You will remember that in the preceding chapter I described to you the
conflicting emotions with which I viewed my now famous call at Wiltshire
House. Beyond remarking that I was quite at a loss to account for it,
and that the passing of time did not throw any further light upon the
mystery, I need say no more about it. There is so much to tell of vital
importance, that it behoves me to be economical of space. Needless to
say, the Colonial Secretary's disappearance continued to attract its
full measure of public attention. Despite the endeavours of the police,
however, no clue of any sort could be discovered, either as to his
present whereabouts, or as to the manner of his departure. Enormous
rewards were offered, but without success. He was gone, and that was all
that could be said about it.
Meanwhile, the most alarming telegrams were being received from the
Front. Day after day the news of reverses filled the columns of the
Public Press, until it began to look as if the prestige of England would
be destroyed for ever and a day. Parliament had by this time assembled,
and questions innumerable were addressed to the Secretary of State for
War as to the reasons for the deplorable condition of affairs at the
Front. Public opinion was at fever heat, and only a small spark was
needed to bring about an explosion. Troops were pouring out of England
by every available boat, while the Home Defence Force was being
increased to its utmost limit. Never since the Crimea had such a state
of affairs been known, and never had the resources of the Empire been so
severely taxed. Then came the news of the loss of another transport at
sea, a catastrophe ascribed to the presence on board of a clock-work
infernal machine; this was followed by the stranding of the _Son of
Neptune_, with the 36th Lancers on board, at Las Palmas, by which the
horses and men, so badly needed at the seat of war, were detained on the
Island inactive until another vessel could be sent from England to pick
them up and convey them to their destination.
By this time every one, save those whom the most visible proof would
not convince, had arrived at the conclusion that we were fighting, not
only our ostensible and declared enemies, the two South African
Republics, but also another powerful yet mysterious foe, whose
machinations were responsible for the disappearance of Woller and the
Colonial Secretary, for the blowing up of the _Sultan of Sedang_, the
destruction of the _Son of Neptune_, and sundry other occurrences so
vividly and painfully impressed upon the public mind. Then, for upwards
of a fortnight, a respite was given us, and the British taxpayer was
able to take up his paper without finding the news of some new
misfortune, for which he would eventually be called upon to pay for both
in money and self-esteem, described in its columns. It was fortunate
that we could not foretell the even greater troubles that were still in
store for us.
One memorable Friday morning, exactly a fortnight after my call at
Wiltshire House, a rumour ran through the town to the effect that
Woolwich Arsenal had been destroyed. Knowing the precautions that were
taken at that splendid institution to guard against such a thing, the
report was at first discredited. It was soon found, however, to be only
too true. A terrific explosion had taken place, a large number of
employees had been killed and wounded, while the works, then so vitally
necessary, were placed at a complete standstill. The lamentable
occurrence was reported to the House by the Home Secretary that
afternoon, and, as usual, the authorities declared there was no clue to
guide the police in their search for the author of the dastardly deed.
It was in vain that questions were asked in the House; in vain that
public orators demanded of the authorities that they should exercise
more care in guarding their institutions; in vain that the man in the
street forwarded his theories, and suggested remedies, to the Press.
England had a mysterious enemy who could think as well as act, and who,
when he has finished his work, left no trace behind to lead to his
identification.
In consequence of the excitement caused by the last disaster, the guards
upon all the public buildings were doubled, no precaution was omitted
that wisdom could dictate, and then we waited to see where the next blow
would fall. In this fashion another fortnight went by, during which an
incident of no small importance occurred. Quite by chance an explanation
was forthcoming as to how the news of the series of disasters that had
been our portion in South Africa during the last few weeks reached our
shores. It was discovered that the cable, the only one then working, had
been cleverly tampered with, the wires milked, to use an American
expression, and a doctored version sent home for consumption. This was
corroborated by the mail reports, and despatches describing the course
of events in South Africa. Henceforth the most rigid precautions were
taken to guard against a repetition of this practice, and then once more
we sat down to wait.
I had seen nothing of the Countess for some time. The fright I had
received on the last occasion that I had called upon her, was still
sufficiently impressed upon my memory to make me a little chary of
allowing her to obtain so much influence over me. As will doubtless be
agreed, this was a somewhat contradictory decision on my part, for in
arriving at it, I had no excuse to offer, save that I entertained for
her a mixture of admiration and, I might almost say, of innate distrust.
The admiration was easily accounted for; the distrust was somewhat more
difficult to explain. Was she not the bosom friend of many of the
greatest people in the land? She was to be met everywhere, and was as
well known a personage in London Society as Royalty itself. Her father,
it appeared, had left England for the Continent, and it was doubtful
when he would return. Her cousin was still with her, and was to be
encountered at every social gathering of importance. Young, handsome,
and the reported possessor of considerable wealth, it was small wonder
that he found himself in request, when so many young men were absent
from England. I have stated that I did not care for the young Count
Reiffenburg, and now I will go even further by saying that the more I
saw of him the less I liked him.
At this point in my story it is necessary for me to describe a
circumstance, which, though at the time it puzzled me considerably, can
now be very easily explained. It occurred on a night when the House sat
scarcely so late as usual. As a matter of fact it was but little after
midnight when I set off to walk home. For a time after the disappearance
of the Colonial Secretary, I had declined to be shadowed by a detective,
but now, hearkening to the voice of Prudence, I had consented to be
shadowed by a detective whenever I took my walk abroad. Since I am fond
of walking, particularly at night, I am afraid my own particular shadow
had rather a hard time of it. He never complained, however, but,
faithful to his duty, kept me continually in view, obtruding himself
upon my notice as little as possible. The feeling engendered by the
knowledge that a man is continually behind one, watching all one does,
is the reverse of pleasant. However, like everything else in life, one
gets used to it, and after a time I took no notice of it. On this
particular occasion, the night being so beautiful, the moon was full, I
remember, I strolled leisurely home, my thoughts centred on the debate
that had taken place that night. There is a solemnity about Trafalgar
Square at midnight, particularly when viewed by the light of the moon,
that is far from being its principal characteristic by day. As I passed
the spot where I had said good-bye to poor Castellan a few weeks before,
I could not suppress a shudder.
Leaving Cockspur street behind me, I passed on to Piccadilly, afterwards
proceeding by way of Berkeley Square to my abode. By the time I reached
my own door I was in the full enjoyment of the night. It seemed a pity
to shut oneself up in the house when it was so lovely outside. I
therefore waited until my faithful follower came up to me, and then
informed him that I intended going on for a further stroll.
"There is not the least necessity for you to come," I said. "You may go
home to bed as soon as you like."
"I think I would prefer to accompany you, sir," the man replied. "I am
on duty all night, and if anything were to happen to you, it would be my
fault."
"Very well, then," I answered, "come along."
So saying, we resumed our walk, with the difference that on this
occasion I kept the man beside me. He proved an interesting companion,
having seen life under a variety of aspects, and in so doing had
naturally come in contact with many strange characters. What was more,
he had the faculty of being able to put them before you in a novel and
interesting light. He had been three times to America in search of
criminals, once to India, and once to Australia.
By the time I had heard his experiences in the last-named country we had
reached Park Lane, and were drawing near Wiltshire House. At the corner
we called a halt, while I felt in my pocket for a match for my cigar. We
were standing in deep shadow, Wiltshire House being on the further side
of the road, and in the full light of the moon. Having found a match, I
was about to strike it, when the figure of a man on the opposite side of
the street attracted my attention. The moonlight was so bright that I
could see him quite distinctly. He was of the poorest class, evidently a
street loafer of the description to be seen any night stretched out on
the grass of the Park. My astonishment may be imagined, therefore, when
I saw him deliberately ascend the three steps leading to the side door
of Wiltshire House. He paused for a moment, then the door was softly
opened to him, and he passed inside. Scarcely able to believe the
evidence of my eyes, I turned to the man beside me and enquired if he
had noticed it? He admitted that he had.
"What does it mean?" I asked. "Is it a case of burglary, do you think?"
"It looks like it, sir," he replied. "Whatever it is, he has got a
confederate inside."
"What do you think had better be done?" I enquired. "The Countess de
Venetza is a personal friend, and I cannot allow her house to be robbed
without making an effort to prevent it."
"We had better call the policeman on the beat," the man replied; "after
that we can arouse the household. There shouldn't be much difficulty in
securing the fellow. If you wouldn't mind keeping your eye on that door
for a few minutes, sir, I'll go off and find the constable."
I willingly agreed to watch the door, and the detective departed on his
errand. In something less than five minutes he returned, bringing two
policemen with him. The men had evidently been informed of my identity,
for they saluted respectfully, and one of them enquired what I wished
done in the matter.
"I think the better plan would be to call up the house-steward and
inform him of what we have seen," I replied. "You will then be able to
search the house and effect the capture of the burglar."
Leaving us to guard the door through which the old man had entered, one
of the policemen went round to the front of the house. The other
ascended the steps and rang the bell. To his first summons there was no
response, so he rang again. The bell echoed in the basement of the great
house, this time to some purpose, for a few minutes later a shuffling
footstep was heard within. Then the key turned in the lock and the door
was opened on the chain to the extent of a few inches.
"Who's there?" asked a man's voice.
"Police," answered the officer. "I'm here to warn you that there's a man
has just got into the house. Somebody let him in at this door."
"Man got into the house?" was the alarmed response. "You don't mean
that, I hope, policeman?"
"I do," replied the constable. "You had better let us come in and have a
look round. We've been watching the house and he hasn't come out yet. My
mate's round at the front, and there's a detective officer here. Get a
candle and we'll go through the rooms with you."
The thought that he was to be called upon to assist in the arrest of a
burglar was too much for the old man. He tremblingly invited the officer
to lead the way down the stairs to the basement. While they were absent
we remained at the door, expecting every minute to hear the sound of a
scuffle from within. Five minutes or so later they ascended once more
and the constable shook his head.
"Wherever else he is, sir," he said, addressing me, "he's not down
there."
The words had scarcely left his lips before the door at the further end
of the passage opened, and the Countess herself stood before us. Much to
my astonishment I saw that she was in full evening dress. Her appearance
was so entirely unexpected that I could only stare at her in surprise.
"What does this mean?" she enquired, with a haughtiness that sat well
upon her. "Why, surely it is Sir George Manderville! What can have
happened? This is rather a late hour for a call, Sir George!"
I explained what had occurred, told her of the man I had seen enter by
the side door, and whom I was perfectly certain had not come forth
again.
"Then he must be in the house now," she cried in a voice of alarm. "Who
can it be, and who could possibly have let him in?"
"Some dishonest member of your household," I replied. "It would be as
well if you were to find out who that person is. In the meantime, let me
beg of you to permit the officers to search the house."
To this she willingly assented, at the same time bidding the steward
rouse the housekeeper.
"While the search is proceeding won't you come to my boudoir, Sir
George?" she said. "I have been sitting there reading since I returned
from the theatre, and I am quite sure that the wretch, whoever he may
be, is not in that part of the building."
I followed her to the room in question, which was on the other side of
the house, and we were about to enter it, when the sound of a footstep
upon the stairs attracted my attention, and I looked up, to see her
cousin, Count Reiffenburg, descending towards us.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Why, Sir George Manderville, I did not
expect to find _you_ here!"
I briefly explained the situation to him, whereupon he remarked, with
that curious smile upon his face:--"It seems that you are destined
always to prove our benefactor. But while we are talking here the man
may make his escape. I think I will go round with the police, and see if
I can be of any assistance to them."
He left us, and for something like ten minutes the Countess and I waited
for the sound that was to proclaim the capture of the intruder. But no
such good fortune rewarded us. If the man were in the house--and of this
I had no doubt--he had managed to conceal himself so effectually that
the police could not find him. In the meantime the housekeeper had put
in an appearance, and was despatched to interrogate the female
domestics, and discover, if possible, who it was that had opened the
door. She returned with the information that she had found all the
maid-servants in bed and asleep, while the steward was equally certain
that none of the men under his charge had anything to do with the
occurrence. At last, after searching the house, the police were
compelled to confess that they were at a loss to understand what had
become of him.
"But there can be no doubt about his being here," I declared; "I
distinctly saw him enter. He was an old man, very ragged, with long grey
hair, and stooped as he walked. The detective officer who was with me at
the time can also corroborate what I say, if necessary."
"That is not necessary, for of course we accept your word," said
Reiffenburg with elaborate politeness. "The question is: if, as you say,
he entered, where is he now? He cannot have vanished into space, and we
have searched every corner without success."
"Then he must have an accomplice in the house who is hiding him," I
returned. "If both exits have been guarded, he cannot have got out."
By this time I was beginning to wish that I had had nothing to do with
the matter. The Countess, however, was profuse in her thanks to me, for
what she described as "a most considerate and friendly act."
Seeing that I could be of no further use to her, I apologized for my
intrusion and bade them good-night.
"Should we by any chance manage to secure the fellow, I will let you
know," said Reiffenburg, as we stood together at the front door. "I
fear, however, _we shall not be so fortunate_."
There was a sneer in his voice, for which I could have kicked him.
However, I kept my temper, and murmuring something to the effect that I
was glad to have been of service, I took my departure, and the door
closed behind me.
"That was one of the most extraordinary affairs I have ever known," I
said to the detective, as we turned our faces homewards. "I am quite at
a loss to account for it."
The detective stopped suddenly and looked at me.
"The lady and gentleman are particular friends of yours, sir, I
understand, and I don't know in that case whether I ought to tell you
what is in my mind. But I fancy I could throw a rather unexpected light
upon the affair."
"Speak out, then, by all means," I answered. "What was it you noticed?"
"This, sir," he said, and as he spoke he took from his pocket a small
piece of black matter about half the size of a pea. He handed it to me
and asked if I had seen it before. I informed him that I was quite sure
I had not.
"It only bears out, sir, what I was saying as we came down Park Lane,
just before we reached Wiltshire House. If it weren't for little things,
that they overlook, we shouldn't be able to lay our hands on half the
criminals we want. Now mind you, sir, I don't mean to infer by that that
your friend Count Reiffenburg is a criminal. Not at all; that would be a
very wrong thing to say. He's probably been playing a practical joke, as
gentlemen will. The fact, however, remains that he gave himself away
with that little lump of black stuff, just as surely as Bill Coakes of
the Minories did when he gave his sweetheart the silk handkerchief that
he picked up in old Mrs Burgiss's bedroom. He didn't think it was of any
importance, but she wore it, quarrelled with a girl over it, the police
came to hear of it, and Bill was caught. So it was just that slip that
brought him to the gallows."
"I do not understand you," I replied, still holding the tiny bit of
black stuff in my hand. "What is the connection between this substance
and Count Reiffenburg?"
"It's the key to the whole puzzle, sir," he said, and took it from me.
Turning his face away, he put his hand to his mouth, and then wheeling
round again, parted his lips and showed me his teeth. The eye-tooth on
the right-hand side was missing. He put up his hand once more, and lo!
it was restored to its place.
"That's what I mean, sir," he said. "Now I noticed, when the gentleman
came downstairs, that one of his eye-teeth were missing. He wanted to
make himself look old, I suppose, and when he had taken off the other
pieces, had forgotten to remove that one. Then he must have remembered
it, for his hand went up to his mouth, and next minute it was on the
floor, where I managed to get hold of it."
"Do you mean to infer that the old man we saw enter the house was the
Count Reiffenburg?" I asked, aghast.
"That is my belief, sir," said the man; "and I feel certain that if I
were allowed to search his bedroom, I should find my suspicions
corroborated."
"But what possible reason could he have for masquerading as a pauper
outcast, and who let him in?"
"As to his reason, sir, I can hazard no sort of guess," he continued.
"But it was the lady herself who let him in."
"How on earth do you know that?"
"By a process of simple reasoning, sir. Did you happen to notice that,
when we returned to the hall after our search of the first section of
the house, the gentleman carried a book in his hand?"
"Now that you mention the fact I _do_ remember it," I answered. "But
what has the book to do with it?"
"A great deal," he answered. "You may not be aware of the fact, but
there's a small sitting-room near that side door--a tiny place where the
housekeeper does her accounts. The book, when we first searched the
room, was lying upon the table."
"May not the housekeeper have been reading it before she went to bed?"
"The housekeeper is an Englishwoman, sir, and not very well educated. I
should call it remarkable if she knew Italian, and little short of
marvellous if she read Dante in the original. Now, sir, when Count
Reiffenburg entered the lady's boudoir, he brought that book with him
and placed it on one of the tables. He wouldn't have done that if it had
been the property of the housekeeper, would he? No, sir! Count
Reiffenburg was out, and the young lady, who is his cousin, I think I
understood you to say, sir, sat up for him in order to be near the door.
That's the way I read the riddle."
"And I must confess that you have a certain amount of probability on
your side," I answered. "At the same time, if I were you, I should say
nothing about the discovery. It can serve no good purpose to bruit it
abroad. Do you think the two policemen noticed anything of the kind?"
The detective gave a scornful little laugh. "I don't think you need have
much fear on that score, sir," he answered. "I doubt very much whether
the man who went round with me noticed the book at all. His theory was
that the fellow we saw enter was one of the servants who had been out
late, and not a burglar at all."
By this time we had reached my own residence, and I bade the man
good-night upon the steps. Having let myself in, I went to my study to
deposit some papers I had brought with me from the House, then to my
bedroom and to bed. The incident at Wiltshire House annoyed me, if only
for the reason that I could not understand it. What could the young
Count Reiffenburg have been doing--if it were he, as the detective
declared--wandering about London in that attire? That in itself was bad
enough, but it was made much worse by the knowledge that his beautiful
cousin had been conniving at his escapade. One thing was quite certain;
if I had entertained a dislike for Reiffenburg before, it was doubled
now. At last, tired by my long day and the events that had concluded it,
I fell asleep, and did not wake until I opened my eyes to find Williams
standing beside my bed, overcome with excitement and horror.
"What is the matter, man?" I cried. "What makes you look like that?"
"There's terrible news, sir," he faltered. "There's been a lot lately,
but this is the worst of all."
"What is the matter, man?" I cried for the second time. "Don't stand
there trembling. Tell me what has happened."
"I scarcely know how to tell you, sir," he answered, his voice almost
failing him.
"Then give me the paper and let me look for myself," I said, and took it
from him. On the page before me, in large type, was an announcement that
made me feel sick and giddy:--
"ASSASSINATION OF THE PRIME MINISTER!"
My horror was greater even than Williams's had been. I read the heavy
black lines over and over again, as if unable to grasp their meaning.
The Prime Minister dead! My old friend and Chief murdered! Could it be
possible?
When I had recovered my composure a little, I took up the paper, and
tried to read the account there set forth. There had only been time for
the insertion of a short paragraph, but its importance was such that it
would ring throughout the world. It ran as follows:--
"It is with a sorrow that cannot be expressed in words, that we
record the fact that the Right Honourable, the Earl of Litford,
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister of
England, was assassinated soon after midnight. The Prime Minister
was last seen alive by his private secretary, in the study at his
residence at Grosvenor Square. He had left the House of Lords
early, but, with the exception of a slight headache, appeared to be
in the best of health and spirits. The presumption is that he was
stabbed in the back, but how the wound was inflicted, and by whom,
are matters which, at present, cannot be explained."
I could find no words to express my horror and surprise. It was only a
few hours since he had congratulated me upon my speech in answer to the
accusations of certain members of the Little Englander Party; now
England was bereft, by as foul an act as had ever been committed in the
annals of crime, of one of her greatest statesmen and of one of her
noblest sons.
Craving further particulars, I dressed with all speed, and then drove to
his residence in Grosvenor Square. Leaving my cab, I walked towards the
well-known house, before which a large number of people had collected.
Recognising me, they allowed me to pass, and so I gained the front door
of the house I had so often entered as the friend and colleague of the
dead man. I was shown into the morning-room, where presently I was
joined by the secretary, who, as the newspapers had reported, had been
the last to see him before the tragedy took place.
"Tell me about it," I said, after we had greeted each other.
From his narrative I gathered that the dead man, on his return from the
House, after spending half-an-hour with his wife, went to his study. His
secretary followed him there, to ascertain if he could be of any further
assistance to him. He found him seated at the table writing, and was
informed by him that he required nothing more, and that it would not be
very long before he himself retired to rest.
"Was the window in the study open?" I asked.
"No," he answered; "it was closed, and the shutters were barred. That
was at half-past eleven. At half-past twelve, wondering why her husband
did not come upstairs, Lady Litford went in search of him. Her horror
may be pictured when she discovered him, seated in his chair, quite
dead. He had been stabbed to the heart from behind."
"And were there no traces of any one having entered the room?"
"Not one. The police have taken possession of it, but so far they have
been unable to discover any trace of the assassin's entry or the means
by which he effected his departure."
"And Lady Litford? How does she bear up under the blow?"
"So bravely, that it makes one's heart ache to see her."
Then, at my request, he conducted me upstairs, and I was permitted to
gaze upon the face of the dead man. It was as peaceful as in life's
serenest moments, calm and dignified--the face of a man who has done his
duty to his Sovereign and his country, and whose life has been given in
her service. Then, with a sorrow in my heart greater than I had known
for many years, I looked my last upon the face of the dead, and I left
the room.
When I had sent a message of deepest sympathy to the widow, I bade the
secretary good-bye, and left the house. So awe-struck was the crowd by
the magnitude of the tragedy, that scarcely a sound came from it,
though, as if in proof of sympathy, here and there a hand was stretched
out to me.
"He was a good man and a proper gentleman," said a burly costermonger.
"It's a pity we hadn't more like him."
It seemed to me that that homely speech was as fine an eulogium of the
dead as could have been spoken by the most cultured tongue.
I often wonder now what I should have done, had I known the part I had
unconsciously played in that terrible drama. At that moment, lying, no
one knew where--perhaps in the crevice of some paving-stone, or carried
into the water-table by a passing shower--was a small piece of black
wax, which, could it have spoken, would have been able to tell a tale
without its equal for treachery and villainy in all the world. How I
became aware of this, you will learn as my story progresses.