CHAPTER XXII
"A lady to see you, sir."
"What sort of a lady, Joe?"
"Furren, I should say, sir, by the way she speaks. I arskt her if she hadan appointment, and she said no, but she said she wanted to see you onvery urgent and particular business. I told her most people says that wotcomes to see you, but she says hers was _reely_ important. Arskt me totell you, sir, that it was about the Riversbrook case."
"The Riversbrook case? I'll see her, Joe. Has not Stork returned yet?"
"No, sir."
"Tell him to go to his dinner when he comes back. Show the lady in, Joe."
Crewe regarded his caller keenly as Joe ushered her in, placed a chairfor her, and went out, closing the door noiselessly behind him. She was atall, well-dressed, graceful woman, fairly young, with dark hair andeyes. She looked quickly at the detective as she entered, and Crewe wasstruck by the shrewd penetration of her glance.
"You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective--is it not so?" she asked,as she sat down. The glance she now gave the detective at closer rangefrom her large dark eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch ofadmiration. The contrast between it and her former look was not lost onCrewe, and he realised that his visitor was no ordinary woman.
"My name is Crewe," he said, ignoring the compliment. "What do you wishto see me for?"
The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously unfastened a bag shecarried, and taking out a singularly unfeminine-looking handkerchief--alarge cambric square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltlessof lace or perfume--held it to her face for a moment. But Crewe noticedthat her eyes were dry when she removed it to remark:
"What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confidence--as sacred asthe confession."
"Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence," said Crewe alittle grimly.
"And the boy? Can he not hear through the keyhole?" Crewe's visitorglanced expressively at the door by which she had entered.
"You are quite safe here, madame--mademoiselle, I should say," he added,with a quick glance at her left hand, from which she slowly removed theglove as she spoke.
"Mademoiselle Chiron, monsieur," said Gabrielle, flashing another smileat him. "I am Madame Holymead's relative--her cousin. I come to see youabout the dreadful murder of the judge, Madame's friend."
"You come from Mrs. Holymead?" said Crewe quickly. "Then, MademoiselleChiron, before--"
"No, no, monsieur, no!" Her agitation was unmistakably genuine. "I do notcome _from_ Madame Holymead. I am her relative, it is true, but Icome--how shall I say it?--from myself. I mean she does not know of myvisit to you, monsieur."
"I quite understand," replied Crewe.
"Monsieur Crewe," said Gabrielle hurriedly, "although I have not comefrom Madame Holymead, it is for her sake that I come to see you--to saveher from the persecution of one of your police agents who wants to askher questions about this so sordid--so terrible a crime! He has comeonce, this agent--last night he came--and he told me he wanted toquestion Madame Holymead about the murder of her dear friend the judge. Ido not want Madame worried with these questions, so I told him Madame wasaway in the motor in the country; but he says he will come again andagain till he sees her. Madame is distracted when she learns of hisvisit; it opens up her bleeding heart afresh, for she and her husbandwere _intime_ with the dead judge, and deeply, terribly, they deplore hisso dreadful end. I see Madame cry, and I say to myself I will not letthis little police agent spoil her beauty and give her the migraine: hisvisits must be, shall be, prevented. I have heard of the so great andgood Monsieur Crewe, and I will go and see him. We will--as you say inyour English way--put our heads together, this famous detective and I,and we will find some way of--how do you call it?--circumventing thispolice agent so that my dear Madame shall cry no more. Monsieur Crewe, Iam here, and I beg of you to help me."
Crewe listened to this outburst with inward surprise but impassivefeatures. Apparently the police had come to the conclusion that they hadblundered in arresting Birchill for the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks,and had recommenced inquiries with a view to bringing the crime home tosomebody else. He did not know whether their suspicions were now directedagainst Mrs. Holymead, but they had conducted their preliminary inquiriesso clumsily as to arouse her fears that they did. So much was apparentfrom Mademoiselle Chiron's remarks, despite the interpretation she soughtto place on Mrs. Holymead's fears. He wondered if the "police agent" wasRolfe or Chippenfield. It was obvious that the cool proposal that heshould help to shield Mrs. Holymead against unwelcome police attentionscovered some deeper move, and he shaped his conversation in the endeavourto extract more from the Frenchwoman.
"I am very sorry to hear that Mrs. Holymead has been subjected to thisannoyance," he said warily. "This police agent, did he come by himself?"
"But yes, monsieur, I have already said it."
"I know, but I thought he might have had a companion waiting for him ina taxi-cab outside. Scotland Yard men frequently travel in pairs."
"He had no taxi-cab," declared Mademoiselle Chiron, positively. "Hewalked away on foot by himself. I watched him from the window."
Crewe registered a mental note of this admission. If she had watched thedetective's departure from the window she evidently had some reason forwanting to see the last of him. Aloud he said:
"I expect I know him. What was he like?"
"Tall, as tall as you, only bigger--much bigger. And he had the greatmoustache which he caressed again and again with his fingers." Gabrielledaintily imitated the action on her own short upper lip.
"I know him," declared Crewe with a smile. "His name is Rolfe. Thereshould be nothing about him to alarm you, mademoiselle. Why, he is quitea ladies' man."
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
"That may be," she replied; "but I like him not, and I do not wish him toworry Madame Holymead."
"But why not let him see Mrs. Holymead?" suggested Crewe, after a shortpause. "As he only wants to ask her a few short questions, it seems to methat would be the quickest way out of the difficulty, and would save youall the trouble and worry you speak of."
"I tell you I will not," declared Gabrielle vehemently. "I will not haveMadame Holymead worried and made ill with the terrible ordeal. Bah! Whatdo you men--so clumsy--know of the delicate feelings of a lady likeMadame Holymead? The least soupcon of excitement and she is disturbed,distraite, for days. After last night--after the visit of the policeagent--she was quite hysterical."
"Why should she be when she had nothing to be afraid of?" rejoined Crewe.
He spoke in a tone of simple wonder, but Gabrielle shot a quick glanceat him from under her veiled lashes as she replied:
"Bah! What has that to do with it? I repeat: Monsieur Crewe, you mencannot understand the feelings of a lady like Madame Holymead in a matterlike this. She and her husband were, as I have said before, _intime_ withthe great judge. They visited his house, they dined with him, they methim in Society. Behold, he is brutally, horribly killed. Madame, when shehears the terrible news, is ill for days; she cannot eat, she cannotsleep; she can interest herself in nothing. She is forgetting a littlewhen the police agents they catch a man and say he is the murderer. Thencomes the trial of this man at the court with so queer a name--OldBailee. The papers are full of the terrible story again; of the dead man;how he looked killed; how he lay in a pool of blood; how they cut himopen! Madame Holymead cannot pick up a paper without seeing these things,and she falls ill again. Then the jury say the man the police agentscaught is not the murderer. He goes free, and once more the talk diesaway. Madame Holymead once more begins to forget, when this police agentcomes to her house to remind her once more all about it. It is too cruel,monsieur, it is too cruel!"
Gabrielle's voice vibrated with indignation as she concluded, and Creweregarded her closely. He decided that her affection for Mrs. Holymeadwas not simulated, and that it would be best to handle her from thatpoint of view.
"I am
sorry," he said coldly, "but I do not see how I can help you."
"Monsieur," said the Frenchwoman, clasping her hands, "I entreat you notto say so. It would be so easy for you to help--not me, but Madame."
"How?"
"You know this police agent. You also are a police agent, though so muchgreater. Therefore you whisper just one little word in the ear of yourfriend the police agent, and he will not bother Madame Holymead again. Ithink you could do this. And if you need money to give to the policeagent, why, I have brought some." She fumbled nervously at her hand-bag.
"Stay," said Crewe. "What you ask is impossible. I have nothing whateverto do with Scotland Yard. I could not interfere in their inquiries, evenif I wished to. They would only laugh at me."
Gabrielle's dark eyes showed her disappointment, but she made one moreeffort to gain her end. She leant nearer to Crewe, and laid a persuasivehand on his arm.
"If you would only make the effort," she said coaxingly, "my beautifulMadame Holymead would be for ever grateful."
"Mademoiselle, once more I repeat that what you ask is impossible,"returned Crewe decisively. "I repeat, I cannot see why Mrs. Holymeadshould object to answering a few questions the police wish to ask her.She is too sensitive about such a trifle."
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recognition of thefact that the man in front of her was too shrewd to be deceived bysubterfuge.
"There is another reason, monsieur," she whispered.
"You had better tell it to me."
"If you had been a woman you would have guessed. The great judge who waskilled was in his spare moments what you call a gallant--he did love mysex. In France this would not matter, but in England they think much ofit--so very much. Madame Holymead is frightened for fear the least breathof scandal should attach to her name, if the world knew that the policeagent had visited her house on such an errand. Madame is innocent--it isnot necessary to assure you of that; but the prudish dames of England arecensorious."
"The Scotland Yard people are not likely to disclose anything about it,"said Crewe.
"That may be so, but these things come out," retorted Gabrielle.
"Monsieur," she added, after a pause, and speaking in a low tone, "Iknow that you can do much--very much--if you will, and can stop MadameHolymead from being worried. Would you do so if you were told who themurderer was--I mean he who did really kill the great judge?" Crewe wasgenuinely surprised, but his control over his features was so completethat he did not betray it. "Do you know who Sir Horace Fewbanks'smurderer is?" he asked, in quiet even tones. "Monsieur, I do. I will tellyou the whole story in secret--how do you say?--in confidence, if youpromise me you will help Madame Holymead as I have asked you." "I cannotenter into a bargain like that," rejoined Crewe. "I do not know whetherMrs. Holymead may not be implicated--concerned--in what you say."
"Monsieur, she is not!" flashed Gabrielle indignantly. "She knows nothingabout it. What I have to tell you concerns myself alone."
"In that case," rejoined Crewe, "I think you had better speak to mefrankly and freely, and if I can I will help you."
"You are perhaps right," she replied. "I will tell you everything,provided you give me your word of honour that you will not inform thepolice of what I will tell you."
"If you bind me to that promise I do not see how I can help you in thedirection you indicate," said Crewe, after a moment's thought. "If thepolice are asked to abandon their inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, theywill naturally wish to know the reason."
"You are quite right," said Gabrielle. "I did not think of that. But ifI tell you everything, and you have to tell the police agents so as tohelp Madame, will you promise that the police agents do not come andarrest _me_?"
"Provided you have not committed murder or been in any way accessory toit, I think I can promise you that," rejoined Crewe.
"Monsieur, I do not understand you, but I can almost divine your meaning.Your promise is what you call a guarded one. Nevertheless, I like yourface, and I will trust you."
Gabrielle relapsed into silence for some moments, looking at Creweearnestly.
"Monsieur," she said at length, "it is a terrible story I have to relate,and it is difficult for me to tell a stranger what I know. Nevertheless,I will begin. I knew the great judge well."
"You knew Sir Horace Fewbanks?" exclaimed Crewe.
"He was--my lover, monsieur."
She brought the last two words out defiantly, with a quick glanceat Crewe to see how he took the avowal. She seemed to findsomething reassuring in his answering glance, and she continued, inmore even tones:
"I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holymead when I came toLondon to visit her. I admired Sir Horace when I saw him--often he usedto call and dine, for he was the friend of Monsieur Holymead. But Madametold me that the great judge was what in England you call a lover of theladies--that he was dangerous--so I must be careful of him. I used tolook at him when he called, and thought he was handsome in the Englishway, and sometimes he looked at me when he was unobserved, and smiled atme. But Madame did not like me looking at him; she said I was foolish;she warned me to be careful."
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders expressively.
"Of what use was Madame's warning? It did but make me wish to know moreof this great lover of my sex. He saw that, and made the opportunity, andmade love to me. He was so ardent, so fervid a lover that I wasconquered.
"After we had been lovers I told him my secret--that I was married.Pierre Simon, my husband, was a bad man, and so I left him. But Madamemust not know that I was married, for that is my secret. It does not doto tell everything--besides, it would have distressed her.
"Monsieur, I was happy with my lover, the great judge. He was charming.He had that charm of manner which you English lack. Faithful? I do notknow. Often we were together, and often we wrote letters when to meet wasimpossible. He kept my letters--they amused him so, he said--they were soFrench, so piquant, so different to English ladies' letters. Alas,monsieur, there had been others--many others there must have been, for heunderstood my sex so well.
"One afternoon I was out for a walk looking in the great shops in RegentStreet, when I felt a hand placed on my shoulder, and looking round I sawPierre, my husband. He was pleased at the meeting, but I was not pleased.He took me to a cafe where we could talk. It was what he always did talkabout--money, money, money. He always wanted money. He said I must findhim some, and when I told him I had none he said I must find some way ofgetting it, or he would come to the house and expose my secret. I walkedaway out of the cafe and left him there. But I soon saw him again, andagain. He followed me and talked to me against my will.
"Monsieur, I was very much distressed, and for a long time I tried tothink of a way to get rid of Pierre, for I was afraid that he would cometo the house and tell Madame Holymead I was married. Then I thought ofthe great judge, my lover. He would know how to send Pierre away, forPierre would be frightened of him. But Sir Horace was in Scotland,shooting the poor birds. But I wrote to him and asked him for my sake tocome at once, because I was in distress and needed help. Monsieur, hecame--but he came to his death. He sent me a letter to meet him atRiversbrook at half-past ten o'clock. He was sorry it was so late, buthe thought it would be safer not to come to the house till after dark inthe long summer evening, for people were so censorious. I was to tellMadame Holymead that I was going to the theatre with a friend.
"I was so pleased to think that I would get rid of Pierre, that on themorning, when he stopped me to ask me again about the money, I showed himthe letter of the great judge, and told him I would make the judge puthim in prison if he did not go away and leave me alone. 'He is yourlover,' said Pierre. 'I will kill him.' But I laughed, for I knew Pierredid not care if I had many lovers. I said to him, 'Pierre, you wouldextort the money'--blackmail, the English call it, do they not, MonsieurCrewe?--'but you would not kill. Sir Horace is not afraid of you. If yougo near him he would have you taken off to gaol,' But Pierre he was deepin th
ought. Several times he said, 'I want money,' Each time I said tohim, 'Then you must work for it,' 'That is no way to get money,' heanswered. 'This great judge, he has much money, is it not so?'
"I left him, monsieur, thinking of money. But I did not know how bad histhoughts were. I returned home, and I told Madame Holymead I would go tothe theatre that night. I left the house at eight o'clock, and afterwalking along Piccadilly and Regent Street took the train to Hampstead.Then I walked up to the house of Sir Horace so as not to be too early.The gate was open and I thought that strange, but I had no thought ofmurder. As I walked up the garden I heard a shot--two shots--and then acry, and the sound of something falling on the floor. The door of thehouse was open, and the light was burning in the hall. Upstairs I heardthe noise of footsteps--quick footsteps--and then I heard them comingdown the staircase. I was afraid, and I hid myself behind the curtains inthe hall. The footsteps came down, and nearer and nearer, and when theypassed me I looked out to see. Monsieur, it was Pierre. I called to himsoftly, 'Pierre, Pierre!' He looked round, and his face, it was sodifferent--so dreadful. He did not know my voice, and he ran away from mewith a cry.
"Monsieur, my heart is a brave one. I have not what you call nerves, butwhen I knew I was alone in the great house with I knew not what, a greatfear clutched me. I stood still in the hall with my eyes fixed on thestairs above. At first all was silent, then I heard a dreadful sound--agroan. I wanted to run away then, monsieur, but the good God commanded meto go up and into the room, where a fellow creature needed me. I wentupstairs, and along to the door of a room which was half open. I pushedit wide open and went in.
"_Mon Dieu!_ the judge was alone there, dying. Pierre had shot him. Helay along the floor, gasping, groaning, and the blood dripping from hisbreast. When I saw this I ran forward and took his poor head on my knee,and tried to stop the blood with my handkerchief. But as I did this thejudge groaned once more. He knew me not, though I called him by name. Interrible agony he writhed his head off my breast. His hand clutched atthe hole in his breast, closing on my handkerchief. And so he died.
"Monsieur, strange it may seem, but I do assure you that I became calmagain when he was dead. I rose to my feet and looked round me in theroom. On the floor near him I saw a revolver. I picked it up and hid itin my bag. The tube of it was warm. Then I sat down in a chair andthought what I must do. The police must not know I was there. They mustnot know he was my lover. I thought of my letters that I wrote to him. Hehad them hidden in a little drawer at the back of his desk--a secretdrawer. Often had he showed me my letters there, and once he had showedme where to find the spring that opened the drawer. So I searched for thespring and I found it. The drawer opened and there were my letters tiedtogether. I took them all and hid them in my bag, and then I closed thehiding place. There remained but the handkerchief which my lover held inhis hand. I tried to get it out, but I could not. In my hurry I draggedit out--it came away then, but left a little bit in his hand. It did notshow. I dared not wait longer. I turned out the light, and hurried out ofthe room and downstairs. Again I turned out the light, and closed thedoor, and hurried away.
"That, monsieur, is my story."