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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The 'Martin Hewitt - Complete Series' presents a remarkable collection of 25 mystery stories that epitomize Arthur Morrison's innovative approach to the detective genre in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Employing a keen eye for detail and a conversational literary style, Morrison invites readers into the intricate labyrinth of crime-solving led by his astute protagonist, Martin Hewitt. The series masterfully intertwines urban settings with psychological depth, reflecting the anxieties and moral complexities of Victorian society. Each story not only serves as an engaging whodunit but also offers a commentary on human nature, social norms, and the nascent detective fiction landscape, influenced by contemporaries like Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Morrison, an established literary figure and journalist, paved the way for the evolution of detective fiction through his portrayal of realistic and relatable characters, departing from the sensationalism of earlier works. His experiences in London's East End, where he wrote about the human condition and crime, may have profoundly shaped the nuanced narratives within this collection. Morrison's immersion in the changing dynamics of society lent credibility and richness to his characters and plots, establishing him as a precursor to modern detective storytelling. Readers seeking a comprehensive exploration of early detective narratives should not miss the 'Martin Hewitt - Complete Series.' This illustrated volume is essential for aficionados of classic crime fiction, as it offers not only well-crafted mysteries but also insight into the formative years of the genre. Morrison's adept use of suspense and character development challenges readers to engage their deductive reasoning, making this collection a timeless treasure in the literary canon. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A comprehensive Introduction outlines these selected works' unifying features, themes, or stylistic evolutions. - The Author Biography highlights personal milestones and literary influences that shape the entire body of writing. - A Historical Context section situates the works in their broader era—social currents, cultural trends, and key events that underpin their creation. - A concise Synopsis (Selection) offers an accessible overview of the included texts, helping readers navigate plotlines and main ideas without revealing critical twists. - A unified Analysis examines recurring motifs and stylistic hallmarks across the collection, tying the stories together while spotlighting the different work's strengths. - Reflection questions inspire deeper contemplation of the author's overarching message, inviting readers to draw connections among different texts and relate them to modern contexts. - Lastly, our hand‐picked Memorable Quotes distill pivotal lines and turning points, serving as touchstones for the collection's central themes.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Martin Hewitt - Complete Series: 25 Mysteries in One Volume (Illustrated)
Table of Contents
Introduction
This volume gathers the complete Martin Hewitt series—25 detective mysteries by Arthur Morrison—into a single, illustrated edition. Bringing together every case from the author’s four Hewitt collections, it presents the full scope of Morrison’s popular sleuth in one continuous sequence, allowing readers to follow the detective’s working methods and the evolution of his creator’s craft. The purpose is both archival and inviting: to make the entire cycle accessible in a unified form that reflects its original breadth while suiting modern reading habits. Whether approached as a comprehensive reference or as a sustained narrative of investigations, the collection offers a definitive compendium of Hewitt’s exploits.
The contents comprise short stories—self-contained case narratives originally written for periodical publication and later gathered into books. They appear here in their complete sequence from Martin Hewitt, Investigator; Chronicles of Martin Hewitt; Adventures of Martin Hewitt; and The Red Triangle. Each story presents an investigative problem framed by an initial circumstance, pursued through inquiry and analysis, and brought to a reasoned conclusion. The text type is thus firmly within late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century detective fiction, emphasizing episodic structure, brisk pacing, and transparent prose. The “illustrated” presentation evokes the visual dimension that historically accompanied such magazine fiction, complementing the stories’ vivid descriptive clarity.
A unifying feature of the series is its commitment to rational problem-solving. Martin Hewitt favors patient inquiry, practical inference, and attention to everyday details over theatrical display. Morrison’s style is economical and precise, guiding readers through clues that are plainly stated yet artfully arranged. The cases turn on matters such as property, identity, and opportunity, with motives that feel intelligible rather than sensational. The atmosphere balances suspense with composure, and the narrative voice highlights the steady progress of reasoning. As a whole, the collection demonstrates how tightly constructed puzzles can coexist with plausible settings, creating durable examples of the classic case-based mystery.
The stories span a varied landscape of mystery, as reflected in their titles. Readers encounter robberies and jewel intrigues, questions of bullion and wills, disappearances, maritime matters, cryptic mechanisms, and code-related puzzles. The four books—Martin Hewitt, Investigator; Chronicles of Martin Hewitt; Adventures of Martin Hewitt; and The Red Triangle—together trace a broad range of investigative situations without repeating themselves. While the scenes shift between urban and more outlying locales, the milieu is recognizably that of the late Victorian and early Edwardian world, with its legal, commercial, and social frameworks providing credible pressures and opportunities. This breadth underscores Morrison’s versatility within the constraints of the short-story form.
In the history of British detective fiction, these stories hold an important place as polished, magazine-bred mysteries that helped define the case narrative before the later codification of the genre. Morrison, known for his realist instincts, applies a grounded sensibility to investigative fiction, favoring credible procedure and lucid exposition. The series shows how a consistent fictional detective can support diverse problems without reliance on extravagant contrivance. Its significance lies both in craft—fairly presented clues, measured pacing, and satisfying resolutions—and in continuity: together, the 25 pieces constitute a complete portrait of a professional at work, offering a coherent body of detective literature by a single author.
Stylistically, the stories excel in clarity, structural economy, and fairness to the reader. Setups are concise, the progression of inquiry is logical, and the endings arise from evidence rather than surprise for its own sake. Dialogue and description are functional yet evocative, aimed at illuminating facts and relationships relevant to the problem at hand. Misdirection is present but restrained, serving the puzzle rather than obscuring it. The moral texture remains steady: crimes emerge from recognizable human motives and circumstances, and solutions rest on attentive observation and reasoned inference. This consistent method anchors the collection, letting variety of plot flourish within a dependable investigative framework.
Presented as a single, illustrated compendium, the series can be read sequentially to observe Morrison’s sustained craftsmanship, or sampled case by case for particular interests. The visual element enhances the period atmosphere without intruding on the clarity of the prose. For new readers, this arrangement offers an accessible gateway to a foundational detective cycle; for returning readers and researchers, it provides a complete, convenient reference to every Martin Hewitt case. By assembling all twenty-five mysteries together, the volume underscores their collective strengths—ingenuity, lucidity, and realism—and preserves a full, coherent record of Arthur Morrison’s contribution to the classic short-story tradition of crime and detection.
Historical Context
Arthur Morrison (1863–1945), born in Poplar in London’s East End, built the Martin Hewitt cycle within the late Victorian and early Edwardian detective boom fostered by The Strand Magazine (founded 1891 by George Newnes). Martin Hewitt, Investigator appeared in 1894, followed by Chronicles (1895), Adventures (1896), and the later Red Triangle (1903). The series matured alongside Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, especially during the 1893–1901 “Great Hiatus,” when readers sought alternative sleuths. Morrison’s grounding in journalism and urban observation, visible elsewhere in A Child of the Jago (1896), fed his interest in the mechanics of crime, finance, and city life that undergird multiple stories across the Hewitt volumes.
Hewitt’s London is shaped by professionalized policing and bureaucratic modernity: the Metropolitan Police (1829), the Criminal Investigation Department (1878), and Scotland Yard’s fingerprint bureau (1901) mark a transition in investigative practice. Telegraph networks, the General Post Office’s expanding services, and rail timetables made alibis and movements traceable yet exploitable. Legal London—Chancery Lane, the Inns of Court, and the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division—frames cases involving wills, trusts, and commercial disputes. Morrison’s pragmatic detective often works in the gray zone where private inquiry meets public law, reflecting the period’s growth of the legal profession, insurance markets, and the City’s intricate webs of credit and reputation.
The collection engages Britain’s imperial and maritime world, where bullion shipments, diamonds, and naval secrets traveled the same routes as migrants and cargo. The Naval Defence Act of 1889 and the Official Secrets Act of 1889 formalized anxieties about information security that inform stories of codes and coastal intrigue. Wireless experimentation after 1896, Admiralty codebooks, and coastal marshlands evoke a nation guarding sea lanes from the Channel to distant stations. References to South African diamond circuits (Kimberley; De Beers founded 1888) and colonial nodes like the Nicobar Islands situate plots in an empire of extraction and risk, where insurers, shipmasters, and brokers intersect with thieves and informers.
Industrial capitalism and intellectual property disputes form a recurrent backdrop. Britain’s late nineteenth-century engineering firms—Vickers, Armstrong Whitworth, and others—advanced torpedo, ordnance, and metallurgical innovations after the Whitehead torpedo’s breakthrough (1866). The Patents, Designs and Trade Marks Act of 1883, a response to rapid innovation, frames stories about stolen plans, proprietary mechanisms, and industrial espionage. Rural warehouses and barns tied to grain, alcohol, and chemicals invited arson and fraud, while safe-making, lock engineering, and lever systems spurred specialized crimes. Hewitt’s milieu captures the era’s uneasy alliance of ingenuity and opportunism, where workshops, testing sheds, and suburban villas could be as perilous as docks or alleys.
Domestic law and shifting social norms underlie numerous motives and stratagems. The Married Women’s Property Acts (1870, 1882) altered the flow of assets in marriages, while the Matrimonial Causes framework (after 1857) brought elopements, custody disputes, and breach-of-promise suits into public view. Probate practices and contested wills, common in the period’s literature and courts, mirrored a middle class anxious about inheritance and legitimacy. Philanthropy and moral reform shaped debates on child welfare and guardianship. Morrison’s broader oeuvre, informed by close observation of London poverty and respectability politics, supplies the Hewitt tales with realistic pressure points where family reputation, property rights, and sentiment collide with calculation and deceit.
Late Victorian London was intensely cosmopolitan. The docks of the Thames drew sailors from the Caribbean, Africa, and Asia; Soho, Fitzrovia, and Limehouse hosted migrant communities, dealers in curios, and networks of interpreters and pawnbrokers. The 1889 London Dock Strike underscored labor’s new militancy, while merchant shipping knit the metropolis to colonial ports. Morrison situates thefts of cameos, exotic animals or objects, and encounters with foreign visitors within this bustling trade in artifacts and stories. The tales neither deny period xenophobia nor reduce cosmopolitan life to menace; instead they map how misunderstandings, prejudice, and opportunity can catalyze crimes that traverse pawnshops, boarding houses, auction rooms, and waterfront taverns.
Print culture and illustration shaped how readers consumed Hewitt’s cases. Mass literacy following the 1870 Education Act, cheap paper, and shilling volumes sustained The Strand’s serialized mysteries. Editors like George Newnes cultivated a house style of brisk, illustrated case histories; artists such as Sidney Paget helped codify the visual grammar of the gentleman-detective in offices off the Strand, visited by worried clients. Morrison exploited this format’s cadence—compact puzzles, legible clues, and a reporter’s framing—to gather stories into Martin Hewitt, Investigator (1894), Chronicles (1895), Adventures (1896), and The Red Triangle (1903). The illustrated mode reinforced credibility, making technical contrivances, maps, and diagrams part of the reader’s forensic toolkit.
Across the 1890s and into the Edwardian period (Edward VII’s coronation in 1902), technological acceleration and geopolitical unease intensified. Bicycles, early motorcars, and expanding suburban rail altered pursuit and flight; telephone and telegraph compressed time; and espionage fears rose with the Anglo-German naval rivalry. Scotland Yard’s 1901 fingerprint bureau symbolized an epistemic shift from intuition to systematized evidence. Hewitt’s measured professionalism—eschewing melodrama while respecting craft—mirrors an age negotiating between gentlemanly honor and bureaucratic modernity. From jewels and bullion to patents, wills, and coastal codes, the collection records how an imperial commercial city produced both the opportunities for crime and the instruments to detect it.
Synopsis (Selection)
Martin Hewitt, Investigator
Introduces the astute London detective and his practical, non-theatrical method as he tackles jewel robberies, a sensational murder, and industrial espionage. Each case turns on everyday facts read with uncommon clarity and an emphasis on motive, means, and opportunity.
Chronicles of Martin Hewitt
A suite of intricate puzzles ranging from vanished bullion and disputed wills to a missing hand and an absconding clerk. Hewitt follows paper trails and physical traces to reconstruct movements and unlock the financial or familial pressures behind the crimes.
Adventures of Martin Hewitt
More outward-facing investigations—kidnapping and elopement schemes, a suspicious death at sea, and club or chapel intrigues—test Hewitt’s command of timings, alibis, and witness psychology. The cases pivot on misdirection, false identities, and the careful piecing together of ordinary clues.
The Red Triangle
A loosely linked sequence in which thefts, arson, mechanical riddles, and a cipher case gradually point toward a clandestine organization marked by a red triangle. From stolen diamonds to naval secrets and a hazardous marsh pursuit, Hewitt connects discrete clues into one sustained inquiry.
Martin Hewitt - Complete Series: 25 Mysteries in One Volume (Illustrated)
MARTIN HEWITT, INVESTIGATOR
The Lenton Croft Robberies
THOSE who retain any memory of the great law cases of fifteen or twenty years back will remember, at least, the title of that extraordinary will case, “Bartley v. Bartley and others,” which occupied the Probate Court for some weeks on end, and caused an amount of public interest rarely accorded to any but the cases considered in the other division of the same court. The case itself was noted for the large quantity of remarkable and unusual evidence presented by the plaintiff’s side—evidence that took the other party completely by surprise, and overthrew their case like a house of cards. The affair will, perhaps, be more readily recalled as the occasion of the sudden rise to eminence in their profession of Messrs. Crellan, Hunt & Crellan, solicitors for the plaintiff—a result due entirely to the wonderful ability shown in this case of building up, apparently out of nothing, a smashing weight of irresistible evidence. That the firm has since maintained—indeed enhanced—the position it then won for itself need scarcely be said here; its name is familiar to everybody. But there are not many of the outside public who know that the credit of the whole performance was primarily due to a young clerk in the employ of Messrs. Crellan, who had been given charge of the seemingly desperate task of collecting evidence in the case.
This Mr. Martin Hewitt had, however, full credit and reward for his exploit from his firm and from their client, and more than one other firm of lawyers engaged in contentious work made good offers to entice Hewitt to change his employers. Instead of this, however, he determined to work independently for the future, having conceived the idea of making a regular business of doing, on behalf of such clients as might retain him, similar work to that he had just done with such conspicuous success for Messrs. Crellan, Hunt & Crellan. This was the beginning of the private detective business of Martin Hewitt, and his action at that time has been completely justified by the brilliant professional successes he has since achieved.
His business has always been conducted in the most private manner, and he has always declined the help of professional assistants, preferring to carry out himself such of the many investigations offered him as he could manage. He has always maintained that he has never lost by this policy, since the chance of his refusing a case begets competition for his services, and his fees rise by a natural process. At the same time, no man could know better how to employ casual assistance at the right time.
Some curiosity has been expressed as to Mr. Martin Hewitt’s system, and, as he himself always consistently maintains that he has no system beyond a judicious use of ordinary faculties, I intend setting forth in detail a few of the more interesting of his cases in order that the public may judge for itself if I am right in estimating Mr. Hewitt’s “ordinary faculties” as faculties very extraordinary indeed. He is not a man who has made many friendships (this, probably, for professional reasons), notwithstanding his genial and companionable manners. I myself first made his acquaintance as a result of an accident resulting in a fire at the old house in which Hewitt’s office was situated, and in an upper floor of which I occupied bachelor chambers. I was able to help in saving a quantity of extremely important papers relating to his business, and, while repairs were being made, allowed him to lock them in an old wall-safe in one of my rooms which the fire had scarcely damaged.
The acquaintance thus begun has lasted many years, and has become a rather close friendship. I have even accompanied Hewitt on some of his expeditions, and, in a humble way, helped him. Such of the cases, however, as I personally saw nothing of I have put into narrative form from the particulars given me.
“I consider you, Brett,” he said, addressing me, “the most remarkable journalist alive. Not because you’re particularly clever, you know, because, between ourselves, I hope you’ll admit you’re not; but because you have known something of me and my doings for some years, and have never yet been guilty of giving away any of my little business secrets you may have become acquainted with. I’m afraid you’re not so enterprising a journalist as some, Brett. But now, since you ask, you shall write something—if you think it worth while.”
This he said, as he said most things, with a cheery, chaffing good-nature that would have been, perhaps, surprising to a stranger who thought of him only as a grim and mysterious discoverer of secrets and crimes. Indeed, the man had always as little of the aspect of the conventional detective as may be imagined. Nobody could appear more cordial or less observant in manner, although there was to be seen a certain sharpness of the eye—which might, after all, only be the twinkle of good humor.
I did think it worth while to write something of Martin Hewitt’s investigations, and a description of one of his adventures follows.
At the head of the first flight of a dingy staircase leading up from an ever-open portal in a street by the Strand stood a door, the dusty ground-glass upper panel of which carried in its center the single word “Hewitt,” while at its right-hand lower corner, in smaller letters, “Clerk’s Office” appeared. On a morning when the clerks in the ground-floor offices had barely hung up their hats, a short, well-dressed young man, wearing spectacles, hastening to open the dusty door, ran into the arms of another man who suddenly issued from it.
“I beg pardon,” the first said. “Is this Hewitt’s Detective Agency Office?”
“Yes, I believe you will find it so,” the other replied. He was a stoutish, clean-shaven man, of middle height, and of a cheerful, round countenance. “You’d better speak to the clerk.”
In the little outer office the visitor was met by a sharp lad with inky fingers, who presented him with a pen and a printed slip. The printed slip having been filled with the visitor’s name and present business, and conveyed through an inner door, the lad reappeared with an invitation to the private office. There, behind a writing-table, sat the stoutish man himself, who had only just advised an appeal to the clerk.
“Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd—Mr. Vernon Lloyd,” he said, affably, looking again at the slip. “You’ll excuse my care to start even with my visitors—I must, you know. You come from Sir James Norris, I see.”
“Yes; I am his secretary. I have only to ask you to go straight to Lenton Croft at once, if you can, on very important business. Sir James would have wired, but had not your precise address. Can you go by the next train? Eleven-thirty is the first available from Paddington.”
“Quite possibly. Do you know any thing of the business?”
“It is a case of a robbery in the house, or, rather, I fancy, of several robberies. Jewelry has been stolen from rooms occupied by visitors to the Croft. The first case occurred some months ago—nearly a year ago, in fact. Last night there was another. But I think you had better get the details on the spot. Sir James has told me to telegraph if you are coming, so that he may meet you himself at the station; and I must hurry, as his drive to the station will be rather a long one. Then I take it you will go, Mr. Hewitt? Twyford is the station.”
“Yes, I shall come, and by the 11.30. Are you going by that train yourself?”
“No, I have several things to attend to now I am in town. Good-morning; I shall wire at once.”
Mr. Martin Hewitt locked the drawer of his table and sent his clerk for a cab.
At Twyford Station Sir James Norris was waiting with a dog-cart. Sir James was a tall, florid man of fifty or thereabout, known away from home as something of a county historian, and nearer his own parts as a great supporter of the hunt, and a gentleman much troubled with poachers. As soon as he and Hewitt had found one another the baronet hurried the detective into his dog-cart. “We’ve something over seven miles to drive,” he said, “and I can tell you all about this wretched business as we go. That is why I came for you myself, and alone.”
Hewitt nodded.
“I have sent for you, as Lloyd probably told you, because of a robbery at my place last evening. It appears, as far as I can guess, to be one of three by the same hand, or by the same gang. Late yesterday afternoon—”
“Pardon me, Sir James,” Hewitt interrupted, “but I think I must ask you to begin at the first robbery and tell me the whole tale in proper order. It makes things clearer, and sets them in their proper shape.”
“Very well! Eleven months ago, or thereabout, I had rather a large party of visitors, and among them Colonel Heath and Mrs. Heath—the lady being a relative of my own late wife. Colonel Heath has not been long retired, you know—used to be political resident in an Indian native state. Mrs. Heath had rather a good stock of jewelry of one sort and another, about the most valuable piece being a bracelet set with a particularly fine pearl—quite an exceptional pearl, in fact—that had been one of a heap of presents from the maharajah of his state when Heath left India.
“It was a very noticeable bracelet, the gold setting being a mere feather-weight piece of native filigree work—almost too fragile to trust on the wrist—and the pearl being, as I have said, of a size and quality not often seen. Well, Heath and his wife arrived late one evening, and after lunch the following day, most of the men being off by themselves—shooting, I think—my daughter, my sister (who is very often down here), and Mrs. Heath took it into their heads to go walking—fern-hunting, and so on. My sister was rather long dressing, and, while they waited, my daughter went into Mrs. Heath’s room, where Mrs. Heath turned over all her treasures to show her, as women do, you know. When my sister was at last ready, they came straight away, leaving the things littering about the room rather than stay longer to pack them up. The bracelet, with other things, was on the dressing-table then.”
“One moment. As to the door?”
“They locked it. As they came away my daughter suggested turning the key, as we had one or two new servants about.”
“And the window?”
“That they left open, as I was going to tell you. Well, they went on their walk and came back, with Lloyd (whom they had met somewhere) carrying their ferns for them. It was dusk and almost dinner-time. Mrs. Heath went straight to her room, and—the bracelet was gone.”
“Was the room disturbed?”
“Not a bit. Everything was precisely where it had been left, except the bracelet. The door hadn’t been tampered with, but of course the window was open, as I have told you.”
“You called the police, of course?”
“Yes, and had a man from Scotland Yard down in the morning. He seemed a pretty smart fellow, and the first thing he noticed on the dressing-table, within an inch or two of where the bracelet had been, was a match, which had been lit and thrown down. Now nobody about the house had had occasion to use a match in that room that day, and, if they had, certainly wouldn’t have thrown it on the cover of the dressing-table. So that, presuming the thief to have used that match, the robbery must have been committed when the room was getting dark—immediately before Mrs. Heath returned, in fact. The thief had evidently struck the match, passed it hurriedly over the various trinkets lying about, and taken the most valuable.”
“Nothing else was even moved?”
“Nothing at all. Then the thief must have escaped by the window, although it was not quite clear how. The walking party approached the house with a full view of the window, but saw nothing, although the robbery must have been actually taking place a moment or two before they turned up.
“There was no water-pipe within any practicable distance of the window, but a ladder usually kept in the stable-yard was found lying along the edge of the lawn. The gardener explained, however, that he had put the ladder there after using it himself early in the afternoon.”
“Of course it might easily have been used again after that and put back.”
“Just what the Scotland Yard man said. He was pretty sharp, too, on the gardener, but very soon decided that he knew nothing of it. No stranger had been seen in the neighborhood, nor had passed the lodge gates. Besides, as the detective said, it scarcely seemed the work of a stranger. A stranger could scarcely have known enough to go straight to the room where a lady—only arrived the day before—had left a valuable jewel, and away again without being seen. So all the people about the house were suspected in turn. The servants offered, in a body, to have their boxes searched, and this was done; everything was turned over, from the butler’s to the new kitchen-maid’s. I don’t know that I should have had this carried quite so far if I had been the loser myself, but it was my guest, and I was in such a horrible position. Well, there’s little more to be said about that, unfortunately. Nothing came of it all, and the thing’s as great a mystery now as ever. I believe the Scotland Yard man got as far as suspecting me before he gave it up altogether, but give it up he did in the end. I think that’s all I know about the first robbery. Is it clear?”
“Oh, yes; I shall probably want to ask a few questions when I have seen the place, but they can wait. What next?”
“Well,” Sir James pursued, “the next was a very trumpery affair, that I should have forgotten all about, probably, if it hadn’t been for one circumstance. Even now I hardly think it could have been the work of the same hand. Four months or thereabout after Mrs. Heath’s disaster—in February of this year, in fact—Mrs. Armitage, a young widow, who had been a school-fellow of my daughter’s, stayed with us for a week or so. The girls don’t trouble about the London season, you know, and I have no town house, so they were glad to have their old friend here for a little in the dull time. Mrs. Armitage is a very active young lady, and was scarcely in the house half an hour before she arranged a drive in a pony-cart with Eva—my daughter—to look up old people in the village that she used to know before she was married. So they set off in the afternoon, and made such a round of it that they were late for dinner. Mrs. Armitage had a small plain gold brooch—not at all valuable, you know; two or three pounds, I suppose—which she used to pin up a cloak or anything of that sort. Before she went out she stuck this in the pin-cushion on her dressing-table, and left a ring—rather a good one, I believe—lying close by.”
“This,” asked Hewitt, “was not in the room that Mrs. Heath had occupied, I take it?”
“No; this was in another part of the building. Well, the brooch went—taken, evidently, by some one in a deuce of a hurry, for, when Mrs. Armitage got back to her room, there was the pin-cushion with a little tear in it, where the brooch had been simply snatched off. But the curious thing was that the ring—worth a dozen of the brooch—was left where it had been put. Mrs. Armitage didn’t remember whether or not she had locked the door herself, although she found it locked when she returned; but my niece, who was indoors all the time, went and tried it once—because she remembered that a gas-fitter was at work on the landing near by—and found it safely locked. The gas-fitter, whom we didn’t know at the time, but who since seems to be quite an honest fellow, was ready to swear that nobody but my niece had been to the door while he was in sight of it—which was almost all the time. As to the window, the sash-line had broken that very morning, and Mrs. Armitage had propped open the bottom half about eight or ten inches with a brush; and, when she returned, that brush, sash, and all were exactly as she had left them. Now I scarcely need tell you what an awkward job it must have been for anybody to get noiselessly in at that unsupported window; and how unlikely he would have been to replace it, with the brush, exactly as he found it.”
“Just so. I suppose the brooch, was really gone? I mean, there was no chance of Mrs. Armitage having mislaid it?”
“Oh, none at all! There was a most careful search.”
“Then, as to getting in at the window, would it have been easy?”
“Well, yes,” Sir James replied; “yes, perhaps it would. It was a first-floor window, and it looks over the roof and skylight of the billiard-room. I built the billiard-room myself—built it out from a smoking-room just at this corner. It would be easy enough to get at the window from the billiard-room roof. But, then,” he added, “that couldn’t have been the way. Somebody or other was in the billiard-room the whole time, and nobody could have got over the roof (which is nearly all skylight) without being seen and heard. I was there myself for an hour or two, taking a little practice.”
“Well, was anything done?”
“Strict inquiry was made among the servants, of course, but nothing came of it. It was such a small matter that Mrs. Armitage wouldn’t hear of my calling in the police or anything of that sort, although I felt pretty certain that there must be a dishonest servant about somewhere. A servant might take a plain brooch, you know, who would feel afraid of a valuable ring, the loss of which would be made a greater matter of.”
“Well, yes, perhaps so, in the case of an inexperienced thief, who also would be likely to snatch up whatever she took in a hurry. But I’m doubtful. What made you connect these two robberies together?”
“Nothing whatever—for some months. They seemed quite of a different sort. But scarcely more than a month ago I met Mrs. Armitage at Brighton, and we talked, among other things, of the previous robbery—that of Mrs. Heath’s bracelet. I described the circumstances pretty minutely, and, when I mentioned the match found on the table, she said: ‘How strange! Why, my thief left a match on the dressing-table when he took my poor little brooch!’”
Hewitt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “A spent match, of course?”
“Yes, of course, a spent match. She noticed it lying close by the pin-cushion, but threw it away without mentioning the circumstance. Still, it seemed rather curious to me that a match should be lit and dropped, in each case, on the dressing-table cover an inch from where the article was taken. I mentioned it to Lloyd when I got back, and he agreed that it seemed significant.”
“Scarcely,” said Hewitt, shaking his head. “Scarcely, so far, to be called significant, although worth following up. Everybody uses matches in the dark, you know.”
“Well, at any rate, the coincidence appealed to me so far that it struck me it might be worth while to describe the brooch to the police in order that they could trace it if it had been pawned. They had tried that, of course, over the bracelet without any result, but I fancied the shot might be worth making, and might possibly lead us on the track of the more serious robbery.”
“Quite so. It was the right thing to do. Well?”
“Well, they found it. A woman had pawned it in London—at a shop in Chelsea. But that was some time before, and the pawnbroker had clean forgotten all about the woman’s appearance. The name and address she gave were false. So that was the end of that business.”
“Had any of the servants left you between the time the brooch was lost and the date of the pawn ticket?”
“No.”
“Were all your servants at home on the day the brooch was pawned?”
“Oh, yes! I made that inquiry myself.”
“Very good! What next?”
“Yesterday—and this is what made me send for you. My late wife’s sister came here last Tuesday, and we gave her the room from which Mrs. Heath lost her bracelet. She had with her a very old-fashioned brooch, containing a miniature of her father, and set in front with three very fine brilliants and a few smaller stones. Here we are, though, at the Croft. I’ll tell you the rest indoors.”
Hewitt laid his hand on the baronet’s arm. “Don’t pull up, Sir James,” he said. “Drive a little farther. I should like to have a general idea of the whole case before we go in.”
“Very good!” Sir James Norris straightened the horse’s head again and went on. “Late yesterday afternoon, as my sister-in-law was changing her dress, she left her room for a moment to speak to my daughter in her room, almost adjoining. She was gone no more than three minutes, or five at most, but on her return the brooch, which had been left on the table, had gone. Now the window was shut fast, and had not been tampered with. Of course the door was open, but so was my daughter’s, and anybody walking near must have been heard. But the strangest circumstance, and one that almost makes me wonder whether I have been awake to-day or not, was that there lay a used match on the very spot, as nearly as possible, where the brooch had been—and it was broad daylight!”
Hewitt rubbed his nose and looked thoughtfully before him. “Um—curious, certainly,” he said, “Anything else?”
“Nothing more than you shall see for yourself. I have had the room locked and watched till you could examine it. My sister-in-law had heard of your name, and suggested that you should be called in; so, of course, I did exactly as she wanted. That she should have lost that brooch, of all things, in my house is most unfortunate; you see, there was some small difference about the thing between my late wife and her sister when their mother died and left it. It’s almost worse than the Heaths’ bracelet business, and altogether I’m not pleased with things, I can assure you. See what a position it is for me! Here are three ladies, in the space of one year, robbed one after another in this mysterious fashion in my house, and I can’t find the thief! It’s horrible! People will be afraid to come near the place. And I can do nothing!”
“Ah, well, we’ll see. Perhaps we had better turn back now. By-the-by, were you thinking of having any alterations or additions made to your house?”
“No. What makes you ask?”
“I think you might at least consider the question of painting and decorating, Sir James—or, say, putting up another coach-house, or something. Because I should like to be (to the servants) the architect—or the builder, if you please—come to look around. You haven’t told any of them about this business?”
“Not a word. Nobody knows but my relatives and Lloyd. I took every precaution myself, at once. As to your little disguise, be the architect by all means, and do as you please. If you can only find this thief and put an end to this horrible state of affairs, you’ll do me the greatest service I’ve ever asked for—and as to your fee, I’ll gladly make it whatever is usual, and three hundred in addition.”
Martin Hewitt bowed. “You’re very generous, Sir James, and you may be sure I’ll do what I can. As a professional man, of course, a good fee always stimulates my interest, although this case of yours certainly seems interesting enough by itself.”
“Most extraordinary! Don’t you think so? Here are three persons, all ladies, all in my house, two even in the same room, each successively robbed of a piece of jewelry, each from a dressing-table, and a used match left behind in every case. All in the most difficult—one would say impossible—circumstances for a thief, and yet there is no clue!”
“Well, we won’t say that just yet, Sir James; we must see. And we must guard against any undue predisposition to consider the robberies in a lump. Here we are at the lodge gate again. Is that your gardener—the man who left the ladder by the lawn on the first occasion you spoke of?”
Mr. Hewitt nodded in the direction of a man who was clipping a box border.
“Yes; will you ask him anything?”
“No, no; at any rate, not now. Remember the building alterations. I think, if there is no objection, I will look first at the room that the lady—Mrs.—” Hewitt looked up, inquiringly.
“My sister-in-law? Mrs. Cazenove. Oh, yes! you shall come to her room at once.”
“Thank you. And I think Mrs. Cazenove had better be there.”
They alighted, and a boy from the lodge led the horse and dog-cart away.
Mrs. Cazenove was a thin and faded, but quick and energetic, lady of middle age. She bent her head very slightly on learning Martin Hewitt’s name, and said: “I must thank you, Mr. Hewitt, for your very prompt attention. I need scarcely say that any help you can afford in tracing the thief who has my property—whoever it may be—will make me most grateful. My room is quite ready for you to examine.”
The room was on the second floor—the top floor at that part of the building. Some slight confusion of small articles of dress was observable in parts of the room.
“This, I take it,” inquired Hewitt, “is exactly as it was at the time the brooch was missed?”
“Precisely,” Mrs. Cazenove answered. “I have used another room, and put myself to some other inconveniences, to avoid any disturbance.”
Hewitt stood before the dressing-table. “Then this is the used match,” he observed, “exactly where it was found?”
“Yes.”
“Where was the brooch?”
“I should say almost on the very same spot. Certainly no more than a very few inches away.”
Hewitt examined the match closely. “It is burned very little,” he remarked. “It would appear to have gone out at once. Could you hear it struck?”
“I heard nothing whatever; absolutely nothing.”
“If you will step into Miss Norris’ room now for a moment,” Hewitt suggested, “we will try an experiment. Tell me if you hear matches struck, and how many. Where is the match-stand?”
The match-stand proved to be empty, but matches were found in Miss Norris’ room, and the test was made. Each striking could be heard distinctly, even with one of the doors pushed to.
“Both your own door and Miss Norris’ were open, I understand; the window shut and fastened inside as it is now, and nothing but the brooch was disturbed?”
“Yes, that was so.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cazenove. I don’t think I need trouble you any further just at present. I think, Sir James,” Hewitt added, turning to the baronet, who was standing by the door—“I think we will see the other room and take a walk outside the house, if you please. I suppose, by the by, that there is no getting at the matches left behind on the first and second occasions?”
“No,” Sir James answered. “Certainly not here. The Scotland Yard man may have kept his.”
The room that Mrs. Armitage had occupied presented no peculiar feature. A few feet below the window the roof of the billiard-room was visible, consisting largely of skylight. Hewitt glanced casually about the walls, ascertained that the furniture and hangings had not been materially changed since the second robbery, and expressed his desire to see the windows from the outside. Before leaving the room, however, he wished to know the names of any persons who were known to have been about the house on the occasions of all three robberies.
“Just carry your mind back, Sir James,” he said. “Begin with yourself, for instance. Where were you at these times?”
“When Mrs. Heath lost her bracelet, I was in Tagley Wood all the afternoon. When Mrs. Armitage was robbed, I believe I was somewhere about the place most of the time she was out. Yesterday I was down at the farm.” Sir James’ face broadened. “I don’t know whether you call those suspicious movements,” he added, and laughed.
“Not at all; I only asked you so that, remembering your own movements, you might the better recall those of the rest of the household. Was anybody, to your knowledge—anybody, mind—in the house on all three occasions?”
“Well, you know, it’s quite impossible to answer for all the servants. You’ll only get that by direct questioning—I can’t possibly remember things of that sort. As to the family and visitors—why, you don’t suspect any of them, do you?”
“I don’t suspect a soul, Sir James,” Hewitt answered, beaming genially, “not a soul. You see, I can’t suspect people till I know something about where they were. It’s quite possible there will be independent evidence enough as it is, but you must help me if you can. The visitors, now. Was there any visitor here each time—or even on the first and last occasions only?”
“No, not one. And my own sister, perhaps you will be pleased to know, was only there at the time of the first robbery.”
“Just so! And your daughter, as I have gathered, was clearly absent from the spot each time—indeed, was in company with the party robbed. Your niece, now?”
“Why hang it all, Mr. Hewitt, I can’t talk of my niece as a suspected criminal! The poor girl’s under my protection, and I really can’t allow—”
Hewitt raised his hand, and shook his head deprecatingly.
“My dear sir, haven’t I said that I don’t suspect a soul? Do let me know how the people were distributed, as nearly as possible. Let me see. It was your, niece, I think, who found that Mrs. Armitage’s door was locked—this door, in fact—on the day she lost her brooch?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Just so—at the time when Mrs. Armitage herself had forgotten whether she locked it or not. And yesterday—was she out then?”
“No, I think not. Indeed, she goes out very little—her health is usually bad. She was indoors, too, at the time of the Heath robbery, since you ask. But come, now, I don’t like this. It’s ridiculous to suppose that she knows anything of it.”
“I don’t suppose it, as I have said. I am only asking for information. That is all your resident family, I take it, and you know nothing of anybody else’s movements—except, perhaps, Mr. Lloyd’s?”
“Lloyd? Well, you know yourself that he was out with the ladies when the first robbery took place. As to the others, I don’t remember. Yesterday he was probably in his room, writing. I think that acquits him, eh?” Sir James looked quizzically into the broad face of the affable detective, who smiled and replied:
“Oh, of course nobody can be in two places at once, else what would become of the alibi as an institution? But, as I have said, I am only setting my facts in order. Now, you see, we get down to the servants—unless some stranger is the party wanted. Shall we go outside now?”
Lenton Croft was a large, desultory sort of house, nowhere more than three floors high, and mostly only two. It had been added to bit by bit, till it zigzagged about its site, as Sir James Norris expressed it, “like a game of dominoes.” Hewitt scrutinized its external features carefully as they strolled around, and stopped some little while before the windows of the two bedrooms he had just seen from the inside. Presently they approached the stables and coach-house, where a groom was washing the wheels of the dog-cart.
“Do you mind my smoking?” Hewitt asked Sir James. “Perhaps you will take a cigar yourself—they are not so bad, I think. I will ask your man for a light.”
Sir James felt for his own match-box, but Hewitt had gone, and was lighting his cigar with a match from a box handed him by the groom. A smart little terrier was trotting about by the coach-house, and Hewitt stooped to rub its head. Then he made some observation about the dog, which enlisted the groom’s interest, and was soon absorbed in a chat with the man. Sir James, waiting a little way off, tapped the stones rather impatiently with his foot, and presently moved away.
For full a quarter of an hour Hewitt chatted with the groom, and, when at last he came away and overtook Sir James, that gentleman was about re-entering the house.
“I beg your pardon, Sir James,” Hewitt said, “for leaving you in that unceremonious fashion to talk to your groom, but a dog, Sir James—a good dog—will draw me anywhere.”
“Oh!” replied Sir James, shortly.
“There is one other thing,” Hewitt went on, disregarding the other’s curtness, “that I should like to know: There are two windows directly below that of the room occupied yesterday by Mrs. Cazenove—one on each floor. What rooms do they light?”
“That on the ground floor is the morning-room; the other is Mr. Lloyd’s—my secretary. A sort of study or sitting-room.”
“Now you will see at once, Sir James,” Hewitt pursued, with an affable determination to win the baronet back to good-humor—“you will see at once that, if a ladder had been used in Mrs. Heath’s case, anybody looking from either of these rooms would have seen it.”
“Of course! The Scotland Yard man questioned everybody as to that, but nobody seemed to have been in either of the rooms when the thing occurred; at any rate, nobody saw anything.”
“Still, I think I should like to look out of those windows myself; it will, at least, give me an idea of what was in view and what was not, if anybody had been there.”
Sir James Norris led the way to the morning-room. As they reached the door a young lady, carrying a book and walking very languidly, came out. Hewitt stepped aside to let her pass, and afterward said interrogatively: “Miss Norris, your daughter, Sir James?”
“No, my niece. Do you want to ask her anything? Dora, my dear,” Sir James added, following her in the corridor, “this is Mr. Hewitt, who is investigating these wretched robberies for me. I think he would like to hear if you remember anything happening at any of the three times.”
The lady bowed slightly, and said in a plaintive drawl: “I, uncle? Really, I don’t remember anything; nothing at all.”
“You found Mrs. Armitage’s door locked, I believe,” asked Hewitt, “when you tried it, on the afternoon when she lost her brooch?”
“Oh, yes; I believe it was locked. Yes, it was.”
“Had the key been left in?”
“The key? Oh, no! I think not; no.”
“Do you remember anything out of the common happening—anything whatever, no matter how trivial—on the day Mrs. Heath lost her bracelet?”
“No, really, I don’t. I can’t remember at all.”
“Nor yesterday?”
“No, nothing. I don’t remember anything.”
“Thank you,” said Hewitt, hastily; “thank you. Now the morning-room, Sir James.”
In the morning-room Hewitt stayed but a few seconds, doing little more than casually glance out of the windows. In the room above he took a little longer time. It was a comfortable room, but with rather effeminate indications about its contents. Little pieces of draped silk-work hung about the furniture, and Japanese silk fans decorated the mantel-piece. Near the window was a cage containing a gray parrot, and the writing-table was decorated with two vases of flowers.
“Lloyd makes himself pretty comfortable, eh?” Sir James observed. “But it isn’t likely anybody would be here while he was out, at the time that bracelet went.”
“No,” replied Hewitt, meditatively. “No, I suppose not.”
He stared thoughtfully out of the window, and then, still deep in thought, rattled at the wires of the cage with a quill toothpick and played a moment with the parrot. Then, looking up at the window again, he said: “That is Mr. Lloyd, isn’t it, coming back in a fly?”
“Yes, I think so. Is there anything else you would care to see here?”
“No, thank you,” Hewitt replied; “I don’t think there is.”
They went down to the smoking-room, and Sir James went away to speak to his secretary. When he returned, Hewitt said quietly: “I think, Sir James—I think that I shall be able to give you your thief presently.”
“What! Have you a clue? Who do you think? I began to believe you were hopelessly stumped.”
“Well, yes. I have rather a good clue, although I can’t tell you much about it just yet. But it is so good a clue that I should like to know now whether you are determined to prosecute when you have the criminal?”
“Why, bless me, of course,” Sir James replied, with surprise. “It doesn’t rest with me, you know—the property belongs to my friends. And even if they were disposed to let the thing slide, I shouldn’t allow it—I couldn’t, after they had been robbed in my house.”
“Of course, of course! Then, if I can, I should like to send a message to Twyford by somebody perfectly trustworthy—not a servant. Could anybody go?”
“Well, there’s Lloyd, although he’s only just back from his journey. But, if it’s important, he’ll go.”
“It is important. The fact is we must have a policeman or two here this evening, and I’d like Mr. Lloyd to fetch them without telling anybody else.”
Sir James rang, and, in response to his message, Mr. Lloyd appeared. While Sir James gave his secretary his instructions, Hewitt strolled to the door of the smoking-room, and intercepted the latter as he came out.
“I’m sorry to give you this trouble, Mr. Lloyd,” he said, “but I must stay here myself for a little, and somebody who can be trusted must go. Will you just bring back a police-constable with you? or rather two—two would be better. That is all that is wanted. You won’t let the servants know, will you? Of course there will be a female searcher at the Twyford police-station? Ah—of course. Well, you needn’t bring her, you know. That sort of thing is done at the station.” And, chatting thus confidentially, Martin Hewitt saw him off.
When Hewitt returned to the smoking-room, Sir James said, suddenly: “Why, bless my soul, Mr. Hewitt, we haven’t fed you! I’m awfully sorry. We came in rather late for lunch, you know, and this business has bothered me so I clean forgot everything else. There’s no dinner till seven, so you’d better let me give you something now. I’m really sorry. Come along.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” Hewitt replied; “I won’t take much. A few biscuits, perhaps, or something of that sort. And, by the by, if you don’t mind, I rather think I should like to take it alone. The fact is I want to go over this case thoroughly by myself. Can you put me in a room?”
“Any room you like. Where will you go? The dining-room’s rather large, but there’s my study, that’s pretty snug, or—”
“Perhaps I can go into Mr. Lloyd’s room for half an hour or so; I don’t think he’ll mind, and it’s pretty comfortable.”
“Certainly, if you’d like. I’ll tell them to send you whatever they’ve got.”
“Thank you very much. Perhaps they’ll also send me a lump of sugar and a walnut; it’s—it’s a little fad of mine.”
“A—what? A lump of sugar and a walnut?” Sir James stopped for a moment, with his hand on the bell-rope. “Oh, certainly, if you’d like it; certainly,” he added, and stared after this detective with curious tastes as he left the room.
When the vehicle, bringing back the secretary and the policeman, drew up on the drive, Martin Hewitt left the room on the first floor and proceeded down-stairs. On the landing he met Sir James Norris and Mrs. Cazenove, who stared with astonishment on perceiving that the detective carried in his hand the parrot-cage.
“I think our business is about brought to a head now,” Hewitt remarked, on the stairs. “Here are the police officers from Twyford.” The men were standing in the hall with Mr. Lloyd, who, on catching sight of the cage in Hewitt’s hand, paled suddenly.
“This is the person who will be charged, I think,” Hewitt pursued, addressing the officers, and indicating Lloyd with his finger.
“What, Lloyd?” gasped Sir James, aghast. “No—not Lloyd—nonsense!”
“He doesn’t seem to think it nonsense himself, does he?” Hewitt placidly observed. Lloyd had sank on a chair, and, gray of face, was staring blindly at the man he had run against at the office door that morning. His lips moved in spasms, but there was no sound. The wilted flower fell from his button-hole to the floor, but he did not move.
“This is his accomplice,” Hewitt went on, placing the parrot and cage on the hall table, “though I doubt whether there will be any use in charging him. Eh, Polly?”
The parrot put his head aside and chuckled. “Hullo, Polly!” it quietly gurgled. “Come along!”
Sir James Norris was hopelessly bewildered. “Lloyd—Lloyd,” he said, under his breath. “Lloyd—and that!”
“This was his little messenger, his useful Mercury,” Hewitt explained, tapping the cage complacently; “in fact, the actual lifter. Hold him up!”
The last remark referred to the wretched Lloyd, who had fallen forward with something between a sob and a loud sigh. The policemen took him by the arms and propped him in his chair.
“System?” said Hewitt, with a shrug of the shoulders, an hour or two after in Sir James’ study. “I can’t say I have a system. I call it nothing but common-sense and a sharp pair of eyes.[1q] Nobody using these could help taking the right road in this case. I began at the match, just as the Scotland Yard man did, but I had the advantage of taking a line through three cases. To begin with, it was plain that that match, being left there in daylight, in Mrs. Cazenove’s room, could not have been used to light the table-top, in the full glare of the window; therefore it had been used for some other purpose—What purpose I could not, at the moment, guess. Habitual thieves, you know, often have curious superstitions, and some will never take anything without leaving something behind—a pebble or a piece of coal, or something like that—in the premises they have been robbing. It seemed at first extremely likely that this was a case of that kind. The match had clearly been brought in, because, when I asked for matches, there were none in the stand, not even an empty box, and the room had not been disturbed. Also the match probably had not been struck there, nothing having been heard, although, of course, a mistake in this matter was just possible. This match, then, it was fair to assume, had been lit somewhere else and blown out immediately—I remarked at the time that it was very little burned. Plainly it could not have been treated thus for nothing, and the only possible object would have been to prevent it igniting accidentally. Following on this, it became obvious that the match was used, for whatever purpose, not as a match, but merely as a convenient splinter of wood.
“So far so good. But on examining the match very closely I observed, as you can see for yourself, certain rather sharp indentations in the wood. They are very small, you see, and scarcely visible, except upon narrow inspection; but there they are, and their positions are regular. See, there are two on each side, each opposite the corresponding mark of the other pair. The match, in fact, would seem to have been gripped in some fairly sharp instrument, holding it at two points above and two below—an instrument, as it may at once strike you, not unlike the beak of a bird.
“Now here was an idea. What living creature but a bird could possibly have entered Mrs. Heath’s window without a ladder—supposing no ladder to have been used—or could have got into Mrs. Armitage’s window without lifting the sash higher than the eight or ten inches it was already open? Plainly, nothing. Further, it is significant that only one article was stolen at a time, although others were about. A human being could have carried any reasonable number, but a bird could only take one at a time. But why should a bird carry a match in its beak? Certainly it must have been trained to do that for a purpose, and a little consideration made that purpose pretty clear. A noisy, chattering bird would probably betray itself at once. Therefore it must be trained to keep quiet both while going for and coming away with its plunder. What readier or more probably effectual way than, while teaching it to carry without dropping, to teach it also to keep quiet while carrying? The one thing would practically cover the other.
“I thought at once, of course, of a jackdaw or a magpie—these birds’ thievish reputations made the guess natural. But the marks on the match were much too wide apart to have been made by the beak of either. I conjectured, therefore, that it must be a raven. So that, when we arrived near the coach-house, I seized the opportunity of a little chat with your groom on the subject of dogs and pets in general, and ascertained that there was no tame raven in the place. I also, incidentally, by getting a light from the coach-house box of matches, ascertained that the match found was of the sort generally used about the establishment—the large, thick, red-topped English match. But I further found that Mr. Lloyd had a parrot which was a most intelligent pet, and had been trained into comparative quietness—for a parrot. Also, I learned that more than once the groom had met Mr. Lloyd carrying his parrot under his coat, it having, as its owner explained, learned the trick of opening its cage-door and escaping.
“I said nothing, of course, to you of all this, because I had as yet nothing but a train of argument and no results. I got to Lloyd’s room as soon as possible. My chief object in going there was achieved when I played with the parrot, and induced it to bite a quill toothpick.
“When you left me in the smoking-room, I compared the quill and the match very carefully, and found that the marks corresponded exactly. After this I felt very little doubt indeed. The fact of Lloyd having met the ladies walking before dark on the day of the first robbery proved nothing, because, since it was clear that the match had not been used to procure a light, the robbery might as easily have taken place in daylight as not—must have so taken place, in fact, if my conjectures were right. That they were right I felt no doubt. There could be no other explanation.
“When Mrs. Heath left her window open and her door shut, anybody climbing upon the open sash of Lloyd’s high window could have put the bird upon the sill above. The match placed in the bird’s beak for the purpose I have indicated, and struck first, in case by accident it should ignite by rubbing against something and startle the bird—this match would, of course, be dropped just where the object to be removed was taken up; as you know, in every case the match was found almost upon the spot where the missing article had been left—scarcely a likely triple coincidence had the match been used by a human thief. This would have been done as soon after the ladies had left as possible, and there would then have been plenty of time for Lloyd to hurry out and meet them before dark—especially plenty of time to meet them coming back, as they must have been, since they were carrying their ferns. The match was an article well chosen for its purpose, as being a not altogether unlikely thing to find on a dressing-table, and, if noticed, likely to lead to the wrong conclusions adopted by the official detective.
