The Female Detective (5 page)

This mal-pronunciation may read very marked in print, but in conversation it may be used for a long time without its being remarked. The hearer may feel that there is something wrong with the language he is hearing, but he will have to watch very attentively before he discovers where the fault lies, unless he has been previously put upon his guard.

I had.

I went away; and I remember as I left the room I was invited to return and make another visit.

I did.

Thus far all was clear.

I had, I felt sure, found the house—the purchaser of the child—and the child herself, for the infant was a girl.

What I had now to find out was the reason the child had been appropriated, and who if anybody had suffered by that appropriation.

It was now time to consult with my attorney. Who he is and what name he goes by are matters of no consequence to the reader. Those who know him will recognise that gentleman-at-law by one bit of description—he has the smallest, softest, and whitest hand in his profession.

I put the full case before him in a confidential way of business—names, dates, places, suspicions, conclusions, all set out in fair order.

“I think I see it,” said he, “but I wont give an opinion to-day. Call in a week.”

“Oh, dear me, no!” said I, “my dear M——, I can't wait a week. I'll call in three days.”

I called on the third day—early in the morning.

The attorney gave me a nod, said he was very busy, couldn't wait a moment, and then chatted with me for twenty minutes. I should say rather he held forth, for I could barely get a word in edgeways; but what he says is generally worth listening to.

He wanted further information; he desired to know the maiden name of the wife and the place of her marriage to Mr. Shedleigh—which I will suppose the name of the family concerned in his affair.

I was to let him know these further particulars, and come again in three more days.

At first sight this was a little difficult. Singularly enough, the road to this information I found to be very simple, for as a preliminary step, ascertaining from the turnpike-man in that neighbourhood where Mrs. Shedleigh had been buried, I visited her tomb, in the hope perhaps that her family name and place of settlement might appear on the stone, which often happens amongst the wives of gentry.

In this lady's case no mention was made either of her family name or place of residence, but nevertheless I did not leave the cemetery without the power of furnishing my lawyer with information quite as good as he required.

The lady had been buried in a private vault at the commencement of the catacombs, and the coffin was to be seen through the gratings of a gateway, upon which was fixed a coat of arms in engraved brass.

Of course as a detective, who has to be informed on a good many points, I knew that the arms must refer to the deceased, and therefore I surprised the catacomb keeper considerably when, later in the day, I spoke once more with him, and told him I wanted to take a rubbing of the brass plate in question.

The request being unusual, the usual difficulties of suspicion and prejudice were thrown in my way. But it is surprising how much suspicion and prejudice can be bought for five shillings, and to curtail this portion of my narrative I may at once say I took away with me an exact copy of the late lady's coat-of-arms. I need not say how this was done. Any one knows how to take a fac-simile of an engraved surface by putting a sheet of paper on it, and rubbing a morsel of charcoal, or black chalk over the paper. The experiment can be tried on the next embossed cover, with a sheet of note-paper and a trifle of lead pencil.

This rubbing I took to the lawyer, and then I waited three days.

He had enough to tell me by the end of the second.

In the simplest and most natural way in the world, he had discovered a reason for the appropriation of the child, and not only had that information been obtained, but the name of the man injured by the act, and his interest in the whole business was at the command of the attorney.

We neither of us complimented the other on his discoveries, each being aware that the other had but put in force the principles and ordinary rules of his business.

I had gained my knowledge by reference to registers, he his by first consulting a book of the landed gentry and their arms, and secondly by the outlay of a shilling and an inspection of a will in the keeping of the authorities at Doctors' Commons.

The lawyer had found the arms as copied by me from the tomb-gate in a book of landed gentry, had learnt an estate passed from the possession of Sir John Shirley in 1856, by death, and into the ownership of his daughter, an heiress, and wife of Newton Shedleigh, Esq. The entry further showed that the lady, Shirley Shedleigh, had died in 1857, and that by her marriage settlement the property descended upon her children. A child of this lady, named after her Shirley Shedleigh, was then the possessor of the estates, which were large, while the father, Newton Shedleigh, as sole surviving trustee, controlled the property.

So the matter stood.

“I can see it all,” said the lawyer, who, I am bound to say, passed over my industry in the business as though it had never existed. “I can see it all. The defendant, Newton Shedleigh, marries an heiress, who, by her marriage settlement, maintains possession of her estate through trustees. As in ordinary cases, these estates devolve upon her children, supposing her to have any, and that they
outlive her
. But here comes the nicety of the question. If she has children, and they all die before her—granted that her husband outlives her, he, by right of the birth of his and her children, becomes a tenant for life in her possessions, though by the settlement, in event of the wife dying without children to inherit her property, it passes to her father's brother.”

“Well?” said I.

“The motive for a supposititious heir is evident. The lady dies in childbed, as the dates of her death and of the birth of her assumed child testify—in all probability her infant is born dead, and therefore the mother dying without having given the father a just claim to the tenantage for life—by the conditions of the settlement the property would
at once
, upon the death of the wife, pass to her uncle, her father's brother. To avoid this, the beggar-woman's child has been made to take the place of the dead infant. The case is about as clear as any I have put together.”

“But—” Here I stopped.

“Well?”

“Your argument suggests accomplices.”

“Yes.”

“Four—the father, his sister, the doctor, and the nurse.”

“Four, at least,” said the lawyer.

“Do you know, or have you heard of the true owner of the estates?”

The reader will observe that I and the lawyer had already given in a verdict in the case.

“I do not know him—I have made two or three inquiries. He is Sir Nathaniel Shirley. From what I can hear he does not bear a very good name, though it is quite impossible, I hear, to bring any charge against him.”

“This will cost money,” I said.

“It will cost money,” echoed the lawyer.

I have always noticed that when a lawyer has anything not too agreeable to say, generally he echoes what you yourself observe.

“Is he rich?”

“Who?” asks the lawyer, with that love of precision which irritates any woman, even when she is a detective.

“Sir Nathaniel Shirley.”

“I hear not.”

“Who, then, is to pay expenses?”

“Who is to pay expenses?” says the lawyer, repeating my words. And then, after a pause, as though to show he made a difference between my own words and his, he adds—“Expenses there certainly will be.”

“Shall we speak to Sir Nathaniel at once?”

“
You
can speak to Sir Nathaniel at once. As for me, I shall wait till the baronet speaks to me.”

“Oh!” said I.

“Yes,” replied my attorney, softly turning over a heavy stick of sealing wax, such as, in all my detective experience, I never saw equalled out of a law-office.

It stood clear that the case was to be left in my hands till it was plain sailing, and then the lawyer would take the helm. I have noticed that the law gentlemen with whom I have had to do are much given to this cautious mode of doing business.

We detectives, who know how much depends upon risk and audacity, are perhaps inclined to look rather meanly upon this cautiousness, knowing as we do that if we were as fearful of taking steps we should never gain a crust.

“I'll see you again, Mr. M——, in a few days.”

“Well,” said he, looking a little alarmed I thought, “whatever you do don't drop it; turn the matter over in your mind, and let me see you again in three days.”

“Thank you,” said I; “I'll come when I want you.”

I think I noticed a little mixture of surprise and satisfaction on the lawyer's countenance—surprise that I showed some independence, satisfaction by virtue of the intimation my words conveyed that I did not mean to abandon the case.

Abandon the case!

Good as many of the cases in which I had been engaged might have been, I knew that not one had been so near my fame, and, in a small way, my fortune, as this; for I may tell you we detectives are like actors, or singers, or playwrights, who are always hoping for some distinction which shall carry them to the top of their particular tree.

I had saved some money, for I am not extravagant; and though my necessary expenses were large, I had for some years earned good money, and had laid by a trifle, and so I determined myself to find the money which was required to begin and carry on this inquiry.

So far I had got together only facts. Now I had to prove them.

To do this, it was necessary that I should gain an entry into the house.

I had, as the reader knows, planted my first attempt by calling at the house and presenting at the outset a small written card, setting out that I was Miss Gladden, a milliner and dressmaker, who went out by the day or week.

This
ruse
, practised with success upon Mrs. Flemps, and resulting in two caps and a bonnet for that lady, I had always exercised; indeed, I may say, that I took lessons as an improver in both those trades, in order the better to carry on my actual business, which, I will repeat here once again, is a necessary occupation, however much it may be despised.

If this world lost all its detectives it would very soon complainingly find out their absence, and wish them, or some of them, back again.

But I could not wait till Miss Shedleigh sent for me, even supposing that she remembered me and my application. Even this supposition was questionable.

It therefore became necessary to tout that lady once again. I sent up to the house a specimen of my work, and with it a letter to the effect that my funds were running low and I was becoming uneasy.

The answer returned was that I could come up to the house on the following day at nine in the morning.

I was there to time.

The house was very splendid—magnificently appointed; and the number of servants told of very considerable wealth.

The lady of the house, this Miss Catherine Shedleigh, was one of the pleasantest and most delightful of women—calm, amiable, serene, and possessing that ability to make people at home about her which is a most rare quality, and which we detectives know sufficiently well how to appreciate.

I was located in the housekeeper's room, and I was soon surrounded with work.

I had not been in the mansion two hours before I saw the little girl upon whose birth so much had depended.

She was a very pleasant child—nothing very remarkable; and her age, as given by the housekeeper, tallied exactly with the cabman's story.

The arrival of the child, who, to look upon, was comely without being pretty, gave me that opportunity for which I was waiting. I had felt pretty sure I should soon see the heiress; knowing that if children are not desirous of seeing new faces in a house, their younger nurses always are.

“The little missy has lost her mother, hasn't she?” I asked the housekeeper, an open-faced and a candid spoken woman. Somehow we close-mouthed detectives have a great respect for open, candid-speaking people.

“Yes,” said the housekeeper. “Miss Shedleigh never knew her mamma.”

“Indeed! how was that? Will you kindly pass me the white wax?—Thank you.”

“Mrs. Shedleigh died in childbed.”

“Dear me, poor lady!” said I. Then, after a pause, I asked, “Did you know her, ma'am?”

The housekeeper looked up for the moment, a little offended. She soon regained her ordinary amiability, and replied—

“Yes, I was housekeeper to her mother, and afterwards to her father, up to the time of her marriage, and we both came to this house together.”

“Ha! then you were present at her death, poor lady?”

“Pardon me, my dear,” the old lady continued. “I do not think there is any need to pity my lady—as I always called her after her mother's, Lady Shirley's death—she was sufficiently good not to fear death over much.”

“Did she die peaceably, may I ask, Mrs. Dumarty?”

“I was assured she did.”

“Oh, you were not present, Mrs. Dumarty?”

“No, my dear, I was not; and I shall never forgive myself for having been away at the time. But the fact is, that we did not expect any addition to the family for fully two months from the time when the poor dear lady suffered; and
I
—I shall never forgive myself—had gone down home into the country to see our relations—I mean mine and my lady's, we both coming from one part.”

“Oh!” I said, balked; for it was clear, as far as she herself was concerned, Mrs. Dumarty was valueless as one of my witnesses.

“There never was such an unfortunate business as that; and dear me, my dear, talking about it has so confused me that I think I must have made a wrong seam!. Yes, I have—it's two different lengths!”