The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

Lessingham and Sydney stared at me in silence as I dragged them out and laid them on the floor. The dress was at the bottom⁠—it was an alpaca, of a pretty shade in blue, bedecked with lace and ribbons, as is the fashion of the hour, and lined with sea-green silk. It had perhaps been a “charming confection” once⁠—and that a very recent one!⁠—but now it was all soiled and creased and torn and tumbled. The two spectators made a simultaneous pounce at it as I brought it to the light.

“My God!” cried Sydney, “it’s Marjorie’s!⁠—she was wearing it when I saw her last!”

“It’s Marjorie’s!” gasped Lessingham⁠—he was clutching at the ruined costume, staring at it like a man who has just received sentence of death. “She wore it when she was with me yesterday⁠—I told her how it suited her, and how pretty it was!”

There was silence⁠—it was an eloquent find; it spoke for itself. The two men gazed at the heap of feminine glories⁠—it might have been the most wonderful sight they ever had seen. Lessingham was the first to speak⁠—his face had all at once grown grey and haggard.

“What has happened to her?”

I replied to his question with another.

“Are you sure this is Miss Linden’s dress?”

“I am sure⁠—and were proof needed, here it is.”

He had found the pocket, and was turning out the contents. There was a purse, which contained money and some visiting cards on which were her name and address; a small bunch of keys, with her nameplate attached; a handkerchief, with her initials in a corner. The question of ownership was placed beyond a doubt.

“You see,” said Lessingham, exhibiting the money which was in the purse, “it is not robbery which has been attempted. Here are two ten-pound notes, and one for five, besides gold and silver⁠—over thirty pounds in all.”

Atherton, who had been turning over the accumulation of rubbish between the joists, proclaimed another find.

“Here are her rings, and watch, and a bracelet⁠—no, it certainly does not look as if theft had been an object.”

Lessingham was glowering at him with knitted brows.

“I have to thank you for this.”

Sydney was unwontedly meek.

“You are hard on me, Lessingham, harder than I deserve⁠—I had rather have thrown away my own life than have suffered misadventure to have come to her.”

“Yours are idle words. Had you not meddled this would not have happened. A fool works more mischief with his folly than of malice prepense. If hurt has befallen Marjorie Lindon you shall account for it to me with your life’s blood.”

“Let it be so,” said Sydney. “I am content. If hurt has come to Marjorie, God knows that I am willing enough that death should come to me.”

While they wrangled, I continued to search. A little to one side, under the flooring which was still intact, I saw something gleam. By stretching out my hand, I could just manage to reach it⁠—it was a long plait of woman’s hair. It had been cut off at the roots⁠—so close to the head in one place that the scalp itself had been cut, so that the hair was clotted with blood.

They were so occupied with each other that they took no notice of me. I had to call their attention to my discovery.

“Gentlemen, I fear that I have here something which will distress you⁠—is not this Miss Lindon’s hair?”

They recognised it on the instant. Lessingham, snatching it from my hands, pressed it to his lips.

“This is mine⁠—I shall at least have something.” He spoke with a grimness which was a little startling. He held the silken tresses at arm’s length. “This points to murder⁠—foul, cruel, causeless murder. As I live, I will devote my all⁠—money, time, reputation!⁠—to gaining vengeance on the wretch who did this deed.”

Atherton chimed in.

“To that I say, Amen!” He lifted his hand. “God is my witness!”

“It seems to me, gentlemen, that we move too fast⁠—to my mind it does not by any means of necessity point to murder. On the contrary, I doubt if murder has been done. Indeed, I don’t mind owning that I have a theory of my own which points all the other way.”

Lessingham caught me by the sleeve.

“Mr. Champnell, tell me your theory.”

“I will, a little later. Of course it may be altogether wrong;⁠—though I fancy it is not; I will explain my reasons when we come to talk of it. But, at present, there are things which must be done.”

“I vote for tearing up every board in the house!” cried Sydney. “And for pulling the whole infernal place to pieces. It’s a conjurer’s den.⁠—I shouldn’t be surprised if cabby’s old gent is staring at us all the while from some peephole of his own.”

We examined the entire house, methodically, so far as we were able, inch by inch. Not another board proved loose⁠—to lift those which were nailed down required tools, and those we were without. We sounded all the walls⁠—with the exception of the party walls they were the usual lath and plaster constructions, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. The ceilings were intact; if anything was concealed in them it must have been there some time⁠—the cement was old and dirty. We took the closet to pieces; examined the chimneys; peered into the kitchen oven and the copper;⁠—in short, we pried into everything which, with the limited means at our disposal, could be pried into⁠—without result. At the end we found ourselves dusty, dirty, and discomfited. The cabman’s “old gent” remained as much a mystery as ever, and no further trace had been discovered of Miss Lindon.

Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin.

“Now what’s to be done? There seems to be just nothing in the place at all, and yet that there is, and that it’s the key to the whole confounded business I should be disposed to swear.”

“In that case I would suggest that you should stay and look