Dick Donovan

A Detective’s Triumphs

Warsaw 2022

Contents

I. THE MYSTERY OF SURGEON-MAJOR PALMER

II. IN A SMUGGLER'S DEN

III. TRACKED BY A FOOTPRINT THE STORY OF A STRANGE MURDER

IV. THE STORY OF A DARING DEED

V. THE GREAT RUBY ROBBERY

VI. BREAKING UP A GANG OF DESPERADOES

VII. TRAPPING A THIEF-TRAINER

VIII. A PRECIOUS PAIR OF SCOUNDRELS

IX. THE SHADOWER SHADOWED A REMINISCENCE

X. CAUGHT IN A TRAP A THRILLING EXPERIENCE

XI. THE ABDUCTION

I. THE MYSTERY OF SURGEON-MAJOR PALMER

ON that most sensational, or at any rate one of the most sensational of Derby days, what was known as ‘Hermit’s Derby,’ a party of ladies and gentlemen, who, if not justly entitled to claim to walk in the exclusive ranks of the upper ten,’ were not far removed from them, so far as their mode of life and habits were concerned, went down to the race-course from London in a splendidly-appointed drag, drawn by four magnificent bays that were tooled by young Lord Blank. (It is fitting that his Lordship’s true name should not be given here, as he had nothing whatever to do with the extraordinary events I am about to narrate.)

Before dealing with these people it will not be out of place to briefly refer to that ever memorable Derby, which, to the astonishment of every one, to the ruin of many, and the despair and death of not a few, was won by a rank outsider called Hermit, owned by Mr. Chaplin. The odds on this horse were no less than 100 to 1, and if any one had ventured to predict before the race began that the horse would win he would have been voted insane. Nevertheless, after a wonderful and most exciting race, during which two or three persons died suddenly on the field from heart disease, Hermit carried off the blue ribbon of that year by a bare neck only, his jockey being J. Daley, who got £3,000 for winning, while the owner of the horse netted no less a sum than £141,000. Not the least remarkable thing in connection with this remarkable race was, that the Duke of Hamilton had laid £180,000 to £6,000 against Hermit, but some little time before the Derby Day his grace was able, by means known to turfites, to declare the bet off, and so he saved his £180,000. When the winning horses were declared, the duke must have considered himself an exceedingly lucky man, for, though I do not know how much he may have won, it is a matter of history that he had been within an ace of bringing ruin on the ducal house. With these brief remarks I will now pass on to the ladies and gentlemen in the drag. The party, exclusive of the noble driver, numbered six. They were a Mr. Egerton Plunkett, about six-and-twenty years of age, whose father had recently died and left him a million of money, which had been made in the iron trade. But as fools and their money are soon parted, it seemed at this time as if young Plunkett had determined to get rid of his million with the greatest possible speed; for, though he had only been in possession two years, it was reported that he had already squandered a fourth of it. Then there was the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater, another young man, but who was said to live principally on the Jews, as he had ‘good expectations.’ His name, as far as he was personally concerned, was somewhat of a misnomer, as it was understood that he rarely took water, except by accident. He was a tall, lank, cadaverous-faced young gentleman, four-and-twenty years of age (who, it may be stated here, died of alcoholic poisoning before he was thirty.) Next in order comes Mr. Algernon Mainwaring, a partner in an exceedingly wealthy firm of solicitors. The ladies were two sisters, the Misses Lilian Travers Aitkin and Mabel Susan Aitkin. Beyond saying that they were noted and notoriousbeauties, it is not necessary at the present to say more, as I shall have to deal with them further on.

The sixth person of the little party I have purposely left till the last. He was Surgeon-Major Palmer, retired. This gentleman was then about sixty years of age, but looked younger, being a wonderfully-well preserved man, with a splendid physique, and a pronounced military bearing. He had served his country with distinction in a medical capacity for something like thirty years, and had distinguished himself for his devotion and skill during the Crimean war, towards the end of which he was seriously wounded by a splinter of a shell that burst near him as he was attending to a wounded officer on the battle-field. Doctor Palmer had never married, owing–so the story ran–to his having been jilted in his youth, which caused him to register a vow that he would remain single all his life. He had, however, earned for himself a reputation for being ‘a thorough man about town,’ and in spite of his being a gentleman by birth and education, he was ostracised in certain classes of society owing to some glaring scandals with which his name had been mixed up. Nevertheless, he was a man whose company was courted, for he had a singularly winning manner with him, was very handsome, a brilliant raconteur,generous to a fault, and was never known to speak ill of any one, even of those people whom he knew to be his enemies. Such a man was sure to be in great request, especially when, added to his other attractions, he was the fortunate possessor of ten thousand a-year, which he had inherited from an uncle.

Surgeon-Major Palmer was a Bohemian by instinct and inclination. He loved a free and unconventional life; and at his charming house at Chelsea some very remarkable company could be met with.

In order to minister to their wants at the Derby the party had taken three men-servants with them, two being the butler and footman of Lord Blank, and the third a servant of Dr. Palmer’s. His name was Walter Joyce. He was slightly under forty years of age, and was a fine, tall, handsome fellow. He had been a soldier, and had seen service in the Crimea. His position was that of a valet, and he had been with his master about six months.

The ladies and gentlemen I have enumerated were the guests of Lord Blank, he having undertaken to drive them down to the course in his sumptuous drag. They were a merry party–made merrier by the fact that they all won some money by bets. In the way of delicacies that would minister to the carnal appetite nothing seemed to have been forgotten, and the luncheon was of a very recherchédescription, while the gentlemen vied with each other as to which could be the most gallant and attentive to the two beautiful young women who were their companions. Presumably life sat very lightly on each member of that little company. No thoughts of a dark to-morrow or a tortuous future entered into their minds. The mighty sorrow of the world had apparently passed them by. They revelled in the luxury that wealth can purchase, and they laughed and were joyful. No doubt, had it been possible for some Asmodeus to have enabled an outsider to peer in each heart that seemed to beat so joyously, he would have seen that not one was without its black speck–not one without its gnawing worm. For human life–at any rate such a life as these people led–must ever be conventional, and more or less hypocritical.

After the great event of the day was over the party returned to town, which they reached about six o’clock. Lord Blank deposited his guests at the door of Surgeon-Major Palmer’s house. Then he left them with his two servants, a prior engagement necessitating his going away, and so he passes out of this story. The others were to dine at Dr. Palmer’s house, which I must now describe to some extent. It was a large, old-fashioned house, standing in about an acre of ground. The garden was walled in, but in the boundary wall at the bottom was a door which gave access to a small paddock of about three-quarters of an acre, which the doctor utilised for his horses; and it is important to state here, as it has a considerable bearing on what follows, that at this particular time a very favourite horse of the doctor’s, which he called Jerry, and which had been out of health, had been put to graze in the paddock, and was there on the Hermit Derby night. The man was greatly attached to the horse, and the horse to him, and, whatever Surgeon-Major Palmer’s faults were, he bore the character of having a great love for all dumb animals. The dinner party consisted of, besides the doctor, the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater, Mr. Egerton Plunkett, Mr. Algernon Mainwaring, Lilian and Mabel Aitkin, and a Mr. Roland, a neighbour, who ‘dropped in.’ The house, which was a commodious one, was luxuriously furnished, and provided with everything that taste could suggest and money buy. There were rare pictures, bronzes, articles of virtu, bric-a-brac, and a unique collection of Indian curiosities which the doctor had gathered in India.

The household was presided over by a lady housekeeper, a Mrs. Challoner, the widow of an army officer, who had been in the doctor’s service for some years. And besides the valet, Walter Joyce, already mentioned, there were a butler, a cook, a scullerymaid, three chambermaids, two parlourmaids, a coachman, two grooms, and a page-boy.

It will thus be seen that the doctor kept up a very considerable establishment, but he also kept a great deal of company. Indeed it was very seldom that there was not company in the house; and as the doctor was very fond of the fleshpots of Egypt, he must have made a pretty big hole every year in his income. It was but natural, perhaps, that this particular convivial gathering should be marked by a trifle more freedom and a little more boisterousness than usually characterised even the doctor’s little dinners, which were noted for their recherchécharacter and freedom from restraint. ‘This is Liberty Hall, ladies and gentlemen, and you will do as you like,’ the host was fond of saying. But on this night there was a memorable Derby to commemorate, and some men and women are fond of the slightest excuse for a little extra indulgence. One thing was certain, that the doctor’s guests needed good appetites and an all but unlimited capacity for imbibing. Dr. Palmer’s appetite was said to be prodigious, and he liked his friends to eat and drink heartily. To dine with the doctor was considered a treat, for he was an epicure, and his wines could not be surpassed.

When the dinner was over the ladies and gentlemen retired to the elegantly-appointed smoking-room, where they played cards for a couple of hours. After that they adjourned to the drawing-room, and music was indulged in, and at midnight they went down to a supper of lobster-salad and champagne.

The reader who has followed me thus far will, no doubt, say that by this time these people must have been in a condition when they could no longer be said to be responsible for their actions. And, as a matter of fact, they were all more or less under the influence of the wine they had taken. It had at first been arranged that the ladies were to be escorted home–they lived near Regent’s Park–and the doctor had given orders that the carriage was to be ready, but this order was countermanded, and it was decided to make a night of it; but the Hon. Sidney Drinkwater became ill, and at his own urgent request was driven home in the doctor’s dog-cart. It was arranged that all the others were to sleep in the doctor’s house, with the exception of Mr. Roland, who lived within a couple of hundred yards.

When the Hon. Drinkwater had departed, such of the servants who had remained up were told to go to bed, including Walter Joyce, the valet. The butler was the last to retire, as he had to replenish certain supplies which had been exhausted. This duty accomplished he too went to bed, the doctor undertaking to see the house all secure and the gas put out. It would appear that the doctor and his guests resorted to cards as a means of enjoying themselves, and soon after two o’clock the two ladies begged to be allowed to retire, and with some reluctance the doctor gave them permission to go, as they pleaded that they were quite knocked up; and being a soldier and a gentleman he could not resist their appeal, so he himself showed them to the room they were to occupy. This was a very handsomely-furnished chamber in the front of the house, his own bed-room being on the opposite side of the corridor. In about ten minutes he rejoined his guests, and two or three more rubbers of whist were played, but it is in evidence that the gentlemen had by this time got into a state when most things had ceased to interest them. Some exception, however, was to be made in the doctor’s favour, for it would seem that there was a stage beyond which he never went, and it was positively asserted that he never so far forgot himself as to be unable to account for his actions.

As the orange, so to speak, had been sucked dry for that night, or rather morning, the host conducted Mr. Plunkett and Mr. Mainwaring to their rooms, and then he saw Mr. Roland home, and having performed this service he returned to his house. That was beyond all doubt, because the policeman on the beat, and to whom he was well known, happened to be at the gate, and the doctor chatted with him for some minutes, the subject of conversation being the remarkable circumstance of a rank outsider winning the Derby. Wishing the man good night, the doctor entered his house, and the policeman heard him lock and chain the door. It was then after four o’clock, but still quite dark, with rain threatening and a very strong wind blowing.

The rest of the night wore itself away, and the doctor’s household–that is, the servant part of it–rose somewhat later than usual, for they knew that, after the preceding night’s carouse, their master and his friends were not likely to put in a very early appearance. Soon after nine o’clock Mrs. Challoner, the housekeeper, took some tea up to the ladies. They were asleep when she first knocked at the door, but the knocking awakened them and the door was opened; and now a very remarkable incident has to be recorded. In the course of conversation with the housekeeper Lilian Aitkin said–

‘Oh, Mrs. Challoner, do you know I’ve had such a horrid dream. I dreamt that Dr. Palmer was dead, and I woke up in a fright and could have sworn that I heard the report of a gun. Then I went to sleep and actually dreamt the same thing again.’

Mrs. Challoner smiled, and remarked that dreams were not to be relied upon, and that she had no doubt, when the ladies went down to breakfast, the Doctor would be there to meet them radiant as ever, for he seemed to be endowed with a cast-iron constitution, and nothing upset him.

An hour or so later, when the ladies did go downstairs, they proved Mrs. Challoner to be incorrect, for the Doctor was not there to meet them. The butler said that he would send Walter Joyce to call the master, but the ladies begged that he would not do so yet, for they were quite sure the Doctor must be very much fatigued, and they preferred that he should be allowed to sleep for some time longer. At eleven o’clock Mr. Mainwaring put in an appearance, and to him Lilian related her dream on his asking her and her sister how they slept, and he being an unsentimental man laughed and told her dreams were to be interpreted contrariwise. A quarter of an hour later Mr. Plunkett joined the party in the breakfast-room, and as the host had not then appeared the butler was requested to send up to his room.

Ten minutes later the butler rushed in with the startling information that not only was the Doctor not in his room, but his bed had not been slept in, and he could not be found in any other part of his house. Such an effect had this announcement on Lilian Aitkin, as she connected it with her dream, that straightway she fainted, and so added to the confusion into which the guests were thrown. The housekeeper was summoned and instructed to give attention to the lady, and then Mr. Mainwaring, being a lawyer and a practical man, began to question the servants as to what likelihood there was of their master having gone out after his guests had retired, and they answered that they did not think it at all likely. Moreover, the large hall door and the back doors were all securely bolted and chained. That would not have been the case with the hall door if the master had gone out.

At first no uneasiness was felt by the guests, and Mr. Mainwaring despatched a message to Mr. Roland, asking that gentleman to come round, and when he arrived he told them what they had not known–that the Doctor had taken him home, and left him at his doorstep, and he knew nothing of the Doctor’s movements after that. Now, if the servants were correct in what they stated–and there was no reason to believe they were not–namely, that the doors were bolted and chained, it was obvious that the Doctor must have re-entered his house; and if that was so, where could he have gone to P But in a little while the scullerymaid, who was the first to come down that morning, asserted positively that a back door leading out of the scullery into the back garden was only on the latch, and was not locked at all, which astonished her very much, for she knew that the master was very particular about the doors, as the house had been twice robbed, and burglaries were not infrequent in the neighbourhood. Added to this was a statement by the old gardener, who said that he too was surprised to find the wall door that led into the paddock standing open. Now he was aware, as well as all the servants were, that since Jerry, the horse, had been in the paddock, the Doctor often went out the last thing at night to see that Jerry was all right, and to give him an apple or a carrot; but he was always very careful about closing the paddock door to prevent the horse getting into the garden. The inference now was that, after the Doctor had returned from seeing Mr. Roland home, he entered his house by the hall door, and having securely fastened that, had gone out at the back to visit Jerry. That was feasible enough, of course, but if he had gone out, why had he not come back? That was precisely where the mystery began! It was clear that the Doctor had disappeared, but how and why? It was equally clear he had not been in his bed, for it was exactly as the chambermaid had left it, and the gas was still burning in the room. The paddock was examined, but the missing man was not there. It did not apparently require much examination, for it was simply an oblong field, with two poplar trees at the end; a very much decayed oak tree; a wooden shed for the horse on one side, and a dung heap and a liquid manure pit. One side of the field was bounded by the garden of another house, from which it was separated by a tarred wooden fence and a quick-set hedge. At the bottom it was joined by another garden, but here again was a compact hedge, and the other side was protected by a high brick wall that shut it off from a side thoroughfare.

When all these things were considered, something like a feeling of uneasiness seized upon the little company, and they asked each other what could possibly have become of the Doctor. There was a door leading out of the garden into the thoroughfare just mentioned, but this was only used by the gardener, and the Doctor had not a key. Moreover, the door was locked, and from the thick cobwebs in the corners and the dirty and rusty condition of the lock it was certain that the door had not been opened for a considerable time. At one side of the house and at the back part were the stables and stableyard, and on the other side the front garden was separated from the back by a light trellis work overgrown with ivy. There was a door in the trellis work, but it was also locked. At this door a huge Newfoundland dog was kept chained up, and no one had heard the dog bark in the night. Of course he would not have barked if his master had gone to him, but he would have made himself heard unmistakably if a stranger had been moving about the premises.

A consideration of all these points only served to deepen the mystery, for mystery it certainly was. Amongst the servants who had crowded into the breakfast-room and the guests uneasiness was very apparent, and uppermost, no doubt, in each mind was the unspoken question, Has anything dreadful happened to the Doctor?’

Miss Lilian Aitkin–whose dream by this time was known to the servants, Mrs. Challoner having told them–gave way to uncontrollable grief, for she was deeply impressed with the dream, which she had twice dreamt, and she expressed strong fear that something terrible had happened. The rest, however, were disposed not to take that view at the time, although they knew that, his Bohemianism notwithstanding, the Doctor was not erratic, nor given to wandering off without leaving word where he was going to.

From the evidence that Mr. Mainwaring had gathered up so far, it seemed pretty certain, if the servants were to be believed, that the master had entered the house again after leaving Mr. Roland. So much was certain, because the hall door was bolted inside, and a heavy chain that fastened right across it was in its place, according to the statement of the servant. But, having secured that door, he went out at the back, using the scullery doorway for his exit; and his object, on the face of it, was to visit Jerry and see that he was all right. Having gone into the paddock, however, it seemed as if he had not returned, because the communicating door between the garden and the paddock was, as the gardener declared, standing open. In company with the gardener, coachman, stableman, butler–in fact, all the men folk–Mr. Mainwaring went into the paddock again with a view to examining the hedges to see if there was any trace of the Doctor having gone through. It was not possible for him to have got over the wall; it was too high, unless he had used a ladder, and he would hardly have carried the ladder off with him. In the bottom hedge there was observed a slight, very slight, gap, through which a man might have squeezed; but the hedge being a prickly thorn hedge, a person so squeezing through must have suffered very considerably; moreover, it was in the highest degree probable that he would have left shreds of his clothing on the thorns; but, though the lawyer examined this part of the hedge with the greatest care, even using a powerful reading glass from the Doctor’s study for the purpose, there was not the slightest trace of anyone having gone through. Besides, anyone forcing himself through must necessarily have broken some of the twigs, but not a twig was broken.

After this examination it was felt that the mystery was deepening, and not a soul there was capable, or at any rate, willing to suggest even a possible hypothesis for the Doctor’s disappearance. It was only too painfully evident that he had disappeared, but how or why not a living soul there could tell.

Naturally, there was a reluctance on the part of his friends no less than on the part of his servants, to make the matter public; for if Lilian Aitkin is left out there was no one present who at that stage of the proceedings suspected mischief. The disappearance might be a freak on the Doctor’s part; but what puzzled them was how he could have got away. Miss Aitkin indulged in all sorts of gloomy forebodings, for she was a nervous and hysterically-inclined young woman, and her dream had given her a shock, and she expressed a firm conviction that the Doctor was dead.

The instability of human joy and light-heartedness was strikingly illustrated by these people. A few hours before they were full of a happy carelessness; they might have been the personification of perfect delight so far as they could be judged externally, but now grave anxiety was apparent in every face, and a fear, shadowy and vague at first, did begin to take possession of them when hours passed, and they were as far off as ever from answering the problem. It is, perhaps, needless to say that the house, as well as the grounds, was thoroughly searched, but without yielding the slightest clue, and at last, when the fear was becoming more substantial, Mr. Mainwaring told his companions that he thought that they ought not to delay any longer communicating with the police; and as this was voted the proper thing to do, the lawyer took the task upon himself, and went out for that purpose.

Within two hours of Mr. Mainwaring appealing to the police, I was sent for, he having been recommended to put the case in my hands. He gave me all the details of the doctor’s movements during the past twenty-fours in a perfectly frank manner. And those details form the story which I have narrated in the foregoing pages. Being a lawyer, and used to systematising facts and incidents, he was clear in his statements, and placed all the incidents in proper sequence, so that everything likely to have any bearing on the case might be before me. Mr. Mainwaring did not attempt to disguise that they were all more or less under the influence of the wine they had imbibed the previous day and night. But his own opinion was, the doctor was not much, if any, the worse. That this was correct was borne out by the testimony of the policeman, who while on duty had seen Surgeon Palmer, and conversed with him a few minutes previous to his entering his house. That he did enter the house and secure the door the man was positive about, and that the door was secured in the morning all right was vouched for by the servant who had come down first.

At this stage of the case it did not seem that any of the friends or servants, except Miss Lilian Aitkin, seriously thought that any fatal calamity had happened to the Doctor.

‘The fact is,’ said Mainwaring, ‘although he could stand a lot of drink without showing it, it affected his brain very much, and when alcoholised he was in the habit of doing erratic and idiotic things. Now what I think is this: Seized with some sudden and unaccountable desire to wander about after he got into the house, or after he went into the paddock to see the horse, he managed to get away somehow or other, and has fallen perhaps into bad hands; that is, got into a house where he is being detained. He may even have been drugged, for he wore a good deal of jewellery, and was seldom without a considerable sum of money in his pocket. Having an idea that I am correct in my theory, I should like the affair kept as quiet as possible so as to avoid scandal.’

‘Well,’ I answered, ‘what you state is feasible, although it’s antagonistic to your first statement, that it was not possible for him to have got out of the paddock without leaving some indications behind as to how he had gone.’

‘True, I did say so; but if he didn’t leave the paddock, where the deuce is he?’

Of course this line of argument showed that, lawyer though he was, Mr. Mainwaring was at his wit’s end for a reasonable theory–in short, was absolutely mystified. As I was assured that every hole and corner of the house had been subjected to a rigid examination, I did not deem it necessary to go over the premises again at that moment. And having heard a narration of Miss Lilian Aitkin’s dream–to which, let me say here, I attached not the slightest importance–I proceeded to the paddock in company with the lawyer and several of the servants, including the coachman, stablemen, and the gardener. After a full half hour’s critical examination of the place, I came to the conclusion that the Doctor could not have escaped that way. There was not the slightest gap in the formidable hedge through which a man could have passed without leaving some trace behind–that is to say, he would have required to have exerted so much force in order to squeeze his body through that many of the twigs and stems must necessarily have been broken. Now, the paddock itself had no hole or corner where a man could have concealed himself. There was a small hay stack in one corner and a shed in the other, but they, of course, need not be taken into account. Yes, there was one place, but it could only have hidden a dead man’s body. This place was the liquid manure pit. It was about twelve feet square, almost flush with the ground, but a wooden combing running all round to prevent the edges of the pit falling in, and there was a wooden pump on one side for the purpose of pumping the liquid up, which was then used for the garden. Looking at this pit for some moments I asked–

‘How deep is that pit?’

My question was like a bombshell, for it at once suggested a dreadful possibility, and I saw that nearly every one present betrayed alarm.

‘My God!’ exclaimed Mainwaring, ‘you don’t think that he has thrown himself in there?’

‘I asked a question,’ I said; ‘it is not for me to hazard an opinion. How deep is the pit?’

The gardener here spoke up and answered me.

‘It’s about three-and-a-half feet, sir.’

I confess that when I heard that I had a sort of instinctive feeling that that horrible place would show us how the Doctor had disappeared. For, if he was not in there, how could he have gone away and left no trace behind unless he had been spirited away?

‘Have you a pole or a pitchfork?’ I inquired of the gardener.

‘Oh, yes,’ and he went off to the stable.

The little group of spectators became suddenly silent and scared, after the manner of people who know that they are about to hear some dreadful revelation. My own feeling in the matter was this–and let it be understood that my thoughts were naturally bred out of what I had been told. All the people were utter strangers to me. I had never heard of Surgeon-Major Palmer in my life; but, according to the details, as I had gathered them, this gentleman, being wealthy and an idler, and fond of free-living, had been to the Derby, bent on having what he would, no doubt, have called a day’s enjoyment. At night he entertained his friends at his house, and they all seemed to have drank, ‘not wisely, but too well.’ The surgeon, being able to stand more than the others, saw a friend home at an early hour in the morning; then returned to his house, and in all probability he may have refreshed himself again from the too seductive decanter. After that, being fond of his animals, he had gone out to see his invalid horse; and after that–what? With the other facts before one, did it not seem easy to fill in the sequel? Some sudden aberration of intellect mighthave led him to commit suicide; but the more likely theory was that, lacking physical steadiness, and possibly being somewhat in a mental haze, he had stumbled and met his fate in that horrible cesspool. Surely, nine hundred and ninety men out of every thousand would have constructed just such a theory as that in the absence of a tittle of evidence that the Doctor had got out of the paddock, and, as I looked at the melancholy horse standing limp and scared-like under the shed, I thought to myself, ‘That poor beast knows all about it. I read the story in his mournful eyes, and had he but the gift of speech he would say, ‘Yes, you are quite right; it is even as you think.’

As will be seen directly, only one part of my theory was correct.

In a few minutes the gardener returned with a pitchfork, and, taking this from him, I began to sound the manure pit, and in a few moments I turned to the scared and eager spectators who were crowding round, and said–

‘The gentleman is in here.’

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