by Michael Sims
“Eh! what!” again ejaculated Mr. Hawke; “how do you know all this? Tell me the whole story.”
“I will tell you the whole story first, and then explain to you how I came to know it. From what has followed, it seems to me that Miss Monroe must have arranged with Mr. Danvers that he was to leave Pekin within ten days of her so doing, travel by the route by which she came, and land at Plymouth, where he was to receive a note from her, apprising him of her whereabouts. So soon as she was on board ship, Miss Monroe appears to have set her wits to work with great energy; every obstacle to the carrying-out of her programme she appears to have met and conquered. Step number one was to get rid of her native maid, who, perhaps, might have been faithful to her master’s interests and have proved troublesome. I have no doubt the poor woman suffered terribly from sea-sickness, as it was her first voyage, and I have equally no doubt that Miss Monroe worked on her fears, and persuaded her to land at Malta, and return to China by the next packet. Step number two was to find a suitable person, who for a consideration, would be willing to play the part of the Pekin heiress among the heiress’s friends in England, while the young lady herself arranged her private affairs to her own liking. That person was quickly found among the steerage passengers of the Colombo in Miss Mary O’Grady, who had come on board with her mother at Ceylon, and who, from the glimpse I had of her, must, I should conjecture, have been absent many years from the land of her birth. You know how cleverly this young lady has played her part in your house—how, without attracting attention to the matter, she has shunned the society of her father’s old Chinese friends, who might be likely to involve her in embarrassing conversations; how she has avoided the use of pen and ink lest—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Mr. Hawke; “but, my dear Miss Brooke, wouldn’t it be as well for you and me to go at once to the Charing Cross Hotel, and get all the information we can out of her respecting Miss Monroe and her movements—she may be bolting, you know?”
“I do not think she will. She is waiting there patiently for an answer to a telegram she dispatched more than two hours ago to her mother, Mrs. O’Grady, at 14, Woburn Place, Cork.”
“Dear me! dear me! How is it possible for you to know all this.”
“Oh, that last little fact was simply a matter of astuteness on the part of the man whom I have deputed to watch the young lady’s movements to-day. Other details, I assure you, in this somewhat intricate case, have been infinitely more difficult to get at. I think I have to thank those ‘drawn daggers,’ that caused you so much consternation, for having, in the first instance, put me on the right track.”
“Ah—h,” said Mr. Hawke, drawing a long breath; “now we come to the daggers! I feel sure you are going to set my mind at rest on that score.”
“I hope so. Would it surprise you very much to be told that it was I who sent to you those three daggers this morning?”
“You! Is it possible?”
“Yes, they were sent by me, and for a reason that I will presently explain to you. But let me begin at the beginning. Those roughly-drawn sketches, that to you suggested terrifying ideas of blood-shedding and violence, to my mind were open to a more peaceful and commonplace explanation. They appeared to me to suggest the herald’s office rather than the armoury; the cross fitchée of the knight’s shield rather than the poniard with which the members of secret societies are supposed to render their recalcitrant brethren familiar. Now, if you will look at these sketches again, you will see what I mean.”
Here Loveday produced from her writing-table the missives which had so greatly disturbed Mr. Hawke’s peace of mind. “To begin with, the blade of the dagger of common life is, as a rule, at least two-thirds of the weapon in length; in this sketch, what you would call the blade, does not exceed the hilt in length. Secondly, please note the absence of guard for the hand. Thirdly, let me draw your attention to the squareness of what you considered the hilt of the weapon, and what, to my mind, suggested the upper portion of a crusader’s cross. No hand could grip such a hilt as the one outlined here. After your departure yesterday, I drove to the British Museum, and there consulted a certain valuable work on heraldry, which has more than once done me good service. There I found my surmise substantiated in a surprising manner. Among the illustrations of the various crosses borne on armorial shields, I found one that had been taken by Henri d’Anvers from his own armorial bearings, for his crest when he joined the Crusaders under Edward I., and which has since been handed down as the crest of the Danvers family. This was an important item of information to me. Here was someone in Cork sending to your house, on two several occasions, the crest of the Danvers family; with what object it would be difficult to say, unless it were in some sort a communication to someone in your house. With my mind full of this idea, I left the Museum and drove next to the office of the P. and O. Company, and requested to have given me the list of the passengers who arrived by the Colombo. I found this list to be a remarkably small one; I suppose people, if possible, avoid crossing the Bay of Biscay during the Equinoxes. The only passengers who landed at Plymouth besides Miss Monroe, I found, were a certain Mrs. and Miss O’Grady, steerage passengers who had gone on board at Ceylon on their way home from Australia. Their name, together with their landing at Plymouth, suggested the possibility that Cork might be their destination. After this I asked to see the list of the passengers who arrived by the packet following the Colombo, telling the clerk who attended to me that I was on the look-out for the arrival of a friend. In that second list of arrivals I quickly found my friend—William Went-worth Danvers by name.”
“No! The effrontery! How dared he! In his own name, too!”
“Well, you see, a plausible pretext for leaving Pekin could easily be invented by him—the death of a relative, the illness of a father or mother. And Sir George, though he might dislike the idea of the young man going to England so soon after his daughter’s departure, and may, perhaps, write to you by the next mail on the matter, was utterly powerless to prevent his so doing. This young man, like Miss Monroe and the O’Gradys, also landed at Plymouth. I had only arrived so far in my investigation when I went to your house yesterday afternoon. By chance, as I waited a few minutes in your drawing-room, another important item of information was acquired. A fragment of conversation between your nephew and the supposed Miss Monroe fell upon my ear, and one word spoken by the young lady convinced me of her nationality. That one word was the monosyllable ‘Hush.’ ”
“No! You surprise me!”
“Have you never noted the difference between the ‘hush’ of an Englishman and that of an Irishman? The former begins his ‘hush’ with a distinct aspirate, the latter with as distinct a W. That W is a mark of his nationality which he never loses. The unmitigated ‘whist’ may lapse into a ‘whish’ when he is transplanted to another soil, and the ‘whish’ may in course of time pass into a ‘whush,’ but to the distinct aspirate of the English ‘hush,’ he never attains. Now Miss O’Grady’s was as pronounced a ‘whush’ as it was possible for the lips of a Hibernian to utter.’ ”
“And from that you concluded that Mary O’Grady was playing the part of Miss Monroe in my house?”
“Not immediately. My suspicions were excited, certainly; and when I went up to her room, in company with Mrs. Hawke’s maid, those suspicions were confirmed. The orderliness of that room was something remarkable. Now, there is the orderliness of a lady in the arrangement of her room, and the orderliness of a maid, and the two things, believe me, are widely different. A lady, who has no maid, and who has the gift of orderliness, will put things away when done with, and so leave her room a picture of neatness. I don’t think, however, it would for a moment occur to her to pull things so as to be conveniently ready for her to use the next time she dresses in that room. This would be what a maid, accustomed to arrange a room for her mistress’s use, would do mechanically. Miss Monroe’s room was the neatness of a maid—not of a lady, and I was assured by Mrs. Hawke’s maid that it was a nea
tness accomplished by her own hands. As I stood there, looking at that room, the whole conspiracy—if I may so call it—little by little pieced itself together, and became plain to me. Possibilities quickly grew into probabilities, and these probabilities once admitted, brought other suppositions in their train. Now, supposing that Miss Monroe and Mary O’Grady had agreed to change places, the Pekin heiress, for the time being, occupying Mary O’Grady’s place in the humble home at Cork and vice versa, what means of communicating with each other had they arranged? How was Mary O’Grady to know when she might lay aside her assumed rôle and go back to her mother’s house. There was no denying the necessity for such communication; the difficulties in its way must have been equally obvious to the two girls. Now, I think we must admit that we must credit these young women with having hit upon a very clever way of meeting those difficulties. An anonymous and startling missive sent to you would be bound to be mentioned in the house, and in this way a code of signals might be set up between them that could not direct suspicion to them. In this connection, the Danvers crest, which it is possible that they mistook for a dagger, suggested itself naturally, for no doubt Miss Monroe had many impressions of it on her lover’s letters. As I thought over these things, it occurred to me that possibly dagger (or cross) number one was sent to notify the safe arrival of Miss Monroe and Mrs. O’Grady at Cork. The two daggers or crosses you subsequently received were sent on the day of Mr. Danvers’s arrival at Plymouth, and were, I should say, sketched by his hand. Now, was it not within the bounds of likelihood that Miss Monroe’s marriage to this young man, and the consequent release of Mary O’Grady from the onerous part she was playing, might be notified to her by the sending of three such crosses or daggers to you. The idea no sooner occurred to me than I determined to act upon it, forestall the sending of this latest communication, and watch the result. Accordingly, after I left your house yesterday, I had a sketch made of three daggers of crosses exactly similar to those you had already received, and had it posted to you so that you would get it by the first post. I told off one of our staff at Lynch Court to watch your house, and gave him special directions to follow and report on Miss O’Grady’s movements throughout the day. The results I anticipated quickly came to pass. About half-past nine this morning the man sent a telegram to me from your house to the Charing Cross Hotel, and furthermore had ascertained that she had since despatched a telegram, which (possibly by following the hotel servant who carried it to the telegraph office), he had overheard was addressed to Mrs. O’Grady, at Woburn Place, Cork. Since I received this information an altogether remarkable cross-firing of telegrams has been going backwards and forwards along the wires to Cork.”
“A cross-firing of telegrams! I do not understand.”
“In this way. So soon as I knew Mrs. O’Grady’s address I telegraphed to her, in her daughter’s name, desiring her to address her reply to 1154 Gower Street, not to Charing Cross Hotel. About three-quarters of an hour afterwards I received in reply this telegram, which I am sure you will read with interest.
Here Loveday handed a telegram—one of several that lay on her writing-table—to Mr. Hawke.
He opened it and read aloud as follows:
“Am puzzled. Why such hurry? Wedding took place this morning. You will receive signal as agreed to-morrow. Better return to Tavistock Square for the night.”
“The wedding took place this morning,” repeated Mr. Hawke blankly. “My poor old friend! It will break his heart.”
“Now that the thing is done past recall we must hope he will make the best of it,” said Loveday. “In reply to this telegram,” she went on, “I sent another, asking as to the movements of the bride and bridegroom, and got in reply this”:
Here she read aloud as follows:
“They will be at Plymouth to-morrow night; at Charing Cross Hotel and next day, as agreed.”
“So, Mr. Hawke,” she added, “if you wish to see your old friend’s daughter and tell her what you think of the part she has played, all you will have to do will be to watch the arrival of the Plymouth trains.”
“Miss O’Grady has called to see a lady and gentleman,” said a maid at that moment entering.
“Miss O’Grady!” repeated Mr. Hawke in astonishment.
“Ah, yes, I telegraphed to her, just before you came in, to come here to meet a lady and gentlemen, and she, no doubt thinking that she would find here the newly-married pair, has, you see, lost no time in complying with my request. Show the lady in.”
“It’s all so intricate—so bewildering,” said Mr. Hawke, as he lay back in his chair. “I can scarcely get it all into my head.”
His bewilderment, however, was nothing compared with that of Miss O’Grady, when she entered the room and found herself face to face with her late guardian, instead of the radiant bride and bridegroom whom she had expected to meet.
She stood silent in the middle of the room, looking the picture of astonishment and distress.
Mr. Hawke also seemed a little at a loss for words, so Loveday took the initiative.
“Please sit down,” she said, placing a chair for the girl. “Mr. Hawke and I have sent to you in order to ask you a few questions. Before doing so, however, let me tell you that the whole of your conspiracy with Miss Monroe has been brought to light, and the best thing you can do, if you want your share in it treated leniently, will be to answer our questions as fully and truthfully as possible.”
The girl burst into tears. “It was all Miss Monroe’s fault from beginning to end,” she sobbed. “Mother didn’t want to do it—I didn’t want to—to go into a gentleman’s house and pretend to be what I was not. And we didn’t want her hundred pounds—”
Here sobs checked her speech.
“Oh,” said Loveday contemptuously, “so you were to have a hundred pounds for your share in this fraud, were you?”
“We didn’t want to take it,” said the girl, between hysterical bursts of tears; “but Miss Monroe said if we didn’t help her someone else would, and so I agreed to—”
“I think,” interrupted Loveday, “that you can tell us very little that we do not already know about what you agreed to do. What we want you to tell us is what has been done with Miss Monroe’s diamond necklace—who has possession of it now?”
The girl’s sobs and tears redoubled. “I’ve had nothing to do with the necklace—it has never been in my possession,” she sobbed. “Miss Monroe gave it to Mr. Danvers two or three months before she left Pekin, and he sent it on to some people he knew in Hong Kong, diamond merchants, who lent him money on it. Decastro, Miss Monroe said, was the name of these people.”
“Decastro, diamond merchant, Hong Kong. I should think that would be sufficient address,” said Loveday, entering it in a ledger; “and I suppose Mr. Danvers retained part of that money for his own use and travelling expenses, and handed the remainder to Miss Monroe to enable her to bribe such creatures as you and your mother, to practice a fraud that ought to land both of you in jail.”
The girl grew deadly white. “Oh, don’t do that—don’t send us to prison!” she implored, clasping her hands together. “We haven’t touched a penny of Miss Monroe’s money yet, and we don’t want to touch a penny, if you’ll only let us off! Oh, pray, pray, pray be merciful!”
Loveday looked at Mr. Hawke.
He rose from his chair. “I think the best thing you can do,” he said, “will be to get back home to your mother at Cork as quickly as possible, and advise her never to play such a risky game again. Have you any money in your purse? No—well then here’s some for you, and lose no time in getting home. It will be best for Miss Monroe—Mrs. Danvers I mean—to come to my house and claim her own property there. At any rate, there it will remain until she does so.”
As the girl, with incoherent expressions of gratitude, left the room, he turned to Loveday.
“I should like to have consulted Mrs. Hawke before arranging matters in this way,” he said a little hesitatingly; “but still, I don’t see
that I could have done otherwise.”
“I feel sure Mrs. Hawke will approve what you have done when she hears all the circumstance of the case,” said Loveday.
“And,” continued the old clergyman, “when I write to Sir George, as, of course, I must immediately, I shall advise him to make the best of a bad bargain, now that the thing is done. ‘Past cure should be past care’; eh, Miss Brooke? And, think! what a narrow escape my nephew, Jack, has had!”
MARY E. WILKINS
(1852-1930)
Mary E. Wilkins was a popular and respected author in her time who also published under her married name, Mary Wilkins Freeman. A 1903 book entitled Women Authors of Our Day in Their Homes describes her as “the most delicate and appreciative delineator of rural New England characters who has written within a generation.” While this encomium may sound precious, Mark Twain was also a vocal fan of Wilkins and she was the first recipient of the William Dean Howells Medal for distinction in fiction, awarded by the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Naturally she was later slighted by male critics for writing about home and family rather than about manly pursuits such as war and politics.
Wilkins started writing at a young age. While still a teenager, she began publishing poems and stories for children, and her later books included Pembroke and Jerome, a Poor Man. She wrote while also serving as private secretary to author and medical reformer Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. Ghost-story fans remember Wilkins for her 1903 collection The Wind in the Rosebush and Other Stories of the Supernatural, which includes American Gothic classics such as “The Lost Ghost” and “Luella Miller”—the latter a superb tale of a psychic vampire. It is interesting that, born on Halloween, she retained a lifelong interest in spirits and hauntings. She lost both parents and a sister in her youth, and many abandoned and abused children wander through her writings. She survived the rigid code of a Congregationalist childhood but, although she began college at Mount Holyoke, she finished within the more conservative confines of West Brattleboro Seminary.
