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CHAPTER XXIII

Gimblet was late for the inquest, which had been fixed for two o’clock. By the time he arrived the evidence of Higgs and the policeman he had fetched, and that of Brampton, the artist, and the house agents’ clerk had been already taken, and there only remained his own and the doctor’s to be heard.

Nothing new was brought to light, and the jury returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

Gimblet did not judge it expedient to disclose the theories he had formed on the subject of the crime. As he walked away from the house in the company of Jennins, whom he had found there when he arrived, the inspector said to him:

“An old-clothes dealer in Victoria Street has communicated with us. They have bought what they think, from the published description, to be the dresses and cloaks worn by Mrs. Vanderstein and Miss Turner on Monday night. I am going to get that French maid of theirs to go down to the place with me and see if the people are right in their assumption. They say they bought the things from a young woman who gave an address in Pimlico and the name of Julie Querterot. Can she be the Madame Q. of the note? If she is, it is strange that she should not give a false name; but everything about this case is mysterious.”

“It is not she,” said Gimblet, “it was her mother. I have just been to their house and seen her. As for mysteries, there is only one left as far as I am concerned, and that is the whereabouts of West, and the question whether he has not by this time exchanged his disguise of a black beard for another in which it will be harder to identify him. Everything else, I think, is quite clear, with the exception of a few trifling details, and I do not think it will be long before we may hope to lay our hands on Mr. West himself.”

Gimblet refused, however, to impart his lately acquired information to Jennins, telling him, much to the inspector’s disgust, that he would know all about it soon enough.

“And a tangled web you’ll find it, Jennins,” said he.

They were interrupted by a messenger, who informed Jennins that Miss Turner was conscious and anxious to make a statement.

Gimblet and the inspector went together to the hospital, where they found Barbara looking very much better than the day before. She was recovering wonderfully, they were told, but must not excite herself more than could be avoided. Indeed, she would not have been allowed to see them yet, if she had not been fretting so much to tell her story that it was thought best to let her do it. She must not, however, be made aware of the death of her friend if it were possible to conceal it from her for the next few days.

She greeted the two men with a feeble smile. “I hear that I was rescued by one of your men,” she said to Jennins, “and I am more grateful to him than I can say, though I do not remember very much after I realised that that man was trying to tie his spade round my neck.”

“It’s lucky you were seen in time,” replied Jennins. “We don’t want to bother you to-day, but at the same time we are, of course, anxious to hear anything you can tell us about the scoundrel you were with.”

“Oh, I want to tell you all about it so that you may be able to catch him – and the woman too. I suppose you haven’t got them yet?”

Jennins shook his head.

“I thought perhaps Mrs. Vanderstein had been able to put you on the track. How glad I am that she escaped. I was afraid – but no matter now. Has she told you how she managed to get away?”

“Mrs. Vanderstein went abroad immediately,” said Gimblet evasively; “we have not heard any details from her yet. But will you not tell us your adventures from the beginning? How was it you found yourselves in Scholefield Avenue?”

Barbara looked at him blankly. “Scholefield Avenue,” she repeated, “where is that?”

“The house in which you were imprisoned is there,” said Gimblet; “have you forgotten? You went there with Mrs. Vanderstein on Monday night after the opera. I want you to tell us why you went to it.”

“I didn’t know where it was,” said Barbara, “but I don’t think I can tell you why we went. I don’t think Mrs. Vanderstein would like me to do that.”

“As you wish,” replied Gimblet; “but this will show you that I already know something of your friend’s private affairs.” He took out the sheet of notepaper bearing the arms of Targona, and handed it to her.

“She gave you this!” cried the girl, and as Gimblet remained silent: “Then she cannot mind my speaking of it. Yes, it is true that we went to that house to meet Prince Felipe, but I don’t know if he came there or not.”

“No, he did not go.”

“Then the whole thing was false! I thought so at the beginning, but afterwards I was not sure. It was on Monday morning that Mrs. Vanderstein spoke to me about it. For a week she had been looking strange: excited, pleased – I don’t know what exactly – happier, younger, somehow different from her usual look. And on Monday she came to my room and told me, blushing and smiling, that it was her happiness to be loved by Prince Felipe of Targona, and that in all probability she was going to marry him. They had only seen each other in the distance, she said, but it had been love at first sight for both of them, and she was so happy, so happy! And wouldn’t I say I was glad? I asked her how she knew what he felt for her, if they had never met, and she said she had had letters from him and had written to him herself, and that she was going to meet him that very night after the opera, at the house of a friend of his. She said they could not meet in public, or at his hotel, or in her own home, as he was surrounded by his suite, and his mother, who was also with him, watched his every movement, so that all his comings and goings were seen and marked.

“They were staying at Fianti’s Hotel just opposite to us in Grosvenor Street, you know, so it would have been rather difficult for the Prince to come to our house without being noticed. It was intended that he should marry for political reasons, and at any sign of his affections being bestowed on a private individual an outcry would have been raised, which would have been hard to ignore. It was Prince Felipe’s plan, so Mrs. Vanderstein told me, that they should be married quietly and that he should then abdicate; to which less objection would be made when it was known that he was irretrievably disposed of from a matrimonial point of view. The whole story appeared to me so improbable and fantastic that I couldn’t help laughing at it, which offended my friend very much, and in order to convince me she finally showed me some of the Prince’s letters, including the one you have there. I could not doubt any longer after I had seen them, though I was surprised and, I must say, shocked to hear that the go-between in the affair and the bearer of all the notes was a Frenchwoman, a hairdresser employed by Mrs. Vanderstein, and also, it seemed, by one of the suite of Prince Felipe.

“When I heard that Mrs. Vanderstein had no idea where the house to which she was to go that night was situated, but had left all details to Madame Querterot and the Prince, I tried to convince her of the folly of such an arrangement, but nothing I could say had any effect. At last I told her that I should accompany her on this escapade; and, though she didn’t like the idea and even grew quite angry with me about it, I stuck to my point, and was so firm on the subject that in the end she gave in and said I could come if I liked. It was, all the same, with serious misgivings that I set forth with her that evening for Covent Garden, where we were first to attend the gala performance. We had hardly entered the theatre when Mrs. Vanderstein told me to run back and tell the motor not to come to fetch us. We were to go away in a carriage sent by the Prince, she said.

“I was too much worried to enjoy the opera. I don’t know whether Mrs. Vanderstein did or not, but she kept looking at her watch and fidgeting, so I think her thoughts were elsewhere. Before the last act was nearly over we left the box and went down into the hall, which was nearly empty, and told a man to call Mr. Targon’s carriage, for so it appeared the Prince was to be alluded to on this occasion. In a few minutes a brougham drove up, drawn by a dun coloured horse, which dished badly and had an odd white blaze across its nose and one eye. I noticed, too, that it was driven by a very odd-looking man, who wore a hat much too large for him crammed down over his eyes and a great scarf wrapped round his neck and high over his chin and ears; though even so I could see that he wore a beard, which is, to say the least of it, unusual in a coachman.”

“One moment,” Jennins interrupted; “do you think you could recognise the horse, Miss Turner, if you should see him again?”

“I am nearly sure I should,” Barbara replied. “There can’t be many with a blaze like that. I am more sure of it than I am of the driver. He drove very badly,” she went on, “pulling up under the arch with a jerk and throwing up his hands, each of which clutched at a rein, nearly over his head. ‘Surely there is some mistake,’ I said. ‘Are you from Mr. Targon?’ ‘I am from Mr. Targon,’ he answered hoarsely, ‘but I think there is a mistake, as you say; I was to fetch one lady, not two.’ ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Mrs. Vanderstein hurriedly. ‘Jump in, Barbara.’ And she got into the brougham herself, so that I had no choice but to follow her, and we drove off.

“Oh dear, how badly that man drove! Luckily there was hardly any traffic about, but we bumped into three things before we got to the top of Regent Street, and went over the curb at the corners I don’t know how often. Once the carriage stopped and the driver leant down and called through the window that he had orders to fetch one lady, and that I must get out. This I absolutely refused to do, and by this time Mrs. Vanderstein was so much alarmed by the reckless way in which he drove that I don’t think she would have allowed me to leave her even if I had wished to do so. After a heated dispute a small crowd began to gather round us, and the coachman seeing, I fancy, the shadow of an approaching policeman, suddenly abandoned the contest, and whipping up his horse we lurched forward again as the animal started with a bound.

“It was a long drive, and towards the end of it I lost all notion of direction and had no idea where we were going. At last, with a final bump and jolt, we drove in at the gate of a little house, which seemed to stand back from the road in a tiny garden, and pulled up with a jerk before a flight of steps, at the top of which a door was flung open the moment we stopped, and I recognised the figure of Madame Querterot standing back from it in the half light of the passage.

“We got out, and Mrs. Vanderstein, who is timid driving at any time, began to abuse the man in a very angry tone. She had been thoroughly frightened, poor dear, and had sat holding my hand with a white face all the way, as I could see from time to time in the light of a passing lamp. ‘What do you mean by driving like that?’ she called out from the pavement. ‘I think you are drunk. A nice thing, indeed. I shall complain of you, do not fear. It is most disgraceful to be in such a state. Never, never have I been driven like that! It is a wonder we were not all killed!’ The man flicked at the horse and drove away, but Mrs. Vanderstein was so angry with him that she actually made as if to follow. She only went a step or two, however, and then with a laugh turned back, and we went up the steps, into the house.

“We were received by Madame Querterot, looking, I must say, more tidy than usual, in a neat black dress and a large apron, put on, I suppose, in keeping with her part of parlourmaid. I was struck by the strange expression on her face when she first caught sight of me, and she murmured something to the effect that Mrs. Vanderstein had promised to come alone; but my friend, who was still flushed from her encounter with the coachman, did not answer her at all and marched on with her chin in the air. Madame Querterot recovered her usual amiability in a moment, and with many smiles and blandishments conducted us up to the drawing-room, where she left us, saying that His Highness had not yet arrived.

“There we waited for what seemed a long time; twenty minutes perhaps, or half an hour. My friend was very nervous and could not sit still, but walked up and down, up and down, restlessly, the whole time. Now she would plump down on a sofa and arrange herself in a graceful attitude; a minute later she would jump to her feet and run to the looking-glass to pat her curls into place, or dab her nose with powder. ‘How do I look?’ she asked me more than once, and hardly seemed to hear me when I answered her.

“At last there was a slight noise downstairs; the front door shut, and I could catch the mumble of voices talking low. After what seemed again an interminable delay the door opened and Madame Querterot came in. ‘If Mademoiselle will come with me into another room for a short time,’ said she. ‘His Highness has just arrived.’ I only hesitated a second. There was such an imploring look in Mrs. Vanderstein’s eyes that I could not refuse to go, much as I disapproved of the whole thing. I took her hand, and kissed her encouragingly, and then left the room without a word; for indeed there was something pathetic about her emotion, and I was too much moved by it myself to trust my voice.

“Madame Querterot led me down to a small back room that seemed to be a library, and left me, shutting the door behind her. I heard feet ascending the stairs, the drawing-room door open and shut, and then all was still for a moment.

“Suddenly, however, there came a noise from above. Something seemed to have been knocked over, then came a sound of running footsteps and finally a dragging noise as if a heavy object were being pulled across the floor overhead. I started up in alarm. What was happening upstairs? Surely there was something wrong! Without waiting to think, I rushed into the hall and tore upstairs and in at the drawing-room door. I found myself confronted by a tall man with a thick black beard and a pale, blotchy face. Behind him at the further end of the room I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Vanderstein, apparently lying on a sofa, and Madame Querterot bending over her. ‘What is it. Is she ill?’ I cried. ‘Take her away, take her away,’ exclaimed Madame Querterot, looking up over her shoulder, and before I had time to speak again I was hustled out of the room by the tall man and dragged downstairs again to the library. I was so infuriated at his daring to touch me that I could scarcely speak, but I managed to stammer again: ‘Is she ill? Is Mrs. Vanderstein ill?’ ‘She is not feeling quite well,’ he replied, ‘she will be best without you.’

“I looked at him curiously. I had seen Prince Felipe, and this was not he. Indeed I thought I recognised the driver of the brougham. He was a strange-looking man, dressed in ordinary day clothes, and I noticed with astonishment that he wore thick brown leather gloves on both hands. ‘I think she will be better with me,’ I said defiantly, and advanced towards the door, but he barred the way. ‘You must stay here,’ he said. ‘Must!’ I said; ‘what do you mean? Let me go this instant.’ He didn’t answer, but just stood with his back to the door, grinning in a foolish way. ‘Let me out, let me out,’ I exclaimed, on the point of tears by this time, I am afraid. ‘Let me out or – or – I’ll set fire to the house!’

“I caught up my scarf and held it towards the gas, but the man leapt forward and, before I knew what he was doing, had turned out the flame altogether, leaving us in the dark. As I still stood, bewildered, I heard the door open and in an instant he had vanished through it and the key was turned in the lock outside.

“This was followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and in the silence that succeeded it is no exaggeration to say that the noise of my pulses throbbing in my ears sounded as loud as the tramp of a whole army on the march. I felt my way to a chair, and for a time sat in a trembling silence, shaken and unstrung by terror the most unnerving, if of the vaguest nature.

“Why would they not let me go to Mrs. Vanderstein if she was ill? What was the matter with her? Why had Madame Querterot looked as she did when she saw me on the doorstep? What was she doing, kneeling by the sofa? And, above all, what was the meaning of the man’s behaviour to me? It was, I think, the touch of his hand, as he dragged me downstairs, that took away my courage altogether.

“I sat for a long while, immovable in the darkness. From time to time sounds came from the room above, but they did not convey any meaning to me. At last I grew calmer, and indignation began to take the place of my fears. I got up and moved about the room, feeling my way as I went. In this manner I soon had an idea of the position and character of the furniture, even of the fire-place and the coal scuttle; and I must have blacked my fingers nicely in the process. I had a wild notion that it might be useful to me to know where the poker was, though I had no definite idea what I would do with it. Still, in one way or another I was determined to escape from this imprisonment. What did they mean by shutting me in this room? They must, they should, let me out!

“I began to cry for help. I felt my way to the door and beat against it with my hands, but no answer came. Then I had a brilliant thought – the room was on the ground floor, surely I could get out of the window. I reached it and tried to open it, but it was stiff and heavy. In spite of all my efforts I could not raise the sash. I groped for the poker again and, standing back for fear of the splintering glass, I aimed a blow at the place where I knew the window to be and heard with delight the crash of a shattered pane. Even as I delivered the blow, it struck me as curious that no light came into the room from the night outside; and, thrusting the poker through the hole I had broken, I found to my dismay that there were strong wooden shutters beyond it. But the noise I had made seemed to have attracted some attention at last, for I heard a door open and the sound of some one running down the stairs.

“A moment later the key was turned, and the door opened just enough to let in the tall man, who shut it behind him again as soon as he was inside. He had a little electric torch, which he turned in my direction, so that the glare blinded me and I couldn’t see him at all. ‘It’s no good making all this row, Miss Turner,’ he said, ‘no sort of earthly, kicking up such a shindy as a young lady like you ought to be ashamed to raise. Besides,’ he said, and now there was something in his tone that turned me sick, ‘it isn’t safe. Do you understand? It is not safe. Now, you see I don’t mean you any harm or I simply shouldn’t bother to warn you. But no, I like the look of you, and I’m sorry to see you in this house, where I tell you again it’s dangerous to stay. But be a sensible young lady and do as I tell you, and I’m blowed if I don’t help you to escape when the time comes. What do you say to that? I can’t say fairer, can I?’

“I suppose you will think me a dreadful coward, but there was something about the man which frightened me horribly. I think it was that he seemed to be himself in the extremity of fear. How I gathered that impression I am not sure. It may have been the low, hurried agitation of his voice, or the way in which his hand was shaking, so that the light behind which he was concealed danced and wavered between us like a will-o’-the-wisp; or perhaps it was the mere telepathic infection of fear. At all events I was ready to agree to anything he said, and jumped at the idea of escape. ‘I’ll do anything, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,’ I cried beseechingly, ‘if you’ll only let me go away.’ ‘That’s right,’ he said approvingly. ‘I’ll help you, never fear. And to show that I mean it,’ he went on, ‘here’s a change of clothes for you. You’d never escape in that white and red costume, you know.’ He threw down a bundle on the table. ‘Make haste and get into these togs, and let me take away your own things. I’ll leave you the lamp to change by, but you must look sharp, and mind you change every single thing, down to your shift.’

“So saying he put down the lamp and left the room again. No sooner was the door shut than I caught up the lamp and ran to the window. Peering through the glass, I tried to make out the fastening of the shutters and to see if I could get at it by putting my arm through the broken pane; but it was quite out of reach and I realised that I could do nothing without smashing more glass, and I did not dare do that now. So I put down the lamp again, and fell to changing my clothes as the man had suggested.

“They were horrible clothes he had brought, and it made me sick to put them on; but I felt he was right in saying that I could not escape in my evening dress. So, though I didn’t see why I should change all my under things, I thought there might be some reason for that also, and anyhow I think I was too much frightened not to do as I was told. It was soon done, but not too soon, for without so much as a knock the wretch walked in again as I was fastening the last button of the shabby coat over a chemise so rough that my skin prickled all over. He looked at me with some satisfaction. ‘You must alter your hair,’ he said; ‘do it up tight and plain, so that it won’t show more than can be helped.’

“With that, he gathered up my clothes and went away, taking the lamp with him this time, and I saw no more of him for a long while. There was no need to twist my hair up so hurriedly, for after that was done I sat down and waited for what seemed like days. It was terrible, waiting, waiting, waiting in the darkness, which my fears peopled with invisible presences, so that I found myself holding my breath lest the door handle should turn again, and some one, or some thing, enter unheard by me. At the thought, I got up and dragged a heavy chair across the room, where I sat down on it with my back against the door, my anxiety to get out quite forgotten and overwhelmed in the awful possibility of not being certain whether or not I were alone.

“If only Mrs. Vanderstein had still been with me. But, believe me, it was not only selfishly that I longed for her: the vision of her, ill, and no doubt in danger equal to mine as an inmate of this dreadful house, sat on me like a nightmare; and, if I was frightened by the peril of my own position, I trembled still more at the danger to which my friend might be exposed. Why was the man afraid? It was the recollection of his terror that cowed me, so that I sat there rigid, paralysed by the fear of I knew not what. From time to time noises broke the silence, the noise of people moving in the room above; and presently some one descended the stairs and approached the door against which I crouched.

“A violent trembling fit seized me and my teeth chattered so convulsively that I could hardly hear the footsteps outside; but they passed on, and I heard a door opened at the end of the passage. A minute later they returned, sounding loud on the linoleum of the hall and muffled as they went up the stairs; only to come down again in a few moments. Over and over again this process was repeated: some one apparently walking down the stairs, down the passage, and through a door at the back of the house, then retracing his steps, and in a minute or two beginning all over again. This went on, I should think, for more than an hour, and then after an interval I heard two people come down and go to the door; soon it was gently shut and only one pair of feet returned.

“Presently another noise began – rather a comforting, familiar noise – the sound of sweeping and brushing, both on the stairs and in the room overhead. It seemed as if a housemaid were about, beginning the morning’s work, for by now I could see through a tiny space in the shutters that it was daylight. I called out once: ‘Is there anyone there?’ at which the noise of sweeping ceased, and a warning ‘Hush’ was breathed at me through the keyhole, close by my ear. After a time all these sounds stopped altogether. The sweeper passed my door again, and again went through the door at the end of the passage. This time it was closed with a snap of the lock, and then silence settled on the house. I don’t know how long I sat there without hearing a sound. I think I must have dozed. I know I began to feel so stiff and tired that fear seemed a secondary consideration, and I didn’t care what happened any more. Heaven knows how long he left me there, dozing and waking, perhaps for hours, perhaps for days. You know more about that than I do.

“It was after what seemed like a week that the storm began. It was that which definitely roused me from the sort of stupor into which I had fallen, and stirred me to rack my brains again for some means of escape. It was dreadfully hot in that little room; the atmosphere was close and stifling till it seemed to weigh one down with an unbearable oppression, and if it had not been for the glass I had broken – through which an occasional breath of air penetrated by way of a crack in the shutter – I suppose it would have been even worse than it was. From time to time I had been conscious of the distant rumbling of thunder, and hoped dimly that it would clear the air, for before the storm actually burst my head was like to split; and it was with a certain relief that I heard the first large drops of rain begin to fall. Soon afterwards there was a tremendous clap of thunder.

“I was appallingly hungry, and wondered if I were being purposely left to die of starvation. With a vague idea that I might find something edible I began feeling about again around the room and considering the possibility, if the worst came to the worst, of eating my shoes, as I had heard of starving men being forced to do. But I was not hungry enough for that yet, and besides I wasn’t sure if the soles of my satin slippers were of leather, or only papier mâché. On the table my fingers came across a stump of pencil, and that distracted my thoughts for a little while. I had to feel it all over before I was sure what it was; it was the point that made me almost certain, and I began at once to ask myself whether I could not by some means send a message to the outside world. I could think of no way of doing so, however, and even if I could have, I had nothing to write on. Then the idea came to me of writing on the wall. I thought to myself that if the man meant to play me false, at least I could leave a token of my presence, which possibly at some future day might lead to the punishment of these people. I knew there were pictures on the walls, and feeling my way to the fire-place I lifted up one hanging above it, so that by inserting my hand under the frame I could write on that part of the wallpaper which, as far as I could tell, lay behind.

“I had only written a few words, when the key was turned and the door opened. A rumbling of thunder had prevented my hearing the sound of approaching feet, and I had only just time to let the picture fall back into its place and to move a few steps away from the mantelpiece before the black-bearded man entered the room. Fortunately, the chair I had pushed against the door retarded its opening for a moment, or he would have seen what I was doing. ‘Come,’ he said, taking hold of my arm, ‘now is the time for you to escape to a place of safety.’

“Without further words he led me into the hall, and along it to the front door. Here we paused, while he opened it very cautiously and peered out. For my part, I was more nervous with regard to dangers that might lurk in the house behind us; but his inspection of the outside world seemed to satisfy him, for picking up, to my astonishment, a large garden spade that was leaning against the wall he opened the door wide and we passed through it together. I cannot tell you with what feelings of gladness and thankfulness I hastened down the steps and out into the street, nor with what joy I felt my unrestrained feet splashing into the puddles, and the free air of the night blow freshly on my face. We had gone some hundreds of yards and turned more than one corner before I dared speak. ‘What has happened to my friend?’ I then said; ‘has she escaped too?’ ‘She has gone,’ he answered evasively, and still quickened his pace till I was half running to keep up with him.

“It was wild weather to be abroad: the storm was still at its height and the flashes of lightning and the thunder claps succeeded each other with increasing frequency; rain was falling in torrents, the roads and pavements were like seething rivers, and the gutters ran a foot deep at the edge of the kerb, as I discovered by stepping into one when we crossed the street. There was not a soul to be seen except the black-cloaked figure of an occasional policeman, and whenever we approached one of these my companion gripped my arm more tightly, and wheeled away in a new direction. It was thus, with many turns and by circuitous routes, that we progressed on our way. And, though I asked more than once where we were going, not another word did I extract from the black-bearded man; and I soon fell the more readily into a like silence, as the rapid pace at which we walked left me little breath for speech.

“In this manner, and after we had hurried along for at least half an hour, we made our way into an enclosure, which I guessed to be Regent’s Park. The first elation caused by leaving the house where I had been imprisoned was wearing off and I had time to ask myself whither I was being led, receiving in reply no very comforting assurances. Was I being taken from one place of incarceration to another? I wondered, and at the thought I tried to shake off the hand that lay upon my arm. ‘If you will let me go now,’ I said timidly, ‘I shall be all right by myself. I shall never forget that you helped me to escape, but now, if you don’t mind, I – I had rather be alone.’ But I got no answer, nor did the clutch on my arm relax. In a fresh panic I made up my mind that the next time we saw a policeman I would scream for help.