The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  “Yet you have been there?” I suggested.

  He nodded.

  “Wonderful! And you came upon no suspicious house, no suspicious person?”

  The finger with which he was rubbing his eyeglasses went round and round the rims with a slower and slower and still more thoughtful motion.

  “Every town has its suspicious-looking houses,” he slowly remarked, “and, as for persons, the most honest often wear a lowering look in which an unbridled imagination can see guilt. I never trust to appearances of that kind.”

  “What else can you trust in, when a case is as impenetrable as this one?” I asked.

  His finger, going slower and slower, suddenly stopped.

  “In my knowledge of persons,” he replied. “In my knowledge of their fears, their hopes, and their individual concerns. If I were twenty years younger”—here he stole a glance at me in the mirror which made me bridle; did he think I was only twenty years younger than himself?—“I would,” he went on, “make myself so acquainted with every man, woman, and child there, that—” Here he drew himself up with a jerk. “But the day for that is passed,” said he. “I am too old and too crippled to succeed in such an undertaking. Having been there once, I am a marked man. My very walk betrays me. He whose good fortune it will be to get at the bottom of these people’s hearts must awaken no suspicions as to his connection with the police. Indeed, I do not think that any man can succeed in doing this now.”

  I started. This was a frank showing of his hand at least. No man! It was then a woman’s aid he was after. I laughed as I thought of it. I had not thought him either so presumptuous or so appreciative of talents of a character so directly in line with his own.

  “Don’t you agree with me, madam?”

  I did agree with him; but I had a character of great dignity to maintain, so I simply surveyed him with an air of well-tempered severity.

  “I do not know of any woman who would undertake such a task,” I calmly observed.

  “No?” he smiled with that air of forbearance which is so exasperating to me. “Well, perhaps there isn’t any such woman to be found. It would take one of very uncommon characteristics, I own.”

  “Pish!” I cried. “Not so very!”

  “Indeed, I think you have not fully taken in the case,” he urged in quiet superiority. “The people there are of the higher order of country folk. Many of them are of extreme refinement. One family”—here his tone changed a trifle—“is poor enough and cultivated enough to interest even such a woman as yourself.”

  “Indeed!” I ejaculated, with just a touch of my father’s hauteur to hide the stir of curiosity his words naturally evoked.

  “It is in some such home,” he continued with an ease that should have warned me he had started on this pursuit with a quiet determination to win, “that the clue will be found to the mystery we are considering. Yes, you may well look startled, but that conclusion is the one thing I brought away with me from—X., let us say. I regard it as one of some moment. What do you think of it?”

  “Well,” I admitted, “it makes me feel like recalling that pish I uttered a few minutes ago. It would take a woman of uncommon characteristics to assist you in this matter.”

  “I am glad we have got that far,” said he.

  “A lady,” I went on.

  “Most assuredly a lady.”

  I paused. Sometimes discreet silence is more sarcastic than speech.

  “Well, what lady would lend herself to this scheme?” I demanded at last.

  The tap, tap of his fingers on the rim of his glasses was my only answer.

  “I do not know of any,” said I.

  His eyebrows rose perhaps a hair’s-breadth, but I noted the implied sarcasm, and for an instant forgot my dignity.

  “Now,” said I, “this will not do. You mean me, Amelia Butterworth; a woman who—but I do not think it is necessary to tell you either who or what I am. You have presumed, sir—Now do not put on that look of innocence, and above all do not attempt to deny what is so manifestly in your thoughts, for that would make me feel like showing you the door.”

  “Then,” he smiled, “I shall be sure to deny nothing. I am not anxious to leave—yet. Besides, whom could I mean but you? A lady visiting friends in this remote and beautiful region—what opportunities might she not have to probe this important mystery if, like yourself, she had tact, discretion, excellent understanding, and an experience which if not broad or deep is certainly such as to give her a certain confidence in herself, and an undoubted influence with the man fortunate enough to receive her advice.”

  “Bah!” I exclaimed. It was one of his favorite expressions. That was perhaps why I used it. “One would think I was a member of your police.”

  “You flatter us too deeply,” was his deferential answer. “Such an honor as that would be beyond our deserts.”

  To this I gave but the faintest sniff. That he should think that I, Amelia Butterworth, could be amenable to such barefaced flattery! Then I faced him with some asperity, and said bluntly: “You waste your time. I have no more intention of meddling in another affair than—”

  “You had in meddling in the first,” he politely, too politely, interpolated. “I understand, madam.”

  I was angry, but made no show of being so. I was not willing he should see that I could be affected by anything he could say.

  “The Van Burnams are my next-door neighbors,” I remarked sweetly. “I had the best of excuses for the interest I took in their affairs.”

  “So you had,” he acquiesced. “I am glad to be reminded of the fact. I wonder I was able to forget it.”

  Angry now to the point of not being able to hide it, I turned upon him with firm determination.

  “Let us talk of something else,” I said.

  But he was equal to the occasion. Drawing a folded paper from his pocket, he opened it out before my eyes, observing quite naturally: “That is a happy thought. Let us look over this sketch you were sharp enough to ask for a few moments ago. It shows the streets of the village and the places where each of the persons I have mentioned was last seen. Is not that what you wanted?”

  I know that I should have drawn back with a frown, that I never should have allowed myself the satisfaction of casting so much as a glance toward the paper, but the human nature which links me to my kind was too much for me, and with an involuntary “Exactly!” I leaned over it with an eagerness I strove hard, even at that exciting moment, to keep within the bounds I thought proper to my position as a non-professional, interested in the matter from curiosity alone.

  This is what I saw:

  “Mr. Gryce,” said I, after a few minutes’ close contemplation of this diagram, “I do not suppose you want any opinion from me.”

  “Madam,” he retorted, “it is all you have left me free to ask for.”

  Receiving this as a permission to speak, I put my finger on the road marked with a cross.

  “Then,” said I, “so far as I can gather from this drawing, all the disappearances seem to have taken place in or about this especial road.”

  “You are as correct as usual,” he returned. “What you have said is so true, that the people of the vicinity have already given to this winding way a special cognomen of its own. For two years now it has been called Lost Man’s Lane.”

  “Indeed!” I cried. “They have got the matter down as close as that, and yet have not solved its mystery? How long is this road?”

  “A half mile or so.”

  I must have looked my disgust, for his hands opened deprecatingly.

  “The ground has undergone a thorough search,” said he. “Not a square foot in those woods you see on either side of the road, but has been carefully examined.”

  “And the houses? I see there are three houses on
this road.”

  “Oh, they are owned by most respectable people—most respectable people,” he repeated, with a lingering emphasis that gave me an inward shudder. “I think I had the honor of intimating as much to you a few minutes ago.”

  I looked at him earnestly, and irresistibly drew a little nearer to him over the diagram.

  “Have none of these houses been visited by you?” I asked. “Do you mean to say you have not seen the inside of them all?”

  “Oh,” he replied, “I have been in them all, of course; but a mystery such as we are investigating is not written upon the walls of parlors or halls.”

  “You freeze my blood,” was my uncharacteristic rejoinder. Somehow the sight of the homes indicated on this diagram seemed to bring me into more intimate sympathy with the affair.

  His shrug was significant.

  “I told you that this was no vulgar mystery,” he declared; “or why should I be considering it with you? It is quite worthy of your interest. Do you see that house marked A?”

  “I do,” I nodded.

  “Well, that is a decayed mansion of imposing proportions, set in a forest of overgrown shrubbery. The ladies who inhabit it—”

  “Ladies!” I put in, with a small shock of horror.

  “Young ladies,” he explained, “of a refined if not over-prosperous appearance. They are the interesting residue of a family of some repute. Their father was a judge, I believe.”

  “And do they live there alone,” I asked—“two young ladies in a house so large and in a neighborhood so full of mystery?”

  “Oh, they have a brother with them, a lout of no great attractions,” he responded carelessly—too carelessly, I thought.

  I made a note of the house A in my mind.

  “And who lives in the house marked B?” I now queried.

  “A Mr. Trohm. You will remember that it was through his exertions the services of the New York police were secured. His place there is one of the most interesting in town, and he does not wish to be forced to leave it, but he will be obliged to do so if the road is not soon relieved of its bad name; and so will Deacon Spear. The very children shun the road now. I do not know of a lonelier place.”

  “I see a little mark made here on the verge of the woods. What does that mean?”

  “That stands for a hut—it can hardly be called a cottage—where a poor old woman lives called Mother Jane. She is a harmless imbecile, against whom no one has ever directed a suspicion. You may take your finger off that mark, Miss Butterworth.”

  I did so, but I did not forget that it stood very near the footpath branching off to the station.

  “You entered this hut as well as the big houses?” I intimated.

  “And found,” was his answer, “four walls; nothing more.”

  I let my finger travel along the footpath I have just mentioned.

  “Steep,” was his comment. “Up, up, all the way, but no precipices. Nothing but pine woods on either side, thickly carpeted with needles.”

  My finger came back and stopped at the house marked M.

  “Why is a letter affixed to this spot?” I asked.

  “Because it stands at the head of the lane. Any one sitting at the window L can see whoever enters or leaves the lane at this end. And someone is always sitting there. The house contains two crippled children, a boy and a girl. One of them is always in that window.”

  “I see,” said I. Then abruptly: “What do you think of Deacon Spear?”

  “Oh, he’s a well-meaning man, none too fine in his feelings. He does not mind the neighborhood; likes quiet, he says. I hope you will know him for yourself some day,” the detective slyly added.

  At this return to the forbidden subject, I held myself very much aloof.

  “Your diagram is interesting,” I remarked, “but it has not in the least changed my determination. It is you who will return to X., and that, very soon.”

  “Very soon?” he repeated. “Whoever goes there on this errand must go at once; tonight, if possible; if not, tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Tonight! tomorrow!” I expostulated. “And you thought—”

  “No matter what I thought,” he sighed. “It seems I had no reason for my hopes.” And folding up the map, he slowly rose. “The young man we have left there is doing more harm than good. That is why I say that someone of real ability must replace him immediately. The detective from New York must seem to have left the place.”

  I made him my most ladylike bow of dismissal.

  “I shall watch the papers,” I said. “I have no doubt that I shall soon be gratified by seeing in them some token of your success.”

  He cast a rueful look at his hands, took a painful step toward the door, and dolefully shook his head.

  I kept my silence undisturbed.

  He took another painful step, then turned.

  “By the way,” he remarked, as I stood watching him with an uncompromising air, “I have forgotten to mention the name of the town in which these disappearances have occurred. It is called X., and it is to be found on one of the spurs of the Berkshire Hills.” And, being by this time at the door, he bowed himself out with all the insinuating suavity which distinguishes him at certain critical moments. The old fox was so sure of his triumph that he did not wait to witness it. He knew—how, it is easy enough for me to understand now—that X. was a place I had often threatened to visit. The family of one of my dearest friends lived there, the children of Althea Knollys. She had been my chum at school, and when she died I had promised myself not to let many months go by without making the acquaintance of her children. Alas! I had allowed years to elapse.

  CHAPTER III

  I SUCCUMB

  That night the tempter had his own way with me. Without much difficulty he persuaded me that my neglect of Althea Burroughs’ children was without any excuse; that what had been my duty toward them when I knew them to be left motherless and alone, had become an imperative demand upon me now that the town in which they lived had become overshadowed by a mystery which could not but affect the comfort and happiness of all its inhabitants. I could not wait a day. I recalled all that I had heard of poor Althea’s short and none too happy marriage, and immediately felt such a burning desire to see if her dainty but spirited beauty—how well I remembered it—had been repeated in her daughters, that I found myself packing my trunk before I knew it.

  I had not been from home for a long time—all the more reason why I should have a change now—and when I notified Mrs. Randolph and the servants of my intention of leaving on the early morning train, it created quite a sensation in the house.

  But I had the best of explanations to offer. I had been thinking of my dead friend, and my conscience would not let me neglect her dear and possibly unhappy progeny any longer. I had purposed many times to visit X., and now I was going to do it. When I come to a decision, it is usually suddenly, and I never rest after having once made up my mind.

  My sentiment went so far that I got down an old album and began hunting up the pictures I had brought away with me from boarding-school. Hers was among them, and I really did experience more or less compunction when I saw again the delicate yet daring features which had once had a very great influence over my mind. What a teasing sprite she was, yet what a will she had, and how strange it was that, having been so intimate as girls, we never knew anything of each other as women! Had it been her fault or mine? Was her marriage to blame for it or my spinsterhood? Difficult to tell then, impossible to tell now. I would not even think of it again, save as a warning. Nothing must stand between me and her children now that my attention has been called to them again.

  I did not mean to take them by surprise—that is, not entirely. The invitation which they had sent me years ago was still in force, making it simply necessary for me to telegraph th
em that I had decided to make them a visit, and that they might expect me by the noon train. If in times gone by they had been properly instructed by their mother in regard to the character of her old friend, this need not put them out. I am not a woman of unbounded expectations. I do not look for the comforts abroad I am accustomed to find at home, and if, as I have reason to believe, their means are not of the greatest, they would only provoke me by any show of effort to make me feel at home in the humble cottage suited to their fortunes.