THE Twelfth Crime A Mystery of Modern London

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 115, 20 June 1914, Page 4

THE Twelfth Crime A Mystery of Modern London

i * gy SETON CROSS -m-*************

Author of "The Stolen Governess," "Queen of the Ballet," "The Mill Girl's Secret," etc.

[COPYRIGHT.]

CHAPTEE I. THE GIRL NEXT DOOR. Old Peter Holgate stopped in the act of watering his sweet peas and put down his can hurriedly. Adjusting his spectacles, he stooped to examine a small, recently-planted rose. For a brief moment he experienced something of a shock, for the bush seemed to exhibit all the peculiarities of a moss rose —an extraordinary development, seeing that at the time of planting it was very obviously a tea-rose. But as he looked a frown spread over Peter Holgate's usually placid face. "Drat 'em!" he exclaimed. "The little varmints are everywhere. It must be the Londlra air." His investigations had shown his hopes to be groundless; the moss-like effect was due, not to the plant itself, but to myriads of green flies, which infested leaves and stems. And Peter Holgate, although he had been living in Clapham for quite three years, still retained his country-bred prejudices and insisted on ascribing to the London air all the evils which affected his garden, his health,, or his appetite. "Olive!" he called, as he straightened his lanky figure. ' ( Come here.'' A young girl, whose attention had been divided between gathering rose petals and watching the playful gambols of a pretty little kitten on the garden wall, turned and went towards him. "Yes, dearie?" she said. But Peter Holgate had again bent down, and was trying to remove the obnoxious insects with his thumb and first finger. Suddenly, however, he stood up, his face puckered into a ludicrous expression of mingled pain and surprise. In the course of his endeavours a thorn had run into the ball of his thumb, and he now stood sucking the injured member. "Just look at that!" he mumbled, pointing at the disfigured rose-bush. "I think we ought to get some tobacco extract and syringe it," said Olive; "that's the surest way to get rid of green-fly." "H'm, perhaps so," he replied, doubtfully. "I think I'll write to Rogers and ask his advice.'' He pushed back his spectacles to their former position at the top of his forehead and proceeded with the interrupted watering, while the girl returned to her full-blown flowers, with whose petals she intended to make a sweetsmelling pot-pourri.

one of those casual allusions to the weather prospects which every Englishman recognises as an invitation to a little friendly talk. Nothing loth, Goring followed it up, and, while his remarks were addressed to the old man, his eyes were frequently turned towards Olive. "And how's business?" asked Holgate, with the permissible frankness of an old man addressing a younger. "So far as we're concerned, there's hardly any,' ' replied Goring. '' I can't think why M 'Ewen keeps the shop on, for we seldom see a customer. And, besides, people say he's very wealthy.'' "I shouldn't be surprised," said Peter Holgate. " I 've been told there's a tremendous profit on antiques and curios. ' Still," he added, "I should think you had a pretty comfortable job." "Oh, I've had worse," answered the young man. '' There's nothing much to do except potter about the shop, dust and arrange the wares, and sometimes attend a sale. M'Ewan was good enough to tell me the other day that I was the first assistant he had ever had who could tell a genuine antique when he came across it." "I saw such a lovely turquoise pendant in your shop window when 1 I passed the other day, Mr Goring," said Olive, breaking in upon the conversation for the first time*. "I just love turquoises, and if I were rich I should have bought that pendant then and there." "I know the one you mean; it's a beauty,'' replied Goring. ' ' Why, the setting alone is a triumph of craftsmanship, while the stones are perfect. I tell you," he added, enthusiastically, "they don't put the workmanship into things in these days that they did when that pendant was made." '' Is it very old, then I' ' asked Olive, whose interest in the turquoise pendant was highly pleasing to the young man. '' A hundred years at least, ' he said. I '' I say, Miss Boyd, next time you 're passing, come in and I'll show it to j you." ■■•...-,

"Thanks very much, I will," replied the girl.

At that moment another head appeared above the wall, and a second young man, smoking a Turkish cigarette in a long, thin, amber holder, looked over.

'' Ah, good evening, Mr Wheeler. And what's the latest sensation'?" said Peter Holgate, genially. Phillip Wheeler was a reporter on the staff of the "Evening Record," and shared a sitting room with Goring in the house next door to The Retreat. The fact that he investigated and described most of the sensational news for which the "Record" was notorious

The Retreat, as Peter Holgate had named his little creeper-clad house, was situated in the old part of Clapham. It was one of the few quaint and picturesque corners of the great suburb which had as yet been uninvaded by the modern pretentious "villa." The group of semi-detached houses of which The Retreat was one, was enclosed from the outer world by high walls of mossgrown brick, mellowed into warm, rich tints by age. In this aptly-named and cosy little home old Peter Holgate passed the evening of his days with his ward, Olive Boyd, in quiet, unostentatious comfort. Olive's father had been Holgate 's partner in a small country firm of builders and contractors, and when, just before his death, Mr Boyd asked Holgate to take care of his only child, the old man' readily consented. Thus it came about that Olive, when 19 years of age, left the convent school in Brussels where she had been educated and came to keep house for her guardian, who by this time had- retired from business and settled down at Clapham in his own house. Here the old man spent the greater part of his time pottering about his garden, attending to his duties as vicar's warden at the parish church, and indulging in little acts of charity and benevolence which he fondly but erroneously believed were concealed from his pretty ward.

For some minutes after the green-fly episode, peace and quietness reigned in the garden once more; then suddenly the charm was broken by the loud barking of a dog, mingled with the angry spitting of a cat. As Olive looked up to see what was happening there was a rush of white along the top of the wall and a rough-haired terrier, in his eagerness to get at the kitten, lost his balance and fell sprawling at the girl's feet, while its quarry clung frantidally to the brickwork.

"Spot! Spot, you villain! Spot!" came an angry voice from the next garden, and a young man's head appeared above the wall." But the dog was already prevented from renewing the attack; Olive, despite his bristling neck-hairs and furious growls, held him securely by his collar.

Seeing the kitten's predicament—it was clinging to the edge of the wall b) r its claws —the young man took hold of it gently and lifted it to a place of safety. Then lie turned a blushing face to Olive.

"I—l 'in awfully sorry," he stammered, apologetically. "Spot slipped hie leash and was away before I could stop him." "it's all right," replied Olive; "he didn't get at the kitten!" "Would you mind handing him up to me? I'll teach him to chase kittens!"

"Oh, please don't punish him," pleaded the girl, as she lifted the unrepentant Spot up to his owner. "After all, he's not much more than a puppy." Before the other had time to reply, Peter Holgate joined his ward. "Good evening, Mr Goring. What's the trouble?''

"My dog has been chasing Miss Boyd's kitten,'' replied Goring. '' I was going to whack him for it, only " "Olive asked you not to, eh?" interrupted the old gentleman, with a smile. "Well, she's quite right. It's not fair to punish an animal for obeying its natural, instincts." "He shall be let off this time—because Miss Boyd wishes it," said Goring, with a glance in the direction of the girl. "But if he does it again I shall have to teach him better man-* ners."

The old man, having finished his watering, gazed up at the, sky and made

was well known to the neighbours, j many of whom regarded the somewhat ■ dandified young fellow with a certain j amount of awe and admiration; ftenee | the old man's jocular greeting. j

one respect," remarked the journalist, adroitly turning the conversation; "both frequently have blue eyes which rarelv remain that colour as thev grow older."

The reporter smiled, but did not answer; whereupon Peter Holgate, who dearly loved a friendly gibe at the young journalist, albeit he was one of his most consistent readers, ventured upon a further sally. "Gome," he said, "you don't mean to say you're at a loss for another sensation to foist upon the 'Record's' gullible followers?" "Hasn't there been anything in the paper lately, sir?" asked Wheeler, with apparent innocence. "Not for three days," replied the other, triumphantly. "No? Well, I'm glad you read the 'Record' with such regularity as to have observed that," riposted Wheeler, with a quiet smile. In view of the scathing allusion to "gullible followers" the reply was a neat one, and the old fellow laughed at his own discomfiture. "It's a shame of them to expect you to make mysteries, isn't it, Mr Wheeler?" said Olive, in a tone of half-amused sympathy. "It's not so much the making of mysteries as the solving of them that's the difficulty, Miss Boyd!" exclaimed Goring. "Phil's as mad as a wet hen because he can't get to the bottom of that Regent Street robbery. P it wasn't that all the other newspapers—to say nothing of Scotland Yard —are equally baffled, he 'd probably get the sack. It's the tenth crime within twelve months that poor old Phil's been unable to solve." "" i "The tenth! Good gracious!" exclaimed old Holgate. "-And we pay rates and taxes for the police to look after us. But I suppose you're referring to big things like the Duchess of Lingmell's jewels, the Hatton Garden affair, and so on ? " "That's it, sir," replied Goring, with a smile at his chum. "And what is your private opinion on this extraordinary series of crimes, Mr Wheeler?" asked Holgate. Despite his jeering reference to sensations, the old fellow dearly loved a mystery. And there are few of us who do not. '' My opinion,'' replied the journalist, as he fondled Olive's kitten, "is that of all sensible men." "And what may that be?" enquired the other, with obvious interest. "Sensible men refuse to tell," answered Wheeler, whereat the laugh was turned once more against .the old fellow. '' From the little I have read about these crimes, they seem to me to be the work of one man," said Olive, thoughtfully. "Nonsense! " exclaimed her guardian. "One man couldn't do it. ,, <m "Yours is the view of the majority,' I admit, sir," said Wheeler. I "And the majority " began Peter ! Holgate. . . ■ j

At once Olive was interested, and as Goring stood there, watching the girl's clear-cut profile, and remarking to himself the glory of her eyes and the ineffable charm of her something rare smile, there came to him the knowledge which is given but once in a man's lifetime —the knowledge that he has found the one woman, the Woman of his heart's desire.

And then suddenly he realised that he was but an onlooker and a listener. It was Phil who was holding the girl entranced —Phil, who seldom exerted himself apart from his work, preferring to let others think that he strolled through life, uninterested and uninteresting. | And a thrill of fear ran through Gorjing—not physical fear, but a dread that he was losing his desire. CHAPTER 11. THE MARK ON THE WALL. Frank Goring had never known what it was to be under the spell of any woman before he met Olive Boyd. He had crowded many experiences into his twenty-seven years of life, but not one of these stood him in stead now. As a lad of sixteen he had run away from home, full of the romance and the glamour and magic of the sea; within eighteen months he deserted his ship —disillusioned. Bank clerk, tramp, actor, navvy, farm labourer in Canada, he bad been each in succession, till at last he found himself back in London, only too glad to act as assistant to an old curio dealer in the Clapham Road. Throughout these ten odd years of hardship and adventure, of coming and going, of sunshine and storm, he had seen and experienced the raw, naked ; side of life—the primitive, almost primaeval, conditions of the Far NorthWest, the seductive, languorous attrac- , tions of the South. Yet no woman could point a finger and assert that she once held him captive. But now some new power had possession of him —a power that altered his entire outlook on life, that sprang from his acquaintance with Olive Boyd. It had come upon him craftily, insidiously, till suddenly, while he stood talking commonplaces in a suburban garden, he realised his helplessness. During the days that followed Frank experienced all the exaltation and all the despair of the lover. He knew that for him there was now no other woman in the whole wide world, nor ever would be. He wondered if he were anything to her, if Phillip Wheeler were anything to her, if she herself knew the meaning of love. " The memory of the girl as she appeared to him on that eventful evening was ever present, yet he did not allow it to hinder him in his work. Rather did it spur him on to greater efforts, for he told himself that to propose marriage to a girl on an inadequate salary was unworthy of any man. David M 'Ewan, shrewd and canny Scot that he was, noticed his assistant's new-born zeal and chuckled :to himself as he watched him driving his bargains, appraising his purchases, carry- j ing his successes into the West-end i sale-rooms. I

"is generally mistaken," said Wheeler before the old fellow could finish.

"But surely you have some private theory of your own, Phil?" observed Goring, anxious to draw his friend out. "After all, it's a question of motive, and the motive of these crimes must have been of tremendous importance—to someone."

"Not necessarily," replied Wheeler. "Looking through the window just now I saw Spot chasing Miss Boyd's kitten. Yet, although he might have killed the kitten, his motive was quite innocent and of no importance whatever. What a pretty little thing it is,'' he added, addressing Olive. "Yes," answered the girl. "I'm very fond of it, for its mother was born at my old home."

"Kittens and children are alike in

"Man, but ye're a wonder! "he exclaimed one evening, as Frank recounted how he had snapped up a bit of old Chelsea ware from under the very noses of the experts. "Mebbe one of these fine days I'll find you setting up in opposition." Goring did not reply, for the old fellow had come very near the mark. Instead, he busied himself with the unpacking of the delicate china he had secured, and then set to work to tidy up the shop for the night. K

| When he returned to his lodgings hig brain was busy thinking out ways and means of accomplishing that which his master had suggested, and the sight of Olive iik the garden strengthened his determination to succeed. He had not spoken to her since that other evening, nor did he go down now; but next morning, while leaving to go to work, he met her as she returned from an early stroll on the common, and his step was more buoyant, his heart lighter, as the result of her friendly greeting.. Even the sight of M'Ewan's housekeeper, Martha Pattinson, did not damp his spirits. And Goring used to say that Martha's grim features as she unbolted the side door to him every morning regularly "gave him the dumps." But to-day he passed her with a cheery "Good morning," and went into the shop humming gaily. I "I wonder if Martha was ever in | love?" And he laughed softly at the j thought. For Martha was uncompromisingly ugly and severely taciturn, and her age might be anything between 45 and 70. | And M 'Ewan, too. Had he ever known (the blessing of a woman's love? They were a funny couple, this old curio dealer and his sour-looking' housekeeper. They neither of them ever referred to the past. They lived only for the present; past and future alike did not seem to interest them. | It was strange, Goring thought, as he ! listened to Martha moving about up- ; stairs, that he knew almost as little concerning his employer as he did on the day they first met. It was -the same with Martha. The old newspaper woman across the road had once told him in her. garrulous way that she remembered Martha arriving at the shop one, morning with a little yellow tin box fully thirty years ago. But where she caroo from nobody knew, though Prank ga**v ered that his informant had done h*# utmost to find out. His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Martha , herself * She looked more perturbed than he had ever seen her before. "Mr Goring," she said, coming forward, "I don't know what to do. I've knocked at the master's door and can't get any answer." "I thought he was a bit late this morning," replied Frank, glancing at his watch. ' * But it's nothing to get excited about. He's probably ' overslept himself.'' "Perhaps, but I do not think so, though I did myself and woke up "with a splitting headache." "He'll come down presently," returned the young fellow lightly. "I'd let him have his sleep out." Martha went back, but did not carry out Frank's suggestion, for he heard her knocking at a door and then trying the handle. Apparently she was again unsuccessful in getting .a reply, for after calling out her name in a highpitched voice thrilling with fear she came hurrying back to the shop.

"Dear me! Dear me!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "I'm all of a shake. He won't answer. Whatever shall I dot There's something dreadful happened. Eh, dear me!" "Nonsense!" cried* Prank; but hethought it strange the old fellow should not answer. "Shall I come and see if I can make him hear?"

'' Yes, yes!'' sobbed the woman, and she led the way upstairs. Frank glanced round him with considerable interest, for he had never once been upstairs to the living-rooms. ( He had seen nothing of the house beyond the shop, which ran" right through to the little yard at the back, and the basement where lumber and packing-cases and so on were kept. (To be Continued on Monday.)