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THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY





THE
H A M P S T E A D
MYSTERY
BY WATson & REES
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
MCMXVI
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PHBLIC LIBRARY
31720.31%
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# T. Li-N FOUNDATIONS
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CopyRIGHT, 1916, By
JOHN LANE COMPANY
Press of
J. J. Little & Ives Co.
New York, U.S.A.


s
;
*
Y.
TO
ARTHUR BLACK
IN MEMORY OF OLD TIMES





THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY





THE HAMPSTEAD
MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
“HALlo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard.
Tell Inspector Seldon I want him, and be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I'll put you through to him
at once.”
Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard,
waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited
he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the
desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet
from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered
with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed
at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the
writer. But the letters formed words, and the words
read:
SIR HORACE FEWBNWRS
WAS MURDER ED LAST Night-
W H0 D ſD IT IDONTHNew So IT
IS N 0 US E TRyſws To FIN p
OLLT who I A M
9


IO THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
YOU WI L L fl ND HIS DEAD
130 DY IN THE L18 RAY AT
| TK1 VERS BR-00 K.
H. E. NAS S Hot T HRough
THE HE / PT
“Hallo!”
“Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?”
“Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything
of a murder out your way?”
“Can't say that I have. Have you?”
“Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Few-
banks has been murdered—shot.” -
“Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot—murdered l’ Inspector
Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low
whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then
he added, after a moment's reflection, “There must be
some mistake. He is away.”
“Away where?”
“In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth–when
the shooting season opened.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask
us to keep an eye on his house while he was away.”
There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the
telephone. Inspector Chippenfield was evidently think-
ing hard.
“We may have been hoaxed,” he said at length. “But
I have been ringing up his house and can get no answer.
You had better send up a couple of men there at once
—better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may
require tactful handling. Let me know, and I'll come
out immediately if there is anything wrong. Stay! How
long will it take you to get up to the house?”
“Not more than fifteen minutes—in a taxi.”
“Well, I'll ring you up at the house in half an hour.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY II
Should our information be correct see that everything
is left exactly as you find it till I arrive.”
Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his tele-
phone, bundled up the papers scattered on his desk,
closed it, and stepped out of his office into the next
room.
“Anyone about?” he hurriedly asked the sergeant who
was making entries in the charge-book.
“Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago.”
“Get him at once and call a taxi. Scotland Yard's rung
through to say they've received a report that Sir Horace
Fewbanks has been murdered.”
“Murdered?” echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen
interest. “Who told Scotland Yard that?”
“I don't know. Who was on that beat last night?”
“Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own
house? I thought he was in Scotland.”
“So did I, but he may have returned—ah, here's the
taxi.”
Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for
the appearance of a cab from the rank round the
corner in response to the shrill blast which the sergeant
had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the
door of the station leading into the yard and sharply
called:
“Flack!”
In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic,
came running up the steps from the basement, which
was used as a gymnasium.
“Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as
you can. He is in a devil of a hurry.”
Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when
Flack appeared. He had been impatiently drumming
his fingers on the door of the cab.
“Jump in, man,” he said angrily. “What has kept you
all this time?”
Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been
running and was out of breath, but he made no reply


I2 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon turned to him
and remarked severely:
“Why didn't you let me know that Sir Horace Few-
banks had returned from Scotland?”
Flack looked astonished.
“But he hasn't returned, sir,” he said. “He’s away
for a month at least,” he ventured to add.
“Who told you that?”
“The housemaid at Riversbrook—before he went
away.”
“H'm.” The inspector's next question contained a
moral rebuke rather than an official one. “You're a
married man, Flack?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So the housemaid told you he was going away for
a month. Well, she ought to know. When did she
tell you?”
“A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the
servants except the butler were going down to Dellmere
the next day—that is Sir Horace's country place—and
that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting
and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the
shooting season was over.”
“And are you sure he hasn't returned?”
“Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday
morning, and he told me that his master was sure
to be in Scotland for at least a month longer.”
“It's very strange,” muttered the inspector, half to
himself. “It will be a deuced awkward situation to face
if Scotland Yard has been hoaxed.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong
about Sir Horace?”
“Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he
has been murdered.”
Flack's surprise was so great that it lifted the lid
of official humility which habitually covered his natural
feelings.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I3
“Murdered 1" he exclaimed. “Sir Horace Fewbanks
murdered? You don't say so!”
“But I do say so. I've just said so,” retorted In-
spector Seldon irritably. He was angry at the fact that
the information, whether true or false, had gone direct
to Scotland Yard instead of reaching him first.
“When was he murdered, sir?” asked Flack.
“Last night—when you were on that beat.”
Flack paled at this remark.
“Last night, sir?” he cried.
“Don’t repeat my words like a parrot,” ejaculated
the inspector peevishly. “Didn't you notice anything
suspicious when you were along there?”
“No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?”
“His dead body is supposed to be lying there now
in the library,” said Inspector Seldon. “How Scotland
Yard got wind of it is more than I know. We ought
to have heard of it before them. How many times did
you go along there last night?”
“Twice, sir. About eleven o'clock, and then about
three.”
“And there was nothing suspicious—you saw no
one?”
“I saw Mr. Roberts and his lady coming home from
the theatre. But he lives at the other end of Tanton
Gardens. And I saw the housemaid at Mr. Fielding's
come out to the pillar-box. That was a few minutes
after eleven. I didn't see anybody at all the second time.”
“Nobody at the judge's place—no taxi, or anything
like that?”
“No, sir.”
The taxi-cab turned swiftly into the shady avenue of
Tanton Gardens, where Sir Horace Fewbanks lived, and
in a few moments pulled up outside of Riversbrook.
The house stood a long way back from the road in its
own grounds. Inspector Seldon and Flack passed rapidly
through the grounds and reached the front door of the
mansion. There was nobody about; the place seemed


I4 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
deserted, and the blinds were down on the ground-floor
windows. Inspector Seldon knocked loudly at the front
door with the big, old-fashioned brass knocker, and rang
the bell. He listened intently for a response, but no
sound followed except the sharp note of the electric
bell as Flack rang it again while Inspector Seldon bent
down with his ear at the keyhole. Then the inspector
stepped back and regarded the house keenly for a
moment Or two.
“Put your finger on that bell and keep on ringing it,
Flack,” he said suddenly. “I see that some of the
blinds are down, but there's one on the first floor which
is partly up. It looks as though the house had been
shut up and somebody had come back unexpectedly.”
“Perhaps it's Hill, the butler,” said Flack.
“If he's inside he ought to answer the bell. But keep
on ringing while I knock again.”
The heavy brass knocker again reverberated on the
thick oak door, and Inspector Seldon placed his ear
against the keyhole to ascertain if any sound was to be
heard.
“Take your finger off that bell, Flack,” he commanded.
“I cannot hear whether anybody is coming or not.”
He remained in a listening attitude for half a minute
and then plied the knocker again. Again he listened for
footsteps within the house. “Ring again, Flack. Keep
on ringing while I go round the house to see if there is
any way I can get in. I may have to break a window.
Don't move from here.”
Inspector Seldon went quickly round the side of the
house, trying the windows as he went. Towards the
rear of the house, on the west side, he came across a
curious abutment of masonry jutting out squarely from
the wall. On the other side of this abutment, which
gave the house something of an unfinished appearance,
were three French windows close together. The blinds
of these windows were closely drawn, but the inspec-
tor's keen eye detected that one of the catches had been


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I5
broken, and there were marks of some instrument on the
outside woodwork.
“This looks like business,” he muttered.
He pulled open the window, and walked into the room.
The light of an afternoon sun showed him that the apart-
ment was a breakfast room, well and solidly furnished in
an old-fashioned way, with most of the furniture in cov-
ers, as though the occupants of the house were away. The
daylight penetrated to the door at the far end of the
room. It was wide open, and revealed an empty pas-
sage. Inspector Seldon walked into the passage. The
drawn blinds made the passage seem quite dark after
the bright August sunshine outside, but he produced an
electric torch, and by its light he saw that the passage
ran into the main hall.
His footsteps echoed in the empty house. The electric
bell rang continuously as Flack pressed it outside. In-
spector Seldon walked along the passage to the hall,
flashing his torch into each room he passed. He saw
nothing, and went to the front door to admit Flack.
“That is enough of that noise, Flack,” he said. “Come
inside and help me search the house above. It's empty
on this floor so far as I’ve been over it. If you find
anything call me, and mind you do not touch anything.
Where did you say the library was?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Well, look about you on the ground floor while I
go upstairs. Call me if you hear anything.”
Inspector Seldon mounted the stairs swiftly in order to
continue his search.
The staircase was a wide one, with broad shallow
steps, thickly carpeted, and a handsome carved ma-
hogany baluster. The inspector, flashing his torch as he
ran up, saw a small electric light niche in the wall before
he reached the first landing. The catch of the light was
underneath, and Inspector Seldon turned it on. The light
revealed that the stairs swept round at that point to the
landing of the first floor, which was screened from view


I6 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
by heavy velvet hangings, partly caught back by the
bent arm of a marble figure of Diana, which faced down-
stairs, with its other arm upraised and about to launch
a hunting spear. By this graceful device the curtains
were drawn back sufficiently to give access to the corri-
dor on the first floor.
Inspector Seldon looked closely at the figure and the
hangings. Something strange about the former arrested
his eye. It was standing awry on its pedestal—was,
indeed, almost toppling over. He looked up and saw
that one of the curtains supported by the arm hung
loosely from one of the curtain rings. It was as though
some violent hand had torn at the curtain in passing,
almost dragging it from the pole and precipitating the
figure down the stairs. Immediately beyond the landing,
in the corridor, was a door on the right, flung wide open.
The inspector entered the room with the open door.
It was a large room forming part of the front of the
house—a lofty large room, partly lighted by the half-
drawn blind of one of the windows. One side was lined
with bookshelves. In the corner of the room farthest
from the door, was a roll-top desk, which was open. In
the centre of the room was a table, and a huddled up
figure was lying beside it, in a dark pool of blood which
had oozed into the carpet.
The inspector stepped quickly back to the landing.
“Flack!” he called, and unconsciously his voice dropped
to a sharp whisper in the presence of death. “Flack, come
here.”
When Flack reached the door of the library he saw
his chief kneeling beside the prostrate body of a dead
man. The body lay clear of the table, near the foot
of an arm-chair. Instinctively Flack walked on tip-
toe to his chief.
“Is he dead, sir?” he asked.
“Cold and stiff,” replied the inspector, in a hushed
voice. “He’s been dead for hours.”
Flack noted that the body was fully dressed, and he


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 17
saw a dark stain above the breast where the blood had
welled forth and soaked the dead man's clothes and
formed a pool on the carpet beside him.
Inspector Seldon opened the dead man's clothes. Over
his heart he found the wound from which the blood
had flowed.
“There it is, Flack,” he said, touching the wound lightly
with his finger. “It doesn't take a big wound to kill a
man.”
As he spoke the sharp ring of a telephone bell from
downstairs reached them.
“That's Inspector Chippenfield,” said Inspector Sel-
don, rising to his feet. “Stay here, Flack, till I go and
speak to him.”


CHAPTER II
“Six-THIRTY edition: High Court Judge murdered 1"
It was not quite 5 p.m., but the enterprising section
of the London evening newspapers had their 6.30 edi-
tions on sale in the streets. To such a pitch had the
policy of giving the public what it wants been elevated
that the halfpenny newspapers were able to give the
people of London the news each afternoon a full ninety
minutes before the edition was supposed to have left
the press. The time of the edition was boldly printed
in the top right-hand corner of each paper as a guar-
antee of enterprise if not of good faith. On practical
enterprise of this kind does journalism forge ahead.
Some people who have been bred up in a conservative
atmosphere sneer at such journalistic enterprise. They
affect to regard as unreliable the up-to-date news con-
tained in newspapers which are unable to tell the truth
about the hands of the clock.
From the cries of the news-boys and from the an-
nouncements on the newspaper bills which they dis-
played, it was assumed by those with a greedy appetite
for sensations that a judge of the High Court had been
murdered on the bench. Such an appetite easily swal-
lowed the difficulty created by the fact that the Law
Courts had been closed for the long vacation. In imagi-
nation they saw a dramatic scene in court—the disap-
pointed demented desperate litigant suddenly drawing a
revolver and with unerring aim shooting the judge
through the brain before the deadly weapon could be
wrenched from his hands. But though the sensation
created by the murder of a judge of the High Court was
destined to grow and to be fed by unexpected develop-
ments, the changing phases of which monopolised public
18


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 19
attention throughout England on successive occasions,
there was little in the evening papers to satisfy the appe-
tite for sensation. In journalistic vernacular “they were
late in getting on to it,” and therefore their reference to
the crime occupied only a few lines in the “stop press
news,” beneath some late horse-racing results. The Eve-
ning Courier, which was first in the streets with the news,
made its announcement of the crime in the following
brief paragraph:
“The dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the
distinguished High Court judge, was found by the
police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton Gardens,
Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through
the heart. The police have no doubt that he was
murdered.”
But the morning papers of the following day did
full justice to the sensation. It was the month of
August when Parliament is “up,” the Law Courts closed
for the long vacation, and when everybody who is any-
body is out of London for the summer holidays. News
was scarce and the papers vied with one another in mak-
ing the utmost of the murder of a High Court judge.
Each of the morning papers sent out a man to Hamp-
stead soon after the news of the crime reached their
offices in the afternoon, and some of the more enter-
prising sent two or three men. Scotland Yard and
Riversbrook were visited by a succession of pressmen
representing the London dailies, the provincial press,
and the news agencies.
The two points on which the newspaper accounts of
the tragedy laid stress were the mysterious letter which
had been sent to Scotland Yard stating that Sir Horace
Fewbanks had been murdered, and the mystery sur-
rounding the sudden return of Sir Horace from Scot-
land to his town house. On the first point there was
room for much varied speculation. Why was informa-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 2I
whether any telegram had been received by him previous
to his departure.
The fact that one of the windows on the ground
floor of Riversbrook had been found open was regarded
as evidence that the murderer had broken into the house.
Imprints of footsteps had been found in the ground
outside the window, and the police had taken several
casts of these; but whether the man who had broken
into the house with the intention of committing burglary
or murder was a matter on which speculation differed.
If the murderer was a criminal who had broken into
the house with the intention of committing a burglary,
there could be no connection between the return of Sir
Horace Fewbanks from Scotland and his murder. The
burglary had probably been arranged in the belief that
the house was empty, Sir Horace having sent the servants
away to his country house in Dellmere a week before.
But if the murderer was a burglar he had stolen nothing
and had not even collected any articles for removal.
The only thing that was known to be missing was the
dead man's pocket-book, but there was nothing to prove
that the murderer had stolen it. It was quite possible
that it had been lost or mislaid by Sir Horace; it was
even possible that it had been stolen from him in the
train during his journey from Scotland.
It might be that while prowling through the rooms
after breaking into the house, and before he had col-
lected any goods for removal, the burglar had come
unexpectedly on Sir Horace, and after shooting him
had fled from the house. Only as a last resort to pre-
vent capture did burglars commit murder. Had Sir
Horace been shot while attempting to seize the intruder?
The position in which the body was found did not
support that theory. Two shots had been fired, the
first of which had missed its victim, and entered the
wall of the library. Evidently the murdered man had
been hit by the second while attempting to leave the
room. It was ingeniously suggested by the Daily Record


22 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
that the murderer was a criminal who knew Sir Horace,
and was known to him as a man who had been before
him at Old Bailey. This would account for Sir Horace
being ruthlessly shot down without having made any
attempt to seize the intruder. The burglar would have
felt on seeing Sir Horace in the room that he was
identified, and that the only way of escaping ultimate
arrest by the police was to kill the man who could put
the police on his track. Mr. Justice Fewbanks had had
the reputation of being a somewhat severe judge, and it
was possible that some of the criminals who had been
sentenced by him at Old Bailey entertained a grudge
against him.
The question of when the murder was committed was
regarded as important. Dr. Slingsby, of the Home Office,
who had examined the body shortly after it was dis-
covered by the police, was of opinion that death had
taken place at least twelve hours before and probably
longer than that. His opinion on this point lent support
to the theory that the murder had been committed before
midnight on Wednesday. It was the Daily Record that
seized on the mystery contained in the facts that the
body when discovered was fully clothed and that the
electric lights were not turned on. If the murder was
committed late at night how came it that there were
no lights in the empty house when the police discovered
the body? Had the murderer, after shooting his victim,
turned out the lights so that on the following day no
suspicion would be created as would be the case if any-
one saw lights burning in the house in the day-time?
If he had done so, he was a cool hand. But if the
burglar was such a cool hand as to stop to turn out the
lights after the murder why did he not also stop to
collect some valuables? Was he afraid that in attempt-
ing to get rid of them to a “fence” or “drop” he
would practically reveal himself as the murderer and
so place himself in danger in case the police offered


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 23
a reward for the apprehension of the author of the
crime?
If Sir Horace had gone to bed before the murderer
entered the house it would have been natural to expect
no lights turned on. But he had returned unexpectedly;
there were no servants in the house, and there was no
bed ready for him. In any case, if he intended stopping
in the empty house instead of going to a hotel he
would have been wearing a sleeping suit when his body
was discovered; or, at most, he would be only partially
dressed if he had got up on hearing somebody moving
about the house. But the body was fully dressed, even
to collar and tie. It was absurd to suppose that the
victim had been sitting in the darkness when the mur-
derer appeared.
Another difficult problem Scotland Yard had to face
was the discovery of the person who had sent them
the news of the murder. How had Scotland Yard's
anonymous correspondent learned about the murder, and
what were his motives in informing the police in the
way he had done? Was he connected with the crime?
Had the murderer a companion with him when he broke
into Riversbrook for the purpose of burglary? That
seemed to be the most probable explanation. The second
man had been horrified at the murder, and desired to
disassociate himself from it so that he might escape the
gallows. The only alternative was to suppose that the
murderer had confessed his crime to some one, and that
his confidant had lost no time in informing the police
of the tragedy.
The newspaper accounts of the case threw some light
on the private and domestic affairs of the victim. He
was a widower with a grown-up daughter; his wife,
a daughter of the late Sir James Goldsworthy, who
changed his ancient family patronymic from Granville
to Goldsworthy on inheriting the great fortune of an
American kinsman, had died eight years before. Sir
Horace's Hampstead household consisted of a house-


24 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
keeper, butler, chauffeur, cook, housemaid, kitchenmaid
and gardener. With the exception of the butler the
servants had been sent the previous week to Sir Horace's
country house in Dellmere, Sussex. It appeared that
Miss Fewbanks spent most of her time at the country
house and came up to London but rarely. She was at
Dellmere when the murder was committed, and had
been under the impression that her father was in Scot-
land. According to a report received from the police
at Dellmere the first intimation that Miss Fewbanks had
received of the tragic death of her father came from
them. Naturally, she was prostrated with grief at the
tragedy.
The butler who had been left behind in charge of
Riversbrook was a man named Hill, but he was not
in the house on the night of the tragedy. He was a
married man, and his wife and child lived in Camden
Town, where Mrs. Hill kept a confectionery shop. Hill's
master had given him permission to live at home for
three weeks while he was in Scotland. The house in
Tanton Gardens had been locked up and most of the
valuables had been sent to the bank for safe-keeping,
but there were enough portable articles of value in the
house to make a good haul for any burglar. Hill had
instructions to visit the house three times a week for the
purpose of seeing that everything was safe and in order.
He had inspected the place on Wednesday morning, and
everything was as it had been left when his master went
to Scotland. Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned to Lon-
don on Wednesday evening, reaching St. Pancras by the
6.30 train. Hill was unaware that his master was re-
turning, and the first he learned of the murder was the
brief announcement in the evening papers on Thursday.


CHAPTER III
INSPECTOR CHIPPENFIELD, who had come into promi-
nence in the newspapers as the man who had caught the
gang who had stolen Lady Gladville's jewels—which in-
cluded the most costly pearl necklace in the world—was
placed in charge of the case. It was to his success in this
famous case that he owed his promotion to Inspector.
He had the assistance of his subordinate, Detective Rolfe.
So generous were the newspaper references to the acumen
of these two terrors of the criminal classes that it was to
be assumed that anything which inadvertently escaped
one of them would be pounced upon by the other.
On the morning after the discovery of the murdered
man's body, the two officers made their way to Tanton
Gardens from the Hampstead tube station. Inspector
Chippenfield was a stout man of middle age, with a
red face the colour of which seemed to be accentuated
by the daily operation of removing every vestige of
hair from it. He had prominent grey eyes with
which he was accustomed to stare fiercely when he de-
sired to impress a suspected person with what some of
the newspapers had referred to as “his penetrating
glance.” His companion, Rolfe, was a tall well-built man
in the early thirties. Like most men in a subordinate
position, Rolfe had not a high opinion of the abilities
of his immediate superiors. He was sure that he could
fill the place of any one of them better than it was
filled by its occupant. He believed that it was the policy
of superiors to keep junior men back, to stand in their
light, and to take all the credit for their work. He
was confident that he was destined to make a name for
himself in the detective world if only he were given
the chance. -
-
25


26 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
When Inspector Chippenfield had visited Riversbrook
the previous afternoon, Rolfe had not been selected as
his assistant. A careful inspection of the house and
especially of the room in which the tragedy had been
committed had been made by the inspector. He had
then turned his attention to the garden and the grounds
surrounding the house.
Whatever he had discovered and what theories he had
formed were not disclosed to anyone, not even his assist-
ant. He believed that the proper way to train a sub-
ordinate was to let him collect his own information and
then test it for him. This method enabled him to profit
by his subordinate's efforts and to display a superior
knowledge when the other propounded a theory by which
Inspector Chippenfield had also been misled.
When they arrived at the house in which the crime
had been committed, they found a small crowd of people
ranging from feeble old women to babies in arms, and
including a large proportion of boys and girls of school
age, collected outside the gates, staring intently through
the bars towards the house, which was almost hidden by
trees. The morbid crowd made way for the two officers
and speculated on their mission. The general impres-
sion was that they were the representatives of a fashion-
able firm of undertakers and had come to measure the
victim for his coffin. Inside the grounds the Scotland
Yard officers encountered a police-constable who was
on guard for the purpose of preventing inquisitive
strangers penetrating to the house.
“Well, Flack,” said Inspector Chippenfield in a tone in
which geniality was slightly blended with official su-
periority. “How are you to-day?”
“I’m very well indeed, sir,” replied the police-con-
stable. He knew that the state of his health was not
a matter of deep concern to the inspector, but such is
the vanity of human nature that he was pleased at the
inquiry. The fact that there was a murdered man in
the house gave mournful emphasis to the transience of


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 27
human life, and made Police-Constable Flack feel a
glow of satisfaction in being very well indeed.
Inspector Chippenfield hesitated a moment as if in
deep thought. The object of his hesitation was to give
Flack an opportunity of imparting any information that
had come to him while on guard. The inspector be-
lieved in encouraging people to impart information but
regarded it as subversive of the respect due to him to
appear to be in need of any. As Flack made no attempt
to carry the conversation beyond the state of his health,
Inspector Chippenfield came to the conclusion that he
was an extremely dull policeman. He introduced Flack
to Detective Rolfe and explained to the latter:
“Flack was on duty on the night of the murder but
heard no shots. Probably he was a mile or so away.
But in a way he discovered the crime. Didn't you, Flack?
When we rang up Seldon he came up here and brought
Flack with him. He'll be only too glad to tell you any-
thing you want to know.”
Rolfe took an official notebook from a breast pocket
and proceeded to question the police-constable. The in-
spector made his way upstairs to the room in which the
crime had been committed, for it was his system to seek
inspiration in the scene of a crime.
Tanton Gardens, a short private street terminating in
a cul-de-sac, was in a remote part of Hampstead. The
daylight appearance of the street betokened wealth and
exclusiveness. The roadway which ran between its broad
white-gravelled footwalks was smoothly asphalted for
motor tyres; the avenues of great chestnut trees which
flanked the footpaths served the dual purpose of afford-
ing shade in summer and screening the houses of
Tanton Gardens from view. But after nightfall Tanton
Gardens was a lonely and gloomy place, lighted only by
one lamp, which stood in the high road more to mark the
entrance to the street than as a guide to traffic along it, for
its rays barely penetrated beyond the first pair of chest-
nut trees.


28 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
The houses in Tanton Gardens were in keeping with
the street: they indicated wealth and comfort. They
were of solid exterior, of a size that suggested a fine
roominess, and each house stood in its own grounds.
Riversbrook was the last house at the blind end of the
street, and its east windows looked out on a wood which
sloped down to a valley, the street having originally
been an incursion into a large private estate, of which
the wood alone remained. On the other side a tangled
nutwood coppice separated the judge's residence from
its nearest neighbours, so the house was completely
isolated. It stood well back in about four acres of
ground, and only a glimpse of it could be seen from the
street front because of a small plantation of ornamental
trees, which grew in front of the house and hid it
almost completely from view. When the carriage drive
which wound through the plantation had been passed
the house burst abruptly into view—a big, rambling
building of uncompromising ugliness. Its architecture
was remarkable. The impression which it conveyed was
that the original builder had been prevented by lack of
money from carrying out his original intention of erecting
a fine symmetrical house. The first story was well enough
—an imposing, massive, colonnaded front in the Greek
style, with marble pillars supporting the entrance. But
the two stories surmounting this failed lamentably to
carry on the pretentious design. Viewed from the front,
they looked as though the builder, after erecting the
first story, had found himself in pecuniary straits, but,
determined to finish his house somehow, had built two
smaller stories on the solid edifice of the first. For the
two second stories were not flush with the front of
the house, but reared themselves from several feet be-
hind, so that the occupants of the bedrooms on the first
story could have used the intervening space as a balcony.
Viewed from the rear, the architectural imperfections of
the upper part of the house were in even stronger con-
trast with the ornamental first story. Apparently the im-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 29
pecunious builder, by the time he had reached the rear,
had completely run out of funds, for on the third floor
he had failed altogether to build in one small room, and
had left the unfinished brickwork unplastered.
The large open space between the house and the fir
plantation had once been laid out as an Italian garden
at the cost of much time and money, but Sir Horace
Fewbanks had lacked the taste or money to keep it
up, and had allowed it to become a luxuriant wilder-
ness, though the sloping parterres and the centre flower-
beds still retained traces of their former beauty. The
small lake in the centre, spanned by a rustic hand-bridge,
was still inhabited by a few specimens of the carp fam-
ily—sole survivors of the numerous gold-fish with which
the original designer of the garden had stocked the lake.
Sir Horace Fewbanks had rented Riversbrook as a
town house for some years before his death, having
acquired the lease cheaply from the previous possessor,
a retired Indian civil servant, who had taken a dislike
to the place because his wife had gone insane within its
walls. Sir Horace had lived much in the house alone,
though each London season his daughter spent a few
weeks with him in order to preside over the few Society
functions that her father felt it due to his position
to give, and which generally took the form of solemn
dinners to which he invited some of his brother judges, a
few eminent barristers, a few political friends, and their
wives. But rumour had whispered that the judge and
his daughter had not got on too well together—that
Miss Fewbanks was a strange girl who did not care for
Society or the Society functions which most girls of her
age would have delighted in, but preferred to spend her
time on her father's country estate, taking an interest
in the villagers or walking the country-side with half a
dozen dogs at her heels.
Rumour had not spared the dead judge's name. It
was said of him that he was fond of ladies' society,
and especially of ladies belonging to a type which he


30 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
could not ask his daughter to meet; that he used to go
out motoring, driving himself, after other people were
in bed; and that strange scenes had taken place at
Riversbrook. Flack had told his wife on several occa-
sions that he had heard sounds of wild laughter and
rowdy singing coming from Riversbrook as he passed
along the street on his beat in the small hours of the
morning. Several times in the early dawn Flack had
seen two or three ladies in evening dress come down
the carriage drive and enter a taxi-cab which had been
summoned by telephone.
a


CHAPTER IV
WHEN Rolfe had finished questioning Police-Constable
Flack and joined his chief upstairs, the latter, who had
been going through the private papers in the murdered
man's desk in the hope of alighting on a clue to the crime,
received him genially.
“Well,” he said, “what do you think of Flack?”
Rolfe had obtained from the police-constable a
straightforward story of what he had seen, and in this
way had picked up some useful information about the
crime which it would have taken a long time to extract
from the inspector, but he was a sufficiently good de-
tective to have learned that by disparaging the source
of your information you add to your own reputation for
acumen in drawing conclusions in regard to it. He
nodded his head in a deprecating way and emitted a
slight cough which was meant to express contempt.
“It looks very much like a case of burglary and
murder,” he said.
He was anxious to know what theory his superior
officer had formed.
“And how do you fit in the letter advising us of the
murder?” asked the inspector.
He produced the letter from his pocket-book and
looked at it earnestly.
“There were two of them in it—one a savage ruffian
who will stick at nothing, and the other a chicken-
hearted specimen. They often work in pairs like that.”
“So your theory is that one of the two shot him, and
the other was so unnerved that he sent us the letter and
put us on the track to save his own neck?”
“Something like that.”
“It is not impossible,” was the senior officer's com-
31


32 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
ment. “Mind you, I don't say it is my theory. In fact,
I am in no hurry to form one. I believe in going care-
fully over the whole ground first, collecting all the clues
and then selecting the right one.”
Rolfe admitted that his chief's way of setting to work
to solve a mystery was an ideal one, but he made the
reservation that it was a difficult one to put into opera-
tion. He was convinced that the only way of finding
the right clue was to follow up every one until it was
proved to be a wrong one.
Inspector Chippenfield continued his study of the
mysterious message which had been sent to Scotland
Yard. It was written on a sheet of paper which had
been taken from a writing pad of the kind sold for a
few pence by all stationers. It was flimsy and blue-
lined, and the message it contained was smudged and
badly printed. But to the inspector's annoyance, there
were no finger-prints on the paper. The finger-print ex-
pert at Scotland Yard had examined it under the mi-
croscope, but his search for finger-prints had been vain.
“Depend upon it, we'll hear from this chap again,”
said the inspector, tapping the sheet of paper with a
finger. “I think I may go so far as to say that this
fellow thinks suspicion will be directed to him and he
wants to save his neck.”
“It's a disguised hand,” said Rolfe. “Of course he
printed it in order not to give us a specimen of his
handwriting. There are telltale things about a man's
handwriting which give him away even when he tries to
disguise it. But he's tried to disguise even his print-
ing. Look how irregular the letters are—some slanting
to the right and some to the left, and some are upright.
Look at the two different kinds of ‘U’s.’”
“He’s used two different kinds of pens,” said Inspec-
tor Chippenfield. “Look at the difference in the thick-
ness of the letters.”
“The sooner he writes again the better,” said Rolfe.
“I am curious to know what he'll say next.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 33
“My idea is to find out who he is and make him
speak,” said the inspector. “Speaking is quicker than
writing. I could frighten more out of him in ten min-
utes than he would give away voluntarily in a month
of Sundays.” *
Again Rolfe had to admit that his chief's plan to
get at the truth was an ideal one.
“Have you any idea who he is?” he asked.
Inspector Chippenfield had brought his methods too
near to perfection to make it possible for him to fall into
an open trap.
“I won't be very long putting my hand on him,” he
said.
“But this thing has been in the papers,” said Rolfe.
“Don’t you think the murderer will bolt out of the
country when he knows his mate is prepared to turn
King's evidence against him?”
“Ah,” said Inspector Chippenfield, “I haven't adopted
your theory.”
“Then you think that the man who wrote this note
knew of the murder but doesn't know who did it?”
“Now you are going too far,” said Inspector Chip-
penfield.
The inspector was so wary about disclosing what
was in his mind in regard to the letter that Rolfe, who
disliked his chief very cordially, jumped to the conclu-
sion that Inspector Chippenfield had no intelligible ideas
concerning it. *
“If it was burglars they took nothing as far as we
can ascertain up to the present,” said Inspector Chip-
penfield after a pause.
“They were surprised to find anyone in the house.
And after the shot was fired they immediately bolted
for fear the noise would attract attention.”
“What knocks a hole in the burglar theory is the fact
that Sir Horace was fully dressed when he was shot,”
said the inspector. “Burglars don't break into a house


34 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
when there are lights about, especially after having been
led to believe that the house was empty.”
“So you think,” said Rolfe, “that the window was
forced after the murder with the object of mislead-
ing us.”
“I haven't said so,” replied the inspector. “All I am
prepared to say is that even that was not impossible.”
“It was forced from the outside,” continued Rolfe.
“I’ve seen the marks of a jemmy on the window-sill.
If it was forced after the murder the murderer was a
cool hand.”
“You can take it from me,” exclaimed Inspector
Chippenfield with unexpected candour, “that he was a
cool hand. We are going to have a bit of trouble in
getting to the bottom of this, Rolfe.”
“If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can,”
said Rolfe, who believed with Voltaire that speech was
given us in order to enable us to conceal our thoughts.
Inspector Chippenfield was so astonished at this hand-
some compliment that he began to think he had under-
rated Rolfe's powers of discernment. His tone of cold
official superiority immediately thawed.
“There were two shots fired,” he said, “but whether
both were fired by the murderer I don't know yet. One
of them may have been fired by Sir Horace. Just behind
you in the wall is the mark of one of the bullets. I dug it
out of the plaster yesterday and here it is.” He pro-
duced from a waistcoat pocket a flattened bullet. “The
other is inside him at present.” He waved his hand in
the direction of the room in which the corpse lay.
“Of course you cannot say yet whether both bullets
are out of the same revolver?” said Rolfe.
“Can't tell till after the post-mortem,” said the in-
spector. “And then all we can tell for certain is whether
they are of the same pattern. They might be the same
size, and yet be fired out of different revolvers of the
same calibre.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 35
“Well, it is no use theorising about what happened
in this room until after the post-mortem,” said Rolfe.
“You’d better give it some thought,” suggested the
inspector. “In the meantime I want you to inter-
view the people in the neighbourhood and ascertain
whether they heard any shots. They'll all say they did
whether they heard them or not—you know how people
persuade themselves into imagining things so as to get
some sort of prominence in these crimes. But you
can sift what they tell you and preserve the grain of
truth. Try and get them to be accurate as to the time,
as we want to fix the time of the crime as near as
possible. Ask Flack to tell you something about the
neighbours—he's been in this district fifteen years, and
ought to know all about them. While you're away I'll
go through these private papers. I want to find out
why he came back from Scotland so suddenly. If we
knew that the rest might be easy.”
“I haven't seen the body yet,” said Rolfe. “I’d like
to look at it. Where is it?”
“I had it removed downstairs. You will find it in a
big room on the left as you go down the hall. By the
by, there is another matter, Rolfe. This glove was
found in the room. It may be a clue, but it is more
likely that it is one of Sir Horace's gloves and that he
lost the other one on his way up from Scotland. It's
a left-hand glove—men always lose the right-hand glove
because they take it off so often. I’ve compared it
with other gloves in Sir Horace's wardrobe, and I find
it is the same size and much the same quality. But
find out from Sir Horace's hosier if he sold it. Here's
the address of the hosiers, Bruden and Marshall, in
the Strand.”
Rolfe went slowly downstairs into the room in which
the corpse lay, and closed the door behind him. It was
a very large room, overlooking the garden on the right
side of the house. Somebody had lowered the venetian
blinds as a conventional intimation to the outside world


36 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
that the house was one of mourning, and the room was
almost dark. For nearly a minute Rolfe stood in silence,
his hand resting on the knob of the door he had closed
behind him. Gradually the outline of the room and the
objects within it began to reveal themselves in shadowy
shape as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light.
He had a growing impression of a big lofty room, with
heavy furniture, and a huddled up figure lying on a couch
at the end furthest from the window and deepest in
shadow.
He stepped across to the window and gently raised
one of the blinds. The light of an August sun pene-
trated through the screen of trees in front of the house
and revealed the interior of the room more clearly. Rolfe
was amazed at its size. From the window to the couch
at the other end of the room, where the body lay, was
nearly thirty feet. Glancing down the apartment, he
noticed that it was really two rooms, divided in the
middle by folding doors. These doors folded neatly
into a slightly protruding ridge or arch almost opposite
the door by which he had entered, and were screened
from observation by heavy damask curtains, which
drooped over the archway slightly into the room.
Evidently the deceased judge had been in the habit
of using the divided rooms as a single apartment, for
the heavier furniture in both halves of it was of the
same pattern. The chairs and tables were of heavy,
ponderous, mid-Victorian make, and they were matched
by a number of old-fashioned mahogany sideboards and
presses, arranged methodically at regular intervals on
both sides of the room. Rolfe, as his eye took in these
articles, wondered why Sir Horace Fewbanks had bought
so many. One sideboard, a vast piece of furniture fully
eight feet long, had a whisky decanter and siphon of
soda water on it, as though Sir Horace had served him-
self with refreshments on his return to the house. The
tops of the other sideboards were bare, and the presses,
whose use in such a room Rolfe was at a loss to conjec-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 37
ture, were locked up. The antique sombre uniformity of
the furniture as a whole was broken at odd intervals by
several articles of bizarre modernity, including a few
daring French prints, which struck an odd note of
incongruity in such a room.
The murdered man had been laid on an old-fashioned
sofa at the end of this double apartment which was
furthest from the window. Rolfe walked slowly over
the thick Turkey carpets and rugs with which the floor
was covered, glanced at the sofa curiously, and then
turned down the sheet from the dead man's face.
At the time of his death Sir Horace Fewbanks was
58 years of age, but since death the grey bristles had
grown so rapidly through his clean-shaven face that
he looked much older. The face showed none of the
wonted placidity of death. The mouth was twisted in
an ugly fashion, as though the murdered man had en-
deavoured to cry for help and had been attacked and
killed while doing so. One of Sir Horace's arms—the
right one—was thrust forward diagonally across his
breast as if in self-defence, and the hand was tightly
clenched. Rolfe, who had last seen His Honour pre-
siding on the Bench in the full pomp and majesty of
law, felt a chill strike his heart at the fell power of
death which did not even respect the person of a High
Court judge, and had stripped him of every vestige of
human dignity in the pangs of a violent end. The face
he had last seen on the Bench full of wisdom and
austerity of the law was now distorted into a livid mask
in which it was hard to trace any semblance of the
features of the dead judge.
Rolfe's official alertness of mind in the face of a
mysterious crime soon reasserted itself, however, and he
shook off the feeling of sentiment and proceeded to make
a closer examination of the dead body. As he turned
down the sheet to examine the wound which had ended
the judge's life, it slipped from his hand and fell on
the floor, revealing that the judge had been laid on the


38 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
couch just as he had been killed, fully clothed. He
had been shot through the body near the heart, and a
large patch of blood had welled from the wound and
congealed in his shirt. One trouser leg was ruffled up, and
had caught in the top of the boot.
The corpse presented a repellent spectacle, but Rolfe,
who had seen unpleasant sights of various kinds in his
career, bent over the body with keen interest, noting
these details, with all his professional instincts aroused.
For though Rolfe had not yet risen very high in the
police force, he had many of the qualities which make
the good detective—observation, sagacity, and some
imagination. The extraordinary crime which he had been
called upon to help unravel presented a baffling mystery
which was likely to test the value of these qualities
to the utmost.
Rolfe looked steadily at the corpse for some time,
impressing a picture of it in every detail on his mental
retina. Struck by an idea, he bent over and touched
the patch of blood in the dead man's breast, then looked
at his finger. There was no stain. The blood was quite
congealed. Then he tried to unclench the judge's right
hand, but it was rigid.
As Rolfe stood there gazing intently at the corpse,
and trying to form some theory of the reason for the
murder, certain old stories he had heard of Sir Horace
Fewbanks's private life and character recurred to him.
These rumours had not been much—a jocular hint or
two among his fellows at Scotland Yard that His Honour
had a weakness for a pretty face and in private life
led a less decorous existence than a judge ought to do.
Rolfe wondered how much or how little truth was con-
tained in these stories. He glanced around the vast
room. Certainly it was not the sort of apartment in
which a High Court judge might be expected to do his
entertaining, but Rolfe recalled that he had heard gossip
to the effect that Sir Horace, because of his virtual
estrangement from his daughter, did very little enter-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 39
taining beyond an occasional bridge or supper party to
his sporting friends, and rarely went into Society.
Rolfe began to scrutinise the articles of furniture in
the room, wondering if there was anything about them
which might reveal something of the habits of the dead
man. He produced a small electric torch from his
pocket, and with its light to guide him in the half-dark-
ened room, he closely inspected each piece of furniture.
Then, with the torch in his hand, he returned to the
sofa and flashed it over the dead body. He started vio-
lently when the light, falling on the dead man's closed
hand, revealed a tiny scrap of white. Eagerly he endeav-
oured to release the fragment from the tenacious clutch
of the dead without tearing it, and eventually he managed
to detach it. His heart bounded when he saw that it was
a small torn piece of lace and muslin. He placed it in
the palm of his left hand and examined it closely under
the light of his torch. To him it looked to be part of a
fashionable lady's dainty handkerchief. He was elated
at his discovery and he wondered how Inspector Chip-
penfield had overlooked it. Then the explanation
struck him. The small piece of lace and muslin had
been effectually hidden in the dead man's clenched hand,
and his efforts to open the hand had loosened it.
“Well, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippenfield, when his
subordinate reappeared, “you've been long enough to
have unearthed the criminal or revived the corpse. Have
you discovered anything fresh?”
“Only this,” replied Rolfe, displaying the piece of
handkerchief.
The find startled Inspector. Chippenfield out of his
air of bantering superiority.
“Where did you get that?” he stammered, as he reached
out eagerly for it.
“The dead man had it clenched in his right hand.
I wondered if he had anything hidden in his hand when
I saw it so tightly clenched. I tried to force open the
fingers and that fell out.”


40 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Inspector Chippenfield was by no means pleased at his
subordinate's discovery of what promised to be an im-
portant clue, especially after the clue had been missed
by himself. But he congratulated Rolfe in a tone of
fictitious heartiness.
“Well done, Rolfe!” he exclaimed. “You are coming
on. Anyone can see that you've the makings of a good
detective.”
Rolfe could afford to ignore the sting contained in
such faint praise.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
“Looks as though there is a woman in it,” said the
inspector, who was still examining the scrap of lace and
muslin.
“There can't be much doubt about that,” replied Rolfe.
“We mustn't be, in a hurry in jumping at conclu-
sions,” remarked the inspector.
“No, and we mustn't ignore obvious facts,” said Rolfe.
“You think a woman murdered him?” asked the in-
spector.
“I think a woman was present when he was shot:
whether she fired the shot there is nothing to show at
present. There may have been a man with her. But
there was a struggle just before the shot was fired and
as Sir Horace fell he grasped at the hand in which she
was holding her handkerchief. Or perhaps her hand-
kerchief was torn in his dying struggles when she was
leaning over him.”
“You have overlooked the possibility of this having
been placed in the dying man's hand to deceive us,” said
the inspector.
“If the intention was to mislead us it wouldn't have
been placed where it might have been overlooked.”
As the inspector had overlooked the presence of the
scrap of handkerchief in the dead man's hand, he felt
that he was not making much progress with the work
of keeping his subordinate in his place.
“Well, it is a clue of a sort,” he said. “The trouble


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 4I
is that we have too many clues. I wish we knew which
is the right one. Anyway, it knocks over your theory
of a burglary,” he added in a tone of satisfaction.
“Yes,” Rolfe admitted. “That goes by the board.”


CHAPTER V
“WHAT is your name?”
“James Hill, sir.”
“That is an alias. What is your real name?” In-
spector Chippenfield glared fiercely at the butler in order
to impress upon him the fact that subterfuge was useless.
“Henry Field, sir,” replied the man, after some hesi-
tation.
Inspector Chippenfield opened the capacious pocket-
book which he had placed before him on the desk when
the butler had entered in response to his summons, and
he took from it a photograph which he handed to the man
he was interrogating.
“Is that your photograph?” he asked.
Police photographs taken in gaol for purposes of
future identification are always far from flattering, and
Henry Field, after looking at the photograph handed to
him, hesitated a little before replying,
“Yes, sir.”
“So, Henry Field, in November 1909 you were sen-
tenced to three years for robbing your master, Lord
Melhurst.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me see,” said the inspector, as if calling on his
memory to perform a reluctant task. “It was a diamond
scarf-pin and a gold watch. Lord Melhurst had come
home after a good day at Epsom and a late supper in
town. Next morning he missed his scarf-pin and his
watch. He thought he had been robbed at Epsom or
in town. He was delightfully vague about what had
happened to him after his glorious day at Epsom, but
unfortunately for you the taxi-cab driver who drove him
home remembered seeing the pin on him when he got
42


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 43
out of the cab. As you had waited up for him suspicion
fell on you, and you were arrested and confessed. I
think those are the facts, Field?”
“Yes, sir,” said the distressed looking man who stood
before him.
“I think I had the pleasure of putting you through,”
added the inspector.
The butler understood that in police slang “putting a
man through” meant arresting him and putting him
through the Criminal Court into gaol. He made the
same reply:
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad to see you bear me no ill-will for it,” said
Inspector Chippenfield. “You don’t, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“I never forget a face,” pursued the officer, glancing
up at the face of the man before him. “When I saw
you yesterday I knew you again in a moment, and when
I went back to the Yard I looked up your record.”
The butler was doubtful whether any reply was called
for, but after a pause, as an endorsement of the inspec-
tor's gift for remembering faces, he ventured on:
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did you, an ex-convict, come to get into
the service of one of His Majesty's judges?”
“He took me in,” replied the butler.
“You mean that you took him in,” replied the in-
spector, with a pleasant laugh at his own witticism.
“No, sir, I didn't take him in,” declared the butler.
He had not joined in the laugh at the inspector's joke.
“Get away with you,” said Inspector Chippenfield.
“You don't expect me to believe that you told him you
were an ex-convict? You must have used forged ref-
erences.”
“No, sir. He knew I was a ” Hill hesitated at
referring to himself as an ex-convict, though he had
not shrunk from the description by Inspector Chippen-


44 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
field. “He knew that I had been in trouble. In fact, sir,
if you remember, I was tried before him.”
“The devil you were !” exclaimed Inspector Chip-
penfield, in astonishment. “And he took you into his
service after you had served your sentence. He must
have been mad. How did you manage it?”
“After I came out I found it hard to get a place,”
said Hill, “and when Sir Horace's butler died I wrote
to him and asked if he would give me a chance. I
had a wife and child, sir, and they had a hard struggle
while I was in prison. My wife had a shop, but she
sold it to find money for my defence. Sir Horace told
me to call on him, and after thinking it over he decided
to engage me. He was a good master to me.”
“And how did you repay him,” exclaimed Inspector
Chippenfield sternly, “by murdering him?”
The butler was startled by the suddenness of the ac-
cusation, as Inspector Chippenfield intended he should be.
“Me!” he exclaimed. “As sure as there is a God in
Heaven I had nothing to do with it.”
“That won't go down with me, Field,” said the police
officer, giving the wretched man another prolonged pene-
trating look.
“It's true; it's true!” he protested wildly. “I had
nothing to do with it. I couldn't do a thing like that,
sir. I couldn't kill a man if I wanted to-I haven't the
nerve. But I knew I would be suspected,” he added, in
a tone of self-pity.
“Oh, you did?” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “And
why was that?”
“Because of my past.”
“Where were you on the date of the murder?”
“In the morning I came over here to look round as
usual, and I found everything all right.” ---
“You did that every day while Sir Horace was away?”
“Not every day, sir. Three times a week: Mondays,
Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“Did you enter the house or just look round?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 45
“I always came inside.”
“What for?”
“To make quite sure that everything was all right.”
“And was everything all right the morning of the
18th P”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are quite sure of that? You looked round care-
fully?”
“Well, sir, I just gave a glance round, for of course
I didn't expect anything would be wrong.”
Inspector Chippenfield fixed a steady glance on the
butler to ascertain if he was conscious of the trap he had
avoided.
“Did you look in this room?”
“Yes, sir. I made a point of looking in all the rooms.”
“You are sure that Sir Horace's dead body was not
lying here?” Inspector Chippenfield pointed beside the
desk where the body had been found.
“Oh, no, sir. I'd have seen it if it had.”
“There was no sign anywhere of his having returned
from Scotland?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn't know he was returning?”
“No, sir.”
“What time did you leave the house?”
“It would be about a quarter past twelve, sir.”
“And what did you do after that?”
“I went home and had my dinner. In the afternoon
I took my little girl to the Zoo. I had promised her
for a long time that I would take her to the Zoo.”
“And what did you do after visiting the Zoo?”
“We went home for supper. After supper my wife
took the little girl to the picture palace in Camden Road.
It was quite a holiday, sir, for her.”
“And what did you do while your wife and child
were at the pictures?” -
“I stayed at home and minded the shop. When they


46 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
came home we all went to bed. My wife will tell you
the same thing.”
“I’ve no doubt she will,” said the inspector drily.
“Well, if you didn't murder Sir Horace yourself when
did you first hear that he had been murdered?”
“I saw it in the papers yesterday evening.”
“And you immediately came up here to see if it was
true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were taken to the Hampstead Police Station
to make a statement as to your movements on the day
and night of the murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the story you have just told me about the Zoo
and the pictures and the rest is virtually the same as
the statement you made at the station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know if Sir Horace kept a revolver?”
“I think he did, sir.”
“Where did he keep it?”
“In the second drawer of his desk, sir.”
“Well, it's gone,” remarked Inspector Chippenfield
without opening the drawer. “What sort of a revolver
was it? Did you ever see it? How do you know he
kept one?”
“Once or twice I saw something that looked like a
revolver in that drawer while Sir Horace had it open.
It was a small nickel revolver.”
“Sir Horace always locked his desk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“None of your keys will open it, of course?”
“No, sir. That is—I don't know, sir. I’ve never
tried.”
Inspector Chippenfield grunted slightly. That trap the
butler had not seen until too late. But of course all
servants went through their masters' private papers when
they got the chance.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 47
“Do you know if Sir Horace was in the habit of carry-
ing a pocket-book?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; he was.”
“What sort of a pocket-book?”
“A large Russian leather one with a gold clasp.”
“Did he take it away with him when he went to Scot-
land? Did you see it about the house after he left?”
“No, sir. I think he took it with him. It would not
be like him to forget it, or to leave it lying about.”
“And what sort of a man was Sir Horace, Field?”
“A very good master, sir. He could be very stern
when he was angry, but I got on very well with him.”
“Quite so. Do you know if he had a weakness for
the ladies?”
“Well, sir, I’ve heard people say he had.”
“I want your own opinion; I don't want what other
people said. You were with him for three years and
kept a pretty close watch on him, I've no doubt.”
“Speaking confidentially, I might say that I think he
was,” said Hill.
He glanced apprehensively behind him as if afraid
of the dead man appearing at the door to rebuke him for
presuming to speak ill of him.
“I thought as much,” said the inspector. “Have you
any idea why he came down from Scotland?”
“No, sir.” -
“Well, that will do for the present, Field. If I want
you again I’ll send for you.”
“Thank you, sir. May I ask a question, sir?”
“What is it?”
“You don't really think I had anything to do with
it, sir?”
“I’m not here, Field, to tell you what I think. This
much I will say: If I find you have tried to deceive me
in any way it will be a bad day for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grave, taciturn, watchful, secret and suave, with an
appearance of tight-lipped reticence about him which


48 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
a perpetual faint questioning look in his eyes denied,
Hill looked an ideal man servant, who knew his station
in life, and was able to uphold it with meek dignity.
From the top of his trimly-cut grey crown to his neatly-
shod silent feet he exuded deference and respectability.
His impassive mask of a face was incapable—apart from
the faint query note in the eyes—of betraying any of
the feelings or emotions which ruffle the countenances of
common humanity.
On the way downstairs, Hill saw Police-Constable
Flack in conversation with a lady at the front door.
The lady was well-known to the butler as Mrs. Holy-
mead, the wife of a distinguished barrister, who had
been one of his master's closest friends. She seemed
glad to see the butler, for she greeted him with a remark
that seemed to imply a kinship in sorrow.
“Isn't this a dreadful thing, Hill?” she said.
“It's terrible, madam,” replied Hill respectfully.
Mrs. Holymead was extremely beautiful, but it was
obvious that she was distressed at the tragedy, for her
eyes were full of tears, and her olive-tinted face was
pale. She was about thirty years of age; tall, slim, and
graceful. Her beauty was of the Spanish type: straight-
browed, lustrous-eyed, and vivid; a clear olive skin, and
full, petulant, crimson lips. She was fashionably dressed
in black, with a black hat.
“The policeman tells me that Miss Fewbanks has not
come up from Dellmere yet,” she continued.
“No, madam. We expect her to-morrow. I believe
Miss Fewbanks has been too prostrated to come.”
“Dreadful, dreadful,” murmured Mrs. Holymead. “I
feel I want to know all about it and yet I am afraid. It
is all too terrible for words.” .
“It has been a terrible shock, madam,” said Hill.
“Has the housekeeper come up, Hill?”
“No, madam. She will be up to-morrow with Miss
Fewbanks.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 49
“Well, is there nobody I can see?” asked Mrs. Holy-
mead.
Police-Constable Flack was impressed by the spectacle
of a beautiful fashionably-dressed lady in distress.
“The inspector in charge of the case is upstairs,
madam,” he suggested. “Perhaps you'd like to see him.”
It suddenly occurred to him that he had instructions not to
allow any stranger into the house, and police instructions
at such a time were of a nature which classed a friend
of the family as a stranger. “Perhaps I’d better ask
him first,” he added, and he went upstairs with the feel-
ing that he had laid himself open to severe official
censure from Inspector Chippenfield.
He came downstairs with a smile on his face and
the message that the inspector would be pleased to see
Mrs. Holymead. In his brief interview with his su-
perior he had contrived to convey the unofficial in-
formation that Mrs. Holymead was a fine-looking
woman, and he had no doubt that Inspector Chippen-
field's readiness to see her was due to the impression
this information had made on his unofficial feelings.
Mrs. Holymead was conducted upstairs and announced
by the butler. Inspector Chippenfield greeted her
with a low bow of conscious inferiority, and anticipated
Hill in placing a chair for her. His large red face went
a deeper scarlet in colour as he looked at her.
“Flack tells me that you are a friend of the family,
Mrs. Holymead. What is it that I can do for you? I
need scarcely say, Mrs. Holymead, that your distin-
guished husband is well known to us all. I have had the
pleasure of being cross-examined by him on several
occasions. Anything you wish to know I'll be pleased to
tell you, if it lies within my power.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Holymead.
She seemed to be slightly nervous in the presence of a
member of the Scotland Yard police, in spite of his obvi-
ous humility in the company of a fashionable lady who
belonged to a different social world from that in which


50 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
police inspectors moved. It took Inspector Chippenfield
some minutes to discover that the object of Mrs. Holy-
mead's visit was to learn some of the details of the
tragedy. As one who had known the murdered man
for several years, and the wife of his intimate friend,
she was overwhelmed by the awful tragedy. She en-
deavoured to explain that the crime was like a horrible
dream which she could not get rid of. But in spite of
the repugnance with which she contemplated the fact
that a gentleman she had known so well had been shot
down in his own house she felt a natural curiosity to
know how the dreadful crime had been committed.
Inspector Chippenfield availed himself of the oppor-
tunity to do the honours of the occasion. He went
over the details of the tragedy and pointed out where
the body had been found. He showed her the bullet
mark on the wall and the flattened bullet which had been
extracted. Although from the mere habit of official
caution he gave away no information which was not of
a superficial and obvious kind, it was apparent he liked
talking about the crime and his responsibilities as the
officer who had been placed in charge of the investiga-
tions. He noted the interest with which Mrs. Holymead
followed his words and he was satisfied that he had
created a favourable impression on her. It was his
desire to do the honours thoroughly which led him to re-
mark after he had given her the main facts of the
tragedy:
“I’m sorry I cannot take you to view the body. It
is downstairs, but the fact is the Home Office doctors
are in there making the post-mortem to extract the
bullet.”
Mrs. Holymead shuddered at this information. The
fact that such gruesome work as a post-mortem examina-
tion was proceeding on the body of a man whom she
had known so well brought on a fit of nausea. Her
head fell back as if she was about to faint.
“Can I have a glass of water?” she whispered.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 51
A fainting woman, if she is beautiful and fashionably
dressed, will unnerve even a resourceful police official.
Had she been one of the servants Inspector Chip-
penfield would have rung the bell for a glass of water
to throw over her face, and meantime would have looked
on calmly at such evidence of the weakness of sex. But
in this case he dashed out of the room, ran downstairs,
shouted for Hill, ordered him to find a glass, snatched
the glass from him, filled it with water, and dashed up-
stairs again. His absence from the room totalled a little
less than three minutes, and when he held the glass to
the lady's lips he was out of breath with his exertions.
Mrs. Holymead took a sip of water, shuddered, took
another sip, then heaved a sigh, and opened to the full
extent her large dark eyes on the man bending over
her, who felt amply repaid by such a glance. She
thanked him prettily for his great kindness and took
her departure, being conducted downstairs, and to her
waiting motor-car at the gate, by Inspector Chippenfield.
That officer went back to the house with a pleased smile
on his features. But he would not have been so pleased
with himself if he had known that his brief absence from
the room of the tragedy for the purpose of obtaining a
glass of water had been more than sufficient to enable the
lady to run to the open desk of the murdered man, touch
a spring which opened a secret receptacle at the back of it,
extract a small bundle of papers, close the spring, and
return to her chair to await in a fainting attitude the
return of the chivalrous police officer.
Mrs. Holymead's return to her home in Princes Gate
was awaited with feverish anxiety by one of the inmates.
This was Mademoiselle Gabrielle Chiron, a French girl
of about twenty-eight, who was a distant connection of
Mrs. Holymead's by marriage. A cousin of Mrs. Holy-
mead's had married Lucille Chiron, the younger sister of
Gabrielle, two years ago. Mrs. Holymead on visiting the
French provincial town where the marriage was cele-
brated, was attracted by Gabrielle. As the Chiron fam-


52 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
ily were not wealthy they welcomed the friendship be-
tween Gabrielle and the beautiful American who had
married one of the leading barristers in London, and
finally Gabrielle went to live with Mrs. Holymead as a
companion.
From the window of an upstairs room which com-
manded a view of the street, Gabrielle Chiron waited
impatiently for the return of the motor-car in which
Mrs. Holymead had driven to Riversbrook. When at
length it turned the corner and came into view, she
rushed downstairs to meet Mrs. Holymead. She opened
the street door before the lady of the house could ring.
Her gaze was fixed on a hand-bag which Mrs. Holy-
mead carried—a comparatively big hand-bag which the
lady had taken the precaution to purchase before driving
out to Riversbrook.
The French girl's face lighted up with a smile as she
saw by the shape of the bag that it was not empty.
“Have you got them?” she whispered.
“Yes,” was the reply. “I followed out your plan—
it worked without a hitch.”
“Ah, I knew you would manage it,” said the girl. “I
would have gone, but it was best that you should go.
These police agents do not like foreigners—they would
be suspicious if I had gone.”
“There was a big red-faced man in charge—Inspector
Chippenfield, they called him,” said Mrs. Holymead. “He
was in the library as you said he would be—he was sit-
ting there calmly as if he did not know what nerves were.
He knew me as a friend of the family and was quite nice
to me. I saw as soon as I went in that the desk was open
—he had been examining Sir Horace's private papers. I
asked him to tell me about the—about the tragedy. He
piled horror on horror and then I pretended to faint. He
ran down stairs for a glass of water, and that gave me
time to open the secret drawer. They are here,” she
added, patting the hand-bag affectionately; “let us go up-
stairs and burn them.”
*


CHAPTER VI
THERE was unpleasant news for Inspector Chippen-
field when Miss Fewbanks arrived at Riversbrook ac-
companied by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hewson. In the
first place, he learnt with considerable astonishment that
it was Miss Fewbanks's intention to stay at the house
until after the funeral, and for that purpose she had
brought the housekeeper to keep her company in the
lonely old place. Although they had taken up their
quarters in the opposite wing of the rambling mansion
to that in which the dead body lay, it seemed to In-
spector Chippenfield—whose mind was very impres-
sionable where the fair sex was concerned—that Miss
Fewbanks must be a very peculiar girl to contemplate
staying in the same house with the body of her murdered
father for nearly a week. He was convinced that she
must be a strong-minded young woman, and he did not
like strong-minded young women. He preferred the
weak and clinging type of the sex as more of a compli-
ment to his own sturdy manliness.
His unfavourable impression of Miss Fewbanks was
deepened when he saw her and heard what she had to
tell him. The girl had come up from the country filled
with horror at the crime which had deprived her of a
father, and firmly determined to leave no stone unturned
to bring the murderer to justice. It was true that she
and her father had lived on terms of partial estrange-
ment for some time past because of his manner of life,
but all the girl's feelings of resentment against him had
been swept away by the news of his dreadful death, and
all she remembered now was that he was her father,
and had been brutally murdered.
When she sent for Inspector Chippenfield she had
53


54 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
visited the room in which lay the body of her father.
It had been placed in a coffin which was resting on
the undertaker's trestles in the bay embrasure of the
big room with the folding doors. There was nothing in
the appearance of the corpse to suggest that a crime had
been committed, but it had been impossible for the
undertaker's men to erase entirely the distortion of the
features so that they might suggest the cold, calm dignity
of a peaceful death. The ordeal of looking on the dead
body of her father had nerved her to carry through
resolutely the task of discovering the author of the
crime.
She awaited the coming of the inspector in a small
sitting-room, and when he entered she pointed quickly to
a chair, but remained standing herself. In appearance
Miss Fewbanks was a charming girl of the typical Eng-
lish type. She was of medium height, slight, but well-
built, with fair hair and dark blue eyes, an imperious
short upper lip and a determined chin, and the clear
healthy complexion of a girl who has lived much out of
doors. The inspector noted all these details; noted, too,
that although her breast heaved with agitation she had
herself well under control; her pretty head was erect,
and one of her small hands was tightly clenched by her
side.
“Have you found out—anything?” she asked the
inspector as he entered.
The girl had chosen a vague word because she felt
that there were many things which must come to light
in unravelling the crime, but, from the police point of
view of Inspector Chippenfield, the question whether he
had found out anything was a stinging reflection on his
ability.
“I consider it inadvisable to make any arrest at the
present stage of my investigations,” he said, with cold
official dignity.
“Do you think you know who did it?” asked the
girl.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 55
“It is my business to find out,” replied the inspector,
in a voice that indicated confidence in his ability to per-
form the task.
The girl was too unsophisticated to follow the subtle
workings of official pride. “The papers call it a mys-
terious crime. Do you think it is mysterious?”
“There are certainly some mysterious features about
it,” said the inspector. “But I do not regard them as
insoluble. Nothing is insoluble,” he added, in a senten-
tious tone.
“If there are mysteries to be solved you ought to have
help,” said the young lady.
She glanced at Mrs. Hewson significantly, and then
proceeded to explain to Inspector Chippenfield what she
meant.
“I have asked Mr. Crewe, the celebrated detective, to
assist you. Of course you know Mr. Crewe–every-
body does. I know you are a very clever man at your
profession, but in a thing of this kind two clever men
are better than one. I hope you will not mind—there is
no reflection whatever on your ability. In fact, I have
the utmost confidence in you. But it is due to my father's
memory to do all that is possible to get to the bottom of
this dreadful crime. If money is needed it will be
forthcoming. That applies to you no less than to Mr.
Crewe. But I hope you will be able to carry out your
investigations amicably together, and that you will be
willing to assist one another. You will lose nothing by
doing so. I trust you will place at Mr. Crewe's dis-
posal all the facilities that are available to you as an
officer of the police.”
This statement was so clear that Inspector Chip-
penfield had no choice but to face the conclusion that
Miss Fewbanks had more faith in the abilities of a
private detective to unravel the mystery than she had
in the resources of Scotland Yard. He would have
liked to have told the young lady what he thought of
her for interfering with his work, and he determined


56 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
f
to avail himself of the right opportunity to do so if it
came along. But the statement that money was not to
be spared had a soothing influence on his feelings. Of
course, officers of Scotland Yard were not allowed to
take gratuities however substantial they might be, but
there were material ways of expressing gratitude which
were outside the regulations of the department.
“I shall be very pleased to give Mr. Crewe any as-
sistance he wants,” said Inspector Chippenfield, bowing
stiffly.
It was seldom that he took a subordinate fully into his
confidence, but after he left Miss Fewbanks he flung
aside his official pride in order to discuss with Rolfe
the enlistment of the services of Crewe. Rolfe was no
less indignant than his chief at the intrusion of an out-
sider into their sphere. Crewe was an exponent of the
deductive school of crime investigation, and had first
achieved fame over the Abbindon case some years ago,
when he had succeeded in restoring the kidnapped heir of
the Abbindon estates after the police had failed to trace
the missing child. In detective stories the attitude of
members of Scotland Yard to the deductive expert is that
of admiration based on conscious inferiority, but in real
life the experts of Scotland Yard have the utmost con-
tempt for the deductive experts and their methods. The
disdainful pity of the deductive experts for the rule-of-
thumb methods of the police is not to be compared with
the vigorous scorn of the official detective for the rival
who has not had the benefit of police training.
“Look here, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippenfield, “we
mustn't let Crewe get ahead of us in this affair, or we'll
never hear the last of it. It's scandalous of a man like
Crewe, who has money of his own and could live like
a gentleman, coming along and taking the bread out of
our mouths by accepting fees and rewards for hunting
after criminals. Of course I know they say he is lav-
ish with his money and gives away more than he earns,
but that's all bosh—he sticks it in his own pocket, right


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 57
enough. One thing is certain: he gets paid whether he
wins or loses; that is to say, he gets his fee in any case,
but of course if he wins something will be added to his
fee. In the meantime all you and I get is our salaries,
and, as you know, the pay of an inspector isn't what it
ought to be.”
Rolfe assured his superior of his conviction that the
pay at Scotland Yard ought to be higher for all ranks—
especially the rank and file. He also declared that he
was ready to do his best to thwart Crewe.
“That is the right spirit,” commented Inspector
Chippenfield approvingly. “Of course we'll tell him
we're willing to help him all we can, and of course
he'll tell us we can depend on his help. But we know
what his help will amount to. He'll keep back from
us anything he finds out, and we'll do the same for
him. But the point is, Rolfe, that you and I have to
put all our brains into this and help one another. I'm
not the man to despise help from a subordinate. If
you have any ideas about this case, Rolfe, do not be
afraid to speak out. I’ll give them sympathetic con-
sideration.”
“I know you will,” said Rolfe, who was by no means
sure of the fact. “You can count on me.”
“As you know, Rolfe, there have been cases in which
men from the Yard haven't worked together as amicably
as they ought to have done. It used to be said when I
was one of the plain-clothes men that the man in charge
got all the credit and the men under him did all the
work. But as an inspector I can tell you that is very
rarely the case. In my reports I believe in giving my
junior credit for all he has done, and generally a bit
more. It may be foolish of me, but that is my way. I
never miss a chance of putting in a good word for the
man under me.”
“It would be better if they were all like that,” said
Rolfe.
“Well, it's a bargain, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippen-


58 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
field. “You do your best on this job and you won't
lose by it. I'll see to that. But in the meantime we don't
want to put Crewe on the scent. Let us see how much
we'll tell him and how much we won't.”
“He'll want to see the letter sent to the Yard about
the murder,” said Rolfe. “The Daily Recorder pub-
lished a facsimile of it this morning.”
“Yes, I knew about that. Well, he can have it. But
don't say anything to him about that lace you found in
the dead man's hand—or at any rate not until you find
out more about it. The glove he can have since it is
pretty obvious that it belonged to Sir Horace. We'll
spin Crewe a yarn that we are depending on it as a
clue.”
Crewe arrived during the afternoon to inspect the
house and the room in which the crime had been com-
mitted. There was every appearance of cordiality in
the way in which he greeted the police officials.
“Delighted to see you, Inspector,” he said. “Who
is working this case with you? Rolfe? Don't think we
have met before, Rolfe, have we?”
Rolfe politely murmured something about not having
had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Crewe, but of always
having wanted to meet him, because of his fame.
“Very good of you,” replied Crewe. “This is a very
sad business. I understand there are some attractive
points of mystery in the crime. I hope you haven't un-
ravelled it yet before I have got a start. You fellows
are so quick.”
“Slow and sure is our motto,” said Inspector Chip-
penfield, feeling certain that a sneer and not a compli-
ment had been intended. “There is nothing to be gained
in arresting the wrong man.”
“That's a sound maxim for us all,” said Crewe. “How-
ever, let's get to business. I rang up the Yard this
morning and they told me you were in charge of the
case and that I’d probably find you here. Can you let
me have a look at the original of that letter which was


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 59
sent to Scotland Yard informing you of the murder?
There is a facsimile of it in the Daily Recorder this
morning, and from all appearances there are some inter-
esting conclusions to be drawn from it. But the original
is the thing.”
“Here you are,” said the inspector, producing his
pocket-book, taking out the paper, and handing it to
Crewe. “What do you make of it?”
Crewe sat down, and placing the paper before him
took a magnifying glass from his pocket. As he sat
there, in his grey tweed suit, his hat pushed carelessly
back from his forehead, he might have been mistaken
for a young man of wealth with no serious business
in life, for his clothes were of fashionable cut, and he
wore them with an air of distinction. But a glance
at his face would have dispelled the impression. The
clear-cut, clean-shaven features riveted attention by
reason of their strength and intelligence, and though the
dark eyes were rather too dreamy for the face, the
heavy lines of the lower jaw indicated the man of action
and force of character. The thick neck and heavily-
lipped firm mouth suggested tireless energy and abound-
ing vitality.
“At least two people have had a hand in it,” he said,
after studying the paper for a few minutes.
“In the murder?” asked the inspector, who was aston-
ished at a deduction which harmonised with a theory
which had begun to take shape in his mind.
“In writing this,” said Crewe, with his attention still
fixed on the paper. “But of course you know that your-
self.”
“Of course,” assented the inspector, who was sur-
prised at the information, but was too experienced an offi-
cial to show his feelings. “And both hands disguised.”
“Disguised to the extent of being printed in written
characters,” continued Crewe. “It is so seldom that a
person writes printed characters that any method in
which they are written suggests disguise. The original


60 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
intention of the two persons who wrote this extraordi-
nary note was for each to write a single letter in turn.
That system was carried as far as “Sir Horace' or, per-
haps, up to the ‘B’ in “Fewbanks.” After that they be-
came weary of changing places and one of them wrote
alternate letters to the end, leaving blanks for the other
to fill in. That much is to be gathered from the varia-
tions in the spaces between the letters—sometimes there
was too much room for an intermediate letter, sometimes
too little, so the letter had to be cramped. Here and
there are dots made with the pen as the first of the two
spelled out the words so as to know what letters to write
and what to leave blank. Look at the differences in the
letter ‘U.’ One of the writers makes it a firm downward
and upward stroke; the other makes the letter fainter
and adds another downward stroke, the letter being more
like a small 'u' written larger than a capital letter. The
differences in the two hands are so pronounced through-
out the note that I am inclined to think that one of the
writers was a woman.”
“Exactly what I thought,” said Inspector Chippen-
field, looking hard at Crewe so that the latter should
not question his good faith.
“Then there are sometimes slight differences in the
alternate letters written by the same hand. Look at
the “T” in ‘last’ and the “T” in ‘night'—the marked varia-
tion in the length and angle of the cross stroke. It is
evident that the writers were labouring under serious ex-
citement when they wrote this.”
Rolfe was so interested in Crewe's revelations that he
stood beside the deductive expert and studied the paper
afresh.
“And now, about finger-prints?” asked Crewe.
“None,” was the reply of the inspector. “We had it
under the microscope at Scotland Yard.”
“None?” exclaimed Crewe, in surprise. “Why, adopt
such precautions as wearing gloves to write a note giving
away this startling secret?”


62 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“It is searcé possible to reconstruct the crime to that
extent,” said Crewe with a smile. “But undoubtedly Sir
Horace got in the first shot. If he fired after he was hit
his bullet would have gone wild—would probably have
struck the ceiling—whereas it landed there. Let us
measure the height from the floor.” He pulled a small
spool out of a waistcoat pocket and drew out a tape
measure. “A little high for the heart of an average
man, and probably a foot wide of the mark.”
“And what do you make of the disappearance of Sir
Horace's revolver?” asked Rolfe, who seemed to his supe-
rior officer to be in danger of displaying some admiration
for deductive methods.
“I’m no good at guess-work,” replied Crewe, who felt
that he had given enough information away.
“Well,” said Rolfe, “here is a glove which was found
in the room. The other one is missing. It might be a
clue.”
Crewe took the glove and examined it carefully. It
was a left-hand glove made of reindeer-skin, and grey
in colour. It bore evidence of having been in use, but
it was still a smart-looking glove such as a man who
took a pride in his appearance might wear.
“Burglars wear gloves nowadays,” said Crewe, “but
not this kind. The india-rubber glove with only the
thumb separate is best for their work. They give free-
dom of action for the fingers and leave no finger-prints.
Have you made inquiries whether this is one of Sir
Horace's gloves?”
“Well, it is the same size as he wore—seven and a
half,” said Inspector Chippenfield. “The butler is the
only servant here and he can't say for certain that it
belonged to his master. I've been through Sir Hor-
ace's wardrobe and through the suit-case he brought from
Scotland, but I can find no other pair exactly similar.
Rolfe took it to Sir Horace's hosier, and he is practically
certain that the glove is one of a pair he sold to Sir
Horace.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 63
“That should be conclusive,” said Crewe thoughtfully.
“So I think,” replied the inspector.
“Well, I'll take it with me, if you don't mind,” said
Crewe. “You can have it back whenever you want it.
Let me have the address of Sir Horace's hosier—I'll give
him a call.”
“Take it by all means,” said the inspector cordially,
referring to the glove. And with a wink at Rolfe he
added, “And when you are ready to fit it on the guilty
hand I hope you will let us know.”


CHAPTER VII
CREwe made a careful inspection of the house and the
grounds. He took measurements of the impressions left
on the sill of the window which had been forced and
also of the foot-prints immediately beneath the window.
He had a long conversation with Hill and questioned
him regarding his movements on the night of the mur-
der. He also asked about the other servants who were
at Dellmere, and probed for information about Sir Hor-
ace's domestic life and his friends. As he was talking to
Hill, Police-Constable Flack came up to them with a card
in his hand. Hill looked at the card and exclaimed:
“Mr. Holymead? What does he want?”
“He asked if Miss Fewbanks was at home.”
Hill took the card in to Miss Fewbanks, and on coming
out went to the front door and escorted Mr. Holymead
to his young mistress. Crewe, as was his habit, looked
closely at Holymead. The eminent K.C. was a tall man,
nearly six feet in height, with a large, resolute, strongly-
marked face which, when framed in a wig, was sugges-
tive of the dignity and severity of the law. In years he
was about fifty, and in his figure there was a suggestion
of that rotundity which overtakes the man who has given
up physical exercise. He was correctly, if sombrely,
dressed in dark clothes, and he wore a black tie—probably
as a symbol of mourning for his friend. His gloves were
a delicate grey.
Crewe sought out Hill again and questioned him
closely about the relations which had existed between
Sir Horace Fewbanks and Mr. Holymead, whose enor-
mous practice brought him in an income three times as
large as the dead judge's, and kept him constantly be-
fore the public. Hill was able to supply the detective
64


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 65
with some interesting information regarding the visitor,
and, in contrast to his manner when previously ques-
tioned at random by Crewe, concerning his young mis-
tress's habits, seemed willing, if not actually anxious, to
talk. He had heard from Sir Horace's housekeeper that
his late master and Mr. Holymead had been law students
together, and after they were called to the Bar they used
to spend their holidays together as long as they were
single.
When they were married their wives became friends.
Mrs. Holymead had died fourteen years ago, but Mrs.
Fewbanks—Sir Horace had not been a baronet while
his wife was alive—had lived some years longer. Mr.
Holymead had married again. His second wife was
a very beautiful young lady, if he might make so bold as
to say so, who had come from America. The butler
added deprecatingly that he had been told that both Sir
Horace and Mr. Holymead had paid her some attention,
and that she could have had either of them. She was
different to English ladies, he added. She had more to
say for herself, and laughed and talked with the gentle-
men just as if she was one of themselves. Hill men-
tioned that she had been out to see Miss Fewbanks the
previous day, but that Miss Fewbanks had not come up
from Dellmere then, so she had seen Inspector Chippen-
field instead.
While Crewe and the butler were talking a boy of
about fourteen, with the shrewd face of a London arab,
approached them with an air of mystery. He came down
the hall with long cautious strides, and halted at each step
as if he were stalking a band of Indians in a forest.
“Well, Joe, what is it?” asked Crewe, as he came to a
halt in front of them.
“If you don't want me for half an hour, sir, I'd like
to take a run up the street. There is a real good picture
house just been opened.” The boy spoke eagerly, with
his bright eyes fixed on Crewe.


66 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“I may want you any minute, Joe,” replied Crewe.
“Don’t go away.”
The boy nodded his head, and turned away. As he
went down the hall again to the front door he gave an
imitation of a man walking with extended arms across a
plank spanning a chasm.
“Picture mad,” commented Crewe, as he watched him.
“I didn't quite understand you, sir,” replied the butler.
“Spends all his spare time in cinemas,” said Crewe,
“and when he is not there he is acting picture dramas.
His ambition in life is to be a cinema actor.”
Crewe engaged Police-Constable Flack in conversation
while waiting for Mr. Holymead to take his departure.
Flack had so little professional pride that he was pleased
at meeting a gentleman who usurped the functions of a de-
tective without having had any police training, and who
could beat the best of the Scotland Yard men like shelling
peas, as he confided to his wife that night. He was espe-
cially flattered at the interest Crewe seemed to display
in his long connection with the police force, and also in
his private affairs. The constable was explaining with
parental vanity the precocious cleverness of his youngest
child, a girl of two, when Holymead made his appearance,
and he became aware that Mr. Crewe's interest in chil-
dren was at an end.
“Look at that man,” said Crewe, in a sharp imperative
tone to the police-constable, as the K.C. was walking
down the path of the Italian garden to the plantation.
“You saw him come in P’’
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you see any difference?”
“No, sir; he's the same man,” said Flack, with stolid
certainty.
“Anything about him that is different?” continued
Crewe.
Police-Constable Flack looked at Crewe in some be-
wilderment. He was not a deductive expert, and, as he
told his wife afterwards, he did not know what the


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 67
detective was “driving at.” He took another long look
at Holymead, who was then within a few yards of the
plantation on his way to the gates, and remarked, in
a hesitating tone, as though to justify his failure:
“Well, you see, sir, when he was coming in it was the
front view I saw, now I can only see his back.”
But before he had finished speaking Crewe had left
him and was following the K.C. Holymead had gone into
the house without a walking-stick, and had reappeared
carrying one on his arm. Crewe admired the cool au-
dacity which had prompted Holymead to go into a house
where a murder had been committed to recover his stick
under the very eyes of the police, and he immediately
formed the conclusion that the K.C. had come to the
house to recover the stick for some urgent reason pos-
sibly not unconnected with the crime. And it was ap-
parent that Holymead was a shrewd judge of human na-
ture, Crewe reflected, for he calculated that the rareness
of the quality of observation, even in those who, like
Flack, were supposed to keep their eyes open, would per-
mit him to do so unnoticed.
As Crewe went down the path he beckoned to the boy
Joe, who at the moment was acting the part of a comic
dentist binding a recalcitrant patient to a chair, using an
immense old-fashioned straight-backed chair which stood
in the hall, for his stage setting. Joe overtook his master
as he entered the ornamental plantation in front of the
house, and Crewe quickly whispered his instructions, as
the retreating figure of the K.C. threaded the wood
towards the gates.
“When I catch up level with him, Joe, you are to run
into him accidentally from behind, and knock his stick
off his arm, so that it falls near me. I will pick it up
and return it to him. I must handle the stick—you
understand? Do not wait to see how he takes it when
you bump into him—get off round the corner at once
and wait for me.”
Crewe quickened his pace to overtake the man in front


68 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
of him. He gave no glance backward at the boy, for he
knew his instructions would be carried out faithfully
and intelligently. He allowed Holymead to reach the big
open gates, and turn from the gravelled carriage drive
into the private street. Then he hurried after him and
drew level with Holymead. As he did so there was a
sound of running footsteps from behind, and then a
shout. Joe had cleverly tripped and fallen heavily be-
tween the two men, bringing down Holymead in his
fall. The K.C.’s stick flew off his arm and bounded half
a dozen yards away. Crewe stepped forward quickly,
secured the stick, glanced quickly at the monogram en-
graved on it, and held it out to Holymead, who was
brushing the dust off his clothes with vexatious remarks
about the clumsiness and impudence of street boys. For
a moment he seemed to hesitate about taking the stick.
“I believe this is yours,” said Crewe politely.
“Ah—yes. Thank you,” said the K.C., giving him a
keen suspicious glance.


CHAPTER VIII
CREwe had well-furnished offices in Holborn but lived
in a luxurious flat in Jermyn Street. Although he went
to and fro between them daily, his personality was al-
most a dual one, though not consciously so; his passion
for crime investigation was distinct—in outward seem-
ing, at all events—from his polished West End life of
wealthy ease. Grave, self-contained, and inscrutable, he
slipped from one to the other with an effortless regularity,
and the fashionable folk with whom he mixed in his
leisured bachelor existence in the West End, apart from
knowing him as the famous Crewe, had even less knowl-
edge of the real man behind his suave exterior than the
clients who visited his inquiry rooms in Holborn to con-
fide in him their stories of suffering, shame, or crimes
committed against them. His commissionaire and body-
servant, Stork, had once, in a rare—almost unique—con-
vivial moment, declared to the caretaker of the building
that he knew no more about his master after ten years
than he did the first day he entered his service. He was
deep beyond all belief, was Stork's opinion, delivered
with reluctant admiration.
Although Crewe did not allow the externals of his
two existences to become involved, his chief interest in
life was in his work. He had originally taken up detec-
tive work more as a relief from the boredom of his lot as
a wealthy young man, leading an aimless, useless life
with others of his class, than by deliberate choice
of his vocation. His initial successes surprised him;
then the work absorbed him and became his life's career.
He had achieved some memorable successes and he had
made a few failures, but the failures belonged to the
earlier portion of his career, before he had learnt to trust
69


70 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
thoroughly in his own great gifts of intuition and in-
sight, and that uncanny imagination which sometimes
carried him successfully through when all else failed.
Serious devotees of chess knew the name of Crewe in
another capacity—as the name of a man who might
have aspired to great deeds if he had but taken the game
as his life's career. He had flashed across the chess
horizon some years previously as a player of surpassing
brilliance by defeating Turgieff, when the great Russian
master had visited London and had played twelve simul-
taneous boards at the London Chess Club. Crewe was
the only player of the twelve to win his game, and he did
so by a masterly concealed ending in which he handled his
pawns with consummate skill, proffering the sacrifice of a
bishop with such art that Turgieff fell into the trap, and
was mated in five subsequent moves. Crewe proved this
was not merely a lucky win by defeating the young
South American champion, Caranda, shortly afterwards,
when the latter visited England and played a series of
exhibition games in London on his way to Moscow,
where he was engaged in the championship tourney.
Once again it was masterly pawn play which brought
Crewe a fine victory, and aged chess enthusiasts who fol-
lowed every move of the game with trembling excitement,
declared afterwards that Crewe's conception of this par-
ticular game had not been equalled since Morphy died.
They predicted a dazzling chess career for Crewe, but
he disappointed their aged hearts by retiring suddenly
from match chess, and they mourned him as one un-
worthy of his great chess gifts and the high hopes they
had placed in him. But, as a matter of fact, Crewe's in-
tellect was too vigorous and active to be satisfied with the
triumphs of chess, and his disappearance from the chess
world was contemporary with his entrance into detective
work, which appealed to his imagination and found scope
for his restless mental activity. But if detective work so
absorbed him that he gave up match chess entirely, he
still retained an interest in the science of chess, reserving


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 71
problem play for his spare moments, and, when not
immersed in the solution of a problem of human mystery,
he would turn to the chessboard and seek solace and re-
laxation in the mysteries of an intricate “four-mover.”
He had once said that there was a certain affinity be-
tween solving chess problems and the detection of crime
mystery: once the key-move was found, the rest was com-
paratively easy. But he added with a sigh that a really
perfect crime mystery was as rare as a perfect chess
problem: human ingenuity was not sufficiently skilful,
as a rule, to commit a crime or construct a chess problem
with completely artistic concealment of the key-move,
and for that reason most problems and crimes were far
too easy of detection to absorb one's intellectual interests
and attention.
It was the morning after Crewe's visit to Riversbrook,
and the detective sat in his private office glancing through
a note-book which contained a summary of the Hamp-
stead mystery. Crewe was a painstaking detective as well
as a brilliant one, and it was his custom to prepare several
critical summaries of any important case on which he was
engaged, writing and rewriting the facts and his com-
ments, until he was satisfied that he had a perfect outline
to work upon, with the details and clues of the crime in
consecutive order and relation to one another. Experi-
ence had taught him that the time and labour this task
involved were well-spent. If an unexpected development
of the case altered the facts of the original summary
Crewe prepared another one in the same painstaking way.
The summaries, when done with, were methodically filed
and indexed and stored in a strong room at the office for
future reference, where he also kept full records of all
the cases upon which he had been engaged, together with
the weapons and articles that had figured in them: huge
volumes of newspaper reports and clippings; photographs
of criminals with their careers appended; and a host of
other odds and ends of his detective investigations—the
whole forming an interesting museum of crime and mys-


72 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
tery which would have furnished a store of rich material
for a fresh Newgate Calendar. It was an axiom of
Crewe's that a detective never knew when some old
scrap of information or some trifling article of some
dead and forgotten crime might not afford a valuable
clue. Expert criminals frequently repeated themselves,
like people in lesser walks of life, and Crewe's “library
and museum,” as he called it, had sometimes furnished
him with a simple hint for the solution of a mystery
which had defied more subtle methods of analysis.
Crewe, after carefully reading his summary of the
murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and making a few alter-
ations in the text, drew from his pocket the glove which
Inspector Chippenfield had handed him as a clue, took
it to the window, and carefully examined it through
a large magnifying glass. He was thus engrossed when
the door was noiselessly opened, and Stork, the body-
guard, entered. Stork belied his name. He was short
and fat, with a red mottled face; a model of discretion
and imperturbability, who had served Crewe for ten
years, and bade fair to serve him another ten, if he lived
that long. In his heart of hearts he often wondered
why a gentleman like Crewe should so far forget what
was due to his birth and position as to have offices in
Holborn—Holborn, of all parts of London | But the
awe he felt for Crewe prevented his seeking information
on the point from the only person who could give it to
him, so he served him and puzzled over him in silence, his
inward perturbation of spirits being made manifest occa-
sionally by a puzzled glance at his master when the latter
was not looking. It was nothing to Stork that his master
was a famous detective; the problem to him was why he
was a detective when he had no call to be one, having
more money than any man—and let alone a single man—
could spend in a lifetime.
Stork coughed slightly to attract Crewe's attention.
“If you please, sir,” he said, “the boy has come.”
While Crewe was busy with his magnifying glass


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 73
Stork returned with the boy who had accompanied Crewe
on his visit to Riversbrook on the previous day. *
The boy, a thin white-faced, sharp-eyed London street
urchin, seemed curiously out of place in the handsomely
furnished office, with his legs tucked up under the carved
rail of a fine old oak chair, and his big dark eyes fixed
intently on Crewe's face. The tie between him and the
detective was an unusual one. It dated back some
twelve months, when Crewe, in the investigation of a pe-
culiarly baffling crime, found it advisable to disguise him-
self and live temporarily in a crowded criminal quarter
of Islington. The rooms he took were above a second-
hand clothing shop kept by a drunken female named
Leaver; a supposed widow who lived at the back of the
shop with her two children, Lizzie, a bold-eyed girl of
17, who worked at a Clerkenwell clothing factory, and
Joe, a typical Cockney boy of fourteen, who sold papers
in the streets during the day and was fast qualifying for
a thief at night when Crewe went to the place to live.
Crewe soon discovered, through overhearing a loud
quarrel between his landlady and her daughter, that Mrs.
Leaver's husband was alive, though dead to his wife for
all practical purposes, inasmuch as he was serving a life's
imprisonment for manslaughter. A fortnight after he
had taken up his temporary quarters above the shop the
woman was removed to the hospital suffering from the
effects of a hard drinking bout, and died there. The girl
disappeared, and the boy would have been turned out on
the streets but for Crewe, who had taken a liking to
him. Joe was self-reliant, alert, and precocious, like
most London street boys, but in addition to these quali-
ties he had a vein of imagination unusual in a lad of his
upbringing and environment. He devoured the exciting
feuilleton stories in the evening papers he vended, and
spent his spare pennies at the cinema theatres in the vi-
cinity of his poor home. His appreciation of the crude
mysteries of the filmed detective drama amused the fa-
mous expert in the finer art of actual crime detection, un-


74 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
til he discovered that the boy possessed natural gifts of
intuition and observation, combined with penetration.
Crewe grew interested in developing the boy's talent for
detective work. When the lad's mother died Crewe de-
cided to take him into his Holborn offices as messenger-
boy. Crewe soon discovered that Joe had a useful gift
for “shadowing” work, and his street training as a news-
paper runner enabled him not only to follow a person
through the thickest of London traffic, but to escape ob-
servation where a man might have been noticed and sus-
pected.
“Well, Joe,” said Crewe, as the boy entered on the
heels of Stork, “I have a job for you this morning. I
want you to find the glove corresponding to this one.”
Crewe, having finished his examination of the glove,
handed it to the boy, whose first act was to slip it on his
left hand and move his fingers about to assure himself
that they were in good working order in spite of being
hidden. It was the first occasion on which Joe had worn
a glove.
“It was found in the room in which Sir Horace Few-
banks was murdered,” continued Crewe. “The other one
was not there. The question I want to solve is, did it
belong to Sir Horace, or to some one who visited him
on the night he was murdered? The police think it be-
longed to Sir Horace because it is the same size as the
gloves he wore, and because Sir Horace's hosier stocks
the same kind—as does nearly every fashionable hosier
in London. They think he lost the right-hand glove on
his way up from Scotland. It will occur to you, Joe,
though you don't wear gloves, that it is more common
for men to lose the right-hand glove than the left-hand,
because the right hand is used a great deal more than the
left, and even men who would not be seen in the street
without gloves find there are many things they cannot
do with a gloved hand. For instance, to dive one's hand
into one's trouser pocket where most men keep their loose
change the glove has to be removed.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 75
“Then the gentleman would take off his right glove
when he paid for his taxi-cab from St. Pancras,” said
Joe, who was familiar through the accounts in the news-
papers with the main details of the Fewbanks mystery.
“Right, Joe,” said his master approvingly. “And in
that case he dropped the glove between the taxi-cab out-
side his front gates and his room, and it would have been
found. I have made inquiries and I am satisfied it was
not found.”
“He might have lost it when he was getting into the
train at Scotland,” suggested the lad. “He had to change
trains at Glasgow—he might have lost it there.”
“That is a rule-of-thumb deduction,” said Crewe, with
a kindly smile. “It is good enough for the police, for
they have apparently adopted it, but it is not good enough
for me. What you don't understand, Joe, is that an odd
glove is of no value in the eyes of a man who wears
gloves. He doesn't take it home as a memento of his
carelessness in losing the other. He throws it away.
Therefore if this is Sir Horace's glove he took it home
because he was unaware that he had lost the other. He
would put on his gloves before leaving the train at St.
Pancras. And he would pull off the right-hand one—he
was not left-handed—when the taxi-cab was nearing his
home so as to be able to pay the fare. Therefore, if it
is Sir Horace's glove the fellow to it was dropped in the
taxi-cab, or dropped between the taxi-cab and the house.
If the glove had been lost at the other end of the journey
in Scotland Sir Horace would have flung this one out of
the carriage window when he became aware of the loss.
As I have told you no glove was found between the gate
at Riversbrook and the room in which Sir Horace was
murdered. I got from the police the number of the taxi-
cab in which Sir Horace was driven from St. Pancras,
and the driver tells me that no glove was left in his cab.
So what have we to do next, Joe?”
“To find the missing glove? It's a tough job, ain't it,
Sir?”


76 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“Yes and no,” replied Crewe. “It is possible to make
some reasonable safe deductions in regard to it. These
would indicate what had happened to it, and knowing
where to look, or, rather, in what circumstances we might
expect to find it, we might throw a little light on it. In
the first place, it might be assumed that if the glove did
not belong to Sir Horace it belonged to some one who
visited him on the night he returned unexpectedly from
Scotland. That indicates that his visitor knew Sir Hor-
ace was returning; a most important point, for if he
knew Sir Horace was returning he knew why he was .
returning—which no one else knows up to the present as
far as I have been able to gather—and in all probability
was responsible for his return, say, sent him a letter or
a telegram which brought him to London. So we come
to the possibility of an angry scene in the room in which
Sir Horace's dead body was subsequently found. We
have the possibility of the visitor leaving the house in a
high state of excitement, hastily snatching up the hat and
gloves he had taken off when he arrived, and in his ex-
citement dropping unnoticed the right-hand glove on the
floor.”
“And leaving his gold-mounted stick behind him,”
said Joe, who was following his master's line of reason-
ing with keen interest.
“Right, Joe,” said Crewe. “That was placed in the
stand in the hall, and when the visitor left hurriedly was
entirely forgotten. But at what stage did the visitor
become conscious of the loss of his glove? Not until
his excitement cooled down a little. How long he took
to cool down depends upon the cause of his excitement
and his temperament, things which, at present, we can
only guess at. He would probably walk a long distance
before he cooled down. Then he would resume his nor-
mal habits and among other things would put on his
gloves—if he had them. He would find that he had lost
one and that he had left his stick behind. He would know
that the stick had been left behind in the hall, but he


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 77
would not know the glove had been dropped in the house.
The probabilities are that he would think he had dropped
it while walking. But if he felt that he had dropped it
in the house, and he had the best of all reasons for
not wishing anyone to know that he had visited Sir
Horace that night, he would destroy the remaining glove
and our chance of tracing it would be gone. The fact
that he had left his stick behind was a minor matter
that he could easily account for if he had been a friend
of Sir Horace who had been in the habit of visiting
Riversbrook. If anything cropped up subsequently about
the stick he could say that he had left it there before Sir
Horace closed up his house and went to Scotland.
“But the problem of the glove is a different matter, Joe.
There are three phases to it: first, if the visitor thought he
had dropped it in the house and wanted to keep his visit
there a profound secret from subsequent inquiry he would
take home the remaining glove and destroy it—probably
by burning it. Secondly, if he thought he had dropped it
after leaving the house he would not feel that safety
necessitated the destruction of the remaining one, but
he would probably throw it away where it would not
be likely to be found. In the third place, if he had no
particular reason for wishing to hide the fact that he had
visited Riversbrook he would throw it away anywhere
when he became conscious that he had lost the other.
He would throw it away merely because an odd glove is
of no use to a man who wears gloves. The man who
doesn't wear gloves would pick up an odd glove from
the ground and think he had made a find. He would
take it home to his wife and she would probably keep it
for finger-stalls for the children.”
Crewe put down his notes and got up from his chair.
“Your job is this, Joe. Go to Riversbrook and make a
careful search on both sides of the road for the missing
glove. I do not think he threw it away—if he did throw
it away—until he had walked some distance, but you
mustn't act on that assumption. Look over the fences of


78 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
the houses and into the hedges. Walk along in the direc-
tion of Hampstead Underground. Search the gutters
and all the trees and hedges along the road. Take one
side of the street to the Underground station and if you
do not find the glove go back to Riversbrook along the
other side. Make a thorough job of it, as it is most im-
portant that the glove should be found—if it is to be
found.”
After Joe had departed Crewe put on his hat and left
his office for the Strand. His first call was at the shop
of Bruden and Marshall, hosiers, in order to find out if
any information was to be obtained there about the own-
ership of the glove. He was aware that the police had
been there on the same mission, but his experience had
often shown that valuable information was to be gathered
after the police had been over the ground.
On introducing himself to the manager of the shop that
gentleman displayed as much humble civility as he would
have done towards a valued customer. He could not
say anything about the ownership of the glove which
Crewe had brought, and he could not even say if it had
come from their shop. It was an excellent glove, the
line being known in the trade as “first-choice reindeer.”
They stocked that particular kind of article at 10/6 the
pair. They had the pleasure of having had the late Sir
Horace Fewbanks on their books. He was quite an old
account, if he might use the expression. He was one of
their best customers, being a gentleman who was particu-
lar about his appearance and who would have nothing
but the best in any line that he fancied. On the subject
of Sir Horace's taste in hose the manager had much to
say, and, in spite of Crewe's efforts to confine the con-
versation to gloves, the manager repeatedly dragged in
socks. He did it so frequently that he became conscious
his visitor was showing signs of annoyance, so he apolo-
gised, adding, with an inspiration, “After all, hose is
really gloves for the feet.”
Crewe ascertained that a large number of legal gentle-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 79
---
men were customers of Bruden and Marshall. He inno-
cently suggested that the reason was because the shop
was the nearest one of its kind to the Law Courts, but
this explanation offended the shopman's pride. It was
because they stocked high-class goods and gave good
value in every way, combined with attention and civility
and a desire to please, that they did such an excellent
business with legal gentlemen. In refutation of the
idea that proximity to the Courts was the direct reason
of their having so many legal gentlemen among their
customers the manager declared that they received orders
from all parts of the world—India, Canada, Australia,
and South Africa, to say nothing of American gentlemen
who liked their hosiery to have the London hall-mark.
Their orders from the Colonies came from gentlemen
who found that these things in the Colonies were not
what they had been used to, and so they sent their orders
to Bruden and Marshall.
Crewe's interest was in the legal customers and he
asked for the names of some. The manager ran through
a list of names of judges, barristers and solicitors, but
the name Crewe wanted to hear was not among them.
He was compelled to include the name among half a
dozen others he mentioned to the manager. He ascer-
tained that Mr. Charles Holymead was a customer of
the firm, but it was apparent from the manager's spirit-
less attitude towards Mr. Holymead that the famous K.C.
was not a man who ran up a big bill with his hosier, or
was very particular about what he wore. The world
regarded some of the men of this type famous or dis-
tinguished, but in the hosier's mind they were all classed
as commonplace. But the manager would not go so far
as to say that Mr. Holymead would not buy such a glove
as that which Crewe had brought in. He might and he
might not, but, as a general rule, he did not pay more
than 8/6 for his gloves.
Crewe took a taxi to Princes Gate in order to have a
look at the house in which Holymead lived. It occurred


8O THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
to him that if Holymead was not particular about what he
spent on his clothes he was extravagant about the amount
he spent in house rent. Of course, a leading barrister
earning a huge income could afford to live in a palatial
residence in Princes Gate, but it was not the locality or
residence that an economically-minded man would have
chosen for his home. But Crewe had little doubt that
the beautiful wife Holymead possessed was responsible
for the choice of house and locality.
After looking at the house Crewe walked back to the
cab-stand at Hyde Park Corner. He had arrived at the
conclusion that it was necessary to settle beyond doubt
whether the K.C. had visited Riversbrook the night Sir
Horace had returned from Scotland. If the K.C. had
done so, he was anxious to keep the visit secret, for not
only had he not informed the police of his visit but he
had kept it from Miss Fewbanks. Crewe had ascertained
from Miss Fewbanks that Mr. Holymead when he had
called at Riversbrook on a visit of condolence had not
mentioned to her anything about having left his stick
in the hall stand on a previous visit. On leaving Miss
Fewbanks Mr. Holymead had gone up to the hall stand
and taken both his hat and stick as if he had left them
both there a few minutes before.
Crewe reasoned that if Holymead had gone out to see
Sir Horace Fewbanks at Riversbrook and had desired to
keep his visit a secret he would not have taken a cab at
Hyde Park Corner to Hampstead, but would have trav-
elled by underground railway or omnibus. In all prob-
ability the Tube had been used because of its speed being
more in harmony with the feelings of a man impatient to
get done with a subject so important that Sir Horace had
been recalled from Scotland to deal with it. He would
leave the Tube at Hampstead and take a taxi-cab. He
would not be likely to go straight to Riversbrook in the
taxi-cab, if he were anxious that his movements should
not be traced subsequently. He would dismiss the taxi-
cab at one of the hotels bordering on Hampstead Heath,


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 8I
for they were the resort of hundreds of visitors on sum-
mer nights, and his actions would thus easily escape notice.
From the hotel he would walk across to Riversbrook. But
the return journey would be made in a somewhat different
way. If Holymead left Riversbrook in a state of excite-
ment he would walk a long way without being conscious
of the exertion. He would want to be alone with his own
thoughts. Gradually he would cool down, and becoming
conscious of his surroundings would make his way home.
Again he would use the Tube, for it would be more diffi-
cult for his movements to be traced if he mixed with a
crowd of travellers than if he took a cab to his home. It
was impossible to say what station he got in at, for that
would depend on how far he walked before he cooled
down, but he would be sure to get out at Hyde Park Cor-
ner because that was the station nearest to his house.
Allowing for a temperamental reaction during a train
journey of about twenty minutes, he would feel depressed
and weary and would probably take a taxi-cab outside
Hyde Park station to his home. That was a thing he
would often be in the habit of doing when returning late
at night from the theatre or elsewhere, and therefore
could be easily explained by him if the police happened to
make inquiries as to his movements.
As Crewe anticipated, he had no difficulty in finding the
driver of the taxi-cab in which Holymead had driven
home on the night of Wednesday last. The K.C. fre-
quently used cabs, and he was well-known to all the
drivers on the rank. Crewe got into the cab he had used
and ordered the man to drive him to his office, and there
invited him upstairs. He adopted this course because
he knew that the driver, who gave his name as Taylor,
would be more likely to talk freely in an office where he
could not be overheard than he would do on the cab-rank
with his fellow-drivers crowding him, or in an hotel
parlour where other people were present.
“Tell me exactly what happened when you drove Mr.
Holymead home on Wednesday night,” said Crewe. “Did


82 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
you notice anything strange about him, or was his manner
much the same as on other occasions that he used your
cab P’’
“Well, I don't see whether I should tell you whether
he was or whether he wasn't,” replied the taxi-cab driver,
who was as surly as most of his class. “What's it to
do with you, anyway? He's a regular customer of mine
on the rank, and he's not one of your tuppenny tipsters,
either. He's a gentleman. And if he got to know that
I had been telling tales about him it would not do me
any good.”
“It would not,” replied Crewe, with cordial acquies-
cence. “Therefore, Taylor, I give you my word of
honour not to mention anything you tell me. Further-
more, I'll see that you don't lose by it now or at any other
time. I cannot say more than that, but that's a great deal
more than the police would say. Now, would you sooner
tell me or tell the police? Here's a sovereign to start
with, and if you have an interesting story to tell you'll
have another one before you leave.”
The appeal of money and the conviction that the police
would use less considerate methods if Crewe passed him
over to them abolished Taylor's scruples about discuss-
ing a fare, and it was in a much less surly tone that he
responded:
“I didn't notice anything strange about him when he
called me off the rank, but I did afterwards. First of
all, I didn't drive him home. That is, I did drive him
home, but he didn't go inside. When I drew up outside
his house in Princes Gate, I looked around expecting to
see him get out. As he didn't move I got down and
opened the door. “Aren't you getting out here, sir? I
said, in a soft voice, ‘No,' he said. ‘Drive on.’ ‘This
is your house, sir,' I ventured to say. “I’m not going in,’
he replied, “drive on.' I was surprised. I thought he
was the worse for drink, and I’d never seen him that way
before. But some gentlemen are so obstinate in liquor
that you can't get them to do anything except the opposite


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 83
of what you ask them. I thought I'd try and coax him.
‘Better go inside, sir, I said. “You’ll be better off in
bed.’ ‘Do you think I am drunk?" he said sharply. You
could have knocked me down with a feather. He was as
sober as a judge, all in a moment. ‘No, sir, I didn't,' I
said. “I wouldn't take the liberty,’ I said. “Then get back
on your seat and drive me to the Hyde Park Hotel—no,
I think I'll go to Verney's. But don't go there direct.
Drive me round the Park first. I feel I want a breath
of cool air.’”
“Go on,” said Crewe, in a tone which indicated ap-
proval of Taylor's method of telling his story.
“Well, I turned the cab round and drove through the
Park. But I was puzzled about him and looked back at
him once or twice pretending that I was looking to see
if a cab or car was coming up behind. And as we passed
over the Serpentine Bridge I saw him throw something
out of the window.”
“A glove?” suggested Crewe quickly.
The driver looked at him in profound admiration.
“Well, if you don't beat all the detectives I've ever
heard of.”
“He tried to throw it in the water,” continued Crewe,
as if explaining the matter to himself rather than to his
visitor. “Did you get it?”
“Hold on a bit,” said Taylor, who had his own ideas of
how to give value for the extra sovereign he hoped to
obtain. “I couldn't see what it was he had thrown away,
and, of course, I couldn't pull up to find out. I drove
on, but I kept my eye on him, though I had my back
to him. As we were driving back along the Broad Walk
I had another look at him, and bless me if he wasn't cry-
ing—crying like a child. He had his hands up to his
face and his head was shaking as if he was sobbing.
I said to myself, ‘He's barmy—he's gone off his rocker.’
I thought to myself I ought to drive him to the police
station, but I reckoned it was none of my business, after
all, so I'll take him to Verney's and be done with it.


84 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY i
So I drove to Verney's. He got out, and paid me, but
I couldn't see that he had been crying, and he looked
much as usual, so far as I could see. I thought to my-
self that perhaps, after all, he'd only had a queer turn;
however, I said to myself I'd drive back to the bridge and
see what he'd thrown out of the window. It was a
glove, sure enough. It had fallen just below the railing.
I looked about for the other one, but I couldn't find it,
so I suppose it must have fallen into the water.”
“No, it didn't,” said Crewe. “I have it here.” He
opened a drawer in his desk and produced a glove. “It
was a right-hand glove you found. Just look at this one
and see if it corresponds to the one you picked up.”
Taylor looked at the glove.
“They're as like as two peas,” he said.
“What did you do with the one you found?” inquired
Crewe. “I hope you didn't throw it away?”
“I’m not a fool,” retorted Taylor. “I’ve had odd gloves
left in my cab before. I kept this one thinking that
sooner or later somebody might leave another like it, and
then I'd have a pair for nothing.”
“Well, I'll buy it from you,” said Crewe. “Have you
anything more to tell me?”
“I went back to the rank and one of the chaps was
curious that I'd been so long away, for he knew that Mr.
Holymead's place isn't more than ten minutes' drive
from the station. But he got nothing out of me. I
know how to keep my mouth shut. You're the first man
I’ve told what happened, and I hope you won't give me
away.”
“I’ve already promised you that,” said Crewe, flipping
another sovereign from his sovereign case and handing it
to Taylor, “and I’ll give you five shillings for the glove.”
Taylor looked at him darkly.
“Five shillings isn't much for a glove like that,” he said
insolently. “What about my loss of time going home for
it? I suppose you'll pay the taxi-fare for the run down
from Hyde Park?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 85
“No, I won't,” said Crewe cheerfully.
“Then I don't see why I should bring it for a paltry
five shillings,” said Taylor. “If you want the glove
you'll have to pay for it.”
“But I don't want the glove,” said Crewe, who dis-
liked being made the victim of extortion. “What made
you think so? I'll sell you this one for five shillings.
We may as well do a deal of some kind; it is no use each
of us having one glove. What do you say, Taylor? Will
you buy mine for five shillings, or shall I buy yours?”
Taylor smiled sourly.
“You’re a deep one,” he said. “Here's the other glove.”
He dipped his hand into the deep pocket of his driving
coat and produced a glove. “I suppose you knew I'd
have it on me. Five shillings, and it's yours.”
“The pair are worth about five shillings to me,” said
Crewe as he paid over the money. “Do you remember
what time it was when Mr. Holymead engaged you at
Hyde Park?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“You are quite sure as to the time?”
“I heard one of the big clocks striking as he was get-
ting into my cab.”
Taylor took his departure, and Crewe, after wrapping
up the left-hand glove which he had to return to Inspector
Chippenfield, put the other one in his safe.
“We are getting on,” he said in a pleased tone. “This
means a trip to Scotland, but I'll wait until the inquest is
over.”


CHAPTER IX
At the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks,
which was held at the Hampstead Police Court, there was
an odd mixture of classes in the crowd that thronged
that portion of the court in which the public were al-
lowed to congregate. The accounts of the crime which
had been published in the press, and the atmosphere of
mystery which enshrouded the violent death of one of
the most prominent of His Majesty's judges, had stirred
the public curiosity, and therefore, in spite of the fact that
every one was supposed to be out of town in August,
the attendance at the court included a sprinkling of ladies
of the fashionable world, and their escorts.
Both branches of the legal profession were numerously
represented. All of the victim's judicial colleagues were
out of town, and though some of them intended as a mark
of respect for the dead man to come up for the funeral,
which was to take place two days later, they were too
familiar with legal procedure to feel curiosity as to the
working of the machinery at a preliminary inquiry into
the crime. They were emphatic among their friends on
the degeneracy of these days which rendered possible
such an outrageous crime as the murder of a High Court
judge. The fact that it was without precedent in the his-
tory of British law added to its enormity in the eyes
of gentlemen who had been trained to worship precedent
as the only safe guide through the shifting quicksands
of life. They were insistent on the urgency of the mur-
derer being arrested and handed over to Justice in the
person of the hangman, for—as each asked himself—
where was this sort of crime to end? In spite of the
degeneracy of the times they were reluctant to believe
86


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 87
in such a far-fetched supposition as the existence of a
band of criminals who, in revenge for the judicial sen-
tences imposed on members of their class, had sworn
to exterminate the whole of His Majesty's judges; but,
until the murderer was apprehended and the reason for
the crime was discovered, it was impossible to say that
the English judicature would not soon be called upon
to supply other victims to criminal violence. The mur-
der of a judge seemed to them a particularly atrocious
crime, in the punishment of which the law might honour-
ably sacrifice temporarily its well-earned reputation for
delay.
The bar was represented chiefly by junior members.
The senior members were able to make full use of
the long vacation, spending it at health resorts or in the
country, but the incomes of the young shoots of the
great parasitical profession did not permit them to enjoy
more than a brief holiday out of town. Of course it
would never have done for them to admit even to each
other that they could not afford to go away for an
extended holiday, and therefore they told one another
in bored tones that they had not been able to make up
their minds where to go. The junior bar included old
men, who, through lack of influence, want of energy, want
of advertisement, want of ability, or some other de-
ficiency, had never earned more than a few guineas at
their profession, though they had spent year after year
in chambers. They lived on scanty private means.
Broken in spirit they had even ceased to attend the
courts in order to study the methods and learn the tricks
of successful counsel. But the murder of a High Court
judge was a thing which stirred even their sluggish
blood, and in the hope of some sensational development
they had put on faded silk hats and shabby black suits
and gone out to Hampstead to attend the inquest.
The interest of the junior bar in the crime was as
personal as that of the members of the Judicial Bench,
though it manifested itself in an entirely different direc-


88 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
tion. They speculated among themselves as to who would
be appointed to the vacancy on the High Court Bench.
A leading K.C. with a political pull would of course
be selected by the Attorney-General, but there were sev-
eral K.C.’s who possessed these qualifications, and there-
fore there was room for differences of opinion among
the junior bar as to who would get the offer. The point
on which they were all united was that vacancies of the -
High Court Bench were a good thing for the bar as
a whole, for they removed leading K.C.’s, and the dis-
persion of their practice was like rain on parched ground.
Metaphorically speaking, every one—including even the
junior bar—had the chance of getting a shove up when a
leading K.C. accepted a judicial appointment. Some of
the more irreverent spirits among the junior bar, in draw-
ing attention to the fact that Sir Horace Fewbanks had .
been one of the youngest members of the High Court
Bench, expressed the hope that the shock of his death
would be felt by some of the extremely aged members of .
the bench who were too infirm in health to be able to
stand many shocks.
The members of the junior bar chatted with the repre-
sentatives of the lower branch of the profession who
ranged from articled clerks whose young souls had not
been entirely dried up by association with parchment,
to hard old delvers in dusty documents who had lived
so long in the legal atmosphere of quibbling, obstruction,
and deceit, that they were as incapable of an honest im-
petuous act as of an illegal one. The gossip concerning
the murdered judge in which the two branches of the
profession joined had reference to his moral character
in legal circles. There had always been gossip of the
kind in his life-time. Sir Horace's judicial reputation
was beyond reproach and he had known his law a great
deal better than most of his judicial colleagues. Com-
paratively few of his decisions had been upset on appeal.
But every one about the courts knew that he was sus-
ceptible to a pretty feminine face and a good figure.
*


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 89
Many were the conflicts that arose in court between bench
and bar as the result of Mr. Justice Fewbanks's habit of
protecting pretty witnesses from cross-examining ques-
tions which he regarded as outside the case. There was
no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced
by the good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases
heard by him, but there were rumours that on occasions
the relations between the judge and a pretty witness be-
gun in court had ripened into something at which moral
men might well shake their heads.
While the members of the legal profession struggled
to obtain seats in the body of the court, an entirely dif-
ferent class of spectators struggled to get into the gal-
lery. For the most part they were badly dressed men who
needed a shave, but there were a few well-dressed men
among them, and also a few ladies. Detective Rolfe took
a professional interest in the occupants of the gallery.
“What a collection of crooks,” he whispered to Inspec-
tor Chippenfield. “A regular rogues' gallery. Look
—there is ‘Nosey George'; it is time he was in again.
And behind him is that cunning old “drop' Ikey Samuels
—I wish we could get him. Look at the other end of
the first row. Isn't that ‘Sunny Jim'? I hardly knew
him. He's grown a beard since he's been out. We'll
soon have it off again for him. He's got the impudence
to scowl at us. He'll lay for you one of these nights,
Inspector.”
The judicial duties of the murdered man had been
concerned chiefly with civil cases at the Royal Courts of
Justice, but when the criminal calender had been heavy
he had often presided at Number One Court at the Old
Bailey. It was this fact which had given the criminal class
a sort of personal interest in his murder and accounted for
the presence of many well-known criminals who happened
to be out of gaol at the time. The spectators in the gal-
lery included men whom the murdered man had sen-
tenced and men who had been fortunate enough to escape
being sentenced by him owing to the vagaries of juries.


90 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
There were pickpockets, sneak thieves, confidence men,
burglars, and receivers among the occupants of the gal-
lery, and many of them had brought with them the ladies
who assisted them professionally or presided over their
homes when they were not in gaol.
“I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among
that bunch,” said Rolfe to Inspector Chippenfield.
“You’ve a lot to learn about them, my boy,” said his
superior.
“There is Crewe up among them,” continued Rolfe.
“I wonder what he thinks he's after.”
Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direc-
tion of Crewe, but did not deign to give any sign of
recognition. The fact that Crewe by his presence in
the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the mur-
derer might be found among the occupants of that part
of the court could not be as lightly dismissed as Rolfe's
vague suggestion. It annoyed Inspector Chippenfield
to think that Crewe might be nearer at the moment
to the murderer than he himself was, even though that
proximity was merely physical and unsupported by evi-
dence or even by any theory. It would have been a
great relief to him if he had known that Crewe's object
in going to the gallery was not to mix with the criminal
classes, but in order to keep a careful survey of what
took place in the body of the court without making him-
self too prominent.
Mr. Holymead, K.C., arrived, and members of the
junior bar deferentially made room for him. He shook
hands with some of these gentlemen and also with In-
spector Chippenfield, much to the gratification of that
officer. Miss Fewbanks arrived in a taxi-cab a few min-
utes before the appointed hour of eleven. She was ac-
companied by Mrs. Holymead, and they were shown
into a private room by Police-Constable Flack, who had
received instructions from Inspector Chippenfield to be on
the lookout for the murdered man's daughter.
Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 9I
inseparable since the tragedy had been discovered. Imme-
diately on the arrival of Miss Fewbanks from Dellmere,
Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to condole
with her, and to support her in her great sorrow. But the
murdered man's daughter, who, on account of having lived
apart from her father, had developed a self-reliant spirit,
seemed to be less overcome by the horror of the tragedy
than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling that
there was something lacking in her own nature, that
the girl realised that Mrs. Holymead's grief for the vio-
lent death of a man who had been her husband's dearest
friend was greater than her own grief at the loss of
a father.
One of the directions in which Mrs. Holymead's grief
found expression was in a feverish desire to know all
that was being done to discover the murderer. She dis-
played continuous interest in the investigations of the
detectives engaged on the case, and she had implored
Miss Fewbanks to let her know when any important dis-
covery was made. She applauded the action of her
young friend in engaging such a famous detective as
Crewe, and declared that if anyone could unravel the
mystery, Crewe would do it. She had been particularly
anxious to hear through Miss Fewbanks what Crewe's
impressions were, with regard to the tragedy.
The court was opened punctually, the coroner being Mr.
Bodyman, a stout, clean-shaven, white-haired gentleman
who had spent thirty years of his life in the stuffy atmos-
phere of police courts hearing police-court cases. Police-
Inspector Seldon nodded in reply to the inquiring glance
of the coroner, and the inquest was opened.
The first witness was Miss Fewbanks. She was
dressed in deep black and was obviously a little unnerved.
In a low tone she said she had identified the body as that
of her father. She was staying at her father's country
house in Dellmere, Sussex, when the crime was commit-
ted. She had no knowledge of anyone who was evilly


92 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
disposed towards her father. He had never spoken to her
of anyone who cherished a grudge against him.
Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the
body was found was given by Police-Constable Flack.
He described the position of the room in which the body
was found, and the attitude in which the body was
stretched. He was on duty in the neighbourhood of Tan-
ton Gardens on the night of the murder, but saw no sus-
picious characters and heard no sounds.
The evidence of Hill was chiefly a repetition of what
he had told Inspector Chippenfield as to his movements
on the day of the crime, and his methods of inspecting the
premises three times a week in accordance with his mas-
ter's orders. He knew nothing about Sir Horace's sud-
den return from Scotland. His first knowledge of this
was the account of the murder, which he read in the
papers.
Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of
producing the letter received at Scotland Yard announc-
ing that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. The
letter was passed up to the coroner for his inspection, and
when he had examined it he sent it to the foreman of the
jury. Then followed medical evidence, which showed
that death was due to a bullet wound and could not have
been self-inflicted.
The coroner, in his summing-up, dwelt upon the loss
sustained by the Judiciary by the violent death of one of
its most distinguished members, and the jury, after a
retirement of a few minutes, brought in a verdict of
wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.
As the occupants of the court filed out into the street,
Crewe, who was watching Holymead, noticed the K.C.
give a slight start when he saw Miss Fewbanks and
his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and
shook hands with Miss Fewbanks, and to Crewe it
seemed as if he was on the point of shaking hands with
his wife, but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw the
ladies into their cab, and, raising his hat, went off. As


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 93
Mr. Holymead had seen Miss Fewbanks in court when
she gave evidence, it was obvious to Crewe that he could
not have been surprised at meeting her outside. It was
therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised
him. That fact—if it were a fact—opened a limitless field
of speculation to Crewe, but in spite of the possibility
of error—a possibility which he frankly recognised—
he was pleased with himself for having noticed the inci-
dent. To him it seemed to provide another link in the
chain he was constructing. It harmonised with Taylor's
story of Mr. Holymead's decision to stay at Verney's in-
stead of entering his own home the night Taylor drove
him from Hyde Park Corner.
Rolfe also possessed the professional faculty of ob-
servation, but in a different degree. He had seen Mr.
Holymead talking to his wife and Miss Fewbanks, but
he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in the bar-
rister's manner. What did astonish him in connection
with Mr. Holymead was that after he had left the ladies
and was walking in the direction of the cab-rank he
spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery.
This was a man known to the police and his associates
as “Kincher.” His name was Kemp, and how he had
obtained his nick-name was not known. He was a crim-
inal by profession and had undergone several heavy sen-
tences for burglary. He was a thick-set man of me-
dium height, about fifty years of age. Apart from a
rather heavy lower jaw, he gave no external indication of
his professional pursuits, but looked, with his brown and
weather-beaten face and rough blue reefer suit, not unlike
a seafaring man. The likeness was heightened by a
tattooed device which covered the back of his right hand,
and a slight roll in his gait when he walked. But appear-
ances are deceptive, for Mr. Kemp, at liberty or in gaol,
had never been out of London in his life. He was born
and bred a London thief, and had served all his sentences
at Wormwood Scrubbs. For over a minute he and Mr.
Holymead remained in conversation. Rolfe would have
.


94 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
described it officially as familiar conversation, but that
description would have overlooked the deference, the
sense of inferiority, in “Kincher’s” manner. For a time
Rolfe was puzzled by the incident, but he eventually
lighted on an explanation which satisfied himself. It was
that in the earlier days before Mr. Holymead had reached
such a prominent position at the bar, he had been engaged
in practice in the criminal courts, and “Kincher” had been
one of his clients.
With a cheerful smile Holymead brought the conversa-
tion to an end and went on his way. Kemp walked on
hurriedly in the opposite direction. He had his eyes
on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and
who had seemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him
that this young man, for whom he had been on the watch
when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seized the oppor-
tunity to slip past him while he was talking to the eminent
K.C. The young man, even from the back view, seemed
to be well-dressed. -
“Hallo, Fred,” exclaimed Mr. Kemp, as he reached
within a yard or two of his quarry.
“Hallo, Kincher,” replied the young man, turning
round. “I didn't notice you. Were you up at the
court?”
“Yes, I looked in,” said Mr. Kemp. “There wasn't
much doing, was there?”
“No,” said Fred.
“He won't trouble us any more,” pursued Mr. Kemp.
“No.” The young man seemed to have a dread of
helping along the conversation, and therefore sought
refuge in monosyllables.
Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question.
“Did you go up there that night?”
“No.” The reply came instantaneously, but the young
man followed it up with a look of inquiry to ascertain
if his denial was believed.
“A good thing as it happened,” said Mr. Kemp.
“I had nothing to do with it,” said Fred, earnestly.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 95
“I never said you had,” replied Mr. Kemp.
“Nothing whatever to do with it,” continued the young
man with emphasis. “That's not my sort of game.”
“I’m not saying anything, Fred,” replied the elder man.
“But whoever done it might have done it by accident-
like.”
“Accident or no accident, I had nothing to do with
it, thank God.”
“That is all right, Fred. I'm not saying you know
anything about it. But even if you did you'd find I could
be trusted. I don't go blabbing round to everybody.”
“I know you don't. But as I said before I had nothing
to do with it. I didn't go there that night—I changed
my mind.”
“A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you
up you can prove an alibi.”
“Yes,” said Fred, “I can prove an alibi easy enough.
But what makes you talk about them looking me up?
Why should they get into me—why should they look me
up? I’ve told you I didn't go there.”
“That is all right, Fred,” said the other, in a sooth-
ing tone. “If that pal of yours keeps his mouth shut
there is nothing to put them on your tracks. But I don't
like the looks of him. He seems to me a bit nervous,
and if they put him through the third degree he'll squeak.
That's my impression.”
“If he squeaks he'll have to settle with me,” said Fred.
“And he'll find there is something to pay. If he tries
to put me away I’ll—I’ll—I’ll do him in.”
“Kincher” instead of being horrified at this sentiment
seemed to approve of it as the right thing to be done.
“I'd let him know if I was you, Fred,” he said. “I didn't
like the look of him. The reason I came out here to-day
was to have a look at him. And when I saw him in the
box I said to myself, ‘Well, I'm glad I’ve staked nothing
on you, for it seems to me that you'll crack up if the
police shake their thumb-screws in your face.’ I felt glad
I hadn't accepted your invitation to make it a two-handed


96 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
job, Fred. It was the fact that some one else I’d
never seen had put up the job that kept me out of it
when you asked me to go with you. A man can't be too
careful—especially after he's had a long spell in ‘stir.’
But of course you're all right if you changed your mind
and didn't go up there. But if I was you I'd have my
alibi ready. It is no good leaving things until the police
are at the door and making one up on the spur of the
moment.”
“Yes, I’ll see about it,” said Fred. “It’s a good idea.”
“Come in and have a drink, Fred,” said “Kincher.”
“It will do you good. It was dry work listening to them
talking up there about the murder.”
Fred accompanied Mr. Kemp into the bar of the hotel
they reached, and the elder man, after an inquiring glance
at his companion, ordered two whiskies. “Kincher”
added water to the contents of each glass, and, lifting
his glass in his right hand, waited until Fred had done the
same and then said:
“Well, here's luck and long life to the man that did it
—whoever he is.”
Fred offered no objection to this sentiment and they
drained glasses.


CHAPTER X
“AND so you've had no luck, Rolfe?”
Inspector Chippenfield, glancing up from his official
desk in Scotland Yard, put this question in a tone of
voice which suggested that the speaker had expected
nothing better.
“I’ve seen the heads of at least half a dozen likely West
End shops,” Rolfe replied, “and they tell me there is
nothing to indicate where the handkerchief was bought.
The scrap of lace merely shows that it was torn off a
good handkerchief, but there is nothing about it to show
that the handkerchief was different in any marked way
from the average filmy scrap of muslin and lace which
every smart woman carries as a handkerchief. I thought
so myself, before I started to make inquiries.”
“Well, Rolfe, we must come at it another way,” said
the inspector. “Undoubtedly there is a woman in the
case, and it ought not to be impossible to locate her.
Your theory, Rolfe, is that the murder was committed
by some one who broke into the place while Sir Horace
was entertaining a lady friend or waiting for the arrival
of a lady he expected. Either the lady had not arrived
or had left the room temporarily when the burglar broke
into the house. He had spotted the place some days
before and ascertained that it was empty, and when he
found that Sir Horace had returned alone he decided
to break in, and, covering Sir Horace with a revolver,
try to extort money from him. A riskier but more profit-
able game than burgling an empty house—if it came off.
With his revolver in his hand he made his way up to
the library. Sir Horace parleyed with him until he
could reach his own revolver, and then got in the first
shot but missed his man. The burglar shot him and
97


98 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
then bolted. The lady heard the shots, and, rushing in,
found Sir Horace in his death agony. She was stooping
over him with her handkerchief in her hand, and in his
convulsive moments he caught hold of a corner of it'and
the handkerchief was torn. The lady left the place and
on arrival home concocted that letter which was sent here
telling us that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is
that it?”
“Yes,” assented Rolfe. “Of course, I don't lay it down
that everything happened just as you've said. But that's
my idea of the crime. It accounts for all the clues we've
picked up, and that is something.”
“It is an ingenious theory and it does you credit,” said
the inspector, who had not forgotten that he had pro-
posed to Rolfe that they should help one another to
the extent of taking one another fully into each other's
confidence, for the purpose of getting ahead of Crewe.
“But you have overlooked the fact that it is possible to
account in another way for all the clues we have picked
up. Suppose Sir Horace's return from Scotland was
due to a message from a lady friend; suppose the lady
went to see him accompanied by a friend whom Sir
Horace did not like—a friend of whom Sir Horace was
jealous. Suppose they asked for money—blackmail—and
there was a quarrel in which Sir Horace was shot. Then
we have your idea as to how the lady's handkerchief
was torn—I agree with that in the main. The lady and
her friend fled from the place. Later in the night the
place is burgled by some one who has had his eye on it
for some time, and on entering the library he is astounded
to find the dead body of the owner. Suppose he went
home, and on thinking things over sent the letter to Scot-
land Yard with the idea that if the police got on to his
tracks about the burglary the fact that he had told us
about the murder would show he had nothing to do with
killing Sir Horace.”
“That is a good theory, too,” said Rolfe, in a medi-
tative tone. “And the only person who can tell us which


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 99
is the right one is Sir Horace's lady friend. The problem
is to find her.”
“Right,” said the inspector approvingly. “And while
you have been making inquiries at the shops about
the handkerchief I have been down to the Law Courts
branch of the Equity Bank where Sir Horace kept his ac-
count. It occurred to me that a look at Sir Horace's
account might help us. You know the sort of man he was
—you know his weakness for the ladies. But he was
careful. I looked through his private papers out at
Riversbrook expecting to get on the track of something
that would show some one had been trying to blackmail
him over an entanglement with a woman, but I found
nothing. I couldn't even find any feminine correspond-
ence. If Sir Horace was in the habit of getting letters
from ladies he was also in the habit of destroying them.
No doubt he adopted that precaution when his wife was
alive, and found it such a wise one that he kept it up
when there was less need for it. But a weakness for
the ladies costs money, Rolfe, as you know, and that is
why I had a look at his banking account. He made some
payments that it would be worth while to trace—pay-
ments to West End drapers and that sort of thing. Of
course, Sir Horace, being a cautious man and occupying
a public position, might not care to flaunt his weakness
in the eyes of West End shopkeepers, and instead of pay-
ing the accounts of his lady friend of the moment, may
have given her the money and trusted to her paying the
bills—a thing that women of that kind are never in a
hurry to do. In that case the payments to West End
shopkeepers are for goods supplied to his daughter. How-
ever, I’ve taken a note of the names, dates, and amounts
of a number of them, and I want you to see the man-
agers of these shops.”
“We are getting close to it now,” said Rolfe, approv-
ingly.
“I think so,” was the modest reply of his superior.
“There is one thing about Sir Horace's account which
31720 3B
_*


IOO THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
struck me as peculiar. Every four weeks for the past
eight months Sir Horace drew a cheque for £24, and
every cheque of the kind was made payable to Number
365. Now, unless he wished to hide the nature of the
transaction from his bankers, why not put in the cheque
in the name of the person who received the money? It
couldn't have been for his personal use, for in that case
he would have made the cheques payable to self. Be-
sides, a man with a banking account doesn't draw a regu-
lar É24 every four weeks for personal expenses. He
draws a cheque just when he wants a few pounds, instead
of carrying five-pound notes about with him. I asked
the bank manager about these cheques and he looked up
a couple of them and found they had been cashed over
the counter. So he called up the cashier and from him
I learnt that Sir Horace came in and cashed them. As
far as he can remember Sir Horace cashed all these £24
cheques. I assume he did so because he realised that
there was less likely to be comment in the bank than if
a well-dressed good-looking young lady arrived at the
bank with them. This £24 a month suggests that Sir
Horace had something choice and not too expensive
stowed away in a flat. That is a matter on which Hill
ought to be able to throw some light. If he knows any-
thing I'll get it out of him. It struck me as extraordinary
that Sir Horace should have taken Hill into his service
knowing what he was. But this, apparently, is the ex-
planation. He knew that Hill wouldn't gossip about him
for fear of being exposed, for that would mean that
Hill would lose his situation and would find it impossible
to get another one without a reference from him. We'll
have Hill brought here—”
There was a knock at the door, and a boy in buttons
entered and handed Inspector Chippenfield a card.
“Seldon from Hampstead,” he explained to Rolfe.
“Don’t go away yet. It may be something about this
case.”
Police-Inspector Seldon entered the office, and held the


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY UOI
door ajar for a man behind him. He shook hands with
Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe, and then motioned
his companion to a chair.
“This is Mr. Robert Evans, the landlord of the Flower-
dew Hotel, Covent Garden,” he explained. He looked at
Mr. Evans with the air of a police-court inspector waiting
for a witness to corroborate his statement, but as that
gentleman remained silent he sharply asked, “Isn't that
SOP.”
“Quite right,” said Mr. Evans, in a moist, husky voice.
He was a short fat man, with an extremely red face and
bulging eyes, which watered very much and apparently
required to be constantly mopped with a handkerchief
which he carried in his hand. This peculiarity gave Mr.
Evans the appearance of a man perpetually in mourning,
and this effect was heightened by a species of incipient
palsy which had seized on his lower facial muscles, and
caused his lips to tremble violently. He was bald in the
front of the head but not on the top. The baldness over
the temples had joined hands and left isolated over the
centre of the forehead a small tuft of hair, which, with
the playfulness of second childhood, showed a tendency
to curl.
“Yes, you're quite right,” he repeated huskily, as
though some one had doubted the statement. “Evans is
my name and I'm not ashamed of it.”
“He came to me this morning and told me that Hill
gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday,” Inspector
Seldon explained. “So I brought him along to see
you.”
“False evidence—Hill?” exclaimed Inspector Chippen-
field, with keen interest. “Let us hear about it.”
“Well, you will remember Hill said he was at home
on the night of the murder,” pursued Inspector Seldon.
“I looked up his depositions before I came away and
what he said was this: ‘I took my daughter to the Zoo
in the afternoon. We left the Zoo at half past five and
went home and had tea. My wife then took the child


IO2 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
to the picture-palace and I remained at home. I did not
go out that night. They returned about half-past ten,
and after supper we all went to bed.” But Evans tells
me he saw Hill in his bar at three o'clock on the morning
of the 19th of August. He has an early license for the ac-
commodation of the Covent Garden traffic. He can swear
to Hill. A man who goes to bed at half-past ten has no
right to be wandering about Covent Garden at 3 a.m.
And besides, Hill told us nothing about this. So I brought
Evans along to see what you make of it.”
Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was
making a few notes.
“Very interesting indeed,” he said. Then he turned to
Evans and asked, “Are you sure you saw Hill in your bar
at three a. m. P. There is no possibility of a mistake?”
“He is the man who was knocked down outside by a
porter running into him,” said Mr. Evans, mopping his
eyes. “I could bring half a dozen witnesses who will
swear to him.”
“You see, it's this way,” interpolated Inspector Seldon,
taking up the landlord's narrative. His police-court train-
ing had taught him to bring out the salient points of a
story, and he was naturally of the opinion that he could
tell another man's story better than the man could tell
it himself. “Hill was staring about him—it was prob-
ably the first time he had been to Covent Garden in the
early morning—and got knocked over. He was stunned,
and some porters took him in to the bar, sat him on a
form, and poured some rum into him. Some of the
porters were for ringing up the ambulance; others were
for carrying Hill off to the hospital, but he soon recov-
ered. However, he sat there for about twenty minutes,
and after having several drinks at his own expense he
went away. Evans served him with the drinks.”
“Good,” said Inspector Chippenfield, who liked the cir-
cumstantial details of the story. “And you can get half
a dozen porters to identify him?”
“Bill Cribb, Harry Winch, Charlie Brown, a fellow


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY IO3
they call “Green Violets'—I don't know his real
name—”
Mr. Evans was calling on his memory for further
names but was stopped by Inspector Chippenfield.
“That will do very well, And how did you happen to
be at the inquest at Hampstead? That is a bit out of your
way.” -
Mr. Evans mopped his eyes, and Inspector Seldon took
upon himself to reply for him. “He has a brother-in-
law in the trade at Hampstead—keeps the Three Jugs in
Coulter Street. Evans had to go out to see his brother-
in-law on business, and his brother-in-law took him along
to the court out of curiosity.”
Inspector Chippenfield nodded.
“Rolfe,” he said, “take down Mr. Evans's statement
outside and get him to sign it. Don't go away when
you've finished. I want you.”
Mr. Evans, even if he felt that full justice had been
done to his story by Inspector Seldon, was disappointed
at the police officer's failure to do justice to his manly
scruples in coming forward to give evidence against a
man who had never done him any harm. Addressing
Inspector Chippenfield he said:
“I don't altogether like mixing myself up in this busi-
ness. That isn't my way. If I have a thing to say to a
man I like to say it to his face. I don't like a man to
say things behind a man's back, that is, if he calls him-
self a man. But I thought over this thing after leaving
the court and hearing this chap Hill say he hadn't left
home that night, and I talked it over with my wife—”
“You did the right thing,” said Inspector Chippenfield,
with the emphasis of a man who had profited by the
triumph of right. -
Mr. Evans was under the impression that the inspec-
tor's approval referred chiefly to the part he had played
as a husband in talking over his perplexity with his wife,
rather than the part he had played as a man in revealing
that Hill had lied in his evidence.


104 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“I always do,” he said. “My wife's one of the sensible
sort, and when a man takes her advice he don't go far
wrong. She advised me to go straight to the police-sta-
tion and tell them all I know. “It is a cruel murder,’ she
said, ‘and who knows but it might be our turn next?’”
This example of the imaginative element in feminine
logic made no impression on the practical official who
listened to the admiring husband.
“That is all right,” said Inspector Chippenfield sooth-
ingly. “I understand your scruples. They do you credit.
But an honest man like you doesn't want to shield a
criminal from justice—least of all a cold-blooded mur-
derer.”
When Rolfe returned to his superior with Evans's
signed statement in his hand, he found the inspector pre-
paring to leave the office.
“Put on your hat and come with me,” said the in-
spector. “We will go out and see Mrs. Hill. I'll
frighten the truth out of her and then tackle Hill. He
is sure to be up at Riversbrook, and we can go on there
from Camden Town.” -
While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, In-
spector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the ob-
ject of saving time. He would interview Mrs. Hill and
while he was doing so Rolfe could make inquiries at the
neighbouring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector's
conviction that a man who had anything to do with a
murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next
day.
Mrs. Hill kept a small confectionery shop adjoining a
cinema theatre to supplement her husband's wages by a
little earnings of her own in order to support her child.
Although the shop was an unpretentious one, and ca-
tered mainly for the ha'p'orths of the juvenile patrons of
the picture house next door, it was called “The Camden
Town Confectionery Emporium,” and the title was
printed over the little shop in large letters. Inspector


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY IO5
Chippenfield walked into the empty shop, and rapped
sharply on the counter.
A little thin woman, with prematurely grey hair, and
a depressed expression, appeared from the back in re-
sponse to the summons. She started nervously as her
eye encountered the police uniform, but she waited to be
spoken to.
“Is your name Hill?” asked the inspector sternly.
“Mrs. Emily Hill?”
The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed
on the inspector's face.
“Then I want to have a word with you,” continued the
inspector, walking through the shop into the parlour.
“Come in here and answer my questions.”
Mrs. Hill followed him timidly into the room he had
entered. It was a small, shabbily-furnished apartment,
and the inspector's massive proportions made it look
smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the
strip of drugget which did duty as a hearth-rug, and
staring fiercely at her, suddenly commenced:
“Mrs. Hill, where was your husband on the night of
the 18th of August, when his employer, Sir Horace Few-
banks, was murdered P”
Mrs. Hill shrank before that fierce gaze, and said, in
a low tone:
“Please, sir, he was at home.”
“At home, was he? I’m not so sure of that. Tell me all
about your husband's movements on that day and night.
What time did he come home, to begin with?”
“He came home early in the afternoon to take our
little girl to the Zoo-which was a treat she had been
looking forward to for a long while. I couldn't go my-
self, there being the shop to look after. So Mr. Hill and
Daphne went to the Zoo, and after they came home and
had tea I took her to the pictures while Mr. Hill minded
the shop. It was not the picture-palace next door, but
the big one in High Street, where they were showing


IOG THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
‘East Lynne.” Then when we come home about ten
o'clock we all had supper and went to bed.”
“And your husband didn't go out again?”
“No, sir. When I got up in the morning to bring him
a cup of tea he was still sound asleep.”
“But might he not have gone out in the night while
you were asleep?”
“No, sir. I'm a very light sleeper, and I wake at the
least stir.”
Mrs. Hill's story seemed to ring true enough, although
she kept her eyes fixed on her interrogator with a kind
of frightened brightness. Inspector Chippenfield looked
at her in silence for a few seconds.
“So that's the whole truth, is it?” he said at length.
“Yes, sir,” the woman earnestly assured him. “You
can ask Mr. Hill and he'll tell you the same thing.”
Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield's mind
responded to this sentence. He pondered over it for
a moment, and then remembered that Hill had applied the
same phrase to his wife. Evidently there had been col-
lusion, a comparing of tales beforehand. The woman
had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband,
but undoubtedly her tale was false.
“The whole truth?” said the inspector, again.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Hill.
“Now, look here,” said the police officer, in his stern-
est tones, as he shook a warning finger at the little woman,
“I know you are lying. I know Hill didn't sleep in the
house that night. He was seen near Riversbrook in the
early part of the night and he was seen wandering about
Covent Garden after the murder had been committed. It
is no use lying to me, Mrs. Hill. If you want to save
your husband from being arrested for this murder you'll
tell the truth. What time did he leave here that night?”
“I’ve already told you the truth, sir,” replied the little
woman. “He didn't leave the place after he came back
from the Zoo.”
Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled. It seemed to


Io9 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“Please, sir, I'm eight next birthday.”
“Why, you're quite a big girl, Daphne! Do you go to
school?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I'm in the second form.”
“Do you like going to school, Daphne?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you like going to the Zoo better? Did you
like going with father the other day?”
The child's eyes sparkled with retrospective pleasure.
“Oh, yes,” she said, delightedly. “We saw all kinds of
things: lions and tigers, and elephants. I had a ride on
a elephant”—her eyes grew big with the memory—“an'
'e took a bun with his long nose out of my hand.”
“That was splendid, Daphnel Which did you like best
—the Zoo or the pictures?”
“I liked them both,” she replied.
“Was Father at home when you came home from the
pictures?”
“No,” said the little girl innocently. “He was out.”
Mrs. Hill, standing a little way off with fear on her
face, uttered an inarticulate noise, and took a step to-
wards the inspector and her daughter.
“Better not interfere, Mrs. Hill, unless you want to
make matters worse,” said the inspector meaningly.
“Now, tell me, Daphne, dear, when did your father come
home?”
“Not till morning,” replied the little girl, with a timid
glance at her mother.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I slept in Mother's bed that night with
Mother, like I always do when Father is away, but Father
came home in the morning and lifted me into my own bed,
because he said he wanted to go to bed.”
“What time was that, Daphne?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“It was light, Daphne? You could see?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
Inspector Chippenfield told the child she was a good


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY Io9
girl, and gave her sixpence. The little one slipped
off his knee and ran across to her mother with delight,
to show the coin; all unconscious that she had betrayed
her father. The mother pushed the child from her with
a heart-broken gesture.
A heavy step was heard in the shop, and the inspector,
looking through the window, saw Rolfe. He opened the
door leading from the shop and beckoned his subordi-
nate in.
Rolfe was excited, and looked like a man burdened with
weighty news. He whispered a word in Inspector Chip-
penfield's ear.
“Let's go into the shop,” said Inspector Chippen-
field promptly. “But, first, I'll make things safe here.”
He locked the door leading to the kitchen, put the key
into his pocket, and followed his colleague into the shop.
“Now, Rolfe, what is it?”
“I’ve found out that Hill put in nearly the whole day
after the murder drinking in a wine tavern. He sat there
like a man in a dream and spoke to nobody. The only
thing he took any interest in was the evening papers. He
bought about a dozen of them during the afternoon.”
“Where was this?” asked the inspector.
“At a little wine tavern in High Street, where he's never
been seen before. The man who keeps the place gave
me a good description of him, though. Hill went there
about ten o'clock in the morning, and started drinking
port wine, and as fast as the evening papers came out he
sent the boy out for them, glanced through them, and
then crumpled them up. He stayed there till after
five o'clock. By that time the 6.30 editions would reach
Camden Town, and if you remember it was the six-
thirty editions which had the first news of the murder.
The tavern-keeper declares that Hill drank nearly two
bottles of Tarragona port, in threepenny glasses, during
the day.”
“I should have credited Hill with a better taste in
port, with his opportunities as Sir Horace Fewbanks's


IIO THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
butler,” said Inspector Chippenfield drily. “What you
have found out, Rolfe, only goes to bear out my own
discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair.
I have found out, for my part, that Hill did not spend
the night of the murder at home here.”
There was a ring of triumph in Inspector Chippen-
field's voice as he announced this discovery, but be-
fore Rolfe could make any comment upon it there was a
quick step behind them, and both men turned, to see
Hill. The butler was astonished at finding the two police
officers in his wife's shop. He hesitated, and apparently
his first impulse was to turn into the street again; but,
realising the futility of such a course, he came forward
with an attempt to smooth his worried face into a con-
ciliatory smile.
“Hill!” said Inspector Chippenfield sternly. “Once and
for all, will you own up where you were on the night of
the murder?”
Hill started slightly, then, with admirable self-com-
mand, he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped
and reticent as ever.
“I’ve already told you, sir,” he replied smoothly. “I
spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, sir, she'll
tell you I never stirred out of the house after I came back
from taking my little girl to the Zoo.”
“I know she will, you scoundrel!” burst out the choleric
inspector. “She's been well tutored by you, and she
tells the tale very well. But it's no good, Hill. You
forgot to tutor your little daughter, and she's innocently
put you away. What's more, you were seen in London
before daybreak the night after the murder. The game's
up, my man.”
Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs
as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips be-
fore he was able to speak.
“Don’t put them on me,” he said imploringly, as In-
spector Chippenfield advanced towards him. “I’ll—I'll
confess!”


CHAPTER XI
INSPECTOR CHIPPENFIELD's first words were a warning.
“You know what you are saying, Hill?” he asked. “You
know what this means? Any statement you make may
be used in evidence against you at your trial.”
“I’ll tell you everything,” faltered Hill. The impassive
mask of the well-trained English servant had dropped
from him, and he stood revealed as a trembling elderly
man with furtive eyes, and a painfully shaken manner.
“I’ll be glad to tell you everything,” he declared, laying
a twitching hand on the inspector's coat. “I’ve not had a
minute's peace or rest since—since it happened.”
The dry official manner in which Inspector Chip-
penfield produced a note-book was in striking contrast
to the trapped man's attitude.
“Go ahead,” he commanded, wetting his pencil between
his lips.
Before Hill could respond a small boy entered the shop
—a ragged, shock-headed dirty urchin, bareheaded and
barefooted. He tapped loudly on the counter with a
halfpenny.
“What do you want, boy?” roughly asked the inspector.
“A 'a'porth of blackboys,” responded the child, in the
confident tone of a regular customer.
“If you'll permit me, sir, I'll serve him,” said Hill and
he glided behind the little counter, took some black sticky
sweetmeats from one of the glass jars on the shelf and
gave them to the boy, who popped one in his mouth and
scurried off.
“I think we had better go inside and hear what Hill
has to say, Inspector, while Mrs. Hill minds the shop,”
said Rolfe. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hill's
white frightened face peering through the dirty little
glass pane in the parlour door.
III


II2 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Inspector Chippenfield approved of the idea.
“We don't want to spoil your wife's business, Hill—
she's likely to need it,” he said, with cruel official banter.
“Come here, Mrs. Hill,” he said, raising his voice.
The faded little woman appeared in response to the
summons, bringing the child with her. She shot a fright-
ened glance at her husband, which Inspector Chippenfield
intercepted.
“Never mind looking at your husband, Mrs. Hill,” he
said roughly. “You’ve done your best for him, and the
only thing to be told now is the truth. Now you and
your daughter can stay in the shop. We want your hus-
band inside.”
Mrs. Hill clasped her hands quickly.
“Oh, what is it, Henry?” she said. “Tell me what has
happened? What have they found out?”
“Keep your mouth shut,” commanded her husband
harshly. “This way, sir, if you please.”
Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe followed him into
the parlour.
“Now, Hill,” impatiently said Inspector Chippenfield.
The butler raised his head wearily.
“I suppose I may as well begin at the beginning and tell
you everything,” he said.
“Yes,” replied the inspector, “it’s not much use keeping
anything back now.”
“Oh, it's not a case of keeping anything back,” re-
plied Hill. “You’re too clever for me, and I've made up
my mind to tell you everything, but I thought I might
be able to cut the first part short, so as to save your time.
But so that you'll understand everything I've got to go a
long way back—shortly after I entered Sir Horace Few-
banks's service. In fact, I hadn't been long with him
before I began to see he was leading a strange life—a
double life, if I may say so. A servant in a gentleman's
house—particularly one in my position—sees a good deal
he is not meant to see; in fact, he couldn't close his eyes
to it if he wanted to, as no doubt you, from your experi-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY II3
ence, sir, know very well. A confidential servant sees
and hears a lot of things, sir.”
Inspector Chippenfield nodded his head sharply, but he
did not speak.
“I think Sir Horace trusted me, too,” continued Hill
humbly, “more than he would have trusted most servants,
on account of my—my past. I fancy, if I may say so,
that he counted on my gratitude because he had given
me a fresh start in life. And he was quite right—at
first.” Hill dropped his voice and looked down as he
uttered the last two words. “I'd have done anything for
him. But as I was saying, sir, I hadn't been long in his
house before I found out that he had a-a weakness—”
Hill timidly bowed his head as though apologising to the
dead judge for assailing his character—“a weakness for
—for the ladies. Sometimes Sir Horace went off for
the week-end without saying where he was going and
sometimes he went out late at night and didn't return
till after breakfast. Then he had ladies visiting him at
Riversbrook—not real ladies, if you understand, sir.
Sometimes there was a small party of them, and then
they made a noise singing music-hall songs and drinking
wine, but generally they came alone. Towards the end
there was one who came a lot oftener than the others.
I found out afterwards that her name was Fanning—
Doris Fanning. She was a very pretty young woman,
and Sir Horace seemed very fond of her. I knew that
because I’ve heard him talking to her in the library. Sir
Horace had rather a loud voice, and I couldn't help over-
hearing him sometimes, when I took things to his rooms.
“One night, it was before Sir Horace left for Scot-
land—a rainy gusty night, this young woman came. I
forgot to mention that when Sir Horace expected visitors
he used to tell me to send the servants to bed early. He
told me to do so this night, saying as usual, ‘You under.
stand, Hill?' and I replied, ‘Yes, Sir Horace.” The
young woman came about half-past ten o'clock, and I
let her in the side door and showed her up to the library


II4 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
on the first floor, where he used to sit and work and read.
Half an hour afterwards I took up some refreshments
—some sandwiches and a small bottle of champagne for
the young lady—and then went back downstairs till Sir
Horace rang for me to let the lady out, which was gener-
ally about midnight. But this night, I’d hardly been
downstairs more than a quarter of an hour, when I heard
a loud crash, followed by a sort of scream. Before I
could get out of my chair to go upstairs I heard the study
door open, and Sir Horace called out, ‘Hill, come here!’
“I went upstairs as quick as I could, and the door of
the study being wide open, I could see inside. Sir Horace
and the young lady had evidently been having a quarrel.
They were standing up facing each other, and the table
at which they had been sitting was knocked over, and
the refreshments I had taken up had been scattered all
about. The young woman had been crying—I could see
that at a glance—but Sir Horace looked dignified and
the perfect gentleman—like he always was. He turned
to me when he saw me, and said, ‘Hill, kindly show this
young lady out.’ I bowed and waited for her to follow
me, which she did, after giving Sir Horace an angry
look. I let her out the same way as I let her in, and
took her through the plantation to the front gate, which
I locked after her. When I got inside the house again,
and was beginning to bolt up things for the night Sir
Horace called me again and I went upstairs. ‘Hill,” he
said, in the same calm and collected voice, “if that young
lady calls again you're to deny her admittance. That is
all, Hill.’ And he turned back into his room again.
“I didn't see her again until the morning after Sir
Horace left for Scotland. I had arranged for the female
servants to go to Sir Horace's estate in the country during
his absence, as he instructed before his departure, and
they and I were very busy on this morning getting the
house in order to be closed up—putting covers on the
furniture and locking up the valuables.
“It was Sir Horace's custom to have this done when


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY II5
he was away every year instead of keeping the servants
idling about the house on board wages, and the house
was then left in my charge, as I told you, sir, and after
the servants went to the country it was my custom to live
at home till Sir Horace returned, coming over two or
three times a week to look over the place and make sure
that everything was all right. On this morning, sir, after
superintending the servants clearing up things, I went
outside the house to have a final look round, and to see
that the locks of the front and back gates were in good
working order. I was going to the back first, sir, but hap-
pening to glance about me as I walked round the house, I
saw the young woman that Sir Horace had ordered me
to show out of the house the night before he went to
Scotland, peering out from behind one of the fir trees
of the plantation in front of the house. As soon as she
saw that I saw her she beckoned to me.
“I would not have taken any notice of her, only I didn't
want the women servants to see her. Sir Horace, I knew,
would not have liked that. So I went across to her. I
asked her what she wanted, and I told her it was no
use her wanting to see Sir Horace, for he had gone to
Scotland. “I don't want to see him,” she said, as impu-
dent as brass. “It's you I want to see, Field or Hill or
whatever you call yourself now.” It gave me quite a
turn, I assure you, to find that this young woman knew
my secret, and I turned round apprehensive-like, to make
sure that none of the servants had heard her. She noticed
me and she laughed. ‘It’s all right, Hill,” she said. “I’m
not going to tell on you. I've just brought you a message
from an old friend—Fred Birchill—he wants to see you
to-night at this address.’ And with that she put a bit of
paper into my hand. I was so upset and excited that I
said I'd be there, and she went away.
“This Fred Birchill was a man I'd met in prison, and
he was in the cell next to me. How he'd got on my
tracks I had no idea, but I seemed to see all my new life
falling to pieces now he knew. I'd tried to run straight


I 16 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
since I served my sentence, and I knew Sir Horace would
stand to me, but he couldn't afford to have any scandal
about it, and I knew that if there was any possibility of
my past becoming known I should have to leave his em-
ploy. And then there was my poor wife and child, and
this little business, sir. Nothing was known about my
past here. So I determined to go and see this Birchill,
sir. The address she had given me was in Westminster,
and, as my time was practically my own when Sir Horace
wasn't home, I went down that same evening, and when
I got up the flight of stairs and knocked at the door it
was a woman's voice that said “Come in.' I thought I
recognised the voice. When I opened the door, you can
imagine my surprise when I saw the young woman to be
Doris Fanning, who had had the quarrel with Sir Horace
that night and had brought me the note that morning.
Birchill was sitting in a corner of the room, with his feet
on another chair, smoking a pipe. “Come in, No. 21, he
says, with an unpleasant smile, ‘come in and see an old
friend. Put a chair for him, Doris, and leave the room.’
“The girl did so, and as soon as the door was closed
behind her Birchill turned round to me and burst out,
‘Hill, that damned employer of yours has served me a
nasty trick, but I'm going to get even with him, and
you're going to help me!' I was taken back at his words,
but I wanted to hear more before I spoke. Then he told
me that the young woman I had seen had been brutally
treated by Sir Horace. She had been living in a little flat
in Westminster on a monthly allowance which Sir Horace
made her, but he'd suddenly cut off her allowance and
she'd have to be turned out in the street to starve because
she couldn't pay her rent. ‘A nice thing,” said Birchill
fiercely, ‘for this high-placed loose liver to carry on like
this with a poor innocent girl whose only fault was that
she loved him too well. If I could show him up and
pull him down, I would. But I've done time, like you,
Hill. He was the judge who sentenced me, and if I tried
to injure him that way my word would carry no weight;


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 117
but I’ll put up a job on him that'll make him sorry the
longest day he lives, and you'll help me. Sir Horace is in
Scotland, Hill, and you're in charge of his place. Get
rid of the servants, Hill, and we'll burgle his house. We
can easily do it between us.’”
At this stage of his narrative, Hill stopped and looked
anxiously at his audience as though to gather some idea
of their feelings before he proceeded further. But In-
spector Chippenfield, with a fierce stare, merely remarked:
“And you consented?”
“I didn't at first,” Hill retorted earnestly, “but when I
refused he threatened me—threatened that he'd expose
me and drag me and my wife and child down to poverty.
I pleaded with him, but it was of no use, and at last I had
to consent. I had some hope that in doing so I might
find an opportunity to warn Sir Horace, but Birchill did
not give me a chance. He insisted that the burglary
should take place without delay. All I was to do was
to give him a plan of the house, explain where to find the
most valuable articles that had been left there, and wait
for him at the flat while he committed the burglary. His
idea in making me wait for him at the flat was to make
sure that I didn't play him false—put the double on him,
as he called it—and he told the girl not to let me out of
her sight till he came back, if anything went wrong I
should have to pay for it when he came back.
“In accordance with Sir Horace's instructions, I sent
the servants off to his country estate. It had been ar-
ranged that Birchill was to wait for me to come over to
the flat on the 18th of August, the night fixed for the bur-
glary. But about 7 o'clock, while I was at Riversbrook,
I heard the noise of wheels outside, and looking out,
I saw to my dismay Sir Horace getting out of a taxi-
cab with a suit-case in his hand. My first impulse was to
tell him everything—indeed, I think that if I had had a
chance I would have—but he came in looking very severe,
and without saying a word about why he had returned
from Scotland, said very sharply, ‘Hill, have the servants


118 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
been sent down to the country, as I directed?' I told him
that they had. ‘Very good,” he said, ‘then you go away
at once, I won't want you any more. I want the house
to myself to-night.’ “Sir Horace, I began, trembling a
little, but he stopped me. “Go immediately,’ he said;
‘don't stand there.’ And he said it in such a tone that I
was glad to go. There was something in his look that
frightened me that night. I got across to Birchill's place
and found him and the girl waiting for me. I told him
what had happened, and begged him to give up the idea
of the burglary. But he'd been drinking heavily, and was
in a nasty mood. First he said I'd been playing him false
and had warned Sir Horace, but when I assured him that
I hadn't he insisted on going to commit the burglary just
the same. With that he pulled out a revolver from his
pocket, and swore with an oath that he'd put a bullet
through me when he came back if I’d played him false
and put Sir Horace on his guard, and that he'd put a
bullet in the old scoundrel—meaning Sir Horace—if he
interrupted him while he was robbing the house.
“He sat there, cursing and drinking, till he fell asleep
with his head on the table, snoring. I sat there not daring
to breathe, hoping he'd sleep till morning, but Miss Fan-
ning woke him up about nine, and he staggered to his feet
to get out, with his revolver stuck in his coat pocket. He
was away over three hours and the girl and I sat there
without saying a word, just looking at each other and
waiting for a clock on the mantelpiece to chime the
quarters. It was a cuckoo clock, and it had just chimed
twelve when we heard a quick step coming upstairs to the
flat. The girl fixed her big dark eyes inquiringly on me,
and then we heard a hoarse whisper through the keyhole
telling us to open the door.
“The girl ran to the door and let him in, but she
shrieked at the sight of him when she saw him in the
light. For he looked ghastly, and there was a spot of
blood on his face, and his hands were smeared with it.
He was shaking all over, and he went to the whisky bottle


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY II9
and drained the drop of spirit he'd left in it. Then he
turned to us and said, ‘Sir Horace Fewbanks is dead—
murdered " I suppose he read what he saw in our eyes,
for he burst out angrily, ‘Don’t stand staring at me like
a pair of damned fools. You don't think I did it? As
God's my judge, I never did it. He was dead and stiff
when I got there.”
“Then he told us his story of what had happened. He
said that when he got to Riversbrook there was a light
in the library and he got over the fence and hid himself
in the garden. Then he noticed that there was a light
in the hall and that the hall door was open. He thought
Sir Horace had left it open by mistake, and he was going
to creep into the house and hide himself there till after
Sir Horace went to bed. But suddenly the light in the
library went out and Birchill again hid behind a tree, for
he thought Sir Horace was retiring for the night. Then
the light in the hall went out and immediately after
Birchill heard the hall door being closed. Then he heard
a step on the gravel path and saw a woman walking
quickly down the path to the gate. She was a well-
dressed woman, and Birchill naturally thought that she
was one of Sir Horace's lady friends. But he thought
it odd that Sir Horace, who was always a very polite
gentleman to the ladies, should not have shown her off
the premises. He waited in the garden about half an
hour, and as everything in the house seemed quite still,
he made his way to a side window and forced it open.
He had an electric torch with him, and he used this to
find his way about the house. First of all, he wanted
to find out in which room Sir Horace was sleeping, and
he knew from the plan he'd made me draw for him
which was Sir Horace's bedroom, so he went there and
opened the door quietly and listened. But he could not
hear anyone breathing. Then he tried some of the other
rooms and turned on his torch, but could see no one. He
thought that perhaps Sir Horace had fallen asleep in a
chair in the library, and he went there. He listened at


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I21
house and discovered the body it wouldn't be so difficult
for me to face them afterwards. I agreed to that, and
so did Birchill, who was very frightened in case I might
give anything away, and consented on that account. The
girl showed us how to write the letter, too—she said
she'd often heard of anonymous letters being written
that way—and she brought out three different pens and
a bottle of ink and a writing pad. After we'd agreed
what to write, she showed us how to do it, each one
printing a letter on the paper in turn, and using a dif-
ferent pen each time.”
“You took care to leave no finger-prints,” said Inspec-
tor Chippenfield.
“We used a handkerchief to wrap our hands in,” said
Hill. “Birchill got tired of passing the paper from one
to another and wrote all his letters, leaving spaces for
the girl and me to write in ours. When the letter was
written we wrote the address on the envelope the same
way, and stamped it. Then I went out and posted the
letter in a pillar-box.”
“At Covent Garden?” suggested Inspector Chippen-
field.
“Yes, at Covent Garden,” said Hill.
“When I got home my wife was awake and in a terrible
fright. She wanted to know where I’d been, but I didn't
tell her. I told her, though, that my very life depended
on nobody knowing I'd been out of my own home that
night, and I made her swear that no matter who ques-
tioned her she'd stick to the story that I'd been at home
all night, and in bed. She begged me to tell her why,
and as I knew that she'd have to be told the next day, I
told her that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered.
She buried her face in her pillow with a moan, but when
I took an oath that I had had no hand in it she recovered,
and promised not to tell a living soul that I had been out
of the house and I knew I could depend on her.
“Next morning, as soon as I got up, I hurried off to a
little wine tavern and asked to see the morning papers. It


I22 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
was a foolish thing to do, because I might have known
that nothing could have been discovered in time to get
into the morning papers, for I hadn't posted the letter
until nearly four o'clock. But I was all nervous and
upset, and as I couldn't face my wife or settle to any-
thing until I knew the police had got the letter and found
the body, I—though a strictly temperate man in the
ordinary course of life, sir—sat down in one of the
little compartments of the place and ordered a glass of
wine to pass the time till the first editions of the evening
papers came out—they are usually out here about noon.
But there was no news in the first editions, and so I
stayed there, drinking port wine and buying the papers
as fast as they came out. But it was not till the 6.30
editions came out, late in the afternoon, that the papers
had the news. I hurried home and then went up to
Riversbrook and reported myself to you, sir.”
As Hill finished his story he buried his face in his
hands, and bowed his head on the table in an attitude of
utter dejection. Rolfe, looking at him, wondered if he
were acting a part, or if he had really told the truth. He
looked at Inspector Chippenfield to see how he regarded
the confession, but his superior officer was busily writing
in his note-book. In a few moments, however, he put the
pocket-book down on the table and turned to the butler.
“Sit up, man,” he commanded sternly. “I want to ask
you some questions.”
Hill raised a haggard face.
“Yes, sir,” he said, with what seemed to be a painful
effort.
“What is this girl Fanning like?”
“Rather a showy piece of goods, if I may say so, sir.
She has big black eyes, and black hair and small, regular
teeth.”
“And Sir Horace had been keeping her?”
“I think so, sir.”
“And a fortnight before Sir Horace left for Scotland
there was a quarrel—Sir Horace cast her off?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I23
“That is what it looked like to me,” said the butler.
“What was the cause of the quarrel?”
“That I don't know, sir.”
“Didn't Birchill tell you?”
“Well, not in so many words. But I gathered from
things he dropped that Sir Horace had found out that
he was a friend of Miss Fanning's and didn't like it.”
“Naturally,” said the philosophic police official. “Is
Birchill still at this flat and is the girl still there?”
“The last I heard of them they were, sir. Of course
they had been talking of moving after Sir Horace stopped
the allowance.”
“Well, Hill, I’ll investigate this story of yours,” said
the inspector, as he rose to his feet and placed his
note-book in his pocket. “If it is true—if you have given
us all the assistance in your power and have kept nothing
back, I'll do my best for you. Of course you realise
that you are in a very serious position. I don't want to
arrest you unless I have to, but I must detain you while
I investigate what you have told us. You will come up
with us to the Camden Town Station and then your state-
ment will be taken down fully. I'll give you three min-
utes in which to explain things to your wife.”


CHAPTER XII
“Do you think Hill's story is true?” Rolfe asked In-
spector Chippenfield, as they left the Camden Town
Police Station and turned in the direction of the Tube
station.
“We'll soon find out,” replied the inspector. “Of
course, there is something in it, but there is no doubt
Hill will not stick at a lie to save his own skin. But we
are more likely to get at the truth by threatening to arrest
him than by arresting him. If he were arrested he would
probably shut up and say no more.”
“And are you going to arrest Birchill?”
“Yes.”
“For the murder?” asked Rolfe.
“No; for burglary. It would be a mistake to charge
him with murder until we get more evidence. The papers
would jeer at us if we charged him with murder and
then dropped the charge.”
“Do you think Birchill will squeak?”
“On Hill?” said the inspector. “When he knows that
Hill has been trying to fit him for the murder he'll
try and do as much for Hill. And between them we'll
come at the truth. We are on the right track at last, my
boy. And, thank God, we have beaten our friend
Crewe.”
Inspector Chippenfield's satisfaction in his impending
triumph over Crewe was increased by a chance meet-
ing with the detective. As the two police officials came
out of Leicester Square Station on their way to Scotland
Yard to obtain a warrant for Birchell's arrest, they saw
Crewe in a taxi-cab. Crewe also saw them, and telling
the driver to pull up leaned out of the window and looked
back at the two detectives. When they came up with the
I24


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I25
taxi-cab they saw that Crewe had on a light overcoat and
that there was a suit-case beside the driver. Crewe was
going on a journey of some kind.
“Anything fresh about the Riversbrook case?” he
asked.
“No, nothing fresh,” replied Inspector Chippenfield,
looking Crewe straight in the face.
“You are a long time in making an arrest,” said Crewe,
in a bantering tone.
“We want to arrest the right man,” was the reply.
“There's nothing like getting the right man to start with;
it saves such a lot of time and trouble. Where are you
off to ?”
“I’m taking a run down to Scotland.”
The inspector glanced at Crewe rather enviously.
“You are fortunate in being able to enjoy yourself just
now,” he said meaningly.
“I won't drop work altogether,” remarked Crewe. “I’ll
make a few inquiries there.”
“About the Riversbrook affair?”
“Yes.”
With the murderer practically arrested, Inspector
Chippenfield permitted himself the luxury of smiling at
the way in which Crewe was following up a false scent.
“I thought the murder was committed in London—not
in Scotland,” he said.
“Wrong, Chippenfield,” said Crewe, with a smile. “Sir
Horace was murdered in Scotland and his body was
brought up to London by train and placed in his own
house in order to mislead the police. Good-bye.”
As the taxi-cab drove off, Inspector Chippenfield turned
to his subordinate and said,
“We'll rub it into him when he comes back and finds
that we have got our man under lock and key. He's on
some wild-goose chase. Scotland He might as well go
to Siberia while's he's about it.”
With a warrant in his pocket Inspector Chippenfield,
accompanied by Rolfe, set out for Macauley Man-


126 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
sions, Westminster. They found the Mansions to be situ-
ated in a quiet and superior part of Westminster, not far
from Victoria Station, and consisting of a large block of
flats overlooking a square—a pocket-handkerchief patch
of green which was supposed to serve as breathing-space
for the flats which surrounded it.
Macauley Mansions had no lift, and Number 43, the
scene of the events of Hill's confession, was on the top
floor. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe mounted the
stairs steadily, and finally found themselves standing
on a neat cocoanut door-mat outside the door of No. 43.
The door was closed.
“Well, well,” said the inspector, as he paused, pant-
ing, on the door-mat and rang the bell. “Snug quar-
ters these—very snug. Strange that these sort of women
never know enough to run straight when they are well
Off.”
The door opened, and a young woman confronted them.
She was hardly more than a girl, pretty and refined-
looking, with large dark eyes, a pathetic drooping mouth,
and a wistful expression. She wore a well-made indoor
dress of soft satin, without ornaments, and her luxuri-
ant dark hair was simply and becomingly coiled at
the back of her head. She held a book in her left hand,
with one finger between the leaves, as though the sum-
mons to the door had interrupted her reading, and glanced
inquiringly at the visitors, waiting for them to intimate
their business. She was so different from the type of girl
they had expected to see that Inspector Chippenfield
had some difficulty in announcing it.
“Are you Miss Fanning?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Then you are the young woman we wish to see, and,
with your permission, we'll come inside,” said Inspector
Chippenfield, recovering from his first surprise and speak-
ing briskly.
They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room
off the hall to which she led the way. A small


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 127
Pomeranian dog which lay on an easy chair, sprang up
barking shrilly at their entrance, but at the command of
the girl it settled down on its silk cushion again. The
apartment was a small sitting-room, daintily furnished
in excellent feminine taste. Both police officers took in
the contents of the room with the glance of trained
observers, and both noticed that, prominent among the
ornaments on the mantelpiece, stood a photograph of the
late Sir Horace Fewbanks in a handsome silver frame.
The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippen-
field to enter upon the object of the visit of himself
and his subordinate to the flat.
“I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Fewbanks
there,” he said, in what he intended to be an easy con-
versational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece.
The wistful expression of the girl's face deepened as
she followed his glance.
“Yes,” she said simply. “It is so terrible about him.”
“Was he a—a relative of yours?” asked the inspector.
She had come to the conclusion they were police officers
and that they were aware of the position she occupied.
“He was very kind to me,” she replied.
“When did you see him last? How long before he—
before he died?”
“Are you detectives?” she asked.
“From Scotland Yard,” replied Inspector Chippenfield
with a bow.
“Why have you come here? Do you think that I–
that I know anything about the murder?”
“Not in the least.” The inspector's tone was reassur-
ing. “We merely want information about Sir Horace's
movements prior to his departure for Scotland. When
did you see him last?”
“I don't remember,” she said, after a pause.
“You must try,” said the inspector, in a tone which
contained a suggestion of command.
“Oh, a few days before he went away.”


128 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“A few days,” repeated the inspector. “And you
parted on good terms?”
“Yes, on very good terms.” She met his glance
frankly.
Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment.
Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the girl, he remarked
abruptly:
“Where's Birchill?”
“Birchill?” She endeavoured to appear surprised, but
her sudden pallor betrayed her inward anxiety at the
question. “I–I don't know who you mean.”
“I mean the man you've been keeping with Sir Horace
Fewbanks's money,” said the inspector brutally.
“I’ve been keeping nobody with Sir Horace Fewbanks's
money,” protested the girl feebly. “It’s cruel of you to
insult me.”
“That'll about do to go on with,” said Inspector
Chippenfield, with a sudden change of tone, rising to his
feet as he spoke. “Rolfe, keep an eye on her while I
search the flat.”
Rolfe crossed over from where he had been sitting and
stood beside the girl. She glanced up at him wildly, with
terror dawning in the depths of her dark eyes.
“What do you mean? How dare you?” she cried, in
an effort to be indignant.
“Now, don't try your tragedy airs on us,” said the
inspector. “We’ve no time for them. If you won't
tell the truth you had better say nothing at all.” He
plunged his hand into a jardinière and withdrew a briar-
wood pipe. “This looks to me like Birchill's property.
Keep that dog back, Rolfe.”
The little dog had sprung off his cushion and was
eagerly following the inspector out of the room.
Rolfe caught up the animal in his arms, and returned to
where the girl was sitting. Her face was white and
strained, and her big dark eyes followed Inspector
Chippenfield, but she did not speak. The inspector
tramped noisily into the little hall, leaving the door of the


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I29
room wide open. Rolfe and the girl saw him fling open
the door of another room—a bedroom—and stride into it.
He came out again shortly, and went down the hall to
the rear of the flat. A few minutes later he came back
to the room where he had left Rolfe and the girl. His
knees were dusty, and some feathers were adhering to
his jacket, as though he had been plunging in odd nooks
and corners, and beneath beds. He was hot, flurried, and
out of temper.
“The bird's flown P’ were his first words, addressed to
Rolfe. “I’ve hunted high and low, but I cannot find a
sign of him. It beats me how he's managed it. He
couldn't have gone out the front way without my seeing
him go past the door, and the back windows are four
stories high from the ground.”
“Perhaps he wasn't here when we came in,” suggested
Rolfe.
“Oh, yes, he was. Why, he'd been smoking that pipe
in this very room. She was clever enough to open the
window to let out the tobacco smoke before she let us
in, but she didn't hide the pipe properly, for I saw the
smoke from it coming out of the jardinière, and when I
put my hand on the bowl it was hot. Feel it now.”
Rolfe placed his hand on the pipe, which Inspector
Chippenfield had deposited on the table. The bowl was
still warm, indicating that the pipe had recently been
alight.
“He must have been smoking the pipe when we knocked
at the door, and dashed away to hide before she let
us in,” grumbled the inspector. “But the question is—
where can he have got to ? I've hunted everywhere, and
there's no way out except by the front door, so far as
I can see. Go and have a look yourself, Rolfe, and see
if you can find a trace of him. I’ll watch the girl.”
Rolfe put down the little dog he had been holding, and
went out into the hall. The dog accompanied him, frisk-
ing about him in friendly fashion. Rolfe first exam-
ined the bedroom that he had seen Inspector Chippen-


130 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
field enter. It was a small room, containing a double
bed. It was prettily furnished in white, with white cur-
tains, and toilet-table articles in ivory to match. A glance
round the room convinced Rolfe that it was impossible
for a man to secrete himself in it. The door of the ward-
robe had been flung open by the inspector, and the
dresses and other articles of feminine apparel it con-
tained flung out on the floor. There was no other hiding-
place possible, except beneath the bed, and the ruthless
hand of the inspector had torn off the white muslin
bed hangings, revealing emptiness underneath. Rolfe
went out into the hall again, and entered the room next
the bedroom. This apartment was apparently used as a
dining-room, for it contained a large table, a few chairs,
a small sideboard, a spirit-stand, a case of books and
ornaments, and two small oak presses. Plainly, there was
no place in it where a man could hide himself. The next
room was the bathroom, which was also empty. Opposite
the bathroom was a small bedroom, very barely fur-
nished, offering no possibility of concealment. Then the
passage opened into a large roomy kitchen, the full width
of the rooms on both sides of the hall, and the kitchen
completed the flat.
Rolfe glanced keenly around the kitchen. There were
no cooking appliances visible, or pots or pans, but there
was much lumber and odds and ends, as though the place
were used as a store-room. Presumably Miss Fanning
obtained her meals from the restaurant on the ground
floor of the mansions and had no use for a kitchen. The
room was dirty and dusty and crowded with all kinds of
rubbish. But the miscellaneous rubbish stored in the room
offered no hiding-place for a man. Rolfe nevertheless
made a conscientious search, shifting the lumber about
and ferreting into dark corners, without result. Finally
he crossed the room to look out of the window, which
had been left open, no doubt by Inspector Chippenfield.
The mansions in which the flat was situated formed
part of a large building, with back windows overlooking


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I3 I
a small piece of ground. The flat was on the fourth story.
Rolfe looked around the neighbouring roofs and down
onto the ground fifty feet below, but could see nothing.
He withdrew his head and was turning to leave the
room when his attention was attracted by the peculiar
behaviour of the dog, which had followed him through-
out on his search. The little animal, after sniffing about
the floor, ran to the open window and started whining
and jumping up at it. Rolfe quickly returned to the
window and looked out.
“Why, of course!” he muttered. “How could I have
overlooked it? Inspector,” he called aloud, “come here!”
Inspector Chippenfield appeared in the kitchen in
a state of some excitement at the summons. He carried
the key of the front room in his hand, having taken the
precaution to lock Miss Fanning in before he responded
to the call of his colleague.
“What is it, Rolfe?” he asked eagerly.
“This dog has tracked him to the window, so he's evi-
dently escaped that way,” explained Rolfe briefly. “He’s
climbed along the window-ledge.”
Inspector Chippenfield approached the window and
looked out. A broad window-ledge immediately be-
neath the window ran the whole length of the building
beneath the windows on the fourth floor, and, so far as
could be seen, continued round the side of the house. It
was a dizzy, but not a difficult feat for a man of cool head
to walk along the ledge to the corner of the house.
“I wonder where that infernal ledge goes to ?” said
Inspector Chippenfield, vainly twisting his neck and
protruding his body through the window to a dangerous
extent to see round the corner of the building. “I dare-
say it leads to the water-pipe, and the scoundrel, knowing
that, has been able to get round, shin down, and get clear
away.”
“I’ll soon find out,” said Rolfe. “I’ll walk along to the
corner and see.”
“Do you think you can do it, Rolfe?” asked the in-


I32 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
spector nervously. “If you fell ” he glanced down
to the ground far below with a shudder.
“Nonsense!” laughed Rolfe. “I won't fall. Why,
the ledge is a foot broad, and I've got a steady head. He
may not have got very far, after all, and I may be able to
see him from the corner.”
He got out of the window as he spoke, and started to
walk carefully along the ledge towards the corner of the
building. He reached it safely, peered round, screwed
himself round sharply, and came back to the open win-
dow almost at a run. -
“You're right!” he gasped, as he sprang through. “I
saw him. He is climbing down the spouting, using the
chimney brickwork as a brace for his feet. If we get
downstairs we may catch him.”
He was out of the kitchen in an instant, up the passage,
and racing down three steps at a time before the in-
spector had recovered from his surprise. Then he fol-
lowed as quickly as he could, but Rolfe had a long start of
him. When Inspector Chippenfield reached the ground
floor Rolfe was nowhere in sight. The inspector looked
up and down the street, wondering what had become of
him.
At that instant a tall young man, bareheaded and coat-
less, came running out of an alley-way, pursued by Rolfe.
“Stop him!” cried Rolfe, to his superior officer.
Inspector Chippenfield stepped quickly out into the
street in front of the fugitive. The young man can-
noned into the burly officer before he could stop himself,
and the inspector clutched him fast. He attempted
to wrench himself free, but Rolfe had rushed to his su-
perior's assistance, and drew the baton with which he
had provided himself when he set out from Scotland
Yard.
“You needn't bother about using that thing,” said the
young man contemptuously. “I’m not a fool; I realise
you've got me.”
“We'll not give you another chance.” Inspector Chip-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I33
penfield dexterously snapped a pair of handcuffs on the
young man's wrists.
“What are these for?” said the captive, regarding them
sullenly.
“You’ll know soon enough when we get you up-
stairs,” replied the inspector. “Now then, up you go.”
They reascended the stairs in silence, Inspector
Chippenfield and Rolfe walking on each side of their
prisoner holding him by the arms, in case he tried to
make another bolt. They reached the flat and found
the front door open as they had left it. The inspector
entered the hall and unlocked the drawing-room door.
The girl was sitting on the chair where they had left
her, with her head bowed down in an attitude of the
deepest dejection. She straightened herself suddenly as
they entered, and launched a terrified glance at the young
Iman.
“Oh, Fred" she gasped.
“They were too good for me, Doris,” he responded, as
though in reply to her unspoken query. “I would have
got away from this chap”—he indicated Rolfe with a
nod of his head—“but I ran into the other one.”
He stooped as he spoke to brush with his manacled
hands some of the dirt from his clothes, which he had
doubtless gained in his perilous climb down the side of
the house, and then straightened himself to look lower-
ingly at his captors. He was a tall, slender young fellow
of about twenty-five or twenty-six, clean-shaven, with a
fresh complexion and a rather effeminate air. He was
well dressed in a grey lounge suit, a soft shirt, with a high
double collar and silk necktie. He looked, as he stood
there, more like a dandified city clerk than the desperate
criminal suggested by Hill's confession.
“Come on, what's the charge?” he demanded inso-
lently, with a slight glance at his manacled hands.
“Is your name Frederick Birchill?” asked Inspector
Chippenfield.
The young man nodded.


I34 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“Then, Frederick Birchill, you're charged with bur-
glariously entering the house of Sir Horace Fewbanks, at
Hampstead, on the night of the 18th of August.”
“Burglary?” said Birchill. “Anything else?”
“That will do for the present,” replied the inspector.
“We may find it necessary to charge you with a more
serious crime later.”
“Well, all I can say is that you've got the wrong
man. But that is nothing new for you chaps,” he added
with a sneer.
“Surely you are not going to charge him with the
murder?” said the girl imploringly.
The inspector's reply was merely to warn the prisoner
that anything he said might be used in evidence against
him at his trial.
“He had nothing whatever to do with it—he knows
nothing about it,” protested the girl. “If you let him go
I'll tell you who murdered Sir Horace.”
“Who murdered him?” asked the inspector.
“Hill,” was the reply,


CHAPTER XIII
DoRIS FANNING got off a Holborn tram at King's
Cross, and with a hasty glance round her as if to make
sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across
the street in the direction of Caledonian Road. She
walked up that busy thoroughfare at the same quick
gait for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street
and, with another suspicious look around her, stopped at
the doorway of a small shop a short distance down.
The shop sold those nondescript goods which seem to
afford a living to a not inconsiderable class of London's
small shopkeepers. The windows and the shelves were
full of dusty old books and magazines, trumpery curios
and cheap china, second-hand furniture and a collection
of miscellaneous odds and ends. A thick dust lay over
the whole collection, and the shop and its contents pre-
sented a deserted and dirty appearance. Moreover, the
door was closed as though customers were not expected.
The girl tried the door and found it locked—a fact which
seemed to indicate that customers were not even desired.
After another hasty look up and down the street she
tapped sharply on the door in a peculiar way.
The door was opened after the lapse of a few minutes
by a short thickset man of over fifty, whose heavy
face displayed none of the suavity and desire to please
which is part of the stock-in-trade of the small shop-
keeper of London. A look of annoyance crossed his
face at the sight of the girl, and his first remark to her
was one which no well-regulated shopkeeper would have
addressed to a prospective customer.
“You!” he exclaimed. “What in God's name has
brought you here? I told you on no account to come
I35


136 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn't fol-
lowed you?”
“I could not help it, Kincher,” the girl responded pite-
ously. “I’m distracted about Fred, and I had to come
over to ask your advice.”
“You women are all fools,” the man retorted. “You
might have known that I would read all about the case
in the papers, and that I'd let you hear from me.”
“Yes, Kincher,” she replied humbly, “but they let me
see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court
and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you
only knew what I've suffered since he was arrested.
Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven't closed
my eyes for over a week.”
“So you attended the police-court proceedings?” said
Kemp. And when the girl nodded her head he went on,
“The more fool you. I suppose it would be too much
to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew
she could do no good.”
“I knew that, Kincher, but I simply had to go. I
should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat
alone. I tried to, but I couldn't. I got so nervous that
I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent
myself from screaming aloud.”
“Well, since you are here you had better come inside
instead of standing there and giving yourself and me
away to every passing policeman.”
He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a
dirty, cheerless room behind the shop which was fur-
nished with a sofa-bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was
evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own
wants. The remains of an unappetising meal were on a
corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by
the fireplace in which a fire had recently been made with
a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle. Bed-
clothes were heaped on the sofa-bedstead in a disordered
state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise-
shell cat.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I37
“Sit down,” said Kemp. There was an old chair near
the fireplace and he pushed it towards her with his foot.
“What's brought you over here?”
The girl sank into the chair and began to cry.
“I can't help it, Kincher,” she said. “I don't know what
to say or do. Fancy Fred being charged with murder!
Oh, it's too dreadful to think about. And yet I can think
of nothing else.”
“Crying your eyes out won't help matters much,”
replied the unsympathetic Kemp.
The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards
and forwards on the chair. She sobbed so violently that
she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria.
Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa-bed-
stead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, yawned, looked
inquiringly round, and then with a measured leap sprang
into the girl's lap. She was startled by his act and then
she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the animal's
COat.
“Poor old Peter!” she exclaimed. “He wants to con-
sole me! don't you, Peter? I say, Kincher, I wish you'd
give me Peter; you don't want him. Oh, look at the
dear!” The cat had perched himself on one of her knees
to beg, and he sawed the air appealingly with his fore-
paws. “I must give him a tit-bit for that.” She eyed
the remains of the meal on the table disdainfully. “No,
Peter, there is nothing fit for you to eat—positively
nothing. Why, he understands me like a human being,”
she continued in amazement as the huge cat dropped on
all fours and deliberately sprang back to the sofa-bed-
stead. “I say, Kincher, you really want a woman in
this place to look after you. It's in a most shocking
state—it's like a pigsty.”
Kemp made no reply but continued to watch her.
Her tears had vanished and she sat forward with her
dark eyes sparkling, one hand supporting her pretty
face as she glanced round the room.
“Have you a cigarette?” she asked suddenly.


138 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Kemp went into the shop and came back with a packet
of cheap cigarettes. The girl pushed them away petu-
lantly.
“I don't like that brand,” she said; “haven't you any-
thing better?”
The man shook his head.
“No? Then here goes—I must have a smoke of some
sort.” She stuck one of the cheap cigarettes daintily into
her mouth. “A match, Kincher! Why, the box is filthy!
You must have a woman in to look after you, even if I
have to find you one myself.”
“I don't want any woman in the place,” retorted
Kemp. “There is no peace for a man when a woman
is about. But let us have no more of this idle chatter.
What's brought you over here? I suppose it's about
Fred.”
“Poor Fred ſ” The girl looked downcast for a mo-
ment, then she tossed her head, puffed out some smoke,
and exclaimed energetically, “But he's not guilty, Kin-
cher, and we'll get him off, won't we?”
“Not merely by saying so,” replied Kemp. “But
you'd better tell me how it came about that he was ar-
rested for the murder. The police gave away nothing
at the police court. Bill Dobbs was down there and he
told me they let out nothing, except that their principal
witness against Fred is that fellow Hill. I always knew
he'd squeak. I told Fred to have nothing to do with the
job.”
The girl's eyes flashed viciously. She tossed the cigar-
ette into the fire-place and straightened herself.
“That's the low, dirty scoundrel who committed the
murder,” she exclaimed. “He ought to be in the dock—
not Fred.”
“Was Fred up there that night?” asked Kemp.
“Up where?”
“At Riversbrook, or whatever they call it.”
“Yes,”
“He told me he didn't go.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 139
“It’s because he was up there that the police have
arrested him,” said the girl. “Hill gave him away.
Oh, he's a double-dyed villain, is Hill. And so quiet and
respectable looking with it all! He used to let me in when
I went to Riversbrook, and let me out again, and pocket
the half-crowns I gave him. And I like a fool never
suspected him once, or thought that he knew anything
about Fred coming to the flat. He didn't let it out till
the night Sir Horace quarrelled with me. Sir Horace
found out about—about Fred—and when I went up to
see him as usual, he told me that he had finished with me
and he called Hill up to show me out. “Show this young
lady out,’ he said in that cold haughty voice of his, and
the wily old villain Hill just bowed and held the door
open. He followed me down stairs and let me out at
the side door. There he said, ‘I’ll escort you to the front
gate, if you will permit me, miss. I usually lock the
gate about this time.’ I thought nothing of this because
he had come with me to the front gate before. He fol-
lowed me down the garden path through the plantation
till we reached the front gate. He opened the gate for
me and I said “Good night, Hill,” but instead of his reply-
ing ‘Good night, Miss Fanning,” as he usually did, he
hissed out like a serpent, “You tell Birchill I want to see
him to-morrow, and I'll come to the flat about 9 o'clock.
Tell him an old friend named Field wants to see him.
Don't forget the name—Field !' Then he locked the gate
and was gone before I could speak a word.
“I gave Fred his message next morning—I wish to
God that I hadn't,” she continued. “I asked Fred not to
keep the appointment, but he insisted on doing so. He
said that he and Field had been good friends in the gaol,
and that Field had told him that if he ever got on to
anything he would let him know. He seemed quite
pleased at the idea of meeting Field again. I told him to
beware that Field wasn't laying a trap for him, but he
wouldn't listen to me.
“Sure enough, Field—or Hill as he calls himself now


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I4I
spite of all I could do or say, it was arranged that Fred
should go over, and see if it was quite safe to carry out
the job. Hill said he thought Sir Horace was going out
that night, and wouldn't be home until the early morn-
ing. About 9 o'clock Fred went off, leaving Hill and me
alone in the flat together. How I wish now that I had
killed him when I had such a good chance.
“We sat there scarcely speaking, and heard the clock
strike the hours. After midnight I began to get restless,
for I thought something must have happened to Fred.
Hill said in a low voice: ‘It’s time Fred was back.” The
words were scarcely out of his mouth when I heard
Fred's step outside, and I ran to let him in. He came
in as white as a sheet. “Fred,” I cried as soon as I saw
him, ‘there's some blood on your face.”
“He didn't answer a word until he had taken a big drink
of whisky out of the decanter. Then he said in a whisper:
‘Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered l’ “Murdered l’
cried Hill, leaping up from his chair—he can act well, I
can tell you—"My God, Fred, you don't mean it!’ ‘He's
dead, I tell you,” replied Fred fiercely. I thought, and at
the time I suppose Hill thought, that Fred had shot him
either accidentally or in order to escape capture. He
seemed to guess what we were thinking, for he swore that
he had had nothing to do with it—Sir Horace was dead
on the floor when he got there.
“He told us all that had happened. When he got to
Riversbrook he found lights burning on the ground floor.
He jumped over the fence at the side and hid in the
garden. He was there only a few minutes when he saw
the lights go out. Then the front door was slammed and
a woman walked down the garden path to the gate.”
“A woman!” exclaimed Kemp.
“Yes, a woman. Why not? She had been to see Sir
Horace. One of his Society mistresses. I'll bet it was on
her account that he came back from Scotland.”
“What time was this?” he asked with interest.
“About half-past ten,” replied the girl.


I42 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“And this woman—this lady—turned out the lights and
closed the front door?”
“So Fred says. Of course he thought Sir Horace had
done it, but he found out later that Sir Horace was
dead.”
“I can't understand it,” said Kemp. “What was she
doing there? If she found the man dead, why didn't she
inform the police? No, wait a minute! She'd be afraid
to do that if she was a Society woman.”
“It might be her who killed him,” said the girl.
“Does Fred think that?” asked Kemp, looking at her
closely. -
“Fred doesn't know what to think,” she replied. “But
it must have been this woman or Hill who killed him. I
feel sure myself that it was Hill.”
“This woman puzzles me,” said Kemp thoughtfully.
“She must have been a cool hand if she went round turn-
ing out the lights after finding his dead body. About
half-past ten, you said?”
“That is as near as Fred can make it.”
“Go on with your story,” he said. “I’m interested in
this. You were saying that Fred saw the lights go out,
and then this woman came out of the house and walked
away.”
“Well, Fred got into the house through one of the
windows at the side—the one Hill had told him to try,”
continued the girl. “But first of all he waited about half
an hour in the garden, so as to give Sir Horace time to
go to sleep. He was able to find his way about the house
as Hill had given him a plan. He felt his way upstairs
and finding a door open he went into the room and
flashed his electric torch. By its light he saw Sir Horace
Fewbanks lying huddled up in a corner with a big pool
of blood beside him on the floor. He felt him to see if
he was dead. The body was quite warm, but it was
limp. Sir Horace was dead. Fred says he lost his nerve
and ran for it as hard as he could. He rushed down


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I43
stairs and out of the house and got back to the flat as
fast as he could.
“The three of us sat there shaking with fear and won-
dering what to do. Hill was the first to recover himself.
In his cunning plausible way, he pointed out that it was
altogether unlikely that suspicion would fall on Fred or
him. All we had to do was to keep quiet and say noth-
ing; then we'd have no awkward questions put to us. It
was his suggestion that we should send an anonymous
letter to Scotland Yard telling them Sir Horace had been
murdered. That would be much better, he said, than
leaving the body there until he went over and found it
when he had to go over to Riversbrook to take a look
round, in accordance with the instructions that had been
given him when Sir Horace went to Scotland. Knowing
what he did, he was afraid that if he was allowed to dis-
cover the body and inform the police, he would let some-
thing slip when the police came at him with their hun-
dreds of questions. We printed the letter to Scotland
Yard, each one doing a letter at a time. Hill took it with
him, saying he would post it on his way home.
“When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking. Sud-
denly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had
committed the murder, and had fixed up things so as to
throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir
Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he
had laid in wait for him and shot him. Then he had
come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry
out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the
murder, if the police worried him. I told Fred what
I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was
talking nonsense. But I was right, for a week afterwards
the police came and arrested Fred at the flat.”
“How did they get him?” asked Kemp.
“I saw them coming along the street from the window,
and I pointed them out to Fred. He tried to get away
through the kitchen window along the ledge and down
the spouting. He almost got away, but one of the de-


I44 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
tectives saw him before he reached the ground, and they
dashed down stairs and got him in the street. Next day
I saw in the papers that Hill had made an important
statement to the police, and this had led to Fred's arrest.
Hill is the murderer, Kincher. The cunning, wicked,
treacherous villain told the police about Fred being up
there. He wants to see Fred hang in order to save his
own neck.” The girl's voice rose to a shriek, and she
sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. “Kincher,” she
cried, “you've got to help me put the rope round this
wretch's neck. Do you hear me?”
Kemp's impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl's
hysterical excitement.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Fred wants you to get up an alibi for him. He sent
me over to ask you to arrange it without delay. He
wants you and two or three others to swear that he was
over here on the night of the murder. That will be suf-
ficient to get him off.”
“Not me,” said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly. “I
won't do it; it's too risky. The police have too many
things against me for my word to be any good as a wit-
ness. I'd only be landing myself in trouble for perjury
instead of helping Fred out of trouble. He ought to
have got an alibi ready before he was arrested. I told
him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he
swore he'd not been up there on the night of the murder.
It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now. I
don't know anybody I could get to come forward and
swear Fred was in their company that night—there is a
difference between fixing up a tale for the police before a
man's arrested, and going into the witness box and com-
mitting perjury on oath.”
He spoke in such an uncompromising tone that the
girl saw it was useless to pursue the matter further.
“Suppose I went to the police and told them that Hill is
the murderer?” she suggested.
Kemp shook his head slowly.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I45
“There is only your word for it that Hill killed him,” he
said. “It doesn't look to me as if he did, when he went
over to your flat and told Fred that Sir Horace had come
back from Scotland. If he had killed him he would have
let Fred go over without saying a word about it.”
“That was part of his cunning,” said the girl. “If
he had said nothing about Sir Horace's return, Fred
would have suspected him when he found the dead body.
I'm as certain that Hill committed the murder as if I had
seen him do it with my own eyes.”
Kemp shrugged his shoulders as though realising the
uselessness of attempting to combat such a feminine form
of reasoning.
“Didn't Fred say that the body was warm when he
touched it?” he asked.
She meditated a moment over this evidence of Hill's
innocence.
“Well, if Hill didn't kill him, the woman Fred saw
leaving the house must have done so,” she declared.
“There is something in that,” said Kemp. “Look here,
we've got to get Fred a good lawyer to defend him,
and we must be guided by his advice as to what is the
best thing to do. He knows more about what will go
down with a jury than you do.”
“I paid a solicitor to defend him at the police court,”
said the girl, “but the money I gave him was thrown
away. He said nothing and did nothing.”
“That shows he is a man who knows his business,”
replied Kemp. “What's the good of talking to police
court beaks in a case that is bound to go to trial? It's
a waste of breath. The thing is to see that Fred is prop-
erly defended when the case comes on at the Old Bailey.
We want somebody who can manage the jury. I should
say Holymead is the man if you can get him. I don't know
as he'd be likely to take up the case, for he don't go in
much for criminal courts—and yet it seems to me that he
might. You ought to try to get him, at least. He used
to be a friend of your friend Sir Horace, so if he took


146 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
up the case it would look as if he believed Fred had
nothing to do with the murder. It would be bound to
make a good impression on the jury.”
“Wouldn't he be very expensive?” asked the girl.
“Not so expensive as getting hanged,” said Kemp
grimly. “You take my advice and have him if you can
get him. Never mind what he costs, if you can raise
the money. You've got some money saved up, haven't
you?”
“Yes, I've nearly £200. Sir Horace put £100 in the
Savings Bank for me on my last birthday. And the
furniture at the flat is mine. I'd sell that and everything
I've got, for Fred's sake.”
“That is the way to talk,” said Kemp. “You go to
this solicitor you had at the police court, and tell him
you want Holymead to defend Fred. Tell him he must
brief Holymead—have nobody else but Holymead. Tell
him that Holymead was a friend of Sir Horace Few-
banks's and that if he appears for Fred the jury will
never believe that Fred had anything to do with the mur-
der. And I don't think he had, though he did lie to me
and swear he hadn't been up there that night,” he added
after a moment's reflection.


CHAPTER XIV
“THERE is one link in the chain missing,” said Rolfe,
who was discussing with Inspector Chippenfield, in the
latter's room at Scotland Yard, the strength of the case
against Birchill.
“And what is that?” asked his superior.
“The piece of woman's handkerchief that I found in
the dead man's hand. You remember we agreed that it
showed there was a woman in the case.”
“Well, what do you call this girl Fanning? Isn't she
in the case? Surely, you don't want any better explana-
tion of the murder than a quarrel between her and Sir
Horace over this man Birchill?” - -
“Yes, I see that plain enough,” replied Rolfe. “There
is ample motive for the crime, but how that piece of
handkerchief got into the dead man's hand is still a
mystery to me. It would be easily explained if this girl
was present in the room or the house when the murder
was committed. But she wasn't. Hill's story is that
she was at the flat with him.”
“When you have had as much experience in investi-
gating crime as I have, you won't worry over little points
that at first don't seem to fit in with what we know to be
facts,” responded the inspector in a patronising tone. “I
noticed from the first, Rolfe, that you were inclined to
make too much of this handkerchief business, but I said
nothing. Of course, it was your own discovery, and I
have found during my career that young detectives are
always inclined to make too much of their own discov-
eries. Perhaps I was myself, when I was young and
inexperienced. Now, as to this handkerchief: what
is more likely than that Birchill had it in his pocket
when he went out to Riversbrook on that fatal night?
I47


148 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
He was living in the flat with this girl Fanning: what
was more natural than that he should pick up a handker-
chief off the floor that the girl had dropped and put it
in his pocket with the intention of giving it to her when
she returned to the room? Instead of doing so he forgot
all about it. When he shot Sir Horace Fewbanks he
put his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe
his forehead or his hands—it was a hot night, and I take
it that a man who has killed another doesn't feel as cool
as a cucumber. While stooping over his victim with the
handkerchief still in his hand, the dying man made a
convulsive movement and caught hold of a corner of the
handkerchief, which was torn off.” Inspector Chippen-
field looked across at his subordinate with a smile of
triumphant superiority.
“Yes,” said Rolfe meditatively. “There is nothing
wrong about that as far as I can see. But I would like
to know for certain how it got there.”
Inspector Chippenfield was satisfied with his subordi-
nate's testimony to his perspicacity.
“That is all right, Rolfe,” he said in a tone of kindly
banter. “But don't make the mistake of regarding your
idle curiosity as a virtue. After the trial, if you are still
curious on the point, I have no doubt Birchill will tell you.
He is sure to make a confession before he is hanged.”
But it was more a spirit of idle curiosity than any-
thing else that brought Rolfe to Crewe's chambers in
Holborn an hour later. Having secured the murderer, he
felt curious as to what Crewe's feelings were on his de-
feat. It was the first occasion that he had been on a case
which Crewe had been commissioned to investigate, and
he was naturally pleased that Inspector Chippenfield and
he had arrested the author of the crime while Crewe
was all at sea. It was plain from the fact that
the latter had thought it necessary to visit Scotland that
he had got on a false scent. It was not Scotland, but
Scotland Yard that Crewe should have visited, Rolfe said
to himself with a smile.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I49
Crewe, in pursuance of his policy of keeping on the
best of terms with the police, gave Rolfe a very friendly
welcome. He produced from a cupboard two glasses, a
decanter of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a box of
cigars. Rolfe quickly discovered that the cigars were of
a quality that seldom came his way, and he leaned back
in his chair and puffed with steady enjoyment.
“Then you are determined to hang Birchill?” said
Crewe, as with a cigar in his fingers he faced his visitor
with a smile.
“We'll hang him right enough,” said Rolfe. He pulled
the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it approvingly.
Though the talk was of hanging, he had never felt more
thoroughly at peace with the world.
“It will be a pity if you do,” said Crewe.
“Why 7"
“Because he's the wrong man.”
“It would take a lot to make me believe that,” said
Rolfe stoutly. “We’ve got a strong case against him—
there is not a weak point in it. I admit that Hill is a
tainted witness, but they'll find it pretty hard to break
down his story. We’ve tested it in every way and find it
stands. Then there are the bootmarks outside the win-
dow. Birchill's boots fit them to the smallest fraction of
an inch. The jemmy found in the flat fits the mark made
in the window at Riversbrook, and we've got something
more—another witness who saw him in Tanton Gardens
about the time of the murder. If Birchill can get his
neck out of the noose, he's cleverer than I take him
for.”
Crewe did not reply directly to Rolfe's summary of
the case.
“I see that they've briefed Holymead for the defence,”
he said after a pause.
“A waste of good money,” said the police officer.
Something appealed to his sense of humour, for he broke
out into a laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Crewe.


I50 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“I was wondering how Sir Horace feels when he sees
the money he gave this girl Fanning being used to defend
his murderer.”
“You are a hardened scamp, Rolfe, with a very per-
verse sense of humour,” said Crewe.
“It was a cunning move of them to get Holymead,”
said Rolfe. “They think it will weigh with the jury be-
cause he was such a close friend of Sir Horace—that
he wouldn't have taken up the case unless he felt that
Birchill was innocent. But you and I know better than
that, Mr. Crewe. A lawyer will prove that black is
white if he is paid for it. In fact, I understand that, ac-
cording to the etiquette of the bar, they have got to do it.
A barrister has to abide by his brief and leave his per-
sonal feelings out of account.”
“That's so. Theoretically he is an officer of the Court,
and his services are supposed to be at the call of any
man who is in want of him and can afford to pay for
them. Of course, a leading barrister, such as Holymead,
often declines a brief because he has so much to do, but
he is not supposed to decline it for personal reasons.”
“His heart will not be in the case,” said Rolfe philo-
sophically.
“On the contrary, I think it will,” said Crewe. “My
own opinion is that, if necessary, he will exert his powers
to the utmost in order to get Birchill off, and that he
will succeed.”
“Not he,” said Rolfe confidently. “Our case is too
strong.”
“You’ve got a lot of circumstantial evidence, but a
clever lawyer will pull it to pieces. Circumstantial evi-
dence has hung many a man, and it will hang many more.
But a jury will hesitate to convict on circumstantial evi-
dence when it can be shown that the conduct of the
prisoner is at variance with what the conduct of a guilty
man would be. I don't bet, but I'll wager you a box of
cigars to nothing that Holymead gets Birchill off.”
“It's a one-sided wager, but I'll take the cigars because


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I5I
I could do with a box of these,” said Rolfe. “You might
as well give them to me now, Mr. Crewe.”
“No, no,” said Crewe with a smile. “Put a couple in
your pocket now, because you won't win the box.”
“Of course, I understand, Mr. Crewe, why you say
Birchill is the wrong man. You feel a bit sore because
we have beaten you. I would feel sore myself in your
place, and I don't deny that we got information that put
us on Birchill's track, and therefore it was easier for us
to solve the mystery than it was for you.”
“I’m not a bit sore,” said Crewe. “I can take a beat-
ing, especially when the men who beat me are good
sportsmen.” He bowed towards Rolfe, and that officer
blushed as he recalled how Inspector Chippenfield and
he had agreed to withhold information from Crewe
and try to put him on a false scent.
“I wish you'd tell me what you consider the weak
points of our case against Birchill,” asked Rolfe.
“Your case is based on Hill's confession, and that to
my mind is false in many details,” said Crewe. “Take,
for instance, his account of how he came into contact with
Birchill again. This girl Fanning, after a quarrel with
Sir Horace, came over to Riversbrook with a message
for Hill which was virtually a threat. Now does that
seem probable? The girl who had been in the habit of
visiting Sir Horace goes over to see Hill. No woman in
the circumstances would do anything of the sort. She
had too good an opinion of herself to take a message to
a servant at a house from which she had been expelled
by the owner, who had been keeping her. How would
she have felt if she had run into Sir Horace? It is true
that Sir Horace left for Scotland the day before, but it
is improbable that the girl who had quarrelled with Sir
Horace a fortnight before knew the exact date on which
he intended to leave. And how did Hill behave when
he got the message? According to his story, he consented
to go and see Birchill under threat of exposure, and he
consented to become an accomplice in the burglary for the


I52 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
same reason. Sir Horace knew all about Hill's past, so
why should he fear a threat of exposure?”
“Hill explained that,” interposed Rolfe. “He pointed
out that, though Sir Horace knew his past, he couldn't
afford to have any scandal about it.”
“Quite so. But could Birchill afford to threaten a
man who was under the protection of Sir Horace Few-
banks? Would Birchill pit himself against Sir Horace?
I think that Sir Horace, knowing the law pretty thor-
oughly, would soon have found a way to deal with Birch-
ill. If Hill was threatened by Birchill, his first impulse,
knowing what a powerful protector he had in Sir Horace
Fewbanks, would have been to go to him and seek his
protection against this dangerous old associate of his
convict days. According to Hill's own story, he was
something in the nature of a confidential servant, trusted
to some extent with the secrets of Sir Horace's double
life. What more likely than such a man, threatened as
he describes, should turn to his master who had shielded
him and trusted him?”
“I confess that is a point which never struck me,”
said Rolfe thoughtfully.
“Now, let us go on to the meeting between Hill and
Birchill,” continued Crewe. “This girl Fanning, dis-
carded by Sir Horace, because he'd discovered she was
playing him false with Birchill, is made the ostensible
reason for Birchill's wishing to commit a burglary at
Riversbrook, because Birchill wants, as he says, to get
even with Sir Horace Fewbanks. Is it likely that Birchill
would confide his desire for revenge so frankly to Sir
Horace's confidential servant, the trusted custodian of
his master's valuables, who could rely on his master's
protection—the protection of a highly-placed man of
whom Birchill stood admittedly in fear, and whom he
knew, according to Hill's story, was unassailable from his
slander? What had Hill to fear, from the threats of a
man like Birchill, when he was living under Sir Horace
Fewbanks's protection? All that Hill had to do when


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I53
Birchill tried to induce him, by threats of exposure of
his past, to help in a burglary at his master's house, was
to threaten to tell everything to Sir Horace. Birchill
told Hill that he was frightened of Sir Horace Fewbanks,
the judge who had sentenced him. -
“Then Birchill's confidence in Hill is remarkable, any
way you look at it. He sends for Hill, whom he had
known in gaol, and whom he hadn't seen since, to confide
in him that it is his intention to burgle his employer's
house. He rashly assumes that Hill will do all that he
wishes, and he proceeds to lay his cards on the table. But
even supposing that Birchill was foolish enough to do this
—to trust a chance gaol acquaintance so implicitly—there
is a far more puzzling action on his part. Why did he
want Hill's assistance to burgle a practically unprotected
house? I confess I have great difficulty in understanding
why such an accomplished flash burglar as Birchill, one of
the best men at the game in London at the present time,
should want the assistance of an amateur like Hill in such
a simple job.”
Rolfe looked startled.
“Hill says he wanted a plan of the house and to know
what valuables it contained.”
Crewe smiled.
“And has it been your experience among criminals,
Rolfe, that a burglar must have a plan of the place he
intends to burgle, and that to get this plan he will give
himself away to any man who can supply it? A plan
has its uses, but it is indispensable only when a very
difficult job is being undertaken, such as breaking through
a wall or a ceiling to get at a room which contains a
safe. This job was as simple as A B C. And besides,
as far as I can make out, Birchill knew—the girl Fan-
ning must have known—that Sir Horace would be going
away some time in August and that the house would be
empty. Did he want a plan of an empty house? He
would be free to roam all over it when he had forced a
window.”


I54 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“He wanted to know what valuables were there,” said
Rolfe.
“And therefore took Hill into his confidence. If
Hill had told his master—even Birchill would realise the
risk of that—there would be no valuables to get. Next,
we come to Sir Horace Fewbanks's unexpected return.
According to Hill's story, he made some tentative efforts
to commence a confession as soon as he saw his em-
ployer, but Sir Horace was upset about something and
was too impatient to listen to a word. Is such a story
reasonable or likely? Hill says that Sir Horace had
always treated him well; and according to his earlier
statement, when he permitted himself to be terrorised
into agreeing to this burglary, he told himself that chance
would throw in his way some opportunity of informing
his master. And he told you that Birchill, mistrusting his
unwilling accomplice, hurried on the date of the burglary
so as to give him no such opportunity. Well, chance
throws in Hill's way the very opportunity he has been
seeking, but he is too frightened to use it because Sir
Horace happens to return in an angry or impatient
mood.
“Let us take Birchill's attitude when Hill tells him
that Sir Horace has unexpectedly returned from Scot-
land. Birchill is suspicious that Hill has played him
false, and naturally so, but Hill, instead of letting him
think so, and thus preventing the burglary from tak-
ing place, does all he can to reassure him, while
at the same time begging him to postpone the burglary.
That was hardly the best way to go about it. Let us
charitably assume that Hill was too frightened to let
Birchill remain under the impression that he'd played
him false, and let us look at Birchill's attitude. It is in-
conceivable that Birchill should have permitted himself to
be reassured, when right through the negotiations be-
tween himself and Hill he showed the most marked dis-
trust of the latter. Yet, according to Hill, he suddenly
abandons this attitude for one of trusting credulity,


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I55
meekly accepting the assurance of the man he distrusts
that Sir Horace Fewbanks's unexpected return from
Scotland on the very night the burglary is to be committed
is not a trap to catch him, but a coincidence. Then, after
drinking himself nearly blind, he sets forth with a re-
volver to commit a burglary on the house of the judge
who tried him, on Hill's bare word that everything is .
all right. Guileless, trusting, simple-minded Birchill!
“Hill is left locked up in the flat with the girl; for
Birchill, who has just trusted him implicitly in a far
more important matter affecting his own liberty, has a
belated sense of caution about trusting his unworthy
accomplice while he is away committing the burglary.
The time goes on; the couple in the flat hear the clock
strike twelve before Birchill's returning footsteps are
heard. He enters, and immediately announces to Hill
and the girl, with every symptom of strongly marked
terror, that while on his burglarious mission, he has
come across the dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks—
murdered in his own house. Mark that! he tells them
freely and openly—tells Hill—as soon as he gets in the
flat. Allowing for possible defects in my previous rea-
soning against Hill's story, admitting that an adroit
prosecuting counsel may be able to buttress up some of
the weak points, allowing that you may have other cir-
cumstantial evidence supporting your case, that is the
fatal flaw in your chain: because of Birchill's statement
on his return to the flat no jury in the world ought to
convict him.” -
“I don't see why,” said Rolfe.
Crewe fixed his deep eyes intently on Rolfe as he
replied:
“Because, if Birchill had committed this murder, he
would never have admitted immediately on his returning,
least of all to Hill, anything about the dead body.”
“But he told Hill that he didn't commit the murder,”
protested Rolfe.
“But you say that he did commit the murder,” re-


156 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
torted the detective. “You cannot use that piece of evi-
dence both ways. Your case is that this man Birchill,
while visiting Riversbrook to commit a burglary which
he and Hill arranged, encountered Sir Horace Fewbanks
and murdered him. I say that his admission to Hill on
his return to the flat that he had come across the body
of Sir Horace Fewbanks, is proof that Birchill did not
commit the murder. No murderer would make such a
damning admission, least of all to a man he didn't trust
—to a man who he believed was capable of entrapping
him. Next you have Birchill consenting to a message
being sent to Scotland Yard conveying the information
that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that the action
of a guilty man? Wouldn't it have been more to his in-
terest to leave the dead man's body undiscovered in the
empty house and bolt from the country? It might have
remained a week or more before being discovered. True,
he would have had to find some way of silencing Hill
while he got away from the country. He might have had
to resort to the crude method of tying Hill up, gagging
him, and leaving him in the flat. But even that would
have been better than to inform the police immediately
of the murder and place his life at the mercy of Hill,
whom he distrusted.”
“Looked at your way, I admit that there are some
weak points in our case,” said Rolfe. “But you'll find
that our Counsel will be able to answer most of them
in his address to the jury. If Birchill didn't commit the
murder, who did? Do you deny that he went up to
Riversbrook that night?”
“The letter sent to Scotland Yard shows that some
one was there besides the murderer. If Birchill was
there and helped to write the letter—and so much is
part of your case—he wasn't the murderer. In short, I
believe Birchill went up there to commit a burglary and
found the murdered body of Sir Horace.”
“Do you think that Hill did it?” asked Rolfe.
“That is more than I’d like to say. As a matter of


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I57
fact I have been so obtuse as to neglect Hill somewhat in
my investigations. In fact, I didn't know until I got
hold of a copy of his statement to the police that he was
an ex-convict. Inspector Chippenfield omitted to inform
me of the fact.”
“I didn't know that,” said Rolfe, without a blush, as he
rose to go. “He ought to have told you.”


CHAPTER XV
WHEN Rolfe left Crewe's office he went back to Scot-
land Yard. He found Inspector Chippenfield still in his
office, and related to him the substance of his interview
with Crewe. The inspector listened to the recital in grow-
ing anger.
“Birchill not the right man?” he spluttered. “Why,
of course he is. The case against him is purely circum-
stantial, but it's as clear as daylight.”
“Then you don't think there's anything in Crewe's
points?” asked Rolfe.
“I think so little of them that I look upon Birchill
as good as hanged 1 That for Crewe's points!” In-
spector Chippenfield snapped his fingers contemptu-
ously. “And I'm surprised to think that you, Rolfe,
whose loyalty to your superior officer is a thing I would
have staked my life on, should have sat there and listened
to such rubbish. I wouldn't have listened to him for
two minutes—no, not for half a minute. He was trying
to pick our case to pieces out of blind spite and jealousy,
because we’ve got ahead of him in the biggest murder
case London's had for many a long day. A man who
jaunts off to Scotland looking for clues to a murder
committed in London is a fool, Rolfe—that's what I call
him. We have beaten him—beaten him badly, and he
doesn't like it. But it is not the first time Scotland Yard
has beaten him, and it won't be the last.”
“I suppose you're right,” said Rolfe. “But there's
one point he made which rather struck me, I must say—
that about Birchill telling Hill he'd found the dead body.
Would Birchill have told Hill that, if he'd committted
the murder?”
“Nothing more likely,” exclaimed the inspector. “My
I58


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I59
theory is that Birchill, while committing the burglary
at Riversbrook, was surprised by Sir Horace Few-
banks. It is possible that the judge tried to capture
Birchill to hand him over to the police, and Birchill
shot him. I believe that Birchill fired both shots—that
he had two revolvers. But whatever took place, a dan-
gerous criminal like Birchill would not require much
provocation to silence a man who interrupted him while
he was on business bent, and a man, moreover, against
whom he nursed a bitter grudge. In this case it is
possible there was no provocation at all. Sir Horace
Fewbanks may have simply heard a noise, entered the
room where Birchill was, and been shot down without
mercy. Birchill heard him coming and was ready for
him with a revolver in each hand. You've got to bear
in mind that Birchill went to the house in a dangerous
mood, half mad with drink, and furious with anger
against Sir Horace Fewbanks for cutting off the allow-
ance of the girl he was living with. He threatened be-
fore he left the flat to commit the burglary that he'd
do for the judge if he interfered with him.”
“That's according to Hill's statement,” said Rolfe.
Inspector Chippenfield glanced at his subordinate in
some surprise.
“Of course it's Hill's statement,” he said. “Isn't he
our principal witness, and doesn't his statement fit in
with all the facts we have been able to gather? Well,
the murder of Sir Horace, no matter how it was com-
mitted, was committed in cold blood. But immediately
Birchill had done it the fact that he had committed
a murder would have a sobering effect on him. Al-
though he bragged before he left the flat for Rivers-
brook about killing the judge if he came across him,
he had no intention of jeopardising his neck unneces-
sarily, and after he had shot down the judge in a
moment of drunken passion he would be anxious to keep
Hill—whom he mistrusted—from knowing that he had
committed the murder. But he was fully aware that Hill


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I61
flat the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was murdered. Hill
had been questioned and cross-questioned at Scotland
Yard by Inspector Chippenfield concerning the events of
that night, and professed to have confessed to every-
thing that had happened, but Rolfe thought it possible
he might be able to extract something more which
might assist in strengthening what Crewe regarded as the
weak points in the police case against Birchill. Rolfe had
every justification for such a visit, for, though Hill
had not been arrested, he had been ordered by Inspec-
tor Chippenfield to report himself daily to the Cam-
den Town Police Station, and the police of that district
had been instructed to keep a strict eye on his movements.
Inspector Chippenfield did not regard his principal
witness in the forthcoming murder trial as the sort of
man likely to bolt, but if he permitted him for politic
reasons to retain his liberty, he took every precaution to
ensure that Hill should not abuse his privilege.
Rolfe lived in lodgings at King's Cross, and, as the
evening was fine and he was fond of exercise, he decided
to walk across to Hill's place.
As he walked along his thoughts revolved round the
murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and the baffling per-
plexities which had surrounded its elucidation. Had they
got hold of the right man—the real murderer—in Fred
Birchill? Rolfe kept asking himself that question again
and again. A few hours ago he had not the slightest
doubt on the point; he had looked upon the great mur-
der case as satisfactorily solved, and he had thought with
increasing satisfaction of his own share in bringing
the murderer to justice. He had anticipated newspaper
praise on his sharpness: judicial commendation, a favour-
able official entry in the departmental records of Scot-
land Yard, with perhaps promotion for the good work
he had accomplished in this celebrated case. These rosy
visions had been temporarily dissipated by the conversa-
tion he had had with Crewe that morning. If Crewe
had not succeeded in destroying Rolfe's conviction that


162 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
the murderer of Sir Horace Fewbanks had been caught,
he had pointed out sufficient flaws in the police case
to shake Rolfe's previous assurance of the legal convic-
tion of Birchill for the crime. The way in which Crewe
had pulled the police case to pieces had shown Rolfe
that the conviction of Birchill was by no means a fore-
gone conclusion, and had left him a prey to doubts and
anxiety which Inspector Chippenfield's subsequent depre-
ciation of the detective's views had not altogether re-
moved.
The little shop kept by the Hills was empty when
Rolfe entered it, but Mrs. Hill appeared from the inner
room in answer to his knock. The faded little woman
did not recognise the police officer at first, but when he
spoke she looked into his face with a start. She timidly
said, in reply to his inquiry for her husband, that he had
just “stepped out” down the street.
“Then you had better send your little girl after him,”
said Rolfe, seating himself on the one rickety chair on
the outside of the counter. “I want to see him.”
Mrs. Hill seemed at a loss to reply for a moment.
Then she answered, nervously plucking at her apron the
while: “I don't think it'd be much use doing that, sir.
You see, Mr. Hill doesn't always tell me where he's go-
ing and I don't really know where he is.”
“Then why did you tell me that he had just stepped
out down the street?” asked Rolfe sharply.
“Because I thought he mightn't be far away.”
“Then, as a matter of fact, you don't know where he
is or when he'll be back?”
“No, sir.”
Her prompt and uncompromising reply indicated that
she did not want him to wait for her husband.
“I think I'll wait,” said Rolfe, looking at her steadily.
“Yes, sir.”
Daphne appeared at the door of the parlour which
led into the shop and her mother waved her back angrily.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 163
“Go to bed this instant, miss; it's long past your bed-
time,” she said.
It was obvious that Mrs. Hill retained a vivid recollec-
tion of how disastrous had been Daphne's appearance
during Inspector Chippenfield's first visit to the shop.
“Perhaps your little girl knows where her father is,”
said Rolfe maliciously.
“No, she doesn't,” replied Mrs. Hill with some spirit.
“You can ask her if you like.”
Rolfe was suddenly struck with an idea and he de-
cided to test it.
“I won't wait—I’ve changed my mind. But if your
husband comes in tell him not to go to bed until I've
seen him. I’ll be back.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Do you think he was going to Riversbrook?” he
asked.
The woman flushed suddenly and then went pale. She
knew as well as Rolfe that her husband was strictly for-
bidden, pending the trial, to go near the place of his for-
mer employment, and that the police had relieved him of
hi, keys and taken possession of the silent house and
locked everything up.
“No, sir,” she replied, with trembling lips, “Mr. Hill
hasn't gone over there.”
“How can you be certain, if he didn't tell you where he
was going?” asked Rolfe.
“Because it's the last place in the world he'd think
of going to,” gasped Mrs. Hill. “Such a thought would
never enter his head. I do assure you, sir, Mr. Hill
would never dream of going over there, sir, you can
take my word for it.”
Rolfe walked thoughtfully up High Street. Was it
possible that Hill had gone to his late master's residence
in defiance of the orders of the police? If so, only some
very powerful motive, and probably one which affected
the crime, could have induced him to risk his liberty by
making such a visit after he had been commanded to


I64 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
keep away from the place. And how would he get into
the house? Rolfe had himself locked up the house and
had locked the gates, and the bunch of keys was at
that moment hanging up in Inspector Chippenfield's
room in Scotland Yard. But even as he asked that ques-
tion, Rolfe found himself smiling at himself for his
simplicity. Nothing could be easier for a man like Hill
—an ex-criminal—to have obtained a duplicate key, be-
fore handing over possession of the keys. Rolfe had
noticed with surprise when he was locking up the house
that the French windows of the morning room were
locked from the outside by a small key as well as being
bolted from the inside. Hill had explained that the
late Sir Horace Fewbanks had generally used this French
window for gaining access to his room after a nocturnal
excursion.
Rolfe looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He
decided to go to Hampstead and put his suspicions
to the test. It was quite possible he was mistaken, but
if, on the other hand, Hill was paying a nocturnal visit
to Riversbrook and he had the luck to capture him, he
might extract from him some valuable evidence for
the forthcoming trial that Hill had kept back. And Rolfe
was above all things interested at that moment in making
the case for the prosecution as strong as possible.
Rolfe walked to the Camden Town Underground sta-
tion, bought a ticket for Hampstead, and took his seat
in the tube in that state of exhilarated excitement
which comes to the detective when he feels that he is
on the road to a disclosure. The speed of the train
seemed all too slow for the police officer, and he looked
at his watch at least a dozen times during the short
journey from Camden Town to Hampstead.
When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a
rapid walk for Riversbrook. It was quite dark when
he reached Tanton Gardens. He turned into the rustling
avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till
he reached the deserted house of the murdered man.


166 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Instantaneously there came to Rolfe the remembrance
that Inspector Chippenfield had ordered the library blind
to be left up, so that when the sun was high in the heavens
its rays, striking in through the window over the top of
the chestnut-tree, might dry up the stain of blood on the
floor, which washing had failed to efface. Somebody was
in the library and had dropped the blind.
Rolfe hurriedly retraced his steps to the edge of the
plantation, and raced across the Italian garden, feeling
for his revolver as he ran. Some instinct told him that
he would find entrance through the French windows
on the west side of the morning room, and thither he
directed his steps. He pulled out his electric torch and
tried the windows. They were shut, and the first one
was locked. The second one yielded to his hand. He
pulled it open, and stepped into the room. Making his
way by the light of his torch to the stairs, he swiftly
but silently crept up them and turned to the library on
the left of the first landing. The door was closed but
not locked, and a faint light came through the keyhole.
Rolfe pushed the door open, and looked into the room. A
man was leaning over the dead judge's writing-desk, ex-
amining its contents by the light of a candle which he had
set down on the desk. He was so engrossed in his oc-
cupation that he did not hear the door open.
“What are you doing there?” demanded Rolfe sternly.
His voice sounded hollow and menacing as it reverber-
ated through the room.
The man at the desk started up, and turned round.
It was Hill. When he saw Rolfe he looked as though
he would fall. He made as if to step forward. Then
he stood quite still, looking at the officer with ashen
face.
“Hill,” said Rolfe quietly, “what does this mean?”
The butler had regained his self-composure with won-
derful quickness. The mask of reticence dropped over
his face again, and it was in the smooth deferential tones
of a well-trained servant that he replied:


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 167
“Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to
see if everything was all right.”
“How did you get into the house?”
“By the French window, sir. I had a duplicate key
which Sir Horace had made.”
“And I see you also have a duplicate key of the
desk. Why didn't you give these keys up with the
others to Inspector Chippenfield?”
“I forgot about them at the time, sir. I found them
in an old pocket this evening, and I was so uneasy about
the house shut up with a lot of valuable things in it
and nobody to give an eye to them that I just slipped
across to see everything was all right.”
“You came here after dark, and let yourself in with
a private key after you had been strictly ordered not to
come near the place? You have the audacity to admit
you have done this?”
“Well, it's this way, sir. I was a trusted servant of
Sir Horace's. I knew a great deal about his private
life, if I may say so. I know he kept a lot of private
papers in this room, and I wanted to make sure they were
safe—I didn't like them being in this empty house, sir.
I couldn't sleep in my bed of nights for thinking of
them, sir. I felt last night as if my poor dead master
was standing at my bedside, urging me to go over. I
am very sorry I disobeyed the police orders, Mr. Rolfe,
but I acted for the best.”
“Hill, you are lying, you are keeping something back.
Unless you immediately tell me the real reason of your
visit to this house to-night I will take you down to the
Hampstead Police Station and have you locked up. This
visit of yours will take a lot of explaining away after
your previous confession, Hill. It's enough to put you in
the dock with Birchill.”
Hill's eyes, which had been fixed on Rolfe's face,
wavered towards the door-way, as though he were medi-
tating a rush for freedom. But he merely remarked:
“I’ve told you the truth, sir, though perhaps not all


I68 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
of it. I came across to see if I could find some of Sir
Horace's private papers which are missing.”
“How do you know there are any papers missing?”
“As I said before, Mr. Rolfe, Sir Horace trusted me
and he didn't take the trouble to hide things from
me.”
“You mean that he often left his desk open with im-
portant papers scattered about it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you made a practice of going through them?”
“I didn't make a practice of it,” protested Hill. “But
sometimes I glanced at one or two of them. I thought
there was no harm in it, knowing that Sir Horace trusted
me.”
“And some papers that you knew were there are now
missing. Do you mean stolen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you see them last?”
“Just before Inspector Chippenfield came—the morning
after the body was discovered. You remember, sir, that
he came straight up here while you stayed downstairs
talking to Constable Flack.”
“Do you mean to suggest that Inspector Chippenfield
stole them?”
“Oh, no, sir, I don't think he saw them. Sir Horace
kept them in this little place at the back of the desk.
Look at it, sir. It's a sort of secret drawer.”
Rolfe went over to the desk, and Hill explained to
him how the hiding place could be closed and opened.
It was at the back of the desk under the pigeonholes, and
the fact that the pigeonholes came close down to the desk
hid the secret drawer and the spring which controlled it.
“What was the nature of these papers?” asked Rolfe.
“Well, sir, I never read them. Sir Horace set such
store by them that I never dared to open them for fear
he would find out. They were mostly letters and they
were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon.”
“A lady's letters, of course,” said Rolfe.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 169
“Judging from the writing on the envelopes they were
sent by a lady,” said Hill.
Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on
the verge of a discovery. Here was evidence of a lady
in the case, which might lead to a startling development.
Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill was
the wrong man, he said to himself. Perhaps the mur-
derer was not a man, but a woman.
“And who do you think stole them?” he asked Hill.
“That is more than I would like to say,” replied the
butler.
“Are you sure they were in this hiding place when
Inspector Chippenfield took charge of everything?”
“Yes, sir. I dusted out the room the morning you
and he came to Riversbrook together, and the papers
were there then, because I happened to touch the spring
as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw
the bundle there.”
“Why didn't you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the
papers and the secret drawer?”
“That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn't find
them himself. But when I had found they had gone I
didn't like to say anything to him, because, as you may
say, I had no right to know anything about them.”
“When did they go: when did you find they were
missing?”
“When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch.
I looked in the desk and found they had gone.”
“Who could have taken them? Who had access to
the room?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that
morning.”
“Yes. There were about a dozen newspaper reporters
during the day at various times. There were Dr. Slingsby
and his assistant, who came out to make the post-mortem:
Inspector Seldon, who came to arrange about the inquest,
and there was that man from the undertakers who came
to inquire about the funeral arrangements. But none


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 171
looked to see if Inspector Chippenfield had found them.
I saw they had gone, and as I couldn't see any sign
of them about anywhere else I concluded they must
have been taken without Inspector Chippenfield knowing
anything about it. The reason I came over here to-night
was to have another careful look round for them.”
Rolfe was silent for a moment.
“What would you have done with the papers if you
had found them?” he asked suddenly.
“I would have handed them over to the police, sir,”
said the butler, who obviously had been prepared for a
question of the kind.
“And what explanation would you have given for hav-
ing found them—for having come over here in defiance
of your orders from Inspector Chippenfield?”
“The true explanation, sir,” said the butler, with a
mild note of protest in his voice. “I would have told
Inspector Chippenfield what I have already told you. And
it is the simple truth.”
Rolfe was plainly taken back at this rebuke, but he
did not reply to it.
“In your statement of what took place when Birchill
returned to the flat after committing the murder, he said
something about having seen a woman leave the house
by the front door as he was hiding in the garden—a
fashionably dressed woman I think he said.”
“Yes, sir, that was it.”
“Do you believe that part of his story was true?”
“Well, sir, with a man like Birchill it is impossible to
say when he is telling the truth, and when he isn't.”
“There was no lady with Sir Horace when you left
him that night when he returned from Scotland?”
“No, sir.”
“I think you said he was in a hurry to get you out of
the house, and told you not to come back?”
“That is what I thought at the time, sir.”
“Well, Hill,” said Rolfe, resuming his severe official
tone, “all this does not excuse in any way your con-


172 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
duct in coming over here and forcing your way into the
house in defiance of the police; opening this desk, and
prying about for private papers that don't concern you.
The proper course for you to adopt was to come to
Scotland Yard and tell your story about these missing
papers to Inspector Chippenfield or myself. However,
I don't propose to take any action against you at present.
Only there is to be no more of it. If you come hanging
about here again on your own account, you'll find your-
self in the dock beside Birchill. Hand me over the dupli-
cate key of the door by which you came in, and also the
key of the desk which you had still less right to have in
your possession. Say nothing to anyone about those
papers until I give you permission to do so.”


CHAPTER XVI
THE day fixed for the trial of Frederick Birchill was
wet, dismal, and dreary. The rain pelted intermittently
through a hazy, chilly atmosphere, filling the gutters and
splashing heavily on the slippery pavements. But in spite
of the rain a long queue, principally of women, assem-
bled outside the portals of the Old Bailey long before the
time fixed for the opening of the court. At the private
entrance to the courthouse arrived fashionably-dressed
ladies accompanied by well-groomed men. They had re-
ceived cards of admission and had seats reserved for them
in the body of the court. Many of them had personally
known the late Sir Horace Fewbanks, and their interest
in the trial of the man accused of his murder was intensi-
fied by the rumours afloat that there were to be some spicy
revelations concerning the dead judge's private life.
The arrival of Mr. Justice Hodson, who was to preside
at the trial, caused a stir among some of the spectators,
many of whom belonged to the criminal class. Sir Henry
Hodson had presided at so many murder trials that he
was known among them as “the Hanging Judge.” Among
the spectators were some whom Sir Henry had put into
mourning at one time or another; there were others whom
he had deprived of their bread-winners for specified peri-
ods. These spectators looked at him with curiosity, fear,
and hatred. Mr. Holymead, K.C., drove up in a taxi-cab
a few minutes later, and his arrival created an impression
akin to admiration. In the eyes of the criminal class he
was an heroic figure who had assumed the responsibility
of saving the life of one of their fraternity. The eminent
counsel's success in the few criminal cases in which he had
consented to appear had gained him the respectful esteem
173


I74 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
of those who considered themselves oppressed by the law,
and the spectators on the pavement might have raised a
cheer for him if their exuberance had not been restrained
by the proximity of the policeman guarding the en-
trance.
When the court was opened Inspector Chippen-
field took a seat in the body of the court behind the
barrister's bench. He ranged his eye over the closely-
packed spectators in the gallery, and shook his head with
manifest disapproval. It seemed to him that the worst
criminals in London had managed to elude the vigilance
of the sergeant outside in order to see the trial of their
notorious colleague, Fred Birchill. He pointed out their
presence to Rolfe, who was seated alongside him.
“There's that scoundrel Bob Rogers, who slipped
through our hands over the Ealing case, and his pal,
Breaker Jim, who's just done seven years, looking down
and grinning at us,” he angrily whispered. “I’ll give
them something to grin about before they're much
older. You'd think Breaker would have had enough of
the Old Bailey to last him a lifetime. And look at that
row alongside of them—there's Morris, Hart, Harry the
Hooker, and that chap Willis who murdered the pawn-
broker in Commercial Road last year, only we could
never sheet it home to him. And two rows behind them
is old Charlie, the Covent Garden “drop,' with Holder
Jack and Kemp, Birchill's mate. Why, they're every-
where. The inquest was nothing to this, Rolfe.”
“Kemp must be thanking his lucky stars he wasn't
in that Riversbrook job with Fred Birchill,” said Rolfe,
“for they usually work together. And there's Crewe, up
in the gallery.”
“Where?” exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with an
indignant start.
“Up there behind that pillar there—no, the next one.
See, he's looking down at you.”
Crewe caught the inspector's eye, and nodded and


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I75
smiled in a friendly fashion, but Inspector Chippenfield
returned the salutation with a haughty glare.
“The impudence of that chap is beyond belief,” he said
to his subordinate. “One would have thought he'd have
kept away from court after his wild-goose chase to Scot-
land and piling up expenses, but not him Brazen im-
pudence is the stock-in-trade of the private detective. If
Scotland Yard had a little more of the impudence of
the private detective, Rolfe, we should be better ap-
preciated.”
“I suppose he's come in the hopes of seeing the jury
acquit Birchill,” said Rolfe.
“No doubt,” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “But he's
come to the wrong shop. A good jury should con-
vict without leaving the box if the case is properly put
before them by the prosecution. Crewe would like to
triumph over us, but it is our turn to win.”
But Inspector Chippenfield was wrong in think-
ing that Crewe's presence in court was due to a desire
for the humiliation of his rivals. Crewe had spent most
of the previous night reading and revising his summaries
and notes of the Riversbrook case, and in minutely re-
viewing his investigations of it. Over several pipes in
the early morning hours he pondered long and deeply on
the secret of Sir Horace Fewbanks's murder, without
finding a solution which satisfactorily accounted for all
the strange features of the case. But one thing he felt
sure of was that Birchill had not committed the murder.
He based that belief partly on the butler's confession, and
partly on his own discoveries. He believed Hill to be a
cunning scoundrel who had overreached the police for
some purpose of his own by accusing Birchill, and who,
to make his story more probable, had even implicated
himself in the supposed burglary as a terrorised accom-
plice. And Crewe had been unable to test the butler's
story, or find out what game he was playing, because of
the assuidity with which the principal witness for the
prosecution had been “nursed” by the police from the


176 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
moment he made his confession. Crewe bit hard into
his amber mouthpiece in vexation as he recalled the
ostrich-like tactics of Inspector Chippenfield, who, having
accepted Hill's story as genuine, had officially baulked all
his efforts to see the man and question him about it.
He had come to court with the object of witnessing
Birchill's behaviour in the dock and the efforts of any of
his criminal friends to communicate with him. As a
man who had had considerable experience in criminal
trials he knew the irresistible desire of the criminal in
the gallery of the court to encourage the man in the
dock to keep up his courage. Communications of the
kind had to be made by signs. It was Crewe's impres-
sion that by watching Birchill in the dock and Birchill's
friends in the gallery he might pick up a valuable hint
or two. It was also his intention to study closely the
defence which Counsel for the prisoner intended to put
forward.
It was therefore with a feeling of mingled annoyance
and surprise that Crewe, looking down from his point
of vantage at the bevy of fashionably-dressed ladies in
the body of the court, recognised Mrs. Holymead,
Mademoiselle Chiron and Miss Fewbanks seated side by
side, engaged in earnest conversation. Before he could
withdraw from their view behind the pillar in front of
him, Miss Fewbanks looked up and saw him. She bowed
to him in friendly recognition, and Crewe saw her whis-
per to Mrs. Holymead, who glanced quickly in his direc-
tion and then as quickly averted her gaze. But in that
fleeting glance of her beautiful dark eyes Crewe detected
an expression of fear, as though she dreaded his pres-
ence, and he noticed that she shivered slightly as she
turned to resume her conversation with Miss Few-
banks.
His Honour Mr. Justice Hodson entered, and the per-
sons in the court scrambled hurriedly to their feet to
pay their tribute of respect to British law, as exemplified
in the person of a stout red-faced old gentleman wearing


178 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Walters bowed to the presiding judge—the embodiment
of legal knowledge, legal experience, and legal wisdom.
After this tribute to the murdered man and the pre-
siding judge, Mr. Walters proceeded to lay the facts
of the crime before the jury, who had read all about
them in the newspapers.
With methodical care he built up the case against the
accused man, classifying the points of evidence against
him in categorical order for the benefit of the jury. The
most important witness for the prosecution was a man
known as James Hill, who had been in Sir Horace Few-
banks's employ as a butler. Hill's connection with the
prisoner was in some aspects unfortunate, for himself,
and no doubt counsel for the defence would endeavour to
discredit his evidence on that account, but the jury, when
they heard the butler tell his story in the witness-box,
would have little difficulty in coming to the conclusion
that the man Hill was the victim of circumstances and his
own weakness of temperament. However much they
might be disposed to blame him for the course he had
pursued, he was innocent of all complicity in his master's
death, and had done his best to help the ends of justice
by coming forward with a voluntary confession to the
police. -
Mr. Walters made no attempt to conceal or extenuate
the black page in Hill's past, but he asked the jury to
believe that Hill had bitterly repented of his former crime,
and would have continued to lead an honest life as Sir
Horace Fewbanks's butler, if ill fate had not forged a
cruel chain of circumstances to link him to his past life
and drag him down by bringing him in contact with the
accused man Birchill, whom he had met in prison. Sir
Horace Fewbanks was the self-appointed guardian of a
young woman named Doris Fanning, the daughter of a
former employé on his country estate, who had died leav-
ing her penniless. Sir Horace had deemed it his duty to
bring up the girl and give her a start in life. After educat-
ing her in a style suitable to her station, he sent her to Lon-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 179
don and paid for music lessons for her in order to fit her
for a musical career, for which she showed some aptitude.
Unfortunately the young woman had a self-willed and
unbalanced temperament, and she gave her benefactor
much trouble. Sir Horace bore patiently with her until
she made the chance acquaintance of Birchill, and be-
came instantly fascinated by him. The acquaintance
speedily drifted into intimacy, and the girl became the
pliant tool of Birchill, who acquired an almost magnetic
influence over her. As the intimacy progressed she
seemed to have become a willing partner in his criminal
schemes.
When Sir Horace Fewbanks heard that the girl had
drifted into an association with a criminal like Birchill
he endeavoured to save her from her folly by remonstrat-
ing with her, and the girl promised to give up Birchill, but
did not do so. When Sir Horace found out that he was
being deceived he was compelled to renounce her. Bir-
chill, who had been living on the girl, was furious with
anger when he learnt that Sir Horace had cut off the
monetary allowance he had been making her, and, on dis-
covering by some means that his former prison associate
Hill was now the butler at Sir Horace Fewbanks's house,
he planned his revenge. He sent the girl Fanning to Riv-
ersbrook with a message to Hill, directing him, under
threat of exposure, to see him at the Westminster flat.
Hill, who dreaded nothing so much as an exposure of
that past life of his which he hoped was a secret be-
tween his master and himself, kept the appointment.
Birchill told him he intended to rob the judge's house
in order to revenge himself on Sir Horace for cutting
off the girl's allowance, and he asked Hill to assist him
in carrying out the burglary. Hill strenuously demurred
at first, but weakly allowed himself to be terrorised into
compliance under Birchill's threats of exposure. Hill's
participation in the crime was to be confined to preparing


18O THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
a plan of Riversbrook as a guide for Birchill. Birchill
said nothing about murder at this time, but there is no
doubt he contemplated violence when he first spoke to
Hill. When Hill, alarmed by his master's return on the
actual night for which the burglary had been arranged,
hurried across to the flat to urge Birchill to abandon
the contemplated burglary, Birchill obstinately decided
to carry out the crime, and left the flat with a revolver
in his hand, threatening to murder Sir Horace if he found
him, because of his harsh treatment—as he termed it—of
the girl Fanning.
“Birchill left the flat at nine o'clock,” continued Mr.
Walters, who had now reached the vital facts of the night
of the murder. “I ask the jury to take careful note of
the time and the subsequent times mentioned, for they
have an important bearing on the circumstantial evi-
dence against the accused man. He returned, according
to Hill's evidence, shortly after midnight. Evidence will
be called to show that Birchill, or a man answering his
description, boarded a tramcar at Euston Road at 9:30 p.
m., and journeyed in it to Hampstead. He was observed
both at Euston Road and the Hampstead terminus by the
conductor, because of his obvious desire to avoid atten-
tion. There were only two other passengers on the top
of the car when it left. Euston Road. The conductor
directed the attention of the driver to his movements,
and they both watched him till he disappeared in the
direction of the Heath. In fairness to the prisoner, it
was necessary to point out, however, that neither the
conductor nor the driver can identify him positively as
the man they had seen on their car that night, but both
will swear that to the best of their belief Birchill is the
man. Assuming that it was the prisoner who travelled to
Hampstead by the Euston Road tram—a route he would
probably prefer because it took him to Hampstead by
the most unfrequented way—he would have a distance of
nearly a mile to walk across Hampstead Heath to Tanton


182 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
who was pulling at his gown. “Er—yes, I'm informed by
Detective Rolfe of Scotland Yard, my lord, that the young
woman is a witness in the case.”
“Then why was she permitted to remain in court?”
asked Sir Henry Hodson angrily. “It is a piece of gross
carelessness.”
“I do not know, my lord. I was unaware she was a
witness until this moment,” returned Mr. Walters, with
a discreet glance in the direction of Detective Rolfe, as
an indication to His Honour that the judicial storm might
safely veer in that direction. Sir Henry took the hint
and administered such a stinging rebuke to Detective
Rolfe that that officer's face took on a much redder tint
before it was concluded. Then the judge motioned to
Mr. Walters to resume the case.
Counsel, with his index finger still in the place in his
brief where he had been interrupted, rose to his feet again
and turned to the jury.
“Birchill returned to the flat at Westminster shortly
after midnight,” he continued. “Hill had been compelled
by Birchill's threats to remain at the flat with the girl
while Birchill visited Riversbrook, and the first thing
Birchill told him on his return was that he had found
Sir Horace Fewbanks dead in his house when he entered
it. On his way back from committing the crime be-
lated caution had probably dictated to Birchill the wis-
dom of endeavouring to counteract his previous threat
to murder Sir Horace Fewbanks. He probably remem-
bered that Hill, who had heard the threat, was an un-
willing participator in the plan for the burglary, and
might therefore denounce him to the police for the greater
crime if he (Birchill) admitted that he had committed it.
In order to guard against this contingency still further
Birchill forced Hill to join in writing a letter to Scot-
land Yard, acquainting them with the murder, and the
fact that the body was lying in the empty house. Birch-
ill's object in acting thus was a twofold one. He dared


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 183
not trust Hill to pretend to discover the body the next
day and give information to the police, for fear he
should not be able to retain sufficient control of himself
to convince the detectives that he was wholly ignorant
of the crime, and he also thought that if Hill had a
share in writing the letter he would feel an additional
complicity in the crime, and keep silence for his own
sake. Birchill was right in his calculations—up to a
point. Hill was at first too frightened to disclose what
he knew, but as time went on his affection for his mur-
dered master, and his desire to bring the murderer to
justice, overcame his feelings of fear for his own
share in bringing about the crime, and he went and con-
fessed everything to the police, regardless of the conse-
quences that might recoil upon his own head. The case
against Birchill depends largely on Hill's evidence, and
the jury, when they have heard his story in the wit-
ness-box, and bearing in mind the extenuating circum-
stances of his connection with the crime, will have little
hesitation in coming to the conclusion that the prisoner
in the dock murdered Sir Horace Fewbanks.”
The first witness called was Inspector Seldon, who
gave evidence as to his visit to Riversbrook shortly be-
fore I p.m. on the 19th of August as the result of in-
formation received, and his discovery of the dead body of
Sir Horace Fewbanks. He described the room in which
the body was found; the position of the body; and he
identified the blood-stained clothes produced by the prose-
cution as being those in which the dead man was dressed
when the body was discovered. In cross-examination
by Holymead he stated that Sir Horace Fewbanks was
fully dressed when the body was found. The witness also
stated in cross-examination that none of the electric
lights in the house were burning when the body was
discovered.
The next witness was Dr. Slingsby, the pathological
expert from the Home Office who had made the post-


184 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
mortem examination, and who was much too great a
man to be kept waiting while other witnesses of more
importance to the case but of less personal consequence
went into the box. Dr. Slingsby stated that his examina-
tions had revealed that death had been caused by a bul-
let wound which had penetrated the left lung, causing
internal hemorrhage.
Mr. Finnis, the junior counsel for the defence, sug-
gested to the witness that the wound might have been
self-inflicted, but Dr. Slingsby permitted himself to be
positive that such was not the case. With professional
caution he assured Mr. Finnis, who briefly cross-examined
him, that it was impossible for him to state how long Sir
Horace Fewbanks had been dead. Rigor mortis, in the
case of the human body, set in from eight to ten hours
after death, and it was between three and four o'clock in
the afternoon of the day the crime was discovered that he
first saw the corpse. The body was quite stiff and cold
then.
“Is it not possible for death to have taken place nine-
teen or twenty hours before you saw the body?” asked
Mr. Finnis, eagerly.
“Quite possible,” replied Dr. Slingsby.
“Is it not also possible, from the state of the body
when you examined it, that death took place within six-
teen hours of your examination of the body?” asked Mr.
Walters, as Mr. Finnis sat down with the air of a man
who had elicited an important point.
“Quite possible,” replied Dr. Slingsby, with the prim
air of a professional man who valued his reputation too
highly to risk it by committing himself to anything
definite.
Dr. Slingsby was allowed to leave the box, and In-
spector Chippenfield took his place. Inspector Chip-
penfield did not display any professional reticence
about giving his evidence—at least, not on the surface,
though he by no means took the court completely into


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 185
his confidence as to all that had passed between him and
Hill. On the other hand he told the judge and jury
everything that his professional experience prompted
him as necessary and proper for them to know in order
to bring about a conviction. In the course of his evi-
dence he made several attempts to introduce damaging
facts as to Birchill's past, but Mr. Holymead protested to
the judge. Counsel for the defence protested that he
had allowed his learned friend in opening the case a
great deal of latitude as to the relations which had pre-
viously existed between the witness Hill and the pris-
oner, because the defence did not intend to attempt to
hide the fact that the prisoner had a criminal record,
but he had no intention of allowing a police witness to
introduce irrelevant matter in order to prejudice the jury
against the prisoner. His Honour told the witness to
confine himself to answering the questions put to him,
and not to volunteer information.
After this rebuke Inspector Chippenfield resumed
giving evidence. He related what Birchill had said when
arrested, and declared that he was positive that the foot-
prints found outside the kitchen window were made by
the boots produced in court which Birchill had been wear-
ing at the time he was arrested. He produced a jemmy
which he had found at Fanning's flat, and said that it
fitted the marks on the window at Riversbrook which
had been forced on the night of the 18th of August.
Inspector Chippenfield's evidence was followed by that
of the two tramway employés, who declared that to
the best of their belief Birchill was the man who
boarded their tram at half-past nine on the night of the
18th of August, and rode to the terminus at Hampstead,
which they reached at Io.4 p. m. Both the witnesses
showed a very proper respect for the law, and were
obviously relieved when the brief cross-examination was
over and they were free to go back to their tram-car.


CHAPTER XVII
“JAMEs HILL!” called the court crier.
The butler stepped forward, mounted the witness-
stand, and bowed his head deferentially towards the
judge. He was neatly dressed in black, and his sandy-
grey hair was carefully brushed. His face was as ex-
pressionless as ever, but a slight oscillation of the Court
Bible in his right hand as he was sworn indicated that
his nerves were not so calm as he strove to appear. He
looked neither to the right nor left, but kept his glance
downcast. Only once, as he stood there waiting to be
questioned, did he cast a furtive look towards the man
whose life hung on his evidence, but the malevolent vin-
dictive gaze Birchill shot back at him caused him to
lower his eyelids instantly.
Hill commenced his evidence in a voice so low that
Mr. Walters stopped him at the outset and asked him
to speak in a louder tone. It soon became apparent that
his evidence was making a deep impression on the court.
Sir Henry Hodson listened to him intently, and watched
him keenly, as Hill, with impassive countenance and
smooth even tones, told his strange story of the night
of the murder. When he had drawn to a conclusion he
gave another furtive glance at the dock, but Birchill was
seated with his head bowed down, as though tired, and
with one hand supporting his face.
Mr. Walters methodically folded up his brief and sat
down, with a sidelong glance in the direction of Mr.
Holymead as he did so. Every eye in court was turned
on Holymead as the great K.C. settled his gown on his
shoulders and got up to cross-examine the principal
Crown witness.
I86


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 187
His cross-examination was the admiration of those
spectators whose sympathies were on the side of the man
in the dock as one of themselves. Hill was cross-exam-
ined as to the lapse from honesty which had sent him to
gaol, and he was reluctantly forced to admit, that so far
from the theft being the result of an impulse to save
his wife and child from starvation, as the Counsel for the
prosecution had indicated, it was the result of the im-
pulse of cupidity. He had robbed a master who had
trusted him and had treated him with kindness. Hav-
ing extracted this fact, in spite of Hill's evasions and
twistings, Holymead straightened himself to his full
height, and, shaking a warning finger at the witness,
said:
“I put it to you, witness, that the reason Sir Horace
Fewbanks engaged you as butler in his household at
Riversbrook was because he knew you to be a man of
few scruples, who would be willing to do things that
a more upright honest man would have objected to?”
“That is not true,” replied Hill.
“Is it not true that your late master frequently enter-
tained women of doubtful character at Riversbrook?”
thundered the K.C.
Hill gasped at the question. When he had first heard
that his late master's old friend, Mr. Holymead, was
to appear for Birchill, he had immediately come to the
conclusion that Mr. Holymead was taking up the case
in order to save Sir Horace's name from exposure by
dealing carefully with his private life at Riversbrook.
But here he was ruthlessly tearing aside the veil of
secrecy. Hill hesitated. He glanced round the curious
crowded court and saw the eager glances of the women
as they impatiently awaited his reply. He hesitated so
long that Holymead repeated the question.
“Women of doubtful character?” faltered the wit-
ness. “I do not understand you.”
“You understand me perfectly well, Hill. I do not


I88 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
mean women off the streets, but women who have no
moral reputation to maintain—women who do not mind
letting confidential servants see that they have no re-
gard for the conventional standards of life. I mean, wit-
ness, that your late master frequently entertained at
Riversbrook, women—I will not call them ladies—who
were not particular at what hour they went home. Some-
times one or more of them stayed all night, and you were
entrusted with the confidential task of smuggling them
out of the house without other servants knowing of their
presence. Is not that so?”
“I—I—”
“Answer the question without equivocation, witness.”
“Y-es, sir.”
There was a slight stir in the body of the court due
to the fact that Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had
risen and were making their way to the door. The
fashionably-dressed women in the court stared with much
interest at the daughter of the murdered man, whom
most of them knew, in order to see how she was taking
the disclosures about her dead father's private life.
“And sometimes there were quarrels between your
late master and these visitors, were there not?” continued
Holymead.
“Quarrels, sir?”
“Surely you know that under the influence of wine
some people become quarrelsome?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, did your late master's nocturnal visitors ever
become quarrelsome?”
“Sometimes, sir.”
“In the exercise of your confidential duties did you
sometimes see quarrelsome ladies off the premises?”
“Sometimes, sir.”
“And it was no uncommon thing for them to say
things to you about your master, eh?”
“Sometimes they didn't care what they said.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 189
“Quite so,” commented Counsel drily. “They indulged
in threats?”
“Not all of them,” replied Hill, who at length saw
where the cross-examination was tending.
“I do not suggest that all of them did—only that the
more violent of them did so.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“So we may take it that the quarrel between your late
master and Miss Fanning was not the only quarrel of
the kind which came under your notice?”
“There were not many others,” said Hill.
“It was not the only one?” persisted Counsel.
“No, sir.”
“In your evidence-in-chief you said nothing about Miss
Fanning using threats against your master when you
were showing her out?”
“No, sir.”
“She did not use any?”
“Not in my hearing, sir.”
There was a pause at this stage while Mr. Holymead
consulted the notes he had made of Mr. Walters's cross-
examination of the witness.
“What o'clock was it when you left Riversbrook on
the 18th of August after your master's return from Scot-
land P”
“About half-past seven, sir.”
“And what time did Sir Horace arrive home?”
“About seven o'clock, sir.”
“What were you doing between seven and seven-
thirty?”
“I unpacked his bags and got his bedroom ready. I
took him some refreshment up to the library.”
“And he told you he wouldn't want you again until
the following night about eight o'clock?”
“Yes, sir. He said he thought he would be going back
to Scotland by the night express, and I was to get his
bag packed and lock up the house.”


190 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“You told Counsel for the prosecution in the course
of your evidence that you were afraid of Birchill,” con-
tinued Holymead.
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you afraid of physical violence from him, or
only that he would expose your past to the other ser-
vants?”
“I was afraid of him both ways,” said Hill.
“Was it because of this fear that you made out for
him a plan of Riversbrook to assist him in the bur-
glary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you make out this plan?”
“The day after Sir Horace left for Scotland.”
“Was that on your first visit to Miss Fanning's flat
in Westminster after the prisoner had sent her to Rivers-
brook to tell you he wanted to see you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Birchill stand over you while you made out this
plan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you know the plan again if you saw it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Finnis, who had been hiding the plan under the
papers before him, handed a document up to his chief.
Mr. Holymead unfolded it, and with a brief glance at it
handed it up to the witness.
“Is that the plan?” he asked.
Hill was somewhat taken aback at the production of
the plan. It was drawn in ink on a white sheet of
paper of foolscap size, with a slightly bluish tint. The
paper was by no means clean, for Birchill had carried
it about in his pocket. The witness reluctantly admitted
that the plan was the one he had given to Birchill. To
his manifest relief Counsel asked no further questions
about it. In a low tone Mr. Holymead formally expressed
his intention to put the plan in as evidence. He handed
r


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I9I
it to Mr. Walters, who, after a close inspection of it,
passed it along to the judge's Associate for His Honour's
inspection.
The rest of Hill's cross-examination concerned what
happened at the flat on the night of the burglary. He
adhered to the story he had told, and could not be shaken
in the main points of it. But Mr. Holymead made
some effective use of the discrepancy between the wit-
ness's evidence at the inquest as to his movements on
the night of the murder and his evidence in court. He
elicited the fact that the police had discovered his evi-
dence at the inquest was false and had forced him to
make a confession by threatening to arrest him for the
murder.
Mr. Holymead signified that he had nothing further to
ask the witness, and Mr. Walters called his last witness,
a young man named Charles Ryder, a resident of
Liverpool, who had spent a week's holiday in London
from the 14th to the 21st of August. Ryder had stayed
with some friends at Hampstead, and when making his
way home on the night of the 18th of August had walked
down Tanton Gardens in the belief that he was taking a
short cut. The time was about II.2O. He saw a man
running towards him along the footpath from the direc-
tion of Riversbrook. He caught a good glimpse of the
man, who seemed to be very excited. He was sure
the prisoner was the man he had seen. In cross-exam-
ination by Mr. Holymead he was far less positive in his
identification of the prisoner, and finally admitted that
the man he saw that night might be somebody else who
resembled the prisoner in build.


CHAPTER XVIII
f
THE second day of the trial began promptly when
Mr. Justice Hodson took his seat. Mr. Holymead's open-
ing statement to the jury was brief. He reminded them
that the life of a fellow creature rested on their verdict.
If there was any doubt in their minds whether the pris-
oner had fired the shot which killed Sir Horace Few-
banks the prisoner was entitled to a verdict of “not
guilty.” It was obligatory on the prosecution to prove
guilt beyond all reasonable doubt.
He submitted that the prosecution had not established
their case. After hearing the case for the prosecution the
jury must have grave doubts as to the guilt of the pris-
oner, and it was his duty as Counsel for the prisoner to
put before the jury facts which would not only increase
their doubts but bring them to the positive conclusion that
the prisoner was not guilty. He was not going to attempt
to deny that the prisoner went to Riversbrook on the night
of the murder. He went there to commit a burglary.
But so far from Hill being terrorised into complicity in
that crime it was he who had first suggested it to Birchill
and had arranged it. Material evidence on that point
would be submitted to the jury.
Hill was a man who was incapable of gratitude. His
disposition was to bite the hand that fed him. After being
well treated by Sir Horace Fewbanks he had made up his
mind to rob him as he had robbed his former master Lord
Melhurst. He knew that Sir Horace had quarrelled with
this girl Fanning because of her association with Birchill,
and he went to Birchill and put before him a proposal to
rob Riversbrook. Birchill consented to the plan, and when
on the night of the 18th August he broke into the house
he found the murdered body of Sir Horace in the
192


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I93
library. That was the full extent of the prisoner's con-
nection with the crime. To the superficial and suspicious
mind it might seem an improbable story, but to an ear-
nest mind it was a story that carried conviction because
of its simple straightforwardness—its crudity, if the
jury liked to call it that. It lacked the subtlety and the
finish of a concocted story. The murder took place be-
fore Birchill reached Riversbrook on his burglarious
errand.
“It is my place,” added Mr. Holymead, in concluding
his address, “to convince you that my client is not guilty,
or, in other words, to convince you that the murder
was committed before he reached the house. It is only
with the greatest reluctance that I take upon myself the
responsibility of pointing an accusing finger at another
man. In crimes of this kind you cannot expect to get
anything but circumstantial evidence. But there are
degrees of circumstantial evidence, and my duty to my
client lays upon me the obligation of pointing out to
you that there is one person against whom the existing
circumstantial evidence is stronger than it is against my
client.”
Crewe, who had secured his former place in the gal-
lery of the court, looked down on the speaker. He had
carefully followed every word of Holymead's address,
but the concluding portion almost electrified him. He
flattered himself that he was the only person in court
who understood the full significance of the sonorous sen-
tences with which the famous K.C. concluded his address
to the jury.
As his eyes wandered over the body of the court be-
low, Crewe saw that Mrs. Holymead and Mademoiselle
Chiron were sitting in one of the back seats, but that
they were not accompanied by Miss Fewbanks. It was
evident to him by the way in which Mrs. Holymead
followed the proceedings that her interest in the case
was something far deeper than wifely interest in her


I94 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
husband's connection with it as counsel for the defence.
Leaning forward in her seat, with her hands clasped in
her lap, she listened eagerly to every word. During
the day his gaze went back to her at intervals, and on
several occasions he became aware that she had been
watching him while he watched her husband.
The first witness for the defence was Doris Fanning.
The drift of her evidence was to exonerate the prisoner
at the expense of Hill. She declared that she had not
gone to Riversbrook to see Hill after the final quarrel
with Sir Horace. Hill had come to her flat in West-
minster of his own accord and had asked for Birchill.
She went out of the room while they discussed their
business, but after Hill had gone Birchill told her that
Hill had put up a job for him at Riversbrook. Birchill
showed her the plan of Riversbrook that Hill had made,
and asked her if it was correct as far as she knew. Yes,
she was sure she would know the plan again if she
saw it.
The judge's Associate handed it to Mr. Holymead, who
passed it to the witness.
“Is this it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied emphatically, almost without in-
specting it.
“I want you to look at it closely,” said Counsel. “When
Birchill showed you the plan immediately after Hill's
departure, what impression did you get regarding it?”
She looked at him blankly.
“I don't understand you,” she said.
“You can tell the difference between ink that has been
newly used and ink that has been on the paper some
days. Was the ink fresh?”
“No, it was old ink,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“Because ink doesn't go black till a long while after it
is written. At least, the letters I write don't.” She shot


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY I95
a veiled coquettish glance at the big K.C. from under her
long eyelashes. *
The K.C. returned the glance with a genial smile.
“What do you write your letters on, Miss Fanning?”
She almost giggled at the question.
“I use a writing tablet,” she replied.
“Ruled or unruled ”
“Ruled. I couldn't write straight if there weren't
lines.” She smiled again.
“And what colour do you affect
white paper?”
“Always white.”
“Is that all the paper you have at your flat for writing
purposes?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did Birchill write on when he wanted to
write a letter?”
“He used mine.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. When he wanted to write a letter he used to ask
me for my tablet and an envelope. And generally he
used to borrow a stamp as well.” She pouted slightly,
with another coquettish glance.
“Look at that plan again,” said the K.C. “Have you
ever had paper like it at your flat?”
She shook her head.
“Never.”
“Have you ever seen paper of that kind in Birchill's
possession before he showed you the plan 2"
“Never.”
“When he showed you the plan had the paper been
folded ?”
“Yes.”
The K.C. took the witness, now very much at her
ease, to the night of the murder. She denied strenu-
ously that Hill tried to dissuade Birchill from carrying
out the burglary because Sir Horace Fewbanks had re-
turned unexpectedly from Scotland. It was Birchill who
*
grey, rose-pink or


196 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
suggested postponing the burglary until Sir Horace left,
but Hill urged that the original plan should be adhered
to. He declared that Sir Horace would remain at home
at least a fortnight, and perhaps longer. His master
was a sound sleeper, he said, and if Birchill waited until
he went to bed there would be no danger of awakening
him. She contradicted many details of Hill's evidence as
to what took place when the prisoner returned from
breaking into Riversbrook. It was untrue, she said, that
there was a spot of blood on Birchill's face or that his
hands were smeared with blood. He was a little bit ex-
cited when he returned, but after one glass of whisky
he spoke quite calmly of what had happened.
The next witness was a representative of the firm of
Holmes and Jackson, papermakers, who was handed the
plan of Riversbrook which Hill had drawn. He stated
that the paper on which the plan was drawn was manu-
factured by his firm, and supplied to His Majesty's
Stationery Office. He identified it by the quality of
the paper and the watermark. In reply to Mr. Walters
the witness was sure that the paper he held in his
hand had been manufactured by his firm for the Govern-
ment. It was impossible for him to be mistaken. Other
firms might manufacture paper of a somewhat similar
quality and tint, but it would not be exactly similar.
Besides, he identified it by his firm's watermark, and
he held the plan up to the light and pointed it out to
the court.
Counsel for the defence called two more witnesses
on this point—one to prove that supplies of the paper
on which the plan was drawn were issued to legal de-
partments of the Government, and an elderly man named
Cobb, Sir Horace Fewbanks's former tipstaff, who stated
that he took some of the paper in question to Rivers-
brook on Sir Horace's instructions. And then, to the
astonishment of junior members of the bar who were
in court watching his conduct of the case in order
to see if they could pick up a few hints, he intimated


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 197
that his case was closed. It seemed to them that the
great K.C. had put up a very flimsy case for the de-
fence, and that in spite of the fact that the prosecutor's
case rested mainly on the evidence of a tainted witness
Holymead would be very hard put to it to get his man
off.
“Isn't my learned friend going to call the prisoner?”
suggested Mr. Walters, with the cunning design of giv-
ing the jury something to think of when they were
listening to his learned friend's address.
“It's scarcely necessary,” said Mr. Holymead, who saw
the trap, and replied in a tone which indicated that the
matter was not worth a moment's consideration.
He began his address to the jury by emphasising the
fact that a fellow creature's life depended on the result
of their deliberations. The duty that rested upon them
of saying whether the prosecution had established beyond
all reasonable doubt that the prisoner shot Sir Horace
Fewbanks was a solemn and impressive one. He asked
them to consider the case carefully in all its bearings. He
could not claim for his client that he was a man of
spotless reputation. The prisoner belonged to a class
who earned their living by warring against society. But
that fact did not make him a murderer. On what did the
case for the prosecution rest? On the evidence of Hill
and three other witnesses who, on the night of the murder,
had seen a man somewhat resembling the prisoner in the
vicinity of Riversbrook, or making towards the vicinity of
that house. But so far from wishing to emphasise the
weakness of identification he admitted that the prisoner
went to Riversbrook with the intention of committing a
burglary. -
“We admit that he went there the night Sir Horace
Fewbanks returned from Scotland,” he continued.
“Counsel for the prosecution will make the most of those
admissions in the course of his address to you, but the
point to which I wish to direct your attention is that
we make this damaging admission so that you may de-


198 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
cide between the prisoner and the man who led him
into a trap by instigating the burglary. Now we come
to the evidence of Hill. I know you will not convict
a man of murder on the unsupported evidence of a fellow
criminal. But I want to point out to you that even if
Hill's evidence were true in every detail, even if Hill
had not swerved one iota from the truth, there is nothing
in his evidence to lead to the positive conclusion that
the prisoner murdered Hill's master, Sir Horace Few-
banks. What does Hill's evidence against the prisoner
amount to? Let us accept it for the moment as abso-
lutely true. Later on I will show you plainly that the
man is a liar, that he is a cunning scoundrel, and that
his evidence is utterly unreliable. But accepting for the
moment his evidence as true the case against the pris-
oner amounts to this: by threats of exposure Birchill
compelled Hill to consent to Riversbrook being robbed
while the owner was in Scotland.
“Hill's complicity, according to his own story, extended
only to supplying a plan of the house and giving Birchill
some information as to where various articles of value
would be found. On the 18th of August Hill went to Riv-
ersbrook to see that everything was in order for the bur-
glary that night. While he was there his master returned
unexpectedly. Hill then went to the flat in Westminster
and told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned. His own
story is that he tried to get Birchill to abandon the idea of
the burglary, but that Birchill, who had been drinking,
swore that he would carry out the plan, and that if he
came across Sir Horace he would shoot him. What
grudge had Birchill against Sir Horace Fewbanks? The
fact that Sir Horace had discarded the woman Fanning
because of her association with Birchill. Gentlemen, does
a man commit a murder for a thing of that kind?
“Let us test the credibility of the man who has tried
to swear away the life of the prisoner. You saw him
in the witness-box, and I have no doubt formed your
own conclusions as to the type of man he is. Did he


2OO THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
he drew Birchill a plan of Riversbrook—the plan I now
hold in my hand. I will ask you to inspect the plan
closely. Hill told us that Birchill terrorised him into
drawing this plan by threats of exposure. Exposure of
what? His master, Sir Horace Fewbanks, knew he had
been in gaol, so what had he to fear from exposure?
His proper course, if he were an honest man, would
have been to tell his master that Birchill was planning
to rob the house and had endeavoured to draw him
into the crime. But he did nothing of the kind, for
the simple reason that the plan to rob Riversbrook was
his own, and not Birchill's.
“Now, gentlemen, you have all seen the plan which
this tainted witness declares was drawn by him be-
cause Birchill terrorised him and stood over him while
he drew it. Is there anything in that plan to suggest
that it was drawn by a man in a state of nervous terror?
Why, the lines are as firmly drawn as if they had been
made by an architect working at his leisure in his office.
Was this plan drawn by a man in a state of nervous
terror with his tormentor standing threateningly over
him, or was it drawn up by a man working at leisure,
free not only from terror but from interruption? The
answer to that question is supplied in the evidence given
by three witnesses as to the paper used. Hill says the
plan was drawn at the flat. Two other witnesses swore
that it was paper supplied exclusively for Government
Departments, and another witness swore that he had
taken such paper to Riversbrook for the use of Sir
Horace Fewbanks, who, like every one of His Majesty's
judges, found it necessary to do some of his judicial
work at home. What is the inevitable inference? I
ask you if you can have any doubt, after looking at
that plan and after hearing the evidence given to-day
about the paper, that the proposal to rob Riversbrook
was Hill's own proposal, that Hill drew a plan of the
house on paper he abstracted from his master's desk—
paper which this confidential servant was apparently in


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 2OI
the habit of using for private purposes—and that he gave
it to Birchill when he asked Birchill to join him in the
crime?
“When one of the main features of Hill's story is
proved to be false, how can you believe any of the
rest? In the light in which we now see him, with his
cunning exposed, what significance is to be attached
to his statement that Birchill in his presence threatened
to shoot Sir Horace Fewbanks if the master of Rivers-
brook interfered with him? Such a threat was not made,
but why should Hill say it was made? For the same
reason that he lied about the plan—to save his own
skin. I submit to you, gentlemen, that when Hill went
to see Birchill at the Westminster flat on the night ar-
ranged for the burglary Sir Horace Fewbanks was dead
—murdered—and that Hill knew he was murdered. His
own story is that he tried to persuade Birchill to abandon
the proposed burglary, but, according to the witness
Fanning, he did all in his power to induce Birchill to
carry out the original plan when he saw that Birchill
was disposed to postpone the burglary in view of the
return of the master of Riversbrook. Why did he want
Birchill to carry out the burglary? Because he knew
that his master's murdered body was lying in the house,
and he wanted to be in the position to produce evidence
against Birchill as the murderer if he found himself in
a tight corner as the result of the subsequent investiga-
tions of the police. Remember that the body of the
victim was fully dressed when it was discovered by the
police, and that none of the electric lights were burning.
Does not that prove conclusively that the murder was
not committed by Birchill, that Sir Horace Fewbanks
was dead when Birchill broke into the house?
“Birchill, an experienced criminal, would not break
into the house while there was anybody moving about.
He would wait until the house was in darkness and the
inmates asleep. To do otherwise would increase enor-
mously the risks of capture. But the fact that the


2O2 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
police found the body of the murdered man fully dressed
shows that Sir Horace was murdered before he went to
bed—before Birchill broke into the house. It shows con-
clusively that the murder was committed before dusk.
Your only alternatives to that conclusion are that the
murdered man went to bed with his clothes on, or that
the murderer broke into the house before Sir Horace had
gone to bed and after killing Sir Horace went coolly
round the house turning out the lights instead of fleeing
in terror at his deed without even waiting to collect any
booty. I am sure that as reasonable men you will reject
both these alternatives as absurd. No evidence has been
produced to show that anything has been stolen from the
place. It was evidently the theory of the prosecution
that the prisoner, after shooting Sir Horace, had fled.
The evidence of Hill was that he arrived at Fanning's flat
in a state of great excitement. His excitement would be
consistent with his story of having discovered the body
of a murdered man, but not consistent with the conduct
of a cold-blooded calculating murderer who had broken
into the house before Sir Horace had undressed for bed,
had shot him, and had then gone round the house turning
out the lights without having any apparent object in
doing so.
“Gentlemen, I think you will admit that the crime
must have been committed before dusk; before any
lights were turned on. I do not ask you to say that Hill
is guilty. The responsibility of saying what man other
than the prisoner shot Sir Horace Fewbanks does not rest
with you. But I do urge you to ask yourselves whether,
as between Hill and the prisoner, the probability of
guilt is not on the side of this witness who lied to the
coroner's court about his movements on the night of the
murder, and who lied to this court about the plan for
the robbery of Riversbrook. I have shown you that
Hill was the master mind in planning the burglary, and,
that being so, would not Birchill have consented to the
postponement of the burglary if Hill had urged him to do


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 2O3
so when he visited the flat after the unexpected return
of the master of Riversbrook? Is not the evidence of the
witness Fanning, that Hill urged Birchill to carry out
the burglary after Sir Horace had gone to sleep, more
credible than Hill's statement that he endeavoured to
induce Birchill to abandon the proposed crime? Knowing
what you know of Hill's past as a man who will rob his
master, knowing that he attempted to deceive you with
regard to this plan of Riversbrook in order that you
might play your part in his cunning scheme, I urge you
to ask yourselves whether it is not more probable that
Hill fired the shot which killed Sir Horace Fewbanks
than that the prisoner did so. Is it not extremely prob-
able that the unexpected return of Sir Horace upset
Hill, who was giving a final look round the house before
the burglary took place? That, instead of answering his
master with the suave obsequious humility of the well-
trained servant, he revealed the baffled ferocity of a crim-
inal whose carefully arranged plan seemed to have mis-
carried; that his master angrily rebuked him, and Hill,
losing control of himself, sprang at Sir Horace, and the
struggle ended with Hill drawing a revolver and shoot-
ing his master?
“The rest of the story from that point can be con-
structed without difficulty. The murderer's first thought
was to divert suspicion from himself, and the best way
to do that was to divert suspicion elsewhere. He locked
up the house and went to see Birchill. He urged Birch-
ill to break into Riversbrook, in which the dead body of
the murdered man lay. It is true that he need not have
told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly;
but his object in doing so was to make Birchill search
about the house until he inadvertently stumbled across
the dead body. Had Birchill been under the impression
that he had broken into an entirely empty house he
would have collected the valuables and might not have
entered the library in which the dead body lay. It was
necessary for Hill's purpose that Birchill should come


2O4 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
across the corpse; then he would be vitally interested in
diverting suspicion from himself (Birchill) and that is
why he cunningly revealed to Birchill that Sir Horace
had returned. I put it to the jury that such is a more
probable explanation of how Sir Horace met his death
than that he was shot down by Birchill. I ask you again
to remember that the body was fully dressed when it was
found by the police. I put it to you that in this matter
the prisoner walked into a trap prepared by his more
cunning fellow criminal. And I urge you, with all the
earnestness it is possible for a man to use when the
life of a fellow creature is at stake, not to be led into
a trap—not to play the part this cunning criminal Hill
has designed for you—in the sacrifice of the life of an
innocent man for the purpose of saving himself from his
just deserts. Looking at the whole case—as you will
not fail to do—with the breadth of view of experienced
men of the world, with some knowledge of the workings
of human nature, with a natural horror of the depths
of cunning of which some natures are capable, with a
deep sense of the solemn responsibility for a human life
upon you, I confidently appeal to you to say that the
prisoner was not the man who shot Sir Horace Few-
banks, and to bring in a verdict of ‘not guilty.’”
A short discussion arose between the bench and bar
on the question of adjourning the court or continuing
the case in the hope of finishing it in a few hours. Sir
Henry Hodson wanted to finish the case that night, but
Counsel for the prosecution intimated that his address to
the jury would take nearly two hours. As it was then
nearly five o'clock, and His Honour had to sum up before
the jury could retire, it was hardly to be hoped that the
case could be finished that night, as the jury might be some
time in arriving at a verdict. His Honour decided to
adjourn the court and finish the case next day.


CHAPTER XIX
MR. WALTERs began his address to the jury on
orthodox lines. He referred to the fact that his learned
friend had warned them that the life of a fellow creature
rested on their verdict. It was right that they should keep
that in mind; it was right that they should fully realise
the responsible nature of the duty they were called
upon to perform, but it would be wrong for them to
over-estimate their responsibility, or to feel weighed
down by it. It would be wrong for them to be influ-
enced by sentimental considerations of the fact that a
fellow creature's life was at stake. Strictly speaking,
that had nothing whatever to do with them. Their
responsibility ended with their verdict. If their verdict
was “guilty” the responsibility of taking the prisoner's
life would rest upon the law—not on the jury, not on
His Honour who passed the sentence of death, not on the
prison officials who carried out the execution. The jury
would do well to keep in mind the fact that their re-
sponsibility in this trial, impressive and important as
every one must acknowledge it to be, was nevertheless
strictly limited as far as the taking of the life of the
prisoner was concerned.
He then went over the evidence in detail, building
up again the case for the prosecution where Mr. Holy-
mead had made breaches in it, and attempting to de-
molish the case for the defence. Hill, he declared, was
an honest witness. The man had made one false step
but he had done his best to retrieve it, and with the
help he had received from his late master, Sir Horace
Fewbanks, he would have buried the past effectively if
it had not been for the fact that the prisoner, who was
a confirmed criminal, had determined to drag him down.
205


206 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
There was no doubt that Hill's association with Birchill
had been unfortunate for him. It had dragged his past
into the light of day, and he stood before them a ruined
man. He had tried to live down the past, and but for
Birchill he would have succeeded in doing so. But now
no one would employ him as a house servant after the
revelations that had been made in this court. They
had seen Hill in the witness-box, and he would ask
the jury whether he looked like the masterful cunning
scoundrel which the defence had described, or a weak
creature who would be easily led by a man of strong
will, such as the prisoner was.
As to what took place at the flat, they had a choice
between the evidence of Hill and the evidence of the girl
Fanning. Hill had told them that he had tried to dissuade
the prisoner from going to Riversbrook to burgle the
premises, because his master had returned unexpectedly;
Fanning had told them that the prisoner was in favour
of postponing the crime, but that Hill had urged him
to carry it out. Which story was the more probable?
What reliance could they place on the evidence of
Fanning? He did not wish to say that the witness
was utterly vicious and incapable of telling the truth—
a description that the defence had applied to Hill—but
they must take into consideration the fact that Fanning
was the prisoner's mistress. Was it likely that a woman,
knowing her lover's life was at stake, would come here
and speak the truth, if she knew the truth would hang
him? He was sure that the jury, as men who knew
the world thoroughly, would not hesitate between the
evidence of Hill and that of Fanning.
The case for the defence depended to a great extent
on the plan of Riversbrook which Hill candidly ad-
mitted he had drawn. His learned friend had called
evidence to show that the paper on which the plan was
drawn was of a quality which was not procurable by the
general public. That might be so, but what his learned
friend had not succeeded in doing, and could not possibly


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 209
oner's assistance is, after all, not very material. What is
admitted is that the prisoner went to Riversbrook with
the intention of committing a crime. It is admitted that
he knew Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned home. In
that case is it not reasonable to suppose that the prisoner
would arm himself, I do not say with the definite intention
of committing murder, but for the purpose of threatening
Sir Horace if necessary in order to make good his escape?
What is more likely than that Sir Horace heard the bur-
glar in the house, crept upon him, and then tried to
capture him? There was a struggle, and the prisoner,
determined to free himself, drew his revolver and shot Sir
Horace. Is not such a theory of the crime—that Sir
Horace was shot while trying to capture the prisoner—
more probable than the theory of the defence that Hill,
the weak-willed, frightened-looking man you saw in the
witness-box, was a masterful, cunning criminal who for
some inexplicable reason had turned ferociously on the
master who had befriended him and given him a fresh
start in life, had killed him and left the body in the house,
and had then managed to direct suspicion to the prisoner?
The theory of the defence does great credit to my learned
friend's imagination, but it is one which I am sure
the jury will reject as too highly coloured. Looking at
the plain facts of the case and dismissing from your
minds the attempt to make them fit into a purely
imaginative theory, I am sure that you will come to the
conclusion that Sir Horace Fewbanks met his death
at the hands of the prisoner.”
The junior bar agreed that the case was one which
might go either way. If they had possessed any money
the betting market would have shown scarcely a shade
of odds. Everything depended on the way the jury
looked at the case, on the particular bits of evidence
to which they attached most weight, on the view the most
argumentative positive-minded members of the jury
adopted, for they would be able to carry the others
with them. In the opinion of the junior bar the sum-


2IO THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
ming up of Mr. Justice Hodson would not help the
jury very much in arriving at a verdict. There were
some judges who summed up for or against a prisoner
according to the view they had formed as to the pris-
oner's guilt or innocence. There were other judges who
summed up so impartially and gave such even-balanced
weight to the points against the prisoner and to the points
in his favour, as to make on the minds of the jurymen the
impression that the only way to arrive at a well-considered
verdict was to toss a coin. Another type of judge con-
veyed to the jury that the prosecution had established an
unanswerable case, but the defence had shown equal skill
in shattering it, and therefore he did not know on which
side to make up his mind, and fortunately English legal
procedure did not render it necessary for him to do
so. The prisoner might be guilty and he might be in-
nocent. Some of the jury might think one thing and
the rest of the jury might think another. But it was
the duty of the jury to come to an unanimous verdict.
It did not matter if they looked at some things in dif-
ferent ways, but their final decision must be the same.
Mr. Justice Hodson belonged to the impartial, im-
personal type of judge. He had no personal feelings
or conviction as to the guilt or innocence of the pris-
oner. It was for the jury to settle that point and it
was his duty to assist them to the best of his ability. He
went over his notes carefully and dealt with the evi-
dence of each of the witnesses. It was for the jury
to say what evidence they believed and what they dis-
believed. There was a pronounced conflict of evidence
between Hill and Fanning. They were the chief wit-
nesses in the case, but the guilt or innocence of the
prisoner did not rest entirely upon the evidence of either
of these witnesses. Hill might be speaking the truth
and the prisoner might be innocent though the pre-
sumption would be, if Hill's evidence were truthful in
every detail, that the prisoner was guilty. Fanning's
evidence might be true as far as it went, but it would


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 2II
not in itself prove that the prisoner was innocent. Hill
had admitted that he had drawn the plan of Riversbrook
to assist Birchill to commit burglary. It was for the
jury to determine for themselves whether he had been
terrorised into drawing the plan for Birchill or whether
he was the instigator of the burglary.
The defence had contended that Hill had drawn the
plan at his leisure at a time when he had access to a
special quality of paper supplied to his master. If that
were so, Hill's version of how he came to draw the plan
was deliberately false and had been concocted for the
purpose of exculpating himself. But they would not be
justified in dismissing Hill's evidence entirely from their
minds because they were satisfied he had perjured him-
self with regard to the plan. They would be justified,
however, in viewing the rest of his evidence with some
degree of distrust. Counsel for the defence had made
an ingenious use of the facts that the body of the victim
was fully dressed when discovered and that none of the
electric lights in the house were burning. These facts
lent support to the idea that the murder was committed
in daylight, but they by no means established the theory
as unassailable. They did not establish the innocence
of the prisoner, although to some extent they told in his
favour. Counsel for the prosecution had put before
them several theories to account for these two facts con-
sistent with his contention that the murder had been com-
mitted by the prisoner. The jury must give full con-
sideration to these theories as well as to the theory of the
defence. They were not called upon to say which theory
was true except in so far as their opinions might be
implied in the verdict they gave.
The defence, continued His Honour, was that Hill
had committed the murder and had then decided to
direct suspicion to the prisoner. If the jury acquitted
the prisoner, their verdict would not necessarily mean
that they endorsed the theory of the defence. It might
mean that, but it might mean only that they were not


2I2 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
satisfied that the prisoner had committed the murder.
If the jury were convinced beyond all reasonable doubt
that the prisoner had committed the murder, they must
bring in a verdict of “guilty,” and if they were not satis-
fied they must bring in a verdict of acquittal.
The jury filed out of their apartment, and as they
retired to consider their verdict the judge retired to
his own room. The prisoner was removed from the
dock and taken down the stairs out of sight. There was
an immediate hum of voices in the court. Inspector Chip-
penfield approached the table and whispered to Mr. Wal-
ters. The latter nodded affirmatively and left the court
room in company with Mr. Holymead. The sibilant
sound of whispering voices died down after a few min-
utes and then began the long tedious wait for the return
of the jury.
The occupants of the gallery, who had no difficulty
in coming to an immediate decision on the guilt or in-
nocence of the prisoner, could not understand what was
keeping the jury away so long. They failed to under-
stand the jury's point of view. These gentlemen had sat
in court for three days listening intently to proceedings
concerning a matter in which their degree of personal
interest was only a form of curiosity. And now the
end of the case had been reached, except for the climax,
which was in their control. To arrive at an immediate
decision in a case that had occupied the court for three
days would indicate they had no proper realisation of
the responsibilities of their position. A verdict was a
thing that had to be nicely balanced in relation to the
evidence. Where the case against the prisoner was
weak or overwhelmingly strong, the jury might arrive
at a verdict with great speed as an indication that too
much of their valuable time had already been wasted
on the case. But where the evidence for and against
the prisoner was fairly equal it behoved the jury to
indicate by the time they took in arriving at their ver-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 213
dict that they had given the case the most careful con-
sideration.
Two hours and twenty minutes after the jury had
retired, the prisoner was brought back into the dock.
This was an indication that the jury had arrived at
their verdict and were ready to deliver it. The prisoner
looked worn and anxious, but he received encouraging
smiles from his friends in the gallery. A minute later
the judge entered the court and resumed his seat. The
jury filed into court and entered the jury-box. Amid
the noise of barristers resuming their seats and court
officials gliding about, the judge's Associate called over
the names of the jurymen. The suspense reached its
climax as the Associate put the formal questions to the
foreman whether the jury had agreed on their verdict.
“What say you: guilty or not guilty?” asked the Asso-
ciate in a hard metallic voice in which there was no trace
of interest in the answer.
“Not guilty,” replied the foreman.
There was a muffled cheer from the gallery, which was
suppressed by the stentorian cry of the ushers, “Silence
in the court l”
“A pack of damned fools,” said the exasperated Inspec-
tor Chippenfield.
Rolfe understood that his chief referred to the jury,
and he nodded the assent of a subordinate.


CHAPTER XX
“HILL has bolted l’”
Rolfe flung the words at Inspector Chippenfield in
a tone which he was unable to divest entirely of satis-
faction. “Fancy his being the guilty party after all,”
he added, with the tone of satisfaction still more evident
in his voice. “I often thought that he was our man,
and that he was playing with you—I mean with us.”
Inspector Chippenfield had betrayed surprise at the
news by dropping his pen on the official report he was
preparing. But it was in his usual tone of cold official
superiority that he replied:
“Do you mean that Hill, the principal witness in the
Riversbrook murder trial, has disappeared from Lon-
don?”
“Disappeared from London? He's bolted clean out
of the country by this time, I tell you! Cleared out for
good and left his unfortunate wife and child to starve.”
“How have you learnt this, Rolfe?”
“His wife told me herself. I went to the shop this
afternoon to have a few words with Hill and see how
he felt after the way Holymead had gone for him
at the trial. His wife burst out crying when she saw
me, and she told me that her husband had cleared out
last night after he came home from court. The hardened
scoundrel took with him the few pounds of her savings
which she kept in her bedroom, and had even emptied
the contents of the till of the few shillings and coppers
it contained. All he left were the half-pennies in the
child's money-box. He cleared out in the middle of
the night after his wife had gone to bed. He left her
a note telling her she must get along without him. I
have the note here—his wife gave it to me.”
2I4


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 215
Rolfe took a dirty scrap of paper out of his pocket-
book and laid it before Inspector Chippenfield. The
paper was a half sheet torn from an exercise-book, and
its contents were written in faint lead pencil. They
read:
“Dear Mary:
“I have got to leave you. I have thought it out and
this is the only thing to do. I am too frightened to stay
after what took place in the court to-day. I'll make a
fresh start in some place where I am not known, and as
soon as I can send a little money I will send for you
and Daphne. Keep your heart up and it will be all right.
Keep on the shop.
“Your Loving HUSBAND.”
“The poor little woman is heartbroken,” continued
Rolfe, when his superior officer had finished reading
the note. “She wants to know if we cannot get her
husband back for her. She says the shop won't keep
her and the child. Unless she can find her husband
she'll be turned into the streets, because she's behind
with the rent, and Hill's taken every penny she'd put by.”
“Then she'd better go to the workhouse,” retorted
Inspector Chippenfield brutally. “We'd have something
to do if Scotland Yard undertook to trace all the abscond-
ing husbands in London. We can do nothing in the mat-
ter, and you'd better tell her so.”
Inspector Chippenfield handed back Hill's note as
he spoke. Rolfe eyed him in some surprise.
“But surely you're going to take out a warrant for
Hill's arrest?” he said.
“Certainly not,” responded Inspector Chippenfield im-
patiently. “I’ve already said that Scotland Yard has
something more to do than trace absconding husbands.
There's nothing to prevent your giving a little of your
private time to looking for him, Rolfe, if you feel so
tender-hearted about the matter. But officially—no. I'm
astonished at your suggesting such a thing.”
“It isn't that,” replied Rolfe, flushing a little, and


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 217
jury let a cold-blooded murderer loose on the world
when they acquitted Fred Birchill of the charge of shoot-
ing Sir Horace Fewbanks. Why, man alive, Holymead
no more believes Hill is guilty than I do. He set himself
to bamboozle the jury and he succeeded. If he had to
defend Hill to-morrow he would show the jury that Hill
couldn't have committed the murder and that it must have
been committed by Birchill and no one else. He's a clever
man, far cleverer than Walters, and that is why I lost
the case.”
“He led Hill into a trap about the plan of Rivers-
brook,” said Rolfe. “When I saw that Hill had been
trapped on that point I felt we had lost the jury.”
“Only because the jury were a pack of fools who
knew nothing about evidence. Granted that Hill lied
about the plan—that he drew it up voluntarily in his
spare time to assist Birchill—it proves nothing. It
doesn't prove that Hill committed the murder. It only
proves that Hill was going to share in the proceeds of
the burglary; that he was a willing party to it. The
one big outstanding fact in all the evidence, the fact
that towered over all the others, is that Birchill broke
into the house on the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was
murdered. The defence made no attempt to get away
from that fact because they could not do so. But
Holymead vamped up all sorts of surmises and supposi-
tions for the purpose of befogging the jury and getting
their minds away from the outstanding feature of the
case for the prosecution. We proved that Birchill was
in the house on a criminal errand. What more could they
expect us to prove? They couldn't expect us to have a
man looking through the window or hiding behind the
door when the murder was committed. If we could
get evidence of that kind we could do without juries.
We could hang our man first and try him afterwards.
I don't think a verdict of acquittal from a befogged
jury would do so much harm in such a case.”


218 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“You are still convinced that Birchill did it?” said
Rolfe questioningly.
“I have never wavered from that opinion,” said his
superior. “If I had, this note of Hill's would restore
my conviction in Birchill's guilt.”
“Why, how do you make out that?” replied Rolfe
blankly.
“Hill says he's clearing out of the country because
he's frightened. What's he frightened off His own
guilty conscience and the long arm of the law? Not
a bit of it! Hill's an innocent man. If he had been
guilty he'd never have stood the ordeal of the witness-
box and the cross-examination. Hill's cleared out be-
cause he was frightened of Birchill.”
“Of Birchill?”
“Yes. Didn't Birchill tell Hill, just before he set out
for Riversbrook on the night of the murder, that if
Hill played him false he'd murder him? Hill did play
him false, not then, but afterwards, when he made
his confession and Birchill was arrested for the murder
in consequence. When Birchill was acquitted at the
trial his first thought would be to wreak vengeance on
Hill. A man with one murder on his soul would not
be likely to hesitate about committing another. Hill
knew this, and fled to save his life when Birchill was
acquitted. That's the explanation of his letter, Rolfe.”
“So that's the way you look at it?” said Rolfe.
“Of course I do! It's the only way Hill's flight can be
looked at in the light of all that's happened. The theory
dovetails in every part. I'm more used than you to put-
ting these things together, Rolfe. Hill's as innocent of
the murder as you are.”
“And where do you think Hill's gone to?”
“Certainly not out of London. He's too much of a
Cockney for that. Besides, he's a man who is fond of
his wife and child. He's hiding somewhere close at
hand, and I shouldn't wonder if the whole thing's a plant
between him and his wife. Have you forgotten how


THE HAMPSTEAD MystERY 219
she tried to hoodwink us before? I'll go to the
shop to-morrow and see if I can't frighten the truth
out of her. Meanwhile, you’d better put the Camden
Town police on to watching the shop. If he's hiding
in London he's bound to visit his wife sooner or later,
or she'll visit him, so we ought not to have much
difficulty in getting on to his tracks again.”
Rolfe departed, to do his chief's bidding, a little crest-
fallen. He was at first inclined to think that he had
made a bit of a fool of himself in his desire to prove
to Inspector Chippenfield that he had been hoodwinked
by Hill into arresting Birchill. But that night, as he
sat in his bedroom smoking a quiet pipe, and re-
viewing this latest phase of the puzzling case, the earlier
doubts which had assailed him on first learning of Hill's
flight recurred to him with increasing force. If Hill
were innocent he would have been more likely to seek
police protection before flight. Hill's flight was hardly
the action of an innocent man. It pointed more to a
guilty fear of his own skin, now that the man he had
accused of the murder was free to seek vengeance.
Chippenfield's theory seemed plausible enough at first
sight, but Rolfe now recalled that he knew nothing of
the missing letters and Hill's midnight visit to Rivers-
brook to recover them. Rolfe had concealed that episode
from his superior officer because he lacked the courage
to reveal to him how he had been hoodwinked by Mrs.
Holymead's fainting fit the morning he was conducting
his official inquiry at Riversbrook into the murder.
“It's an infernally baffling case,” muttered Rolfe, re-
filling his pipe from a tin of tobacco on the mantel-
piece, and walking up and down the cheap lodging-house
drugget with rapid strides. “If Birchill is not the mur-
derer who is? Is it Hill?”
He lit his pipe, closed the window, opened his pocket-
book and sat down to peruse the notes he had taken
during his investigation of Sir Horace Fewbanks's mur-
der. He read and re-read them, earnestly searching for


22O THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
a fresh clue in the pencilled pages. After spending some
time in this occupation he took a clean sheet of paper
and a pencil, and copied afresh the following entries
from his notebook:
August 19. Went Riversbk. Saw Sir H. F.'s body.
Discovered fragment of lady's handkerchief clenched in
right hand.
August 22. Made inquiries handkerchief. Unable find
where purchased.
September 8. Found Hill at Riversbrook searching
Sir H. F.'s papers. Told me about bundle of lady's let-
ters tied up with pink ribbon which had been taken from
secret drawer. Says they disappeared morning after
murder when investigation was taking place. C.’s visitors
that day: Dr. Slingsby / Seldon to arrange inquest /
newspaper men / undertaker's representatives / Crewe.
C. saw one visitor alone, Hill says. Mrs. H , who
fainted. C. fetched glass of water, leaving her alone in
room. Hill suggests her letters indicate friendly relations
between her and Sir H. F. Sir H. F. expected visit,
probably from lady, night of murder. Hurried Hill
off when he returned from Scotland. Mem: Inadvisable
disclose this to C.
Underneath his entries of the case Rolfe had written
finally:
Points to be remembered:
(1) Crewe said before the trial that Birchill was not
the murderer and would be acquitted. Birchill was ac-
quitted.
(2) Crewe suggested we had not got the whole truth
out of Hill. Hill disappears the night after the trial.
Is Hill the murderer?
(3) The handkerchief and the letters point to a woman
in the case, although this was not brought out at the
trial. Is it possible that woman is Mrs. H. P
Rolfe realised that the chief pieces of the puzzle were
before him, but the difficulty was to put them together.
He felt sure there was a connection between these


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 22I
facts, which, if brought to light, would solve the
Riversbrook mystery. Without knowing it, he had been
so influenced by Crewe's analysis of the case that he
had practically given up the idea that Birchill had any-
thing to do with the murder. His real reason for going
to Hill's shop that morning was to try and extract some-
thing from Hill which might put him on the track of the
actual murderer. He believed Hill knew more than he
had divulged. Hill, before his disappearance, had placed
in his hands an important clue, if he only knew how to
follow it up. That incident of the missing letters must
have some bearing on the case, if he could only eluci-
date it. -
Should he disclose to Chippenfield Hill's story of the
missing letters? Rolfe dismissed the idea as soon as
it crossed his mind. He knew his superior officer suffi-
ciently well to understand that he would be very angry
to learn that he had been deceived by Mrs. Holymead,
and, as she was outside the range of his anger, he would
bear a grudge against his junior officer for discovering
the deception which had been practised on him, and do
all he could to block his promotion in Scotland Yard
in consequence. Apart from that, he could offer Chip-
penfield no excuse for not having told him before.
Should he consult Crewer
Rolfe dismissed that thought also, but more reluctantly.
Hang it all, it was too humiliating for an accredited officer
of Scotland Yard to consult a private detective! Rolfe
had acquired an unwilling respect for Crewe's abilities
during the course of the investigations into the Rivers-
brook case, but he retained all the intolerance which
regular members of the detective force feel for the
private detectives who poach on their preserves. Rolfe's
professional jealousy was intensified in Crewe's case
because of the brilliant successes Crewe had achieved
during his career at the expense of the reputation of
Scotland Yard. Rolfe had an instinctive feeling that
Crewe's mind was of finer quality than his own, and


CHAPTER XXI
RolfE went to Hyde Park next day and walked from
the Tube station to Holymead's house at Princes Gate.
The servant who answered his ring informed him, in
reply to his question, that Mrs. Holymead was “Not
at home.”
“Do you know when she will be home?” persisted
Rolfe, forestalling an evident desire on the servant's
part to shut the door in his face.
The man looked at Rolfe doubtfully. Well-trained
English servant though he was, and used to summing up
strangers at a glance, he could not quite make out who
Rolfe might be. But before he could come to a decision
on the point a feminine voice behind him said:
“What is it, Trappon?”
The servant turned quickly in the direction of the
voice. “It’s a er—er—party who wants to see Madam,
mademoiselle,” he replied. -
“Partif What mean you by partif Explain yourself,
Trappon.”
“A person—a gentleman, mademoiselle,” replied Trap-
pon, determined to be on the safe side.
“Open the door, Trappon, that I may see this gentle-
man.”
Trappon somewhat reluctantly complied, and a young
lady stepped forward. She was tall and dark, with
charming eyes which were also shrewd; she had a fine
figure which a tight-fitting dress displayed rather too
boldly for good taste, and she was sufficiently young to
be able to appear quite girlish in the half light.
“You wish to see Madame Holymead?” she said to
Rolfe. Her manner was engagingly pleasant and French.
Rolfe felt it incumbent upon him to be gallant in the
223


226 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
Mademoiselle Chiron's handkerchief, which she had
rolled into a little ball in her hand.
“I cannot disclose my business to you, mademoiselle,”
he said courteously. “I must see Mrs. Holymead per-
sonally, so I shall call again when she has returned.”
“But, monsieur, why will you not tell me?” she asked
coaxingly. “You are a police agent? Have you there-
fore come to see Madame about the case?”
Rolfe showed that he was taken aback by the direct
question.
“The case!” he stammered. “What case?”
“Why, monsieur, what case should it be but that of
which I have so often heard Madame speak? Le judge
—the good friend of Monsieur and Madame Holymead,
who was killed by the base assassin! Madame is dis-
consolate about his terrible end " Mademoiselle Chiron
here applied the handkerchief to her eyes on her own
account. “Have you come to tell her that you have
caught the wicked man who did assassinate him? Ma-
dame will be overjoyed "
“Why, hardly that,” replied Rolfe, completely off his
guard. “But we're on the track, mademoiselle—we're
on the track.”
“And is it that you wanted me to tell Madame?” per-
sisted Mademoiselle Chiron.
“I wanted to ask her a question or two about several
things,” said Rolfe, who had determined to disclose his
hand sufficiently to bring Mrs. Holymead back to London
if she had anything to do with the crime. “I want to ask
her about some letters that were stolen—no, I won't
say stolen—letters that were removed from Riversbrook.
I have been informed that even if these letters are no
longer in existence she can give the police a good idea of
what was in them.”
The telephone bell in the corner of the room rang
suddenly. Mademoiselle Chiron ran to answer it, and
accidentally dropped her handkerchief on the floor in
picking up the receiver.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 227
Mademoiselle Chiron began speaking on the telephone,
but she stopped suddenly, staring with frightened eyes
into the mirror at the other side of the room. The glass
reflected the actions of Rolfe at the table. Seated with
his back towards her, he had taken advantage of her being
called to the telephone to examine her handkerchief,
which he had picked up from the floor. He had produced
from his pocketbook the scrap of lace and muslin which
he had found in the murdered man's hand. He had the
two on the table side by side comparing them, and Made-
moiselle Chiron noticed a smile of satisfaction flit across
his face as he did so. While she looked he restored the
scrap to his pocket-book, and the pocket-book to his
pocket. Hastily she turned to the telephone again and
continued, in a voice which a quick ear would have
detected was slightly hysterical.
Then she hung up the receiver and turned to Rolfe.
“But, monsieur, you were saying—”
Rolfe handed the handkerchief to its owner with a
courtly bow which he flattered himself was equal to
the best French school.
“I picked this up off the floor, mademoiselle. It is
yours, I think?”
“This?” Mademoiselle Chiron touched the handker-
chief with a dairity forefinger. “It is my handkerchief.
I dropped it.”
“It is very pretty,” said Rolfe, with simulated indif-
ference. “I suppose you bought that in Paris. It does
not look English.”
“But no, monsieur, it is quite Engleesh. I bought it in
the shop.”
“Indeed! A London shop?” inquired Rolfe, with
equal indifference.
“The lingerie shop in Oxford Street—what do you
call it—Hobson's P’’
“I’m sure I don't know—these ladies' things are a bit
out of my line,” said Rolfe, rising as he spoke with a


228 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
smile, in which there was more than a trace of self-
satisfaction.
He felt that he had acquitted himself with an adroit-
ness which Crewe himself might have envied. He had
made an important discovery and extracted the name of
the shop where the handkerchief had been bought without
—so he flattered himself—arousing any suspicions on the
part of the lady. Rolfe knew from his inquiries in West
End shops that handkerchiefs of that pattern and quality
were stocked by many of the good shops, but the fact that
he had found a handkerchief of this kind in the house of
a lady who had abstracted secret letters from the mur-
dered man's desk, and had, moreover, discovered the
name of the shop where she bought her handkerchiefs,
convinced him that he had struck a path which must lead
to an important discovery.
Mademoiselle Chiron followed Rolfe into the hall and
watched his departure from a front window. When she
saw his retreating figure turn the corner of the street she
left the window, ran upstairs quickly, and knocked
lightly at the closed door.
The door was opened by Mrs. Holymead, who ap-
peared to be in a state of nervous agitation. Her large
brown eyes were swollen and dim with weeping, her hair
had become partly unloosened, her face was white and
her dress disordered. She caught the Frenchwoman by
the wrist and drew her into the bedroom, closing the
door after her.
“What did he want, Gabrielle?” she gasped. “What
did he say? Has he come about—that?”
Gabrielle nodded her head.
“Gabrielle !” Mrs. Holymead's voice rose almost to a
cry. “Oh, what are we to do? Did he come to ar-
rest—”
“No, no! He was not so bad. He did not come to
do dreadful things, but just to have a little talk.”
“A little talk? What about?”
“He wanted to see you, and ask you one or two little


CHAPTER XXII
“A LADY to see you, sir.”
“What sort of a lady, Joe?”
“Furren, I should say, sir, by the way she speaks. I
arskt her if she had an appointment, and she said no,
but she said she wanted to see you on very urgent and
particular business. I told her most people says that wot
comes to see you, but she says hers was reely important.
Arskt me to tell you, sir, that it was about the Rivers-
brook case.”
“The Riversbrook case? I'll see her, Joe. Has not
Stork returned yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell him to go to his dinner when he comes back.
Show the lady in, Joe.”
Crewe regarded his caller keenly as Joe ushered her
in, placed a chair for her, and went out, closing the door
noiselessly behind him. She was a tall, well-dressed,
graceful woman, fairly young, with dark hair and eyes.
She looked quickly at the detective as she entered, and
Crewe was struck by the shrewd penetration of her
glance.
“You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective—is it
not so?” she asked, as she sat down. The glance she now
gave the detective at closer range from her large dark
eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch of ad-
miration. The contrast between it and her former look.
was not lost on Crewe, and he realised that his visitor
was no ordinary woman.
“My name is Crewe,” he said, ignoring the compliment.
“What do you wish to see me for?”
The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously
unfastened a bag she carried, and taking out a singu-
230


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 23.I
larly unfeminine-looking handkerchief—a large cambric
square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltless
of lace or perfume—held it to her face for a moment.
But Crewe noticed that her eyes were dry when she
removed it to remark:
“What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confi-
dence—as sacred as the confession.”
“Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence,”
said Crewe a little grimly.
“And the boy? Can he not hear through the keyhole?”
Crewe's visitor glanced expressively at the door by which
she had entered.
“You are quite safe here, madame—mademoiselle, I
should say,” he added, with a quick glance at her left
hand, from which she slowly removed the glove as she
spoke.
“Mademoiselle Chiron, monsieur,” said Gabrielle, flash-
ing another smile at him. “I am Madame Holymead's
relative—her cousin. I come to see you about the dread-
ful murder of the judge, Madame's friend.”
“You come from Mrs. Holymead?” said Crewe
quickly. “Then, Mademoiselle Chiron, before—”
“No, no, monsieur, no!” Her agitation was unmistak-
ably genuine. “I do not come from Madame Holymead.
I am her relative, it is true, but I come—how shall I say
it?—from myself. I mean she does not know of my
visit to you, monsieur.”
“I quite understand,” replied Crewe.
“Monsieur Crewe,” said Gabrielle hurriedly, “although
I have not come from Madame Holymead, it is for her
sake that I come to see you—to save her from the per-
secution of one of your police agents who wants to ask
her questions about this so sordid—so terrible a crime!
He has come once, this agent—last night he came—and
he told me he wanted to question Madame Holymead
about the murder of her dear friend the judge. I do
not want Madame worried with these questions, so I told
him Madame was away in the motor in the country; but


232 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
*
he says he will come again and again till he sees her.
Madame is distracted when she learns of his visit; it
opens up her bleeding heart afresh, for she and her hus-
band were intime with the dead judge, and deeply, ter-
ribly, they deplore his so dreadful end. I see Madame
cry, and I say to myself I will not let this little police
agent spoil her beauty and give her the migraine: his
visits must be, shall be, prevented. I have heard of the
so great and good Monsieur Crewe, and I will go and
see him. We will—as you say in your English way—put
our heads together, this famous detective and I, and we
will find some way of—how do you call it?—circumvent-
ing this police agent so that my dear Madame shall cry
no more. Monsieur Crewe, I am here, and I beg of you
to help me.” -
Crewe listened to this outburst with inward surprise
but impassive features. Apparently the police had come
to the conclusion that they had blundered in arresting
Birchill for the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and
had recommenced inquiries with a view to bringing the
crime home to somebody else. He did not know whether
their suspicions were now directed against Mrs. Holy-
mead, but they had conducted their preliminary inquiries
so clumsily as to arouse her fears that they did. So
much was apparent from Mademoiselle Chiron's remarks,
despite the interpretation she sought to place on Mrs.
Holymead's fears. He wondered if the “police agent”
was Rolfe or Chippenfield. It was obvious that the cool
proposal that he should help to shield Mrs. Holymead
against unwelcome police attentions covered some deeper
move, and he shaped his conversation in the endeavour
to extract more from the Frenchwoman.
“I am very sorry to hear that Mrs. Holymead has
been subjected to this annoyance,” he said warily. “This
police agent, did he come by himself?”
“But yes, monsieur, I have already said it.”
“I know, but I thought he might have had a companion


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 233
waiting for him in a taxi-cab outside. Scotland Yard men
frequently travel in pairs.”
“He had no taxi-cab,” declared Mademoiselle Chiron,
positively. “He walked away on foot by himself. I
watched him from the window.”
Crewe registered a mental note of this admission. If
she had watched the detective's departure from the win-
dow she evidently had some reason for wanting to see
the last of him. Aloud he said:
“I expect I know him. What was he like?”
“Tall, as tall as you, only bigger—much bigger. And
he had the great moustache which he caressed again and
again with his fingers.” Gabrielle daintily imitated the
action on her own short upper lip.
“I know him,” declared Crewe with a smile. “His
name is Rolfe. There should be nothing about him to
alarm you, mademoiselle. Why, he is quite a ladies'
man.”
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
“That may be,” she replied; “but I like him not, and
I do not wish him to worry Madame Holymead.”
“But why not let him see Mrs. Holymead?” suggested
Crewe, after a short pause. “As he only wants to ask
her a few short questions, it seems to me that would
be the quickest way out of the difficulty, and would save
you all the trouble and worry you speak of.”
“I tell you I will not,” declared Gabrielle vehemently.
“I will not have Madame Holymead worried and made
ill with the terrible ordeal. Bah! What do you men—
so clumsy—know of the delicate feelings of a lady like
Madame Holymead? The least soupçon of excitement
and she is disturbed, distraite, for days. After last night
—after the visit of the police agent—she was quite hys-
terical.”
“Why should she be when she had nothing to be
afraid of P’ rejoined Crewe.
He spoke in a tone of simple wonder, but Gabrielle


234 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
shot a quick glance at him from under her veiled lashes
as she replied:
“Bah! What has that to do with it? I repeat: Mon-
sieur Crewe, you men cannot understand the feelings of
a lady like Madame Holymead in a matter like this.
She and her husband were, as I have said before, intime
with the great judge. They visited his house, they
dined with him, they met him in Society. Behold, he
is brutally, horribly killed. Madame, when she hears
the terrible news, is ill for days; she cannot eat, she cannot
sleep; she can interest herself in nothing. She is forget-
ting a little when the police agents they catch a man
and say he is the murderer. Then comes the trial of
this man at the court with so queer a name—Old Bailee.
The papers are full of the terrible story again; of the
dead man; how he looked killed; how he lay in a pool of
blood; how they cut him open! Madame Holymead
cannot pick up a paper without seeing these things, and
she falls ill again. Then the jury say the man the police
agents caught is not the murderer. He goes free, and
once more the talk dies away. Madame Holymead once
more begins to forget, when this police agent comes to
her house to remind her once more all about it. It is
too cruel, monsieur, it is too cruel!”
Gabrielle's voice vibrated with indignation as she con-
cluded, 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


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 235
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 answer-
ing a few questions the police wish to ask her. She
is too sensitive about such a trifle.”
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recog-
nition 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.


236 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“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 be-
ing 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
vou.”
“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
ºne?”
“Provided you have not committed murder or been


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 237
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, look-
ing 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 answer-
ing glance, and she continued, in more even tones:
“I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holy-
mead 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 Eng-
land 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 con-
quered.
“After we had been lovers I told him my secret—
that I was married. Pierre Simon, my husband, was a


238 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
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 under-
stood 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,


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 239
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 Holy-
mead 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 my-
self 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
*


240 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
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 up-
stairs, 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 floor
near him I saw a revolver. I picked it up and hid it
in my bag. The tube of it was warm. Then I sat down
in a chair and thought what I must do. The police must
not know I was there. They must not know he was my
lover. I thought of my letters that I wrote to him. He
had them hidden in a little drawer at the back of his
desk—a secret drawer. Often had he showed me my
letters there, and once he had showed me where to find
the spring that opened the drawer. So I searched for
the spring and I found it. The drawer opened and
there were my letters tied together. I took them all
and hid them in my bag, and then I closed the hiding
place. There remained but the handkerchief which my


CHAPTER XXIII
As Gabrielle finished her story, she cast a quick glance
at Crewe's face as though seeking to divine his decision.
But apparently she could read nothing there, and with
an imperious gesture she exclaimed:
“You will do what I ask now that I have exposed my
secret—my shame to you—and told everything? You will
save Madame Holymead from being persecuted by these
police agents?”
“I must ask you a few questions first.”
The contrast between the detective's quiet English
tones and the Frenchwoman's impetuous appeal was ac-
centuated by the methodical way in which Crewe slowly
jotted down an entry in his open notebook. Her
dark eyes sparkled in an agony of impatience as she
watched him.
“Ask them quick, monsieur, for I burn in the suspense.”
“In the first place, then, have you any xx
“Hold, monsieur ! I know what you would ask! You
would say if I have any proofs? Stupid that I am to
forget things so important. I have brought you the
proofs.”
She fumbled at the clasp of her hand-bag, as she
spoke, and before she had finished speaking she had
torn it open and emptied its contents on the table in
front of Crewe—a dainty handkerchief and a revolver.
“See, monsieur !” she cried; “here is the handkerchief
of which I told you. It is that which the judge seized
when I tried to stop the blood flowing in his breast—
look at the corner and you will see that a little bit has
been torn off by his almost dead hand. And the revolver
—it is that which I picked up on the floor near him. I
have had it locked up ever since.”
242


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 243
Crewe examined both articles closely. The revolver
was a small, nickel-plated weapon with silver chasing,
with the murdered man's initials engraved in the handle.
It had five chambers, and one of the cartridges had
been discharged. The other four chambers were still
loaded. Crewe carefully extracted the cartridges, and
examined them closely. One of them he held up to the
light in order to inspect it more minutely.
“Did you do this?” he asked. “Have you been trying
to fire off the revolver?”
“No, no, monsieur,” she exclaimed quickly. “I would
not fire it. I do not understand it. I have been careful
not to touch the little thing that sets it going.”
“The trigger,” said Crewe. He again studied the
cartridge that had attracted his attention. It had missed
fire, for on the cap was a dint where the hammer had
struck it. He placed the four cartridges on the table
and turning his attention to the handkerchief examined
it minutely. It was one of those filmy scraps of muslin
and lace which ladies call a handkerchief—an article
whose cost is out of all proportion to its usefulness.
Gabrielle, who was watching him keenly as he examined
it, exclaimed:
“The handkerchief—a box of them—were given me
by Sir Horace because he knew I love pretty things.”
She laid a finger on the missing corner, which might
indeed have been torn off in the manner described. A
scrap of the lace was missing, and it was evident that it
had been removed with violence, for the lace around the
gap was loosened, and the muslin slightly frayed.
“You say that the corner was torn off when you
wrenched the handkerchief from the dead man's hold?”
said Crewe. “But it was not found in his hand by the
police or anyone else. And he was not buried with it,
for I examined the body carefully. What became of
it?”
Gabrielle looked at him quickly as though she suspected
some trap.


244 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“You would play with me,” she said at length. “What
became of it? Why, you must surely know that the
police of Scot—Scotland Yard have it. The police agent
who called on Madame had it. What is his name—
Rudolf?”
“Rolfe?” exclaimed Crewe. “Has he got it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “He did not show it to me, but
I saw it nevertheless. I dropped my handkerchief when
I spoke at the telephone and Monsieur Rolfe picked it
up. Quickly he studied my handkerchief—not this one,
monsieur, but one of the same kind—and from his pocket-
book he took out the missing piece that was in the dead
man's hand and he studied them side by side. He thought
I did not see—that my back was turned—but I saw in the
mirror which hung on the wall. Then, when I finished
my telephone, he bowed and said, ‘Your handkerchief,
mademoiselle.’ It was not so badly done—for a clumsy
police agent.”
She was not able to recognise how keen was Crewe's
interest in her statement, but she saw that she had
pleased him.
“It is because of this that he will come again,” she
continued. “It is because of this that he would ques-
tion Madame Holymead. And then what will happen?
I do not know. The police make so many mistakes—
blunders you English call them. Would they arrest her
with their blunders? That is why I come to you to ask
you to save her.”
“May I have the revolver and the handkerchief?”
asked Crewe. “I will take great care of them.”
“They are at your disposal, for you will use them to
confront the police agent.”
Crewe again examined the articles in silence before
taking them to his secrétaire and locking them up in one
of the pigeon-holes. Then he turned to Gabrielle, whose
large luminous eyes met his unhesitatingly. She even
smiled slightly—a frank engaging smile, as she remarked:
“And now, monsieur, any more questions?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 245
Crewe smiled back at her. -
“You have told a remarkable story, mademoiselle, and
corroborated it with two important pieces of evidence,
which are in themselves almost sufficient to carry convic-
tion,” he said. “But the Scotland Yard police are a sus-
picious lot, and it is necessary for me to have further
information in order to convince them—if I am to help
you as you wish.”
Gabrielle flashed a look of gratitude at Crewe. She
understood from his words that he believed her story and
was disposed to help her, although the police of Scotland
Yard might prove harder to convince than him.
“Bah! those police agents—they are the same every-
where,” she exclaimed. “They deal so much with crime
that their minds get the taint, and between the false and
true they cannot tell the difference. Que voulez-vous?
They are but small in brains. With you, the case is
different. You have it here—and there.” She touched
her temples lightly with a finger of each hand. “Proceed,
monsieur: ask me what questions you will. I shall en-
deavour to answer them.”
“You said that as you were hiding behind the cur-
tains on the stairway landing, Pierre, your husband,
rushed down past you. You are quite sure it was he?”
“Of that, monsieur, unfortunately there is no doubt.
I saw his face quite distinctly when he passed me, and
when he turned round.”
“The light would be shining from behind, and would
not reveal his face very closely,” suggested Crewe.
“Nevertheless, monsieur, it was quite sufficient for me
to see Pierre clearly. His head was half-turned as he
ran, as though he was looking back expecting to see the
judge rise up and punish him for his dreadful deed,
and I saw him en silhouette, oh, most distinctly—im-
possible him to mistake. I called softly—‘Pierre!' just
like that, and he turned his face right round, and then
with a cry he disappeared along the path.”
“About what time was this?”
-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 247
“Now we come to the letters. You took them from
the secret drawer in the desk. Why did you remove
them?”
“Because I would not have the police agents find them,
for then they would want to know so much.”
“And what did you do with them?”
“Monsieur Crewe, I destroyed them. When I got home
I burnt them all—I was so frightened.”
“You mean you were frightened to keep them in your
possession after the judge was killed?”
“Yes. What place had I to keep them safe from pry-
ing eyes? So, monsieur, I burnt them all—one by one—
and the charred fragments I kept and took into the Park
next day, where I scattered them unobserved.”
“And what became of the letter you wrote to Sir
Horace Fewbanks at Craigleith Hall, asking him to come
to London and save you from your husband's persecu-
tions?”
She looked at him earnestly in the endeavour to ascer-
tain if he had laid a trap for her.
“Sir Horace destroyed it in Scotland, I suppose, if the
police did not find it.”
“Strange that he should have kept all your other let-
ters so carefully and destroyed that one. Perhaps it was
in his pocket-book that was stolen.”
“I do not know. What does it matter? It has gone.”
She shrugged her shoulders lightly and indifferently.
“Do you know who stole the pocket-book?”
“No, monsieur. I thought it was stolen in the train.”
“That is the police theory,” replied Crewe. “But let
that go. Have you, since the night of the murder, seen
anything of Pierre?”
“Monsieur, I have not. It is as though the earth has
him swallowed. He keeps silent with the silence of the
grave.”
“He is wise to do so,” responded Crewe. “Now,
mademoiselle, I have no more questions to ask you. Your


248 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
confidence is safe; you need be under no apprehensions
on that score.”
“I care not for myself, Monsieur Crewe, so long as
Madame Holymead is freed from the persecutions of the
police agents,” replied Gabrielle, rising from her seat as
she spoke. “If, after hearing my story, you could but
give me the assurance—”
“I think I can safely promise you that Mrs. Holy-
mead will not be troubled with any further police atten-
tions,” said Crewe, after a moment's pause.
Gabrielle broke into profuse expressions of gratitude
as she turned to go.
“For the rest then, I care not what happens. I am—
how do you say it—I am overjoyed. Je vous remercie,
monsieur, I beg you not, I can find my way out un-
attended.”
But Crewe showed her to the stairs, where again he
had to listen to her profuse thanks before she finally
departed. He watched her graceful figure till it was lost
to sight in the winding staircase, and then he turned back
to his office. In the outer office he stopped to speak to
Joe, who, perched on an office-footstool, was tapping
quickly on the office-table with his pen-knife, swaying
backwards and forwards dangerously on his perch in the
intensity of his emotions as he played the hero's part in
the drama of saving the runaway engine from dashing
into the 4.40 express by calling up the Red Gulch station
on the wire.
“Joe,” said Crewe, “I’ll see nobody for an hour at least
—nobody. You understand?”
Joe came out of the cinema world long enough to nod
his head in emphatic understanding of the instructions.
In his own room Crewe pulled out his notebook and once
more gave himself up to the study of the baffling Rivers-
brook mystery, in the new light of Gabrielle's confession.
Part of her story, he reflected, must be true. She had
produced Sir Horace's revolver, and, still more important,
a handkerchief which he had clutched in his dying strug-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 249
gles. It was obvious that she or some other woman had
been at Riversbrook the night of the murder, and in the
room with the murdered man before he died. That tallied
with Birchill's statement to Hill that he had seen a woman
close the front door and walk along the garden path
while he was hiding in the garden. Crewe, recalling
Gabrielle's description of the room, came to the con-
clusion that it was probably she who had been with the
judge in his dying moments. No one but a person who
had actually seen it could have described the room with
such minuteness.
She had been in the room, then. For what object?
For the reasons stated in her confession ? Crewe shook
his head doubtfully.
“She evaded the trap about the pocket-book, but she
made one bad mistake,” he mused. “The letters in the
secret drawer were taken away, and I have no doubt
were burnt as she says. But were they her letters? Was
Sir Horace her lover? At any rate, she did not get hold
of them in the way she said. They were not taken away
on the night Sir Horace was murdered, for the simple rea-
son that they were not in the secret drawer at the
time.”


CHAPTER XXIV
RolfE was spending a quiet evening in his room after
a trying day's inquiries into a confidence trick case; in-
quiries so fruitless that they had brought down on his
head an official reproof from Inspector Chippenfield.
Rolfe had left Scotland Yard that evening in a some-
what despondent frame of mind in consequence, but a
brisk walk home and a good supper had done him so
much good, that with a tranquil mind and his pipe in
his mouth, he was able to devote himself to the hobby
of his leisure hours with keen enjoyment.
This hobby would have excited the wondering contempt
of Joe Leaver, whose frequent attendance at cinema thea-
tres had led him to the conclusion that police detec-
tives—who, unlike his master, had to take the rough with
the smooth—spent their spare time practising revolver
shooting, and throwing daggers at an ace of hearts on
the wall. Rolfe's hobby was nothing more exciting than
stamp collecting. He was deeply versed in the lore of
stamps, and his private ambition was to become the
possessor of a “blue Mauritius.” His collection, though
extensive, was by no means of fabulous value, being made
up chiefly of modest purchases from the stamp collecting
shops, and finds in the waste-paper-baskets at Scotland
Yard after the arrival of the foreign mails.
That day he had made a particularly good haul from
the waste-paper-baskets, for his “catch” included several
comparatively good specimens from Japan and Fiji. He
sat gloating over these treasures, examining them care-
fully and holding each one up to the light as he separated
it from the piece of paper to which it had been affixed.
He pasted them one by one in his stamp album with
loving, lingering fingers, adjusting each stamp in its little
250


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 251
square in the book with meticulous care. He was so
absorbed in this occupation that he did not hear the
ascending footsteps drawing nearer to his door, and did
not see a visitor at the door when the footsteps ceased. It
was Crewe's voice that recalled him back from the stamp
collector's imaginary world.
“Why, Mr. Crewe,” said Rolfe, with evident pleasure,
“who'd have thought of seeing you?”
“Your landlady asked me if I’d come up myself,” said
Crewe, in explaining his intrusion. “She’s ‘too much
worrited and put about, to say nothing of having a bad
back,’ to show me upstairs.”
“I’ve never known her to be well,” said Rolfe, with a
laugh. “Every morning when she brings up my break-
fast I’ve got to hear details of her bad back which should
be kept for the confidential ear of the doctor. But she
regards me as a son, I think—I’ve been here so long. But
now you are here, Mr. Crewe–’” Rolfe waited in polite
expectation that his visitor would disclose the object of
his visit.
But Crewe seemed in no hurry to do so. He produced
his cigar case and offered Rolfe a cigar, which the latter
accepted with a pleasant recollection of the excellent
flavour of the cigars the private detective kept. When
each of them had his cigar well alight, Crewe glanced at
the open stamp album and commenced talking about
stamps. It was a subject which Rolfe was always willing
to discuss. Crewe declared that he was an ignorant out-
sider as far as stamps were concerned, but he professed
to have a respectful admiration for those who immersed
themselves in such a fascinating subject. Rolfe, with the
fervid egoism of the collector, talked about stamps for
half an hour without recalling that his visitor must have
come to talk about something else.
“I’ve got a small stamp collection in my office,” said
Crewe, when Rolfe paused for a moment. “It belonged
to that Jewish diamond merchant who was shot in Hat-
ton Gardens two years ago. You remember his case?”
*


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 253
men at the Yard know that you held the opinion that we
had got hold of the wrong man when we arrested Birchill,
and he has had to stand so much chaff in the office, that
he's pretty raw about it.” Rolfe spoke in the detached
tone of a junior who had no share in his chief's mis-
takes or their attendant humiliation, and he added,
“That's once more that you've scored over Scotland Yard,
Mr. Crewe, and you ought to be proud of it.” He
glanced covertly at Crewe to see how he took the flat-
tery.
“So you've done very little about the case since Birchill
was acquitted?” was his only remark.
“I’ve been so busy,” replied Rolfe, again evading the
question, and avoiding meeting Crewe's glance by turning
over the leaves of his stamp album. “You see, there has
been a rush of work at Scotland Yard lately. There
is that big burglary at Lord Emden's, and the case of the
woman whose body was found in the river lock at Pey-
ton, and half a dozen other cases, all important in their
way. There has been quite an epidemic of crime lately,
as you know, Mr. Crewe. I don't seem to get a minute
to myself these times.”
“Rolfe,” said Crewe drily, “you protest too much.
You don't suppose that after coming over here to see you
that I can be deceived by such talk?” -
Rolfe flushed at these uncompromising words, but be-
fore he could speak Crewe proceeded in a milder tone.
“I don't blame you a bit for trying to put me off. It's
all part of the game. We're rivals, in a sense, and
you are quite right not to lose sight of that fact. But as
a detective, Rolfe, your methods lack polish. Really, I
blush for them. You might have known that I came
over here to see you to-night because I had an important
object in view, and you should have tried to find out what
it was before playing your own cards,-and such cards,
too ! You're sadly lacking in finesse, Rolfe. You'd never
make a chess player; your concealed intentions are too


254 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
easily discovered. You must try not to be so transparent
if you want to succeed in your profession.”
Crewe delivered his reproof with such good humour
that Rolfe stared at him, as if unable to make out what
his visitor was driving at.
“I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Crewe,”
he said at length.
“Oh, yes, you do. You know I'm speaking about your
latest move in the Riversbrook case, which you've been
so busy with of late. And I’ve come to tell you in a
friendly way that once more you're on the wrong track.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rolfe quickly.
“Why, Princes Gate, of course,” replied Crewe cheer-
ily. “You don't suppose that a fine-looking young
man like yourself could be seen in the neighbourhood of
Princes Gate without causing a flutter among feminine
hearts there, do you?”
“So the servants have been talking, have they?” mut-
tered Rolfe.
“They have and they haven't. But that's beside the
point. What I want to say is that you're on the wrong
track in suspecting Mrs. Holymead, and I strongly ad-
vise you to drop your inquiries if you don't want to get
yourself into hot water. She's as innocent of the mur-
der of Sir Horace Fewbanks as Birchill is, but you can-
not afford to make a false shot in the case of a lady of
her social standing, as you did with a criminal like
Birchill.”
At this rebuke Rolfe gave way to irritation.
“Look here, Mr. Crewe, I'll thank you to mind your
own business,” he said. “It’s got nothing to do with
you where I make inquiries. I'll have you remember
that! I don't interfere with you, and I won't have you
interfering with me.”
“But I'm interfering only for your own good, man!
What do you suppose I'm doing it for? I tell you you're
riding for a very bad fall in suspecting Mrs. Holymead
and shadowing her.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 257
sured him that Mrs. Holymead had no connection with
the crime. When he was at liberty to tell the story as it
had been told to him, Rolfe would be the first to hear it.
“Mrs. Holymead had no connection with the crime?”
exclaimed Rolfe impatiently. “Perhaps you don't know
that the morning after the murder was discovered she
went out to Riversbrook and removed some secret papers
from the murdered man's desk—papers that he had been
in the habit of hiding in a secret drawer?”
“Yes, I know that,” said Crewe.
“Well, doesn't that look as if she knew something
about the crime?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, to me it does. What were these secret papers?
They were letters, I am told.”
“I believe so. And you, Rolfe, as a man of the world,
know that a married woman would not like the police to
get possession of letters she had written to a man of the
reputation of Sir Horace. Fewbanks.”
“I admit that her action is capable of a comparatively
innocent interpretation, but taken in conjunction with
other things it looks to me mighty suspicious. In Hill's
statement to us he told us that on the night of the mur-
der, Birchill when hiding in the garden waiting for the
lights to go out before breaking into the house, heard
the front door slam and saw a stylish sort of woman
walk down the path to the gate.”
“That was not Mrs. Holymead,” said Crewe.
“How do you know? If it was not her, who was it?
Do you know?”
“I think I know, and when I am at liberty to speak
I will tell you.”
“Then there is a third point,” continued Rolfe. “Look
at this handkerchief you brought. I saw a handker-
chief of exactly similar pattern at Mrs. Holymead's
house when I called there.”
“Wasn't that the property of her French cousin, Made-
moiselle Chiron?”


258 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“Yes, she dropped it on the floor while I was there.
But it is probable the handkerchief was one of a set
given her by Mrs. Holymead.”
“Quite probably, Rolfe. But scores of ladies who are
fond of expensive things have handkerchiefs of a simi-
lar pattern. You will find if you inquire among the
West End shops, that although it is a dainty, expensive
article from the man's point of view, there is nothing
singular about the quality or the pattern.”
“Perhaps so,” said Rolfe, “but the possession of hand-
kerchiefs of this kind is surely suspicious when taken in
conjunction with her removal of the letters. I wish I
could get hold of that infernal scoundrel Hill again. I am
convinced that he knows a great deal more about this
murder than he has yet told us, and a great deal more
about Mrs. Holymead and her letters. I've had his shop
watched day and night since he disappeared, but he
keeps close to his burrow, and I've not been able to get
on his track.”
“I’d give up watching for him if I were you,” said
Crewe, as he flicked the ash of his cigar into the fire-
place. “You’re not likely to find him now. As a mat-
ter of fact, he has left the country.”
“Hill left the country?” echoed Rolfe. “I think you
are mistaken there, Mr. Crewe. He had no money; how
could he get away?”
Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted
it before answering.
“The fact is, I advanced him the money,” he said.
“Technically it's a loan, but I do not think any of it will
be paid back.”
Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking.
“What on earth made you do that?” he demanded at
length. “Hill may be the actual murderer for all we
know.”
“Not at all,” was the reply. “Before I helped him to
leave England I satisfied myself that he had absolutely
nothing to do with the murder. He does not know who


26o THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
get such an opportunity. Then he went to Fanning's flat
and told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned. Birchill
was in favour of postponing the burglary, but Hill, who
had possession of the letters, and did not know when he
would get an opportunity to put them back, urged Birchill
to carry out the burglary. He assured Birchill that Sir
Horace was a very sound sleeper and that there would
be no risk. In order to arouse Birchill's cupidity and
to protect himself from the suspicions of Sir Horace
regarding the letters, he told Birchill that he had seen a
large sum of money in his possession when he returned,
and that this money would probably be hidden in the
secret drawer of the desk, until Sir Horace had an oppor-
tunity of banking it. He told Birchill to break open the
desk, and explained to him how to find the spring of the
secret drawer.”
“What a damned cunning scoundrel he is,” exclaimed
Rolfe, in unwilling admiration of the completeness of
Hill's scheme. “Don’t you think, Mr. Crewe, that, after
all, he may be the actual murderer—that he told you a
lot of lies just as he did to us? Holymead in his ad-
dress to the jury made out a pretty strong case against
him.”
“No one knows better than Holymead that Hill did not
commit the murder,” said Crewe. “Hill is an incorrigible
liar, but he has no nerve for murder.”
“Did he put the letters back?” asked Rolfe. “He told
me that Mrs. Holymead stole them the day after the
murder was discovered. But he is such a liar >>
“I believe he spoke the truth in that case,” said Crewe.
“He told me he put the letters back in the secret drawer
the night after the murder, when he went to Rivers-
brook to report himself to Chippenfield. He put them
back because he was afraid that if the police found them
in his possession, they would think he had a hand in the
murder. His idea was to remove them from the secret
drawer after the excitement about the murder died down,
and then blackmail Mrs. Holymead, but she acted with a


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 261
skill and decision that robbed him of his chance to black-
mail her.”
“How did you get hold of the cunning scoundrel?”
asked Rolfe. “I’ve had his wife's shop watched day
and night, as I’ve said. I made sure he would try to com-
municate with her sooner or later, but he didn't.”
“It was Joe who found him,” said Crewe. “I knew you
were watching Mrs. Hill's shop, so it was superfluous for
me to set anybody to watch it. Besides, I didn't think Hill
would visit his wife or attempt to communicate with her,
for he would think that the police, if they wanted him,
would be sure to watch the shop. I tried to consider what
a man like Hill would do in the circumstances. He had
no money—I knew that—and, so far as I was able to
ascertain, he had no friends who were likely to hide
him. Without friends or money he could not go very
far. Finally it occurred to me that he might be hiding
somewhere in Riversbrook—either in that unfinished por-
tion of the third floor, or in one of the outbuildings. He
knew the run of the rambling old place so well. Have
you ever been over it carefully? No. Well, there are
several good places in the upper stories where a man
might conceal himself. I put Joe on the job, and after
watching for several nights Joe got him. Hill had made
a hiding place in the loft above the garage. It appears
that he subsisted on the stores that had been left in the
house; he was able to make his way into the main
building through one of the kitchen windows. He was
on one of these foraging expeditions when Joe discov-
ered him—emaciated, dirty, and half demented through
terror of the gallows.”
“So that is how you got him!” said Rolfe. “I never
thought of looking for him at Riversbrook. Sometimes
I am inclined to agree with you that he had no nerve
for murder. But an unpremeditated murder doesn't want
much nerve. He might have done it in a moment of pas-
sion.” Rolfe was endeavouring to take advantage of
Crewe's communicative mood and to arrive by a process
*


262 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
of elimination at the person against whom Crewe had
accumulated his evidence.
“It was not Hill,” said Crewe. “The murder was
committed in a moment of passion, and yet it was far
from being unpremeditated.”
“You are trying to mystify me,” said Rolfe despair-
ingly.
“No; it is the case itself which has mystified you,”
replied Crewe.
* “It has,” was Rolfe's candid confession. “The more
thought I give it, the more impossible it seems to see
through it. Was Sir Horace killed before dusk—before
the lights were turned on ? If he was killed after dark,
who turned out the lights?”
“He was killed between Io and Io.30 at night,” said
Crewe. “The lights were turned out by the woman
Birchill saw leaving the house about 10.30. But she was
not the murderer, and she was not present in the room, or
even in the house, when Sir Horace was shot. She
arrived a few minutes too late to prevent the tragedy.
Turning out the lights was an instinctive act due to her
desire to hide the crime, or rather to hide the mur-
derer.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Rolfe, who had
been staring at Crewe with open-mouthed astonishment.
“That woman was not Mrs. Holymead,” continued
Crewe. “I had a visit to-day from the woman who did
these things, and as evidence of the truth of her story
she,brought me the revolver and the handkerchief.”
“What did she come to you for?” asked Rolfe, with
loreathless interest. “What did she want?”
“She came to me to make a full confession,” said
Crewe, in even tones.
“A confession P’ exclaimed Rolfe. “She ought to have
come to the police. Why didn't she come to us?”
Crewe smiled at the puzzled, indignant detective.
“I think she came to me because she wanted to mislead
me,” he said.


264 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
directed attention to his protruding jaw. He was wear-
ing a blue serge suit which had seen much use.
“You are a sound sleeper, sonny,” said the man, grin-
ning at Joe's alarm. “But when you wake—why you
wake up properly; I'll say that for you. You nearly
broke my pipe, you woke up that sudden.”
He made this remark with such a malicious grin that
Joe, whose face was still smarting, had no hesitation in
connecting his sudden awakening with the hot bowl of
the man's pipe. It was a joke Joe had often seen played
on drunken men in Islington public-houses in his young
days.
“You just leave me alone, will you?” he said, rubbing
his cheek ruefully. “It’s nothing to do with you whether
I'm a sound sleeper or not.”
“That's just where you're wrong, young fellow,” was
the reply. “It’s a lot to do with me. Ain't your name Joe
Leaver?”
Joe nodded his head.
“How did you find out?” he asked.
“Perhaps a friend of mine pointed you out to me.”
“Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't,” said Joe.
“Anyway, what is your name?”
“Mr. Kemp is my name, my boy. And unless you're
pretty civil I'll give you cause to remember it.”
“What have you got to do with me?” asked the boy in
an injured tone. “I’ve never done nothing to you.”
“You mind your P's and Q’s and me and you'll get
along all right,” said Mr. Kemp, in a somewhat softer
tone. “When you ask me what I've got to do with
you, my answer is I’ve got a lot to do with you, for I'm
your guardian, so to speak.”
Joe looked at Mr. Kemp with a gleam of comprehen-
sion in his amazement. He had had some experience in
his Islington days of the strange phenomena produced
by drink.
“Rats!” he retorted rudely. “I’ve never had a guardian


266 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
So much of his youth had been spent among the crim-
inal classes that he still retained the feeling that there
was an indelible stigma attached to those individuals
described as narks.
“How can any one earn a respectable honest living by
being a nark?” asked Mr. Kemp contemptuously. “And
more than that, it's one of the best men that ever
breathed that you are a-spying on. I'll have you know
that he's a friend of mine. That is to say he's done things
for me that I ain't likely to forget. There's nothing
I won't do for him, if the chance comes my way. I'll
see that no harm happens to him through you and your
Mr. Crewe. You've got to stop this here spying. Stop it
at once, do you understand? For if you don't, by God,
I'll deal with you so that you'll do no more spying in this
world! And I'd have you and your master know that
I'm a man what means what he says.” Mr. Kemp shook
his fist angrily at Joe as he moved away to the door of
the loft after having delivered his menacing warning.
“My last words to you is, Stop it!” he said, as he
turned to go down the stairs. -
Half an hour later Mr. Kemp entered the lounge of
Verney's Hotel as though in quest of some one. Most
of the hotel guests had finished their after-dinner coffee
and liqueurs, and the hall was comparatively empty, but a
few who remained raised their eyes in well-bred protest
at the intrusion of a member of the lower orders into
the corridor of an exclusive hotel. Mr. Kemp felt
somewhat out of place, and he stared about the luxu-
riously furnished lounge with a look in which awe
mingled with admiration. Before he could advance fur-
ther, a liveried porter of massive proportions came up
to him and barred the way.
“Now, now, my man,” said the porter haughtily, “what
do you think you are doing here? This ain't your
place, you know. You've made a mistake. Out you go.”
“I want to see Mr. Holymead,” said Mr. Kemp in
a gruff voice.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 267
Verney's was such a high-class hotel that seedy-looking
persons seldom dared to put a foot within the palatial
entrance. The porter, unused to dealing with the ob-
trusive impecunious type to which he believed Mr.
Kemp to belong, made the mistake of trying to argue
with him.
“Want to see Mr. Holymead?” he repeated. “How
do you know he's here? Who told you? What do
you want to see him for?”
“What's that got to do with you?” retorted Mr. Kemp.
“You don't think Mr. Holymead would like me to discuss
his business with the likes of you? That ain't what
you're here for. You go and tell Mr. Holymead that
some one wants to see him. Tell him Mr. Kemp wants
to see him.” Mr. Kemp drew himself up and buttoned
the coat of his faded serge suit.
The porter, uncertain how to deal with the situation,
looked around for help. The manager of the hotel
emerged from the booking office at that moment, and the
porter's appealing look was seen by him. The manager
approached. He was faultlessly attired, suave in de-
meanour, and walked with a noiseless step, despite his
tendency to corpulence. It was his daily task to wrestle
with some of the manifold difficulties arising out of the
eccentricities of human nature as exhibited by a constant
stream of arriving and departing guests. But though he
approached the distressed porter with full confidence in
his ability to deal with any situation, his eyebrows arched
in astonishment as he took in the full details of the in-
truder's attire.
“What does this mean, Hawkins?” he exclaimed, in a
tone of disapproval.
The porter trembled at the implication that he had
grievously failed in his duty by allowing such an indi-
vidual as Mr. Kemp to get so far within the exclusive
portals of Verney's, and in his nervousness he relaxed
from the polish of the hotel porter to his native cockney.


268 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“This 'ere party says 'e wants to see Mr. Holymead,
Sir.”
The manager went through the motion of washing a
spotlessly clean pair of hands, and then brought the palms
together in a gentle clap. He smiled pityingly at Hawkins
and then looked condescendingly at Mr. Kemp.
“Wants to see Mr. Holymead, does he?” he said, trans-
ferring his glance to the worried porter. “And didn't
you tell him that Mr. Holymead has gone to the theatre
and won't be back for some considerable time?”
“That's a lie!” said Mr. Kemp, who had acquired
none of the art of dealing with his fellow men, and
was too uneducated to appreciate art in any form. “I’ve
been watching over the other side of the street, and I
saw him passing a window not ten minutes ago. I'm
going to see him if I wait here all night. I'll soon make
meself comfortable on one of them big chairs.” He
pointed to an empty chair beside a man in evening dress,
who was holding a conversation with a haughty looking
matron. “You tell Mr. Holymead Mr. Kemp wants to
see him,” he said to the manager.
“What name did you say?” asked the manager in a
tone which seemed to express astonishment that the
lower orders had names.
“Mr. Kemp. You tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see
him on important business.” He walked towards the va-
cant chair and seated himself on it. He dug his toes into
the velvet pile carpet with the air of a man who was
trying to take anchor. Fortunately the man on the ad-
joining chair, and the haughty matron, were so engrossed
in their conversation that they did not notice that the
air in their immediate vicinity was being polluted by the
presence of a man in shabby clothes and heavy boots.
The manager despatched the porter in search of Mr.
Holymead and then went in pursuit of Mr. Kemp.
“Will you come this way, if you please, Mr. Kemp 7"
he said, with a low bow.
He saw that Mr. Kemp was following him and


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 269
led the way into an unfrequented corner of the smoking
room, where, with the information that Mr. Holymead
would come to him in a few moments, he asked Mr.
Kemp to be seated.
The manager withdrew a few yards, and then took
up a position which enabled him to guard the hotel
guests from having their digestions interfered with by
the contaminating spectacle of a seedy man. To the man-
ager's great relief, Mr. Holymead appeared, having been
informed by the hall porter that a party who said his name
was Kemp had asked to see him. The manager hurried
towards Mr. Holymead and endeavoured to explain and
apologise, but the K.C. assured him that there was nothing
to apologise for. He went over to the corner of the smok-
ing room, where the visitor who had caused so much per-
turbation was waiting for him.
“Well, Kemp, what do you want?” There was nothing
in his manner to indicate that he was put out by Mr.
Kemp's appearance. He spoke in quiet even tones such
as would seem to suggest that he was well acquainted
with his visitor.
“Can I speak to you on the quiet for a moment, sir?”
whispered Kemp hoarsely.
Holymead looked round the room. The manager had
gone back to the booking office and Hawkins had van-
ished. The few people who were in the room seemed
occupied with their own affairs.
“No one will overhear us if we speak quietly,” he said
as he took a seat close to Kemp. “What is it?”
“You’re watched and followed, sir,” said Kemp in a
whisper. “Somebody has been watching this place for
days past and whenever you go out you're followed.”
“By whom?” asked Holymead.
“By a varmint of a boy—a slippery young imp whose
father's in gaol for a long stretch. I got hold of him
this afternoon and told him what I'd do to him if he
kept on with his game. He's living in an old loft at the
back of the hotel garage, and he keeps a watch on you


270 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
day and night. I thought I'd better come here and tell
you, as you mightn't know about him.”
“You did quite right, Kemp. What's this boy like?”
“An undersized putty-faced brat with a big head. He's
about fourteen or fifteen, I should say.”
“Who is he? Do you know him?”
“Leaver is the name, sir. To tell you the truth, I
don't know him as well as I know his father. His father
is a ‘lifer' for manslaughter. I've known him both in
and out of gaol. And when I was coming out four
months ago Bob Leaver, this here boy's father, asked
me to look up his family and send him word about them.
I went to the address Bob told me, in Islington, but I
found they had all gone. The mother was dead and the
kids—a girl and this here boy—had cleared out. The
old Jew who had the second-hand clothes shop Mrs.
Leaver used to keep told me that the boy had gone off
with that private detective, Crewe, more than two years
ago. So it looks to me as if he has turned nark and
Crewe has put him on to watch you.”
“Can you describe this boy more closely?”
“Well, sir, I don't know if I can say anything more
about him except that he has red hair and big bright
eyes that are too large for his face.”
“I thought so,” said Holymead as if speaking to him-
self. “It’s the same boy.”
“What did you say, sir?” asked Kemp.
“Nothing, Kemp, except that I think I've seen a boy
of this description hanging about the street near the
hotel.”
Holymead rose to his feet as he spoke, as an indica-
tion that the interview was at an end. Kemp got up
and looked at him anxiously.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for coming here,” he said,
fumbling with the rim of his hat as he spoke. “I didn't
know how you'd take it, but I hope I've done right.
They didn't want to let me see you.”
“You did quite right, Kemp. I am very much obliged


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 271
to you.” He was feeling in his pocket for silver, but
Kemp stopped him.
“No, no, sir. I don't want to be paid anything. I
wanted to oblige you like; I wanted to do you a good
turn. I’d do anything for you, sir—you know I would.”
“I believe you would, Kemp. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
As Kemp passed down the hall he met the manager,
who was obviously pleased to see such an unwelcome
visitor making his departure. Kemp scowled at the
manager as if he were a valued patron of the hotel
and said, “It seems to me that you don't know how to
treat people properly when they come here.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 273
proposed was unsound from a business point of view
and reckless from a legal point of view. She had no
security to offer for the repayment of the advance—
even if he were in a financial position to make the ad-
vance—and he stoutly declared that he was not. She
might die at any moment, and then he would be left
with no means of redress against her estate because she
had no estate. Of course, if she first insured her life
out of her dress allowance and handed the policy to
him it would constitute protection for the repayment of
the advance, in the event of her death, but it was not
any real protection in the event of her continuing to live,
for a newly-executed policy had no surrender value. As
his own legal adviser, Mr. Mattingford strongly urged
himself not to consider his wife's proposal, and such
was his respect for the law and for those who had been
brought up in a legal atmosphere that he had no hesi-
tation in accepting the advice.
He was a little man of nearly fifty years, with a
very bald head and an extremely long moustache, which
when waxed at the ends made him look as fierce as a
clipped poodle. He knew Mrs. Holymead from his hav-
ing called frequently at his chief's house in Princes Gate
on business matters, and he admired her for her good
looks, but still more for her good taste in staying away
from her husband's chambers. There were some ladies,
the wives of barristers, who almost haunted their hus-
bands' chambers—a practice of which Mr. Mattingford
strongly disapproved. It seemed to him an insidious
attempt on the part of an insidious sex to force the
legal profession to throw open its doors to women.
As a man who lived in the mouldy atmosphere of prece-
dent, Mr. Mattingford hated the idea of change, and to
him the thought of a lady in wig and gown pleading
in the law courts indicated not merely change but a
revolution which might well usher in the end of the
world. So strict was he in keeping the precincts of
the law sacred from the violating tread of women that


274 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
he never allowed his wife to set foot in the Middle
Temple. Their meetings on those urgent occasions when
Mrs. Mattingford came to town for her dress allowance
in order to go bargain-hunting took place at one of the
cheap tearooms in Fleet Street.
Although Mr. Mattingford was somewhat flustered by
the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Holymead, he did not
depart from precedent to the extent of regarding her
as entitled to any other treatment than that accorded to
clients who called on business. He asked her if she
wanted to see Mr. Holymead, placed a chair for her,
then knocked deferentially at his chief's door, went in-
side to announce Mrs. Holymead to her husband, and
came out with the information that Mr. Holymead would
see her. He held open the door leading into his chief's
private room, and after Mrs. Holymead had entered
closed it softly and firmly.
But the formal business manner of Mr. Mattingford
to his chief's wife seemed to her friendly and cordial
compared with the strained greetings she received from
her husband. He motioned her to a chair and then got
up from his own.
“I wrote to you to come and see me here instead of
going to the house to see you,” he said, “because I thought
it would be better for both. It would have given the
servants something to talk about. I hope you don't
mind?”
She looked at him with her large dark eyes in which
there was more than a suggestion of tears. What she
had read into his note, when she received it, was his de-
termination not to go to his home to see her for fear
she would interpret that as a first step towards recon-
ciliation.
“What I wanted to speak to you about is this detec-
tive Crewe whom Miss Fewbanks has employed in con-
nection with her father's death,” he continued.
Her breath came quickly at thºr unwelcome informa-


278 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
She was thinking so deeply that she did not reply.
At length she became conscious of a long silence.
“It is very good of you to ask my opinion—to consult
with me at all. It is you that have everything at stake.
I would like to do my best, but I think if you gave me
time Is there any great urgency? Two days at
most is all I want.”
“I cannot give you two days,” he replied, with a
sombre smile. “You must decide to-day—at once—
otherwise it will be too late.”
She looked at him with parted lips and alarm in her
eyes.
“What do you mean?” she breathed. “What have you
hidden P Is the danger immediate?”
“I think so. For some days past my movements have
been dogged by a boy in Crewe's employ. Nearly a week
ago I decided, after the worry and anxiety of this—
this unhappy affair, to go away for a short trip. I
thought a sea-voyage to America and back might do me
good and fit me for my work again.” He sighed un-
consciously, and went on: “Crewe has become ac-
quainted with my intended departure and has placed his
own interpretation on it. He assumes that I am seeking
safety in flight—that I have no intention of coming
back to England. The result has been that the boy
Crewe had set to watch my movements has been replaced
by two men from Scotland Yard—one watching these
chambers from the front, and the other from the rear.”
He walked across to the window and glanced quickly
through the curtain. “Yes, they are still here.”
She sprang from her seat and followed him to the
window.
“Where are they?” she gasped. “Show them to me.”
“There. Do not move the curtain or they will sus-
pect we are watching them. Look a little to the left, by
the lamp-post. The other you can catch a glimpse of
if you look between those two trees.”
“What does it mean? Why are they waiting?” she


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 279
burst out. Her face had gone very pale, and her big
dark eyes glared affrightedly from the window to her hus-
band.
“Hush! I beg you not to lose your self-control; it is
essential neither of us should lose our heads,” he said,
warningly.
She regained command of herself with an effort, and
whispered, rather than spoke, with twitching lips:
“What does the presence of these men mean?”
“It means that Crewe has already communicated with
Scotland Yard.”
“And that you will be arrested for his murder?” Her
trembling lips could hardly frame the words.
“I think so—it's almost certain. But apparently the
warrant is not yet issued, or those men would come
here and arrest me. But they are watching to prevent
my escape—if I thought of escaping. We may yet have
a few hours to arrange something, but you must come
to a prompt decision.”
“Tell me what to do, and I will do it. Oh, let me help
you if I can. What is the best thing to do? To see
Crewe ?”
“No. I forbid you to see Crewe,” he said harshly.
“If we decide on that course I will see him myself.”
“And you may be arrested the moment you go out
of these chambers,” she returned. “Oh, no, no; that is
not a good plan—we have not the time. I will go to
Mabel Fewbanks at once, and beg her, for all our sakes,
not to allow this to go any further.”
He shook his head.
“You must not sacrifice yourself,” he said. “That
would be foolish.”
“I will not sacrifice myself. I would tell her just
what you have told me—that her father came from Scot-
land to discuss an urgent matter with you, and that
he was murdered after you left. I feel certain this
man Crewe is going to extremes without her knowledge
or consent, and that she will be the first to bury this


CHAPTER XXVII
SHE left her husband's chambers with her brain in
a whirl, hardly knowing where she was going until she
found herself held up with a stream of pedestrians at
the island intersection of Waterloo Bridge and the Strand.
She thought the policeman who was regulating the traf-
fic eyed her curiously, and, more with the object of
evading his eye than with any set plan in her mind, she
stepped into an empty taxi-cab which was waiting to
cross the street.
“Where to, ma'am?” asked the driver.
“Where to?” she repeated vacantly. With an effort
of will she concentrated her thoughts on the task in
front of her, and hastily added, “To Victoria, as quick
as you can. No-wait—driver, first take me to the near-
est bookstall.”
The taxi-cab took her to a bookstall in the Strand,
where she got out and purchased a railway guide. As
the taxi-cab proceeded towards Victoria she hastily turned
the pages to the trains for Dellmere. She had never
been to Dellmere, but she had heard from Miss Few-
banks that her father's place was reached from a station
called Horleydene, on the main line to Wennesden, and
that though there were many through trains, compara-
tively few stopped at Horleydene. But she was unused
to time-tables, and found it difficult to grasp the informa-
tion she required. There was such a bewildering
diversity of letters at the head of the lists of trains
for that line, and so many reference notes on different
pages to be looked up before it was possible to ascer-
tain with any degree of certainty what trains stopped
at Horleydene on week-days, that, in her shaken frame
of mind, with the necessity for hurry haunting her,
281


282 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
she became confused, and failed to comprehend the per-
plexing figures. She signalled to the driver to stop, and
handed him the book.
“I cannot understand this time-table,” she said, in
an agitated way. “Would you find out for me, please,
when the next train leaves Victoria for Horleydene?”
The driver consulted the time-table with a business-
like air.
“The next train leaves at 12.40," he informed her.
“After that there isn't another one stopping there till
4.5.”
Mrs. Holymead consulted her watch anxiously.
“It's almost half-past twelve now. Can you catch the
12.40?” she asked.
The driver looked dubious.
“I’ll try, ma'am, but it'll take some doing. It depends
whether I get a clear run at Trafalgar Square.”
“Try, try!” she cried. “Catch it, and I will double
your fare.”
She caught the train with a few seconds to spare.
She had a first-class compartment to herself, and as
the train rushed out of London, and the grimy en-
virons of the metropolis gradually gave place to green
fields, she endeavoured to compose her mind and col-
lect her thoughts for her coming interview with the
daughter of the murdered man. But her mind was in
such a distraught condition that she could think of no
plan but to sacrifice herself in order to save her hus-
band. With cold hands pressed against her hot forehead,
she muttered again and again, as if offering up an in-
vocation that gained force by repetition:
“I must save him. I will tell her everything.”
The train ran into Horleydene shortly after two, and
Mrs. Holymead was the only passenger who alighted
at the lonely little wayside station which stood in a small
wood in a solitude as profound as though it had been in
the American prairie, instead of the heart of an English
county. The only sign of life was a dilapidated vehicle


286 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
he too would plead for the life of the friend he had be-
trayed.
The door opened and the parlourmaid entered. Miss
Fewbanks stepped quickly across the room so that she
should not witness the distress of Mrs. Holymead. The
servant handed her a card and waited for instructions.
Miss Fewbanks looked at the card in an agony of indeci-
sion. Then she made up her mind firmly.
“Show him into my study,” she whispered to the girl.
She returned to her visitor, who was sitting with her
face buried in her hands.
“Mr. Crewe has just motored down,” she said. “I will
save your husband if I can.”


290 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
morning after the burglary, and after leaving open the
secret drawer which had contained the letters, to report
the burglary to the police. When Sir Horace came home
unexpectedly Hill had just removed the letters and had
them in his possession. Hill was greatly perturbed at
his master's unexpected return, and had to get an oppor-
tunity to replace the letters in the secret drawer, but Sir
Horace told him to go home, as he was not wanted till
the morning. Hill went to that girl's flat in Westminster,
and there saw Birchill. He told Birchill that Sir
Horace had returned unexpectedly, but he urged Bir-
chill to carry out the burglary as arranged, and as-
sured him that as Sir Horace was a heavy sleeper there
would be no risk if he waited until Sir Horace went
to bed. Hill's position was that if the burglary was
postponed Sir Horace might make the discovery that
the letters had been stolen from the secret drawer. In
that case Sir Horace would immediately suspect Hill,
who, he knew, was an ex-convict. It was just possible
that Sir Horace, before going to bed, would discover
that the letters had been stolen—that is, if he went to
bed before Birchill got into the place—but Hill had to
take that risk.
It was the fact that the burglary Hill had arranged with
Birchill took place on the night Sir Horace was killed
that had given rise to the false clues which had misled
the police. Crewe, as he himself modestly put it, was so
fortunate as to get on the right track from the start. His
suspicions were directed to Holymead when he saw the
latter carrying away a walking-stick from Riversbrook
after his visit of condolence to Miss Fewbanks. Crewe
explained what tactics he had adopted to obtain a brief
inspection of the stick in order to ascertain for his own
satisfaction if it had belonged to Holymead. His sus-
picions against Holymead were strengthened when he dis-
covered that the latter, when driving to his hotel on the
night of the tragedy, had thrown away a glove which


292 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
that the man who had attended to Sir Horace on the
moors had the pocket-book. His story was that Sir
Horace had lost it the day before his departure for
London. He had taken off his coat owing to the heat
on the moor, and the pocket-book had dropped out. He
ascertained his loss before he left for London, and told
this man Sanders where he thought the pocket-book had
dropped out. Sanders was to look for it, and if he found
it was to keep it until Sir Horace came back. He did
find it, and after learning of your father's death was
tempted to keep it, as it contained four five-pound notes.
Sanders is an ignorant man, and can scarcely read. He
professed to know nothing of the pocket-book when I
questioned him, but I became suspicious of him, and laid
a trap which he fell into. Then he handed me the
pocket-book, which he had hidden on the moor, under
a stone. In the pocket-book I found a letter from Holy-
mead asking your father to come to London at once
as there were to be two new appointments to the Court
of Appeal, and that Sir Horace had an excellent chance
of obtaining one if he came to London and used his in-
fluence with the Chancellor and the Chief Justice, who
were still in town. The writer indicated that he was
doing all that was possible in Sir Horace's interests, and
that he would meet Sir Horace at Riversbrook at 9.30
on Wednesday night and let him know the exact posi-
tion. There is nothing suspicious in such a letter, but
my inquiries concerning new appointments to the Court
of Appeal suggest that the statements in the letter are
false.
“Now let us consider the conduct of Holymead and his
wife since the night of the murder. His course of ac-
tion has not been that of a man anxious to assist the po-
lice in the discovery of the murderer of his old friend.
We have first of all his secrecy regarding his visit to
Riversbrook that night; the fact of the visit being es-
tablished by the stick, and the glove he left behind. We
have the estrangement of husband and wife. We have


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 293
Mrs. Holymead's visit to Riversbrook on the morning
that the first details of the crime appeared in the news-
papers. Ostensibly she came to see you and pay her
condolences, but as she knew that you had been away
in the country she ought to have telephoned to learn
if you had come up to London. Instead of telephon-
ing, she went to Riversbrook direct, and when she found
you were not there she was admitted to the presence of
my old friend, Inspector Chippenfield. He is an ex-
cellent police officer, but I do not think he is a match
for a clever woman. And Mrs. Holymead is such a fine-
looking woman that I feel sure Chippenfield was so im-
pressed by her appearance that he forgot he was a police
officer and remembered only that he was a man. She
managed to get him out of the room long enough to
enable her to open the secret drawer in Sir Horace's
desk and remove the letters. No doubt Sir Horace had
shown her where he kept them, as their neat little hiding
place was an indication of the value he placed upon them.
She was under the impression that no one knew about
the letters, and her object in removing them was to
prevent the police stumbling across them and so getting
on the track of her husband. But as I have already
told you, Hill knew about the letters, and on the night
of the murder had them in his possession. On the night
after the murder, while Inspector Chippenfield was mak-
ing investigations at Riversbrook, Hill had managed
to obtain the opportunity to put the letters back. He
naturally thought that if the police discovered some of
Sir Horace's private papers in his possession they would
conclude that he had had something to do with the
murder.
“The next point of any consequence is Holymead's de-
fence of Birchill and the deliberate way in which he
blackened your father's name while cross-examining Hill.
If we regard Holymead's conduct solely from the stand-
point of a barrister doing his best for his client his de-
fence of Birchill is not so remarkable. But we have


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 295
for an old friend, or violated his duty to his client by
doing something less than his best for him.
“Apart from the circumstantial and inferential evi-
dence against Holymead, there is the fact that his wife
knows that he committed the crime. Her acts point to
that; her conduct throughout springs from the desire
to shield him. Even the removal of the letters from the
secret drawer was prompted more by the desire to save
him than to save herself. Their discovery would not
have been very serious for her, but it would have put
the police on her husband's track. If I remember rightly,
she asked you to keep her in touch with all the develop-
ments of the investigations of the police and myself.
You told me that she was greatly interested in the fact
that I did not believe Birchill was guilty, and particu-
larly anxious to know if I suspected anyone. At Bir-
chill's trial she did me the honour of watching me very
closely. I was watching both her and her husband.
When she discovered through her womanly intuition that
I suspected her husband; that I was accumulating evi-
dence against him; she sent round her friend, Mademoi-
selle Chiron, with some interesting information for me.
An extremely clever young woman that—like all her
countrywomen she is wonderfully sharp and quick, with
a natural aptitude for intrigue. Of course, the infor-
mation she gave me was intended to mislead me—in-
tended to show me that Mr. Holymead had nothing to
do with the crime. But some of it was extremely in-
teresting when it dealt with actual facts, and some of
the facts were quite new to me. For instance, I had
not previously known that a piece of a lady's handker-
chief was found clenched in your father's right hand
after he was dead. The police very kindly kept that in-
formation from me. Had they told me about it I might
have been inclined to suspect Mrs. Holymead and to
believe that her husband was trying to shield her. His
conduct would bear that interpretation if she had hap-


296 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
pened to be guilty. The police unconsciously, saved me
from taking up that false scent.
“I have detained you a long time in dealing with these -
points, Miss Fewbanks, but I wanted to make every-
thing clear. I have all but reached the end. Let us take
in chronological order what happened on the night of
the tragedy. We have your father's sudden return from
Scotland. Hill was at Riversbrook when he arrived, and
having the secret letters in his possession, was greatly
perturbed by the unexpected return of Sir Horace. He
went to Doris Fanning's flat in Westminster to see Bir-
chill. In his absence Holymead arrived. It is probable
that he took the Tube from Hyde Park Corner to Hamp-
stead and walked to Riversbrook. He rang the bell; was
admitted by your father, and, leaving his hat and stick
in the hall-stand as he had often done before, the two
went upstairs to the library. There was an angry inter-
view, Holymead accusing your father of having wronged
him and demanding satisfaction. My own opinion is
that there was an irregular sort of duel. Each of them
fired one shot. It is quite conceivable that Holymead,
in spite of his mission, being that of revenge, gave your
father a fair chance for his life. A man in Holymead's
position would probably feel indifferent whether he killed
the man who had ruined his home or was killed by
him. But whereas your father's shot missed by a few
inches, Holymead's inflicted a fatal wound. When he
saw your father fall and realised what he had done, the
instinct of self-preservation asserted itself. He grabbed
at the gloves he had taken off, but in his hurry dropped
one on the floor. He ran downstairs, took his hat from
the hall-stand, but left his stick. Then he rushed out
of the house, leaving the front door open. He made his
way back to Hampstead Tube station, got out at Hyde
Tark and took a cab to his hotel.
“Within a few minutes of Holymead's departure from
Riversbrook the Frenchwoman arrived. She may have
passed Holymead in Tanton Gardens, or Holymead, when


298 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
side. Mechanically he began to arrange a problem on
the board. His interest in the famous murder mystery
seemed to have evaporated.
“I was very fortunate,” he said absently, in reply to
Miss Fewbanks. “Everything seemed to come right
for me.”
“You made everything come right,” she replied. “I
do not know how to thank you for giving so much of
your time to unravelling the mystery.”
“It was fascinating while it lasted,” he replied, his fin-
gers still busy with the chessmen. “Of course, I am
pleased with my success, but in a way I am sorry the
work has come to an end. I thought that the knowledge
that Holymead was the guilty man would come as a
great shock to you. But I am glad you are able to take
it so well.”
“A few minutes before you arrived I learned that it
was Mr. Holymead. But what has been more of a shock
to me, Mr. Crewe, is the discovery that my father had
ruined his home. Oh, Mr. Crewe, it is terrible for me
to have to hold my dead father up to judgment, but it
is more terrible still to know that he was not faithful
even to his lifelong friendship with Mr. Holymead.”
“Your nerves are unstrung,” he said. “You want rest
and quiet—you want a long sea voyage.”
“Yes, I want to forget,” she said. “But there are
others who want to forget, too. Cannot we bury the
whole thing in forgetfulness?”
Crewe's growing interest in the chessboard and his
problem suddenly vanished. His eyes became instantly
riveted on her face in a keen, questioning look.
“What is it to me or you that Mr. Holymead should
be publicly proved guilty of this terrible thing?” she
went on, passionately. “Why drag into the light my
father's conduct in order to make a day's sensation for
the newspapers? For his sake, what better thing could
I do than let his memory rest?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 299
“Do you mean that Holymead should be allowed to
go free?” he asked, in astonishment.
“Yes.”
“I’m extremely sorry,” he said slowly.
“Won't you let it all drop?” she pleaded.
“I could not take upon myself the responsibility of
condoning such a crime—the responsibility of judging
between your father and his murderer,” he said sol-
emnly. “But even if I could it is too late to think of
doing so. There is already a warrant out for Holymead's
arrest.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 303
he had found the pocket-book which Sir Horace Few-
banks had lost while shooting at Craigleith Hall. Wit-
ness identified a letter produced as having been in the
pocket-book when he found it. The letter, which had
been written by the prisoner to Sir Horace Fewbanks,
urged Sir Horace to return to London at once, as if
he did so there was a good possibility of his obtaining
promotion to the Court of Appeal. The writer promised
to do all he could in the matter, and to call on Sir Horace
at Riversbrook as soon as he returned from Scotland.
Percival Chambers, an elderly well-dressed man with
a grey beard, and wearing glasses, who was secretary of
the Master of Rolls, swore that he knew of no prospective
vacancies on the Court of Appeal Bench. Were any
vacancies of the kind in view he believed he would be
aware of them.
This closed the case for the police, and Mr. Lethbridge
immediately asked for the discharge of the prisoner on
the ground that there was no case to go before a jury.
The magistrate shook his head, and merely asked Mr.
Lethbridge if he intended to reserve his defence. Mr.
Lethbridge replied with a nod, and the accused was for-
mally committed for trial at the next sittings at the Old
Bailey.
The newspapers reported at great length the evidence
given in the police court, and their reports were eagerly
read by a sensation-loving public. Even those people
who, when Holymead's arrest was announced, had ridi-
culed the idea of a man like Holymead murdering a life-
long friend, had to admit that the police had collected
some damaging evidence. Those people who at the
time of the arrest had prided themselves on possessing
an open mind as to the guilt of the famous barrister,
confessed after reading the police court evidence that
there could be little doubt of his guilt. The only thing
that was missing from the police court proceedings
was the production of a motive for the crime, but it
was whispered that there would be some interesting reve-


CHAPTER XXX
THE impending trial of Holymead produced almost
as much excitement in staid legal circles as it did among
the general public. It was rumoured that there was a
difficulty in obtaining a judge to preside at the trial, as
they all objected to being placed in the position of try-
ing a man who was well-known to them and with whom
most of them had been on friendly terms. There was
a great deal of sympathy for the prisoner among the
judges. Of course, they could not admit that any man
had the right to take the law into his own hands, but
they realised that if any wrong done to an individual
could justify this course it was the wrong Sir Horace
Fewbanks had done to an old friend.
When it became known that Mr. Justice Hodson was
to preside at the Old Bailey during the trial of Holymead,
legal rumour concerned itself with statements to the effect
that there was now a difficulty in obtaining a K.C. to
undertake the prosecution. When it was discovered that
Mr. Walters, K.C., was to conduct the prosecution, it was
whispered that he had asked to be relieved of the work
and had even waited on the Attorney-General in the mat-
ter, but that the latter had told him that he must put
his personal feelings aside and act in accordance with
that high sense of duty he had always shown in his
professional career.
In Newgate Street a long queue of people waited for
admission to Old Bailey on the day the trial was to
begin. They were inspected by two fat policemen to
decide whether they appeared respectable enough to be
entitled to a free seat at the entertainment in Number
One Court. When the doors opened at Io.15 a.m. the
first batch of them were admitted, but on reaching the
307


308 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
top of the stairs, where they were inspected by a ser-
geant, they were informed that all the seats in the
gallery of Number One Court had been filled, but that
he would graciously permit them to go to Numbers Two,
Three, Four, or Five Courts. Those who were not satis-
fied with this generosity could get out the way they had
come in and be quick about it. What the sergeant did
not explain was that so many people with social influence
had applied to the presiding judge for permission to be
present at the trial that it had been found necessary to
reserve the gallery for them as well as most of the seats in
the body of the court. Fashionably-dressed ladies and
well-groomed men drove up to the main entrance of the
Old Bailey in motors and taxi-cabs. The scene was as
busy as the scene outside a West End theatre on a first
night. The services of several policemen were necessary
to regulate the arrival and departure of taxi-cabs and mo-
tor-cars and to keep back the staring mob of disappointed
people who had been refused admission to the court by
the fat sergeant, but were determined to see as much as
they could before they went away. Elderly ladies and
young ladies were assisted from smart motor-cars by their
escorts, and greeted their friends with feminine fervour.
Some of the younger ones exchanged whispered regrets,
as they swept into the court, that such a fine-looking man
as Holymead should have got himself into such a ter-
rible predicament.
The legal profession was numerously represented
among the spectators in the body of the court. So many
distinguished members of the profession had applied
for tickets of admission that there was little room for
members of the junior bar. It was many years since
a trial had created so much interest in legal circles.
When Mr. Justice Hodson entered the court, followed
by no fewer than eight of the Sheriffs of London, those
present in the court rose. The members of the profes-
sion bowed slowly in the direction of His Honour. The
prisoner was brought into the dock from below, and


3Io THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
trial in connection with the murder of Sir Horace Few-
banks, and that at the first trial when a man named Fred-
erick Birchill had been placed in the dock, the prisoner
now before the court had appeared as defending Coun-
sel, and by his brilliant conduct of the defence had
materially contributed to the verdict of acquittal which
had been brought in by the jury. Some evidence would
be placed before the jury about the first trial and the
conduct of the defence. He ventured to assert that the
jury would find in this evidence some damaging facts
against the prisoner—that they would find a clear indi-
cation that the prisoner had defended Birchill because
he knew himself to be guilty of this murder, and felt
an obligation on him to place his legal knowledge and
forensic powers at the disposal of a man whom he knew
to be innocent. At the former trial the prisoner, as
Counsel for the defence, had attempted to throw sus-
picion on a man named Hill, who had been butler to the
late Sir Horace Fewbanks, but evidence would be placed
before the jury to show that in doing so the prisoner
had been smitten by some pangs of conscience at casting
suspicion on a man who he knew was not guilty.
It was not incumbent on the prosecution to prove a
motive for the murder, continued Mr. Walters, though
where the motive was plainly proved the case against
the prisoner was naturally strengthened. In this case
there was no doubt about the motive, but the extent
of the evidence to be placed before the jury under that
head would depend upon the defence. The prosecution
would submit some evidence on the point, but the full
story could only be told if the defence placed the wife
of the prisoner in the witness-box. It was impossible
for the prosecution to call her as a witness, as English
law prevented a wife giving evidence against her hus-
band. She could, however, give evidence in favour of
her husband, and doubtless the defence would take full
advantage of the privilege of calling her.
The evidence which he intended to call would show that


312 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
prisoner left his stick behind in the hat-stand in the hall
on the night of the murder. These things prove con-
clusively that he left Riversbrook in a state of consider-
able excitement. The fact that after the murder was dis-
covered he kept hidden in his own breast the knowledge
that he had been there on that night, instead of going to
the police and, in the endeavour to assist them to detect
the murderer of his lifelong friend, informing them that
he had called on Sir Horace, shows conclusively that he
went there on a mission on which he dared not throw the
light of day.”
Those witnesses who had given evidence at the police
court were called and repeated their statements. Inspec-
tor Seldon was closely cross-examined by Mr. Lethbridge
as to the way in which the dead body was dressed when
he discovered it. He declared that Sir Horace had been
wearing a light lounge suit of grey colour, a silk shirt,
wing collar and black bow tie. Dr. Slingsby's cross-
examination was directed to ascertaining as near as pos-
sible the time when the murder was committed, but this
was a point on which the witness allowed himself to be
irritatingly indefinite. The murder might have taken
place three or four hours before midnight on the 18th
of August, and on the other hand it might have taken
place any time up to three or four hours after midnight.
Hill, who had not been available as a witness at the
police court—being then on the way back from America
in response to a cablegram from Crewe—reappeared as a
witness. He looked much more at ease in the witness-box
than on the occasion when he gave evidence against
Birchill. He had fully recovered from his terror of
being arrested for the murder, and obviously had much
satisfaction in giving evidence against the man who, ac-
cording to his impression, had tried to bring the crime
home to him.
He gave evidence as to the unexpected return of his
master from Scotland on the 18th of August, and also
in regard to the relations between his master and Mrs.


3I4 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
subsequently gone to Riversbrook and shot the man
who had been his lifelong friend. Could anything be
more improbable than to suppose that a man of the ac-
cused's training, intellect, and force of character, would
be swayed by a gust of passion into committing such a
dreadful crime like an immature ignorant youth of un-
balanced temperament? The discovery that his wife and
his friend were carrying on an intrigue would be more
likely to fill him with disgust than inspire him with
murderous rage. He would not deny that accused had
gone up to Riversbrook a few hours after Sir Horace
Fewbanks returned from Scotland; he would admit that
when the accused sought this interview he knew that his
quondam friend had done him the greatest wrong one
man could do another; but he emphatically denied that the
prisoner killed Sir Horace Fewbanks or threatened to
take his life.
His learned friend had asked why had not the pris-
oner gone to the police after the murder was discovered
and told them that he had seen Sir Horace at Rivers-
brook that night. The answer to that was clear and
emphatic. He did not want to take the police into his
confidence with regard to the relations that had existed be-
tween his wife and the dead man. He wanted to save
his wife's name from scandal. Was not that a natural
impulse for a high-minded man? The prisoner had be-
lieved that in due course the police would discover the
actual murderer, and that in the meantime the scandal
which threatened his wife's name would be buried with
the man who had wronged her. If the prisoner could
have prevented it his wife's name would not have been
dragged into this case even for the purpose of saving
himself from injustice. But the prosecution, in order to
establish a motive for the crime, had dragged this scandal
into light. He did not blame the prosecution in the least
for that. In fact he was grateful to his learned friend
for doing so, for it had released him from a promise
extracted from him by the prisoner not to make any use of


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 3I5
the matter in his conduct of the case. The defence was
that, although the accused man had gone to Riversbrook
on the night of the 18th of August to accuse Sir Horace
Fewbanks of base treachery, he went there unarmed, and
with no intention of committing violence. No threats
were used and no shot was fired during the interview.
And in proof of the latter contention he intended to call
witnesses to prove that Sir Horace Fewbanks was alive
after the prisoner had left the house.
The name of Daniel Kemp was loudly called by the
ushers, and when Kemp crossed the court on the way
to the witness-box, Chippenfield and Crewe, who had
returned to the court after giving their evidence, looked
at one another.
“He’s a dead man,” whispered Chippenfield, nodding
his head towards the prisoner, “if this is a sample of
their witnesses.”
Kemp had brushed himself up for his appearance in
the witness-box. He wore a new ready-made tweed suit;
his thick neck was encased in a white linen collar which
he kept fingering with one hand as though trying to loosen
it for his greater comfort; and his hair had been plastered
flat on his head with plenty of cold water. His red and
scratched chin further indicated that he had taken con-
siderable pains with a razor to improve his personal ap-
pearance in keeping with his unwonted part of a respect-
able witness in a place which knew a more sinister side
of him. As he stood in the witness-box, awkwardly avoid-
ing the significant glances that the Scotland Yard men
and the police cast at him, he appeared to be more nerv-
ous and anxious than he usually was when in the dock.
But Crewe, who was watching him closely, was struck
by the look of dog-like devotion he hurriedly cast at the
weary face of the man in the dock before he commenced
to give his evidence.
He told the court a remarkable story. He declared that
Birchill had told him on the 16th of August that he had
a job on at Riversbrook, and had asked him to join him


316 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
in it. When Birchill explained the details witness de-
clined to have a hand in it. He did not like these put-up
jobs.
Mr. Lethbridge interposed to explain to any particu-
larly unsophisticated jurymen that “a put-up job” meant
a burglary that had been arranged with the connivance
of a servant in the house to be broken into.
Kemp declared that the reason he had declined to have
anything to do with the project to burgle Riversbrook was
that he felt sure Hill would squeak if the police threat-
ened him when they came to investigate the burglary. He
happened to be at Hampstead on the evening of the 18th
of August and he took a walk along Tanton Gardens to
have another look at the place which Birchill was to break
into. It had occurred to him that things might not be
square, and that Hill might have laid a trap for Birchill.
That was about 9.30 p.m. He was just able to catch a
glimpse of the house through the plantation in front of
it. The mansion appeared all in darkness, but while he
looked he was surprised to see a light appear in the upper
portion of the house which was visible from the road. He
went through the carriage gates with the intention of get-
ting a closer view of the house. As he walked along he
heard a quick footstep on the gravel walk behind him,
and he slipped into the plantation. Looking out from
behind a tree he could discern the figure of a man walk-
ing quickly towards the house. As he drew near him
the man paused, struck a match and looked at his watch,
and he saw that it was Mr. Holymead. Witness's sus-
picions in regard to a trap having been laid for Birchill
were strengthened, and he decided to ascertain what was
in the wind. He crept through the plantation to the edge
of the garden in front of the house. From there he
could hear voices in a room upstairs. He tried to make
out what was being said, but he was too far away for
that. In about half an hour the voices stopped, and a
minute later a man came out of the house and walked
down the path through the garden, and entered the car-


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 317
riage drive close to where witness was concealed in the
plantation. As he passed him witness saw that it was
Mr. Holymead.
About five minutes afterwards the window upstairs in
the room where the voices had come from was opened,
and Sir Horace Fewbanks leaned out and looked at
the sky as if to ascertain what sort of a night it was.
He was quite certain that it was Sir Horace Few-
banks. He was well acquainted with that gentleman's
features, having been sentenced by him three years ago.
Sir Horace seemed quite calm and collected. Witness
was so surprised to see him, after having been told by
Birchill that he was in Scotland, that he did not take his
eyes off him during the two or three minutes that he
remained at the window, breathing the night air. Sir
Horace was fully dressed. He had on a light tweed suit,
and he was wearing a soft shirt of a light colour, with a
stiff collar, and a small black bow tie. When Sir Horace
closed the window witness jumped over the fence back
into the wood and made his way to the Hampstead Tube
station with the intention of warning Birchill that Sir
Horace Fewbanks was at home. He waited at the station
over an hour, and as he did not see Birchill he then made
his way home. During the time he was in the garden at
Riversbrook listening to the voices, he heard no sound
of a shot. He was certain that no shot had been fired
inside the house from the time the prisoner entered the
house until he left. Had a shot been fired witness could
not have failed to hear it.
There could be no doubt that the effect produced in
court by the evidence of the witness was extremely fa-
vourable to the prisoner. Kemp had told a plain, straight-
forward story. The fact that he had shown no reluctance
in disclosing in his evidence that he was a criminal and
the associate of criminals seemed to add to the credi-
bility of his evidence. It was felt that he would not
have come to court to swear falsely on behalf of a man


318 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
who was so far removed from the class to which he
belonged.
While Kemp was giving his evidence, Crewe had des-
patched a messenger to his chambers in Holborn for Joe.
When the boy returned with the messenger Kemp was
still in the witness-box, undergoing an examination at
the hands of the judge. Sir Henry Hodson seemed to
have been impressed by the witness's story, for he asked
Kemp a number of questions, and entered his answers in
his notebook.
“Joe,” whispered Crewe, as the boy stole noiselessly be-
hind him, “look at that man in the witness-box. Have
you ever seen him before?”
“Rayther, guv'nor" whispered the boy in reply. “Why,
it's 'im who tried to frighten me in the loft if I didn't
promise to give up watching Mr. Holymead.”
“You are quite certain, Joe?”
“Certain sure, guv'nor. There ain't no charnst of me
mistaking a man like that.”
Crewe listened intently to Kemp's evidence, and he
watched the man's face as he swore that he had seen Sir
Horace Fewbanks leaning out of the window after Holy-
mead had left the house. He hastily took out a note-
book, scribbled a few lines on one of the leaves, tore it
out, and beckoned to a court usher.
“Take that to Mr. Walters,” he whispered.
The man did so. Mr. Walters opened the note, ad-
justed his glasses and read it. He started with sur-
prise, read the note through again, then turned round
as though in search of the writer. When he saw Crewe
he raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and the detec-
tive nodded emphatically.
Mr. Lethbridge sat down, having finished his exami-
nation of Kemp. Mr. Walters, with another glance at
Crewe's note, rose slowly in his place.
“I ask Your Honour that I may be allowed to defer
until the morning my cross-examination of this witness,”
he said. “I am, of course, in Your Honour's hands in this,


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 319
matter, but I can assure Your Honour that it is desirable
—highly desirable—in the interests of justice that the
cross-examination of the witness should be postponed.”
“I protest, Your Honour, against the cross-examination
of the witness being deferred,” said Mr. Lethbridge.
“There is no justification of it.”
“I would urge Your Honour to accede to my request,”
said Mr. Walters. “It is a matter of the utmost im-
portance.” -
“Is your next witness available, Mr. Lethbridge?”
asked the judge.
“Surely, Your Honour, you're not going to allow the
cross-examination of this witness to be postponed?” pro-
tested Mr. Lethbridge. “My learned friend has given
no reason for such a course.”
Sir Henry Hodson looked at the court clock.
“It is now within a quarter of an hour of the ordinary
time for adjournment,” he began. “I think the fairest
way out of the difficulty will be to adjourn the court
now until to-morrow morning.”
There was a loud buzz of conversation when the court
adjourned. After asking Chippenfield and Rolfe to wait
for him, Crewe made his way to Mr. Walters, and,
after a few whispered words with that gentleman, Mr.
Mathers, his junior, and Mr. Salter, the instructing solici-
tor, he returned to Chippenfield and Rolfe and asked
them to accompany him in a taxi-cab to Riversbrook.
“What do you want to go out there for?” asked In-
spector Chippenfield. “You don't expect to discover
anything there this late in the day, do you?”
“I want to find out whether this man Kemp is lying or
telling the truth.”
“Of course he is lying,” replied the positive police of—
ficial. “When you've had as much experience with crim-
inals as I have had, Mr. Crewe, you won't expect a
word of truth from any of them.”
“Well, let us go to Riversbrook and prove that he is
lying,” said Crewe.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 32I
after removing them from the dressing-case in the cloak
room I had the cloak room watched. When Dora. Kemp
called for the dressing-case and handed in the cloak-
room ticket, the attendant gave my men the signal and
she was arrested.”
“She died of heart disease while on trial, didn't she?”
asked Crewe.
“Yes,” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “Sir Hor-
ace Fewbanks was the judge. He gave her five years.
And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than she
threw up her hands and fell forward in the dock. She
was dead when they picked her up.”
“She was as game as they make them,” put in Rolfe.
“We tried to get her to give the others away, but she
wouldn't, though she would have got off with a few
months if she had. The gang got frightened and cleared
out. They left her in the lurch, but she wouldn't give one
of them away.”
“It was Holymead who defended her,” said Chippen-
field. “It was a strange thing for him to do—leading
barristers don't like touching criminal cases, because, as
a rule, there is little money and less credit to be got out
of them. But Holymead did some queer things at times,
as you know. He must have taken up the case out of
interest in the girl herself, for I'm certain she hadn't
the money to brief him. And I did hear afterwards
that Holymead undertook to see that she was decently
buried.”
“Why, that explains it!” exclaims Crewe, in the voice
of a man who had solved a difficulty.
“Explains what?” asked Inspector Chippenfield.
“Explains why her father has taken the risk of com-
ing forward in this case to give evidence for Holymead.
Gratitude for what Holymead had done for his girl while
he was in prison. My experience of criminals is that
they frequently show more real gratitude to those who do
them a good turn than people in a respectable walk of
life. Besides, you know what a sentimental value people


322 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
of his class attach to seeing their kin buried decently.
If Holymead hadn't come forward the girl would have
been buried as a pauper, in all probability.”
“But I don't see that old Kemp is taking much risk,”
said Inspector Chippenfield. “He is only perjuring
himself, and he is too used to that to regard it as a
risk.”
“Don’t you think he will be in an awkward position
if the jury were to acquit Holymead?” asked Crewe.
“One jury has already said that Sir Horace Fewbanks
was dead when Birchill broke into the house, and if this
jury believes Kemp's story and says Sir Horace was
alive when Holymead left it, don't you think Kemp will
conclude that it will be best for him to disappear?
Some one must have killed Sir Horace after Holymead
left, and before Birchill arrived.”
“Whew 1 I never thought of that,” said Rolfe can-
didly.
“Kemp is a liar from first to last,” said Inspector
Chippenfield decisively.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 329
ically, but he was not to be turned from his purpose.
He felt that too much was at stake, and he lifted the
discussion out of the atmosphere of professional pro-
cedure into that of their common manhood.
“Walters, I know you are not a vain man,” he said,
earnestly. “A personal triumph in this case means even
less to you than it does to me. I have built up what I
regard as an overwhelming case against Holymead. But
it is based on circumstantial evidence, and I would will-
ingly see the whole thing toppled over if by that means
we could get the final truth. This man Kemp knows the
truth, and you are in a position in which you can get
the truth from him. It may be the last chance anyone
will have of getting it. Apart from all questions of
professional procedure, isn't there. an obligation upon
you to get at the truth?”
“If you put it that way, I believe there is,” replied
Walters slowly and meditatively. There was a pause,
and then he spoke with a sudden impulse. “Yes, Crewe;
you can depend on me. I’ll do my best.”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 333
you, and you saw his face. Did he strike matches as
he went out?”
“No.”
“Then how are you able to swear so positively as to
his identity in the dark?”
Kemp considered a moment before replying.
“Because I know him well and I was close to him,” he
said at length. “I was close enough to him almost to
touch him. I knew him by his walk, and by the look
of him. It was him right enough, I'll swear to that.”
“I put it to you, witness,” persisted Counsel, “that you
could not positively identify a man in a plantation at
that time of night. Do you still swear it was Mr. Holy-
mead?”
“I do,” replied Kemp doggedly.
“What did you do then?”
“I stayed where I was.”
“What for P”
“I don't know. I didn't have any particular reason.
I just stayed there watching.”
“Did you think the prisoner might return?”
“No,” replied the witness quickly. “Why should I
think that?”
“How long did you stay watching the house?”
“It might be a matter of ten minutes more.”
“And the prisoner didn't return during that time?”
“No,” replied the witness emphatically.
“What did you do after that?”
“I went to the Tube station.”
“Prisoner might have returned after you left?”
“I suppose he might,” replied the witness reluctantly.
“Well, now, witness, you say you stayed ten minutes
after Holymead left, and during that time Sir Horace
opened the window and leaned out of it?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him distinctly?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure it was Sir Horace Fewbanks?”


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 335
sion who were in court, Mr. Walters, instead of press-
ing home his advantage, switched off to something
else.
“I believe you have a feeling of gratitude towards
the prisoner?” he asked, in a milder tone.
“I have,” said Kemp. His defiant, insolent attitude
had suddenly vanished, and he gave the impression of
a man who feared that every question contained a trap.
“He did something for a relative of yours which at
that time greatly relieved your mind?”
“He did, and I'll never forget it.”
“Well, we won't go further into that at present. But
it is a fact that you would like to do him a good turn?”
“Yes.”
“You came here with the intention of doing him a
good turn?”
Kemp considered for a moment before answering:
“Yes.”
“You came here with the intention of giving evidence
that would get him off?”
“Yes.”
“You came here with the intention of committing per-
jury in order to get him off?” Mr. Walters waited, but
there was no reply to the question, and he added, “You
see what your perjured evidence has done for him?”
“What has it done?” asked Kemp sullenly.
“It has established the prisoner's guilt beyond all rea-
sonable doubt in the minds of men of common sense.
You did not see Sir Horace Fewbanks that night after
the prisoner left him. You could not have seen him
even if he had leaned out of the window. But your
whole story is a lie, because Sir Horace was dead when
the prisoner left him.”
“He was not,” shouted Kemp. “I saw him alive. I
saw him as plain as I see you now.”
The man in court who was most fascinated by the
witness was Crewe. He had watched every movement
of Kemp's face, every change in the tone of his voice.


336 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“I wonder what the fool will say next,” whispered
Inspector Chippenfield to Crewe.
“He will tell us how Sir Horace Fewbanks was shot,”
was Crewe's reply.
Mr. Walters approached a step nearer to the wit-
ness-box. “You saw him as plainly as you see me now?"
he repeated.
“Yes,” declared Kemp, who, it was evident, was labour-
ing under great excitement. “You say I came here to
commit perjury if it would get him off.” He pointed
with a dramatic finger to the man in the dock. “I did.
And I came here to get him off by telling the truth if
perjury didn't do it. You say I’ve helped to put the
rope round his neck. But I'm man enough to tell the
truth. I'll get him off even if I have to swing for it
myself.”
This outburst from the witness-box created a sensa-
tion in court. Many of the spectators stood up in order
to get a better view of the witness, and some of the ladies
even jumped on their seats. Mr. Justice Hodson was
momentarily taken aback. His first instinct was to check
the witness and to ask him to be calm, but the witness
took no notice of him. He displayed his judicial au-
thority by an impressive descent of an uplifted hand
which compelled the unruly spectators to resume their
Seats.
It was on Mr. Walters that Kemp concentrated his
attention. It was Mr. Walters whom he set himself to
convince as if he were the man who could set the pris-
oner free. Of the rest of the people in court Kemp in
his excitement had become oblivious.
“Listen to me,” said Kemp, “and I'll tell you who shot
this scoundrel. He was a scoundrel, I say, and he ought
to have been in gaol himself instead of sending other peo-
ple there. I went up to the house that night to see if
everything was clear, or whether that cur Hill had laid a
trap—that part of my evidence is true. And from be-
hind a tree in the plantation I saw Mr. Holymead pass
***


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 337
me—he struck a match to look at the time, and I saw
his face distinctly. A few minutes afterwards I heard
loud, angry voices coming from somewhere upstairs in
the house. I thought the best thing I could do was to
find out what it was about. I said to myself that Mr.
Holymead might want help. I walked across the garden
and found that the hall door was wide open. I went
inside and crept upstairs to the library. The light in
the hall was turned on, as well as a little lamp on the
turn of the staircase behind a marble figure holding some
curtains, which led the way to the library. The library
door was open an inch or two, and I listened.
“I could hear them quite plainly. Mr. Holymead was
telling him what he thought of him. And no wonder.
It made my blood boil to think of such a scoundrel sit-
ting on the bench and sentencing better men than him-
self. I thought of the way in which he had killed my
girl by giving her five years. It was the shock that killed
her. Five years for stealing nothing, for she didn't
handle the jewels. And here he had been stealing a
man's wife and nothing said except what Mr. Holymead
called him. I stood there listening in case they started
to fight, and I might be wanted. But they didn't.
“I heard Mr. Holymead step towards the door, and I
slipped away from where I had been standing. I saw the
door of another room near me, and I opened it and
went in quickly. I closed the door behind me, but I
did not shut it. I looked through the crack and saw
Mr. Holymead making his way downstairs. He walked
as if he didn't see anything, and I watched him till he
went through the curtains on the stairs at the bend of
the staircase and I could see him no more.
“Then I heard a step, and looking through the
crack I saw the judge coming out of the library. He
walked to the head of the stairs and began to walk slowly
down them. But when he reached the bend where the
curtains and the marble figure were, he turned round
and walked up the stairs again. He walked along


338 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
as though he was thinking, with his hands behind his
back, and nodding his head a little, and a little cruel,
crafty smile on his face. He passed so close to me
that I could have touched him by putting out my hand,
and he went into the library again, leaving the door
open behind him.
“Then suddenly, as I stood there, the thought came
over me to go in to him and tell him what I thought
about him. I opened the door softly so as not to frighten
him, and walked out into the passage and into the li-
brary, and as I did so I took my revolver out of my
pocket and carried it in my hand. I wasn't going to
shoot him, but I meant to hold him up while I told him
the truth.
“He was standing at the opposite side of the room
with his back towards me and a book in his hand, but
a board creaked as I stepped on it, and he swung round
quickly. He was surprised to see me, and no mistake.
‘What do you want here?' he said, in a sharp voice, and
I could see by the way he eyed the revolver that he
was frightened. Then I opened out on him and told
him off for the damned scoundrel he was. And he didn't
like that either. He edged away to a corner, but I kept
following him round the room telling him what I thought
of him. And seeing him so frightened, I put the re-
volver back in my pocket and walked close to him while
I told him all the things I could think of.
“As I thought of my poor girl that he'd killed I
grew savage, and I told him that I had a good
mind to break every bone in his body. He threatened
to have me arrested for breaking into the place, but I
only laughed and hit him across the face. He backed
away from me with a wicked look in his eyes, and I fol-
lowed him. He backed quickly towards the door, and
before I knew what game he was up to he made a dart
out of the room. But I was too quick for him. I got
him at the head of the stairs and dragged him back into
the room and shut the door and stood with my back


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 339
against it. I told him I hadn't finished with him. I had
mastered him so quickly, and was able to handle him
so easily, that I didn't watch him as closely as I ought to
have done. He had backed away to his desk with his hand
behind him, and suddenly he brought it up with a re-
volver in his hand.
“‘Now it's my turn,” he said to me with his cunning
smile. ‘Throw up your hands.’
“I saw then it was man for man. If I let him take
me I was in for a good seven years. I’d sooner be dead
than do seven years for him. “Shoot and be damned,’ I
said. I ducked as I spoke, and as I ducked I made a
dive with my hand for my hip pocket where I had put
my revolver. He fired and missed. He fired again,
but his toy revolver missed fire, for I heard the hammer
click. But that was his last chance. I fired at his heart
and he dropped beside the desk. I didn't wait for any-
thing more—I bolted. I got tangled in the staircase cur-
tains and fell down the stairs. As I was falling I thought
what a nice trap I would be in if I broke my leg and had
to lie there until the police came. But I wasn't much
hurt and I got up and dashed out of the house and over
the fence into the wood, the way I came.”
He stopped, and his gaze wandered round the hushed
court till it rested on the prisoner, who with his hands
grasping the rail of the dock had leaned forward in
order to catch every word. Kemp turned his gaze
from the man in the dock to the man in the scarlet robe
on the bench, and it was to the judge that he addressed
his concluding words.
“You can call it murder, you can call it manslaughter,
you can call it justifiable homicide, you can call it what
you like, but what I say is that the man you have in
the dock had nothing to do with it. It was me that killed
him. Let him go, and put me in his place.”
He held his hands outstretched with the wrists to-
gether as though waiting for the handcuffs to be placed
on them.


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 34I
him. What made me confident it was flawless was the
fact that both his wife and her French cousin believed
him to be guilty. Mademoiselle Chiron followed Holy-
mead from the country on the 18th of August with the in-
tention of averting a tragedy. She arrived at Rivers-
brook too late for that, but in time to see Sir Horace
expire, and naturally she thought that Holymead had shot
him. When Mrs. Holymead realised that I also suspected
her husband and had accumulated some evidence against
him, she sent Mademoiselle Chiron to me with a concocted
story of how the murder had been committed by a more
or less mythical husband belonging to Mademoiselle's
past. Ostensibly the reason for the visit of this extremely
clever French girl was to induce me to deal with Rolfe,
who had begun to suspect Mrs. Holymead of some com-
plicity in the crime; but the real reason was to convince
me that I was on the wrong track in suspecting Holy-
mead. Of course she said nothing to me on that point.
She produced evidence which convinced me that she
was in the room when Sir Horace died, and, as I was
quite sure that she believed Holymead to be guilty, I
felt that there could be no doubt whatever of his guilt.”
“It is one of the most extraordinary cases on record
—one of the most extraordinary trials,” said Walters.
“You blame yourself for having had Holymead arrested
but you have more than redeemed yourself by the finaſ
discovery when Kemp was in the witness-box that he
was the guilty man. That was an inspiration.”
“Hardly that,” said Crewe with a smile. “I knew
when he swore that he had seen Sir Horace leaning out
of the library window that he was lying. After the
murder was discovered I inspected the house and grounds
carefully, and one of the first things of which I took
a mental note was the fact that the foliage of the chest-
nut-tree completely hid the only window of the library.”
“Ah, but there is a difference between knowing Kemp
was committing perjury and knowing that he was the
guilty man.”


342 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
“There is at least a distinct connection between the
two facts,” said Crewe, who after his mistake in regard
to Holymead was reluctant to accept any praise.
“Kemp's description of the way in which Sir Horace was
dressed showed that he had seen him. The inference
that Kemp had been inside the house was irresistible.
Sir Horace had arrived home at 7 o'clock and it was not
likely that Kemp would hang about Riversbrook—the
scene of a prospective burglary—until after dark, which
at that time of the year would be about 8.30. He must
have seen Sir Horace after dark, and in order to be
able to say how the judge was dressed he must have
seen him at close quarters. The rest was a matter
of simple deduction. Kemp inside the house listen-
ing to the angry interview between Holymead and
Fewbanks—Kemp with his hatred of the judge who
had killed his daughter in the dock and with his
desire to do Holymead a good turn—I had previously
had proof of that from my boy Joe, whom you have
seen. Besides Kemp fitted into my reconstruction of the
tragedy on the vital question of time. How long did
Sir Horace live after being shot? The medical opinions
I was able to obtain on the point varied, but after sifting
them I came to the conclusion that though he might
have lived for half an hour, it was more probable that
he had died within ten minutes of being hit.”
“How is that vital?” asked Walters, who was keenly
interested in understanding how Crewe had arrived at
his conviction of Kemp's guilt.
“Holymead's appointment with Sir Horace at Rivers-
brook was for 9.30 p.m. The letter found in Sir Hor-
ace's pocket-book fixed that time. It was exactly 11 p.m.
when he got into a taxi at Hyde Park Corner after
his visit to Riversbrook. On that point the driver of
the taxi was absolutely certain. I was so anxious for
him to make it 11.30 that I went to see him twice about
it. Assuming that Holymead arrived at Riversbrook
at 9.30, I allowed half an hour for his angry interview


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 343
with Sir Horace, half an hour for the walk from Rivers-
brook to Hampstead Tube station, and half an hour for
the journey from Hampstead to Hyde Park Corner, which
would have involved a change at Leicester Square. As I
could not induce the driver of the taxi to make Holy-
mead's appearance at Hyde Park Corner II.3o instead of
II, I had to admit that Holymead must have left Rivers-
brook at Io. But it was Io.30 according to Mademoiselle
Chiron when she found Sir Horace dying on the floor of
the library. Therefore if Holymead did the shooting, the
victim's death agonies must have lasted half an hour or
more. Medically that was not impossible, but somewhat
improbable. But a meeting between Kemp and Sir Hor-
ace after Holymead had gone filled in the blank in time.
That came home to me yesterday when Kemp was in
the witness-box committing perjury in his determination
to get Holymead off. I take it that the interview be-
tween Kemp and his victim lasted about 20 minutes.
Therefore Sir Horace was shot about 10.20; certainly be-
fore Io.30, for Mademoiselle heard no shots while near-
ing the house.”
“You have worked it out very ingeniously,” said
Walters. “You must find the work of crime detection
very fascinating. I am afraid that if I had been in
your place—that is if I had known as much about the
tragedy as you do—when Kemp was in the witness-box
yesterday, I would not have seen anything more in his
evidence than the fact that he was committing perjury
in order to help Holymead.”
“I think you would,” said Crewe. “These discoveries
come to one naturally as the result of training one's mind
in a particular direction.”
“They come to you, but they wouldn't come to me,”
said Walters with a smile. “But do you think Kemp's
story of how Sir Horace was shot is literally true? Do
you think Sir Horace got in the first shot and then tried
to fire again? If that is so, I don't see how they can


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