The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  Crewe took particular note of the way in which her black hair was dressed. He closed the door behind him and took a seat near it when the dwarf sat down in her arm-chair. Mr. Grange stood a few feet from his wife and again rubbed his hands together to express his satisfaction.

  “It is very good of you to see me,” said Crewe to the dwarf. “I was so much struck with the account Inspector Murchison gave me of your psychic powers that it occurred to me that you might be able to assist me in a somewhat similar way to that in which you assisted Constable Bell.”

  “I shall be pleased to try,” said the dwarf slowly. “But success is not always possible.” She spoke in a thin high pitched voice.

  “So I understood,” said Crewe. “But my case is, I think, less difficult than that of Constable Bell. I have not lost anything. On the contrary I have found something, which I want to restore to the owner. If I gave you this thing I have found to hold, you could describe the owner to me, could you not?”

  “It is possible,” said the dwarf.

  Crewe produced from one of the pockets of his motor coat a brown paper parcel. He unwrapped the paper, keeping covert observation on the Granges as he did so, and displayed the old felt hat which he had found while making his way down the path from the top of the cliff.

  “I am anxious to restore this to its owner,” he said, as he held out the hat to the dwarf.

  He intercepted the glance of angry reproach which she gave her husband. The latter had stopped rubbing his hands and now stood gazing alternately at the hat and at Crewe, with visible trepidation on his features. The dwarf gave the hat a quick glance, and then resolutely turned to Crewe.

  “It is of no value,” she said, in her high pitched voice, meeting his glance intently.

  “Of very little value—from the monetary point of view,” said Crewe. “But there are other reasons why the owner would like to have it restored to him. Do you think you could help me to find him?”

  “No,” she replied decisively. “I could not help you.”

  “Why?” asked Crewe.

  “Because it does not interest me. I must feel an interest—I must feel in sympathy with the object on which I am asked to exert my powers. Without such sympathy I can do nothing, for when I close my eyes to see the vision I become as blind as those born without sight.”

  “And you have no interest in helping me to restore this hat to its owner?” asked Crewe.

  “None,” she replied.

  “And you?” said Crewe, turning to her husband.

  “I—I know nothing about it,” he stammered. “It is not mine.”

  “This hat was lost over the cliffs near Ashlingsea. It was lost the night that the murdered body of the owner of the Cliff Farm was found. The owner was so anxious to secure possession of it that the morning after the murder he sent a boatman over to the scene to look for it. Is not that correct?” asked Crewe looking searchingly at Mr. Grange.

  “I know nothing about it,” was the reply.

  “Perhaps you would like to try it on,” said Crewe, picking up the hat and holding it out to the woman’s husband.

  “Me?” exclaimed the man, recoiling as he spoke. “Why should I? It is not mine.”

  “Come,” said Crewe, “I will exchange the hat for a candid statement of what happened at Cliff Farm on that fateful night.”

  “It is not his,” declared the dwarf. “We know nothing about Cliff Farm—we have never been there.”

  CHAPTER X

  “Will you come to some place where we can have a talk?”

  “Yes. Where shall we go?”

  Her eyes met his frankly, as she replied, and Marsland as he looked at her was impressed with her beauty and the self-possession of her manner. She was young, younger than he had thought on the night of the storm—not more than twenty-two or twenty-three at the most—and as she stood there, with the bright autumn sunshine revealing the fresh beauty of her face and the slim grace of her figure, she made a striking picture of dainty English girlhood, to whom the sordid and tragic sides of life ought to be a sealed book. But Marsland’s mind, as he glanced at her, travelled back to his first meeting with her in the lonely farm-house where they had found the body of the murdered man on the night of the storm.

  He led her to one of the numerous tea-rooms on the front, choosing one which was nearly empty, his object being to have a quiet talk with her. Since the eventful night on which he had walked home with her after they had discovered the dead body of the owner of Cliff Farm, several important points had arisen on which he desired to enlighten her, and others on which he desired to be enlightened by her.

  “I thought of writing to you,” he said after he had found seats for his companion and himself in a quiet corner of the large tea-room and had given an order to the waitress. “But I came to the conclusion that it was unwise—that you might not like it.”

  He found it difficult to strike a satisfactory balance in his attitude to her. On the one hand, it was impossible to be distant and formal in view of the fact that they were united in keeping from the police the secret of her presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the murder; on the other hand, he did not wish to adopt a tone of friendly familiarity based on his knowledge that she had something to hide. When he studied her from the young man’s point of view as merely an attractive member of the opposite sex he felt that she was a charming girl whose affection any one might be proud to win, but his security against her charms was the feeling of distrust that any one so good-looking should have anything to hide. He had no sentimental illusion that she would confide her secret to him.

  She waited for him to continue the conversation, and pretended to be engaged in glancing round the room, but from time to time she gave him a quick glance from beneath her long lashes.

  “What I wanted to tell you most of all is that, when I went back to Cliff Farm the next day, the detective from Scotland Yard found a comb on the floor of the sitting-room downstairs where we sat after you let me in.”

  “A comb!” she cried. “What sort of a comb?”

  “A tortoise-shell comb about three inches long, with a gold mounting.”

  “That is strange,” she said. “It was found on the floor?”

  “Close to the chair where you stood.”

  “Do they know whom it belongs to?”

  “No, fortunately. But they are very anxious to find out. Naturally they think it points to the conclusion that there is a woman in the case.”

  “Of course they would think that,” she said.

  “Do you think any one in Ashlingsea could identify it as yours?” he asked. “Have you had it any length of time?”

  “It was not mine,” she declared. “I did not lose a comb.”

  “Not yours?” he exclaimed in astonishment.

  “I am trying to think to whom it belonged,” she said meditatively. “As far as I know, lady visitors at Cliff Farm were few. And yet it could not be Mrs. Bond—the woman who went there to tidy up the place once a week—you say it was gold mounted?”

  “Rather an expensive looking comb, I thought,” said the young man.

  “Yes; it looks as if there was a woman in the case.”

  The arrival of the waitress with the tea-things brought about a lengthy pause in the conversation.

  To Marsland it looked as if there must be two women in the case if the comb did not belong to Miss Maynard. But he was not altogether satisfied with her statement that it was not hers. It is difficult for a young man of impressionable age to regard a good-looking girl as untruthful, but Marsland recalled other things which indicated that she was not averse to seeking refuge in false statements. He remembered her greeting when he had knocked at the farm-house on the night of the storm. “Where have you been?” was the question she put to him, and then she had added, “I have been wondering what could have happened to you.”

  They were not questions which might reasonably be directed to a chance visitor on such a night, and he remembered that there had
been a note of impatience in her voice. This impatience harmonized with the start of surprise which she gave when he spoke to her. Obviously she had been expecting some one and had mistaken his knock for the arrival of the man for whom she had been waiting. And yet her subsequent story to Marsland in explanation of her presence at the farm was that she had been overtaken by the storm and had sought shelter there. She had made no reference to the man whom she had expected to see when she opened the door in response to Marsland’s knock. When directly questioned on the matter she had declared that it was Frank Lumsden she had expected to see.

  “Whom do the police suspect?” she asked, after the waitress had departed.

  “I do not think they suspect any one in particular just yet,” he replied.

  “Have they no clue of any kind?”

  “They have several clues of a kind. They have discovered some footprints outside the window of the room in which we sat. The window itself has been forced. And that reminds me of something else I wanted to tell you. The police have naturally questioned me in order to obtain any light I can throw on the mystery. One of the first things they asked me was how I got into the house. I told them that the door was open, and that as no one came when I knocked I walked in and sat down. I think that was what you told me you did.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “The door was open.”

  “You see, I forgot to fortify myself with a ready made story which would fit all these questions. The theory of the police at present is that the murderer was in the house all the time we were there.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. It was obvious that she was deeply interested in that theory. “Because of the crash we heard?”

  “Partly because of that, and partly because that strange looking document we found on the stairs has disappeared. It was gone when I went back to the house with the police sergeant. Their theory is that the murderer was in the house when I arrived—that is, when you arrived—but of course they didn’t know about your being there. As they reconstruct the tragedy, the murderer was making his way downstairs with the plan in his hand just as I—meaning you—arrived at the door. In his alarm he dropped the plan and retreated upstairs. The crash we heard was made by him knocking down a picture that hung on the wall near the top of the staircase—that is on the second floor. After we left the house he came down, found the plan in the sitting-room and made off with it.”

  “To think of his being in the house all the time I was there alone!” she said. “It makes me shudder even now.”

  “The police are under the impression that they will not have much difficulty in getting hold of him, but on the other hand Mr. Crewe thinks there are some puzzling mysterious features which the police have overlooked.”

  “Mr. Crewe!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean the famous London detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he come into it?”

  “My uncle, Sir George Granville, is responsible for that. Perhaps you know him?”

  “I know him by sight,” she said.

  “I have been staying with him,” continued the young man. “And when I rang him up from the police station at Ashlingsea, after leaving you, he was greatly excited about my discovery. He knows Crewe very well—they used to be interested in chess, and that brought them together. Crewe had come down to Staveley for the week-end as my uncle’s guest, and they were sitting up for me when I telephoned from Ashlingsea.”

  “Was that Mr. Crewe who was with you this morning?” she asked.

  “Yes. Rather a fine looking man, don’t you think?”

  She had other things to think of than the appeal of Mr. Crewe’s appearance to her feminine judgment.

  “What did he want at Grange’s shop?” she asked.

  It occurred to him that he would like to ask that question concerning her own visit there. What he said was:

  “He wanted to make some inquiries there.”

  “Inquiries?” She looked at him steadily, but as he did not offer further information she had to put her anxiety into words. “About this comb?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am not fully in his confidence,” said Marsland with a constrained smile. “Crewe is a man who keeps his own counsel. He has to, in his line of business.”

  She was not quite sure that a rebuke was contained in this reply, but she gave herself the benefit of the doubt.

  “Does Mr. Crewe know that I was at Cliff Farm that night?” she asked.

  “No. I thought I made my promise on that point quite definite.”

  “You did,” was her candid reply to his undoubted rebuke. “But I will release you from that promise if you think you ought to tell him.”

  “I am under no obligation to tell him anything more than I have told the police.”

  “I thought that perhaps the fact that your uncle has brought Mr. Crewe into the case might make a difference.”

  As he made no reply to that suggestion she branched off to something else that was in her mind:

  “Do you think Mr. Crewe is as clever as people say he is?”

  “There is no doubt that he is a very remarkable man. I have already had proof of his wonderfully quick observation.”

  “Then I suppose there is no doubt that he will find out who killed Frank Lumsden?”

  He looked at her steadily as he replied:

  “His appearance in the case lessens the guilty person’s chance of escape. But Mr. Crewe does not claim to solve every mystery which is presented to him.”

  “Do you think he will solve this one?” she asked.

  He knew that she had a secret reason for hoping that some aspect of it would prove insoluble, but this knowledge did not influence his reply.

  “It may baffle him,” he replied meditatively. “But I have been so deeply impressed with the keenness of his observations and his methods of deduction that I feel sure he will get very near to the truth.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Crewe walked to the street known as Whitethorn Gardens, which he learned was situated in the older portion of the town, off the less fashionable end of the front. It was a narrow street, steep of ascent, full of old stone houses of deserted appearance, which faced cobbled footways from behind prim grass-plots. It looked like a place which had seen better days and was proud in its poverty, for very few “Apartments” cards were displayed in the old-fashioned bay windows. No. 41 was half-way up the street on the right-hand side, and was distinguished from its fellows by a magnolia in the centre of the grass-plot, and two parallel close-clipped ivy screens which had been trained to grow in panel fashion on both sides of the front door.

  Crewe walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. After a considerable pause, he rang again. His second ring brought a grim-faced servant to the door, who, when he asked if her mistress was in, opened the door and invited him to enter. She took him into a small sitting-room, and vanished with a gruff intimation that she would tell Mrs. Penfield.

  Five minutes elapsed before a woman entered the room noiselessly and stood before him. She was a woman of attractive appearance, about thirty, with clear grey eyes and well kept brown hair, and her graceful and ladylike demeanour suggested that she was of superior class to the type of womanhood usually associated with seaside apartment houses.

  “I understand that you are looking for apartments?” she said in a pleasant voice.

  “No,” said Crewe. “I came to see Mr. Brett.”

  “He is not in,” was the reply. Her smile had gone and her voice had lost its ingratiating tone. She looked at Crewe steadily.

  “When do you expect him in?”

  “He is away.”

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “I cannot say definitely when he will be back.”

  “Do you expect him in the course of the next few days?”

  “He may come any time.” Her suspicions were fully aroused, and with the object of dismissing him and also extracting some information from him she said, “And who shall I tell him called?”
/>
  Crewe handed her a card and watched her as she read the name.

  “Mr. Crewe!” she exclaimed with a note of surprise and alarm in her voice. “Not Mr. Crewe of—of London?”

  “I live in London,” he replied.

  “Not Mr. Crewe, the—famous detective?”

  “That is my occupation,” was the modest rejoinder.

  “Oh, I am pleased to see you,” was her unexpected exclamation. She smiled as she looked him over. He was much younger and much better-looking than the Mr. Crewe of her imagination, and these things lessened her fear of him. “Inspector Murchison came down to see Mr. Brett on Saturday last, but he had gone away two days before,” she said. “I promised the inspector I would send him word when Mr. Brett returned.” She seemed to have changed completely since learning Crewe’s name, and to be anxious to supply information.

  “I have seen Inspector Murchison,” he said.

  “If I knew Mr. Brett’s present address I would telegraph to him,” she continued. “I don’t think he can have heard of the murder of poor Mr. Lumsden, or he would have come back at once.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” said Crewe.

  “As of course you know, from the inspector, Mr. Brett is engaged from time to time on very important business of a confidential nature for the Government. He has often been away for three weeks at a time without sending me as much as a postcard.”

  “On what day did he go away?” asked Crewe.

  “On Thursday last—Thursday morning. It was on Friday night that Mr. Lumsden was killed, was it not?”

  “It was on Friday night that his body was discovered,” said Crewe.

  “A dreadful crime,” she continued.

  “Did Mr. Brett leave by train?” he asked.

  “Yes—that is, as far as I know. Oh, of course he must have gone by train. He only took a light suitcase with him, so I do not expect he will be away very long.”