IS ABOUT UNCLE JOHN
Maidee Lambton, loosening her rich furs, seated herself in the
frowsy old arm-chair before the fire, while the quick-eyed old man
before her stood upon the hearthrug regarding her long and earnestly,
as though hesitating to place confidence in her.
The room, very cheaply furnished, bore the unmistakable air of “weekly
payments.” The furniture, covered with embossed red velvet, had once
been gaudy, but was now faded and rickety. The recesses each side of
the fireplace were filled with dwarf cupboards, upon which were
displayed cheap ornaments reposing upon wool mats, while the post of
honour was occupied by a case of stuffed birds, much moth-eaten and
decayed.
Suddenly the old man turned with a start, saying: “This light is too
strong for my eyes to-night,” and crossing to the gas-jet beside the
fireplace, he lowered it, apologising for doing so, and adding: “Of
late my sight is growing very bad. The glare of these incandescent gas
mantles tries them terribly.”
Maidee was surprised. It was the first time through all the years they
had been acquainted that old Mr. Ambrose--for that was the name by
which he was known to her--had complained of his eyesight.
Left an orphan at the age of three, Lady Ravenscourt had adopted her,
and she had lived with Sir George and his wife as their niece, for she
usually called them uncle and aunt. After a series of governesses, she
had been sent to Eastbourne to school, and afterwards to Versailles
and Dresden, concluding with a year in Rome and Florence. It was only
about nine months before that she had returned to make her début, and
to live permanently at Carlton House Terrace. She had been presented
at the last Court, and had a great many admirers, some of them most
eligible young men, while on coming of age she would become entitled
to nearly eight thousand a year from her late father.
Her acquaintance with old Mr. Ambrose, whom she always called “Uncle
John,” was certainly a very romantic one, and began fully twelve years
before.
Seated with Miss Denman, her governess, one spring afternoon in
Kensington Gardens, the old gentleman had sat upon the same seat, and
entered into conversation with them. At first Miss Denman, the very
soul of discretion, was disinclined to talk, but, finding him to be
quite a harmless and benevolent old gentleman, they chatted. He seemed
much struck with little Maidee, who in those days wore her hair tied
at the sides with white ribbons, and promised that if they came there
next day he would bring her some chocolates.
At first the governess was reluctant, but Miss Maidee, child-like, was
anxious for a present, and finally persuaded Miss Denman to take her
to keep the appointment.
To the child’s great delight the chocolates proved to be a most
beautiful and expensive box, so that Miss Denman marvelled that an old
gentleman so meanly dressed could afford to give such elaborate
presents. But he seemed infatuated with the child, and thus there
commenced Maidee’s curious friendship with an old and somewhat
eccentric man who was a perfect stranger.
At first Miss Denman was always with her when they met, and was
nothing loath to receive now and then a little present for herself,
but as Maidee grew older, and was allowed to go about alone, she grew
into the habit of meeting him in secret at various places, and sitting
at his side, chattering as a young girl will chatter.
He seemed never tired of hearing all about her home life--of Sir
George and his wife, of the brilliant dinners and dances at Carlton
House Terrace, and of the visitors who called there.
Sometimes she would notice an expression of sadness, as a deep sigh
would escape him when she told him of various people and described
their idiosyncrasies. She, petted by everyone who called at her
adopted father’s house, already knew half the great ones of London.
And as she grew up she often wondered who the strange old man could
really be, and who were his friends.
Once, when she was about fourteen, he had said to her in reply to a
question:
“Ah! yes, child. Once I had very many friends, just as you have; but
that was long ago. To-day I--I have only you.”
“Only me!” she had echoed, opening her big eyes widely.
And he had smiled at her, and taken her small hand in his own.
“Yes, Maidee,” he had said. “Of course, you don’t know all. You will,
perhaps, some day--after I am gone.”
She had not understood him, and sat puzzled. His clothes were old and
shabby, his hat frayed and worn, and his old ebony stick, with an
ivory ball for handle, was a relic of an age bygone.
They generally met in one or other of the parks, but most frequently
in Kensington Gardens, for it was more rural and quieter there.
At rare intervals he would bend and print a fervent kiss upon her
white, childish brow; and to her the knowledge that such clandestine
meetings, if ever discovered, would result in much trouble at home
only added zest to the adventures.
Then she went away to school, and the meetings became few and
infrequent. Yet they exchanged letters regularly. Indeed, never
through all the years until that night had they been out of touch with
one another.
As Maidee grew older she realised that her devoted friend was not so
penurious as she had once imagined. True, he lived in cheap lodgings,
and changed his abode very frequently; yet he never seemed to be in
want of funds. Many little trifles he had given her as souvenirs, but
on her eighteenth birthday he had met her at the lodgings he then
occupied off the Old Kent Road, and presented her with a beautiful
diamond necklet, which he desired her to wear beneath her dress as a
token of his esteem and regard.
She wore it always. Even as she sat there in that shabby chair near
the fire it was clasped about her white neck and concealed beneath her
bodice. Sir George and his wife, of course, knew nothing of all this,
for she was always careful to hide the valuable ornament, as she was
also to conceal her strange friendship with the old fellow who seemed
to lead such a lonely and erratic life.
“Maidee,” he said, crossing the half-darkened room, and seating
himself on the opposite side of the fireplace, “I want you to tell me
all about the terrible affair at home--all as far as you know. How was
the murder discovered?”
She looked at him in surprise, for it suddenly occurred to her that
the papers, though hinting at suicide, had not suggested murder.
“How do you know, Uncle John, that Sir George was murdered?” she asked
him, looking across at his face hidden in the shadow. Her voice told
him that she was greatly surprised at his question.
He started perceptibly and, fidgeting slightly in his chair, replied:
“Er--well--I--I, of course, saw what was in the papers, child, and
jumped to a conclusion. Perhaps I’m wrong--eh?” And he cursed himself
for his foolishness. The girl was no longer a child; he had forgotten
that fact.
His remark had aroused faint suspicions within her mind. Always,
through all these years, he had been deeply interested in Sir George’s
sayings and doings. Was he now in possession of some secret knowledge
concerning the tragedy? Or had he actually guessed the truth?
“Ah!” she replied, “you are not wrong. Sir George was no doubt killed
while in the act of writing in his library.”
“By whom?”
“The police have not yet ascertained,” was her response. “He seemed to
have written a record of some extraordinary character, for when
Burgess discovered him he was still conscious, and begged him with his
last breath to destroy what he had penned.”
“He desired to conceal it from the police--eh?”
“Yes.”
“And was it destroyed?”
“No; Burgess gave it to the police.”
“What was its nature?”
“I do not exactly know. Burgess showed it to my aunt, who ordered it
to be given to the police. She told me that it gave the name of some
man who lived in Pimlico.”
Ambrose started in his chair, and, bending forward towards her in
sudden eagerness, asked in that curious husky voice of his:
“What did he write concerning him? Tell me. It is important that I
should know--most important. Don’t conceal anything from me, child.
Some day you will know the reason I ask this.”
“My aunt told me nothing--except that my uncle had put on record the
fact that on the evening before his death he had visited the person in
question, and made some extraordinary discovery.”
“A discovery!” gasped the old man, with a strange, haunted look. “Of
what nature?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must at once find out for me,” he said anxiously. “You say
Burgess read what Sir George wrote before his death. Then he would
tell you, if you asked him! The original you will not see, now that
the police have possession of it. Burgess was a fool--an infernal
fool!”
“Why?” asked the girl in surprise.
“He should have carried out his master’s wish, and destroyed it.”
“The reason he failed to do so was quite natural. It mentioned a man’s
name.”
“A name Sir George evidently wished to conceal,” snapped the old man.
“Apparently so. And the reason of his eagerness has greatly puzzled
the detectives.”
A grim smile crossed the old fellow’s features--a smile of cunning.
“No doubt they are puzzled,” he remarked, with a short, harsh laugh.
“But, surely, Burgess should have carried out his master’s dying wish.
You say he urged the butler to destroy what he had written?”
“Yes. And Burgess promised.”
“Then the man should have kept his promise. A promise to the dying
should always be held sacred.”
“Save in such an event as occurred early this morning. For aught the
police know, this man living in Pimlico may be the assassin! Perhaps
he killed Sir George in order to prevent some secret of his being
betrayed!”
“Who suggests that?” asked Ambrose quickly, again leaning forward in
eagerness. “Do the police suspect it?”
“I am entirely unaware of their suspicions,” replied the girl. “During
to-day Burgess has been submitted to the closest examination by one
detective after another. The police informed my aunt this afternoon
that they intended to presume suicide at the inquest, in order to be
allowed a clear ground in which to hunt for the assassin.”
“Hardly fair to the dead man--is it?”
“Perhaps not, Uncle John; but if the murderer be brought to justice,
then it is surely permissible. The truth will be cleared up
afterwards,” Maidee said. “Inspector Medland apologised to me for the
course they had decided upon at Scotland Yard, and assured me that,
even in face of the verdict of suicide, every effort would be made to
solve the mystery.”
“But they have no suspicion--eh?” asked the old man in a low, hard
voice, scarce above a whisper.
“How can I tell?”
“The inspector did not mention this mysterious person living in
Pimlico?” he asked anxiously.
“Well, yes--he did.”
“What did he say?”
“Only that Sir George had evidently made some remarkable discovery
which he intended to place on record for the eyes of his executors
only, and they, in turn, were to preserve the secret for ten years
after his death.”
“Then, no doubt, the record upon which he was engaged when he was so
swiftly and silently done to death revealed his discovery!” gasped the
old man hoarsely.
His nails pressed themselves into his palms, for next instant he saw
by the girl’s manner that, notwithstanding all the precautions he had
taken, he had betrayed himself by his suggestion that Sir George’s
death was not a case of suicide.
He had been a blundering idiot, a chattering fool--and had aroused her
suspicions.
A hard, sinister light shone in the old man’s eyes. If the girl
suspected, then she must be silenced! He could not afford to run any
further risks.