Chapter XXXII: Sleuth Hounds

Carsdale went to the police-station readily enough. He knew that his policy in this unforeseen matter was to play the straightest game possible. He could do no more for Sylvie; she, by shooting Werrick, with whatever object, had done for herself. Now he must look after himself, and the only way to do it was to tell plain truth. And he told all he knew, frankly and unreservedly, to the authorities at the station, and to a pleasant-looking man, who in appearance was something between a country gentleman and a sporting publican, and whom Carsdale quickly found to be the celebrated Detective-Inspector Skarratt, from New Scotland Yard, famous for his skill in unravelling mysteries, and just arrived, hot-foot, and prepared to begin the unravelling of another.

The men who listened to Carsdale’s story of how he came to be in the flat believed it. Nevertheless, there were questions arising out of it, and as their present proceedings were informal, they asked them.

“What about what this maid says?” asked the police-inspector who had first come to the scene. “She referred to some doings in New York.”

Carsdale had no objection to telling all about that--he had already reflected that it would all come out, sooner or later, and he might just as well be first in the field with his version.

“I’ll tell you everything in connection with that affair,” he said. “It brings no discredit on anybody except the dead man, Werrick. My cousin--the lady in whose flat I found the body just now--married this man when they were little more than boy and girl. He had some money--so had she. They very soon got through it--extravagance, and that sort of thing. Then they were on their beam-ends, for they had no relations or friends who could help them. At that time I was starting a business in New York, and I got them over there to help me--really to provide for them. She turned out a smart business woman; he got mixed up with a lot of gamblers, and we had great trouble with him. Finally the police laid hold of him--that’s what the maid, Guyner, was referring to.”

“What charge?” asked the police-inspector.

“Forgery,” answered Carsdale, promptly. “He was an expert forger--he forged my name more than once, and I forgave him for his wife’s sake. Well, he got five years. Just then I transferred my business to London, and I brought my cousin back with me. I soon went into partnership with the late Mr. Barclay Leverton, of Norfolk Street, and my cousin became our private secretary. Most City folk knew our firm--Leverton & Carsdale--and know me now. After Leverton died I kept the offices on--go down to Abbotsbury House, and you’ll find that I have the top floor, the whole of it. My cousin, of course, remained with me. We had heard that this man, her husband, had been released from prison in America, and had gone out West. Not long since we heard that he was dead--shot in some brawl in a mining town. That turned out to be false. One night, quite recently, I met him by accident in the Strand. He was down on his luck, of course; nearly broke. I took him home to my rooms in Jermyn Street, and put him up there. I made him promise that he wouldn’t molest his wife, and I promised him that I’d get him up again if he kept his promise to me. I gave him a hundred pounds to fit himself out and for pocket money, and up to now he’s behaved himself. How he came to be in that flat, I can’t think. My impression is that he watched the maid out, followed his wife in, and that she shot him in mistake or self-defence--she was always frightened about burglars, ever since there was a burglary in a flat close by. That’s all I can guess, and all I can tell you.”

“You saw nothing of her when you entered?” asked Skarratt, speaking for the first time.

“Nothing. I haven’t seen her since last night, when she left Norfolk Street,” replied Carsdale. “I have been out of my office all day to-day--at least since eleven o’clock this morning. I know she had been in then, and gone out again. My people there can tell you about her movements, but they won’t be there until ten o’clock to-morrow.”

“You’d better give me a description of her,” said the police-inspector.

Carsdale gave a full and elaborate description of Sylvie--again he said to himself that it was no use keeping anything back. If he didn’t describe her, somebody else would.

Skarratt waited until the description was finished. Then, after a word or two with the inspector-in-charge, he went out. The inspector turned to Carsdale. “I’m afraid we shall have to detain you awhile at any rate,” he said. “It can’t be helped.”

“I suppose not,” answered Carsdale. “I quite understand.”

And he resigned himself to waiting and to wondering what really had happened in the flat before he got there, and where Sylvie had fled to, and how she had got away. His head ached with the mystery of the whole affair.

Meanwhile, Skarratt went away to the flats, and patiently made himself master of the details. He quickly found out that there were two entrances to the building, and that the porters on each had been on duty during the whole of the evening. Within a few minutes he elicited from them certain important facts:--

1. One porter, stationed at Entrance A, had seen Mrs. Walsingham
enter the building about a quarter to eight o’clock. She was then
wearing the costume which he was shown lying on the bed in her
room.

2. The other porter, stationed at Entrance B, recognized the dead man
as having entered the building about twenty-five minutes to
eight. He had inquired his way to Number 29--which was the number
of Mrs. Walsingham’s flat.

3. This porter had seen Sophie Guyner go out through his entrance
at seven o’clock. She had then told him that she was going to the
theatre. A little after eight o’clock she had returned, and had
told him that she had such a bad attack of headache that she had
been obliged to return home.

4. Neither porter had seen Mrs. Walsingham leave the flats during the
evening. Of that they were positive. Certainly, a large number of
people were perpetually passing in and out, but each man knew
Mrs. Walsingham so well that he was positive that she had not
gone out again after her coming in at Entrance A.

5. The porter at Entrance B remembered Carsdale coming in very well
indeed, because Carsdale, as he often did, had presented him with
a cigar. That would be just about eight o’clock.

6. In one of the dead man’s pockets Skarratt found a key which
admitted to the outer door of the flat. It was newly made, and
looked as if it had never been used.

Skarratt, who by that time had summoned an assistant from New Scotland Yard, examined surface matters at the flat quickly but thoroughly. He particularly noted the condition of the bedroom--the revolver, of which he now took charge; the unclosed safe, with its open drawer; the hat and garments hastily thrown on the bed.

“Where is that maid?” he asked of the police who had remained in charge of the flat.

Sophie was in the dining-room, crying--on her, too, a policeman was keeping an eye. At his bidding she came into the bedroom, glancing fearfully, as she passed through the drawing-room, at Werrick’s body, which had now been laid out on a sofa and covered with a sheet in readiness for removal to the mortuary. She looked at Inspector Skarratt’s friendly and good-humoured face with a queer mixture of shrewdness and suspicion and defiance.

“Now, my dear,” said Skarratt, “I want a little help from you. As you’re Mrs. Walsingham’s maid, you, of course, know all her gowns and dresses?”

“Every one,” answered Sophie. “Every stitch she has!”

“Then just look round here and tell me which costume, or gown, or dress, or whatever she wears for going out, is missing,” said Skarratt. “Be particular--don’t forget anything.”

Sophie entered on this task with zest, she opened wardrobes, she threw back the doors of cupboards, she examined drawers and trunks. And finally she turned to Skarratt with undisguised amazement.

“There’s nothing missing!” she exclaimed. “There’s every gown that she has, here.”

“Oh, come, come!” said Skarratt. “That can’t be. You’ve forgotten something. She can’t have left the flat without some gown or other, you know.”

“I don’t know what she’s gone in, then,” said Sophie. “I know every stitch she has, I tell you, and here’s everything here. There’s the coat and skirt and hat she had on this morning,” she continued, pointing to the bed, “and you can see for yourself that she’s taken them off in a hurry and thrown them there.”

“I can see it, and I want to know what she put on in their place,” answered Skarratt. “Come now--there’s a pretty big wardrobe here, you know--twenty-five different gowns, at least. Don’t you think you’ve forgotten one?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” said Sophie, doggedly. “I know every gown she has.”

“Well, has she gone out in anything of your own, then?” suggested Skarratt. “Go and see if you miss anything.”

Sophie went off, still police-attended, but suddenly returned excited and glowing.

“I know!” she exclaimed. “I’ve just remembered. She’d a complete nun’s dress--a Sister of Mercy’s, you know--all black, with white hood, and all that--that she went to a fancy-dress ball in once, with Carsdale. She’ll have gone in that. That’s it!”

“Probably,” said Skarratt. He took down such details as Sophie could remember, and then, with his assistants, went off to see the two porters. The man at Entrance A had no recollection of seeing any woman dressed as a nun or a Sister of Mercy enter or leave, the man at Entrance B had a dim notion that such a figure did either go in or out during the evening. But both men pointed out that it was no uncommon thing at all for nuns and Sisters of Mercy to visit the flats--some had relations or friends there; some came in cases of sickness; some came begging for charity. And both men reminded him that they had come on duty at seven o’clock--they could not say who had gone in before that, and they were not very clear as to particular persons who had left or entered after. But each agreed that Mrs. Walsingham in her own clothes was always noticeable. “She was a stylish dresser you see,” added one.

Skarratt sent his man off with some instructions. If Mrs. Walsingham had escaped in the disguise of a nun, they would have to keep a wide look-out, and they must especially watch the railway stations and the docks. But they had a clue now, and a good one.

He was turning away from the entrance at which he had been talking to one of the porters, when he heard his name called, and turning, saw Miss Norshaw, the principal of the private detective agency which Frances Leverton had employed. Skarratt had more than once been brought into touch with this lady, and he immediately joined her, guessing that she had something to tell him. They walked away down the street.

“I’ve heard something of this case, Mr. Skarratt,” said Miss Norshaw. “And I’ve some information that may be useful to you. You’re detaining a man named Carsdale, aren’t you! Yes--well, we’ve had that man under observation for the last two days on the instructions of a client of ours, and I have a strong suspicion, from to-day’s reports, that he was going to leave the country to-night. Now, you’ve done me a good turn more than once, and I’ll do you one--I’ll just run over Carsdale’s movements to-day, briefly.”

Skarratt listened eagerly to all that Miss Norshaw had to tell him. When she had finished, he jumped into a taxi-cab and went down to Long Acre to the motor-garage where Carsdale had been seen to leave his portmanteaux. He was not long in there, and when he came out he drove back to the police-station and had a talk to the inspector-in-charge. And presently they went in to see Carsdale.

“Now, Mr. Carsdale,” said Skarratt, in the cheery and breezy manner which characterized him in his professional dealings, “I’m afraid you’re in a very unpleasant position. I’m not going to charge you with anything just now, but I’m afraid I may have to, later on. In the meantime, will you turn out whatever you have on you in the way of papers, documents, money? It will be best for you if you do, and if you don’t--well, you don’t want to be searched, anyway.”

And Carsdale once more determined to resign himself to the straight course, believing that he could give a good and plausible reason for the presence of the things he would have to show. And so it came about that the two officers were presently examining certain matters which represented two hundred thousand pounds and were noting that Carsdale carried two first-class tickets for Buenos Aires by the steamer which was to leave Southampton next morning.