The Female Detective (28 page)

She finds it.

She fixes the point for a thrust.

A movement—and the manslaughter is committed.

That the unhappy wretch had time to open the box is certain, and doubtless it was at that moment the fierce woman, still clutching the shaft of the arrow, or barb—call it what you will—leant back, and so withdrew the shaft from the rankling iron.

Did the youth recognise her? Had he tried to do so?

From the peacefulness of the face, as described at the inquest, I imagined that he had, after naturally unbolting the lid, fallen back, and in a few moments died.

Then must have followed her awful discovery, succeeded by her equally awful determination to hide the fault of her master's, and perhaps of her own sister's son.

And so it came to pass that she dragged the youth's dead body out into the cold morning atmosphere, as the bleak dawn was filling the air, and the birds were fretfully awaking.

No doubt, had a sharp detective been at once employed, she would not have escaped detection.

As it was she had so far avoided discovery.

And I could easily comprehend that a powerfully-brained woman like herself would feel no compunction and little grief for what she had done—no compunction, because the act was an accident; little grief, because she must have felt she had saved the youth from a life of misery—for a son who at twenty robs a father, however bad, is rarely at forty, if he lives so long, an honest man.

But though I had made this discovery I could do nothing so far against the housekeeper, whom of course it was my duty to arrest, if I could convince myself she had committed manslaughter. I was not to be ruled by any feeling of screening the family—the motive indirectly which had actuated Quinion, for, strong-minded as she was, it appeared to me that she would not have hesitated to admit the commission of the act which she had completed had the burglar, as I may call the young man, been an ordinary felon, and unknown to her.

No, the box had no identification with the death, because it exhibited no unanswerable signs of its connexion with that catastrophe.

So far, how was it identifiable (beyond my own circumstantial evidence, known only to myself,) with the murder?

The only particle of evidence was that given by the girl, who could or could not swear to the box having been brought on the previous day, and to the housekeeper saying that it had been taken away again—a suspicious circumstance certainly, but one which, without corroborative evidence, was of little or indeed no value.

As to the jagged cut in the air-hole, in the absence of all blood-stain it was not mentionable.

Corroborative evidence I must have, and that corroborative evidence would best take the shape of the discovery of the shaft of the weapon which had caused death, or a weapon of similar character.

This, the box being found, was now my work.

“Is there any armoury in the house, Martha?”

“No; but there's lots of arms in the library.”

We had not searched in the library for the box, because I had taken Martha's assurance that no boxes were there.

When we reached the place, I remarked immediately—“What a damp place.”

As I said so I observed that there were windows on each side of the room, and that the end of the chamber was circular.

“Well it may be,” said Martha, “for there's water all round it—a kind of fountain-pond, with gold fish in it. The library,” continued Martha, who was more sharp than educated, “butts out of the house.'

Between each couple of book-cases there was fixed a handsome stand of arms, very picturesque and taking to the eyes.

There were modern arms, antique armour, and foreign arms of many kinds; but I saw no arrows, though in the eagerness of my search I had the chandelier, which still held some old yellow wax-candles, lighted up.

No arrow.

But my guardian angel, if there be such good creatures, held tight on to my shoulder that night, and by a strange chance, yet not a tithe so wonderful as that accident by which the woman was saved from a bullet by a piece of just stolen iron, the origin of the weapon used by Quinion came to light.

We had been searching amongst the stands of arms for some minutes, when I had occasion suddenly to cry—

“Hu-u-sh! what are you about?”

For my confederate had knocked off its hook a large drum, which I had noticed very coquettishly finished off a group of flags, and cymbals, and pikes.

“I'm very sorry,” she said, as I ran to pick up the still reverberating drum with that caution which, even when useless, generally stands by the detective, when—

There, sticking through the drum, and hooked by its barbs, was the point of such a weapon—the exact counterpart—as had been used to kill young Petleigh.

Had a ghost, were there such a thing, appeared I had not been more astounded.

The drum was ripped open in a moment, and there came to light an iron arrow with a wooden shaft about eighteen inches long, this shaft being gaily covered with bits of tinsel and coloured paper.

[I may here at once state, what I ultimately found out—for in spite of our danger I kept hold of my prize and brought it out of battle with me—that this barb was one of such as are used by picadors in Spanish bull-fights for exciting the bull. The barbs cause the darts to stick in the flesh and skin. The cause of the decoration of the haft can now readily be comprehended. Beyond all doubt the arrow used by Quinion and the one found by me were a couple placed as curiosities amongst the other arms. The remaining one the determined housekeeper had used as suiting best her purpose, the other (which I found) had doubtless at some past time been used by an amateur picador, perhaps the poor dead youth himself, with the drum for an imaginary bull, and within it the dart had remained till it was to reappear as a witness against the guilty and yet guiltless housekeeper.]

I had barely grasped my prize when Martha said—“What a smell of burning!”

“Good God!” I cried, “we have set the house on fire!”

The house was on fire, but we were not to blame.

We ran to the door.

We were locked in!

What brought her back I never learnt, for I never saw or heard of her again. I guess that the motion of the train quickened her thought (it does mine), that she suspected—that she got out at the station some distance from Tram, and that she took a post-chaise back to Petleighcote.

All this, however, is conjecture.

But if not she, who locked us in? We could not have done it ourselves.

We were locked in, and I attribute the act to her—though how she entered the house I never learnt.

The house was on fire, and we were surrounded by water.

This tale is the story of the “Unknown Weapon,” and therefore I cannot logically here go into any full explanation of our escape. Suffice it to our honour as detectives to say, that we did not lose our presence of mind, and that by the aid of the library tables, chairs, big books, &c., we made a point of support on one side the narrow pond for the library ladder to rest on, while the other end reached shallow water.

Having made known the history of the “Unknown Weapon,” my tale is done; but my reader might fancy my work incomplete did I not add a few more words.

I have no doubt that Quinion returning, her quick mind in but a few moments came to the conclusion that the only way to save her master's honour was the burning of the box by the incendiarism of the Hall.

The Petleighs were an old family, I learnt, with almost Spanish notions of family honour.

Effectually did she complete her work.

I acknowledge she conquered me. She might have burnt the same person to a cinder into the bargain; and, upon my word, I think she would have grieved little had she achieved that purpose.

For my part in the matter—I carried it no further.

At the inquiry, I appeared as the lady who had taken care of the house while Mrs. Quinion went to look after her good fortune; and I have no doubt her disappearance was unendingly connected with my advertisement in the
Times
.

I need not say that had I found Quinion I would have done my best to make her tremble.

I have only one more fact to relate—and it is an important one. It is this—

The squire had the ruins carefully examined, and two thousand ounces of gold and silver plate, melted into shapelessness of course, were taken out of the rubbish.

From this fact it is pretty evident that the key No. 13, found upon the poor, unhappy, ill-bred, and neglected boy, was the “Open Sesamè” to the treasure which was afterwards taken from the ruins—perhaps worth £4000, gold and silver together.

Beyond question he had stolen the key from the butler, gone into a plot with his confederates—and the whole had resulted in his death and the conflagration of Petleighcote, one of the oldest, most picturesque, and it must be admitted dampest seats in the midland counties.

And, indeed, I may add that I found out who was the “tall gentleman with the auburn whiskers and the twitching of the face;” I discovered who was the short gentleman with no whiskers at all; and finally I have seen the young lady (she was very beautiful) called Frederica, and for whose innocent sake I have no doubt the unhappy young man acted as he did.

As for me, I carried the case no further.

I had no desire to do so—had I had, I doubt if I possessed any further evidence than would have sufficed to bring me into ridicule.

I left the case where it stood.

The Mystery

[It often happens that the police are egregiously foiled, but in all my experience such a compact case as the following never came under my observation. The incident being grotesque, I have put it into a grotesque, perhaps even an extravagant, form. It will be readily seen that it was a case in which the police could easily be thrown completely out—as they were. The sergeant employed to clear up the mystery was, and is, a clever, shrewd man. He has admitted, in his most friendly moments, that no case so thoroughly mystified him as this, which I now proceed to tell, in the admissible shape of a tale.]

“Nelly,” said Old Bang (he was a very perverse, red-headed old gentleman, whose belief in the same personage was quite as perfect as the chorus at Covent Garden), “Nelly, I've got a present for you.”

“Have you?” said Nelly. “What?” She was one of those bright, clear-headed girls, who, somehow, you feel would never come down to breakfast in curl-papers and the sulks. You felt that as your wife she never would assail you the moment you entered the house with the complaint that she had seen in a looking-glass, Mary Jane insolently squinting at her behind her back, or, that she had distinctly remarked the baker blow the cook a kiss down the area steps. One of those women, in fact, who take the hands which are working for them, smile in the husband's face, and even sometimes go before, and still with a cheerful face drag the helpmate after them.

“Nelly,” said Old Bang, “I've got a present for you.”

“Have you?” said Nelly. “What?”

“A husband.”

Mademoiselle Nelly flung herself at the personage who, upon her advent into this blessed world, had immediately grown an inch in the opinion of his friends, and several cubits in his own estimation, and said, “Oh, Papa, has Jack spoken?”

“Jack? his name's Hezekiah.”

“Hezekiah What?” asked Nelly.

“No,” returned matter-of-fact Bang; “Hezekiah Trunk.”

If she had been a proper young lady, she would have fainted. As it happened she was only thunder-struck.

“He hasn't a hair on his head, Papa!”

“But he's got 7000
l
. in the three per cent. Consols, and—”

“But what are they to do with me?”

“And,” said Old Bang, his voice rising, “seventeen preference shares in the Great Northern.”

“But I've got no preference for him.”

“That's nothing to do with it,” remarked Old Bang. “He's got 7000
l
. in the three per cent. Consols, and seventeen—”

“Fiddlesticks, Papa. I wont hear anything about it—
him
I mean.”

“Do you know who I am?” asked Old Bang.

“Yes, I do know you; you're my father, Papa.”

“Do you want to be shut up, Nelly?”

“No, Papa, I don't.”

“I'm your father.”

“And I'm eighteen. I'm a patient girl; but I can't stand Mr. Hezekiah Trunk.”

“Seven thousand pounds in the three per cent. Consols,” repeated Old Bang; “and seventeen—”

“Preference shares in the Great Northern. I think I know it,” said Nelly. “I shall tell Jack—”

“Jack Who?” said Old Bang, ready to explode.

“No: Jack Wilson. I shall tell Jack all about it, and then I pity Mr. Trunk and his preference shares too.”

“You wont accept my present?”

“No.”

“Then I'll lock you up.”

“Then I'll make you a present instead, Papa.”

“What do you mean?”

“Papa, I refuse to state.”

“Then come along,” said Old Bang; and he jerked her upstairs till they reached the young lady's own room, the little second floor front, and there he locked her in.

“Don't forget my supper, Papa.”

“Will you have my present?”

“No.”

“Then there you stop.”

“Very well, then you shall have mine.”

Perhaps it will hardly be believed that
Mrs
. Bang had assisted at this interview; but she had, up in a corner, and smacking to her hands like the claws of a cray-fish, or rather, perhaps, like damp and very lively flounders. She had said nothing, if we except the mild statement, “Bang's Bang, and mussy deliver us.” Not that Mrs. B. desired to see her good man carried upwards prematurely. But we all have our little ways, and such was Mrs. B.'s, poor dear.

Mr. B. did not forget Nelly's supper. As a father, he could not give way; but there was mercy in the mass of pudding he sent her up.

“Jenny,” said Nelly to the official, “would you like your wages raised?”

Up went the young person's eyebrows.

“Because, if so, you
shall
—in
my
house.”

The young person's eyebrows couldn't go higher, or they would have done it.

“Take this letter to its address at once, and wait for an answer.”

The eyebrows
did
go higher. “Lor, miss, its 'arf past nine o'clock, an' I should lose me krakter an' me place if I stepped houtside the door.”

“Have the toothache, and say you are going to get it out.”

“O lor, no, miss.”

But every young person has her price—to do good. She was not moved by the presentation of Nelly's little turquoise ring, nor the offer of that cameo brooch, but she could
not
resist the magenta ribbon. Jenny at once had an attack of that ache said to be imaginary by all people unknown to dentists, and satirical.

Down went Jenny to Mrs. B., who, seeing the young person with an apparently swelled face, and certainly a handkerchief round her artful jaw, immediately exclaimed—“Mussy deliver us, go and have it out.”

Away the young person went. At half-past ten she returned; at twenty-five minutes to eleven Miss Nelly had the letter; at twenty minutes to eleven Miss Nelly began packing up; at twenty-five to twelve she had corded all her boxes, hidden them under the bed, and was prepared to fly. How could it be managed? She was locked in her room, and Old Bang had actually dragged a heavy chest against the door. Fly—that was it. She left the wings to Jack's providing. She was quite sure that he knew. The letter said—

Dear Nell,—Keep a bright look-out at two in the morning. We'll use the license to-morrow at ten. Pack up. There will be no difficulty about the tubs now. Try and forget them. Yours everlastingly,

Jack Wilson
.

Perhaps the intelligent reader has remarked how fond small householders are of bolting the doors, and allowing the windows to look after themselves, as though burglars looked on them as walls. Good. Bolt at top of stout door—bolt at bottom of stout door—chain put up, and key double turned. And there, a little way off, is a tiny window, with no shutter, and a feeble little bolt. But the door is fast, and so let's go to bed comfortable. It is true that old Bang's place was not a very small household, but he locked up all the doors, and bolted, and barred, and chained, like a respectable British tenant as he was. Bang slept in the second floor front big, by the side of Nelly in the second floor front little, and it need hardly be said Mrs. Bang slept with him. It is very important, however, that this should be remembered. The last thing B. did before turning in was to knock at the wall that divided him from Nelly and say—“Will you have my present?”

“No,” said Nelly.

“Then there you stop.”

“Then, Papa, you must have mine.”

The first thing B. did in the morning was to thwack at the wall again, and once more ask—well, repetition is tedious. There was no answer. Old Bang hit at the wall, and once more roared like a bull “Will you have?” &c. &c. No answer.

“Bang's Bang, an' mussy deliver us,” said the good lady, smacking her hands as though the flounders had grown both in circumference and liveliness.

“You'd much better get out o' bed, ma'am,” said Bang, “and pass a petticoat, and shake that girl up.”

Then he rushed to the wall again, “Will you have,” &c.

Mrs. Bang got up, passed two petticoats—one about her dear head to save her from the tic-doloureux, to which the poor love was subject. She took the key, and left the room. An anxious minute passed. Good, he heard the key turn—the door opened. The next moment he heard a cry: “Mussy deliver us—oh!” The last word seemed smothered. Bang rushed into the little second-floor front. He saw only a mass of petticoats on the floor. But he could nowhere discover his daughter. In fact, to be very plain, she was gone. Where? How?

Old Bang had locked the door, and kept the key under his pillow. Ha! was she under the bed? Old Bang and Mrs. B. simultaneously whisked up the valance on opposite sides, and stared at each other under those novel circumstances with the air of not having seen each other for a full quarter of a century. Well, she must be somewhere, musn't she? Well, was she between the mattress and the bed? Mr. and Mrs. B. immediately touzled each other in their efforts in this direction. No; there was nothing but a faint smell of feathers between the bed and the mattress. Mrs. B. was gradually growing cold upwards from the toes. Old B. was boiling. Hang it! she
must
be somewhere! Ha! horror! Had she jumped into the area? They rushed madly to the window. They both went to raise it. Ha! it was fast.

And now it is necessary to show how it was fast. There is a little fastening which is acted on by the sash; when the sash is brought down the little fastening is in operation. This is an exceedingly delicate portion of the mystery. Such was the fastening to Nelly's window. It was fast; yet old B. and Mrs. B. opened the lattice, and with eyes of horror peered into the area. No; she was not in the area. Ha! the cupboard. No; she was
not
in the cupboard. Well, drowning men will catch at a straw, so it is not wonderful that an anxious father, as a last resort, should investigate the chimney. If Mrs. B. had been in a laughing humour she must have indulged as she saw her Bang gradually vanish up the orifice, and leave only his shanks to swear by. Suddenly these shanks were convulsed, and B. came down quicker than he had gone up. His face was covered with soot, but it did not hide his consternation. He had come crash up against some iron bars, placed there possibly when it was the burglarious fashion to bribe chimney-sweeping lads to creep down these arrangements and open hall doors.

Suddenly old B. had an idea—had Jenny a duplicate key? Upstairs he tore and summoned Jenny in thunderous style.

“Oh, sir, is it fire?” asked that maiden.

“Have you helped in this business?”

“Oh, sir, help
me
, pray, if it's danger!”

“Where's Miss Nelly?”

“Oh, sir, hadn't you better ask her?”

Downstairs came Bang; not a sign of getting out of the house in a legitimate way. He had taken the street-door key to bed, as usual. He had possessed himself of the area door-key, as usual. Query, had Nelly got out at the front kitchen window, and clambered over the area railings? Query, how could she have first got out of her room? Query, had Jenny unlocked the door? Query, how could she?

All this time Mrs. B. was smacking her hands dolefully, and sitting in her flannel on the floor, ejaculating,—“Oh my pore, pore daughter!”

Query, had Mrs. B. heard anything in the night?

No; yes; that is, perhaps; she woke because she thought she was going to have the tic-doloureux. She thought she heard a rumbling; then she fell asleep again; then she woke again because she felt sure she was going to have the tic-doloureux. It was at this period she thought she heard some one utter a peculiar cry. What was it like? Why like “
lullietie
.” Then she heard a rumbling again, that was all; and then she fell asleep again.

By this time Jenny was shivering in her clothes, and the other young person, Mary, was trembling in her garments, and neither could light the kitchen fire.

Mary had staggers (to which she was subject) directly Jenny was sent for a detective policeman.

Sergeant Gimlet, oh, such a man; but he
was
foiled.

“You see,” says the sergeant, “a rope ladder were not it, for why? It were have been fastened to this here windy-cell, and no fastening
is
—and, besides, she'd a come down on the hairy spikes. It were a ladder—though were it, I'm doubters.”

“Try every ladder in the neighbourhood,” says old B., and up to one o'clock, to which time Mrs. B. had never once left off clapping her hands, or the young persons trembling (Mary, poor soul, had had seven staggers) up to one o'clock they had found as many ladders. This one ladder B. had had brought to the house, and as after ten minutes' contention with the area railings, the only result achieved was driving it clean through the drawing-room window, the experiment was not felicitous, especially as its owner swore all the time, and wanted to know whether Sergeant Gimlet thought him “a 'complice o' burglars?” The ladder would not reach the second floor within six feet, and it was impossible to believe that Nelly could have taken such a step down in life as that. The mystery was marvellous.

“Yer see,” said Sergeant Gimlet, it were not a ladder which—why? Builders wont lend ladders o' night-time, 'cos why? It looks burglarious. Again, it took all a quarter o' an hour to bring that ladder yere, and ten minutes to fix it with half-a-dozen fellers, and
then
it went through the windy. Now
do
you think as a party could be with a ladder in the street in the night for a quarter to the place, a quarter at the house without smashing glass, and a quarter back again without being seen by one of the force? No, it warn't a ladder.”

“Then, what was it?”

Sergeant Gimlet never had said, “I
don't know
,” so he inquired—“Are you quite sure she were there?”

This was too much; indignation was in the very rattle of the five-pound Bank of England note Old B. held out to the officer. Whereon “No,” said Gimlet; “no, I never takes no money as I don't yarn. Though fivers is more scarce with me than they mabbey with some folk, I'd blessed be if I wouldn't pay one in instalments to tell how your gal's hooked.”