“So far,” continued Boyd, thoughtfully, pushing his hat to the back of his head, “we’ve proved one thing — that this stuff is poison.”
“Yes,” I said. “But these photographs? Is it not extraordinary that we find them here among Eva’s possessions?”
“It’s all extraordinary,” he answered. “The letters more strange than anything,” and he unlocked the third drawer expectantly, only, however, to find it contained something small wrapped in a piece of dirty wash-leather. He placed it before him, carefully opening it and disclosing something which caused us both to give vent to exclamations of surprise.
Inside was a most commonplace object, yet to us it had a meaning peculiarly tragic — a single penny.
Both of us recollected vividly the finding of a similar coin carefully wrapped in paper upon the body of the man at Phillimore Place, and there must, we decided, be some mysterious connexion between our two discoveries.
“These letters,” observed Boyd, putting aside the coin and its wrapping and taking up the correspondence he had been examining when I had found the box of mysterious powder, “they are all addressed to Miss Glaslyn, and in one only, as far as I can see, is her mother mentioned. They evidently refer to some deep secret.”
“Do you think the silence can refer to the affair at Kensington?” I suggested, holding one of the letters in my hand.
“It’s impossible to tell,” he answered. “We have now the clearest proof that these letters were preserved in secret by Eva Glaslyn, together with some unknown but fatal drug, and the photographs of the victim. Therefore, if circumstantial evidence may be trusted, I should be inclined to believe that these letters refer to the matter which we are investigating. Perhaps, indeed, the peril mentioned in one of the letters refers to your own endeavours to fathom the mystery.”
“The whole thing is utterly bewildering,” I said, re-reading the letter in my hand, a communication which certainly was of a most veiled character, evidently being type-written to disguise the writer’s identity.
“There is no object whatever to be gained by adopting your suggestion,” it ran. “The only absolutely safe course is to continue as in the past. The silence is effectual, and for the present is enough. All your fears are quite groundless. Show a bold front and be cautious always. If you wish to write, send your letter to the old address.”
Each of the others were similarly unintelligible, except perhaps the later one, in which the writer said: “You are right. I, too, have discovered cause for apprehension. A peril threatens, but if the secret is preserved it cannot harm us.”
With the mass of papers and correspondence spread before us we all three examined these suspicious letters very carefully. In the drawer which Boyd had opened was, among other things, a few girlish trinkets and souvenirs of the past, and a note signed “Mary Blain,” and dated from Riverdene a couple of months before.
In the face of recent events it was a somewhat noteworthy missive, for beginning “Dearest Eva,” it gave her an invitation for tennis on the following day, Tuesday. “I have also your admirer,” she went on, “and he will no doubt come. Perhaps I shall be compelled to go to town to-morrow afternoon on business, the urgent nature of which you may guess. If I do I will convey your message to the quarter for which it is intended. Be careful how you act, and what you say to F,” (meaning, I suppose, myself), “for I have no great faith in him. His friend is, of course, entirely well-disposed towards us.”
I passed it to Boyd, and when he had read it, asked —
“What’s your opinion of that? Is the person mentioned myself? and is the friend actually Dick?”
“It really seems so,” he responded, with knit brows. “In that case they must have long ago suspected you of being aware of their secret. This would, of course, account for the cowardly attempt to take your life.”
“By means of this unknown drug here — eh?” I suggested bitterly, pointing to the small box which I had a moment before closed.
“Certainly,” said the detective. “There can now be no further doubt of Miss Glaslyn’s complicity in the affair.”
“I wonder who is the author of these type-written letters?” I said. “If we knew that, it would let a flood of light into the whole matter.”
“We shall, I hope, discover that in due course,” he answered. “Let’s finish these investigations before discussing our next move,” and he continued, carefully placing back the letters in the secret drawers, now and then pausing to re-read one which chanced to attract his attention.
“Look at this,” he said, passing one over to me after he had glanced at it.
It was written on pale green paper in a fine fashionable woman’s hand, a few brief lines, which ran: —
“My dear Eva, — I could not come to-day, but shall be there this evening. Everything is complete. When the truth becomes known the discovery will, I anticipate, startle the world. It must, for reasons you know, remain a strict secret. Do not breathe a word to a soul. — Yours ever.
“Anna.”
“That may refer to the invention we found in the laboratory; a scientific discovery which no one has come forward to claim. But who, I wonder, is Anna?”
“She might be the dead woman,” Boyd suggested.
“True,” I agreed. “So she might.”
During fully half an hour we still remained in that small cosy boudoir, which seemed to be Eva’s own room, examining everything carefully and taking the utmost precaution to replace everything exactly as we found it. In this Boyd displayed real genius. Whatever was moved he rearranged it with an exactness little short of astounding. His astuteness was remarkable. Nothing escaped him, now that he was on the trail.
Yet, as I wandered about, examining things here and there, I could not repress a feeling of reproach, for had I not, after all, assisted in this secret search which had resulted so disastrously for the strange, mysterious woman I so dearly loved? She was now under the suspicion of the police. They would keep her under surveillance, for the evidence we had already obtained was sufficient to induce any magistrate to grant a warrant for her arrest. A sudden sense of a vast, immeasurable loss fell upon me.
The small box containing the greyish-blue powder had been replaced in the concealed drawer, and everything had been rearranged in the room, when the local officer said —
“At the end of the corridor there’s another sitting-room.”
“Very well,” Boyd answered. “Let’s see what it’s like,” and we all three, lights in hand, followed our guide until we entered a smaller sitting-room.
An easel stood in it and it was apparently used by Eva as a studio, for she, I knew, took lessons in painting. Upon the easel stood a canvas half finished, while near the window was a small writing-table, the one long drawer of which was locked. The lock was a common one and quickly yielded to Boyd’s skeleton keys, but within we only found another collection of old letters, a quantity of pencil sketches, colours and other odds and ends connected with her art studies. Boyd was turning them over methodically, when suddenly an involuntary exclamation escaped him.
“Ah! What’s this?” he ejaculated, at the same time drawing forth a card about the size of a lady’s visiting card, and held it out to me.
Upon it was drawn in ink a circle. It was executed in exactly the same manner as that we had found concealed beneath the plates in the dining-room at Phillimore Place.
Again he turned the things over and drew out three or four other cards of similar size and style, each bearing a device, one having upon its face the straight line exactly like that we had found in Kensington.
“You recognise these devices?” he inquired.
“Of course,” I responded in an awed voice, utterly bewildered. “What, I wonder, can they denote?”
He shrugged his shoulders, examined each card carefully beneath the rays of his lamp, felt it, and after carefully examining all the heterogeneous collection of things in the drawer, placed them back again, closed it, and relocked it.
“Those cards bear some very important part in the tragedy, I feel assured,” he said when he had finished, and turned to me with a puzzled expression. “They look innocent enough, and the devices are in no way forbidding; nevertheless, it is strange that we find here, in her possession, exact duplicates not only of the cards, but also of that coin carried by the dead man.”
“It’s all utterly astounding,” I declared. Then, with a touch of poignant regret and despair, I added: “All these discoveries would cause me the highest gratification if I did not love her as fondly as I do.”
“You surely could not make a murderess your wife, Urwin?” my friend said. “In this matter remember that we are striving to fathom a mystery which is one of the most profound and remarkable that has ever been reported at the Yard.”
“I know,” I answered, glancing around that small room wherein my well-beloved had spent her days in the study of art. “But what I cannot understand is how, being an actual victim of the tragedy, she is nevertheless at the same time implicated in the affair.”
“That will be made plain later,” he said with an air of confidence.
“One thing is quite clear, that she purchased certain poisons which are only known to those well versed in toxicology. We have that on old Lowry’s own authority. If, then, she bought this drug it could only be for one purpose, namely, to commit murder. Well, she made an attempt upon you; therefore, why should you endeavour to shield her?”
“Because I love her,” I answered, still unconvinced by his argument.
“Bah! Love is entirely out of the question in this matter, my dear fellow,” he said, with a gesture of impatience. “She may have fascinated you because of her unusual beauty, but beyond that — well, in six months’ time you’ll thank Providence that you’ve not married her — mark my words.”
That was exactly what she herself had said, I reflected. She had prophesied that one day, ere long, I would hate the very mention of her name.
From room to room we passed, examining everything, allowing nothing to escape us. There was assuredly no sign of poverty in that house, but really the reverse, a lavish display of costly objects, which showed that its owner was capricious, with money at her command. No expense seemed to have been spared to render that abode the acme of comfort and modern convenience.
In one of the bedrooms in that same corridor, a room which we decided was Eva’s from various dresses and other things it contained, we found standing upon the table a large panel photograph of a kind-faced, middle-aged woman, which the local officer at once recognised as that of Lady Glaslyn.
Boyd, taking it up, examined it long and earnestly beneath the light of the bull’s-eye.
“Devilish good-looking for a woman of her age,” he remarked thoughtfully, as he slowly replaced it upon the table. “Do you know?” he added, turning to me, “I fancy I’ve met her somewhere — but where I can’t for the life of me recollect. What do you know about the family?”
“Very little beyond what’s in Burke, which only devotes three lines to them. The baronetcy was conferred in 1839, and Lady Glaslyn’s husband, Sir Thomas, died six years ago. No mention is made of their country seat, so I presume they haven’t one.”
Boyd stroked his beard and gave vent to a low grunt of doubt.
“Well,” he said, “I’m almost positive that I’ve met her before somewhere. I wonder where it was.”
Quickly we rearranged the articles in the room which we had disturbed and passed on to the next, the door of which faced us, forming the end of the long corridor.
“Hulloa!” Boyd cried. “What does this mean?”
We both looked, and by the light of the lantern saw that the door was a double one and that right across it was a long bar of steel or iron painted and grained the colour of the wood so as not to be noticeable, and securing it strongly.
“This is decidedly funny,” the detective continued, bending down to examine something. “Look! it’s sealed!”
I bent eagerly beside him, and there saw that the great sliding bolt ran in three large hasps, and that one of the knobs of the bolt was secured by wire to the hasp, the two ends of the wire being secured together by a round seal of molten lead about the size of a shilling. By this the bolt was rendered immovable.
“Extraordinary!” I gasped, as we all stood wondering what might be therein concealed. “If we cut the wire then our presence here will be betrayed,” I said.
But Boyd, who was still examining the seal with great care, exclaimed at last, pointing to it —
“Do you see two letters on the seal, ‘R.’ and ‘M.’?”
“Yes,” I answered. “What do you think they denote?”
“They tell us how this seal was impressed,” the detective responded. “These initials stand for Rete Mediterranea, and the machine with which the seal has been impressed is one of those used at every Italian railway station to seal merchandise and passengers’ baggage. It has certainly been placed upon the wire by one who knew how to handle the instrument with dexterity.”
“There must be something in that room which her ladyship desires to keep secret,” I remarked, both amazed and excited at this latest discovery.
“Yes,” remarked Boyd. “At all hazards we must explore it.”
“But how,” I queried, “without tampering with the seal?”
His brow clouded for a few moments, then again he examined the seal and wire with the utmost care. He stood motionless, looking at it for fully a minute, then turning to the local officer, said —
“I’m going downstairs a moment. Don’t touch it till I return.”
We both sat upon an ottoman in the corridor for nearly a quarter of an hour, during which time we heard noises downstairs; until Boyd at last rejoined us with a look of satisfaction in his face, and bearing in his hands something which looked like a huge pair of rusty shears with wooden handles.
“I thought I’d find it,” he observed, wiping the perspiration from his brow. His hands and face were blackened as though he had been groping in a cellar. “This is the seal,” and opening his other hand he displayed an old discoloured pewter teaspoon, adding, “And here’s a bit of lead — or what’s as good.”
I took the sealing machine from him and examined it carefully. It was red with dust, and had apparently been thrown aside and neglected for a long time.
“Now,” said Boyd to his assistant, “I’ve lit a fire downstairs in the kitchen, and by the time we’ve done it’ll be sufficiently fierce to melt the lead.”
“Then you intend to break open the door?” I exclaimed.
He smiled, and for answer took from his pocket a champagne-knife, cutting the wire with a sharp click, untwisting it from the knob, and placing it with its seal in his pocket.
In breathless eagerness we watched him push back the bolt, and stood expectant; but when he tried the door he found it to be still locked. Again he went swiftly to work with his bunch of queer-looking keys, and at last he saw one of them gently turn, and he pushed wide open the door of the chamber of secrets.
Next second the bright light of Boyd’s bull’s-eye flashed into the interior, and all three of us fell back with exclamations of surprise and horror. Our discovery was truly astounding.
The horrible sight was most weird and terrifying. Upon the threshold I stood speechless, utterly unable to move, for the ghastly spectacle made my hair rise as my eyes became riveted upon the noisome interior of that long-closed chamber.
Our nostrils were filled with a foetid, nauseating smell of decay which burst upon us as the door was opened, and at the shock of witnessing the repulsive sight within, the candle I had held dropped from my trembling fingers and was extinguished. Slowly, however, I recovered it, taking a light from the one held by my friend’s assistant, and then entered the place.
It was not a large room, but the shutters of the window had, we afterwards discovered, been secured by screws and strongly barred. In the centre was a square table, covered with dust, and several common wooden chairs stood around. In the empty rusted grate stood a kettle and a couple of cooking-pots, while upon a side table were a few plates and a couple of cups and saucers. Along one side stood an old camp bedstead, and lying upon it, half-covered with a dirty blanket, was a figure that had once been human but which was now a sight so gruesome and so horrible that even Boyd, used as he was to such things, drew away and held his handkerchief to his nose.
The features were beyond recognition, but by the shortness of the hair the body was evidently that of a man. One arm hung helpless, shrivelled and discoloured, while on the floor close by were the broken portions of a cup which had evidently fallen from the dead man’s claw-like fingers.
“This is another facer!” Boyd exclaimed in a tone of absolute bewilderment. “I wonder who he was? It seems by the pots and plates that he was held a prisoner here — an invalid or imbecile, perhaps, unable to help himself. Evidently the servants knew nothing of him, for he cooked his food himself. Phew!” he added. “Let’s get outside in the passage to breathe. This air is enough to poison one.”
Half-choked, we went outside, all three of us, and discussed the startling situation while breathing the purer air. I offered both my companions cigarettes, which they lit eagerly with myself.
Then, after a few minutes, we returned and resumed our investigations. About the room were several books in French and German treating of political economy and other subjects, a couple of old newspapers, two or three novels, and a number of scientific books which showed their reader to be an educated man. The room had originally been a bathroom, we concluded, for there was a water-tap and a large pipe for waste, and this unfortunate man, whoever he was, had evidently not existed wholly in darkness, for on examining the shutters we found that one of the panels was movable, and at that spot the pane of glass was broken, thus admitting both light and air. Again, there was a small gas-stove ring, used so universally in London to boil kettles, and this was still connected by a flexible pipe to a gas bracket on the wall. Hence it was quite apparent that the room had been specially fitted for the occupation of the unknown man now dead.
Upon the dusty table were several pieces of writing-paper covered with some writing in German, a language which I unfortunately could not read, while beside them I picked up an object which held me amazed and astounded — a plain card similar to those we had found at Phillimore Place and among Eva’s secret possessions.
Beyond those writings in German we found nothing else to give us a clue to whom the dead man might be, and even these writings were no proof as to his identity. We found no writing materials there, hence our doubt that the writing had been traced by his hand.
Into every hole and crevice we peered, disturbing the rats who had scampered here and there on our unexpected intrusion, but discovering nothing else of especial interest, we, after about half an hour, went forth, glad to escape from the poisonous atmosphere. I closed and locked the door, when Boyd, cutting out a piece of bell-wire from one of the bedrooms, re-secured the bolt, and after melting the pewter spoon below in the kitchen fire, replaced the seal in such a manner that none could tell it had ever been disturbed.
Truly our midnight search had been a fruitful one. What might next transpire I dreaded to think. All was so mysterious, so utterly astounding, that I had become entirely bewildered.