrus, as the children say. The will left the money and the property to Mr. Walter Monk, and the savings--he didn't mention the amount--to Miss Gertrude with her uncle's dear love. But search as they might, they could not find out where the money was hidden. And as Mr. Miser Monk saved nearly five hundred a year for eighty years more or less, he must have hidden away a heap of gold. Forty thousand pounds I daresay," ended Mrs. Gilfin with relish.
"Or fifty thousand," I mused, recalling the sum mentioned by the gardener, and beginning to see light. "Have they searched everywhere?"
"Everywhere," echoed Mrs. Gilfin, nodding again. "Miss Gertrude's an innocent, who believes that her pa's an angel, which he ain't, though nice enough in his ways. She'd give him her head if he asked her and never complains of him keeping her short and being always away spending his five hundred a year. He knew if he found his brother's savings--forty thousand pounds, I'm certain," added Mrs. Gilfin decidedly, "that, though lawfully Miss Gertrude's, she'd hand them over to him. So he turned the house upside down, and even dug up the garden, to say nothing of searching the meadows. He wanted the spending of the money, you see, Master Cyrus. But they couldn't find even as much as a shilling. What's become of all the money, no one knows, unless Mr. Miser Monk gambled and lost. He certainly went up to London every now and then," mused the landlady, "and them old men can't be trusted any more than the young ones, saving your presence, Master Cyrus, But there it is, sir," she spread out her pudgy hands and shrugged her fat shoulders, "plenty of money, belonging to that poor young lady hidden away, and she with scarcely enough to dress on, let alone keep the bread in her mouth, though to be sure she hasn't got to pay rent, and her pa gives the servant her wages regular. Ah," Mrs. Gilfin sighed, "and such a beauty. I wonder she ain't been married ages ago."
"Does her father love her?"
"Yes and no. He loves her when she don't cross his path, and thinks her a bother when she do. Some times he takes her to London for a treat, being free with his money, when he spends it on himself. He got her picture taken by a swell photographer once, but I daresay that was to show her to one of his rich friends and get her married off well, so that he could live on his son-in-law."
"That must have been one of the photographs I saw on the mantlepiece in the Mootley corner shop," I exclaimed.
"Like enough, Master Cyrus. And I daresay her pa gave her the silver frame when he was feeling generous-like, as he do on occasions. Queer," said Mrs. Gilfin rubbing her nose, "one brother a miser, and the other taking after his father is a spendthrift. Luckily the five hundred a year's so tied up that he can't get at the principal, and it comes to Miss Gertrude when her pa joins Mr. Miser Monk in the graveyard. So she's all right, the dear sweet young lady she is."
"Have you ever seen the photograph, Cuckoo?"
"Oh yes, Master Cyrus. Mr. Joseph Striver's got one. Begged it off her, and she being an angel gave it to him, though he's only the gardener."
"Does she love him?" I asked tremulously.
"No, she don't," said Mrs. Gilfin shortly.
"Does he love her?" I persisted.
"He do: the impertinence! him only being a gardener, though handsome, I will say. Mr. Walter Monk don't pay him much for gardening at The Lodge, yet he stays on there because he loves Miss Gertrude, as if she'd look on such dirt as Anne Caldershaw's nephew. His father left him with fifty pounds a year so that's why he can afford to stop on, and now I hear he's come in for money from his aunt. But if he dares to raise his eyes to Miss Gertrude, Master Cyrus, you break his neck," advised Mrs. Gilfin.
"But if she loves him----"
"How can she, when he ain't a gentleman born," snapped Mrs. Gilfin, "she don't love anybody but a dog she have, and lives in that shabby old house like a nun in a convent, or a toad in a stone. Where the young men's eyes are I don't know," ended Mrs. Gilfin, virtuously indignant.
My spirits rose as she spoke. "I'm glad she's fancy free," I said, rejoicingly, "there's a chance for me then?"
"You being well-looking, I should think so, Master Cyrus," said Mrs. Gilfin.
I usually invent my plots, arrange my business and consider my circumstances when in bed, which is by far the best place for such thought-work. Alone in the darkness of the silent hours, there is no external influence to prevent concentration, therefore conclusions of the best can be reached speedier than in the daytime. On the night of my arrival at Burwain, I took advantage of the opportunity to think hard and long. It was necessary that matters should be adjusted clearly in my own mind before I could hope to deal with the situation. After Mrs. Gilfin's report, I desired more than ever to make Gertrude Monk my wife, but there were obstacles in the way, which only deliberate and continuous action could remove. A clear understanding of the position was decidedly imperative.
I now began to see that Anne Caldershaw's hint to her brother had reference to the missing monies of Gabriel Monk. Certainly, even if he had saved every penny of his income for eighty years, he would not have accumulated fifty thousand pounds: but it was more than probable that his visits to London were connected with various investments, and that in one way or another he had gained the fortune mentioned by Mrs. Caldershaw. But--as I asked myself frequently--if Monk had invested the money, why was it not discoverable, since investments cannot very well be concealed. On reflection I decided that the man being a genuine miser, loving the color and weight and feel of gold, had probably turned his investments, whatever they might be, into hard cash, and had hidden this carefully away. In some way Mrs. Caldershaw had learned the whereabouts of the specie, and the missing eye indicated the hiding-place. The money, by Gabriel Monk's will, belonged to Gertrude Monk, but the ex-housekeeper wished her nephew to get it, and so had left him the clue to the place where it was concealed. Perhaps she knew that Striver loved her young mistress, and thought that if he married her, after acquiring the fortune, that justice would be done. She wished, as the saying is, to kill two birds with one stone.
But two things puzzled me greatly in connection with the matter. In the first place it was odd that Mrs. Caldershaw, aware of the whereabouts of the money, should not have laid hands on it, and in the second it was difficult to understand how she could arrange that her glass eye should be a clue to its possession. Then I began to believe that the dead woman had removed the coin from where the miser had hidden it, and had drawn a plan of its new resting-place, which she had concealed behind the eye. But having regard to the shell-like shape of the eye, as described by Joseph Striver, the plan could not be delineated on a piece of paper however small, as there was no shield at the back of the artificial eyes to protect it from wear and tear. The plan, I fancied, as did Mr. Striver, was drawn on the inward curve of the eye itself, although it was difficult to imagine that the details had not been obliterated by the moisture of the flesh. But this last conjecture was for the moment beside the matter. What I knew was that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye indicated the whereabouts of fifty thousand pounds belonging by will to Gertrude Monk. To find that treasure and marry the girl was what I determined to do. And to manage this, it was necessary to prevent the fortune from falling into Striver's hands, by getting the glass eye into my own possession. That was no easy task, on account of the obscurity which involved the murder and the theft which had led to the murder.
Of course Gertrude Monk knew that she was legally entitled to her uncle's money, so it was possible, that having learned Mrs. Caldershaw's secret, she had gone to Mootley to insist upon the eye being given up, for the purpose of obtaining her rights. But in that case, she would scarcely have murdered the woman, since all she had to do was to compel Mrs. Caldershaw by law to confess the truth. It might be that she had quarrelled with the old woman, who would not be inclined to disarrange her plans for the well-being of her nephew; but I did not think that a girl with so lovely a face and so high a character--as Mrs. Gilfin avouched for--would have stooped to committing a crime. Had she done so and had obtained the money, her conscience would not permit her to rest. Therefore I acquitted the young lady of homicide, and cast about in my mind to think, who could possibly have slain Mrs. Caldershaw for the sake of the fortune.
Miss Destiny certainly grudged her niece the money, and being a miser would have been glad to acquire it, but she was too frail a little woman to commit the murder. Also, at the time, she was driving to Mootley, and had not yet reached the place, as the story of her encounter with my looted motor car clearly proved. She had established an indefeasible alibi. Mr. Walter Monk was in London at the time of the murder: Mr. Joseph Striver was at Burwain, and I could think of no other person who would be driven to murder Mrs. Caldershaw for her secret. The more I thought of the matter the more complex did it become. All I could do--I decided this about three o'clock in the morning--was to revert to my original decision and play a waiting game. Then I fell asleep and woke at nine o'clock with a headache, the result of over-thinking.
However, a cold bath, a good breakfast, and a half-hour's gossip with the landlady banished my pains, and somewhere about eleven I walked forth to spy out the land. I wished to call on Miss Destiny, and through her, to gain an introduction to her niece. Once in touch with Miss Monk, I might learn in some cautious way, how her cloak came to be in the field. Certainly on the fact of it, I fancied she had worn it herself and had stolen my Rippler, but it was just possible that she had given it to Mrs. Caldershaw, and had not been near Mootley at all. In which case, I, began to wonder more than ever, who was the clever woman who had taken possession of it. But such wondering was futile, as I had no certain facts to go upon. Gertrude Monk alone could give the clue, seeing that the cloak, whether worn by herself or not, was her property.
There was little difficulty in finding the abode of Miss Destiny who appeared to be as well-known in Burwain as St. Paul's Cathedral is in the metropolis. Her miserly character appeared to be common talk, and when I reached the end of the village and sighted her cottage I could well understand why it was no secret. A gentlewoman with a certain amount of money, however small, would never have dwelt in such a hovel, unless she grudged every farthing to render it sightly and comfortable. For Miss Destiny had her abode in a tiny house of galvanized tin, standing some distance from the main road, and almost hidden by a dank growth of tall weeds, and shrubs and neglected trees. A sod fence fringed the roadway, and therein was placed midway a rickety wooden gate with a broken hinge. From this a crooked pathway made by feet and worn by feet and preserved as an entrance by feet, meandered to the green-painted front door. On either side docks and darnells and brambles and coarse grasses and weeds flourished in profusion breast-high. And overhanging the tin shed--it could scarcely be called a cottage--were two gigantic elms, which dropped their decayed branches on the roof and round the walls, where they lay to add to the sordid confusion of the place. Viewing this desolation, I could only think of the chateau of the Yellow Dwarf, as described by Madame D'Aulnoy.
I walked up the sodden path--the tin shed seemed to have been built in a swamp, so oozy was the ground--and rapped smartly at the narrow front door. On either side were two small windows, through the glass of which I caught a glimpse of iron bars, which proved that Miss Destiny had made necessary provision against burglars. What struck me as odd was the absence of a chimney, but I had no time to consider this, for shortly I heard the rattle of a chain and the sound of bolts being drawn back. Then the door was opened an inch or two to reveal the dull eyes and mustached lip of Lucinda. The expression of her face was aggressive and watchful.
"What do you want?" she demanded in her beautiful voice, which struck me anew as singularly sympathetic despite her rough greeting.
"I am Mr. Cyrus Vance, who was at Mootley," I explained elaborately, "and I wish to see Miss Destiny."
Before I ended my request I heard a little, low, fluttering laugh, and Lucinda, opening the door widely, moved aside to show the tiny figure of her mistress with outstretched hands. "Prince Charming come in search of the Sleeping Beauty," cried Miss Destiny, romantically, "and all because he saw a portrait of the lady. Come in, Mr. Vance, come in. I can promise you flesh and blood this time, my dear adventurer."
There was little change about the old lady. She still wore the threadbare black silk dress, though without the velvet mantle, and her snow-white hair was still piled up after the fashion of Louis XVI's ill-fated queen.
I thrilled when I heard her words, as I guessed that I had arrived in a happy moment, and that Miss Destiny's niece, the goddess of my dreams, was seated within that pauper house. Even Lucinda grinned in a friendly way, as she saw the color come and go in my face. With all my self-control I could not suppress that sign of emotion.
"Prince Charming," said Miss Destiny, introducing me directly into a bare sitting-room, for there was no passage in the cottage, "yet me present you to The Sleeping Beauty," and she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever as she clapped her skinny hands.
Gertrude Monk was seated in a well-worn horsehair armchair, near the oil stove which did duty as a fireplace to warm the bleak room. She was plainly dressed in blue serge, with a toque of the same on her dark head, and had a muff and boa of silver-fox fur. Nothing could have been more Puritanic than her array, but the close-fitting frock showed off her fine figure to advantage, and she looked uncommonly handsome. I have already described her from her photograph, so there is no need to go over old ground, but she was even more beautiful and unapproachable than I had believed her to be, and looked more like the goddess Diana than ever. The sole thing I found lacking to complete her perfection was color, for her face was the hue of old ivory, and even her lips looked pale. Also there was a troubled look in her large dark eyes, and she welcomed me with some embarrassment. But this last probably was due to the oddity of our introduction, since Miss Destiny had evidently informed her of my admiration for her portrait.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Vance," she said sedately and with a stately bow of her head, "my aunt informed me of your connection with the sad death of my old nurse."
"I think my connection with the matter is public property, Miss Monk," I said, nervously, "for my name has been in all the papers."
"As a playwright that should please you," she said coldly, "anything for an advertisement. Well, tell us what has been discovered?"
"Nothing as far as I know, Miss Monk."
"Oh!" she raised her fine eyebrows. "I understood," she glanced at Miss Destiny, "that you promised to come and inform my aunt of any new developments. As you are here, I thought that something had been discovered."
"Nothing has been discovered, Miss Monk. I simply came here to see an old servant of my mother's, who keeps The Robin Redbreast, and intend to stay for a few days." Of course this was a white lie, but I had to make some excuse, for her troubled eyes were searching my face intently.
"Mrs. Gilfin," said she, a smile relaxing the corners of her mouth and heaving what I took to be a sigh of relief, "I am fond of Mrs. Gilfin."
"And she is fond of you, Miss Monk. Had she never spoken to you about me?"
"No," was the reply, so my artful question, failed in its effect. Then the conversation languished, and Miss Destiny babbled to excuse her lack of hospitality. Lucinda had left the room.
"I should give you a cup of tea, Gertrude, and you also, Mr. Vance. But the kettle is not boiling, and the baker has not come, so you must excuse me."
"I am not hungry, thank you, Miss Destiny. What a comfortable little place you have here."
In my desperate desire to propitiate the little woman, I told a lie, and Miss Monk saw that I did, for her lip curled, so contemptuously, that the color came to my cheeks. I had been undiplomatic, for the word I had used did not apply in the least to the bare surroundings. The shed--it had originally been a shed, as I afterwards learned--was divided by frail partitions into four small rooms: two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a parlor. These were furnished with the flotsam and jetsam of auction rooms, in an insufficient manner. If Miss Destiny had contracted the vice of avarice from the late Gabriel Monk, she had done so very thoroughly. The bare wooden walls, the drugget on the floor, the four or five sticks of shaky furniture, and the evil-smelling oil stove, made up a picture of insistent penury. And Miss Destiny, lean-faced, keen-eyed and restless, looked like the hag Poverty herself, as she hovered about the bleak room. And even she saw through my lying remark.
"Comfortable, no indeed, Mr. Vance," she tittered nervously, "comfort, to my mind, means laziness and self-indulgence. Lucinda and I live the simple life, and require only the bare necessities of civilization. And I'm so poor----"
Her niece intervened coldly. "Is it necessary to inform Mr. Vance of your private business, aunt?"
"Oh, my dear, he knows it. For instance, that I am your aunt only by courtesy."
"What do you mean? You are my mother's sister."
"Yes. Poor dear Jane; what a bad marriage she made with that spendthrift."
"Aunt! aunt! Leave my father alone."
"My dear, I refuse to be contradicted. I never liked Walter, and I never will, so I disassociate myself from him in every way, as a sister-in-law, and look upon myself as your aunt by courtesy: merely by courtesy."
Miss Monk rose with a flush. "This conversation cannot be interesting to Mr. Vance," she said, quietly. "If you have any business with him, I shall leave you together."
"No, no, I have no business with him, my dear. Merely I should like to know if Anne's will really leaves all her property to Joseph."
"If you mean Mr. Striver, I understand that he had got the money and the lease of the corner shop to say nothing of the contents," said I, in detail.
"Merely I should like to know if Anne's will really did think Anne would have remembered me. We were such friends. And with a little money I could have made myself more comfortable. The garden for instance: I'm sure I live in a kind of jungle. Gertrude, I wish you could let Joseph come and put it right. Then we could talk about his good fortune."
"Joseph takes odd jobs at times," said Miss Monk, trying to speak calmly, for really her aunt was very trying with her unnecessary frankness, "if you offer him a good wage, he will come with pleasure."
"Oh, I can't afford to pay money," said Miss Destiny hurriedly, "it is not to be expected, especially since Gabriel left me nothing. Ah! Gertrude, you are the lucky one. Fifty thousand pounds," Miss Destiny smacked her lips, "oh, if it only could be found.'
"It is not likely to be found."
"Mr. Striver intends to find it," I said incautiously, and could have bitten out my tongue the moment afterwards for so crude a remark.
Both the women turned to face me: Miss Destiny with vulture-like eagerness, and Miss Monk with an expression of astonishment. "What has Joseph to do with my money?" asked the latter, pointedly.
"Perhaps he doesn't know that it is your money, Miss Monk."
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"Simply that Striver is searching for the sum of fifty-thousand pounds. That being the amount of some money belonging to you which is missing, as Miss Destiny said just now, I apprehend that it is the same."
"It must be: it must be," cried the little old lady clapping her skinny hands, "for Anne never could have saved so much out of her wages. Gertrude I always declared that Anne knew where the money of Gabriel was hidden. Now, it seems, she told Joseph about it."
"She did not inform him of its whereabouts," I struck in, eager to enlist Miss Monk's attention, "but he hopes to trace it by means of the glass eye."
"The glass eye," echoed Miss Monk, very much amazed. "I know that Anne had a glass eye, and that it is missing. But----"
"I see: I understand," said Miss Destiny feverishly, "don't interrupt me, Gertrude, for I see it all. Anne always attached a great value to that glass eye, so in some way--from what Mr. Vance says--it is connected with the hiding-place of Gabriel's money. Perhaps Gabriel got Anne to assist him in hiding it. Dear me, and the eye is missing. If it could only be found, Gertrude, you would be quite an heiress."
"I don't believe that the eye or the money will ever be found," said Miss Monk impatiently, and walked towards the door. "Are you returning to the village, Mr. Vance?"
The hint was unmistakable, and I was only too glad to take advantage of it, since it meant atête-à-fêtewith my goddess. "Mrs. Gilfin will wonder what has become of me," I said, glancing at my watch.
"Oh, don't go, don't go," implored Miss Destiny, grasping my arm. "I do so want to learn all about this glass eye and the money."
"Ask Joseph Striver then," I replied, disengaging myself, "he knows all that I know, and more," I ended significantly.
"Really and truly. Oh, I must tell Lucinda," and Miss Destiny vanished into the back room crying for her handmaid. Miss Monk seized the opportunity to open the front door and slip out, raising her eyebrows at me meanwhile. I took the hint at once.
We walked down the meandering path between the weeds, and out on to the high road. Miss Monk kept silence for some distance, but I was so taken up with admiring her face, and was so delighted to be in her presence, that I did not mind her lack of speech. With compressed lips she stared straight in front of her, then spoke abruptly.
"You seem to know a great deal about our family affairs, Mr. Vance."
"Nothing more than has to do with the murder of Mrs. Caldershaw," I replied, quietly, "and I am so mixed up in that----"
"Yes! yes!" she interrupted impatiently. "I understand so far. But my aunt has been talking to you."
"Well, yes and no. I have not gathered much information from Miss Destiny."
"Why should you wish to gather any information at all?" asked the girl with some sharpness.
"My dear young lady. This murder interests me, and I wish to learn the truth. Naturally I seek for information."
"Oh! And you have come here to question my aunt."
"No, indeed. I don't see what she can tell me."
"She can tell you nothing," said Miss Monk, with decision, "my aunt is not quite sane, as you can easily see. She has a moderately good income, yet prefers to live in that miserable place, which you"--she was sarcastic here--"called comfortable, Mr. Vance."
"I wished to put Miss Destiny in a good humor," said I uneasily.
"Why?"
She was so very direct that I nearly came out with the truth. But it was absurd, on the face of it, to confess a crazy love for one I had known only half an hour: she would take so sudden a declaration as an insult. I therefore held my peace and fenced. "Miss Destiny, from what she said at Mootley, seems to know something about that glass eye, which was stolen from Mrs. Caldershaw's head when she was dead. I wish to learn all about it, so as to discover why the eye was stolen and the woman murdered."
"Then youdidcome here to question my aunt, in spite of your denial?"
"Well, if I must confess it, I came to ask about the glass eye."
Miss Monk walked on in silence, and then again spoke abruptly. "You should be honest with me, Mr. Vance."
"I am honest."
"Pardon me, you are not, since you said that you did not see what my aunt could tell you." And she looked like an offended goddess.
This was brutally true: I had equivocated. "I throw myself on your mercy."
She turned a pair of surprised eyes in my direction. "Why on mine?"
"I appear to have offended you," I hesitated.
"What does that matter? we are strangers."
"I wish we were not," said my rash tongue, and Miss Monk stopped.
"I really don't understand you, Mr. Vance. Why should it matter to me whether we are strangers or not?"
"Your aunt's words when she introduced me----"
Miss Monk flushed and cut me short. "That is my aunt's nonsense," she said hastily. "You don't expect me to believe that you followed me here because you admired my photograph."
That was exactly what I had done, but it did not do to tell her so, for she looked more like an offended goddess than ever. "I came here about the eye," was my cautious answer.
"You think that a true knowledge of why Anne Caldershaw attached a value to that eye would enable you to trace her assassin?"
"Yes, I do think so. Do you, Miss Monk?" I spoke with the cloak in my mind. "Do you wish me to trace her assassin?"
"Why not. She should certainly be captured and punished and the eye recovered, especially, as you seem to think it can indicate where the money left to me by Uncle Gabriel is hidden."
"She! she! she!" I positively gasped.
"Of course." Again she looked surprised. "I understand from the report in the papers, that the woman who ran off with your motor car is the assassin."
It was with some difficulty that I commanded my voice. Miss Monk, I thought, must be very sure that she had hidden her trail successfully, else she would scarcely dare to speak in this way. But, of course, as I remembered, she did not yet know that I had found her cloak. "You would like to have the woman traced?"
"Yes," she said coolly, "and the eye recovered, if it means the recovery of my money. I inherit fifty thousand pounds by----"
"I know: I know," said I hastily, "Mrs. Gilfin told me."
Miss Monk's face clouded. "I daresay," she remarked bitterly, "the story of the missing money is common property. No doubt Mrs. Gilfin told you that my uncle Gabriel was a miser."
"Yes. She told me a good deal."
"You asked her?" questioned the girl, suddenly.
"I admit it: in the interests of the case."
"Of course," she said, whether ironically or not I could not determine, and then walked on in silence.
Shortly we were abreast of a mouldering red-brick wall on the outskirts of the village. Beyond could be seen the mellow-tiled roofs of a large mansion.
Miss Monk stopped abruptly. "I live here," she said, with some coldness, "and must go in. Good-day, Mr. Vance."
She vanished through a heavy green gate, and left me staring down the deserted road. To me, the sun seemed to have vanished from the sky.