by Jack Fennell
‘Certainly,’ I replied; ‘shall I come with you now?’
‘I wish you would. If the paper contains any hidden cipher, the sooner it is known the better.’
‘One moment first,’ I said. ‘I have just met Vivien Delacour. She was coming out of Mme Koluchy’s house. It is strange how that woman gets to know all one’s friends and acquaintances.’
‘I forgot that you knew the Delacours,’ said Dufrayer.
‘A year ago,’ I replied, ‘I seemed to know them well. When we were in Brussels we were great friends.
‘Vivien looked ill and in great trouble. I would give the world to help her; but I earnestly wish she did not know Madame. It may be morbidness on my part, but lately I never hear of any crime being committed in London without instantly associating Mme Koluchy with it. She has got that girl more or less under her spell, and Vivien herself informed me that she visits her mother daily. Be assured of this, Dufrayer, the woman is after no good.’
As I spoke I saw the lawyer’s face darken, and the cold, hard expression I knew so well came into it, but he did not speak a word.
‘I am at your service now,’ I said. ‘Just let me go to my laboratory first. I have some valuable notes on these ciphers which I will take with me.’
A moment later Dufrayer and I found ourselves in a hansom on our way to Scotland Yard. There we were met by Superintendent Ford, and also by George Lambert, a particularly intelligentlooking man who favoured me with a keen glance from under shaggy brows.
‘I have heard of you, Mr Head,’ he said courteously, ‘and shall be only too pleased if you can discover what I have failed to do. The sheet of paper in question is the sort on which ciphers are often written, but all my re-agents have failed to produce the slightest effect. My fear is that they may possibly have destroyed the cipher should such a thing exist.’
‘That is certainly possible,’ I said; ‘but if you will take me to your laboratory I will submit the paper to some rather delicate tests of my own.’
The expert at once led the way, and Dufrayer, Superintendent Ford, and I followed him. When we reached the laboratory, Lambert put all possible tests at my disposal. A glance at the stain on the paper before me showed that cobalt, copper, etc., had been already applied. These tests had, in all probability, nullified any further chemical tests I might try, and had destroyed the result, even if there were some secret writing on the paper.
I spent some time trying the more delicate and less-known tests, with no success. Presently I rose to my feet.
‘It is useless,’ I said; ‘I can do nothing with this paper. It is rather a presumption on my part to attempt it after you, Mr Lambert, have given your ultimatum. I am inclined to agree with you that the paper is valueless.’
Lambert bowed, and a look of satisfaction crept over his face. Dufrayer and I soon afterwards took our leave.
As we did so, I heard my friend utter a quick sigh.
‘We are only beating the air as yet,’ he said. ‘We must trust that justice and right will win the day at last.’
He parted from me at the corner of the street, and I returned to my own house.
On the following day, at the appointed hour, I went to see Vivien Delacour. She received me in her mother’s boudoir. Here the blinds were partly down, and the whole room had a desolate aspect. The young girl herself looked pale and sad, years older than she had done in the happy days at Brussels.
‘Mother was pleased when I told her that I met you yesterday,’ she exclaimed. ‘Sit down, won’t you, Mr Head? You and my father were great friends during that happy time at the Bellevue. Yes, I feel certain of your sympathy.’
‘You may be assured of it,’ I said, ‘and I earnestly wish I could give you more than sympathy. Would it be too painful to give me some particulars in connection with the murder?’
She shuddered quite perceptibly.
‘You must have read all there is to know in the newspapers,’ she said; ‘I can tell you nothing more. My father left us on that dreadful day to attend a Cabinet meeting at Downing Street. He never returned home. The police look in vain for the murderer. There seems no motive for the horrible crime … father had no enemies.’
Here the poor girl sobbed without restraint. I allowed her grief to have its way for a few moments, then I spoke.
‘Listen, Vivien,’ I said; ‘I promise you that I will not leave a stone unturned to discover the man or woman who killed your father, but you must help me by being calm and self-collected. Grief like this is quite natural, but it does no good to anyone. Try, my dear girl, to compose yourself. You say there was no motive for the crime, but surely some important memoranda were stolen from your father?’
‘His pocket-book in which he often made notes was removed, but nothing more, neither his watch nor his money. Surely no one would murder him for the sake of securing that pocket-book, Mr Head?’
‘It is possible,’ I answered gloomily. ‘The memoranda contained in the book may have held clues to government secrets, remember.’
Vivien looked as if she scarcely understood. Once more my thoughts travelled to Mme Koluchy. She was a strange woman; she dealt in colossal crimes. Her influence permeated society through and through. With her a life more or less was not of the slightest consequence. And this terrible woman, whom, up to the present, the laws of England could not touch, was the intimate friend of the young girl by my side!
Vivien moved uneasily, and presently rose.
‘I am glad you are going to help us,’ she said, looking at me earnestly. ‘Madame does all she can, but we cannot have too many friends on our side, and we are all aware of your wisdom, Mr Head. Why do you not consult Madame?’
I shook my head.
‘But you are friends, are you not? I told her only this morning how I had met you.’
‘We are acquaintances, but not friends,’ I replied.
‘Indeed, you astonish me. You cannot imagine how useful she is, and how many suggestions she throws out. By the way, mother and I leave London today.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘Away from here. It is quite too painful to remain any longer in this house. The shock has completely shattered mother’s nerves, and she is now under Mme Koluchy’s care. Madame has just taken a house in the country called Frome Manor – it is not far from our cousins, the Pitseys – you remember them? You met them in Brussels.’
I nodded.
‘We are going there today,’ continued Vivien. ‘Of course, we shall see no one, but mother will be under the same roof with Madame, and thus will have the benefit of her treatment day and night.’ Soon afterwards I took my leave. All was suspicion and uncertainty, and no definite clue had been obtained.
About this time, I began to be haunted by an air which had sprung like a mushroom into popularity. It was called the ‘Queen Waltz’, and it was scarcely possible to pick up a dance programme without seeing it. There was something fascinating about its swinging measure, its almost dreamy refrain, and its graceful alternations of harmony and unison. No one knew who had really composed it, and still less did any one for a moment dream that its pleasant chords contained a dark or subtle meaning. As I listened to it on more than one occasion, at more than one concert – for I am a passionate lover of music, and seldom spend an afternoon without listening to it – I little guessed all that the ‘Queen Waltz’ would bring forth. I was waiting for a clue.
How could I tell that all too late and by such unlikely means it would be put into my hands?
A month and even six weeks went by, and although the police were unceasing in their endeavours to gain a trace of the murderer, they were absolutely unsuccessful. Once or twice during this interval I had letters from Vivien Delacour. She wrote with the passion and impetuosity of a very young girl. She was anxious about her mother, who was growing steadily weaker, and was losing her self-restraint more and more as the long weeks glided by. Mme Koluchy was anxious about her. Madame’s medicines, her treatment, her soo
thing powers, were on this occasion destitute of results.
‘Nothing will rest her,’ said Vivien, in conclusion, ‘until the murderer is discovered. She dreams of him night after night. During the daytime she is absolutely silent, or she paces the room in violent agitation, crying out to God to help her to discover him. Oh, Mr Head, what is to be done?’
The child’s letters appealed to me strongly. I was obliged to answer her with extreme care, as I knew that Madame would see what I wrote; but none the less were all my faculties at work on her behalf. From time to time I thought of the mysterious blank sheet of paper. Was it possible that it contained a cipher? Was one of those old, incomparable, magnificent undiscovered ciphers which belonged to the ancient Brotherhood really concealed beneath its blank surface? That blank sheet of paper mingled with my dreams and worried me during my wakeful hours. I became nearly as restless as Vivien herself, and when a letter of a more despairing nature than usual arrived on a certain morning towards the end of February, I felt that I could no longer remain inactive. I would answer Vivien’s letter in person. To do so I had but to accept my standing invitation to Pitsey Hall. I wrote, therefore, to my friend, Leonardo Pitsey, suggesting that if it were convenient to him and his wife I should like to go to Pitsey Hall on the following Saturday.
The next afternoon Pitsey himself called to see me.
‘I received your letter this morning, and having to come to town today, thought I would look you up,’ he cried. ‘I have to catch a train at 5.30, so cannot stay a minute. We shall be delighted to welcome you at the Hall. My wife and I have never forgotten you, Head. You will be, I assure you, a most welcome guest. By the way, have you heard of our burglary?’
‘No,’ I answered.
‘You do not read your paper, then. It is an extraordinary affair – crime seems to be in the very air just now. The Hall was attacked by burglars last week – a most daring and cunningly planned affair. Some plate was stolen, but the plate-chest, built on the newest principles, was untampered with. There was a desperate attempt made, however, to get into the large drawing-room, where all our valuable curios are kept. Druco, the mastiff, who is loose about the house at night, was found poisoned outside the drawing-room door. Luckily the butler awoke in time, gave the alarm, and the rascals bolted. The country police have been after them, and in despair I have come up to Scotland Yard and engaged a couple of their best detectives. They come down with me tonight, and I trust we shall soon get the necessary clue to the capture of the burglars. My fear is that if they are not arrested they will try again, for, I assure you, the old place is worth robbing. But, there, I ought not to worry you about my domestic concerns. We shall have a gay party on Saturday, for my eldest boy Ottavio comes of age next week, and the event is to be celebrated by a great ball in his honour.’
‘How are the Delacours?’ I interrupted.
‘Vivien keeps fairly well, but her mother is a source of great anxiety. Mme Koluchy and Vivien are constant guests at the Hall. The Delacours return to town before the ball, but Madame will attend it. It will be an honour and a great attraction to have such a lioness for the occasion. Do you know her, Head? She is quite charming.’
‘I have met her,’ I replied.
‘Ah! that is capital; you and she are just the sort to hit it off. It’s all right, then, and we shall expect you. A good train leaves Charing Cross at 4.30. I will send the trap to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ I answered. ‘I shall be glad to come to Pitsey Hall, but I do not know that I can stay as long as the night of the ball.’
‘Once we get you into our clutches, Head, we won’t let you go; my young people are all anxious to renew their acquaintance with you. Don’t you remember little Antonia – my pretty songstress, as I call her? Vivien, too, talks of you as one of her greatest friends. Poor child! I pity her from my heart. She is a sweet, gentle girl; but such a shock as she has sustained may leave its mark for life. Poor Delacour … the very best of men. The fact is this: I should like to postpone the ball on account of the Delacours, although they are very distant cousins; but Ottavio only comes of age once in his life, and, under the circumstances, we feel that we must go through with it. ’Pon my word, Head, when I think of that poor child and her mother, I have little heart for festivities. However, that is neither here nor there – we shall expect you on Saturday.’
As Pitsey spoke, he took up his hat.
‘I must be off now,’ he said, ‘for I have to meet the two detectives at Charing Cross by appointment.’
On the following Saturday, the 27th, I arrived at Pitsey Hall, where a warm welcome awaited me. The ball was to be on the following Tuesday, the 2nd of March. There was a large house party, and the late burglary was still the topic of conversation.
After dinner, when the ladies had left the dining-room, Pitsey and I drew our chairs together, and presently the conversation drifted to Mrs Delacour, the mysterious murder, and Mme Koluchy.
‘The police are completely nonplussed,’ said Pitsey. ‘I doubt if the man who committed that rascally crime will ever be brought to justice. I was speaking to Madame on the subject today, and although she was very hopeful when she first arrived at Frome Manor, she is now almost inclined to agree with me. By the way, Mrs Delacour’s state is most alarming – she loses strength hour by hour.’
‘I can quite understand that,’ I replied. ‘If the murderer were discovered it would be an immense relief to her.’
‘So Madame says. I know she is terribly anxious about her patient. By the way, knowing that she was an acquaintance of yours, I asked her here tonight, but unfortunately, she had another engagement which she could not postpone. What a wonderfully well-informed woman she is! She spent hours at the Hall this morning examining my curios; she gave me information about some of them which was news to me, but she has been many times now round my collection. It is a positive treat to talk with anyone so intelligent, and if she were not so keen about my Venetian goblet—’
‘What!’ I interrupted, ‘the goblet you spoke to me about in Brussels, the one which has been in your family since 1500?’
‘The same,’ he answered, nodding his head, and lowering his voice a trifle. ‘It has been in the family, as you say, since 1500. Madame has shown bad taste in the matter, and I am surprised at her.’
‘Pray explain yourself,’ I said.
‘She first saw it last November, when she came here with the Delacours. I shall never forget her stare of astonishment. She stood perfectly still for at least two minutes, gazing at it without speaking. When she turned around at last she was as white as a ghost, and asked me where I got it from. I told her, and she offered me ten thousand pounds for it on the spot.’
‘A large figure,’ I remarked.
‘I was much annoyed,’ continued Pitsey, ‘and told her I would not sell it at any price.’
‘Did she give any reason for wishing to obtain it?’
‘Yes, she said she had a goblet very like it in her own collection, and wished to purchase this one in order to complete one of the most unique collections of old Venetian glass in England. The woman must be fabulously rich, or even her passion for curios would not induce her to offer so preposterous a sum. Since her residence at Frome Manor she has been constantly here, and still takes, I can see, the deepest interest in the goblet, often remarking about it. She says it has got a remarkably pure musical note, very clear and distinct. But come, Head, you would like to see it. We will go into the drawing-room, and I will show it to you.’
As Pitsey spoke he rose and led me through the great central hall into the inner drawing-room, a colossal apartment supported by Corinthian pillars and magnificently decorated.
‘As you know, the goblet has been in our family for many centuries,’ he went on, ‘and we call it, from Uhland’s ballad of the old Cumberland tradition, “The Luck of Pitsey Hall”. You know Longfellow’s translation, of course? Here it is, Head. Is it not a wonderful piece of work? Have a close look at it, it is wor
th examining.’
The goblet in question stood about six feet from the ground on a pedestal of solid malachite, which was placed in a niche in the wall. One glance was sufficient to show me that it was a gem of art. The cup, which was eight inches in diameter, was made of thin glass of a pale ruby colour. Some mystical letters were etched on the outside of the glass, small portions of which could be seen; but screening them from any closer interpretation was some twisted fancy work, often to be observed on old Venetian goblets. If by any chance this fancy work were chipped off the letters would be plainly visible. The cup itself was supported on an open-work stem richly gilt and enamelled with coloured filigree work, the whole supported again on a base set with opal, agate, lapis lazuli, turquoise, and pearl. From the centre of the cup, and in reality supporting it, was a central column of pale green glass which bore what was apparently some heraldic design. Stepping up close I tapped the cup gently with my finger. It gave out, as Pitsey had described, a note of music singularly sweet and clear. I then proceeded to examine the stem, and saw at once that the design formed a row of separate crowns. Scarcely knowing why, I counted them. There were seven! A queer suspicion crept over me. The sequence of late events passed rapidly through my mind, and a strange relationship between circumstances apparently having no connection began to appear. I turned to Pitsey.
