"He's a blatant idiot, with lucid moments. And in one of those rare
moments of lucidity he told me about Lady Wrenwyck. You agree with me,
I am sure, that, at any cost, he must be kept from Miss Monkton."
Such was Smeaton's pithy summing-up of his late visitor to Austin
Wingate, who had hurried round on receipt of an urgent note from the
detective.
"I agree absolutely," was Wingate's emphatic response. "She believes in
her father so utterly that it would cut her to the heart to think he was
anything short of immaculate, that he had ever shared the weaknesses of
ordinary men. You know all good women make idols of their male-folk.
Now, tell me a little more about this person Boyle. Is he what we
should call a gentleman?"
Smeaton shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing but his own statement
to go upon, you understand. But I should say you might have described
him as such once. Now, he is broken down, slightly shabby, has got the
`seen-better-days' look, and is, I surmise, hard-up. You will see him,
of course, and I give you this hint beforehand: I think he will want to
borrow money. I'm sure he was within an ace of tapping me."
"He can borrow what he likes, in reason, so long as I can keep him away
from Chesterfield Street," said Austin fervently.
Smeaton looked at him approvingly. He was a gallant young lover. No
wonder that the girl's heart had gone out to him in her loneliness and
misery.
Wingate scribbled a brief but polite note to Boyle, inviting him to
dinner the following day at a Bohemian club in Shaftesbury Avenue of
which he was a member. In this tolerant atmosphere his guest's
eccentricities of manner and shabbiness of attire were less likely to
provoke comment.
Having arranged this, he took his leave of Smeaton, whom he left
cogitating over the new development of affairs.
The detective had no doubt in his own mind that Boyle, flighty and
feather-brained as he seemed, could be level-headed on occasions. The
story he told him about Lady Wrenwyck certainly bore the impress of
truth, but it was impossible for a man of such peculiar mentality to
avoid exaggeration. Before going further into the matter, he would like
some corroboration. To whom could he apply?
And at once he thought of Mr Chesterton, the Prime Minister. He and
Monkton were life-long friends, had been at Cambridge together.
Although not actually "born in the purple," having come from commercial
stock, he had been adopted into society from his earliest youth. His
rare eloquence and commanding gifts had done the rest, and raised him to
his present high position.
An hour later he was closeted with the Premier in the big,
heavily-furnished room at Downing Street.
Mr Chesterton received him with that easy and graceful cordiality which
was one of his greatest charms.
"I have ventured to intrude upon your time, sir, with reference to the
matter which is still baffling us--the mysterious disappearance of your
colleague Mr Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. I have had a visit from
a peculiar person who calls himself Caleb Boyle, and he has given me
some information that may or may not prove valuable. He says he knew
Mr Monkton intimately. I am aware that you were life-long friends. Do
you happen to know anything of the man Boyle?"
An amused smile flitted over the Prime Minister's features. "I remember
him well, a harum-scarum, chattering, frothy fellow--utterly devoid of
brains. Stay, I think perhaps I do him an injustice. I would rather
say he suffered from an excess of brain--of the ill-balanced sort. So
he has turned up again--eh? I thought he had disappeared for good."
"I take it, from that remark, that he has had a somewhat chequered
career?" queried Smeaton.
"Most chequered," was Mr Chesterton's reply. In a few brief sentences
he gave the history of Caleb Boyle, so far as he had known it.
He was a man of good family, and possessed of some small fortune. These
advantages were nullified by the possession of nearly every quality that
made for failure in life. He was headstrong, prodigal, full of an
overwhelming conceit in his own capacity. He dabbled a little in
everything--and could do nothing well.
He fancied himself an orator, and spouted on politics till he bored
everybody to death. Believed himself a poet, and wrote execrable
verses. Flattered himself he was an artist of a high order, and painted
daubs that moved his friends to mirth.
The Premier paused. Then proceeding, he said:
"He came to London after leaving Cambridge, and went the pace. In a few
years he had run through his money. Then began the downward progress.
He became a sponger and a leech, borrowed money in every likely
quarter--cadged for his luncheons and dinners. He had been very
generous and hospitable in his day, and his friends put up with him as
long as they could. One by one, they fell away, wearied by his
importunities. Then he came to the last stage--he took to drinking to
excess. Through the influence of the stauncher of his acquaintance, who
still pitied him, he had secured three or four good positions. One
after another he had to relinquish them, owing to his intemperate
habits. That was the actual finish. He disappeared from a world in
which he had once held a very decent footing, and joined the great army
of degenerates who live nobody knows where, and Heaven knows how."
"I take it he is not speaking the truth when he says that he knew Mr
Monkton intimately?" asked Smeaton, when Mr Chesterton had finished the
brief narrative.
The Premier shrugged his shoulders. "We were all at Cambridge together.
He knew Monkton and he knew me, in the way that undergraduates know
each other. We met afterwards, occasionally, in some of the many sets
that constitute Society. But I am sure that Monkton was never intimate
with him. He was one of dozens of men that he had known at school and
college. Boyle always built up his supposed friendships on very slender
material. It used to be said that if he knocked against an Archbishop
by accident, and begged his pardon, he would swear afterwards that he
was on terms of intimacy with him."
There was a pause before Smeaton put his next question.
"This man tells me that at one time there was a scandal about Mr
Monkton and a certain Lady Wrenwyck--a woman of fashion and a noted
beauty. I take the liberty of asking you to confirm or refute that."
Mr Chesterton frowned slightly. "I take it, Mr Smeaton, you have a
good reason for asking me this. But, frankly, I am not fond of raising
old ghosts."
Smeaton answered him a little stiffly. "In my calling, sir. we are
often compelled to put inconvenient questions, but only when, in our
judgment, they are absolutely necessary."
"I accept your statement on that head, unreservedly, Mr Smeaton." The
frown cleared from the Premier's brow, and his tone was marked with that
fine courtesy which had secured him so many friends.
He paused a moment, drew a sigh, and resumed. "I will be quite frank
with you, Smeaton. That chatterbox Boyle has told you the truth. He
was not in our particular set, but of course the common rumours reached
him. There was a scandal--a very considerable scandal. It distressed
his friends greatly, especially those who, like myself, appreciated his
exceptional talents, and predicted for him a great career."
Again he paused. Then he resumed:
"I am glad to say our counsels and influence prevailed in the end. We
weaned him from this fascinating lady--who fought very hard for him, I
must tell you. In the end we won. A year later he married a very
charming girl, who made him the best of wives, and to whom, I have every
reason to believe, he was devotedly attached."
Smeaton rose, and expressed his thanks for the candid way in which Mr
Chesterton had treated him.
"One last question, sir, and I have done," he said. "What would be the
present age of this lady?"
"She is ten years or so Monkton's junior, and looks ten years younger
than that. At least, she did the last time I saw her, and that was a
few months ago."
As he walked across back to Scotland Yard, Smeaton turned it all over in
his mind. Lady Wrenwyck was ten years younger than Monkton, and looked
ten years younger than her real age. Therefore, without doubt, she was
a beautiful and fascinating woman, and still dangerous.
Had he cared to question the Prime Minister more closely, he could have
gleaned more information about the Wrenwyck household. But Mr
Chesterton was obviously disinclined to raise "old ghosts," as he called
them. He would obtain what he wanted by other methods.
He hunted up Lord Wrenwyck in the peerage, and found him to be a person
of some importance, who possessed three houses in the country, and lived
in Park Lane. He was also twelfth Baron.
Smeaton summoned one of his subordinates, a promising young fellow, keen
at this particular kind of work, and showed him the page in the peerage.
"I want you to find out as quickly as possible all you can about this
family. You understand, Johnson--every detail you can pick up."
Detective-sergeant Johnson, qualifying for promotion, smiled at his
chief and gave him his assurance.
"I've had more difficult jobs, and perhaps a few easier ones, Mr
Smeaton. I'll get on it at once, and I don't think you'll be
disappointed," he said.
Mr Johnson omitted to mention, with a reticence that must be commended,
that a cousin of his was a footman next door to the Wrenwyck
establishment, and accustomed to look in of an evening at a select
hostelry adjacent to Park Lane.
That same evening--for Johnson's methods were swift and sure--he waited
on his chief at Smeaton's house, with an unmistakable air of triumph on
his usually impassive features.
"I have got up some facts, sir. I will read you from my notes. Lady
Wrenwyck was a girl when she married; her husband some twenty years
older. She was forced into the marriage by her parents, who were of
good family, but poor as church mice. Her ladyship was a beautiful
girl, she soon went the pace, and had heaps of admirers, young and old.
The husband, horribly jealous, thought he had bought her with his money.
Terrible scenes between the pair, in which her ladyship held her own."
Smeaton offered the subordinate his rare meed of praise. "You have done
devilish well, Johnson. Go on."
Sergeant Johnson proceeded, refreshing himself from his notes. "For
several years past they have lived in a sort of armed truce. They live
together, that is to say, in the same house, but they never exchange a
word with each other, except before guests. If they have to hold
communication, it is by means of notes, conveyed through the valet and
the lady's maid."
"An extraordinary house, Johnson--eh?" interjected Smeaton, thinking of
his own little comfortable household.
"It's a bit funny, sir, to ordinary people, but in Society nothing is
uncommon," replied Johnson. "Shall I go on with my notes?"
"Please do," said Smeaton cordially. Johnson was of the younger
generation, but he was shaping well. Perhaps it is possible that
youngsters have a wider outlook than their elders.
Mr Johnson read on, in a deferential voice:
"His lordship is an invalid--suffers from some affection of the joints,
an aggravated form of rheumatism, walks with a stick. Has been absent
from Park Lane for a little time. Nobody knows where he is. His
confidential man of business, steward or secretary or something, runs
the house in his absence."
"And her ladyship?" queried Smeaton eagerly.
"I'm coming to that, sir. Her ladyship has been away for some time;
travelling abroad they think. My informant gave me the date of her
departure. Here it is, sir."
Smeaton looked at the little pencilled note. He rose, and shook his
subordinate cordially by the hand, saying:
"Really you've done more than well. You forget nothing, I see. I shall
watch your career with great interest. If I can push you I will. You
may rely on that."
Johnson bowed low at the great man's praise. "A word here from you, Mr
Smeaton, and I'm made in the Service."
His voice faltered skilfully here, and he withdrew, leaving Smeaton to
his reflections.
The great detective meditated long and carefully. He was not a person
to jump hastily at conclusions. He sifted the actual from the obvious.
One fact emerged clearly, and it was this: Lady Wrenwyck had left her
home, to which she had not returned, two days before the mysterious
disappearance of Reginald Monkton--_two days_.
That feather-headed fool, Caleb Boyle, had told him to "find the woman."
Was the feather-headed fool right, and he, Smeaton, upon the wrong
road?