The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  “Then why not mark your sense of the fact by leaving it?” I inquired, with a smile.

  He shook his head. “What? Emigrate? No, thank you! I’m not taking any. None of your colonies for me, if you please. I shall stick to the old ship. I’m too much attached to the Empire.”

  “And yet imperialists,” I said, “generally gush over the colonies—the Empire on which the sun never sets.”

  “The Empire in Leicester Squire!” he responded, gazing at me with unspoken contempt. “Have a whisky-and-soda, old chap? What, no? ‘Never drink between meals?’ Well, you do surprise me! I suppose that comes of being a sawbones, don’t it?”

  “Possibly,” I answered. “We respect our livers.” Then I went on to the ostensible reason of my visit—the Charterhouse testimonial. He slapped his thighs metaphorically, by way of suggesting the depleted condition of his pockets. “Stony broke, Cumberledge,” he murmured; “stony broke! Honour bright! Unless Bluebird pulls off the Prince of Wales’s Stakes, I really don’t know how I’m to pay the Benchers.”

  “It’s quite unimportant,” I answered. “I was asked to ask you, and I have asked you.”

  “So I twig, my dear fellow. Sorry to have to say no. But I’ll tell you what I can do for you; I can put you upon a straight thing—”

  I glanced at the mantelpiece. “I see you have a photograph of Miss Sissie Montague,” I broke in casually, taking it down and examining it. “With an autograph, too. ‘Reggie, from Sissie.’ You are a friend of hers?”

  “A friend of hers? I’ll trouble you. She is a clinker, Sissie is! You should see that girl smoke. I give you my word of honour, Cumberledge, she can consume cigarettes against any fellow I know in London. Hang it all, a girl like that, you know—well, one can’t help admiring her! Ever seen her?”

  “Oh, yes; I know her. I called on her, in fact, night before last, at Scarborough.”

  He whistled a moment, then broke into an imbecile laugh. “My gum,” he cried; “this is a start, this is! You don’t mean to tell me you are the other Johnnie.”

  “What other Johnnie?” I asked, feeling we were getting near it.

  He leaned back and laughed again. “Well, you know that girl Sissie, she’s a clever one, she is,” he went on after a minute, staring at me. “She’s a regular clinker! Got two strings to her bow; that’s where the trouble comes in. Me and another fellow. She likes me for love and the other fellow for money. Now, don’t you come and tell me that you are the other fellow.”

  “I have certainly never aspired to the young lady’s hand,” I answered, cautiously. “But don’t you know your rival’s name, then?”

  “That’s Sissie’s blooming cleverness. She’s a caulker, Sissie is; you don’t take a rise out of Sissie in a hurry. She knows that if I knew who the other bloke was, I’d blow upon her little game to him and put him off her. And I would, s’ep me taters; for I’m nuts on that girl. I tell you, Cumberledge, she is a clinker!”

  “You seem to me admirably adapted for one another,” I answered, truthfully. I had not the slightest compunction in handing Reggie Nettlecraft over to Sissie, nor in handing Sissie over to Reggie Nettlecraft.

  “Adapted for one another? That’s just it. There, you hit the right nail plump on the cocoanut, Cumberground! But Sissie’s an artful one, she is. She’s playing for the other Johnnie. He’s got the dibs, you know; and Sissie wants the dibs even more than she wants yours truly.”

  “Got what?” I inquired, not quite catching the phrase.

  “The dibs, old man; the chink; the oof; the ready rhino. He rolls in it, she says. I can’t find out the chap’s name, but I know his Guv’nor’s something or other in the millionaire trade somewhere across in America.”

  “She writes to you, I think?”

  “That’s so; every blooming day; but how the dummy did you come to know it?”

  “She lays letters addressed to you on the hall table at her lodgings in Scarborough.”

  “The dickens she does! Careless little beggar! Yes, she writes to me—pages. She’s awfully gone on me, really. She’d marry me if it wasn’t for the Johnnie with the dibs. She doesn’t care for him: she wants his money. He dresses badly, don’t you see; and, after all, the clothes make the man! I’D like to get at him. I’D spoil his pretty face for him.” And he assumed a playfully pugilistic attitude.

  “You really want to get rid of this other fellow?” I asked, seeing my chance.

  “Get rid of him? Why, of course! Chuck him into the river some nice dark night if I could once get a look at him!”

  “As a preliminary step, would you mind letting me see one of Miss Montague’s letters?” I inquired.

  He drew a long breath. “They’re a bit affectionate, you know,” he murmured, stroking his beardless chin in hesitation. “She’s a hot ’un, Sissie is. She pitches it pretty warm on the affection-stop, I can tell you. But if you really think you can give the other Johnnie a cut on the head with her letters—well, in the interests of true love, which never does run smooth, I don’t mind letting you have a squint, as my friend, at one of her charming billy-doos.”

  He took a bundle from a drawer, ran his eye over one or two with a maudlin air, and then selected a specimen not wholly unsuitable for publication. “There’s one in the eye for C.,” he said, chuckling. “What would C. say to that, I wonder? She always calls him C., you know; it’s so jolly non-committing. She says, ‘I only wish that beastly old bore C. were at Halifax—which is where he comes from and then I would fly at once to my own dear Reggie! But, hang it all, Reggie boy, what’s the good of true love if you haven’t got the dibs? I must have my comforts. Love in a cottage is all very well in its way; but who’s to pay for the fizz, Reggie?’ That’s her refinement, don’t you see? Sissie’s awfully refined. She was brought up with the tastes and habits of a lady.”

  “Clearly so,” I answered. “Both her literary style and her liking for champagne abundantly demonstrate it!” His acute sense of humour did not enable him to detect the irony of my observation. I doubt if it extended much beyond oyster shells. He handed me the letter. I read it through with equal amusement and gratification. If Miss Sissie had written it on purpose in order to open Cecil Holsworthy’s eyes, she couldn’t have managed the matter better or more effectually. It breathed ardent love, tempered by a determination to sell her charms in the best and highest matrimonial market.

  “Now, I know this man, C.,” I said when I had finished. “And I want to ask whether you will let me show him Miss Montague’s letter. It would set him against the girl, who, as a matter of fact, is wholly unwor—I mean totally unfitted for him.”

  “Let you show it to him? Like a bird! Why, Sissie promised me herself that if she couldn’t bring ‘that solemn ass, C.,’ up to the scratch by Christmas, she’d chuck him and marry me. It’s here, in writing.” And he handed me another gem of epistolary literature.

  “You have no compunctions?” I asked again, after reading it.

  “Not a blessed compunction to my name.”

  “Then neither have I,” I answered.

  I felt they both deserved it. Sissie was a minx, as Hilda rightly judged; while as for Nettlecraft—well, if a public school and an English university leave a man a cad, a cad he will be, and there is nothing more to be said about it.

  I went straight off with the letters to Cecil Holsworthy. He read them through, half incredulously at first; he was too honest-natured himself to believe in the possibility of such double-dealing—that one could have innocent eyes and golden hair and yet be a trickster. He read them twice; then he compared them word for word with the simple affection and childlike tone of his own last letter received from the same lady. Her versatility of style would have done honour to a practised literary craftsman. At last he handed them back to me. “Do you think,” he said, “on the evidence of these, I s
hould be doing wrong in breaking with her?”

  “Wrong in breaking with her!” I exclaimed. “You would be doing wrong if you didn’t,—wrong to yourself; wrong to your family; wrong, if I may venture to say so, to Daphne; wrong even in the long run to the girl herself; for she is not fitted for you, and she is fitted for Reggie Nettlecraft. Now, do as I bid you. Sit down at once and write her a letter from my dictation.”

  He sat down and wrote, much relieved that I took the responsibility off his shoulders. I read:

  “Dear Miss Montague,

  “The inclosed letters have come into my hands without my seeking it. After reading them, I feel that I have absolutely no right to stand between you and the man of your real choice. It would not be kind or wise of me to do so. I release you at once, and consider myself released. You may therefore regard our engagement as irrevocably cancelled.

  “Faithfully yours,

  “Cecil Holsworthy.”

  “Nothing more than that?” he asked, looking up and biting his pen. “Not a word of regret or apology?”

  “Not a word,” I answered. “You are really too lenient.”

  I made him take it out and post it before he could invent conscientious scruples. Then he turned to me irresolutely. “What shall I do next?” he asked, with a comical air of doubt.

  I smiled. “My dear fellow, that is a matter for your own consideration.”

  “But—do you think she will laugh at me?”

  “Miss Montague?”

  “No! Daphne.”

  “I am not in not in Daphne’s confidence,” I answered. “I don’t know how she feels. But, on the face of it, I think I can venture to assure you that at least she won’t laugh at you.”

  He grasped my hand hard. “You don’t mean to say so!” he cried. “Well, that’s really very, kind of her! A girl of Daphne’s high type! And I, who feel myself so utterly unworthy of her!”

  “We are all unworthy of a good woman’s love,” I answered. “But, thank Heaven, the good women don’t seem to realise it.”

  That evening, about ten, my new friend came back in a hurry to my rooms at St. Nathaniel’s. Nurse Wade was standing there, giving her report for the night when he entered. His face looked some inches shorter and broader than usual. His eyes beamed. His mouth was radiant.

  “Well, you won’t believe it, Dr. Cumberledge,” he began; “but—”

  “Yes, I do believe it,” I answered. “I know it. I have read it already.”

  “Read it!” he cried. “Where?”

  I waved my hand towards his face. “In a special edition of the evening papers,” I answered, smiling. “Daphne has accepted you!”

  He sank into an easy chair, beside himself with rapture. “Yes, yes; that angel! Thanks to you, she has accepted me!”

  “Thanks to Miss Wade,” I said, correcting him. “It is really all her doing. If she had not seen through the photograph to the face, and through the face to the woman and the base little heart of her, we might never have found her out.”

  He turned to Hilda with eyes all gratitude. “You have given me the dearest and best girl on earth,” he cried, seizing both her hands.

  “And I have given Daphne a husband who will love and appreciate her,” Hilda answered, flushing.

  “You see,” I said, maliciously; “I told you they never find us out, Holsworthy!”

  As for Reggie Nettlecraft and his wife, I should like to add that they are getting on quite as well as could be expected. Reggie has joined his Sissie on the music-hall stage; and all those who have witnessed his immensely popular performance of the Drunken Gentleman before the Bow Street Police Court acknowledge without reserve that, after “failing for everything,” he has dropped at last into his true vocation. His impersonation of the part is said to be “nature itself.” I see no reason to doubt it.

  CHAPTER III

  THE EPISODE OF THE WIFE WHO DID HER DUTY

  To make you understand my next yarn, I must go back to the date of my introduction to Hilda.

  “It is witchcraft!” I said the first time I saw her, at Le Geyt’s luncheon-party.

  She smiled a smile which was bewitching, indeed, but by no means witch-like,—a frank, open smile with just a touch of natural feminine triumph in it. “No, not witchcraft,” she answered, helping herself with her dainty fingers to a burnt almond from the Venetian glass dish,—“not witchcraft,—memory; aided, perhaps, by some native quickness of perception. Though I say it myself, I never met anyone, I think, whose memory goes quite as far as mine does.”

  “You don’t mean quite as far back,” I cried, jesting; for she looked about twenty-four, and had cheeks like a ripe nectarine, just as pink and just as softly downy.

  She smiled again, showing a row of semi-transparent teeth, with a gleam in the depths of them. She was certainly most attractive. She had that indefinable, incommunicable, unanalysable personal quality which we know as charm. “No, not as far back,” she repeated. “Though, indeed, I often seem to remember things that happened before I was born (like Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Kenilworth): I recollect so vividly all that I have heard or read about them. But as far in extent, I mean. I never let anything drop out of my memory. As this case shows you, I can recall even quite unimportant and casual bits of knowledge when any chance clue happens to bring them back to me.”

  She had certainly astonished me. The occasion for my astonishment was the fact that when I handed her my card, “Dr. Hubert Ford Cumberledge, St. Nathaniel’s Hospital,” she had glanced at it for a second and exclaimed, without sensible pause or break, “Oh, then, of course, you’re half Welsh, as I am.”

  The instantaneous and apparent inconsecutiveness of her inference took me aback. “Well, m’yes: I am half Welsh,” I replied. “My mother came from Carnarvonshire. But, why then, and of course? I fail to perceive your train of reasoning.”

  She laughed a sunny little laugh, like one well accustomed to receive such inquiries. “Fancy asking a woman to give you ‘the train of reasoning’ for her intuitions!” she cried, merrily. “That shows, Dr. Cumberledge, that you are a mere man—a man of science, perhaps, but not a psychologist. It also suggests that you are a confirmed bachelor. A married man accepts intuitions, without expecting them to be based on reasoning.… Well, just this once, I will stretch a point to enlighten you. If I recollect right, your mother died about three years ago?”

  “You are quite correct. Then you knew my mother?”

  “Oh, dear me, no! I never even met her. Why then?”

  Her look was mischievous. “But, unless I mistake, I think she came from Hendre Coed, near Bangor.”

  “Wales is a village!” I exclaimed, catching my breath. “Every Welsh person seems to know all about every other.”

  My new acquaintance smiled again. When she smiled she was irresistible: a laughing face protruding from a cloud of diaphanous drapery. “Now, shall I tell you how I came to know that?” she asked, poising a glace cherry on her dessert fork in front of her. “Shall I explain my trick, like the conjurers?”

  “Conjurers never explain anything,” I answered. “They say: ‘So, you see, that’s how it’s done!’—with a swift whisk of the hand—and leave you as much in the dark as ever. Don’t explain like the conjurers, but tell me how you guessed it.”

  She shut her eyes and seemed to turn her glance inward.

  “About three years ago,” she began slowly, like one who reconstructs with an effort a half-forgotten scene, “I saw a notice in the Times—Births, Deaths, and Marriages—‘On the 27th of October’—was it the 27th?” The keen brown eyes opened again for a second and flashed inquiry into mine.

  “Quite right,” I answered, nodding.

  “I thought so. ‘On the 27th of October, at Brynmor, Bournemouth, Emily Olwen Josephine, widow of the late Thoma
s Cumberledge, sometime colonel of the 7th Bengal Regiment of Foot, and daughter of Iolo Gwyn Ford, Esq., J.P., of Hendre Coed, near Bangor. Am I correct?” She lifted her dark eyelashes once more and flooded me.

  “You are quite correct,” I answered, surprised. “And that is really all that you knew of my mother?”

  “Absolutely all. The moment I saw your card, I thought to myself, in a breath: ‘Ford, Cumberledge; what do I know of those two names? I have some link between them. Ah, yes; found Mrs. Cumberledge, wife of Colonel Thomas Cumberledge, of the 7th Bengals, was a Miss Ford, daughter of a Mr. Ford, of Bangor.’ That came to me like a lightning-gleam. Then I said to myself again, ‘Dr. Hubert Ford Cumberledge must be their son.’ So there you have ‘the train of reasoning.’ Women can reason—sometimes. I had to think twice, though, before I could recall the exact words of the Times notice.”

  “And can you do the same with everyone?”

  “Everyone! Oh, come, now: that is expecting too much! I have not read, marked, learned, and inwardly digested everyone’s family announcements. I don’t pretend to be the Peerage, the Clergy List, and the London Directory rolled into one. I remembered your family all the more vividly, no doubt, because of the pretty and unusual old Welsh names, ‘Olwen’ and ‘Iolo Gwyn Ford,’ which fixed themselves on my memory by their mere beauty. Everything about Wales always attracts me; my Welsh side is uppermost. But I have hundreds—oh, thousands—of such facts stored and pigeon-holed in my memory. If anybody else cares to try me,” she glanced round the table, “perhaps we may be able to test my power that way.”

  Two or three of the company accepted her challenge, giving the full names of their sisters or brothers; and, in three cases out of five, my witch was able to supply either the notice of their marriage or some other like published circumstance. In the instance of Charlie Vere, it is true, she went wrong, just at first, though only in a single small particular; it was not Charlie himself who was gazetted to a sub-lieutenancy in the Warwickshire Regiment, but his brother Walter. However, the moment she was told of this slip, she corrected herself at once, and added, like lightning, “Ah, yes: how stupid of me! I have mixed up the names. Charles Cassilis Vere got an appointment on the same day in the Rhodesian Mounted Police, didn’t he?” Which was in point of fact quite accurate.