The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

HEWITT

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      The Affair of Mrs. Seton's Child

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      It has struck me that many of my readers may wonder that, although I have set down in detail a number of interesting cases wherein Hewitt figured with success, I have scarcely as much as alluded to his failures. For failures he had, and of a fair number. More than once he has found his search met, perhaps at the beginning, perhaps after some little while, by an impenetrable wall of darkness through which no clue led. At other times he has lost time on a false trail while his quarry escaped. At others still the stupidity or inaccuracy of some person upon whom he has depended for information has set his plans to naught. The reason why none of these cases have been embodied in the present papers is simply this; that a problem with no answer, a puzzle with no explanation, an incident with no satisfactory end, as a rule lends itself but poorly to purposes of popular narrative, and it is often difficult to make understood and appreciated any degree of skill and acumen unless it produces a clear and intelligible result. That such results attended Hewitt’s efforts in an extraordinary degree those who have followed my narratives so far will need no assurance; but withal impossibilities still remain impossibilities, for Hewitt as for the dullest creature alive. On some other occasion I may perhaps set out at length a case in which Martin Hewitt achieved nothing more than unqualified failure; for the present I shall content myself with a case which, although it was completely cleared up in the end, yet for some while baffled Hewitt because of some of the reasons I have alluded to.

      On the ground floor of the building wherein Hewitt kept his office, and in which I myself had my chambers, were the offices of Messrs. Streatley and Raikes, an old-fashioned firm of family solicitors. Messrs. Streatley and Raikes’s junior clerk appeared in Hewitt’s outer office one morning with the query, “Is your guv’nor in?”

      Kerrett admitted the fact.

      “Will you tell him Mr. Raikes sends his compliments and will be obliged if he can step downstairs for a few minutes? It’s a client of ours—a lady—and she’s in a great state about losing her baby or something. Say Mr. Raikes would bring her up only she seems too ill to get up the stairs.”

      This was the purport of the message which Kerrett brought into the inner room, and in three minutes Hewitt was in Streatley and Raikes’s office.

      “I thought the only useful thing possible would be to send for you, Mr Hewitt,” Mr. Raikes explained; “indeed, if my client had been better acquainted with London no doubt she would have come to you direct. She is in a bad state in the inner office. Her name is Mrs. Seton; her husband is a recent client of ours. Quite young, and rather wealthy people, so far as I know. Made a fortune early, I believe, in South Africa, and calve here to live. Their child—their only child, a little toddler of two years or thereabout—disappeared yesterday in a most mysterious way, and all efforts to find it seem to have failed as yet. The police have been set going everywhere, but there is no news as yet. Mrs. Seton seems to have passed a dreadful night, and could think of nothing better to do this morning than to come to us. She has her maid with her, and looks to be breaking down entirely. I believe she’s lying on the sofa in my private room now. Will you see her? I think you might hear what she has to say, whether you take the case in hand or not; something may strike you, and in any case it will comfort her to get your opinion. I told her all about you, you know, and she clutched at the chance eagerly. Shall I see if we may go in?”

      Mr. Raikes knocked at the door of his inner sanctum and waited; then he knocked again and set the door ajar. There was a quiet “Come in,” and pushing open the door the lawyer motioned Hewitt to follow him.

      On the sofa facing the door sat a lady, very pale, and exhibiting plain signs of grief and physical weariness. A heavy veil was thrown back over her bonnet, and her maid stood at her side holding a bottle of salts. As she saw Hewitt she made as if to rise, but he stepped quickly forward and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Pray don’t disturb yourself, Mrs. Seton,” he said; “Mr. Raikes has told me something of your trouble, and perhaps when I know a little more I shall be able to offer you some advice. But remember that it will be very important for you to maintain your strength and spirits as much as possible.”

      “This is Mr. Martin Hewitt, you know,” Mr. Raikes here put in—“of whom I was speaking.”

      Mrs. Seton inclined her head and with a very obvious effort began.

      “It is my child, you know, Mr. Hewitt—my little boy Charley; we can’t find him.”

      “Mr. Raikes has told me so. When did you see the child last?”

      “Yesterday morning. His nurse left him sitting on the floor in a room we call the small morning-room, where we sometimes allowed him to play when nurse was out, because the nursery was out of hearing, except from the bedrooms. I myself was in the large morning-room, and as he seemed to be very quiet I went to look, and found he was not there.”

      “You looked elsewhere, of course?”

      “Yes; but he was nowhere in the house, and none of the servants had seen him. At first I supposed that his nurse had gone back to the small morning-room and taken him with her—I had sent her on an errand—but when she returned I found that was not the case.”

      “Can he walk?”

      “Oh, yes, he can walk quite well. But he could scarcely have come out from the room without my hearing him. The two rooms, the morning-room and the small sitting-room, are on opposite sides of the same passage.”

      “Do the doors face each other?”

      “No; the door of the small room is farther up the passage than the other. But in any case he was nowhere in the house.”

      “But if he left the room he must have got out somehow. Is there no other door?”

      “Yes, there is a French window, with the lower panels of wood, in the room; it gives on to a few steps leading down into the garden; but that was closed and bolted on the inside.”

      “You found no trace whatever of him, I take it, on the whole premises?”

      “Not a trace of any sort, nor had anybody about the place seen him.”

      “Did you yourself actually see him in this room, or have you merely the nurse’s word for it?”

      “I saw her put him there. She left him playing with a box of toys. When if went to look for him the toys were there, scattered on the floor, but he had gone.” Mrs. Seton sank on the arms of her maid and her breast heaved.

      “I’m sure,” Hewitt said, “You’ll keep your nerves as steady as you can, Mrs. Seton; much may depend on it. If you have nothing else to tell me now I think I will come to your house at once, look at it, and question your servants myself. Meantime what has been done?”

      “The police have been notified everywhere, of course,” Mr. Raikes said, handing Hewitt a printed bill, damp from the press; “and here is a bill containing a description of the child and offering a reward, which is being circulated now.”

      Hewitt glanced at the bill and nodded. “That is quite right,” he said, “so far as I can tell at present. But I must see the place. Do you feel strong enough to come home now, Mrs. Seton?”

      Hewitt’s business-like decision and confidence of manner gave the lady fresh strength. “The brougham is here,” she said, “and we can drive home at once. We live at Cricklewood.”

      A fine pair of horses stood before the brougham, though they still bore signs of hard work; and indeed they had been kept at their best pace all that morning. All the way to Cricklewood Hewitt kept Mrs. Seton in conversation, never for a moment