“Well, Lane?” my companion said. “Busy, eh?”
“Not very, sir,” was the answer, with the true cockney twang. “Trade ain’t very brisk. There’s too bloomin’ many of us ’ere nowadays.”
Leaving my side my companion advanced towards the man and whispered some confidential words that I could not catch, at the same time pulling something from his breast-pocket and showing it to him.
“Oh, yes, sir. No doubt abawt it!” I heard the man exclaim.
Then, in reply to a further question from Jevons, he said:
“’Arry ’Arding used to work at Curtis’s. So I fancy that ’ud be the place to find out somethink. I’m keepin’ my ears open, you bet,” and he winked knowingly.
Where I had seen the man before I could not remember. But his face was certainly familiar.
When we left him and continued along the busy thoroughfare of cheap shops and itinerant vendors I asked my friend who he was, to which he merely replied:
“Well, he’s a man who knows something of the affair. I’ll explain later. In the meantime come withme to Gray’s Inn Road. I have to make a call there,” and he hailed a hansom, into which we mounted.
Twenty minutes later we alighted before a dingy-looking barber’s shop and inquired for Mr. Harding—an assistant who was at that moment shaving a customer of the working class. It was a house where one could be shaved for a penny, but where the toilet accessories were somewhat primitive.
While I stood on the threshold Ambler Jevons asked the barber’s assistant if he had ever worked at Curtis’s, and if, while there, he knew a man whose photograph he showed him.
“Yes, sir,” answered the barber, without a moment’s hesitation. “That’s Mr. Slade. He was a very good customer, and Mr. Curtis used always to attend on him himself.”
“Slade, you say, is his name?” repeated my friend.
“Yes, sir.”
Then, thanking him, we re-entered the cab and drove to an address in a street off Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Slade! Slade!” repeated Ambler Jevons to himself as we drove along. “That’s the name I’ve been in search of for weeks. If I am successful I believe the Seven Secrets will resolve themselves into one of the most remarkable conspiracies of modern times. I must, however, make this call alone, Ralph. The presence of a second person may possibly prevent the man I’m going to see from making a full and straightforward statement. We must not risk failure in this inquiry, for I anticipate that it may give us the key to the whole situation. There’s a bar opposite thePalace Theatre. I’ll set you down there, and you can wait for me. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all, if you’ll promise to explain the result of your investigations afterwards.”
“You shall know everything later,” he assured me, and a few minutes afterwards I alighted at the saloon bar he had indicated, a long lounge patronised a good deal by theatrical people.
He was absent nearly half-an-hour, and when he returned I saw from his face that he had obtained some information that was eminently satisfactory.
“I hope to learn something further this afternoon,” he said before we parted. “If I do I shall be with you at four.” Then he jumped into a hansom and disappeared. Jevons was a strange fellow. He rushed hither and thither, telling no one his business or his motives.
About the hour he had named he was ushered into my room. He had made a complete change in his appearance, wearing a tall hat and frock coat, with a black fancy waistcoat whereon white flowers were embroidered. By a few artistic touches he had altered the expression of his features too—adding nearly twenty years to his age. His countenance was one of those round, flexible ones that are so easily altered by a few dark lines.
“Well, Ambler?” I said anxiously, when we were alone. “What have you discovered?”
“Several rather remarkable facts,” was his philosophic response. “If you care to accompany me I can show you to-night something very interesting.”
“Care to accompany you?” I echoed. “I’m only too anxious.”
He glanced at his watch, then flinging himself into the chair opposite me, said, “We’ve an hour yet. Have you got a drop of brandy handy?”
Then for the first time I noticed that the fresh colour of his cheeks was artificial, and that in reality he was exhausted and white as death. The difficulty in speaking that I had attributed to excitement was really due to exhaustion.
Quickly I produced the brandy, and gave him a stiff peg, which he swallowed at a single gulp. His eyes were no longer sleepy-looking, but there was a quick fire in them which showed me that, although suppressed, there burned within his heart a fierce desire to get at the truth. Evidently he had learned something since I left him, but what it was I could not gather.
I looked at the clock, and saw it was twenty minutes past six. He noticed my action, and said:
“If we start in an hour we shall have sufficient time.”
Ambler Jevons was never communicative. But as he sat before me his brows were knit in deep thought, his hands chafed with suppressed agitation, and he took a second brandy-and-soda, an unusual indulgence, which betrayed an absent mind.
At length he rose, carefully brushed his silk hat, settled the hang of his frock-coat before the glass, tugged at his cravat, and then, putting on his light overcoat, announced his readiness to set out.
About half-an-hour later our cab set us down in Upper Street, Islington, close to the Agricultural Hall, and, proceeding on foot a short distance, we turned up a kind of court, over the entrance of which a lamp was burning, revealing the words “Lecture Hall.”
Jevons produced two tickets, whereupon we were admitted into a long, low room filled by a mixed audience consisting of men. Upon the platform at the further end was a man of middle age, with short fair beard, grey eyes, and an alert, resolute manner—a foreigner by his dress—and beside him an Englishman of spruce professional appearance—much older, slightly bent, with grey countenance and white hair.
We arrived just at the moment of the opening of the proceedings. The Englishman, whom I set down to be a medical man, rose, and in introducing the lecturer beside him, said:
“I have the honour, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce to you Doctor Paul Deboutin—who, as most of you know, is one of the most celebrated medical men in Paris, professor at the Salpêtrière, and author of many works upon nervous disorders. The study of the latter is not, unfortunately, sufficiently taken up in this country, and it is in order to demonstrate the necessity of such study that my friends and myself have invited Doctor Deboutin to give this lecture before an audience of both medical men and the laity. The doctor asks me to apologise to you for his inability to express himself well in English,but personally I have no fear that you will misunderstand him.”
Then he turned, introduced the lecturer, and re-seated himself.
I was quite unprepared for such a treat. Deboutin, as every medical man is aware, is the first authority on nervous disorders, and his lectures have won for him a world-wide reputation. I had read all his books, and being especially struck with “Névroses et Idées Fixes,” a most convincing work, had longed to be present at one of his demonstrations. Therefore, forgetful that I was there for some unknown reason, I settled myself to listen.
Rapidly and clearly he spoke in fairly good English, with a decision that showed him to be perfect master at once of his subject and of the phrases with which he intended to clothe his thoughts. He briefly outlined the progress of his experiments at the Salpêtrière, and at the hospitals of Lyons and Marseilles, then without long preliminary, proceeded to demonstrate a most interesting case.
A girl of about twenty-five, with a countenance only relieved from ugliness by a fine pair of bright dark eyes, was led in by an assistant and seated in a chair. She was of the usual type seen in the streets of Islington, poorly dressed with some attempt at faded finery—probably a workgirl in some city factory. She cast an uneasy glance upon the audience, and then turned towards the doctor, who drew his chair towards the patient so that her knees nearly touched his.
It was a case of nervous “Hémianopsie,” or one-eyed vision, he explained.
Now the existence of this has always been denied, therefore the experiment was of the most intense interest to every medical man present.
First the doctor, after ordering the patient to look him straight in the face, held a pencil on the left side of her head, and found that, in common with most of us, she was conscious of its presence without moving her eyes, even when it was almost at the level of her ear. Then he tried the same experiment on the right side of the face, when it was at once plain that the power of lateral vision had broken down—for she answered, “No, sir. No, no,” as he moved the pencil to and fro with the inquiry whether she could see it. Nevertheless he demonstrated that the power of seeing straight was quite unimpaired, and presently he gave to his assistant a kind of glass hemisphere, which he placed over the girl’s head, and by which he measured the exact point on its scale where the power of lateral vision ceased.
This being found and noted, Professor Deboutin placed his hand upon the patient’s eyes, and with a brief “You may sleep now, my girl,” in broken English, she was asleep in a few seconds.
Then came the lecture. He verbally dissected her, giving a full and lucid explanation of the nervous system, from the spinal marrow and its termination in the coccyx, up to the cortex of the brain, in which he was of opinion that there was in that case a lesion—probably curable—amply accounting for thephenomenon present. So clear, indeed, were his remarks that even a layman could follow them.
At last the doctor awoke the patient, and was about to proceed with another experiment when his quick eye noticed a hardly-perceptible flutter of the eyelids. “Ah, you are tired,” he said. “It is enough.” And he conducted her to the little side door that gave exit from the platform.
The next case was one of the kind which is always the despair of doctors—hysteria. A girl, accompanied by her mother, a neatly-dressed, respectable-looking body, was led forward, but her hands were trembling, and her face working so nervously that the doctor had to reassure her. With a true cockney accent she said that she lived in Mile End, and worked at a pickle factory. Her symptoms were constant headache, sudden falls, and complete absence of sensation in her left hand, which greatly interfered with her work. Some of the questions were inconvenient—until, in answer to one regarding her father, she gave a cry that “Poor father died last year,” and broke into an agony of weeping. In a moment the doctor took up an anthropometric instrument from the table, and made a movement as though to touch her presumably insensible hand.
“Ah, you’ll hurt me!” she said. Presently, while her attention was attracted in another direction, he touched the hand with the instrument, when she drew it back with a yell of pain, showing that the belief that her hand was insensible was entirely due to hysteria. He analysed her case just as he had donethe first, and declared that by a certain method of treatment, too technical to be here explained, a complete cure could be effected.
Another case of hysteria followed, and then a terrible exhibition of a wild-haired woman suffering from what the lecturer described as a “crise des nerfs,” which caused her at will to execute all manner of horrible contortions as though she were possessed. She threw herself on the floor on her back, with her body arched so that it rested only on her head and heels, while she delivered kicks at those in front of her, not with her toes, but with her heels. Meanwhile her face was so congested as to appear almost black.
The audience were, I think, relieved when the poor unfortunate woman, calmed by Deboutin’s method of suggestion, was led quietly away, and her place taken by a slim, red-haired girl of more refined appearance than the others, but with a strange stony stare as though unconscious of her surroundings. She was accompanied by a short, wizened-faced old lady, her grandmother.
At this juncture the chairman rose and said:
“This case is of great interest, inasmuch as it is a discovery made by my respected colleague, whom we all know by repute, Sir Bernard Eyton.”
The mention of my chief’s name was startling. I had no idea he had taken any interest in the French methods. Indeed, he had always declared to me that Charcot and his followers were a set of charlatans.
“We have the pleasure of welcoming Sir Bernard here this evening,” continued the chairman; “and I shall ask him to kindly explain the case.”
With apparent reluctance the well-known physician rose, after being cordially welcomed to the platform by the French savant, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses, and commenced to introduce the subject. His appearance there was certainly quite unexpected, but as I glanced at Ambler I saw a look of triumph in his face. We were sitting at the back of the hall, and I knew that Sir Bernard, being short-sighted, could not recognise us at the distance.
“I am here at Doctor Fulton’s invitation to meet our great master, Professor Deboutin, of whom for many years I have been a follower.” Then he went on to express the pleasure it gave him to demonstrate before them a case which he declared was not at all uncommon, although hitherto unsuspected by medical men.
Behind the chair of the new-comer stood the strange-looking old lady—who answered for her grand-daughter, the latter being mute. Her case was one, Sir Bernard explained, of absence of will. With a few quick questions he placed the history of the case before his hearers. There was a bad family history—a father who drank, and a mother who suffered from epilepsy. At thirteen the girl had received a sudden fright owing to a practical joke, and from that moment she gradually came under the influence of some hidden unknown terror so that she even refused to eataltogether. The strangest fact, however, was that she could still eat and speak in secret, although in public she was entirely dumb, and no amount of pleasure or pain would induce her to utter a sound.
“This,” explained Sir Bernard, “is one of the many cases of absence of will, partial or entire, which has recently come beneath my notice. My medical friends, and also Professor Deboutin, will agree that at the age the patient received her fright many girls are apt to tend towards what the Charcot School term ‘aboulie,’ or, in plain English, absence of will. Now one of the most extraordinary symptoms of this is terror. Terror,” he said, “of performing the simplest functions of nature; terror of movement, terror of eating—though sane in every other respect. Some there are, too, in whom this terror is developed upon one point only, and in such the inequality of mental balance can, as a rule, only be detected by one who has made deep research in this particular branch of nervous disorders.”
The French professor followed with a lengthy discourse, in which he bestowed the highest praise upon Sir Bernard for his long and patient experiments, which, he said, had up to the present been conducted in secret, because he feared that if it were known he had taken up that branch of medical science he might lose his reputation as a lady’s doctor.
Then, just as the meeting was being brought to a conclusion, Jevons touched me on the shoulder, and we both slipped out.
“Well,” he asked. “What do you think of it all?”
“I’ve been highly interested,” I replied. “But how does this further our inquiries, or throw any light on the tragedy?”
“Be patient,” was his response, as we walked together in the direction of the Angel. “Be patient, and I will show you.”
The Seven Secrets, each distinct from each other and yet connected; each one in itself a complete enigma, formed a problem of which even Ambler Jevons himself could not discover the solution.
Contrary to his usual methods, he allowed me to accompany him in various directions, making curious inquiries that had apparently nothing to connect them with the mystery of the death of Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay.
In reply to a wire I had sent to Ethelwynn came a message saying that her mother was entirely prostrated, therefore she could not at present leave her. This, when shown to Ambler, caused him to purse his lips and raise his shoulders with that gesture of suspicion which was a peculiarity of his. Was it possible that he actually suspected her?
The name of Slade seemed ever in Jevons’ mind. Indeed, most of his inquiries were regarding some person of that name.
One evening, after dining together, he took me in a cab across the City to the Three Nuns Hotel, at Aldgate—where, in the saloon bar, we sat drinking. Before setting out he had urged me to put on a shabby suit of clothes and a soft hat, so that in the East End we should not attract attention as “swells.” As for his own personal appearance, it was certainly not that ofthe spruce city man. He was an adept at disguises, and on this occasion wore a reefer jacket, a peaked cap, and a dark violet scarf in lieu of collar, thus presenting the aspect of a seafarer ashore. He smoked a pipe of the most approved nautical type, and as we sat together in the saloon he told me sea stories, in order that a group of men sitting near might overhear.
That he had some object in all this was quite certain, but what it was I could not gather.
Suddenly, after an hour, a little under-sized old man of dirty and neglected appearance, who had been drinking at the bar, shuffled up to us, and whispered something to Ambler that I did not catch. The words, nevertheless, caused my companion to start, and, disregarding the fresh whiskey and soda he had just ordered, he rose and walked out—an example which I followed.
“Lanky sent me, sir,” the old man said, addressing Ambler, when we were out in the street. “He couldn’t come hisself. ’E said you’d like to know the news.”
“Of course, I was waiting for it,” replied my companion, alert and eager.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’d better tell yer the truth at once, sir.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“Well, Lanky’s dead.”
“Dead?” cried Ambler. “Impossible. I was waiting for him.”
“I know. This morning in the Borough Market he told me to come ’ere and find you, because he wasn’t able to come. ’E had a previous engagement.Lanky’s engagements were always interestin’,” he added, with a grim smile.
“Well, go on,” said Ambler, eagerly. “What followed?”
“’E told me to go down to Tait Street and see ’im at eight o’clock, as ’e had a message for you. I went, and when I got there I found ’im lying on the floor of his room stone dead.”
“You went to the police, of course?”
“No, I didn’t; I came here to see you instead. I believe the poor bloke’s been murdered. ’E was a good un, too—poor Lanky Lane!”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Is that man Lane dead?”
“It seems so,” Jevons responded. “If he is, then there we have further mystery.”
“If you doubt it, sir, come with me down to Shadwell,” the old man said in his cockney drawl. “Nobody knows about it yet. I ought to have told the p’lice, but I know you’re better at mysterious affairs than the silly coppers in Leman Street.”
Jevons’ fame as an investigator of crime had spread even to that class known as the submerged tenth. How fashions change! A year or two ago it was the mode in Society to go “slumming.” To-day only social reformers and missionaries make excursions to the homes of the lower class in East London. A society woman would not to-day dare admit that she had been further east than Leadenhall Street.
“Let’s go and see what has really happened,” Ambler said to me. “If Lane is dead, then it proves that his enemy is yours.”
“I can’t see that. How?” I asked.
“You will see later. For the moment we must occupy ourselves with his death, and ascertain whether it is owing to natural causes or to foul play. He was a heavy drinker, and it may have been that.”
“No,” declared the little old man, “Lanky wasn’t drunk to-day—that I’ll swear. I saw ’im in Commercial Road at seven, talkin’ to a feller wot’s in love wiv ’is sister.”
“Then how do you account for this discovery of yours?” asked my companion.
“I can’t account for it, guv’nor. I simply found ’im lying on the floor, and it give me a shock, I can tell yer. ’E was as cold as ice.”
“Let’s go and see ourselves,” Ambler said: so together we hurried through the Whitechapel High Street, at that hour busy with its costermonger market, and along Commercial Road East, arriving at last in the dirty, insalubrious thoroughfare, a veritable hive of the lowest class of humanity, Tait Street, Shadwell.
Up the dark stairs of one of the dirtiest of the dwellings our conductor guided us, lighting our steps with wax vestas, struck upon the wall, and on gaining the third floor of the evil-smelling place he pushed open a door, and we found ourselves in an unlit room.
“Don’t move, gentlemen,” the old man urged. “You may fall over ’im. ’E’s right there, just where you’re standin’. I’ll light the lamp.”
Then he struck another match, and by its fickle light we saw the body of Lane, the street-hawker, lyingfull length only a yard from us, just as our conductor had described.
The cheap and smelling paraffin lamp being lit, I took a hasty glance around the poor man’s home. There was but little furniture save the bed, a chair or two, and a rickety table. Upon the latter was one of those flat bottles known as a “quartern.” Our first attention, however, was to the prostrate man. A single glance was sufficient to show that he was dead. His eyes were closed, his hands clenched, and his body was bent as though he had expired in a final paroxysm of agony. The teeth, too, were hard set, and there were certain features about his appearance that caused me to entertain grave suspicion from the first. His thin, consumptive face, now blanched, was strangely drawn, as though the muscles had suddenly contracted, and there was an absence of that composure one generally expects to find in the faces of those who die naturally.
As a medical man I very soon noted sufficient appearances to tell me that death had been due either to suicide or foul play. The former seemed to me the most likely.
“Well?” asked Ambler, rising from his knees when I had concluded the examination of the dead man’s skinny, ill-nourished body. “What’s your opinion, Ralph?”
“He’s taken poison,” I declared.
“Poison? You believe he’s been poisoned.”
“It may have been wilful murder, or he may have taken it voluntarily,” I answered. “But it is most evident that the symptoms are those of poisoning.”
Ambler gave vent to a low grunt, half of satisfaction, half of suspicion. I knew that grunt well. When on the verge of any discovery he always emitted that guttural sound.
“We’d better inform the police,” I remarked. “That’s all we can do. The poor fellow is dead.”
“Dead! Yes, we know that. But we must find out who killed him.”
“Well,” I said, “I think at present, Ambler, we’ve quite sufficient on our hands without attempting to solve any further problems. The poor man may have been in despair and have taken poison wilfully.”
“In despair!” echoed the old man. “No fear. Lanky was happy enough. ’E wasn’t the sort of fellow to hurry hisself out o’ the world. He liked life too jolly well. Besides, he ’ad a tidy bit o’ money in the Savin’s Bank. ’E was well orf once, wer’ Lanky. Excuse me for interruptin’.”
“Well, if he didn’t commit suicide,” I remarked, “then, according to all appearances, poison was administered to him wilfully.”
“That appears to be the most feasible theory,” Ambler said. “Here we have still a further mystery.”
Of course, the post-mortem appearances of poisoning, except in a few instances, are not very characteristic. As every medical man is aware, poison, if administered with a criminal intent, is generally in such a dose as to take immediate effect—although this is by no means necessary, as there are numerous substances which accumulate in the system, and when given in smalland repeated quantities ultimately prove fatal—notably, antimony. The diagnosis of the effects of irritant poisons is not so difficult as it is in the case of narcotics or other neurotics, where the symptoms are very similar to those produced by apoplexy, epilepsy, tetanus, convulsions, or other forms of disease of the brain. Besides, one of the most difficult facts we have to contend with in such cases is that poison may be found in the body, and yet a question may arise as to its having been the cause of death.
Ambler appeared to be much concerned regarding the poor man’s death. When we had first met beside his vegetable barrow in the London Road he certainly seemed a hard-working, respectable fellow, with a voice rendered hoarse and rough by constantly shouting his wares. But by the whispered words that had passed I knew that Ambler was in his confidence. The nature of this I had several times tried to fathom.
His unexpected death appeared to have upset all Ambler’s plans. He grunted and took a tour round the poorly-furnished chamber.
“Look here!” he said, halting in front of me. “There’s been foul play here. We must lose no time in calling the police—not that they are likely to discover the truth.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the poor fellow has been the victim of a secret assassin.”
“Then you suspect a motive?”
“I believe that there is a motive why his lips should be closed—a strange and remote one.” Then, turning to the old fellow who had been the dead man’s friend,he asked: “Do you know anyone by the name of Slade?”
“Slade?” repeated the croaking old fellow. “Slade? No, sir. I don’t recollect anyone of that name. Is it a man or a woman?”
“Either.”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know if Lanky Lane ever had visitors here—I mean visitors not of his own class?”
“I never ’eard of none. Lanky wasn’t the sort o’ chap to trouble about callers. He used to spend ’is nights in the Three Nuns wiv us; but he’d sit ’ours over two o’ gin. ’E saved ’is money, ’e did.”
“But look here,” exclaimed Ambler, seriously. “Are you quite certain that you’ve never seen him with any stranger at nights?”
“Never to my knowledge.”
“Well,” my companion said, “you’d better go and call the police.”
When the old fellow had shuffled away down the rickety stairs, Ambler, turning to me, said abruptly:
“That fellow is lying; he knows something about this affair.”
I had taken up the empty dram bottle and smelt it. The spirit it had contained was rum—which had evidently been drunk from the bottle, as there was no glass near. A slight quantity remained, and this I placed aside for analysis if necessary.
“I can’t see what this poor fellow has to do with the inquiry upon which we are engaged, Ambler,” I remarked. “I do wish you’d bemore explicit. Mystery seems to heap upon mystery.”
“Yes. You’re right,” he said reflectively. “Slowly—very slowly, I am working out the problem, Ralph. It has been a long and difficult matter; but by degrees I seem to be drawing towards a conclusion. This,” and he pointed to the man lying dead, “is another of London’s many mysteries, but it carries us one step further.”
“I can’t, for the life of me, see what connection the death of this poor street hawker has with the strange events of the immediate past.”
“Remain patient. Let us watch the blustering inquiries of the police,” he laughed. “They’ll make a great fuss, but will find out nothing. The author of this crime is far too wary.”
“But this man Slade?” I said. “Of late your inquiries have always been of him. What is his connection with the affair?”
“Ah, that we have yet to discover. He may have no connection, for aught I know. It is mere supposition, based upon a logical conclusion.”
“What motive had you in meeting this man here to-night?” I inquired, hoping to gather some tangible clue to the reason of his erratic movements.
“Ah! that’s just the point,” he responded. “If this poor fellow had lived he would have revealed to me a secret—we should have known the truth!”
“The truth!” I gasped. “Then at the very moment when he intended to confess to you he has been struck down.”
“Yes. His lips have been sealed by his enemy—and yours. Both are identical,” he replied, and his lips snapped together in that peculiar manner that was his habit. I knew it was useless to question him further.
Indeed, at that moment heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and two constables, conducted by the shuffling old man, appeared upon the scene.
“We have sent for you,” Ambler explained. “This man is dead—died suddenly, we believe.”
“Who is he, sir?” inquired the elder of the pair, bending over the prostrate man, and taking up the smoky lamp in order to examine his features more carefully.
“His name is Lane—a costermonger, known as Lanky Lane. The man with you is one of his friends, and can tell you more about him than I can.”
“Is he dead?” queried the second constable, touching the thin, pallid face.
“Certainly,” I answered. “I’m a doctor, and have already made an examination. He’s been dead some time.”
My name and address was taken, together with that of my companion. When, however, Ambler told the officers his name, both were visibly impressed. The name of Jevons was well known to the police, who held him in something like awe as a smart criminal investigator.
“I know Inspector Barton at Leman Street—your station, I suppose?” he added.
“Yes, sir,” responded the first constable. “And begging your pardon, sir, I’m honoured to meet you. We all heard how you beat the C. I. Department in the Bowyer Square Mystery, and how you gave the whole information to Sergeant Payling without taking any of the credit to yourself. He got all the honour, sir, and your name didn’t appear at the Old Bailey.”
Jevons laughed. He was never fond of seeing his name in print. He made a study of the ways and methods of the criminal, but only for his own gratification. The police knew him well, but he hid his light under the proverbial bushel always.
“What is your own opinion of the affair, sir?” the officer continued, ready to take his opinion before that of the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to his station.
“Well,” said Ambler, “it looks like sudden death, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s poison.”
“Suicide?”
“Murder, very possibly,” was Jevons’ quiet response.
“Then you really think there’s a mystery, sir?” exclaimed the constable quickly.
“It seems suspiciously like one. Let us search the room. Come along Ralph,” he added, addressing me. “Just lend a hand.”
There was not much furniture in the place to search, and before long, with the aid of the constable’s lantern, we had investigated every nook and cranny.
Only one discovery of note was made, and it was certainly a strange one.
Beneath a loose board, near the fireplace, Jevons discovered the dead man’s hoard. It consisted of several papers carefully folded together. We examined them, and found them to consist of a hawker’s licence, a receipt for the payment for a barrow and donkey, a post-office savings bank book, showing a balance of twenty-six pounds four shillings, and several letters from a correspondent unsigned. They were type-written, in order that the handwriting should not be betrayed, and upon that flimsy paper used in commercial offices. All of them were of the highest interest. The first, read aloud by Ambler, ran as follows:—
“Dear Lane,—I have known you a good many years, and never thought you were such a fool as to neglect a good thing. Surely you will reconsider the proposal I made to you the night before last in the bar of the Elephant and Castle? You once did me a very good turn long ago, and now I am in a position to put a good remunerative bit of business in your way. Yet you are timid that all may not turn out well! Apparently you do not fully recognise the stake I hold in the matter, and the fact that any exposure would mean ruin to me. Surely I have far more to lose than you have. Therefore that, in itself, should be sufficient guarantee to you. Reconsider your reply, and give me your decision to-morrow night. You will find me in the saloon bar of the King Lud, in Ludgate Hill, at eight o’clock. Do not speak to methere, but show yourself, and then wait outside until I join you. Have a care that you are not followed. That hawk Ambler Jevons has scent of us. Therefore, remain dumb and watchful—Z.”
“Dear Lane,—I have known you a good many years, and never thought you were such a fool as to neglect a good thing. Surely you will reconsider the proposal I made to you the night before last in the bar of the Elephant and Castle? You once did me a very good turn long ago, and now I am in a position to put a good remunerative bit of business in your way. Yet you are timid that all may not turn out well! Apparently you do not fully recognise the stake I hold in the matter, and the fact that any exposure would mean ruin to me. Surely I have far more to lose than you have. Therefore that, in itself, should be sufficient guarantee to you. Reconsider your reply, and give me your decision to-morrow night. You will find me in the saloon bar of the King Lud, in Ludgate Hill, at eight o’clock. Do not speak to methere, but show yourself, and then wait outside until I join you. Have a care that you are not followed. That hawk Ambler Jevons has scent of us. Therefore, remain dumb and watchful—Z.”
“That’s curious,” I remarked. “Whoever wrote that letter was inciting Lane to conspiracy, and at the same time held you in fear, Ambler.”
My companion laughed again—a quiet self-satisfied laugh. Then he commenced the second letter, type-written like the first, but evidently upon another machine.
“Dear Lane,—Your terms seem exorbitant. I quite understand that at least four or five of you must be in the affair, but the price asked is ridiculous. Besides, I didn’t like Bennett’s tone when he spoke to me yesterday. He was almost threatening. What have you told him? Recollect that each of us knows something to the detriment of the other, and even in these days of so-called equality the man with money is always the best. You must contrive to shut Bennett’s mouth. Give him money, if he wants it—up to ten pounds. But, of course, do not say that it comes from me. You can, of course, pose as my friend, as you have done before. I shall be at the usual place to-night.—Z.”
“Dear Lane,—Your terms seem exorbitant. I quite understand that at least four or five of you must be in the affair, but the price asked is ridiculous. Besides, I didn’t like Bennett’s tone when he spoke to me yesterday. He was almost threatening. What have you told him? Recollect that each of us knows something to the detriment of the other, and even in these days of so-called equality the man with money is always the best. You must contrive to shut Bennett’s mouth. Give him money, if he wants it—up to ten pounds. But, of course, do not say that it comes from me. You can, of course, pose as my friend, as you have done before. I shall be at the usual place to-night.—Z.”
“Looks as though there’s been some blackmailing,” one of the constables remarked. “Who’s Bennett?”
“I expect that’s Bobby Bennett who works in the Meat Market,” replied the atom of a man who hadaccosted us at Aldgate. “He was a friend of Lanky’s, and a bad ’un. I’ve ’eard say that ’e ’ad a record at the Old Bailey.”
“What for?”
“’Ousebreakin’.”
“Is he working now?” Ambler inquired.
“Yes. I saw ’im in Farrin’don Street yesterday.”
“Ah!” remarked the constable. “We shall probably want to have a chat with him. But the chief mystery is the identity of the writer of these letters. At all events it is evident that this poor man Lane knew something to his detriment, and was probably trying to make money out of that knowledge.”
“Not at all an unusual case,” I said.
Jevons grunted, and appeared to view the letters with considerable satisfaction. Any documentary evidence surrounding a case of mysterious death is always of interest. In this case, being of such a suspicious nature, it was doubly so.
“Are you quite decided not to assist me?”another letter ran. It was likewise type-written, and from the same source.“Recollect you did so once, and were well paid for it. You had enough to keep you in luxury for years had you not so foolishly frittered it away on your so-called friends. Any of the latter would give you away to the police to-morrow for a five-pound note. This, however, is my last appeal to you. If you help me I shall give you one hundred pounds, which is not bad payment for an hour’s work. If you do not, then you will not hear from me again.—Z.”
“Are you quite decided not to assist me?”another letter ran. It was likewise type-written, and from the same source.“Recollect you did so once, and were well paid for it. You had enough to keep you in luxury for years had you not so foolishly frittered it away on your so-called friends. Any of the latter would give you away to the police to-morrow for a five-pound note. This, however, is my last appeal to you. If you help me I shall give you one hundred pounds, which is not bad payment for an hour’s work. If you do not, then you will not hear from me again.—Z.”
“Seems a bit brief, and to the point,” was the elder constable’s remark. “I wonder what is the affair mentioned by this mysterious correspondent? Evidently the fellow intended to bring off a robbery, or something, and Lane refused to give his aid.”
“Apparently so,” replied Ambler, fingering the last letter remaining in his hand. “But this communication is even of greater interest,” he added, turning to me and showing me writing in a well-known hand.
“I know that writing!” I cried. “Why—that letter is from poor Mrs. Courtenay!”
“It is,” he said, quietly. “Did I not tell you that we were on the eve of a discovery, and that the dead man lying there could have told us the truth?”
Ambler Jevons read the letter, then handed it to me without comment.
It was written upon the note-paper I knew so well, stamped with the neat address “Neneford,” in black, but bearing no date. What I read was as follows:—
“Sir,—I fail to comprehend the meaning of your words when you followed me into the train at Huntingdon last night. I am in no fear of any catastrophe; therefore I can only take your offer of assistance as an attempt to obtain money from me. If you presume to address me again I shall have no other course than to acquaint the police.”Yours truly“Mary Courtenay.”
“Sir,—I fail to comprehend the meaning of your words when you followed me into the train at Huntingdon last night. I am in no fear of any catastrophe; therefore I can only take your offer of assistance as an attempt to obtain money from me. If you presume to address me again I shall have no other course than to acquaint the police.
”Yours truly
“Mary Courtenay.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Then he warned her, and she misunderstood his intention.”
“Without a doubt,” said Ambler, taking the letter from my hand. “This was written probably only a few days before her death. That man,” and he glanced at the prostrate body, “was the only one who could give us the clue by which to unravel the mystery.”
But the dead man’s lips had closed, and his secret was held for ever. Only those letters remained toconnect him with the river tragedy; or rather to show that he had communicated with the unfortunate Mrs. Courtenay.
In company we walked to Leman Street Police Station, one of the chief centres of the Metropolitan Police in the East End, and there, in an upper office, Ambler had a long consultation with the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department.
I described the appearance of the body, and stated my suspicions of poisoning, all of which the detective carefully noted before going forth to make his own examination. My address was taken, so that I might assist at the post-mortem, and then, shortly after midnight I drove back westward through the City with Ambler at my side.
He spoke little, and when in Oxford Street, just at the corner of Newman Street, he descended, wished me a hurried good-night, and disappeared into the darkness. He was often given to strange vagaries of erratic movement. It was as though some thought had suddenly occurred to him, and he acted at once upon it.
That night I scarcely closed my eyes. My brain was awhirl with thoughts of all the curious events of the past few months—the inexplicable presence of old Mr. Courtenay, and the subsequent death of Mary and of the only man who, according to Ambler, knew the remarkable secret.
Ethelwynn’s strange words worried me. What could she mean? What did she know? Surely hers could not be a guilty conscience. Yet, in her wordsand actions I had detected that cowardice which a heavy conscience always engenders. One by one I dissected and analysed the Seven Secrets, but not in one single instance could I obtain a gleam of the truth.
While at the hospital next day I was served with a notice to assist at the post-mortem of the unfortunate Lane, whose body was lying in the Shadwell mortuary; and that same afternoon I met by appointment Doctor Tatham, of the London Hospital, who, as is well known, is an expert toxicologist.
To describe in technical detail the examination we made would not interest the general reader of this strange narrative. The average man or woman knows nothing or cares less for the duodenum or the pylorus; therefore it is not my intention to go into long and wearying detail. Suffice it to say that we preserved certain portions of the body for subsequent examination, and together were engaged the whole evening in the laboratory of the hospital. Tatham was well skilled in the minutiæ of the tests. The exact determination of the cause of death in cases of poisoning always depends partly on the symptoms noted before death, and partly on the appearances found after death. Regarding the former, neither of us knew anything; hence our difficulties were greatly increased. The object of the analyst is to obtain the substances which he has to examine chemically in as pure a condition as possible, so that there may be no doubt about the results of his tests; also, of course, to separate active substances from those that are inert, all being mixed together in the stomach andalimentary canal. Again, in dealing with such fluids as the blood, or the tissues of the body, their natural constituents must be got rid of before the foreign and poisonous body can be reached. There is this difficulty further to contend with: that some of the most poisonous of substances are of unstable composition and are readily altered by chemical reagents; to this group belong many vegetable and most animal poisons. These, therefore, must be treated differently from the more stable inorganic compounds. With an inorganic poison we may destroy all organic materials mixed with it, trusting to find the poison still recognisable after this process. Not so with an organic substance; that must be separated by other than destructive means.
Through the whole evening we tested for the various groups of poisons—corrosives, simple irritants, specific irritants and neurotics. It was a long and scientific search.
Some of the tests with which I was not acquainted I watched with the keenest interest, for, of all the medical men in London, Tatham was the most up to date in such analyses.
At length, after much work with acids, filtration, and distillation, we determined that a neurotic had been employed, and that its action on the vasomotor system of the nerves was very similar, if not identical, with nitrate of amyl.
Further than that, even Tatham, expert in such matters, could not proceed. Hours of hard work resulted in that conclusion, and with it we were compelled to be satisfied.
In due course the inquest was held at Shadwell, and with Ambler I attended as a witness. The reporters, of course, expected a sensation; but, on the contrary, our evidence went to show that, as the poisonous substance was found in the “quartern” bottle on deceased’s table, death was in all probability due to suicide.
Some members of the jury took an opposite view. Then the letters we had found concealed were produced by the police, and, of course, created a certain amount of interest. But to the readers of newspapers the poisoning of a costermonger at Shadwell is of little interest as compared with a similar catastrophe in that quarter of London vaguely known as “the West End.” The letters were suspicious, and both coroner and jury accepted them as evidence that Lane was engaged upon an elaborate scheme of blackmail.
“Who is this Mary Courtenay, who writes to him from Neneford?” inquired the coroner of the inspector.
“Well, sir,” the latter responded, “the writer herself is dead. She was found drowned a few days ago near her home under suspicious circumstances.”
Then the reporters commenced to realize that something extraordinary was underlying the inquiry.
“Ah!” remarked the coroner, one of the most acute officials of his class. “Then, in face of this, her letter seems to be more than curious. For aught we know the tragedy at Neneford may have been wilful murder; and we have now the suicide of the assassin?”
“That, sir, is the police theory,” replied the inspector.
“Police theory be hanged!” ejaculated Ambler, almost loud enough to be heard. “The police know nothing of the case, and will never learn anything. If the jury are content to accept such an explanation, and brand poor Lane as a murderer, they must be allowed to do so.”
I knew Jevons held coroners’ juries in the most supreme contempt; sometimes rather unreasonably so, I thought.
“Well,” the coroner said, “this is certainly remarkable evidence,” and he turned the dead woman’s letter over in his hand. “It is quite plain that the deceased approached the lady ostensibly to give her warning of some danger, but really to blackmail her; for what reason does not at present appear. He may have feared her threat to give information to the police; hence his crime, and subsequent suicide.”
“Listen!” exclaimed Jevons in my ear. “They are actually trying the dead man for a crime he could not possibly have committed! They’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as usual. Why don’t they give a verdict of suicide and have done with it. We can’t afford to waste a whole day explaining theories to a set of uneducated gentlemen of the Whitechapel Road. The English law is utterly ridiculous where coroners’ juries are concerned.”
The coroner heard his whispering, and looked towards us severely.
“We have not had sufficient time to investigate the whole of the facts connected with Mrs. Courtenay’s mysterious death,” the inspector went on. “You will probably recollect, sir, a mystery down at Kew some little time ago. It was fully reported in the papers, and created considerable sensation—an old gentleman was murdered under remarkable circumstances. Well, sir, the gentleman in question was Mrs. Courtenay’s husband.”
The coroner sat back in his chair and stared at the officer who had spoken, while in the court a great sensation was caused. Mention of the Kew Mystery brought its details vividly back to the minds of everyone. Yes. After all, the death of that poor costermonger, Lanky Lane, was of greater public interest than the representatives of the Press anticipated.
“Are you quite certain of this?” the coroner queried.
“Yes, sir. I am here by the direction of the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard to give evidence. I was engaged upon the case at Kew, and have also made inquiries into the mystery at Neneford.”
“Then you have suspicion that the deceased was—well, a person of bad character?”
“We have.”
“Fools!” growled Ambler. “Lane was a policeman’s ‘nose,’ and often obtained payment from Scotland Yard for information regarding the doings of a certain gang of thieves. And yet they actually declare him to be a bad character. Preposterous!”
“Do you apply for an adjournment?”
“No, sir. We anticipate that the verdict will be suicide—the only one possible in face of the evidence.”
And then, as though the jury were compelled to act upon the inspector’s suggestion, they returned a simple verdict. “That the deceased committed suicide by poisoning while of unsound mind.”
For fully a week I saw nothing of Ambler.
Sir Bernard was unwell, and remained down at Hove; therefore I was compelled to attend to his practice. There were several serious cases, the patients being persons of note; thus I was kept very busy.
My friend’s silence was puzzling. I wrote to him, but received no response. A wire to his office in the City elicited the fact that Mr. Jevons was out of town. Probably he was still pursuing the inquiry he had so actively taken up. Nevertheless, I was dissatisfied that he should leave me so entirely in the dark as to his intentions and discoveries.
Ethelwynn came to town for the day, and I spent several hours shopping with her. She was strangely nervous, and all the old spontaneous gaiety seemed to have left her. She had read in the papers of the curious connection between the death of the man Lane and that of her unfortunate sister; therefore our conversation was mainly upon the river mystery. Sometimes she seemed ill at ease with me, as though fearing some discovery. Perhaps, however, it was merely my fancy.
I loved her. She was all the world to me; and yet in her eyes I seemed to read some hidden secret which she was endeavouring, with all the power at her command, to conceal. In such circumstances there was bound to arise between us a certain reserve that we had not before known. Her conversation was carried on in a mechanical manner, as though distracted by her inner thoughts; and when, after having tea together in Bond Street, we drove to the station, and I saw her off on her return to Neneford, my mind was full of darkest apprehensions.
Yes. That interview convinced me more than ever that she was, in some manner, cognisant of the truth. The secret existence of old Mr. Courtenay, the man whom I myself had pronounced dead, was the crowning point of the strange affair; and yet I felt by some inward intuition that this fact was not unknown to her.
All the remarkable events of that moonlit night when I had followed husband and wife along the river-bank came back to me, and I saw vividly the old man’s face, haggard and drawn, just as it had been in life. Surely there could be no stranger current of events than those which formed the Seven Secrets. They were beyond explanation—all of them. I knew nothing. I had certainly seen results; but I knew not their cause.
Nitrate of amyl was not a drug which a costermonger would select with a view to committing suicide. Indeed, I daresay few of my readers, unless they are doctors or chemists, have ever before heard of it.Therefore my own conclusion, fully endorsed by the erratic Ambler, was that the poor fellow had been secretly poisoned.
Nearly a fortnight passed, and I heard nothing of Ambler. He was still “out of town.” Day by day passed, but nothing of note transpired. Sir Bernard was still suffering from a slight touch of sciatica at home, and on visiting him one Sunday I found him confined to his bed, grumbling and peevish. He was eccentric in his miserly habits and his hatred of society, beyond doubt; and the absurdities which his enemies attributed to him were not altogether unfounded. But he had, at all events, the rare quality of entertaining for his profession a respect nearly akin to enthusiasm. Indeed, according to his views, the faculty possessed almost infallible qualities. In confidence he had more than once admitted to me that certain of his colleagues practising in Harley Street were amazing donkeys; but he would never have allowed anyone else to say so. From the moment a man acquired that diploma which gave him the right over life and death, that man became, in his eyes, an august personage for the world at large. It was a crime, he thought, for a patient not to submit to his decision, and certainly it must be admitted that his success in the treatment of nervous disorders had been most remarkable.
“You were at that lecture by Deboutin, of Paris, the other day!” he exclaimed to me suddenly, while I was seated at his bedside describing the work I hadbeen doing for him in London. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going there?”
“I went quite unexpectedly—with a friend.”
“With whom?”
“Ambler Jevons.”
“Oh, that detective fellow!” laughed the old physician. “Well,” he added, “it was all very interesting, wasn’t it?”
“Very—especially your own demonstrations. I had no idea that you were in correspondence with Deboutin.”
He laughed; then, with a knowing look, said:
“Ah, my dear fellow, nowadays it doesn’t do to tell anyone of your own researches. The only way is to spring it upon the profession as a great triumph: just as Koch did his cure for tuberculosis. One must create an impression, if only with a quack remedy. The day of the steady plodder is past; it’s all hustle, even in medicine.”
“Well, you certainly did make an impression,” I said, smiling. “Your experiments were a revelation to the profession. They were talking of them at the hospital only yesterday.”
“H’m. They thought me an old fogey, eh? But, you see, I’ve been keeping pace with the times, Boyd. A man to succeed nowadays must make a boom with something, it matters not what. For years I’ve been experimenting in secret, and some day I will show them further results of my researches—and they will come upon the profession like a thunderclap, staggering belief.”
The old man chuckled to himself as he thought of his scientific triumph, and how one day he would give forth to the world a truth hitherto unsuspected.
We chatted for a long time, mostly upon technicalities which cannot interest the reader, until suddenly he said:
“I’m getting old, Boyd. These constant attacks I have render me unfit to go to town and sit in judgment on that pack of silly women who rush to consult me whenever they have a headache or an erring husband. I think that very soon I ought to retire. I’ve done sufficient hard work all the years since I was a ‘locum’ down in Oxfordshire. I’m worn out.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “You mustn’t retire yet. If you did, the profession would lose one of its most brilliant men.”
“Enough of compliments,” he snapped, turning wearily on his pillow. “I’m sick to death of it all. Better to retire while I have fame, than to outlive it. When I give up you will step into my shoes, Boyd, and it will be a good thing for you.”
Such a suggestion was quite unexpected. I had never dreamed that he contemplated handing over his practice to me. Certainly it would be a good thing for me if he did. It would give me a chance such as few men ever had. True, I was well known to his patients and had worked hard in his interests, but that he intended to hand his practice over to me I had never contemplated. Hence I thanked him most heartily. Yes, Sir Bernard had been my benefactor always.
“All the women know you,” he went on in his snappish way. “You are the only man to take my place. They would come to you; but not to a new man. All I can hope is that they won’t bore you with their domestic troubles—as they have done me,” and he smiled.
“Oh,” I said. “More than once I, too, have been compelled to listen to the domestic secrets of certain households. It really is astonishing what a woman will tell her doctor, even though he may be young.”
The old man laughed again.
“Ah!” he sighed. “You don’t know women as I know them, Boyd. You’ve got your experience to gain. Then you’ll hold them in abhorrence—just as I do. They call me a woman-hater,” he grunted. “Perhaps I am—for I’ve had cause to hold the feminine mind and the feminine passion equally in contempt.”
“Well,” I laughed, “there’s not a man in London who is more qualified to speak from personal experience than yourself. So I anticipate a pretty rough time when I’ve had years of it, as you have.”
“And yet you want to marry!” he snapped, looking me straight in the face. “Of course, you love Ethelwynn Mivart. Every man at your age loves. It is a malady that occurs in the ’teens and declines in the thirties. I should have thought that your affection of the heart had been about cured. It is surely time it was.”
“It is true that I love Ethelwynn,” I declared, rather annoyed, “and I intend to marry her.”
“If you do, then you’ll spoil all your chances of success. The class of women who are my patients would much rather consult a confirmed bachelor than a man who has a jealous wife hanging to his coat-tails. The doctor’s wife must always be a long-suffering person.”
I smiled; and then our conversation turned upon his proposed retirement, which was to take place in six months’ time.
I returned to London by the last train, and on entering my room found a telegram from Ambler making an appointment to call on the following evening. The message was dated from Eastbourne, and was the first I had received from him for some days.
Next morning I sat in Sir Bernard’s consulting-room as usual, receiving patients, and the afternoon I spent on the usual hospital round. About six o’clock Ambler arrived, drank a brandy and soda with a reflective air, and then suggested that we might dine together at the Cavour—a favourite haunt of his.
At table I endeavoured to induce him to explain his movements and what he had discovered; but he was still disinclined to tell me anything. He worked always in secret, and until facts were clear said nothing. It was a peculiarity of his to remain dumb, even to his most intimate friends concerning any inquiries he was making. He was a man of moods, with an active mind and a still tongue—two qualities essential to the successful unravelling of mysteries.
Having finished dinner we lit cigars, and took a cab back to my rooms. On passing along Harley Streetit suddenly occurred to me that in the morning I had left a case of instruments in Sir Bernard’s consulting-room, and that I might require them for one of my patients if called that night.
Therefore I stopped the cab, dismissed it, and knocked at Sir Bernard’s door. Ford, on opening it, surprised me by announcing that his master, whom I had left in bed on the previous night, had returned to town suddenly, but was engaged.
Ambler waited in the hall, while I passed along to the door of the consulting-room with the intention of asking permission to enter, as I always did when Sir Bernard was engaged with a patient.
On approaching the door, however, I was startled by hearing a woman’s voice raised in angry, reproachful words, followed immediately by the sound of a scuffle, and then a stifled cry. Without further hesitation I turned the handle.
The door was locked.