The Seven Secrets

Scarcely had I safely pocketed the little object I had picked up from where the murderer must have stood when the inspector went out upon the landing and called to the constable in the hall:

“Four-sixty-two, lock that door and come up here a moment.”

“Yes, sir,” answered a gruff voice from below, and in a few moments the constable entered, closing the door after him.

“How many times have you passed this house on your beat to-night, four-sixty-two?” inquired the inspector.

“About eight, sir. My beat’s along the Richmond Road, from the Lion Gate down to the museum, and then around the back streets.”

“Saw nothing?”

“I saw a man come out of this house hurriedly, soon after I came on duty. I was standing on the opposite side, under the wall of the Gardens. The lady what’s downstairs let him out and told him to fetch the doctor quickly.”

“Ah! Short, the servant,” I observed.

“Where is he?” asked the inspector, while the detective with the ready note-book scribbled down the name.

“He came to fetch me, and Miss Mivart has now sent him to fetch her sister. He was the first to make the discovery.”

“Oh, was he?” exclaimed the detective-sergeant, with some suspicion. “It’s rather a pity that he’s been sent out again. He might be able to tell us something.”

“He’ll be back in an hour, I should think.”

“Yes, but every hour is of consequence in a matter of this sort,” remarked the sergeant. “Look here, Davidson,” he added, turning to one of the plain-clothes men, “just go round to the station and send a wire to the Yard, asking for extra assistance. Give them a brief outline of the case. They’ll probably send down Franks or Moreland. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a good deal more in this mystery than meets the eye.”

The man addressed obeyed promptly, and left.

“What do you know of the servants here?” asked the inspector of the constable.

“Not much, sir. Six-forty-eight walks out with the cook, I’ve heard. She’s a respectable woman. Her father’s a lighterman at Kew Bridge. I know ’em all here by sight, of course. But there’s nothing against them, to my knowledge, and I’ve been a constable in this sub-division for eighteen years.”

“The man – what’s his name? – Short. Do you know him?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve often seen him in the ‘Star and Garter’ at Kew Bridge.”

“Drinks?”

“Not much, sir. He was fined over at Brentford six months ago for letting a dog go unmuzzled. His greatest friend is one of the gardeners at the Palace – a man named Burford, a most respectable fellow.”

“Then there’s no suspicion of anyone as yet?” remarked the inspector, with an air of dissatisfaction. In criminal mysteries the police often bungle from the outset, and to me it appeared as though, having no clue, they were bent on manufacturing one.

I felt in my vest pocket and touched the little object with a feeling of secret satisfaction. How I longed to be alone for five minutes in order to investigate it!

The inspector, having dismissed the constable and sent him back to his post to unlock the door for the detective to pass out, next turned his attention to the servants and the remainder of the house. With that object we all descended to the dining-room.

Ethelwynn met us at the foot of the stairs, still wearing the shawl about her head and shoulders. She placed a trembling hand upon my arm as I passed, asking in a low anxious voice:

“Have you found anything, Ralph? Tell me.”

“No, nothing,” I replied, and then passed into the dining-room, where the nurse and domestics had been assembled.

The nurse, a plain matter-of-fact woman, was the first person to be questioned. She explained to us how she had given her patient his last dose of medicine at half-past eleven, just after Miss Mivart had wished her good-night and retired to her room. Previously she had been down in the drawing-room chatting with the young lady. The man Short was then upstairs with his master.

“Was the deceased gentleman aware of his wife’s absence?” the inspector asked presently.

“Yes. He remarked to me that it was time she returned. I presume that Short had told him.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh! about half-past ten, I should think,” replied Nurse Kate. “He said something about it being a bad night to go out to a theatre, and hoped she would not take cold.”

“He was not angry?”

“Not in the least. He was never angry when she went to town. He used to say to me, ‘My wife’s a young woman, nurse. She wants a little amusement sometimes, and I’m sure I don’t begrudge it to her.’”

This puzzled me quite as much as it puzzled the detective. I had certainly been under the impression that husband and wife had quarrelled over the latter’s frequent absences from home. Indeed, in a household where the wife is young and the husband elderly, quarrels of that character are almost sure to occur sooner or later. As a doctor I knew the causes of domestic infelicity in a good many homes. Men in my profession see a good deal, and hear more. Every doctor could unfold strange tales of queer households if he were not debarred by the bond of professional secrecy.

“You heard no noise during the night?” inquired the inspector.

“None. I’m a light sleeper as a rule, and wake at the slightest sound,” the woman replied. “But I heard absolutely nothing.”

“Anyone, in order to enter the dead man’s room, must have passed your door, I think?”

“Yes, and what’s more, the light was burning and my door was ajar. I always kept it so in order to hear if my patient wanted anything.”

“Then the murderer could see you as he stood on the landing?”

“No. There’s a screen at the end of my bed. He could not see far into the room. But I shudder to think that to-night I’ve had an assassin a dozen feet from me while I slept,” she added.

Finding that she could throw no light upon the mysterious affair, the officer turned his attention to the four frightened domestics, each in turn.

All, save one, declared that they heard not a single sound. The one exception was Alice, the under housemaid, a young fair-haired girl, who stated that during the night she had distinctly heard a sound like the low creaking of light shoes on the landing below where they slept.

This first aroused our interest, but on full reflection it seemed so utterly improbable that an assassin would wear a pair of creaky boots when on such an errand that we were inclined to disregard the girl’s statement as a piece of imagination. The feminine mind is much given to fiction on occasions of tragic events.

But the girl over and over again asserted that she had heard it. She slept alone in a small room at the top of the second flight of stairs and had heard the sound quite distinctly.

“When you heard it what did you do?”

“I lay and listened.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, quite a quarter of an hour, I should think. It was just before half-past one when I heard the noise, for the church clock struck almost immediately afterwards. The sound of the movement was such as I had never before heard at night, and at first I felt frightened. But I always lock my door, therefore I felt secure. The noise was just like someone creeping along very slowly, with one boot creaking.”

“But if it was so loud that you could hear it with your door closed, it is strange that no one else heard it,” the detective-sergeant remarked dubiously.

“I don’t care what anybody else heard, I heard it quite plainly,” the girl asserted.

“How long did it continue?” asked the detective.

“Oh, only just as though someone was stealing along the corridor. We often hear movements at nights, because Short is always astir at two o’clock, giving the master his medicine. If it hadn’t ha’ been for the creaking I should not have taken notice of it. But I lay quite wide awake for over half an hour – until Short came banging at our doors, telling us to get up at once, as we were wanted downstairs.”

“Well,” exclaimed the inspector, “now, I want to ask all of you a very simple question, and wish to obtain an honest and truthful reply. Was any door or window left unfastened when you went to bed?”

“No, sir,” the cook replied promptly. “I always go round myself, and see that everything is fastened.”

“The front door, for example?”

“I bolted it at Miss Ethelwynn’s orders.”

“At what time?”

“One o’clock. She told me to wait up till then, and if mistress did not return I was to lock up and go to bed.”

“Then the tragedy must have been enacted about half an hour later?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You haven’t examined the doors and windows to see if any have been forced?”

“As far as I can see, they are just as I left them when I went to bed, sir.”

“That’s strange – very strange,” remarked the inspector, turning to us. “We must make an examination and satisfy ourselves.”

The point was one that was most important in the conduct of the inquiry. If all doors and windows were still locked, then the assassin was one of that strange household.

Led by the cook, the officers began a round of the lower premises. One of the detectives borrowed the constable’s bull’s-eye and, accompanied by a second officer, went outside to make an examination of the window sashes, while we remained inside assisting them in their search for any marks.

Ethelwynn had been called aside by one of the detectives, and was answering some questions addressed to her, therefore for an instant I found myself alone. It was the moment I had been waiting for, to secretly examine the clue I had obtained.

I was near the door of the morning room, and for a second slipped inside and switched on the electric light.

Then I took from my vest pocket the tiny little object I had found and carefully examined it.

My heart stood still. My eyes riveted themselves upon it. The mystery was solved.

I alone knew the truth!

CHAPTER VII.

THE MAN SHORT AND HIS STORY

A light footstep sounded behind me, and scarcely had I time to thrust the little object hastily back into my pocket when my well-beloved entered in search of me.

“What do the police think, Ralph?” she asked eagerly. “Have they any clue? Do tell me.”

“They have no clue,” I answered, in a voice which I fear sounded hard and somewhat abrupt.

Then I turned from her, as though fully occupied with the investigations at which I was assisting, and went past her, leaving her standing alone.

The police were busy examining the doors and windows of the back premises, kitchens, scullery, and pantry, but could find no evidence of any lock or fastening having been tampered with. The house, I must explain, was a large detached red brick one, standing in a lawn that was quite spacious for a suburban house, and around it ran an asphalte path which diverged from the right hand corner of the building and ran in two parts to the road, one a semi-circular drive which came up to the portico from the road, and the other, a tradesmen’s path, that ran to the opposite extremity of the property.

From the back kitchen a door led out upon this asphalted tradesmen’s path, and as I rejoined the searchers some discussion was in progress as to whether the door in question had been secured. The detective-sergeant had found it unbolted and unlocked, but the cook most positively asserted that she had both locked and bolted it at half-past ten, when the under housemaid had come in from her “evening out.” None of the servants, however, recollected having undone the door either before the alarm or after. Perhaps Short had done so, but he was absent, in search of the dead man’s widow.

The police certainly spared no pains in their search. They turned the whole place upside down. One man on his hands and knees, and carrying a candle, carefully examined the blue stair-carpet to see if he could find the marks of unusual feet. It was wet outside, and if an intruder had been there, there would probably remain marks of muddy feet. He found many, but they were those of the constable and detectives. Hence the point was beyond solution.

The drawing-room, the dining-room, the morning-room, and the big conservatory were all closely inspected, but without any satisfactory result. My love followed us everywhere, white-faced and nervous, with the cream chenille shawl still over her shoulders. She had hastily put up her wealth of dark hair, and now wore the shawl wrapped lightly about her.

That shawl attracted me. I managed to speak with her alone for a moment, asking her quite an unimportant question, but nevertheless with a distinct object. As we stood there I placed my hand upon her shoulder – and upon the shawl. It was for that very reason – in order to feel the texture of the silk – that I returned to her.

The contact of my hand with the silk was convincing. I turned from her once again, and rejoined the shrewd men whose object it was to fasten the guilt upon the assassin.

Presently we heard the welcome sound of cab wheels outside, and a few minutes later young Mrs. Courtenay, wild eyed and breathless, rushed into the hall and dashed headlong up the stairs. I, however, barred her passage.

“Let me pass!” she cried wildly. “Short has told me he is worse and has asked for me. Let me pass!”

“No, Mary, not so quickly. Let me tell you something,” I answered gravely, placing my hand firmly upon her arm. The police were again re-examining the back premises below, and only Ethelwynn was present at the top of the stairs, where I arrested her progress to the dead man’s room.

“But is there danger?” she demanded anxiously. “Tell me.”

“The crisis is over,” I responded ambiguously. “But is not your absence to-night rather unusual?”

“It was entirely my own fault,” she admitted. “I shall never forgive myself for this neglect. After the theatre we had supper at the Savoy, and I lost my last train. Dolly Henniker, of course, asked me to stay, and I could not refuse.” Then glancing from my face to that of her sister she asked: “Why do you both look so strange? Tell me,” she shrieked. “Tell me the worst. Is he – is he dead?”

I nodded in the affirmative.

For a second she stood dumb, then gave vent to a long wail, and would have fallen senseless if I had not caught her in my arms and laid her back upon the long settee placed in an alcove on the landing. She, like all the others, had dressed hurriedly. Her hair was dishevelled beneath her hat, but her disordered dress was concealed by her long ulster heavily lined with silver fox, a magnificent garment which her doting husband had purchased through a friend at Moscow, and presented to her as a birthday gift.

From her manner it was only too plain that she was filled with remorse. I really pitied her, for she was a light-hearted, flighty, little woman who loved gaiety, and, without an evil thought, had no doubt allowed her friends to draw her into that round of amusement. They sympathised with her – as every woman who marries an old man is sympathised with – and they gave her what pleasures they could. Alas! that such a clanship between women so often proves fatal to domestic happiness. Judged from a logical point of view it was merely natural that young Mrs. Courtenay should, after a year or two with an invalid husband, aged and eccentric, beat her wings against the bars. She was a pretty woman, almost as pretty as her sister, but two years older, with fair hair, blue eyes, and a pink and white, almost doll-like complexion. Indeed, I knew quite well that she had long had a host of admirers, and that just prior to her marriage with Courtenay it had been rumoured that she was to marry the heir to an earldom, a rather rakish young cavalry officer up at York.

To restore her to consciousness was not a difficult matter, but after she had requested me to tell her the whole of the ghastly truth she sat speechless, as though turned to stone.

Her manner was unaccountable. She spoke at last, and to me it seemed as though the fainting fit had caused her an utter loss of memory. She uttered words at random, allowing her tongue to ramble on in strange disjointed sentences, of which I could make nothing.

“My head! Oh! my head!” she kept on exclaiming, passing her hand across her brow as though to clear her brain.

“Does it pain you?” I inquired.

“It seems as though a band of iron were round it. I can’t think. I – I can’t remember!” And she glanced about her helplessly, her eyes with a wild strange look in them, her face so haggard and drawn that it gave her a look of premature age.

“Oh! Mary, dear!” cried Ethelwynn, taking both her cold hands. “Why, what’s the matter? Calm yourself, dear.” Then turning to me she asked, “Can nothing be done, Ralph? See – she’s not herself. The shock has unbalanced her brain.”

“Ralph! Ethelwynn!” gasped the unfortunate woman, looking at us with an expression of sudden wonder. “What has happened? Did I understand you aright? Poor Henry is dead?”

“Unfortunately that is the truth.” I was compelled to reply. “It is a sad affair, Mary, and you have all our sympathy. But recollect he was an invalid, and for a long time his life has been despaired of.”

I dared not yet tell her the terrible truth that he had been the victim of foul play.

“It is my fault!” she cried. “My place was here – at home. But – but why was I not here?” she added with a blank look. “Where did I go?”

“Don’t you remember that you went to London with the Hennikers?” I said.

“Ah! of course!” she exclaimed. “How very stupid of me to forget. But do you know, I’ve never experienced such a strange sensation before. My memory is a perfect blank. How did I return here?”

“Short fetched you in a cab.”

“Short? I – I don’t recollect seeing him. Somebody knocked at my door and said I was wanted, because my husband had been taken worse, so I dressed and went down. But after that I don’t recollect anything.”

“Her mind is a trifle affected by the shock,” I whispered to my love. “Best take her downstairs into one of the rooms and lock the door. Don’t let her see the police. She didn’t notice the constable at the door. She’ll be better presently.”

I uttered these words mechanically, but, truth to tell, these extraordinary symptoms alarmed and puzzled me. She had fainted at hearing of the death of her husband, just as many other wives might have fainted; but to me there seemed no reason whatsoever why the swoon should be followed by that curious lapse of memory. The question she had put to me showed her mind to be a blank. I could discern nothing to account for the symptoms, and the only remedy I could suggest was perfect quiet. I intended that, as soon as daylight came, both women should be removed to the house of some friend in the vicinity.

The scene of the tragedy was no place for two delicate women.

Notwithstanding Mrs. Courtenay’s determination to enter her husband’s room I managed at last to get them both into the morning-room and called the nurse and cook to go in and assist in calming her, for her lapse of memory had suddenly been followed by a fit of violence.

“I must see him!” she shrieked. “I will see him! You can’t prevent me. I am his wife. My place is at his side!”

My love exchanged looks with me. Her sister’s extraordinary manner utterly confounded us.

“You shall see him later,” I promised, endeavouring to calm her. “At present remain quiet. No good can possibly be done by this wild conduct.”

“Where is Sir Bernard?” she inquired suddenly. “Have you telegraphed for him? I must see him.”

“As soon as the office is open I shall wire.”

“Yes, telegraph at the earliest moment. Tell him of the awful blow that has fallen upon us.”

Presently, by dint of much persuasion, we managed to quiet her. The nurse removed her hat, helped her out of her fur-lined coat, and she sat huddled up in a big “grandfather” chair, her handsome evening gown crushed and tumbled, the flowers she had worn in her corsage on the previous night drooping and withered.

For some time she sat motionless, her chin sunk upon her breast, the picture of dejection, until, of a sudden, she roused herself, and before we were aware of her intention she had torn off her marriage ring and cast it across the room, crying wildly:

“It is finished. He is dead – dead!”

And she sank back again, among the cushions, as though exhausted by the effort.

What was passing through her brain at that moment I wondered. Why should a repulsion of the marriage bond seize her so suddenly, and cause her to tear off the golden fetter under which she had so long chafed? There was some reason, without a doubt; but at present all was an enigma – all save one single point.

When I returned to the police to urge them not to disturb Mrs. Courtenay, I found them assembled in the conservatory discussing an open window, by which anyone might easily have entered and left. The mystery of the kitchen door had been cleared up by Short, who admitted that after the discovery he had unlocked and unbolted it, in order to go round the outside of the house and see whether anyone was lurking in the garden.

When I was told this story I remarked that he had displayed some bravery in acting in such a manner. No man cares to face an assassin unarmed.

The man looked across at me with a curious apprehensive glance, and replied:

“I was armed, sir. I took down one of the old Indian daggers from the hall.”

“Where is it now?” inquired the inspector, quickly, for at such a moment the admission that he had had a knife in his possession was sufficient to arouse a strong suspicion.

“I hung it up again, sir, before going out to call the doctor,” he replied quite calmly.

“Show me which it was,” I said; and he accompanied me out to the hall and pointed to a long thin knife which formed part of a trophy of antique Indian weapons.

In an instant I saw that such a knife had undoubtedly inflicted the wound in the dead man’s breast.

“So you armed yourself with this?” I remarked, taking down the knife with affected carelessness, and examining it.

“Yes, doctor. It was the first thing that came to hand. It’s sharp, for I cut myself once when cleaning it.”

I tried its edge, and found it almost as keen as a razor. It was about ten inches long, and not more than half an inch broad, with a hilt of carved ivory, yellow with age, and inlaid with fine lines of silver. Certainly a very dangerous weapon. The sheath was of purple velvet, very worn and faded.

I walked back to where the detectives were standing, and examined the blade beneath the light. It was bright, and had apparently been recently cleaned. It might have been cleaned and oil smeared upon it after the commission of the crime. Yet as far as I could discern with the naked eye there was no evidence that it had recently been used.

It was the man’s curious apprehensive glance that had first aroused my suspicion, and the admissions that he had opened the back door, and that he had been armed, both increased my mistrust. The detectives, too, were interested in the weapon, but were soon satisfied that, although a dangerous knife, it bore no stain of blood.

So I put it back in its case and replaced it. But I experienced some difficulty in getting the loop of wire back upon the brass-headed nail from which it was suspended; and it then occurred to me that Short, in the excitement of the discovery, and ordered by Ethelwynn to go at once in search of me, would not without some motive remain there, striving to return the knife to its place. Such action was unnatural. He would probably have cast it aside and dashed out in search of a cab. Indeed, the constable on the beat had seen him rush forth hurriedly and, urged by Ethelwynn, run in the direction of Kew Bridge.

No. Somehow I could not rid myself of the suspicion that the man was lying. To my professional eye the weapon with which the wound had been inflicted was the one which he admitted had been in his possession.

The story that he had unlocked the door and gone in search of the assassin struck the inspector, as it did myself, as a distinctly lame tale.

I longed for the opening of the telegraph office, so that I might summon my friend Jevons to my aid. He revelled in mysteries, and if the present one admitted of solution I felt confident that he would solve it.

CHAPTER VIII.

AMBLER JEVONS IS INQUISITIVE

People were about me the whole time. Hence I had no opportunity of re-examining the little object I had picked up from the spot where the murderer must have stood.