The Master Detective by Percy James Brebner

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Without another word he went off in the direction of Victoria, leaving an
angry man behind him. I am afraid I swore. However, I hunted up the
driver of the taxi, and went to Chelsea the following night, still
somewhat out of temper.

Quarles and Zena were already in the empty room waiting for me.

"Well, what did the man say?" asked the professor.

"The fog did not stop him anywhere until he got to Hyde Park Corner, and
he is sure Lady Tavener was alone after leaving Richmond."

"He stuck to that?"

"He did, but after some consideration he said that he had almost come to
a standstill in Hammersmith Broadway on account of the trams. I suggested
that some one might have got into the taxi then, but while admitting the
bare possibility, he did not think it likely."

"Did he give you the impression that he believed Tavener guilty?"

"Yes. He seemed to consider his arrest a proof of it."

"Naturally," said the professor.

"Your whole investigation seems to be for the purpose of proving Sir John
innocent," I said. "Why were you so anxious to have him arrested?"

"Pardon me, my one idea is to get at the truth. Always be careful of your
premises, Wigan. That is the first essential for a logical conclusion.
Zena has said that because a dog has a bad name I want to hang him. Well,
she gave me an idea; started a theory, in fact. Let us go through the
case. First there is the question of suicide. It must come first, because
if we are logical--the law is not always logical, you know--if we are
logical, it is obvious no man could be hanged while the doctors stuck
tight to their opinion. However, I have reason for leaving the question
of suicide until last. Therefore we investigate the question of murder.
Had Sir John disappeared after visiting the house on Richmond Green, I
suppose not one person in ten thousand would have believed him innocent."

"But he didn't," I said.

"No," said Quarles. "But he behaved in a most peculiar manner. He left
immediately after dinner, did not reach home until after midnight, and
has not yet attempted to account for his time. He was in an abnormal
condition. We will make a mental note of that, Wigan."

I nodded.

"We will assume that when he left her Lady Tavener was alive," Quarles
went on. "At Hyde Park Corner she was dead, and the driver Wood was
entirely ignorant that anything had happened. Yet, if murder was done,
some one must have joined Lady Tavener during the journey. Wood says he
was not held up by the fog, but on being pressed a little, speaks of
coming nearly to a standstill in Hammersmith Broadway. There, or
somewhere else, because we must remember Wood may have forgotten nearly
coming to other stoppages, since driving in a fog must have required the
whole of his attention--somewhere, somebody must have joined her. The
driver, again under pressure, admits the bare possibility, but does not
think it likely. However, we must assume that some one at some place did
enter the taxi."

Zena was leaning forward eagerly, and I waited quietly for Quarles
to continue.

"It follows that whoever it was must have been known to Lady Tavener," he
said slowly. "Otherwise she would have called out to the driver or to
people passing."

"You mean that he left it at Hyde Park Corner after the murder," said
Zena. "You think it was Lester Williams."

"There is the possibility that he was getting out of the taxi instead
of rushing to it, because he noticed the occupant looked peculiar,"
Quarles admitted.

"In that case would he have called the driver's attention?" I asked.
"Your theory seems to demand actions which no man would be fool enough
to commit."

"You can never tell upon what lines a criminal's brain will work, Wigan.
I maintain that the same arguments I have used with regard to Sir John
would apply in Lester Williams's case. Still, there are one or two points
to consider. If you go to Hyde Park Corner you will find it difficult to
pitch on any lamp which could throw sufficient light upon the face of the
occupant leaning back in the corner as to cause alarm to any one on the
pavement. I am taking into consideration the position of the taxi in the
roadway and the angle at which the light would have to be thrown. And,
since motor lights are in the front of cars, and Lady Tavener was facing
the way her taxi was going, it is very improbable that the lights of
another car would serve this purpose. Besides, it was a foggy night."

"Then you believe Williams was getting out of the taxi?" I asked.

"Let me talk about the contents of this first," said Quarles, separating
an envelope from some papers on the table. "You will admit that I
examined the taxi fairly thoroughly."

"You certainly did."

"And I came to one or two very definite conclusions, Wigan. The engine is
practically new, very different from that of the taxi we took to
Twickenham, which was of exactly the same make. I took some trouble in my
choice of a taxi, you remember. I grant, of course, this may not be a
very reliable proof, but the tires told the same story, I think."

"The first taxi might just have had new tires," I suggested.

"I do not fancy the whole four would have been renewed at the same time,"
he returned. "It is not usual. My conclusion was that the taxi had not
been used very much."

"I must confess I do not see where this is leading us," I said.

"It led us to Twickenham, Wigan. In our down journey we covered the road
taken by the taxi that night if it came direct to Hyde Park Corner. At
Twickenham I examined the tires, and they satisfied me that so far there
was nothing to negative a theory I had formed. On the return journey we
turned into that side street--I had noted it on the way down--and at the
end of our journey I examined the tires again and the floor of the taxi.
I preserved what I found then in this envelope, and it is perfectly clear
that our taxi had been driven over a road strewn with brick dust and coal
dust, and that persons treading on such a road had entered the taxi."

"Of course, we both got out," I remarked.

"To admire the view," said Quarles. "And you may have noticed that there
were few windows from which an inquisitive person could have told what we
were doing. At night the place would be quite lonely unless the
bricklayers and coal porters were working overtime. Now, Wigan, on the
tires of the first taxi, and on its carpet, was dust exactly
corresponding to that which I found on the tires and floor of our taxi.
That is significant. Brick dust and coal dust together, remember. They
are not a usual combination on a main road out of London."

I did not answer, I had no comment to make.

"If we have no very definite facts," Quarles went on, "we have many
peculiar circumstances, and I will try and reconstruct the tragedy for
you. Sir John and his wife have quarreled at times we know, and to some
extent at any rate have gone each their own way recently. The fact that
Sir John was the cause of her divorce, and married her, may be taken as
proof that he was fond of his wife. A reformed rake constantly is, and
often develops a strong vein of jealousy besides. That Lady Tavener was
supposed by her husband to be dining with the Folliotts, who, as a fact,
had no appointment with her that night, shows that she did not always
explain her going and coming to her husband. I suggest that Sir John had
begun to suspect his wife, and that his reason for leaving Richmond early
was to ascertain whether she was going to the theater with the Folliotts
as she had told him."

"It is an ingenious theory," I admitted.

"We follow Lady Tavener," said Quarles. "It is not likely she was going
to spend the evening alone, or the Folliotts would never have been
mentioned. She was going to meet some one. I suggest it was Lester
Williams who had arranged to meet her at Hyde Park Corner. Whether the
idea was to join her in the taxi, or that she should leave the taxi there
with orders that the driver should meet her after the theater, I cannot
say. I am inclined to think it was the former, and I hazard a guess that
Lady Tavener had not known Williams very long. Of course, his explanation
goes by the board. He was on the lookout for the taxi. From the pavement
he only saw the taxi, but when he opened the door he found a tragedy."

"But why should you think he was a new acquaintance of Lady Tavener's?"
asked Zena.

"Since he hurried to the door instead of waiting for the taxi to draw to
the curb, I conclude he was taking advantage of the stoppage to join Lady
Tavener in the taxi. Had she intended to leave the taxi there, he would
have waited until it came to the pavement. But my theory demands that he
should have been on the watch for the taxi, therefore he must have known
it. Had Lady Tavener often used the taxi when she met Williams, Wood, the
driver, would have recognized Williams. This does not appear to have been
the case, therefore I conclude they were comparatively new friends."

"Do we come back to the theory of suicide, then?" I asked.

"Not yet," Quarles answered. "At present we merely find a reason why Sir
John and Lester Williams have said so little, the one concerning his
suspicions, the other about his knowledge of Lady Tavener. Since his wife
was dead, why should Sir John say anything to cast a reflection upon her.
For the same reason, why should Williams implicate himself in any way.
From their different viewpoints they are both anxious to shield Lady
Tavener's name. Therefore, Wigan, since we wanted to learn the truth, it
was a good move to put Sir John in such a position that, to save himself,
he must speak. Had we left him alone I have little doubt he would have
ended by accepting the doctor's opinion and, rather than explain
anything, would have remained silent."

"And allowed suspicion to rest on his name?" said Zena.

"It wouldn't. The doctor's evidence would have made people sympathize
with him and regret that he should ever have been under suspicion. I am
not saying he had made a deep calculation on these chances, but he was
content to wait and let things take their course. He is still doing so.
His arrest has not brought any explanation from him."

"But he has said he believes his wife met with foul play,"
persisted Zena. "Do you believe he would do nothing to bring the
murderer to justice?"

"I think not. I think he would value his wife's name more than his
revenge. If Sir John knew that his wife was meeting Williams that night,
he might presently lose his temper and cause a scandal."

"And he will know later, if your theory is right?" I said.

"Perhaps not," said Quarles. "Let us get back to the contents of this
envelope. The driver would have us believe that the first taxi came
direct from Richmond to Hyde Park Corner. We have strong reasons for
believing it did not. Therefore, either he went out of his way, by Lady
Tavener's orders, to call for some one, or some one got into the taxi
without his knowledge. I sat on the driver's seat, Wigan, and I admit
that, if fully occupied with driving, as he would be on a foggy night,
entrance might have been made without his knowledge, but on one
condition. The door must have been easy to open. The door of that taxi
isn't easy. I tried it. It is exceedingly stiff, difficult to open, and
impossible to close without a very considerable noise. Therefore Wood
knows that some one entered, and we know that that some one must have
walked on a road covered with brick dust and coal dust."

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Wood himself. He turned into the road we turned into. If Lady Tavener
noticed that he had done so, she would not think anything of it. She
would imagine the road was up and a detour necessary. As a matter of
fact, she would not have time to think much, and I do not think she was
alarmed, not even when Wood opened the door. As he did so I imagine he
said something of this sort: 'I think it only right to warn your Ladyship
that Sir John is suspicious.' He had to give some excuse for stopping the
taxi and going to his fare. Whether he knew that Sir John was suspicious
or not is immaterial. He had constantly driven Lady Tavener, and was
probably aware that some of her friends were not her husband's. At any
rate, some remark of this kind would allay her suspicions, and then--"

"He murdered her?" asked Zena sharply.

"Well, I fancy this is where we come to the question of suicide," said
Quarles. "He intended to murder her, had his fingers on her throat, in
fact, but the sudden excitement saved him. I think she actually died of
shock, as the doctors declare. I think he was able to say something to
her which caused that shock."

"I can hardly believe--"

"Wait, Wigan," the professor said, interrupting me. "You will agree
that, from the first, Wood's evidence would naturally accuse Sir John.
When you saw him and pressed him with the two questions I suggested he
still sought to leave the impression upon you that Sir John was guilty;
but since your questions showed there was a doubt in your mind, he
admitted, to safeguard himself, the possibility of some one having
entered the taxi surreptitiously. One other point which counts, I think.
One of the lamps of the taxi, and only one of them, had recently been
removed from its socket. I imagine he took it to make quite sure that
Lady Tavener was dead."

"But he had often driven Lady Tavener. Why had he waited so long?"
said Zena.

"And what reason had he for the murder?" I asked.

"It was probably the first time he had driven them together, when Sir
John had left his wife during the journey, and he wanted to implicate Sir
John. In short, this was his first opportunity for the double revenge he
was waiting for. I have shown, at least I think I have, that the taxi was
not often used. We shall find it is his own taxi, I think, bought
outright or being purchased on the hire system. I should say he rarely
hired himself out except to Sir John and Lady Tavener. He was not an
ordinary driver, but a very clever schemer, and, like a clever schemer, I
think one little point has given him away altogether. Curtis, from whom
Lady Tavener was divorced, died shortly afterwards, you may remember, of
a broken heart, his friends said, which means that he grieved abnormally
at the breaking up of his happiness. It is natural that his friends and
relations should hate the Taveners, and one of them conceived the idea of
revenge. It is curious that several of the Curtises are called Baldwood
Curtis. Baldwood is a family name. It was easy to assume the name of
Wood. It would be likely to jump into the mind if one of them wanted to
assume a name."

"What a horrible plot," said Zena, with a shudder.

"Horrible and clever," said Quarles.

"I wonder if you are right, dear."

"I have no doubt, but Wigan will be able to tell us presently."

He was right, I think, practically in every particular. I am not sure
what would have happened to Wood. Technically he had not actually killed
Lady Tavener, but he solved the difficulty of his punishment himself.
Expecting the worst, I suppose, he managed to hang himself in his cell.

CHAPTER XIII

THE AFFAIR OF THE JEWELED CHALICE

The yellow taxi must still have been a topic of conversation with the
public when Quarles and I became involved in two cases which tried us
both considerably, and in which we ran great risk.

The reading of detective tales imagined by comfortable authors who show
colossal ignorance regarding my profession, has often amused, me. Pistols
usually begin the string of impossibilities and a convenient pair of
handcuffs is at the end. These are the tales of fiction, not of real life
as a rule, yet in the two cases I speak of the reality was certainly as
strange as fiction and very nearly as dangerous.

There had been a series of hotel robberies in London, so cleverly
conceived and carried out that Scotland Yard was altogether at fault. I
had had nothing to do with this investigation, being engaged on other
cases, but one Friday morning my chief told me I must lend my colleagues
a hand. Within an hour of our interview I was making myself conversant
with what had been done, and on Friday afternoon and during the whole of
Saturday I was busy with the affair.

On Monday morning, however, I was called to the chief's room and told to
devote myself to the recovery of a jeweled chalice which had been stolen
from St. Ethelburga's Church, Bloomsbury, on the previous day. Since the
vicar, the Rev. John Harding, was an intimate friend of the chief's,
there was a sort of compliment in my being taken from important work to
attend to this case, but I admit I did not start on this new job with any
great enthusiasm, and was rather annoyed at being switched off the
hotels, as it were, and put on to the church.

I went with the vicar to Bloomsbury in a taxi, and gathered information
on the way. The chalice had been given to the church about eighteen
months ago by an old lady, a Miss Morrison, who had since died. She had
possessed some remarkable jewelry, diamonds and pearls, and these had
been set in the chalice which she had presented to St. Ethelburga's,
where she had attended regularly for six or seven years. The chalice was
insured for L5,000, but this was undoubtedly below its actual value. It
was not used constantly, only on the great festivals, and on certain
Saints' days specified by Miss Morrison when she made the gift. The
previous day happened to be one of these Saints' days, and the chalice
had been used at the early celebration. The vicar had put it back into
its case and locked it in the safe himself. The key of the safe had not
been out of his possession since, yet this morning the safe was found
open and the chalice gone.

"You have no suspicion?" I asked.

"None," he answered, but not until after a momentary pause.

"You do not answer very decidedly, Mr. Harding."

"I do, yes, I do really. In a catastrophe of this kind all kinds of ideas
come into the mind, very absurd ones some of them," and he laughed a
little uneasily.

"It would be wise to tell me even the absurd ones," I said.

"Very well, but perhaps you had better examine the vestry and the safe
first," he said as the taxi stopped.

I found the vestry in charge of a constable, and as we entered a
clergyman joined us. The vicar introduced me to the Rev. Cyril Hayes, his
curate. The vestry and the safe were just as they had been found that
morning; nothing had been moved. Yesterday had been wet, and the flooring
of wooden blocks in the choir vestry bore witness to the fact that
neither men nor boys had wiped their feet too thoroughly. Even in the
clergy vestry, which was carpeted, there were boot marks, so it seemed
probable that the weather had rendered abortive any clue there might have
been in this direction. There were two safes in the clergy vestry, a
large one standing out in the room and a small one built into the wall.
It was in the latter that the chalice had been kept, and the door was
open. Apparently two or three blows had been struck at the wall with a
chisel, or some sharp instrument, and there were several scratches on the
edge of the door and around the keyhole; but it was quite evident to me
that the safe had been opened with a key. I asked the vicar for his key,
but it would not turn in the lock.

"Was anything besides the chalice stolen?" I asked.

"No," the vicar returned. "As you see, there is another chalice and two
patens in the safe, one paten of gold, but it was not taken, not even
touched, I fancy. It was the chalice and the chalice only that the
thieves came for."

"It seems foolish to keep such a valuable chalice in the vestry," I said.

"It is kept in the bank as a rule," the vicar answered. "I got it from
the bank on Saturday and it would have gone back this morning. Of course
it was not possible to keep such a gift a secret. The church papers had
paragraphs about it, which some of the daily papers copied."

"Every gang in London knew of its existence then," I said.

"True," said the curate, "and you might go further than that and remember
that much of our work here lies in some very poor and some very
disreputable neighborhoods."

"It does," said the vicar. "Amongst our parishioners we must have many
thieves, I am afraid."

"There are thieves and thieves," said Mr. Hayes, "and I fancy there are
many who would not meddle with the sacred vessels of a church.
Superstition perhaps, but a powerful deterrent."

The vicar shook his head, evidently not agreeing with this opinion.

"Probably I have had more to do with thieves than you have, vicar," he
said with a smile, and turning to me he went on: "I am very interested in
a hooligans' club we have. They are a rough lot I can assure you. Many of
them have seen the inside of a jail, some of them will again possibly;
but there's a leaven of good stuff in them. Saints have been reared from
such poor material before now."

"When do you meet?" I asked.

"Mondays and Thursdays."

"To-night. I'll look in to-night."

"But--"

"I may find the solution to the theft at your club," I said. The
suggestion seemed to annoy him.

That the safe had been opened with a key and not broken open indicated
that some one connected with the church was directly or indirectly
responsible for the theft, and this idea was strengthened by the fact
that it was impossible to tell how the robbers had entered the church.
The verger had come in as usual that morning by the north door which he
had found locked, and it was subsequently ascertained that all the other
doors were locked. Some of you may know the church and remember that it
is rather dark, its windows few and high up; indeed, only by one of the
baptistry windows could an entry possibly have been effected, and I could
find nothing to suggest that this method had been used. A few keen
questions did not cause the verger to contradict himself in the slightest
particular, and his fifteen years' service seemed to exonerate him.

"Is it possible that you left the door unlocked last night by mistake?"
I queried.

"I should have found it open this morning," he said, as if he were
surprised at my overlooking this point.

I had not overlooked it. I was wondering whether he had found it open and
was concealing the fact, fearing dismissal for his carelessness.

A little later I had a private talk with the vicar.

"I think you had better tell me your suspicions," I said.

"There is nothing which amounts to a suspicion," he answered reluctantly.
"It does not take a skilled detective, Mr. Wigan, to see that some one
connected with the church must have had a hand in the affair. It is not
the work of ordinary thieves. Therefore, as I said, absurd ideas will
come. It happens that my curate, Mr. Hayes, is much in debt, and has had
recourse to money lenders. He has said nothing to me about it; indeed, it
was only last week that I became aware of the fact, and I decided not to
speak to him until after Sunday. I was going to talk to him this morning.
It was a painful duty, and naturally--"

"Naturally you cannot help thinking about it in connection with
the chalice."

The vicar nodded as though words seemed to him too definite in such a
delicate matter. That the two things had become connected in his mind
evidently distressed him, and he was soon talking in the kindest manner
about his curate, anxious to impress me with the excellent work Mr. Hayes
was doing in the parish.

"The hooligans' club, for instance?" I said.

"That amongst other things," he answered.

"Miss Morrison was one of your rich parishioners, I presume."

"She was not a parishioner at all," said Mr. Harding. "She lived at
Walham Green. She came to St. Ethelburga's because she liked our
services, drove here in a hired fly every Sunday morning. I visited her,
at her request, when she was ill some three years ago, but I really knew
little of her. To be quite truthful I thought her somewhat eccentric, and
never supposed she was wealthy. The presentation of the chalice came as a
great surprise."

"Have you a photograph of the chalice?"

"No; but Miss Morrison's niece might have. I know Miss Morrison had one
taken, a copy of it appeared in the church papers. The niece, Miss
Belford, continues to live at Walham Green--No. 3 Cedars Road."

"Does she attend the church?" I asked, as I made a note of the address.

"Oh, yes. She used to come with her aunt, and since Miss Morrison's
death she has taken up some parish work. I know her much better than I
did her aunt."

"Of course she has not yet heard of the theft?"

"No, I have not talked about it to any one. I thought silence was the
best policy."

I quite agreed with him and suggested he should keep the theft a secret
for the next few hours.

With Mr. Hayes and his hooligans' club at the back of my mind, I made one
or two enquiries in the neighborhood, and then started for Walham Green.
On my way to the Underground I met Percival, one of the men engaged upon
the hotel robberies, and stood talking to him for a few minutes. He was
rather keen on a clue he had got hold of, but I was now sufficiently
interested in the stolen chalice not to be envious.

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