Cleek screwed round on his heel, and watched the approach of this interesting pair with undisguised interest. Dollops' discovery had not been without its effect on him, although he proposed taking no active steps at present.
He might reasonably have expected Miss Wynne to make every effort to keep out of his way, but she was evidently bent on being seen as prominently as possible. By daylight she was even more attractive than she had appeared on the preceding night, and made a decidedly charming picture. Cleek found himself wondering how Sir Edgar had withstood her allurement, even with the memory of Lady Margaret Cheyne in his heart. The frail, frightened child fresh from the convent, patrician though she was, could not hold a candle, as the saying goes, to this daughter of a country doctor. Again the thought flashed across his mind. Was it all a blind, this man's love for the girl endowed with such a precious dowry; or did he but wish to obtain them in order that he might bring a bigger fortune to the hands of this country syren? He dismissed the idea instantly as unworthy of the man to whom he had taken an instinctive liking, notwithstanding the fact that by his reticence he was helping to complicate this most difficult case.
"Good morning, Mr. Policeman," said Miss Wynne, gaily, when the mutual introduction had been made. "I hope you have come to the conclusion this morning that I am not a suspicious character. Last night he wanted to arrest me for murder, Miss Lorne," and she gave a little shiver so obviously artificial that Cleek glanced at her quickly through half-narrowed lids.
"I should hope so, Miss Wynne," he said with an air of elaborate carelessness, which only Ailsa recognized at its true value. "No one would think of connecting so gruesome a thing as murder with you. I think we shall probably find it a case of suicide after all, don't you know."
Miss Wynne eyed him in open-eyed astonishment mingled with something that was closely akin to relief and then gave another affected giggle.
Miss Lorne had ignored her completely, knowing that Cleek was but posing for some purpose of his own, but now, in order to give him an opportunity to tackle Bobby Wynne, she engaged Jennifer in conversation.
Cleek did not take much liking to this exuberant young gentleman. About two and twenty, the evident idol of his sister, he was of a type who is to be found studying every sporting paper, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of each edition of the Evening News, to discover his gains or losses. It was not long before Cleek had him sized up, and a casual remark about waiting for a tip for to-morrow's Windsor 2:30 race, and a promise to pass it on to the young gentleman directly it came, made him his friend for life.
"It's all very well for silly girls like Jennifer to go on against racing. It's the finest sport in the world!" said young Wynne to Cleek as he edged him farther up the narrow lane and spoke in a confidential whisper, lest his voice should reach the sharp ears of his sister, though she was apparently deep in conversation with Ailsa.
"I can do with a good tip," went on this refreshing youth, "for I don't mind telling you that I got pretty badly hit at Newmarket last week. Newmarket always plays the deuce with me. Luckily Jenny sold some of her precious flowers and pulled me out of the hole, more than £50, you know. Pretty bad little hole, eh, what?"
He gave a fatuous little giggle that made Cleek feel inclined to shake him.
"But I don't mind, I'll win it all back next week, and I'll make it up to her," he went on hopefully, with a wink at his companion.
But Cleek's mind was now working at lightning speed, though he was apparently deeply interested in Wynne's conversation.
Fifty pounds paid for flowers. What flowers could this girl raise in a riverside cottage that would produce such a sum? Somebody must have paid heavily for something other than flowers; that was certain.
"Talking of flowers," he said, casually, as young Wynne stopped to light a fresh cigarette. "I'm a bit of a ruralist at times, and I'd like to see Miss Wynne's collection if I may. I go in for dahlias myself, but I suppose Miss Wynne's flowers are pretty valuable; orchids, and such like."
"Good lord, no, only those beastly smelling, sickly funeral flowers, hyacinths and tulip things," was the reply in an off-hand manner, "cheap as dirt they are, and how she gets the money beats me. But then Jenny always was a problem since the day she was born."
Cleek felt he wanted to see more of this interesting pair before he had done with them. Already he had gained some valuable information, for Miss Jennifer Wynne had evidently been well paid for her flowers, hyacinths or tulips or whatever they might be, or she could never have given this young idiot fifty pounds to pay his racing debts.
So well did he contrive to work his way into the good graces of both brother and sister that when Ailsa insisted on taking the short cut through the fields to her own home alone, Cleek was easily persuaded to return for lunch to the house where the young couple had lived ever since the days before their father's death. Herein were pictures of every horse, jockey, and trainer that had ever lived.
"See that horse there, Beauty?" said Wynne, after they had been in the house a few minutes. "Well, that old sport got me the finest gold watch I ever saw. That one over there is Bay Tree II, the best tip I ever had, 100 to 1 chance. Only I didn't have more than ten bob in my pockets, worse luck. I'll tell you about the rest after lunch if you like."
Cleek was frankly bored, but he kept his feeling in restraint, being on the watch to get what information he could.
"Delighted, my boy!" he said, cordially. Then as the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel outside came to his alert ears, he stopped short, and Wynne looked down through the open window and withdrew his head with a little muttered exclamation of disgust.
"Oh, hang it all," he growled, "now we're in for a visitation from that doctor chap. I can't stand that fellow Verrall at any price."
Dr. Verrall! Cleek turned as he heard the name and looked out of the window. He would have given anything to have overheard the meeting between him and Miss Jennifer downstairs.
That there was some secret connection between them he felt sure, and that Dr. Verrall would try to shield the girl he loved, even at the cost of his professional honour, was also an assured fact. He must get down as quickly and as quietly as possible, and he blamed himself and Bobby, whose offer to show him his pictures was the cause of his having been out of the room.
"Lord," he muttered, clapping his hand to his forehead and wheeling round blindly, "'pon me soul, I think he's just in time. Got one of these staggering attacks—got it through the Boer War, dontcher know. Don't you trouble, old man, I'll find my way down myself."
He lurched across the room and just as he passed the edge of the old-fashioned chest of drawers against the wall, his elbow caught the projecting edge of a book, and with a crash it fell to his feet. From between its leaves there fell some sporting prints, and a photograph of a man. Cleek stooped to replace them, when young Wynne sprang forward almost excitedly, snatching them from his hand, but not before Cleek had made a startling discovery. The picture was that of the man who lay murdered in the house of mystery, Cheyne Court. As if realizing that his act needed apology, young Wynne put the photo hastily back.
"Sorry I snapped at you, old chap," he said, a flush of mortification reddening his face. "Don't think me an ill-bred pup. Fact is, I was a bit excited and forgot for a moment. But that chap's a pal of mine, first class tipster he is, too. Jenny can't bear him, and if she knew I still get tips from him, she'd carry on like a wild cat, so mum's the word, old man."
"Of course," replied Cleek, hastily, a trifle shaken it must be confessed by this astonishing discovery. "'Tisn't likely I'm going to betray secrets—men of the world both of us." He winked broadly and young Wynne, his fears allayed and highly flattered at this "man of the world's" appreciation of him, winked back. "Besides, I shouldn't be surprised if that gentleman and I are not old acquaintances if I remember rightly."
Wynne fell into the trap as neatly as a mouse after a piece of cheese.
"What—Blake?" he ejaculated involuntarily.
"Ah, yes," Cleek nodded. "I thought as much. I knew I was right," he exclaimed with well-simulated enthusiasm. "That chap Blake did me a good turn once, bit of a tipster myself, but not a patch on him, dontcher know."
"Don't think any one could beat that old sport!" agreed Wynne, complacently, "why, he was the one who gave me the tip for Baytree—but I've had rotten luck lately. I don't know how I shall ever pay him."
Hmn—— Pay him? So that was how the land lay, was it? The boy was heavily in debt to Blake, and if he had been at Cheyne Court that night....
No, that was wrong, too, for there had been no trace of Bobby Wynne—up to the present.
Meanwhile that young gentleman was obviously waiting to lead him downstairs, and Cleek hesitated, trying to make up his mind what to do for the best.
He would have liked to stay in this racing den, try to trace the connection between Blake the tipster and Blake the head of the Pentacle Club, and to find out whether Master Bobby Wynne had had any suspicions as to the real identity of the "mistress" of Cheyne Court. But other things called. There was that Verrall chap downstairs with Jennifer Wynne herself. And the question of those utterly priceless flowers that could fetch as much as fifty pounds for their grower.
Silently he followed his host downstairs, still looking a bit hang-dog about the mouth for he was far too careful in his methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden attack of a moment before by pretending that it was already over.
Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the subject of Bobby Wynne's acquaintance with the murdered man. The mere fact that the young man feared discovery of his connection with this Blake proved conclusively that he knew his danger and that at any moment inquiry might be made, even though there was no actual proof that he had been in the vicinity of Cheyne Court that night.
"Fearfully groggy, old chap," he said in answer to Wynne's inquiry as to whether he felt any better. They were passing down a dark, narrow passage at the moment and a little door stood ajar toward the end of it. A quick glance showed Cleek that the room beyond this door was lined with shelves on which stood numerous rows of bottles.
Bobby Wynne's face seemed to whiten with unwonted anger. He gave a sharp exclamation, and ran back to close the door quickly.
"The old guv'nor's surgery," he said in explanation. "Wonder who's been in? Door's been kept locked ever since the old man died. Hullo, Headland, you're not going to have another attack, are you?" For Cleek had suddenly lurched against the bannister at the head of the stairs, and swung round, until his back was resting against it.
He lolled his head back, gave a sort of hollow groan, and then under cover of this began swiftly to count the doors in order to make sure of the location of that surgery.
"No, it's only just a passing spasm. I was just wondering whether your old dad had anything in his surgery to pull me together, clever chaps some of these doctors, dontcher know."
Bobby Wynne groaned. For once he was disposed to be cautious, and there was evidently some reason why he did not wish any one to look into that surgery. And that was just why Cleek wanted to get into it. He felt tolerably sure that it would contain a quantity of prussic acid, and a stab of memory brought up the sight of long, slender finger-marks——
Get into that room he must. So leaning heavily on young Wynne, he said "I'm all right now. I'll get a pick-me-up presently."
And descending the staircase arm in arm, they entered the dining room together.
The delay had only been a trifling one, but Cleek did not, after all, get downstairs in time to witness the first meeting between the worthy doctor and his adored one. By the time he did reach the old-fashioned, daintily kept dining room, the couple were apparently engaged in the commonplace phrases of ordinary social life.
But Cleek was too well versed in that most complex of all studies—human nature—to be deceived. The veriest child could have seen and understood every word or motion of his hostess, and a pitying smile crept up Cleek's face as he noted the bearing of the would-be lover. Cleek's entry with young Wynne drew their united attention.
"Hello! Doc!" was Wynne's boisterous greeting. "Lost your best patient, eh? Never mind, saved you killing her yourself."
The remark was decidedly in bad taste, but its effect on Dr. Verrall was almost startling. Every drop of colour fled from his face, and for a moment he looked as if he could have struck the youth.
It was with an obvious effort that the doctor continued his talk with Miss Wynne, but it was Cleek alone who noticed these signs of perturbation. Again his memory reverted to the night of the murder. He had sent Mr. Narkom flying for the doctor, and it had been strange that Verrall should have been so conveniently on the spot—almost, in fact, as if he had expected a call—rather than at his own house, nearly a mile away. He had been on foot, too, and not in a motor which he assuredly would have been, had he been out on his ordinary rounds. There was something fishy about the whole affair and Cleek decided to keep both his eyes open.
His entry, however, with young Wynne's announcement of his sudden attack of faintness, made him an object of extreme solicitude on the part of Miss Wynne.
"Crocked up, poor beggar, and came near being a new patient for you to kill, doc," explained young Wynne, as he led Cleek into his place at the table. "Came within an ace of rolling over, and I bet you a new hat, Jenny, it's those beastly strong-smelling flowers you stick about all over the place."
The speaker laughed as though he were making the finest jokes ever made, and even his adoring sister could not but remonstrate.
"Bobby, darling, how can you be so rude to my poor flowers," said she, colouring at his humour in front of this stranger. "I'm sure you ought to be grateful to them——" then stopped short as if regretting having spoken.
"Oh, that's right, rub it in," responded her brother with a little sneering laugh. "I'm always being pulled up for something and just because you sold a few for once, I suppose I shall never hear the last of what those precious flowers of yours have done for me. Wish to goodness I was on my own, like other fellows."
"Oh, Bobby," Miss Wynne said, softly, "you know I didn't mean——"
"No, but you let me know it, mean or no mean," he retorted sullenly, "seems to me that the best thing I can do is to take myself off, and then everybody will be better. I'll lunch at the inn, thanks. I say, Headland, when you feel up to it, you might meet me there, and perhaps we can have a bit of sporting chat together and these two can spoon amongst the flowers."
With which final dig at his sister's pet hobby and the doctor's evident devotion, this engaging young gentleman lurched out of the room and down the little passage leading to the front door without another word.
A strained silence fell on the party for a second until Jennifer, recovering herself first, said in explanation:
"He's such a big overgrown schoolboy, Mr. Headland, and I'm afraid he's jealous of my beautiful hyacinths. Please don't give Bobby's rudeness another thought or I shall feel horribly ashamed."
Cleek shook his head smilingly.
"Pray don't mention it," he said in a smooth tone. "Boys will be boys, you know, and I rather like a dash of sport myself."
That seemed to set the girl at ease, and Cleek had an opportunity for a moment of watching and making notes in that wonderful mental diary of his.
It was not until coffee, made by Jennifer's own capable and slender fingers, had been served and the gentlemen given permission to smoke, that Cleek managed to secure the opportunity he so strongly desired, of seeing inside that little surgery door.
Diving his hand into his pocket, and having assured himself that the object he sought was reposing safely at the bottom, he gave vent to a little exclamation of well-simulated disgust.
"Nuisance, Miss Wynne. I am sorry, but I've left my cigarette case up in your brother's room. Would you mind if I ran up and got it?"
"Oh, I'll get it for you," said the girl, quickly. But that was the very thing Cleek was most anxious to avoid.
"No, my dear young lady, I know just exactly where it is and I promise not to thieve anything——"
With a little asinine snigger at his own humour, Cleek had crossed the tiny room and was on his way up the staircase before Miss Wynne could find time to remonstrate.
It took him but a second to reach the landing, and swiftly, silently he grasped the handle of the surgery door. It yielded to his touch, sprang open upon well-oiled hinges, and in another moment Cleek had achieved his object and stood in the little room.
His eyes, trained to observe quickly, took in the shelves of drugs, once dispensed and used so freely by the dead doctor. The vast array of bottles stood dust covered and dull, many with spider's webs over the stoppers. All but one, that is, and at that one Cleek's heart gave a leap, and his hand shot out, then stopped poised over it. The label on the bottle bore the medicinal name for prussic acid, and the dust had been brushed from the neck and stopper. Around the centre lay the marks of long, slender fingers!
Cleek's hand dropped again, and for a second he stood stock still, his brows knitted, the little nerve in his temple throbbing incessantly and his chin pinched up between one finger and thumb. Suddenly he switched on his heel, a new train of thought aroused by the sight of some white powdery atoms that lay at his feet.
Cautiously he bent down and touched one of the crumbling balls.
"Magnesia," he muttered. "By all the Gods—and that remnant of pellet in the dead man's mouth!" And the good Dr. Verrall was a friend of the family, so of course he would have access to this long-forgotten surgery which Cleek himself would never have known existed had it not been for the providential opening of the door. What, indeed, was the connection between Miss Jennifer and the dead "Miss Cheyne"?—or was it Dr. Verrall, after all? Bobby Wynne? Cleek dismissed him from his mind altogether as utterly harmless, though again there was the reluctance of that youth to allow him to enter this very room. There was the trail of magnesia, too. Now if he could find any trace of that most child-like and bland of medicines in Master Bobby's own room—— This thought caused a sudden recollection of the two below and he moved away quickly. Swiftly and as noiselessly as he had entered, he passed out, the problem rendered still deeper by the knowledge he had obtained.
Darting into young Wynne's room, he gave it a lightning scrutiny, but there was no trace of magnesia to be found. But of course this room would be swept out every day and so no remnants of dust and powder would be permitted to lie there.
Down the staircase he went once more, stopping only to withdraw his silver cigarette-case from the pocket it had never left, and his hand on the dining room door to open it, he stood rigid, for through it came Miss Jennifer's metallic and artificial voice.
"Edgar, dear, you are sure we are safe? I don't trust this man——"
"Perfectly safe, darling," came the deep-toned answer. "Leave everything to me and fear nothing. You shall be safe, that I swear."
"Oho!" Cleek's lips puckered for a soundless whistle. "Edgar, eh?" So Dr. Verrall's name was Edgar, too, for it was certainly that personage who had answered her question and their relation to one another now was obvious.
Had she meant Edgar Verrall then, and not Sir Edgar Brenton after all? Yet the initial on the revolver was B. Last night he could have sworn that she was in love with the young baronet and was planning to marry him, but now he asked himself: "Which Edgar was it?"
Without a sound, he let go the handle, and after a swift glance round to see that his action was not likely to be observed by a servant if one there were, he backed noiselessly half-way up the staircase and then came down again, heavy-footed and whistling.
When he entered the room, it was to find the lovers calm and collected.
"Please forgive me, Miss Wynne," said Cleek, genially, flourishing the cigarette-case in his fingers. "I've been the deuce of a time, but the dashed thing had fallen down behind the dressing chest, and I had a regular hunt for it. I hope Mr. Wynne won't mind my intruding on his sanctum. You must explain it to him for me."
"Oh, no, not Bobby," said that gentleman's sister a little absently, "so long as you do not disturb his racing calender, that's all that matters to him."
Cleek forebore to comment upon this other than in a general: "Oh, boys will sow their wild oats, you know," and then went forward and held out his hand.
"Well, good-bye, Miss Wynne, and thank you for a pleasant luncheon. I'll look you up again some time if I may. You've been awfully kind putting up with me, and that young brother of yours is a real good sort."
Then he smiled, took his departure, and went presumably to meet Mr. Narkom.
Yet had the occupants of the house he had left been watching his movements they would have been surprised to see that his footsteps led him exactly in the opposite direction from that of the village police station. He simply vanished round the angle of the house and stood on the gravelled path, apparently absorbed in looking at the gnarled old wistaria plant which covered the entire wall. His memory for rooms had told him that that small tightly closed window was that of the surgery in which he had made so momentous a discovery. The garden all round him, shut off from the main road by a fairly high wall and shielded by tall elm trees, was a veritable paradise of flowers.
Flowers had always been a passion with Cleek himself, and for a few moments he stood there drinking in the exquisite perfume of the hyacinths which hung round him like a cloud of sweetest scent. Blue, pink and purest white, with tulips and all the various kinds of narcissi grouped about them they transformed the place into a fairy glen. Looking about him Cleek recognized what constant care and attention had been expended upon the spot. It was a harmless hobby and possibly a paying one in a small way, but not sufficient to pay Master Bobby's racing debts. Cleek's brows drew together involuntarily. Again he saw the flush of pain, and if he were not mistaken of remorse too, in Jennifer Wynne's face.
His eyes wandered mechanically from bed to bed, coming to rest on the one just beneath the window.
Yes, there was undoubtedly a footprint, long and narrow, a woman's footprint obviously, clearly marked and only partially concealed by the tulip leaves. His eyes flashed up to the ivy which stretched green and unbroken to the surgery window. Unbroken? No, it certainly was not, for closer observation revealed the fact that many of the branches were torn and bruised. Someone light and lithe had evidently climbed up and thus obtained an entry to the surgery. But who?
Cleek stood there, his brows pulled down, his chin pinched hard as he thought of the prussic acid and other things. It could not be Jennifer Wynne herself, for obviously she would not have entered the room from the outside, nor young Wynne, either. Who was it?
The breeze stirred the leaves of the ivy and Cleek found himself gazing mechanically upon a little fragment of material caught in the sharp twigs. He looked at it for several minutes before he realized the clue which lay before him.
Then his hand shot out, the stuff lay in the open palm, and with it something more—a man's life.
At the police station Cleek found Mr. Narkom awaiting him.
"You look worried," he said, with a twitch of his head and a lift of the eyebrows in that gentleman's direction.
"I am worried," responded the Superintendent, excitedly. "Cleek, I thought you were never coming! I've a search warrant here for Cheyne Court." Speaking, he drew Cleek in through the door of Constable Roberts' private sanctum and shut it sharply behind him. "If we don't find something to throw a little light on the matter I will eat my head."
"And a very indigestible quantity you'll find it, too," retorted Cleek with a laugh. "We'd better be getting along at once, the sooner the better, and try to get to the bottom of this most distressing affair."
For answer Mr. Narkom grabbed his hat, clapped it upon his head and together they went out to the red limousine. Petrie and Hammond, who had arrived and were in the ante room, followed in their wake.
"Cheyne Court, Lennard. When you fellows get there, I want you to search that dried-up moat while we do the house," said the Superintendent as he climbed in after Cleek and shut the door behind them. Like a shot the motor was off, taking a pace which would make the police of the neighbourhood wink with astonishment. In the space of a few minutes the car drew up outside of Cheyne Court and armed with a bunch of skeleton keys which would lay every room and cupboard open to them, Cleek and Mr. Narkom jumped out.
Having sent Petrie and Hammond to their respective tasks, they set to work to make a systematic search from the top to the bottom of the big, rambling house.
From room to room and floor to floor they passed, but the broad daylight revealed no more than their torches had done at night. That there was some secret entry was obvious, but tap and prod as they might, it was all in vain. The walls were solid, the cupboards stern realities; and at the end of an hour, the question as to how the murderer had entered and escaped on that eventful night remained as great a mystery as ever.
Finally, they reached the upper landing, and at a small room at the back, the door of which stood wide open, Cleek stopped short.
"This must be Lady Margaret's own room," he said, turning to Mr. Narkom excitedly, his eyes alight; "here is the coat she wore when I drove her over on that eventful night."
He lifted a blue travelling cloak from the back of a chair, beside the smooth, untumbled bed.
"Let's poke about in here for a while and see if we can't get some clues as to what happened," he continued.
Suiting the action to the word, he dropped on his knees, and commenced examining every inch of the floor which was covered with cocoanut matting.
Suddenly Mr. Narkom saw him come to an abrupt halt, every nerve tense, as he sniffed repeatedly at the air.
Then he bent still farther over the matting.
"Humn," he said, ruminatively. "That scent again. Huile de jasmin, eh?" There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Huile de jasmin! No wonder it lingered. Look, here is another spot," creeping on all fours in the direction of the perfumed trail, he put his finger upon a tiny oily patch and smiled up into the astonished Superintendent's face. "Oh, I know this stuff well. At one time its real scent was only used in the harems of the great Rajahs, and they used to have a few drops put in receptacles attached to the back of their jewels. Sometimes a ring would bear its odour, sometimes a bracelet or earring. Later, though, it became more common and was used in the bazaars."
"Bazaars?" said Mr. Narkom. "Then it's Indian, you mean."
"My dear chap, do you remember that Lady Brenton was born in India? That is where Sir Edgar's father met and married her."
Cleek nodded and went on as though Mr. Narkom had not interrupted him.
"I said 'was', remember," he said. "It is still just as generally used, but since the days when the favourites of the Harem alone had permission to use it, I have no doubt some enterprising Eurasian has manufactured it, and sells the scent over here. Not but what I am not going to keep an eye on all that little Hindoo gang over the other side of the village. I have set Dollops to work, too. I had the pleasure of meeting one of them, a Mr. Gunga Dall, a few hours ago, and before I make up my mind, there are still others. Lady Brenton herself uses the scent; Miss Jennifer, too, is mighty fond of it—I noticed at lunch. But don't forget Dr. Verrall is also an Anglo-Indian. Yes, my friend, a good many roads lead to Rome—still——" His voice trailed off into silence, for his mind had gone back again to that first eventful journey to Cheyne Court, when, looking out in the March mist, he had seen the figure of a woman cross the lawn.
But was it a woman, or simply a man in the flowing robes of the East? If it had been Miss Jennifer, what was she doing that other night when the man was murdered?
His gaze was fixed almost unseeing in its intentness, but suddenly his eye caught a stray sunbeam which was reflected on something thrown down beside the white bed. He gave a sort of cry and pounced upon it.
Mr. Narkom fairly gasped in his excitement, at this action.
"Cleek!" Mr. Narkom said, agitatedly. "What is it?"
"This," he made answer. "Something which looks as if there were at least two women in this room last night, and Lady Margaret herself was one of them." He held up the object as he spoke. It was a long, glittering gold scarf from the end of which a fragment had been torn violently away. Taking out his pocketbook, Cleek unfolded with trembling fingers the torn scrap of lace found clutched in the dead hand and fitted it into the damaged place.
"By James!" Mr. Narkom gasped, letting the scarf drop like a golden snake to the ground. "It fits; it fits. Cleek! how could that child have perpetrated a deed like that and escape, vanish without a sound? It is impossible—utterly and ridiculously impossible!"
Cleek made no reply. His mind sped back over his last chat with Ailsa. What was it that she had said? The scarf had been given Lady Margaret by her dead father. H'mn—a valued possession, then, not likely to be given up lightly, or even lent, much less left about like this.
"Perhaps someone stole it," suggested Mr. Narkom.
"But who; and why leave it here?" responded Cleek, grimly. "It must be the identical scarf, the fragment proves that, and yet—Lady Brenton has one, Miss Jennifer has another——" his words trailed away again as the complexities of the clue were borne in on him.
Certainly there had been two women abroad in the neighbourhood of the house on the night of the murder. Two, possibly three. But even if one were Lady Margaret herself this could not absolutely convict her of murder. It would take more than a young girl's strength to overpower an active man, and yet—despair lends strength.
Before, however, either of them could voice the thoughts that were racing through their minds, the sound of excited voices, and heavy trampling feet coming up the drive toward the house for the moment drove all other thoughts out of their minds.
"Come along down, Cleek," said Mr. Narkom, his voice shaking with excitement. "It's Hammond and Petrie. I set them to search the grounds and the river. It seems as if they had discovered something startling from the noise."
They found Petrie and Hammond surrounded by a little knot of villagers, and bearing a hidden burden upon a hastily contrived stretcher. Their faces were white, and rather frightened.
"Sir," broke out Petrie, as the procession came up with Mr. Narkom, "we searched the river by the landing stage, and we found this dead body. Almost naked it was, sir, but it's a woman, and shot through the heart. If you would look for yourself——"
Cleek and Narkom did look for themselves. Here, undoubtedly, was the real Miss Cheyne, robbed of her dress and rings, to clothe the man who had so ably undertaken her part on that night when Cleek and Roberts had been driven forth by him and his accomplices.
Here, too, was the explanation of that ominous sound of a revolver shot which Cleek had heard while he and his innocent charge stood on the threshold of the ill-fated house. If only he had obeyed his first instinct, and driven the girl back to Ailsa Lorne!
The poor old lady had evidently been shot at that moment, and her body thrown into the river directly Cleek had left the room, where his inopportune entry must have caused considerable dismay to the hidden assassin, or assassins. Hidden; but where? That was still a deeper mystery. And through what secret egress had the body disappeared? And why had they not attacked him?
Evidently it was the girl they wanted; the girl and possession of the Cheyne jewels. But how, and where, had they escaped? And what had become of the girl now? These were questions for which there were no answers save those which time would show.
Bidding them take the body on its stretcher down to the village mortuary, Cleek turned on his heel and with a few directions to Mr. Narkom made his way back into the house, once more to wrestle with the problem of its secret entrance and exit.
Meanwhile Dollops had not been idle. He had set himself the stupendous task not only of discovering the murderer of Miss Cheyne, but what was more important to his sentimental heart, the finding of the young girl. Her face, as he had seen it once on that memorable day at Charing Cross Station, had so imprinted itself on his impressionable mind that it was little wonder that Sir Edgar Brenton spent many hours in the lad's company listening to his brief description of her again, and giving Dollops as clear a word picture of her as any lover could.
"She is dead, the devils have killed her!" he would say in despair, but this theory Dollops refused to accept at any price.
"Not 'arf they ain't, Sir Edgar, and don't you go fer to believe it," he would say, when the two paced up and down watching the grim old house that would have told them so much could it have had human powers of speech. "Don't you forgit, murder's an 'anging business, and a mighty uncomfortable sort of business, too, I should imagine. No, sir, 'er ladyship's 'id away snug and tight, mark my words, till it's safe to let 'er go, and it's up to us to find 'er. For all Mr. Narkom thinks of is them blessed jewels, beggin 'is pardon."
"Yes, and the other one, the Headland chap, is just as bad; not a single effort made to trace my dear girl, only that blessed Purple Emperor. As if it were worth a hair of her precious head!" stormed Sir Edgar.
Dollops switched round upon his heel and looked up into the angry countenance.
"Steady on there, sir. Not a word against Mr.—er Headland," said he with a touch of asperity in his cockney tones. "He's my boss, and the finest, cleverest chap wot ever breathed, an' if 'e's made up his mind to find the Emperor, purple or pink, then 'e's quite right, and you may depend on it he hasn't forgotten Lady Margaret."
Then Dollops went on his own tack, leaving Sir Edgar to enjoy his own bitter reflections as best he might.
"Not but wot 'e's all wrong though, bless 'is 'eart," said Dollops, when he was safely by himself, "for if that precious Miss Wynne ain't at the bottom of it then I'll eat my 'ead, 'at and all."
He was still indignant that Cleek had apparently taken such little notice of his staggering discovery and capture as she climbed through the window on the night of the murder, and he had persistently dogged her footsteps ever since. But for the time being he was keeping a strict eye on the movements of Cleek himself, and having seen him safely into the house, he took up his position, squatting in the shadow of the huge overgrown laurel bushes, prepared to wait till nightfall, if need be, for such time as his master should emerge.
From time to time his eyes swept ferret-like over the vacant windows of Cheyne Court, and of a sudden, a sight met them which caused his active little body to stiffen like a statue. In that deserted house, in an upper window, there appeared the outline of a woman's figure and Dollops' heart leapt into his mouth as the dazzling thought that it might be Lady Margaret herself, crossed his mind.
Dollops gave a praise-worthy imitation of a night-owl, and that Cleek heard it was soon apparent, for the ballroom window flashed open and Cleek himself came out. No sooner was he on the step near the lad than a rather more than usually excited Dollops descended on him.
"For Gawd's sake, Guv'nor, come quick," he said as he laid a tense, nervous grip on Cleek's arm. "There's a woman prowling round in the 'ouse. How she got in, fair licks me, but she's in right enough and——"
"What's that?" rapped out Cleek, sharply. "In Cheyne Court now? Impossible, my dear Dollops. I locked the hall door behind me, and only unshuttered the ball room window when I heard you call. It's quite impossible!"
"It's not, sir," said Dollops, his voice shaking with earnestness, "there's a woman in that house, sure as I'm standing 'ere on this blessed piece of ground. She was upstairs herself in that window up there. I couldn't see her face, first at all, sir—thought it was Lady Margaret 'erself when I copped a glimpse of 'er, but when she turned away I could see as her countingance was too broad."
Cleek looked at the boy keenly.
"Was it Miss Jennifer, Miss Wynne again?" he asked. "Try and place the woman in your mind, lad."
"No, it wasn't, worse luck," responded Dollops, ruefully, for he would dearly have loved to have caught his erstwhile captive red-handed again.
"I seen 'er this morning, and she's in a blue creepy-crawly kind of dress wot tears if yer looks at it. But this 'ere female was in a black dress. I see it plain as plain."
Cleek twitched up an enquiring eyebrow.
"Sure it was a woman and not a Hindoo priest?" he said.
"Certain sure," was the disappointing answer. "You're backing the wrong 'orse there, sir. It was a woman right enough."
Cleek's disappointment showed in his grave face, for in his own mind he was still inclined to lay the murder and even the abduction of Lady Margaret, at the door of the priests of Brahma, tenders of the far-distant Temple of Shiva. He knew the main object of their lives would be achieved could they but once get into their possession again the ill-fated Eye of Shiva, known to the European world as the Purple Emperor.
"Are you sure?" he persisted, laying a tense hand upon Dollops' arm. "Don't jump to a conclusion, Dollops."
That worthy tossed up his carrotty head.
"Not 'arf I ain't, gov'nor," said he, fervently, only wishing in his loyal heart that it could have been one of them beastly "niggers." He would cheerfully have sworn them to be snow-white could it give Cleek any satisfaction. "I see 'er face the second time and it was a middle-aged woman. Why you didn't 'ear 'er tramping around beats me. Anyway, she was evidently a watchdog for someone, too, for she looked right down vicious-like. Lor-lumme, sir, if she ain't there again! Look! Look!"
Cleek did look, switching round on his heel, and gazing up at the window on his left. Sure enough, a woman was there, a woman in a dark dress and with a pale, lined face. She was a stranger to Cleek, as well as to Dollops, and a chill of excitement went through him at the thought of what her presence in this house of mystery and death meant.
At a silent signal from Cleek Dollops crouched lower in the bushes.
"Can't be up to much good in there," he whispered with a backward jerk of his thumb in the direction of the house. "Shall I nip back to Mr. Narkom and bring him along?"
Cleek pondered a moment.
"H'mn, yes, you might do that, but no, on the other hand, it will look suspicious. Keep here, out of sight, if you can, and if I don't come out in half an hour, then you might cut along. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," said Dollops, obediently, but in his own mind he was saying, "me stay out 'ere if there's going to be any danger for 'im?"
He watched Cleek's features writhe into the face of the gallant Lieutenant Deland, so that he should be unrecognizable should he encounter any one he knew and saw him fit in the heavy key which had been found for the front door. But it had hardly closed upon his figure when Dollops was up and round the back to see whether it were not possible to effect an entrance of his own.
Meanwhile Cleek, his foot on the threshold of the door, took out the key, and closed the hall door behind him. It was very gloomy within, but not so dark as to prevent him seeing the figure of a woman, standing at the foot of the stairs, the woman Dollops had seen but a few short minutes ago.
He advanced a step forward and raised his chin.
"Who are you?" he said, imperatively. "And what are you doing here?"
"That's what we'd like to know of you," came a harsh, raucous voice behind him.
Cleek wheeled round sharply, but a moment too late. For once in his life his customary caution had left him. From the gloom of the door a man's figure sprang forward, bearing him down by the impetus and the total unexpectedness of the attack.
A little cry of triumph burst from the lips of the woman as she rushed forward and helped him bind Cleek's struggling figure with the ropes which he had drawn from his pocket. When this was done, she turned upon her companion and spoke to him.
"I thought you were never coming, Jack," she said, looking up into the sullen though triumphant face of the man whom Cleek had recognized as the immaculate butler of that day so long ago when he and Constable Roberts had come post haste to the Court.
"I came as quick as I could, but those fools of police are all over the place," the man answered, viciously. "As to you, my fine fighting cock," jerking Cleek's bound figure to his feet, "we want a little explanation from you, and we're going to see that we get it. Come along, Aggie, let's make for the wine cellar. I can do with a drink, can't you?"
Cursing himself for his folly, Cleek was forced to let his captors drag him downstairs into what were evidently the wine-cellars of Cheyne Court. How either of his opponents had entered and re-entered the house was still a mystery to him, and when he looked at their grim, triumphant faces he wondered dully exactly what was likely to become of him. There was desperation in their eyes and hatred in their looks. This was a tighter corner than he had yet experienced. His thoughts were not permitted to continue long, for——
"Now, my friend," said the man, as he pushed Cleek roughly into a stout kitchen chair. "What have you done with the girl? Come, out with it! We've no intention of having dangerous witnesses against us. Tell us where that girl is, and we'll let you off with your life. But if you don't——"
Cleek looked as surprised as he honestly felt.
"What girl?" he asked, bluntly.
"Now, then, none of your tricks," snarled the woman with a nasty laugh. "You know right enough, the girl you drove here and came back in such a precious stew about afterwards! Lord, how we took you in! A proper old 'do' it was."
She laughed hysterically. "The clever devil! He was a bit too clever, eh? Didn't get over me, though." Her voice broke, and it was evident that she had already been drinking heavily.
The man, seeing this, interrupted her.
"Stow it, Aggie, my girl," said he with an oath. "We've had enough of that. Now, then, you tell us quick or it will be the worst for you."
"If you mean Lady Margaret Cheyne," Cleek said in a calm voice, "you know more about her than I do. She was in your hands!"
"Yes, and safe and sound, too!" snarled Aggie. "What we want to know is who broke in 'ere and took 'er away? You're the only person wot's bin actually near the place, so it's no use your denying it."
Cleek shook his head, and favoured her with a bewildered smile.
"I do, and I give you my oath. I have not seen her since I left her asleep in the chair upstairs," he responded. "I wish to God I had! We've been searching for her long enough, goodness knows!"
The man stared at the woman and the woman stared at the man. There was dismay written large on both their faces. It looked as if a mistake had been made after all.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Aggie in a breathless whisper. "I don't believe it—still——"
"Believe it or not, I'm going to finish him," growled the man in response. "Dead men tell no tales, my girl, and her precious ladyship won't do us no harm. And as for other things——"
Their laughter filled the vaulted chamber, sending the echoes chasing back and forth. Cleek's heart sank like lead. So this was to be the end. This. After all his escapes, all his plans for the precious future with Ailsa. His soul was sick within him.
"Come, let's have one more drink of the old girl's wine. Pretty good taste, too, and then we'll put this johnny to sleep for good," went on the man in a calm, steady voice as though the task of putting people to sleep for good was an easy matter.
"Are you sure it's safe to leave 'im?" asked Aggie. "There might have been someone else on the watch."
"Not a soul, my dear. Come on!"
Still laughing, they passed into the inner room, leaving Cleek trussed up like a fowl upon the floor and utterly helpless to assist himself.
In his anxiety to find the girl whom he had driven all unconsciously into danger, Cleek had had no thought for himself, and he felt that any help that Dollops might bring would be too late to save him. The studded door swung back on its hinges, and all was as silent as the grave it would so soon become.
Two minutes passed, three—five—perhaps ten, and still the quiet was unbroken. Cleek, his eyes strained toward the window which he would have given worlds to be able to reach or drag himself to, waited like a mouse in a trap.
Suddenly an odd gleam of sunlight came through the dust-laden, begrimed window, and as it did so, it lit up two tiny shreds of substance which caused Cleek's heart to leap to his throat. With his unmistakable gift of memory, he knew from whence they came, he knew now many things.
He knew how Lady Margaret had escaped and also, if his memory served him rightly, the identity of the person who had assisted her, though for what ends it was impossible to know.
Suddenly on his reverie a sound broke at last and Cleek braced himself for the end. To die like this—like a rat in a trap with no chance to fight for one's self! Well, it was Fate, and he could not quarrel with it.
But this was no sound of triumphant captor, rather of someone moving down the stone passage with the greatest of caution. It was so faint that ears less keen than his might not have detected it. And at first he thought it was the man come to finish his task or even Aggie, his companion. Yet at the first soft footfall he knew it was neither of them. Then inch by inch the door pushed its way open until it was wide enough to allow the slight body of Dollops to pass through.
At the sight of his master he leapt forward and whipping out a knife cut the bond that bound him.
Cleek stretched his head luxuriously.
"Dollops, lad, that was a narrow shave," he said with a sudden little laugh. But the boy's face was grave.
"Quick, sir, for the land's sake. I know a new way out," he whispered, as he dragged away the chair. "They've drunken themselves blind, but any minute—quick, sir—come on—come, do!"
Cleek did come on, and after one grab at the window, switched on his heel and sped swiftly and noiselessly in the wake of Dollops. Not so noiselessly, however, but what some faint sound must have penetrated even the wine-fuddled brains of the man and woman, for there came the sound of swift footsteps, a yell of disappointment, then the patter of pursuing feet which stumbled uncertainly. To Cleek it seemed as if they must be caught and would have to fight for it. So affecting the quick, heavy tones of Mr. Narkom he shouted lustily at the top of his voice, and the house rang with the echoes.
"Come on, lads, we'll find him yet! Down this passage, and here they are."
And he tramped the stones with his boots till the passage resounded as with the feet of many men. It was a chance throw, but it had the desired effect, for with a smothered yell the two turned and fled back to the wine-cellar. Dollops caught Cleek quickly by the arm.
"Let's get out, sir. Don't stop to catch them till we gets help," pleaded he, and Cleek, realizing the futility of attempting to capture these two members of the Pentacle Gang if he knew anything, single-handed and unarmed as he was, did as he was bidden. Together they left the big house by Dollops' new egress, a biggish pantry window standing conveniently open, and so reached the safety of the grounds. Despite the rush, Cleek had contrived to snatch at the two fragments clinging to the cellar window ledge, and a little smile crossed his face as Dollops uttered words of remorse at having let his precious master into the trap alone.
Cleek squeezed his arm with an impulsive gesture.
"Dollops," he said, softly. "Be quiet. You've put one more thread into my hands, and you've saved my life into the bargain. If that's not enough for one afternoon, then you're a greedier chap than I thought."
Dollops gulped loudly in answer and seizing Cleek's hand, squeezed it tightly in both his own.
It was not until they had arrived safely at the Hampton Arms and were in the company of Mr. Narkom himself that Dollops gave vent to his relief.
The Superintendent gasped when he heard their story. "This must be the rest of the gang," he said, "but how and where they get to puzzles me!"
"So it does me," threw in Cleek, quietly. "There is evidently some unknown hiding place. What's that? Go back now with you to catch them? No, no, Mr. Narkom, surely you will give them more credit than that. My little trick succeeded, but they will not stop to be caught like rats in a trap. A stronger guard must be kept in future, and I will take care not to be caught napping myself. By the way, I suppose that you have seen the authorities about the inquest."
Mr. Narkom nodded vigorously.
"Yes, it is fixed for to-morrow, at the house itself," he said.