THE MISSING LINK.
What queer old places there are in Brocade Street--why, the very name
is suggestive of the stately times of the early Georges, and indeed,
Brocade Street was a fashionable locality even earlier, when Queen
Anne was ruling, and Marlborough was winning his brilliant victories,
and Duchess Sarah was alternately bullying and coaxing her weak-minded
mistress. A dark, narrow street with tall houses of red brick on
either side, innumerable windows, and heavy-looking doors which had
often opened to let out Belinda to her sedan-chair, or Sir Plume on
the way to Wills, to have a chat with Sterne and Addison.
Fancy Swift, with his dark, lowering face, walking down this street
with his thoughts fixed upon a possible bishopric, or Dick Steele,
swaggering along in his rich dress, stopping to take off his hat to
Lady Betty Modish, who looked archly at him through the window. And
then, at night, when all the streets were in darkness, save for the
link boys, poor lost Richard Savage wandering about in company with
Samuel Johnson even at that early age burly and contradictory. Ah,
yes; great spirits were abroad in those stirring times, and Brocade
Street could tell a few stories of interest, had it a voice; but now
the tide of fashion had rolled westward, and the street was left
silent and lonely to think over its past glories.
All those famous old houses, with their broad, oak staircases and
large, stately apartments, were now used as lodging-houses for decayed
gentlefolk; and city clerks found shelter in the rooms which had once
re-echoed to the brilliant epigrams of Swift, or the smooth utterances
of Joseph Addison.
There were also some artists to be found in the street, for they loved
it for its old associations and the dead-world flavour which haunted
all the houses?-a perfume of past memories of the beaux and belles of
Good Queen Anne's gay Court.
Among these was Mr. Taunton, who occupied a tall, gaunt, grim-looking
mansion at the upper end, and, though his merry little wife tried hard
to persuade him to move to a more civilized locality, he steadily
refused to exchange the dead glories of Brocade Street for the
fashionable quarters of Kensington. So, Mrs. Taunton did the best she
could, and beautified the quaint, oak-panelled rooms with rich
tapestries, curious old china, and bizarre-looking brasses.
She sat now in her drawing-room waiting for Mr. Monteith and his
friend, and wondering what could be the reason of their visit. The
soft light of the day somewhat subdued by the long curtains which
draped the windows, stole into the room and all the picturesque
objects were seen in a kind of semi-twilight. Here, a tall column with
the bust of a laughing Menade in marble, looking white and still
against a background of crimson plush, and there, a landscape picture
on an easel with some silken drapery flung carelessly over it. Plenty
of easy chairs, spindle-legged tables of Chippendale, cupboards of
priceless china, great jars from the Flowery Land which could have
hidden the Forty Thieves, and innumerable mirrors all over the walls
interspersed with pictures both in oil and watercolours.
Mrs. Taunton herself, in a tea-gown of some soft, clinging material,
was flitting about here and there like a restless butterfly--now
arranging some flowers with deft hands, and again touching the dainty
tea-service of Sèvres china which stood at the end of the room.
"I do wish those men would be punctual," said Mrs. Taunton, for the
tenth time, as she stood at one of the long windows and looked down
the dismal street; "I feel so miserable being alone."
Her husband was up in his studio painting, so she sat down on the
window seat, and leaning her head on her hand began to soliloquize.
"I wonder what that Mr. Monteith wants to tell me," she said to
herself; "he must have some news of Leopold; I'm sure I hope so; it is
years since I heard from him; and then he left such a lot of things
with me; all those jewels which belonged to mother. I hope there's
nothing wrong, but I dare say it's all right; Leopold could always
look after himself. Ah!" as the rattle of wheels was heard, "there
they are," and she left the window quickly, as a hansom drove up to
the door.
In a few moments Mr. Monteith and Mr. Foster were announced, and Mrs.
Taunton received them with a face wreathed in smiles far different
from the melancholy countenance which had gazed out of the window a
few moments since. A wonderfully pretty woman she looked in her pale,
yellow tea-gown as she advanced to greet the young men with the
polished charm of a thorough woman of the world.
"It's rather chilly to-day," observed Monteith, when they were all
comfortably seated, and Mrs. Taunton was busy at the tea-table.
"Chilly!" echoed Mrs. Taunton. "Oh! you don't know what cold weather
is in London. Wait till you see a fog, a nice, thick, yellow fog, with
the sun like a ball of red fire glaring thro' it, then you'll say its
chilly."
"Ugh," said the Australian, with a shudder, "your description is
suggestive of the charnel-house."
"Monteith longs for the blue skies of Australia," said Foster, with a
laugh, as he received his cup of tea from his hostess.
"So would you," retorted Ronald, "if you had once been there. Life in
Australia is like the prairie fever, one is always longing to be back
again."
"Perhaps that's the reason my brother stops out there so
persistently?" said Mrs. Taunton, leaning back in her chair.
The two gentlemen suddenly became grave, whereat the lady sat up
again.
"What do you mean by all this mystery," she asked impetuously; "last
night Mr. Monteith roused my curiosity to the highest pitch about my
brother, and then refused to gratify it. Is anything wrong? Has
Leopold run away with another man's wife, or found a gold mine, or
committed a murder, or what?"
She tried to speak lightly, but there was a ring of anxiety in her
tones.
"You promised to show me his portrait," said Monteith, suddenly
looking up.
Mrs. Taunton arose without a word, and going to a distant table, took
up a photograph framed in purple plush, which she placed in Monteith's
hands.
"Taken seven years ago," she said.
Monteith looked at the dark, handsome face of the portrait with a
vague expression of sadness in his eyes, and handed it to Foster with
a sigh:--
"It is Lionel Ventin."
"Ah!" said Foster, with a long breath, as he looked at it, "I thought
as much."
"What do you mean by calling my brother Lionel Ventin?" asked Mrs.
Taunton quickly, clasping her hands; "that is--that is the name of the
man that was--that was--murdered!" The last word came out almost in a
shriek as she sprang to her feet.
Monteith nodded sadly.
"Yes," he replied, gravely, "Leopold Verschoyle and Lionel Ventin are
the same."
"Then he--my brother is the man who was murdered on board the
Neptune?" she asked, in a whisper.
Foster arose in alarm.
"Let me get you some water," he said, advancing towards her, but she
waved him back.
"Was my brother the man?"
Monteith bowed.
"And you gave evidence at the inquest?"
He bowed again.
Mrs. Taunton braced herself up with a mighty effort, her charming face
looking pale, and drawn with horror. She walked away a few steps, then
suddenly wheeled round on the two men, who were watching her
silently:--
"Who killed him?"
"That is what we intend to find out," said Monteith, slowly, "and you
must assist us."
Mrs. Taunton sat down, and, clasping her hands over her knee, sat
staring at the Australian with a rigid face. The shadows were falling
fast in the street outside, and through the gathering gloom of the
room the two men could see the white, set face of this woman looking
like that of a lost spirit.
"Do you know what grief is?" she asked, in a dull, hard voice; "do you
know what it is to go about with a smile on your lips, and a broken
heart? No, of course you don't--you are men; and cannot feel pain as a
woman can. I have lost two children, and it nearly broke my heart--my
husband is wrapped up in his work, and does not care for me except as
a useful ornament to his table--the only two children I had died when
I most wanted their love and affection, and I thought my heart would
break--perhaps it did--but--I lived--yes--I went about with a smiling
face, and talked gaily with my friends--they said I was heartless.
God! If they only knew the nights of agony that succeeded to days of
apparent joy--but I lived--yes, and I still go about amusing myself--a
maelstrom above, but a hell below. This is another blow. I loved my
brother dearly, though I had not seen him for years, and now he is
dead--murdered--by whom?--you do not know--I do!"
"What do you mean?" asked Monteith, starting to his feet.
She sprang forward and caught his wrist.
"Did he not tell you the story of his life--how he was ruined by a
woman?"
"Elsie Macgregor?"
"No, she tried to save him; it is not her I mean--you know--his
wife--his Maltese wife, Bianca Cotoner."
Monteith fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands.
Heavens, was it all true then? was the girl he loved the sister of a
murderess? And yet, though it looked so black against her, where was
the proof? He looked up suddenly.
"There is no proof," he began.
"Proof!" she flashed out, quickly; "you want proof--I can supply it."
And she ran quickly out of the room.
"What does she mean?" asked Monteith.
"I know," said Foster, sagaciously; "she has gone for that paper."
"Impossible!"
"I don't see what other proof she can have," said the barrister,
shrugging his shoulders.
"It's impossible--it's impossible, I tell you," cried Monteith,
vehemently; "his wife might have killed him, but she was not a Miss
Cotoner."
"The evidence both of the Divorce Court and Mrs. Taunton says she
was."
"But she cannot be the sister of Carmela."
"I cannot say there may be more Cotoner families than one in Malta;
but still, Vassalla's name being mixed up in it seems to point out
that she might be."
"I won't believe it till I hear the truth from her own lips."
"You will ask her, then?"
"No!"
"That's a mistake; you'll only torture yourself till you get a
satisfactory explanation."
Monteith flung himself back in his chair with a low moan, his bright
young face looking pinched and haggard in the dim light, and at this
moment Mrs. Taunton entered the room, carrying a desk in her hands.
"This is my brother's," she said, placing it on a table, and turning
to the young men. "He sent it to me about a year ago, and asked me to
keep it for him, as he was going to South America, and did not want to
take it with him. He also sent the key, and I looked over the
contents; they are principally letters."
She flung back the lid of the box, and there were bundles of letters,
yellow with age, tied up with red tape. There was also a portrait--a
faded old portrait of a girl's face.
"Is this the Maltese wife?" asked Foster, taking it up, whereon
Monteith sprang to his feet, and also looked to see if it resembled
Carmela.
Mrs. Taunton made a gesture of dissent.
"It is Elsie Macgregor."
The young man looked curiously at that face--a quiet, patient face,
with love and truth shining through the pure eyes--the face of the
woman that had ruined her life to save Leopold Verschoyle from
himself. Foster laid it reverently down again amongst the old letters.
"She was a good woman," he said, softly, and cynic as he was, he meant
it.
"But the proof--the proof!" said Monteith, impatiently.
Mrs. Taunton rapidly turned over the bundles of letters, and drew from
one packet a square slip of yellowish paper, which she handed to
Monteith in silence. He took it eagerly, and read the contents--only
three lines:
"You have treated me shamefully, and I will never forgive you for it.
We women of the South can revenge ourselves, and your life will pay
the penalty of your falseness."
There was no signature or date to this extraordinary document, and the
two men wondered at it for a minute, then Foster looked up suddenly.
"How do you know this is from the wife?" he asked, sharply.
Mrs. Taunton pointed to the letters.
"Of course, I have not read them," she said, coldly; "but you will see
the writing on the envelopes corresponds with that in the letter."
And so it did, in every particular; so Monteith and Foster both came
to the conclusion that this wife must have killed Verschoyle, seeing
that she had threatened him thus, and the crime was committed at
Malta, where she lived--the proofs were so clear.
"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Taunton, impatiently.
"I have a detective in my employment, called Julian Roper," said
Monteith, slowly; "and if you give me this paper, I will show it to
him--then he must go out to Valletta--find out where Mrs. Verschoyle
lives, and ascertain her movements on the night the crime was
committed."
"And he must also get some of her writing, to see if it corresponds
with this," said Foster, pointing to the paper.
"When will he start?" asked Mrs. Taunton, quickly.
"To-morrow, by a P. and O. steamer," said Monteith; "and we will hear
all particulars from him in a fortnight."
"Very well," replied Mrs. Taunton, quietly; "you can take the paper,
and hunt that woman down, for she and none other killed my poor
brother--good-bye, gentlemen, I am going to lie down;" and without
another word, she left the room, and retired to her bedroom, where her
overtaxed nerves gave way, and she broke down utterly.
"She is a plucky woman, that," said Foster, as they left the house,
and drove away; "what do you think of it all?"
"I think," said Monteith, thoughtfully, "that the case looks very
black against the former Mrs. Verschoyle, but what I want to be
certain of is her relationship to Carmela."
"You can find out by asking her."
"No, I will not," said the Australian, doggedly; "but Roper can find
out in Valletta, and if it turn out to be so, I'll speak to Carmela
about the crime, and see what she knows."
"Suppose she prove the sister, Mrs. Verschoyle, a murderess, will you
give up Carmela?"
"No," he answered, curtly. "I don't see why the sins of the father
should be visited on the children, nor that one woman should be
punished for the crime of another."