Collected works of j s f.., p.809
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 809
“Certain?” demanded Charlesworth. “Positive?”
“As certain as I am that I see you, sir! I know Miss Fawdale’s writing well enough. That’s it!”
Charlesworth put the scrap of paper and the cigarette case safely away again. He was convinced now beyond all doubt that Miss Fawdale was the woman whom Mappleson had seen in company with a man. And having taken Bedford into his confidence already about a good many things, he took him into it still more and repeated Mappleson’s story to him.
“Doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that, sir,” remarked Bedford, lifting his eyebrows expressively. “That’s been Miss F. sure enough! Very mysterious, I think, Mr. Charlesworth. Now who could the gentleman be? For between you and me and the wall, sir, as the saying is, I never knew Miss F. show what you’d call any partiality for gentlemen!”
“Never heard of anything of that sort with any young men of the neighbourhood, eh?” suggested Charlesworth.
“Never, sir! I should have said that Miss F. — from what I saw of her — was not, as I say, partial to gentlemen. Not that sort at all, sir — from my observation of the young lady.”
“What sort was she, now?” asked Charlesworth.
“Odd, sir, very odd! Never could make her out, nor her relation to Sir Charles, nor — nor anything!” declared Bedford. “Masterful, sir, very — and always took care to get her own way about everything. Never knew a young woman in my life who just calmly did whatever she liked — and if she was in any way balked of what she wanted, got it just the same. Do you know, sir,” continued Bedford, waxing eloquent, “I’ve known Sir Charles forbid, actually forbid, Miss F. to do a thing; forbid her, sir, in my presence, and angrily, too. And — she’d just stare at him as innocent as a child might look, sir, and — do it before his eyes!”
“And — what did he do, then?” asked Charlesworth.
“Do, sir? Why, he’d swear first — and laugh afterwards,” replied the butler. “Oh — she’d a deal of power, that young lady. Lady Stanmore, sir,” he continued, sinking his voice to a whisper, “between you and me, she was a cypher in this house, till she turned Miss F. out. And do you know, Mr. Charlesworth, since we are talking about Miss F., I’ll tell you of something that’s puzzled me, greatly. You remember that I was instructed, in your presence, to dismiss Miss F., there and then? Well, sir, do you know that when I saw her in her rooms, she already had all her trunks and belongings packed ready to go! She was going, there and then, evidently — without any dismissal! Now, why?”
“She had her reasons, no doubt,” said Charlesworth. “And that reminds me — when Superintendent Harding and I were leaving the house that morning we came across the new baronet and Miss Fawdale talking at the lodge-gates. He seemed to be in a bad temper. How did he and Miss Fawdale get on, Bedford? — he used to come here, didn’t he?”
“Now and then, sir — not a great deal,” replied Bedford. “Well, sir, I don’t think they got on at all well! My opinion, sir, is that Miss F. was jealous of Mr. Guy Stanmore — she couldn’t bear, you know, sir, to see Sir Charles favour anybody but herself. Yes, I’m sure she was always jealous of Mr. Guy — I’ve seen her show it. Odd young woman, sir! — she’d got to be first, or there was unpleasantness.”
Charlesworth went away after that, and on thinking things over carried the result of his various inquiries to his superiors at Headquarters.
CHAPTER XV. THE PLAY BOX
THE ALL-IMPORTANT PERSONAGE to whom Charlesworth was in the habit of making his reports and from whom he took his orders was a man of few words; he listened much and said little. And when Charlesworth, as succinctly as possible, but still at some length, had unbosomed himself of the story of his investigations and discoveries, the great man’s orders came sharp and pat.
“Find out everything you can about this woman Fawdale’s antecedents, and about her relations, business or otherwise, with Sir Charles Stanmore, and report to me!” he commanded. “Get on to it at once!”
Charlesworth went off — to get on to it. It was just about time for his lunch when he received these marching orders, and he turned into a quiet hostelry that he knew of and picking out a seat in a corner began, as he ate and drank, to consider seriously what he was after. When he had got thinking he had to confess to himself that up to that point he had had no very clear ideas. But he had a quantity of that very useful commodity called Fact. It was a fact (for the medical men had by this time supplied definite information on the point) that Sir Charles Stanmore had been poisoned, and it was practically certain that the poison had not been self-administered; in other words, this was not a case of suicide but of murder. It had also been established by the medical men that the poison, a most subtle one, had been taken from a particular bottle in the Borgia Cabinet. All that made Fact number One — Murder. Well, Fact number Two was that at the time of his murder, Sir Charles Stanmore was in possession of Lady Verringham’s diamond necklace, worth say thirty thousand pounds, and that it had disappeared. Fact number Three was that a copy of Sir Charles Stanmore’s will was lying about on his desk for anybody to read, and that there were provisions in that will of a nature highly gratifying to several beneficiaries: it was impossible to read that will without seeing how considerably several people would benefit whenever Sir Charles Stanmore departed this life. Lady Stanmore (especially considering that she loathed her husband) would be much better off. Mrs. John Stanmore would be much better off. Miss Irene Fawdale would be much better off. Bedford the butler would be much better off. Even Purser the housemaid would be better off. And . . . any one of these people had the means, and the opportunity, and every facility for ridding the world of Sir Charles Stanmore, for according to Charlesworth’s knowledge they all knew of the existence of the Borgia Cabinet and were aware of the nature of its contents — some of them knew, too, that there were poisons in that cabinet the exact nature of which were utterly unknown to British medical or chemical authorities, if Lady Stanmore’s father’s book on the subject was to be trusted. And there was also Guy Stanmore — the quiet removal of his uncle would place that young gentleman in the enviable position of not only succeeding to a baronetcy but to a fortune of some eight or nine hundred thousand pounds.
But Charlesworth didn’t and couldn’t believe that any one of these people had poisoned Sir Charles Stanmore. Lady Stanmore wanted to be free — but she was going to seek her freedom in a court of law. Mrs. John Stanmore didn’t seem the sort of person who would poison a man for the sake of twenty-five thousand pounds. Nor did Bedford, for the sake of a handsome legacy. Nor did Purser — for the sake of a very nice one. As to Guy Stanmore, Charlesworth had no suspicion whatever — he left Guy Stanmore clean out of all reckonings. Well, there remained Miss Fawdale. What did, what could he make of her?
There were no end of queer things about Miss Fawdale, he reflected, as he ate and drank in his lonely corner. Who was she? — and what, exactly, were her relations with Sir Charles Stanmore? What was the cause and the nature of the row, quarrel, disagreement with him which Bedford overheard the morning before Sir Charles Stanmore’s sudden death? Was it in consequence of that that she had her trunks packed ready next day? — was she going to clear out, whether Sir Charles Stanmore was alive or dead, because of that row? And why was she in the grounds of Aldersyke Manor and hiding in a shrubbery with a man at midnight, that very night on which her employer met his death? Queer, all of it!
But there was something queerer, something that needed a lot of clearing up. In Sir Charles Stanmore’s will, the will which Gilford possessed and declared nothing could upset, Miss Irene Fawdale was remembered handsomely, generously, and Guy Stanmore (certainly, he came in at this!) was left the residue of his uncle’s estate. Why, only a few days before his death, had Sir Charles Stanmore gone to a brother solicitor privately and given him instructions for a new will in which Miss Fawdale and Guy Stanmore were left just enough to put bread and cheese in their mouths for life — and no more? What — now what was the reason? What?
“Same old game!” mused Charlesworth as he finished his lunch and lighted his pipe. “Always is! There’s a secret somewhere — and somebody knows it! And, as usual, the somebody’s keeping it to himself or herself! No use theorizing — I’ve got to dig down, and go back, and rake up!” Then he became solemnly epigrammatic. “Solutions of present mysteries lie in past histories!” he said to himself. “Sounds like poetry! Well — where to begin?”
He knew where not to begin. It was no use going to Miss Irene Fawdale herself. Her solicitors had been approached by Gilford in relation to the letter which Gilford had shown to Charlesworth, and they had behaved in a very cavalier fashion. Miss Fawdale, they said, would be produced by them at the proper moment, to wit, at the adjourned inquest, or, they maliciously added, at any police-court proceedings which might eventuate; until then she was not to be annoyed. As to her address, that was her own business, and theirs. But Bedford knew Miss Fawdale’s address in London, and Charlesworth had set a brother-detective to find out if she was still at it. She was not — inquiries showed that she had given up her flat and gone away. Taxed with this, her solicitors had replied scornfully that they were quite aware of their client’s movements and had repeated their intention of producing her — at the right time and place, and this with a hint that her appearance in a witness-box might have some very unpleasant consequences for — somebody.
But there must be a beginning of this quest — and to get at one he turned once more to Aldersyke Manor and to its butler. Bedford, so far, had been of inestimable use; he might be still more useful.
“Here I am again, you see, Bedford!” he exclaimed, once again installed in the butler’s pantry over a cup of tea that afternoon. “And again fishing for information! Can’t get going without it, you know.”
“What is it this time, Mr. Charlesworth?” asked Bedford. “Anything that I can tell, sir — —”
“You’ll be glad to tell, of course,” laughed Charlesworth. “Well, it’s pretty much the same old thing. I want to know more about Miss Fawdale.”
“Yes, sir? And in what direction, Mr. Charlesworth?”
“Backward! I want to go back, perhaps further back than you can take me. But to start with — and of course, Bedford, all this is between you and me! — do you remember when she first came here?”
“Very well indeed, sir! — as well as if it were yesterday!”
“It’s — how long ago?”
“About nine years, sir.”
“How old was she, then?”
“I should say, sir, between eighteen and nineteen years of age. That, sir, is my estimate. She might have been a bit younger, or a bit older. A well-grown young lady, Mr. Charlesworth.”
“Sir Charles Stanmore brought her, I suppose?”
“She came here with him, sir — certainly!”
“Well,” said Charlesworth, “to come to the precise point — what I want to know is, do you know where she came from?”
But Bedford shook his head.
“Haven’t the least idea, Mr. Charlesworth — not the very least! Of course, she came with Sir Charles from London, one day — I remember it very well. But — that’s nothing, is it?”
“Nothing! What I want to get at is, where had she been, lived, and so on, before that. You don’t know — anything?”
“Nothing at all, sir! She came, as I say, with Sir Charles, in his car, one afternoon, and settled down here — she was given a suite of rooms. The flat in London wasn’t started until after Sir Charles’s marriage.”
“Well, I suppose she brought some belongings with her?” suggested Charlesworth. “Have you any recollection of what she brought?”
Bedford’s expression brightened.
“I have, sir! She brought — or, rather, there came immediately after her arrival, a considerable amount of luggage. Most of it was new — I formed the opinion that the young lady had been getting a regular outfit in town: I certainly noticed — I’ve a bit of a noticing eye, Mr. Charlesworth — that most of her gowns were brand new, and a nice penny they must have cost, too!”
“Notice any other things?” asked Charlesworth. “Think! — of anything.”
Bedford replenished his tea-cup, and proceeded to reflect over its rim.
“Things come back, of course,” he said, meditatively, “when one turns one’s mind that way. Yes — there’s one matter I recollect, very well indeed. When Miss F. first came here, I thought she was French.”
“French? Why?”
“Well, her English wasn’t over good, Mr. Charlesworth. She spoke English, of course, but nothing like as easily as she spoke French. She and Sir Charles Stanmore, sir, always did their talking in French — they kept that up to the end, for he spoke French like a native. That, sir, was one of the things that vexed and angered Lady Stanmore so, for she spoke no French. Yes, I certainly thought Miss Fawdale was a Frenchwoman when she first came.”
“Perhaps she was,” said Charlesworth. “But I wish I knew where she came from when she did come!”
“And that I can’t say anything about, sir,” replied Bedford. “But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Charlesworth — in one of our box-rooms there’s a small box, a wooden box, sir, which was amongst the other things that Miss F. brought with her, at her first coming. It was put up there when she came, and she’s never asked for it since and she left it behind her when she went away the other day: I should say she’s completely forgotten its existence! Just a plain wooden box, sir; Mr. Guy had a similar one when he was at school, Mr. Charlesworth — his was termed a play-box.”
Charlesworth jumped from his chair.
“Good!” he exclaimed. “Can I see it? Is it unlocked? — can one examine its contents?”
“I can’t say if it’s unlocked or not, sir,” replied Bedford. “I only know that it’s there — I should say it’s never been touched since it was carried up to that room. Come this way, Mr. Charlesworth.”
Charlesworth followed the butler to the upper regions of the big house, and in a room filled with old trunks, portmanteaux, suit-cases and odds and ends of travelling appliances, found himself confronting a plain wooden chest on which were painted the initials I.F.
“That’s a play-box, all right!” he muttered. “I suppose girls have ’em as well as boys. Locked! Um! — well, Bedford, I’m going to have a look inside. And I shan’t break the lock, either!”
Giving the butler a knowing wink, Charlesworth produced from his pocket what looked to Bedford like a bit of bent steel. Inserting it in the lock he gave it a twist or two and a second later turned back the lid.
“Present from an accomplished cracksman, that, Bedford!” he said laughing, as he put the pick-lock back in his pocket. “And highly useful on occasions such as these. Well, here we are!” he went on, turning back a fold of faded newspapers. “What have we — dolls? No — school-books — exercise books. But by gad! Bedford! — here’s a clue, the very thing I’m wanting. See, man! Irene Fawdale, Rithendene School! — there it is, written again and again, in exercise books, and school-books! Splendid. But Rithendene? Where’s Rithendene?”
“I can inform you as to that, sir,” replied Bedford, promptly. “Rithendene School is one of the best — and I believe, sir, one of the most expensive schools for young ladies in England. One of my previous employers, Lord Medderdale, sent his two daughters there — a very fine establishment, I’m given to understand, sir. Dear me! — I’d no idea that Miss F. had been there!”
“But where is it?” asked Charlesworth, busily turning over the contents of the box, and finding nothing but school and exercise books. “How do you get to it?”
“The nearest station, sir, is Shelhampton, on the Southern Railway,” replied Bedford. “Rithendene, sir, is a village on the coast — a most salubrious situation, according to the advertisements.”
“Well, Miss Fawdale, evidently, was educated there,” remarked Charlesworth, as he turned over the contents of the box. “There’s no doubt about that. And I suppose the authorities there will know something about her. Anyway . . .” He said no more, however, on that point. Closing the box and restoring it to its niche in the alcove from which he had pulled it out, he left the box-room and presently bade Bedford farewell.
“I shall no doubt have something to tell you next time I turn up here,” he said, with a smile. “In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open!”
Then he went away, more hopeful than when he arrived. For he had got at least the first beginnings of a clue . . . and first beginnings mean a good deal.
CHAPTER XVI. TURNING BACKWARD
CHARLESWORTH FOUND HIMSELF next day prospecting the one winding street of a coast village in which, set high above sea and land, was but one building of any significance — a great house of extent and grandeur enough to resemble a mediæval castle, or, perhaps, the buildings of some important ecclesiastical foundation. A single inquiry made him acquainted with the fact that this was Rithendene School: its very size and consequence rather frightened him. Probably there were hundreds of girls there; had been thousands in past years; how was he going to recover news of one? And how, too, to find anybody who could give him news of that particular one? To consider this, and to glean a little information about the place he had come to see, he turned into the village inn, and over a crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale, extracted some facts from the landlord. Yes, to be sure the school was the feature of that part of the world; there were those who did say that it was the finest school for young ladies in England, not to speak of foreign parts. Rare lot of money it did cost, to be sure, to send a young lady there — he, the landlord, had heard it said as how three to four hundred pounds a year was the figure. Five hundred girls there were there — and from their looks, the pick of the nation, sure-ly! Governesses and mistresses? — Lor bless you, they reckoned them by the dozens, and servants by the score — no expense of any sort spared up there, you may be sure! Some of the young ladies had their own riding-horses, and there wasn’t a game under the sun that they didn’t play at — oh, proper nobs they were at Rithendene, he could vouch for it. Who was what you’d call the boss lady of the show? — eh, that, to be sure, was Miss Torrance — very grand lady indeed, Miss Torrance, and about as easy to get at as the Pope his-self. There, yes! — but he didn’t know as he knew anybody in the village as had ever been privileged to see her — enough to do, no doubt, to manage such a big establishment.
