The Female Detective (6 page)

“But the lady was not alone?” said I.

“No, not alone,” replied the housekeeper; and then she broke off from the tone of voice she was using, and said, in a higher key, “But you do seem strangely interested in the family?”

“O dear, no,” said I; “but it is a way of mine when I am working for a family. I beg your pardon, and will not offend again.”

The old lady nodded her head seriously as she pursed up her lips and began to unrip the seam she had foundered on; but she was not silent for long. Soon she began to speak again; and as a kind of apology for having been a little severe, she became more communicative than she had hitherto shown herself.

“My lady was not alone,” she said, “though more might have been about her. For instance, Mr. Shedleigh was away from home, though to be sure his sister was in the way.”

“What! was he not in the house when his wife died?”

“No, poor dear; and I'm told that when he learnt the catastrophe—by electric telegraph—he was near broken-hearted, and mayhap he would have been had it not been for the little daughter. It upset him so he could not travel for two days.
I
learnt the news by electric telegraph, and I shall never forgive myself that I was away.”

Here was information!

It was clear, if the housekeeper was to be believed, and she could have no aim in deceiving me, that the father was as ignorant as Sir Nathaniel Shirley of the real state of the case.

“Do you think,” said I, leading up to another line in the case—“Do you think the doctor who attended the lady was a clever man?”

“Bless you, my dear,” said the housekeeper; and I began to notice that she was becoming gratified rather than angry at the interest I was taking in the family, “Dr. Ellkins was the cleverest of medical men.”

“
Was?
” I said, interrogatively.

“Dead,” the housekeeper replied, in a kind of fatalistic voice. “He was never a very strong man, I should say, and he ought never to have tried the journey. He went to Madeiry, my dear, and in Madeiry he died.”

So here was another of the four witnesses upon whom I relied beyond detection.

“Perhaps the nurse neglected the poor lady,” I said, turning to another branch of my case.

“Ah me!” said the old housekeeper, “that could not be, for it was all so sudden and unexpected, and the death followed the birth so soon that she was not sent for till hours after my poor lady lay dead. The only one she had to help her in her trouble was her dear sister, Miss Shedleigh, who saw her through all her trouble. Miss Shedleigh herself narrowly escaped with her life, and she has been like a mother to our little darling ever since.”

So, of those four supposed witnesses to the birth, one only existed who could be of use to me in unravelling the secret; that one was she who had been entirely guilty of the fraud—the sister-in-law of the late lady, and sister of the self-supposing father, whom I now looked upon to be in all probability as certainly deceived as Sir Nathaniel Shirley himself. He had not reached home till two days after the death of the lady, and therefore two days, at least, after the supposed birth of the child which now stood as the heiress to the property, which was very large.

The father was not in the house at the time of the birth or death.

The nurse had not been sent for.

The doctor was dead.

The sister-in-law alone remained. How could I approach her? It was she whose interest it was chiefly to be silent. She would be on her guard, and I could hope for nothing from her.

I began to see my chances of success getting narrower and narrower.

But I did not despair.

That same evening, after I had left the mansion for the night, I went down to the house in which Dr. Ellkins had lived, having learnt the address of the housekeeper, and I found that it was still in the occupation of a medical man, who, to be here short, was he who had purchased Dr. Ellkins's business of that gentleman, when he decided upon leaving England.

To inquire if Dr. Ellkins had had an assistant, and, if so, where he could be found, was child's play.

No; Dr. Ellkins had had no assistant.

I had thanked the doctor's housekeeper for her information, and was turning away, when I blushed for myself at the omission I had made when she remarked—

“The doctor had a 'prentice.”

“And where is he?” I asked.

“Dear me, mum, how ever should I know! At one o' the 'spitals up in London I suppose, leastways, I know he said he was a going to a 'spital, and likewise to be a Guy.”

This statement gave me courage, for I had had some experience of medical students. Having had a case in which one ultimately became my prisoner, I knew that when this young man had said he was going to be a Guy he meant he was about to become a student at Guy's Hospital over London Bridge.

“What was his name?” I asked.

“Dear me, mum! I do hope he's got in no trouble—his chief fault, while he was with us, being dancing—which were his fascination.”

“No; no trouble. I want to ask him a question.”

“Blessed be!” said the old lady; “his name was George Geffins—a young man with the reddest hair, which he were ever trying to change, and it coming out the brighter for what he did to that same.”

Saying I would call again (I never did), I left the old housekeeper.

That same night I sent up word to the housekeeper at Shirley House, as Mr. Shedleigh's mansion was called, that I should not be able to be with her on the following day, and when the next sun rose it found me in London.

I was soon at Guy's Hospital, and within a quarter of an hour of seeing the building I had learnt that a Mr. George Geffins was a student at that place, and the porter, with a grin, had given me his private address.

It was then half-past nine o'clock, and upon reaching the house and getting into the passage I guessed that Mr. Geffins was at breakfast by the clicking of a spoon against a cup or saucer which I heard distinctly.

When the landlady said a lady wanted to see him, the clicking of the spoon ended.

Accustomed to hear with more than ordinary acuteness—for I have the belief that the senses may be sharpened up to any extent—I heard Mr. Geffins say—

“Why the devil didn't you say I was out?”

Then he bawled—“Is that you, Matilda?”

“No,” said I; “it's not Matilda.”

“Ho!” said he; (it struck me he spoke in a relieved tone)—“Ho!” coming to the door; “then who the devil
are
you, ma'am?”

It further struck me, and I am willing to admit it, that when he saw me, the gentleman in question betrayed no extraordinary inclination to become better acquainted.

The disinclination was the more marked when I said I had come upon business.

He was a dissipated looking young man, and it appeared to me lived about three years in one twelve-month.

However, he asked me into his parlour—the most forlorn and furniture-damaged apartment which I ever entered—and then awkwardly he asked me, his landlady having quitted the room with a disturbed air, “What I wanted.” He put “the” and a strong word between “what” and “I,” but I refrain from quoting it.

“You were a pupil of Dr. Ellkins?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a relieved air.

“You were so in 1858?”

“In 1858.”

By this time, having got over his evident dread of me, he was beginning to suspect me, I saw.

“I only want to know whether you remember the birth of a child at Shirley House in the July of that year?”

“What, Mrs. Shedleigh's child? Oh, yes,
I
remember specially. What on earth are you asking me this for?”

“Simply because I want to find out the date of some business which relates personally to me, and which I can tell if once I know the date of the birth of Mr. Shedleigh's daughter.”

“Well, I
can
tell you,” said Mr. Geffins, “by as odd a chance as ever you heard. Sit down, ma'am, and excuse me going on with my breakfast; I've got to get to lecture by ten.”

I sat down. It is the first lesson of a detective to oblige a victim; his second is to accept that victim's hospitality if he offers it. Nothing opens a man's or woman's mouth so readily as allowing him or her to fill yours.

“Will you take a cup of tea?” he asked.

I did immediately.

“Bless my soul,” said he, “I remember the day only too well—the 15th of July it was—for well I remember seeing it on the summons paper—‘That on the said fifteenth of July, 1858, you did wilfully and of malice aforethought, &c., &c.' You see the fact stood, it was our guv's old housekeeper's birthday, and I had promised her a surprise, and she got it in the shape of a whole bundle of crackers, all set alight at once just under her window. And the constable passing at that time, why I got summoned, and had to pay five shillings fine and thirteen shillings costs—well I remember the date. I have got the summons now. I remember it was the governor going up to Shirley House which gave me the chance of firing 'em. But by Jove,” he continued, taking a great bite out of his dry toast, “I must be quick, or I shall never be in time for lecture.”

“Excuse me, sir,” I continued, “but I want to hear every particular about times. At what hour did Dr. Ellkins come home from Shirley House?”

“I think it was about ten—and at eleven he was rung up and had to go back to the house again!”

“Ha, exactly!” I said. “Now comes the point which especially interests me. I know he returned to the house, or I never could have wanted to know anything about this matter. May I ask why he returned to the house, or what excuse he made to you when he left his house? Did
he
say he was going back to Shirley House?”

“Oh yes! and I am quite sure he did go there, because it was the groom who came down for him.”

“Is it possible? I wish you would tell me all about it!” I said in an eager tone, “seeing as you must I am indeed most interested in the details.”

“Well now, look you here,” and I must confess the lad improved upon acquaintance exactly as an ugly dog frequently will; “I'll tell you all about it. Ellkins was not expected to be up at the big house on that job for a good two months, and therefore you may guess he was rather surprised when he was sent for at ten p.m., on the 15th of July. He came back before eleven, and I remember I asked him if it was all right, and I remember he said no, and it never was likely to be all right.”

“What did he mean by that?” I asked.

“Well, you are not easily shocked, are you?”

“No,” I said, looking the young man plainly in the face.

I cannot reproduce the statement he made, but it ran plainly to the effect that Mrs. Shedleigh had not given birth to a living child, and that it was highly improbable that such could ever be the case.

Now this was the very information I wanted, but it would not have done to show this was the case, so I said, in as impatient a tone as I could assume—

“But, now, I want to know what was the time when the doctor again went to the house—if ever he went at all, which I doubt.”

I must have completely thrown the young man off his guard as to my real attempt, for he set his cup down, and speaking in a far more gentlemanly tone than any he had yet used, he said—

“Oh, but I assure you that he did go to the house, and returned in about three hours. He looked amazingly upset, I assure you, and when I asked him if anything was amiss he replied Mrs. Shedleigh was dead. He said no more, and went into his room without wishing me good-night, which for him was a very extraordinary thing to do—he being rather a civil man. Well, you may judge of my surprise the next morning when old Mother Smack—I beg your pardon, when the doctor's housekeeper said to me, ‘So there's an heiress up at the great house. I suppose we shall have rare doings?' Well, it was so; and when I asked the doctor he told me to hold my tongue, and added another birth had taken place. Then he begged I would say nothing about the affair, nor have I until now. But it matters little now, for I might talk about it, and damage the poor old doctor's reputation ever so, and he would not feel it, for he has left the faculty and gone up above; let's hope for his diploma. You see,
he
had made a mistake, and I was afraid to say anything about it, for perhaps he helped the poor lady into her coffin—doctors
do
do that sort of thing sometimes, and it can't be helped; but really I hope, ma'am, you've got no more questions to ask me, and I hope I have been of service to you. If I stop any longer I shall be too late for lecture, and there'll be no end of a row.”

Well, no, I replied, he had not been of much use to me, but I thanked him all the same, and would he allow me to call upon him again?

His jaw dropped. Well, he said, he did not care much to have women about his room, for that sort of thing got about and did a fellow no good, but I might come again, and—for
he
did not want to know my name—and would I kindly send in the name of Walker? I would remember the name—“Walker, you know.” But really he
must
be off.

And so saying he bolted, leaving me in the parlour and actually alone with his landlady's silver spoons.

I had learnt far more than he supposed, more than even he, doctor as he was, had ever suspected, and I had no need to call upon him again, although at the time I suspected I should have to surprise him by appearing in my true character, and being instrumental in subpoenaing him as a witness.

What had I learnt in addition to what I already knew of the case?

More, far more than I can openly tell my readers, and yet they must be put in possession of my discovery in some more or less circumlocutory manner.

Know then that nature can bear such evidence of the inability of certain women to become mothers of living children, that long after death, even hundreds of years after death, if the skeleton be perfect, medical men could swear that such an incapacity had existed.