The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had--attended by the faithful
Garrett, of course--been executing some remarkably quick performances on
the Brooklands track.
About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car,
and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of
record-breaking. Some of his times for "the mile" had been very
creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton
magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals.
Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy
chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small
hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the "Hut," on the Ripley Road.
Among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he
had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while
to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind
the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance.
Though he never exceeded the speed limit--in sight of the police--yet
his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most
ear-piercing of any on the road. A little bit of business up in
Staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the
aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson, and Mr Max Mason, had placed
them all in funds, and while the worthy Bayswater vicar was taking his
ease at the "Majestic" up at Harrogate--where, by the way, he had become
extremely popular among his fellow guests--Mason was at the Bath at
Bournemouth for a change of air.
To the guests at Harrogate the Rev Thomas Clayton had told the usual
tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug
his living--that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work,
small stipend, ailing wife and several small children. Indeed, he
admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he
had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous
breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month's
holiday.
Thus he had become indispensable to the tea-and-tattle circle, and the
ladies soon began to refer to him as "that dear Mr Clayton." With one
of them, a certain wealthy widow named Edmondson, he had become a
particular favourite, a fact which he had communicated in a letter to
the good-looking motorist now living at the pretty wayside inn in front
of the lake on the Ripley Road.
While the Parson was enjoying a most decorous time with the
philanthropic widow, Dick Drummond, as he soon became known, had
cultivated popularity in the motor-world. To men in some walks of life,
and especially to those on the crooked by-paths, popularity is a very
dangerous thing. Indeed, as the Prince had on many occasions pointed
out in confidence to me, his popularity greatly troubled him, making it
daily more difficult for him to conceal his identity.
At that moment, because he had lowered a record at Brooklands, he was
living in daily terror of being photographed, and having his picture
published in one or other of the illustrated papers. If this did occur,
then was it not more than likely that somebody would identify Dick
Drummond the motorist, with the handsome Prince Albert of
Hesse-Holstein?
He led a life of ease and comfort in all else, save this constant dread
of recognition, and was seriously contemplating a sudden trip across the
Channel with a run through France and Germany when he one morning
received a registered letter bearing the Harrogate postmark.
He read it through half a dozen times. Then he burned it.
Afterwards he lit a "Petroff" and went out for a stroll in the sunshine
along the road towards Ripley village.
"It's really wonderful how clerical clothes and a drawling voice attract
a woman. They become fascinated, just as they do when they meet a
Prince. By Jove!" he laughed merrily to himself. "What fools some
women--and men, too, for the matter of that--make of themselves! They
never trouble to institute inquiry, but accept you just at your own
value. Take myself as an instance! In all these four years nobody has
ever discovered that I'm not Prince Albert. Nobody has taken the
trouble to trace the real prince to his safe abode, the Sanatorium of
Wismar. Yet the great difficulty is that I cannot always remain a
prince."
Then he strode along for some time in thoughtful silence. In his
well-cut blue serge suit and peaked motor-cap he presented the smart
devil-may-care figure of a man who would attract most women. Indeed, he
was essentially a ladies' man, but he always managed to turn his amorous
adventures to monetary advantage.
Only once in his life had he been honestly in love. The tragic story of
his romance in Florence I have already explained in a previous chapter.
His thoughts were always of his real princess--ever of her. She had
been his ideal, and would always remain so. He had defended her good
name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a
criminal. Better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth;
better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips
and tender hands.
As he walked, a young man passed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way
to Brooklands, and waved to him. It was George Hartwell, the holder of
the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his.
The Prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the
Parson's suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up
in Yorkshire.
"I wonder whether the game's worth the candle?" he went on, speaking to
himself after the cloud of dust has passed. "If what Clayton says is
true, then it's a good thing. The old woman is evidently gone on him.
I suppose he's told her the tale, and she believes he's a most
sanctified person."
He halted at a gate near the entrance to Ripley village, and lighting
another cigarette puffed vigorously at it.
"My hat!" he ejaculated at last. "A real parson must have an
exceedingly soft time of it--snug library, pretty girls in the choir,
tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing. In the country no
home is complete without its tame curate." Then, after a long silence,
he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared:
"Yes, I'll go. There'll be a bit of fun--if nothing else."
And he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his
bosom friend and ingenious accomplice. It was a word of their secret
code--Formice--which Clayton would interpret as "All right. Shall be
with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in
your letter."
Then he walked back to the "Hut," where he found Garrett sitting out in
that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded
by motorists on warm Sunday afternoons.
"Better go and pack," he said sinking into a chair as his supposed
servant rose and stood at attention. "We're going back to town in an
hour."
Garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel. He saw by
the Prince's sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind.
An hour later Dick Drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road
towards Esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he
ceased to exist. Prince Albert became himself again.
Direct to Dover Street they went--and there found the discreet Charles
awaiting them. Fresh kit was packed while Garrett, in a garage over in
Westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the
ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow.
That evening the Prince spent alone in his pretty sitting-room consuming
dozens of his pet Russian cigarettes, and thinking hard. For an hour he
was busy upon some accounts written in German--accounts from a Jew
dealer in precious stones in Amsterdam. The gentleman in question was a
good customer of the Prince's, gave fair prices, and asked no questions.
His Highness seemed troubled about one item, for as he rested his brow
upon his hand, still seated at his desk, he murmured in a low voice to
himself:
"I'm sure the old Hebrew has done me out of four hundred and fifty!
Eighteen hundred was the price agreed for that carroty-headed woman's
pendant. That's what comes of leaving business matters to Max." And
sighing, he added: "I shall really have to attend to the sales myself,
for no doubt we're swindled every time. The old Jew doesn't believe in
honour among thieves, it seems!"
Some letters which had arrived during his absence were put before him by
the valet, Charles. Among them were several invitations to the houses
of people struggling to get into society--by the back door, and who
wanted to include the name of Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein in the
list of their guests.
"Are we likely to be away for long?" asked the valet, at the same time
helping himself to a cigarette from his master's silver box.
"I haven't the slightest idea," laughed the good-looking young
adventurer. "You'll go down to the `Majestic' at Harrogate by the first
train in the morning and take the best suite for me. Garrett and I will
arrive in the car. Of course you'll tell the usual story to the
servants of my wealth, and all that."
"The Parson's down there, isn't he?"
"Yes, but you'll take no notice of him. Understand?"
So the smart young crook who posed as valet, having received his
master's instructions, retired to pack his own clothes.
At ten next morning Garrett brought round the hundred "racer," now
covered in yellow enamel and bearing a different identification-plate
from that it had borne the previous day, and with the Prince up beside
him wearing a light dust-coat and his peaked cap turned the wrong way,
so as not to catch the wind, drew out into Piccadilly, and turned up
Shaftesbury Avenue due northward.
Throughout that warm summer's day they tore along the Great North Road
as far as Doncaster, wary always of the police-traps which abound there.
Then, after a light meal, they pushed on to Ferrybridge, taking the
right-hand road through Micklefield to the cross-roads beyond Aberford,
and then on the well-kept old Roman way which runs through Wetherby to
Plampton Corner, and ascends the hill into Harrogate.
The last forty miles they did at tearing speed, the great powerful
engine running like a clock, leaving a perfect wall of white dust
behind. The car was a "flyer" in every sense of the word. The Prince
had won the Heath Stakes at Brooklands, therefore, on an open road,
without traffic or police-traps, they covered the last forty miles
within the hour.
The sun had already sunk, and the crimson afterglow had spread before
they reached the Stray, but as the car drew up before the great hotel,
Charles, bareheaded and urbane, came forth to receive his master, while
behind him stood the assistant manager and a couple of attendants also
in bareheaded servitude.
Charles, who always acted as advance-agent had already created great
excitement in the hotel by the announcement that his Highness was on his
way. Quite a small crowd of visitors had concluded their dinner early,
and assembled in the hall to catch first sight of the German princeling
who preferred residence in England to that in his native principality.
As he passed across the great hall and entered the lift, dusty after his
journey, his quick eyes caught sight of the sedate modest-looking parson
seated away from the others, chatting with a rather buxom,
florid-looking, red-necked woman of about fifty.
The Parson had his face purposely averted. At present he did not wish
to claim acquaintance with the new-comer, whom he allowed to ascend to
the fine suite of rooms reserved for him.
Next morning, as the Prince crossed the hall to go out for a stroll
about the town he created quite a flutter in the hotel, especially among
the female guests. The place was filled by summer holiday-makers from
London, each of whom was eager to rub elbows with a real live Prince.
Indeed many were the flattering words whispered by pretty lips regarding
his Highness's good looks and general bearing.
The worthy Bayswater vicar was chatting with Mrs Edmondson in his usual
clerical drawl, when the Prince's sudden appearance caused him to look
up. Then turning to her again, he exclaimed:
"Oh, here's Prince Albert! I knew him quite well when I was British
chaplain in Hanover," and crossing to his Highness he shook hands
heartily, adding in the next breath: "I wonder if your Highness would
allow me to present to you my friend here, Mrs Edmondson?"
"Delighted, I'm sure," replied the younger man bowing before the rather
stout, dark-haired lady, whose blatant pomposity crumpled up instantly,
and who became red and white in turns.
The introduction had been effected so suddenly that the relict of Thomas
Edmondson, Esquire, J.P., D.L., of Milnthorpe Hall, near Whitby, had
been taken completely off her feet--or "off her perch," as the merry
cleric afterwards jocosely put it. She knew Mr Clayton to be a most
superior person, but had no idea of his intimate acquaintance with
princes of the blood-royal.
She succeeded in stammering some conventional expressions of pleasure at
being presented, and then lapsed into ignominious silence.
"Mrs Edmondson has kindly expressed herself very interested in my poor
parish," explained the Parson, "just as your Highness has been
interested. I wrote to you a month ago to Aix-les-Bains, thanking you
for your generous donation towards our Children's Holiday Fund. It was
really extremely kind of you."
"Oh, don't mention it, Mr Clayton," replied his Highness. "I've been
in your parish twice, remember, and I know well how very hard you work,
and what a number of the deserving poor you have. I'm just going down
in the town for a stroll. Perhaps I'll see you after lunch? Come to my
room for a smoke."
And then, bowing to the obese widow, he replaced his grey felt hat and
strode out.
"What a very charming man!" declared the widow when she recovered
herself sufficiently to speak. "So he has been to your parish!"
"Oh, yes. He gives me most liberal donations," answered Clayton in a
low tone of confidence. "But he always prefers to remain anonymous, of
course. He has been my best friend for years. I had no idea he was in
England. He wrote me last from Aix."
But the widow's brain was already active. Though possessing a deep
religious feeling, and subscribing liberally to all sorts of charities
just as her late husband had done, she was nevertheless a snob, and was
already wondering whether, with the assistance of the pleasant-faced
cleric, she could not induce the Prince to be her guest at Milnthorpe.
She knew that his presence there would give to her house a _cachet_
which had always been lacking, and would raise her social position in
the select county of Yorks a hundred per cent.
"Most delightful man!" she repeated as they went forth into the grounds.
"I hope I shall have the pleasure of a long chat with him."
"Oh, that won't be very difficult, my dear Mrs Edmondson," her
companion replied. "Any one introduced by me will, I feel assured, be
received most cordially by him. He does me the honour of reposing the
most implicit trust in myself."
"A trust which certainly is not misplaced," declared the stout widow in
her self-satisfied way, as she strutted along in a new grey cotton gown
of latest _mode_, a large hat to match, a big golden chatelaine at her
side, and a blue silk sunshade.
"You are very flattering," replied Clayton. "I--I fear I do not deserve
such kind words, I only do my duty to my bishop and my parish, and
prosecute the line of life which Providence has laid out for me."
"There are clergymen--and clergymen," the woman said with affected
wisdom. "I have known more than one who has been utterly worthless. It
is, therefore, very gratifying to meet a man with such a high mind, and
such a keen sense of responsibility towards his poor backsliding fellow
creatures as yourself."
He was silent, for he was biting his nether lip. What would this
estimable widow think if she knew the truth that he had no parish, no
wife, no little children, and that he had no right to the sombre garb of
religion in which he stood before her?
A moment later he succeeded in changing the subject.
The Prince lunched alone in his private room, as he always did in hotels
in order to impress both management and guests. It was another habit of
his, in order to cause servants to talk, to have a big bottle of eau de
Cologne placed in his bath each morning. The chatter of servants as to
his generosity, and his careless extravagance, was often most useful to
him. While the Parson was always parsimonious--which, by the way, was
rather belied by his rubicund complexion--the Prince was ever
open-handed.
The good-looking, well-dressed young man's slight foreign accent
entirely disappeared whenever he became Tremlett or Lord Nassington, or
Drummond, or any other imaginary person whose identity he from time to
time assumed. At present, however, he spoke with just sufficient error
of grammar and speech to betray his foreign birth, and as he rose, and
stood looking out of the window he presented, in his cool, grey
flannels, the ideal young foreign prince of English tastes and English
education.
Already in the reading-room below, the "Almanach de Gotha" had been
handled a dozen times by inquisitive half-pay colonels, and mothers with
marriageable daughters. And what had been found printed there had
caused a flutter in many hearts.
The Prince's audacity was superb. The suspicion of any little _coup_ he
made as prince he always managed to wriggle out of. Even though some
evil-disposed persons had made ugly allegations against him at times,
yet they were not believed. He was a prince and wealthy, therefore what
motive had he to descend to the level of a thief? The Parson, too,
always managed to evade suspicion. His voice, his manner, and his
general get-up were perfect.
Those who had visited his house in Bayswater, not far from Queen's Road
station, had found it to be the ideal and complete clergyman's home,
with study and half-written sermons on the writing-table.
Their victims, indeed, were as puzzled as were the police. The Prince's
magnificent impertinence and amazing boldness carried him through it
all. He was a fatalist. If he and his friends Clayton, Garrett, and
Mason were ever caught--well it would be just Fate. Till they actually
fell into the hands of the police they would have a good time, and act
fearlessly.
As he stood at the window, with the eternal Russian cigarette between
his lips, gazing thoughtfully out upon the garden below, the door opened
and the Parson entered.
"Well, Tommy, old chap!" exclaimed his Highness, when in a few moments
the two men were lounging in easy-chairs opposite each other. "Now,
tell me all about the old girl," he said laughing. "She walks like a
pea-hen."
"There's not much more to tell than what you already know," responded
the Parson, "except that she's all in a flutter at meeting you, and
wants to chat with you again."
"Have you made any inquiries concerning her?"
"Of course. A week ago I ran over in secret to Milnthorpe Hall. Fine
place, big park, large staff of servants, butler an Italian. Husband
was partner in a firm of shipbuilders at Barrow, and left nearly a
million to his wife. One son recently passed into the Army, and just
now stationed in Cawnpore. Rather rackety, his mother says. The old
woman dotes on parsons."
"And quite gone on you--eh?" Clayton laughed.
"She gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my Children's Holiday Fund
last week," he said. "She's promised to come down and go round my
parish one day, soon." His Highness smiled knowingly.
"Is her place far from Whitby?" he inquired, between whiffs of his
cigarette.
"About four miles, on the high road just past a place called Swarthoe
Cross. Grosmount station, on the Pickering line is nearest."
"The old girl, as far as I've been able to observe, is a purse-proud old
crow," his Highness remarked.
"Rather. Likes her name to figure in subscription lists. The old man
built and endowed some almshouses in Whitby, and offered twenty thousand
to his Party for a knighthood, but was refused. It's a sore point, for
she badly wanted to be Lady Edmondson."
"How long since the dear one departed?"
"Two years."
"And she's looking for a second, I suppose?"
"That's my belief."
"I wonder if she'd be attracted by the title of princess?" he laughed.
"Why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman's breath away,"
declared the Reverend Thomas.
"Well, if she's so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from
benefiting a bit? We sadly need it, Tommy," the Prince declared. "I
had a letter from Max the day before yesterday. He wants fifty wired
without fail to the Poste Restante at Copenhagen. He's lying low there,
just now."
"And one of the best places in Europe," the Parson exclaimed. "It's
most snug at the `Angleterre,' or at the `Bristol.' I put in six months
there once. Stockholm is another good spot. I was all one summer at
that little hotel out at Salsjobaden, and had quite a good time. I
passed as an American and nobody recognised me, though my description
had been circulated all over Europe. The Swedish and Danish police are
a muddle-headed lot--fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to
lie undisturbed. Have you sent Max the money?"
"I wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven
days," responded his Highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his
half-consumed one. He always smoked in the Russian style, flinging away
the end when only half finished.
Of the proceeds of the various _coups_ made, his Highness took
one-third, with one-third to Clayton, who was a schemer almost as
ingenious as the Prince himself, and the remaining third was divided
between Max Mason, Charles, and Garrett, the chauffeur.
The pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon
together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans. Then his
Highness rang for Garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at
five o'clock.
The Parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later
by his Highness. The latter found his friend lounging picturesquely
with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the
gratification of the "pompous old crow," as Prince Albert had designated
her half an hour before.
As they finished the tea and muffins, the big yellow racing-car drew
slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss
motors and motoring.
"I have a car at home--a sixty-Mercedes--and I'm awfully fond of a run
in it," she told the Prince. "One gets about so quickly, and sees so
much of the country. My poor husband hated them, so I never rode in one
until after his death."
"The car I have with me is a racer, as you see," remarked his Highness.
"It's a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the Brooklands track
just before I bought her. If you were not of the feminine sex, Mrs
Edmondson, I'd invite you to go for a run with me," he laughed. "It's
rather unsociable, for it's only a two-seater, with Garrett on the
step."
"I'd love to go for a run," she declared. "It--well it really wouldn't
be too great a breach of the convenances for a woman to go out on a
racing-car, would it?"
"I don't think so, Mrs Edmondson," remarked the Reverend Thomas, in his
most cultivated clerical drawl. "But I would wrap up well, for the
Prince travels very fast on a clear road."
So "the old crow" decided to accept his Highness's invitation, and
ascended to put on her brown motor-cap and veil and a thick coat against
the chill, evening winds.