Volume Three—Chapter Three.
On the Trail.
It was not until late in the morning that Clara Kingscott was let out of the cell in the police-station, where she had been locked up, and was taken to be examined before Monsieur le Chef des sergents de ville.
Although she was full of natural indignation at the treatment that she met with, to gain her purpose, she was forced to dissemble her anger, and answer all the questions put to her in a cool and collected manner.
Having taken care also to arrange her toilette and efface the traces of bedragglement, her appearance had its due effect, and Monsieur le Chef comprehended the case in a moment.
It was a mistake arising from the want of perspicacity of an over-zealous officer, and the Chef entreated Madame—he begged pardon, Mademoiselle—to accept a hundred thousand apologies for the unfortunate mistake which had subjected her to such treatment.
Trop de zele was poor satisfaction for being arrested, locked up, and losing her vengeance; but Mademoiselle smiled sweetly, told the officer not to mention it, and now that she had gained his ear went on eagerly to tell her tale.
The Chef listened attentively to Miss Kingscott’s narration, making short notes in a memorandum book before him, knitting his brows, glancing at her every now and then interrogatively with his sharp pistolling eyes, and pulling the waxed ends of his black moustache à l’Empereur meditatively as she proceeded with her strange recital.
It did not astonish the Chef, however. The French police are never astonished, Le Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas: Monsieur le Chef was only perplexed, but his perplexity grew greater the more he heard.
That a murder should have been committed anywhere was not such a very surprising thing in itself; but that a murder should take place in Havre, Havre which was under his own especial supervision, c’était impossible! It was a thing incredible.
It was absurd on the face of it. His sergents de ville knew their duty too well to allow it; but still he interrogated Mademoiselle, and put down the answers she gave to his various questions in his note book. All the circumstances of the case should be looked into and investigated, although they certainly seemed incredible. It struck the Chef, however, that Mademoiselle’s narrative was too clear and succinct to be made up: besides, a few initiatory inquiries would readily reveal whether her premises were true or false.
The Chef touched a hand-bell on his table, and a subordinate officer quickly answered the summons. To him some directions were given, in a low earnest voice, so low that Miss Kingscott could not catch their purport: the man then withdrew.
“Attendez un moment, Mademoiselle, il reviendra bientôt,” said the Chef, in an apologetic tone.
Miss Kingscott had to wait nearly half-an-hour until the messenger came back.
More whispering with the Chef, and comparing of note books; the news was evidently important, for the latter looked grave and puzzled; but as soon as the underling withdrew, he again addressed the governess.
“I find you have told me the truth about yourself,” he commenced.
“Your politeness is great to have doubted my word: I thought all Frenchmen were renowned for their gallantry!” interposed the lady.
“Circumstances must plead my excuse, Mademoiselle,” continued the Chef, making an elaborately polite bow; “the law must be assured before it can act. I find that you came to Havre yesterday, that about mid-day you went to the Hotel du Coté d’Or, secured a room, and left your luggage. The propriétaire mentions that you have stopped there before, and gives you a good character.”
“A thousand thanks,” said Miss Kingscott, with a sneer.
“Mademoiselle will understand that it is my duty to make these enquiries. Allons! That, after remaining a short time at the Hotel du Côte d’Or,” continued the Chef, calmly, as if reading out from an affidavit, “you went out, leaving word that you would return again to dinner, but you did not go back, and Monsieur le propriétaire was plunged into the deepest uneasiness at your non-appearance: I believe I am so far correct.”
The Chef paused here a moment, as if to to have his observation to be confirmed.
“Après?” inquired the lady, and nodded her head for him to go on.
“I have also learnt,” continued the Chef, “that this man Markworth, whom you accuse, was a gentleman, English, and has lived with a lady whom he called his wife, and who was of delicate health for more than three months past at the house of Madame Cliquelle, commonly called la Mère Cliquelle, at the house Numéro 7, Rue Montmartre; that this man Markworth has been in the habit of quitting his apartments for short intervals, leaving madame sa femme behind him, and crossing over to England, from whence he has generally returned after an absence of two or three days. That, after one of these short absences, he came back yesterday—Mademoiselle probably crossed the channel in the same boat with Monsieur?”
“I did.”
“This man Markworth, after coming back remained in his apartments all day until the evening. The Mère Cliquelle says that she heard no high words (grosses paroles) between Monsieur Markworth and his wife. She has observed that Madame was very delicate and very fond of Monsieur, and that he was always very gentle and kind to her—in fact that they were an attached couple. Well, this Monsieur Markworth remained in all day until the evening, he gave orders to the Mère Cliquelle to admit nobody to see him. One person called and enquired particularly to see him in the afternoon—perhaps that was Mademoiselle?”
“It was,” answered Miss Kingscott.
“You were not admitted to see Monsieur?”
“I was not admitted,” she answered, sententiously.
The Chef went on. “So says the Mère Cliquelle. In the evening about seven o’clock she and her husband also both declare that Monsieur et Madame Markworth went out apparently for a walk. Shortly after they went out a big stout English gentleman called and enquired for them; he was told they were out, and said he would return again at nine o’clock. About that time, as near as the Mère Cliquelle and her husband could judge, Markworth came back alone without his wife. Monsieur Cliquelle, who saw him, says he looked pale, and was out of breath, as if from running; and he told him that Madame Markworth was unwell, that he had taken her to see some friends at Lugonville, that he only came back to fetch some things for her, and would bring her home in the morning. Monsieur Markworth after remaining in his apartments perhaps half an hour or more went out, as the husband of the Mère Cliquelle supposed to Lugonville and his wife, taking a small travelling portmanteau with him; nothing further has been seen of Markworth or his wife, or of the fat Englishman who said he would return to the house in question at nine o’clock last night. Does Mademoiselle follow me? She will see that her story is partly confirmed by other circumstances.”
“I told you nearly all that myself, before!” she observed, angrily.
“Certainly, Mademoiselle! But your statement had to be confirmed.”
“And now, what are you going to do?”
“The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!” said the Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fashion of his countrymen.
“And I?”
“Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau of Monsieur le Juge de Paix, to make her deposition. But we must attend to other things first,” saying which the Chef again touched the hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table. The same officer appeared again as before.
“Send Auguste and Dèchemal to me at once.”
Enter two mouchards in plain clothes.
The Chef addressed the one he called Dèchemal first—did anyone ever know the real name of a French spy?—“You went to that house in the Rue Montmartre just now, did you not?”
“Oui, Mon Chef,” he answered monosyllabically.
“Well, go there again. Arrest the Mère Cliquelle and her husband, take them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there.”
“Oui, Mon Chef,”—Exit first mouchard.
“Auguste!”
“Oui; Mon Chef.”
“Go down to the office of the English steam-boats. See what passengers leave this morning. Ask also along the quays if any boatman took any person or persons across to Honfleur, or any place adjoining, last night or this morning. Make enquiries, too, at the hotels and cabarets, if they have received any fresh lodgers since nine o’clock yesterday evening, and whom. Report to me at the Juge de Paix’s in half an hour, or as soon as you can.”
“Oui, Mon Chef.” Exit second mouchard, as stealthily as the other—serpentine in movements both.
“Allons, Mademoiselle,” said the Chef, rising from his chair of office and bowing to Nemesis, “if you will follow me, we will now act our parts. The machinery of justice is already in motion.”
Clara Kingscott accompanied the functionary of the law, civil in every respect, out of his office and into the street. At his notification their steps were first directed up the hill to the spot where she pointed out as having confronted Markworth. The Chef busied himself with taking notes as deftly as any “chiel.” She also indicated the place on the verge where she had seen Susan disappear. They then descended the pathway where she supposed the girl would have fallen. More keen observation and note taking on the part of the Chef. No apparent results however, for not a trace could be seen of anybody.
Suddenly the Chef paused in the act of taking notes with one hand and pulling the ends of his waxed moustache with the fingers of the other. He perceived a piece of rag evidently torn off a dress, clinging to the rocks. It was dark crimson in colour, and was a piece of merino dyed that hue. He took it up triumphantly, and held it forth for Miss Kingscott’s inspection.
“Voilà!” he exclaimed.
The governess did “look there,” and examined the fragment curiously; a glance of recognition flickered on her face, which the Chef at once perceived.
“Ha!” he said, “you see something? You recognise the dress of your compatriot?” with much guttural rolling of his R’s.
“I do!” she answered, “I can swear that Susan Hartshorne wore a dress like that the last time I saw her alive.”
“It is well! We have now some proof, but we must discover what has been done with the body. Mademoiselle will now accompany me to the bureau of the Juge de Paix,” he added, after a reflective pause, filled up with more notation and twirling of the somewhat stiff ends of the “hirsute appendage on his upper lip.”
The Chef leading this time and Miss Kingscott following behind, the two were soon walking rapidly together towards the imposing residence of the official alluded to.