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1WELL, you know, some say she is the daughter of a duke, others that she was born in the gutter, and that the handle has been soldered on to her name in order to give her style and influence. I could say a lot, of course, but "my lips are sealed," as the poets say. All through her successful career at the Yard she honoured me with her friendship and confidence, but when she took me in partnership, as it were, she made me promise that I would never breathe a word of her private life, and this I swore on my Bible oath--"wish I may die," and all the rest of it. Yes, we always called her "my lady," from the moment that she was put at the head of our section; and the chief called her "Lady Molly" in our presence. We of the Female Department are dreadfully snubbed by the men, though don't tell me that women have not ten times as much intuition as the blundering and sterner sex; my firm belief is that we shouldn't have half so many undetected crimes if some of the so-called mysteries were put to the test of feminine investigation. Do you suppose for a moment, for instance, that the truth about that extraordinary case at Ninescore would ever have come to light if the men alone had had the handling of it? Would any man have taken so bold a risk as Lady Molly did when---- But I am anticipating. Let me go back to that memorable morning when she came into my room in a wild state of agitation. "The chief says I may go down to Ninescore if I like, Mary," she said, in a voice all a-quiver with excitement. "You!" I ejaculated. "What for?" "What for--what for?" she repeated eagerly. "Mary, don't you understand? It is the chance I have been waiting for--the chance of a lifetime? They are all desperate about the case up at the Yard; the public is furious, and columns of sarcastic letters appear in the daily press. None of our men know what to do; they are at their wits' end, and so this morning I went to the chief----" "Yes?" I queried eagerly, for she had suddenly ceased speaking. "Well, never mind now how I did it--I will tell you all about it on the way, for we have just got time to catch the 11 a.m. down to Canterbury. The chief says I may go, and that I may take whom I like with me. He suggested one of the men, but somehow I feel that this is woman's work, and I'd rather have you, Mary, than anyone. We will go over the preliminaries of the case together in the train, as I don't suppose that you have got them at your fingers' ends yet, and you have only just got time to put a few things together and meet me at Charing Cross booking-office in time for that 11.0 sharp." She was off before I could ask her any more questions, and anyhow, I was too flabbergasted to say much. A murder case in the hands of the Female Department! Such a thing had been unheard of until now. But I was all excitement, too, and you may be sure I was at the station in good time. Fortunately, Lady Molly and I had a carriage to ourselves. It was a non-stop run to Canterbury, so we had plenty of time before us, and I was longing to know all about this case, you bet, since I was to have the honour of helping Lady Molly in it. The murder of Mary Nicholls had actually been committed at Ash Court, a fine old mansion which stands in the village of Ninescore. The Court is surrounded by magnificently timbered grounds, the most fascinating portion of which is an island in the midst of a small pond, which is spanned by a tiny rustic bridge. The island is called "The Wilderness," and is at the furthermost end of the grounds, out of sight and earshot of the mansion itself. It was in this charming spot, on the edge of the pond, that the body of a girl was found on the 5th of February last. I will spare you the horrible details of this gruesome discovery. Suffice it to say for the present that the unfortunate woman was lying on her face, with the lower portion of her body on the small, grass-covered embankment, and her head, arms, and shoulders sunk in the slime of the stagnant water just below. It was Timothy Coleman, one of the under-gardeners at Ash Court, who first made this appalling discovery. He had crossed the rustic bridge and traversed the little island in its entirety, when he noticed something blue lying half in and half out of the water beyond. Timothy is a stolid, unemotional kind of yokel, and, once having ascertained that the object was a woman's body in a blue dress with white facings, he quietly stooped and tried to lift it out of the mud. But here even his stolidity gave way at the
terrible sight which was revealed before him. That the
woman-- Well, whatever was necessary was immediately
done, of course. Coleman went to get assistance from the
lodge, and soon the police were on the scene and had removed
the unfortunate victim's remains to the small local
police-station.
Ninescore is a sleepy, out-of-the-way
village, situated some seven miles from Canterbury and four
from Sandwich. Soon everyone in the place had heard that a
terrible murder had been committed in the village, and all
the details were already freely discussed at the Green Man.
To begin with, everyone said that though the
body itself might be practically unrecognizable, the bright
blue serge dress with the white facings was unmistakable, as
were the pearl and ruby ring and the red leather purse found
by Inspector Meisures close to the murdered woman's hand.
Within two hours of Timothy Coleman's
gruesome find the identity of the unfortunate victim was
firmly established as that of Mary Nicholls, who lived with
her sister Susan at 2, Elm Cottages, in Ninescore Lane,
almost opposite Ash Court. It was also known that when the
police called at that address they found the place locked
and apparently uninhabited.
Mrs. Hooker, who lived at No. 1 next door,
explained to Inspector Meisures that Susan and Mary Nicholls
had left home about a fortnight ago, and that she had not
seen them since.
"It'll be a fortnight to-morrow,"
she said. "I was just inside my own front door
a-calling to the cat to come in. It was past seven o'clock,
and as dark a night as ever you did see. You could hardly
see your 'and afore your eyes, and there was a nasty damp
drizzle comin' from everywhere. Susan and Mary come out of
their cottage; I couldn't rightly see Susan, but I 'eard
Mary's voice quite distinck. She says: 'We'll have to
'urry,' says she. I, thinkin' they might be goin' to do some
shoppin' in the village, calls out to them that I'd just
'eard the church clock strike seven, and that bein'
Thursday, and early closin', they'd find all the shops shut
at Ninescore. But they took no notice, and walked off
towards the village, and that's the last I ever seed o' them
two."
Further questioning among the village folk
brought forth many curious details. It seems that Mary
Nicholls was a very flighty young woman, about whom there
had already been quite a good deal of scandal, whilst Susan,
on the other hand--who was very sober and steady in her
conduct--had chafed considerably under her younger sister's
questionable reputation, and, according to Mrs. Hooker, many
were the bitter quarrels which occurred between the two
girls. These quarrels, it seems, had been especially violent
within the last year whenever Mr. Lionel Lydgate called at
the cottage. He was a London gentleman, it appears--a young
man about town, it afterwards transpired--but he frequently
stayed at Canterbury, where he had some friends, and on
those occasions he would come over to Ninescore in his smart
dogcart and take Mary out for drives.
Mr. Lydgate is brother to Lord Edbrooke, the
multi-millionaire, who was the recipient of birthday honours
last year. His lordship resides at Edbrooke Castle, but he
and his brother Lionel had rented Ash Court once or twice,
as both were keen golfers and Sandwich Links are very close
by. Lord Edbrooke, I may add, is a married man. Mr. Lionel
Lydgate, on the other hand, is just engaged to Miss Marbury,
daughter of one of the canons of Canterbury.
No wonder, therefore, that Susan Nicholls
strongly objected to her sister's name being still coupled
with that of a young man far above her in station, who,
moreover, was about to marry a young lady in his own rank of
life.
But Mary seemed not to care. She was a young
woman who only liked fun and pleasure, and she shrugged her
shoulders at public opinion, even though there were ugly
rumours anent the parentage of a little baby girl whom she
herself had placed under the care of Mrs. Williams, a widow
who lived in a somewhat isolated cottage on the Canterbury
road. Mary had told Mrs. Williams that the father of the
child, who was her own brother, had died very suddenly,
leaving the little one on her and Susan's hands; and, as
they couldn't look after it properly, they wished Mrs.
Williams to have charge of it. To this the latter readily
agreed.
The sum for the keep of the infant was
decided upon, and thereafter Mary Nicholls had come every
week to see the little girl, and always brought the money
with her.
Inspector Meisures called on Mrs. Williams,
and certainly the worthy widow had a very startling sequel
to relate to the above story.
"A fortnight to-morrow," explained
Mrs. Williams to the inspector, "a little after seven
o'clock, Mary Nicholls come runnin' into my cottage. It was
an awful night, pitch dark and a nasty drizzle. Mary says to
me she's in a great hurry; she is goin' up to London by a
train from Canterbury and wants to say good-bye to the
child. She seemed terribly excited, and her clothes were
very wet. I brings baby to her, and she kisses it rather
wild-like and says to me: 'You'll take great care of her,
Mrs. Williams,' she says; 'I may be gone some time.' Then
she puts baby down and gives me £2, the child's keep
for eight weeks."
After which, it appears, Mary once more said
"good-bye" and ran out of the cottage, Mrs.
Williams going as far as the front door with her. The night
was very dark, and she couldn't see if Mary was alone or
not, until presently she heard her voice saying tearfully:
"I had to kiss baby----" then the
voice died out in the distance "on the way to
Canterbury," Mrs. Williams said, most emphatically.
So far, you see, Inspector Meisures was able
to fix the departure of the two sisters Nicholls from
Ninescore on the night of January 23rd. Obviously they left
their cottage about seven, went to Mrs. Williams, where
Susan remained outside while Mary went in to say good-bye to
the child.
After that all traces of them seem to have
vanished. Whether they did go to Canterbury, and caught the
last up train, at what station they alighted, or when poor
Mary came back, could not at present be discovered.
According to the medical officer, the
unfortunate girl must have been dead twelve or thirteen days
at the very least, as, though the stagnant water may have
accelerated decomposition, the head could not have got into
such an advanced state much under a fortnight.
At Canterbury station neither the
booking-clerk nor the porters could throw any light upon the
subject. Canterbury West is a busy station, and scores of
passengers buy tickets and go through the barriers every
day. It was impossible, therefore, to give any positive
information about two young women who may or may not have
travelled by the last up train on January 23rd--that is, a
fortnight before.
One thing only was certain--whether Susan
went to Canterbury and travelled by that up train or not,
alone or with her sister--Mary had undoubtedly come back to
Ninescore either the same night or the following day, since
Timothy Coleman found her half-decomposed remains in the
grounds of Ash Court a fortnight later.
Had she come back to meet her lover, or what?
And where was Susan now?
From the first, therefore, you see, there was
a great element of mystery about the whole case, and it was
only natural that the local police should feel that, unless
something more definite came out at the inquest, they would
like to have the assistance of some of the fellows at the
Yard
So the preliminary notes were sent up to
London, and some of them drifted into our hands. Lady Molly
was deeply interested in it from the first, and my firm
belief is that she simply worried the chief into allowing
her to go down to Ninescore and see what she could do
AT first it was understood that Lady
Molly should only go down to Canterbury after the inquest,
if the local police still felt that they were in want of
assistance from London. But nothing was farther from my
lady's intentions than to wait until then.
"I was not going to miss the first act
of a romantic drama," she said to me just as our train
steamed into Canterbury Station. "Pick up your bag,
Mary. We're going to tramp it to Ninescore--two lady artists
on a sketching tour, remember--and we'll find lodging in the
village, I dare say."
We had some lunch in Canterbury, and then we
started to walk the six and a half miles to Ninescore,
carrying our bags. We put up at one of the cottages where
the legend "Apartments for single, respectable lady or
gentleman "had hospitably invited us to enter, and at
eight o'clock the next morning we found our way to the local
police-station, where the inquest was to take place. Such a
funny little place, you know--just a cottage converted for
official use--and the small room packed to its utmost
holding capacity. The entire able-bodied population of the
neighbourhood had, I verily believe, congregated in these
ten cubic yards of stuffy atmosphere.
Inspector Meisures, apprized by the chief of
our arrival, had reserved two good places for us well in
sight of witnesses, coroner and jury. The room was
insupportably close, but I assure you that neither Lady
Molly nor I thought much about our comfort then. We were
terribly interested.
From the outset the case seemed, as it were,
to wrap itself more and more in its mantle of impenetrable
mystery. There was precious little in the way of clues, only
that awful intuition, that dark, unspoken suspicion with
regard to one particular man's guilt, which one could feel
hovering in the minds of all those present.
Neither the police nor Timothy Coleman had
anything to add to what was already known. The ring and
purse were produced, also the dress worn by the murdered
woman. All were sworn to by several of the witnesses as
having been the property of Mary Nicholls.
Timothy, on being closely questioned, said
that, in his opinion, the girl's body had been pushed into
the mud, as the head was absolutely embedded in it, and he
didn't see how she could have fallen like that.
Medical evidence was repeated; it was as
uncertain--as vague--as before. Owing to the state of the
head and neck it was impossible to ascertain by what means
the death blow had been dealt. The doctor repeated his
statement that the unfortunate girl must have been dead
quite a fortnight. The body was discovered on February
5th--a fortnight before that would have been on or about
January 23rd.
The caretaker who lived at the lodge at Ash
Court could also throw but little light on the mysterious
event. Neither he nor any member of his family had seen or
heard anything to arouse their suspicions. Against that he
explained that "The Wilderness," where the murder
was committed, is situated some 200 yards from the lodge,
with the mansion and flower garden lying between. Replying
to a question put to him by a juryman, he said that that
portion of the grounds is only divided off from Ninescore
Lane by a low brick wall, which has a door in it, opening
into the lane almost opposite Elm Cottages. He added that
the mansion had been empty for over a year, and that he
succeeded the last man, who died, about twelve months ago.
Mr. Lydgate had not been down for golf since witness had
been in charge.
It would be useless to recapitulate all that
the various witnesses had already told the police, and were
now prepared to swear to. The private life of the two
sisters Nicholls was gone into at full length, as much, at
least, as was publicly known. But you know what village folk
are; except when there is a bit of scandal and gossip, they
know precious little of one another's inner lives.
The two girls appeared to be very comfortably
off. Mary was always smartly dressed; and the baby girl,
whom she had placed in Mrs. Williams's charge, had plenty of
good and expensive clothes, whilst her keep, 5s. a week, was
paid with unfailing regularity. What seemed certain,
however, was that they did not get on well together, that
Susan violently objected to Mary's association with Mr.
Lydgate, and that recently she had spoken to the vicar
asking him to try to persuade her sister to go away from
Ninescore altogether, so as to break entirely with the past.
The Reverend Octavius Ludlow, Vicar of Ninescore, seems
thereupon to have had a little talk with Mary on the
subject, suggesting that she should accept a good situation
in London.
"But," continued the reverend
gentleman, "I didn't make much impression on her. All
she replied to me was that she certainly need never go into
service, as she had a good income of her own, and could
obtain £5,000 or more quite easily at any time if she
chose."
"Did you mention Mr. Lydgate's name to
her at all?" asked the coroner.
"Yes, I did," said the vicar, after
a slight hesitation.
"Well, what was her attitude then?"
"I am afraid she laughed," replied
the Reverend Octavius, primly, "and said very
picturesquely, if somewhat ungrammatically, that 'some folks
didn't know what they was talkin' about.'"
All very indefinite, you see. Nothing to get
hold of, no motive suggested-- I am alluding, firstly, to the deposition of
James Franklin, a carter in the employ of one of the local
farmers. This man stated that about half-past six on that
same night, January 23rd, he was walking along Ninescore
Lane leading his horse and cart, as the night was indeed
pitch dark. Just as he came somewhere near Elm Cottages he
heard a man's voice saying, in a kind of hoarse whisper:
"Open the door, can't you? It's as dark
as blazes!"
Then a pause, after which the same voice
added:
"Mary, where the dickens are you?"
Whereupon a girl's voice replied: "All right, I'm
coming."
James Franklin heard nothing more after that,
nor did he see anyone in the gloom.
With the stolidity peculiar to the Kentish
peasantry, he thought no more of this until the day when he
heard that Mary Nicholls had been murdered; then he
voluntarily came forward and told his story to the police.
Now, when he was closely questioned, he was quite unable to
say whether these voices proceeded from that side of the
lane where stand Elm Cottages, or from the other side, which
is edged by the low brick wall.
Finally, Inspector Meisures, who really
showed an extraordinary sense of what was dramatic, here
produced a document which he had reserved for the last. This
was a piece of paper which he had found in the red leather
purse already mentioned, and which at first had not been
thought very important, as the writing was identified by
several people as that of the deceased, and consisted merely
of a series of dates and hours scribbled in pencil on a
scrap of notepaper. But suddenly these dates had assumed a
weird and terrible significance: two of them, at
least--December 26th and January 1st followed by "10
a.m."--were days on which Mr. Lydgate came over to
Ninescore and took Mary for drives. One or two witnesses
swore to this positively. Both dates had been local meets of
the harriers, to which other folk from the village had gone,
and Mary had openly said afterwards how much she had enjoyed
these.
The other dates (there were six altogether)
were more or less vague. One Mrs. Hooker remembered as being
coincident with a day Mary Nicholls had spent away from
home; but the last date, scribbled in the same handwriting,
was January 23rd, and below it the hour--6 p.m.
The coroner now adjourned the inquest. An
explanation from Mr. Lionel Lydgate had become imperative.
PUBLIC excitement had by now reached
a very high pitch; it was no longer a case of mere local
interest. The country inns all round the immediate
neighbourhood were packed with visitors from London,
artists, journalists, dramatists, and actor-managers, whilst
the hotels and fly-proprietors of Canterbury were doing a
roaring trade.
Certain facts and one vivid picture stood out
clearly before the thoughtful mind in the midst of a chaos
of conflicting and irrelevant evidence: the picture was that
of the two women tramping in the wet and pitch dark night
towards Canterbury. Beyond that everything was a blur.
When did Mary Nicholls come back to
Ninescore, and why?
To keep an appointment made with Lionel
Lydgate, it was openly whispered; but that appointment--if
the rough notes were interpreted rightly--was for the very
day on which she and her sister went away from home. A man's
voice called to her at half-past six certainly, and she
replied to it. Franklin, the carter, heard her; but half an
hour afterwards Mrs. Hooker heard her voice when she left
home with her sister, and she visited Mrs. Williams after
that.
The only theory compatible with all this was,
of course, that Mary merely accompanied Susan part of the
way to Canterbury, then went back to meet her lover, who
enticed her into the deserted grounds of Ash Court, and
there murdered her.
The motive was not far to seek. Mr. Lionel
Lydgate, about to marry, wished to silence for ever a voice
that threatened to be unpleasantly persistent in its demands
for money and in its threats of scandal.
But there was one great argument against that
theory--the disappearance of Susan Nicholls. She had been
extensively advertised for. The murder of her sister was
published broadcast in every newspaper in the United
Kingdom--she could not be ignorant of it. And, above all,
she hated Mr. Lydgate. Why did she not come and add the
weight of her testimony against him if, indeed, he was
guilty?
And if Mr. Lydgate was innocent, then where
was the criminal? And why had Susan Nicholls disappeared?
Why? why? why?
Well, the next day would show. Mr. Lionel
Lydgate had been cited by the police to give evidence at the
adjourned inquest.
Good-looking, very athletic, and obviously
frightfully upset and nervous, he entered the little
court-room, accompanied by his solicitor, just before the
coroner and jury took their seats.
He looked keenly at Lady Molly as he sat
down, and from the expression of his face I guessed that he
was much puzzled to know who she was.
He was the first witness called. Manfully and
clearly he gave a concise account of his association with
the deceased.
"She was pretty and amusing," he
said. "I liked to take her out when I was in the
neighbourhood; it was no trouble to me. There was no harm in
her, whatever the village gossips might say. I know she had
been in trouble, as they say, but that had nothing to do
with me. It wasn't for me to be hard on a girl, and I fancy
that she has been very badly treated by some
scoundrel."
Here he was hard pressed by the coroner, who
wished him to explain what he meant. But Mr. Lydgate turned
obstinate, and to every leading question he replied stolidly
and very emphatically:
"I don't know who it was. It had nothing
to do with me, but I was sorry for the girl because of
everyone turning against her, including her sister, and I
tried to give her a little pleasure when I could."
That was all right. Very sympathetically
told. The public quite liked this pleasing specimen of
English cricket, golf and football-loving manhood.
Subsequently Mr. Lydgate admitted meeting Mary on December
26th and January 1st, but he swore most emphatically that
that was the last he ever saw of her.
"But the 23rd of January," here
insinuated the coroner; "you made an appointment with
the deceased then?"
"Certainly not," he replied.
"But you met her on that day?"
"Most emphatically no," he replied,
quietly. "I went down to Edbrooke Castle, my brother's
place in Lincolnshire, on the 20th of last month, and only
got back to town about three days ago."
"You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?"
asked the coroner.
"I do, indeed, and there are a score of
witnesses to bear me out. The family, the house-party, the
servants."
He tried to dominate his own excitement. I
suppose, poor man, he had only just realized that certain
horrible suspicions had been resting upon him. His solicitor
pacified him, and presently he sat down, whilst I must say
that everyone there present was relieved at the thought that
the handsome young athlete was not a murderer, after all. To
look at him it certainly seemed preposterous.
But then, of course, there was the deadlock,
and as there were no more witnesses to be heard, no new
facts to elucidate, the jury returned the usual verdict
against some person or persons unknown; and we, the keenly
interested spectators, were left to face the problem--Who
murdered Mary Nicholls, and where was her sister, Susan?
AFTER the verdict we found our way
back to our lodgings. Lady Molly tramped along silently,
with that deep furrow between her brows which I knew meant
that she was deep in thought.
"Now we'll have some tea," I said,
with a sigh of relief, as soon as we entered the cottage
door.
"No, you won't," replied my lady,
dryly. "I am going to write out a telegram, and we'll
go straight on to Canterbury and send it from there."
"To Canterbury!" I gasped.
"Two hours' walk at least, for I don't suppose we can
get a trap, and it is past three o'clock. Why not send your
telegram from Ninescore?"
"Mary, you are stupid," was all the
reply I got.
She wrote out two telegrams--one of which was
at least three dozen words long--and, once more calling to
me to come along, we set out for Canterbury.
I was tea-less, cross, and puzzled. Lady
Molly was alert, cheerful, and irritatingly active.
We reached the first telegraph office a
little before five. My lady sent the telegram without
condescending to tell me anything of its destination or
contents; then she took me to the Castle Hotel and
graciously offered me tea.
"May I be allowed to inquire whether you
propose tramping back to Ninescore to-night?" I asked,
with a slight touch of sarcasm, as I really felt put out.
"No, Mary," she replied, quietly
munching a bit of Sally Lunn; "I have engaged a couple
of rooms at this hotel and wired the chief that any message
will find us here to-morrow morning."
After that there was nothing for it but
quietude, patience, and finally supper and bed.
The next morning my lady walked into my room
before I had finished dressing. She had a newspaper in her
hand, and threw it down on the bed as she said, calmly:--
"It was in the evening paper all right
last night. think we shall be in time."
No use asking her what "it" meant.
It was easier to pick up the paper, which I did. It was a
late edition of one of the leading London evening shockers,
and at once the front page, with its startling headline,
attracted my attention:--
MARY
NICHOLLS'S
BABY DYING
Then, below that, a short paragraph:--
"What does this mean?" I gasped.
But before she could reply there was a knock
at the door.
"A telegram for Miss Granard," said
the voice of the hall porter.
"Quick, Mary," said Lady Molly
eagerly. "I told the chief and also Meisures to wire
here and to you." The telegram turned out to have come
from Ninescore, and was signed "Meisures." Lady
Molly read it out aloud:--
"Mary Nicholls arrived here this
morning. Detained her at station. Come at once."
"Mary Nicholls! I don't
understand," was all I could contrive to say.
But she only replied:
"I knew it! I knew it! Oh, Mary, what a
wonderful thing is human nature, and how I thank Heaven that
gave me a knowledge of it!"
She made me get dressed all in a hurry, and
then we swallowed some breakfast hastily whilst a fly was
being got for us. I had perforce to satisfy my curiosity
from my own inner consciousness. Lady Molly was too absorbed
to take any notice of me. Evidently the chief knew what she
had done and approved of it; the telegram from Meisures
pointed to that.
My lady had suddenly become a personality.
Dressed very quietly, and in a smart close-fitting hat, she
looked years older than her age, owing also to the
seriousness of her mien.
The fly took us to Ninescore fairly quickly.
At the little police station we found Meisures awaiting us.
He had Elliott and Pegram from the Yard with him. They had
obviously got their orders, for all three of them were
mighty deferential.
"The woman is Mary Nicholls right
enough," said Meisures, as Lady Molly brushed quickly
past him, "the woman who was supposed to have been
murdered. It's that silly bogus paragraph about the infant
brought her out of her hiding-place. I wonder how it got
in," he added, blandly; "the child is well
enough."
"I wonder," said Lady Molly, whilst
a smile--the first I had seen that morning--lit up her
pretty face.
"I suppose the other sister will turn
up, too, presently," rejoined Elliott. "Pretty lot
of trouble we shall have now. If Mary Nicholls is alive and
kickin', who was murdered at Ash Court, say I?"
"I wonder," said Lady Molly, with
the same charming smile.
Then she went in to see Mary Nicholls.
The Reverend Octavius Ludlow was sitting
beside the girl, who seemed in great distress, for she was
crying bitterly.
Lady Molly asked Elliott and the others to
remain in the passage whilst she herself went into the room,
I following behind her.
When the door was shut she went up to Mary
Nicholls, and assuming a hard and severe manner, she said:--
"Well, you have at last made up your
mind, have you, Nicholls? I suppose you know that we have
applied for a warrant for your arrest?"
The woman gave a shriek which unmistakably
was one of fear.
"My arrest?" she gasped. "What
for?"
"The murder of your sister Susan."
"'Twasn't me!" she said, quickly.
"Then Susan is dead?"
retorted Lady Molly, quietly.
Mary saw that she had betrayed herself. She
gave Lady Molly a look of agonized horror, then turned as
white as a sheet and would have fallen had not the Reverend
Octavius Ludlow gently led her to a chair.
"It wasn't me," she repeated, with
a heartbroken sob.
"That will be for you to prove,"
said Lady Molly dryly. "The child cannot now, of
course, remain with Mrs. Williams; she will be removed to
the workhouse, and----"
"No, that she shan't be," said the
mother excitedly. "She shan't be, I tell you. The
workhouse, indeed," she added, in a paroxysm of
hysterical tears, "and her father a lord!"
The reverend gentleman and I gasped in
astonishment; but Lady Molly had worked up to this climax so
ingeniously that it was obvious she had guessed it all
along, and had merely led Mary Nicholls on in order to get
this admission from her.
How well she had known human nature in
pitting the child against the sweetheart! Mary Nicholls was
ready enough to hide herself, to part from her child even
for a while, in order to save the man she had once loved
from the consequences of his crime; but when she heard that
her child was dying she no longer could bear to leave it
among strangers, and when Lady Molly taunted her with the
workhouse she exclaimed, in her maternal pride:
"The workhouse! And her father a
lord!"
Driven into a corner, she confessed the whole
truth.
Lord Edbrooke, then Mr. Lydgate, was the
father of her child. Knowing this, her sister Susan had for
over a year now, systematically blackmailed the unfortunate
man--not altogether, it seems, without Mary's connivance.
In January last she got him to come down to Ninescore under
the distinct promise that Mary would meet him and hand over
to him the letters she had received from him, as well as the
ring he had given her, in exchange for the sum of
£5,000.
The meeting-place was arranged, but at the
last moment Mary was afraid to go in the dark. Susan,
nothing daunted, but anxious about her own reputation in
case she should be seen talking to a man so late at night,
put on Mary's dress, took the ring and the letters, also her
sister's purse, and went to meet Lord Edbrooke.
What happened at that interview no one will
ever know. It ended with the murder of the blackmailer. I
suppose the fact that Susan had, in a measure, begun by
impersonating her sister, gave the murderer the first
thought of confusing the identity of his victim by the
horrible device of burying the body in the slimy mud.
Anyway, he almost did succeed in hoodwinking the police, and
would have done so entirely but for Lady Molly's strange
intuition in the matter.
After his crime he ran instinctively to
Mary's cottage. He had to make a clean breast of it to her,
as, without her help, he was a doomed man.
So he persuaded her to go away from home and
to leave no clue or trace of herself or her sister in
Ninescore. With the help of money which he would give her
she could begin life anew somewhere else, and no doubt he
deluded the unfortunate girl with promises that her child
would be restored to her very soon.
Thus he enticed Mary Nicholls away, who would
have been the great and all-important witness against him
the moment his crime was discovered. A girl of Mary's type
and class instinctively obeys the man she has once loved,
the man who is the father of her child. She consented to
disappear and to allow all the world to believe that she had
been murdered by some unknown miscreant.
Then the murderer quietly returned to his
luxurious home at Edbrooke Castle unsuspected. No one had
thought of mentioning his name in connexion with that of
Mary Nicholls. In the days when he used to come down to Ash
Court he was Mr. Lydgate, and, when he became a peer,
sleepy, out-of-the-way Ninescore ceased to think of him.
Perhaps Mr. Lionel Lydgate knew all about his
brother's association with the village girl. From his
attitude at the inquest I should say he did, but of course
he would not betray his own brother unless forced to do so.
Now, of course, the whole aspect of the case
was changed; the veil of mystery had been torn asunder owing
to the insight, the marvellous intuition, of a woman who, in
my opinion, is the most wonderful psychologist of her time.
You know the sequel. Our fellows at the Yard,
aided by the local police, took their lead from Lady Molly,
and began their investigations of Lord Edbrooke's movements
on or about the 23rd of January.
Even their preliminary inquiries revealed the
fact that his lordship had left Edbrooke Castle on the 21st.
He went up to town, saying to his wife and household that he
was called away on business, and not even taking his valet
with him. He put up at the Langham Hotel.
But here police investigations came to an
abrupt ending. Lord Edbrooke evidently got wind of them.
Anyway, the day after Lady Molly so cleverly enticed Mary
Nicholls out of her hiding-place, and surprised her into an
admission of the truth, the unfortunate man threw himself in
front of the express train at Grantham railway station, and
was instantly killed. Human justice cannot reach him now!
But don't tell me that a man would have
thought of that bogus paragraph, or of the taunt which stung
the motherly pride of the village girl to the quick, and
thus wrung from her an admission which no amount of male
ingenuity would ever have obtained.
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(End.)
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