THE MAN OF THE MOMENT
A tall, slim, dark-haired, athletic-looking young man of twenty-six
was lounging in a big arm-chair in the saloon of Boodle’s, idly
smoking a cigarette and gazing out into the winter gloom of St James’s
Street.
His clean-shaven, aquiline face showed shrewdness and cleverness, but
his knit brows betrayed a deep seriousness somewhat alien to his
nature. He was a merry, easy-going, good-looking fellow, very popular
in the clubs and in society, for he was hailed on every hand as a
coming man.
The younger son of Gilbert Cunningham, of Cunningham, in Devonshire,
who had held office as an Under-Secretary of State, he had, on coming
of age, inherited an ample income from his aunt, old Lady
Lindley-Bruce. In addition to his brilliant University career, he had
distinguished himself by travelling in the Near East, more especially
in Albania and the disturbed districts of Macedonia, and writing the
most thorough and comprehensive account ever published of the tangle
of politics concerning those distressful countries.
In Parliament a Cabinet Minister had quoted the young man’s words and
declared them to be a solemn warning to England, hence the Press had
taken up the book, and in a week Gordon Cunningham found himself
famous.
From that moment he had never remained idle, and had steadily
progressed. He was constantly travelling, constantly writing, and
constantly being interviewed. At the last General Election he had
stood successfully for the Kingsbridge Division of Devonshire, and in
the House had given a maiden speech upon the Turkish maladministration
in Macedonia which had been listened to with great interest and had
been the subject of a leader in the _Times_ next day.
Both parties had declared Gordon Cunningham to be a very brilliant
young man whose political career was assured. At Kingsbridge he had,
by dint of sheer hard work and constant speaking, turned a minority
into a big majority, and had received the hearty congratulations of
the Prime Minister himself.
He had followed in his father’s footsteps, for Gilbert Cunningham had
distinguished himself in the House, and afterwards at the Foreign
Office. Like father, like son, was vividly illustrated in his case,
for as he sat there idling at Boodle’s, his face was almost the exact
replica of the picture of his dead father which hung in the long
gallery at Cunning ham Court overlooking Dartmoor.
The short winter’s day was fading. Outside, in the street, passers-by
hurried along beneath streaming umbrellas, and already the gas-lamps
were being lit everywhere. Yet the young man still sat, his eyes fixed
before him moodily, taking no notice of the group of men who were
gossiping by the fire on the other side of the great, old-fashioned
room; taking no notice either of the fact that a shabby, ill-dressed
old Roman Catholic priest had taken shelter from the rain in a doorway
opposite.
He had just returned from the funeral of Sir George Ravenscourt, which
had taken place in the village churchyard at Pyrton, at the foot of
the Chiltern Hills, where the Baronet had a pretty week-end house on
the hill above Cuxham.
It had been a very solemn and depressing ceremony. A special train had
been run from Paddington to Watlington, the nearest station, and by it
a large assembly of the dead man’s personal and political friends had
travelled, among them many whose names were as household words.
No ladies had been present, and the ceremony in the old village church
had been as brief and quiet as possible. The whole neighbourhood was
in mourning, and the church had been filled by the country-folk in
their Sunday black, for Sir George was greatly respected and esteemed
in the district.
Lady Ravenscourt and Maidee had remained in London, plunged in grief,
and the wet, dismal day seemed to add gloom to the tragic
circumstance.
Before the arrival of the special train at Watlington several persons,
mostly connected with the funeral arrangements, had arrived by the
first train from London, due at nine-eighteen, with the luggage-van
full of great square boxes containing floral tributes from all parts
of the country.
Among the early arrivals who were strangers in Watlington was a tall,
well-dressed old gentleman with a reddish, narrow, rather bony face,
clean shaven, erect, and spruce in his neat black and silk hat, with
its broad mourning band.
He apparently knew his way, for on leaving the station he turned to
the left along the county road leading into the town, instead of
taking the right-hand road to Pyrton. The special was not due till
noon, the funeral being fixed for one o’clock. Therefore the stranger,
having plenty of time at his disposal, walked through the mud into
Watlington and entered the old Bell Hotel.
In the coffee-room he ordered some breakfast, and as he ate his meal
he chatted with the waiter, who guessed his errand by his garments.
The rain having ceased, he later on retraced his steps to the station,
and as the special came in took up a position where he could watch the
mourners as they passed the porter who was collecting tickets.
When all had entered the carriages which stood awaiting them, the
stranger was still apparently uncertain, for hiring a closed fly, he
followed them to the picturesque little church in Pyrton village,
seating himself alone in a pew at the back and watching the service
conducted with due solemnity by the white-haired rector.
Upon the coffin were some of the magnificent wreaths, and the quaint
little Early-English church was nearly filled by mourners.
The stranger who had come down from London had a pair of keen, dark
eyes which, though his head was apparently bent in prayer, searched
everywhere. His hard, thin lips bore a distinctly evil expression, as
now and then they moved, though no sound escaped them.
Bending forward, his elbows on the ledge before him, he buried his
face in his hands, and as he did so his features slowly relaxed into a
grin of satisfaction.
Apparently he had recognised among the mourners the person of whom he
had been in search.
Presently, when the first portion of the service had been concluded,
and the coffin was borne forth into the churchyard, he rose and slowly
followed the mourners out.
“I wonder,” he murmured to himself as he passed out into the gravelled
walk; “I wonder if there will be equal mourning for poor old Richard
Goodrick! Hardly--for he was a nobody--and yet what would these men
here think, how would they act--if only they knew the truth!”
He stepped aside to allow a Parliamentary Under-Secretary and the
First Lord of the Treasury to pass by slowly together hat-in-hand
towards the open grave. “Fools!” he laughed to himself as he turned
away from them. “It is hard upon Sir George to condemn him as a
suicide, yet the police, no doubt, believe it to be a very clever
move--that by it they have allayed any suspicion held by the assassin.
But they have not. Oh, dear no! The man who struck down George
Ravenscourt is too clever, too evasive for them. He left nothing to
chance.”
Standing aside some distance from the silent, bare-headed crowd around
the open grave, the stranger seemed both watchful and exultant. His
presence there seemed to indicate that he desired to witness the
actual burial, rather than mourn the loss of the noteworthy
politician.
His appearance was entirely different from when he had sat in the
coroner’s court and heard the fictitious story of old Mr. Goodrick’s
death, yet he was the same--the man John Ambrose.
During the ceremony of lowering the coffin and the casting of earth
upon it, he edged his way close to Gordon Cunningham, who stood, silk
hat in hand, beside Edward Ravenscourt, British Consul at Malmö, the
late Baronet’s brother, who had succeeded to the title. The old man
contrived to look long and intently into Gordon’s face, as though
photographing every line of its contour upon his memory.
His keen eyes had narrowed, and the exultant, sinister expression had
given way to a look of distinct malice.
Then, suddenly, as the young man stepped back before turning to leave
the graveside, he swung round upon his heel, the wind blowing his
scanty grey hair, and with an imprecation muttered to himself:
“Fancy you, Gordon Cunningham, mourning that man’s death--you of all
men! For years--ah! till the day of your death, my fine young fellow,
you will be haunted by memories of this dismal, depressing scene! You
who are hailed as a remarkable young man of unusual talent--a man
bound to make his mark in the world, they say. Well--you will leave it
upon the annals of crime--or my name is not John Ambrose!”
He halted, pretending to read a half-effaced epitaph, until the young
man, walking slowly beside a well-known member of the Opposition, had
passed him by.
Then he followed leisurely, dogging Cunningham’s footsteps with
pertinacious resolution, though the young man was all unconscious of
the attraction he possessed for the stranger.
“That man just laid to his long rest was my enemy, just as he was my
friend,” he went on, muttering to himself. “He was always
indiscreet--his only failing. Had he lived his indiscretion would have
cost me my secret--aye, perhaps my life. Yet probably, even now, he
has been sufficiently indiscreet to betray me. Ah! If I only knew--if
that fool Burgess would only speak and tell Maidee the truth!”
He saw Gordon speaking slowly and earnestly with his companion,
emphasising each word with his clenched hand.
“Ah! yes!” he said, his sharp, penetrating gaze fixed upon Maidee’s
lover. “You are a very fine person in your own estimation! The public
acclaims you as a leader in embryo, and so exceedingly shrewd and
clever are you that you believe yourself quite secure. Your presence
here is sufficient evidence of your amazing unscrupulousness and
daring. The police have no suspicion. You are quite assured of that. I
alone know the truth--the astounding truth!”
The carriages were quickly filled, and John Ambrose, returning to the
station in his fly, purposely entered the same compartment as the
young member for Kingsbridge.
Only two other men, Gordon’s friends, were seated in the corners of
the first-class compartment, and on the journey up to London the
stranger, sitting huddled in his corner, managed to join in their
conversation.
“Ah!” he exclaimed presently, “the police have made a great error in
believing our poor friend Sir George’s death was self-sought.”
“Why?” asked Cunningham quickly, a trifle pale. “What leads you to
believe otherwise, sir?” The stranger bore a noticeable likeness to
one of his friends--and yet it was only a likeness.
“Well, I happen to be a very old and intimate friend of the man we
have just buried,” Ambrose replied, fixing the young man with those
remarkable eyes of his. “And I know him to be one who would never take
drugs. Had he been in any trouble, he would have faced the music like
a man. George Ravenscourt was never a coward--never a drug-slave.”
“Even the bravest of men have ended their lives in order to conceal
some family skeleton,” remarked one of his fellow travellers, a fat
man of forty-five.
“I admit that, sir,” replied Ambrose; “but George Ravenscourt, though
he held a secret, was the victim of foul play. Of that I, as one of
his oldest and most intimate friends, am convinced,” he said, never
taking his gaze for an instant off Gordon Cunningham.
“What circumstance has convinced you?” asked the fat man with
curiosity.
“Circumstances within my own knowledge,” exclaimed the old gentleman
quietly, yet firmly, his calm, intense gaze still full upon the face
of Maidee’s lover. “George Ravenscourt was murdered--cruelly murdered
by one who vainly endeavoured to learn his secret.”
“Murdered!” cried the other man, also the dead man’s friend. “Do you
know this positively?”
“Yes,” replied Ambrose in that same hard, earnest tone. “I know it
positively. He was wilfully poisoned, I tell you!”
He watched the young man seated silent in the corner grow pale as
death, for he had uttered that home-thrust in order to observe the
effect it had upon him.
His two companions noticed Cunningham’s silence and pallor, but in
their ignorance put it down to fatigue. They were inclined to disagree
with the stranger’s declaration.
Yet it was upon that direct allegation uttered by the well-dressed old
man that Gordon Cunningham, two hours later, sat in Boodle’s, brooding
and wondering.
Who could the old fellow be? he asked himself.
What did he know? Was he in possession of the truth?