"Good!" said Fanks, surveying this documentary evidence with much satisfaction. "We have more than hearsay to go on now. The case is shaping better than I expected."
"You were right about an appointment having been made," said Garth. "These slips and that star prove it."
"Yes! He who runs may read--now; but you were not so confident of my foresight a few minutes ago. Well, we have made a step forward. Here is the slip asking for the appointment; here is your cousin's reply, leaving the question of the appointment to the first advertiser: and finally here is the ingenious pictorial information indicating the Red Star in Tooley's Alley, as the meeting-place. Sir Gregory disguised himself in the workman's clothes bought from Weeks and Co., on the day that the first notice appeared; kept the appointment between six and seven; and so walked blindfolded into the trap of the Red Star, where he met with his fate. The assassin laid his plans uncommonly well; but she made one mistake."
"She! You don't mean to say that the murderer is a murderess?"
"No! The negro killed Sir Gregory; that is beyond all doubt. But as I said before, it is my opinion that the negro was inspired by a third party. Can't you see that the address on that envelope is in female handwriting?"
"Certainly I can. But that does not prove that a woman inspired the crime; you go too fast, Fanks."
"Perhaps I do, and, after all, I may be mistaken. But that address is in no feigned hand; it was written by a woman. If a woman had nothing to do with this death why should she bait the trap to lure the man to his doom. And again, the directions on the cardboard star are in an angular female hand. Both address and directions are in the handwriting of an elderly woman."
"Come now!" cried Garth, disbelievingly. "You can't tell the woman's age from her handwriting."
"I can tell that she is elderly. These angular, spiky letters were formed by a woman who learned to write in early Victorian days. Female handwriting has altered of late, my friend. The new woman goes in for masculine handwriting, as well as for masculine dress. If a girl of the present day had written this address, it would have been in a bold and manly hand. As it is, I bet you five pounds that it was scribbled by a woman over fifty."
"It may be so; but this is all deduction."
"Most of the evidence in criminal cases is circumstantial and deductive. Another thing makes me think that it is a woman. There is a great deal of useless mystery here. A man would not have troubled about that. He would have inserted a third advertisement appointing time and place; but this woman can't resist a touch of the mysterious. Therefore she devises this silly cardboard star; sends it through the post; and so betrays herself."
"How can she betray herself when there is no address?"
"There is no address; but there is a postmark. Look at the envelope."
Garth picked up the paper, and saw that the postmark was Taxton-on-Thames.
"Why!" he cried in astonishment, "that is where my cousin Louis lives."
"Yes, and it is where Dr. Binjoy lives, which is more to the purpose," said Fanks, dryly. "Did I not tell you that I was right to doubt that gentleman."
Garth looked again at the envelope. "You say that this handwriting is that of an elderly woman. I suppose you are thinking of Mrs. Boazoph?"
"Indeed I am not. I give Mrs. Boazoph more credit than to murder a man in her own hotel and advertise the fact so openly. She is not a fool. But patience, Garth, we are not yet at the end of our discoveries."
He again searched the drawers. In many of them there was nothing likely to attract his attention; but in the lowest drawer on the right hand side, Garth made a discovery. It was that of a pretty girl's photograph, and this he showed to Fanks with a laugh.
"Gregory always had a weakness for pretty faces," he remarked. "Do you not think that his taste was good?"
Fanks looked reflectively at the picture. It was that of a girl just budding into womanhood, with a delicate face, and rather sad eyes. The name of the artist was not printed at the foot, as is usual, nor was the address of the studio inscribed thereon. Nevertheless, on the back of the photograph the detective found writing which startled him.
"Garth!" he cried eagerly, "give me that envelope. Ah, I thought so."
"What is the matter?" asked Garth, astonished at the excitement of the usually calm Fanks.
"Look at the envelope; look at the back of the photograph; compare the handwritings."
Fanks placed them side by side on the desk. On the envelope was the address of Sir Gregory in Half-Moon Street; on the photograph, an inscription which ran as follows: "Emma. Born 1874; died 1893." The handwriting on both was one and the same. Garth drew a long breath.
"By George, that is strange," he said, after a pause, "the woman who wrote the one, wrote the other; there isn't a shadow of difference between the writings. You are right, Fanks, the penmanship is that of an elderly woman; no doubt the mother of the girl."
"That is my opinion also; but the girl, Garth? Who is she?"
The lawyer reflected and frowned. "I did hear that my cousin was entangled with some woman," he said with reluctance. "But that was many months ago. In fact, there was a rumour of a marriage. I asked Gregory if this was so, and received a prompt denial. But for all that," added Garth, looking at the portrait, "there might have been some truth in the rumours. I never saw this lady; but my cousin could be very secretive when he liked. Seventy-four to ninety-three; just nineteen. Poor creature! Whosoever she was, I am certain that he treated her badly."
"You may judge him too harshly."
Garth shook his head with a gloomy air. "I knew my cousin well," he said. "He would have killed any woman with unkindness."
They looked at one another, and back at the photograph. There was something sinister in the fact that the two articles were inscribed in the same handwriting. The writing on the photograph recorded the decease of a pretty woman; that on the envelope had lured the baronet to his death. Was it possible that the follies of Sir Gregory had come home to him in so fearful a fashion. The two men could not but incline to this opinion.
"Well!" said Fanks, after a long pause, "I should like to ask Robert what he knows about this woman."
"Very probably he knows nothing."
"I am not so certain about that," replied Fanks, "When you asked him about a woman--about a possible entanglement, he could hardly speak for fear; and he told a lie about it. He is a servile hound, that fellow, and I daresay he did all Fellenger's dirty work for him. We must have him in and force the truth from his unwilling lips."
"Will you go away after you have seen him?" said Garth, who was beginning to weary of the matter.
"No. I wish to wait and see--a girl."
"A girl! What girl?"
"A young lady who called this morning to see Robert. Maxwell told her the necessary lie that Robert was out, so she said she would call again this afternoon at three."
"It is past three now," said Garth, glancing at the clock.
"All the better; she may appear at any moment. Maxwell has my orders to show her in here."
"And then?"
"And then I shall find out why a lady should call upon that miserable dog of a valet. In the meantime touch the bell and have him in."
"Shall I question him?"
"If you please. I wish to remain incognito."
Robert answered the bell so promptly as to suggest the probability that he had been stationed at the keyhole. His face, however, was as vacant and miserable as ever, so even if he had overheard, Fanks did not think that he had sufficient brains to be dangerous. The valet waited mutely for orders, with a cowed look on his face, and rubbed one lean hand over the other. He was an uncomfortable creature in every respect.
"Robert," said Garth, in as mild a tone as was possible, "I was authorised by the police to look over my cousin's papers. I have done so with the assistance of Mr. Rixton, and we have made several discoveries."
"Yes, sir," said the man, moistening his dry lips.
"Do you know Taxton-on-Thames?"
"No, sir; I never heard of it."
Startled by this calm denial, Fanks bent forward to observe the man's face. He was satisfied by a glance that Robert had spoken the truth; he had never heard of Taxton-on-Thames. This discovery puzzled the detective.
"Did your master--your late master--know of it?" he interpolated.
"Not that I am aware of, sir; he never mentioned the name to me."
"Robert," said Garth, solemnly, "you denied some time ago that Sir Gregory was entangled with a woman. Think again and answer truly."
Robert shifted from one foot to the other and looked uneasily at his questioner. Then he made an evasive reply.
"Sir Gregory was connected with no woman at the time of his death," he said, doggedly.
"That may be; but was he connected with a woman in 1893?"
The valet started back with a gasp.
"How did you hear of that?" he asked, shaking in every limb.
"I heard it from no one; but I guessed it from this picture."
With a sudden movement he thrust the photograph under the eyes of the pale and trembling creature. After one glance Robert recoiled with an ejaculation of horror, and covered his face with his hands. Expecting revelations, Fanks waited and watched.
"Come!" said Garth, quietly, "I see that you recognise the woman. Her name, if you please?"
"I--I--promised never to speak of her."
"You must--for your own sake."
"I dare not. Let me go, Mr. Garth!"
He broke away from the lawyer, but before he could reach the door he was in the grip of Fanks. "Come, Robert," said the latter, soothingly, "you must make the best of a bad job. I know that you were devoted to your master. At the same time he is dead, and it is necessary that the mystery of his death should be cleared up. On the whole," added Fanks, looking into the eyes of the servant, "I think it advisable that you should confess."
"The woman you speak of had nothing to do with the death of my master."
"I am not asking you that. I am inquiring her name. Answer!"
The sudden imperiousness in the detective's tone made Robert's heart sink within him. He was incapable of a prolonged struggle, and forthwith answered with all submissiveness--
"I--I--don't know her real name."
"What did she call herself?"
"Emma Calvert."
"Ah! And what did you call her, Robert?"
The valet looked at Garth with a look of malicious triumph. "I called her Lady Fellenger," he said slowly.
Garth sprang up with a sudden exclamation, but he was stopped by Fanks, who rapidly questioned the valet. "Was Emma Calvert really and truly the wife of your master?"
"Yes, sir; they were married quietly in a Hampstead church. She was in a dressmaker's shop, and my master was very much in love with her. I heard that she was engaged to another gentleman, but she threw him over, and married Sir Gregory before they went to Paris."
"So rumour was right for once," said Garth, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, whether Gregory was married or single matters little to me. I am not the heir."
"It may matter a great deal to the case," remarked Fanks, dryly. "Perhaps, Robert, you can tell me where Emma Calvert came from?"
"I do not know; my master knew, but he never told me. Lady Fellenger did not speak of her past in my presence."
"And where is she now?"
"Dead; she died in Paris."
"I see that you are telling the truth. She died in 1893."
"How did she die?"
"I can't answer you," burst out Robert, in a frenzy. "You will drive me mad. Night and day I have her dead face before me. Look at me," he continued, holding out his trembling hands. "I am a wreck of what I was once. All through the death of Emma Calvert, of Lady Fellenger."
The two listeners arose to their feet. What dark mystery was connected with the death of this woman that could so move the man? In searching for one murder had they stumbled upon another?
"Did she meet her death; by foul play?" asked Garth, sternly.
"No! No! I swear it was not that; but she did not get on well with my master. He wearied of her, he neglected her; she was very proud and impulsive; and one night after a great scene--she--she----"
"Well, man--well?"
"She--she destroyed herself."
"Great heavens!" cried Garth, confirmed in his worst fears. "Suicide?"
"She drowned herself in the Seine," said Robert, in a low voice.
As he spoke a woman appeared on the threshold of the open door. Robert gave one look at her, and raised his hands with a cry. "The dead!" he moaned, retreating from the woman. "The dead returned to life. I saw her laid out. I saw her buried; yet she is there--there!" and with a cry he fell on the floor in a fit.
The others made no attempt to assist him. They were staring spellbound at the woman. She was the original of the photograph which Garth held in his hand.
The woman who had caused this commotion stood in the doorway, looking on in some surprise. She was dressed in the semi-masculine fashion now affected by the sex--a serge gown, short and smart in appearance, a natty jacket of the same material, worn over a black striped shirt, and a Tyrolean hat of brown felt. Her face was oval and waxen in its pallor, her eyes of a dark blue, and her hair black and luxuriant. A look of determination was impressed on lip and eye, but this gave place to an expression of surprise when she saw Robert fall on the floor. Finally, when her eyes met those of Fanks', she started and shrank back. Maxwell peered over her shoulder in gaping astonishment; and for quite half a minute there was a dramatic pause. It was broken by the woman, who stepped forward and addressed herself to Fanks.
"You see how the sight of me terrifies this wretch," she said, pointing to the man on the floor; "you shall hear from other lips than mine how he treated his master's wife. Wait, gentlemen, till I bring up my friend to confront this man."
And with these extraordinary words she pushed back Maxwell and disappeared.
Quite believing that she spoke in all good faith, Fanks made no sign that she should be stopped. Indeed, he was too dumbfounded by the strangeness of the situation to speak; and he looked helplessly at Garth.
That gentleman was, if possible, even more surprised than his friend. The sudden appearance of the presumably dead woman at once alarmed and astonished them both; and they knew not what to make of the matter.
"Do you believe that it is Emma Calvert?" asked Garth, who was the first to recover the use of his tongue.
"Emma Calvert, my friend?"
"Well, then, Lady Fellenger, if you prefer it."
"It doesn't matter what we call her," rejoined Fanks, with a shrug, "seeing that she is dead."
"But she is not dead."
Fanks again shrugged his shoulders, and pointed to the photograph. "The card says that Emma Calvert is dead," he remarked; "the valet says that Emma Calvert is dead. How then can this living woman be Emma Calvert, Lady Fellenger?"
"I can't explain," said Garth, obstinately, "but I am sure of one thing; that she is the original of this picture."
"It would appear so," said Fanks, looking puzzled; "and yet--upon my word, it is the most extraordinary thing I ever saw in life. Garth, for once you see me at my wit's end and thoroughly mystified."
"Wait, Fanks. Wait the explanation of this woman; hear the story of her friend. In the meantime, let us revive this wretched creature."
"He is in a kind of fit," said Fanks, kneeling down and loosening the collar of the insensible man. "Get some water, Garth, and you, Maxwell, go down and see if that woman and her friend are coming up. We may as well see this business out."
These directions were obeyed, and Garth soon returned with a glass of water, while Fanks--always provided against emergencies--produced a smelling bottle and a flask of brandy. While thus employed they were interrupted by Maxwell, with a look of alarm on his face.
"Well!" said Fanks, sharply. "Where is this woman and her friend?"
"I don't know about her friend, sir; but she's gone off."
Fanks sprang to his feet. "Gone off!" he repeated. "What do you mean?"
"What I say, sir," said the policeman, doggedly. "I went down and could not see her. I asked the constable at the door, and he said as she had drove off in a hansom."
A look of mingled surprise and distrust settled on the face of Fanks. In a moment he guessed without much difficulty that the woman had tricked him, and he felt small in his own estimation at having been so neatly baffled. It was the most humiliating moment of his life.
"Attend to this man with Mr. Garth," he said roughly, "I shall see for myself;" and, blaming himself for his simplicity, he caught up his hat and took himself out of the chambers.
At the street door he looked up and down, but ho could see no trace of the missing woman. A constable loitered on the pavement some distance away, and although he was a stranger to Fanks the detective accosted him without the least hesitation. This was less the time for considering than for acting. Every moment was precious; every moment lessened the chance of tracking and discovering the woman. Fanks, as a rule, was one of the most self-contained of men, rarely losing his self-control or cool temper, but at this moment he could have sworn freely at his want of caution which had let a possible witness in the case slip through his fingers. But he hoped that there was yet time to retrieve his fault. "Officer," he said, walking quickly up to the constable, "did you see a lady come out of yonder door?"
"Yes, sir. The policeman upstairs just asked me about her. She went away in a hansom five minutes ago. I see it drive off like mad."
"Were you near at hand?"
"Just at her elber, so to speak, sir."
"Did you hear what address she gave the cabman?"
"What do you want to know for, sir?" asked the policeman, in a gruff way.
"That is my business and not yours," retorted Fanks, unused to being thwarted by members of the force; "I am Fanks, the detective, and I am here on business. Quick, man, the address?"
As Maxwell had hinted that a detective was upstairs, the policeman at once believed this statement and saluted respectfully. "She didn't give no perticler address, but she jest said Piccadilly promiscus."
"What part of Piccadilly?" demanded Fanks, hailing a hansom.
"Jest Piccadilly, and no more, sir," repeated the officer.
"Do you know the number of the cab?"
"No, sir; there weren't no occasion of me to take it."
"Of course, of course," muttered Fanks, testily. "Can you describe the hansom? Was there any particular mark, by which I can recognise it?"
"Well, sir, I did note as it had a red, white, and blue suncloth over the roof, with a cabby as wore a white beaver, so to speak."
"That will do," cried Fanks, jumping into the vehicle which had driven up; "which way did the cab turn?"
"To the right, sir; down Piccadilly."
"Cabby," cried the detective, as the driver looked through the trap, "go down Piccadilly, and look for a hansom with a red, white, and blue suncloth. It's a sovereign if you catch it."
"That's Joe Berners' cab, that is," said Jehu, and drove off briskly, with his fare in a fever of excitement.
Fanks had enough to think about during that drive, the material being amply supplied by the woman who had so cleverly tricked him. What motive had brought this woman to Fellenger's chambers? For what reason had she taken her departure so suddenly? Was Emma Calvert dead? If so, who was the woman who bore so extraordinary a resemblance to her? If Emma Calvert were not dead, and this was she, why had she come to Half-Moon Street, and why had Robert fainted at the mere sight of her? All these questions presented themselves to the mind of the detective, and he found himself unable to answer any of them. If he discovered the mysterious woman there might be a chance of explanation; failing the woman, there remained the valet. But if the one was missing and the other was ignorant, Fanks knew not what he should do in so difficult a matter.
As it was the height of the season, Piccadilly was crowded with vehicles of all descriptions, and the rate of progress was slow. Far, very far, ahead Fanks thought that he could descry the noticeable suncloth described by the constable, but of this he was not quite sure; therefore he remained in his cab instead of alighting to make certain.
During a block caused by the congested state of the roadway it flashed into his mind that he had seen the woman's face before. He was doubtful if this was so, and yet he had an uneasy feeling that it was. The features of this unknown woman were familiar to him; but, as the Americans say, "he could not fix her nohow." It only remained for him to refresh his memory with a second glimpse; but at present he saw no chance of getting one. He despaired of finding the woman of whom he was in search.
The hansom showed no signs of moving on, and, finding that he could walk quicker than he could drive, Fanks paid his cabman, jumped out, and raced along the crowded pavement. He saw a number of people whom he knew, but paying no attention to these he rushed along, intent on getting to his goal. At length his exertions were rewarded, for by the Isthmian Club he saw the wished-for cab ahead. It was turning into Berkeley Square, and, as the throng was thinner in the side street, Fanks secured another hansom with a likely-looking horse, and followed in its wake. It struck him that he might as well find out where the woman lived; therefore he did not attempt to catch up, but directed his driver to keep persistently on the trail. It was his only chance of gaining his ends with so crafty an opponent.
Then commenced a long, long chase, which cost Fanks the best part of a sovereign. He followed to Oxford Street, thence emerged into Regent Street; passed through Piccadilly Circus, down to Trafalgar Square. After proceeding along the Strand, the cabs dropped down Arundel Street to the Embankment, went up through Northumberland Avenue, Cockspur Street, Waterloo Place, and again doubled the trail in Piccadilly. Fanks began to weary of this interminable chase; he wondered where this woman intended to stop. Still he held on in a dogged fashion, determined to weary out his adversary, whom he began to consider a foeman--or rather a foewoman--not unworthy of his steel. He therefore kept up the chase on the doubled trail, and, to his surprise, he found that the cab which he had so persistently followed turned up Half-Moon Street, and stopped before the chambers of Fellenger.
"Good Lord!" said Fanks to himself, "surely she has not been so great a fool as to come to earth again, where she knows she will find me."
He was perfectly right in making this remark, for when he jumped out and ran up to the first cab he found it--empty. Fanks swore, whereat Joe Berners grinned.
"And it do serve y' right," said Joe, who was a surly person; "I never did 'old as young gents should persecute innocents. G' on wi' y'."
Fanks recovered his temper on hearing this speech. It was most humiliating to have followed an empty cab for so many miles; but it was rather amusing to be accused of being a profligate when he was ardently bent on doing his duty. The detective laughed, although the joke was against himself.
"The question of persecution will bear argument, my friend," he said in a laughing tone. "In the meantime, perhaps you will tell me what you did with the young lady you picked up here?"
"Why!" said Mr. Berners, "she told me as you was after her for kisses an' such like; so she gives me a sov. to mislead you. She got out of my keb at the end of this street, she did; and told me to drive on an' on for an hour or so, while she got away. I done that," added Joe, with a grin, "an' you've bin follerin' a h'empty keb ever since I went up to Berkeley Square."
"You have acted according to your lights, my friend," said Fanks, when he realised how he had been tricked, "and I do not blame you. All the same I am not a profligate, but a detective."
"Lor!" said Joe, "has she done anything, sir?"
"What she has done is nothing to you. Can you tell me in which direction she went?"
"No, I can't, sir; and I don't bel've you, I don't," and so saying Joe Berners drove off in high dudgeon.
Fanks made no attempt to stop him; for he saw that the woman had defeated him, and the only thing left for him to do was to retire with the best possible grace. To this end he paid his cab, shrugged his shoulders, and went upstairs again. Since the woman had succeeded in escaping him, the solution of the problem lay entirely with Robert. Then a miracle. On the way up to the chambers the memory of that face flashed across the mind of Fanks.
"Ah!" he said, with a start, "I remember now. I saw that face in the crowd round the Red Star, on the night of the murder."
Before Fanks finally dismissed the matter of that futile chase he asked a question of his friend the constable. "Did you notice," said he, "if that young lady had a friend with her?"
"No, Mr. Fanks," said the other, promptly, "she was all alone."
"Humph! I thought so," meditated Fanks, as he ascended the stairs, "the accusing friend was a myth. Well, I guess there's a vacancy for a fool, and I'm elected. I've lost her once; but she won't escape me a second time. Taxton-on-Thames isn't London."
The links of the chain which brought forth this remark were as follows:--The postal mark on the envelope was Taxton-on-Thames; the handwriting thereon was the same as that on the back of the photograph--to all appearance that of the missing woman--therefore Fanks thought that he might gain some information about her in the village. The link of the writings connected her with the riverside town; and by following such a clue he hoped to arrive at some knowledge of her identity.
With this resolution, he entered the chambers and found Robert restored to sensibility, sitting on the sofa, with Garth and Maxwell in attendance. The latter looked up eagerly as the detective entered. But Fanks had no idea of letting an inferior into his methods of working, and he dismissed him forthwith.
"Maxwell, you can leave the room," he said sharply; and when the policeman had taken his departure he turned to Garth, and continued, "I lost her after all, my friend; she gave me the slip with singular dexterity. That going down to bring up a witness was all bosh; she told that story as a blind to get out of the room without suspicion."
"But who is she?" asked Garth, at this tale of failure.
Fanks smiled grimly, and looked at the valet. "No doubt Robert can tell us that, he said, significantly.
"I think she is Lady Fellenger--Emma Calvert," said Robert, faintly.
"That is all nonsense. You told us distinctly that Emma Calvert was dead; the inscription on the portrait affirms your statement. How then can this living woman be the lady in question?"
"It might have been her ghost."
"Rubbish! Ghosts don't appear in the daytime; and drive off in cabs; moreover there are no such things as ghosts. Your explanation is weak, Robert; try another story."
"It is the best that I can give, sir; if she isn't Emma Calvert; who is she?"
"That is what we wish to find out," said Garth. "You say that Lady Fellenger--whom you will persist in calling Emma Calvert--is dead?"
"I saw her lying at the Morgue, sir," declared Robert, passionately. "I saw her placed in her coffin; I saw her buried, and the earth heaped over her. She is dead; I swear that she is dead."
"Where is she buried?"
"In Pere la Chaise, in Paris."
Fanks began twisting his ring. "You say that she destroyed herself," he said; "had you anything to do with her death?"
The man broke down, and burst out weeping, exculpating himself between his sobs. "I had nothing to do with her death," he declared, "she was always a good mistress to me, but my master treated her shamefully. When he married her and first came to Paris they were quite happy. But Sir Gregory grew tired of her; he grew tired of everyone; and he began to neglect her for others. She was very proud, and she put up with it for a time. At last she got angry at him, and insisted that he should take her back to London and introduce her to his friends. This he refused to do, and he taunted her with having been in a shop. He called her Emma Calvert even before me."
"You are sure that she was his wife?" interrupted Fanks.
"I was present at the marriage myself, sir. It took place in a registry office. She was his wife and Lady Fellenger sure enough, but after some months he would not call her by that name. He knew that she was proud," added Robert, in a lower tone, "and I think he wished to drive her to her death."
"I always said that he was a bad lot," interposed Garth, in disgust.
"He was not a good man, sir, but he was a good master to me. But the end of it all was that one evening they had a terrible quarrel, and in a fit of rage she ran out of the house. I would have followed her, but my master would not let me go. When next I saw her, she was lying dead in the Morgue."
"You think that she flung herself into the river?"
"I am sure of it, sir. Her body was taken out of the Seine. My master seemed to feel her death terribly, but all the same I think he was relieved that his marriage was at an end. He got it put about in some way that the death was an accident, and the body was buried in Pere la Chaise. After that he made me promise not to tell anyone that he had been married, and we returned to England. That is all I know, except that she has come back to haunt me."
Fanks stood biting his fingers. The servant was evidently in earnest, and according to his story the ill-fated wife of the late Sir Gregory was dead and buried; yet, going by the likeness of the portrait to the woman who had vanished, she was alive. Fanks had been engaged in several very difficult cases, but they were all child's play compared to the intricacy of this problem. He was at his wits end, startled, mystified.
While the valet wept and Fanks thought, Garth broke the silence. "We are off the track," he said roughly; "we are seeking to solve the mystery of my cousin's death, not to trouble about that of his unhappy wife."
"It is all of a piece," replied Fanks, "the one death is connected with the other; how, I am unable to say at present. In the face of it, I can hardly bring myself to believe that Emma Calvert is dead."
"Robert swears that she is," said Garth, with a shrug.
"I do, I do, I swear it," wailed the man. "I saw her buried."
The tones of the wretched creature were so heart-rending that both his listeners believed that he spoke the truth. The detective placed the portrait, the pasteboard star, and the envelope containing the slips of print in his pocket, and beckoned to Garth. "We can do no more good here," he said in a low tone. "I must think out the matter by myself; let us go away."
"But Robert?"
"I shall stay here, sir," said the servant, rising; "Mr. Vaud said that I was to stay here until Sir Louis Fellenger came to town."
"Who is Mr. Vaud?" demanded Fanks.
"Oh, he is Fellenger's lawyer," explained Garth, quickly, "of the firm of Vaud and Vaud, of Lincoln's Inn Fields. I was wondering why my cousin had not come up to take possession of the property; but it appears that he is ill."
"Was he not at the funeral?"
"Yes, and, mighty bad he looked; he must have taken to his bed since. I suppose that not finding himself able to come he sent for Mr. Vaud."
"Yes, sir," said the valet, "and Mr. Vaud came here to find the police in possession; so he told me to stay here."
"Quite right," said Fanks. "I shall see Mr. Vaud myself."
Before leaving the chambers Fanks told Maxwell to keep a sharp lookout on Robert, of whom he had some suspicion. Then with Garth he went down slowly, talking and thinking. Garth had asked him what was to be done next, and he did not know what to say. Ultimately he declared that he would interview Vaud.
"Why?" asked Garth, after a pause.
"Because if I do not see him, he will see me. I must explain why I wish the police to continue in possession of the dead man's chambers; and also I want a letter of introduction to the new baronet."
"I can give you that; but I do not understand why you should wish to see him. He can do no good."
"I am not so sure of that," responded Fanks, dryly, "and in any case I must tell him what I am doing. As the heir he must be anxious to clear up the mystery of his cousin's death."
"I don't think he'll trouble much," replied Garth, doubtfully. "Gregory and Louis hated, one another like poison. They had not met for ten years."
"Why did they hate one another?"
"I don't know. Louis is a better man than Gregory. He was a scoundrel, as you have heard. An out-and-out scamp."
"And something worse than a scamp," said Fanks; "but about this introduction? Are you on good terms with your cousin Louis?"
"I don't like him," answered Garth, after a pause, "he is a scientific prig. All the same there is no ill-will between us."
"Very good. You can give me that introduction as soon as you like."
"I'll write it to-day; and if you wish to see Vaud the elder you'll find him at Lincoln's Inn Fields, a pleasant old gentleman of the out-of-date school."
"You emphasise the elder Vaud. Is there a son?"
"Yes, a fellow of thirty or thereabouts, He is the partner, but he has been ill of late, and has only returned from a tour of the world. But, I say Hersham, you know."
"I shall call on him to-morrow," said Fanks, "and question him about the tattooed cross."
"When shall I see you again?"
"Call to-morrow night at my Duke Street chambers. I may have some news for you."
"About Emma Calvert?"
"About Dr. Renshaw."
"Do you still connect him with the crime?"
"I connect him with Dr. Binjoy, and I connect Dr. Binjoy with his negro servant; and further I connect a black man wearing a green coat with brass buttons with the murder."
"Then you suspect that the servant of Dr. Binjoy killed Fellenger, and that Binjoy in the disguise of Renshaw was at the Red Star to assure himself that his instructions had been carried out."
"That is exactly what I don't mean."
"Then what are you driving at?"
"Ask me the same question in five weeks, and I'll tell you."
"Will it take you all that time to find out the truth?"
Fanks laughed at the implied sneer. "I am no miracle-monger, my dear sir," he said; "I am groping in the dark; and a mighty hard task it is. I do not know in which direction to move at the present moment. If only some thing would turn up likely to point out a path. Renshaw, Mrs. Boazoph, and Robert are all sign-posts, but which to go by, I really cannot say. Five weeks, Garth, and then perhaps failure."
All this time they were still standing at the door at the foot of the stairs. Now Fanks made a movement, but before he could step on to the pavement he was aware that Maxwell was coming down the stairs quickly. In another moment he was at the elbow of his superior officer, holding out a small packet wrapped up in brown paper. Fanks took it gingerly, and examined it with a thoughtful look on his face.
"Well, Maxwell," he said, "what is this?"
"I don't know, sir," said the breathless Maxwell. "I guessed that you mightn't be far away, so I took the liberty to come after you."
"To give me this packet?"
"Yes, sir. I found it a few minutes ago in the letter-box on the door.
"Ah!" said Garth, in a startled tone, "was it there last time you looked?"
"No, sir; not an hour ago. It ain't got no postmark or stamp."
"And it is addressed to Sir Gregory Fellenger," said Fanks; "I'll open it," and without further remark Fanks did so. Therein was a morocco case. When this was opened they saw lying on a bed of purple velvet a long and slender needle of silver. Garth would have picked it out, but Fanks stopped him with a shudder. "Don't touch it," he said; "there is death here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Fanks, "that I hold in my hand the poisoned needle with which your cousin was murdered."
Here, indeed, was food for reflection. That the instrument with which the crime had been committed should come into the detective's possession was extraordinary; but that it should have been left anonymously at the rooms of the murdered man was inconceivably audacious. Fanks at once returned to the chambers, and closely questioned Maxwell and Robert. It struck him that the latter might have had a hand in placing the mysterious parcel in the letter box.
"I examined the box an hour ago, sir," said Maxwell, "as you told me to look after all letters. There was nothing in it then. It must have been placed in it since."
"While we were in the sitting-room, no doubt," said Garth. "Do you know anything of this, Robert?"
"I, sir? Lord, no, sir; I never set eyes on it before."
"We left ten minutes ago," remarked Fanks. "What have you been doing since that time."
"I have been with Mr. Maxwell, sir."
"Was he with you all the time, Maxwell?"
"Yes, sir," replied the policeman in great alarm. "He came out into the kitchen, and we was together for a chat; then I thought it was near post time, and I goes to the box. I found that parcel, and as I knowed you couldn't be far off I ran down stairs."
This explanation was perfectly satisfactory, yet for the life of him, the detective could not help looking at Robert with suspicion. However, as he had not been out of Maxwell's company, he could not possibly have put the parcel in the box, therefore Fanks was reluctantly compelled to believe in his innocence.
"That will do," he said, at length, and drew Garth away. When they again descended the stairs, Garth began to ask him questions, but Fanks cut these short. "I must be alone to think it out," he said, in apologetic explanation. "Go away, Garth, and let me puzzle over the matter by myself."
The young lawyer was unwilling to do this as he was filled with genuine curiosity concerning the needle. However, he could suggest nothing, and he saw that his mere presence worried his friend. He therefore obeyed the request, and went off to meditate on his own account. As for Fanks, he repaired to his rooms, and with the needle before him he sat for considerably over an hour thinking what it all meant. The mystery was deeper than ever.
There was no doubt that someone had left the parcel in the letter box within the hour. According to Maxwell, it had not been there when he last looked in; according to Robert, he had not been out of the policeman's company since he left the sitting-room. Who, then, placed this damning evidence of the crime in the box? The assassin himself? But the assassin, as had been proved clearly, was a negro. A few questions to the constable stationed near the door had elicited the fact that no negro had gone up. In fact, the man had sworn that he had seen nobody ascend the stairs since the time Fanks returned from his unsuccessful pursuit. So scanty were the facts which he had to go on, that Fanks could not even build up a theory. He was completely in the dark, and he seemed likely to remain so.
The instrument was of silver, the length of a darning needle, and while the point was as sharp as a lancet, it broadened gradually till when it passed into a slim, ebony handle, it was--for a needle, quite bulky. In this broad part the poison was doubtless contained, and thence it oozed, drop by drop, to the deadly point. Fanks shuddered at the sight of the piece of devilish ingenuity. The infernal dexterity of the thing gave him an idea.
"Must have been manufactured by a scientific man," he mused, touching the slender, silver line gingerly. "It's too clever for an amateur. Louis, the new baronet, is a man of science; he has succeeded to the title. Can it be that--but, no!" he added, breaking off abruptly, "he would not commit a crime in so obvious a fashion, much less, leave the means he used at the address of his victim."
Nevertheless, the idea lured him so far afield, into so many speculations that, finding they led to nothing, he locked up the poisoned needle, put it out of his thoughts, and paid a visit to New Scotland Yard. Here he explained to the person in authority, that, while he had every hope of capturing the assassin of the late Sir Gregory Fellenger, yet he was bound to point out that the expenses of the case would be considerable. To this, the person in authority replied by placing before Fanks a letter from Messrs. Vaud and Vaud, of Lincoln's Inn Fields. It stated that they had been directed by Sir Louis Fellenger--who was at present confined to bed through ill-health--to assure the authorities that he wished every effort to be made to discover the murderer of his cousin; and that he would willingly bear the costs of the investigation. This communication concluded by requesting that the detective in charge of the case should call at the offices of the lawyers at his earliest convenience.
"Very meritorious of Sir Louis to save the Government expense," said the person in authority. "Use what money you require, Mr. Fanks, but be reasonable--be reasonable."
"I shall be as reasonable as I possibly can be, sir," replied Fanks; "but in my opinion, the case will be both long and expensive. It is the most complicated matter that I ever took in hand."
"The more difficulty, the more glory," said the person in authority. "Go on with the case, Mr. Fanks; act as you please, make use of all our resources. I have every confidence in you, Mr. Fanks; if anyone can lay his hand on the assassin of Sir Gregory Fellenger, you are the man. I wish you good day, Mr. Fanks."
Dismissed in this gracious manner, Fanks left the room with the intention of obeying forthwith the injunction of Vaud and Vaud. Before he could depart he was intercepted by Crate.
"A communication from Dr. Renshaw," said Crate, with an air of great importance. "He called here this afternoon with the intention of seeing you. In your absence, he saw me; and stated that he was leaving for India to-night by the P. and O. steamer 'Oceana.' Before leaving, he wished to see and speak with you."
"Before leaving, he has to see and speak with me," retorted Fanks, coolly. "I would have him arrested on suspicion if he attempted to leave London without according me an interview."
"You have no evidence on which you can arrest him, Mr. Fanks."
"I have more evidence than you are aware of, Crate. If Dr. Renshaw could have defied me he would have done so; but he dare not. Where is he now?"
"He is still at Great Auk Street, where he has been watched ever since the night of the murder."
"When does the 'Oceana' leave the Docks?"
"To-night at ten o'clock. Dr. Renshaw goes down from Fenchurch Street by the eight train."
"It is now a quarter past five. Good! I shall call at Great Auk Street; in the meantime, I have to keep another appointment."
"Have you found out anything since I saw you last, Mr. Fanks?"
"I have found out that there is a woman in the case," said Fanks. "And that reminds me, Crate. You must go to Paris by to-night's mail. Are you busy with anything else?"
"No, Mr. Fanks. I shall be ready to start when you please. What am I to do in Paris?"
Fanks sat down at Crate's table and wrote a name and a date. "Get me a certificate of the death and burial of Emma Calvert, who died in Paris last year; she committed suicide, which was passed off as an accident, and was buried in Pere la Chaise. I do not know the month of the death, but you can do without that. Wire me all particulars. You can get the French police to help you. Ask in the office here for necessary credentials and authorisation. Don't spare expense, I have full power to draw all moneys I want."
After delivering these necessary instructions, Fanks drove off to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and presented his card at the office of Vaud and Vaud. He was at once shown up to the room of the senior partner, and found him as Garth said, a dignified gentleman of the old school. He was red-faced and white-haired; emphasised his remarks by waving a "pince-nez," and spoke with some of the magnificence of Dr. Renshaw.
"This is a most lamentable business, Mr. Fanks," he said, when the detective was seated. "I usually go home before five o'clock, but in the interests of our client, Sir Louis Fellenger, I remained, on the chance of seeing you. I am glad to see you."
"I came as soon as I was able, Mr. Vaud; but you only sent for me to-day. I wonder you did not wish to see me before."
"There was no necessity, my dear sir. We only heard from Sir Louis yesterday that he was prepared to bear all expenses connected with the investigation of the case."
"Sir Louis is ill, I believe, Mr. Vaud?"
"Sir Louis is never well, sir," said the lawyer impressively. "He is a delicate man, and he is given over to the arduous science of experimental chemistry. The earnestness with which he prosecutes his researches keeps him in a constant state of anxiety; and his health suffers accordingly. He is now at Mere Hall, attended by Dr. Binjoy."
"Is Dr. Binjoy with Sir Louis at Mere Hall at this present moment?"
"Certainly. Dr. Binjoy never leaves the side of Sir Louis. He has the greatest influence over him. Though I must say," added Vaud, "that even the influence of the doctor could not prevent his patient rising from his sick-bed to attend the funeral of the late baronet."
"He must have been fond of his cousin," said Fanks, pointedly.
"On the contrary, the cousins had not seen one another for ten years and more," said Mr. Vaud, solemnly. "I do not wish to speak evil of the dead, but the late Sir Gregory was certainly a butterfly of fashion, while the present Sir Louis is a man of science. They never got on well together, and therefore kept out of each other's way."
"And very sensible, too," said Fanks, dryly. "Do you happen to know if Dr. Binjoy has been in London lately?"
"I happen to know on the best authority--that of Sir Louis--that Binjoy has not been in London for the last six weeks. Sir Louis has been ill for that period; the doctor has not left his bedside."
Fanks made a mental note of this answer, and turned the conversation in the direction of the crime. "You know that Fellenger died from poison?"
"From blood-poisoning," corrected Vaud. "So I saw in the papers. A most remarkable case, my dear sir. What took our late client to that locality, and why did he submit himself to the tattooing needle?"
"I can't say. Are you aware of any motive which might have induced the dead man to have a cross tattooed?"
"No, sir. As a matter of fact," continued Mr. Vaud, "the late Sir Gregory and myself were not on the best of terms. He was extravagant, and he resented my well-meant advice. I saw as little of him as of Sir Louis."
"Then you are not intimate with Sir Louis?"
"I cannot say that I am. Sir Louis has led a secluded life at Taxton-on-Thames. I have only seen him once or twice."
"And Dr. Binjoy?"
"I have never seen him at all?"
"Was Sir Louis rich?"
"On the contrary, he was very poor. Five hundred a year only."
"Well, Mr. Vaud," said Fanks, rising. "I have to thank Sir Louis for his offer to bear the expenses of this case; and I shall do my best to bring the criminal to justice."
"Have you any clue, Mr. Fanks?"
"I have a variety of clues, but they all seem to lead to nothing."
"Do you think that you will be successful?"
"I can't say--yet. I hope so."
"I hope so, too, but I am doubtful; very doubtful. Well, good evening, Mr. Fanks. Do you want any money?"
"Not at present. I shall write to you when I do."
"That's all right. I trust you will succeed, Mr. Fanks. But in my opinion you are wasting time and money. The crime is a mystery, and for all that I can see, it will remain a mystery."