Patricia recovered her senses to find that she was lying on her own bed, in her own room. Beside her sat fat Mrs. Sellars, with many restoratives, and with a look of anxiety on her tearful face. When Miss Carrol opened her eyes and asked vaguely where she was, Ma uttered an exclamation of pleasure and thankfulness.
"Oh, what a fright you gave me, dropping down as though you were shot," she said, producing a damp handkerchief. "I thought it was another murder, and that you had taken poison, or----"
"Wait!" Patricia with sudden vigour sat up in bed and grasped the woman's arm. "You used the word murder when I fainted."
"And I use it now, my dear," said Mrs. Sellars, with some asperity. "What other word is to be used in connection with a cut throat?"
"A cut throat!" Patricia stared at her blankly.
"Oh, don't tie me down to words," wailed Mrs. Sellars, placing her fat hands on her fat knees and rocking. "Stabbed in the throat would be better, I daresay, if there can be any better in connection with the tragic death of my own and only sister. Martha and I never got on well together, but----"
"Ah, yes," interrupted Patricia, passing her hand across her forehead with a bewildered air, as a full recollection of what had taken place came back to her suddenly. "Mrs. Pentreddle has been murdered. You said that, and I fainted at the door."
"And very naturally," lamented Mrs. Sellars dolefully. "I'm sure I'd faint myself, if it wasn't that I am needed, with doctors and policemen in the house. And after such a happy evening, too," she continued, placing her handkerchief to her red eyes. "Sammy's play was such a success. I'm sure it will go on at a West End theatre and have quite a run."
Patricia ruthlessly cut short this babble, as she was yet in the dark as to what had taken place during her absence. "Will you tell me who killed Mrs. Pentreddle?" she asked, with some sharpness.
"No, I won't, my dear, because I can't, my dear. I should rather ask you that very question, seeing that you were left in charge of her with that sprained foot of hers. Why did you go out and leave Martha all alone in this big house, and where did you go, and why are you home so late, and----?"
"I shall answer all those questions in the presence of the police-officer who has charge of the case," said Patricia firmly, and gathering her Irish wits together to face a very awkward situation. "I can exonerate myself."
"Oh, my dear! no one ever accused you."
"Someone might accuse me," said the girl dryly. "People are always prone to believe the worst of one." She scrambled off the bed. "Will you please tell me exactly what has taken place while I bathe my face and change my dress?"
"What wonderful self-command you have, my dear!" said Mrs. Sellars admiringly; "it's a thing I never have had. I'm sure when Bunson met me at the door to say that Martha was lying in the drawing-room with her jugular bleeding and all the blood out of her body--not that she ever had much, poor dear!--you might have knocked me down with a feather. I was fit for nothing, and it was Sammy who sent for the police. Fancy! how good of him, my dear, seeing that he had the success of his drama on his mind. And itisa very great success, I can----"
"What did Bunson say?" demanded Patricia, keeping Mrs. Sellars to the point from which, confused by trouble, she constantly strayed.
"He met me and the rest at the door, my dear, when we came back from the theatre at eleven," replied Mrs. Sellars, trying to calm herself. "His face was as white as a clown's, but it was fear and not chalk with Bunson. He and Matilda and Sarah and Eliza got back at a quarter to eleven, so that the supper might be seen to. And no one has eaten the supper," cried Mrs. Sellars, again going off at a tangent. "Such a lovely supper, too! We expected to have such a happy evening, and here is Martha lying on her bed a gory corpse, with all the bedrooms upset by the villain!"
"What villain?"
"Him who murdered poor Martha, whoever he is, the scoundrel. He first stabbed Martha in the drawing-room, and then hunted all through the bedrooms, making hay, as the boys say, in every one. Just look at your own, my dear."
Miss Carrol had already done so, but she had hitherto believed that the open drawers, with their tumbled contents, the disordered wardrobe, and the displaced furniture, had been the work of Mrs. Sellars. "I thought you had done this when you were attending to me."
"But why should I?" demanded Mrs. Sellars, somewhat tartly. "It wouldn't have done you any good to have pulled your room to pieces in this way. The police say he wanted something."
"Who wanted something?"
"The caitiff who robbed Martha of her life," retorted the ex-actress in her best theatrical manner. "He murdered the poor dear for something, and as it wasn't on her--whatever it is--he searched the house. Whether he got it or not--whatever it is--I can't say, nor can anyone else. But he went out by the front door, in spite of the drawing-room middle window being unfastened, and where he's gone no one knows."
"The middle drawing-room window could not have been unfastened," said Patricia, raising her dripping face from the basin. "Bunson locked it before he went to the theatre."
"Well, then, it must have been opened since, my dear, for the latch is undone, and it has been pushed up a little way from the bottom. Martha couldn't have done it, as her foot was so bad she couldn't have left the sofa. I daresay the villain did it."
"He could scarcely have opened the window from the outside," said Patricia.
Mrs. Sellars shook her head mournfully. "I'm not so sure of that, my dear," was her reply. "The balcony runs along the front of all three windows, and as they are old and shaky, like all the house, he could easily have slipped a knife between the upper and lower sashes and pressed back the snick."
"But in that case Mrs. Pentreddle, thinking a burglar was trying to get in, would have shrieked for assistance," argued Miss Carrol.
"Who would hear her?" asked Mrs. Sellars very pertinently. "There was no one in the house, and I daresay no one in the road, as scarcely anyone comes along so far as this; on a foggy night, too. Who would come here on a foggy night? No. The villain found poor Martha all alone and stuck her like a pig. You shouldn't have left her."
"She asked me to."
"She asked you to?" repeated Mrs. Sellars, her round eyes growing rounder with astonishment. "Asked you to what?"
"To go on an errand, and"----Patricia checked herself, as it was unnecessary to repeat her story twice, and she wished to tell it in the presence of the police-officer. "It's too long to tell you now," she said hastily, and looked in the glass to see that her hair was in order. "Come downstairs, and let me see the man in charge of the case."
"Oh!" wailed Mrs. Sellars, submitting to be led out of the room. "Oh, that I should have lived to hear Martha called a case! And Bunson called her 'the remains.' Such an insult!"
"What did Bunson say exactly?" inquired Patricia quickly.
"He said that he and Matilda and Sarah and Eliza came round by the back and entered the house by the kitchen. While Matilda made up the fire and put on the kettle, Bunson went up to the dining-room to see if the supper was all right. Nothing was disturbed, so he went to look into the drawing-room, expecting to see Martha and you. But he only found Martha lying dead and icy cold on the sofa, covered with blood from her jugular vein. She never did have much blood, poor dear!" sobbed Mrs. Sellars; "but what she had she lost, for she died from losing it, too hurriedly."
"And what else did----"
"There's nothing else," interrupted Mrs. Sellars, waving her arms in a dramatic manner. "Everyone's upset and can't eat and can't go to bed, and they're all sitting in the dining-room, because Inspector Harkness won't let them sit in the drawing-room."
"Is Inspector Harkness the man I am to see?"
"Yes. He's in the drawing-room, and told me to bring you to him as soon as you could stand. He saw the cabman who brought you, and asked him where you had entered the cab. The man said at Hyde Park Corner about half-past eleven, which may or may not be true, for I can't understand what you should be doing there at this time of night."
"It's quite true," said Miss Carrol quietly. "I lost myself in the fog."
"But why did you leave the house?"
"I shall explain that to Inspector Harkness. Dear Ma," Patricia patted the disturbed old woman's shoulder kindly, "don't cry so. I assure you I have nothing to do with the death of poor Mrs. Pentreddle."
"I never thought for one minute you had, my dear," said the poor landlady. "All the same, Martha is as dead as a door-nail. She is now with her late husband I expect, though it can't be a very pleasant place where such a rascal has gone to. Not that I want to say anything bad against them that are gone, for we may be the same to-morrow," and so poor Mrs. Sellars, quite incoherent with grief and bewilderment, maundered on aimlessly.
Patricia was invited to enter the drawing-room by a jovial-looking man, whose would-be military air did not suit his looks. He was stout, red-faced, grey-haired and bluff in his manner, resembling the typical John Bull more than anything else. He tried to be stiff, but failed in his buckram civilities when he forgot that he was Inspector Harkness and remembered that he was primarily a human being. Miss Carrol was so pretty and graceful in spite of her white face and drooping air, the result of fatigue, that the officer beamed on her approvingly. But having placed a chair for her, and one for Mrs. Sellars, who was to be present at the interview, he became aware that he had his duty to perform, and looked as stern as he possibly could.
"Now, young lady," he said, arranging some papers, and getting ready to take notes, "what do you know of this matter?"
"Nothing," said Patricia, coolly and decisively. She was now quite her own clever, ready-witted self, as the difficulties of her position had acted upon her like a tonic. In spite of Inspector Harkness's suave demeanour, she was fully aware that he would not hesitate to arrest her, if he believed she was in any way inculpated. Her curt answer rather annoyed him.
"Nothing," he repeated sharply. "That is rather a strange denial to make, in the face of the fact that you were the last person who saw this unfortunate lady alive. Do you deny that, Miss Carrol?"
"No. Why should I? I was with Mrs. Pentreddle from the time Mrs. Sellars left with the others for the Curtain Theatre----"
"Half-past six, as we thought the house would be full," interpolated Ma sadly.
--"until nearly half-past eight o'clock," finished Patricia calmly.
"And after that?" asked Harkness, noting down this fact and acknowledgment.
"I was wandering about Hyde Park, lost in the fogs until half-past eleven."
"What took you to Hyde Park on this night?"
"Mrs. Pentreddle asked me to go on an errand for her."
"What was the errand?"
"What indeed?" said Mrs. Sellars curiously. "Martha, poor dear, was always of a very secretive disposition, and never told me anything. But, as I am her own sister, she ought to have told me what she wanted."
Patricia took no notice of this remark, but addressed herself to Inspector Harkness. She wished to get the interview over, so that she could retire to bed, for she felt extremely tired, and only her will-power enabled her to sustain the examination. "Mrs. Pentreddle," she explained, and the officer took down her words, "had an appointment to-night with a man near the Serpentine Bridge on this side. Owing to her sprained ankle she could not go herself, so she promised me five pounds if I would go in place of her. At first I objected, since the conditions under which I was to meet this man were so strange; but when Mrs. Pentreddle declared that, failing me, she would ring up a messenger-boy on the telephone, I thought that there could be nothing wrong, and accepted the commission."
"For the sake of the five pounds," hinted the inspector.
Patricia threw back her head proudly. "I am not rich, and five pounds mean much to me," she said simply, but with a nervous flush. "Yes, I went for the sake of the five pounds. Though, of course," she added quietly, "I was quite willing to oblige Mrs. Pentreddle in every way. I refused the money at first, but when she insisted upon paying me, I was only too delighted to accept. Do you blame me?"
"Well, no," acknowledged the officer, after a pause. "But did you not think that five pounds was a rather large sum to pay for a simple errand?"
"And Martha was so close-fisted as a rule," put in Mr. Sellars.
"The errand was not a simple one," said Patricia quickly. "There was a very great deal of mystery about it," and she repeated the instructions which the dead woman had given her. These both impressed the inspector and startled Mrs. Sellars.
"One would think that Martha was a conspirator," she exclaimed.
"Perhaps she was and perhaps she was not," replied Miss Carrol wearily. "I have been puzzling over the question ever since the box was stolen."
"Stolen!" Harkness rose suddenly to his feet and looked at the girl's pale face with an imperious glance. "What do you mean?"
"What I say," answered Patricia, whose nerves were giving way. "A man came and snatched the jewel from my hand while I looked at it."
"The jewel!" cried Mrs. Sellars alertly. "What jewel?"
"The one which was in the deal box."
"The box which this unknown man thrust into your hand?" asked Harkness.
"Of course. I should not have opened the box, but I did so, because----" Patricia hesitated. It seemed useless to tell these two very matter-of-fact people about the weird sensations which she had felt while holding the jewel, as they would neither understand nor believe. Swiftly changing her mind, she ended her sentence differently--"because the whole circumstances were so strange that I wished to know what was in the box."
"You were afraid that Mrs. Pentreddle had sent you on a nefarious errand?"
"Yes, I was, and with good reason," said Patricia, and Harkness nodded approvingly.
Mrs. Sellars disagreed. "Why, Martha was a most religious woman, and so good as to be almost unpleasant. She would never have sent you on an errand which had to do with anything wrong, my dear."
"You can judge for yourself," said Miss Carrol, quietly. "I am telling you all that has taken place."
Harkness pondered. "You say that you left this house at half-past eight, and wandered in Hyde Park until half-past eleven. How can you prove this?"
"Very easily, Mr. Inspector. I met a policeman in Crook Street when I left the house and asked him the time. He told me that it was half-past eight. At half-past eleven I spoke to another policeman near the Achilles statue, saying I had lost myself in the fog. I asked him the time also, and told him to whistle me up a cab. He said it was half-past eleven and got me the cab. Mrs. Sellars told me in my bedroom that you had questioned the cabman, sir, so he must substantiate my story."
Harkness nodded. "Yes. He told me that a policeman had put you in the cab at Hyde Park Corner about the time you mentioned. I see that you can account for leaving the house and returning to it. But what were you doing in the meantime?"
"I have told you," said Patricia, annoyed at having her word doubted.
"Yes, you have told me; but can you prove what you say?"
"Luckily I can, unless the things are stolen."
"What things?"
"The umbrella, the lantern and the empty box, which I left on the bench in the broad Bayswater path. I was sitting there when the man robbed me."
"What was the man who robbed you like?"
"I can't say. It was foggy and he only remained for a single moment."
"And what was the man who gave you the box like?"
"I can only make you the same answer," said Patricia. "Both incidents happened so swiftly that I had no time to observe anything. But if you will send to the Park you will perhaps find the articles I left on the bench."
The inspector nodded, and rising from his chair, went out of the room. Mrs. Sellars caught the girl's hand when they were alone.
"What does it all mean, my dear?" she asked helplessly.
"I can't say," replied Patricia, shaking her head. "You know all that I know, and must form your own opinion."
"What is yours?"
"I have none. I am quite bewildered."
At this moment Inspector Harkness re-entered the room and returned to his seat. "I have sent to the Broad Walk in Hyde Park," he said bluffly; "so if your story is true, the articles will be found."
"My story is true," said Patricia, flushing with anger. "But while I was away someone may have sat on the bench and----"
"And have taken the articles," finished the officer dryly. "Well, yes; but I hope for your sake that your tale--a very strange one--will be substantiated by these proofs."
"Do you believe that I am telling you a falsehood?" asked Patricia in her most indignant manner.
"I believe nothing and I say nothing until these articles are found."
"And if they are not?"
The inspector hesitated, looked awkward, and did not reply.
Patricia stood up, trying to control her nerves, but quivering from head to foot. "Perhaps you accuse me of murdering Mrs. Pentreddle before I went out?"
"No, dear, no," cried Mrs. Sellars, catching her hand kindly. "The doctor says that poor Martha was murdered about ten o'clock, and as you can prove that you were absent by means of those policemen and the cabman, no one can accuse you of the crime. And I know," said Mrs. Sellars, bursting into tears, "that you wouldn't hurt a fly, much less Martha, who liked you in her disagreeable way."
"I am not accusing Miss Carrol, I beg to say," remarked the inspector, as soon as he secured a moment to speak; "but the whole tale is so strange that Miss Carrol cannot blame me if I desire proofs. Naturally a high-spirited young lady doesn't like to be questioned in this way, but----"
"I don't mind being questioned," interrupted Patricia, her hot Irish blood aflame. "But it is being doubted that I object to."
"Natural enough; natural enough," said Harkness soothingly; "but one cannot bring personal feelings into legal matters. I have daughters myself of your age, Miss Carrol, and I have every sympathy with your position. As a man and a father, I fully believe every word you say; but as an officer, I am obliged to disbelieve until I have proofs. If I do not demand them, the jury and the coroner will."
"When? Where?" asked Patricia, startled.
"At the inquest. You will be the most important witness, Miss Carrol."
"But I don't know who committed the crime."
"No, nor does anyone else. But you can tell the coroner and the jury what you have told me, and I hope that the articles you left on the bench will be forthcoming to prove the truth of your extraordinary story. Come, Miss Carrol, you must see that I am trying to make things as pleasant as possible for you, consistent with my official responsibility."
"Yes," said Patricia, and sat down again, for, after all, she could not deny but what her story sounded very incredible. And as yet she had not told the most incredible portion, as that had to do with her own peculiar sixth sense, which she was very certain neither the inspector nor Mrs. Sellars possessed. And as they had not got it, how useless it would be, as she fully recognized, to relate the sensations caused by the stolen jewel. Her tale was improbable enough, so there was no need to make it still more so.
"Can you describe what was stolen?" Harkness asked her.
Patricia did so, and the explanation was received with exclamations of surprise by Mrs. Sellars and with a somewhat sceptical air by the inspector. Patricia saw his doubts and grew annoyed again. "What is the use of my telling you things when you won't believe me?"
Before Harkness could answer this very natural question, a young constable entered and placed on the table the articles which had been left on the bench in the foggy Park. Miss Carrol spread out her hands triumphantly.
"Yes," said the inspector, interpreting the gesture. "I believe your story now, young lady. Here are the proofs."
"Ah, yes," groaned Mrs. Sellars, rocking. "But where is the jewel?"
Destiny works in a most mysterious way, and frequently the evil which she brings on individuals becomes the parent of good. During the three years which had passed since the death of her father, Patricia had faced much trouble for a girl of twenty-two. She had no money, and had possessed no friends until she met with Mrs. Sellars, so her career had been a painful one of toil and penury and heart-felt despair. This last misfortune which connected her with the commission of a crime seemed to be the greatest blow which had befallen her, and she truly believed that she was now entirely ruined. For who, as she argued, would engage as a governess a girl who was mixed up in so shady a business? Even if she could prove her innocence--and she had no doubt on that score--the mere fact of her errand to the Park was so fantastic in the explanation, that many people would believe she had invented it in order to shield herself from arrest. In nine cases out of ten this might have happened; but Destiny ordained that Patricia's case should be the tenth. Through the darkness of the clouds which environed her the sun of prosperity broke unexpectedly.
Of course, next day the newspapers contained details of the murder at The Home of Art, and the mystery fascinated the public. Crook Street was never so full since it had been a thoroughfare. Motor-cars, hansom cabs, four-wheelers, taxicabs, carts, bicycles, and conveyances of every description, came to the curvedcul de sac. Also, sight-seers on foot came to survey the house, and Number III appeared in the daily illustrated papers. When the reporters became more fully acquainted with what had taken place, the portrait of Patricia appeared also, together with an account of how the murdered woman had induced her to leave the house. It was generally considered, notwithstanding that the errand had been proved to be a genuine one, that Mrs. Pentreddle had sent the girl away in order that she might see the mysterious person who had murdered her. If this was not so, argued everybody, how came it that the man--people were certain that the criminal was a man--had gained admission into the house? An examination of the snicks to the windows had proved that they were too stiff to be pressed back from the outside, and, indeed, that the upper and lower sashes of the windows were so close together that the blade of a knife could not be slipped in between. Plainly the man could not have entered in this way, so the only assumption that was natural appeared to be that the dead woman had admitted him by the door. The fact that the middle window was unlatched and slightly open was accounted for by the presumption that the man had left in that way. But why he should have chosen this odd means of exit, when he could have more easily have left by the front door, the theorists did not pretend to explain.
However, the general opinion was that Patricia's fantastic tale was true--the finding of the articles on the bench and the evidence of the two policemen, together with the cabman's statement, proved this--and that Mrs. Pentreddle had got rid of her, as an inconvenient witness to an unpleasant interview. How unpleasant it had proved for Mrs. Pentreddle herself, could be plainly seen from the fact that she was now dead, and that a jury and a coroner were about to sit on her remains. Harkness had gathered together what evidence he could, which was not much, and the reporters were all on thequi vivefor startling revelations to be made. The whole affair was so out of the ordinary that the journalists, anxious to fill up the columns of their respective papers during the dull season, made the most of the very excellent and unusual copy supplied to them. They added to this, they took away from that, and so distorted the truth that plain facts became even more sensational than they truly were. And this painting of the lily brought Miss Carrol into prominence as the heroine of the day.
The girl shrank from such sordid publicity, but it was useless to try and hide, as the searchlight of journalism played fiercely upon her. That she was so pretty only added to the attractiveness of the unwholesome episode, and when her portrait was published, Patricia received at least six offers of marriage. All of these she naturally refused, and was, indeed, very indignant that they should have been made. Mrs. Sellars was rather surprised at this indignation, as, having the instincts of a successful actress, she looked on such publicity as an excellent advertisement.
"My dear," she said impressively, two or three days after the murder, and when The Home of Art was the centre of attraction to all morbid people, "sorry as I am that Martha, poor darling, met with such a sad death, there is no denying that the tragedy will do the house good."
"Oh," cried Patricia, her highest instincts outraged, "how can you talk so?"
"I am a sensible woman, and must talk so," said Ma firmly; "tears and sorrow won't bring Martha back again, and perhaps she is better where she is, as she certainly never enjoyed life in a sensible way. Since this is the case, let us take good out of evil. I thought, my dear, that the Home would have been ruined, but instead of that, it has become famous. I could fill the place twice over, as so many people wish to come; but I intend to keep my present lodgers at the same prices. Never shall it be said that I made capital out of my dear sister's death. But you, my dear, need not be so particular, since you are not connected with her in a flesh-and-blood way as I am. Do you see?"
Patricia shivered. "No, Mrs. Sellars, I really don't see. I am connected with poor Mrs. Pentreddle in a blood way certainly, for if I had not gone out she would have been alive now."
"Well, my dear, you couldn't help going out, since you had to go on the errand, and no one knows better than I do how obstinate Martha was. Well, she's gone, and as soon as they've settled who killed her we must send her to Devonshire."
"To Devonshire?" echoed Patricia, surprised.
"Yes. Didn't I tell you that Squire Colpster, whose housekeeper she was, has come to London? Well, he is in town now, and called to see me to-day. He is very shocked at Martha's death, and intends to take the body back to lay in Beckleigh churchyard near that of her late husband--or, perhaps, I should say, its late husband, although I am not sure that an 'it' can have a husband. It's very kind of the Squire, but the Colpsters were always kind. He is coming to see you this afternoon before the inquest takes place."
"What about?" asked Patricia uneasily.
"He wishes to hear the story from your own lips."
"It is in all the papers; and much of what the papers say is untrue."
"All the better advertisement," said Mrs. Sellars cheerfully. "I'm quite sure, my dear, that your troubles are over. You can marry when you choose."
"I certainly shan't marry those horrid men who have had the impertinence to write to me!" declared Patricia indignantly.
"Oh, I should, if you find one of the men is nice and rich. But if you don't feel inclined to marry, you are at least sufficiently widely known to get a good situation."
Patricia shuddered again and to her soul. "Who would engage a girl connected with such a horrid crime?"
"Lots of people," said Mrs. Sellars promptly; "and the crime is not so horrid as mysterious. Who can have murdered Martha?--and why?"
"Everyone is asking that question, Mrs. Sellars."
"No one seems to obtain an answer," observed the good lady mournfully; "not even Inspector Harkness or the police. Well, my dear, I must go and see about the dinner. Remember what I said to you. You have a magnificent boom on just now, and if you take full advantage of it, you are made for life."
Miss Carrol did not know whether to laugh or to scold when Ma left her, but finally took refuge in quiet merriment, notwithstanding her disgust at finding herself the centre of such a sordid sensation. Good-natured and kind as Mrs. Sellars undoubtedly was, the idea that she could urge anyone--as she phrased it--to make capital out of her sister's death, revolted Patricia's finer feelings. Certainly, since the old actress intended to retain her children even though she could have obtained more lucrative boarders, she was behaving extraordinarily well, considering her limitations. But in spite of her own self-denial, her theatrical instincts were so very strong, that she had to induce someone to make use of the advertisement, as she could not bear to see such a chance of gaining a wide publicity wasted. It quite grieved her that Patricia should so persistently refuse, especially when she considered that the girl required money. But Miss Carrol not only declined to entertain the idea, but kept as much as she could to her own room and refused interviews to several inquisitive reporters.
"She has no business capabilities," mourned Ma to the playwright. "Why, if this had happened to me when I was on the stage, I should have doubled my salary in a week and trebled it in a month!" which statement was undoubtedly true, since the majority of people greatly enjoy the morbid.
Squire Colpster--as Patricia learned the country gentleman was always called at Beckleigh, and also by Mrs. Sellars, who was a Beckleigh woman--appeared at The Home of Art immediately before the inquest was held, and, therefore, had scanty opportunity of talking with the girl, although he managed to exchange a few words. He turned out to be a tall, lean, and rather bent man, with a dry, ivory-hued skin and gold-rimmed spectacles, perched on an aquiline nose. The term "Squire" suited the John Bull personality of Inspector Harkness better than it did this quiet student. And Patricia, although she did not learn at the moment what Mr. Colpster's particular studies were, gathered that he passed the greater part of his days in a well-furnished library. Only the tragic death of an old and valued servant, this gentleman hinted, would have brought him up to London during the very damp month of November. He spoke with considerable emotion.
"Poor Martha, how strange it is that she should have come to town to meet with this terrible doom! I was never so shocked in my life as when I read the telegram sent by Mrs. Sellars."
"Do you know why she came to London?" asked Patricia bluntly.
Mr. Colpster shook his head, which was covered with rather long, iron-grey hair, in true student fashion. "I only know that Martha wanted to go for a fortnight's jaunt to London--her own words. And I rather think, although she did not say so," added the Squire musingly, "that she expected to meet her son Harry, who is a sailor."
"Is he in town now?"
"I believe so. My nephew, Theodore Dane, told me that he had seen him over a week ago. Harry then said that he had returned from the Far East, and was going later to Amsterdam for a few days. If he has carried out his intention I expect that he is ignorant of his mother's death."
"When he hears of it will he return?"
"Immediately, I think, as Harry is greatly attached to, his mother. If anyone can find the assassin, Harry Pentreddle will, as he is smart, and very tenacious of anything he takes up. I wish I knew where he was in Amsterdam, Miss Carrol, as I could then send him a telegram."
Patricia pondered. "I wonder if he can throw any light on the motive for the commission of the crime?"
"It seems impossible, as Harry, having been on a year's voyage, has not seen his mother for twelve months. It is just possible that, as Martha was a week in town before her murder, she may have seen Harry in the interval. Of course, I understand that Martha only sprained her foot on the night previous to her death."
"She slipped on the stairs," said Patricia mechanically. "Her son certainly has not been here, or Mrs. Sellars would have told me. Have you any idea what caused the crime to be committed?"
Mr. Colpster pondered in his turn. "I rather think I will wait until the inquest is ended before answering that question," he said judicially.
"But won't you answer it at the inquest, so that the truth of the matter may be known," urged the girl, puzzled by his tone.
"I may not be asked the question at the inquest," said Mr. Colpster blandly, and declined to discuss the matter further. Indeed, there was no time, as they were summoned at this moment to the drawing-room, where the jurymen, under the control of the coroner, were waiting for the various witnesses. They had already inspected the body of the unfortunate woman, which was lying in an upstairs bedroom.
As has been before stated, Inspector Harkness had very little evidence to lay before those in authority. The criminal, whether man or woman, had disappeared in what seemed to be a magical manner. All the officer could do, and did do, was to produce various witnesses to relate baldly what had taken place; and these could say very little. Nothing could be proved save that Martha Pentreddle had been murdered, but by whom, and for what reason, it was impossible to say. The inspector gave a hurried sketch of all that had happened since he had been summoned to The Home of Art, and then called his first witness. This was Mrs. Sellars, who wept a great deal, and spoke volubly, adopting her best dramatic manner, so as to create a sensation; for she was always mindful, in spite of her genuine grief, that what she said would be printed in all the great newspapers. The chance of advertising herself as a retired star of the drama was too good to be lost.
But in spite of the good lady's volubility, she had really very little information to give. Her sister, Mrs. Pentreddle, had come to London six days previous to her death, from Devonshire, where she was housekeeper to Squire Colpster, ostensibly on the plea of shopping. She had gone out a great deal, but nearly always the witness was with her, and the deceased had not spoken to anyone in particular. She had certainly mentioned that her son Harry had returned from the Far East, and that she hoped to see him before she returned to Devonshire. But Harry had neither written nor had he called. "And I should have been so pleased to see Harry, who is a very charming nephew to have," ended Mrs. Sellars, with doubtful grammar.
"Did the deceased mention that she was expecting anyone on the night she was murdered?" asked the coroner gravely.
"Oh, dear me, no, sir. Had she done so, I should have forbidden her to receive a single person, as she was slightly feverish from a sprain caused by slipping on the stairs, and was not in a condition to see anyone. In fact, I was most unwilling to leave her, but she implored me to do so, as she knew how interested I was in the drama of Mr. Samuel Amersham. But only on the condition that someone remained to look after her did I agree to go. Miss Carrol kindly promised to remain, so I departed quite happy. Only to return," said Mrs. Sellars, with a burst of emotion, "to find that Martha had gone to that bourne whence no traveller returns."
"The deceased never hinted to you that she was in danger of her life?"
"Never! She was quite happy--that is, as happy as she could be with her religious views, which were extremely dull. She had no idea of dying, for she told me that she hoped Harry would return with her to Devonshire."
"Did you know of anything in her life which led you to believe that she had an enemy who desired her death."
"Certainly not! Martha never made an enemy in her life, although she certainly was the reverse of agreeable. She was as dull as I am bright," said Mrs. Sellars, blushing. "Comedy and Tragedy, Pa called us," and this remark ended the examination, as the witness apparently could throw no light on the darkness which environed the crime.
The doctor who had been called in to examine the body stated that the deceased had been murdered by some sharp instrument being thrust into the throat. This had pierced the jugular vein, and the miserable woman, becoming unconscious almost at once, had slowly bled to death. Her hair was in disorder, and when discovered, her body was lying half on and half off the sofa. It was the doctor's opinion that the assassin, grasping the hair, had drawn back his victim's head so that he could the more easily accomplish his deadly purpose. From the nature of the wound, it was probably inflicted by a fine and narrow blade--witness thought that a stiletto might have been used. From the condition of the body, death had undoubtedly taken place at ten o'clock, but probably, since the death was caused by hæmorrhage, deceased must have been struck down some minutes earlier. This was all the medical evidence obtainable, and although it proved clearly how Mrs. Pentreddle died, could not show who had committed the crime. But the use of the word "stiletto" gave the coroner an idea.
"Only a foreigner would use such a weapon," he remarked.
The witness disagreed. "The word suggests an Italian, because it is the name of a weapon extensively employed by thebraviof the Middle Ages. But a murderer of any other nation would use it just as naturally, if it came to hand. Besides, I only assume from the nature of the wound--the smallness of the orifice--that a stiletto was used. I am sure that I am right, however!" and the coroner rather agreed, as he also was a doctor and had seen the wound himself.
"Could there have been a stiletto in the house?" he asked generally.
"Yes!" cried Mrs. Sellars unexpectedly, from her seat near the door, and became prodigiously excited.
"What's that?" asked the coroner, as the doctor stepped away from the place assigned to witnesses. "What do you say?"
Mrs. Sellars at once occupied the vacated position. "Now I remember, that only three days before poor, dear Martha met with her death, I was showing her some of my old stage dresses. There was a page's costume I wore in TheDuke's Motto, and with it were the jewels and a stiletto."
"Pooh! Pooh! A stage weapon!" said the coroner contemptuously.
"Not at all; not at all! A friend of mine, who admired my acting, gave me a real Italian stiletto to wear in the part: a very dangerous weapon it was, sharp and pointed. I daresay Martha was killed with that."
"Have you missed it?"
"No. I put away the dresses and never thought of looking, but Martha could easily have taken it while my back was turned. Just wait, sir, and I'll go and see," and before the coroner could give permission, Mrs. Sellars, as active as a young girl, was out of the room.
There was a pause, as it was impossible to continue the examination of other witnesses until this important point was settled. Everyone looked at one another, but no one spoke, as it was felt that here, at least, was a tangible clue. In a very short space of time Mrs. Sellars returned, red-faced and out of breath, waving an empty sheath. "It's not here," she declared quickly and giving the gold-embroidered sheath to the coroner; "this is all that I found. Martha must have taken the stiletto."
"But why should she?" demanded the coroner, doubtfully.
"Ask me another," said Mrs. Sellars vulgarly, and with a shrug.
There was only one inference to be drawn from the absence of the weapon: Mrs. Pentreddle knew that she was in danger, and had therefore armed herself against a possible attempt being made on her life.
Until it came to the examination of Patricia, very little was learned from the depositions of the various witnesses summoned to give evidence. All that the boarders and the servants could say was that Mrs. Pentreddle, although not an extremely sociable person, had behaved herself quietly in every way. She had kept very much to herself, and had mentioned her business in coming to London to no one. And certainly she had never hinted in the slightest degree that she possessed an enemy who desired to take her life. All who dwelt beneath the hospitable roof of The Home of Art expressed themselves surprised at the death of the poor woman. There was nothing apparent on the surface of things, as one witness observed, to lead up to such a catastrophe. It was entirely unexpected and unforeseen.
Bunson, the butler, deposed that before leaving the house with his fellow-servants for the theatre, he had locked the three drawing-room windows. When the police examined the room afterwards, the middle one of these had been found unfastened and slightly open. It assuredly would not have been difficult for the assassin to have come along the iron balcony to that window and there have tapped for admittance. But Bunson swore positively that unless the deceased had opened the window, the man could not have entered. It was this witness who had found the body, and he stated that he had not touched it until it was seen by Inspector Harkness and his underlings. It was at this point, and in answer to the question of a juryman, that the inspector admitted the absence of the weapon with which the deceased had been killed. No stiletto had been found, either in the drawing-room or in any part of the house, so it was presumed that the criminal must have taken it away with him.
"I wonder that he did not place the stiletto in the hand of the dead woman, so that it might be supposed she had committed suicide," said a juryman.
"Probably he did not think that it would be proved that the deceased had taken the stiletto from her sister's room when the stage costumes were being displayed," suggested another juryman.
"We have not yet learned if the murder was committed with that weapon," was the coroner's remark. "Call George Colpster."
Then came the turn of the Squire to be examined, but he could tell nothing likely to aid in the discovery of the criminal. Mrs. Pentreddle, he declared, had been his housekeeper for over twenty years, and had rarely gone away on a holiday. She had asked him for a fortnight's leave, so that she might pay a visit to Mrs. Sellars in London, and this he had readily granted. She had never told him the reason why she wished to go to London, but he presumed at the time that she intended to see her sailor son during her stay.
When this fact, or, rather, this suggested fact, became known, the coroner recalled Mrs. Sellars, and learned again what he might have known he had learned before, had he referred to his notes, that Harry Pentreddle had never been near the house. When Mrs. Sellars stepped away again from the position allotted to the witnesses, Squire Colpster finished his evidence by swearing solemnly that his housekeeper had never hinted that she was in danger of her life.
"Yet she must have thought so," observed a juryman, "else she would not have taken the stiletto."
"We have not yet proved that the murder was committed with that weapon," snapped the coroner once more.
Of course, the real interest of the case truly began when Patricia Carrol was sworn, since she apparently knew more about the matter than did anyone else, and, moreover, had been the last person to see Mrs. Pentreddle alive. She gave her evidence quietly and clearly, relating all that had taken place from the time Mrs. Pentreddle had asked her to go on the errand to the time she returned to learn that during her absence the wretched woman had been stabbed. But on this occasion, as on the other, when Harkness had questioned her, Patricia left out any confession of her sensations when holding the stolen jewel. She judged, and very wisely too, that any statement of this kind would be put down to hysteria.
Both the coroner and the jurymen questioned and cross-questioned the witness, but in no way could they cause her to deviate from the details she originally gave. Mrs. Pentreddle had promised to explain all about the matter when the witness returned, but her unforeseen death had ended all chance of explanation in that quarter.
"But was the death unforeseen by you?" asked the coroner, catching at the word used by Patricia.
"Certainly," she replied readily. "I expected to find Mrs. Pentreddle ready to receive me when I returned."
"And expected to receive your five pounds?"
"No, sir. I had failed in the errand she had asked me to do; therefore, I did not desire to be paid."
"Can you describe the appearance of the man who placed the box in your hand and the appearance of the thief?"
"No. I told you so before. Both men came and went in a flash, and even if they had waited, it would have been impossible for me to have noticed their dress and looks, as the fog was so thick and the night was so dark."
"Did either man speak?"
"No. Each came and went in silence."
The policemen both in Crook Street and at Hyde Park Corner proved that they had met Patricia and that she had severally asked them the time. Also, the cabman deposed to driving the young lady back to The Home of Art, so, without any difficulty whatsoever, it was proved that Miss Carrol had been absent from the house when the crime had been committed. The Crook Street policeman also swore that he had seen no suspicious people haunting his beat. "And the fog was so thick," ended this witness, "that it would have been difficult to see anyone, unless someone ran into my arms as the young lady did. It was a pea-soup night, sir."
This concluded all the evidence which Harkness was able to get, and after a pause the coroner began his speech. But before he got very far, the door of the drawing-room was hastily flung open and Sammy Amersham the playwright dashed in, holding a dagger aloft.
"It's the stiletto," he cried triumphantly, and clapped it down on the table under the coroner's nose. "When you were asking questions about it, I remembered the unfastened middle window, and wondered if the assassin had opened the same to throw the weapon into the area when he had killed poor Mrs. Pentreddle. I went down and searched, and found it. He must have thrown it out, as I guessed, and then have stepped in to close the window and leave by the front door. There's blood on it, too."
"Is this your stiletto, Mrs. Sellars?" asked the coroner, passing it along.
The woman shuddered as she took it. "It's mine, sure enough," she said. "And there's blood on the handle. Ugh!" she dropped it. "Martha's blood!"
Sammy the playwright was sworn and stated again how he had found the weapon in the area below the iron balcony. "Amongst some rubbish," said Mr. Amersham.
"Is the area ever used?" asked the coroner quickly.
"No," called out Mrs. Sellars; "the tradespeople go round to the back by the side passage, and the gate in the iron railings round the area has been locked ever since I have been in this house. No one would think of looking for the stiletto there."
"The last witness did," said the coroner dryly.
"Shows that he's got the makings of a dramatist," said Mrs. Sellars proudly, although no one saw the connection between the coroner's assertion and her comment.
One thing was clear from the discovery of the weapon in the area, namely, that Mrs. Pentreddle must have been afraid of an attack, else she would never have armed herself by stealing the dagger from her sister. Also, it was certain that Sammy's shrewd explanation was feasible, and that the assassin, after killing the unfortunate woman, had opened the window to drop the stiletto into the unused area.
"The deceased must have expected a visitor on that night," said the coroner musingly, "and probably sent Miss Carrol away so that she could see him undisturbed."
"She did not tell me that she expected anyone," said Patricia quickly.
"No, she would not, seeing that she evidently desired to have a secret interview. As she was alone in the house, she assuredly must have admitted him."
"She could not leave the sofa with her sprained foot," cried Mrs. Sellars.
"Perhaps she could not have crawled to the front door," remarked the coroner; "but her will evidently enabled her to crawl to the middle window and open it."
"Why should the man have come to the middle window?"
"By appointment."
"Impossible," said Mrs. Sellars nervously. "In the first place, Martha would have told me had she intended to see anyone, and----"
"Pardon me, no, madam," interrupted the coroner sharply. "The very fact that the deceased sent away Miss Carrol showed that she desired the interview to be a secret one."
"She would not have admitted a man who intended to murder her."
"But she did. No one else could have admitted him, and the fact of the open middle window showed how he was admitted."
"He opened that to throw out the stiletto."
"Probably he did that, but undoubtedly the window was opened before. Mrs. Pentreddle could not have crawled to the front door."
"Martha had so strong a will that she would have crawled to the top of the house if she had made up her mind to. And I say again she never would have let in a man--whoever he was--to murder her, poor dear!"
"I don't believe she expected to be murdered."
"But the dagger----"
"Precisely, madam. The criminal did not bring it with him, therefore, he did not enter this house with the intention of committing a crime. The deceased was afraid of this man and thus took your stiletto so as to keep him at his distance. Probably she threatened him with it, and there was a struggle during which she was murdered. Then the assassin searched the house."
"For what?" asked Mrs. Sellars, shaking her head sadly.
"For this strange jewel, described by Miss Carrol."
"It wasn't in Martha's possession when----"
"Quite so," interrupted the coroner, dryly; "but the assassin evidently believed that Mrs. Pentreddle possessed it. He struggled with her to see if it was concealed upon her, and when she drew forth the stiletto with which she had provided herself, it was used to kill her. Then the assassin, as I said before, searched the bedrooms. One thing I would ask you, Mrs. Sellars, before we close the evidence. Did anyone know that Mrs. Pentreddle would be alone on the night of her death?"
"She wasn't alone. Miss Carrol was with her."
"Yes, I know. But did anyone know that the house would be empty?"
"I can't say. Of course, Sammy's play was talked about a lot, and everyone said they were going. I even let the servants go, and----"
"Yes, yes! But do you think anyone outside the house knew that there would be a clear field?"
"I can't say," Mrs. Sellars shook her head. "I talked a lot to everyone, both outside and in, saying that we were going. But I don't know anyone who would have murdered poor Martha?"
The coroner's speech was not very long, as really there was little to say. Whether Mrs. Pentreddle had really expected someone, and had, therefore, sent away Miss Carrol so that the interview might be private, it was quite impossible to prove in any way. That the deceased anticipated danger was more or less clearly shown by her theft of the stiletto from her sister. Undoubtedly the assassin--as the nature of the wound and the presence of blood-stains on the handle of the weapon suggested--had turned the dead woman's means of defence against herself. Finally, the idea that the criminal desired the jewel stolen from Patricia in the Park was equally impossible of proof. "In fact!" ended the coroner wearily, for his business had been exhausting, "beyond the undoubted truth that Mrs. Pentreddle is dead, we can prove nothing in any way."
This was also the opinion of the jurymen, which was very natural, considering the scanty nature of the evidence. Without any hesitation the ordinary verdict given in doubtful cases was brought in: "Wilful murder against some person, or persons, unknown," said the jury, and all present felt that nothing more and nothing less could be said under the sad circumstances.
"And I don't believe that they'll ever learn who slaughtered poor Martha," sighed Mrs. Sellars, over a cup of tea, when everyone save the boarders had departed. "We'll just bury her in Devonshire beside her husband, and try to be cheerful again. Whatever Harry will say when he learns I don't know, for he was desperately fond of his mother. I'm sorry for that murdering villain if Harry ever lays hands on him. But he never will, bless you, my dears." And most people believed that Mrs. Sellars spoke the truth. The whole affair was mysterious; and it was confidently asserted that the murder of Mrs. Pentreddle would be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes.
The immediate result of the inquest was an offer made by a prominent music-hall manager to Patricia, as the heroine of the Crook Street crime. It was suggested that she should appear on the stage in a pretty frock, and relate her experiences in Hyde Park at a salary of two hundred pounds a week. The magnificence of this chance almost took away Mrs. Sellars' breath, and she was greatly disappointed when Patricia refused to make a show of herself. The girl phrased it in this way, and indignantly declined.
"Oh, my dear," cried Mrs. Sellars, almost weeping; "you need money so badly."
"I would sooner need it all my life than degrade myself in this way," retorted Miss Carrol, looking prettier than ever with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. "How dare the man insult me!"
"Insult, my dear? Two hundred pounds a week an insult?"
"Take it yourself, Mrs. Sellars," replied Patricia impatiently. "After all, poor Mrs. Pentreddle was your sister, and you will be just as great an object of interest to the crowd as I would be."
"I'm not young and pretty, my dear. It's those things that tell."
Patricia shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I refuse, and I have written to the man saying that I cannot accept his offer."
"You refuse good money; you refuse to get married. Whatever are you going to do for a livelihood?" Mrs. Sellars was in despair over this obstinacy.
Patricia shrugged her shoulders once more. "Oh, I daresay I shall manage to earn my living in some decent way. Perhaps Mr. Colpster may help me."
"What makes you think so?"
"He is coming to see me this evening."
"I know he is coming," said Mrs. Sellars; "but I thought it was to see the last of poor Martha's remains. He takes them to Beckleigh to-morrow by the afternoon train. I should have gone myself to attend the funeral, but it is impossible to leave the children." She looked at Patricia curiously. "I wonder if he wants to marry you, my dear."
"I hope not," said Miss Carrol hastily. "How your thoughts do run on marriage, Mrs. Sellars!"
"Well, you are too pretty to remain single, Miss Carrol," said the old actress frankly. "Sammy would marry you if you would only encourage him. And I can tell you, Sammy Amersham has a great future."
"Then I shan't hamper him with a wife. But what makes you think that Mr. Colpster wishes to marry me. Isn't there a Mrs. Colpster?"
"There was, but she died long, long ago. He has one daughter, called by the odd name of Mara. But she will not inherit the estates, as the Squire wants a man to manage them. He has two nephews, you know, my dear: Theodore, who is the eldest, and Basil, who is an officer in the Royal Navy. I don't know which of the two Squire Colpster favours as his heir, but whosoever gets the estates will have to change his name."
"He ought to give his daughter the estates," said Patricia decidedly.
"Well, I am not so sure of that, my dear. You see, from what Martha said, it seems that Mara Colpster is queer."
"How do you mean 'queer'?"
"She is--that is, they think her,--Really," Mrs. Sellars broke off with a puzzled look, "I hardly know what to say. She's queer, that's all about it, for Martha told me very little. I rather think the Squire wants her to marry either Basil or Theodore; then justice would be done all round. But here I am talking," cried Mrs. Sellars, rising slowly to her feet, "when there is so much to be done with getting poor Martha ready for her last journey. I have to see the undertaker and his men, my dear," and Mrs. Sellars waddled away in a great hurry.
Patricia wondered what Mr. Colpster wished to see her about, and wondered also what could be the matter with the girl so oddly termed Mara. This last piece of curiosity was not gratified for some days, but she learned the first two hours later when Squire Colpster interviewed her in Mrs. Sellars' private sitting-room. What he said to her took her breath away.
"I return to Beckleigh to-morrow with the corpse of my housekeeper," said the Squire in his dry way, "and it struck me that you might be willing to come with me to Devonshire."
"Come with you, Mr. Colpster?" gasped Patricia, thunderstruck.
"Yes," he said, simply and directly. "You see, Martha is dead, and I want someone both to look after the house and to be a companion to my daughter."
"To Mara?" queried Patricia, remembering what Mrs. Sellars had said.
"Ah! you know her name." The Squire looked up quickly.
"Mrs. Sellars told me."
Mr. Colpster nodded. "I expect poor Martha has been talking," he said in a vexed tone, "and, no doubt, has been making out Mara to be weak-minded."
"Mrs. Sellars said that Miss Colpster was queer," said Patricia truthfully.
"She is not queer," declared the father, with some sharpness. "Mara is a dreamy girl who wants a brisk companion to arouse her. From what I have seen of you, Miss Carrol, you are the very person to do Mara good. So if you like to come for one hundred a year, I shall be delighted to engage you."
"Oh!" Patricia coloured, but on this occasion with joy. Of all the offers that had been made to her, this one pleased her the best of all. "I accept with the greatest pleasure. But the salary is too large."
"Not at all. We live very quietly and you will find it somewhat dull. Also, I shall want you to look after the servants now that Martha has gone. Mara is incapable of doing so. Well?"
"I accept, as I said before, Mr. Colpster," said Patricia promptly.
"In that case"--he rose to take his leave--"I shall expect you to come with me to-morrow. I hope to leave Paddington Station at four fifteen."
"I shall be there," said Miss Carrol, with sparkling eyes. "I have little to pack and no friends save Mrs. Sellars to take leave of." And when Squire Colpster went away, she thanked God that she was now provided with a home. Out of the evil of Mrs. Pentreddle's death good had come.