The Silver Shawl: A Mrs. Meade Mystery

By Elisabeth Grace Foley

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Copyright © 2012 Elisabeth Grace Foley

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Table of Contents

The Silver Shawl

More Mrs. Meade

About the Author

The Silver Shawl

GLOUCESTER. In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

SIMCOX. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and St. Alban.

GLOUCESTER. Say’st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

- William Shakespeare, Henry VI.

Mrs. Henney knocked lightly at the door. The early morning sunlight was streaming in through the potted plants in the window at the end of the hall, over the faded strip of carpet down the middle of the floor, and gleaming on the polished wood of the door by which Mrs. Henney stood. Having waited with lifted hand, but received no answer, she knocked again.

“Miss Charity?” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

She listened with her head tilted toward the door, but there was no sound. Mrs. Henney smiled indulgently to herself and turned away. Sleeping a little late, she didn’t doubt—Miss Charity’d been that busy these last few weeks, and down to Miss Lewis’s last evening as usual. No harm in letting her get a bit of rest, Mrs. Henney thought as she descended the back stairs to the kitchen—she would take a tray up to Miss Charity’s room after she had served breakfast to her other ladies and gentlemen.

(There was, strictly speaking, only one elderly gentleman among Mrs. Henney’s boarders, but Mrs. Henney always pluralized him when she referred to them as a group. It made her little establishment sound so much more flourishing.)

Breakfast was over, and Mrs. Henney had just finished clearing away the dishes from the dining-room to the kitchen, when the front door banged smartly and Randall Morris took the main stairs to the upstairs hall two at a time, whistling merrily, his quirt swinging from his left hand. He stopped at the same hall door and knocked. “Charity?” he called.

He waited a few seconds, as Mrs. Henney had done, and then knocked again. “Charity, are you there?”

The door across the hall opened and Mrs. Meade looked out. Randall Morris glanced over his shoulder. “’Morning, Mrs. Meade,” he said, a friendly smile flashing across his handsome face. “Say, is Charity in? I’ve got to go over to Jewel Point to see Hart about a yearling, and I just stopped by to see her on the way.”

“Good morning, Randall,” said Mrs. Meade, smiling pleasantly up at him in return. She was a widow lady of middle age, but one whom age seemed to have softened rather than hardened. Her graying hair still showed hints of the soft brown it had once been, and all the lines of her face were kind. But behind the kindness in her gray-blue eyes there was an expression of quaint humor, as though she knew a good deal more about you than you realized, but was too kind to let you know it.

“Charity hasn’t been down this morning,” she said. “Mrs. Henney told us she knocked at her door before breakfast, but she didn’t answer. Mrs. Henney supposed she must have been sleeping a little late.”

“That’s odd,” said Randall. He tried the doorknob and found it locked, and knocked once more. “Charity!” he called in a louder voice.

Mrs. Meade had drawn nearer, and they both listened attentively, Randall with his ear close to the door, but neither could hear any sound.

Randall cast an alarmed glance at Mrs. Meade. “You don’t think she’s ill or something!” he said.

Without waiting for an answer he pounded on the door with his fist in a way that startled all the other boarders in their respective rooms, and then would have immediately forced the door with his shoulder had not Mrs. Meade laid detaining hands on his arm and prudently suggested applying to Mrs. Henney for the spare key.

She performed this office herself, and when she escorted the short and puffing landlady to the top of the stairs Randall was still listening outside the door with a look of strained anxiety.

“I can’t hear anything,” he said, and the look in his eyes as he thus appealed to Mrs. Meade was almost desperate.

Mrs. Meade put her hand gently on his arm as they watched Mrs. Henney fumble nervously with the keys and at last manage to insert the right one into the lock. The door opened inwards, and Randall pushed unceremoniously past Mrs. Henney into the room. He stopped in the middle of it, looking about him in bewilderment.

The two ladies, who had entered after him in considerable apprehension, likewise looked with astonishment about the room, which was neat, quiet, and empty. The window-shade was drawn halfway down, blocking out most of the morning light and leaving the room mildly dim; the bed was neatly made and had evidently not been slept in.

Randall Morris turned around to stare at the ladies. “Did she go out this morning?” he said.

“Why, no,” said Mrs. Henney, whose mouth and eyes were wide. “I was up early as always, and her door was shut when I opened the curtains in the hall. She hasn’t come out since.”

“But how do you know that? Couldn’t she have gone out when you were getting breakfast?”

“Why, no, sir. I can hear every step on those stairs, front or back, when I’m in my kitchen, and nobody went out of the house this morning, not Miss Charity nor anybody.”

“Well, then—where is she? When did you see her last?”

“Why, she went out to Miss Lewis’s last evening after supper, Mr. Randall, just as usual. I saw her go out then, and I was in bed and asleep before she came back, as I’ve often been. I let Miss Charity have an outside key so she can come in without waking anyone if it’s late and I’ve already locked up and gone to bed.”

“You mean you didn’t see her come back last night? or hear her?”

“Why, no, sir.”

Mrs. Meade, in the meantime, had with a thoughtful expression crossed the room to the wardrobe and opened it, and stood looking at the simple dresses hanging there. “The dress she wore yesterday is not here,” she said. “She was wearing her light green gingham at supper—”

“Yes, I know that dress,” blurted Randall feverishly, as if that would be some help.

Mrs. Meade lifted a hatbox a few inches from the floor of the wardrobe and shook it gently, and set it down again. “Her summer hat is missing—and her little silk purse, it seems—but everything else appears to be in order. She was wearing that hat when she went out, wasn’t she, Mrs. Henney?”

“Yes, yes, that and her shawl. That’s what she had on when I saw her go out and—”

Randall interrupted the landlady’s trembling recollections, speaking to Mrs. Meade: “Do you mean she didn’t come back last night? Then where—”

Mrs. Meade countered the alarm rising in his voice with a calm interruption of her own. “Perhaps she spent the night with Miss Lewis, if their work went very late. Miss Lewis stays at the shop herself some nights if she doesn’t feel equal to walking home. You should go and ask her first of all.”

“I’ll do it,” said Randall breathlessly, and plunged out of the room. In a few seconds he was outside untying his horse from Mrs. Henney’s gate, and swung up into the saddle. He brought his quirt down sharply across the horse’s glossy flank and spurred out of the quiet side street into the main road.

* * *

Sour Springs, Colorado, misnamed by an early settler who did not care for the taste of the mineral water he had found on his land, was a pleasant little mountainside town nestled among the wooded foothills, with pine forests on the crests and lighter green stretches of cultivated farm and ranch land in the valleys between. The snow-crested Rockies all around made a sharp silver and white frame for the dome of clear blue sky arched over it. The sunny main street was a double row of neat frame houses and storefronts punctuated by fenced, tree-shaded side lawns and gardens.

Randall Morris, the son of a Southern family whose fortunes had suffered in the generations following the war, had come West to make his own way in the world several years before. Young, energetic and determined, he was already well on his way to success, breeding and raising horses that bid fair to be as fine as those of Kentucky or Virginia on the slopes of his land at the foot of the mountains. Over the past few months, during his courtship of Charity Bradford, he had spent much of his time building and furnishing a house there. Half Western ranch house, sturdy and square and practical, yet partaking of some of the patrician elegance he remembered from his youth, with its many-paned windows and wide veranda, it gleamed white and pristine among the pines, with wild roses tumbling over themselves in the rocky garden behind it, awaiting its mistress.

Charity was a relative newcomer to Sour Springs, a girl without friends or relatives who had come there seeking work, and had been employed as assistant postmistress at the little post-office that shared a building with the railway depot. Small and dainty, with a sweet voice and rich brown hair, she had a modest, if not quite reserved demeanor, but to those she trusted was capable of a warmth made all the more precious by being hard-won. Randall Morris had fallen tumultuously in love at almost his first sight of her, and immediately devoted his considerable energies to wooing and winning her. Charity had been cautious at first—perhaps as long as it took her to assure herself that his impetuosity was in fact sincerity, though, truth be told, her heart had succumbed almost as soon as his.

Within the year they were engaged, and for the past month Charity had been busy preparing her trousseau, her days passed in a near trance of serene happiness and enlivened by flying visits from her fiancé at all hours of the morning and evening. Randall was a great favorite with the ladies of the boarding-house that had become Charity’s home. His manners were both free-and-easy and charming, and he knew how to be attentive to old ladies as well as young ones—though when Charity was present, he was infallibly absorbed in her to the extent that he never saw the knowing nods and smiles and twitters passed among the ladies as they watched the pair. Some of the ladies went so far as to believe they had made the match themselves, but Mrs. Meade, who had a special place in her heart for young people—especially young people in love—knew better.

Randall pulled up his horse in front of a small dry-goods store on the main street and dismounted. The seamstress who was making Charity’s dresses rented rooms above the store, and Charity had been visiting her in the evenings for fittings and to assist her in some of the work. With no dowry and little money of her own, Charity had at first been hesitant to accept Randall’s insistence on paying for everything himself, but had eventually relented. She had, however, managed to override his expressed opinion that nothing was too good for her, and earnestly endeavored to keep her expenses as modest as possible.

Randall went up the steps to the store and grasped the doorknob, but encountered an unexpected resistance. It was locked. He rattled the door and knocked loudly, and then looking over at the front windows, saw that the shades were drawn. The storekeeper and his family lived at the back of the building, and ordinarily the store was already open for business at this hour. In Randall’s disturbed state this was yet another circumstance for alarm. He pounded on the door again. Only silence succeeded.

Randall was looking about him with a confused idea of doing something desperate to attract attention, such as throwing something at an upstairs window, when at last he heard a faint noise. Someone was coming down the stairs inside. The locks of the door scraped as they were turned, and it opened to reveal Diana Lewis, the seamstress.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding slightly short of breath. “Mr. Benton and his family are out of town until tomorrow, and he asked me to lock up the store at night. I hadn’t opened my shop yet this morning.”

“Is Charity here?” demanded Randall Morris without preamble.

“Charity?” said Diana Lewis. She sounded surprised. “No, she isn’t here.”

“What time did she leave last night?”

“She didn’t come here last night. I was expecting her, but she never came—I supposed she must have forgotten this once, since she has so much on her mind,” said Diana with a slight smile.

“She never came?” said Randall, staring at her unbelievingly.

“No. Why?—is something wrong?”

“She didn’t come back to the house last night! Mrs. Henney says she started out after supper to come here, but—she never came back! Excuse me, Miss Lewis—I’ve got to—” And turning as he put his hat on he ran blindly down the steps.

* * *

In about the time it takes for a fine horse to travel half a block, Sheriff Andrew Royal was surprised in his office and in the middle of his breakfast by a distraught young man who demanded that Sour Springs be turned upside down and vigorously shaken. Sheriff Royal, once he had got down the half a biscuit with honey which had prevented his interrupting sooner, made routine answer. He told Randall for Pete’s sake to calm down, said that yes, he was aware that Randall didn’t know where Charity was, but it didn’t follow that nobody else did, and reached for his hat to lend some credence to his assurances that yes, he’d ask around if anybody’d seen her. As Randall showed signs of giving vent to a burst of outrage at this innocuous understatement, Royal gave him (in an annoyed voice) a list of very good reasons why harm should not befall a respectable young woman in a town like Sour Springs, then jammed his hat over his bushy eyebrows and stalked out to prove it.

But by midday, a reasoned anxiety was not only possible, but excusable. After questioning her few closer friends or acquaintances provided no clue to her whereabouts, a general alarm was spread that Charity Bradford was missing, and when it had traveled around the town, the result was that no one had seen her that day.

Royal, once roused, though in no better mood, was persistent. His efforts at length turned up two witnesses. One was a small boy who rightly judged that his being an important witness in the case of a missing young lady would render insignificant the fact that he had been sneaking back into the house at a time he was not supposed to be out of it when he saw her. He had seen Miss Bradford walking along the street after dark, but hadn’t gotten close enough to see anything more because he had hidden to avoid her seeing him.

The second witness was an old man, rather shaky to begin with, whose closest friends were rather doubtful about his testimony because they knew he was in the habit of taking a nip of something on chilly evenings. But he was more specific, and more insistent. He had stepped out on his porch for a moment that evening, and had seen a young lady with dark hair walking on the other side of the street. She had on a light dress and a hat and a shimmery shawl of some kind. He was too far away to see her face, but yes, he thought it had been Miss Bradford. She was the right height and she’d been wearing what they said she had on that night. Sheriff Royal repeatedly cross-questioned him as though with a perverse desire to find some flaw in his story, but the old man stubbornly held on to every detail, chilly evening or no. She was wearing a light-colored dress—yes, it might have been green, but he wouldn’t say for sure; his eyes weren’t that good—and a silver shawl. Well, not a silver shawl, he admitted when Royal pounced on him, but a silvery one, or shimmery one—something light like that. That’s what he’d seen and that’s all he could say. No other girl had admitted she was walking up Main Street at that hour, had she? So who else could it be? Royal gave him up in disgust.

The baffling thing about both accounts was that Charity had been seen walking up Main Street—that is, away from Diana Lewis’ shop and in the direction of Mrs. Henney’s boarding-house—late that evening, a good three hours after she had first left Mrs. Henney’s. If she had not been to Diana’s shop, where had she been during all that time, and what had happened to her between the spot where the witnesses had seen her and the boarding-house where she had never arrived?

Randall Morris asked these questions over and over, in a way that seemed calculated to torture himself and to drive Andrew Royal to the limit of his already short patience. He hung over the sheriff’s desk while Royal painstakingly made out a telegram in between telephoning to the other towns in the county that had a telephone, giving out a description of the girl and explaining when she had gone missing. Every word he spoke seemed gratingly halting and deliberate to Randall, and his stub of a pencil dithering and slow on the paper. When at last the telegram was completed Randall snatched the paper and raced his horse down to the depot to hand it over to the telegraph operator there, then back to the sheriff’s office to announce that he was going to form a search party to go over the outlying farms and countryside, and to stipulate that a messenger should be sent to find him if there was any news of Charity.

When Randall had gone Andrew Royal ran his bony hands up through his thick gray hair until it all stood wildly on end, and then flattened it down again lest someone should come in and see it like that and guess that he was disturbed.

* * *

There was no need to send a messenger after Randall Morris that afternoon, and no news awaiting him when he returned to the office at dusk. The search party’s efforts, which had produced nothing, were halted by the onset of darkness.

Morning brought pale sunshine, but shed no light on the fate of the missing girl. Randall Morris had not slept. His face was haggard and marked by strain.

“She must have been kidnapped,” he said, giving voice for the first time to the thought that had been haunting him all along.

His eyes were fixed on the sheriff’s face, but Royal did not look at him. But Randall’s mute demand for acknowledgement in the silence that followed was more insistent than his speech, and the sheriff was forced to look up with exasperation.

Andrew Royal was a man who lived in undying terror of being thought soft-hearted or sentimental. In self-defense he cultivated a fierce moustache and a growling, annoyed manner that was always at its height when he felt most strongly. As he was most uncomfortable when around highly emotional people, Randall Morris was the last companion he would have chosen under these circumstances.

“Someone had to have taken her,” Randall insisted. “She had no reason to go off by herself, in the middle of the night, without a change of clothes or even any money with her! Something’s happened to her, Sheriff.”

“You think I don’t know that?” said Andrew Royal shortly.

“Can you just sit there and not do anything about it?” exploded Randall.

“Why don’t you quit talking and start thinking?” Royal shot back. “If someone took her away from here, say in a wagon or buggy, by a road, they had all night to travel in the dark without being seen. If some harm had come to her nearer here…well, we’d have found some trace by now. But if anybody’s seen her, or seen them, it’d have to be yesterday in the daylight, and by that time they’d have been far enough away from Sour Springs that word about a missing girl hasn’t got there yet. You’ve got to give time for whoever might have spotted them to hear about it, and get word back. Eat something,” he ordered, pointing with a jam-smeared knife to the remains of his breakfast, which he was eating at his desk according to custom.

“I can’t.” Randall shook his head miserably.

The sheriff had his mouth full once again, no doubt requiring some fortification after the longest speech he had made in the course of a year, when a man with a valise in his hand came up the street, looked at the sign over the open door and stepped into the office.

“Sheriff Royal?” he inquired, looking questioningly at the sheriff as he removed his hat. At Royal’s brusque nod he came forward and took a card from his waistcoat pocket. “My name is Edgerton.”

Andrew Royal glanced up from the card to the newcomer’s face. “A detective?”

Edgerton nodded. He was a slim man of medium height, with close-cropped gray hair and serious, attentive gray eyes, dressed plainly but in clothes that spoke subtly of the city. “I’m hoping that you can provide me with some information.”

“Oh,” said Royal, glancing over at Randall Morris. Randall, who had been pacing the office when Edgerton arrived, had come quickly forward with dreading expectancy at his entrance, but turned away as abruptly when he heard the man’s words. “Thought you were coming to give me some information. Maybe you hadn’t heard, but there’s a girl missing from here and I’m doing my best to find her.” He accompanied the emphasis with another sharp glance in Randall’s direction.

“Missing?” said Edgerton, looking from one to the other with unexpected attention. “What sort of girl?”

Andrew Royal rapped out the description he had given many times over the previous morning. “Five-feet-two, middling-dark brown hair, brown eyes, wearing a green dress and a hat with flowers and a shawl.”

“Her name is Charity Bradford,” Randall Morris supplied earnestly.

Edgerton set his valise down on the desk and stood with his hands resting on it. “A local girl? Has she any family here?”

Royal jerked a thumb toward Randall. “Just him. Randall Morris, Miss Bradford’s intended.”

Randall shook hands with Edgerton hurriedly. “She’s been missing since the night before last, and I’m terribly worried about her. I know she didn’t go off on her own. It’s not like her.”

“Then it was entirely unexpected? You hadn’t noticed anything in her behavior recently—anything that suggested she might have something on her mind?”

“No. Why?” said Randall, suddenly becoming aware of the gravity in the detective’s face.

“It’s only, by some coincidence,” said Edgerton, “that I’m looking for a young woman myself, one who fits your description of Miss Bradford quite closely. Certain information in my possession led me to believe that she might be found here, in Sour Springs.”

“Charity?” said Randall. “I—I don’t understand.”

“The name of the girl I’m looking for, or at least the name we know her by, is Mary Taylor,” said Edgerton, taking some papers from his valise and handing them over to Andrew Royal, who was listening frowningly. “Miss Taylor is wanted for questioning in New Orleans, where she was known to be the associate and accomplice of a man called John Faraday, an accomplished gentleman burglar and jewel thief. I’ve been on his trail for more than six years. He had a far-reaching and well-run organization, one of the curious features of which was that his various accomplices never had any contact with each other, only with Faraday himself.

“Miss Taylor’s background is somewhat vague—she may have been on the stage or she may not, but that is immaterial—what we do know is that at different times and under different names she worked as companion to a wealthy elderly lady, as a fashionable milliner’s assistant and a salesgirl in an expensive department store. In those capacities she helped to arrange and carry out a number of successful jewel thefts.”

Edgerton clicked shut his valise. “A little over a year ago, Mr. Faraday had the misfortune to get himself shot in a street fracas in New Orleans. Shortly afterwards Miss Mary Taylor disappeared from view. There is a strong possibility that she had in her possession the fruits of their latest robbery, an extremely valuable pearl necklace. Since that time I’ve been trying to trace her. We’ve also been keeping an eye on several other people who are suspected of having worked with Faraday in the past. We know that one of them, who is now living in Denver, recently received a letter postmarked Sour Springs, Colorado.”

“So that made you think this Taylor girl was here?” said Andrew Royal, jabbing a long forefinger on his desk to emphasize the location.

“It was a lead to follow up, at least, Sheriff. There is just the possibility that some of the others who worked with Faraday may now be in contact with Mary Taylor. At any rate, now I think you can understand my surprise at the seeming coincidence of a young woman who matches Miss Taylor’s description suddenly disappearing, less than forty-eight hours before I arrived here in search of her.”

“Charity?” repeated Randall Morris. “It’s—it’s impossible! You don’t know her, Mr. Edgerton, or you’d realize what you’re saying.”

“How well do you know her?” asked Edgerton, turning to look the younger man in the eye. He spoke in a straightforward manner, but one not untouched with compassion, as one who knew what consequences the performance of his duty might have for others. “What can you tell me about her, Mr. Morris? What do you know about her background?”

“Just—that she has no family living,” said Randall, still with incredulity, but the import of his own words beginning to creep in on him. “She had—she’d been on her own for a number of years—working for her living. I don’t know how many.”

“When did she come to Sour Springs?”

“A year ago.”

“And you’re engaged to be married?—How long have you been engaged?”

“Three months,” said Randall. “We were going to be married in a few weeks.”

“And you know nothing about her—where she was born, where she lived or how?”

“Look, Mr. Edgerton, you don’t know what you’re trying to do!” said Randall, putting his hands on the back of a chair and leaning over it as though he had suddenly found a need for support. “Charity’s not that kind of girl. She just isn’t. And if there was anything she’d—if she’d ever been in any kind of trouble, she would have told me.”

Edgerton shook his head doubtfully. “She doesn’t seem to have told you much of anything.”

“Have you got a picture of that Taylor girl?” said Andrew Royal abruptly, having caught a glimpse of the look on Randall’s face.

“Unfortunately, no,” said Edgerton. “She apparently never had her photograph taken. All we have is a general description—a young woman between twenty and twenty-five years of age, brunette, attractive, with a ladylike, genteel appearance and manner.”

“Charity to the letter,” grumbled Royal under his breath.

Edgerton glanced at Randall Morris, and then addressed the sheriff. “Under the circumstances, if I could be allowed to examine Miss Bradford’s home or lodgings, I might find something that would conclusively prove or disprove my suggestion, rather than pursuing this speculation; or possibly even find a clue to her whereabouts.”

Royal raised his bushy eyebrows doubtfully, but as Randall spun around with an expression of outrage he brought them down grimly over his eyes again. Edgerton availed himself of the perceived advantage. “I am entirely willing to place myself under your direction, Sheriff, and to do only what you deem appropriate. I do think this course would be the most useful.”

Sheriff Royal gave his usual exasperated exhalation, and started to climb up out of his chair. “Well, you won’t lose anything by it,” he said. “I don’t guess I’ve got any objections, if Randall hasn’t.”

Edgerton turned with silent inquiry toward Randall. The younger man stood irresolute for a few seconds, the pain he felt reflected in his face, but he nodded shortly.

Andrew Royal gave a brief grunt of acknowledgement. “I’d better go right along with you,” he said, “and deal with the landlady. I reckon it’ll be better for everybody’s feelings.”

* * *

Mrs. Henney, in a considerable state of feeling herself, once more unlocked Charity’s door for them. She remained in the doorway, her hands clasped nervously and her plump face drawn together in a piteous expression, as the two men surveyed the room. Andrew Royal, having turned about once with a belligerent look on his face, planted himself in the center of the room where he could keep an admonishing eye on the landlady and watch the detective’s progress at the same time.

Edgerton knew his work. He raised the window-shade with a light touch, and looked around at the room by the better light. The single window was opposite the door; the head of the bed against the wall to the right of the window. The wardrobe stood against the right-hand wall, the mirrored bureau against the left. There was a single straight-backed chair, a braided rag rug on the floor and a few framed lithographs on the walls.

Edgerton conducted his search deftly, rapidly but without hurry. He examined the contents of the wardrobe, investigating pockets and feeling along the seams of garments where anything seemed likely to be concealed. He knelt to look beneath the bed and turned back the rug (Mrs. Henney assuring him that nothing could be hidden there, because she took it up to sweep every Thursday and Miss Charity and everyone in the house knew it). Then he turned his attention to the bureau. The agile fingers went through the contents of the drawers, the detective’s gray eyes focused and his face expressionless.

He came at the last to a packet of letters in the topmost drawer, almost as if he had known all along that they would be there, and purposely left them to the last so the find would not distract his attention from any smaller matters in the room. He separated them with a hand as practiced as if he, and not Charity Bradford, had been accustomed to handle letters in a post-office.

He glanced briefly at and then laid aside a few short notes in a bold, slanting hand, signed “Randall.” There were only a few more: a page of fine, stilted writing on questions of silk and beading from Diana Lewis; another letter in a girl’s hand from within Sour Springs. Lastly Edgerton singled out three letters folded together, written on a different type of paper than the others. He unfolded and read the first one, and a shadow came over his forehead.

He glanced significantly at Andrew Royal, and held out the letter. The sheriff drew nearer to him and read the first few words. He looked into the detective’s eyes, and for once there was no mask over his bleak, weathered face.

Edgerton gave him the three letters, and while Royal was reading them over the detective folded the love-letters and the rest of the small, innocuous correspondence with considerate care, and laid them all back in the drawer.

* * *

The first letter ran:

Dear Miss Taylor,

I am writing to you in respect to the late Mr. Faraday, which it would do both of us good to meet and discuss. There are others besides myself who have an interest in that gentleman’s affairs, but I think it would be more agreeable for you and I to come to an understanding regarding our respective interests before introducing these others into the discussion. I wait for your answer, respectfully,

A. N.

Edgerton re-read this carefully, standing in the dining-room of Mrs. Henney’s boarding-house, while Randall Morris was reading with incomprehensible emotion the second of the trio, which the sheriff had just handed to him:

Dear Miss Taylor,

I must insist that you give me a reply about the concerns of Mr. Faraday about which I communicated with you before. We do not accept your wish to avoid the subject, and want you to agree to a meeting where we can settle the matters once and for all. If you do not reply we will seek a personal answer. I will see you soon.

A.N.

Both of these letters were written with an apparent attempt at refinement, and a strenuous effort to convey a definite idea in vague terms, but in a round, uneducated-looking hand. The third, by contrast, had been printed, not written, and in haste:

Mary,

There is an agent arrived from South. He may have a tip on the Johnson things. You are not the only one who can lose, so take no chances.

A.N.

“The ‘Johnson things’ are the pearls,” said Edgerton. The three letters lay spread on the dining-room table. “The lady from whom they were stolen was named Johnson. How these people knew I was coming I don’t know, but they must have been watching us while we’ve been watching them. It happened much as I figured. These ‘others’ evidently wanted a share in the money from the pearls, which Mary Taylor wasn’t disposed to share, even though they sound like they were beginning to get quite insistent about it. But it wouldn’t be in their interest for her to be apprehended, either, so they warned her in time for her to slip away before my arrival.”

Randall Morris had not spoken a word since Royal first showed him the letters. The look of bewilderment, disbelief and shock on his face was not without its effect on the detective, who observed it with silent sympathy.

Now Randall turned to him with a remnant of energy, a defensive look battling to regain control on his face. “These don’t prove anything!” he said. “They don’t prove a thing. Someone could have put them in her room.”

“Who?” said Andrew Royal in a voice hard with sarcasm.

“None of these are in Charity’s handwriting,” said Randall, his eyes fastened steadily on the detective’s quiet face, as Edgerton looked down at the letters.

Edgerton inclined his head and admitted it. “No, they’re not. But—”

“Then they don’t prove her connection with those people. All you’ve got is that they were in her room. Why couldn’t someone have planted them there?” He looked around at Royal. “Sour Springs is a little town—everybody knows about everything here. They notice the postmarks on everybody’s letters. How could Charity have gotten these without anyone knowing about it?”

“She worked at the post-office,” said Mrs. Meade, who had come into the dining-room conference so inconspicuously that none of the men had realized that she had been sitting there for nearly the whole time.

Edgerton regarded this apparition, of a kind-looking middle-aged lady in a brown dress, sitting with her hands folded decorously across her lap, with his signature expression of close attention modified by astonishment.

“I did not know that,” he said after a moment. “I am much obliged, Mrs.—Miss—”

“Meade,” grunted Andrew Royal.

“Mrs.,” supplied Mrs. Meade, giving Edgerton her kindest smile. Her eyes twinkled with warm humor, and the detective smiled in spite of himself.

“Are you a friend of Mar—of Miss Bradford’s, Mrs. Meade?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Meade. “My room is just across the hall from hers, so naturally we see a good deal of each other. She’s a very sweet girl—I’ve always been very fond of her.”

“And yet—your remark about the post-office—forgive me, but it seems to support my theory that Miss Bradford is, in fact, Mary Taylor.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Mrs. Meade with dismissive practicality. “I only noticed it. It is significant, I think.”

“Good Lord, you don’t mean to suggest she got herself hired on there on purpose?” said Andrew Royal even more crossly than was his wont.

“I think it means that…someone…thought of a great many details,” said Mrs. Meade musingly, looking past Edgerton at the opposite wall.

There was a few seconds’ silence, and then Edgerton said, reaching for one of the letters on the table, “Was there anything else that you noticed about these letters, Mrs. Meade?”

“I thought it was amusing the way the writer of the second letter varied between referring to himself as ‘I’ and ‘we’,” said Mrs. Meade, smiling again. “It made me imagine several people gathered around a table, all trying to tell the writer what to say and probably arguing among themselves as they did it.”

Edgerton laughed. “I did observe the varying pronouns, but I hadn’t put quite such a vivid construction on them. I do agree with you, though, Mrs. Meade—I believe there are a number of people concerned in this.” He made a slight gesture with the letter in his hand.

“Perhaps that is what makes it so difficult,” said Mrs. Meade thoughtfully.

Edgerton looked attentively at her for a moment, a curious look on his face, and then he seemed to recall himself to his present task. He glanced down at the letter in his hand, gathered the other two up from the table and folded them together, and then he passed around the table and stopped by Andrew Royal’s chair. “For the present,” he said in a quiet voice, “it seems your investigation and mine have the same object, Sheriff. I think it would be advantageous to us both to work together, at least until Miss Bradford is found.”

Royal did not seem to hear for a moment. Then he gave a sort of start, and with a grumble of acquiescence, he got up from the table and pushed his chair back into its place with a big booted foot in a manner that would have made Mrs. Henney’s eyes pitifully round if she had been there to see.

* * *

Randall Morris sat alone at the table in the empty kitchen, his head in his hands. He ran unsteady fingers through his hair and drew a quivering breath. He was stunned by the reality of all he had heard, but in his heart still clung to the belief that somehow it was all wrong. Whatever the proofs, he could not believe it.

Charity…his beautiful, dainty Charity, with her deep brown eyes that shone up at him as though she had never loved anyone so well before. Had all her goodness, her quiet charm and modesty, been the playing of a part? He would never believe that she had not truly loved him. But were the other things true? A thief—a criminal? He pushed the thought of the man named John Faraday far away from his mind; he could not bear that.

Mrs. Meade came into the kitchen. She cast a look at the kettle on the back of the stove, thinking perhaps about whether a cup of tea might be of any value in this situation, but decided against it and sat down at the table. She looked at Randall Morris, but he did not see or hear her, though he may have been vaguely aware of her presence.

It was true—he knew practically nothing of Charity’s past. That had never mattered to him before; he had never given it a thought. Now he could not escape the idea. Had Charity really been reserved—avoided the subject of her own life—or was it only that he had never asked any questions?

He saw her now, her delicate figure and profile outlined in soft moonlight as she had sat beside him on a summer night in Mrs. Henney’s trim little garden outside the boarding-house. A yellow glow came through the old lace curtains on the open windows, accompanied by the flutter of the ladies’ voices in the parlor, while all around them the moonlight, the clear breath of the night air touched with the scent of the flowers, the tiny pipings of crickets and the whisper of breezes and other night insects, combined to make a night of such palpable loveliness that for a while neither of them spoke, wanting only to be silent and savor its rare beauty and the consciousness of each other’s presence.

At length, he had heard Charity give a soft, pensive sigh.

“What’s the matter?” he said, looking down at her. “That sounded almost unhappy.”

“Oh, no…I’m not unhappy,” said Charity, resting her head against his arm, and looking up at the slate-blue moonlit sky. “How could I be? But sometimes—sometimes to be happy like this is almost painful.”

Randall laughed, putting his arm around her and drawing her closer to him. “Happiness doesn’t hurt. I’ve tried it, and I know.”

“It isn’t the happiness,” said Charity, a little smile playing about her lips; the influence of his personality that she could never resist. “It’s remembering what it used to be like before, when I had no one to—to really care anything about me. Life was like that for so long that it makes now—tonight—seem too wonderful to be true.” Her wide eyes searched the vista of trees and sky. When she spoke again her voice was nearly a whisper. “Whenever I see a night like this, I feel that I’ll never see one like it again.”

“Then don’t remember, if it hurts you,” said Randall gently.

Charity sighed again. “I don’t always remember because I want to.”

“It’ll fade after you’ve been happy long enough, darling. One day those memories will be so far off they won’t have the power to hurt you.” He looked down into her eyes. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said.

And then he had put his fingertips under her chin and lifted her face and kissed her, and Charity had clung to him as though trying to erase as many memories as possible with one moment’s bliss.

Randall put his face down in his folded arms on the kitchen table. He had never been more wrong than he had been on that summer night. It was memories of happiness that hurt worst, when the thing itself was torn away from you.

Mrs. Meade sat very still. Her gaze rested gently on Randall’s tousled brown head, but wisely, she did not speak. She lifted her head to look away at the kitchen wall, and for a moment her bright eyes were dim, and old.

Mrs. Meade, childless all her life, was not a woman who made much of her widowhood, or expounded much on her past joys or sorrows. Those who did not know her well, or had not the capacity to know anyone well, might have thought the cheerfulness with which she went through life was a lack of deeper feeling. But she still held in her heart, ten years after her last parting with him, a deep and precious affection for the husband who stared out of the faded photograph that stood on her bureau. There were remembrances both bitter and sweet tucked away in the pages of her own little history, a record not on display for all the world to read. Hers was a heart that knew many things, and a heart that did not forget.

Randall slowly lifted his head, and Mrs. Meade saw that his eyelashes were wet as he blinked unsteadily.

He looked toward her, and she smiled. “You mustn’t let your mind run away with you,” she said.

Randall shook his head. “She would have told me,” he said. “She loved me—she trusted me. I know that. I could feel it.” His eyes fixed entreatingly on Mrs. Meade’s gentle, sensible face. “You don’t believe it, do you, Mrs. Meade?”

“No, I do not,” said Mrs. Meade with emphasis. “Even though I have no real reason to be so sure. I don’t believe it.”

“Then do you think someone deliberately put those letters in Charity’s room?”

“How could someone have gotten into Charity’s room?” said Mrs. Meade. “Even supposing—merely supposing, of course!—that it was someone who lived in this house, who might have had a chance to step in unnoticed—the door was locked. The only person with a spare key was Mrs. Henney, whom I think we can safely discount! The letters could only have been introduced into the room after Charity’s disappearance, or she would sooner or later have discovered them in her bureau drawer. But she locked her bedroom door upon going out that evening, and it was still locked when we tried it the next morning.”

“But it had to have been whoever kidnapped her. That’s what I thought from the first. Charity had the keys to the house and her room in her bag—they used those to get in.”

Mrs. Meade shook her head. “I don’t think so, Randall. If it was the kidnapper, they would have had to know all about this Mary Taylor business well beforehand, which would have been rather extraordinary.”

“But someone put those letters there,” said Randall doggedly.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Meade. “I think we should assume that. It would be a little strange, don’t you think—if Charity really was Mary Taylor—that she should run away to escape being apprehended, and yet leave such plain evidence of her identity behind?”

“Good gosh, that’s right!” cried Randall. “I never thought of that. Didn’t Edgerton see that?”

“I don’t blame him for not seeing it,” said Mrs. Meade. “He found what he was expecting to find, exactly where he expected to find it, so of course it all made sense to him. But still…”

She tapped two fingers thoughtfully on the edge of the table. “Do you know, I would like to take a look around that room myself. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling there must be something…”

“Something Edgerton missed, you mean?”

“No, I don’t think he missed anything. He is, I think, a very intelligent man. But perhaps there was something he didn’t know he was looking for.”

She rose from the table, and Randall stood up too, looking at her with doubtful hope. Mrs. Meade patted his arm with a reassuring gesture as she stepped past him toward the kitchen doorway. “I think I shall ask Mrs. Henney if we may use the key again—just to see…”

* * *

Mrs. Meade looked slowly about Charity’s room. It was the same as she had seen it many times. Something of the personality of the girl who had lived there seemed to hang over it still, lending an intangible soft charm to the plain, sparse furniture and the few simple decorations. But it was quiet—pitifully quiet without its occupant.

She turned in a circle, her eyes marking and considering each object in the room as they reached it. Randall Morris watched her from a few steps back, and Mrs. Henney stood clasping her ring of keys in the doorway.

Mrs. Meade’s gaze directed itself thoughtfully toward the wardrobe, as it had done on the previous morning. She moved around the foot of the bed and opened the doors. For a moment she looked at the clothes hanging inside, and then she turned to look at Randall.

“Suppose for a moment that Mr. Edgerton’s theory was correct—that Charity left of her own accord, to avoid meeting him,” she said. “If that was so, when she went somewhere other than Miss Lewis’ shop that night, she must have met someone, received a warning or discussed plans—but then she came back here. Two people saw her walking in this direction. If she were planning to leave town she could only have been coming back here to gather some of her possessions. But none of her clothes are missing. That isn’t right. Why didn’t she take them?”

“Because she didn’t come back here. She was kidnapped,” said Randall.

“Yes…but there is still the question of where she was, those three hours…” Mrs. Meade was looking down at the hatbox on the floor of the wardrobe. “Did Mr. Edgerton put everything back just as he found it, Mrs. Henney?”

“Why, yes—everything exactly. He was very careful,” said Mrs. Henney mournfully.

Mrs. Meade bent and picked up the hatbox, moving as if to look underneath it, but something halted her—drew her attention to the box itself in her hands. She gave it a slight shake. Turning around, she set it on the bed and lifted the lid. She took out a small thick bundle of knitted material, and carefully unfolded it. It fell open in her hands, a light triangular shawl in a soft shade of green.

Mrs. Meade looked over at the landlady. “Mrs. Henney—did you put this in here?”

“Why, no, I didn’t,” said Mrs. Henney with a gasp. “I haven’t touched a thing in this room, not since Miss Charity left.”

“Was it here when Mr. Edgerton searched the room?”

Mrs. Henney’s eyes looked as if they could not possibly grow any bigger. “Why, yes—yes, it was. I saw him open the hatbox, and look all inside it. He folded it up neatly when he was done.”

Mrs. Meade looked across the bed at Randall Morris, the shawl still held up before her. “But this shawl was not in the hatbox when I looked in the wardrobe yesterday morning. The box was empty when I lifted it then—I could feel the difference at once when I lifted it again just now.” She held the shawl out to the light. “This is the shawl Charity was wearing when she went out the other night, isn’t it, Mrs. Henney?”

Mrs. Henney could hardly breathe. “The very same, Mrs. Meade! She always wore it with her green gingham—the very same color.”

“Then someone put this shawl into the hatbox between the time I touched it yesterday morning, and the time you saw Mr. Edgerton examine it today.”

“Someone—in this room? In my house?” shrilled Mrs. Henney.

“The kidnapper!” said Randall, to whom the quaking landlady might as well not have existed.

“Of course not,” was Mrs. Meade’s somewhat surprising answer. “Why would they go to all that trouble when they could simply keep it with them? Supposing they were the one who put those letters in the drawer—if the shawl was found here too, it would betray that someone else had been in the room. If they wished Charity to be identified as Mary Taylor they wouldn’t want that.”

“Then—it wasn’t whoever brought the letters?” said Randall, who was beginning to flounder out of his depth.

Mrs. Meade did not answer at once. She moved slowly around the bed, still turning over the light shawl in her hands, and stopped by the window. She stood for a moment gazing through it, but not seeing anything outside.

“No,” she said at last, “it was done by someone who did not want this shawl found in their possession—and that person also put the letters in the drawer.” There was an unusual firmness about her voice as she spoke, and her fingers tightened on the folds of the shawl in an odd way. “Their reason for getting rid of the shawl…was strong enough for them to risk its being connected with the letters.”

“In—in this room? Someone came into my house?” quavered Mrs. Henney again.

“At night,” said Mrs. Meade. “No one in this house ever heard Charity come in late at night, did they? They came in the same way.”

“In my house? At night? How did they get into my house?” Mrs. Henney was nearly beside herself.

“With Charity’s keys,” said Mrs. Meade.

“But—I thought you said it wasn’t the kidnapper,” said Randall, staring.

“It wasn’t,” said Mrs. Meade.

The stunned silence that followed this remark was broken in a wholly unexpected manner.

“I believe I have some errands to run,” said Mrs. Meade briskly. She laid the shawl across the foot of the bed and walked straight to the door. “Thank you for the use of the key, Mrs. Henney.”

She vanished into the hall, and Randall Morris and the landlady were left staring after her in bewilderment.

Randall came slowly out into the hall, and Mrs. Henney followed and locked the bedroom door behind them, stealing an awed and sympathetic look after the young man. They were both too amazed by Mrs. Meade’s sudden change in manner, and the apparently unconcerned way in which she had put the question of Charity’s fate behind her, to think of their own troubles, grave as they had seemed a moment before.

Mrs. Meade emerged from her own room, adjusting her hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Henney—I will be back in a little while,” she said as she started down the front stairs. Randall trailed after her mechanically, the fog of confused depression settled about him again.

At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Meade paused and turned to wait for him. When he joined her she laid her hand on his arm and beckoned him to bend his head down, and when he did so she murmured something in his ear. He gave her a quick, startled look.

Mrs. Meade nodded. “Yes,” she said. “But don’t make much noise about it, do you understand? Good. Now I must be going.”

* * *

Mrs. Meade mounted the stairs to the second floor above Benton’s dry-goods store and rapped at the closed door. After a moment, the sound of a woman’s footsteps approached from within and Diana Lewis opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Lewis,” said Mrs. Meade. “I have a question for you—some work I would like you to help me with. May I come in?”

Diana Lewis gave a deferential nod and stood aside for her to enter, and Mrs. Meade stepped into the room. It was a pleasant place, with long windows admitting the sunlight through the branches of a tall tree just outside. A sewing-machine stood in the corner, and by the windows were a sofa and several chairs for the accommodation of clients. At the far end of the room a door stood ajar, offering a glimpse of the workroom in back and the couch that could be made up into a bed at night.

Mrs. Meade had paused and stood looking at a white silk dress that was displayed on a mannequin near the end of the front room. The beautiful, intricate beaded embroidery on the yoke was nearly finished; there remained only some finishing touches on the sleeves and the flounces on the skirt to complete.

Diana Lewis shut the door and waited with her hands folded in front of her. She was a slim, dark girl, with a rather pretty face, but with the tired eyes and faded complexion that spoke of ill health and much time spent indoors. But in spite of any infirmity she was an exquisite seamstress. Charity Bradford’s was the first wedding-dress she had made in Sour Springs, and half the female population had already manufactured errands to her shop in hopes of catching a glimpse of its progress.

Mrs. Meade turned away from contemplating it. “I would like your advice on a pattern, Miss Lewis,” she said. “You see, the daughter of a dear friend of mine is going to be married soon, and I want to send her a gift. She will have so many nice things, so I would like it to be—not something large, but special. I was thinking of—a shawl. Something like that lovely embroidered brocade shawl of yours would be just perfect. May I look at it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Diana Lewis, after what might have been just a second’s pause. “I can make up a pattern for you to follow, Mrs. Meade. It’s very simple, really—”

“Oh, but I would like to look at your shawl before I begin—the embroidery on the edges is so lovely, I would like to see what stitches you used. It won’t take a moment.” She smiled in such a happy expectant way that Diana Lewis could not help smiling slightly herself, though she did not seem wholly pleased. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Meade, but—I don’t believe I have it here this morning.”

Mrs. Meade’s eyes grew innocently wide, in what a sharp observer might have recognized with amusement as an excellent imitation of Mrs. Henney. “Why, I don’t believe I have ever seen you without it in the summertime. You wear it here to your work every day, don’t you?”

“Really, this once I must have forgotten it. I’ve left it at home. But that is no difficulty; I can make up the pattern for you when I go home and send it to you in a few days.”

“But there’s no time like the present!” said Mrs. Meade brightly. A happy thought seemed to strike her, and she fairly clasped her hands with pleasure. “Why not let me go to your boarding-house and fetch it for you now? I have errands to run, and—”

“No—Mrs. Meade, please don’t trouble yourself,” said Diana Lewis. She twisted her thin hands tighter together.

“Oh, it’s no trouble! I—”

“Mrs. Meade, please—I would much rather you did not.”

She stopped, conscious of her words having fallen rather loud and abruptly in the stillness that followed them.

Mrs. Meade gave her a penetrating look. All her affected lightness of manner had gone. “Because it is not at your boarding-house, after all—is it, Miss Lewis?’

“I beg your pardon?” said Diana.

Mrs. Meade’s voice was still quiet, but inflexible. “Because you do not have the shawl. You gave it to Charity…didn’t you?”

There was another second’s pause, distinct this time. “I—don’t understand you,” said Diana Lewis.

“Oh, you do,” Mrs. Meade assured her.

Before Diana Lewis could summon any words to answer, there came a confused noise of feet on the stairs, and then a loud knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Meade in a clear voice.

It was Sheriff Royal who entered, with a harassed expression that declared belligerently to all the world that he was there on compulsion. “What’s going on?” he demanded with no attempt at ceremony.

“Well! I’m glad you decided to come, Andrew. I rather thought you’d object. And Mr. Edgerton,” added Mrs. Meade, looking past him to where the detective stood in the doorway, with Randall Morris behind him.

Since the sheriff seemed to have been struck mute by Mrs. Meade’s salutation, she added simply, with a gesture toward the young lady in question, “I should like for you to meet Miss Mary Taylor.”

Diana Lewis’ face had turned a duller shade of white, but she did not move or speak. She looked at Edgerton as he stepped into the room, surveying her with the amazement that all Mrs. Meade’s actions seemed to call up in him.

“Miss Lewis, the seamstress?—Are you…are you very sure, Mrs. Meade?” he managed to say, being, for once in his successful career, unable to think of anything more to the point.

“Oh, yes. Very sure. It was the shawl, you see,” Mrs. Meade explained.

“Yes—Randall told me about it. That is, he said something about your finding a shawl, but I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the significance of it.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Meade, “to begin with, we have all been relying a good deal on Miss Lewis’ statement, haven’t we? That Charity never came to her shop that night. Really Miss Lewis told a simple untruth: Charity did come here that night as usual. You see, if her shawl were to be found in Miss Lewis’ possession that would immediately give the lie to her story. So she had to get rid of it. Charity’s little purse and its contents were small enough to be destroyed or scattered, perhaps, but she could not dispose of the shawl that quickly. She was uneasy, perhaps; worrying that at length it might occur to someone to question the truth of her story and examine her shop or lodgings. So she took something of a risk, and returned the shawl to Charity’s room at Mrs. Henney’s.”

“How?” blurted Andrew Royal very loudly, and then immediately looked as though he would have liked to disappear on the spot.

“She had the keys to the house and room from Charity’s purse. All she had to do was go quietly enough not to wake the household, and not show a light. That was what attracted my notice to the hatbox. It was several inches to the right of where it had been when I saw it yesterday morning, and half on top of a flat parcel in the bottom of the wardrobe. Mrs. Henney said that Mr. Edgerton put everything back the way he found it—and I quite believed you would be so precise, Mr. Edgerton—so that meant someone else had moved it. Mrs. Henney said she had not. I thought perhaps someone could have taken it out and put it back in the dark, not quite able to see where they were placing it.”

“I suppose the fault lies with me,” said Edgerton, smiling a little, “for not recognizing the oddity of a shawl kept in a hatbox in the first place.”

“Of course not,” returned Mrs. Meade. “Women keep all manner of things in odd places. I once knew a young lady who kept novels and sweetmeats in a hatbox, and got away with it, too—most likely because she shared them with her maid. But what you didn’t see was the significance of the shawl itself—it was green.”

“Green?”

“Yes. Mrs. Henney in her perturbation didn’t notice when she saw you handling it, but when I showed her later she immediately recognized it, as I myself did, as the shawl Charity was wearing the day she disappeared. But it wasn’t the one she was wearing when she was seen on Main Street that night! Old Mr. Hawkins was right—he really did see a ‘silver’ or ‘shimmery’ shawl. That sounded odd to me when I first heard about it, but I didn’t understand it then. But when I found the green one in the hatbox and realized why it was there, I remembered a certain white brocade shawl immediately recognizable as belonging to Miss Diana Lewis. A green knitted shawl isn’t shimmery. What Mr. Hawkins saw was white silk brocade, shining in the light from some nearby window.”

Randall Morris broke in: “But Mrs. Meade—where is Charity?”

“She was kidnapped,” said Mrs. Meade, “but for a very odd reason—because she was mistaken for Mary Taylor—or rather, Diana Lewis.”

“Ha!” said Edgerton explosively, the glint in his eye betokening instant comprehension and admiration.

“Yes. Miss Lewis deliberately arranged to have Charity taken for her. That was the reason for the exchange of shawls, which she somehow contrived while Charity was here with her. If you will inquire among the ladies of this town you will find that no one else has a shawl quite like that white one. And there is a resemblance of sorts between Charity Bradford and Diana Lewis. They are both nearly the same height, slight and dark-haired—in short, the description you had to follow. In the dark, with that shawl to guide them, who might not be mistaken?”

“I don’t know how you know these things, Mrs. Meade, but every moment I find myself more disposed to believe you,” said Edgerton. “Miss Lewis—you have heard what has been said. Do you have any kind of explanation to offer?”

The seamstress turned away from him. Her former taut, nerve-bound expression was already gone, now that she saw there was nothing for her to do; her attitude expressed only a sort of resigned indifference.

“Yes,” she said in a voice that held no regret, or even distress at her failure; “yes, it’s true—I am Mary Taylor…or at least that is the name you call me.”

“And Charity Bradford? What has happened to her, and why?”

“May I sit down? I am not strong, you know.” She swallowed and moistened her lips, as though her mouth was dry.

Edgerton inclined his head curtly, and Diana Lewis sat down on the sofa by the window. Mrs. Meade, in the meantime, took uninvited possession of one of the easy-chairs and placed her reticule and her two hands in her lap, ready to listen attentively.

Diana Lewis began in the same flat voice, “I left New Orleans because I had received letters from people I did not want to meet…other associates of Mr. Faraday’s. You know about him, I imagine…yes. They wanted certain things of his that they believed I had in my possession.” She swallowed again. “I—I did not want to see them. I couldn’t get rid of the jewels on my own—and I didn’t have the courage to simply throw them away. It was the weakness of my old life. But I wanted to get away, and begin something entirely different. But the letters kept coming, and they gradually became threatening. So I left the city. These people didn’t know me by sight, and I wanted to keep it so. I traveled under assumed names, and wore a veil or a hat that shaded my face, so that if they did manage to trace me they would not have a distinct impression of what I looked like. They would hardly be so foolish as to molest an unknown woman if they were not sure of her identity.”

“But did you know the people who were following you? Could you recognize them?”

“We had never met, but I had heard at least one of them described. After leaving the city I never was sure if I saw any of them—but I sometimes had the feeling of being followed.”

“Why didn’t you simply turn the jewels over to them, if you didn’t care about having them yourself?” said Edgerton, frowning.

“Because I was afraid, I tell you—I believed they would kill me after I had given them the jewels, to prevent my incriminating them in the future. I had answered their letters—I had unwisely made some remarks about wanting to be done with my past life that made them think I could not be trusted. I knew what they were capable of and I had every reason to fear the worst.”

She stopped, out of breath, clenching her thin fingers together in her lap. She lifted her head and began again, unevenly: “When I reached Sour Springs I believed I had escaped them. I lived here quietly for a few months, and then one day I saw a man on the street—a man who matched the description I had heard, who seemed to be watching me. I managed to stay far enough away from him to keep him from seeing my face. The next night I saw from my window the shadow of a man lurking by the gate. I began to be desperately afraid.”

“And so,” said Edgerton, with a hard sarcasm that none of the others had thought to see from him, “you arranged to put an innocent girl into their power in your place.”

“I only meant it to buy a little time! By the time they were convinced of their mistake I meant to be gone from Sour Springs, and not let them trace me again. I didn’t mean Charity any harm. I chose her because of the superficial resemblance between us, as Mrs. Meade has said, and because she had reason to frequently come to my shop in the evening. I began wearing light-colored dresses similar to hers; I re-trimmed my hat in the same fashion as the one she wore; I did my hair the same way she did hers. I imitated her way of walking. I was an actress once, you know.

“All this time I was careful to walk outside only in broad daylight, when there were people around me, and to go nowhere but my shop and back to my boarding-house. I kept my face shaded…and I wore a distinctive shawl. The shawl…the most important part of all.” A strange light came into her eyes. “I had determined that only the house where I was staying was watched; my shop was in too busy a street for them to risk anything there.

“The night before last Charity came here to work as usual. While she was busy I managed to abstract her shawl and hide it. When it had grown completely dark I said I had left some material for her wedding-dress at home, and asked Charity if she could go and bring it, since I was not feeling well enough for the walk. When she could not find her shawl at once, I offered to lend her mine.”

Mrs. Meade’s lips were pinched very tightly together. She looked at Randall Morris, who all this time had stood opposite the sofa, staring in horrified incredulity at the seamstress as her flat, listless voice laid out the whole of the sickeningly practical design. As Diana Lewis pronounced these last words the image rose before his eyes of a girl turning into a quiet darkened lane, the white shawl around her shoulders shining in a ghostly fashion in the dusk. As she reached the garden gate of a silent house and put out her hand to open it, a black figure separated itself from the other shadows and moved behind her…until at the last instant some instinct made her sense another, silent presence, but even as she whipped around startled it was too late—

For an instant his mind reeled. His voice shook as he said, low and fiercely, “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Diana Lewis. “She didn’t come back. That is all I can tell you.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Lewis! You’d better tell us more and a good deal more, or I swear I’ll—”

“Now that’s enough,” said Andrew Royal, putting out a hand to stop Randall as he made a threatening move forward. “Charity’s all right. They think she’s Mary Taylor, they won’t harm her till she tells them where those pearls are—and she can’t.”

“But they will find the pearls,” observed Diana Lewis, “because Charity has them.”

The three men simultaneously drew a sharp breath, and then—“What?” said Edgerton.

“The pearls are on the white shawl. I hid them among the pearl beads of the embroidery on the edges.”

“I always did think that elaborate shawl was questionable taste for everyday wear,” observed Mrs. Meade, “which was especially odd, since you have always had such good taste otherwise.”

The delayed reaction of the men burst all at once. Between Edgerton’s “You did what?” and Royal’s “Now you’ve torn it!” Randall’s voice rose hoarsely. “Where did they take her? You tell me that now or I’ll kill you myself!”

“Now, really, Randall,” said Mrs. Meade mildly, but not at all as if she thought he meant it.

Edgerton interposed himself into the forefront of the scene, speaking in rapid, businesslike fashion. “Give me the names, descriptions, and any other information you have about these people you believe responsible, and if Miss Bradford is found unharmed I’ll do what I can on your behalf in court—as difficult as I find it to feel any sympathy for you,” he added, in a purely personal capacity.

“I don’t know any names,” said Diana Lewis. “The one man I’ve seen is medium height—thin—he has a narrow hooked nose, and most often wears a woolen scarf around his neck. As for the others—I believe there are two, or maybe three—I received the impression that there is another man and his wife.”

“That’s them,” said Edgerton. “Thank God, we were on the right track. I believe I can put my hands on them.”

“Who?” demanded Andrew Royal.

Edgerton, apparently not hearing him, spoke to Randall Morris. “It’s only a question of time now, and I think we’ve got time on our side. I’ll wire my colleague in Denver, who’s been shadowing this suspicious married couple, and then take a fast train to meet him. I’ll have his reply sent to one of the stops along the line. Are you coming?”

“You bet your life,” said Randall. “Do you know where they are?”

“My colleague will know where they’ve been, at any rate. The only thing that worries me is that they know they’re being watched—I’m remembering that third letter.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Mrs. Meade. “They never wrote that letter. Miss Lewis wrote it herself.”

“How do you know that?” exclaimed Edgerton, not even bothering to question the possibility of her statement this time.

“Why, what other reason is there to suddenly begin printing when you’ve been writing, other than to disguise handwriting? Only, of course, it was Miss Lewis who wanted to disguise hers—those other people weren’t worried about who would see their letters. And they certainly didn’t want Mary Taylor to flee if they were planning to kidnap her.”

“Let’s go,” said Edgerton to Randall, casting a hasty look at his watch. “Sheriff, will you maintain custody of Miss Lewis until—”

“I most surely will not,” said Andrew Royal. “I’m not going to be kept out of this. I’ve got a deputy that can keep Miss Lewis company here till we get back—boy needs something to keep him busy anyway.”

* * *

A burning red sunset colored the sky over the city, seeming to bring it lower, like a heavy canopy stretched from mountaintop to mountaintop. Wisps of cloud, ever changing in shape, slowly dissolved and then regathered themselves high up in the still, glowing air.

Edgerton’s colleague, another unobtrusive man in plain clothes, emerged from the shadows at a street corner and joined their party, which already included a member of the Denver police force.

“Early this afternoon,” he said in response to Edgerton’s mute glance of inquiry. “Two men and a woman.”

“One woman?” said Edgerton. “It might be, but…could you see what she looked like?”

“No, she had on a long cloak and hood.”

The street they turned into was narrower than the last, and the sharp shadows of houses that crossed it and met in the middle made it look as if it narrowed to a point and disappeared. But they reached this point, passed it and were cloaked in shadow themselves.

Randall Morris never remembered afterward where he had been or what he had seen. His mind was too full and too agitated to receive any further impressions of sight or sound. He was only conscious of the looming shapes of buildings that seemed to lean in on either side, black against the lurid glow of the red sky. The scene in the dark lane at Sour Springs was constantly repeating itself in his mind, blotting out all else like a spill of ink each time it came up.

They stopped before a certain house. A second policeman left the shadow at the side of it to join them. “The second floor, sir,” he said in a low voice to Edgerton’s colleague.

Edgerton noiselessly opened the door giving onto the street, and they passed in one after the other. He led the way up a dark, narrow set of stairs, and they followed cautiously, stepping as lightly as possible to avoid betraying their presence. Andrew Royal’s harsh breathing made more sound than all their feet put together.

In the upstairs hall the two detectives drew near a closed door and listened; from behind it was coming the sound of several suppressed voices in rapid argument. Edgerton very carefully tried the knob; it was locked. He motioned to the two policemen, who moved to the forefront.

The door burst in with a crash and two men who had been sitting at a table leaped to their feet, while a woman who had been standing near looked across at the intruders with a fleeting mechanical expression of alarm, but had not even time to draw back a step. Randall saw all this in a second’s confused glimpse; was aware of the rush forward by the invading party and heard Edgerton’s sharp voice calling out to the inhabitants not to move, that they were under arrest. But he only half heard and half saw, for he was looking for just one thing. He made straight across the room and burst into the one behind it. A single candle standing on a night-table wavered wildly and went out in the gust from the door. The red sunset light was coming in through the dusty panes of a small window. A girl in a light gingham dress was half lying at the head of the narrow bed, her wrists bound with a handkerchief, her frightened brown eyes staring up at him from above the gag that covered her mouth.

In seconds she was freed and clasped to his heart. Her faint, sobbing cry of relief was muffled against him as he held her close, held her for a long moment.

Edgerton stopped in the doorway and looked in for an instant; having thus briefly assured himself of Charity’s safety he disappeared again into the outer room.

Randall, for once in his life, was succinct. “Come on,” he said steadily, and with his supporting arms still around her he led her toward the door.

The three prisoners were in handcuffs, and Andrew Royal, finding himself superfluous to the operation, was making up for it by suspiciously supervising everyone else. He looked at Charity’s white face as she leaned half fainting against Randall. “Get her out of here!” he growled.

He became aware that Edgerton was going round the room like a dog on a scent, and divining his purpose, began to look hurriedly about himself. “Where is it?” he barked at the hard-faced woman who stood straight and silent with her hands in irons. Without waiting for an answer he stomped toward the other room. Edgerton saw him and immediately made after him; but he was a few seconds too late, and it was Andrew Royal who drew from a dingy carpetbag that had been thrown aside on a chair in the bedroom the crumpled folds of a white silk shawl.

* * *

The next morning found brilliant sunshine sparkling in at the windows of the train racing back toward Sour Springs. Four were seated by a window, the warm sunbeams flicking over them, discussing the events of the past two days.

Charity had recovered somewhat from her ordeal, but the effects of what she had been through were still evident in her slightly pale face and soft, subdued voice, and she remained close to Randall’s side. Edgerton and Royal sat opposite them. Charity was recounting to them the details of her experience.

“I hadn’t any idea what it was all about,” she said, “and that’s what made it so frightening. I couldn’t seem to make them understand that my name was not Mary Taylor, that I had never even heard of such a person. They seemed determined not to listen to me.”

“The real Mary Taylor would undoubtedly have said the same,” said Edgerton, “which is why they took no stock in your protestations.”

“But who was Mary Taylor really, Mr. Edgerton? What did she do?”

Randall had only given Charity a brief, hurried explanation the night before of the circumstances surrounding her abduction, so she had yet to hear the story of Diana Lewis’ treachery. Edgerton explained more fully now, beginning with his own labor in tracing the jewel thieves, up through the revelations of the previous day. Charity listened with a serious, interested expression that gradually gave way to astonishment.

“Then there really were pearls?” she said slowly when he concluded.

“Very valuable ones, Miss Bradford.” Edgerton put out his hand and took up a fold of the white silk shawl, which reposed at that moment on Andrew Royal’s knee. He would have liked to take the whole garment, but found the other end still held firmly in the sheriff’s grasp. Royal had determinedly maintained possession of the shawl all night and all morning, despite many similar attempts on Edgerton’s part to draw it away from him; evidently bound to hang on to his one share in the business for as long as possible. “Do you see the larger ones here and there among these pearl beads? You might not be able to tell the difference, other than the size, but an expert would tell you that they’re the real thing.”

Charity leaned forward and put out her hand to touch the glistening hem of the shawl. “And I had them all the time, and never knew it!”

“Didn’t any of the kidnappers see the beads? One would think, with pearls uppermost in their mind, it would have caught their notice at once.”

“Or that I would have noticed, since they kept questioning me about pearls so insistently! No, no one did. It was dark at first—and when they made me put on that dark cloak to avoid anyone noticing us, one of the men shoved the shawl into that carpetbag, and it wasn’t taken out again until you found it.”

Charity’s fingertips rested on the edge of the brocade for a moment, a slight shadow touching her face. “It all still seems so incredible,” she said. “I—I can hardly believe that Diana would do such a thing to me.”

“I found it hard to comprehend at first myself, Miss Bradford,” said Edgerton. He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked over at Randall Morris. “Do you know, I have the oddest feeling of having bungled this entire investigation, in spite of the fact that we’ve succeeded in every way. I suppose that, following our original line of reasoning, we would have traced the supposed ‘Mary Taylor’ to Faraday’s old associates in time. But we’d never have happened on Diana Lewis! And the way Mrs. Meade so quickly uncovered the kidnapping plot undoubtedly saved Miss Bradford much more danger and harm, by getting us there so soon—quite possibly, Miss Bradford, even saved your life.”

Charity’s hand tightened in the one of Randall’s that held it as he said, “Mrs. Meade—God bless her! She had her head on straight the whole time, when the rest of us were going round in circles.”

Edgerton nodded. “I really can’t think of any commendation high enough. You know, I’ve thought myself a fairly proficient detective, but they do say that woman’s intuition—”

“Woman’s intuition nothing,” said Andrew Royal shortly. “That twittering hen of a Henney woman didn’t see a thing when you flapped the evidence around right under her nose. Women aren’t created equal.”

Edgerton was hard put to it, for a moment, to keep from laughing.

He looked across at the other two. It was perhaps something he saw in their faces that prompted his next speech.

He stood up and looked out of the window. “It looks like a beautiful morning,” he said. “Since that’s the case, Sheriff—suppose you join me on the platform for a breath of air?”

“Air!” said Andrew Royal, staring at him in frank amazement.

“Yes,” said Edgerton, taking him by the arm. “You’ll find it invigorating, I’m sure. You’ve been through a great deal, you know, Sheriff, and you could do with a little bracing up. Fresh air ought to be just the thing. And—let’s leave that here, shall we?” he added, twitching the shawl away from the indignant sheriff’s hands and bestowing it on his own side of the seat; and forestalled Royal’s protest with, “Really, Sheriff. I’m sure Mrs. Meade would say it was questionable taste for morning wear—especially for a man of your age.”

He steered the sputtering sheriff down the aisle of the car and out at the door, and it closed behind them.

Randall and Charity watched them go, both smiling a little, and when the two men had disappeared they sat quietly for a few moments. There were only one or two other people in the carriage, so they were nearly alone.

Randall gently turned over Charity’s hand in his own, looking at the faint purple shadow of a bruise on her wrist. He looked down into her face. “You’re sure you’re all right, darling?” he said.

“Yes,” said Charity. “They were a little bit rough with me, but—I’m not hurt. I’m fine now.”

He smiled down at her, and leaned his head tiredly against the cushion of the seat, without taking his eyes from her face. The marks of two sleepless nights, and the days of anxiety, showed plainly on his face in the strong daylight.

“Poor darling,” said Charity softly, touching his arm gently with her free hand. There was happiness, though, too, in her eyes as they dwelt on his tired face; a quiet joy in knowing that she was loved so much as to cause this concern. “Did I frighten you very much?”

Randall tried to laugh, not succeeding too well. “Frightened hardly seems like a big enough word.”

Charity was looking down as she spoke, a little carefully. “Were you…afraid that the things they said about me were true?”

Randall moved his head awkwardly against the cushion, and stared across at a ray of sunlight on the opposite seat as he tried to think of the right words for his answer. “No,” he said after a moment. “Never all the way. I didn’t realize it then…but I know now that I didn’t really believe it. But I was surely scared for a while, because the more I thought, the more I realized that I didn’t know anything about you that could prove it all wrong. Nothing! Charity, do you realize that I don’t even know your middle name?”

“I can remedy that easily enough,” said Charity, gravely, but with a delightful little glimmering of humor in her voice. “I can tell you all sorts of things, in fact. What more about me would you like to know?”

“Everything,” said Randall impulsively. “Everything there is to know. I want to know all about you—every last, littlest detail, so I’ll have that many more things to love you for.”

“And where shall I begin?” said Charity softly, her cheek against his arm.

“Don’t begin now,” said Randall. “You don’t have to. The nicest thing is, I’ve got all the time in the world to learn.”

* * *

“May I help you, Mrs. Meade?”

Mrs. Meade looked up from an assortment of yard goods that she had been sorting her way through for the past quarter of an hour without any apparent object. “Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Benton,” she said rather abstractedly. “Thank you, I’m only looking about.” She gave him a pleasant nod and a smile and turned to the next table.

The storekeeper could not help wondering, as he returned to his counter, exactly what it was that Mrs. Meade was looking for, since by this time she had looked over nearly every display in the store. Whatever the object of her search, she did not seem particularly satisfied with the results, yet neither did she seem impatient, for she was the last customer of the evening, and showed no inclination towards leaving any time soon.

The deeply colored sunset, the same that cast its rays over Denver in the hour that Edgerton and his companions were traversing that narrow street, was streaming into the shop, its red glow falling over the displays as if the windows had been tinted with blood. The aroma of supper cooking drifted out from the living quarters at the back of the store, hovering around the counter where Benton was going over the day’s accounts and hoping that Mrs. Meade would find whatever it was she wanted before the meal was ready. Older ladies always did take such time making up their minds.

Mrs. Meade was frowning at a hurricane lamp with a hopefully positioned price tag, displaying the original price prominently crossed out and a more attractive one substituted, when a series of thuds overhead and a thunder of footsteps down the stairs from the second floor made her turn, in time to see the young deputy sheriff stumble down the last of the stairs and make for the front door.

“Is something wrong, Richard?” called Mrs. Meade.

“It’s Miss Lewis—she’s been taken ill. I’ve got to go for a doctor.” And he jerked the door open, tripped over his own feet and then again over the threshold, and somehow managed to get out of the store and, it is devoutly to be hoped, down the outside steps without further catastrophe.

Mrs. Meade did not wait to see, however, nor did she return to her shopping, but crossed the store to the staircase and ascended. Quietly she opened the door to the seamstress’ room.

Diana Lewis did not look ill. She was by the mannequin at the other end of the room, her head bent slightly and her mouth a sharp, set line, working away at the white dress as if her life depended upon it. Mrs. Meade watched her for a moment, and then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Diana Lewis whipped round with a startled gasp. She stood staring at Mrs. Meade, one hand clenched and her thin body rigid.

“No, Miss Lewis,” said Mrs. Meade firmly, “I’m afraid it won’t do.”

* * *

So the next morning when Edgerton and Andrew Royal, having come directly from the railway station, mounted the stairs and opened the door, they both halted momentarily and blinked in surprise at finding a tableau almost exactly like the one they had left—Diana Lewis seated on the sofa, and Mrs. Meade ensconced in an armchair, looking thoroughly mistress of the situation. The only new element was Royal’s young deputy, who sat on a chair over near the sewing-table with a guilty, mortified expression on his boyish face.

“Now, before you say anything, Andrew, you must understand that it was not Richard’s fault,” said Mrs. Meade. “Anyone might have been taken in. You might if you had been the one to stay with her. She was an actress once, as she told us, and I have no doubt a very convincing one, too.”

“What, do you mean she made an attempt at escape?” said Edgerton.

“Oh, yes. I thought she would. But since I was expecting it, I was able to be here and prevent it.”

“Expecting it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Meade. “You see, I never believed for a moment that a woman who could cold-bloodedly arrange for another girl to be murdered would give up those pearls so easily. Fear couldn’t drive a woman to do such a thing, but greed might. That story she told us yesterday was, if you’ll pardon the expression, so much hogwash. Oh, I’ve no doubt those people who abducted Charity were as vicious as she said—but surely, if she was clever enough to fashion this scheme she could have thought of a way to give them what they wanted and still make her own escape. But she didn’t want to give them the pearls. That was clear all along. Those letters—the letters left in Charity’s room—they were the most telling thing. They were intended to convince us that Charity was Mary Taylor. Remember that third letter that Diana Lewis wrote herself? That was to create the impression of flight. Why do that, if she expected Charity to be returned unharmed—and to establish her identity? No, what she really wanted was for Mary Taylor to be dead, so Diana Lewis could move quietly away to enjoy the profits of her robbery.”

Edgerton seemed to have a suspicion of what was coming. “Then the pearls…on the shawl…”

“They were false, of course. Meant to deceive both us and the kidnappers. She hid the real ones here, in a place no one would ever think of looking for them, intending to collect them and make her departure when it was convenient. Her identity being found out yesterday was a blow, but she still thought she had a chance. While you were gone she feigned illness, alarmingly enough to send Richard rushing for a doctor—timing it for the moment when the Bentons would be at supper and the evening train for the west just about to depart. But as I said, I rather expected she would try, so I made a point of lingering in the store yesterday afternoon, and—well—”

Mrs. Meade finished with a quaint, half-embarrassed smile, as if to intimate that she could not think of anything more to add.

“You wouldn’t happen to know,” said Edgerton, “where the pearls are—would you, Mrs. Meade?”

Mrs. Meade rose from her chair. “Come over here, Mr. Edgerton, and I’ll show you.”

Edgerton laid the silk shawl, which he had carried with him from the train, across the sewing-table and followed her. Andrew Royal, his mouth open under a limp moustache, looked at the shawl with an expression of utter betrayal.

Mrs. Meade drew near the mannequin and extended her hand to touch the white dress. “Look at the pearl beading on the yoke. She always did such exquisite embroidery,” she said reminiscently, “especially with beading. The pearls are all there—on Charity’s wedding-dress—and they’ve been there all the time.”

###

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Mrs. Meade is not the only one in Sour Springs who is shocked at the news when Clyde Renfrew is accused of drunken assault on a woman. Clyde, a sober, steady young rancher, seemed the last person likely to do such a thing. Between an emphatic witness and Clyde’s own apparent reluctance to defend himself, the case seems open and shut. But Mrs. Meade—who seems to have a knack for being just across the hall when things happen—has a few ideas of her own…The second entry in the Mrs. Meade Mysteries series, approximately 12,500 words long.

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More books by this author:

Left-Hand Kelly

Wanderlust Creek and Other Stories

The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories

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About the Author

Elisabeth Grace Foley is a historical fiction author, insatiable reader and lifelong history buff. She has been a finalist for the Peacemaker Award for Best Independently-Published Western Novel, for Left-Hand Kelly, and is also the author of short story collections The Ranch Next Door and Other Stories and Wanderlust Creek and Other Stories. Her work has appeared online at Rope and Wire and The Western Online. Her other books include a series of short historical mysteries, the Mrs. Meade Mysteries; and short fiction set during the American Civil War and the Great Depression.

Elisabeth’s Blog: http://www.thesecondsentence.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ElisabethGFoley

Table of Contents

The Silver Shawl

More Mrs. Meade

About the Author