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

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  ‘No; he sent his courier for it.’

  ‘His courier? The man Higginson?’

  ‘Yes; but I refused to give it to Higginson. I took it myself that night to the hotel where Mr. Ashurst was stopping.’

  ‘Ah! You took it yourself. So the only other person who knows anything at first hand about the existence of the alleged will is this person Higginson?’

  ‘Miss Petheridge knows,’ I said, flushing. ‘At the time, I told her of it.’

  ‘Oh, you told her. Well, that doesn’t help us much. If what you are swearing isn’t true—remember, you are on your oath—what you told Miss Petherick or Petheridge or Pennyfarthing, “at the time,” can hardly be regarded as corroborative evidence. Your word then and your word now are just equally valuable—or equally worthless. The only person who knows besides yourself is Higginson. Now, I ask you, where is Higginson? Are you going to produce him?’

  The wicked cunning of it struck me dumb. They were keeping him away, and then using his absence to cast doubts on my veracity. ‘Stop,’ I cried, taken aback, ‘Higginson is well known to be a rogue, and he is keeping away lest he may damage your side. I know nothing of Higginson.’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming to that in good time. Don’t be afraid that we’re going to pass over Higginson. You admit this man is a man of bad character. Now, what do you know of him?’

  I told the stories of the Count and of Dr. Fortescue-Langley.

  The cross-eyed cross-examiner leant across towards me and leered. ‘And this is the man,’ he exclaimed, with a triumphant air, ‘whose sister you pretended you had got to sign this precious document of yours?’

  ‘Whom Mr. Ashurst got to sign it,’ I answered, red-hot. ‘It is not my document.’

  ‘And you have heard that she swears it is not her signature at all?’

  ‘So they tell me. She is Higginson’s sister. For all I know, she may be prepared to swear, or to forswear, anything.’

  ‘Don’t cast doubt upon our witnesses without cause! Miss Higginson is an eminently respectable woman. You gave this document to Mr. Ashurst, you say. There your knowledge of it ends. A signature is placed on it which is not his, as our experts testify. It purports to be witnessed by a Swiss waiter, who is not forthcoming, and who is asserted to be dead, as well as by a nurse who denies her signature. And the only other person who knows of its existence before Mr. Tillington “discovers” it in his uncle’s desk is—the missing man Higginson. Is that, or is it not, the truth of the matter?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, baffled.

  ‘Well, now, as to this man Higginson. He first appears upon the scene, so far as you are concerned, on the day when you travelled from London to Schlangenbad?’

  ‘That is so,’ I answered.

  ‘And he nearly succeeded then in stealing Lady Georgina Fawley’s jewel-case?’

  ‘He nearly took it, but I saved it.’ And I explained the circumstance.

  The cross-eyed Q.C. held his fat sides with his hands, looking incredulously at me, and smiled. His vast width of waistcoat shook with silent merriment. ‘You are a very clever young lady,’ he murmured. ‘You can explain away anything. But don’t you think it just as likely that it was a plot between you two, and that owing to some mistake the plot came off unsuccessful?’

  ‘I do not,’ I cried, crimson. ‘I never saw the Count before that morning.’

  He tried another tack. ‘Still, wherever you went, this man Higginson—the only other person, you admit, who knows about the previous existence of the will—turned up simultaneously. He was always turning up—at the same place as you did. He turned up at Lucerne, as a faith-healer, didn’t he?’

  ‘If you will allow me to explain,’ I cried, biting my lip.

  He bowed, all blandness. ‘Oh, certainly,’ he murmured. ‘Explain away everything!’

  I explained, but of course he had discounted and damaged my explanation.

  He made no comment. ‘And then,’ he went on, with his hands on his hips, and his obtrusive rotundity, ‘he turned up at Florence, as courier to Mr. Ashurst, at the very date when this so-called will was being concocted?’

  ‘He was at Florence when Mr. Ashurst dictated it to me,’ I answered, growing desperate.

  ‘You admit he was in Florence. Good! Once more he turned up in India with my client, Lord Southminster, upon whose youth and inexperience he had managed to impose himself. And he carried him off, did he not, by one of these strange coincidences to which you are peculiarly liable, on the very same steamer on which you happened to be travelling?’

  ‘Lord Southminster told me he took Higginson with him because a rogue suited his book,’ I answered, warmly.

  ‘Will you swear his lordship didn’t say “the rogue suited his book”—which is quite another thing?’ the Q.C. asked blandly.

  ‘I will swear he did not,’ I replied. ‘I have correctly reported him.’

  ‘Then I congratulate you, young lady, on your excellent memory. My lud, will you allow me later to recall Lord Southminster to testify on this point?’

  The judge nodded.

  ‘Now, once more, as to your relations with the various members of the Ashurst family. You introduced yourself to Lady Georgina Fawley, I believe, quite casually, on a seat in Kensington Gardens?’

  ‘That is true,’ I answered.

  ‘You had never seen her before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And you promptly offered to go with her as her lady’s maid to Schlangenbad in Germany?’

  ‘In place of her lady’s maid, for one week,’ I answered.

  ‘Ah; a delicate distinction! “In place of her lady’s maid.” You are a lady, I believe; an officer’s daughter, you told us; educated at Girton?’

  ‘So I have said already,’ I replied, crimson.

  ‘And you stick to it? By all means. Tell—the truth—and stick to it. It’s always safest. Now, don’t you think it was rather an odd thing for an officer’s daughter to do—to run about Germany as maid to a lady of title?’

  I tried to explain once more; but the jury smiled. You can’t justify originality to a British jury. Why, they would send you to prison at once for that alone, if they made the laws as well as dispensing them.

  He passed on after a while to another topic. ‘I think you have boasted more than once in society that when you first met Lady Georgina Fawley you had twopence in your pocket to go round the world with?’

  ‘I had,’ I answered—‘and I went round the world with it.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m getting there in time. With it—and other things. A few months later, more or less, you were touring up the Nile in your steam dahabeeah, and in the lap of luxury; you were taking saloon-carriages on Indian railways, weren’t you?’

  I explained again. ‘The dahabeeah was in the service of the Daily Telephone,’ I answered. ‘I became a journalist.’

  He cross-questioned me about that. ‘Then I am to understand,’ he said at last, leaning forward with all his waistcoat, ‘that you sprang yourself upon Mr. Elworthy at sight, pretty much as you sprang yourself upon Lady Georgina Fawley?’

  ‘We arranged matters quickly,’ I admitted. The dexterous wretch was making my strongest points all tell against me.

  ‘H’m! Well, he was a man: and you will admit, I suppose,’ fingering his smooth fat chin, ‘that you are a lady of—what is the stock phrase the reporters use?—considerable personal attractions?’

  ‘My Lord,’ I said, turning to the Bench, ‘I appeal to you. Has he the right to compel me to answer that question?’

  The judge bowed slightly. ‘The question requires no answer,’ he said, with a quiet emphasis. I burned bright scarlet.

  ‘Well, my lud, I defer to your ruling,’ the cross-eyed cross-examiner continued, radiant. ‘I go o
n to another point. When in India, I believe, you stopped for some time as a guest in the house of a native Maharajah.’

  ‘Is that matter relevant?’ the judge asked, sharply.

  ‘My lud,’ the Q.C. said, in his blandest voice, ‘I am striving to suggest to the jury that this lady—the only person who ever beheld this so-called will till Mr. Harold Tillington—described in its terms as “Younger of Gledcliffe,” whatever that may be—produced it out of his uncle’s desk—I am striving to suggest that this lady is—my duty to my client compels me to say—an adventuress.’

  He had uttered the word. I felt my character had not a leg left to stand upon before a British jury.

  ‘I went there with my friend, Miss Petheridge——’ I began.

  ‘Oh, Miss Petheridge once more—you hunt in couples?’

  ‘Accompanied and chaperoned by a married lady, the wife of a Major Balmossie, on the Bombay Staff Corps.’

  ‘That was certainly prudent. One ought to be chaperoned. Can you produce the lady?’

  ‘How is it possible?’ I cried. ‘Mrs. Balmossie is in India.’

  ‘Yes; but the Maharajah, I understand, is in London?’

  ‘That is true,’ I answered.

  ‘And he came to meet you on your arrival yesterday.’

  ‘With Lady Georgina Fawley,’ I cried, taken off my guard.

  ‘Do you not consider it curious,’ he asked, ‘that these Higginsons and these Maharajahs should happen to follow you so closely round the world?—should happen to turn up wherever you do?’

  ‘He came to be present at this trial,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘And so did you. I believe he met you at Euston last night, and drove you to your hotel in his private carriage.’

  ‘With Lady Georgina Fawley,’ I answered, once more.

  ‘And Lady Georgina is on Mr. Tillington’s side, I fancy? Ah, yes, I thought so. And Mr. Tillington also called to see you; and likewise Miss Petherick—I beg your pardon, Petheridge. We must be strictly accurate—where Miss Petheridge is concerned. And, in fact, you had quite a little family party.’

  ‘My friends were glad to see me back again,’ I murmured.

  He sprang a fresh innuendo. ‘But Mr. Tillington did not resent your visit to this gallant Maharajah?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I cried, bridling. ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Oh, we’re getting to that too. Now answer me this carefully. We want to find out what interest you might have, supposing a will were forged, on either side, in arranging its terms. We want to find out just who would benefit by it. Please reply to this question, yes or no, without prevarication. Are you or are you not conditionally engaged to Mr. Harold Tillington?’

  ‘If I might explain——’ I began, quivering.

  He sneered. ‘You have a genius for explaining, we are aware. Answer me first, yes or no; we will qualify afterward.’

  I glanced appealingly at the judge. He was adamant. ‘Answer as counsel directs you, witness,’ he said, sternly.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I faltered. ‘But——’

  ‘Excuse me one moment. You promised to marry him conditionally upon the result of Mr. Ashurst’s testamentary dispositions?’

  ‘I did,’ I answered; ‘but——’

  My explanation was drowned in roars of laughter, in which the judge joined, in spite of himself. When the mirth in court had subsided a little, I went on: ‘I told Mr. Tillington I would only marry him in case he was poor and without expectations. If he inherited Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s money, I could never be his wife,’ I said it proudly.

  The cross-eyed Q.C. drew himself up and let his rotundity take care of itself. ‘Do you take me,’ he inquired, ‘for one of Her Majesty’s horse-marines?’

  There was another roar of laughter—feebly suppressed by a judicial frown—and I slank away, annihilated.

  ‘You can go,’ my persecutor said. ‘I think we have got—well, everything we wanted from you. You promised to marry him, if all went ill! That is a delicate feminine way of putting it. Women like these equivocations. They relieve one from the onus of speaking frankly.’

  I stood down from the box, feeling, for the first time in my life, conscious of having scored an ignominious failure.

  Our counsel did not care to re-examine me; I recognised that it would be useless. The hateful Q.C. had put all my history in such an odious light that explanation could only make matters worse—it must savour of apology. The jury could never understand my point of view. It could never be made to see that there are adventuresses and adventuresses.

  Then came the final speeches on either side. Harold’s advocate said the best he could in favour of the will our party propounded; but his best was bad; and what galled me most was this—I could see he himself did not believe in its genuineness. His speech amounted to little more than a perfunctory attempt to put the most favourable face on a probable forgery.

  As for the cross-eyed Q.C., he rose to reply with humorous confidence. Swaying his big body to and fro, he crumpled our will and our case in his fat fingers like so much flimsy tissue-paper. Mr. Ashurst had made a disposition of his property twenty years ago—the right disposition, the natural disposition; he had left the bulk of it as childless English gentlemen have ever been wont to leave their wealth—to the eldest son of the eldest son of his family. The Honourable Marmaduke Courtney Ashurst, the testator, was the scion of a great house, which recent agricultural changes, he regretted to say, had relatively impoverished; he had come to the succour of that great house, as such a scion should, with his property acquired by honest industry elsewhere. It was fitting and reasonable that Mr. Ashurst should wish to see the Kynaston peerage regain, in the person of the amiable and accomplished young nobleman whom he had the honour to represent, some portion of its ancient dignity and splendour.

  But jealousy and greed intervened. (Here he frowned at Harold.) Mr. Harold Tillington, the son of one of Mr. Ashurst’s married sisters, cast longing eyes, as he had tried to suggest to them, on his cousin Lord Southminster’s natural heritage. The result, he feared, was an unnatural intrigue. Mr. Harold Tillington formed the acquaintance of a young lady—should we say young lady?—(he withered me with his glance)—well, yes, a lady, indeed, by birth and education, but an adventuress by choice—a lady who, brought up in a respectable, though not (he must admit) a distinguished sphere, had lowered herself by accepting the position of a lady’s maid, and had trafficked in patent American cycles on the public high-roads of Germany and Switzerland. This clever and designing woman (he would grant her ability—he would grant her good looks) had fascinated Mr. Tillington—that was the theory he ventured to lay before the jury to-day; and the jury would see for themselves that whatever else the young lady might be, she had distinctly a certain outer gift of fascination. It was for them to decide whether Miss Lois Cayley had or had not suggested to Mr. Harold Tillington the design of substituting a forged will for Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s undeniable testament. He would point out to them her singular connection with the missing man Higginson, whom the young lady herself described as a rogue, and from whom she had done her very best to dissociate herself in this court—but ineffectually. Wherever Miss Cayley went, the man Higginson went independently. Such frequent recurrences, such apt juxtapositions could hardly be set down to mere accidental coincidence.

  He went on to insinuate that Higginson and I had concocted the disputed will between us; that we had passed it on to our fellow-conspirator, Harold; and that Harold had forged his uncle’s signature to it, and had appended those of the two supposed witnesses. But who, now, were these witnesses? One, Franz Markheim, was dead or missing; dead men tell no tales: the other was obviously suggested by Higginson. It was his own sister. Perhaps he forged her name to the document. Doubtless he thought that family feeling would induce her, when it came to the pinch, to accept and
endorse her brother’s lie; nay, he might even have been foolish enough to suppose that this cock-and-bull will would not be disputed. If so, he and his master had reckoned without Lord Southminster, a gentleman who concealed beneath the careless exterior of a man of fashion the solid intelligence of a man of affairs, and the hard head of a man not to be lightly cheated in matters of business.

  The alleged will had thus not a leg to stand upon. It was ‘typewritten’ (save the mark!) ‘from dictation’ at Florence, by whom? By the lady who had most to gain from its success—the lady who was to be transformed from a shady adventuress, tossed about between Irish doctors and Hindu Maharajahs, into the lawful wife of a wealthy diplomatist of noble family, on one condition only—if this pretended will could be satisfactorily established. The signatures were forgeries, as shown by the expert evidence, and also by the oath of the one surviving witness.

  The will left all the estate—practically—to Mr. Harold Tillington, and five hundred pounds to whom?—why, to the accomplice Higginson. The minor bequests the Q.C. regarded as ingenious inventions, pure play of fancy, ‘intended to give artistic verisimilitude,’ as Pooh-Bah says in the opera, ‘to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.’ The fads, it was true, were known fads of Mr. Ashurst’s: but what sort of fads? Bimetallism? Anglo-Israel? No, braces and shoe-horns—clearly the kind that would best be known to a courier like Higginson, the sole begetter, he believed, of this nefarious conspiracy.

  The cross-eyed Q.C., lifting his fat right hand in solemn adjuration, called upon the jury confidently to set aside this ridiculous fabrication, and declare for a will of undoubted genuineness, a will drawn up in London by a firm of eminent solicitors, and preserved ever since by the testator’s bankers. It would then be for his lordship to decide whether in the public interest he should recommend the Crown to prosecute on a charge of forgery the clumsy fabricator of this preposterous document.