“Dear Sir,—In reply to your inquiry, there is no reason at all why I should not tell you. All identification marks on the revolver have been carefully filed out, and we are quite unable to trace it.—Yours respectfully,S. Parkyns.”
“Dear Sir,—In reply to your inquiry, there is no reason at all why I should not tell you. All identification marks on the revolver have been carefully filed out, and we are quite unable to trace it.—Yours respectfully,S. Parkyns.”
Another clue had failed.
When Baxter was again brought up at Bow Street, Tempest was compelled to admit he could at present offer no explanation of the presence of the revolver in the prisoner’s rooms. Not only had he failed in this direction, but evidence was now given by the bankers of Sir John Rellingham, that since the death of Sir John a bill for £2000 had been presented for paymentpurporting to bear his signature as acceptor. They had never previously known Sir John to accept a bill, and his current credit balance was always so large that it seemed strange he should have done so on this occasion. They had also grave doubt as to the signature. The bill had been presented by a well-known firm of money-lenders, whose endorsement appeared on the back. A member of the firm in question, when called to give evidence, deposed that three months previously they had had dealings with the prisoner, who, professing to be acting for a client, had taken up before maturity a bill bearing the signature of a well-known peer. They had had doubts as to the genuineness of that particular signature, but had discounted it on the strength of the name with which it was endorsed.
Tempest left his seat and went over to the dock.
“Baxter, is this true?” he asked in a low tone.
“Perfectly true. I did deal with them, but I was acting for Lord Deverell, and I did it at his request.”
“Then the papers in the office will explain that?”
“I’m afraid not. He came and called on us, and I saw him. The bill was only £500, and he brought the money in gold. He seemed very upset and anxious about it, so I went off there and then to Isaacson’s—got the bill, and Lord Deverell waited in my room whilst I was away. Consequently there was no note of any kind made about the case. He asked me not to, in fact, and he burnt the bill in my room as soon as he got it back.”
“But you’ll charge him for doing it, won’t you? It will be in your ledger or somewhere?”
“No. You see, we do all his estate business—that’shundreds a year. So as he seemed very anxious there should be no record made of the case I let it slide. I told Marston and Moorhouse, and they quite agreed.”
“Well, we shall have to get Lord Deverell to give evidence for you.”
“He died three weeks ago.”
Tempest returned to his seat to cross-examine the money-lender.
“How did you get that bill?”
“We discounted it in the ordinary course of business.”
“For whom did you discount it?”
“It was brought to us with this letter,” and the witness produced a letter for inspection. It was handed to the magistrate, who passed it on to Tempest for inspection. To his amazement he saw that it was written on the notepaper of the firm of Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse—obviously in a disguised handwriting.
The note merely stated that the firm were requested by one of their clients to ask Messrs. Isaacson to discount the bill enclosed on the best terms they could, and hand the proceeds to the bearer.
“Who was the bearer?” asked counsel. The witness was unable to say. He had assumed it was one of the firm’s clerks. He had not taken any particular notice of the man.
“How did you get the other bill—the one bearing Sir John Rellingham’s signature?”
“That reached us in the same way, brought by a messenger with a note.”
“Have you got that note?”
The witness produced it. It was similar to the other, but merely asked Messrs. Isaacson to oblige the firm by discounting it, saying that on behalf of a client the firm had to find the money in the course of a few hours, to meet a heavy payment, and theirclient required time to realise money to meet his liability.
“Was it the same messenger who brought it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see the man myself.”
“Would your clerks know?”
“I hardly suppose so. They would simply receive a note, and bring it in to me in each case. There would be nothing in either instance which would give them any special reason to connect a given messenger with any particular transaction. They would know nothing of the transaction or from whom the messenger came.”
“Would there be no entry they would make in your books? Wouldn’t they be aware of the transaction in that way?”
“I always keep my own books.”
“How did you pay these bills?”
“In bank notes.”
“Did you keep the numbers?”
“Yes;” and the witness handed them in.
“Have the notes been traced?” asked the magistrate.
“Yes, sir. I’m going to call evidence,” replied the prosecuting solicitor.
A bank clerk next proved the opening of an account by a Mr. Everard Clarke, who had given references. They had communicated with the references given, and had received satisfactory replies. All the notes had been paid in by Mr. Clarke. In each case the bulk of the money had been withdrawn in gold shortly afterwards, but not all in one sum. The account was now practically closed. Their own charges would more than absorb the small remaining balance. They had since tried to trace Mr. Clarke, but the address he had given had proved fictitious, and the same with his references—these, it was now found, having been written from accommodation addresses.
“Could he recognise Mr. Clarke?”
“He was afraid not. He believed the gentleman only came to the bank once—when he opened the account.”
“Was it the prisoner?”
“I really couldn’t say. I don’t recognise him.”
The barrister sat down in despair, and the prisoner was again remanded. The two men had an interview in the cells immediately afterwards.
“Tempest,” immediately began the solicitor, “those letters are absolute forgeries. There isn’t one of us would have dreamed of doing such a thing. If Lord Deverell had wanted £500 he could have had that much, or £5000, for the mere asking, and we should have paid it out of our current account. We are constantly financing our clients, and we keep a big floating balance for the purpose. Besides, we should never have sent any client toIsaacson’s, and as for sending for £2000 for ourselves, it is ridiculous. Fancy a firm of our standing touching such a crowd or that kind of business!”
“How could they get your notepaper?”
“Easily enough. They could get a heading engraved like ours for a few shillings, if they could find a man they’d trust to do it.”
“Baxter, what did Sir John go to your rooms about the day before he was murdered?”
“Who told you that?”
“Bailey did.”
“Oh, it was simple enough,” the solicitor answered, speaking very slowly. “He—he just came in for a smoke and a chat.”
“Baxter, that’s a lie, and you know it. What was it that he refused to do?”
The other man flushed a dusky crimson. “I’d asked him,” he stammered, “to help me to float a little syndicate I was interestedin. He said solicitors ought not to gamble, and so he declined to have anything to do with it.”
From his half-closed eyes Tempest watched the other as he had invented the story. He felt certain the tale was perfectly untrue, and that the solicitor was hiding something. What was that something?
Thinking it all out quietly afterwards, Tempest came to the conclusion that, whether Baxter were innocent or guilty, probably the interview with Sir John had no relation to his murder. Presuming that it had, the motive for the crime was the desire to profit financially by Sir John’s death. The only financial matter that could possibly be on the tapis, and be in issue between Baxter and Sir John, involved the supposition that Baxter had forged Sir John’s signature and that Sir John had found this out. Because the Deverellbill had been taken up and settled, that matter was closed. But the two had parted on quite friendly terms, an impossible supposition if the one had discovered that the other had forged his name. There might be—as there probably were—many private matters which Sir John and his partner could have been discussing which had no relation to the crime. But supposing Baxter’s story were true as regards his interview with Lord Deverell, then there was fraud regarding the inception of the matter in the forgery of the letter on the strength of which the bill had been discounted.
Assuming that fraud, how had Lord Deverell ever got to know of the existence of the bill? Isaacson’s had admitted they did not communicate with him. And why had he wished to take up the bill? His desire to do so was an admission of the signature. Yet why, if that were so, hadLord Deverell troubled to forge a letter from his own solicitors? His own name was on the bill, so there could be no question of an attempt to cover up his identity of his participation in the matter. His interest in it being admitted, it would have been simple enough for him to get it discounted by his own bank, or even by Isaacson’s, who would have jumped at the chance of temporarily obliging a person of his financial stability, even supposing it to be necessary for him to draw a bill at all. There were all these improbabilities in the way of accepting Baxter’s own story. On the other hand, the prosecution alleged that Baxter had himself forged the bill, and written the letter bearing his firm’s name, and then had himself taken the bill up to prevent its presentation. Against that supposition there was only the character of Arthur Baxter. And if Baxter would forge one bill he would forge another. Hewould know the signatures of both Lord Deverell and Sir John.
But then—and the thought flashed across Tempest’s brain—so would any of the clerks in the office. They could get at the key of the office. It was by no means unlikely that one of them might have had access to Baxter’s rooms. Picking up the telephone, he at once rang up the Exchange and asked to be put on the number which he knew was that of the solicitor’s flat.
“That you Bailey?—I’m Mr. Tempest. Have any of the clerks from the firm’s offices ever been down to Mr. Baxter’s in his absence?—Just ask your wife then.—Yes?—Which of them—Smith, do you say?—When did he come?—Can she fix the day?—What excuse did he give?—Was he allowed to go in?—Oh no, I don’t blame her—of course she knew who Smith was.—Tell her not to say anything.”
Tempest put down the receiver, and satat his table, puzzled and worried to distraction. Should he have Smith arrested? To all intents and purposes, the evidence against Baxter and Smith was practically the same. If the revolver was found in the suit-case of the former, the latter had had an opportunity of putting it there, and, to all intents and purposes, was the only person who, as far as he could see, had had such an opportunity.
But he felt certain that no jury would convict Smith, and release Baxter, on the evidence as it stood. Smith had had a perfect alibi at the inquest. He had been at home all the evening. Both his father and his brother had given evidence of it, and other evidence was offered, as a party had been taking place at their house that night. Still, they had Smith’s admission that, save Sir John, he was the last to leave, and he might have shot Sir John before he left. If Smith were guilty, he would haveto be convicted out of his own mouth, and Tempest believed this would be easier to do, when cross-examining him as a witness, than if he were a prisoner. One can go to greater lengths with a witness than one can in cross-examining a prisoner. Decency compels a prisoner to be given fair play, and a judge would take good care he had it. Picking up a pen, Tempest wrote a note to the inspector:
“Dear Parkyns,—I take it you will have to call Smith (Sir John Rellingham’s confidential clerk) as a witness when Mr. Baxter is tried. I very particularly wish to cross-examine him. I don’t want to arouse his suspicions by doing it before the magistrate, and I don’t want you to put him on his guard by any obvious attentions. But I wish you would pass the word along that care must be taken that he doesn’t slip through our fingers. I shouldn’t be surprisedat this, if he thought it likely he would be asked certain questions which I intend to put to him. Could you also make an opportunity of taking that bank clerk to the firm’s offices, and let him see Smith, on the chance of his recognising him as Everard Clarke? If you’ll ask for Mr. Marston, I’ll arrange with him that Smith shall be called in on some excuse whilst you are there.—Yours faithfully,Ashley Tempest.”
“Dear Parkyns,—I take it you will have to call Smith (Sir John Rellingham’s confidential clerk) as a witness when Mr. Baxter is tried. I very particularly wish to cross-examine him. I don’t want to arouse his suspicions by doing it before the magistrate, and I don’t want you to put him on his guard by any obvious attentions. But I wish you would pass the word along that care must be taken that he doesn’t slip through our fingers. I shouldn’t be surprisedat this, if he thought it likely he would be asked certain questions which I intend to put to him. Could you also make an opportunity of taking that bank clerk to the firm’s offices, and let him see Smith, on the chance of his recognising him as Everard Clarke? If you’ll ask for Mr. Marston, I’ll arrange with him that Smith shall be called in on some excuse whilst you are there.—Yours faithfully,Ashley Tempest.”
A few days later came the reply:
“Dear Sir,—I did as you requested, but Jenks (the bank clerk) evidently didnotrecognise Smith. I also took Isaacson’s clerk there the next day. He was certain he had never seen Smith before. I will have Smith watched, as you suggest.—Yours respectfully,S. Parkyns.“P. S.—At Bow Street to-morrow weare calling evidence as to the state of Mr. Baxter’s banking account. He had only a very small balance—far less than one would expect—but he had a balance. I cannot find, however, that he was in debt, and I hear he spends a lot of money in buying pictures, etc.”
“Dear Sir,—I did as you requested, but Jenks (the bank clerk) evidently didnotrecognise Smith. I also took Isaacson’s clerk there the next day. He was certain he had never seen Smith before. I will have Smith watched, as you suggest.—Yours respectfully,S. Parkyns.
“P. S.—At Bow Street to-morrow weare calling evidence as to the state of Mr. Baxter’s banking account. He had only a very small balance—far less than one would expect—but he had a balance. I cannot find, however, that he was in debt, and I hear he spends a lot of money in buying pictures, etc.”
“Yardley,” said Parkyns the following day, when the prisoner had been again remanded, “do you think Mr. Tempest knows young Deverell—the young brother of the new Lord?”
“Why?”
“Because there’s one line I’m puzzled to think why your lot don’t try to follow up.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I don’t know that it’s any particular business of mine to help you with the defence, but it seems so obvious to me. Young Deverell’s a rank bad lot. Oh, Iknow he hasn’t lost caste, or anything of that kind,” added the inspector, as Yardley attempted to interrupt; “but all the same he’s a bad lot. We’ve had a good many inquiries about him at the Yard over one thing and another, and I know he is hard up. It may not mean anything, and nothing has ever been brought home to him, but he has been mixed up in several fishy transactions that never came into court. You see, Deverell would know who his father’s solicitors were. I know myself he has borrowed money from Isaacson’s. Suppose he forged his father’s name to that bill; and then suppose he got frightened and told his father? The old man, at any rate if it were the first time, might very well try to hush it up according to the evidence Isaacson gave, and there’s no doubt whatever that young Deverell left England between that time and his father’s death. He wasn’t mentioned in Lord Deverell’swill, at least not in the newspaper note of it. I haven’t bothered to see the will itself.”
“But that doesn’t account for the Rellingham bill, Parkyns?”
“No, I quite admit that; and, of course, Mr. Tempest may know a lot of other details that upset what I’ve told you. But just ask him if he knew young Deverell.”
Yardley passed on his conversation with Parkyns to Tempest at the earliest opportunity.
“No,” the barrister at once said. “I know nothing about Deverell. What you tell me is most important;” and once again Tempest’s wits were started in a new direction. That such a person as young Deverell existed he did know, but of his character he was entirely ignorant. The man belonged to a younger generation, and the two had never happened to meet.
The hint of Parkyns opened up a newposition. Deverell might have forged the one bill. Whoever did had had access to or had copied the firm’s notepaper. Having successfully discounted one bill it was quite likely a second attempt might be made; and Sir John Rellingham, likely enough, would write personal letters to Lord Deverell, from which his writing and signature could be copied. But Tempest could not think out that supposition any further: nor could he fit it in any way with the discovery of the revolver in Baxter’s suit-case. Involuntarily his suspicions harked back to Smith, and the barrister turned his mind to the possibility of breaking up the alibi which Smith put forward. The alibi given at the coroner’s inquest had certainly never been subjected to cross-examination. Such was the point at which matters stood when an entirely new development occurred. Marston came round to Tempest’s chambers, and, their greetingover, placed a gold watch and chain on the table. “Tempest, this was Sir John’s,” he said.
“Well, how can they help?” said the barrister, picking them up.
“Open the back. I only saw that the back opened yesterday. It’s a keyless watch; and though I bought it at the sale of Sir John’s things I never thought of opening it till yesterday.” Tempest opened the watch, and almost jumped from his seat in his astonishment.
“Look there!” he almost shouted, as he pointed to the miniature hanging on the wall, and then held out, for the other man to compare with it, the portrait inside the case. The two faces were identical.
“Who is it, Tempest?”
“That miniature is Dolores Alvarez, who died twenty years ago, and it’s the living image of Evangeline Stableford, who was murdered the other day.”
“Then, which of the two did Sir John know? Whose portrait was he carrying?”
“You can soon settle that. If it be the younger woman, then this miniature of Sir John’s must have been painted within the last three or four years. Otherwise it could not be a full-grown woman, but would be a picture of a young girl. If the miniature was fitted in by the firm who made the watch, then it’s the portrait of Dolores. I’ve been confident all along—at any rate of late—that the mystery of Sir John’s death and the mystery of Evangeline Stableford’s death was one and the same mystery. This likeness between the three can’t be pure coincidence. Marston, Yardley will tell you that weeks ago I came to the conclusion that Evangeline was Sir John’s daughter, and this portrait in Sir John’s watch is probably that of Evangeline’s mother.”
‘Look there!’ he almost shouted, as he pointed to the miniature“‘Look there!’ he almost shouted, as he pointed to the miniature”
“‘Look there!’ he almost shouted, as he pointed to the miniature”
“‘Look there!’ he almost shouted, as he pointed to the miniature”
“Then do you think that Evangeline was the daughter of Dolores Alvarez?”
The barrister lighted a cigarette, and dropped into his habit of pacing up and down his room. At last Marston broke the silence by repeating the question.
“Marston, everything points to that—if there is anything in deductive reasoning when applied to the solution of this kind of problem—it would seem that that is the certain fact. Over and over again I come back to it. Argue it out, reason it out by any chain of reasoning, by any sequence of argument you like to adopt, you must come back, as I always do, to that conclusion. It seems as certain to me as the mathematical answer to a problem in algebra. There is no other conclusion. It’s the logical solution of every argument, but it’s wrong somewhere, for it doesn’t happen to be right.”
“Why not? Why’s it wrong?”
“Simply because Dolores never had a child. The doctors who made the post-mortem are positive about that. It’s a matter that can’t admit of any doubt. It’s a fact that cannot be questioned. Dolores never had a child. So our reasoning is at fault, though I can’t see where.”
“Had she a sister?”
“Only Lady Madeley. Yardley has made inquiries that settle that.”
“Then could Evangeline have been a child of Lady Madeley—unacknowledged, of course?”
“No, that can’t be true either.”
“Why not?”
“Evangeline is left at Lady Stableford’s House on a certain date—within ten days of the date of the marriage of Lord and Lady Madeley. The child that was left was less than ten days old. That much the doctors can swear to. I’ve seen the case book of the man Lady Stableford called in. Thechild must have been born within a margin of two days on either side of the date of the wedding. Lord Madeley dined with his fiancée at the Langham Hotel the night before the wedding. Obviously a woman could not have been dining out within twenty-four hours of having had a child. The day before that she came to town from Cornwall. After the wedding they went to Paris. The child could not have been born on the wedding day. The day after they dined at the Embassy in Paris. The next day they went on further south. No, Lady Madeley could not have given birth to a child at that time.
“Besides, Marston, the hundred years in the secret trust was to run from 18th August, 1881. That was the date of the wedding day, and that was stated to be the date of the birth of the child originally offered to Lady Stableford, and in all probability that was the child she didadopt. The secret trust was for the benefit of Evangeline, of that I am certain. By the way, I suppose your firm aren’t Lady Stableford’s solicitors by any chance?”
“As it happens we are—or at any rate were. We still have a lot of her papers. She was one of Sir John’s old original clients. Sir John acted for her when she was negotiating for the adoption of that child which you say is Evangeline.”
“Did you make her will?”
“Sir John did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“How was I to know there was any connection?”
“What’s the date of Sir John’s will?”
“September, 1900.”
“When did Lady Stableford make her will?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you off-hand. I’ll send you word.”
“No, I’ll come round now.”
Together the two men went to the offices of Messrs. Rellingham, Baxter, Marston & Moorhouse, and Marston turned up the letter-books. “Here you are, Tempest. Lady Stableford must have written, because here, you see, Sir John writes, suggesting Lady Stableford should reconsider her suggestion, and pointing out that going on the stage is not necessarily an abandonment of all morality. Then here’s the next letter in which he sends the will for execution, and again refers to the injustice of leaving the girl penniless, after having brought her up to regard herself as heir. That’s the end of July, 1900.”
“And then Sir John, evidently knowing that Evangeline was cut off with a shilling, I suppose by Lady Stableford, a month or more later creates this secret trust. The thing is self-evident.”
“That may be so, Tempest; but some six months before Sir John died, Lady Stablefordand Evangeline were reconciled, and the old lady made another will, by which the girl would have got nearly everything. I remember that will, for I drafted it. Now, Sir John never altered his will or cancelled the secret trust which then became unnecessary, if your theory were right.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. He very likely thought it quite probable Lady Stableford might possibly change her mind again.”
“Well, granted it’s all as you say—granted Evangeline was Sir John’s daughter, what’s it all come to?”
“Nothing as yet, Marston; but who was the girl’s mother? Who was or is Lady Rellingham?”
“Did he marry the mother?”
“Quite likely. Let’s look it up. It must be before August, 1881. Come along down to Somerset House.”
Together the two men made the search, and found that early in 1880 John Rellingham, solicitor, had married Sarah Jane Manuel, daughter of Pedro Manuel of Dublin, hairdresser. His second marriage to Georgiana Drury, as they knew, had not taken place until 1890.
“That’s put the stopper on any Alvarez business, Tempest, at any rate.”
“It looks like it certainly.”
Tempest paid for another search ticket, and turned up the marriage of Lord Madeley. Lady Madeley had been married in the name of Eulalie Alvarez.
“I think we must put Yardley on to an investigation of Pedro Manuel and his family. That is obviously the thing to do.” “What earthly chance is there of his finding out anything?”
“Precious little, I’m afraid,” said the barrister. “But there’s one thing we might do, Marston. Bring that trust into courtagain, and paragraph it as an approaching case, and see if we can tempt the lady to turn up again.”
“I wonder if she would?”
“She might do; for, of course, she can’t have the slightest suspicion that we have guessed she has some connection with the case.”
“How will you bring it on, Tempest? There isn’t much time.”
“Give notice of a motion for Friday next, and put up somebody, and I’ll have enough of a wrangle with him in court to get it into the papers, and then we’ll ask his lordship to adjourn it for a week, on the chance of a mutual settlement. It must be well reported, and I daresay that can be arranged. Very likely the lady will turn up on the following Friday.”
“But can you get the trial of Baxter postponed till afterwards?”
“Yes. I’ll put up some sort of defence,and address the magistrate at great length, and then get another remand. That will throw us over the coming sessions of the Central Criminal Court. There aren’t any sessions in August, so we will have over five weeks. We ought to know where we stand then.”
In due course affidavits were lodged; and Tempest moved on behalf of Marston, for an appointment of a receiver of the trust funds pending the decision of the court on an issue shortly to be raised as to a division of the trust funds between the surviving partners of the late Sir John Rellingham. Other counsel had been briefed for Baxter and for Moorhouse, and for three-quarters of an hour the three men wrangled before the judge. Hints of sensational disclosures, veiled comment, and flat contradiction, all did their work.
“Mr. Tempest,” said the judge, “I’m very much in the dark. Cannot you indicatein some way the nature of this trust? I’m not suggesting you should disclose anything obviously intended to be kept secret; but why was the trust created? Was it to benefit a person or persons, or was it to carry out a purpose? Obviously, under the terms of the will, and by the decree of this court, the money now belongs to the surviving partners of the firm. Why not divide it? Does a purpose still exist to which the partners desire to apply it?”
“Strange as it may appear, my lord, I can only ask your lordship to accept my word that the partners have not and have never had the remotest idea of what object was in the mind of Sir John Rellingham when he created the trust.”
“Surely that cannot be so. The will says, ‘to be applied by them to and for the purposes which I have sufficiently indicated to them.’ You see Sir John says he has indicated. It’s the past tense.”
“Quite so, my lord. The instructions were in a sealed packet. This packet was not to be opened until certain eventualities occurred; and there were certain stringent instructions left with it that the moment litigation began the packet was to be destroyed. Your lordship will remember the Crown did begin litigation, and consequently the papers were destroyed. It seems to me, my lord, that Sir John’s first idea, overriding everything else, was to preserve the secrecy he enjoined upon the trustees he appointed; and rather than that that secrecy should be waived, he preferred that the object of the trust should suffer and his partners benefit. His partners have loyally adhered to his wishes, and the money is theirs. They claim it, and they repudiate any claim to it by anybody else; but, nevertheless, they feel that the past action of the Crown could not have been anticipated by Sir John, and they aredisinclined at present to dissipate what were originally trust funds. There has been no quarrel, but at the same time they differ amongst themselves as to the course which should now be pursued. May I put it that they are in a friendly state of doubt and uncertainty?”
The discussion went on; and finally, at the end of an hour, Tempest threw out a suggestion that perhaps, if his lordship would adjourn the case for a week, it might be possible to agree to terms which could then be submitted for the approval of the court. The judge at once consented; and in view of the newspaper interest which had previously been excited on the subject of this secret trust, all of the evening papers and most of the morning ones the next day reported the proceedings with some detail.
Nothing remained to do but to wait patiently for the week which must ensuebefore they could know whether or not the bait had been effective.
On the following Friday morning Tempest was early in his seat in Chancery Court No. 3. The benches were always packed on a motion day, and Tempest had no desire to take part in the jostling scrimmage for seats, which was usual on such occasions.
A belated K. C. struggled through the crowd in the doorway, his gown half torn from his back in the crush. Seeing Tempest, he turned and said:
“Look here, old man, why can’t you keep your beastly sensational cases out of our way here? Just look at this menagerie of a place instead of the usual staid and sober appearance of a chancery court? It’s demoralising!”
Tempest laughed. “For pity’s sake, don’t blame me. I didn’t bring ’em.”
“No, but your case has.”
“Well, they’ll be awfully disappointed. It’s all arranged between us now.”
“Silence!” called out the usher, and their conversation ended, as everybody rose, and returned the bow of Mr. Justice Barker.
“Mr. So-and-So,” and the judge called on the leader in his court. Tempest turned in his seat and eagerly scanned the faces of those present in court and in the gallery. At last, right at the back of the court, he caught sight of the person for whom he was looking. Dressed in black, and heavily veiled, he saw the same woman who had excited his curiosity on a previous occasion. He looked at Yardley wedged in the crowd near the doorway, and caught the detective’s half-veiled nod which showed that he had also found his quarry. Next to Yardley was standing Craven, his assistant, a perfect sleuthhound of a tracker; and before Tempest’s gaze haddropped again to his papers, he had seen Craven leave the court, to reappear in a moment at the other door, within a yard or two of the woman they wanted.
One by one the King’s Council present in court were called upon; and then, after one or two of the junior bar—habitués of that particular court—had each been given his opportunity by name, came the concluding, “Any more motions behind the bar?” and Tempest rose, and in a few words said that the parties concerned had agreed to ask his lordship to appoint them jointly to be receivers, pending the trial of the issue. The judge promptly assented to the proposal, and then at once the court began to empty of the public, baulked of the anticipated revelation; but Tempest lingered, curious to see what might happen. A tedious dispute as to a right-of-way injunction followed, but the lady sat on, apparently keenly interested. Concluding itto be a ruse to mask any apparent concern with the matter just concluded, and knowing she would be safe in the care of Yardley and Craven, Tempest signed to his clerk to collect his papers, and took his way to the King’s Bench side, where another case awaited him. Marston followed him into the passage.
“Well, it unearthed the lady,” said the barrister.
“Yes, and I saw Yardley was there.”
“So was Craven, his chief assistant. By the way, what instructions did you give him, Marston?”
“He is to find out who she is and where she lives. I wish she had raised her veil in court. I’d have liked to have seen her.”
“So should I; but I never for a moment expected that. She’ll be much too downy a bird. How old would you guess her to be, Marston?”
“Forty to fifty.”
“Yes, that’s what I put her down to be; but one really cannot tell under that veil of hers. It’s only guessing from her figure and manner. She might really be anything from thirty to seventy.”
Late that evening Yardley came round to Tempest’s chambers.
“Well, who is she, Yardley?” was the latter’s greeting.
“She’s staying at the Hotel Victoria, in the name of Mrs. Seymour. I’ve left Craven there, and he’s subsidised one of the chambermaids as well, so I don’t think she’ll slip through our fingers.”
“Where does she come from?”
“I don’t know for certain yet. She’s registered as from Paris. I’ve arranged that one of my young women shall go to the hotel as a chambermaid to-morrow, on the chance of an opportunity of going through the lady’s belongings.”
Three days later Yardley again came round to see Tempest, but only to report an ignominious failure. It was evident that Mrs. Seymour had become aware that she was being watched and had made her plans accordingly.
Asking for a hansom to be called one morning, she had ostentatiously given instructions to the hall porter that she was expecting a visitor at noon, and, if she herself had not returned, the visitor was to be asked to wait. She then gave the cabby directions to go to Paquin’s showrooms in Doder Street, and had driven away. Craven had been inclined to follow; but feeling certain Mrs. Seymour would return, he decided that more was to be gained by overhauling her boxes, and he at once sought his confederate, who was figuring in the hotel as a chambermaid. Together they had thoroughly and systematically searched Mrs. Seymour’s room. Not ascrap of writing did they find—not the faintest clue of any sort from which they could start to establish the identity of Mrs. Seymour. Finally, they had relinquished the search in disgust, and Craven had set himself to await the lady’s return. She never did return; and when Craven reported, Yardley saw at once that the whole thing had been a ruse. The cabby, when found and questioned, told them that when they reached Trafalgar Square, his fare had told him to drive to Euston. He had done so, and the lady had entered the station. The most diligent inquiry failed to produce any person who had seen and recognised or had noticed the lady at the station. None of the booking-clerks recognised her from the description which was given. Her luggage, which remained at the hotel unclaimed, contained nothing of any sufficient value for it to be in the least likely it would ever be claimed, if Yardleywere correct in his surmise that Mrs. Seymour had by some means become aware that she herself was under surveillance, and had deliberately elected to withdraw herself from observation.
The court for Crown cases reserved having decided—much to the disgust of the police—that the privilege of a solicitor prevented the execution of the search warrant and the overhauling of the papers of the firm, the trial of Arthur Baxter could no longer be delayed, and took its place in the judge’s list at the ensuing sessions of the Central Criminal Court. At the first reference by the prosecution to the secret trust, Tempest successfully objected. As he pointed out, Baxter had only been advantaged by the action of the Crown, which had, with full knowledge of the consequence, itself precipitated the circumstances, which vested the money in the hands of the surviving partners. That resultBaxter could neither have produced nor anticipated; but for the moment assuming he could have produced it, then the three partners were equally concerned, and must be equally guilty; but the Crown had only indicated one, though, on an indictment of the three for conspiracy, a conviction would have been more easy to procure. Finally, he said that if his lordship admitted any reference to the secret trust on the ground of motive, then he should at once call the other surviving partners to prove that no one of the three had ever even suggested the division of the trust money, even after the court had formally declared it to be the absolute property of the partners; but that they had voluntarily reconstituted the trust, or rather had themselves constituted a trust for purposes which they declined to divulge, but which advantaged themselves personally no more than had the original will. In the end the judgeupheld the objection. The trial was thus narrowed down to the fact that the partners possessed keys, and could have obtained access; that Baxter had been overheard to have had a difference with Sir John, when the latter had called at his chambers the night preceding the murder; and, what was most damning, that a revolver, with its marks of identification erased, together with bullets similar to the one which had caused the death of Sir John Rellingham, had been found at Mr. Baxter’s chambers secreted in a seldom used suit-case.
The case at best was a weak one; and doubtless relying upon the fact that Arthur Baxter would go into the witness-box and might convict himself under cross-examination, the ruling out of the question of the secret trust seriously handicapped the prosecution. Tempest had frankly told Baxter he didn’t believe the explanation of the quarrel which the solicitor had vouchsafedhim, but Baxter declined to give any other. For that reason the barrister was surprised that only one or two formal questions relating to the quarrel were put to Bailey, the factotum of Arthur Baxter, and one of the witnesses called for the prosecution. Consequently Tempest asked Baxter no questions on the point when he put him in the witness-box. But the matter was raised and pressed in his cross-examination. Question after question he cleverly fenced with; but at last, driven into a corner, he gave a full explanation: “I have tried to keep faith with Sir John,” he said; “but you won’t let me. The point was simply this: Sir John called at my chambers, and asked me if I would marry his daughter. Neither I nor my partners at that time had the smallest idea that Sir John had ever been married except to his late wife, whom we all knew, or had ever had a daughter; and when I was talking to him, I didn’tknow whether his daughter were illegitimate or legitimate. He showed me her portrait. She was a very beautiful girl; but all I felt inclined to promise was that I was quite willing to meet her, with the idea of marriage, if we mutually liked each other, and providing all knowledge was kept from her until after marriage that she had been the subject of discussion and arrangement between us. I wanted to win the affection of the girl on my own merits, or else I would be no party to such a marriage.”
“But, Mr. Baxter,” had been counsel’s reply, “you say Sir John was asking a favour of you, or requesting you to fall in with a proposal of his? How do you account for the fact that it was Sir John who said, ‘No, Arthur; don’t say any more. It’s quite final. I will not’? You admit, I suppose, that he did say that?”
“Oh, yes, he said it.”
“Well, then, how do you reconcile that with your story?”
“I asked him if he would acknowledge the girl openly as his daughter. He wouldn’t. I tried to persuade him, and then he answered in the words you put to me.”
Then came a searching cross-examination about the two bills. Baxter explained the second one by saying he was acting for the late Lord Deverell. The other bill, which had reached the money-lenders who had discounted it, with a request written in the name of the firm, Baxter absolutely repudiated any knowledge of. He likewise disclaimed the slightest knowledge of the revolver or the bullets, and emphatically denied having himself hidden them in the suit-case.
Tempest then called clerks in the office of the firm to prove that the letter to the money-lenders was not in the handwritingof Mr. Baxter or of any of the firm’s clerks, and then played his trump card. Calling an expert, he proved that the revolver was of faulty construction, and that it had never been fired, and that it would have been quite impossible for the bullet which killed Sir John Rellingham to have been fired from it.
“What would happen if the attempt had been made?”
“It would have burst.”
“Why?”
“Because the barrel of the revolver is imperfectly bored, and at one point the bullet could not have passed through.”
The revolver, a bullet, and a ramrod were then passed to the jury, to satisfy themselves on the point.
With this disclosure the case for the prosecution practically collapsed; and though it pursued its formal course, to its completion, there remained no further doubt thatthe verdict would be one of acquittal, as eventually it proved to be. Arthur Baxter left the court a free man, honourably acquitted.
When the partners and Tempest were discussing the trial that evening over the dinner which Marston gave to celebrate the result of the trial, Tempest turned to Baxter and asked:
“Why on earth wouldn’t you tell me before what that discussion was that you had with Sir John?”
“Simply because he said the disclosure would be the disclosure of a secret, not of his own, but of somebody else whom he couldn’t give away.”
“Ah! Then I guessed right?”
“What do you mean?”
And then Tempest explained how he had argued himself into the conclusion that the secret trust had been constituted to provide for Sir John’s daughter, and arrangedin its curious form that the secret of a third party might be safeguarded.
“Why didn’t you tell me all that, Tempest?”
“I told Marston, but I didn’t see at the time how it affected you. Did Sir John tell you who his daughter was, or what the name was that she was known by?”
“No, he wouldn’t tell me even that, unless I would promise blindly to marry her. As I said in court, I only promised conditionally, and Sir John said that he must refuse to tell me her name.”
“Marston, show him Sir John’s watch.”
The solicitor took the watch from his chain and passed it across the table to his partner.
“That’s the girl whose portrait he showed me, though the face is in a different position.”
“No, Baxter, it isn’t the same girl. The portrait in the watch is an exact duplicateof a miniature I have hanging in my chambers. Twenty years ago I had a watching brief at the inquest of Dolores Alvarez, an actress——”
“I remember the case. Verdict of suicide, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, that was it. It was my first cause célèbre. I saw the dead woman, and was very much struck by her beauty. I collected all the photographs I could purchase of her, and I had a miniature painted from them. It was not exactly like any of the photographs, and I was puzzled how Sir John could have got hold of what was undoubtedly a copy of my miniature till I made inquiries. Then I found that the firm—a big firm of photographers, whom I had commissioned—had been so struck by the miniature that they had ordered a copy of it from the artist, and they had exhibited this copy as a specimen. Sir John had seen it and bought it. Consequently,Baxter, the portrait in Sir John’s watch was to him a fancy portrait, which I assume he must have bought on account of its likeness to his wife—oh, yes, he was married twice. We got the certificate of his first marriage all right—for a man would hardly carry about inside his watch a definite portrait of a person in whom he had no interest. Besides, Baxter, I can probably tell you who Sir John’s daughter was. She was Evangeline Stableford—the actress—the adopted daughter of old Lady Stableford. She was the living image of Dolores Alvarez, and she was murdered a few months ago—since the death of Sir John, in fact. The curious thing is, that every detail and every circumstance of her death exactly reproduces the death of Dolores Alvarez twenty years ago.”
“Were the two women related, Tempest?”
“The likeness is so remarkable that Ithink they must have been; but, as a matter of actual fact, I cannot prove it. Evangeline was certainly not the daughter of Dolores. The only relative I have unearthed of Dolores is Lady Madeley; and from the date of Lady Madeley’s wedding and the date of Evangeline’s birth, she could not have been the child of Lady Madeley. Besides, Sir John didn’t marry a Miss Alvarez. The maiden name of Lady Rellingham, for I daresay she is still alive, or Sir John wouldn’t have guarded her secret so closely, was Sarah Jane Manuel.”
“But Alvarez may have been only a theatrical name?”
“That’s quite possible—likely even; only, Lady Madeley is married in the name of Alvarez. There’s such a widespread idea, particularly in the lower classes, that a marriage in a false name is invalid, that I hardly think it probable that Lady Madeley would have risked the validity of hermarriage by going through the ceremony in any other than her real name. She may have done so, of course; but the probabilities are vastly to the contrary. Frankly, Baxter, the idea of relationship rests exclusively upon the likeness.”
“Yes, that must be so; besides, assume Dolores and Evangeline were related. What’s the nearest possible relationship? You say they can’t be mother and daughter. The next nearest relationship is aunt and niece, on the supposition that Lady Rellingham is an undiscovered sister of Lady Madeley and Dolores Alvarez. You must take into account that it is not an identity of parentage. Evangeline is only a daughter of a supposed sister and Sir John. You must make allowance for her descent from Sir John as well.”
“No, I don’t think you need do that. Given a parent of a pronounced type—what one would call an aggressive type—thattype will be reproduced and the type of the other parent submerged altogether. Probably Evangeline exactly reproduced her mother. She had nothing of Sir John in her appearance. Here I’ll show you what I mean. Waiter!”
The obsequious servant hurried forward.
“Send out and buy me a copy of this week’sSketch, will you?” and Tempest handed a coin to the man.
Shortly afterwards the latter reappeared with the paper for which the barrister had asked. He rapidly turned the pages. “Now this,” he said, “is what I mean. Here is a portrait of the young Lady Madeley—Consuelo, Baroness Madeley in her own right, the daughter of Eulalie Alvarez.”
Folding the paper he indicated the portrait to which he referred. “You see,” he added, “that’s awfully like Dolores. There’s the same type again, submergingany likelihood of a likeness to the other parent, for old Lord Madeley was fair and fat and podgy—blue eyes, as a matter of fact. Sir John was fair, and his features were very indefinite. Evangeline’s mother and Lady Madeley, even if there were no relationship, were of the same physiological type, and that an aggressive one, and you see the type reproduces itself. I’m almost beginning to think it must be merely type and domination of type, and that alone, with no question of consanguinity. Besides, when all’s said and done, it’s a foreign type.”
“But what does that matter?”
“What I mean is this: Just as all niggers look alike to an Englishman, and just as we find it hard to distinguish one Chinaman from another, so a strange type to us overrides in our observations the little differences by which in our own type we distinguish one another and recognise eachother. Therefore, may not this type—Spanish, I suppose it must be, from the name Alvarez—override, in our observation (from the fact that it is foreign and unusual), the little niceties of difference by which those who belonged to the type would themselves differentiate?”
“Then, do you mean that these people may not really be so alike as we think they are?”
“That’s precisely what I do mean. Here we have apparently Eulalie Lady Madeley, and Dolores Alvarez, and Consuelo Lady Madeley, whom we know to be related, all very much alike. We have Lady Rellingham and another girl, Evangeline Stableford, and yet another, Sir John’s daughter, if they are not one and the same, though I am sure they are. We are trying to presume an Alvarez relationship for Evangeline, solely on account of her remarkable likeness and the presumedlikeness of Lady Rellingham. There is not one other single solitary reason from which relationship can be presumed; and after all, to a person familiar with the type, the likeness might not be so pronounced as to us it appears to be. To a Spaniard, for instance, it might not be sufficient to even suggest relationship. You’ve always got to bear that in mind. So long as the identity of Evangeline was a mystery, we had to clutch at any straw that might prove who she was, and perhaps I attached too great an importance to the likeness. It is nothing like so important now we are practically certain Evangeline was Sir John’s daughter and that we know who her mother was. Besides, Lady Rellingham’s name was Manuel. That name is Spanish or Portuguese, and very likely Jewish as well, which accounts for the occurrence of the type, and, as I said, the likeness may be no more than identity of type.”
“Tempest,” said Marston, “I’m beginning to understand your wonderful success with juries. We argued this likeness point once before, when you were putting forward a very different theory. I thoroughly accepted what you said then, but you have convinced me just as thoroughly of your new proposition.”
The barrister laughed. “I’ll tell you the secret of that. There are weak points in both propositions, because there is in each an unknown quantity, and one argues on the ‘may’ and the ‘might’ and the ‘probable.’ One can always persuade a reasonable man that a thing ‘may’ be so, if the proposition you offer is plausible and not self-negatived. But when you lay down a proposition as not only possible but unquestionably correct, and one goes on to the words ‘is’ and ‘must be’ and ‘therefore,’ one needs to prove things. However, what are we going to do to-night?What do you say, Baxter? How about the Palace?”
Baxter shivered. “Don’t let me stop you others, if you want to go; but I don’t feel up to it. God! It’s only a few hours since the noose was around my neck, and I haven’t got over the horror of it yet.”
The others looked at him with sympathy. They had been ready enough to forget what was over and done with.
“But I told you yesterday, Baxter, that I would get you off. Didn’t you believe I could?”
“It wasn’t you I doubted, Tempest; it was the jury. One does get such damned fools sometimes as jurymen, and there’s an awful lot of prejudice against us. That newspaper campaign was carried to ghastly lengths. Tempest, have you got any nearer in your own way to solving the mystery of either Sir John’s death or Evangeline’s death?”
“No, not an inch nearer; except that I’m pretty certain Evangeline was Sir John’s daughter. At present it’s arguing with several unknown quantities. Still, one has got a bit of a foundation now. Sir John has been proved to have married a certain Sarah Jane Manuel.”
“Then Sarah Jane Manuel was Evangeline’s mother, Q. E. D.? Go along, Tempest!”
“How do you know, Marston? I don’t feel by any means certain on the point. Look here, then, why didn’t Sir John acknowledge his wife and daughter? He told you, Baxter, that he couldn’t because that would involve the disclosure of somebody else’s secret. If she were his daughter by his wedded wife, what secret could there be about her birth? I can assure you that it looks very much as if Evangeline were his illegitimate daughter. Only, if she were, what earthly object could anyonehave in murdering her? Sir John had left her nothing in his will. She was not his heir. She stood in no one’s way.”
“Why didn’t Sir John provide for her, Tempest? He was a just, honourable man, with plenty of money. He leaves the whole of his money practically to us—the three of us; and none of us had any claim on him. As a matter of fact, it was the contrary. We were all indebted to Sir John.”
“But you’ve forgotten the probability is that Sir John did provide for her by means of the secret trust. Evangeline was expected to be the heir of Lady Stableford. Here, of course, it won’t go any further. You fellows have got the old lady’s will at your office. Now, did she provide for the girl?”
“Yes. Sir John drew her will, so he knew what she had done.”
“Quite so; and if she did provide, SirJohn was under no necessity to disclose the other person’s secret, which he was guarding, by providing for the girl in his own will. But Evangeline had quarrelled once with Lady Stableford, and had been cut out of the will once before. There was always the risk of another quarrel and the same thing happening again. That was the risk for which the secret trust provides—of that I’m positive now. Yes, I think we can take that as certain;” and the barrister, lighting another of his eternal cigarettes, tilted his chair back and lapsed into silence as he thought.
The other men kept silent. Tempest was so obviously puzzling the thing out further. At last Marston broke the silence. “Granted all that, Tempest. But what on earth was the good to Evangeline of creating that trust at all, if we, the trustees, don’t know when we are to call it into operation for her benefit?”
“Don’t you forget your instructions. You were to wait till something happened from outside, to put you all in motion. You must assume Sir John had laid his plans for this something to be made to happen, if necessary. As he would then be dead, the making of the happening rested with some third person, probably Evangeline herself. Have you fellows forgotten the basis of a cryptogram? The key is divided into two parts, and those two parts must come together in unison before the key is apparent. You three have one part of the cryptogram in your hands contained in your instructions. It was probable Evangeline had the other part. She was probably to write to you, if through a change of Lady Stableford’s will she needed the money. She is dead. She will never claim the money, and you three can spend it now with a light heart. Still, here’s another thing. If Evangeline knew all, and could call thattrust into operation merely by writing to you, what was to prevent her doing so, whether she needed the money or not? If Sir John left things in that state, the secret was at the mercy of Evangeline, and I don’t think it was her secret. She may not have known what the secret was, nor indeed that there was one at all, but nevertheless its disclosure rested with her. There was probably a third part to the cryptogram in the hands of someone else.”
“Who would that be likely to be?”
“Probably the person whose secret it was?”
“But if that were so, what would the inducement be to her to ever disclose her secret?”
“One or other of two things. Either she is to participate in the trust, or else Sir John depended on the affection of a mother to efface herself for her child in case of dire necessity. Remember, it’s only a disclosureto you three, and that’s not a very serious risk. Few people need mind that.”
“Then, why didn’t Sir John disclose it to us?”
“Firstly, his loyalty regarding the secret of another person; secondly, the risk run by putting it on paper, when very likely, in all probability, he would outlive Lady Stableford, and himself know whether or not Evangeline had been provided for; because, if in his lifetime he knew Lady Stableford had left her money to Evangeline, the trust was quite unnecessary, and Sir John would at once have destroyed his present will and made another. Now, assuming all that to be true, who stood to benefit by Evangeline’s death?”
“We three did.”
“Quite so. Consequently it was jolly lucky for Baxter the terms of the trust are not public.”
“God! Tempest. What a risk I ran!”
“You did at first, old man. But there was somebody else who would benefit. If Evangeline were illegitimate, the person whose secret was at stake might desire her death. If Evangeline were legitimate, her heir would benefit. In either case it is the mother. Now, didn’t I tell you once before—argued from a totally different standpoint—that Evangeline’s mother had murdered her?”
“But it’s such a horrible thought, Tempest, that a mother would murder her own child!”
“I know it is; but horrible or not, Marston, it’s a thing done every day. Scarcely a session at the Old Bailey goes by that some poor wretched girl or other isn’t taking her trial for it. We generally get them let off as Not Guilty, or else only guilty of concealment of birth, and then they are usually discharged. But it’s generally murder all the same. We all know it—thepolice know it—and the judge knows it; but there is a kind of unwritten code that in cases of infanticide the girl is to get off, if the facts can in any way be sufficiently twisted.”
“But Evangeline wasn’t an infant.”
“No; but you were objecting only on the score of maternal feeling. With an infant, the maternal feeling is often overcome; and as Evangeline’s mother got rid of her as an infant, the maternal feeling can’t have been any greater. It never had any opportunity of growing.”
“Then you think, Tempest, that if we find Evangeline’s mother, that we shall have got to the solution of the girl’s murder?”
“You’ll have got the guilty person; but assuming you do get hold of her, I don’t see how you will ever convict her or get a full solution, except by means of a confession.”
“Tempest, how about the murder of Sir John? That is what we are most concerned about.”
“Yes, I know; and it puzzles me far more than the other one. Outside you three, what earthly object could anyone have had in murdering him? Any client with a grievance has got to murder all the lot of you, either to wreak a revenge for a business grievance to alter the course of any events.”
“But, Tempest, we haven’t got such a client. We scarcely ever litigate in the ordinary sense. Chancery motions, by mutual arrangement to get orders of the court, and that kind of thing, don’t beget clients or opponents with a grievance. Our business is conveyancing and trust work and family settlements. In the whole history of the firm, we’ve never quarrelled with a client over his or her account.”
“Then you are arguing yourselves a bitcloser. I’m certain of this much. Sir John had an appointment at the office that evening with someone over a matter which was not the business of the firm. If Smith’s tale be true, Smith was practically made to clear out. Therefore, Sir John himself answers the door and admits somebody. That somebody shoots him, and lets himself or herself out afterwards, taking the revolver with him. As far as I can see, that is all you are justified as taking to be provable by deduction, and you must start guessing. Now, what was the only thing we are any of us aware of that Sir John was keeping secret?”
“His secret trust.”
“Well, put it rather the secret of this other person to safeguard, which Sir John created, the secret trust?”
“What next?”
“Who were the people who knew the secret?”
“Sir John.”
“Yes, and also the person it concerned, and perhaps Evangeline Stableford, too, though I rather doubt if she knew the whole or indeed very much of it. Now, as I’ve told you, I believe it to be Evangeline’s mother whose secret is being safeguarded.”
“Then do you say it was Evangeline’s mother who murdered Sir John?”
“Oh, wait a bit! What was to prevent Sir John having arranged a meeting between the two of them there in his presence, to make arrangements about calling the trust into operation, if it were ever necessary? Let’s assume he did. Assume they met there, which of them would be the more likely to shoot him?”
“The daughter,” said Marston.
“Why do you think that?”
“She murdered him and then committed suicide.”
Tempest shook his head. “No, I think you are wrong. The mother shot Sir John in the presence of her daughter; then she murders the daughter as well, to cover up the disclosure.Voila tout.There you have a complete explanation—a logical explanation, and a sufficient one for both murders.”
“Tempest, I believe you’ve hit it.”
“I may have done; but it’s all pure guesswork. It won’t hang her.”
“How did she put the revolver in my suit-case?”
“God knows, old man! That I fancy will always be a mystery. When was the revolver put there?”
“I wish I knew.”
“If the woman had thought, as she probably did, she would know that you, with a man servant, would never pack for yourself. She couldn’t know which bag you used, nor could she know when you woulduse any particular one. If she put that revolver there any long time afterwards, she must have guessed that the veriest fool would know that Bailey might have packed and unpacked in the interval, and could swear to the absence of the revolver on the days he packed and unpacked for you. No, she probably put it there soon after the murder—probably when Bailey’s wife was away. That was soon after the murder was committed. It’s quite likely you were watched.”
“But why should she pitch upon me?”
“Because the first person suspected of an unexplained murder is a person who would stand to profit by the death. Don’t forget she knew the broad outlines of the secret trust—probably was the only person to know them—and knew you three would benefit greatly. Any one of you three would satisfy her purpose. She simply followed the line of least resistance.”
“But you are making her out, and assuming her to be, as clever as yourself in thinking things out. It’s a wrong presumption, Tempest. I think I’d pass for a man of average intelligence any day, but I should never have thought of half the things you’ve laid down.”
“No! no! Baxter. You may be a wee bit surprised at my thinking them out—you may, even as you say, have failed to do it yourself, but the surprise to you rests on the arrival at the conclusion from apparently unknown premises. You must remember there was nothing unknown to her, whilst we are groping in the dark. She was in the full light of a complete knowledge of all the facts. I wish I knew whether the woman were Sir John’s wife, or the mother of Evangeline, or a third person altogether. She may be both wife and mother. What I advise you to do now is to search again for the birth of Evangeline under thenames of Manuel and Rellingham. Search in England, Scotland, and Ireland, and France and Belgium and Holland. There’s hardly time enough for her to have been born further afield.”
“Is that all we can do?”
“Well, one step at a time isn’t a bad plan. But as it happens there is something else you can do. Look here! Assume that I am right, and that the interview with one or both of the women took place in reference to the trust. It’s a big assumption of course; but take it for granted for the moment. Why did Sir John provoke or permit that interview? Lady Stableford had altered her will, cutting out Evangeline nearly two years before; yet Sir John took no steps. His will was certainly in existence some time before his death; but, as I explained to you, one, if not two, other people had to be let into their share of the cryptogram. If they knewbefore, we can hardly presume the meeting to have a reference to this point. On the other hand, why have the meeting at all, when Evangeline would come of age so soon after? The moment she came of age Sir John could have given her the money without any other explanation than that he was her father. He needn’t even have told her that much. Any tale would have done, and he had plenty of money to provide for her in cash, and might just as well have done so, instead of putting the money in the trust. Why didn’t he wait a few months longer? He had already waited twenty years. He wasn’t an old man—only fifty-five. Why should he have anticipated his own death?”
“Goodness only knows! But go on. I can see you’ve got some idea. Out with it.”
“Who was Sir John’s doctor?”
“Old Allingham of Harley Street.”
“I don’t know the gentleman; but go to him, and ask him whether, at any time shortly before his death, Sir John consulted him? I expect you will find Allingham told him his heart was affected. If he did, then you have the reason why Sir John precipitated the matter. And mind you, if you do find that to be true, it’s pretty good confirmation that all the rest of the supposition I put to you will hold water.”