CHAPTER VI. MY RIVAL

Had I not been in love--and with a face, instead of the flesh and blood woman--I suppose I would have gone off at once to Dredge to announce my discovery and show what I had found. But, in spite of evidence to the very strong contrary, I could not believe that Gertrude Monk was guilty of her old nurse's murder. She might have locked me in, she might have run off with my car and practically wrecked it, and she might have hidden in the hedge these incriminating garments: but she assuredly had not--in my now terribly biassed opinion--thrust the hat-pin into Mrs. Caldershaw's heart. Unless she confessed her guilt to my face, I resolutely declined to believe that she had perpetrated a sordid crime.

However, it was useless to stand in that chilly field weighing pros and cons, when I knew nothing of the woman, save that she was exquisitely lovely, and had captured my fancy against my will, as it were. I had a natural revulsion of doubt; then believed in her more than ever, even to the extent of vowing, that if by chance she were guilty, she should never go to the scaffold through me. But if I wished to prevent that, there was no time to be lost in getting rid of that infernal cloak and veil, for Inspector Dredge with unexpected insight might come nosing about the field. Not that I credited him with such perspicuity, but--as I swiftly determined--it was just as well to be on the safe side. I therefore rolled up veil and cloak into as small a compass as possible, and thrusting them under my overcoat--I wore one as the morning was breezy--I regained the road and hastened my return to Murchester Barracks. I felt that I was compounding a crime one minute, and exulted the next that I was saving the life of an innocent woman. And yet, on the face of it, she was surely guilty.

Luckily, when I arrived at Cannington's quarters he was still absent on duty, so I unpacked a portmanteau, which had been sent down from London, and stowed away the incriminating evidence at the bottom of some books, manuscripts, shirts, and pyjamas. Then I strapped and locked the portmanteau, so that Cannington's soldier servant should not officiously wish to pack my belongings. He could use the other portmanteau, I thought. Just as I completed my task, Cannington entered unbuckling his sword.

"Ouf! I am tired," said he pitching himself into a chair. "What a bore it is sitting on court-martials."

"What was the punishment?" I asked, lighting my pipe, and asked more for the sake of regaining my self-control, shaken by my discovery, than because I took any interest in Private Tommy Atkins.

"Five days C. B. It was only a drunken fight. Throw me over the cigarettes, Vance. Thanks, awfully." He fielded the case deftly. "Wait till I change, and we'll go to luncheon. I'm shockingly hungry. Where have you been? Fighting with the Barracks cat I should say, from the scratches."

But I did not intend to say too much even to Cannington. "I went for a cross-country walk," I answered carelessly, "and met some brambles on the way. What are you doing after luncheon?"

"Well, I was just coming to that," said the boy, who was now busy changing his kit, smoking the while. "I have to run up to town for three or four hours, as my lawyer wants to see me. I'm trying to raise some cash for a Christmas spree." He grinned. "Hope you won't mind my leaving you. But there's Trent, of course, who can look after you."

"Oh, hang it, I'm not a child to require a nurse," I snapped, for my nerves were worn thin with the situation. "You leave me alone, Cannington, and I'll attend to myself."

"All right old son, don't get your hair off. I believe this murder case has got on your nerves."

"It has," I confessed, very truthfully. "Sorry I spoke like a fractious brat. To make amends I'll let you take the Rippler to town."

"Oh, that will be frabjious," said Cannington, who had lately been reading, "Alice through the Looking-glass." "Won't you come too?"

"Thanks, no. I'm walking out to Mootley this afternoon."

"Huh! I should think you had enough of walking. What's on?"

"Mrs. Caldershaw's funeral."

"They aren't losing much time in planting her," said Cannington, with a shrug. "It's only five days since the death. But I say, old son, don't you think you might give this business a rest? It's getting on your nerves, you know, and isn't good goods at the best."

"Oh, that's all right, I only want to see the last of the poor woman."

"And then?" Cannington's tone was highly suspicious.

"I'll go over to Burwain."

"After that girl?"

I scratched my chin and eyed him severely. "See here, I'm not quite the infant you take me to be. Miss Monk's face attracted me, I admit, but that doesn't mean I am in love with her."

"You talked enough about her anyhow."

"All the more reason that you shouldn't talk," I retorted. "I can say all I want to say for myself. Do stop rotting."

Cannington nodded with an air of resignation. "I shan't say another word, Vance. Didn't think you were in earnest."

"I am in earnest about searching out this mystery, if that is what you mean, and I go over to Burwain to-morrow to make a start."

"With Miss Monk?"

"Yes," I replied, feeling qualmish. "She was Mrs. Caldershaw's nursling, and may be able to throw some light on that glass eye. I feel convinced that therein lies the solution of the mystery."

"The worst of you literary men," said Cannington, addressing the ceiling, "is that you talk too much like a book. Touched wood! touched wood!" He fled for the door, as I swung up a chair cushion. "Don't disarrange my hair, but come along to luncheon."

I obeyed. "But don't tell anyone that I am going to Mootley," said I hastily.

"Right oh. I'll take the Rippler and light out for town at two o'clock. I shall meet you at dinner, and then you can tell me all about the funeral."

So it was arranged, and we made a very good meal. At least the boy did, being unworried with secret disagreeables; but I did not eat much myself. The knowledge of what was hidden in my second portmanteau lay heavily on my mind, and I fear I betrayed my discomfort, for Cannington remarked it. It occurred to me that a murderer would have to possess amazing nerve to conduct himself as an ordinary human being, seeing that I, with no crime on my mind, was so easily discomfited. . . . Of course, under the circumstances, I should have thought of a guilty "she" rather than of a guilty "he"; but I really could not bring myself to believe that Diana of the Ephesians had murdered her old nurse.

Cannington did not waste the Rippler on himself. He invited a cheery subaltern to join him, and the two boys went off in the highest spirits, with his lordship spanchelled between the seat and the wheel. I resisted a kindly-meant invitation of Trent to play stickey, and turned my face in the direction of Mootley, thankful to be by myself. During the few miles to that village I had ample to think about, and could not help wondering at the strange whirl of circumstances which had gathered round me during the last week. I had come out to seek an adventure and had found one with a vengeance. How it would end I could not tell.

The sun came out during the afternoon, so I found the walk--but for disturbing thoughts--extremely pleasant. On passing the field, I congratulated myself that I had emptied it of its incriminating contents. Whatever inquiries Dredge made, on the face of it he could learn nothing, as I alone possessed a tangible clue. And as that clue, so far, led to Miss Gertrude Monk, and a thorough explanation would have to be forthcoming before it could go past her, it was just as well for her own peace of mind, and mine also, that she should give it to a friendly-disposed inquirer. Thinking of this, and wondering how she would explain her flight from the corner shop in my motor car, I drew near the outskirts of Mootley. The famous shop, which had appeared in several illustrated daily papers, was closed, so I did not pause but went on. Directly round the corner I met Mr. Sam Giles, the ex-greengrocer, who greeted me in a most friendly manner.

"You're just too late, sir!" said he, touching his hat, and quite ready to give all information, "she's planted."

"Mrs. Caldershaw?"

"Yes, sir. It was quite a pretty funeral, with plenty of mourners and wreaths for the coffin. We made a holiday of it this morning, and I don't think, sir, that there's much doing this afternoon, as the excitement was too great." I could not help smiling, in spite of the gravity of my errand, at the idea of the villagers extracting pleasure from such a dismal affair as the funeral of a murdered woman. But Giles apparently had the morbid love of his class for such things, and went on supplying information in high spirits.

"A heap of gentlemen of the press came from London," he said importantly, "and they photographed the grave. What with motor cars and bicycles and traps and carts, the place was like a fair. It will advertise Mootley a lot, and I shouldn't wonder if land went up in value hereabouts."

I nodded. "Mrs. Caldershaw has been quite a benefactress to the village, Mr. Giles. By the way, did Miss Monk and Miss Destiny appear at the funeral?"

"No, sir, and none of Mrs. Caldershaw's Burwain friends came to see the last of her, poor soul, which was unkind, I take it. Only Mr. Striver put in an appearance. But to be sure he could not do less," added Giles thoughtfully, "since she left him all her property."

"Striver! Striver! That's the nephew?"

"Yes, Mr. Vance, and a handsome young man he is. A gardener, I believe, who works for Mr. Walter Monk at Burwain. Not that he'll do much work now, for I daresay his aunt has left him enough to live like a gentleman. Her lawyer--he's a Murchester man in a small way of business--told me that there was over five hundred pounds in the bank; besides there's the lease of the shop for two years and its contents."

"Lucky Mr. Striver, and it's all left to him," I bantered.

"Yes, sir, along with the glass eye."

I had set my face towards the village, but wheeled at the last word. "Why the dickens did she leave him the glass eye?"

"Goodness only knows, Mr. Vance, but leave it she did. Mr. Striver's quite annoyed he hasn't got it and intends to offer a reward for it."

"He'll have to find the guilty person first," I said grimly.

"The white-cloaked lady, sir?"

I winced. "She may not be the guilty person, after all. There! there!" I went on hastily, as Giles showed a disposition to argue. "I know nothing more about the matter than you do"--this was an absolutely necessary white lie considering the circumstances--"but tell me, Mr. Giles, does this young man know why his aunt valued her glass eye so greatly?"

"No, sir. He told me that he couldn't guess why it was left to him. He is all on fire to find out, and that is why he intends to offer the reward. At present he's in the shop looking over things."

"Does he intend to give up his gardening and turn shopkeeper?" I asked.

"I don't know, sir; nothing has been settled. But he returns to Burwain--so he told me--this evening. I'm going to Murchester myself, sir, on an errand for the wife, so if you will excuse me----"

"One moment, Giles. Has anything fresh been discovered?"

"No, sir; and you mark my words, sir, nothing more ever will be discovered. The woman in the white cloak has vanished entirely, glass eye and all. You are taking an interest in the case, Mr. Vance."

"Can you wonder at it, seeing how I am mixed up in the business. I want to solve the mystery if I can, out of sheer curiosity. Here's my address, Mr. Giles," I hastily scribbled it on a card, "and if you hear of anything new, let me know at once."

Giles took the pasteboard, and promised faithfully to keep his ears and eyes open and his mind on the alert. Then he moved away down the road to Murchester, with a parting advice that I should inspect the grave. "It's a pretty grave," said Giles cheerfully, "with a lovely view!"

But I did not go to look at the grave, or at the view, which the corpse--I presume--was supposed by Giles to appreciate, for it struck me that Striver being in the corner shop it would be an excellent opportunity for me to gain possession of the photograph. I therefore turned back, and in a few minutes was knocking smartly at the closed door. Shortly it was thrown open, and on the threshold appeared one of the handsomest young men I had ever seen. There were signs of good breeding about him also, and in his navy-blue serge, with a tweed cap and brown boots--rather an odd dress for a funeral, I thought--he looked less like a gardener and more like a smart city clerk. And yet in his bearing there was a smack of the West-End.

Mr. Joseph Striver was moderately tall and perfectly made--slim in figure, with the alert poise of an athlete. His hands and feet certainly betrayed the plebeian, but no one could deny the beauty of his clean-shaven face. I say "beauty" advisedly, although it is an odd adjective to apply to a man. It was a Greek face and a Greek head, clean-cut and virile, of the fair, golden Saxon type, yet more intellectual than the same generally is. A fashionable lady might have envied his transparent complexion, his blue eyes, and the curve of his lips. His form also was irreproachable, and his small head, set proudly on the white column of his throat, possessed a snake-like grace. On the whole, Mrs. Caldershaw's heir was a singularly handsome young fellow, and with her small fortune added to his personal advantages would be certain to succeed in life. It seemed quite a pity that so splendid a youth should be a mere gardener. Yet the employment is eminently respectable, since Father Adam originally took up the profession.

He looked inquiringly at me, so I opened the conversation. "My name is Vance, Mr. Striver, and----"

"Oh," he interrupted, in a very pleasant and somewhat cultured voice. "You are the gentleman who gave evidence at the inquest. Come in please." He stepped aside to let me past. "I am very glad to see you, as I wish to ask you some questions."

I proceeded him into the shop, while he closed the door. "I said all I had to say at the inquest," I answered quickly.

"I read all about it in the papers, Mr. Vance."

"You did not come to the inquest then?"

"No, you might have guessed that, seeing you were present. I only came over to the funeral, when I heard that my aunt had left me her money--not in very appropriate clothes, I fear, though; but I had no time to get an outfit, you see. Now I am looking into things."

We were in the back room by this time, and a heap of letters and papers lay untidily on the floor. Miss Monk's photograph still smiled from the mantelpiece, and I stole a glance at it, which left me more enthralled than ever. "You won't mind my going on with my sorting," said Striver, placing a chair for me, and dropping on his knees; "but I want to get things straight before dark, as I have to return to Burwain for a few days."

He was so amazingly cheerful, that I could not help saying so. He looked up smiling. "You can't expect a poor man who has come in for money to be miserable," said Striver, with much truth. "Besides my aunt never did care for me, and I was quite surprised to learn that I was her heir. Had we been at all attached to one another I should have come to the inquest, and even before, seeing she met with so dreadful a death. But there wasn't much love lost between us, Mr. Vance, so only as her heir did I come to the funeral. I can't pretend to feel very sorry."

"That sounds rather heartless, seeing how you have benefited by her death."

Striver shrugged. "I daresay; but I never was a hypocrite. Put yourself in my place. If a disagreeable old woman left you the money she could no longer use, would you break your heart?"

I laughed. "No, I can't say that I would."

"Very well, then," he reiterated coolly, "put yourself in my place. I'm sorry, of course, as I would be for any human being who was murdered. Otherwise," he shrugged again, "well, there's no more to be said."

There came a pause. "I believe you hinted that you wished to ask me some questions?"

Striver straightened himself. "Well, yes. Have you any idea who murdered my unfortunate aunt?"

"Not in the least."

"What about the lady in the white cloak?"

"Appearances are against her. All the same, she may be innocent."

The young man's blue eyes flashed like sapphires. "I doubt that; else why should she run off with your motor car and lock you in?"

"Well," I drawled, not very sure of my ground, "she may have found your aunt dead, and in a fright----"

"Oh, that won't wash," he interrupted in a somewhat common way. "You swore at the inquest, that you were attracted into this room by a groan from my aunt, in which case she could not have been dead when this lady went up the stairs."

"That is true," I admitted, "but I don't hold a brief for the escaped lady, remember."

"You speak as though you did," he retorted and went on with his sorting. "Has anything been heard of her?"

"Nothing. I found my motor car in the field; but the lady has vanished."

"Don't you think," Striver raised himself up to ask this question, "that she could be traced by means of that white cloak?"

I shrugged in my turn and fenced, as I was not going to admit the truth. "I daresay the cloak was noticeable enough. All the same, she has not been traced. Now, she never will be. I should not be surprised if the police gave up the case."

The young man rose quickly. "No," he said promptly, "I intend to offer a reward."

"Ah! You wish to have this lady hanged."

"If she is guilty, why not?" he asked bluntly, "But if you will have the truth, Mr. Vance, I don't care either one way or the other about a possible hanging. I want to find the glass eye."

"And you think the lady has it?"

"I--I--I suppose so," he muttered in a hesitating manner, then burst out: "Yes, indeed, I do want to find the glass eye. There's a fortune connected with it, Mr. Vance--a large fortune."

"Oh!" I could not help betraying surprise. "So this was why Mrs. Caldershaw attached such value to it?"

"Exactly. In some way--I don't exactly know how--that eye reveals the whereabouts of the fortune I speak of."

"Humph. Do you mean to say that Mrs. Caldershaw concealed her money and concealed its whereabouts in her glass eye?"

"Yes, I do, in a way. That is, this fortune does not consist of my aunt's savings. I have those and the shop also. But when she lived at Burwain, she talked of a large fortune--some fifty thousand pounds, she mentioned on one occasion--which was concealed somewhere."

"Whose fortune was it?"

"I can't say. But my father, her brother--he's dead now--was always bothering her about the money. She never would tell him anything, but said that when she died he could learn all he wanted to know from the glass eye. As my father has passed over, of course the glass eye along with the money comes to me,--the fortune also. Fifty thousand pounds!" He raised his arms with an ecstatic expression. "What couldn't I do with such a heap of coin, Mr. Vance. Why I could marry----" He halted, cast an uneasy look on me, and again began to sort the letters.

"Oh, you're in love," I said smiling.

"A man of my age is always in love," he remarked curtly. "But never mind about that, I want to find some clue to the glass eye," and he tossed over the papers feverishly.

"To its whereabouts?"

"No, I know that much. The person who murdered my aunt has the eye, and killed her for the sake of learning the secret. But my aunt may have left some letter, or paper, or description, saying how the eye can reveal the whereabouts of the fifty thousand pounds. Can you imagine," he sat back on his hams, "how the eye can be the clue?"

"No," I said, after a pause, "unless there is a piece of paper hidden in it."

"Oh, that's impossible. Do you know what a glass eye is like?"

"Well, no, I have never seen one, unless fixed in a person's head."

Striver laughed. "I had the same idea about a piece of paper," he explained carefully, "and went to an optician in Tarhaven to examine an eye. I suppose you think--as I did--that an artificial eye is the shape and size and the fatness of an almond."

"Something like that," I admitted, "with the paper enclosed within."

Striver laughed again. "It's shaped exactly like a small sea-shell: simply a curve of thin glass, convex and concave, and fits into the socket like a--a--what shall I say?--like a cupping-glass."

"Humph! In that case, it would be impossible to conceal a piece of paper behind it without damage."

"Of course, taking also into consideration the smallness of the eye. The only thing I can think of," he added, half to himself, "is that there is a plan or some writing on the back part, which reveals the whereabouts of this money."

"But there's no space to write in," I objected, considerably interested.

"Why not. Writing done with a magnifying-glass, you know. I have seen the Lord's Prayer written on a sixpence."

I nodded. "There may be something in what you say," I admitted, "and, as it appears that Mrs. Caldershaw was murdered for the sake of the eye, it must have some value. Perhaps," I added with a brilliant afterthought, "she hid a diamond behind it."

"It would have to be a very large diamond to bring in fifty thousand pounds," said Striver, seriously. "No, I believe that the eye is simply a clue to this treasure."

"Treasure?"

"Well, money, jewels, gold, bank-notes, what not. All I know is that my aunt certainly mentioned fifty thousand pounds to my father."

"Why didn't she secure the treasure herself?"

"Perhaps she did and has buried it somewhere. Well, never mind," he turned over the papers again, "come what may, I must find the eye."

"You won't find it there," I said, rising to take my leave, and with one eye on Miss Monk's photograph. "Better get the police to trace the white-cloaked lady, since you believe she has taken it."

"I don't see who else could have committed the murder and have stolen the glass eye," said Striver decisively. "In one way or another, she must be found, somehow."

"And then----?"

"Then she must deliver up the glass eye."

"And be hanged."

"I don't want to go so far as that," he muttered nervously. "Of course, she is a woman."

"And being so, is clever enough not to be caught. I daresay she will learn the secret of Mrs. Caldershaw, procure the fortune, and bolt to America." I moved towards the door, and Striver straightened himself to show me out. Then with an apparent afterthought I drew his attention to the smiling face of Miss Monk. "I admire that," said I, pointing.

The effect was somewhat unexpected. "Why?" he asked roughly, and flushed scarlet through his fair skin, looking more handsome than ever.

"Why?" I stared at him in surprise. "Why not? you should ask. It is a very lovely face, and I admire it as a work of art."

"Oh, as a work of art. That's all right," he retorted quickly, "but it happens to be the photograph of a real person."

"Miss Gertrude Monk."

"How do you know that?" demanded the young man, again flushing angrily.

"Miss Destiny told me that the photograph was one of her niece. I suppose, Mr. Striver, you would not mind my buying it."

"I'll see you hanged first," he retorted vehemently, and clenched his fists. "What is Miss Monk to you?"

"I have never met her, Mr. Striver, so calm yourself. But you display such heat at my apparently simple question, that I must ask, what is she to you?"

Striver stared at me and his eyes were as hard as a piece of jade. "I love her," he said defiantly.

I was taken aback by this statement, and flushed in my turn, making the not very polite reply, "Nonsense!"

"And why nonsense," shouted Striver, who had by this time completely lost his temper, "how dare you say that? Even though I am a gardener I have the feelings of a human being."

"But your difference in rank," I exclaimed hotly.

"Love levels all ranks."

"Indeed. Then I take it that Miss Monk favors your suit?"

"Mind your own business, Mr. Vance."

"I intend to make it my business," I snapped, now as angry as he was, for it did seem ridiculous that this Claud Melnotte, handsome as he was, should aspire to the apple on the topmost bough.

"You're talking damned rot and damned insolence. If you have never seen Miss Monk, you can't possibly be in love with her," he raged furiously.

"I said nothing about love. But that photograph took my fancy, and I wish to buy it if possible."

Striver snatched the photograph, silver frame and all, off the mantelpiece to cram it roughly into his pocket. "There," he cried vehemently, "that's all you'll ever see of it."

"Then I must seek out the original," said I, walking into the shop.

He was after me in a moment. "If you dare to come interfering," he growled in a voice thick with passion, "I'll break your neck."

"That is easier said than done," I jeered, now being content that the young man was my rival and a dangerous one at that. "Let me pass."

Striver paused irresolutely, then did as he was asked. I left the shop leisurely, and glanced back when some distance down the road. Mr. Joseph Striver drew the photograph out of his pocket and insolently kissed it, apparently to intimate that I was odd man out.