by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XXIV
THE HANDWRITING
Like most men, Claude took a different view of events in the morning tothat which he entertained over night.
Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete embodiments, eachdistinct and emphatic. To-day they were merged in the general mass ofcontradictory details that made up this most bewildering inquiry.
That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present state wasclear; that they would, in the natural course of things, revealthemselves more definitely, even if unaided, was also patent.
Mrs. Hillmer's partial admissions, her brother's evident knowledge ofsome salient features of the puzzle, that utterly strange letter in theadmitted handwriting of Lady Dyke herself, and bearing the prosaictestimony of dates stamped by the Post-office--these sensationalelements, when brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction intoclearer phases.
Long experience in criminal investigation told him that, under certaincircumstances, the best course of all was one of inactivity.
On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many people that"letters left unanswered answer themselves," the barrister knew thatthere must be an outcome from the queer medley of occurrences at hisresidence on the Monday evening.
Reviewing the history of the past three months several odd featuresstood out from the general jumble.
In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to deduce anypertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs. Hillmer's dining-room wasfurnished on the occasion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.
He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an unusual roomlittered with unusual articles, when the luxurious and well-appointedsuite of apartments was considered as a whole. It was suggested to himat the time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his second visit,was dismantled earlier, but he did not connect this trivial incidentwith the feature in Mensmore's flat that he noted immediately--namely,the discrepancies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and theother chambers in the place.
These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them as a guide forfuture use.
Lady Dyke's motive for that secret visit to Raleigh Mansions--that wasthe key to the mystery. But how to discover it? Who was her confidant?To whom could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless tobroach the matter again to her husband. The baronet and his wife hadbeen friends sharing the same _menage_ rather than husband and wife. Herrelatives had already been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of theslightest value in this search for truth.
In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding cropped up. She wasthe personal maid of the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quickwits. Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten.Here at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.
If she refused what could be her motive?
Anyhow it was worth while to make a fresh effort. Early in the afternoonhe called at the stage-door of the Jollity Theatre.
"Is Miss Marie le Marchant still employed here?" he asked the attendant.
"I dunno," was the careless answer.
"Well, think hard," said the barrister, laying a half-crown on thebattered blotting-pad which is an indispensable part of the furniture inthe letter bureau of a theatre.
"Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on a week's leave."
"Indeed. Has she returned?"
"I was off last night, sir, but if you will pardon me a moment I'llinquire from the man who took my place."
The stage-doorkeeper disappeared into the dark interior, to returnquickly with the information that Miss le Marchant had appeared as usualon Monday night.
"She was away most part of last week, sir," added the man, "and Ibelieve it wasn't a holiday, as she was a-sort of flurried about it asif some one was ill."
"Thank you. Do you know where she lives?"
A momentary hesitation was soon softened by another half-crown.
"It's against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near JubileeBuildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out."
The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant's name was paintedoutside a second-floor flat.
Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he hadno difficulty in recognizing.
"Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?" he said.
For a moment she could not speak for surprise.
"Well, I never," she cried, "but London is a funny place. Do you knowme, sir?"
"Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not takeyou for her elder sister," he said. Bruce's smile was irresistible.
"My daughter is not in just now, sir," replied Mrs. Harding, "but Iexpect her in to tea almost immediately."
"Then may I come in and await her arrival?"
"Certainly, sir."
Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairlycomfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady's maid's legacy musthave been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poorpittance of a coryphee would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover,the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor inher favor.
Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. Sheseated herself near the window and resumed some sewing.
"Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?" he said, by way of beingcivil.
"In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughtergot along so well in her new profession. She's a good girl, is mydaughter."
"Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?"
"Oh yes, sir. Why, she's been earning L6 a week, and last week she wassent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she'sgoing to buy me a new dress out of the money."
"Really," said the barrister, "you ought to be proud of her."
"I am," admitted the admiring mother. "I only wish her brother, whowent off and 'listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well."
Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniformon the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling atthe intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girlcould be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother?In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? Thestory about "L6 a week" was a myth.
Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaquepresentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, andmake-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, "Everyours sincerely, Marie le Marchant." And no sooner had Bruce caughtsight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.
The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.
Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. Theresemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanationof this phenomenon.
"Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding," he said,turning the photograph towards her.
"Yes," said the complacent mother, "she taught herself when--before shewent on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew upshe improved herself. I wasn't able to afford her much schooling whenshe was young."
"I have seldom seen a nicer hand," he went on. "Have you any otherspecimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are notprivate."
The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptivefluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was notmistaken.
"Oh yes. She's just copying out the part of Ophelia in _Hamlet_. And sheacts it beautiful."
Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on thefirst page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion hasmoved millions to tears.
He admired Miss Marie le Marchant's efforts in the matter ofself-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from hersome explanation of her actions.
The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside thecoveted "part," an
d the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stageexperience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a"professional" touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of herskirt.
She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother'sexplanation that "this gentleman has just called to see you, dear."
"All right, mother," she cried. "I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get teaready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes." This witha defiant look at the visitor.
When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crispaccents of ill-temper:
"What do you want with me, now?"
"I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke inthe name of your dead mistress."
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption ofabsolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Mariele Marchant's assurance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. Atlast she managed to ejaculate:
"I--I--why do you ask me that question?"
"Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing avery dangerous game."
That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible forthe girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seemingto read the secrets of her heart.
Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point ofbursting into tears, she snapped viciously:
"I will tell you nothing. Go away."
"You are obstinate, I know," said Bruce, "but I must warn you that youare juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you cantrifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying toconceal Lady Dyke's death? If you do not answer me you may be asked thequestion in a court of law."
"You have no right to come here annoying me!" she retorted.
"I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal toyou not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authoritiesinformation which they ought to possess."
"What information?"
"The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke's house sosuddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you,doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to useyour ability to imitate her ladyship's handwriting in order to spreadthe false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, andyour wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment."
"I don't care _that_ for you, Mr. Bruce," replied the girl, her face setnow in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize thewords. "You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing."
"You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke lastSaturday?"
"I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can't ask you to join me."
"Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself--yourown production--written on paper of which you have a quantity in thisvery room."
The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She wasstaggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of theoriginal, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper inthe house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British,notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she wouldhave died sooner than beat a retreat.
"I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce," she said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, butthe barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. Hehad now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason whichhe could not fathom the ex-lady's maid not only knew of her mistress'sdeath, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of theinquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke wasactually killed. What did it all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found SirCharles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
The baronet at first was sceptical. "Do you mean to say, Claude," hecried, fretfully, "that I do not know my wife's writing when I see it?"
"You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly,of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable,was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than thatJane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the idealof excellence. Don't harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. Theletter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I amsure of that from her manner no less than from the accidentalresemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find outwas her motive for the deceit."
"It is a queer business altogether," said Sir Charles wearily; "I wishit were ended."
