With a smile that betrayed unusual interest, the daughter of the Texas
statesman read that letter on Thursday morning in her room at the
Carlton. There was no question about it--the first epistle from the
strawberry-mad one had caught and held her attention. All day, as she
dragged her father through picture galleries, she found herself looking
forward to another morning, wondering, eager.
But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom this
odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The news
rather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted on
returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed out,
they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was rewarded.
Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.
DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning,
with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so late in
getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day yesterday;
not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last evening to
address you. Believe me, only the most startling, the most appalling
accident could have held me up.
That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.
I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and terrible
sentence. And I could write that sentence. A tragedy, wrapped in mystery
as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen our quiet little house in
Adelphi Terrace. In their basement room the Walters family, sleepless,
overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear at
intervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions--But no; I must go back
to the very start of it all:
Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson’s, in the Strand--so early
that I was practically alone in the restaurant. The letter I was about
to write to you was uppermost in my mind and, having quickly dined, I
hurried back to my rooms. I remember clearly that, as I stood in the
street before our house fumbling for my keys, Big Ben on the Parliament
Buildings struck the hour of seven. The chime of the great bell rang out
in our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and friendly greeting.
Gaining my study, I sat down at once to write. Over my head I could
hear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about--attiring himself, probably, for
dinner. I was thinking, with an amused smile, how horrified he would be
if he knew that the crude American below him had dined at the impossible
hour of six, when suddenly I heard, in that room above me, some stranger
talking in a harsh determined tone. Then came the captain’s answering
voice, calmer, more dignified. This conversation went along for some
time, growing each moment more excited. Though I could not distinguish a
word of it, I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was a controversy
on; and I remember feeling annoyed that any one should thus interfere
with my composition of your letter, which I regarded as most important,
you may be sure.
At the end of five minutes of argument there came the heavy thump-thump
of men struggling above me. It recalled my college days, when we used
to hear the fellows in the room above us throwing each other about in
an excess of youth and high spirits. But this seemed more grim, more
determined, and I did not like it.--However, I reflected that it was
none of my business. I tried to think about my letter.
The struggle ended with a particularly heavy thud that shook our ancient
house to its foundations. I sat listening, somehow very much depressed.
There was no sound. It was not entirely dark outside--the long
twilight--and the frugal Walters had not lighted the hall lamps.
Somebody was coming down the stairs very quietly--but their creaking
betrayed him. I waited for him to pass through the shaft of light that
poured from the door open at my back. At that moment Fate intervened in
the shape of a breeze through my windows, the door banged shut, and a
heavy man rushed by me in the darkness and ran down the stairs. I knew
he was heavy, because the passageway was narrow and he had to push me
aside to get by. I heard him swear beneath his breath.
Quickly I went to a hall window at the far end that looked out on the
street. But the front door did not open; no one came out. I was puzzled
for a second; then I reentered my room and hurried to my balcony. I
could make out the dim figure of a man running through the garden at
the rear--that garden of which I have so often spoken. He did not try
to open the gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared from sight into the
alley.
For a moment I considered. These were odd actions, surely; but was it my
place to interfere? I remembered the cold stare in the eyes of Captain
Fraser-Freer when I presented that letter. I saw him standing motionless
in his murky study, as amiable as a statue. Would he welcome an
intrusion from me now?
Finally I made up my mind to forget these things and went down to find
Walters. He and his wife were eating their dinner in the basement. I
told him what had happened. He said he had let no visitor in to see the
captain, and was inclined to view my misgivings with a cold British eye.
However, I persuaded him to go with me to the captain’s rooms.
The captain’s door was open. Remembering that in England the way of the
intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go first. He stepped into the
room, where the gas flickered feebly in an aged chandelier.
“My God, sir!” said Walters, a servant even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Captain Fraser-Freer of the Indian
Army lay dead on the floor, a smile that was almost a sneer on his
handsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now as I sit in the silent morning in
this room of mine which is so like the one in which the captain died. He
had been stabbed just over the heart, and my first thought was of that
odd Indian knife which I had seen lying on his study table. I turned
quickly to seek it, but it was gone. And as I looked at the table
it came to me that here in this dusty room there must be finger
prints--many finger prints.
The room was quite in order, despite those sounds of struggle. One or
two odd matters met my eye. On the table stood a box from a florist in
Bond Street. The lid had been removed and I saw that the box contained
a number of white asters. Beside the box lay a scarf-pin--an emerald
scarab. And not far from the captain’s body lay what is known--owing to
the German city where it is made--as a Homburg hat.
I recalled that it is most important at such times that nothing be
disturbed, and I turned to old Walters. His face was like this paper on
which I write; his knees trembled beneath him.
“Walters,” said I, “we must leave things just as they are until the
police arrive. Come with me while I notify Scotland Yard.”
“Very good, sir,” said Walters.
We went down then to the telephone in the lower hall, and I called up
the Yard. I was told that an inspector would come at once and I went
back to my room to wait for him.
You can well imagine the feelings that were mine as I waited. Before
this mystery should be solved, I foresaw that I might be involved to a
degree that was unpleasant if not dangerous. Walters would remember that
I first came here as one acquainted with the captain. He had noted, I
felt sure, the lack of intimacy between the captain and myself, once
the former arrived from India. He would no doubt testify that I had been
most anxious to obtain lodgings in the same house with Fraser-Freer.
Then there was the matter of my letter from Archie. I must keep that
secret, I felt sure. Lastly, there was not a living soul to back me up
in my story of the quarrel that preceded the captain’s death, of the man
who escaped by way of the garden.
Alas, thought I, even the most stupid policeman can not fail to look
upon me with the eye of suspicion!
In about twenty minutes three men arrived from Scotland Yard. By that
time I had worked myself up into a state of absurd nervousness. I heard
Walters let them in; heard them climb the stairs and walk about in the
room overhead. In a short time Walters knocked at my door and told me
that Chief Inspector Bray desired to speak to me. As I preceded the
servant up the stairs I felt toward him as an accused murderer must feel
toward the witness who has it in his power to swear his life away.
He was a big active man--Bray; blond as are so many Englishmen. His
every move spoke efficiency. Trying to act as unconcerned as an innocent
man should--but failing miserably, I fear--I related to him my story
of the voices, the struggle, and the heavy man who had got by me in the
hall and later climbed our gate. He listened without comment. At the end
he said:
“You were acquainted with the captain?”
“Slightly,” I told him. Archie’s letter kept popping into my mind,
frightening me. “I had just met him--that is all; through a friend of
his--Archibald Enwright was the name.”
“Is Enwright in London to vouch for you?”
“I’m afraid not. I last heard of him in Interlaken.”
“Yes? How did you happen to take rooms in this house?”
“The first time I called to see the captain he had not yet arrived from
India. I was looking for lodgings and I took a great fancy to the garden
here.”
It sounded silly, put like that. I wasn’t surprised that the inspector
eyed me with scorn. But I rather wished he hadn’t.
Bray began to walk about the room, ignoring me.
“White asters; scarab pin; Homburg hat,” he detailed, pausing before the
table where those strange exhibits lay.
A constable came forward carrying newspapers in his hand.
“What is it?” Bray asked.
“The Daily Mail, sir,” said the constable. “The issues of July
twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth and thirtieth.”
Bray took the papers in his hand, glanced at them and tossed them
contemptuously into a waste-basket. He turned to Walters.
“Sorry, sir,” said Walters; “but I was so taken aback! Nothing like this
has ever happened to me before. I’ll go at once--”
“No,” replied Bray sharply. “Never mind. I’ll attend to it--”
There was a knock at the door. Bray called “Come!” and a slender boy,
frail but with a military bearing, entered.
“Hello, Walters!” he said, smiling. “What’s up? I-”
He stopped suddenly as his eyes fell upon the divan where Fraser-Freer
lay. In an instant he was at the dead man’s side.
“Stephen!” he cried in anguish.
“Who are you?” demanded the inspector--rather rudely, I thought.
“It’s the captain’s brother, sir,” put in Walters. “Lieutenant Norman
Fraser-Freer, of the Royal Fusiliers.”
There fell a silence.
“A great calamity, sir--” began Walters to the boy.
I have rarely seen any one so overcome as young Fraser-Freer. Watching
him, it seemed to me that the affection existing between him and the man
on the divan must have been a beautiful thing. He turned away from his
brother at last, and Walters sought to give him some idea of what had
happened.
“You will pardon me, gentlemen,” said the lieutenant. “This has been a
terrible shock! I didn’t dream, of course--I just dropped in for a word
with--with him. And now--”
We said nothing. We let him apologize, as a true Englishman must, for
his public display of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” Bray remarked in a moment, his eyes still shifting about
the room--“especially as England may soon have great need of men like
the captain. Now, gentlemen, I want to say this: I am the Chief of the
Special Branch at the Yard. This is no ordinary murder. For reasons
I can not disclose--and, I may add, for the best interests of the
empire--news of the captain’s tragic death must be kept for the present
out of the newspapers. I mean, of course, the manner of his going. A
mere death notice, you understand--the inference being that it was a
natural taking off.”
“I understand,” said the lieutenant, as one who knows more than he
tells.
“Thank you,” said Bray. “I shall leave you to attend to the matter, as
far as your family is concerned. You will take charge of the body. As
for the rest of you, I forbid you to mention this matter outside.”
And now Bray stood looking, with a puzzled air, at me.
“You are an American?” he said, and I judged he did not care for
Americans.
“I am,” I told him.
“Know any one at your consulate?” he demanded.
Thank heaven, I did! There is an under-secretary there named Watson--I
went to college with him. I mentioned him to Bray.
“Very good,” said the inspector. “You are free to go. But you must
understand that you are an important witness in this case, and if you
attempt to leave London you will be locked up.”
So I came back to my rooms, horribly entangled in a mystery that is
little to my liking. I have been sitting here in my study for some time,
going over it again and again. There have been many footsteps on the
stairs, many voices in the hall.
Waiting here for the dawn, I have come to be very sorry for the cold
handsome captain. After all, he was a man; his very tread on the floor
above, which it shall never hear again, told me that.
What does it all mean? Who was the man in the hall, the man who had
argued so loudly, who had struck so surely with that queer Indian knife?
Where is the knife now?
And, above all, what do the white asters signify? And the scarab
scarf-pin? And that absurd Homburg hat?
Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mystery. When I wrote that first letter
to you, little did I dream that I should soon have it to give you in
overwhelming measure.
And--believe me when I say it--through all this your face has been
constantly before me--your face as I saw it that bright morning in the
hotel breakfast room. You have forgiven me, I know, for the manner
in which I addressed you. I had seen your eyes and the temptation was
great--very great.
It is dawn in the garden now and London is beginning to stir. So this
time it is--good morning, my lady.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN.