‘It is astonishingly simple. No mysterious chemicals, no visits to a pharmacist. Instead of ink, you write your letters in – milk! Of course, the words are invisible. Apparently you are leaving no trace on the paper. Rub the sheet with wood ashes, however, and your message is perfectly legible! I don’t know where Ovid found the recipe. It has survived, though, for seventeen hundred years. There is only one caution in its use. Make sure that the milk is not skimmed!
‘A letter in invisible ink, you will admit, was thoroughly in keeping with the other details of our mystery. The encyclopedia in the library convinced me that I had made no mistake in my recipe – and then I turned to the butler, and my theory received its first jar. Mr Endicott had ordered no saucer of ashes. Moreover, no note, no telegram, not even a telephone call had come for him.
‘For a moment, I was absolutely hopeless. Then I sent you from the room, Nora, so that Jenkins would not feel constrained to silence – and put the question which solved the problem.
‘It was not Jenkins, however, who gave me my answer. It was Miss Van Sutton’s maid. The tray of ashes had not been ordered by the groom. It had been ordered – by the bride.
‘I may as well add here that Miss Van Sutton explained to me later that this had been the method of communication between her and Reginald Winters. She had suggested it herself in her college days when Ovid was almost her daily companion. It was Winters’ custom to scribble his initial on the corner of the paper. This was her clue, of course, that the apparently blank sheet contained a communication.’
Madelyn stooped over the shaggy form of Peter the Great, and his tongue caressed her hand.
‘It was at this juncture that Miss Van Sutton was ushered into the library. I did not ask her for the note. I was well enough acquainted with my sex to know that this would be useless. I told her what was in it – and requested her to tell me if I was wrong.’
Madelyn walked back to her chair, and, for the first time during her recital, the lines in her face relaxed.
‘She gave me the note – I believe that is all. Of course, Winters’ address told me where I would find Norris Endicott, and I located him this morning. Is there anything else?’
There was no answer.
‘Nora,’ said Madelyn, turning to me. ‘Would you mind starting the phonograph? I think that Rubinstein’s “Melody in F” would suit my mood perfectly. Thank you!’
Early in the following week the postponed wedding of Norris Endicott and Bertha Van Sutton was quietly performed, and the couple departed on a tour of Europe. The bride did not see the body of Reginald Winters. Months afterward, however, I learned that she had bought a secluded grave lot for the man who had so nearly brought disaster to her life.
In Madelyn Mack’s relic case today, there are two objects of peculiar interest to me. One is a small silver ball, perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter. The other is an apparently blank sheet of paper – except for a bold, dashing ‘W’ in the upper right-hand corner.
ADDINGTON PEACE
Created by B Fletcher Robinson (1870-1907)
Born in Liverpool, Bertram Fletcher Robinson moved with his family to Devon as a boy and was educated in Newton Abbot and at Jesus College, Cambridge. An enthusiastic sportsman who won a rugby blue at university and rowed for his college, he qualified as a barrister in 1896 but never practised the law. Instead he turned to writing as a career and worked as a journalist and editor on a variety of newspapers and magazines before his early death at the age of only 36. Robinson is justly celebrated by Sherlockians for his role in the creation of The Hound of the Baskervilles, the most famous of all Holmes stories. A friend of Conan Doyle, he told him of the legends of ghostly hounds and the two men originally planned to collaborate on a story set on Dartmoor. The Hound of the Baskervilles is dedicated to Robinson. (Wild conspiracy theorists have claimed not only that Doyle stole his ideas from Robinson but that he was involved in poisoning him. This seems – how shall I put it? – unlikely.) Robinson was also a friend of PG Wodehouse, with whom he wrote a number of comic playlets. His great contribution to crime fiction is the volume of short stories chronicling the adventures of the astute police inspector, Addington Peace, which was first published in 1905. Narrated by Peace’s Watson, an aspiring artist named Phillips who lives in the flat below the detective’s and learns that crime-solving is more exciting than art, these are fine examples of the Edwardian crime story.
THE VANISHED MILLIONAIRE
I stood with my back to the fire, smoking and puzzling over it. It was worth all the headlines the newspapers had given it; there was no loophole to the mystery.
Both sides of the Atlantic knew Silas J Ford. He had established a business reputation in America that had made him a celebrity in England from the day he stepped off the liner. Once in London his syndicates and companies and consolidations had startled the slow-moving British mind. The commercial sky of the United Kingdom was overshadowed by him and his schemes. The papers were full of praise and blame, of puffs and denunciations. He was a millionaire; he was on the verge of a smash that would paralyse the markets of the world. He was an abstainer, a drunkard, a gambler, a most religious man. He was a confirmed bachelor, a woman hater; his engagement was to be announced shortly. So was the gossip kept rolling with the limelight always centred upon the spot where Silas J Ford happened to be standing.
And now he had disappeared, vanished, evaporated.
On the night of December 18th, a Thursday, he had left London for Meudon Hall, the fine old Hampshire mansion that he had rented from Lord Beverley. The two most trusted men in his office accompanied him. Friday morning he had spent with them; but at three o’clock the pair had returned to London, leaving their chief behind. From four to seven he had been shut up with his secretary. It was a hard time for everyone, a time verging upon panic, and at such times Silas J Ford was not an idle man.
At eight o’clock he had dined. His one recreation was music, and after the meal he had played the organ in the picture-gallery for an hour. At a quarter past eleven he retired to his bedroom, dismissing Jackson, his body servant, for the night. Three-quarters of an hour later, however, Harbord, his secretary, had been called to the private telephone, for Mr Ford had brought an extension wire from the neighbouring town of Camdon. It was a London message, and so urgent that he decided to wake his chief. There was no answer to his knock, and on entering the room he found that Mr Ford was not in bed. He was surprised, but in no way suspicious, and started to search the house. He was joined by a footman, and, a little later, by Jackson and the butler. Astonishment changed to alarm. Other servants were roused to aid in the quest. Finally, a party, provided with lanterns from the stables, commenced to examine the grounds.
Snow had fallen early in the day, covering the great lawns in front of the entrance porch with a soft white blanket, about an inch in thickness. It was the head-groom who struck the trail. Apparently Mr Ford had walked out of the porch, and so over the drive and across the lawn towards the wall that bounded the public road. This road, which led from Meudon village to the town of Camdon, crossed the front of Meudon Hall at a distance of some quarter of a mile.
There was no doubt as to the identity of the footprints, for Silas Ford affected a broad, square-toed boot, easily recognisable from its unusual impression.
They tracked him by their lanterns to the park wall, and there all trace of him disappeared. The wall was of rough stone, easily surmountable by an active man. The snow that covered the road outside had been churned into muddy paste by the traffic of the day; there were no further footprints observable.
The party returned to the house in great bewilderment. The telephone to London brought no explanation, and the following morning Mr Harbord caught the first train to town to make inquiries. For private reasons his friends did not desire publicity for the affair, and it was not until the late afternoon, when all their investigations had proved fruit
less, that they communicated with Scotland Yard. When the papers went to press the whereabouts of the great Mr Ford still remained a mystery.
In keen curiosity I set off up the stairs to Inspector Peace’s room. Perhaps the little detective had later news to give me.
I found him standing with his back to the fire puffing at his cigarette with a plump solemnity. A bag, neatly strapped, lay on the rug at his feet. He nodded a welcome, watching me over his glasses.
‘I expected you, Mr Phillips,’ he said. ‘And how do you explain it?’
‘A love affair or temporary insanity,’ I suggested vaguely.
‘Surely we can combine those solutions,’ he smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. I came to ask your opinion.’
‘My mind is void of theories, Mr Phillips, and I shall endeavour to keep it so for the present. If you wish to amuse yourself by discussing possibilities, I would suggest your consideration of the reason why, if he wanted to disappear quietly, he should leave so obvious a track through the snow of his own lawn. For myself, as I am leaving for Camdon via Waterloo Station in twenty-three minutes, I shall hope for more definite data before night.’
‘Peace,’ I asked him eagerly, ‘may I come with you?’
‘If you can be ready in time,’ he said.
It was past two o’clock when we arrived at the old town of Camdon. A carriage met us at the station. Five minutes more and we were clear of the narrow streets and climbing the first bare ridge of the downs. It was a desolate prospect enough – a bare expanse of windswept land that rose and fell with the sweeping regularity of the Pacific swell. Here and there a clump of ragged firs showed black against the snow. Under that gentle carpet the crisp turf of the crests and the broad plough lands of the lower ground alike lay hidden. I shivered, drawing my coat more closely about me.
It was half an hour later that we topped a swelling rise and saw the grey towers of the ancient mansion beneath us. In the shelter of the valley by the quiet river, that now lay frozen into silence, the trees had grown into splendid woodlands, circling the hall on the further side. From the broad front the white lawns crept down to the road on which we were driving. Dark masses of shrubberies and the tracery of scattered trees broke their silent levels. The park wall that fenced them from the road stood out like an ink line ruled upon paper.
‘It must have been there that he disappeared,’ I cried, with a speculative finger.
‘So I imagine,’ said Peace. ‘And if he has spent two nights on the Hampshire downs, he will be looking for a fire today. You have rather more than your fair share of the rug, Mr Phillips, if you will excuse my mentioning it.’
A man was standing on the steps of the entrance porch when we drove up. As we unrolled ourselves he stepped forward to help us. He was a thin, pale-faced fellow, with fair hair and indeterminate eyes.
‘My name is Harbord,’ he said. ‘You are Inspector Addington Peace, I believe.’
His hand shook as he stretched it out in a tremulous greeting. Plainly the secretary was afraid, visibly and anxiously afraid.
‘Mr Ransom, the manager of Mr Ford’s London office, is here,’ he continued. ‘He is waiting to see you in the library.’
We followed him through a great hall into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling. A stout, dark man, who was pacing it like a beast in a cage, stopped at the sight of us. His face, as he turned, looked pinched and grey in the full light.
‘Inspector Peace, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, Inspector, if you want a reward name it. If you want to pull the house down only say the word. But find him for us, or, by Heaven, we’re done.’
‘Is it as bad as that? ‘
‘You can keep a secret, I suppose. Yes – it couldn’t well be worse. It was a tricky time; he hid half his schemes in his own head; he never trusted even me altogether. If he were dead I could plan something, but now…’
He thumped his hand on the table and turned away to the window.
‘When you last saw Mr Ford was he in good health? Did he stand the strain?’
‘Ford had no nerves. He was never better in his life.’
‘In these great transactions he would have his enemies. If his plans succeeded there would be many hard hit, perhaps ruined. Have you any suspicion of a man who, to save himself, might make away with Mr Ford?’
‘No,’ said the manager, after a moment’s thought. ‘No, I cannot give you a single name. The players are all big men, Inspector. I don’t say that their consciences would stop them from trying such a trick, but it wouldn’t be worth their while. They hold off when gaol is the certain punishment.’
‘Was this financial crisis in his own affairs generally known?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Who would know of it?’
‘There might be a dozen men on both sides of the Atlantic who would suspect the truth. But I don’t suppose that more than four people were actually in possession of the facts.’
‘And who would they be?’
‘His two partners in America; myself, and Mr Harbord there.’
Peace turned to the young man with a smile and a polite bow.
‘Can you add any names to the list?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Harbord, staring at the detective with a puzzled look, as if trying to catch the drift of his questions.
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector; ‘and now, will you show me the place where this curious disappearance occurred?’
We crossed the drive, where the snow lay torn and trampled by the carriages, and so to the white, even surface of the lawn. We soon struck the trail, a confused path beaten by many footprints. Peace stooped for a moment, and then turned to the secretary with an angry glance.
‘Were you with them?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Then why, in the name of common sense, didn’t you keep them off his tracks? You have simply trampled them out of existence, between you.’
‘We were in a hurry, Inspector,’ said the secretary, meekly. ‘We didn’t think about it.’
We walked forward, following the broad trail until we came to a circular patch of trodden snow. Evidently the searchers had stopped and stood talking together. On the further side I saw the footprints of a man plainly defined. There were some half-dozen clear impressions and they ended at the base of the old wall, which was some six feet in height.
‘I am glad to see that you and your friends have left me something, Mr Harbord,’ said the inspector.
He stepped forward and, kneeling down, examined the nearest footprint.
‘Mr Ford dressed for dinner?’ he inquired, glancing up at the secretary.
‘Certainly! Why do you ask?’
‘Merely that he had on heavy shooting boots when he took this evening stroll. It will be interesting to discover what clothes he wore.’
The inspector walked up to the wall, moving parallel to the tracks in the snow. With a sudden spring he climbed to the top and seated himself while he stared about him. Then on his hands and knees he began to crawl forward along the coping. It was a quaint spectacle, but the extraordinary care and vigilance of the little man took the farce out of it.
Presently he stopped and looked down at us.
‘Please stay where you are,’ he said, and disappeared on the further side.
Harbord offered me a cigarette, and we waited with due obedience till the inspector’s bullet head again broke the horizon as he struggled back to his position on the coping of the wall.
He seemed in a very pleasant temper when he joined us; but he said nothing of his discoveries, and I had grown too wise to inquire. When we reached the entrance-hall he asked for Jackson, the valet, and in a couple of minutes the man appeared. He was a tall, hatchet-faced fellow, very neatly dressed in black. He made a little bow, and then stood watching us in a most respectful attitude.
‘A queer business this, Jackson,’ said Addington Peace.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what is your opinion on it?’
‘To be frank, sir, I thought at first that Mr Ford had run away; but now I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘And why should he run away?’
‘I have no idea, sir; but he seemed to me rather strange in his manner yesterday.’
‘Have you been with him long?’
‘No, sir. I was valet to the Honourable John Dorn, Lord Beverley’s second son. Mr Ford took me from Mr Dorn at the time he rented the Hall.’
‘I see. And now, will you show me your master’s room. I shall see you again later, Mr Harbord,’ he continued; ‘in the meanwhile I will leave my assistant with you.’
We sat and smoked in the secretary’s room. He was not much of a talker, consuming cigarette after cigarette in silence. The winter dusk had already fallen when the inspector joined us, and we retired to our rooms to prepare for dinner. I tried a word with Peace upon the staircase, but he shook his head and walked on.
The meal dragged itself to an end somehow, and we left Ransom with a second decanter of port before him. Peace slipped away again, and I consoled myself with a book in the library until half past ten, when I walked off to bed. A servant was switching off the light in the hall when I mounted the great staircase.
My room was in the old wing at the farther side of the picture-gallery, and I had some difficulty in steering my way through the dark corridors. The mystery that hung over the house had shaken my nerves, and I remember that I started at every creak of a board and peered into the shadows as I passed along with Heaven knows what ghostly expectations. I was glad enough to close my door upon them and see the wood fire blazing cheerfully in the open hearth.
* * * * *
I woke with a start that left me sitting up in bed, with my heart thumping in my ribs like a piston-rod. I am not generally a light sleeper, but that night, even while I snored, my nerves were active. Someone had tapped at my door – that was my impression.
More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes Page 26