The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  He took a cab, and we took a cab. I had not overheard them appoint a place of meeting, when following them in the Park on the previous day; but I soon found that we were proceeding in the old direction of the Avenue Road gate.

  The cab in which Mr. Jay was riding turned into the Park slowly. We stopped outside, to avoid exciting suspicion. I got out to follow the cab on foot. Just as I did so, I saw it stop, and detected the two confederates approaching it from among the trees. They got in, and the cab was turned about directly. I ran back to my own cab, and told the driver to let them pass him, and then to follow as before.

  The man obeyed my directions, but so clumsily as to excite their suspicions. We had been driving after them about three minutes (returning along the road by which we had advanced) when I looked out of the window to see how far they might be ahead of us. As I did this, I saw two hats popped out of the windows of their cab, and two faces looking back at me. I sank into my place in a cold sweat—the expression is coarse, but no other form of words can describe my condition at that trying moment.

  ‘We are found out!’ I said faintly to my two subordinates. They stared at me in astonishment. My feelings changed instantly from the depth of despair to the height of indignation.

  ‘It is the cabman’s fault. Get out, one of you,’ I said, with dignity—‘get out and punch his head.’

  Instead of following my directions (I should wish this act of disobedience to be reported at headquarters) they both looked out of the window. Before I could pull them back, they both sat down again. Before I could express my just indignation, they both grinned, and said to me, ‘Please to look out, sir!’

  I did look out. The thieves’ cab had stopped.

  Where?

  At a church door!!!

  What effect this discovery might have had upon the ordinary run of men, I don’t know. Being of a strong religious turn myself, it filled me with horror. I have often read of the unprincipled cunning of criminal persons; but I never before heard of three thieves attempting to double on their pursuers by entering a church! The sacrilegious audacity of that proceeding is, I should think, unparalleled in the annals of crime.

  I checked my grinning subordinates by a frown. It was easy to see what was passing in their superficial minds. If I had not been able to look below the surface, I might, on observing two nicely-dressed men and one nicely-dressed woman enter a church before eleven in the morning on a week day, have come to the same hasty conclusion at which my inferiors had evidently arrived. As it was, appearances had no power to impose on me. I got out, and, followed by one of my men, entered the church. The other man I sent round to watch the vestry door. You may catch a weasel asleep—but not your humble servant, Matthew Sharpin!

  We stole up the gallery stairs, diverged to the organ loft and peered through the curtains in front. There they were all three, sitting in a pew below—yes, incredible as it may appear, sitting in a pew below!

  Before I could determine what to do, a clergyman made his appearance in full canonicals, from the vestry door, followed by a clerk. My brain whirled, and my eyesight grew dim. Dark remembrances of robberies committed in vestries floated through my mind. I trembled for the excellent man in full canonicals—I even trembled for the clerk.

  The clergyman placed himself inside the altar rails. The three desperadoes approached him. He opened his book, and began to read. What?—you will ask.

  I answer, without the slightest hesitation, the first lines of the Marriage Service.

  My subordinate had the audacity to look at me, and then to stuff his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth. I scorned to pay any attention to him. After I had discovered that the man ‘Jack’ was the bridegroom, and that the man Jay acted the part of father, and gave away the bride, I left the church, followed by my man, and joined the other subordinate outside the vestry door. Some people in my position would now have felt rather crestfallen, and would have begun to think that they had made a very foolish mistake. Not the faintest misgiving of any kind troubled me. I did not feel in the slightest degree depreciated in my own estimation. And even now, after a lapse of three hours, my mind remains, I am happy to say, in the same calm and hopeful condition.

  As soon as I and my subordinates were assembled together outside the church, I intimated my intention of still following the other cab, in spite of what had occurred. My reason for deciding on this course will appear presently. The two subordinates were astonished at my resolution. One of them had the impertinence to say to me:—

  ‘If you please, sir, who is it that we are after? A man who has stolen money, or a man who has stolen a wife?’

  The other low person encouraged him by laughing. Both have deserved an official reprimand; and both, I sincerely trust, will be sure to get it.

  When the marriage ceremony was over, the three got into their cab; and once more our vehicle (neatly hidden round the corner of the church, so that they could not suspect it to be near them) started to follow theirs.

  We traced them to the terminus of the South-Western Railway. The newly-married couple took tickets for Richmond—paying their fare with a half-sovereign, and so depriving me of the pleasure of arresting them, which I should certainly have done, if they had offered a bank-note. They parted from Mr. Jay, saying, ‘Remember the address—14 Babylon Terrace. You dine with us tomorrow week.’ Mr. Jay accepted the invitation, and added, jocosely, that he was going home at once to get off his clean clothes, and to be comfortable and dirty again for the rest of the day. I have to report that I saw him home safely, and that he is comfortable and dirty again (to use his own disgraceful language) at the present moment.

  Here the affair rests, having by this time reached what I may call its first stage.

  I know very well what persons of hasty judgment will be inclined to say of my proceedings thus far. They will assert that I have been deceiving myself all through, in the most absurd way; they will declare that the suspicious conversations which I have reported, referred solely to the difficulties and dangers of successfully carrying out a runaway match; and they will appeal to the scene in the church, as offering undeniable proof of the correctness of their assertions. So let it be. I dispute nothing up to this point. But I ask a question, out of the depths of my own sagacity as a man of the world, which the bitterest of my enemies will not, I think, find it particularly easy to answer.

  Granted the fact of the marriage, what proof does it afford me of the innocence of the three persons concerned in that clandestine transaction? It gives me none. On the contrary, it strengthens my suspicions against Mr. Jay and his confederates, because it suggests a distinct motive for their stealing the money. A gentleman who is going to spend his honeymoon at Richmond wants money; and a gentleman who is in debt to all his tradespeople wants money. Is this an unjustifiable imputation of bad motives? In the name of outraged morality, I deny it. These men have combined together, and have stolen a woman. Why should they not combine together, and steal a cash-box? I take my stand on the logic of rigid virtue; and I defy all the sophistry of vice to move me an inch out of my position.

  Speaking of virtue, I may add that I have put this view of the case to Mr. and Mrs. Yatman. That accomplished and charming woman found it difficult, at first, to follow the close chain of my reasoning. I am free to confess that she shook her head, and shed tears, and joined her husband in premature lamentation over the loss of the two hundred pounds. But a little careful explanation on my part, and a little attentive listening on hers, ultimately changed her opinion. She now agrees with me, that there is nothing in this unexpected circumstance of the clandestine marriage which absolutely tends to divert suspicion from Mr. Jay, or Mr. ‘Jack,’ or the runaway lady. ‘Audacious hussy’ was the term my fair friend used in speaking of her, but let that pass. It is more to the purpose to record that Mrs. Yatman has not lost confidence in me and that Mr. Yatman promises to follow her example, and do his best to look hopefully for future results.

  I have now, in the new turn
that circumstances have taken, to await advice from your office. I pause for fresh orders with all the composure of a man who has got two strings to his bow. When I traced the three confederates from the church door to the railway terminus, I had two motives for doing so. First, I followed them as a matter of official business, believing them still to have been guilty of the robbery. Secondly, I followed them as a matter of private speculation, with a view of discovering the place of refuge to which the runaway couple intended to retreat, and of making my information a marketable commodity to offer to the young lady’s family and friends. Thus, whatever happens, I may congratulate myself beforehand on not having wasted my time. If the office approves of my conduct, I have my plan ready for further proceedings. If the office blames me, I shall take myself off, with my marketable information, to the genteel villa-residence in the neighbourhood of the Regent’s Park. Any way, the affair puts money into my pocket, and does credit to my penetration as an uncommonly sharp man.

  I have only one word more to add, and it is this:—If any individual ventures to assert that Mr. Jay and his confederates are innocent of all share in the stealing of the cash-box, I, in return, defy that individual—though he may even be Chief Inspector Theakstone himself—to tell me who has committed the robbery at Rutherford Street, Soho.

  I have the honour to be,

  Your very obedient servant,

  MATTHEW SHARPIN.

  * * * *

  FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE

  TO SERGEANT BULMER

  BIRMINGHAM, 9th July.

  SERGEANT BULMER—

  That empty-headed puppy, Mr. Matthew Sharpin, has made a mess of the case at Rutherford Street, exactly as I expected he would. Business keeps me in this town; so I write to you to set the matter straight. I enclose, with this, the pages of feeble scribble-scrabble which the creature, Sharpin, calls a report. Look them over; and when you have made your way through all the gabble, I think you will agree with me that the conceited booby has looked for the thief in every direction but the right one. You can lay your hand on the guilty person in five minutes, now. Settle the case at once; forward your report to me at this place; and tell Mr. Sharpin that he is suspended till further notice. Yours,

  FRANCIS THEAKSTONE.

  * * * *

  FROM SERGEANT BULMER

  TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE

  LONDON, 10th July.

  INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE—

  Your letter and enclosure came safe to hand. Wise men, they say, may always learn something, even from a fool. By the time I had got through Sharpin’s maundering report of his own folly, I saw my way clear enough to the end of the Rutherford Street case, just as you thought I should. In half an hour’s time I was at the house. The first person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.

  ‘Have you come to help me?’ says he.

  ‘Not exactly,’ says I. ‘I’ve come to tell you that you are suspended till further notice.’

  ‘Very good,’ says he, not taken down, by so much as a single peg, in his own estimation, ‘I thought you would be jealous of me. It’s very natural; and I don’t blame you. Walk in, pray, and make yourself at home. I’m off to do a little detective business on my own account, in the neighbourhood of the Regent’s Park. Ta-ta, sergeant, ta-ta!’

  With those words he took himself out of the way—which was exactly what I wanted him to do.

  As soon as the maid-servant had shut the door, I told her to inform her master that I wanted to say a word to him in private. She showed me into the parlour behind the shop; and there was Mr. Yatman, all alone, reading the newspaper.

  ‘About this matter of the robbery, sir,’ says I.

  He cut me short, peevishly enough—being naturally a poor, weak, womanish sort of man. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ says he. ‘You have come to tell me that your wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second-floor partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel who has stolen my money.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says I. ‘That is one of the things I came to tell you. But I have got something else to say, besides that.’

  ‘Can you tell me who the thief is?’ says he, more pettish than ever.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says I, ‘I think I can.’

  He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and frightened.

  ‘Not my shopman?’ says he. ‘I hope, for the man’s own sake, it’s not my shopman.’

  ‘Guess again, sir,’ says I.

  ‘That idle slut, the maid?’ says he.

  ‘She is idle, sir,’ says I, ‘and she is also a slut; my first inquiries about her proved as much as that. But she’s not the thief.’

  ‘Then in the name of heaven, who is?’ says he.

  ‘Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise, sir?’ says I. ‘And in case you lose your temper, will you excuse my remarking that I am the stronger man of the two, and that, if you allow yourself to lay hands on me, I may unintentionally hurt you, in pure self-defence?’

  He turned as pale as ashes, and pushed his chair two or three feet away from me.

  ‘You have asked me to tell you, sir, who has taken your money,’ I went on. ‘If you insist on my giving you an answer—’

  ‘I do insist,’ he said, faintly. ‘Who has taken it?’

  ‘Your wife has taken it,’ I said very quietly, and very positively at the same time.

  He jumped out of the chair as if I had put a knife into him, and struck his fist on the table, so heavily that the wood cracked again.

  ‘Steady, sir,’ says I. ‘Flying into a passion won’t help you to the truth.’

  ‘It’s a lie!’ says he, with another smack of his fist on the table—‘a base, vile, infamous lie! How dare you—’

  He stopped, and fell back into the chair again, looked about him in a bewildered way, and ended by bursting out crying.

  ‘When your better sense comes back to you, sir,’ says I, ‘I am sure you will be gentleman enough to make an apology for the language you have just used. In the meantime, please to listen, if you can, to a word of explanation. Mr. Sharpin has sent in a report to our inspector, of the most irregular and ridiculous kind; setting down, not only all his own foolish doings and sayings, but the doings and sayings of Mrs. Yatman as well. In most cases, such a document would have been fit for the waste-paper basket; but, in this particular case, it so happens that Mr. Sharpin’s budget of nonsense leads to a certain conclusion, which the simpleton of a writer has been quite innocent of suspecting from the beginning to the end. Of that conclusion I am so sure, that I will forfeit my place, if it does not turn out that Mrs. Yatman has been practising upon the folly and conceit of this young man, and that she has tried to shield herself from discovery by purposely encouraging him to suspect the wrong persons. I tell you that confidently; and I will even go further. I will undertake to give a decided opinion as to why Mrs. Yatman took the money, and what she has done with it, or with a part of it. Nobody can look at that lady, sir, without being struck by the great taste and beauty of her dress—’

  As I said those last words, the poor man seemed to find his powers of speech again. He cut me short directly, as haughtily as if he had been a duke instead of a stationer.

  ‘Try some other means of justifying your vile calumny against my wife,’ says he. ‘Her milliner’s bill for the past year, is on my file of receipted accounts at this moment.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ says I, ‘but that proves nothing. Milliners, I must tell you, have a certain rascally custom which comes within the daily experience of our office. A married lady who wishes it, can keep two accounts at her dressmaker’s; one is the account which her husband sees and pays; the other is the private account, which contains all the extravagant items, and which the wife pays secretly, by instalments, whenever she can. According to our usual experience, these instalments are mostly squeezed out of the housekeeping money. In your case, I suspect no instalments have been paid; proceedings have been th
reatened; Mrs. Yatman, knowing your altered circumstances, has felt herself driven into a corner; and she has paid her private account out of your cash-box.’

  ‘I won’t believe it,’ says he. ‘Every word you speak is an abominable insult to me and to my wife.’

  ‘Are you man enough, sir,’ says I, taking him up short, in order to save time and words, ‘to get that receipted bill you spoke of just now off the file, and come with me at once to the milliner’s shop where Mrs. Yatman deals?’

  He turned red in the face at that, got the bill directly, and put on his hat. I took out of my pocket-book the list containing the numbers of the lost notes, and we left the house together immediately.

  Arrived at the milliner’s (one of the expensive West-end houses, as I expected), I asked for a private interview, on important business, with the mistress of the concern. It was not the first time that she and I had met over the same delicate investigation. The moment she set eyes on me, she sent for her husband. I mentioned who Mr. Yatman was, and what we wanted.

  ‘This is strictly private?’ inquires her husband. I nodded my head.

  ‘And confidential?’ says the wife. I nodded again.

  ‘Do you see any objection, dear, to obliging the sergeant with a sight of the books?’ says the husband.

  ‘None in the world, love, if you approve of it,’ says the wife.

  All this while poor Mr. Yatman sat looking the picture of astonishment and distress, quite out of place at our polite conference. The books were brought—and one minute’s look at the pages in which Mrs. Yatman ‘s name figured was enough, and more than enough, to prove the truth of every word I had spoken.

  There, in one book, was the husband’s account, which Mr. Yatman had settled. And there, in the other, was the private account, crossed off also; the date of settlement being the very day after the loss of the cash-box. This said private account amounted to the sum of a hundred and seventy-five pounds, odd shillings; and it extended over a period of three years. Not a single instalment had been paid on it. Under the last line was an entry to this effect: ‘Written to for the third time, June 23rd.’ I pointed to it, and asked the milliner if that meant ‘last June.’ Yes, it did mean last June; and she now deeply regretted to say that it had been accompanied by a threat of legal proceedings.