The Great Beckleswaithe Mystery ... A novel, etc

Front matter

THE GREAT BECKLESWAITHE MYSTERY. THE GREAT BECKLESWAITHE MYSTERY; AND HOW IT WAS SOLVED RELATED BY THE MAX WHO SOLVED IT A NOVEL BY HENRY HERMAN, AUTHOR OF "EAGLE JOE," " HIS ANGEL," '' SCARLET FORTUNE." " A KING IN BOHEMIA," ETC JOINT AUTHOR OF " THE BISHOPS BIBLE." ETC. LA' ONE VOL UM E Jtrsf <£M .on LONDON SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LIMITED A 11 Rights Reserved PRINTED by TILLOTSON AND SON, MEALHOUSE LANE, BOLTON. THE GREAT BECKLESWAITHE MYSTERY.

Chapter I

Everybody, who was anybody, knew .the Clowsley Tawnes and Mr. Matthew Beck leswaithe-Beckleswaithe. Everybody knew that Mr. Clowsley Tawne had originally been Mr. Hector Clowsley, a gentleman of scientific pursuits and not exorbitant income, that he had — without rhyme or reason, so every-body thought — inherited the large fortune of his cousin, Mr. Abraham Tawne, senior partner of the firm of Tawne and Beckleswaithe, bankers, of Lombard-street, and that he had assumed the last portion of his name in deference to the munificent testator's wishes. Everybody, of course, knew Mrs. Clowsley Tawne, a sprightly brunette in the later twenties, fully twenty years her husband's B junior, and said to be a bit of a flirt — which, in this peculiar present-dayworld, for a married woman, was thought to be rather piquant.

Of course, everybody knew there was no harm in it. Mrs. Clowsley Taw-ne dispensed her smiles with even-tempered prodigality. She was seen at the Opera with a noble lord on one night, and with a Bohemian journalist at the Gaiety on the next. At more staid functions she selected escorts in harmony with the occasion — thus, a bishop had once accompanied her to a charity7 bazaar. Mr. Clowsley Tawne, a tall, narrow man, with a face like the Sphinx, was known to be a good-natured, quiet, sedate gentleman, much given to the collecting of books and prints, and therefore unable to bestow upon his flighty little wife the attentions most ladies thought her due. Some people vowed Mr. Clowsley Tawne a fool for allowing his wife to wander abroad, so to say, in other people's keeping. Others, less charitable, hinted that Mr. Clowsley Tawne found an attraction elsewhere, a chars-e which even the most ingenious scandal-monger was unable to substantiate.

Still others referred to Mr. Clowsley Tawne by the observation that "Still waters run deep," and that most likely he had his eyes open and would be able to check Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's butterfly flittings whenever he had a mind to. With all that, the Clowsley Tawnes were known to be very happy together. He loved his books and his prints, and would sit for hours admiring an engraving by Antonio Raimondi, or an etching by Rembrandt ; she found charming people among the little clique of her immediate surroundings, and, being an agreeable conversationalist herself, cultivated with them that art of airy satire which is the spice of modern social inter course. If she wandered near enough to the brink to be able to look down and be frightened, some though it would do her no harm, and give her special chic.

The Clowsley Tawnes lived in Fulham, in one of those old-fashioned houses that still are to be found in that suburb, surrounded by a couple of acres or so of well-timbered garden, and closed in on all sides by high, ivy-covered walls. It was a quaint place, and had been left to Mr. Clowsley Tawne with the rest of the Tawne property. Upon it the testator had spent a small fortune, and it was as cumbrously comfortable and lugubriously grand as heavy oak and stiff Queen Anne furniture could make it. The late Mr. Abraham Tawne had been a staidly-minded gentleman, for whose household the lighter or more dainty colours had no existence. Browns, dark blues, and dark greens prevailed every where, and where gold was to be found, it had been laid on with a trowel. Mrs. Clowsley Tawne had altered a good deal of the old-fashioned grandeur, and especially the rooms she herself occupied, were patterns of brightness and good taste.

The decora tions of the drawing-room had been chastened under her direction, and she had had a ball room built which had become the envy of her best friends Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe had been on intimate terms with the Clowsley7 Tawnes ever since the husband had become a partner in the bank. Some people even thought that he was too frequent a visitor at Tawne Lodge to be guided there by mere friendship. He was a hale and hearty gentleman in the early fifties, who tried to look, and really looked, not much over forty. His moustache still retained its original brown, and if his hair was a little scanty, it showed as yet no trace of silver. His greyish eyes were continuously twinkling with humour, and a smile was always playing round his lips. People said that he was one of those gentlemen who took things as they came ; and things having come to him very plentifully and agreeably, he bothered not about the rest.

He was a great favourite with the ladies — yroung, old, middle-aged — and, being unmarried, had been for years vainly besieged by7 damsels and widows. His nephew, Mr. James Beckleswaithe-Beckle waithe, vowed that his uncle would die a bachelor and leave him all his money. He knew, he slyly asserted, that Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe would never marry ; and as Mr. Beckleswaithe-Beckles waithe never contradicted his nephew, people came to believe that the young man was right. Mr. James Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe, whose age was actually thirty-six, looked fully ten years older than his uncle. He had inherited over ,£300,000 from his father, had promptly run through the lot in the space of four years, and was then vegetating on an allowance of ,£1,500 a year doled out to him by his parsimonious uncle.

As his annual expenditure regularly amounted to ,£3,500, it mays be supposed that he could not make both ends meet. Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe- Beckleswaithe had paid the y7oung man's debts on three occasions, and then had expressed his opinion that the Bankruptcy Court was a useful and beneficent institution, specially designed for the class to w-hich his nephew belonged, and with that hint he had closed his purse and his correspondence with the young man, always excepting the dole of fifteen hundred pounds per annum, paid quarterly and in advance. Under all these circumstances, it may be readily imagined that the Clowsley Tawnes and Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckles waithe were happy enough in their way, boasting, most likely, a good many friends and very few enemies. Indeed, where people so nice could fine the luxury of real enemies might have been a mysteryhad not Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe met with his death one night under the most awful circumstances.

A dinner party had been given at Tawne Lodge. It had not been one of a cere monious order. The guests had been nearly all intimates, and the evening had passed off rather quietly7. Mr Clowsley7 Tawne had retired early. He had, that very day, discovered a little treasure, a genuine edition of the " Poems by J. R.,'' which he had immediately secured for the sum of .£56, and carried home in pride. All through the evening he had fondled the little volume, and he had gone to his room to pass an hour or two with his prize. All the guests had departed — so, at least, the servants thought — and Mrs. Clowsley Tawne had gone to her boudoir, and had been there for some time, as everybody supposed, alone. It was past midnight, when the domestics were startled by a crash like a rifle shot, succeeded by a series of piercing shrieks proceeding from Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's room.

They rushed wildly to their mistress's apart ment, and there were horrified to find the figure of a man, who proved to be Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe, lying on the floor, face downward in a pool of blood, and the lady unconscious by the side of the sofa. While the women were doing their best to revive their mistress, the men raised Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckles waithe, and were awe-stricken to find that the whole front and upper part of his head had been blown away. The walls, the furniture, everything, in fact, about the room, was bespattered with ghastly fragments. There had not been another creature in the room, except a little pug puppy, which was quietly crunching some chocolate creams that had fallen from a box which his mistress still held in her nervously clenched hand.

Chapter II

Among those who are intimate with me, I am known as George LTp-to-date, and perhaps the appelation is not misplaced. I believe in goaheadism ; I act up to my belief, and I fancy I deserve some credit for it ; for never was man brought up in a more slow-going, standstill, thoroughly Conservative school than I was. I happen to be one of those unfortunate creatures, a y7ounger son. My noble father, Lord Aukmar, was blessed by my lady, my mother, with three sons and seven daughters, and I am the second son of the male progeny7. My7 father, from my Eton jacket day7s forward, hammered into my mind the fact that I was a gentleman, and has scrupulously made me an allowance of ten pounds a year to support my dignity. My mother's brother, dear old Colonel Swaine, left me one hundred and forty pounds a year, totally unanticipatable and inconvertible.

My tastes are not very extravagant, but I found one hundred and fifty pounds insuffi cient. Besides that, I could not have lived in idleness if I had been paid for it, and paid for it well. I had the reputation of being smart, and I must confess that I am in the habit of " keeping my eyes skinned," as the Americans say. WThen, therefore, the day came for me to make choice of a profession, I said to my7self, " Why not that of a private detective ? " The word "detective" had a rather ugly sound about it. It smacked of police and of spying. " But then," I said to myself, "there are detectives and detectives, and there is no reason why a private detective should not be a gentleman, and why a gentleman should not be a private detective." I fancied that my bringing-up, training, and general social surroundings would be of considerable help to me.

No sooner thought of than done. My name, the Hon. George St. Gath Umberley, was too aristocratic, but " George Umberley " was rough and ready and workmanlike enough, and, therefore, the " Hon." and the " St. Gath " were dropped, and George Umberley, "private detective,' blossomed into existence. At first, my lord, my father, rebelled ; and my lady, my mother, remonstrated and wept. My darling sisters vowed they would never speak to me again ; but I have since discovered that my darling sisters were only too eager to seek my society when they knew I was engaged in a case which was likeK7 to feed their supply of five-o'clock tea scandal. At the time when the Beckleswaithe murder became the all-engrossing subject ot metropolitan conversation, I had followed my new profession for about three years.

I knew both the Clowsley- Tawnes and the murdered man. I knew their families and their surroundings. With Mrs. Clowsley- Tawne I had more than a passing acquaintance. I am a pretty good dancer, and I have been told that I am not bad-looking, and when I still had the " Hon." and "St. Gath " tacked to my name, I often used to bask in the light of Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's smiles. She once told me I was a heavenly waltzer, and I verily believe that, if my devotions had not been otherwise engaged at the time, I might have made an ass of myself over the flighty little brunette. The first news I got of the affair was, of course, given by the morning paper. As I opened my Telegraph some specially boldly displayed lines struck my eyes — " Horrible death of a well-known banker. Murder, suicide, or accident ?

" The announcement itself was bewildering enough. It read as follows : — " An awful tragedy occurred shortly after midnight last evening at Tawne Lodge, Fulham, the residence of Mr. Hector Clows ley Tawne, member of the well-known banking firm, Tawne and Beckleswaithe, of Lombard Street. The servants were startled by a loud explosion and the screams of their mistress, and, on rushing to Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's assistance, they found the horribly mutilated corpse of Mr. Matthew Beckles waithe-Beckleswaithe lying on the floor, covered with blood. His head had been almost entirely blown away, and it would have been impossible to recognise the corpse, had his identity been open to a doubt. The lateness of the hour at which the terrible affair occurred prevents us from supplying further particulars.

The house and premises are now being guarded and searched by the police, and the question has to be answered whether this horrible business is a suicide or accident, or a new and most awe-striking variety of murder." I am a naturally cool man, but I felt as isa hairy spider were creeping down my back when I read those lines. Mr. Matthew Beckleswaithe-Beckleswaithe was as decent, kindly-hearted, and noble-minded a fellow as ever breathed. Notwithstanding his enor mous wealth, he was more of a Bohemian than anything else. There was. no " side ' about him, and his hand, I knew well, was continually in his pocket to encourage those who found the climbing of the ladder stiff work. He was certainly not a man to commit suicide ; and he was a careful man, he would not play with weapons and explo sives, and have his head blown to smithereens.

" No, no," I said to myself, " George Up-to- Date, this will most likely turn out a case for you. It's a murder." Of that I had no doubt. I was still cogitating over the business and its bearings, when Humphrey, my clerk, messenger, valet, and general factotum, announced to me that a lady wished to see me. " And she is in a state, Mr. Umberley," he said, " and no mistake." He handed me her card — " Mrs. Mayling." I knew Mrs. Mayling also. She was an intimate friend of Mrs. Clowsley Tawne, but a woman of different calibre altogether. She had been married, when only sixteen, to a man four times her age. The man four times her age was naturally well provided with the world's goods. He had died a year after his mar riage ; and, to Mrs. Mayling's and everybody's surprise, had bequeathed to her an annuity of four hundred and fifty pounds, and left the remainder of his vast fortune to various charitable institutions.

That was something like seven or eight years before this portion of our story, and the world had been wonder ing ever since why Mrs. Mayling did not marry again. I could have given the world a little information on that subject, and so might Mr. Bernard Ayot, the well-known painter and sculptor. Mr. Bernard Ayot was another of Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's little circle. He was a light-hearted, brown eyed, good-tempered Hibernian, who carried about with him everywhere, not the manners of Dublin but of Prague. He was excellent company, and had a fund of Irish stories that could always be relied upon to make people roar. He could sing a lovely Irish comic song, and Mrs. Clowsley Tawne had cried over his rendering of " The Wearing of the Green." There was only one fault to be found with Mr. Bernard Ayot that I knew of — he had the reputation of being a male flirt.

But, then, his escapades were of such a harmless kind that nobody was the worse for his idiosyncrasies. Mrs. Mayling was about as unlike Mrs. Clowsley Tawne in appearance as she could possibly be — tall, slim, and fair, with a pair of curiously glittering cold, greyish-blue eyes, and hands that were always on a nervous go. She could not sit still for a minute at a time, and spoke with her eyes as much as with her lips. She was an uncommonly handsome woman, and many a fellow might have gone to perdition over her, and not regretted it. I am not one of that sort, and I am sure Mr. Bernard Ay-ot was not one of that kind either. His was a playful kind of intrigue — not the feverish, mad sort that plays the dickens with one's reputation and bankino account. I always gave Mrs. Mayling credit for being a shrewd woman ; and though fire is bound to melt ice sooner or later, I did not consider her the kind of lady who would have jumped over Westminster Bridge if she had been thwarted in her love, especially if the weather were cold and the water looked very wet.

" Do come at once to Irene," cried Mrs. Mayding, when she burst into the room — Irene was Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's name — " she is crying her eyes out. Of course, you have heard what has happened. The poor thing has been in hysterics nearly all night. Isn't it too awful — too horrible? The police are all over the place, but they're such fools, and Irene has begged me to come and fetch you. ' Fetch George Up-to-Date,' she said to me. ' Ask him to come over, for heaven's sake — for my sake,' and I took the first cab I could find, and you must come, Mr. Umberley — you will, won't you ? Isn't it positively too horrible ? That poor Mr. Beckleswaithe — poor, poor man. I asked Mrs. Mayling to be seated, and she took a chair, but jumped up again immediately. " I cannot rest, Mr. Umberley," she said. " 1 cannot sit down.

It's too shocking. Poor Mr. Beckleswaithe — positively the nicest man in the world ; and poor Irene! I wonder whom they'll suspect ? WThom do you suspect, Mr. Umberley?" I admitted I had no suspicion in the matter, and could have none, as I knew nothing at all about the case as yet. " But," I continued, " I shall see what I can do. I will come with you immediately7." During my ride in the hansom I had time to look more closely at Mrs. Mayling than I had done before. She was a pretty7 woman, there was no doubt about that, and when she looked at me with those sky-blue eyes of hers, I vowed her a charming woman indeed. The poor thing had been treated by fickle fortune in a shameful w7ay. Married to a rich old boor at sixteen, and left a widow and in comparatively reduced circumstances at seventeen, who could blame her for trying to console herself in the most amiable society she could find ?

She sat quite close to me, whether in nervous trepidation or intention ally I could not have told. Now and then a strange look came into her eyes, and it was accompanied by a barely perceptible shudder ; but it seemed only a momentary cloud, and was perfectly natural under the strain of the morning's awful news. Just before we reached Tawne Lodge she took my hand in her little gloved fingers, and, pressing it firmly, and looking into my eyes, she said, "You will do your best — your very best — Mr. Umberley, in this business, won't you, for my sa " She stopped herself. " I beg your pardon," she added, "for Irene's sake? Such trouble will come over her through this. Poor thing! What will she do ? " As we were nearly at the gate, she took my hand and pressed it again, and looked straight into my eyes with a long, impassioned gaze.

Here was something new. Mrs. Mayling was actually trying to mash me, and of all the unmashable creatures in the world I was about the stoniest, whilst I had always looked upon Mrs. Mayling as a woman who knew how to mind her p's and q's, and who was certainly not a gusher. Yet, the peculiar circumstances of the day might have been pleaded as an excuse for any unwonted ex citement. I contented myself by pressing the tips of her fingers and smiling, sadly as I intended, but I am afraid I am a bad sad smiler, for she withdrew her hand and gave me a look like that of a startled deer. " Woman, thou mystery ! " I said to my self. " I suppose as I get older I shall know thee better." c When I arrived at Tawne Lodge, I found the place surrounded by a whole squadron of police, and could only gain admittance by the permission of Mr. Inspector Jerningham, of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, who had charge of the case.

I knew Mr. Inspector Jerningham well. I always make it my business to be on good terms with the Whitehall-place people, and I must confess that I have met with every encouragement from them. Some people may think that the public and the private detective police are continually at war with one another. I can say that, in my case, nothing can be further from the truth. " Well, Mr. George Up-to-date," said Mr. Inspector Jerningham, when he met me, " so you are going to have your finger in this, pie, I suppose ? " " Well, I suppose so," I replied, curtly. " The more the merrier," said Mr. Inspector Jerningham. " This is a case that will want a lot of ferreting out. I needn't tell you, though, that if you want to do any good, or to help us to do any good, we'll have to rely upon your keeping a close tongue.

That must be the first condition." " Agreed," I replied ; " I shall tell nobody anything." As I walked across the garden I saw more detectives. Some were engaged in measur ing the ground and examining the paths. A photographer was at work just outside the window of Mrs. Tawne's room ; evidently no time had been lost. I was shown into Mrs. Clowsley Tawne's bedroom. The servant told me that I would have to excuse her mistress, as she was too ill to receive me elsewhere. I found the little woman dressed in a loose wrapper. She was in a horrible state. Her eyes were red and puffed, and swollen with crying. Her face was white as a sheet, and her lips ashen. I could not have thought that one night could work such a change. All her flighty little manners were gone, and she was sitting on the sofa like one dazed.

When she saw me she attempted to rise, but sank back again sob bing as if her heart were breaking. I sat down on a chair near by her, and tried to soothe her. "Just think of it ! " the poor little woman wept, "just think of it! They are actually suspecting me, and Hector also is not allowed to leave the place. Actually me ! " rising in a turmoil of resentment. "There! to dare to think that / could have had a hand in it ! " "You must calm yourself, Mrs. Clowsley Tawne," I said to her, "else I can do no good. You must first of all tell me how it all happened, and show me where it happened." She rose and made a step towards the door of the next room, but darted back in terror. " I daren't go near the place," she cried. " I can't bear to look upon it." " Well," I said, "we will postpone it for a little while.

Tell me how it happened." She sat back on the sofa and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Mayling had been standing there all the while, seemingly cold and motionless, like a statue, but then she crept to her friend's side, and put her arm round her waist, and kissed her on the cheek. " Have courage, Irene," she whispered ; "courage, my dear. Tell Mr. Umberley, and he will help us to get at the bottom of it." " I was talking to Mr. Beckleswaithe, you must know," said the little woman, " sittinc on the sofa of the boudoir, just as I might be sitting here, and he was sitting on the little arm-chair in front of me. I had my box of chocolate creams in my hand, and was eating some, and he asked me to give him one, and I did ; and how it happened heaven only knows. But as he bit the thing there was a great crash and a red cloud before my eyes ; and I only saw his head disappear, whilst a horrid kind of rain fell over me, and then the next thing I saw was Mr. Beckleswaithe lying on the floor ; and after that I remember nothing."

"What!" I exclaimed, "there was no weapon — no shot fired ? " " None," she muttered, half-frightenedly, " none." "Nobody in the room," I asked, "but y7ourself and Mr. Beckleswaithe ? " " No, except Podgy, my little pug." Here was a puzzle. But the solution of the means of the murder struck me in an instant. It was horrible in its dastardly ingeniousness. The poor man's head had been blown off by7 an explosive capsule con cealed within that chocolate cream. That was a certainty. But how did that tiny terrible engine of murder come into that box ? " Where did you get your box of chocolates ? " I asked Mrs. Clowsley Tawne. " At Kromar's, in Bond Street, where I always do," she replied, instantly. "Had you opened it before yesterday evening ? " I enquired. " No," she answered. " I opened it after dinner."

" Did the box leave yrour hands ? " No." " Did anybody at all touch it ? " She hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Several people touched it, if that is all." "Who?" " I can't see how that will help us, but — " Who touched it, please, Mrs. Clowsley Tawne ? " 1 asked. "Well," she went on, as if trying to recollect, " I always give my chocolate to my friends, and, let me see, there was you, dear, who had some," she said to Mrs. Mayling. Mrs. Mayling smiled. " So I did, to be sure," she exclaimed, with a tiny little laugh. " What a peculiar circumstance ! " "And there was Hector," Mrs. Clowsley Tawne continued, " my husband ; he had some. And there was Mr. James Beckles waithe, he had some." " Nobody else ? " I asked. "Yes," Mrs. Clowsley Tawne added. " There was Mr. Bernard Ayot. I gave him some.

And Dr. Klost — he had one." " And you never let the box go out of your hands ? " I questioned again. " Not for a second, as far as I can remember," the little woman replied. "It's a horrible case, and a most strange one." -I admitted that it was, and in my doubts my glance ran round the room. On a chair, but a few steps from me, lay a lady's dress. It was black brocaded silk, and a portion of it was covered with dull, greyish-looking spots and blotches. I rose and took the dress in my hands. "Is this the dress you wore last night, Mrs. Tawne ? " I asked. A shudder seemed to creep over her, and she turned her face away. " Yes," she said, with averted look, " I wore that dress last night. Take it away •' Don't let me look at the horrid thing ! " The "horrid thing" fascinated me. There was an uncanny attraction in those ghastly spots.

A man's life blood was smeared all over that garment ! And as I carelesslyturned it in my hands I noticed, against the lace of the bosom, a cedar leaf and a crushed and faded peach blossom. They had been carefully pinned on. " Peach blossom and cedar leaf! " I said to myself. " Why did Mrs. Clowsley Tawne wear a peach blossom and a cedar leaf? Cedar leaf. That means ' I love but thee.' Peach blossom. That reads, ' I am your captive.' I am afraid, Mrs. Clowsley Tawne, we shall have to inquire into this."

Chapter III

Here was a corker at the outset. I was engaged as a private detective by Mrs. Clowsley Tawne. My investigations had to be made in her interest, and, besides that, I felt so sure of the little woman's absolute innocence in this business that, whoever had engaged me, she would have had my heartiest and truest sympathy. In addition to that, she was in a state of such hysterical excitement that anything like severe cross-questioning might have brought dangerous results. I had no doubt, in my mind, that one of her habitual comedies of intrigue had been play-ed during the previous evening, else why should she have worn those peculiar floral tokens ? People do not find a peach blossom in a florist's shop, nor do they pick it out of their garden, and, least of all, do they wear it in conjunction with a cedar leaf without a reason.

The question was to discover with whom the intrigue had been played, and if the murdered man had taken part in it. The subject was a delicate one, and permitted of no straight questioning. I, therefore, made up my mind to use my eyes as well as my ears. " I shan't ask you to go into the next room with me, Mrs. Clowsley Tawne," I said, "but if you will permit me I will have a look." Writh that I rose and opened the door of the boudoir. On a low chair quite close to the door, and in such a position that he could very well have placed his ear against the thin partition and heard every word that we had spoken, sat Mr. Inspector Jerningham. I smiled when I saw him, and he smiled, I ought to have expected this, but it seemed to me so much more diplomatic than the old ordinary policeman is accustomed to, that Mr. In spector Jerningham rose in my estimation.