 CHAPTER 32 A HIGH BREAD GENTLEMAN The central figure in the coroner's court that day was undoubtedly the arrow of Brocklesby in deep black which contrasted strongly with his floored complexion and fair hair. Sir Marmar Gooke Ingersoll, his solicitor, was with him, and he had already performed the painful duty of identifying the deceased as his brother. This had been an exceedingly painful duty, owing to the terribly mutilated state of the body and face, but the clothes and various trinkets he wore, including a signet ring, had fortunately not tempted the brutal assassin, and it was through them chiefly that Lord Brocklesby was able to swear to the identity of his brother. The various employees at the hotel gave evidence as to the discovery of the body, and the medical officer gave his opinion as to the immediate cause of death. Deceased had evidently been struck at the back of the head with a poker or heavy stick, the murderer then venting his blind fury upon the body by battering in the face and bruising it in a way that certainly suggested the work of a maniac. Then the Earl of Brocklesby was called and was requested by the coroner to state when he had last seen his brother alive. The morning before his death replied his lordship, he came up to Birmingham by an early train, and I drove up from Brocklesby to see him. I got to the hotel at eleven o'clock and stayed with him for about an hour. And that is the last you saw of the deceased? That is the last I saw of him, replied Lord Brocklesby. He seemed to hesitate for a moment or two as if in thought whether he should speak or not, and then to suddenly make up his mind to speak, for he added. I stayed in town the whole of that day, and only drove back to Brocklesby late in the evening. I had some business to transact, and put up at the Grand as I usually do, and dined with some friends. Would you tell us at what time you returned to Brocklesby Castle? I think it must have been about eleven o'clock. It is a seven-mile drive from here. I believe, said the coroner after a pause, during which the attention of all the spectators was riveted upon the handsome figure of the young man as he stood in the witness-box, the very personification of a high-bred gentleman. I believe that I am right in stating that there was an unfortunate legal dispute between your lordship and your brother. That is so. The coroner stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he added. In the event of the deceased's claim to the joint title and revenues of the Genville being held good in the Courts of Law, there would be a great importance, would there not, attached to his marriage, which was to have taken place on the fifteenth? In that event there certainly would be. Is the jury to understand, then, that you and the deceased parted on amicable terms after your interview with him in the morning? The Earl of Brocklesby hesitated again for a moment or two, while the crowd and the jury hung breathless on his lips. There was no enmity between us, he replied at last. From which we may gather that there may have been, shall I say, a slight disagreement at that interview? My brother had, unfortunately, been misled by the misrepresentations or perhaps the two optimistic views of his lawyer. He had been dragged into litigation on the strength of an old family document, which he had never seen, which, moreover, is antiquated, and owing to certain wording in it, invalid. I thought that it would be kinder and more considerate, if I were to let my brother judge of the document for himself. I knew that when he had seen it he would be convinced of the absolutely futile basis of his claim, and that it would be a terrible disappointment to him. That is the reason why I wish to see him myself about it, rather than to do it through the more formal, perhaps more correct, medium of our respective lawyers. I placed the facts before him with, on my part, a perfectly amicable spirit. The young Earl of Brocklesby had made this somewhat lengthy, perfectly voluntary explanation of the state of affairs in a calm, quiet voice, with much dignity and perfect simplicity, but the coroner did not seem impressed by it, for he asked very dryly, Did you part good friends? On my side absolutely so, but not on his, insisted the coroner. I think he felt naturally annoyed that he had been so ill-advised by his solicitors. And you made no attempt later on in the day to adjust any ill feeling that may have existed between you and him, asked the coroner, marking with strange earnest emphasis every word he uttered. If you mean did I go and see my brother again that day, no, I did not. And your lordship can give us no further information which might throw some light upon the mystery which surrounds the Honourable Robert DeGenville's death, still persisted the coroner. I am sorry to say I cannot," replied the Earl of Brocklesby, with firm decision. The coroner still looked puzzled and thoughtful. It seemed at first as if he wished to press his point further. Everyone felt that some deep import had lain behind his examination of the witness, and all were on tetrahooks as to what the next evidence might bring forth. The Earl of Brocklesby had waited a minute or two, then, at a sign from the coroner, had left the witness-box in order to have a talk with his solicitor. At first he paid no attention to the depositions of the cashier and hall-porter of the castle hotel, but gradually it seemed to strike him that curious statements were being made by these witnesses, and a frown of anxious wonder settled between his brows whilst his young face lost some of its floored hue. Mr. Tremlett, the cashier at the hotel, had been holding the attention of the court. He stated that the Honourable Robert Ingram DeGenville had arrived at the hotel at eight o'clock on the morning of the thirteenth. He had the room which he usually occupied when he came to the castle, namely, number twenty-one, and he went up to it immediately on his arrival, ordering some breakfast to be brought up to him. At eleven o'clock the Earl of Brocklesby called to see his brother and remained with him until about twelve. In the afternoon the seized went out, returned for his dinner at seven o'clock, in company with a gentleman whom the cashier knew well by sight, Mr. Timothy Beddingfield, the lawyer of Paradise Street. The gentleman had their dinner downstairs, and after that they went up to the Honourable Mr. DeGenville's room for coffee and cigars. I could not say at what time Mr. Beddingfield left, continued the cashier, but I rather fancy I saw him in the hall at about nine-fifteen p.m. He was wearing an invernous cape over his dress clothes and a Glengarry cap. It was just at the hour when the visitors who had come down for the night from London were arriving thick and fast. The hall was very full, and there was a large party of Americans monopolizing most of our personnel, so I could not swear positively, whether I did see Mr. Beddingfield or not then, though I am quite sure that it was Mr. Timothy Beddingfield who dined and spent the evening with the Honourable Mr. DeGenville, as I know him quite well by sight. At ten o'clock I am off duty, and the night porter remains alone in the hall. Mr. Tremlett's evidence was corroborated in most respects by a waiter and by the hall porter. They had both seen the deceased come in at seven o'clock in company with the gentleman, and their description of the latter coincided with that of the appearance of Mr. Timothy Beddingfield whom, however, they did not actually know. At this point of the proceedings the foreman of the jury wished to know why Mr. Timothy Beddingfield's evidence had not been obtained, and was informed by the Detective Inspector in charge of the case that that gentleman had seemingly left Birmingham, but was expected home shortly. The coroner suggested an adjournment pending Mr. Beddingfield's appearance, but at the earnest request of the Detective he consented to hear the evidence of Peter Tyrell, the night porter at the Castle Hotel, who, if you remember the case at all, succeeded in creating the biggest sensation of any which had been made through this extraordinary and weirdly gruesome case. It was the first time I had been on duty at the Castle, he said, for I used to be night porter at Brightts in Wolverhampton, but just after I came on duty at ten o'clock a gentleman came and asked if he could see the Honourable Robert DeGenville. I said that I thought he was in, but would send up and see. The gentleman said, it doesn't matter, don't trouble, I know his room, twenty-one, isn't it? And up he went before I could say another word. Did he give you any name? asked the coroner. No, sir. What was he like? A young gentleman, sir, as far as I can remember, in an Invernous Cape and Glengarry Cap, but I could not see his face very well as he stood with his back to the light, and the cap shamed at his eyes, and he only spoke to me for a minute. Look all around you, said the coroner quietly. Is there anyone in this court at all, like the gentleman you speak of? An old hush fell over the many spectators there present, as Peter Terrell, the night porter of the Castle Hotel, turned his head towards the body of the court, and slowly scanned the many faces there present. For a moment he seemed to hesitate. Only for a moment, though. Then, as a vaguely conscious of the terrible importance his next words might have, he shook his head gravely and said, I wouldn't like to swear. The coroner tried to press him, but with true British solidity he repeated, I wouldn't like to say. Well, then, what happened? asked the coroner, who had perforced to abandon his point. The gentleman went upstairs, sir, and about a quarter of an hour later he came down again, and I let him out. He was in a great hurry, then. He threw me a half-crown and said, Good night. And though you saw him again, then, you cannot tell us if you would know him again? Once more the whole porter's eyes wandered as if instinctively to a certain face in the court. Once more he hesitated for many seconds, which seemed like so many hours, during which a man's honor, a man's life, hung perhaps in the balance. Then Peter Terrell repeated slowly, I wouldn't swear. But coroner and jury alike, I and every spectator in that crowded court, had seen that the man's eyes had rested during that one moment of hesitation upon the face of the Earl of Brockelsby. CHAPTER 33 THE LIVING AND THE DEAD The man in the corner blinked across at Polly with his funny, mild blue eyes. No wonder you were puzzled, he continued, so was everybody in the court that day, everyone save myself. I alone could see in my mind's eye that gruesome murder, such as it had been committed with all its details and above all its motive, and such as you will see it presently when I place it all clearly before you. But before you see daylight in this strange case, I must plunge you into further darkness, in the same manner as the coroner and the jury were plunged on the following day, the second day of that remarkable inquest. It had to be adjourned, since the appearance of Mr. Timothy Beddingfield had now become of vital importance. The public had come to regard his absence from Birmingham at this critical moment as decidedly remarkable, to say the least of it, and all those who did not know the lawyer by sight wished to see him in his Invernous Cape and Glengarry Cap, such as he had appeared before the several witnesses on the night of the awful murder. When the coroner and jury were seated, the first piece of information which the police placed before them was the astounding statement that Mr. Timothy Beddingfield's whereabouts had not been ascertained, though it was confidently expected that he had not gone far and could easily be traced. There was a witness present who, the police thought, might throw some light as to the lawyer's probable destination, for obviously he had left Birmingham directly after his interview with the deceased. This witness was Mrs. Higgins, who was Mr. Beddingfield's housekeeper. She stated that her master was in the constant habit, especially laterally, of going up to London on business. He usually left by a late evening train on those occasions, and mostly was only absent thirty-six hours. He kept a portmanteau always ready-packed for the purpose, for he often left at a few moments' notice. Mrs. Higgins added that her master stayed at the Great Western Hotel in London, for it was there that she was instructed to wire if anything urgent required his presence back in Birmingham. On the night of the fourteenth, she continued, at nine o'clock or thereabouts, a messenger came to the door with the master's card, and said that he was instructed to fetch Mr. Beddingfield's portmanteau, and then to meet him at the station in time to catch the nine-thirty-five p.m. up train. I gave him the portmanteau, of course, as he had brought the card, and I had no idea there could be anything wrong. But since then I have heard nothing of my master, and I don't know when he will return. Questioned by the coroner, she added that Mr. Beddingfield had never stayed away quite so long without having his letters forwarded to him. There was a large pile waiting for him now. She had written to the Great Western Hotel London asking what she should do about the letters, but received no reply. She did not know the messenger by sight, who had called for the portmanteau. Once or twice before, Mr. Beddington had sent for his things in that manner, when he had been dining out. Mr. Beddingfield certainly wore his Inverness cape over his dress clothes when he went out at about six o'clock in the afternoon. He also wore a Glengarry cap. The messenger had so far not yet been found, and from this point, namely the sending for the portmanteau, all traces of Mr. Timothy Beddingfield seem to have been lost. Whether he went up to London by that nine-thirty-five train or not could not be definitely ascertained. The police had questioned at least a dozen porters at the railway, as well as ticket collectors, but no one had any special recollection of a gentleman in an Inverness cape and Glengarry cap, a costume worn by more than one first-class passenger on a cold night in September. There was the hitch, you see, it all lay in this. Mr. Timothy Beddingfield, the lawyer, had undoubtedly made himself scarce. He was last seen in company with the deceased, and wearing an Inverness cape and Glengarry cap. Two or three witnesses saw him leaving the hotel at about nine-fifteen. Then the messenger calls at the lawyer's house for the portmanteau, after which Mr. Timothy Beddingfield seems to vanish into thin air. But, and that is a great but, the night porter at the castle seems to have seen someone wearing the momentous Inverness and Glengarry half an hour or so later on, and going up to the deceased room, where he stayed about a quarter of an hour. Undoubtedly, you will say, as everyone said to themselves that day, after the night porter and Mrs. Higgins had been heard, that there was a very ugly and very black finger which pointed unpleasantly at Mr. Timothy Beddingfield, especially as that gentleman, for some reason which still required an explanation, was not there to put matters right for himself. But there was just one little thing, a mere trifle perhaps, which needs as a coroner nor the jury dare to overlook, though strictly speaking it was not evidence. You will remember that when the night porter was asked if he could, among the persons present in court, recognized the honorable Robert de Genville's belated visitor, everyone had noticed his hesitation, and marked that the man's eyes had rested doubtingly upon the face and figure of the young Earl of Brocklesby. Now, if that belated visitor had been Mr. Timothy Beddingfield, tall, lean, dry as dust, with a birdlike beak and clean shave and chin, no one could for a moment have mistaken his face, even if they only saw it very casually, and recollected it but very dimly, with that of young Lord Brocklesby, who was floored and rather short, the only point in common between them was their sacks and hair. You see that it was a curious point, don't you? added the man in the corner, who now had become so excited that his fingers worked like long, thin tentacles, rounded round his bit of string. It weighed very heavily in favour of Timothy Beddingfield, added to which you must also remember that, as far as he was concerned, the honorable Robert de Genville was to him the goose with the golden eggs. The de Genville Puridge case had brought Beddingfield's name in great prominence, with the death of the claimant all hopes of prolonging the litigation came to an end. There was a total lack of motive as far as Beddingfield was concerned. Not so with the Earl of Brocklesby, said Polly, and I've often maintained. What, he interrupted, that the Earl of Brocklesby changed clothes with Beddingfield in order more conveniently to murder his own brother? Where and when could the exchange of costume have been affected, considering that the Inverness cape and Glengarry cap were in the hall of the Castle Hotel at nine-fifteen, and at that hour and until ten o'clock, Lord Brocklesby was at the Grand Hotel, finishing dinner with some friends. That was subsequently proof, remember, and also that he was back at Brocklesby Castle, which is seven miles from Birmingham, at eleven o'clock sharp. Now the visit of the individual in the Glengarry occurred sometime after ten p.m. Then there was the disappearance of Beddingfield, said the girl musingly. That certainly points very strongly to him. He was a man in good practice, I believe, and fairly well known. And has never been heard of, from that day to this, concluded the old scarecrow with a chuckle. No wonder you are puzzled. The police are quite baffled, and still are, for a matter of fact, and yet see how simple it is. Only the police would not look further than these two men. Lord Brocklesby with a strong motive and the night porous hesitation against him, and Beddingfield without a motive but with strong circumstantial evidence and his own disappearance as condemnatory signs. If only they would look at the case as I did, and think a little bit about the dead as well as about the living. If they had remembered that peerage case, the Honorable Robert's debts, his last straw which proved a futile claim. Only that very day the Earl of Brocklesby had, by quietly showing the original ancient document to his brother, persuaded him how futile were all his hopes. Who knows how many were the debts contracted, the promises made, the money borrowed and obtained on the strength of that claim which was mere romance. Ahead, nothing but ruin, enmity with his brother, his marriage probably broken off, a wasted life in fact. Is it small wonder that though ill-feeling against the Earl of Brocklesby may have been deep, there was hatred, bitter, deadly hatred against the man who with false promises had led him into so hopeless a quagmire? Probably the Honorable Robert owed a great deal of money to Bettingfield, which the latter hoped to recoup at usurious interest with threats of scandal and what not. Think of all that, he added, and then tell me if you believe that a stronger motive for the murder of such an enemy could well be found. But what you suggest is impossible, said Polly aghast. Allow me, he said. It is more than possible. It is very easy and simple that two men were alone together in the Honorable Robert de Genville's room after dinner. You, as representing the public, and the police, say that Bettingfield went away and returned half an hour later in order to kill his client. I say that it was the lawyer who was murdered at nine o'clock that evening, and that Robert de Genville, the ruined man, the hopeless bankrupt, was the assassin. Then, yes, of course, now you remember, for I have put you on the track. The face and the body were so battered and bruised that they were past recognition. Both men were of equal height. The hair, which alone could not be disfigured or obliterated, was in both men, similar in color. Then the murderer proceeds to dress his victim in his own clothes, with the utmost care he places his own rings on the fingers of the dead man, his own watch in the pocket, a gruesome task, but an important one, and it is thoroughly well done. Then he himself puts on the clothes of his victim, with, finally, the Inverness Cape and Glengarry, and when the hall is full of visitors, he slips out unperceived. He sends the messenger for Bettingfield's Portmanteau, and starts off by the Night Express. But then his visit at the Castle Hotel at ten o'clock, she urges. How dangerous! Dangerous? Yes, but oh, how clever! You see, he was the Earl of Brocklesby's twin brother, and twin brothers are always somewhat alike. He wished to appear dead, murdered by someone, he cared not whom, but what he did care about was to throw clouds of dust in the eyes of the police, and he succeeded with a vengeance. Perhaps, who knows, he wished to assure himself that he had forgotten nothing in the mise-en-scène, that the body, battered and bruised, past all semblance of any human shape safe for its clothes, really would appear to everyone as that of the Honorable Robert de Genville, while the latter disappeared forever from the Old World and started life again in the new. Then you must always reckon with the practically invariable rule that a murderer always revisits, if only once, the scene of his crime. Two years have elapsed since the crime, no trace of Timothy Beddingfield, the lawyer, has ever been found, and I can assure you that it never will be, for his Poblian body lies buried in the aristocratic family vault of the Earl of Brocklesby. He was gone before Polly could say another word. The faces of Timothy Beddingfield of the Earl of Brocklesby of the Honorable Robert de Genville seem to dance before her eyes and to mock her for the hopeless bewilderment in which she found herself plunged because of them. Then all the faces vanished, or rather were merged into one long, thin, bird-like one, with bone-rimmed spectacles on the top of its beak and a wide, rude grin beneath it, and still puzzled, still doubtful, the young girl, too, paid for her scanty luncheon and went her way. The Mysterious Death in Percy Street Miss Polly Burton had had many an argument with Mr. Robert Frobisher about that old man in the corner, who seemed far more interesting and ducidly more mysterious than any of the crimes over which he philosophized. Dick thought, moreover, that Miss Polly spent more of her leisure time now in that ABC shop than she had done in his own company before, and told her so, with that delightful air of sheepish sulkiness which the male creature invariably wears when he feels jealous and wouldn't admit it. Polly liked Dick to be jealous, but she liked that old scarecrow in the ABC shop very much, too, and though she made sundry vague promises from time to time to Mr. Richard Frobisher, she nevertheless drifted back instinctively day after day to the tea shop in Norfolk Street Strand and stayed there sipping coffee for as long as the man in the corner chose to talk. On this particular afternoon she went to the ABC shop with a fixed purpose, that of making him give her his views of Mrs. Owens Mysterious Death in Percy Street. The facts had interested and puzzled her. She had had countless arguments with Mr. Richard Frobisher as to the three great possible solutions of the puzzle. Accident, suicide, murder. Undoubtedly neither accident nor suicide, he said dryly. Polly was not aware that she had spoken. What an uncanny habit that creature had of reading her thoughts. You inclined to the idea then that Mrs. Owens was murdered, do you know by whom? He laughed and drew forth the piece of string he always fidgeted with when unraveling some mystery. You would like to know who murdered that old woman? He asked at last. I would like to hear your views on the subject, Polly replied. I have no views, he said dryly. No one can know who murdered the woman since no one ever saw the person who did it. No one can give the faintest description of the mysterious man who alone could have committed that clever deed and the police are playing a game of blind man's bluff. But you must have formed some theory of your own, she persisted. It annoyed her that the funny creature was obstinate about this point, and she tried to nettle his vanity. I suppose that as a matter of fact your original remark that there are no such things as mysteries does not apply universally. There is a mystery, that of the death in Percy Street, and you, like the police, are unable to fathom it. He pulled up his eyebrows and looked at her for a minute or two. Confess that that murder was one of the cleverest bits of work accomplished outside Russian diplomacy, he said with a nervous laugh. I must say that were I the judge, called upon to renounce sentence of death on the man who conceived that murder, I could not bring myself to do it. I would politely request the gentleman to enter our foreign office. We have need of such men. The whole, mise en scène, was truly artistic, worthy of its milieu, the Rubin studios in Percy Street, Totemham Court Road. Have you ever noticed them? They are only studios by name, and are merely a set of rooms in a corner house, with the windows slightly enlarged and the rents charged accordingly, in consideration of that additional five inches of smoky daylight filtering through dusty windows. On the ground floor there is the order office of some stained glass works, with a workshop in the rear, and on the first floor landing a small room allotted to the caretaker, with gas, coal, and fifteen shillings a week, for which princely income she is deputed to keep tidy and clean the general aspect of the house. Mrs. Owen, who was the caretaker there, was a quiet, respectable woman, who eked out her scanty wages by sundry, mostly very meager tips, doled out to her by impecunious artists in exchange for promiscuous domestic services in and about the respective studios. But if Mrs. Owen's earnings were not large, they were very regular, and she had no fastidious taste. She and her cockatoo lived on her wages, and all the tips added up, and never spent year after year, went to swell a very comfortable little account at interest in the Burke Beck Bank. This little account had mounted up to a very tidy sum, and the thrifty widow, or old maid, no one ever knew which she was, was generally referred to by the young artists of the Rubin Studios as a Lady of Means. But this is a digression. No one slept on the premises except Mrs. Owen and her cockatoo. The rule was that, one by one, as the tenants left their rooms in the evening, they took their respective keys to the caretaker's room. She would then, in the early morning, tidy and dust the studios and the office downstairs lay the fire and carry up coals. The foreman of the glassworks was the first to arrive in the morning. He had a latch key and let himself in, after which it was the custom of the house that he should leave the street door open for the benefit of the other tenants and their visitors. Usually, when he came at about nine o'clock, he found Mrs. Owen busy about the house doing her work, and he had often a brief chat with her about the weather, but this particular morning of February 2nd he neither saw nor heard her. However, as the shop had been tidied in the fire laid, he surmised that Mrs. Owen had finished her work earlier than usual and thought no more about it. One by one the tenants of the studios turned up, and the day sped on without anyone's attention being drawn noticeably to the fact that the caretaker had not appeared upon the scene. It had been a bitterly cold night and the day was even worse. A cutting northeasterly gale was blowing. There had been a great deal of snow during the night which lay quite thick on the ground, and at five o'clock in the afternoon, when the last glimmer of pale winter daylight had disappeared, the confraternity of the brush put pallet and easel aside and prepared to go home. The first to leave was Mr. Charles Pitt. He locked up his studio and, as usual, took his key into the caretaker's room. He had just opened the door when an icy blast literally struck him in the face. Both the windows were wide open and the snow and sleet were beating thickly into the room, forming already a white carpet upon the floor. The room was in semi-obscurity, and at first Mr. Pitt saw nothing, but instinctively realizing that something was wrong, he lit a match, and saw before him the spectacle of that awful and mysterious tragedy which has ever since puzzled both police and public. On the floor, already half-covered by the drifting snow, lay the body of Mrs. Owen, face downwards, in a nightgown, with feet and ankles bare, and these in her hands were of a deep purple color, lost in a corner of the room huddled up with the cold, the body of the cockatoo lay stark and stiff. CHAPTER 35 SUICIDE OR MURDER At first there was only talk of a terrible accident, the result of some inexplicable carelessness which perhaps the evidence at the inquest would help to elucidate. Medical assistance came too late. The unfortunate woman was indeed dead, frozen to death inside her own room. Further examination showed that she had received a severe blow at the back of the head, which must have stunned her and caused her to fall helpless beside the open window. Temperature at five degrees below zero had done the rest. Detective Inspector Howell discovered close to the window a wrought iron gas bracket, the height of which corresponded exactly with the bruise at the back of Mrs. Owen's head. Hardly, however, had a couple of days elapsed when public curiosity was wedded by a few startling headlines, such as the half-penny evening papers alone know how to concoct. The mysterious death in Percy Street. Is it suicide or murder? Thrilling details, strange developments, sensational arrest. What had happened was simply this. At the inquest a few certainly very curious facts connected with Mrs. Owen's life had come to light, and this had led to the apprehension of a young man of very respectable parentage on a charge of being concerned in the tragic death of the unfortunate caretaker. To begin with, it happened that her life, which in an ordinary way should have been very monotonous and regular, seemed at any rate laterally to have been more than usually checkered and excited. Every witness who had known her in the past concurred with the statement that since October last a great change had come over the worthy and honest woman. I happened to have a photo of Mrs. Owen as she was before this great change occurred in her quiet and uneventful life, and which led as far as the poor soul was concerned to such disastrous results. Here she is to the life, added the funny creature, placing the photo before Polly, as respectable, as stodgy, as uninteresting as it is well possible for a member of your charming sex to be, not a face you will admit to lead any youngster to temptation or to induce him to commit a crime. Nevertheless, one day all the tenants of the Reuben Studios were surprised and shocked to see Mrs. Owen, quiet, respectable Mrs. Owen, sallying forth at six o'clock in the afternoon, attired in an extravagant bonnet, and a cloak trimmed with imitation astrocan, which, slightly open in front, displayed a gold lock-in chain of astonishing proportions. Many were the comments, the hints, the bits of sarcasm leveled at the worthy woman by the frivolous confraternity of the brush. The plot thickened when from that day forth a complete change came over the worthy caretaker of the Reuben Studios. While she appeared day after day before the astonished gauge of the tenants and the scandalized looks of the neighbors attired in new and extravagant dresses, her work was hopelessly neglected, and she was always out when wanted. There was, of course, much talk and comment in various parts of the Reuben Studios on the subject of Mrs. Owen's dissipations. The tenants began to put two and two together, and after a very little while the general consensus of opinion became firmly established that the honest caretaker's demoralization coincided week for week, almost day for day, with young Green Hill's establishment in No. 8 Studio. Everyone had remarked that he stayed much later in the evening than anyone else, and yet no one presumed that he stayed for purposes of work. Suspicions soon rose to certainty when Mrs. Owen and Arthur Green Hill were seen by one of the glass workmen dining together at Gambia's Restaurant in Tonningham Court Road. The workman who was having a cup of tea at the counter noticed particularly that when the bill was paid the money came out of Mrs. Owen's purse. The dinner had been sumptuous, bill cutlets, a cut from the joint, dessert, coffee, and liqueurs. Finally the pair left the restaurant apparently very gay, young Green Hill smoking a choice cigar. Irregularities such as these were bound sooner or later to come to the ears and eyes of Mr. Allman, the landlord of the Reuben Studios, and a month after the new year, without further warning, he gave her a week's notice to quit his house. Mrs. Owen did not seem the least bit upset when I gave her notice. Mr. Allman declared in his evidence at the inquest. On the contrary, she told me that she had ample means and had only worked laterally for the sake of something to do. She added that she had plenty of friends who would look after her, for she had a nice little pile to leave to anyone who would know how to get the right side of her. Nevertheless, in spite of this cheerful interview, Miss Bedford, the tenant of Number Six Studio, had stated that when she took her key to the caretaker's room at six-thirty that afternoon, she found Mrs. Owen in tears. The caretaker refused to be comforted, nor would she speak of her trouble to Miss Bedford. Twenty-four hours later, she was found dead. The coroner's jury returned an open verdict, and Detective Inspector Jones was charged by the police to make some inquiries about young Mr. Greenhill, whose intimacy with the unfortunate woman had been universally commented upon. The detective, however, pushed his investigations as far as the Birkbeck Bank. There he discovered that after her interview with Mr. Allman, Mrs. Owen had withdrawn what money she had on deposit some eight hundred pounds, the result of twenty-five years' saving and thrift. But the immediate result of Detective Inspector Jones' labors was that Mr. Arthur Greenhill, lithographer, was brought before the magistrate at Bow Street on the charges being concerned in the death of Mrs. Owen, caretaker of the Rubin Studios, Percy Street. Now that magisterial inquiry is one of the few interesting ones which I had the misfortune to miss, continued the man in the corner, with a nervous shake of the shoulders. But you know, as well as I do, how the attitude of the young prisoner impressed the magistrate and police so unfavorably that, with every new witness brought forward, his position became more and more unfortunate. Yet he was a good-looking, rather coarsely built young fellow, with one of those awful cockney accents which literally make one jump. But he looked painfully nervous, stammered at every word spoken, and repeatedly gave answers entirely at random. His father acted as lawyer for him, a rough-looking, elderly man who had the appearance of a common country attorney rather than that of a London solicitor. The police had built up a fairly strong case against the lithographer. Medical evidence revealed nothing new. Mrs. Owen had died from exposure, the blow at the back of the head not being sufficiently serious to cause anything but temporary disablement. When the medical officer had been called in, death had intervened for some time. It was quite impossible to say how long, whether one hour or five or twelve. The appearance and state of the room, when the unfortunate woman was found by Mr. Charles Pitt, were again gone over in minute detail. Mrs. Owen's clothes, which she had worn during the day, were folded neatly on a chair. The key of her cupboard was in the pocket of her dress. The door had been slightly ajar, but both the windows were wide open. One of them, which had the sash line broken, had been fastened up most scientifically with a piece of rope. Mrs. Owen had obviously undress, preparatory to going to bed, and the magistrate very naturally soon made the remark how untenable the theory of an accident must be. No one in their five senses would undress with a temperature below zero and the windows wide open. After these preliminary statements, the cashier of the Birkbeck was called, and he related the caretaker's visit at the bank. It was then about one o'clock, he stated. Mrs. Owen called and presented a check to self for eight hundred twenty-seven pounds, the amount of her balance. She seemed exceedingly happy and cheerful, and talked about needing plenty of cash as she was going abroad to join her nephew, for whom she would in future keep house. I warned her about being sufficiently careful with so large a sum, and parting from it injudiciously, as women of her class are very apt to do. She laughingly declared that not only was she careful of it in the present, but meant to be so for the far-off future, for she intended to go that very day to a lawyer's office and to make a will. The cashier's evidence was certainly startling in the extreme, since in the widow's room no trace of any kind was found of any money. Against that two of the notes handed over by the bank to Mrs. Owen on that day were cashed by Young Greenhill on the very morning of her mysterious death. One was handed in by him to the West End Clothinger's Company in payment for a suit of clothes, and the other he exchanged at the post office in Oxford Street. After that all the evidence had of necessity to be gone through again on the subject of Young Greenhill's intimacy with Mrs. Owen. He listened to it all with an air of almost painful nervousness. His cheeks were positively green, his lips seemed dry and parched, for he repeatedly passed his tongue over them, and when Constable E. 18 deposed that at 2 a.m. on the morning of February 2nd he had seen the accused and spoken to him at the corner of Percy Street and Tottenham Cork Road, Young Greenhill, all but fainted. The contention of the police was that the caretaker had been murdered and robbed during that night before she went to bed, that Young Greenhill had done the murder, seeing that he was the only person known to have been intimate with the woman, and that it was, moreover, proved unquestionably that he was in the immediate neighborhood of the Reuben Studios at an extraordinarily late hour of the night. His own account of himself and of that same night could certainly not be called very satisfactory. Mrs. Owen was a relative of his late mother's, he declared. He himself was a lithographer by trade, with a good deal of time and leisure on his hands. He certainly had employed some of that time in taking the old woman to various places of amusement. He had, on more than one occasion, suggested that she should give up menial work and come and live with him, but, unfortunately, she was a great deal imposed upon by her nephew, a man of the name of Owen, who exploited the good-natured woman in every possible way, and who had, on more than one occasion, made severe attacks upon her savings at the Birkbeck Bank. Severely cross-examined by the prosecuting counsel about the supposed relative of Mrs. Owen, Greenhill admitted that he did not know him, had, in fact, never seen him. He knew that his name was Owen, and that was all. His chief occupation consisted in sponging on the kind-hearted old woman, but he only went to see her in the evenings when he presumably knew that she would be alone, and invariably after all the tenants of the Rubin Studios had left for the day. I don't know whether at this point it strikes you at all, as it did both magistrate and counsel, that there was a direct contradiction in this statement and the one made by the cashier of the Birkbeck on the subject of his last conversation with Mrs. Owen. I am going abroad to join my nephew, for whom I am going to keep house, was what the unfortunate woman had said. Now Greenhill, in spite of his nervousness and at times contradictory answers, strictly adhered to his point, that there was a nephew in London who came frequently to see his aunt. Anyway, the sayings of the murdered woman could not be taken as evidence in law. Mr. Greenhill Sr. put the objection, adding, there may have been two nephews, which the magistrate and the prosecution were bound to admit. With regard to the night immediately preceding Mrs. Owen's death, Greenhill stated that he had been with her to the theatre, had seen her home, and had had some supper with her in her room. Before he left her at two a.m., she had of her own accord made him a present of ten pounds, saying, I am a sort of aunt to you, Arthur, and if you don't have it, Bill is sure to get it. She had seemed rather worried in the early part of the evening, but later on she cheered up. Did she speak at all about this nephew of hers or about her money affairs? asked the magistrate. Again the young man hesitated, but said, No, she did not mention either Owen or her money affairs. If I remember rightly, added the man in the corner, for recollect I was not present, the case was here adjourned, but the magistrate would not grant bail. Greenhill was removed looking more dead than alive, though everyone remarked that Mr. Greenhill Sr. looked determined and not the least worried. In the course of his examination on behalf of his son, of the medical officer and one or two other witnesses, he had very ably tried to confuse them on the subject of the hour at which Mrs. Owen was last known to be alive. He made a very great point of the fact that the usual morning's work was done throughout the house when the inmates arrived. Was it conceivable, he argued, that a woman would do that kind of work overnight, especially as she was going to the theatre and therefore would wish to dress in her smarter clothes? It certainly was a very nice point leveled against the prosecution, who promptly retorted, just as conceivable as that a woman in those circumstances of life should, having done her work, undressed beside an open window at nine o'clock in the morning with the snow beating into the room. Now it seems that Mr. Greenhill Sr. could produce any amount of witnesses who could help to provide a conclusive alibi on behalf of his son, if only sometime subsequent to that fatal two a.m., the murdered woman had been seen alive by some chance passerby. However, he was an able man and an earnest one, and I fancy the magistrate felt some sympathy for his strenuous endeavors on his son's behalf. He granted a week's adjournment, which seemed to satisfy Mr. Greenhill completely. In the meanwhile, the papers had talked of and almost exhausted the subject of the mystery in Percy Street. There had been, as you no doubt know from personal experience, innumerable arguments on the puzzling alternatives. Accident? Suicide? Murder? A week went by, then the case against young Greenhill was resumed. Of course the court was crowded. It needed no great penetration to remark at once that the prisoner looked more hopeful, and his father quite elated. Again a great deal of minor evidence was taken, and then came the turn of the defense. Mr. Greenhill called Mrs. Hall confectioner of Percy Street opposite the Reuben Studios. She deposed that at 8 o'clock in the morning of February 2nd, while she was tidying her shop window, she saw the caretaker of the studio's opposite, as usual, on her knees, her head and body wrapped in a shawl cleaning her front steps. Her husband also saw Mrs. Owen, and Mrs. Hall remarked to her husband how thankful she was that her own shop had tiled steps, which did not need scrubbing on so cold a morning. Mr. Hall, confectioner of the same address corroborated this statement, and Mr. Greenhill with absolute triumph produced a third witness, Mrs. Martin of Percy Street, who from her window on the second floor had, at 7.30 a.m., seen the caretaker shaking mats outside her front door. The description this witness gave of Mrs. Owen's get-up with the shawl round her head coincided point by point with that given by Mr. and Mrs. Hall. After that, Mr. Greenhill's task became an easy one. His son was at home having his breakfast at 8 o'clock that morning. Not only himself, but his servants would testify to that. The weather had been so bitter that the whole of that day Arthur had not stirred from his own fireside. Mrs. Owen was murdered after 8 a.m. on that day, since she was seen alive by three people at that hour. Therefore, his son could not have murdered Mrs. Owen. The police must find the criminal elsewhere or else bow to the opinion originally expressed by the public that Mrs. Owen had met with a terrible untoward accident or that perhaps she may have willfully sought her own death in that extraordinary and tragic fashion. Before young Greenhill was finally discharged, one or two witnesses were again examined, chief among these being the foreman of the glassworks. He had turned up at the Rubin Studio at 9 o'clock and been in business all day. He averred positively that he did not specially notice any suspicious-looking individual crossing the hall that day. But, he remarked with a smile, I don't sit and watch everyone who goes up and downstairs. I am too busy for that. The street door is always left open. Anyone can walk in, up or down, who knows the way. That there was a mystery in connection with Mrs. Owen's death. Of that the police have remained perfectly convinced. Whether young Greenhill had the key of the mystery or not, they have never found out to this day. I could enlighten them as to the cause of the young lithographer's anxiety at the magisterial inquiry. But I assure you, I do not care to do the work of the police for them. Why should I? Greenhill will never suffer from unjust suspicions. He and his father alone, besides myself, know in what a terribly tight corner he all but found himself. The young man did not reach home till nearly five o'clock that morning. His last train had gone. He had to walk, lost his way, and wandered about Hampstead for hours. Think what his position would have been if the worthy confectioners of Percy Street had not seen Mrs. Owen wrapped in a shawl on her knees, doing the front steps. Moreover, Mr. Greenhill Sr. is a solicitor, who has a small office in John Street, Bedford Grove. The afternoon before her death Mrs. Owen had been to that office, and had there made a will by which she left all her savings to young Arthur Greenhill lithographer. Had that will been in other than paternal hands it would have been proved in the natural course of such things, and one other link would have been added to the chain which nearly dragged Arthur Greenhill to the gallows, the link of a very strong motive. Can you wonder that the young man turned livid, until such time as it was proved beyond a doubt that the murdered woman was alive hours after he had reached the safe shelter of his home? I saw you smile when I used the word murdered, continued the man in the corner, growing quite excited now that he was approaching the denouement of his story. I know that the public, after the magistrate had discharged Arthur Greenhill, were quite satisfied to think that the mystery in Percy Street was a case of accident or suicide. No, replied Polly, there could be no question of suicide for two very distinct reasons. He looked at her with some degree of astonishment. She supposed that he was amazed at her venturing to form an opinion of her own. And may I ask what, in your opinion, these reasons are? He asked very sarcastically. To begin with, the question of money, she said, has any more of it been traced so far? Not another five-pound note, he said with a chuckle. They were all cashed in Paris during the exhibition, and you have no conception how easy a thing that is to do at any of the hotels or smaller argent de change. The nephew was a clever blackherd, she commented. You believe, then, in the existence of that nephew. Why should I doubt it? Someone must have existed who was sufficiently familiar with the house, to go about in it in the middle of the day without attracting any one's attention. In the middle of the day, he added with a chuckle, at any time after eight-thirty in the morning. So you, too, believe in the caretaker wrapped in a shawl, cleaning her front steps, he queried. But it never struck you, in spite of the training your intercourse with me must have given you, that the person who carefully did all the work in the Ruben Studios laid the fires and carried up the coals, merely did it in order to gain time, in order that the bitter frost might really and effectually do its work, and Mrs. Owen be not missed until she was truly dead. But, suggested Polly again, it never struck you that one of the greatest secrets of successful crime is to lead the police astray with regard to the time when the crime was committed? That was, if you remember, the great point in the region's park murder. In this case, the nephew, since we admit his existence would, even if he were ever found, which is doubtful, be able to prove as good an alibi as young Greenhill. But I don't understand. How the murder was committed, he said eagerly, surely you can see it all for yourself, since you admit the nephew, a scamp, perhaps, who sponges on the good-natured woman. He terrorizes and threatens her, so much so that she fancies her money is no longer safe even in the Birkbeck Bank. Women of that class are apt at times to mistrust the Bank of England. Anyway, she withdraws her money. Who knows what she meant to do with it in the immediate future? In any case, she wishes to secure it after her death to a young man whom she likes, and who has known how to win her good graces. That afternoon, the nephew begs, entreats for more money, they have a row, the poor woman is in tears, and is only temporarily consoled by a pleasant visit at the theatre. At two o'clock in the morning, young Greenhill parts from her. Two minutes later, the nephew knocks at the door. He comes with a plausible tale of having missed his last train, and asks for a shake down, somewhere in the house. The good-natured woman suggests a sofa in one of the studios, and then quietly prepares to go to bed. The rest is very simple and elementary. The nephew sneaks into his aunt's room, finds her standing in her nightgown. He demands money with threats of violence. Terrified, she staggers, knocks her head against the gas bracket, and falls on the floor stunned, while the nephew seeks for her keys and takes possession of the eight hundred pounds. You will admit that the subsequent mise-en-scene is worthy of a genius. No struggle, not the usual hideous accessories round a crime. Only the open windows, the bitter northeasterly gale, and the heavily falling snow, two silent accomplices, as silent as the dead. After that, the murderer, with perfect presence of mind, busies himself in the house, doing the work which will ensure that Mrs. Owen shall not be missed, at any rate for some time. He dusks and tidies. Some few hours later, he even slips on his aunt's skirt and bodice, wraps his head in a shawl, and boldly allows those neighbors who are a stir to see what they believe to be Mrs. Owen. Then he goes back to her room, resumes his normal appearance, and quietly leaves the house. He may have been seen. He undoubtedly was seen by two or three people, but no one thought anything of seeing a man leave the house at that hour. It was very cold, the snow was falling thickly, and as he wore a muffler round the lower part of his face, those who saw him would not undertake to know him again. That man was never seen or heard of again? Polly asked. He has disappeared off the face of the earth. The police are searching for him, and perhaps some day they will find him. Then society will be rid of one of the most ingenious men of the age. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE END He had paused, absorbed in meditation. The young girl also was silent. Some memory too vague as yet to take a definite form was persistently haunting her. One thought was hammering away in her brain and playing havoc with her nerves. That thought was the inexplicable feeling within her that there was something in connection with that hideous crime which she ought to recollect. Something which, if she could only remember what it was, would give her the clue to the tragic mystery, and for once ensure her triumph over this self-conceited and sarcastic scarecrow in the corner. He was watching her through his great bone-room spectacles, and she could see the knuckles of his bony hands just above the top of the table, fidgeting, fidgeting, fidgeting, till she wondered if there existed another set of fingers in the world which could undo the knots his lean ones made in that tiresome piece of string. Then suddenly, apropos of nothing, Polly remembered. The whole thing stood before her, short and clear like a vivid flash of lightning. Mrs. Owen lying dead in the snow beside her open window, one of them with a broken sash-line, tied up most scientifically with a piece of string. She remembered the talk there had been at the time about this improvised sash-line. That was after young Greenhill had been discharged and the question of suicide had been voted an impossibility. Polly remembered that in the illustrated papers photographs appeared of this wonderfully knotted piece of string. So contrived that the weight of the frame could but tighten the knots, and thus keep the window open. She remembered that people deduced many things from that improvised sash-line, chief among these deductions being that the murderer was a sailor, so wonderful, so complicated, so numerous with the knots which secured that window frame. But Polly knew better. In her mind's eye she saw those fingers rendered doubly nervous by the fearful cerebral excitement grasping at first mechanically, even thoughtlessly, a bit of twine with which to secure the window, then the ruling habit strongest through all. The girl could see it, the lean and ingenious fingers fidgeting, fidgeting, with that piece of string, tying knot after knot, more wonderful, more complicated than any she had yet witnessed. If I were you, she said, without daring to look into that corner where he sat, I would break myself of the habit of perpetually making knots in a piece of string. He did not reply, and at last Polly ventured to look up. The corner was empty, and through the glass door beyond the desk where he had just deposited his few coppers, she saw the tails of his tweed coat, his extraordinary hat, his meagre shriveled up personality, fast disappearing down the street. Miss Polly Burton, of the Evening Observer, was married the other day to Mr. Richard Frobischer of the London Mail. She has never set eyes on the man in the corner from that day to this.