THE LAST OF LORD LYDSTONE.
The mixed population of Constantinople in these busy, stirring times
was ripe for any great surprise. It was much moved and excited by a
startling bit of news that spread very rapidly next day.
An atrocious murder had been committed on the Stamboul side, near the
Bridge of Boats.
Certainly, murders were not unknown in this hive of complex life,
harbouring as it did the very scum and refuse of European rascality.
But the victims were mostly vile, nameless vagabonds, low Greeks,
Maltese suttlers, Italian sailors, or one or other of the hybrid
mongrel ruffians following in the track of our armies, any of whom
might be sent to their long account without being greatly missed.
It was otherwise now: the murdered man was a prominent personage, an
Englishman of high rank, a rich and powerful representative of a great
people. No wonder that Constantinople was agitated and disturbed.
On this occasion Lord Lydstone was the murdered man.
He had been found at daybreak by the Turkish patrol, lying in a
doorway just where he had fallen dead, stabbed to the heart.
The body was taken to the nearest guard, and inquiries were
instituted. A card-case found on the body led to identification, and a
report made to the British Embassy set in motion the law and justice
of the peace.
Nothing satisfactory or conclusive was brought to light. No one could
account for his lordship's presence in that, the lowest quarter of the
city; the only clue to his movements was furnished by his steward and
body-servant on board the yacht.
The valet came on shore and gave his evidence before the informal
court, which was dealing with the case at the British Embassy,
presided over by the _attachés_.
"When did you see his lordship last?"
"Last night. My lord dined on board alone. He appeared depressed, and
altogether low. He told me he should go to bed early."
"And did he?"
"No. Late in the evening a shore-boat came off--one of those caiques,
I think they called them--with a letter, very urgent."
"For Lord Lydstone?"
"For his lordship. He seemed much disturbed on reading it."
"Well?"
"My lord called me and said he would dress to go on shore. I gave him
out the suit which he was wearing when the body was found."
"He said nothing about the letter, or its contents?"
"Oh, no! My lord was never given to talking much, although I was his
confidential valet since he left college. He never spoke to me of his
affairs. My lord always kept his distance, as it was proper he
should."
"Could you tell at all what became of this letter?"
"My lord put it in his pocket when he was dressed."
"You are certain of this?"
"Most positive."
"Was any such letter found in the pockets of the deceased?" asked the
_attaché_ of the Turkish police, through the dragoman of the Embassy.
Nothing of the kind had been found.
"The letter was no doubt removed purposely. This would destroy all
trace of its origin. It was evidently a snare, a bait to lure the
poor lord on shore," said one _attaché_ to another.
"It is curious that he should have been so ready to swallow it."
"There must have been something peculiarly persuasive in the letter."
"But we have heard that he was much distressed, or annoyed, at
receiving it."
"Persuasive in a good or bad sense--probably the latter. At any rate,
it was sufficient to lure him on shore."
"Of course there is something beneath all this: some intrigue,
perhaps."
"The old story, 'who is she?' I suppose."
"But I thought he was devoted to his cousin, the fair Mrs. Wilders."
"Is she still in Constantinople?"
"Yes, I think so. Still at Misseri's, I believe."
"I wonder whether she has yet heard about this horrible affair. Some
one ought to break it to her."
But no one was needed for a task from which all shrank, with not
unnatural hesitation. While they still talked, a message was brought
in to the effect that Mrs. Wilders was in the antechamber, and her
first words, when one of the _attachés_ joined her, plainly showed
that she had heard of Lord Lydstone's death.
"What a horrible, frightful business!" she said, in a voice broken
with emotion. "Oh! this wicked, accursed town! How did it happen? Do
tell me all you know."
"We are completely in the dark. We know nothing more than that Lord
Lydstone was found stabbed at daylight this morning in the streets of
Stamboul."
"What could have taken him there?"
The _attaché_ shrugged his shoulders.
"There is nothing to show, except that he was inveigled by some
mysterious communication--a letter sent on board the yacht."
"Inveigled for some base purpose--robbery, perhaps?"
"Very probably. When the body was found, it had been rifled of
everything--watch, money, rings: everything had gone."
Mrs. Wilders sighed deeply. It might have been a sigh of relief, but
to the _attaché_ it seemed a new symptom of horror.
"But how imprudent--how frightfully imprudent--of the poor dear lord
to venture alone, and so late at night, into that vile quarter. What
could have tempted him?"
"That's what we are all asking. Some unusually powerful motive must
have influenced him, we may be sure, and that I hope we may still
ascertain. It will be the first step towards detecting the authors of
the crime."
"They will be discovered, you think?"
"No efforts will be spared, you may be sure. The means at our disposal
are not very first-rate, perhaps, but we have been promised the
fullest help by the Turkish Minister of Police, and we shall leave no
stone unturned."
"Oh! I do so hope that the villains will be discovered. Is there
anything I can do?"
"Hardly, Mrs. Wilders. But, as you are the only representative of the
family, it would be well perhaps for you to go on board the yacht.
Poor Lord Lydstone's papers and effects should be sealed up. One of us
will accompany you."
"I shall be delighted to be of any use. When shall we start?"
"The sooner the better," said the _attaché_, Mr. Loftus by name; and,
leaving the inquiry, the two took boat, and were presently alongside
the _Arcadia_.
They were received by the captain, a fine specimen of a west-country
sailor, a hardy seaman, well schooled in his profession, who had long
commanded a vessel in the Mediterranean trade, and was thus well
qualified to act as sailing-master in the _Arcadia's_ present cruise.
But Captain Trejago was soft-hearted, easily led, especially by any
daughter of Eve, and he had long since succumbed to the fascinations
of Mrs. Wilders's charms. From the day she first trod the deck of the
yacht he had become her humblest, perhaps, but most devoted, admirer
and slave.
They exchanged a few words of sympathy and condolence.
"You have lost a good friend, Captain Trejago," said the lady.
"He was that, ma'am. My lord was one of the finest, noblest men that
ever trod in shoe-leather. And you, ma'am--it must be very terrible
for you."
"Losing him in such a way, it is that which embitters my grief. But
this gentleman"--she turned to Mr. Loftus--"comes from the Embassy to
seal up his lordship's papers."
"Quite right, ma'am. That ought to be done without delay."
"We can go down into the cabin, then?" said Mrs. Wilders.
"Why! surely, ma'am, you ought to know the way. Mr. Hemmings"--this
was the valet--"is not on board, as you know: but I will send the
second steward if you want any help."
Assisted by the steward, Mr. Loftus proceeded in a business-like
manner to place the seals of the Embassy upon the desk, drawers, and
other receptacles in Lord Lydstone's cabin. While they were thus
employed, Mrs. Wilders sat at the cabin-table under the skylight, her
head resting on one hand, and in an attitude that indicated the
prostration of great sorrow. The other hand was on the table,
fingering idly the various objects that strewed it. There were an
inkstand, a pen-tray, a seal, a blotting-book or portfolio, and many
other odds and ends.
This blotting-book, with the same listless, aimless action, Mrs.
Wilders presently turned to, and turned over the leaves one by one.
Between two of them she came upon a letter, left there by accident, or
to be answered perhaps that day.
The feminine instinct of curiosity Mrs. Wilders possessed in no common
degree. To look at the letter thus exposed, however unworthy the
action, was a temptation such a woman could not resist. She began to
read it, almost as a matter of course, but carelessly, and with no set
purpose, as though it was little likely to contain matter that would
interest her. But after the first few lines its perusal deeply
absorbed her. A few lines more, and she closed the book, leaving her
hand inside, and looked round the cabin.
Mr. Loftus and his assistants were still busily engaged upon their
official task. Neither of them was paying the slightest attention to
her.
With the hand still concealed inside the blotter, she folded up this
missive which seemed so interesting and important, and, having thus
got it into a small compass, easily and quickly transferred it to her
pocket.
She looked anxiously round, fearing she might have been observed. But
no one had noticed her, and presently, when Mr. Loftus had completed
his work, they again left the yacht for the shore.
So soon as Mrs. Wilders regained the privacy of her own room at
Misseri's, which was not till late in the day, she took out the letter
she had laid hands on in the cabin of the yacht, and read it through
slowly and carefully.
It was from Lord Lydstone's father, dated at Essendine Towers, the
principal family-seat.
"My dear boy," so it ran, "your mother and I are very grateful to you
for your very full and deeply interesting letter, with its ample, but
most distressing, account of our dear Anastasius. It is a proud, but
melancholy, satisfaction to know that he has maintained the traditions
of the family, and bled, like many a Wilders before him, for his
country's cause. His condition must, however, be a constant and trying
anxiety, and I beseech you, more particularly on your mother's
account, to keep us speedily informed of his progress. It is some
consolation to think that you are by his side, and it is only right
that you should remain at Constantinople so long as your brother is in
any danger.
"But do not, my dear boy, linger long in the East. We want you back
with us at home. This is your proper place--you who are our eldest
born, heir to the title and estates--you should be here at my side.
There are other urgent reasons why you should return. You know how
anxious we are that you should marry and settle in life. We are doubly
so now. Your brothers before this hateful war broke out made the
succession, humanly speaking, almost secure. But the chances of a
campaign are unhappily most uncertain. Anastasius has been struck
down; we may lose him, which Heaven forbid; a Russian bullet may rob
us any day of dear Hugo too. In such a dire and grievous calamity, you
alone--only one single, precious life--would remain to keep the title
in our line. Do not, I beseech you, suffer it to continue thus. Come
home; marry, my son; give us another generation of descendants, and
assure the succession.
"I have never made any secret of my wishes in this respect; but I have
never told you the real reasons for my deep anxiety. It was my
father's earnest hope--he inherited it from his father, as I have from
mine--that the title might never be suffered to pass to his brother
Anastasius's heirs. My uncle had married in direct opposition to his
father's orders, in an age when filial disobedience was deemed a very
heinous offence, and he was cut off with a shilling. I might say that
he deserved no better; but he did not long survive to bear the penalty
of his fault. He left a child--a daughter, however--to whom I would
willingly have lent a helping hand, but she spurned all my overtures
in a way that grieved me greatly, although I never openly complained.
That branch of the family has continued estranged from us; and I am
certainly indisposed to reopen communications with them.
"Yet the existence of that branch cannot be ignored. It might, at any
time, through any series of mishaps of a kind I hardly like to
contemplate, but, nevertheless, quite possible in this world of
cross-purposes and sudden surprises, become of paramount importance in
the family; for in point of seniority it stands next to ourselves. The
next heir to the title, after you and your brothers, is the grandson
of Anastasius Wilders, a lad of whom I know nothing, except that he is
quite unfitted to assume the dignity of an Earl of Essendine, should
fate ever will it that he should succeed. This unfitness you will
readily appreciate when I tell you that he is at present a private
soldier in a marching-regiment in the East. Stranger still, this
regiment is the same as that in which poor Anastasius is serving--the
Royal Picts. The young man's name is McKay--Stanislas Anastasius
Wilders McKay. I have never seen him; but I am satisfied of his
existence, and of the absolute validity of his claims. My agents have
long had their eye on him, and through them I have full information of
his movements and disposition. He appears a decent, good sort of
youth. But I feel satisfied that we ought, as far as is possible by
human endeavour, to prevent his becoming the head of the family.
"You are now in possession of the whole of the facts, my dear
Lydstone, and I need scarcely insist upon the way in which you are
affected by them. You will not hesitate, I am sure, after reading
this letter, to return to England the moment you can leave your poor
brother."
There was more in the letter, but it dealt with purely business
matters, which did not interest the person who had become
clandestinely possessed of it.
To say that Mrs. Wilders read this letter with surprise would
inadequately express its effect upon her. She was altogether taken
aback, dismayed, horror-stricken at its contents.
Now, when chance, or something worse, had cleared the way towards the
great end, after which she had always eagerly, but almost hopelessly,
hankered, a new and entirely unexpected obstacle suddenly supervened.
Another life was thrust in between her and the proximate enjoyment of
high rank and great wealth.
Who was this interloper--this McKay--this private soldier serving in
the ranks of the Royal Picts? What sort of man? What were his
prospects--his age? Was it likely that he would stand permanently in
her way?
These were facts which she must speedily ascertain. The regiment to
which he belonged was in the Crimea, part of her uncle's brigade.
Surely through him she might discover all she wanted to know. But how
could this be best accomplished?
The more she thought over it, the more convinced she was that she
ought to go in person to the Crimea, to prosecute her inquiries on the
spot. While still doubtful as to the best means of reaching the
theatre of war, it occurred to her that she could not do better than
make use of Lord Lydstone's yacht.
It would have to go home eventually--to be paid off and disposed of by
Lord Lydstone's heirs. But there was surely no immediate hurry for
this, and Mrs. Wilders thought she had sufficient influence with
Captain Trejago to persuade him, not only to postpone his departure,
but to take a trip to the Crimea.
In this she was perfectly successful, and the day after Lord
Lydstone's funeral the _Arcadia_, with a fine breeze aft, steered
northward across the Black Sea.
It reached Balaclava on the morning of the 5th of November, and Mrs.
Wilders immediately despatched a messenger on shore to inform the
general of her arrival. That day, however, the general and his brigade
were very busily employed. It was the day of Inkerman!