“Don’t be an idiot, Frank,” cried Sir John Winton angrily. “I tell you the thing is impossible. I don’t believe there is anything the matter with the horse. Let the ring play their own game, it is nothing to us. Damn the market! I tell you what it is, Frank. When you plunged as you did, you would deserve it if the horse fell dead on the course; but he won’t—he’ll win by three lengths. There’s not another horse in the race.”
Calthorpe muttered some inaudible reply and turned away. I accompanied him.
“What is the matter?” I asked, as we left the paddock.
“Saunders is not satisfied with the state of the horse. His temperature has gone up; but, there! my uncle will see nothing wrong. Well, it will be all over soon. For God’s sake, don’t let us say anything to Alison.”
“Not a word,” I replied.
We reached the grand stand. Alison’s earnest and apprehensive eyes travelled from her lover’s face to mine. Calthorpe went up to her and endeavoured to speak cheerfully.
“I believe it’s all right,” he said. “Sir John says so, and he ought to know. It will be all decided one way or another soon. Look, the first race is starting.”
We watched it, and the one that followed, hardly caring to know the name of the winner. The Derby was timed for three o’clock—it only wanted three minutes to the hour. The ring below was seething with excitement, Calthorpe was silent, now gazing over the course with the vacant expression of a man in a day-dream.
Bright Star was a hot favourite at even money.
“Against Ajax, five to one,” rang out with a monotonous insistence.
There was a sudden lull, the flag had fallen. The moments that followed seemed like years of pain—there was much senseless cheering and shouting, a flash of bright colours, and the race was over. Bright Star had won. Ajax had been pulled up at Tattenham Corner, and was being led by his jockey.
Twenty minutes later Dufrayer and I were in the horse’s stable.
“Will you allow me to examine the horse for a moment?” I said to the veterinary surgeon.
“It will want some experience to make out what is the matter,” replied Saunders; “it’s beyond me.”
I entered the box and examined the colt carefully. As I did so the meaning of Mme. Koluchy’s words became plain. Too late now to do anything—the race was lost and the horse was doomed. I looked around me.
“Has any one been bitten in this stable?” I asked.
“Bitten!” cried one of the grooms. “Why, I said to Sam last night”—he apostrophized the stable-boy—“that there must be gnats about. See my arm, it’s all inflamed.”
“Hold!” I cried, “what is that on your sleeve?”
“A house-fly, I suppose, sir,” he answered.
“Stand still,” I cried. I put out my hand and captured the fly. “Give me a glass,” I said. “I must examine this.”
One was brought and the fly put under it. I looked at it carefully. It resembled the ordinary house-fly, except that the wings were longer. Its colour was like an ordinary humming-bee.
“I killed a fly like that this morning,” said Sam, the stable-boy, pushing his head forward.
“When did you say you were first bitten?” I asked, turning to the groom.
“A day or two ago,” he replied. “I was bitten by a gnat, I don’t rightly know the time. Sam, you was bitten too. We couldn’t catch it, and we wondered that gnats should be about so early in the year. It has nothing to do with the horse, has it, sir?”
I motioned to the veterinary surgeon to come forward, and once more we examined Ajax. He now showed serious and unmistakable signs of malaise.
“Can you make anything out?” asked Saunders.
“With this fly before me, there is little doubt,” I replied; “the horse will be dead in ten days—nothing can save him. He has been bitten by the tse-tse fly of South Africa—I know it only too well.”
My news fell on the bystanders like a thunderbolt.
“Innocuous to man, but fatal to the horse,” I found myself repeating. The knowledge of this fact had been taken advantage of—the devilish ingenuity of the plot was revealed. In all probability Mme. Koluchy had herself let the winged assassin loose when she had entered the stables on Sunday. The plot was worthy of her brain, and hers alone.
“You had better look after the other horses,” I said, turning to the grooms. “If they have not been bitten already they had better be removed from the stables immediately. As for Ajax, he is doomed.”
Late that evening Dufrayer dined with me alone. Pity for Calthorpe was only exceeded by our indignation and almost fear of Mme. Koluchy.
“What is to happen?” asked Dufrayer.
“Calthorpe is a brave man and will recover,” I said. “He will win Miss Carr yet. I am rich, and I mean to help him, if for no other reason than in order to defeat that woman.”
“By the way,” said Dufrayer, “that scrap of paper which you hold in your possession, coupled with the fact that Mr. Carr called upon Mme. Koluchy, might induce a magistrate to commit them both for conspiracy.”
“I doubt it,” I replied; “the risk is not worth running. If we failed, the woman would leave the country, to return again in more dangerous guise. No, Dufrayer, we must bide our time until we get such a case against her as will secure conviction without the least doubt.”
“At least,” cried Dufrayer, “what happened today has shown me the truth of your words—it has also brought me to a decision. For the future I shall work with you, not as your employed legal adviser, but hand in hand against the horrible power and machinations of that woman. We will meet wit with wit, until we bring her to the justice she deserves.”
BAD GIRL: MADAME SARA
THE BLOOD-RED CROSS
L. T. Meade & Robert Eustace
BORN IN IRELAND, Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith (1844–1914) later moved to London, where she married, wrote prolifically under the pseudonym L. T. Meade, and became an active feminist and member of the Pioneer Club, a progressive women’s club founded in 1892. In her spare time, she worked as the editor of Atalanta, a popular girls’ magazine. It is difficult to know how much spare time she had, however, as she produced more than three hundred novels and short story collections in various genres.
Dr. Eustace Robert Barton (1868–1943) used the pseudonym Robert Eustace and collaborated with several authors, including Edgar Jepson, Gertrude Warden, and Dorothy L. Sayers, but most commonly with Meade. Although he worked with her on such significant books as The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings (1899) and The Sanctuary Club (1900), his name seldom appeared on book covers, only on the title pages, so one wonders if it was due to the author’s diffidence or the publishers’ lack of respect.
The early years of the mystery story featured quite a few female criminals, most of whom shared the traits of youth, beauty, charm, and a devoted male friend or gang. They tended also to be clever rogues who enjoyed the excitement and great good fun of stealing jewels, money, or a precious antique or painting.
Madame Sara is a different sort of woman, carrying about her an air of mystery. Although she appears to be a beautiful young woman of no more than twenty-five years, she reportedly attended a wedding thirty years prior to the story’s setting and looked exactly the same. She is also a ruthless murderer, counting both male and female victims among her triumphs.
The diabolical “The Blood-Red Cross” was originally published in the November 1902 issue of The Strand Magazine; it was first collected in The Sorceress of the Strand (London, Ward, Lock, 1903).
The Blood-Red Cross
L. T. MEADE & ROBERT EUSTACE
IN THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER in the year 1899 I found myself a guest in the house of one of my oldest friends—George Rowland. His beautiful place in Yorkshire was an ideal holiday resort. It went by the name of Rowland’s Folly, and had been built on the s
ite of a former dwelling in the reign of the first George. The house was now replete with every modern luxury. It, however, very nearly cost its first owner, if not the whole of his fortune, yet the most precious heirloom of the family. This was a pearl necklace of almost fabulous value. It had been secured as booty by a certain Geoffrey Rowland at the time of the Battle of Agincourt, had originally been the property of one of the Dukes of Genoa, and had even for a short time been in the keeping of the Pope. From the moment that Geoffrey Rowland took possession of the necklace there had been several attempts made to deprive him of it. Sword, fire, water, poison had all been used, but ineffectually. The necklace with its eighty pearls, smooth, symmetrical, pear-shaped, of a translucent white colour and with a subdued iridescent sheen, was still in the possession of the family, and was likely to remain there, as George Rowland told me, until the end of time. Each bride wore the necklace on her wedding-day, after which it was put into the strong-room and, as a rule, never seen again until the next bridal occasion. The pearls were roughly estimated as worth from two to three thousand pounds each, but the historical value of the necklace put the price almost beyond the dreams of avarice.
It was reported that in the autumn of that same year an American millionaire had offered to buy it from the family at their own price, but as no terms would be listened to the negotiations fell through.
George Rowland belonged to the oldest and proudest family in the West Riding, and no man looked a better gentleman or more fit to uphold ancient dignities than he. He was proud to boast that from the earliest days no stain of dishonour had touched his house, that the women of the family were as good as the men, their blood pure, their morals irreproachable, their ideas lofty.
I went to Rowland’s Folly in November, and found a pleasant, hospitable, and cheerful hostess in Lady Kennedy, Rowland’s only sister. Antonia Ripley was, however, the centre of all interest. Rowland was engaged to Antonia, and the history was romantic. Lady Kennedy told me all about it.
“She is a penniless girl without family,” remarked the good woman, somewhat snappishly. “I can’t imagine what George was thinking of.”
“How did your brother meet her?” I asked.
“We were both in Italy last autumn; we were staying in Naples, at the Vesuve. An English lady was staying there of the name of Studley. She died while we were at the hotel. She had under her charge a young girl, the same Antonia who is now engaged to my brother. Before her death she begged of us to befriend her, saying that the child was without money and without friends. All Mrs. Studley’s money died with her. We promised, not being able to do otherwise. George fell in love almost at first sight. Little Antonia was provided for by becoming engaged to my brother. I have nothing to say against the girl, but I dislike this sort of match very much. Besides, she is more foreign than English.”
“Cannot Miss Ripley tell you anything about her history?”
“Nothing, except that Mrs. Studley adopted her when she was a tiny child. She says, also, that she has a dim recollection of a large building crowded with people, and a man who stretched out his arms to her and was taken forcibly away. That is all. She is quite a nice child, and amiable, with touching ways and a pathetic face; but no one knows what her ancestry was. Ah, there you are, Antonia! What is the matter now?”
The girl tripped across the room. She was like a young fawn; of a smooth, olive complexion—dark of eye and mysteriously beautiful, with the graceful step which is seldom granted to an English girl.
“My lace dress has come,” she said. “Markham is unpacking it—but the bodice is made with a low neck.”
Lady Kennedy frowned.
“You are too absurd, Antonia,” she said. “Why won’t you dress like other girls? I assure you that peculiarity of yours of always wearing your dress high in the evening annoys George.”
“Does it?” she answered, and she stepped back and put her hand to her neck just below the throat—a constant habit of hers, as I afterwards had occasion to observe.
“It disturbs him very much,” said Lady Kennedy. “He spoke to me about it only yesterday. Please understand, Antonia, that at the ball you cannot possibly wear a dress high to your throat. It cannot be permitted.”
“I shall be properly dressed on the night of the ball,” replied the girl.
Her face grew crimson, then deadly pale.
“It only wants a fortnight to that time, but I shall be ready.”
There was a solemnity about her words. She turned and left the room.
“Antonia is a very trying character,” said Lady Kennedy. “Why won’t she act like other girls? She makes such a fuss about wearing a proper evening dress that she tries my patience—but she is all crotchets.”
“A sweet little girl for all that,” was my answer.
“Yes; men like her.”
Soon afterwards, as I was strolling, on the terrace, I met Miss Ripley. She was sitting in a low chair. I noticed how small, and slim, and young she looked, and how pathetic was the expression of her little face. When she saw me she seemed to hesitate; then she came to my side.
“May I walk with you, Mr. Druce?” she asked.
“I am quite at your service,” I answered. “Where shall we go?”
“It doesn’t matter. I want to know if you will help me.”
“Certainly, if I can, Miss Ripley.”
“It is most important. I want to go to London.”
“Surely that is not very difficult?”
“They won’t allow me to go alone, and they are both very busy. I have just sent a telegram to a friend. I want to see her. I know she will receive me. I want to go tomorrow. May I venture to ask that you should be my escort?”
“My dear Miss Ripley, certainly,” I said. “I will help you with pleasure.”
“It must be done,” she said, in a low voice. “I have put it off too long. When I marry him he shall not be disappointed.”
“I do not understand you,” I said, “but I will go with you with the greatest willingness.”
She smiled; and the next day, much to my own amazement, I found myself travelling first-class up to London, with little Miss Ripley as my companion. Neither Rowland nor his sister had approved; but Antonia had her own way, and the fact that I would escort her cleared off some difficulties.
During our journey she bent towards me and said, in a low tone:—
“Have you ever heard of that most wonderful, that great woman, Madame Sara?”
I looked at her intently.
“I have certainly heard of Madame Sara,” I said, with emphasis, “but I sincerely trust that you have nothing to do with her.”
“I have known her almost all my life,” said the girl. “Mrs. Studley knew her also. I love her very much. I trust her. I am going to see her now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was to her I wired yesterday. She will receive me; she will help me. I am returning to the Folly tonight. Will you add to your kindness by escorting me home?”
“Certainly.”
At Euston I put my charge into a hansom, arranging to meet her on the departure platform at twenty minutes to six that evening, and then taking another hansom drove as fast as I could to Vandeleur’s address. During the latter part of my journey to town a sudden, almost unaccountable, desire to consult Vandeleur had taken possession of me. I was lucky enough to find this busiest of men at home and at leisure. He gave an exclamation of delight when my name was announced, and then came towards me with outstretched hand.
“I was just about to wire to you, Druce,” he said. “From where have you sprung?”
“From no less a place than Rowland’s Folly,” was my answer.
“More and more amazing. Then you have met Miss Ripley, George Rowland’s fiancée?”
“You have heard of the engagement, Vandeleur?”
“
Who has not? What sort is the young lady?”
“I can tell you all you want to know, for I have travelled up to town with her.”
“Ah!”
He was silent for a minute, evidently thinking hard; then drawing a chair near mine he seated himself.
“How long have you been at Rowland’s Folly?” he asked.
“Nearly a week. I am to remain until after the wedding. I consider Rowland a lucky man. He is marrying a sweet little girl.”
“You think so? By the way, have you ever noticed any peculiarity about her?”
“Only that she is singularly amiable and attractive.”
“But any habit—pray think carefully before you answer me.”
“Really, Vandeleur, your questions surprise me. Little Miss Ripley is a person with ideas and is not ashamed to stick to her principles. You know, of course, that in a house like Rowland’s Folly it is the custom for the ladies to come to dinner in full dress. Now, Miss Ripley won’t accommodate herself to this fashion, but will wear her dress high to the throat, however gay and festive the occasion.”
“Ah! there doesn’t seem to be much in that, does there?”
“I don’t quite agree with you. Pressure has been brought to bear on the girl to make her conform to the usual regulations, and Lady Kennedy, a woman old enough to be her mother, is quite disagreeable on the point.”
“But the girl sticks to her determination?”
“Absolutely, although she promises to yield and to wear the conventional dress at the ball given in her honour a week before the wedding.”
Vandeleur was silent for nearly a minute; then dropping his voice he said, slowly:—
“Did Miss Ripley ever mention in your presence the name of our mutual foe—Madame Sara?”
“How strange that you should ask! On our journey to town today she told me that she knew the woman—she has known her for the greater part of her life—poor child, she even loves her. Vandeleur, that young girl is with Madame Sara now.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Druce; there is no immediate danger; but I may as well tell you that through my secret agents I have made discoveries which show that Madame has another iron in the fire, that once again she is preparing to convulse Society, and that little Miss Ripley is the victim.”
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 189
