A SCENE IN THE HOUSE
Next evening, in response to an invitation over the telephone,
Gordon Cunningham snatched a couple of hours from his duties at the
House and dined _en famille_ at Mrs. Beresford’s, in Gloucester
Terrace.
He, however, found Maidee cold and suspicious. Her greeting was not
warm and affectionate, as usual, and she seemed to be covertly
watching his every movement with her big, velvety eyes. The widow, in
her neat black, remained very sad, and spoke but little at dinner;
therefore Gordon did not announce his intention of putting the
question in the House until he found himself alone with Maidee in the
pretty morning-room, the two elder ladies having gone upstairs to the
drawing-room.
He took her in his arms and kissed her white brow, as was his habit;
but he felt that through her ran an instinctive thrill not of love,
but of repulsion.
What did she suspect?
“Maidee,” he said after a pause, “do you know that I have resolved to
tackle Scotland Yard, and demand the truth concerning Sir George’s
death?”
“The truth!” she echoed, staring at him. “I--I don’t understand. What
do you mean? What truth?”
“Well, I have, all along, held a suspicion that Sir George did not
commit suicide. Therefore I shall to-morrow put a question in the
House, asking why the matter has been hushed up.”
“Perhaps for political reasons,” she remarked meaningly.
“I want your opinion,” he said, holding the pale, nervous girl in his
arms. “Do you think it was suicide?”
“No,” she declared; “it was murder.” It was the first time she had
admitted the truth.
“Then why have the police misled us?” he asked. “Why are they
shielding the culprit?”
She glanced swiftly at his pale, intense face.
“Probably they will not shield him any longer, Gordon, when you put
the question,” she said.
“I intend that the death of Sir George shall be avenged!” declared the
young man firmly. “I know that from a political point it is
injudicious of me to criticise our police methods at the present
moment. But----”
“But the assassin must not go scot free, Gordon!” she interrupted in a
low, changed voice. “Sir George was killed, and his murderer must be
brought to justice--whoever he may be!”
“I intend to do all in my power to achieve that end,” he assured her,
looking into her sweet countenance.
She was undecided. Were her suspicions well grounded--those horrible
suspicions which had arisen within her, and to which she had referred
in so veiled a manner two days before when, for a few moments, she had
seen Uncle John? Or was she upon a false scent?
For the past forty-eight hours she had been sorely troubled. Scarcely
had she slept because of the awful thought which had seized her--that
he, the man she loved so dearly, was an assassin.
To Uncle John she had not openly expressed her belief that Gordon had
knowledge of the crime. They had, however, discussed the point. So
full had her mind been of the terrible suspicion which had arisen
within it, that she had quite unconsciously revealed to the old man
the trend of her belief.
For him, clever and crafty as he was, that had been sufficient. He had
acted at once, and had now reduced Gordon Cunningham to a state of
terror. For what reason was known only to himself. His actions were
frequently mysterious, and yet in them there was always a definite and
direct purpose.
Maidee had sunk into a big easy chair, and her lover was sitting upon
the arm in an indolent attitude, his hand upon her shoulder. He had
lit a cigarette at her invitation, and was slowly blowing a cloud of
blue smoke from his lips.
She, on her part, remained silent, pondering. Was it fair to poor
Gordon to prejudge him? she asked herself. And yet how very easy it
would have been for him, a constant visitor to the house, to have
entered on that fatal night at Sir George’s invitation, and strike him
down while he sat at his table! Nevertheless, there was, she
recollected, a serious flaw in such a theory. When Sir George was
struck he had evidently been writing for some time, a proof that the
assassin must have crept noiselessly into the room. He certainly was
not present with the victim’s knowledge, for was not Sir George
engaged in writing a most confidential document? Yet he might have
entered with Sir George, and afterwards left, his host believing him
to have gone home, whereas he had secreted himself in one or other of
the dark rooms running off the hall.
But the main point was motive. What possible motive could Gordon have
in securing Sir George’s death? As far as she could see, there was
none--absolutely none.
The eyes of the pair met. The girl held her breath for a second; then,
with quick resolve, she threw both her arms about his neck and kissed
him--kissed him with the same passionate fervour as of old, crying:
“Gordon--oh, Gordon! I have been so very unhappy.”
“Unhappy, darling!” he exclaimed. “Why?”
“Because--because of all this terrible trouble which has lately fallen
upon our house--because of the mystery of it all,” she sobbed,
bursting into tears.
“I know,” he said in a low voice. “I know how greatly you must have
been upset. I wonder that you and Lady Ravenscourt don’t go abroad
somewhere for a time.”
“Abroad!” she echoed, raising her pretty face to his. “No, she won’t
go abroad. She intends, she says, to remain and see if she can assist
the police in unravelling the mystery.”
“Scotland Yard will very quickly become active when I ask the
question,” he said with a grim laugh. “No Government Department likes
a question put in the House, for it always reflects upon it.”
“The police are bunglers,” declared Maidee. “They ought to have solved
the problem long ago.”
“I can’t think why they hushed it up and secured a verdict of
suicide,” remarked her lover. “Depend upon it, there is much more
mystery surrounding the affair than we imagine. Because of that,
Scotland Yard took such an unusual course.”
Maidee looked again into her lover’s face, and there saw honesty and
straightforwardness written. Its expression was entirely unlike that
when he had discussed the affair with his whilom friend Tulloch. But
Gordon Cunningham was a very good actor. He had “played to the
gallery” ever since he had left college--and with remarkable success.
He smiled upon his well-beloved, and, with her soft little hand held
in his, he bent and imprinted a long, passionate kiss upon her ready
lips--a kiss which she reciprocated.
He realised that, just as Tulloch had predicted, whatever suspicions
she had held, they were now swept away by his apparent boldness in
putting a poignant question in Parliament.
“Do you know, darling,” he said, as his arm stole around her neat
waist as she sat in the chair, a sweet and pretty figure in her
dinner-gown of black chiffon, which increased the whiteness of her
neck and arms, “do you know that a great deal of your disquietude
would have been avoided if you had only told me your suspicions from
the first? Instead of that, you led me to believe that you agreed with
the verdict of the coroner’s jury.”
“I was compelled. The police made us all promise silence. Had you not
told me of your suspicions, Gordon, I should not have mentioned mine.”
“Surely the precautions of the police are in themselves mysterious,”
he exclaimed. “I suppose it is not possible that some constable or
detective is the criminal--that they know it, and have hushed it up in
order to prevent a sensation--eh?”
“I never thought of that!” gasped Maidee, half starting from her
chair. “If such were the case the authorities would combine in a
conspiracy of silence, would they not?”
“Exactly; just as they are doing now,” replied her lover. “A constable
may have entered the house in secret, and perhaps, in a fit of
homicidal mania, struck down Sir George.”
The girl was silent. The suggestion appealed to her as a possible
solution of the mystery. How unjust she had been, she reflected, to
have entertained suspicions of dear Gordon--the man who was all the
world to her.
She entwined her bare arms about his neck once again, and kissed him
fondly of her own accord, while his heart beat quickly in secret
gratification that his diplomacy should have been so successful.
She loved him very dearly. Of that he was well aware. He, on his part,
thought of no other woman but her. She was very young, it was true,
but all London had voted her to be one of the prettiest girls in
society, while Gordon had long ago realised that her disposition was
an extremely sweet one, that her intelligence was remarkable, and that
they possessed an affinity of soul.
She had suddenly brightened and become her own vivacious self again.
“Yes,” she said eagerly; “ask the question, Gordon. Awaken the police
from their apathy, and compel them to solve the mystery. Their action
has been simply disgraceful!”
“To-morrow, at question time, I shall do so,” he said. “I have already
framed it and put it down. The Home Secretary is furious, I hear.”
For nearly an hour the well-matched pair sat together, happy in each
other’s love, he smoking in a careless attitude, his arm about her
waist, and she gazing up at him with eyes full of an unbounded
affection. And their lips met in solemn pledges of undying love.
Afterwards they ascended to the drawing-room, where sat Mrs. Beresford
and Lady Ravenscourt, the former playing patience and the other
reading.
Maidee seated herself at the grand piano, and, at Gordon’s request,
sang several of those sweet little French _chansons_ which always
charmed him so. Possessing a well-trained soprano voice, and knowing
French so well, she sang them with wonderful vivacity.
Gordon said nothing to the widow of his intentions of the morrow, for
fear of paining her, and about eleven o’clock he bowed over the hands
of the two ladies, saying:
“A division is expected about midnight, so I have to get across to the
House again,” and, wishing them good-night, he kissed Maidee in the
hall, and, entering the taxi which had been telephoned for, drove
away.
Next afternoon, just before the House went in to prayers, a small knot
of members stood in the lobby discussing Cunningham’s question upon
the paper.
“Most injudicious at this moment!” snapped a stout, bald-headed man
representing a Scottish constituency.
“Merely for self-advertisement!” declared a younger man, jealous of
Gordon’s fame. “It’s scandalous that the time of the House should be
taken up like this.”
“Well,” exclaimed another, a short, rather ill-dressed man, “there’s
some mystery about Sir George Ravenscourt’s death, no doubt. I, for
one, would like to see it satisfactorily cleared up. There are some
funny rumours in the clubs.”
“No mystery at all,” asserted the bald-headed man. “He committed
suicide. That was proved at the inquest.”
“We shall see,” replied the member for South-East Berkshire.
The lobby was the centre of an animated scene, as it always is before
the Speaker takes the chair; members chattering eagerly, bustling to
and fro, obtaining their correspondence from the post-office, giving
instructions to their secretaries, or seated aside on the benches in
private discussion. Two men, members of the public, were standing
together in the corner of the lobby. One was a fair-haired young
man--the other the thin, sad-faced Italian priest, now dressed in dark
tweeds.
At last the members went into prayers, after which the Press and
strangers were admitted to the galleries, and the House opened with a
loud and commanding:
“Order-r-r! Order!” from the Speaker.
On each side of the House question-papers fluttered in the hands of
members as, one after another, the questions were replied to by the
Government, ever strenuous to retain the confidence of the country.
There were some very awkward ones regarding certain events in India,
until at last Gordon Cunningham rose and called attention to the
question put down in his name.
It was to ask the Home Secretary “if his attention has been directed
to the suspicious and mysterious death of Sir George Ravenscourt,
Baronet, a member of this House, who died in London on the night of
January the seventeenth; whether it is not a fact that the coroner’s
jury have returned a verdict of suicide; whether it is not a fact that
all the evidence pointed conclusively to murder; whether the
authorities have not taken strenuous steps to hush up the matter, and
whether the police have not in their possession a certain document or
documents of a very remarkable nature bearing upon the case?” He also
asked whether the police had, in face of the verdict of the jury at
the inquest, taken any steps to investigate the strange affair.
When Gordon resumed his seat, the Home Secretary rose from his seat on
the Treasury bench, annoyance plainly apparent upon his clean-shaven
countenance.
Gordon, breathless in expectation, sat looking at him on the other
side of the House, with its rows of lounging members in all sorts of
indolent attitudes.
The Minister was in the act of fumbling among his many papers,
preparatory to replying, when a note was suddenly thrust into
Cunningham’s hand.
The young man took it, tore it open, and glanced at its ill-written,
ill-spelt contents. Then, with a strange look upon his face, he
crushed it quickly into his jacket pocket.
A low cry escaped his lips next second, and several members seated
near saw him half rise from the bench, then reel and fall heavily
forward in a crumpled heap upon the floor, striking his head as he
collapsed.
In an instant there was considerable confusion, and the Home
Secretary, wondering what had occurred, resumed his seat without
answering the question.
“The honourable member has fainted!” shouted someone, addressing the
Speaker; and the proceedings were stopped while Cunningham was carried
forth into the open air.
“Ah! nervous breakdown!” many members declared, shaking their heads
wisely. “He’s been overworked,” said some; “Been burning the candle at
both ends for a long time,” exclaimed others. “Poor Cunningham!”
exclaimed several old parliamentary hands. “Feared he was too
brilliant a young fellow to last! They say he takes drugs!”
And as he lay unconscious, with a doctor at his side, there, crushed
in his jacket pocket, reposed a half-sheet of thumbed note-paper,
blotted and scrawled, which gave plainly the cause of his sudden
faintness--a message which, at any moment, might be discovered and
read!