CHAPTER VI
THE TRAGEDY IN DUKE'S MANSIONS
I believe Beverley's exit from this life was a relief to his family. Whether any very strenuous efforts were made to find Henley, I do not know. Possibly the "Classical P's" are interrogated concerning him from time to time, for they are still appearing at well-known watering places, though whether Miss Day is still of the company, I cannot say.
I quickly forgot all about Henley, being absorbed in a new case, which created considerable attention. At the outset it brought me in contact with rather a fascinating character, a man whose personality sticks in your memory.
He was an Italian by birth, cosmopolitan by circumstances, and by nature something of an artist. Fate had ordained that he should be man-servant to an English M.P.; he would have looked more at home in a Florentine studio or in a Tuscany vineyard, but then Fate is responsible for many incongruities.
In well-chosen words, and in dramatic fashion, he drew the picture for me.
"The little dinner was over," he said, using his hands to illustrate his speech. "I had removed everything but the wine. It had not been a merry party, no; it was all business, I think, and serious. When I enter the room to bring this or take that, they pause, say something of no consequence—evidently I am not to hear anything of what they are talking. They talk English, though only my master was English. One of his guests was German, the other a countryman of my own, but not of Tuscany, no, I think of the South. So there was only the wine on the table, and cigars, and the silver box of cigarettes. My master had in his hand a sheet of paper, and the German had taken a map from his pocket, and my countryman was laughing at something which amused him. I can see it all just as it was."
He paused, closed his eyes, as if he would impress for ever on his memory what he had seen.
"And now—this," he said, throwing out his arms. "This, and not two hours afterwards."
This was certainly tragic enough. A shaded electric light hanging over the table left the corners of the room in shadow. The wine, the cigars, the silver cigarette box were still on the table, the smoke was heavy in the atmosphere. A tray contained cigar and cigarette ends. On either side of the table was a chair pushed back as it would be by a man rising from it. At the end was a chair, with arms, also pushed back a little, but it was not empty. In it was a man in evening dress, leaning back, his head fallen a little to one side, his arms hanging loosely. But for the arms of the chair he would have fallen to the floor. He was dead. How he had died was uncertain. A casual examination told nothing, and I had not moved him. I had arrived first and was expecting the doctor every moment. I happened to be in my office when the telephone message came through that Arthur Bridwell, M.P., had been found dead under suspicious circumstances in his flat at Duke's Mansions, Knightsbridge. I went there at once and found a constable in possession. It was barely half-past nine now, and the Italian manservant said he had last seen his master alive at seven o'clock.
"He dined early to-night?" I said.
"Yes, at six. He was going to the House afterwards. It was important, I heard him say so to his guests."
"And you went out at seven?"
"About seven. It is my custom to go for a walk after serving my master," was the answer. "I came back just before nine. I looked into this room, not expecting to find any one here, but to put the wine away and take the glasses, and I find this. I have moved nothing, I have touched nothing. I called to the porter, and he fetched the police, and the policeman used the telephone to call you."
The Italian, whose name was Masini, was the only servant. Duke's Mansions, as you probably know, is a set of flats, varying in accommodation, with a central service. There is a general dining-room, and there are smoking rooms and lounges which all the tenants may use; or meals are served in the various flats from the central kitchen. To-night Mr. Bridwell had had dinner served for three at an early hour in his flat.
The telephone was in the corner of the room, and I was going to it to call up Christopher Quarles, convinced this was a case in which I should need all the assistance I could get, when the telephone bell rang.
"Hallo!" I said. "Who's that?"
"I left my bag on the Chesterfield," came the answer. "Better not send it. Keep it until I come again."
"When?" I asked.
There was a pause.
"Is that you, Arthur?" came the question.
"About the bag," I said, then paused. "Are you there?"
No answer. My voice had evidently betrayed me. The woman at the other end had discovered that she was speaking to the wrong man. I looked at the Chesterfield. There was no bag of any kind upon it now. Then I telephoned to Quarles, telling him there was a mysterious case for him to investigate.
"Had your master any other visitors to-day?" I asked casually, turning to Masini.
"Not to my knowledge. All the afternoon I was out."
"Where were you?"
"Out for my master. I took a parcel to a gentleman at Harrow."
"To whom?"
"It was to a Mr. Fisher. It was a small parcel, a big letter rather, for it was in an envelope that—that size. There was no answer. I just told my master that Mr. Fisher said it was all right."
"So Mr. Bridwell might have had visitors while you were out?"
"Certainly."
"Did he have many visitors as a rule?"
"Sometimes from what you call his constituency."
"Any ladies?"
"Ah, no, signore; my master was of the other kind. He did not like the vote for women."
"And you say you have moved nothing in this room?"
"Nothing at all."
Quarles arrived soon after the doctor had begun to examine the dead man, so I could not then give him the particulars as far as I knew them. It chanced that the doctor, a youngish man, was acquainted with the professor, and was quite ready to listen to his suggestions.
"What do you make of it, Professor?" he asked.
"Is it poison!" said Quarles interrogatively.
The doctor had already examined the glasses on the table.
"I can find no signs of poison," he said. "And two hours ago the man was alive."
"That is according to the servant," I said. Masini was not in the room at this time.
"There is no reason to doubt the statement, is there?" the doctor asked.
"No, but we have not yet corroborated it," I returned.
Quarles was already busy with his lens examining the dead man's shirt front.
"You, have begun trying to find out who killed him before I have pronounced upon the cause of death," said the doctor. "I am inclined to think it is poison, but—"
"He didn't inject a drug, I suppose!" said Quarles.
"Not in his arm, you can look and satisfy yourself on that point. It is just possible that he made an injection through his clothes. It requires a more careful investigation than I can make to-night before I can give a decided opinion."
"Quite so, but you do not mind my looking at the body rather closely? A little thing so often tells a big story, and the little things are sometimes difficult to find once the body has been moved."
The doctor watched Quarles's close investigation with some amusement. The shirt front came in for a lot of attention, and the collar was examined right round to the back of the neck. It was a long time before Quarles stood erect and put the lens in his pocket. I got the impression that he had prolonged the investigation for the purpose of impressing the doctor.
"It would be virulent poison which would kill a man so quickly and while he sat in his chair," Quarles said reflectively.
"It would, indeed," the doctor returned.
"You have formed no idea what the poison was?"
"Not yet."
"No hypodermic syringe has been found, I suppose?" said Quarles, turning to me.
"No."
"You see, doctor," he went on, "if the glasses there show no evidence of poison, and nothing has been moved, and you decide that poison was the cause of death, one might jump to the conclusion that it had been self-administered with a syringe; that is why I ask about a syringe."
"There are such things as tablets," said the doctor, "or the poison may have been in the food he has eaten to-night."
"Exactly," Quarles snapped irritably.
The doctor smiled; he had certainly scored a point and was evidently pleased.
"Besides, Professor, you are a little previous with your questions. This isn't the inquest, you know; we haven't got through the post-mortem yet."
"I generally form an opinion before the inquest," said Quarles as he looked at each glass in turn and stirred the contents of the ash-tray with a match.
"You must often make mistakes," remarked the doctor. "I propose having the body moved to the bedroom; there is nothing else you would like to look at before I do so?"
"Thanks, doctor, nothing," said Quarles with a smile which showed that he had recovered his lost temper.
After the removal of the body the doctor departed, fully convinced, I believe, that the professor was a much overrated person.
"Well, Wigan, shall I tell you what the result of the post-mortem is likely to be?" said Quarles.
"If you can. Remember you have not heard what I have to say yet."
"No sign of poison will be found. No sign of violence will be discovered anywhere upon the body. Sudden heart failure—that will be apparent. The cause obscure. Organs seemingly healthy; no discernible disease. Muscular failure. Death from natural causes. A case interesting to the medical world, perhaps, but with no suggestion of foul play about it. Now let me have your tale."
"But surely you—"
"I assure you I have formed no definite theory yet. How can I until I have your story!"
I repeated what Masini had told me, and I told him about the telephone message.
"It was a woman. You are quite sure it was a woman?"
"Quite certain."
He went to the telephone.
"There is a directory here, I see; did you touch it?"
"No."
"It wasn't open?"
"It was just as you see it now."
He took a piece of paper and made one or two notes.
"I imagine that particular call would be difficult to trace," he said. "Duke's Mansions has a number, and from the office in the building the particular flat required is switched on. There must have been scores of calls during the evening. I don't remember anything particular about Arthur Bridwell's parliamentary career, do you?"
"No, beyond the fact that he is Member for one of the divisions of Sussex."
Quarles looked slowly round the room.
"A bag," he mused; "one of those small chain or leather affairs which women carry, I suppose; a purse in it, a handkerchief, perhaps a letter or two. Bridwell would see it in all probability after the lady had left, and he would—he would put it on a side table or slip it into a drawer out of the way. Shall we just have Masini in and ask him a question or two?"
Instead of questioning the Italian the professor got him to repeat the story as he had told it to me. It was exactly the same account.
"You know nothing about these two visitors?"
"Nothing, signore. I had never seen them before, but I should know them again."
"No names were mentioned in your presence?"
"No."
"Have you ever taken parcels to this Mr. Fisher before?" asked Quarles.
"Never."
"Was the parcel hard; something of metal or leather?"
"Oh, no, signore; it was papers only."
"And you saw Mr. Fisher?"
"Yes."
"What was he like? Was he English?"
Masini said he was, and gave a description which might have fitted any ten men out of the first dozen encountered in the street. He also described the two visitors, but the portraits drawn were not startling.
"What did Mr. Fisher say when you gave him the packet? What were his exact words, I mean?"
"He said: 'All right, tell Mr. Bridwell I shall start at once'."
"How long have you been in Mr. Bridwell's service?"
"Three years," was the answer. "He was traveling in Italy, and I was a waiter in an hotel at Pisa. He liked me and made me an offer, and I became his servant. I have traveled much with him in all parts of Europe."
"Are you sure you never saw either of the men who dined here to-night while you were traveling with your master in Italy?"
"I am sure, but on oath—it would be difficult to take an oath. His friends were of a different kind. My master was writing a book on Italy; he is still at work on it. Ah, signore, I should say he was at work on it. Shall I show you his papers in the other room?"
The voluminous manuscripts proved that Bridwell was engaged upon a monumental work dealing with the Italian Renaissance.
"Most interesting," said Quarles. "I should like to sit down at once and spend hours with it. This is valuable. Mr. Bridwell's business man ought to take charge of these papers. Do you know the name of his solicitors?"
"Mr. Standish, in Hanover Square," Masini answered.
The Italian declared he knew nothing about a lady's bag, and we searched for it in vain. Then Quarles and I interviewed the hall porter. He knew that Bridwell had had two gentlemen to dine with him that evening, but he had not taken any particular notice of them. They left soon after eight, he said. He corroborated the Italian's statement that he had gone out at seven, and had returned just before nine.
"You didn't see a lady go up to Mr. Bridwell's flat?"
"No, sir, but I was not in the entrance hall at the time from eight to nine. It is usually a slack time with me."
"I did not mean then," said Quarles. "I meant at any time during the day."
"I do not remember a lady calling on Mr. Bridwell at anytime."
It was early morning when the professor and I left Duke's Mansions.
"There are two obvious things to do, Wigan," said Quarles. "First, we must know something of this man Fisher. I think you should go to Harrow as soon as possible. Then we want to know something of Bridwell's parliamentary record. You might get an interview with one or two of his colleagues, and ask their opinion of him as a public man and as a private individual. Come to Chelsea to-night. You will probably have raked up a good many facts by then, and we may find the right road to pursue. I will also make an inquiry or two. At present I confess to being puzzled."
"You told the doctor that you usually formed an opinion before the inquest," I reminded him with a smile.
"And he immediately talked of tablets and poisoned foods, and looked horribly superior. He is a young man, and I knew his father, who once did me a good turn. I shall have to repay the debt and prevent the son making a fool of himself."
"You have no doubt that it was murder?" I asked.
"Why, you told me it was yourself when you rang me up on the 'phone," he answered.
As had often happened before, Quarles's manner of shutting me up annoyed me, but when you have to deal with an eccentric it is no use expecting him to travel in an ordinary orbit.
To obviate unnecessary repetition I shall give the result of my inquiries as I related it to Quarles and Zena when I went to Chelsea that night.
"You look satisfied and successful, Wigan," said the professor.
"I am both," I answered. "Whether we shall catch the actual criminal is another matter. We may at least lay our hands on one of his accomplices. Will it surprise you to learn that I am having the Italian Masini carefully watched?"
"It is a wise precaution."
"I am inclined to adopt the method you do sometimes, professor, and begin at the end," I went on. "First, as regards Mr. Bridwell's parliamentary friends and acquaintances, and his political career. Although he is a Member whose voice is not often heard in the House, his intimate knowledge of Europe, its general history and politics, gives him importance. He is constantly consulted by the Government, and his opinion is always considered valuable. His colleagues are unanimous on this point, and generally he seems to be respected."
"But the respect is not unanimous, you mean?"
"It is not."
"And in his private life?"
"I have not found any one who was intimate with him in private."
"I see; kept politics and his private life entirely separate," said Quarles.
"I am not prepared to say that," I answered. "I have not had time to hunt up anybody on the private side yet, and I do not think it will be necessary. One of the men I saw was Reynolds, of the War Office. I was advised to go and see him, as he was supposed to know Bridwell well. He did not have much good to say about him. It seems that for some time past there has been a leakage of War Office secrets, that in some unaccountable way foreign powers have obtained information, and suspicion has pointed to Bridwell being concerned. So far as I can gather, nothing has been actually proved against him, and I pointed out that his intimate knowledge of European affairs made him rather a marked man. Reynolds, however, was very definite in his opinion, spoke as if he possessed knowledge which he could not impart to me. He was not surprised to hear of Bridwell's death. When I spoke of murder he was rather skeptical, remarked that in that case Bridwell must have been double-dealing with his paymasters, and had paid the penalty; but it was far more likely to be suicide, he thought, and said it was the best thing, the only thing, in fact, which Bridwell could do. I have no doubt Reynolds knew that some action had been taken which could not fail to show Bridwell that he was suspected."
Quarles nodded, evidently much interested.
"This view receives confirmation from the movements of Fisher," I went on. "He left Harrow last night—must have gone almost directly after he received the packet. He only occupies furnished rooms in Harrow, and the landlady tells me that during the year he has had them he has often been away for days and even weeks at a time. Announcing his return, or giving her some instructions, she has received letters from him from Berlin, Madrid, Rome, and Vienna. That is significant, Professor."
"It is. Did she happen to mention any places in England from which she has heard from him?"
"Yes, several—York, Oakham, Oxford, and also from Edinburgh."
"She did not mention any place in Sussex?"
"No, I think not."
"It would appear then that Fisher could have had nothing to do with Bridwell's legitimate political business or he would certainly have spent some time in the constituency. Well, Wigan, what do you make of the case?"
"I think it is fairly clear in its main points," I answered. "Bridwell has been selling information to foreign powers, and would naturally deal with the highest bidders. Fisher is a foreign agent, and having received valuable information yesterday, left England with it at once. The two men who came to dinner represented some other power, came no doubt by appointment to receive information, but probably knew that their host was dealing doubly with them. Bridwell's commercial ingenuity in the matter has been his undoing, hence his death. Whether Masini was attached to Fisher, or to the schemes of the other two, it is impossible to say, but I believe he was an accomplice on one side or the other."
"I built up a similar theory, Wigan; not with the completeness you have, of course, because I knew nothing of the suspicions concerning Bridwell, but when I had made it as complete as I could, I began to pick it to pieces. It fell into ruins rather easily, and you do not help me to build it again."
"It seems to me the main facts cannot be got away from," I said.
"Zena assisted in the ruining process by saying, 'Cherchez la femme.'"
"You see, Murray, you do not account for the woman and the bag," said Zena.
"They are extraneous incidents belonging to his private life. It is remarkable how distinct he kept his private from his political life."
"Very remarkable," Quarles said. "Yet the woman is also a fact, and she seems to me of the utmost importance. We must account for her, and your explanation brings me no sense of satisfaction. Let me tell you how I began to demolish my theory, Wigan. I started with Masini. Now, he seemed honest to me. He was very ready to repeat Fisher's exact words, and the very fact of my asking for them would have made him suspicious and put him on his guard had he possessed any guilty knowledge, whether it concerned Fisher or the two visitors. Further, had he been in league with the two visitors and knew they had murdered his master, he would hardly have been so ready to block suspicion in other directions. He would not have said his master's visitors came chiefly from his constituency, and he certainly would not have scouted the idea of a woman caller. He would have welcomed such a suggestion, fully appreciating how valuable a woman would be in starting an inquiry on a false trail."
"But you mustn't attribute to an Italian servant all the subtlety you might use under similar circumstances," I said.
"I am showing you how I picked my own theory to pieces," he answered. "I next considered the visitors. I assumed they were there for an unlawful purpose—your facts go to show that my assumption was right—and I asked myself why and how they had murdered Bridwell. If he were a schemer with them, there would be no need to murder him, no need to silence him; were he to talk afterwards he would only injure himself, not them. If they were there to force papers from their host, it seems unlikely that he would be so unsuspicious of them that he would have asked them to dinner, and, even if he were, a moment must have come during, or after dinner, when they must have shown their hand. A man who deals in this kind of commerce does not easily trust people. Bridwell's suspicions would certainly have been aroused; he would in some measure, at any rate, have been prepared, and we should have found some signs of a struggle."
"I admit the soundness of the argument," I answered. "For my part I incline to Reynolds' opinion that it was suicide after all."
"Oh, no; it was murder," said Quarles.
"A tablet—" I began.
"I know it was murder," returned the professor sharply, "and the manner of it has presented the chief difficulty I have found in demolishing my theory altogether. Bridwell was poisoned by an injection. The hypodermic needle was inserted under the hair at the back of the head, here in the soft part of the base of the skull, the hair concealing the small mark it made. I believe the secret of the poison used is forgotten, but you may read of it in books relating to the Vatican of old days and concerning the old families of Italy. I might mention the Borgias particularly. So you see my difficulty, Wigan. The crime literally reeked of Italy, and we had two Italians amongst our dramatis personæ."
"A significant fact," I said.
"Of course I am letting the doctor know of my discovery; that is the good turn I shall do him. He will be considered quite smart over this affair. Now consider this point. It would surely have been very difficult, once the host's suspicions had been aroused, to make the injection without a struggle on the victim's part."
"No suspicion may have been aroused," I said. "Masini has told us of a map. The murderer might have been leaning over his victim examining it."
"That is true. You pick out the weak point," said Quarles.
"Even then there would have been some sort of struggle, surely," said
Zena. "The poison can hardly act instantaneously."
"Practically it does," Quarles answered. "I have read of it, of the different methods of its administration, and of its results, and no doubt any one acquainted with old Italian manuscripts would be able to get more detailed information than I have; but it produces almost instant paralysis, acts on the nerve centers, and stops the heart's action, leaving no trace behind it. What straggle there was could be overcome by the pressure of a man's hand upon the victim's chest, to keep him from rising from his seat, for instance. I found signs of such a detaining hand on Bridwell's shirt front. Of course, Wigan, while pulling my theory to pieces I knew nothing of your facts about Bridwell, but now that I do know them, the theory is not saved from ruin. Have you ever watched trains rushing through a great junction—say Clapham Junction?"
"Yes; often."
"And haven't you noticed how the lines, crossing and recrossing one another, seem to be alive, seem to be trying to draw the train to run upon them, to deviate it from its course, until you almost wonder whether the train will be able to keep its right road? There seems to be great confusion; yet we know this is not so. We know those many lines are mathematically correct. If you want to keep your eye on the main line, you mustn't be misled by the lines which touch and cross it, which seem to belong to it, until they suddenly sweep off in another direction. In this Bridwell affair we have to be careful not to be misled by cross lines, and I grant there are many. You say the woman is an extraneous episode; but is she? She left a bag, which is not to be found. Had Masini known of her existence I do not think he would have denied all knowledge of her, for the reasons I have already given, and I argue that her visit to the flat was timed to occur when the servant was out, so that he should know nothing about her. The hall porter knew nothing; about a lady visiting the flat at any time, so we must assume the woman was not a constant visitor. Moreover, we know that she had something to hide, some secret, or she would not have ceased speaking directly she found she was addressing a stranger. She probably belonged to Bridwell's private life. Now Zena says, 'Cherchez la femme,' but there is no need to look for her; she forces herself upon our notice. We know that Bridwell was alive at seven o'clock: we know his visitors did not leave him until eight. It is hardly conceivable that the woman came to the flat after that to commit a crime, impossible to believe that she would leave her bag there to be evidence against her, and then telephone about it to a man she knew to be dead. We may dismiss from our minds any idea that she committed murder."
"I can see a possibility of immense subtlety on her part," I said.
"That is to be deceived by a crossing line, which ought not to deceive you, which leads only into a siding," said Quarles. "We have to remember that there was a bag, and that it has disappeared"
"She may have made a mistake and left it somewhere else," said Zena.
"I think we may be sure it was left there, because she states distinctly where it was left—on the Chesterfield. There was something in her mind to fix the place. Moreover, she says, 'Better not send it.' Very significant, that. Bridwell is to keep it until she comes again. Therefore there was some person she would not have know of her visit to the flat, some person who might possibly find out if the bag were returned. I suggest that person was her husband."
"I think you have struck the side line," I remarked.
"Let me continue to build on the private life of Mr. Bridwell," Quarles went on. "I find a foundation in his literary work—no mean work, absorbing a great part of his life. There would be constant need to refer to libraries, to pictures and other works of art, some of them in private collections. A great deal of this work could be done by an assistant. Shall we say the name of this assistant was Fisher? I observe you do not think it likely."
"I certainly do not."
"But a secret agent engaged in stealing Government information would hardly advertise his movements to his landlady; he would surely have been more secret than that. On the other hand, the places Fisher mentions have famous libraries and picture galleries. What would a secret agent want at Oxford? A man bent on research would be going to the Bodleian. Country seats with famous works of art in their galleries would account for Fisher's presence in other places mentioned by the landlady."
"Is it not strange the Italian servant knew nothing about this wonderful assistant?" I said.
"No doubt Bridwell usually saw him in town, at his club, or elsewhere, or communicated with him through the post; but on this occasion Masini was purposely sent to be out of the way when the lady came. We know there was some need for secrecy, and I suggest that Bridwell was in love with another man's wife. In passing, I would point out that the answer Fisher sent back bears out my idea of the assistantship."
"It may," I answered.
"Now Bridwell's work on the Italian Renaissance no doubt has much information concerning the Vatican, and much to say about the prominent Italian families. As a student, Bridwell would be likely to know all about the romances of poisoned bouquets, gloves, prepared sweetmeats, and the rest of the diabolical cunning which existed."
"But we know that he didn't kill himself," I said.
"Exactly. We have to find some one who shared the knowledge with him. Let me go back to the missing bag for a moment. Since it was on the Chesterfield, Bridwell must have seen it. What would he do with it? What would you have done with it, Wigan? I think you would have just put it on a side table or in a handy drawer; yet it had gone. The fact of its disappearance stuck in my mind from the first, although I did not at once see the full significance of it. On the cover of the telephone directory there were two or three numbers scribbled in pencil; I made a note of them with the idea that the woman might be traced that way. However, arguing that a man would be likely to know the telephone number of a woman he was in love with, and have no necessity to write it down, I took no trouble in this direction. I went to see Bridwell's solicitor instead. I led him to suppose that I was interested in the study of the Renaissance, and asked him if Bridwell had had a companion during his wanderings in Italy three years ago. For part of the time, at any rate, he had—a partner rather than a companion, a man named Ormrod—Peter Ormrod. I knew the name at once, because Ormrod has written many articles for the reviews, and all of them have been about Italy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Ormrod's telephone number is 0054 Croydon, and he is married, and I think it was his wife who spoke to you over the telephone. My theory is that Ormrod had discovered that his wife was in love with his friend, and used his knowledge of this poisoning method, which could not be detected, remember, to be revenged. I think he came to the flat that evening after Bridwell's guests had gone, perhaps he expected to find his wife there. I do not think he quarreled with his false friend. I think he showed great friendliness, talked a little of the past perhaps; and then, in examining some book or paper, leant over his friend as he sat at the table, and the deed was done. If the bag was lying on a side table he saw it and took it away; if it was lying in a drawer no doubt he found it while he was looking for letters from his wife to Bridwell, or for her photograph—anything which would connect her name with Bridwell. Somehow, he found it and took it away. There is no one else who would be likely to take it."
This was the solution. It was proved beyond all doubt that Bridwell had been dealing in Government secrets, and changes had to be made to ensure that the information he had sold should be useless to the purchasers; but this crime had nothing to do with his murder. The dénouement was rather startling. When we went to Ormrod's house next day we found that he had gone. His wife, after fencing with us a little, was perfectly open. She had arranged to go away with Bridwell and had visited him that day to talk over final arrangements. It was the first time she had ever been to the flat. Yesterday, a telegram had come for her husband. He opened it in her presence, and told her he was going away at once, and for good. Then he gave her the bag, saying he had found it in Bridwell's rooms on the previous evening. Bridwell was dead, that was why he was going away.
The solicitor Standish was a friend of Ormrod's, and after Quarles had gone had suddenly realized what the inquiry might mean, so had telegraphed a warning.