THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH
As Ravenscourt stood at the corner of Denbigh Street he hailed a
passing taxi and drove to the Carlton Club, where he sat in a corner
of the smoking-room, pretending to read, but pondering deeply.
If the truth were known regarding that man in concealment in Pimlico,
what a sensation it would cause! The whole world would be amazed.
There, hanging at the farther end of the great room, was a fine
portrait of the man now known as Richard Goodrick, painted by a
celebrated R.A. a year before his death.
He turned and gazed upon it. Yes, there could be no mistaking the
general outline of the features, though eighteen years of the life of
a studious recluse had effected some marked changes. The portrait was
that of one in the prime of manhood. To-day Goodrick was thin, wasted,
white-haired and careworn.
“I wonder whether he will ever relent,” thought the grave-faced man
seated by the club fire, heedless of his friends who came and went.
“Why did he so cleverly disappear? Ah! that is a mystery. He admitted
that he was a long time preparing for it. And yet his doctors, just
before his ‘death,’ had declared him to be suffering from an incurable
disease which must inevitably prove fatal. Did they lie? Were they
also in the conspiracy?”
He recollected their names, and, rising, crossed the room and took
down the “Medical Directory.” Then, after a search, he found that both
were, alas! dead.
“Perhaps he paid them to make that alarming diagnosis!” he reflected,
re-seating himself in his arm-chair. “He was a shrewd and clever
man--one of the keenest, most far-seeing of our time. Yet he died at
the very height of his popularity--at a moment when England could ill
afford to spare him. He deceived us all--even his Sovereign, who sent
a representative to place a wreath upon his coffin. And to-day I have
seen and spoken with him--the man to whom I owe my fame, my fortune,
my baronetcy--everything. I wonder--I wonder if I was mistaken a
fortnight ago when I thought I passed that Italian priest, Don Mario,
in the bustle of Oxford Street? The man, though he did not wear his
clerical clothes, strangely resembled him. I wonder whether Goodrick
and he are still friends--whether--but no! it would be impossible
after what occurred. And yet,” he whispered aloud, “supposing Don
Mario is still in London--supposing he thought fit to retaliate!”
He held his breath for a moment, pursed his lips, and the colour left
his face.
“Don Mario! Padre Mario Mellini!” he repeated to himself.
Then, with a long sigh, he sat with his hands thrust deep into his
trousers pockets, his eyes fixed immovably upon the fire, recalling
strange incidents of the past.
A spare, wiry, clean-shaven man in black coat and grey trousers
entered the room, and, noticing him, nodded, exclaiming: “How-do,
Ravenscourt!”
It was Lord Llanarth, who had taken the place of the dead man, and who
had risen to a pinnacle of fame almost as high as that occupied by his
talented predecessor.
Ravenscourt started at sight of him. What would Llanarth think if he
dared to rise and say that not two hours ago he had sat with the man
whose tomb was in Westminster Abbey? But the seal of secrecy was upon
his lips.
Llanarth crossed to him, and standing with his hands behind his back,
asked him a question--his opinion upon a point which had arisen in
Parliament on the previous night--to which he replied mechanically,
without knowing what he said.
Then, finding Llanarth to be in a talkative mood, and eager to escape,
he rose and declared that he must be going.
“See you at the Foreign Office reception to-night?” asked his
lordship.
“Suppose so,” laughed the other, who, passing out, got his hat and
coat and walked down Pall Mall to his house in Carlton House Terrace.
In the silence of his own fine library, the windows of which looked
out upon the Mall, now bright with its long double row of lamps, he
sat before the fire pondering--recalling every word which had fallen
from the lips of Richard Goodrick.
The latter, too, was seated before his meagre fire in Pimlico, warming
his hands and croaking in triumph.
Mrs. Ayres, a kindly, grey-haired person whose husband was employed in
a wholesale drapery warehouse in St. Paul’s Churchyard, entered,
bearing a tray with her lodger’s tea and toast. She found him staring
straight before him, absorbed in his own thoughts. That day he had
scarcely uttered a word to her.
He was a man of moods. His manner was sometimes strange. She thought
she had of late detected a queer, unusual expression in his face, and
had told her neighbours so. Nosey Goodrick was eccentric, and as such
his odd fits of moroseness usually passed unnoticed.
If he did not speak, then she never addressed him, for well she knew
the snappy, ill-natured reply she would obtain.
So she put down the tray upon the littered table, lit the gas, drew
the blinds, and left him to his ruminations.
“The old fool!” growled her lodger as soon as his landlady had gone,
and he turned and ate his tea with a relish.
Afterwards, he carefully slipped the small bolt which he had placed on
the door for use when he wished to study undisturbed, and diving
beneath the table--a genuine example of Chippendale worth a hundred
pounds if a penny--he produced part of an old Sheffield-plate
candelabrum, the base of which he carefully unscrewed, disclosing the
cylindrical stem to be hollow. And from it he shook out a small roll
of closely written manuscript.
He re-seated himself and slowly, with evident self-satisfaction, read
the document, now and then scribbling some marginal notes with a
stubby pencil.
“Perfectly in order!” he laughed to himself. “Ravenscourt would bribe
me with fifty thousand pounds. No doubt he would. Here is written one
of the reasons why I ‘died.’ The world will never know the other.”
Then he was again silent for a long time.
“Ravenscourt spoke of little Maidee, and of Gordon and the rest,” he
sighed aloud at last, passing his thin hand across his brow. “Ah! he
doesn’t know--he little dreams the amazing truth--neither does Don
Mario. The world would stand astounded if my identity became revealed;
but it would be staggered if the real and actual truth--my
secret--were disclosed. And”--he paused, a bitter smile crossing his
worn, sharply cut features--“and yet am I not, perhaps, deceiving
myself, as I have deceived them? After all, I may be acting a little
injudiciously.”
At that moment the old brass-faced grandfather clock, an antique
affair with only one hand, struck six upon its mellow bell.
“Ah!” he ejaculated, starting up. “It’s time I went. I quite forgot
the danger! I must go at once.” And rising, he carefully put back the
document into the stem of the old candelabrum, struggled into a rusty
old brown overcoat, and taking up his frayed hat and heavy cherry-wood
stick, unbolted the door and went forth into the wet and darkness.
At the corner he halted for a moment as though uncertain in which
direction to proceed, but with sudden resolve he continued up Denbigh
Street and along Wilton Road to Victoria Station. Entering the
Brighton line terminus, he met a tall, thin, grey-haired Roman
Catholic priest--a man with a long face, a hook nose, a dark
complexion, and deep-set eyes, who, dressed in a shabby, black coat of
unmistakably foreign cut, a narrow white collar sadly soiled, and a
shabby clerical hat, had been anxiously awaiting him for the past
half-hour.
The pair exchanged some rapid words in Italian, old Goodrick glancing
with quick, suspicious eyes furtively around as though in fear that
they might be observed.
The priest seemed nervous, too, for next moment they hurried across
the platform together and became absorbed in the rushing, home-going
crowd of business men.
Seven hours later, at half-past one in the morning, Burgess, the fat
and rather pompous butler of Sir George Ravenscourt, Baronet,
K.C.V.O., heard the front door close, and knowing that his master--who
had been out to the Foreign Office reception--had returned, ascended
the stairs to the ground floor, and approaching the door of the
library, tapped lightly.
There was no response.
He tapped again discreetly, but louder. Then he turned the handle and
entered.
The green-shaded lamp was burning upon the writing-table, but the room
was empty.
The man was about to ascend to his master’s room to inquire if he
wanted anything before retiring, when suddenly his eye caught
something unusual--a small blue-and-white Chinese vase lay upon the
floor broken.
He advanced into the room when he heard a slight noise, and peering
across, saw to his dismay his master lying upon the carpet, half
concealed by a big saddle-bag chair. In a flash the faithful servant
was kneeling by his side, supporting his head.
“Burgess!” gasped the Baronet faintly, “I--I’m dying--a--a doctor!
That paper--burn it. Don’t let anyone see it--promise!”
“What paper, Sir George?” asked the bewildered man breathlessly.
“On my table. I--I was writing it when--when he---- Burn it. Promise?”
“I promise, Sir George. But what’s the matter, sir? Tell me, sir.
Quick!” cried the butler, who knew instinctively that his master’s
life was fast ebbing.
“I--I came in half an hour ago, and--and I was writing when--when----”
He gasped and drew a long breath. His white lips moved, but no further
sound came from them.
“Speak, Sir George!” cried the man. “Tell me who attacked you.”
But all the response was another long-drawn sigh, as the muscles of
his face slowly relaxed, and the heart was still--still for ever.
Sir George Ravenscourt was dead--struck down by an unknown hand.
Burgess, a servant of many years’ standing, raised himself and stood
horrified. Upon the hand which had supported his master’s head was a
tiny smear of blood, so small as to be almost imperceptible. Then his
first thought was of his promise to his master, and he crossed to the
writing-table whereon lay several sheets of ruled paper, upon one of
which he saw some writing in the Baronet’s hand. It ended abruptly,
the pen lay upon the floor, showing that he had been in the act of
writing when struck, and rising from his chair had staggered towards
the bell, but had fallen ere he could reach it.
Quickly the butler, bending to the table, took up the paper, and, with
a rapid glance at it, folded it and crushed it into his pocket in
order to destroy it afterwards.
Then he went out into the hall, and, raising the alarm, awakened the
household, after which he ran back to the telephone and sent a message
to the police.
Lady Ravenscourt, who had retired, rushed down in her dressing-gown
and prostrated herself beside her dead husband, to whom she had been
so devoted, while Miss Irene Lambton knelt beside her, overcome with
grief.
The scene in that fine room was, indeed, a tragic one, for the
servants, all white and scared, crowded in to gaze upon their master
in crumpled evening dress, and wearing the ribbons of the Bath, the
Victorian and other Orders, lying white-faced and dead. There were
sounds of weeping, and hushed expressions of horror everywhere.
A loud ring at the door, and the police entered--an inspector with a
man in plain clothes and two constables in dripping waterproof capes
and water streaming from their helmets.
All was bustle and interrogation.
Quickly, but tenderly, the weeping widow was led away with the
dark-haired girl, sweet faced and dainty in her pink silk kimono, and
the inspector at once made a cursory examination, followed almost
instantly by the police divisional surgeon, who bent beside the
prostrate man and at once made the formal pronouncement that life was
extinct.
Burgess was closely questioned as to hearing the front door close; the
room was carefully examined, but no weapon of any kind could be
discovered. Then, in response to a telephone message sent by the
inspector to New Scotland Yard, three expert officers promptly arrived
in a taxi-cab.
The room was thoroughly re-examined for finger-prints, and a number
were found upon various articles of furniture by dusting them over
lightly with the pale green chalk used by officers of the finger-print
department.
As far as the police could discover, the crime was entirely devoid of
motive. Whoever had entered there, however, had evidently come with
murderous intent.
“The murderer probably accompanied Sir George home,” declared
Detective-Inspector Medland, the well-known officer of the Criminal
Investigation Department. “A quarrel may have arisen.”
“No,” said the doctor, who himself took great interest in the
investigation of crime; “the victim was seated at his writing-table
when the assassin crept up stealthily and touched him in the nape of
the neck with a long, thin needle. It was poisoned. See the tiny
punctured wound it made, half hidden by the hair. Sir George rose to
face his assassin, and staggered across the room. Here, you see his
actions plainly visible. He tried to get at the bell in order to rouse
the household, but stumbled before he could reach it.”
Burgess stood by in silence, a grave, dark-faced, stout man of
forty-five, portly in his sombre black. He said nothing because he
felt that his master held some secret which the police ought not to
learn. He wished first to read the paper he had secured before making
any statement.
Throughout the greater part of the night the keenest activity was
displayed by the police in that fine house in Carlton House Terrace.
Men came and went mysteriously, and the whole room in which the murder
had taken place was thoroughly investigated.
As far as could be ascertained, the assassin had left no clue to his
identity. The three expert detectives, after examining the latch upon
the front door, agreed that the murderer must have entered there in
company with his victim. Yet Burgess, the only servant remaining up,
had heard no sound until the front door had slammed.
Lady Ravenscourt and Miss Maidee--as Irene was always called--had
accompanied Sir George to the Foreign Office, where a brilliant
reception had been held in honour of the visit of a foreign prince,
and leaving at eleven, had taken him in his motor to the Travellers’,
where they had dropped him, proceeding home and retiring to their
rooms.
The whole affair was a complete mystery. Somehow the papers had
already got wind of it, for by three o’clock reporters arrived
hot-foot, thirsting for information, which the shrewd Burgess, at the
instigation of the detectives, strenuously withheld.
They knew that a tragedy had happened, but of its exact details they
were being kept in ignorance.
Burgess, as soon as he could slip away for a moment, entered his
pantry, and locking the door, took from his pocket the crumpled
manuscript which his master had been in the act of writing when struck
down.
Spreading it out with trembling fingers, he read it from end to end.
“That’s strange!” he gasped astounded. “Why did Sir George so
earnestly desire this to be burned? Perhaps, after all, I ought to
have told the police everything. I have not said that my poor master
was still conscious when I found him. He evidently wished to preserve
this secret which he has put upon record. But, in the interests of
justice, ought I not to place this in the hands of the police?”
He stood motionless, gazing upon the floor of the narrow pantry, the
strange document in his hand. Faithful servant that he was, he was now
divided in his duty towards his master and his duty to assist the ends
of justice. He was entirely at a loss to know how to act.
To give the paper to the detectives would be to disclose a fact which,
at all hazards, his dead master wished suppressed. Yet, if he burned
it, he might be destroying a very valuable clue to the assassin!
Burgess, though discretion personified, suddenly resolved to disobey
the promise he had given to the dying man, and consult her ladyship;
and, ascending the stairs, he tapped softly at the door of her room.
Miss Maidee gave permission to enter, and the old servant found the
pair plunged in the deepest grief.
“Excuse me, your ladyship, but--well, may I speak to you for one
moment alone? I would not disturb you at this hour of grief were it
not absolutely imperative.”
“Lady Ravenscourt can see no one, Burgess,” replied the tearful girl
quickly. “You ought surely to know that!”
“But I deeply regret, miss, I must speak with her--alone.”
The widow raised her tear-stained face and motioned the girl to go out
of the room. Then, when the door had closed, the butler advanced to
the grief-stricken woman, and in a few brief sentences explained how
he had discovered Sir George, and what the dying man had said,
afterwards handing her the paper which her husband had penned.
Swiftly she read it through, then, staring straight before her, her
white hands trembling, her eyes filled with tears, she cried:
“What can all this mean, Burgess? Why did my husband so eagerly desire
to conceal the facts? This must be given to the police, by all means.
They should not remain in ignorance of this another moment.”
“If that is your ladyship’s decision, I will carry it out,” replied
the grave-faced man. “And--and may I, as poor Sir George’s servant, be
permitted to express my deepest sympathy with you in your sad
bereavement, m’lady,” he added in a low, hoarse voice as he turned,
and, bowing respectfully, retired, closing the door softly after him.
Big Ben slowly boomed forth the hour of five as he descended the
stairs and called Detective-Inspector Medland into the long
dining-room.
To him he made a full statement descriptive of his discovery and the
dying words of his unfortunate master, afterwards producing the
crumpled manuscript which Sir George had been so anxious should be
destroyed.
The quick-eyed, dark-haired detective looked suspiciously for a second
into the butler’s round face, then, taking the sheet of paper, read
the lines of crabbed writing from end to end.
“That’s most extraordinary!” he declared when he had finished. “Why
didn’t you produce this before--eh?”
“Because of the promise I had made to my dying master. I was compelled
to consult my mistress first.”
Grunting in evident dissatisfaction, the inspector returned to the
library and held secret counsel with the two officers accompanying
him. Very shortly, both the latter came out hurriedly and put on their
hats and coats.
“You’ll not have much difficulty in finding Charlwood Street,” Medland
said briskly. “It’s a short turning running between Denbigh Street and
Lupus Street--number seventy-eight. Be as quick as you can, and ’phone
me anything fresh you discover. What’s your number here, butler?”
Burgess told them, and one of the men noted it upon his shirt-cuff.
Then the pair went eagerly along the hall, and out towards Pall Mall,
running the gauntlet of a knot of eager but disappointed reporters
outside.
The chief of the Criminal Investigation Department arrived in a
motor-car some twenty minutes later, and Medland, standing in the
library, was engaged in explaining the principal points of the
mysterious affair to his chief when, of a sudden, the telephone bell
rang sharply, and the inspector crossed to the instrument.
“Yes,” he answered into the transmitter; “Medland speaking. Is that
you, Wagner? Well?”
And then the inspector listened.
“What? Is that so? You’ve found the individual Richard Goodrick
murdered--killed in exactly the same manner as Sir George! This is
most extraordinary!” Then, turning quickly to his chief, he said:
“Perhaps, sir, you’d like to listen to this amazing report of Sergeant
Wagner!”
And he handed him the receiver, telling his assistant to repeat the
facts to his chief.
“Well, Medland,” exclaimed the gentlemanly-looking official, gazing at
the inspector with a bewildered expression, when he had heard all the
detective had to say and had himself asked one or two questions; “this
certainly is a most remarkable and complicated piece of business! Why,
I wonder, did Sir George want to burn that record he had written? We
had, I think, better both go over to Charlwood Street at once.”
The faithful Burgess, who was present and overheard the conversation,
turned away.
His quick, dark eyes narrowed, his shaven mouth hardened for a second;
and he bit his lip.