The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

“I have thought it all over,” replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable.

“Don’t go yet,” said Smeaton. “Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Have you anything to suggest?”

Johnson’s triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented.

But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head. He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.

“The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View. Keep a watch on that house, day and night.” He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief.

Smeaton gave a sudden start. “You know Varney is watching it.”

“A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day – well, no doubt – but he doesn’t watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down.”

Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. “You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought. I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect.”

Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief’s estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton’s amour propre.

The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.

“Astounding news – infernal news!” he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. “But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original.”

He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.

“The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first,” he said at length. “But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View.”

“Just what I suspected,” cried Varney. “I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification.”

“Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery,” said Smeaton slowly. “Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come.”

And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. “Forest View is empty. They made tracks in the night – while we were all sound asleep.”

Smeaton thought of Johnson’s recommendation to watch the house by night as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when dealing with such wary adversaries.

“Tell me all about it,” he said sharply.

Varney went on with his story.

“It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven o’clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute,” he said. “I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that.”

“They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time,” observed Smeaton.

“No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down. I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered.”

“Did they take all the furniture?” queried Smeaton. “No, they could not have moved it in the time.”

“I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out. They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London, but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor.”

Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced the room.

“I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney,” he said, in a despondent voice. “I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and they turn into will-o’-the-wisps. And now we’ve got to begin all over again with this Forest View lot.”

Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the Savage Club that night, to talk things over.

After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street.

They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were crawling slowly westward.

Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion’s arm, and pointed to a taxi that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps.

“Look inside,” he cried excitedly.

Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow.

“The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that’s wonderful!”

“Did you notice the man?”

“No, I hadn’t time. The driver started on at proper speed before I could focus him.”

“Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like that of Reginald Monkton!” he said. “I committed the number of the taxi to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them.”

Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and straightforwardly.

“I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit peculiar.”

“Where did you put them down?”

“At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm.”

Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.

If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner, instead of driving up to the house?

In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the number of Mr Monkton’s house.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Still More Mystery

Grant answered the ’phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton’s inquiry, he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate. They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she would be back about three o’clock.

“Any message, sir?” he concluded.

“No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I’ll look round about three o’clock. I suppose she’s likely to be pretty punctual?”

Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with the privileged freedom of an old servant: “But you know, sir, when young folk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor Miss Sheila hasn’t much brightness in her life now. I don’t know what she would do if it wasn’t for Mr Wingate.”

About two o’clock Varney walked into Smeaton’s room at Scotland Yard. He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what he could concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed the house-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which he communicated to the detective.

There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from the beginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked for references, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this, explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter, and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter’s rent at once, and every three months pay in advance.

The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding, and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house had been to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration. The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who disliked putting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. They gave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money was concerned that they were on the safe side.

Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole of his residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque. The landlord’s rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen’s accounts in gold and silver.

Smeaton put an obvious question: “Have they heard anything from Stent?”

“I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally be expected,” was Varney’s answer. “A young man called at the house-agent’s late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it, we know nothing of him in connection with this case?”

Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.

“No; you have been told of everybody I know.”

“Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story,” Varney went on. “He explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four months’ time – and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave instructions for it to be sent to him!”

“And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent,” interrupted Smeaton. “The balance will lie in the agent’s hands unclaimed.”

“It looks like it,” said Varney. “The agent thought it all sounded very fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment’s hesitation, it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road, Brixton, by profession an insurance agent.”

“A false name and address, of course?” queried Smeaton.

“Yes and no,” replied Varney. “I got up to Victoria about twelve o’clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, ‘James Blake, Insurance Agent.’ I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in.”

“And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?”

“Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard. In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople.”

“No want of money,” observed Smeaton. “They evidently didn’t ‘shoot the moon’ on account of poverty. There’s no doubt they spotted you, and guessed they were under observation.”

“It looks like it,” admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man’s pride to know that he had allowed his quarry to escape.

“Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further steps,” said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. “I am off to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street last night, if we are not positive about her companion.”

Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted from a taxi.

Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance. Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door.

He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home.

Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute. Would she come in and wait?

Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of Smeaton standing in the background.

Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her voice steady. “No – no, thank you,” she stammered, as she edged back. “It is of really no importance. I will call another day – to-morrow perhaps.”

“What name shall I say?” asked Grant, surprised at her agitation.

She grew more confused than ever. “I won’t trouble you; it doesn’t matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I told it you.”

With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous to start with, but Smeaton’s steady and penetrating gaze seemed to have scared her out of her wits.

The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made no comment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curious thing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was so full. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered?

Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent the best part of the morning in each other’s company, and had lingered long over their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insisted upon seeing her home.

She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman. “Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier,” she cried. “I shall worry about it all night.”

“Strange things seem to happen every day,” grumbled Smeaton. “A very mysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night.”

Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of his dinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab in Coventry Street; of the taxi-driver’s story that he had driven her to the corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and dismissed the cab.

“But surely she was not alone,” cried Sheila.

“A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a look at him,” replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion, he could not be positive.

He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly.

“I can’t imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I came round to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here on some pretext.”

“But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up,” said Sheila quickly.

“Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out.” Smeaton’s manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, not knowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. “I hardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on my nerves. Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Let me know if that young woman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way.”

He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. “Mr Smeaton was very peculiar to-day, wasn’t he, Austin? He gave me the impression of keeping something back – something that he wanted to tell and was afraid.”

Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly something mysterious about the great detective that afternoon.

Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffled than ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven to Chesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of Forest View?

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Secret Picture

Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights were never very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, the sinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had become part of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made her welcome the daylight.

And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had Mrs Saxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so near her? What did that surreptitious excursion portend?

And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leave neither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeaton in the hall?

She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at home all day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that this woman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick with mystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store, and it would be brought by this strange visitor.

Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy blue costume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call. And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the preceding one. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed.

She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than the rest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimed warmly to herself: “What a charming likeness. It is the image of dear Gladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!”

She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window to examine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, a girl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughter of the Earl of Marshlands.

Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and the passing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended to their families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardly a day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other.

The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts of Monkton’s disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheila had withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such a time.

But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty brought old memories of friendship and affection. They had played together as children; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and it struck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawing herself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in her welfare.

Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written no note, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it to recall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent as signal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the old relations would be at once re-established.

On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging Gladys to come and lunch with her that day.

“Forgive me for my long silence and absorption,” she concluded. “But I know you will understand what I have lately suffered.”

She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila’s face flushed with pleasure as she read it.

“I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive,” wrote the warm-hearted girl. “But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk together as we used.”

She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited, kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was.

Gladys looked puzzled. “But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila! Which one is it? Let me see it.”

Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: “It is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange – very strange! What does it mean?”

Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered:

“Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it so far as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficult lately, and I fancied perhaps you didn’t want to make advances, and that you just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me to respond.”

Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. “Ah! you poor darling, I quite see,” she said. “But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle.”

They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at no solution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all by herself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, she telephoned to Wingate.

Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was very mysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended the brief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton.

“Our brains are no good at this sort of thing,” he said candidly. “The atmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard – they breathe it every day.”

She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now. Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once.

“Any news. Miss Monkton?” he asked eagerly. “Has that young woman called?”

The girl shook her head. “No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to no purpose. Now another strange thing has happened,” and she told him briefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person.

“You didn’t look at the envelope, I suppose?”

“No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it away with the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course.”

“It might,” returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. He ruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, “You have brought it with you?”

Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned it over, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man who examines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him.

“Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in Dover Street. Well, somebody ordered it, so we’ve got to find out who that somebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result in due course.”

Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although so far he had had nothing but failure to report.

“Have you formed any opinion about it?” she asked timidly.

Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly.

“My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your father’s disappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning to distrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curious incident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worth following up. I will put you into your car, and go on to the photographers.”

“Let me drive you there, and wait,” urged Sheila eagerly. “I shall know the result so much quicker.”

The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton was ushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the private sanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, and explained his errand.

Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and it would only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of every transaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one.

He returned very shortly. It seemed that a young lady had called a couple of days ago, and asked for half-a-dozen portraits of Lady Gladys. On account of the Grandcourt House Bazaar, there had been a great run on the photos of the various stallholders, he explained. They happened to have a few copies of this particular picture in stock. The lady purchased six and took them away with her, saying that “they were for reproduction in the illustrated newspapers and the usual copyright fee would be paid.”