SUSPICION!
John Ambrose was a very evasive old man. Age begets cunning. He was
often garrulous and reminiscent, yet his abnormal brain was as clear,
as retentive, and as shrewd as it had been in the mid-Victorian days
of his prime.
His curious mannerisms, his sharp snappishness, his clever witticisms,
and his withering sarcasm had held Maidee in awe ever since she had
worn short frocks. One side of the crafty old fellow’s nature was hard
and unbending, while the other was curiously sweet and sympathetic.
Instinctively she had known for years that the old gentleman was not
exactly what he had represented himself to be. He was a man of
mystery, and yet an obscure unit in the life of London. He was a born
leader of men. His speech, his gesture, his refinement, and his
manner, all betrayed that, though he might be shabby, even slovenly in
his dress, yet he was a person apart, a man over whose words his
fellow-men must ponder. Shrewd, tactful to evasiveness, and possessed
of a devilish cunning, his was a unique personality.
He had a slow, deliberate, but extremely convincing way. If he gave
utterance to a fact or made a declaration, his hearers believed it to
be true. Men who knew him put faith in him--were hypnotised by his
remarkable presence and by his clearness of expression, following him
blindly whither he led them, for good or for evil.
Yet, with all this, he knew within himself that he had committed a
fatal _faux pas_. Maidee Lambton had had her suspicions aroused! The
suspicions of a girl of her age are not easily removed. He had been a
fool--an arrant fool.
The girl sat silent. She was filled with wonder at the apparent slip
the old man had made. And yet he had always been so kind and attached
to her through all these years of their somewhat curious friendship.
He was eccentric, it was true, but eccentricity could not account for
that intimate knowledge of the exact circumstances of Sir George’s
death.
Through her mind ran reminiscences of how he had petted and spoiled
her in her childhood; of their secret meetings; of his calm and good
advice, and his apparent happiness whenever she was nigh.
Yes, there had been some strong yet inexplicable reason for his
attachment. A thousand times in the pensive hours of her youth had she
sat and wondered who could be this strange, shabby old gentleman who
had taken such a deep and continued interest in her, and who had, one
day about two years before, introduced her to a kindly old Italian
priest, Don Mario.
Whenever she saw a Roman Catholic priest, she always recollected that
calm, ascetic, soft-spoken old man who, on that well-remembered
summer’s afternoon, had sat beside her in Kensington Gardens and
chatted so quietly and yet with such thoroughness of heart.
Often she recollected his words--words of wise counsel. He openly
expressed admiration of her beauty, yet at the same time warned her,
in his soft, broken English, against the sins of the world and of
society. “Love, my child,” he had said, “but be careful whom you love.
This world of ours is so full of human wickedness, and nothing really
is what it appears to be.”
Several times afterwards, when she met Uncle John, old Don Mario had
been with him, and they had grown quite friendly. She had learned
Italian at school, and she delighted to talk with the grave old priest
in his own tongue.
For the past year, however, she had not seen him. He had returned to
Italy, Uncle John had told her; returned without a word of farewell to
her.
Though no longer in her teens, Ambrose still treated her with the same
exquisite tenderness as he had done when she had worn her hair tied
with ribbons.
“Maidee,” he said at last, in a low voice, after they had been silent
for some time, “Sir George has fallen by an assassin’s hand, and
we--you and I--must endeavour to fathom the mystery and bring the
murderer to justice.”
“I am only too anxious, Uncle John,” replied the girl, her manner
changing. “If I can help in any way I will certainly do so. How can I
assist?”
“By carrying out certain instructions which I shall give you,” replied
the old man. “Answer me a question: Have you ever spoken to your
lover, Gordon Cunningham, regarding me?”
“Never. You have always imposed upon me a promise to keep our
friendship a strict secret.”
The old fellow breathed a sigh of distinct relief.
“Yes,” he said; “it is best that we keep to ourselves the fact that we
are acquainted. Your station in life is different from my own, you
know. People would regard it as very strange if they knew that you,
one of the smartest young girls in society, should come here to this
obscure lodging in order to visit me.”
“Why should they? You have always been my good friend, Uncle John.
Whenever I’ve been unhappy at home through my aunt’s uneven temper,
I’ve always come to you, and you have kissed my tears away and cheered
me up. How many times, when I was a little girl, have I shed tears and
told you all my childish troubles?”
“And I have sympathised with you, dear,” said the old man, with a
slight catch in his husky voice. “But all that is of the past. You’ve
grown into womanhood--and you have a lover, an honest, strong-hearted
fellow in young Gordon Cunningham.”
“You know him, then!” cried the girl, her face brightening, and yet
remarking within herself that the old man’s voice sounded a little
unnatural.
“Well, certain inquiries I made entirely satisfied me.”
“And you are really interested in my love affairs, Uncle John!” the
girl laughed. She had always been used to calling him “Uncle John,”
though, of course, he was a mere friend--a chance acquaintance,
indeed.
“I am always interested in your well-being, Maidee. Ah!” he exclaimed,
with a slight sigh, “you don’t know how very deeply you have entered
into my poor lonely old heart. In the past your pretty face has
cheered me, your sweet girlish smile has been as sunshine to me, and
your chatter has roused me out of my dull, melancholy self. You are my
own dear Maidee.”
“But why are you so lonely?” she asked, looking at him seriously in
the dim light.
“You have asked me that question a thousand times before, child. Have
I not always told you that my present life is of my own seeking? Once,
long ago, I lost at a single blow all that made existence worth
living, and I therefore cut adrift from it. I would fain forget every
memory of it--if I only could. And in those early days of my
disappointment and sorrow I found you--a wee child; and ever since I
have regarded you as my dearest little friend.”
“Yes, Uncle John,” said the girl, not without a touch of deep emotion.
“You have been more to me than any other friend I have ever had. And
I have always kept sacred the pledge of secrecy you imposed upon me.”
“Never break that, child, for if you did--well”--he added in a low,
changed voice--“if you did it might go very hard with me.”
“Hard with you!” she echoed, opening her fine eyes widely. “How?”
But the old fellow did not reply. He was ever evasive when she asked
him any point-blank question.
“You suggested that we should combine together to endeavour to solve
the mystery of my uncle’s death,” she said a few moments later.
“Yes. The police have yet to discover some very remarkable
facts--facts which will, I know, greatly puzzle them,” he said. “The
murder of Sir George was, as you surmise, no ordinary vulgar crime,
but the work of a master hand. It was carefully planned and carried
out with a deliberate attention to the most minute detail. The
assassin ran no risk. He was too clever for that.”
“How do you know all this? You seem to possess a wider knowledge of
the tragic affair than even the police themselves.”
“Do I?” he ejaculated, with a start. “I--I don’t think I do. The
police have misled the Press--misled them purposely, of course. But,
Maidee,” he added quickly, “you will ere long learn something else
which will cause you great astonishment.”
“What?”
“You spoke of a man living in Pimlico.”
“The person mentioned in the statement which my uncle wrote
immediately prior to his death?”
“Yes,” said the old gentleman, with a slight tremor in his thin voice.
“Well, that man has also died!”
“Died!” she cried in surprise. “The police told me nothing of that.”
“Yes,” he too has been murdered. “Oh, don’t betray undue alarm,” he
added quickly. “As I have told you, this affair is no ordinary crime.
It is a mystery which the police will find impossible of solution. All
the combined talent of Scotland Yard will fail to elucidate it if
only----”
“If what?” asked the girl anxiously.
“If I make my own inquiries--and hold my tongue,” he said slowly.
“Then you know the truth, Uncle John!” she cried eagerly. “Tell me--do
you know who it was who killed poor Sir George?”
“If I knew I should at once denounce the assassin,” was his severe
rebuke. “Have I not suggested that you should assist me in carefully
seeking a solution of the problem?”
“But you said that as long as you remained silent the police would be
powerless to learn the truth,” the girl remarked.
“And I repeat it. It is for you and me to know the truth first--to
establish the identity of the assassin, and we can then denounce him
to the authorities. Already Scotland Yard recognises the perplexity of
the case in the absence of any direct clues. Two men between whom some
mysterious friendship existed, and who lived in different spheres of
life, have been done to death without any apparent motive and in a
manner utterly astounding. Sir George wrote something--some statement
of fact, it would seem. You, on your part, must question Burgess
regarding it, and let me know; if not the whole, then the gist of it.
It is most important that I should know this at once. Will you
commence by doing this for me?”
“Most certainly,” she replied eagerly. “I’ll question him to-morrow
morning. When shall I see you?”
“At any hour you like to-morrow. I shall await you here all day. Learn
all you can of Medland’s movements and the direction of his inquiries.
Make pretence of assisting the police, and at the same time keep me
well informed of all their actions.”
“But why?”
“Because I want to avenge Sir George’s death. The police must
inevitably fail, because they lack certain knowledge which I possess.
They will fail--and we shall triumph!” he added, with a keen, crafty
expression in his intense dark eyes. “Remember,” he added, “that not a
word is to be told to Gordon. He will, no doubt, question you closely
regarding your uncle’s death, but to him you must carry out the
fiction of the police--that it was suicide. To-morrow the inquest will
be held. You will attend at the coroner’s court, for you may perhaps
be called as a witness. Take careful note of all that transpires
there, and detail it to me afterwards.”
“But you say that the man in Pimlico has also been murdered!” the girl
said. “How have you learnt that? There is nothing in the papers
concerning it.”
“I have no certain knowledge, except that as Sir George was killed
there was every reason why the other man should be killed also.”
“In order, I suppose, to conceal some secret or other--eh?” asked Miss
Lambton.
“Exactly. The secret is now in the hands of one person only--myself.”
“And, if divulged, it would account for this double crime?”
“Exactly. But before I tell the truth I desire, with your aid, child,
to make quite certain of the identity of the assassin. Act as I direct
you, I beg of you. Seek no reason for my actions, and do not trouble
yourself regarding the many mysterious circumstances which must
inevitably ensue in the course of our difficult inquiry--for it will
be very difficult. Assist me, and leave all to me, and depend upon it
we will together bring the murderer of poor Sir George to justice.”
“Very well,” she said. “I will question Burgess in the morning, and
find out what was in that statement left by my uncle. Then I will come
over here, and tell you all that I have ascertained.”
“Yes; but further,” said the old man, whose craft and cunning were
unsurpassed, “when next you see Gordon he will probably question you
very closely, for I anticipate that he may have learnt something--that
he may have had his suspicions aroused. You must keep him in entire
ignorance of everything--everything, remember! Though he may be your
lover and devoted to you, as I know, yet he, by indiscretion, might
spoil all our plans.”
“Am I to tell him nothing, then?” she asked, with a touch of
disappointment, for she confided everything to her lover.
“Nothing--absolutely nothing. If you do, it will wreck all the plans I
am now forming for the elucidation of the mystery. Gordon must remain
in ignorance--just as the public must be kept ignorant of the amazing
facts.”
“Did you happen to possess any knowledge of that mysterious man in
Pimlico?” she asked, looking her friend straight in the face.
“Well, no,” he replied, not without a slight hesitancy, which she
noticed. “I knew of his existence, it is true, and--and I know of his
mysterious death.”
“Which is not yet recorded in the papers,” she added.
“I have already told you, child, that I am in possession of certain
facts of which the police are unaware,” he said in a low, hoarse
voice. “How I became possessed of them does not concern you. It is
only for you to remain absolutely silent, keep your own counsel, and
assist me in avenging the death of your unfortunate uncle.”
“That I promise most faithfully to do.”
“Then be very careful not to reveal my existence to Gordon
Cunningham,” he urged. “He must suspect nothing--absolutely nothing,
you understand!”
The girl had risen, buttoned up her rich fur coat to the throat, and
taken up her muff.
“Very well, Uncle John,” she said. “If that is your decision, I will
carry it out. I shall return to-morrow--about noon, I hope. I must get
back now, for it is growing late,” she added anxiously.
He bent and, as was his habit, imprinted a kiss upon the girl’s white
brow; then, taking her hand, with final injunctions, he unlocked the
door and showed her out to the taxi which had been awaiting her.
John Ambrose stood upon the step for a few moments watching the
tail-lamp of the taxi until it disappeared around the corner into the
brilliantly-lit Walworth Road. Then the cunning old man turned, and,
re-entering, closed the door, and passed back into his room.
Casting himself into the arm-chair which the girl had vacated, a grim
smile crossed his thin, hard features, and, removing his white beard,
he slowly smoothed his chin as he sat staring into the fire, thinking
deeply.
“I wonder--I wonder if she really suspects me as an impostor and a
fraud?” he muttered to himself, pulling his old dressing-gown around
him. “I sincerely hope she did not detect anything unusual. It was
foolish--very foolish of me to have the light full on; there is danger
on every side. To-morrow I must pretend weakness of the eyes, and
commence to wear spectacles. My eagerness to discover the assassin
will mislead her. Yet how I wish I could get sight of that foolish
record which George Ravenscourt left. Just like him--so fond of
putting things down in black and white. Ah!” he sighed, “if I only
knew exactly what it was he wrote I should be so much easier in mind.
If perchance he has told them the truth--what then?”
And, holding his breath, his countenance blanched at the very thought.
Motionless he sat, his dark eyes fixed upon the dying embers, ignorant
of the fact that in a deep doorway on the opposite side of the street
a spare, ill-dressed man in a dark overcoat had been standing hidden
for the past couple of hours intently watching the house, or that soon
after the departure of his visitor the watcher had emerged from the
shadow and, with a low chuckle, had walked leisurely up the quiet,
dismal street and, like the taxi, had disappeared round the corner
into the bustling main thoroughfare, where the bright street-lamps
shone through the mist.