Part 5

“I imagined him always to be hard at work every evening,” she said sadly, when consulting me. “But if my friend has really made no mistake, Mr Gilbertson has been spending his evenings in more congenial fashion than in working at his profession, or in visiting me. I cannot condescend to pursue further investigations myself. But it will not be a very difficult matter for you. You will lose no time over the business?”

“None whatever,” was my prompt assurance. And I kept my word, for that very afternoon saw me, very soberly attired and wearing my most philanthropic expression, wending my way towards the very quiet bye-street in which Mrs Tweedy lived. I was armed with all sorts of particulars, and was made aware of Mrs Tweedy’s particular foible. She only needed to scent a possible donation to become the most servile and plausible of individuals. She had always been poor, but not of the poorest, for she contrived to divert a great many gifts from indiscriminate philanthropists to herself that ought really to have been bestowed elsewhere. As I carried a neat parcel of groceries by way of make-weight to the bundle of tracts I was supposed to be distributing, I felt pretty sure of my position, and was soon chatting quite affably with the cunning old lady.

I was diplomatic enough to pave the way for the tract I had to offer by the gift of a quarter of tea and a tin of salmon, after which I might have learnt all there was to tell of the whole neighbourhood if I had wanted. We were soon chatting quite sociably together, and it was of course quite natural that, next to herself, the old lady should find her neighbours her readiest medium of gossip. As the sisters Hanson were the most interesting of these neighbours, it was equally natural that the conversation should be easily brought round to them.

I had carefully studied a photograph of Mr Gilbertson with which I had been supplied by Miss Rankin, and I purposely say opposite the open door as I chatted, in order that I might have a fair look at the Mr Gilbertson who visited the sisters every evening.

My visit was well timed, and I had not long to wait. The Misses Hansons’ Mr Gilbertson passed before my view, and I had not the slightest hesitation in judging him to be also Miss Rankin’s Mr Gilbertson. I was sorry for this, for he looked so frank and honest that anybody might have trusted him; and it is sad to have one’s ideals shattered, even if one be a detective, and, as such, already somewhat inured to the depressing influence of treacherous natures.

But my task was by no means finished. I had only seen and heard enough to corroborate the truth of Miss Cloudy’s statements, and there was too much at stake to permit any chance of blundering to survive. So when Mr Gilbertson went upstairs, I terminated my visit to the old lady, and stationed myself where he could not emerge from the house without being seen by me.

I had to wait above an hour, but it was not at all cold, and I was rewarded by seeing the gentleman come forth with one of the sisters, who certainly looked quite worthy of a man’s love. The couple walked slowly towards Hammersmith-road, followed unobtrusively by myself, who, in the gathering dusk, noticed that they appeared to be waiting for some one, as they sauntered backwards and forwards for awhile in the vicinity of St. Mary Abbott’s-terrace. Presently they were joined by another girl, who came out of a neighbouring house, carrying a music roll in her hand, and who was sufficiently like Mr Gilbertson’s companion to make me conclude that she was her sister.

Then the three retraced their step homeward, and I had no difficulty in deciding that the music teacher was the sister to whom Mr Gilbertson was supposed to be engaged. I was surprised at the openness with which he carried on his clandestine connection, for he seemed not to care who noticed him, and it was certainly running an apparent risk to show himself out of doors with Miss Rankin’s rival.

I will own to being very tired before I got to bed that night. But I was thoroughly satisfied, for I had traversed a great deal of ground, and learnt a great many important particulars of the case I was investigating. Next morning at eleven o’clock I called to see Miss Rankin at her sumptuous flat in Albert-gate Mansions, and induced her to write the following note to her fiancée: -

“I cannot see you before half-past eight this evening. But as it is absolutely necessary that I should see you then, I must ask you to put your work on one side for once, and be here at the time indicated without fail. “Iris.”

At eight-thirty that evening, having donned orthodox evening wear, I was sitting with Miss Rankin, waiting for the development of my little plot. The poor girl looked very pale, and I could see that the great anxiety was almost killing her. But I knew that it could not last much longer, and a little thrill of excitement ran through me when Miss Hanson and Mr Gilbertson were announced.

As they entered the room both looking somewhat mystified, the heiress sprang to her feet, and an angry flush suffused her face as she murmured: “This is too much!”

But in a moment she recovered her presence of mind, and haughtily addressed Mr Gilbertson: “I see you have brought your intended with you. But don’t you think you might have been off with the old love before you were on with the new?”

I am not sure who was the more astonished at this outburst, Miss Rankin herself, or the man whom she addressed. He, too, looked angry, and, bowing with studied politeness, replied, “There seems to be some mistake here. We have evidently come to the wrong house, and will wish you good evening.”

“Mr Gilbertson!” announced the butler, and, lo! the mystery was explained. There were two Romeos in the field, and Miss Rankin saw at a glance how the mistake had arisen.

The two men were actually twin brothers, and had been estranged for some time through an unjust will which had left the presumably younger son penniless, while the other had a large income. Wounded to the quick, Harold declined his brother’s friendly offers, and sought to make a name for himself in the world of letters.

I had discovered, on following the music-teacher’s admirer to his residence, that his Christian name was Gilbert, not Harold, and had arrived at a correct conclusion as to their relationship. My next proceeding was to plan a meeting of all the parties, feeling sure that it could have none but good results, and I requested the attendance of Mr Gilbert Gilbertson and Miss Hanson at Albert-gate Mansions, “to meet Mr Harold Gilbertson and his fiancée.”

As I expected, they did not fail to put in a punctual appearance, with the result that there was happiness and reconciliation all round.

Both weddings came off some time ago, and I hear that Miss Evelyn Hanson has become engaged to a very nice American, who is a millionaire – in dollars.

X. The Path to Fame

There are many experiences which fall to the lot of a detective that call forth for very little of the skill with which detectives are popularly supposed to be endowed, but which it would be a pity not to record, inasmuch as they sometimes probe the depths of pathos.

Of such a nature was my encounter with an actress, whose name was once on everybody’s tongue, but whose fame and popularity had declined with her beauty, until at last she found herself on the borderland of destitution and starvation.

I found her dying in St. George’s Hospital, whither I had gone to receive important information from the occupant of the next bed to hers. Her big, wistful eyes enlisted my sympathy, and the nurse fanned it by telling me as much as she knew about the poor soul, whose only prayer now was that she might die soon.

“She has been very rich,” she said. “She is no other than the once famous actress, Miss Winsome, whom all theatre-goers went mad after some years since. Trouble, as well as penury, have brought her to the sorry pass you now see her in. She has told me that she had two beautiful children, both of whom died of typhoid fever, and that the first intimation which she had of their illness was the news of their death. The shock nearly killed her, and she has never been the same since. She has given me a box of papers to take care of for her. If she gets better I am to give her the little box back again. If she dies, I am to burn all the letters, but I am to see that a manuscript, which she calls her confession, is published. She says it will be a warning to others. But I really don’t know who will take it for publication.”

“If she dies, give it to me,” I said, eagerly. “You know who I am. I am about to publish some of my experiences, and I will insert this among them.”

The nurse very willingly agreed to this, and, after going to the patient’s bedside, to ascertain if I could do anything for her, I quitted the hospital. The poor soul made a most curious request in response to my invitation to tell me what she would like best.

“I shan’t live above a day or two,” she said, “but I would just like to taste champagne again before I die.”

I was not sure that it was quite the thing to do. But I promised her some champagne, and took her a little bottle the next morning. Alas! I was too late! Her spirit had left its earthly casement, and bodily longings or desires would trouble her no more. The end had come much more swiftly than had been expected. But it could hardly be regretted, since a prolongation of life would only have been a prolongation of suffering for one with her shattered hopes and constitution.

“She just went to sleep,” said the nurse, and but for the fact that she ceased murmuring the names of her children, of whom she seemed to be dreaming happily, we could hardly tell when she passed away.”

It was better so, I thought, as I left the hospital again with the little box which the nurse had handed over to me. And after reading the M.S. that had been spoken of, I was all the more glad that her end had been painless. Here is her story, and I pray my readers not to judge her too harshly.

“Had any one ever told my mother that her daughter would live to be the most talked of and the most courted woman in London, she would have scouted the prediction as one that was impossible of fulfilment.

“For were we not miserably poor and obscure? Did not my estimable parents cultivate the habit of moonlight flitting, in order to evade the landlord’s just demands? Had I not an uncle in prison for housebreaking? And was it not a fact that my progenitors had never been joined in the bonds of holy wedlock?

“All these things were only too true! But, fortunately, the world doesn’t inquire too closely into the antecedents of successful people.

“There was also another circumstance greatly in my favour. My admirable mother, having been in the habit of patronising King Alcohol too freely, found herself unable to resist his insidious encroachments upon her constitution, and would have died young, even if her end had not been accelerated by a blow received from her ‘husband’ in a drunken quarrel.

“I was at this time about six years old, as nearly as I can judge, having had no definite information on the subject. My vagabond of a father promptly absconded, and quite forgot that he owned a lovely daughter. Certainly, dirt and coarse clothing then hid the charms which time and a knowledge of the art of ‘making-up’ have transformed into the irresistible tout-ensemble whose fame is now worldwide.

“When the local authorities, duly recognising my unprotected condition, transferred me to the Knockemabout Workhouse, I was not too promising a specimen of humanity, for the many kicks and blows bestowed upon me by my male parent had pretty nearly frightened the wits out of me. But I soon improved, for, since I never hungered and was at least decently clad, I was vastly better off than ever I had been before.

“Perhaps I might not now appreciate the food upon which I was fed in those days. But we judge by comparison, and as bread-and-scrape had hitherto been my great luxury, except when I once managed to crib a sheep’s trotter from a stall in the market, I was to be congratulated on the change in my fortunes.

“At the end of eight years the monotony of my life was broken. An old wardrobe dealer came to the workhouse in search of a cheap servant. Her fancy lighted on me, and as I had been taught to read, write, sum, knit, sew, wash, and scrub, I was considered to be sufficiently well equipped with worldly knowledge to start life’s battle on my own account. I was therefore transferred to Mrs Harridan’s keeping, and made to work from dawn till bedtime.

“But I am by nature industrious, and of a jolly, happy-go-lucky temperament, and I didn’t feel particularly miserable, even then.

“A trivial incident proved the turning point of my career. During one of my mistress’s many absences on business it struck me that I would don some of the tawdry things which surrounded me, so as to have a bit of fun on my own account.

“So I hurried through my work quicker than usual, and trusting that nobody would enter the shop just yet, I slipped into a short, rose-coloured tarlatan frock, cut low at the neck, and having mere straps for sleeves.

“The result astonished and delighted me. For the first time I realised that I was dowered with beauty, and I was admiring myself in front of the cracked looking-glass which adorned the shop, when I was transfixed with terror by the arrival of Mrs Harridan herself.

“But my mistress actually looked pleased, and speedily set my fears at rest by exclaiming, ‘Well, I’m blest if you ain’t cut out for a pantomime girl! You look spiffin, and I’ve more than half a mind to try it on.’

“A week later I had been engaged at a neighbouring theatre to perform in the ballet of the forthcoming pantomime. It was also arranged that I should live with Mrs Harridan, and help with some of her work, besides giving her the greater part of my earnings in exchange for my board and lodgings. But she wasn’t really hard on me, and gave me many a bit of useful finery.

“Indeed, I shall never forget that she was my first real friend, and I am glad to be able to make her a small weekly allowance, now that she is past work. Brevity will not permit me to dwell on my early professional struggles.

“Though I can honestly say that I was apt and industrious, it took me several years to achieve popularity. I was admittedly beautiful, and could act, sing and dance to perfection. But I was not able to make such a display as some of my less scrupulous fellow artistes. They boasted the ‘protection’ of this, that, or the other profligate, who invariably did his best to popularise the efforts of his favourite.

“For a long time I prided myself on my virtue. Then I came to understand the real cause of my failure, and accepted the attentions of Viscount S.

“He has provided quite handsomely for my two children, who are being educated in the belief that they are the orphans of a respectable couple called Mervyn.

“But even yet I failed to reach the pinnacle of fame which I coveted, although I had ample means of display, and I cast round for another mode of attaining my object. I found my social step-ladder in the person of young Lord F., who became desperately enamoured with me, and was for a while more than anxious to marry me. Of course, I forgot to tell him about my two children. But I made the best of my opportunities, knowing full well that Lord F.’s infatuation could not last, and when he really did show an inclination to fight shy of the engagement I had plenty of people to prove that it had been an existing fact.

“Three months later the ‘cause celebre’ of the day was the breach of promise action brought by Miss Winsome against Lord F. There was no vigorous attempt at a defence. I won my case ‘hands over,’ together with £5,000 damages.

“I also won the notoriety I craved for, and the photographs of the beautiful and ill-treated Miss Winsome were shown in every fancy shop window in the country.

“Managers ran after me.

“I could dictate my own terms.

“My audiences adored me, showered presents and bouquets upon me, and they have more than once unharnessed my horses and drawn me to my hotel in triumph.

“I have gained the summit of my ambition. But oh, God! how I do crave for a little, real honest love and sympathy! I would give the world to be able to retire with my beautiful innocent children to some place where they could never learn that their mother is anything but one of the best and purest of women!

“But how foolish I am! Why do I imagine vain things? I am quite happy – sometimes!”

XI. The Recluse of Hallow Hall

“Yes, ma’am,” said old Miles Galbraith to me. “Yes, I can tell you as queer a tale as here and there a one. In fact, if you find one to beat it, I’ll forego that little acknowledgment you promised me.”

“Fie, Miles,” was my amused retort. “You have already received the little acknowledgement in question, and have spent part of it. So how can you forego it?”

“Indeed, ma’am, it’s all right. You see, I know the little ways of ladies and gentlemen. They always pay half when they make the bargain, and the other half at the end of the story.”

“H’m! you’re very cute, Miles. But it will all depend upon what you have to tell me.”

“Then we’ll consider it settled, ma’am, if you please, so here goes. When I first went to be Mr Milsom’s gardener and coachman, he had quite a staff of servants in the house, for he still kept considerable company. Among these servants was Jenny Pryce, the under housemaid, as canny a girl as ever went to place, and I thought myself lucky when she promised to marry me. But Mr Wright, the butler, didn’t half like it. He was fond of her himself, and both he and the housekeeper had a lot to say about how foolish she was to promise to marry anybody whose station was so inferior to a butler’s. All the same, Jenny had her own notions on the subject, and at last she had to shut him up somewhat sharply.

“When the master heard about our love affair he was very good indeed to us, and furnished the little cottage in which we live to this day. The butler was never friendly to us, and would have cleared me off the premises, if he could have done so. The master, however, soon after this, took to very queer ways. It was said that he had been crossed in love, and that he had vowed never to look in a woman’s face again.

“Be that as it may, he withdrew from all society, and by degrees even ceased to walk about in his own grounds. Then he made an arrangement with his solicitor, whereby we were all put on board wages, and very liberal they were, too. Jenny came in for them as well, as she was supposed to be the master’s laundress now that she was married, though it’s mighty little washing he ever gave her to do. There was henceforth no interference in anything we did, there being certain rules prescribed by the master, and as long as we conformed to these rules we were all to keep our comfortable places.

“For two or three years Mr Milsom lived on like that, never going out, and never seeing anybody. At last he wouldn’t even take his meals in the dining or breakfast-rooms, but had one end of the house disconnected from the other part, that we could only approach his rooms by one door. These rooms were very comfortably furnished with all sorts of beautiful things collected by the master’s orders, from other parts of the house. The room that he called his library had thousands of books in it.

“The first room that we entered from the corridor was the one in which he took all his meals, and after a time we were forbidden to go any further. We would enter this room, clean it, set out his food very elaborately on the table, and then retire, only returning when we heard his bell ring for us to clear the things away. There would always be a paper on the table containing various orders. But the master himself no longer appeared to give them in person. In fact for several years not one of us was permitted to see him, and he always kept his door locked when he was in his dining-room.

“At first these eccentricities caused a deal of comment. But by-and-by the neighbourhood found new sensations to talk about, and the ‘Recluse of Hallow Hall,’ as Mr Milsom came to be called, was by lots of people entirely forgotten.

“But although we were not permitted to look upon the master’s face, he did not allow us to forget his presence, for he was very particular about the food he ate. He liked several courses to each meal. And they had to be beautifully cooked, or he would tell us his opinion pretty plainly. The fruit I raised for him had to be of the very finest, too, or he would threaten to dismiss me. This, however, did not often happen, for we all knew that we would never get such another comfortable place, where we all did pretty nearly as we liked, and we were careful to see that the master had as little cause for complaint as possible.

“If any of us had an apology to make, or anything to ask him, we would write what we wanted to say on a piece of paper each. These papers would be put on the table with the master’s meals, and we would receive our answers soon after.

“The only body that ever seemed inclined to grumble at this queer state of affairs was Mr Wright, the butler, and he was never satisfied. First he growled about one thing, then about another, and he was altogether so ill-tempered that the rest of us threatened to complain of him in a body.

“‘I think the best thing you can do, Mr Wright, is to clear out. You have got too big for your place, to my thinking.’ This was what the housekeeper said to him one day, and you should have seen the evil look he put on his face as he shook his fist at her, and shouted, ‘Maybe I will leave the place mighty soon, and in a way you little expect, too.’

“And sure enough he disappeared that very night, and everything went to prove that it was a deliberately planned flight. None of us felt sorry at losing him. But we were all considerably dismayed to find that the greater part of the family plate had disappeared with him. He must have had enough to do to carry it away unnoticed and unheard. At first we didn’t know what to do. Then I suggested going for the police. But the housekeeper said, ‘No, we must do nothing without asking the master’s advice first.’

“To this we agreed, and an account of the butler’s disappearance, together with a list of things he had stolen, was written and taken in with the breakfast. Presently there was a furious peal at the bell, and the housekeeper asked me to fetch the note we felt sure the master had been writing.

“Be quick, Galbraith,’ said she, ‘I’m on tenterhooks to know how he’ll take it, and what we are to do. Perhaps he’ll come out of his shell now, and live more like a civilised human being. He used to set great store by the silver plate. It’s been in his family more than two-hundred years.

“But so far from coming out of his shell, the master became, if possible, a more confirmed recluse than ever. His instructions to us were brief and to the point. ‘Take no steps to discover Wright,’ was his order. ‘Let his greed be his own punishment. What he has stolen does not equal the legacy I would have left him. Henceforth, do not name him to me. Let him be as one dead, and do not expect a successor in his place. My wants become fewer as I get more feeble, and I cannot tolerate the idea of having new people about the house. But I never forget those who are faithful to me, and a word to the wise is sufficient.’