Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: La Trobe University Library (Australia)
http://arrow.latrobe.edu.au/store/3/4/6/2/6/public/B26994902.pdf
[Illustration: Front Cover]
_The Mikado Jewel_
By
FERGUS HUME
Author of
"The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Purple Fern,"
"The Mystery of a Motor Cab," etc., etc., etc.
London: EVERETT & CO.
42, Essex Street, Strand, W.C. 1910
THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS
KINGSTON SURREY
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I.--A MYSTERIOUS MISSION
II.--WHAT HAPPENED
III.--AFTERWARDS
IV.--THE INQUEST
V.--THE INQUEST CONTINUED
VI.--A FAMILY LEGEND
VII.--THE GARDEN OF SLEEP
VIII.--THEODORE
IX.--BASIL
X.--THE NEW-COMER
XI.--HARRY'S SWEETHEART
XII.--A JAPANESE DIPLOMATIST
XIII.--THE UNEXPECTED
XIV.--THE JEWEL
XV.--PENTREDDLE'S STORY
XVI.--LOVERS
XVII.--TROUBLE
XVIII.--PLEASURE
XIX.--THE TRUTH
XX.--A FURTHER EXPLANATION
THE MIKADO JEWEL
CHAPTER I
A MYSTERIOUS MISSION
From the main thoroughfare of Bayswater, where the shops display their
goods and the tides of life run strongly, Crook Street extends its
long line of ugly dwellings to a considerable distance. Its shape
suggests a shepherd's crook,--hence undoubtedly the name--as it
finally terminates in a curved _cul de sac_, the end of which is
blocked by Number One hundred and eleven. This is an imposing, if
somewhat dilapidated mansion, standing in its own limited grounds,
which are surrounded by a high crumbling wall of brick, more or less
overgrown with grimy ivy. There is a small front garden, planted with
stunted shrubs; a narrow passage on either side of the house, screened
midway by green-painted trellis-work, and--at the back--a worn-out
lawn, dominated by a funereal cedar. Beneath this, through rain and
sunshine, is a rustic table and a rustic seat, where the boarders have
afternoon tea in summertime. Everywhere there is a feeling of
dampness.
The mansion is of Georgian architecture, square and heavy, greatly in
need of a coat of paint, which it has not received for years. With its
discoloured surface, once white, its cheap stucco scaling off in
leprous patches, its trails of moss and soot, never to be washed off
by any rain, however violent, it looks a tumbledown, ruinous sort of
dwelling. Or, as an imaginative boarder once suggested, it is like a
derelict hulk, stranded in a stagnant backwater of Life's mighty
River. It is certainly doleful, and infinitely dreary, only securing
inhabitants by reason of the unusually cheap board and lodging to be
obtained under its weather-worn roof.
Mrs. Sellars, who rented this sad suburban dwelling, euphoniously
called it "The Home of Art," and in a seductive advertisement invited
any male or female connected with music, literature, painting, poetry,
and more particularly with the drama, to enjoy the refinements of an
æsthetic abode at the moderate cost of twenty shillings a week,
inclusive. As the house was shabbily comfortable, and its mistress was
a retired actress of cheery manners, still indirectly connected with
the stage, the bedrooms of The Home of Art were generally occupied by
youths and maidens, ambitious of renown. There were very few really
old people, as Mrs. Sellars--although elderly herself--did not care
for the aged, who had no future, but loved to gather the young and
aspiring round her hospitable table. And that same table truly
deserved the kindly term, for the slatternly, good-natured woman
supplied far better food in far larger quantities than the rate of
payment allowed. Indeed, it is questionable if Mrs. Sellars made any
profit whatsoever, as nearly all the boarders were juvenile and
hungry. But what they paid, together with the landlady's small private
income, kept things going in a happy-go-lucky fashion, which was
all that was necessary. The children--as Mrs. Sellars called her
boarders--adored "Ma," as the boarders called Mrs. Sellars, and with
good reason, for she gave one and all largely what money could not
buy. She advised, she sympathized, she nursed, she scolded, and to her
the children came with their troubles, great and small, for aid and
consolation. It was no wonder that with such a blessed helper of
humanity, the ruinous old suburban boarding-house was usually filled
to its greatest capacity.
But full as The Home of Art was last November, on one night of that
foggy month it was empty from seven o'clock until midnight of all
the boarders. A third-floor lodger--the lean youth with bright and
bird-like eyes--had not only written a play, which Ma pronounced
magnificent, but the same was to be produced on this very evening at a
suburban theatre. Of course, this was a red-letter day--or, rather,
night--at The Home of Art, and equally of course, Mrs. Sellars led
forth her children to occupy boxes and stalls and pit and dress-circle
on the great occasion. By her advice the friends of the playwright
were thus fairly distributed throughout the house so that they might
applaud vehemently at the right moment and stir up the public to
enthusiasm. Even the cook and the parlour-maid, the housemaid and a
decayed butler, who had fallen, through drink, from Mayfair to
Bayswater, put on their best clothes and departed for the night's
entertainment. Already the supper--and a very good supper, too--was
laid out in the shabby dining-room, and would be eaten at midnight by
the boarders, when they returned with Ma and the successful
playwright. And assuredly he would be successful--no one had any doubt
on that point, for Mrs. Sellars had long since infected all her
lodgers with her constant optimism. With Ma as the head of the house,
the atmosphere could scarcely fail to be cheerful. Even debts, duns,
difficulties, disappointments and suspense could not, and never did,
damp the hopeful spirits of the little community. And Ma, with her
unfailing good humour and helpful nature, was responsible for this
happy state of affairs.
When the occupants of The Home of Art departed for the Curtain
Theatre, two people remaining behind had the entire house to
themselves. One was Mrs. Pentreddle, who had sprained her ankle on the
previous day, and could not leave the sofa on which she lay in the
drawing-room with any degree of comfort, and the other was Patricia
Carrol, the out-of-work Irish governess, who had arranged to stop and
look after the old lady. And Mrs. Pentreddle was really old, being not
far short of sixty. She was the landlady's sister, who had come up
from Devonshire on a visit six days before the exodus to the theatre:
a tall, gaunt, grim woman, wholly unlike Mrs. Sellars in looks and
disposition. No one would have believed the two women to be sisters
had not the relationship been vouched for by Ma herself. "Martha never
was like me," said Mrs. Sellars, when her boarders commented on the
dissimilarity, "always as heavy as I was light. Comedy and Tragedy,
our Pa called us in the old days. Not that Martha ever had any turn
for the stage. It was only Pa's way of talking. Martha's a killjoy,
poor dear, as her late husband was drowned at sea and her only child's
a sailor also, who likewise may find his grave in the vast and
wandering deep. She's housekeeper to Squire Colpster, of Beckleigh, in
Devonshire, and knows more about managing servants than I've ever
forgotten." And, as usual, she finished with her jolly laugh.
Mrs. Pentreddle certainly was no favourite with the boarders, as her
lean and anxious, wrinkled and pallid face, her hard black eyes and
melancholy dark garments impressed them unpleasantly. She spoke very
little, but constantly maintained a watchful attitude, as though she
was expecting something to happen or someone to tap her on her
shoulder. As a rule she kept to Mrs. Sellars' private sitting-room,
which pleased everyone, as the dour woman was such a wet blanket. But
on the night of the play she insisted upon being carried down to the
drawing-room in spite of the sprained ankle, which should have kept
her in bed. Mrs. Sellars remonstrated, but the sister from Devonshire
had her own way, saying that the first floor was preferable to the
second, as it was less dismal and more comfortable. "One would think
that Martha expected something to happen," said cheerful Mrs. Sellars,
when she set out for the theatre with her train, "and was afraid to be
too far away from the nearest policeman!" This remark was afterwards
remembered when something did happen, as emblematic of Ma's prophetic
powers.
The drawing-room was a large apartment with a fire-place at one end
and a door leading from the hall at the other. One side was taken up
by the windows, heavily curtained, and the other by large folding
doors, usually closed, which gave admission to the dining-room.
Outside, a narrow iron-railed balcony ran in front of the three
windows from the entrance door to the corner of the house, and below
this was the basement. Within, the room was fairly comfortable in a
shabby, slatternly sort of way, although overcrowded with furniture
of the Albert period, which had been picked up at various sales.
Indeed, the entire house was furnished with the flotsam and jetsam of
auction-room derelicts of prosperous days. In the drawing-room were
rep-covered chairs, two horse-hair sofas, several round tables, each
poised on its shaky leg, fender-stools, Berlin-wool screens, a
glittering glass chandelier, and on either side of the handsome marble
time-piece which stood on the mantel-shelf, antique green ornaments
with dangling prisms of glass. The walls were covered with faded
scarlet flock paper, the floor with a worn red carpet, bestrewn with
bunches of poppies mingled with wheat-ears, and the three windows were
draped with stained, ragged, crimson curtains of rich brocade. Mrs.
Sellars was very proud of those gorgeous curtains, but they were
distinctly out of date--a matter of indifference to those who occupied
The Home of Art, in spite of its name.
One of the horse-hair sofas had been drawn to the fire, and Mrs.
Pentreddle lay thereon, with her hard black eyes fixed on the leaping
flames. Outside, the night was chilly and damp, the air was thick with
fog, and even in the drawing-room could be heard the dripping of water
from the ivy clothing the surrounding wall. In spite of its being in
London, the house was markedly isolated, and only occasionally did a
policeman venture down the curved _cul de sac_. But within, all was
shabbily warm and comfortable, and Mrs. Pentreddle's grim face relaxed
into more pleasant lines. Nothing could be heard but the dripping of
the water, the ticking of the clock and the occasional fall of a
morsel of coal from the grate. But shortly the almost silence became
oppressive, and Mrs. Pentreddle spoke in her harsh voice.
"It's very kind of you to stay with me, Miss Carrol," she said,
glancing sideways at her companion; "few young ladies would do that
when a theatre-treat is offered to them."
The girl addressed raised her eyes from the evening paper which she
had been reading and smiled. Patricia Carrol's smile was delightful,
and displayed such white teeth that her beauty was enhanced. But even
when her face was in repose, she looked an extremely pretty girl, and
was one of those richly-coloured Irish brunettes, who remind the
observer of a peach ripening against a mellow brick wall. Her hair was
bluish black, of a wavy quality which lent itself admirably to the
style of coiffure which she affected, and her eyes were sea-blue, of
that wonderful Irish tint which goes so well with dark tresses. Her
admirable figure was clothed plainly, but tastefully, in a Prussian
blue serge dress, perfectly cut, and worn with a charming natural
grace. Her hands and feet were slim and aristocratic, and her whole
air was one of repose and good-breeding. She was a flower of
civilization, and should have bloomed amidst more fitting surroundings
than the shabby drawing-room could afford. Yet she was only a poor
little governess seeking for employment, and even when Mrs. Pentreddle
spoke to her, she had been searching the columns of the newspaper in
the hope of finding a situation.
"Oh, I am very pleased to stay with you, Mrs. Pentreddle," she said,
with her charming smile. "I have too many troubles to care about going
to a play. I would only take them with me, and then would scarcely
enjoy the performance."
"That is true," replied the elder woman, examining the girl closely;
"and yet you should have no troubles at your age and with your looks."
Patricia coloured and shook her head. "My looks are really against
me," she said, somewhat sadly; "ladies don't like to engage me on that
account. If I were ugly and old I should be better able to get what I
want."
"What do you want, Miss Carrol?" asked Mrs. Pentreddle, abruptly.
"Fifty pounds a year as a nursery governess if I can get it," replied
the girl promptly, "or even thirty, so long as I can get a situation.
If it were not for dear, kind Mrs. Sellars I don't think I could hold
out. She's an angel, and lets me stay here for ten shillings a week
until I can get something to do. Bless her!"
"How did you come to this?" asked Mrs. Pentreddle, still abruptly.
Miss Carrol coloured, for she did not like to whimper about her
misfortunes to strangers. "It's a long story," she said evasively;
"all you need know is that my father was a Colonel in the army, and
that when he died his pension ceased and I was left penniless. But I
have had a good education, and I hope to get a situation as a
governess."
"Won't your friends assist you?"
"I have no friends," said the girl simply; "when I left the world I
was brought up in, I left my friends for ever."
"I don't think so; you will go back to them some day," said Mrs.
Pentreddle encouragingly, although the expression of her iron face
did not soften; "but, meanwhile, if you wish to earn a five-pound
note----" she hesitated.
The newspaper slipped from Patricia's lap to the ground and she looked
surprised. "I don't understand!"
"If you will do an errand for me I will give you five pounds."
"Oh, I can do an errand for you without taking money."
"I don't ask-you to: this is rather a dangerous errand. But I think
you are brave, and I know that you are hard up----"
Patricia interrupted. "I have enough money to go on with," she said,
flushing.
"At ten shillings a week!" retorted Mrs. Pentreddle, unpleasantly.
"Well, please yourself!"--she turned over on the sofa--"I have given
you the chance."
Miss Carrol thought hard during the silence which ensued. Certainly,
in her pauper condition, five pounds would be a god-send, and, as she
had determined to lay aside all pride when she gave up the position to
which her birth entitled her, she considered that she might as well
take what she could get at this difficult stage of her fortunes. For
five pounds she would do much, but---- "Is the errand an honest one?"
she asked suddenly with a catch in her voice. The thought had just
struck her.
"Perfectly honest," said Mrs. Pentreddle coldly. "What is there about
me that you should think me capable of asking you to do something
wrong?"
"Nothing at all," confessed Miss Carrol frankly; "but if you wish me
to go on a mysterious errand, it is only natural that I should desire
to hear everything about it."
Mrs. Pentreddle carefully lowered her injured foot to the ground, and
sitting up very straight, folded two thin hands on her lap. "You shall
hear," said she quietly, "only I must request you to keep your own
counsel."
Patricia nodded. "That goes without the saying," was her answer, and
she again wondered if the five pounds could be earned honestly.
"I came up to London to go on this errand myself," explained the old
lady slowly, "but this sprain has prevented my keeping an appointment
which must be kept to-night. As the matter is important, I am willing
to pay you the money on your return with It."
"It? What is 'It'?"
"A small deal box you can easily carry in your hand. A man will give
it to you if you will stand at nine o'clock by the right-hand corner
of that bridge which crosses the Serpentine. On this side, remember,
before you cross the bridge. Nine o'clock, and you must hold
this"--she fished amongst the cushions of the sofa and produced a
small bull's-eye lantern, the glass of which was pasted over with red
paper. "This is the signal."
"The signal?" echoed Miss Carrol, rather nervously, for all this
mystery did indeed hint at something criminal.
"Oh, you needn't turn so white," said Mrs. Pentreddle scornfully.
"What I ask you to do is perfectly straightforward. There is nothing
wrong about it."
Patricia still hesitated, vaguely afraid to be implicated in such
unusual doings. "If you will explain further, Mrs. Pentreddle----"
"There is nothing more need be explained just now," interrupted the
other woman imperiously; "when you return with the box, you shall know
all. What I am requesting you to do can harm no one, but can benefit
someone."
"Yourself?"
"No! That is, in a way, perhaps. But you can judge for yourself when I
am able to tell you my reason. That will be when you return. If five
pounds is not sufficient, I can give you ten, although I can ill
afford it."
"I am satisfied with five," said Patricia quickly, and flushing again,
for even in her poverty she shrank from taking money. "I don't like
mysteries, and only accept your offer as I need money very badly. But
for all the wealth in the world I would not go if I thought that there
was anything wrong," and she looked searchingly at her companion.
"How many times do you need me to assure you that there is nothing
wrong," said Mrs. Pentreddle, impatiently; "you are singularly
suspicious for a girl of your years. All that is necessary is for you
to receive this tiny box from the man who will hand it to you."
"How shall I know the man?"
"There is no need for you to know him at all. The red light of the
lantern will assure him that you are the person who is to receive the
box. Well?"
Miss Carrol rose nervously and ran her fingers through her hair, as
she walked up and down the long room. Her instinct told her to refuse
a mission about which she knew so little, but the prospect of earning
five pounds in this easy manner was so alluring, that she could not
find it in her heart to decline. After all, Mrs. Pentreddle was the
sister of the woman who had been, and was, so kind to her, and in
every way appeared to be an almost aggressively respectable person. It
was worth risking, she thought, and at this moment, as though to
clinch the matter, Mrs. Pentreddle's voice broke in on her uneasy
meditations.
"I can't wait much longer," said the old woman; "if you won't do what
I ask, perhaps you will telephone to the nearest office, asking that a
messenger-boy may be sent to get what I want. It will certainly be
cheaper."
This proposal banished Patricia's last scruple, as, if a messenger-boy
could be employed, the errand, mysterious as it seemed, could not have
anything to do with criminal matters. Miss Carrol picked up the
lantern, with its faked red glass. "I shall go at once," she declared
hurriedly, for now she feared lest she should lose the money, "but who
will attend to your foot while I am away, Mrs. Pentreddle?"
"I can stay here, as I am doing. Rest is the sole thing which can cure
my sprain. You will only be away an hour, more or less. It is a
quarter past eight now, and the distance to the Serpentine bridge is
not far. Nine o'clock is the hour. You know exactly what you have to
do," and she repeated her instructions, to which the girl listened
carefully.
"I am to show the red light standing on this side of the Serpentine at
the right-hand corner of the bridge," she said slowly, to be sure that
she knew what she had to do. "I understand. What shall I say to the
man?"
"Nothing. He will simply place a box in your hand and walk away. All
you have to do is to bring the box to me, and then you shall know all
about the matter which strikes you as being so strange. Don't lose any
time, please."
Indeed, there was no time to be lost, as it would take Patricia some
minutes to get her out-of-door things on. She ran up the stairs, and
assumed boots in place of slippers, a heavy cloak as the night was
damp, a plain cloth toque, and gloves. She then took her umbrella in
one hand, the lantern, unlighted, in the other, and descended to say a
few last words to Mrs. Pentreddle; or, rather, to hear them, for the
old lady gave her no opportunity of speaking. For such a grim,
unemotional woman, Mrs. Pentreddle seemed quite excited, although she
tried to keep herself calm. But a vivid spot of red was certainly
showing itself on either pale cheek.
"Show the red light and wait in silence," she directed; "do nothing
more, and say nothing at all. Then when you receive the box come back
with it at once to me. You thoroughly understand?"
"I thoroughly understand."
"I am glad. Finally, let me assure you once more that there is nothing
dishonest or even wrong about the errand I am sending you on."
There was nothing more to be said, and Patricia departed. When she
closed the front door of The Home of Art, and found herself in the
street, she became aware that the night was damp and dense with fog.
The gas-lights, however, shone blurred and vague through the white
mists, so there was no need for her to use the lantern. No one was
about, not even a policeman--in the curve of the _cul de sac_ at all
events; but when she passed into the straight line of Crook Street,
she almost fell into the arms of a constable who was standing under a
lamp. Patricia paused to ask a question.
"Will the fog get worse, officer?"
"I think it will, miss," said the man, touching his helmet and bending
to look at her face. "I should advise you not to go far."
"I am only going to the Park to see a friend," answered Miss Carrol,
heedlessly; and then remembering that it was a complete stranger whom
she had to see, and one to whom she was not even to speak, she
regretted having been so doubtfully truthful. "What is the time?" she
asked, to cover her confusion.
"Half-past eight o'clock, miss," said the constable, consulting a fat
silver watch. "Best go home again, miss. You might get lost in this
fog, and in the Park there are some rough characters about."
"Oh, I am all right, thank you," said Patricia with a bright smile,
and passed along. All the same she now began to feel uncomfortable,
and to realize that Hyde Park on a foggy November night was not
exactly the place for a young lady. Only the desire to earn the
coveted five pounds nerved her to do that which she had agreed to do.
Crook Street is not far from the main entrance to the Park on the
Bayswater side, and, as the fog grew thin further on, Patricia found
herself speedily on the broad path which leads directly to the
Serpentine bridge. She knew this portion of the Park extremely well,
as, having much time on her hands, she frequently wandered about the
grassy spaces on idle afternoons. There were few people about, as the
night was so disagreeable, and those she saw moved swiftly past her.
Occasionally she caught a glimpse of vague forms under the trees: but
she never looked closely at these night-prowlers, but, keeping in the
middle of the path, moved steadily to her destination. At last she
came to the bridge and took up her station at the right-hand corner on
this near side. Having come to the end of her journey she lighted the
lantern.
Across the water the broad bridge stretched weirdly, vanishing into
the fog, which here grew denser, like the Bridge of Life in the Vision
of Mirza. Patricia had read Addison's fantastic story in some
school-book, and it was suggested to her again by the sight before
her. People came out of the mist and disappeared into it again: some
passed, unconscious of the quiet figure at the corner, while others
peered into her face. But no one addressed her, much to her relief,
and the ruddy light of her lantern shone like an angry star. Then the
expected happened in one moment and quite without preparation.
A man came swiftly over the bridge--so swiftly, that it might have
been said that he was running. She had no time to see what he was like
in looks, or how he was dressed, before he caught sight of the red
light and stopped for one moment to thrust a small box into her hand.
Then he darted away to the left and disappeared along the bank on the
Bayswater side. That was all!