The Hampstead Mystery - John R. Watson (best management books of all time txt) 📗

Gabrielle's voice vibrated with indignation as she concluded, and Crewe regarded her closely. He decided that her affection for Mrs. Holymead was not simulated, and that it would be best to handle her from that point of view.

"I am sorry," he said coldly, "but I do not see how I can help you."

"Monsieur," said the Frenchwoman, clasping her hands, "I entreat you not to say so. It would be so easy for you to help—not me, but Madame."

"How?"

"You know this police agent. You also are a police agent, though so much greater. Therefore you whisper just one little word in the ear of your friend the police agent, and he will not bother Madame Holymead again. I think you could do this. And if you need money to give to the police agent, why, I have brought some." She fumbled nervously at her hand-bag.

"Stay," said Crewe. "What you ask is impossible. I have nothing whatever to do with Scotland Yard. I could not interfere in their inquiries, even if I wished to. They would only laugh at me."

Gabrielle's dark eyes showed her disappointment, but she made one more effort to gain her end. She leant nearer to Crewe, and laid a persuasive hand on his arm.

"If you would only make the effort," she said coaxingly, "my beautiful
Madame Holymead would be for ever grateful."

"Mademoiselle, once more I repeat that what you ask is impossible," returned Crewe decisively. "I repeat, I cannot see why Mrs. Holymead should object to answering a few questions the police wish to ask her. She is too sensitive about such a trifle."

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recognition of the fact that the man in front of her was too shrewd to be deceived by subterfuge.

"There is another reason, monsieur," she whispered.

"You had better tell it to me."

"If you had been a woman you would have guessed. The great judge who was killed was in his spare moments what you call a gallant—he did love my sex. In France this would not matter, but in England they think much of it—so very much. Madame Holymead is frightened for fear the least breath of scandal should attach to her name, if the world knew that the police agent had visited her house on such an errand. Madame is innocent—it is not necessary to assure you of that; but the prudish dames of England are censorious."

"The Scotland Yard people are not likely to disclose anything about it," said Crewe.

"That may be so, but these things come out," retorted Gabrielle.

"Monsieur," she added, after a pause, and speaking in a low tone, "I know that you can do much—very much—if you will, and can stop Madame Holymead from being worried. Would you do so if you were told who the murderer was—I mean he who did really kill the great judge?" Crewe was genuinely surprised, but his control over his features was so complete that he did not betray it. "Do you know who Sir Horace Fewbanks's murderer is?" he asked, in quiet even tones. "Monsieur, I do. I will tell you the whole story in secret—how do you say?—in confidence, if you promise me you will help Madame Holymead as I have asked you." "I cannot enter into a bargain like that," rejoined Crewe. "I do not know whether Mrs. Holymead may not be implicated—concerned—in what you say."

"Monsieur, she is not!" flashed Gabrielle indignantly. "She knows nothing about it. What I have to tell you concerns myself alone."

"In that case," rejoined Crewe, "I think you had better speak to me frankly and freely, and if I can I will help you."

"You are perhaps right," she replied. "I will tell you everything, provided you give me your word of honour that you will not inform the police of what I will tell you."

"If you bind me to that promise I do not see how I can help you in the direction you indicate," said Crewe, after a moment's thought. "If the police are asked to abandon their inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, they will naturally wish to know the reason."

"You are quite right," said Gabrielle. "I did not think of that. But if I tell you everything, and you have to tell the police agents so as to help Madame, will you promise that the police agents do not come and arrest me?"

"Provided you have not committed murder or been in any way accessory to it, I think I can promise you that," rejoined Crewe.

"Monsieur, I do not understand you, but I can almost divine your meaning. Your promise is what you call a guarded one. Nevertheless, I like your face, and I will trust you."

Gabrielle relapsed into silence for some moments, looking at Crewe earnestly.

"Monsieur," she said at length, "it is a terrible story I have to relate, and it is difficult for me to tell a stranger what I know. Nevertheless, I will begin. I knew the great judge well."

"You knew Sir Horace Fewbanks?" exclaimed Crewe.

"He was—my lover, monsieur."

She brought the last two words out defiantly, with a quick glance at Crewe to see how he took the avowal. She seemed to find something reassuring in his answering glance, and she continued, in more even tones:

"I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holymead when I came to London to visit her. I admired Sir Horace when I saw him—often he used to call and dine, for he was the friend of Monsieur Holymead. But Madame told me that the great judge was what in England you call a lover of the ladies—that he was dangerous—so I must be careful of him. I used to look at him when he called, and thought he was handsome in the English way, and sometimes he looked at me when he was unobserved, and smiled at me. But Madame did not like me looking at him; she said I was foolish; she warned me to be careful."

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders expressively.

"Of what use was Madame's warning? It did but make me wish to know more of this great lover of my sex. He saw that, and made the opportunity, and made love to me. He was so ardent, so fervid a lover that I was conquered.

"After we had been lovers I told him my secret—that I was married. Pierre Simon, my husband, was a bad man, and so I left him. But Madame must not know that I was married, for that is my secret. It does not do to tell everything—besides, it would have distressed her.

"Monsieur, I was happy with my lover, the great judge. He was charming. He had that charm of manner which you English lack. Faithful? I do not know. Often we were together, and often we wrote letters when to meet was impossible. He kept my letters—they amused him so, he said—they were so French, so piquant, so different to English ladies' letters. Alas, monsieur, there had been others—many others there must have been, for he understood my sex so well.

"One afternoon I was out for a walk looking in the great shops in Regent Street, when I felt a hand placed on my shoulder, and looking round I saw Pierre, my husband. He was pleased at the meeting, but I was not pleased. He took me to a café where we could talk. It was what he always did talk about—money, money, money. He always wanted money. He said I must find him some, and when I told him I had none he said I must find some way of getting it, or he would come to the house and expose my secret. I walked away out of the café and left him there. But I soon saw him again, and again. He followed me and talked to me against my will.

"Monsieur, I was very much distressed, and for a long time I tried to think of a way to get rid of Pierre, for I was afraid that he would come to the house and tell Madame Holymead I was married. Then I thought of the great judge, my lover. He would know how to send Pierre away, for Pierre would be frightened of him. But Sir Horace was in Scotland, shooting the poor birds. But I wrote to him and asked him for my sake to come at once, because I was in distress and needed help. Monsieur, he came—but he came to his death. He sent me a letter to meet him at Riversbrook at half-past ten o'clock. He was sorry it was so late, but he thought it would be safer not to come to the house till after dark in the long summer evening, for people were so censorious. I was to tell Madame Holymead that I was going to the theatre with a friend.

"I was so pleased to think that I would get rid of Pierre, that on the morning, when he stopped me to ask me again about the money, I showed him the letter of the great judge, and told him I would make the judge put him in prison if he did not go away and leave me alone. 'He is your lover,' said Pierre. 'I will kill him.' But I laughed, for I knew Pierre did not care if I had many lovers. I said to him, 'Pierre, you would extort the money'—blackmail, the English call it, do they not, Monsieur Crewe?—'but you would not kill. Sir Horace is not afraid of you. If you go near him he would have you taken off to gaol,' But Pierre he was deep in thought. Several times he said, 'I want money,' Each time I said to him, 'Then you must work for it,' 'That is no way to get money,' he answered. 'This great judge, he has much money, is it not so?'

"I left him, monsieur, thinking of money. But I did not know how bad his thoughts were. I returned home, and I told Madame Holymead I would go to the theatre that night. I left the house at eight o'clock, and after walking along Piccadilly and Regent Street took the train to Hampstead. Then I walked up to the house of Sir Horace so as not to be too early. The gate was open and I thought that strange, but I had no thought of murder. As I walked up the garden I heard a shot—two shots—and then a cry, and the sound of something falling on the floor. The door of the house was open, and the light was burning in the hall. Upstairs I heard the noise of footsteps—quick footsteps—and then I heard them coming down the staircase. I was afraid, and I hid myself behind the curtains in the hall. The footsteps came down, and nearer and nearer, and when they passed me I looked out to see. Monsieur, it was Pierre. I called to him softly, 'Pierre, Pierre!' He looked round, and his face, it was so different—so dreadful. He did not know my voice, and he ran away from me with a cry.

"Monsieur, my heart is a brave one. I have not what you call nerves, but when I knew I was alone in the great house with I knew not what, a great fear clutched me. I stood still in the hall with my eyes fixed on the stairs above. At first all was silent, then I heard a dreadful sound—a groan. I wanted to run away then, monsieur, but the good God commanded me to go up and into the room, where a fellow creature needed me. I went upstairs, and along to the door of a room which was half open. I pushed it wide open and went in.

"Mon Dieu! the judge was alone there, dying. Pierre had shot him. He lay along the floor, gasping, groaning, and the blood dripping from his breast. When I saw this I ran forward and took his poor head on my knee, and tried to stop the blood with my handkerchief. But as I did this the judge groaned once more. He knew me not, though I called him by name. In terrible agony he writhed his head off my breast. His hand clutched at the hole in his breast, closing on my handkerchief. And so he died.

"Monsieur, strange it may seem, but I do assure you that I became calm again when he was dead. I rose to my feet and looked round me in the room. On the