The Ashiel mystery: A Detective Story by Mrs. Charles Bryce (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

on, depositing, while she did so, her other glove, her handkerchief, sunshade and a small brown-paper parcel upon the writing-table at her side.

Gimblet did not appreciate seeing these articles heaped upon his correspondence. Without any comment he removed them, and stood holding them silently till she should be ready.

She took them from him soon, with a little inclination of the head which he felt was accompanied by a smile of thanks, though through the thick crape it was impossible to do more than guess at any expression.

She drew on her other glove and held out her hand again.

"My purse?" she said. "Will you not give me that too? Where have you put it? And then I must really go."

"I haven't seen any purse," said Gimblet.

"Yes, yes!" she cried. "A black silk bag! It has my purse inside it. I had it, I am sure."

She turned quickly back to the chair she had been sitting in, and taking up the cushion, shook it and peered beneath it.

"What can I have done with it? All my money is in it."

Gimblet glanced round the room. He did not remember having noticed any
bag, and he was an observant person. She had probably left it in a cab.
Women were always doing these things. Witness the heaped shelves at
Scotland Yard.

"Perhaps you put it down in the hall?" he suggested.

"I am sure I had it when I came in here," she repeated in an agitated voice. "But it might be worth while just to look in the hall," she added doubtfully, and moved towards the door.

Gimblet opened it for her gladly; but she came to a standstill in the doorway.

"There is nothing there, you see;" she said dolefully. "Oh, what shall I do!"

Gimblet looked over her shoulder. The hall was shadowy, with the perpetual twilight of the halls of London flats, but he fancied he could perceive a darker shadow lying beside his hat on the table near the entrance.

"Is that it? On the table?" he asked.

"Where? I don't see anything," murmured the lady; and indeed it was unlikely that she could distinguish anything in such a light from behind her veil.

"On the table by my hat," repeated Gimblet; and as she still did not move, he made a step forward into the hall.

Yes, it was her bag, beyond a doubt. A silken thing of black brocade, embroidered with scattered purple pansies.

Gimblet picked it up and turned back to his visitor. After a second's hesitation she had followed him into the hall and was coming towards him, groping her way rather blindly through the gloom.

"Oh, thanks, thanks!" she exclaimed. "How stupid of me to have left it there. Thank you again. My precious bag! I am so glad you have found it." She took the bag eagerly from him. "I am afraid I have been a nuisance, and disturbed you to no purpose. You must forgive my mistake. But now I will not keep you any longer. Good-bye."

She showed no further disposition to loiter; and Gimblet rang the bell for the lift and saw her depart with a good deal of satisfaction.

In spite of her extremely hazy ideas on the subject of other people's property, there was, he admitted, something attractive about her. Still he was very glad she had gone.

He returned to his room, taking up and pocketing Lord Ashiel's envelope as he passed the little table by the door.

He did it mechanically, for his mind was occupied with a question which must be immediately decided.

Was it, or was it not, worth while to have the woman who had just left him followed and located, and her identity ascertained?

Gimblet disliked leaving small problems unsolved, however insignificant they appeared. On the whole, he thought he might as well find out who she was, and he turned back into the hall and called for Higgs.

If she were to be caught sight of again before leaving the house there was not a moment to lose. But Higgs did not reply, and on Gimblet's opening the pantry door he found it empty. Unknown to him, the moment the lady had departed Higgs had gone upstairs to the flat above to have a word with a friend.

The detective seized his hat and ran downstairs, but he was too late.

The widow lady, the porter told him, had gone away two or three minutes ago in the motor that had been waiting for her. No, he hadn't noticed the number of the car. Neither had he seen Higgs.

Gimblet shrugged his shoulders as he went upstairs again. After all, the matter was of no great consequence.

The widow was a cool hand, certainly, he thought, to come to him and propose he should steal for her what she wanted; but the fact of her having done so made it on the whole improbable that she was a thief, or she would not have had need of him. She was certainly a person of questionable principles, and it seemed likely that in one way or another a theft would be committed through her agency, if not by herself, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. She was, in fact, a woman on whom the police might do worse than keep an eye; but, reflected Gimblet, he was not the police, and the dishonesty of this scheming widow was really no concern of his. As he reached his door, a postman was leaving it, and two or three letters had been pushed through the flap. He let himself in and took them out of the box. They were not of great importance. A bill, an appeal for a subscription to some charity, a couple of advertisements and the catalogue of a sale of pictures in which he was interested. He turned over the leaves slowly, holding the pamphlet sideways from time to time to look at the photographs which illustrated some of the principal lots.

Presently he turned and went back into his room. He sat down in his favourite arm-chair near the window, where he habitually passed so much time gazing out on to the smooth surface of the river, and fell to ruminating on the problem presented by Lord Ashiel's story.

For a long while he sat on, huddled in the corner of an arm-chair, his elbows on the arm, his chin resting on his hand, and in his eyes the look of one who wrestles with obscure and complicated problems of mental arithmetic. From time to time, but without relaxing his expression of concentrated effort, he stretched out long artistic fingers to a box on the table, took from it a chocolate, and transferred it mechanically to his mouth. He always ate sweets when he had a problem on hand. He was trying to think of some means by which his client could be protected from the mysterious danger that threatened him; that it was a very real danger, Gimblet accepted without question; he had only seen Lord Ashiel twice in his life, but it was quite enough to make him certain that here was a man whom it would take a great deal to alarm. This was no boy crying "wolf" for the sake of making a stir.

But the more he thought, the more he saw that there was nothing to be done. A word to the police would suffice, no doubt, to precipitate matters; for, if the Nihilist Society which threatened Lord Ashiel contemplated his destruction, a hint that he might be already taking reciprocal measures would not be likely to make them feel more mercifully towards him. It was obvious that Ashiel would look with suspicion upon any Russian who might approach him, but Gimblet determined to write him a line of warning against foreigners of any description. Still, these societies sometimes had Englishmen amongst their members, and ways of enforcing obedience upon their subordinates which made any decision they might come to as good as carried out almost as soon as it was uttered.

The detective's cogitations were disturbed by Higgs, who had returned, and now brought him in some tea. He poured himself out half a cup, which he filled up with Devonshire cream. He had a peculiar taste in food, and was the despair of his excellent cook, but on this occasion he ate none of the cakes and bread and butter she had provided, the chocolates having rather taken the edge off his appetite.

From where he sat he could see, through the open window, the broad grey stretches of the river, with a barge going swiftly down on the tide; brown sails turned to gleaming copper by the slanting rays from the West. The hum and rattle of the streets came up to him murmuringly; now and then a train rumbled over Charing Cross Bridge, and the whistle of engines shrilled out above the constant low clamour of the town.

Gimblet leant out of the window and watched the barge negotiate the bridge. Then he returned to his chair, and taking Lord Ashiel's envelope out of his pocket looked it over thoughtfully before opening it. He had no doubts as to what it contained; he had been on the point of reminding the peer that he had forgotten to give him the key of the cipher he had spoken of when the widow's ring at the door had driven him to a hurried retreat, but he had not considered the omission of any particular significance. His client would certainly discover it and either return to give him the key, or send it to the flat.

It would probably be some time before it was required for use here. In the meantime, thought Gimblet, he would have a look at it before locking it away in the safe.

He turned over the envelope. To his surprise, the flap was open and the glue had obviously never been moistened.

It was the work of an instant to look inside, but almost quicker came the conviction that it was useless to do so.

He was not mistaken.

The envelope was empty.

Gimblet stared at it for one moment in blank dismay. Then he strode to the door and shouted for Higgs.

"Did you notice," he asked him, "whether the envelope Lord Ashiel gave you for me was fastened, or was it open as this one is?"

"Oh no, sir," replied Higgs, "it was sealed up. There was a large patch of red sealing-wax at the back, with a coronet and some sort of little picture stamped on it. I can't say I looked at it particularly, but there may have been a lion or a dog, or some kind of animal. His lordship's arms, no doubt"

"You are quite certain about the sealing-wax?" Gimblet repeated slowly.

"Yes, sir, I am quite certain about that," answered Higgs; and he could not refrain from adding, "I put down the note on this little table, sir, as you told me."

"Thank you. That is all."

Gimblet's tone was as undisturbed as ever, but inwardly he was seething with anger and disgust; directed, however, entirely against himself.

When Higgs had departed he allowed himself the unusual, though quite inadequate relief of giving the chair on which his last visitor had sat a violent kick. After that he felt rather more ashamed of himself than before, if possible, and he sat down and raged at the simple way in which he had been fooled.

The widow had taken the envelope, of course. She must have snatched it up during the few seconds he had turned his back on her in order to step across the hall and retrieve her bag, and have replaced it at the same instant with this empty one which she had no doubt taken from his own writing-table while he stooped beside her to pick up her glove.

Gimblet fetched one of his own blue envelopes and compared it with the substitute. Yes, they were alike in every particular. The watermarks were the same and showed that she had used what she found ready to her hand.

It seemed, then, that the coup was not premeditated. But why, why, had he let her escape so easily? If only he had been a little quicker about following her, and had not wasted time looking for Higgs! She had had time to get clear away; and he, bungler that he was, had thought it of little consequence, and had afterwards stood poring over a catalogue in the hall, having decided that her morals were no business of his. Ass that he had been!

Who was she? Probably some one