by Unknown
At the conclusion of the statement, which was made in a nervous, excited manner, he broke down so completely that it was deemed desirable to send for the doctor and keep him under close observation.
Police investigations of the premises failed to find any further clue. Everything pointed to the supposition that the result of the quarrel had been an attack by the husband—possibly in a sudden fit of homicidal mania—on the unfortunate woman. The police suggestion was that the lady, terrified by her husband’s behaviour, had risen in the night and run down the stairs to the drawing-room, and that he had followed her there, picked up the poker, and furiously attacked her. When she fell, apparently lifeless, he had run back to his bedroom, dressed himself, and made his escape quietly from the house. There was nothing missing so far as could be ascertained—nothing to suggest in any way that any third party, a burglar from outside or some person inside, had had anything to do with the matter.
The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder, and the husband was charged before a magistrate and committed for trial. But in the interval his reason gave way, and, the doctors certifying that he was undoubtedly insane, he was sent to Broadmoor.
Nobody had the slightest doubt of his guilt, and it was his mother who, broken-hearted, and absolutely refusing to believe in her son’s guilt, had come to Dorcas Dene and requested her to take up the case privately and investigate it. The poor old lady declared that she was perfectly certain that her son could not have been guilty of such a deed, but the police were satisfied, and would make no further investigation.
This I learnt afterwards when I went to see Inspector Swanage. All I knew when I had finished reading up the case in the newspapers was that the husband of Mrs. Hannaford was in Broadmoor, practically condemned for the murder of his wife, and that Dorcas Dene had left home to try and prove his innocence.
The history of the Hannafords as given in the public Press was as follows: Mrs. Hannaford was a widow when Mr. Hannaford, a man of six-and-thirty, married her. Her first husband was a Mr. Charles Drayson, a financier, who had been among the victims of the disastrous fire in Paris. His wife was with him in the rue Jean Goujon that fatal night. When the fire broke out they both tried to escape together. They became separated in the crush. She was only slightly injured, and succeeded in getting out; he was less fortunate. His gold watch, a presentation one, with an inscription, was found among a mass of charred unrecognizable remains when the ruins were searched.
Three years after this tragedy the widow married Mr. Hannaford. The death of her first husband did not leave her well off. It was found that he was heavily in debt, and had he lived a serious charge of fraud would undoubtedly have been preferred against him. As it was, his partner, a Mr. Thomas Holmes, was arrested and sentenced to five years’ penal servitude in connection with a joint fraudulent transaction.
The estate of Mr. Drayson went to satisfy the creditors, but Mrs. Drayson, the widow, retained the house at Haverstock Hill, which he had purchased and settled on her, with all the furniture and contents, some years previously. She wished to continue living in the house when she married again, and Mr. Hannaford consented, and they made it their home. Hannaford himself, though not a wealthy man, was a fairly successful stock-jobber, and until the crisis, which had brought on great anxiety and helped to break down his health, had had no financial worries. But the marriage, so it was alleged, had not been a very happy one and quarrels had been frequent. Old Mrs. Hannaford was against it from the first, and to her her son always turned in his later matrimonial troubles. Now that his life had probably been spared by this mental breakdown, and he had been sent to Broadmoor, she had but one object in life—to set her son free, some day restored to reason, and with his innocence proved to the world.
It was about a fortnight after my interview with Inspector Swanage, and my study of the details of the Haverstock Hill murder, that one morning I opened a telegram and to my intense delight found that it was from Dorcas Dene. It was from London, and informed me that in the evening they would be very pleased to see me at Elm Tree Road.
In the evening I presented myself about eight o’clock. Paul was alone in the drawing-room when I entered, and his face and his voice when he greeted me showed me plainly that he had benefited greatly by the change.
“Where have you been, to look so well?” I asked. “The South of Europe, I suppose—Nice or Monte Carlo?”
“No,” said Paul smiling, “we haven’t been nearly so far as that. But I mustn’t tell tales out of school. You must ask Dorcas.”
At that moment Dorcas came in and gave me a cordial greeting.
“Well,” I said, after the first conversational preliminaries, “who committed the Haverstock Hill murder?”
“Oh, so you know that I have taken that up, do you? I imagined it would get about through the Yard people. You see, Paul dear, how wise I was to give out that I had gone away.”
“Give out!” I exclaimed. “Haven’t you been away then?”
“No, Paul and mother have been staying at Hastings, and I have been down whenever I have been able to spare a day, but as a matter of fact I have been in London the greater part of the time.”
“But I don’t see the use of your pretending you were going away.”
“I did it on purpose. I knew the fact that old Mrs. Hannaford had engaged me would get about in certain circles, and I wanted certain people to think that I had gone away to investigate some clue which I thought I had discovered. In order to baulk all possible inquirers I didn’t even let the servants forward my letters. They went to Jackson, who sent them on to me.”
“Then you were really investigating in London?”
“Now shall I tell you where you heard that I was on this case?”
“Yes.”
“You heard it at Kempton Park Steeplechases, and your informant was Inspector Swanage.”
“You have seen him and he has told you.”
“No; I saw you there talking to him.”
“You saw me? You were at Kempton Park? I never saw you.”
“Yes, you did, for I caught you looking full at me. I was trying to sell some race cards just before the second race, and was holding them between the railings of the enclosure.”
“What! You were that old gipsy woman? I’m certain Swanage didn’t know you.”
“I didn’t want him to, or anybody else.”
“It was an astonishing disguise. But come, aren’t you going to tell me anything about the Hannaford case? I’ve been reading it up, but I fail entirely to see the slightest suspicion against any one but the husband. Everything points to his having committed the crime in a moment of madness. The fact that he has since gone completely out of his mind seems to me to show that conclusively.”
“It is a good job he did go out of his mind—but for that I am afraid he would have suffered for the crime, and the poor broken-hearted old mother for whom I am working would soon have followed him to the grave.”
“Then you don’t share the general belief in his guilt?”
“I did at first, but I don’t now.”
“You have discovered the guilty party?”
“No—not yet—but I hope to.”
“Tell me exactly all that has happened—there may still be a chance for your ‘assistant.’”
“Yes, it is quite possible that now I may be able to avail myself of your services. You say you have studied the details of this case—let us just run through them together, and see what you think of my plan of campaign so far as it has gone. When old Mrs. Hannaford came to me, her son had already been declared insane and unable to plead, and had gone to Broadmoor. That was nearly a month after the commission of the crime, so that much valuable time had been lost. At first I declined to take the matter up—the police had so thoroughly investigated the affair. The case seemed so absolutely conclusive that I told her that it would be useless for her to incur the heavy expense of a private investigation. But she pleaded so earnestly—her fai
th in her son was so great—and she seemed such a sweet, dear old lady, that at last she conquered my scruples, and I consented to study the case, and see if there was the slightest alternative theory to go on. I had almost abandoned hope, for there was nothing in the published reports to encourage it, when I determined to go to the fountain-head, and see the Superintendent who had had the case in hand.
“He received me courteously, and told me everything. He was certain that the husband committed the murder. There was an entire absence of motive for any one else in the house to have done it, and the husband’s flight from the house in the middle of the night was absolutely damning. I inquired if they had found any one who had seen the husband in the street—any one who could fix the time at which he had left the house. He replied that no such witness had been found. Then I asked if the policeman on duty that night had made any report of any suspicious characters being seen about. He said that the only person he had noticed at all was a man well known to the police—a man named Flash George. I asked what time Flash George had been seen and whereabouts, and I ascertained that it was at half-past two in the morning, and about a hundred yards below the scene of the crime, that when the policeman spoke to him he said he was coming from Hampstead, and was going to Covent Garden Market. He walked away in the direction of the Chalk Farm Road. I inquired what Flash George’s record was, and ascertained that he was the associate of thieves and swindlers, and he was suspected of having disposed of some jewels, the proceeds of a robbery which had made a nine days’ sensation. But the police had failed to bring the charge home to him, and the jewels had never been traced. He was also a gambler, a frequenter of racecourses and certain night-clubs of evil repute, and had not been seen about for some time previous to that evening.”
“And didn’t the police make any further investigations in that direction?”
“No. Why should they? There was nothing missing from the house—not the slightest sign of an attempted burglary. All their efforts were directed to proving the guilt of the unfortunate woman’s husband.”
“And you?”
“I had a different task—mine was to prove the husband’s innocence. I determined to find out something more of Flash George. I shut the house up, gave out that I had gone away, and took, amongst other things, to selling cards and pencils on racecourses. The day that Flash George made his reappearance on the turf after a long absence was the day that he backed the winner of the second race at Kempton Park for a hundred pounds.”
“But surely that proves that if he had been connected with any crime it must have been one in which money was obtained. No one has attempted to associate the murder of Mrs. Hannaford with robbery.”
“No. But one thing is certain—that on the night of the crime Flash George was in the neighbourhood. Two days previously he had borrowed a few pounds of a pal because he was ‘stony broke.’ When he reappears as a racing man he has on a fur coat, is evidently in first-class circumstances, and he bets in hundred-pound notes. He is a considerably richer man after the murder of Mrs. Hannaford than he was before, and he was seen within a hundred yards of the house at half-past two o’clock on the night that the crime was committed.”
“That might have been a mere accident. His sudden wealth may be the result of a lucky gamble, or a swindle of which you know nothing. I can’t see that it can possibly have any bearing on the Hannaford crime, because nothing was taken from the house.”
“Quite true. But here is a remarkable fact. When he went up to the betting man he went to one who was betting close to the rails. When he pulled out that hundred-pound note I was at the rails, and I pushed my cards in between and asked him to buy one. Flash George is a ‘suspected character,’ and quite capable on a foggy day of trying to swindle a bookmaker. The bookmaker took the precaution to open that note, it being for a hundred pounds, and examined it carefully. That enabled me to see the number. I had sharpened pencils to sell, and with one of them I hastily took down the number of that note—.”
“That was clever. And you have traced it?”
“Yes.”
“And has that furnished you with any clue?”
“It has placed me in possession of a most remarkable fact. The hundred-pound note which was in Flash George’s possession on Kempton Park racecourse was one of a number which were paid over the counter of the Union Bank of London for a five-thousand-pound cheque over ten years ago. And that cheque was drawn by the murdered woman’s husband.”
“Mr. Hannaford!”
“No; her first husband—Mr. Charles Drayson.”
The Brown Bear Lamp
When Dorcas Dene told me that the £100 note Flash George had handed to the bookmaker at Kempton Park was one which had some years previously been paid to Mr. Charles Drayson, the first husband of the murdered woman, Mrs. Hannaford, I had to sit still and think for a moment.
It was curious certainly, but after all much more remarkable coincidences than that occur daily. I could not see what practical value there was in Dorcas’s extraordinary discovery, because Mr. Charles Drayson was dead, and it was hardly likely that his wife would have kept a £100 note of his for several years. And if she had, she had not been murdered for that, because there were no signs of the house having been broken into. The more I thought the business over the more confused I became in my attempt to establish a clue from it, and so after a minute’s silence I frankly confessed to Dorcas that I didn’t see where her discovery led to.
“I don’t say that it leads very far by itself,” said Dorcas. “But you must look at all the circumstances. During the night of January 5 a lady is murdered in her own drawing-room. Round about the time that the attack is supposed to have been made upon her a well-known bad character is seen close to the house. That person, who just previously has been ascertained to have been so hard up that he had been borrowing of his associates, reappears on the turf a few weeks later expensively dressed and in possession of money. He bets with a £100 note, and that £100 note I have traced to the previous possession of the murdered woman’s first husband, who lost his life in the disastrous fire in Paris, while on a short visit to that capital.”
“Yes, it certainly is curious, but—”
“Wait a minute—I haven’t finished yet. Of the bank-notes—several of them for £100—which were paid some years ago to Mr. Charles Drayson, not one had come back to the bank before the murder.”
“Indeed!”
“Since the murder several of them have come in. Now, is it not a remarkable circumstance that during all those years £5,000 worth of bank-notes should have remained out!”
“It is remarkable, but after all bank-notes circulate—they may pass through hundreds of hands before returning to the bank.”
“Some may, undoubtedly, but it is highly improbable that all would under ordinary circumstances—especially notes for £100. These are sums which are not passed from pocket to pocket. As a rule they go to the bank of one of the early receivers of them, and from that bank into the Bank of England.”
“You mean that it is an extraordinary fact that for many years not one of the notes paid to Mr. Charles Drayson by the Union Bank came back to the Bank of England.”
“Yes, that is an extraordinary fact, but there is a fact which is more extraordinary still, and that is that soon after the murder of Mrs. Hannaford that state of things alters. It looks as though the murderer had placed the notes in circulation again.”
“It does, certainly. Have you traced back any of the other notes that have come in?”
“Yes; but they have been cleverly worked. They have nearly all been circulated in the betting ring; those that have not have come in from money-changers in Paris and Rotterdam. My own belief is that before long the whole of those notes will come back to the bank.”
“Then, my dear Dorcas, it seems to me that your course is plain, and you ought to go to the police and ask them to get the bank to circulate a list of the notes.”
“Dorcas shook her head. “No, t
hank you,” she said. “I’m going to carry this case through on my own account. The police are convinced that the murderer is Mr. Hannaford, who is at present in Broadmoor, and the bank has absolutely no reason to interfere. No question has been raised of the notes having been stolen. They were paid to the man who died over ten years ago, not to the woman who was murdered last January.”
“But you have traced one note to Flash George, who is a bad lot, and he was near the house on the night of the tragedy. You suspect Flash George and——”
“I do not suspect Flash George of the actual murder,” she said, “and I don’t see how he is to be arrested for being in possession of a banknote which forms no part of the police case, and which he might easily say he had received in the betting ring.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Follow up the clue I have. I have been shadowing Flash George all the time I have been away. I know where he lives—I know who are his companions.”
“And do you think the murderer is among them?”
“No. They are all a little astonished at his sudden good fortune. I have heard them ‘chip’ him, as they call it, on the subject. I have carried my investigations up to a certain point and there they stop short. I am going a step further to-morrow evening, and it is in that step that I want assistance.”
“And you have come to me?” I said eagerly.
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“To-morrow morning I am going to make a thorough examination of the room in which the murder was committed. To-morrow evening I have to meet a gentleman of whom I know nothing but his career and his name. I want you to accompany me.”
“Certainly; but if I am your assistant in the evening I shall expect to be your assistant in the morning—I should very much like to see the scene of the crime.”
“I have no objection. The house on Haverstock Hill is at present shut up and in charge of a caretaker, but the solicitors who are managing the late Mrs. Hannaford’s estate have given me permission to go over it and examine it.”