Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels

Brampton looked at it doubtfully.

“I can’t say I do really,” he said. “I ought to know, of course, but I don’t feel quite sure. You see, the colouring is so much like that of the chintzes. One might never notice it. Still, the legs are very ugly; I think I should have observed them. And it is not like Mrs. Mill to leave an ugly thing so plainly displayed. But on the whole I’m not certain about it.”

“Don’t you feel,” said Gimblet, “that there is something terrible, something fearful, in those shining brown pieces of wood? Their ugliness should be decently covered. Unfortunately, I am afraid I know where to look for their covering.”

He led the way to one of the French windows of the front room and threw it open. Unfastening the shutters, which still barred the way, he flung them back and went out on to the balcony, followed by the two men.

It was, as he had seen from the ground, an unusually broad one, and extended across the whole width of the house. A low wall about nine inches high ran round its edge, supporting a balustrade of stone. A large green painted wooden box, or trough, about ten feet long by a yard wide, and as tall as the balustrade, was planted with flowers, which did not appear to be in a very flourishing condition.

By the light of the street lamp they could see that the geraniums’ petals were turning black, and that the marguerites hung their heads on stalks from which all vigour seemed to have departed. Within the balustrade the black shadows lay like a pool of ink, and the floor of the balcony was quite invisible, except where the open window through which they had stepped let out a narrow stream of light.

“Open the shutters of the other windows,” Gimblet said to Higgs.

When this was done they could see better. To Brampton’s amazement Gimblet’s next act was to grasp one of the geraniums and pull it up by the roots; a daisy followed, and in a few minutes he had torn up every plant. Brampton, as he stood watching, noticed how easily they came up.

Then Gimblet called to him.

“Now, Mr. Brampton, if you and Higgs will take that end of the box, I can manage this one. I want to tilt it up a little.”

It needed all the efforts of the three men to move the box, full to the brim of soil as it was. Panting and heaving, they shifted it first away from the balustrade, and tilted it towards the wall of the house. The earth poured out as the angle increased, and in a minute the floor was deep in it.

“Gently, gently,” said Gimblet. “Look, what is that?” and he pointed to something white, which was poking out through the earth in the box.

His electric torch flashed upon it, and the others, balancing the tilted flower box on its edge, peered in, and saw that it was a bit of pink and white chintz.

It seemed a long while before Gimblet spoke. He stood as if turned to stone, and Brampton felt an indefinable horror stealing over him, a dread of he knew not what, but which he seemed to be conscious was in some way a reflection or telepathic transference of the other’s unspoken thoughts.

At last with an obvious effort Gimblet straightened himself.

“We must tilt out a little more earth,” he said in a low tone, “very carefully now.”

Very cautiously they raised the side of the stand again, and a rush of soil poured over the edge; the little patch of white they had seen in a corner became a large piece, and almostly instantly it was plain to them all that the greater part of the box was full of it. Leaving the others to manage the box, which was now easily steadied, Gimblet ran round and knelt at its side, scooping out handfuls of garden mould and disclosing what looked like a very long, bulky bundle of flowered chintz.

Suddenly, in a voice hardly above a whisper, Brampton broke the silence.

“My God!” he said, pointing, and staring with horrified eyes.

From the corner of the wrapper a hand protruded, half covered with earth; it was a white and shapely hand, the hand of a woman.

“Do you see it?” whispered Brampton again, and leant shaking against the wall.

“It’s a hand,” said Higgs, troubled but stolid.

Gimblet was very pale, and he took a quick breath as he braced himself to lift the enveloping chintz. The lighted windows cast three streaks of light out into the darkness and threw grotesque distorted shadows of the men upon the coping of the balcony. A sudden gust of wind made the trees in the street moan and shiver as though they had been swept by the passing broom of some night-riding hag; all around them the darkness gathered close like a wicked thing that would if it dared swallow up the tiny protecting lights men burn in self-defence.

Gimblet felt himself struggling against some such malevolent influences; half conscious fears, some sensation of evil presences in the air, gibing, mocking, clustering round to gloat over the results of earthly villainy, seemed to paralyse him; and he had to call up his reserves of will power before, after a moment’s hesitation, he bent forward and unrolled the chintz covering.

Inside it was the body of a young woman. Long black hair lay in masses on her shoulders and streamed over the single white garment she wore. The face was so terribly disfigured as to be quite unrecognisable.

With a shudder Gimblet drew the wrapping over her again.

“Vitriol,” he muttered, and became aware, as he spoke, of some one behind him in the opening of the window.

Before he could turn, a heartstricken cry sounded in his ear, and he was not in time to catch Sir Gregory, who staggered back in the embrasure, and from there slid fainting to the ground. As Gimblet sprang to his help, he had a fleeting vision of a ghastly face and a crouching figure in the back of the drawing-room: it was the face of Tremmels, the clerk, but so wild and white with terror, so distorted by the shock of what he had seen as to be almost like that of another man.

Suspecting from the noise made by the opening shutters, followed by the sudden and prolonged silence, that something was happening on the floor above them, and unable any longer to bear the suspense and curiosity accentuated by waiting and inactivity, Sir Gregory, followed by the clerk, had crept upstairs into the drawing-room without attracting the attention of Gimblet or his assistants, and the horror of what they had seen was too much for both of them.

As with the help of Higgs Gimblet lifted the inanimate form of the baronet from where it had dropped, a sudden loud noise from the street below made them nearly let fall their burden; and it was a second before any of them realised that the sound was only the first jangling bar of a popular music hall tune. The barrel organ they had heard a quarter of an hour earlier had wandered into Scholefield Avenue, and, attracted without doubt by the lighted windows, had thought fit to draw up before No. 13 and there begin its headlong plunge into melody. Half the rollicking air it was playing had been thumped forth, with all the usual din of banging bass and clanking scales, before any one of those who stood above it in the grim presence of death sufficiently recovered his presence of mind to be able to stop it.

Telling the clerk curtly not to be an ass, but to pull himself together and follow them, Gimblet, with the help of Higgs and Brampton, carried Sir Gregory out of the fatal house and into No. 15, the home of the artist. Here they gave him over to the care of Mrs. Brampton, a capable, bustling woman with common-sense written all over her, to whom her husband explained in guarded terms as much of the situation as was inevitable.

“There has been a terrible tragedy next door, my dear,” he told her. “This poor gentleman has fainted on learning of the death of his friend,” and the kind-hearted, sensible creature took charge of Sir Gregory without wasting precious time in questions.

At his request, Brampton conducted the detective to the telephone, while Higgs was sent out to look for a policeman.

“Is that Scotland Yard?” Gimblet was asking, as the artist shut the door on him and returned to his wife.

By the time the detective had finished telephoning, Higgs was back with two policemen, the one he had found in the next street having whistled for a comrade. Gimblet went with them to No. 13, and together they entered the silent drawing-room, where the gas was still flaring and the windows stood open to the night like three black doors to a villainous and tragic world. With the help of the new-comers the body of the dead woman was lifted out of the flower box and carried into the house, where, still enveloped in the chintz cover, it was gently deposited on one of the sofas. For a moment they turned back the wrapping, while Gimblet searched hastily for some clue that should have inadvertently been enclosed in it, but there was nothing besides the body and the one garment in which it was clad.

“See,” he murmured in a low voice, pointing to an oblong incision at the edge of the chemise, “they have cut away the linen there. No doubt the name, or initial, was embroidered in that place. What fine linen it is; and this lace trimming is as delicate as a cobweb! If we had nothing else to go by, this would show that the murdered woman was rich and luxury-loving. Most women, if they had such lace, would keep it to adorn their dresses with.”

He drew the covering over her again; and, going back to the balcony, stood looking at the half-empty box and the mound of earth that was heaped upon the floor.

“They must have had a job to clear away the surplus soil,” he remarked to Higgs, who had followed him. “I suspect it was carried down to the garden, bucketful by bucketful, and the last handful or two were swept up into a newspaper. I found some trace of it in a cupboard downstairs.”

Leaving the police to guard the house, they went in search of Sir Gregory, and found him so far recovered as to be sent home in a taxi in the care of Higgs. The clerk also was seen safely started on the way to his lodgings, where, Gimblet thought to himself, he would probably take the brandy bottle to bed with him.

“You will have to attend the inquest, you know,” he said to him as he was departing. “It may be to-morrow or the next day. Good evening, and don’t stay awake all night.”

After renewed thanks and apologies to the Bramptons, Gimblet found another taxi, and, getting in, gave the driver the address of Joe Sidney’s rooms.

“I think,” he said to himself, “it’s just about time I paid that young gentleman a visit.”

CHAPTER XIX

It was close on eleven when the cab drew up before the door of Sidney’s lodging in York Street, St. James’s, and as luck would have it Sidney himself was standing on the doorstep, in the act of inserting his latch-key in the lock. Gimblet saw himself recognised as he sprang out of the taxi, and saw also a look of unmistakable pleasure in the recognition.

“This man is as innocent as I am,” he thought, as the young soldier greeted him.

“Come in, do,” Sidney said, “you’re the very man I wanted to see. I went to your flat this evening, but you’d just gone out, so the porter said. I am anxious to hear if you have any news of my aunt and Miss Turner.”

He led the way upstairs as he spoke, and ushered the detective into a sitting-room on the first floor, switching on the light as he did so.

Gimblet waited till the door was shut behind them, and then turned a grave face to his host.

“The news is very bad,” he said slowly, and waited a moment to give time for the significance of the words to sink in, and to prepare Sidney for what was to come.

“What has happened?” cried Sidney. “Are they hurt? Is Miss Turner – ”

He stopped short, grasping the back of a chair.

“I don’t know what has happened to Miss Turner,” Gimblet said, “but I have terrible news of your poor aunt. Mrs. Vanderstein has been foully and cruelly murdered. I come now from the discovery of her dead body.”

“Murdered!” cried Sidney, “murdered! Who by? How? Where?” He sat down mechanically, and stared at Gimblet. “And Miss Turner? Have they killed her too?”

The detective repeated that at present he knew nothing of the younger lady.

“Good God!” said Sidney, “what a dreadful thing.”

Leaning his elbows on the table, he hid his face in his hands for a few minutes, and Gimblet sat silent opposite him, waiting till he should recover from the first shock of the news.

When Sidney raised his head again the face he disclosed was pale and drawn.

“Poor Aunt Ruth,” he said. “Poor thing, poor thing. To think that she should be dead. I can hardly realise it, you know. She has been killed for her jewels, I suppose, after all. The devils! You haven’t caught them, have you?” and, as Gimblet only shook his head: “How can such a thing be possible here in civilised London? And to think of that beastly old raven, Chark, going about croaking as he has been, and hinting that I’d killed her! To think of his being right after all! I don’t mean about my killing her,” he added, “but there it is, she’s dead; and I come into her money just in time to save me from ruin. I hate the thought of it!” He was talking to himself more than to his listener, and Gimblet let him talk. “I almost wish she had altered her will,” he went on, “it’s a beastly notion: her death being my profit, you know. And I suppose they’ll say I’ve murdered her all the more now?” He looked up interrogatively; then, as he received no answer, his expression changed and he started up, alert and wide awake once more. “I say,” said he, “do you think I did it, too?”

Gimblet hesitated a moment before answering.

“As a matter of fact,” he said at last, “I do not. I don’t think so for a moment. But that is merely my personal opinion and, to tell you the truth, I think it will be just as well if you can account for your movements since Monday to the satisfaction of more people than myself. I ought to suspect you – it’s my business to suspect every one – but, as I say, I don’t.”

“I daresay things do look rather black against me,” Sidney said; “it’s my fault for not having bothered to defend myself. You see, it seems so eccentric to me that anyone should think such a thing. It seems so impossible, and absurd, if you don’t mind my saying so. One forgets that other people don’t know what one is capable of as one does oneself, and it never struck me yesterday that you, or Sir Gregory either, might suspect me. I did go and see the editor of the worst of the newspapers, and explained things to him, and told him to let old Chark know he was wrong. You may have noticed he’s eaten his words in to-day’s paper. But I didn’t think it necessary to say anything to anyone else. You see, I’ve got what you call an alibi. I was in the country from Monday evening till yesterday morning. I met a pal almost on Aunt Ruth’s doorstep when she turned me out of the house, and he got me to go off with him down to his house near Ascot to play golf, and I was down there till Wednesday. I had only just come back, in fact, when I came to see you. I didn’t know about my aunt’s disappearance till I read it in the train coming up; my friend came up at the same time and stayed with me till I left him at your door. It’s waste of time suspecting me; I admit that it looks as if I ought to have murdered the poor dear, but in view of the facts that theory doesn’t hold water.”

“I’m very glad to hear what you say,” said Gimblet, “and I wish you’d told me before, though I never really thought you had any direct knowledge of the affair. Still, you must confess, Mr. Sidney, that you were not quite open with me: there was something which you knew, and which you kept to yourself when we talked about it.”

“I’m blessed if there was!” cried Sidney. “What was it?”

For answer Gimblet took Barbara’s telegraph form out of his notebook and handed it to the young man.

“You didn’t tell me you had received this telegram from Miss Turner,” he said, “not even though I quoted most of its contents to you by way of a hint.”

Sidney took the form, and stared at it for a moment.

“It is her writing,” he said at last. “I wonder what the deuce she meant.”

He, also, produced a folded paper from his pocket and pushed it across the table to the detective.

It was the message as he had received it.

“You will observe,” he said, “that there is no signature. How was I to know who it came from? As a matter of fact, I guessed, or at least thought it possible she had sent it, as no one else cares whether I go to blazes or not. But I’ve no idea whatever why she chose to think I should get some money or good news on Wednesday. I need hardly say that I didn’t. And I saw no reason to speak to you of what only concerns a young lady and myself. It can have no possible bearing on her disappearance, or that of my aunt.”

“You think not?” Gimblet looked at him oddly.

“How could it? I can’t imagine what connection there could be. But of course you’re the sort of fellow who can read the secret of dark mysteries in anything, from the Tower Bridge to a baked potato, aren’t you? So perhaps there’s some occult inference that I fail to draw. By the way, you’ve not told me much yet. How did you discover the murder, and where?”

“I found the poor lady’s body buried in a house in the north of London,” said Gimblet, “No. 13 Scholefield Avenue. As to how I discovered it, it was by the help of two or three facts from which I was able to draw certain inferences.”

“I wish you would tell me all about it.”

“Well,” said Gimblet, “as Sir Gregory told you over the telephone this morning, I heard, as a result of the advertisement I gave you yesterday to have inserted in the papers, that the two ladies were seen by an actress on Monday night, standing under a board ‘To Let,’ before a detached house in some street on the way to Carolina Road. I was unable to find that street yesterday, and it was not until I could get hold of the cabman who had driven the actress that I ascertained that Scholefield Avenue was the only street he had passed through on Monday night which contains detached houses. I went there at once and found out that No. 13 had recently been let, the board having been removed on Tuesday morning. I rang the bell, but no one came to the door, so after getting the name of the house agent from a neighbour I went to the office and interviewed the agent. From him I learnt that the house had only been let since Monday, and that the tenant was a man named West who had been ready to pay a high rent for immediate possession, and who gave out that he was a recluse, desiring nothing so much as solitude and privacy. The agent happened to have a spare key of No. 13 Scholefield Avenue and he sent his clerk down with me to open the door.

“As soon as I got in I ran over the house with my servant, who as well as Sir Gregory had accompanied me, but there was no one to be seen in it, and so I proceeded to make a careful and searching examination. Not to weary you with details, I soon found a considerable number of small paste spangles, or imitation diamonds, such as are sewn on to the more elaborate and gorgeous kinds of ladies’ evening dresses. As I found several of these on the staircase between the hall and the drawing-room and a good many more in the drawing-room itself, but none in any other part of the house, I thought it was likely that, if they came off Mrs. Vanderstein’s gown, this was the only room she had visited. There was, of course, the possibility that they had fallen from the dress of some one who had been in the room before the place was let, but I set against this the improbability of the mistress of the house or her friends being rich people who would wear such expensively ornamented materials, and also the fact that your aunt’s maid in describing her toilette to me had spoken of it as ‘diamantée.’

“The next discovery was a most alarming one. On moving the sofa I saw beneath it a large stain in the carpet, which various indications assured me was the result of some acid that had been upset. From the nature of the damage I was pretty certain that it had been caused by sulphuric acid or vitriol. Now this is a strange thing to find traces of in a lady’s drawing-room, and when you find it in an empty house which a young and beautiful lady has been seen to enter, but which she has never been seen to leave, and when you further reflect that the disappearance of this lady appears to be complete, and on the fact that when last seen she was wearing a fortune in jewellery, one of two conclusions appears inevitable, unless you assume that all these facts are entirely unconnected and the result of pure coincidence. Assume them on the contrary to be related to each other, and you are led, as I say, to consider two possibilities. So I asked myself at once whether Mrs. Vanderstein had been decoyed to the house by some demented creature bent on assuaging a mad jealousy by throwing vitriol at her, or whether she had been induced to visit it to satisfy the still more fatal greed of a robber. And the more I looked at it, the more likely it seemed that the poor lady had been murdered for her jewels and that the vitriol was used to make the recognition of her body, if it should be discovered, a negligible danger. A few minutes later I came across a powder puff perfumed with the peculiar scent your aunt was in the habit of using – I daresay you know it – and this dispelled any doubts I still had as to her having been in the room.

“I still hoped against hope, however, that she might have left it alive, and I found some evidence downstairs which led me to think she had been locked in one of the lower rooms for a time; but if so it must have been before she was taken up to the drawing-room. In the library a pane of the window was broken, no doubt by some one trying to escape or attract attention, and obviously it had been done by a woman, as a man could have opened the window, which was so stiff as to require more than a woman’s strength. The broken glass had been carefully removed from the frame, so that, but for the draught, it might well have passed unnoticed.

“That it had been broken since the letting of the house was clear, since I found a dustpan full of broken glass, which would not have been left so by the landlord’s servants, or by the charwoman who cleaned up after their departure. The sight of that dustpan filled me with hopes that were doomed to disappointment. Nothing offers a better ground for the impression and retention of finger marks than a piece of shining metal, and I expected to find a whole collection on the tin surface of the pan. But to my astonishment and disgust I could not find a single one; and this strengthened my opinion that I had to deal with deliberate crime, and that of no ordinary stamp, for it was plain that not only had some one cleaned and polished the dustpan after using it, but that the person who had done so had worn gloves. And it was the same all over the house. Not a finger-print to be seen, except in the room with the broken pane, on the white painted door of which I found several distinct marks of fingers. What more likely than that the poor lady, finding herself locked into a strange room, should have broken the window and beaten on the door with her hands in a sudden panic? In the same cupboard as the dustpan was an old newspaper crumpled into a ball, which I found to contain a handful or so of what appeared to be garden mould, and I could not at first imagine why it should be there, though I can account for it now. I had by this time been all over the house and made the most thorough and exhaustive search, but the only other clue I could discover was a negative one.

“I must tell you that I had made sure that there was no article in the house belonging to the tenant, Mr. West, as he called himself; everything was accounted for in the inventory and belonged to Mr. Mill, the owner. It became clear to me that West must have taken the place for a definite purpose other than the usual one of living in it, and since I knew that it had been occupied on Monday evening, his object doubtless fulfilled itself then in a terrible manner and he probably fled from the scene of his crime the moment he had, to the best of his ability, removed all traces of it. In his haste he had left the little spangles which had scattered themselves in the wake of his victim; and, though he cleaned up the dustpan as if he feared it should tell tales in spite of the precautionary gloves, he seemed to have thought the broken glass could not betray him, or else, perhaps, he had no time to dispose of it. But, if he had left nothing behind him, it looked as if he had taken something away.

“The chairs and sofas in the drawing-room were provided with loose chintz covers, with one exception. There was a small sofa which stood opposite the door naked and unashamed, in all the hideousness of the original, ugly upholstery. Not only was the tapestry which covered it of a meretricious nineteenth-century design, quite out of keeping with the good taste displayed all over the house in the choice of pattern and decoration, but the legs and arms, which were very much in evidence, were made of brown varnished wood peculiarly objectionable in appearance. It seems to me in the last degree unlikely that in a room so full of beauty and quiet refinement this one thing should have been allowed to flaunt its vulgarity, and hold the eye of the visitor with an awful fascination. I felt convinced that West was responsible for its nakedness, and it was quite likely that he, a man doubtless devoid of any artistic sense, would imagine that the absence of that cover might pass unnoticed, as the tapestry resembled the chintzes in general colouring.”

“But why should he remove it? What could he want with a loose chintz sofa cover?” asked Sidney, as the detective paused.

“I asked myself these questions,” continued Gimblet, “and I saw that there were only two explanations which met all the facts. It might be that the chintz bore traces of his crime that at all costs must be destroyed; it might be, for instance, stained with blood. But in that case he would probably have tried to burn it; that would be a difficult job, and there was no sign of a fire having been lighted lately in any of the grates. No coal in the cellar and no firewood. He would have needed brushes and blacking to make all ship-shape again, and his grate cleaning would probably have been amateurish. Or he might have had a use for the chintz. It would be a handy thing to wrap a dead body in before carrying it out to the grave he would dig for it in the garden. For it seemed to me certain that after killing his victim he would have buried her in the garden. There was a toolshed at the end of it, and I hunted there for a spade that should show signs of recent use; but to my surprise there was no spade at all.

“By this time it was dark and late, and I returned to the house with the intention of deferring till to-morrow a search for the grave, which I felt sure of finding if it was there. I had little hope that the poor lady had escaped, but it was still quite possible that my theories were mistaken, and that even the signs of vitriol having been used were capable of some other interpretation; and I gladly admitted to myself that I had no actual proof of foul play. And then, just as I was on the point of knocking off for the night, an elusive memory that had been troubling me ever since I entered the house suddenly flashed clearly into conscious recollection, and I knew that I had made no mistake.

“When I opened the drawing-room door for the first time I had been aware of a faint odour, which I seemed to catch a whiff of as it passed me, so to speak, and to lose again immediately. During the second in which I perceived it, its name was on my tongue, but before I could utter it the smell was gone and with it my knowledge of what it was. I racked my brains to remember it without the least result; but, though I gave up the attempt and concentrated every effort on investigating what was apparent to my other senses, the thing bothered me, and I did not entirely forget it. As I stood in front of the house after my vain search for a spade, it suddenly flashed into my mind what it was that I had smelt: it was the never to be mistaken smell of chloroform.

“I was staring absently up at the balcony of the drawing-room when the knowledge came to me, and in an instant another light dawned on me with equal suddenness. There was a great box or stand for plants on the balcony, and the neighbour who had given me some information as to the tenant had remarked that the mistress of the house would be sad to see her flowers so neglected. Indeed, they were all faded and withered, and he had implied that it was for want of water. Now, the thought that leapt into my brain as swift and as illuminating as lightning was this one: Why should the flowers die for want of water when we have had constant rain for the last two days? Clearly it was not drought that they were suffering from. But how if the soidisant West, having cruelly murdered your unfortunate aunt, proceeded to uproot the flowers and to bury her, wrapped in the sofa cover, in the flower stand? It was quite large enough for such a purpose, and if he had then replanted the flowers it was probable enough that they would feel the effects of his attempt at gardening.

“I went up at once and put this theory to the test. I am very sorry to say that it proved to be correct in every detail.”

Gimblet ceased speaking, and Sidney, who had listened in sad silence, lifted his head, and asked a question.

“The vitriol? They had used it – as you thought?” His voice was hoarse, and his face stern and grim.

“Alas, yes.”

“Hanging is too good for such brutes; but I will never rest till they hang for it. Have you any idea who are the fiends who did this?”

“An idea? Say rather that I have a suspicion,” returned Gimblet. “Surely you can see the direction in which the circumstances point?”

“Unless it was the chauffeur,” said Sidney, “I can’t imagine who can have done it.”