Chapter XIII: Part 13

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police (said the
_Daily Telegraph_) which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but that
the case broke down on an _alibi_. Yesterday a lady, who has been
known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue
Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as
being insane. An examination showed she had indeed developed
mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On inquiry, the police
have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only returned from a
journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence to
connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison of
photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and
Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely
excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of
jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it
was in one of these that she committed the terrible crime which
has caused such a sensation in London. Her movements upon the
Monday night have not yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a
woman answering to her description attracted much attention at
Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her
appearance and the violence of her gestures. It is probable,
therefore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or
that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman out of
her mind. At present she is unable to give any coherent account
of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the
reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours upon
Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the account aloud
to him, while he finished his breakfast.

“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and paced up
and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I have
told you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is
nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us
much.”

“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”

“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and it
is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
Now, if this letter were loose—no, it _can’t_ be loose—but if it
isn’t loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,
indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How
could I search for it without the French police having their
suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man’s hand is
against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
bring it to a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent
the crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the
front!” He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed
in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of
interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down
together to Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into which
we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed, but
no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain upon
the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in the centre
of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night. In the window was a
sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No
doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments—he let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She
told him how she had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to
another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It
wasn’t all done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all
swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried
to hold her off with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen
it.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what you might
call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’t
have, on the face of it.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer
in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried
and the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—we
thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not
fastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
We found——”

“Yes? You found——”

Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal
must have soaked through, must it not?”

“Undoubtedly it must.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must——”

“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left
a mark.”

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
expert.

“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There _is_ a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
facing of the old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it
was easily done.”

“The official police don’t need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round. That’s clear enough,
for the stains lie above each other—if you lay it over this way.
But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?”

I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.

“Look here, Lestrade,” said he, “has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don’t do it before
us. We’ll wait here. You take him into the back room. You’ll be
more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he
dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don’t
ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you
_know_ someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full
confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly what I
tell you!”

“By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of him!” cried Lestrade.
He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying
voice sounded from the back room.

“Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness. All the
demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner
burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the
floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing
at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as
he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid
of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged
his eager hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of
anger and disappointment. It was empty.

“Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!” The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade’s voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you are
bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all
right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your
most inexcusable conduct.”

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

“I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman came to the door
last evening—mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
It’s lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“She wanted to see where the crime was done—had read about it in
the papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken
young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep.
When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got
some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I went round the
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
brought it back the young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed
of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.”

“How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.”

“It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive me, Constable
MacPherson,” said Lestrade, with dignity. “No doubt you thought
that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
someone had been admitted to the room. It’s lucky for you, my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in Queer
Street. I’m sorry to have called you down over such a petty
business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain
not corresponding with the first would interest you.”

“Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
here once, constable?”

“Yes, sir, only once.”

“Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number—very pleasant, genteel
young woman, sir.”

“Tall? Handsome?”

“Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might
say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very
handsome. ‘Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had
pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there was
no harm in letting her just put her head through the door.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.”

“What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
lamps as I came back with the brandy.”

“Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think that we have
more important work elsewhere.”

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
the repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes
turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The
constable stared intently.

“Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes
put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
“Excellent!” said he. “Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no
setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and
that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will
be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
incident.”

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

“You have solved it!” I cried.

“Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
cannot get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and
bring the matter to a head.”

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was
for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We
were shown into the morning-room.

“Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation. “This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
showing that there are business relations between us.”

“Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my
hands.”

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed—she tottered—I
thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she
rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and
indignation chased every other expression from her features.

“You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter.”

She darted to the bell.

“The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts
to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all
will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
everything. If you work against me I must expose you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell,
but she had forborne to ring it.

“You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
something. What is it that you know?”

“Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall.
I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.”

“I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious return
to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the
letter from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
could speak.

“You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the
face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said
he. “The policeman has recognized it.”

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends
when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my
advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”

Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
illusion.”

Holmes rose from his chair.

“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I
can see that it is all in vain.”

He rang the bell. The butler entered.

“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”

Holmes glanced at his watch.

“Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched,
her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of
supplication. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him! I love him so!
I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would
break his noble heart.”

Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful, madam, that you have come
to your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant
to lose. Where is the letter?”

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a
long blue envelope.

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen it!”

“How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick, quick, we must
think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?”

“Still in his bedroom.”

“What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!” A moment
later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

“How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of
course you have. Open it!”

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box
flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue
envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
some other document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to
the bedroom.

“Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have still ten
minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you
will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
this extraordinary affair.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried the lady. “Oh,
Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her
husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted—how I have
been compelled to act—he would never forgive me. For his own
honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our
very lives are at stake!”

“Quick, madam, the time grows short!”

“It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
written before my marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an
impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said
that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
document which he described in my husband’s despatch-box. He had
some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself in
my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?”

“Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed
certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
husband’s paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
Godolphin Street.”

“What happened there, madam?”

“I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him
into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared
to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman
outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He had my
letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave me the
letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There were
steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drugget,
thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and covered it
over.

“What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman’s voice, which
screamed in French, ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last
I have found you with her!’ There was a savage struggle. I saw
him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed
from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night
I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the
future would bring.

“It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
exchanged one trouble for another. My husband’s anguish at the
loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband’s paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If
it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days I
watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night I
made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought of
destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step upon
the stair!”

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room. “Any news,
Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried.

“I have some hopes.”

“Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant. “The Prime Minister
is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of
steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.”

The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued, but I could see by the
gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
shared the excitement of his young colleague.

“I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?”

“Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I have inquired at
every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
danger to be apprehended.”

“But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever on
such a volcano. We must have something definite.”

“I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I
think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
never left this house.”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“If it had it would certainly have been public by now.”

“But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?”

“I am not convinced that anyone did take it.”

“Then how could it leave the despatch-box?”

“I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box.”

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
that it left the box.”

“Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?”

“No. It was not necessary.”

“You may conceivably have overlooked it.”

“Impossible, I say.”

“But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have
got mixed with them.”

“It was on the top.”

“Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it.”

“No, no, I had everything out.”

“Surely it is easily decided, Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us
have the despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell.

“Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the key
on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord
Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade,
note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note
from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger!
Lord Bellinger!”

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

“Yes, it is it—and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
inconceivable—impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
sorcerer! How did you know it was there?”

“Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to the door. “Where is
my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!” we
heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

“Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this than meets the eye.
How came the letter back in the box?”

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
wonderful eyes.

“We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he and, picking up
his hat, he turned to the door.

THE END