“You must be mistaken.”
“So sure am I, that I want your help. You are returning to Rowland’s Folly?”
“Tonight.”
“And Miss Ripley?”
“She goes with me. We meet at Euston for the six o’clock train.”
“So far, good. By the way, has Rowland spoken to you lately about the pearl necklace?”
“No; why do you ask?”
“Because I understand that it was his intention to have the pearls slightly altered and reset in order to fit Miss Ripley’s slender throat; also to have a diamond clasp affixed in place of the somewhat insecure one at present attached to the string of pearls. Messrs. Theodore and Mark, of Bond Street, were to undertake the commission. All was in preparation, and a messenger, accompanied by two detectives, was to go to Rowland’s Folly to fetch the treasure, when the whole thing was countermanded, Rowland having changed his mind and having decided that the strong-room at the Folly was the best place in which to keep the necklace.”
“He has not mentioned the subject to me,” I said. “How do you know?”
“I have my emissaries. One thing is certain—little Miss Ripley is to wear the pearls on her wedding-day—and the Italian family, distant relatives of the present Duke of Genoa, to whom the pearls belonged, and from whom they were stolen shortly before the Battle of Agincourt, are again taking active steps to secure them. You have heard the story of the American millionaire? Well, that was a blind—the necklace was in reality to be delivered into the hands of the old family as soon as he had purchased it. Now, Druce, this is the state of things: Madame Sara is an adventuress, and the cleverest woman in the world—Miss Ripley is very young and ignorant. Miss Ripley is to wear the pearls on her wedding-day—and Madame wants them. You can infer the rest.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Go back and watch. If you see anything to arouse suspicion, wire to me.”
“What about telling Rowland?”
“I would rather not consult him. I want to protect Miss Ripley, and at the same time to get Madame into my power. She managed to elude us last time, but she shall not this. My idea is to inveigle her to her ruin. Why, Druce, the woman is being more trusted and run after and admired day by day. She appeals to the greatest foibles of the world. She knows some valuable secrets, and is an adept in the art of restoring beauty and to a certain extent conquering the ravages of time. She is at present aided by an Arab, one of the most dangerous men I have ever seen, with the subtlety of a serpent, and legerdemain in every one of his ten fingers. It is not an easy thing to entrap her.”
“And yet you mean to do it?”
“Someday—someday. Perhaps now.”
His eyes were bright. I had seldom seen him look more excited.
After a short time I left him. Miss Ripley met me at Euston. She was silent and unresponsive and looked depressed. Once I saw her put her hand to her neck.
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“You might be a doctor, Mr. Druce, from your question.”
“But answer me,” I said.
She was silent for a minute; then she said, slowly:—
“You are good, and I think I ought to tell you. But will you regard it as a secret? You wonder, perhaps, how it is that I don’t wear a low dress in the evening. I will tell you why. On my neck, just below the throat, there grew a wart or mole—large, brown, and ugly. The Italian doctors would not remove it on account of the position. It lies just over what they said was an aberrant artery, and the removal might cause very dangerous haemorrhage. One day Madame saw it; she said the doctors were wrong, and that she could easily take it away and leave no mark behind. I hesitated for a long time, but yesterday, when Lady Kennedy spoke to me as she did, I made up my mind. I wired to Madame and went to her today. She gave me chloroform and removed the mole. My neck is bandaged up and it smarts a little. I am not to remove the bandage until she sees me again. She is very pleased with the result, and says that my neck will now be beautiful like other women’s, and that I can on the night of the ball wear the lovely Brussels lace dress that Lady Kennedy has given me. That is my secret. Will you respect it?”
I promised, and soon afterwards we reached the end of our journey.
A few days went by. One morning at breakfast I noticed that the little signora only played with her food. An open letter lay by her plate. Rowland, by whose side she always sat, turned to her.
“What is the matter, Antonia?” he said. “Have you had an unpleasant letter?”
“It is from—”
“From whom, dear?”
“Madame Sara.”
“What did I hear you say?” cried Lady Kennedy.
“I have had a letter from Madame Sara, Lady Kennedy.”
“That shocking woman in the Strand—that adventuress? My dear, is it possible that you know her? Her name is in the mouth of everyone. She is quite notorious.”
Instantly the room became full of voices, some talking loudly, some gently, but all praising Madame Sara. Even the men took her part; as to the women, they were unanimous about her charms and her genius.
In the midst of the commotion little Antonia burst into a flood of tears and left the room. Rowland followed her. What next occurred I cannot tell, but in the course of the morning I met Lady Kennedy.
“Well,” she said, “that child has won, as I knew she would. Madame Sara wishes to come here, and George says that Antonia’s friend is to be invited. I shall be glad when the marriage is over and I can get out of this. It is really detestable that in the last days of my reign I should have to give that woman the entrée to the house.”
She left me, and I wandered into the entrance hall. There I saw Rowland. He had a telegraph form in his hands, on which some words were written.
“Ah, Druce!” he said. “I am just sending a telegram to the station. What! do you want to send one too?”
For I had seated myself by the table which held the telegraph forms.
“If you don’t think I am taking too great a liberty, Rowland,” I said, suddenly, “I should like to ask a friend of mine here for a day or two.”
“Twenty friends, if you like, my dear Druce. What a man you are to apologize about such a trifle! Who is the special friend?”
“No less a person than Eric Vandeleur, the police-surgeon for Westminster.”
“What! Vandeleur—the gayest, jolliest man I have ever met! Would he care to come?”
Rowland’s eyes were sparkling with excitement.
“I think so; more especially if you will give me leave to say that you would welcome him.”
“Tell him he shall have a thousand welcomes, the best room in the house, the best horse. Get him to come by all means, Druce.”
Our two telegrams were sent off. In the course of the morning replies in the affirmative came to each.
That evening Madame Sara arrived. She came by the last train. The brougham was sent to meet her. She entered the house shortly before midnight. I was standing in the hall when she arrived, and I felt a momentary sense of pleasure when I saw her start as her eyes met mine. But she was not a woman to be caught off her guard. She approached me at once with outstretched hand and an eager voice.
“This is charming, Mr. Druce,” she said. “I do not think anything pleases me more.” Then she added, turning to Rowland, “Mr. Dixon Druce is a very old friend of mine.”
Rowland gave me a bewildered glance. Madame turned and began to talk to her hostess. Antonia was standing near one of the open drawing-rooms. She had on a soft dress of pale green silk. I had seldom seen a more graceful little creature. But the expression of her face disturbed me. It wore now the fascinated look of a bird when a snake attracts it. Could Madame Sara be the snake? Was Antonia afraid of this woman?
The next day Lady Kennedy came to me with a conf
idence.
“I am glad your police friend is coming,” she said. “It will be safer.”
“Vandeleur arrives at twelve o’clock,” was my answer.
“Well, I am pleased. I like that woman less and less. I was amazed when she dared to call you her friend.”
“Oh, we have met before on business,” I answered, guardedly.
“You won’t tell me anything further, Mr. Druce?”
“You must excuse me, Lady Kennedy.”
“Her assurance is unbounded,” continued the good lady. “She has brought a maid or nurse with her—a most extraordinary-looking woman. That, perhaps, is allowable; but she has also brought her black servant, an Arabian, who goes by the name of Achmed. I must say he is a picturesque creature with his quaint Oriental dress. He was all in flaming yellow this morning, and the embroidery on his jacket was worth a small fortune. But it is the daring of the woman that annoys me. She goes on as though she were somebody.”
“She is a very emphatic somebody,” I could not help replying. “London Society is at her feet.”
“I only hope that Antonia will take her remedies and let her go. The woman has no welcome from me,” said the indignant mistress of Rowland’s Folly.
I did not see anything of Antonia that morning, and at the appointed time I went down to the station to meet Vandeleur. He arrived in high spirits, did not ask a question with regard to Antonia, received the information that Madame Sara was in the house with stolid silence, and seemed intent on the pleasures of the moment.
“Rowland’s Folly!” he said, looking round him as we approached one of the finest houses in the whole of Yorkshire. “A folly, truly, and yet a pleasant one, Druce, eh? I fancy,” he added, with a slight smile, “that I am going to have a good time here.”
“I hope you will disentangle a most tangled skein,” was my reply.
He shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly his manner altered.
“Who is that woman?” he said, with a strain of anxiety quite apparent in his voice.
“Who?” I asked.
“That woman on the terrace in nurse’s dress.”
“I don’t know. She has been brought here by Madame Sara—a sort of maid and nurse as well. I suppose poor little Antonia will be put under her charge.”
“Don’t let her see me, Druce, that’s all. Ah, here is our host.”
Vandeleur quickened his movements, and the next instant was shaking hands with Rowland.
The rest of the day passed without adventure. I did not see Antonia. She did not even appear at dinner. Rowland, however, assured me that she was taking necessary rest and would be all right on the morrow. He seemed inclined to be gracious to Madame Sara, and was annoyed at his sister’s manner to their guest.
Soon after dinner, as I was standing in one of the smoking-rooms, I felt a light hand on my arm, and, turning, encountered the splendid pose and audacious, bright, defiant glance of Madame herself.
“Mr. Druce,” she said, “just one moment. It is quite right that you and I should be plain with each other. I know the reason why you are here. You have come for the express purpose of spying upon me and spoiling what you consider my game. But understand, Mr. Druce, that there is danger to yourself when you interfere with the schemes of one like me. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Someone came into the room and Madame left it.
The ball was but a week off, and preparations for the great event were taking place. Attached to the house at the left was a great room built for this purpose.
Rowland and I were walking down this room on a special morning; he was commenting on its architectural merits and telling me what band he intended to have in the musicians’ gallery, when Antonia glided into the room.
“How pale you are, little Tonia!” he said.
This was his favourite name for her. He put his hand under her chin, raised her sweet, blushing face, and looked into her eyes.
“Ah, you want my answer. What a persistent little puss it is! You shall have your way, Tonia—yes, certainly. For you I will grant what has never been granted before. All the same, what will my lady say?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“But you will let me wear them whether she is angry or not?” persisted Antonia.
“Yes, child, I have said it.”
She took his hand and raised it to her lips, then, with a curtsy, tripped out of the room.
“A rare, bright little bird,” he said, turning to me. “Do you know, I feel that I have done an extraordinarily good thing for myself in securing little Antonia. No troublesome mamma-in-law—no brothers and sisters, not my own and yet emphatically mine to consider—just the child herself. I am very happy and a very lucky fellow. I am glad my little girl has no past history. She is just her dear little, dainty self, no more and no less.”
“What did she want with you now?” I asked.
“Little witch,” he said, with a laugh. “The pearls—the pearls. She insists on wearing the great necklace on the night of the ball. Dear little girl. I can fancy how the baubles will gleam and shine on her fair throat.”
I made no answer, but I was certain that little Antonia’s request did not emanate from herself. I thought that I would search for Vandeleur and tell him of the circumstance, but the next remark of Rowland’s nipped my project in the bud.
“By the way, your friend has promised to be back for dinner. He left here early this morning.”
“Vandeleur?” I cried.
“Yes, he has gone to town. What a first-rate fellow he is!”
“He tells a good story,” I answered.
“Capital. Who would suspect him of being the greatest criminal expert of the day? But, thank goodness, we have no need of his services at Rowland’s Folly.”
Late in the evening Vandeleur returned. He entered the house just before dinner. I observed by the brightness of his eyes and the intense gravity of his manner that he was satisfied with himself. This in his case was always a good sign. At dinner he was his brightest self, courteous to everyone, and to Madame Sara in particular.
Late that night, as I was preparing to go to bed, he entered my room without knocking.
“Well, Druce,” he said, “it is all right.”
“All right!” I cried; “what do you mean?”
“You will soon know. The moment I saw that woman I had my suspicions. I was in town today making some very interesting inquiries. I am primed now on every point. Expect a dénouement of a startling character very soon, but be sure of one thing—however black appearances may be the little bride is safe, and so are the pearls.”
He left me without waiting for my reply.
The next day passed, and the next. I seemed to live on tenter-hooks. Little Antonia was gay and bright like a bird. Madame’s invitation had been extended by Lady Kennedy at Rowland’s command to the day after the ball—little Antonia skipped when she heard it.
“I love her,” said the girl.
More and more guests arrived—the days flew on wings—the evenings were lively. Madame was a power in herself. Vandeleur was another. These two, sworn foes at heart, aided and abetted each other to make things go brilliantly for the rest of the guests. Rowland was in the highest spirits.
At last the evening before the ball came and went. Vandeleur’s grand coup had not come off. I retired to bed as usual. The night was a stormy one—rain rattled against the window-panes, the wind sighed and shuddered. I had just put out my candle and was about to seek forgetfulness in sleep when once again in his unceremonious fashion Vandeleur burst into my room.
“I want you at once, Druce, in the bed-room of Madame Sara’s servant. Get into your clothes as fast as you possibly can and join me there.”
He left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. I hastily dressed, and with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, to the acc
ompaniment of the ever-increasing tempest, sought the room in question.
I found it brightly lighted; Vandeleur pacing the floor as though he himself were the very spirit of the storm; and, most astonishing sight of all, the nurse whom Madame Sara had brought to Rowland’s Folly, and whose name I had never happened to hear, gagged and bound in a chair drawn into the centre of the room.
“So I think that is all, nurse,” said Vandeleur, as I entered. “Pray take a chair, Druce. We quite understand each other, don’t we, nurse, and the facts are wonderfully simple. Your name as entered in the archives of crime at Westminster is not as you have given out, Mary Jessop, but Rebecca Curt. You escaped from Portland prison on the night of November thirtieth, just a year ago. You could not have managed your escape but for the connivance of the lady in whose service you are now. Your crime was forgery, with a strong and very daring attempt at poisoning. Your victim was a harmless invalid lady. Your knowledge of crime, therefore, is what may be called extensive. There are yet eleven years of your sentence to run. You have doubtless served Madame Sara well—but perhaps you can serve me better. You know the consequence if you refuse, for I explained that to you frankly and clearly before this gentleman came into the room. Druce, will you oblige me—will you lock the door while I remove the gag from the prisoner’s mouth?”
I hurried to obey. The woman breathed more freely when the gag was removed. Her face was a swarthy red all over. Her crooked eyes favoured us with many shifty glances.
“Now, then, have the goodness to begin, Rebecca Curt,” said Vandeleur. “Tell us everything you can.”
She swallowed hard, and said:—
“You have forced me—”
“We won’t mind that part,” interrupted Vandeleur. “The story, please, Mrs. Curt.”
If looks could kill, Rebecca Curt would have killed Vandeleur then. He gave her in return a gentle, bland glance, and she started on her narrative.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 190