Sherlock's Sisters

by Nick Rennison

  Miss Löwenthal listened to all this evidence against her with a hard, set face, as she did also to Katherine Harris’s statement about her calling on Mr Culledon at Lorbury House, but she brightened up visibly when the various attendants at Mathis’ café were placed in the box.

  A very large hat belonging to the accused was shown to the witnesses, but, though the police upheld the theory that that was the headgear worn by the mysterious lady at the café on that fateful afternoon, the waitresses made distinctly contradictory statements with regard to it.

  Whilst one girl swore that she recognised the very hat, another was equally positive that it was distinctly smaller than the one she recollected, and when the hat was placed on the head of Miss Löwenthal, three out of the four witnesses positively refused to identify her.

  Most of these young women declared that though the accused, when wearing the big hat, looked as if she might have been the lady in question, yet there was a certain something about her which was different.

  With that vagueness which is a usual and highly irritating characteristic of their class, the girls finally parried every question by refusing to swear positively either for or against the identity of Miss Löwenthal.

  ‘There’s something that’s different about her somehow,’ one of the waitresses asserted positively.

  ‘What is it that’s different?’ asked the solicitor for the accused, pressing his point.

  ‘I can’t say,’ was the perpetual, maddening reply.

  Of course, the poor young widow had to be dragged into the case, and here, I think, opinions and even expressions of sympathy were quite unanimous.

  The whole tragedy had been inexpressibly painful to her, of course, and now it must have seemed doubly so. The scandal which had accumulated round her late husband’s name must have added the poignancy of shame to that of grief. Mark Culledon had behaved as callously to the girl whom clearly he had married from interested, family motives, as he had to the one whom he had heartlessly cast aside.

  Lady Irene, however, was most moderate in her statements. There was no doubt that she had known of her husband’s previous entanglement with Miss Löwenthal, but apparently had not thought fit to make him accountable for the past. She did not know that Miss Löwenthal had threatened a breach of promise action against her husband.

  Throughout her evidence she spoke with absolute calm and dignity, and looked indeed a strange contrast, in her closely fitting tailor-made costume of black serge and tiny black toque, to the more brilliant woman who stood in the dock.

  The two great points in favour of the accused were, firstly, the vagueness of the witnesses who were called to identify her, and, secondly, the fact that she had undoubtedly begun proceedings for breach of promise against the deceased. Judging by the latter’s letters to her, she would have had a splendid case against him, which fact naturally dealt a severe blow to the theory as to motive for the murder.

  On the whole, the magistrate felt that there was not a sufficiency of evidence against the accused to warrant his committing her for trial; he therefore discharged her, and, amid loud applause from the public, Miss Löwenthal left the court a free woman.

  Now, I know that the public did loudly, and, to my mind, very justly, blame the police for that arrest, which was denounced as being as cruel as it was unjustifiable. I felt as strongly as anybody on the subject, for I knew that the prosecution had been instituted in defiance of Lady Molly’s express advice, and in distinct contradiction to the evidence which she had collected. When, therefore, the chief asked my dear lady to renew her efforts in that mysterious case, it was small wonder that her enthusiasm did not respond to his anxiety. That she would do her duty was beyond a doubt, but she had very naturally lost her more fervent interest in the case.

  The mysterious woman in the big hat was still the chief subject of leading articles in the papers, coupled with that of the ineptitude of the police who could not discover her. There were caricatures and picture post-cards in all the shop windows of a gigantic hat covering the whole figure of its wearer, only the feet, and a very long and pointed chin, protruding from beneath the enormous brim. Below was the device, ‘Who is she? Ask the police?’

  One day – it was the second since the discharge of Miss Löwenthal – my dear lady came into my room beaming. It was the first time I had seen her smile for more than a week, and already I had guessed what it was that had cheered her.

  ‘Good news, Mary,’ she said gaily. ‘At last I’ve got the chief to let me have a free hand. Oh, dear! what a lot of argument it takes to extricate that man from the tangled meshes of red tape!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Prove that my theory is right as to who murdered Mark Culledon,’ she replied seriously; ‘and as a preliminary we’ll go and ask his servants at Lorbury House a few questions.’

  It was then three o’clock in the afternoon. At Lady Molly’s bidding, I dressed somewhat smartly, and together we went off in a taxi to Fitzjohn’s Avenue.

  Lady Molly had written a few words on one of her cards, urgently requesting an interview with Lady Irene Culledon. This she handed over to the man-servant who opened the door at Lorbury House. A few moments later we were sitting in the cosy boudoir. The young widow, high-bred and dignified in her tight-fitting black gown, sat opposite to us, her white hands folded demurely before her, her small head, with its very close coiffure, bent in closest attention towards Lady Molly.

  ‘I most sincerely hope, Lady Irene,’ began my dear lady, in her most gentle and persuasive voice, ‘that you will look with all possible indulgence on my growing desire – shared, I may say, by all my superiors at Scotland Yard – to elucidate the mystery which still surrounds your late husband’s death.’

  Lady Molly paused, as if waiting for encouragement to proceed. The subject must have been extremely painful to the young widow; nevertheless she responded quite gently:

  ‘I can understand that the police wish to do their duty in the matter; as for me, I have done all, I think, that could be expected of me. I am not made of iron, and after that day in the police court –’

  She checked herself, as if afraid of having betrayed more emotion than was consistent with good breeding, and concluded more calmly:

  ‘I cannot do any more.’

  ‘I fully appreciate your feelings in the matter,’ said Lady Molly, ‘but you would not mind helping us – would you? – in a passive way, if you could, by some simple means, further the cause of justice.’

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ asked Lady Irene.

  ‘Only to allow me to ring for two of your maids and to ask them a few questions. I promise you that they shall not be of such a nature as to cause you the slightest pain.’

  For a moment I thought that the young widow hesitated, then, without a word, she rose and rang the bell.

  ‘Which of my servants did you wish to see?’ she asked, turning to my dear lady as soon as the butler entered in answer to the bell.

  ‘Your own maid and your parlour-maid, if I may,’ replied Lady Molly.

  Lady Irene gave the necessary orders, and we all sat expectant and silent until, a minute or two later, two girls entered the room. One wore a cap and apron, the other, in neat black dress and dainty lace collar, was obviously the lady’s maid.

  ‘This lady,’ said their mistress, addressing the two girls, ‘wishes to ask you a few questions. She is a representative of the police, so you had better do your best to satisfy her with your answers.’

  ‘Oh!’ rejoined Lady Molly pleasantly – choosing not to notice the tone of acerbity with which the young widow had spoken, nor the unmistakable barrier of hostility and reserve which her words had immediately raised between the young servants and the ‘representative of the police’ – ‘what I am going to ask these two young ladies is neither very difficult nor very unpleasant. I merely want their k
ind help in a little comedy which will have to be played this evening, in order to test the accuracy of certain statements made by one of the waitresses at Mathis’ teashop with regard to the terrible tragedy which has darkened this house. You will do that much, will you not?’ she added, speaking directly to the maids.

  No one can be so winning or so persuasive as my dear lady. In a moment I saw the girls’ hostility melting before the sunshine of Lady Molly’s smile.

  ‘We’ll do what we can, ma’am,’ said the maid.

  ‘That’s a brave, good girl!’ replied my lady. ‘You must know that the chief waitress at Mathis’ has, this very morning, identified the woman in the big hat who, we all believe, murdered your late master. Yes!’ she continued, in response to a gasp of astonishment which seemed to go round the room like a wave, ‘the girl seems quite positive, both as regards the hat and the woman who wore it. But, of course, one cannot allow a human life to be sworn away without bringing every possible proof to bear on such a statement, and I am sure that everyone in this house will understand that we don’t want to introduce strangers more than we can help into this sad affair, which already has been bruited abroad too much.’

  She paused a moment; then, as neither Lady Irene nor the maids made any comment, she continued:

  ‘My superiors at Scotland Yard think it their duty to try and confuse the witness as much as possible in her act of identification. They desire that a certain number of ladies wearing abnormally large hats should parade before the waitress. Among them will be, of course, the one whom the girl has already identified as being the mysterious person who had tea with Mr Culledon at Mathis’ that afternoon.

  ‘My superiors can then satisfy themselves whether the waitress is or is not so sure of her statement that she invariably picks out again and again one particular individual amongst a number of others or not.’

  ‘Surely,’ interrupted Lady Irene, dryly, ‘you and your superiors do not expect my servants to help in such a farce?’

  ‘We don’t look upon such a proceeding as a farce, Lady Irene,’ rejoined Lady Molly, gently. ‘It is often resorted to in the interests of an accused person, and we certainly would ask the cooperation of your household.’

  ‘I don’t see what they can do.’

  But the two girls did not seem unwilling. The idea appealed to them, I felt sure; it suggested an exciting episode, and gave promise of variety in their monotonous lives.

  ‘I am sure both these young ladies possess fine big hats,’ continued Lady Molly with an encouraging smile.

  ‘I should not allow them to wear ridiculous headgear,’ retorted Lady Irene, sternly.

  ‘I have the one your ladyship wouldn’t wear, and threw away,’ interposed the young parlour-maid. ‘I put it together again with the scraps I found in the dusthole.’

  There was just one instant of absolute silence, one of those magnetic moments when Fate seems to have dropped the spool on which she was spinning the threads of a life, and is just stooping in order to pick it up.

  Lady Irene raised a black-bordered handkerchief to her lips, then said quietly:

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mary. I never wear big hats.’

  ‘No, my lady,’ here interposed the lady’s maid; ‘but Mary means the one you ordered at Sanchia’s and only wore the once – the day you went to that concert.’

  ‘Which day was that?’ asked Lady Molly, blandly.

  ‘Oh! I couldn’t forget that day,’ ejaculated the maid; ‘her ladyship came home from the concert – I had undressed her, and she told me that she would never wear her big hat again – it was too heavy. That same day Mr Culledon was murdered.’

  ‘That hat would answer our purpose very well,’ said Lady Molly, quite calmly. ‘Perhaps Mary will go and fetch it, and you had better go and help her put it on.’

  The two girls went out of the room without another word, and there were we three women left facing one another, with that awful secret, only half-revealed, hovering in the air like an intangible spectre.

  ‘What are you going to do, Lady Irene?’ asked Lady Molly, after a moment’s pause, during which I literally could hear my own heart beating, whilst I watched the rigid figure of the widow in deep black crape, her face set and white, her eyes fixed steadily on Lady Molly.

  ‘You can’t prove it!’ she said defiantly.

  ‘I think we can,’ rejoined Lady Molly, simply; ‘at any rate, I mean to try. I have two of the waitresses from Mathis’ outside in a cab, and I have already spoken to the attendant who served you at Sanchia’s, an obscure milliner in a back street near Portland Road. We know that you were at great pains there to order a hat of certain dimensions and to your own minute description; it was a copy of one you had once seen Miss Löwenthal wear when you met her at your late husband’s office. We can prove that meeting, too. Then we have your maid’s testimony that you wore that same hat once, and once only, the day, presumably, that you went out to a concert – a statement which you will find it difficult to substantiate – and also the day on which your husband was murdered.’

  ‘Bah! the public will laugh at you!’ retorted Lady Irene, still defiantly. ‘You would not dare to formulate so monstrous a charge!’

  ‘It will not seem monstrous when justice has weighed in the balance the facts which we can prove. Let me tell you a few of these, the result of careful investigation. There is the fact that you knew of Mr Culledon’s entanglement with Miss Elizabeth Löwenthal, and did your best to keep it from old Mrs Steinberg’s knowledge, realising that any scandal round her favourite nephew would result in the old lady cutting him – and therefore you – out of her will. You dismissed a parlour-maid for the sole reason that she had been present when Miss Löwenthal was shown into Mr Culledon’s study. There is the fact that Mrs Steinberg had so worded her will that, in the event of her nephew dying before her, her fortune would devolve on you; the fact that, with Miss Löwenthal’s action for breach of promise against your husband, your last hope of keeping the scandal from the old lady’s ears had effectually vanished. You saw the fortune eluding your grasp; you feared Mrs Steinberg would alter her will. Had you found the means, and had you dared, would you not rather have killed the old lady? But discovery would have been certain. The other crime was bolder and surer. You have inherited the old lady’s millions, for she never knew of her nephew’s earlier peccadillos.

  ‘All this we can state and prove, and the history of the hat, bought, and worn one day only, that same memorable day, and then thrown away.’

  A loud laugh interrupted her – a laugh that froze my very marrow.

  ‘There is one fact you have forgotten, my lady of Scotland Yard,’ came in sharp, strident accents from the black-robed figure, which seemed to have become strangely spectral in the fast gathering gloom which had been enveloping the luxurious little boudoir. ‘Don’t omit to mention the fact that the accused took the law into her own hands.’

  And before my dear lady and I could rush to prevent her, Lady Irene Culledon had conveyed something – we dared not think what – to her mouth.

  ‘Find Danvers quickly, Mary!’ said Lady Molly, calmly. ‘You’ll find him outside. Bring a doctor back with you.’

  Even as she spoke Lady Irene, with a cry of agony, fell senseless in my dear lady’s arms.

  The doctor, I may tell you, came too late. The unfortunate woman evidently had a good knowledge of poisons. She had been determined not to fail; in case of discovery, she was ready and able to mete out justice to herself.

  I don’t think the public ever knew the real truth about the woman in the big hat. Interest in her went the way of all things. Yet my dear lady had been right from beginning to end. With unerring precision she had placed her dainty finger on the real motive and the real perpetrator of the crime – the ambitious woman who had married solely for money, and meant to have that money even at the cost of one of the most dastar
dly murders that have ever darkened the criminal annals of this country.

  I asked Lady Molly what it was that first made her think of Lady Irene as the possible murderess. No one else for a moment had thought her guilty.

  ‘The big hat,’ replied my dear lady with a smile. ‘Had the mysterious woman at Mathis’ been tall, the waitresses would not, one and all, have been struck by the abnormal size of the hat. The wearer must have been petite, hence the reason that under a wide brim only the chin would be visible. I at once sought for a small woman. Our fellows did not think of that, because they are men.’

  You see how simple it all was!

  MADELYN MACK

  Created by Hugh Cosgro Weir (1884-1934)

  Madelyn Mack is probably the most flamboyant and eccentric of all the female detectives of the period, and the one with the most resemblance to Sherlock Holmes. Like Holmes, she works as a private consulting detective, although her city is New York rather than London. Her creator goes to great lengths to emphasise her genius as a criminologist and she attracts much admiring attention for her startling deductive abilities. Also like Holmes, she has her Watson in the journalist Nora Noraker who narrates the stories. She has her addictions – she carries a locket around her neck which holds cola berries to keep her awake for days at a stretch when she is on a particularly demanding case. And she has her musical tastes – she is a collector of gramophone records, some of which she privately commissions from famous performers. She was the brainchild of an Illinois-born writer, advertising guru and magazine publisher named Hugh Cosgro Weir and first appeared in a volume of short stories entitled Miss Madelyn Mack, Detective, published in 1914. The book was originally dedicated to a woman named Mary Holland, a pioneering fingerprint expert from Chicago whom Weir knew. Holland worked as a detective and Madelyn Mack was probably based, very loosely, on her. At one time Weir wrote screenplays for the burgeoning American movie business and several of the Madelyn Mack stories were made into short films starring Alice Joyce, a popular actress of the silent era. Weir’s interest in the cinema continued and, at the time of his death, aged only 50, he was the editor of The New Movie Magazine.