THE NINTH HOUR
Silently, and with his accustomed efficiency, Thomson moved about the boudoir rearranging some of the furniture. In the centre he placed the largest of the beautiful ormolu tables, set round it several of the gilt Louis-Seize chairs, leaving a clear space at the side that faced Lady Rawson’s portrait; and finally put pens, ink, and paper before each chair. That done he made up the fire, looked round the room as if to assure himself that all was in order, and departed, going first to his own room. There he unlocked a drawer, took out an old cigar-box, glanced at the contents, and, with the box under his arm, went through to his master’s bedroom.
Sir Robert was in bed and sound asleep. He had become restless and feverish after the departure of Grace Carling and Austin Starr, and Thomson had taken upon himself to ring up the doctor, who came round at once, ordered the patient to bed, and administered an opiate, which took effect immediately.
Thomson stood for a minute or so looking at his master’s face, stern even in sleep, then slightly opened the outer door so that he could hear anyone ascending the staircase, and seated himself near, where he could still watch the invalid.
Presently he heard the sounds for which he listened—a knock and ring at the front door, soft footsteps outside, and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. He did not move, but still waited and listened.
Jenkins, the butler, acting on the very explicit instructions he had received, took the visitor up to the boudoir. He was none other than the Home Secretary, Gerald Lorimer—a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man, with alert, clean-cut face.
He glanced round the room with an air of surprise, sniffed disapproval of the heavy perfume-laden atmosphere, and asked quickly:
“Where is Sir Robert?”
“In bed, sir; he has unfortunately been taken worse. Will you take a seat, sir; the other gentlemen will be here directly.”
“Other? Why, who is coming?”
“Lord Warrington, for one, sir; and, if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear his lordship arriving.”
Lord Warrington it was who entered next, and the two greeted each other with mutual amazement.
“What’s up now, Warrington? I hear Sir Robert’s ill.”
“So I hear; but he rang me up, or, rather, that invaluable factotum of his did so, and said Sir Robert begged me to come here at nine to-night on a most urgent matter, so I came of course.”
“Same here—precisely the same message. Looks as if it were to be a sort of board meeting. Is it about Carling? Poor chap! Personally, I wish it had been possible to save him, but that’s impossible, in the face of the evidence, and that verdict.”
“I suppose so,” Lord Warrington assented gravely. “It’s an awful tragedy—a brilliant youngster like that! And you know, Lorimer, if ever homicide was justifiable, that was—from our point of view. He ought to have been rewarded rather than punished! For if she”—he frowned up at the portrait—“had passed on those papers—whew!—Rawson himself never actually saw them, doesn’t know their contents to this day. If he did he’d think as I do, even though his own wife was the victim—as she was the thief, confound her! I say, this room’s pretty weird, what? Damn those flowers, they smell like death!”
“Here’s Cummings-Browne. So it is about Carling,” said Lorimer, and stalked towards the new-comer, his old friend since the days when they were both briefless barristers sharing chambers in the Temple. “Look here, old man, if you arranged this conference, or whatever it is, in the hope of getting a reprieve for Carling, you must know as well as I do that it’s absolutely useless.”
“I know nothing about any conference, and never expected to meet you here, Lorimer, or you, Lord Warrington. I had an urgent message from Rawson.”
“As we did; but why on earth he sent for us we can’t imagine, unless there is something fresh about Carling.”
“I hope there may be. If he’s hanged to-morrow you’ll be responsible for a frightful miscarriage of justice, Lorimer!” said Cummings-Browne.
“Oh, come now! You put up a magnificent fight for him at the trial and since, but you don’t—you can’t—personally believe he is innocent?”
“You are wrong for once. I am absolutely convinced in my own mind that he is innocent—was convinced almost from the first. It’s the most difficult, the most baffling case I’ve ever had!”
Lorimer looked at him perplexedly, but made no further comment, for Jenkins announced, “Mr. Austin Starr and Mr. Snell,” and the two entered. They had arrived together, and exchanged murmured questions as they came up.
Cummings-Browne greeted Austin, Lorimer nodded to Snell with the question:
“Anything fresh, Mr. Snell?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“But what are we all supposed to be here for?” Lord Warrington demanded.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. If you and the other gentlemen will kindly be seated I will explain,” said a quiet voice.
Lord Warrington turned sharply, so did the others, and stared at Thomson, who had entered silently, through the inner doors that led to the Chinese Room. He was carrying the cigar-box carefully in both hands, and looked pale, but otherwise self-possessed as usual.
“What is the meaning of all this? Why has Sir Robert sent for us?” asked Warrington imperatively.
“If you and the gentlemen will be seated, my lord, I will explain at once,” Thomson repeated, advancing to the table and depositing the box on it. There was something so curiously compelling in his formal, respectful manner that they actually complied—Lord Warrington taking the head of the table, the Home Secretary facing him, Cummings-Browne opposite Thomson. Snell slipped round and took the chair beside Thomson, on his right hand, and, sitting sideways, watched him closely. Austin was on his left.
Thomson stood erect, looking down at the cigar-box, on which his right hand rested lightly. They all looked at him expectantly, a scrutiny which he seemed to disregard entirely.
“It was I who took the liberty in my master’s name of asking you, my lord, and the other gentlemen to come here to-night,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word before he spoke. “And when you have heard my explanation you will know that the matter was urgent—a matter of life and death; and also the importance that what I have to say should be written down. The materials are before you.
“It was I who killed my lady!”
If a bomb had exploded in their midst it could scarcely have created a greater mental sensation than those seven quietly uttered words. There was a low-voiced chorus of exclamation from his astounded listeners, which he heard unmoved, never raising his eyes from the cigar-box: then Cummings-Browne’s stern voice,
“Go on. Tell us everything.”
Thomson looked up then, met Cummings-Browne’s eyes full and steadily, and thenceforth addressed himself to him direct.
“I will, sir—from the beginning. On that morning when the papers were missing from Sir Robert’s safe I was awake very early—I often am. At that time I slept in the basement: it is only since that date and Sir Robert’s illness that I have occupied a room on this floor. I thought I heard a sound in the library just above. Later I had reason to believe it was the sliding of the panel that concealed the safe——”
“What time was this?”
“Just after five, sir. I had heard the clock strike. I went out and along to the foot of the stairs in the dark and then saw there was a light in the hall. Thinking there might be burglars, I felt in a stand that is there in the lower hall, took a thick stick, and went softly up the stairs. Just as I got to the top I saw my lady, in a green dressing-robe, pass up the stairs, and a moment later the light went out—there is a control switch on the first floor. I went back to bed, thinking my lady had been down for a book.
“It was not till the middle of the morning, nearly noon, that Sir Robert sent for me to the library and told me some papers were missing. Mr. Carling was there and they were both very upset—very upset indeed.”
“Did you tell Sir Robert what you had seen?”
“No, sir. I realize now that I ought to have done so, but at the moment I didn’t like to. Sir Robert told me not to say anything to anyone, and I did not. I went down and thought it over. I felt sure in my mind that my lady had the papers, whatever they were. I knew she was out—she had gone out about ten o’clock—so was her maid, Mam’selle Périer, who had been given the day out. I wondered if my lady had gone to Rivercourt Mansions.”
“How do you know she was in the habit of going there?”
“I had known it a long time, sir. I discovered the address almost by chance, from a letter.”
“Blotting paper?” asked Cummings-Browne dryly.
“Well, yes, sir. My lady was careless once or twice that way, though it was only the address I could make out. I believe she was always very careful to post those private letters herself.”
“And you had tracked her to the place?”
“Yes, sir, a good many times—usually at night. I nearly always knew when she was going; it would be on Mam’selle Périer’s evening out, or when my lady sent her to a theatre, as she often did.”
“Well, go on.”
“I found out quite a lot one way and another about Mr. Melikoff and the Russians who used to go there, and the old Italian gentleman. It wasn’t my business, of course, and I don’t quite know why I did it, for I had no real grudge against my lady, except that I knew how my master doted on her, so to speak, and I felt she was not doing the right thing by him.
“And now I made up my mind all in a moment to go there and see if I could find out anything. I didn’t ask Sir Robert. I thought I would risk him missing me, as I’d often done before, and it wasn’t necessary for me to tell Mr. Jenkins or anyone else. I took the train, and just got to the corner of the square when, sure enough, I saw my lady herself cross the road to go into that post office. I knew it quite well, having been in and out several times when I’d happened to be in the neighbourhood.
“I followed her sharp, and peeped in. My lady was standing at the counter, and there was no one else in the shop but the person behind it, who had her back turned getting a telephone call. I went straight through—neither of them saw or heard me—passed the telephone-booth and turned to the right by the foot of some stairs and the side door. There was another door farther on half open, leading into a scullery.”
Cummings-Browne nodded. He knew—so did Snell—how accurate the description was to the last detail.
“I don’t quite know what I meant to do. I think it was to snatch her bag as she went into the booth and make a run for it. But—I had this in my pocket.”
He opened the cigar-box, took out an article that looked like the haft of a small dagger, of some dull metal elaborately chased, and held it up to view. There was a click, and out of the haft sprang a slender, vicious-looking little blade, some four inches long. Snell involuntarily put out his hand as if to seize Thomson’s arm, but the latter, having exhibited the weapon, pressed the spring again, causing the blade to disappear, and laid the thing on the table.
“I bought it off a sailor years ago in Constantinople, when I was there with my master, and he used to go about so reckless by himself in places that weren’t safe for an English gentleman that often I followed him, with this as a sort of protection, but I never had to use it—never did use it but the once!
“I don’t know what came over me all in a moment. When my lady had gone into the telephone-booth I found I’d got the dagger in my hand. I opened the door, struck at her, and snatched the bag that was resting on the little sloping shelf under the instrument. She only made a little gurgling sound and dropped forward. I shut the door on her and went through to the scullery and pushed to the door. The whole thing couldn’t have taken half a minute, and I was just in time, for I heard someone come along to the stairs and call ‘Jessie!’ There was a wet rag on the scullery table—the place didn’t seem to be used much for anything but rubbish: there was a heap of waste paper and boxes in the corner. While I waited I wiped my glove on the rag and took it off; here they both are. I’ve never cleaned them.”
He took a neatly folded pair of tan gloves out of the cigar-box and laid them on the table.
“I opened the bag, found the big envelope addressed to Sir Robert just as Mr. Carling had said, and knew the papers must be inside, but didn’t try to look at them. I also found this key and this little box, and put them in my pocket.”
He took out a Yale latchkey and a small ornate powder box of gold set with jewels, and placed these beside the other articles.
“I saw through the window a taxicab standing before the side door. There was no one at all in sight, so I listened for a minute—by the sound there were several people in the shop—then went out at the side door, put the bag through the cab window, walked away, slipping the envelope into the post box at the corner. Then I walked to the station, got a train at once—I had taken a return ticket—and was back here soon after two. I had only been away just over an hour, and so far as I know I had never been missed.
“I found my dinner on a tray in my room—I have always had my meals in my own room—and I sat down and ate it.”
“Ate his dinner! Good heavens!” muttered Lord Warrington. The others were silent, Austin Starr, an expert stenographer, was taking down the confession verbatim; the Home Secretary and Cummings-Browne making occasional notes; Snell maintained his ceaseless vigilance.
“I had just finished when Sir Robert’s bell rang for me. I went up to the library and found him and Mr. Snell there. Sir Robert again questioned me about the papers, and while he was speaking the news came by telephone that my lady had been murdered, and my master fell down in a fit.
“That’s about all it’s necessary to tell, I think, though if I might be permitted to say a few words more—about this key, and something else——”
“Go on; say all you have to say,” Cummings-Browne responded.
“Thank you, sir. I knew this key wasn’t one of ours—of this house—and I thought it just possible it might be the key to Mr. Melikoff’s flat. I knew, too, that my lady had written him a lot of letters first and last, and that if they should ever be found they might raise a scandal that would add to Sir Robert’s trouble, and I made up my mind to try and get hold of these. It was some time before I got the opportunity—it was a risky thing to do, of course. But the day that Mr. Carling was committed for trial I managed it. I knew the whole household was in the police court—I saw them there when I was in the witness-box in the morning—and in the late afternoon I went to the flat, and sure enough the key fitted. I had a look round just to take my bearings, found Mr. Melikoff’s room—there was a photo of my lady on his writing-table—and found the letters in a drawer of it. I was just about to go when they all came back; I’d run it a bit too close! I slipped into a room opposite Mr. Melikoff’s—a bare room, that looked like a schoolroom with very little in it except a piano and music-stands—and bolted the door. I thought, and so it turned out, that it wouldn’t be used at night. Hours and hours I waited there in the dark and cold before it seemed safe to try and get out.
“At last I ventured, and when I got into the hall, where the light was on, I saw the drawing-room door was ajar; there was a curtain inside, so I couldn’t see in.”
“But the door had been closed!” ejaculated Austin Starr.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Starr, I assure you it was open then, just an inch or two, and I heard voices inside—your voice, sir, and a lady’s, and you were talking about Lady Rawson. Dangerous as it was I couldn’t help listening for a minute; then I turned off the hall light and slipped off, closing the front door quietly with the key, and got away all right. Here are the letters.
“One word more, my lord and gentlemen. It was a terrible shock to me when Mr. Carling was accused, and I never believed they’d find him guilty, and right up to to-day I hoped he would be reprieved, so that it mightn’t be necessary for me to own up just yet. If my master had died I would have owned up at once; but I did hope I should be able to tend him as long as he needed me—and he needs me more now than he ever did before.”
For the first time his voice faltered, and he leaned with both hands on the table, as if for support. Snell half rose, but sat down again as Thomson recovered himself and resumed:
“It would be very kind if you could keep the truth from Sir Robert, for a bit anyhow—if you could tell him I’d been taken ill. And Mr. Carling will be safe—he’ll soon be released now, won’t he, sir?” He looked at the Home Secretary, and from him to Lord Warrington. “And you’ll excuse the liberty I took in sending for you all. I wouldn’t leave nothing to chance, so to speak. And now, Mr. Snell, I’m quite ready for you, and I’ll go quiet, of course, though I suppose you’ll want to put on the handcuffs, if you’ve got them with you?”
They all rose, and Thomson, respectful to the last, stepped back and stood, with Snell close beside him, as if the buzz of low-toned, agitated conversation among the others did not concern him in the least.
Austin Starr unceremoniously clutched Lorimer’s arm.
“Say, Mr. Home Secretary, this does it! Roger Carling’s saved? You’ll put the order for his release through right now?”
“It will have to be ‘the King’s pardon,’ of course, and it will be put through at the earliest possible moment. Thank God that—that extraordinary old villain confessed to-night!”
“When will Roger be home?”
“That I cannot say at the moment—possibly to-morrow.”
“I may ’phone right now to his poor young wife?”
“Assuredly; and I will telephone to her myself later.”
Austin glanced round the room. A telephone was there, but concealed under a tall Sèvres china doll gorgeously arrayed in Louis-Seize court costume, and he couldn’t see it. Downstairs he dashed, and seized the instrument in the hall.
“Victoria ten-four-double-three, quick please! That you, Grace? Austin speaking. Oh, my dear girl, it’s all right! Roger’s saved—cleared! He’ll be home as soon as ever the Home Secretary can fix it. Old Thomson’s confessed everything right now. It was he who murdered Lady Rawson!”