Chapter 1

"MYSTERIOUS MRS. ARNE."

For a long time past Mallow had been turning over in his mind the scheme of a new novel upon which he was most anxious to commence work. But now that Mrs. Carson had called upon him to aid her to the solution of the many mysteries by which she seemed to be surrounded, he was obliged to put all thought of it from him. With all the energy he could command he threw himself into the business on hand. Here was a romance in real life surpassing the most elaborate inventions of fiction. It was his task to round it off to a satisfactory finish. And this was not easy. Of actual fact he had but little to guide him. Neither could he hope to extract much from those chiefly concerned. He was forced to grope his way in well-nigh utter darkness. Only by the light of fresh material yet to be gathered would he be able to use to advantage that which was already at his command. And of procuring such fresh material he saw but small chance at present. Here, as in most things, it was the first step which was so important. He inclined to think that two heads were better than one. From Sandbeach he had written at some length to his friend Aldean, telling him all that had taken place there, and how he had shifted Olive's troubles (so far as he was able) on to his own more capable shoulders. The result was that Aldean came up to London almost immediately, and presented himself at Mallow's chambers in Half-Moon Street, full of curiosity and anxiety to assist in the crusade against Carson and Company. In substantiation of his belief in the old proverb, Mallow accepted his offer. Here was another head, at all events, if not an exceptionally brilliant one. And so Aldean took up his quarters at his house in Kensington, and prepared himself for an exciting time.

"It is good of you, Jim," said Mallow, at their first meeting. "I know you would much rather be at Casterwell playing with Amaryllis in the shade, according to your habit."

"Amaryllis comes to London next week," replied Jim, with something of a blush. "Mrs. Purcell has invited her."

"Oh, in that case your patience will not be put to so great a test. Has Mrs. Purcell arrived?"

"Yes, she is in town now, settled in a friend's house which she has taken over for the winter. Miss Slarge showed me a long Johnsonian missive, in which Mrs. Purcell stated she was 'elevating her shingle' in Guelph Road, Campden Hill."

"And how, may I ask, did Mrs. Purcell translate 'elevating her shingle' into English?"

"Oh, I can't remember the old lady's long-winded sentences, but she is now in Guelph Road. Miss Slarge, with Miss Ostergaard, comes up next week. Of course, Mrs. Purcell knows nothing of Mrs. Carson's matrimonial troubles, or I dare say she would have asked her too."

"She must ask her," said Mallow, hastily. "I shall call on Mrs. Purcell, and explain the circumstances. It will never do for Mrs. Carson to be left alone in her troubles."

"Take care, Mallow; your interest in Mrs. Carson may be misconstrued."

"Oh, rubbish! Mrs. Purcell is a woman of sense, I am sure. So long as I keep my own counsel, she can say nothing. I want Mrs. Carson to revert, as much as possible, to the condition of affairs before this unhappy marriage. When all this mystery is cleared up, she will be able to start fresh."

"That will depend, of course, mainly upon the identity of this man Carson," said Aldean.

"Nothing of the sort," contradicted Mallow, sharply, but wincing all the same; "whatever he is she is his wife--there's no getting past that fact."

"She may get a divorce. Carson's gone off with that girl."

"Quite so; but he has not so far treated her with cruelty, and--well, you know the idiotcy of the D.C. For Heaven's sake, Jim, drop Mrs. Carson."

"All right," assented Aldean. "I see your nerves are jumpy on that subject. Let's get to the matters in hand. About this Carson mess; what do you think of it?"

"A big business, Jim; a nasty painful business, with a strong element of criminality it it. Of course it is all very vague and confused on the surface, but beneath, I am convinced, there is a very orderly and well-constructed conspiracy progressing."

Mallow sat down and lighted his pipe. "Now, let us look at the facts," he said. "There can be no doubt that Semberry forced that girl on Mrs. Carson as a spy. Carson, too, must have known her before he came to Casterwell, or he would not have been meeting her on the quiet so soon after she came there. She overheard my conversation with her mistress in the sitting-room of the hotel (unfortunately it was not till I was about to leave that I noticed she had left the bedroom door ajar, or I would have closed it). However, she lost no time in reporting what she had heard to 49, Poplar Street, which, you understand, is the same address that Drabble gave me as his own. That, I consider, brings him into the business. Then she bolted to join Carson in Florence; that I think is proved by the envelope which I found in the grate of her bedroom. These are the main facts."

"And you really think that Drabble is in the swindle?"

"I do, from the fact of that address, and also from this wrist-button turning up; so far as we know, he could only have got it from Carson. That would seem to show that he knew Carson somewhere before he came to Casterwell. Presents argue a certain degree of intimacy."

"That is one view," said Jim, quickly, "but there is another. If Carson is a fraud, you may be sure that it was the real man who was murdered in Athelstane Place. The sandal-wood scent forms a link between the true and the false."

"Well, admitting that, even then the wrist-button must have passed through the false Carson's hands to reach Drabble. We have nothing to lead us to suppose that the doctor had anything to do with the murder."

"Humph! The papers said, you remember, that only a surgeon could have amputated the right hand so neatly."

"That is a wild theory," said Mallow. "Let us stick to the facts. Whoever Carson may be, you forget we have yet to prove him an impostor. The one thing we are sure of is that Clara Trall was a spy."

"Do you intend questioning Semberry about her?"

"No, that would put him on his guard at once. I shall go to Amelia Street, and see this Mrs. Arne."

"The same thing applies to her, surely?"

"No. I shall merely call on Mrs. Carson's behalf to inform her that Clara left her mistress's service without warning of any kind, and ask her if she can throw any light on her eccentric behaviour. It is quite natural Mrs. Carson should wish to know. I shall thus throw the onus of any explanation on her."

"She will only lie to you. She may not even do that,--probably she will express her very great regret, and confess her inability to understand it."

"Well, of course, that is probable. I must chance it. She may let fall something of value."

Aldean put on his hat and coat. "So you intend to begin with this clue?" he asked dubiously.

"Well, I think it is the most likely to bear fruit."

"And what about the murder?" asked Aldean.

Mallow pointed to a neat pile of newspaper cuttings. "I am refreshing my memory on that point. But, for the present, I think I shall leave it alone. We have not yet anything sufficiently strong to connect Carson with it. That sandal-wood is not enough. I believe in going slowly and relying on facts only."

"Well, old man, good-bye and good luck," said Lord Aldean. "See you again soon;" and he took himself off to transact some small business of his own.

The same afternoon Mallow dressed himself smartly and strolled down to Kensington through the park. Without any difficulty he found Amelia Street. It proved to be in the centre of a fashionable locality, and its inhabitants were evidently people of wealth. As he mounted the steps of No. 30 he could not help wondering at Mrs. Arne's connection with the very shady matter he had in hand. For the moment the clue did not look promising.

"Is Mrs. Arne at home?" he asked the footman who came to the door.

"Mrs. Arne, sir?" said the man with a stare; "I know no one of that name, sir."

Mallow felt a sudden shock of surprise at the unexpectedness of the answer. "But this is Mrs. Arne's house, surely?" he asked hastily.

"No, sir," replied the man, "Mr. Dacre lives here."

"Is Mr. Dacre in?" demanded Laurence, after a few moment's reflection.

"He is not, sir; Mr. Dacre is at present out of town, sir. Mrs. Dacre is at home, sir."

"In that case, please give her my card, and ask her if she will be so good as to see me for a few moments."

The footman departed, and shortly returning conducted Mallow upstairs to a magnificently furnished drawing-room, where he was received by a pretty, though vulgar-looking woman, shrill of speech and horribly over-dressed. At a glance Mallow guessed she had become possessed of unlimited cash late in life. Mr. Dacre had probably made a fortune in the rapid manner which is characteristic of our latter days, and his wife was now in the throes of acclimatization to her altered circumstances. In all directions there was copious evidence of a huge banking-account.

"Mr. Mallow," said Mrs. Dacre, assuming a dignity which suited her not at all, and looking at his card through an eye-glass.

"Yes, I have taken the liberty of calling upon you to ask you if you know anything of a Mrs. Arne who lived here."

Mrs. Dacre looked at him in surprise. "I do, and I do not know Mrs. Arne. She is hardly an acquaintance of mine; I only know her as a dressmaker."

"A dressmaker?" repeated Mallow, with a gasp.

"She is not really even that," continued the voluble lady--"pray be seated Mr. Mallow. Mrs. Arne is, in fact, a person who goes out sewing. She was recommended to me as an intelligent needlewoman by one of my friends. As I wished some costumes altered, I employed her for a few weeks."

"Is she here now, Mrs. Dacre?"

"Oh dear no. She finished her work, and I dismissed her some weeks ago."

"Do you happen to have her address?"

"No, indeed, I have not. What should I do with such a person's address. I engaged the woman; she did my bidding; I dismissed her. I am not likely ever to see her again. May I ask (this with increasing stateliness) if this person is a friend of yours?"

"No, I have not even seen her," replied Mallow, hastily; "but a lady friend of mine in the country requires a maid, and she heard that Mrs. Arne had one for whom she wished to find a situation."

Mrs. Dacre grew scarlet with anger. "Absurd--ridiculous!" she burst out. "Why, Mrs. Arne was quite a common person; clever with her needle, I admit, and quite respectful. But the idea of her recommending a maid!"

"Nevertheless she did so," said Mallow, taking a delight in touching upon the weak spot of the purse-proud little lady. "My friend wrote to Mrs. Arne at this address, and received this reply." As Mrs. Dacre's eyes, through the medium of her double glasses, fell on the letter which Mallow placed in her hand, she almost screeched.

"My own paper," she gasped, "the hussy! she must have stolen it. Clara Trall?--she recommends Clara Trall, a creature of whom I have never heard as a good maid--a maid! Oh! and she herself a sewing-woman too; a common, vulgar dressmaker. Mr. Mallow, Mr. Mallow, what are the lower orders coming to?"

"That is a very large question, Mrs. Dacre. At present, perhaps we had better confine ourselves to this one. Do you happen to know a Major Semberry?"

"No, I never heard of him."

"Did Mrs. Arne ever mention him?"

"Not that I know of. But, of course, I spoke but little to her. I will say she knew how to hold her tongue. Did Major Semberry know her?"

"I believe so. At all events, he gave my friend this address as Mrs. Arne's."

"And he a major too! Upon my word, it doesn't sound at all respectable. 'Enry (she lost her h's simultaneously with her temper)--'Enry shall know of this. Mrs. Arne recommending maids from our 'ouse on my writing-paper."

Mallow shrugged his shoulders. He had got all the information he was likely to get, so he prepared to take his leave. Mrs. Dacre was too intent upon her own grievance to attempt to stop him. At the door (whither she followed him) he asked her one more question.

"What was Mrs. Arne like, Mrs. Drace? Can you give me any description of her appearance?"

"A dark, foreign-looking person, with eyes always on the floor, and a tread like a cat. I think she was a foreigner, for all her English. Never, never shall a foreigner enter these doors again."

Mallow bowed himself out, stopping at the door for a word with the smart footman. "Mrs. Arne was in this house for some time, your mistress tells me; how is it you did not tell me so?"

"I've only been here a week, sir," replied the man. Mallow gave him a shilling and went off.

"A dark, foreign-looking woman," he repeated. "Strange again! that is very much like the description the newspapers give of the housekeeper at Athelstane Place. And Semberry knows her, and Carson of Casterwell is Semberry's bosom friend. Humph! I shouldn't be surprised if the murdered man was the real Carson after all!"