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

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  “Yes, I know,” said Mr. Dyer irritably, “but still, as I said before, business is slack—”

  “Oh, well, if I’m to go, I’m to go, and there’s an end of it,” said Loveday resignedly. “I only say it would have been better, for the credit of the office, if you had declined such a hopeless affair. Tell me a little about this Mr. Richard Golding, who and what he is.”

  Mr. Dyer’s temper grew serene again.

  “He is a very wealthy man,” he answered, “an Australian merchant; came over to England about a dozen years ago, and settled down at Langford Hall. He had, however, been living in Italy for some six or seven years previously. On his way home from Australia he did Italy, as so many Australians do, fell in love with a pretty girl, whom he met at Naples, and married her, and by her had this one child, Irené, who is causing such a sensation at the present moment.”

  “Is this Italian wife living?”

  “No, she died just before Mr. Golding came to England. He has not yet married again, but I hear is on the point of so doing. The lady he contemplates making the second Mrs. Golding is a certain Mrs. Greenhow, a widow, who for the past year or so has acted as chaperon to his daughter and housekeeper to himself.”

  “It is possible that Miss Irené was not too well pleased at the idea of having a stepmother.”

  “Such is the fact. From all accounts she and her future stepmother did not get on at all well together. Miss Irené has a very hasty, imperious temper, and Mrs. Greenhow seems to have been quite incapable of holding her own with her. She was to have left the hall this month to make her preparations for the approaching wedding; the young lady’s disappearance, however, has naturally brought matters to a standstill.”

  “Did Miss Golding take any money away with her, do you know?”

  “Ah, nobody seems sure on that head. Mr. Golding gave her a liberal allowance and exacted no accounts. Sometimes she had her purse full at the end of the quarter, sometimes it was empty before her quarterly cheque had been cashed a week. I fear you will have to do without exact information on that most important point.

  “She had lovers, of course?”

  “Yes; in spite of her quick temper she seems to have been a lovable and most attractive young woman, with her half-Australian half-Italian parentage, and to have turned the heads of all the men in the neighbourhood. Only two, however, appear to have found the slightest favour in her eyes—a certain Lord Guilleroy, who owns nearly all the land for miles round Langford, and a young fellow called Gordon Cleeve, the only son of Sir Gordon Cleeve, a wealthy baronet. The girl seems to have coquetted pretty equally with these two; then suddenly, for some reason or other, she gives Mr. Cleeve to understand that his attentions are distasteful to her, and gives unequivocal encouragement to Lord Guilleroy. Gordon Cleeve does not sit down quietly under this treatment. He threatens to shoot first his rival, then himself, then Miss Golding; finally, does none of these three things, but starts off on a three years’ journey round the world.”

  “Threatens to shoot her; starts off on a journey round the world,” summed up Loveday. “Do you know the date of the day on which he left Langford?”

  “Yes, it was on the 19th; the day before Miss Golding disappeared. But Ramsay has already traced him down to Brindisi; ascertained that he went on board the Buckingham, en route for Alexandria, and has beaten out the theory that he can, by any possibility, be connected with the affair. So I wouldn’t advise you to look in that quarter for your clue.”

  “I am not at all sanguine about finding a clue in any quarter,” said Loveday, as she rose to take leave.

  She did not feel in the best of tempers, and was a little disposed to resent having a case, so to speak, forced upon her under such disadvantageous conditions.

  Her last words to Mr. Dyer were almost the first she addressed to Inspector Ramsay when, towards the close of the day, she was met by him at Langford Cross Station. Ramsay was a lanky, bony Scotchman, sandy-haired and slow of speech.

  “Our hopes centre on you; we trust you’ll not disappoint us,” he said, by way of a greeting.

  His use of the plural number made Loveday turn in the direction of a tall, good-looking man, with a remarkably frank expression of countenance, who stood at the inspector’s elbow.

  “I am Lord Guilleroy,” said this gentleman, coming forward. “Will you allow me to drive you to Langford Hall? My cab is waiting outside.”

  “Thank you; one moment,” answered Loveday, again turning to Ramsay. “Now, do you wish,” she said, addressing him, “to tell me anything beyond the facts you have already communicated to Mr. Dyer?”

  “No-o,” answered the inspector, slowly and sententiously. “I would rather not bias your mind in any direction by any theory of mine.” (“It would be rather a waste of time to attempt such a thing,” thought Loveday.) “The only additional fact I have to mention is one you would see for yourself so soon as you arrived at the Hall, namely, that Mr. Golding is keeping up with great difficulty—in fact, is on the verge of a break-down. He has not had half an hour’s sleep since his daughter left home,—a serious thing that for a man at his age.”

  Loveday was favourably impressed with Lord Guilleroy. He gave her the idea of being a man of strong common-sense and great energy. His conversation was marked by a certain reserve. Although, however, he evidently declined to wear his heart upon his sleeve, it was easy to see, from a few words that escaped him, that if the search for Miss Golding proved fruitless his whole life would be wrecked.

  He did not share Inspector Ramsay’s wish not to bias Loveday’s mind by any theory of his own.

  “If I had a theory you should have it in a minute,” he said, as he whipped up his horse and drove rapidly along the country road; “but I confess at the present moment my mind is a perfect blank on the matter. I have had a dozen theories, and have been compelled, one by one, to let them all go. I have suspected every one in turn, Cleeve, her own father (God forgive me!), her intended step-mother, the very servants in the house, and, one by one, circumstances have seemed to exonerate them all. It’s bewildering—it’s maddening! And most maddening of all it is to have to sit here with idle hands, when I would scour the earth from end to end to find her!”

  The country around Langford Hall, like most of the hunting districts in Leicestershire, was as flat as if a gigantic stream-roller had passed over it. The Hall itself was a somewhat imposing Gothic structure, of rough grey stone. Very grey and drear it showed in the autumn landscape as Loveday drove in through the park gates and caught her first glimpse of it between the all but leafless elms that flanked the drive. The equinoctial gales had set in early this year, and heavy rains had helped forward their work of wreckage and destruction. The green sward of the park was near akin to a swamp; and the trout stream that flowed across it at an angle showed swollen to its very banks. The sky was leaden with gathering masses of clouds; a flight of rooks, wheeling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful cawing, completed the dreariness of the scene.

  “A companion picture, this,” Loveday thought, “to the desolation that must reign within the house with the fate of its only daughter unknown—unguessed at even.”

  As she alighted at the hall door, a magnificent Newfoundland dog came bounding forth. Lord Guilleroy caressed it heartily.

  “It was her dog,” he explained. “We have tried in vain to make him track down his mistress—these dogs haven’t the scent of hounds.”

  He excused himself from entering the house with Loveday.

  “It’s like a vault—a catacomb; I can’t stand it,” he said. “No, I’ll take back my horse;” this was said to the man who stood waiting. “Tell Mr. Golding he’ll see me round in the morning without fail.”

  Loveday was shown into the library, where Mr. Golding was waiting to receive her. In the circumstances no disguise as to her name and
profession had been deemed necessary, and she was announced simply as Miss Brooke from Lynch Court.

  Mr. Golding greeted her warmly. One glance at him convinced her that Inspector Ramsay had given no exaggerated account of the bereaved father. His face was wan and haggard; his head was bowed; his voice sounded strained and weak. He seemed incapable of speaking on any save the one topic that filled his thoughts.

  “We pin our faith on you, Miss Brooke,” he said; “you are our last hope. Now, tell me you do not despair of being able to end this awful suspense one way or another. A day or two more of it will put me into my coffin!”

  “Miss Brooke will perhaps like to have some tea, and to rest a little, after her long journey before she begins to talk?” said a lady, at that moment entering the room and advancing towards her. Loveday could only conjecture that this was Mrs. Greenhow, for Mr. Golding was too preoccupied to make any attempt to an introduction.

  Mrs. Greenhow was a small, slight woman, with fluffy hair and green-grey eyes. Her voice suggested a purr; her eyes, a scratch.

  “Cat-tribe!” thought Loveday; “the velvet paw and the hidden claw—the exact antithesis, I should say, to one of Miss Golding’s temperament.”

  Mr. Golding went back to the one subject he had at heart.

  “You have had my daughter’s photograph given to you, I’ve no doubt,” he said; “but this I consider a far better likeness.” Here he pointed to a portrait in pastels that hung above his writing-table. It was that of a large-eyed, handsome girl of eighteen, with a remarkably sweet expression about the mouth.

  Mrs. Greenhow again interposed. “I think, if you don’t mind my saying so,” she said, “you would slightly mislead Miss Brooke if you led her to think that that was a perfect likeness of dear René. Much as I love the dear girl,” here she turned to Loveday, “I’m bound to admit that one seldom or never saw her wearing such a sweet expression of countenance.”

  Mr. Golding frowned, and sharply changed the subject.

  “Tell me, Miss Brooke,” he said, “what was your first impression when the facts of the case were submitted to you? I have been told that first impressions with you are generally infallible.”

  Loveday parried the question.

  “I am not at present sure that I am in possession of all the facts,” she answered. “There are one or two questions I particularly want to ask—you must forgive me if they seem to you a little irrelevant to the matter in hand. First and foremost, I want to know if any formal good-bye took place between your daughter and Mr. Gordon Cleeve?”

  “I think not. A sudden coolness arose between them, and the young fellow went away without so much as shaking hands with me.”

  “I fear an irreparable breach has occurred between the Cleeves and yourself on account of dear René’s extraordinary treatment of Gordon,” said Mrs. Greenhow sweetly.

  “There was no extraordinary treatment,” said Mr. Golding, now almost in anger. “My daughter and Mr. Cleeve were good friends—nothing more, I assure you—until one day René saw him cruelly thrashing one of his setters, and after that she cut him dead—would have nothing whatever to do with him.”

  “Maddalena told Inspector Ramsay,” said Mrs. Greenhow, sweetly still, “that on the evening before Gordon Cleeve left Langford dear René received a note from him—”

  “Which she tossed unopened into the fire,” finished Mr. Golding.

  “Who is Maddalena?” interrupted Loveday.

  “My daughter’s maid. I brought her over from Naples twelve years ago as nurse, and as René grew older she naturally enough fell into her duties as René’s maid. She is a dear, faithful creature; her aunt was nurse to René’s mother.”

  “Is it possible for Maddalena to be told off to wait upon me while I am in the house?” asked Loveday, turning to Mrs. Greenhow.

  “Certainly, if you wish it. At the same time, I warn you that she is not in a particularly amiable frame of mind just now, and will be very likely to be sullen and disobliging,” answered the lady.

  “Maddalena is not generally either one or the other,” said Mr. Golding deprecatingly; “but just now she is a little unlike herself. The truth is, all the servants have been a little too rigorously cross-examined by the police on matters of which they could have absolutely no knowledge, and Ramsay made such a dead set at Lena that the girl felt herself insulted, grew sullen, and refused to open her lips.”

  “She must be handled judiciously. I suppose she was broken-hearted when Miss Golding did not return from her morning’s walk?”

  A reply was prevented by the entrance of a servant with a telegram in his hand.

  Mr. Golding tore it open, and, in a trembling voice, read aloud as follows:

  “Some one answering to the description of your daughter was seen yesterday in the Champs Elysées, but disappeared before she could be detained. Watch arrivals at Folkestone and Dover.”

  The telegram was dated from Paris, and was from M. Dulau, of the Paris police. Mr. Golding’s agitation was pitiable.

  “Great heavens! is it possible?” he cried, putting his hand to his forehead as if stunned. “I’ll start for Dover—no, Paris, I think, at once.” He staggered to his feet, looking around him in a dazed and bewildered fashion. He might as well have talked of starting for the moon or the north star.

  “Pardon me,” said Loveday, “Inspector Ramsay is the right person to deal with that telegram. It should be sent to him at once.”

  Mr. Golding sank back in his chair, trembling from head to foot.

  “I think you are right,” he said faintly. “I might break down and lose a possible chance.”

  Then he turned once more to the man, who stood waiting for orders, and desired him to take the fastest horse to the stables and ride at once with the telegram to the Inspector.

  “And,” he added, “on your way back call at the Castle, see Lord Guilleroy, and give him the news.” He turned a pleading face towards Loveday. “This is good news—you consider it good news, do you not?” he asked piteously.

  “It won’t do to depend too much on it, will it?” said Mrs. Greenhow. “You see, there have been so many false alarms—if I may use the word.”—This was said to Loveday.—“Three times last week we had telegrams from different parts of the country saying dear René had been seen—now here, now there, I think there must be a good many girls like her wandering about the world.”

  “The dress has something to do with it, no doubt,” answered Loveday; “it is not a very distinctive one. Still, we must hope for the best. It is possible, of course, that at this very moment the young lady may be on her way home with a full explanation of what has seemed extraordinary conduct on her part. Now, if you will allow me, I will go to my room. And will you please give the order that Maddalena shall follow me there as quickly as possible?”

  Loveday’s thoughts were very busy when, in the quietude of her own room, she sank into an easy chair beside the fire. The case to which she had so unwillingly devoted her attention was beginning to present some interesting intricacies. She passed in view the dramatis personae of the little drama which she could only hope might not end in a tragedy. The broken-hearted father; the would-be-step-mother, with her feline affinities; the faithful maid; the cruel-tempered lover; the open-faced, energetic one; each in turn received their meed of attention.

  “That man would be one to depend on in an emergency,” she said to herself, allowing her thoughts to dwell a little longer upon Lord Guilleroy than upon the others. “He has, I should say, a good head on his shoulders and—”

  But here a tap-tap at the door brought her thinking to a standstill, and in response to her “come in” the door opened and the maid Lena entered.

  She was a tall, black-eyed, dark-skinned woman of about thirty, dressed in a neat black stuff gown. Twelve years of English domestic life had co
nsiderably modified the outer tokens of her nationality; a gold dagger that kept a thick coil of hair in its place, and a massive Roman-cut cameo ring on the third finger of her right hand, were about the only things that differentiated her appearance from that of the ordinary English lady’s maid. Possibly as a rule she wore a pleasant, smiling expression of countenance. For the moment, however, her face was shadowed by a sullen scowl, that said plainly as words could: “I am here very much against my will, and intend to render you the most unwilling of services.”

  Loveday felt that she must be taken in hand at once.

  “You are Miss Golding’s maid, I believe?” she said in a short, sharp tone.

  “Yes, madame.” This in a slow, sullen one.

  “Very well, Kindly unstrap that portmanteau and open my dressing-bag. I am glad you are to wait upon me while I am here. I don’t suppose you ever before in your life acted maid to a lady detective?”

  “Never, madame.” This in a still more sullen tone than before.

  “Ah, it will be a new experience to you, and I hope that it may be made a profitable one also. Tell me, are you saving up money to get married?”

  Lena, on her knees unstrapping the portmanteau, started and looked up.

  “How does madame know that?” she asked, Loveday pointed to the cameo ring on her third finger. “I only guessed at such a possibility,” she answered. “Well, now, Lena, I am going to make you an offer. I will give you fifty pounds—fifty, remember, in English gold—if you will procure for me certain information that I require in the prosecution of my work here.”

  The sullen look on Lena’s face deepened.

  “I am a servant of the house,” she answered, bending lower over the portmanteau; “I do not sell its secrets even for English gold.”

  “But it is not the secrets of your master’s house I am wanting to buy—no, nor anybody else’s secrets; I only want you to procure for me certain information that I could easily have procured for myself if I had been a little sooner on the scene. And the information I want relates to no one inside the house, but some one outside of it—Mr. Gordon Cleeve.”