IN point of fact the first real clue I secured in this case consisted of that hairpin I found on the floor of the lower cellar, though its bearing on the mystery was not at first apparent. But it introduced me to a new set of circumstances and took me a step or two on the road I wished to travel. Until then I had been wandering round and round in a circle. My first thought was that the hairpin belonged to Kitty Clevedon and that she had deliberately deceived me when she declared that she had not visited the cellar prior to conducting Thoyne and myself thither. My suspicion was that she had been there and that she had found and removed some traces of her brother—that she was, in fact, still playing a game of bluff; though I did not believe that this time Thoyne was in it. She was hoodwinking him as well as myself.
I set a watch on the cellar beneath the ruined wing, making myself a hiding-place by clearing out some of the furniture in one corner and restacking it so as to leave a narrow passage in which I could conceal myself if I wished. And I set little traps of a very simple description, but sufficient to show me on my next visit that somebody had been there in my absence and had penetrated to the lower chamber by way of the swinging flagstone; but I was more than astonished when during one of my periods, behind my little rampart, I discovered that the visitor was not Kitty Clevedon at all, but—Nora Lepley.
In all my imaginings my thoughts had never once turned to her. She came in without faltering or hesitation, as one who knew her way intimately, and swung open the trap-door, which she propped up by means of a board. Then, taking the short ladder which I have already mentioned, and which I knew by means of my little arrangements had been used during my absence, she let it down, and by it descended to the lower cellar.
As soon as her head had disappeared I crept to the opening on hands and knees and saw her lift out a rough block of stone which concealed a small opening not unlike a natural cupboard. Then she took a small flash-lamp from the pocket of her big apron and sent a beam of light into the hollow place, but situated as I was I could not see whether she put anything in or took something out. For a minute or two she stood pondering almost as if she were trying to make up her mind on some doubtful point, then with a quick sigh she replaced the lamp in her pocket and restored the stone.
I flitted back swiftly and noiselessly to my own corner whence I watched her return from the lower depths, close down the stone and lay the ladder along the wall, all with sedate, unhurried movements, as one who had no reason to fear interruption. When she was quite safely away, and I followed her to make sure, I went in my turn into the lower cellar to investigate that little cupboard. It was evidently her own private safe, containing all sorts of oddments a young girl might hide away when she found too many prying eyes at home—a bundle of letters, an envelope containing £20 in Treasury notes, some oddments of jewellery and so on.
But what most attracted my attention, because they were in such curious contrast with the rest of the collection, were a drinking-glass and a small phial wrapped in white paper. I picked the latter up and noticed a number of figures lightly pencilled on the wrapper arranged in double column thus:
|
3.17 |
|
|
11.21 |
4.28 |
|
12.18 |
5.19 |
|
1.34 |
6.37 |
What they could mean I could not imagine, nor did I worry very long about them. I removed the wrapper, to find inside a small phial labelled “Pemberton’s Drops,” which were described as “a safe remedy for headache, sleeplessness, and all nerve troubles.” The dose was forty drops to be taken in water or other liquid. I turned the bottle over and saw a circular, red label, not much larger than a sixpence, on which was printed in small, white letters “Grainger, Midlington”—obviously the chemist from whom Nora Lepley had purchased her sleeping drug. I could well understand that she did not want her friends to know that she took an hypnotic composition of this character.
Almost without knowing what I was doing I removed the cork, and then with a sudden jerk realised what it was I had stumbled upon. I smelt the unmistakable odour of bitter almonds. Whatever the phial had contained when Grainger of Midlington sold it to Nora Lepley, it was nearly full now of a strong solution of hydrocyanic acid. I took up the glass, but it was perfectly dry and odourless, despite which I had no doubt that it had been the vehicle by which Sir Philip Clevedon had taken the poison.
The real art and science of the detective lies in building up one fact upon another until the edifice begins to assume intelligible shape. I am far from saying that a Sherlock Holmes is impossible. On the contrary, I have met people possessed as he was of a sense of intuition almost as keen and certain as seeing and hearing in ordinary men. But they are few. The average detective, though he may indulge in theories, depends really on facts and is wise not to wander very far from them. And he will find, if he is sufficiently practised and astute, that facts breed facts, and that a clue, even if it does not lead to the required solution, does often produce other clues that continue the chain unbroken. A “clue” that leads nowhere never was anything but a false clue from the beginning. And a detective is largely dependent upon what ordinary folk describe as luck or chance. His skill consists in making use of chance and in missing nothing that luck brings him.
The police have, in addition to the natural astuteness of individuals, the assistance of a singularly complete and effective organisation that enables them to push their inquiries far and wide and, when they have settled on their man, to weave round him a net from which escape is all but impossible. By telegraph and telephone, the police of the whole country can be put on the alert, descriptions can be circulated in a few minutes, information conveyed and facts gathered until the story is complete. The English police work under some difficulty since the methods of questioning and even bullying that are legal in France and are frequently permitted in America are rigidly forbidden here. English law really does try to live up to the theory that a man is innocent until he is proved guilty and that he must not be trapped into any unwary admission. I do not mean to say that the English police invariably abide by the strict letter of the law or always observe it in spirit. There are occasions when it is worth while to take risks. But, generally speaking, the law as it is and as it is administered aids the criminal and hampers the police, despite which, however, the latter are wonderfully successful.
Still, I can hear someone saying, many crimes go unpunished, many criminals remain undiscovered. True, but one has to remember that many criminals are known against whom there is no clear proof. The conviction of a wrong-doer is a matter of evidence not of belief. I am acquainted with two persons, one a man very well known in business circles, the other a lady of great charm and important position, who, I am quite sure, are murderers. The police are equally aware of the fact. But so skilfully have the criminals covered every trace that anything like proof would be wholly impossible.
And, again, it must not be forgotten that the criminal may be a person of first-class education, alert mentally, intrepid, with money, position and influence to aid him, and that he not only prepared the ground before the crime without hindrance or suspicion but was able to use his skill and resource in confusing the pursuit after it. A burglar, jewel thief, or the like, may be a person of the Bill Sikes variety, but he is quite as likely to be a University man with a profession and income and a wide circle of friends.
When brains are pitted against brains it is a straight fight and the best brains win quite irrespective of right or morality. The pursuit’s most valuable and useful asset lies in the fact that most criminals sooner or later make mistakes, and crime as a rule leaves no margin for error. The alert detective misses nothing of that sort and loses no opportunity his opponent may concede to him. But when all is said, facts remain the detective’s chief stock-in-trade, and it is the connected chain of established facts that eventually leads him to the solution required and the person wanted.
So far, for example, in this Clevedon case I had been groping in the dark, hanging grimly on to the few facts I had; and my blunderings and stumblings had led me to that little phial of poison in Nora Lepley’s secret hiding-place. I could not see yet the full bearing of that discovery, but it was a new fact which I had reached simply by following my nose.
Of course, I made a special journey into Midlington to look up Grainger, the chemist, who, I learnt, had been in business in the city about thirty-five years, was widely known, and very highly respected. I made a small purchase, and noticed that there were several bottles of Pemberton’s Drops in the large glass case that was full of various proprietary medicines.
“Is that stuff any use for sleeplessness?” I asked, pointing to one of the bottles.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It seems fairly popular but I have never tried it.”
“Is it dangerous to take?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he replied, “though personally I should say that all hypnotic drugs are better left alone. The preparation is a secret. I do notice that people who take them come back for them, which seems to suggest that they are effective.”
I went straight to Peakborough and interviewed Mr. Pepster.
“I’ve something I want you to do,” I said to him.
“Good! Is it important?”
“I think so. I fancy things are beginning to move.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he retorted grimly. “As for me, I’m absolutely fed up. The case is getting on my nerves. But what is it?”
“I want to know all there is to be known about Nora Lepley.”
“Yes?”
“And about Grainger, a Midlington chemist.”
“But what connection is there—?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to know. Probably there is none. But I have traced prussic acid to Nora Lepley—”
“Gad!”
“And in a bottle that came from Grainger’s shop.”
“Good Lord!”
“Yes, it’s a queer development, isn’t it?”
“But—”
“I know absolutely nothing more than I have told you.”
Pepster nodded thoughtfully, then touched a bell.
“What is the next train for Midlington?” he asked of the police clerk who answered his summons.