The House Opposite: A Mystery

“Did you find the pin itself?” I asked.

“No, I did not,” the detective answered regretfully.

“How do you account for the handle being where you found it?”

“I think that in all probability the pin was removed from the body immediately after it had done its work, and in doing so the head was wrenched off. During the excitement which followed no one noticed where it fell, and its loss was not discovered till the victim had been disposed of. Young Derwent evidently expected the place to be searched, which accounts for the care with which he tried to remove all traces of his presence, and his extreme anxiety to find this, which, he feared, if discovered on the premises, might prove a sure clue. Now, that theory hangs together pretty well, don’t it?” wound up the detective.

Without answering him, I inquired: “And what do you mean to do now?”

“I’m afraid I shall have to arrest Miss Derwent, as we can find no trace of her two companions. By the way, it is as you supposed;—the man you saw leaving the building was no tradesman, so he is probably the person we want. I have, therefore, given his description to the police, and hope soon to have some news of him.”

“So, Mr. Merritt, you would really arrest a girl on such flimsy evidence, and for a crime you do not believe her to have committed?” I inquired indignantly.

“As for the evidence, I think it is fairly complete,” answered the detective, “and I would not arrest Miss Derwent if I were not convinced that she is implicated in this affair, and think that this is the surest way of getting hold of the precious couple. I can’t allow a criminal to slip through my fingers for sentimental reasons, and every hour’s delay renders their escape more possible. The girl may be innocent,—I believe she is; but that one of that trio is guilty I am perfectly sure.”

“Are you, really?” I exclaimed. “Well, I am not, and, if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I think I can easily prove to you that you are wrong. For since Friday I, too, have thought of a new and interesting point in connection with this case.” The detective looked indulgently at me.

“You seem to forget,” I continued, “and of this fact I am quite certain, that the victim met his death while wholly or partly unconscious.”

Merritt gave a slight start, and his face fell.

“The autopsy must have been made by this time. Did not the doctor find traces of alcohol or a drug?” I demanded.

“Yes,” admitted the detective, “alcohol was found in large quantities.”

“Now, Greywood had been dining quietly with a lady, and it is inconceivable that he could have been drunk, or that, being in that condition, she should not have noticed it, which she could not have done—otherwise she would certainly not have allowed him to go up-stairs with her.”

“That is a good point,” said the detective.

“Besides, the corpse bears every indication of prolonged dissipation. Now, no one has hinted that Greywood drank.”

“No, but he may have done so, for all that,” said Mr. Merritt.

“He could not have done so to the extent of leaving such traces after death without its being widely known,” I asserted. “The dead man must have been an habitual drunkard, remember, and that the young artist certainly was not. No, if you persist in believing the murdered man to be Greywood, you must also believe that Miss Derwent lured him to her rooms, while he was so intoxicated as to be almost, if not quite helpless, and there, either killed him herself or allowed her brother to kill him. In the latter case, do you not think a lady’s hat-pin rather a feeble weapon for a young desperado to select? And that that description can be applied to Allan Derwent, everything I have heard of him tends to show.

“On the other hand, let us consider for a moment the probability of the body being Allan Brown’s. What do we find? When last seen he was already noticeably intoxicated, and what is there more likely than that the daughter of a saloon-keeper should have no scruples about offering him the means of becoming still more so? And please notice another thing. You told me yourself that Mrs. Atkins had spent the greater part of her life among a very fast lot—so that it is perfectly natural to find a man of the deceased’s habits among her familiar associates. But what is more unlikely than that a girl brought up as Miss Derwent has been should go so much out of her way as to choose such a man for her friend? And then, again, remember how the two women behaved when confronted with the corpse.

“Miss Derwent walked calmly in and deliberately lifted her heavy veil, which could easily have hidden from us whatever emotions she may have felt. Lifts it, I say, before looking at the body. Does that look like guilt? And what does Mrs. Atkins do? She shows the greatest horror and agitation. Now, mind you, I do not infer from this that she killed the man, but I do say that it proves that the man was no stranger to her. And now I come to the hat-pin. You assume, because you find a certain thing, and I saw a search carried on, that the man was looking for the object you found. What reason have you for believing this, except that it fits in very prettily with your theory of the crime? None. You cannot trace the possession of such an ornament to Miss Derwent, can you?” The detective shook his head. “Ah! I thought not. And even if you did, what would it prove? You say yourself that the design is not an uncommon one.”

“No, but it certainly would be considered a very remarkable coincidence, and one that would tell heavily against her,” the detective replied.

“Yes, I suppose so; but we needn’t cross that bridge till we come to it. As yet, you know nothing as to the ownership of the pin. But I want to call your attention to another point. If two people have identified the body as the young artist, so have two others recognised it as that of Allan Brown, and I assert that the two former are not as worthy of credence as the two latter.”

“How so,” inquired Mr. Merritt.

“In the first place, Jim was much less positive as to the supposed identity of the deceased than Joe was. You admit that; consequently, I consider Joe’s word in this case better than Jim’s, and Mrs. Atkins is certainly a more reliable witness than Mrs. Mulroy, an Irish charwoman, with all her national love of a sensational story.”

“That is all very fine,” said Mr. Merritt, “but Mrs. Atkins emphatically denied knowing the deceased.”

“In words, yes; but don’t you think this is one of the cases where actions speak louder than words? By the way, I gather from your still being willing to discuss the corpse’s identity that you have not been able to trace this mysterious Brown?”

“You are right. The only thing we have found out is, that the berth on the Boston train which was bought in his name was never occupied.”

“And yet, in the face of all this, you still think of arresting Miss Derwent; of blighting a girl’s life in such a wanton manner?”

“Doctor, you’re right; I may have been hasty. Mrs. Greywood, the young man’s mother, arrives to-morrow, and her testimony will be decisive. Should the body not be that of her son (and you have almost convinced me that it is not), then Miss Derwent’s affairs are of no further interest to me, and who she may, or may not, entertain in her apartment it is not my business to inquire.”

After a little more desultory talk, I left him to his morning paper. I was now more than ever determined to do a little work in his line myself, and felt quite sure that talent of a superior order lay dormant within me. Only the great difficulty was to know where to begin. I must get nearer the scene of the tragedy, I concluded; I must cultivate McGorry and be able to prowl around the Rosemere undisturbed. What a triumph if I should discover the missing hat, for instance!

All this time I was sauntering idly up-town, and as I did so I fell in with a stream of people coming from the Roman Catholic Cathedral. Walking among them, I noticed a woman coming rapidly towards me, who smiled at me encouragingly, even from quite a distance. Her face seemed strangely familiar, although I was unable to place her. Where had I seen those flashing black eyes before? Ah! I had it,—Mme. Argot. She was alone, and as she came nearer I saw she not only recognised me, but that she was intending to stop and speak to me. I was considerably surprised, but slowed down also, and we were just opposite to each other when her husband suddenly stepped to her side. A moment before I could have sworn he was not in sight. It was quite uncanny. His wife started and glanced fearfully at him, then tossing her head defiantly she swept past me with a beaming bow. He took off his hat most respectfully, and his long sallow face remained as expressionless as a mask. But I was sure that his piercing black eyes looked at me with secret hostility. The whole incident only occupied a minute, but it left a deep impression upon me, and started me off on an entirely new train of thought. What had the detective said? The guilty person must have been able to procure, for some time, however short, the key to the vacant apartment. We only knew of three people who were in a position to have done this. Miss Derwent, the French butler—well, why not the French butler? Those eyes looked capable of anything. I was sure that his wife was afraid of him, for I was certain that she had meant to stop and speak to me, and had been prevented from doing so by his sudden appearance. But what could she have wished to say to me? And why that gleam of hatred in her husband’s eye? I felt myself so innocent towards them both. In fact, I had not even thought of them since the eventful Thursday, and might easily have passed her by unnoticed if she had not been so eager to attract my attention. Well, it would be queer if I had tumbled on the solution of the Rosemere mystery!

As I was now almost opposite my club, I decided to drop in there before going in search of McGorry. There were hardly any people about, and when I entered the reading-room I found that it contained but one other person besides myself. The man was very intent upon his paper, but as I approached he raised his head, and I at once recognised Mr. Stuart. The very person, of all others, I most wanted to see. Fate was certainly in a kindly mood to-day, and I determined it should not be my fault if I did not make the most of the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded me. So when I caught his eye I bowed, and walked boldly up to him. He answered my salutation politely, but coldly, and appeared anxious to return to his reading; but I was too full of my purpose to be put off by anything. I said: “Mr. Stuart, you have quite forgotten me, which is not at all surprising, as I only met you once before, and that time was not introduced to you.”

He smiled distantly, and looked inquiringly at me through his single eye-glass.

“It was last Thursday at the Rosemere,” I explained.

He appeared startled. I think the idea of my being a detective suggested itself to him, so I continued, reassuringly:

“My name is Fortescue, and I am a doctor. My office is vis-à-vis to your building, so, probably on account of my proximity, I was called in to see the victim, and have naturally become much interested in this very mysterious affair.”

“Indeed!” he remarked.

This was not encouraging, but I persisted.

“A very remarkable case, isn’t it?” I said, trying to appear at ease.

“A most unpleasant business,” he replied curtly.

My obstinacy was now aroused, so I drew a chair up and sat down.

“Mr. Stuart, I hope you won’t think me very impertinent if I ask you whether you have any reason to be dissatisfied with your two servants?”

He now looked thoroughly alarmed.

“No; why do you ask?”

“You probably know that the identity of the dead man has never been established?” I continued.

“On the contrary,” interrupted Mr. Stuart, “I am just reading an account of how it has been ascertained that the body is that of a man called Greywood.”

“Oh,” I replied airily, “that is only a bit of yellow journalism. If you read to the end, you will find that they admit that the police place no credence in their story. I have just been talking to Mr. Merritt about it–”

“Merritt, the detective, you mean?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, he must be an interesting man. I should like to see him.”