The House Opposite: A Mystery

“That’s a good girl. You must get a long night’s rest, and if you are better in the morning I will let you see your friend. He’ll wait, you know; I don’t believe he will be in any hurry to leave, do you?” But she only frowned at my attempt at jocularity. I rang the bell and asked the butler to call Mrs. Derwent, to whom I gave full directions as to what I wanted done, and had the satisfaction of seeing May go up-stairs with her mother. I waited till the latter came down again, and then told her as gently as possible that her daughter was on the verge of brain fever, but that I hoped her excellent constitution might still save her from a severe illness.

The next question was, what to do with Norman.

May’s positive belief that he was coming had proved contagious, and I found that we were both expecting him. I thought it would be best for me to meet him at the train, tell him of May’s sudden illness and offer to put him up at our place for the night. Mrs. Derwent, after some hesitation, agreed to this plan. Norman turned up, as I knew he would. He is very quiet, and does not appear surprised either at his sudden invitation or at May’s illness. He also seems to think it quite natural that he should stay in the neighbourhood till she is able to see him. He looks far from well himself, and is evidently worried to death about May. He has been out all the evening, and I suspect him of having been prowling around the Beloved’s house.

Now tell me—what do you think is the meaning of all this? Is the body Maurice Greywood’s, or is it not? If it is he—who killed him and why? If she—but I’ll not believe it unless I also believe her to have had a sudden attack of acute mania—and that, of course, is possible, especially when we consider what a highly nervous state she is still in.

But if the dead man was really a stranger to her, as she asserts, why then does every mention of the murder cause her to become so excited? Why does she appear to be for ever watching for somebody? Why did she cry out in her sleep: “Oh, he’s dead, he’s dead!”? Again, the only reasonable explanation seems to be that her mind has become slightly unhinged. And if that is the case, what rôle does Norman play in this tragedy, and why did she insist on his being sent for? Above all, why does he consider it natural that she should have done so?

Now, knowing all this, can you advise me as to what I ought to do to help the poor girl?

I hear Norman coming in, so must end abruptly, although I have a lot more to say.

    Affectionately yours,
    Fred.

CHAPTER IX

I INSTRUCT MR. MERRITT

WHILE these things had been happening in the country, my Sunday in town had been almost equally eventful.

I had not been surprised on receiving Fred’s telegram the evening before to find that the name it contained was that of the young artist. Had he not already told me that Greywood was supposed to have been the favoured suitor? And, knowing May Derwent as I did, I had felt sure from the very first that she must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust and liking—to say the least—for the man whom she permitted to visit her on that Tuesday evening. That the cur had not known enough to respect the privilege filled me with mingled feelings of rage and delight. Had he not offended my divinity there would have been no chance for me, and yet that he had dared to do so made me long to punish him.

But to do this I must first find him. His name did not appear either in the Social Register or the Directory, but I thought that by visiting the various studio buildings dotted over the city I should eventually find the one in which he lived.

So I got up bright and early the following morning, determined to begin my search at once. As I sat down to my breakfast with a hopeful heart and an excellent appetite, I little thought what a bomb-shell was contained in the papers lying so innocently beside my plate.

I had hardly read the terrible news before I was out of the house and on my way to Merritt’s. Luckily, I found the detective at home, calmly eating his breakfast. He showed no signs of surprise at my early appearance, and invited me to share his meal with simple courtesy. As I had hurried off without stopping to eat anything, I thought that I had better do so, although I grudged the time spent in such a trifling pursuit, while so much hung in the balance and every minute might be precious.

“Well, Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed, “what is this fairytale about Greywood? I see from the papers that your people do not put much faith in the identification.”

“We do, and we don’t,” he answered, “but it is not proved yet, and, while there is still some doubt about it, I thought it as well for the gentlemen of the press to be kept guessing a little longer.”

“But what do you think? Surely, you do not believe the murdered man to be Greywood?” I urged.

“Doctor, I’m afraid I do.”

“You do?” I cried.

“Yes.”

“But when I saw you, on Friday, you were equally sure of Miss Derwent’s innocence.”

“Ah! that was Friday! Besides, I have not said that I believe the young lady guilty; I merely say that I believe Maurice Greywood, and not Allan Brown, to be the name of the victim.”

“But, then, you must think that she killed him,” I insisted.

“Not necessarily. Have you never thought of the possibility that Allan Derwent (for we will assume that he was the man whom you saw in her apartment) might be the murderer?”

“No,” I confessed, “that had not occurred to me.”

“But it ought to have, for of all the theories we have as yet entertained, this one is by far the most probable. You see,” he continued, “you allow your judgment to be warped by your unwillingness to associate the young lady, even indirectly, with a crime.”

“Perhaps so,” I acknowledged.

“Now, I must tell you that, however innocent Miss Derwent may eventually prove to be, since my last talk with you I have become convinced that the murder was committed in her parlour, and nowhere else.” Mr. Merritt spoke very earnestly, leaning across the table to watch the effect on me of what he was saying.

“Ah,” I exclaimed angrily, “then you deceived me–”

“Gently, gently, young man; I don’t deceive anybody. I told you that I wished the young lady well; so I do—that I believed in her innocence; I still do so. I said that the information I had received from you materially helped her case, which it most assuredly did. Had you withheld certain facts it would have been my duty—my painful duty, I acknowledge—to have arrested Miss Derwent last Saturday.”

“But why?” I inquired.

“Because all the evidence pointed towards her, and because my belief in her innocence rested on no more solid foundation than what is called intuition, and intuition is a quicksand to build upon.”

“But what was there to point to her except that a negro boy thought that the dead man resembled Greywood?”

“Ah, you acknowledge that her visitor was Mr. Greywood?”

“Yes, I grant you that, but what of it? I am convinced he has not been murdered.”

“But why?” demanded the detective. “Now, listen to this. The body is identified by two people as Greywood’s. Greywood disappears at about the same time that the crime was committed. We know that the corpse must have been hidden somewhere in the Rosemere for twenty-four hours. Where could it have been more easily secreted than in the Derwents’ apartment, into which no outsider or servant entered? And lastly, it would have required two people to carry, even for a short distance, a body of its size and weight; but as the young lady was not alone, but had with her the man and woman whom you saw, this difficulty is also disposed of. From all this, I conclude that the Derwents’ flat was the scene of the tragedy.”

“But why should Greywood have been killed?” I asked. “What possible motive could there have been?”

“Oh, it is easy enough to imagine motives, although I do not guarantee having hit on the right one. But what do you think of this for a guess? Miss Derwent, who knows that her brother may any day be in need of a hiding-place, has given him the key to their back door. Coming to town, she meets Greywood, dines with him, and invites him to spend the evening with her (having some reason for supposing that her brother is safely out of the way). During this visit they have a violent quarrel, and, in the midst of it, young Derwent, who has come in through the kitchen, suddenly appears. Let us also presume that he is intoxicated. He discovers his sister alone with a man, who is unknown to him, and with whom she is engaged in a bitter dispute. The instinct to protect her rises within him. His eyes fall on a weapon, lying, let us suppose, on the parlour table. He seizes it, and in his drunken rage, staggers across the room and plunges it into Greywood’s heart. What girl could be placed in a more terrible position? She is naturally forced to shield her brother. So she hits on a plan for diverting suspicion from him, which would have been successful, if Fate had not intervened in the most extraordinary way. You remember, that it came out that on Wednesday she went in and out of the building very frequently. During one of these many comings and goings, she manages to extract the key of the vacant apartment, to have it copied, and to return it without its absence being noticed. They then wait till the early hours of the morning before venturing to move the body, which they carry to the place where it was found. Unfortunately for them, they locked the dead man in, and in this way rendered their detection much more easy. For it limited the number of suspected persons to three—to the three people, in fact, who could have had the key in their possession, even for a short time. On returning to their own rooms, they discover that they have lost something of great importance. The young man searches for it long and vigorously. He does not find it–”

“How do you know he didn’t find it?” I interrupted.

“Because I found it,” asserted the detective triumphantly.

“Indeed! And what was it?”

“The handle—or, to be more accurate, the head—of the fatal weapon.”

“Really!” I exclaimed; “you found it? Where?”

“It had fallen in between the dead man’s trousers and the folds of his shirt.”

“It must be pretty small, then.”

“It is. Look at it,” and he laid on the table a jewelled dagger-hilt about an inch and a half long.

“That!” I exclaimed contemptuously; “why, that is nothing but a toy.”

“Not a toy,” replied Mr. Merritt, “but an ornament. A useful ornament; for it is the head of one of those jewelled hat-pins that have been so fashionable of late. A dagger with the hilt encrusted with precious stones is quite a common design.”