Then Johnson went off to Lincoln & Bennett with the hat, and having ascertained that this eminent firm was in the habit of supplying Sir Clifford Oakleigh with hats, he went a step further, and showed it to Sir Clifford’s butler, who unhesitatingly asserted it to be the one that his master wore when he left the house on Tuesday.
That morning the house-surgeon had telephoned to Harding asking him to come to the hospital at once. The surgeon said:
‘Mr Harding, I don’t know that I’m doing the right thing. Miss Clive is progressing favourably. She is, however, so anxious to see you. She repeats your name so often that I am perhaps justified in allowing you to see her. But only for a few minutes, mind.’
In accents of deep emotion the barrister thanked him.
He was shown into a small but airy and intensely clean room.
Miriam’s white face, with its wealth of black hair streaming from under the bandages, lay upon the pillow. As he entered, the nurse rose. The sound of the opening door roused the patient. Her huge eyes turned towards him.
‘Oh, my darling, my darling!’ he cried.
Her colourless lips did not burst into a smile. She seemed very, very weak. He fancied that the heavy smell of chloroform was struggling with the perfume of the flowers that he had sent her.
She made a motion of her head to summon him to her side.
Very tenderly he bent over her and kissed her. Her lips opened, and she could just say—he thought—‘Dearest.’
With marvellous self-control she managed to speak firmly:
‘Take me home.’
So surprising was the request from one so frail that he could make no answer.
A wild look, a cross between horror and determination, shone in her eyes.
‘Take me home,’ she repeated.
The house-surgeon was standing by the door.
Harding went up to him and said:
‘She asks to be taken home.’
‘Impossible,’ he said, ‘absolutely impossible.’
Miriam’s eyes caught the movement of negation.
‘It would be impossible to move her,’ continued the other. ‘I’m sure she’s comfortable here.’
Harding returned to the bedside.
‘George,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I tell you I must be taken home.’ Then, as though her strength were waning, she uttered in a faint voice, which he just succeeded in catching, these curious words, ‘It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘I’m sure it would be death for you to be moved.’
She said something, but he could not grasp it.
‘What was that you said, dear? What was that about Clifford Oakleigh?’
But she had fainted.
The surgeon looked very grave.
‘I’m afraid your visit hasn’t done her any good,’ he said. ‘I think she has got something on her mind. She is always saying, “What day did the accident take place? What day is it now?” She seems to think I am deceiving her about it.’
CHAPTER XXXIX
AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY
THE papers on Saturday morning were enthusiastic over Johnson’s marvellous discovery of the hat. He became the most popular detective in the kingdom.
‘Ah,’ said one paper practically, ‘Mr Johnson would prefer that a hundred innocent men should be convicted rather than that one guilty man should escape.’
The papers said nothing about P. Barlow. Yet that morning, at six-thirty, Barlow, ever alert, had detected the sound of somebody attempting to open the door. With catlike tread he had gone to the door and suddenly drawn the bolts. A startled old woman, obviously of the charwoman class, stood on the steps, aghast at the sight of a policeman in uniform.
‘Lor’ bless me,’ stammered Mrs Widgeley, ‘what’s ’appened to the door, and ’ow did you get in, constable?’
Barlow produced his notebook.
‘Not so fast, old mother. First of all, name and address, please. No, first of all, you come in, mother.’
Barlow laboriously wrote down the fact that Mrs Widgeley, who proved to be very deaf, lived in George Street Mews, that she was employed as charwoman by Sir Clifford Oakleigh, that she daily arrived at six-thirty and worked till about ten, or until such tune as she had fulfilled her duties.
Suddenly she got tired of interrogation.
‘Say,’ she said, ‘what’s all this talk about Sir Clifford Oakleigh ’aving disappeared?’
Barlow regarded this as a question of a guilty person. Although he did not suppose, one may presume, that she had actually done away with the great surgeon, he rather fancied that she had ‘had a hand in it’, whatever it was.
Fortunately, before he had actually come to the conclusion that it would be a wise scheme to arrest her, the admirable Johnson arrived.
He strictly examined the old woman. All the information, however, that he extracted from her was that occasionally when she arrived in the morning she would find Sir Clifford’s hat on the hat-rack. She would then take up a cup of tea to his room at eight o’clock. That would be the last she would see of him, unless he happened by any chance to pass her on the stairs when she was cleaning up. Sometimes he would sleep in the house for three nights at a time. But his movements were very erratic.
‘Bless me,’ she said, ‘when I come ’ere in the morning, I don’t know whether he’s upstairs in bed no more than the man in the moon.’
‘When did he sleep here last?’
‘I couldn’t say, not being no scholard. It might ’ave been last week or the week before. You see, it’s only a matter of making a bed if ’e’s ’ere, so it’s not the sort of thing one would be expected to remember.’
Though pressed to the utmost of Johnson’s ability, she could not be more definite.
‘But were you not,’ he inquired with knitted brows, ‘somewhat surprised when you heard that he had disappeared?’
‘No, I wasn’t. You see it’s this way. He’s always disappearing as you might say. In fact, he disappeared twice for every once that he appeared; if you take my meaning.’
Johnson tried to take her meaning.
Barlow took her meaning—in writing—all wrong.
Johnson came to the conclusion that it was no use wasting further time with the old woman.
In the course of the next few days public opinion became less favourable with regard to the merits of Johnson. The greatest of all surgeons disappears. The matter is placed in the hands of Inspector Johnson. He fails to find the greatest of all surgeons. Johnson is not so bright as we thought him.
A certain interest was now aroused in Miss Clive. A beautiful woman, engaged to one of the most brilliant men at the Bar, owing to a motor accident is crippled for life. The public wanted to talk about that. This terrible disaster was due to a motor bus. People wanted to say unpleasant things about motor buses.
Twice daily Harding called at the Charing Cross Hospital. Whenever he was allowed to see Miriam, she repeated her request to be taken home. The house-surgeon informed him that the poor girl became hysterical in her demand to be taken home. This absurd desire must, in his opinion, retard her recovery. Harding urged her to be resigned. He implored her to explain why she wanted to be taken home. Had she any fault to find with the Charing Cross Hospital?
Petulantly she cried, ‘No, no.’
She did not complain of pain. She did not seem affected at the terrible outrage that had been inflicted on her body. The prospect of being a cripple for life did not seem to worry her. Her sole desire was to be taken home, ‘Before it is too late.’ She was for ever asking what was the day on which the accident occurred, and calculating the number of days that had passed up till now. The white fingers were constantly tapping the bedclothes, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and so on. It was a terrible time for Harding. He hated to go to his club because he was tired of sympathy.
But one evening as he was in White’s, nominally reading the Saturday Review but actually thinking of Miriam and her
terrible position, a man came up to him with a face tense with excitement.
‘I say, do you see that they’ve found the body of Clifford Oakleigh?’
Harding jumped from his chair.
‘No. Where? The body? Dead? You say Clifford is dead?’
‘He has been dead some days. They found the body in a house in Pembroke Street.’
‘Good heavens! What has happened?’
The man explained. He was a bore who rarely found it impossible to obtain a listener and who enjoyed his explanation.
The gist of it was this:
The servants in a certain house had detected a curious smell for which drains could not be held responsible. The butler had gone to Vine Street police-station; detectives had examined the house and had located the smell. It came from a secret cupboard on the ground floor.
‘Secret cupboard!’ exclaimed the K.C., incredulously. ‘People don’t have secret cupboards nowadays. Whose house is it?’
‘Bless me, I forget for the moment. But it’s in the evening papers. Ah, I remember now. It is 69 Pembroke Street. The house of a Miss Clive, I think it was.’
Harding sank back in his chair, ashen white.
CHAPTER XL
MIRIAM’S DEFENCE
IN a few minutes he pulled himself together and rushed out of the club. He jumped into a hansom and drove to Charing Cross Hospital. There he found the house-surgeon.
‘I must see Miss Clive at once,’ said he.
The other shook his head.
‘I’m afraid it’s impossible, Mr Harding.’
‘She’s not worse?’ he inquired.
‘No, she’s not worse. In fact, she’s doing very well.’
‘Then why can’t I see her? I insist on seeing her.’
‘We have strict orders from the police that no one is to be allowed in her room, except, of course, the staff.’
‘Good God, why?’ he inquired.
‘Surely, surely, Mr Harding, you, as a barrister…’
He gasped.
‘You don’t mean to say that the police suspect her?’
‘My dear sir, I know nothing. I only know what I have read in the papers. Of course, at the inquest tomorrow some light may be thrown on the affair.’
They were standing in the hall. The whole horror flashed on Harding. Miriam might be tried for murder. Of course, she was innocent. But she would be tried…in all probability she would be tried. The moment had come for action. No effort must be spared. He himself would attend the inquest in her interest. But he must see her first. He would go to the Home Secretary and get a special order. The house-surgeon was too much a man of the world to make any attempt at consolation. He saw in front of him a stern, gaunt man prepared to face the situation.
At that moment Johnson, accompanied by Barlow, entered.
The house-surgeon nodded to him.
‘Johnson,’ said the K.C., ‘I presume you have this case in hand.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understand that no one is allowed to see Miss Clive.’
‘No one, sir.’
‘I don’t know whether you are aware that I’m engaged to this lady?’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘Under the circumstances, I don’t see how you can object to my seeing her.’
Johnson reflected for a moment. He spoke to the house-surgeon.
‘Does Miss Clive know that Sir Clifford Oakleigh is dead?’
‘Yes. One of the nurses told her.’
‘The devil!’ exclaimed the detective.
Barlow was on the point of taking a note of the exclamation.
‘No, you needn’t put that down, you fool.’
It appeared to Johnson that it would not be an unwise thing for her fiancé to be present…when he did what he had to do.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that I should object to your seeing Miss Clive. But, of course, you must not go near her.’
‘Why the dickens not? She’s not under arrest. You policemen are taking too much upon yourselves.’
‘She is not under arrest now,’ replied Johnson, slowly.
The man’s tone irritated the K.C. He felt too impatient to speak to him.
‘Let us go up at once,’ he said to the house-surgeon.
‘Certainly.’ And he led the way to the patient’s room.
When they were outside it, Johnson stepped forward.
‘Excuse me, I must go first.’
Harding noticed a woman of the respectable caretaker type standing by Barlow’s side. He shot a look of interrogation at the detective.
‘Is she also of our party?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then Johnson opened the door.
Miriam, as she lay in her bed, looked even paler than when Harding had seen her last. There was in her eyes an expression of terror. The nurse rose, Johnson walked forward to the bed and stood at its side. He turned round, and motioned to the others to remain by the door.
‘Miss Clive,’ he said, producing a document from his pocket, ‘I hold a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Sir Clifford Oakleigh at 69 Pembroke Street.’
Harding shot forward. It seemed as though he was about to strike the detective. Miriam, in a faint voice that betrayed no surprise, merely said:
‘I understand.’
Barlow made a note which afterwards read ‘I don’t understand.’
The nurse burst into tears.
‘Oh, dear, poor thing!’ she said, and sank into a chair in a huddled heap.
Then Johnson, in the ordinary way, cautioned the prisoner.
Her answer was, ‘I have nothing to say at present.’
Barlow took this down more or less correctly, with a view to altering it afterwards.
During this scene Harding’s eyes had been fixed on Miriam. He had had a great experience of criminals. But he could not for the life of him adduce anything from the demeanour of this frail woman. He kept an open mind. He marvelled at her self-control, but he could not form any conclusion as to whether it indicated guilt or innocence.
‘May I,’ she said in a voice that just reached him, ‘speak to Mr Harding?’
‘Certainly,’ was the detective’s answer.
Harding approached nearer to the bed. By straining every nerve he could just hear her say:
‘Dear George, I want you to keep that little gold heart in memory of me. It is among my things…I was wearing it when the accident happened.’
She wanted to say more but her strength failed.
‘I suppose there’s no objection to that?’ asked Harding.
‘Oh, no, sir. It can’t have any bearing on the charge.’
‘Now,’ said Harding, ‘I presume the ordinary procedure will be followed in this case.’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ And he beckoned to the lady of the respectable caretaker type.
‘I have brought Mrs Parish, one of our most discreet warderesses. She will, of course, always remain in the room until she is relieved. Mrs Parish, you understand that nothing is to be done to inconvenience the…’ He was on the point of saying the ‘prisoner’, but substituted ‘lady’.
Mrs Parish curtseyed.
Then Harding spoke to Miriam.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘I will myself appear for you at the inquest tomorrow. You may rely on me to refute this monstrous charge.’
‘Thank you, George. I am absolutely innocent.’
Then he turned to the detective.
‘As I shall defend Miss Clive—of course, it will be weeks before she can possibly appear at the police-court—I shall have, I suppose, every facility for seeing her?’
‘Only, sir, in the presence of Mrs Parish.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he replied impatiently, ‘but not in the hearing of Mrs Parish.’
Johnson whispered to him.
‘Well, you see, sir, it is very awkward. In a hospital like this there is no grating between the prisoner and the visitor.’
; Harding sneered at him.
‘I, sir, am a King’s Counsel. That lady is innocent. You don’t suggest, I suppose, that I should attempt to convey poison to her?’
‘No, no, no,’ stammered the detective. ‘But formalities have to be observed.’
‘Quite so,’ answered Harding. ‘You may rely on me to observe them.’
Then he approached the bed.
‘Is there anything you want to say to me now, dear?’
She made a great effort. She moved her hand in the direction of the detectives.
Harding turned to them.
‘Would you mind standing back?’
They moved to the far end of the room.
Then she spoke.
He bent down his head to hear her. The words came slowly.
‘You must fix the date of the murder. My defence will be that he died…three days after my accident.’
He wondered whether he had heard aright. She seemed too weak to repeat the statement, so he said:
‘I am to get them to fix the actual date of the murder? Your defence is that he died three days after the date of our motor accident?’
There was a slight inclination of the head.
These, indeed, were extraordinary instructions, given in an astounding way. That was all he had to go on. But somehow the way in which she spoke carried conviction with it. Her manner had in it the suggestion of a person conversant with the methods of police-courts. Truly, Miriam Clive was an astounding woman.
‘Is there anything else you want to say?’ he asked.
There was no answer.
The house-surgeon rushed forward.
‘She has fainted. She can’t stand any more. You must go away now.’
Harding went out, accompanied by Johnson and Barlow.
Then indignation mastered him.
‘I consider your behaviour, Johnson, monstrously cruel, entirely unnecessary. You could have waited till the poor lady was a little stronger. I suppose it is so unusual,’ he added sarcastically, ‘for the police to be able to arrest anybody that they don’t like to miss a chance.’
The Mayfair Mystery Page 20