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Christopher Quarles College Professor and Master Detective

<h2 class="newchapter">CHAPTER VI THE MYSTERY OF "OLD MRS JARDINE"</h2> My association with Professor Quarles undoubtedly had an effect upon my method of going to work in the elucidation of mysteries, and not always with a good result. His methods were his own, eminently successful when he used them, but dangerous in the hands of others. In attempting to theorize I am convinced I have sometimes lost sight of facts. I am not sure that this reflection applies to the case of old Mrs. Jardine, but somehow my mind never seemed to get a firm grip of the affair. I was conscious of being indefinite, and had an unpleasant sensation that I had failed to see the obvious. Old Mrs. Jardine lived at Wimbledon, in a house of some size standing in a well-grown garden. She was an invalid, confined to the house—indeed, to three or four rooms which opened into one another on the first floor—and she must have been an absolute annuity to Dr. Hawes, who visited her nearly every day. The household consisted of old Mrs. Jardine, Mrs. Harrison, also an elderly lady, who was her companion, Martha Wakeling, housekeeper and cook, who had been many years in her service; and a housemaid named Sarah Paget. Into this household, in which no one took any particular interest, came tragedy, and the Wimbledon mystery developed into a sensation. Early one morning Sarah Paget arrived at the doctor's, saying her mistress had been taken suddenly ill, and would he come immediately. She did not know what was the matter. The cook had sent her. Three days before Dr. Hawes had gone away for a holiday, and his practice was in the hands of a locum, a young doctor named Dolman. He went at once. Mrs. Jardine was dead upon her bed. She had been found in the morning by Martha Wakeling lying just as the doctor saw her. She had been attacked in her sleep, Dolman thought, and her head had been smashed with some heavy instrument; Mrs. Harrison, the companion, had disappeared. Of course, the police were sent for at once, and the case came into my hands that same day. Dr. Dolman had seen his patient for the first time on the previous afternoon. Dr. Hawes had told him that she was something of a crank, could only walk a little, and suffered from indigestion and general debility, which was hardly wonderful, since she would make no effort to go out even for a drive. She seemed to enjoy being a confirmed invalid under constant medical treatment, and would certainly resent any neglect. "She was sitting in an arm-chair when I saw her," Dolman told me, "and was in good spirits; inclined to be facetious, in fact, and to enjoy her little joke at my expense. She wanted to know what a young man could possibly know about an old woman's ailments, and wondered that Hawes was content to leave his patients in such inexperienced hands as mine. I do not think she was as bad as she would have people believe." Dolman had not spoken to Mrs. Harrison, but he had seen her. She was sitting in the adjoining room doing some needlework. He had taken little notice of her, and was doubtful if he would know her again. Martha Wakeling said it was her custom to go into her mistress's room on her way down in the morning, and she had found her dead on the bed. She had heard no noise in the night. Mrs. Harrison occupied a room opening out of Mrs. Jardine's, and it was empty that morning. The bed had been slept in, but the companion had gone. "Was she on good terms with Mrs. Jardine?" I asked. "Yes, oh, yes." "You say it rather doubtfully?" "The mistress wasn't always easy to get on with, and I daresay she tried Mrs. Harrison at times." "And so Mrs. Harrison murdered her in a fit of anger," I suggested. "I don't say that. She is not to be found; that's all I know for certain." "Where did Mrs. Harrison come from? Who was she?" "I think she answered the mistress's advertisement." "How long has she been here?" I asked. "Just over a year. Mrs. Jardine didn't get on well with the last two companions she had. They were younger women, and the place was too dull for them. They wanted to go out more, and Mrs. Jardine wanted someone who was content to live the kind of life she did. So she got this elderly companion." "Mrs. Harrison had friends, I suppose?" "I never saw nor heard of any." "But she received letters?" "I can't call to mind that she ever did. I fancy she was one of the lonely sort." She was also uninteresting and commonplace in appearance, according to Martha Wakeling's description. The word-picture I managed to draw up for circulation had nothing distinctive about it. Nor did Martha know much of her mistress's relations. Mrs. Jardine had not been on friendly terms with them, and had not seen any of them in her time, as far as she knew; the only one she had heard mentioned was a nephew, a Mr. Thomas Jardine, who lived somewhere in London. The upper floor of the house was unfurnished and locked up, and an unfastened window on the ground floor, opening into the garden, suggested the way Mrs. Harrison had left. I took immediate steps to delay the publication of the news of the tragedy. There were points in the case which might modify first suspicions considerably, and a few hours of unhampered investigation might be of great value. Even a perfunctory search among Mrs. Jardine's papers proved that if she had not seen her nephew recently she had heard from him. I found two letters asking for money, a whine in them, and at the same time an underlying threat, as though the writer had it in his power to do mischief. Apparently Mrs. Jardine had a past which might account for her being a crank. A talk with her nephew should prove interesting. I went to the address given in the letters—a flat in Hammersmith—but it was not until next morning that I got an interview with Thomas Jardine. He was a big loose-limbed man, a gentleman come down in the world through dissipation. I told him I had come on behalf of Mrs. Jardine, and his first words showed that he was either an excellent actor or that the news of his aunt's death had not yet reached him. "If you are her business man and have brought me a check, you are welcome," he said. "I have not brought the check—at present." "Come, there's a hopeful tone about you," he returned, "and I'm hard up enough not to be particular or spiteful. Is the old girl willing to come to terms?" "I am in rather a difficult position," I answered, carefully feeling my way. "I want to do the best I can for both sides, and, as you are probably aware, Mrs. Jardine is not one to talk very fully, even to her man of business." "I warrant she has given you her version of the story." "But not yours. I should like to hear yours." "They won't agree; but the unvarnished truth is this. She was a Miss Stuart, or called herself so, and my uncle met her on a sea trip. He was in such a hurry to put his head in the noose that he married her without knowing anything about her. He imagined he had caught an angel; instead—well, to put it mildly, he had found an adventuress. She had taken good care to discover she had got hold of a rich man, and soon began her tricks. She alienated my uncle from his family, not particular about the truth so long as she got her way. My father was the kind of man who never succeeds at anything, and my uncle was constantly helping him. This came to an end when Mrs. Jardine got hold of the reins. She didn't spend money; she got it out of her husband and hoarded it, no doubt conscious that her opportunity of doing so might suddenly come to an end. It did. My father made it his business to hunt up her past history. It wasn't edifying. A lot she denied, but plenty remained which there was no denying. She had been a decoy for Continental thieves, she had seen the inside of a prison, and it would have been unsafe for her to travel in certain countries. She and my uncle separated. You can imagine Mrs. Jardine's feelings toward my father, but my uncle also seemed to hate him for having opened his eyes. I believe he gave him a sum of money and told him he would have nothing more to do with him. My uncle was a religious man, had strong views of right and wrong—some stupid views, too. When he died, to everybody's astonishment he had left his money to Mrs. Jardine for her life. At her death it was to come to my father for his life, and afterward to his son, without any restrictions whatever." "To you?" I said. "To me. My father has been dead some years, so as long as that old woman lives I am being kept out of my own. That is my side of the story." I nodded, showing extreme interest—which, indeed, I felt. But for the fact that the companion was missing, this man's position would be a very unpleasant one. No one could have more interest in his aunt's death than he had. "I daresay the old woman has told you that her husband's accusations were all false, and that by leaving such a will he repented before he died," Jardine went on, "but I have told you the facts." "And yet you have written to her for money," I said quietly. "So she has shown you the letters, has she?" "I have seen them. Why write to her when you could so easily raise money on your expectations?" "Raise money! Good heavens, I've raised every penny to be got from Jew or Gentile. There are the letters which came this morning. I haven't opened them yet, the outside is quite enough; money-lenders' complaints, half of them, and the other half bills demanding immediate payment. If you've ever had dealings with the fraternity, you can tell what is inside by the look of the envelope." I turned the letters over; he was probably right as to their contents. There was one, however, in a woman's handwriting which interested me. I almost passed it to him, and then thought better of it. "It struck me that there was a threatening tone in your letters," I said. "Perhaps. I was not averse from frightening her a little if I could." "Not very generous," I said. "I don't feel generous. She'd have to come down very handsomely to make me drink her health." "If your story is the correct one, there may be a reason for your aunt leading so secluded a life," I went on. "In marrying your uncle she may have tricked her confederates." "It is more than possible," Jardine answered. "Do you know any of them who would be likely to do her an injury?" I asked. "You're thinking I would give the old woman away to them?" he laughed. "No; I have worked on the shady side at times, but I am not so bad as that." "I wasn't thinking so." "Then I don't understand your question. Is it likely I should have acquaintances in a gang of Continental thieves?" "The night before last Mrs. Jardine was murdered," I said quietly. The man sprang from his chair. "Murdered! Then—by heaven! you're—you're thinking that——" "And her companion, a Mrs. Harrison, is not to be found," I added. "Mrs. Jardine—dead! Then I come into my own. The night before last—where was I? Drunk. I didn't get home." "I know that. I called here yesterday." "Are you thinking that I had a hand in it?" "I am looking for her companion," I answered. Had there been no missing companion I should have been very doubtful about Thomas Jardine; as it was, the two became connected in my mind. I left the Hammersmith flat, stopping outside to give instructions to the man I had brought with me to keep a watch upon Jardine's movements. Then I went to Wimbledon to see Martha Wakeling again, but I did not tell her I had seen Jardine. "Do you think you could find me any of Mrs. Harrison's handwriting?" I asked. "I believe I can," she said, after a moment's thought. "She wrote a store's order the other day which was not sent. I believe it's in this drawer. Yes, here it is." I glanced at it and put it in my pocket. "I wonder whether this nephew has anything to do with the affair?" I said contemplatively. "No," she said with decision. "Why are you so certain? You said you didn't know him." "I don't." "I have discovered one thing," I said carelessly. "By Mrs. Jardine's death he comes into a lot of money." "I've heard my mistress say something of the kind." "You see, there would be a motive for the murder." "The thing is to find Mrs. Harrison," she said. "A woman doesn't go away in the middle of the night unless she has a good reason for doing so." Details of the crime, so far as they were known, were now published, and the description of Mrs. Harrison was circulated in the press. When the inquest was adjourned, no doubt most people were surprised. Although I did not suppose the companion innocent, I was not satisfied that she alone was responsible for the crime. I had wondered whether the letter which I had seen in Jardine's flat had come from her, but the store's order which Martha Wakeling had given me proved that I was wrong. Possibly Mrs. Harrison was a member of the gang which Mrs. Jardine had forsaken, and the murder was one of revenge; yet Thomas Jardine profited so greatly that I could not dismiss him from my calculations. Besides, the old lady's will was suggestive. Over her husband's money she had no control, but she had saved a considerable amount, and, as though to make restitution to her husband's family, but with a curious reservation—only if she died a natural death. Should she die by violence or accident, this money went to her "faithful servant and friend, Martha Wakeling." It was evident she had feared violence—apparently from her nephew—and it was significant that her papers proved that, although Jardine knew he was her heir, he was not aware of the condition. Before the day fixed for the hearing of the adjourned inquest I went to see Christopher Quarles. I had nearly finished the story before he showed any interest, and then we went to the empty room, with Zena with us, where I had to tell the tale all over again. He had to have his own way, or there was nothing to be got out of him at all. "Was there no information to be had from Sarah Paget?" he asked, when I had finished. "None whatever." "Did Mrs. Jardine keep much money in the house?" "Martha Wakeling says not." "Then the companion was likely to get little by murdering her mistress," said Quarles. "Either she did it in a fit of uncontrollable passion," I said, "or the motive was revenge." "Possible solutions," returned the professor, "but robbed of their weight when we consider the motives which Thomas Jardine and Martha Wakeling had." "I think——" "One moment, Wigan; I am not theorizing, I am using facts. By murdering his aunt, Jardine lost her money——" "He inherited three or four thousand a year," I interrupted. "Which was mortgaged up to the hilt or over it; he told you so himself. Mrs. Jardine's money would have been very useful to him, and by killing her he would lose all chance of it." "He did not know the condition," I said. "So far as we know," Quarles answered. "I don't think we must consider that point as proved. Now take Martha Wakeling's position. By the violent death of her mistress she will come into this money. Was there any provision for her in the will if Mrs. Jardine died a natural death?" "She got a legacy of a hundred pounds." "You appreciate the enormous difference," said Quarles with that exasperating smile he had when he thinks he has driven his opponent into a corner. "At any rate, we have no reason to suppose that Jardine did know the condition," I returned. "I do not believe he committed the murder, but I am inclined to think he and Mrs. Harrison are accomplices." "A theory—my method, Wigan. Very good, but by the handwriting on that envelope you have tried to establish a connection between Jardine and Mrs. Harrison, and have failed." "At present," I said irritably. "It is a pity that some of the old superstitions do not hold good," said Quarles, "or at least are without significance in these practical days. You might have confronted Jardine with his victim, and the wounds might have given evidence by bleeding afresh. I suppose you haven't done this?" "No, Jardine has not seen his aunt," I answered, still irritably. The professor looked at Zena. "It is curious the tragedy should happen while Dr. Hawes was away," Zena said. "What kind of man is his locum, Mr. Wigan?" "Quite above suspicion," I answered. "Ah, your question sets me theorizing, Zena," said Quarles, "and we have got to watch Martha Wakeling, Wigan. Yes, I am going to help you, and we'll start to-morrow morning." We returned to the dining-room, and after a pleasant hour, during which we appeared to forget that such a place as Wimbledon existed, I left, far more of a lover than a detective. Next morning Quarles called for me. "We'll go to the stores first," he said. "I have a fancy to look at the items in the list sent. There might be some drug which would make Mrs. Jardine sleep more soundly." "The list was not sent. I have it here." "I mean the one sent in place of that," said the professor. "Of course one was sent. People who are not in the habit of having much money in the house would see that the store cupboard was replenished." He was right. A list was shown to us, and I had some difficulty in not showing signs of excitement. The writing was the same as that on the envelope in Jardine's flat. It was peculiar writing, and I could swear to it. "I think we shall find that Martha Wakeling wrote that," said Quarles. "If so, we establish a link between her and Jardine which neither of them has mentioned." "But since she would profit by the crime, why should she communicate with him?" "We are going to find out," he answered. "I presume you have not been keeping any particular watch upon Martha Wakeling?" "No." "Has she mentioned what she intends to do when this affair is over?" "I think she said she would go back to her old village somewhere in Essex." "Quite a rich woman, eh?" laughed Quarles. "But I doubt the statement about her old village. She is more likely to go where she is not known." "You will change your opinion when you have talked to her." "I hope to know all about her before I talk to her," Quarles returned. "We are going to Wimbledon, but not to an interview yet." Arriving there, I went to the house to make sure that Martha Wakeling was there, and then, taking care not to be seen, joined the professor in the garden, where we hid in a shrubbery to watch anyone who came from or went to the house. It was a long wait—indeed, Quarles was rather doubtful whether anything would happen that day—but in the afternoon Martha Wakeling came out and passed into the road. "We have got to follow her and not be seen," said Quarles. There was some difficulty in doing so, for she was evidently careful not to be followed. She went to the station, and by District Railway to Victoria, and to a house in the Buckingham Palace Road. "We must find out whom it is she comes to visit here, Wigan," said Quarles. "We will wait a few minutes, and then you must insure that we are shown up without being announced. I do not fancy we shall meet with any resistance." The woman who opened the door to us showed no desire for secrecy. The lady who had just come in did not live there, she explained. If I wanted to see her, would I send in my name? It was not until I told her that I was a detective that she led the way to the first floor, and we entered the room unannounced. In an armchair sat an elderly woman, and from a chair at her side Martha Wakeling rose quickly. Quarles had entered the room first, and she did not notice me in the doorway. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she asked. "It is a surprise to find you in London," I said, coming forward. "You! Yes, my sister is——" Quarles had crossed toward the woman in the arm-chair. "I am glad to see the journey has not hurt you, Mrs. Jardine," he said quietly. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> It was a bow drawn at a venture, but Martha Wakeling's little cry of consternation was enough to prove that Quarles was right. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> The arrest of Mrs. Jardine for the murder of her companion created a sensation, and I am doubtful whether the plea of insanity which saved her from the gallows and sent her to a criminal lunatic asylum was altogether justified. The method in her madness was so extraordinary that the result of the trial would have been different, I fancy, had not Martha Wakeling's courage and care of her mistress aroused everybody's sympathy. Martha Wakeling knew little of her mistress's past, but she had always known that she was not such an invalid as she pretended to be. If she chose to live that kind of life, it was nobody's business but her own, and the servant never suspected that she was afraid of being seen by some of her former associates. Martha's story made it clear that Mrs. Jardine had nursed a great hatred for her husband's family, especially for her nephew, the son of the man who had made the accusations against her. Her will, her every action in the tragedy, pointed to premeditation. She chose the time when Dr. Hawes was away, and, saying it would be an excellent joke to mislead a young doctor, she arranged that Mrs. Harrison should take her place when Dolman came. The companion could not refuse, very possibly enjoyed the joke. Martha Wakeling knew of this arrangement, thought it silly, but never suspected any sinister intention. In the middle of the night her mistress woke her up, and told her that she had killed Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Jardine was excited, and explained that everyone would suppose that she herself had been murdered, and that her will and papers, and her nephew's impecunious position, would certainly bring the crime home to him. This was her revenge. She was mad; Martha was convinced of that. Mrs. Jardine never seemed in doubt that her servant, who was the only person who knew the truth, would help her. Mrs. Jardine intended to go away that night, and when the affair was over Martha would join her, and they could go and live quietly somewhere. She did not want her husband's money—she had enough of her own, and, since by her will it would come to Martha, there was no difficulty. Martha refused to be a party to such a crime, and succeeded in showing her mistress that she was in danger. Even if the body was taken for Mrs. Jardine, it was Mrs. Harrison who would be suspected, not Thomas Jardine. Poor Mrs. Harrison was dead, nothing could alter that, and Martha schemed to protect her mistress. She so far entered into her plan as to let it be supposed that the dead woman was Mrs. Jardine. Since the companion would not be found, the hue and cry would be after her. All that day her mistress was concealed in the house, as much afraid now as she had been exultant before, and in the evening Martha got her a lodging in Buckingham Palace Road. Afterward she intended to take her away to some place where they were not known and look after her. Three times she had been to see her, fearful that her mistress might betray herself. And she had written to Thomas Jardine to warn him that his aunt had made no secret of her hatred, and that it might be said he had killed her. That communication Thomas Jardine had thought wise to keep to himself—for the present, at any rate—fully alive to the fact that, since he was drunk and quite unable to prove an alibi on the fatal night, and that it was not proved that the companion had committed a motiveless crime, he was in danger of arrest. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> Zena had said it was curious the tragedy should happen while Dr. Hawes was away, and the professor declared it was this remark which had led him to believe that the dead woman was Mrs. Harrison and not Mrs. Jardine. On this supposition the attitude of Martha Wakeling was understandable. She might naturally wish to protect her mistress, and she was the only person who could help her in the deception. The fact that I had given her a reason to suppose that I suspected the nephew would show her the necessity of warning him, and at the same time she would attempt to throw all the suspicion on Mrs. Harrison, who was past suffering. This was Quarles's theory, and he had found the fact to support it in the handwriting of the store's order. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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