AT THE UNION HOTEL, PENZANCE
There was a quietude about the little front dining-room in Belitha
Villas that was very soothing to the somewhat strained nervous systems
of Mr. and Mrs. Povey. Each in their accustomed positions and chairs
they gazed into the small fire that was burning brightly in the grate.
Upon the table were the remains of lunch. Charlotte's expression was
one of repose, but her husband's brows were contracted as he puffed at
his pipe, which was not to be wondered at considering he was turning
over in his mind how he was to acquaint Mrs. Povey with his intended
departure.
"I am expecting, Charlotte," he began at last, his eyes fixed
meditatively upon a hissing jet of gas that was escaping from the coal,
"to be leaving the country shortly on business."
Mrs. Povey, who during the last three days had ceased to show or even
feel surprise at anything her husband said, merely remarked, "Oh!"
dully.
"Yes, my dear, and I want you to shut up the house--I have my
reasons--and take rooms at Abbot's Hotel during my absence."
At this the lady became rather sarcastic.
"Or the Ritz, Edward, it seems to me that----"
Mr. Povey held up a silencing hand.
"I don't want to hear what it seems to you, my dear, I want you to go
up to Abbot's and take a suite this afternoon. I intend to allow
you--er--five pounds a week, Charlotte; I think that should be
sufficient."
The surprise that the good lady would not allow herself to show had at
least the effect of keeping her silent. Her husband rose and went out
into the hall, returning immediately with his hat in his hand.
"I am going out, my dear, and will call back in an hour with a cab.
You needn't unpack the things, we'll take them with us."
For fully ten minutes after Edward's departure Charlotte sat in thought
before the fire, and then rose to take a look round the house before
leaving it. It was strange for this woman to be thus doing the bidding
of a man for whom she had hitherto had such scant respect. The change
that opportunity had worked in her husband would not have been welcome
to her but for the promise of better times that his words and actions
suggested. She could not but look forward to the suite at Abbot's, the
hotel in Bloomsbury at which they had dined two or three times during
their married life.
As she walked slowly from room to room she found herself picturing the
glories that were to be hers, the lofty dining-room with its pillars of
marble and the windows with the long red curtains. Then her thoughts
ran to the five weekly pounds that were to be hers also, and she
wondered if Edward meant her to pay for the suite out of them.
She dressed herself in the best that her wardrobe afforded and gathered
together a few personal belongings into a small hand-bag, which,
together with the trunk and portmanteau they had that morning brought
from Bushey, she placed in the hall to await her husband's return. It
was four o'clock when Edward softly closed the front door of No. 8,
Belitha Villas, and with Charlotte and the luggage clattered away in
the decrepit old four-wheeler which he had fetched from the rank.
As they turned the corner, Edward, who had been idly gazing from the
window, drew back sharply into the shadows of the vehicle. He
signalled the driver to stop, and getting out, walked carefully back to
the corner, where, with his eyes, he followed the movements of two men
who were looking up at the numbers of the houses. They paused at No.
8, and pushing open the gate marched up to the door. Edward saw one of
them knock, then he hurried back to the cab.
"Just in time--I thought so," he muttered.
He then told the cabman to drive to King's Cross station. Arriving
there he dismissed him, and taking another cab deposited his silent but
wondering wife at the door of Abbot's Hotel.
Then, after booking the suite of rooms, he left her, and entering a
passing taxi was driven to St. Mary Axe.
* * * * *
A few days following the hurried and undignified evacuation of No. 8,
Belitha Villas, a smart and exceedingly well-groomed little man was
contentedly sitting in a front private room of the Union Hotel at
Penzance.
The intervening days had been very busy ones indeed for Mr. Edward
Povey, and ever since the Cornish Riviera train had set him down on the
shores of Mount's Bay he had considered that a complete rest was due to
him. Besides, he told himself that it wanted two days yet till the
15th of November, and until that date he had no need to pay his visit
to the heiress to the throne of San Pietro.
He had seen her once driving a smart little governess cart through the
quaint and steep streets of the Cornish town, and he had found out her
identity from the unsolicited testimony of the aged waiter who had
noticed him looking at her.
"There she goes, bless her, the best little woman and the best heart in
the Duchy," he had said, crossing the room to the window and letting
his eyes follow the dainty little lady as she leant out of her trap to
give an order to the grocer who had left his shop and stood rubbing his
hands together on the curb. Edward had asked who she was.
"That's Miss Baxendale, sir, her who lives out to Tremoor Churchtown;
not a man in West Cornwall who doesn't worship the ground she drives
over--no, nor a woman either, which is saying a goodish deal. When my
wife was down with sciatic, sir, she didn't want for naught, she----"
But Edward was not listening, he was gazing spell-bound at the object
of the old man's talk. And a picture she made well worth the regard.
Miss Baxendale had now descended from the "jingle" and was standing
chatting to the grocer in his doorway. Edward Povey looked in
admiration at the trim little figure clad in its well-made white
mackintosh that reached almost to the heels of the tiny brown walking
boots. Her face was turned three-quarters towards him, and for the
first time he began to doubt his wisdom in entering upon the adventure.
Curiously enough the personality of the Princess had not entered into
his calculations, he had looked upon her merely as a unit in the scheme
as a whole, a spoke in the wheel of the undertaking.
Now he asked himself what he was to do with this perfect creature, a
very queen among girls, a being whose every look and gesture spoke of
the highest breeding and culture, a girl in whose presence he could not
but feel awkward and ill at ease. He had half an idea then and there
of abandoning the whole affair, and going back to London, but second
thoughts brought back memories of two deserted houses and pointed out
to him that he had gone too far to retreat. It was a momentary return
of the Edward Povey of a few weeks ago, of the personality he had
striven to put behind him.
He alone of all people knew the history of this lovely girl, and in his
possession were the papers and trinkets given him in his final
interview with Mr. Nixon, all the evidence which proved the high
descent of the Princess. In his hands alone was her future. He
remembered, too, the generous balance now standing to the credit of
himself, Mr. Sydney, in the Royal Bank of Spain. To this, as he was
pleased to read Mr. Baxendale's letter, he felt himself quite entitled,
as the one who had undertaken the mission. Before leaving London he
had burnt his boats beyond redemption, and to give in now would not
only mean a return to the old hated life, but he feared he had laid
himself open to criminal proceedings.
Charlotte he had provided for and had left that estimable lady in a
state of delighted bewilderment at Abbot's Hotel, and the thought of
returning to her, for both their sakes, was distasteful to him in the
extreme.
After all, why should he not go on with the matter to which he had put
his hand? Although a clerk, Edward Povey was one of those
quiet-mannered men who can pass muster anywhere and in any society can
hold their own by reason of their ability to efface themselves when
necessary. He had been well educated and was possessed of a soft and
careful diction. Also he was endowed with the most valuable knack of
adapting himself to circumstances.
As he turned from the window he caught the reflection of himself in the
large gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantelpiece, and although
he had seen the same reflection but a few minutes previously it now
took on a new significance. If anything had been needed to endorse his
decision to go on with what he had begun he found it in the picture,
for he was confronted with a vastly different aspect of himself to that
he had been used to as shown by the little cracked looking-glass in the
counting-house of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company in Eastcheap.
He saw a trim, dapper little person, looking not a day older than
thirty-eight, with a keen, clean-shaven face that bordered on
intellectuality. The gold-rimmed spectacles which framed his mild blue
eyes together with his thinning hair gave him even a scholarly aspect.
Edward had made good use of his newly acquired cheque-book, and he
noted with satisfaction that the dark grey suit he had bought in Jermyn
Street fitted him to a nicety. His linen was spotless, and a small
black pearl showed with a dull richness in his dark blue tie. A thin
gold chain across his waistcoat and a signet ring with a deep
claret-coloured stone gave a touch of well-being to his appearance.
His glance left the mirror and travelled down to his well-cut trousers,
thence to his brown brogued shoes. Yes, he was eminently presentable,
and as he turned again to his easy chair and his paper, he laughed at
the recent doubts that had assailed him and which now were falling from
him like water from the proverbial duck.
It was a local journal of little interest and he read on for some
moments listlessly, then with a smothered cry of astonishment he turned
the paper more to the light and his listlessness gave place to
concentration. There under the heading of London Topics was something
which set the blood racing through his veins.
THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS
REMARKABLE SEQUEL TO THE MURDER OF MR. KYSER
THE MYSTERY OF THE BUSHEY COTTAGE
(_Special to the "Evening Post"_)
"It will be remembered that the _Post_ was the first to report, a few
days ago, the mysterious death in Paris of Mr. Sydney Kyser, a partner
in the great firm of Spanish Bankers and Merchants of Eastcheap. Our
reporter in an interview with Mr. Schultz has discovered that there
seems to be far more beneath the mystery than was at first supposed.
"It appears that the deceased gentleman's departure from London was
unknown to any one, not excepting Mr. Schultz himself, and as a meeting
between the partners, to go through the scrip of certain Spanish bonds
in the possession of the firm, had been fixed for the following day,
Mr. Schultz was naturally astonished at the non-appearance of his
partner. This astonishment gave place to consternation when it was
discovered that the safe containing the bonds, of which only himself
and Mr. Kyser knew the lock combination, had been rifled.
"Enquiries at Mr. Kyser's house in Grosvenor Square elicited the fact
that the housekeeper in charge was also unaware of her master's absence
from England, taking for granted that he was at his cottage at Bushey
Heath, a little property at which Mr. Kyser was fond of spending a few
days from time to time.
"Mr. Schultz thereupon dispatched two of his trusted clerks to make
enquiries. Their report is disquieting in the extreme. Adderbury
Cottage had certainly been in occupation since Mr. Kyser's death. This
fact was evident from a fire still burning in the grate in the
dining-room and from the remains of breakfast upon the table. The only
people near were the representatives of Mr. Kyser's solicitors, who had
evidently read in the _Post_ of their client's death. These gentlemen,
together with Mr. Schultz's two clerks, made a thorough search of the
cottage. On all hands was evidence that the occupants, whoever they
were, had made a very hasty departure.
"A clue, however, was obtained by one of the solicitor's men who made a
tour of the near-by cab yards. He elicited the fact that a vehicle had
been hastily ordered from one of them on the previous evening, and that
the cabman had driven an elderly lady and gentleman to Bushey station.
His fares seemed to him to be in a very disturbed state of mind, the
gentleman especially so. The cabman thought that they were man and
wife because he swore so.
"This couple leaving so hurriedly on the evening on which Mr. Kyser's
death was reported in the _Post_ is, to say the least of it,
suspicious, and they have been traced to some extent. They took
first-class tickets for Euston, travelling by the 9.49 train. In
London all trace was lost of them, but a porter states that they were
seen again early the next morning entering the 7.10 for Birmingham.
Here the scent is lost for the present, though from the minute
descriptions furnished by the different railway officials and the
cabman of Bushey, the suspected man bears a great resemblance to a
well-known manufacturer in the Midlands. It seems, however, absurd to
identify this prosperous and much-respected man with Mr. Kyser and his
affairs.
"Another matter which causes some speculation is the fact that the
caretaker of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices asserts that he
saw his master in company with a clerk who had that day been dismissed,
enter a grill-room in Gracechurch Street. The two representatives of
the firm after leaving Bushey called at this clerk's address in
Clapham, only to find that this house, too, had evidently been hastily
vacated in much the same manner as Adderbury Cottage.
"There, for the present, the mystery rests. The police, who have been
communicated with, are, in the mean time, doing their utmost to trace
the elderly gentleman and lady who took the train to Birmingham."
Mr. Povey put down the paper and whistled softly to himself. Then as
he thought of poor Uncle Jasper and Aunt Eliza, the mirthful side of
the affair took him and he laughed for ten minutes.
He rang the bell and told the waiter that he thought he would take a
Scotch whisky and a small Apollinaris.