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

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  Mr. Trohm was just recovering from the disappointment of this, when William sauntered back with his hands and pockets full.

  “Ah!” that graceless scamp chuckled, with a suspicious look at our downcast faces, “been improving the opportunity, eh?”

  Mr. Trohm, who had fallen back against his old well-curb, surveyed his young neighbor for the first time with a look of anger. But it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, and he contented himself with a low bow, in which I read real grief.

  This was too much for me, and I was about to open my lips with a kind phrase or two, when a flutter took place over our heads, and the two pigeons whose flight I had watched more than once during the last hour, flew down and settled upon Mr. Trohm’s arm and shoulders.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, with a sudden shrinking that I hardly understood myself. And though I covered up the exclamation with as brisk a good-by as my inward perturbation would allow, that sight and the involuntary ejaculation I had uttered, were all I saw or heard during our hasty drive homeward.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  I ASTONISH MR. GRYCE AND HE ASTONISHES ME

  But as we approached the group of curious people which now filled up the whole highway in front of Mother Jane’s cottage, I broke from the nightmare into which this last discovery had thrown me, and, turning to William, said with a resolute air:

  “You and your sisters are not of one mind regarding these disappearances. You ascribe them to Deacon Spear, but they—whom do they ascribe them to?”

  “I shouldn’t think it would take a woman of your wit to answer that question.”

  The rebuke was deserved. I had wit, but I had refused to exercise it; my blind partiality for a man of pleasing exterior and magnetic address had prevented the cool play of my usual judgment, due to the occasion and the trust which had been imposed in me by Mr. Gryce. Resolved that this should end, no matter at what cost to my feelings, I quietly said:

  “You allude to Mr. Trohm.”

  “That is the name,” he carelessly assented. “Girls, you know, let their prejudices run away with them. An old grudge—”

  “Yes,” I tentatively put in; “he persecuted your mother, and so they think him capable of any wickedness.”

  The growl which William gave was not one of dissent.

  “But I don’t care what they think,” said he, looking down at the heap of fruit which lay between us. “I’m Trohm’s friend, and don’t believe one word they choose to insinuate against him. What if he didn’t like what my mother did! We didn’t like it either, and—”

  “William,” I calmly remarked, “if your sisters knew that Silly Rufus had been found in Deacon Spear’s barn they would no longer do Mr. Trohm this injustice.”

  “No; that would settle them; that would give me a triumph which would last long after this matter was out of the way.”

  “Very well, then,” said I, “I am going to bring about this triumph. I am going to tell Mr. Gryce at once what we have discovered in Deacon Spear’s barn.”

  And without waiting for his ah, yes, or no, I jumped from the buggy and made my way to the detective’s side.

  His welcome was somewhat unexpected. “Ah, fresh news!” he exclaimed. “I see it in your eye. What have you chanced upon, madam, in your disinterested drive into town?”

  I thought I had eliminated all expression from my face, and that my words would bring a certain surprise with them. But it is useless to try to surprise Mr. Gryce.

  “You read me like a book,” said I; “I have something to add to the situation. Mr. Gryce, I have just come from the other end of the lane, where I found a clue which may shorten the suspense of this weary day, and possibly save Lucetta from the painful task she has undertaken in our interests. Mr. Chittenden’s ring—”

  I paused for the exclamation of encouragement he is accustomed to give on such occasions, and while I paused, prepared for my accustomed triumph. He did not fail me in the exclamation, nor did I miss my expected triumph.

  “Was not found by Mother Jane, or even brought to her in any ordinary way or by any ordinary messenger. It came to her on a pigeon’s neck, the pigeon you will find lying dead among the bushes in the Knollys yard.”

  He was amazed. He controlled himself, but he was very visibly amazed. His exclamations proved it.

  “Madam! Miss Butterworth! This ring—Mr. Chittenden’s ring, whose presence in her hut we thought an evidence of guilt, was brought to her by one of her pigeons?”

  “So she told me. I aroused her fury by showing her the empty husk in which it had been concealed. In her rage at its loss, she revealed the fact I have just mentioned. It is a curious one, sir, and one I am a little proud to have discovered.”

  “Curious? It is more than curious; it is bizarre, and will rank, I am safe in prophesying, as one of the most remarkable facts that have ever adorned the annals of the police. Madam, when I say I envy you the honor of its discovery, you will appreciate my estimate of it—and you. But when did you find this out, and what explanation are you able to give of the presence of this ring on a pigeon’s neck?”

  “Sir, to your first question I need only reply that I was here two hours or so ago, and to the second that everything points to the fact that the ring was attached to the bird by the victim himself, as an appeal for succor to whoever might be fortunate enough to find it. Unhappily it fell into the wrong hands. That is the ill-luck which often befalls prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Yes. Cannot you imagine a person shut up in an inaccessible place making some such attempt to communicate with his fellow-creatures?”

  “But what inaccessible place have we in—”

  “Wait,” said I. “You have been in Deacon Spear’s barn.”

  “Certainly, many times.” But the answer, glib as it was, showed shock. I began to gather courage.

  “Well,” said I, “there is a hiding-place in that barn which I dare declare you have not penetrated.”

  “Do you think so, madam?”

  “A little loft way up under the eaves, which can only be reached by clambering over the rafters. Didn’t Deacon Spear tell you there was such a place?”

  “No, but—”

  “William, then?” I inexorably pursued. “He says he pointed such a spot out to you, and that you pooh-poohed at it as inaccessible and not worth the searching.”

  “William is a—Madam, I beg your pardon, but William has just wit enough to make trouble.”

  “But there is such a place there,” I urged; “and, what is more, there is someone hidden in it now. I saw him myself.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Saw a part of him; in short, saw his hand. He was engaged in scattering crumbs for the pigeons.”

  “That does not look like starvation,” smiled Mr. Gryce, with the first hint of sarcasm he had allowed himself to make use of in this interview.

  “No,” said I; “but the time may not have come to inflict this penalty on Silly Rufus. He has been there but a few days, and—well, what have I said now?”

  “Nothing, ma’am, nothing. But what made you think the hand you saw belonged to Silly Rufus?”

  “Because he was the last person to disappear from this lane. The last—what am I saying? He wasn’t the last. Lucetta’s lover was the last. Mr. Gryce, could that hand have belonged to Mr. Ostrander?”

  I was intensely excited; so much so that Mr. Gryce made me a warning gesture.

  “Hush!” he whispered; “you are attracting attention. That hand was the hand of Mr. Ostrander; and the reason why I did not accept William Knollys’ suggestion to search the Deacon’s barn-loft was because I knew it had been chosen as a place of refuge by this missing lover of Lucetta.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  A FEW WORDS

  Never
have keener or more conflicting emotions been awakened in my breast than by these simple words. But alive to the necessity of hiding my feelings from those about me, I gave no token of my surprise, but rather turned a stonier face than common upon the man who had caused it.

  “Refuge?” I repeated. “He is there, then, of his own free will—or yours?” I sarcastically added, not being able to quite keep down this reproach as I remembered the deception practised upon Lucetta.

  “Mr. Ostrander, madam, has been spending the week with Deacon Spear—they are old friends, you know. That he should spend it quietly and, to a degree, in hiding, was as much his plan as mine. For while he found it impossible to leave Lucetta in the doubtful position in which she and her family at present stand, he did not wish to aggravate her misery by the thought that he was thus jeopardizing the position on which all his hopes of future advancement depended. He preferred to watch and wait in secret, seeing which, I did what I could to further his wishes. His usual lodging was with the family, but when the search was instituted, I suggested that he should remove himself to that eyrie back of the hay where you were sharp enough to detect him today.”

  “Don’t attempt any of your flatteries upon me,” I protested. “They will not make me forget that I have not been treated fairly. And Lucetta—oh! may I not tell Lucetta—”

  “And spoil our entire prospect of solving this mystery? No, madam, you may not tell Lucetta. When Fate has put such a card into our hands as I played with that telegram today, we would be flying in the face of Providence not to profit by it. Lucetta’s despair makes her bold; upon that boldness we depend to discover and bring to justice a great criminal.”

  I felt myself turn pale; for that very reason, perhaps, I assumed a still sterner air, and composedly said:

  “If Mr. Ostrander is in hiding at the Deacon’s, and he and his host are both in your confidence, then the only man whom you can designate in your thoughts by this dreadful title must be Mr. Trohm.”

  I had perhaps hoped he would recoil at this or give some other evidence of his amazement at an assumption which to me seemed preposterous. But he did not, and I saw, with what feelings may be imagined, that this conclusion, which was half bravado with me, had been accepted by him long enough for no emotion to follow its utterance.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, “how can you reconcile such a suspicion with the attitude you have always preserved towards Mr. Trohm?”

  “Madam,” said he, “do not criticise my attitude without taking into account existing appearances. They are undoubtedly in Mr. Trohm’s favor.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so,” said I, “I am glad to hear you say so. Why, it was in response to his appeal that you came to X. at all.”

  Mr. Gryce’s smile conveyed a reproach which I could not but acknowledge I amply merited. Had he spent evening after evening at my house, entertaining me with tales of the devices and the many inconsistencies of criminals, to be met now by such a puerile disclaimer as this? But beyond that smile he said nothing; on the contrary, he continued as if I had not spoken at all.

  “But appearances,” he declared, “will not stand before the insight of a girl like Lucetta. She has marked the man as guilty, and we will give her the opportunity of proving the correctness of her instinct.”

  “But Mr. Trohm’s house has been searched, and you have found nothing—nothing,” I argued somewhat feebly.

  “That is the reason we find ourselves forced to yield our judgment to Lucetta’s intuitions,” was his quick reply. And smiling upon me with his blandest air, he obligingly added: “Miss Butterworth is a woman of too much character not to abide the event with all her accustomed composure.” And with this final suggestion, I was as yet too crushed to resent, he dismissed me to an afternoon of unparalleled suspense and many contradictory emotions.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  UNDER A CRIMSON SKY

  When, in the course of events, the current of my thoughts receive a decided check and I find myself forced to change former conclusions or habituate myself to new ideas and a fresh standpoint, I do it, as I do everything else, with determination and a total disregard of my own previous predilections. Before the afternoon was well over I was ready for any revelations which might follow Lucetta’s contemplated action, merely reserving a vague hope that my judgment would yet be found superior to her instinct.

  At five o’clock the diggers began to go home. Nothing had been found under the soil of Mother Jane’s garden, and the excitement of search which had animated them early in the day had given place to a dull resentment mainly directed towards the Knollys family, if one could judge of these men’s feelings by the heavy scowls and significant gestures with which they passed our broken-down gateway.

  By six the last man had filed by, leaving Mr. Gryce free for the work which lay before him.

  I had retired long before this to my room, where I awaited the hour set by Lucetta with a feverish impatience quite new to me. As none of us could eat, the supper table had not been laid, and though I had no means of knowing what was in store for us, the sombre silence and oppression under which the whole house lay seemed a portent that was by no means encouraging.

  Suddenly I heard a knock at my door. Rising hastily, I opened it. Loreen stood before me, with parted lips and terror in all her looks.

  “Come!” she cried. “Come and see what I have found in Lucetta’s room.”

  “Then she’s gone?” I cried.

  “Yes, she’s gone, but come and see what she has left behind her.”

  Hastening after Loreen, who was by this time half-way down the hall, I soon found myself on the threshold of the room I knew to be Lucetta’s.

  “She made me promise,” cried Loreen, halting to look back at me, “that I would let her go alone, and that I would not enter the highway till an hour after her departure. But with these evidences of the extent of her dread before us, how can we stay in this house?” And dragging me to a table, she showed me lying on its top a folded paper and two letters. The folded paper was Lucetta’s Will, and the letters were directed severally to Loreen and to myself with the injunction that they were not to be read till she had been gone six hours.

  “She has prepared herself for death!” I exclaimed, shocked to my heart’s core, but determinedly hiding it. “But you need not fear any such event. Is she not accompanied by Mr. Gryce?”

  “I do not know; I do not think so. How could she accomplish her task if not alone? Miss Butterworth, Miss Butterworth, she has gone to brave Mr. Trohm, our mother’s persecutor and our life-long enemy, thinking, hoping, believing that in so doing she will rouse his criminal instincts, if he has them, and so lead to the discovery of his crimes and the means by which he has been enabled to carry them out so long undetected. It is noble, it is heroic, it is martyr-like, but—oh! Miss Butterworth, I have never broken a promise to any one before in all my life, but I am going to break the one I made her. Come, let us fly after her! She has her lover’s memory, but I have nothing in all the world but her.”

  I immediately turned and hastened down the stairs in a state of humiliation which should have made ample amends for any show of arrogance I may have indulged in in my more fortunate moments.

  Loreen followed me, and when we were in the lower hall she gave me a look and said:

  “My promise was not to enter the highway. Would you be afraid to follow me by another road—a secret road—all overgrown with thistles and blackberry bushes which have not been trimmed up for years?”

  I thought of my thin shoes, my neat silk dress, but only to forget them the next moment.

  “I will go anywhere,” said I.

  But Loreen was already too far in advance of me to answer. She was young and lithe, and had reached the kitchen before I had passed the Flower Parlor. But when we had sped clear of the house I found that my progress bade fair to be as ra
pid as hers, for her agitation was a hindrance to her, while excitement always brings out my powers and heightens both my wits and my judgment.

  Our way lay past the stables, from which I expected every minute to see two or three dogs jump. But William, who had been discreetly sent out of the way early in the afternoon, had taken Saracen with him, and possibly the rest, so our passing by disturbed nothing, not even ourselves. The next moment we were in a field of prickers, through which we both struggled till we came into a sort of swamp. Here was bad going, but we floundered on, edging continually toward a distant fence beyond which rose the symmetrical lines of an orchard—Mr. Trohm’s orchard, in which those pleasant fruits grew which—Bah! should I ever be able to get the taste of them out of my mouth!

  At a tiny gateway covered with vines, Loreen stopped.

  “I do not believe this has been opened for years, but it must be opened now.” And, throwing her whole weight against it, she burst it through, and bidding me pass, hastened after me over the trailing branches and made, without a word, for the winding path we now saw clearly defined on the edge of the orchard before us.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Loreen, stopping one moment to catch her breath, “I do not know what I fear or to what our steps will bring us. I only know that I must hunt for Lucetta till I find her. If there is danger where she is, I must share it. You can rest here or come farther on.”

  I went farther on.

  Suddenly we both started; a man had sprung up from behind the hedgerow that ran parallel with the fence that surrounded Mr. Trohm’s place.

  “Silence!” he whispered, putting his finger on his lips. “If you are looking for Miss Knollys,” he added, seeing us both pause aghast, “she is on the lawn beyond, talking to Mr. Trohm. If you will step here, you can see her. She is in no kind of danger, but if she were, Mr. Gryce is in the first row of trees to the back there, and a call from me—”