THE GREAT JEWEL ROBBERY.
The little world of fashionable London society was startled a few years ago by reports of a series of daring jewel robberies. The most costly gems seemed to disappear as if by magic under the very eyes of their owners. These robberies defied detection. A clue in one case was upset by the facts in another. When my aid as private detective was called in, I resolved to confine my attention to three distinct cases, though, of course, if useful information came in my way concerning other matters, I should know how to take advantage of it.
The first of the three on my list was the case of the Dowager Lady A., a somewhat eccentric old lady, who found her chief delight in arraying herself in her most valuable jewels and visiting in regular rotation all the West-end theatres. One night, when returning from one of these expeditions, her carriage had been overturned by colliding with an omnibus. The dowager was seriously injured, and within a few days she was dead. Then, apparently for the first time, it was discovered that the whole of the jewels worn by Lady A. on the night of the carriage accident had mysteriously disappeared. Her maid was so overcome by the sight of her injured mistress, that she failed altogether to remember what was done with these jewels at the moment when her ladyship was undressed. It was even a question whether they might not have been actually lost in the street during the confusion of the accident. At all events, no trace of them could be found, and it soon became evident that in the excitement of summoning relatives, fetching doctors, and, very soon, nurses and undertakers, half-a-dozen persons might have entered the house and walked off with the jewels without any chance of detection.
Then I turned my attention to the second case—that of the young Countess of B. There seemed less room for doubt in this instance. The fashionable wedding of the autumn had been that of the Earl of B. with Miss Blank. There had been a churchful of people at St George’s, Hanover Square, and a host of guests at the breakfast at the Unique Hotel. On the morning of the wedding, the earl had presented his bride with a magnificent tiara of diamonds. As the ‘happy pair’ were to start almost immediately for the continent, these diamonds, inclosed in a case, were hastily packed in a travelling bag, which the bride’s travelling maid was never to let out of her sight. On arriving at Paris, the bag was apparently intact; but on opening the jewel-case, the tiara was amissing. Clearly, it must have been cleverly extracted from the case while lying in the bride’s dressing-room, the empty case then being placed in the bag. Who had stolen the countess’s diamonds? The maid, the bride’s mother, and a younger brother had alone, as far as it was known, entered the room where the jewels were lying. I don’t mind saying I had some difficulty in believing that a bonâ fide robbery had been committed. You may not believe it, but I am convinced that many a startling robbery of jewels would be explained, if we knew of all the private debts incurred by ladies of fashion, and of the sacrifices sometimes made by them to screen from disgrace themselves or some deeply involved connection.
Meanwhile, I made inquiries concerning robbery number three. This was at Colonel C.’s. There the only thing missed was a very valuable bracelet. There had been a dance at the house. During the evening, Mrs C. had slipped and sprained her ankle so severely that a doctor had to be summoned, and the party was somewhat prematurely brought to a close. Mrs C. distinctly remembered wearing the bracelet; but whether she had it on at the moment of falling, she could not remember. There had been naturally some confusion in the ballroom, and the lady had been carried to her own room. It was not for some hours that the loss of the bracelet was noticed. Then a search was made, but altogether without success.
In the first and third of these cases, suspicion seemed to point at once to some member of the household; but all my inquiries failed to find any trace of the missing property. The servants all willingly consented, nay, even offered, to have their boxes searched, and for some weeks I confessed myself baffled. The missing property had disappeared as completely as though it had never existed.
Again and again I went over the whole circumstances as they had been related to me. There was, I reflected, one circumstance common to all three of the robberies, if robberies they were. There had been at the time some unusual amount of confusion, all lending opportunity for a theft to take place without immediate detection. The Dowager Lady A.’s diamonds had been stolen during her illness, or about the time of her death. The Countess of B. had lost her diamonds during the excitement of a wedding breakfast at an hotel. At Colonel C.’s house, there had been a ball on the night when the bracelet was lost. Was there any one, I asked myself, who, by chance or intention, had been present at each place at the time of the robbery? Any occasional waiter, for example, or servant of any kind? I could not find that there had been. Yet, if the thief were not one of the household, how was it that a stranger should in three separate instances fix on an establishment where the circumstances were favourable to a robbery of valuable property? In two cases, there had been illness and a hasty summoning of doctors. That led to another thought: was it possible that some experienced thief or gang of thieves had laid themselves out to track the broughams of fashionable West-end physicians, on the chance of finding hall doors left open, and property somewhat loosely guarded?
I had not thought of such a thing seriously before; but it seemed now to be an idea worth following up. Once more I resumed inquiries. Who was the doctor summoned in the case of the Dowager Lady A.? I easily ascertained. It was one of the best known men, at that time, in London. He and his brougham would be familiar to every thief who frequented West-end thoroughfares. I next inquired at Colonel C.’s. To my satisfaction, I learnt that the same doctor had attended in this case. ‘Here,’ I said to myself, ‘I begin to see daylight.’ Shortly afterwards, I made a further discovery. The coachman who drove the famous physician to Lady A.’s on the night of the accident, and to Colonel C.’s on the night of the ball, had only been in his employ a few weeks; and on the date of the Earl of B.’s wedding, the man had driven the carriage of one of the guests at the breakfast.
The clue I felt was becoming strong. The thief, I grew convinced, was a confederate of the grave-faced man in spotless black who drove the fashionable doctor from one house of sickness to another. I resolved to obtain an interview with the doctor, and after explaining my suspicions, plan some mode of detecting so consummate a rascal. Circumstances occurred to make me resolve to carry out my purpose without delay.
My journey took me to one of the somewhat sombre-looking streets that run down to the Thames, from the Chelsea side, between Chelsea Bridge and Battersea Bridge. The name ‘Gideon West, M.D., Physician and Surgeon,’ inscribed on a brass plate told me when I had reached my destination. Dr West, I was informed, was still out, late though it was; and the time of his coming home was most uncertain. I was determined, however, not to return without seeing him; and after assuring the tired-looking servant that I should certainly await Dr West’s return, even if I had to spend the night on the doorstep, I was shown into the consulting-room, where a wood-fire was still burning on the hearth. Seating myself in an armchair with a high screen behind me, I settled down to my vigil, however long it might be.
I had often noticed the house; for who did not feel some interest in so famous a medical man as Gideon West? Why he had chosen such a house I did not learn until afterwards; but I knew it was an old-fashioned, rambling sort of place, with a room built on here at one time, and there at another time. Windows had been blocked up at one place, and windows had been let in at another. In fact, it was a house that seemed to defy a stranger to explain upon what rule, or what want of rule, it had been so constructed.
Those who first heard of Gideon West as one of the most famous physicians in London, asked in astonishment how he could live in such a ramshackle-looking building. Perhaps they forgot that even famous doctors were not born famous. Gideon West, when he entered on his professional career, was anything but famous, and he was as poor as he well could be. Father and mother were dead, brothers and sisters he had none. An almost forgotten god-mother had, to his surprise, left him the old house at Chelsea. This was about the time he received his diploma. Thereupon, Gideon West married, for love, a girl without a penny, settled himself in his new possession, had the brass plate affixed to the door, and awaited the patients who were to prove his skill and make his fortune. It was a weary waiting; but the young bride had unlimited trust in her husband, and Gideon West never for an instant lost faith in himself. Slowly, very slowly, a small practice grew upon his hands; but the struggle that only braced Gideon West for the battle of life proved too terrible for the frail young wife. But there was no complaining, no repining, no word to tell of doubt, much less of despair, and Gideon West battled on. He knew, as though it had already come, that he should at last prevail. He had measured his own strength, and felt that he could trust it. But—and it was that but alone which troubled him—suppose he should have to wait years and years—suppose, as those years went by, he should see the colour pale on the face he loved; the brightness fade from the eyes he delighted to gaze into—suppose his long years of waiting were marked in the lines on his wife’s young face—suppose when the golden gates of fortune flew open, he should find it was—too late!
How long I sat dreaming in Dr West’s room, I know not; but it is certain I must have fallen asleep before the crackling embers. When I awoke, I found myself in all but darkness. The gas had been lowered, and only a flickering glow from the dying fire remained to cast drear and fantastic shadows on the ceiling. Many hours must have passed. I must have been forgotten when the servants retired to rest, and Dr West either had not returned, or had not been made aware of my presence. My position was embarrassing. To wake up in the middle of the night and to find myself in a strange house, was a new experience. I groped about the room and felt for the door by which I had entered. It was locked. Bell of any sort I could find none. I tried to raise my voice; but the death-stillness and darkness of the room seemed to stifle me. I found the window, and looked out. It opened high above a courtyard closed in by walls. Again I tried the door. Then I remembered that it was a sort of passage-room; that there was a door leading from it to an apartment beyond. I managed to find this door, covered as it was with heavy tapestry hangings. Feeling very much like a thief, I tried the handle. It turned in my hand, and the door yielded noiselessly. Beyond, I saw a large square chamber, evidently a bedroom; but the bed was unoccupied. It was a quaint and haunted-looking room, with high oaken skirting and panelled ceiling. A couple of candles burned on the dressing-table, and threw a faint light over the dark furniture and the tapestries that hung against the walls.
Once more I tried to call out; but my tongue seemed dried up, and my voice refused to be heard. Presently, to my relief I heard a human voice. It evidently came from an apartment beyond the one into which I had ventured. Impelled, I hardly knew how, I resolved to venture farther; and as my footsteps fell noiselessly on the thick carpet, I could hardly believe I was not wandering in a dream through the mysterious chambers of the dead.
Yet more and more distinctly I heard the sad low voice that had caught my ear; and I approached stealthily, and I confess with something like awe, the door, which, as I perceived, opened from the bedroom to the chamber whence the voice proceeded. Here, as before, a curtain of antique tapestry, reaching from the ceiling to the floor, concealed the aperture; and trying cautiously the door, I found that it opened towards me. This gave me time to reflect before intruding, with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, into the privacy of this innermost chamber. Like a guilty creature, I stood and listened. The voice—for there seemed to be but one—was close at hand. It was a strangely melancholy voice, yet possessing a fascinating power that chained me to the spot.
‘Will you never, never speak to me again, my darling, my darling!’ I heard the words too plainly to mistake or forget them. ‘Will you never speak to me again! Year after year, as the day comes round, I have prayed to God to grant me but one sweet word—one word to tell me of your love! Oh, my darling, my darling, have I prayed in vain? Will those lips never again open with a smile, those eyes never again look into mine, even when I come to you on my knees, as I do this Christmas morning!’
These strange words reproached me. Into what sacred precincts had I intruded? What heart-breaking grief was I desecrating?
Suddenly the tone of voice changed. The sad pathos gave way to accents of joy. ‘See! see, my beloved one; here are gifts worthy of a queen. Did I not tell you the time would come when all our struggles would be over; when there would be no more fighting for very bread; no more daily care; no more dread of the future; no fears for success, because it would be already mine! Ah, Gertrude, my wife, my darling, you were good and patient to me in those days. If the clouds were dark, your eyes were always bright; if the heavens were overcast, your smile drove away the storm; your voice was the music of my life, your ceaseless trust was my lodestar. But all has changed. Those days have passed. I am rich now; they say I am famous. The day is now too short for my work, and the night too short for rest. And yet I need rest. I feel I cannot live much longer if I may not rest. My brain is ever reeling with its weariness, yet I cannot sleep. Night after night is one long vigil. No sleep, no rest, no peace! I have been waiting for this night, for you, my love, for you! And now the hour has come. It is Christmas morning.—Hark! already I hear the sound of the Christmas bells. Ah! no wonder, for my wife, my beloved, has come back to me at last—come back to me from the dead!’
In feverish excitement, I listened. But there was no answer—not a sound, when that trembling voice ceased, to break the stillness of the night.
Presently, it began again. ‘They tell me it is thirty years ago. Nonsense! That is only a dream. It was yesterday—yesterday, that you spoke to me for the last time—yesterday, that you bade me good-bye, and kissed me when I went away. And to-day, you are as you were then. No change, no change, none at all. You are as young and as fair as when I first took your hand in mine and called you “wife.”’
Then there was a pause, and I was conscious of some movement beyond the tapestry behind which I was guiltily hiding.
What followed startled me, but it called me back to life. With a voice thrilling with emotion, the man once more broke the silence. ‘Gertrude! These are yours. This is your birthday, and our old wedding-day, and I have not forgotten you. You do not yet believe that I am rich and famous, and that your husband has many friends. See! These are gifts from those whom I have rescued from death! They are thank-offerings to the “doctor’s wife.” Here is a bracelet. It is set with emeralds. No rarer could be found. Ah! how charming it looks on that dainty wrist! And here is something a princess might wear. It is a tiara of diamonds; and it is yours. Ah, my wife, let me place it on your brow! Oh, my queen, my queen!’
Unable to restrain myself longer, I cautiously drew aside the tapestry and peered into the chamber beyond it. It was comparatively small, but richly furnished, though in the fashion of olden times. It was, I thought, a lady’s boudoir; but from where I was concealed, only a portion of the room was revealed to my view. It was not the room that arrested my attention, but what it contained. On a small table, almost within reach, lay those very ornaments—the earrings, the necklet, the pendant—of rubies and pearls, the loss of which had first led me to unravel, if I could, the mystery of the great jewel robbery. I could not be mistaken. The description given me had been most minute. An exact counterpart of the set was not in existence; and here it lay on the table before me.
As I looked on with astonishment, from the part of the room I could not see there approached me, slowly and with pensive step and bowed head, like one walking in his sleep, the man whom I now almost dreaded to see—the famous doctor, Gideon West.
Could he be the author of these mysterious thefts? I could not believe it, and yet the proofs of his guilt lay before me. No longer hesitating, I stepped forward. So sudden and so unexpected was my appearance, that the man was unconscious of my presence until I had placed my hands upon his arm and gasped in trembling tones: ‘Dr West—I—arrest’—— But the sentence was never completed.
With a cry that might have been heard almost in the grave, the unhappy man shrank from me. At that instant, I turned in the direction to which he was pointing, with that agonised look upon his face; and as I did so, I loosened my hold and my hands fell powerless to my side. In the corner of the chamber hitherto hidden from me, I saw one of those old-fashioned bedsteads, with heavy draperies around it. The curtains were of silk, once a pearly white, now dulled and faded by age. The counterpane and pillow, once like driven snow, were white no more. Lying on the bed, with her head on the pillow, and her body partially concealed by the bed-linen, I saw the form of a woman—a woman who must once have been fair and beautiful to behold. Her luxuriant hair fell in wreaths on each side her face, and was then brought together over the bare white throat. Her arms were uncovered by the counterpane, and, clasping an infant child in their embrace, lay folded across her breast.
As I realised all the details of what seemed like a vision, I confess that my nerves failed me. I could only look at that cold pale face, lying so still on the pillow, with the child-face nestling beside it; and as I looked, I realised that the stillness was the stillness of death.
Like one entranced, I remained motionless for some moments, when again I was aroused to action.
A figure clothed in white—the face scarcely less pale than the face of the dead, the scanty locks of hair, white with age, hanging loosely about her shoulders, the eyes fixed on the bed, and the hands stretched out supplicatingly towards it—glided into the room. Then catching sight of the prostrate figure of the man who had cast himself beside the bed, with his hands spread out on the form that lay there, this apparition of woe, turning on me a glance of reproach that will haunt me to my dying day, exclaimed, amid streaming tears: ‘You have killed him! My son, my son!’
And now, how shall I finish my story without wearying you with explanations? Let me go back to that old question once asked by Gideon West: ‘What if success should come too late?’ For all the happiness it could bring him, it did come too late. His struggle with fate, if not a long, had been a bitter one. There fell a grievous sickness on the neighbourhood; disease and death stalked abroad, and mowed down their victims without counting the numbers. Against the grim tyrants, Gideon West fought day and night; his energy was endless, his courage undaunted; and he triumphed. No; not Gideon West; but the weapons of science triumphed in his hands. Disease and death were driven from the field; as they fled, they shot one last bolt at their victor—it glanced off his armour, but left his wife and child dead at his side.
Yes; he had won. But what was the victory worth? Fame, reward, wealth, all were his; but the one hope of his life was dead. Yet he never spared himself—never ceased work for a day—never hesitated at any sacrifice. He lived, he said, for only one object—it was to ‘wear out his life.’ The old home knew him to the end, and one faithful and devoted woman gave all her years to cheer the one hero of her life, the poor struggling surgeon, the great physician—the man who for pure love had married her only child: Gertrude’s husband!
But the end came suddenly at last, and outwardly there seemed to be no signs of failing power. The mind seemed as fresh and as vigorous as ever. Only in one direction did it give way. Years of never-ceasing brooding over his dead wife and child did its work; and as the sad anniversary of his wife’s birthday, her marriage, and of her death, once more approached, the strain overpowered him. A mania seized him; he must offer her the most costly treasures. Yet they must not appear to come from him, but from others, from those who owed their health, their life, to his skill. They must be proofs of his fame—proofs to the dead wife of her husband’s triumph. The mania grew upon him. Wherever he saw anything that was of peculiar value, he seemed to claim it as his own, fully persuaded, as I believe, that it was a willing offering to the memory of his dead wife. And so those once inexplicable disappearances were explained. No one suspected, would dream of suspecting, the great doctor; and sane in everything else, yet with his brilliant intellect already ripe for decay, the unhappy man for weeks past had been the victim of a mania he neither comprehended nor was able to resist. I learnt afterwards that a medical conference had taken him to the house where the countess’s diamonds were lost on that particular morning, and he must by accident have entered the room where the diamonds were momentarily left unguarded, and at once he had been led, by an irresistible impulse, to possess them.
Before I left that strangely haunted house at Chelsea on that Christmas morning, the twice-stricken mother led me to the dread bedside and placed my hands on the cold face. I looked at the mother, and then I felt the white hands that lay clasped before me. The woman read my thoughts.
‘No,’ she whispered; ‘it is not the flesh of mortal! It is but a fearful counterfeit of death. It was modelled from the dead wife and child, and was to have been reproduced in marble for Gertrude’s tomb. But Gideon West would not have it removed. Call it a morbid fancy or a passionate love, which you will; but for years he has spent the hours of his solitude beside this poor image of his wife!—Now, tell me, was yonder dead man a thief, or was he the victim to unconquerable mania?’
For Gideon West was dead, and his secret died with him.
We laid him on his own bed; and when the coroner’s jury said next day that he died ‘by the visitation of God,’ they spoke the truth.
The lost jewels were restored to their owners with the simple explanation that he who had taken them was beyond the reach of human justice.
For my part in the restitution, I was generously rewarded; but it was the last investigation I ever undertook. Many years have passed, and the world soon forgets; but I thought it would interest some to learn what I knew concerning the Great Jewel Robbery.