CHAPTER VIII. THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD

I usually invent my plots, arrange my business and consider my circumstances when in bed, which is by far the best place for such thought-work. Alone in the darkness of the silent hours, there is no external influence to prevent concentration, therefore conclusions of the best can be reached speedier than in the daytime. On the night of my arrival at Burwain, I took advantage of the opportunity to think hard and long. It was necessary that matters should be adjusted clearly in my own mind before I could hope to deal with the situation. After Mrs. Gilfin's report, I desired more than ever to make Gertrude Monk my wife, but there were obstacles in the way, which only deliberate and continuous action could remove. A clear understanding of the position was decidedly imperative.

I now began to see that Anne Caldershaw's hint to her brother had reference to the missing monies of Gabriel Monk. Certainly, even if he had saved every penny of his income for eighty years, he would not have accumulated fifty thousand pounds: but it was more than probable that his visits to London were connected with various investments, and that in one way or another he had gained the fortune mentioned by Mrs. Caldershaw. But--as I asked myself frequently--if Monk had invested the money, why was it not discoverable, since investments cannot very well be concealed. On reflection I decided that the man being a genuine miser, loving the color and weight and feel of gold, had probably turned his investments, whatever they might be, into hard cash, and had hidden this carefully away. In some way Mrs. Caldershaw had learned the whereabouts of the specie, and the missing eye indicated the hiding-place. The money, by Gabriel Monk's will, belonged to Gertrude Monk, but the ex-housekeeper wished her nephew to get it, and so had left him the clue to the place where it was concealed. Perhaps she knew that Striver loved her young mistress, and thought that if he married her, after acquiring the fortune, that justice would be done. She wished, as the saying is, to kill two birds with one stone.

But two things puzzled me greatly in connection with the matter. In the first place it was odd that Mrs. Caldershaw, aware of the whereabouts of the money, should not have laid hands on it, and in the second it was difficult to understand how she could arrange that her glass eye should be a clue to its possession. Then I began to believe that the dead woman had removed the coin from where the miser had hidden it, and had drawn a plan of its new resting-place, which she had concealed behind the eye. But having regard to the shell-like shape of the eye, as described by Joseph Striver, the plan could not be delineated on a piece of paper however small, as there was no shield at the back of the artificial eyes to protect it from wear and tear. The plan, I fancied, as did Mr. Striver, was drawn on the inward curve of the eye itself, although it was difficult to imagine that the details had not been obliterated by the moisture of the flesh. But this last conjecture was for the moment beside the matter. What I knew was that Mrs. Caldershaw's glass eye indicated the whereabouts of fifty thousand pounds belonging by will to Gertrude Monk. To find that treasure and marry the girl was what I determined to do. And to manage this, it was necessary to prevent the fortune from falling into Striver's hands, by getting the glass eye into my own possession. That was no easy task, on account of the obscurity which involved the murder and the theft which had led to the murder.

Of course Gertrude Monk knew that she was legally entitled to her uncle's money, so it was possible, that having learned Mrs. Caldershaw's secret, she had gone to Mootley to insist upon the eye being given up, for the purpose of obtaining her rights. But in that case, she would scarcely have murdered the woman, since all she had to do was to compel Mrs. Caldershaw by law to confess the truth. It might be that she had quarrelled with the old woman, who would not be inclined to disarrange her plans for the well-being of her nephew; but I did not think that a girl with so lovely a face and so high a character--as Mrs. Gilfin avouched for--would have stooped to committing a crime. Had she done so and had obtained the money, her conscience would not permit her to rest. Therefore I acquitted the young lady of homicide, and cast about in my mind to think, who could possibly have slain Mrs. Caldershaw for the sake of the fortune.

Miss Destiny certainly grudged her niece the money, and being a miser would have been glad to acquire it, but she was too frail a little woman to commit the murder. Also, at the time, she was driving to Mootley, and had not yet reached the place, as the story of her encounter with my looted motor car clearly proved. She had established an indefeasible alibi. Mr. Walter Monk was in London at the time of the murder: Mr. Joseph Striver was at Burwain, and I could think of no other person who would be driven to murder Mrs. Caldershaw for her secret. The more I thought of the matter the more complex did it become. All I could do--I decided this about three o'clock in the morning--was to revert to my original decision and play a waiting game. Then I fell asleep and woke at nine o'clock with a headache, the result of over-thinking.

However, a cold bath, a good breakfast, and a half-hour's gossip with the landlady banished my pains, and somewhere about eleven I walked forth to spy out the land. I wished to call on Miss Destiny, and through her, to gain an introduction to her niece. Once in touch with Miss Monk, I might learn in some cautious way, how her cloak came to be in the field. Certainly on the fact of it, I fancied she had worn it herself and had stolen my Rippler, but it was just possible that she had given it to Mrs. Caldershaw, and had not been near Mootley at all. In which case, I, began to wonder more than ever, who was the clever woman who had taken possession of it. But such wondering was futile, as I had no certain facts to go upon. Gertrude Monk alone could give the clue, seeing that the cloak, whether worn by herself or not, was her property.

There was little difficulty in finding the abode of Miss Destiny who appeared to be as well-known in Burwain as St. Paul's Cathedral is in the metropolis. Her miserly character appeared to be common talk, and when I reached the end of the village and sighted her cottage I could well understand why it was no secret. A gentlewoman with a certain amount of money, however small, would never have dwelt in such a hovel, unless she grudged every farthing to render it sightly and comfortable. For Miss Destiny had her abode in a tiny house of galvanized tin, standing some distance from the main road, and almost hidden by a dank growth of tall weeds, and shrubs and neglected trees. A sod fence fringed the roadway, and therein was placed midway a rickety wooden gate with a broken hinge. From this a crooked pathway made by feet and worn by feet and preserved as an entrance by feet, meandered to the green-painted front door. On either side docks and darnells and brambles and coarse grasses and weeds flourished in profusion breast-high. And overhanging the tin shed--it could scarcely be called a cottage--were two gigantic elms, which dropped their decayed branches on the roof and round the walls, where they lay to add to the sordid confusion of the place. Viewing this desolation, I could only think of the chateau of the Yellow Dwarf, as described by Madame D'Aulnoy.

I walked up the sodden path--the tin shed seemed to have been built in a swamp, so oozy was the ground--and rapped smartly at the narrow front door. On either side were two small windows, through the glass of which I caught a glimpse of iron bars, which proved that Miss Destiny had made necessary provision against burglars. What struck me as odd was the absence of a chimney, but I had no time to consider this, for shortly I heard the rattle of a chain and the sound of bolts being drawn back. Then the door was opened an inch or two to reveal the dull eyes and mustached lip of Lucinda. The expression of her face was aggressive and watchful.

"What do you want?" she demanded in her beautiful voice, which struck me anew as singularly sympathetic despite her rough greeting.

"I am Mr. Cyrus Vance, who was at Mootley," I explained elaborately, "and I wish to see Miss Destiny."

Before I ended my request I heard a little, low, fluttering laugh, and Lucinda, opening the door widely, moved aside to show the tiny figure of her mistress with outstretched hands. "Prince Charming come in search of the Sleeping Beauty," cried Miss Destiny, romantically, "and all because he saw a portrait of the lady. Come in, Mr. Vance, come in. I can promise you flesh and blood this time, my dear adventurer."

There was little change about the old lady. She still wore the threadbare black silk dress, though without the velvet mantle, and her snow-white hair was still piled up after the fashion of Louis XVI's ill-fated queen.

I thrilled when I heard her words, as I guessed that I had arrived in a happy moment, and that Miss Destiny's niece, the goddess of my dreams, was seated within that pauper house. Even Lucinda grinned in a friendly way, as she saw the color come and go in my face. With all my self-control I could not suppress that sign of emotion.

"Prince Charming," said Miss Destiny, introducing me directly into a bare sitting-room, for there was no passage in the cottage, "yet me present you to The Sleeping Beauty," and she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever as she clapped her skinny hands.

Gertrude Monk was seated in a well-worn horsehair armchair, near the oil stove which did duty as a fireplace to warm the bleak room. She was plainly dressed in blue serge, with a toque of the same on her dark head, and had a muff and boa of silver-fox fur. Nothing could have been more Puritanic than her array, but the close-fitting frock showed off her fine figure to advantage, and she looked uncommonly handsome. I have already described her from her photograph, so there is no need to go over old ground, but she was even more beautiful and unapproachable than I had believed her to be, and looked more like the goddess Diana than ever. The sole thing I found lacking to complete her perfection was color, for her face was the hue of old ivory, and even her lips looked pale. Also there was a troubled look in her large dark eyes, and she welcomed me with some embarrassment. But this last probably was due to the oddity of our introduction, since Miss Destiny had evidently informed her of my admiration for her portrait.

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Vance," she said sedately and with a stately bow of her head, "my aunt informed me of your connection with the sad death of my old nurse."

"I think my connection with the matter is public property, Miss Monk," I said, nervously, "for my name has been in all the papers."

"As a playwright that should please you," she said coldly, "anything for an advertisement. Well, tell us what has been discovered?"

"Nothing as far as I know, Miss Monk."

"Oh!" she raised her fine eyebrows. "I understood," she glanced at Miss Destiny, "that you promised to come and inform my aunt of any new developments. As you are here, I thought that something had been discovered."

"Nothing has been discovered, Miss Monk. I simply came here to see an old servant of my mother's, who keeps The Robin Redbreast, and intend to stay for a few days." Of course this was a white lie, but I had to make some excuse, for her troubled eyes were searching my face intently.

"Mrs. Gilfin," said she, a smile relaxing the corners of her mouth and heaving what I took to be a sigh of relief, "I am fond of Mrs. Gilfin."

"And she is fond of you, Miss Monk. Had she never spoken to you about me?"

"No," was the reply, so my artful question, failed in its effect. Then the conversation languished, and Miss Destiny babbled to excuse her lack of hospitality. Lucinda had left the room.

"I should give you a cup of tea, Gertrude, and you also, Mr. Vance. But the kettle is not boiling, and the baker has not come, so you must excuse me."

"I am not hungry, thank you, Miss Destiny. What a comfortable little place you have here."

In my desperate desire to propitiate the little woman, I told a lie, and Miss Monk saw that I did, for her lip curled, so contemptuously, that the color came to my cheeks. I had been undiplomatic, for the word I had used did not apply in the least to the bare surroundings. The shed--it had originally been a shed, as I afterwards learned--was divided by frail partitions into four small rooms: two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a parlor. These were furnished with the flotsam and jetsam of auction rooms, in an insufficient manner. If Miss Destiny had contracted the vice of avarice from the late Gabriel Monk, she had done so very thoroughly. The bare wooden walls, the drugget on the floor, the four or five sticks of shaky furniture, and the evil-smelling oil stove, made up a picture of insistent penury. And Miss Destiny, lean-faced, keen-eyed and restless, looked like the hag Poverty herself, as she hovered about the bleak room. And even she saw through my lying remark.

"Comfortable, no indeed, Mr. Vance," she tittered nervously, "comfort, to my mind, means laziness and self-indulgence. Lucinda and I live the simple life, and require only the bare necessities of civilization. And I'm so poor----"

Her niece intervened coldly. "Is it necessary to inform Mr. Vance of your private business, aunt?"

"Oh, my dear, he knows it. For instance, that I am your aunt only by courtesy."

"What do you mean? You are my mother's sister."

"Yes. Poor dear Jane; what a bad marriage she made with that spendthrift."

"Aunt! aunt! Leave my father alone."

"My dear, I refuse to be contradicted. I never liked Walter, and I never will, so I disassociate myself from him in every way, as a sister-in-law, and look upon myself as your aunt by courtesy: merely by courtesy."

Miss Monk rose with a flush. "This conversation cannot be interesting to Mr. Vance," she said, quietly. "If you have any business with him, I shall leave you together."

"No, no, I have no business with him, my dear. Merely I should like to know if Anne's will really leaves all her property to Joseph."

"If you mean Mr. Striver, I understand that he had got the money and the lease of the corner shop to say nothing of the contents," said I, in detail.

"Merely I should like to know if Anne's will really did think Anne would have remembered me. We were such friends. And with a little money I could have made myself more comfortable. The garden for instance: I'm sure I live in a kind of jungle. Gertrude, I wish you could let Joseph come and put it right. Then we could talk about his good fortune."

"Joseph takes odd jobs at times," said Miss Monk, trying to speak calmly, for really her aunt was very trying with her unnecessary frankness, "if you offer him a good wage, he will come with pleasure."

"Oh, I can't afford to pay money," said Miss Destiny hurriedly, "it is not to be expected, especially since Gabriel left me nothing. Ah! Gertrude, you are the lucky one. Fifty thousand pounds," Miss Destiny smacked her lips, "oh, if it only could be found.'

"It is not likely to be found."

"Mr. Striver intends to find it," I said incautiously, and could have bitten out my tongue the moment afterwards for so crude a remark.

Both the women turned to face me: Miss Destiny with vulture-like eagerness, and Miss Monk with an expression of astonishment. "What has Joseph to do with my money?" asked the latter, pointedly.

"Perhaps he doesn't know that it is your money, Miss Monk."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Simply that Striver is searching for the sum of fifty-thousand pounds. That being the amount of some money belonging to you which is missing, as Miss Destiny said just now, I apprehend that it is the same."

"It must be: it must be," cried the little old lady clapping her skinny hands, "for Anne never could have saved so much out of her wages. Gertrude I always declared that Anne knew where the money of Gabriel was hidden. Now, it seems, she told Joseph about it."

"She did not inform him of its whereabouts," I struck in, eager to enlist Miss Monk's attention, "but he hopes to trace it by means of the glass eye."

"The glass eye," echoed Miss Monk, very much amazed. "I know that Anne had a glass eye, and that it is missing. But----"

"I see: I understand," said Miss Destiny feverishly, "don't interrupt me, Gertrude, for I see it all. Anne always attached a great value to that glass eye, so in some way--from what Mr. Vance says--it is connected with the hiding-place of Gabriel's money. Perhaps Gabriel got Anne to assist him in hiding it. Dear me, and the eye is missing. If it could only be found, Gertrude, you would be quite an heiress."

"I don't believe that the eye or the money will ever be found," said Miss Monk impatiently, and walked towards the door. "Are you returning to the village, Mr. Vance?"

The hint was unmistakable, and I was only too glad to take advantage of it, since it meant a tête-à-fête with my goddess. "Mrs. Gilfin will wonder what has become of me," I said, glancing at my watch.

"Oh, don't go, don't go," implored Miss Destiny, grasping my arm. "I do so want to learn all about this glass eye and the money."

"Ask Joseph Striver then," I replied, disengaging myself, "he knows all that I know, and more," I ended significantly.

"Really and truly. Oh, I must tell Lucinda," and Miss Destiny vanished into the back room crying for her handmaid. Miss Monk seized the opportunity to open the front door and slip out, raising her eyebrows at me meanwhile. I took the hint at once.

We walked down the meandering path between the weeds, and out on to the high road. Miss Monk kept silence for some distance, but I was so taken up with admiring her face, and was so delighted to be in her presence, that I did not mind her lack of speech. With compressed lips she stared straight in front of her, then spoke abruptly.

"You seem to know a great deal about our family affairs, Mr. Vance."

"Nothing more than has to do with the murder of Mrs. Caldershaw," I replied, quietly, "and I am so mixed up in that----"

"Yes! yes!" she interrupted impatiently. "I understand so far. But my aunt has been talking to you."

"Well, yes and no. I have not gathered much information from Miss Destiny."

"Why should you wish to gather any information at all?" asked the girl with some sharpness.

"My dear young lady. This murder interests me, and I wish to learn the truth. Naturally I seek for information."

"Oh! And you have come here to question my aunt."

"No, indeed. I don't see what she can tell me."

"She can tell you nothing," said Miss Monk, with decision, "my aunt is not quite sane, as you can easily see. She has a moderately good income, yet prefers to live in that miserable place, which you"--she was sarcastic here--"called comfortable, Mr. Vance."

"I wished to put Miss Destiny in a good humor," said I uneasily.

"Why?"

She was so very direct that I nearly came out with the truth. But it was absurd, on the face of it, to confess a crazy love for one I had known only half an hour: she would take so sudden a declaration as an insult. I therefore held my peace and fenced. "Miss Destiny, from what she said at Mootley, seems to know something about that glass eye, which was stolen from Mrs. Caldershaw's head when she was dead. I wish to learn all about it, so as to discover why the eye was stolen and the woman murdered."

"Then you did come here to question my aunt, in spite of your denial?"

"Well, if I must confess it, I came to ask about the glass eye."

Miss Monk walked on in silence, and then again spoke abruptly. "You should be honest with me, Mr. Vance."

"I am honest."

"Pardon me, you are not, since you said that you did not see what my aunt could tell you." And she looked like an offended goddess.

This was brutally true: I had equivocated. "I throw myself on your mercy."

She turned a pair of surprised eyes in my direction. "Why on mine?"

"I appear to have offended you," I hesitated.

"What does that matter? we are strangers."

"I wish we were not," said my rash tongue, and Miss Monk stopped.

"I really don't understand you, Mr. Vance. Why should it matter to me whether we are strangers or not?"

"Your aunt's words when she introduced me----"

Miss Monk flushed and cut me short. "That is my aunt's nonsense," she said hastily. "You don't expect me to believe that you followed me here because you admired my photograph."

That was exactly what I had done, but it did not do to tell her so, for she looked more like an offended goddess than ever. "I came here about the eye," was my cautious answer.

"You think that a true knowledge of why Anne Caldershaw attached a value to that eye would enable you to trace her assassin?"

"Yes, I do think so. Do you, Miss Monk?" I spoke with the cloak in my mind. "Do you wish me to trace her assassin?"

"Why not. She should certainly be captured and punished and the eye recovered, especially, as you seem to think it can indicate where the money left to me by Uncle Gabriel is hidden."

"She! she! she!" I positively gasped.

"Of course." Again she looked surprised. "I understand from the report in the papers, that the woman who ran off with your motor car is the assassin."

It was with some difficulty that I commanded my voice. Miss Monk, I thought, must be very sure that she had hidden her trail successfully, else she would scarcely dare to speak in this way. But, of course, as I remembered, she did not yet know that I had found her cloak. "You would like to have the woman traced?"

"Yes," she said coolly, "and the eye recovered, if it means the recovery of my money. I inherit fifty thousand pounds by----"

"I know: I know," said I hastily, "Mrs. Gilfin told me."

Miss Monk's face clouded. "I daresay," she remarked bitterly, "the story of the missing money is common property. No doubt Mrs. Gilfin told you that my uncle Gabriel was a miser."

"Yes. She told me a good deal."

"You asked her?" questioned the girl, suddenly.

"I admit it: in the interests of the case."

"Of course," she said, whether ironically or not I could not determine, and then walked on in silence.

Shortly we were abreast of a mouldering red-brick wall on the outskirts of the village. Beyond could be seen the mellow-tiled roofs of a large mansion.

Miss Monk stopped abruptly. "I live here," she said, with some coldness, "and must go in. Good-day, Mr. Vance."

She vanished through a heavy green gate, and left me staring down the deserted road. To me, the sun seemed to have vanished from the sky.