“But yet,” said I, “there must be a meaning. This man—unless he was a lunatic, which he apparently was not—must have had a motive for committing the murder. That motive must have had some background, some connection with circumstances of which somebody has knowledge. Sooner or later those circumstances will almost certainly come to light, and then the motive for the murder will come into view. But once the motive is known, it should not be difficult to discover who could be influenced by such a motive. Let us, for the present, be patient and see how events shape, but let us also keep a constant watch for any glimmer of light, for any fact that may bear on either the motive or the person.”
The two women looked at me earnestly and with an expression of respectful confidence, of which I knew myself to be wholly undeserving.
“It gives me new courage,” said Miss D’Arblay, “to hear you speak in that reasonable, confident tone. I was in despair, but I feel that you are right. There must be some explanation of this awful thing; and if there is, it must be possible to discover it. But we ought not to put the burden of our troubles on you, though you have been so kind.”
“You have done me the honour,” said I, “to allow me to consider myself your friend. Surely friends should help to bear one another’s burdens.”
“Yes,” she replied, “in reason; and you have given most generous help already. But we must not put too much on you. When my father was alive, he was my great interest and chief concern. Now that he is gone, the great purpose of my life is to find the wretch who murdered him and to see that justice is done. That is all that seems to matter to me. But it is my own affair. I ought not to involve my friends in it.”
“I can’t admit that,” said I. “The foundation of friendship is sympathy and service. If I am your friend, then what matters to you matters to me; and I may say that in the very moment when I first knew that your father had been murdered, I made the resolve to devote myself to the discovery and punishment of his murderer by any means that lay in my power. So you must count me as your ally as well as your friend.”
As I made this declaration—to an accompaniment of approving growls from Miss Boler—Marion D’Arblay gave me one quick glance and then looked down; and once more, her eyes filled. For a few moments she made no reply; and when, at length, she spoke, her voice trembled.
“You leave me nothing to say,” she murmured, “but to thank you from my heart. But you little know what it means to us, who felt so helpless, to know that we have a friend so much wiser and stronger than ourselves.”
I was a little abashed, knowing my own weakness and helplessness, to find her putting so much reliance on me. However, there was Thorndyke in the background; and now I was resolved that, if the thing was in any way to be compassed, his help must be secured without delay.
A longish pause followed, and as it seemed to me that there was nothing more to say on this subject until I had seen Thorndyke, I ventured to open a fresh topic.
“What will happen to your father’s practice?” I asked. “Will you be able to get anyone to carry it on for you?”
“I am glad you asked that,” said Miss D’Arblay, “because, now that you are our counsellor we can take your opinion, I have already talked the matter over with Arabella—with Miss Boler.”
“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” the latter lady interposed. “Arabella is good enough for me.”
“Arabella is good enough for anyone,” said Miss D’Arblay. “Well, the position is this. The part of my father’s practice that was concerned with original work—pottery figures and reliefs and models for goldsmith’s work—will have to go. No one but a sculptor of his own class could carry that on. But the wax figures for the shop windows are different. When he first started, he used to model the heads and limbs in clay and make plaster casts from which to make the gelatine moulds for the waxwork. But as time went on, these casts accumulated and he very seldom had need to model fresh heads or limbs. The old casts could be used over and over again. Now there is a large collection of plaster models in the studio—heads, arms, legs, and faces, especially faces—and as I have a fair knowledge of the waxwork, from watching my father and sometimes helping him, it seemed that I might be able to carry on that part of the practice.”
“You think you could make the wax figures yourself?” I asked.
“Of course she could,” exclaimed Miss Boler. “She’s her father’s daughter. Julius D’Arblay was a man who could do anything he turned his hand to and do it well. And Miss Marion is just like him. She is quite a good modeller—so her father said; and she wouldn’t have to make the figures. Only the wax parts.”
“Then they are not wax all over?” said I.
“No,” answered Miss D’Arblay. “They are just dummies; wooden frameworks covered with stuffed canvas, with wax heads, busts, and arms, and shaped legs. That was what poor Daddy used to hate about them. He would have liked to model complete figures.”
“And as to the business side. Could you dispose of them?”
“Yes, if I could do them satisfactorily. The agent who dealt with my father’s work has already written to me asking if I could carry on. I know he will help
