Johnny Ludlow, Third Series. Henry Wood
thieves be seeking?
“Shall you call in the police now, ma’am?” asked Cattledon, her tone implying that they ought to have been called in before.
“Yes, I shall,” emphatically replied Miss Deveen.
“Oh!” shrieked Helen, darting in, after making a hasty and impromptu toilet, “look at my new slippers!”
After finishing the ferns last night they had neglected to send the basin away. The slippers were rose-coloured, worked with white flowers in floss silk; and the bits of loose green from the ferns floated over them like green weeds on a pond. Helen had bought them when we were out yesterday.
“My beautiful slippers!” lamented Helen. “I wish to goodness I had not forgotten to take them upstairs. What wicked thieves they must be! They ought to be hung.”
“It’s to know, mum, whether it was thieves,” spoke the cook.
“Why, what else can it have been, cook?” asked Miss Deveen.
“Mum, I don’t pretend to say. I’ve knowed cats do queer things. We’ve two on ’em—the old cat and her kitten.”
“Did you ever know cats unlock a secretary and take out the papers, cook?” returned Miss Deveen.
“Well, no, mum. But, on the other hand, I never knowed thieves break into a house two nights running, and both times go away empty-handed.”
The argument was unanswerable. Unless the thieves had been disturbed on each night, how was it they had taken nothing?
Miss Deveen locked the door upon the room just as it was; and after breakfast sent George to the nearest police-station. Whilst he was gone I was alone in the dining-room, stooping down to hunt for a book in the lowest shelf of the book-case, when Janet Carey came in followed by Cattledon. I suppose the table-cover hid me from them, for Cattledon began to blow her up.
“One would think you were a troubled ghost, shaking and shivering in that way, first upstairs and then down! The police coming!—what if they are? They are not coming after you this time. There’s no money missing now.”
Janet burst into tears. “Oh, aunt, why do you speak so to me? It is as though you believe me guilty!”
“Don’t be a simpleton, Janet,” rebuked Cattledon, in softer tones. “If I did not know you were not, and could not, be guilty, should I have brought you here under Miss Deveen’s roof? What vexes me so much is to see you look as though you were guilty—with your white face, and your hysterics, and your trembling hands and lips. Get a little spirit into yourself, child: the police won’t harm you.”
Catching up the keys from the table, she went out again, leaving Janet sobbing. I stood forward. She started when she saw me, and tried to dry her eyes.
“I am sorry, Miss Carey, that all this bother is affecting you. Why are you so sad?”
“I—have gone through a great deal of trouble lately;—and been ill,” she answered, with hesitation, arresting her tears.
“Can I do anything for you?—help you in any way?”
“You are very kind, Mr. Ludlow; you have been kind to me all along. There’s nothing any one can do. Sometimes I wish I could die.”
“Die!”
“There is so much unhappiness in the world!”
George’s voice was heard in the hall with the policeman. Janet vanished. But whether it was through the floor or out at the door, I declare I did not see then, and don’t quite know to this day.
I and Cattledon were allowed to assist at the conference between Miss Deveen and the policeman: a dark man with a double chin and stripes on his coat-sleeve. After hearing particulars, and examining the room and the mess it was in, he inquired how many servants were kept, and whether Miss Deveen had confidence in them. She told him the number, and said she had confidence in all.
He went into the kitchen, put what questions he pleased to the servants, looked at the fastenings of the doors generally, examined the outside of the window and walked about the garden. George called him Mr. Stone—which appeared to be his name. Mr. Stone had nothing of a report to bring Miss Deveen.
“It’s one of two things, ma’am,” he said. “Either this has been done by somebody in your own house; or else the neighbours are playing tricks upon you. I can’t come to any other conclusion. The case is peculiar, you see, in-so-far as that nothing has been stolen.”
“It is very peculiar indeed,” returned Miss Deveen.
“I should have said—I should feel inclined to say—that the culprit is some one in the house–”
“It’s the most unlikely thing in the world, that it should have been any one in the house,” struck in Miss Deveen, not allowing him to go on. “To suspect any of the young people who are visiting me, would be simply an insult. And my servants would no more play the trick than I or Miss Cattledon would play it.”
“Failing indoors then, we must look out,” said Mr. Stone, after listening patiently. “And that brings up more difficulty, ma’am. For I confess I don’t see how they could get the windows and shutters open from the outside, and leave no marks of damage.”
“The fact of the window and shutters being wide open each morning, shows how they got out.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Stone; “but it does not show how they got in. Of course there’s the possibility that they managed to secrete themselves in the house beforehand.”
“Yesterday I thought that might have been the case,” remarked Miss Deveen; “to-day I do not think so. It seems that, after what occurred, my servants were especially cautious to keep their doors and windows not only closed, but bolted all day yesterday, quite barring the possibility of any one’s stealing in. Except, of course, down the chimneys.”
Mr. Stone laughed. “They’d bring a lot of soot with ’em that way.”
“And spoil my hearthrugs. No; that was not the way of entrance.”
“Then we come to the question—did one of the servants get up and admit ’em?”
“But that would be doubting my servants still, you see. It really seems, Mr. Stone, as though you could not help me.”
“Before saying whether I can or I can’t, I should be glad, ma’am, to have a conversation with you alone,” was the unexpected answer.
So we left him with Miss Deveen. Cattledon’s stays appeared to resent it, for they creaked alarmingly in the hall, and her voice was tart.
“Perhaps the man wants to accuse you or me, Mr. Johnny!”
We knew later, after the upshot came, what it was he did want; and I may as well state it at once. Stone had made up his mind to watch that night in the garden; but he wished it kept secret from every one, except Miss Deveen herself, and he charged her strictly not to mention it. “How will it serve you, if, as you say, they do not come in that way?” she had asked. “But the probability is they come out that way,” he answered. “At any rate, they fling the doors open, and I shall be there to drop upon them.”
Janet Carey grew very ill as the day went on. Lettice offered to sit up with her, in case she wanted anything in the night. Janet had just the appearance of somebody worn out.
We went to bed at the usual time, quite unconscious that Mr. Stone had taken up his night watch in the summer-house at the end of the garden. The nights were very bright just then; the moon at about the full. Nothing came of it: neither the room nor the window was disturbed.
“They scented my watch,” remarked the officer in private next morning to Miss Deveen. “However, ma’am, I don’t think it likely you will be troubled again. Seeing you’ve put it into our hands, they’ll not dare to risk further annoyance.”
“I suppose not—if they know it,” dubiously spoke Miss Deveen.
He shook his head. “They know as much as that, ma’am. Depend upon it