CHAPTER XIII
TIGHTENING THE STRANDS
It is not often that it falls to the lot of any village to revel in suchabysmal depths of excitement as did the village of Hampton when the newsleaked out, and once the affair was known to the local police and theirrespective wives, the news of the tragedy spread with the velocity of ahurricane. By nine o'clock the next morning there wasn't an inhabitantwithin a radius of ten miles that had not heard of the murder of MissCheyne, and the mysterious disappearance of Lady Margaret. An hourlater, the lanes and fields were thronged to overflowing with thechattering mob of sightseers, which the police, strongly reinforced bythe reserves of several neighbouring hamlets, found more than adifficult task to keep in order. The story grew with every telling.
Miss Cheyne had been killed--oh, yes, months ago--and this man who hadtaken her place had murdered Lady Margaret, though it was not to beallowed to leak out. "Oh, no"--with many a wise shake of the head, andknowing wink--"the police knew their business." But what had they donewith the girl's body? Ah! that remained to be seen. Meanwhile, if humaningenuity and absolute disregard of time stood for anything, they meantto see the body of the impostor for themselves.
Tongues wagged and heads nodded, but nevertheless, none but the policethemselves, and such representatives of the press as were absolutelynecessary, had been permitted to cross the threshold of Cheyne Court, oreven obtain the merest glimpse of the dead man. Notwithstanding Cleek'sreserve, and Mr. Narkom's own restrictions, news had managed to leak outof the mysterious sign of the Pentacle upon the murderer's arm, and asScotland Yard--as represented by Cleek and the Superintendent--refusedto give forth any further knowledge that they might well be supposed topossess, imagination ran riot.
The correspondent of the _Party Lantern_ therefore "discovered" that themurdered man was a famous member of a Royal house, condemned by hisseniors to become dead to the world, owing to his having offended themasonic societies of his country. Further details the _Lantern_ refusedto give, though hinting darkly at deeds of misconduct that would havemade Don Giovanni turn green with envy. As to the whereabouts of LadyMargaret, they again contented themselves with wild hints as to whatthey might have told, had it not been for their "honour."
On the other hand, the _Evening Tatler_ "discovered" and declared theman to be nothing more exciting than a low-down anarchist, who had triedto do his boon companions out of their share of the loot of the Cheynejewels. That they were any nearer to the truth, however, than theircontemporary, was equally open to query; though when Mr. Narkom pointedout the arguments of the reporter to his ally Cleek gave a littleapproving nod.
"Best thing we can do is to shut that young man up," he said, tersely."Get on to the _Evening Tatler_, Mr. Narkom, and tell the news editorthat we only want vague eventualities given to the public just now--nofacts at all. Otherwise, you know, we shall put the Pentacle Club onguard, and if this is one of its crimes, we want to scotch the wholegang once and for all. That this man was a member of the Club iscertain, for the markings of that Pentacle were not branded on, as informer cases where people were murdered from motives of revenge, butfinely tattooed, showing that our friend is decidedly an old hand at thegame. Personally, I want to find out what Blake is doing."
Mr. Narkom mopped his face with a silk handkerchief, a sure sign ofemotion upon his part.
"I don't think this can be James Blake," said he, reflectively, "for Ilooked up his record after what you said a little while back about hisbeing the head of the gang and learned that he left England a year ormore ago, and nothing had been heard of him in his old haunts, or by hisboon companions since."
"Hmn," said Cleek with a grim little laugh, "lying low, evidently,after, or in view of some big coup, but that doesn't prove anythingabout our murdered friend here. It's finger-prints we want."
"And we shall have them, too," threw in the Superintendent triumphantly,fumbling in his pocketbook with fingers that themselves shook withexcitement. "I had a copy made of Blake's."
"Good man," ejaculated Cleek, as he took the precious scrap of paper,and went up to the room wherein had been placed the victim of avengeance, possibly as just as that of the law itself. By the time Mr.Narkom had made his way more slowly and ponderously up to the same spot,he found Cleek looking down with considerable disappointment.
"Barked up a wrong tree this time," he said, but the light of a greatdiscovery shone in his eyes and his voice had an undercurrent of strongexcitement. "This is not James Blake, but I can tell you who it is.Justice has simply been forestalled----"
His face was grim and Mr. Narkom looked up into it almost breathless.
"What is it, old chap; tell me?" he gasped. "What have you discovered?"
Cleek smiled.
"This man is the murderer of Elsie McBride, the old wardrobe seller ofCrown Court, so her murder will not have gone long unavenged!"
"But--how--are you sure?" said the startled Superintendent.
"Quite sure, my friend," was the reply. "Whatever other disguises a manmay assume, as we know, there is no escape from the irrefutable proof offinger-prints. Here----"
He lifted up the dead hand, and with a magnifying glass in his own,brought the thumb before Mr. Narkom's gaze.
"Now compare these thumb and finger marks with these which are a copy ofthose found on that dagger with which the poor woman was killed. Youwill see that they are identical. I'll nip off to town now and seewhether I can get the other old woman down here to identify this man. Ithink, too, when we have discovered the motive for this murder we shallhave gone far to have found out the reason why Lady Margaret wasabducted. But that remains to be seen."
And afterward, when the turn of events had crowded even more importantmatters from his mind, Mr. Maverick Narkom remembered these words.
Meanwhile a search of the house had not revealed the hiding place of thefamous jewels, and Mr. Shallcott, who was the first to come down andinvestigate after he had read the surprising facts in his morning paper,was full of remorse that they should have been lost.
"I shall never forgive myself, Mr. Headland," he said, peeringshort-sightedly at that gentleman. "I might have known there wassomething wrong in the jewels being taken out like that, and if only Ihad persisted in seeing the poor child alone, all would have been well."
Cleek laid a hand upon his arm and gave it a gentle pressure.
"You could not help yourself, Mr. Shallcott," replied he,sympathetically, "and neither legally nor morally can you be heldresponsible. She was the victim of a deep-laid plot to effect theirtheft. As to the murder, I cannot say yet. We can only await the turn ofevents."
Cleek himself felt a natural if morbid remorse for having so innocentlyplaced Lady Margaret in the hands of the Pentacle Club. Accordingly, onthe following day, when he was immersed in collecting his facts at theHampton Arms, preparatory to going down to meet Mr. Narkom at the policestation, he was greeted by the voice of Sir Edgar Brenton himself; hejumped up with pleasure and excitement in his voice.
"Ah, Sir Edgar, the very man I want," he said, looking into the lined,drawn face, no longer that of a boy, but of a man, and one in deepesttrouble at that. "What have you been doing with yourself since lastnight? I expected you to have joined us in watching Cheyne Court. As itis, you know what has happened, I have no doubt."
Sir Edgar's apathetic eyes met his.
"Yes," said he, dully. "Miss Cheyne was murdered by those devils, afterall. I thought they would. I was sure of it! But what I want to know is,where Lady Margaret is, Mr. Headland? What has become of her? Surelythere is some trace of her by this time!"
His haunted, anguished eyes watched Cleek's inscrutable face and,notwithstanding the almost complete chain of evidence that was beingslowly but surely welded about him, Cleek felt the same instinctiveliking for the young man as he had when they had first met.
"I should have thought you could have answered that question betteryourself, Sir Edgar," he said, quietly. "Why did you rush up to town sounexpected
ly?"
A wave of scarlet passed over the young man's pallid face.
"I was a fool, I suppose, but as I was passing the station I saw, or Ifancied I saw, the face of that girl whom Margaret called Aggie and Ithought it might be a clue. I wasn't certain, I didn't pay muchattention to the creature when I saw her with my girl in TrafalgarSquare. And so, without stopping to think, I rushed up the steps, took aticket, dashed on to the platform, and just had time to tell the porterto take a message up to my mother, who might have been anxious andstarted off."
"Yes," said Cleek, quietly. "But what about this Aggie you speak of? Didyou see anything more of her?"
"Unfortunately, no, I lost sight of her at Waterloo, and knowing thefutility of doing anything further--I--I came back----"
Cleek made a little clicking sound indicative of mild despair.
"I wish to God you had stayed away all night," he said under his breath.
"But that's just what I did do," returned Sir Edgar wearily. "When Igot back to Hampton Station, a little boy came running up, and told methat this telegram had been waiting for me at the post office. I didn'tstop to question, I can tell you, I simply tore it open, and when I readit, I was over that platform and off again before you could say 'JackRobinson.'"
Cleek's eyes narrowed.
"What was in it; you don't happen to have kept it, I suppose?"
"As it happens, I have," said Sir Edgar, fumbling in his pocket andproducing a crumpled ball of paper which Cleek took from hisoutstretched fingers.
"Hotel Central, come quick. Margaret," he read and Sir Edgar's voicebroke in upon his thoughts in a high pitch of excitement:
"You can be sure I just rushed up there as fast as trains would carryme--only to find it a hoax. I waited about all night, and came back thismorning, none the worse. But I'd like to lay hands on the man who sentme on that wild-goose chase."
Cleek looked at him for a brief second in silence, his face set, hischin cupped in the palm of his left hand. If this thing were true, itput Sir Edgar out of the affair altogether. _But was it true?_ Was itnot rather an attempt to establish an alibi, and thus throw dust in theeyes of the police? The hotel? Oh, yes, that part was easy, simplicityitself. He would go there and register, wait about for a girl whom heknew couldn't possibly be there, and then, after going up to the room,it would be the easiest thing in the world to step down unnoticed, thusgetting back in time to have committed the deed. He recalled Jennifer'swords: "Edgar--so he _did_ leave----" Leave maybe--but what about therevolver? As for Constable Roberts' hypothesis that the young man hadjust arrived--why, he might well have been just leaving. And now thistelegram! Cleek looked at it again, then gave vent to a low cry ofastonishment.
"Hello," he said, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. This is an oldtelegram; look, here's the date, last Friday, by Jove!"
He held it before Sir Edgar's astonished gaze. "All the original wordshave been rubbed out," he continued as the young man stared at it. "Youcan see the roughened paper."
Then he turned on him suddenly.
"Now, my friend," he said, "considering that your revolver was foundjust near the body of the murdered man I think you will agree that thiswill take some explanation. Don't you think so?"
Sir Edgar started as though someone had stabbed him. A wave of coloursuffused his face for a moment, then left it waxen white.
"Good God, you don't attempt to suggest that I----" he began, thenappeared to lose the power of speaking altogether as he gazed intoCleek's stern eyes.
"I am not in the habit of suggesting," interrupted Cleek, "I am simplystating a fact which, as you know, is one that is in itself suspicious.It is useless also to blink at the fact that the real Miss Cheyne wasmurdered on that night when I found you wandering up and down the lane,with that same revolver in your pocket. Perhaps you can explain thatalso?"
"Heavens, man, but you don't think I committed still another murder,"said Sir Edgar, incredulously. "I say, that's going a bit _too_ far youknow. I can understand a joke, but as to your thinking for one momentthat I should do such a low-down dirty thing as to murder a woman, andan old one at that----"
Cleek laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Not so fast, my friend, not so fast," said he with a little laugh."There's an old French proverb which says _qui s'excuse, s'accuse_.Perhaps you know it. But the evidence is strong against you. What aboutthat revolver with the 'B' on it? Perhaps you'll deny that?"
"I do, most emphatically I do!" responded Sir Edgar with a little snortof indignation. "That belonged to the old woman herself, I snatched itfrom her, and----"
"Cheyne does not to my knowledge begin with a 'B'," threw in Cleek,quietly. "The revolver bears your initial and a jury is a difficultthing to convince when facts are strong."
"Stuff and nonsense!" spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. "Youcan have me arrested straight away, if you like, but whatever happens, Imean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night.You know where to find me when you want me." Turning angrily on hisheel, he walked out, leaving Cleek smiling quietly to himself and ratherliking this young spit-fire for the way in which he had risen to hisfly.
"So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver-shot,does he? Now did he administer that prussic acid, or did he not?" wasthe next thought that passed through his mind.
He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station, wherehe hoped to meet Mr. Narkom.
It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he couldsee a little group of people advancing toward him, in the first andforemost of whom he recognized Ailsa.
She had been nearly heart-broken over the catastrophe which hadovertaken the girl in whom she had hoped to have found a life-longfriend, and her first act had been to visit Lady Brenton. She had doneher best to raise Edgar's mother from the fit of deep depression whichseemed to have settled over her like a cloud.
At that lady's request, Ailsa had consented to stay at the Towers, andaccordingly had seen but little of the man to whom she instinctivelyturned for help and guidance.
Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her little start and the rose-redcolour which suffused her face caused Lady Brenton, a woman still in theearly forties, to look quickly in the same direction.
"My dear, is this another reporter?" she inquired, anxiously. She had aninveterate horror of the press at all times, and since she had seen therecent papers carrying such head-lines as "The Cheyne CourtAffair--Further Developments--Murder in High Life" and similarpersonalities, she lived in perpetual dread of being pounced upon andinterviewed.
"No, dear," responded Ailsa with a happy little laugh, "this is not areporter, but a dear old friend of mine, Mr. George Headland. He was anold friend, too, of my uncle, Sir Horace Wyvern, in the days before hissecond marriage. I think he will be the only man who can explain thismysterious catastrophe. I wonder if you would think it a liberty if Iasked to be allowed to introduce him to you?"
"Far from it, Ailsa," answered Lady Brenton, impetuously. "I wish Icould persuade him to visit us, it might cheer us up. Not that I want tobe cheered exactly, but the thought of that child and the sight of poorEdgar's face almost breaks my heart. And I am so tired this morning----"
"I daresay you are," put in Ailsa, quietly. "You did not sleep well, didyou?"
Lady Brenton looked at her with a little angry flush.
"As it happens I did, Ailsa. That's a strange thing, for you know whatbad nights I have had lately. But what made you ask?"
"Well, I thought I heard your door open and shut in the night, as wellas the night before that. I thought of coming to see whether you wereill, and fell asleep myself first."
"Indeed?" Lady Brenton's face was a little pale, though her voice wasquite calm and steady.
"It must have been imagination on your part, my dear child, for I sleptsplendidly. But don't let us talk over last night." She turnedimpulsively, her voice shaking with emotion. "It's no use, I ought to besorry for any hu
man death--and to think of that poor old woman beingmurdered more than a month ago is too terrible--but I _can't_! I canonly think that the obstacle to my boy's happiness is removed, if we canonly find Margaret. I know it is very wrong of me to say so."
Ailsa pressed her arm in tender sympathy, but before she could replyCleek had advanced to within speaking distance, and Ailsa was greetinghim.
Another minute, mutual introductions having been made, Cleek foundhimself looking into the eyes of a handsome woman with hair but slightlygray, and with a purely cut, patrician face faintly lined, now pale asthough from a sleepless night.
It did not take Cleek long to note that she was suffering from someintense anxiety, though her smile was none the less genuine, especiallywhen a minute later she was joined by Sir Edgar, who was apparently byno means pleased to see the man who but a brief half hour ago hadpractically accused him of murder.
Suddenly the sound of light footsteps fell on their ears and, turning,Cleek saw Jennifer Wynne running after them.
"Dear Lady Brenton," she said, rather affectedly, as soon as she had gotwithin talking distance, "I am so thankful I found it; see, you leftyour scarf behind." In her hand she held a long gold lace scarf totallydifferent in texture to that which Miss Wynne had worn herself on thepreceding night, but alike in colour to the scrap which rested inCleek's pocketbook. As he noted this fact, and saw the suddenunconcealed terror showing on Lady Brenton's delicate face, he sucked inhis breath sharply, switched round on his heel, and grew silent.
It was only for a brief second that her face showed any trace of thatill-concealed terror, then Lady Brenton was profuse in thanks and beggedthe girl to come back with her to The Towers.
"It is so sweet of you, dear Lady Brenton," purred Miss Jennifer,softly, "but I feel sure both you and Sir Edgar are too worried to needpoor little me. I only thought you ought to have your scarf in safekeeping, so much depends on it now, you know," and with this partingshot, Miss Wynne turned and went back.
"Do come back to the house with us, Mr. Headland," Lady Brenton said,impulsively.
Cleek, only too willing to accept, soon found himself at Ailsa's side,swinging down the long, leafy lane.
Lady Brenton was a tactful woman, and after having glanced once or twicein their direction, she smiled significantly at her son and droppedbehind, on the plea of the narrowness of the lane, whispering a minutelater in carefully lowered tones to Sir Edgar:
"A most distinguished man, Edgar, and if I know anything of loveaffairs, we shall be parting with our pleasant little neighbour for goodand all before the summer is over. Did you see the man's eyes?Positively worshipping her. Ah, well, it is good to be young, and oncethis is over----"
But her own heart was like lead within her breast.