The Mayfair Mystery

by Frank Richardson

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  The detective hesitated.

  ‘Well, I don’t like to make a suggestion of the sort to you, sir, but I think it would be a good thing if you were to see this woman.’

  ‘Mary Baker?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, I think it would be a good thing. I don’t think she would conceal the truth from you.’ Harding threw back his head and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘I don’t like doing it. It’s playing it rather low down for me to interview a servant.’ Smallwood stared curiously at him.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said with a smile, ‘that it’s playing it lower down than employing a detective.’

  Harding’s eyes twinkled. ‘Facilis est decensus Averno.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  It was ten days since he had seen Miriam. He had been parted from her for a longer period than ever. Previously, her absence had only been for three days. But ten days! The position was intolerable. Suddenly he rose from his seat.

  ‘I’ll do it. But how shall I get at her?’ The detective thought for a moment. Then he said:

  ‘Would you mind giving me a note, sir, and I could go to Pembroke Street and arrange everything?’

  ‘Yes. But what shall I say in the note?’

  ‘Simply recall the facts of the Old Bailey to her and ask her to arrange an appointment with bearer.’

  ‘I don’t like doing that,’ said the barrister. ‘It sounds very much like blackmail, digging up a woman’s past. It’s a beastly thing to do.’

  The detective shrugged his shoulders. Again he said, ‘It is for you to decide, sir.’

  Harding, being very much in love, decided to write the note.

  ‘Now, then, Smallwood, where am I to see her?’

  ‘I think the best place would be your own house, sir. It’s handy, and it wouldn’t take her long to get there at any time she could pop out.’

  ‘All right. Fix up any time you like and I’ll be there.’

  Within two hours, he received a telephonic message from the detective to the effect that the cook would call at South Audley Street at seven o’clock.

  He reflected. At seven o’clock! That obviously meant that, in spite of Smallwood’s opinion that Miriam was in town, it would be the hour when the cook would of a certainty be engaged, if her mistress were dining at home. And he could not for one minute imagine that Miriam would be so rash as to risk dining out when she had assured him that she was not in London.

  ‘Do you want me to be present at the interview?’ asked the detective.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think it matters, sir. I’ve every confidence in your doing the right thing.’

  Harding smiled at the compliment.

  ‘Thank you, Smallwood. But be at my house at eight o’clock.’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  Then he put back the receiver.

  As he walked home, he tried to recall the appearance of Mary Baker. But search his memory as he might, he could not produce any more vivid picture than a slight suggestion of a thin, unattractive woman standing in the dock in the New Court. He was vague, also, as to who had tried the case. He rather thought it was the Recorder. Yes, undoubtedly, it was old Tommy Chambers. He remembered that Tommy had rather helped him in the defence. As to the prisoner’s guilt he was certain, and he was sorry that he was certain. It seemed to him a disgraceful proceeding to address this woman practically as a criminal who had escaped from justice. He thought that his hold upon her would be sufficient, if he had merely secured the acquittal of an innocent woman. In his note, of course, he had merely said:

  ‘You will no doubt remember me. I defended you on a charge of theft some twenty years ago.’

  Supposing it was not the same Mary Baker?

  Ah, but if it was not, of course she would not come. No other Mary Baker would come.

  Then the thought flashed across his brain that if ever Miriam found out, she would be indignant, and rightly indignant. Still, her behaviour in the matter had been extraordinary, too extraordinary. Her behaviour was responsible for his conduct. She was not entitled to attack him. Still, no matter on which side the greater blame lay, he felt that she would in all probability break off all relations with him.

  Because he was very much in love, however, he was prepared to risk it.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  HARDING MAKES HEADWAY

  HE dropped in at his club for half an hour, and, on the stroke of seven, reached his house.

  In a few minutes, an elderly woman, with the figure of a successful cook and the clothes and the bugles and the black silk of a successful cook, was shown into the room. In her rubicund, shiny face were frightened eyes. She came in, as she would have described it, ‘all of a tremble’.

  When they were alone, the K.C. stood staring at her.

  ‘Be seated, Mrs Baker,’ he said.

  But she was too nervous to sit down. Her plump hands in her white cotton gloves fidgeted awkwardly: her umbrella dropped to the ground. She picked it up, and became redder in the face. Still, he did not speak.

  At length she broke the silence:

  ‘Oh, sir, I ought to thank you for what you did for me many years ago. You saved me, sir; indeed, you did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. You’ve no idea what I went through then. I’ve never done anything wrong since, sir. I’ve been an honest woman ever since, sir.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear that.’

  ‘Both the police and the warderesses told me that I shouldn’t get off, sir. It was only you that did it. You worked for me, sir, just as if I was a real lady. I can’t tell you how thankful I am, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She appeared to find relief in speech, and continued:

  ‘After my trial, sir, I had a deal of difficulty in getting a place. I couldn’t get any character from my last situation, if you take my meaning. But I’ve never done anything dishonest since, and I’ve never touched a drop of drink. It was the drink that brought me to it. But I’ve never done nothing of the sort since.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  She was on tenterhooks to know why he had sent for her.

  ‘Directly you sent for me, sir, I come.’

  ‘But how do you manage to get away when you ought to be cooking the dinner?’

  She gave a startled movement. She hesitated. His eyes were upon her. She was compelled to tell the truth.

  ‘There wasn’t any dinner to cook, sir.’

  ‘But your mistress is at home?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Good Heavens!’ he cried, ‘you don’t know whether your mistress is at home or not.’ Then he added, and there was a touch of feigned sadness in his voice, ‘I’m surprised, Mrs Baker, that you lie to me.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, I’m not lying…far from it.’

  And strangely enough he believed her, though he didn’t show it. He smiled:

  ‘I don’t know why you should treat me in this way. You’re the cook to Miss Clive and you don’t know whether she’s at home or not.’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t.’

  ‘I know you’re a good cook, because I have often eaten your dinners. But it seems to me a strange thing that a cook doesn’t know if her mistress is in London or not.’

  ‘It’s this way, sir,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t like you to think that I’ve told a lie to you, after what you’ve done for me. I shouldn’t like you to suspect it. But I’ll tell you the whole truth so that you’ll know I’m an honest woman.’

  He affected boredom. He expressed with his hands a desire to be spared Mrs Baker’s defence. But she persisted:

  ‘No, sir, it’s my right to tell you the truth.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘And, mind you, sir, the truth is strange enough. I oughtn’t to tell you. I’m on oath not to tell you.’

  He had a terrible fear that the power o
f the oath might seal her lips.

  ‘Oh, if it’s incredible!’ he said, with a forensic sneer on his lips.

  That determined her.

  Rapidly she spoke:

  ‘It was like this, sir. Sir Clifford Oakleigh cured me of a tumour when I was in the hospital. He was that kind to me, sir. He was as good to me as you. It’s strange that the two people who did me the greatest kindness, yourself and Sir Clifford Oakleigh, should be such friends. Well, sir, he’s always kept in touch with me. He used to send me a little present at Christmas time. And do you know, sir, I believed then that I was his favourite patient. Of a sudden, a little while ago, he sent for me to go to Harley Street, and he said that he wanted me to take the place of cook to a friend of his, a Miss Clive. He told me I was to leave my situation at once. Well, sir, naturally I couldn’t refuse going to Sir Clifford. So then and there I packs up my things—Lancaster Gate my situation was, only a Jew stockbroker, sir, as I wasn’t very keen on.’

  From the weary movement of the K.C.’s head one would have imagined that, to his thinking, of all subjects the most tedious was the history of the Clive ménage.

  ‘Well, sir, he told me that I wasn’t on no account to tell nobody, them was his very words, of anything that went on in the house. He said that Miss Clive was a little erratical in her movements, that she needed to go in and out of the house without nobody knowing that she went out or came in. Very mysterious it seemed to me, and I wouldn’t have done it for anybody except Sir Clifford. Oh, he’s a good master, I tell you. So I packs up my things and I comes to Pembroke Street. And then I had a sort of a shock. I found that all the other servants thought they was his favourite patient. Each one of them said as how Sir Clifford had saved their lives. And it’s my belief that he’d put them all on their oaths, the same as he’d put me. So Miss Clive comes and goes as she likes, and we don’t know when she goes or how she comes. Orders was given that the front door is never to be locked or bolted, so she can always open it with her latchkey.’

  ‘Tut, tut!’ said the K.C. ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘I know it’s extraordinary, sir, but I give you my word it’s true. She may be in the house now. She was there last night.’

  ‘Did you see her?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t see her. She was in her bedroom. Her bedroom is always kept locked.’

  Earnestly she looked at his face.

  ‘You do believe me, sir, don’t you?’

  He pretended to be thinking.

  She whispered:

  ‘It’s my belief as how the lady’s a Russian spy, sir. I do hope that you won’t marry a Russian spy. Not that I’ve got a word against the lady. She’s the kindest mistress I’ve ever had. But it’s very peculiar.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very peculiar.’

  There was a pause. Then he said:

  ‘Oh, yes, Mrs Baker, I believe you.’

  ‘And might I ask, sir, what you sent for me for?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Mrs Baker, nothing. I was only curious to know how you were getting on. As a matter of fact, my defence of you was almost the beginning of what has been not altogether an unsatisfactory career.’

  A great weight fell from her shoulders.

  ‘I thought as how you were going to tell Miss Clive.’

  ‘Oh, dear, no.’

  ‘And you won’t tell her, sir, what I’ve told you, nor yet Sir Clifford Oakleigh?’

  ‘If a couple of sovereigns to buy a new dress are any good to you, Mrs Baker, take them. No, let it be guineas. I think that is what you paid me for your defence.’

  ‘And the best two guineas’ worth I ever had in my life, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re doing so well, Mrs Baker. Good-night.’

  ‘Good-night, sir.’

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  THE RETURN OF MIRIAM

  WHEN Smallwood appeared that evening, he listened attentively to Harding’s account of his interview with Mrs Baker. Both men looked at the matter from every point of view. But the only light which the cook had thrown on the case was that there must be some sort of connection between Sir Clifford Oakleigh and Miss Clive. What that connection might be baffled them.

  Why had the doctor denied any knowledge of the lady? Why, if they were so intimate, were they never seen together?

  ‘My own view,’ said Harding, regretfully, at last, ‘is that the lady is in the habit of taking drugs of some sort.’

  ‘But,’ interposed the detective, ‘Sir Clifford Oakleigh denied the possibility, didn’t he, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course, he denied it. But why should he admit it? It seems to me that, in all probability, Sir Clifford has taken every sort of precaution to prevent the poor lady’s unfortunate habit from becoming known. You see he has obviously engaged servants in whom he has complete trust. For days at a time, Miss Clive indulges in orgies of morphia or cocaine, or whatever the cursed stuff is. When she’s in this state, she remains in her room and the servants are instructed to say that she is out of town. How does that strike you, Smallwood?’

  ‘It seems to me perfectly possible, sir. May I ask how long it is since you saw her?’

  ‘I have not seen her for over a week. But I have telephoned every day and always had the same answer, to the effect that she was out of town.’

  ‘Do you think, then, sir, that she’s been under the influence of the drug for a whole week?’

  Harding shivered with horror.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he replied. ‘It’s the longest time that she’s ever been “out of town”. As a rule, her absences only last for three days.’

  Then, suddenly, he shot out, ‘You’ve never seen Sir Clifford Oakleigh enter the house?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s an extraordinary thing,’ said the K.C., ‘that if he is aware that she is a morpho-maniac he should not visit her.’

  ‘Hasn’t it struck you, sir, as curious that he hasn’t been able to cure her? He can cure everything else, it seems. Isn’t it extraordinary that he can’t cure a simple thing like the practice of taking morphia?’

  ‘It isn’t a simple thing.’

  ‘I think it is to him, sir. Anyhow, it is simple compared with cancer, and they say that the Emperor is completely cured. At any rate, that’s the rumour.’

  After three or four minutes of silence Harding exclaimed:

  ‘I wonder if it would be any good for me to ask her uncle, Augustus Parker, about it?’

  The detective shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. The thought had occurred to me, but I don’t think it’s a matter on which an uncle would give away his niece. Mr Parker would probably pooh-pooh the whole idea. Anyhow, sir, I haven’t got a very high opinion of Mr Parker.’

  ‘You haven’t, eh?’

  The detective hesitated.

  ‘Well, sir, as a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘we all know that he takes money for introducing ladies into Society. As a matter of fact, one of the Inspectors in the C division told me that Miss Clive had paid him £1000.’

  ‘What infernal nonsense!’ cried Harding, indignantly. ‘Why should a girl pay her uncle such a sum of money for such a service? If you had heard any such story, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Inspector Clegg only told me so today, sir.’

  At that moment there was a sound of shouting in the street.

  Harding moved to the window. A man was rushing along with the contents bill of the Evening News. As he went he shouted out some indistinct words. The only ones intelligible were ‘Emperor…completely…cured.’

  ‘Rush out and get me a copy, will you?’ he said to the detective. Meantime he opened the window and stopped the man. On the return of the detective he read the paper. Here, indeed, was marvellous news. Three of the most eminent doctors said that there were no symptoms of cancer in the Emperor. Sir Clifford Oakleigh had cured him. The Emperor, in gratitude, proposed to confer on him the Order of the Treble-Headed Eagle. His Majesty had already left Harley Street t
o pass three days with the King at Windsor before returning to Badschwerin.

  ‘What an extraordinary man!’ commented Harding. ‘Clifford is a genius.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the detective, ‘he is a genius and a gentleman. I did some work for him five or six years ago and he was most liberal in his payment. He will get a peerage for this, sir.’

  ‘The only use of a peerage,’ said Harding, ‘is to make an eminent man commonplace. Clifford Oakleigh is now one of the biggest names in the world.’

  At that moment the telephone bell rang. Harding went to the machine. No sooner had he taken up the receiver when his face flushed with enthusiastic delight.

  ‘Is that you, Miriam?…Of course. Certainly…By all means…Come at once. I haven’t had dinner myself. I’ve been too busy. We will get to the Carlton by nine…You will call for me in the motor?…Right.’

  Quickly he turned to the detective.

  ‘Miss Clive is coming here at once. Have you ever had any experience of morpho-maniacs?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’ve seen lots of them.’

  ‘I want you to be present when Miss Clive is shown in. You must enter into conversation with her, and see if you detect anything suspicious.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He took down from a bookshelf a volume on forensic medicine, and eagerly read the pages dealing with the effects of morphia. Then he handed it to Smallwood. ‘Just you read this carefully,’ he said.

  ‘I shall be dressed in ten minutes. Wait here.’

  Then he went out of the room. He told his servant to ask Miss Clive when she arrived to come in.

  The servant showed her into the library.

  She was handsomer than ever. Her eyes flashed more brilliantly. When she caught sight of Smallwood she made a sudden movement of surprise.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was anybody here.’

  ‘Mr Harding has gone to dress. He will be ready in a minute.’

  She appeared conscious that the man’s eyes were staring at her attentively. But was there anything unusual in a man’s eyes staring attentively at so beautiful a vision as Miss Clive? Obviously not.

  ‘Wonderful triumph of Sir Clifford Oakleigh,’ he said at last.