by Annie Haynes
“I should very much like to have an interview with Miss Cécile,” said the detective, with perfect truth. Septimus Lockyer and his co-trustee, Sir Edward Fisher; had agreed, that for the sake of the family name, it was inadvisable that the search for the pseudo-Evelyn should be too vigorously prosecuted and the details of her imposture made public; but Hewlett had come to see of late that it was possible she could have given them valuable information that might have led to the apprehension of the murderer, and a close search was now being instituted with a view to discovering her whereabouts. So far it had been without success. She had taken a considerable amount of money with her, and Hewlett was beginning to think that by its means she had placed herself beyond the reach of pursuit. “I suppose Miss Marie De Lavelle had several lovers,” he hazarded at last.
Miss Merivale smoked her cigarette reflectively.
“Well, she had—and she hadn’t. You see, she was a dear, and she was pretty too, but she hadn’t much go about her; and after a while the boys used to get tired of her and seek other society that was a little more lively.”
Hewlett looked disappointed.
“Then she had no special lover?”
Miss Merivale shook her head.
“Not as long as I knew her. I saw in the papers she was supposed to be married, but I have no notion who it could be. Not but what the De Lavelle girls always had plenty of men to take them about, but it always seemed to me that Cécile was the attraction: she had plenty of diablerie—or whatever you call it. The Demon and the Saint, you know. That was what the boys used to call them. It was one of the Wiltons that gave them that name first, I believe, but it stuck, Marie was the Saint.”
“Of course,” the detective assented mechanically. This was almost better luck than he had hoped for—the introduction of the Wiltons’ name—but it behoved him to walk warily now. He hesitated a moment. “They—the De Lavelles—were very intimate with the Wiltons, were they not?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t say that!” Miss Merivale responded carelessly. “Basil Wilton was mad on Cécile for a bit, but I think his cousin, Paul, only came to look after him; to see he didn’t get into mischief. Well, in a way Paul got friendly with Marie—Queenie as we used to call her then—but there never was any love-making between them, bless you! Paul is Lord Warchester now, you know. I wonder whether he remembers, and what he thinks about this affair when he sees it in the papers.”
So did Mr. Hewlett wonder, but there was little to be gained by speculation in that quarter.
“I thought it was Marie that Mr. Basil Wilton admired?”
Miss Merivale shook her head.
“No, it was Cécile. Basil Wilton was just crazy about Cécile for a while, and then there was Caliban,” with a laugh.
Mr. Hewlett pricked up his ears,
“Caliban?”
Miss Merivale laid her head back on the pillows with an air of luxurious abandonment.
“Ah, he was a great lout of a fellow that was a sweetheart of Marie’s before she came on the stage! How she ever stood him I can’t think. But she would have had a tremendous bother to get rid of him when she found her bearings and saw what other men were if he hadn’t been like the rest and fallen in love with Cécile. Let me think now, what was his name?”
She wrinkled up her artificially-darkened eyebrows.
“Gregory—that was it of course—Jim Gregory.”
Gregory! The detective drew a long breath. Was there ever a case like this? he asked himself despairingly. It seemed that Miss Rose Merivale was about to prove another blank wall.
“Yes, Jim Gregory!” Miss Merivale repeated, blowing a thin blue cloud of smoke into the air. “I remember once I asked Queenie—we used to call her Queenie sometimes because of her funny little airs, you know—why she didn’t shake him off, why on earth she ever let him know what she was doing. And she told me that he gave her news of her little sister, who was left under her stepmother’s care at home. Queenie herself had run away, and she was afraid the child might be treated so badly that she too might not be able to stand it. Gregory had promised to keep a watch and let her know.”
“Ah, yes, he could do that!” Mr. Hewlett said slowly. “I have heard they were sweethearts once, Gregory and Miss De Lavelle—he has told us as much.”
Miss Merivale looked a little surprised.
“Oh, has he? But that was all over before I knew Queenie. Then he was head over ears in love with Cécile—used to follow her about and glower at her all over the place.”
Hewlett laughed a little, though his eyes had a far away expression. “And what did Miss Cécile think of him?”
“Not much, as you can guess, if you have seen Gregory,” Miss Merivale responded. “She used to throw him a word now and then as you might a bone to a dog. I have told her many a time she ought to be careful, for I have seen a look in his eyes sometimes when she has been teasing him as if he would like to make an end of her there and then. If it had been she that was murdered I should have said, ‘Look up Jim Gregory’; but as it is poor Queenie I don’t know what to think.”
Mr. Hewlett did not know what to think either; various wild theories and suspicions chased one another in a nebulous state, through his brain.
“I suppose the Sisters De Lavelle were not sufficiently alike to be mistaken for each other?” he hazarded at last.
“Off the stage, do you mean?” Miss Merivale questioned. “Bless your life, no! Their faces were the same shape, but Cécile’s fair hair was a transformation, if you know what that means, Mr. Detective—her hair was brown. And the rest of the likeness was mostly make-up. Cécile was stouter and bigger in every way, but she used to dress up to Marie very well.”
“I was thinking,” the detective said slowly, “I was wondering whether it was in any way possible that Marie was murdered by mistake for Cécile by some jealous lover.”
“No, indeed it wasn’t!” Miss Merivale said emphatically. “You may take my word for that. No, discovery doesn’t lie that way, Mr. Detective, I can assure you. And now”—she looked at the tiny jewelled watch pinned in front of her gown—“you said a few minutes’ conversation, and I believe you have had half an hour. I have to go to a rehearsal directly. If there is anything else I can tell you—”
Hewlett rose. He was still looking puzzled; his monocle hung by its cord.
“I am much obliged to you for sparing me so much of your time, Miss Merivale,” he said politely. “There is nothing else that I can think of this afternoon, but if anything should occur later—”
“You will come again—that is understood,” Miss Merivale finished. “And I wish you good luck, Mr. Detective. I would give a good deal myself to see poor Queenie’s murderer punished, I would indeed.”
Mr. Hewlett shook hands and went out. As he walked slowly back to Swiss Cottage he was thinking harder than he had ever thought about a case before. It seemed to him that never had he been engaged on one that seemed at once so absorbing and so provoking. It reminded him of a game he had played as a child, where an object is hidden, and when the searcher is near it he is told that he is “warm.” Mr Detective Hewlett continually had the feeling that he was quite near the solution of his problem, that he was “warm” in fact, only to find the next minute that he was as far as ever from it.
As the bus tore on its way down Finchley Road he pondered once more the facts, as he knew them. For the past month, ever since the discovery that it was Basil Wilton that Evelyn Spencer had married, he had been strongly of the opinion that her death must be laid at the door of one of these three men—either one of the two cousins Lord Warchester and Basil Wilton, or James Gregory. To some extent of late he had been compelled to exonerate Basil Wilton. Inquiries had shown that his accident had occurred at least half an hour before the time at which the doctor’s testimony proved that Evelyn Spencer met her death, and his long illness fully accounted for Wingrove’s silence, which had appeared at first to be so suspicious.
At the same time, Mr. Hewle
tt was not inclined to be entirely satisfied; there might be a mistake in the time at either end, he told himself—and an alibi is always the most unsatisfactory of defences. He, at least, might have had some sort of motive—the desire to rid himself of a wife of whom possibly he was tired, and who was obviously desirous of a recognition which would offend his mother and endanger his inheritance.
In the case of Lord Warchester, as of Jim Gregory, there was apparently no reason which could in any way account for the murder. To Lord Warchester, in spite of the letter dated two years back, Evelyn Spencer had been, as far as could be ascertained at the time of her death, merely his cousin’s wife; to Jim Gregory she had been merely the sweetheart of his younger days, long since forgotten in a newer passion.
Yet Mrs. Spencer had identified, in the most positive fashion, the pouch found beside the body as the one the dead girl had worked for Gregory. If her evidence was to be trusted, his presence in the room at the time of or immediately prior to her death might be taken as proved.
Think of it as he would, Mr. Hewlett could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. That the guilt lay with one of those three he felt convinced. The question was—which? And this question his interview with Miss Merivale had not, so far as he could see, in the least answered.
He got off the bus at Charing Cross and, turning up Bedford Street, made his way down Maiden Lane to his offices. At the door he almost collided with some one coming out.
“ Why, Hewlett, the very man I was looking for!” Septimus Lockyer exclaimed, “But I have not a moment to spare now. Walk back with me as far as the post office.”
“Any news, sir?” asked Hewlett as he complied.
Septimus Lockyer looked at him.
“The best time to call on Mr. Edward Wallace is between five and six, Hewlett.”
“So we have found, sir. But the door fits like wax: it isn’t possible to hear much.”
“It was not,” Septimus Lockyer said significantly, “but Mr. Wallace’s young brother has a taste for carpentering; he has eased the door at the bottom so much, Mrs. Perks says. But there—boys will be boys, and there’s no harm done!”—with a mimicry of Mrs. Perks’ manner that made the detective smile.
“Have you any engagement for to-night, Hewlett?” Mr. Lockyer went on, with a sudden change of tone.
“No, sir, nothing I can’t put off if there is work to be done,” the detective said hopefully.
“I want you to come to a music-hall with me.”
“A music-hall, sir?” Hewlett stared. “I don’t understand!”
“Down Islington way,” Septimus Lockyer went on. “Not a swagger sort of place at all, Hewlett. We need not put on our evening clothes, and I know that moustache of yours comes off on occasion. Suppose you leave it at home to-night.”
“Of course, sir!” Hewlett looked more mystified than ever
They made their way into the orchestra stalls. Hewlett glanced around the house; it appeared to be fairly full. A much painted lady was on the stage singing one of the usual inane songs, which received but faint applause. Hewlett saw that Mr. Lockyer was not looking at the stage, that he was half turned round, as if to get a better view of the occupants of the gallery.
Instinctively the detective’s eyes followed. To his surprise he saw Gregory leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the stage.
A voice began to sing in the flies, words commonplace enough in themselves, yet given with an accent that seemed to lend a certain coarse suggestiveness; then a woman bounded upon the stage and began to dance. She was veiled from head to foot in shining golden tissue—even her face was covered, save for two holes through which her eyes gleamed oddly.
As she floated across the stage, rising and sinking in a motion that was at once graceful and bewildering, one caught glimpses through the glittering tissue of white rounded limbs, of waves of dark hair, but the face—the face remained veiled always.
From chance remarks he had overheard as they were entering the hall, Hewlett had learned that the veiled dancer had appeared for the first time only a month ago, that she had caught on at once, and that so for no one, not even the manager, had seen her unveiled. Consequently, curiosity and speculation as to her identity were rife.
Septimus Lockyer looked at him.
“I told you you would recognize an old acquaintance.”
“I have.” Hewlett indicated Gregory with a jerk of his head.
“Two old acquaintances I should have said,” the K.C. corrected. “Look at the veiled dancer, Hewlett. Graceful figure, isn’t she? A bit big perhaps, but—” He shrugged his shoulders.
Hewlett looked at her again, but there was nothing familiar about the lissom figure enveloped now in golden clouds.
“Carry your mind back to the Towers,” Septimus Lockyer whispered, “to the day Lady Warchester gave us her half of the broken sixpence. Do you remember meeting some one in the drive?”
“Why, of course!” A sudden flash of recognition gleamed in Hewlett’s face. “You mean Miss—”
“Precisely!” The K.C. nodded. “Take another look, Hewlett.”
But the veiled dancer’s turn was coming to an end; a tremendous clapping from the audience testified to the satisfaction she had given. Gregory got up from his place and hurriedly made his way to the exit. Septimus Lockyer glanced at Hewlett.
“Seen enough? The veiled dancer only does one turn a night.”
Still puzzled, Hewlett assented, and they both left the hall. Neither of them spoke until they were once more in a cab: then the K.C. looked at his companion.
“Well?”
“If that is Miss Cécile De Lavelle,” Hewlett said sturdily, “I am of opinion that she ought to be interrogated at once with regard to her life while she was dancing as one of the Sisters De Lavelle. It is possible that she might be able to give us most valuable information that might lead to the discovery of the Grove Street murderer, and we might manage to frighten it out of her by threatening to prosecute her for imposture.”
A curious smile curved Septimus Lockyer’s lips.
“We might,” he assented, “but I don’t think we will try that plan just yet, Hewlett. I have a plan of my own. You must help me with that, and then very soon, probably within the week, you shall have your interview with Miss Cécile De Lavelle—the pseudo-Evelyn Davenant.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MR. EDWARD Wallace sat in his room, waiting quietly. Presently there was a knock at the door—three distinct taps. Mr. Wallace got up lazily and opened it.
Mr. Hewlett, the detective, stepped inside.
“Any news, Simpson?” Mr. Hewlett had not resumed his moustache to-day, and its absence made a considerable difference to his appearance.
“Our man is here, sir,” answered Simpson, alias Mr. Edward Wallace, “and we think Archer’s plan with the door will answer all right; he has managed to shave a bit off the wainscoting too. He is there now; I am expecting him up every minute. In the meantime, sir—” He went over to the cupboard and, bringing out a pair of black list slippers, handed them to Hewlett, who took off his boots at once.
He had just put on the slippers in their stead when the boy, Archer, came softly into the room.
“He is there, sir, and Mrs. Perks and somebody else. I can’t see plain through the crack, but I think it is a woman.” Hewlett stood up.
“You wait here, Simpson.”
He crept softly down the back stairs and found himself in a sort of square hall into which the back door opened. That was locked and bolted, as Mr. Hewlett soon ascertained; of the other two doors, one led into Mrs. Perks’s sitting-room, the other into the large pantry and kitchens. There was no one about; Mrs. Perks did all the work that was needed with the help of a charwoman. A streak of light beneath the parlour door testified to Archer’s handiwork. Hewlett caught the sound of voices within—a low, deep, guttural growl easily to be recognized as Gregory’s, and Mrs. Perks’s tearful accents mingled with a louder, more defiant voice.
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��You won’t play me false twice!” Gregory was speaking. “You understand! I have made the appointment and you will have to keep it or you will take the consequences this time.”
“I don’t know but what I’d just as soon take the consequences!”
As Detective Hewlett, with his ear close to the keyhole, caught the answer he started violently. Surely he was not mistaken—it was the voice he had heard in the avenue at the Towers, the voice of the veiled dancer of last night, of the one-time mistress of Davenant Hall.
Gregory laughed harshly.
“Suppose you try them! The worst of it is you won’t be able to tell us how you like them!”
“Oh, Jim, Jim, don’t!” The low, wailing cry was Mrs. Perks’s. “I—I am sure I don’t know how to sleep o’ nights when I remember!”
“It takes a good deal to keep some folk awake!” was Mr. Gregory’s unsympathetic rejoinder. “I dare say though, if Cissie there isn’t punctual to time to-morrow that you won’t need an alarm for a week or two!”
A low hoarse sob broke from Mrs. Perks.
“You—you are a brute, Jim Gregory!”
“If I am, it is the fault of the folk that made me so!” the man returned in a stubborn voice. “It’s no use you trying on that game with me, Maria Perks. I’ve been done out of my rights once, this time I’m going to make sure. It has got to be the one thing or the other.”
“Don’t put yourself out, Jim!” The loud, hard voice of Evelyn Spencer’s impersonator was a little subdued now, the detective fancied. “If I make a promise, I keep it.”
“No, you don’t—not always!” Gregory rejoined uncompromisingly. “But you are a-going to this time, my girl, so you needn’t make any mistake! And if my Lord Tomnoddy, or whatever his name is, sends his flowers and his presents to the veiled dancer again—why, he will have to reckon with me, that is all!”