Loveday read aloud this report, with her feet on the fender of the Lynch Court office.
‘Accurate, as far as it goes,’ she said, as she laid down the paper.
‘But we want to know a little more,’ said Mr Dyer. ‘In the first place, I would like to know what it was that diverted your suspicions from the unfortunate Sisters?’
‘The way in which they handled the children,’ answered Loveday promptly. ‘I have seen female criminals of all kinds handling children, and I have noticed that although they may occasionally – even this is rare – treat them with a certain rough sort of kindness, of tenderness they are utterly incapable. Now Sister Monica, I must admit, is not pleasant to look at; at the same time, there was something absolutely beautiful in the way in which she lifted the little cripple out of the cart, put his tiny thin hand round her neck, and carried him into the house. By the way, I would like to ask some rapid physiognomist how he would account for Sister Monica’s repulsiveness of feature as contrasted with young Lee’s undoubted good looks – heredity, in this case, throws no light on the matter.’
‘Another question,’ said Mr Dyer, not paying much heed to Loveday’s digression: ‘how was it you transferred your suspicions to John Murray?’
‘I did not do so immediately, although at the very first it had struck me as odd that he should be so anxious to do the work of the police for them. The chief thing I noticed concerning Murray, on the first and only occasion on which I saw him, was that he had had an accident with his bicycle, for in the right-hand corner of his lamp-glass there was a tiny star, and the lamp itself had a dent on the same side, had also lost its hook, and was fastened to the machine by a bit of electric fuse. The next morning as I was walking up the hill towards Northfield, I was accosted by a young man mounted on that self-same bicycle – not a doubt of it – star in glass, dent, fuse, all three.’
‘Ah, that sounded an important keynote, and led you to connect Murray and the younger Lee immediately.’
‘It did, and, of course, also at once gave the lie to his statement that he was a stranger in the place, and confirmed my opinion that there was nothing of the north-countryman in his accent. Other details in his manner and appearance gave rise to other suspicions. For instance, he called himself a press reporter by profession, and his hands were coarse and grimy as only a mechanic’s could be. He said he was a bit of a literary man, but the Tennyson that showed so obtrusively from his pocket was new, and in parts uncut, and totally unlike the well-thumbed volume of the literary student. Finally, when he tried and failed to put my latch-key into his waistcoat pocket, I saw the reason lay in the fact that the pocket was already occupied by a soft coil of electric fuse, the end of which protruded. Now, an electric fuse is what an electrical engineer might almost unconsciously carry about with him, it is so essential a part of his working tools, but it is a thing that a literary man or a press reporter could have no possible use for.’
‘Exactly, exactly. And it was no doubt, that bit of electric fuse that turned your thoughts to the one house in the neighbourhood lighted by electricity, and suggested to your mind the possibility of electrical engineers turning their talents to account in that direction. Now, will you tell me, what, at that stage of your day’s work, induced you to wire to Gunning that you would bring your invisible-ink bottle into use?’
‘That was simply a matter or precaution; it did not compel me to the use of invisible ink, if I saw other safe methods of communication. I felt myself being hemmed in on all sides with spies, and I could not tell what emergency might arise. I don’t think I have ever had a more difficult game to play. As I walked and talked with the young fellow up the hill, it became clear to me that if I wished to do my work I must lull the suspicions of the gang, and seem to walk into their trap. I saw by the persistent way in which Wootton Hall was forced on my notice that it was wished to fix my suspicions there. I accordingly, to all appearance, did so, and allowed the fellows to think they were making a fool of me.’
‘Ha! ha! Capital that – the biter bit, with a vengeance! Splendid idea to make that young rascal himself deliver the letter that was to land him and his pals in jail. And he all the time laughing in his sleeve and thinking what a fool he was making of you! Ha, ha, ha!’ And Mr Dyer made the office ring again with his merriment.
‘The only person one is at all sorry for in this affair is poor little Sister Anna,’ said Loveday pityingly; ‘and yet, perhaps, all things considered, after her sorry experience of life, she may not be so badly placed in a Sisterhood where practical Christianity – not religious hysterics – is the one and only rule of the order.’
MISS FLORENCE CUSACK
Created by LT Meade (1844-1914) and Robert Eustace (1854-1943)
The glamorous Florence Cusack – ‘this handsome girl with her slender figure, her eyes of the darkest blue, her raven black hair and clear complexion’ – appeared in a series of six short stories first published in The Harmsworth Magazine between 1899 and 1901. She is obviously wealthy, lives alone in a large house in Kensington and is at home in the upper reaches of society. Yet she is also ‘a power in the police courts’ and ‘highly respected by every detective in Scotland Yard’. Much of the legwork in the stories is done by the narrator, Dr Lonsdale, who is clearly more than a little in love with Miss Cusack, but it is she who provides the final insights and solves the crimes. She was the creation of a writing partnership which also produced several other series characters for the big-name periodicals of the day, including the palmist Diana Marburg (see page 192) LT Meade was the pseudonym of Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith, a very busy author in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras who was best known at the time as the author of stories for girls, often with a school setting, but is now mostly remembered for her crime stories. She collaborated regularly with Robert Eustace (real name Eustace Robert Barton), a doctor and part-time writer. Meade and Eustace may have intended to write more Florence Cusack stories than they did. There are certainly indications that the series remains unfinished. However, the stories that we have are ingenious and entertaining and their heroine often shows herself to be, as she says herself, ‘the most acute and, I believe, successful lady detective in the whole of London’.
MR BOVEY’S UNEXPECTED WILL
Amongst all my patients there were none who excited my sense of curiosity like Miss Florence Cusack. I never thought of her without a sense of baffled inquiry taking possession of me, and I never visited her without the hope that some day I should get to the bottom of the mystery which surrounded her.
Miss Cusack was a young and handsome woman. She possessed to all appearance superabundant health, her energies were extraordinary, and her life completely out of the common. She lived alone in a large house in Kensington Court Gardens, kept a good staff of servants, and went much into society. Her beauty, her sprightliness, her wealth, and, above all, her extraordinary life, caused her to be much talked about. As one glanced at this handsome girl with her slender figure, her eyes of the darkest blue, her raven black hair and clear complexion it was almost impossible to believe that she was a power in the police courts and highly respected by every detective in Scotland Yard.
I shall never forget my first visit to Miss Cusack. I had been asked by a brother doctor to see her in his absence. Strong as she was, she was subject to periodical and very acute nervous attacks. When I entered her house she came up to me eagerly.
‘Pray do not ask me too many questions or look too curious, Dr Lonsdale,’ she said; ‘I know well that my whole condition is abnormal; but, believe me, I am forced to do what I do.’
‘What is that?’ I inquired.
‘You see before you,’ she continued, with emphasis, ‘the most acute and, I believe, successful lady detective in the whole of London.’
‘Why do you lead such an extraordinary life?’ I asked.
‘To me the life is fraught with the very deepest interest,’ sh
e answered. ‘In any case,’ and now the colour faded from her cheeks and her eyes grew full of emotion, ‘I have no choice; I am under a promise, which I must fulfil. There are times, however, when I need help – such help as you, for instance, can give me. I have never seen you before, but I like your face. If the time should ever come, will you give me your assistance?’
I asked her a few more questions, and finally agreed to do what she wished.
From that hour Miss Cusack and I became the staunchest friends. She constantly invited me to her house, introduced me to her friends, and gave me her confidence to a marvellous extent.
On my first visit I noticed in her study two enormous brazen bulldogs. They were splendidly cast, and made a striking feature in the arrangements of the room; but I did not pay them any special attention until she happened to mention that there was a story, and a strange one, in connection with them.
‘But for these dogs,’ she said, ‘and the mystery attached to them, I should not be the woman I am, nor would my life be set apart for the performance of duties at once herculean and ghastly.’
When she said these words her face once more turned pale, and her eyes flashed with an ominous fire.
On a certain afternoon in November 1894, I received a telegram from Miss Cusack, asking me to put aside all other work and go to her at once. Handing my patients over to the care of my partner, I started for her house. I found her in her study and alone. She came up to me holding a newspaper in her hand.
‘Do you see this?’ she asked. As she spoke she pointed to the agony column. The following words met my eyes:
Send more sand and charcoal dust. Core and mould ready for casting. – JOSHUA LINKLATER.
I read these curious words twice, then glanced at the eager face of the young girl.
‘I have been waiting for this,’ she said, in a tone of triumph.
‘But what can it mean?’ I said. ‘Core and mould ready for casting?’
She folded up the paper, and laid it deliberately on the table.
‘I thought that Joshua Linklater would say something of the kind,’ she continued. ‘I have been watching for a similar advertisement in all the dailies for the last three weeks. This may be of the utmost importance.’
‘Will you explain?’ I said.
‘I may never have to explain, or, on the other hand, I may,’ she answered. ‘I have not really sent for you to point out this advertisement, but in connection with another matter. Now, pray, come into the next room with me.’
She led me into a prettily and luxuriously furnished boudoir on the same floor. Standing by the hearth was a slender fair-haired girl, looking very little more than a child.
‘May I introduce you to my cousin, Letitia Ransom?’ said Miss Cusack, eagerly. ‘Pray sit down, Letty,’ she continued, addressing the girl with a certain asperity, ‘Dr Lonsdale is the man of all others we want. Now, doctor, will you give me your very best attention, for I have an extraordinary story to relate.’
At Miss Cusack’s words Miss Ransom immediately seated herself. Miss Cusack favoured her with a quick glance, and then once more turned to me.
‘You are much interested in queer mental phases, are you not?’ she said.
‘I certainly am,’ I replied.
‘Well, I should like to ask your opinion with regard to such a will as this.’
Once again she unfolded a newspaper, and, pointing to a paragraph, handed it to me. I read as follows:
EXTRAORDINARY TERMS OF A MISER’S WILL.
Mr Henry Bovey, who died last week at a small house at Kew, has left one of the most extraordinary wills on record. During his life his eccentricities and miserly habits were well known, but this eclipses them all, by the surprising method in which he has disposed of his property.
Mr Bovey was unmarried, and, as far as can be proved, has no near relations in the world. The small balance at his banker’s is to be used for defraying fees, duties, and sundry charges, also any existing debts, but the main bulk of his securities were recently realised, and the money in sovereigns is locked in a safe in his house.
A clause in the will states that there are three claimants to this property, and that the one whose net bodily weight is nearest to the weight of these sovereigns is to become the legatee. The safe containing the property is not to be opened till the three claimants are present; the competition is then to take place, and the winner is at once to remove his fortune.
Considerable excitement has been manifested over the affair, the amount of the fortune being unknown. The date of the competition is also kept a close secret for obvious reasons.
‘Well,’ I said, laying the paper down, ‘whoever this Mr Bovey was, there is little doubt that he must have been out of his mind. I never heard of a more crazy idea.’
‘Nevertheless it is to be carried out,’ replied Miss Cusack. ‘Now listen, please, Dr Lonsdale. This paper is a fortnight old. It is now three weeks since the death of Mr Bovey, his will has been proved, and the time has come for the carrying out of the competition. I happen to know two of the claimants well, and intend to be present at the ceremony.’
I did not make any answer, and after a pause she continued:
‘One of the gentlemen who is to be weighed against his own fortune is Edgar Wimburne. He is engaged to my cousin Letitia. If he turns out to be the successful claimant there is nothing to prevent their marrying at once; if otherwise…’ – here she turned and looked full at Miss Ransom, who stood up, the colour coming and going in her cheeks – ‘if otherwise, Mr Campbell Graham has to be dealt with.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
‘Another claimant, a much older man than Edgar. Nay, I must tell you everything. He is a claimant in a double sense, being also a lover, and a very ardent one, of Letitia’s.
‘Lettie must be saved,’ she said, looking at me, ‘and I believe I know how to do it.’
‘You spoke of three claimants,’ I interrupted; ‘who is the third?’
‘Oh, he scarcely counts, unless indeed he carries off the prize. He is William Tyndall, Mr Bovey’s servant and retainer.’
‘And when, may I ask, is this momentous competition to take place?’ I continued.
‘Tomorrow morning at half-past nine, at Mr Bovey’s house. Will you come with us tomorrow, Dr Lonsdale, and be present at the weighing?’
‘I certainly will,’ I answered, ‘it will be a novel experience.’
‘Very well; can you be at this house a little before half-past eight, and we will drive straight to Kew?’
I promised to do so, and soon after took my leave. The next day I was at Miss Cusack’s house in good time. I found waiting for me Miss Cusack herself, Miss Ransom, and Edgar Wimburne.
A moment or two later we all found ourselves seated in a large landau, and in less than an hour had reached our destination. We drew up at a small dilapidated-looking house, standing in a row of prim suburban villas, and found that Mr Graham, the lawyer, and the executors had already arrived.
The room into which we had been ushered was fitted up as a sort of study. The furniture was very poor and scanty, the carpet was old, and the only ornaments on the walls were a few tattered prints yellow with age.
As soon as ever we came in, Mr Southby, the lawyer, came forward and spoke.
‘We are met here today,’ he said, ‘as you are all of course, aware, to carry out the clause of Mr Bovey’s last will and testament. What reasons prompted him to make these extraordinary conditions we do not know; we only know that we are bound to carry them out. In a safe in his bedroom there is, according to his own statement, a large sum of money in gold, which is to be the property of the one of these three gentlemen whose weight shall nearest approach to the weight of the gold. Messrs Hutchinson and Co have been kind enough to supply one of their latest weighing machines, which has been carefully checked, and now if you thre
e gentlemen will kindly come with me into the next room we will begin the business at once. Perhaps you, Dr Lonsdale, as a medical man, will be kind enough to accompany us.’
Leaving Miss Cusack and Miss Ransom we then went into the old man’s bedroom, where the three claimants undressed and were carefully weighed. I append their respective weights, which I noted down:
Graham 13 stone 9 lbs 6 oz.
Tyndall 11 stone 6 lbs 3 oz.
Wimburne 12 stone 11 lbs.
Having resumed their attire, Miss Cusack and Miss Ransom were summoned, and the lawyer, drawing out a bunch of keys, went across to a large iron safe which had been built into the wall.
We all pressed round him, everyone anxious to get the first glimpse of the old man’s hoard. The lawyer turned the key, shot back the lock, and flung open the heavy doors. We found that the safe was literally packed with small canvas bags – indeed, so full was it that as the doors swung open two of the bags fell to the floor with a heavy crunching noise. Mr Southby lifted them up, and then cutting the strings of one, opened it. It was full of bright sovereigns.
Sherlock's Sisters Page 5
