As I turned the problem over in my mind, however, one phrase at last came back to me—a phrase which Hilda herself had let fall when we were debating a very similar point about poor Hugo Le Geyt: “If I were in his place, what do you think I would do?—why, hide myself at once in the greenest recesses of our Carnarvonshire mountains.”
She must have gone to Wales, then. I had her own authority for saying so.… And yet—Wales? Wales? I pulled myself up with a jerk. In that case, how did she come to be passing by Basingstoke?
Was the postmark a blind? Had she hired someone to take the letter somewhere for her, on purpose to put me off on a false track? I could hardly think so. Besides, the time was against it. I saw Hilda at Nathaniel’s in the morning; the very same evening I received the envelope with the Basingstoke postmark.
“If I were in his place.” Yes, true; but, now I come to think on it, were the positions really parallel? Hilda was not flying for her life from justice; she was only endeavouring to escape Sebastian—and myself. The instances she had quoted of the mountaineer’s curious homing instinct—the wild yearning he feels at moments of great straits to bury himself among the nooks of his native hills—were they not all instances of murderers pursued by the police? It was abject terror that drove these men to their burrows. But Hilda was not a murderer; she was not dogged by remorse, despair, or the myrmidons of the law; it was murder she was avoiding, not the punishment of murder. That made, of course, an obvious difference. “Irrevocably far from London,” she said. Wales is a suburb. I gave up the idea that it was likely to prove her place of refuge from the two men she was bent on escaping. Hong-Kong, after all, seemed more probable than Llanberis.
That first failure gave me a clue, however, as to the best way of applying Hilda’s own methods. “What would such a person do under the circumstances?” that was her way of putting the question. Clearly, then, I must first decide what were the circumstances. Was Sebastian speaking the truth? Was Hilda Wade, or was she not, the daughter of the supposed murderer, Dr. Yorke-Bannerman?
I looked up as much of the case as I could, in unobtrusive ways, among the old law-reports, and found that the barrister who had had charge of the defence was my father’s old friend, Mr. Horace Mayfield, a man of elegant tastes, and the means to gratify them.
I went to call on him on Sunday evening at his artistically luxurious house in Onslow Gardens. A sedate footman answered the bell. Fortunately, Mr. Mayfield was at home, and, what is rarer, disengaged. You do not always find a successful Q.C. at his ease among his books, beneath the electric light, ready to give up a vacant hour to friendly colloquy.
“Remember Yorke-Bannerman’s case?” he said, a huge smile breaking slowly like a wave over his genial fat face—Horace Mayfield resembles a great good-humoured toad, with bland manners and a capacious double chin—“I should just say I did! Bless my soul—why, yes,” he beamed, “I was Yorke-Bannerman’s counsel. Excellent fellow, Yorke-Bannerman—most unfortunate end, though—precious clever chap, too! Had an astounding memory. Recollected every symptom of every patient he ever attended. And such an eye! Diagnosis? It was clairvoyance! A gift—no less. Knew what was the matter with you the moment he looked at you.”
That sounded like Hilda. The same surprising power of recalling facts; the same keen faculty for interpreting character or the signs of feeling. “He poisoned somebody, I believe,” I murmured, casually. “An uncle of his, or something.”
Mayfield’s great squat face wrinkled; the double chin, folding down on the neck, became more ostentatiously double than ever. “Well, I can’t admit that,” he said, in his suave voice, twirling the string of his eye-glass. “I was Yorke-Bannerman’s advocate, you see; and therefore I was paid not to admit it. Besides, he was a friend of mine, and I always liked him. But I will allow that the case did look a trifle black against him.”
“Ha? Looked black, did it?” I faltered.
The judicious barrister shrugged his shoulders. A genial smile spread oilily once more over his smooth face. “None of my business to say so,” he answered, puckering the corners of his eyes. “Still, it was a long time ago; and the circumstances certainly were suspicious. Perhaps, on the whole, Hubert, it was just as well the poor fellow died before the trial came off; otherwise”—he pouted his lips—“I might have had my work cut out to save him.” And he eyed the blue china gods on the mantelpiece affectionately.
“I believe the Crown urged money as the motive?” I suggested.
Mayfield glanced inquiry at me. “Now, why do you want to know all this?” he asked, in a suspicious voice, coming back from his dragons. “It is irregular, very, to worm information out of an innocent barrister in his hours of ease about a former client. We are a guileless race, we lawyers; don’t abuse our confidence.”
He seemed an honest man, I thought, in spite of his mocking tone. I trusted him, and made a clean breast of it. “I believe,” I answered, with an impressive little pause, “I want to marry Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter.”
He gave a quick start. “What, Maisie?” he exclaimed.
I shook my head. “No, no; that is not the name,” I replied.
He hesitated a moment. “But there is no other,” he hazarded cautiously at last. “I knew the family.”
“I am not sure of it,” I went on. “I have merely my suspicions. I am in love with a girl, and something about her makes me think she is probably a Yorke-Bannerman.”
“But, my dear Hubert, if that is so,” the great lawyer went on, waving me off with one fat hand, “it must be at once apparent to you that I am the last person on earth to whom you ought to apply for information. Remember my oath. The practice of our clan: the seal of secrecy!”
I was frank once more. “I do not know whether the lady I mean is or is not Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter,” I persisted. “She may be, and she may not. She gives another name—that’s certain. But whether she is or isn’t, one thing I know—I mean to marry her. I believe in her; I trust her. I only seek to gain this information now because I don’t know where she is—and I want to track her.”
He crossed his big hands with an air of Christian resignation, and looked up at the panels of the coffered ceiling. “In that,” he answered, “I may honestly say, I can’t help you. Humbug apart, I have not known Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman’s address—or Maisie’s either—ever since my poor friend’s death. Prudent woman, Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman! She went away, I believe, to somewhere in North Wales, and afterwards to Brittany. But she probably changed her name; and—she did not confide in me.”
I went on to ask him a few questions about the case, premising that I did so in the most friendly spirit. “Oh, I can only tell you what is publicly known,” he answered, beaming, with the usual professional pretence of the most sphinx-like reticence. “But the plain facts, as universally admitted, were these. I break no confidence. Yorke-Bannerman had a rich uncle from whom he had expectations—a certain Admiral Scott Prideaux. This uncle had lately made a will in Yorke-Bannerman’s favour; but he was a cantankerous old chap—naval, you know autocratic—crusty—given to changing his mind with each change of the wind, and easily offended by his relations—the sort of cheerful old party who makes a new will once every month, disinheriting the nephew he last dined with. Well, one day the Admiral was taken ill, at his own house, and Yorke-Bannerman attended him. Our contention was—I speak now as my old friend’s counsel—that Scott Prideaux, getting as tired of life as we were all tired of him, and weary of this recurrent worry of will-making, determined at last to clear out for good from a world where he was so little appreciated, and, therefore, tried to poison himself.”
“With aconitine?” I suggested, eagerly.
“Unfortunately, yes; he made use of aconitine for that otherwise laudable purpose. Now, as ill luck would have it”—Mayfield’s wrinkles deepened—“Yorke-Bannerman and Sebastian, then two rising doctors
engaged in physiological researches together, had just been occupied in experimenting upon this very drug—testing the use of aconitine. Indeed, you will no doubt remember”—he crossed his fat hands again comfortably—“it was these precise researches on a then little-known poison that first brought Sebastian prominently before the public. What was the consequence?” His smooth, persuasive voice flowed on as if I were a concentrated jury. “The Admiral grew rapidly worse, and insisted upon calling in a second opinion. No doubt he didn’t like the aconitine when it came to the pinch—for it does pinch, I can tell you—and repented him of his evil. Yorke-Bannerman suggested Sebastian as the second opinion; the uncle acquiesced; Sebastian was called in, and, of course, being fresh from his researches, immediately recognised the symptoms of aconitine poisoning.”
“What! Sebastian found it out?” I cried, starting.
“Oh, yes! Sebastian. He watched the case from that point to the end; and the oddest part of it all was this—that though he communicated with the police, and himself prepared every morsel of food that the poor old Admiral took from that moment forth, the symptoms continually increased in severity. The police contention was that Yorke-Bannerman somehow managed to put the stuff into the milk beforehand; my own theory was—as counsel for the accused”—he blinked his fat eyes—“that old Prideaux had concealed a large quantity of aconitine in the bed, before his illness, and went on taking it from time to time—just to spite his nephew.”
“And you believe that, Mr. Mayfield?”
The broad smile broke concentrically in ripples over the great lawyer’s face. His smile was Mayfield’s main feature. He shrugged his shoulders and expanded his big hands wide open before him. “My dear Hubert,” he said, with a most humorous expression of countenance, “you are a professional man yourself; therefore you know that every profession has its own little courtesies—its own small fictions. I was Yorke-Bannerman’s counsel, as well as his friend. ’Tis a point of honour with us that no barrister will ever admit a doubt as to a client’s innocence—is he not paid to maintain it?—and to my dying day I will constantly maintain that old Prideaux poisoned himself. Maintain it with that dogged and meaningless obstinacy with which we always cling to whatever is least provable.… Oh, yes! He poisoned himself; and Yorke-Bannerman was innocent.… But still, you know, it was the sort of case where an acute lawyer, with a reputation to make, would prefer to be for the Crown rather than for the prisoner.”
“But it was never tried,” I ejaculated.
“No, happily for us, it was never tried. Fortune favoured us. Yorke-Bannerman had a weak heart, a conveniently weak heart, which the inquest sorely affected; and besides, he was deeply angry at what he persisted in calling Sebastian’s defection. He evidently thought Sebastian ought to have stood by him. His colleague preferred the claims of public duty—as he understood them, I mean—to those of private friendship. It was a very sad case—for Yorke-Bannerman was really a charming fellow. But I confess I was relieved when he died unexpectedly on the morning of his arrest. It took off my shoulders a most serious burden.”
“You think, then, the case would have gone against him?”
“My dear Hubert,” his whole face puckered with an indulgent smile, “of course the case must have gone against us. Juries are fools; but they are not such fools as to swallow everything—like ostriches: to let me throw dust in their eyes about so plain an issue. Consider the facts, consider them impartially. Yorke-Bannerman had easy access to aconitine; had whole ounces of it in his possession; he treated the uncle from whom he was to inherit; he was in temporary embarrassments—that came out at the inquest; it was known that the Admiral had just made a twenty-third will in his favour, and that the Admiral’s wills were liable to alteration every time a nephew ventured upon an opinion in politics, religion, science, navigation, or the right card at whist, differing by a shade from that of the uncle. The Admiral died of aconitine poisoning; and Sebastian observed and detailed the symptoms. Could anything be plainer—I mean, could any combination of fortuitous circumstances”—he blinked pleasantly again—“be more adverse to an advocate sincerely convinced of his client’s innocence—as a professional duty?” And he gazed at me comically.
The more he piled up the case against the man who I now felt sure was Hilda’s father, the less did I believe him. A dark conspiracy seemed to loom up in the background. “Has it ever occurred to you,” I asked, at last, in a very tentative tone, “that perhaps—I throw out the hint as the merest suggestion—perhaps it may have been Sebastian who—”
He smiled this time till I thought his smile would swallow him.
“If Yorke-Bannerman had not been my client,” he mused aloud, “I might have been inclined to suspect rather that Sebastian aided him to avoid justice by giving him something violent to take, if he wished it: something which might accelerate the inevitable action of the heart-disease from which he was suffering. Isn’t that more likely?”
I saw there was nothing further to be got out of Mayfield. His opinion was fixed; he was a placid ruminant. But he had given me already much food for thought. I thanked him for his assistance, and returned on foot to my rooms at the hospital.
I was now, however, in a somewhat different position for tracking Hilda from that which I occupied before my interview with the famous counsel. I felt certain by this time that Hilda Wade and Maisie Yorke-Bannerman were one and the same person. To be sure, it gave me a twinge to think that Hilda should be masquerading under an assumed name; but I waived that question for the moment, and awaited her explanations. The great point now was to find Hilda. She was flying from Sebastian to mature a new plan. But whither? I proceeded to argue it out on her own principles; oh, how lamely! The world is still so big! Mauritius, the Argentine, British Columbia, New Zealand!
The letter I had received bore the Basingstoke postmark. Now a person may be passing Basingstoke on his way either to Southampton or Plymouth, both of which are ports of embarcation for various foreign countries. I attached importance to that clue. Something about the tone of Hilda’s letter made me realise that she intended to put the sea between us. In concluding so much, I felt sure I was not mistaken. Hilda had too big and too cosmopolitan a mind to speak of being “irrevocably far from London,” if she were only going to some town in England, or even to Normandy, or the Channel Islands. “Irrevocably far” pointed rather to a destination outside Europe altogether—to India, Africa, America: not to Jersey, Dieppe, or Saint-Malo.
Was it Southampton or Plymouth to which she was first bound?—that was the next question. I inclined to Southampton. For the sprawling lines (so different from her usual neat hand) were written hurriedly in a train, I could see; and, on consulting Bradshaw, I found that the Plymouth expresses stop longest at Salisbury, where Hilda would, therefore, have been likely to post her note if she were going to the far west; while some of the Southampton trains stop at Basingstoke, which is, indeed, the most convenient point on that route for sending off a letter. This was mere blind guesswork, to be sure, compared with Hilda’s immediate and unerring intuition; but it had some probability in its favour, at any rate. Try both: of the two, she was likelier to be going to Southampton.
My next move was to consult the list of outgoing steamers. Hilda had left London on a Saturday morning. Now, on alternate Saturdays, the steamers of the Castle line sail from Southampton, where they call to take up passengers and mails. Was this one of those alternate Saturdays? I looked at the list of dates: it was. That told further in favour of Southampton. But did any steamer of any passenger line sail from Plymouth on the same day? None, that I could find. Or from Southampton elsewhere? I looked them all up. The Royal Mail Company’s boats start on Wednesdays; the North German Lloyd’s on Wednesdays and Sundays. Those were the only likely vessels I could discover. Either, then, I concluded, Hilda meant to sail on Saturday by the Castle line for South Africa, or else on Sunday by North German Llo
yd for some part of America.
How I longed for one hour of Hilda to help me out with her almost infallible instinct. I realised how feeble and fallacious was my own groping in the dark. Her knowledge of temperament would have revealed to her at once what I was trying to discover, like the police she despised, by the clumsy “clues” which so roused her sarcasm.
However, I went to bed and slept on it. Next morning I determined to set out for Southampton on a tour of inquiry to all the steamboat agencies. If that failed, I could go on to Plymouth.
But, as chance would have it, the morning post brought me an unexpected letter, which helped me not a little in unravelling the problem. It was a crumpled letter, written on rather soiled paper, in an uneducated hand, and it bore, like Hilda’s, the Basingstoke postmark.
“Charlotte Churtwood sends her duty to Dr. Cumberledge,” it said, with somewhat uncertain spelling, “and I am very sorry that I was not able to Post the letter to you in London, as the lady ast me, but after her train ad left has I was stepping into mine the Ingine started and I was knocked down and badly hurt and the lady gave me a half-sovering to Post it in London has soon as I got there but bein unable to do so I now return it dear sir not knowing the lady’s name and adress she having trusted me through seeing me on the platform, and perhaps you can send it back to her, and was very sorry I could not Post it were she ast me, but time bein an objeck put it in the box in Basingstoke station and now inclose post office order for ten Shillings whitch dear sir kindly let the young lady have from your obedient servant,
“Charlotte Churtwood.”
The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives Page 20
