by Annie Haynes
Both men bent forward, then, as if by common consent, halted. There was something pitifully commonplace about the neat little garments that met their gaze, about the smell of camphor with which their nostrils were assailed.
Septimus Lockyer’s eyes softened. For the first time this dead, unknown niece of his seemed to have in his eyes a separate identity of her own; she was not only Joan’s sister to him now—she was a girl of his own blood, who had lived and loved, who had been shamefully deceived and foully murdered. His brow darkened.
His hesitation over, Hewlett was already lifting out the contents of the box with quick, dexterous hands. At last he came upon a cardboard box at the bottom, and, opening it, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
“Ah, this was what I was hoping for!” he said as he picked out a quantity of old papers. “Now, sir, we must be careful!”
Septimus Lockyer did not speak. He took up a few of the first that came to hand; some of them were merely printed comments on the performances of the Sisters De Lavelle cut out and pasted on clean sheets of paper. Evidently the dead girl had been proud of her successes. There was a letter, written in big, childish, writing, signed “Your loving little sister, Polly”; a couple of strongly scented effusions merely ending with initials “C. De L.” which made the lawyer draw in his lips; last of all, a photograph representing a young girl, evidently Evelyn Spencer, sitting on a sofa with a young man, not a very attractive-looking young man as far as could be judged, heavy of jaw, with dark eyes set closely together, and ears that showed a tendency to occupy more than their share of the canvas. He was wearing a nondescript suit and a bowler hat. Underneath it was the inscription, “Evie, from her own Jim.”
‘‘Now what in the world does this mean?” inquired the lawyer, gazing at it. “This is not Wingrove.”
Hewlett glanced up quickly from his papers.
“What is it, sir? Oh, that!” as the lawyer displayed his find. “No, that is not Wingrove, certainly. It does not answer in any particular to his description. It isn’t a man of his class, either. We will put that by itself, please. It is evident that Miss Spencer had two lovers—this fellow and the dark man with whom Mrs. Read saw her, who may or may not have been Wingrove. It is possible we shall find that jealousy was at the bottom of the crime. Here are a couple of letters in a man’s writing—‘185 Jermyn Street.’ Ah, I should say this would be Wingrove!” He turned rapidly to the signature.
“Well?” Septimus Lockyer said impatiently as the detective paused suddenly. “What is it, man? Are they Wingrove’s?”
“No—yes—I mean they are not.” Hewlett cast a swift look at the lawyer; his monocle dropped from his eye unheeded. “This is very curious, sir. Both these letters are signed—”
Septimus Lockyer stated at him.
“What? Bless my life, man, don’t beat about the bush! What are they signed?”
“Why—it is merely a coincidence but I wasn’t prepared—” The detective stumbled; then, warned by Septimus Lockyer’s expression, he finished hurriedly, “It is signed, yours devotedly, Paul Wilton.”
“Wilton!”A silence fell upon both men. Septimus Lockyer held out his hand for the letter and read it over, his bushy eyebrows drawn closely together.
The detective watched him closely for a while; then he took up the second letter and opened it. His face changed as he read it; his usual calm expression gave place to one of keen interest.
At last Septimus Lockyer looked up.
“I don’t know that we ought to be so much surprised at this, Hewlett,” tapping the sheet of paper. “Lord Warchester told us that he knew the Sisters De Lavelle, or at least the one that has been at Davenant Hall. No doubt he was acquainted with both; in fact I should imagine the one presupposes the other. And we know as men of the world that young men of unstable principles often write to young ladies of the ballet in exaggerated terms. However, it is quite possible that Lord Warchester may be able to give us some information that may put us on Wingrove’s track. I shall make a point of ascertaining that at the earliest opportunity.”
“Yes, sir.” The detective’s gaze wandered uneasily round the room, rested for in instant on the exquisite Greuze that hung on the opposite wall, and then was turned to the window. A troop of soldiers went clattering by on their way to Buckingham Palace. He looked at them mechanically, at anything rather than at the K.C.’s face. “I think you must read this, sir.”
Septimus Lockyer took it from him quietly. A glance at Hewlett had prepared him for bad news, but in spite of his self-control, a sharp exclamation broke from him as he read. This was merely a note; it was addressed like the other, from 185 Jermyn Street, to “Miss Marie De Lavelle, 12 Basingstoke Road, Great Yarmouth.” The letter ran:
“My dear Queenie,
I shall be with you, all being well, by the first train on Saturday, and if your tenor is not recovered, and your manager shares your flattering opinion of my voice, I shall be pleased to help you out of your dilemma. But, as you suggest, my name must not appear. I will take instead one I have used on occasion in Paris, and when you make me known to your company, you must introduce me, please, as “Mr. Wingrove.” Till then au revoir, my dear Queenie! Give my compliments to Cécile, and believe me, yours as ever,
Paul Wilton.”
Septimus Lockyer caught his breath sharply as he finished, and sat gazing at the paper. Warchester! It was unthinkable! And yet there were the written words.
“Warchester must explain this,” he said at last. His voice had a weary, depressed intonation which was quite unlike the great K.C.’s. clear, ringing tones. “But of course it is out of the question that he can be Wingrove. He may have been casting about for a name to use on the stage, and he may have heard of that—Wingrove may have been a friend of his even. But the other—the other is impossible!”
“Yes, sir!” The detective’s tone was distinctly noncommittal. In his eyes the letter could bear but one interpretation.
Mr. Lockyer got up and began to pace the room.
“It is a miserable thing that he should be brought into the affair,” he exclaimed, “and that she should be Joan’s sister—poor thing, poor thing!”
A vague speculation as to which sister the expression would be more applicable came into the detective’s mind. He knelt down on the rug again and examined the other contents of the trunk. There was nothing else, so far as he could see, that had any bearing on the case, and he neatly restored the things in their former order. Then he stood up.
“I think that is all, sir. About that letter—”
The K.C.’s. head was bent; his hands were clasped behind his back under his coat-tails. He had the air of a man trying to solve a knotty problem. He looked up abstractedly as Hewlett spoke.
“Ah, the letter! You can leave it with me. I must think matters out by myself. We have not solved the Grove Street Mystery yet. About that other man—the one in the photograph? What about him?”
Hewlett was locking up the box now, leaving out only the photograph and the two letters.
“I will look him up, sir. But I shouldn’t say he had anything to do with the murder. I imagine he dates further back. You see, he addresses her as ‘Evie,’ her own name, which she evidently discarded when she went on the stage. Now Paul Wilton—I don’t know whether you noticed, sir”—dropping his voice—“speaks to her as Queenie. And the letter found in—er—Mr. Wingrove’s coat was signed ‘Ever Your Own Queenie.’ It was evidently the name by which Miss Evelyn Spencer was known to—some people,” after an imperceptible pause.
Mr. Lockyer resumed his walk; it was obvious that he was greatly disturbed.
“I had forgotten that, Hewlett,” turning suddenly as the detective was about to move quietly towards the door.
“What do you make of this? Speak out, man!”
“Well, I have not had time to form any theory yet, sir. I can only see that Paul Wilton must have known Miss Evelyn Spencer very well, and that at one time, at any rate, he had som
e thought of taking the name of Wingrove. Whether he did so or not we shall have to ascertain. I can’t help thinking it is a great pity Lord Warchester was not quite open with us before this was found.”
“It is a pity,” Septimus Lockyer assented gravely. “But still,” with a determined attempt at cheerfulness, “‘he has not had much time. I only told him this afternoon that Evelyn Spencer was the Grove Street victim, and naturally his first thought was for his wife.”
“I meant with regard to the name Wingrove. It was widely enough advertised at the time,” the detective reminded him. “And he speaks of having used it in Paris.”
“So he does, so he does!” Mr. Lockyer assented. “Well, we must wait until we hear his explanation, Hewlett. And now what are you going to do? What is your next move?”
The detective hesitated.
I was going to see what I could make out from the caretaker, at 18 Grove Street,” he said doubtfully. “But now I am not sure. I must think it over, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
MR. HEWLETT, the detective, picked his way cautiously over the cobbled streets of Willersfield, wincing now and then as a stone made itself felt through his thin, town-made boots.
“That will be the Bell, I suppose,” he soliloquized, as, following his directions, he turned down the street to his right.
The Bell it proved to be, as the sign testified; apparently the licence had not been transferred to the widow—the board still bore the name of John Spencer. Mr. Hewlett looked at it for a moment; then he stepped inside the passage and put his head in at the bar. A stout, red-faced woman sat at the other side, knitting.
Rightly concluding her to be Mrs. Spencer, Hewlett advanced.
“Good morning, ma’am! I’ll take a glass of your ale, if you please. It’s a hot morning.”
“It is, sir,” answered the woman in a dejected tone. Mr. Hewlett fancied she had been crying. He looked at her sympathetically as she drew the ale.
“You’ll do me the favour of having a drop of something yourself, ma’am, I hope. You’ve had trouble here of late I know; and you look as if it had told upon you if I may say so.”
Mrs. Spencer drew out a handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.
“Yes, it is nothing but trouble I have had of late, sir! I might have made shift to bear it perhaps if I had had a little human sympathy and kindness shown me, but when your own flesh and blood turns against you—”
“Ah, that is bad!” Mr. Hewlett took a draught of his beer and screwed his monocle in firmly. “Now you will have that drop of brandy, ma’am; it will brace you up.”
“You are very good sir.” Mrs. Spencer did not need much pressing. “If everybody had your feeling heart—”
The detective sat down and chatted affably about the weather while she drank her brandy and water.
“Is there any room where you could give me the pleasure of a few minutes’ private conversation, Mrs. Spencer? There is a little matter I must consult you about.”
Mrs. Spencer looked surprised and flattered. Hewlett was a personable-looking man from her point of view. The thought crossed her mind that he might have heard she had been left comfortably off, and visions of a rose-coloured future, in which he bore no inconsiderable part flitted across her mind. Calling her daughter to look after the bar, she led the way into the parlour, and, pulling one of the horsehair chairs forward with a shy smile, invited the detective to be seated.
Mr. Hewlett accepted her offer with a word of thanks and deposited his hat on the mahogany centre table.
“It is a little matter of business that I have come about, Mrs. Spencer. You had two stepdaughters, I believe?”
Mrs. Spencer’s delightful visions began to fade; she cast a sharp look at Hewlett from behind her handkerchief.
“Yes, I have,” she assented, unconsciously altering the tense. “A pair of ungrateful hussies! If it is about them you want to talk, sir, you have wasted your time calling here. It is little enough I can say for either of them. And I have made it a rule when I can’t say good of folk, I won’t say bad!”
“And a very good rule too, Mrs. Spencer, a very good rule,” the detective assented, “If I ask you to make an exception in my favour, be sure it is not without reason, as you will see if you will just look at this card. That is my name, ma’am.”
Mrs. Spencer took the card somewhat gingerly.
“Mr. Thomas Hewlett from Messrs. Hewlett and Cowham, Detective Agents.”
She uttered a slight scream, and flung it from her on the floor.
“If I had known! Another of them detectives! And me thinking you were that pleasant and friendly—”
“So I am, ma’am, so I am,” Mr. Hewlett assured her. “It is only that I want a bit of help, and you are the only one that can give it me. It may be that something I have to tell you will give you a bit of a shock too, and it is well that you should hear it from me instead of reading it in the papers, where I expect it will all be to-morrow.”
Mrs. Spencer was too much agitated to take in the meaning of his words.
“If it is about that woman at Davenant Hall, I have made up my mind I won’t say another word. That Mr. Cowham—your master he is, I suppose—he pretty near frightened the wits out of me the other day.”
Mr. Hewlett smiled slightly at the reference his master.
“Ah, he is inclined to be a bit rough, is Mr. Cowham!” he said diplomatically. “As for the lady at Davenant Hall, I should not think of alluding to her again; I should put her out of my mind if I were you, ma’am. We all make mistakes sometimes. My business with you is about a very different matter. You may remember an affair that took place in Grove Street at the time that you were living in the mews behind. It made a great stir at the time. ‘The Grove Street Mystery,’ they called it. A young lady was found dead in a studio at No. 18.”
Mrs. Spencer was now alert.
“Of course I do,” dropping her handkerchief in her excitement. “I often think of it now. Quite a girl she was, and the police could not make out anything about where she come from.”
Mr. Hewlett coughed.
“They could not,” he said pointedly, “but I think some light has been cast upon the matter at last. You never had any idea who the young lady was, I suppose, Mrs. Spencer?”
The woman stared at him.
“Me, sir? How should I? I never heard a word about her except what was in the papers for everybody to read!” Her surprise at the question was evidently genuine.
The detective leaned forward.
“Mrs. Spencer, I am afraid there is no doubt, there can be no doubt”—she spoke impressively—“that the poor young girl who met her death under such mysterious circumstances was your elder stepdaughter, Evelyn.”
“What? It—it can’t be!” Mrs. Spencer’s heavy cheeks turned a mottled purple; her knees shook. “I don’t believe it! Who would have killed Evie?”
“Ah, that is, another question!” Mr. Hewlett drew nearer confidentially. “And that is where I want your help, Mrs. Spencer. As I say, it has been proved beyond question that it was Miss Evelyn Spencer who was murdered in the studio in Grove Street. Now there are two or three questions I must ask you. First, there is a photograph.” He felt in his pocket.
“It wasn’t Evie,” Mrs. Spencer said hoarsely. “No” —with a sudden gleam of recollection—“of course it could not have been Evie! Little Polly would have known her sister.”
The detective was drawing the photograph of Evelyn and the unknown man from its envelope. He stopped.
“Who is Polly?” he asked sharply; the name was new to his recollection of the case. “And what did she know, what did she see?”
“Why, I had given her a whipping for idling about and letting her brother, Tim—that is my youngest boy, sir—get into mischief, and she ran away from me and must needs get scrambling about on the roof that very afternoon, and from what she said I believe she saw the whole thing done. It wasn’t my fault the police were not told of it, ’
twas her father’s. He would not have her frightened, and he said she had fancied everything about it, but I knew better. She kept me awake all that night crying out that she had seen a dead woman in white, and a dark man with a gun.”
“I must see this Polly.” The detective made, a rapid note in his pocket-book. “Her evidence may be most important. It is a serious matter that it was not brought to the notice of the police at the time. Is it possible for me to see her this morning?”
“No, sir, it isn’t! Leastways, not here, and whether she will see you at all I don’t know, for she has become very grand, has Polly, married a lord if you please, and as good as told me she washed her hands of me—at least he did!” Mrs. Spencer’s face was resuming its normal colour now. “But of course, if that girl she saw killed was Evie, it stands to reason that Polly would have known her—her own sister, and the two so devoted to one another.”
Light was breaking in upon the detective now.
“You don’t mean that it was Lady Warchester?”
Mrs. Spencer nodded.
Mr. Hewlett sat staring meditatively through the open door at the rows of pewter cups and mugs in the bar. He was thinking that, taking it all round, the Grove Street Mystery held as many astounding developments as any ordinary five cases put together. Mrs. Spencer had opined that it would have been impossible for the child not to have recognized her own sister; the detective’s thoughts went further.
After a pause, devoted apparently to cogitating over the injustice of her lot compared with that of Lady Warchester, Mrs. Spencer spoke again:
“You spoke of a photograph, sir. If it is one of poor Evie, I should be glad to see it. There was a portrait of the young lady that was murdered in the papers, I know, but neither her father nor me recognized it, if her it were, which I haven’t given in yet.”
Mr. Hewlett woke up from his abstraction.
“I am afraid there is no doubt of it, Mrs. Spencer. Lady Warchester had not seen her sister for five years before the latter’s death. If she did witness anything of the nature of what you describe, she evidently could not identify her. But you have given me something to go upon. Now with regard to this photograph”—laying it on the table beside her—“I want to find out who the man is. Can you help me?”