The Seven Secrets

“Extraordinary!” he ejaculated. “I’ve never known of such a wound before. One would almost suspect an explosive bullet, if it were not for the clean incised wound on the exterior. The ribs seem grazed, yet the manner in which such a hurt has been inflicted is utterly unaccountable.”

“We have been unable to solve the enigma,” Dr. Farmer observed. “I was an army surgeon before I entered private practice, but I have never seen a similar case.”

“Nor have I,” responded Sir Bernard. “It is most puzzling.”

“Do you think that this knife could have been used?” I asked, handing my chief the weapon.

He looked at it, raised it in his hand as though to strike, felt its edge, and then shook his head, saying: “No, I think not. The instrument used was only sharp on one edge. This has both edges sharpened.”

It was a point we had overlooked, but at once we agreed with him, and abandoned our half-formed theory that the Indian dagger had caused the wound.

With Sir Bernard we made an examination of the tongue and other organs, in order to ascertain the progress of the disease from which the deceased had been suffering, but a detailed account of our discoveries can have no interest for the lay reader.

In a word, our conclusions were that the murdered man could easily have lived another year or more. The disease was not so advanced as we had believed. Sir Bernard had a patient to see in Grosvenor Square; therefore he left at about four o’clock, regretting that he had not time to call round at the neighbour’s and express his sympathy with the widow.

“Give her all my sympathies, poor young lady,” he said to me. “And tell her that I will call upon her to-morrow.” Then, after promising to attend the inquest and give evidence regarding the post-mortem, he shook hands with us both and left.

At eight o’clock that evening I was back in my own rooms in Harley Place, eating my dinner alone, when Ambler Jevons entered.

He was not as cheery as usual. He did not exclaim, as was his habit, “Well, my boy, how goes it? Whom have you killed to-day?” or some such grim pleasantry.

On the contrary, he came in with scarcely a word, threw his hat upon a side table, and sank into his usual arm chair with scarcely a word, save the question uttered in almost a growl:

“May I smoke?”

“Of course,” I said, continuing my meal. “Where have you been?”

“I left while you were cutting up the body,” he said. “I’ve been about a lot since then, and I’m a bit tired.”

“You look it. Have a drink?”

“No,” he responded, shaking his head. “I don’t drink when I’m bothered. This case is an absolute mystery.” And striking a match he lit his foul pipe and puffed away vigorously, staring straight into the fire the while.

“Well,” I asked, after a long silence. “What’s your opinion now?”

“I’ve none,” he answered, gloomily. “What’s yours?”

“Mine is that the mystery increases hourly.”

“What did you find at the cutting-up?”

In a few words I explained the unaccountable nature of the wound, drawing for him a rough diagram on the back of an old envelope, which I tossed over to where he sat.

He looked at it for a long time without speaking, then observed:

“H’m! Just as I thought. The police theory regarding that fellow Short and the knife is all a confounded myth. Depend upon it, Boyd, old chap, that gentleman is no fool. He’s tricked Thorpe finely – and with a motive, too.”

“What motive do you suspect?” I inquired, eagerly, for this was an entirely fresh theory.

“One that you’d call absurd if I were to tell it to you now. I’ll explain later on, when my suspicions are confirmed – as I feel sure they will be before long.”

“You’re mysterious, Ambler,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

“I have a reason, my dear chap,” was all the reply he vouchsafed. Then he puffed again vigorously at his pipe, and filled the room with clouds of choking smoke of a not particularly good brand of tobacco.

CHAPTER X.

WHICH PUZZLES THE DOCTORS

At the inquest held in the big upstair room of the Star and Garter Hotel at Kew Bridge there was a crowded attendance. By this time the public excitement had risen to fever-heat. It had by some unaccountable means leaked out that at the post-mortem we had been puzzled; therefore the mystery was much increased, and the papers that morning without exception gave prominence to the startling affair.

The coroner, seated at the table at the head of the room, took the usual formal evidence of identification, writing down the depositions upon separate sheets of blue foolscap.

Samuel Short was the first witness of importance, and those in the room listened breathlessly to the story of how his alarum clock had awakened him at two o’clock; how he had risen as usual and gone to his master’s room, only to discover him dead.

“You noticed no sign of a struggle?” inquired the coroner, looking sharply up at the witness.

“None, sir. My master was lying on his side, and except for the stain of blood which attracted my attention it looked as though he had died in his sleep.”

“And what did you do?”

“I raised the alarm,” answered Short; and then he went on to describe how he switched on the electric light, rushed downstairs, seized the knife hanging in the hall, opened one of the back doors and rushed outside.

“And why did you do that, pray?” asked the coroner, looking at him fixedly.

“I thought that someone might be lurking in the garden,” the man responded, a trifle lamely.

The solicitor of Mrs. Courtenay’s family, to whom she had sent asking him to be present on her behalf, rose at this juncture and addressing the coroner, said:

“I should like to put a question to the witness, sir. I represent the deceased’s family.”

“As you wish,” replied the coroner. “But do you consider such a course wise at this stage of the inquiry? There must be an adjournment.”

He understood the coroner’s objection and, acquiescing, sat down.

Nurse Kate and the cook were called, and afterwards Ethelwynn, who, dressed in black and wearing a veil, looked pale and fragile as she drew off her glove in order to take the oath.

As she stood there our eyes met for an instant; then she turned towards her questioner, bracing herself for the ordeal.

“When did you last see the deceased alive?” asked the coroner, after the usual formal inquiry as to her name and connection with the family.

“At ten o’clock in the evening. Dr. Boyd visited him, and found him much better. After the doctor had gone I went upstairs and found the nurse with him, giving him his medicine. He was still sitting before the fire.”

“Was he in his usual spirits?”

“Quite.”

“What was the character of your conversation with him? I understand that Mrs. Courtenay, your sister, was out at the time. Did he remark upon her absence?”

“Yes. He said it was a wet night, and he hoped she would not take cold, for she was so careless of herself.”

The coroner bent to his paper and wrote down her reply.

“And you did not see him alive again.”

“No.”

“You entered the room after he was dead, I presume?”

“No. I – I hadn’t the courage,” she faltered. “They told me that he was dead – that he had been stabbed to the heart.”

Again the coroner bent to his writing. What, I wondered, would those present think if I produced the little piece of stained chenille which I kept wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in my fusee-box?

To them it, of course, seemed quite natural that a delicate woman should hesitate to view a murdered man. But if they knew of my discovery they would detect that she was an admirable actress – that her horror of the dead was feigned, and that she was not telling the truth. I, who knew her countenance so well, saw even through her veil how agitated she was, and with what desperate resolve she was concealing the awful anxiety consuming her.

“One witness has told us that the deceased was very much afraid of burglars,” observed the coroner. “Had he ever spoken to you on the subject?”

“Often. At his country house some years ago a burglary was committed, and one of the burglars fired at him but missed. I think that unnerved him, for he always kept a loaded revolver in the drawer of a table beside his bed. In addition to this he had electrical contrivances attached to the windows, so as to ring an alarm.”

“But it appears they did not ring,” said the coroner, quickly.

“They were out of order, the servants tell me. The bells had been silent for a fortnight or so.”

“It seems probable, then, that the murderer knew of that,” remarked Dr. Diplock, again writing with his scratchy quill. Turning to the solicitor, he asked, “Have you any questions to put to the witness?”

“None,” was the response.

And then the woman whom I had loved so fervently and well, turned and re-seated herself. She glanced across at me. Did she read my thoughts?

Her glance was a glance of triumph.

Medical evidence was next taken, Sir Bernard Eyton being the first witness. He gave his opinion in his habitual sharp, snappy voice, terse and to the point.

In technical language he explained the disease from which his patient had been suffering, and then proceeded to describe the result of the post-mortem, how the wound inside was eight times larger than the exterior incision.

“That seems very remarkable!” exclaimed the coroner, himself a surgeon of no mean repute, laying down his pen and regarding the physician with interest suddenly aroused. “Have you ever seen a similar wound in your experience, Sir Bernard?”

“Never!” was the reply. “My friends, Doctor Boyd and Doctor Farmer, were with me, and we are agreed that it is utterly impossible that the cardiac injuries I have described could have been caused by the external wound.”

“Then how were they caused?” asked the coroner.

“I cannot tell.”

There was no cross-examination. I followed, merely corroborating what my chief had said. Then, after the police surgeon had given his evidence, Dr. Diplock turned to the twelve Kew tradesmen who had been “summoned and sworn” as jurymen, and addressing them said:

“I think, gentlemen, you have heard sufficient to show you that this is a more than usually serious case. There are certain elements both extraordinary and mysterious, and that being so I would suggest an adjournment, in order that the police should be enabled to make further enquiries into the matter. The deceased was a gentleman whose philanthropy was probably well known to you all, and we must all therefore regret that he should have come to such a sudden and tragic end. You may, of course, come to a verdict to-day if you wish, but I would strongly urge an adjournment – until, say, this day week.”

The jury conferred for a few moments, and after some whispering the foreman, a grocer at Kew Bridge, announced that his fellow jurymen acquiesced in the coroner’s suggestion, and the public rose and slowly left, more puzzled than ever.

Ambler Jevons had been present, sitting at the back of the room, and in order to avoid the others we lunched together at an obscure public-house in Brentford, on the opposite side of the Thames to Kew Gardens. It was the only place we could discover, save the hotel where the inquest had been held, and we had no desire to be interrupted, for during the inquiry he had passed me a scrap of paper upon which he had written an earnest request to see me alone afterwards.

Therefore when I had put Ethelwynn into a cab, and had bade farewell to Sir Bernard and received certain private instructions from him, we walked together into the narrow, rather dirty High Street of Brentford, the county town of Middlesex.

The inn we entered was close to a soap works, the odour from which was not conducive to a good appetite, but we obtained a room to ourselves and ate our meal of cold beef almost in silence.

“I was up early this morning,” Ambler observed at last. “I was at Kew at eight o’clock.”

“Why?”

“In the night an idea struck me, and when such ideas occur I always seek to put them promptly into action.”

“What was the idea?” I asked.

“I thought about that safe in the old man’s bedroom,” he replied, laying down his knife and fork and looking at me.

“What about it? There’s surely nothing extraordinary in a man having a safe in his room?”

“No. But there’s something extraordinary in the key of that safe being missing,” he said. “Thorpe has apparently overlooked the point; therefore this morning I went down to Kew, and finding only a constable in charge, I made a thorough search through the place. In the dead man’s room I naturally expected to find it, and after nearly a couple of hours searching in every nook and every crack I succeeded. It was hidden in the mould of a small pot-fern, standing in the corridor outside the room.”

“You examined the safe, then?”

“No, I didn’t. There might be money and valuables within, and I had no right to open it without the presence of a witness. I’ve waited for you to accompany me. We’ll go there after luncheon and examine its contents.”

“But the executors might have something to say regarding such an action,” I remarked.

“Executors be hanged! I saw them this morning, a couple of dry-as-dust old fossils – city men, I believe, who only think of house property and dividends. Our duty is to solve this mystery. The executors can have their turn, old chap, when we’ve finished. At present they haven’t the key, or any notion where it is. One of them mentioned it, and said he supposed it was in the widow’s possession.”

“Well,” I remarked, “I must say that I don’t half like the idea of turning out a safe without the presence of the executors.”

“Police enquiries come before executors’re inventories,” he replied. “They’ll get their innings all in good time. The house is, at present, in the occupation of the police, and nobody therefore can disturb us.”

“Have you told Thorpe?”

“No. He’s gone up to Scotland Yard to make his report. He’ll probably be down again this afternoon. Let’s finish, and take the ferry across.”

Thus persuaded I drained my ale, and together we went down to the ferry, landing at Kew Gardens, and crossing them until we emerged by the Unicorn Gate, almost opposite the house.

There were loiterers still outside, men, women, and children, who lounged in the vicinity, staring blankly up at the drawn blinds. A constable in uniform admitted us. He had his lunch, a pot of beer and some bread and cheese which his wife had probably brought him, on the dining-room table, and we had disturbed him with his mouth full.

He was the same man whom Ambler Jevons had seen in the morning, and as we entered he saluted, saying:

“Inspector Thorpe has left a message for you, sir. He’ll be back from the Yard about half-past three, and would very much like to see you.”

“Do you know why he wants to see me?”

“It appears, sir, that one of the witnesses who gave evidence this morning is missing.”

“Missing!” he cried, pricking up his ears. “Who’s missing?”

“The manservant, sir. My sergeant told me an hour ago that as soon as the man had given evidence he went out, and was seen hurrying towards Gunnersbury Station. They believe he’s absconded.”

I exchanged significant glances with my companion, but neither of us uttered a word. Ambler gave vent to his habitual grunt of dissatisfaction, and then led the way upstairs.

The body had been removed from the room in which it had been found, and the bed was dismantled. When inside the apartment, he turned to me calmly, saying:

“There seems something in Thorpe’s theory regarding that fellow Short, after all.”

“If he has really absconded, it is an admission of guilt,” I remarked.

“Most certainly,” he replied. “It’s a suspicious circumstance, in any case, that he did not remain until the conclusion of the inquiry.”

We pulled the chest of drawers, a beautiful piece of old Sheraton, away from the door of the safe, and before placing the key in the lock my companion examined the exterior minutely. The key was partly rusted, and appeared as though it had not been used for many months.

Could it be that the assassin was in search of that key and had been unsuccessful?

He showed me the artful manner in which it had been concealed. The small hardy fern had been rooted up and stuck back again heedlessly into its pot. Certainly no one would ever have thought to search for a safe-key there. The dampness of the mould had caused the rust, hence before we could open the iron door we were compelled to oil the key with some brilliantine which was discovered on the dead man’s dressing table.

The interior, we found, was a kind of small strong-room – built of fire-brick, and lined with steel. It was filled with papers of all kinds neatly arranged.

We drew up a table, and the first packet my friend handed out was a substantial one of five pound notes, secured by an elastic band, beneath which was a slip on which the amount was pencilled. Securities of various sorts followed, and then large packets of parchment deeds which, on examination, we found related to his Devonshire property and his farms in Canada.

“Here’s something!” cried Ambler at length, tossing across to me a small packet methodically tied with pink tape. “The old boy’s love-letters – by the look of them.”

I undid the loop eagerly, and opened the first letter. It was in a feminine hand, and proved a curious, almost unintelligible communication.

I glanced at the signature. My heart ceased its beating, and a sudden cry involuntarily escaped me, although next moment I saw that by it I had betrayed myself, for Ambler Jevons sprang to my side in an instant.

But next instant I covered the signature with my hand, grasped the packet swift as thought, and turned upon him defiantly, without uttering a word.

CHAPTER XI.

CONCERNS MY PRIVATE AFFAIRS

“What have you found there?” inquired Ambler Jevons, quickly interested, and yet surprised at my determination to conceal it from him.

“Something that concerns me,” I replied briefly.

“Concerns you?” he ejaculated. “I don’t understand. How can anything among the old man’s private papers concern you?”

“This concerns me personally,” I answered. “Surely that is sufficient explanation.”

“No,” my friend said. “Forgive me, Ralph, for speaking quite plainly, but in this affair we are both working towards the same end – namely, to elucidate the mystery. We cannot hope for success if you are bent upon concealing your discoveries from me.”

“This is a private affair of my own,” I declared doggedly. “What I have found only concerns myself.”

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of distinct dissatisfaction.

“Even if it is a purely private matter we are surely good friends enough to be cognisant of one another’s secrets,” he remarked.

“Of course,” I replied dubiously. “But only up to a certain point.”

“Then, in other words, you imply that you can’t trust me?”

“I can trust you, Ambler,” I answered calmly. “We are the best of friends, and I hope we shall always be so. Will you not forgive me for refusing to show you these letters?”

“I only ask you one question. Have they anything to do with the matter we are investigating?”

I hesitated. With his quick perception he saw that a lie was not ready upon my lips.

“They have. Your silence tells me so. In that case it is your duty to show me them,” he said, quietly.

I protested again, but he overwhelmed my arguments. In common fairness to him I ought not, I knew, keep back the truth. And yet it was the greatest and most terrible blow that had ever fallen upon me. He saw that I was crushed and stammering, and he stood by me wondering.

“Forgive me, Ambler,” I urged again. “When you have read this letter you will fully understand why I have endeavoured to conceal it from you; why, if you were not present here at this moment, I would burn them all and not leave a trace behind.”

Then I handed it to him.

He took it eagerly, skimmed it through, and started just as I had started when he saw the signature. Upon his face was a blank expression, and he returned it to me without a word.

“Well?” I asked. “What is your opinion?”

“My opinion is the same as your own, Ralph, old fellow,” he answered slowly, looking me straight in the face. “It is amazing – startling – tragic.”

“You think, then, that the motive of the crime was jealousy?”

“The letter makes it quite plain,” he answered huskily. “Give me the others. Let me examine them. I know how severe this blow must be to you, old fellow,” he added, sympathetically.

“Yes, it has staggered me,” I stammered. “I’m utterly dumfounded by the unexpected revelation!” and I handed him the packet of correspondence, which he placed upon the table, and, seating himself, commenced eagerly to examine letter after letter.

While he was thus engaged I took up the first letter, and read it through – right to the bitter end.

It was apparently the last of a long correspondence, for all the letters were arranged chronologically, and this was the last of the packet. Written from Neneford Manor, Northamptonshire, and vaguely dated “Wednesday,” as is a woman’s habit, it was addressed to Mr. Courtenay, and ran as follows: —

“Words cannot express my contempt for a man who breaks his word as easily as you break yours. A year ago, when you were my father’s guest, you told me that you loved me, and urged me to marry you. At first I laughed at your proposal; then when I found you really serious, I pointed out the difference of our ages. You, in return, declared that you loved me with all the ardour of a young man; that I was your ideal; and you promised, by all you held most sacred, that if I consented I should never regret. I believed you, and believed the false words of feigned devotion which you wrote to me later under seal of strictest secrecy. You went to Cairo, and none knew of our secret – the secret that you intended to make me your wife. And how have you kept your promise? To-day my father has informed me that you are to marry Mary! Imagine the blow to me! My father expects me to rejoice, little dreaming how I have been fooled; how lightly you have treated a woman’s affections and aspirations. Some there are who, finding themselves in my position, would place in Mary’s hands the packet of your correspondence which is before me as I write, and thus open her eyes to the fact that she is but the dupe of a man devoid of honour. Shall I do so? No. Rest assured that I shall not. If my sister is happy, let her remain so. My vendetta lies not in that direction. The fire of hatred may be stifled, but it can never be quenched. We shall be quits some day, and you will regret bitterly that you have broken your word so lightly. My revenge – the vengeance of a jealous woman – will fall upon you at a moment and in a manner you will little dream of. I return you your letters, as you may not care for them to fall into other hands, and from to-day I shall never again refer to what has passed. I am young, and may still obtain an upright and honourable man as husband. You are old, and are tottering slowly to your doom. Farewell.

“Ethelwynn Mivart.”

The letter fully explained a circumstance of which I had been entirely ignorant, namely, that the woman I had loved had actually been engaged to old Mr. Courtenay before her sister had married him. Its tenor showed how intensely antagonistic she was towards the man who had fooled her, and in the concluding sentence there was a distinct if covert threat – a threat of bitter revenge.

She had returned the old man’s letters apparently in order to show that in her hand she held a further and more powerful weapon; she had not sought to break off his marriage with Mary, but had rather stood by, swallowed her anger, and calmly calculated upon a fierce vendetta at a moment when he would least expect it.

Truly those startling words spoken by Sir Bernard had been full of truth. I remembered them now, and discerned his meaning. He was at least an honest upright man who, although sometimes a trifle eccentric, had my interests deeply at heart. In the progress I had made in my profession I owed much to him, and even in my private affairs he had sought to guide me, although I had, alas! disregarded his repeated warnings.

I took up one after another of the letters my friend had examined, and found them to be the correspondence of a woman who was either angling after a wealthy husband, or who loved him with all the strength of her affection. Some of the communications were full of passion, and betrayed that poetry of soul that was innate in her. The letters were dated from Neneford, from Oban, and from various Mediterranean ports, where she had gone yachting with her uncle, Sir Thomas Heaton, the great Lancashire coal-owner. Sometimes she addressed him as “Dearest,” at others as “Beloved,” usually signing herself “Your Own.” So full were they of the ardent passion characteristic of her that they held me in amazement. It was passion developed under its most profound and serious aspects; they showed the calm and thoughtful, not the brilliant side of intellect.