The D'Arblay mystery

by R. Austin Freeman

We had just closed the cupboard and were moving away when my eye caught a small object half-hidden in the darkness under the cupboard itself—the bottom of which was raised by low feet about an inch and a half from the floor. I knelt down and passed my hand into the shallow space and was just able to hook it out. It proved to be a fragment of a small plaster mould, saturated with wax and black-leaded on the inside. Miss D’Arblay stooped over it eagerly and exclaimed: “I don’t know that one. What a pity it is such a small piece. But it is certainly part of a coin.”

“It is part of the coin,” said I. “There can be no doubt of that. I examined the cast that Dr. Thorndyke made and I recognize this as the same. There is the lower part of the bust, the letters C A—the first two letters of Carolus—and the tiny elephant and castle. That is conclusive. This is the mould from which that electrotype was made. But I had better hand it to Dr. Thorndyke to compare with the cast that he has.”

I carefully bestowed the fragment in my tobacco-pouch, as the safest place for the time being, and meanwhile Miss D’Arblay looked fixedly at me with a very singular expression.

“You realize,” she said in a hushed voice, “what this means. He was in here last night.”

I nodded. The same conclusion had instantly occurred to me, and a very uncomfortable one it was. There was something very sinister and horrid in the thought of that murderous villain quietly letting himself into this studio and ransacking its hiding-places in the dead of the night. So unpleasantly suggestive was it that for a time neither of us spoke a word, but stood looking blankly at one another in silent dismay. And in the midst of the tense silence there came a knock at the door.

We both started as if we had been struck. Then Miss D’Arblay, recovering herself quickly, said: “I had better go,” and hurried down the studio to the lobby.

I listened nervously, for I was a little unstrung. I heard her go into the lobby and open the outer door. I heard a low voice, apparently asking a question; the outer door closed, and then came a sudden scuffling sound and a piercing shriek. With a shout of alarm, I raced down the studio, knocking over a chair as I ran, and darted into the lobby just as the outer door slammed.

For a moment I hesitated. Miss D’Arblay had shrunk into a corner, and stood in the semi-darkness with both her hands pressed tightly to her breast. But she called out excitedly: “Follow him! I am not hurt”; and on this I wrenched open the door and stepped out.

But the first glance showed me that pursuit was hopeless. The fog had now become so dense that I could hardly see my own feet. I dared not leave the threshold for fear of not being able to find my way back. Then she would be alone—and he was probably lurking close by even now.

I stood irresolute, stock-still; listening intently. The silence was profound. All the natural noises of a populous neighbourhood seemed to be smothered by the dense blanket of dark yellow vapour. Not a sound came to my ear; no stealthy footfall, no rustle of movement. Nothing but stark silence.