CHAPTER XIX.A COUNCIL OF WAR.
That evening there was a mysterious private gathering of ladies in Mrs. Dumaresq’s room, chosen because it was the largest. To it came first of all the medical woman, bursting with importance and revelations. Mrs. Whitley, Mrs. Dumaresq herself, and the specially invited Mrs. Wilcox made up the conclave.
Mrs. Wilcox was nervous and agitated. She felt sure the medical woman had something dreadful to tell her, and whether that something related to the contagious nature of Miss Prudence Semaphore’s illness, or to something darker but less infectious, she did not know.
“Well, ladies,” she began nervously, as by Mrs. Dumaresq’s request she seated herself, “what have you to say to me? I hope,”she added, turning to Miss Lord, “that your patient’s illness has not taken a serious form?”
There was an awful pause. The medical woman knew when she had got a good thing, and was in no hurry to begin.
“Is it—is it diphtheria?” quavered Mrs. Wilcox.
Still the medical woman sat silent, with every eye fixed on her.
“Oh, do tell us! Tell us the worst,” pleaded Mrs. Wilcox. “Is she going to die?”
“She will live,” said the medical woman solemnly. “She will live—to die on the scaffold.”
“Gracious Heavens!” exclaimed everyone simultaneously.
“Yes, ladies. To die on the scaffold. I repeat it. Prudence Semaphore is, I fear—a murderess.”
Mrs. Wilcox screamed.
“Miss Lord, Miss Lord,” she cried. “Pray be careful. Do not say such dreadful things. Miss Semaphore and her sister came to me with the highest recommendations, and you really—”
“Aye,” said the medical woman, withstately and awful triumph, “she came with her sister—where is her sister now?”
“At the seaside somewhere, I suppose. She did not leave me her address,” said Mrs. Wilcox weakly.
“At the seaside you suppose,” echoed the medical woman with fine scorn. “No, my dear madam, she is dead—and Prudence Semaphore murdered her—murdered her in this very house. Oh, you need not look at me like that. I’ve not spoken until I have traced every link in the chain of crime.”
“What did I say?” interposed Mrs. Dumaresq.
“What did I say from the very first?” She looked round appealingly at Mrs. Whitley. “I said I hoped she had not been murdered. You remember I used those very words.”
No one heeded her, for everyone was looking at the medical woman, as she gloated over the sensation she had caused.
“For pity sake, tell us all—all in strict confidence,” gasped Mrs. Wilcox. “What Captain Wilcox will say, I really cannot imagine.”
“Well,” said the medical woman, “I had my suspicions front the first, but they werevague. I felt that something was wrong, but did not know what that something was. The confusion of manner of Prudence Semaphore, her refusal to say plainly what ailed her sister, her reluctance to call in a doctor, and the extraordinarily small amount of nourishment she provided for her, were all remarkable. Then she would let no one see her. She put you off, Mrs. Wilcox, and she burst into quite a rage when, in the interests of humanity, I desired to visit the poor neglected sufferer. No doubt by that time Miss Semaphore was beyond human help, for now I recall, there was an indescribable air of guilt about that unhappy woman, and she showed a ferocity of character for which I had not given her credit. Still, I said nothing. Then came the discovery that Miss Semaphore had disappeared. That threw me off the scent for a time. I am always disposed to think as well of other people as possible, and while her leaving the house so suddenly and mysteriously seemed to point to her having a dangerous and possibly infectious illness, and being smuggled out of the way by Prudence, I did not seriously think she was dead. Our search of the room revealed nothing. The renewed calm ofmanner shown by that wretched creature, and the plausible story she told of her sister having gone to the seaside, I confess, lulled my suspicions to sleep. The story was queer, but it was not too improbable. Then came the visit paid Prudence by a drunken woman, who insisted on seeing her, and made such an uproar in the hall. Mrs. Dumaresq declares that she heard her say something about a cheque and an infant—”
“So I did,” corroborated Mrs. Dumaresq.
“Well I didn’t catch the words, but events have proved that you were right. Next followed”—she hesitated.
“Her fainting,” said Mrs. Whitley.
“Yes, her fainting suddenly in the drawing-room, when Major Jones was reading out something about that horrid baby farming case. I did not connect these events, Mrs. Dumaresq did.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, with modest triumph. “I observed her face of terror, and remembering what the woman had said, I put two and two together.”
“Well, you mentioned the matter to me, and I confess I was sceptical. My suspicions ran in a different groove, but it now seems that we were both right.”
Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Whitley gasped simultaneously.
“You know some of what followed,” said the medical woman, addressing Mrs. Dumaresq. “This afternoon a man called to see that wretched criminal. I, suspecting nothing, went down to see him and ask his business, for she had just taken a sleeping draught. He told me—.” The medical woman paused to gain her full effect. “He told me that he was a detective from Scotland Yard, and that his business with Miss Prudence Semaphore was personal and private. Mrs. Dumaresq’s words flashed on me like a thunderbolt, and quite suddenly I asked him, as if I knew all about it, if he wanted to see her in connection with the baby farming case, and he said ‘Yes,’—he said ‘Yes.’—I expect he saw then he had made a mistake, for I could not get another word out of him after that, but he is to call again the day after to-morrow.”
The horror of Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Whitley could not be expressed. Mrs. Dumaresq listened with the calm air of one who has been in the secret all along.
“When I saw,” said the medical woman, “that Justice was upon her track, that shewas mixed up with detectives and baby-farmers, all my former suspicions came back with a rush, but I felt the necessity for being calm and just. I remembered the curious circumstances I have mentioned, and also the queer relapse she had to-day when Mrs. Dumaresq asked for her sister’s address, finally saying she did not know. The whole thing was as plain as possible. Her sister had disappeared, because she had been somehow made away with. No doubt there were circumstances in the past life of Prudence Semaphore that she dreaded coming to her knowledge, for we all know how particular poor dear Miss Semaphore was. Still, I resolved to search, to enquire before I decided. I told Mrs. Dumaresq about the detective, and then I began a rigorous investigation, beginning quietly with the servants.”
“But perhaps her sister really is at the seaside somewhere,” suggested Mrs. Wilcox. “All this is very shocking about the detective and the baby farming; but Miss Semaphore may be alive and well, for all that proves to the contrary.”
“Wait till you hear,” said the medical woman, shaking a solemn finger at Mrs.Wilcox. “First of all, I made cautious enquiries from the servants. Mary tells me that from the day Prudence reported that Miss Semaphore was ill, she was never permitted to enter her room. Never saw her again, in fact. She tried to get in, but the door was always locked. This, too, was my own experience. Then something was said about a letter having come for Prudence from her sister. Müller and Mary both know Miss Semaphore’s handwriting, and they agree that to their knowledge no such letter has been delivered here. I next enquired as to whether anyone had seen Miss Semaphore leave the house. It was unlikely that an invalid, probably still weak from illness, should be able to get downstairs and out of the house unobserved. Besides, there was the question of luggage. She could hardly have gone and taken nothing with her, not even a change of dress. But no one saw her. I then put on my bonnet, went out and spoke to the men on the two nearest cab ranks. They all agree in saying that none of them took up a lady fare, or two ladies, with or without luggage, on the Tuesday, from this house. Major Jones tells us he saw someone, who he is sure was MissPrudence Semaphore, and alone, crossing the road hastily near Tate Street. That would have been shortly after dinner on Tuesday evening. It seems absolutely plain, therefore, that Miss Semaphore did not leave the house at all.”
“But we saw her empty room that night,” said Mrs. Whitley. “We saw her empty bed. She must have gone some time before we went upstairs to visit her.”
“My theory is,” said the medical woman, “that she was then concealed in that very room.”
“But where? Not in the wardrobe, for we opened that, nor under the bed, for we looked there, and there really was no place else.”
“Oh, yes, there was. You remember that the very next day, I think, Prudence sent away two boxes, ostensibly full of her sister’s belongings. Now my theory is, and time will prove whether I am not right, that in one of those boxes, the big grey one, bound with iron, was the body of Miss Semaphore!”
By this time the medical woman’s hearers were trembling in every limb.
“How awful!” quaked Mrs. Whitley.“Why it is just like that East End tragedy. I forget the name—when a woman—no, a man, was taken away dead in a box.”
“This is a serious accusation,” said Mrs. Wilcox, after a time of digestive silence, “and it doesn’t seem to me to be proved.”
“Doesn’t it?” enquired the medical woman indignantly. “Well, I presume you’ll believe it when you see the poor creature dead before you, and are called on to identify her remains, as I have no doubt you will be.”
“But Miss Prudence is really so gentle; besides, what motive could she have for killing her sister?”
“Gentle? A woman—a hypocrite like that, with her baby-farmers and detectives after her? Don’t tell me! And as for motives, it seems plain enough that she may have had several that we cannot guess at. Mary tells me the Semaphores had a violent quarrel about a fortnight ago, and probably that decided her.”
“Oh, they often quarrelled. Poor Miss Semaphore, you know, was trying enough at times, but Miss Prudence never bore malice.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, it seems to me you think she is a plaster saint, and if so, there is no use my saying anything more—but I warn you. Time will tell.”
“Indeed, I don’t,” said Mrs. Wilcox hastily. “I think the whole affair is terrible and disgraceful enough on the face of it, and the sooner I get Miss Prudence Semaphore out of the house, the better. I must speak to Captain Wilcox at once. But then murder—. No, I can’t believe it.”
“Well, if you are going to risk allowing an infamous criminal to escape justice, a Cain whose hands are dyed in her sister’s blood, I confess I am surprised at you.”
“But think of the disgrace to the house,” pleaded Mrs. Wilcox. “It will be put in the papers, and we shall be ruined, and you know, after all, Miss Lord, we are not quite sure. Miss Semaphore may be alive and well somewhere, and what fools we should look if we made a fuss, and then she turned up all right.”
“She never will turn up,” said the medical woman gloomily. “There never was a clearer case of circumstantial evidence. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to piece it together.”
“But what do you want me to do?”
“I think that as I have placed all the facts before you, your duty is to inform the police at once. You are the head of this house,and if you sanction such goings on, it is no place for respectable people.”
Mrs. Wilcox wrung her hands despairingly.
“I appeal to you, ladies,” she said, addressing Mrs. Dumaresq and Mrs. Whitley, “to consider that if Miss Semaphore is alive, we might, by saying a word, lay ourselves, all four, open to an action for libel. It may be as Miss Lord says; still, until things develop, until we know a little more about this trial and the baby farming, and the connection of Miss Prudence with it all, it is better to be silent, and get her away peaceably. Even if nobody saw Miss Semaphore leave, there is no proof that she did not slip out unobserved, though I grant it seems unlikely.”
“Do as you wish,” said the medical woman in a towering rage. “I will be no party to these concealments. My duty is clear, and however painful it may be, I will do it.”
“But the libel, Miss Lord,” suggested Mrs. Whitley. “What Mrs. Wilcox says is true. If Miss Semaphore turns up, her sister may prosecute you.”
This rather sobered the medical woman.
“Well,” she said, more conciliatingly, “what do you suggest should be done?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “I think it would be more diplomatic to wait until this trial, or whatever it is, comes off. If Miss Semaphore is alive, I should think it certain she will turn up at it. Or perhaps, indeed, the suspicion of the authorities has already fallen on Prudence. We don’t really know why the detectives are after her. Let us wait. Let us go to that trial and hear what comes out. If she does not clear herself of this charge, whatever it may be, and if her sister does not put in an appearance, I think it might be well for you, Mrs. Wilcox, to suggest to the prosecuting counsel that he should cross-examine her as to her sister’s whereabouts. Then, if she cannot give satisfactory replies, and if anything to her disadvantage comes out, she will probably be suspected, and the whole affair will be gone into without our making ourselves responsible in any way.”
“That,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I consider to be an excellent idea. And now, ladies, I beg of you not to let a word of all this escape you. In a house like ours, one cannot be too careful. Until we really know the truth, there is no use in telling anyone what we think. Will you all promise me to be silent about it?”
Mrs. Dumaresq and Mrs. Whitley agreed, and after some persuasion a reluctant consent was won from the medical woman, who promised to hold her tongue, until after the trial, any way.