Unravelled Knots

by Baroness Orczy

  “The fact that he had not stated from the beginning that he had called at Mexfield House that night, and subsequently met the missing man and walked away with him, naturally told terribly against him. Obviously the man lost his head. Questioned by the police, he tried at first to deny the whole thing: he declared that the man with the white carnation and the light-coloured scarf was some other man whose name happened to be Henry, and he tried to upset Rose’s evidence by declaring that the man lied and that he had never called at Mexfield House that night. But, unfortunately for him, he had taken a taxi from his club to the house, the taxi-driver was found, and the noose was further tightened round the Honourable Henry Buckley’s neck. In vain did he assert after that that Denver Shillington had told him to call at Mexfield House at a quarter-past midnight on that fatal Friday. He was no longer believed. He admitted that he was in financial difficulties, and that he had spoken about these to Captain Shillington earlier in the evening. He admitted, tardily enough, that he went to Mexfield House hoping that Denver would give him some money in order to wipe out his most pressing debts. When he found that the Captain had not yet come home, he left a message with the manservant and thought he would go on to the club for a little while and return later to see Shillington. Unfortunately, he drank rather heavily whilst he was at the club and never thought any more about his money worries or about the Captain. In fact, he remembered nothing very clearly beyond the fact that he went home in the small hours and went straight to bed.

  “He then went on to say that he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. It was pouring with rain and London was looking particularly beastly, as he picturesquely termed it. He recollected that his sister Angela had planned to go down with old Square-toes to some friends near Newmarket for the weekend. He, too, had been asked but had declined the invitation, but now he began to wish he hadn’t; while he was out of town money-lenders couldn’t dun him, and a breath of country air would certainly do him good.

  “And he was just cogitating over these matters at eight am on that Saturday morning when his sister Angela came into his room. ‘She told me,’ he went on, ‘that old Square-toes was unable to accompany her to these friends in Cambridgeshire, that she didn’t want to go alone, and would I hire a car and drive her down. She offered to pay for the car, and, as the scheme happened to suit me, I agreed. We drove down to Tatchford, and on the Tuesday I had an unpleasant reminder from one of my creditors and thought that I must get back to see what old Square-toes would do for me. I got home that same evening, and the next morning early Miss Shillington rang me up and told me over the phone that they had heard nothing of Captain Shillington since the previous Friday and that they were getting anxious. And that’s all I know,’ he concluded. ‘I swear that I never set eyes on Shillington after he drove off from the Duchess of Flint’s with my sister in his car. I did call at Mexfield House, but it was at Shillington’s suggestion, but when the man told me that the Captain was not yet home, I did not loaf about the street, I went straight back to the club and then home.’

  “Of course all this was very clear and very categorical but there were one or two doubtful points in Buckley’s statements, which the police—dead out now to prove him guilty of murder—made the most of. Firstly, there was his former denial on oath that he had not called at Mexfield House that night. It was only when he was confronted with the testimony of the taxi-cab driver that he made the admission. The employees at his club, which, by the way, was in Hanover Square, had seen him come in at about half-past eleven. He went out again twenty minutes later and the hall-porter saw him hail a taxi-cab. He was once more in the club at half past twelve, and it is a significant fact that two of the young members chaffed him subsequently because he had not the usual white carnation in his buttonhole.

  “Then again it was more than strange that on the Friday he was so worried about his debts that he went in the middle of the night to his friend’s house in order to try and borrow money from him, and yet when according to his own statements he never even saw his friend, off he went the very next morning to the country, stayed away four days, and on his return did not make any attempt seemingly to see the Captain or to ask him for money. Thirdly, it was equally inconceivable that Captain Shillington should have appointed to see Buckley at that hour of the night, however pressed the latter might have been for money. Why should he? The next morning would have done just as well, whether he meant to help him or whether he did not, and, according to the testimony of the night-watchman, William Rugger, when he was accosted by Buckley, he exclaimed in tones of great surprise, ‘Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?’ These are not words which a man would say to a friend whom he had appointed to meet at this very hour.

  “However, this portion of the taxi-driver’s and Rugger’s testimony Buckley still strenuously denied. He could not deny the other. He had called at Mexfield House and reluctantly admitted that it had been nothing but ‘blue funk’ that had prompted him at first to hold his tongue about that and then to deny the fact altogether.

  “But, above all, there was yet another fact which to the police was more conclusive, more damning than any other, and that was that on the Wednesday morning the Honourable Henry Buckley had called at Messrs. Foster and Turnbull, the well-known pawnbrokers of Oxford Street, and had pledged a pair of diamond earrings and a couple of valuable bracelets there for which he received three hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Here again, if Buckley had volunteered this statement, all might have been well, but it was the pawnbrokers who gave information to the police. It turned out that the earrings and the two bracelets were the property of his sister, Lady Angela. Buckley declared that she had given them to him and she, very nobly, did her best to corroborate this statement of his, but it had become impossible to believe a word he said. Lady Angela’s valiant efforts on his behalf were thought to be unconvincing, and, as a matter of fact, the public has never known from that day to this whether Henry Buckley stole his sister’s jewellery or whether she gave it to him voluntarily.”

  III

  “Mind you, there can be no question but that the police acted very injudiciously when they actually preferred a charge of murder against Henry Buckley. There were two such damning flaws in the chain of evidence that had been collected against him that the man ought never to have been arrested. Even the magistrate was of that opinion. As you know, if there is the slightest doubt about such a serious charge, the magistrates will always commit a man for trial and let a jury of twelve men pronounce on the final issue rather than decide such grave matters on their own. But in this case there were really no proofs. There were deductions; the accused was a young blackguard, a moral coward and a liar. There was the blood-stained scarf, the hat and the white carnation, there was the testimony of the taxi-driver and the night-watchman that Henry Buckley had been in the company of Captain Shillington that night, but there was no proof that he had murdered his friend and stolen the pearls.

  “To begin with, if there had been a murder, where was it committed, and what became of Captain Shillington’s body? Of course, the police still hope to find traces of it, but, as you know, they have not yet succeeded. Various theories are put forward that Henry Buckley was a member of a gang of ruffians with headquarters in some obscure corner of London close to the river, and that he enticed the Captain there and murdered him with the help of his criminal associates with whom he probably shared the proceeds of the crime. But over a year has gone by since Shillington disappeared and the police are no nearer finding the body of the missing man.

  “The magistrate dismissed the case against Henry Buckley. There was not sufficient evidence to commit him for trial. What told most in his favour in the end was the question of time. He was able to prove that he was at his club in Hanover Square at half-past midnight on the fateful night. Now according to James Rose’s testimony, it was after midnight when he, Buckley, called at Mexfield House. Even supposing that Shillington had arrived in the taxi five minu
tes later, it was inconceivable that a man could entice another to an out-of-the-way part of London, murder him—even if he left others to dispose of the body—and walk back unconcernedly to Hanover Square, all in less than half an hour. Nor were the pearls or any large sum of money ever traced to Henry Buckley. He was just as deeply in debt after the disappearance of Captain Shillington as he had been before. Now he has gone on another tour round the world, and the Shillingtons—mother and daughter—have given up all hopes of ever seeing the gallant Captain, who was such a model son, again. A little while ago the illustrated papers published photos of the two ladies on board a P & O steamer bound for Australia, but the public had forgotten all about Lady Angela’s pearls and the mysterious white carnation. No one was interested in the old lady with the white hair and stooping figure who was carried on board in a chair, and who obstinately refused to be interviewed by newspapermen eager for copy. The case is relegated, as far as the public is concerned, to the category of undiscovered crimes.”

  “But,” I argued, as the Man in the Corner became silent, absorbed in the untying of an intricate knot which he had made a little while ago, “surely the police have found out who the man was who accosted Captain Shillington in Somerset Street that night, the man with the light-coloured scarf which was subsequently found in the river by the side of the missing man’s hat, the man who called the Captain ‘Denver,’ and whom the latter called ‘Henry’ and was so surprised to see. If it was not Henry Buckley, who was it?”

  “Ah!” the exasperating creature retorted with a fatuous smile, “who was it? That’s just the point—a point just as dark as that a man like Captain Shillington could be enticed at that hour of the night to an out-of-the-way part of London, and at a moment when he had his fiancée’s jewellery worth twenty-five thousand pounds in his pocket. Don’t you think that that point is absolutely inconceivable?”

  “Well,” I said, “it does seem—”

  “Of course it does,” he broke in eagerly. “I ask you: is it likely? At one moment we are told that Captain Shillington was a pattern of all the virtues and that his business acumen and abilities had earned for him not only a fortune but the admiration of all those who knew him; and the very next we are asked to suppose that he would meekly allow a young blackguard whom he knew to be dishonest and unscrupulous to drag him ‘reluctantly’ to some obscure haunt of a gang of criminals. Surely that should have jumped to the eyes of my sane person who had studied the case.”

  “I don’t suppose,” I retorted, “that Captain Shillington allowed Buckley to drag him very far. Most people believed at the time that he was attacked directly he rounded the corner of Somerset Street. There are one or two entrances to mews just about there—”

  “Yes,” the funny creature rejoined excitedly, “but not one nearer than fifty yards from Mexfield House. And do you think that the immaculate Australian would have walked ten yards at night with young Buckley and with those pearls in his pocket? Why should he? He was outside his own door. Wouldn’t he have taken Henry into the house with him if he wished to speak to him? No! No! The whole theory is inconceivable…”

  “But Captain Shillington disappeared,” I argued, “and so did the pearls, and his hat was found floating in the river, torn and bloodstained. You cannot deny that.”

  “I certainly cannot deny,” he replied, “that a blood-stained hat will float on the water if it is thrown—say from a convenient bridge.”

  “But the scarf?” I retorted.

  “A scarf will obey the same laws of Nature as a hat.”

  “But surely you are not going to tell me—?”

  “What?”

  “That the whole thing was a confidence trick, after all?”

  “I am certain that it was. A clever one, I’ll admit, and even I was puzzled at the time. I couldn’t think who ‘Henry’ could possibly be. It wasn’t young Buckley, that was obvious. The alibi was conclusive as to that; the miscreants who had planned to throw dust in the eyes of the police by trying to fasten a hideous crime on that unfortunate young Buckley set their stage rather too elaborately when they devised the trick about the scarf. By identifying the murderer with the wearer of the scarf, they saved Buckley from the gallows; without it, there might have remained some doubt in the minds of some of the jury. But, of course, it raised a tremendous puzzle. Who was the ‘Henry’ of Somerset Street? And was it not a curious coincidence that he should be wearing an overcoat similar to the one habitually worn by Henry Buckley and a white carnation which many friends would at once associate with that unfortunate young man? From the examination of the puzzle to its solution was but a step. I came at once to the conclusion that here was no coincidence but a deliberate attempt to impersonate Henry Buckley, the man most likely in the eyes of the public to waylay, and even murder a man whom he knew to be in possession of valuable jewellery. Such a deliberate attempt, therefore, argued that Captain Shillington himself must have been in it.

  “‘Good Lord, Henry, what in the world are you doing here?’ was obviously intended for any passer-by to hear in the same way that the white carnation was intended for any chance passer-by to pick up. Having established the mise-en-scène the two scoundrels walked off, having previously provided themselves with a blood-stained hat which presently Miss Shillington would identify as the property of her brother.”

  “Miss Shillington?” I broke in eagerly, “then you think that the whole Australian family was in the conspiracy? And what about the man Rose?”

  “The whole family,” he rejoined, “only consisted of two. Man and wife most likely.”

  “But the man Rose?” I insisted.

  “An excellent part, alternately played with remarkable skill by the Captain and his female accomplice.”

  “Do reconstruct the whole thing for me,” I pleaded. “I own that I am bewildered.”

  And from my bag I extracted a brand-new piece of string which I handed to him with an engaging smile. Nothing could have pleased the fatuous creature more. With long, claw-like fingers twiddling the string, he began leisurely:

  “Nothing could be more simple. Captain Shillington takes leave of his fiancée, having the pearls in his pocket. It is then about half-past eleven. Henry Buckley has gone to his club, Shillington having appointed to see him at Mexfield House soon after midnight. There is, therefore, plenty of time. Shillington hurries home, changes his personality into that of James Rose, as he often has done before, and subsequently interviews Henry Buckley on the doorstep. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Easily,” I replied.

  “Then as soon as he has got rid of Buckley, our friend the Captain quits the personality of a snuffy, middle-aged manservant, and becomes himself once more. He goes back to the neighbourhood of Mayfair, hails a taxi and drives to Mexfield House. But in the meanwhile the female confederate—we’ll call her Miss Shillington for convenience sake—in male attire and evening-dress, wearing a light overcoat, a light-coloured scarf and a white carnation in her buttonhole, lounges under a doorway in Somerset Street, waiting to play her part. Now do you see how simple it all is?”

  “Perfectly,” I admitted. “As you said before, they had provided themselves with a blood-stained hat which presently they threw into the river, together with the scarf; and what happened after that?”

  “They walked home quietly and went to bed.”

  “What? Both of them?… But the mother?”

  “I don’t believe in the mother,” he retorted blandly. “Do you?”

  “I thought—”

  “She takes to her bed—she never sees a doctor—she and her daughter never see anyone—they have no friends—no servants save the man Rose; put two and two together, my dear,” the funny old man concluded as he slipped the piece of string in his pocket. “Captain Shillington was the only one in that house who ever went outside the doors. The mother never did—no one ever saw her—the daughter had a perpetual cold in the head—the man Rose had no one to speak for him, no one to relate his pas
t history, except Miss Shillington. Where is he now? What has become of him? There’s nobody to enquire after him, so the police don’t trouble. The two Shillingtons—supposed to be mother and daughter—went back to Australia last year, but not the man Rose. Then, where is he? But I say that the two passengers on board that P & O boat were not mother and daughter, but male and female confederates in as fine a bit of rascality as I’ve ever seen. And the man Rose never existed. He was just a disguise assumed from time to time by Captain Shillington. It is not difficult, you know, to assume a personality of that sort. The police inspectors who questioned him had never seen Captain Shillington, and dirt and shabby clothes are very perfect disguises. Now the pair of them are knocking about the world somewhere, they will dispose of the pearls to continental dealers not over-scrupulous where a good bargain can be struck. If you will just think of Captain Shillington impersonating James Rose and a decrepit old woman alternately and of Miss Shillington impersonating Henry Buckley on that one occasion you will see how conclusive are my deductions. I have a snapshot here of the two Australian ‘ladies’ taken on board the boat. This muffled-up bundle of bonnet and shawl is supposed to be Mrs. Shillington; it might as well be M. Poincaré or the Kaiser, don’t you think? And here is a snapshot of James Rose giving evidence in the magistrate’s court. Unfortunately I have no photo of Captain Shillington or I could have shown you just how to trace the personality of the handsome young man about town under that of the snuffy, dirty, ill-kempt, unwashed and badly clothed, stooping figure of an out-at-elbows servant.”