Caranby’s reply took away Jennings’
breath. The case was one of surprises, but he
was not quite prepared for such an announcement.
He was in the brougham and driving towards the Avon
Hotel with the old nobleman before he found his tongue.
“What can Mrs. Octagon have
to do with Maraquito?” he asked amazed.
“Ah! that is the question,”
replied Caranby, affording no clue.
“I did not even know she was acquainted with
her.”
“Perhaps she gambles.”
“Even if she did, Maraquito’s
salon would hardly be the place she would choose for
her amusement. Moreover, Maraquito does not receive
ladies. She has no love for her own sex.”
“What woman has?” murmured
Caranby, ironically. Then he added after a pause,
“You know that Mrs. Octagon was present when
Emilia fell from the plank in the Rexton house?”
“Yes. She gave evidence
at the inquest I understand. But Selina did
not, if Cuthbert informed me rightly.”
“Selina was ill in bed.
She could not come. Afterwards she went abroad.
I have often wondered,” added Caranby, “why
Selina didn’t seek me out when death broke my
engagement to Emilia. She loved me, and her
father being dead, there would have been no bar to
our marriage. As it was, she threw over her
American and dedicated herself to a hermit’s
life at Rexton.”
“You never saw her again?”
“Never. I started to travel,
and came to London only at rare intervals. I
did write to Selina, asking her to see me, but she
always refused, so I became philosophic and took to
celibacy also.”
“Very strange,” murmured
Jennings, his thoughts elsewhere, “but this
does not explain Mrs. Octagon’s visit to the
house.”
“I am not so sure of that, if
you mean Maraquito’s house. Mrs. Octagon
may know, as I do, that Maraquito is the niece of Emilia.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the detective
eagerly.
“As sure as I am that she is
no Spaniard, nor even a Spanish Jewess, as she claims
to be. She doesn’t even know the language.
Her name, to fit a woman, should terminate in a feminine
manner. She should be called Maraquita, not
Maraquito. That little grammatical error doubtless
escaped her notice. But as I was saying, Maraquito - we
will still call her so - may have sent for
Mrs. Octagon.”
“Mrs. Octagon, so far as I have
seen, is not the woman to obey such a call,”
said Jennings grimly.
“Maraquito may have compelled her to come.”
“For what reason?”
“Well, you see, Emilia was said
by Isabella Loach - Mrs. Octagon that is - to
have fallen from the plank. But Mrs. Octagon
may have pushed her off.”
“May have murdered her in fact.”
“Quite so. Isabella loved
me, and was, and is, a very violent woman. It
may be that she pushed Emilia off the plank, and Maraquito,
through her dead father, may have learned the truth.
This would give her a hold over Mrs. Octagon.”
“But Selina may have killed
Emilia. That would explain her hermit life,
inexplicable in any other way.”
“No,” said Caranby in
a shaking voice, “I am sure the woman I loved
would never have behaved in that way. Isabella
killed Emilia - if it was a murder - and
then threatened to denounce Selina unless she gave
up the idea of marrying me. And that,”
added Caranby, as though struck with a new idea, “may
be the cause why Selina never answered my letter,
and always refused to see or marry me. She may
have been - no, I am sure she was - under
the thumb of Isabella. Now that Selina is dead,
Isabella is under the thumb of Maraquito.”
“This is all theory,” said Jennings impatiently.
“We can only theorize in our
present state of uncertainty,” was the reply
of the nobleman. “But my explanation is
a reasonable one.”
“I do not deny that. But
why should Maraquito send for Mrs. Octagon?”
“Why?” echoed Caranby
in surprise, “in order to stop the marriage with
Cuthbert. Maraquito loves Cuthbert and hates
Juliet. I daresay this is the solution of Mrs.
Octagon’s strange behavior since the death.
It is Maraquito who is stopping the marriage by threatening
to denounce Mrs. Octagon for the murder of her aunt.
Juliet knows this, and hence her reticence.”
“It might be so,” murmured
Jennings, more and more perplexed. “But
Miss Saxon won’t be reticent with me.
I’ll see her to-morrow.”
“What means will you use to make her speak?”
“I’ll tell her that Cuthbert
may be arrested for the crime. You know he was
about the place on the night of the murder.”
“Yes. He went down to
look after a possible ghost. But I hope you
will not bring Cuthbert into the matter unless it is
absolutely necessary. I don’t want a scandal.”
“Rest easy, Lord Caranby.
I have the complete control of this affair, and I’ll
only use Cuthbert’s presence at Rexton to make
Miss Saxon speak out. But then, she may not
be keeping silence for Cuthbert’s sake, as she
can’t possibly know he was at Rexton on that
night. My own opinion is that she is shielding
her brother.”
“Do you suspect him?” asked Caranby quickly.
“He may not be guilty of the
crime, but he knows something about it, I am sure.”
Here Jennings related how Clancy had said Basil would
speak out if pressed too hard. “Now Basil,
for some reason, is in difficulties with Hale, who
is a scoundrel. But Basil knows something which
Hale and Clancy wish to be kept silent. Hale
has been using threats to Basil, and the young man
has turned restive. Clancy, who is by no means
such a fool as he looks, warned Hale to-night.
Therefore I take it, that Basil has some information
about the murder. Miss Saxon knows he has, and
she is shielding him.”
“But Clancy, Hale and Mrs. Herne
were all out of the house when the woman was stabbed,”
said Caranby, “they cannot have anything to do
with it.”
“Quite so, on the face of it.
But that bell - ” Jennings broke off.
“I don’t think those three are so innocent
as appears. However, Mrs. Herne is coming back
to her Hampstead house next week; I’ll see her
and put questions.”
“Which she will not answer,”
said Caranby drily. “Besides, you should
have put them at the inquest.”
“The case had not developed
so far. I had not so much information as I have
now,” argued Jennings.
“Did you examine Mrs. Herne at the inquest?”
“No; she gave her evidence.”
Jennings hesitated. “She also wore a veil
when she spoke, and refused to raise it on account
of weak eyes. By the way, do you notice that
Maraquito uses a strong scent?”
“Yes. Clancy and Hale also use it.”
“Ha!” said Jennings, surprised.
“I never knew that. Decidedly, I am growing
stupid. Well, Mrs. Herne uses that scent also.
It is a rare scent.” Then Jennings told
what Susan Grant had said. “Now I think
there is some significance in this scent which is connected
with the association of Clancy, Hale, Maraquito and
Mrs. Herne.”
“But Mrs. Herne doesn’t know Maraquito.”
“I am not so sure of that.
Susan Grant thinks she may be Maraquito’s mother,
she is so like her in an elderly way. Did you
know this Mrs. Saul?”
“No. I knew the brother
who came to speak to me after the death of his sister,
and who afterwards was put in jail for coining.
His wife I never met. I never even heard of
her. But Maraquito takes after her father in
looks and he was like Emilia.”
“It is a difficult matter to
unravel,” said Jennings. “I think
Mrs. Herne refused to raise her veil at the inquest
so that the likeness between her and Maraquito might
not be observed. I was there, and if Mrs. Herne
is what I say, she would have been put on her guard
by Maraquito. Though to be sure,” added
Jennings in a vexed tone, “Maraquito did not
know then, and perhaps does not know now, that I am
a detective.”
“Clancy and Hale will enlighten
her,” said Caranby, as the vehicle stopped,
“will you not come in?”
“Not to-night. I will
do myself the honor of calling on you later, when
I have more to say. At present I am going to
sort out what evidence I have. To-morrow I’ll
call on Miss Saxon.”
“Call on Mrs. Octagon,”
were Caranby’s parting words, “believe
me, she knows the truth, but I’ll tell you one
thing. Maraquito did not kill Miss Loach, for
the death of Selina has given Juliet enough money to
marry Cuthbert, independent of Mrs. Octagon’s
wishes, and Maraquito would never have brought that
about.”
“Yet all the same Miss Saxon will not marry.”
Caranby made a gesture to show that
the matter was beyond his comprehension, and ascended
the steps of the hotel. Jennings, deep in thought,
walked away, wondering how he was to disentangle the
skein which Fate had placed in his hand to unravel.
That night the detective surveyed
the situation. So far as he could see, he seemed
no further advanced than he had been at the inquest.
Certainly he had accumulated a mass of evidence, but
it threw no light on the case. From Caranby’s
romance, it seemed that the dead woman had been connected
with the Saul family. That seemed to link her
with Maraquito, who appeared to be the sole surviving
member. In her turn, Maraquito was connected
in some underhand way with Mrs. Octagon, seeing that
the elder woman came by stealth to the Soho house.
Mrs. Octagon was connected with the late Emilia Saul
by a crime, if what Caranby surmised was correct,
and her daughter was forbidden to marry Mallow, who
was the nephew of the man who had been the lover both
of Miss Loach and Emilia Saul. Hale and Clancy
were playing some game with Basil Saxon, who was the
son of Mrs. Octagon, and he was associated with Maraquito.
Thus it would seem that all these people were connected
in various ways with the dead woman. But the
questions were: Had one of them struck the fatal
blow, and if so, who had been daring enough to do
so?
“Again,” murmured Jennings,
“who touched that bell? Not the assassin,
who would scarcely have been fool enough to call anyone
to examine his work before he had time to escape.
Certainly it may have been a woman! Yes!
I believe a man killed Miss Loach, for some reason
I have yet to learn, and a woman, out of jealousy,
wishing to get him into the grip of the law, touched
the bell so that witnesses might appear before the
assassin could escape. But who struck the blow?”
This was a difficult question.
It could not have been Basil Saxon, for he was at
the Marlow Theatre on that night with his sister.
Cuthbert had no motive, and Jennings quite believed
his explanation as to his exploration of the park
between the hours of ten and eleven. Hale, Clancy
and Mrs. Herne were all out of the house before the
blow had been struck, and, moreover, there was no
reason why they should murder a harmless old lady.
Maraquito confined to her couch could not possibly
have anything to do with the crime. Mrs. Octagon
did hate her sister, but she certainly would not risk
killing her. In fact, Jennings examining into
the motives and movements of those mentioned, could
find no clue to the right person. He began to
believe that the crime had been committed by someone
who had not yet appeared - someone whose
motive might be found in the past of the dead woman.
Say a member of the Saul family.
But Maraquito was the sole surviving
member, and on the face of it was innocent.
As yet Jennings did not know whether Mrs. Herne was
her mother, in spite of the resemblance which Susan
claimed to have seen. Also, Caranby said that
Maraquito resembled her father, and the features of
the Saul family were so strongly marked that it was
impossible the elder Saul could have married a woman
resembling him. “Though, to be sure, he
might have married a relative,” said Jennings,
and went to bed more perplexed than ever.
Next day, before calling at the “Shrine
of the Muses,” he went to Scotland Yard, and
there made inquiries about the rumor of false coins
being in circulation. These appeared to be numerous
and were admirably made. Also from France and
Russia and Italy came reports that false money was
being scattered about. The chief of the detective
staff possessed these coins of all sorts, and Jennings
was forced to own that they were admirable imitations.
He went away, wondering if this crime could be connected
in any way with the circulation of false money.
“Maraquito is a member of the Saul family, who
appear to have been expert coiners,” said Jennings,
on his way to Kensington, “and, according to
Le Beau, she gave him a false sovereign. I wonder
if she keeps up the business, and if Clancy and Hale,
together with Mrs. Herne, this supposititious mother,
have to do with the matter. That unfinished
house would make an admirable factory, and the presence
of the ghosts would be accounted for if a gang of
coiners was discovered there. But there is a
fifteen-feet wall round the house, and the park is
a regular jungle. Cuthbert examined the place
by day and night and could see nothing suspicious.
I wonder if Miss Loach, living near the place, learned
that a gang was there. If so, it is quite conceivable
that she might have been murdered by one of them.
But how the deuce did anyone enter the house?
The door certainly opened at half-past ten o’clock,
either to let someone in or someone out. But
the bell did not sound for half an hour later.
Can there be any outlet to that house, and is it
connected with the unfinished mansion of Lord Caranby,
used as a factory?”
This was all theory, but Jennings
could deduce no other explanation from the evidence
he had collected. He determined to search the
unfinished house, since Caranby had given him permission,
and also to make an inspection of Rose Cottage, though
how he was to enter on a plausible excuse he did not
know. But Fate gave him a chance which he was
far from expecting. On arriving at the “Shrine
of the Muses” he was informed that Miss Saxon
had gone to Rexton. This was natural enough,
since she owned the cottage, but Jennings was inclined
to suspect Juliet from her refusal to marry Cuthbert
or to explain her reason, and saw something suspicious
in all she did. He therefore took the underground
railway at once to Rexton, and, alighting at the station,
went to Crooked Lane through the by-path, which ran
through the small wood of pines. On looking
at the cottage he saw that the windows were open,
that carpets were spread on the lawn, and that the
door was ajar. It seemed that Mrs. Pill was indulging
in the spring cleaning alluded to by Susan Grant.
At the door Jennings met Mrs. Pill
herself, with her arms bare and a large coarse apron
protecting her dress. She was dusty and untidy
and cross. Nor did her temper grow better when
she saw the detective, whom she recognized as having
been present at the inquest.
“Whyever ’ave you
come ’ere, sir?” asked she. “I’m
sure there ain’t no more corpses for you to
discover.”
“I wish to see Miss Saxon. I was told
she was here.”
“Well, she is,” admitted
Mrs. Pill, placing her red arms akimbo, “not
as I feel bound to tell it, me not being in the witness-box.
She ’ave come to see me about my rent.
An’ you, sir?”
“I wish to speak to Miss Saxon,”
said Jennings patiently.
Mrs. Pill rubbed her nose and grumbled.
“She’s up in the attics,” said
she, “lookin’ at some dresses left by pore
Miss Loach, and there ain’t a room in the ’ouse
fit to let you sit down in, by reason of no chairs
being about. ’Ave you come to tell me who
killed mistress?”
“No! I don’t think
the assassin will ever be discovered.”
“Ah, well. We’re
all grass,” wailed Mrs. Pill; “but if you
wish to see Miss Saxon, see her you will. Come
this way to the lower room, an’ I’ll go
up to the attics.”
“Let me go, too, and it will
save Miss Saxon coming down,” said Jennings,
wishing to take Juliet unawares.
“Ah, now you speaks sense.
Legs is legs when stairs are about, whatever you
may say,” said Mrs. Pill, leading the way, “an’
you’ll excuse me, Mr. Policeman, if I don’t
stop, me ‘avin’ a lot of work to do, as
Susan’s gone and Geraldine with ’er, not
to speak of my ‘usbin’ that is to be,
he havin’ gone to see Mrs. Herne, drat her!”
“Why has he gone to see Mrs.
Herne?” asked Jennings quickly.
“Arsk me another,” said
the cook querulously, “he’s a secret one
is Thomas Barnes, whatever you may say. He comes
and he goes and makes money by ’is doin’s,
whatever they may be. For not a word do I ’ear
of ’is pranks. I’ve a good mind
to remain Pill to the end of my days, seein’
as he keeps secrets.”
Jennings said no more, but secretly
wondered why Thomas had gone to visit Mrs. Herne.
He determined to call on that lady at once and see
if he could learn what message Thomas had taken her
and from whom. But he had not much time for
thought as Mrs. Pill opened a door to the right of
a narrow passage and pushed him in. “An’
now I’ll go back to my dustin’,”
said the cook, hurrying away.
Jennings found himself face to face
with Juliet. She was standing on a chair with
her hand up on the cornice. As soon as she saw
him she came down with rather a white face.
The room was filled with trunks and large deal boxes,
and some were open, revealing clothes. Dust lay
thick on others apparently locked, and untouched for
many years. The light filtered into the dusty
attic through a dirty window, and the floor was strewn
with straw and other rubbish. Miss Saxon did
not know the detective and her face resumed its normal
color and expression.
“Who are you and what do you
want?” she asked, casting a nervous look at
the cornice.
Jennings removed his hat. “I
beg your pardon,” he said politely. “Mrs.
Pill showed me up here when I asked to see you.”
“She had no right,” said
Juliet, looking at her dress, which was rather dusty,
“come downstairs and tell me who you are.”
She appeared anxious to get him out
of the room, and walked before him out of the door.
As she passed through Jennings contrived to shut it
as though her dress had caught the lower part.
Then he lightly turned the key. He could hear
Juliet fumbling at the lock. “What is the
matter?” she called through.
“The lock has got hampered in
some way,” said Jennings, rattling the key,
“one moment, I’ll look at it carefully.”
As he said this he made one bound
to the chair upon which she had been standing and
reached his hand to the cornice at which she had looked.
Passing his hand rapidly along it came into contact
with an object long and sharp. He drew it down.
It was a brand-new knife of the sort called bowie.
Jennings started on seeing this object, but having
no time to think (for he did not wish to rouse her
suspicions), he slipped the knife in his vest and
ran again to the door. After a lot of ostentatious
fumbling he managed to turn the key again and open
the door. Juliet was flushed and looked at him
angrily. But she cast no second look at the cornice,
which showed Jennings that she did not suspect his
ruse.
“Your dress caught the door
and shut it,” he explained, “the lock seems
to be out of order.”
“I never knew it was,”
said Juliet, examining it; “it always locked
easy enough before.”
“Hum,” thought Jennings,
“so you have been here before and you have kept
the door locked on account of the knife probably,”
but he looked smilingly at the girl all the time.
“I am sorry,” he said,
when she desisted from her examination.
“It’s my fault,”
said Juliet unsuspiciously, and closed the door.
She led the way along the passage and down the stairs.
“Who are you?” she asked, turning round
half way down.
“I am a friend of Mallow’s,” said
the detective.
“I have never met you?”
“Yet I have been to your house,
Miss Saxon. Perhaps my name, Miles Jennings,
may - ”
The girl started with a cry. “You are
a detective!” she gasped.