The Riddle of the Purple Emperor

Cautiously he bent down and touched one of the crumbling balls.

"Magnesia," he muttered. "By all the Gods – and that remnant of pellet in the dead man's mouth!" And the good Dr. Verrall was a friend of the family, so of course he would have access to this long-forgotten surgery which Cleek himself would never have known existed had it not been for the providential opening of the door. What, indeed, was the connection between Miss Jennifer and the dead "Miss Cheyne"? – or was it Dr. Verrall, after all? Bobby Wynne? Cleek dismissed him from his mind altogether as utterly harmless, though again there was the reluctance of that youth to allow him to enter this very room. There was the trail of magnesia, too. Now if he could find any trace of that most child-like and bland of medicines in Master Bobby's own room – This thought caused a sudden recollection of the two below and he moved away quickly. Swiftly and as noiselessly as he had entered, he passed out, the problem rendered still deeper by the knowledge he had obtained.

Darting into young Wynne's room, he gave it a lightning scrutiny, but there was no trace of magnesia to be found. But of course this room would be swept out every day and so no remnants of dust and powder would be permitted to lie there.

Down the staircase he went once more, stopping only to withdraw his silver cigarette-case from the pocket it had never left, and his hand on the dining room door to open it, he stood rigid, for through it came Miss Jennifer's metallic and artificial voice.

"Edgar, dear, you are sure we are safe? I don't trust this man – "

"Perfectly safe, darling," came the deep-toned answer. "Leave everything to me and fear nothing. You shall be safe, that I swear."

"Oho!" Cleek's lips puckered for a soundless whistle. "Edgar, eh?" So Dr. Verrall's name was Edgar, too, for it was certainly that personage who had answered her question and their relation to one another now was obvious.

Had she meant Edgar Verrall then, and not Sir Edgar Brenton after all? Yet the initial on the revolver was B. Last night he could have sworn that she was in love with the young baronet and was planning to marry him, but now he asked himself: "Which Edgar was it?"

Without a sound, he let go the handle, and after a swift glance round to see that his action was not likely to be observed by a servant if one there were, he backed noiselessly half-way up the staircase and then came down again, heavy-footed and whistling.

When he entered the room, it was to find the lovers calm and collected.

"Please forgive me, Miss Wynne," said Cleek, genially, flourishing the cigarette-case in his fingers. "I've been the deuce of a time, but the dashed thing had fallen down behind the dressing chest, and I had a regular hunt for it. I hope Mr. Wynne won't mind my intruding on his sanctum. You must explain it to him for me."

"Oh, no, not Bobby," said that gentleman's sister a little absently, "so long as you do not disturb his racing calender, that's all that matters to him."

Cleek forebore to comment upon this other than in a general: "Oh, boys will sow their wild oats, you know," and then went forward and held out his hand.

"Well, good-bye, Miss Wynne, and thank you for a pleasant luncheon. I'll look you up again some time if I may. You've been awfully kind putting up with me, and that young brother of yours is a real good sort."

Then he smiled, took his departure, and went presumably to meet Mr. Narkom.

Yet had the occupants of the house he had left been watching his movements they would have been surprised to see that his footsteps led him exactly in the opposite direction from that of the village police station. He simply vanished round the angle of the house and stood on the gravelled path, apparently absorbed in looking at the gnarled old wistaria plant which covered the entire wall. His memory for rooms had told him that that small tightly closed window was that of the surgery in which he had made so momentous a discovery. The garden all round him, shut off from the main road by a fairly high wall and shielded by tall elm trees, was a veritable paradise of flowers.

Flowers had always been a passion with Cleek himself, and for a few moments he stood there drinking in the exquisite perfume of the hyacinths which hung round him like a cloud of sweetest scent. Blue, pink and purest white, with tulips and all the various kinds of narcissi grouped about them they transformed the place into a fairy glen. Looking about him Cleek recognized what constant care and attention had been expended upon the spot. It was a harmless hobby and possibly a paying one in a small way, but not sufficient to pay Master Bobby's racing debts. Cleek's brows drew together involuntarily. Again he saw the flush of pain, and if he were not mistaken of remorse too, in Jennifer Wynne's face.

His eyes wandered mechanically from bed to bed, coming to rest on the one just beneath the window.

Yes, there was undoubtedly a footprint, long and narrow, a woman's footprint obviously, clearly marked and only partially concealed by the tulip leaves. His eyes flashed up to the ivy which stretched green and unbroken to the surgery window. Unbroken? No, it certainly was not, for closer observation revealed the fact that many of the branches were torn and bruised. Someone light and lithe had evidently climbed up and thus obtained an entry to the surgery. But who?

Cleek stood there, his brows pulled down, his chin pinched hard as he thought of the prussic acid and other things. It could not be Jennifer Wynne herself, for obviously she would not have entered the room from the outside, nor young Wynne, either. Who was it?

The breeze stirred the leaves of the ivy and Cleek found himself gazing mechanically upon a little fragment of material caught in the sharp twigs. He looked at it for several minutes before he realized the clue which lay before him.

Then his hand shot out, the stuff lay in the open palm, and with it something more – a man's life.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS CHEYNE AGAIN

At the police station Cleek found Mr. Narkom awaiting him.

"You look worried," he said, with a twitch of his head and a lift of the eyebrows in that gentleman's direction.

"I am worried," responded the Superintendent, excitedly. "Cleek, I thought you were never coming! I've a search warrant here for Cheyne Court." Speaking, he drew Cleek in through the door of Constable Roberts' private sanctum and shut it sharply behind him. "If we don't find something to throw a little light on the matter I will eat my head."

"And a very indigestible quantity you'll find it, too," retorted Cleek with a laugh. "We'd better be getting along at once, the sooner the better, and try to get to the bottom of this most distressing affair."

For answer Mr. Narkom grabbed his hat, clapped it upon his head and together they went out to the red limousine. Petrie and Hammond, who had arrived and were in the ante room, followed in their wake.

"Cheyne Court, Lennard. When you fellows get there, I want you to search that dried-up moat while we do the house," said the Superintendent as he climbed in after Cleek and shut the door behind them. Like a shot the motor was off, taking a pace which would make the police of the neighbourhood wink with astonishment. In the space of a few minutes the car drew up outside of Cheyne Court and armed with a bunch of skeleton keys which would lay every room and cupboard open to them, Cleek and Mr. Narkom jumped out.

Having sent Petrie and Hammond to their respective tasks, they set to work to make a systematic search from the top to the bottom of the big, rambling house.

From room to room and floor to floor they passed, but the broad daylight revealed no more than their torches had done at night. That there was some secret entry was obvious, but tap and prod as they might, it was all in vain. The walls were solid, the cupboards stern realities; and at the end of an hour, the question as to how the murderer had entered and escaped on that eventful night remained as great a mystery as ever.

Finally, they reached the upper landing, and at a small room at the back, the door of which stood wide open, Cleek stopped short.

"This must be Lady Margaret's own room," he said, turning to Mr. Narkom excitedly, his eyes alight; "here is the coat she wore when I drove her over on that eventful night."

He lifted a blue travelling cloak from the back of a chair, beside the smooth, untumbled bed.

"Let's poke about in here for a while and see if we can't get some clues as to what happened," he continued.

Suiting the action to the word, he dropped on his knees, and commenced examining every inch of the floor which was covered with cocoanut matting.

Suddenly Mr. Narkom saw him come to an abrupt halt, every nerve tense, as he sniffed repeatedly at the air.

Then he bent still farther over the matting.

"Humn," he said, ruminatively. "That scent again. Huile de jasmin, eh?" There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Huile de jasmin! No wonder it lingered. Look, here is another spot," creeping on all fours in the direction of the perfumed trail, he put his finger upon a tiny oily patch and smiled up into the astonished Superintendent's face. "Oh, I know this stuff well. At one time its real scent was only used in the harems of the great Rajahs, and they used to have a few drops put in receptacles attached to the back of their jewels. Sometimes a ring would bear its odour, sometimes a bracelet or earring. Later, though, it became more common and was used in the bazaars."

"Bazaars?" said Mr. Narkom. "Then it's Indian, you mean."

"My dear chap, do you remember that Lady Brenton was born in India? That is where Sir Edgar's father met and married her."

Cleek nodded and went on as though Mr. Narkom had not interrupted him.

"I said 'was', remember," he said. "It is still just as generally used, but since the days when the favourites of the Harem alone had permission to use it, I have no doubt some enterprising Eurasian has manufactured it, and sells the scent over here. Not but what I am not going to keep an eye on all that little Hindoo gang over the other side of the village. I have set Dollops to work, too. I had the pleasure of meeting one of them, a Mr. Gunga Dall, a few hours ago, and before I make up my mind, there are still others. Lady Brenton herself uses the scent; Miss Jennifer, too, is mighty fond of it – I noticed at lunch. But don't forget Dr. Verrall is also an Anglo-Indian. Yes, my friend, a good many roads lead to Rome – still – " His voice trailed off into silence, for his mind had gone back again to that first eventful journey to Cheyne Court, when, looking out in the March mist, he had seen the figure of a woman cross the lawn.

But was it a woman, or simply a man in the flowing robes of the East? If it had been Miss Jennifer, what was she doing that other night when the man was murdered?

His gaze was fixed almost unseeing in its intentness, but suddenly his eye caught a stray sunbeam which was reflected on something thrown down beside the white bed. He gave a sort of cry and pounced upon it.

Mr. Narkom fairly gasped in his excitement, at this action.

"Cleek!" Mr. Narkom said, agitatedly. "What is it?"

"This," he made answer. "Something which looks as if there were at least two women in this room last night, and Lady Margaret herself was one of them." He held up the object as he spoke. It was a long, glittering gold scarf from the end of which a fragment had been torn violently away. Taking out his pocketbook, Cleek unfolded with trembling fingers the torn scrap of lace found clutched in the dead hand and fitted it into the damaged place.

"By James!" Mr. Narkom gasped, letting the scarf drop like a golden snake to the ground. "It fits; it fits. Cleek! how could that child have perpetrated a deed like that and escape, vanish without a sound? It is impossible – utterly and ridiculously impossible!"

Cleek made no reply. His mind sped back over his last chat with Ailsa. What was it that she had said? The scarf had been given Lady Margaret by her dead father. H'mn – a valued possession, then, not likely to be given up lightly, or even lent, much less left about like this.

"Perhaps someone stole it," suggested Mr. Narkom.

"But who; and why leave it here?" responded Cleek, grimly. "It must be the identical scarf, the fragment proves that, and yet – Lady Brenton has one, Miss Jennifer has another – " his words trailed away again as the complexities of the clue were borne in on him.

Certainly there had been two women abroad in the neighbourhood of the house on the night of the murder. Two, possibly three. But even if one were Lady Margaret herself this could not absolutely convict her of murder. It would take more than a young girl's strength to overpower an active man, and yet – despair lends strength.

Before, however, either of them could voice the thoughts that were racing through their minds, the sound of excited voices, and heavy trampling feet coming up the drive toward the house for the moment drove all other thoughts out of their minds.

"Come along down, Cleek," said Mr. Narkom, his voice shaking with excitement. "It's Hammond and Petrie. I set them to search the grounds and the river. It seems as if they had discovered something startling from the noise."

They found Petrie and Hammond surrounded by a little knot of villagers, and bearing a hidden burden upon a hastily contrived stretcher. Their faces were white, and rather frightened.

"Sir," broke out Petrie, as the procession came up with Mr. Narkom, "we searched the river by the landing stage, and we found this dead body. Almost naked it was, sir, but it's a woman, and shot through the heart. If you would look for yourself – "

Cleek and Narkom did look for themselves. Here, undoubtedly, was the real Miss Cheyne, robbed of her dress and rings, to clothe the man who had so ably undertaken her part on that night when Cleek and Roberts had been driven forth by him and his accomplices.

Here, too, was the explanation of that ominous sound of a revolver shot which Cleek had heard while he and his innocent charge stood on the threshold of the ill-fated house. If only he had obeyed his first instinct, and driven the girl back to Ailsa Lorne!

The poor old lady had evidently been shot at that moment, and her body thrown into the river directly Cleek had left the room, where his inopportune entry must have caused considerable dismay to the hidden assassin, or assassins. Hidden; but where? That was still a deeper mystery. And through what secret egress had the body disappeared? And why had they not attacked him?

Evidently it was the girl they wanted; the girl and possession of the Cheyne jewels. But how, and where, had they escaped? And what had become of the girl now? These were questions for which there were no answers save those which time would show.

Bidding them take the body on its stretcher down to the village mortuary, Cleek turned on his heel and with a few directions to Mr. Narkom made his way back into the house, once more to wrestle with the problem of its secret entrance and exit.

CHAPTER XVIII

DOLLOPS TAKES A HAND

Meanwhile Dollops had not been idle. He had set himself the stupendous task not only of discovering the murderer of Miss Cheyne, but what was more important to his sentimental heart, the finding of the young girl. Her face, as he had seen it once on that memorable day at Charing Cross Station, had so imprinted itself on his impressionable mind that it was little wonder that Sir Edgar Brenton spent many hours in the lad's company listening to his brief description of her again, and giving Dollops as clear a word picture of her as any lover could.

"She is dead, the devils have killed her!" he would say in despair, but this theory Dollops refused to accept at any price.

"Not 'arf they ain't, Sir Edgar, and don't you go fer to believe it," he would say, when the two paced up and down watching the grim old house that would have told them so much could it have had human powers of speech. "Don't you forgit, murder's an 'anging business, and a mighty uncomfortable sort of business, too, I should imagine. No, sir, 'er ladyship's 'id away snug and tight, mark my words, till it's safe to let 'er go, and it's up to us to find 'er. For all Mr. Narkom thinks of is them blessed jewels, beggin 'is pardon."

"Yes, and the other one, the Headland chap, is just as bad; not a single effort made to trace my dear girl, only that blessed Purple Emperor. As if it were worth a hair of her precious head!" stormed Sir Edgar.

Dollops switched round upon his heel and looked up into the angry countenance.

"Steady on there, sir. Not a word against Mr. – er Headland," said he with a touch of asperity in his cockney tones. "He's my boss, and the finest, cleverest chap wot ever breathed, an' if 'e's made up his mind to find the Emperor, purple or pink, then 'e's quite right, and you may depend on it he hasn't forgotten Lady Margaret."

Then Dollops went on his own tack, leaving Sir Edgar to enjoy his own bitter reflections as best he might.

"Not but wot 'e's all wrong though, bless 'is 'eart," said Dollops, when he was safely by himself, "for if that precious Miss Wynne ain't at the bottom of it then I'll eat my 'ead, 'at and all."

He was still indignant that Cleek had apparently taken such little notice of his staggering discovery and capture as she climbed through the window on the night of the murder, and he had persistently dogged her footsteps ever since. But for the time being he was keeping a strict eye on the movements of Cleek himself, and having seen him safely into the house, he took up his position, squatting in the shadow of the huge overgrown laurel bushes, prepared to wait till nightfall, if need be, for such time as his master should emerge.

From time to time his eyes swept ferret-like over the vacant windows of Cheyne Court, and of a sudden, a sight met them which caused his active little body to stiffen like a statue. In that deserted house, in an upper window, there appeared the outline of a woman's figure and Dollops' heart leapt into his mouth as the dazzling thought that it might be Lady Margaret herself, crossed his mind.

Dollops gave a praise-worthy imitation of a night-owl, and that Cleek heard it was soon apparent, for the ballroom window flashed open and Cleek himself came out. No sooner was he on the step near the lad than a rather more than usually excited Dollops descended on him.

"For Gawd's sake, Guv'nor, come quick," he said as he laid a tense, nervous grip on Cleek's arm. "There's a woman prowling round in the 'ouse. How she got in, fair licks me, but she's in right enough and – "

"What's that?" rapped out Cleek, sharply. "In Cheyne Court now? Impossible, my dear Dollops. I locked the hall door behind me, and only unshuttered the ball room window when I heard you call. It's quite impossible!"

"It's not, sir," said Dollops, his voice shaking with earnestness, "there's a woman in that house, sure as I'm standing 'ere on this blessed piece of ground. She was upstairs herself in that window up there. I couldn't see her face, first at all, sir – thought it was Lady Margaret 'erself when I copped a glimpse of 'er, but when she turned away I could see as her countingance was too broad."

Cleek looked at the boy keenly.

"Was it Miss Jennifer, Miss Wynne again?" he asked. "Try and place the woman in your mind, lad."

"No, it wasn't, worse luck," responded Dollops, ruefully, for he would dearly have loved to have caught his erstwhile captive red-handed again.

"I seen 'er this morning, and she's in a blue creepy-crawly kind of dress wot tears if yer looks at it. But this 'ere female was in a black dress. I see it plain as plain."

Cleek twitched up an enquiring eyebrow.

"Sure it was a woman and not a Hindoo priest?" he said.

"Certain sure," was the disappointing answer. "You're backing the wrong 'orse there, sir. It was a woman right enough."

Cleek's disappointment showed in his grave face, for in his own mind he was still inclined to lay the murder and even the abduction of Lady Margaret, at the door of the priests of Brahma, tenders of the far-distant Temple of Shiva. He knew the main object of their lives would be achieved could they but once get into their possession again the ill-fated Eye of Shiva, known to the European world as the Purple Emperor.

"Are you sure?" he persisted, laying a tense hand upon Dollops' arm. "Don't jump to a conclusion, Dollops."

That worthy tossed up his carrotty head.

"Not 'arf I ain't, gov'nor," said he, fervently, only wishing in his loyal heart that it could have been one of them beastly "niggers." He would cheerfully have sworn them to be snow-white could it give Cleek any satisfaction. "I see 'er face the second time and it was a middle-aged woman. Why you didn't 'ear 'er tramping around beats me. Anyway, she was evidently a watchdog for someone, too, for she looked right down vicious-like. Lor-lumme, sir, if she ain't there again! Look! Look!"

Cleek did look, switching round on his heel, and gazing up at the window on his left. Sure enough, a woman was there, a woman in a dark dress and with a pale, lined face. She was a stranger to Cleek, as well as to Dollops, and a chill of excitement went through him at the thought of what her presence in this house of mystery and death meant.

At a silent signal from Cleek Dollops crouched lower in the bushes.

"Can't be up to much good in there," he whispered with a backward jerk of his thumb in the direction of the house. "Shall I nip back to Mr. Narkom and bring him along?"

Cleek pondered a moment.

"H'mn, yes, you might do that, but no, on the other hand, it will look suspicious. Keep here, out of sight, if you can, and if I don't come out in half an hour, then you might cut along. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Dollops, obediently, but in his own mind he was saying, "me stay out 'ere if there's going to be any danger for 'im?"

He watched Cleek's features writhe into the face of the gallant Lieutenant Deland, so that he should be unrecognizable should he encounter any one he knew and saw him fit in the heavy key which had been found for the front door. But it had hardly closed upon his figure when Dollops was up and round the back to see whether it were not possible to effect an entrance of his own.

Meanwhile Cleek, his foot on the threshold of the door, took out the key, and closed the hall door behind him. It was very gloomy within, but not so dark as to prevent him seeing the figure of a woman, standing at the foot of the stairs, the woman Dollops had seen but a few short minutes ago.

He advanced a step forward and raised his chin.

"Who are you?" he said, imperatively. "And what are you doing here?"

"That's what we'd like to know of you," came a harsh, raucous voice behind him.

Cleek wheeled round sharply, but a moment too late. For once in his life his customary caution had left him. From the gloom of the door a man's figure sprang forward, bearing him down by the impetus and the total unexpectedness of the attack.

A little cry of triumph burst from the lips of the woman as she rushed forward and helped him bind Cleek's struggling figure with the ropes which he had drawn from his pocket. When this was done, she turned upon her companion and spoke to him.

"I thought you were never coming, Jack," she said, looking up into the sullen though triumphant face of the man whom Cleek had recognized as the immaculate butler of that day so long ago when he and Constable Roberts had come post haste to the Court.

"I came as quick as I could, but those fools of police are all over the place," the man answered, viciously. "As to you, my fine fighting cock," jerking Cleek's bound figure to his feet, "we want a little explanation from you, and we're going to see that we get it. Come along, Aggie, let's make for the wine cellar. I can do with a drink, can't you?"

Cursing himself for his folly, Cleek was forced to let his captors drag him downstairs into what were evidently the wine-cellars of Cheyne Court. How either of his opponents had entered and re-entered the house was still a mystery to him, and when he looked at their grim, triumphant faces he wondered dully exactly what was likely to become of him. There was desperation in their eyes and hatred in their looks. This was a tighter corner than he had yet experienced. His thoughts were not permitted to continue long, for —