Free The Studio Crime by Ianthe Jerrold Page A

Frew was a vain man.”
    So saying, he left Laurence looking covetously at vellum and gilding, and went over to the writing-table, where Hembrow was looking through the counter-foils of the dead man’s cheque-book. He had begun to examine with great care a large piece of white blotting-paper which had lain under the dead man’s body, when Hembrow exclaimed in a puzzled tone:
    â€œThis is queer! May 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; June 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds; July 1, Emily Rudgwick, ten pounds. And so on up to November 1. A monthly allowance, apparently. Starting on May 1 this year.”
    â€œSome poor relation or other dependent, perhaps. Why is it queer, Hembrow?”
    â€œThe queer thing,” answered Hembrow slowly, “is the name. Emily Rudgwick. I came across an Emily Rudgwick about ten years ago, when I was first promoted. I’ve good cause to remember her, too, for when I arrested her she gave me a black eye, which did her more harm in the end than it did me. Blackmail’s quite serious enough in itself without having a charge of assaulting the police added on to it.” Hembrow smiled, and then looked grave as he resumed: “I wonder if it is the same woman. She’s a notorious fence, and as clever as they make them. This little allowance of ten pounds a month certainly needs looking into.”
    Christmas, who had been listening attentively, asked:
    â€œDid you find the other letters that were delivered here this evening, Inspector? There was a receipt, according to young Greenaway, and an official letter from the College of Arms.”
    Hembrow shook his head.
    â€œI’m afraid the letter went into the fire with the other one, Mr. Christmas. There’s not a sign of it. The halfpenny envelope is here, with its contents, but it’s only a bookseller’s receipt, and of no interest to us.”
    Christmas took the thin envelope the Inspector handed him and drew out a slip of paper headed with the name and address of a bookseller in Charing Cross Road.
    â€œNow what in the world,” he asked, “did the late Mr. Frew want Fraser’s ‘Law of Libel and Slander’ for? Was he going to pose as a lawyer, as well as a connoisseur of the arts? A queer addition to that library of illustrated books! Just have a look in the shelves, Laurence, and see if it’s actually there.”
    â€œYes,” said Laurence after a moment, pulling a discreet and sober volume out from among its magnificent neighbours. “Here it is. And, I say, John, every page is cut, so you can’t say old Frew didn’t read any of his books.”
    â€œSo here,” commented John slowly, “we have a connoisseur who left the Life of Benvenuto Cellini uncut on his shelves while he devoured in a few days the whole of a volume on the laws of libel. This is a queer case, Laurence. And the queerest thing in it is the character of the dead man.”
    He returned to the contemplation of the piece of blotting-paper, raising his head after a moment to remark:
    â€œI wish very much that we knew what had happened to that communication from the College of Arms.”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s not very much doubt what has happened to it, Mr. Christmas. It was obviously a habit of the deceased to burn his correspondence.”
    â€œAnd yet,” said John, “even a man who habitually burns his letters does not as a rule burn them until he has answered them.”
    â€œThis particular letter may not have required an answer,” Hembrow pointed out.
    â€œAnd yet it has been answered,” said Christmas gently. “And I should also like very much to know what has happened to the answer. For although the late Mr. Frew may have burnt the letters he received, he certainly did not make a habit of burning the letters he wrote... See, Inspector. The ink on this blotting-paper is quite fresh. I have not yet made the test myself, but I think if you use a