Sisters in Crime

by Mike Ashley

‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I think I will get it soon.’

  Silence again, and then withdrawing the pipe from my mouth and quietly knocking the ashes out of it on the log, I turned towards my mate and said, ‘Bill, what made you murder that man in Pipeclay Gully?’

  He did not reply, but I could see his face pale and whiten in the grey dim twilight and at last stand out distinctly in the darkening like that of the dead man we found lying in the lonely gully. It was so entirely unexpected that he was completely stunned. Not the slightest idea had he that the body had ever been found, and it was on quite nerveless wrists that I locked the handcuffs as my mates came up and took him in charge.

  Rallying a little, he asked huskily, ‘Who said I did it?’

  ‘No person,’ I replied, ‘but I know you did it.’

  Again he was silent and did not contradict me, and so he was taken to the lock-up.

  I was right about the broken button and had often noticed it on an old jacket of Bill’s. The piece fitted to a nicety, and the cut-up blucher! Verily there was some powerful influence at work in the discovery of this murder, and again I repeat that no mere human wisdom could have accomplished it.

  Bill, it would appear, thought so, too, for expressing himself so to me he made a full confession, not only of the murder but also of the other offence, for the bringing home to him of which I had been so anxious. When he found that the body of the unfortunate man had been discovered upon the surface in the broad light of day after he had left him dead in the bottom of the hole, he became superstitiously convinced that God himself had permitted the dead man to leave his hiding place for the purpose of bringing the murderer to justice.

  It is no unusual thing to find criminals of his class deeply impregnated with superstition, and Bill insisted to the last that the murdered man was quite dead when he had placed him in the hole and where, in his anxiety to prevent the body from appearing above the surface, he had lost his boot in the mud and was too fearful of discovery to remain to try and get it out.

  Bill was convicted, sentenced to death and hanged, many other crimes of a similar nature to that which he had committed on Chinaman’s Flat having been brought home to him by his own confession.

  * An independent miner who worked alone

  Anna Katharine Green

  THE HOUSE OF CLOCKS

  The woman usually acknowledged as the pioneer female writer of detective fiction – and dubbed ‘the mother of the detective novel’ – is the American Anna Katharine Green (1846–1935). Her most famous book was her first, The Leavenworth Case (1878), which introduced the character of her police detective, the middle-aged and rather portly Ebenezer Gryce. Though a police detective rather than a private one, Gryce shared many of the characteristics of Sherlock Holmes (who was not even a glint in Conan Doyle’s eye at this time) – for example, he displays a remarkable depth of knowledge on such obscure subjects as what paper produces which type of ash when burnt, a topic on which Holmes would later write a monograph. Gryce is assisted in his investigations by a lawyer, Everett Raymond, who narrates the cases. Green’s father, James Wilson Green, was an attorney, and he raised the girl after her mother died when Anna was only two. James ensured his daughter received a good education, and she initially wished to be a poet but was advised by no less a figure than Ralph Waldo Emerson to pursue a different form of writing. In the end she wrote thirty-six detective novels and many short stories. There are twelve novels featuring Gryce and, in three of them, starting with That Affair Next Door (1897), he is further assisted by an elderly spinster, Amelia Butterworth, a clear forerunner of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. In the years just before the First World War Green wrote a series of stories featuring Violet Strange, a young debutante who keeps secret her role as an undercover detective. These stories were collected as The Golden Slipper and Other Problems (1915), and the story reprinted here is one of the oddest.

  The House of Clocks

  I

  Miss Strange was not in a responsive mood. This her employer had observed on first entering, yet he showed no hesitation in laying on the table behind which she had ensconced herself in the attitude of one besieged an envelope thick with enclosed papers.

  ‘There,’ said he. ‘Telephone me when you have read them.’

  ‘I shall not read them.’

  ‘No?’ he smiled, and, repossessing himself of the envelope, he tore off one end, extracted the sheets with which it was filled and laid them down still unfolded in their former place on the table top.

  The suggestiveness of the action caused the corners of Miss Strange’s delicate lips to twitch wistfully before settling into an ironic smile.

  Calmly the other watched her.

  ‘I am on a vacation,’ she loftily explained, as she finally met his studiously non-quizzical glance. ‘Oh, I know that I am in my own home!’ she petulantly acknowledged as his gaze took in the room, ‘and that the automobile is at the door and that I’m dressed for shopping, but for all that I’m on a vacation – a mental one,’ she emphasized, ‘and business must wait. I haven’t got over the last affair,’ she protested, as he maintained a discreet silence, ‘and the season is so gay just now – so many balls, so many – But that isn’t the worst. Father is beginning to wake up, and if he ever suspects …’ A significant gesture ended this appeal.

  The personage knew her father – everyone did – and the wonder had always been that she dared run the risk of displeasing one so implacable. Though she was his favourite child, Peter Strange was known to be quite capable of cutting her off with a shilling once his close, prejudiced mind conceived it to be his duty. And that he would so interpret the situation, if he ever came to learn the secret of his daughter’s fits of abstraction and the sly bank account she was slowly accumulating, the personage holding out this dangerous lure had no doubt at all. Yet he only smiled at her words and remarked in casual suggestion, ‘It’s out of town this time – way out. Your health certainly demands a change of air.’

  ‘My health is good. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as one may choose to look at it, it furnishes me with no excuse for an outing,’ she steadily retorted, turning her back on the table.

  ‘Ah, excuse me!’ the insidious voice apologized. ‘Your paleness misled me. Surely a night or two’s change might be beneficial.’

  She gave him a quick side look and began to adjust her boa.

  To this hint he paid no attention.

  ‘The affair is quite out of the ordinary,’ he pursued in the tone of one rehearsing a part. But there he stopped. For some reason, not altogether apparent to the masculine mind, the pin of flashing stones (real stones) which held her hat in place had to be taken out and thrust back again, not once but twice. It was to watch this performance he had paused. When he was ready to proceed, he took the musing tone of one marshalling facts for another’s enlightenment, ‘A woman of unknown instincts …’

  ‘Pshaw!’ The end of the pin would strike against the comb holding Violet’s chestnut-coloured locks.

  ‘Living in a house as mysterious as the secret it contains. But …’ here he allowed his patience apparently to forsake him, ‘I will bore you no longer. Go to your teas and balls. I will struggle with my dark affairs alone.’

  His hand went to the packet of papers she affected so ostentatiously to despise. He could be as nonchalant as she. But he did not lift them, he let them lie. Yet the young heiress had not made a movement or even turned the slightest glance his way.

  ‘A woman difficult to understand! A mysterious house – possibly a mysterious crime!’ Thus Violet kept repeating in silent self-communion, as flushed with dancing she sat that evening in a highly scented conservatory, dividing her attention between the compliments of her partner and the splash of a fountain bubbling in the heart of this mass of tropical foliage. And when, some hours later, she sat down in her chintz-furnished bedroom for a few minutes’ thought before retiring, it was to draw from a little oak box at her elbow the half-dozen or so folded sheets of
closely written paper which had been left for her perusal by her persistent employer.

  Glancing first at the signature and finding it to be one already favourably known at the bar, she read with avidity the statement of events thus vouched for, finding them curious enough in all conscience to keep her awake for another full hour.

  We here subscribe it:

  I am a lawyer with an office in the Times Square Building. My business is mainly local, but sometimes I am called out of town, as witness the following summons received by me on the fifth of last October:

  Dear Sir, –

  I wish to make my will. I am an invalid and cannot leave my room. Will you come to me? The enclosed reference will answer for my respectability. If it satisfies you and you decide to accommodate me, please hasten your visit. I have not many days to live. A carriage will meet you at Highland Station at any hour you designate. Telegraph reply.

  A. Postlethwaite, Gloom Cottage, —, NJ

  The reference given was a Mr Weed of Eighty-sixth Street – a well-known man of unimpeachable reputation. Calling him up at his business office, I asked him what he could tell me about Mr Postlethwaite of Gloom Cottage, —, NJ

  The answer astonished me. ‘There is no Mr Postlethwaite to be found at that address. He died years ago. There is a Mrs Postlethwaite – a confirmed paralytic. Do you mean her?’

  I glanced at the letter still lying open at the side of the telephone. ‘The signature reads A. Postlethwaite.’

  ‘Then it’s she. Her name is Arabella. She hates the name, being a woman of no sentiment. Uses her initials even on her cheques. What does she want of you?’

  ‘To draw her will.’

  ‘Oblige her. It’ll be experience for you.’ And he slammed home the receiver.

  I decided to follow the suggestion so forcibly emphasized, and the next day saw me at Highland Station. A superannuated horse and a still more superannuated carriage awaited me – both too old to serve a busy man in these days of swift conveyance. Could this be a sample of the establishment I was about to enter? Then I remembered that the woman who had sent for me was a helpless invalid and probably had no use for any sort of turnout.

  The driver was in keeping with the vehicle and as noncommittal as the plodding beast he drove. If I ventured upon a remark, he gave me a long and curious look; if I went so far as to attack him with a direct question, he responded with a hitch of the shoulder or a dubious smile which conveyed nothing. Was he deaf or just unpleasant? I soon learned that he was not deaf, for suddenly, after a jog-trot of a mile or so through a wooded road which we had entered from the main highway, he drew in his horse, and, without glancing my way, spoke his first word. ‘This is where you get out. The house is back there in the bushes.’

  As no house was visible and the bushes rose in an unbroken barrier along the road, I stared at him in some doubt of his sanity.

  ‘But –’ I began, a protest into which he at once broke, with the sharp direction:

  ‘Take the path. It’ll lead you straight to the front door.’

  ‘I don’t see any path.’

  For this he had no answer, and, confident from his expression that it would be useless to expect anything further from him, I dropped a coin into his hand and jumped to the ground. He was off before I could turn myself about.

  ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ I quoted in startled comment to myself and, not knowing what else to do, stared down at the turf at my feet.

  A bit of flagging met my eye, protruding from a layer of thick moss. Farther on I espied another – the second, probably, of many. This, no doubt, was the path I had been bidden to follow, and without further thought on the subject I plunged into the bushes which, with difficulty, I made give way before me.

  For a moment all further advance looked hopeless. A more tangled, uninviting approach to a so-called home I had never seen outside of the tropics, and the complete neglect thus displayed should have prepared me for the appearance of the house I unexpectedly came upon just as the way seemed on the point of closing up before me.

  But nothing could well prepare one for a first view of Gloom Cottage. Its location in a hollow which had gradually filled itself up with trees and some kind of prickly brush, its deeply stained walls, once picturesque enough in their grouping but too deeply hidden now amid rotting boughs to produce any other effect than that of shrouded desolation, the sough of these same boughs as they rapped a devil’s tattoo against each other and the absence of even the rising column of smoke which bespeaks domestic life wherever seen – all gave to one who remembered the cognomen Cottage and forgot the pre-cognomen of Gloom a sense of buried life as sepulchral as that which emanates from the mouth of some freshly opened tomb.

  But these impressions, natural enough to my youth, were necessarily transient and soon gave way to others more business-like. Perceiving the curve of an arch rising above the undergrowth still blocking my approach, I pushed my way resolutely through and presently found myself stumbling upon the steps of an unexpectedly spacious domicile, built not of wood, as its name of Cottage had led me to expect, but of carefully cut stone which, while showing every mark of time, proclaimed itself one of those early, carefully erected Colonial residences which it takes more than a century to destroy or even to wear to the point of dilapidation.

  Somewhat encouraged, though failing to detect any signs of active life in the heavily shuttered windows frowning upon me from either side, I ran up the steps and rang the bell, which pulled as hard as if no hand had touched it in years.

  Then I waited.

  But not to ring again, for, just as my hand was approaching the bell a second time, the door fell back and I beheld in the black gap before me the oldest man I had ever come upon in my whole life. He was so old I was astonished when his drawn lips opened and he asked if I was the lawyer from New York. I would as soon have expected a mummy to wag its tongue and utter English, he looked so thin and dried and removed from this life and all worldly concerns.

  But when I had answered his question and he had turned to marshal me down the hall towards a door I could dimly see standing open in the twilight of an absolutely sunless interior I noticed that his step was not without some vigour, despite the feeble bend of his withered body and the incessant swaying of his head, which seemed to be continually saying No!

  ‘I will prepare madam,’ he admonished me after drawing a ponderous curtain two inches or less aside from one of the windows. ‘She is very ill, but she will see you.’

  The tone was senile, but it was the senility of an educated man, and as the cultivated accents wavered forth my mind changed in regard to the position he held in the house. Interested anew, I sought to give him another look, but he had already vanished through the doorway, and so noiselessly it was more like a shadow’s flitting than a man’s withdrawal.

  The darkness in which I sat was absolute, but gradually, as I continued to look about me, the spaces lightened and certain details came out, which to my astonishment were of a character to show that the plain if substantial exterior of this house with its choked-up approaches and weedy gardens was no sample of what was to be found inside. Though the walls surrounding me were dismal because unlighted, they betrayed a splendour unusual in any country house. The frescoes and paintings were of an ancient order, dating from days when life and not death reigned in this isolated dwelling, but in them high art reigned supreme, an art so high and so finished that only great wealth combined with the most cultivated taste could have produced such effects.

  I was still absorbed in the wonder of it all when the quiet voice of the old gentleman who had let me in reached me again from the doorway, and I heard, ‘Madam is ready for you. May I trouble you to accompany me to her room.’

  I rose with alacrity. I was anxious to see madam, if only to satisfy myself that she was as interesting as the house in which she was self-immured.

  I found her a great deal more so. But, before I enter upon our interview, let me mention a
fact which had attracted my attention in my passage to her room. During his absence my guide evidently had pulled aside other curtains than those of the room in which he had left me. The hall, no longer a tunnel of darkness, gave me a glimpse as we went by of various secluded corners, and it seemed as if everywhere I looked I saw – a clock. I counted four before I reached the staircase, all standing on the floor and all of ancient make, though differing much in appearance and value. A fifth one rose grim and tall at the stair foot, and under an impulse I have never understood I stopped when I reached it to note the time. But it had paused in its task and faced me with motionless hands and silent works – a fact which somehow startled me, perhaps because just then I encountered the old man’s eye watching me with an expression as challenging as it was unintelligible.

  I had expected to see a woman in bed. I saw instead, a woman sitting up. You felt her influence the moment you entered her presence. She was not young, she was not beautiful – never had been, I should judge – she had not even the usual marks about her of an ultra-strong personality; but that her will was law, had always been and would continue to be law so long as she lived, was patent to any eye at the first glance. She exacted obedience consciously and unconsciously, and she exacted it with charm. Some few people in the world possess this power. They frown, and the opposing will weakens; they smile, and all hearts succumb. I was hers from the moment I crossed the threshold until … But I will relate the happenings of that instant when it comes.

  She was alone, or so I thought, when I made my first bow to her stern but not unpleasing presence. Seated in a great chair, with a silver tray before her containing such little matters as she stood in hourly need of, she confronted me with a piercing gaze startling to behold in eyes so colourless. Then she smiled, and in obedience to that smile I seated myself in a chair placed very near her own. Was she too paralysed to express herself clearly? I waited in some anxiety until she spoke, when this fear vanished. Her voice betrayed the character her features failed to express. It was firm, resonant and instinct with command. Not loud but penetrating and of a quality which made one listen with his heart as well as with his ears. What she said is immaterial. I was there for a certain purpose, and we entered immediately upon the business of that purpose. She talked, and I listened, mostly without comment. Only once did I interrupt her with a suggestion, and, as this led to definite results, I will proceed to relate the occurrence in full.