Paul Campenhaye, Specialist in Criminology

CHAPTER I. THE FRENCH MAID.It was the fourth day of October, 19—, and three o’clock in the afternoon. Killingley, my clerk, had just come back from his lunch. I heard him moving about in his room—the first of the three rooms in which I carried on my business in Jermyn Street. As for myself, I was reading a new essay on certain characteristics of Napoleon Bonaparte; it was clever and, in many respects, original, and I had no wish to be disturbed. But just then the outer bell rang. Killingley came in a moment later. “A lady wishes to see you, sir,” he said. “In the usual way, Killingley,” I said, rising. Now, I had a habit, during the comparatively short time in which I carried on the business, of taking care to see my clients before they saw me. I have said that I occupied three rooms; the first was used by Killingley as a sort of office, and contained himself, an American roll-top desk, a typewriter, and Killingley’s collection of light literature; the second was fitted up as a luxurious waiting-room; the third was my own apartment. And between it and the second was a cunningly-devised and quite secret arrangement by which I, unseen, could take minute stock of any person who called upon me. Often I kept clients waiting impatiently in that room while I watched and studied them; I was all the more ready for them when I admitted them to my presence. I was at my post of ’vantage when Killingley ushered the lady into the waiting-room. A tall woman of perfect figure and distinguished carriage, she was so closely veiled that I could see nothing whatever of her face, but I learnt much in one minute from her movements. She examined her surroundings as a caged thing might look around its den. Impatiently she turned over and tossed about the newspapers and magazines which lay on the table, impatiently she kept glancing at the door which led to my room. From the quickness of her movements I knew that she was young, impetuous and ardent; from her impatience I knew that she was much agitated. I stepped to my door and opened it, and was bowing to her before she was aware of my presence. She passed me quickly with a slight, somewhat condescending nod, and, entering my room, sank into the easy-chair which I placed for her. “I am at your service, madam,” I said quietly. “But perhaps I had better explain that I never undertake any commission until I am made aware of my client’s identity.” She sat for a moment in silence, her slender fingers, perfectly gloved, tapping the arms of her chair. Then, suddenly, she lifted one hand, and with a gesture almost imperious, swept aside the thick veil and revealed a face that was as troubled and agitated as it was beautiful, and—famous. I bowed once more, in genuine homage. “I have the honour to receive the Countess of Langthwaite,” I said. The Countess inclined her head a little and gave me a very keen and critical stare. “I understand, Mr. Campenhaye, that whatever is said to you is said in the strictest confidence,” she began. “Is that so?” “Whatever is told me by my clients, Lady Langthwaite, is regarded by me as sacred,” I answered. “But, in return, I expect my clients to tell me the plain, literal truth, even to the merest detail.” “I—I suppose I had better begin at the beginning,” she said. “And since you know who I am, you will know that we—that Lord Langthwaite has a place in Yorkshire.” I nodded. “I left Langthwaite at nine o’clock this morning on my way to town, and arrived at King’s Cross just after one o’clock,” she continued. “My maid, Antoinette Marcel, was with me. I left Antoinette in the station—she was to lunch in the refreshment-room. She had with her some smaller luggage, bags, and—my jewel-case. “I left the hotel at a few minutes to two and crossed to the station,” she went on. “In the booking hall I passed a porter who had charge of my trunks. He told me that Antoinette had left the smaller bags with him, and had gone to the refreshment-room. I went there to find her—she was not there. Nor could I find her anywhere about the station.” “Of course, the jewel-case had disappeared with Antoinette,” I said. “But please tell me the rest, Lady Langthwaite.” “There is nothing, or scarcely anything, to tell,” she said. “Of course, Antoinette had the jewel-case. That is why I came to you. I want to—I must recover it!” “Naturally!” I remarked. “I suppose you informed the station people and the police at once?” “No-o,” she faltered. “I—I was advised not to do so.” “Now, Lady Langthwaite,” I said, settling down to work, “you will bear in mind that you are to tell me everything. And, first of all, who advised you not to mention your loss to the railway authorities and the police?” “A—a friend,” she replied reluctantly. “Man or woman?” I asked. “A—a man,” she answered, still more reluctantly. “Who must have had strong reasons for giving such extraordinary advice,” I commented. “However, we will leave that for the moment. Now, what did the jewel-case contain?” At this question the Countess almost wrung her hands, and her beautiful eyes became suffused with unshed tears. “Oh!” she answered. “It is terrible to think of! It contained five thousand pounds in bank-notes. I don’t mind the loss of the money at all. But it also contained all my jewellery—all. And—and the family jewels.” “Not—not the famous Langthwaite pearls!” I almost shouted. She bent her head, and I thought she was going to cry outright. “Yes!” she whispered. “Yes!” “Of course, you have communicated with Lord Langthwaite?” I said. “You would wire to him at once?” She shook her head, miserably, despairingly. “No!” she answered. “No, Mr. Campenhaye.” “And why have you not communicated with the Earl, Lady Langthwaite?” I asked. She made an effort, and at last faced me resolutely. “Because, Mr. Campenhaye, I was running away from him!” she answered. It has always been one of my greatest ambitions to be able to preserve an unmoved countenance under any circumstances, and I flatter myself that I usually do so. But I must have betrayed the most intense surprise, not to say utter astonishment, on this occasion, for my beautiful client suddenly turned crimson, and drawing out a cobwebby handkerchief, burst into genuine and abundant tears. I rose from my chair. “I beg your pardon, Lady Langthwaite,” I said gently. “I will leave you for a little while.” I placed a bottle of smelling salts within her reach and went into the next room. And as I stood there, waiting until her ladyship got the better of her emotion, I rapidly memorised all that I knew of her and her husband, and applied my recollections to the present situation. William Guy Carter-Johnstone, sixth Earl of Langthwaite, was a pretty well-known man. Tall and clean-shaven, with the face of an ascetic and a pair of the most piercing black eyes I have ever seen, Lord Langthwaite was at the time of which I am writing about forty-eight years of age. It had often been said of him that he was never going to marry, but three years previously he had suddenly taken to wife the daughter of a north-country clergyman. Whether it was a mutual love affair Society was not permitted to know; as the bridegroom was forty-five and the bride scarcely twenty, Society thought not. However that may have been, there was no doubt that the Earl of Langthwaite was passionately fond of his young wife, whom he introduced to the world of fashion with great pride. And this was the lady who sat weeping in my room! I went back after a decent interval and found Lady Langthwaite composing herself. “I beg your pardon,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “I am very sorry, Mr. Campenhaye.” “We must see what can be done,” I said, resuming my seat. “Now, Lady Langthwaite, let us be business-like. Tell me the truth—all the truth. You said you were running away from your husband. Why were you running away from him?” “Because—because our tempers are not compatible,” she answered with some hesitation. “I see. And, usually, in these cases, one finds that there is some one with whose temper one’s own is compatible,” I suggested. She hung her head, and twisted the damp handkerchief. “I suppose that is so in your case, Lady Langthwaite?” I said. She gave me a fluttering glance and bent her head. “Yes,” she murmured. “And that, I suppose, is the gentleman whom you met at the Great Northern Hotel?” I said. She nodded, but said nothing. “Lady Langthwaite,” I said, “you will have to tell me his name if I am to help you.” She glanced at me quickly, hesitated, and hung her head again, while her fingers tugged nervously at the handkerchief. “Captain Molesworth,” she said at last. I betrayed no surprise there, at any rate. But I made a mental contrast between the worth of Lord Langthwaite and the utter worthlessness of Captain Molesworth, whose reputation was known to me. “Then, of course, it was Captain Molesworth who sent you to me?” I said. She nodded an affirmative. “And counselled you not to tell the police and the railway people?” I continued. “He said it would not be wise until I had seen you,” she answered. I considered a good many things in a remarkably short space of time, having more on my mind than the mere finding of Mademoiselle Antoinette and the jewel-case. “Does Captain Molesworth know what was in the jewel-case?” I asked. She looked at me with some surprise. “No-o,” she answered. “I told him that it contained the bank-notes and my own personal jewellery, but I did not tell him about—about the pearls.” “But you were—or are—running away with Captain Molesworth,” I pointed out. “Why bring the family pearls—heirlooms?” She almost tore the handkerchief at that, and her face expressed something like physical pain. “Don’t torture me, please!” she exclaimed. “What am I to do? What is to be done? I dare not—dare not tell Lord Langthwaite—it would kill me!” “Dare not tell him—what, Lady Langthwaite? That you have lost the pearls, or that you were running away with Captain Molesworth?” I asked, watching her keenly. She made no answer to that, but regarded me as if I, and I alone, were the arbiter of her fate. “I am wondering,” I continued, “if we cannot work out a little plan which will save the situation. Can you not go to Lord Langthwaite, invent some little story of a sudden necessity for coming to town, and of bringing the pearls with you for safety? Then we might get the police to work in a search for your maid.” She pondered this proposition for a moment and then shook her head. “Lord Langthwaite would not believe that Antoinette had stolen the jewel-case,” she said. “We had implicit faith in Antoinette—she has been with me ever since—since I was married.” “But Antoinette and the jewel-case are missing,” I said. “Now, tell me this—did your maid know that you were running away?” “No! No!” she answered. “Did she know the precise contents of the jewel-case?” I asked. The Countess shook her head. “No?” I continued. “She would merely think, then, that it contained just the ordinary amount of jewellery with which you travel usually—which would not be much?—that is, in comparison with what really was in the jewel-case?” “Yes,” she answered. “Lady Langthwaite,” I said suddenly, a new idea having occurred to me, “where did you get those bank-notes?” “From the bank at Saxonstowe yesterday,” she answered. “The Saxonstowe and Normanchester bank, where I have an account.” “Of course, you haven’t the numbers of the notes?” I suggested. “No, I thought not—fortunately, the bankers will have them.” And I seized a telegram form and wrote out a message.