“Stop and think about it a moment,” she concluded, lowering her voice and taking advantage of the very novelty of the situation she had created. “Such diseases are the product of civilization, of sensationalism. Naturally enough, then, woman, with her delicately balanced nervous organization, is the first and chief offender – if you insist on calling such a person an offender under your antiquated methods of dealing with such cases.”
She had paused.
“What did you say you called this thing?” asked Drummond as he tapped the arrangement on Annie Grayson’s arm.
He was evidently not much impressed by it, yet somehow instinctively regarded it with somewhat of the feelings of an elephant toward a mouse.
“That?” answered Constance, taking it off Annie Grayson’s wrist before she could do anything with it. “Why, I don’t know that I said anything about it. It is really a sphygmomanometer – the little expert witness that never lies – one of the instruments the insurance companies use now to register blood pressure and discover certain diseases. It occurred to me that it might be put to other and equally practical uses. For no one can conceal the emotions from this instrument, not even a person of cast-iron nerves.”
She had placed it on Drummond’s arm. He appeared fascinated.
“See how it works?” she went on. “You see one hundred and twenty-five millimetres is the normal pressure. Kitty Carr is absolutely abnormal. I do not know, but I think that she suffers from periodical attacks of vertigo. Almost all kleptomaniacs do. During an attack they are utterly irresponsible.”
Drummond was looking at the thing carefully. Constance turned to Annie Grayson.
“Where’s your husband?” she asked offhand.
“Oh, he disappeared as soon as these department store dicks showed up,” she replied bitterly. She had been watching Constance narrowly, quite nonplussed, and unable to make anything out of what was going on.
Constance looked at Drummond inquiringly.
He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid we’ll never catch him,” he said. “He got the jump on us – although we have our lines out for him, too.”
She had glanced down quickly at the little innocent-looking but telltale sphygmomanometer.
“You lie!” she exclaimed suddenly, with all the vigour of a man.
She was pointing at the quivering little needle which registered a sudden, access of emotion totally concealed by the sang-froid of Drummond’s well-schooled exterior.
She wrenched the thing off his wrist and dropped it into her bag. A moment later she stood by the open window facing the street, a bright little police whistle gleaming in her hand, ready for its shrill alarm if any move were made to cut short what she had to say.
She was speaking rapidly now.
“You see, I’ve had it on all of you, one after another, and each has told me your story, just enough of it for me to piece it together. Kitty is suffering from a form of vertigo, an insanity, kleptomania, the real thing. As for you, Mr. Drummond, you were in league with the alleged husband – your own stool pigeon – to catch Annie Grayson.”
Drummond moved. So did the whistle. He stopped.
“But she was too clever for you all. She was not caught, even by a man who lived with her as her own husband. For she was not operating.”
Annie Grayson moved as if to face out her accusers at this sudden turn of fortune.
“One moment, Annie,” cut in Constance.
“And yet, you are the real shoplifter, after all. You fell into the trap which Drummond laid for you. I take pleasure, Mr. Drummond, in presenting you with better evidence than even your own stool pigeon could possibly have given you under the circumstances.”
She paused.
“For myself,” she concluded, “I claim Kitty Carr. I claim the right to take her, to have her treated for her – her disease. I claim it because the real shoplifter, the queen of the shoplifters, Annie Grayson, has worked out a brand-new scheme, taking up a true kleptomaniac and using her insanity to carry out the stealings which she suggested – and safely, to this point, has profited by!”
THE MURDER AT TROYTE’S HILL by C. L. Pirkis
(Sleuth: Loveday Brooke)
Loveday Brooke’s career begins almost with the beginning of the detective novel – The Experiences of Loveday Brooke appearing in 1893, not long after the debut of Violet Strange. Originally written under the genderless cognomen of C. L. Pirkis, they were eventually discovered to be the work of Catherine Louisa Pirkis. Unlike many other women detectives, Ms Brooke generally solved her cases by insinuating herself into the midst of the suspects in a suitable disguise – maid, cook, nurse, etc.
“ Griffiths, of the Newcastle Constabulary, has the case in hand,” said Mr. Dyer; “those Newcastle men are keen-witted, shrewd fellows, and very jealous of outside interference. They only sent to me under protest, as it were, because they wanted your sharp wits at work inside the house.”
“I suppose throughout I am to work with Griffiths, not with you?” said Miss Brooke.
“Yes; when I have given you in outline the facts of the case, I simply have nothing more to do with it, and you must depend on Griffiths for any assistance of any sort that you may require.”
Here, with a swing, Mr. Dyer opened his big ledger and turned rapidly over its leaves till he came to the heading “Troyte’s Hill” and the date “September 6th.”
“I’m all attention,” said Loveday, leaning back in her chair in the attitude of a listener.
“The murdered man,” resumed Mr. Dyer, “is a certain Alexander Henderson – usually known as old Sandy – lodge-keeper to Mr. Craven, of Troyte’s Hill, Cumberland. The lodge consists merely of two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a sitting-room; these Sandy occupied alone, having neither kith nor kin of any degree. On the morning of September 6th, some children going up to the house with milk from the farm, noticed that Sandy ’s bed-room window stood wide open. Curiosity prompted them to peep in; and then, to their horror, they saw old Sandy, in his night-shirt, lying dead on the floor, as if he had fallen backwards from the window. They raised an alarm; and on examination, it was found that death had ensued from a heavy blow on the temple, given either by a strong fist or some blunt instrument. The room, on being entered, presented a curious appearance. It was as if a herd of monkeys had been turned into it and allowed to work their impish will. Not an article of furniture remained in its place: the bed-clothes had been rolled into a bundle and stuffed into the chimney; the bedstead – a small iron one – lay on its side; the one chair in the room stood on the top of the table; fender and fire-irons lay across the washstand, whose basin was to be found in a farther corner, holding bolster and pillow. The clock stood on its head in the middle of the mantelpiece; and the small vases and ornaments, which flanked it on either side, were walking, as it were, in a straight line towards the door. The old man’s clothes had been rolled into a ball and thrown on the top of a high cupboard in which he kept his savings and whatever valuables he had. This cupboard, however, had not been meddled with, and its contents remained intact, so it was evident that robbery was not the motive for the crime. At the inquest, subsequently held, a verdict of ”wilful murder‘ against some person or persons unknown was returned. The local police are diligently investigating the affair, but, as yet, no arrests have been made. The opinion that at present prevails in the neighbourhood is that the crime has been perpetrated by some lunatic, escaped or otherwise, and enquiries are being made at the local asylums as to missing or lately released inmates. Griffiths, however, tells me that his suspicions set in another direction.“