The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “With all due deference to the sergeant as a judge of character, and particularly of the feminine character, I am quite convinced that she has not told you everything.”

  “Can you tell us anything she is keeping back?”

  “She is keeping back the real reason why she went to Cliff Farm on the night the body was taken there.”

  “You do not think she went there to shelter from the storm?”

  “She had an appointment there,” said Crewe.

  “With whom?” asked Gillett breathlessly.

  “With Brett—the man to whom she is engaged.”

  “What!” exclaimed Gillett.

  “Surely she explained to you the nature of her relations with Brett?” said Crewe maliciously. “Except in regard to Marsland she does not seem to have taken you into her confidence at all.”

  “She may be playing a deep game,” said Gillett, in a tone which indicated that although an attempt might be made to hoodwink them, it was not likely to prove successful.

  “I think you will find that she is a very clever young woman,” was Crewe’s comment.

  “What was the nature of her appointment at Cliff Farm with Brett? Why not meet him at Ashlingsea or at Staveley?” asked Gillett.

  “As to the nature of the appointment, I will refer you for full details to Mrs. Grange. You know her, sergeant, of course?” Crewe said, turning to Westaway.

  “The dwarf woman at Staveley?” asked the sergeant.

  “Yes. If I am not much mistaken Grange and his wife were in the vicinity of Cliff Farm when the dead body of the owner was brought there. What part they played in the tragedy I must leave you to find out from them. I am not certain myself of their part, but I have a fairly clear idea. You can let me know what admission you get from them. Before they admit anything it may be necessary to frighten them with arrest, Gillett. But I don’t suppose you mind doing that?”

  “Not in the least,” replied Gillett with a smile that was free from embarrassment. “But what evidence can I produce to show that I know they know all about Miss Maynard’s presence at the farm? What evidence is there that this man and his wife were anywhere in the neighbourhood of the place?”

  “They went over in the afternoon of October both in a motor-boat in charge of a boatman at Staveley, who is called Pedro, and wears a scarlet cloak. Murchison told me that Pedro is the father of Mrs. Grange, the dwarf woman—they are Italians. But Grange, the husband, is an Englishman. He keeps a second-hand bookshop in Curzon Street, at Staveley, and lives over the shop with his wife. Is that not so, Westaway?”

  “Yes, sir. That is quite correct.”

  “They reached the landing-place at the foot of the cliffs, near the farm, before there was any appearance of the storm. The next morning, as I was descending the cliff by the secret path, I found an old felt hat on the rocks just before Pedro, who had come over in his boat to look for it, reached the place. My impression is that the hat belonged to Grange, and was blown off as he was descending the cliff by the path when the storm was abating. If it had been blown off in the afternoon, while he was ascending the cliff in daylight, he could have recovered it without much difficulty. The fact that he left it behind indicates that it was blown off in the dark and that he was too excited and upset to hunt for it. But on reaching Staveley in Pedro’s boat, after the storm had abated, he began to think that his old hat was a dangerous object to leave about in the vicinity of a house where there was the body of a murdered man awaiting discovery by the police, so he sent Pedro back to the landing-place to recover the hat.”

  “But, hang it all, Crewe! Some of your reasoning about the hat is merely surmise. You say it was blown off while Grange was descending the cliff path. How do you arrive at that conclusion? It might have been blown off at any time—while he was crossing to the farm, or standing on the cliffs.”

  “No,” replied Crewe. “The gale was blowing in from the sea, and if Grange’s hat had blown off while he was on the cliffs it would have blown inward—that is, across the downs.”

  Detective Gillett nodded.

  “I overlooked that point,” he said. “Have you possession of the hat now?”

  “Yes. You can have it if you call for it at Sir George Granville’s, on your way to interview Grange this afternoon or to-morrow. But the Granges know that I have the hat. I went there with it just to convince myself that Grange did own it.”

  “Did he admit that it was his?”

  “He denied it. But he is not a good hand at dissimulation. I offered to hand over the hat to him in exchange for a truthful account of all he and his wife knew about the tragedy, but the offer was not entertained. They denied that they were there at all.”

  “I’ll soon get them to alter that tune!” exclaimed the resourceful Gillett. “I will put the screw on this man in the scarlet cloak until I squeeze something out of him.”

  “I am afraid you will have a slight difficulty in making Pedro reveal anything,” said Crewe. “He is deaf and dumb.”

  Gillett looked somewhat confused at finding that his impetuous confidence had carried him beyond his resources.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said.

  “It is of no consequence,” returned Crewe, “for you have evidence in your possession that Mrs. Grange was inside the farmhouse. The comb you found in the sitting-room downstairs belongs to her. When I went to see her she was wearing one exactly similar to it. Apparently she had two of them. And she does not know where she lost the one the police have, or she would not wear its fellow.”

  CHAPTER XX

  Dinner was just over at Sir George Granville’s house, and Crewe, on hearing that Detective Gillett and Sergeant Westaway had called to see him, took them into the library at his host’s suggestion.

  “I have seen Grange and his wife, and also Mrs. Penfield,” said Gillett.

  “And what did you get from them?” asked Crewe.

  “A great deal of interesting information—and most of it bearing out your theory, Mr. Crewe. I must say that this crime has more twists and turns than any I have ever had anything to do with.”

  “I formed the impression some time ago that it was a complicated and interesting case,” said Crewe.

  “And I want to say, Mr. Crewe, that you have been a great help to us. If it wasn’t for you we shouldn’t have got on the right track so soon, should we, sergeant?”

  Sergeant Westaway, who was not very quick at arriving at conclusions, had discovered that Detective Gillett was generally ready to call him to official comradeship in the mistakes that had been made, but less disposed to give him an equal share in any success achieved. He nodded in silent acquiescence with the admission that they owed something to Crewe.

  “And whom did you see first?” asked Crewe.

  “I went to the garage first to learn about the motor-car Brett hired,” said Gillett. “I had a look at their books, and found that he had the car on Friday afternoon. Gosford will not only swear by his books, but he remembers quite distinctly that it was on Friday that Brett had the car. As he told you, the next thing he heard of it was that it was lying in the ditch about six miles away. He says Brett, when telephoning, said he was speaking from Lewes—but that is probably a lie. As Brett was making his escape he would not be likely to say where he was. But I can easily find out from the telephone exchange where the call came from. It was a trunk call, and the only trunk call Gosford received that day, so there will be no difficulty in getting it from the records of the exchange. Then I went to Brett’s lodgings in Whitethorn Gardens. This woman, Mrs. Penfield, tried to bluff me—she said she was certain that Brett had left on Thursday, and that Gosford was mistaken in thinking Brett had the car on Friday. But, when I threatened to arrest her for being an accessory, she broke down and admitted that Brett left her place after lunch on Friday to drive to Cliff Farm, and that she has not seen or heard of him since.”

  “Not seen or heard of him?” echoed Crewe meditatively.

  “By this time I f
elt that I was getting on,” continued Detective Gillett.

  Sergeant Westaway nodded to himself in sour depression at the deliberate exclusion of himself from the story of progress.

  “I next called at Grange’s shop. Westaway showed me the place.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the sergeant, as if he were in pain.

  “I explained to Grange who I was, and he nearly fell through the floor with fright. I saw there would not be much difficulty in dealing with him. But the ugly little dwarf upstairs was a different proposition. She protested that she and her husband knew nothing about Cliff Farm, or what had happened there. Even when I produced the hat you gave me she would not give in. But when I produced the comb—it is exactly similar to the one she was wearing—it made an impression, and then when I followed that up with a threat to arrest them both—”

  “Ah!” interrupted Crewe with a smile, “that is where you Scotland Yard men have the advantage. And I must say that you don’t neglect to use it on every occasion. If I could only threaten people with arrest I should be able to surmount many of the difficulties which confront me from time to time.”

  “It is a good card,” admitted Detective Gillett, with the pride of a man who holds a strong hand which he has dealt himself. “It enabled me to get their story out of them, and a most interesting story it is.”

  “I thought it would be,” said Crewe.

  “The body was brought to the farm by Brett. Grange and his wife were in the house when he carried it upstairs.”

  “But did Brett know they were there?” asked Crewe.

  “He did not; he never suspected there was anybody in the house. They hid on the top floor.”

  “And they were there when Miss Maynard came after Brett had gone,” said Crewe, pursuing a train of thought. “They were there when Marsland and she went up to the first floor and discovered the body. It was Grange who knocked over the picture at the top of the staircase, and caused the noise which alarmed Marsland and Miss Maynard.”

  “Right,” said Gillett. “You seem to know the whole story; it is not worth while for me to go over it.”

  “Oh, yes it is. If you got the whole truth out of that little dwarf and her husband, you will be able to fill in for me some blanks in my reconstruction of the crime.”

  Detective Gillett was mollified by the assurance that he had in his possession some information which was new to Crewe, and he resumed his story with interest:

  “What do you think took the Granges over to the farm? It was to hold a séance there with the object of finding where old grandfather Lumsden had hidden his money. Young Lumsden had heard from Murchison something about the dwarf’s psychic powers, and in company with Brett he went to see her. First of all they produced the cryptogram old Lumsden had left behind, and asked Grange if he knew anything about cryptograms or could get them a book on how to solve them. Grange couldn’t help them there, and from that the conversation turned to spiritualism, and one of them—probably Brett—suggested that Mrs. Grange should try to solve the cryptogram by getting into communication with the spirit of old Lumsden and asking him where he had hidden the money. A splendid idea, don’t you think, Mr. Crewe?”

  “Excellent!”

  “There is nothing in this spiritualistic business,” said Sergeant Westaway, with official certainty. “No good ever comes of those who dabble in it—I’ve seen cases of the kind at Ashlingsea. We had a sort of medium there once, but I managed to clear her out, after a lot of trouble.”

  “Once spiritualism gets into good working order there will be no work for police or detectives, sergeant,” said Crewe. “The mediums will save all the trouble of collecting evidence.”

  “I don’t believe in it at all; it is nothing but fraud and deception,” returned Sergeant Westaway.

  “Here is the cryptogram,” said Detective Gillett.

  He held out to Crewe a sheet of paper which he took from his pocket-book.

  Take heed and be quiet; fear not, neither be fainthearted for the two tails of those smoking firebrands, for the fierce anger of Rezin with Syria, and of the son of Remaliah.

  Because Syria, Ephraim, and the son of Remaliah, have taken civil counsel against thee, saying,

  Let us go up against Judah, and vex it, and let us make a breach therein for us, and set a King in the midst of it, even the son of Tabeal:

  Thus saith the Lord God. It shall not stand, neither shall it come to pass.

  And all the Kings of the north, far and near, one with another, and all the kingdoms of the world, which are upon the face of the earth: and the King of Sheshak shall drink after them.

  Therefore, thou shalt say unto them, Thus saith the Lord of Hosts, and the God of wrath: “Drink ye and be drunken, and spue and fall, and rise no more, because of the sword which I will send among you.”

  “A curious document!” said Crewe, examining it intently.

  “I got it from the dwarf woman,” said Gillett. “She had it hidden away in her sitting-room.”

  “I suppose she didn’t want to part with it?”

  “She did not. But when I threatened to arrest—”

  “Well, I can honestly congratulate you on getting it,” said Crewe. “I have been very anxious to see it. This is the cryptogram that Marsland found on the stairs, and subsequently disappeared from the house. Mrs. Grange secured it before she left the house, after the departure of Marsland and Miss Maynard.”

  “That is what I thought, but the dwarf says, ‘No.’ She says that this is the original cryptogram, and that she got it from young Lumsden in order to study it before holding a séance. Lumsden would not part with it until he had made a copy, in case anything happened to the original. Mrs. Grange took the original with her over to Cliff Farm, but it has never been out of her possession since Lumsden gave it to her. She did not see the copy Lumsden made; she did not see it at the house, and does not know what became of it. However, the copy is of no consequence.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” said Crewe. “I would like to know where it went. The cryptogram can be solved just as well from the copy as the original.”

  “It probably got blown away and destroyed,” said Detective Gillett. “There was a high wind that night.”

  “You might leave this with me for a day or two,” said Crewe, looking at the cryptogram earnestly. “I take an interest in cryptograms.”

  “You must take great care of it,” Detective Gillett replied. “I shall want to produce it as evidence at the trial.”

  “When you get Brett?”

  “Yes. And now let us get back to my story. It was arranged that a séance should be held at the farm on Friday, October 16th.”

  “Who was to be there?” asked Crewe.

  “Grange and his wife, Lumsden, Brett and Miss Maynard. This young lady has been playing a deep game, as you suggested. I will settle with her to-morrow.”

  “And this man, Tom Jauncey, who was shot in the arm, wasn’t he one of the party?”

  “No.”

  “I thought he might be there to represent the unpaid legatees,” said Crewe.

  “I have no doubt that he knew about the séance—that he had heard Brett and Miss Maynard talking about it. Brett was in the habit of visiting the young lady at her home. No doubt Jauncey went out to the farm in order to learn what happened, and see if the money was found.”

  “That is much more likely than that he went there to dig in the garden.”

  “Let me reconstruct the crime for you, Mr. Crewe. I have got all the threads,” said Detective Gillett eagerly. “The séance was to take place at 6 p.m. on Friday. The dwarf and her husband went over to the place in the afternoon in the motor-boat belonging to old Pedro. They climbed the cliff, and on reaching the farm found that there was no one about, but that the front door was not locked. Lumsden had gone for a walk along the Staveley road to meet Brett, who was to motor over, and he had left the door unlocked, so that, if any of his guests arrived during his absence, they could enter the house and make them
selves at home. He was not afraid of thieves going there, for very few people travel along that road on foot. That was the arrangement he had made with the Granges.

  “They entered the house, and had a look round the old place. No doubt it occurred to them that if they were thoroughly acquainted with the rooms, and all the nooks and crannies, they would be able to give a more impressive séance. And perhaps they had an idea that in searching round they might find the money without the assistance of the former owner’s spirit, in which case, I have no doubt, they would have helped themselves. They had reached the house about 5 o’clock, and they had not been there half an hour before the storm began to burst, and it got dark.

  “It was probably the noise of the rising wind which prevented them hearing Brett’s motor-car, and the first intimation they had that any one had arrived was hearing the front door open. They had closed it when they entered the house, their object being to examine the rooms undisturbed. Brett, thinking there was no one in the house, opened the door with Lumsden’s key. The Granges who were on the top floor did not call out to him, as they had no satisfactory explanation to offer for exploring the house. They saw Brett staggering up the stairs carrying something on his left shoulder. At first they could not make out what it was, as it was dark inside the house. Half-way up the stairs Brett came to a halt to shift his burden, and he turned on an electric torch in order to see where he was. By the light of the torch the Granges saw that Brett was carrying the body of a man. They thought at first that Lumsden had been injured in an accident to the motor-car, but the fact that they heard no voices subsequently—that Brett did not speak aloud—convinces me that you were right, and that Lumsden was dead.

  “Brett entered the room on the left of the stairs on the first floor, and was there some minutes—probably getting Lumsden’s pocket-book, and disarranging the papers it contained in the way we saw. Then he went downstairs, and a few moments later the little dwarf, who was leaning over the staircase, saw him moving about below, with the torch in one hand and a bucket in the other. He began washing away the stains of blood in the hall, and on the staircase. He came up the stairs one by one with his bucket and torch, searching for blood-stains, and swabbing them with the cloth whenever he found them. After cleaning the stairs and landing in this way, he went downstairs with the bucket. A minute later he came back to the room which he had first entered, and immediately afterwards they heard a shot. This was the shot fired through the window. No doubt the bullet hit the cherry-tree, and then struck Jauncey in the arm. It seems a strange thing that Jauncey knew nothing about the motor-car at the gate. But of course it had no lights, and Jauncey, intent on spying, did not go up to the front gate to enter the garden. He must have got through the hedge lower down, and made his way across the home field. I must see him about this and ask him.