Elsie Dilworth’s reactions may be easily imagined when, having watched Adrian Somervell establishing himself—as she thought—in his stepmother’s good graces, she was called on to witness a will presumably in her employer’s favour. If Blundell did not benefit by this will, then why had he taken such pains to type the document himself? Why had he passed her by and sent for the less-intelligent cook to act as witness? And why—most significant in retrospect!—had Mrs. Somervell looked so queer and sluggish, as though completely indifferent to what she was signing? To Elsie’s mind something was being wangled by trickery. The conclusion she drew was the obvious one—for what man plays a trick not to his own advantage?
There was another reason for her belief. Blundell, excellent master and generous to a fault, had the weakness of the inborn gambler. Usually he was successful, but all gamblers come croppers, and it was no secret from her that for some time past her employer had been living on a banker’s overdraft. Elsie had seen him sacrifice large blocks of shares at a loss, and could only suppose some secret drain on his resources. In early November a mortgage on the Queen’s Close property was under consideration, and the Berkshire cottage was up for sale, although Blundell spoke of purchasing a more pretentious country place, perhaps to allay doubts as to his financial position. For some time past conferences had been held at the flat. Her services were not required, and no records of business conducted on these occasions ever met her eye. Like Rose, she suspected a private venture; but from her superior knowledge she deduced a failing venture entailing possible bankruptcy and the pressing need of an inheritance which, since the advent of a rival, might easily pass into other hands.
After Mrs. Somervell’s sudden death Elsie recalled the horseradish sauce, the will just executed, Blundell carving beef at the sideboard. Horseradish—aconite! Were Rose Somervell’s symptoms like those vividly described in the novel she had been reading? They were. The old woman murdered for her money—money which should, would indeed, have been Adrian’s, but for a wicked, underhand ruse. All Elsie’s pent emotions of anger and vindictiveness rose up and swept her like a tornado. She conveyed her story to the Home Office, protecting herself against the possibility of error by withholding actual names, and begging her name to be kept dark till events proved her surmise correct.
Immediately afterwards Blundell’s letter to Adrian, dictated to her, dealt her a staggering blow. Blundell did not benefit by this death. On the contrary, it was Adrian. Was Adrian a murderer? If murder had been committed, then he must be. However, Elsie still loved Adrian with an insane passion which nothing could change. She even saw in this débâcle a chance of claiming him for her own; but, meantime, till murder was proved certain, she tried by more questioning of Petty to assure herself the death had been natural. Lingering in the kitchen passage the afternoon of Mrs. Lake’s call she heard about the tingling sensation the victim had mentioned soon after eating. She also heard Blundell suggest handing Mrs. Lake the two pieces of jewellery, and remembered the incident when the news of the second murder reached her ears.
That evening, on seeing the papers, Elsie rushed to the hospital with her mad-sounding proposal of flight. She accurately construed Adrian’s outraged manner and fled, appalled by the conviction that she had prepared a trap for an innocent man. Powerless to stop the machinery she herself had set in motion, she now lived in hell. Murder had been done. To repeat verbatim her guarded story at the inquest could only turn against Adrian, whereas to state openly that she had meant to accuse a different person would only incur Blundell’s enmity. Blundell, in any case, would soon discover the part she had played and guess her mistaken reasoning. In the murder of Margaret Fairlamb she read both a sequel to the former death and a terrible warning to herself. From now onward Elsie was mortally afraid. There seemed but one course open to her—to resign her post and go into hiding. She promptly did so, but made furtive, desperate attempts to right matters.
Cudgelling her sick brain day and night she evolved a theory as to why, if not for money, Rose Somervell had been killed. By what steps she worked it out cannot be known, but, anyhow, very soon she began buying current and back issues of Limpsfield newspapers, choosing those which especially featured the Penge Plan. On the eve of quitting London, she visited Blundell’s flat to search for incriminating data, and the Somervell flat to try once more to discover the former will she believed Blundell had been hoping to unearth. Finding the upper floor occupied, she made off, not, however, taking with her Diana’s three letters. This theft will presently be explained.
Elsie’s despair on reading that aconite had been discovered in Adrian’s clothing may be guessed from her abortive attempt to take her life. She could not bring herself to gash her throat deep enough; and now, recovering some balance, she began her feverish wanderings about the south and west of England, wherever Penge highways were being laid out, trying by hook or crook to place her finger on something fraudulent in the scheme. It is unlikely she dug up one iota of proof. At best she may have collected certain stray facts which she hoped might be turned to account by a qualified detective; and with this in mind she wrote oft to Blanche Ackland, assuming her to be Adrian’s fiancée, and proposed a meeting. Coming face to face with Diana Lake instead of the expected American girl gave her a ghastly shock. Diana was Blundell’s goddaughter. With her mother dead and her father gone to California, where was she living? The answer confirmed Elsie’s worst fear. Diana it was who had taken over Mrs. Somervell’s flat. This meant she trusted Blundell and confided in him, therefore to speak freely to her was tantamount to informing Blundell—and once Blundell knew—!
Perhaps all along Elsie instinctively realised her employer’s hidden potentialities. Certainly at this moment she had a horrible prevision of her own fate; yet the desire to save Adrian was strong. How could she give Diana any information without signing her own death warrant? Whatever move she made, she was caught. One can now see the reason for her last actions. She may have planned, when at a distance, to post Diana some explanation to supplement the newspapers. As she was prevented from doing anything at all, we may leave the problem of her future intentions and pass to Margaret Fairlamb.
When Blundell learned of Rose’s telephone conversation, he was seized with panic. Already he had been worried lest Rose’s silly tongue had made some betrayal to Margaret. The latter’s embarrassed hesitation convinced him that over the telephone things had been said which, if repeated, would wreck his whole carefully laid scheme. Rose’s body was about to be opened. Since he had not been able to subject Rose to the treatment given Frieda Klapp, solid matter might remain in her system. If Adrian were accused of murder, his champion, Margaret, would bring out everything she knew in her efforts to save him. She suspected foul play—he saw it in her slight avoidance of his eye; and he believed she was making shrewd guesses as to what had happened. Unlucky Margaret! She was only trying to spare his feelings by not telling him about Rose’s absurd jealousy of his secretary; but Blundell, misreading her evasions, decided on the spot that she must be removed immediately—if possible before she saw the evening papers; at any rate, before she had a chance to discuss the exhumation with any one close to her.
Chatting with her, he roughed out his plan. Having handed over Rose’s jewellery and seen the roll of banknotes in her bag, he drove her home and stayed with her till Herbert was gone. The unexpected encounter with Diana, whom he had supposed to be away, shook him badly. Plainly she had not read the news about Rose, but even so he mistrusted what her mother might say to her. Unable to prevent the meeting, he made straight for the Home Office and acquired what merit he could by reporting what the dead woman had said to her friend. He then returned to his flat to receive Lord Limpsfield and Sir Norbury Penge.
During the evening the two guests were supplied with cigars which the host had strongly impregnated with scopolomin. The drug was now going to be put to a dangerous test. At a quarter-past eleven Blundell opened the sliding section of bookshelves, keeping close watch on the men’s faces. Neither betrayed the least surprise. He put a few questions, the answers to which assured him he could proceed with safety. He effected his exit by way of the upper flat, the slightly deaf Petty having long been asleep; at some distance along the Park picked up a taxi and within a few minutes was walking from the Marble Arch to Seymour Square. Entering Margaret’s house by ringing the Cathcart bell he hid under the staircase to await the actress’s return. The rest was simple. The weapon he used was a leaden paperweight contained in a sock, which he afterwards burnt.
He had been absent a little more than half an hour. The moment of his re-entry into his library was nerve-racking, but a glance removed his fears. There sat his guests, stodgily smoking, both prepared in all confidence to swear, if need be, that the third of the party had been with them all the time, or at most had quitted the room for only a moment or so. In other words, they had registered impressions, but not retained them. Gradually they revived to find business discussion still in progress. If later on they should puzzle a bit over their after-dinner somnolence, Blundell knew they could be trusted. The last thing either wanted was that his colleague in a nefarious enterprise should be under any sort of cloud.
Blundell remained slightly uneasy over Herbert Lake and his daughter. He schemed to get them both to Hollywood, and Diana, by her refusal to stir from London, revealed to him her attachment to Adrian. Quite likely she knew nothing, but she was a clever, biased girl who always had been antagonistic towards himself. If she would not go away, then she must be carefully watched, muzzled by bounty, and given no chance to work against him. He must first gain her confidence, and this done he must get her out of her own flat and into Rose’s, where he could keep her under his eye. In contriving these things he used the diplomacy of which he had become past master. Knowing that for the present Diana would have very little money and would not feel inclined to resume her stage work, he sought out a young couple recently in Limpsfield’s employ and begged them to help him in a little conspiracy. They would like a better home, wouldn’t they? Very well, then, they were to offer Miss Lake six guineas a week for her flat, and he would pay two-thirds of the rent on the understanding that Miss Lake was not to know. She was a proud girl, he explained, and would not take help unless it were suitably camouflaged. The young people, most naturally, were delighted to move into a flat so far superior to any they had known. Diana thankfully accepted their offer, and, as has been seen, was persuaded to fall in with her godfather’s wishes.
She was now to some extent in Blundell’s hands. In the beginning, when she was driven out in the Sunbeam car, her benefactor followed in his two-seater to see where she went. It was he who took the letters she so firmly believed Elsie had stolen. The fact was, Blundell had been bothered about these same letters from the moment he had set eyes on them. It will be recalled that he came with his proposal about Herbert when she was sorting her mother’s old correspondence, and that he had seen her slip two letters of Rose’s into her bag. If letters are preserved, he argued, there must be a reason. In his library, the morning of Herbert’s departure, he calmly abstracted the sheets from the handbag lying on the table, in full sight of Diana—while she smoked. In one letter was a reference to Sir Francis Dugdale; in Margaret’s, a hint to show the writer’s expectation that he, Blundell, would inherit Rose’s money. All three were better burned, and burned they were.
Soon Blundell was satisfied that Diana represented no element of danger; but during the visit to the prison he overheard a disturbing remark. Why had the girl not told him her idea about her mother’s murder hinging on the other crime? It struck him she might be playing a deeper game than he had supposed. He resolved to clinch the robbery explanation once and for all, to which end he dispatched his tool, Haji, to Amsterdam, with instructions. A pawnbroker of shady repute was bribed to let the ring and brooch be discovered in his shop. The Dutch police fell on them without delay—and Blundell, his mind at rest on one count, turned to the remaining source of danger—Elsie Dilworth, whose latest London address he now knew.
By this time several mysteries were clear to him. He perceived what no one else had yet realised, that his secretary, labouring under a natural misapprehension, had meant to incriminate not Adrian but himself. He guessed why she was hiding, and understood the purpose of her rummage through his papers—contrived, incidentally, with an extra set of keys she had had duplicated from his own. Somehow, Elsie had got on the track of his secret activities. She was trying now to secure proof, and although she would undoubtedly fail, she would, in the last extremity, raise the sort of hue and cry best calculated to start a governmental investigation. He sent Haji to Floyd’s Square to ascertain whether she intended to return to her lodgings, and if her room contained a gas-fire. Haji was to gain occupancy of the room, if only for a short time, and conduct a careful search of whatever Elsie had left behind; but Haji was unsuccessful. He was growing nervous about undertaking further commissions, and Blundell, troubled about the Dutch visa on his passport, agreed to pay his passage back to Bombay on the boat sailing next day, provided Haji would perform two additional services.
The fact was that Blundell felt it vitally important to know precisely what Diana was going to divulge in her first interview with the private detective. He also wanted Haji to break into Mrs. Eales’s house from the rear and ransack Elsie’s trunk. It is probable that at this point his vision went wild through excess of apprehension; but be that as it may, he made stupid moves, which he was soon to regret. First of all, he did not know that Haji, through Woodford, had come to frequent the tea-rooms which all the Prince Regent’s staff patronised and where Diana and Adrian had been accustomed to meet. On the face of it, the Indian seemed to him a perfectly safe individual to employ as a spy, and yet he was spotted by Bream, recognised by Diana, and the clue to his identity quickly seized! That was bad enough, but the midnight venture in the Islington alley was notably worse. The luckless Haji was seen and almost collared by the very detective whose suspicions he had aroused. The report of these things, received at three in the morning, convinced Blundell of a very real peril. At any moment now the business of Frieda Klapp would be dragged to light, the similarity between her death and Rose’s remarked upon. It was not enough for Haji to quit the country. A wireless message to the boat would reveal the Dutch visa on the fugitive’s passport. Haji himself might easily be terrorised into damaging admissions. To Blundell it was all-apparent that the Indian had served his full term of usefulness and must be eliminated with all speed.
He advised Haji to reach Tilbury by an early train, see his luggage aboard, and come ashore. He, Blundell, would drive down and meet him, to hand over the promised cash payment; but he must make sure of Haji’s departure, and not, as he put it, be led up the garden path. The two must not be seen together, therefore they would meet in a lonely lane outside the town. Rather than forgo his remuneration Haji agreed to the arrangement, which, indeed, seemed quite reasonable. The morning was foggy. There was a surprise onslaught, an unequal struggle, and the Indian lay dead in a ditch, shot by his own pearl-handled revolver.
His passport was removed, his dead fingers closed on the weapon, and no marks or prints left behind to show that murder had been committed. Doubt did arise, but like other doubts it led to nothing tangible.
Elsie, meantime, continued to elude capture. Blundell believed now that she meant to keep in seclusion till the trial opened, then claim police protection while she gave evidence. That evidence—what would be its nature? Impossible to say, but enough that it would set going the inquiry which sooner or later would prick the vast bubble of the Penge Scheme. Elsie must go. The verdict must be suicide, for which belief her seemingly erratic behaviour had so luckily paved the way.
The Floyd’s Square house became familiar to Blundell during repeated prowlings by day and by night. Once he made use of the hidden latch-key, saw the gas-fire he had hoped to find, also the trunk which, though unimportant of content, argued its owner’s intention to return. When Mrs. Eales and her little boy went away, he read the note left for the home-coming tenant, and knew his reward was at hand. Next evening, getting off early from the dinner he was attending, he again entered the dark, empty house, replaced the key in its hiding-place, and in the gloom of the upper room saw the two unpacked bags. So Elsie had arrived and gone out. He waited for her to come in, never dreaming of the meeting between her and Diana, or the fact that at this moment she was depositing a parcel of newspapers at King’s Cross.
He heard her letting herself in, and made ready for her. No sooner had her dim form appeared in the doorway than he forced her powerfully against the wall, and with one hand pinioning her two gloved ones, held his pad of chloroform within an inch of her mouth and nostrils. She struggled violently, but was no match for his strength. One stifled scream she gave as the vapour gagged her, and presently—an age it seemed—her convulsive movements ceased. He had gone far enough. No more chloroform must be administered, or signs of it might be detected. He laid her unconscious body on the floor facing the hearth, removed her hat and gloves, and for a second put on the light to inspect her. Not a bruise. He adjusted a cowl of paper round her head, turned the gas full on, and left her to die of asphyxiation.
It was his own idea. Would it serve? Chloroform—which he had not to purchase especially, since he used it to clean his pipes—was so volatile that the small amount he had employed would be swamped in an atmosphere long charged with coal-gas. Ether, on the contrary, would have clung and announced its presence above the other fumes. Much sooner than he had anticipated the room was entered. He had a frightening period till he knew for certain the chloroform odour had escaped detection, indeed, till he learned there would not be an autopsy. Then he relaxed and hugged himself. He had committed four murders, two of them extempore affairs, yet in no instance had he left one shred of evidence traceable to himself. A splendid achievement! Nicholas Blundell, respectable solicitor, was a Napoleon of crime, as of strategy.
His exultation was marred by only a single regret, a bitter one, when we consider his peculiar, though typical, weaknesses. There was no one, no one to whom he could recount his triumphs. To the end his supreme cleverness must go unapplauded. When one of his occasional paroxysms of blind rage allowed him to give himself away to Diana the circumstance must have brought him a glorious relief. Now, at last, he could recount his exploits and do so with utter safety.