CHAPTER V
IN WHICH THE SHADOW FALLS
"A very charming portrait," Frayne remarked. "I see it was taken inLondon. We ought to have no great difficulty in discovering theoriginal--eh, Treeton--if we find it necessary?"
I smiled to myself, for well I knew that the police would experienceconsiderable difficulty in ascertaining the identity of the original ofthat picture.
"Are you quite sure, Mrs. Dean, that it was the same lady who came tovisit Mr. Gregory?" I asked the landlady.
"Quite positive, sir. That funny little pendant she is wearing in thephotograph, she was wearing when she came to see the old gentleman--afunny little green stone thing--shaped like one of them heathen idols."
I knew to what she referred--the small green figure of Maat, the Goddessof Truth--an ancient amulet I had found, while prying about in the ruinsof a temple on the left bank of the Nile, a few miles beyondWady-Halfa--the gate of the Sudan. I knew that amulet well, knew thehieroglyphic inscription upon its back, for I had given it to her as asouvenir.
Then Lola--the mysterious Lola, whose memory had occupied my thoughts,both night and day, for many and many a month--had reappeared fromnowhere, and had visited the eccentric Gregory.
In that room I stood, unconscious of what was going on about me;unconscious of that glittering litter of plate and jewels; of fifteenthcentury chalices and gem-encrusted cups; of sixteenth century silver,much of it ecclesiastical--probably from churches in France, Italy, andSpain--of those heavy nineteenth century ornaments, that wonderful arrayof diamonds and other precious stones, in ponderous early-Victoriansettings, which lay upon the faded, threadbare carpet at my feet.
I was thinking only of the past--of that strange adventure of mine,which was now almost like some half-forgotten dream--and of Lola, thebeautiful and the mysterious--whose photograph I now held in mynerveless fingers, just as the detective had given it to me.
At that moment a constable entered with a note for his inspector, whotook it and opened it.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning to Frayne. "Here's another surprise for us!I made inquiries this morning of the Sheffield police concerning old Mr.Gregory. Here's their reply. They've been up to Messrs. Gregory andThorpe's works, but there is no Mr. Gregory. Mr. Vernon Gregory, seniorpartner in the firm, died, while on a voyage to India, nearly a yearago!"
"What?" shrieked Mrs. Dean in scandalized tones. "Do you mean to saythat that there old man, my lodger, wasn't Mr. Gregory?"
"He may have been _a_ Mr. Gregory, but he certainly was not Mr. VernonGregory, the steel manufacturer," responded Treeton, calmly.
"Well, that beats everything!" she gasped. "Then that old man was ahumbugging impostor--eh?"
"So it seems," Frayne replied.
"But it can't be true? I can't believe it! He was a real gentleman. See,here, what he had got put away in that old box of his. Them thereSheffield police is mistook, I'm sure they be. There'll be some goodexplanation of all this, I'll be bound, if 'tis looked for."
"I sincerely hope so," I remarked. "But at present I certainly don't seeany."
Truth to tell, I was utterly staggered and confounded, the more so, bythat report from Sheffield. I confess I had all along believed oldGregory to be what he had represented himself as being to the people ofCromer.
Now I realized that I was face to face with a profound and amazingproblem--one which those provincial police-officers, patient andwell-meaning as they were, could never hope to solve.
Yes, old Vernon Gregory was an impostor. The reply from the Sheffieldpolice proved that beyond a doubt. Therefore, it also followed that theman lying dead was certainly not what he had represented himself tobe--nephew of the great steel magnate.
But who was he? That was the present great question that baffled us.
The photograph I held in my hand bore the name: "Callard, Photographer,Shepherd's Bush Road." But I knew that whatever inquiries were made atthat address, the result would be negative. The mysterious Lola was anelusive little person, not at all likely to betray her identity to anyphotographer.
There were reasons for her secrecy--very strong reasons, I knew.
So I smiled, when Frayne announced that he should send the picture up toLondon, and put through an inquiry.
I picked up some pieces of the jewellery that was lying at my feet. Inmy hand I held a splendid golden coronet in which were set greatemeralds and rubies of enormous value. Even my inexpert eye could seethat the workmanship was very ancient, and the stones but roughly cutand polished. I judged it to be a crown which had adorned the head ofsome famous Madonna in an Italian or Spanish church; a truly regalornament.
Again stooping, I picked up a small heavy box of blackened repoussesilver of genuine Italian Renaissance work, and opening it, found itfilled with rings of all kinds, both ancient and modern. There weresignet rings bearing coats of arms; ladies' gem rings; men's plain goldrings; and rings of various fancy devices.
One I picked out was distinctly curious. A man's flat gold ring set witheight finely-coloured turquoises at equal intervals. It looked brighterand newer than the others, and as I fingered it, a small portion of theouter edge opened, revealing a neatly enamelled inscription in French,"Thou art Mine." On further examination I found that each of the spacesin which a turquoise was set, opened, and in each was also a tender lovepassage, "I love you," "Faithful and True," and so on, executed probablya century ago.
Yes, each piece in that wonderful collection was unique--the treasure ofone who was undoubtedly a connoisseur of gems and antiques. Indeed, inno national collection had I ever seen a display more remarkable thanthat flung out so unceremoniously upon the carpet, around thatmysterious flash-lamp.
While one of the detectives, at Frayne's order, began repacking thetreasure, I went with the two inspectors to a sitting-room on theground-floor, where, with the door closed, we discussed the situation.
Outside, upon the path in front of the house, were a knot of curiouspersons, among them Mr. Day, and his subordinate officer who had madethe tragic discovery.
"Well," exclaimed Frayne, slowly rubbing his chin, "it's a very curiouscase. What will you do now, Treeton?"
"Do?" asked the local officer. "Why, I've done all I can do. I'vereported it to the Coroner, and I suppose they'll make the post-mortemto-day, and hold the inquest to-morrow."
"Yes, I know," said the other. "But we must find this old man, Gregory.He seems to have been pretty slick at getting away."
"Frightened, I suppose," said Treeton.
"What. Do you think he killed his nephew?" queried the man from Norwich.
"Looks suspiciously like it," Treeton replied.
"Yes, but why did Craig go out disguised as the old man--that's thequestion?"
"Yes," I repeated. "That is indeed the question."
"And all that jewellery? The old man is not likely to leave that lotbehind--unless he's guilty," said Frayne. "Again, that visit of theyoung lady. If we could only get track of her, she'd have something totell us without a doubt."
"Of course," said Treeton. "Send the photograph to London, and find outwho she is. What a bit of luck, wasn't it, that Mrs. Dean kept thepicture she found in the waste-paper basket?"
I remained silent. Yes, if we could only discover the original of thatphotograph we should, no doubt, learn much that would be startling. ButI felt assured that we should never find trace of her. The police couldfollow in her direction if they chose. I intended to proceed upon anentirely different path.
What I had learned in that brief hour, had staggered me. I couldscarcely realize that once again I was face to face with the mystery ofLola--the sweetest, strangest, most shadowy little person I had ever metin all my life. And yet she was so real, so enchanting, sodelightful--such a merry, light-hearted little friend.
Lola!
I drew a long breath when I recalled that perfect oval face, with thewonderful blue eyes, the soft little hand--those lips that were made forkisses.
Even as I st
ood there in the plainly-furnished sitting-room of thatseaside lodging-house, I remembered a strangely different scene. A fine,luxurious chamber, rich with heavy gilt furniture, and crimson damask,aglow under shaded electric lights.
I saw her upon her knees before me, her white hands grasping mine, herhair dishevelled upon her shoulders, pleading with me--pleading, ah! Iremembered her wild, passionate words, her bitter tears--her terribleconfession.
And this provincial detective, whose chief feats had been confined tocases of petty larceny, speed limit, and trivial offences, dealt with bythe local Justices of the Peace, actually hoped to unravel a mysterywhich I instinctively felt to be fraught with a thousand difficulties.
Any swindler, providing he has made sufficient money by his tricks, hasbought a place in the country, and has been agreeable to theDeputy-Lieutenant of the County, can become one of His Majesty'sJustices of the Peace. Some such are now and then unmasked, and off topenal servitude have gone, men who have been the foremost to inflictfines and imprisonment on the poor for the most trivial offences--menwho made the poaching of a rabbit a heinous crime.
I venture to assert that the past of many a J. P. does not bearinvestigation. But even when glaring injustices are exposed to the HomeSecretary, he is often afraid to order an inquiry, for politicalreasons. It is always "Party" that must be first considered in this poorold England of ours to-day.
What does "Party" mean? Be it Liberal, Unionist, Conservative, Labour,anything, there should at least be honesty, fair dealing, plain speakingand uprightness. But alas, this is an age of sham in England.Journalists, novelists, preachers, playwrights, are afraid to speak thetruth frankly, though they know it, and feel it. It is "Party" always.Many a criminal has escaped conviction before our County Benches becauseof "Party," and for the same reason many innocents have been condemnedand suffered.
This case of Mr. Vernon Gregory was a provincial case. The amusing farceof local investigation, and local justice, would no doubt be dulyplayed. The coroner always agrees with the evidence of his own familydoctor, or the prominent local medico, and the twelve honest tradesmenforming the jury are almost invariably led by the coroner in thedirection of the verdict.
Oh, the farce of it all! I hold no brief for France, Belgium, Germany,or any other continental nation, for England is my native land. But I dofeel that methods of inquiry on the continent are just, though minutelysearching, that there Justice is merciful though inexorable, that herscales weigh all evidence to the uttermost gramme.
These reflections passed through my mind as I stood in thatlodging-house room, while the two police officers discussed as to theirfurther procedure in the amazing case with which they had been calledupon to deal. I could not help such thoughts arising, for I was dubious,very dubious, as to the thoroughness of investigation that would begiven to the affair by the local authorities. Slackness, undue delay,party or personal interests, any one of these things might imperil theinquiry and frustrate the ends of justice.
I knew we were confronted by one of the greatest criminal problems thathad ever been offered for solution, calling for the most prompt,delicate and minute methods of investigation, if it was to be handledsuccessfully. And as I contrasted the heavy, cumbrous, restrictedconditions of English criminal procedure with the swift, far-reachingmethods in use across the Channel, I felt that something of the latterwas needed here if the mystery of Craig's death was ever to be solved.