Mrs. Vanderstein's jewels

CHAPTER XI

In the morning-room he found Sir Gregory, who had refrained, with an impatient delicacy, from following him further than the drawing-room. He was walking to and fro before the hearth, another big cigar between his lips.

“Well?” he asked, as the detective entered.

Gimblet looked at him with a disapproving sternness.

“If you intend to accompany me further in my investigations, Sir Gregory,” he began, “I must warn you that I can allow no smoking. The sense of smell is as valuable to me in my work as it is to a questing hound, and I cannot have red herrings like your cigars dragged across the trail I might possibly be following.”

“My cigars! Red herrings!” Sir Gregory stuttered. “This, Mr. Gimblet, is the finest Havana!”

“No doubt,” said Gimblet, “as tobacco it is good enough. But if it came straight from Paradise I could not let the strong smell of it interfere with my business. I must keep my nose free from such gross odours, or it will not serve me when I most need it. When we first came into this room it was filled with a perfume all its own. Now that I return I can smell nothing but the taint of your cigar.”

Though considerably incensed at Gimblet’s choice of words – Sir Gregory nearly choked when he heard them – he controlled his feelings of indignation as best he could, for he was bent on seeing the detective at work. “If the flavour of the best tobacco really impedes you,” said he, swallowing his annoyance, “I will defer the pleasure of smoking until you have arrived at some conclusion. I suppose you have not discovered anything of importance so far?”

“I think I have added to my knowledge by this visit,” returned Gimblet, “whether importantly or not it is too soon to say. You did not mention to me, by the way, that Miss Turner had inherited her father’s partiality for horses.”

“Didn’t I? I didn’t know it would interest you. Yes; she seems very devoted to riding.”

“And to racing,” added Gimblet.

“I don’t know about that. She’s never been near a race-course, as far as I know. What makes you think so? Have you been talking to Blake about her?”

“When a young lady’s room is full of pictures of race-horses, and ‘Ruff’s Guide to the Turf’ occupies a prominent position on her bookshelf,” said Gimblet indifferently, “it is not really necessary to ask the servants whether she takes an interest in racing. But come, Sir Gregory, I think we have no more to do here. Shall we go back to my flat and see if anything has been heard at the hospitals?”

With a farewell word to Blake they prepared to leave the house, the butler hastening before them to open the hall door. As he drew back the latch and they stepped forth into the street, they were confronted by a grey-haired man carrying a small black bag, who stood with a hand already upon the bell.

“Whom have we here?” said the detective to himself, and taking Sir Gregory’s arm he drew him back into the house, leaving Blake to parley with the new-comer.

“No, sir, Mrs. Vanderstein’s not at home,” they could hear him saying.

The two men retreated to the morning-room but here in a few minutes Blake followed them.

“If you please, sirs,” he said, “here is Mr. Chark, Mrs. Vanderstein’s solicitor.”

On his heels came the stranger.

“You will excuse me coming to see you, gentlemen,” said he, fixing his eyes, after a momentary hesitation, upon the detective, “but hearing that Mr. Gimblet was in the house” – here he bowed to that gentleman – “I thought I had better seize the opportunity of offering such help as I may be able to furnish in your investigations. Very little, I fear, still possibly I am in possession of a fact which may as yet be unknown to you.”

Mr. Chark, partner in the firm of D’Allby and Chark, was a man of medium height, of medium age, less than medium good looks, and medium intellect. His face and hair were of different shades of grey and, although clean-shaven, he conveyed the impression that he wore side whiskers. His manner and movements were precise and deliberate. He spoke slowly, and as he did so his hands slowly revolved round each other. It seemed as if he were grinding out each word by some secret mill-like process differing from that of ordinary speech.

“I have just heard from the butler,” he continued, after Gimblet and Sir Gregory had acknowledged his greeting in suitable terms, “that my client, Mrs. Vanderstein, is absent under circumstances I must be permitted to designate as unusual. That, in short, she went out last night, ‘on gaiety intent,’ he he! and has not since been heard of. This is very startling news, very strange news indeed. I think I can prove to you, Mr. Gimblet, that Mrs. Vanderstein’s continued absence is unintentional.”

So saying Mr. Chark unlocked his black bag, which he had placed on the floor between his feet as if fearing that it might be surreptitiously removed if he did not keep in touch with it, and drew from its dark recesses a letter in a large mauve coloured envelope, which he handed with another bow to Mr. Gimblet.

The detective took it and lifted it to his nose with a look of surprise.

“This,” he cried, “is a letter from Mrs. Vanderstein herself.”

“Your surmise is correct,” said Mr. Chark. “I was unaware that you and my client were acquainted, but I see that you know her handwriting.”

“I never saw it before,” Gimblet answered absently. He was studying it now with a look of deep interest.

“Indeed. Then, may I inquire your reason for thinking that this document bore her inscription?” Mr. Chark’s drawling tones were plainly sceptical.

“Arome de la Corse,” murmured Gimblet, as he handed the letter to Sir Gregory. “You, Sir Gregory, know the lady’s writing, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Sir Gregory. “It is from her. Will you not read it aloud? Without spectacles, I’m sorry to say, I should find a difficulty in doing so,” and he gave it back to Gimblet.

The detective opened the envelope and unfolding the sheet it contained read aloud what was written on it:

“Grosvenor Street:

“Monday Evening.

“Dear Sirs,

“I shall be much obliged if one of your firm will call on me to-morrow, Tuesday, between four and five o’clock, for the purpose of altering my will. Mr. Sidney has made it impossible for me to contemplate longer the thought of his inheriting any portion of my late husband’s fortune. If Mr. Vanderstein were alive I am sure he would agree with me on this point, but as he is no more and has left the matter to my discretion, it becomes a sacred duty with me utterly to ignore the wishes he expressed, and to alter my will immediately to that effect. Trusting you will make it convenient to call at teatime to-morrow,

“I remain,

“Yours faithfully,

“Ruth Vanderstein.”

Gimblet folded the letter carefully, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it back to Mr. Chark.

“We heard something of a quarrel between Mrs. Vanderstein and Mr. Sidney,” he said. “I wonder whether she would have stuck to her threat of cutting him off with a penny. People write this sort of letter when they lose their tempers, but very often they have calmed down by the following day.”

“You do not know Mrs. Vanderstein, Mr. Gimblet,” interrupted Sir Gregory. “She isn’t one of those women who fly into a rage about nothing at all, or try to frighten people with threats. She does not suffer from nerves; her health is as excellent as her temper. I am persuaded she wouldn’t have written that letter unless she had the gravest reasons for doing so.”

“That also is my view,” agreed Mr. Chark. “I can endorse Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones’s opinion as regards the character of my client, Mr. Gimblet; I can endorse it thoroughly. Mrs. Vanderstein is a level-headed, shrewd woman, far from being driven by every impulse.”

“There is something decidedly womanly about the way she considers it her sacred duty to ignore her husband’s wishes,” commented Gimblet, and then, as he saw the wrathful light flashing in Sir Gregory’s eyes, he added quickly, “I hope that Mrs. Vanderstein herself will be able to make everything clear in a few hours’ time at the most. Sir Gregory and I, Mr. Chark, were on our way to see if she had been heard of at the hospitals, at the moment of your arrival. We fear she may have met with some misadventure.”

Mr. Chark was disappointed. Beneath his stiff, outer shell there lurked a tiny spark of romantic fire, which had never been entirely extinguished by the stifling routine of the legal casuistries with which D’Allby and Chark principally occupied themselves. Mortgages, settlements of property, the continual framing in a maze of words of those deeds which should mystify any but creatures like himself, to whom their lack of intelligibility meant profitable business; all this systematic dullness had failed to choke that imperceptible glimmer, and at the mere knowledge of Gimblet’s presence in the house it had leapt on a sudden to a hot and burning flame. All his life he had cherished a secret regret that his way had not lain along the precipitous bypaths of criminal law, and now his excited imagination saw murder and violence beckoning from all sides, with fingers redly fascinating. He gave a stiff bow at the detective’s words, and spoke with a feeling of irritation and a sensation of being played with, which he was careful to conceal beneath his usual precise and colourless tones.

“Indeed,” he drawled, his hands revolving as ever in their stroking movement. “I may venture to say that my impression is a different one. Though no detective, I am still, in my capacity of lawyer, able to put two and two together. This letter” – he tapped Mrs. Vanderstein’s note – “and the evidence of the butler that a quarrel between my client and her nephew did occur yesterday afternoon in this house, and immediately preceded the writing of this letter; the knowledge that the lady left her home intending to return in two or three hours, but has actually failed to do so in twenty – these facts, gentlemen, if they convey nothing to you, appear to me to be eminently suggestive.”

Gimblet made no reply; but Sir Gregory, whose face had been getting pinker and pinker till it resembled a full-blown peony, burst out with a truculent snort:

“And what do they suggest to you, sir?”

“They suggest,” Mr. Chark resumed with apparent calm, “that Mr. Joseph Sidney could very probably inform us of his aunt’s whereabouts.”

“I have the pleasure of Mr. Sidney’s acquaintance,” exclaimed Sir Gregory, “and let me inform you, Mr. Chark, if that is your name, that he is a gentleman holding a commission in His Majesty’s army. I hope it is unnecessary to say more. Your insinuations are absurd.”

“You cannot deny in the face of the facts that matters look very black against this young gentleman,” drawled the lawyer.

“Black!” Sir Gregory seemed about to choke. “I consider it black behaviour, sir, to come here and make these libellous and scandalous assertions about an officer and a gentleman. One who, moreover, is, as I gather, entirely unknown to you. Do you know him, sir, or do you not?” demanded Sir Gregory, leaning forward and rapping out an accompaniment to the words with the palm of his hand on a small table which stood near him, so that the flower glasses on it danced and jingled.

“I do not know him, it is true,” admitted Mr. Chark, “but I do know that he would benefit to the extent of several hundred thousands of pounds, if Mrs. Vanderstein should die before she found it possible to revise her will. And I have no doubt that she told him her intention of altering it.”

“Die? What do you say?” Sir Gregory’s voice came faintly. The rosy colour faded from his cheeks. The utmost horror and astonishment were depicted in his countenance.

Gimblet, at the sight, got up from his chair.

“Mr. Chark,” he said severely, “you are letting your imagination run away with you. You are, indeed, talking like a halfpenny feuilleton. There is no reason to take so melodramatic a view while Mrs. Vanderstein’s absence still admits of some more or less ordinary explanation. I am going now to ascertain if she has not been discovered in the accident ward of one of the hospitals. Are you coming, Sir Gregory?”

With a word of farewell they left the house, cutting short more observations on the part of Mr. Chark, who followed them, deeply chagrined at being treated with such scant ceremony.

Sir Gregory, as he drove with Gimblet in the direction of Whitehall, returned nervously to the implication of foul play.

“What made him think of such a thing, d’ye think?” he asked. “It is impossible that young Sidney would harm her. A nice civil lad; I have always liked him. Why should he? I’ll not believe it.” He spoke disjointedly; the suggestion had shaken him.

Gimblet did his best to reassure him, but when they reached his flat, and found that the hospitals had been drawn blank for news of the two ladies, he felt more concerned than he liked to show. Still, the order that had been given to the chauffeur, not to return to the opera house, seemed to point to some intention other than that of going back to Grosvenor Street, and it was still to be hoped that any moment might bring tidings. There were, however, other considerations not quite so encouraging.

Gimblet, who had left Sir Gregory below while he ran up to his rooms, gave some instructions to Higgs, the man who at times combined the duties of servant with those of an assistant in the more tiresome but necessary details of the detective’s work. Then he went down again to break to the baronet, with reluctant gravity, that there was no news.

“We will go to Covent Garden now,” he said; and they got into another taxi.

Sir Gregory had become very silent. His face was drawn with anxiety. “What can have happened?” he kept muttering to himself.

To divert his thoughts, Gimblet recalled the suspicion he had harboured at first – that Mrs. Vanderstein had flown with some other admirer. But the fear that she was in danger, or that worse had befallen her, had taken hold of the man, and it was he who now pooh-poohed the idea and found arguments to show its improbability.

“She had no need to run away,” he objected in his turn, “she could marry whom she liked. And whoever heard of a woman’s taking a friend on a wedding trip? No, if it had been anything of the sort, Miss Turner would have been left behind, we may be sure of that.”

At Covent Garden they learnt very little. The box had been cleaned out, and bore no sign of having been used the night before. Gimblet went sniffing round it, but could find no trace of lingering Arome de la Corse. The box opener told them that Mrs. Vanderstein and the young lady who generally came with her had occupied it at the gala performance, and had left before the end of the last scene. She hadn’t noticed anything strange or otherwise about either of them, and as far as she knew no one had visited the box during the intervals.

No one, it appeared, had observed their departure from the doors of the theatre. One commissionaire thought he remembered two ladies coming out early and driving off in a carriage, but he couldn’t say, he was sure, what they were like. Might have been young and lovely, or again, might have been old and ugly. He had seen a powerful lot of ladies in the course of the evening, and never had enjoyed what you might call a memory for faces. If it had not been for the lack of that useful talent, the commissionaire concluded regretfully, he would, as likely as not, have been sitting in the hall of a West End club at the present moment, with no more to do than to answer the inquiries of one gentleman for another gentleman. Never had been what you might call the victim of good luck.

They left him testing a shilling doubtfully with his teeth, as if unwilling to believe that his fortune could have changed sufficiently for the coin to be other than a bad one.

It was growing late, the doors of the theatres would soon be open. Already shutters were up in front of shop windows, and the crowds that still filled the streets had no excuse for loitering now there was nothing to look at, nowhere left for noses to be flattened. Instead, every one seemed to be hurrying in one direction, the direction of railway station or tram, or whatever would carry them to their homes. The sinking sun had at last left the streets full of shadows and, though the pavements and walls still radiated heat, a cool breeze had arisen and was rushing in from the river. In open spaces, where the tall walls of houses did not prevent a glimpse of the western sky, one could see a cloud or two slowly climbing the heavens.

The two men walked together in silence for a little way, and then Gimblet stopped, holding out his hand.

“I don’t think we can do any more to-night,” he said. “Put away your anxieties for a few hours, Sir Gregory; it does no good to worry. To-morrow, if fresh tidings come, we must see what else can be done. I think perhaps you will be wise to consult the police.”

But at this Sir Gregory raised an outcry.

“Well, we will see about that when to-morrow comes,” said Gimblet. “In the meantime I must say good night.”

Gimblet saw Sir Gregory off in the direction of his club, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, hailed a taxi himself, and drove to the residence of the Postmaster-General. He thought that at this hour he had a good chance of finding that Minister at home, and he was not mistaken.

Sir James was in, said the footman who answered his ring, but at the present moment engaged in dressing, before dining early and going to the theatre. He would take up Mr. Gimblet’s card.

As luck had it, it had been Gimblet’s fortune to render a considerable service to Sir James Mossing, at a date in this gentleman’s career when his foot was still insecurely placed on the first rung of the ladder he subsequently climbed; and, as he rose in power, the politician had never failed to show that he gratefully remembered the obligation. The detective had only to wait ten minutes before the man he had come to see hurried into the room, with apologies for keeping him waiting. Gimblet lost no time in explaining the object of his visit, and had little difficulty in obtaining the written order he wished for. Armed with this, he detained the affable statesman no longer, but withdrew quickly and turned his steps homeward.

“Higgs,” he said, as his servant met him in the hall of the flat. “I want you to go at once to the post office in Piccadilly and get a telegram which was handed in last evening by a footman. It was in a sealed envelope, which also held the money for the message. It may, or may not, be signed by Miss Barbara Turner. It was certainly written by her. Here is an order from the Postmaster-General, which will make things easy for you. I have one or two things to do that ought to have been finished this morning or I should go myself. They will take me about an hour, and I hope you will be back by that time.”

In an hour Higgs was back. He looked pleased with himself, and proffered the detective a sheet of paper.

“That’s right, Higgs, you’ve been quick,” Gimblet commended him.

“They were a little while looking through the forms,” said Higgs, “but luckily there was no fuss about giving it to me after I’d shown your card and Sir James’ order.”

Gimblet was reading the paper. It was a telegraph form addressed to Joseph Sidney, and contained a short message:

“Luck is coming your way at last expect to have good news by Wednesday removing all difficulties.”

There was no signature.

“How do you know this is the right one?” Gimblet asked sharply.

“The young person at the office happened to remember it, sir. It was handed in, enclosed in an envelope, and when she opened it and saw there was no signature she ran out after the footman, intending to ask that the space at the back of the form, where the name and address is requested for reference only, should be filled in. She was only in time to see the motor drive away. Still, it stamped the message on her memory, especially as there was some change to give back.”

“She may easily be mistaken,” grumbled the detective.

“I thought you might not be satisfied, sir,” said Higgs, “so I went on to Grosvenor Street and asked the butler to let me have a specimen of Miss Turner’s writing. I didn’t tell him why I wanted it, of course. I just let him think a letter had been found and that you wanted something to identify it by,” added Higgs, with some pride. He produced a menu as he spoke, written in a large round hand. “Miss Turner always writes the menus in Grosvenor Street,” he explained.

Gimblet took it and compared it with the telegram. It was easy to see that both had been written by the same person.