Chapter Fifteen. Contains some Fresh Facts.

I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with me at the club.

“You were poor Guy’s intimate friend,” I remarked as we sat together. “Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere near Bath?”

“Oh yes,” was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem. “He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe.”

“Have you ever met the widow?” I asked.

“Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy.”

“Where is the young lady now?”

“Somewhere in India, I think. Her father’s a civilian out there.”

“But this Mrs Olliffe,” I said. “Don’t you know any thing about her?”

“Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties.”

“What was her husband?”

“I fancy he was a banker, or something.”

I smiled within myself at his reply.

“She’s evidently in rather a good set,” Cardew went on, “for I’ve often seen in the Morning Post accounts of her parties, which seem to include quite a number of distinguished people.”

“Well,” I said, “as you know, Cardew, I am busy making my own inquiries. It is a slow, tedious process, but I am hopeful of success. I intend to discover by what means poor Guy was killed; therefore his friends interest me—especially his women friends. For that reason I am trying to discover all I can concerning Mrs Olliffe.”

He was silent for a moment; then, bending across the table to me, said—

“It has never occurred to me before, Kemball, but somehow, now that I reflect, I can see that Guy appeared to be in fear of the lady we have just been discussing.”

“In fear of her?”

“Yes. One circumstance made it quite plain. A little over a month ago, I was staying with him at the Grand at Eastbourne, and wanted him to come with me to Brighton for the week-end, but he told me he had an appointment on the Sunday which he could not break. I urged him to go, but he would not, and on Sunday night he went out about nine o’clock, and did not return until two in the morning. I chaffed him next morning. But he was pale and haggard, and his reply was significant. ‘No, old chap,’ he said. ‘Sometimes a fellow gets into a bit of a hole. I’m in one—a woman, as you can guess. And I had to keep that appointment. I couldn’t refuse her, for we had some serious business to transact. Ah,’ he sighed, ‘if I could only think that I’d never see her again, by Gad! I’d be a different man!’”

“And you guessed that he met the widow?” I said.

“I know that he did, for later that same morning he let a remark drop casually that he had to see Mrs Olliffe off in Hastings.”

“Then she had some hold upon him?”

“Apparently so. But Guy was always very close about his personal affairs.”

“That was over a month ago, eh?”

“Perhaps six weeks.”

I was silent. Was it possible that the tragedy had been the outcome of that secret midnight meeting in Eastbourne? Yet why should they meet in such secrecy when he had been in the habit of going to Ridgehill Manor so openly? By the discovery I had thus made mystery had been piled upon mystery.

We dropped the subject, and took our coffee and liqueurs in the big smoking-room which looked out upon Piccadilly and the Park. Then, when he had gone, I cast myself into an easy-chair in the silence-room and pondered deeply.

I reviewed all the facts just as I had done a thousand times through those long sleepless nights, and came to the conclusion that Asta, loving the dead man as she did, was the only person capable of assisting me to bring the culprit to justice.

The stumbling-block was that I could form no theory as to how Guy Nicholson had been killed, such subtle means had been used in the accomplishment of the crime.

Cardew expressed himself ready and eager to assist me in my inquiries.

“If you want any help, my dear Kemball, you have only to wire to me. I’ll get leave and come to you, wherever you may be,” he said.

I thanked him, and soon afterwards I waved my hand to him as he descended the steps of the club.

It occurred to me that I should attempt to become on friendly terms with Mrs Olliffe. By that means I might perhaps learn something.

Therefore, one afternoon a few days later, I was shown into the pretty, old-fashioned, chintz-covered drawing-room at Ridgehill Manor, where the widow, in a cool gown of figured muslin, rose to meet me. With her was a grey-moustached man of military appearance, and a young girl of twenty or so, and they were taking tea.

From my interesting hostess I received a pleasant welcome, and, after being introduced, was handed a cup of tea. Yes, I actually took it from the hand that I suspected of striking down the poor fellow at Titmarsh!

Yet in her handsome, well-preserved face, as she chatted and laughed with her friends, evidently near neighbours, there was surely no trace of guilt. That countenance fascinated me when I recollected her extraordinary career and the ingenuity and cunning she had displayed in her efforts to live upon the credulity of others.

The girl was talking of tennis, and gave her hostess an invitation to a party on the following day.

“Sir Charles will be there, so do come,” the girl urged.

“I’m afraid I have to go to the Reids’ with my brother,” the widow replied. “He accepted their invitation a month ago.”

And almost as she said this, a tall, distinguished-looking, clean-shaven man of forty-five entered, and was introduced to me as her brother, George King. As I bowed I wondered if this man were the accomplice of whom the police had spoken at the Old Bailey—the husband Earnshaw, who sometimes posed as her brother, sometimes as her husband, and sometimes as a servant!

As he seated himself near me and began to chat, I realised that he was just as clever and refined as his alleged sister. He had just returned from six months in Russia and the Caucasus, he told me, and described the pleasant time he had had.

When at last Mrs Olliffe’s visitors rose and left, I requested a word with her alone.

“Certainly,” she said—not, however, without a slightly startled glance, which I did not fail to notice. “Come in here;” and she led me through to her own little sitting-room—a charming, cosy place, very tastefully furnished and restful.

When we were seated, I began without preamble—

“You will recollect, Mrs Olliffe, that we had some conversation concerning the late Melvill Arnold. You were anxious to learn facts connected with his death.”

“Yes,” she said, with a strange look upon her handsome face. “My object, I may as well tell you, Mr Kemball, was to satisfy myself that he died a natural death; that—well, that he was not the victim of foul play.”

“Foul play!” I gasped, staring at her. “Do you suspect that?”

She shrugged her well-shaped shoulders without replying.

“Had he any enemies—any person who would benefit by his death?” I asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“And you suspect them of—”

“I suspect nobody,” she hastened to assure me. “Only his sudden and mysterious end is extremely suspicious.”

“Well, I can assure you that you need have no suspicion,” I said. “I was with him on board ship when he was suddenly taken ill, and I remained with him nearly the whole time until the end.”

“Nearly. You were absent sometimes.”

“Of course. I was not with him both night and day.”

“And therefore you can’t say with absolute certainty that his enemies had no access to him,” she said.

“But even if they had, they can have profited nothing,” I said.

“How do you know? Melvill Arnold was extremely wealthy. Where is it all? Who knows but that he was not robbed of it in secret, and death brought upon him in order to prevent the truth from being revealed.”

I shook my head and smiled.

“I fear, Mrs Olliffe, that your imagination has run just a trifle wild. Arnold died a natural death, and the doctor gave a certificate to that effect.”

“I’ll never believe it,” she declared. “If there had not been foul play, the whereabouts of his great wealth would be known. He was a friend, a great friend, of mine, Mr Kemball, so please forgive me for speaking quite frankly.”

“You are, of course, welcome to your own opinions, but I, who know the facts so well, and who was present at his death, am able to state with authority that his end was due to natural causes.”

“It is curious that he should have trusted you—a perfect stranger,” she said, with coolness. “You did not explain the nature of your trust.”

“It was upon that very point, Mrs Olliffe, that I called to see you to-day,” I said. “Mr Arnold gave me a letter addressed to a certain Mr Alfred Dawnay, and—”

“To Alfred Dawnay!” she gasped, starting to her feet as all the colour faded from her face. “He wrote to him?” she cried. “Then—”

She stopped short, and with one hand clutching her breast, she grasped the edge of the table with the other, for she swayed, and would have fallen.

I saw that what I had told her revealed to her something of which she had never dreamed—something which upset all her previous calculations.

“Tell me, Mr Kemball,” she exclaimed at last, in a hard, strained voice, scarce above a whisper, “tell me—what did he write?”

“Ah! I do not know. I was merely the bearer of the letter.”

“You have no idea what Arnold told that man—what he revealed to him?”

“I have no knowledge of anything further than that, after Arnold’s death, I opened a packet, and found the letter addressed to Dawnay.”

“To Dawnay! His worst enemy and his—”

“Was Dawnay an enemy?” I asked. “I took him, of course, to be the dead man’s friend and confidant.”

The woman laughed bitterly as she stood there before me with deep-knit brows, her mouth hard, and a determined look upon her cunning countenance.

“Poor fool, he believed Dawnay to be his friend. Ah! what fatal folly to have written to him—to have placed trust in him. And yet, is not this my vengeance—after all these years?” She laughed hysterically.

“Is this man Dawnay such a very undesirable person?” I asked quietly.

“Undesirable!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “If Arnold had known but half the truth, he would never have reposed confidence in him.”

“But the letter may not, after all, have been one of friendship,” I suggested.

“It was. I can see through it now. Ah! why did I not know a week or two ago! How very differently I would then have acted,” she murmured in a tone of blank despair. Her face was deadly pale and her lips were trembling.

“Was Dawnay aware of Arnold’s identity?” I asked. It was upon the tip of my tongue to speak of the mysterious cylinder of bronze, but I hesitated, recollecting that this woman was not a person to be trusted.

“How can I tell?” she said hoarsely. “Yet, from facts that have recently come to my knowledge, I now realise how Arnold must have foolishly disclosed the secret to his worst enemy.”

“What secret?” I demanded anxiously.

But she was distrustful and evasive.

“An amazing secret which, it is said, if revealed to the public, would cause the whole world to stand aghast,” replied the woman, in a low, hollow voice.

Strange! Arnold, I recollected, had himself referred to the precious contents of that ancient cylinder in almost exactly the same terms!

What could that secret be?