A Mysterious Disappearance
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“So it seems, when we have just discovered that your wife was killed in his sister’s house, and Mrs. Hillmer persists in declaring that she was responsible for the crime.”
“Look here, Bruce. Don’t lose your head like everybody else mixed up in this wretched business. My wife is not dead.”
“What!” The cry was a double one, for both Bruce and White gave simultaneous utterance to their amazement.
“It is true. She is alive all the time. I have had a letter from her.”
“A letter. Surely, Dyke – ”
“I am neither mad nor drunk. The letter reached me by this morning’s post. I came here with it as fast as I could travel. I have been in the train all day, and am nearly fainting from hunger.”
“Where is it?” cried White. “Is it genuine?”
“I could swear to her writing amidst a thousand letters. Here it is. I have brought some old correspondence of hers for the purpose of comparison, as I could hardly believe my eyes when I first received it.”
Bruce was so dumfounded by this remarkable development that he could but mutely take the document produced by the baronet and read it.
He himself recognized Lady Dyke’s handwriting, which he had often seen – a clear, bold, well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of a banker than of a fashionable lady.
The letter was dated February 1, bore no other superscription, and read as follows:
“My Dear Charles, – I have just seen in the newspapers the announcement of my death, and the theories set on foot to account for my disappearance on November 6. This seems to convey to me the strange fact that you have not received the explanation I sent you of my reasons for leaving London so suddenly. Otherwise you must have kept your own counsel very closely. However, I do not now desire to reopen the question of motive; let it suffice to say that no one save myself was responsible for my disappearance, and that neither you nor any one acquainted with me will ever see me again. Do not search for me; it will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this letter and forget it. I am dead – to you and to the world. You can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this letter nor trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such precautions that the latter course will be impossible. Let me repeat – forget me.
“Alice.”The barrister carefully refolded the sheet after scrutinizing the water-mark against the light, and noting that the paper was British made; he then examined the envelope. The obliterating postmark was “London, February 4, 9 P.M., West Strand.” The office of delivery was “Wensley, February 6.”
“Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday,” he said. “Detained in London all Sunday, and delivered to you this morning in the North.”
“Exactly.”
“It was written three days earlier, if the date be accurate. So the writer is somewhere in Europe.”
“That’s how I take it,” said Sir Charles.
“Unless the whole thing is a fraud.”
“How can it be a fraud? I am sure as to the handwriting. Why, even yourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife’s style.”
“Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke’s production.”
“Well, what are we to do?”
“And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that fuss when we spoke to her?” interpolated White. “I’ll take my oath that some one was killed in her house, else how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Putney is carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer’s ironwork? I wish she hadn’t fainted just now. Why, she said herself that she was the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she is alive. This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to explain a good deal yet before I am done with her.”
The detective’s wrath at this check in the hunt after a criminal did not appeal to the baronet.
“You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course,” he said coldly; “but so far as I am concerned, I will respect my wife’s wishes, and let the matter rest where it is.”
“My dear fellow,” said the barrister, “such a course is impossible. Assuming that her ladyship is really alive, why did she leave you?”
“How can I tell? She herself refuses to give a reason. She apparently stated one in a letter which never reached me, as you know. She has selfishly caused me a world of suffering and misery for three long months. I refuse to be plagued in the matter further.”
Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter revolt against circumstances.
“Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dyke’s relatives?” asked Bruce, at a loss for the time to discuss the situation coherently.
“I do not know. What would you advise? I trust fully to your judgment. But is it not better to obey her wishes? – to forget, as she puts it?”
“We must decide nothing hastily. I am perplexed beyond endurance by this business. There is so much that is wildly impossible in its irreconcilable features. I must have time. Will you give me a copy of the letter?”
“Certainly, keep it yourself. We have all seen it.”
“Thank you.” Bruce placed the envelope and its contents in his pocket-book. Then, turning to the detective, he said:
“Now, Mr. White, do me a favor. Do not worry Mrs. Hillmer until you hear from me.”
“By all means, Mr. Bruce. But am I to report to the Commissioner that Lady Dyke has been found, or has, at any rate, explained that she is not dead?”
“There is no immediate necessity why a report of any kind should be made.”
“None.”
“Then leave matters where they are at present.”
“But why,” put in Sir Charles. “Is it not better to end all inquiries, at least so far as my wife is concerned? It is her desire, and, I may add, my own, now that I know something of her fate.”
“Of course, if you wish it, Dyke, I have no valid objection.”
“Oh, no, no. Do not look at it in that way. I leave the ultimate decision entirely to you.”
“In that case, I recommend complete silence in all quarters at present.”
The detective left them, and as he passed out into Victoria Street his philosophy could find but one comprehensive dictum. “This is a rum go,” he muttered, unconsciously plagiarizing himself on many previous occasions.
The baronet sat down, and meditatively chewed the handle of his umbrella.
“What is this nonsense Mensmore’s sister talked about being responsible for my wife’s death?” he said.
“I do not pretend to understand,” answered Bruce. “Little more than a week ago she learned for the first time of your wife’s supposed murder. Of that I am quite positive. She feared that her brother was implicated, and, without trusting me with the reasons for her belief, took the measures she thought best to safeguard him.”
“Took measures! What?” Sir Charles jerked the words out impetuously.
“She followed him to the South of France, and found him in Florence. What she said I cannot guess, but the result was their visit here to-night. During our interview it came out, quite by accident, that some furniture was taken from her place to her brother’s on the morning of November 7, thus shifting the venue of Lady Dyke’s death – or imaginary death I must now say – from No. 12 Raleigh Mansions to No. 61. This discovery was as startling to Mrs. Hillmer as to us, for she forthwith protested that the whole affair arose from her fault, and practically asked the detective to arrest her on the definite charge of murder.”
“Pooh! The mania of an hysterical woman!”
“Possibly!”
“Why ‘possibly’? No one was murdered in her abode. Do you for a moment believe the monstrous insinuation?”
“No, not in that sense. But her brother was about to make some revelation regarding a third person when she appealed to him not to speak. What would have happened finally I do not know. At that critical moment my servant announced your arrival.”
“But what can Mrs. Hillmer have to conceal? She and her brother have been lost to Society since long before my marriage. Neither of them, so far as I know, has ever set eyes on my wife during the last seven years.”
“Yet Mrs. Hillmer must have had some powerful motive in acting as she did.”
“Is it not more than likely that she had a bad attack of nerves?”
“A woman who merely yields to nervous prostration behaves foolishly. This woman gave way to emotion, it is true, but it was strength, not weakness, that sustained her.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis – the power of love. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying from consequences. She met them half-way in the spirit of a martyr.”
“’Pon my honor, Bruce, I am beginning to think that this wretched business is affecting your usually clear brain. You are accepting fancies as facts.”
“Maybe. I confess I am unable to form a logical conclusion to-night.”
“Why not abandon the whole muddle to time? There is no solution of a difficulty like the almanac. Let us both go off somewhere.”
“What, and leave Mrs. Hillmer to die of sheer pain of mind? Let this unfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no one knows what consequences from the events of to-day? It is out of the question.”
“Very well, I leave it to you. Every one seems to forget that it is I who suffer most.” The baronet stood up and dejectedly gazed into the fire.
“I, at least, can feel for you, Dyke,” said Bruce sympatherically, “but you must admit that things cannot be allowed to remain in their present whirlpool.”
“So be it. Let them go on to their bitter end. If my wife was tired of my society she might at least have got rid of me in an easier manner.”
With this trite reflection Sir Charles quitted his friend’s house.
Bruce sat motionless for a long time. Then, as his mind became calmer, he lit a cigar, took out the doubly mysterious letter, and examined it in every possible way, critically and microscopically.
There could be no doubt that it was a genuine production. The condition of the ink bore out the correctness of the date, and the fact that the note paper and envelope were not of Continental style was not very material.
It did not appear to have been enclosed in another envelope, as the writer implied, for the purpose of being re-posted in London. Rather did the slightly frayed edges give rise to the assumption that it had been carried in some one’s pocket before postage. But this theory was vague and undemonstrable.
The handwriting was Lady Dyke’s; the style, allowing for the strange conditions under which it was written, was hers; yet Bruce did not believe in it.
Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, concrete certainty that stood out from a maze of contradictions and mystery – Lady Dyke was dead, and buried in a pauper’s grave at Putney.
At last, wearied with thought and theorizing, he went to bed; but Smith sat up late to regale his partner with the full, true, and particular narrative of the “lydy a-cryin’ on her knees, and the strange gent lookin’ as though he would like to murder Mr. White.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE HANDWRITING
Like most men, Claude took a different view of events in the morning to that which he entertained over night.
Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete embodiments, each distinct and emphatic. To-day they were merged in the general mass of contradictory details that made up this most bewildering inquiry.
That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present state was clear; that they would, in the natural course of things, reveal themselves more definitely, even if unaided, was also patent.
Mrs. Hillmer’s partial admissions, her brother’s evident knowledge of some salient features of the puzzle, that utterly strange letter in the admitted handwriting of Lady Dyke herself, and bearing the prosaic testimony of dates stamped by the Post-office – these sensational elements, when brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction into clearer phases.
Long experience in criminal investigation told him that, under certain circumstances, the best course of all was one of inactivity.
On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many people that “letters left unanswered answer themselves,” the barrister knew that there must be an outcome from the queer medley of occurrences at his residence on the Monday evening.
Reviewing the history of the past three months several odd features stood out from the general jumble.
In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to deduce any pertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs. Hillmer’s dining-room was furnished on the occasion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.
He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an unusual room littered with unusual articles, when the luxurious and well-appointed suite of apartments was considered as a whole. It was suggested to him at the time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his second visit, was dismantled earlier, but he did not connect this trivial incident with the feature in Mensmore’s flat that he noted immediately – namely, the discrepancies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and the other chambers in the place.
These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them as a guide for future use.
Lady Dyke’s motive for that secret visit to Raleigh Mansions – that was the key to the mystery. But how to discover it? Who was her confidant? To whom could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless to broach the matter again to her husband. The baronet and his wife had been friends sharing the same ménage rather than husband and wife. Her relatives had already been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of the slightest value in this search for truth.
In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding cropped up. She was the personal maid of the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quick wits. Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten. Here at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.
If she refused what could be her motive?
Anyhow it was worth while to make a fresh effort. Early in the afternoon he called at the stage-door of the Jollity Theatre.
“Is Miss Marie le Marchant still employed here?” he asked the attendant.
“I dunno,” was the careless answer.
“Well, think hard,” said the barrister, laying a half-crown on the battered blotting-pad which is an indispensable part of the furniture in the letter bureau of a theatre.
“Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on a week’s leave.”
“Indeed. Has she returned?”
“I was off last night, sir, but if you will pardon me a moment I’ll inquire from the man who took my place.”
The stage-doorkeeper disappeared into the dark interior, to return quickly with the information that Miss le Marchant had appeared as usual on Monday night.
“She was away most part of last week, sir,” added the man, “and I believe it wasn’t a holiday, as she was a-sort of flurried about it as if some one was ill.”
“Thank you. Do you know where she lives?”
A momentary hesitation was soon softened by another half-crown.
“It’s against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near Jubilee Buildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out.”
The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant’s name was painted outside a second-floor flat.
Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he had no difficulty in recognizing.
“Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?” he said.
For a moment she could not speak for surprise.
“Well, I never,” she cried, “but London is a funny place. Do you know me, sir?”
“Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not take you for her elder sister,” he said. Bruce’s smile was irresistible.
“My daughter is not in just now, sir,” replied Mrs. Harding, “but I expect her in to tea almost immediately.”
“Then may I come in and await her arrival?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairly comfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady’s maid’s legacy must have been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poor pittance of a coryphée would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover, the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor in her favor.
Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. She seated herself near the window and resumed some sewing.
“Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?” he said, by way of being civil.
“In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new profession. She’s a good girl, is my daughter.”
“Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?”
“Oh yes, sir. Why, she’s been earning £6 a week, and last week she was sent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she’s going to buy me a new dress out of the money.”
“Really,” said the barrister, “you ought to be proud of her.”
“I am,” admitted the admiring mother. “I only wish her brother, who went off and ’listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well.”
Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at the intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girl could be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother? In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? The story about “£6 a week” was a myth.
Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaque presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, and make-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, “Ever yours sincerely, Marie le Marchant.” And no sooner had Bruce caught sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.
The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.
Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. The resemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanation of this phenomenon.
“Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding,” he said, turning the photograph towards her.
“Yes,” said the complacent mother, “she taught herself when – before she went on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew up she improved herself. I wasn’t able to afford her much schooling when she was young.”
“I have seldom seen a nicer hand,” he went on. “Have you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not private.”
The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not mistaken.
“Oh yes. She’s just copying out the part of Ophelia in Hamlet. And she acts it beautiful.”
Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion has moved millions to tears.
He admired Miss Marie le Marchant’s efforts in the matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her some explanation of her actions.
The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the coveted “part,” and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a “professional” touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her skirt.
She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother’s explanation that “this gentleman has just called to see you, dear.”
“All right, mother,” she cried. “I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes.” This with a defiant look at the visitor.
When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper:
“What do you want with me, now?”
“I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress.”
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant’s assurance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:
“I – I – why do you ask me that question?”
“Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart.
Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously:
“I will tell you nothing. Go away.”
“You are obstinate, I know,” said Bruce, “but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady Dyke’s death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law.”
“You have no right to come here annoying me!” she retorted.
“I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities information which they ought to possess.”
“What information?”
“The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house so suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use your ability to imitate her ladyship’s handwriting in order to spread the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment.”
“I don’t care that for you, Mr. Bruce,” replied the girl, her face set now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize the words. “You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing.”
“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke last Saturday?”
“I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can’t ask you to join me.”
“Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself – your own production – written on paper of which you have a quantity in this very room.”
The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in the house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat a retreat.
“I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce,” she said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not fathom the ex-lady’s maid not only knew of her mistress’s death, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke was actually killed. What did it all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
The baronet at first was sceptical. “Do you mean to say, Claude,” he cried, fretfully, “that I do not know my wife’s writing when I see it?”
“You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly, of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal of excellence. Don’t harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. The letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out was her motive for the deceit.”
“It is a queer business altogether,” said Sir Charles wearily; “I wish it were ended.”
CHAPTER XXV
MISS PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES
Bruce was quite positive in his belief that Jane Harding was the paid agent of some person who wished to conceal the facts concerning Lady Dyke’s death.