by Fergus Hume
Vincent showed up very well in this preliminary conversation. Much as he desired to punish the criminal, yet he was unwilling to subject Roy to possibly unfounded suspicions. Had I not forced the club episode out of him I doubt whether he would have told it. As it was, the information gave me the necessary clue. Roy alone knew that the notes were in the escritoire, and imagined (owing to the mistake of Vincent) that the house was empty. Determined to have the money at any price (his own words), he intended but robbery, till the unexpected appearance of Mrs Vincent merged the lesser in the greater crime.
My first step was to advise the Bank that four fifty-pound notes, numbered so and so, were stolen, and that the thief or his deputy would probably change them within a reasonable period. I did not say a word about the crime, and kept all special details out of the newspapers; for as the murderer would probably read up the reports so as to shape his course by the action of the police, I judged it wiser that he should know as little as possible. Those minute press notices do more harm than good. They gratify the morbid appetite of the public, and put the criminal on his guard. Thereby the police work in the dark, but he—thanks to the posting up of special reporters—knows the doings of the law, and baffles it accordingly.
The greenstone idol worried me considerably. I wanted to know how it had got into the study of Ulster Lodge. When I knew that, I could nail my man. But there was considerable difficulty to overcome before such knowledge was available. Now a curiosity of this kind is not a common object in this country. A man who owns one must have come from New Zealand or have obtained it from a New Zealand friend. He could not have picked it up in London. If he did, he would not carry it constantly about with him. It was therefore my idea that the murderer had received the idol from a friend on the day of the crime. That friend, to possess such an idol, must have been in communication with New Zealand. The chain of thought is somewhat complicated, but it began with curiosity about the idol, and ended in my looking up the list of steamers going to the Antipodes. Then I carried out a little design which need not be mentioned at this moment. In due time it will fit in with the hanging of Mrs Vincent’s assassin. Meanwhile, I followed up the clue of the banknotes, and left the greenstone idol to evolve its own destiny. Thus I had two strings to my bow.
The crime was committed on the twentieth of June, and on the twenty-third two fifty-pound notes, with numbers corresponding to those stolen, were paid into the Bank of England. I was astonished at the little care exercised by the criminal in concealing his crime, but still more so when I learned that the money had been banked by a very respectable solicitor. Furnished with the address, I called on this gentleman. Mr Maudsley received me politely, and he had no hesitation in telling me how the notes had come into his possession. I did not state my primary reason for the inquiry.
‘I hope there is no trouble about these notes,’ said he when I explained my errand. ‘I have had sufficient already.’
‘Indeed, Mr Maudsley, and in what way?’
For answer he touched the bell, and when it was answered, ‘Ask Mr Ford to step this way,’ he said. Then turning to me, ‘I must reveal what I had hoped to keep secret, but I trust the revelation will remain with yourself.’
‘That is as I may decide after hearing it. I am a detective, Mr Maudsley, and you may be sure, I do not make these inquiries out of idle curiosity.’
Before he could reply, a slender, weak-looking young man, nervously excited, entered the room. This was Mr Ford, and he looked from me to Maudsley with some apprehension.
‘This gentleman,’ said his employer, not unkindly, ‘comes from Scotland Yard about the money you paid me two days ago.’
‘It is all right, I hope?’ stammered Ford, turning red and pale and red again.
‘Where did you get the money?’ I asked, parrying this question.
‘From my sister.’
I started when I heard this answer, and with good reason. My inquiries about Roy had revealed that he was in love with a hospital nurse whose name was Clara Ford. Without doubt she had obtained the notes from Roy after he had stolen them from Ulster Lodge. But why the necessity of the robbery?
‘Why did you get a hundred pounds from your sister?’ I asked Ford.
He did not answer, but looked appealingly at Maudsley. That gentleman interposed.
‘We must make a clean breast of it, Ford,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If you have committed a second crime to conceal the first, I cannot help you. This time matters are not at my discretion.’
‘I have committed no crime,’ said Ford desperately, turning to me. ‘Sir, I may as well admit that I embezzled one hundred pounds from Mr Maudsley to pay a gambling debt. He kindly and most generously consented to overlook the delinquency if I replaced the money. Not having it myself I asked my sister. She, a poor hospital nurse, had not the amount. Yet, as non-payment meant ruin to me, she asked a Mr Julian Roy to help her. He at once agreed to do so, and gave her two fifty-pound notes. She handed them to me, and I gave them to Mr Maudsley who paid them into the bank.’
This, then, was the reason of Roy’s remark. He did not refer to his own ruin, but to that of Ford. To save this unhappy man, and for love of the sister, he had committed the crime. I did not need to see Clara Ford, but at once made up my mind to arrest Roy. The case was perfectly clear, and I was fully justified in taking this course. Meanwhile I made Maudsley and his clerk promise silence, as I did not wish Roy to be put on his guard by Miss Ford, through her brother.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said, after a few moments’ pause, ‘I cannot at present explain my reasons for asking these questions, as it would take too long and I have no time to lose. Keep silent about this interview till tomorrow, and by that time you shall know all.’
‘Has Ford got into fresh trouble?’ asked Maudsley anxiously.
‘No, but someone else has.’
‘My sister,’ began Ford faintly, when I interrupted him at once.
‘Your sister is all right, Mr Ford. Pray trust in my discretion. No harm shall come to her or to you, if I can help it — but, above all, be silent.’
This they readily promised, and I returned to Scotland Yard, quite satisfied that Roy would get no warning. The evidence was so clear that I could not doubt the guilt of Roy. Else how had he come in possession of the notes? Already there was sufficient proof to hang him, yet I hoped to clinch the certainty by proving his ownership of the greenstone idol. It did not belong to Vincent, or to his dead wife, yet someone must have brought it into the study. Why not Roy, who, to all appearances, had committed the crime, the more so as the image was splashed with the victim’s blood? There was no difficulty in obtaining a warrant, and with this I went off to Gower Street.
Roy loudly protested his innocence. He denied all knowledge of the crime and of the idol. I expected the denial, but I was astonished at the defence he put forth. It was very ingenious, but so manifestly absurd that it did not shake my belief in his guilt. I let him talk himself out—which perhaps was wrong—but he would not be silent, and then I took him off in a cab.
‘I swear I did not commit the crime,’ he said passionately. ‘No one was more astonished than I at the news of Mrs Vincent’s death.’
‘Yet you were at Ulster Lodge on the night in question?’
‘I admit it,’ he replied frankly. ‘Were I guilty I would not do so. But I was there at the request of Vincent.’
‘I must remind you that all you say now will be used in evidence against you.’
‘I don’t care! I must defend myself. I asked Vincent for a hundred pounds, and—’
‘Of course you did, to give to Miss Ford.’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked sharply.
‘From her brother, through Maudsley. He paid the notes supplied by you into the bank. If you wanted to conceal your crime you should not have been so reckless.’
‘I have committed no crime,’ retorted Roy fiercely. ‘I obtained the money from Vincent, at the request of Miss Ford, to save her brother from being c
onvicted for embezzlement.’
‘Vincent denies that he gave you the money!’
‘Then he lies. I asked him at the Chestnut Club for one hundred pounds. He had not that much on him, but said that two hundred were in his desk at home. As it was imperative that I should have the money on the night, I asked him to let me go down for it.’
‘And he refused!’
‘He did not. He consented, and gave me a note to Mrs Vincent, instructing her to hand me over a hundred pounds. I went to Brixton, got the money in two fifties, and gave them to Miss Ford. When I left Ulster Lodge, between eight and nine, Mrs Vincent was in perfect health, and quite happy.’
‘An ingenious defence,’ said I doubtfully, ‘but Vincent absolutely denies that he gave you the money.’
Roy stared hard at me to see if I were joking. Evidently the attitude of Vincent puzzled him greatly.
‘That is ridiculous,’ said he quietly. ‘He wrote a note to his wife instructing her to hand me the money.’
‘Where is that note?’
‘I gave it to Mrs Vincent.’
‘It cannot be found,’ I answered. ‘If such a note were in her possession it would now be in mine.’
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘How can I against the evidence of those notes and the denial of Vincent?’
‘But he surely does not deny that he gave me the money?’
‘He does.’
‘He must be mad,’ said Roy in dismay. ‘One of my best friends, and to tell so great a falsehood. Why, if—’
‘You had better be silent,’ I said, weary of this foolish talk. ‘If what you say is true, Vincent will exonerate you from complicity in the crime. If things occurred as you say, there is no sense in his denial.’
This latter remark was made to stop the torrent of his speech. It was not my business to listen to incriminating declarations, or to ingenious defences. All that sort of thing is for judge and jury; therefore I ended the conversation as above, and marched off my prisoner. Whether the birds of the air carry news I do not know, but they must have been busy on this occasion, for next morning every newspaper in London was congratulating me on my clever capture of the supposed murderer. Some detectives would have been gratified by this public laudation—I was not. Roy’s passionate protestations of innocence made me feel uneasy, and I doubted whether, after all, I had the right man under lock and key. Yet the evidence was strong against him. He admitted having been with Mrs Vincent on the fatal night; he admitted possession of two fifty-pound notes. His only defence was the letter of the stockbroker, and this was missing—if, indeed, it had ever been written.
*
Vincent was terribly upset by the arrest of Roy. He liked the young man and he had believed in his innocence so far as was possible. But in the face of such strong evidence, he was forced to believe him guilty. Yet he blamed himself severely that he had not lent the money and so averted the catastrophe.
‘I had no idea that the matter was of such moment,’ he said to me, ‘else I would have gone down to Brixton myself and have given him the money. Then his frenzy would have spared my wife and himself a death on the scaffold.’
‘What do you think of his defence?’
‘It is wholly untrue. I did not write a note, nor did I tell him to go to Brixton. Why should I, when I fully believed no one was in the house?’
‘It was a pity you did not go home, Mr Vincent, instead of to the Alhambra.’
‘It was a mistake,’ he assented, ‘but I had no idea Roy would attempt the robbery. Besides, I was under engagement to go to the theatre with my friend Dr Monson.’
‘Do you think that idol belongs to Roy?’
‘I can’t say. I never saw it in his possession. Why?’
‘Because I firmly believe that if Roy had not the idol in his pocket on that fatal night he is innocent. Oh, you look astonished, but the man who murdered your wife owns that idol.’
The morning after this conversation a lady called at Scotland Yard and asked to see me concerning the Brixton case. Fortunately, I was then in the neighbourhood, and, guessing who she was, I afforded her the interview she sought. When all left the room she raised her veil, and I saw before me a noble-looking woman, somewhat resembling Mr Maudsley’s clerk. Yet, by some contradiction of nature, her face was the more virile of the two.
‘You are Miss Ford,’ I said, guessing her identity.
‘I am Clara Ford,’ she answered quietly. ‘I have come to see you about Mr Roy.’
‘I am afraid nothing can be done to save him.’
‘Something must be done,’ she said passionately. ‘We are engaged to be married, and all a woman can do to save her lover I will do. Do you believe him to be guilty?’
‘In the face of such evidence, Miss Ford—’
‘I don’t care what evidence is against him,’ she retorted. ‘He is as innocent of the crime as I am. Do you think that a man fresh from the committal of a crime would place the money won by that crime in the hands of the woman he professes to love? I tell you he is innocent.’
‘Mr Vincent doesn’t think so.’
‘Mr Vincent!’ said Miss Ford, with scornful emphasis. ‘Oh, yes! I quite believe he would think Julian guilty.’
‘Surely not if it were possible to think otherwise! He is, or rather was, a staunch friend to Mr Roy.’
‘So staunch that he tried to break off the match between us. Listen to me, sir. I have told no one before, but I tell you now. Mr Vincent is a villain. He pretended to be the friend of Julian, and yet he dared to make proposals to me—dishonourable proposals, for which I could have struck him. He, a married man, a pretended friend, wished me to leave Julian and fly with him.’
‘Surely you are mistaken, Miss Ford. Mr Vincent was most devoted to his wife.’
‘He did not care at all for his wife,’ she replied steadily. ‘He was in love with me. To save Julian annoyance I did not tell him the insults offered to me by Mr Vincent. Now that Julian is in trouble by an unfortunate mistake Mr Vincent is delighted.’
‘It is impossible. I assure you Vincent is very sorry to—’
‘You do not believe me,’ she said, interrupting. ‘Very well, I shall give you proof of the truth. Come to my brother’s rooms in Bloomsbury. I shall send for Mr Vincent, and if you are concealed you shall hear from his own lips how glad he is that my lover and his wife are removed from the path of his dishonourable passion.’
‘I will come, Miss Ford, but I think you are mistaken in Vincent.’
‘You shall see,’ she replied coldly. Then, with a sudden change of tone, ‘Is there no way of saving Julian? I am sure that he is innocent. Appearances are against him, but it was not he who committed the crime. Is there no way?’
Moved by her earnest appeal, I produced the greenstone idol, and told her all I had done in connection with it. She listened eagerly, and readily grasped at the hope thus held out to her of saving Roy. When in possession of all the facts she considered in silence for some two minutes. At the end of that time she drew down her veil and prepared to take her departure.
‘Come to my brother’s rooms in Alfred Place, near Tottenham Court Road,’ said she, holding out her hand. ‘I promise you that there you shall see Mr Vincent in his true character. Good-bye till Monday at three o’clock.’
From the colour in her face and the bright light in her eye, I guessed that she had some scheme in her head for the saving of Roy. I think myself clever, but after that interview at Alfred Place I declare I am but a fool compared to this woman. She put two and two together, ferreted out unguessed-of evidence, and finally produced the most wonderful result. When she left me at this moment the greenstone idol was in her pocket. With that she hoped to prove the innocence of her lover and the guilt of another person. It was the cleverest thing I ever saw in my life.
The inquest on the body of Mrs Vincent resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. Then she was buried, and all London waited
for the trial of Roy. He was brought up, charged with the crime, reserved his defence, and in due course he was committed for trial. Meantime I called on Miss Ford at the appointed time, and found her alone.
‘Mr Vincent will be here shortly,’ she said calmly. ‘I see Julian is committed for trial.’
‘And he has reserved his defence.’
‘I shall defend him’ said she with a strange look in her face. ‘I am not afraid for him now. He saved my unhappy brother. I shall save him.’
‘Have you discovered anything?’
‘I have discovered a good deal. Hush! That is Mr Vincent,’ she added, as a cab drew up to the door. ‘Hide yourself behind this curtain and do not appear until I give you the signal.’
Wondering what she was about to do, I concealed myself as directed. The next moment Vincent was in the room, and then ensued one of the strangest of scenes. She received him coldly, and motioned him to a seat. Vincent was nervous, but she might have been of stone, so little emotion did she display.
‘I have sent for you, Mr Vincent,’ she said, ‘to ask for your help in releasing Julian.’
‘How can I help you?’ he answered in amazement—‘willingly would I do so, but it is out of my power.’
‘I don’t think it is!’
‘I assure you, Clara,’ he began eagerly, when she cut him short.
‘Yes, call me Clara! Say that you love me! Lie, like all men, and yet refuse to do what I wish.’
‘I am not going to help Julian to marry you,’ declared he sullenly. ‘You know that I love you—I love you dearly, I wish to marry you—’
‘Is not that declaration rather soon after the death of your wife?’
‘My wife is gone, poor soul. Let her rest.’
‘Yet you loved her?’
‘I never loved her,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I love you! From the first moment I saw you I loved you. My wife is dead! Julian Roy is in prison on a charge of murdering her. With these obstacles removed there is no reason why we should not marry.’
‘If I marry you,’ she said slowly, ‘will you help Julian to refute this charge?’
