Kitabı oku: «The Doctor of Pimlico: Being the Disclosure of a Great Crime», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XII
REVEALS A CURIOUS PROBLEM
The countenance of Enid Orlebar had changed; her cheeks were deathly white, and her face was sufficient index to a mind overwhelmed with grief and regret.
"I asked you to explain, because I fear that my information may be faulty. Captain Bellairs died—died suddenly, did he not?"
"Yes. It was a great blow to my stepfather," the girl said; "and—and by his unfortunate death I lost one of my best friends."
"Tell me exactly how it occurred. I believe the tragic event happened on September the second, did it not?"
"Yes," she replied. "Mother and I had been staying at the White Hart at Salisbury while Sir Hugh had been inspecting some troops. Captain Bellairs had been with us, as usual, but had been sent up to London by my stepfather. That same day I returned to London alone on my way to a visit up in Yorkshire, and arrived at Hill Street about seven o'clock. At a quarter to ten at night I received an urgent note from Captain Bellairs, brought by a messenger, and written in a shaky hand, asking me to call at once at his chambers in Half Moon Street. He explained that he had been taken suddenly ill, and that he wished to see me upon a most important and private matter. He asked me to go to him, as it was most urgent. Mother and I had been to his chambers to tea several times before; therefore, realising the urgency of his message, I found a taxi and went at once to him."
She broke off short, and with difficulty swallowed the lump which arose in her throat.
"Well?" asked Fetherston in a low, sympathetic voice.
"When I arrived," she said, "I—I found him lying dead! He had expired just as I ascended the stairs."
"Then you learned nothing, eh?"
"Nothing," she said in a low voice. "I have ever since wondered what could have been the private matter upon which he so particularly desired to see me. He felt death creeping upon him, or—or else he knew himself to be a doomed man—or he would never have penned me that note."
"The letter in question was not mentioned at the inquest?"
"No. My stepfather urged me to regard the affair as a strict secret. He feared a scandal because I had gone to Harry's rooms."
"You have no idea, then, what was the nature of the communication which the captain wished to make to you?" asked the novelist.
"Not the slightest," replied the girl, yet with some hesitation. "It is all a mystery—a mystery which has ever haunted me—a mystery which haunts me now!"
They had halted, and were standing together beneath a great oak, already partially bare of leaves. He looked into her beautiful face, sweet and full of purity as a child's. Then, in a low, intense voice, he said: "Cannot you be quite frank with me, Enid—cannot you give me more minute details of the sad affair? Captain Bellairs was in his usual health that day when he left you at Salisbury, was he not?"
"Oh, yes. I drove him to the station in our car."
"Have you any idea why your stepfather sent him up to London?"
"Not exactly, except that at breakfast he said to my mother that he must send Bellairs up to London. That was all."
"And at his rooms, whom did you find?"
"Barker, his man," she replied. "The story he told me was a curious one, namely, that his master had arrived from Salisbury at two o'clock, and at half-past two had sent him out upon a message down to Richmond. On his return, a little after five, he found his master absent, but the place smelt strongly of perfume, which seemed to point to the fact that the captain had had a lady visitor."
"He had no actual proof of that?" exclaimed Fetherston, interrupting.
"I think not. He surmised it from the fact that his master disliked scent, even in his toilet soap. Again, upon the table in the hall Barker's quick eye noticed a small white feather; this he showed me, and it was evidently from a feather boa. In the fire-grate a letter had been burnt. These two facts had aroused the man-servant's curiosity."
"What time did the captain return?"
"Almost immediately. He changed into his dinner jacket, and went forth again, saying that he intended to dine at the Naval and Military Club, and return to his rooms in time to change and catch the eleven-fifteen train from Waterloo for Salisbury that same night. He even told Barker which suit of clothes to prepare. It seems, however, that he came in about a quarter-past nine, and sent Barker on a message to Waterloo Station. On the man's return he found his master fainting in his arm-chair. He called Barker to get him a glass of water—his throat seemed on fire, he said. Then, obtaining pen and paper, he wrote that hurried message to me. Barker stated that three minutes after addressing the envelope he fell into a state of coma, the only word he uttered being my name." And she pressed her lips together.
"It is evident, then, that he earnestly desired to speak to you—to tell you something," her companion remarked.
"Yes," she went on quickly. "I found him lying back in his big arm-chair, quite dead. Barker had feared to leave his side, and summoned the doctor and messenger-boy by telephone. When I entered, however, the doctor had not arrived."
"It was a thousand pities that you were too late. He wished to make some important statement to you, without a doubt."
"I rushed to him at once, but, alas! was just too late."
"He carried that secret, whatever it was, with him to the grave," Fetherston said reflectively. "I wonder what it could have been?"
"Ah!" sighed the girl, her face yet paler. "I wonder—I constantly wonder."
"The doctors who made the post-mortem could not account for the death, I believe. I have read the account of the inquest."
"Ah! then you know what transpired there," the girl said quickly. "I was in court, but was not called as a witness. There was no reason why I should be asked to make any statement, for Barker, in his evidence, made no mention of the letter which the dead man had sent me. I sat and heard the doctors—both of whom expressed themselves puzzled. The coroner put it to them whether they suspected foul play, but the reply they gave was a distinctly negative one."
"The poor fellow's death was a mystery," her companion said. "I noticed that an open verdict was returned."
"Yes. The most searching inquiry was made, although the true facts regarding it were never made public. Sir Hugh explained one day at the breakfast-table that in addition to the two doctors who made the examination of the body, Professors Dale and Boyd, the analysts of the Home Office, also made extensive experiments, but could detect no symptom of poisoning."
"Where he had dined that night has never been discovered, eh?"
"Never. He certainly did not dine at the club."
"He may have dined with his lady visitor," Fetherston remarked, his eyes fixed upon her.
She hesitated for a moment, as though unwilling to admit that Bellairs should have entertained the unknown lady in secret.
"He may have done so, of course," she said with some reluctance.
"Was there any other fact beside the feather which would lead one to suppose that a lady had visited him?"
"Only the perfume. Barker declared that it was a sweet scent, such as he had never smelt before. The whole place 'reeked with it,' as he put it."
"No one saw the lady call at his chambers?"
"Nobody came forward with any statement," replied the girl. "I myself made every inquiry possible, but, as you know, a woman is much handicapped in such a matter. Barker, who was devoted to his master, spared no effort, but he has discovered nothing."
"For aught we know to the contrary, Captain Bellairs' death may have been due to perfectly natural causes," Fetherston remarked.
"It may have been, but the fact of his mysterious lady visitor, and that he dined at some unknown place on that evening, aroused my suspicions. Yet there was no evidence whatever either of poison or of foul play."
Fetherston raised his eyes and shot a covert glance at her—a glance of distinct suspicion. His keen, calm gaze was upon her, noting the unusual expression upon her countenance, and how her gloved fingers had clenched themselves slightly as she had spoken. Was she telling him all that she knew concerning the extraordinary affair? That was the question which had arisen at that moment within his mind.
He had perused carefully the cold, formal reports which had appeared in the newspapers concerning the "sudden death" of Captain Henry Bellairs, and had read suspicion between the lines, as only one versed in mysteries of crime could read. Were not such mysteries the basis of his profession? He had been first attracted by it as a possible plot for a novel, but, on investigation, had discovered, to his surprise, that Bellairs had been Sir Hugh's trusted secretary and the friend of Enid Orlebar.
The poor fellow had died in a manner both sudden and mysterious, as a good many persons die annually. To the outside world there was no suspicion whatever of foul play.
Yet, being in possession of certain secret knowledge, Fetherston had formed a theory—one that was amazing and startling—a theory which he had, after long deliberation, made up his mind to investigate and prove.
This girl had loved Harry Bellairs before he had met her, and because of it the poor fellow had fallen beneath the hand of a secret assassin.
She stood there in ignorance that he had already seen and closely questioned Barker in London, and that the man had made an admission, an amazing statement—namely, that the subtle Eastern perfume upon Enid Orlebar, when she arrived so hurriedly and excitedly at Half Moon Street, was the same which had greeted his nostrils when he entered his master's chambers on his return from that errand upon which he had been sent.
Enid Orlebar had been in the captain's rooms during his absence!
CHAPTER XIII
THE MYSTERIOUS MR. MALTWOOD
Now Enid Orlebar's story contained several discrepancies.
She had declared that she arrived at Hill Street about seven o'clock on that fateful second of September. That might be true, but might she not have arrived after her secret visit to Half Moon Street?
In suppressing the fact that she had been there at all she had acted with considerable foresight. Naturally, her parents were not desirous of the fact being stated publicly that she had gone alone to a bachelor's rooms, and they had, therefore, assisted her to preserve the secret—known only to Barker and to the doctor. Yet her evidence had been regarded as immaterial, hence she had not been called as witness.
Only Barker had suspected. That unusual perfume about her had puzzled him. Yet how could he make any direct charge against the general's stepdaughter, who had always been most generous to him in the matter of tips? Besides, did not the captain write a note to her with his last dying effort?
What proof was there that the pair had not dined together? Fetherston had already made diligent inquiries at Hill Street, and had discovered from the butler that Miss Enid, on her arrival home from Salisbury, had changed her gown and gone out in a taxi at a quarter to eight. She had dined out—but where was unknown.
It was quite true that she had come in before ten o'clock, and soon afterwards had received a note by boy-messenger.
In view of these facts it appeared quite certain to Fetherston that Enid and Harry Bellairs had taken dinner tête-à-tête at some quiet restaurant. She was a merry, high-spirited girl to whom such an adventure would certainly appeal.
After dinner they had parted, and he had driven to his rooms. Then, feeling his strength failing, he had hastily summoned her to his side.
Why?
If he had suspected her of being the author of any foul play he most certainly would not have begged her to come to him in his last moments. No. The enigma grew more and more inscrutable.
And yet there was a motive for poor Bellairs' tragic end—one which, in the light of his own knowledge, seemed only too apparent.
He strolled on beside the fair-faced girl, deep in wonder. Recollections of that devil-may-care cavalry officer who had been such a good friend clouded her brow, and as she walked her eyes were cast upon the ground in silent reflection.
She was wondering whether Walter Fetherston had guessed the truth, that she had loved that man who had met with such an untimely end.
Her companion, on his part, was equally puzzled. That story of Barker's finding a white feather was a curious one. It was true that the man had found a white feather—but he had also learnt that when Enid Orlebar had arrived at Hill Street she had been wearing a white feather boa!
"It is not curious, after all," he said reflectively, "that the police should have dismissed the affair as a death from natural causes. At the inquest no suspicion whatever was aroused. I wonder why Barker, in his evidence, made no mention of that perfume—or of the discovery of the feather?"
And as he uttered those words he fixed his grave eyes upon her, watching her countenance intently.
"Well," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, "if he had it would have proved nothing, would it? If the captain had received a lady visitor in secret that afternoon it might have had no connection with the circumstances of his death six hours later."
"And yet it might," Fetherston remarked. "What more natural than that the lady who visited him clandestinely—for Barker had, no doubt, been sent out of the way on purpose that he should not see her—should have dined with him later?"
The girl moved uneasily, tapping the ground with her stick.
"Then you suspect some woman of having had a hand in his death?" she exclaimed in a changed voice, her eyes again cast upon the ground.
"I do not know sufficient of the details to entertain any distinct suspicion," he replied. "I regard the affair as a mystery, and in mysteries I am always interested."
"You intend to bring the facts into a book," she remarked. "Ah! I see."
"Perhaps—if I obtain a solution of the enigma—for enigma it certainly is."
"You agree with me, then, that poor Harry was the victim of foul play?" she asked in a low, intense voice, eagerly watching his face the while.
"Yes," he answered very slowly, "and, further, that the woman who visited him that afternoon was an accessory. Harry Bellairs was murdered!"
Her cheeks blanched and she went pale to the lips. He saw the sudden change in her, and realised what a supreme effort she was making to betray no undue alarm. But the effect of his cold, calm words had been almost electrical. He watched her countenance slowly flushing, but pretended not to notice her confusion. And so he walked on at her side, full of wonderment.
How much did she know? Why, indeed, had Harry Bellairs fallen the victim of a secret assassin?
No trained officer of the Criminal Investigation Department was more ingenious in making secret inquiries, more clever in his subterfuges or in disguising his real objects, than Walter Fetherston. Possessed of ample means, and member of that secret club called "Our Society," which meets at intervals and is the club of criminologists, and pursuing the detection of crime as a pastime, he had on many occasions placed Scotland Yard and the Sûreté in Paris in possession of information which had amazed them and which had earned for him the high esteem of those in office as Ministers of the Interior in Paris, Rome and in London.
The case of Captain Henry Bellairs he had taken up merely because he recognised in it some unusual circumstances, and without sparing effort he had investigated it rapidly and secretly from every standpoint. He had satisfied himself. Certain knowledge that he had was not possessed by any officer at Scotland Yard, and only by reason of that secret knowledge had he been able to arrive at the definite conclusion that there had been a strong motive for the captain's death, and that if he had been secretly poisoned—which seemed to be the case, in spite of the analysts' evidence—then he had been poisoned by the velvet hand of a woman.
Walter Fetherston was ever regretting his inability to put any of the confidential information he acquired into his books.
"If I could only write half the truth of what I know, people would declare it to be fiction," he had often assured intimate friends. And those friends had pondered and wondered to what he referred.
He wrote of crime, weaving those wonderful romances which held breathless his readers in every corner of the globe, and describing criminals and life's undercurrents with such fidelity that even criminals themselves had expressed wonder as to how and whence he obtained his accurate information.
But the public were in ignorance that, in his character of Mr. Maltwood, he pursued a strange profession, one which was fraught with more romance and excitement than any other calling a man could adopt. In comparison with his life that of a detective was really a tame one; while such success had he obtained that in a certain important official circle in London he was held in highest esteem and frequently called into consultation.
Walter Fetherston, the quiet, reticent novelist, was entirely different from the gay, devil-may-care Maltwood, the accomplished linguist, thorough-going cosmopolitan and constant traveller, the easy-going man of means known in society in every European capital.
Because of this his few friends who were aware of his dual personality were puzzled.
At the girl's side he strode on along the road which still led through the wood, the road over which every evening rumbled the old post-diligence on its way through the quaint old town of Etain to the railway at Spincourt. On that very road a battalion of Uhlans had been annihilated almost to a man at the outbreak of the Great War.
Every mètre they trod was historic ground—ground which had been contested against the legions of the Crown Prince's army.
For some time neither spoke. At last Walter asked: "Your stepfather has been up to the fortress with Monsieur Le Pontois, I suppose?"
"Yes, once or twice," was her reply, eager to change the subject. "Of course, to a soldier, fortifications and suchlike things are always of interest."
"I saw them walking up to the fortress together the other day," he remarked with a casual air.
"What?" she asked quickly. "Have you been here before?"
"Once," he laughed. "I came over from Commercy and spent the day in your vicinity in the hope that I might perhaps meet you alone accidentally."
He did not tell her that he had watched her shopping with Madame Le Pontois, or that he had spent several days at a small auberge at the tiny village of Marcheville-en-Woevre, only two miles distant.
"I had no idea of that," she replied, her face flushing slightly.
"When do you return to London?" he asked.
"I hardly know. Certainly not before next Thursday, as we have amateur theatricals at General Molon's. I am playing the part of Miss Smith, the English governess, in Darbour's comedy, Le Pyrée."
"And then you return to London, eh?"
"I hardly know. Yesterday I had a letter from Mrs. Caldwell saying that she contemplated going to Italy this winter; therefore, perhaps mother will let me go. I wrote to her this morning. The proposal is to spend part of the time in Italy, and then cross from Naples to Egypt. I love Egypt. We were there some winters ago, at the Winter Palace at Luxor."
"Your father and mother will remain at home, I suppose?"
"Mother hates travelling nowadays. She says she had quite sufficient of living abroad in my father's lifetime. We were practically exiled for years, you know. I was born in Lima, and I never saw England till I was eleven. The Diplomatic Service takes one so out of touch with home."
"But Sir Hugh will go abroad this winter, eh?"
"I have not heard him speak of it. I believe he's too busy at the War Office just now. They have some more 'reforms' in progress, I hear," and she smiled.
He was looking straight into the girl's handsome face, his heart torn between love and suspicion.
Those days at Biarritz recurred to him; how he would watch for her and go and meet her down towards Grande Plage, till, by degrees, it had become to both the most natural thing in the world. On those rare evenings when they did not meet the girl was conscious of a little feeling of disappointment which she was too shy to own, even to her own heart.
Walter Fetherston owned it freely enough. In that bright springtime the day was incomplete unless he saw her; and he knew that, even now, every hour was making her grow dearer to him. From that chance meeting at the hotel their friendship had grown, and had ripened into something warmer, dearer—a secret held closely in each heart, but none the less sweet for that.
After leaving Biarritz the man had torn himself from her—why, he hardly knew. Only he felt upon him some fatal fascination, strong and irresistible. It was the first time in his life that he had been what is vulgarly known as "over head and ears in love."
He returned to England, and then, a month later, his investigation of Henry Bellairs' death, for the purpose of obtaining a plot for a new novel he contemplated, revealed to him a staggering and astounding truth.
Even then, in face of that secret knowledge he had gained, he had been powerless, and he had gone up to Monifieth deliberately again to meet her—to be drawn again beneath the spell of those wonderful eyes.
There was love in the man's heart. But sometimes it embittered him. It did at that moment, as they strolled still onward over that carpet of moss and fallen leaves. He had loved her, as he believed her to be a woman with heart and soul too pure to harbour an evil thought. But her story of the death of poor Bellairs, the man who had loved her, had convinced him that his suspicions were, alas! only too well grounded.
