CHAPTER XIII
THE AFFAIR OF THE JEWELED CHALICE
The yellow taxi must still have been a topic of conversation with the public when Quarles and I became involved in two cases which tried us both considerably, and in which we ran great risk.
The reading of detective tales imagined by comfortable authors who show colossal ignorance regarding my profession, has often amused, me. Pistols usually begin the string of impossibilities and a convenient pair of handcuffs is at the end. These are the tales of fiction, not of real life as a rule, yet in the two cases I speak of the reality was certainly as strange as fiction and very nearly as dangerous.
There had been a series of hotel robberies in London, so cleverly conceived and carried out that Scotland Yard was altogether at fault. I had had nothing to do with this investigation, being engaged on other cases, but one Friday morning my chief told me I must lend my colleagues a hand. Within an hour of our interview I was making myself conversant with what had been done, and on Friday afternoon and during the whole of Saturday I was busy with the affair.
On Monday morning, however, I was called to the chief's room and told to devote myself to the recovery of a jeweled chalice which had been stolen from St. Ethelburga's Church, Bloomsbury, on the previous day. Since the vicar, the Rev. John Harding, was an intimate friend of the chief's, there was a sort of compliment in my being taken from important work to attend to this case, but I admit I did not start on this new job with any great enthusiasm, and was rather annoyed at being switched off the hotels, as it were, and put on to the church.
I went with the vicar to Bloomsbury in a taxi, and gathered information on the way. The chalice had been given to the church about eighteen months ago by an old lady, a Miss Morrison, who had since died. She had possessed some remarkable jewelry, diamonds and pearls, and these had been set in the chalice which she had presented to St. Ethelburga's, where she had attended regularly for six or seven years. The chalice was insured for £5,000, but this was undoubtedly below its actual value. It was not used constantly, only on the great festivals, and on certain Saints' days specified by Miss Morrison when she made the gift. The previous day happened to be one of these Saints' days, and the chalice had been used at the early celebration. The vicar had put it back into its case and locked it in the safe himself. The key of the safe had not been out of his possession since, yet this morning the safe was found open and the chalice gone.
"You have no suspicion?" I asked.
"None," he answered, but not until after a momentary pause.
"You do not answer very decidedly, Mr. Harding."
"I do, yes, I do really. In a catastrophe of this kind all kinds of ideas come into the mind, very absurd ones some of them," and he laughed a little uneasily.
"It would be wise to tell me even the absurd ones," I said.
"Very well, but perhaps you had better examine the vestry and the safe first," he said as the taxi stopped.
I found the vestry in charge of a constable, and as we entered a clergyman joined us. The vicar introduced me to the Rev. Cyril Hayes, his curate. The vestry and the safe were just as they had been found that morning; nothing had been moved. Yesterday had been wet, and the flooring of wooden blocks in the choir vestry bore witness to the fact that neither men nor boys had wiped their feet too thoroughly. Even in the clergy vestry, which was carpeted, there were boot marks, so it seemed probable that the weather had rendered abortive any clue there might have been in this direction. There were two safes in the clergy vestry, a large one standing out in the room and a small one built into the wall. It was in the latter that the chalice had been kept, and the door was open. Apparently two or three blows had been struck at the wall with a chisel, or some sharp instrument, and there were several scratches on the edge of the door and around the keyhole; but it was quite evident to me that the safe had been opened with a key. I asked the vicar for his key, but it would not turn in the lock.
"Was anything besides the chalice stolen?" I asked.
"No," the vicar returned. "As you see, there is another chalice and two patens in the safe, one paten of gold, but it was not taken, not even touched, I fancy. It was the chalice and the chalice only that the thieves came for."
"It seems foolish to keep such a valuable chalice in the vestry," I said.
"It is kept in the bank as a rule," the vicar answered. "I got it from the bank on Saturday and it would have gone back this morning. Of course it was not possible to keep such a gift a secret. The church papers had paragraphs about it, which some of the daily papers copied."
"Every gang in London knew of its existence then," I said.
"True," said the curate, "and you might go further than that and remember that much of our work here lies in some very poor and some very disreputable neighborhoods."
"It does," said the vicar. "Amongst our parishioners we must have many thieves, I am afraid."
"There are thieves and thieves," said Mr. Hayes, "and I fancy there are many who would not meddle with the sacred vessels of a church. Superstition perhaps, but a powerful deterrent."
The vicar shook his head, evidently not agreeing with this opinion.
"Probably I have had more to do with thieves than you have, vicar," he said with a smile, and turning to me he went on: "I am very interested in a hooligans' club we have. They are a rough lot I can assure you. Many of them have seen the inside of a jail, some of them will again possibly; but there's a leaven of good stuff in them. Saints have been reared from such poor material before now."
"When do you meet?" I asked.
"Mondays and Thursdays."
"To-night. I'll look in to-night."
"But—"
"I may find the solution to the theft at your club," I said. The suggestion seemed to annoy him.
That the safe had been opened with a key and not broken open indicated that some one connected with the church was directly or indirectly responsible for the theft, and this idea was strengthened by the fact that it was impossible to tell how the robbers had entered the church. The verger had come in as usual that morning by the north door which he had found locked, and it was subsequently ascertained that all the other doors were locked. Some of you may know the church and remember that it is rather dark, its windows few and high up; indeed, only by one of the baptistry windows could an entry possibly have been effected, and I could find nothing to suggest that this method had been used. A few keen questions did not cause the verger to contradict himself in the slightest particular, and his fifteen years' service seemed to exonerate him.
"Is it possible that you left the door unlocked last night by mistake?"
I queried.
"I should have found it open this morning," he said, as if he were surprised at my overlooking this point.
I had not overlooked it. I was wondering whether he had found it open and was concealing the fact, fearing dismissal for his carelessness.
A little later I had a private talk with the vicar.
"I think you had better tell me your suspicions," I said.
"There is nothing which amounts to a suspicion," he answered reluctantly. "It does not take a skilled detective, Mr. Wigan, to see that some one connected with the church must have had a hand in the affair. It is not the work of ordinary thieves. Therefore, as I said, absurd ideas will come. It happens that my curate, Mr. Hayes, is much in debt, and has had recourse to money lenders. He has said nothing to me about it; indeed, it was only last week that I became aware of the fact, and I decided not to speak to him until after Sunday. I was going to talk to him this morning. It was a painful duty, and naturally—"
"Naturally you cannot help thinking about it in connection with the chalice."
The vicar nodded as though words seemed to him too definite in such a delicate matter. That the two things had become connected in his mind evidently distressed him, and he was soon talking in the kindest manner about his curate, anxious to impress me with the excellent work Mr. Hayes was doing in the parish.
"The hooligans' club, for instance?" I said.
"That amongst other things," he answered.
"Miss Morrison was one of your rich parishioners, I presume."
"She was not a parishioner at all," said Mr. Harding. "She lived at Walham Green. She came to St. Ethelburga's because she liked our services, drove here in a hired fly every Sunday morning. I visited her, at her request, when she was ill some three years ago, but I really knew little of her. To be quite truthful I thought her somewhat eccentric, and never supposed she was wealthy. The presentation of the chalice came as a great surprise."
"Have you a photograph of the chalice?"
"No; but Miss Morrison's niece might have. I know Miss Morrison had one taken, a copy of it appeared in the church papers. The niece, Miss Belford, continues to live at Walham Green—No. 3 Cedars Road."
"Does she attend the church?" I asked, as I made a note of the address.
"Oh, yes. She used to come with her aunt, and since Miss Morrison's death she has taken up some parish work. I know her much better than I did her aunt."
"Of course she has not yet heard of the theft?"
"No, I have not talked about it to any one. I thought silence was the best policy."
I quite agreed with him and suggested he should keep the theft a secret for the next few hours.
With Mr. Hayes and his hooligans' club at the back of my mind, I made one or two enquiries in the neighborhood, and then started for Walham Green. On my way to the Underground I met Percival, one of the men engaged upon the hotel robberies, and stood talking to him for a few minutes. He was rather keen on a clue he had got hold of, but I was now sufficiently interested in the stolen chalice not to be envious.
No. 3 Cedars Road was quite a small house—forty pounds a year perhaps, and Miss Belford was a more attractive person than I expected to find. I don't know why, but I had expected to see a typical old maid; instead of which I was met by a young woman who had considerable claims to beauty. She opened the door herself, her maid being out, and was astonished when I said the Vicar of St. Ethelburga's had sent me.
She asked me in to a small but tastefully appointed dining-room, and when I told her my news, seemed more concerned on her aunt's account than at the loss of the chalice.
"Poor auntie!" she exclaimed. "Whilst she had the jewels she was always afraid some one would steal them, and now—now some one has."
"Mr. Harding thought you would have a photograph of the chalice," I said.
"I am sorry, I haven't. There were two or three, but I don't know what auntie did with them. She was a dear, but had funny little secretive ways."
"Mr. Harding led me to suppose she was eccentric," I said. "It is often the way with wealthy old ladies."
"Wealthy!" she laughed. "She left me all she had, and I shall not be able to afford to go on living here."
"How came she to give the jewels to the church then?"
"I hardly know, and I will confess that I was a little disappointed when she did so. Does that sound very ungrateful in view of the fact that she left me everything else!"
"No. It is natural under the circumstances."
"She was very fond of me, but as I have said, she was secretive and she certainly did not give me her entire confidence. I fancy the jewels were connected with some romance in her past life, and for that reason she did not wish any one else to possess them."
"You can't give me any idea of the nature of this romance, Miss Belford?"
"No."
"It might possibly help me."
"There is one thing I could do," she said. "My aunt had a very old friend living in Yorkshire. She would be likely to know, and under the circumstances might tell. If you think it would be any use I will write to her."
"I wish you would."
"If a romance in my aunt's life had something to do with the robbery, it seems strange that the jewels have been safe so long. They were always kept in the house. I should have thought it would have been easier to steal them from here than from the church."
"I do not think we can be sure of that," I said.
"Besides, the jewels have been quite safe at St. Ethelburga's for eighteen months," she added.
"That is a point I admit. I understand that you work in Mr. Harding's parish, so you know Mr. Hayes, of course."
"I have not been brought much in contact with him. I have sung once or twice at his hooligan club entertainments. He has made a great success of the club."
"Regenerating ruffians and drafting them into church work, eh?"
"I believe he has had great influence with them."
"I am going to visit that club to-night."
"You will find he is doing a great work. You will—surely you are not thinking—"
"That reformation may be only skin deep? I am, Miss Belford. The daily environment of these fellows makes it easy for them to slip back into their old ways."
From Walham Green I went to Chelsea. I wanted to see Zena Quarles, and there was nothing more to be done in the chalice case until I had visited the hooligan club. Not for a moment would I appear to sneer at the regenerating work which may be accomplished by such institutions, but experience has taught me that it is often the cakes and ale, so to speak, which attract, while character remains unchanged, or at the best very thinly veneered. There are always exceptions, of course. It is difficult for the uninitiated to realize that men go in for crime as a means of livelihood, and are trained to become expert even as others are trained to succeed in respectable professions. Many grades go to make up a successful gang, and I had great hope of recognizing some youngster's face at the club which would give me a clue to the gang which had worked this robbery.
"You're the very man I was thinking about," said Quarles when I was shown into the dining-room. "You have come to tell me that you are on these hotel robberies. Sit down, Wigan. How goes the inquiry?"
"You are wrong, professor. I was on the job for a day and a half, but
I'm off it again. I am investigating the theft of a jeweled chalice."
"Left in a cheap safe in an insecure vestry, I suppose," he said in a tone of disgust. "Serves them right. Such things should be kept in a bank."
I explained that it was only kept in the vestry safe until it could be returned to the bank, but the fact did not seem to impress him.
He made no suggestion that we should adjourn to that empty room, where we had discussed so many cases. I told him the story, although I was not seeking his help, and he was not interested enough to ask a single question when I had finished. He only wanted to discuss the hotel robberies.
"I am going to that club this evening," I went on.
"The fact doesn't interest me," he returned snappishly.
"Fortunately I didn't come for your help; I wanted to see Zena."
"She's out and won't be home until late."
"And your temper's gone out, too, eh, Professor?"
"What do you mean?"
"That you are simply lusting to be on the warpath," I laughed. "It might do you good to come and see the hooligans with me to-night. Besides, if we could settle the chalice case promptly we might be investigating the hotel robberies before the end of the week."
This suggestion clinched the matter. He came, believing possibly that I congratulated myself upon having drawn him into the affair, which was not a fact. I was glad of his company, but I did not want his help.
Knowing something of such places, this hooligans' club astonished me. The raw material was rough enough, but Mr. Hayes had worked wonders with it. His personality had made no particular impression on me that morning, but his achievement proved him a man of force and character. Quarles was evidently interested in him and his work. If what the vicar had told me about his curate had left even a faint speculation regarding his integrity in my mind, it was dissipated.
Visitors to the club were not an infrequent occurrence, Mr. Hayes told us. He was rather proud that the institution had served as a type on which to form others.
"There mustn't be too much religion," he said. "The flotsam and jetsam of life have to learn to be men and women first. Some of them are learning to be men here."
While I listened to him I had been eagerly scanning the faces before me. There was not one I recognized. I wandered about the room, feigning interest in the game of bagatelle which was going forward with somewhat noisy excitement, and stood by chess and draught players for a few moments to study their faces closely. I looked keenly at each new arrival, but my clue was yet to seek.
Suddenly a young fellow entered, rather smarter than most of them, and I recognized him at once. Possibly the hooligans' club had been his salvation, but he had been bred amongst thieves, thieves I knew and had handled at times.
"I began to think you weren't coming to-night, Squires."
"Just looked in to say I can't come, sir," was the answer. "Got a chance of a place, sir, and going to look after it."
"That's right. Good luck to you. You can refer to me, you know."
"Thank you, sir."
With a careless word to two or three of the youths as he passed down the room, Squires sauntered out.
"That's our man," I whispered to Quarles, and without waiting to take leave of Mr. Hayes, I hastened to the door. Squires was going slowly down the street, no evidence of alarm about him, no desire apparently to lose himself in the crowd. He had not got very far when Quarles joined me, keen now there was a trail to follow.
"I know the gang he used to be friendly with," I said as we began to follow, "although I've got nothing definite against this youngster. It was this gang, I believe, that worked the series of frauds on jewelers three years ago, although we never brought it home to them. Just the men to deal with a jeweled chalice, eh, professor? I expect young Squires recognized me and guesses I am after it."
Our object was to track young Squires to his destination. Since he was connected with St. Ethelburga's through the hooligan club, it was quite likely he had had a direct hand in the robbery, but it was certain others were the prime movers, and I guessed he was on the way to warn them that I was on the trail.
At the corner of a street he stopped to speak to a man and a woman, and we were obliged to interest ourselves in a convenient shop door. He stood at the corner talking for at least ten minutes. Quarles thought he was having words with the woman, but it could not have been much of a quarrel for none of the passersby took any particular notice of them. Presently the man and woman crossed the street arm in arm, and Squires sauntered round the corner. We were quickly at the corner, afraid of losing sight of him. He was still in sight, still walking slowly. Once he turned to light a cigarette, and after that he increased his pace a little.
"It's evident he lied when he said he was going to look for a job,"
I remarked.
"But it's not so evident that one of us ought not to have followed the man and woman," said Quarles. "They may have gone to do the warning."
"I think not," I answered. "If you have noted our direction you will find we have traveled a pretty circuitous route. He'll wait until he thinks he is safe from pursuit, and then take a bee line for his destination."
As if he would prove my words Squires mended his pace, swinging down one street and up another as if he had suddenly become definite. At corners he gained on us, I think he must have run the moment he was out of sight, and in one short street we were only just in time to see him disappear round a corner.
"I'm going to give this up soon, Wigan," said Quarles as we hurried in pursuit. "I don't care how many jewels the chalice had in it."
We were round the corner. Squires had disappeared, but we could hear running feet in the distance.
"That settles it," said Quarles, coming to halt a dozen yards from the corner. "Go on if you like, Wigan, but—"
I heard no more. Something struck me, enveloped me, and there was an end. I am not very sure when a new beginning happened. Perhaps it is only an after consideration which makes me remember a whirring sound in my ears, and a certain swinging motion, and a murmur which was soothing. I am quite sure of the pain which subsequently came to me. My head was big with it, my limbs twisted with it. I was conscious of nothing else for a period to which I cannot place limits. Then there was fire in my throat.
I was sitting in the angle of a wall, on the floor; at a little distance from me was a light which presently resolved itself into a candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. There were moving shadows—I saw them, I think, before I was conscious of the man and woman who made them. The man had just poured brandy down my throat, the girl, with her arms akimbo, watched him.
"He'll do now," said the man.
"Can't see why we take such trouble to keep death away," was the woman's answer.
"Are you in love with the hangman?"
The girl laughed, caught up the bottle, making the shadows dance like a delirium, then I slipped back into darkness again.
All kinds of things came into my mind after that, disordered dreams, and then I heard my name.
"Wigan! Wigan!"
I was still sitting in an angle of a wall, trussed like a fowl, but I was awake.
"Is that you, Professor?"
"No more hooligan clubs, Wigan."
"What happened?"
"I remember turning a corner," Quarles answered, "and I woke up here. We were sandbagged, or something of the kind, and serves us right. If we wanted to follow any one we ought to have followed the man and woman. Can you drag yourself over to this corner? We can talk quietly then."
It was rather a painful and lengthy operation, but I fancy the effort did me good. My brain was clearer, I began to grip things again.
"Where are we?" I said.
"Locked in a cellar, but where I do not know. We're lucky to be no worse off, and probably I'm especially lucky in not having been sandbagged by the man who dealt with you. He would probably have closed my account, for he must have hit you a tremendous blow. I had come to myself before the man and woman brought you brandy. I just moved to show I wasn't dead and watched them."
"You'll know them again."
"They both wore masks. About this chalice, Wigan."
"No doubt we've hurried it into the melting pot," I returned.
"I've been half asleep since our friend left us, but I've done some thinking, too. Reminded of my empty room by this cellar, I expect. There are one or two curious points about this chalice."
"Are they worth considering—now?"
"I think so. It will serve to pass the time. I didn't take any interest in your story at the time, but I think I remember the facts. You must correct me if I go wrong. First, then, we may take it as certain that the church was not broken into in an ordinary way. We assume, therefore, that some one connected with the church had a hand in the robbery. You satisfied yourself that an entry was not effected by the only possible window, we therefore ask who had keys of the church. The answer would appear to be the vicar, the verger, and possibly, even probably, Mr. Hayes. Had keys been in the possession of any other person for any purpose, either temporarily or otherwise, the vicar—I am assuming his integrity—would have mentioned it. Now the vicar does not suggest that he has any suspicion against the verger, nor do you appear to have entertained any, but Mr. Harding does suggest a suspicion of his curate by mentioning his debts and his dealings with money lenders."
"It was under pressure. I am convinced he has no real suspicion."
"At any rate his story influenced you. You made some inquiries concerning Mr. Hayes. That is an important point. Had you not heard at the same time of this hooligan club, you would probably have made further inquiries about the curate. I think you missed something."
"Oh, nonsense. You've seen the man and must appreciate—"
"His worth," said Quarles. "I do, but he leads to speculation. Let us consider the safe for a moment. There were marks from a blow of the chisel on the wall, scratches on the safe door, and by the keyhole, but you are satisfied that the safe was opened with a key, yet the vicar's key will not turn the lock. Why should an expert thief trouble to make these marks or to suggest that the safe had been broken open, even to the extent of jamming the lock in some way? The only possible explanation would be that the expert wished to leave the impression than an amateur had been at work. I can see no reason why he should wish to do so, and at any rate he failed. You were not deceived; you looked for the expert at once."
"And the hunter has been trapped. We were hotter on the trail than I imagined."
"It is a warning to me to keep out of cases in which I feel no interest," said Quarles. "Still, circumstances have aroused my interest now. There is no doubt, Wigan, that there was every reason to look for an amateur in this business, and in spite of the hooligan club, you seem to have been half conscious of this fact. You would have been glad to know what the romance connected with the jewels was. Not idle curiosity, I take it, but a grasping for a clue in that direction. Miss Belford cannot help you beyond writing to her aunt's old friend in Yorkshire, yet had it not been for the hooligans' club, I fancy you would have followed this trail more keenly. According to Miss Belford, apart from the jewels, her aunt had not left sufficient to enable the niece to go on living in Cedars Road, yet while Miss Morrison was alive it was sufficient, apparently. Of course the niece may have more expensive tastes, but under the circumstances it was rather a curious statement. She believes that a past romance was the reason why the jewels were left to the church, and she admits that she was disappointed they were not left to her. It seems possible, doesn't it, that at one time she hoped to have them after her aunt's death? That would mean there was no valid reason why she shouldn't, and I think you might reasonably have speculated that she knew more of the romance than she admitted."
"You wouldn't have thought so if you had talked with her."
"Possibly not," returned Quarles. "I started handicapped in this case, I was not interested in it; Zena was not at hand to ask one of her absurd questions, which have so often put me on the right road. The road we have traveled has landed us here, and I have been thinking of another road we might have traveled. We will forget the hooligans' club. We start with the assumption that the robbery was the work of an amateur, we have ample reasons for thinking so. We do not suspect the vicar, we are inclined to exonerate the verger, and we finally decide that Mr. Hayes is innocent. We are met with a difficulty at once. How was the church entered? We may assume that some person in the Sunday evening congregation remained hidden in the church, committed the burglary, opening the safe with a duplicate key, marking the wall and the door, and giving a wrench to the lock to suggest ordinary thieves. Had it not been for the hooligan club, these efforts to mislead would not have been very successful, I fancy. They show that the amateur had small knowledge of the ways of experts. The thief, having secured the chalice, is still locked in the church. How to escape? It is a case of an all night vigil. When the verger arrives on Monday morning and passes through the church towards the vestry, the thief slips out. Now it is obvious that to make this possible the thief must have known a great deal about the church and its working, must have come in contact with the vicar constantly, or it would have been impossible to get an impression of the safe key. We therefore look amongst the church workers for the thief."
"Your deductions would be more interesting were we not lying trussed in this cellar," I said. "I am trying to wriggle some of these knots loose."
"That's right," said Quarles, "When you are free you can undo me. My dear Wigan, it is the fact that we are in this cellar which makes these deductions so interesting. The chalice was stolen for the sake of the jewels, that is evident, or the thief would have taken the gold paten as well; and the jewels have a romance attached to them. We don't know what that romance is, but we have an eccentric old lady the possessor of the jewels; we have reason to suppose that she was not otherwise rich, and we have a niece apparently ignorant of her aunt's past. She admits disappointment that the jewels were left to the church; she complains that her own circumstances are straitened. In spite of the fact that she lives in Walham Green, she becomes, after her aunt's death, a worker in St. Ethelburga's parish in Bloomsbury. We have in Miss Belford one who knows the general working of the church, one who has been brought in contact with the vicar—Mr. Harding said he knew her very well, remember; and moreover she is closely connected with the jewels. It is possible, even, that she knows the romance behind the jewels and feels that they are hers by right and ought never to have been given to the church. This would account entirely for such a woman turning thief."
"The fact remains we are in this cellar," I said.
"It is a very interesting fact," said Quarles. "Of course I cannot be sure that the man and woman who were in this cellar were the same young Squires met, but I believe they were. The woman stood with her arms akimbo in each case, the position was identical. They learnt from young Squires that we were following and went off to warn some of their fellows who waited for us, Squires leading us into the trap by arrangement. The gang has beaten us, Wigan."
"And the chalice is in the melting pot," I remarked.
"I don't believe the gang knows anything about the chalice," said the professor quietly.
"Not know! Why—"
"Wigan, you stopped to speak to a colleague engaged on the hotel robberies this morning. You were seen, I believe. It was immediately assumed that you were on that job, and when Squires saw you to-night at the club he thought you were after the hotel robbers. Without being aware of it we were probably hot on their track."
"It is impossible," I said.
"Why should it be?" Quarles asked. "Once get a fixed idea in the mind, and it is exceedingly difficult to give opposing theories their due weight. The hooligan club got into your mind. There were many reasons why it should, especially with Mr. Hayes as the connecting link; you could not believe him guilty so you fell back upon the club. One other point, a very important one. The chalice was only used on great festivals and certain Saints' days. There are several reasons why the robbery would be difficult on a great festival. The church would not be in its normal condition, owing to decorations or increased services, perhaps; besides, the thief—a church worker we assume—might be missed from some function connected with the church which would cause suspicion. On the other hand, many Saints' days occur in the week when there is no late evening service, perhaps, and if there is, only a small congregation. It would be remembered who was present. The chalice was stolen on a Saints' day which happened to fall on a Sunday, and must therefore remain in the church all night. How many people do you suppose know which Saints' days were specified by Miss Morrison? Very few. I warrant you were not far from the chalice when you were talking to Miss Belford. How are you getting on with your knots, Wigan?"
"I am not tied so tightly as I might be."
"Good. With luck you may yet be in time to prevent Miss Belford getting away."
"I don't believe she has anything to do with the chalice," I answered.
"All the same, I should take another journey to Walham Green," said Quarles. "When one is dealing with a woman it is well to remember that she is more direct than a man, is inclined to use simpler methods, and is often more thorough. Witness the man and woman in this cellar. The man gave you brandy to revive you: the woman didn't see any reason why you shouldn't die. She interested me. A woman like that is a source of strength to a gang. I fancy there is a glimmer of daylight through a grating yonder."
I got free from my bonds after a time, and I undid Quarles. The cellar door was a flimsy affair, my shoulder against the lock burst it open at once. No one rushed to prevent our escape. The house was as silent as the grave.
"Our captors have decamped," said Quarles. "We must have been hot upon the trail last night, Wigan."
The house was empty apparently, but we did not search it thoroughly then. Escape was our first thought. I could give instructions to the first constable we met to keep a watch on the house. We left by an area and found ourselves at the end of a blind road in Hampstead. The house was detached, and fifty yards or more from its nearest neighbor.
"Reserved for future investigation," Quarles remarked. "Our first business is the jeweled chalice."
Only a dim light had found its way through the cellar grating, but the day had begun. There was the rumble of an early milk cart. In spite of aching head and stiff limbs, only one idea possessed us; and the first taxi we found took us to Walham Green.
Miss Belford had gone. She must have left the house yesterday within half an hour of my leaving it. Inquiry subsequently proved that her servant had left on the Saturday, and that during the last week Miss Belford had disposed of her furniture just as it stood.
Quarles was right, although we had no actual proof until some months later, when we had almost forgotten the jeweled chalice.
Miss Belford wrote to Mr. Harding. The jewels were left to Miss Morrison, she said, by an old lover. Why they had not married she could not say, but from old letters it appeared there had been a quarrel, and the man had married elsewhere. Miss Belford was the daughter of that marriage. She was not really Miss Morrison's niece, although she had always called her aunt. The jewels were left to Miss Morrison absolutely, to sell or do as she liked with, but Miss Belford declared that, in a letter which was with the jewels when Miss Morrison received them after Mr. Belford's death, and which she afterwards found amongst her papers, her father evidently expected that his daughter would ultimately benefit. The letter went on to explain how the theft had been accomplished, and the letter concluded:
"Had I known my aunt contemplated giving the jewels to the church, I should have taken them before, because I had always expected them to come to me. They were presented before I knew anything about it. I could do nothing, I was dependent upon her. When I found my father's letter I knew I had been robbed—that is the word, Mr. Harding, robbed. In taking the chalice I have only taken what belongs to me. On reflection you will probably consider that I was quite justified."
I can affirm that the vicar of St. Ethelburga's did not think so, and since Miss Belford's letter, which came from America, did not give any address I imagine she was not sure what attitude Mr. Harding would take up. What became of the gems, or how they were disposed of, I do not know; I only know that there is no jeweled chalice at St. Ethelburga's now, and I fancy the vicar thinks that, as a detective, I was a ghastly failure.