Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels

He would gladly have lingered to examine the pictures that decorated the walls, and the priceless china, which stood on cabinets against the white panelling. But, deferring this pleasure, he continued his methodical search in the expectant company of Sir Gregory and the half-scandalised Blake, who could not decide in his own mind whether he was doing right in allowing a detective, even one so well known as Mr. Gimblet, to turn over his mistress’ correspondence in this unceremonious fashion. When the detective’s search led him to the door of Mrs. Vanderstein’s bedroom, Blake felt himself unable to remain with him any longer, and summoning Amélie from her workroom he turned over to her the duty of keeping an eye on these doubtful proceedings.

The news of the detective’s presence had spread through the house like wildfire, and Amélie for her part was burning to assist the great man. Quite unhampered by such scruples as those which were felt by the worthy butler, she dragged open drawers, threw wide the doors of cupboards, thrust any letters she could find into Gimblet’s hands and invited him to verify for himself the information, or lack of it, which she volubly imparted. She knew there was nothing enlightening in the letters and did not hesitate to say so. She had read them all long ago.

“That poor lady,” she cried, “they have assassinated her to rob her of her marvellous jewels. Ah, but of that I am well convinced,” she declared, nodding her head with gloomy satisfaction. “She wore too many – it was to tempt Providence.”

Gimblet asked her for a list of the jewels and received the same that he had had from Blake.

“And will you describe to me what clothes Mrs. Vanderstein wore,” he asked, “and also those of Miss Turner?”

“Madame had on a dress of white mousseline de soie, all diamantée,” Amélie told him, “ce qu’elle était belle avec cette robe-là! Over it she wore a magnificent cloak of crêpe de Chine and silver lace. The cloak is mauve in the daylight, but in the evening one would say that it was pink. She had on silver shoes and white stockings and carried an antique fan of great value.”

“And Miss Turner?” Gimblet was writing down her description in his notebook.

“Mademoiselle also was dressed in white, but with a dress much more simple. She had a cloak of flame-coloured brocade that Madame gave her on her birthday. It is lined with white chiffon; nothing can be more chic.”

As she spoke she glanced in surprise at Gimblet, who was standing in the middle of the room, his head thrown back, his nostrils expanding and contracting. As each succeeding drawer had been pulled out he had stood there, sniffing appreciation. The vague scent that clung about the lower part of the house was more penetrating here, and with each disturbance of Mrs. Vanderstein’s belongings grew stronger. There were flowers about the room, tea roses in many bowls of shining glass; but their faint sweetness was drowned beneath the more powerful smell that pervaded the air.

“Your mistress uses a delicious perfume,” said the detective. “Did she always have the same one?”

“It smells good in here, is it not?” said Amélie. “Yes, Madame uses always the same perfume. See, here it is on her table. It sells itself very expensive, but with one drop one may perfume a whole dress. Everything that Madame touches smells of it.”

Gimblet went to the dressing-table and took up the bottle she indicated; he lifted it to his nose and, removing the stopper, took a long, deep sniff. Then recorking the bottle he put it down again with a glance at the label. “Arome de la Corse,” he read, and below, the name of a French perfumery celebrated for the excellence and high prices of its products.

“Madame is an admirer of the great Napoléon,” explained Amélie helpfully.

“Who does not share her admiration?” rejoined the detective. “And now may I see Miss Turner’s room?”

In Barbara’s chamber his stay was short. Here was no arresting perfume, very little suggestion of feminine personality. The room was more like that of a boy. Photographs adorned the walls; a few books lay about. A couple of letters were on the table; one was a bill. The other, which Gimblet perused under the sympathetic eyes of Amélie, ran as follows:

“Dear Miss Turner,

“I put the money on Averstone as you said. So sorry he wasn’t placed. He got away badly and had no luck from the start. In haste,

“Yours sincerely,“J. Sidney.”

“Thanks, I think that is all I want just now,” said Gimblet, and he turned to leave the room. But Amélie was in no mind to let him go like that. She had hoped for some confidences, that she might have a theory to retail downstairs.

“If Monsieur will listen to my idea,” she said, “I will tell him what I believe has happened to Madame. She has been killed for the sake of her jewels. That is what I think. And it would be prudent before making so many inquiries that one should look for her on the floor of her box at the opera. It is probable that she is there, la pauvre, just as they struck her down and left her!”

“Thank you for your suggestion,” replied Gimblet gravely. “I assure you that I will not neglect to visit the box. But I think that the bodies of two ladies, ‘struck down’ in it, would have called forth some expression of astonishment on the part of the caretakers.”

“Monsieur is laughing at me,” began Amélie in injured tones, but Gimblet was already half-way down the stairs.

On the landing outside the drawing-room door Blake was still hovering.

“Ah, there you are,” Gimblet said. “Can I see the second footman now? Thomas, I think you said he was called.”

Thomas, being summoned, proved to be a tall lad possessing an honest and ingratiating smile, adorning a fair and open countenance.

“It was you, I think,” the detective said to him, “who accompanied the motor last night when it left here with the two ladies?”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, “I did, sir.”

“And you were told the car would not be required again after the opera?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you remember Mrs. Vanderstein’s exact words when she gave you the order not to return?”

“It wasn’t Mrs. Vanderstein who told me, sir,” said Thomas, “it was Miss Turner. ‘Mrs. Vanderstein says she won’t have the car again this evening,’ she said, and, ‘do you understand, Wilcox?’ she says – that’s the chauffeur, Wilcox is; she come running down to speak to him just as he put the clutch in and we was moving off – ‘You’re not to come to fetch us to-night after the opera,’ I heard every word of course as plain as Wilcox did. ‘Very good, miss,’ he says, and she ran back through the swing doors. Mrs. Vanderstein had gone straight in and I didn’t see her again. We was very surprised, Wilcox and me, as it was the first time that Mrs. Vanderstein hadn’t had the motor to bring her home that either of us could remember. But orders is orders,” concluded Thomas with an engaging smile at Mr. Gimblet, who ignored it.

“Thank you, that will do for the present,” he said; and, when Thomas had gone, turned once more to Blake.

“How long has Wilcox been in Mrs. Vanderstein’s service?” he asked.

“He was with Mr. Vanderstein before he married,” replied Blake. “The same as I was myself, sir. Wilcox was a groom in the old days, but they had him taught to drive the motor some years ago. He’s a most respectable, steady man, sir.”

“Thanks, I should like to see him,” said Gimblet.

Wilcox, it appeared, was in the house at the moment, having come round from the garage to hear if there was any news, and Gimblet had him in and cross-examined him. His story was the same as Thomas’, with one small addition.

“Was there anything that struck you as the least unusual?” Gimblet asked him. “Did you notice anything in the appearance of either of the ladies, or overhear anything they said to each other as they got in or out of the car, that was not perfectly natural?”

“No, sir, I did not,” said Wilcox stolidly. He was rather a fat man with a very horsey look. “Not that I paid any heed to what they might be saying so long as it wasn’t to me they said it. As far as I remember, Mrs. Vanderstein got into the car and Miss Turner after her, and ‘To Covent Garden’ one of them says to Thomas, and Miss Turner calls out, ‘Just stop at a post office on the way.’ And so we did.”

“Ah,” said Gimblet, “you stopped at a post office, did you? Was that quite in the usual course? And which post office did you stop at?”

“It was not in the usual course,” admitted Wilcox, “in fact, I don’t remember doing it on the way to the opera before. But Miss Turner had a telegram to send. We stopped in Piccadilly and she gave the form to Thomas to take into the office. After that we drove straight on to the opera house.”

Thomas, recalled, remembered handing in the telegram, certainly. Didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of mentioning it before. Miss Turner gave him a sealed envelope with “Telegram” written outside it, and told him to give it with some money to the young person in the office, and not to bother about waiting for the change, as they were in a hurry. He did as she said, and that was all he could tell about it.

Not much information to be collected from Thomas. Possibly Gimblet’s face showed a trace of disappointment, for the footman added in a regretful tone:

“I’m very sorry, sir, that I didn’t open the envelope so as I could tell you what the telegram was, sir; but the ladies being in a hurry I didn’t scarcely have time. If I’d known it was important, or anyway if I’d had a minute or two to myself, I’d have taken a look at it. I’m very sorry indeed, sir.”

Gimblet dismissed him somewhat peremptorily. He felt that he was taking an unreasoning dislike for the apologising Thomas, so anxious to ingratiate himself.

CHAPTER XI

In the morning-room he found Sir Gregory, who had refrained, with an impatient delicacy, from following him further than the drawing-room. He was walking to and fro before the hearth, another big cigar between his lips.

“Well?” he asked, as the detective entered.

Gimblet looked at him with a disapproving sternness.

“If you intend to accompany me further in my investigations, Sir Gregory,” he began, “I must warn you that I can allow no smoking. The sense of smell is as valuable to me in my work as it is to a questing hound, and I cannot have red herrings like your cigars dragged across the trail I might possibly be following.”

“My cigars! Red herrings!” Sir Gregory stuttered. “This, Mr. Gimblet, is the finest Havana!”

“No doubt,” said Gimblet, “as tobacco it is good enough. But if it came straight from Paradise I could not let the strong smell of it interfere with my business. I must keep my nose free from such gross odours, or it will not serve me when I most need it. When we first came into this room it was filled with a perfume all its own. Now that I return I can smell nothing but the taint of your cigar.”

Though considerably incensed at Gimblet’s choice of words – Sir Gregory nearly choked when he heard them – he controlled his feelings of indignation as best he could, for he was bent on seeing the detective at work. “If the flavour of the best tobacco really impedes you,” said he, swallowing his annoyance, “I will defer the pleasure of smoking until you have arrived at some conclusion. I suppose you have not discovered anything of importance so far?”

“I think I have added to my knowledge by this visit,” returned Gimblet, “whether importantly or not it is too soon to say. You did not mention to me, by the way, that Miss Turner had inherited her father’s partiality for horses.”

“Didn’t I? I didn’t know it would interest you. Yes; she seems very devoted to riding.”

“And to racing,” added Gimblet.

“I don’t know about that. She’s never been near a race-course, as far as I know. What makes you think so? Have you been talking to Blake about her?”

“When a young lady’s room is full of pictures of race-horses, and ‘Ruff’s Guide to the Turf’ occupies a prominent position on her bookshelf,” said Gimblet indifferently, “it is not really necessary to ask the servants whether she takes an interest in racing. But come, Sir Gregory, I think we have no more to do here. Shall we go back to my flat and see if anything has been heard at the hospitals?”

With a farewell word to Blake they prepared to leave the house, the butler hastening before them to open the hall door. As he drew back the latch and they stepped forth into the street, they were confronted by a grey-haired man carrying a small black bag, who stood with a hand already upon the bell.

“Whom have we here?” said the detective to himself, and taking Sir Gregory’s arm he drew him back into the house, leaving Blake to parley with the new-comer.

“No, sir, Mrs. Vanderstein’s not at home,” they could hear him saying.

The two men retreated to the morning-room but here in a few minutes Blake followed them.

“If you please, sirs,” he said, “here is Mr. Chark, Mrs. Vanderstein’s solicitor.”

On his heels came the stranger.

“You will excuse me coming to see you, gentlemen,” said he, fixing his eyes, after a momentary hesitation, upon the detective, “but hearing that Mr. Gimblet was in the house” – here he bowed to that gentleman – “I thought I had better seize the opportunity of offering such help as I may be able to furnish in your investigations. Very little, I fear, still possibly I am in possession of a fact which may as yet be unknown to you.”

Mr. Chark, partner in the firm of D’Allby and Chark, was a man of medium height, of medium age, less than medium good looks, and medium intellect. His face and hair were of different shades of grey and, although clean-shaven, he conveyed the impression that he wore side whiskers. His manner and movements were precise and deliberate. He spoke slowly, and as he did so his hands slowly revolved round each other. It seemed as if he were grinding out each word by some secret mill-like process differing from that of ordinary speech.

“I have just heard from the butler,” he continued, after Gimblet and Sir Gregory had acknowledged his greeting in suitable terms, “that my client, Mrs. Vanderstein, is absent under circumstances I must be permitted to designate as unusual. That, in short, she went out last night, ‘on gaiety intent,’ he he! and has not since been heard of. This is very startling news, very strange news indeed. I think I can prove to you, Mr. Gimblet, that Mrs. Vanderstein’s continued absence is unintentional.”

So saying Mr. Chark unlocked his black bag, which he had placed on the floor between his feet as if fearing that it might be surreptitiously removed if he did not keep in touch with it, and drew from its dark recesses a letter in a large mauve coloured envelope, which he handed with another bow to Mr. Gimblet.

The detective took it and lifted it to his nose with a look of surprise.

“This,” he cried, “is a letter from Mrs. Vanderstein herself.”

“Your surmise is correct,” said Mr. Chark. “I was unaware that you and my client were acquainted, but I see that you know her handwriting.”

“I never saw it before,” Gimblet answered absently. He was studying it now with a look of deep interest.

“Indeed. Then, may I inquire your reason for thinking that this document bore her inscription?” Mr. Chark’s drawling tones were plainly sceptical.

“Arome de la Corse,” murmured Gimblet, as he handed the letter to Sir Gregory. “You, Sir Gregory, know the lady’s writing, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Sir Gregory. “It is from her. Will you not read it aloud? Without spectacles, I’m sorry to say, I should find a difficulty in doing so,” and he gave it back to Gimblet.

The detective opened the envelope and unfolding the sheet it contained read aloud what was written on it:

“Grosvenor Street:“Monday Evening.

“Dear Sirs,

“I shall be much obliged if one of your firm will call on me to-morrow, Tuesday, between four and five o’clock, for the purpose of altering my will. Mr. Sidney has made it impossible for me to contemplate longer the thought of his inheriting any portion of my late husband’s fortune. If Mr. Vanderstein were alive I am sure he would agree with me on this point, but as he is no more and has left the matter to my discretion, it becomes a sacred duty with me utterly to ignore the wishes he expressed, and to alter my will immediately to that effect. Trusting you will make it convenient to call at teatime to-morrow,

“I remain,“Yours faithfully,“Ruth Vanderstein.”

Gimblet folded the letter carefully, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it back to Mr. Chark.

“We heard something of a quarrel between Mrs. Vanderstein and Mr. Sidney,” he said. “I wonder whether she would have stuck to her threat of cutting him off with a penny. People write this sort of letter when they lose their tempers, but very often they have calmed down by the following day.”

“You do not know Mrs. Vanderstein, Mr. Gimblet,” interrupted Sir Gregory. “She isn’t one of those women who fly into a rage about nothing at all, or try to frighten people with threats. She does not suffer from nerves; her health is as excellent as her temper. I am persuaded she wouldn’t have written that letter unless she had the gravest reasons for doing so.”

“That also is my view,” agreed Mr. Chark. “I can endorse Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones’s opinion as regards the character of my client, Mr. Gimblet; I can endorse it thoroughly. Mrs. Vanderstein is a level-headed, shrewd woman, far from being driven by every impulse.”

“There is something decidedly womanly about the way she considers it her sacred duty to ignore her husband’s wishes,” commented Gimblet, and then, as he saw the wrathful light flashing in Sir Gregory’s eyes, he added quickly, “I hope that Mrs. Vanderstein herself will be able to make everything clear in a few hours’ time at the most. Sir Gregory and I, Mr. Chark, were on our way to see if she had been heard of at the hospitals, at the moment of your arrival. We fear she may have met with some misadventure.”

Mr. Chark was disappointed. Beneath his stiff, outer shell there lurked a tiny spark of romantic fire, which had never been entirely extinguished by the stifling routine of the legal casuistries with which D’Allby and Chark principally occupied themselves. Mortgages, settlements of property, the continual framing in a maze of words of those deeds which should mystify any but creatures like himself, to whom their lack of intelligibility meant profitable business; all this systematic dullness had failed to choke that imperceptible glimmer, and at the mere knowledge of Gimblet’s presence in the house it had leapt on a sudden to a hot and burning flame. All his life he had cherished a secret regret that his way had not lain along the precipitous bypaths of criminal law, and now his excited imagination saw murder and violence beckoning from all sides, with fingers redly fascinating. He gave a stiff bow at the detective’s words, and spoke with a feeling of irritation and a sensation of being played with, which he was careful to conceal beneath his usual precise and colourless tones.

“Indeed,” he drawled, his hands revolving as ever in their stroking movement. “I may venture to say that my impression is a different one. Though no detective, I am still, in my capacity of lawyer, able to put two and two together. This letter” – he tapped Mrs. Vanderstein’s note – “and the evidence of the butler that a quarrel between my client and her nephew did occur yesterday afternoon in this house, and immediately preceded the writing of this letter; the knowledge that the lady left her home intending to return in two or three hours, but has actually failed to do so in twenty – these facts, gentlemen, if they convey nothing to you, appear to me to be eminently suggestive.”

Gimblet made no reply; but Sir Gregory, whose face had been getting pinker and pinker till it resembled a full-blown peony, burst out with a truculent snort:

“And what do they suggest to you, sir?”

“They suggest,” Mr. Chark resumed with apparent calm, “that Mr. Joseph Sidney could very probably inform us of his aunt’s whereabouts.”

“I have the pleasure of Mr. Sidney’s acquaintance,” exclaimed Sir Gregory, “and let me inform you, Mr. Chark, if that is your name, that he is a gentleman holding a commission in His Majesty’s army. I hope it is unnecessary to say more. Your insinuations are absurd.”

“You cannot deny in the face of the facts that matters look very black against this young gentleman,” drawled the lawyer.

“Black!” Sir Gregory seemed about to choke. “I consider it black behaviour, sir, to come here and make these libellous and scandalous assertions about an officer and a gentleman. One who, moreover, is, as I gather, entirely unknown to you. Do you know him, sir, or do you not?” demanded Sir Gregory, leaning forward and rapping out an accompaniment to the words with the palm of his hand on a small table which stood near him, so that the flower glasses on it danced and jingled.

“I do not know him, it is true,” admitted Mr. Chark, “but I do know that he would benefit to the extent of several hundred thousands of pounds, if Mrs. Vanderstein should die before she found it possible to revise her will. And I have no doubt that she told him her intention of altering it.”

“Die? What do you say?” Sir Gregory’s voice came faintly. The rosy colour faded from his cheeks. The utmost horror and astonishment were depicted in his countenance.

Gimblet, at the sight, got up from his chair.

“Mr. Chark,” he said severely, “you are letting your imagination run away with you. You are, indeed, talking like a halfpenny feuilleton. There is no reason to take so melodramatic a view while Mrs. Vanderstein’s absence still admits of some more or less ordinary explanation. I am going now to ascertain if she has not been discovered in the accident ward of one of the hospitals. Are you coming, Sir Gregory?”

With a word of farewell they left the house, cutting short more observations on the part of Mr. Chark, who followed them, deeply chagrined at being treated with such scant ceremony.

Sir Gregory, as he drove with Gimblet in the direction of Whitehall, returned nervously to the implication of foul play.

“What made him think of such a thing, d’ye think?” he asked. “It is impossible that young Sidney would harm her. A nice civil lad; I have always liked him. Why should he? I’ll not believe it.” He spoke disjointedly; the suggestion had shaken him.

Gimblet did his best to reassure him, but when they reached his flat, and found that the hospitals had been drawn blank for news of the two ladies, he felt more concerned than he liked to show. Still, the order that had been given to the chauffeur, not to return to the opera house, seemed to point to some intention other than that of going back to Grosvenor Street, and it was still to be hoped that any moment might bring tidings. There were, however, other considerations not quite so encouraging.

Gimblet, who had left Sir Gregory below while he ran up to his rooms, gave some instructions to Higgs, the man who at times combined the duties of servant with those of an assistant in the more tiresome but necessary details of the detective’s work. Then he went down again to break to the baronet, with reluctant gravity, that there was no news.

“We will go to Covent Garden now,” he said; and they got into another taxi.

Sir Gregory had become very silent. His face was drawn with anxiety. “What can have happened?” he kept muttering to himself.

To divert his thoughts, Gimblet recalled the suspicion he had harboured at first – that Mrs. Vanderstein had flown with some other admirer. But the fear that she was in danger, or that worse had befallen her, had taken hold of the man, and it was he who now pooh-poohed the idea and found arguments to show its improbability.

“She had no need to run away,” he objected in his turn, “she could marry whom she liked. And whoever heard of a woman’s taking a friend on a wedding trip? No, if it had been anything of the sort, Miss Turner would have been left behind, we may be sure of that.”

At Covent Garden they learnt very little. The box had been cleaned out, and bore no sign of having been used the night before. Gimblet went sniffing round it, but could find no trace of lingering Arome de la Corse. The box opener told them that Mrs. Vanderstein and the young lady who generally came with her had occupied it at the gala performance, and had left before the end of the last scene. She hadn’t noticed anything strange or otherwise about either of them, and as far as she knew no one had visited the box during the intervals.