is your own theory, by the way?”
T.X. pursed his lips.
“My theory isn’t very clearly formed,” he said cautiously, “but so far as it goes, it is that Kara was lying on the bed probably reading one of the books which were found by the bedside when his assailant suddenly came upon him. Kara seized the telephone to call for assistance and was promptly killed.”
Again there was silence.
“That is a theory,” said John Lexman, with his curious deliberation of speech, “but as I say I refuse to be definite — have you found the weapon?”
T.X. shook his head.
“Were there any peculiar features about the room which astonished you, and which you have not told me?”
T.X. hesitated.
“There were two candles,” he said, “one in the middle of the room and one under the bed. That in the middle of the room was a small Christmas candle, the one under the bed was the ordinary candle of commerce evidently roughly cut and probably cut in the room. We found traces of candle chips on the floor and it is evident to me that the portion which was cut off was thrown into the fire, for here again we have a trace of grease.”
Lexman nodded.
“Anything further?” he asked.
“The smaller candle was twisted into a sort of corkscrew shape.”
“The Clue of the Twisted Candle,” mused John Lexman “that’s a very good title — Kara hated candles.”
“Why?”
Lexman leant back in his chair, selected a cigarette from a silver case.
“In my wanderings,” he said, “I have been to many strange places. I have been to the country which you probably do not know, and which the traveller who writes books about countries seldom visits. There are queer little villages perched on the spurs of the bleakest hills you ever saw. I have lived with communities which acknowledge no king and no government. These have their laws handed down to them from father to son — it is a nation without a written language. They administer their laws rigidly and drastically. The punishments they award are cruel — inhuman. I have seen, the woman taken in adultery stoned to death as in the best Biblical traditions, and I have seen the thief blinded.”
T.X. shivered.
“I have seen the false witness stand up in a barbaric market place whilst his tongue was torn from him. Sometimes the Turks or the piebald governments of the state sent down a few gendarmes and tried a sort of sporadic administration of the country. It usually ended in the representative of the law lapsing into barbarism, or else disappearing from the face of the earth, with a whole community of murderers eager to testify, with singular unanimity, to the fact that he had either committed suicide or had gone off with the wife of one of the townsmen.
“In some of these communities the candle plays a big part. It is not the candle of commerce as you know it, but a dip made from mutton fat. Strap three between the fingers of your hands and keep the hand rigid with two flat pieces of wood; then let the candles burn down lower and lower — can you imagine? Or set a candle in a gunpowder trail and lead the trail to a well-oiled heap of shavings thoughtfully heaped about your naked feet. Or a candle fixed to the shaved head of a man — there are hundreds of variations and the candle plays a part in all of them. I don’t know which Kara had cause to hate the worst, but I know one or two that he has employed.”
“Was he as bad as that?” asked T.X.
John Lexman laughed.
“You don’t know how bad he was,” he said.
Towards the end of the luncheon the waiter brought a note in to T.X. which had been sent on from his office.
“Dear Mr. Meredith,
“In answer to your enquiry I believe my daughter is in London, but I did not know it until this morning. My banker informs me that my daughter called at the bank this morning and drew a considerable sum of money from her private account, but where she has gone and what she is doing with the money I do not know. I need hardly tell you that I am very worried about this matter and I should be glad if you could explain what it is all about.”
It was signed “William Bartholomew.”
T.X. groaned.
“If I had only had the sense to go to the bank this morning, I should have seen her,” he said. “I’m going to lose my job over this.”
The other looked troubled.
“You don’t seriously mean that.”
“Not exactly,” smiled T.X., “but I don’t think the Chief is very pleased with me just now. You see I have butted into this business without any authority — it isn’t exactly in my department. But you have not given me your theory about the candles.”
“I have no theory to offer,” said the other, folding up his serviette; “the candles suggest a typical Albanian murder. I do not say that it was so, I merely say that by their presence they suggest a crime of this character.”
With this T.X. had to be content.
If it were not his business to interest himself in commonplace murder — though this hardly fitted such a description — it was part of the peculiar function which his department exercised to restore to Lady Bartholomew a certain very elaborate snuffbox which he discovered in the safe.
Letters had been found amongst his papers which made clear the part which Kara had played. Though he had not been a vulgar blackmailer he had retained his hold, not only upon this particular property of Lady Bartholomew, but upon certain other articles which were discovered, with no other object, apparently, than to compel influence from quarters likely to be of assistance to him in his schemes.
The inquest on the murdered man which the Assistant Commissioner attended produced nothing in the shape of evidence and the coroner’s verdict of “murder against some person or persons unknown” was only to be expected.
T.X. spent a very busy and a very tiring week tracing elusive clues which led him nowhere. He had a letter from John Lexman announcing the fact that he intended leaving for the United States. He had received a very good offer from a firm of magazine publishers in New York and was going out to take up the appointment.
Meredith’s plans were now in fair shape. He had decided upon the line of action he would take and in the pursuance of this he interviewed his Chief and the Minister of Justice.
“Yes, I have heard from my daughter,” said that great man uncomfortably, “and really she has placed me in a most embarrassing position. I cannot tell you, Mr. Meredith, exactly in what manner she has done this, but I can assure you she has.”
“Can I see her letter or telegram?” asked T.X.
“I am afraid that is impossible,” said the other solemnly; “she begged me to keep her communication very secret. I have written to my wife and asked her to come home. I feel the constant strain to which I am being subjected is more than human can endure.”
“I suppose,” said T.X. patiently, “it is impossible for you to tell me to what address you have replied?”
“To no address,” answered the other and corrected himself hurriedly; “that is to say I only received the telegram — the message this morning and there is no address — to reply to.”
“I see,” said T.X.
That afternoon he instructed his secretary.
“I want a copy of all the agony advertisements in tomorrow’s papers and in the last editions of the evening papers — have them ready for me tomorrow morning when I come.”
They were waiting for him when he reached the office at nine o’clock the next day and he went through them carefully. Presently