CHAPTER V. AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY

On examination, the Rippler appeared to have suffered but trifling hurt. Either by accident, or design, the flying lady had driven the machine straight through an ancient five-barred gate, which fortunately was much too decayed to present any serious obstacle. Across a stubbled field--as the ripping and ploughing of the grounds showed--the car had reeled drunkenly, until by its own weight it was bogged in the friable furrows. Here it had been deserted, with smashed lamps, a slightly damaged front, and with a considerable amount of paint scraped off. But an immediate test showed that the machinery was in excellent working order.

It was no easy task to restore the derelict to the hard levels of the high-road. But Cannington collected a gang of agriculturals from unknown quarters and we set to work. With spades and crowbars, broad weather-boards from an adjacent incomplete building as temporary tram-lines, and a tow-rope from Trent's machine to mine, we managed the job fairly expeditiously, considering the environment. With water from the nearest pond for the outside of the car, and oil and petrol for the interior, I managed to get the Rippler into working order, although she was more or less shaken, and did not run very smoothly. Fortunately the lady had abandoned her loot within half a mile of Murchester, so with careful driving I contrived to get over that distance in safety. After storing the Rippler in a convenient garage, to be repaired and overhauled, I went on to the Barracks with Cannington in Trent's motor. Here I proposed to put up until the inquest was at an end and I was free to leave the neighbourhood. It was rather a nuisance to be thus publicly housed, as one might put it, for everyone, from the Colonel to the latest-joined subaltern, asked questions and aired impossible theories. My intimate connection with the affair made me an object of interest to one and all. And small wonder that it should be so, for the mystery of the affair was most enthralling.

On the way to his quarters, Cannington--perhaps to distract my thoughts from more immediate troubles--mentioned casually that Wentworth Marr had left a card for him at Mess, just before we had arrived on the day of the murder. I did not take any interest in Marr, as I had never seen him, so it was a matter of indifference to me whether he had called or not. But the boy fidgeted over the matter, as he made sure he was about to be asked a knotty question officially, as the head of the Wotton family.

"I am certain that Marr wishes to know if I will agree to his marrying my sister," said Cannington irritably. "And I don't know what to say."

"Refer him to the lady," I suggested absently.

"I sha'nt. He's too old for Mabel, and I don't want her to marry him in any case. I wish Weston would come up to the scratch, for he told me that he loved Mabel, and I was quite pleased. Weston's no end of a good sort, and we--that is Mabel and I--have known him almost as long as we have you, Vance. Marr's all right, and deuced rich from all one hears. But I don't want such an old chap as a brother-in-law, for all his thousands of pounds."

"Oh, very well then," said I ungraciously. "Tell him to keep off the grass, or you'll punch his head. Is he stopping at Murchester?"

"I suppose so. His card has the Lion's Head--that's the best hotel here--pencilled on it. He called somewhere about three yesterday, before we arrived, and he said he'd turn up again. I expect to find him waiting for me now, and I'm hanged," lamented Cannington, "if I know what to say."

But, as after events proved, the boy was worrying himself needlessly, for Wentworth Marr did not reappear at the Barracks. On inquiry, we learned that he stayed only the one night in Murchester, and then went back to London in his motor--for he also travelled in the latest vehicle of transit. I only mention these apparently trivial facts, because they form certain links in the chain of evidence which led up to the discovery of the amazing truth. Meanwhile, not foreseeing the importance of trifles, I was rather annoyed with Cannington for babbling. My mind was far too much taken up with the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's murder, and with--I must confess it--the face of Gertrude Monk, to permit me to think of Lady Mabel Wotton and her wooers, elderly or otherwise.

Lady Mabel herself appeared a day or so later, and at an inopportune moment, for her brother and I were greatly fatigued with what had occurred during the interval. However, we returned from Mootley in my renovated Rippler on the third day, and found her waiting impatiently for afternoon tea in Cannington's quarters. She was a tall, fresh-coloured, dashing girl, amazingly like her brother, and if he had worn her tailor-made dress instead of his khaki, I do not think anyone, unless a very close observer, would have been the wiser. I had known the family for more years that I cared to remember, and liked Lady Mabel immensely, as she was outspoken and companionable, and did not want a man to be always telling her that she was a goddess. All the same, she could flirt when inclined, although she never did so with me. It could not have been my age, for I was younger than this confounded Marr she came to talk about; so I presume she looked upon me as Cannington's elder brother. At all events, our friendship was always prosaic and matter of fact.

We had tea, while Lady Mabel presided and told us that she had just come down for an hour, and that she was very miserable, and that Cannington ought to have written her, and that she did not know what to do, though Cyrus--that was me--might give some advice and----

"I never give advice," I interrupted hastily. "I'm not clever enough."

"I never said you were," she retorted. "But you are slow and sure."

"Thanks, Lady Mabel."

"I think you're just horrid, and why you should be so stiff with me I don't know, seeing that you knew Cannington and myself since we could toddle."

"Oh, come now, I'm not so old as all that."

"You are, and ever so much older, you--you bachelor."

"I can't help that, since you refuse to marry me," I said smiling.

"You've never asked me to--not that I would accept you," she replied promptly. "All the same, you needn't call me Lady Mabel, as if you were keeping me off with a pitchfork."

"Well, then--Mabel."

"That's better." She gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You know that I look on you as a good sort, Cyrus, and the oldest friend we have."

I wriggled. "Why do you emphasise age so much?"

Cannington laughed, and I knew that he was thinking of my admiration of Miss Monk's photograph. "Vance doesn't like to be reminded of his age--now."

"Why now?" questioned Lady Mabel suspiciously.

"Oh, never mind," I said crossly. "What do you want my advice about?"

Our fair companion put down her cup in despair. "Haven't I been telling you for the last half hour. Mr. Marr wants to marry me. He asked me four days ago, and then came down to enlist Cannington on his side."

"Huh," said the boy, sagaciously, "that sounds as though you had refused him."

"No, I didn't."

"Then you accepted him."

"No, I didn't," she said again. "I left it an open question, until I consulted you and Cyrus. After all he is rich, and not bad-looking."

"Oh, Mabel," cried Cannington, rising to perambulate the narrow room, "you know very well that you love Dickey Weston."

"What's the use of loving a man who won't speak his mind? Dickey always lives in the moon, and I only love him from habit.

"You never loved me from habit," I remarked lazily.

Mabel put her head on one side, and surveyed me critically. "No, I never did," she said candidly, "and yet you're better-looking than Dickey. But he's got a way with him--I don't know what it is."

"Absent-mindedness," suggested Cannington. "May we smoke, Mab?"

"Oh, yes, and you can give me a cigarette also, if they're Egyptian. Thanks awfully." She accepted one, and I struck a match for the lighting. "Of course, Dickey Weston is absent-minded and selfish," she continued frankly. "All the same, I love him and I don't mind anyone knowing it."

"Every one does, except Dickey," said I with a shrug.

"I suppose you think that's clever."

"It's the truth. After all, I don't see why you need be shy with a man you have known for centuries. Why not go to Dickey and tell him that you want to marry him and go trips in his airship?"

"Dickey would agree, and never know what had happened until he found me breakfasting opposite to him without a chaperon. Well, what's to be done?" She leaned back, and placed her hands behind her head. "Dickey won't ask me to be his wife, and Mr. Marr--who is rich--wants me to marry him right away."

"Do you love Marr, Mabel?" asked Cannington seriously.

"No," she said promptly.

"Then refuse him."

"He's too rich to refuse."

"Mabel"--I spoke this time and severely--"you are much too nice a girl to make such a sordid match, and with a man who might be your father. Chuck him, and chuck it, and make Dickey Weston do his duty."

"Which Dickey will be quite willing to do," said Cannington amiably, "especially as he told me that he loved you, Mab."

"Oh," the girl jumped up and with a fine blush threw the half-finished cigarette into the fireplace. "Why didn't you tell me that before, Cannington? I know what I'll do." She reflected for three seconds. "I'll tell Mr. Marr that he shall have his answer as a Christmas box, and meanwhile I'll see if I can't make Dickey jealous. Cannington, you are sure that Dickey said what you say he said?"

"Quite sure. He said it twice."

"Then he must mean it," cried Mabel energetically. "So I can hold off Mr. Marr and make Dickey jealous by pretending to flirt with him. After all I love Dickey and Dickey loves me, so why shouldn't we marry?"

"I am sure," said I cynically, "that if you put the position clearly to Weston in that way he would do his duty."

"I don't want him to do his duty, just as if I was driving him to the altar," she said, much exasperated. "I wouldn't marry Dickey if I didn't love him, not if he were twice as rich."

"What about Marr?"

She wilfully chose to ignore my hint. "He can remain as a second string to my bow, Cyrus. After all I must marry money. Aunt Lucy"--this was Lady Denham, the late earl's sister--"is always grumbling about my dresses. And--and--and--oh, well, then, never mind, I must be getting back to town." She looked at her bracelet watch. "There's a theatre party and supper at the Ritz to-night, so I haven't much time.

"And the situation?" asked Cannington, helping her on with her cloak.

"I'll temporise and give Dickey a chance."

"Which means that Marr will have none," I said gravely, "that's not fair."

Mabel shrugged her shoulders, and made the truly feminine answer. "You're a man and don't understand. Oh," she stopped at the door suddenly, "by the way, Aunt Lucy told me that your name was in the papers, Cyrus, about some murder. I've just thought about it. Aren't you accused of sticking pins into some one? Tell me all about it on the way to the station; it will amuse me, you know."

This refreshing candour made me laugh right out, as we descended the stairs. "I am glad that you have even an afterthought of my amusing position," said I, very drily.

She had the grace to colour. "Oh, I didn't quite mean that, Cyrus; but after all, I can't think of everything at once."

"Cannington did that, Mabel. He has been a brick, and but for his assistance I should never have pulled through."

"What rot," muttered the boy, but he was secretly pleased.

"Then you are in danger?" cried Mabel, startled.

"I have been," I replied with emphasis, "as I discovered the body. But my own spotless reputation and Cannington's asseverations of my honesty, prevented my being arrested."

"I'm so glad, Cyrus. Such a horrid thing for one's friend being arrested for a nasty pin-sticking crime."

"Horrid indeed--for the friend."

"Where did you hear of the murder, Mab?" questioned her brother.

"Oh, the papers yesterday and this morning were full of it. Aunt Lucy drew my attention to them, as she knew that I knew you," said Mabel incoherently. "You were at the inquest, weren't you, Cyrus, and gave evidence? Tell me all about it, as I only read scraps."

"There's very little to tell," I answered, yawning, for really I felt extremely tired. "I found Mrs. Caldershaw dead in the back room, and a woman in a white cloak, presumably her murderess, ran off with my motor car."

"I read all that. What else?"

"Nothing else, save that we found the car and not the woman. A jury of twelve good and lawful yokels brought in a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown."

"But I thought you said this woman was guilty?"

"It is presumed so, since she bolted with my car and hasn't turned up. Her name is unknown, so the verdict is quite right."

"But persons," persisted Lady Mabel inquisitively.

"A mere graceful addition to round off the sentence. I believe that this woman stabbed Mrs. Caldershaw with a sapphire-headed hat-pin."

"Sapphire-headed; she must have been rich."

"Oh, Vance is drawing on his theatrical imagination," struck in Cannington impatiently, "the sapphire he talks of was only blue glass."

"Oh, that reminds me that the papers said something about a glass eye."

"I expect they said a very great deal about it," I assented gravely. "Catch your journalist missing a chance of hinting at mystery."

"Is it a mystery?" asked Mabel, walking before us into the station.

"More or less--possibly more. Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered by this unknown woman, presumably for the sake of her glass eye."

"But why?"

Cannington laughed. "That's what the police are trying to learn; not that they ever will. I believe the truth will never be discovered."

"Are there no letters, no papers? Is there no gossip likely to----"

I interrupted, impatiently, for the absence of circumstantial evidence bothered me greatly. "Inspector Dredge looked over all the papers and letters of the dead woman, and found nothing likely to lead to the discovery of the guilty person's name. As to gossip, it appears that Mrs. Caldershaw kept to herself in the corner shop, and little was known about her. She came to Mootley five years ago with her savings, having been the housekeeper of Gabriel Monk of Burwain, near Gattlingsands. There she started a shop, and at times received a visit from Miss Gertrude Monk, whom she nursed, and from Miss Destiny, who is the young lady's aunt."

"Two women," breathed Mabel, facing me; "do you think----"

"That either one is guilty?" I interrupted again and somewhat sharply. "No, I certainly do not. Miss Destiny was on her way to stay the night with Mrs. Caldershaw when the crime was committed; and at the inquest she stated that she left her niece behind at The Lodge, Burwain."

"You needn't be so cross about it," said Mabel, staring at my acrid tone. "I only suggested possibilities. What are you laughing at, Cannington?"

"Nothing," said the boy untruthfully, and looked hard at me. The fact of my admiration for Miss Monk's pictured face--we had discussed her several times before and after the inquest--was in his mind, as I well knew. But he had grace enough to keep this to himself, and not set Lady Mabel's too ready tongue chattering.

"I wish you wouldn't giggle, Cannington," she said, accepting the excuse, "it's growing on you. Well," she faced me, "and what are you going to do?"

"About what, if you please?"

"About this murder?"

"What the deuce should he do?" cried Cannington, openly surprised. "He's well out of an awkward situation, so there's no more to be said. I daresay he'll write a melodrama on the case and solve the mystery in the wrong way."

"I am not so sure," said I pointedly, "that I won't try to solve it the right way."

"What do you mean by that?" asked my friend, staring.

"I mean that the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye fascinates me, and that I intend to follow up what clues there are."

"There aren't any," said Cannington promptly. "You heard what Inspector Dredge remarked at the inquest."

"He admitted that he could find no evidence, it is true, but that doesn't mean to say that evidence is not to be found."

"Are you about to turn an amateur detective?"

"Why not? Now why are you laughing?"

"Oh, he's crazy," said Mabel disdainfully. "Here comes my train. I'll have a rush to reach town and dress. Aunt Lucy is always so punctual, I'm sure to get into hot water."

"Ask Mr. Wentworth Marr to get you out of it," said I jokingly.

"He could," she replied seriously, leaning out of the carriage window. "Aunt Lucy thinks no end of him, and would be glad to see me his wife."

"Don't you do anything in a hurry, Mabel,"--began Cannington, when his expostulations were cut short by the departure of the train. When the ruddy tail light of the guard's van disappeared, he took my arm with a friendly hug. "I didn't give you away, did I, Vance?"

"There's nothing to give away," I said gruffly.

"Oh! oh! oh!" said Cannington, in three distinct keys. "What about love at first sight, old man? You intend to follow up this case, so as to get into touch with the original of that photograph."

"Rubbish! You are jumping in the dark."

"Don't you jump," advised the boy shrewdly. "Your fancy has evidently been caught by Miss Monk's face, and if you meet her, there's no telling but that you may be a married man before Christmas."

I denied this hotly, and proceeded to show that my interest in the case was more or less official. "Mystery piques every man," said I insistently, "so I mean to learn why Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered, and why she attached such value to that glass eye of hers."

Cannington laughed and declined to believe, but being a thoroughly good fellow, ceased to chaff me when he saw that I looked annoyed. "All the same," he remarked, as we strolled back to his quarters, "I shall keep an eye on you, Vance. You're too inflammable, and I don't want you to marry in haste and repent at leisure."

Of course I laughed, uneasily maybe, for Cannington was right in the main. I certainly was anxious to solve the mystery, but I doubted if my zeal would have been equal to so arduous a task, had not the memory of that lovely face lured me onward, like a will-o'-the-wisp. I had long since wished to secure the photograph, so as to have the image of my divinity constantly before my eyes, but Dredge very reasonably declined to permit the illegal annexation. Mrs. Caldershaw's will, which had been found by the Inspector amongst her shop accounts, left all she died possessed of to her nephew, Joseph Striver. He proved on inquiry to be a Burwain gardener in the employment of Mr. Walter Monk. "If Striver will give, or sell you the portrait," said Dredge, with official phlegm, "I have no objection; it isn't my property."

The police-officer was much too grim and unromantic to guess why I sought to possess the photograph, and needless to say, I did not tell him. Also he was considerably annoyed by his failure to solve the mystery of Mrs. Caldershaw's murder, since its solution would have procured him both praise and promotion. So no one but Cannington guessed my silly infatuation, which assuredly was silly, for who but an idiot would fall in love with a pictured face on the instant. But there was no denying it, that I was in the toils of Venus, so, although angered by such unaccountable weakness, I was bent upon meeting the original. Then,--ah, well, the future is on the knees of the gods.

However, since I was minded to trace out the truth of the crime, it was necessary to find some clue to start the trail. All that evening after dinner, and later in the billiard-room, where I played snooker with sundry young officers, I inwardly wondered how I could and should begin. The hat-pin revealed nothing, as every woman uses hat-pins, and such with blue-glass heads were probably common enough. The missing eye might have thrown some light on the darkness, but that was safe in the pocket of the assassin. It will be noticed that, in spite of the open verdict of the jury, I clung to the idea that the white-cloaked woman was guilty. Not only had she fled with my car, but she had locked me in with her victim to prevent immediate pursuit. Also the abandonment of the motor pointed to guilt. She had been seen by Giles, by Miss Destiny, and by Lucinda, but from the time my machine had been sent crashing through the five-barred gate by her reckless, or intendedly reckless, driving, she had vanished as completely as though the earth had opened to swallow her up. Yet she might have guessed that the aggressively striking white cloak would betray her. In my opinion, a woman who had so cleverly engineered her escape would scarcely be foolish enough to risk detection by her dress, so I conjectured that she must have got rid of the cloak as she had got rid of the Rippler. With this idea in my head, I settled, without telling Cannington, to explore the field wherein the machine had been abandoned.

When at rest for the night, I remembered that Mrs. Giles, who had not been called as a witness, had stated how Mrs. Caldershaw entertained the idea that she would not die in her bed. I had questioned the greengrocer's wife on this point, but she could tell me nothing more. Mrs. Caldershaw gave no hint of any enemy, or even of the possibility of a tragic death. All she had done was to make the above statement to Mrs. Giles in a burst of confidence, and to shiver when the Litany mentioned "murder and sudden death." Mrs. Giles was particular about this point. "I was sitting next to her in the same pew," said Mrs. Giles insistently, "and she shivered and shook and looked over her shoulder, apprehensive like. It happened three times, and that was what made me observe it. I'm sure she was frightened of something or of someone."

This might have been the case, but Mrs. Caldershaw never explained, and carried the reason of her fright in silence to her untimely grave. Connecting Mrs. Giles' story with the remark of Miss Destiny as to the value set on the glass eye by the woman, and with the sinister fact that the glass eye was missing, I felt certain that the way to begin the search was to take the eye itself as a clue. Local gossip in Mootley revealed few useful facts, as Mrs. Faith appeared to be the sole person who had been told about the eye by its owner, and none of the villagers seemed to know that one eye had been different to the other. But in Burwain, where Mrs. Caldershaw had lived for years as Gabriel Monk's housekeeper, and as nurse to his niece, the truth might be found by careful inquiry. If I could learn where the unfortunate woman got her glass eye, and what accident had brought about the necessity for a glass eye, the chances were that I might learn something which would enable me to trace the truth. Therefore I determined to go to Burwain and hunt out all information about Mrs. Caldershaw's past. Meanwhile there remained the field near Murchester to be explored.

Next morning Cannington was engaged on some court-martial so I was left to my own devices, although he wanted to hand me over for entertainment to a less busy brother officer. I excused myself on the plea that I wished to walk off a headache, and so contrived to leave the Barracks unhindered. It was nine o'clock when I set out, and the morning was wonderfully clear for misty August. The field, as I stated before, was only half a mile from Murchester, so I speedily arrived therein. I left the middle of it, where the Rippler had been stranded, severely alone, and skirted round the sides to examine the hedges. These were ragged and untrimmed, with deep ditches on their inner sides, and consisted of holly, bramble, hawthorn, and various saplings. I scratched myself more or less severely for quite one hour, but without discovering any sign of the white cloak. Perhaps, I thought, much discouraged, the woman had risked wearing it after all. Yet I could not believe that she had been such a fool, seeing how cleverly she had manipulated her escape.

Then I noticed that there were two gates to the field, one with the broken bars, through which she had entered from the high-road in the car, and the other on the far side, to the right-hand looking from the road. It then occurred to me that the flying lady, scared by meeting Miss Destiny's trap, and perhaps afraid lest she had injured it and would be stopped for damages, might have left the field by this last gate. I immediately walked towards it and found that it opened on to a narrow lane, which in winter must have become a stream of mud. The hedges were very ragged and tangled here, and the gate was nearly hidden, a common five-barred, unpainted gate, in a worse condition than that opening on to the road.

I knew that I had struck on the flying woman's trail, almost as soon as I arrived at this hidden gate. On one of the brambles a filmy scrap of gauze fluttered in the wind. Apparently while getting over the gate in her hurried flight, the woman's veil had caught in the thorns and she had twitched it irritably away, leaving the scrap unthinkingly behind as evidence. I secured the same and placed it in my pocket-book, then made a thorough examination of the gate on both sides. No further evidence was forthcoming until I searched the ditch, which in this instance was on the farther side of the hedge. There, hidden amongst the dank weeds, thrust into a convenient rabbit-hole in the crumbling clay bank, was the cloak itself. I drew it out with a sensation of triumph, and from it was wafted the torn veil. I had the outfit complete, save for the motoring cap.

Evidently the rending of the veil had drawn the woman's attention to the eccentricity of a white cloak worn on a chilly autumnal evening. Acting promptly, as was her custom--I guessed that from the theft of my car--she had concealed cloak and veil, and then had vanished down the muddy lane, heaven only knows whither. But I had now the evidence.

It was a white cloak, of good and even expensive material. Round the neck, down the front, and along the hem, two letters were embroidered repeatedly in blue silk so as to form a pattern. They were G. M. I dropped the cloak and gasped with dismay. G. M., in twisted fanciful letters, formed the running adornment of the cloak worn by the woman who had stolen my car and who had, to all appearances, murdered Mrs. Anne Caldershaw. And the name of the child she had nursed, of the woman with whose portrait I had fallen so unexpectedly in love, was Gertrude Monk.

"It's a lie," I said aloud to nobody in particular. "I don't believe it."

All the same, the accusing initials were there, G. M.--Gertrude Monk.