Part 5

Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.

As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.

And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed--“Marriage License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”

“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.

“This license,” began the clergyman.

“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license--there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”

Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.

“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----”

“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?”

For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.

“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares.

“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”

Mr. Maggerley shook his head.

“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.

So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!

V

Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a wide and varied character.

The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him, jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as he could have wished them.

“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me, my son, and my niece.”

“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord Claythorpe hesitated.

“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man, and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”

The detective nodded.

“Where does your interest come in, Lord Claythorpe?” he asked.

“I am her legal guardian,” said his lordship, “although of course, she has a mother. That is to say, I am the trustee and sole executor of her estate, and there were one or two provisions especially made by my dear friend which gave me authority usually denied to trustees----”

“Such as the right of choosing her husband,” said the detective quietly, and it was Lord Claythorpe’s turn to frown.

“So you know something about this, do you?” he asked. “Yes, I have that right. It so happened that I chose my own son Francis as the best man for that position, and the lady was quite agreeable.”

“Indeed!” said the polite Peter. He consulted his notes. “As far as I understand, this mysterious person, whom Mrs. Wilberforce believes to be a discharged employee named Jane Briglow, after making several raids upon your property, reached the culmination of her audacity by robbing your son of his wedding-ring and then burgling the house of the parson who was to marry them and stealing the license, which had been granted by the Bishop of London.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Lord Claythorpe.

“And what of the wedding?” asked Peter. “There will be no difficulty of getting another license.”

Lord Claythorpe sniffed.

“The only difficulty is,” he said, “that the young lady is naturally prostrated by the humiliation which this villainous woman has thrust upon her. She was in such a state of collapse the following morning that her mother was compelled to take her--or rather, to send her--to a friend in the country. The wedding is postponed for, let us say, a month.”

“One other question,” asked the detective. “You say you suspect, in addition to Jane Briglow, a young man named Jamieson Steele, who was in a way engaged to Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“A fugitive from justice,” said his lordship emphatically. “And why you police fellows cannot catch him is beyond my understanding. The man forged my name----”

“I know all about that,” said the detective. “I had the records of the case looked out, and the particulars of the case were ’phoned to me here whilst you had gone upstairs to collect data concerning the previous robbery. As a matter of fact, although he is, as you may say, a fugitive from justice, having very foolishly run away, there is no evidence which would secure a conviction before a judge and jury. I suppose your lordship knows that?”

His lordship did not know that, and he expressed his annoyance in the usual manner--which was to abuse the police.

Peter Dawes went back to Scotland Yard, and consulted the officer who had been in charge of the forgery case.

“No, sir,” said that individual, “we have not a picture of Mr. Steele. But he was a quiet enough young fellow--a civil engineer, so far as my memory serves me, in the employment of one of Lord Claythorpe’s companies.”

Peter Dawson looked at the other thoughtfully. His informant was Chief Inspector Passmore, who was a living encyclopædia, not only upon the aristocratic underworld, but upon crooks who moved in the odour of respectability.

“Inspector,” said Peter, “what position does Lord Claythorpe occupy in the world of the idle rich?”

The inspector stroked his stubbly chin.

“He is neither idle nor rich,” he said. “Claythorpe is, in point of fact, a comparatively poor man, most of whose income is derived from directors’ fees. He has been a heavy gambler in the past, and only as recently as the last oil slump he lost a goodish bit of money.”

“Married?” asked Peter, and the other nodded.

“To a perfectly colourless woman whom nobody seems to have met, though I believe she is seen out at some of the parties Lewinstein gives,” he said.

“Do you know anything about the fortune of Miss Joyce Wilberforce?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said the other promptly. “Held absolutely by his lordship as sole trustee. The girl’s uncle thought an awful lot of him, and my own opinion is that, in entrusting the girl’s fortune to Claythorpe, he was a trifle mad.”

The men’s eyes met.

“Is Claythorpe crooked?” asked Dawes bluntly, and the detective shrugged his shoulders.

“Heaven knows,” he said. “The only thing I am satisfied about is his association with Four Square Jane.”

Peter looked at him with a startled gaze.

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.

“Well,” said the inspector, “don’t you see how all these crimes which are committed by Four Square Jane have as their object the impoverishment of Claythorpe?”

“I have formed my own theory on that,” said Peter slowly. “I thought Four Square Jane was a society crook doing a Claude Duval stunt, robbing the rich to keep the poor.”

The inspector smiled.

“You got that idea from the fact that she gives the proceeds of her jewel robberies to the hospitals. And why shouldn’t she? They’re difficult to dispose of, and as a rule they’re easily retrievable if old man Claythorpe will pay the price. But you never heard, when she took solid money, that that went to hospitals, did you?”

“There have been instances,” said Peter.

“When it wasn’t Claythorpe’s money,” said the other quickly. “When it was only the money belonging to some pal of Claythorpe’s as shady as himself. The impression I get of Four Square Jane is that she’s searching for something all the time. Maybe it’s money--at any rate, when she gets money she sticks to it; and maybe it’s something else.”

“What is your theory?” asked Dawes.

“My theory,” said the inspector slowly, “is that Four Square Jane and Claythorpe were working in a crooked game together, and that he double-crossed her and that she is getting her revenge.”

* * * * *

Lord Claythorpe had his office in the City, but most of his business was conducted in a much smaller office situated in St. James’ Street. The sole staff of this bureau was his confidential clerk, Donald Remington, a sour-faced man of fifty, reticent and taciturn, who knew a great deal more about his lordship’s business than possibly even Lord Claythorpe gave him credit for.

After his interview with the detective, Lord Claythorpe drove away from the city to the West End, and went up the one flight of stairs which led to the little suite--it was more like a flat than an office and occupied the first floor of a shop building, being approached by the side door--in an absent and abstracted frame of mind.

The silent Remington rose as his master entered, and Lord Claythorpe took the seat which his subordinate had occupied. For fully three minutes neither man spoke, and then Remington asked:

“What did the detective want your lordship for?”

“To ask about that infernal woman,” replied the other shortly.

“Four Square Jane, eh? But did he ask you anything else?” His tone was one of respectful familiarity, if the paradox may be allowed.

Claythorpe nodded.

“He wanted to know about Miss Wilberforce’s fortune,” he said.

Another silence, and then Remington asked:

“I suppose you’ll be glad when that wedding is through, now?”

There was a significant note in his voice, and Claythorpe looked up.

“Of course, I shall,” he said sharply. “By the way, have you made arrangements about----”

Remington nodded.

“Do you think you’re wise?” he asked. “The securities had better stay in the vaults at the bank don’t you think, especially in view of this girl’s activities?”

“Nothing of the sort,” replied Claythorpe violently. “Carry out my instructions, Remington, to the letter. What the devil do you mean by questioning any act of mine?”

Remington raised his eyebrows the fraction of an inch.

“Far be it from me to question your lordship’s actions; I am merely suggesting that----”

“Well, suggest nothing,” said Lord Claythorpe. “You have given notice to the bank that I intend putting the bonds in a place of security?”

“I have,” replied the other, “the manager has arranged for the box to be delivered here this afternoon. The assistant manager and the accountant are bringing it.”

“Good!” said Claythorpe, “to-morrow I will take it down to my country place.”

Remington was silent.

“You don’t think it wise, eh?” the small eyes of Lord Claythorpe twinkled with malicious humour. “I see you’re scared of Four Square Jane, too.”

“Not I,” said Remington quickly. “When is this marriage to occur?”

“In a month,” said his lordship airily. “I suppose you’re thinking about your bonus.”

Remington licked his dry lips.

“I am thinking about the sum of four thousand pounds which your lordship owes me, and which I have been waiting for very patiently for the last two years,” he said. “I am tired of this kind of work, and I am anxious to have a little rest and recreation. I’m getting on in years, and it’s very nearly time I had a change.”

Lord Claythorpe was scribbling idly on his blotting-pad.

“How much do you think I will owe you, altogether, with the bonus I promised you for your assistance?”

“Nearer ten thousand pounds than four,” replied the man.

“Oh!” said his lordship carelessly. “That is a large sum, but you may depend upon receiving it the moment my boy is married. I have been spending a lot of money lately, Remington. It cost a lot to get back that pearl necklace.”

“You mean the Venetian Armlet?” said the other quickly. “I didn’t know that you had the pearl necklace back?”

“Anyway, I advertised for it,” said his lordship evasively.

“Fixing no definite reward,” said Remington, “and for a very good reason.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lord Claythorpe quickly.

“The pearls were faked,” said the calm Remington. “Your fifty thousand pound necklace was worth little more than fifty pounds!”

“Hush! for heavens’ sake,” said Claythorpe. “Don’t talk so loud.” He mopped his brow. “You seem to know a devil of a lot,” he said suspiciously. “In fact, there are moments, Remington, when I think you know a damn sight too much for my comfort.”

Remington smiled for the first time--a thin hard smile that gave his face a sinister appearance.

“All the more reason why your lordship should get rid of me as soon as possible,” he said. “I have no ambition except to own a little cottage in Cornwall, where I can fish, ride a horse, and idle away my time.”

His lordship rose hurriedly and took off his coat, preparatory to washing his hands in a small wash-place leading from the office.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I had forgotten I have to lunch with somebody. Your ambition shall be gratified--be sure of that, Remington,” he said, passing into the smaller room.

“I hope so,” said Remington. His eyes were fixed on the floor. In throwing down his coat a letter had dropped from Claythorpe’s pocket, and Remington stooped to pick it up. He saw the postmark and the handwriting, and recognized it as that of Mrs. Wilberforce. He heard the splash of the water in the bowl and Lord Claythorpe’s voice humming a little tune. Without a moment’s hesitation he took it out and read it. The letter was short.

“My dear Lord Claythorpe,” it ran. “Joyce is adamant on the point of the marriage, and says she will not go through with it for another twelve months.”

He replaced the letter in the envelope, and put it back in the inside pocket of the coat.

Twelve months! Claythorpe had lied when he said a month, and was obviously lying with a purpose.

When his lordship emerged, wiping his hands on a towel, and still humming a little tune, Remington was gazing out of the window upon the chimney tops of Jermyn Street.

“I shall be back at half-past two,” said Lord Claythorpe, perfunctorily examining a small heap of letters which lay on his desk. “The bank people will be here by then?”

Remington nodded.

“I am worried about this transfer of Miss Joyce’s securities,” he said. “They are safe enough in the bank. I do not think they will be safe with you.”

“Rubbish,” said his lordship. “I think I know how to deal with Four Square Jane. And besides, I am going to ensure the safety of the securities. Four Square Jane isn’t the kind of person who would steal paper security. It wouldn’t be any good to her, anyway.”

“But suppose these documents disappear?” persisted Remington. “Though it might not assist Four Square Jane, it would considerably embarrass you and Miss Joyce. It would not be a gain, perhaps, to the burglar, but it would be a distinct loss to the young lady.”

“Don’t worry,” said Claythorpe, “neither Four Square Jane nor her confederate, Mr. Jamieson Steele--”

“Jamieson Steele?” repeated Remington. “What has he to do with it?”

Lord Claythorpe chuckled.

“It is my theory--and it is a theory, I think, which is also held by the police--that Jamieson Steele is the gentleman who assists Miss Four Square Jane in her robberies.”

“I’ll never believe it,” said Remington.

Lord Claythorpe had his hand on the door, preparatory to departing, and he turned at these words.

“Perhaps you do not believe that he forged my name to a cheque in this very office?” he said.

“I certainly do not believe that,” said Remington. “In fact I know that that story is a lie.”

Claythorpe’s face went red.

“That is an ugly word to use to me, Remington,” he said, “I think the sooner you go the better.”

“I quite agree with your lordship,” said Remington, and smiled as the door slammed behind his irate master.

When Claythorpe returned he was in a more amicable frame of mind, and greeted the two bank officials with geniality. On the big table was a black japanned box, heavily sealed. The business of transferring the sealed packages which constituted the contents of the box was not a long process. Lord Claythorpe checked them with a list he took from his case, and signed a receipt.

“I suppose your lordship would not like to break the seals of these envelopes?” said the assistant bank manager. “Of course, we are not responsible for their contents, but it would be more satisfactory to us, as I am sure it would be to your lordship, if you were able to verify the contents.”

“It is not necessary,” said Claythorpe, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just reseal the box and put it in my safe.”

This he did in the presence of the manager, locking away the box in an old-fashioned steel safe--a proceeding which the bankers witnessed without enthusiasm.

“That doesn’t seem very secure,” said one, “I wish your lordship----”

“I wish you would mind your own business,” said Lord Claythorpe, and the bankers left, “blessing” the truculent man under their breath.

At six o’clock that afternoon Claythorpe finished the work on which he had been engaged, closed and locked his desk, tried the safe, and put on his hat. He glanced through the front window and saw that his car was waiting, and that it was pelting with rain.

“Which way are you going, Remington?” he asked. “I can give you a lift as far as Park Lane.”

“No, thank you, my lord,” said Remington, struggling into his mackintosh. “I am going by tube, and I have not far to walk.”

They went out of the office together, double-locking the stout door. Before leaving, Remington attached a burglar alarm which communicated with a large bell outside the building, and he repeated this process before the door was actually closed and double-locked.

“I want you to be here at nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” said Claythorpe to his subordinate. “Good-night.”

The inclemency of the weather increased as the evening advanced. A howling south-west gale swept over London, clearing the streets of idlers and limiting to some extent the activities of the police patrols. The police officer who was on duty within a few yards of the building, and who was relieved at eleven o’clock that night, stated that he saw or heard nothing of a suspicious character. In the course of his tour of duty, he tried the door which led to Lord Claythorpe’s office but found it fastened. His relief, a man named Tomms, made an examination of the door at a quarter past eleven--it was his business to examine every door in the street to see that they were securely fastened--and, in addition, acting upon instructions received from Scotland Yard, “pegged” the door. That is to say, he inserted two small wedges of the size of match sticks, one in each door-post, and tied a piece of black cotton from one to the other.

At one o’clock he tried the door again, and flashed his lamp upon the black thread, and found that it had been broken. This could only mean that someone had passed into the office between eleven and one. He summoned assistance, and roused the caretaker, who lived in adjoining premises, and together they went into the darkened building, and mounted the stairs.

Lord Claythorpe’s office door was apparently closed. It led, as the caretaker explained, directly into the main office. There was no sign of jemmy work, and the officers might have given up their investigations and found a simple explanation for the broken thread in the wildness of the night, when, flashing his lamp on the floor, one of the policemen saw a thin trickle of red coming from beneath. It was blood!

The police did not hesitate, but smashed open the door, and entered with some difficulty, for immediately behind the door was lying the body of a man. Tomms switched on the light and knelt down by the side of the body.

“He’s dead,” he said. “Do you know this man?”

“Yes, sir,” said the white-faced caretaker, “that’s Mr. Remington.”

The police made a perfunctory examination.

“You’d better get the divisional surgeon, Jim,” he said to his comrade. “But I’m afraid it’s no use. This poor fellow has been shot through the heart.”

He looked round the apartment. The safe door was wide open and empty.

Half-an-hour later Peter Dawes arrived on the scene of the murder and made a brief examination. He looked at the body.

“Was he like this?” he asked, “when you found him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the officer.

“He has a knife in his hand.”

Peter bent down and looked at the thin-bladed weapon, tightly clenched in the dead man’s hand.

“What’s that, sir?” said Tomms, pointing to the other hand. “It looks like a paper there.”

The card in Remington’s half-clenched fist was loosely held, and the detective gently withdrew it. It was a visiting-card, and the name inscribed thereon was, “Mr. Jamieson Steele, Civil Engineer.” Peter Dawes whistled, and then walked across to the safe.

“That’s queer,” he said, and swung the door of the safe closed in the hope of finding something behind it.

He found something, but not what he had expected. In the centre of the green steel door was a small label. It was a label bearing the mark of Four Square Jane.

VI

Four Square Jane had committed a murder! It was incredible. All Peter Dawes’ fine theories went by the board in that discovery. This was not the work of a society crook; it was not the work of a criminal philanthropist; there was evidence here of the most cold-blooded murder that it had been his business to investigate.

Summoned from his bed at three o’clock in the morning, Lord Claythorpe came to his office a greatly distressed man. He was shivering from sheer terror when he told the story of the securities which had been in the safe when he had left the office.

“And I was warned. I was warned!” he cried. “Poor Remington himself begged me not to do it. What a fool I am!”

“What was Remington doing here?” asked Peter.

The body of the murdered man had long since been removed to the mortuary, and only the dark stain on the floor spoke eloquently of tragedy.

“I haven’t any idea,” said his lordship. “I simply dare not let myself think. Poor fellow! It is a tragedy, an appalling tragedy!”

“I know all about that,” said Peter drily. “Murders usually are. But what was Remington doing in this office between eleven at night and one o’clock in the morning?”

Lord Claythorpe shook his head.