For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.
That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late, in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the meeting.
“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe disapprovingly.
“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the sidewalk. I got in and had a little chat with her, and then” – with a fine air of unconcern – “she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’”
“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr Maggerley thoughtfully, “very singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of seclusion in one of our religious houses.”
“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your wedding eve.”
Mr Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he evolved a sermon from the incident – a sermon which could not fail to gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.
“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a
low voice.
“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister Agatha.”
This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was impossible that he should remember their names.
He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler, and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.
“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”
“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”
A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to bed.
The marriage of Mr Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St Giles was crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. Today represented to him the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature of Four Square Jane. The letter read:
You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. Today, by sacrificing the happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.
“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again, and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.
Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.
“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.
He opened it and gasped.
“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the neighbouring pews could hear.
Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.
As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.
And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed – “Marriage Licence of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”
“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.
“This licence,” began the clergyman.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special licence – there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
Mr Maggerley could not answer immediately.
“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet – ”
“And yet what?” wailed Mrs Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heaven’s sake, what has happened?”
For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.
“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the licensce were the four familiar squares.
“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”
Mr Maggerley shook his head.
“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered
Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who
had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.
So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!
5
Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character.
The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them.
“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole timing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.”
“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated.
“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”
The detective nodded.
“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.
“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estat
e, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees–”
“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.
“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”
“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the licence, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.”
“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.
“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another licence.”
Lord Claythorpe sniffed.
“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her – or rather, to send her – to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.”
“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name–”
“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?”
His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the usual manner – which was to abuse the police.
Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who had been in charge of the forgery case.
“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr Steele. But he was a quiet enough young fellow – a civil engineer, so far as my memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s companies.”
Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopaedia, not only upon the aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of respectability.
“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in the world of the idle rich?”
The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.
“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”
“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.
“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he said.
“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly. “Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”
The men’s eyes met.
“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective shrugged his shoulders.
“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his association with Four Square Jane.”
Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.
“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the impoverishment of Claythorpe?”
“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt, robbing the rich to keep the poor.”
The inspector smiled.
“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”
“There have been instances,” said Peter.
“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money – at any rate, when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”
“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.
“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”
Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St James’s Street. The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.
After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs which led to the little suite – it was more like a flat than an office and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by the side door – in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.
The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:
“What did the detective want your lordship for?”
“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.
“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.
Claythorpe nodded.
“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.
Another silence, and then Remington asked: “I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”
There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe
looked up.
“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made arrangements about–”
Remington nodded.
“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay in the vaults at the bank, don’t you think, especially in view of this girl’s activities?”
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by questioning any act of mine?”
Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.
“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely suggesting that–”
“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”
“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the accountant are bringing it.”
“Good!�
�� said Claythorpe, “tomorrow I will take it down to my country place.”
Remington was silent.
“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square Jane, too.”
“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”
“In a month,” said his lordship airily. “I suppose you’re thinking about your bonus.”
Remington licked his dry lips.
“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”
Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.
“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I promised you for your assistance?”
“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.
“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back that pearl necklace.”
“You mean the Venetian Armlet?” said the other quickly. “I didn’t know that you had the pearl necklace back?”
“Anyway, I advertised for it,” said his lordship evasively.
“Fixing no definite reward,” said Remington, “and for a very
good reason.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lord Claythorpe quickly.
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