THE TALE HAD TO BE TOLD
And whilst the morning papers were unfolded by millions of English men
and women, and the details of the mysterious crime discussed over eggs
and bacon and buttered toast, Philip de Mountford, the newly found
heir presumptive to the Earldom of Radclyffe, was lying in the gloomy
mortuary chamber of a London police court, whither he had been
conveyed in the same cab whose four narrow walls jealously guarded the
secret of the tragedy which had been enacted within their precincts.
Lord Radclyffe had been aroused at ten o'clock the previous night by
representatives of the police, who came to break the news to him. It
was not late, and the old man was not yet in bed. He had opened the
front door of his house himself, his servants--he explained
curtly--were spending their evening more agreeably elsewhere.
The house--even to the police officers--appeared lonely and gloomy in
the extreme, and the figure of the old man, who should have been
surrounded by every luxury that rank and wealth can give, looked
singularly pathetic as he stood in his own door-way, evidently
unprotected and uncared for, and suspiciously demanding what his late
visitors' business might be.
Very reluctantly on hearing the latter's status he consented to admit
them. He did not at first appear to suspect that anything wrong might
have happened, or that anything untoward could occasion this nocturnal
visit: in fact, he seemed unconscious of the lateness of the hour.
He walked straight into the library, where he had obviously been
sitting, for an arm-chair was drawn to the fire, a reading lamp was
lighted on the table, and papers and magazines lay scattered about.
The police officer in plain clothes, who stood with his subordinate,
somewhat undecided, hardly knew how to begin. It was a hard task to
break such awful news to this lonely old man.
At last it was done; the word "accident" and "your nephew" were
blurted out by the man in command. But hardly were these out of his
lips than Lord Radclyffe--livid and trembling--had jumped to his feet.
"Luke!" he contrived to exclaim, and his voice was almost choked, his
lips and hands trembled, beads of perspiration stood upon his
forehead. "Something has happened to Luke."
"No, no, my lord! that's not the name--Philip was on the card and on
the letters--Philip de Mountford--that was, I think, the poor
gentleman's name."
"And an accident has happened to Mr. Philip de Mountford?"
The voice was quite different now. No longer choked with anxiety, calm
and as if mildly interested in passing events. It was obvious even to
the strangers present that one nephew was of far greater moment than
the other.
"I am afraid, my lord, that it's worse than an accident----"
The officer paused a moment, satisfied that he was doing all that was
necessary and possible to mitigate the suddenness of the blow.
"It's foul play," he said at last; "that's what it was."
"Foul play? What do you mean by that?"
"Mr. Philip de Mountford has been murdered, my lord--his body now lies
at the police station--would you wish him conveyed home at once, my
lord--or wait until after the inquest?"
There was silence in the room for a moment or two, while the
old-fashioned clock ticked stolidly on. At the awful announcement,
which indeed might have felled a younger and more vigorous man, Lord
Radclyffe had not moved. He was still standing, his hand resting on
the table beside the piled up newspapers. The light of the lamp veiled
by a red shade illumined the transparent delicacy of the high-bred
hand, the smooth black surface of the coat, and the glimmering
whiteness of the shirt front with its single pearl stud. The face
itself was in shadow, and thus the police officer saw little or
nothing of that inward struggle for self-mastery which was being put
so severely to the test.
Lord Radclyffe, face to face with the awful event, strove by every
power at his command to remain dignified and impassive. The lessons
taught by generations of ancestors had to bear fruit now, when a
representative of the ancient name stood confronting the greatest
crisis that one of his kind has ever had to face--the brutal, vulgar
fact of a common murder. The realities of a sordid life brought within
the four walls of a solemn, aristocratic old house.
For a moment before he spoke again the old man looked round about
him, the tall mahogany bookcases filled with silent friends, the busts
of Dryden and of Milton, the globes in their mahogany casings: all
heirlooms from the generations of de Mountfords who had gone before.
It seemed as if the present bearer of the historic name called all
these mute things to witness this present degradation. A crime had
smirched the family escutcheon, for to some minds--those who dwell on
empyrean heights to which the matter-of-fact sordidness of every-day
life never reaches--to those minds the victim is almost as horrible as
the assassin.
Lord Radclyffe however fought his own battle silently. Not with one
tremor or one gasp would he let the two men see what he felt.
Conventionality wielded her iron rod in this shabby old library, just
as she had done in the ball room of the Danish Legation, and whilst
not two hundred yards away Louisa Harris sang Guy d'Hardelot's songs
and smilingly received praise and thanks for her perfect performance,
so here the old man never flinched.
He gave to his nerves the word of command, and as soon as he had
forced them to obey, he looked straight at the police officer and said
quite calmly:
"Please tell me all that I ought to know."
He sat in his high-backed chair, curtly bidding the two men to sit
down; he made no attempt to shade his face and eyes; once the battle
fought and won he had nothing more to hide: his own face, rigid and
still, his firm mouth, and smooth brow were mask enough to conceal the
feelings within.
The officer gave the details at full length: he told Lord Radclyffe
all that was known of the mysterious crime. The old man listened in
silence until the man had finished speaking, then he asked a few
questions:
"You have a clue of course?"
"I think so, my lord," replied the officer guardedly.
"Can I help in any way?"
"Any information, my lord, that you think might help us would of
course be gladly welcomed."
"The man who hailed the cab in Shaftesbury Avenue--what was he like? I
could help you if I knew."
"I'll have his description properly written out, my lord, and bring it
you in the morning."
"Can't you tell me now? Every moment lost is irretrievable in cases
like these."
"I am afraid, my lord, that I cannot tell you definitely now. There's
a dense fog outside--and----"
"The chauffeur's descriptions are vague," interposed Lord Radclyffe
with a sneer, "the eternal excuses for incompetence."
"My lord!" protested the man.
"All right! all right! No offence meant I assure you. You must pardon
an old man's irritability--the news you have brought me does not make
for evenness of temper. I rely on your department to clear this matter
up with the least possible scandal."
"I am afraid that scandal is inevitable," retorted the officer dryly,
for he still felt sore at Lord Radclyffe's ill-tempered thrust. "We
shall have to rake up a great deal of what might be unpleasant to many
parties."
"Why should it be unpleasant?"
"We shall have to know something of the murdered man's past, of his
associates before--before he was able to establish his claim to your
lordship's consideration."
"I have no doubt that the late Philip de Mountford had many
undesirable associates in the past," remarked Lord Radclyffe curtly.
The silence which followed was tantamount to a dismissal. The officer
rose to go. He felt nettled at the old man's obvious sneers: they had
been like a cold douche over his enthusiasm, for the case had already
drifted into his hands and it promised to be the most interesting and
most sensational criminal case of modern times.
"You have not," he said before taking his leave, "told me, my lord,
what you wish done about the body."
"Surely," replied Lord Radclyffe querulously, "it is too late now to
make any arrangements. What is the time?"
"Half past ten, my lord."
"Surely to-morrow morning we can discuss all that."
"Just as you wish, of course."
"To-morrow morning--as early as you like. My servants will be at home
then--the house will be ready--and I can make arrangements--or else
we'll wait, as you say, until after the inquest."
The sound of a bell broke the silence that ensued.
"You must excuse me," said his lordship dryly, "my servants are out,
and there's some one at the front door."
"I can hear footsteps below stairs, my lord," remarked the officer.
"Ah! I believe you're right. Those two blackguards must have come home
and I didn't know it. They do pretty much as they like."
Shuffling, uncertain footsteps were heard across the hall. The officer
said hurriedly:
"One more thing, my lord--you will pardon me asking but--you had not
thought of--er--offering a reward?"
"What for?"
"The apprehension of the murderer, or useful information that would
lead to conviction."
"Oh! Ah, yes; a reward by all means! Of course I'll give a reward to
stimulate incompetence, eh?"
"What will your lordship make it?" asked the officer, determined this
time to show no resentment.
"Two hundred--five hundred--have what you like--so long as you get
that brute."
"Five hundred, my lord, would stimulate us all."
"Very well," said Lord Radclyffe briefly. "Good evening."
"Good evening, my lord. And to-morrow morning we'll be ready for the
body to be taken away, if you wish it. But the inquest will be the day
after, so perhaps it might be best to wait until then. At the
coroner's court, Victoria, my lord--South Kensington, you
know--everything will be all right. Good evening, my lord."
The two men took their leave, glad enough to have done with the
unpleasant interview.
As they walked to the door that gave from the library on the hall it
was opened from the outside, and a seedy-looking man, dressed in
shabby evening clothes that bore many traces of past libations, walked
unceremoniously midway into the room.
"Will you see Mr. Luke de Mountford?" he muttered addressing his
master.
"Certainly not," replied his lordship. "It's much too late. Ask Mr.
Luke to call again to-morrow. And you and your wife can go to bed."