Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page Scan Source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books/about/
The_White_Room.html?id=QN9PnQEACAAJ
(The Pennsylvania State University Libraries)
Bell's Indian and Colonial Library
----------------------------------
THE WHITE ROOM
THE WHITE ROOM
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR of "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE PICCADILLY PUZZLE,"
"WHOM GOD HATH JOINED," "THE VANISHING OF TERA,"
"THE GUILTY HOUSE," ETC. ETC. ETC.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL & SONS
1904
_This Edition is issued for circulation in India and the Colonies
only_.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE POLICEMAN'S DISCOVERY
II. ANOTHER MYSTERY
III. THE BALDWINS
IV. THE MISSING MOTOR-CAR
V. PUBLIC OPINION
VI. A STRANGE DISCOVERY
VII. THE OTHER WHITE ROOM
VIII. PROFESSOR BOCAROS
IX. MRS. BRAND'S WILL
X. WHAT THE COOK FOUND
XI. THE INQUIRY-AGENT
XII. ARNOLD AND LAURA
XIII. ON THE TRACK
XIV. THE NEW TENANT
XV. THE PROFESSOR'S COURTING
XVI. A SURPRISE
XVII. THE PROFESSOR'S TRUMP CARD
XVIII. A STORY OF THE PAST
XIX. STILL A MYSTERY
XX. THE HOUSE IN THE FIELDS
XXI. THE TRUTH
XXII. THE WIND-UP
THE WHITE ROOM
THE WHITE ROOM
CHAPTER I
THE POLICEMAN'S DISCOVERY
"Eleven o'clock and a windy night!" might have been the cry of a
mediæval watchman at that hour on the 24th July 19--. Constable
Mulligan was more reticent, as it formed no part of his duties to
intimate publicly the time or the state of the weather. Nevertheless
the bells of the Anglican Church, Troy, London, S.W., chimed the hour
through the clamour of a high wind; and those people who were not in
bed must have decided to retire. Not that any one appeared to be
stirring. The lights were extinguished in all windows within the range
of Mulligan's vision, and the flashing of his lantern on the doors and
gates in Achilles Avenue showed that they were discreetly closed. Not
even a tramp or a cat enlivened the roadway. Mulligan was apparently
the sole waking person in a sleeping world.
Troy was a bran-new suburb, built by a jerry-builder, who knew
Greek history through the medium of Lempriere's Dictionary. This
pseudo-scholar had erected classic villas with classic names in roads,
avenues, and streets designated by Hellenic appellations. The rents in
this anachronistic suburb were rather high, and the houses were
inhabited mostly by stockbrokers, prosperous or not, according to
their wits or the state of the money-market. There was also a
sprinkling of schoolmasters, professors, and students, attracted by
the phraseology of the place, which promised cultured surroundings.
The drainage was perfect and the morals were unexceptional So new was
the suburb, that not even a slum had been evolved to mar its
cleanliness. The police, having little to do in so genteel a
neighbourhood, were individually and collectively more for ornament
than use. The ten years' history of the locality was one of order,
intense respectability, and consequent dulness. Only in a rogues'
purlieus is life picturesque and exciting.
Mulligan was a black-haired giant, somewhat dull, but possessed of a
dogged sense of duty, eminently useful when taken in conjunction with
brute force. He paced his beat in a ruminative frame of mind,
thinking, not unpleasantly, of a certain pretty housemaid, with whom
he intended to walk out on Sunday. Being as talkative as Bunyan's
character of that name, Mulligan would not have been displeased to
meet a brother-officer, or even a stray reveller, with whom to
converse. But his fellows were in other neighbourhoods, and revellers
were unknown in the respectable streets of Troy; so Mulligan, for the
sake of hearing his own voice, hummed a little song in a deep bass
growl. He passed Hector Villa, Agamemnon Villa, Paris Villa, and Priam
Villa, all of which were in darkness, enshrined in leafy gardens. At
the gate of Ajax Villa he halted. A light in a first-floor window over
the classic porch showed that the inmates had not yet retired. Also a
woman was singing. Constable Mulligan, being fond of music, waited to
hear the song.
"Kathleen Mavourneen;" thought he, recognising the melody, "and a fine
pipe she has who sings it. It's a party they'll be having within, with
the tongues clapping and the whisky flowing. Begorra, it's myself
that's wishing I had some of that same," and he wiped his mouth with a
longing air.
As he stood at the gate, looking up the wide path which ran straightly
to the shallow steps of the porch through a short avenue of elms in
full leaf, he became aware that some one was coming out of the front
door. The constable put it to himself in this way, as he heard the
sound of opening and shutting, but no stream of light, as he expected,
poured from the hall. With such darkness there could scarcely be a
party in progress. Also--as Mulligan's quick ears detected--the door
was opened with unusual caution and closed with equal care. The person
who had emerged--whether it was a man or a woman the policeman could
not guess--hesitated on the steps for a few minutes. Apparently the
officer's form bulked blackly against the light of the opposite
street-lamp, and the stranger was undecided whether to re-enter the
house, or to come down the path. Mulligan was too dense to be
suspicious, and merely wondered why the person in question did not
fulfil his or her original intention. Meanwhile the song flowed an
smoothly, and Mulligan half unconsciously noted that although the
words were sung slowly, the piano music between each verse was played
hurriedly.
Finally, thinking that the stranger on the steps would not approve of
a policeman leaning on the gate, Mulligan turned away with the airy
grace of an elephant. Hardly had he taken a few steps when a young man
came quickly down the path with a light, springy step. In a pleasant
tenor voice he called to the constable. "Anything wrong, officer?" he
asked, and the gate clicked behind him as he uttered the words.
Mulligan, halting under a street-lamp, saluted good-humouredly. "No,
sir," he declared. "I was just listening to your good lady singing."
"My sister," corrected the man, also pausing under the lamp, but in
such a position that the light did not reveal his countenance. "You
ought to like that song, constable."
"An' for why, sir?"
"It's Irish, as you are."
"Augh! An' is it me, sir, you'd be calling Irish?"
"The way in which you turn that sentence would stamp your nationality,
even if the brogue didn't," retorted the young man, taking out a
silver cigarette-case. "You smoke, officer?"
"Mostly a pipe, sir," rejoined Mulligan, accepting the little roll of
tobacco. "Is it a light you'll be wanting?"
"Thanks," said the other, and bent down to ignite his cigarette at the
match provided by the policeman. But he still kept his face in shadow.
Not that Mulligan had any desire or reason to see it. He merely
thought that the gentleman was a departing guest, although he could
not account for the dark hall, which set aside the idea of a party.
Moreover, the stranger was arrayed in a light tweed suit, which was
not exactly appropriate for a party. Also he wore a loose overcoat of
bluish-black cloth, with a deep velvet collar and velvet cuffs made in
the latest fashion. On so warm a night, this garment was quite
unnecessary. Still, Mulligan had no reason to be suspicious, and was
the last man to be inquisitive. He had the politeness if not the keen
wit of the Celt.
After lighting his cigarette the gentleman strolled away towards the
ancient village which formed the nucleus of modern Troy. Unwilling to
lose the chance of a pleasant conversation, and perhaps a kindly
shilling, Mulligan followed, and beside the light active form of his
companion looked like a bear lumbering in the company of an antelope.
The gentleman did not appear anxious to talk, so Mulligan made the
first remark.
"The song's done," said he, as they walked on.
"It isn't a long song," replied the other carelessly. "I dare say
she'll start another soon, and you can listen at the gate half the
night, if you have a mind to."
"It's a party you'll be having then, sir?"
"Party! No! Can't people sit up till midnight without having the house
full of dancers?"
"Augh," grunted Mulligan; "there being no light in the hall, I might
have guessed there was no party."
The other man started slightly and laughed uneasily. "My sister asked
me to turn out the light when I went," said he. "I did so before I
opened the door."
"You'll be going home then, sir?"
"Yes--to the other end of London. Is there a hansom about?"
"Near the station, sir. That'll be half a mile away."
"I know--I know," retorted the other quickly. "I often come here to
see my sister." He paused, then added anxiously: "I suppose you know
most of the people who live in these villas?"
"None, sir. I've only been on this beat a week."
"You'll get to know them soon, I expect. A quiet place, officer."
"It is that, sir," assented Mulligan, as they turned down a narrow and
lonely street. "Never a robbery or an accident or a murder to make
things happy."
"Why should there be a murder?" asked the man angrily. "Murders are
not so common."
"More common than you think, sir, but the most of them aren't found
out. It is I who'd like a really fine crime with my name in the
papers, and a printed recommendation as an efficient officer. None of
your poker murders and plain sailing you'll understand, sir, but a
mystery, as you read of in them little books written by gentry as
don't know the law."
"Ah! Incidents in detective novels rarely occur in real life," said
the other, with a more tranquil laugh. "Providence is too original to
borrow in that way. But live in hope, officer, a crime may come your
way sooner than you expect."
"Not hereabouts, sir." Mulligan shook his head gloomily. "It's too
clean a neighbourhood."
"The very place where a crime is likely to occur. Have you another
light, constable?"
Mulligan struck another match, and this time he saw the face of the
speaker clearly. It was a handsome face, rather worried-looking. But
as the stranger wore a moustache and a small pointed beard, and as his
Homberg hat--it was grey with a black band--was pressed down over his
eyes, Mulligan could not determine if he were more than usually
worried. Not that he minded. He fancied after some reflection that
this handsome young gentleman was--as he put it--out on the spree, and
therefore took the marks of worry for those of dissipation. He did not
even examine the face closely, but when the match was extinguished he
halted. "There's the half-hour, sir. I must get back to my beat."
"And I must race for a cab," said the stranger, pressing a half-crown
into a not unwilling hand. "Thanks for coming so far with me, officer.
I wonder if my watch is right," he added, pulling it out. "It's
half-past eleven." Something fell at the moment, chipped against the
curb with a tinkling sound, and rebounded into the road. "You've
dropped something, sir," said Mulligan, flashing his lantern towards
the middle of the street.
The other felt his pockets. "No, I don't think so. Can you see
anything? Oh, no matter. I dare say--what can I have dropped?"
The two searched for a time without success. At length the stranger
shook his head positively, and felt his pockets again. "You must be
mistaken," he remarked. "I don't think anything is missing. However, if
you do find anything, you can give it to me when you see me next. You
are usually on this beat?"
"For the next three nights, sir."
"Ah then, we are sure to meet. I often come here. Good night." And
with a wave of his hand the gentleman walked rapidly away. At the turn
of the street he looked back and again waved his hand. It might have
been that he was anxious to see if the constable was watching him. But
no such suspicion occurred to Mulligan. He was too pleased with the
half-crown.
"A fine upstanding young gentleman," was the policeman's verdict;
"free with his money"--he here produced the cigarette--"and his
tobacco, good luck go with him."
As the inspector was not within sight, and indeed would not be until
Mulligan returned to the fixed point in Achilles Avenue, the policeman
decided to solace himself with a smoke. After lighting up he threw
away the match. It fell almost in the middle of the road, and flamed
up brightly in a pause of the wind. Although it went out with the next
gust, Mulligan, in the short time, caught with his keen eye the
glitter of steel. Striking another match, he searched round, and
picked up a latch-key, long and slim and with scarcely projecting
wards. "He'll not get to his bed this night," said Mulligan, looking
towards the corner. "If I was to run after him now------"
But this, he decided, was impossible. The gentleman, walking at an
unusually rapid pace, would be some distance away, and also in the
meantime he might have met with a hansom. Also Mulligan had to return
to the fixed point, as failure to meet his superior officer would meet
with a sharp reprimand. "Ah well," said the philosophic policeman,
"the young gentleman will be here to-morrow night, or maybe his sister
will be still up, and I can give the key to her."
On the chance of securing another half-crown, Mulligan decided that
this latter course would be the more diplomatic. Astutely adopting it,
he walked smartly to Achilles Avenue. A consultation of his Waterbury
watch assured him that he had nearly twenty minutes to spare before
the arrival of the inspector. He therefore sought out Ajax Villa,
being guided thereto by the fact that the light was still burning on
the first floor. But he heard no singing. However, the light showed
that the lady was still in the room, though doubtless the servants--as
was shown plainly by the stranger's conversation--were in bed.
Mulligan walked up to the door and rang. With some foresight he argued
the lady would come herself to the door, whereby he would be more
certain of his money.
The wind was dying down, now that it was close upon midnight, and
everything in the house and garden was absolutely still. Walking up
the path under the umbrageous shelter of the elms, Mulligan saw the
colours of the flowers in neutral tints under a faint starry sky.
There was no moon, but a kind of luminous twilight pervaded the
atmosphere. Mulligan, being a Celt, was not impervious to the charm of
the place which might have been Juliet's garden, so strangely had the
magic of night transmuted its commonplace into romance. But his
housemaid was expensive, and he hurried to the door, anxious to obtain
a reward for the return of the key.
Several times did he ring, and although he heard the shrill vibration
of the bell echo through the house, no one appeared in answer to its
imperative summons. Thinking he might have made a mistake, the
constable stepped back into the garden. But he was right. This was the
villa out of which the young man had issued, for there burned the
guiding light on the first floor. Mulligan felt puzzled by the
inexplicable silence and rang the bell again. Indeed he pressed his
great thumb on the ivory button for nearly one minute. The bell
shrilled continuously and imperiously. Still no one came. Mulligan
scratched his head and considered. "Something's wrong," thought he.
"If I'd the key I'd enter and see if the lady is ill. Queer, the bell
don't waken the servants. Augh! The lazy beasts."
It occurred to him that in his hand he held the key dropped by the
young gentleman. Almost without thinking he fumbled for the hole and
slipped in the key. To his surprise it turned under his involuntary
pressure, and the door swung open noiselessly. Again the constable
scratched his head. Things--so he assured himself--were becoming
mysterious, and he scented an adventure. It was strange that this key
should open the door. "Unless this is his home, and he's running away
for some devilment. Maybe the lady isn't his sister; perhaps his wife
or his sweetheart. Augh! But she'd not let him go at this hour. Catch
her."
However he might argue, it was foolish to stand before an open door
without doing something. The inspector would be round soon, and
might--probably would--demand an explanation. Now that he had got this
far, Mulligan naturally decided to see the adventure through. As yet
he had no suspicion that anything was wrong, though he certainly
thought the whole affair mysterious. Walking into the dark hall, at
the end of which, by the light of his lantern, he saw the glimmer of a
marble staircase, he called gently up into the blackness. "Is there
any one there?" demanded Mulligan. "If so, come down, for I'm in want
of an explanation."
He paused and listened. There came no reply. The dense silence held
the house. Not even a clock ticked. Mulligan suppressed his breath and
listened with all his ears. No sound filled them save the drumming of
his heart. Again he ran into the garden and again assured himself that
the light was burning overhead. He began to conclude that the position
called for the intervention of the law. Assuming an official air, he
tramped up the stairs, flashing the light right and left as he
ascended. He did not know the position of the room, save that it was
in the front of the house. But thus indicated, he thought there would
be little difficulty in finding it and solving the mystery.
From the glimpses he caught, the house appeared to be richly
furnished. He saw pictures, velvet curtains, marble statues, and all
the paraphernalia of a wealthy man's mansion. The stairs were draped
with scarlet hangings, contrasting vividly with the whiteness of the
polished marble. On the landing, curtains of the same flamboyant hue
were parted before another dark hall. Mulligan crossed this, for he
saw--or thought he saw--a thread of light beneath a door. The hall was
of marble and filled with tropical plants. A glass roof overhead
revealed the starry night and the grotesque forms of the plants. The
flooring was of mosaic, and here and there stood velvet-cushioned
chairs, deep and restful. Evidently the house was owned by rich and
artistic people. And the fitful gleams from his lantern exaggerated
the wealth and splendour around.
In spite of the noise made by his boots--which were anything but
light--no one appeared to demand the reason of his intrusion. He began
to feel an eerie feeling creeping over him. This silent, lordly house,
the darkness, the stillness, the loneliness: it was all calculated to
appeal strongly--as it did--to the Celtic imagination of the
policeman.
Towards the thin stream of light flowing, as it seemed, from under the
door, Mulligan took his cautious way. Knocking softly, he waited. No
reply came. Again he knocked, and again the silence which struck a
chill to his heart ensued. At length he took his courage in both hands
and flung open the door. It was not locked. A gush of light nearly
blinded him. He staggered back, and placed his hands across his
dazzled eyes. Then he looked in bewilderment at a remarkable scene.
The room was square and rather large, unbroken by pillar or arch, and
contained only one window. Walls and roof and flooring and furniture
and hangings were absolutely white. There was not a spot or speck of
colour in the place. The walls were of white enamel studded with
silver fleur-de-lis; the floor of polished marble strewn with white
skins of long-haired animals. The curtains, drawn aside from the
window, were of milky velvet. The furniture was of white polished wood
cushioned with pearly silks. Everywhere the room was like snow, and
the milky globes of the lamps shed an argent radiance over the whole.
It looked cold and cheerless but eminently beautiful. An artistic
room, but not one that had a homely look about it. The white glow, the
dazzling expanse, colourless and severe, made the man shiver, rough
though he was. "It's like a cold winter's day," said the imaginative
Celt.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. On moving cautiously into the
room, he saw a piano of polished white wood in a recess, concealed by
a white velvet curtain from the door. Before the piano lay a white
bearskin; on this, face downward; the body of a woman. She was dressed
in black, the one spot of colour in that pale room. But there was
another colour--a vivid red, staining the skin. Mulligan touched the
body--it was cold and limp. "Dead," said Mulligan. From under the left
shoulder-blade trickled a thin stream of blood, and his voice, strong
as it was, used as he had been to scenes of terror, faltered in the
dead silence of that death-chamber.
"Dead! Murdered!"
Not a sound. Even the wind had died away. Only the strong man looking
down at that still corpse, only the blackness of her dress; the
redness of her life-blood soaking into the white bearskin, and all
around the wan desolation of that white, mysterious room, Arctic and
silent.