IX
THE MYSTERY OF THE WHITE CARNATION
"I suppose that is a form of snobbishness," the Old Man in the Corner began abruptly.
I gave such a jump that I nearly upset the contents of a cup of boiling tea which I was conveying to my mouth. As it was, I scalded my tongue and nearly choked.
"What is?" I queried with a frown, for I was really vexed with the creature. I had no idea he was there at all. But he only smiled and concluded his speech, quite unperturbed.
"... that creates additional interest in a crime when it concerns people of wealth or rank."
"Snobbishness," I rejoined, "of course it's snobbishness! And when the little suburban madam has finished reading about Lady Stickinthemud's reception at Claridge's she likes to turn to Lord Tomnoodle's prospective sojourn in gaol."
"You were thinking of the disappearance of the Australian millionaire?" he asked blandly.
"I don't know that I was," I retorted.
"But of course you were. How could any journalist worthy of the name fail to be interested in that intricate case?"
"I suppose you have your theory—as usual?"
"It is not a theory," the creature replied, with that fatuous smile of his which always irritated me; "it is a certainty."
Then, as he became silent, absorbed in the contemplation of a wonderfully complicated knot in his beloved bit of string, I said with gracious condescension:
"You may talk about it, if you like."
He did like, fortunately for me, because, frankly, I could not see daylight in that maze of intrigue, adventure and possibly crime, which was described by the Press as "The Mystery of the White Carnation."
"The events were interesting from the outset," he began after a while, whilst I settled down to listen, "and so were various actors in the society drama. Chief amongst these was, of course, Captain Shillington, an Australian ex-officer, commonly reputed to be a millionaire, who, with his mother and sister, rented Mexfield House in Somerset Street, Mayfair, the summer before last. It appears that Lord Mexfield's younger son, the Honorable Henry Buckley, who was an incorrigible rake and whom his father had sent on a tour round the world in order to keep him temporarily out of mischief, not to say out of gaol, had met a married brother of Captain Shillington's out in the Antipodes, they had been very kind to him, and so on, with the result that when came the following London season the family turned up in England, and, after spending a couple of days at the Savoy, they moved into the Mexfields' house in Somerset Street.
"Lord and Lady Mexfield were abroad that year, and Henry Buckley and his sister Angela were living with an aunt who had a small house somewhere in Mayfair.
"Although the Shillingtons were reputed to be very wealthy, they appeared to be very quiet, simple folk, and it certainly seemed rather strange that they should have gone to the expense of a house in town, when obviously they had no social ambitions and did not mean to entertain. As a matter of fact, as far as Mrs. Shillington and her daughter were concerned, nobody could have lived a quieter, more retiring life than they did. Mrs. Shillington was an invalid and hardly ever went outside her front door, and the girl Marion seemed to be suffering from a perpetual cold in the head. They seemed to be in a chronic state of servant trouble. Mrs. Shillington was dreadfully irritable, and one set of servants after another were engaged only to leave without notice after a few days. The one faithful servant who remained was a snuffy old man who came to them about a month after they moved into Mexfield House. He and a charwoman did all the work of cooking and valeting and so on. Presumably the old man could not have got a situation elsewhere as his appearance was very unprepossessing, and therefore he was willing to put up with what the servants' registry offices would term 'a very uncomfortable situation.'
"Captain Shillington, the hero of the tragic adventure, on the other hand, went about quite a good deal. He was certainly voted to be rather strait-laced, not to say priggish, but he was very good-looking and a fine dancer. Henry Buckley introduced him to some of his smart friends and Lady Angela constituted him her dancing partner. The partnership soon developed into warmer friendship and presently it was given out that Lady Angela Buckley, only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Mexfield, was engaged to Captain Denver Shillington, the Australian millionaire. Lady Angela confided to her friends that her fiancé was the owner of immense estates in Western Australia, on a portion of which rich deposits of gold had lately been discovered. He certainly had plenty of money to spend, and on one occasion he actually paid Henry Buckley's gambling debts to the tune of two or three hundred pounds.
"On the whole, society pronounced the match a suitable one. Lady Angela Buckley was no longer in her first youth, whilst her brother, to whom she was really devoted, would be all the better for a somewhat puritanical, strait-laced and, above all, wealthy brother-in-law.”
"That, then, was the position," the Old Man in the Corner continued after a while, "and the date of Lady Angela Buckley's marriage to Captain Denver Shillington had been actually fixed when the public was startled one afternoon towards the end of the summer by the sensational news in all the evening papers: 'Mysterious disappearance of a millionaire.' This highly coloured description applied, as it turned out, to Captain Shillington, the fiancé of Lady Angela Buckley. It seems that during the course of that same morning a young lady, apparently in deep distress and suffering from a streaming cold in the head, had called at Scotland Yard. She gave her name and address as Marion Shillington, of Mexfield House, Somerset Street, Mayfair, and stated that she and her mother were in the greatest possible anxiety owing to the disappearance of her brother, Captain Denver Shillington. They had last seen him on the previous Friday evening at about nine o'clock when he left home in order to pick up his fiancée, Lady Angela Buckley, whom he was escorting that night to a reception in Grosvenor Square. He was wearing full evening dress and a soft hat. Miss Shillington couldn't say whether he had any money in his pockets. She thought that probably he was carrying a gold cigarette case, which Lady Angela had given him, but, as a matter of fact, he never wore any jewellery.
"No one in the house had heard him come in again that night, and his bed had not been slept in. Questioned by the police, Miss Shillington explained that neither she nor her mother felt any alarm at first because there had been some talk of Captain Shillington going away with his fiancée to stay with friends over the week-end, somewhere near Newmarket. It was only this morning, Wednesday, that Mrs. Shillington first began to worry when there was still no sign or letter from him. 'My brother is a very good son,' Miss Shillington continued, explaining to the police, 'and always very considerate to mother. It was so unlike him to leave us without news all this while and not let us know when to expect him home. So I rang up Lady Angela Buckley, who is his fiancée, to see if I could get news through her, as I could see mother was beginning to get anxious. Mr. Henry Buckley, Lady Angela's brother, answered the 'phone. I asked after his sister and he told me that she was staying on in the country a day or two longer. He himself had come back to town the previous night. I then asked him, quite casually, if he knew whether Denver—that's my brother—would be returning with Angela. And his answer to me was, "Denver? Why, I haven't seen him since Friday. And I can tell you that he is in for a row with Angela. She was furious with him that he never wrote once to her while she was away." I was so upset that I hung up the receiver and just sat there wondering what to do next. But Mr. Buckley rang up a moment or two later and asked quite cheerily if there was anything wrong. "Good old Square-toes!" he said, meaning my brother, whom he always used to chaff by calling him "Square-toes," "don't tell me he has gone off on the spree without letting you know. I say, that's too bad of him, though. But I shouldn't be anxious if I were you. Boys, you know, Miss Shillington, will be boys, and I like old Square-toes all the better for it."'
"Miss Shillington," the Old Man in the Corner went on, "was as usual suffering from a streaming cold, and between spluttering and crying, she had reduced two or three handkerchiefs to wet balls. At best she was no beauty, and with a red nose and streaming eyes she presented a most pitiable spectacle. 'I made Mr. Buckley assure me once more,' she said, 'that he had seen nothing of Denver since Friday. That night he and Lady Angela and Denver were at a reception in Grosvenor Square. They all left about the same time. Angela and Denver went, presumably, straight home; at any rate, he, Mr. Buckley, saw nothing more of them after they got into their car. He himself went to spend an hour or two at his club and came home about two a.m. The next morning, after breakfast, he drove his sister out to Tatchford, near Newmarket, where they spent the week-end with some friends. And that was all Mr. Buckley could say to me,' Miss Shillington concluded, vigorously blowing her nose: 'He came home last night from Tatchford, and was expecting Lady Angela in a couple of days. Denver had not been at Tatchford at all, and he had not once written to Angela all the while she was away.'
"Of course the police inspector to whom Miss Shillington related all these facts had a great many questions to put to her. For one thing he wanted to know whether she had been in communication with Lady Angela Buckley since this morning.
"'No,' the girl replied, 'I have not, and so far, I haven't said anything to mother. As soon as I felt strong enough I put on my things and came along here.'
"Then the inspector wanted to know if she knew of any friends or acquaintances of her brother's with whom he might have gone off for a week-end jaunt without saying anything about it, either at home or to his fiancée. He put the questions as delicately as he could, but the sister flared up with indignation. It seems that the Captain's conduct had always been irreproachable. He was a model son, a model brother, and deeply in love with Lady Angela. Miss Shillington also refused to believe that he could have been enticed to a place of ill-fame and robbed by one of the usual confidence tricksters.
"'My brother is exceptionally shrewd,' she declared, 'and a splendid business man. Though he is not yet thirty, he has built up an enormous fortune out in Australia, and administers his estates himself to the admiration of every one who knows him. He is not the sort of man who could be fooled in that way.'
"But beyond all this, and beyond giving a detailed description of her brother's appearance, the poor girl had very little to say, and the detective who was put in charge of the case could only assure her that enquiries would at once be instituted in every possible direction, and that the police would keep her informed of everything that was being done. Obviously, the person most likely to be able to throw some light upon the mystery was Lady Angela Buckley, but as you know, the advent of this charming lady upon the scene only helped to complicate matters. It appears that Henry Buckley, delighted at what he jocosely called, 'Old "Square-toes" falling from grace,' had rung up his sister in order to tell her the startling news over the telephone. Lady Angela being a very modern young woman, her brother thought that she might storm for a bit but in the end see the humorous side of the situation. But not at all! Lady Angela took the affair entirely au tragique. Over the telephone she only exclaimed, 'Great Lord!' but at one o'clock in the afternoon she arrived at the flat, having taken the first train up to town and not even waiting for her maid to pack her things. Mr. Henry Buckley was just going out to lunch. Without condescending to explain anything, his sister dragged him off then and there to Scotland Yard. 'Something has happened to Denver,' was all that she would say. 'Something dreadful, I am sure.' In vain did her brother protest that she would only be making a fool of herself by rushing to the police like this, that old Square-toes had only gone on the spree, and that, anyway, she ought to consult with the Shillingtons before doing anything silly; Lady Angela would not listen to reason. 'You don't know! You don't know!' she kept on reiterating with ever-increasing agitation. 'He has been murdered, I tell you. Murdered!'
"By the time that the pair arrived at Scotland Yard, Lady Angela was in a state bordering on hysterics, and her brother appeared both sulky and perplexed. They saw the same Inspector who had interviewed Miss Shillington, and certainly his amazement was no whit less than that of Mr. Henry Buckley when Lady Angela having mentioned the disappearance of Captain Denver Shillington, said abruptly, 'Yes, he has disappeared, and incidentally, he had my pearls in his pocket.' The Inspector made no immediate comment; men of his calling are used to those kinds of surprises, but Henry Buckley gave a gasp of horror.
"'Your pearls?' he exclaimed. 'What pearls? Not——?'
"'Yes,' Lady Angela rejoined, coolly. 'The Glenarm pearls. All of them!'
"'But——' Henry Buckley stammered, wide-eyed and white to the lips.
"His sister threw him what appeared to be a warning glance, then she turned once more to the police inspector.
"'My brother is upset,' she said calmly, 'because he knows that the pearls are of immense value. The late Lord Glenarm left them to me in his will. He made a huge fortune by a successful speculation in sugar. He had no daughters of his own, and late in life he married my mother's sister. He was my godfather, and when he first bought the pearls and gave them to his wife as a wedding present, he said that after her death and his they should belong to me. They were valued for probate at twenty-five thousand pounds.'
"Henry Buckley was still speechless, and it was in answer to several questions put to her by the Inspector that Lady Angela gave the full history, as far as she knew it, of the disappearance of her pearls.
"'I was going to spend the week-end with some friends at Tatchford, near Newmarket,' she said. 'My brother at first had decided not to come with me. On the Friday evening I went with Captain Shillington to a ball at the Duchess of Flint's in Grosvenor Square. I wore my pearls; on the way home in the car, Captain Shillington appeared very anxious as to what I should do about the pearls whilst I was away. He wanted me to take them to the bank first thing in the morning before I left. But I knew I couldn't do this, because my train was at nine-fifty from Liverpool Street. Captain Shillington had once or twice before shown anxiety about the pearls and urged me to keep them at the bank when I was not wearing them, but he had never been so insistent as that night.'
"Lady Angela appeared to hesitate for a moment or two. She glanced at her brother with a curious expression, both of anxiety and contempt. It seemed as if she were trying to make up her mind to say something that was very difficult, to put in so many words. The Inspector sat silent and impassive, waiting for her to continue her story, and at last she did make up her mind to speak.
"'I had a safe in the flat,' she went on, glibly, 'where I keep my jewellery, but Captain Shillington did not seem satisfied. He argued and argued, and at last he persuaded me to let him have the pearls while I was away and he would deposit them at his own bank until my return.'
"Presumably at this point the lady caught an expression on the face of the Inspector which displeased her, for she added with becoming dignity, 'I am engaged to be married to Captain Denver Shillington.'
"'My God!' Henry Buckley exclaimed at this point, and with a groan he buried his face in his hands.
"Mind you," the Old Man in the Corner proceeded, after a moment's pause, "the public had no information as to the exact words, and so on, that passed between Lady Angela, her brother Henry, and the officials of Scotland Yard. All that I am telling you, and what I am still about to tell you, came out bit by bit in the papers. Sensation-lovers were immensely interested in the case from the outset, because, although both public and police are familiar enough with the tragi-comedy of the good-looking young blackguard who gets confiding females to entrust him with their little bits of jewellery, this was the first time that the confidence trick had been played by a well-known man about town—reputed wealthy, since he had gone to the length of paying a friend's gambling debts—on a society lady who was not in her first youth and must presumably have had some knowledge of the world she lived in.
"Lady Angela had concluded her statements by saying that during the drive home in the car she took off her pearls and handed them to her fiancé, who slipped them into his pocket just as they were, although when presently the car drew up at her door she suggested running up to her room to get the case for them. The Captain, however, declared this to be unnecessary. What he said was, 'I will sleep with them under my pillow to-night, and to-morrow morning first thing I will take them round to the bank for you.' After this he said good-night. Lady Angela let herself into the house with her latchkey, and Captain Shillington then dismissed the car, saying that he would enjoy a bit of a walk as the rooms at Grosvenor Square had been so desperately hot.
"And it was at this point," the Old Man in the Corner now said with deliberate emphasis as he worked away at an exceptionally intricate knot in his beloved bit of string, "it was at this point that certain facts leaked out which lent to the whole case a sinister aspect.
"It appears that on the Saturday morning at break of day one of the boats belonging to the Thames District Police found a grey Homburg hat floating under one of the old steamship landing stages and, stuck to one of the wooden piles close by, a man's silk scarf. There was no name inside the hat or any other clue as to the owner's identity, but both the scarf, which had once been white or light grey, and the hat were terribly soiled and torn, and both were stained with blood. The police had tried on the quiet to trace the owner of the hat and scarf but without success. After Lady Angela had told her story of the missing pearls, the things were shown to Miss Shillington, who at once identified the hat as belonging to her brother; the scarf, however, she knew nothing about.
"But this was not by any means all. It appears that for some reason which was never quite clear, Captain Shillington, after he said good-night to Lady Angela, altered his mind about the proposed walk. It may have started to rain, or he may not, after all, have liked the idea of walking about the streets at night with twenty-five thousand pounds' worth of pearls in his pocket. Be that as it may, he hailed a passing taxi and drove to Mexfield House. The driver came forward voluntarily in answer to an advertisement put in the papers by the police. He stated that he remembered the circumstance quite well because of what followed. He remembered taking up a fare outside Stanhope Gate and being ordered to drive to Mexfield House in Somerset Street. When he slowed down close to Mexfield House he noticed a man with his hands in his pockets lounging under the doorway of one of the houses close by. As far as he could see the man was in evening dress and wore a light overcoat. He had on a silk hat tilted right over his eyes so that only the lower part of his face was visible, and he had a white or pale grey scarf tied loosely round his neck. The chauffeur also noticed that he had a large white flower, probably a carnation, in his buttonhole. After the taxi-man had put down his fare he drove off, and as he did so he saw the man in the light overcoat step out from under the doorway, where he had been lounging, and turn in the direction of Mexfield House. What happened after that he didn't know, as he drove away without taking further notice, but the police were already in touch with another man who had been watching that night in Somerset Street, where a portion of the road was up for repair. This man, whose name, I think, was William Rugger, remembered quite distinctly seeing a 'swell' in a light overcoat and wearing a light-coloured scarf round his neck, loafing around Mexfield House. He remembered the taxi drawing up and a gentleman getting out of it, whereupon the one in the light overcoat and the scarf went up to him and said, 'Hullo, Denver!' at which the other gent, the one who had come in the taxi, appeared very surprised, for Rugger heard him say, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?'
"Rugger didn't hear any more because the gentleman in the light overcoat then took the other one by the arm and together the pair of them walked away down the street. When they had gone Rugger noticed a large white carnation lying on the pavement; he picked it up and subsequently took it home to his missis.
"You may imagine what a stir and excitement this story—which pretty soon leaked out in all its details—caused amongst the public. It seems that although neither the taxi-driver nor the man Rugger had seen the face of the man who had stepped out from under a neighbouring doorway and accosted Captain Shillington, they were both of them quite positive that he was in evening dress, and that he wore a silk hat, a light overcoat, and had a pale grey or white scarf wound round his neck. And besides that, there was the white carnation. But, of course, the crux of the whole evidence was Rugger's assertion that he heard one gentleman—the one who got out of the cab—say to the other in tones of great surprise, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?' Questioned again and again he never wavered in this statement. He heard the name Henry quite distinctly and it stuck in his mind because his eldest boy was Henry. He was also asked whether the gentleman, who had stepped out of the taxi—obviously Captain Shillington, since the other had called to him, 'Hullo, Denver'—walked away reluctantly or willingly when he was thus summarily taken hold of by the arm. Rugger was under the impression that he walked away reluctantly; he freed his arm once, but the other got hold of him again, and, though Rugger did not catch the actual words, he certainly thought that the two gentlemen were quarrelling.
"And thus public opinion, which at first had been dead against the Australian Captain, now went equally dead against Henry Buckley. Ugly stories were current of his extravagance, his gambling debts, his addiction to drink. People who knew him remembered one or two ugly pages in his life's history: altercations with the police, raids on gambling clubs of which he was a prominent member; there was even a fraudulent bankruptcy which had been the original cause of his being sent out to Australia by his harassed parents until the worst of the clouds had rolled by.
"The only thing that told in his favour, as far as the public was concerned, was the bitter vindictiveness displayed against him by Miss Shillington. That the girl had cause for bitterness was not to be denied. For a time, at any rate, public opinion had branded her brother as a common trickster and a thief, and she and her mother had no doubt suffered terribly under the stigma; in consequence of this, Mrs. Shillington's health, always in a precarious state, had completely broken down and the old lady had taken to her bed, not suffering from any particular disease, but just from debility of mind and body, obstinately refusing to see a doctor, declaring that nothing would cure her except the return of her son.
"And on the top of all that came the growing conviction that the son never would return and that he had been foully murdered for the sake of Lady Angela's pearls, which he so foolishly was carrying in his pocket that night. No wonder, then, that his sister Marion felt bitter against the people who were the original cause of all these disasters; no wonder that she threw herself heart and soul into the search for evidence against the man whom she sincerely believed to be guilty of a most hideous crime.
"It was mainly due to her that the police came on the track of William Rugger, the night-watchman, and through the latter that the driver of the taxi-cab was advertised for, because Rugger remembered seeing the gentleman alight from a taxi outside Mexfield House. But Miss Shillington's valuable assistance in the matter of investigation went even further than that. She at last prevailed upon the old man-servant at Mexfield House to come forward like a man and to speak the truth. He was a poor creature, not really old, probably not more than fifty, but timid and almost abject. He had at first declined to make any statement whatever, declaring that he had nothing to say. To every question put to him by the police, he gave the one answer, 'I saw nothing, sir, I 'eard nothing. I went to bed as usual on the Friday night. The Captain 'e never expected me to sit up for 'im when 'e was out to parties, and I never 'ear 'im come in, as I sleep at the top of the 'ouse. No, sir, I didn't 'ear nothing that night. The last I seed of the Captain was at nine o'clock, when 'e got into the car and said good-night to me.' When he was shown the blood-stained hat, he burst out crying, and said, 'Yes, sir! Yes, sir! That is the Captain's 'at. My Lord! What 'as become of 'im?' He also failed to identify the scarf as being his master's property.
"Then one day Miss Shillington, still suffering from a cold in the head, but otherwise very business-like and brisk, arrived at Scotland Yard with the man—James Rose was his name—in tow. By what means she had persuaded him to speak the truth at last no one ever knew, but in a tremulous voice and shaken with nervousness, he did tell what he swore to be the truth. 'I must 'ave dropped to sleep in the dining-room,' he said. 'I was very tired that evening, and I remember after I 'ad cleared supper away I just felt as 'ow I couldn't stand on my legs any longer, and I sat down in an armchair and must 'ave dozed off. What woke me was the front-door bell which rings in the 'all as well as in the basement. I looked at the clock, it was past midnight. Captain forgot 'is key, that's what I thought. Lucky I 'adn't gone to bed, or I should never 'ave 'eard 'im. Funny 'is forgetting 'is key, I thought. Never done such a thing before, I thought, and went to open the door for 'im. But it wasn't the Captain,' Rose went on, his voice getting more and more husky as no doubt he realised the deadly importance of what he was about to say. 'No, it wasn't the Captain,' he reiterated, and shook his head in a doleful manner.
"'Who was it?' the Inspector demanded.
"'The young gentleman who sometimes came to the 'ouse,' Rose repeated under his breath. 'Mr. 'Enery Buckley it was, sir. Yes, Mr. 'Enery, that's 'oo it was.'
"'What did he say?' Rose was asked.
"''E asked if the Captain was in, and I said no, not as I knew, but I would go and see. So up I went to the Captain's room and saw 'e wasn't there. Not yet. And I told Mr. 'Enery so when I came down again.'
"'Then what happened?'
"'Mr. 'Enery 'e told me that 'e wouldn't wait and that I was to tell the Captain 'e 'ad called, and that 'e would call again in 'arf an hour. I said that I was going to bed and I wouldn't probably see the Captain. 'E might be ever so late. Then Mr. 'Enery 'e just said, "Very good," and "Never mind," and "Good-night, Rose," 'e said, and then I let 'im out.'
"'Well? And what happened after that?'
"'I don't know, sir,' the old man concluded. 'I went to bed and I never seed the Captain again, nor yet Mr. 'Enery—not from that day to this, sir. No, not again, sir.' And Rose once more shook his head in the same doleful manner. Of course the police were very down on him for keeping back this valuable piece of information, and they were even inclined to look with suspicion upon the man. They wanted to know something about his antecedents and why he seemed so frightened of facing the police authorities. Fortunately for him, however, Miss Shillington could give them all the information they wanted. She said that James Rose had been for years in the service of a Mrs. O'Shea, who was a great friend of Mrs. Shillington's. When Mrs. O'Shea died she left him a hundred pounds. But the poor thing had never been very strong, and he was nothing to look at, he couldn't get another place, and the hundred pounds vanished bit by bit. About a month ago Mrs. Shillington, who was requiring a man-servant, advertised for one in the Daily Mail. Rose answered the advertisement, and though the poor thing in the meanwhile had gone terribly downhill physically, Mrs. Shillington, remembering how honest and respectable he had always been when he was in Mrs. O'Shea's service, engaged him out of compassion and for the sake of old times. Miss Shillington gave him an excellent character and the police were satisfied.
"I think," the Old Man in the Corner said, amorously contemplating a marvellously intricate knot, which he had just made in his bit of string, "I think that the police were mainly satisfied because at last they felt that 'they had made out a case.' From that moment the detectives and inspectors in charge became absolutely convinced that Henry Buckley had enticed Captain Denver Shillington to some place of evil fame close to the river and there, in collusion probably with other disreputable characters, had robbed and murdered him. To say the least, the case looked black enough against Buckley. His fast living, his mountain of debt, the absence in him of moral rectitude as proved by his fraudulent bankruptcy, all told against him; and now it was definitely proved that he had sought out and actually been in the company of Captain Shillington the night that the latter disappeared. A light grey overcoat similar to the one described by Rugger and by the chauffeur as worn by the gentleman who was loafing in Somerset Street was found to be a part of his wardrobe; no one could swear, however, as to the scarf, but it turned out that he never went out in the evening without wearing a large, white carnation in his button-hole.
"The fact that he had not stated from the beginning that he had called at Mexfield House that night, and subsequently met the missing man and walked away with him, naturally told terribly against him. Obviously the man lost his head. Questioned by the police, he tried at first to deny the whole thing: he declared that the man with the white carnation and the light-coloured scarf was some other man whose name happened to be Henry, and he tried to upset Rose's evidence by declaring that the man lied and that he had never called at Mexfield House that night. But, unfortunately for him, he had taken a taxi from his club to the house, the taxi-driver was found, and the noose was further tightened round the Honourable Henry Buckley's neck. In vain did he assert after that that Denver Shillington had told him to call at Mexfield House at a quarter-past midnight on that fatal Friday. He was no longer believed. He admitted that he was in financial difficulties, and that he had spoken about these to Captain Shillington earlier in the evening. He admitted, tardily enough, that he went to Mexfield House hoping that Denver would give him some money in order to wipe out his most pressing debts. When he found that the Captain had not yet come home, he left a message with the man-servant and thought he would go on to the club for a little while and return later to see Shillington. Unfortunately, he drank rather heavily whilst he was at the club and never thought any more either about his money worries or about the Captain. In fact, he remembered nothing very clearly beyond the fact that he went home, in the small hours and went straight to bed.
"He then went on to say that he woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. It was pouring with rain and London was looking particularly beastly, as he picturesquely termed it. He recollected that his sister Angela had planned to go down with old Square-toes to some friends near Newmarket for the weekend. He, too, had been asked but had declined the invitation, but now he began to wish he hadn't; while he was out of town money-lenders couldn't dun him, and a breath of country air would certainly do him good.
"And he was just cogitating over these matters at eight a.m. on that Saturday morning, when his sister Angela came into his room. 'She told me,' he went on, 'that old Square-toes was unable to accompany her to these friends in Cambridgeshire, that she didn't want to go alone, and would I hire a car and drive her down. She offered to pay for the car, and, as the scheme happened to suit me, I agreed. We drove down to Tatchford, and on the Tuesday I had an unpleasant reminder from one of my creditors and thought that I must get back to see what old Square-toes would do for me. I got home that same evening, and the next morning early Miss Shillington rang up and told me over the 'phone that they had heard nothing of Captain Shillington since the previous Friday and that they were getting anxious. And that's all I know,' he concluded. 'I swear that I never set eyes on Shillington after he drove off from the Duchess of Flint's, with my sister in his car. I did call at Mexfield House, but it was at Shillington's suggestion, but when the man told me that the Captain was not yet home, I did not loaf about the street, I went straight back to the club and then home.'
"Of course all this was very clear and very categorical, but there were one or two doubtful points in Buckley's statements, which the police—dead out now to prove him guilty of murder—made the most of. Firstly, there was his former denial on oath that he had not called at Mexfield House that night. It was only when he was confronted with the testimony of the taxi-cab driver that he made the admission. The employees at his club, which, by the way, was in Hanover Square, had seen him come in at about half-past eleven. He went out again twenty minutes later and the hall porter saw him hail a taxi-cab. He was once more in the club at half-past twelve, and it is a significant fact that two of the younger members chaffed him subsequently because he had not the usual white carnation in his button-hole.
"Then again it was more than strange that on the Friday he was so worried about his debts that he went in the middle of the night to his friend's house in order to try and borrow money from him, and yet when, according to his own statements, he never even saw his friend, off he went the very next morning to the country, stayed away four days, and on his return did not make any attempt seemingly to see the Captain or to ask him for money. Thirdly, it was equally inconceivable that Captain Shillington should have appointed to see Buckley at that hour of the night, however pressed the latter might have been for money. Why should he? The next morning would have done just as well, whether he meant to help him or whether he did not, and, according to the testimony of the night-watchman, William Rugger, when he was accosted by Buckley, he exclaimed in tones of great surprise, 'Good Lord, Henry, what are you doing here?' These are not words which a man would say to a friend whom he had appointed to meet at this very hour.
"However, this portion of the taxi-driver's and Rugger's testimony Buckley still strenuously denied. He could not deny the other. He had called at Mexfield House and reluctantly admitted that it had been nothing but 'blue funk' that had prompted him at first to hold his tongue about that and then to deny the fact altogether.
"But, above all, there was yet another fact which to the police was more conclusive, more damning than any other and that was that on the Wednesday morning the Honourable Henry Buckley had called at Messrs. Foster and Turnbull, the well-known pawnbrokers of Oxford Street, and had pledged a pair of diamond ear-rings and a couple of valuable bracelets there for which he received three hundred and fifty pounds.
"Here again, if Buckley had volunteered this statement, all might have been well, but it was the pawnbrokers who gave information to the police. It turned out that the ear-rings and the two bracelets were the property of his sister, Lady Angela. Buckley declared that she had given them to him, and she, very nobly, did her best to corroborate this statement of his, but it had become impossible to believe a word he said. Lady Angela's valiant efforts on his behalf were thought to be unconvincing, and, as a matter of fact, the public has never known from that day to this whether Henry Buckley stole his sister's jewellery, or whether she gave it to him voluntarily.
"Mind you, there can be no question but that the police acted very injudiciously when they actually preferred a charge of murder against Henry Buckley. There were two such damning flaws in the chain of evidence that had been collected against him that the man ought never to have been arrested. Even the magistrate was of that opinion. As you know, if there is the slightest doubt about such a serious charge, the magistrates will always commit a man for trial and let a jury of twelve men pronounce on the final issue rather than decide such grave matters on their own. But in this case there were really no proofs. There were deductions: the accused was a young blackguard, a moral coward and a liar. There was the blood-stained scarf, the hat and the white carnation, there was the testimony of the taxi-driver and the night watchman that Henry Buckley had been in the company of Captain Shillington that night, but there was no proof that he had murdered his friend and stolen the pearls.
"To begin with, if there had been a murder, where was it committed, and what became of Captain Shillington's body? Of course, the police still hope to find traces of it, but, as you know, they have not yet succeeded. Various theories are put forward that Henry Buckley was a member of a gang of ruffians with headquarters in some obscure corner of London close to the river, and that he enticed the Captain there and murdered him with the help of his criminal associates with whom he probably shared the proceeds of the crime. But over a year has gone by since Shillington disappeared and the police are no nearer finding the body of the missing man.
"The magistrate dismissed the case against Henry Buckley. There was not sufficient evidence to commit him for trial. What told most in his favour in the end was the question of time. He was able to prove that he was at his club in Hanover Square at half-past midnight on the fateful night. Now, according to James Rose's testimony, it was after midnight when he, Buckley, called at Mexfield House. Even supposing that Shillington had arrived in the taxi five minutes later, it was inconceivable that a man could entice another to an out-of-the-way part of London, murder him—even if he left others to dispose of the body—and walk back unconcernedly to Hanover Square, all in less than half an hour. Nor were the pearls or any large sum of money ever traced to Henry Buckley. He was just as deeply in debt after the disappearance of Captain Shillington as he had been before. Now he has gone on another tour round the world, and the Shillingtons—mother and daughter—have given up all hopes of ever seeing the gallant Captain, who was such a model son, again. A little while ago the illustrated papers published photos of the two ladies on board a P. and O. steamer bound for Australia, but the public had forgotten all about Lady Angela's pearls and the mysterious white carnation. No one was interested in the old lady with the white hair and stooping figure, who was carried on board in a chair, and who obstinately refused to be interviewed by newspaper men eager for copy. The case is relegated, as far as the public is concerned, to the category of undiscovered crimes."
"But," I argued, as the Old Man in the Corner became silent, absorbed in the untying of an intricate knot which he had made a little while ago, "surely the police have found out who the man was who accosted Captain Shillington in Somerset Street that night, the man with the light-coloured scarf, which was subsequently found in the river by the side of the missing man's hat, the man who called the Captain 'Denver,' and whom the latter called 'Henry,' and was so surprised to see. If it was not Henry Buckley, who was it?"
"Ah!" the exasperating creature retorted with a fatuous smile, "who was it? That's just the point—a point just as dark as that a man like Captain Shillington could be enticed at that hour of the night to an out-of-the-way part of London, and at a moment when he had his fiancée's jewellery worth twenty-five thousand pounds in his pocket. Don't you think that that point is absolutely inconceivable?"
"Well," I said, "it does seem——"
"Of course it does," he broke in eagerly. "I ask you: Is it likely? At one moment we are told that Captain Shillington was a pattern of all the virtues and that his business acumen and abilities had earned for him not only a fortune but the admiration of all those who knew him; and the very next we are asked to suppose that he would meekly allow a young blackguard, whom he knew to be dishonest and unscrupulous, to drag him 'reluctantly' to some obscure haunt of a gang of criminals. Surely that should have jumped to the eyes of any sane person who had studied the case."
"I don't suppose," I retorted, "that Captain Shillington allowed Buckley to drag him very far. Most people believed at the time that he was attacked directly he rounded the corner of Somerset Street. There are one or two entrances to mews just about there——"
"Yes," the funny creature rejoined excitedly, "but not one nearer than fifty yards from Mexfield House. And do you think that the immaculate Australian would have walked ten at night with young Buckley and with those pearls in his pocket? Why should he? He was outside his own door. Wouldn't he have taken Henry into the house with him if he wished to speak to him? No! No! The whole theory is inconceivable...."
"But Captain Shillington disappeared," I argued, "and so did the pearls, and his hat was found floating in the river, torn and blood-stained. You cannot deny that."
"I certainly cannot deny," he replied, "that a blood-stained hat will float on the water if it is thrown—say, from a convenient bridge."
"But the scarf?" I retorted.
"A scarf will obey the same laws of Nature as a hat."
"But surely you are not going to tell me——?"
"What?"
"That the whole thing was a confidence trick, after all?"
"I am certain that it was. A clever one, I'll admit, and even I was puzzled at the time. I couldn't think who 'Henry' could possibly be. It wasn't young Buckley, that was obvious. The alibi was conclusive as to that: the miscreants who had planned to throw dust in the eyes of the police by trying to fasten a hideous crime on that unfortunate young Buckley set their stage rather too elaborately when they devised the trick about the scarf. By identifying the murderer with the wearer of the scarf, they saved Buckley from the gallows; without it, there might have remained some doubt in the mind of some of the jury. But, of course, it raised a tremendous puzzle. Who was the 'Henry' of Somerset Street? And was it not a curious coincidence that he should be wearing an overcoat similar to the one habitually worn by Henry Buckley and a white carnation, which many friends would at once associate with that unfortunate young man? From the examination of the puzzle to its solution was but a step. I came at once to the conclusion that here was no coincidence, but a deliberate attempt to impersonate Henry Buckley, the man most likely in the eyes of the public to waylay, rob, and even murder a man whom he knew to be in possession of valuable jewellery. Such a deliberate attempt, therefore, argued that Captain Shillington himself must have been in it. 'Good Lord, Henry, what in the world are you doing here?' was obviously intended for any passer-by to hear in the same way that the white carnation was intended for any chance passer-by to pick up. Having established the mise en scène, the two scoundrels walked off, having previously provided themselves with a blood-stained hat, which presently Miss Shillington would identify as the property of her brother."
"Miss Shillington?" I broke in eagerly, "then you think that the whole Australian family was in the conspiracy? And what about the man Rose?"
"The whole family," he rejoined, "only consisted of two. Man and wife most likely."
"But the man Rose?" I insisted.
"An excellent part, alternately played with remarkable skill by the Captain and his female accomplice."
"Do reconstruct the whole thing for me," I pleaded. "I own that I am bewildered."
And from my bag I extracted a brand-new piece of string which I handed to him with an engaging smile. Nothing could have pleased the fatuous creature more. With long, claw-like fingers twiddling the string, he began leisurely:
"Nothing could be more simple. Captain Shillington takes leave of his fiancée, having her pearls in his pocket. It is then about half-past eleven. Henry Buckley has gone to his club, Shillington having appointed to see him at Mexfield House soon after midnight. There is, therefore, plenty of time. Shillington hurries home, changes his personality into that of James Rose, as he often has done before, and subsequently interviews Henry Buckley on the door-step. You can see that, can't you?"
"Easily," I replied.
"Then as soon as he has got rid of Buckley, our friend the Captain quits the personality of a snuffy, middle-aged man-servant, and becomes himself once more. He goes back to the neighbourhood of Mayfair, hails a taxi and drives to Mexfield House. But in the meanwhile the female confederate—we'll call her Miss Shillington for convenience' sake—in male attire and evening dress, wearing a light overcoat, a light-coloured scarf and a white carnation in her button-hole, lounges under a doorway in Somerset Street, waiting to play her part. Now do you see how simple it all is?"
"Perfectly," I admitted. "As you said before, they had provided themselves with a blood-stained hat, which presently they threw into the river, together with the scarf; and what happened after that?"
"They walked home quietly and went to bed."
"What? Both of them? ... But the mother?"
"I don't believe in the mother," he retorted blandly. "Do you?"
"I thought——"
"She takes to her bed—she never sees a doctor—she and her daughter never see any one—they have no friends—no servants save the man Rose; put two and two together, my dear," the funny old man concluded as he slipped the piece of string in his pocket. "Captain Shillington was the only one in that house who ever went outside the doors. The mother never did—no one ever saw her—the daughter had a perpetual cold in the head—the man Rose had no one to speak for him, no one to relate his past history, except Miss Shillington. Where is he now? What has become of him? There's nobody to enquire after him, so the police don't trouble. The two Shillingtons—supposed to be mother and daughter—went back to Australia last year, but not the man Rose. Then where is he? But I say that the two passengers on board that P. and O. boat were not mother and daughter, but male and female confederates in as fine a bit of rascality as I've ever seen. And the man Rose never existed. He was just a disguise assumed from time to time by Captain Shillington. It is not difficult, you know, to assume a personality of that sort. The police inspectors who questioned him had never seen Captain Shillington, and dirt and shabby clothes are very perfect disguises. Now the pair of them are knocking about the world somewhere, they will dispose of the pearls to Continental dealers not over scrupulous where a good bargain can be struck. If you will just think of Captain Shillington impersonating James Rose and a decrepit old woman alternately, and of Miss Shillington impersonating Henry Buckley on that one occasion, you will see how conclusive are my deductions. I have a snapshot here of the two Australian 'ladies,' taken on board the boat. This muffled-up bundle of bonnet and shawl is supposed to be Mrs. Shillington; it might as well be M. Poincaré or the Kaiser, don't you think? And here is a snapshot of James Rose giving evidence in the magistrate's court. Unfortunately, I have no photo of Captain Shillington, or I could have shown you just how to trace the personality of the handsome young man about town under that of this snuffy, dirty, ill-kempt, unwashed, and badly clothed, stooping figure of an out-at-elbows servant."
He threw a bundle of newspaper cuttings down on the table. I gazed at them still puzzled, but nevertheless convinced that he was right. When I looked up again, I only saw a corner of his shabby checked ulster disappearing through the swing doors.