"You will have to make up your mind what you intend to do, my dear," said Mrs. Fane to her sister, "for I may tell you that Walter and I have arranged to make a change."
"In what way?" asked Laura, looking up from her sewing.
Mrs. Fane did not answer directly. She looked round the cosy morning-room, with rather a wistful expression. It was a very charming room, decorated in the fashion of a quaint, old parlour. In such an apartment might Jane Austen's heroines have sat, and the two ladies in modern dresses looked rather out of place. Mrs. Fane was tall and statuesque, with a placid, firm face, beautiful but cold. Her eyes were calm; she had none of those wrinkles which show the indulgence of emotion, and an earthquake would have failed to upset her eternal self-possession. Occupied in knitting a fleecy shawl, she scarcely lifted her eyes as she spoke, but continued to work placidly, never dropping a single stitch. There never was a woman who had herself so much under control as Mrs. Fane. Laura often wondered how she came to marry an excitable, vivacious man like Walter. But perhaps the exception to the law that like draws to like drew them together, and Mrs. Fane found in her husband, whose nature was so totally opposed to her own, the complement of herself.
The sisters resembled one another very little: Mrs. Fane was dark and tall, Laura slight and fair. Laura laughed when she was amused, showed anger when she felt it, and indulged unrestrained in her emotions, though she never exceeded them. She was as open in her disposition as Mrs. Fane was secretive. A glance would reveal Laura's thoughts, but no scrutiny would show what Mrs. Fane had in her mind. Both of them were plainly dressed, but Laura indulged in a few more trimmings than her sister. Mrs. Fane might have been a lady abbess, from the severity of her black garb. And a very good abbess she would have made, only the nuns under her charge would have been controlled with a rod of iron. She had no weaknesses herself, and had no patience with them in others. Not even pain appealed to her, for she had never been ill. Toothache was unknown to her; headaches she had never experienced; and she seemed to move amongst less favoured mortals like a goddess, majestic, unfeeling, and far removed from the engaging weaknesses of human nature. Mrs. Fane, by reason of this abnormal severity, was not popular.
To make a happy marriage, either the man or the woman must rule. If both have strong wills, separation or divorce is the only remedy to avert an unhappy life. If the man is strong, he controls the woman; if the woman has the will, she guides the man; and thus with no divided kingdom, the domestic life can be fairly happy, in some cases completely so.
When Mrs. Fane--Julia Mason she was then--determined to marry Walter, she also determined to have her own way. He was as weak as she was strong, therefore he did exactly as she ordered him. But she always gave him the outward rule, and, so to speak, only instructed him behind the scenes how he was to act on the stage of the world. People said that Mr. and Mrs. Fane were a happy pair, but they never knew the real reason of such happiness. Mrs. Fane concealed the iron hand in a velvet glove. Occasionally Walter proved restive, but she always managed by a quiet determination to bring him again into subjection. It may also be stated that she cherished a secret contempt that he should thus give in to her, although such yielding formed the basis of her ideal marriage. Only Laura knew how Mrs. Fane despised her husband; but since she was living with the pair, she was wise enough to keep this knowledge secret. Otherwise, Mrs. Fane would have made herself disagreeable, and she had a large capacity for rendering the house too hot for any one she disliked. Witness the expulsion of two servants who had served Fane when he was a bachelor, and who were discharged in the most polite way two months after Mrs. Fane came to live at Ajax Villa.
This domestic Boadicea looked round the room vaguely, and then brought her eyes back to the pretty, anxious face of Laura. She had a poor opinion of Laura, and always strove to impose her will on her. But Laura had her own ideas of life, and resented Julia's interference. There was but little love between the sisters, and this was entirely due to Julia's domineering temper. Not that the two ever fought. Mrs. Fane would not fight. She simply held out till she got her own way, and thus was usually successful with Walter. But Laura, made of sterner stuff, managed to hold her own, a firm quality which annoyed Julia, who liked people to grovel at her feet. She was a domestic tyrant of the worst.
Outside the sun was shining, and its rays penetrated even into the room. Mrs. Fane sat in a flood of gold, but was as unwarmed thereby as the statue of a goddess. Even the tragedy which had happened lately left but few traces of annoyance on her placid brow. Now that the unknown woman was buried, and the papers had ceased to interest themselves in the matter, she apparently dismissed it from her mind. Secretly she was annoyed with Laura because the girl had insisted on changing her bedroom. "I am not going to sleep in a room in which that body was laid out," said Laura. And it was on this hint that Mrs. Fane framed her reply.
"I wonder at you asking in what way we intend to make a change," she said in her cold voice, "seeing that you changed your room."
"Oh; you find the villa disagreeable after this tragedy?"
"I do not. So far as I am concerned, I should not mind living here for the rest of my days. I like the house and the neighbourhood, and especially do I like the White Room----"
"The very place where the poor creature was killed said Laura, with a shudder, which made Mrs. Fane smile.
"My dear, what does that matter? Death is death, however it comes, as you ought to know. If a murder took place in every room in the house I should not mind."
"Would you like it to take place in the nursery?" asked Laura.
Here she touched Mrs. Fane on a raw spot. If there was one thing the self-possessed woman loved it was her little daughter. That she was annoyed showed itself by the slight flush which crimsoned her face.
"You shouldn't say such things, my dear," she said in icy tones; "of course I except the nursery. An atmosphere of crime would not be conducive to the health of Minnie. But as I was saying, Walter wishes to give up the house."
"You said nothing of the sort," said Laura, irritated.
"I say it now, then. Walter wishes to go abroad."
"What about the business?"
Mrs. Fane raised her perfectly marked eyebrows. "Well, what about it, Laura? You know Walter is often away for weeks yachting. Times and seasons make no difference to him, so far as his love of the sea is concerned. Frederick says"--Frederick Mason was her brother--"that Walter is of very little use in the office."
"I wonder he keeps him, then," said Laura.
"There is no question of keeping," replied Mrs. Fane serenely; "you speak of Walter as though he were an office-boy. He is a partner, remember, and I do his business for him."
"I don't quite understand."
"It's very simple, Laura. Walter, as you know, brought very little money into the business. He seems to have spent what he had, or the greater part, in furnishing this house for me."
"It was furnished before you and he became engaged."
"That is true. But I saw what was coming a long time before Walter asked me to be his wife. He hinted that he was furnishing a house here, and how he was spending money on it. I then knew that he intended to make me his wife, and I determined to accept him. Not that I loved him over much," added Mrs. Fane quietly, "but I was anxious to have a say in the business. Frederick is a fool; and unless the business is looked after, it will go to ruin. As the wife of one of the partners, I am able to take a part in the conduct of the business."
"You could have done so without marrying," said Laura.
Mrs. Fane shook her head.
"No. Father left you an income of five hundred a year, but he left me much more, because he knew that I would make good use of it. The money which came to me, and your principal, were not invested in the business. I asked Frederick to let me become his partner. He refused. Then I engaged myself to Walter, who became a partner with my money. Frederick is willing, seeing that Walter is not a good business man, to let me act for my husband. I dare say he could have permitted this without the marriage, but he would not for some reason. However, you know now why I married Walter. Besides, Walter is a fool, and I wished to have a weak husband, so that I might control him."
"Was there no love at all in the marriage?"
"Well, my dear"--Mrs. Fane laughed--"I must confess that Walter is very good-looking, and that I should be jealous of his attention to any other woman. Are you answered?"
"Yes--so far as the love is concerned. But I don't understand how Walter can go abroad and leave the business."
"He is not much use. I can look after it for him, as I have always done. Do you think I should let Walter go away yachting if I did not like a free hand? He is happy on the sea, and I am happy in the counting-house, so all is well. This villa has become objectionable to Walter on account of the murder, so we intend to give it up. Probably we shall move to a French watering-place or to Switzerland. Walter can enjoy himself in his usual way, and I can run over when needful to attend to the business."
"I understand. But if you make your home in Switzerland, you will be far from London. Also, Walter will not be able to yacht."
"True enough. We shall see. I must be near England, so that I can run across rapidly, and Walter must be near the sea, for his beloved boat. If I allow Frederick to conduct the business without help, I am sure he will ruin it and me too."
"I wonder you like Walter to remain away for so long, Julia."
"My dear, I have perfect confidence in him."
"But if you loved him----"
"I would keep him by me. Well, I do love him in a way, though he is too weak to command my respect. But Walter is one of those demonstrative men who are a nuisance to a woman of my temperament. He wants to kiss and caress all day long. I find that trying, so I prefer him to go away occasionally. And now you know what we intend to do, what about yourself?"
"Am I not to go with you?"
"If you like. But you are getting older, and, I must confess, that as you have an income of your own, I think you should have a home."
"I see"--Laura looked directly at her sister--"you wish to get rid of me."
"Oh no," replied Mrs. Fane in quite a conventional way; "you are a very good companion for Walter, and he is fond of you in his weak way. As you don't trouble me, I shall be pleased to have you with us abroad. But I think it right to give you the choice."
"Of going with you as the fifth wheel on the chariot----"
"Or marrying," said Mrs. Fane calmly--"yes. That is what I mean."
"Suppose I do neither. I have my own money. I might go and live with Gerty Baldwin."
"You might," assented the elder sister, "if you like to live in a pig-sty with that lymphatic woman, who is more like a jelly than a human being."
"There's no harm in her," protested Laura.
"Nor is there in a pig. But I don't care to live with a pig. As to Gerty Baldwin, she is a fast young minx, engaged to a vulgarian."
"Mr. Tracey is a kindhearted man."
"But vulgar. And Gerty?"
"The dearest girl in the world."
Mrs. Fane again lifted her eyebrows.
"I confess I don't care for people of that sort."
"Do you care for any one but yourself?" asked Laura bitterly.
"I care for Minnie, and a little for Walter," said Mrs. Fane, "but the ordinary human being does not seem worthy of being liked."
"You condemn the world as though you were its judge and not its denizen," said Laura, with a curled lip and flashing eyes. "Julia, you were always a hard woman. Your nature is like our father's."
"Quite so, and for that reason he left me most of the money. You and Frederick take after our late mother. A kind woman, but so weak! Oh, dear me," sighed Mrs. Fane; "how very weak!"
"Laura felt inclined to walk out of the room. But she knew that such behaviour would result in nothing. Mrs. Fane would show no anger, but would simply attack Laura on the subject uppermost in her mind when they again met. The subject was Laura's future, so the girl thought it best to bring the matter to an issue.
"Does all this mean that you withdraw your opposition to my marriage with Arnold?"
"No. I still think the match is a bad one. But if you are determined to commit social suicide, I will not hinder you. Down at Westcliff I considered the matter, and resolved to tell you this when I returned. Of course this murder brings the matter still more to the front, since it makes us give up the villa. You must decide whether to come with us, or to marry Mr. Calvert, and take your own life on your own shoulders."
"We can settle that later. When do you go?"
"In three or four months. We have to get rid of the lease of the villa, you see, and there are other things to be considered. Have you accepted Mr. Calvert's hand?"
"Yes. We are engaged."
Mrs. Fane shrugged her ample shoulders.
"Fancy marrying an actor, and a mediocre actor at that! Why, the man can't keep you."
"I have money enough for us both."
"Oh, I am quite sure that he will live on you, my dear. Why hasn't he been to see you lately?"
Laura rose to her feet.
"Because I asked him not to come," she said distinctly. "You have been so disagreeable to him that, for the sake of peace, I thought it best he should not visit me."
"You saw him when you were at the Baldwins'?"
"Several times."
"Oh indeed!" sneered Mrs. Fane; "and when do you marry?"
"When we choose. Arnold is an actor and----"
"A perfect stick," said Mrs. Fane derisively.
"A fine actor, as every one acknowledges. He will make his mark."
"There are few signs of it at present. Just now he is acting in this new play at the Frivolity Theatre. A secondary part!"
"He has the leading comedy part," said Laura angrily. "Julia, why will you annoy me?"
"My dear, I don't. It's your own bad temper. You never will face the truth. However, I have placed matters before you, so you can take time and decide your future course."
"I won't go abroad with you, Julia. We should only quarrel."
"Oh dear me, no! I never quarrel. People--you included--are too weak to quarrel with. However, it's decided you won't come?"
"Yes. I shall live with the Baldwins."
"I wish you joy! But recollect, if you marry this actor, I refuse to come to the wedding."
"You had better wait till you are asked," said Laura rather weakly, and left the room, fearful what she might say next. The last words she heard from Julia were an admonition to keep her temper.
At first Laura intended to go to her own room, but hearing voices in the White Room she peered in. To her surprise, she saw Arnold seated with Walter Fane. When they saw her, Arnold rose quickly and came forward.
"My dearest, how glad I am you have come!"
"Why didn't you send for me?" said Laura, as he kissed her.
"I asked him not to," interposed Walter uneasily. "Julia was with you, and she would have come also. I don't feel well enough for Julia's preaching at present," he said, passing his hand across his brow; "this murder has upset me."
"Have you heard about it, Arnold?" asked Laura, looking at her lover in a searching manner.
"Yes," he replied calmly, and evidently prepared for the question. "And I should have come before to see you, but that you told me not to."
"You haven't been here for a long time," said Walter wearily.
"Not since you left for the seaside. But I saw Laura at the Baldwins' a week ago. Laura, you are not going?"
Miss Mason, who had changed colour while her lover was speaking, and had not taken her eyes from his face, was by this time half-way to the door.
"I must go," she said rapidly. "I have something to do. I shall see you again."
"When?" asked Calvert, detaining her at the door.
"I shall write and let you know," said Laura, and abruptly withdrawing her hand from his, she escaped.
Arnold returned to his seat near Fane with a puzzled expression.
"What is the matter?" he asked, and there was an apprehensive look in his eyes.
Fane also looked nervous, but that was scarcely to be wondered at, considering the late events.
"I suppose Julia has been going on at her about you," he said fretfully. "I wish you'd marry her right away and take her from Julia. Poor Laura has a bad time."
"I am not in a position to do so now," said Calvert gloomily; "things are bad with me. This play has not been a success, and I'll be out of an engagement soon."
"Laura has money for you both," said Fane.
Arnold flushed to the roots of his fair hair.
"I do not intend to live on my wife," he said sharply. "Until I can keep her in the style to which she has been accustomed, I will not marry her."
Fane laughed rather weakly.
"As things stand at present there is not much chance of your becoming a wealthy man," he said.
"Perhaps. And yet I don't know. I may come in for money."
"Really!" said Walter with interest; "some relative?"
Arnold nodded. "A cousin on my mother's side. A man called Brand."
Fane, who had been listening quietly, started from his seat.
"What!"
"A man called Brand. He lives in Australia, and is very rich. I think the money will come to me, or to a cousin of mine--a woman."
Fane was quiet again by this time. "I knew a man called Brand once. He was a scoundrel who cheated me out of a lot of money. A young man he was, with green eyes."
"Can't be any relative of mine," said Calvert. "I never saw my cousin in Australia, but he looks a kindly man from his portrait. Not at all the sort to have green eyes. As to Flora's eyes, they are brown."
"Flora," said Fane idly; "what a pretty name! Who is she?"
"The cousin I told you of. The money may come to her. She lives at Hampstead, but I have never been to her house."
"How is that?"
"I only became aware of her existence some months ago," said Arnold lightly. "We met by chance, and--but it's a long story. But we learned that we were relations, and I promised to call."
"But you didn't?"
"No. Something always came in the way. But I dare say if Flora came in for the money she would help me. I might chuck the stage, and get a start--read for the bar, perhaps. Then I could marry Laura."
"Have you any capabilities for the bar?" asked Fane. "For instance, what do you think of this murder?"
Arnold threw up his hand.
"Don't ask me," he said abruptly; "I have heard nothing else discussed but that murder for days. I am perfectly sick of it. What is your opinion?"
"I don't know--I haven't one. The whole thing is a mystery to me. All I know is that the death in this room has so sickened me, that I intend to give up the villa and go abroad to Switzerland."
"An inland place. That will rather interfere with your yachting."
"Before Fane could answer, the door opened, and Mrs. Fane, serene as ever, entered with an evening paper in her hand. She started a trifle when she saw Arnold, but bowed gracefully.
"So pleased to see you," she said with conventional falseness. "I must send Laura to you. She is dying to see you."
"I have seen her, Mrs. Fane. I am now going away."
"Oh!" Mrs. Fane smiled agreeably. "You have quarrelled."
"No, but----"
"Never mind--never mind!" interrupted Walter irritably. "What is the matter, Julia?"
"She laid her cool hand on his head.
"How hot your brow is," she said soothingly. "You have never been yourself since this horrid murder."
"We agreed not to talk of it again," said Fane, moving his head from under her hand.
"I fear we must," said his wife, sitting down. "Don't go, Mr. Calvert. This is no secret. Merely a paragraph in the paper."
"Have they found out anything?" asked Arnold quietly.
"Well, it seems to be a sort of a clue. This room, you know----"
"This room!" Both men looked round the White Room, and then at one another. Finally both pairs of eyes were fixed on Mrs. Fane's face.
"Yes," she said calmly. "I need not read the paragraph. The gist of it is that the police have received a letter stating that there is a room like this in a house at Hampstead."
"At Hampstead?" said Calvert, advancing a step.
"Yes. It belongs to a Mr. Brand."
"Brand!" said Fane, looking at Calvert. "Why, that is the name you mentioned just now!"
"Yes," said the young man with an effort. "I have a cousin called Flora Brand."
"Dear me," said Mrs. Fane in her cold way. "I wonder if she can be the miserable creature who was murdered in this room."
"Julia!" Fane started to his feet. "What do you mean?"
"Don't grow excited, my dear," she replied in her soothing tones. "But it seems that Mrs. Brand has disappeared. The writer of the letter doesn't describe her to the police; but inquiries are being made. Perhaps she may be the dead woman. How strange that she should have died in this room, when she has one of her own furnished exactly the same. This room was your own idea, Walter?"
"Yes," he replied, looking puzzled, "my own idea. And I don't know Mrs. Brand. How came she to have a similar room?"
Arnold took up his hat.
"I'll find that out," he said.
When he left the room, husband and wife looked at one another.
Coleridge Lane, Hampstead, was named after the great poet, who had once resided in the neighbourhood. If he lived in this special locality, he could not have found it congenial to his Muse, for the crooked, winding, sloping passage could hardly be called a lane, much less a road. Also, it was damp by reason of the ancient trees that nearly met overhead. On either side were small cottages standing amidst weedy gardens, the survivals of a far-off age, when a wide view and careful drainage were not considered as necessary to any human habitation. An air of melancholy hung over the place, and only because the rents were low did the cottages contain tenants.
Before the gate of one of these cottages stood Inspector Derrick one summer's morning. He was in private clothes, and looked, as usual, smart and alert. With a sharp look on his stern face he stared at the damp, discoloured walls of the cottage, which matched with a moss-grown thatched roof. Yet, in spite of the apparent decay of the house, there was evidence that the occupier had some idea of tidiness and comfort. The garden was well weeded, and filled with homely cottage flowers now in full bloom. A green-painted fence divided the garden from the lane, and there was a narrow gate which bore the name "Fairy Lodge." The windows were draped with lace curtains tied with smart pink ribbons. The brass door-knocker was well polished, and the step thoroughly whitewashed. Apparently the landlord would not, and the tenant could not, renovate the cottage, but much had been done to render it a little less melancholy than the neighbouring houses.
Derrick stood enjoying the cool breeze and sunshine on that bright morning, and wondering if the person he had appointed to meet him there would come. It was already five minutes past the hour of eleven, so the person was late. But even while the inspector looked at his watch, the individual appeared. He was an old man, thin and weather-worn, dressed in shabby clothes, and looking as though he had not enough to eat. He appeared to be almost as shabby as the neighbourhood, and hobbled towards Derrick coughing, and limping with the aid of a stout stick. As soon as he came within eyeshot--for his sight did not seem to be good--he halted mistrustfully. Derrick, guessing that he was the man who was to meet him, advanced. "You are Mr. Webb?" said he briskly.
"I might be," returned the old fellow cautiously, "if you are Mr. Derrick I wrote to at a certain place."
"I am Inspector Derrick, and I come in answer to your letter about Mrs. Brand and the White Room."
"Will there be any reward for my setting the police on the track?" asked Webb cunningly.
"Well, I can hardly say. Mr. Fane, in whose house this woman was murdered, promised to recompense me should I discover anything likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. I dare say he will give me a hundred pounds."
"Halves," said the old man, coughing, "or I don't let you in."
"I fear you won't be able to stop me," said Derrick, smiling. "On the strength of your letter I procured a search-warrant. I represent the law, you see. You should have made a bargain before you wrote the letter, Mr. Webb."
"Rogues, thieves, and liars, the lot of you," said the old man, striking the ground violently with his stick. "What about my rent?"
"I don't owe you any. Did this woman?"
"No. She's paid me up to date. But here's my cottage without a tenant. I'll find it difficult to let it again, if she was done to death as the papers said."
"We don't know that Mrs. Brand is the same woman."
"Well, Mrs. Brand hasn't been seen since the day that crime took place," retorted Webb, "and then there's the room, you know."
"Ah! I want to see the room. It is strange she should have been killed in a room similar to that occupied by herself. I can't understand it."
"If you made it worth my while I might assist you. I am poor; oh! how poor I am. Look at my clothes. You wouldn't pick them off a dunghill--not you. And I live on sausages. They're cheap, but not filling. Do you know of anything that taken at one meal would keep me going for a week?"
"No," said Derrick abruptly, and thinking the old man a queer character. "Show me the house."
"All in good time," said the ancient, hobbling to the gate. "Ah!" He wheeled round and shook his fist at a butcher's boy. "Hear that brat. Why don't you run him in for insulting language?"
"Miser! miser!" chanted the boy, leering across the lane at the old creature, who shook his fist in impotent rage. "Golly, what clothes. Say, mister"--this was to Derrick--"if I come across to deliver the meat, will you stop the old cove from pitching into me?"
"I'll bash your head, you imp," yelled Webb, quivering with rage.
"Leave him alone," said Derrick good-humouredly. "Boys will be boys. Now then, young shaver, come along!"
But the boy declined. He darted across the road, thrust a chop into the inspector's hand, and darted back. "You give it to Mrs. Brand, governor," said the boy, grinning; "the old cove's got his bleary eye on yours truly."
"Beast of a boy," said Webb, and entering the gate he hobbled up to the door.
Derrick lingered behind, and produced a shilling. "See here, boy," he remarked persuasively, "do you deliver meat to Mrs. Brand every day?"
"Every second day," said the boy advancing, lured by the shilling.
"Has the meat been taken in as usual?"
"No, it ain't. Not for over a week. Nearly a fortnight, you might say. I brings them though--the chops, I mean--and puts them in the meat-safe at the back of the house. There's lots there, but she ain't bin home to eat them."
"When did you last see her?"
"Over a fortnight ago," said the boy, counting on his fingers, and apparently not very sure as to his dates. "On a Thursday that was. She took the chop in as usual. On Saturday I brought a steak late--somewhere about six--so that it might be quite fresh for Sunday, and she wasn't in. Ain't seen her since. Say, mister, if y' know her, say as master 'ull charge her for the meat. It's her own fault she ain't eaten it."
"Why didn't she leave a servant in charge?"
"Too poor," said the boy, taking the shilling and spitting on it for luck. "She always did the housework herself. But she was a real lady for all that. Say, mister"--the boy stared--"nothing ain't gone wrong with her?"
"No. I merely called to see her."
"Well, she ain't at home as I can see. There ain't no smoke coming from the chimney, though to be sure she may be saving the coals. I thought the miser might have done away with her. He's an old rip as ought to be in gaol. I saw him making eyes at her."
"Ah! Then Mrs. Brand is a pretty woman?"
"Yes, in a kind of delicate sort of way. Brown hair and blue eyes and pale and little. Looked like a widder," said the boy confidentially, "but she wasn't. Bless you, no! Her husband's a commercial gent as comes home every now and then. But he's away for the most part of the time."
"Have you ever seen him?"
"In the dark I did. A tall gent. But I can't tell you his looks."
"You are a smart boy," said Derrick, taking out his note-book. "I should like to see more of you."
"My name's Potter," said the boy, grinning at this praise. "I work for old Rams the butcher."
"Ah, I know the shop," said Derrick, noting this. "I once lived in Hampstead, and dealt with Mr. Rams."
"My, ain't he sharp over the money. But Mrs. Brand always paid up like a lady. Guess the miser got his rent."
"Webb hailed Derrick at this moment. Are you going to talk to that brat all day, officer?" he inquired shrilly, peering out of the open door.
At the word "officer" Potter backed with a look of apprehension. "I say, you're a peeler. Lor! Anything wrong?"
"No," said Derrick, vexed at being thus betrayed. "Hold your tongue about this conversation. I'll make it worth your while."
"I'm fly," said Master Potter, with a whistle and an easier look. He showed a disposition to linger at the gate; but Derrick ordered him sway sharply, and he departed, casting looks over his shoulder, too amazed at his discovery of Derrick's profession to call old Webb bad names. Derrick went inside.
"If Mr. Brand arrives I can show him this as my authority for entering the cottage," said Derrick, displaying a search-warrant.
"Brand! Mrs. Brand?"
"Mister! The husband."
"Never saw him," grumbled Webb. "Mrs. Brand said she had one, but she paid the rent and looked after the house, and kept very much to herself. I never set eyes on him."
"He's a commercial traveller," the boy said.
"The boy's a liar," retorted the agreeable Mr. Webb. "Mrs. Brand was too much the lady to marry a commercial. She used to talk of her husband, but she never let on his employment."
"Did she rent the cottage in her own name?"
"Yes. I don't believe she had a husband."
"What reference did she give."
"Six months' rent in advance. Stop! She did refer me to a schoolmaster."
"A schoolmaster? What is his name?"
"Professor Bocaros."
"A professor--of what?"
"Lord," said Webb testily, "how do I know? Any one can call themselves professors if they've a mind to--especially foreigners."
Derrick, who was standing in the small hall, started, and remembered what Miss Mason had said when he mentioned the stiletto. "Is this professor a foreigner?" he asked eagerly.
"A Greek. Bocaros means bull's head or bull's tail--at least it did when I was at school. Ah! I've been educated, though you mightn't think so, Mister Inspector."
Derrick passed over this remark. "Did you see this man?"
"No. My time's too valuable to run after foreigners. I wrote to him at the address given by Mrs. Brand. She said he was a cousin of hers. He wrote back saying that she was a respectable person. I dare say she was, but I don't believe she had a husband. If she had, why didn't he show? A commercial gent! Bah! Don't tell me."
"What address did Mrs. Brand give you?"
"Now that's queer. She gave me Ulysses Street, Troy!"
This time Derrick could not suppress an exclamation. "Why, that is only a stone-throw from Achilles Avenue. It's near Meadow Lane."
"I said it was queer," remarked Webb, nodding. "Perhaps he did her to death. What do you think?"
"I think you may have put a clue into my hand," said the inspector, noting the address in his useful little book. "Don't speak of this to any one. I'll make it worth your while."
"Halves," said the miser again; "though it's only fifty pounds. I think Mr.--what's his name?--Fane should give me the whole hundred."
"Oh, indeed." Derrick put the book into his pocket. "And what about me, Mr. Webb, if you please?"
"You're paid for finding criminals, I ain't," said Webb, entering a side door. "Come and look at the room. My time's valuable. I can't stand talking to you all day. The drawing-room this is."
"Ha!" Derrick stood at the door, and looked at the small room, which was furnished in the same fashion as the larger one in Ajax Villa, though not in so costly a manner. The walls and hangings were white, the carpet and furniture also, and even the piano was cased in white wood. In all respects, save in the way of luxury, the room was the same. It was strange that Mrs. Brand should have been killed in a room similar to her drawing-room, and in a house situated at the other end of London. "Though we don't know if the dead woman is Mrs. Brand," said Derrick, looking round.
"That's easily settled," said Webb, who had taken up his position in a cane chair. "There's her portrait."
On the mantel-piece were two silver frames, one on either side of a gimcrack French clock. The frame to the left contained the photograph of a pretty slight woman, in whom Derrick immediately recognised the dead unknown. "That's her sure enough," said he, taking a long look. "I wonder how she came to die in a room similar to this," and he glanced around again. "The mystery is growing deeper every discovery I make. What of the other silver frame?"
"It's got the photograph of a man--the husband, I suppose."
"No." Derrick took down the frame. "The photograph has been removed."
"Lord!" said Webb, when a close examination assured him of this fact. "Why, so it has. But she showed it to me one day when I asked about Mr. Brand, and said it was his picture."
"Do you remember what the man was like in looks?" said the inspector, replacing the frame, much disappointed.
"No," replied the old man; "my eyesight's that bad as I can hardly tell A from B. It was the picture of a bearded man."
"A pointed beard?"
"I can't say. He had a beard, that's all I know. Mrs. Brand said that his business took him away a good deal. But she didn't say he was a commercial gent."
"Did Mrs. Brand, go out much?"
"Not at all. I told you so before. She kept very much to herself, in a haughty kind of way. Thought herself a fine lady, I suppose, and there's no denying she was a lady. She has been my tenant for over five years, and always paid regular, but she knew no one, and when any one called she never would let them in. I only got to know of this room because I came for my rent."
"Did she pay her bills regularly?"
"Yes. I asked that, being fearful for my rent. She always paid up like a lady. Not that she took much in. Generally she lived by herself, so didn't eat much, keeping no servant either."
"Did she ever go out to concerts or theatres or anywhere?"
"When her husband came home she used to enjoy herself. I believe she went to the opera, or to concerts, being fond of music."
"Ah!" Derrick recalled the song. "Did she sing?"
"Not that I ever heard of. She told me very little about herself, and what I know I had to drag out of her. She came five years ago and took this cottage by herself. Afterwards her husband, as she called him, came. I never saw him, and she always paid her rent regularly. That's all I know."
"Why do you think Mr. Brand was not her husband?"
"I never said he wasn't. I don't know. She seemed a respectable person, and was very quiet in her living and dress. Sometimes she shut up the cottage and went away for a week."
"Always for a week?"
"Yes. She never was absent long. I suppose she and her husband had a jaunt all to themselves. She had no children. But ain't you going to look at the rest of the house?"
"Yes." Derrick cast his eyes round the room again. On the round white wood table was a photograph album bound in white leather. He opened this, and found that all the portraits therein--the book was only half full--were those of women. Several were of Mrs. Brand as child and girl and woman. Spaces showed that five or six portraits had been removed. Derrick noted this, and then left the drawing-room thoughtfully. It seemed to him as though all the male portraits had been removed on purpose. And the chances were that in an album belonging to the wife, portraits of the husband might be found. At the door of the white room he cast his eyes on the ground. "Has it been raining?" he asked.
Webb, who was already in the passage, came back, and stared at the footmarks--muddy footmarks which were printed on the white carpet. "It's not been raining for over a week," he said. "Strange that there should be this mess. Mrs. Brand was always a particularly tidy woman. She never let a spot of dirt remain in this room."
"We've had a dry summer," said Derrick, pinching his lip.
"Very dry," assented Webb. "To be sure, there was that big thunderstorm eight days ago."
"And before that we had three weeks of sunshine."
"Yes." The old man stared. "What of that?"
"It seems to me----" said Derrick; then he paused, and shook his head. "Let us examine the rest of the house."
Webb, not knowing what was passing in the officer's mind, stared again and hobbled round as cicerone. They went to the small kitchen, to the one bedroom, to the tiny dining-room, and examined the small conservatory opening out of this last. At the back of the house there was a small garden filled with gaudy sunflowers and tall hollyhocks. The red brick walls which enclosed the plot of ground scarcely larger than a handkerchief were draped with ivy, carefully trimmed and tended. The conservatory was filled with cheap flowers neatly ranged. Apparently Mrs. Brand, judging by the conservatory and the back and front gardens, was fond of flowers, and made it the pleasure of her life to tend them.
The kitchen and the dining-room were plainly furnished. In the meat-safe outside the back door were the chops and steaks left by the butcher's boy, and also loaves of bread. A milk-can was on the ground and empty, showing that probably all the cats in the place had been enjoying themselves. Derrick found that a narrow passage between the enclosing wall and the house led from the front garden to the back. Having assured himself of this, he re-entered the house, and examined the bedroom.
This was better furnished than the rest of the house. There was a smart dressing-table decked with muslin and pink ribbons. On it were articles of female toilette. Several dresses (plain for the most part) were hanging up in the wardrobe, and there was a warm but untrimmed dressing-gown in the bathroom. But Derrick could not see any male apparel, and pointed this out to Webb.
"Perhaps Mr. Brand wasn't her husband after all," said the old man. "He may have been a friend of hers, and came here occasionally. But he didn't live here."
"The boy said he did sometimes."
"The boy's a liar," said Webb vindictively.
"Hum! I don't know that. I have an idea."
"Of what?"
"I'll tell you directly." Derrick opened all the drawers in the bedroom. He found linen, hats, handkerchiefs, ribbons--all articles of female attire, but again nothing appertaining to a man's dress.
"Where's her desk?" he asked abruptly.
"In the white room. I was sitting near it."
"The inspector, having searched the bedroom again to see if he could find any papers, led the way back to the drawing-room. The desk was near the window, and unlocked; that is, it opened easily enough, and Derrick thought it was unlocked. But a glance showed him that the lock was broken. The desk has been forced," he said, and threw wide the lid, "and the contents have been removed," he added.
Webb stared at the empty desk. There were a few bundles of receipted bills, some writing-paper and envelopes, and a stick or two of red sealing-wax. But no scrap of writing was there to reveal anything about Mrs. Brand. Yet on a knowledge of her past depended the discovery of the reason she had been stabbed in Troy. The inspector looked at the desk, at the floor, and drew his own conclusions. "Some one has been here eight days ago, and has removed all papers and pictures likely to give a clue to the past of this woman and to the identity of the husband."
"How do you know?" asked Webb, startled.
Derrick pointed to the muddy marks on the carpet. "The fact that the carpet is white betrays the truth," said he. "For the last month or so, that is, before and since the murder, we have had only one storm--that was eight days ago. The person who removed the portraits from the album and from the silver frame, who forced the desk and destroyed the papers, came on that day----"
"The thunderstorm was at night," interrupted Webb.
"Then at night, which would be the better concealment of his purpose. He came here with mud on his boots, as is proved by these marks. He wished to remove all evidence of Mr. Brand's identity. Therefore----"
"Well," said Webb, seeing that Derrick hesitated. "I believe that Brand himself did so, and that Brand is the man who killed his wife in Ajax Villa."