Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective

by James M'Govan

When I had concluded my examination, the old gardener was very anxious to know my opinion. Had any one else plied me with the question, I might have answered, but with him I was forced for the present to be silent. The truth is, I suspected him, and nobody but him, as the thief. He was a poor man to begin with; the clothes he stood in were not worth ten shillings; and I was led to believe that being somewhat old and frail, and having a daughter entirely dependent upon him, these formed almost his sole possessions. I could not conceive, indeed, how so many had thought fit to trust him with the keys of their houses, but then I did not know that he had the reputation of being a sterling and honest man, respected alike for his deep religious feeling and humble worth. He had a poverty-stricken look to my eyes, and then his confusion and agitation, and the other discoveries, were against him. The same afternoon Mr Arthurlie and his wife came to town by express; and then I got from them the surprising intelligence that the keys of the safe were always kept secreted in a little niche in a wooden cupboard exactly opposite the press containing the safe. This precaution had been taken through the keys once having been lost by being carried about, thus necessitating the fitting on of a new lock on the safe. Until I saw the hiding-place I thought this arrangement one of the most foolhardy imaginable; but when I went out to the house I found that the nail on which the keys were usually hung was in a place the last that an ordinary thief would have looked to. It was in behind the hinge of the door of a wooden press or wine rack. You had to open first the door of the press, then grope in behind the left-hand door and get the keys. No one knew of this place but the tablemaid and the housekeeper. The Arthurlies kept no man-servant. They were positive that the old gardener, Abercorn, did not know of the keys being thus hid in the place, though they admitted that he might have discovered them if he had exerted himself to search. I had found the keys of the safe lying on the floor of the pantry under some of the discarded plated articles, so it was certain that the thief had not only searched for the keys but found them and used them. I began to question the Arthurlies regarding old Abercorn, the gardener, and they, divining at once the drift of my suspicions, assured me that I was quite mistaken, and gave me such a description of the man that I felt half ashamed of my own convictions. I had thought of at least a search in the gardener’s humble home, but implicit trust and strong protestations of the Arthurlies forced me to shelve that idea for the present. So long as the man was not a prisoner or formally accused I could question him to my heart’s content, and I resolved to take full advantage of the circumstance, by making him account for his actions from the time he had been in the house on the morning before the robbery until the discovery of the robbery as already described. He had asserted most positively that upon his last visit there had been not an article out of place or the slightest trace of a robbery, and if that were true the whole must have been executed within the twenty-four hours. Again, it was not likely that a thief would choose the day time for such a feat, so this further limited the time by twelve hours at least. What had Abercorn been about during that night? If he could not account for that time I should have a fair excuse for arresting him.

I therefore said no more to the Arthurlies, but got the address of the old gardener—a little cottage down by the Dean—and next day went down to have a talk with him. The place was easily found, for he had in front of the cottage a strip of ground full of all kinds of flowers, and “Alex. Abercorn, Jobbing Gardener,” conspicuously painted on the little gate. An old woman opened the door, and I asked for the gardener.

“He’s no in; he’s working,” was her reply, and the news was rather pleasing to me than otherwise.

“Oh, well, I daresay you will do quite as well,” I said pleasantly. “You’re Mrs Abercorn, I suppose?”

“Na, na, I’m only his hoosekeeper,” she promptly answered. “Mrs Abercorn’s deid three years syne. I never was married, and maybe never will be.”

As she was old enough to have been my mother, I thought her marriage by no means a likely occurrence, but took care to throw out no hint to that effect. We chatted together very nicely for a minute or two, during which I got from her nearly her whole life story, and then she invited me to enter and see the gardener’s daughter. But for the fact that this daughter, Jeanie, as she named her, was an invalid, the old woman declared that she would not have been needed in the place, as they were “very poor.” I followed her into the front room, in which was a bed facing the window. In the bed was a young woman of perhaps twenty-five years. She had a sweet face, and a delicate complexion, gradually tinging out into rosy cheeks, and a pair of big, lustrous eyes, which were turned on me, wide open with wonder, as I entered. But the beauty of the face, and its fine hues, and even the brightness of the great eyes, was not of the kind to draw out one’s admiration so much as to stir in the bosom a thrill of pity, for the stamp of death was over it all. Consumption was written on that face, with a sure and early death, as plainly as if the green turf had already been spread above her. I scarcely liked to look into the face—it was so eager, and bright, and beautiful.

It was a little difficult to explain my business, but before I had made much of an attempt in that direction I was surprised to find that neither the invalid nor the old housekeeper had heard aught of the robbery. I was staggered. Why had the old gardener concealed that from his little household? I had to put aside the query and go on with those more important. Could they remember what time the old gardener had come home the night before last?

Oh, perfectly. He had been home about seven o’clock, for he was rather busy, and might have stayed at his work later, but for the fact that Jeanie had taken a bad turn that day, and he was anxious to be beside her.

Did he stay long at home?

The question appeared to puzzle them both, and then, when I explained, they said, as a matter of course, that he had never gone out again the whole evening. Why should he, indeed? His daughter was all in all to him; he was never happy but when he was beside her; and if walking round the world barefooted would have made her well, he would cheerfully have undertaken the task.