The catalogue of woes, which it has been my ill-fortune to be compelled
to chronicle, is indeed a long one, but of all the items I have set
down, none had had such a terrible effect upon the public mind as the
assassination of the Prime Minister. Expressions of genuine sorrow
poured forth from every side, and party feeling, for the time being at
least, was forgotten. Even the most antagonistic of the Continental
journals, though perhaps rejoicing in their hearts at Great Britain's
misfortune, admitted that she was passing through a time of severe
trial, and while they prophesied our ultimate downfall, showed very
plainly their admiration for our fortitude. Indeed the self-control of
the nation at this particular period was a little short of marvellous.
The war was draining her of her best blood; those at the helm of the
Ship of State were being one by one mysteriously done away with; she had
been the victim of a vast scheme of false intelligence, her great
arsenal had been blown up and the supply of munitions of war thereby
seriously imperilled at the most critical juncture; a large proportion
of her army were prisoners in the enemy's hands, and three other
portions were locked up in beleaguered towns. Yet, with it all, she
continued the struggle with as much determination as she had first
entered upon it. The bull-dog tenacity permeated all classes; it was
shared by the peer, the country squire, the small farmer, the tradesman
and the artizan; it was voiced by the Prime Minister, and echoed by the
costermonger. Whatever it might cost, England was resolved to win in the
end. That end, however, was still far off, and much blood would have to
be spilt and a large amount of money spent before we should be able to
call ourselves the victors.
Meanwhile, troops were still pouring out of England, and more were
hastening to her assistance from Australia and Canada. Even in these
loyal portions of the Empire, however, strenuous efforts were being made
by some mysterious power, upon which it was impossible to lay hands, to
undermine their affection for the mother country. Treasonable pamphlets
were distributed broadcast; an infernal machine was discovered on board
a troop-ship on the point of sailing from a Queensland port; another was
discovered on board a transport in Sydney harbour; while a third vessel,
owing to the wilful carelessness of the captain, who was afterwards
arraigned on a charge of High Treason, but was acquitted for want of
sufficient evidence, was put ashore, with all her troops on board, on
the coast of South Australia. It was in Canada, however, that the
trouble was worst. Its proximity to the United States favoured the
Fenian propaganda, and, despite the loyalty of the French Canadians--of
which no one felt a doubt--an attempt was made to induce them to swerve
in their allegiance to the Empire. Such was the state of affairs when
Lord Litford's successor took up the reins of office.
It must not be thought that, because they achieved no result, the police
were lax in their attempts to discover the perpetrator or perpetrators
of that cruel crime. To employ again that well-worn phrase, not a stone
was left unturned to arrive at an understanding of the manner in which
the deed was done. One thing was quite certain, it had been carefully
planned; but then so had the disappearance of Woller and the Colonial
Secretary. The destruction of Woolwich Arsenal was a work of devilish
ingenuity; while the blowing up of the transport _Sultan of Sedang_ at
Madeira was arranged to a nicety. In the case of the Prime Minister, the
servants and members of his household were interrogated, but were all
dismissed from the case as being beyond suspicion. They unitedly
declared that, to the best of their belief, no stranger had entered the
house up to the time of their going to bed, nor had any suspicious
person been seen in its vicinity during the day. Moreover, the police on
duty in the Square had been instructed to keep a watchful eye upon the
house, and they were able to affirm that they had seen no one loitering
near the Prime Minister's residence from the earliest hours of morning
until the time that the news of the tragedy was made known. Yet the fact
remained that some one _had_ entered the house, and had been able to
make his way unobserved to the library, where the crime was committed,
and afterwards to get out again undiscovered. Needless to say, a large
reward was offered by the authorities for any information which would
lead to a conviction; but though a multitude of communications were
received in answer to it, from all sorts and conditions of people, not
one was of any value.
On the Friday following the assassination of the Prime Minister, and
the day before the funeral, according to custom I took a constitutional
in the Park before going down to my office. As a matter of fact I was
somewhat earlier than usual, and for that reason, with the exception of
a few riders in the Row, and the customary bicycle contingent, the Park
was comparatively empty. I entered by the Grosvenor Gate, walked as far
as the Barracks, and then retraced my steps towards Piccadilly, passing
along the north bank of the Serpentine. I had several difficult problems
to work out that day, and one of them was occupying my mind as I walked
beside the lake. Suddenly a voice I recognised fell upon my ear, and I
looked up to find, seated a few paces distant from me, no less a person
than the Countess de Venetza. She was engaged in an earnest conversation
with a dark, foreign-looking individual, an Italian, without the shadow
of a doubt. The Countess did not see me at first, but, as soon as she
did, she said something hurriedly to the man beside her and came forward
to greet me.
"You are out early, Sir George," she began. "The Park is delightful at
this time of the day, is it not?"
"Delightful indeed," I replied. "I did not expect, however, to have the
pleasure of meeting you in it."
"I walk here almost every morning," she answered. And then, after we had
uttered a few commonplaces, she continued: "And now, while I think of
it, let me apologize to you for my rudeness in having omitted to thank
you again for the great service you rendered us on the occasion of the
burglary at Wiltshire House. Had it not been for your prompt action, we
should have been more seriously robbed, while it is quite possible that
something worse might have happened."
"You say that you might have been '_more seriously robbed'?_" I
returned. "Am I to understand, then, that the man was found in the house
after all?"
"He was not found _in the house_," she replied. "But we have discovered
by what means he effected his escape from it. While Conrad and the
police were looking for him downstairs, he was hidden in a dressing-room
adjoining that which used to be my father's apartment, at the back of
the house. When they ascended the stairs he opened the window and
lowered himself down to a roof below. Then he must have made his way
through the mews at the back and reached safety again. In proof of this
a small silver ornament, one of the few missing things, was found next
day in the guttering of the roof."
If this were so, then the detective's statement to the effect that the
man who had entered the house was none other than young Reiffenburg was
altogether beyond the mark, and would only serve to show the folly of
judging by purely circumstantial evidence.
"In that case, who do you suspect of having admitted him to the house?"
I enquired, for this was a point of considerable importance.
"An under-footman," she replied, "who has since been discharged. His
behaviour struck Conrad as being rather suspicious at the time, but it
was not until other things were found to be missing, that we derived a
real knowledge of his character."
"I am rejoiced to know that the mystery has been solved," I said. "But
pray forgive me, Countess; see, I have driven your friend away."
She gave a start before she replied.
"He is not my friend," she answered somewhat hurriedly, "merely a
begging compatriot. The poor fellow is a teacher of music, who puts
forward his art as a claim upon my bounty. He is anxious to return to
Italy, but cannot do so for want of means."
Now there was one point about this speech that I did not understand. As
I had approached the seat, I distinctly heard the foreigner say
authoritatively in Italian: "It is the order of the Council and must be
obeyed." Of course the words might have meant anything, but the tone was
certainly one of authority. It struck me as being peculiar that an
impoverished music-master, soliciting the Countess's assistance, should
address her in such a tone. Why I should have bothered myself with the
fellow's affairs I cannot say. The impulse, however, was irresistible.
"To be stranded in a strange country is a hard fate," I said. "Since I
am also a devotee of his beautiful art, will you not permit me to assist
you in your work of benevolence. If you will furnish me with the man's
name and address, I will see that he is helped to attain his object."
As I said this I could not help thinking that I detected a frightened
look in her face.
"Oh, no, you must not do that," she said hurriedly. "He is a very proud
man, and would only accept help from me because I am a compatriot and
happen to know something of his family. I feel sure that he would be
extremely angry with me if he knew that I had said anything to you upon
the subject."
"I am sorry that you will not let me assist him," I said. "I have no
desire, however, to hurt his feelings. Forget that I said anything about
it."
"Ah! now I have offended you," she continued, with a look of pain upon
her face. "Forgive me, I am very thoughtless. Had we been speaking my
own Italian it would have been different. Your English is so hard, so
unsympathetic."
Her voice was so full of entreaty, her whole demeanour so expressive of
sorrow, that I almost repented me of the trick I had endeavoured to play
upon her. What did it matter to me whether the man were an old friend,
or only the stranger she had represented him to be? I accordingly begged
her to say no more upon the subject, assuring her that I was not in the
least hurt at her declining my offer. This seemed to soothe her, and
presently, when we had walked some little distance beside the water, her
cheerfulness returned. She had been amusing herself of late, so she
informed me, by working out a sketch for the dinner-party to which she
had invited me. It was to be an unique affair of its kind.
"All that remains to be settled is, when shall it be?" she asked. "How
would Thursday next suit you?"
"Impossible, I am afraid," I answered. "I have promised to go to
Aldershot on Wednesday, to be present next day at an inspection of the
men who are to sail on Saturday for the South."
"Then would the Wednesday following suit you?"
"Admirably," I replied. "It would be more convenient for a variety of
reasons."
"Then it is settled that we are to dine together on Wednesday week at
eight o'clock. You will not forget?"
"Is it likely that I should be guilty of such rudeness?" I asked, and
then added, with what was for me unusual gallantry, "I shall count the
days that must elapse before the time can arrive."
"I am hopeful of being able to get the Duke of Rotherhithe to meet you,"
she said. "Do you know that he is in England?"
"I was not aware of it," I answered; "but I am very glad to hear it,
nevertheless."
I did not say that one of my reasons for being glad was that I hoped to
be able to obtain from him some particulars concerning my fair friend. I
remembered the statement she had made during our journey from Paris
together, to the effect that she and her father had been yachting with
Rotherhithe in the Mediterranean. If they were on such intimate terms it
was more than likely that my old friend would know more about her than
any one else in our world of fashion would be likely to do.
When we reached Hyde Park Corner we paused for a few moments. I do not
think she could ever have looked more beautiful than she did then,
certainly never more dangerous.
"I wonder if, after we part, we shall ever meet again?" she said, with
what was almost a touch of sadness in her voice.
"Are you, then, thinking of leaving England soon?" I asked in some
surprise, for until that moment she had not spoken of terminating her
visit.
"I do not think we shall remain very much longer," she replied. "I have
duties abroad that are calling for my attention."
"I hope when you go that you will be able to say you have enjoyed your
stay with us?" I said.
"I should have," she replied, "had it not been for this dreadful war.
But as things are, how could one enjoy oneself?"
Had I known then all that I now know, I should have realized the double
meaning contained in her remark. But more of that anon.
At last we bade each other good-bye, and separated, she crossing the
Park in the direction of Wiltshire House, while I passed out and made my
way over Constitution Hill towards Pall Mall.
On the Wednesday following the event I have just described, I
accompanied the Commander-in-Chief and several other members of the
Government to Aldershot, to inspect the large body of troops then about
to leave for the front. We were to be the guests of Lord Beckingdale
during the time we were there, and were to return to London on the
Thursday evening after the inspection. We accordingly left Waterloo
together, proceeded by train to Farnborough, and then drove to Lord
Beckingdale's residence by coach. It was a glorious afternoon, and the
change from London to the country was delightful. I commented upon this,
whereupon Beckingdale, who is one of my oldest friends, began to rally
me on my preference for the Metropolis.
"I thought you would get over it in time," he said with one of his
hearty laughs. "Why don't you marry, George, and settle down in the
country? You would make an ideal Squire."
"I should be bored to death in a week," I replied. "Besides, who is
there that would take pity on me? I am not so young as I was, and I am
afraid that I have had my liberty too long to make a good husband."
As I said this the image of the Countess rose before my mind's eye,
though why it should have done so at this particular moment is more than
I can say. Though I admired her intensely, my admiration went no
further. She was a delightful hostess and an exceedingly clever woman,
but I should no more have thought of making her Lady Manderville than I
should have tried to jump from the Clock Tower of the Houses of
Parliament into the river.
At that moment we were descending a steep hill, through a closely-wooded
plantation. We were half-way down, when I happened to catch sight of a
man standing among the trees, some fifty yards or so from the road.
Strange to say, he was watching us through a pair of field-glasses, and
was evidently much interested in our movements, though it looked as if
he himself had no desire to attract attention. Then he disappeared
amongst the brushwood, and, for the time being, I thought no more about
him.
On reaching the Park, we were most cordially received by Lady
Beckingdale, and partook of afternoon tea with her in the hall, which is
one of the most charming features of that beautiful house. A stroll
round the grounds, and a visit to the stud farm afterwards, wiled away
the time until the dressing gong sounded. Then we returned to the house,
and made our way to our various rooms. Before commencing to dress I went
to the windows and looked out. The gardens on that particular side of
the house slope upwards until they reach the small paddock which
separates them from the woods behind. Now I have a fairly sharp eye, and
a faculty of noticing, which sometimes stands me in good stead. On this
particular occasion I was watching the evening light upon the trees in
the plantation opposite, when suddenly I saw a brace of pheasants fly
quickly out, followed by half-a-dozen more. They had evidently been
disturbed by some human being.
"Just give me my glasses for a moment, Williams," I said, and in a trice
he had handed me the pair I had brought down for the inspection next
day. Seating myself in the window, I brought them to bear upon the spot
where the birds had flown out. For a moment I could see nothing. Then I
thought I could detect what looked like a grey trouser-leg, peeping out
beneath the branches of a fir. I called Williams to my side and handed
him the glasses, directing him where to look.
"What do you make of it?" I asked.
"It looks as if there's somebody hiding there, sir," he answered. "Yes,
sir, I'm sure of it," he added a few moments later. "If you will look
now, you will be able to see him creeping away."
I took the glasses again and once more turned them upon the spot. What
he had said was quite correct; the figure of a man dressed in a grey
suit could just be distinguished disappearing into the deeper part of
the wood. It immediately occurred to me that the man I had seen that
afternoon, when we were on our way to the Park, had also been dressed
in grey. Could this be the individual who had watched us then? And if
so, what were his reasons for behaving in this mysterious fashion? I did
not like the idea of it, remembering as I did the dangerous condition of
the times, and the manner in which so many of my friends had been
attacked.
"Keep what you have seen to yourself, Williams," I said; "I will speak
to Lord Beckingdale myself about it when I go downstairs. If the man is
a poacher, or has any dishonest reason for being there, he will know
what to do in the matter."
Williams promised to obey my instructions, and when I had dressed, I
made my way downstairs to find our host and the Commander-in-Chief
standing before the fire-place, in which a cheerful fire was burning.
"By the way, Beckingdale," I said, when I had answered the remark one of
them made to me as I descended the stairs, "who is the man in your
plantation with the grey suit and field-glasses."
"Man with grey suit and field-glasses?" he repeated, with a look of
surprise on his face. "I have many friends who are the happy possessors
of both articles. But what makes you ask me such a question at the
present moment?"
"For a good and sufficient reason," I replied, and went on to tell him
of the two occasions that afternoon upon which I had seen the person in
question.
"What a singular thing!" he said, when I had finished. "I wonder who the
fellow is, and what his idea can be in watching the house? As you are
aware, the place is being patrolled by police to-night, and I think I
had better inform them of the circumstance. After the terrible events of
the last few weeks it does not do to run any risks. Can you describe the
man?"
I furnished him with as accurate a description of the fellow as it was
possible to give, whereupon he departed in search of the officer in
command of the police. When he returned we joined the ladies in the
drawing-room, and then went in to dinner. It was not until the ladies
had withdrawn and cigarettes were lighted, that the subject of the grey
man was introduced. A small piece of paper was handed to our host by the
butler. He glanced at it and then looked across the table to where I
sat.
"Here is the police report," he said. "It informs me that they have
scoured all the plantations round the estate with the assistance of the
keepers, but have not been successful in discovering the man you saw. No
doubt he was some prying celebrity hunter, who has taken himself off, to
Aldershot probably, where he will have no opportunity of seeing you
to-morrow."
This brought a round of questions from the others, who, with the
exception of the Commander-in-Chief, had not heard of the incident. When
each man had settled the question to his own satisfaction, the subject
was dropped, and we rose from the table to return to the drawing-room.
Here we indulged in music and conversation until half-past ten o'clock,
smoked in the billiard-room for another hour, and at half-past eleven
bade each other good-night in the gallery that ran round the hall, and
retired to our respective rooms. By this time the character of the night
had changed. A boisterous wind had risen, and heavy rain was driven
tempestuously against the window-panes. It certainly did not look very
promising for the inspection on the morrow. I inquired from Williams
whether anything further had been heard concerning the man we had both
seen in the plantation opposite the house.
"Not that I know of, sir," he replied; "I did not hear it mentioned. But
there's one thing that's been on my mind ever since you spoke to me
about it to-night, and I must own that it puzzles me. I don't say it's
right, of course; at the same time I've got a feeling that I'm not so
very far wrong."
"What is it?" I enquired with interest, for Williams is a staid and
circumspect individual, and is not in the habit of committing himself to
a rash statement.
"It is just this, sir. When you sent me down to the Commander-in-Chief's
residence with that note this morning, there was a man walking on the
opposite side of the street who, to the best of my belief, was dressed
just as this man was--that is to say, in a grey suit and a soft black
hat."
"There is nothing very remarkable in that," I answered, a little
disappointed. "You would probably find a dozen men dressed in a similar
fashion in a short walk through the West End."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought the coincidence worth
mentioning," Williams replied in rather a crestfallen way. Then he bade
me good-night and I retired to rest.
That night I slept like a top, and did not wake until Williams entered
my room next morning. He informed me that the rain had passed off, that
it was a fine day, and then busied himself with preparations for my
toilet. These were barely accomplished, and I was in the act of
commencing to shave, when the handle of my door turned, and Beckingdale,
almost beside himself with excitement, entered the room.
"Great Heavens! Manderville," he cried in a voice which, had I not seen
him, I should scarcely have recognised as his, "a most awful thing has
happened. The Commander-in-Chief is missing."
"Missing?" I echoed, as if I scarcely understood the meaning of the
word. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that his valet came to my man, Walters, about half an hour ago,
and told him that he had knocked repeatedly on the door of his master's
bedroom and could get no reply. My man came to me with the story, and
when I had tried the door myself with the same result, I gave orders
that it should be broken in. You may imagine our feelings when we
discovered the room to be empty. The bed had been slept in, it is true,
but there was not a trace of the man we wanted. What was more, the
windows were shut. The police are now searching in all directions. What
on earth shall we do? The inspection is at eleven o'clock, and it is
most unlikely that we shall have the good fortune to find him before
then."
Terrible as the situation was, I could not help recalling the fact that
I had taken part in just such another interview on the morning of
Woller's disappearance, when the Commander-in-Chief had asked my advice
as to what should be done to find the missing man before that identical
hour.
"Help me if you possibly can," cried Beckingdale, who, like myself, was
quite overwhelmed by the magnitude of the misfortune. "Though I know I
am not to blame, I cannot help reproaching myself for having permitted
this to happen in my house. How can it have been managed, and who can
have done it?"
I shook my head.
"The same mysterious power that is responsible for Woller's
disappearance and for the Prime Minister's death," I said. "But who is
there amongst us who can say what that power is. Good Heavens!" I
cried, as the consequences rose before me, "the Commander-in-Chief gone!
I can scarcely credit it. Surely some one must have heard something?
What room is beneath his bedroom?"
"The dining-room, unfortunately," Beckingdale replied, "and as ill luck
would have it, the room adjoining it on the right is empty, while
M'Innister occupies that on the left. The latter says he heard nothing
suspicious, but that's easily accounted for, by reason of his deafness
and the storm we had. But what on earth can have become of him? I would
give anything to have him before me now. How cheerful he was last night,
and how sanguine as to the ultimate end of the war! This will prove
another bitter blow to the nation."
"And it has had enough already," I replied. "We had better telegraph to
the War Office and Scotland Yard at once."
"I have already done that," he said. "I have also sent a special
messenger to the commanding officer down here, informing him of the
occurrence, and asking him to send out troops to scour the country in
the hope of discovering some trace of the missing man. I do not see
what else we can do at the present."
Then a thought struck me. What about the grey man whom Williams declared
he had seen on the previous morning near the Commander-in-Chief's
residence, whom I had seen watching us through field-glasses, on our way
to Beckingdale Park, and whom Williams and I had both seen in the
plantation opposite the house when I went up to dress for dinner? I
recalled the fact of his presence to Beckingdale.
"I have not forgotten him," he said. "Directly I heard that they could
not get into his room, a suspicion of what might be in store for us
flashed through my mind, and I said to myself, 'If anything has happened
to him, I shall say that Manderville's grey man is mixed up in the
business.' As soon as the worst was apparent, I spoke to the police upon
the subject, and they have once more made an effort to find him or to
hear of him, without success. The grey man is as mysteriously missing as
the Commander-in-Chief himself, and as to the part he played in the
other's disappearance, it seems to me that we are likely to remain as
ignorant as we are of everything else. Now, dress as quickly as you
can, there's a good fellow, and come down to my study. We must hold a
council together, and see what's to be done."
I did as he desired, and when I was ready I made my way to his study.
When I reached it I found Beckingdale and the one other guest awaiting
my coming. The terrible effect that had been produced by the news of the
morning was to be seen on their faces. For upwards of an hour we
discussed the question in all its bearings, but eager as we were to do
all that lay in our power to render assistance to the missing man, we
were obliged to confess that we were unable to do anything. By this time
wires were pouring in from all parts, and it is quite certain that the
powers of the little village telegraph office had never been so severely
taxed before. At ten o'clock it was decided, by unanimous consent, that
the inspection should be abandoned in the absence of the Commander-in
Chief, and accordingly, at half-past ten, we returned to town. It is
needless for me to say that it was a miserable journey. Our spirits were
as low as it was possible for the spirits of human beings to be. On
reaching Waterloo we drove direct to the Foreign Office, where a
Cabinet Council had been hastily called together. When it was over I
drove home. The streets echoed to the cries of the newsboys:--
"DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!
DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!"
That evening a new sensation was added to the already long list when it
was known that the notorious anarchist, Luigi Ferreira, had managed to
escape from prison some days before, and was supposed to have crossed
the Channel and to be in London. Had I only known then that he was the
man I had seen talking so excitedly to the Countess in the Park, a few
mornings before, and that at that very moment he was occupying a room at
Wiltshire House, as a supposed invalid, how speedily might retribution
have descended upon him.
Unfortunately, however, I did not know!