The Seven Secrets

“We have the pleasure of welcoming Sir Bernard here this evening,” continued the chairman; “and I shall ask him to kindly explain the case.”

With apparent reluctance the well-known physician rose, after being cordially welcomed to the platform by the French savant, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses, and commenced to introduce the subject. His appearance there was certainly quite unexpected, but as I glanced at Ambler I saw a look of triumph in his face. We were sitting at the back of the hall, and I knew that Sir Bernard, being short-sighted, could not recognise us at the distance.

“I am here at Doctor Fulton’s invitation to meet our great master, Professor Deboutin, of whom for many years I have been a follower.” Then he went on to express the pleasure it gave him to demonstrate before them a case which he declared was not at all uncommon, although hitherto unsuspected by medical men.

Behind the chair of the new-comer stood the strange-looking old lady – who answered for her grand-daughter, the latter being mute. Her case was one, Sir Bernard explained, of absence of will. With a few quick questions he placed the history of the case before his hearers. There was a bad family history – a father who drank, and a mother who suffered from epilepsy. At thirteen the girl had received a sudden fright owing to a practical joke, and from that moment she gradually came under the influence of some hidden unknown terror so that she even refused to eat altogether. The strangest fact, however, was that she could still eat and speak in secret, although in public she was entirely dumb, and no amount of pleasure or pain would induce her to utter a sound.

“This,” explained Sir Bernard, “is one of the many cases of absence of will, partial or entire, which has recently come beneath my notice. My medical friends, and also Professor Deboutin, will agree that at the age the patient received her fright many girls are apt to tend towards what the Charcot School term ‘aboulie,’ or, in plain English, absence of will. Now one of the most extraordinary symptoms of this is terror. Terror,” he said, “of performing the simplest functions of nature; terror of movement, terror of eating – though sane in every other respect. Some there are, too, in whom this terror is developed upon one point only, and in such the inequality of mental balance can, as a rule, only be detected by one who has made deep research in this particular branch of nervous disorders.”

The French professor followed with a lengthy discourse, in which he bestowed the highest praise upon Sir Bernard for his long and patient experiments, which, he said, had up to the present been conducted in secret, because he feared that if it were known he had taken up that branch of medical science he might lose his reputation as a lady’s doctor.

Then, just as the meeting was being brought to a conclusion, Jevons touched me on the shoulder, and we both slipped out.

“Well,” he asked. “What do you think of it all?”

“I’ve been highly interested,” I replied. “But how does this further our inquiries, or throw any light on the tragedy?”

“Be patient,” was his response, as we walked together in the direction of the Angel. “Be patient, and I will show you.”

CHAPTER XXVII.
MR. LANE’S ROMANCE

The Seven Secrets, each distinct from each other and yet connected; each one in itself a complete enigma, formed a problem of which even Ambler Jevons himself could not discover the solution.

Contrary to his usual methods, he allowed me to accompany him in various directions, making curious inquiries that had apparently nothing to connect them with the mystery of the death of Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay.

In reply to a wire I had sent to Ethelwynn came a message saying that her mother was entirely prostrated, therefore she could not at present leave her. This, when shown to Ambler, caused him to purse his lips and raise his shoulders with that gesture of suspicion which was a peculiarity of his. Was it possible that he actually suspected her?

The name of Slade seemed ever in Jevons’ mind. Indeed, most of his inquiries were regarding some person of that name.

One evening, after dining together, he took me in a cab across the City to the Three Nuns Hotel, at Aldgate – where, in the saloon bar, we sat drinking. Before setting out he had urged me to put on a shabby suit of clothes and a soft hat, so that in the East End we should not attract attention as “swells.” As for his own personal appearance, it was certainly not that of the spruce city man. He was an adept at disguises, and on this occasion wore a reefer jacket, a peaked cap, and a dark violet scarf in lieu of collar, thus presenting the aspect of a seafarer ashore. He smoked a pipe of the most approved nautical type, and as we sat together in the saloon he told me sea stories, in order that a group of men sitting near might overhear.

That he had some object in all this was quite certain, but what it was I could not gather.

Suddenly, after an hour, a little under-sized old man of dirty and neglected appearance, who had been drinking at the bar, shuffled up to us, and whispered something to Ambler that I did not catch. The words, nevertheless, caused my companion to start, and, disregarding the fresh whiskey and soda he had just ordered, he rose and walked out – an example which I followed.

“Lanky sent me, sir,” the old man said, addressing Ambler, when we were out in the street. “He couldn’t come hisself. ’E said you’d like to know the news.”

“Of course, I was waiting for it,” replied my companion, alert and eager.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I’d better tell yer the truth at once, sir.”

“Certainly. What is it?”

“Well, Lanky’s dead.”

“Dead?” cried Ambler. “Impossible. I was waiting for him.”

“I know. This morning in the Borough Market he told me to come ’ere and find you, because he wasn’t able to come. ’E had a previous engagement. Lanky’s engagements were always interestin’,” he added, with a grim smile.

“Well, go on,” said Ambler, eagerly. “What followed?”

“’E told me to go down to Tait Street and see ’im at eight o’clock, as ’e had a message for you. I went, and when I got there I found ’im lying on the floor of his room stone dead.”

“You went to the police, of course?”

“No, I didn’t; I came here to see you instead. I believe the poor bloke’s been murdered. ’E was a good un, too – poor Lanky Lane!”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Is that man Lane dead?”

“It seems so,” Jevons responded. “If he is, then there we have further mystery.”

“If you doubt it, sir, come with me down to Shadwell,” the old man said in his cockney drawl. “Nobody knows about it yet. I ought to have told the p’lice, but I know you’re better at mysterious affairs than the silly coppers in Leman Street.”

Jevons’ fame as an investigator of crime had spread even to that class known as the submerged tenth. How fashions change! A year or two ago it was the mode in Society to go “slumming.” To-day only social reformers and missionaries make excursions to the homes of the lower class in East London. A society woman would not to-day dare admit that she had been further east than Leadenhall Street.

“Let’s go and see what has really happened,” Ambler said to me. “If Lane is dead, then it proves that his enemy is yours.”

“I can’t see that. How?” I asked.

“You will see later. For the moment we must occupy ourselves with his death, and ascertain whether it is owing to natural causes or to foul play. He was a heavy drinker, and it may have been that.”

“No,” declared the little old man, “Lanky wasn’t drunk to-day – that I’ll swear. I saw ’im in Commercial Road at seven, talkin’ to a feller wot’s in love wiv ’is sister.”

“Then how do you account for this discovery of yours?” asked my companion.

“I can’t account for it, guv’nor. I simply found ’im lying on the floor, and it give me a shock, I can tell yer. ’E was as cold as ice.”

“Let’s go and see ourselves,” Ambler said: so together we hurried through the Whitechapel High Street, at that hour busy with its costermonger market, and along Commercial Road East, arriving at last in the dirty, insalubrious thoroughfare, a veritable hive of the lowest class of humanity, Tait Street, Shadwell.

Up the dark stairs of one of the dirtiest of the dwellings our conductor guided us, lighting our steps with wax vestas, struck upon the wall, and on gaining the third floor of the evil-smelling place he pushed open a door, and we found ourselves in an unlit room.

“Don’t move, gentlemen,” the old man urged. “You may fall over ’im. ’E’s right there, just where you’re standin’. I’ll light the lamp.”

Then he struck another match, and by its fickle light we saw the body of Lane, the street-hawker, lying full length only a yard from us, just as our conductor had described.

The cheap and smelling paraffin lamp being lit, I took a hasty glance around the poor man’s home. There was but little furniture save the bed, a chair or two, and a rickety table. Upon the latter was one of those flat bottles known as a “quartern.” Our first attention, however, was to the prostrate man. A single glance was sufficient to show that he was dead. His eyes were closed, his hands clenched, and his body was bent as though he had expired in a final paroxysm of agony. The teeth, too, were hard set, and there were certain features about his appearance that caused me to entertain grave suspicion from the first. His thin, consumptive face, now blanched, was strangely drawn, as though the muscles had suddenly contracted, and there was an absence of that composure one generally expects to find in the faces of those who die naturally.

As a medical man I very soon noted sufficient appearances to tell me that death had been due either to suicide or foul play. The former seemed to me the most likely.

“Well?” asked Ambler, rising from his knees when I had concluded the examination of the dead man’s skinny, ill-nourished body. “What’s your opinion, Ralph?”

“He’s taken poison,” I declared.

“Poison? You believe he’s been poisoned.”

“It may have been wilful murder, or he may have taken it voluntarily,” I answered. “But it is most evident that the symptoms are those of poisoning.”

Ambler gave vent to a low grunt, half of satisfaction, half of suspicion. I knew that grunt well. When on the verge of any discovery he always emitted that guttural sound.

“We’d better inform the police,” I remarked. “That’s all we can do. The poor fellow is dead.”

“Dead! Yes, we know that. But we must find out who killed him.”

“Well,” I said, “I think at present, Ambler, we’ve quite sufficient on our hands without attempting to solve any further problems. The poor man may have been in despair and have taken poison wilfully.”

“In despair!” echoed the old man. “No fear. Lanky was happy enough. ’E wasn’t the sort of fellow to hurry hisself out o’ the world. He liked life too jolly well. Besides, he ’ad a tidy bit o’ money in the Savin’s Bank. ’E was well orf once, wer’ Lanky. Excuse me for interruptin’.”

“Well, if he didn’t commit suicide,” I remarked, “then, according to all appearances, poison was administered to him wilfully.”

“That appears to be the most feasible theory,” Ambler said. “Here we have still a further mystery.”

Of course, the post-mortem appearances of poisoning, except in a few instances, are not very characteristic. As every medical man is aware, poison, if administered with a criminal intent, is generally in such a dose as to take immediate effect – although this is by no means necessary, as there are numerous substances which accumulate in the system, and when given in small and repeated quantities ultimately prove fatal – notably, antimony. The diagnosis of the effects of irritant poisons is not so difficult as it is in the case of narcotics or other neurotics, where the symptoms are very similar to those produced by apoplexy, epilepsy, tetanus, convulsions, or other forms of disease of the brain. Besides, one of the most difficult facts we have to contend with in such cases is that poison may be found in the body, and yet a question may arise as to its having been the cause of death.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“POOR MRS. COURTENAY.”

Ambler appeared to be much concerned regarding the poor man’s death. When we had first met beside his vegetable barrow in the London Road he certainly seemed a hard-working, respectable fellow, with a voice rendered hoarse and rough by constantly shouting his wares. But by the whispered words that had passed I knew that Ambler was in his confidence. The nature of this I had several times tried to fathom.

His unexpected death appeared to have upset all Ambler’s plans. He grunted and took a tour round the poorly-furnished chamber.

“Look here!” he said, halting in front of me. “There’s been foul play here. We must lose no time in calling the police – not that they are likely to discover the truth.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the poor fellow has been the victim of a secret assassin.”

“Then you suspect a motive?”

“I believe that there is a motive why his lips should be closed – a strange and remote one.” Then, turning to the old fellow who had been the dead man’s friend, he asked: “Do you know anyone by the name of Slade?”

“Slade?” repeated the croaking old fellow. “Slade? No, sir. I don’t recollect anyone of that name. Is it a man or a woman?”

“Either.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know if Lanky Lane ever had visitors here – I mean visitors not of his own class?”

“I never ’eard of none. Lanky wasn’t the sort o’ chap to trouble about callers. He used to spend ’is nights in the Three Nuns wiv us; but he’d sit ’ours over two o’ gin. ’E saved ’is money, ’e did.”

“But look here,” exclaimed Ambler, seriously. “Are you quite certain that you’ve never seen him with any stranger at nights?”

“Never to my knowledge.”

“Well,” my companion said, “you’d better go and call the police.”

When the old fellow had shuffled away down the rickety stairs, Ambler, turning to me, said abruptly:

“That fellow is lying; he knows something about this affair.”

I had taken up the empty dram bottle and smelt it. The spirit it had contained was rum – which had evidently been drunk from the bottle, as there was no glass near. A slight quantity remained, and this I placed aside for analysis if necessary.

“I can’t see what this poor fellow has to do with the inquiry upon which we are engaged, Ambler,” I remarked. “I do wish you’d be more explicit. Mystery seems to heap upon mystery.”

“Yes. You’re right,” he said reflectively. “Slowly – very slowly, I am working out the problem, Ralph. It has been a long and difficult matter; but by degrees I seem to be drawing towards a conclusion. This,” and he pointed to the man lying dead, “is another of London’s many mysteries, but it carries us one step further.”

“I can’t, for the life of me, see what connection the death of this poor street hawker has with the strange events of the immediate past.”

“Remain patient. Let us watch the blustering inquiries of the police,” he laughed. “They’ll make a great fuss, but will find out nothing. The author of this crime is far too wary.”

“But this man Slade?” I said. “Of late your inquiries have always been of him. What is his connection with the affair?”

“Ah, that we have yet to discover. He may have no connection, for aught I know. It is mere supposition, based upon a logical conclusion.”

“What motive had you in meeting this man here to-night?” I inquired, hoping to gather some tangible clue to the reason of his erratic movements.

“Ah! that’s just the point,” he responded. “If this poor fellow had lived he would have revealed to me a secret – we should have known the truth!”

“The truth!” I gasped. “Then at the very moment when he intended to confess to you he has been struck down.”

“Yes. His lips have been sealed by his enemy – and yours. Both are identical,” he replied, and his lips snapped together in that peculiar manner that was his habit. I knew it was useless to question him further.

Indeed, at that moment heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and two constables, conducted by the shuffling old man, appeared upon the scene.

“We have sent for you,” Ambler explained. “This man is dead – died suddenly, we believe.”

“Who is he, sir?” inquired the elder of the pair, bending over the prostrate man, and taking up the smoky lamp in order to examine his features more carefully.

“His name is Lane – a costermonger, known as Lanky Lane. The man with you is one of his friends, and can tell you more about him than I can.”

“Is he dead?” queried the second constable, touching the thin, pallid face.

“Certainly,” I answered. “I’m a doctor, and have already made an examination. He’s been dead some time.”

My name and address was taken, together with that of my companion. When, however, Ambler told the officers his name, both were visibly impressed. The name of Jevons was well known to the police, who held him in something like awe as a smart criminal investigator.

“I know Inspector Barton at Leman Street – your station, I suppose?” he added.

“Yes, sir,” responded the first constable. “And begging your pardon, sir, I’m honoured to meet you. We all heard how you beat the C. I. Department in the Bowyer Square Mystery, and how you gave the whole information to Sergeant Payling without taking any of the credit to yourself. He got all the honour, sir, and your name didn’t appear at the Old Bailey.”

Jevons laughed. He was never fond of seeing his name in print. He made a study of the ways and methods of the criminal, but only for his own gratification. The police knew him well, but he hid his light under the proverbial bushel always.

“What is your own opinion of the affair, sir?” the officer continued, ready to take his opinion before that of the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to his station.

“Well,” said Ambler, “it looks like sudden death, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s poison.”

“Suicide?”

“Murder, very possibly,” was Jevons’ quiet response.

“Then you really think there’s a mystery, sir?” exclaimed the constable quickly.

“It seems suspiciously like one. Let us search the room. Come along Ralph,” he added, addressing me. “Just lend a hand.”

There was not much furniture in the place to search, and before long, with the aid of the constable’s lantern, we had investigated every nook and cranny.

Only one discovery of note was made, and it was certainly a strange one.

Beneath a loose board, near the fireplace, Jevons discovered the dead man’s hoard. It consisted of several papers carefully folded together. We examined them, and found them to consist of a hawker’s licence, a receipt for the payment for a barrow and donkey, a post-office savings bank book, showing a balance of twenty-six pounds four shillings, and several letters from a correspondent unsigned. They were type-written, in order that the handwriting should not be betrayed, and upon that flimsy paper used in commercial offices. All of them were of the highest interest. The first, read aloud by Ambler, ran as follows: —

“Dear Lane, – I have known you a good many years, and never thought you were such a fool as to neglect a good thing. Surely you will reconsider the proposal I made to you the night before last in the bar of the Elephant and Castle? You once did me a very good turn long ago, and now I am in a position to put a good remunerative bit of business in your way. Yet you are timid that all may not turn out well! Apparently you do not fully recognise the stake I hold in the matter, and the fact that any exposure would mean ruin to me. Surely I have far more to lose than you have. Therefore that, in itself, should be sufficient guarantee to you. Reconsider your reply, and give me your decision to-morrow night. You will find me in the saloon bar of the King Lud, in Ludgate Hill, at eight o’clock. Do not speak to me there, but show yourself, and then wait outside until I join you. Have a care that you are not followed. That hawk Ambler Jevons has scent of us. Therefore, remain dumb and watchful – Z.”

“That’s curious,” I remarked. “Whoever wrote that letter was inciting Lane to conspiracy, and at the same time held you in fear, Ambler.”

My companion laughed again – a quiet self-satisfied laugh. Then he commenced the second letter, type-written like the first, but evidently upon another machine.

“Dear Lane, – Your terms seem exorbitant. I quite understand that at least four or five of you must be in the affair, but the price asked is ridiculous. Besides, I didn’t like Bennett’s tone when he spoke to me yesterday. He was almost threatening. What have you told him? Recollect that each of us knows something to the detriment of the other, and even in these days of so-called equality the man with money is always the best. You must contrive to shut Bennett’s mouth. Give him money, if he wants it – up to ten pounds. But, of course, do not say that it comes from me. You can, of course, pose as my friend, as you have done before. I shall be at the usual place to-night. – Z.”

“Looks as though there’s been some blackmailing,” one of the constables remarked. “Who’s Bennett?”

“I expect that’s Bobby Bennett who works in the Meat Market,” replied the atom of a man who had accosted us at Aldgate. “He was a friend of Lanky’s, and a bad ’un. I’ve ’eard say that ’e ’ad a record at the Old Bailey.”

“What for?”

“’Ousebreakin’.”

“Is he working now?” Ambler inquired.

“Yes. I saw ’im in Farrin’don Street yesterday.”

“Ah!” remarked the constable. “We shall probably want to have a chat with him. But the chief mystery is the identity of the writer of these letters. At all events it is evident that this poor man Lane knew something to his detriment, and was probably trying to make money out of that knowledge.”

“Not at all an unusual case,” I said.

Jevons grunted, and appeared to view the letters with considerable satisfaction. Any documentary evidence surrounding a case of mysterious death is always of interest. In this case, being of such a suspicious nature, it was doubly so.

“Are you quite decided not to assist me?” another letter ran. It was likewise type-written, and from the same source. “Recollect you did so once, and were well paid for it. You had enough to keep you in luxury for years had you not so foolishly frittered it away on your so-called friends. Any of the latter would give you away to the police to-morrow for a five-pound note. This, however, is my last appeal to you. If you help me I shall give you one hundred pounds, which is not bad payment for an hour’s work. If you do not, then you will not hear from me again. – Z.”

 

“Seems a bit brief, and to the point,” was the elder constable’s remark. “I wonder what is the affair mentioned by this mysterious correspondent? Evidently the fellow intended to bring off a robbery, or something, and Lane refused to give his aid.”

“Apparently so,” replied Ambler, fingering the last letter remaining in his hand. “But this communication is even of greater interest,” he added, turning to me and showing me writing in a well-known hand.

“I know that writing!” I cried. “Why – that letter is from poor Mrs. Courtenay!”

“It is,” he said, quietly. “Did I not tell you that we were on the eve of a discovery, and that the dead man lying there could have told us the truth?”