The Spider

by Fergus Hume

The inquest duly took place, but no evidence was forthcoming likely to lead to the capture of the assassin. That he was The Spider there, of course, could be no doubt, since the declaration of Vernon went to show that the late Mr. Dimsdale had made an appointment with the blackmailer. Naturally, the whole story had to be told at the inquest, and the public became aware, through the medium of the newspapers, that the dead man had a secret. It could not have been a dishonourable secret, was the general opinion, else Mr. Dimsdale would scarcely have risked a revelation. Using it, whatever it might be, as a decoy to lure The Spider into a trap, he had lost his life in the attempt to capture the famous criminal. And if The Spider had been celebrated before, he was still more celebrated now, and in a more sinister way. Formerly the police had wanted him as an extortioner; now he was inquired for as a murderer.

The "Rangoon" crime--as it came to be called--made a mighty sensation, as there was that about it which appealed to the somewhat jaded taste of the public. That a man should be strangled in his own library, and in the very house where nearly one hundred people were dancing, was truly wonderful, when the sequel was that the assassin had escaped. The windows of the library had neither blinds nor curtains; guests had been talking and walking in the garden; on the other side of the tall laurel hedge cabs and carriages with attendants had been waiting in the road, yet The Spider had come and gone like a shadow. Behind the frail concealment of the screen a terrible crime had taken place, and, far from hurrying his departure, the criminal had actually lingered to search for the money he hoped to get. It was proved at the inquest that he did not get his plunder, for enquiries at Mr. Dimsdale's bank showed that the thousand pounds had not been drawn. Undoubtedly, since the dead man had intended to defy the blackmailer, the secret could not have been one to be ashamed of. But what the secret was the public never knew.

Vernon, as he had stated to Inspector Drench, was not proud that he had been so cleverly tricked into temporary imprisonment by The Spider, and would fain have kept that episode to himself. But for the rounding off of the case, it was necessary that it should be told, and thus sensation was piled upon sensation. Vernon, however, contrived to keep the name of Miss Corsoon to himself and Drench, and it was vaguely stated in the papers that Vernon had been inveigled to West Kensington on the plea of helping a woman. Inquiries proved that the landlord had never been applied to as regards the letting of Number 34. The Spider had simply seen that the house was empty and had gained access thereto by means of a skeleton key. For one single evening he had utilised the house as a prison; and when the police searched the same, which they did from cellar to attic, they found no trace of The Spider or of the white-faced woman who had played so clever a comedy. The daring evinced in connection with the West Kensington house was amazing; the escape of the assassin from "Rangoon" scarcely less so; and the whole formed a case unexampled in the annals of crime for cool audacity. And the outcome of the affair was extremely unsatisfactory.

Nothing could be discovered concerning the whereabouts of The Spider, and whether he belonged to a gang or worked single-handed no one could say. The man defied both detective and policeman, and laughed at the attempts of the law to lay him by the heels. Letters were written to the papers and leading articles appeared, clamouring that immediate action should be taken against The Spider, who was a menace to civilisation. The police did all that was possible, and hunted London in the vain endeavour to lay hands on the rascal, but without success. The Spider left no tracks behind him, and could not be followed to his lair. A verdict of "Wilful Murder" was brought against him, and a reward of one thousand pounds was offered at the instance of the murdered man's daughter for his apprehension, but nothing further came of the matter. The crime was a nine-days' wonder, but as the days grew into weeks and weeks into months, public interest dwindled. It seemed likely that the murder of Martin Dimsdale would have to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Even Inspector Drench despaired of success, and gloomily shook his head. Only Vernon remained firm in his intention to solve the mysteries of the murder and The Spider, and he said as much to Mrs. Bedge two months after Dimsdale had been laid in his grave.

Maunders' aunt was a thin, aristocratic, pale-faced old lady, prim in her dress and manners. She occupied a quiet, unpretentious house at Hampstead, not far from "Rangoon." A note from her had brought Vernon to see her, and now the two were seated in a pointedly antiquated drawing-room, talking earnestly. Everything about the house and its owner was prim, and the whole atmosphere suggested early Victorian days. It seemed strange that so dismal and old-fashioned a house should be the home of an intensely modern young man like Constantine Maunders. But, as Mrs. Bedge informed Vernon, her nephew gave her very little of his society, as he had engaged rooms in town and lived in them the greater part of the week.

"He only comes from a Saturday to a Monday to stop here," sighed Mrs. Bedge, folding her lean mittened hands on her drab-hued dress, "yet he knows how fond I am of his company."

"Constantine was always selfish," remarked Vernon bluntly.

Mrs. Bedge protested with the foolish fondness of an old woman. "Oh, indeed, you must not say that. Constantine is high-spirited, and I daresay that he thinks this place somewhat dull. But when he is here I invariably find him thoughtful and affectionate."

This was very probable, since Mrs. Bedge had money, and Maunders expected to be her heir. It was not likely that so astute a person would risk the loss of a fortune. Something of this sort must have revealed itself in Vernon's eyes, for Mrs. Bedge, with the swift instinct of a woman, guessed what he was thinking about.

"No," she said in her plaintive way, "it is not greed of money that makes Constantine love me, but his own sweet nature which gives affection, unasked. Constantine knows that I have spent a great deal on his education and in fitting him out in life. Now I have very little money left: this house, the furniture, and a few hundreds a year. When I die he will receive very little, poor boy. I thought it best that he should enjoy the money while he was young, and without waiting for my death."