A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Odour is one of the strongest aids which memory can have, and a chance
whiff of a particular scent will recall to the most lethargic brain,
circumstances both trivial and important of long-forgotten years. But
the well-known fragrance of the tuberose usually brings funerals to
mind, since that flower is so extensively woven into burial wreaths
and mortuary crosses. It was strange indeed that it should conjure
into an idle-thinking mind the vision of a heathen festival.
There were many people crowding the corridor, so that it was
impossible for the young man to tell who wore the flowers which gave
forth the magical scent--for magical it was in its effect. They might
adorn a man's button-hole or a woman's bodice. He could not tell,
since the evening-dress of both sexes was veiled by voluminous
dominos. But as he leaned against the wall, the vision became clearer
and more insistent. His body was in London--in Alexander Mansions, at
a masked ball, as he well knew--but the scent of the tuberose had
drawn his spirit across leagues of trackless sea to the uttermost
parts of the earth. The present vanished, and he beheld the past.
Before him, as the interior vision opened, he saw colossal images of a
vanished and forgotten race, rudely hewn into the semblance of human
beings, each bearing a cylinder--according to Captain Cook's
description--on its gigantic head. These reared themselves from vast
platforms of Cyclopean architecture, overgrown with tropical
vegetation, and strewn with bleaching bones. And in the soft radiance
of the southern moon Prelice beheld a kneeling crowd of bronze-hued
worshippers, tattooed and painted, adoring the weird stone gods. An
old priest, his face and body streaked with white pigment, murmured
strange names over a rude stone altar, whereon blazed a clear fire. He
invoked terrible deities incarnate in the giant idols--Kanaro!
Gotomoara! Marapate! Areekee!--and cast upon the flames the yellow
leaves of a sacred herb. A thick white cloud of smoke spread like a
milky mist before the statues, veiling their grotesque looks and vast
outlines, and the sickly scent of the tuberose grew powerful. Then did
the priest become rigid as the dead, and his spirit blended with the
spirits of those grim gods he worshipped. Finally, the fragrance which
loaded the heavy air--whether of Easter Island or London Prelice could
not tell--passed away, and with that odour passed the vision.
It could only have lasted a minute or so, but was so terribly vivid
that Prelice could scarcely believe that his surroundings were real
when the material asserted its sway. He had closed his eyes to behold
the vision, which the scent had invoked, and opened them again, with a
bewildered expression, to see the pushing, laughing, chattering throng
of guests. Although a commonplace young man, and contemptuous, as a
rule, of the unseen, he felt that the recollection had not been
brought back for nothing. The dead man at Lanwin Grange had been
reading about Easter Island when foully stabbed, and the accused girl
had described to her lover the white smoke and sickly perfume, which
also had to do with that isolated land. And Mona also--Prelice
remembered faithfully what Shepworth had told him--had been in a state
of catalepsy, like the priest of the vision. And, after all, although
he chose to call what he had seen mentally a vision, it was simply a
vivid recollection of what he and Dr. Horace had beheld a year or two
before. But what had a fetish worship in Easter Island to do with a
murder in Kent? That was a question which Prelice could not answer.
There was no time to invent possible explanations or to reason out
answers. Being in Rome, the momentary dreamer had to do as the Romans
did; and as Prelice was at a ball, he was compelled, out of courtesy
to his hostess and host, to enjoy himself. He did not have far to go
for an adventure, as a lady in a blue domino, and with a fringed mask
to disguise her voice, stole to his side, and engaged him in airy
conversation. Who she was the young man did not know, and probably she
was equally ignorant of his identity. But on this especial night, Mrs.
Rover's flat was Liberty Hall with a vengeance, for men and women,
trusting in masks and dominos for concealment, flirted and danced and
drank and laughed with one another in a most outrageous manner. There
was no need of introductions, or of reticence, or of timidity; in that
Eden's Bower of flowers and ferns faces were hidden, but souls were
revealed.
The blue domino proved to be a most charming companion, full of fun
and flirtation, and a delightful dancer. Prelice found her extremely
entertaining, and she appeared to reciprocate the feeling. After a
particularly perfect waltz, and an inspiriting glass of champagne, his
lordship did his best to lure the unknown into a corner where she
might unmask. But the lady shook her head laughingly, and ran off to
the ballroom with another man, whose stature of a life-guardsman had
caught her roving eyes. Prelice solaced himself with another glass of
wine, and looked about him for another female of man. It was then that
a chuckle at his elbow made him turn.
"Now then, now then," said the gentleman who had chuckled, "let me
come to refresh myself." He spoke irritably, and pushed past Prelice
in a hurry. "Waiter! Waiter, a glass of champagne."
"I thought you were a teetotaler, uncle!" whispered Prelice.
Mr. Haken, betrayed by his chuckle, and wheeled suddenly, and spilt
the wine he was about to sip. To his nephew's surprise he was
trembling, and his stammering voice betrayed his agitation. "Who--who
are you?"
Prelice whispered his name. "You needn't be alarmed," he added; "I
won't tell Aunt Sophia that you are accepting her enemy's
hospitality."
Haken drank off his wine in one deep gulp, and set down the glass,
with his hands still shaking. "I would rather you did not tell her,"
he said in a low tone. "Sophia dislikes Mrs. Rover, and would be
annoyed if she knew that I was here. I have come on business."
"What! Business at a ball? Invent a more credible story, uncle."
"It is true," insisted Haken, becoming more composed. "I have to see a
political man from the Continent about a loan. He doesn't want it to
be known that I am meeting him, so we thought that this would be the
best place to ensure secrecy. Not a word of this, Prelice."
"Of course not," replied the young man, puzzled to know why Haken
should take the trouble to explain; "but don't mention my name. I also
wish to be unknown."
"What are you doing here?" asked Haken abruptly.
"I came to the ball, and also I have to see Ned Shepworth, who----"
"Shepworth," gasped Haken, backing nervously. "Oh yes! friend of our
charming hostess; friend of mine also. Is he here?"
"No. He would not come to a ball when his promised wife is in prison."
"Of course not; very creditable of him, to be sure," muttered Haken,
and took another glass of wine with a whispered apology. "I am
teetotal as a rule, you know; but Society always tries my nerves, and
I need sustenance. I wish the man I have to meet here had chosen my
office in the city. But it wouldn't have done--it wouldn't have done.
There would be trouble were it known that he was in London. What is
the time, Prelice?"
"Don't mention my name or I'll mention yours," said Prelice
impatiently, and drew out his watch. "It is eleven o'clock."
Haken nodded. "I must meet my man. Eleven-fifteen is the time. As to
mentioning my name, what does that matter? I came here without my
mask. Never thought of putting it on."
Prelice nodded in his turn. "I saw you when Rover received you."
"Then hold your tongue--hold your tongue. Not a word to Sophia, mind."
"Not a word," Prelice promised gravely; and Mr. Haken, drawing a long
breath--it would seem to be of relief--at having extracted the
promise, vanished into the many-hued crowd with his usual chuckle.
While the millionaire gave vent to that chuckle there did not seem to
be much chance of his concealing his identity.
Lord Prelice looked after him somewhat puzzled. He could quite
understand why Haken did not want his wife to know of his presence in
Alexander Mansions; but it was difficult to account for the old man's
agitation and quite unnecessary explanations. As a rule, Haken was
extremely reticent, and on such an important matter as a secret
meeting with a Continental diplomatist, would be much more so. Yet he
had gone out of his way to set himself right with his nephew, and by
telling his private business, when a gay excuse of needing a night
off, would have been sufficient to account for his presence. However,
Prelice simply shrugged his shoulders, and did not deem the incident
worth remembering. Why should not Simon Haken enjoy himself in this
way if he liked, and turn Mrs. Rover's ballroom into an office,
wherein to meet his foreign clients? All the same--and Prelice gave
this a passing thought--it was strange that the chance meeting with
one who knew him should so upset him. And it was still stranger that,
if Mr. Haken wished to preserve his incognito, he should have arrived
unmasked.
Having lost both his uncle and his charming blue domino, Prelice took
a tour through the rooms in search of further adventures. He could
only afford a few minutes, since he had to call upon Shepworth at
eleven o'clock, and it was already that hour, as he had told Haken.
Still, a few minutes more or less would not matter, and Prelice wished
to see if he could espy Mrs. Dolly Rover, in order to renew his
acquaintance with her and to compliment her on the success of her
ball. And it undoubtedly was a success, for everyone seemed highly
amused, and the laughter and small talk went on incessantly. Many
people were dancing to the music of a gaily uniformed Hungarian Band,
and many more were ensconced in flirtation corners, making the best of
the hour which would elapse before everyone unmasked for supper.
Prelice therefore wandered leisurely throughout the two flats,
exchanging a few chaffing words with the different women who addressed
him, and looking for the tall form of his hostess. Alas! there were
many tall women, who looked as imperial and graceful as Mrs. Rover,
and Prelice felt like Ali Baba's robber when he examined Morgiana's
chalk-marks on the various doors. He therefore began, by way of some
diversion, to admire the costumes of the women, which showed
themselves more or less plainly from under the flowing dominos of
silk. In fact, the heat of the night and of the rooms was so great
that many ladies loosened the strings and buttons of their dominos,
and permitted their frocks to be plainly seen. They would have removed
their masks also in some cases, so stifling was the perfumed air; but
the rule of the ball stopped them from doing so. Still, as many
revealed the gowns they were wearing, it was probable that some would
pay for their flirtatious sins when the supper hour and recognition
came.
The young man had an eye for colour, but knew very little about
millinery, so if anyone later had asked him to describe the various
dresses, he would have been puzzled. But one woman wore a dress which
attracted him from its oddity. It was a flowing gown of white silk,
and from hem to waist the skirt was adorned with triple lines, at
intervals, of narrow red velvet. The spaces between the triple lines
were equal, and the lines of red velvet themselves ran apparently
entirely round the skirt. The effect was bizarre, and rather
fascinating; but what made Prelice note the dress so exactly was the
wonderful ubiquity of the lady who wore it. He went into the ballroom
of the right-hand flat, and there she was dancing; he strolled into
the left-hand ballroom, and found her flirting in a corner with
another partner. Then he stumbled across her in the corridor, and
later discovered her at the buffet sipping champagne. Her domino was
green, as was her mask, and she seemed to be in several places at
once. Prelice was amused at her activity, and at the way in which she
seemed to permeate the entire place. She was certainly getting all the
enjoyment she could out of the ball. He spoke to her once, but she
made no reply, and disappeared before he could address her again.
Rather annoyed that she would not respond, Prelice yawned, and
discovering that it was half-past-eleven, decided to descend and look
up Shepworth.
The stairs were crowded, not only with people leaving and arriving,
but with flirting couples, who were cooling themselves in the purer
air, which ascended from the main entrance of the mansions. These
expostulated loudly, and sometimes silently--if irritated gestures
went for anything--with those who pushed past them to go up or down.
Prelice came in for his share of blame, as he cautiously steered his
way to the second floor. Here there were but few people, as the guests
kept to the third-floor stairs and to those leading to the fourth. A
look at the left-hand door as he came down showed Prelice that it was
Number Forty, so he pressed the button of the electric bell, and
waited for the door to be opened. As he did so, and while he was
leaning against the wall, still wearing his mask and domino, the
ubiquitous lady in the green domino with the oddly trimmed frock
descended the stairs alone. She cast a swift look at him as he passed,
and it was not until she vanished below that Prelice became aware
that the scent of the tuberose was again in his nostrils. He had
half a mind to run after her, and--assuming the privilege of a masked
ball--ask her if she was wearing such a flower. But, in his idle way,
he did not think it was worth while, and remained where he was.
No one came to answer the bell, so Prelice judged that Shepworth's
servants were out, perhaps fraternising with Mrs. Rover's domestics at
the ball overhead. He rang again, however, believing that Shepworth
must be within and awake by this time. As again the door did not open,
Prelice raised his hand to the knocker. To his surprise, the door
yielded a trifle, and then he discovered that it was slightly ajar,
but so little so that he had believed it to be closed. For the moment
there was no one on the landing, so he stepped into Shepworth's flat,
without closing the door after him.
"I say, Ned. Ned, are you in?" cried the young man, pausing in the
corridor, which was similar to that overhead in Mrs. Rover's flat. "I
say, Ned! It is me. It is Prelice." And he slipped off his mask.
There was still no reply, and then Prelice smelt stronger than ever
that strange odour, which had evoked the Easter Island vision. His
thoughts again flew back to the heathen festival, and he walked along
the corridor wondering why the scent should follow him here. On the
left-hand side he peeped into a drawing-room, but it was empty. The
door opposite was surely that of the dining-room. It was closed, but
Prelice opened it and walked in to look for his friend. Shepworth was
in the room sure enough, but Prelice uttered an irrepressible cry when
his amazed eyes fell on the barrister.
In a deep saddle-back chair, placed between the fireplace and the near
window, sat Shepworth, bolt upright, with his hands resting upon his
knees, in the hieratic attitude of an Egyptian statue. His intensely
calm face was pearly-white, his brown eyes were fixed in a glassy,
unnatural stare, and he appeared as rigid and stiff and unbending as
though hewn out of granite. There was no disorder about his clothing,
the evening-dress he wore was as accurate and neat as though he
had got ready to go to the ball overhead. Prelice stared at him,
tongue-tied and motionless with astonishment. Then his eyes
mechanically wandered round the room. They fell immediately upon
another figure seated on the far side of the dining-table, with
outstretched arms sprawling nervelessly across the cloth. On them
rested a huge head covered with shaggy red hair.
Drawn, as by a loadstone, Prelice stole forward with staring eyes, and
saw, with a sudden shudder, that the man at the table was stone-dead. He
had been stabbed ruthlessly in the back, under the left shoulder-blade.
Everything in the room was in absolute order. Only one man, dead, sat
at the table, sprawling half across it, and the other man, insensible,
was stiffly seated in the armchair. And the whole apartment was
permeated with the scent which suggested Easter Island; suggested also
that other murder at Lanwin Grange.