Cleopatra Villa was a pleasant house and a very expensive one, as Lord Calliston found to his cost. But then the presiding deity, by name Lena Sarschine, was very beautiful, and insisted upon having her dwelling fitted up in a corresponding manner, so Calliston gave way, and spent a small fortune on this bijou residence.
Dowker knew a good many of these little paradises with their worldly-wise Eves, the existence of whom was not supposed to be known to the polite world, so he felt quite at ease when upon ringing the bell he was admitted to the garden by a solemn-looking man servant. He was well acquainted with Calliston's life both public and private--neither side being very reputable--but then, with such advantages of wrong doing as the world now offers, 'tis hard to be virtuous.
Calliston had come into the title whilst in his childhood, and, the estate having been well looked after during his minority, he found plenty of money to spend when he came of age, and he certainly did spend it. Horse-racing and yachting were his two principal pleasures, but curiously enough his name was never mixed up with any well-known woman, and few of his friends knew except by hearsay of the divinity who dwelt in Cleopatra Villa. Calliston had fallen in love with her down in the country some years before, and bringing her up to town installed her in the bijou residence, which she rarely left. Occasionally she went to the theatre, and sometimes drove in the Park, but at such rare intervals that few people knew who she was. Calliston was very jealous of her and seldom asked his friends to supper, but she was reported by the few who had been thus honoured to be a very beautiful woman with charming manners. The general opinion was that he would end up by marrying her, when his entanglement with Lady Balscombe became known, and henceforward he was seen more by that lady's side than in the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood.
Dowker, from some mysterious source only known to himself, was cognisant of all this, and had now come down to discover what connection the establishment of St. John's Wood had with the murder in Jermyn Street.
He knew that Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe, so said he had a message from him and would like to see Miss Sarschine. The servant showed him into a magnificently-furnished drawing-room, where he awaited the appearance of the lady, intending when she entered to ask her all particulars about her maid Lydia Fenny, with a view to discovering the perpetrator of the crime. Being of an inquiring turn of mind Dowker arose from his seat when the door was closed, and folding his hands behind his back strolled about the room, his lank grey-clad figure seeming sadly out of place.
It was not a very large apartment, but luxuriously furnished, the walls being hung with pale-green silk draped in graceful folds and caught up here and there with thick silver cords. The carpet, also of a pale-green, was embroidered with bunches of white flowers, and the window curtains were of soft white Liberty silk. There were two windows on one side in deep recesses filled with brilliantly-tinted flowers, white blossoms predominating, and at the end of the room were folding doors opening into a conservatory filled with ferns, in the middle of which a small fountain splashed musically into a wide marble basin. There were low velvet-covered lounging chairs all about, tables crowded withbric-â-bracand photographs in oxydised silver frames, whilst here and there on the carpet were skins of bears and tigers. Contrary to the usual custom in drawing-rooms there was only one mirror, a small oval glass over the mantel-piece framed in pale-green plush. In the corners were high palms and other tropical vegetation, with white marble statues peering from out of their green leaves, and in one corner a handsome grand piano on the top of which lay a lot of sheet music. The room was illuminated by two or three tall brass lamps with bright green shades smothered in creamy lace, and just over the piano were a number of quaint-looking weapons arranged in a fantastic fashion. Highland broadswords, Indian daggers, and Malay krisses were all grouped round a small silver shield handsomely embossed, and though at first they seemed somewhat out of place against the rich silk hangings, yet when the eyes became accustomed to them the effect was not unpleasant.
Dowker took a leisurely survey of the apartment and then returned to his seat to await the appearance of Miss Sarschine and to think over the curious aspect the Piccadilly case now presented.
His cogitations ran somewhat after this fashion.
The time of the discovery of the body by Mr. Ellersby was about half-past two--the medical evidence at the inquest was to the effect that the deceased had been dead about two hours, so allowing a margin for possible inaccuracies the crime must have been committed about midnight, at which time there would be a certain amount of traffic through Jermyn Street. But then the spectacle of a man talking to a woman in the doorway of a house would hardly attract much attention, and if the murderer had accomplished his purpose by means of poison there was no doubt the fanciful description given byHashwould be tolerably correct. Supposing the assassin to have wounded his victim by means of a poisoned weapon, she would have become confused and giddy, finally passing into a comatose state, in which she would quietly expire. Therefore, there would be no screaming to attract the attention of passers-by, and albeit in any case lying down would have aroused curiosity, yet the fog was so thick on that night that no one would see the position of the criminal and his victim.
Now, the next question was why did Miss Sarschine not make inquiries after her maid--a week had elapsed since the murder, and the girl's absence for that time would certainly seem unaccountable. On her non-appearance her mistress would watch the papers to see if anything had happened to her. She would then notice the Jermyn Street murder, and from the description given would have no difficulty in recognizing her servant. Since though she had without doubt become cognisant of the fact that Lydia Fenny was dead she had not come forward to identify the body, and Dowker pondered over the reason she had for this reticence.
"She can't have committed the crime herself," said Dowker in a puzzled tone, "as she would hardly do so in such a public place, but why has she been so quiet?--again she couldn't know anything about poisoned weapons--no, she must have some other reason for holding her tongue."
At this moment his attention was caught by the display of weapons on the wall, and with a short exclamation he walked across the room and looked sharply at them. They were arranged in a fantastic pattern, each side being the same, but here Dowker noticed with much curiosity that one side was incomplete, a Malay kriss having been removed. He looked at the other side and there were certainly two arranged crossways, but on the other there was only one. Dowker was startled by this discovery as it seemed to point to the fact that the crime had been committed by the missing kriss. He knew the Malays were a savage nation, and without doubt poisoned their daggers, so the absence of one of these would argue that this had been the weapon used. He gingerly touched the point of a kriss with the tip of his finger, and then drew it hastily away.
"It might be poisoned," he muttered, looking at his finger to assure himself he had not broken the skin. "I wonder if it is--I'd like to find out."
Glancing hastily round the room to make sure he was alone, he took a kriss from the wall on the other side so that the pattern was now equalised, and trusted to this fact to hide his abstraction of the weapon. Then he took some old letters out of his pocket, and tearing them up into strips carefully swathed the blade of the kriss to prevent possible accidents, and slipped the parcel into his breast pocket.
"I'll go and see a doctor," he muttered to himself as he buttoned his coat, "and try the effect of this on a dog; if the symptoms of death are the same, that will be proof conclusive that the missing dagger was used to commit the crime. Once I establish that, I'll soon find out the guilty party, as it must have been some one in this house--especially as Lydia Fenny was a servant here."
He walked back again to his chair and had just sat down when the door opened and a woman entered. Not at all pretty, medium height, dark hair and eyes, and a sharp, active-looking face, which, however, was disfigured by marks of the small pox. She was dressed in a well-made dark costume and wore a knot of crimson ribbon round her throat. Dowker surveyed this lady carefully and instantly came to the conclusion that this was a fellow-servant of Lydia Fenny--certainly not Miss Sarschine.
"Hang it," muttered Dowker, "he wouldn't make love to that!"
The newcomer advanced as Dowker arose to his feet.
"You want to see Miss Sarschine?" she asked, looking at the detective.
"Yes; have I the pleasure----?"
"No; I am not Miss Sarschine, but I can let her have any message you wish delivered."
"Cannot I see the lady herself?"
"You cannot; she is out of town."
"Oh!" Dowker looked rather blank. This then was the reason Miss Sarschine did not come forward to identify the body.
"From whom is your message?" asked the woman.
"From--from--Lord Calliston," said Dowker, in a hesitating manner.
"That's impossible," replied the woman curtly.
"Why?"
"Because Lord Calliston is away yachting, and Miss Sarschine is with him."
"Oh, indeed!"
Dowker was beginning to feel rather nonplussed as he was now at a loss for an excuse for his presence, so he tried another plan.
"Do you read the papers?" he asked sharply.
"Sometimes; not often," said the woman, somewhat taken aback. "Why do you ask?"
"I have particular reasons for the question."
"I am not bound to answer your question. May I ask your name?"
"Dowker--detective."
The woman started at this and looked a little curiously at him.
"What do you want to know?"
"Are any of the servants of this house missing?"
"No." "Dear me! have any been lately dismissed?"
"No; do you allude to any particular servant?"
"Yes; Lydia Fenny."
The woman started again.
"What about her?"
"She is dead. If you had read the papers you would have noticed the Jermyn Street tragedy. She is the victim."
"There is some mistake," said the woman, quietly.
"I don't think so," replied Dowker, coolly taking out the hat from the newspaper. "Do you know this?"
At the sight of the hat the woman became violently agitated.
"Yes; where did you get this?"
"It was on the head of the woman who was murdered."
The other gave a cry and staggered back.
"Oh, my God!" she said, under her breath, "what does it all mean?"
"Mean? It means that Lydia Fenny is dead."
"No!" she cried vehemently, "not dead."
"How do you know?"
"Because I am Lydia Fenny."
Dowker stared at her aghast.
"Yes," she went on rapidly, "the hat is mine; how did you find out I was the owner?"
"I went to Madame Rêne and she told me you bought it from her; but who was the dead woman?"
Lydia Fenny again gave a cry.
"I'm afraid to say--I'm afraid to say; how was she dressed?"
"In a sealskin jacket, a silk dress and that hat."
Lydia wrung her hands in despair.
"It must be true," she moaned; "it is the dress she wore."
"Who wore?" asked Dowker in an excited tone.
"My mistress--Miss Sarschine."
The case seemed to be more mysterious than ever; instead of the maid it was the mistress. Dowker took a photograph of the deceased and gave it to Lydia.
"Who is that?" he asked eagerly.
"Miss Sarchine," she replied quickly; "but what is the matter with her face?"
"Swollen by poison."
"Poison?"
"Yes. On Monday last she was found lying dead in Jermyn Street, killed by a poisoned dagger."
"Last Monday night!" said Lydia with a gasp, "that was the last time I saw her."
"Look here," said Dowker quietly, "you'd better tell me all about it. I am employed in the case and I want to discover who murdered your mistress; so tell me all you know."
Lydia Fenny, who seemed to possess strong nerves, sat down and began to speak deliberately.
"I will tell you everything and help you to bring the murderer of my poor mistress to justice but I don't know anyone who would have killed her. She lived a very quiet life and had few friends. Lord Calliston came here very frequently, and she was very much in love with him. Where she came from I don't know, as I have only been with her about a year, but he often told her he would make her his wife, and she was always imploring him to do so. About three months ago he met some great lady----"
"Lady Balscombe?"
"Yes, that was the name--and fell in love with her. He neglected Miss Sarschine and she reproached him. There was a lot of trouble and quarrelling between them and Lord Calliston stayed away a good bit. Three weeks ago I went away for a holiday, and when I came back I found my mistress in a terrible state. She had discovered in some way that Lord Calliston had determined to elope with Lady Balscombe and go off to the Azores in his yacht. Miss Sarschine was mad with rage; she said she would kill them both; and then thought she'd play a trick upon Lord Calliston and go off with him instead. This was on Monday last."
"The time of the murder," murmured Dowker.
"She went to Lord Calliston's rooms in Piccadilly and found out from his valet that he intended to leave town that evening for Shoreham, where his yacht was lying, and that Lady Balscombe was to follow him early next morning. So she came back here and, waiting till the evening, dressed herself and put on my hat as less conspicuous than her own. She intended to catch the ten minutes past nine train from London Bridge Station and go right on board Lord Calliston's yacht and insist upon his sailing and leaving Lady Balscombe in the lurch. She went out about seven with that intention and since then I have heard nothing of her. I thought she had carried out her scheme and gone off with Lord Calliston to the Azores."
"Did you not hear of the Jermyn Street murder?"
"Yes, casually, but I never thought of connecting it with my mistress, and all the servants here live very quietly, so they would never think Miss Sarschine was the victim."
"What was she doing in Jermyn Street?"
"I can't tell you. Lord Calliston has rooms in Piccadilly, so perhaps she went there first and then through Jermyn Street on her way to the station."
"You do not know anyone who had a grudge against her?"
"No--no one."
Dowker arose to his feet.
"I will call and see you again," he said, "but meanwhile give me Lord Calliston's address in Piccadilly and I will find out if Miss Sarschine was at his rooms on that night."
Lydia Fenny, who was now crying, gave the necessary address and followed him to the door.
"One moment," said Dowker, stopping. "Where is the dagger that used to be on the wall?"
Lydia looked round for the weapons and gave a cry of astonishment.
"Two are gone."
"I have the one, but the other--where is it?"
"Miss Sarschine took it down on Monday, and said if Calliston did not take her with him she'd kill him."
"Kill him--not herself?"
"No, she had no idea of committing suicide. What are you going to do with the other?"
"Try it on a dog, and find out if the symptoms of death are the same, then I will know the companion dagger to this was the cause of your mistress's death."
"But who would take it from her and use it?"
"That's what I've got to find out. She must have met some one in Jermyn Street who killed her with it."
"It can't be suicide?"
"Hardly. The wound is in the jugular vein in the neck, so it could hardly have been self-inflicted. Besides, she would not choose a public street to die in."
"When shall I see you again?"
"After I have found out what took place in the Piccadilly chambers on Monday last."
And Dowker departed, very well satisfied with the result of his inquiries.
Calliston occupied a suite of rooms in a side street leading off Piccadilly; and very comfortable apartments they were, being luxuriously furnished in the prevailing fashion of the day. His sitting-room was hung with dark red curtains and carpet to match, and the furniture being of a kind designed to promote ease and comfort, it looked very snug, particularly at night. There was a desk in one corner of the room piled up with a disorderly heap of papers. Over this were fencing foils and boxing gloves, arranged against the wall, and the pictures mostly consisted of photographs of pretty women and paintings of celebrated horses. There was a small table near the fireplace on which lay pipes, cigar-boxes and tobacco jars, and on the sideboard a spirit stand, which was much in favour with Calliston's friends A small book-case contained an assortment of French novels, principally of the Zola and Mendes school, and, judging from the shabby appearance of the books, must have been pretty well read. The whole apartment had a dissipated air, and the atmosphere was still impregnated with a faint odour of stale tobacco smoke. Opening off this apartment were a dressing-room and bed-room, and though the whole ménage was somewhat limited, yet it made up in quality what it lacked in quantity.
When Calliston was away, his Lares and Penates were looked after by a worthy lady, who rejoiced in the name of Mrs. Povy, an appellation which has in its sound a certain aroma of Pepys' Diary, but Lord Calliston and his friends not being acquainted with the ingenuous pages of the quaint Samuel, were unaware of this, so Mrs. Povy was generally known by the name of Totty. She was elderly, very stout, with a round red face the tint of which was due to health and not drink, as she seldom imbibed anything stronger than tea. Totty was addicted to a kind of regulation uniform, consisting of a black dress, a huge white apron, and a muslin cap, set coquettishly on the side of her elderly head. She was one of those quaint old motherly creatures, who never offend, no matter what they say, and she frequently lectured Calliston on the irregularity of his life, which that noble lord accepted with an amused laugh.
The late Mr. Povy had long since departed this life, and having been what is vulgarly known as a warm man, had left Totty comfortably off, so that lady occupied her present position more from choice than necessity. She had a gruff voice, and her casual remarks had the sound of positive commands, which she found of great use with refractory servants.
Totty learned from the papers that Lord Calliston had gone off to the Azores with Lady Balscombe, and expressed her disapproval of his action in the most emphatic manner to Mrs. Swizzle (a friend of her youth) as they sat over their four-o'clock tea.
"Ah," said Totty, fixing her eyes pensively on the little black tea-pot, "it ain't no good being a reformatory. The way I've talked to him about his goings on and now look at his goings off."
"Perhaps he couldn't help himself," said Mrs. Swizzle, who was tall and thin, and spoke in a kind of subdued whistle.
"He never tried to, I'll be bound," retorted Mrs. Povy, wrathfully. "Not as he's always bin after married pussons, for I know there is a gal as he pays for her board and lodging."
"Lor'," whistled Mrs. Swizzle, curiously. "Where?"
"Never you mind," returned Totty, screwing up her mouth. "She's a gal as no decent woman 'ud speak to her--silks and satings and wasting of money--oh, I've no patience with 'em! Kettles is snow in whiteness with gals' morals now."
At this moment there came a ring at the door, and Totty hurrying away to attend to it, Mrs. Swizzle made the best use of her time by eating up the buttered toast as rapidly as she could.
When Mrs. Povy opened the door she was confronted by a lank figure in grey, which was none other than Dowker, come to prosecute his inquiries concerning Miss Sarschine.
"Well?" enquired Totty gruffly, annoyed at being disturbed, "and what do you want?"
Dowker gazed on the substantial figure before him and sighed.
"A few words with you about Lord Calliston," he said softly.
Mrs. Povy shook with wrath.
"I ain't no spy or gossip," she said. "And if that is what you want to find out, this ain't the shop--so walk out," and she prepared to shut the door. But Dowker was too sharp for her, and placed his foot inside.
"Wait a moment, my good lady," he said, quietly. "I don't mean any harm to Lord Calliston, and what I want to speak to you about is important."
Curiosity got the better of Totty's wrath, so after a time she consented to speak to Dowker privately, and to this end led him upstairs to Calliston's rooms.
"We're quiet here," she said, closing the door. "I can't ask you into my own room, as a perticler friend of mine is drinking tea with me."
"This will do capitally," replied Dowker, glancing round the room. "And now, as my curiosity may appear rude and you may refuse to answer some of my questions, I may as well tell you who I am."
"And who are you?" asked Mrs. Povy uneasily, "a noospaper or a politics?"
"Dowker--detective."
Mrs. Povy's naturally red face became white.
"What's up?" she gasped. "Has Lord Calliston bin doing anything wrong?"
"No, no," replied Dowker soothingly. "I only want to obtain some information about Miss Sarschine."
"I don't know that kind of pusson," said Totty angrily. "Never mind if you know her or not," retorted Dowker sternly, "but answer my questions."
Mrs. Povy sniffed and would have refused, but there was something in the detective's eye which quelled her, so she yielded an ungracious assent.
"When did Lord Calliston leave town for his yacht?"
"About a week ago--on Monday last."
"Where was his yacht lying?"
"At Shoreham. He went to London Bridge Station to catch the ten minutes past nine train. His yotsh was to leave next morning."
"Did he go alone?"
"As far as I know," retorted Totty. "If Lady Balscombe went with him you can see it in the papers. I know no more than that."
"How often did Miss Sarschine call on Monday?"
"Once, in the afternoon, to see Lord Calliston."
"Did she see him?"
"No, he was out, so she said she'd call again in the evening."
"And did she?"
"Yes; but Lord Calliston had gone about eight o'clock to catch his train. I suppose she thought he wouldn't go till next morning."
"Did she know he was going to elope with Lady Balscombe?"
"Not that I know of."
"Did she see anyone when she came the second time?"
"Yes, Mr. Desmond, my lord's cousin."
"What time was that?"
"About twelve, between eleven and twelve."
Dowker pondered a little. So she called here to see Calliston just before she was murdered, and saw Desmond. Now the question was, what had Desmond to do with the affair.
"Was Mr. Desmond here on that evening by accident?"
"No. He told me he had come to give Miss Sarschine a message from Lord Calliston."
"You did not overhear their conversation?"
"Me," growled Tottie, indignantly, "I never listen--out when she was leaving they were 'having a row."
"About what time?"
"I think at ten minutes after twelve."
"Did she go out alone?"
"Yes. Mr. Desmond followed shortly afterwards."
"Did he say anything?"
"No, not a word."
Dowker felt puzzled. It was evident Desmond had given her a message from Calliston that made her angry, and she left the house in a rage, but then this did not connect anyone with a design to murder her. Suddenly he remembered that Ellersby had mentioned that he had met Desmond coming up St. James' Street a short time before the body was found. Was it possible that he had killed Miss Sarschine and was then coming away from the scene of his crime? Impossible, because the doctor said the woman must have been dead some hours. And yet he might have killed her and gone down St. James' Street to avert suspicion, and then come up again when he thought the coast would be clear. Unfortunately, he had met Ellersby and then--well, Dowker made up his mind he would go and see Ellersby, find out what he could about the meeting, and afterwards call on Myles Desmond. He, perhaps, might give some satisfactory explanation of his interview with Miss Sarschine, and account for his presence after the interview. If he did not, well, it would appear suspicious.
While these thoughts were rapidly passing through his mind, Totty had her eyes fastened eagerly on him.
"Well, now I've answered all your questions," she said, "perhaps you'll tell me what it all means."
"Murder!"
Mrs. Povy became quite excited, for she had a keen relish for horrors.
"Lor'! Who's dead--not Lord Calliston?"
"No. Miss Sarschine."
"Miss Sarschine!"
"Yes. She was murdered shortly after she left these rooms and after her interview with Mr. Desmond."
"Oh, he is innocent, I'm sure," said Mrs. Povy eagerly. "What on earth should he want to kill her for? Besides, he's in love with Miss Penfold."
"Oh, and she, I understand, was going to marry Lord Calliston."
"I don't believe she'd ever have married him," said Tottie disbelievingly; "she's that fond of Mr. Desmond, as never was. Where are you going?"
"To attend to business," replied Dowker, "and by the way, where does Mr. Desmond live?"
"You ain't going to arrest him for this murder?" shrieked Totty.
"No--no--there's no evidence," retorted Dowker lightly. "Where does he live?"
"Primrose Crescent, in Bloomsbury," replied Mrs. Povy. The detective took the address and went down stairs, followed by Mrs. Povy.
"You don't think Mr. Desmond did it, sir?" began Totty, "for a more----"
"I don't think anything," said Dowker, putting on his hat. "You'll hear soon enough what is done."
As he hurried away Mrs. Povy shut the door and returned to her room, where she implored Mrs. Swizzle to mix her a glass of brandy.
"I've 'ad such a turn," she wailed, "as never was. Oh, it's a blessing Povy died afore he saw his wife mixed up with them nasty police."
Dowker walked along Piccadilly thinking deeply about the curious aspect the case was now assuming. As far as he could make out, Myles Desmond was the last person who saw Miss Sarschine alive, and he having gone out a few minutes after the interview, it seemed as though he had followed her. The only thing to be done was to see Ellersby, and as he was stopping at the Guelph Hotel Dowker went along in that direction. He followed the same path as he surmised the dead woman must have taken, but what puzzled him was the reason she had for going into Jermyn Street.
"After she found out Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe," he muttered, "the most obvious course would be for her to go home, but she evidently did not intend to do so. I wonder if she walked or took a cab? Walked, I suppose. Let me see, it was a foggy night and she got lost, that is the explanation. But then this man or woman she met; it must have been a friend as she would hardly have stopped talking to a stranger, unless indeed she asked the way. Lord," ejaculated Mr. Dowker, suddenly stopping short, "fancy if this murder turns out to be the work of some tramp, but no, that's bosh, tramps wouldn't use a poisoned dagger--unless they took the one she carried. Hang it! it's the most perplexing case I was ever in."
He had by this time arrived at the Guelph Hotel and sent up his card to Mr. Ellersby. The waiter soon returned with the information that Mr. Ellersby was in and would see him, so he went upstairs and was shown into a sitting-room. At one end near the window sat Spencer Ellersby in a comfortable armchair smoking a pipe and reading a French novel. A remarkably unpromising-looking bulldog lay at his feet and arose with an ominous growl as Dowker entered the room.
"Lie down Pickles," said Ellersby to this amiable animal, who obeyed the command in a sulky manner. "Well, Mr. Dowker, what do you want to see me about?"
"That case, sir," said Dowker, taking a seat.
"Oh, of course," replied Ellersby, shrugging his shoulders, "I guessed as much. I thought I'd done with the whole affair at the inquest."
"As far as it then went, sir," said the detective, quickly; "but I've found out a lot since that time."
"Ah, indeed! The name of the assassin?"
"Not yet, sir--I'll do that later on--but the name of the victim."
"Yes?--and it is----?"
"Lena Sarschine."
"Never heard of her. Who is she, what is she, and where does she live?"
"She was Lord Calliston's mistress," replied Dowker. "I think that answers all the other questions."
"Hum! A cottage in St. John's Wood--gilded vice, and all the rest of it. And what was she doing in Jermyn Street that night?"
"I don't know, sir. That's one of the things I've got to discover."
"Well, what else have you found out, and how did you manage to acquire your information?"
"That was easy enough," said? Dowker confidentially. "I'll just tell you all, sir, for I want you to give me some information."
"Delighted--if I can."
"As to the finding out, sir. The hat worn by the dead 'un had a ticket inside, showing it was made by Madame Rêne, of Regent Street. I went there, and found out it had been sold to a woman called Lydia Fenny, of Cleopatra Villa, St. John's Wood. I, thinking Lydia Fenny was the victim, went there and found that she was alive, and had lent the hat to her mistress last Monday night."
"Curious thing for a maid to lend her mistress clothes," said Ellersby, smiling. "It's generally the reverse."
"I think she did it for a disguise, sir," explained Dowker, "because Miss Sarschine went to Lord Calliston's chambers in Piccadilly."
"What for?"
"To get information concerning his elopement with Lady Balscombe."
"The deuce!" said Ellersby in astonishment. "This is becoming interesting."
"It will be still more so before it's done. I found out from Lydia Fenny that Miss Sarschine discovered her lover was about to elope with Lady Balscombe, so went to his chambers to prevent it She arrived too late, as Lord Calliston had gone down to Shoreham by the ten minutes past nine train from London Bridge Station. Instead of Lord Calliston she found Mr. Desmond, his cousin, and I suppose he told her she was too late, for there was a row royal, and she left the chambers at twelve o'clock or thereabouts. Desmond followed shortly afterwards, and that was the last seen of her alive, as far as I know."
"Why? Didn't Miss Sarschine return home when she discovered Calliston had gone off with Lady Balscombe?"
"I can't tell you, sir; nor what took her to Jermyn Street, unless she got lost in the fog, or there was another man in the case."
"Eh? Nonsense! what other man could there have been?"
"Well," said Dowker slowly, "there was Mr. Desmond."
"Pshaw!" said Ellersby, springing to his feet. "What rubbish! I've known Myles Desmond all my life, and he's not the fellow to commit such a crime!"
"Yet I understand before you found the body you met Mr. Desmond coming up St. James's Street?"
Spencer Ellersby swung round in a rage.
"Confound you!" he said in an angry tone, "do you want me to give evidence implicating my friend?"
Dowker did not lose his temper.
"No; but I want to know what took place between you on that night."
"Simply nothing. He was in a hurry, and seemed annoyed at my stopping him, but that was only natural on such a beastly night. I asked him to call on me here, and also asked where Calliston was; he told me yachting and then he went off. Nothing more took place."
"Humph!" said Dowker thoughtfully. "It was curious he should have been there at the time."
"I don't see it at all. If you ask him, I've no doubt he'll give you a good account of himself. Besides, he had no motive in murdering Miss Sarschine--he is in love with Miss Penfold."
"I don't say he deliberately murdered her," said Dowker quietly, "but there might have been an accident. You see this?" taking the Malay kriss out of his pocket and unwraping the papers.
"Yes--a dagger. Is that the----" said Ellersby, recoiling.
"No; but I shrewdly suspect it's the neighbour to it. Down at Cleopatra Villa there were a lot of these sort of things hanging against the wall, arranged in a kind of pattern. One side of the pattern was incomplete, and I found out from Miss Fenny that Miss Sarschine had taken one of the daggers, with a view to trying it on Calliston if he did not give up his design of eloping. She was mad with rage or she would never have thought of such an idea. Well--cannot you guess what follows?--she has the dagger with her--doubtless shows it to Myles Desmond during her stormy interview with him, and leaves the house in a rage. He follows her to try and take such a dangerous weapon from her--meets her in Jermyn Street--struggles to get it, and in the scuffle wounds herself; consequently she dies, and Myles Desmond keeps quiet lest he should be accused of murder."
"Seems possible enough," said Ellersby, resuming his seat, "but I doubt its truth. However, the only thing to be done is to see Desmond, and find out what took place at Calliston's rooms. But tell me, what are you going to do with that other dagger?"
"I want to find out if it's poisoned," said Dowker, handling it gingerly. "If it is, it will show that the other weapon was the one with which the crime was committed."
"Will you allow me to look at it?" said Ellersby, stretching out his hand.
"Certainly," replied the detective, and rising to his feet, he walked across to Ellersby to give him the dagger. Unluckily, however, just as he was handing it to him he stepped on Pickles, who with a growl of rage made a bite at his leg. In the sudden start Dowker let go the dagger, which fell upon Pickles' back, inflicting a slight wound.
The detective gave a yell as the bulldog gripped him, but Ellersby pulled Pickles off, and Dowker, hobbling to a chair, sat down to nurse his wounded leg. It was not much hurt, however, as Pickles had got a mouthful of trousers instead of flesh.
Alarmed as Dowker had been by the accident, he was not more alarmed than Ellersby, who sprang to his feet with an oath and rang the bell sharply.
"Damn it!" he said furiously, "if that dagger is poisoned the dog will die! How could you be such a fool?"
"You'd be the same, sir, if a devil of a dog bit you," said Dowker sulkily, not at all displeased at having the question of the dagger tested at once. "I'm very sorry."
"Sorry be hanged!" said Ellersby savagely. "I wouldn't lose that dog for a hundred pounds. Here," to the waiter that entered, "send for a doctor at once--don't lose time, confound you!" at which the astonished waiter vanished promptly.
Meanwhile all this time Pickles was lying down trying to lick his wound, and evidently wondering what all the fuss was about. Dowker watched him intently, and in a short time saw the dog was becoming drowsy. Ellersby picked up the dagger and was about to hurl it furiously back to Dowker, when the detective jumped up in alarm.
"For God's sake, don't!" he cried; "I believe it is poisoned--look!"
Ellersby looked, and saw Pickles trying to rise to his feet. He evidently knew something was wrong with him, for he commenced to whine, and a glaze came over his eyes. His master knelt down beside him and dried the blood off the wound with his handkerchief, but it was too late. The dog opened his jaws once or twice, tried to rise to his feet, staggered, and fell over on his side, to all appearances dead. On seeing this, Ellersby jumped to his feet and began to rage.
"The devil take you and your case!" he said furiously, "you've killed my dog."
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Dowker, crossing and picking up the dagger, "it was an accident."
"An expensive accident for me," said Ellersby, bitterly; "at all events it proves the dagger was poisoned."
"Yes," said Dowker in a delighted tone, "so the crime must have been committed with the other weapon, for if one was poisoned, it's only common sense to assume the other was."
He had apparently quite forgotten the loss sustained by Ellersby, for there was no doubt the bulldog was quite dead.
That gentleman looked at him in disgust.
"Oh, go to the devil," he said, irritably, "and thank your stars I don't make you pay for this."
Dowker murmured something about an accident, then, slipping the fatal dagger, once more covered in paper, into his pocket, he took his departure. On his way down he met the doctor coming up, and once outside, he was beside himself with joy at having proved the kriss to be poisonous.
"And now," he said, "I'll call and see Mr. Desmond."
Primrose Crescent lies just off Tottenham Court Road, and though a short distance away the great thoroughfare is full of noise and bustle, everything is comparatively silent in this crescent. Milk-carts are the most frequent vehicles, and occasionally a rakish-looking hansom makes its appearance, while ragged mendicants sometimes pay the neighbourhood a visit, and troll out lively ditties in gin-cracked voices. The organ-grinder is not an unknown personage either, and his infernal machine may frequently be heard playing the latest music-hall melodies as he glances round in search of the humble brown.
The houses are somewhat dismal; tall--very tall, built of dull-hued red brick, with staring windows and little iron balconies, meant for show, not use. No Bloomsbury Juliet can lean over the ornamental ironwork and whisper sweet nothings to Romeo; if she did, Juliet would forthwith be precipitated into the basement, where dwells the servant of the house in company with the domestic cat, and the love-scene would end within the prosaic walls of a hospital.
There are a good many boarding-houses to be found in Primrose Crescent, where City clerks, literary aspirants and coming actors are to be found. A touch of Bohemianism pervades the whole street, and perhaps in the future, neat tablets let into the walls of the houses will inform posterity that Horatio Muggins, the celebrated poet, and Simon Memphison, the famous actor, resided there. But fame is as yet far from the quiet street, and the dwellers therein are still struggling upward or downward as their inclinations may lead them.
Mrs. Mulgy was the landlady of one of these boarding-houses, and by dint of hard work and incessant watchfulness managed to keep the wolf from the door; but, alas, the wolf was never far off, and it took all Mrs. Mulgy's time to keep him at his distance. The basement of her mansion was devoted to the kitchen, the presiding deity of which was a pale, thin-looking servant, with a hungry eye and a deprecating manner, who answered to the name of Rondalina, which sounded well and cost nothing. She used to ascend from the kitchen like a ghost from the tomb, wander about the house to minister to the wants of the boarders, and then return to the grave, or rather the kitchen, once more. A rising musician occupied the ground-floor, who went to bed very early in the morning, and got up very late in the afternoon. He was writing an opera which was to make his name, but meantime devoted his spare moments to instructing small children in the art of music, which tried his temper greatly, and rendered him morose. On the first floor dwelt Mr. Myles Desmond, whose occupation was that of a journalist, and, being good-looking, smartly dressed and well connected, was Mrs. Mulgy's trump-card in the way of lodgers. Above was the habitation of a maiden lady, by name Miss Jostler, who called herself an artist, and painted fire-screens, Xmas cards and such like things, with conventional landscapes and flowers. In the attics lived several young men who, having no money and plenty of spirits, formed quite a little colony of Bohemians, being principally concerned with theatricals and literary life.
It was a queer place altogether, and the individuals were a kind of happy family except that they did not mix much with one another, but they all paid their bills comparatively regular, and so Mrs. Mulgy was content.
It was to this place that Mr. Dowker took his way the day after his interview with Ellersby. As he had seen Madame Rêne, Lydia Fenny, Mrs. Povy, and Mr. Ellersby all in one day, and obtained valuable information from each, he thought he would defer his call on Mr. Desmond, and spent the night in arranging all the evidence he had acquired during the day. The result was very satisfactory to himself, and he wended his steps towards Mr. Desmond's abode in a very happy frame of mind.
It was about eleven o'clock, and Myles Desmond sat in his sitting-room scribbling an article for a society journal, calledAsmodeus, published for the express purpose of unroofing people's houses, and exposing to the world their private life. Not that Desmond did such a thing, he would have scorned to violate the sanctity of private life, but he wrote for all kinds of magazines and papers, and asAsmodeuspaid well, he now and then wrote them a smart essay on existing evils, or a cynical social story.
He was a tall young man, with reddish hair and moustache, a clever, intellectual face, perhaps not actually good-looking, but a face that attracted attention, and when he chose to exert himself, he could talk excellently on the current topics of the day. His breakfast lay on the table, untouched, he having only swallowed a cup of coffee, and then pushed the table-cloth aside to make room for his papers. Dressed in an old smoking-suit, he leaned one elbow on the table occasionally, ran his fingers through his hair and wrote rapidly, only stopping every now and then to relight his pipe. He was engaged in writing an essay on "Cakes and Ale," and satirising the vices of a new school of novelists, who, in their desire to become pure and wholesome, had gone to the other extreme and taken all the masculine vigour out of their productions.
Myles looked worn and haggard, as if he had been up all night, and every now and then his swift pen would stop as he pondered over some thought. There was a ring at the bell below, but he took no notice. This was followed shortly afterwards by a knock at the door, and Rondalina glided in, saying a gentleman wished to see him.
"Show him in," said Myles, not looking up. "Wonder who it can be," he muttered, as Rondalina went out; "hang those fellows, they won't even let me have the morning to myself."
When the door opened he glanced up and saw that the new corner was not a friend, but a tall, grey man whom he did not know. Myles paused with his pen in his hand, and waited for his visitor to speak, looking at him interrogatively meanwhile.
Mr. Dowker--tor of course it was he--closed the door carefully, and advancing to the table, introduced himself in two words:
"Dowker--detective!"
If Myles looked haggard before, he looked still more so now. His face grew pale, and he shot an enquiring glance at his visitor, who stood looking mournfully at him. Then, throwing down his pen in an irritable manner, he arose to his feet.
"Well, Mr. Dowker?" he said a little nervously. "You want to see me."
"I do--very particularly," replied Dowker, coolly taking a seat, "and believe you can guess what it's about."
Myles drew his brows together, and shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I can't," he said coldly.
"The Jermyn Street murder."
Myles gave a kind of gasp, and turned away towards the mantel-piece, ostensibly to fill his pipe, but in reality to conceal his agitation.
"Well," he said in an unsteady voice, "and what have I to do with it?"
"That's what I want to know," said Dowker imperturbably.
Myles Desmond glanced keenly at him, lighted his pipe, resumed his seat at the table, and leaning his elbows thereon, stared coolly at the detective.
"You speak in riddles," he said quietly.
"Humph!" answered Dowker meaningly, "perhaps you can guess them."
"Not till you explain them more fully," retorted Desmond.
It was evidently a duel between the two men, and they both felt it to be so. Dowker wanted to find out something, which Desmond knew, and Desmond on his side was equally determined to hold his tongue. The cleverest man would win in the end, so Dowker began the battle at once.
"The woman who was murdered was your cousin's mistress, Lena Sarschine."
"Indeed!" said Desmond, with a start of surprise. "May I ask how you know?"
"That is not the point," retorted Dowker quickly. "I have satisfied myself as to the identity of the murdered woman--you were the last person who saw her alive."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, at Lord Calliston's chambers, between eleven and twelve o'clock on Monday night."
"Who says I saw her?"
"Mrs. Povy."
Myles Desmond's lip curled.
"You seem to have obtained all your information beforehand," he said with a sneer; "perhaps you'll tell me what you want to know from me?"
"First--did you see Miss Sarschine on Monday?"
"Yes! I did, but in the afternoon, not at night."
"But Mrs. Povy said she called on you there, on Monday night."
"Mrs. Povy is mistaken, I did not see her."
"Did you see anyone at that time?"
"That's my business."
"Pardon me," said Dowker ironically, "but it's mine also. You had better answer my questions or you may find yourself in an uncommonly awkward fix."
"Oh! so you mean to accuse me of Lena Sarschine's murder."
"That depends," replied Dowker ambiguously; "tell me what you did on Monday night."
Myles thought a moment, and seeing his perilous position resolved to answer.
"I went to the Frivolity Theatre, then to the office of the newspaper,Hash, and afterwards----"
"Well?"
"I went along to Lord Calliston's rooms, about half-past ten."
"I thought so, and why did you go there?"
"Not to commit a crime," retorted Desmond coolly, "but only to arrange some papers for my cousin--he had gone down to Shoreham by the ten minutes past nine train."
"Did you see him off?"
"No."
"Then how did you know he went?"
"Because he said he was going."
"With Lady Balscombe?"
"I know nothing about that," said Desmond coldly, "he went--as far as I know--by himself. I was at his chambers to arrange his papers, and after I had done so, I left."
"Did no one call while you were there?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"A lady?"
"Well, a woman," evasively.
"Miss Sarschine?"
"No, it was not Miss Sarschine, that I can swear to."
"Then who was it?"
"No one having anything to do with this case--a friend of my own."
"I must know the name."
"I refuse to tell you."
Both men looked steadily at one another, and then Dowker changed the subject.
"Why did you quarrel with your friend?"
"That is my business."
"Oh! and what time did your friend leave?"
"Shortly after twelve."
"And you?"
"Went a few minutes afterwards."
"You came home?"
"After a time--yes."
"Where did you go in the meantime?"
"I refuse to answer."
"Then I can tell you--down St. James' Street."
Myles Desmond uttered an oath, and asked sharply:
"Who told you that?"
"No one; but Mr. Ellersby met you coming up shortly after two o'clock."
"Yes, I did meet him there."
"Why did you not go straight home?"
Desmond seemed to be trying to think of something--at last with an effort he said:
"I was afraid my friend might get lost in the fog, and followed her down St. James' Street, then I lost sight of her, and after a time came up St. James' Street, where I met Ellersby. I did not see my friend again, so I came home."
"You did not see your friend after she left Lord Calliston's chambers?"
"No, I did not!" said Desmond, with a sudden flush.
"That's a lie," thought Dowker, eyeing him sharply, then he said out aloud:
"You have answered all my questions except the most important ones."
"I have answered all I intend to answer."
"Then you refuse to give me the name of the woman whom you saw on Monday night?"
"Yes!"
"Mrs. Povy is certain it was Miss Sarschine."
"As I said before, Mrs. Povy is mistaken."
"Do you know I can arrest you on suspicion?"
"You have no grounds to go upon."
"You were the person who last saw the deceased alive."
"Pardon me. I deny that I saw the deceased at all on that night."
"Mrs. Povy can prove it."
"Then let Mrs. Povy do so."
Dowker grew angry--the self-possession and coolness of this young man annoyed him--so he resolved for the present to temporise.
"Well, well, Mr. Desmond, I suppose you can give a good account of yourself on that night?"
"Certainly, to the proper authorities."
"Good morning," said Dowker, and walked out of the room. When he got into the street he strolled along a little way, thinking deeply.
"Confound him! He knows something," he said to himself, "and refuses to tell. I won't lose sight of him, so I must get that little devil, Flip, to look after him. I'll look him up now, and start him at once."
Just as he was about to put this resolve into execution he saw the door of the house he had just left open, and the servant came out with a piece of paper in her hand, which the keen-eyed detective saw was a telegraph form.
"Hullo!" said Dowker to himself. "I wonder if Mr. Desmond's sending that. I'll just find out."
Rondalina went along to the little post-office at the end of the street, and turned in. Shortly afterwards, Dowker followed, and, going to the counter, took a telegraph form as if to send a telegram. The girl was attending to someone else, and Rondalina, with the telegram opened out before her, was waiting her turn. Dowker dexterously leaned across her to get a pen, and glanced rapidly at the telegram, which he read in a moment:
"PENFOLD,
"c/o Balscombe, Park Lane, "Meet me Marble Arch three o'clock,
"Myles."
Dowker sent a fictitious telegram, and then strolled leisurely out.
"Hum!" he said, thoughtfully. "That's the girl he wants to marry. I wonder what are his reasons for seeing her to-day. I'd like to overhear their conversation. Can't go myself, as he knows me, so Flip will be the very person."
And Dowker departed to find Flip.