by Unknown
The next day at eleven o’clock I met Dorcas outside Mrs. Hannaford’s house, and the caretaker, who had received his instructions, admitted us. He was the gardener, and an old servant, and had been present during the police investigation.
The bedroom in which Mr. Hannaford and his wife slept on the fatal night was on the floor above. Dorcas told me to go upstairs, shut the door, lie down on the bed, and listen. Directly a noise in the room below attracted my attention, I was to jump up, open the door and call out.
I obeyed her instructions and listened intently, but lying on the bed I heard nothing for a long time. It must have been quite a quarter of an hour when suddenly I heard a sound as of a door opening with a cracking sound. I leapt up, ran to the balusters, and called over, “I heard that!”
“All right, then, come down,” said Dorcas, who was standing in the hall with the caretaker.
She explained to me that she had been moving about the drawing-room with the man, and they had both made as much noise with their feet as they could. They had even opened and shut the drawing-room door, but nothing had attracted my attention. Then Dorcas had sent the man to open the front door. It had opened with the cracking sound that I had heard.
“Now,” said Dorcas to the caretaker, “you were here when the police were coming and going—did the front door always make a sound like that?”
“Yes, madam. The door had swollen or warped, or something, and it was always difficult to open. Mrs. Hannaford spoke about it once and was going to have it eased.”
“That’s it, then,” said Dorcas to me. “The probability is that it was the noise made by the opening of that front door which first attracted the attention of the murdered woman.”
“That was Hannaford going out—if his story is correct.”
“No; Hannaford went out in a range. He would pull the door open violently, and probably bang it to. That she would understand. It was when the door opened again with a sharp crack that she listened, thinking it was her husband come back.”
“But she was murdered in the drawing-room!”
“Yes. My theory, therefore, is that after the opening of the front door she expected her husband to come upstairs. He didn’t do so, and she concluded that he had gone into one of the rooms downstairs to spend the night, and she got up and came down to find him and ask him to get over his temper and come back to bed. She went into the drawing-room to see if he was there, and was struck down from behind before she had time to utter a cry. The servants heard nothing, remember.”
“They said so at the inquest—yes.”
“Now come into the drawing-room. This is where the caretaker tells me the body was found—here in the centre of the room—the poker with which the fatal blow had been struck was lying between the body and the fireplace. The absence of a cry and the position of the body show that when Mrs. Hannaford opened the door she saw no one (I am of course presuming that the murderer was not her husband) and she came in further. But there must have been some one in the room or she couldn’t have been murdered in it.”
“That is indisputable; but he might not have been in the room at the time—the person might have been hiding in the hall and followed her in.”
“To suppose that we must presume that the murderer came into the room, took the poker from the fireplace, and went out again in order to come in again. That poker was secured, I am convinced, when the intruder heard footsteps coming down the stair. He picked up the poker and then concealed himself here.”
“Then why, my dear Dorcas, shouldn’t he have remained concealed until Mrs. Hannaford had gone out of the room again?”
“I think she was turning to go when he rushed out and struck her down. He probably thought that she had heard the noise of the door, and might go and alarm the servants.”
“But just now you said she came in believing that her husband had returned and was in one of the rooms.”
“The intruder could hardly be in possession of her thoughts.”
“In the meantime he could have got out at the front door.”
‘Yes; but if his object was robbery he would have to go without the plunder. He struck the woman down in order to have time to get what he wanted.”
“Then you think he left her here senseless while he searched the house?”
“Nobody got anything by searching the house, ma’am,” broke in the caretaker. “The police satisfied themselves that nothing had been disturbed. Every door was locked, the plate was all complete, not a bit of jewellery or anything was missing. The servants were all examined about that, and the detectives went over every room and every cupboard to prove it wasn’t no burglar broke in or anything of that sort. Besides, the windows were all fastened.”
“What he says is quite true,” said Dorcas to me, “but something alarmed Mrs. Hannaford in the night and brought her to the drawing-room in her nightdress. If it was, as I suspect, the opening of the front door, that is how the guilty person got in.”
“The caretaker shook his head. ”It was the poor master as did it, ma’am, right enough. He was out of his mind.”
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. “If he had done it, it would have been a furious attack, there would have been oaths and cries, and the poor lady would have received a rain of blows. The medical evidence shows that death resulted from one heavy blow on the back of the skull. But let us see where the murderer could have concealed himself ready armed with the poker here in the drawing-room.”
In front of the drawing-room window were heavy curtains, and I at once suggested that curtains were the usual place of concealment on the stage and might be in real life.
As soon as I had asked the question Dorcas turned to the caretaker. “You are certain that every article of furniture is in its place exactly as it was that night?”
“Yes; the police prepared a plan of the room for the trial, and since then by the solicitors’ orders we have not touched a thing.”
“That settles the curtains then,” continued Dorcas. “Look at the windows for yourself. In front of one, close by the curtains, is an ornamental table covered with china and glass and bric-à-brac; and in front of the other a large settee. No man could have come from behind those curtains without shifting that furniture out of his way. That would have immediately attracted Mrs. Hannaford’s attention and given her time to scream and rush out of the room. No, we must find some other place for the assassin. Ah!—I wonder if—”
Dorcas’s eyes were fixed on a large brown bear which stood nearly against the wall by the fireplace. The bear, a very fine, big specimen, was supported in its upright position by an ornamental iron pole, at the top of which was fixed an oil lamp covered with a yellow silk shade.
“That’s a fine bear lamp,” exclaimed Dorcas.
“Yes,” said the caretaker, “it’s been here ever since I’ve been in the family’s service. It was bought by the poor mistress’s first husband, Mr. Drayson, and he thought a lot of it. But,” he added, looking at it curiously, “I always thought it stood closer to the wall than that. It used to—right against it.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Dorcas, “that’s interesting. Pull the curtains right back and give me all the light you can.”
As the man obeyed her directions she went down on her hands and knees and examined the carpet carefully.
“You are right,” she said. “This has been moved a little forward, and not so very long ago—the carpet for a square of some inches is a different colour to the rest. The brown bear stands on a square mahogany stand, and the exact square now shows in the colour of the carpet that has been hidden by it. Only here is a discoloured portion and the bear does not now stand on it.”
The evidence of the bear having been moved forward from a position it had long occupied was indisputable. Dorcas got up and went to the door of the drawing-room.
“Go and stand behind that bear,” she said. “Stand as compact as you can, as though you were endeavouring to conceal yourself.”
“I obeyed, and D
orcas, standing in the drawing-room doorway, declared that I was completely hidden.
“Now,” she said, coming to the centre of the room and turning her back to me, “reach down from where you are and see if you can pick up the shovel from the fire-place without making a noise.”
I reached out carefully and had the shovel in my hand without making a sound.
“I have it,” I said.
“That’s right. The poker would have been on the same side as the shovel, and much easier to pick up quietly. Now, while my back is turned, grasp the shovel by the handle, leap out at me, and raise the shovel as if to hit me—but don’t get excited and do it, because I don’t want to realize the scene too completely.”
I obeyed. My footsteps were scarcely heard on the heavy-pile drawing-room carpet. When Dorcas turned round the shovel was above her head ready to strike.
“Thank you for letting me off,” she said, with a smile. Then her face becoming serious again, she exclaimed: “The murderer of Mrs. Hannaford concealed himself behind that brown bear lamp, and attacked her in exactly the way I have indicated. But why had he moved the bear two or three inches forward?”
“To conceal himself behind it.”
“Nonsense! His concealment was a sudden act. That bear is heavy—the glass chimney of the lamp would have rattled if it had been done violently and hurriedly while Mrs. Hannaford was coming downstairs—that would have attracted her attention and she would have called out, ‘Who’s there?’ at the doorway, and not have come in looking about for her husband.”
Dorcas looked the animal over carefully, prodded it with her fingers, and then went behind it.
After a minute or two’s close examination, she uttered a little cry and called me to her side.
She had found in the back of the bear a small straight slit. This was quite invisible. She had only discovered it by an accidentally violent thrust of her fingers into the animal’s fur. Into this slit she thrust her hand, and the aperture yielded sufficiently for her to thrust her arm in. The interior of the bear was hollow, but Dorcas’s hand as it went down struck against a wooden bottom. Then she withdrew her arm and the aperture closed up. It had evidently been specially prepared as a place of concealment, and only the most careful examination would have revealed it.
“Now,” exclaimed Dorcas, triumphantly, “I think we are on a straight road! This, I believe, is where those missing bank-notes lay concealed for years. They were probably placed there by Mr. Drayson with the idea that some day his frauds might be discovered or he might be made a bankrupt. This was his little nest-egg, and his death in Paris before his fraud was discovered prevented him making use of them. Mrs. Hannaford evidently knew nothing of the hidden treasure, or she would speedily have removed it. But some one knew, and that some one put his knowledge to practical use the night that Mrs. Hannaford was murdered. The man who got in. at the front door that night, got in to relieve the bear of its valuable stuffing; he moved the bear to get at the aperture, and was behind it when Mrs. Hannaford came in. The rest is easy to understand.”
“But how did he get in at the front door?”
“That’s what I have to find out. I am sure now that Flash George was in it. He was seen outside, and some of the notes that were concealed in the brown bear lamp have been traced to him. Who was Flash George’s accomplice we may discover to-night. I think I have an idea, and if that is correct we shall have the solution of the whole mystery before dawn to-morrow morning.”
“Why do you think you will learn so much to-night?”
“Because Flash George met a man two nights ago outside the Criterion. I was selling wax matches, and followed them up, pestering them. I heard George say to his companion, whom I had never seen with him before, ‘Tell him Hungerford Bridge, midnight, Wednesday. Tell him to bring the lot and I’ll cash up for them!’”
“And you think the ‘him’——?”
“Is the man who rifled the brown bear and killed Mrs. Hannaford.”
At eleven o’clock that evening I met Dorcas Dene in Villiers Street. I knew what she would be like, otherwise her disguise would have completely baffled me. She was dressed as an Italian street musician, and was with a man who looked like an Italian organ-grinder.
Dorcas took my breath away by her first words.
“Allow me to introduce you,” she said, “to Mr. Thomas Holmes. This is the gentleman who was Charles Drayson’s partner, and was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude over the partnership frauds.”
“Yes,” replied the organ-grinder in excellent English. “I suppose I deserved it for being a fool, but the villain was Drayson—he had all my money, and involved me in a fraud at the finish.”
“I have told Mr. Holmes the story of our discovery,” said Dorcas. “I have been in communication with him ever since I discovered the notes were in circulation. He knew Drayson’s affairs, and he has given me some valuable information. He is with us to-night because he knew Mr. Drayson’s former associates, and he may be able to identify the man who knew the secret of the house at Haverstock Hill.”
“You think that is the man Flash George is to meet?”
“I do. What else can ‘Tell him to bring the lot and I’ll cash up’ mean but the rest of the bank-notes?”
Shortly before twelve we got on to Hungerford Bridge—the narrow footway that runs across the Thames by the side of the railway.
I was to walk ahead and keep clear of the Italians until I heard a signal.
We crossed the bridge after that once or twice, I coming from one end and the Italians from the other, and passing each other about the centre.
At five minutes to midnight I saw Flash George come slowly along from the Middlesex side. The Italians were not far behind. A minute later an old man with a grey beard, and wearing an old Inverness cape, passed me, coming from the Surrey side. When he met Flash George the two stopped and leant over the parapet, apparently interested in the river. Suddenly I heard Dorcas’s signal. She began to sing the Italian song, “Santa Lucia.”
I had my instructions. I jostled up against the two men and begged their pardon.
Flash George turned fiercely round. At the same moment I seized the old man and shouted for help. The Italians came hastily up. Several foot passengers rushed to the scene and inquired what was the matter.
“He was going to commit suicide,” I cried. “He was just going to jump into the water.”
The old man was struggling in my grasp. The crowd were keeping back Flash George. They believed the old man was struggling to get free to throw himself into the water.
The Italian rushed up to me.
“Ah, poor old man!” he said. “Don’t let him get away!”
He gave a violent tug to the grey beard. It came off in his hands. Then with an oath he seized the supposed would-be suicide by the throat.
“You infernal villain!” he said.
“Who is he?” asked Dorcas.
“Who is he!” exclaimed Thomas Holmes, “why, the villain who brought me to ruin—my precious partner—Charles Drayson!”
As the words escaped from the supposed Italian’s lips, Charles Drayson gave a cry of terror, and leaping on to the parapet, plunged into the river.
Flash George turned to run, but was stopped by a policeman who had just come up.
Dorcas whispered something in the man’s ear, and the officer, thrusting his hand in the rascal’s pocket, drew out a bundle of bank-notes.
A few minutes later the would-be suicide was brought ashore. He was still alive, but had injured himself terribly in his fall, and was taken to the hospital.
Before he died he was induced to confess that he had taken advantage of the Paris fire to disappear. He had flung his watch down in order that it might be found as evidence of his death. He had, previously to visiting the rue Jean Goujon, received a letter at his hotel which told him pretty plainly the game was up, and he knew that at any moment a warrant might be issued against him. After reading his name amongst th
e victims, he lived as best he could abroad, but after some years, being in desperate straits, he determined to do a bold thing, return to London and endeavour to get into his house and obtain possession of the money which was lying unsuspected in the interior of the brown bear lamp. He had concealed it, well knowing that at any time the crash might come, and everything belonging to him be seized. The hiding-place he had selected was one which neither his creditors nor his relatives would suspect.
On the night he entered the house, Flash George, whose acquaintance he had made in London, kept watch for him while he let himself in with his latch-key, which he had carefully preserved. Mr. Hannaford’s leaving the house was one of those pieces of good fortune which occasionally favour the wicked.
With his dying breath Charles Drayson declared that he had no intention of killing his wife. He feared that, having heard a noise, she had come to see what it was, and might alarm the house in her terror, and as she turned to go out of the drawing-room he struck her, intending only to render her senseless until he had secured the booty.
Mr. Hannaford, completely recovered and in his right mind, was in due time released from Broadmoor. The letter from his mother to Dorcas Dene, thanking her for clearing her son’s character and proving his innocence of the terrible crime for which he had been practically condemned, brought tears to my eyes as Dorcas read it aloud to Paul and myself. It was touching and beautiful to a degree.
As she folded it up and put it away, I saw that Dorcas herself was deeply moved.
“These are the rewards of my profession,” she said. “They compensate for everything.”
R. Austin Freeman
(1862–1943)
RICHARD AUSTIN FREEMAN was one of the most important writers of detective fiction. He created Dr. John Thorndyke, the first genuine scientific detective (Holmes talked about science but seldom used it in his cases), and he invented the “inverted detective story,” in which the reader sees the crime committed, and the interest is in how the detective links the crime with its perpetrator. (Readers may be familiar with this structure through the Columbo television series.) After obtaining his medical degree, Freeman became Assistant Colonial Surgeon on the Gold Coast, West Africa, in 1887. In 1892, having become ill with a parasitic disease, he returned to England. As his health did not allow him to practice medicine regularly, Freeman turned to writing for his livelihood. His first book, Travels and Life in Ashanti and Jaman, appeared in 1898, as did his early short stories for Cassell’s Magazine.