House in Charlton Crescent

by Annie Haynes

  “When those three questions are answered, Mr. Cardyn, we shall be in a position to say who stabbed Lady Anne Daventry, as I firmly believe.”

  “Ah, when!” Bruce Cardyn echoed, looking at them.

  “And now,” the inspector went on, “the first thing we have to do is to make a thorough and systematic search of the house. I think we will begin with the rooms of the two young ladies. But first let me show you this.” He took a sheet of paper from his pocket-book and handed it to Cardyn.

  The young man’s heart beat fast as he saw the writing: “The fifty-pound note about which you were inquiring,” Dorothy had written curtly, “was given me last week as my half-yearly allowance, by my aunt, Lady Anne Daventry—”

  “What do you think of that?” the inspector inquired.

  “I am quite certain that whatever Miss Fyvert tells you is true,” Bruce Cardyn said steadily.

  “Quite so, quite so!” The inspector’s eyes twinkled as he watched the young man’s moody face. “You understand, of course, that this is one of the notes paid by Messrs. Spagnum and Thirgood to the real or supposed Lady Anne Daventry?”

  “I recognized that at once!” assented Cardyn. “And that answers your first question. Lady Anne must have sold the pearls herself since she gave part of the price to Miss Fyvert.”

  “Oh, oh! Is that all you have to say, Mr. Cardyn?” the inspector questioned ironically. “I do not think matters will be settled quite so quickly as that. But now to the bedrooms— Miss Balmaine’s first.”

  Margaret Balmaine had occupied a large bedroom on the landing above Lady Anne’s. Like the rest of the house it was furnished in Victorian fashion—a big four-poster, a massive wardrobe, a large mahogany dressing-table with a big oval mirror inset; the chairs, the couch and the washstand were all of the same heavy type. Apparently Miss Balmaine had not troubled to make any changes. The only traces of her occupancy that a cursory glance revealed were sundry empty bottles on the toilet table, and a few ashes in the empty fireplace, and an incongruous note was struck by the presence of a small sewing-machine on a side table.

  The inspector began to search the room in a very systematic manner. Every shelf, every drawer in the sewing-machine, even every peg in the wardrobe was moved. Every bottle was opened, every small box, every inch of the furniture and bedstead scrutinized. In one thing only, as far as they could see, had Lady Anne been up-to-date with in her bedrooms. Instead of the all-over carpet of Victorian days, the floors were stained and there were soft rugs spread at the bedside and before the fireplace. At last the inspector paused.

  “Not much to be learned here?”

  “The fireplace!” Cardyn had got out his microscope. The inspector had his in his hand. Together they knelt down, but the ashes were just ashes of wood and coal, that was all. When they had finished, the inspector stood up.

  “Well, sometimes there is as much to be learned from what you don’t find in a person’s room as from what you do.”

  Bruce made no answer. He regarded this meticulous search of Margaret Balmaine’s room as entirely superfluous. The inspector drew up the bottom sash of the window and leaned out, looking upwards and downwards and twisting himself about this way and that, so that he could get a good view sideways. The creepers on this side of the house grew right up to the window-sills and had been parted so as to climb up each side.

  Inspector Furnival stretched out and plucked a large ivy leaf from just below the ledge.

  “Miss Balmaine evidently thought it so important to destroy all trace of what she burned that she even gathered the ashes together and threw them out of the window,” he remarked as he displayed a slight powdering of white ash upon the ivy leaf.

  “No hope of finding out what was burnt from that. But as said before we may gather a good deal from the fact that it was burned. But come, want to have a look at Lady Anne’s bedroom.” He led the way to the big room below.

  Cardyn followed, mildly wondering. It seemed to him that they had gone through every inch of this room over and over again already. Lady Anne’s furniture in her own room was even more Victorian than in the rest of the house. The four-poster, with its carefully calendered chintz hangings, seemed to belong to an even earlier period. There were no gimcrack ornaments or bottles of essences or cosmetics in her room, nothing but a few solid boxes and two very large, beautifully cut crystal scent-bottles much like the looking-glass.

  The inspector did not waste much time. He went straight to the wardrobe where Lady Anne’s dresses were and threw open the door. Modern fashions and post-war tendencies had affected Lady Anne not one whit. John Daventry had once said of her that had crinolines been worn when she was young she would have been wearing them at the time of her death. As it was she wore the long flounced dresses, the fichus, the corsets, the leg of mutton sleeves, and the tightly-fitting bodices of the late Victorian era. Her dress had been simplified by the fact that since her boys’ death she had worn nothing but black. In the long drawers reposed her fine old laces, a couple of Indian shawls, dainty cobwebby linen and silk undergarments—her gowns in various stages of wear were hanging in the big middle compartment. The inspector made straight for this division and dived in, to emerge a moment later with a triumphant expression.

  “Yesterday I counted eight gowns, to-day—to-day there are nine.”

  “What do you say?” Cardyn was regarding him with a distinctly sceptical expression. “Where should the ninth come from, pray?”

  “The ninth,” said the inspector, taking out the garments one by one and laying them on the bed, “was worn by the woman who impersonated Lady Anne at Spagnum and Thirgood’s.”

  “If there was such a woman,” Bruce questioned, “why should she put her gown here?”

  “To get rid of it of course,” the inspector said, with what Bruce usually termed his air of cocksureness. “Don’t you remember that every one in the house was likely to have his or her luggage searched? I had some such eventuality as this in my mind when I framed that order. You see the possession of a gown of this kind would inevitably have damned the possessor. It was too bulky to be hidden or burned. This I call a brilliant idea for disposing of it. It might have succeeded, probably would have, if the idea of making a note of the number of dresses in Lady Anne’s wardrobe had not occurred to me yesterday. Now, to discover the interloper.”

  He turned back to the bed and began to examine the garments minutely.

  Cardyn watched him for a moment. “I am not supposing you made a mistake in the number of dresses yesterday. But it is surely possible that the maid transferred another gown of Lady Anne’s to the wardrobe?”

  “She hadn’t the chance!” the inspector said as his quick, capable fingers turned the garments over. “Pirnie went early yesterday afternoon, you may remember. There was nothing to keep her— her work was over. I went over to the wardrobe after she was gone.”

  “Then this was only put in last night!”

  The inspector nodded. “And I should have caught the person who did it in the act, but the child Maureen had an attack of sleep-walking and I followed her. A good thing I did, for she seemed to be trying to throw herself out of the window. Her sister was terrified.”

  “Which window?” Cardyn questioned quickly.

  “The one at the back of the landing over this,” the inspector answered, throwing another gown back. “These damned things look all alike and we shall have to get a dressmaking expert here.”

  “I believe they always have the name of the woman that made them stuck on somewhere—on a bit of tape, don’t you know?” ventured Cardyn. “Now, if one of these was different from the others it might tell us something.”

  “Brainy idea!” commented the inspector. “But unfortunately every one of these gowns has the name of Lady Anne’s dressmaker upon it. What do you make of that?”

  “It looks to me as if you were on the wrong track,” Cardyn commented. “I should say they were all Lady Anne’s.”

  “Would you indee
d!” the inspector questioned in that satiric voice of his that seemed to be reserved for Cardyn.

  He had taken a small case from his pocket and was looking intently at what looked like a snippet of black rag laid across.

  “I suppose you are wondering where this came from?” As Bruce did not reply, he went on, “It was caught in a little bit of the side of the table on which Miss Balmaine’s sewing-machine stands.”

  “A—h!” Bruce drew a long breath. “Still–”

  “In itself it is nothing. But Miss Balmaine burned something, remember, and there would be bonnet and mantle to get rid of. This tiny bit of silk is almost too small to make certain, but I believe it is exactly the same texture as this gown,” pointing to the one that lay by itself.

  Bruce put the piece of silk on the skirt of the gown and examined it through his microscope. “I believe it is. You see this gown is much thicker than some of the others. It is what is called watered silk—and on this little piece I see a suspicion of the water.”

  “Well done!” said the inspector absently.

  But he did not appear to be much excited at the discovery. He was holding the gown up at arm’s length, shaking it and peering into the folds.

  He drew out a tiny bit of notepaper, a scrap that had evidently once been part of a letter.

  “Ah! at last we have caught our clever friend napping!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “‘Impossible to come to you, my sweetheart, until suspicion has—’” That was all. On the other side of the paper was nothing, and not another scrap of paper was to be found, search and shake as the inspector would. At last he desisted and turned to Cardyn. “I suppose that you will hardly assert that this belonged to Lady Anne.”

  “Well, no,” Bruce conceded. “But unfortunately it does not seem to bear any internal evidence as to the real owner.”

  The inspector chuckled and apparently he was well pleased with the result of his search so far.

  “It may help us—we are getting the threads together. What is that?” as a loud rat-tat and peal of the bell sounded simultaneously through the house. “A telegram! Can’t be from the Yard. They would have phoned!” the inspector grumbled.

  Cardyn hurried downstairs to the door, a vague sense of disaster deepening as he went.

  CHAPTER XIV

  The brown envelope was addressed to Inspector Furnival. Leaving the boy on the steps, Cardyn took the telegram to the inspector and stood by whilst he opened it.

  “From Dorothy Fyvert, The Rectory, North Coton,” he read aloud. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise: “What does this mean?”

  “What is it, man? Can’t you say?” Cardyn questioned hoarsely.

  “‘Maureen has disappeared. Is she with you? If not, make inquiries. Coming up by next train,’” the inspector read out slowly and stutteringly. “Disappeared! That child! But when, or where. It is all very well to say ‘Make inquiries,’ but how is one to make inquiries if one has no data to start from?”

  “Better phone to North Coton at once,” Cardyn suggested.

  The inspector shook his head. “No use. They are not on the phone at North Coton Rectory. I had to wire when Lady Anne died. The Rev. Augustus said he wouldn’t be bothered with one for anything. I fancy he rather despises modern improvements—like his sister. ‘Coming up by next train?’ Now, I wonder what that means? We will have a look at the time-table.”

  He turned to “Bradshaw.”

  “Um! This telegram has been delayed,” he said grimly, as he turned over the pages. “Three-quarters of an hour longer than it should have been on the way. Ah, here it is. There is a train from Overend, the Junction for North Coton, due at Marylebone directly. If Miss Fyvert caught that she could be here in a few minutes.

  “Oh, no good going to meet it,” in answer to a murmur from Cardyn. “We should only miss one another; pass on the road. But what can have gone wrong with the child? However, it’s no use speculating until we know the facts of the disappearance. Now, until they come I think we will just take a look round the offices, the butler’s pantry, the kitchens and the servants’ hall.”

  “There didn’t seem to be much there when we went over them before,” remarked Cardyn.

  “No; and I don’t expect to find much there now,” the inspector nodded. “If there ever was anything incriminating in the rooms, it would have been got rid of before now you may be sure.” He spoke as if he had entirely forgotten he was talking to one of the suspected number.

  Cardyn shot a quick glance at him and a slow, dull crimson line showed on his forehead.

  They went down the passage at the end of which was the green baize door admitting to the servants’ quarters. The butler’s pantry, which they visited first, was in absolute order. Soames’s grief at parting with his beloved silver had led him to leave it in the most wonderful condition.

  “Poor old Soames!” Cardyn remarked. “I hope he will get to the Daventry Arms all right. I don’t think you will find anything here, inspector.”

  “Very likely not,” the inspector assented. He was diving about in the cupboards and the waste-paper baskets. A scrap of paper seemed to have a fatal fascination for him. He spent the minutes Cardyn was restlessly counting, looking for Dorothy Fyvert’s appearance, in examining with microscopic care a heap of old boots thrown carelessly in one of the corners.

  “What are you looking for there?” Cardyn inquired impatiently at last.

  “A pair of shoes—size eight,” he answered, proceeding with his search, while Cardyn stared in mingled consternation and surprise.

  But at the end of half an hour’s search the inspector stood up. “Nothing to be done here to-day, anyhow. It is getting time those people were here—and, by Jove, they are!” as they heard a taxi stop before the front door, and an almost simultaneous ring.

  Both men hurried back to the hall. Dorothy was on the top step. The inspector frowned as he saw that behind her stood Margaret Balmaine and the rector of North Coton.

  “This bids fair to upset my apple-cart very considerably,” he ejaculated.

  Dorothy literally sprang in and caught his hands. “Maureen, has she been here?”

  “Not a sign of her! Not a word but your telegram. Now, Miss Fyvert, just tell me as quickly and as quietly as you can what has happened!”

  The inspector stepped back as he spoke; the others followed and stood round him, Margaret Balmaine slipping her arm through Dorothy’s.

  Both girls looked white and frightened. Dorothy was trembling from head to foot, her great brown eyes were full of tears.

  “Oh, inspector, you will find her for me. Our mother left her in my charge.” Her voice broke.

  The inspector patted her hand. “I know just how bad you are feeling, Miss Fyvert. I am a family man, you know.” He produced his notebook. “Now, you say the child has disappeared—where from?”

  “We—we don’t know,” Dorothy cried. “When we got to North Coton Rectory, she just wasn’t there—that was all.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “At Overend Junction,” Dorothy answered, keeping back her emotion by a supreme effort.

  Cardyn, watching, could see the muscles in her pretty throat pulsing and throbbing.

  “She wouldn’t come in the carriage with us. She would travel with the maids, and the doctor said she was to be contradicted as little as possible and, as it didn’t seem to matter much, I let her go. At Overend we changed to the little branch to North Coton. It is a big, noisy Junction, and, as I had a lot of things to worry me, I thought Maureen was safe enough with the maids; and I did not look for her at North Coton Station. I shall reproach myself for ever that did not. But Mrs. Fyvert was taken ill in the train and we were all busy looking after her. Naturally, the maids believed that Maureen was in our compartment, while we thought she was with them. It was not until we were in the hall at the Rectory that I asked for her and found that nobody knew where she was. Uncle Augustus saw her at Overend just before the train started.”
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  “I think I saw her then, my dear,” corrected the rector. “It is my impression that I did. But my mind is much preoccupied just now, so that I should not like to say more. Still, I believe that one of the maids—”

  “Yes, yes. Susan, my maid,” Dorothy said feverishly. “She says that Maureen was with them at Overend, but that while she was looking after the luggage the child slipped away. The only clue we have at all to her disappearance is that Susan remarked that she saw some one on the platform very like Alice. You remember the housemaid that Maureen was so fond of. Oh, Inspector Furnival, can you find her for us?”

  The inspector blew his nose vigorously. “Of course we shall find her. We will start at once. One moment—” He went into the library to the telephone. “That is all right,” he said, coming back. “I have called up the police at Overend and put them on the track, and also given directions to one of our best men to go down at once. It ought not to be a difficult matter, though wish we had not lost so much time at the outset.”

  “I didn’t think we had,” Dorothy said ruefully. “My first thought was to send that wire to you.” The inspector gave a queer smile. “Yes, but that did not give us many particulars to work upon. However, all’s well that ends well, and I expect we shall be able to restore Miss Maureen to you safe and sound within the next few hours.”

  “Oh, inspector, you really think so!”

  All Dorothy’s hard-won composure gave way now, and she burst into sobs.

  The inspector patted her hand again. “There! There! you must not fret. Everything will come out all right in the end. And now to think where the child would be likely to go. You have another sister, Miss Fyvert?”

  “Yes. Mrs. St. John Lavis—my half-sister, really. My mother was twice married. But Maureen would not go to her. She has seen very little of her of late years, and they never got on very well. Besides, Mrs. Lavis is abroad just now.”

  “You speak of the child’s liking for this Alice Grey,” the inspector questioned abruptly. “What was the secret of it?”