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LOVED AND LOST

'THE entrance was effected by that side window, and two men at least must have been engaged in the affair.'

Thus spoke Miss Mary Gleeve to Tyler Tatlock in the drawing-room of the 'Old Manor' at Clepperton-on-Rill, Yorkshire.

Clepperton was a quiet out-of-the-world place, beautifully situated in the heart of a purely rural district, and the Old Manor was an ancient mansion somewhat modernised internally to suit present-day requirements. It was a detached, irregularly-built house, standing far back from the road, and surrounded with charming grounds.

Tatlock had been sent for to investigate a rather uncommon burglary, and at the same moment there lay up-stairs in a semi-darkened room, silent and marble-like, the mortal remains of a lady who had turned the allotted span of life. She had long been ill, and had passed away after suffering and a long period of partial coma, from which all the skill of her physicians had been powerless to arouse her. This was Lady Gleeve, relict of Sir Henry Gleeve, a wealthy tradesman, who had been Mayor for five consecutive years of the borough of Clepperton, and had received knighthood during the distribution of Birthday honours in the last year of his mayoralty. He did not live long to enjoy his well-earned distinction and repose. He had but one child, a daughter, who was ten years old at the time of her father's death. Sir Henry left everything he died possessed of to his widow for her sole and absolute use, unless she should marry again, in which event two-thirds of the property were to be held in trust for the benefit of his daughter when she came of age.

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Helen Gleeve was a very pretty and strong-minded girl, who did not get on very well with her mother, who was an imperious, unreasoning kind of woman of very humble origin. Sir Henry Gleeve had commenced life in a lowly position, and while still a struggling young man met and fell in love with a young woman who occupied the position of upper housemaid in a gentleman's family. Gleeve married her, and she was destined to become Lady Gleeve. Her husband had never lost his affection for her, and had the greatest faith in her judgment and, as he was fond of thinking, her 'good common sense.'

Unfortunately, the views of Helen Gleeve and her mother did not coincide, and when the girl was still lacking a few months of being nineteen she took her fate in her hands and married Reginald Scott, a well-educated but poor young man, a son of an old East Indian officer, who had had a big family, small income, and years of hard struggling to make both ends meet. Nevertheless, he had managed to give his children a good education, and Reginald had been three years at Cambridge, where he took his M.A. degree. Strangely enough, this young man was Lady Gleeve's pet aversion. She made no secret of the fact that 'she couldn't bear him.' He was forbidden her house, and warned what the pains and penalties would be if he dared to persist in making love to pretty Helen. In spite of this he did dare, and one day Helen went off with him, and they became man and wife. It was romantic, of course, but they were destined to know many hard, bitter days of struggle against poverty and misfortune.

Lady Gleeve vowed she would never forgive her daughter. 'She has gone from my house,' she said, 'and I will tear her out of my heart,' and the amiable lady did. But, having done that, there was a void, a waste, a hollow; she felt her loneliness, she yearned for companionship, so she advertised for a young lady as 'a companion,' and got one. It ended in her adopting this young woman legally. She drew up a will herself, cancelling all former wills, had it properly attested, and stowed it away in a strong box, | | 73 which was kept in a sort of lumber-room. She did not like lawyers, and never had anything to do with them if she could help it. Hence the reason she made her own will and kept it herself. A previous will which had been prepared by a lawyer left everything to her daughter Helen. When Lady Gleeve made her second will she did not destroy the first, and the two kept each other company in the strong box in the lumber-room at the Old Manor.

Lady Gleeve lay dying, not yet physically dead, but with a dead mind. And one night when she was in this state, and a drowsy nurse watched, and the night light flickered, a burglary was committed at the house. The lumber-room was entered, the strong box opened, and Lady Gleeve's second will carried off, together with an old-fashioned gold repeater watch and some rather valuable antique silver spoons. These things were in the box with the wills, and the burglar or burglars did not go to any other part of the house, but confined themselves to that particular room. Lady Gleeve, of course, knew nothing of the robbery, and thirty-six hours later the undertaker was measuring her for her coffin.

Miss Mary Gleeve, the adopted daughter, had thus to bear a double blow; and it does not necessarily imply that she was not concerned about her foster-mother's death because she betrayed keen anxiety about the robbery; for, if that second will could not be recovered, how was she going to substantiate her claim to the beautiful old Manor House property and a snug fortune? There was the first will, which had been legally prepared, still in existence, whereby all the property passed to Helen Gleeve, and the second will, which cancelled that, and had been drawn up by Lady Gleeve herself, was gone—perhaps destroyed.

The situation was a heartrending one, and Miss Mary Gleeve, by the advice of a gentleman who was paying his addresses to her, placed herself in communication with the renowned Tyler Tatlock. And he, in compliance with a pressing request, sped from London by the fastest train of the day, and had a long interview with the adopted girl.

As already stated, the Old Manor was a large, rambling, | | 74 detached house. The so-called lumber-room, which as a matter of fact was a well-furnished chamber, was filled with a good deal of superfluous but valuable furniture, nick-nacks, pictures, some bronzes, a rather good statuette or two, bric-"à"-brac of all kinds, articles de vertu, &c. Except as a treasure store-place the room was not otherwise used. It was lighted by two windows, one at the side overlooking an orchard, the other at one end, which commanded a wide panoramic sweep of country of great beauty. It should be mentioned that the room was situated in the angle of a wing. The burglars had effected an entrance by means of the side window; and they had reached the window by rearing a heavy, cumbersome ladder underneath. This ladder had been lugged from the stable-yard at the back of the house. Strangely enough, a large mastiff was kept in this yard, but he had evidently been an accessory to the crime, for though he had not been tampered with in any way he held his peace.

Having listened to all the details that were to be gathered about the burglary, Tatlock went over certain features in the case that were too obvious to be overlooked. Firstly, the burglar or burglars must have had a pretty intimate knowledge of the house; and, secondly, their primary object was to steal the second will, which gave Miss Mary Gleeve the property. It was this aspect of the case which removed it from commonplaceness and pointed to something very much like a conspiracy.

Tatlock interviewed James, the groom—a very ordinary specimen of his kind; while 'Thetis,' the noble mastiff, was a very extraordinary specimen of his kind. He was a magnificent brute, of immense weight and strength, with enormous jaws. The stable-yard was at the back of the house, and enclosed by a high wall. 'Thetis' was allowed to run loose in this yard all night. The ladder which had been used for the burglary was taken from the yard, where it was kept hanging horizontally underneath a shed. James the groom slept over the stables. The coachman slept in the house. James heard nothing in the night. The dog | | 75 made no noise. Yet the burglar had got over the wall—for the stable-yard door was kept locked at night—had taken down the ladder, passed it over the wall, and all the time the dog remained silent. James averred that when he came down at six o'clock the animal was as lively as ever, and showed not the slightest symptoms of having been drugged. How was it, then, that such a formidable watch-dog refrained from doing his duty? There was but one explanation of this, according to Tatlock's way of looking at it, and that was: the burglar and 'Thetis' were old chums. That was a point of probability which Tatlock made the most of. At first sight circumstances suggested that James the groom might have had a finger in the pie, but after his interview with him Tatlock felt convinced that the fellow was perfectly innocent. His intelligence was not of a very high order. He was a country bumpkin—too stupid to have concealed all traces of his guilt had he been guilty.

Another point on which Tatlock formed a decided opinion was that of the robbery of the watch and spoons. His idea was that the room was entered for one purpose, and one purpose only—namely, to steal the will; but the cupidity of the burglar was aroused by the sight of the spoons and watch, and he took them. A very critical examination of the ground, which was soft owing to recent rains, led Tatlock to another conclusion; namely, only one man had committed the burglary. On the lawn, where the ladder was lying underneath the window, where there was a flower-bed, and right up to the wall of the stable-yard were very distinct traces of hob-nailed shoes. The footprints were distinctive, inasmuch as from one of the soles several nails were missing. The prints indicated a large boot—a large boot suggested a big man—a big man would have muscular strength, and could have managed to have carried the ladder unaided. This feat would have been impossible to a little, weak man, but certainly not beyond the powers of a powerful one.

Having mentally argued out these various points, Tatlock set to work practically. His chief aim, of course, was the | | 76 recovery of the lost will, whereby Miss Mary Gleeve was the heiress. Failing that, there was nothing to prevent Mrs. Reginald Scott laying claim to her late mother's property under the original will. Tatlock's first step was to deter-mine by actual experiment if a strong man by his unaided efforts could get the ladder over the stable-yard wall, rear it against the side of the house, and then, having done with it, lay it down on the lawn. To this end the services of a navvy working on a branch railway, ten miles off, were secured. He stood six feet high in his stockings, measured forty-two inches round the chest, and weighed a little over thirteen stones. He was a powerful man, and he succeeded in carrying out the experiment with comparative ease. This was one point proved.

The next step was that James the groom received instructions to creep up to the stable-yard after dark, mount on to the wall stealthily, and as soon as he heard Thetis, the dog, move, to speak softly to him, and then, if the dog did not declare for war, to lower himself down into the yard. James did not readily lend himself to this little service. Although perfectly familiar with the dog, he was not quite sure if Thetis would consider he was justified in allowing even James to enter the stable-yard at night by getting over the wall. Another fear that troubled him was that if he succeeded he might be accused of the robbery. On that score Tatlock reassured him, and the test was carried out, while Tatlock remained at the safe side of the wall. When James reached the top the huge dog sniffed, then uttered a low, deep, menacing growl. A word from the familiar voice, however, and Thetis showed every manifestation of delight, offering no opposition whatever to James's descent into the yard; but as soon as the door was opened, and Tatlock took a few steps forward, there was a rumpus, and had James not interfered, and interfered forcibly too, Tyler Tatlock might have provided a job for an undertaker and a tombstone merchant. Thus were two points settled, and the lines to run upon were pretty clearly indicated.

Clepperton itself was a town of some importance, and | | 77 municipally it embraced Clepperton-on-Rill, Upper Clepperton, and Marsh Clepperton, which was a very small hamlet, with not more than a couple of hundred inhabitants. Clepperton-on-Rill was of much greater importance. It had a parish church, and numbered about four thousand inhabitants. The majority of them were engaged in agricultural pursuits. A paper mill on the Rill gave employment to nearly a hundred, and there was a very good percentage of country gentry. It need scarcely be said, perhaps, that out of four thousand people there was a residue of loafers, though, with some exceptions, the worst crime that could be charged against them was an undue love of beer, and a constitutional laziness which caused them to prefer idleness to honest work.

Amongst the exceptions was a notorious character named Joseph Waruble, but locally referred to as 'Ginger Joe,' the sobriquet having been conferred upon him on account of his possessing a mop-like head of fiery red hair. He was a big, hulking, powerful fellow, a native of the village, but who had been a thorn in its side nearly the whole of his thirty-five years of life. Poaching had an irresistible fascination for him, and he had suffered various terms of imprisonment, and had done one stretch of two years' hard labour for having severely bashed a gamekeeper who suddenly came upon him as he was setting a trap for partridge. By trade Joe was a bricklayer, and a good one when he liked to work; and as he had periodical fits of virtue, he did work now and again. Curiously enough, Lady Gleeve had interested herself much in the man, who had a wife, a wee, delicate little creature, about half his weight, and it was a redeeming feature in Ginger Joe's character that he treated his wife with extraordinary tenderness, and evinced an unchanging fondness for her. She was clever with her needle, and went occasionally to the houses of the gentry to do sewing. She was frequently employed at the Rectory, and more frequently at the Old Manor. Lady Gleeve had also given Joe a good deal of work. He had practically rebuilt the stables for her, had bricked the stable-yard, put down drain-pipes on her land, and did various jobs of that kind.

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Very naturally Ginger Joe came under Tyler Tatlock's observation. He fitted in somehow with the detective's theory of the kind of man likely to have committed the robbery. He had prodigious strength, he knew the Old Manor well, and, what was even more to the point, he and Thetis, the big mastiff; were churns. Practical evidence was furnished of this. By Tatlock's advice Miss Gleeve sent for Joe to come and take up a drain in the stable-yard, which was stopped up. During the operation Tatlock watched him, and noticed that Thetis displayed great affection for him, and the man seemed just as fond of the dog.

Some days later Tatlock, in company with the head constable, waited on Ginger Joe, and demanded to know where he was on the night of September 18. That was the night of the robbery.

Joe tried to shirk the question—he prevaricated, he dodged, he shuffled, and endeavoured by every means within the grasp of his intellect to keep out of the net which was being spread for him. At last he declared that he had been at the 'Dun Cow' pub. until closing time, and then had gone straight home and to bed, as he had partaken of more beer than he could comfortably carry. Unfortunately for his story it was soon proved that on that particular night he had not been at the 'Dun Cow' at all. Being thus discredited, he was promptly arrested on suspicion of having been concerned in the burglary at the Old Manor. Having got him in custody, a search was made at his cottage, and resulted in the discovery of a heavy pair of hob-nailed boots. From the sole of one of these boots several nails were missing. It corresponded exactly with the footprints in the garden and on the flower-bed of the Old Manor.

The finding of the boots stimulated the searchers to increased effort, and places that had not been dreamed of before were now examined, as it was thought probable the silver spoons might be somewhere about, and sure, enough, in a hole under the eaves of the thatch there were the stolen spoons and the gold watch, enveloped in a piece of an old mackintosh, which was covered with a strip of dirty canvas.

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The chances against the things being discovered were a thousand to one, nor would they have been save for the fatal boots.

With such clear evidence against him, it was impossible for Ginger Joe to wriggle out of the net that had been cast about for his taking, and now occurred an astounding thing. He was pressed to tell where the stolen will was, but for a time preserved a dogged silence. There were things working in his mind, however, for, ludicrous as it may seem, Joe was mightily hurt at being considered a thief. To snare part-ridges and pheasants, hares and rabbits, was not wrong in his opinion. Nor did he think it was much to his discredit to bash a gamekeeper now and again; but when it came to a question of being accused of house-breaking, of being a common thief, his pride was hurt, his 'honour' wounded, and, unable to restrain himself, he charged the Rev. William Arles with having prompted him to, and bribed him to, commit the deed; but he confessed he was only commissioned to steal the will. But, yielding to a sudden weakness, he snapped up the gold watch and spoons. The temptation overcame him. Immediately after, however, he regretted it, and intended some day when the affair had blown over to return the watch and spoons anonymously.

At first it was thought that his accusation of the Rev. Mr. Arles was the result of a distraught mind. The Rev. William Arles was the curate at the parish church, a position he had held for three years. He was a young man of melancholy temperament, but much respected. He had written a volume of really charming poetry, and was also responsible for some very popular hymns. It seemed, indeed, like madness to suppose that he could have been guilty of prompting a burglary. The story was preposterous; it was the invention of a lunatic's brain. But in a few days con-science smote the Rev. Mr. Arles, and, with brain on fire and heart breaking, he made a confession, which in substance was as follows:

He had been at Cambridge with Reginald Scott, and the two young men had become attached friends. At a later period Arles met and fell desperately in love with pretty | | 80 Helen Gleeve. She was a dream to him—his star. He wrote poetry about her; he worshipped the very ground she walked upon, but though he knew he could get her mother's sanction to his wooing he lacked the courage to make his passion known. Then he discovered that his college friend Scott was courting Helen, so he buried his secret in his heart, shut his sorrow up, and resolved that no living woman should ever blur the image of Helen as far as he was concerned. Being a constant visitor at the Old Manor, and a friend of Lady Gleeve, who regarded him as her spiritual comforter, he knew the family affairs—knew about the wills, and the strange animosity the mother cherished against her own daughter. And he knew also that his idol, Mrs. Scott, was living with her husband in poverty, while a usurper was to get that which by every moral right was hers. At last the unforgiving mother lay a-dying; then it was he conceived the strange, mad idea of bribing Ginger Joe to steal the second will in order that Helen—the woman he had worshipped—and the friend he honoured should be benefited. It was a curious, quixotic thing to do; but, whatever wickedness there was in the act, no one could say it arose from sordid motives.

For many and many a day the sad, true story was the sensation of Clepperton, and few there were who were not filled with a great sympathy for the miserable young man who had loved and lost, and committed a crime—not to benefit himself, but the woman who could never be aught to him, and would know nothing of his deed. So strong was the sympathy that when the curate was put on trial at the sessions for his offence a very light sentence indeed was given; but to such a sensitive mind the disgrace was fatal, and he passed to a madhouse. Ginger Joe also had his sympathisers, and had it not been for the watch and spoons he would have been let down easily. As it was, he had to submit to twelve months' hard labour.

Of course the will was restored, and the adopted daughter entered into possession of that which the law allowed her under the will. It is to her credit that she offered to settle a by no means inconsiderable sum on Mrs. Scott, but it was refused.