Chapter V

“But the murder?” I asked eagerly, for the man in the corner had paused, intent upon the manufacture of innumerable knots in a long piece of string.

“Ah, yes, the murder, of course,” he replied with a chuckle, “the second mystery in this extraordinary case. Well, of course, whatever the identity of the deceased really was, there was no doubt in the minds of the police that Harold Le Cheminant had murdered him. To him, at any rate, the Collins family were unknown; he only knew the man who had supplanted him in his uncle’s affections, and snatched a rich inheritance away from him. The charge brought against him at the Westminster Court was also one of the greatest sensations of this truly remarkable case.

“It looked, indeed, as if the unfortunate young man had committed a crime which was as appalling as it was useless. Instead of murdering the impostor—if impostor he was—how much more simple it would have been to have tried to unmask him. But, strange to say, this he never seems to have done, at any rate as far as the public knew.

“But here again mystery stepped in. When brought before the magistrate, Harold Le Cheminant was able to refute the terrible charge brought against him by the simple means of a complete _alibi_. After the stormy episode at the Junior Grosvenor Club he had gone to his own club in Pall Mall, and fortunately for him, did not leave it until twenty minutes past eleven, some few minutes _after_ the two men in evening dress got into the hansom in Shaftesbury Avenue.

“But for this lucky fact, for which he had one or two witnesses, it might have fared ill with him, for feeling unduly excited, he walked all the way home afterwards; and had he left his club earlier, he might have found it difficult to account for his time. As it was, he was, of course, discharged.

“But one more strange fact came out during the course of the magisterial investigation, and that was that Harold Le Cheminant, on the very day preceding the murder, had booked a passage for St. Vincent. He admitted in court that he meant to conduct certain investigations there, with regard to the identity of the supposed heir to the Tremarn peerage.

“And thus the curtain came down on the last act of that extraordinary drama, leaving two great mysteries unsolved: the real identity of the murdered man, and that of the man who killed him. Some people still persist in thinking it was Harold Le Cheminant. Well, we may easily dismiss _that_ supposition. Harold had decided to investigate the matter for himself; he was on his way to St. Vincent.

“Surely common-sense would assert that, having gone so far, he would assure himself first, whether the man was an impostor or not, before he resorted to crime, in order to rid himself of him. Moreover, the witnesses who saw him leave his own club at twenty minutes past eleven were quite independent and very emphatic.

“Another theory is that the Collins’ gang tried to blackmail Philip Le Cheminant or William Collins whichever we like to call him—and that it was one of them who murdered him out of spite, when he refused to submit to the blackmailing process.

“Against that theory, however, there are two unanswerable arguments—firstly, the weapon used, which certainly was not one that would commend itself to the average British middle-class man on murder intent—a razor or knife would be more in his line; secondly, there is no doubt whatever that the murderer wore evening dress and an opera hat, a costume not likely to have been worn by any member of the Collins’ family, or their friends. We may, therefore, dismiss that theory also with equal certainty.”

And he surveyed placidly the row of fine knots in his bit of string.

“But then, according to you, who was the man in evening dress, and who but Harold Le Cheminant had any interest in getting rid of the claimant?” I asked at last.

“Who, indeed?” he replied with a chuckle “who but the man who was as wax in the hands of that impostor.”

“Whom do you mean?” I gasped.

“Let us take things from the beginning,” he said, with ever-growing excitement, “and take the one thing which is absolutely beyond dispute, and that is the authenticity of the _papers_—the marriage certificate of Lucie Legrand, etc.—as against the authenticity of the _man_. Let us admit that the real Philip Le Cheminant was a refugee at St. Vincent, that he found out about his parentage and determined to go to England. He writes to his uncle, then sails for Europe, lands at Havre, and arrives in Paris.”

“Why, Paris?” I asked.

“Because you, like the police and like the public, have persistently shut your eyes to an event which, to my mind has bearing upon the whole of this mysterious case, and that is the original murder committed in Paris a year ago, also in a cab, also with a stiletto—which that time was _not_ found—in fact, in the self-same manner as this murder a week ago.

“Well, that crime was never brought home to its perpetrator any more than this one will be. But my contention is, that the man who committed that murder a year ago, repeated this crime last week—that the man who was murdered in Paris was the real Philip Le Cheminant, whilst the man who was murdered in London was some friend to whom he had confided his story, and probably his papers, and who then hit upon the bold plan of assuming the personality of the Martinique creole, heir to an English peerage.”

“But what in the world makes you imagine such a preposterous thing?” I gasped.

“One tiny unanswerable fact,” he replied quietly. “William Collins, the impostor, when he came to London, called upon a solicitor, and deposited with him the valuable papers, _after that_ he obtained his interview with Lord Tremarn. Then mark what happens. Without any question, immediately after that interview, and, therefore, without even having seen the papers of identification, Lord Tremarn accepts the claimant as his newly-found nephew.

“And why?

“Only because that claimant has a tremendous hold over the Earl, which makes the old man as wax in his hands, and it is only logical to conclude that that hold was none other than that Lord Tremarn had met his real nephew in Paris, and had killed him, sooner than to see him supplant his beloved heir, Harold.

“I followed up the subsequent history of that Paris crime, and found that the Paris police had never established the identity of the murdered man. Being a stranger, and moneyless, he had apparently lodged in one of those innumerable ill-famed little hotels that abound in Paris, the proprietors of which have very good cause to shun the police, and therefore would not even venture so far as to go and identify the body when it lay in the Morgue.

“But William Collins knew who the murdered man was; no doubt he lodged at the same hotel, and could lay his hands on the all-important papers. I imagine that the two young men originally met in St. Vincent, or perhaps on board ship. He assumed the personality of the deceased, crossed over to England, and confronted Lord Tremarn with the threat to bring the murder home to him if he ventured to dispute his claim.

“Think of it all, and you will see that I am right. When Lord Tremarn first heard from his brother Arthur’s son, he went to Paris in order to assure himself of the validity of his claim. Seeing that there was no doubt of that, he assumed a friendly attitude towards the young man, and one evening took him out for a drive in a cab and murdered him on the way.

“Then came Nemesis in the shape of William Collins, whom he dared not denounce, lest his crime be brought home to him. How could he come forward and say: ‘I know that this man is an impostor, as I happened to have murdered my nephew myself’?

“No; he preferred to temporise, and bide his time until, perhaps, chance would give him his opportunity. It took a year in coming. The yoke had become too heavy. ‘It must be he or I!’ he said to himself that very night. Apparently he was on the best of terms with his tormentor, but in his heart of hearts he had always meant to be even with him at the last.

“Everything favoured him; the foggy night, even the dispute between Harold and the impostor at the club. Can you not picture him meeting William Collins outside the theatre, hearing from him the story of the quarrel, and then saying, ‘Come with me to Harold’s; I’ll soon make the young jackanapes apologise to you’?

“Mind you, a year had passed by since the original crime. William Collins, no doubt, never thought he had anything to fear from the old man. He got into the cab with him, and thus this remarkable story has closed, and Harold Le Cheminant is once more heir to the Earldom of Tremarn.

“Think it all over, and bear in mind that Lord Tremarn _never_ made the slightest attempt to prove the rights or wrongs of the impostor’s claim. On this base your own conclusions, and then see if they do not inevitably lead you to admit mine as the only possible solution of this double mystery.”

He was gone, leaving me bewildered and amazed, staring at my _Daily Telegraph_, where, side by side with a long recapitulation of the mysterious claimant of the Earldom there was the following brief announcement:

“We regret to say that the condition of Lord Tremarn is decidedly worse to-day, and that but little hope is entertained of his recovery. Mr. Harold Le Cheminant has been his uncle’s constant and devoted companion during the noble Earl’s illness.”

VIII. The Fate of the _Artemis_