The Master Detective Part 43

"Wait, Wigan," the professor said, interrupting me. "You will agree that, from the first, Wood's evidence would naturally accuse Sir John.

When you saw him and pressed him with the two questions I suggested he still sought to leave the impression upon you that Sir John was guilty; but since your questions showed there was a doubt in your mind, he admitted, to safeguard himself, the possibility of some one having entered the taxi surrept.i.tiously. One other point which counts, I think.

One of the lamps of the taxi, and only one of them, had recently been removed from its socket. I imagine he took it to make quite sure that Lady Tavener was dead."

"But he had often driven Lady Tavener. Why had he waited so long?"

said Zena.

"And what reason had he for the murder?" I asked.

"It was probably the first time he had driven them together, when Sir John had left his wife during the journey, and he wanted to implicate Sir John. In short, this was his first opportunity for the double revenge he was waiting for. I have shown, at least I think I have, that the taxi was not often used. We shall find it is his own taxi, I think, bought outright or being purchased on the hire system. I should say he rarely hired himself out except to Sir John and Lady Tavener. He was not an ordinary driver, but a very clever schemer, and, like a clever schemer, I think one little point has given him away altogether. Curtis, from whom Lady Tavener was divorced, died shortly afterwards, you may remember, of a broken heart, his friends said, which means that he grieved abnormally at the breaking up of his happiness. It is natural that his friends and relations should hate the Taveners, and one of them conceived the idea of revenge. It is curious that several of the Curtises are called Baldwood Curtis. Baldwood is a family name. It was easy to a.s.sume the name of Wood. It would be likely to jump into the mind if one of them wanted to a.s.sume a name."

"What a horrible plot," said Zena, with a shudder.

"Horrible and clever," said Quarles.

"I wonder if you are right, dear."

"I have no doubt, but Wigan will be able to tell us presently."

He was right, I think, practically in every particular. I am not sure what would have happened to Wood. Technically he had not actually killed Lady Tavener, but he solved the difficulty of his punishment himself.

Expecting the worst, I suppose, he managed to hang himself in his cell.

CHAPTER XIII

THE AFFAIR OF THE JEWELED CHALICE

The yellow taxi must still have been a topic of conversation with the public when Quarles and I became involved in two cases which tried us both considerably, and in which we ran great risk.

The reading of detective tales imagined by comfortable authors who show colossal ignorance regarding my profession, has often amused, me. Pistols usually begin the string of impossibilities and a convenient pair of handcuffs is at the end. These are the tales of fiction, not of real life as a rule, yet in the two cases I speak of the reality was certainly as strange as fiction and very nearly as dangerous.

There had been a series of hotel robberies in London, so cleverly conceived and carried out that Scotland Yard was altogether at fault. I had had nothing to do with this investigation, being engaged on other cases, but one Friday morning my chief told me I must lend my colleagues a hand. Within an hour of our interview I was making myself conversant with what had been done, and on Friday afternoon and during the whole of Sat.u.r.day I was busy with the affair.

On Monday morning, however, I was called to the chief's room and told to devote myself to the recovery of a jeweled chalice which had been stolen from St. Ethelburga's Church, Bloomsbury, on the previous day. Since the vicar, the Rev. John Harding, was an intimate friend of the chief's, there was a sort of compliment in my being taken from important work to attend to this case, but I admit I did not start on this new job with any great enthusiasm, and was rather annoyed at being switched off the hotels, as it were, and put on to the church.

I went with the vicar to Bloomsbury in a taxi, and gathered information on the way. The chalice had been given to the church about eighteen months ago by an old lady, a Miss Morrison, who had since died. She had possessed some remarkable jewelry, diamonds and pearls, and these had been set in the chalice which she had presented to St. Ethelburga's, where she had attended regularly for six or seven years. The chalice was insured for 5,000, but this was undoubtedly below its actual value. It was not used constantly, only on the great festivals, and on certain Saints' days specified by Miss Morrison when she made the gift. The previous day happened to be one of these Saints' days, and the chalice had been used at the early celebration. The vicar had put it back into its case and locked it in the safe himself. The key of the safe had not been out of his possession since, yet this morning the safe was found open and the chalice gone.

"You have no suspicion?" I asked.

"None," he answered, but not until after a momentary pause.

"You do not answer very decidedly, Mr. Harding."

"I do, yes, I do really. In a catastrophe of this kind all kinds of ideas come into the mind, very absurd ones some of them," and he laughed a little uneasily.

"It would be wise to tell me even the absurd ones," I said.

"Very well, but perhaps you had better examine the vestry and the safe first," he said as the taxi stopped.

I found the vestry in charge of a constable, and as we entered a clergyman joined us. The vicar introduced me to the Rev. Cyril Hayes, his curate. The vestry and the safe were just as they had been found that morning; nothing had been moved. Yesterday had been wet, and the flooring of wooden blocks in the choir vestry bore witness to the fact that neither men nor boys had wiped their feet too thoroughly. Even in the clergy vestry, which was carpeted, there were boot marks, so it seemed probable that the weather had rendered abortive any clue there might have been in this direction. There were two safes in the clergy vestry, a large one standing out in the room and a small one built into the wall.

It was in the latter that the chalice had been kept, and the door was open. Apparently two or three blows had been struck at the wall with a chisel, or some sharp instrument, and there were several scratches on the edge of the door and around the keyhole; but it was quite evident to me that the safe had been opened with a key. I asked the vicar for his key, but it would not turn in the lock.

"Was anything besides the chalice stolen?" I asked.

"No," the vicar returned. "As you see, there is another chalice and two patens in the safe, one paten of gold, but it was not taken, not even touched, I fancy. It was the chalice and the chalice only that the thieves came for."

"It seems foolish to keep such a valuable chalice in the vestry," I said.

"It is kept in the bank as a rule," the vicar answered. "I got it from the bank on Sat.u.r.day and it would have gone back this morning. Of course it was not possible to keep such a gift a secret. The church papers had paragraphs about it, which some of the daily papers copied."

"Every gang in London knew of its existence then," I said.

"True," said the curate, "and you might go further than that and remember that much of our work here lies in some very poor and some very disreputable neighborhoods."

"It does," said the vicar. "Amongst our paris.h.i.+oners we must have many thieves, I am afraid."

"There are thieves and thieves," said Mr. Hayes, "and I fancy there are many who would not meddle with the sacred vessels of a church.

Superst.i.tion perhaps, but a powerful deterrent."

The vicar shook his head, evidently not agreeing with this opinion.

"Probably I have had more to do with thieves than you have, vicar," he said with a smile, and turning to me he went on: "I am very interested in a hooligans' club we have. They are a rough lot I can a.s.sure you. Many of them have seen the inside of a jail, some of them will again possibly; but there's a leaven of good stuff in them. Saints have been reared from such poor material before now."

"When do you meet?" I asked.

"Mondays and Thursdays."

"To-night. I'll look in to-night."

"But--"

"I may find the solution to the theft at your club," I said. The suggestion seemed to annoy him.

That the safe had been opened with a key and not broken open indicated that some one connected with the church was directly or indirectly responsible for the theft, and this idea was strengthened by the fact that it was impossible to tell how the robbers had entered the church.

The verger had come in as usual that morning by the north door which he had found locked, and it was subsequently ascertained that all the other doors were locked. Some of you may know the church and remember that it is rather dark, its windows few and high up; indeed, only by one of the baptistry windows could an entry possibly have been effected, and I could find nothing to suggest that this method had been used. A few keen questions did not cause the verger to contradict himself in the slightest particular, and his fifteen years' service seemed to exonerate him.

"Is it possible that you left the door unlocked last night by mistake?"

I queried.

"I should have found it open this morning," he said, as if he were surprised at my overlooking this point.

I had not overlooked it. I was wondering whether he had found it open and was concealing the fact, fearing dismissal for his carelessness.

A little later I had a private talk with the vicar.

"I think you had better tell me your suspicions," I said.