Afternoon Tea Mysteries Vol Three

by Anthology

  “I hoped for other results when I entered upon my long and painful story,” he remarked. “Certainly you have found me able to account for much that has seemed anomalous in my relations to my father and the attitude I have been compelled to preserve towards society. I am surprised that anyone should continue to regard me as having had anything to do with my father’s unhappy death. May I ask what special evidence you imagine yourselves to have against me? I may be able to refute it with a word.”

  This was more than Mr. Gryce could grant, and he said so, though with less imperturbability of manner than usual. “I am under orders to bring you into the presence of the District Attorney,” he explained, “who will use his own discretion in the matter of having you detained. Will you accompany me quietly, leaving the care of your wife to Mr. Outhwaite, who, I am sure, will follow your wishes in the choice of such assistants as he may think necessary to employ?”

  The look he received in return was eloquent in its appeal, but Mr. Gryce knew no relenting where his duty was concerned, and, recognising this, Mr. Gillespie took a fresh resolve and boldly said:

  “You have discovered that I carried a bottle of prussic acid into my father’s house the day before he died. Shall I tell you where I procured it? From the hand of her who lies here. I found it tied about her neck, when, after months of fruitless search, I was led to investigate Mother Merry’s lodging-house. She was asleep when I discovered it; asleep in a way I always found it impossible to break, and the shock of finding her in quiet possession of what I instinctively knew to be poison maddened me to such an extent that I tore the phial away from her and put in its place a roll of bank-notes. These were probably stolen from her, as no proof remains of her having used them; but the bottle I carried away, having impulsively thrust it into my trousers-pocket at the first intimation I received of a raid being made upon the place by the police.”

  The explanation was so natural, and the manner in which it was made so convincing, that the detective’s look and mine crossed, and I became assured that he as well as myself was beginning to give credence to this man.

  “I can give no information of the use which was made of this drug after its introduction into my father’s home, nor can I designate the hand which took it from my bureau where I placed it on emptying my pockets. My connection with it ended at the moment I speak of. I did not even think of it again till I came in from the meeting where I had vainly sought distraction, and found my father lying low and heard the cry of poison raised in the house.”

  “This would have been a welcome explanation at the time,” commented Mr. Gryce. “Your delay has compromised you.”

  “So be it,” was the short but proud reply which came from this singular man. “When you reflect that by the time I was able to satisfy myself that this bottle was missing from the place where I had left it, any attempt to exonerate myself would have been a virtual accusation of one of my two brothers, you will realise why I hesitated to speak then, and only bring myself to speak now under the compelling force of an interest greater than family pride or affection. In my desire to share the last offices which can be paid to my wife, I possibly show myself for the second time a coward.”

  Did he? Mr. Gryce did not seem to think so. The forehead of this aged detective was clearing fast, and he actually looked younger by ten years than when he entered this house. Yet his exactions remained the same, and Mr. Gillespie prepared to accommodate himself to them.

  Meanwhile the incessant hammering of the rain on the roof had become less noticeable, and the drip, drip, on the sill without, less wearily persistent. There seemed, too, a diminution in the turbulence of the wind; the doors and windows did not rattle so loudly, and the worst noises in the yards below had ceased. Anxious to see if the storm was abating, I raised the window and looked out. Rushing clouds with great torn edges met my eye, and, below, a chaos of towering walls surrounding an abyss in which the imagination could picture nothing save a collection of foul yards and reeking alleys. Recoiling from a prospect which the condition of my mind and heart made more than usually gloomy, I turned back from the possible tragedies hidden behind those great walls to the actual one in which I had myself been forced to take so ungracious apart. Mr. Gillespie was waiting to speak to me.

  “I am allowed to give you the names of such people as can best assist you in the removal of my wife,” he remarked. “Here they are, together with the address in New Jersey where I wish her ultimately carried. Mr. Gryce will give you what further information you need—”

  He placed a paper in my hand with a word of quiet thanks, to which I responded in the manner I felt would be most pleasing to Hope. Then he cast a glance at the detective.

  “I have promised Mr. Gillespie the privilege of passing a moment in this room unseen and alone,” observed that official, stepping towards the door.

  I bowed and withdrew, shutting Mr. Gillespie in and ourselves out. Instantly all the noises in the house crowded clamorously to our ears. Laughter, singing, brawling, the screaming of children and the scolding of their distracted mothers, made a sort of pandemonium, which little harmonised with the mood induced by the pathetic story we had just heard. But it was not for us to be particular at such a moment, and I was glad that I had given no sign of my inward disturbance, when Mr. Gryce suddenly remarked:

  “I am getting old.” (His alert eye and attentive ear turned towards the room we had just left did not seem to indicate it.) “I find that such scenes make a deeper impression upon me than formerly. I no longer dwell on the skill it takes to bring them about, but rather muse upon the mistakes and woes of poor humanity which make them possible.”

  I wished to ask him what he thought of Mr. Gillespie’s prospects, but he gave me no encouragement to do so, and we remained silent till the door reopened and Mr. Gillespie came out.

  “I am ready now,” he quietly informed us. “Mr. Outhwaite, I can trust you; and if Hope—” He stopped and looked the entreaty he dared not utter.

  I will tell her the whole story just as it has fallen from your lips. You wish me to?”

  He signified his assent, but still looked wistful.

  “When she has heard the true cause of the division which has taken place between you and other members of your family, she will act as her own kind heart will prompt her,” I added.

  He would have pressed my hand, but remembering his position as a prisoner, refrained.

  “Let us go,” he now said, in natural recoil from the noises which just then burst in renewed outcry from every quarter of the house.

  Mr. Gryce gave a faint whistle. It was answered in the same guarded manner from below. At which the old detective turned to me with a few final directions, after which, with a promise to leave me well guarded, he made a gesture which Mr. Gillespie could not fail to understand. They began to descend. When Mr. Gillespie was half-way down, he gave one backward look at the door swaying between him and what he had loved best on earth; then he passed on, and I was left standing on that dingy landing, alone.

  There was some clamour and no little jeering in the rooms below as the detectives passed through them with their well-dressed prisoner; but these tokens of class animosity speedily weakened to a sullen growl, amidst which I thought I heard the rattling of departing wheels.

  With a heart as heavy as the silence which now filled the house, I turned and went back into that room.

  It was filled with moonlight. The candle from which the winding-sheet had long ago melted and run upon the table, had flickered out, but its fitful flame was not missed. The clouds which had seemed so impenetrable a short time before, had thinned out and parted till they flecked, rather than covered, the white disk of the moon, now revealed for the first time in days.

  That storm and that clearing have never left my memory. As the last lingering shred of cloud drifted away, leaving the face of the moon quite clear, I found courage to look once more towards the bed.

  There was a change there. She lay, not as before, with her
features quite concealed, but with her face exposed save where the loose curls had forced their way across her cheeks and forehead. The coverlet, drawn close under her chin, hung smooth and decent to the floor, and across it lay stretched one white arm, upon the hand of which shone the wedding-ring which Leighton Gillespie had taken from her neck and placed there.

  XXX. An Unexpected Ally

  THAT night was a busy one for me; nevertheless I found time to send a message to Hope, in which I begged her to read no papers till she saw me, and, if possible, to keep herself in her own room. To these hurried words I added the comforting assurance that the news I had to bring her would repay her for this display of self-control, and that I would not keep her waiting any longer than was necessary. But it was fully ten o’clock before I was able to keep this promise, and I found her looking pale and worn.

  “I have obeyed you,” she said, with an attempt at smiling as pitiful as it was ineffectual. “What has happened? Why did you not want me to see the papers or talk with Mrs. Penrhyn?”

  “Because I wished to be the first to tell you the secret of Leighton Gillespie’s life. It was not what was suggested to you by the discrepancies you observed between his character and life. He is sane as any man, but—” it was hard to proceed, with those eyes of unspeakable longing looking straight into mine—“but he has had great sorrows to bear, great suspenses to endure, a deception to keep up, not altogether justifiable, perhaps, but yet one that was not without some excuse. His wife— Did you ever see his wife?”

  “No,” she faltered.

  “—Did not perish in that disaster of five years ago, as everyone supposed; and it was she—”

  “Oh!” came in a burst of sudden comprehension from Hope, as she sank down out of sight among the curtains by the window. But the next moment she was standing again, crying in low tones in which I caught a note of immeasurable relief, “I thank God! I thank God!” Then the sobs came.

  I noticed that, once she had taken in this fact of his personal rectitude, all fear left her as to the truth of the more serious charge against him. Even after I had explained to her how he came by the phial of poison, and how it was through his agency it came to be in his father’s house, no doubt came to mar her restored confidence in this her most cherished relative. She even admitted that, now this one unexplainable point in his character had been made clear to her, she felt ready to meet any accusations which might be raised against him. “Let them publish their suspicions!” she cried. “He can bear them and so can I; for now that he has been proven a true man, nothing else much matters. I may blush at hearing his name,—it will be years, I think, before I shall overcome that,—but it will be because I failed to see in his kindness to me the sympathetic interest of one whose heart has been made tender towards women by his wild longing after the wandering spirit whom he called his wife.”

  Then she asked where I had placed Mille-fleurs (a name so natural to Millicent Gillespie that no other was ever suggested by her friends); and, having been told where, said she would like to sit beside her until the time came to lay her in the garden of that little home from which all shadow was now cleared away save that of chastened sorrow.

  As this was what Leighton Gillespie secretly wished, I promised to accompany her to New Jersey, and then, taking this pure-hearted girl by the hand, I asked:

  “Have I performed my task well?”

  Her answer was—but that is my secret. Small reason as it gave me for personal hope, I yet went from that house with my heart lightened of its heaviest load.

  I did not read the papers myself that morning. I had little heart for a reporter’s version of what had so thrilled me coming from Leighton’s own lips. Merely satisfying myself that the latter was still in custody, I busied myself with what came up in my office, till the stroke of five released me to a free exercise of my own thoughts.

  How much nearer were we to the solution of this mystery than we had been the morning following Mr. Gillespie’s death? Not much; and while Hope and possibly myself felt that the band of suspicion had narrowed in its circle, and by the exclusion of Leighton, whom we could no longer look upon as guilty, left the question of culpability to be settled between the two remaining sons of the deceased stockbroker, to the world in general and to the readers of sensational journals which now flooded the city with accounts of the most sacred incidents of Leighton Gillespie’s past life he was still the man through whose agency the poison had entered the Gillespie house. Nor could we fail to see that the feeling called out by these tales of his domestic infelicities and the wild search in which most of his life had been passed had its reverse side for those people who read all stories of disinterested affection with doubt, and place no more faith in true religion than if the few bright spots made in the universal history of mankind by acts of unselfish devotion had no basis in fact, and were as imaginary as the dreams of poet or romancer.

  That Leighton Gillespie had not been released after his conference with the District Attorney was proof that his way was not as clear before him as I had hoped. Yet I was positive that Mr. Gryce as well as Sweetwater shared my belief in his innocence; and while this was a comfort to me, I found my mind much exercised by the doubt as to what the next turn of the kaleidoscope would call up in this ever-changing case.

  I had not seen Underhill in days, and I rather dreaded a chance meeting. He did not like Leighton, and would be the first to throw contempt upon any mercy being shown him on account of his faithful attachment to his disreputable wife. I seemed to hear the drawling query with which this favourite of the clubs would end any attempt I might make in this direction: “And so you think it probable that a man—a man, remember, with a child liable to flutter in and out of his room at all hours—would leave a phial of deadly poison on his dresser and never think of it again? Not much, old man. If he laid it down there, which I doubt, he took it up again. Don’t waste your sympathy on a cad.”

  Yet I did; and to such an extent that I took a walk instead of going home and hearing these imaginary sentences uttered in articulated words. I walked up Madison Avenue, and, coming upon a store which had a reputation for an extra fine brand of cigars, I went in to buy one.

  Have you ever greatly desired an event which your common sense told you was most unlikely to happen, and then suddenly seen it wrought out before you in the most unforeseen manner and by the most ordinary of means? From the first night of the tragedy with which these pages have been full, I had wished for an interview with the old butler, without witnesses, and as the result of a seeming chance. But I had never seen my way clear to this; and now, in this place and in this unexpected manner, I came upon him buying fruit at a grocer’s counter.

  I did not hesitate to approach him.

  “How do you do, Hewson?” said I, with a kindly tap on his shoulder.

  He turned slowly, gave me a look that was half an apology and half an appeal, then dropped his eyes.

  “How do you do, sir?” said he.

  “Been buying oranges for the family?” I went on. “Startling news, this! I mean the arrest of Mr. Gillespie’s second son. I never thought of him as the guilty one, did you?”

  The old butler did not break all up as I expected. He only shook his head, and, taking up the bundle which had just been handed him, remarked:

  “We little know what’s in the mind of the babies we dandle in our arms,” and went feebly out.

  I laid down a quarter, took a cigar from the case, forgot to light it, and sauntered into the street with it still in my hand. I felt thoroughly discouraged, and walked down the avenue in a sort of black mist formed of my own doubts and Hewson’s calm acceptance of the guilt attributed to Leighton. But suddenly I stopped, put the cigar in my pocket, and exclaimed in vehement contradiction of my own uneasy thoughts: “Leighton Gillespie is as guiltless of his father’s death as of other charges which have been made against him. I am ready to stake my own honour upon it,” and went immediately to my apartments, without stopping, as I us
ually did, at Underhill’s door.

  I found a young man waiting for me in the vestibule. He had evidently been standing there for some time, for he no sooner heard my step than he gave a bound forward with the eager cry:

  “It is I, sir,—Sweetwater.”

  He was a welcome visitor at that moment, and I was willing he should realise it.

  “Come in; come in,” I urged. “New developments, eh? Mr. Gillespie released, perhaps, or—”

  “No,” was his disappointing response as the door closed behind us and he sank into the chair I pushed forward. “Mr. Gillespie is still in detention and there are no new developments. But another day must not pass without them. I was witness to the sympathy you felt last night for the man who claimed the wretched being we saw before us for his wife; and, feeling a little soft-hearted towards him myself, I have come to ask you to lay your head with mine over this case in the hope that we two together may light upon some clue which will lead to his immediate enlargement. For I cannot believe him guilty; I just cannot. It was one of the others. But which one? I don’t mean to eat or sleep till I find out.”

  “And Mr. Gryce?”

  “He won’t bother. Last night was too much for him, and he has gone home. The field is clear, sir, quite clear; and I mean to profit by it. Leighton Gillespie shall be freed in time to attend his wife’s funeral or I will give up the detective business and go back to the carpenter’s bench and my dear old mother in Sutherlandtown.”

  XXXI. Sweetwater Has an Idea

  I WAS greatly interested. Taking out a box of cigars, I laid it before him on the table.

  “Be free with them,” said I. “If there is any help to be got out of smoke let us make use of it.”

  He eyed the cigars ruefully.

  “Too bad,” he murmured; “unfortunately, it does not work that way with me. Some people think better between whiffs, but smoking clouds my faculties, and I would be no friend to Mr. Gillespie if I took your cigars now. Free air and an undisturbed mind for Caleb Sweetwater when he settles down to work. Smoke yourself, sir; that won’t affect me; but draw the box to your side of the table and give me a rebuking look if my hand goes out to it before this subject is settled.”