Читать книгу A Detective's Triumphs - James Edward Muddock - Страница 4

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ON that most sensational, or at any rate one of the most sensational of Derby days, what was known as 'Hermit's Derby,' a party of ladies and gentlemen, who, if not justly entitled to claim to walk in the exclusive ranks of the upper ten,' were not far removed from them, so far as their mode of life and habits were concerned, went down to the race-course from London in a splendidly-appointed drag, drawn by four magnificent bays that were tooled by young Lord Blank. (It is fitting that his Lordship's true name should not be given here, as he had nothing whatever to do with the extraordinary events I am about to narrate.)

Before dealing with these people it will not be out of place to briefly refer to that ever memorable Derby, which, to the astonishment of every one, to the ruin of many, and the despair and death of not a few, was won by a rank outsider called Hermit, owned by Mr. Chaplin. The odds on this horse were no less than 100 to 1, and if any one had ventured to predict before the race began that the horse would win he would have been voted insane. Nevertheless, after a wonderful and most exciting race, during which two or three persons died suddenly on the field from heart disease, Hermit carried off the blue ribbon of that year by a bare neck only, his jockey being J. Daley, who got £3,000 for winning, while the owner of the horse netted no less a sum than £141,000. Not the least remarkable thing in connection with this remarkable race was, that the Duke of Hamilton had laid £180,000 to £6,000 against Hermit, but some little time before the Derby Day his grace was able, by means known to turfites, to declare the bet off, and so he saved his £180,000. When the winning horses were declared, the duke must have considered himself an exceedingly lucky man, for, though I do not know how much he may have won, it is a matter of history that he had been within an ace of bringing ruin on the ducal house. With these brief remarks I will now pass on to the ladies and gentlemen in the drag. The party, exclusive of the noble driver, numbered six. They were a Mr. Egerton Plunkett, about six-and-twenty years of age, whose father had recently died and left him a million of money, which had been made in the iron trade. But as fools and their money are soon parted, it seemed at this time as if young Plunkett had determined to get rid of his million with the greatest possible speed; for, though he had only been in possession two years, it was reported that he had already squandered a fourth of it. Then there was the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater, another young man, but who was said to live principally on the Jews, as he had 'good expectations.' His name, as far as he was personally concerned, was somewhat of a misnomer, as it was understood that he rarely took water, except by accident. He was a tall, lank, cadaverous-faced young gentleman, four-and-twenty years of age (who, it may be stated here, died of alcoholic poisoning before he was thirty.) Next in order comes Mr. Algernon Mainwaring, a partner in an exceedingly wealthy firm of solicitors. The ladies were two sisters, the Misses Lilian Travers Aitkin and Mabel Susan Aitkin. Beyond saying that they were noted and notorious beauties, it is not necessary at the present to say more, as I shall have to deal with them further on.

The sixth person of the little party I have purposely left till the last. He was Surgeon-Major Palmer, retired. This gentleman was then about sixty years of age, but looked younger, being a wonderfully-well preserved man, with a splendid physique, and a pronounced military bearing. He had served his country with distinction in a medical capacity for something like thirty years, and had distinguished himself for his devotion and skill during the Crimean war, towards the end of which he was seriously wounded by a splinter of a shell that burst near him as he was attending to a wounded officer on the battle-field. Doctor Palmer had never married, owing—so the story ran—to his having been jilted in his youth, which caused him to register a vow that he would remain single all his life. He had, however, earned for himself a reputation for being 'a thorough man about town,' and in spite of his being a gentleman by birth and education, he was ostracised in certain classes of society owing to some glaring scandals with which his name had been mixed up. Nevertheless, he was a man whose company was courted, for he had a singularly winning manner with him, was very handsome, a brilliant raconteur, generous to a fault, and was never known to speak ill of any one, even of those people whom he knew to be his enemies. Such a man was sure to be in great request, especially when, added to his other attractions, he was the fortunate possessor of ten thousand a-year, which he had inherited from an uncle.

Surgeon-Major Palmer was a Bohemian by instinct and inclination. He loved a free and unconventional life; and at his charming house at Chelsea some very remarkable company could be met with.

In order to minister to their wants at the Derby the party had taken three men-servants with them, two being the butler and footman of Lord Blank, and the third a servant of Dr. Palmer's. His name was Walter Joyce. He was slightly under forty years of age, and was a fine, tall, handsome fellow. He had been a soldier, and had seen service in the Crimea. His position was that of a valet, and he had been with his master about six months.

The ladies and gentlemen I have enumerated were the guests of Lord Blank, he having undertaken to drive them down to the course in his sumptuous drag. They were a merry party—made merrier by the fact that they all won some money by bets. In the way of delicacies that would minister to the carnal appetite nothing seemed to have been forgotten, and the luncheon was of a very recherché description, while the gentlemen vied with each other as to which could be the most gallant and attentive to the two beautiful young women who were their companions. Presumably life sat very lightly on each member of that little company. No thoughts of a dark to-morrow or a tortuous future entered into their minds. The mighty sorrow of the world had apparently passed them by. They revelled in the luxury that wealth can purchase, and they laughed and were joyful. No doubt, had it been possible for some Asmodeus to have enabled an outsider to peer in each heart that seemed to beat so joyously, he would have seen that not one was without its black speck—not one without its gnawing worm. For human life—at any rate such a life as these people led—must ever be conventional, and more or less hypocritical.

After the great event of the day was over the party returned to town, which they reached about six o'clock. Lord Blank deposited his guests at the door of Surgeon-Major Palmer's house. Then he left them with his two servants, a prior engagement necessitating his going away, and so he passes out of this story. The others were to dine at Dr. Palmer's house, which I must now describe to some extent. It was a large, old-fashioned house, standing in about an acre of ground. The garden was walled in, but in the boundary wall at the bottom was a door which gave access to a small paddock of about three-quarters of an acre, which the doctor utilised for his horses; and it is important to state here, as it has a considerable bearing on what follows, that at this particular time a very favourite horse of the doctor's, which he called Jerry, and which had been out of health, had been put to graze in the paddock, and was there on the Hermit Derby night.* The man was greatly attached to the horse, and the horse to him, and, whatever Surgeon-Major Palmer's faults were, he bore the character of having a great love for all dumb animals. The dinner party consisted of, besides the doctor, the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater, Mr. Egerton Plunkett, Mr. Algernon Mainwaring, Lilian and Mabel Aitkin, and a Mr. Roland, a neighbour, who 'dropped in.' The house, which was a commodious one, was luxuriously furnished, and provided with everything that taste could suggest and money buy. There were rare pictures, bronzes, articles of virtu, bric-a-brac, and a unique collection of Indian curiosities which the doctor had gathered in India.

[* The Doctor's house was pulled down years ago, and the land built upon, several smaller houses now covering the site.]

The household was presided over by a lady housekeeper, a Mrs. Challoner, the widow of an army officer, who had been in the doctor's service for some years. And besides the valet, Walter Joyce, already mentioned, there were a butler, a cook, a scullerymaid, three chambermaids, two parlourmaids, a coachman, two grooms, and a page-boy.

It will thus be seen that the doctor kept up a very considerable establishment, but he also kept a great deal of company. Indeed it was very seldom that there was not company in the house; and as the doctor was very fond of the fleshpots of Egypt, he must have made a pretty big hole every year in his income. It was but natural, perhaps, that this particular convivial gathering should be marked by a trifle more freedom and a little more boisterousness than usually characterised even the doctor's little dinners, which were noted for their recherché character and freedom from restraint. 'This is Liberty Hall, ladies and gentlemen, and you will do as you like,' the host was fond of saying. But on this night there was a memorable Derby to commemorate, and some men and women are fond of the slightest excuse for a little extra indulgence. One thing was certain, that the doctor's guests needed good appetites and an all but unlimited capacity for imbibing. Dr. Palmer's appetite was said to be prodigious, and he liked his friends to eat and drink heartily. To dine with the doctor was considered a treat, for he was an epicure, and his wines could not be surpassed.

When the dinner was over the ladies and gentlemen retired to the elegantly-appointed smoking-room, where they played cards for a couple of hours. After that they adjourned to the drawing-room, and music was indulged in, and at midnight they went down to a supper of lobster-salad and champagne.

The reader who has followed me thus far will, no doubt, say that by this time these people must have been in a condition when they could no longer be said to be responsible for their actions. And, as a matter of fact, they were all more or less under the influence of the wine they had taken. It had at first been arranged that the ladies were to be escorted home—they lived near Regent's Park—and the doctor had given orders that the carriage was to be ready, but this order was countermanded, and it was decided to make a night of it; but the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater became ill, and at his own urgent request was driven home in the doctor's dog-cart. It was arranged that all the others were to sleep in the doctor's house, with the exception of Mr. Roland, who lived within a couple of hundred yards.

When the Hon. Drinkwater had departed, such of the servants who had remained up were told to go to bed, including Walter Joyce, the valet. The butler was the last to retire, as he had to replenish certain supplies which had been exhausted. This duty accomplished he too went to bed, the doctor undertaking to see the house all secure and the gas put out. It would appear that the doctor and his guests resorted to cards as a means of enjoying themselves, and soon after two o'clock the two ladies begged to be allowed to retire, and with some reluctance the doctor gave them permission to go, as they pleaded that they were quite knocked up; and being a soldier and a gentleman he could not resist their appeal, so he himself showed them to the room they were to occupy. This was a very handsomely-furnished chamber in the front of the house, his own bed-room being on the opposite side of the corridor. In about ten minutes he rejoined his guests, and two or three more rubbers of whist were played, but it is in evidence that the gentlemen had by this time got into a state when most things had ceased to interest them. Some exception, however, was to be made in the doctor's favour, for it would seem that there was a stage beyond which he never went, and it was positively asserted that he never so far forgot himself as to be unable to account for his actions.

As the orange, so to speak, had been sucked dry for that night, or rather morning, the host conducted Mr. Plunkett and Mr. Mainwaring to their rooms, and then he saw Mr. Roland home, and having performed this service he returned to his house. That was beyond all doubt, because the policeman on the beat, and to whom he was well known, happened to be at the gate, and the doctor chatted with him for some minutes, the subject of conversation being the remarkable circumstance of a rank outsider winning the Derby. Wishing the man good night, the doctor entered his house, and the policeman heard him lock and chain the door. It was then after four o'clock, but still quite dark, with rain threatening and a very strong wind blowing.

The rest of the night wore itself away, and the doctor's household—that is, the servant part of it—rose somewhat later than usual, for they knew that, after the preceding night's carouse, their master and his friends were not likely to put in a very early appearance. Soon after nine o'clock Mrs. Challoner, the housekeeper, took some tea up to the ladies. They were asleep when she first knocked at the door, but the knocking awakened them and the door was opened; and now a very remarkable incident has to be recorded. In the course of conversation with the housekeeper Lilian Aitkin said—

'Oh, Mrs. Challoner, do you know I've had such a horrid dream. I dreamt that Dr. Palmer was dead, and I woke up in a fright and could have sworn that I heard the report of a gun. Then I went to sleep and actually dreamt the same thing again.'

Mrs. Challoner smiled, and remarked that dreams were not to be relied upon, and that she had no doubt, when the ladies went down to breakfast, the Doctor would be there to meet them radiant as ever, for he seemed to be endowed with a cast-iron constitution, and nothing upset him.

An hour or so later, when the ladies did go downstairs, they proved Mrs. Challoner to be incorrect, for the Doctor was not there to meet them. The butler said that he would send Walter Joyce to call the master, but the ladies begged that he would not do so yet, for they were quite sure the Doctor must be very much fatigued, and they preferred that he should be allowed to sleep for some time longer. At eleven o'clock Mr. Mainwaring put in an appearance, and to him Lilian related her dream on his asking her and her sister how they slept, and he being an unsentimental man laughed and told her dreams were to be interpreted contrariwise. A quarter of an hour later Mr. Plunkett joined the party in the breakfast-room, and as the host had not then appeared the butler was requested to send up to his room.

Ten minutes later the butler rushed in with the startling information that not only was the Doctor not in his room, but his bed had not been slept in, and he could not be found in any other part of his house. Such an effect had this announcement on Lilian Aitkin, as she connected it with her dream, that straightway she fainted, and so added to the confusion into which the guests were thrown. The housekeeper was summoned and instructed to give attention to the lady, and then Mr. Mainwaring, being a lawyer and a practical man, began to question the servants as to what likelihood there was of their master having gone out after his guests had retired, and they answered that they did not think it at all likely. Moreover, the large hall door and the back doors were all securely bolted and chained. That would not have been the case with the hall door if the master had gone out.

At first no uneasiness was felt by the guests, and Mr. Mainwaring despatched a message to Mr. Roland, asking that gentleman to come round, and when he arrived he told them what they had not known—that the Doctor had taken him home, and left him at his doorstep, and he knew nothing of the Doctor's movements after that. Now, if the servants were correct in what they stated—and there was no reason to believe they were not—namely, that the doors were bolted and chained, it was obvious that the Doctor must have re-entered his house; and if that was so, where could he have gone to P But in a little while the scullerymaid, who was the first to come down that morning, asserted positively that a back door leading out of the scullery into the back garden was only on the latch, and was not locked at all, which astonished her very much, for she knew that the master was very particular about the doors, as the house had been twice robbed, and burglaries were not infrequent in the neighbourhood. Added to this was a statement by the old gardener, who said that he too was surprised to find the wall door that led into the paddock standing open. Now he was aware, as well as all the servants were, that since Jerry, the horse, had been in the paddock, the Doctor often went out the last thing at night to see that Jerry was all right, and to give him an apple or a carrot; but he was always very careful about closing the paddock door to prevent the horse getting into the garden. The inference now was that, after the Doctor had returned from seeing Mr. Roland home, he entered his house by the hall door, and having securely fastened that, had gone out at the back to visit Jerry. That was feasible enough, of course, but if he had gone out, why had he not come back? That was precisely where the mystery began! It was clear that the Doctor had disappeared, but how and why? It was equally clear he had not been in his bed, for it was exactly as the chambermaid had left it, and the gas was still burning in the room. The paddock was examined, but the missing man was not there. It did not apparently require much examination, for it was simply an oblong field, with two poplar trees at the end; a very much decayed oak tree; a wooden shed for the horse on one side, and a dung heap and a liquid manure pit. One side of the field was bounded by the garden of another house, from which it was separated by a tarred wooden fence and a quick-set hedge. At the bottom it was joined by another garden, but here again was a compact hedge, and the other side was protected by a high brick wall that shut it off from a side thoroughfare.

When all these things were considered, something like a feeling of uneasiness seized upon the little company, and they asked each other what could possibly have become of the Doctor. There was a door leading out of the garden into the thoroughfare just mentioned, but this was only used by the gardener, and the Doctor had not a key. Moreover, the door was locked, and from the thick cobwebs in the corners and the dirty and rusty condition of the lock it was certain that the door had not been opened for a considerable time. At one side of the house and at the back part were the stables and stableyard, and on the other side the front garden was separated from the back by a light trellis work overgrown with ivy. There was a door in the trellis work, but it was also locked. At this door a huge Newfoundland dog was kept chained up, and no one had heard the dog bark in the night. Of course he would not have barked if his master had gone to him, but he would have made himself heard unmistakably if a stranger had been moving about the premises.

A consideration of all these points only served to deepen the mystery, for mystery it certainly was. Amongst the servants who had crowded into the breakfast-room and the guests uneasiness was very apparent, and uppermost, no doubt, in each mind was the unspoken question, Has anything dreadful happened to the Doctor?'

Miss Lilian Aitkin—whose dream by this time was known to the servants, Mrs. Challoner having told them—gave way to uncontrollable grief, for she was deeply impressed with the dream, which she had twice dreamt, and she expressed strong fear that something terrible had happened. The rest, however, were disposed not to take that view at the time, although they knew that, his Bohemianism notwithstanding, the Doctor was not erratic, nor given to wandering off without leaving word where he was going to.

From the evidence that Mr. Mainwaring had gathered up so far, it seemed pretty certain, if the servants were to be believed, that the master had entered the house again after leaving Mr. Roland. So much was certain, because the hall door was bolted inside, and a heavy chain that fastened right across it was in its place, according to the statement of the servant. But, having secured that door, he went out at the back, using the scullery doorway for his exit; and his object, on the face of it, was to visit Jerry and see that he was all right. Having gone into the paddock, however, it seemed as if he had not returned, because the communicating door between the garden and the paddock was, as the gardener declared, standing open. In company with the gardener, coachman, stableman, butler—in fact, all the men folk—Mr. Mainwaring went into the paddock again with a view to examining the hedges to see if there was any trace of the Doctor having gone through. It was not possible for him to have got over the wall; it was too high, unless he had used a ladder, and he would hardly have carried the ladder off with him. In the bottom hedge there was observed a slight, very slight, gap, through which a man might have squeezed; but the hedge being a prickly thorn hedge, a person so squeezing through must have suffered very considerably; moreover, it was in the highest degree probable that he would have left shreds of his clothing on the thorns; but, though the lawyer examined this part of the hedge with the greatest care, even using a powerful reading glass from the Doctor's study for the purpose, there was not the slightest trace of anyone having gone through. Besides, anyone forcing himself through must necessarily have broken some of the twigs, but not a twig was broken.

After this examination it was felt that the mystery was deepening, and not a soul there was capable, or at any rate, willing to suggest even a possible hypothesis for the Doctor's disappearance. It was only too painfully evident that he had disappeared, but how or why not a living soul there could tell.

Naturally, there was a reluctance on the part of his friends no less than on the part of his servants, to make the matter public; for if Lilian Aitkin is left out there was no one present who at that stage of the proceedings suspected mischief. The disappearance might be a freak on the Doctor's part; but what puzzled them was how he could have got away. Miss Aitkin indulged in all sorts of gloomy forebodings, for she was a nervous and hysterically-inclined young woman, and her dream had given her a shock, and she expressed a firm conviction that the Doctor was dead.

The instability of human joy and light-heartedness was strikingly illustrated by these people. A few hours before they were full of a happy carelessness; they might have been the personification of perfect delight so far as they could be judged externally, but now grave anxiety was apparent in every face, and a fear, shadowy and vague at first, did begin to take possession of them when hours passed, and they were as far off as ever from answering the problem. It is, perhaps, needless to say that the house, as well as the grounds, was thoroughly searched, but without yielding the slightest clue, and at last, when the fear was becoming more substantial, Mr. Mainwaring told his companions that he thought that they ought not to delay any longer communicating with the police; and as this was voted the proper thing to do, the lawyer took the task upon himself, and went out for that purpose.

Within two hours of Mr. Mainwaring appealing to the police, I was sent for, he having been recommended to put the case in my hands. He gave me all the details of the doctor's movements during the past twenty-fours in a perfectly frank manner. And those details form the story which I have narrated in the foregoing pages. Being a lawyer, and used to systematising facts and incidents, he was clear in his statements, and placed all the incidents in proper sequence, so that everything likely to have any bearing on the case might be before me. Mr. Mainwaring did not attempt to disguise that they were all more or less under the influence of the wine they had imbibed the previous day and night. But his own opinion was, the doctor was not much, if any, the worse. That this was correct was borne out by the testimony of the policeman, who while on duty had seen Surgeon Palmer, and conversed with him a few minutes previous to his entering his house. That he did enter the house and secure the door the man was positive about, and that the door was secured in the morning all right was vouched for by the servant who had come down first.

At this stage of the case it did not seem that any of the friends or servants, except Miss Lilian Aitkin, seriously thought that any fatal calamity had happened to the Doctor.

'The fact is,' said Mainwaring, 'although he could stand a lot of drink without showing it, it affected his brain very much, and when alcoholised he was in the habit of doing erratic and idiotic things. Now what I think is this: Seized with some sudden and unaccountable desire to wander about after he got into the house, or after he went into the paddock to see the horse, he managed to get away somehow or other, and has fallen perhaps into bad hands; that is, got into a house where he is being detained. He may even have been drugged, for he wore a good deal of jewellery, and was seldom without a considerable sum of money in his pocket. Having an idea that I am correct in my theory, I should like the affair kept as quiet as possible so as to avoid scandal.'

'Well,' I answered, 'what you state is feasible, although it's antagonistic to your first statement, that it was not possible for him to have got out of the paddock without leaving some indications behind as to how he had gone.'

'True, I did say so; but if he didn't leave the paddock, where the deuce is he?'

Of course this line of argument showed that, lawyer though he was, Mr. Mainwaring was at his wit's end for a reasonable theory—in short, was absolutely mystified. As I was assured that every hole and corner of the house had been subjected to a rigid examination, I did not deem it necessary to go over the premises again at that moment. And having heard a narration of Miss Lilian Aitkin's dream—to which, let me say here, I attached not the slightest importance—I proceeded to the paddock in company with the lawyer and several of the servants, including the coachman, stablemen, and the gardener. After a full half hour's critical examination of the place, I came to the conclusion that the Doctor could not have escaped that way. There was not the slightest gap in the formidable hedge through which a man could have passed without leaving some trace behind—that is to say, he would have required to have exerted so much force in order to squeeze his body through that many of the twigs and stems must necessarily have been broken. Now, the paddock itself had no hole or corner where a man could have concealed himself. There was a small hay stack in one corner and a shed in the other, but they, of course, need not be taken into account. Yes, there was one place, but it could only have hidden a dead man's body. This place was the liquid manure pit. It was about twelve feet square, almost flush with the ground, but a wooden combing running all round to prevent the edges of the pit falling in, and there was a wooden pump on one side for the purpose of pumping the liquid up, which was then used for the garden. Looking at this pit for some moments I asked—

'How deep is that pit?'

My question was like a bombshell, for it at once suggested a dreadful possibility, and I saw that nearly every one present betrayed alarm.

'My God!' exclaimed Mainwaring, 'you don't think that he has thrown himself in there?'

'I asked a question,' I said; 'it is not for me to hazard an opinion. How deep is the pit?'

The gardener here spoke up and answered me.

'It's about three-and-a-half feet, sir.'

I confess that when I heard that I had a sort of instinctive feeling that that horrible place would show us how the Doctor had disappeared. For, if he was not in there, how could he have gone away and left no trace behind unless he had been spirited away?

'Have you a pole or a pitchfork?' I inquired of the gardener.

'Oh, yes,' and he went off to the stable.

The little group of spectators became suddenly silent and scared, after the manner of people who know that they are about to hear some dreadful revelation. My own feeling in the matter was this—and let it be understood that my thoughts were naturally bred out of what I had been told. All the people were utter strangers to me. I had never heard of Surgeon-Major Palmer in my life; but, according to the details, as I had gathered them, this gentleman, being wealthy and an idler, and fond of free-living, had been to the Derby, bent on having what he would, no doubt, have called a day's enjoyment. At night he entertained his friends at his house, and they all seemed to have drank, 'not wisely, but too well.' The surgeon, being able to stand more than the others, saw a friend home at an early hour in the morning; then returned to his house, and in all probability he may have refreshed himself again from the too seductive decanter. After that, being fond of his animals, he had gone out to see his invalid horse; and after that—what? With the other facts before one, did it not seem easy to fill in the sequel? Some sudden aberration of intellect might have led him to commit suicide; but the more likely theory was that, lacking physical steadiness, and possibly being somewhat in a mental haze, he had stumbled and met his fate in that horrible cesspool. Surely, nine hundred and ninety men out of every thousand would have constructed just such a theory as that in the absence of a tittle of evidence that the Doctor had got out of the paddock, and, as I looked at the melancholy horse standing limp and scared-like under the shed, I thought to myself, 'That poor beast knows all about it. I read the story in his mournful eyes, and had he but the gift of speech he would say, 'Yes, you are quite right; it is even as you think.'

As will be seen directly, only one part of my theory was correct.

In a few minutes the gardener returned with a pitchfork, and, taking this from him, I began to sound the manure pit, and in a few moments I turned to the scared and eager spectators who were crowding round, and said—

'The gentleman is in here.'

The effect of this announcement was to cause them all to start back in horror, and one of the female servants fell with a shriek to the ground and fainted. I had with the pitchfork touched a soft, yielding something in the turbid mass, and that something I had not a doubt was a human body. The fainting woman was carried into the house, and then we made a grapnel of some large iron hooks fastened to two lengths of cord, and with this apparatus we fished Surgeon-Major Palmer from the horrible pit.

The recovery of his body, of course, caused a sensation amongst those who, in a sort of bewildered and fascinated way, were looking on. It was but natural that when we hauled the body out I should think that the theory I had constructed was the correct one, for I had no means of seeing then that the mystery was only beginning.

It can readily be surmised that the condition the poor gentleman was in after being soaked in that filthy liquid prevented our seeing the true state of matters. I had a large horse-cloth brought from the stable, and in this we placed the body, and so carried it into the scullery, and when I had intimated that the corpse should be stripped of the clothing and washed and the coroner notified, I considered my share in the ghastly business was over. But, as a matter of fact, it was only then commencing.

The servants, of course, were much cut up and horrified, for the 'master' was greatly beloved by those who served him; for he was not only a very considerate master and a humane one, but an unusually kind one to his servants, and so there was much weeping and wailing at the sight of the poor man lying there enveloped in slimy filth, and stone dead. One of the gardeners had already seized a sponge, and, dipping it in water, had begun to sponge the face, when suddenly he started back with the exclamation—

'Good God! look here, he's got a hole in his head!'

I was in the very act of leaving the scullery when this was said, but, turning back, I stooped down, and saw on the forehead near the right temple a blue, jagged wound, which, from its appearance, left no doubt on my mind was a bullet wound. I had seen many bullet wounds in my time, and was not likely to be deceived.

Rising to my feet I said—

'This puts another aspect on the matter. Please send for the nearest medical man, and leave the body precisely as it is. Don't touch it any more until it has been seen by a surgeon.'

I now deemed it my duty to remain there, although the conclusion I came to was that it was a case of suicide, and when Mr. Mainwaring muttered to me, 'This is an awful bit of business,' I answered, 'Yes, the poor man has evidently killed himself.'

I should rather be disposed to say somebody else has killed him,' Mainwaring remarked. 'Why, he seemed to me the very last man in the world to do such a deed as that. He enjoyed life. He was of a most cheerful disposition; had plenty of money, and, as far as one could judge, not a care in the world.'

'Ah!' I answered, 'every man leads a life within his life. Unless you can know the secret workings of a man's heart you can never know whether he is truly happy or not. Besides, the brain often plays sudden tricks with us, and there may come a time when a sudden pang of remorse for something done renders a man mad for a moment, but in that moment he realises the falseness of life's glitter, and rushes into the unknown.'

'There is truth in what you say,' replied Mainwaring, 'but I'll be hanged if I can think that of Palmer. He was not only a philosopher, but endowed with a powerful mind.'

'Well, we shall see,' I returned. 'You knew him, and I didn't; but I think we shall find it is a case of suicide.'

In the course of another few minutes the doctor arrived, and, stooping down, he made a cursory examination of the wound, and immediately pronounced it a bullet-hole. He thereupon ordered the body to be stripped and washed immediately, and while preparations were being made for carrying out these instructions I returned to the paddock to look for the weapon that had made the hole, and I took the gardener with me. My own impression was the weapon would be found in the manure pit. For some strange reason, as it seemed then, Dr. Palmer had shot himself at the edge of the pit, and when he fell the pistol—for, presumably, it was a pistol—fell with him. So we set to work at once to pump the liquid out; but while this was being done I used the drags, though without any result. And after we had been at work half an hour, the butler came running out in a very excited state, and exclaimed breathlessly—

'Mr. Donovan, Mr. Donovan, the doctor wants you immediately!'

I returned to the house at once. The body had been removed to a little ante-room, whither I was conducted. I found the doctor, Mr. Mainwaring, and Mr. Plunkett there, and when I had entered the doctor closed the door and said, quietly and gravely—

'Mr. Donovan, this is a case of murder.'

'Murder!' I echoed.

'Yes. I find on examination that there is a very deep puncture, evidently a stab, in the back under the left shoulder-blade, and, as far as I can judge from the direction of the wound, I should say the heart must have been punctured. Now, although it would have been easy enough for a man to have shot himself in the forehead as we find this man shot, it would be an utter impossibility for him to stab himself in the back. I have probed for the bullet, but cannot find it. It is probably imbedded deep in the base of the skull. I should say without hesitation that either wound would produce almost, if not absolutely, instantaneous death, but it is clearly impossible for me to determine now whether the Doctor was shot first or stabbed first.'

'I will not hesitate to say that this announcement caused me a shock, because it seemed to me at first so clearly a case of suicide, that murder had not entered into my thoughts. But from what the doctor said, there could not be a shadow of a doubt that Surgeon-Major Palmer had been foully murdered. And now came the solemn and serious question—' By whom? Who had done this horrible deed? And why had he done it?'

From the careful examination we had already made of the paddock, we proved pretty conclusively that there was no break in the hedge to show that a man had either entered or left. But, returning once more to the place, I began a new inspection, and as I noticed the old horse, which was still standing mournfully under his shed, I could not help the reflection Poor beast! your eyes must have seen this strange deed—must have seen your poor master foully done to death; but nature seals your mouth, and you cannot describe the murderer.'

It might only have been fancy on my part, but it certainly did seem to me that the animal was sorrowing and grieving.

The inspection I now made only served to confirm the conclusion I had come to at first, which was that nobody had got over the hedge; and to have got over the wall a ladder was necessary, though a daring and determined man might have got over by other means. That is, he might have had a rope with a large sharp hook at the end. He could have thrown this hook to the top of the wall until it caught. Then he could have pulled himself up by the rope, and lowered himself down again on the other side by the same arrangement. But given that this was the means employed, I should have expected to find traces of the man's boots on the surface of the wall. I say 'a man,' because all the circumstances were antagonistic to the idea that a woman had done the deed. As far as mere possibilities went, a woman might have done it, but the probabilities were all against it, though it did occur to me that a woman might, and very likely was the cause.

Although I subjected the wall to the keenest search, I could not detect the slightest sign that a man with boots on had climbed up it. X man without boots on might have done so. Supposing, for instance, the murderer had prepared all his plans beforehand, he, in all likelihood, came barefooted, and in that ease his feet would not have marked the wall. I next got a ladder and, mounting to the top of the wall, examined it for indications of a hook or grapnel having been employed, but I could see nothing that warranted me coming to the conclusion that such a means of entrance to or egress from the paddock had been used.

Most certainly, as appearances went then, the affair was a very complicated puzzle, and it was necessary to define some reasonable hypothesis to account for the motive of the murder. That motive was not robbery. That was placed beyond doubt by all the property on Dr. Palmer's body being intact—his ring's, a diamond scarf-pin, his massive and very valuable gold chronometer and chain, and his money, £20 being found in his pocket. The idea of robbery, therefore, had to be put on one side. And that being so, the next likeliest motive was revenge, and till I saw reason to change my views I determined to look upon revenge as the actuating cause which had led to the dark deed being committed. As a logical sequence of this view, it followed that the person guilty of the deed must have been pretty well acquainted with the Doctor's habits. He must have known that he was in the habit of going to look at his sick horse the last thing before retiring. And on the night of the crime he knew, no doubt, that his victim was making merry—that his victim's guests were in a state when they would probably all sleep soundly. And so the murderer lay concealed in the paddock during the solemn hours of the night, and with no mortal eye, save that of the poor old horse, to witness the foul deed, he slew the unfortunate man. All these points, if in any way correct, pointed to the murderer as being one of the household of that night. Either one of the guests or one of the servants. I need scarcely say I kept this thought strictly to myself.

Not the least remarkable circumstance in connection with this mystery was Lilian Aitkin's dream. That she did so dream seemed evident, because she had told Mrs. Challoner before it was known that the Doctor had not slept in his bed, and Mrs. Challoner had told the other servants. Necessarily I asked myself if this dream was the effect of foreknowledge, or the result of causes that could not be determined by ordinary laws? But if it was the effect of foreknowledge, the girl must have been worse than a fool to tell her dream, as it was calculated to place her in a somewhat unenviable position. I inclined to the belief that there was no foreknowledge, because, had Lilian known that the murder was to be committed, she surely would never have been so weak-brained as to say she Lad dreamed about it, for what possible purpose was there to serve in so doing? Nevertheless, I determined to look into the history of pretty Lilian Aitkin.

In due time the manure-pit was pumped dry, and then we carefully searched the place for the weapons with which the murder had been committed; but the search was without result. We could find nothing, and I turned my attention then to trying to discover the exact spot where the crime was perpetrated, and on my hands and knees I began a careful scrutiny of the grass, deeming it probable that some of the blades would show traces of blood, for the doctor stated that from both wounds there would be a large flow of blood. After a time my search was rewarded. I found what were unmistakably blood-stains on the grass. I 'graced these stains to the haystack of which I have made mention. There was a wooden roof over this hay. The roof was supported by a wooden prop at each corner. I found that some of the loose hay on the ground had been drenched with blood. Here, then, was the spot where the deed had been done, and it was easy to suppose that the murderer lurked behind the haystack, that his victim went to the stack to get some hay for the horse, that he was then shot and fell on his face, but, not being dead, or to make doubly sure of the fiendish work being complete, the victim was stabbed in the back as he lay. His body was then dragged to the manure-pit and cast in.

So far, the action of the tragedy seemed clear enough. And now it was important that the weapons should be discovered, for they might afford an unerring clue to the perpetrator of the deed. To this end the paddock was searched and searched again. The hay was turned over; possible and impossible hiding places were examined; the adjoining gardens were also searched under the idea that the criminal might have hurled the things away after the crime was done. But our labour was all in vain. Nothing was found, and I next turned my attention to the interior of the house. The servants, as well as the gentlemen guests who still remained, anxious to do what they could, rendered valuable aid, and our search of the house was as thorough as the search of the gardens and the paddock had been, but the result was the same. In the Doctor's bed-room were three or four revolvers, but it was proved that they had not been used for a long time. There were also hung on the wall an Indian lance, a cavalry sword, a Turkish bayonet, and an Italian dagger with a jewelled handle, and a long, sharp blade. These things were subjected to a rigid examination with a powerful glass. But the rust of ages was on them, and it was obvious they had not been used to take their owner's life.

Before leaving the house, where I had now been for some hours, I questioned Mr. Mainwaring as to what his views were of the affair. His answer was, that he had no theory whatever. He had known Dr. Palmer for about a year, and the greater part of that time they had been very intimate. As regards his own affairs, Doctor Palmer was peculiarly reticent. He was very hospitable, very warm-hearted, brave as a lion, of a most even temper, and full of animal spirits. He had great determination of purpose, was excessively fond of gaiety, and of the company of ladies, and his weakness in the latter respect had sometimes led him into scrapes. Such were the characteristics of the deceased gentleman as given me by Mr. Mainwaring; and, as I pondered over the matter, it seemed to me that the cause of the murder must be sought for in the Doctor's gaiety. In other words, jealousy had prompted the crime, and my business was to try and discover who had had the best reason to be jealous. In this I saw, or fancied I saw, an exceedingly likely clue to the murderer; but at that stage of the proceedings I was bound to confess to myself that the whole affair was shrouded in mystery.

I need scarcely say, perhaps, that in setting to work to unravel this mystery I did not lose sight of the possibilities that the Surgeon's slayer might be found amongst the guests he had entertained on the night of his death. It must be borne in mind that I inclined strongly to the belief that the motive of the crime was to be found in jealousy, and the cause of that jealousy, I decided, was one of the Misses Aitkin, if not both of them. The Doctor's attention to these ladies had inflamed someone who was also enamoured of them. Thus I reasoned, and it was for me to determine who the someone was. Herein my field of labour was narrowed to a very limited area—that is, so long as I confined myself to the guests—for virtually my suspicions, if I really had any suspicions, rested on Mr. Mainwaring or Mr. Egerton Plunkett; but I very soon saw reason to definitely decide that I should not be justified in harbouring suspicion against these gentlemen; and, although I ascertained that the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater—who, it will be remembered, left the Doctor's house early in the evening—was smitten deeply with the charms of Miss Mabel Aitkin, she did not encourage him in the least. But, any way, he could not have been jealous of the Doctor as far as she was concerned, as servants and friends alike were unanimous in declaring that it was Lilian who was the Doctor's favourite. And, attractive as her sister was, Lilian completely overshadowed her, for I must certainly rank her amongst the most beautiful women I have met. She had a wonderfully mobile and expressive face, that reflected like a looking-glass the varying emotions of her mind. Neither of these young women was well educated, and each lacked that polish and refinement that conies from high-breeding; but each in degree was peculiarly fascinating, though Lilian bore off the palm. In conversation her lack of thorough education was soon made apparent; but she made up for it by an amount of general knowledge that was little short of amazing, and which was due, no doubt, to the fact that she had a most retentive memory, and was a keen observer. The quality of self-possession, too, was one that she had naturally, and which she had cultivated to a very marked degree. She was capable also of arguing in a way that might have discomfited many men. But leaving Lilian and her sister for a moment, let us return to the servants.

The female portion I passed over, for I was perfectly convinced it was not a woman's hand that had destroyed the Doctor's life. In fact, the medical man who made the post-mortem examination averred that the knife had been driven into the body with such a force that only a very powerful man could have done it. Amongst the men servants the one that most nearly answered that description was Walter Joyce, the soldier servant of Dr. Palmer. He had a splendid physique, with a development of chest and a massiveness of limb that argued remarkable muscular power. The character he bore in the house was that of being reticent, and now and again given to an over-indulgence in stimulants; but he was described as a singularly even-tempered and good-natured man. Before entering the Doctor's service, where he had been for six months, he was for two years with a retired army captain. The captain was dead, but his widow and family spoke of Joyce in the very highest terms of praise; and I saw nothing, and heard nothing, that would have warranted my harbouring a shadow of suspicion against him.

The sensation that was caused when the crime became known was very great, and the deceased gentleman's relatives came forward with all sorts of theories, all of which, however, when put to the test, were found to be unworkable.

Mr. Mainwaring—who proved himself to be a very practical and business-like man—agreed with me that in all probability jealousy had been the actuating motive leading to the crime. He informed me that the Doctor had been very strongly attached to Lilian Aitkin, but that she did not altogether reciprocate the warmth of his passion. He had—so the lawyer assured me—even offered her marriage, but she had refused him, much to the amazement of those who were acquainted with the circumstance. This naturally set me pondering, and I asked myself why a young woman in her position should have refused an offer of marriage that must have so greatly been to her advantage. It was a most suggestive circumstance to me, and I quietly set to work to learn the history of Lilian and her sister, with the following result:—

They were the only daughters of a naval officer who, dying when they were quite children, left his widow unprovided for, and with the burden of four children—two sons besides the girls—on her shoulders. Thus it came about that the girls received but scant education. They had, however, somewhat exalted notions of the position they ought to hold in society; but finding that their poverty militated against them, they revolted against maternal control before they were out of their teens, and throwing off all the shackles of restraint they abandoned themselves to so-called gaiety. But Lilian came under the notice of a wealthy invalid lady, who, being much struck with her, offered to take her into her service as a companion, an offer the girl accepted. The lady, wishing also to do something for the sister, provided Mabel with the necessary capital to start, in partnership with her mother, a small fancy shop as a means of livelihood, and this being done, the lady went abroad, taking Lilian with her. They travelled about the Continent for some little time, and then went to India. Two years were passed in India when they started to return to Europe, but the lady became seriously ill, and was advised to remain at Malta, which she did, keeping Lilian with her. A year was spent on the island, as the invalid became attached to the place, and it seemed to suit her; but a sudden relapse of her complaint, just as she was contemplating returning to London, had a speedy fatal termination. Apart from a legacy of five hundred pounds, payable immediately, she left Lilian Aitkin a hundred a year for life.

Soon after the funeral of her benefactress, Miss Aitkin left Malta, and a hiatus occurred in the story of her movements, as for six months nobody seemed to know what had become of her. She communicated with none of her friends, not even her sister, and for these six months she disappeared entirely from their ken. At length she turned up again in London. Her mother was then dead, and her sister was carrying on the little business. But soon after, yielding to Lilian's persuasion, she sold it, and they launched out into a whirl of excitement. In the process of time they became acquainted with Surgeon-Major Palmer, and, as I have already stated, the Doctor made Lilian an offer of marriage, which, for some reason best known to herself, she declined.

Such, in brief, was the story of these two young ladies. A story that, so far as it concerned Lilian, had a special interest for me. For bearing in mind the French proverb, Cherchez la Femme, I felt almost sure that it was through her the Doctor had come to his untimely end.

Let me make myself clear. I did not think that she had abetted the murderer in any way, for I saw nothing to warrant that conclusion. But what I did think was, that she had been the unconscious cause; and that, if I could fill up the gap in the story of her wanderin's, I might, perchance, obtain a clue to the criminal. As it was, no clue was forthcoming. Not a trace of the weapons could be discovered; nothing amongst the Doctor's papers and letters threw any light on the matter; the most ingenious cross-examination of the servants failed to bring out anything that might have served as a guide; and the strange crime remained a profound mystery. To confess that, in the face of all this, I felt baffled, would be to do myself somewhat of an injustice. I did most certainly feel puzzled, for I might be likened to a man in the centre of a maze, who had tried the various paths without finding egress. Still, I buoyed myself up with the thought that no puzzle invented by human brain could be so ingenious as to utterly baffle man's skill, and so I was sanguine that, sooner or later, I would run the doctor's murderer down.

I must state here that, within a few hours of the doctor's death, his executors—one of them was Mr. Mainwaring—took charge of his property; and in the course of a fortnight all the servants were discharged, as their services were no longer needed. The house, therefore, that had been the scene of so much revelry and careless pleasure was given over to silence and solitude, while passers-by regarded it with more or less awe, for murder, foul and cruel, had desecrated it.

Impelled by some sort of intuitive feeling that by clinging to the sisters Aitkin I should ultimately obtain a clue that would enable me to unravel the mystery, I determined not to lose sight of them. Their demeanour and bearing convinced me that they were sincerely sorry for the death of their friend. They referred to him in terms of great respect, and did not hesitate to speak of the great generosity he had shown towards them. Indeed, they both averred that in him they had both lost the best friend they had ever had in the world.

Perhaps I need scarcely say that I felt a good deal of curiosity on the subject of Lilian's dream, and I frequently discussed it with her, though she was unable to remember anything that might have predisposed her to dream of the doctor's death. But somehow or another, how I cannot for the life of me tell, there began to grow up in my mind a conviction that she was concealing something; that she had a secret which she was desirous of screening from the eyes of all the world. As I say, I am quite unable to tell why I began to think this. Probably it was due to an unconscious impression I received that she always spoke with a reservation, notwithstanding a seeming candour. But if I am not able to accurately determine the beginning of my suspicion in this respect, I know that it ultimately took hold of me, as it were, and I could not shake it off.

It may readily be supposed that I was not willing to let go anything, however shadowy, that promised even a remotely possible clue to the unravelling of this strange and startling crime. Already two months had passed, and yet we had failed to get on the track of the murderer, and, notwithstanding that a considerable Government reward was offered, and that this was supplemented by a reward of £500, promised by the relatives, for any information that would lead to the detection of the criminal, not a soul came forward with a statement of any kind that was of the slightest value. Udder these circumstances I was not disposed to let go my hold of even the flimsy thread I had got. I was not blind to the likelihood of my being deluded, but I resolved to go on until the delusion became a certainty, or I proved myself right; and in pursuance of this resolve I took an opportunity one day of waiting upon Lilian Aitkin, and putting the following point blank questions to her—

'Do you know of any one out of all your circle of acquaintances who had, or might have thought he had, an interest in Surgeon-Major Palmer's death?'

There was a very appreciable space of time between my question and her answer, which was—

'No, I do not.'

The tone in which this was said, and the manner with which she said it, gave force and weight to my hitherto somewhat shadowy idea that she was carefully guarding a secret. Whatever that secret might be I had no hope that I should succeed in wringing it from her; for not only was she remarkably self-possessed, but she was without that sentiment which we usually associate with women, and she had the no less striking power of keeping her emotions in subjection. In fact, she might be described as a woman absolutely incapable of emotion. As there was no emotion to play upon, no sentiment to stir up, she was not in the least likely to betray herself, supposing that she had any guilty knowledge. To give point to the foregoing remarks, let me add, that we generally reach a woman's mind through the sentiment and emotion peculiar to the womanly temperament; and, assuming the existence of these qualities, the woman does not live who could resist giving herself away to the man capable of exerting the peculiar diplomacy necessary to the probing of the feminine heart. I had, almost from my first acquaintance with her, been convinced that in Miss Lilian Aitkin I had no ordinary woman to deal with; and mentally I likened her to a sort of Sphinx who guarded her secrets in a stony breast, against which no assaults would be effectual.

'There is one other question I must put to you, Miss Aitkin,' I said. 'Will you tell me where you went to after you left Malta?'

Perhaps it will almost seem like a contradiction of what I have just set forth if I state that my question appeared to startle her, or at any rate I thought it did. But now, without the slightest hesitation, and speaking with a decisiveness that was unmistakable, she said—

'No, Mr. Donovan, I will not. And I quite deny your right to question me as to my past life. If you suspect me of being either directly or indirectly concerned in the Doctor's fate, you can, as an officer of the law, arrest me, and take such means as may seem good to you to justify your measure. But I have yet to learn that you do suspect me, and therefore I deny your right to open the volume of my foregone life. It is mine, and mine alone, and I will not yield it to inquisitiveness, idle curiosity, or unwarranted suspicion.'

This answer astonished me, for it not only proved her to be a remarkable woman, but it had in it the germs of an irrefutable logic.

'I frankly confess that I do not think for a moment that you were particeps criminis to this dreadful crime,' I said.

'Then why do you desire to go into my past history?' she demanded with a certain indignant peremptoriness.

'To that question I must respectfully decline to accord a reply,' I said firmly. 'It is not always easy, and most certainly not desirable, to give reasons for one's motives.'

'Very well,' she answered, 'I will not seek to divine your motives, for I am indifferent to them, and it seems to me any further interviews between us will be merely a waste of time.'

This was decisive, and I left her, but I had no intention of losing sight of her, and I was inflexibly determined then to fill in that blank in the story of her life, for the thought still grew and grew upon me—haunted me, as it were—that from those lost pages of her strange history I might get more than a hint that would help me in reading the riddle of the crime.

The sensation caused by the murder had quite died out. In deed, it had been overshadowed by another great murder case in the metropolis, in which a woman and two children had been foully done to death; and as the public memory is short, Surgeon-Major Palmer had ceased to be remembered. I mean, of course, in a public sense; but there were men whose duty it was not to forget him, and I was one of them. I was disappointed, irritated, that I had failed so far to obtain any clue, although I was aware that I could not, no more than any other man, perform impossibilities. But I felt, so long as I had not filled in that hiatus in Lilian's history, I had not exhausted every chance of getting on the track of the criminal, and so I decided to take a step which I hoped would enable me to supply the missing page. This step was to proceed to Malta; and, in the course of the succeeding fortnight, I was crossing the Bay of Biscay, bound for the island.

On arriving at my destination I found that Miss Aitkin was well remembered, for her flirtations with many of the officers in garrison there had made her somewhat notorious. Indeed, I was informed that she had been the cause of two or three duels, and of grave scandals that had blighted more than one family's happiness.

But I learned something, to me of far greater importance than this. I was made aware of dark rumours that had found tongue of an intrigue carried on by Lilian Aitkin with a man who had been a soldier, but who was then a servant attached to the household of the principal Maltese magistrate. The man was known by the name of James Beeston. Soon after Lilian left the island this man suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. As he was not known to have been guilty of any offence against the law, it was at first supposed that he had committed suicide. Subsequently, however, it was incontestably proved that he had gone off in a French fishing lugger, named L'Etoile, which was bound to Marseilles. This fact would have been without any special significance save for one thing. I learned that Lilian Aitkin, when she left the island, went direct to Marseilles also, in a French mail boat.

Here, then, were two suspicious incidents which required looking into; and I began to think I was now in a fair way of discovering what Lilian did during those months when she was lost to her friends. A few days later I was in Marseilles, and by dint of unflagging perseverance I obtained information which made it clear that Miss Lilian and James Beeston came together, and that they proceeded to Paris. This latter fact became known in rather a curious way. In the hotel where Lilian stayed in Marseilles she lost a valuable ring which had had been given to her by her benefactress. The landlord promised that every means possible should be taken to find the ring, and if found, it should be forwarded anywhere she wished. She thereupon said she would write when she got to Paris, and communicate her address. This she did. The ring was found, and sent to her at Hotel Meyerbeer, Rue Meyerbeer, Paris.

From Marselles I went off to Paris, and my investigations at the Hotel Meyerbeer revealed the fact that Lilian and James Beeston stayed there as man and wife. They remained in Paris and at the same hotel for several months, but they did not seem to be in perfect concord with each other, and often quarrelled. It was said that the chief, if not the only, cause of this was that 'Monsieur was jealous of his pretty wife.'

But now I brought a more startling item still to light. On getting a description of James Beeston I found it tallied closely with that of Walter Joyce, who had been servant to Surgeon-Major Palmer; and when I was aware of this, the mystery began to clear away, and I felt that the road out of the maze was straight before me.

My next journey was to London, and once back in the metropolis, I lost no time in trying to arrest James Beeston, alias Walter Joyce, on suspicion of being the murderer of Surgeon-Major Palmer; but he had gone, leaving no trace behind him. Lilian Aitkin, however, was still at her old address, and once again I sought an interview with her.

'Miss Aitkin,' I began, 'since I last saw you I have been able to fill in the blank in your history.'

'Indeed!' she exclaimed sneeringly. 'I hope it is satisfactory to you.'

'In one sense it is; and I want you to tell me now where I shall find Walter Joyce, or James Beeston, if that is his correct name.'

'I don't know,' she answered without a change in her demeanour or her expression.

'You must pardon me,' I remarked, 'if I frankly say I more than doubt your statement.'

'You may do as you like, sir,' she said. 'I repeat, and repeat it most emphatically, that I have only seen him once since the murder of Dr. Palmer. That is two or three days after the crime.'

'Where did you see him?'

'He called here to induce me to go abroad with him.'

'I am not surprised to hear that,' I answered, 'for I may at once inform you that I have learned that you and he lived in Paris together after you left Malta.'

'Yes, I lived with him, because he became my husband.'

I smiled incredulously, and I thought she so far betrayed her feelings as to show anger at my doubt. But there was no anger in her voice as she spoke. Her tone rather indicated contempt, indignation, scorn.

'You have learnt much,' she said, 'and have shown yourself clever, but you have only learnt half the truth apparently. Excuse me for a few minutes, and I will show you something that will astonish you.'

She left the room, and was away about a quarter of an hour. Then she returned and handed me a document, which I unfolded and read, and had to confess that I was astonished, for it was a certificate of a civil marriage between Lilian Aitkin, spinster, and James Beeston, bachelor, celebrated at the British Embassy, Paris.

'I knew you would be surprised,' she said, with a cold cynical smile playing about her pretty mouth, and an expression of consciousness of the triumph she had scored.

'I may well be surprised,' I answered, 'for I did not dream that Beeston was your husband. And now your reason for refusing Doctor Palmer's offer of marriage is clear.'

At last her wonderful self-possession gave way—her woman's nature asserted itself, and she burst into passionate weeping. In a few minutes she said—

'Yes; my reason was, I could not commit bigamy. The man I was linked to I hated—'

'Why did you marry him, then?'

'Because, like a blind fool, I thought I loved him. Every woman becomes more or less mad at some period of her life, and I had my moments of madness. I became his wife, and immediately after I began to hate him, for he tried to make me his bond slave, and his jealousy was such that, could he have done so, he would have shut me up in an iron-bound room, and never have allowed me to look on any human face but his. I had been too much used to freedom, however—had seen too much of the world to yield readily to the shackles he tried to put upon me. I rose in revolt; we quarrelled desperately, and I left him and came to London. For a time I lost sight of him, but he found me out. It was soon after I became acquainted with Doctor Palmer. He was then in the service of a Captain Millward. He said he was in great distress, because his old mother was likely to lose a house she owned, owing to there being a mortgage on it of three hundred and fifty pounds, which had been called up, but which she could not pay. He told me, if I would let him have this sum, he would make a solemn vow never to bother me in any way again. He would give me a written undertaking to that effect, and I was to be free to do as I liked. I got the money from Dr. Palmer, and gave it to my husband. For some time after this I neither saw him nor heard anything of him, when, to my amazement and horror, I found he had entered the service of Surgeon-Major Palmer. He so far kept his promise that he did not claim me as his wife, and no one had the remotest idea of our relationship, not even my own sister.'

'It's a strange story,' I remarked as she paused. 'Yes; but it is a true one.'

'I do not doubt it. But, tell me, was your husband not jealous of the attention paid to you by Dr. Palmer?'

'I believe he was, but he did not show it. One night, however, he came to me—he had been drinking—and with passionate appeal and entreaty he tried to induce me to live with him again as his wife. I refused, and reminded him of his vow and written promise. Then he said some cruel and bitter things about the Doctor. This maddened me, and I told him I would rather be the slave of the Doctor than my husband's queen.'

'Did your husband threaten his master?'

'No; I never heard him utter a threat.'

'But you believe that he murdered Dr. Palmer?'

'Now I do.'

'Did you not do so at the very first?'

'Not for the first few days. The thought came upon me after.'

'Why did you not denounce him then?'

'Do you forget that I am his legal wife! Do you forget that his disgrace and shame will reflect on me; and that if he is taken, tried, and sentenced, I shall become an outcast—shunned and pointed at as the wife of a murderer!'

I could not but admit the force of her argument, and I pitied her from the bottom of my heart. It was a sad story: a story of human weakness and sin; a story that had been repeated through all the ages, and will continue to be repeated until time shall be no more.

By the Doctor's will she and her sister had been left a legacy of three thousand pounds each, and I advised them that, as soon as they got the money, they should go abroad, where they were not known, and begin a new life; they adopted this advice, and went to America, and a year or two later Mabel married a well-to-do farmer, and went to live with him somewhere near Colorado. But poor Lilian, tortured by some remorse, or scourged by regret for her buried hopes—hopes that died the night Surgeon-Major Palmer was assassinated—sought for Lethe in potent drink, falling at last into the clutch of the demon of consumption, which hurried her to an untimely grave.

With regard to James Beeston, alias Walter Joyce, it remains for me to say he managed to elude man's vengeance. Notwithstanding the reward, and the fact that his portrait was circulated in every civilised country in the world, no tale or tidings of him were ever forthcoming. For months and months I tried to get on his track, but failed. It is highly probable that, by some means or other, he came to know soon after the murder that I was watching his wife, and thinking that she might betray him, he slipped from the country, leaving no trace behind. His crime was a dastardly one, and I have always bitterly regretted that he managed to escape the punishment due, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I was successful in clearing away the mystery that at first surrounded Surgeon-Major Palmer's death.

As a sequel to the foregoing narrative, I may mention that some years after the crime the grounds at the back of what was once Dr. Palmer's house were being cleared for building purposes when an old, decayed oak trunk, which had been a conspicuous object at the bottom of the paddock owing to its being entirely covered with a rich and luxuriant growth of ivy, was cut down, and while being sawn in pieces there was found in a hollow of it an old navy revolver and a formidable Spanish dagger. Both these weapons were much corroded with rust, as they had lain there since the night of the murder, for there could not be any reasonable doubt they were the weapons that had been used to kill the unfortunate Doctor. Five chambers of the revolver were still loaded, and as the bullet which had been taken from the dead man's head had been preserved, it was found to exactly correspond with those which were in the weapon. The fact of the murderer having used two weapons for his fiendish work seemed to indicate that the crime had been deliberately planned. Probably he thought that he might miss his aim with the pistol in the dark, and so had armed himself with the poignard. Very likely he shot his victim first, and the poor man fell forward on his face, and then, to make assurance doubly sure, the assassin plunged the knife into his back. This is only conjecture, but it is, at least, feasible. Whatever the modus operandi was, the deed was done, and then the cowardly slayer hid his deadly tools in the hole of the tree. He must, of course, have known beforehand of that hole, and deemed it a safe hiding-place, as in truth it proved to be, for I myself examined the ivy, thinking it might conceal the weapons, but I failed to discover the hole, and little did I think then I was within a few inches of the articles I was so anxious to find.