"Yes, why?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.
"Oh, nothing. Only--well, Colchester is a curious place for anyone to live who knows the truth about an affair in Kensington," was my reply, for fortunately I quickly recovered myself.
"Why not Colchester as well as Clapham--eh?"
"Yes, of course," I laughed. "But, tell me, what does the woman say?"
"She simply declares that she can elucidate the mystery and give us the correct clue--even bring evidence if required--as to the actual person who committed the crime, if we, on our part, will pay for the information."
"And what shall you do?" I asked eagerly.
"I don"t exactly know. The letter only arrived this morning. To-morrow the Council of Seven will decide what action we take."
"Does the woman give her name?" I asked with affected carelessness.
"No. She only gives the name of "G. Payne," and the address as "The G.P.O., London." She"s evidently a rather cute person."
"G. Payne"--the woman Petre without a doubt.
I recollected her telegram asking me to meet her. She had said that something had "happened," and she had urged me to see her as soon as possible. Was it because I had not replied that she had penned that anonymous letter to the police?
The letter bore the Colchester post-mark, and she, I knew, lived at Melbourne House in that town.
"I suppose you will get into communication with her," I exclaimed presently.
"Of course. Any line of action in the elucidation of the mystery is worth trying. But what I cannot quite understand is, why she requires blood-money," remarked the detective as we strolled together in the arcaded entrance to the Underground Station at High Street, Kensington.
"I always look askance at such letters. We receive many of them at the Yard. Not a single murder mystery comes before us, but we receive letters from cranks and others offering to point out the guilty person."
"But may not the writers of such letters be endeavouring to fasten guilt upon perfectly innocent persons against whom they have spite?" I suggested.
"Ah! That"s just it, Mr. Royle," exclaimed my companion gravely. "Yet it is so terribly difficult to discriminate, and I fear we often, in our hesitation, place aside letters, the writers of which could really give valuable information."
"But in this case, what are your natural inclinations?" I asked. "I know that you possess a curious, almost unique, intuition as to what is fact and what is fiction. What is, may I term it, your private opinion?"
He halted against the long shop-windows of Derry & Toms, and paused for several minutes.
"Well," he said at last in a deeply earnest tone, "I tell you frankly, Mr. Royle, what I believe. First, I don"t think that the man Kemsley, although an impostor, was the actual a.s.sa.s.sin."
"Why?" I gasped.
"Well--I"ve very carefully studied the whole problem. I"ve looked at it from every point of view," he said. "I confess the one fact puzzles me, that this man Kemsley could live so long in London and pose as the dead Sir Digby if he were not the actual man himself, has amazed me! In his position as Sir Digby, the great engineer, he must have met in society many persons who knew him. We have evidence that he constantly moved in the best circles in Mayfair, and apparently without the slightest compunction. Yet, in contradiction, we have the remarkable fact that the real Sir Digby died in South America in very mysterious and tragic circ.u.mstances."
I saw that a problem was presented to Inspector Edwards which sorely puzzled him, as it certainly did myself.
"Well," I asked after a pause, and then with some trepidation put the question, "what do you intend doing?"
"Doing!" he echoed. "There is but one course to pursue. We must get in touch with this woman who says she knows the truth, and obtain what information we can from her. Perhaps she can reveal the ident.i.ty of the woman whose fingers touched that gla.s.s-topped table in the room where the crime was committed. If so, that will tell us a great deal, Mr.
Royle." Then, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tapping it, he added, "Do you know, I"ve been wondering of late how it is that you got those finger-prints which so exactly corresponded with the ones which we secured in the flat. How did you obtain them?"
His question non-plussed me.
"I had a suspicion," I replied in a faltering voice, "and I tried to corroborate it."
"But you have corroborated it," he declared. "Why, Mr. Royle, those prints you brought to the Yard are a most important clue. Where did you get them?"
I was silent for a moment, jostled by the crowd of pa.s.sers-by.
"Well," I said with a faint smile, realising what a grave mistake I had made in inculpating my well-beloved, "I simply made some experiments as an amateur in solving the mystery."
"Yes, but those prints were the same as those we got from the flat.
Whence did they come?"
"I obtained them upon my own initiative," I replied, with a forced laugh.
"But you must surely tell me, Mr. Royle," he urged quickly. "It"s a most important point."
"No," I replied. "I"m not a detective, remember. I simply put to the test a suspicion I have entertained."
"Suspicion of what?"
"Whether my theory was correct or not."
"Whatever theory you hold, Mr. Royle, the truth remains the same. I truly believe," he said, looking hard at me, "namely that the unknown victim was struck down by the hand which imprinted the marks you brought to me--a woman"s hand. And if I am not mistaken, sir--you know the ident.i.ty of the guilty woman!"
CHAPTER XVII.
CONCERNS MRS. PETRE.
Days, weeks, pa.s.sed, but I could obtain no further clue. The month of March lengthened into April, but we were as far as ever from a solution of the mystery.
Since my return from Brussels I had, of course seen Phrida many, many times, and though I had never reverted again to the painful subject, yet her manner and bearing showed only too plainly that she existed in constant dread!
Her face had become thin and haggard, with dark rings around her eyes and upon it was a wild, hunted expression, which she strove to disguise, but in vain.
She now treated me with a strange, cold indifference, so unlike her real self, while her att.i.tude was one of constant attention and strained alertness.
The woman Petre had apparently not been approached by Scotland Yard, therefore as the days went by I became more and more anxious to see her, to speak with her--and, if necessary, to come to terms with her.
Therefore, without a word to anyone, I one evening caught the six o"clock train from Liverpool Street, and before eight was eating my dinner in the big upstairs room of The Cups Hotel, while the hall-porter was endeavouring to discover for me the whereabouts of Melbourne House.
I had nearly finished my meal when the uniformed servant entered, cap in hand, saying:
"I"ve found, sir, that the house you"ve been inquiring for is out on the road to Marks Tey, about a mile. An old lady named Miss Morgan lived there for many years, but she died last autumn, and the place has, they say, been let furnished to a lady--a Mrs. Petre. Is that the lady you are trying to find?"