Mrs. Baldwin always called herself an unlucky woman, and lamented that she had to undergo misfortunes heavier than those of other people. But in truth she was better off than her laziness and grumbling deserved. Her income was small but sure, and if she lived unhappily, with her second husband the fault was hers. The man grew weary of her inattention to domestic comfort, and to her constant lamentations. It said a great deal for the absent Mr. Baldwin that he had lived with this slattern for so many years. The most sensible thing he ever did in his life was when he left her.
On losing him Mrs. Baldwin had taken up her abode in Cloverhead Manor House, and obtained it at a low rent. She would not have got it so cheap, but that in those days Troy was only beginning to gather round the ancient village. Mrs. Baldwin, in spite of her laziness, was clever enough to foresee that land would increase in value, and bought the acres upon which the manor stood. The former owner, the last member of a decayed family, had sold the land gladly enough, as he obtained from Mrs. Baldwin a larger price than was offered by the classic jerry-builder, who was responsible for the modern suburb. Since then the value of the land--as was anticipated by Mrs. Baldwin--had increased, and many speculators offered large sums to buy it. But Mrs. Baldwin was too lazy to make another move. She enjoyed pigging it in the large roomy house, and quite resolved not to move until the children were settled in life. She then proposed to sell the land, and use the money "to take her proper station in society," whatever that meant. And she was cunning enough to know that the land would increase still more in value. There were the makings of a business woman in Mrs. Baldwin had she not been so incorrigibly lazy.
"But I really can't move," sighed Mrs. Baldwin when approached on the subject by Gerty, who was businesslike and speculative. "Heaven knows I can hardly get through the day's work with my bad health. Besides, there is the professor to be considered. Such a nice man. If I were only sure that Rufus was dead I might consent to take him."
This was sheer vanity on the part of the lazy fat woman, as the professor had no intention of asking her to become Mrs. Bocaros. He was a bachelor by nature, and passed his life in study. Holding a small post in a suburban college where he taught foreign languages, he just managed to keep his head above water. For the sake of peace, and because he hated a boarding-house, the professor wanted a home to himself. When Mrs. Baldwin came to Cloverhead she had a tiny cottage on her estate at the foot of the meadow at the back of the manor-house. It was surrounded by pines, and lying near a small stream which overflowed whenever there was rain, being therefore extremely damp. She had no idea of letting it, but on meeting Bocaros at a scholastic "At Home" she learned of his desire, and offered him the place. He accepted it eagerly, and for some years had been Mrs. Baldwin's tenant.
The professor was a quiet neighbour. He kept no servant, and did the work himself. The cottage possessed but two rooms, one of which was used as a kitchen, and the other as a dining-room, a bedroom, a study, and a reception-room. This last was large and airy and damp, but the professor loved it because of the solitude. He cherished a tranquil life above all things, and certainly found it in "The Refuge," as he called his tiny domicile. Through the pines he could see the country dotted with red brick villas, the outposts of London, for Troy was one of the last additions to the great city, and its surroundings were almost rural. Beside the stream grew stunted alders and tall poplars. There was no fence round the place. It was clapped down on the verge of the meadow, and girdled with the pines. A more isolated hermitage it is impossible to conceive. Tracey, who sometimes came to see Bocaros, for whose learning he had a great respect, advised draining the place, but Bocaros was obstinate. "It will last my time," he said in his rather precise way; "and I may not live here for many years."
"Do you intend to leave then?" asked Tracey.
"I might. There is a chance I may inherit money, and then I would live in Switzerland."
"That's where the anarchists dwell," said Tracey, wondering if this queer-looking foreigner was a member of some secret society.
Professor Bocaros--he obtained his title from a Greek College, as he stated--was certainly odd in his appearance. He was tall and lean and lank, apparently made of nothing but bones. Rheumatism in this damp spot would have had a fine field to rack Bocaros, but he never seemed to be ill. Always dressed in black broadcloth, rather worn, he looked like an undertaker, and moved with quite a funereal step. His face was of the fine Greek type, but so emaciated that it looked like a death's-head. With his hollow cheeks, his thin red lips, his high bald forehead, and the absence of beard and moustache, Bocaros was most unattractive. The most remarkable feature of his face was his eyes. These, under shaggy black brows, seemed to blaze like lamps. However weak and ill the man looked, his blazing eyes showed that he was full of vitality. Also, his lean hands could grip firmly, and his long legs took him over the ground at a surprising rate. Yet he ate little, and appeared to be badly nourished. Tracey, to whom Bocaros was always a source of wonder and constant speculation, confided to Gerty that he believed the professor was possessed of some restorative which served instead of food. On the whole, there was an air of mystery about the man which provoked the curiosity of the lively, inquisitive American. It would have inspired curiosity with many people also, had not Bocaros lived so retired a life. The Baldwin children called his house "Ogre Castle," and invented weird tales of the professor eating little children.
"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire of sorts," said Tracey. "He don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of his wouldn't keep a flea in condition."
"I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded, although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear."
"And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey.
Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to borrow theDaily Budgetfrom Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught, Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after the Ajax Villa tragedy, when the professor tore along the path--he always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor--he met Tracey half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand.
"Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask. You don't mind, do you?"
Bocaros fixed his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question, my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of foreign accent.
The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask your opinion about this murder."
"I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?"
"The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were."
"We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies amidst languages. I am a philologist, my friend, and no detective."
"I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were."
"You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?"
"You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey, who, when bent on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved his purpose.
Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.
"A pipe, my friend, will please me better," replied Bocaros, and filled a large china pipe, which he must have obtained when he was a German student. He then took a seat with his back towards the window, and intimated that he was ready.
"See here!" said Tracey, opening the newspaper and pointing to a paragraph; "read that!"
"Is it about the murder?" asked Bocaros, puffing gently at his pipe.
"Yes. That fool of a Derrick has made a discovery of some value."
"In that case he cannot be a fool, my friend," replied Bocaros, leaning back his head and inhaling the smoke luxuriously. "Tell me what the paper says. I can't read while you talk, and I am sure you will not be silent for five minutes."
"That's a fact," said Tracey coolly. "I've got a long tongue and an inquiring mind. I shan't read the paragraph. But it seems that he--Derrick, I mean--has found out the woman's name."
"How interesting!" said Bocaros, unmoved and in rather a bored tone. "How did he find it out?"
"Well, some one wrote from Hampstead," said Tracey, throwing the paper aside, and giving the gist of his information, "and let out there was a woman who lived in Coleridge Lane who had a white room, same as that she was murdered in."
"Coleridge Lane!" repeated Bocaros, opening his eyes. "I know some one living there. What is this woman's name?"
"The inspector," continued Tracey, taking no notice of this direct question, "went to see this room. He found the house shut up. The landlord had the key, and with the landlord he entered. He found, as was stated, a room similar in all respects to the one in Ajax Villa, though the furniture was poor. More than that, there was a portrait on the mantel-piece of the woman who was murdered."
"You can give me the details afterwards," said Bocaros hastily. "At present I want to know the woman's name."
"Keep your hair on, professor. Her name is Brand."
Bocaros rose from his chair and, dropping his pipe, threw up his hands with a foreign ejaculation. "Brand! Flora Brand?"
"Yes. How do you come to know her front name?"
"She is my cousin," said the professor, and sat down to cover his face with his hands.
Tracey whistled, and stared. In making the communication to the man, he was far from expecting that this announcement would be made. "I guess you know who killed her then?" he observed coolly. Bocaros leaped to his feet. "Man," he cried fiercely, "what is that you say? How should I know who killed her?"
"You're her cousin, and Derrick says in the woman's past life will be found the motive for the crime."
"I know very little of my cousin's past life," said Bocaros, walking rapidly to and fro, and apparently much moved. "What I do know I shall tell to the police."
"Tell it to me now," suggested the American.
The professor looked at him mistrustfully. "I don't know if you are a good person to make a confidant of."
"Bless you, there's no confidence about this, professor. You'll have to tell the police what you know, and they'll put it all in print."
"True! True!" Bocaros took a turn up and down the room, then passed his lean hand through his long hair. "Mr. Tracey, you are a clever man. I can rely on you to help me."
"Help you!" Tracey looked sharply at the professor. "What's that?"
"I mean help me with the police. I am not accustomed to deal with these matters. They will ask me questions."
"Well, what if they do? You can answer them, I reckon."
"Yes, yes. But you know how suspicious the police are."
"They may be in foreign lands where you hail from. But I guess they're too pig-headed here to think much."
"This woman--Flora--was murdered in Ajax Villa. It is only a short distance from my house. They may think----"
"That you killed her? That's rubbish. It's queer, certainly, that she should have come to end her life in that way so near to your shanty, but there's not much chance of the police accusing you. Did you know Fane in any way?"
"I never even heard of him."
"Not from Miss Mason? You know her?"
"I have only spoken half a dozen words to her," said Bocaros, twisting his hands together. "You know how shy I am. Your lady----"
"Gerty B.," put in Tracey.
"Yes, Miss Baldwin. She introduced me to Miss Mason. But we had little speech together. Your young lady might have mentioned the name of Fane, but I forget--I forget." And Bocaros passed his hand over his brow again. "You know how absent I am."
"Yes, yes," said Luther Tracey soothingly, for he saw that the man was growing excited. "You lie down and go slow. Tell me about this cousin of yours."
"She is my first cousin," explained Bocaros, sitting down, and keeping himself down by the strongest of efforts. "My father's sister married a man called Calvert, and----"
"Calvert! Why, that's the name of the man Miss Mason's going to be married to!"
"Is it?" The professor stared. "I never knew. Flora told me that her father's brother had a son called Arnold."
"That's the name. He's an actor at one of the big shows. Arnold Calvert. You must have heard of him."
"Never as an actor."
"Well, I guess he's not got much of a reputation. Just now he's acting in a piece at the Frivolity Theatre.The Third Manis the name of the piece. I don't think much of it myself, or of him as----"
Bocaros threw up a protesting hand. "We have more important things to talk about than this young man."
"Well, I don't know. It's queer that he should be the cousin of the woman who was killed in the house of the brother-in-law of the girl he's engaged to. Do you know Calvert?"
"No; I never met him. Listen, Mr. Tracey. I came to England some five or six years ago very poor, as I am now. Here Bocaros looked round his study with a dreary air. I have heard my father talk of his sister who married a man called Calvert, and I had the address. I found my aunt dead, and her daughter Flora just preparing to move from the house where they had lived for a long time. She had very little money, and told me she was going to be married."
"To a man called Brand?"
"Yes. I never saw her husband. Flora told me of our other relatives. She gave me a little money, and then dismissed me. I did not see her again. But she wrote to me from Coleridge Lane asking me to give my name as a reference for her respectability. She wanted to take a house there----'Fairy Lodge' I think it is called."
"That's the house," said Tracey, with a glance at the paper. "Well?"
"Well, I sent the reference, and she never wrote again. Then over a month ago I received a letter from some lawyers. They stated that Mrs. Brand had come in for a large fortune, and that she intended next year to allow me an income."
"So you've lost by her death?"
Bocaros sprang to his feet with a wild look. "That's just where it is," he exclaimed. "I don't know that I haven't gained."
"As how?" asked Tracey, looking puzzled.
"When I got the lawyers' letter," proceeded Bocaros,--"the name of the firm is Laing and Merry--I wrote to Flora, thanking her. She asked me to call. I did so----"
"Hallo!" interrupted Tracey; "you said just now you never saw her again after your interview years ago."
"I meant at that time. Four or five years elapsed between the time I saw her. I am not good at dates, but I never saw her for years. All my life I have only had two interviews. One was when I came to this country; the other when, shortly before her death, I called to see her at Coleridge Lane. She received me very kindly, and stated that she intended to leave me the money. In fact that she had made a will in my favour."
Tracey stared. Here was a motive for the murder, seeing that Bocaros was desperately poor. Yet he could not see how the professor came to be mixed up with the actual crime. "How much is the property?" he asked, after an awkward pause.
"Ten thousand a year."
"Great Scott! How lucky for you, professor--her death, I mean."
"I would rather she had not died," burst out the man passionately. "It's horrible to think that she should have been murdered in so barbarous a fashion. You see my position. I live near the house where the crime was committed. I inherit ten thousand a year, and I am much in need of money. How do I know but what your police may accuse me of killing Flora?"
"They'll have to prove how you got into the house first," said the American, rather ashamed of his momentary suspicions, since the man looked at the matter in this fashion. "You lie low, professor. You're all right, I guess. There's a long difference between inheriting a large fortune and killing the person to get it."
"I would not have touched Flora for the universe," cried the professor. "I saw little of her, but what I saw I liked very much. She was a gentle, kind little lady, and though so poor she always dressed well. A most charming lady."
"Where did she get the ten thousand a year?"
"From a relative who died in Australia. At our first interview she stated that she had such a relative, and that it was probable she would inherit the money. Then she promised to assist me. She remembered her promise when she came in for the money a month or two ago. Not only did she promise me an income, but made the will in my favour. I asked her not to, saying I would be content with a small annuity. But she said she had already made the will."
"Why didn't she leave it to her husband?"
"I can't say. She spoke very little about her husband. He is a commercial traveller, and was often away. From what I saw in her manner and looks she was not happy; but she did not complain."
"Well," said Tracey, rising, "if the husband turns up he'll fight you for the property, though I don't think he'll show."
"Why not? He won't give up ten thousand a year."
"No. But Derrick thinks, as you will see in the paper, that Mrs. Brand was killed by her husband."
Bocaros started back. "Horrible! Horrible!" Then piteously, "My friend, what am I to do?"
"Take my advice, and go right along to see Laing and Merry. They'll help you through." And this Bocaros agreed to do.
"And I will spend the money in hunting for the assassin," said he.
The office of Laing and Merry was in Milton Street, on the ground floor of a dingy pile of buildings. There was only one representative of the firm, as Laing was dead, and his executors had disposed of the business to Merry. This gentleman carried on the office work with three clerks, of which one was his son. At a future date the younger Merry was to be admitted into the business, and at present was serving his articles. Merry retained the name of Laing on the office door-plate, as that gentleman had been a much-respected member of the profession, and his name inspired confidence.
Regarding Merry's own name, which was certainly odd, it fitted him extremely well. He was a stout and rubicund lawyer, not at all resembling the accepted type. There was nothing dry and solemn about Merry. He seemed to be a simple sort of person, and clients sometimes doubted his abilities. But all this cheerfulness was assumed. He really was as deep as a well, but it was a well wherein Truth did not reside. Not that Merry did anything likely to get himself struck off the Rolls. He was far too clever for that. But he was certainly unscrupulous, and more than a match for the majority of rascals. He always looked for the worst in a man, but his smile and complacent fatness disarmed all suspicion of his talents. Many a sharper had cause to rue trusting to the deceitful appearance of the lawyer.
Mr. Merry sat alone in a dingy room, the window of which looked out on to a blank wall. The room was surrounded by black-painted deed-boxes, and was remarkably dusty. Before the lawyer was a pile of letters which he intended to answer shortly. But at the present moment he was looking at yesterday's copy of theDaily Budget. It belonged to Merry junior, and his father had taken it in to read the paragraph pointed out by his son. It was that which dealt with the finding of Fairy Lodge, and the identification of Flora Brand with the woman who had been murdered in Ajax Villa. After mastering the article, Merry rang the bell, and raised his eyes when his son appeared at the door.
"Come and sit down, and close the door," said the father. "I wish to speak about this."
"Merry junior was a stout young man of twenty-one, quite as cheerful-looking as his respected progenitor. But he had a pair of sharp grey eyes which always set people on their guard. For this reason he was not so successful as his father in dealing with suspicious clients. In a year Merry hoped to be a full-fledged solicitor, and then intended to become his father's partner. Meanwhile, as he was remarkably sharp, and had the firm's interest at heart, Merry senior frequently consulted him. At the present moment he intended to discuss the death of Mrs. Brand.
"I can't understand why you did not show me this yesterday," he said.
"I never saw it," explained the son. "The fact is, I don't take in that rag." He pointed disdainfully to the paper. "But I picked it up in a railway carriage while going home last night, and wrapped a bag of fruit in it. This morning I happened to use some of the paper while shaving, and my eyes caught the paragraph. I would have shown it to you at once, but you had already started for the office. I therefore saved the torn pieces, and brought it in as soon as I arrived."
"There's nothing about this death in the other papers," said his father.
"No. I remember the case though. The woman was murdered at Ajax Villa, Troy, and there was a great deal of fuss made over the matter, owing to the strangeness of the affair. It's queer that the similarity of the rooms should prove to be the means of identification."
"You think there can be no doubt about the woman?"
"Oh, it must be Mrs. Brand. You see, the detective--or is he an inspector?--identified her by the photograph. There's something behind all this which I can't understand."
"You mean about the murder?"
"Well--yes," said the son. "And about the search made in the house by this man--what's his name?--Derrick. I wonder he did not find our letters to Mrs. Brand, and come at once to see us."
"He has not had time, perhaps."
"The police do not usually lose time. An hour makes a great difference to a case of this sort. I wonder who murdered her."
"I can't say. I merely read the inquest in a casual manner. Had I known it was Mrs. Brand, I should have come forward," added Merry senior. "The publicity of the case would have done us good."
The son reflected. "There's time yet to make a fuss," he said. "We are responsible for the will of Mrs. Brand. I dare say we can get the heir to offer a reward. What about the will, father?"
"I must see after it." Merry senior nodded towards a box. "It's in there. Queer she didn't leave her money to her husband, Sammy."
"I don't think she and her husband got on well," said Sammy; "he was always away."
"Well, as a commercial traveller----"
"No, father," interrupted Sammy, with vivacity. "I don't believe he was. Mrs. Brand didn't strike me as a woman who would marry a commercial traveller. Did you ever see Mr. Brand?"
"No," replied the lawyer, without raising his eyes. "Did you?"
"I never did, although you sent me twice to Mrs. Brand's house on business. I remember the white room. I wonder it didn't strike me when I saw the report of the crime. By the way, father, how did Mrs. Brand come to be our client? It was before I entered the office that she became our client."
"Yes." Merry rose and looked out of the window at the blank wall, which was not an alluring prospect. "Her distant cousin, Arthur Brand of Australia, sent home money to support Mrs. Brand's mother. When the mother died, he continued the income to the daughter. What always struck me as strange," added Merry musingly, "was that Mrs. Brand should marry a man of the same name as that of her cousin."
"A coincidence merely, father. Then Arthur Brand died and left the money to this woman?"
"Yes. A few months ago. I wrote and asked her to call. When informed of her good fortune she almost fainted. Then I suggested that she should bring her husband to me, so that he could attend to the matter on her behalf. But it seemed that Mr. Brand had departed a month previously to Australia, for the purpose of looking up Arthur. Mrs. Brand appeared to think that her husband was some connection, and wished to make sure."
"There is another cousin, isn't there?"
"Yes. Arnold Calvert, an actor." Merry's eyes travelled to the tin box. "I must write him at once."
"Why? Has he anything to do with the will?"
Merry opened his mouth to reply, when a clerk entered with a card. "Professor Bocaros," read the solicitor, and smiled. "Ah! This is Mrs. Brand's cousin. He has come to see about the will. You can leave me, Sammy. And I say, just drop a note to Mr. Calvert at the Frivolity Theatre asking him to call."
Sammy nodded, and passed out. As he did so Professor Bocaros stood aside. Young Merry looked at the lean figure and solemn face of the Greek, and then at the blazing eyes. He gave his opinion to himself as the door closed on the client. "I shouldn't like to be in your power," said Sammy. "I wonder if you inherit."
Merry shook hands warmly with the professor, and placed a chair for him. "It's a fine day. I am glad to see you, sir. Your cousin, poor woman, often spoke of you to us."
"Did she?" said Bocaros, looking keenly at the genial face of the lawyer. "That is strange, considering we saw so little of one another. By the way, your phrase--poor woman--leads me to believe that you have heard from the police."
"No. I have read in this paper of the identification of Mrs. Brand with the woman who was murdered in Troy;" and Merry laid his hand on theDaily Budget. "I suppose you have come to see me about the matter. How did you learn the news?"
"In the same way. A friend of mine brought the paper to me."
"Oh!" Merry looked sharply in his turn. "Did this friend know that you were Mrs. Brand's cousin?"
"He did not. I usually get the paper every day from my landlady, Mrs. Baldwin. I occupy a small house on her estate in Cloverhead----"
"Where is that, sir?"
"Near Troy. In fact it is the village around which Troy is built."
"Oh!" Merry looked surprised. "Do you mean to say you live in Troy?"
"I do. And not a stone-throw away from the house where poor Flora was murdered."
"Flora--ah, Mrs. Brand. I forgot her Christian name for the moment. So you live there--a strange coincidence," said Merry cautiously.
"So strange that I have come to ask you what I am to do," said the professor, in his agitated way. "You will believe me, sir, that I know nothing of the murder. All I know about it I read in the papers, and gathered from Mr. Tracey."
"Who is he?"
"The engineer whose motor-car was stolen and found in Charing Cross yard," said Bocaros. "The police said----"
"I remember. Their theory was that the murderer escaped in the car. But they didn't prove that at the inquest. Some one else might have taken the car, though, to be sure, its abandonment in the station yard looks as though the person merely wished to make use of it for escape. However, that's not the point. You heard about the crime from Mr. Tracey?"
"Yes. And of course I read of it in the papers. But I never knew it was my cousin till Mr. Tracey brought me theDaily Budgetyesterday. Then I made up my mind to come to you."
"Why?" asked Merry calmly.
Bocaros looked surprised. "Why, you wrote to me stating that Mrs. Brand intended to leave me an annuity."
"She did intend to do so, but she changed her mind."
"Yes, I know," said Bocaros, feeling his way carefully, for he was surprised by Merry's attitude. "When she wrote to me, I went and saw her. She said she would see that I wanted for nothing, and then she told me that she had made a will in my favour."
Merry looked up suddenly. He had been drawing figures on the blotting-paper, apparently inattentive. But in reality he had lost nothing of the conversation. Now he looked as though he would read the heart of the man before him. "Mrs. Brand did make a will in your favour," he said, "about a week before she died, but----"
"What do you mean?" asked Bocaros. He was usually pale, but owing to the significant looks of Mr. Merry, he flushed a deep red. "She told me about the will, and I want to know--seeing that I live in Troy, and benefit by her death--if there is any chance of the police suspecting me?"
"No," said Merry smoothly. "There is no chance. You don't benefit under the will."
Bocaros leaned back in his chair, and changed from red to white. "I--I confess, sir, I do not understand," he stammered.
"Mrs. Brand," went on the lawyer smoothly, "came and made a will, leaving all her money to you. It amounts to ten thousand a year. She also mentioned the annuity, but after some thought, she said we could write to you saying she would allow you an income, but privately we advised her not to bind herself. She did so. We wrote as you know. She then said that she would pay you the income, as we stated in our letter, and resolved to leave you her money. In fact we made a will out to that effect."
"So she told me," stammered the professor, "and then----"
"Then she changed her mind like women do. In a few days she came back, revoked the former will, and made a new one in favour of Arnold Calvert, if you know who he is."
"Arnold Calvert!" cried the professor, rising. "The actor?"
"Yes. I have never seen him act myself; but I hear he is a very good fellow, and I have no doubt, seeing how you have been disappointed, he will let you have enough to live on. We have written to Mr. Calvert, and expect him to call."
Bocaros sat quite still, though in this speech he saw the downfall of his hopes. Merry thought that being a foreigner he would break out into a rage. But Bocaros did nothing of the sort. His face was white, and he appeared to breathe with difficulty. Then he smiled, and drew a long breath of relief. "So she has left me nothing," he said. "I am glad of it."
"Glad of it!" echoed Merry.
"Yes. I was fearful lest the police should suspect me of having a hand in poor Flora's death. Now that she has left me nothing, they can never think I had any motive to kill her."
"That's true enough," said Merry, puzzled; "but in any case I don't see how the police can suspect you. It is true that you live near the house where Mrs. Brand was murdered. But you no doubt can account for your actions on that night."
"No," said Bocaros unhesitatingly; "that's just where the difficulty comes in. I live alone, and from five o'clock on that day I saw no one. So far as the police are concerned, it would have been perfectly easy for me to have killed Mrs. Brand, and have returned to my lonely house without raising suspicion."
"There's no need to incriminate yourself," said the lawyer, thinking Bocaros was slightly touched. "I am quite sure that the police will think as I do."
"What is that?"
"That if you were guilty, you would not be in such a hurry to put yourself in the wrong."
"I am not in the wrong; I am innocent."
"Quite so. Well, there is no good discussing the matter. I suppose you can throw no light on this strange death?"
"None. I have told you all I know. But I trust that Mr. Calvert, seeing he has inherited the money, will take up the matter, and hunt down the assassin. Thinking I would inherit, I decided to do so myself."
"What do you mean?" asked the lawyer coldly, and jealous that the man should trench upon his province.
Bocaros looked surprised. "Can't you understand?" he said. "It is my desire that the assassin of my poor cousin should be caught. I saw the advertisement of a private inquiry office in the paper, and I went there before coming to you."
"Oh indeed," said Merry ironically. "And what did you say?"
"I told the man I saw--his name is Jasher--of my cousin's death, and of all the circumstances connected with it. I arranged with him that he should take up the case. I asked him to see you."
Merry shook his head. "That might do very well if you were the heir, professor. But as matters stand, I do not see how you can pay."
"No," said Bocaros dolefully; "yet I think Calvert should employ this man, and see what can be done."
"We will select the man who is to be employed," said Merry sharply.
"In that case I'll hunt out the matter myself," declared the Greek, taking up his hat. "I am determined to solve this mystery. Calvert----"
"You may be sure that we will advise Mr. Calvert to do the right thing," said Merry, rising in his turn. "He inherits ten thousand a year, and I expect he will see that the assassin is brought to justice, if such a thing is possible."
"It is possible," said Bocaros determinedly. "My poor cousin must have had some reason to go to that house. I don't know Fane, and I don't know Brand. But one of these two men killed her."
"What makes you say that?" asked Merry quickly.
"It is Jasher's opinion on hearing the case."
Merry reflected. "Send Jasher to me," he said. "If I approve of the man, and Mr. Calvert is satisfied, we will employ him to take up the case. I intend also to write to Inspector Derrick. By the way, can you tell us of any circumstances in your cousin's life which may hint at the reason for the committal of this crime?"
"No. My cousin was a good, pure woman. I know of nothing. But her death must be avenged. The assassin must be found----"
"Lest you should be suspected," interposed Merry.
"That amongst other things," said Bocaros, with dignity. "I am a poor man, Mr. Merry, but I would give all I possess, which is not much, to learn the truth."
"If money can discover the truth, you may be sure the death of Mrs. Brand will be avenged," said Merry, and held open the door for the professor to pass through. "By the way, we will speak to Mr. Calvert about an annuity."
"No," said Bocaros, colouring, and with an indignant look. "Calvert is a stranger to me. I do not accept money from strangers. Let him spend it in learning who killed Flora. The only boon I ask of him is that he should employ Jasher, seeing that I have given the case to the man under a misapprehension."
"Is Jasher a clever man?"
"Very--so far as I can judge."
"He seems rather given to jumping to conclusions," said Merry dryly, "seeing that he accuses Mr. Fane, who proved analibiat the inquest, and Mr. Brand, who is away in Australia. If his methods are like that, I fear he will not do much good."
"In that case you can employ another man. Here is my address," said the professor, taking a card from his pocket. "Ask Mr. Calvert to call. He is sure to be in my neighbourhood, as he is engaged to the sister-in-law of Mr. Fane."
He departed, leaving Merry quite stunned by this last piece of intelligence.
Mrs. Fane was seated in the White Room waiting for visitors. As usual she was knitting, and every now and then glanced at her little girl, who, washed and dressed and curled and bedecked with ribbons, played with her doll. The child was very like her father, having the same pink and white face and weak mouth. She was a pretty, pale creature, with fair hair, almost white--what the Scots call linty--locks. Never was there such a contrast as that between mother and child. The mother firm, majestic, strong, composed; the child weak, restless, delicate, and undersized. As Mrs. Fane looked at Minnie, she uttered a sigh, being alone. Had any one been present, she would not have condescended to such weakness.
"Just like her father," thought Mrs. Fane, her firm, shapely hands busy with the needles; "delicate, weak, irresponsible. I almost wish I had married a strong man. I would have at least had healthy children. No"--here she shook her head--"it's better as it is. I am my own mistress and Walter's master. Better as it is."
This complimentary train of thought was interrupted by its object. Walter Fane, looking sleepy and dishevelled, entered the room. His wife, who was richly and carefully dressed, looked at him with a serene air, not without a touch of contempt.
"I am expecting visitors," said she, in her calm way. "Don't you think you had better brush yourself up?"
"I don't intend to stop," replied Walter, listlessly staring out of the window.
"All the better. I don't care for tame cats," said Mrs. Fane. "A man should be out in the open air, or at business."
"You won't let me attend to the business," said Walter, shrugging.
"If you were a man you would attend to it without my sanction. But some one in this house must see to things, and if you won't the burden must devolve on my shoulders."
"As you please," said Fane, and sat down on the floor beside Minnie. "It's pleasant enough playing with this darling."
"I believe your brain is softening," said his wife, with a shadow of anxiety. "Why don't you go for a yachting tour?"
"I shall never yacht again, Julia. You will no longer have to complain of my long absences. When is the house to be sold?"
"In a month. I am arranging the business now. We will then go to Switzerland."
"I hate Switzerland."
"Since you have decided to yacht no more, it doesn't matter if you live there," said Mrs. Fane. "But you can choose your own place of residence. It's all one to me, so long as I can see after the business."
"I don't see that we need go abroad at all," said Fane sullenly.
"I see the necessity, and a very great one," retorted Mrs. Fane, with a flash of her eyes. "Be guided by me, Walter. I know what is good for you. And do get up from the floor. Laura will be in soon."
"Fane rose reluctantly. I was sleeping this afternoon," he said, and yet feel tired. "I think I'll dine at the club and go to the theatre."
"As you please," said Mrs. Fane quietly, "so long as you don't trouble me. And don't make love to any other woman," she added.
"Julia," said Fane, pausing at the door, "do you really care for me as much as that?"
"My dear, every one has a weakness; pride is mine. I like you. I have an affection for you, else I should not have married you. So long as you look handsome and are well dressed, and show me the deference of a chivalrous man to his lawful wife, I have no complaint to make. But if you go after other women, and make me a laughing-stock amongst my friends," added Mrs. Fane, drawing a deep breath, "I should not spare you."
Fane laughed, though rather uneasily. "One would think you would do me an injury," he said, with another shrug.
Mrs. Fane raised her eyes and looked at him steadily. "I might even do that," she replied. "Don't hurt my pride, whatever you do. And if you desert me in favour of----"
"There's no chance of my doing that," said Walter irritably. "I declare to heaven that I'm fond of you, Julia."
"That is as it should be," retorted Mrs. Fane.
Before her husband could reply there came a knock at the door, and immediately afterwards a stolid young man in livery entered. Walter slipped past him and got out of the room, while the man waited for his mistress to address him. "Yes?" said Mrs. Fane interrogatively.
"If you please, ma'am, the cook have gone mad," said the stolid man.
"Really?" rejoined Mrs. Fane, letting her knitting fall on her lap, but otherwise undisturbed. "And what form does her madness take?"
"She says she's going to retire on a fortune, and insists, ma'am, on coming upstairs to tell you. I think, ma'am----" The man hesitated.
"Yes," said Mrs. Fane calmly; "I quite understand. This is the third time she has indulged, and after assuring me that she had taken the pledge. Send her up."
"You will excuse me, ma'am, but cook really have found jewels."
"What do you mean?" This time Mrs. Fane really was amazed.
"She have found jewels in the dust-hole," stammered the man, and would have gone on to explain, but that he was roughly brushed aside by a large female clothed in purple silk of a cheap sort, with a black velvet cloak trimmed with beads, and a bonnet profusely trimmed with flowers. Her face was red, and her air was that of an excited person. This was due partly to drink and partly to excitement, and partly to a sense of fear at thus braving her mistress, of whom she had a great dread. The moment she entered the room the footman departed hastily, thinking there would be a row. He went down to the kitchen, and found the rest of the servants much excited. It seemed that the cook really had some cause for her behaviour. At the present moment she was explaining herself to Mrs. Fane.
"If you please, mum, I wish to leave this day--this hour--this minute," panted the cook all in a breath; "my boxes being packed and my best clothes being on."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Fane eyed the splendour with a look which made the cook wince. "I am afraid you can't leave. You get no wages if you do. Go downstairs."
"But I don't care for my wages. Far be it from me to rob you, mum. I am as rich as you, having found a forting in the dust-hole."
"Really! May I ask what it is?"
"You'll take it from me, mum," said the cook mistrustfully.
If you don't show it to me at once, Gander--this was the cook's unusual name--"I shall send for the police."
"O mum, think of the scandal. I won't----" then Gander caught the steady eyes fixed on her. The drink and the excitement were dying out under the chilling influence of Mrs. Fane's calmness, and the cook collapsed.
"It's this, mum," and from under the cloak she brought forth a dagger with a slim steel blade and a hilt of gold richly encrusted with jewels. These flashed red and blue and green and yellow in the stream of sunlight that shone through the window. Minnie caught a sight of the glitter and clapped her hands. "Yes, my pretty," said the cook proudly, "it's lovely, ain't it. And all my own, having been found by me in the dust-hole."
"May I look at it, Gander?" asked Mrs. Fane.
The cook, still under the influence of those cold eyes, handed it over at once, talking while she did so. But she kept her treasure-trove in sight, and despite her awe would have fought Mrs. Fane, had that lady shown any signs of annexing the property. "It's jewels rich and rare with gold, mum," said Gander poetically; "emerald and sappers and dimings and them things you read of in the book of Revelations. I shall sell it to a jeweller as I knows, and with the money I shall become a lady. I don't know as I'll marry," pursued the cook meditatively; "but I'll have a little house of my own, and sit all day in the parlour in white muslin reading novels and----"
"You really must not take so much to drink, Gander," said Mrs. Fane.
The cook bristled up. "Ho, indeed!" she snorted. "I'm accused of drink, am I, when my emotions is natural, having come in for a forting. I read it in the candle last night, and in the tea-leaves two weeks previous, and then I----"
"Cook, don't be a fool! This is by no means so costly as you think."
"It's worth a thousand, if I'm a judge of stones."
"Ah! but you see you are not," said Mrs. Fane cruelly. "This dagger belongs to me. It is only imitation gold and bits of glass."
Gander dropped into a chair. "Lor!" Then with an enraged screech, "Don't tell me deceptions, whatever you do, mum. My nerves won't stand deceptions nohow." Here Gander put a large fat hand on her ample bosom, and observed pathetically, "I feel all of a wabble, as you might say."
"I wore this," said Mrs. Fane, fingering the dagger, "at a fancy ball, and threw it away along with some other rubbish. I suppose that is how it got into the dust-hole."
Had the cook been quite herself, and observant, she might have doubted this explanation, which was certainly weak. Mrs. Fane's maid would never have carried such a dazzling object to the dust-hole, had she seen it amidst any rubbish her mistress might have cast aside. But Gander, deceived by fortune, broke down sobbing at the disappointment of her hopes. "To think my 'eart should be cast up to be likewise cast down," she gurgled. "When I went with the ashbucket I sawr that objict aglittering like anything, being stuck in the side of the dust-hole, as it were." Mrs. Fane listened attentively. "The 'andle showed beautiful under some cabbige stalks, and I thought as I was made for life. O mum"--she clasped her hands, which were encased in green gloves--"let me take it to my jeweller, and see if he don't think them stones of price."
Mrs. Fane, shaking her head, quietly slipped the dagger into her pocket. "It's only rubbish," she insisted, "so I'll keep it here, as it seems to upset you. Go downstairs, Gander, and see after the dinner. I shall overlook your conduct this time, but don't let this sort of thing occur again. And you might look at your pledge while you're about it."
The cook rose quite crushed, but made one last effort to regain possession of the dagger. "Findings is keepings," she observed.
"Not in this house. And even had the jewels been real you would not have been able to keep them, seeing they were found on Mr. Fane's premises. You can tell the other servants that the dagger belongs to me, and is merely a theatrical article. Leave the room, Gander."
"I'ave been hurt in my tender part," sobbed the cook, "and now I have to go back and be a slave. All flesh is grass, mum, and----" Here she saw from the glitter in Mrs. Fane's eyes that the patience of her mistress was giving out, so she hastily retreated, and made things disagreeable in the kitchen. Mrs. Fane's explanation about the weapon was readily accepted in the kitchen, as none of the servants were intelligent, and Gander was well laughed at for her disappointment. That night the dinner was unusually good at Ajax Villa, as Gander, fearful of losing her place, wished to make amends.
When the cook departed Mrs. Fane reproduced the dagger, and looked at it musingly. While she was daintily feeling the point, Minnie came up and asked for the pretty thing to play with. "No, dear," said Mrs. Fane, putting the child aside, with a shade passing over her face, "it's mother's; and say nothing to Aunt Laura about it." This she repeated rapidly as she heard Laura's step in the winter-garden. Then kissing the child, she replaced the weapon in her pocket.
Laura, looking quiet and subdued, entered, dressed for the reception.
"No one here yet, Julia?" she asked, looking round.
"No. Did you expect Mr. Calvert?"
Laura looked annoyed. "I did not. He is not likely to come here."
"So you said the other day. Yet I found him with Walter in this room when I came to tell him about the name of the woman being discovered." Mrs. Fane cast a long look at Laura, who took no notice.
"I think we may as well drop the subject, Julia," said the younger sister. "You will never do Arnold justice."
"I would with pleasure were he rich," said Julia blandly. "But as he is poor I wish to discourage your infatuation by all the means in my power. Then again, Laura, you know very little about him."
"What I do know is good," retorted Laura, sitting down.
"Ah, but there may be some bad in him for all that. Has he told you all his life?"
"Yes. His father and mother died when he was a child, and he was brought up by a guardian. He has a small property, and went on the stage to make a name."
"You have seen him act in this new piece?" asked Mrs. Fane, keeping her eyes on the knitting, but listening with all her ears for the answer. "I think you said something about going to the Frivolity with that Baldwin girl."
"I went with Gerty, and liked the play," said Laura coldly.
"Is it a modern play?" asked Mrs. Fane.
"Yes," answered Miss Mason, rather surprised at this interest being taken in the drama, for which Julia had no great love. "It is a three-act modern comedy,The Third Man."
"I read the notice of it, Laura dear. I fancy I remember that in the second act there is a fancy dress ball. I suppose Mr. Calvert wears a fancy dress in that act."
"He is dressed as a Venetian. Why do you ask that?"
Mrs. Fane evaded the question. "My dear," she said gravely, "when I found Mr. Calvert with Walter, I came to read about the two rooms, at Hampstead and this house--being similar, you know. The paper said that the other house--in Coleridge Lane, I believe--was owned by a Mrs. Brand. Mr. Calvert admitted that he had a cousin called Flora Brand, and I have a suspicion--no facts though--that this Flora Brand is the woman who was murdered here."
"You have no right to say that, Julia," said Laura quickly.
"I have no ground to go on, certainly," admitted Mrs. Fane in a most provokingly calm manner, "but I am certain that the woman was murdered here, and that she is Flora Brand, Mr. Calvert's cousin."
Laura, who was changing from red to white and from white to red, looked straightly at Julia. "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Calvert," said Mrs. Fane, "is dressed as a Venetian in the second act of this play. Probably he would wear a dagger--as a Venetian he would certainly wear a dagger--a stage dagger."
"He does. What of that?"
"Merely this." Mrs. Fane produced the dagger from her pocket. "This is a stage weapon. The handle is tinsel and glass. It was found by Gander in the dust-hole."
Laura took the weapon and examined it with a pale face. "Go on."
"Really, my dear, there is no more to say. I leave you to draw your own inferences."
"I understand," said Laura rapidly and in a low voice. "You think that Arnold killed the woman?"
"She was his cousin--the dagger is a stage weapon--Mr. Calvert often came to this house. Put two and two together, my dear, and----"
"Stop!" cried Laura furiously. "I don't believe it. Why should Arnold come here and kill his cousin--if she is his cousin?"
"He admitted she was."
"He admitted, according to your own showing, that Flora Brand was. We cannot yet be certain that the dead woman is Flora Brand."
"Going by the similarity of the rooms----"
"That may be a coincidence."
"A very strange one, taken in conjunction with that dagger and the relationship, of which I am fully convinced. Did you give Mr. Calvert the latch-key?" asked Julia suddenly.
"How dare you say that! Do you accuse me of aiding Arnold to kill the woman?"
"Ah! you admit that he killed her then?" said Mrs. Fane quickly.
"No! no! you confuse me. The idea is ridiculous. I am losing my head over your talk." Laura walked to and fro in an agitated manner. "He did not--he did not. What motive could he have for killing----"
"Laura"--Mrs. Fane rose with a determined air--"you know something, I am sure. Walter noticed that you are not such good friends with this man as you used to be. What do you know?"
"Nothing!" panted Laura, as Mrs. Fane seized both her elbows and looked into her eyes. "Let me go, Julia!"
"Not until you tell me----"
"Mrs. Baldwin," said the voice of the footman, and he threw open the door. In a moment Mrs. Fane was her conventional self, and was holding out her hand to the visitor. "How good of you to come," she said in her sweetest tones. "Laura and I were acting a scene in a play she is going to appear in. Amateur theatricals, you know," said Mrs. Fane, giving the old lady no time to speak. "She takes the part of a girl who is rather tragic. Do sit down, Mrs. Baldwin. The tea will be up soon. How well you are looking."
Bewildered under this torrent of words Mrs. Baldwin, whose brain never moved very fast, sat down on the sofa and tried to recover herself.
Laura, thankful to Julia for once in her life, concealed the dagger in her pocket and retired to the window to recover her calmness. The accusation of Julia had taken her by surprise, and she had been thrown off her guard. As a matter of fact she did know something, but Julia with her unsympathetic manner was the last person in whom she felt inclined to confide. The two sisters in dispositions and tastes were as far asunder as the poles.
Mrs. Baldwin looked like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain. She was dressed in an ill-assorted assemblage of colours. Some of her clothes were bran-new; others quite ancient. Her gloves were different in size and colour, so evidently she had snatched up one of Gerty's in a hurry. In fact, she seemed to have dressed hastily, so uneasy was the set of her clothes. And from the very candid confession that followed it appeared that she had, as she put it, "taken the first things that came to hand."
"If I had waited, I never should have made up my mind to come," said Mrs. Baldwin in her complacent voice. "But after the professor told me, I felt it was my duty to be the first to congratulate Miss Mason. Such a change in the young man's prospects, ain't it?"
"Are you talking of Mr. Calvert?" asked Mrs. Fane quickly, and with a side-glance at Laura.
"Of whom else?" responded Mrs. Baldwin genially. "My girl--Gerty's her name--told me of the affection between Miss Mason and Mr.----"
"Don't speak of it," interposed Laura, annoyed that this gossiping woman should interfere in so delicate an affair.
"Oh yes, do, Mrs. Baldwin," said Julia sweetly. "We were just talking about Mr. Calvert when you came in."
"I thought you were acting a play."
"Quite so," rejoined Mrs. Fane, still sweetly. "And Mr. Calvert is to act the lover. I was supposed to be the lover at rehearsal," she added playfully.
Laura did not contradict these enormous lies, as she would only have had an unpleasant quarter of an hour with Julia when the visitor left. "Who is the professor?" she asked, to change the conversation.
"Why, my dear, you know him. The dark gentleman who occupies the damp little house at the end of the meadow."
"Yes, I believe he did speak to me once. But we had little conversation. What did he tell you about Arnold--Mr. Calvert?"
"Never be ashamed of speaking his Christian name, my dear," advised Mrs. Baldwin. "Lovers will be lovers; eh, Mrs. Fane?"
"It would seem so," said Julia serenely. "I dislike demonstrative affection myself. But what did this professor say?"
"Professor Bocaros is his name," said Mrs. Baldwin, who would tell her story in her own slow way. "He told me that Mr. Calvert had come into a fortune."
"Into a fortune?" gasped Laura, turning even paler than she was.
"Of course, my dear, you know all about it," said Mrs. Baldwin playfully. "He told you that this poor woman who was killed here was his cousin."
Laura uttered an ejaculation and stared, but Julia interposed. "We did hear something about it," she said. "Has this woman left Mr. Calvert a fortune?"
"So Professor Bocaros says," replied the other woman. "Ten thousand a year. I suppose he'll spend some in finding how the poor soul came by her death in this very room," said Mrs. Baldwin, with a shudder.
"I suppose he will. Let us hope so," said Julia. "Laura, you are not looking well. Had you not better lie down?"
"Thank you," said Laura mechanically, and without a word left the room. But Julia, with a hasty apology to the astonished Mrs. Baldwin, followed, and outside the door caught her sister by the arm. "You wanted to find a motive for Arnold Calvert committing this crime," she said. "It was for the money."