The White Room

"Rather," rejoined Tracey with alacrity. "I'm dead gone on adventures, and this is a ripper. Wonder if I can get an advertisement out of it? What do you think, sir?"

"Well, if your car is missing-"

"'Course. The man's raced off with it."

"No," denied Mulligan again; "he was with me at the time your car was lost."

"Do you think the man you talked to, killed this woman?" asked the inspector, turning sharply on Mulligan.

"I do and I don't, sir."

"What do you mean by that?"

Mulligan scratched his head. "He had the key, and he came out of the house sure enough. But she was singing when he talked to me at the gate. She wasn't dead then."

"Then he must be innocent," said Derrick sharply. "Do you know to whom the villa belongs?"

"No, sir. Here it is, and you can see that the light's still burning as I left it. I haven't touched the body, sir."

"You did right," approved Derrick, swinging open the gate. "Wait, we must look at the name. Your lantern, Mulligan."

The light illuminated the black letters on the gate, but before the inspector could pronounce the name, Tracey did it for him. "Ajax Villa-Ajax Villa," said he, stopping; "sakes, it's Fane's house. Don't tell me it's Mrs. Fane-such a fine woman. But it can't be."

"Why not?" said Derrick, looking at him suspiciously.

"Because the whole family are at the seaside-all except Miss Mason."

"Where is she, and who is she?"

"Miss Mason is the sister of Mrs. Fane, and she's stopping with the friends I was seeing when my car was stolen."

This was a strange discovery, and Derrick looked puzzled. Tracey spoke in all good faith, and seemed quite willing to enter the house. All the same it was queer he should know so much about the matter. As the constable opened the door Derrick asked a question. "You heard Mulligan describe the man who came out of this house," he said; "can you tell me who he is?"

"No," confessed Tracey. "I know very little of Mr. Fane and his family. I've never been in this house. But Miss Mason is the bosom friend of the girl I'm going to engineer into the position of Mrs. Tracey. She's Gerty Baldwin at present, and lives at No. 20 Meadow Lane along with her mother and the kids. Now, is there anything else you want, to know, Mr. Inspector?"

"Not at present. But later on." Derrick nodded and walked into the house, followed by the two men.

"Oh, anything you like," called out Tracey, not at all damped by the fact of death being in the house, "anything for an advertisement. I guess I'll sell that ear at a big figure. Tussaud's will buy it if the murderer's skipped in it."

"He hasn't," said Mulligan, still confused.

"He has," insisted the American. "Why should an honest man yank off my car? Some one wanted to get out of the way in a hurry, and he took my flier. I guess he's out of London by this time. She can skim a bit. Oh, I reckon she's no slouch."

"Hush," said Derrick sharply, and removed his cap. Tracey did the same, for the presence of death-the immediate presence-began to sober him. Mulligan stood rigidly at the door while Derrick examined the body. "Is it Mrs. Fane?" he asked.

"No," said Tracey, staring at a girlish face, still and white and waxen. "Mrs. Fane would make two of this poor thing. She's a Junoesque sort of woman, about the size of the Venus of Milo, and the same shape, too. This is a slip of a girl."

"A married woman," said Derrick, pointing to a ring on the hand. He walked slowly round the room. "Mulligan," said he, "go and see if any one else is in the house-"

"I tell you Fane and family are at the seaside," said Tracey.

"Never mind. There may be a caretaker. Look round, Mulligan, and see if any windows or doors are unlocked or open. Mr. Tracey, please sit still and silent. I wish to make an examination."

Mulligan departed promptly, and the American sat comfortably in a deep armchair watching the inspector. That gentleman prowled round like a sleuth-hound. He examined the window, then scrambled along the floor, shook various curtains, shifted several cushions, and finally knelt beside the body after a glance at the piano. He interrupted his examination to point out the music. "According to Mulligan, she was singing 'Kathleen Mavourneen,'" said he. "There's the song. Poor soul. She was evidently struck down when singing."

"Then the man met by Mulligan is innocent, since he was outside while the song was still being sung."

"He might be an accessory before the fact, Mr. Tracey."

"In other words, an accomplice. But he didn't nick my car. No, sir. The real murderer did that, and I guess that car's worth money at the boss waxwork show of this metropolis. They can fire it into the chamber of horrors along with Napoleon's cart and the baby's pram. What figure would you ask now, inspector?"

"You go too fast, Mr. Tracey. We don't know yet that the criminal has stolen your car. Is the house you were visiting far from here?"

"Oh, I guess not. Mrs. Baldwin hangs out No. 20-"

"Yes," interrupted Derrick, "you told me. That's no distance. Meadow Lane-to be sure-part of Old Troy."

"No," contradicted Tracey. "The village is called Cloverhead."

"And round the village Troy has been built, so the lesser name is merged in the larger."

"Sounds legal, and not quite right, Mr. Inspector. Say, your name's-"

"Derrick. Inspector Derrick. I am in charge of the Troy police, and this is the first crime of any sort I have stumbled across here."

"Slow lot," commented the American. "In our country we'd have filled the boneyard in six months."

"We don't murder on that gigantic scale here, Mr. Tracey," Derrick answered, somewhat dryly. Then he looked steadily and keenly at the man. "I'm going to trust you," he declared.

Tracey whistled, and stared doubtfully at the body. "Shouldn't if I were you, sir. Here's a crime, and I know a lot-"

"Oh, you do! What do you know?"

"What I've told you. I might be an accomplice too, you see, along with the other man."

"The murderer?"

"No. The rooster who skipped with my car. He didn't stick that poor girl there. Not he. Guess he kept your copper employed in jaw while the real murderer polished off the female. That's how I size up things. Well, sir, and what do you want me to do?"

"Fetch a doctor."

"Don't know any hereabouts My knowledge of this township is limited to Meadow Lane, and Miss Baldwin's favourite walk across the fields. 'Sides" – he cast a quizzical look at the officer-"I might not come back."

"Oh yes, you will. I shouldn't let you go if I wasn't sure you'd return, if only for the sake of your car and the advertisement."

Tracey laughed. "Well, where's the medicine man?"

Derrick scribbled a few lines on his card, and passed it along. "Go there, and ask Dr. Geason to come here-the sooner the better."

"Right, sir!" Tracey rose and looked wistfully down at the dead. "I guess the man who did that would be lynched in our country."

"He'll be hanged in this when found," retorted Derrick. "Go, please."

When the American was out of the room the inspector resumed his examination. Mulligan returned when he was in the middle of a brown study. "There's nothing to be seen, sir," he reported. "No one in the house. Doors and windows all bolted and barred. Not a sign."

"Strange," mused Derrick. "You are sure that the man who came out of the house was speaking with you while the singing was going on?"

"I'll take my oath on it, sir. He can't be guilty."

"Did he strike you as being confused?"

"Not very, sir. He didn't want his face to be seen, though, and kept his hat down on his eyes. He said the lady who was singing was his sister, and that he often came to see her."

"H'm! Why should he come to a house which is shut up?"

"He had the latch-key."

"Hand it over to me," said Derrick, and when in possession of it, took a long look at the size and shape. "New," said he, rapping it on his knuckles. "Hasn't been used much."

"Might be polished from too much use, sir," ventured Mulligan.

"The edges wouldn't be so rough if it wasn't new." Derrick pointed this fact out. "You don't know the man's name?"

"No, sir."

"Nor where he lives?"

"No, sir; I had no reason to ask him anything."

"Well, I suppose you couldn't foresee that we should want him. I don't expect he'll turn up in this neighbourhood again."

"What's your theory, sir?"

"It's early to form one, Mulligan. I fancy two men killed this woman. The one you saw kept you in conversation, while the other murdered the woman, and then cleared, while his accomplice led you away. Did you hear a scream?"

"No, sir. The song ended as we left the gate, and in a few minutes we were too far away to hear any cry."

"As I thought. The man was an accomplice sent out to lure you away."

"It might be, sir," confessed Mulligan. "I was leaning over the gate when the young gentleman came out."

"The men saw you from the window, and as they couldn't kill the woman while you were there, Number One went out to draw you away, while Number Two remained behind to commit the crime. At what hour did you part with Number One?"

"Half-past eleven, sir. I was with him thirty minutes."

"Time enough for Number Two to murder the woman and make off. He escaped by the front door, since you say the back premises are locked up. Ah! there's the doctor. Go to the station and send on-" Here Derrick named two of his most trusted subordinates.

When Mulligan left, the inspector resumed his examination. Already he had looked over the clothing of the deceased. She was plainly but tastefully dressed in black, but wore no ornaments. Everything was of good quality, but made without trimmings. The under-linen was equally fine, but on it the inspector could find no mark or initials likely to indicate the name. Apparently she had been seated at the piano when stabbed, and had fallen dead on the bearskin almost without a cry. The assassin had assured himself that she was dead, then had turned her face downward, so as to avoid the horrified stare of those wide-open eyes. At least this was the inspector's view.

"A pretty woman," said Derrick musingly. "Fair, slender, blue eyes, delicate hands. I should think she was a lady. Married" – he touched the ring-"but not rich, since she wears no ornaments. Careful in her dress, but, not mean, and not fashionable either. Hullo!"

This exclamation was drawn from him by the sight of a hat and cloak thrown over a chair on the further side of the piano. These were also fine, but neat and unpretentious. The woman must have come to the house on a visit, since she certainly would not have placed her out-of-door things in such a place and have sat down had she a bedroom in the house. But what was she doing in a mansion, the owner of which was at the seaside? Had the first man let her in with his latch-key, and if so, how did he come to be in possession of the latch-key? These were questions which the inspector was trying to answer when the doctor arrived.

Geason was an ambitious young medical man who had set up in Troy a year previously, and was trying hard to scrape a practice together. He was well aware that such a case as this would give him a much-desired publicity, and consequently expressed himself profoundly grateful to Derrick for the job. Then he knelt beside the body and made an examination, while Tracey, who had returned, questioned the inspector. "Found out anything?" he asked.

"Only that the woman was a visitor to this house," and Derrick pointed out the cloak and hat.

"Strange," said the American. "Wonder what she meant making free with a man's house in his absence?"

"Are you sure Mr. Fane's at the seaside?"

"Certain. Miss Baldwin was told by Miss Mason-and she's Mrs. Fane's sister-that they would stay a month. Westcliff-on-Sea is the place. Miss Mason got a letter yesterday. Fane was there then."

"It is an easy run from Westcliff-on-Sea to this place," responded Derrick dryly. "A man can fetch this house from there in a couple of hours. But I don't suspect Mr. Fane."

"He might be the man with the latch-key."

"No." Derrick thought of the key being new. "I don't think so. Did any young man stay in this house?"

"Not that I know of. You'd better ask Miss Mason. I know nothing about this ranche. Well, doctor?"

"She's been dead nearly five hours," said Geason, rising.

"Nonsense," said Derrick. "She was alive at eleven, and it's not one o'clock yet."

"I don't know about that," persisted Geason, "but from the condition of the body and the lack of warmth, I say she has been dead five hours."

Derrick and Tracey looked at one another perplexed. If the doctor was right-and he seemed positive-this unknown person could not have been the woman who sang "Kathleen Mavourneen."

"There's four of them," said Tracey; "two women and two men."

Derrick shook his head. The case was too mysterious for him to venture an opinion.

CHAPTER III

THE BALDWINS

"Maryanneliza, do keep the children quiet. The bad twins are fighting with the good twins, and the odd ones are making such a noise that I can't finish this story."

"Well, ma'am, there's so much to be done. The breakfast's to clear away, and the washing to be counted, and-"

"Oh, don't trouble me," cried Mrs. Baldwin, settling herself on the sofa. "It's one of my bad days. What Miss Mason will think of the way this house is kept, I don't know. What do I pay you wages for?"

"It's little enough I get," said Mary Ann Eliza, firing up.

"More than you're worth," retorted her mistress. "If you were a mother, with seven orphans to keep, you might talk. Where's Miss Gerty?"

"Gone to see Mr. Tracey at the factory."

"So like her," lamented the mother; "no consideration for my feelings. What I feel only the doctor knows. There!" as several wild screams rent the air to tatters, "that's blood. If any one of my darlings die, I'll hold you responsible, Maryanneliza!" Mrs. Baldwin ran the three names into one as the children did, and shrieked out to stop the servant from going. But Maryanneliza knew better. If she stopped to listen to Mrs. Baldwin's complaints, there would be no work done. She simply bolted to see which child was being tormented to death, and Mrs. Baldwin, after calling in vain, subsided into her book, and solaced herself with a lump of Turkish delight.

She was not unlike a Turkish odalisque herself, if rumour speaks truly of their fatness and flabbiness. A more shapeless woman it would have been hard to discover, and she usually wore a tea-gown as the least troublesome garment to assume. From one week's end to the other, Mrs. Baldwin never went out, save for a stroll in the garden. Not even the delights of shopping could tempt her into making any exertion, and she had long since ceased to care for the preservation of her figure or good looks. At one time of her life she had been handsome, but the production of seven children, including two sets of twins, had proved too much for her. Also her second husband had deserted her, and as he had been responsible for six children, she complained bitterly of his absence. He was supposed to be alive, but kept carefully away from his too prolific wife. For eight years she had not heard from him, but never ceased to expect him back.

Mrs. Baldwin's first husband had been a gentleman, and she was the pretty daughter of a lodging-house keeper, who had ensnared him when he was not on his guard. His family disowned him, and after the birth of a daughter, the young man broke his neck when hunting. He left Mrs. Harrow, as she was then, with the child and five hundred a year. Afterwards a man called Rufus Baldwin, attracted by the money, married the pretty young widow. Luckily, owing to the will, Mr. Baldwin was not able to seize the principal of the income. But he lived on his wife till six children came to lessen the money, and then finding he could get nothing more luxurious, he ran away. Mrs. Baldwin then removed to Cloverhead, and occupied an old manor-house at a small rent. It was a pleasant, rambling old mansion in a quiet street, and here she lived very comfortably on her five hundred a year.

"Do you remember Gerty Harrow with whom we were at school?" wrote Laura Mason to an old friend. "She lives here, near the place of my brother-in-law, and is now about twenty-two years of age. Such a nice girl-pretty and clever, and engaged to a most amusing American called Luther Tracey. He manufactures motor-cars, and Gerty Baldwin drives them. Whenever a car is sold, Gerty goes down and stops for a week or so with the people who buy it, to show them how it works. Being pretty she gets plenty to do. Mrs. Baldwin objected to Gerty doing this for a livelihood, and only consented when Gerty agreed to drop her father's name. She is Miss Baldwin now, and I like her more than ever. The mother-"

Here followed several marks of exclamation, as though Laura's powers of writing failed her, as they assuredly did. It would have taken the pen of Dickens to describe this lazy, self-indulgent, querulous woman, who lay on a sofa all day reading novels. At the present moment, she was deep in a Family Herald story called "Only an Earl," in which a governess with a single rose in her hair marries, with great self-abnegation, a mere earl, after refusing two dukes and a foreign prince. Mrs. Baldwin, basking like a cat in the sunshine that poured through the window, read each page slowly, and ate a lump of Turkish delight every time she turned a page.

The sitting-room was most untidy. Children's toys were strewn about; the carpet was raggedy the pictures hung askew, the red plush table-cloth-it was a most abominable covering-was stained, the blind was torn, and a broken window-pane had been filled up with brown paper. Yet the room had a comfortable, homely look, and if it had not been so disorderly, would have been pleasant to live in. But Mrs. Baldwin, quite undisturbed by the confusion, read on with great enjoyment. She only lifted her eyes when Laura Mason entered the room, and then her first words were querulous.

"How you can bear to stop here with Getty when your own home is so beautiful, I really don't know," moaned Mrs. Baldwin, keeping her place in the tale by bending the book backward. "Just look at this room. I may toil from morning to night, and it never will look tidy."

"It's comfortable, at all events," said Laura, sitting down. "Do you feel well this morning, Mrs. Baldwin."

"Just alive. I could hardly get out of bed. Not a wink of sleep, and dreadful dreams."

Mrs. Baldwin did not explain how she could dream without sleeping, but she was such a wonderful woman that she could do anything. For instance, she could be idle throughout the day, and keep up the fiction that she worked like a slave. She could enjoy her life in laziness and dirt and selfishness, posing as a martyr to every one. Laura saw through her as most people did; but as Laura was a guest, and Gerty's friend, she did not explain herself at length, as she would have liked to do. Besides, Mrs. Baldwin was a good-natured old dormouse, and no one could be angry with her long.

"I have been out with Gerty," said Laura, sitting near the window; "she has gone to the factory to see Mr. Tracey."

"She never thinks of me slaving from morning till night," moaned the mother. "I'm skin and bone."

Miss Mason nearly laughed outright, for Mrs. Baldwin was as fat as butter, and quite as soft. "You should take more care of yourself."

"No, Miss Mason," said the heroic woman. "I must deny myself all pleasures for the sake of my babes. Ah, they will never know what a mother they have."

It certainly would not be for the want of telling, for Mrs. Baldwin was always recounting her virtues at length. She did so now. "When I was young and gay, and truly lovely, and lived with ma in Soho Square," she rambled on, "I little thought that life would be so hard. When Mr. Harrow led me to the altar, all was sunshine, but now penury and disgrace are my portion."

"Oh, not so bad as that, Mrs. Baldwin," protested Laura.

"Penury, disgrace, and desertion, Miss Mason. Rufus Baldwin has left me with six pledges of his affection, and but for the forethought of my first husband-who must have foreseen the twins-I would have starved in chains and miry clay."

Having thus placed herself in the lowest position she could think of, in order to extort sympathy, Mrs. Baldwin ate more Turkish delight-she was too selfish to offer Laura any-and stated that her heart was broken. "Though I don't show it, being trained by ma to bear my woes in silence," she finished.

Laura said a few words of comfort in order to stop further complaints, and then stated that she was going to Westcliff-on-Sea in two days. "My sister Julia is expecting me," she said, "and I have been with you for over a week. It is so good of you to have me."

"Not at all. I've done my best to make you comfortable, Miss Mason, though heaven knows I can hardly keep on my feet." Here Mrs. Baldwin closed her eyes as a token of extreme exhaustion. "But we must do our duty in the world, as I always tell Horry, who is to be a parson, if he can pass the examinations, which I doubt. Of course Gerty will marry Mr. Tracey, who is well off, and leave her poor ma, who has done so much for her. But I am determined that my babes shall occupy the best places in society. Totty, Dolly, and Sally shall marry money. Jimmy and Dickey must win renown to repay me for my lifelong agonies. You don't look well, Miss Mason?"

The suddenness of this question, coming so quickly after the rambling discourse, made Laura start and colour. She was a fair, pretty girl, with yellow hair and a creamy complexion. Her eyes were dark, her mouth delightful, and her nose was "tip-tilted like the petal of a flower," to quote her favourite poet. Not a particularly original girl either in looks or character, but charming and sympathetic. Laura had a wide circle of friends who all loved her, but no one could call her clever. But she was so womanly that men liked her. "I am quite well, Mrs. Baldwin," she declared; "only I did not sleep much last night."

"Dreams! dreams!" moaned Mrs. Baldwin. "I had horrible dreams about you. I fancied I saw you eating bananas. Every one knows that means trouble. But pine-apples growing in ice are the worst," said Mrs. Baldwin. "I have never dreamed that. Trouble is coming to you."

"Don't!" cried Laura, starting to her feet, and with an anxious air; "please don't! I think dreams are nonsense."

"No," said Mrs. Baldwin, producing a small book from under her sofa pillow. "Read this, and see what it means to dream of sparrows pecking cats to death."

Laura laughed. "I should rather think the cats would eat the birds."

"Not in a dream. Everything goes by contraries in dreams. Before John Baldwin ran away, I dreamed he was rushing into my arms, crowned with honeysuckle. But that day he went. Didn't your walk last night do you good?"

"No," said Laura shortly, then went on with some hesitation. "I was away only for half an hour."

"Where did you go?"

"Across the fields."

"Thinking of Mr. Calvert, no doubt," said Mrs. Baldwin playfully.

Laura grew red, and on another occasion would have resented this remark about the young gentleman mentioned by Mrs. Baldwin. But at this moment she appeared to be rather glad of the suggestion. "I was thinking of him," she assented.

"A very nice young man, though he is an actor."

"Why shouldn't he be an actor?" demanded Laura angrily.

"There! there!" said Mrs. Baldwin soothingly; and aggravatingly, "We know that love levels all ranks."

"Arnold Calvert is a gentleman."

"Your sister, Mrs. Fane, doesn't think so. She expressed herself much annoyed that he should pay his addresses to you."

"Julia can mind her own business," said Laura angrily. "She married Mr. Fane, and he wasn't a very good match."

"No indeed. Your sister had the money."

"And I have money also. Quite enough for Arnold and I to live on, as you-" Here Laura held her tongue. She really did not see why she should tell Mrs. Baldwin all her private affairs. But when the heart is very full, the tongue will speak out. Luckily at this moment there was another outburst of noise overhead, and Mrs. Baldwin moaned three times.

"The bad twins are persecuting the good ones, and the odd ones are looking on," she lamented. "Do go up and see, Miss Mason."